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.