all saints day

 

 

all saints day

When no one is not a saint

I am willing to have all of you

place hands on me

and heal me.

Place eyes on me

and see me.

 

Touch your ears to the voice

of the saint behind the saint.

of this saint

within this village.

 

Two open palms on my chest over my heart

The great impact.

You reveal me.

You have inspired me

to become

the brave fool who rides the lion

The beast who holds my soft body.

The one with flaming mane and steady gaze.

I could not do this without you.

 

This is our pilgrimage through the gutters

of an ancient city once magnificent

still majestic. This kingdom.

 

Posted on February 26, 2017 .

This path


It is the dance of the soul and the body, of the earth and the sky. 

This dance is struggle. 

How do I follow? How do I lead? 

Do I look up or down? Does it matter? 

Is it felt? Without thought can it be built? 

Am I making it or is it making me? 

 

Posted on September 20, 2016 .

A Promise

A promise

to always hold you up

 

We climb the rock face

I hold you up

 

ten thousand cuts on the skin

cheek, chest, belly, and thigh.

I will hold you up

 

Toes to grip

fingers to cling

you pull yourself upward

you rise

 

once you do

there is only

once

 

no turning around

no reaching down

 

That’s okay

My head will forever tilt up

 

you won’t fall

I will always hold you up.

Posted on August 13, 2016 .

Invocation

~We are telling a story on this field of incredible mystery and magic,

tragedy and awe.

May it be one of love, compassion, and community.

We, as humans, have the choice, the free will,

to be creative, nurturing,  and experience love. Let us do just that.

A tree knows how to be a tree, an elephant, an elephant and a whale, a whale.

There is creative  expression in every living thing and yes, everything is living;

rocks and stones, tadpoles and stars (and everything is dying too).

May we hold our own space in the woven fabric of life. May we honor and

follow the nature of things, recognizing the essence of Being and accepting

that which we call Death, honoring the end of this Mysterious breath that breathes our body.

 

Posted on May 29, 2016 .

My Father's Passing

Due to my living on the West Coast, my father and I developed a sweet correspondence by phone, email, and through letter writing. Strangely or not so strangely, I felt very close to my father when we were far from each other.

I would call him in the mornings when I walked my Great Dane, SugarBaby. We would talk of the weather, He’d ask about his favorite cat, which was my cat named Elf. He always loved all the animals bonding with each and every creature he encountered. Within that strong winning man was the most tender loving person who had such compassion for animals, the forests, and the oceans. I loved that about him.

He’d ask me how my back was holding up and I’d ask him about how his back was holding up. We would talk until I returned to my front door. And our goodbyes were colored with anticipation for the next conversation.

We wrote letters at poignant times and If you have ever received a letter from my dad you know what an eloquent and sharp wordsmith he was. I have a wooden box that he gave me for Christmas one year and it is full of his letters from the past 30 years.

And as of late we had an email exchange. My father asked me to teach him how to meditate a few months ago. I was sending him videos of an author and teacher of mine who talks of meditation and life in general. My Dad was really enjoying them. The last video I had shared with Dad was a talk on how mysterious and bizarre this life and being human is. And how powerful perspective is.

Could you imagine that you are not lying down on the earth looking up at the sky but rather imagine yourself at the bottom of the earth sucked up to it by gravity and you are looking down into space, a deep ocean of space. And the very last email I received back from my dad, he said, “One of his best. I can't wait to lie in the grass at Chautauqua and envision myself looking down into the universe. I hope you will be lying beside me as I do. My love,  Dad

There is something very poignant about how he stated that. He had no doubt that he would be there. It is truly up to me to be there. And I will. This summer at Chautauqua I will lie in the grass and look down into space with the essence of my father in everything.            

I also want to express how fortunate I feel and what a gift my father gave all of his children by waiting for us all to be here. On that early morning of his dying day, I walked into the quiet house and when he saw me he smiled and laughed with relief because now all his children were with him and he could say farewell. He was ready to go and had the same determination and skill that he did in life and so he did.

 

I have the image and feeling imbedded into me of his family Doug, Mary, Henry, Jane, Mom...We surrounding him and he looking at us taking it all in and he said with satisfaction and amazement in his voice, “Well, look at you!” He was holding us and we were holding him.


And like water, which we are, when there is an impact it ripples out and affects everything and then returns again. There is a part of each of us that nurtures the essence of my father and I am grateful for our presence here today together and his presence in our hearts.

Posted on May 22, 2016 .

To be witness


The gaping house moans and leans;

a sleeping giant wrangling comfort.

High ceilings draw heat.

It pours upwards coiling and seeping,

unguarded and

ceaseless.



I attempt to gather these notions of form,


to shape them into arrows and point them at the mark,

yet the flood overwhelms and the space above becomes the ocean below.


There is a small boat in the middle of this ocean sinking.


Hopelessly, yet hopefully

with cupped hands, a small child spoons the water over the prow;

her best efforts to empty the hull.

Eventually futility arrives uninvited

though it is a relief

in the end.

She relaxes

and sinks

into the depths

of a universe

she goes.


I have heard that the last sense to leave the body at death is hearing.


It is also what brings us back from the dead.


Listen to the wind that still chases through the trees,


trots through alleyways,

whispers in the gutters.

The sun comes up over the rooftops and

I am witness to myself once again.

Posted on January 20, 2016 .

Chennai

IMG_9560.JPG

Long saris swim in the span of space across deep valleys between

Brick and cement five story buildings

Scaffolding made of bamboo.

Hands did this.

 

 

Sand colored walls tinted with moldish black

from

Humid days seasoned with petrol.

Barefeet women, gold rings on toes,

They weave garlands of jasmine flowers for Siva

squatting in the street with everything else.

 

A one armed man walks

His friend

Whose sunken milky eye waivers side to side

offers his open hand to me.

 

Sacred cows eat garbage flowing from tipped dumpsters.

and

Sacred is the peacock

Blue of Sky,

Dirt under her fingernails,

Scent of the canal,

The crooked and toothless smile of the ancient woman who

sold me the papaya this morning.

Posted on December 15, 2015 .

WE, TOGETHER

IMG_4207.JPG

Dropping into the felt sense clears and liberates us from that separating mind that allows us to hurt others, and in effect, hurt ourselves. Nothing is outside this circle. The Universe is an organism where everything is in relationship with everything else. Together, let us focus on this jewel of a planet, where so much beauty and magic has sprung forth, let us breathe this air with awareness, let us ponder the turning of the axis of the earth, it’s relation to the sun, this perfect mathematical equation, and it's blessing.

Posted on December 15, 2015 .

When The Grip Loosens

When the grip loosens, the light exhales through the cracks.

Inside that light I find you in the darkness.

You are a quiet cacophony arising from the earth, emerging from under a crow’s wing,

slipping through the subtle doorways in the atmosphere.

You are the melody of the creek in the quickening of morning.

You are the dragonfly hovering

over the damp jade moss

embracing the shaded stone

fixed in the center of the river.

You are the moss, the stone, and the river.

You are the warmth barely lingering on the tip of the tongue of this soft wind.

You are the wind. You are the tongue.

 

 

And how the low sun cleans my eyes

and how the songs we sing pull the remaining poison from my throat

and how your song melts the wax in my ears

and how the sweat on my skin evanesces.

Emptiness.

 

You place all the ingredients into the cauldron of my open heart

and with the right amount of time and space,

accurate pressure and precise heat,

jewels form.

Your ancient hands

draw them out,

polish and refine their prophecy

and in those fossiled palms, you protect

these indestructible seeds awaiting the season when

you place them in the heavy dark soil of the earth.

and in time, they sprout, push through, and grow

loosening the grip, reaching towards the light that exhales through the cracks

Posted on October 12, 2015 .