The purple darkness of our valley
delights in the sunlit tree branches,
a contrast like my own heart,
not ready to release winter,
it’s bones that reveal the structure of life,
a sadness that is sweet
only because it is true.
Today on the first day of March
I morn the passing of the season of winter
It’s keep me honest.
You had a shower and a job and a good working car.
You made us meals and loved us
while we experimented with lack
and beards and breastfeeding
cutting wood and outhouses.
It was grand and we loved you.
Thank you dearest.
News of your death went out viva e mail
to a group referred to as the Harvest Feasters,
bringing up a whole treasure chest of unresolved relationships.
We were young,
experimenting in love and jealousy.
We didn’t know anything.
Our parents were emotionally repressed.
We wanted to do better
but in the end we just walked away.
My only new thing to add to the old equation
is an ability to hold myself with kindness
with the tender smile on my soft face
as I revisit the swirling tides of my youth
and the skills I did not have.
Put Love in your tea
instead of sugar
and drink it looking at the stars.
Heal yourself with the kisses
that the wind gives you.
Stand strong with your bare feet
on the ground
and with everything that comes from it.
Be smarter everyday
by listening too your intuition
looking at the world with your forehead.
Jump dance, sing
so that you live happier.
with beautiful love
and always remember
you are the medicine.
Words of Maria Sabina, Mexican Poet and Healer
Hi Bob, thinking of your grandmother today, what a love!
For Calling the Spirit back from Wandering the Earth with Human Feet
Call your spirit back
it may be caught in corners
and creases of shame, judgement and human abuse
You must call in a way your spirit will want to return
speak to it as you would a beloved child
Welcoming your spirit back from it’s wanderings
it may return in pieces, in tatters
Gather them together
they will be happy to be found after being lost for so long
Your spirit will need to sleep awhile
after it is bathed and given clean clothes
now you can have a party.
make it a give away
and remember to keep the speeches short
Then you must do this….
help the next person find their way through the dark
Poem by Joy Harjo, drawing by Denver artist Julia- Rymer
unable to breath
the tip of the spear
is lodged near my heart.
Who was it who threw it?
Was it my past self
a battle scared remembrance
a figment requiring healing, now?
How well I know these oldest perceptions
my hidden and gnarled
misuses of love.
Healing is an act of courage
I will be changed.
When I try and get away….
it’s so much better if I just leap
from the frying pan
right into the fire.
Frying pans are flat, one dimensional
whereas fire is not under my control, like love.
It’s an alchemy,
pain is the catalyst,
the necessary spark
and the fire is a leap, a trust, a let go
the realm of the heart
what remains is ash
or is it gold?
I am inaugurated
I am present- ent
And whether I live or die
I am the underlying wholeness.
Hafiz says this….
Just sit there right now.
Don’t do a thing.
For your separation from God
Is the hardest work in this world.
Let me bring you trays of food
That you like to drink.
You can use my soft words
As a cushion
We can not heal
what we can not acknowledge.
In the economy of grace,
as offered in Desmond Tutu’s,
Truth and Reconciliation Commission,
where all had to take proper
and public responsibility
for their mistakes,
not for the sake of punishment
but for the sake of truth and healing.
Radicle grace is being loved
in spite of ourselves
in the very places
where we cannot or will not love ourselves.
We are a crazy weave with the essential “other”
Our mutual apology, healing and forgiveness
offers a sustainable future for humanity.
Otherwise we are controlled by the past,
individually and corporately.
The unbound ones
are best prepared to unbind others.
So unburden your heart with a friend
if you need to be restored to your true nature
which is love!
My mother subscribed to Vogue
and I buy it for my daughter, Willow
Their sense of fashion
skipped a generation when it came to me.
I got into ripped jeans during protests in college
and never got out of them.
But just look at this fine woman leader
on the cover of Vogue.
Tennis shoes and pink satin.
It makes you weak in the knees
and proud as a peacock.
Here we go!
Having lost the charts of the rugged coast
this bold lack of navigation
now has us fully lost.
What returns at this late hour
is a song we sang in our youth
on the bow of the Amorita.
It’s a sailors lament
about running out of whiskey.
“And I scarcely think that I’ll get a drink till I get to Buffalo”
Between then and now
who can really say what happened.
A life is so big.
She’s ok where she is
tucked into a hospital bed
foggy with not knowing.
She’d like to lay low
and just let the hull rust.
But we, her family,
screech like gulls
shouting Up, Get Up
We want another day.