Journey to Your Deepest Self
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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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The Ball Player

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Partly Cloudy

More rain on the way And I can’t feel anything but grateful for it Because of three years of drought Of being careful and not wasting Which of course meant no running through the sprinkler For the kids and no water balloon tosses Alex came home In the middle of the day And we sat together knee to knee Leaning in And came to understand some things And those were things such as There are no guarantees and security is an illusion Such as fear just wants to be held Such as we are vulnerable and we are strong Such as the desire for freedom Is a wild horse being broken By men with ropes and whips And that I’m here for the horse Across the street DeanDean the dancing machine Is looking at the sky Rocking on his heels Opening a can of beer I don’t know what he thinks But he asked Alex if he could take the boys golfing some time Since they don’t go to school As if schoolessness equals empty space As if I don’t even exist Maybe I don’t I want to be at the beach today Staring out into the gray vagueness of the sea Letting the sand trickle through my fingers Remembering another place Of browner skinned people Fortunate encounters that lead to All-night conversations full of raptness and accord With music in the background But I’m afraid there would be war I wonder if Earth Will collapse in on herself After we’ve bled dry all her channels And then when I hear Ian Crashing around in the kitchen I wonder what to make for dinner He asks if we’re in the phone book And I don’t even know When I was very young I thought you could call information And ask them any question And they would have the answer Yes, he says we’re in the phone book Oh good That’s proof of something isn’t...

Blue Yes

As I look into the blue yes Of the face of my son He is talking Words like flight, like running and jumping in – Cannonball splash I feel myself depart, searching With swelling desperation The desperation Searching for a way to convey I love you Without guilt Without it being a burden But I am lost Because the desperation will be in it And the guilt I am mute How to convey The feeling that stirs Of being touched by brightness By the essence of light And his smell of clean grass His voice reaches my ears And my heart of hearts Like gentle, pulsing bee song. I can sense him wonder: Where are we? For him The denial begins To seep in The judgments already forming Mom? Inside, The inner voice: Please, don’t ask me I have nothing to offer but Poisoned love Tainted with guilt and guilt And self-hate I have nothing to teach you That I’d want to teach. But teach I do I know He looks to me, A question in his throat, Mom? And in this moment of deep loss A mother’s loss This moment of unreachable-ness Falling away I am reached Her presence surrounds me from below Sweeping me up in her arms I feel her knowing me Understanding and Loving me Completely No questions Only grace Held in the arms of The Mother and her Loving Spirit I find that I am Alright All Right I breathe her in Soak her in I have re-membered My self My wholeness Looking into the blue yes Of the face of my son With new eyes I have taught him a dance Without any telling The dance of losing faith and Finding faith Of being separate from Love And becoming Love Looking into the blue yes Of the face of my...
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