Anything you touch

is a romance move and

If I give you a piece of paper

Your mark on it will be just right

You will know where to start

Bending or straight

It’s your mark

…….. a revolutionary move

You’ve trusted your own hand

Watch out world- we have live one.

Hello dear readers

Human Design Rocks( check it out)

I love this little drawing

It’s my body graph with a skirt

My mother has the same four centers

Self, throat, third eye and crown.

I miss my mom

Especially this week.

Her last day

The vet came to put an end to the cancer

In her leg and lungs

But Chloe made the most of it

Splashing in the river she loves

Following Lucien as he pulls in the sparkling fish

She seems to know

And chose a place by the big cottonwood,

At the edge of the wild.

We effort to catch up

Deep feelings to integrate

What is raw – from all the life

That wants it’s chance to heal

Lines up to be healed

And is.

““““““““““““““““““`

Lucien and his dad and grandfather dig the grave

Forcing the living to take deep breaths of air

digging soil, silt and cobbles.

This is our life

And sitting in my rocking chair at dusk,

Her grave is part of the view

And I say something funny to John

About the mortal coil

-not for the faint of heart.

This is our life.

When I was 10, my older sister made a collaged box

Her chosen photos- revealing her values,

Photos like this Rabi cutting bread or

An artist wearing a paper mask with glasses….

A young woman teacher- smiling

Her black students hands in the air.

““““““““““““““““““““““““““““

My mother valued this collaged box

As high art even though we lived not like this.

These images expressed inclusion and diversity

And our world in Akron Ohio was very small.

My sister followed her own lead

She taught first grade in inner city Cleveland

Her children all black like in the photo.

She followed an inner leaning

She diverged – stepping out of the box.

I’m the only one who carries her memory

Sharing her with you is an honor.

Anne White, Jan 1940- April 2017

River Teva’s worn through

Trips down the Grand Canyon and the Yampa.

It’s strap broke on a hike with my 18 year old grandson

Rowing his own boat down the Yampa.

Fifty years since my first river trip

When John was my new man

And I was first filled with the wonder of the West.

The rough and ready life of a river

In Canyon Country.

Fifty years later

Filled with images of the many fine people

I’ve been out there with…..

Ginning wildly as a wave in Warm Springs

Reminds me that I am- eternally young.

That adventure truly does await

Around the next bend

The roar of the rapid.

We neighbor ladies were chatting…

Sitting by the river,

Watching the handsome boatman paddle by

When the mom of the two year old

Wandered up, Haven on her hip

And told us the inside story, a preamble

About the Big White Dog death.

She said that she’d noticed the week before

That he was not himself

Sort of pulled back in

And she had felt a readiness in him

To go on, his service complete.

The misjudged rattlesnake was the vehicle

The Gift, the Liberation , the Way

The White Dog’s Spark

Went Home.

In the father and son activity,

Known as Indian Guides ( this is the 50’s)

John and his dad would head down to the basement

To drum in a circle,

The fathers altered, suit coats gone…

( this was probably their wife’s idea)

Shirts off- feathered headbands

On each lad’s fair head.

Such a sweet effort, to instill good values.

John remembers liking being called a Brave.

““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““

It is no longer PC to be Indian Guides

(It’s been changed to Adventure Guides)

But something wonderful, like really being an Indian,

Has been lost…

The removal of the shirts, the drumming

The feathers on your head

And your dad sitting bare chested on the floor

Next to you on a school night.

Yesterday our neighbors large white dog,

I dog I always said hello to- a kind dog-

Died from a rattlesnake bite.

Protecting her people

Or Haven, the two year old

Who lives in a tiny home with his mom

On the same property.

Or, me…..who walks the road.

“““““““““““““““““““

Is death just our fate-

One day it is simply upon us and off we go

A unsuspected surprise

(In a good way.)

I do know the tunnel is filled with light

I have seen it- white.

Can I see my part in the story?

Can I name the grubby little worm

Taking a bite out of someone ( that I love).

Judgment is not invisible

The other person can feel it….

But more importantly- I’m no longer free.

When I cast the stone

Then I am buried by stone.

The universe wants us to get this.

““““““““““““““““

I think that I judge

Because the past is bugging me….

Some undigested shame

But what if…

I do not let the past define who I am-

I define who I am

Stoking the paw of the bear

Friends with myself.

I fought with my father

Even though he was pretty cosmic

He thought it best to limit me

( they all did- the culture of the 50’s)

Enter Here

Into the jaws of the heart

I married a man

Whose father died before he could fight with him

And lots of stirred up and unresolved energy

Has accompanied his life, but now

There is a new level of awareness

And the fight has a hopeful possibility

Of opening the molecules that require light…

““““““““““““““““““““““““““`

The true father wants to give it all to you

Even if you have to wrestle his ass to the floor.

Enter Here

Best Beloved.