I'm posting this on my birthday, which feels fitting, as it is always a day for reflection and gratitude.  I offer words and many images to share the richness of my life. Remember to click on each image in the picture galleries for the full view and caption.


I’m sitting on a gold mine—or a gold mine is sitting in me—or if I speak through a bigger understanding, I myself am a gold mine. I hold/it holds veins of gold-kissed creative energy, ready to be excavated, ready to emerge. The gift of potency, ever-ready potential, the gift of rich moments, rich insights, shared energy, powerful words, the gift of haunting images that hold a feeling--a vibration--that cannot be literally translated, but like light language can be felt and experienced.


Some of these golden gifts that are filling me, outside and inside: the changing, vibrant light, sunsets with blue, gold, orange and pink, sometimes deepening to pulsing red; the shadows, slits of morning sun coming through the blinds, projected on the blue-green wall. The radiant aqua of the wide pool, its winking sparkly surface reflecting the deeper aqua and coral colors of the nearby buildings.  Looking up from the water to the birds circling or passing high overhead: hawks, egrets, cranes.

The gift of swooping palm fronds moving gently in the breeze. The gifts of hibiscus flowers in their many forms in my yard: the tall sea hibiscus, an exuberant tree with yellow blooms turning to red in a single afternoon; the cranberry hibiscus, with its fuschia blooms receding into the tart dark purple leaves that so enliven salads; the hedge-like bushes, their coral flowers with long pistils reaching out so far, asking to be pollinated; the prolific but delicate tropical variety of hibiscus punctuated by startling carmine red blossoms.

These things surround me, and so much more: an abundance of new-to-me trees gifting me with their nurture, new tastes, like the hoja santa, its root-beer flavor leaves growing huge and its runners creeping underground, popping up unexpectedly far away; the easy-growing chaya, its leaves cooked with peanut butter and onions, protein abounding. Katuk, curry leaf, pepper leaf, moringa, papaya, pigeon pea—a legume tree, its lovely flowers promising pods of beans.  They all offer themselves, proliferate. “Just thank us,” they say, “only appreciate, and we will give and give. We are the vibration of giving, abundance, life feeding other life, and we are yours if you honor and tend us.” It is indeed life feeding life, just as the opossum carcass on the road is feeding the turkey vultures, as the palm nuts feed the tree rats, the insects feed the frogs.


My gold is the creative energy coming forth in so many ways, sprouting out in different directions, tumbling over itself and its varied forms. Taking the camera to zero in on the infinite variety of what I see: jaunty starfruit slices fitting together like dancing cartoon characters, silhouetted tree skeletons against the sky, the surprising color range of seaweed and fish scales, curtains of Spanish moss, a starfish temporarily captured in a net just a few feet out in Lemon Bay, the long beaks and feet of wood storks, mangrove shoots, an old couple walking together down the beach.

I feel this creative energy as I look back at photos taken in my autumn travels, sensing their moods and their layered stories: spools in a defunct textile mill; packing up after Day of the Dead celebrations in Oaxaca; chicken feet in the market; petroglyphs; ladders and shadows. And I feel it as I play with images taken in museums--as I zero in and infuse their parts with light.

Creative energy explodes as I generate ideas for my writing workshops—as I come up with different kinds of prompts that lead to a panoply of possibility: Handing each participant a bison tooth that had been excavated by the Missouri River, of unknown age but maybe very very old, and asking them to take it in—to feel the bony layers, the wear patterns, the echoes of the long-ago grasslands and hundreds of hooves kicking up dust. Finding evocative images to stimulate moods and stories: a running lion, seen through the mist, or a shot of well-balanced cairns (stacks of rocks) in an unknown landscape, or a painting of a deep red forest . Reading “Fluency,” a poem about a river surprised by its own unfolding, out loud.

The creative energy is always there  as I play with my art materials—printed images, papers, bones, shells-- and see them come together in two and three dimensions; it comes as I see the works-in progress spread out around me, each waiting to be completed. I feel joy with the ones that feel finished, but even when the pieces aren’t resolved, they are the gold mine, the veins of gold, ready, waiting to be discovered and fully seen.

For Lenore Tawney, “Mirror of the Universe”
 
There’s a thread between us
made, no doubt, of linen,
with long fibers and waxy sheen.
Not quite straight, like yours, or solitary;
this thread meanders, and twists around others.
 
Thank you for the transmission,
the black bird flying high above the canyon,
riding updrafts and seeing far.
Thank you for the open space,
the drawers filled with feathers,
bleached bones, and tiny sweet shells.
 
I learned the thread language, once you had named the grammar,
and followed the path you first set out.
We touched just once, in an overheated room,
mingling tears and sorrows,
but you were always there
flying through the crow-world,
and beckoning.
 
The thread loops around now,
calling out the lineage
and coming to rest, deeply bowing
to those open spaces, recognizing
our connection, and
deeply grounded love.
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The second poem came from a shamanic journey I did where I called in the spirit of my mother. I describe the way she was at the end of her life, and the way she appeared in this non-linear experience.  I hope the words convey the majesty and power of the experience.
 

 Seeing True

Small, and in soft focus
eyes enormous behind the thick glasses
of the legally blind.
So tired.
Dwarfed in the white sheets of the big bed,
my mother, weighted down,
feeling useless, defeated,
and far too old.
 
Today I found her, well past all that.
Looking intently at me, she opened her body suit,
parted it right down the middle,
a superman gesture, but slowly,
with deliberate grace.
She stepped out to her full size, her full self
and I took it in--
so tall, smiling, resonant,
oh, the bright glory of her.
 
“I see you,” she said,
meaning me, in my own light body
far beyond the human life
she once thought she knew.

“I see you,” I said,
meaning this magnificent one,
infinitely large and beautiful.
 
There we were, beholding,
seeing true
the full awesomeness of it all.

Some images to offer today, after the long hiatus since my last post in September. I was traveling for about a month in the southwestern U.S. and in Mexico, and there was much to take in and experience--hence, less time for creative outpouring.  I think of this site to as a place to share my creative self, not as a place to offer reports of what I've been doing on (hence my longing for a title better than "blog"...), and thus I have been silent. I've also had so many disparate experiences that I am processing many rich bits and pieces rather than a coherent whole. But I am feeling the pull to put forth some of those pieces, and reach out to at least touch you with the light they swim in.

I am thus sharing the eye candy of travelogue-type pictures. I know people do appreciate these, and that they are easy to take in. The photos are more  impressionistic than documentary, but they still convey a sense of some of what I was experiencing.The images have descriptive captions, so click on them if you want to see them full size and clearly identified.

Also, look for an additional post with totally unrelated content, also coming from my heart.

It's just a month since I posted here and I feel the urge to communicate. I've been busy with workshops and a wonderful creative outflow, so much that it's hard to settle on one thing to share. I've been spending a good deal of time organizing my materials (i.e., my crazy collections of pods, bones, etc.), updating records, and going through my older art pieces. All of this gives me a rich sense of how the art is evolving and what is coming through, and I expect I will describe that more in upcoming posts. Since I've been handling so many bones lately, what I want to impart today is some of the energy that I feel with them.  I am thus focusing on some of the recent pieces that incorporate bones. Note that the photos are working shots--not final documentary images--and in some cases they show not-quite-finished pieces. The urge to share some of what I'm playing with overrides the desire to wait for better images.
PLEASE-- if you have any kind of reaction to this work (how do they --or any one particular piece--make you feel? what do they make you think of? etc.), please do share with me. I am hungry for that kind of feedback about what the work brings to others.

TOUCHING SHARPNESS.  11" x 14" Dimensional collage, incorporating fish bone spines. (This piece can also be viewed upside down.)

AUTUMN MIGRATION.  12" square. Dimensional collage: Fish tails, fish bones, paint.   A friend looked at this and (without prompting about what I named it or thought about it) said it made her think of standing in the prairie grasses at just this time of year.

BIRD LEADING THE WAY. (2 versions). 8" square. Dimensional collage: Fish bones, snake bones, bobcat bones, mica, paint. 

THE HAUGHTY QUEEN. 12” high, 10” wide. Assemblage: Handmade paper, fish bones, tree fungus, fish scales, paper-covered stone (the last three materials are not visible on this side of the piece).

(click on the images for a full view.)
Left: THE ASPIRANT. 15" high. Assemblage: Fish bones and handmade paper are visible here. Since the photo was taken, kelp "arms" have been added.
Right: PATTERNING. 20" high. Assemblage: Deer (?) vertebrae, handmade paper, cotton thread.

CHURCH CHOIR. 5" high. Assemblage: deer bones covered with red-dyed gut; rose petal beads. In the final version of this piece, the figures are mounted on a tree fungus.

ANGEL CHORUS. 6" high, 12" wide. Assemblage: Tree cross section, deer (?) vertebrae, clay beads, snail shells. (Can't wait for a better photo of this one!)

FEELING THE COSMOS. 4" x 6"  Dimensional collage: Handmade paper, snake bones, fish bone, shell.

These are images of PRAISE SONG, the installation of nature-based art I created for the Earth Dance exhibit at the Farley Center (for Peace, Justice and Sustainability) in Verona, Wisconsin. It's installed in the Nature Path Sanctuary, a natural burial ground located in the woods. You can get some sense of scale from the photo of my grandson and I cavorting as we put it up.

This piece brings together different aspects of my connection with the natural world. The prayer sticks that send their songs (gratitudes) up to the spirit realm are made from cup plant stems, collected in previous seasons from nearby prairies. Their hollow stems are square and woody, and have long caught my imagination. They are wrapped in sheep’s wool that I spun into (rather uneven) yarn over 40 years ago, and dyed with natural materials such as bloodroot, goldenrod, calendula, parsley, thyme, iron, and fermented indigo. It is a pleasure to let these old dyeing experiments come see the light of day, and in such a praise-worthy setting.  I peeled the bark that contains the sticks from a just-cut tree, and as it dried, it curled itself into a heart shape. The purple stones are Baraboo quartzite, gathered one by one and treasured as reminders of our beautiful nearby hills.
 
The praises or prayers are held in the heart, and in the skin of the tree. The different colors, which come from different elements of the earth, call and bow to all forms of life.
 
 PRAISE SONG and the other installations that are part of Earth Dance will be on view until November, 2019.

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Another kind of praise song came through recently on a magical morning walk on the prairie. The cup plant thread shows up in this poem (only one of many!) that I wrote that day. You'll certainly note some repeating themes...

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Other types of praise songs have come through in  other guises--in photo adventures, in work created by participants in some of my workshops, and in my own studio work.  I recently taught at the Shake Rag Alley Center for the Arts, a really delightful place that seems out of another time (many of the buildings actually are) in Mineral Point. The gallery below includes images of some of creations that happened in my workshops, and photos (sometimes "enlightened") that I took in town. Remember that images will enlarge and captions will show up if you click on the image.

I recently screened the video I made to accompany my "Reconfigured" art exhibition in 2013, and even though it's six years old and I could add many more stories, it's still a wonderful exploration of my process (and love affair) of working with natural materials. It's available on YouTube and I was inspired to post the link here. It's just under half an hour long. Do tell me what you think.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2R4aw5Y4AI

Summer has been very full and I am pulled in many directions regarding what to write about here. This will be a bit of a hodgepodge, an olio (that's a favorite crossword puzzle word--a miscellaneous collection), so I can share some of what's on my mind.  

I've felt frustrated that I haven't found a great deal of time or energy for studio work of late, but it's clear that this is a period of gestation (more about that below) and some kind of as-yet-unclear transition. It's important to say, too, that I realize my art really is made up of all of it--sharings on this blog, the workshops I develop, my photography, my writing, my hospice work, etc. It's all part of my creative expression, all of a piece, and the energy moves from one to another.

I am feeling quite charged up about some of my upcoming workshops.  The theme of the SoulCollage experience I am facilitating next week, for example, is "Finding Home." The intention is that we explore our inner-most sense of home. I hadn't realized it when the theme came to me, but it echoes my post of 1/2/19 when I wrote about the "Centering Home" song by my friend Molly Scott, and the idea of always coming back to the path and following it home to the center. I'm also beginning to be excited about the Nature Spirits workshop I am teaching at Shake Rag Alley Center for the Arts (Mineral Point, Wis.) in August. Participants will make their own embodied totemic figures with natural materials. Yesterday, in beginning to prepare the workshop, I had new ideas about construction techniques for my own figural sculpture. Definitely itching to experiment...

All the details haven't quite coalesced or come into focus yet, but I am also planning an art event this fall that will hopefully be an offering both to the community and to myself, since I know I will learn a great deal from it. On September 15, I will share a selection of my art pieces and after demonstrating the way they can channel deep-seated messages (see last blog post), I will invite others to "listen" and speak from them too.  We may effectively create a kind of community oracle. The event will also involve a give-away and love-offering exchanges of some of the pieces that are ready for new homes; if someone feels called to one of them, that will be really perfect.

That whole weekend will be an art adventure. September 15 is a Sunday, but on Saturday, September 14, I will be one of the artists featured at the Earth Dance environmental art installation at the Farley Center [for Peace, Justice and Sustainability, Verona, Wis.]. Artists have been invited to find a site in the Nature Path Sanctuary (a natural burial ground, mostly in the woods), and using land-based, degradable materials, to create a piece that will be out there for several months. There is a reception/ tour on the 14th, featuring a walkabout through the woods. As the group walks up to each artwork, the artist talks about it. I've participated in three previous environmental art happenings in the sanctuary, and the walkabout has been consistently magical. For details, see farleycenter.org/earth-dance/

Since it's still a work in progress, I can't share anything yet about the piece I will contribute this year, but here are some images from "Hanging In," the one I created for the last Farley event in 2017. It was made with hog gut, mohair, raffia, mica rings, glass rings, and wooden twigs.

As indicated above, I've been sensing that I am in some sort of gestating phase right now--that there is something brewing. I am often feeling a little irritable, that not-here-nor-there quality. Some of the things that felt completely comfortable or home-like to me before seem much more bland or unsatisfying now. I'm impatient. I don't really like the restlessness, but I certainly understand that it's a natural phase we go through, perhaps even a necessary phase. The chrysalis time can't be easy. The typical image for the transformation or chyrsalis phase is the way the caterpillar becomes a butterfly, of course, but I've been much more focused on dragonflies, or more accurately, damselflies.  They are an integral part of my kayak time on the lake, and I've just so often marveled at that incredibly light touch as they land on my skin. Here's a musing about that:

      
                              The Light Damsel
 
The damselfly touches down, lands for a moment, and
I feel lightness, the whisper of wind and delicate form
 
Gossamer creatures, flying over the marsh,
hooking up and darting away, about-facing in the air, or
placing their tiny feet on my arm, the kayak lip, or the moving paddle.

Whatever they feel, in their elongated bodies,
they seem the epitome of living light
flitting off, air elementals, sky people.

Not always. The story starts before. 
Most of their lives they have no wings,
do not soar, sky dive and play with breezes.
No traversing the sky,
no wings.
Named nymphs, but not shimmery fairy folk
they move in density, weighted with water, crawling, breathing
through gills, slower, deliberate
and molting, they molt, over and over, maybe for years,
then crawl to land where
slowly, they change.
 
The gossamer grows, the sheath slips off, and yes yes--
two pairs of wings emerge, open,
and wait to dry.
Ready to rise, shimmer, take to the air,
zoom across the pond, four shimmering wings,
embodying light.

That lightness on my skin
hard-won, well-earned, finally,
rising to the sun, gleaming,
the light of freedom, the freedom of lightness,
the light damsel
that carries me away.
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Rising to the sun, lightness--that's part of this longing, the yearning, what I hope is part of what's gestating. Keep molting, but hold the image of the light above. I've written about light language before too, and I long for more understanding-- not just to "speak" that, but to understand what it says.
Here, more offerings about the  the light inside everything, infusing everything, the beauty, and the longing; and the sense of reaching up, rising to the sun, seeking light. Some of this has to be visual, to see and feel the inner light. I offer some of my [altered] photographs. (Click on the images for full views and captions--explanations of what they are.)

         And finally, one last poem, written in May:


   Light Language Inscription
 
Indelible mark of the light,
the language inscribed in indigo ink
deep into the chest,
etching it ineffably, its
curving codes and frequencies
here now, in the center,
as particles dance and gleam all round.
 
Yes, you are marked, bound
into the family
those who wear the sign
and know boundlessness
even within the chains.

As regular readers may know, my art process is intuitive and usually without a preconceived idea about what will emerge. I do not set about to make representations of particular things or ideas; rather, I start with materials (e.g. bones, bark or other detritus; intriguing papers or fabric; or compelling pre-printed images), and see what "wants" to go with what (to be combined into something new)--what wants to emerge. I typically have a general form in mind--I would know I am working on a figural sculpture, for example, or a mask, or a piece that is part of a series relating to boats and crossings--vessels that take us from one place to another. Any given piece reveals itself in the process, however, and I m always having to I discover what feels right and where and how it should go.

Since the process is fluid, I am often unsure what the piece may be "about" until it is finished.  I have learned from the SoulCollage(R) process to let it speak to me --I ask it to tell me about itself, in its own voice. (In SoulCollage, we ask the finished collage to speak in the first person, to tell it who and what it is and what it wants us to know.) In the last five years or so I have begun to use this kind of inquiry with almost everything I make. It's a form of channeling.

The messages that emerge often repeat over and over, with persistent themes. They reflect back to me what I am dealing with or picking up on--sometimes my own issues, but even more what is going on in the broader energetic field in which we live. Last year I chronicled the way my own SoulCollage cards were tracking the return of the divine feminine. I had started making images about patriarchy and how it was oppressing both women and men, but realized that over time, the images showed that the divine feminine was getting stronger, even edging into a kind of gender-blending. (Now I am seeing this in the culture at large, with the whole non-binary gender phenomenon seeming to intensify by the day).  I documented much of this progression in my blog post of October 10, 2018, so please scroll down through the archives to review that if you are interested.

The same process seems to happen with all the things I make, whether it's two dimensional collage or three dimensional assemblage, or poetry, and it even extends to this blog itself, for my posts follow what feels like it "wants" to be shared at any given time.  It's fascinating to see how this all plays out.

I'll share a few examples today, and (especially if I get any positive feedback) will continue with some different themes in future posts. 

One of the themes that has been showing up for years now is the idea that there are emerging energetic changes that are changing our reality--even beyond the shifting balance away from patriarchy, we are moving into a very different consciousness.  Many of the images come forward with witnessing figures, who watch the changes; other figures serve as guardians who hold the space. Related images show something emerging, or new energies rising up. This kind of imagery may have first appeared in collage form, but it comes through in three dimensional guardians as well. I'll start with some of the collages (this is just a sampling--it's hard to know where to stop!) and share what they "said" about themselves. To get the message and the full photo, click on the image and look at the caption.

Poems that express this same idea have come through too, and again, it wasn't until after the fact that I realized how aligned these are with the images and their messages. (Remember, these appear over a many-year period). Two recent examples:

       The Waiting Ones
They watch closely, these figures,
at the ready, alert,
waiting for the signal, the gate to lower
and the knowing to rush in.
They are your familiars
attuned to the future
and the moment of release.
 
 
          Witnesses
They stand here, still,
awake and waiting.
They know what’s going on.
Holding presence, holding space,
solidifying energy and making it visible,
amplifiers, directing the sound
lining up the structures and
singing silently to the rising notes
of love.
 

Here are some examples of the guardians and witnesses that have emerged
in the three dimensional work.

I do hope readers will share their impressions and responses to this post--to individual pieces and to the whole concept of channeling the energetic field through this kind of art. It seems fairly unique. How does it make you feel? What elements matter most?Where else can I share this body of work (who is supposed to receive it)? What questions do you have? Please let me know. Thank you!

Here's the scene: morning on the lanai, still cool, birds and breezes. Even the hanging Spanish moss sways gently, and wide-awake ginger leaves reach upward, so green. Lula, the little avocado tree I am helping to come back from the brink, is bravely putting out new leaves to catch the early sun. The ceiling fan is spinning gently overhead (this one silent, unlike the creaky one in the next room), adding to the sense of aliveness.
 
Birds sing out raucously at dawn and settle down later as the day moves on, but I see now how this is so for the plants as well; an alertness, loud presence, which will soften into absorption or even forbearance as the heat rises. Looking too at an anole—a small lizard—perched on the woody stem of the ti plant, its red-throated mating movement (it's a dewlap that protrudes in and out) announcing territory and readiness. Silent, to me, but speaking its own language at full volume. These are brown anoles that come in many color variations, and can apparently change their color to some degree. They are often spotted. They rush up  tree trunks quickly, like squirrels, and as squirrels leap across branches, these little ones leap from leaf to leaf. They are part of the everyday scenery here, and the everyday drama. I found two locked together in my outdoor shower, so poignant, and yesterday I opened the mailbox to find not letters, but an anole with a truncated tail, resting. I’ve watched an egret grab one and run on its long legs, lizard tail dangling from its mouth.  (Anoles can separate from their tails as a form of protection, and it's a strange sensation to pick one up that way and almost instantaneously be left with a disconnected tail  in one's fingers.) I see one climbing the screen, legs akimbo, underbelly open to view.

So much more: the legions of spiders, especially visible on the horizontal webs they spin among the spikes of the snake plants—sometimes even in vertical layers, creating a kind of apartment building—or smaller ones on the dewy morning grass. So much feeding going on, a reminder of how much insect life there actually must be here, largely unseen. Or in my studio, a separate building out back that seems to have its own ecology, the tiny creatures—pinprick small—that speed over surfaces astonishingly fast, like the whirling legs of the plovers and sandpipers on the sand that pump faster than our eyes can track. Glad to share the environment with all of them, though admittedly I’ve been furious at the rabbits that have chewed my baby plants down to the ground, leaving little moringa trees nothing but stems, or stripping the tart leaves off the cranberry hibiscus, even the new ones planted as replacements for what had been ravaged. Chasing the rabbits off is pointless, and I've tried sprays and spikes to little effect.  I’ve found myself rooting for a predator (maybe one of those owls I hear calling in the night?), although it’s clear I have to make friends and find ways to share. (But bunny, there’s so much else to eat besides my nurselings….) The rabbits don’t seem to come out in the early morning, though perhaps I just don’t see.
 
Not visible from where I sit now or at this time of day, there’s the slow turtle that suns itself by the canal. Going out to the driveway to get the morning paper, I see ducks paddling the pond or rooting in the drainage ditch—just females, leaving me to wonder about the males and the gender dynamics. Some days there's a night heron, an egret, or even a wood stork, looking for fish, or a group of ibis pecking the ground with those long rosy orange beaks, their heads perpetually bent down. I am intrigued by the black ibis I see sometimes, but they have never come here. Do ibis have separate trees to roost in at night? I haven’t spotted them among the crowds at the nearby rookery, where herons, egrets and anhinga tussle for space, or at the pelican or spoonbill rookeries down the bay. Ibis do flock at evening, though; I used to watch a man feed them nightly at a pocket lake near a house I was staying in, and I followed the white waves of birds flying in. The sight was somehow always reassuring.
 
I’ve wandered  in my musings from morning to night, it seems. Evening and night leave strong impressions too. Just days ago on the beach there was the huge full moon rising behind the dunes, across from the setting sun, as well as heat lightning firing up a huge cloud bank somewhere down the coast. I love the way people wave goodbye to the sun as it disappears into the water (those not stationed behind their phone cameras, anyway), though the best show is often afterwards, in the lingering pink/orange light. Nighttime, right out here behind the house, is sometimes punctuated by bursts of frog songs and call-and-response hoot owls, or occasionally the scream of some unknown animal trying not to be prey.

It’s still morning now, and I have somewhere to be, so it’s time to move on from this perch among the flowered cushions. Good to write it down, pulling the reverie even more into solidity, however fleeting. Thanks for sharing it with me.

 (LATER-- FURTHER OFFERINGS.
I feel rich with the many wonderful things I come to know here every day--even though it's been years now, I am still delighting in the great sense of discovery about what grows, or about the sights and sounds around me in this Gulf coast environment.  I'm so filled with it right now that can't seem to stop the sharing. Thus, in addition to this mornings' musings, I offer more photos that (hopefully) capture some of my delights. Check out the captions and the full views in the gallery below)  (click on the image itself and it will open larger, with the caption), for I do explain what you're looking at. And look for surprises!

Sea hibiscus flower in its red stage (these start out yellow when they first come out!)

I've been traveling and quite busy of late, so it's been quite some time since I have shared here. Settling in quietly now I've been wondering which way to go--post more about some recent artwork, about the tropical garden discoveries, or so much more that's bubbling around me. But today what is rising to the surface is poetry, the words that capture the heightened state (previously, I've called it saturation) where everything seems extra charged. I always like to include illustrations too, so I offer a few here, to add to the richness and sense of fullness.

First, the joy of landing in that heightened state, just by infusing a dry leaf with color:

Next, some recent poems:


1. COMMUNION
 
The salt taste of the sea--
surprising intensity--
and my body holds it also,
that salinity, pulsing
through with each heartbeat.
 
And speaking of heart,
I dug out the palm stump
for the pale food within
whose name--“heart of palm”--
rings like a prayer.
 
Cook with ginger for this communion.
Add salt to flavor
Tasting sea, and tree
Touching into the holy being
we are part of.



2. ENTRAINMENT 
 
The surf, tumbling over itself
like tumbleweed
The sea foam, leaping quickly
across the sand
The wind, setting this in motion.
It is thrilling
the water jumping
the ions bouncing
my bones drumming
this insistent pulse.
 


3.  TO BE KNOWN                
 
Oh the beauty of red leaves on green moss
of day-glow orange leaves on granite rock,
wet with rain, of daffodils waving on their stalks
and sunflower fields reaching the horizon, their
golden yellow rings framing brown and
claiming eternity

Your one and precious life isn’t yours you know,
its astonishing is-ness always a taste of
the enormous, fabulous whole,
yes, a fable, a tale of such bigness,
color contrast, to call you alive, to call
every telomere to quiver in
recognition, in resonance, these purple
sunsets, the red spots on blackbird wings,
the opalescence of oysters, abalone, sheets
of mica among brown leaf litter, creamy white blossoms
punctuating dark green magnolias,
scenting the south. Small blue bird eggs, delicate,
and blue forget-me-nots, each little petal
a symphony of shades. Jacaranda blooms, and
poinciana shower trees, red and golden, the glory
glory of emergence and oh yes it is presence, to be
known and to cause trembling, of recognition
and receiving, of this boundless love.