I have a bunch of gnarly inner work to do.
I still want to project my pain
blaming You of course…
You, who conveniently always do something wrong…
or I could get somewhere for a change…
I could just stay present to the pain
and burn in the slow fire
of what hurts….
what scares me( your death)
and my total lack of control
in all these matters.
Sometimes you will come upon her,
the Keeper of the Labyrinth,
a tall woman with pinned grey hair
and colorful clothing.
She’s an artist friend,
the steward of this place.
It’s her anonymous gift
where people find solace with their pain
and joy too.
I saw an arty guy there one day
with a contented smile upon his face
with the realization that
he’s not alone on a alien planet, after all.
There are twelve paintings at Red Cloud Indian School
of The Stations of the Cross
Reflecting……
the twelve times when Jesus paused, that fateful day,
on the path
to his temporary death.
The artist understood,
the equality of the man and the woman.
They are dressed in the same fabric and color.
Without her,
he would not be able to stabilize the energy
for such a big project.
It takes two.
Accomplishing a miracle
Not easy, very holy and completely imperative.
can i be really small and jump into your pocket
and travel about with you
as you blossom into your next iteration?
(like a stone person, winking at you.)
Gerald One Feather
once pulled from his pocket,
a stone person who winked at me.
You can imagine my surprise?
Nothing has been the same since!
Everything I read or hear that points to the” mystery”,
to the” not knowing” is a comfort.
My mother in a hushed voice would sometimes say,
after I’d been explaining some theory or another…
“Oh but Sally, remember the Mystery.”
Alice Walker has this to share…..
“Some periods of our growth are so confusing
that we don’t even recognize that growth is happening.
We may feel hostile or angry
or weepy and hysterical
or we may feel depressed.
It would never occur to us,
unless we stumbled on a book
or a person who explained it to us,
that we were in fact in the process of change….
Whenever we grow, we tend to feel it,
as a young seed must feel the weight and inertia of the earth
as it seeks to break out of its shell
on its way to becoming a plant….
Often the feeling is anything but pleasant.
But what is most unpleasant
is not knowing what is happening.”
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.
Heal yourself
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
Falling forward
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.
