Journey to Your Deepest Self

Approaching

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What There Isn’t and What There Is

There is no deep forest to explore No high desert chalky sunset colors purple and peach No great expanse of lawn dotted with morning deer grazing No gardener’s palette and beyond a creek or the staying summer sea There is only a yard surrounded by a decrepit fence creaking in the night breeze a hole dug for a pond full of weeds a few tomatoes But the winter compost is rich, black and hot and steams through the frosty day And the children still come here to...

Just For A Moment

Just for a moment Or an afternoon I’d like to be ten again To be sitting in My grandmother’s kitchen Feeling uneasy With the immense serenity Of her place Hearing her tell me I’m a good girl I’m good I’m beautiful I’d believe her If I could I wouldn’t think She’s just saying that Because she’s my grandmother And she’s afraid for me I’d let it come in All the way to my bones Like the rich smells Of espresso and biscotti Like the comforting weight of...

I Don’t Know What To Call You

I am the shadowy figure in dreams of people who have seen me drive by or spoken to me in the grocery store and I seem to say something quite directly to someone and it just slips right past their awake mind and into their dreaming mind unnoticed, undetected or ignored, maybe unwanted. And I wonder if I’m alive and I can almost feel a hint of fear and sadness that I am not more fully here but it seems as though Life is guiding me to know myself and to reach toward the one who is Dreamer and the Dreamer is dreamed. It’s nearly unbearable this ghostly existence. This un-moored drifting from storm to calm to storm. Nothing makes a difference anymore but I long for things to matter. I long to feel their weight. And because I feel so achingly light I am shocked when I glimpse my body in the mirror and see weight. So much flesh containing such vast emptiness. The part of me that wants to be caught up in the fisherman’s net and singled out and weighed and sold and bought and set free and swimming and killed. To matter. To get caught up.There’s very little I want to do anymore. It’s a comfort that someone who looks like me shows up in the dreams of others so often. Maybe that’s is my real life. Entering the tear stream of Life, I am like the visitor arising from the shaman’s fire but not the shaman herself. And I don’t impart truth to the shaman but she makes something truthful of me. This is trust. This is Love. And the death of self is only on the outside. What can I give to the part of me who is fighting? The secret dreamer slumbering inside is stirring and will know herself to be the...

The Art Teacher

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