There’s been a long hiatus since I have shared here. Lots of events in the outer and inner worlds, and a time of gestating, growing new creative bones and fingers. So today I offer some of what has fed me in the last few months—i.e, I offer some images from my environment, and some writing gems, little pieces that have come through me in my “Writing From the Inside” sessions. (The images are just some that want to be shared; they are not directly related to the writings, but I am always wanting to include photographs that capture what I see and experience.)
IMAGES TO SINK INTO:
IMAGES TO SINK INTO:
WRITING GEMS
For several years now, I have been facilitating writing groups where participants free-write from prompts of various kinds—word phrases, images, objects, music. My initial publicity for the “Writing From the Inside” workshops included this description: “We use the process of writing…to deepen our awareness and appreciation for all that is…. We create a safe, playful and sensually engaged space where the words and images can come out. The intention is to use writing as an act of discovery, a spiritual practice that takes us beyond journaling to open the channel to the wisdom that comes through.” At any given session we typically work with two or three prompts, writing for 15-20 minutes on each one, and sharing our words with one another. I try to provide prompts that can take us in diverse, unpredictable directions, and it is amazing to see how many interpretations emerge in a given group. The individual writer’s voice clearly comes through, and we can honor both our own and that of our fellow writers.
During the pandemic, the groups have been virtual, but the magic of the process is in no way diminished; the Zoom platform, which can be quite intimate, is actually perfect for this kind of writing. One of my groups, which started online in March, is still meeting weekly—a clear testimonial to the fact that the experience continues to deepen. I am a full participant in these groups, and thus have regular opportunities to open my own creative channel. Over time, I have learned to really let go with my words. The experience is always interesting, but sometimes I am astonished at what comes through. Below, I share a few writings that came from word prompts in the last six months or so (the italicized titles were the actual word prompts). These are not edited in any way (take them as spontaneous outpourings, not polished pieces), and they are in no special order. I believe they hold the energy of my deepest vision. If you take the time to read them, may they also fill you with that energy and vision, and with the brightest light.
(If anyone is interested in joining a writing group of this sort, do contact me.)
The Painter of Dreams
Awash in color—the green robes, the crazy sparkling diamonds that flash glints of yellow and pink and blue. Ice blue: that color of ice floes, icebergs, the unimaginable depth of sea ice. Oh, the fullness of the color, the painful beauty of red leaves fallen upon deep green moss. Color over all. I live in color, in the intense vibration of hue. Not shaded, not tinted, not tonal: pure hue, uninterrupted wavelength. Sunflowers screaming out yellow across the field, all the heads with their brown centers following the sun. Black silhouettes of children playing by the grey rock wall, saturated cerulean sky, and the clouds pillowing white. Red wing blackbird in the adjacent meadow, glossy black with that shock of orange-red, the punctuation, the staccato emphasis or heartbeat. Or the colors of the mandrill—red and blue—oh my! The intensity of parrots, coded as if they and not the flowers were attracting the bees. Oriole orange, peacock green shimmer. And yet none of it is really there on a feather—only refracted light! Here, before me, clear red hibiscus, with blue tones. Who painted this saturated scene, this screenplay? Who coded us to see it? Could we stand on a pastel runway, bubblegum pink and grass green, Easter basket colors, with the volume dialed high to maximum? Could we wash in the symphony of color, the depth of lapis lazuli, could we rub up against the smoothness of the deepest jade? Awash, wash me in colors, paint this dream into being, and oh we cannot sleep; we can’t go back to sleep.
A Poem Yet Unknown
There’s a poem for you, my friends, yet unknown but full blown, full grown,
fully formed.
It’s stunning in its imagery, and yet the words elide, slide—hide, even,
for it can’t be held down, or captured; it’s a living presence
here, there and everywhere, every moment.
You can breathe it in. You can catch it on your outstretched tongue,
for just a moment, just long enough to know it’s there.
The light shimmer, the glimmer of emotion, commotion, the excitement and
calm, absolute peace, release.
It’s all and all and all, calling, to you, to us, to all,
resonant, resounding, abounding.
Drink it through your pores, drink the notion, the potion, the motion onward.
Drink ‘til there’s no more thirst, no hunger, no fear.
Drink the sweetness and its lingering notes, moved around the mouth and
swallowed, deep to the belly and the core.
Always more.
An expanding poem, spreading like the limbs of a live oak, touching the ground,
claiming space, holding/hosting lifein its branches, one with the sky.
It’s an ode, an elegy, a praise song, all things to all people, to all life forms.
It shines opalescent, glinting, glimmering, shimmering, sliding, surrounding, sounding, to be known, to be, to be lived and entered.
The sweetest poem, most haunting, most fundamental,
of the earth and sky and moon and birdsong and wonder.
To be known, to unfold into knowingness, to enfold, to be touched, and known
as home.
The Magical Broom
It swept away, on its own, like the [broom in] the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, but it was never mindless or on automatic. It targeted the little dust motes, even minute ones, and took them to the dust bin. It swept away tears, which instantly became small and silky soft fibers, adding comfort in the sweeping. It swept away shards of broken dreams and shattered lives. It swept rhythmically, its movements creating a kind of sine wave, mapping out a gentle heartbeat in its arcs, the embracing enfolding of a restfully swaying hammock. It swept, swept, carrying away the tedium of women sweeping the hearth, like Cinderella, those who had to take care of others and were imprisoned in their roles, unable to determine their own direction. It swept clean the stoops, white steps on old houses, signaling the goodness of those within, and it swept away cobwebs, scattering spiders and clearing a way through. It swept away sand, like the woman in the dunes and the existential dilemma, but it was loving and revealing, not Sisyphusian. It swept in, also, swept in freshness, a clear breeze of promise, and blessings, riding that breeze. It swept the chambers of the heart, yes, making it ready, and then turned around and swept in the light. Light sweeper, this magic broom, light sweeper.
The Poet’s Promise
As the poet promised, there would be a reckoning.
As the poet promised, we would rise up on our haunches, and bray at the moon.
As the poet promised, the winds would blow hard, scattering the papers to the wind.
As the poet promised, we would drink from the river, tasting of melted snow and faraway mountains.
As the poet promised, we would join hands and circle around, steps entrained.
As the poet promised, the sun would set bright red, and the birds would fly back to their roosts to rest.
As the poet promised, we would weep where the trees fell, and then sit with them as they returned to soil.
As the poet promised, we would climb to the crow’s nest to look out over the vastness of the sea, watching jumping fish and manta rays, jumping for joy.
As the poet promised, we would smile and reach out our loving fingers, feeling the velvety skin.
As the poet promised, we would breathe slowly, coming to rest, letting it go, and going on.
A Dowry Box for a New Kind of Marriage
Cross over that threshold, open the door, after all the ceremonies and hoopla have ended. The threshold, the doorway, liminal moment. What’s that in your arms? That large, lovingly fashioned basket, made of gleaming fibers, some that still smell fresh, like sweetgrass. Some bits of ribbon caught in, lending shots of color and joy.
What does it hold? What have you brought with you? A small bottle with your baby’s breath, exhaled in and caught with a stopper. Somehow, it smells like baby’s head, and the outside, though glass-like, feels like a plush blanket. A piece of velvet, made from the velvet of reindeer antlers, transmuted into silky green cloth. Your fingers feel the nap. A small compact, which when opened makes the sound of wind through the pines. An Egyptian paste bead, that penetrating turquoise, that when held takes you to the energy of the mystery school, deep in the pyramids, and brings you to the sense of your initiation and presence. You are always adorned with that color, that knowing. Some nature materials: dyed porcupine quills, the perfect geometries of cowfish scales, a tiny turtle shell. All friends, bits and pieces of magnificent design that bring reverence and gratitude and delight. And more: soft socks to keep your feet warm, and a hat that matches, so you feel cozy and complete. Lovely handmade paper and flowing pens, art brushes and endless colors. The perfect fruit, which is ever-replenishing and just-right ripe, but morphs regularly from peach to fig to sapodilla. It tastes of the real garden of Eden, where nothing is forbidden, and all is freely given, where the trees smile with their bounty and say yes, eat this, it’s our endless gift to you.
Carrying the Fruit
We marched down the tree-lined, dusty road, weighted with baskets of fruit: peaches, warm from the sun, giving off their scent-call, and plums...beaming their glossy purple with that hazy covering. There were baskets with pecans and brazil nuts, and others with bursting tomatoes and peanuts, ready to boil.
This was a parade, a harvest ceremony, among the tall magnolias. There was a grace in this landscape, large luxurious trees in no hurry to grow quickly or to develop defenses against the cold. Like the live oaks, they felt free to spread out and settle in, bend down and touch the ground. Ceremony, yes, and some of the women in vaguely Greek attire, evoking clingy, graceful garments, even though without the fine old wool they didn’t quite capture its hand. It was a play, an enactment of something that had never been: not here, with these fruits, not like this on this soil. Once there had been harvest feasts, rife with fish and fruit and game, but never a procession like this, with studied solemnity. We who carried the fruit were focused on the isness and literal poundage of the bounty, the peach smell coating all and singing of fecundity and sweet. It took effort to hold these baskets, up before our chests and bellies, and yet we brought something necessary to the land, some kind of re-inscribing of original grace, unscarred by what had happened there before.
A Poem Yet Unknown
There’s a poem for you, my friends, yet unknown but full blown, full grown,
fully formed.
It’s stunning in its imagery, and yet the words elide, slide, hide even,
for it can’t be held down, or captured; it’s a living presence
here there and everywhere, every moment.
You can breathe it in. You can catch it on your outstretched tongue,
for just a moment, just long enough to know
it’s there.
The light shimmer, the glimmer of emotion, commotion, the excitement and
calm, absolute peace, rest, release.
It’s all and all and all, calling,
to you, to us, to all, resonant, resounding, abounding.
Drink it through your pores, drink the notion, the potion, the motion onward.
Drink till there’s no more thirst, no hunger, no fear.
Drink the sweetness and its lingering notes, moved around the mouth and
swallowed, deep to the belly and the core. Always more.
An expanding poem, spreading like the limbs of a live oak, touching the ground,
claiming space, holding life, hosting in its branches, one with the sky.
It’s an ode, an elegy, a praise song, all things to all people,
to all life forms that fill its lines, opalescent nacre, glinting, glimmering, shimmering,
sliding, surrounding the poem
to be known, to be, to be lived and entered. The sweetest poem, most haunting,
most fundamental, of the earth and sky and moon and birdsong and wonder.
To be known, to unfold into knowingness, to be touched, to enfold us
and known as home.
In the Grove
A straightforward scene, tessellated into mosaic form, going in an unexpected direction. The tree leans into me as I lean into her, vibrant, my energy following her limbs and climbing up and up. The tree speaks: sit here in the crotches of my limbs, riding me like the finest steed. We will take off into the beyond. Steer me with the branches, feel me coursing through you and carrying you. There, beyond, beyond, beyond. Para gate, para sam gate.
It’s alive, this journey, every molecule alive in its beingness, an invitation. Aliveness in the grove, in the garden, in the meadow. Aliveness in the leaf, in the bark, in the molecules, in the sky. Every line an energy mark, punctuating space and time. We are mark makers, marking places, imprinting them with the impression of aliveness. We are aliveness marking, energizing, jump-starting–we are the imprints, the light language, the quickness, the quickening. Set yourself down in this grove, out of the sunlight, and take it in your pores. Be fed with this sense of excitement, knowing, take it in as the fuel for creative fire. And in turn, thank us; through this moment of fully tasting the aliveness, imprint it in your memory and be awake! Be aware, remember aliveness, life force, beyond the beyond and within the within.
Clarion Call
Clarion call: sharp and piercing
calling all:
wake up now.
Hear, here, right now.
Calling you, calling you, come.
You can’t ignore this sound
sounding in your bones, alerting cells
hear, here, now.
Impelling forward, pulling,
not to battle, but to awaken out
of the trance, to awaken
calling to being
calling clear
wake up to all we
really are.
For several years now, I have been facilitating writing groups where participants free-write from prompts of various kinds—word phrases, images, objects, music. My initial publicity for the “Writing From the Inside” workshops included this description: “We use the process of writing…to deepen our awareness and appreciation for all that is…. We create a safe, playful and sensually engaged space where the words and images can come out. The intention is to use writing as an act of discovery, a spiritual practice that takes us beyond journaling to open the channel to the wisdom that comes through.” At any given session we typically work with two or three prompts, writing for 15-20 minutes on each one, and sharing our words with one another. I try to provide prompts that can take us in diverse, unpredictable directions, and it is amazing to see how many interpretations emerge in a given group. The individual writer’s voice clearly comes through, and we can honor both our own and that of our fellow writers.
During the pandemic, the groups have been virtual, but the magic of the process is in no way diminished; the Zoom platform, which can be quite intimate, is actually perfect for this kind of writing. One of my groups, which started online in March, is still meeting weekly—a clear testimonial to the fact that the experience continues to deepen. I am a full participant in these groups, and thus have regular opportunities to open my own creative channel. Over time, I have learned to really let go with my words. The experience is always interesting, but sometimes I am astonished at what comes through. Below, I share a few writings that came from word prompts in the last six months or so (the italicized titles were the actual word prompts). These are not edited in any way (take them as spontaneous outpourings, not polished pieces), and they are in no special order. I believe they hold the energy of my deepest vision. If you take the time to read them, may they also fill you with that energy and vision, and with the brightest light.
(If anyone is interested in joining a writing group of this sort, do contact me.)
The Painter of Dreams
Awash in color—the green robes, the crazy sparkling diamonds that flash glints of yellow and pink and blue. Ice blue: that color of ice floes, icebergs, the unimaginable depth of sea ice. Oh, the fullness of the color, the painful beauty of red leaves fallen upon deep green moss. Color over all. I live in color, in the intense vibration of hue. Not shaded, not tinted, not tonal: pure hue, uninterrupted wavelength. Sunflowers screaming out yellow across the field, all the heads with their brown centers following the sun. Black silhouettes of children playing by the grey rock wall, saturated cerulean sky, and the clouds pillowing white. Red wing blackbird in the adjacent meadow, glossy black with that shock of orange-red, the punctuation, the staccato emphasis or heartbeat. Or the colors of the mandrill—red and blue—oh my! The intensity of parrots, coded as if they and not the flowers were attracting the bees. Oriole orange, peacock green shimmer. And yet none of it is really there on a feather—only refracted light! Here, before me, clear red hibiscus, with blue tones. Who painted this saturated scene, this screenplay? Who coded us to see it? Could we stand on a pastel runway, bubblegum pink and grass green, Easter basket colors, with the volume dialed high to maximum? Could we wash in the symphony of color, the depth of lapis lazuli, could we rub up against the smoothness of the deepest jade? Awash, wash me in colors, paint this dream into being, and oh we cannot sleep; we can’t go back to sleep.
A Poem Yet Unknown
There’s a poem for you, my friends, yet unknown but full blown, full grown,
fully formed.
It’s stunning in its imagery, and yet the words elide, slide—hide, even,
for it can’t be held down, or captured; it’s a living presence
here, there and everywhere, every moment.
You can breathe it in. You can catch it on your outstretched tongue,
for just a moment, just long enough to know it’s there.
The light shimmer, the glimmer of emotion, commotion, the excitement and
calm, absolute peace, release.
It’s all and all and all, calling, to you, to us, to all,
resonant, resounding, abounding.
Drink it through your pores, drink the notion, the potion, the motion onward.
Drink ‘til there’s no more thirst, no hunger, no fear.
Drink the sweetness and its lingering notes, moved around the mouth and
swallowed, deep to the belly and the core.
Always more.
An expanding poem, spreading like the limbs of a live oak, touching the ground,
claiming space, holding/hosting lifein its branches, one with the sky.
It’s an ode, an elegy, a praise song, all things to all people, to all life forms.
It shines opalescent, glinting, glimmering, shimmering, sliding, surrounding, sounding, to be known, to be, to be lived and entered.
The sweetest poem, most haunting, most fundamental,
of the earth and sky and moon and birdsong and wonder.
To be known, to unfold into knowingness, to enfold, to be touched, and known
as home.
The Magical Broom
It swept away, on its own, like the [broom in] the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, but it was never mindless or on automatic. It targeted the little dust motes, even minute ones, and took them to the dust bin. It swept away tears, which instantly became small and silky soft fibers, adding comfort in the sweeping. It swept away shards of broken dreams and shattered lives. It swept rhythmically, its movements creating a kind of sine wave, mapping out a gentle heartbeat in its arcs, the embracing enfolding of a restfully swaying hammock. It swept, swept, carrying away the tedium of women sweeping the hearth, like Cinderella, those who had to take care of others and were imprisoned in their roles, unable to determine their own direction. It swept clean the stoops, white steps on old houses, signaling the goodness of those within, and it swept away cobwebs, scattering spiders and clearing a way through. It swept away sand, like the woman in the dunes and the existential dilemma, but it was loving and revealing, not Sisyphusian. It swept in, also, swept in freshness, a clear breeze of promise, and blessings, riding that breeze. It swept the chambers of the heart, yes, making it ready, and then turned around and swept in the light. Light sweeper, this magic broom, light sweeper.
The Poet’s Promise
As the poet promised, there would be a reckoning.
As the poet promised, we would rise up on our haunches, and bray at the moon.
As the poet promised, the winds would blow hard, scattering the papers to the wind.
As the poet promised, we would drink from the river, tasting of melted snow and faraway mountains.
As the poet promised, we would join hands and circle around, steps entrained.
As the poet promised, the sun would set bright red, and the birds would fly back to their roosts to rest.
As the poet promised, we would weep where the trees fell, and then sit with them as they returned to soil.
As the poet promised, we would climb to the crow’s nest to look out over the vastness of the sea, watching jumping fish and manta rays, jumping for joy.
As the poet promised, we would smile and reach out our loving fingers, feeling the velvety skin.
As the poet promised, we would breathe slowly, coming to rest, letting it go, and going on.
A Dowry Box for a New Kind of Marriage
Cross over that threshold, open the door, after all the ceremonies and hoopla have ended. The threshold, the doorway, liminal moment. What’s that in your arms? That large, lovingly fashioned basket, made of gleaming fibers, some that still smell fresh, like sweetgrass. Some bits of ribbon caught in, lending shots of color and joy.
What does it hold? What have you brought with you? A small bottle with your baby’s breath, exhaled in and caught with a stopper. Somehow, it smells like baby’s head, and the outside, though glass-like, feels like a plush blanket. A piece of velvet, made from the velvet of reindeer antlers, transmuted into silky green cloth. Your fingers feel the nap. A small compact, which when opened makes the sound of wind through the pines. An Egyptian paste bead, that penetrating turquoise, that when held takes you to the energy of the mystery school, deep in the pyramids, and brings you to the sense of your initiation and presence. You are always adorned with that color, that knowing. Some nature materials: dyed porcupine quills, the perfect geometries of cowfish scales, a tiny turtle shell. All friends, bits and pieces of magnificent design that bring reverence and gratitude and delight. And more: soft socks to keep your feet warm, and a hat that matches, so you feel cozy and complete. Lovely handmade paper and flowing pens, art brushes and endless colors. The perfect fruit, which is ever-replenishing and just-right ripe, but morphs regularly from peach to fig to sapodilla. It tastes of the real garden of Eden, where nothing is forbidden, and all is freely given, where the trees smile with their bounty and say yes, eat this, it’s our endless gift to you.
Carrying the Fruit
We marched down the tree-lined, dusty road, weighted with baskets of fruit: peaches, warm from the sun, giving off their scent-call, and plums...beaming their glossy purple with that hazy covering. There were baskets with pecans and brazil nuts, and others with bursting tomatoes and peanuts, ready to boil.
This was a parade, a harvest ceremony, among the tall magnolias. There was a grace in this landscape, large luxurious trees in no hurry to grow quickly or to develop defenses against the cold. Like the live oaks, they felt free to spread out and settle in, bend down and touch the ground. Ceremony, yes, and some of the women in vaguely Greek attire, evoking clingy, graceful garments, even though without the fine old wool they didn’t quite capture its hand. It was a play, an enactment of something that had never been: not here, with these fruits, not like this on this soil. Once there had been harvest feasts, rife with fish and fruit and game, but never a procession like this, with studied solemnity. We who carried the fruit were focused on the isness and literal poundage of the bounty, the peach smell coating all and singing of fecundity and sweet. It took effort to hold these baskets, up before our chests and bellies, and yet we brought something necessary to the land, some kind of re-inscribing of original grace, unscarred by what had happened there before.
A Poem Yet Unknown
There’s a poem for you, my friends, yet unknown but full blown, full grown,
fully formed.
It’s stunning in its imagery, and yet the words elide, slide, hide even,
for it can’t be held down, or captured; it’s a living presence
here there and everywhere, every moment.
You can breathe it in. You can catch it on your outstretched tongue,
for just a moment, just long enough to know
it’s there.
The light shimmer, the glimmer of emotion, commotion, the excitement and
calm, absolute peace, rest, release.
It’s all and all and all, calling,
to you, to us, to all, resonant, resounding, abounding.
Drink it through your pores, drink the notion, the potion, the motion onward.
Drink till there’s no more thirst, no hunger, no fear.
Drink the sweetness and its lingering notes, moved around the mouth and
swallowed, deep to the belly and the core. Always more.
An expanding poem, spreading like the limbs of a live oak, touching the ground,
claiming space, holding life, hosting in its branches, one with the sky.
It’s an ode, an elegy, a praise song, all things to all people,
to all life forms that fill its lines, opalescent nacre, glinting, glimmering, shimmering,
sliding, surrounding the poem
to be known, to be, to be lived and entered. The sweetest poem, most haunting,
most fundamental, of the earth and sky and moon and birdsong and wonder.
To be known, to unfold into knowingness, to be touched, to enfold us
and known as home.
In the Grove
A straightforward scene, tessellated into mosaic form, going in an unexpected direction. The tree leans into me as I lean into her, vibrant, my energy following her limbs and climbing up and up. The tree speaks: sit here in the crotches of my limbs, riding me like the finest steed. We will take off into the beyond. Steer me with the branches, feel me coursing through you and carrying you. There, beyond, beyond, beyond. Para gate, para sam gate.
It’s alive, this journey, every molecule alive in its beingness, an invitation. Aliveness in the grove, in the garden, in the meadow. Aliveness in the leaf, in the bark, in the molecules, in the sky. Every line an energy mark, punctuating space and time. We are mark makers, marking places, imprinting them with the impression of aliveness. We are aliveness marking, energizing, jump-starting–we are the imprints, the light language, the quickness, the quickening. Set yourself down in this grove, out of the sunlight, and take it in your pores. Be fed with this sense of excitement, knowing, take it in as the fuel for creative fire. And in turn, thank us; through this moment of fully tasting the aliveness, imprint it in your memory and be awake! Be aware, remember aliveness, life force, beyond the beyond and within the within.
Clarion Call
Clarion call: sharp and piercing
calling all:
wake up now.
Hear, here, right now.
Calling you, calling you, come.
You can’t ignore this sound
sounding in your bones, alerting cells
hear, here, now.
Impelling forward, pulling,
not to battle, but to awaken out
of the trance, to awaken
calling to being
calling clear
wake up to all we
really are.
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