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

I

It’s quiet at Priscilla’s

She’s not there – having died 10 days ago

But it’s been easy to find her- she’s with me right now

Fast ( and loose)- pals –

We’d been practicing these moves all year

With her questionable treatment- keeping us on our toes

or flat out ( but she never complained)

So we’ve got it down- we exist in the two planes

Like we’ve been doing all along… yesterday

I snuck into her studio

And found on the bottom shelf the pinch pots

I’d made last summer

Which she’d managed to glaze

And leave them there for me to find.

Cosmic examples of love- truly.

Dia de los Muertos- I want to sing to you

Strumming on a small guitar

About our love so true

Even the grave has no hold.

Sugar skulls and crepe paper decor

A rose in my hair- in our hair

I am the one left on this side

I will wear the rose for us

And march in the parade

The procession of infinite love

My face wet with tears..

This is it- this is what it’s all about.

““““““

Priscilla died on Oct 16th

An artist, whose super power was friendship.

So many of us will enormously miss her,

We are better people because of knowing her.