The Eye of the Storm
The ball has been dropped before. I want to be hopeful, I want hope to triumph over experience. I want, but do I really believe I can have it? Or am I stuck in the Universe from hell, where no good deed goes unpunished, no hope left undamaged, no opening of trust escapes venomous saliva spat back in my face? I trust this man, like I never had before. Based on what? On nothing more than just that, a hunch, an intuition. I feel naked. I feel deeply. I feel fully, and I pray the blow doesn’t come. I’m too open, there is nothing between my soft flesh and life’s hurricanes. I’ve sold off my armor to travel lighter, dance faster, soar higher. A wild sprite, I don’t need more than a sarong and a dagger, and that one mostly to serve food with and cut flowers for the altar. Thorns do no harm, they just tickle my bare skin, but the skin of my heart is not so supple and elastic. Scars and frostbite left their lingering memories. There is simply no such thing as too much of a good thing, but even just good, against the backdrop of past failures, seems unreal. I start wondering if my karma is that much clearer now, or it’s just laying in wait to bite my nose if I close my eyes and exhale. And the great cosmic jokester just knows where it would hurt the most, and goes for the sweet spots, where enduring the fear is more painful than losing whatever was at stake. Hopes, home, sense of belonging, money, freedom, deepest soul longings and love flames are all swirling round the eye of the hurricane, sucked away, out of my life. Part of me clutches to what was, whimpering in the nakedness of the void. This shift is the answer to my prayers. Can I receive this answer, live this answer, walk my talk, move into the dream and swim? Timeless chills like cold licks dance on my skin, vibrate me with the melody I haven’t heard for eons. It’s a harsh vision, edgy, like a cold winter sunrise. A sunrise nevertheless.
Birth of a Star
Day turns into night, light to darkness. Happiness is lopsided and invaded by hesitation. Can you still love your dreams once you've seen their true face reflecting yours? Maybe. Perhaps. The roaring engine has already been started, the avalanche awakened, and all I can do is surf it, roll with it, master of my inner space only. Meditation temple has been shattered by the spring floods. It's too early to rebuild, the landscape is still shifing and quaking. Will it be a fertile garden or a barren desert, too cold for regrets? I've been gutted. It is cleansing, but left me shaken and not at all at peace. Do I have what it takes to live a couragous life of sword and chalice? To strip bare of all human frailty, to become a celestial human in all its severe purity, to put aside toys and follies and a thousand small details, and just breathe, sit in the simple intensity of full presence? I don't know if I can stand it, but I am certain it cannot be put aside and forgotten. Knots are unravelling in my stomach, but the promise of release doesn't help with the squirming pain. I am birthing myself, writhing in agony, terrified of the coldness of the stars in this galactic night. To be at home here, I have to become a star, burn up all that is capable of burning and explode with all my might. Gentle flesh struggles to accommodate this spirit. Pain and disoriented anguish fill the gap of this dual existence, this twilight, the one that is both dusk and dawn.
A Prayer
Beloved! I am worth it!
I am fun and playful, I will race you down the dewy meadow under the full moon, naked.
I can tickle your roughest of edges with a fine feather until they dissolve into a myriad of fractals
and disperse with laughter. You are worth it!
I will meet you! Up the cliff, in the roots of the banyan, in the cold waters of the sacred spring, on the solitary mountain top, I will be there, here, clasping your hand, meeting your eyes, knowing, witnessing, loving and relishing. You are worth it!
I will witness your glory and my eyes will reflect back the deep understanding of the undercurrents of your soul, the origins that birth forth this expression. I know you. I will not hide from it.
I will hold you with compassion and tenderness, spreading balm and love over your skin and soul, kissing your eyes and your heart gently. The understanding and forgiveness go hand in hand.
Mine will be the hand that reaches out if you find yourself in the dark womb of pain or self-loathing, and in our space of love wings can mend and unfurl, and splinters taken out. We are worth it!
Like crumbs, the pieces of my clothing will lead you to the kitchen where happy witch is in the throes of alchemy, creating love potions and chocolate you can lick off my fingers and lips and nipples and dimples and any other place that stirs you. You are worth it!
No place will be denied, in body or heart or mind. I will always speak the truth even if it stretches me beyond what I thought I could embrace. I will break down the walls as fast as possible, the barriers to understanding and knowing, to meet you, to take off in our flight. We are worth it!
I know myself, awareness and truth is my religion, my song, my burden and my wake-up call. The dreams are stirring, the fluff of things unneccessary is being shed like yesteryear snake skin, the coils and curves of dancing Shakti are bright with symbols of the purity and the beyondness. I feel archaic female power coursing through my veins, demanding to be danced, expressed, released, exploded.. savored... Oh, yes, my Beloved, I am worth it!
The Rain
Listen to the Rain! Let it transport you to the places of your soul that are closed off, locked behind bars, piled with dust and forgotten.
Listen to the rain, to its primordial trance dance, the rhythm so ancient we have it in our bones. Can you hear a beating heart? Beating wings? Truth knocking on the window glass?
Listen to the rain. Make it a conversation. Ask your questions, with your whole heart, pour it out so the answers can pour in and wash away the sadness and the tiredness, and nonsense flurries that fill up our days.
Listen, let it touch you. Let rain kiss your face, close your eyes and surrender into warm traces of raindrops on your skin. Rain is a friend, an intimate and gentle, all-understanding ally. It too knows what it feels like to pour the heart out, let loose the dreams and hopes, the broken ones, and fruiting ones, and future plans just being woven.
Listen to the rain. Drink in the waters to quench all kinds of thirsts. Sometimes in drought we forget we had a thirst sometime so long ago it's nothing but a dream we lost and dusted over.
Listen to the rain. Let it cleanse you and renew, make space for something new and sacred that's just behind the veil of mists descending, begging to come in and nourish the parched earth of the spirit's yearnings.
Trust the rain. It holds you gently in its embrace, reminding to be gentle with yourself, recharge, renourish, relax and be, quietly, with nothing much to do but listen to the rain.
And then the flowers come, and fragrances, and bird songs. Leave it to the rain to bring forth rainbows and myriads of sparkles that have no other purpose but to delight our hearts. And then there are the puddles! And wet dogs. And muddy kids.
And barefoot splashing, and celebrations of this magnificent rebirth of nature, and happiness for no apparent reason other than it rained. And gave us life! And water.
So let there be rain!
Be Kind!
Be kind! Be kind to the flower freshly opened. It had to brave the soil and rocks to become the flower it was meant to be, it had to go on courage and the faith. What shall now be its fate? Will the kind hand gift it water, or pluck it up for pleasure, to leave it dying a slow withering death?
Be kind. The random acts of kindness cause ripples that move the stars and lives. Missed opportunity for kindness is one kiss of heartfelt gratitude less, one smile less.
So be kind. The sun gives warmth and life not holding back, and one more butterfly leaves its cocoon. It did not have to qualify, deserve, or justify, it just accepted kindness, and survived, and even thrived! Be a small sun, shine in your universe.
Be kind because it feels good to create love just because you can. A thirstly plant will grow new leaves in tender care, and so will frozen shriveled heart respond to kindness and blossom anew, if gently watered daily. There are few hearts that couldn't blossom more, so look around and be kind.
Be kind enough to open up and let the quieter hearts offer up their own note in the chorus of your soul, share yourself and become for once their instrument. You might hear music newly born from deep within yourself, as rivers of emotions wash your spirit and kinder world is your reward. So stretch your heart and dare to be kind.
Be kind to small sweet beings, but that's easy. The big and strong ones hide a beating heart that well responds to loving touch. The claws and teeth tell stories of the journeys where kindness was not their only friend along the way, and scars are proofs of many things, their recklesness perhaps, but also of their courage to go on despite the grinding gears of karma, because they're here. They've come to share the ripeness of their hearts, be not intimidated, nor repulsed, but instead be kind. You may yet be surprised.
We carry kindness very close to our genetic lines. Without it we would not survive to greet this day. Ancestral chain of mother's nurture and father's care comes from the dawn of times. Be kind to their memory, honor the steadiness of life and love, and pay it forward. And upward, left and right, what have you got to lose? And everything to gain. And if self-doubt and sadness creep into your thoughts, to your own self remember to be kind.
And leave a trace. A garden illuminated with warmth of kindness is so much sweeter than a trail of broken hearts, so be kind!
The ball has been dropped before. I want to be hopeful, I want hope to triumph over experience. I want, but do I really believe I can have it? Or am I stuck in the Universe from hell, where no good deed goes unpunished, no hope left undamaged, no opening of trust escapes venomous saliva spat back in my face? I trust this man, like I never had before. Based on what? On nothing more than just that, a hunch, an intuition. I feel naked. I feel deeply. I feel fully, and I pray the blow doesn’t come. I’m too open, there is nothing between my soft flesh and life’s hurricanes. I’ve sold off my armor to travel lighter, dance faster, soar higher. A wild sprite, I don’t need more than a sarong and a dagger, and that one mostly to serve food with and cut flowers for the altar. Thorns do no harm, they just tickle my bare skin, but the skin of my heart is not so supple and elastic. Scars and frostbite left their lingering memories. There is simply no such thing as too much of a good thing, but even just good, against the backdrop of past failures, seems unreal. I start wondering if my karma is that much clearer now, or it’s just laying in wait to bite my nose if I close my eyes and exhale. And the great cosmic jokester just knows where it would hurt the most, and goes for the sweet spots, where enduring the fear is more painful than losing whatever was at stake. Hopes, home, sense of belonging, money, freedom, deepest soul longings and love flames are all swirling round the eye of the hurricane, sucked away, out of my life. Part of me clutches to what was, whimpering in the nakedness of the void. This shift is the answer to my prayers. Can I receive this answer, live this answer, walk my talk, move into the dream and swim? Timeless chills like cold licks dance on my skin, vibrate me with the melody I haven’t heard for eons. It’s a harsh vision, edgy, like a cold winter sunrise. A sunrise nevertheless.
Birth of a Star
Day turns into night, light to darkness. Happiness is lopsided and invaded by hesitation. Can you still love your dreams once you've seen their true face reflecting yours? Maybe. Perhaps. The roaring engine has already been started, the avalanche awakened, and all I can do is surf it, roll with it, master of my inner space only. Meditation temple has been shattered by the spring floods. It's too early to rebuild, the landscape is still shifing and quaking. Will it be a fertile garden or a barren desert, too cold for regrets? I've been gutted. It is cleansing, but left me shaken and not at all at peace. Do I have what it takes to live a couragous life of sword and chalice? To strip bare of all human frailty, to become a celestial human in all its severe purity, to put aside toys and follies and a thousand small details, and just breathe, sit in the simple intensity of full presence? I don't know if I can stand it, but I am certain it cannot be put aside and forgotten. Knots are unravelling in my stomach, but the promise of release doesn't help with the squirming pain. I am birthing myself, writhing in agony, terrified of the coldness of the stars in this galactic night. To be at home here, I have to become a star, burn up all that is capable of burning and explode with all my might. Gentle flesh struggles to accommodate this spirit. Pain and disoriented anguish fill the gap of this dual existence, this twilight, the one that is both dusk and dawn.
A Prayer
Beloved! I am worth it!
I am fun and playful, I will race you down the dewy meadow under the full moon, naked.
I can tickle your roughest of edges with a fine feather until they dissolve into a myriad of fractals
and disperse with laughter. You are worth it!
I will meet you! Up the cliff, in the roots of the banyan, in the cold waters of the sacred spring, on the solitary mountain top, I will be there, here, clasping your hand, meeting your eyes, knowing, witnessing, loving and relishing. You are worth it!
I will witness your glory and my eyes will reflect back the deep understanding of the undercurrents of your soul, the origins that birth forth this expression. I know you. I will not hide from it.
I will hold you with compassion and tenderness, spreading balm and love over your skin and soul, kissing your eyes and your heart gently. The understanding and forgiveness go hand in hand.
Mine will be the hand that reaches out if you find yourself in the dark womb of pain or self-loathing, and in our space of love wings can mend and unfurl, and splinters taken out. We are worth it!
Like crumbs, the pieces of my clothing will lead you to the kitchen where happy witch is in the throes of alchemy, creating love potions and chocolate you can lick off my fingers and lips and nipples and dimples and any other place that stirs you. You are worth it!
No place will be denied, in body or heart or mind. I will always speak the truth even if it stretches me beyond what I thought I could embrace. I will break down the walls as fast as possible, the barriers to understanding and knowing, to meet you, to take off in our flight. We are worth it!
I know myself, awareness and truth is my religion, my song, my burden and my wake-up call. The dreams are stirring, the fluff of things unneccessary is being shed like yesteryear snake skin, the coils and curves of dancing Shakti are bright with symbols of the purity and the beyondness. I feel archaic female power coursing through my veins, demanding to be danced, expressed, released, exploded.. savored... Oh, yes, my Beloved, I am worth it!
The Rain
Listen to the Rain! Let it transport you to the places of your soul that are closed off, locked behind bars, piled with dust and forgotten.
Listen to the rain, to its primordial trance dance, the rhythm so ancient we have it in our bones. Can you hear a beating heart? Beating wings? Truth knocking on the window glass?
Listen to the rain. Make it a conversation. Ask your questions, with your whole heart, pour it out so the answers can pour in and wash away the sadness and the tiredness, and nonsense flurries that fill up our days.
Listen, let it touch you. Let rain kiss your face, close your eyes and surrender into warm traces of raindrops on your skin. Rain is a friend, an intimate and gentle, all-understanding ally. It too knows what it feels like to pour the heart out, let loose the dreams and hopes, the broken ones, and fruiting ones, and future plans just being woven.
Listen to the rain. Drink in the waters to quench all kinds of thirsts. Sometimes in drought we forget we had a thirst sometime so long ago it's nothing but a dream we lost and dusted over.
Listen to the rain. Let it cleanse you and renew, make space for something new and sacred that's just behind the veil of mists descending, begging to come in and nourish the parched earth of the spirit's yearnings.
Trust the rain. It holds you gently in its embrace, reminding to be gentle with yourself, recharge, renourish, relax and be, quietly, with nothing much to do but listen to the rain.
And then the flowers come, and fragrances, and bird songs. Leave it to the rain to bring forth rainbows and myriads of sparkles that have no other purpose but to delight our hearts. And then there are the puddles! And wet dogs. And muddy kids.
And barefoot splashing, and celebrations of this magnificent rebirth of nature, and happiness for no apparent reason other than it rained. And gave us life! And water.
So let there be rain!
Be Kind!
Be kind! Be kind to the flower freshly opened. It had to brave the soil and rocks to become the flower it was meant to be, it had to go on courage and the faith. What shall now be its fate? Will the kind hand gift it water, or pluck it up for pleasure, to leave it dying a slow withering death?
Be kind. The random acts of kindness cause ripples that move the stars and lives. Missed opportunity for kindness is one kiss of heartfelt gratitude less, one smile less.
So be kind. The sun gives warmth and life not holding back, and one more butterfly leaves its cocoon. It did not have to qualify, deserve, or justify, it just accepted kindness, and survived, and even thrived! Be a small sun, shine in your universe.
Be kind because it feels good to create love just because you can. A thirstly plant will grow new leaves in tender care, and so will frozen shriveled heart respond to kindness and blossom anew, if gently watered daily. There are few hearts that couldn't blossom more, so look around and be kind.
Be kind enough to open up and let the quieter hearts offer up their own note in the chorus of your soul, share yourself and become for once their instrument. You might hear music newly born from deep within yourself, as rivers of emotions wash your spirit and kinder world is your reward. So stretch your heart and dare to be kind.
Be kind to small sweet beings, but that's easy. The big and strong ones hide a beating heart that well responds to loving touch. The claws and teeth tell stories of the journeys where kindness was not their only friend along the way, and scars are proofs of many things, their recklesness perhaps, but also of their courage to go on despite the grinding gears of karma, because they're here. They've come to share the ripeness of their hearts, be not intimidated, nor repulsed, but instead be kind. You may yet be surprised.
We carry kindness very close to our genetic lines. Without it we would not survive to greet this day. Ancestral chain of mother's nurture and father's care comes from the dawn of times. Be kind to their memory, honor the steadiness of life and love, and pay it forward. And upward, left and right, what have you got to lose? And everything to gain. And if self-doubt and sadness creep into your thoughts, to your own self remember to be kind.
And leave a trace. A garden illuminated with warmth of kindness is so much sweeter than a trail of broken hearts, so be kind!
Latch-Key Kid
My room is bright and colorful, filled with pretty things, and happy things, and clean. I am not so attached to things as I am to feeling cozy, content. It is hard to be cozy in a grimy dirty place. But sometimes there seem to be no choice. I was a latch-key kid and it wasn't fun coming home from school to our old apartment. Dusky grey light of the winter evening barely outlines a pile of dirty dishes in the sink in the kitchen corner, but I can smell it. Grimy tea kettle on a grimy cast iron two-burner stove. Pots and jars on the floor are full of something gone bad. Wilting geranium plant on the window sill is on its last breath, just a scrawny stalk with three leaves at the very top. I am hungry. I'm seven. I know I'm old enough to boil some pasta, but I don't feel like going through all the trouble of finding the small pot in the pile and trying to wash it in a full sink with only cold water and a bar of soap. Besides, we probably don't have any pasta. So I opt to rummage the fridge instead. Except I know there isn't really anything ready to eat there, but I take my chances. Wow, there is some ketchup and a few peas at the bottom of a can. Ketchup is a delicacy, most kids in my school have never even seen it. I like its spicy taste. I will probably get in trouble for this. I draw spirals on my plate with it, punctuated by peas. Then I grab my trophy and head out into the living room that doubles as mine and my sister's bedroom. It is very quiet. Dim gray light barely filters through the double layers of lace and curtains. The room is a mess, as always, no empty surfaces. Chairs, tables, all have something on them. Piles of stuff. Our futon couch that we sleep on is now upright, with a pile of clean laundry, not so clean laundry and blankets on it. I make a little cubbyhole between two largest mounds and nestle in with my ketchup masterpiece. It is so pretty, I can see the intense red even in the gloomy light. With my tongue I retrace the spiral and it disappears. Paprika balances the bland peas. It is fun. It is over way too soon.
My room is bright and colorful, filled with pretty things, and happy things, and clean. I am not so attached to things as I am to feeling cozy, content. It is hard to be cozy in a grimy dirty place. But sometimes there seem to be no choice. I was a latch-key kid and it wasn't fun coming home from school to our old apartment. Dusky grey light of the winter evening barely outlines a pile of dirty dishes in the sink in the kitchen corner, but I can smell it. Grimy tea kettle on a grimy cast iron two-burner stove. Pots and jars on the floor are full of something gone bad. Wilting geranium plant on the window sill is on its last breath, just a scrawny stalk with three leaves at the very top. I am hungry. I'm seven. I know I'm old enough to boil some pasta, but I don't feel like going through all the trouble of finding the small pot in the pile and trying to wash it in a full sink with only cold water and a bar of soap. Besides, we probably don't have any pasta. So I opt to rummage the fridge instead. Except I know there isn't really anything ready to eat there, but I take my chances. Wow, there is some ketchup and a few peas at the bottom of a can. Ketchup is a delicacy, most kids in my school have never even seen it. I like its spicy taste. I will probably get in trouble for this. I draw spirals on my plate with it, punctuated by peas. Then I grab my trophy and head out into the living room that doubles as mine and my sister's bedroom. It is very quiet. Dim gray light barely filters through the double layers of lace and curtains. The room is a mess, as always, no empty surfaces. Chairs, tables, all have something on them. Piles of stuff. Our futon couch that we sleep on is now upright, with a pile of clean laundry, not so clean laundry and blankets on it. I make a little cubbyhole between two largest mounds and nestle in with my ketchup masterpiece. It is so pretty, I can see the intense red even in the gloomy light. With my tongue I retrace the spiral and it disappears. Paprika balances the bland peas. It is fun. It is over way too soon.
Fathers, love your daughters!
Fathers, love your daughters!
Do you feel what it means
to be the first man in your daughter's life?
To have the honor to introduce that charged and beautiful,
that all-encompassing dance of life?
You are defining love itself for her.
Or the empty numb void in its absence.
Fathers, love your daughters!
Their young hearts are so open to you, so vulnerable and trusting.
She believes you. And if you don't love her
with your whole heart, she will believe that too.
She will believe she doesn't deserve it, and probably she never will.
Loneliness and emptiness will be unwanted
Companions of a neglected daughter.
Slow down, pause to see your daughter's starry eyes
burning with desire to share love
and earn attention, to be worthy
in your eyes and also in her own. You are her mirror.
Will it be love, or scorn, neglect that is reflected back?
Fathers, love your daughters!
Don't wound their hearts with your misplaced sarcasm,
or criticism veiled as a good advice.
Invisible weapons leave invisible but long-lasting scars.
Open heart comes with no built-in defenses,
and shields got forged in fires of the heartbreaks
become thick prison walls.
There hardly is a greater crime
than to break or styme a budding soul.
Fathers, know thyselves!
And if you see reflections in your daughter's eyes that you don't like,
have a self-courage to remember that she is just a mirror.
Her innocence is closer to the spring of life,
can melt the icy covers of your heart, if only you would let it.
Do not strike out just to obliterate
abomination that reminds you
of all the compromises that you hate yourself for.
She is the light of truth that shows you the way home.
Fathers, do not beat your daughters!
The devastation of their hearts and souls is more than you can even imagine.
Though they are willful and disrespectful of your values,
take a moment to reflect.
There might be other truth that they are seeing.
And violence is not the answer!
It will take love of many brave men to heal your daughter's wasteland of the heart,
and many of those hearts will also suffer. So,
Fathers, love your daughters!
Look deep inside your own soul for the answer to what love is.
What is the purest, happiest, most nurturing gift you have to offer?
Give them good taste of love, a happy and safe love that is trustworthy.
They will go on creating happiness for ever, infinitely.
They'll give you happy grandchildren and happy sons-in-law,
and happy homes for you to bask in,
and happy hearts always ready to listen.
They will be happy women! They will create a happy universe!
If only, fathers, you would love your daughters!
Fathers, love your daughters!
Do you feel what it means
to be the first man in your daughter's life?
To have the honor to introduce that charged and beautiful,
that all-encompassing dance of life?
You are defining love itself for her.
Or the empty numb void in its absence.
Fathers, love your daughters!
Their young hearts are so open to you, so vulnerable and trusting.
She believes you. And if you don't love her
with your whole heart, she will believe that too.
She will believe she doesn't deserve it, and probably she never will.
Loneliness and emptiness will be unwanted
Companions of a neglected daughter.
Slow down, pause to see your daughter's starry eyes
burning with desire to share love
and earn attention, to be worthy
in your eyes and also in her own. You are her mirror.
Will it be love, or scorn, neglect that is reflected back?
Fathers, love your daughters!
Don't wound their hearts with your misplaced sarcasm,
or criticism veiled as a good advice.
Invisible weapons leave invisible but long-lasting scars.
Open heart comes with no built-in defenses,
and shields got forged in fires of the heartbreaks
become thick prison walls.
There hardly is a greater crime
than to break or styme a budding soul.
Fathers, know thyselves!
And if you see reflections in your daughter's eyes that you don't like,
have a self-courage to remember that she is just a mirror.
Her innocence is closer to the spring of life,
can melt the icy covers of your heart, if only you would let it.
Do not strike out just to obliterate
abomination that reminds you
of all the compromises that you hate yourself for.
She is the light of truth that shows you the way home.
Fathers, do not beat your daughters!
The devastation of their hearts and souls is more than you can even imagine.
Though they are willful and disrespectful of your values,
take a moment to reflect.
There might be other truth that they are seeing.
And violence is not the answer!
It will take love of many brave men to heal your daughter's wasteland of the heart,
and many of those hearts will also suffer. So,
Fathers, love your daughters!
Look deep inside your own soul for the answer to what love is.
What is the purest, happiest, most nurturing gift you have to offer?
Give them good taste of love, a happy and safe love that is trustworthy.
They will go on creating happiness for ever, infinitely.
They'll give you happy grandchildren and happy sons-in-law,
and happy homes for you to bask in,
and happy hearts always ready to listen.
They will be happy women! They will create a happy universe!
If only, fathers, you would love your daughters!
Primordial Forest of Dreams
Damp darkness of centuries, eons, mud and life. Holy site where prayer springs forth, down on my knees, spirit soaring. Whispering facelessness contains all the answers. They are not out there, they are here. There is only here. Everything there is to be understood is here, to be touched, lived, breathed. Breathe in the cry of the midnight bird, drink in the bubbling spring, its song proof enough of its existence. Toes like roots searching for earth's juices, growing, pulsating with life. The unseen sky shares the secret of its tears. Leap into this nothingness so rich with promise and exhilaration. I am. I am strong. With my heart the future maps are drawn. I love you, and you, and you, and them, and us, this world, this breath, this life, this hope, this dream. How many have dreamt here? Whose dream spells are these flowers? The fruit that resurrects itself eternal, is whispered whispered tenderly on by summer breeze. I liberate myself tonight. I bow deeply to my mother and my father, and let them go, for as a tree I stand tall, kissing clouds, a universe not less than all the others. I need no go-betweens, I am of grand design, and everything I need already is pre-dreamt and pre-recorded. Sail forth and manifest, dare to dream and take, the surest voice will ring true every time. Rainbow tears flowing from my heart, the cup of life can hold joy again. We've met before, I thought you were me, but now I see you are life and I am you. Great mystery, your dark robes turned out to be rainbows, sacred patterns are simple letters in the alphabet of love. Emotions are strings of your symphony and I let the river carry me over the threshold wherever it might, it will all be well. Harmony wakes up all senses, hearing light, tasting teardrops of liquid fire, and all my brothers and sisters have been searching for the same spring to quench the thirst eternal, that most crucial of answers to the most burning question. Throw me the rope so I can climb out of the harsh and dry desert cell of my mind existence; come to know the lush oasis, the night rain of love at the edge of eternity; so I may watch the star souls below while keeping night vigil by the fire feeding it my past, the skins now dead and good only to keep the flames going. May I die to the 'I' to be in the nameless now where nothing makes sense and senses dwell in place of concepts. “I” got lost along the way and I don't miss it, what with?
Be gentle with yourself.
“Be gentle with yourself” says my therapist. It's a sort of balance, this gentleness, like being in neutral and proceeding at baby steps, rather than trampolining across the fence into the bushes of the neighbor's yard. Be gentle with yourself, even when bougainvillea of despair take over the mind and hot knots twist in the stomach, iron fists grip the heart. I woke up in the dungeon of my life, an abandoned gloomy dark castle filled with trash, golden chains of limitations rotting in the corner. Aargh, who was the navigator of this journey into ferns? Be gentle with yourself. That's all past anyway, unwrap the clouds of smoke and come meditate, just be, here, breathe. The world is a sunny cushion, play your guitar and celebrate. Breathe in and out, splashing puddles, wet dresses, be gentle with yourself. Don't be attached to the story, the past is a story, and the future is riding a bicycle. Far away places are calling, I want to be free, now, yesterday, all my life to the distant dawn. Be gentle with yourself, you are looking in the wrong direction anyway, the future is in the clouds gently passing across the face of the sun. Baby steps leading down a path in the redwoods, abandoned cabin is a shelter in the hydrangea forest. Birds circling needles in the sky, silence permeates the wind. What toolkit can I take with me into the present? The one with no spectacles and no preconceived notions, full of smelly herbs, leaving neuroses and intense thoughts. Like an ostrich, head in the sand, full of thoughts and gibberish, while who knows what my exposed ass is doing? Stay in the temple of today, as not to wake up in the dungeon of stinky regrets and compost tomorrow. Use compost today to nurture flowers, frogs will be grateful later. Gently lower the center of gravity to the sun of the belly, and pink. Does it feel cozy here? Breathe today in as if your life depended on it, it whispered whispered does, you know, and dusty sanity as well. Stretch your silk, celebrate each non-neurotic breath, let the dreams fall by way, rage fountain burns to become a molten lava. Keep it flowing, open, flow into the ocean's warm hands, It may hiss as it meets the lavender, and the balance and rest are much needed. But above all be gentle with yourself!
Speak the truth!
Speak the truth! And dare to look deeper into your own soul and those around you.
We all would learn much more if only we dared a little more to
Speak the truth. Even if you think the world might end.
It won't, but will be better for it.
Speak the truth! If you searched deep and earnestly, and peeled the layers to reveal that
which is most precious jewel of the heart, share it,
Speak the truth! It will ring a chord in others' hearts and will mean something.
The bridge connecting two hearts yearning for understanding is built from
blocks of truth. It has the power to withstand the times.
Speak the truth! Use sword of truth to cut away the wasteful unimportant,
the have-not-thought-through nonsense that we use
to hook onto attention, satisfy the needs of unaware souls in slumber.
Speak the truth! Become the mirror for those ready
to see themselves, blind spots, and warts and all. For them,
Speak the truth! But speak it kindly. Make sure it's the heartfelt truth.
The mind is eager to provide its own true story, in the context of its veils.
But that truth might not hold up to scrutiny of light, describing
instead your shadow labyrinth with tinted portholes and funny mirrors.
Beware of pompous monster lurking in the back, forever looking for a righteous soap box.
Tell the truth! Have you already mastered that delicate art of gently loving yourself?
Of stepping lightly, of singing praises, of dancing your delight to music only you can hear?
Are you ready to spread your arms wide and embrace the whole wide world and
Speak your truth? Then do it!
The truth of love can move the stars, and everything under the sun
just soaks it up, and grows encouraged and supported.
As any gardener will tell you, the best food is the love we put
in all we grow and nurture to its blooming, and fruits of love are that much sweeter.
What is your truth? Have you gone deep inside and found
the portal to the Universe, present, and past, and future?
The words of mind and heart woven together to make the webs of lives to come,
right now can be created if only we
speak the truth! And live the truth, and breathe the truth.
Because when finally you tell your dreams,
they will not have a choice but to
become the truth!
Damp darkness of centuries, eons, mud and life. Holy site where prayer springs forth, down on my knees, spirit soaring. Whispering facelessness contains all the answers. They are not out there, they are here. There is only here. Everything there is to be understood is here, to be touched, lived, breathed. Breathe in the cry of the midnight bird, drink in the bubbling spring, its song proof enough of its existence. Toes like roots searching for earth's juices, growing, pulsating with life. The unseen sky shares the secret of its tears. Leap into this nothingness so rich with promise and exhilaration. I am. I am strong. With my heart the future maps are drawn. I love you, and you, and you, and them, and us, this world, this breath, this life, this hope, this dream. How many have dreamt here? Whose dream spells are these flowers? The fruit that resurrects itself eternal, is whispered whispered tenderly on by summer breeze. I liberate myself tonight. I bow deeply to my mother and my father, and let them go, for as a tree I stand tall, kissing clouds, a universe not less than all the others. I need no go-betweens, I am of grand design, and everything I need already is pre-dreamt and pre-recorded. Sail forth and manifest, dare to dream and take, the surest voice will ring true every time. Rainbow tears flowing from my heart, the cup of life can hold joy again. We've met before, I thought you were me, but now I see you are life and I am you. Great mystery, your dark robes turned out to be rainbows, sacred patterns are simple letters in the alphabet of love. Emotions are strings of your symphony and I let the river carry me over the threshold wherever it might, it will all be well. Harmony wakes up all senses, hearing light, tasting teardrops of liquid fire, and all my brothers and sisters have been searching for the same spring to quench the thirst eternal, that most crucial of answers to the most burning question. Throw me the rope so I can climb out of the harsh and dry desert cell of my mind existence; come to know the lush oasis, the night rain of love at the edge of eternity; so I may watch the star souls below while keeping night vigil by the fire feeding it my past, the skins now dead and good only to keep the flames going. May I die to the 'I' to be in the nameless now where nothing makes sense and senses dwell in place of concepts. “I” got lost along the way and I don't miss it, what with?
Be gentle with yourself.
“Be gentle with yourself” says my therapist. It's a sort of balance, this gentleness, like being in neutral and proceeding at baby steps, rather than trampolining across the fence into the bushes of the neighbor's yard. Be gentle with yourself, even when bougainvillea of despair take over the mind and hot knots twist in the stomach, iron fists grip the heart. I woke up in the dungeon of my life, an abandoned gloomy dark castle filled with trash, golden chains of limitations rotting in the corner. Aargh, who was the navigator of this journey into ferns? Be gentle with yourself. That's all past anyway, unwrap the clouds of smoke and come meditate, just be, here, breathe. The world is a sunny cushion, play your guitar and celebrate. Breathe in and out, splashing puddles, wet dresses, be gentle with yourself. Don't be attached to the story, the past is a story, and the future is riding a bicycle. Far away places are calling, I want to be free, now, yesterday, all my life to the distant dawn. Be gentle with yourself, you are looking in the wrong direction anyway, the future is in the clouds gently passing across the face of the sun. Baby steps leading down a path in the redwoods, abandoned cabin is a shelter in the hydrangea forest. Birds circling needles in the sky, silence permeates the wind. What toolkit can I take with me into the present? The one with no spectacles and no preconceived notions, full of smelly herbs, leaving neuroses and intense thoughts. Like an ostrich, head in the sand, full of thoughts and gibberish, while who knows what my exposed ass is doing? Stay in the temple of today, as not to wake up in the dungeon of stinky regrets and compost tomorrow. Use compost today to nurture flowers, frogs will be grateful later. Gently lower the center of gravity to the sun of the belly, and pink. Does it feel cozy here? Breathe today in as if your life depended on it, it whispered whispered does, you know, and dusty sanity as well. Stretch your silk, celebrate each non-neurotic breath, let the dreams fall by way, rage fountain burns to become a molten lava. Keep it flowing, open, flow into the ocean's warm hands, It may hiss as it meets the lavender, and the balance and rest are much needed. But above all be gentle with yourself!
Speak the truth!
Speak the truth! And dare to look deeper into your own soul and those around you.
We all would learn much more if only we dared a little more to
Speak the truth. Even if you think the world might end.
It won't, but will be better for it.
Speak the truth! If you searched deep and earnestly, and peeled the layers to reveal that
which is most precious jewel of the heart, share it,
Speak the truth! It will ring a chord in others' hearts and will mean something.
The bridge connecting two hearts yearning for understanding is built from
blocks of truth. It has the power to withstand the times.
Speak the truth! Use sword of truth to cut away the wasteful unimportant,
the have-not-thought-through nonsense that we use
to hook onto attention, satisfy the needs of unaware souls in slumber.
Speak the truth! Become the mirror for those ready
to see themselves, blind spots, and warts and all. For them,
Speak the truth! But speak it kindly. Make sure it's the heartfelt truth.
The mind is eager to provide its own true story, in the context of its veils.
But that truth might not hold up to scrutiny of light, describing
instead your shadow labyrinth with tinted portholes and funny mirrors.
Beware of pompous monster lurking in the back, forever looking for a righteous soap box.
Tell the truth! Have you already mastered that delicate art of gently loving yourself?
Of stepping lightly, of singing praises, of dancing your delight to music only you can hear?
Are you ready to spread your arms wide and embrace the whole wide world and
Speak your truth? Then do it!
The truth of love can move the stars, and everything under the sun
just soaks it up, and grows encouraged and supported.
As any gardener will tell you, the best food is the love we put
in all we grow and nurture to its blooming, and fruits of love are that much sweeter.
What is your truth? Have you gone deep inside and found
the portal to the Universe, present, and past, and future?
The words of mind and heart woven together to make the webs of lives to come,
right now can be created if only we
speak the truth! And live the truth, and breathe the truth.
Because when finally you tell your dreams,
they will not have a choice but to
become the truth!
It Was Us Who Scorched The Sky. / Armageddon, code: red.
What's up with our sky? I mean, thanks for the jaw-dropping sunset, but no thank you! What the fuck? I don't remember October skies being like that when I first moved to Maui. They used to be clear, you know, as in blue, with no clouds, just transparent, all the way to outer space kinda clear sky. And now? You don't have to believe in any conspiracy theories, evil Illuminates peppering our skies with aluminum, just look at this shit! The sky is stipe, horizon to horizon, with some totally unnatural perfect circles of cloud trails in the level below. And there are at least five of those levels, every kind of cloud you can imagine. The whole place looks gloomy. In all that grey-purple cloud shade the island looks like the last place anyone would want to live in, not a jungly paradise it is. I could as well have stayed in Russia if I wanted to wax all nostalgic about the rains and dismal dreary grays. And how come the sun peeping through the clouds, way too high to be setting yet, is bright-carrot-orange? Must be that Kilauea chimney in cahoots with the Illuminati, conspiring to suffocate us, cause you know we breathe in all that cuteness. At least our last visual will be gorgeous, well, if we decide to kick the bucket at sunset, that is. No argument, all those cherry reds and purples are breathtaking, but you know, makes me wonder just how breathtaking? What are we breathing in? What's in this potion? A little bit of sulfur and other delightful Vog flavors, dusted with chem trail aluminum for good measure, ad a heaping portion of cane burn smoke, and don't forget the guy who sprays pesticides on the side of the road. Add a pinch of Fukushima-born radioactive dust and inhale. Deeply! Like they teach us in the yoga class. And that's not even counting that old boring greenhouse gasses effect that chucked available oxygen in the atmosphere by a pretty good amount already, like a fifth or something, and replaced it with carbon dioxide. Bad for us humans, good for the plants. Especially vines. Didja know vines already quadrupled their growth? And poplars? those can tie up that nuclear stuff in their fibers, clean up any radioactive swamp in 30 years or less. Those peaceniks! With no one to chop them down, they will be enjoying those sunsets long after we are gone. I wonder what the sunsets will be like then.
Nectar of the Universe
Cooling purple breeze whirls around the bedposts, caressing my skin into decadent relaxation. Every shiny scale is tingling and singing. Delicious suspense fills me up, stirring waves of anticipation. Gossamer cobwebs cascade down in drapes. We have waited for this night, preparing diligently through ancient rituals. All other cords have been released, the inky blood spilled and purified through death and stillness, and now we are born anew to dance this dance. We explore the newness of every fold and feature, with eyes, and fingertips, and lips, and tails. Shivers of pleasure make the ears and toes curl. Every passionate kiss leaves a trail of fluorescent wetness. I am aglow, with each breath I can see my skin turning closer and closer to that divine pre-culmination blue, that iridescent heavenly hue that only true passion can bring out. My lover's tongues are so skilled and dexterous, they wrap around my limbs, gently squeezing and licking. The middle one that forks so deliciously does triple coil around my thigh. The touch of suction cups is like a thousand kisses all at once, unleashing pheromones from their hiding place. Pale green light of the moon sparkles in the droplets of sweat, its bitter jasmine-like scent hangs in the air. My body arches in ecstasy, supported by a pair of arms. Another pair buries itself in his silky furry patches of copper curls, grabbing, squeezing, bonding. Thankfully I have a third pair of hands to feel his face and eyes, touch the very tips of the ears that eagerly respond with delicious shivers. Light electric shocks elicit guttural moans, and the sweaty urgency builds up. Limbs mixing, twisting and grabbing, teeth probing, caressing, nibbling little pieces oh so delicately. I suck on his skin until pores begin to ooze sweet nectar that tastes better than bliss. The pain of tenderness is exquisite. I can see his third eye glowing, ready to take our bonding to the next dimension, merge and take flight, tickle each other's dream state. As the ancient sages, we too are creators, dancing the gods' dance of creation. Desires and dreams drenched with the morning dew of our love nectar seed the stars. Let the magic unfold. We fall into each other, the great abyss of universes yet unrealized. A myriad of golden nets weaves itself into a web of life, and we dream new realities with the supernova of our bliss.
What's up with our sky? I mean, thanks for the jaw-dropping sunset, but no thank you! What the fuck? I don't remember October skies being like that when I first moved to Maui. They used to be clear, you know, as in blue, with no clouds, just transparent, all the way to outer space kinda clear sky. And now? You don't have to believe in any conspiracy theories, evil Illuminates peppering our skies with aluminum, just look at this shit! The sky is stipe, horizon to horizon, with some totally unnatural perfect circles of cloud trails in the level below. And there are at least five of those levels, every kind of cloud you can imagine. The whole place looks gloomy. In all that grey-purple cloud shade the island looks like the last place anyone would want to live in, not a jungly paradise it is. I could as well have stayed in Russia if I wanted to wax all nostalgic about the rains and dismal dreary grays. And how come the sun peeping through the clouds, way too high to be setting yet, is bright-carrot-orange? Must be that Kilauea chimney in cahoots with the Illuminati, conspiring to suffocate us, cause you know we breathe in all that cuteness. At least our last visual will be gorgeous, well, if we decide to kick the bucket at sunset, that is. No argument, all those cherry reds and purples are breathtaking, but you know, makes me wonder just how breathtaking? What are we breathing in? What's in this potion? A little bit of sulfur and other delightful Vog flavors, dusted with chem trail aluminum for good measure, ad a heaping portion of cane burn smoke, and don't forget the guy who sprays pesticides on the side of the road. Add a pinch of Fukushima-born radioactive dust and inhale. Deeply! Like they teach us in the yoga class. And that's not even counting that old boring greenhouse gasses effect that chucked available oxygen in the atmosphere by a pretty good amount already, like a fifth or something, and replaced it with carbon dioxide. Bad for us humans, good for the plants. Especially vines. Didja know vines already quadrupled their growth? And poplars? those can tie up that nuclear stuff in their fibers, clean up any radioactive swamp in 30 years or less. Those peaceniks! With no one to chop them down, they will be enjoying those sunsets long after we are gone. I wonder what the sunsets will be like then.
Nectar of the Universe
Cooling purple breeze whirls around the bedposts, caressing my skin into decadent relaxation. Every shiny scale is tingling and singing. Delicious suspense fills me up, stirring waves of anticipation. Gossamer cobwebs cascade down in drapes. We have waited for this night, preparing diligently through ancient rituals. All other cords have been released, the inky blood spilled and purified through death and stillness, and now we are born anew to dance this dance. We explore the newness of every fold and feature, with eyes, and fingertips, and lips, and tails. Shivers of pleasure make the ears and toes curl. Every passionate kiss leaves a trail of fluorescent wetness. I am aglow, with each breath I can see my skin turning closer and closer to that divine pre-culmination blue, that iridescent heavenly hue that only true passion can bring out. My lover's tongues are so skilled and dexterous, they wrap around my limbs, gently squeezing and licking. The middle one that forks so deliciously does triple coil around my thigh. The touch of suction cups is like a thousand kisses all at once, unleashing pheromones from their hiding place. Pale green light of the moon sparkles in the droplets of sweat, its bitter jasmine-like scent hangs in the air. My body arches in ecstasy, supported by a pair of arms. Another pair buries itself in his silky furry patches of copper curls, grabbing, squeezing, bonding. Thankfully I have a third pair of hands to feel his face and eyes, touch the very tips of the ears that eagerly respond with delicious shivers. Light electric shocks elicit guttural moans, and the sweaty urgency builds up. Limbs mixing, twisting and grabbing, teeth probing, caressing, nibbling little pieces oh so delicately. I suck on his skin until pores begin to ooze sweet nectar that tastes better than bliss. The pain of tenderness is exquisite. I can see his third eye glowing, ready to take our bonding to the next dimension, merge and take flight, tickle each other's dream state. As the ancient sages, we too are creators, dancing the gods' dance of creation. Desires and dreams drenched with the morning dew of our love nectar seed the stars. Let the magic unfold. We fall into each other, the great abyss of universes yet unrealized. A myriad of golden nets weaves itself into a web of life, and we dream new realities with the supernova of our bliss.
Blood
Rumbling consciousness is no whisper to be suppressed. In the darkness of night you are the solitary witness of your own reflections. Cynical skepticism wounds deep, and bloody tears are pouring from lacerations growls left in masochistic skin. Claws itching with archaic spite, spit bile burning throat, fountaining out to drown skewed perceptions in mire of prehistoric bitterness. Mindless hatred catapults projectile vomit of regrets and suffocating repressions, obliterating forest of preconditioned conventions. Rage is the resource to be reckoned with, it brings forth currents of stellar truth, demolishing scaffolds and cobwebs of half-measures in its swift currents. Roaring magma relieves pressure, releases self-imposed restrictions in cataclysmic ecstatic explosion, fissures venting hot-blooded anger. I am a soaring eagle, my talons shred venomous hearts, slit throats speaking despicable lies. I see seven layers down, deep caverns and arrogant cowardice. Like a heat-seeking missile, I plunge and plunder, rip the scream out before it chances to display its maleficent power and destroy another innocence. Wave of hatred rippling the amalgam of existence carries the carcass shreds to domain of damnation. Purging the rivers of hot searing pain, empowerment is the gift sought and uncovered. Hear the roar reverberating through canyons and maze of human existence. The currents of courage bust floodgates of hesitation, and self-aggrandizing benevolence is revealed as a smoky sham of nothingness and mirrors. Sweep away the colossal idols of other lives and stories. Fantasy is not a reliable raft in this river of rip currents, passion, and grief submerged for generations. Emerging from obsidian caves of stillness, its origins belie its turbulent nature, honed in treacherous rapids of fear and greed. Drowning deeper, the rock bottom is my friend and launch pad for my flight. A mighty howl is bigger than the stars; it beacons wanton souls to take a chance on freedom. The spectrum of existence is rooted in deep hot red that speaks of rage and redemption, contorted twisted fate, searing light of the exploding destiny, and the blinding purification in the fires of truth that is. Lite up the fuze, explode, embrace eternity and root, grow deep into the soil of this archipelago paradise brought forth and birthed by molten lava.
Egocentric Dots
Sacred space is is a magnetic vacuum to be filled instantaneously by invasive tentacles of others. Are we humans so greedy for affection that we bait with honey for an instant only to switch to smothering our helpless prey with self-aggrandizement? We want it all, giving back nothing, suck, gulp, slurp, inhale riveted attention. Wrapped in the self, my five cents are worth significantly more than someone else's dollar. Small favor granted is a grand affair while pile of loving gestures is fleetingly accepted as a given, un stipulated by a contract. What constitutes a successful human being besides an overblown self-esteem? The unreserved and seemingly bottomless love spring dries up from wasteful usage, and heaped attention becomes the test, the rope and noose we strangle our chances with. If given a gift of an infinite sunshine of tenderness, what do we do? Do we become a nuisance of a toddler whose entire conversation boils down to “Mamma, look at me.” Do we fan out our fabulous tail of rainbow feathers and demonstrate our perceived supremacy instantly and constantly? Do we truly believe that anything we say about our stellar selves down to mundane minute details is a god's gift to people? Or can we be wise enough to restrain the temptation and instead look curiously past the barrier into that other pair of eyes and wonder who inhabits them? Inside each one of us is a whole universe, to be explored, tasted, lived and treasured. My own darkness is my own, with its surprises and discoveries, and monstrous horrors that are my probing stone, my own concoction that tastes incomparable to me alone, though I would often gladly or reluctantly share its most distilled and universal essence with select few kindred spirits. No need to just convulse the air. Sound pollution is not my lifelong goal. If my skill set assembled getting out of the mire labyrinth is helpful in any way, then dig into that treasure trove of personal attempts at truthful answers that faced the litmus litmus test of soul. And yet each day, each new conversation reveals to me yet another facet of my eternal fascination with the prisms through which I see the world: distorted lenses of the mind wiped cleaner here and there with the foam of consciousness, wax and grime softened and melted off by heat of heart and passions. I am an egocentric dot caught in the web of holographic matrix.
Rumbling consciousness is no whisper to be suppressed. In the darkness of night you are the solitary witness of your own reflections. Cynical skepticism wounds deep, and bloody tears are pouring from lacerations growls left in masochistic skin. Claws itching with archaic spite, spit bile burning throat, fountaining out to drown skewed perceptions in mire of prehistoric bitterness. Mindless hatred catapults projectile vomit of regrets and suffocating repressions, obliterating forest of preconditioned conventions. Rage is the resource to be reckoned with, it brings forth currents of stellar truth, demolishing scaffolds and cobwebs of half-measures in its swift currents. Roaring magma relieves pressure, releases self-imposed restrictions in cataclysmic ecstatic explosion, fissures venting hot-blooded anger. I am a soaring eagle, my talons shred venomous hearts, slit throats speaking despicable lies. I see seven layers down, deep caverns and arrogant cowardice. Like a heat-seeking missile, I plunge and plunder, rip the scream out before it chances to display its maleficent power and destroy another innocence. Wave of hatred rippling the amalgam of existence carries the carcass shreds to domain of damnation. Purging the rivers of hot searing pain, empowerment is the gift sought and uncovered. Hear the roar reverberating through canyons and maze of human existence. The currents of courage bust floodgates of hesitation, and self-aggrandizing benevolence is revealed as a smoky sham of nothingness and mirrors. Sweep away the colossal idols of other lives and stories. Fantasy is not a reliable raft in this river of rip currents, passion, and grief submerged for generations. Emerging from obsidian caves of stillness, its origins belie its turbulent nature, honed in treacherous rapids of fear and greed. Drowning deeper, the rock bottom is my friend and launch pad for my flight. A mighty howl is bigger than the stars; it beacons wanton souls to take a chance on freedom. The spectrum of existence is rooted in deep hot red that speaks of rage and redemption, contorted twisted fate, searing light of the exploding destiny, and the blinding purification in the fires of truth that is. Lite up the fuze, explode, embrace eternity and root, grow deep into the soil of this archipelago paradise brought forth and birthed by molten lava.
Egocentric Dots
Sacred space is is a magnetic vacuum to be filled instantaneously by invasive tentacles of others. Are we humans so greedy for affection that we bait with honey for an instant only to switch to smothering our helpless prey with self-aggrandizement? We want it all, giving back nothing, suck, gulp, slurp, inhale riveted attention. Wrapped in the self, my five cents are worth significantly more than someone else's dollar. Small favor granted is a grand affair while pile of loving gestures is fleetingly accepted as a given, un stipulated by a contract. What constitutes a successful human being besides an overblown self-esteem? The unreserved and seemingly bottomless love spring dries up from wasteful usage, and heaped attention becomes the test, the rope and noose we strangle our chances with. If given a gift of an infinite sunshine of tenderness, what do we do? Do we become a nuisance of a toddler whose entire conversation boils down to “Mamma, look at me.” Do we fan out our fabulous tail of rainbow feathers and demonstrate our perceived supremacy instantly and constantly? Do we truly believe that anything we say about our stellar selves down to mundane minute details is a god's gift to people? Or can we be wise enough to restrain the temptation and instead look curiously past the barrier into that other pair of eyes and wonder who inhabits them? Inside each one of us is a whole universe, to be explored, tasted, lived and treasured. My own darkness is my own, with its surprises and discoveries, and monstrous horrors that are my probing stone, my own concoction that tastes incomparable to me alone, though I would often gladly or reluctantly share its most distilled and universal essence with select few kindred spirits. No need to just convulse the air. Sound pollution is not my lifelong goal. If my skill set assembled getting out of the mire labyrinth is helpful in any way, then dig into that treasure trove of personal attempts at truthful answers that faced the litmus litmus test of soul. And yet each day, each new conversation reveals to me yet another facet of my eternal fascination with the prisms through which I see the world: distorted lenses of the mind wiped cleaner here and there with the foam of consciousness, wax and grime softened and melted off by heat of heart and passions. I am an egocentric dot caught in the web of holographic matrix.
Cactus Hell
Midnight darkness of hell blinds my eyesight. Sharp charged spikes grab and claw in desperation like skinny arms of starvation victims. Venomous fluorescence surrounds to horizon, trapping thoughts, hissing threats, growling countdown to horrendous finale. Terror makes my heart race, stimulates more perfectly than coffee. Treacherous springy mud saturated by the rooting canvas attempts to capture slippery feet in this race against panic. Bloody red phantasms obscure vision, directions blur and navigation is pure instinct. I could kill my pursuers with my bare hands, wring their necks, destroy and pulverize the bloody mess. But instinct pushes on. Sharp whips lash out at skin, attempt to penetrate and gorge on pulsing river of anger. Rage and fury are the oceans that fuel this flight. Slimy touches of a beast, plant or animal, not sure, inflict shudders. The mire labyrinth leads down, deeper, darker, lower, its walls constricting and suffocating, no oxygen here. And the eyes. They are everywhere, following unblinkingly, hungrily, knowingly. Kill or be killed. There has to be another choice, but its time has not yet arrived. I climb up, anxious to escape the pitch-black dungeon, caring not if it's a friend or foe whose limb I grab in my ascent. Still pitch-black darkness but I can breathe. No longer suffocating, boiling blood rage replaces fear. Headlong rush through barbed wire labyrinth of this apocalyptic jungle brings tears of blood. My skin cries oozing black sap that tastes like blood but darkness swallowed my body and does not confirm my corporeal presence. Only pain is a veritable witness of my existence. And fury. But weariness sets in and with it emptiness. I am a foreign element, being explused, I do not belong in this edgy hell of fear and killer instincts. What creature would feel at home in this hot breathing murderous mess always ready to attack, devour, leave one squirming in agony without relief. I am on edge. Ahead the darkness is abysmal. Behind, the dark night breathes with terror, its thousands of sharp spikes, venomous fangs, and body-rotting embraces ever ready to engulf, absorb, devour, and condemn forever. A nothingness sounds like a better option. Deliciously unrestrained leap appeals to exhausted senses. I take flight.
My Friend the River
Barefoot at last, mud between my toes, I crawl through the coffee trees and duck the sticky cobwebs over the silent trail. Exhausted and drained, i've come to replenish my spirit, recharge my batteries. I don't have much time so I must stretch it, dive deep and turn this hour into eternity of rest. Life has been going at a galloping pace lately. Like a circus acrobat balancing on a horse, I too strive to stay on top, adjusting to all the twisting and turning. I like this ride, and the trick is to know when to pause to breathe. Like now. The water is gurgling and bubbling all around me, washing over, quenching thirst. It too knows the metamorphosis of being a cloud, a dewdrop, a waterfall, a river, a song. Gentle currents wash away the tiredness and I find my peace in the green glassy depths. The water that was rain only a short while ago sets my body on fire. Bubbles bring on the cosmic giggles. I am back. I am everything. My toes and pulsing veins are roots. I become one with the stone, floating with the sounds all around, getting lost in the sound mosaic, drinking in the ripe guava scent. I am a mermaid. I've been swimming in this river and sitting on this stone since the beginnings of times. I have danced with the rains, breathing with every pore of my naked skin, since before birth, it feels so familiar, right, at home. The wings have place to stretch, dimensions merge as I remember my full presence. The senses merge into one pulsation of being alive, unfurled, desires stirring in the belly. I taste with my skin, breathing in through the eyes, the air tastes like nectar through the fingertips. The water flirts with my toes, while I suck on the ginger flower stem where a single drop of most fragrant honey is hiding. This is like a slow unhurried orgasm, waves of delights and caresses setting heart and soul aglow. Like a wine ripened with the wisdom of ages, I know the sensual secrets. I've left behind the illusory world. Everything in my body and soul knows this paradise as the real one. Deep inside I fear that somehow it too will be consumed one day, and there will no longer be a paradise to come to, to recharge from the relentless nightmarish battle that is our human civilization, encroaching and drinking up everything that is life, leaving piles of shit and desolation behind. The magic would be no more, the ugliness would be complete, and then there won't be any point in going on living.
Midnight darkness of hell blinds my eyesight. Sharp charged spikes grab and claw in desperation like skinny arms of starvation victims. Venomous fluorescence surrounds to horizon, trapping thoughts, hissing threats, growling countdown to horrendous finale. Terror makes my heart race, stimulates more perfectly than coffee. Treacherous springy mud saturated by the rooting canvas attempts to capture slippery feet in this race against panic. Bloody red phantasms obscure vision, directions blur and navigation is pure instinct. I could kill my pursuers with my bare hands, wring their necks, destroy and pulverize the bloody mess. But instinct pushes on. Sharp whips lash out at skin, attempt to penetrate and gorge on pulsing river of anger. Rage and fury are the oceans that fuel this flight. Slimy touches of a beast, plant or animal, not sure, inflict shudders. The mire labyrinth leads down, deeper, darker, lower, its walls constricting and suffocating, no oxygen here. And the eyes. They are everywhere, following unblinkingly, hungrily, knowingly. Kill or be killed. There has to be another choice, but its time has not yet arrived. I climb up, anxious to escape the pitch-black dungeon, caring not if it's a friend or foe whose limb I grab in my ascent. Still pitch-black darkness but I can breathe. No longer suffocating, boiling blood rage replaces fear. Headlong rush through barbed wire labyrinth of this apocalyptic jungle brings tears of blood. My skin cries oozing black sap that tastes like blood but darkness swallowed my body and does not confirm my corporeal presence. Only pain is a veritable witness of my existence. And fury. But weariness sets in and with it emptiness. I am a foreign element, being explused, I do not belong in this edgy hell of fear and killer instincts. What creature would feel at home in this hot breathing murderous mess always ready to attack, devour, leave one squirming in agony without relief. I am on edge. Ahead the darkness is abysmal. Behind, the dark night breathes with terror, its thousands of sharp spikes, venomous fangs, and body-rotting embraces ever ready to engulf, absorb, devour, and condemn forever. A nothingness sounds like a better option. Deliciously unrestrained leap appeals to exhausted senses. I take flight.
My Friend the River
Barefoot at last, mud between my toes, I crawl through the coffee trees and duck the sticky cobwebs over the silent trail. Exhausted and drained, i've come to replenish my spirit, recharge my batteries. I don't have much time so I must stretch it, dive deep and turn this hour into eternity of rest. Life has been going at a galloping pace lately. Like a circus acrobat balancing on a horse, I too strive to stay on top, adjusting to all the twisting and turning. I like this ride, and the trick is to know when to pause to breathe. Like now. The water is gurgling and bubbling all around me, washing over, quenching thirst. It too knows the metamorphosis of being a cloud, a dewdrop, a waterfall, a river, a song. Gentle currents wash away the tiredness and I find my peace in the green glassy depths. The water that was rain only a short while ago sets my body on fire. Bubbles bring on the cosmic giggles. I am back. I am everything. My toes and pulsing veins are roots. I become one with the stone, floating with the sounds all around, getting lost in the sound mosaic, drinking in the ripe guava scent. I am a mermaid. I've been swimming in this river and sitting on this stone since the beginnings of times. I have danced with the rains, breathing with every pore of my naked skin, since before birth, it feels so familiar, right, at home. The wings have place to stretch, dimensions merge as I remember my full presence. The senses merge into one pulsation of being alive, unfurled, desires stirring in the belly. I taste with my skin, breathing in through the eyes, the air tastes like nectar through the fingertips. The water flirts with my toes, while I suck on the ginger flower stem where a single drop of most fragrant honey is hiding. This is like a slow unhurried orgasm, waves of delights and caresses setting heart and soul aglow. Like a wine ripened with the wisdom of ages, I know the sensual secrets. I've left behind the illusory world. Everything in my body and soul knows this paradise as the real one. Deep inside I fear that somehow it too will be consumed one day, and there will no longer be a paradise to come to, to recharge from the relentless nightmarish battle that is our human civilization, encroaching and drinking up everything that is life, leaving piles of shit and desolation behind. The magic would be no more, the ugliness would be complete, and then there won't be any point in going on living.
I Am OK
I am OK. I am a pretty stellar being. This comes as a surprise. I guess I needed proof. I had to know myself to know the truth. Whatever mosters dwelled in the hidden depths, I would accept them, would face them and see what could be done. But somehow the void turned out to be the place of truth. And sadness. And beauty. I stayed there for a while, merging my sadness with the Universe. Then came anger, and rage. They seemed like they would last forever, but like a storm, they blew over, and pretty fast, leaving behind only the truth, the truth of I, the one that watches life's storms in teacups with amused detachment. I've learned that I can offer a steady hand to a distressed friend, and cup of tea, and time out of their sorrows. It makes me pause in awe and wonder, seeing what a small piece of timely love can do. I'm wise and funny, and sweet and magical, the compliments pour forth, and I don't question them. They sound therefore they are. I'm grateful. But it is those small victories achieved in secret that I'm most grateful for. The courage to gracefully stand up for my dignity, and knowing when to pick my battles. It is all sun's play on the lily pond, as fog rolls in and nothing is what it seems. Sharing beauty enhances it. Courage to know ourselves enhances our experiences. Laughing, crying, feeling deeply, living fully, trusting, sharing, baring soul and dancing the heart out, dreaming out loud and painting my nightmares, watching and cheering a friend's process, those are the things I'm truly happy with. Letting life in, letting friends and lovers in, without losing myself, yes! I am OK!
Sadness
Sadness has covered me with its gray blanket. I want to weep, but I don't, for fear of getting lost in it and missing hearing something deep in my heart that is trying to come out in whispers. I have peeked behind the smoky screens and saw the emptiness inside, a painful emptiness, like a limb under anesthesia that is wearing off, and the numbness aches with dull itching that is unscratchable. I can walk away and ignore it but it will always be there until I look it squarely in the face. This stone in my chest, it is heavy, but it is not my heart. IT has not turned to stone, I'm sure, only got placed in a stone sarcophagus, to be brought forth again some day after the Ice Age is over. I know it is alive and beating by the tears of compassion and waves of sandess. My sister left Maui yesterday, went back out into the world that does not understand her, doesn't offer support for her inmost dreams. I cried. I cried for her loneliness out there, and mine, for the hole I feel where she just was. I cried for her torture of traveling for 24 hours straight and in gratitude for her undergoing it so we can have deep and profound time together, time stolen from our usual lives. I cried because love really is the only thing that matters, and its healing power is nothing short of a miracle. My heart cried rainbow tears from its fullness and because the opportunities to express that love to people who really matter are so few and far in between. Yet another lover's feelings are ignited and die out without reaching the surface, while I watch the game of shadows on his face. He eyes me curiously and inscrutably. Shallow warmth is offered but our hearts don't kiss. I am all poised with a cup full of love, ready to offer it, to love him, to let him in and kiss his soul, heap tenderness and probe the depth o possibilities. But something just doesn't click, somehow I'm not it, my soul is unattractive. I am not needed once again by the one who I could love, do love. I'm back in my solitary bubble where every little thing has been lovingly hand-picked. “I love myself” - so goes my mantra, taking the heartache away for just long enough to breathe in. I redirect that rainbow salve towards my own aching core, chest, throat, feeling betrayed by universe's designs once more. But the cold voice of the gray void that I recognize as also me, coolly advises to look in the mirror for answers. I hid my own feeling too, hiding behind the gray metal shields, and now I will never know. I am back with myself, alone, and the truth is I AM ALONE in this gray void where my soul meets the universal sadness of understanding.
I am OK. I am a pretty stellar being. This comes as a surprise. I guess I needed proof. I had to know myself to know the truth. Whatever mosters dwelled in the hidden depths, I would accept them, would face them and see what could be done. But somehow the void turned out to be the place of truth. And sadness. And beauty. I stayed there for a while, merging my sadness with the Universe. Then came anger, and rage. They seemed like they would last forever, but like a storm, they blew over, and pretty fast, leaving behind only the truth, the truth of I, the one that watches life's storms in teacups with amused detachment. I've learned that I can offer a steady hand to a distressed friend, and cup of tea, and time out of their sorrows. It makes me pause in awe and wonder, seeing what a small piece of timely love can do. I'm wise and funny, and sweet and magical, the compliments pour forth, and I don't question them. They sound therefore they are. I'm grateful. But it is those small victories achieved in secret that I'm most grateful for. The courage to gracefully stand up for my dignity, and knowing when to pick my battles. It is all sun's play on the lily pond, as fog rolls in and nothing is what it seems. Sharing beauty enhances it. Courage to know ourselves enhances our experiences. Laughing, crying, feeling deeply, living fully, trusting, sharing, baring soul and dancing the heart out, dreaming out loud and painting my nightmares, watching and cheering a friend's process, those are the things I'm truly happy with. Letting life in, letting friends and lovers in, without losing myself, yes! I am OK!
Sadness
Sadness has covered me with its gray blanket. I want to weep, but I don't, for fear of getting lost in it and missing hearing something deep in my heart that is trying to come out in whispers. I have peeked behind the smoky screens and saw the emptiness inside, a painful emptiness, like a limb under anesthesia that is wearing off, and the numbness aches with dull itching that is unscratchable. I can walk away and ignore it but it will always be there until I look it squarely in the face. This stone in my chest, it is heavy, but it is not my heart. IT has not turned to stone, I'm sure, only got placed in a stone sarcophagus, to be brought forth again some day after the Ice Age is over. I know it is alive and beating by the tears of compassion and waves of sandess. My sister left Maui yesterday, went back out into the world that does not understand her, doesn't offer support for her inmost dreams. I cried. I cried for her loneliness out there, and mine, for the hole I feel where she just was. I cried for her torture of traveling for 24 hours straight and in gratitude for her undergoing it so we can have deep and profound time together, time stolen from our usual lives. I cried because love really is the only thing that matters, and its healing power is nothing short of a miracle. My heart cried rainbow tears from its fullness and because the opportunities to express that love to people who really matter are so few and far in between. Yet another lover's feelings are ignited and die out without reaching the surface, while I watch the game of shadows on his face. He eyes me curiously and inscrutably. Shallow warmth is offered but our hearts don't kiss. I am all poised with a cup full of love, ready to offer it, to love him, to let him in and kiss his soul, heap tenderness and probe the depth o possibilities. But something just doesn't click, somehow I'm not it, my soul is unattractive. I am not needed once again by the one who I could love, do love. I'm back in my solitary bubble where every little thing has been lovingly hand-picked. “I love myself” - so goes my mantra, taking the heartache away for just long enough to breathe in. I redirect that rainbow salve towards my own aching core, chest, throat, feeling betrayed by universe's designs once more. But the cold voice of the gray void that I recognize as also me, coolly advises to look in the mirror for answers. I hid my own feeling too, hiding behind the gray metal shields, and now I will never know. I am back with myself, alone, and the truth is I AM ALONE in this gray void where my soul meets the universal sadness of understanding.
Those who don't learn, die...
We are gonna die. Not just every one of us, but us as a humanity, we will probably die in a few generations. Our world is dying. Our oxygen is depleting. Our oceans are overfished, filled with plastic and radioactivity, and almost at capacity of absorbing carbon dioxide. Our land is fucked and fracked, aquifers destroyed, polluted, or drained. There are droughts that could last a hundred years. Without drinkable water and breathable air, that would be that for humankind. And we all know it. And we are all scared. And yet powerless to stop this machine, this creation of the sick mind, that we call technology-based economy. No viable global solutions are offered. For as soon as one piece of this puzzle it taken away, the whole house of cards will come tumbling down. No income is starvation, losing house, facing the kids' sad faces, lost dreams, hopelessness. No one wants to go back to Great Depression. I guess we would all rather die. So long as money means food and shelter, we will be enslaved. Couple of generations ago money meant shelter, but many had kitchen gardens so starvation was not an imminent threat. A couple of generations from now money will mean water, and that's a much deeper threat. And oxygen bars, where money means air. They already exist, don't they? That's our future, the one that ends in destruction. The only viable alternative is freedom. Freedom, dignity and respect for all living beings, going back to balance, cleaning up the mess along the way. Freedom from economy. Being fully off the grid. In as many ways as possible. And as with everything that had ever borne fruit, it is a gradual process that has to start now. Get some land, pay it off, grow your food, collect your water, build an earth ship earth ship house, go solar, tell your friends, live your life, educate your kids. How else do you think we are gonna get out of this ass-hole we found ourselves in? By questioning everything and developing a taste for authentic, arriving at our own answers and developing immunity to mass marketing, by spending time in nature to understand what Earth is all about. It is the face of God after all, and all our technologies are just weak destructive attempts to emulate its efficient perfection. It is already perfect, and we just have to be humble enough to listen. Earth already has all the answers, and she is not our enemy, though we have been treating her as such.
Just Say No!
What can you do to help the world? Just say No! Say no to buying GMO food, say no to getting into debt, say no to having children if you know you have a genetic disease, or if you already have two or three kids. Saying No is not as easy as it seems. Our ability to say no has been severely compromised by some very skillful professionals. None of this is accidental. Marketing has gotten to be very sophisticated and subtle. Along with its more blunt firstborn, where you're just jackhammered by ads and promotions, there are deeper psychological undercurrents. Your social image and standing, your own sense of self-worth and your deepest fears are all preyed on expertly. Saying no to your deepest fears is quite a feat, it is difficult and scary, and chances are, no one will understand. How do you say no to life insurance when you have kids? Or no to diet pills so your spouse doesn't leave you for a slimmer model? Just saying No! won't cut it. You would have to know why you are saying no. You would have to think. So start small, as not to scare yourself into a food or alcohol binge, after which you will have to buy some diet pills. Start small by saying no to some aspect of consumeristic mania. Use your brain a little and strategize. Use a calculator. Buy fewer things of better quality. Vote with your money and send your message out. Say No to laziness. Read labels, food labels, garment labels, vaccine labels. Make your own choices. Choose to have time and energy to make educated choices. If in doubt, just say No. You can change the world, your world, starting within and spreading out. What you feed your kids, what you feed your pets and your plants in the garden, it all matters. So say No to pressure, any pressure, peer pressure, guilt pressure, or blood pressure. And say Yes to things that make you happy, truly happy, healthy and at peace. Say yes to love, and laughter, and down time, and sunshine and rainbows. Say yes to kisses and toes in the grass, gardening in the rain and swimming in the waterfalls. Say yes to kids and pets and loved ones. Say yes to simple and beautiful. Say yes to calm and steady. Say yes to feeling your roots and loving the Earth. Say yes to each new day, and know that you are its guardian, as well as your own. And just say No to anyone who would tell you otherwise!
We are gonna die. Not just every one of us, but us as a humanity, we will probably die in a few generations. Our world is dying. Our oxygen is depleting. Our oceans are overfished, filled with plastic and radioactivity, and almost at capacity of absorbing carbon dioxide. Our land is fucked and fracked, aquifers destroyed, polluted, or drained. There are droughts that could last a hundred years. Without drinkable water and breathable air, that would be that for humankind. And we all know it. And we are all scared. And yet powerless to stop this machine, this creation of the sick mind, that we call technology-based economy. No viable global solutions are offered. For as soon as one piece of this puzzle it taken away, the whole house of cards will come tumbling down. No income is starvation, losing house, facing the kids' sad faces, lost dreams, hopelessness. No one wants to go back to Great Depression. I guess we would all rather die. So long as money means food and shelter, we will be enslaved. Couple of generations ago money meant shelter, but many had kitchen gardens so starvation was not an imminent threat. A couple of generations from now money will mean water, and that's a much deeper threat. And oxygen bars, where money means air. They already exist, don't they? That's our future, the one that ends in destruction. The only viable alternative is freedom. Freedom, dignity and respect for all living beings, going back to balance, cleaning up the mess along the way. Freedom from economy. Being fully off the grid. In as many ways as possible. And as with everything that had ever borne fruit, it is a gradual process that has to start now. Get some land, pay it off, grow your food, collect your water, build an earth ship earth ship house, go solar, tell your friends, live your life, educate your kids. How else do you think we are gonna get out of this ass-hole we found ourselves in? By questioning everything and developing a taste for authentic, arriving at our own answers and developing immunity to mass marketing, by spending time in nature to understand what Earth is all about. It is the face of God after all, and all our technologies are just weak destructive attempts to emulate its efficient perfection. It is already perfect, and we just have to be humble enough to listen. Earth already has all the answers, and she is not our enemy, though we have been treating her as such.
Just Say No!
What can you do to help the world? Just say No! Say no to buying GMO food, say no to getting into debt, say no to having children if you know you have a genetic disease, or if you already have two or three kids. Saying No is not as easy as it seems. Our ability to say no has been severely compromised by some very skillful professionals. None of this is accidental. Marketing has gotten to be very sophisticated and subtle. Along with its more blunt firstborn, where you're just jackhammered by ads and promotions, there are deeper psychological undercurrents. Your social image and standing, your own sense of self-worth and your deepest fears are all preyed on expertly. Saying no to your deepest fears is quite a feat, it is difficult and scary, and chances are, no one will understand. How do you say no to life insurance when you have kids? Or no to diet pills so your spouse doesn't leave you for a slimmer model? Just saying No! won't cut it. You would have to know why you are saying no. You would have to think. So start small, as not to scare yourself into a food or alcohol binge, after which you will have to buy some diet pills. Start small by saying no to some aspect of consumeristic mania. Use your brain a little and strategize. Use a calculator. Buy fewer things of better quality. Vote with your money and send your message out. Say No to laziness. Read labels, food labels, garment labels, vaccine labels. Make your own choices. Choose to have time and energy to make educated choices. If in doubt, just say No. You can change the world, your world, starting within and spreading out. What you feed your kids, what you feed your pets and your plants in the garden, it all matters. So say No to pressure, any pressure, peer pressure, guilt pressure, or blood pressure. And say Yes to things that make you happy, truly happy, healthy and at peace. Say yes to love, and laughter, and down time, and sunshine and rainbows. Say yes to kisses and toes in the grass, gardening in the rain and swimming in the waterfalls. Say yes to kids and pets and loved ones. Say yes to simple and beautiful. Say yes to calm and steady. Say yes to feeling your roots and loving the Earth. Say yes to each new day, and know that you are its guardian, as well as your own. And just say No to anyone who would tell you otherwise!
Under the Dark Angel's Wings
I am empty. Clueless. Life has lost its story, its veneer. I have stepped through the looking glass and answers don't have questions any more. I will be forty on my next birthday, and things begin to look differently. Freed of illusions, it is time to take stock. So many years have been spent deconstructing what was in the way, the constructs that didn't serve me, the patterns that were not mine, the inner walls that kept me imprisoned inside while the movie of a pop version of me used my facade as the screen. So, all that is gone, and the emptiness or the blank canvas, the clean slate remains. I don't want to fill it with some sparkly nonsense just so that loneliness and emptiness are covered up. They are the true faces of what I've been seeking, they really are. I just didn't know. No one is invading that silent space, no voices, inner or outer, telling me what to do and how to be. Except that deafening one that is screaming that I'm a failure, complete and utter failure in everything, missing out on the game of life, in which there is no reset button, no second chances. Like sparks flying through the night, sent off by crackling fire, our meteoric flight is short. We stat out burning brightest, slowly tapering off in our brilliance. There is no plan, no cosmic parents with our best at hearts, just this primordial darkness and our moment in time. What will we grasp and experience in this brief flight? It is up to us. It is up to me. In whatever time that's left, with death as witness and a friend, it is easy to weed out the non-essential and the illusory. It is much harder to find things worth while. Sometimes I feel that the sound of a guitar string, plucked again and again, is the only really thing in the universe, the only thing worth doing for its own sake. I want to fill my blank canvas with love, the most beautiful, exciting, deep and intense feeling, process, experience I know. But the unmanned train of my life seems to run on tracks through the desert. I have so much love to give, and a desire for a travel companion to journey with deeply to the lands of unnameable and back. I can lead the way if needs be. We could create our own version of paradise. We could raise children. But I don't believe this dream, not fully anyways. And that love is not so overflowing as to save African orphans or work the soup kitchen. Rather it expresses itself in random acts of kindness to random people and animals. Maybe I don't love Earth or life enough to be loved back. Maybe nature has already written me off as a wilting flower that hasn't spawned a fruit, and in the big picture it won't make a ripple. Or maybe I am my own God, too naïve to fall back asleep, aged by things I chose to see before my time, playing the Angel of Death.
Heart Broken Open
Saying goodbye to a lover because this chapter is over, is just what it is, deeply sad, raw.. And is so ripe with poetic potential. Am I cutting myself to feel the pain so I have deeper feeling? Or was the wound already there and I just needed to taste it? He urged me to let my heart loose, let it be broken so it can break open... I took the challenge, no regrets, just black blood spilling like the puss from his own wound that I cut open. That was one of his gifts to me, letting me, asking me to cut him. And I did it, with my pink-handled razor-sharp dagger. Cutting another human being's supple flesh... Something very primal in my body protested while soul looked on calmly, almost coldly. I did it. And it changed me. Now I know what cold-blooded means, just setting all feelings aside and doing it with steel precision of a robot. If only for a moment, I got there, damming out all emotion. His 'yes' meant 'yes' but the promise of wanting to see my tears got broken. Along with my heart. Broke agains the invisible glass wall that was blocking the path to a distant horizon, transparently and unexpectedly. We bounced off that wall and kept circling until the ambers died out, running out of fuel of dreams way too soon. I broke my inner walls as fast as I could, smashing with them all the relics of innocence and delusions, and not looking back. I am deeply changed, ancient in my bones, watching this spectacle of life with my morning cup of delicately brewed green tea. As wells of steam rise, the world shows itself as an illusion painted on those veils, and the sound of the plucked guitar string is the only real experience left, the most truthful, not needing a context. The one that just is. The one that speaks to the heart broken open, not really imposing an opinion or taking sides. Its sound heals by not doing anything, by just witnessing that heart breathe... In... and out... and in..
I am empty. Clueless. Life has lost its story, its veneer. I have stepped through the looking glass and answers don't have questions any more. I will be forty on my next birthday, and things begin to look differently. Freed of illusions, it is time to take stock. So many years have been spent deconstructing what was in the way, the constructs that didn't serve me, the patterns that were not mine, the inner walls that kept me imprisoned inside while the movie of a pop version of me used my facade as the screen. So, all that is gone, and the emptiness or the blank canvas, the clean slate remains. I don't want to fill it with some sparkly nonsense just so that loneliness and emptiness are covered up. They are the true faces of what I've been seeking, they really are. I just didn't know. No one is invading that silent space, no voices, inner or outer, telling me what to do and how to be. Except that deafening one that is screaming that I'm a failure, complete and utter failure in everything, missing out on the game of life, in which there is no reset button, no second chances. Like sparks flying through the night, sent off by crackling fire, our meteoric flight is short. We stat out burning brightest, slowly tapering off in our brilliance. There is no plan, no cosmic parents with our best at hearts, just this primordial darkness and our moment in time. What will we grasp and experience in this brief flight? It is up to us. It is up to me. In whatever time that's left, with death as witness and a friend, it is easy to weed out the non-essential and the illusory. It is much harder to find things worth while. Sometimes I feel that the sound of a guitar string, plucked again and again, is the only really thing in the universe, the only thing worth doing for its own sake. I want to fill my blank canvas with love, the most beautiful, exciting, deep and intense feeling, process, experience I know. But the unmanned train of my life seems to run on tracks through the desert. I have so much love to give, and a desire for a travel companion to journey with deeply to the lands of unnameable and back. I can lead the way if needs be. We could create our own version of paradise. We could raise children. But I don't believe this dream, not fully anyways. And that love is not so overflowing as to save African orphans or work the soup kitchen. Rather it expresses itself in random acts of kindness to random people and animals. Maybe I don't love Earth or life enough to be loved back. Maybe nature has already written me off as a wilting flower that hasn't spawned a fruit, and in the big picture it won't make a ripple. Or maybe I am my own God, too naïve to fall back asleep, aged by things I chose to see before my time, playing the Angel of Death.
Heart Broken Open
Saying goodbye to a lover because this chapter is over, is just what it is, deeply sad, raw.. And is so ripe with poetic potential. Am I cutting myself to feel the pain so I have deeper feeling? Or was the wound already there and I just needed to taste it? He urged me to let my heart loose, let it be broken so it can break open... I took the challenge, no regrets, just black blood spilling like the puss from his own wound that I cut open. That was one of his gifts to me, letting me, asking me to cut him. And I did it, with my pink-handled razor-sharp dagger. Cutting another human being's supple flesh... Something very primal in my body protested while soul looked on calmly, almost coldly. I did it. And it changed me. Now I know what cold-blooded means, just setting all feelings aside and doing it with steel precision of a robot. If only for a moment, I got there, damming out all emotion. His 'yes' meant 'yes' but the promise of wanting to see my tears got broken. Along with my heart. Broke agains the invisible glass wall that was blocking the path to a distant horizon, transparently and unexpectedly. We bounced off that wall and kept circling until the ambers died out, running out of fuel of dreams way too soon. I broke my inner walls as fast as I could, smashing with them all the relics of innocence and delusions, and not looking back. I am deeply changed, ancient in my bones, watching this spectacle of life with my morning cup of delicately brewed green tea. As wells of steam rise, the world shows itself as an illusion painted on those veils, and the sound of the plucked guitar string is the only real experience left, the most truthful, not needing a context. The one that just is. The one that speaks to the heart broken open, not really imposing an opinion or taking sides. Its sound heals by not doing anything, by just witnessing that heart breathe... In... and out... and in..
We all got it!
Shit, this is difficult! I want to just scream, fill the page with howls! Hey, we all got 'em! This is exasperating, I keep deleting lines, just knowing in my gut they are not from my gut. Fucking brainiac. They say the longest journey is from the head to the heart. I guess they've given up on ever getting down to the guts. That's where the real goodies hide, a whole underground castle to explore, basements of dark rooms that stink of shame, regrets and undigested grief. Hey, we all got it! In many ways we are still emotional teenagers with sheep instincts. I feel relieved I'm not the only one writhing, self-protective delusions of grandeur stripped away, and I feel so naked I'm practically skinless. We are cosmic strippers! Hey, we all got it! Somewhere down the line we start enjoying being watched as we strip. Well, I don't know about you, so I won't hide behind the “we”. Hell, I enjoy soul-stripping in a good company, where humor and love are the dollar bills. Show me your willingness and I will show you my scars. Hey, we all got 'em! But look carefully before they are gone, 'cause they are nothing but dust in the wind once they have been seen. A determined shit-digger, I pounce on my shadows, but the true gems of self-loathing are hard to come by nowadays, even though we all got 'em! Unattainable perfection has been smashed with a bat. My soul's first steps in new dimensions might be faltering, but what a relief. It's amazing what a crushing weight self-expectations can be, and I still wrestle with inner alligators daily, but hey, we all got 'em! Every day I dare a little more to feel my grace, be my beauty, show my love and let life in. Sometimes I wonder how to be a woman and be powerful, what does that look like? But then it's simple. I am already a woman and no one can take that away. And the power is not the overwhelming, wrathful deity, it's the roaring warmth in the belly that begets an ecstatic belly laugh. I'm happy with baby steps, and hey, we all got them! The new me and I, we are slowly making friends. And my friends, we are slowly making better friends too, deeper, truer. There's a lot to be said about the poky sharp-edged swords of truth, but we are learning to make velvety sheaths, while drinking wine and howling at the moon. Chicken-shits no more, we live our truth the best we can. Show me your dreams and I'll show you mine! Hey, we all got 'em!
Leggies
Amazing! Did I say life is amazing? It is! Right about now I feel like I don't know wether to laugh or cry, feeling like i'm about to burst at seams. I feel!!! I feel so alive, like a cat in the sun, stretching, stretching till my wings start busting out and spreading wide. I can feel them, big and strong, and very very real. I can feel my legs, I am them, I'm in them, I inhabit them. They shocked me at first. I must've been eleven or twelve years old, living in the world of dreams, using books as barricades against reality. I dove into them as soon as I got home from school, to drown out the kitchen reality of clutter and nonsense. They were big fat books on everything from nature to sci-fi to geography. It almost didn't matter. Any place was better than here now. The here now did not make any sense. In those books I was free. I didn't even have to live, I could just follow other, imaginary lives, like a ghost. I looked up from the book and suddenly saw my legs. Something was off. They were just way too long. And big, round, thick, with those big feet. They were their own animal. They didn't belong to me. I didn't really feel them, I didn't feel my body, not really. They were the strangest thing I ever saw, stretching the whole length of the bed to the wall. The grey blanket with the yellow embroidered sun was as always. The bookshelf with the books I knew by heart was just the same lit by the green lamp. The voices in the kitchen were the same, complaining and arguing as always. Fat old dog-eared American sci-fi novel, where Russians were the enemy, was still the same. But those kneecaps? Where did they come from? They can't be mine, they are huge! Too scary... to inhabit the body, to foray into that reality of sprinting to take cover under the desk, under anyting that's hard enough, to escape raging hands and fists pummeling my face, searing the scalp, hair torn out by the fistful, fighting back, rage and fury, sobbing on the edge of obliteration... I am afraid to feel, to be vulnerable, exposed, unprotected, where nothing is between the fist and me, and no one cares, not even God. I lash out, better to end this torture once and for all, just turn the lights out, I'm ready, I won't miss this place. But I live, yet again, sobbing on the little blue mattress with thin yellow stripes that I pinched and stashed in the corner behind the armoir. The kitchen noises go on as usual.
Becoming The Mermaid
My voice has changed. I am no longer afraid of diving deep, speaking in my mystery tongues. I hate the heady voice. Hate isn't too strong a word. Rage is. I can get lost in rage, blind rage, foaming rage, like a raging river after the storm. I faced the raging river just after this last storm. The waterfall was spewing its fury, obliterating the placid pool at its base, there was no getting anywhere near that cauldron. But no, in one fell swoop, in three strokes of his powerful arms, my lover was across the river, hunching over the rock, jaguar-like, taunting me, teasing me, eyes burning into mine. The raging river of white foam, the primordial stream has separated us. Ok, now what? No way! I gave a few whirls in the sheltered cove, splashing and floating. The scent of ginger hangs heavy, it became the air. The eyes across the river are still on me, laughing, daring. No way in hell! He'll catch me. Maybe. Or if he won't, the rocks will. This is sheer madness. Shifting weight, caressing the currents, I gaze across, getting lost in his eyes. The raging stream, the deafening waterfall, the fragrant jungle, and the jungle cat, ready to pounce. Ohhh, this is too good. I inhale one long breath, slowly submerge still sheltered from the currents. Eye the river, measure the distance. The little proper voice inside tells me I'm crazy. I know. I would be crazy not to be crazy. Do I really want to stay in the sheltered fragrant cove for all eternity? I get chills, exhilirating cold-bloodedness sets in. The curled-up spirit is unfurling. The panther stretches leisurely. I can do this, I can do anything, I've manifested this reality, this raging life I drink in with all my pores, grasp and inhale. Three powerful strokes should be enough to carry me across this abyss of madness. There is no fear, just certainty, of me, of my strength, of his strength, of this moment being so right. This is my moment of power, this is the medicine for the soul, this is life in its most archaic and divine. In three delicious leaps I am across and leap up on the rock to meet my lover's astonished gaze. I am another one of you. Do you see me seeing you? I've let go of the shore and went into the river of life. I am ready. I am the mermaid spirit of the river. This is my world.
The Little Sunshine
She is like a little sunshine in human form. And it isn't just her golden blond hair and sunkissed little body. When she smiles, it is purity and joy that tugs at your heart, and you know it! Pure love, pure joy, mischievious in its pure fun. She knows diapers are silly and takes them off at first opportunity. That baby gets me and together we run naked, splashing in muddy river. Or drink tea from teeny cups and a tiny teapot, our little tea ceremony on the beach. To her they are just the right size though, perfectly scaled down to her world dimensions. Today we drink tea in honor of her two full revolutions around the sun, and for many more to come. She splashes in the waves, a natural mermaid, a Maui child, as her clan, adults and children alike that love her, shower her with flowers. With a flower wreath in her hair, she twirls and dives, blissfully unaware of the sadness lurking in the hearts of those around. There has been a tragedy in another family of friends; their 18-month-old loved and cherished boy has passed away in his sleep, and nothing forewarned of that disaster. So we hug her a little tighter today, putting prayers into flowers, praying for her good health and long life. What else can we do? There are no wings big enough to protect her, protect anyone, in this dance of life and death and shadows. That other child too held a promise of great things to come. He was so loved. He had so much light to share with the world. I was so looking forward to seeing who he would become. And he became an angel. But we need more angels in this thorny paradise, where hearts grow spiky shells from tough questions we have no answers for. Little angels who were wise enough to pick loving supportive parents who just let them be the light they are, be that fearless love they are. The sunshine of her gaze melts icicles in my heart, as we drink our tea from the tiny cups with green storks on them. “What happened to auntie?” she asks her dad one day. “I think she's trying to figure that out too” comes the reply. They too have great conversations! We eat berries, there is a whole bowl of them, she's such a berry monster. So am I. I wish I had a bowl of berries big enough for me to climb into. I'm happy she does. We laugh and giggle, and I get the sweetest kiss of joy on my cheek. She likes the birthday gift I brought her. It's a miniature tea set, what else?
The Dance of Life
I am in love. Like a tree orchid, this love is barely rooted in any actual happenings, drawing its power from dreams and imaginations, straight from the moonlight and morning wind. It puts a spring in my step and dance in my feet. I hum the music only I hear. I sleep less, eat less, get everything done, smile smugly, while the soft heat suffuses my belly. The heat waves get in the way of office work, but I don't mind, it's a good reminder of life's priorities. The Goddess is stirring again. The skin is oiled and glowing, legs shave themselves, and there is even a fresh pedicure, effortless. I look forward to our dances together, we speak the wordless language. Our dialects are different but complementary, the yin and the yang, the archetypal dance. I have promised nothing, so in the moment I can be everything. I dance out the woman in me, and the little gentle girl child. The wild panther makes her presence known with claws on the ready, slashing the air, prowling and pouncing, and the warrior stomps in the war dance. I am dancing with myself while being fully witnessed by the other. Perhaps that's the attraction, I'm falling in love with myself, with just enough of a masculine spice from my almost imaginary friend. And the other day he kissed my feet in gratitude. But I'm afraid to open the door. I've spent a year getting my inner house in order, becoming happy and balanced, creative and self-sustaining, healed and grateful for the new day. I tread lightly in my temple. God and I are finally friends and we have good conversations. Life is sweet and peaceful. And beautiful. And precious to me. I feel soft again and peeled of spiky shell I grew in the heat of the last survival battle. Two galaxies colliding, no one was left unscorched. And yet my altar reveals the secret desires of the heart. I've put a red candle in the love corner, and the dancing Krishna and Radha are my meditation companions. She's positively purring in his embrace. It is a feeling I recognize. Meditations alone on full moon nights will satisfy for a while, but I know better. The warm soft heat building up in my belly is a powerful magnet. The soul's desire to be revealed and witnessed is deeper still. I feel the currents of life picking up. I wonder, and daydream, and have conversations in my head, and laugh and cry and read my tarot cards. And then I set it all aside and just dance.
Shit, this is difficult! I want to just scream, fill the page with howls! Hey, we all got 'em! This is exasperating, I keep deleting lines, just knowing in my gut they are not from my gut. Fucking brainiac. They say the longest journey is from the head to the heart. I guess they've given up on ever getting down to the guts. That's where the real goodies hide, a whole underground castle to explore, basements of dark rooms that stink of shame, regrets and undigested grief. Hey, we all got it! In many ways we are still emotional teenagers with sheep instincts. I feel relieved I'm not the only one writhing, self-protective delusions of grandeur stripped away, and I feel so naked I'm practically skinless. We are cosmic strippers! Hey, we all got it! Somewhere down the line we start enjoying being watched as we strip. Well, I don't know about you, so I won't hide behind the “we”. Hell, I enjoy soul-stripping in a good company, where humor and love are the dollar bills. Show me your willingness and I will show you my scars. Hey, we all got 'em! But look carefully before they are gone, 'cause they are nothing but dust in the wind once they have been seen. A determined shit-digger, I pounce on my shadows, but the true gems of self-loathing are hard to come by nowadays, even though we all got 'em! Unattainable perfection has been smashed with a bat. My soul's first steps in new dimensions might be faltering, but what a relief. It's amazing what a crushing weight self-expectations can be, and I still wrestle with inner alligators daily, but hey, we all got 'em! Every day I dare a little more to feel my grace, be my beauty, show my love and let life in. Sometimes I wonder how to be a woman and be powerful, what does that look like? But then it's simple. I am already a woman and no one can take that away. And the power is not the overwhelming, wrathful deity, it's the roaring warmth in the belly that begets an ecstatic belly laugh. I'm happy with baby steps, and hey, we all got them! The new me and I, we are slowly making friends. And my friends, we are slowly making better friends too, deeper, truer. There's a lot to be said about the poky sharp-edged swords of truth, but we are learning to make velvety sheaths, while drinking wine and howling at the moon. Chicken-shits no more, we live our truth the best we can. Show me your dreams and I'll show you mine! Hey, we all got 'em!
Leggies
Amazing! Did I say life is amazing? It is! Right about now I feel like I don't know wether to laugh or cry, feeling like i'm about to burst at seams. I feel!!! I feel so alive, like a cat in the sun, stretching, stretching till my wings start busting out and spreading wide. I can feel them, big and strong, and very very real. I can feel my legs, I am them, I'm in them, I inhabit them. They shocked me at first. I must've been eleven or twelve years old, living in the world of dreams, using books as barricades against reality. I dove into them as soon as I got home from school, to drown out the kitchen reality of clutter and nonsense. They were big fat books on everything from nature to sci-fi to geography. It almost didn't matter. Any place was better than here now. The here now did not make any sense. In those books I was free. I didn't even have to live, I could just follow other, imaginary lives, like a ghost. I looked up from the book and suddenly saw my legs. Something was off. They were just way too long. And big, round, thick, with those big feet. They were their own animal. They didn't belong to me. I didn't really feel them, I didn't feel my body, not really. They were the strangest thing I ever saw, stretching the whole length of the bed to the wall. The grey blanket with the yellow embroidered sun was as always. The bookshelf with the books I knew by heart was just the same lit by the green lamp. The voices in the kitchen were the same, complaining and arguing as always. Fat old dog-eared American sci-fi novel, where Russians were the enemy, was still the same. But those kneecaps? Where did they come from? They can't be mine, they are huge! Too scary... to inhabit the body, to foray into that reality of sprinting to take cover under the desk, under anyting that's hard enough, to escape raging hands and fists pummeling my face, searing the scalp, hair torn out by the fistful, fighting back, rage and fury, sobbing on the edge of obliteration... I am afraid to feel, to be vulnerable, exposed, unprotected, where nothing is between the fist and me, and no one cares, not even God. I lash out, better to end this torture once and for all, just turn the lights out, I'm ready, I won't miss this place. But I live, yet again, sobbing on the little blue mattress with thin yellow stripes that I pinched and stashed in the corner behind the armoir. The kitchen noises go on as usual.
Becoming The Mermaid
My voice has changed. I am no longer afraid of diving deep, speaking in my mystery tongues. I hate the heady voice. Hate isn't too strong a word. Rage is. I can get lost in rage, blind rage, foaming rage, like a raging river after the storm. I faced the raging river just after this last storm. The waterfall was spewing its fury, obliterating the placid pool at its base, there was no getting anywhere near that cauldron. But no, in one fell swoop, in three strokes of his powerful arms, my lover was across the river, hunching over the rock, jaguar-like, taunting me, teasing me, eyes burning into mine. The raging river of white foam, the primordial stream has separated us. Ok, now what? No way! I gave a few whirls in the sheltered cove, splashing and floating. The scent of ginger hangs heavy, it became the air. The eyes across the river are still on me, laughing, daring. No way in hell! He'll catch me. Maybe. Or if he won't, the rocks will. This is sheer madness. Shifting weight, caressing the currents, I gaze across, getting lost in his eyes. The raging stream, the deafening waterfall, the fragrant jungle, and the jungle cat, ready to pounce. Ohhh, this is too good. I inhale one long breath, slowly submerge still sheltered from the currents. Eye the river, measure the distance. The little proper voice inside tells me I'm crazy. I know. I would be crazy not to be crazy. Do I really want to stay in the sheltered fragrant cove for all eternity? I get chills, exhilirating cold-bloodedness sets in. The curled-up spirit is unfurling. The panther stretches leisurely. I can do this, I can do anything, I've manifested this reality, this raging life I drink in with all my pores, grasp and inhale. Three powerful strokes should be enough to carry me across this abyss of madness. There is no fear, just certainty, of me, of my strength, of his strength, of this moment being so right. This is my moment of power, this is the medicine for the soul, this is life in its most archaic and divine. In three delicious leaps I am across and leap up on the rock to meet my lover's astonished gaze. I am another one of you. Do you see me seeing you? I've let go of the shore and went into the river of life. I am ready. I am the mermaid spirit of the river. This is my world.
The Little Sunshine
She is like a little sunshine in human form. And it isn't just her golden blond hair and sunkissed little body. When she smiles, it is purity and joy that tugs at your heart, and you know it! Pure love, pure joy, mischievious in its pure fun. She knows diapers are silly and takes them off at first opportunity. That baby gets me and together we run naked, splashing in muddy river. Or drink tea from teeny cups and a tiny teapot, our little tea ceremony on the beach. To her they are just the right size though, perfectly scaled down to her world dimensions. Today we drink tea in honor of her two full revolutions around the sun, and for many more to come. She splashes in the waves, a natural mermaid, a Maui child, as her clan, adults and children alike that love her, shower her with flowers. With a flower wreath in her hair, she twirls and dives, blissfully unaware of the sadness lurking in the hearts of those around. There has been a tragedy in another family of friends; their 18-month-old loved and cherished boy has passed away in his sleep, and nothing forewarned of that disaster. So we hug her a little tighter today, putting prayers into flowers, praying for her good health and long life. What else can we do? There are no wings big enough to protect her, protect anyone, in this dance of life and death and shadows. That other child too held a promise of great things to come. He was so loved. He had so much light to share with the world. I was so looking forward to seeing who he would become. And he became an angel. But we need more angels in this thorny paradise, where hearts grow spiky shells from tough questions we have no answers for. Little angels who were wise enough to pick loving supportive parents who just let them be the light they are, be that fearless love they are. The sunshine of her gaze melts icicles in my heart, as we drink our tea from the tiny cups with green storks on them. “What happened to auntie?” she asks her dad one day. “I think she's trying to figure that out too” comes the reply. They too have great conversations! We eat berries, there is a whole bowl of them, she's such a berry monster. So am I. I wish I had a bowl of berries big enough for me to climb into. I'm happy she does. We laugh and giggle, and I get the sweetest kiss of joy on my cheek. She likes the birthday gift I brought her. It's a miniature tea set, what else?
The Dance of Life
I am in love. Like a tree orchid, this love is barely rooted in any actual happenings, drawing its power from dreams and imaginations, straight from the moonlight and morning wind. It puts a spring in my step and dance in my feet. I hum the music only I hear. I sleep less, eat less, get everything done, smile smugly, while the soft heat suffuses my belly. The heat waves get in the way of office work, but I don't mind, it's a good reminder of life's priorities. The Goddess is stirring again. The skin is oiled and glowing, legs shave themselves, and there is even a fresh pedicure, effortless. I look forward to our dances together, we speak the wordless language. Our dialects are different but complementary, the yin and the yang, the archetypal dance. I have promised nothing, so in the moment I can be everything. I dance out the woman in me, and the little gentle girl child. The wild panther makes her presence known with claws on the ready, slashing the air, prowling and pouncing, and the warrior stomps in the war dance. I am dancing with myself while being fully witnessed by the other. Perhaps that's the attraction, I'm falling in love with myself, with just enough of a masculine spice from my almost imaginary friend. And the other day he kissed my feet in gratitude. But I'm afraid to open the door. I've spent a year getting my inner house in order, becoming happy and balanced, creative and self-sustaining, healed and grateful for the new day. I tread lightly in my temple. God and I are finally friends and we have good conversations. Life is sweet and peaceful. And beautiful. And precious to me. I feel soft again and peeled of spiky shell I grew in the heat of the last survival battle. Two galaxies colliding, no one was left unscorched. And yet my altar reveals the secret desires of the heart. I've put a red candle in the love corner, and the dancing Krishna and Radha are my meditation companions. She's positively purring in his embrace. It is a feeling I recognize. Meditations alone on full moon nights will satisfy for a while, but I know better. The warm soft heat building up in my belly is a powerful magnet. The soul's desire to be revealed and witnessed is deeper still. I feel the currents of life picking up. I wonder, and daydream, and have conversations in my head, and laugh and cry and read my tarot cards. And then I set it all aside and just dance.
