I felt its presence envelop me slowly, entering through pores seeping into thoughts and dreams churning in my belly thumping in my sternum. In the before, I would move away, side-step, run, dance around the edges, feign indifference, anything not to risk feeling devoured by absence. Neither time nor escape nor transformation have quieted the call for a holy surrender. There are too many echoes in the chambers of my mind, too many losses in my life, too much love in my heart, to contemplate, or grieve, or love, alone. Speak to me, please, in your mother tongue so I may know the pleasure of the sound of another, of the sound of you. Engage me, seduce me, with words and tones. Describe other worlds and ways existing alongside this one. Then, show me with your body a new dance of reciprocity.
Tag: PDX
In the garden
In the garden,
I sow seeds,
seeds of hope and beauty.
In the garden,
I grow food and medicine.
In the garden,
my presence is love.
In the garden,
I am embodied, strong and lithe.
In the garden,
the noise of society fades to music of winged creatures.
In the garden,
confusion clears and suffering subsides.
In the garden,
I am being.
In the garden,
I am breathing.
In the garden,
I belong.
Here, I am flow.
I am capable.
I am whole and purposeful.
In the garden,
I am a sun-kissed,
rain-drenched,
muddy-footed,
goddess of life and death.
Untitled
When I think I may succumb to loneliness,
art saves me, every time,
as does walking to riverside.
Wildlife draws near,
stirring up some kind of magic,
reminding me I am of this earth.
I am rabbit in the meadow at dawn, vanishing elusive.
I am doe at forest’s edge locked in gaze, awareness pure.
I am crow sharpening black beak on river rock.
I am coyote bewildered on noonday city block.
I am midlife she, crouched, one hand upon knee,
one hand in a sacred gesture, relaxed and ready.
In the dream-time season,
the spiral of descent pulls me inward,
a deep breath,
a pulsing path of shadow and light.
I encounter you there in surprise.
Tell me,
are we ourselves?
or, are we reflections of each other?
A Journal Entry
Exploring my edges–the nature and purpose of my boundaries, my sexuality, my creativity…I may have been long familiar with the idea of how human sexuality and creativity are inextricably connected, however, I am learning about this connection in a deeper and more personal way. I am listening to circulating questions, ideas and messaging. I am learning about what it could mean to liberate my love–to liberate the ways that I give and receive love, as well as how I cultivate and express it. And to be clear, while how I choose to share my body with other people is one aspect of my sexuality, it is not the only aspect and I am getting at something much deeper and different than what some may label as a practice of free-love or casual sex. Longing, desire, attraction and pleasure are my teachers. I am becoming conscious of the direct link between my sexuality and my creative impulses, my sexuality and my inspiration, my sexuality and my ability to think in new ways, my ability to deconstruct the social conditioning of the dominant patriarchal, white supremacist, colonial, capitalist culture of war. I am seeing more clearly how the oppression and the repression of sexuality leads to a culture of fear, shame, mental illness and violence. It leads to a suppression of creativity and an emphasis on conformity. If I don’t know or believe in my power, if I am detached from the natural force of my unique sexuality, then I am easier to control and less likely to imagine possibilities, less likely to innovate. However, if, and when I connect to the power and the unique expression of my sexuality–to the energetic essence of boundless love and eros that flow through me–then I am more alive, more creative, more agile in imagination, more open to possibility, more likely to overcome and transcend everyday violence–I am more likely to live into my purpose.
August
August longing heats
the quiet terrain of solitary bodies.
August longing radiates
cells that ache with thirst,
parched, dry tinder.
Skin, not as tough as bark,
ignites under touch electric.
Stoked and stirred by hot fingers of wind
encircling,
caressing,
filling in,
drawing out.
We burn for days.
We burn for months.
We burn for years.
We are burning now.
Smoldering cores of coal.
Lover’s kisses quench the moment.
Earthy blackberry crushed on lips.
Salty blood-licked thorn-prick.
Callous hands meeting softness.
We smell of cottonwood resin,
of river rock,
sun-baked minerals.
We listen intently for the call
of water at twilight.
Entering slowly,
savoring coolness.
Our roots,
our hearts,
our crowns
emit steam, rising.
We immerse
one and two,
becoming one, then becoming three.
We are multiplicity.
We are transitory.
We are fluid,
playful dreamers frolicking like otters,
our eyes reflect the starry seas of our birth.
We are wounded
warriors seeking
the medicine of touch,
love healing,
willing community.
Community willing the will–
the will to resist,
to undo violent behavior inherited, learned,
the will to cultivate what does not yet exist.
Summer
I have loved you from the beginning,
like the hot eternal flame of creation that stirs in every life.
I held the memory of spring’s renewal,
of summer’s abundance
through the deaths of autumn
for you.
I kept you warm in winter’s veiled dormancy.
I blessed your sown seeds
with water, time, heat and light.
now I await,
I anticipate,
I watch for the opening of your blossoms
and the development of your fruits.
Seven Prayers, #6
May our words be medicine
for the journey
through desecration to resilience.
Seven Prayers, #5
May you shed the skin of your shame
as tears of praise for your persistence.
May you rise
from the shadowland fire-polished,
lion-hearted and lithe–
one hand raised to shield,
one hand open to give and to receive.
Perspective
Today I walked an old familiar path through woods I have known since young childhood. Only this time I began where I usually end, and I ended where I usually begin. Everything looked different, altered on the flipside. I came upon unmarked trails leading into mystery–had they been here before? I had lapses of disorientation. Where was I? Do I know this grove of cedars? …this seasonal pond? this patch of horsetail? this steep incline? this creek? I turned in a circle. The path lay quietly behind me and before me. I felt, more than thought, I know this forest, this compacted earth beneath my feet, this April sunlight illuminating trillium and salmonberry blossoms. I know the unseen presences surrounding. I am known here. It occurred to me then, that perhaps I was undoing a spell cast through years of footfalls, or maybe I was weaving a new one–a spell of spring, one of transformation and renewal.
Seven Prayers, #4
May I be fluid
as the creek
pouring down the hill
making music out of every obstacle.