waiting for miracles.

inspired by the writings of Charles DeLint

I’m waiting for who I was
to catch up to who I’ll be,
and waiting for miracles
to arise from the liminal streets.

I’m waiting for miracles
to arise from the liminal streets,
and waiting for remembrance
to illuminate the spirit within me.

I’m waiting for remembrance
to illuminate the spirit within me,
and waiting for absurd good news
to remind how magical the world can be.

I’m waiting for absurd good news
to remind how magical the world can be,
and waiting for who I was
to catch up to who I’ll be.

I’m waiting for miracles
to arise from the liminal streets,
and beginning again to think

that the creation of miracles
is actually up to me.

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intention.

more lush

give me more

candle light curling tea steam

on rainy evenings

more depth

breathing liminal light shadows

where the dawn beckons

more vibrancy

green growing dying colorful things

in the sweet daylight

more spirit

laughing crying dancing incense moon

at sacred midnight

give me more

more

pause

more

center

more

creation

more

more

more

lush

in the

chaos

of

this one spiraling

fractal

beautiful terrible

life.


raven fly over the mountains.

This week, a friend let me borrow his ukulele. A song, based on a poem I wrote, has been drifting along in my head and I decided to attempt to put it to chords and a melody. The following video is my unedited, unpracticed rough draft of the song, flaws and all. I’m looking forward to playing with it more and polishing it up.

I’ve been wanting to learn how to play an instrument for many years, but insecurity always got in the way. This past year, I’ve learned so much about myself that I’m no longer willing to let insecurity stop me from doing the things my soul longs to do; finally picking up an instrument and writing songs is something that I’ve longed to do and never allowed myself.

That changes this year.

gratitude on a misty February morning.

I am grateful
for the cold February morning
that wakes me too early,
because the quickening light asks
for my breath and presence.

I am grateful
for the inhalation of the
gifts of the directions:
I call into myself
inspiration, creative action,
courage and determination,
grounding, community,
and connection,
guidance and nurturing.

I am grateful
for the exhalation of that
which I desire to let go of:
anxiety, fear, laziness, loneliness,
isolation.

I am grateful
for possibility.
For the vast choices
before me.
For the ability
to surrender to
the choice that will lead me
to my highest purpose.

I am grateful
for the flux and flow
of my breath.
For the
Ong Namo Guru Dev Namo
centering and calming
me, yet also
inciting peaceful action.

I am grateful
for the sun
dissipating
the mist outside.

It is calling to me.


re-Connection.

We Remember ourselves
through our connections,

like these windswept dunes in sunlight
joyful crashing waves
dripping rainbow moss sunset

and these people
made of dreams
stitched together with hope
illuminated by surrender.

I Remember myself
where boundaries dissolve.

Soak me in tenderness.
Dance me with love.
Together, we Remember ourselves.

shadow work.

The universe always guides us back to embracing the totality of ourselves. We attract whomever and whatever we need to mirror back the aspects of ourselves that we’ve forgotten.

Debbie Ford, The Dark Side of the Light Chasers

Maybe there is parts of myself I’ve forgotten,

left like breadcrumbs as I venture into the forests of life —

it’s a wilderness in jeopardy, I don’t know we’ll survive,

and I’m terrified

that nothing I do will ever make a difference, and I just

want my daughter to live, and I want to feel fully alive,

and remember what it’s like to be whole — 

to embody ever shadow and light of my soul; 

regardless of the state of the world, that’s my goal.

I’m hoping maybe in that state of remembrance,

I can make a difference

for the land, for the people, for my daughter,

and I know it starts with me, her mother …

I’m a mirror of the world, I am The Mother. 

The world’s healing starts with my healing,

and my healing starts with the land beneath my feet,

and learning again to sit with my feelings, 

to create poetry from what my heart is thinking,

to love my darkness without judgment like a child,

like my child, named for the moon,

who flows with her own spirit like a dancer flows with a tune.

i am a vineyard.


“And in the autumn, when you gather grapes from your vineyard for the winepress, say in your heart,

‘I too am a vineyard, and my grapes shall be gathered for the winepress,

and like new wine my soul shall be kept in eternal vessels.’

And in the winter, when you draw the wine, have in your heart a song for each cup,

and in that song let there be a remembrance for the autumn days, and for the vineyard, and for the winepress.”

Kahlil Gibran, ‘On Eating and Drinking,’ The Prophet

I often don’t feel as though I have anything of interest to anybody else to say. Certainly I have many thoughts, both deep and shallow, thoughtful and focused, hurried and half-formed; I have many feelings, that span from dark and shadowy to light and inspiring. When it comes to writing down such thoughts and feelings, however, I’ve felt recently like I’m a bit in a dry spell; not too long ago, poetry seems to pour from my fingers like honey. Now I drink in poetry from other sources — from Kahlil Gibran, Nayyirah Waheed, Rumi, Mary Oliver . . . 

When my heart and my hands can’t seem to work together to produce its own poetry, I steep myself in poets. I let their metaphors sink into me, become part of my breath and sight, taste the wine of the Beloved on my lips. 

“Surely the fruit cannot say to the root, ‘Be like me, ripe and full and ever giving of your abundance.’
For to the fruit giving is a need, as receiving is a need to the root.”

Kahlil Gibran, ‘On Good and Evil,’ The Prophet

I’m a believer in the cyclical nature of life, in the fact that nothing can ever grow and grow and grow without ever resting; even the most invasive and determined plants have a time of year that they go dormant. There is no difference when it comes to our creative and spiritual lives. 

There are times when we seem to be unrelenting, generous vessels of creativity and light, like the grapes in the autumn. And there are times when we are the root, sucking at the nourishment of the compost the fallen fruit has become, drinking the wine that the grapes were pressed and fermented into. 

There are times when we cannot help but give nourishment to the world.

And there are times when we must receive nourishment.

It is a pity that we’re taught by our Western culture — especially those who are woman-identified or woman-passing — that receiving is shameful. In a linear, capitalistic, ever-growing society, there has been little respect for our innate, natural cyclical inner lives. 

But I see that changing. 

More and more people are seeing, understanding, and integrating the importance of self-care. Of pause. Of balance in this world of extremes.

And though I am at a time in my life when I am the root, not the fruit, and I am aware of the conditioned shame of that curdling in my stomach in my lowest moments — I am so grateful to be reminded all the time that it’s OK to rest. To draw inward. To know that change and transformation are happening deep in the shadowy realms of my psyche, of my inner world — even if the change isn’t apparent outwardly. And I am so grateful that in knowing that, I can be compassionate not only with myself but with others who are also in the fallow seasons of their lives.

Darlings, spring shall come again.

I’ll never not forget. I’ll never not remember.

Screenshot 2018-10-23 at 8.07.21 PM

I forgot.

Who.

I was.

 

Forgot

the wind

even as it was

lifting my hair.

 

Forgot

the scent of

soil

even as it coated

the soles of my feet.

 

Forgot

the taste

of gratitude

even as

I bathed

in my

blessings.

 

Forgot

the ecstasy

of giving

even as

I went

through the motions.

 

I forgot.

 

But now

I remember.

 

I will forget again.

 

But I vow

to always.

Every crust of dawn

and every wholesome dusk.

Remember.