The gushy line of beach mud

Enjoy it out there he says to me as he’s slipping on his shoes after our session.  Last day of Indian Summer he continues, voice trailing head moving his eyes already towards the door where we both can see that smacking blue sky clarity-light.  His enthusiastic Santa Claus jolliness sits on the air between us.  I am proud of him.  We’ve been sitting together for 18 months now in spiritual and recovery mentorship.  Our weekly conversations edge from the practical always into the introspective.  Yes, I think.  He’s right.  Last year this week I was on the beach sweating in 80 degree heat, then that Nor’easter came through and the rain broke the temperature and it was never hot like that again in 2018.

Tomorrow it will rain, and the heat will wash away.  He and I say our goodbyes and this message from him sinks into my body.  Instead of leaving my office and taking my computer business to the coffee shop, I head into town and loose my shoes in my car, walking side streets then the boards on my bare feet til I hit the beach. Then the gushy line of beach mud from 4th street to the Pier.  It is not a long walk, but the low tide sand bars are there and have made current pools of crystal teal changing into and from opaque blues and sea foam.  My spirit gives that breathy sigh that only the ocean can ever provide.

I think about the first short story I ever wrote.  I was away on scholarship at the fancy writing school, where (and when, how) my Destiny and Delmarva collided.  It was 21 years ago, half my life.  Probably right now 21 years ago:  I remember feeling dancy and angsty, October all through my soul.  It was the first time I ever fell in love with a river and dusk.  That story was called Pier One and it was about Beach City.  I wasn’t clean yet–in fact, for all I knew in October 1998 wine drunk each night and thinking about once more the harmlessness of maybe smoking weed again–I had no idea any of that would ever come.  Pier One looked in to the future though and predicted all of the deaths, including Kev, that in two short years would begin.

There was a shimmer of gold I sawfelt running into me from the aqua to blue to foam pools today.  I didn’t walk all the way to underneath the pier, just opened my spirit and let the coast roll flow.

I hope I can remember that, come the rain.

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Deep and ageless, within

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It’s the first time this year the words feel elusive and my excuses stronger when I sit down to write.  The whole superstition of routine:  it is not Tuesday, I am not in suburb sprawl box store half hour west of here, I didn’t just leave therapy and I’m not, first time since Spring, coming to the words to process feeling me coming out of my skin.

The words dancy and seasonal as Indian Summer.  They wake me traipsing taunting at the edge of my bed. What a tease I imagine, not even delighted to finally see your trick asses again.  I take my time getting up not to spite them just, it’s the first time on a Thursday I’ve felt the coziness of my bed in Fall.  It is off season f i n a l l y and it feels just like it.  The clear, startling light of the Equinox.  Contrast so clean I can feel my own shadow alight around me.  My patients all seasonal and teetery because that’s Beach City, babyyy all us living for the summer alive and preening and gleaning and glistening and pumping, all around and all about and most of all, deep and ageless, within.

On Wednesday I knew I’d be in the office late so I cut out as soon as my 2:30 wrapped and scooted quick as I could to the beach.  The Island so you know (if you know) which one I mean.  I have skin spots and places on my body that have aged dark with too much sun.  I go anyway, I go, day after day, this time straight to my secret place then dropping my sheet and bag and chair I climb a dune half way up and fall backwards right into the sand.

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After many long and grace-touched moments soaking it all in, the clarity, the stunning shadows and still peaceful birds, oh the emptiness, the stormy salt and sparkling white light.  Only then maybe do I breathe.  I follow the feeling deep in my gut to crawl a bit in the sand til it’s the whimsy love of mini-quartzes opening my spirit and so then I am on my knees as a child, collecting them all the tumbled clear ones in a pile in my palm.

And writing this now, I recall.  When I started the free school how that was mantra.  To move a mountain, go one pebble at a time.   A day at a time, a pebble at a time.  I actually had a little box of agate-quartzes back then.  I kept it on my antique typewriter bc, obvi…my first religion the W O R D S so that’s my all the time alter but back then with a picture I drew of a big tree I called the free school tree.  And I reminded myself.  Move a little stone, one small action towards your goal, one a day.

Each new day.  I will leave here my other office in Beach City writing to write how blessed am I, texting with this cute ass man too and head back to the island to meet a patient to walk.  The water there doesn’t feel cold, or any colder than summer, but it is: after 15 minutes yesterday my insides catch a shiver and I reminded.  Winter does come.

But for now? Fall, and the w o r d s as steady as the peepers and cicadas buzz and that shhhh shhhh in the trees, that rattle in the mudflats of whispery beach reeds.  Praise the mystery of this, where it, one day after the other as an agate at a time, leads next.

Out of time

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The Friday before my vacation I meditated a long, quiet time on the back porch until in the silence the still voice emerged and said, You must s l o w way down.

So, on my vacation I slept forever. I got a horrible room in a boarding house for way too much money for the quality of it and still that was a hundred a night on discount. The guy who owned and ran the place decorated the walls in the lobby, the halls, my room with pics of himself from the 80’s.  This apparently being when he’d experienced some personal level of success as a marathon runner.  The fridge in my room didn’t work, I slept on top of the sheets in case of bugs.

At night he sat on the front steps of the joint with his shirt off and played trumpet at the sunflowers growing in the sidewalk garden and the traffic in the street.

The place was less than two blocks to the beach and each night I could see the moon out my window, growing big.   She peaked saucer white the last night I was there, illumination on all I had gone on vacation to be rid of in the first place.  My personal moon arriving the same day washing and ringing my body and emotions to rain out of me, me lined up for better or worse with her.  Else, in the daytimes I baked in the sun, brined myself for hours in the sea.  I ate fabulous food and did not think at all about the impact on my credit card bill.  When it was done I returned satiated, a deep readiness where restlessness had begun to live.

One thing I noticed though was the changing of time that happened after that.  One day, having just returned back to real life and work, I had patients all morning and again in the late afternoon til the night.  On my break, I found my way to the beach with a book and a bag packed with lunch.  I laid on a sheet on the flat part of lowtide beachmud where earlier in the day water had run.  I didn’t sleep.  I felt the rhythm of the sea breathe my body into and out of the earth.

And then, some veil-parting, some little-known aspect of the moon?  It was the waning moon, this week but one full cycle ago.  I checked my clock to see what time I had left before returning to the office, it had been an hour and forty minutes already.  I was certain it had been only 45. This was the first of several experiences over the Harvest moon that I found myself out of time.  Not as in running out.  As in the ancient way.  Between.

~

The night we move from chatting on Facebook to chatting on the phone the word he uses more than once is timewarp.  He was one of them.  By the end of the first week of us talking I have settled on, I was, too.  I was one of them, too.

So was I.

I come here to the big box bookstore after therapy to tally: I have lost Time at least 8 times since vacation, been caught in odd grey stormy squalls at least as much as that since then as well.  Kevin and BJ dancy and low-throated, dark eyed and cracking jokes, dead for years sat at my fire Friday night.   The whole time, real as if they were still alive.  It’s the first time that has happened since the summer I was first home to the Tall Pines, 2015. He is asleep before I have a chance to tell him and I decide it is just as well.

It’s all behind me.  And here, right now, too.  What has passed comes again, at least anyway when you make space for it.

Or maybe, it’s just bigger.  Than all us, and comes back around…No matter your pace?

I’d want comfort food

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This Starbucks is always so trashy.  I literally mean the tables always have crumbs and sticky, dried liquid on them and often straw wrappers or napkins are littered about on the floor or at least on a minimum of one counter or tabletop, too.  It is the one local to me and I rarely come here except for when my instinct, like tonight, says so.  Tonight when I walked in there was only one other customer and all the grody empty places to sit.  That’s when I realized, oh this is why I’m never here.

In Laguna Beach it would frequently get that way, too, but only after the certain times a day that the rush of tourists coming off Main beach needed their afternoon caffeine.  The employees there were always so good about getting it all cleaned up and put back together.  It was one of my two regular spots to write and be alone without loneliness.  I miss it, Laguna Beach, my lifestyle there, my independence, the so many places to go and simply be.  I think of it daily, lately.

Today it was stormy since noon. I felt drowsy, emotional, in need of rest.  I took a nap after work before therapy and knew before I even got to my therapist’s that when we were done I’d want comfort food.  I drove immediately to The Farmer’s Wife when we finished up for fresh fried chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy even though the mug outside hung thick as wet flour air.

I didn’t have my wallet.  Thankfully I figured this out before ordering.

In my car I called my mom to see if she felt like meeting me for comfort food.  She said, your dad just called and asked me the same.

So she got my wallet for me, and we all met at the country place that used to be Jody’s a while.  I sat across from my dad, my nose still stuffed from at least 8 or 10 tissues full of snot leak specific to him.

Life is surreal, its own weird storm.   Its own odd, ubiquitous light shining out of its clouds of grey.  Words, this is my co-created prayer to you–of you–of thanks for no matter the place, always yielding your own kind of quiet grace.

 

And translates several feet around him

The madness up in me, a growl on the inside of my skin ready to be let loose on the kids looking at magazines behind me in the big box store.  Coffee shop visit after therapy, and so grateful I am for the routine.  Clouds dreamy and fast changing all week.

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In July once I was pregnant, the father nothing more than a boy in too big for him skin.  That is a myth of me like a linen kerchief in back of a closet in abandoned house on a field somewhere, full with wild flowers and green hills.  Clouds fat and white and inviting as pillows in the sky.  Linen delicate, the barely there stains for reasons you cannot know cause tenderness in your heart when you touch them. My vacation is here, it is July again and I did not go to Brasil.

The man in the corner talks to himself.   It is off-putting in a way that is brooding and translates several feet around him as a palpable radius of danger.  In Laguna the street kids were chummy, and the two homeless folks with the most flamboyant single-sided conversations were people who also chatted regularly with me.  We were on first name basis.

I am thinking about Laguna a lot lately, about the importance of having a room of one’s own.  A desk comes, and I spend the first day of my second week off from work crafting poems and parceling words.  The bookshelf built into the wall is now full on the top shelf with novels I will read and complete, each one a piece of fruit meant to slake a thirst that also makes me feel clear and clean.  The fan drones sleepy and content and I am delivered to a peace I may have known only in childhood.  An empty ease, with space enough to hold promise. There is so much, there once was anyhow–to still to be felt into, plucked from the air.

In therapy I finally bring up Kevin and the boys from the beach, and near the end mention in an off hand way that Kukta just died the other week. I am wow’d still that there is nothing there, no bruises left or felt.  Just the facts, another one dead.  Same ol myth.  She reminds me the goal is for thoughts and feelings to align. I just want to get here, to write.  To trust myself unto my rhythm, to take my time.

Scars are scars I tell myself, and can go for years with the tissue numb, just under thumb.  Other times there is meltiness, stain.   There is gasping for air and the feeling you may choke.  I never know what I am going to know until it is time.  So I write poems.  In one I remind myself: the axiom what you resist persists means that to resist is to deny.

I know.

 

A surprise for you coming

 

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On the banks of the French Broad in the hills outside Ashville the reception is terrible and whole days will go by without you even noticing this if you’re there for the national forests like me.  I went there in the Spring, when the river is brown and so high with winter melt the first site of rushing white caps evokes a natural awe, close enough to terror it quickens the breath.  I made my peace quick, in part because the churning reminded me of frothy chocolate milk.  That and the old growths there, the sleepy yawn of stretched out lazy Appalachian afternoons had captured my heart.  I paused at every new violet, every fairy white cap that made the sandy banks there as winter would.  I gathered them, enchanted, blessed them, heard the giggles of the sweetly fresh Spring breath tinkle as fae bells in the wind.  By the time I was home I had an entire wild-crafted blend.  And I find myself surprised, today, to look back on the pictures, and remember I used my 35 mm to document it all.

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The prophetic way, I find myself thinking, I used to use w o r d s to see into the underbelly of life. Seeing the pictures today it’s easy to understand why my heart yearn answered Go South…when leaving the beach I ask my soul where my whimsy felt led.  It was such a long time is all I can think, such a long time for a solo drive. In truth, I made the home-haul in one afternoon and settled in to the Palm Tree Inn just as the sun was setting a fierce yellow in my sideview mirror. I was south of the tunnel-bridge that puts you onto the peninsula where I live by just an hour when I stopped there, delighted by my road instincts that sat like a round cushion in my heart, all apple cheeked and taunting there’s a surprise for you coming, right at dusk.  Sure enough, the Palm Tree Inn was sitting there on the right…I breezed passed it and felt my instinct a shaft like quick under the hair wind go hold on~and glanced back and thought, could it be?

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My god, the Palm Tree Inn, where I stayed in 2011 when I last took off to live on the road.  The wandering trip of seven months that left me off eventually to burrow into Laguna Canyon–my first and only unto my own tiny little hobbit home.  That first night, a $40 motel room an hour off the peninsula, which back then to me was still its own mostly foreign land.

I turned back, got a Dairy Queen hot dog some oj and called it a night. The rooms had gone up $20. Fucking internet and social media making commerce out of e v e r y t h i n g.  And that, maybe, is the surprise I came here for now.  To remind myself, remember?

Go south, huh?

The words are priceless.  Freedom of soul the only real gold~

It is too early to tell

For some reason I like it here, Big Bookstore have to travel through several miles of concrete sprawl to get to and it is hot today, July hot in May, mug wall choke dust in the throat.  I don’t mean to and won’t complain.  It was so cold for so long I’ll take anything that doesn’t jangle my bones or prick my fingers with the tiny stars.  Just with July hot in May the heat fumes are surface stuck and release on impact of rubber to tar.  So traffic feels a long time extra and your destination not totally worth it when you arrive.

But here I am, came to write~came to blog.  Something I can do, one of the only things there is, just for me.  For no one else to feel the fever dissipate up and dissolve off the muscles behind my collar bones.  For me no one else knows about.  For me to see me, or to not, or in this case, admit I don’t know what I am looking for at all.

I leave therapy less certain than when I arrived but feeling better anyway.  No, there’s no reason to dredge it up, but in the middle of last night still there was childhood anxious and afraid ringing its hands.  Twisty gut and heart pound.  I want to blame it on Brasil but know that Brasil is not the cause, is more the cure.  Ten years of avoidance, insecure attachment looks ambivalent as hell when you’re doing the dance~

Or sexy as hell, and the boring premature let down orgasms that come with that lame same ol same ol pretend there’s more to it than that nonsense.  Time waste. That’s what I have to show for 10 years?  I smile and even my therapist agrees, the ambivalent defense at once also mechanism of my own vision. Enough so that I also built–no man could stop me–my dream come true~

And that’s what scares the shit out of me now.  If you were here would you pathologize it?  Is this my own self sabotage?

It’s true I am so fuckn ready 

to cut and run.

Chugging along concrete stop starts too much traffic for even switching lanes.  Feels right, feels exactly like exactly where I’m at.  No more time to waste.  Go, and don’t look back.  Only this, this one singular precious life~ 

And in the imaginal space the image is wayyy up, cliffside, upon the precipice, on the edge somehow, again?  Beholding the all the all the all there is to see.  Way down happy valley below, a place I have come to in journey before, soulscape of him and me.

Of what could be my whole new world?  It is too early to tell.

this doesn’t change a thing

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Writing to write feels good, thankful for this.  My little outlets, little corners of privacy all my own.  Back of an alcove used to be a cave some time ago I must’ve lived a thousand years back, my herbs drying in the eaves beneath twig rafters of private shelter built into back of an earthen dome.  I told vern i will put a garden in your back and by the end of the summer you will believe in fairies too.  We stood for ten minutes not talking much just mesmerized by the magic hour light in the tall pines.  Me part gnomey hedge witch part tinker bell who lives just up from you on hobbit lane~

I am so tired.  I love a man who lives 3000 miles away.  I didn’t think I loved him and pushed him away for three weeks actually telling him for us it was done.  He said when I did it this doesn’t change a thing.  I couldn’t not think I’d made a mistake so finally i reached back out and then i guess it was four or five days after that, right in the middle of the day not thinking at all about him, actually sitting w a friend, right there in the middle of nothing related I realized I loved him.  It was just all through my body every doubt and uncertainty gone.  I did not hesitate to tell him.  It is the first man I have loved in 10 years other than Josh.  He loves me too and it is weird for us if I have to guess, for me for sure and him too, to know what to do.  He said come to me. It is good timing to love him and not be able to go to him, it being tax time and getting my papers right as I can with my non-profit.  I throw myself into the days I don’t hear from him and have to pretend in my heart it doesn’t matter and boy do I get my numbers and dry paper shit     D O N E.  It feels good, feels somehow life giving, to switch lanes like that and be able to come back knowing I don’t have to hide or defend my feelings or figure them out, just be and back burner us for a bit, til we find each other again, and it rolls ever on.

He will come to me later I know this, but family is his priority now and in the meantime he has time to finish school.  I respect both of these things.  I do not know if he will come to stay.  I think the fact I love him is important enough to consider compromising how to make it work because in 10 years love does not happen easy, not if you’re busy living, and getting after life how I do.

It is good to have days off, next week I’ll travel down the Shenandoah on that Appalachian line that is back bone of the east and home to me.  I love that part of the country and more am eager for where I’ll land when I’m done, even though those mountains, the smokies–other side of them driving in frenzy zig zag is what got me feeling the tug w e s s s t across all of Tennessee…that was 2011, how I drove and drove and left the smokies behind and that dirt at the edge of the Mississippi river timeless and liquid and immobile and me running hard driving hard not knowing where i’d sleep that night, the dirt in the orange of the dirty dirty terrible mug of the Tennessee sky.  My brother and his lady were just married and lived there in nashville, they’d just moved before I’d left to go on the road, and I wanted to go stay awhile with him, stay and love his wife, really love her before I left and she was first pregnant at that time, too.  We talked about me staying there with them, this was before they broke up of course and the heart slaughter that so often equates d   i   v   o   r    c  e, and sometimes i wish more than i know that i’d had that chance, by the time i was home it was too late, they were done but didn’t know it yet but you could feel it to be with them, and it was hard to see over or through the walls between us all by then, too

So somehow maybe i knew all that even back then and i ran, and fast as i could i went until it was big, past nebraska and arkansas i ran, with heat stroke from running through both, until finally it was texas big

The sky i mean, which the first time you see it that bigness is like a taste of the sky, if you could i’m saying–like taste the sky–it tastes like the lightest hint of sweet sweet lightest cream, but a big pie slice of it, that taste, because it’s everywhere, all you see

I miss things and the way they used to be, and also, this is the sacred center of mist dream, the part where what was is no longer and what is yet is still yet to be

Vern takes me to town to drop my clothes off at the thrift store.  It’s in a part of downtown where magic still runs down the boards, it showed up for half a beat, i thought to film it, i’d only film it and send it to him i thought further, which i didn’t want to do, then it was gone.  Instead in the thrift store the synchronicity is stronger than any I’ve had, and I know I must quiet myself, I must pray.

And my life, dear god my precious life, I will go wonder over and wander a minute, silent and quiet and seeing what I can see

and when I return I will do more work, because when it is that you hit a stride in life where what you love is what you do it is not work it is showing up each day to see what life paints out there on the artist’s line.  And I will travel more, and i am eager to see what that means, where i will go

That said I have a finish line I am determined to hit. Sometimes it is ribbony and wistful, waving in the wind.

And sometimes like now I can’t see where it is.  So I’ll travel on and trust instead in what’s to come?

Year 42

It’s ancestor season, and now that Beth’s gone my life is settling into the kind of re-translation that only happens when those closest to your soul can be with, and witness, all of you.  In this I am so blessed.

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We woke up last Monday tummies still full from Thrasher’s and Dumser’s my head just full of salt.  The final week of second seeeaasunnn did not disappoint and I was mesmerized by the Timing of Beth’s arrival with the peak week of October sun.  It was new moon that day, we went to the community garden, and sure enough basil and late bloom lavender coming in.  Besides the thyme that is the centerpiece in my garden, I couldn’t have two other herbs that are closer familiars so for them, untended, to be so fertile under the final harvest cycle’s moon…

Again.  The dizzy way my heart is touched by the smallest blessings, and in these walking tiny miracles, I place all Faith.

It has been a year of horrible fuckery and I am not in the least talking about culturally.  The fertility moon that kicks off growing season I got to lead the ritual of marriage in a sacred Los Angeles oak grove for the single sister in my life that tends the darkest depths with breadth and width the same scope as me.  Later that night full moon dreamy white on the valley center of fields of flowers and trees, while at their wedding reception, I got the text from my A.M.Y. that her brother had odeed.   It was 10 days after Gretchen, my recovery mentor of 14 years, the women literally responsible for keeping me responsible to the woman I am and continue to become, had died. With these back to back losses so close to the heart of my own very personal walking resurrection…Honestly I don’t remember anything until July, the new moon prior to first harvest, when I tapped out and went back to earth for a week.  To remember how to breathe.

Beth knew my Gretchen very well.  Was in fact a mentor of sorts to her.  Today on facebook–Beth also is an avid devotee of FB, which re-opened my heart in a way I didn’t expect to beauty of that platform, the gift of 2018 and having a 10 year documentary of my own life, and the life of like everyone I have ever freakin loved and cared about–right there in digital form–anyway digression aside today on FB there was a picture of me at the white wolf sanctuary where she Gretchen spent so very much of her time.

This I found while the ancestor candle burns on my alter, giving so very much love and thanks to her.  Her memory, her legacy.  My deepest honor.

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White wolf pic.  Wolf medicine is teacher.  The wolf pin forgetful gave me, on the medicine bag my A.M.Y. made me years ago.  Reminds me always–since my awakening to the women’s work came in the form of Women Who Run With Wolves–that God blessed me to serve the world with this good work, at least my little corner of it.  How I actively work each day to make and remake it because if you were given a gift the best way to say thanks is by using it as much as you can.  How none of it would have happened, all those years of only trusting my inner guide as my light towards the women’s work, without Gretchen.  Always:  keep going.

One of the axioms of the women’s wisdom way is cycles of 7.  Seven years ago right now I was living in my car in Norcal, just starting my California Adventure.  About to total that car, on the phone with Gretchen, driving up the 101 in the season’s first rain. Spinning out and getting knocked out, coming to in oncoming traffic. It was how Mama California initiated me in.  Forced me to give up everything with which I’d came.

In March I’ll complete my 7th 7 year cycle.  Year 42 will complete. I am living, actively, my best life ever right now.  I look around, my world.  My Tribe.  Lord mama my Tribe.  How deep.  How real, true.   How sure and sound.  Guess what? Being human includes an awful, awful lot of fuckery.  It just does.  White wolf medicine.  Medicine of faith, and unconditional love.  The medicine of teaching, which is just being open with how you live.

Choosing this, day after day.  Faith so often is very simple.  I think of my mom.  The ring she gave me on my first year sober anniversary.  With the feet.  Bc, feet don’t fail me now.  Feet don’t fail me now.

Just keep going.

No matter what~

 

That is the meaning of Love

Srsly, two ads to skip through on YouTube?  And blog platforms selling space to third parties on your own site.  I think back to living on the road 2004. Brown sign road trip dropping out in the high elevations outside the Flatirons, west outta Boulder, Colorado.  We didn’t have internet phones then no one did.  We got around North America–south across Canada in the midwest, down Baja, Mex, in the south south west–all with a map.  And much instinct.  We learned about the metal tenseness at the base of the neck, that blinging pulse in the temples as signs:  DO NOT. GO. HERE.  NO.

This is when I discovered how good it is to be your bare self out there, how and why to lose your cleanliness to Nature.  How important this is. Power of fire against body that’s being made fresh by running snow water and from sleeping beneath stars. I was ten days at least up there bathing from tupperware tubs and cooking on the grill or propane burner or in live flame, and before that, there’s a river out of Fort Collins I swam in daily, and few showers between all this.  Sounds gross maybe to you but I am telling you, this part’s key.

It is Wednesday when I start this post, early morning.  I wake up to an unexpected cancellation and the space of S P A C E, ol Catfish got Van Morrison calling me you know, all sorts of Irish mist on the air and random internet radio or youtube music to match.  Tich nat hahn finds me, then, same flow.  It is right, aligned with the living heart that’s living its way out through me.  Now it is Monday and I will delete most of what I wrote Wed and Fri too.  Or not delete, just, file.  I am grateful I am writing this much again. I have soo freakn much cooking now under the surface, lots of hot coals baby and how coals what keeps the fire burnin all night long. And it’s been a while for me since the pitch of all that is pinned in place by the W o r d s and ohhh, the sea…

Roosevelt National Forest, Colorado, at a campground called Kelly Dohl is where I learned of the relationship to the W O R D S and nature, I dropped out and learned to speak e a r t h You carry Mother Earth within you. She is not outside of you. Mother Earth is not just your environment. In that insight of inter-being, it is possible to have real communication with the Earth, which is the highest form of prayer. In that kind of relationship you have enough love, strength and awakening in order to change your life. Fear, separation, hate and anger come from the wrong view that you and the Earth are two separate entities, that the Earth is only the environment. That is a dualistic way of seeing…  Tich Naht Hanh

After TNH and Van Morrison and catfish who run the same songs often, well then I found a pic from my homeward journey across Gateway 50, 2015.  Little two lane that runs from Sacramento to the Atlantic.  I grew up eyeing the sign in my little beach town that says Sacramento, CA 3073.  So for sure I drove it home when the winds picked up there in Laguna Canyon and told me to go.  Which is not the same story as this.

I went back to my sacred space today! and guess what no one was there! Haven’t been there all summer blughhh.  Except four did come ambling down with this awful telephoto lens camera and all the all the all the tourists showing up like this, these days.  But I heardfelt them coming then sensed at the birds and eel grasses thick as rope and slick got away and hid among the tidewaters where they could not see and then they, like most, decided ah nothing to see here and ambled off back from where they came.

I cannot believe how fast the summer went. I lost time, a bunch of it, after Gretchen and Joey though.  That just only now feels like it’s making some sorta space and sense in my heart, to be honest.  Like the sweet burn of breath when I am alone and confront September, the grey tones and blue green grey of only in Maryland in this certain place shade of blue green grey.

homeward

route 50 east, Colorado, 2015

On my way across 50 in 2015 coming home I had a spiritual experience again in Colorado, this time at the Continental Divide. On that trip, knee high in snow, standing among the fourteener’s I had this pristine reckoning with how much, how quickly, can change.  Then the next day how I watched the terrain slowly, steadily flatten out, and surely, I was east.  

I knew because I know her speak.

So to breathe in and be aware of your body and look deeply into it, realise you are the Earth and your consciousness is also the consciousness of the Earth. Not to cut the tree not to pollute the water, that is not enough. We need a real awakening, enlightenment, to change our way of thinking and seeing things. When we recognise the virtues, the talent, the beauty of Mother Earth, something is born in us, some kind of connection, love is born. That is the meaning of love, to be at one.  Tich Naht Hanh