Category: Uncategorized

Every woman is all woman.

And for every action, word and intention towards one affects all.

What if every word we said could be heard by all?

Every compliment and criticism was to all?

To empower, support and inspire one person is a life well done.

That starts with oneself.

Gentleness and compassion and forgiveness. These are our rights with being alive.

Gifts of listening.

Be permeable and others will join.

Solid as stone but ungraspable as water.

We share the same ephemeral air of which births Clouds.

Clouds as dream like symbols.

This is why I Love the Mountains. So I can breath the Clouds of the Sky and Rainbows.

What is the birthday for a seedling?

Is it when the warming temperatures and spring rains collide to coax a hard seed to venture forth with its little white tongue?

Is it when the first green parts push through the soil?

How about for the mushroom?

Is its birthday when the spore first sets our mycelium?

Or when mycelium create primordia nodules?

Or when the fruiting body first sees the light of day?

Or when the cap opens leaving a veil remnant?

Is a caterpillar born once it becomes a butterfly?

Can we be reborn?

Maybe light at the end of a dark tunnel is the process of being born.

Maybe what lies beyond blackholes is the birth of a new universe.

Of waking, tea and tying shoes.

Of driving to another and knowing landmarks.

Of journaling at night.

Of writing dreams.

Of walking step by step.

Of decocting elderberries.

Of fermenting cabbage.

Of welding steel and sanding wood.

Of dancing and drumming.

Of lighting sage.

Of drawing circles and spinning circles.

Of sitting near a stream.

Of lighting a candle.

Of opening a window.

Of holding a butterfly.

Of painting a color.

Of holding a baby.

Of watching the moon.

Of celebrating solstice and equinox.

Of marking importance.

Of deep work.

Of reconnection with old friends.

Of present communication.

Of healing.

Of touch.

Of breath and rhythm.

Of stillness.

Of reverence.

Of specialness.

Ritual is not like other time.

Ritual to solidify memory and embodiment and knowing.

Of being here now.

Sometimes I admire the street person with few belongings and no job. They have time to observe and think. They are unbeholden. Perhaps they are as the wild animals. Fighting for survival but free.

Then there is the pull of the aescetic monk living in the proverbial cave, his work is mastering himself.

Oh the stories, inventions, books, songs, poems that were never expressed and die with the physical body in the grave.

Let me have the focus, clarity and time to express what is inside. Give me space to explore the inside. Staring at a wall or closing my eyes is the deep work which often goes unrewarded.

The greatest things take time. Music takes time. Dance takes time. Writing takes time. Thought takes time. Adventure is time. Nature takes time.

And so how shall I spend my seconds which leads to years and spell the life story?

Lock the door and close the windows. I will emerge when I do.

I awake not to singing birds but to the rumbling and clunking iron tracks of bulldozers and rock crushers. With a combination of anger, sadness and loss, I run with moccasined feet toward the machines of “progress”.

What was once open land and home to coyotes, rabbits, birds, butterflies and ancient wild flowers.

Is in dust.

I come back to the now desolate landscape soon to be paved, lawned and streetlighted in the evening to hear the the sorrowful song of mother birds missing their home and children. Trauma to the land never to be the same. Migrating birds must pass this former respit as they have with other fallen land.

One by one the vacant fields go. Most people pass by.

But the children who live nearby, the field is their place of wildness, of not structure. Where they can find themselves.

The greatest national parks are important. But the vacant fields next door are equally so.

In running, a rock can cause a fall.

In walking, a rock becomes a stumble.

In stillness, you become a rock.

Silence and solitude calls me like a long lost lover.

To be engrossed and entwined with one thing of focus where the greatest expressions are found.

Find me off the trail on the other side of civilization watching as the birds do.

Mindless bustle that they claim as productivity.

The real work is done as we sleep. As we walk. As we play. As we ponder.

Freedom to flow as the winds and waters.

A favorite stone. Like the one a lover gave or you found while having an epiphany in nature. Like your grandpa’s tools. Your great great grandpa’s tools. Or your great great grandma’s sewing machine. Or the family homestead with stories imbued in the walls and land.

Or perhaps jewels and gold and stocks and pork bellies. Or barrels of oil.

Or perhaps the touch of love.

Or the future generations. Your own progeny. Your inner child. Their inner child. And the core within that child.

Or cute things like puppies and butterflies and old people and babies.

Or perhaps the land. With undiscovered creatures and plants and other life. Of the medicine of Nature.

Or perhaps the most precious thing is out time and attention.

That currency which we can experience all other with.

Attention and focus.

So precious yet so obvious.

The magic of obvious yet overlooked and disregarded.

Setting on the shore of a black and calm lake. An occasional shooting star and jumping fish.

Black holes absorbing light just as my pupils. Perhaps they are just the universe observing itself.

Reality shimmers as a crystal. A crystallized form of manifested dreams.

Reality begetting dreams.

And dreams begetting reality.

Which came first.

With every breath I am reminded of the wind blowing in forest canopies.

The smell of pitch.

I like the bark and stones and mushrooms and snow and grass.

Smoke wafting upward like departing souls and drifting thoughts.

Heart beat as an ancient drum.

Connection just as looking over a vast landscape to the setting sun.

And pondering – marveling – at the moon without logical reason.

How many other people have stared at the moon?

Surely all things for all time.

And thus to watch the moon is to be reminded of our interconnection.

Of our greatness and smallness.

Only humbling.

Translation begins with reception.

Clarity is influenced by conductivity.

A baby is more conductive than a grown up.

To assume closes one’s eyes and ears.

To label is to assume.

Words are our first labels.

As soon as I think tree,

I no longer see the tree.

How to translate without labels?

Words are but one language.

As is dance.

And drawing.

And touch.

And music.

But what about that which can only be experienced and never explained?

Ephemeral essence.

As if a dream forgotten,

But embedded beyond.

And yet language is our super power.

A single word can change the world.

Can elicit memories and dears and joys and arousal and healing and recollection of smells, tastes, sounds and textures.

Words are spells.

Affecting crystallization, manifested existence, outcomes, perceptions.

Those who know words can influence existence.

A straight line, path, stream.

A calm lake.

An averaged amalgamated face.

A grade of C.

Fifty percent.

Vanilla.

Unfinished.

Generic.

The overlooked.

The wall-flower.

The hidden.

The subdued.

Grey-scale.

The weed growing in the crack of concrete.

But give the ordinary attention, love, respect, curiosity and time.

Sit with the ordinary.

Hold the ordinary.

Look deeply at the ordinary.

And subtly the secrets are revealed.

Unburdened by bright colors, loud sounds, spicy taste and over-stimulation.

Slowly yet suddenly.

Hidden beauty, magic and profundity shyly reveals itself.

The ordinary hide their secrets.

Just as the quiet person knows the depth and mystery of silence.

Give me the demure and overlooked. The little white flower, the trickle of a stream, the little brown mushroom.

The gentle and profound.

Intoxicated by subtle magic.