a good question to ask.

are you more interested in protecting yourself or are you more interested in expressing your heart?

wave.

o gentle, gentle

the dive and fall, the whole sea

churned up to fill your lungs,

to make you gasp and long

for breath.

the waves they roil and rip

your heart,

your heart beats fast and furious.

the dark night claws and drowns the stars,

the moon is lost to

clouds.

wing and color.

The metaphor I visit is the common story of the caterpillar and it's transformation into a butterfly. We all know that one, but there is a chapter to it that I find particularly fascinating. Sometime after the caterpillar has entered the cocoon and settled into it's surrender it undergoes an almost entire state of dissolution. It does not just morph from a fatbodied, squishy, furry worm into a colorful, winged, full skyed marvel by way of absorbing legs and sprouting wing buds or by reassembling parts and adding and subtracting bits and pieces. no. It actually dissolves into something of a soup. Caterpillar soup. There is no thing about it that resembles either caterpillar or butterfly. It is the liquid and amorphous in-between worlds. The sea of absolute surrender. After some time, and in the perfect time.... that soup, by some miracle, grows it's legs and wings and color and capacity for flight. And it is that same soup that someday flutters across the blue, and pauses people in their busyness and focus filled lives and begs them to witness, with their sight, something so beautiful and delicate and original that they may feel some small thing sing within their chests. And they do. Most of the time they do.

And we are that too. That caterpillar, in all its efforts of infancy, folding and unfolding towards one thing or another, moving along in a kind of random blindness. Our potential to fly is, if anything, a vague tug that comes from somewhere but loses itself when we turn to see it. Then the time is ripe and we are taken to our knees (to our trees), where we collapse down into the spin and twist of shutting out the light. Enveloped by an infinite night, we close our eyes and open our eyes and still, we only see the darkness. And we cry and howl and if we are scared enough, we pray. And if we are lucky to know it, we surrender to the inevitable dissolve. Everything we were is given over to the grander scheme, while everything we are remains. We return to the Ocean and drift, inseparably, from wave to wave.

there's a couple ways to see it.

Deep rest.

winter storm.

i.

musing on the miracle of a soul lifted from the mire,

how little moments reflect the something altogether new and the absence of all that used to ride the rails.

buried in a foot deep drift of snow is the fear, the anger, the panic.

instead, now, a running and colliding into banks of powder with a song of laughter and a

roar of delight.

I can stand in the center of the white weighted branches, in the echo of a shimmering silence, and hear my own voice speak back to me. I can listen.

ii.

as the wind reaches like a hand inside my coat,

my breath catches and I notice my wondering now shift it's weight.

here I hover on the fence of a greater vessel, and peer headlong down the slope of the last trail.

I could fall and return to the ice, under cold water.

"...silver heels, spitting snow.

something someone help them. it's me...."

there trembles a familiar as the sun slides away and I sit by a solid fire, facing the night again.

iii.

the bough bears the weight of hope.

this time the rain threads through my fingers and, at last, I touch the edge of a sea

that has been stirring under a near winter.

it is nothing sudden that carries me into a deeper water,

but I grieve all the same with a pocketful of joy.

what questions circle me and bend my heart at angles I can't imagine to unwind.

why seasons spin around our senses, then surprise us with their constancy.

and, why, a bird, freed from the cage, might hesitate to know the sky.

iv.

o winter wisdom,

carry me in all your sacred silence to that brightest dance in the shimmer of a single snowflake.

may all the old and deep sleep revive the dream of my own heart

and wake me to the reception of love.

epilogue.

time to come back around,

trace the stream of thread to the center of the spool and,

maybe touch the water to remember rain comes. rain will come.

it makes things bloom.

I still hold a hope to be held.

there is no deluge, no flood.

the storm, and all its mighty hail, has traveled across the continent,

thinning ,as it runs, into a single stream of weather.

something more like a raindrop meandering down the windowpane;

fatigued by all the fuss.

it is a strange land I wander.

a heart, unfolded and multi-petaled ,serenades the stepping

and this body dreams into the horizons of possibilities.

still, in a small locket, this waiting waits.

to be caught from the freefall; softened.

to live the landing like a feather sawing down, slowly.

to fully undress and still know the certainty of love.

delicate.

II.

stars spin after us and we throw our heads back under

heaven's wink. there is a pause, and then another and then, an echo

already uttered. An adagio kiss that has us breathing hard on the climb

right up into the sky. I am a handful of flower petals gathered on the

inside of your heart. I shiver with questions. Like a scent, you answer:

trust.

dazzle.

I.

shake off those things that tear

at your heart and promise to bring you to

your knees. Time to untangle the web.

you have always asked the question: what is this the

end of, instead of asking: what, of your

sweetest desires, might start

to ignite here. In the afterglow

of love is a

longing for that home inside your own soul.

outside, the lights shine back

vast reflections of the

effortless love that is yours to recover.

awake my soul.

oh little bloom, little light,

now is not the time to go belly up.

every moment of your

life is yours to keep and yours to surrender.

I am afraid I will be found out before I am discovered.

what is this art of vulnerable truth weighted against, or with, the careful tending of an unfolding new seed?

something has been awakened that had been dormant.

joy.

intimacy.

embraced and skipping with the old dark friends.

the question may be:

how to go lightly and openly into the dark night?

new.

remember when I was propped up on matchsticks, breathing through a straw.the

only love offered was wrapped in flypaper and sticky tape. I waited in the

breakdown lane for hours, hearing the sirens wail, touching the bottom of an

endless bucket just to feel it's cold and slimy skin before I could swim back up and

resurface under a different sky, a different breath of air. It's astonishing

the places we go, the people we see, the things that we do to grow.

wait long enough, walk with courage, keep your heart open

and trust. yes, trust. That after all the wars and bloodshed,

love will indeed persist & be the last song sung. Now is the undoing of brick,

kept tight to harbor that precious light you might be tempted to sell on a lark.

every stone that has surrounded you loves you. Topple the tower and

return to your royalty. Dance now in the shimmer of your ruby soul.

the grinch who gave back christmas.

a bluster of snow,

a handful of frozen fingers.

singing...

a shiver of wind,

a heart full of solid, hot fire

singing....

yes yes yes yes yes

to all of this.

..................

it is the first season that I am certain of joy.

a deep,interior happiness.

alone all day,

barricaded by snow and sidelong winds,

stirring with restlessness

and,

rest.

so, when the night unfolds to a christmas caroling,

lights hanging,

dress up, goof off, laughing

and giggling,

creative cookery,

delight shouts gratitudes from my skin.

it feels like christmas eve.

bing and bells and listening for the footfalls of hooves on the rooftop.

i don't remember ever liking these songs.

and I do.

tonight,

I do.

something has changed.

dropping into dreams only because it's late, it's late, it's late,

I wake before the sun and

think,

christmas!,

with the wonderment of a child.

something magical is here today.

all these gifts are for me to give.

all these gifts for me to receive.

it's christmas, today.

magic is everywhere.

tricksy.

don't know why it took me so long to hear what I needed to hear, but I hear what I need to hear.

to be fair, some of the messages were mixey, tricksy,

saying several things at once,

all hanging on a hope

and a hopeless romantic.

albatross.

here, little broken wing,

try to fly with this.

oomph, ummph

kerplow,

kliberf....

fwap fwap fwap.

oh, the sky seemed so simple

from down there, here.

all blue and full clouded,

fresh and uninterrupted.

it seemed like I could just soar....

I run.

I run.

I run.

...to launch myself into the elegant dive I dreamed of for so long.

the effortless, eloquent curl of air and me, gliding like a cursive S,

so full with swoop and sweetness that

the treetops might swoon at the poetry.

then, paw after paw,

foot after foot, hammering into the planked wooden deck, I roar

towards a blistering leap of trust.

Here, I establish the awkward game of transparency and my tangle of wing burrows me into an unexpected and graceless descent into this here, this me, this stumbling,

bumbling, fumbling,

perched on toes, swaggering and shapeless, silly bird.

I am closer to earth than sky,

belly nearly embracing the shifts of fine dirt and sand.

still, I urge my heavy limbs to discover their rhythm, to beat with purpose, to soar.

on and on, I call to myself with the serenade of will.

you will fly, you will fly, you will fly.

You are a bird belonging to this dream.

you will fly, you will fly, you will fly.

perseverance and patience.

trust and trust.

I am carried at once by an unswept breath into flight.

the sea, a teardrop.

the earth, a handful of green stones.

by design, I am surrendered into the soliloquy of space;

home, again,

in the language of risk and the embrace of love. Held

in the intimacy of mystery.

even this bird, filled with chaos and the motion of storms,

lives amongst a story that rests in

open hands, warm breath

and a true, wild and generous heart.

you are a bird belonging to this sky.

you will fly, you will fly, you will fly.

in some knee ah.

hello dog out there, barking barking barking.

do you know it's 12:38 am on a Tuesday night?

what do you have to say for yourself? are you memorizing a sonnet? are you telling us about the day you were born? are you reciting the canine alphabet of desire...out, food, squirrel, stick, pet me, stay away, come play...?

why am I still up..barking, barking, barking?

it's 12:40 am on a Tuesday night.

I have to get up early and I won't see sleep until late late tomorrow, so why am I prolonging my bedtime?

I've a restlessness, I guess.

My heart is tender. somewhere between oh so vulnerably brand new and bruised and fooled.

I am just watching it for now.

and, it is fascinating enough to keep me awake.

reminding myself that everything is different now.

I forget.

when I remember, that space in my chest expands and warms and feels, really, truly, like a strong, soft, velvety petaled flower arching into its dance.

and, I accept this exquisite life is mine.

and, sometimes it is so painful to let go.

and,

sometimes, it is so painful to open.

if a tree falls...

i wonder who reads any of this that i'm writing; or why it would matter, for that matter?

but,

there is something to be said about having witness.

in the practice of authentic movement,

you move, listening to the impulses of the present moment,

blind to all but everything emergent.

you could do this all day long, every day....moving, listening....honoring the present urge to spiral or stretch or collapse or shiver. all day long.

and,

something about it would hover, lost, and unreachable, indecipherable.

a secret language, buried,

if no one were there to witness it.

it is only by being seen that we can see ourselves.

when your eyes shift open again, returning to the textures of wood floor, daylight and painted walls,

it is that warm animal sitting quietly across from you, breathing, seeing, listening,

that welcomes you home.

and,

until you are welcomed,

you are not home.

some of us know this truth.

this is why authentic movement is a sacred practice.

why writing.

why singing.

why dancing.

why sharing a joke.

why telling my story.

why I offer these small gifts.

because, they are the thing my soul comes to say.

and,

if you are here,

if you have heard or seen,

please,

tell me.

there is no request for praise or critique,

simply,

that you've been here,

breathing, seeing, hearing.

and, then, of course,

I get to see you.

and that's where all the magic is.

oh joy!

there are only about 7 minutes before I have to rally and go to a yoga class because its what I set as an intention today. I'll happily tread through the snow and spin backwards to shield my face from the blustery wind.

I am here, now, because I want to say "I am HAPPY"

inside of me is a shout of joy.

I just feel HERE and ALIVE and LOVED and that is enough for me, quite frankly.

It's a slow morning, a slow day...and I am grateful.

the ground is covered in snow and ice. I spent the morning throwing frosty sticks for a seriously delighted snow moustached black dog, who happens to be one of the most dazzling loves of my lifetime. Right now she is snuggled in at my feet, on my bed, breathing deep in her dog dreams.

and my other dazzling and humbling love of my life, has curled her warm tortoiseshell self under my arm as I type this and she is purring away, mightily. Joy is abundant. Love is limitless.

All is well.

pause.

in this waiting, I can feel the threads gather and ungather,

the wave swell and subside.

in this liminal pause,

I will sit close enough to the dark things

so that I may feel their breath.

and, by their unloved parts,

I will know love.

by their most shameful secrets, I will know

truth.

all along it has been this simple stone inside of me,

burning to shine,

just waiting for the weight to lean in far enough to find it's sacred shape.

there is an end, now, to the chase.

there is a beginning, now, to the dance.

love has come.

love is here.

star.

out here

there is no star i could reach

that wouldn't spin its tail and smolder at me,

smiling.

this sky is a big, fat risk.

and something about the weightlessness

worries me.

and something about the weightlessness

wisens me

with wonder.

what if nothing ever landed, but fell

in infinite upwardness,

instead?

what if everytime I unspool a word from my heart,

the gods might gallop with applause?

maybe every bit of this crumpled mess of rough drafts and star maps is

the exactness of love.

and

we just have to unfold our hands

to

know

it.

go, heart, go!

before this day,

night came and danced

a cornered and smallish step that left my feet

puzzled and sore.

this day suggests there is a whole room to run in.

listen,

there really is nothing to lose.

so, why doubt yourself so much?

who cares if how you see it

is how you see it because you

are standing on your head

and squinting your eyes, singing lalala.

lalala.

now you know that this blink

is your only blink.

the only one that you can call yours.

yours as you and only and ever, you.

so jump high,

dance like an albatross,

fall flat into your laugh as you go down swinging.

let your heart lead the way through this

joyful and excrutiating

one time shot.

it's only life, after all.

and all this dances in a downpour of rain.

he is,

spread vast like a sky of light, blazing with fire.

known

and welcomed

home.

past me. past this. past the past. passed.

my heart feels this swell of joy

like all the rain pouring into the sea,

full and fierce,

with exquisite space and infinite forgiveness.

love is a shine

that blinds us and reveals us to our tender selves.

here and everywhere and nowhere.

he is and

he is not.

this arrival catches me

searching my pockets, my bags, my luggage

for the thing I used to carry, hold so tightly;

the thing I was certain was so necessary to me, for me, of me.

now, gone,

missing.

and in its emptied space is a room so wide I can stretch my arms into the wings of

a giant bird and grow my legs into the sky high roots of a tree

and spin and spin

and dance and dance

and laugh as loud as

I can.

because,

I am.

) si no more.

she gathered her dress above her knees and

stepped with certainty into the seadeep surrender

to this moment.

Grandmother stroked her feet and pointed to the fish, curled in flight,

to remind her of this great adventure of living.

"we belong to a mystery that mirrors our immense and unnameable faces.

in truth, we are dreamed perfectly to sing a music too dazzling to hear."

she lets the tears fall.

in this everything, there is nothing. in this nothingness, everything.

the water carries the wave back to sea

and all those sharp and jagged corners, smooth down to rose petals.

he is here no more. no more.

in this freedom burns a purest grief.

and love is all.

love is all.

love is all.

my dear and tender gift,

I will quiet my foot fall, step lightly, and kneel at the beautiful you that is given.

this is precious, tender and true.

fall.

Lines Written in the Days of Growing Darkness

Every year we have been witness to it:

how the world descends into a rich mash,

in order that it may resume.

And therefore who would cry out to the petals on the ground to stay,

knowing, as we must,

how the vivacity of what was is married

to the vitality of what will be?

I don’t say it’s easy,

but what else will do if the love one claims to have for the world

be true?

So let us go on

though the sun be swinging east,

and the ponds be cold and black,

and the sweets of the year be doomed.

— MARY OLIVER

road of trials, part 2

i.

third time going in,

going under,

hope to god there is a place to surface.

this month long breath has steadied my soul

in countless ways.

there is the memory of joy, now.

and, now, I need it to swim in this pool of confused current and

tremulous waving. I am hovering over uncountable fears, balanced on the edge of my toes.

That something dark that shuts the light, insists upon my rapt attention.

(find a way to find this funny)

(find a way to laugh)

ii.

The animal in me pulls at my hem, inviting

submersion.

come, down, now....

to this deep and static yawn,

there is a dream I have to share.

Before I close my eyes,

I am given a handful of pebbles,

each a choice.

Start walking and stand when you must.

Watch closely, with the vision of a hawk,

to those things that are smaller than they appear.

Open your fist

and let this rain of stones rest lightly,

or else, let it fall and

become the next steps of

your path.

iii.

keep alive the fire in you.

all the love in the world is living in a single star,

look up....

the number of stars is countless.

remember who you are.

stutter.

truth is,

for all these words

I have no words

when it comes down to how to say

something

simple.

how to reach across this great divide

and speak it plain.

and maybe more than that,

how to let the things enter

that knock so sweetly

at my door.

hello monster.

these moments that stretch time,

when the ground arrives fast to collide with my body,

these,

are the sudden blindsides that

seem to cancel out

the 2 steps forward.

something old is hunkering down and blocking the doorway.

it's steamy hide is thick with stench and decay;

it's face, a gnarled knot of provocation and panic.

it's got me cornered, for now.

glancing sideways around it,

searching for the red light exit

is a meager attempt at escape.

instead, I sit

and wince and whine and wait

until I can look into the eyes of it

and stand again.

rites.

gathering up to gather in

I am wondering if I am welcome.

another surprise of rain has come,

this time cold and sleeting.

I wonder about the whys.

I wonder.

there are three years missing from the story with my dad.

and this time now

feels like that time then.

a sharp dance of knives and a long and weighted pause.

only, this time....

it occurs to me that I'll arrive with no stories.

the food will be prepared and I won't know the favorites, but by guessing.

the family will gather.

the ambivalence and anxiety swells.

what could I say to welcome him in?

what tender flowers could I offer?

I am the place on the page where the inkpen exploded.

An unavoidable proof of imperfection.

the thing that went to press before anyone could stop it.

again, I have to lean myself into the hope of trust.

this gravel path is a new geography,

this language, foreign.

I will show up with what I am.

it is all.

it is either enough,

or it is not.

where the fox hat.

spent a good part of this gorgeous afternoon in the mountains walking the pasture where Pea lives. It's a meandering slope down to a talkative river and I wandered down the horsemade switchbacks to visit it. Before this, Pea and I shared a sweet walk and talk and a good ear scratching, head in my heart hug. Her boyfriend, a stocky pinto named Peanut, made several stands to steal her away, but I was able to stand him off. It was a perfect time of emptying out and connecting in.

I danced this morning, and though my body carried fatigue, it rallied, too, with an exuberant yes to life. This joy is deep and true, I sense. I was socially engaged, finding friends along the way and carrying weight and giving mine up. It is a good and grateful space in my heart to realize that within one room there are at least 15 people I can say that I adore. I have community. Being with 10 month old Luca is part of the preciousness of this day. His beautiful innocence and delight speak straight to my joy.

And, all of this I am digesting as I walk with the river. I am talking to my father, listening to the crunch of leaves, the cows calling, the birds....

I am free. It's a bittersweet arrival, but I understand that my body and heart are finally really able to feel safe in this world. I am safe. and, so....I am free. Without all the obstacles of fear, there is room for myself to stretch out, look around, see this world I live in, feel this body, this heart. There is grief, to be sure. And, to be sure, there is joy. How unfamiliar and strange. And welcome. To feel the whole of myself, my whole heart...to know that I can withstand this weather and still remain intact and alive.....

well, this is new. this is new.

I think of my father and I am searching for the nest of anger that has held the slow burn of embers. I see only the residual smoke and the cooling, black end of a blaze. For now, the sadness surpasses the anger. Truth is, I so deeply want my dad to be free and at a peace. At the end of this road, there are just somethings too heavy to keep carrying. And besides, I can pull at the red thread and follow it all the way back through Iran and China and down into the blood and bones of man. The hurting has seared itself through the bones of my ancestors. My very own bones have sung the rage and terror. I have not silenced them. Instead, I am listening and asking them to speak and cry and give up the unspeakable stories and liberate the ghosts in hiding and help them to find their way home. There is a birthright of Love that I am ready to meet.

I am walking my steps back up the mountainside, kissing my Pea adieu, and my gaze catches the glint of sunlight on a round and golden form. I approach with attention and curiosity, landing each boot softly, moving between the dead leaves. I know it is a magical moment and I enter it as I would a sacred temple.

In the middle of this bright and beaming day, is a small and golden fox, curled up in a simple knot of sleep. I am arcing around it, trying not to disturb its slumber, but s/he wakes with a slow startle and we share a gaze (a wink, even) before s/he stands and trots away. My breath is caught and my heart swells. I feel so very lucky and loved to be given this full conversation.

I read later in "Animal Speak": In Persia, (fox) was sacred, for it helped the deceased get to heaven.

and fox medicine is about expressing the feminine energies, the creative force, in the outer world.

"...those with fox medicine may have their greatest tests in childhood, but also their greatest instinctual education in the art of survival."

good morning sunshine.

the meeting is with yourself.

the door opens.

the light that greets you is

you,

finally

willing and able

to

see

who

you

are

and to stay

and listen

and sing

and dance.

fire.

I am so sleep ready,

but, so fire full.

and words come.

love comes.

everything happening within the boundary of this skin,

this heart.

my love. mine.

closer and closer I come to curl up next to myself,

closing my eyes and

settling into rest.

holding the whole of me,

for better or worse.

the fire whispers into my heart,

stay.

live.

celebrate these tears, this grief

this fear, even.

go ahead and shake.

go ahead and laugh.

sing whatever you need to say.

dance wherever you need to go.

everything is waiting for you.

everything is here.

I am opening the door,

and inviting it in.

The Road of Trials

The road of trials is a series of tests, tasks, or ordeals that the person must undergo to begin the transformation. Often the person fails one or more of these tests, which often occur in threes.

I am three.

and life begins as the trial.

on the road to nowhere, taking that ride.

divide this down to the last three breaths I've taken,

three days, years,

decades.

constantly turning in the fire,

changing.

First, you are the gangly thing,

born to the smooth feathered family.

You will wonder, in your worry, what

wise truth you were not given.

where do you belong?

Next, you will fail yourself

again and again

with your capacity to fold and freeze,

squeezing your voice

into a small and silent crime.

Third, you will be summoned to bloom

in the mire of shift and shit.

you will be handed the keys to your cage.

you will be tempted to lock yourself in.

you will dream of

wings and sky, and long necked birds

that glide on water.

you will long to taste the water.

Life after life will take you to the edge of the roses;

nearing sweet and precious somethings

that carry poison in their thorns.

Here, all is lost and,

far from sea, is the urge to swim.

walk.

heads or tails

joy spins like a coin on its edge.

eventually, it will show you heads and tails.

heads it was only hours ago,

and tails it is, now.

I kind of knew this moment would come. I've been doing well these past few days, if not weeks. Wondering upon my resilience and settling into the new strength and peace. Something new has been born in me; nothing takes this away. My smile, my laugh; real. more me than ever. I thought, "Jabberwocky (with a capital J) Slain. Hello to the muchness of me (with a capital M). Me."

But, now I also see the toll these last few months have taken. I went on a hike up one of my favorite BRP trails with Ursa; sun, bright blue sky, leaves crunching, new friends and dogs along the way...beauty-full.

And, I was so physically worn from it. Like every last amount of my energy was drained. I just wanted to lie down on the trail and sleep it away, go in, dream, let it all go.

It's just moments like that and I realize how much I am still integrating.

Not too far into a yoga class a few nights ago I thought "ok, that's enough...time to go home."

I'm just tired.

that's okay.

Today. Actually, right now (about) it is one month to the hour that my dad passed away. I was having a great homecooked dinner with friends and midway, something just shut down in me. Exhaustion. Collapse. Anxiety. Panic. I just kind of feel like I'm plugged in to a pretty high voltage power source. A little too much charge is coursing through the system. Now that the dishes are cleaned and everyone's gone home, it occurs to me that I'm tuning into the anniversary. It makes sense on that level, so I think I can ride out the fear and physical grit. Sleep can restore me. Tomorrow is another day.

It comes in flashes. Grief is so odd. I got a card in the mail from Pea's vet. A handwritten sympathy card. At first I thought, there's a mistake. No one died. Why is the vet sending me a sympathy card? Then I read it and remembered, then I felt strange and guilty for not connecting the dots immediately, then I felt so completely cared for in such an unexpected way, then I cried, for maybe a second, then I kept driving and went to teach anatomy and had everyone dancing to Duran Duran's "the Reflex" (we were learning reflex arcs) and I had a great joy growing in my heart.

and today, joy and tonight, fear.

so,

it is what it is.

the coin spinning.

11:11

a happiness spreads through me like a color dropped in water

edging itself outward in circle after circle

the pulse of divinity carries me over the threshold

of what came before and what comes next

i still believe the dreams I had.

still believe I was a lioness and you, the one I fed

the things you longed for.

but, ages ago it bound us,

so that now it doesn't take much but a glimmer to remember.

and,

i think, that maybe you forgot.

still,

as my whole self bursts back into the blaze of being,

this heart can hold whatever is lost

or found,

and I will still remain.

and, oh, what a thing to see

the beauty that comes from

joy

that comes from

nowhere

that comes from

everywhere

that comes for

you

that comes for

me.

here,

when there is no wall, but great weight to lean against,

I feel the bones of my struggle grow

like giant redwoods, dancing up.

and in my leaves,

from all the pushing and pressing and praying,

grows

a

sky.

Mumford & Sons After The Storm Music Video

live.

maybe this is what it feels like to be free.

all the weight put down,

all the heaviness heaved.

just happiness.

happy to be alive and breathing

and then life dances back and shares the weight,

and then things really start to move and shake.

the music is playing

and its playing our song.

I am alive this moment

and my heart arcs skyward to

take in the stars.

one soars and my wish is made

and granted.

just happiness.

living in my heart and dancing to the song I sing.

Initiation

leave those shoes at the door

and tear the soles of your feet.

step, now, into this white hot agreement to undo

the things that make you.

if you are a dancer,

go still and stand in the break of your bones.

if you know to sing,

go silent and weep for the words that will fail you.

if you once could fly,

go underground and root your body to the stones.

everything must alter.

the swing of sword is coming down

now.

mutter your bargains,

but relinquish your expectant prayers.

She loves you this much.

As the clatter of skulls shake against her hip bone,

the smoke will sear your vision

and the efforts of your cries will drown in the

symphony of destruction.

the blood of the battlefield will rise like labored steam

from the undoing

of what holds you back.

carry it in your hands like flowers,

give every last thing you know

to the dream of fire.

The Belly of the Whale

1. The belly of the whale represents the final separation from the hero's known world and self. It is sometimes described as the person's lowest point, but it is actually the point when the person is between or transitioning between worlds and selves. The separation has been made, or is being made, or being fully recognized between the old world and old self and the potential for a new world/self. The experiences that will shape the new world and self will begin shortly, or may be beginning with this experience which is often symbolized by something dark, unknown and frightening. By entering this stage, the person shows their willingness to undergo a metamorphosis, to die to him or herself.

what can be said about now,

then,

the rough descent of death?

all is low,

all is the hollow.

in the belly, the burden bears its weight,

leans its hard truth deep into my shoulders.

these are brittle bones of steel and fraying synaptic divides.

at what point in the darkness,

did the last star expire?

now, then,

in the strength of loss

it sits,

like a cold, dark stone,

sinking.

who could point at a moment of time

to define the place when the cartographies of chaos began to

rub away the path,

where every tree bore a sameness for miles and miles of

dark and terrifying wilderness.

I had dreams of fire stretching underground,

and I had to walk into it's hot breath

with the certainty of death.

I had dreams of black water,

long backed reptiles, ancient and fierce,

sharks of great white terror

and mud deep muscular alligators.

Inside of it, my body flailed and failed to find the edge of something solid.

Dangling in the lonely panic of fear

is a cry so loud it is silent.

in the center of this mute prayer is a willingness to bargain with whatever death requires; to give anything in order to ascend and breathe, again, the simplicity of air.

waving, not drowning.

i wonder how i talked tonight about degeneration and deterioration of the gyri and the sulci and the widening of the ventricles of the brain, pointing to the photograph to illustrate the point that language and memory simply lose the structures of their homeland. the walls dry up and empty space occupies what used to constitute the substance of a life. this person's reason for laughter or tears, the stories and griefs and gratitudes, the timbre of their voiced expressions....everything dissolves into nothingness as if nothing ever was. it was only ever a dream. and did you blink and miss it? was it a dream that scared you and kept your eyes open, staring wide into the dark, waiting for light or was it a dream that lifted you into the amphitheatres of your own heart, audience and performer, delighted with joy and magic and all possibilities of love?

strange, this house, this body.

this thing that holds the spirit so heartily, then one day just turns away and siphons into empty air.

we are no more real than those memories we hold. those memories that end when the house is razed. existing only in another's home and another, until the whole neighborhood has been torn down to make room for the high rises. so, then what is the point?

not bad or good or right or wrong, just is. just is. just is. and then, just is no more.

and we are the waves, feeling the swell of our life rushing to the shore as if we alone can strike and imprint the lasting signature. and then, by the pull of the moon, we are carried, in surrender or resistance, back to the sea. a sea, so much sea, that a wave is only a momentary expression, a passing and common breath.

Jonsi Live Grow Till Tall

The Crossing of the First Threshold

This is the point where the person actually crosses into the field of adventure, leaving the known limits of his or her world and venturing into an unknown and dangerous realm where the rules and limits are not known.

we are now beyond the soft grass,

knee deep in blackened sky.

each time I utter a word, a new sound comes.

I do not recognize the words I've chosen

for they have chosen me.

I know that in my pocket is a

fevered memory of why I am walking,

but in my steps there is hardly a purpose

or direction.

the maps are ablaze with fire,

the compass spins like a weathervane,

full of storm in clear sky.

still, the calling of an answer is nearest to the last question I might have asked.

I am here. or,

someone is.

and we are all that anchors this

possible path to the discovery of

some new mystery.

green with grief and hope

orion stole the sky.

Betelgeuse, at his shoulder, winked mightily.

the tears and tears of all those hidden hurts

burned long and slow

in a steady green flame.

I belong for the first time

to a room in my own heart.

in the witness of the pain of death, the

fractures of a family

cracked and split,

and so long I grieved it might never mend.

what was lost was lost,

I feared,

for ever.

what can I say to fill the thankfulness of the stretch of this kindness?

you hold as only love can hold;

firmly, to the fire.

gently, with space enough to be

everything we are,

everything we feel,

all tears and fears

all fight and flight.

and in the stand of courage to break apart the stone,

something like a miracle

arrives.

if in the middle of the night you hear the singing of a bird.

i censor my voice, alot.

if I was born a bird,

I still walk the hour to where I'm going,

instead of flying in the blink of a moment.

what I say,

I say truly.

it is a risk, vast and small.

a gift, to the wings that ache to feel wind.

once upon a time,

and sometimes, now,

these precious flowers were crushed into a purple bruise

and became the possibility

of how I might die

one day.

to sing out now,

all the notes

and colored tones,

is a blind step into a stream of cars, trusting

that whatever will come,

will come.

a song in autumn

though still on the hero's journey

another thought is here

a small star, streaming past,

catching the wind and burning into fire

a smile, deep, surfaces.

something familiar, like longing;

something to follow and feel.

I like the music;

the way it falls into my soul,

the way my tears carry it like a kind of joy.

the way it was given,

softly.

like a whisper.

I like the small gifts.

the purpose to smile and

give thank you

for a small hour of hope.

interlude. intermission.

just like you

this interrupted space

demands to speak

just like you

this silence crawls the undergrowth.

all this time,

I have been tangled

and singing your name,

pulling thorns from my skin.

each time you speak,

I blaze.

the memory shocks my blood and heart

and all is forgotten and

forgiven.

this stone, this clay,

this rosewhite beautiful.

this thread of hope,

this dreaming.

all the rest of living is a pause

until you arrive

emptied of absence and flight.

in my very wings,

begins the things that will discover

sky and true

blue beauty.

if my tears grasp the keys to my own freedom,

they will rain and

rain and

rain

until

the sun startles me back into

a new day,

alive with your laughing

or wise to know my way.