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.

The Labyrinth Keeper

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.

Accomplishing a Miracle

There are twelve paintings at Red Cloud Indian School

of The Stations of the Cross


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

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!

Dark Earth, Daffodil Yellow

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.”

Last Day of February, A Painting

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.

You are the Medicine

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

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

Pain becomes Nectar

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.