Some of our old ones

Live so close to the great barrier reef

That place inside each of us

Where the rubber meets the road.

My older sister Jan is like this

Her energy is limited,

So to intrude on it is always a question.

But to hear her voice is a luxury I require

From time to time.

It’s the holiday and I am one of her treads

And she is an entire quilt for me.

I keep her on the phone too long.

I’m too much

Life is too much and it’s also just right

Can we hold the Paradox- The Constant One

( where peace lives)

It’s the Holidays and oh Boy, I am a jumble

Bumble- I walk into the grocery and can hardly function,

Where the tyranny of tempting goodies, abound.

And then there are all the things I can make

Or send-I love to mail gifts and cards….but

Drunk on giving

I stagger and fall.

Face first- onto the wet earth,

She is close to her solstice now

And approves of us falling.

Equal portions of dark and light,

Stubbornly…. I will still fly off

To the busy post office when it opens…

With a box full of wonder ( I’m proud of)

For a family of three in North Carolina.

Having learned from the best……

My grandmother would drive up every year

With a trunk full of perfectly wrapped gifts

And I would stand in absolute awe

Knowing fully in my childhood heart

That magic had come for me.

In any moment of polarity

Having succumbed to emotion- it’s addictive

Shouting” But this is my fundamental truth”

Ready to fight- how silly we are.

Don’t take offense.

But loaded up on drugs ( strong emotion)

While tempting

Does not show restraint

Or the ability to find empathy-

And humanity is suffering.

““““““““““““

Can I engage my passion

With courage and ask my opponent

For this dance-

Weeping with relief

At last I got it right.

Cold hands, cold water-

Eaten clean the beaver sticks rest in motion

Leading the eye up river

As I walk over the bridge… I see art.

It’s winter as we contemplate

Our co- existence with the beaver.

The one who took down the 60 ft cottonwood.

Her winter silage now intact.

The beaver crewed-wood chips

Feel sacred in my hands.

““““““““““““““““““““`

But there are differing points of view

Some of us are tree lovers- some are animal lovers

As we stand In the snowy field, getting cold feet

Listening to the experts who are thrilled by our interest

Our willingness to come together….

We learn that the tree harvesting should lessen

As the beavers shelter.

Everyone spoke, tensions eased- wild as beavers.

C

In June we will reconvene and perhaps decide

To relocate the beaver.

The St Vrain creek has a “zero” habitat rating

But relocation has low odds of being sucessuful.

In our shared existence as species

Maybe it’s just that we show up

And ask the person( or animal) next to us

for this dance and take a spin at it.

I sat with Priscilla’s friend

In the late Sunday shadows,

I didn’t know her well but

We discovered to our horror

That we share a weird, yet persistent conformity…

Embracing the 1950’s model of what it means to be a wife-

Basically to cheer “him” endlessly

Even when your best friend has died

Leaving you cold and wanting of comfort yourself.

What’s wrong with this picture, we found ourselves asking?

It’s all in asking the right question

That the ball of string begins to untangle

Ready to fly her kite come spring.

I thought “What shall write about

This day before Thanksgiving…and I thought

“Choose Peace”

And to the second- an eagle flew to my closest tree

Her white head lite by morning light

Looking out over the river and the field

One with it all and I joined her there.

“““““““““““““““““““““““`

Spirit agrees- peace it is

She and we have a say

And she says to me in a low rumble

“All my living I have been an old woman

In the woods alone

I do what I like:

I muddy & sweep my hut

Carry myself into the sky&

Listen to what it says,

I gather mushrooms

Terrorize foxes & men

With my friendly claws &gait,

Laugh a long time into a bucket

Until it laughs back with spit

Breathe as a stone at the bottom of a creek-&

Many other things I do not say.

But none of it is done from fearing.

Poke at the fear as into the dying fire in yr hearth:

Which way do the sparks go,

How does the fire hiss?

If you choose my life- know you are choosing it,

Not hiding in the woods.”

““““““““““““““““

From Ask Baba Yaga by Taisia Kitaiskaia

The water boils, cooking squash

Bank’s dinner-staple- orange and yummy.

And I get to cook it.

Something homey to do on a Monday.

Warm and friendly pumpkin in the pot.

I sit…. wandering and wondering …how

Can we find neutrality with our enemies

(Neutrality….not helping either side- impartiality)

Usually lost in perception- and interpretation we are lost…

“The world can teach no images of you

unless you want to learn them”

Tomorrow we commit your body to the fire

Where it now must go

We are mortal

Our bones have other commitments

Cremation is our final act

Seeing you released from form

A body you no longer wear

Free to be the star that fell just before dawn

The odd balance of weight and wonder.

“““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““`

Charged as I am to see you off

My unenthusiastic feet will lumber there I know

But not without a cost

Stretched in two directions

A cracked- pot- literally.

Like one of your pots sent into the fire- we go

You do not go alone, it’s not possible.

The drum speaks of allowing yourself

To be supported by Mother Earth’s heartbeat.

That is to say, your mind

May be outdistancing what your body can handle,

If this applies,

You are missing a beat

Slow down and rediscover

The heartbeat of your true Mother.

Rhythm is key and

Each of us has a personal sacred space-

Not pushing the body to be

Or do certain things any longer.

The body resides in it’s own rhythm

And I am home-this really matters.

“““““““““““““““““““““““““`

Inspired by Jamie Sams

Sacred Path Cards

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