Cloud Theater and Holy Reverence

I’m looking at clouds out my bedroom window.  I swear to Jesus H, the clouds here on Kauai are a constant source of entertainment for me!  They put Hollywood cinema to s-h-a-m-e.  (You have to spell it out…)  Remember as a kid when you used to allow yourself to become mesmerized and dissolved in the overt images that called to your awakened, imaginative spirit?  Well, if you were here with me, you too would become a kid again!  I’m sure of it.  I just saw a swan swim over the mountain and now she has become a hooded cobra snake!  Of course I also see a galloping silver unicorn, which is extra special, because most of the unicorns I see are plain old white!


I am SO happy to be here with You (yes, YOU) in Athena Graceland!  Can you tell?  It’s our refugee camp.  I was feeling premenstrual and fragmented and swirling with unruly emotions… but now that I have arrived safely on the page I am home free.  It’s like playing tag and making it to base safely without getting tagged.  Or swimming through a lake full of piranhas and getting to shore without being a pulpy mess of blood and mangled flesh.  This calls for a celebration!  Crack open the bubbly, strike up the band, rip off your clothes and dance with me!


Oh, okay, I’ll come clean… I also just drank two cups of sweet, creamy yerba matte in a row because my butt was filled with ever single marble that existed in nineteen fifty and because of this, it was d-r-a-g-g-i-n-g behind me and really slowing me down.  But not no mo’!  Now my mind is a jack rabbit tearing down the highway and my poor little fingers are doing their darnedest to keep up, bless their ten little bony hearts.  Ahhh!  I just took a sweet deep breath!  Now the clouds have become a flame-breathing Santa Clause head!  See what I mean?  Why would I ever need to go to the movies again?  Maybe just for the greasy, five dollar popcorn…


Today is one of those days where I want to tell you everything at once.  I know!  How ‘bout I just rip the top of my head off and let you wade around in the spacious, soupy cosmos in here?!?  I promise you a whale of a time, or your money back, guranteed…


First I want to tell you that I have a phobia of studying English, literature and writing in some sort of credible institution… I’m afraid of all the stuffy, self-important rules that I imagine perverted grandpa academia would try to cram down my freewheeling throat.  I love writing exactly how I want to, not how I’m “supposed to”, in order to be erudite and sophisticated and respectable.  Two corners of the mouth down on THAT one… My voice is a tender chick, which I guard with my life, unwilling for her fragile, fluffy body to be shattered and her guts burst all about the careless, calloused world at large.  Shrug… So I guess that rules out college for me.  I’ll just stick to my already rigorous enrollment in the School of Mostly Soft Knocks.


Next order of business, I am invited to be on local radio tomorrow morning!  There’s this show from ten till noon, hosted by a man named Kamran.  He carves out his two hours to be a sacred space, a place of unconventional worship.  He often reads from the works of my homeboys, Rumi and Hafiz weaving them in with groovy music and amazing, enlightened guests such as YT (my new shorthand for “yours truly”…)  We just spoke on the phone and I felt his heart immediately.  Even the moment that occurs just BEFORE immediately.  I wish we had a word for that in clumsy old English… Maybe that’s what a “heart-blink” is… (Eh Dan?)  Ahem, so Kamran asked me to reach inside and harvest some gratitude saturated, love stained, God drunk words, offered straight to this resplendent, generous, heaven of an island and all of her blessed inhabitants.  I feel like I just won the lottery, because I have SO much appreciation for this verdant, copious, loving embrace named Kauai.  (Now the clouds look like a big long poop, slowly drifting above the mountains…)


I’ve always wanted to be on the radio!  I want to be Hanuman the monkey god tomorrow morning.  You know how he unabashedly rips his chest open to reveal Sita and Ram, the female and male principals of God, who are nestled eternally in his heart?  He eternally burns with a drive to pour himself out in service to them.  Yes, I pray that I can rip my heart open and bleed contagious, celebratory devotion upon all who listen to the show… which of course will then continue to rush like a river and drench everyone THEY know and love and even those they don’t know they love!


Can you imagine feeling love for every single One you meet?  Try it.  It’s possible.  Isn’t that amazing?  That is why I keep returning to the Rivers, Streams, Ocean of God and washing my mind, cleansing my heart… because with a divinely cleansed Self, not only are miracles, possible, they are INEVITABLE as breathing.


I just closed my eyes and asked God what else to say to you this afternoon.  In the darkness behind my eyes, a doorway opened into the world of sound.  I tuned into the high pitched, rolling purr of some sort of crickety insects.  It’s an evocative song.  It seduces my mind to reach its boundless fingers straight into the heavens and caress the soft cheeked face of Grace.  And Holy Popcorn!, is her cheek soft!  If you don’t believe me, reach up and see for yourself!  You’ll be pleasantly astonished.


God, I offer myself as your Holy Instrument!  Please, let my life be a source of inspired beauty and contagious peace.  Help me to forgive and forgive and forgive and forgive and forgive and forgive and… until I am as wide open as… er… ummmm… the WIDEST OPENING in all the multiverse.  (And may I continue to lovingly laugh at myself as I stumble along the way.)  And God, may this prayer inspire and remind ALL who read it of their unique, glory stained holiness, and their miraculous and ESSENTIAL place in the All Pervading Choir!  And God?  You ROCK!




P.S.~ Now the clouds have turned to Snoopy!

Behind the Scenes of my Creative Process

Mykael, I heard your voice today… coaxing me to just take my typewriter along… I walked to the local bakery to write my blog… and I heard you encouraging me.

I parked at the table that I have claimed as “mine”.  (Every time I land here at the bakery, I scope out all the possible perches available to me… feel into sitting at each one of them.  And infalliably, this same table beckons me.  The same chair whispers a covert come hither to my modest and soft bottom.)  Golly gee whiz, did I feel shy to pull out the old faithful, vintage blessing machine just now.  There were so many people around, nibbling and sipping and engaging in the sensual slow lane of existence.  One of the reasons that I love writing so much is that it provides the perfect space for both my exuberant exhibitionist and my shy, sensitive hermit to harmoniously coexist.  (Most of the time)  But busting out the Smith Corona is like flashing a neon sign that says LOOK AT ME!

Eeeeeek.  But also not.  Immediately this radiant woman at the table next to me took interest in my archaic treasure.  I told her that I was offering poems by donation.  Without hesitation she said she wanted one for her sister who was turning sixty next month!  Yahoo!  I LOVE sixty year olds!  I’m serious.  I DO.  Both my mama and my papa turned sixty recent-ish-ly… and since that pivotal rite of passage, my relationship with each of them has flowered, fruited and flourished!  I find them both to be abounding with wisdom and a ripened rendition of surrender to who they are and their respective places in this earthy sphere of the cosmos…

All that to say that I eagerly chomped at my bit to be set free to honor this Goddess Sister of my freshly harvested radiant customer… whose name was Satya (Which means truth in ummm… Sanskrit, is it?).  Satya was clearly adept at sharing from her heart.  She dove right in and spoke of her sister’s unique beauty and divine specialness.  And she told me that above all else, she wished peace of mind and peace of heart for her beloved kin.  I didn’t have to work or dig at all to get to the meaty, essential heart of the matter.  (Though, truth be told, I am just as happy to dig… I’ll meet people where they are… Still it’s refreshing when another soul is adept at the art of spilling open.)

I have to laugh at my creative process.  I really try to get out of the way.  To be a humble servant.  To refrain from judgment and simply take good notes as the All Pervading Poet spews loving words and decadent metaphors into my mind.  But I must admit that my cumbersome, frightened and sometimes rusty hinged mind oft does not surrender without a good fight.  During the conception of some poems, nearly every line I flush with the poison of self criticism and doubt.  But so what!?  I will not be stopped by the pathetic, yapping Chihuahua that is my small self.  I have All Pervading Fish to fry.  Then, when a poem is done… I have a moment of simultaneous relief and panic… When I read it aloud to the recipient, will the glory of God pour prismatically from between the letters and lines? …Or will the rotten tomatoes fly?

Mostly I read them and relax into the satisfaction of a job well done.  It’s kind of like baking the queen’s wedding cake… I may be an excellent baker… but there’s always that chance that the oven temperature could be off… or goblins could sneak into the kitchen while it’s cooling and stomp their terrible feet frivolously about in the pink, spongy expression of childhood heaven… Ya dig?  What I’m getting at is that even in the face of the highest Grace, life is still but an unpredictable and wondrous ocean, and sometimes that means mess and death and rotten poems.  But the important thing, of course, is NOT THE FRUIT… is it Shri Krishna?  Nope, says our favorite flute playing, chariot driving, cow herding blue man… It’s all in the spirit of the offering.  I only intend to amplify the LOVE that sings me into Holy Existence.

And that’s the truth.  Pbthhhht.


Ageless Wisdom, Decomposing Dahlias and the Color Gray

“Do not pray to the Lord for the removal of sufferings. Pray to Him to grant you power of endurance and patience to bear all calamities. The more troubles and adversities you get, the stronger and firmer will be your faith in God. They will mould you into a divine being. Welcome them.”
-Swami Sivananda
Well thank you Swami!  How very timely of you to offer your divine pearls at the feet of the masses.  The masses of alarmed citizens right inside my very own self for starters.  People!  Tell me this quote is not the most perfect place to rest your weary heart and mind these days… So much change.  So much internal pressure and external imploding wilderness.  A woman friend recently asked me how thirty is treating me thus far.  I took a rapid introspective sweep and my answer came strong and quick.  I told her it’s quintessentially awesome AND it’s requiring all of the inner strength that I have cultivated for the last thirty years (not to mention the seven gazillion other lives I’ve trickled through) to navigate these recent chapters.  It’s true.  Though my existence feels like drunk wrestlers trying to dance ballet, I must confess that I have never felt so much deep strength, courage and rooted self respect.
Honestly, I have spent many years frolicking in the shacklicious bondage of suicidal persuasions.  I’m still here to tell the tale because I have always known better than to think that it could really be that easy.  Death ain’t the end, folks.  Like Amma says, it’s more akin to a period at the end of a sentence than some final plummet off a screeching cliff into indifferent, eternal darkness.  Our souls are holy, trail blazing paragraphs spiraling through the vast, ingenious mind of the All Pervading Scripture.  I’ve always known that if I took my own life, I’d create a less than savory karmic mess to reckon with later.  And that’s not on the menu for this High Priestess of the Cosmos.
Let’s just get straight on this whole issue of karma why don’t we?  The poor word has been beaten to death by ignorant though well meaning new agers… but essentially, karma simply means action.  Action is energy in motion.  And once energy is in motion, it causes ripples and reverberations all throughout creation.  And that motion inevitably has effects.  Each of us IS the universe.  So the effects exist implicit in the action, right within our very Selves.  Can ya dig it?
But back to the whole suicidal thing~ from my vantage point here in present time, I’m actually pretty stoked about all that unsavory time I spent writhing and flailing in utter darkness because it did just what Swami Sivananda said it would do.  I have endured and my faith in God is bottomless.  And topless.  And spilling all over this world trembling on the precipice of something unprecedented and full throttle auspicious.  Mould away, oh All Pervading Light Sculptor!
The sun never came out today.  I take it back.  After dinner I was sitting on my bed and my gaze drifted out the window just in time to see a distant beaming wash of golden light falling on my backyard neighbors’ roof and a cedar tree nearby.  It was an overtly holy moment.  But other than that, the sky stayed gray all day long and my body never thawed.  Neither did my heart or mind.  (Until I started writing, that is… writing is usually a surefire way for me to fall back in some strain of Love, no matter how unflattering the amorous flavor may be… at least its Love’s spoiled step-child, or Love’s ex-husband’s maternal grandmother’s butler’s best friend from college.  What I’m trying to say, is that even when my writing process is arduous and my emotions are thick as jungle mud, I still find my heart here on the page.  Always.  All ways.)
Speaking of gray… This morning in the swimming pool, as I was doing my kicking laps I fixed my gaze skyward at the deep, steely blanket of woolen gray and I thought to myself, “it’s about time that I make friends with gray.”  Normally gray is unbearable to me.  It’s a light and life decimating monster.  It’s in the club with rotten eggs, hate crimes, germ warfare and putrid breath.  But I dare myself… I dare myself to strip and peel gray to its very core and discover a unique rendition of Heaven.  I dare myself to listen acutely to the music of gray and fall in love with its ever-sultry song.  Not to sound too franchise enlightenment, but without gray… Do you know what I’m about to say?  Without gray, colors would not taste nearly as intoxicating, revelatory and evocative.  You know what I mean about franchise enlightenment?  I guess another word for it would be “cliché”.
On a distant but related topic, the dahlia bouquet on my nightstand is chasing death at a rapid clip.  They’re only a week old and already the petals are withered at the tips and being accosted by the color brown.  As I write this, in my mind’s nose, I am smelling the swampy biting stench of their decomposition.  I keep looking at them and fantasizing about retiring them to the compost bin.  But instead, my eyes wander captivated about their contrasting scapes.  They are transformation in action and the implicit sacred beauty therein.  They are a head on collision between life and death.  Hmmm, maybe they are to flowers as crones are to women.  Why is youth so prized in our remedial culture?  The elderly get sequestered to special homes where few people have to deal with them… As if wisdom is akin to the Styrofoam packaging you pulled off after you ripped your new, state of the art microwave out of its box.  At the first sign of wrinkles and varicose veins, we toss ourselves and one another into the smelly compost heap to finish rotting.   What could be more ridiculous?!  Okay, on the count of three, let’s pull our collective head out of its communal ass.  Three.  Two.  One.

Today I Am A Real Writer

This morning I feel like a REAL writer. Just like in the movies I mean… you know, where REAL life happens. (If you have already begun to take me literally, please go back to the beginning and start again. Do not pass Go or collect three French hens. I’m just poking fun at that place in the collective consciousness where we are all so covertly programmed by the malarkey that is ceaselessly fed to us in droves of illusory, gleaming spoons. Even one as free and cosmic and unconventional as yours truly still grapples with stupid shit like yearning for princess weddings and an idyllic family unit wrought with an endless stream of soft landings, romantic interludes and a fine, misty spray of happily ever afters. Shrug. Can you blame a pony riding, kiss blowing, candy apple licking, diamond lusting lady-girl?)

Anyway, I am a real writer this morning, because I woke up in a posh and spotless little apartment nestled on the hill in Sausalito (bless me… I just sneezed) and ambled and whacked through the jungle of post slumberly thickness into the living room whose bay windows provide a sweet, greedy peek through dampness and wind-tickled trees, right at the hazed over bay. Yeah, the fog is gentle today… it does not devour and conceal… but merely suggests and flirts, much like a bride’s veil. (Whoa! As I am writing this, the sun has pressed its holy face through the dense, misting shroud of earth-bound clouds and is causing the bay to glow like it did back in Avalon! Oops, now it’s gone again.) In my mind, “real” writers always have such slick little oasis to pour forth their inspired minds onto the splayed, awaiting pages. Forget noisy cafes and shlumpy bedrooms. No. That’s but a haunted urban legend fashioned for half baked wanna-bes. A cosmic secret revealed is that all writers write from elite paradises. (If you are again taking me literally, please go back to the beginning and follow the directions posted there…)

But I love it here in this expensive, pristine apartment on the hill in Sausalito. I want to be one of those writers who travels the world and finds romantic little pockets from which to spread open and pour forth my love drunk font of language. AND I want to write from ashrams in India, orphanages in Kenya, DMVs in my hometown, villas on Italian country-sides, artsy, shuttered Parisian apartments overlooking narrow cobble stoned alleys saturated by the earthy perfume of fresh baking baguettes, diners in smelly, forgotten armpits gratuitously strewn about the vast sprawling body of the United States of America. I guess in essence, I want to dive head first into this dreamscape we call home and suck in greedy gulps of mundane life and then spit it out in awe-struck strings of words for all to imbibe.

But here I am in Sausalito, sitting in a beautiful living room which to my dismay is over-crowded with furniture (I want to hurl the brunt of it out the big bay window and let it fend for its self on the elite streets of this simultaneously stiff and pristine city.), watching the fog roll and drip and gently whip at the canopy of trees… Here I am… and… now what? I feel thick. Ten hours of sleep thick. Thick like I am calling up to myself from the bottom of a deep well, or swaddled in a warm, dense blanket of sticky snow. Ask me when the last time I slept for ten hours was and I would tell you like nineteen ninety six. I would of course be exaggerating, but I am a writer and I have an up to date poetic license… you want me to whip it out and show you???

But I must have needed that sleep… Because I have been surfing some waves of intense emotion. That’s why I have not blogged for TWO ungodly days. Unheard of… I guess just pulling further apart from my relationship with Mykael and my relationship with my home and belongings and trying to recalibrate my sense of safety and self in the midst of such fundamental shifts. I meant to blog last night by the faux fire place (you know, one of those short cut, gas jobs for lazy, cardboard romance types… and environmentalists) But at shortly after eight o’clock, I nestled in a comfy chair near the dancing half-assed flames contained in their boxed-in pseudo utopia, flipped open my glowing screen and my whole being rose up in a rebellion named exhaustion and shouted, “No way, Jose,” so I took the hint, flipped the lid down and curled up in a ball of hibernation and mercy on the couch and crashed out at eight bloody thirty pm.

I guess crying for an entire day and then getting up the next morning to go out and offer poems at the farmer’s market and then meeting up for an afternoon of sauntering and X-treme bonding with one’s cosmic dad while furniture is shifting it’s brains out right inside my unseen reaches is bound to take its toll. Am I allowed to indulge in a second cup of yerba mate with fresh honey from local bee keepers this morning? Seems so indulgent. Maybe I’ll just go back to bed…


For the LOVE of Words

When push comes to shove and shove comes to knuckle sandwich and knuckle sandwich comes to a gruesome strangling affair by a seven mile long snake with prism skin… Well… I don’t know what then. But I know that now I am here on the page to sooth myself. I have not slept well in weeks. I think this happens when my spirit is integrating a lot of new information and my poor, dense physical body, bound by time and space struggles to keep up. My spirit is a hardball playing, dragon slaying, fire spraying, business meaning machine. What’s a girl to do? Except step unabashedly onto the page and make strangely textured love to her own insides, letting her word-dripping imagination take her for a ride. So today I dedicate this blog to words that quench me, pleasure me, sooth and amuse me. That said I am suddenly burning to tell you that I sampled a new church last Sunday. I have no interest in recounting the experience, except for one crucial sliver. This was the day following Mykael’s antithesis of a lucrative art show, so we were both feeling ground down by fear in spite of ourselves. We had some kind of abrasive, unsavory exchange in the car before entering the disheveled though spirit saturated sanctuary. A handsome black man with the most soulfully luminous eyes I’ve ever seen in my entire life greeted me. He asked me how I was doing. I said something like not so good, which was all it took to open the flood gates and then in less than the space between sacred syllables, I came hopelessly undone. His eyes bled compassion all over me and he took me in his arms. He spoke in a soft loving voice and told me to let it out. I heaved in waves of surprise attack sobs. He just kept holding me and speaking soft words of reassurance into my ear. I am astounded by the beauty and generosity of his anonymous, unconditional heart. I wish I could arrange a string of words that could come somewhere near the miraculousness of the light that poured from him. I’m gonna try, because you only live once, and what else would I be doing with this razor sharp, explicit holy moment of my existence? Really… The recipe for this stranger’s eyes… in a sky-sized bowl, mix the following ingredients thoroughly~ the soft purrs of an ecstatic cat, the song from a large, deep, resonant wind chime stirred by a warm, lazy tropical breeze, the soul-shivering first kiss shared with one who enchants the pants off you, the feeling of being entirely, rapturously held in the armless embrace of warm, lucid blue tropical water, a stirring piano sonata played in complete darkness and the thick, buttery scent of croissants baking at sunrise. Does that give you some idea of the soulful beauty he poured on tearful me? In a recent-ish blog, I explored the true meaning of Grace. With the help of my readers, we came up with some bitchin’ definitions… but really, it was Grace that splashed from his eyes. It was Grace’s timeless, unconditional generosity that held me while I cried on his shoulder. It was Grace whose tears watered this thirsty desert of human suffering. Grace. She is the space between expectation-stained dreams. Grace. She is the breath that streams through me and you on nights wrapped in yearning and days splayed wide with gaiety and sweetness. Life is like surfing, isn’t it? All these waves of energy… and we must ride them. Skillfully or not, it’s up to each of us. I had a yogurt drink this morning. I blended organic low fat plain yogurt with fresh strawberries, stevia and a generous sprinkle of maca. Why am I telling you this? Because I want to. Because I LOVE sweet, creamy drinks. I love feeling them fill my mouth. I guess it takes me back to being breast fed. It is such primal, soothing pleasure. Moments spent sipping sweet creaminess are some of the most peaceful, profound and complete moments I have ever met. I imagine that when I finally remember God again once and for all, it will be like imbibing in the SWEETEST, CREAMIEST drink in all of creation multiplied infinity times by its own profound deliciousness. Fuck that’s gonna be so awesome! I can’t wait. But I’ll have to… because I haven’t yet been successful in releasing from my fear-stricken, ego-tense rollercoaster riding, ceaseless streaming spew of thoughts. I will keep knocking… and like Rumi says, when I finally open the door, I will realize I have been knocking from the inside this whole ridiculous timeless time. THE JOKE IS ON ME! Shrug. I guess all I can do is LOVE and forgive, love and forgive, love and forgive love and forgive. And BREATHE. Amen.

Time Keeps A-Sweepin’

Realizing it’s now July.  Noticing I get so excited about the passage of time, but why?  It’s like I’m sprinting down the echoing breezeway of Life, my little worn out moccasins making explosive shouts as they slap and slap and slap the concrete beneath me.  Where am I running to with such urgency?  Back to God, I suppose, but in that case, the joke is definitely on me… because… running to the “end” will not get me any closer to the All Pervading Yard Duty.  Being still might.  Letting my intense yearning split me down the middle might… But certainly not fast forwarding in a single bolt of lightening strife to the illusory ego-fever-dreamish end of Life.

I wrote that first paragraph fresh out of bed.  But that’s all that revealed its self, so I cut myself some slack and took a chill pill instead of squeezing out the entire blog by six am.  Fed, watered and clean as a squeaking, queenly Disney heroine on ice, I am now nestled just south of peaceful at Pizzaiolo.  Still trying to carve out my safe nook in the chaos.  Today’s Course in Miracles lesson made me shake and combust in my sleek space boots.  It was about becoming consumed, devoured, swallowed by God’s name, and therefore my name, your name, OUR sacred name.  Letting my thirst for the One drive me over the edge of illusion’s steep ravine into the oceanic, All Pervading Void.  I think that’s a splendid idea!  I accept!  And now I sit in witness of this ceaseless swish of activity and I burn to see only All Pervading Holy Me… in every single face.  And in the faceless space between heavenly bodies.  This mission requires frequent breathing.

The energy feels so agitating.

Ahhhh, blessed be.  A luminous man from Mykael’s men’s circle just came in and sat across from me!  I offered him a poem.  He accepted.  I asked him to spill the contents of his heart and mind out onto the table between us and he generously poured out a story that went like this~ tomorrow he is flinging himself bold and brave into the unknown folds of Life.  He’s subletting his home for the summer and journeying to Eselen to do work trade.  He feels the blissful sting of change, the inevitable fear-stained tickle of letting go into the unknown.  As he talked, I began to see images of verdant, beautifully tended gardens at dawn.  A bead of dew sliding helplessly graceful down a virile green leaf.  I’ll tell ya WHAT~ writing poetry on the fly is the ultimate exercise in trusting my mind, my imagination.  It always shows me things.  My only job is to tune in, listen, look inside and say YES.  I find it sorta unbelievable.  Entirely miraculous. Risky.  So alive.

As I smacked out the poem, my own heart unfolded, petal by meticulous petal into full bloom.  By the time I finished, I was ecstatic.  This is alchemy at its finest!  Remember, I was choking on the chaos, struggling to find my place.  Then in the next instant, I was blessed by the holy opportunity to let the All Pervading Poet bestow a sacred blessing through me.  I want to leap into the sky and give God a violent high five!  Win for the team!!!  Hmmm… I don’t really know what else to say after that.  I guess I’ll just toss out RosyMoon’s poem request about aging and mortality and call it a day.

She gazed at what legend had it

was her own face,

curious, blinking and flat

upon the reflective glass

she came to know as


Myopic, scrutinous she drank

modest sips of an image breathing

as it shot,

slow and soft

through Time’s winding mind.

Judging eyes

scoured the deepening story lines

upon her tale of skin,

vacillating in a ceaseless pulse

of approval

and disdain passed down

from mothers upon mothers

upon sisters and brothers

in this epic dream

of embodied God long forgotten

in the folds of endless division.

Distracted by a fresh

though not so fragrant spray

of thoughts,

she reached for a the hairbrush

to her left and swept

it through a tangled mane.

It sang crunching songs

as it tamed her external wilderness.

Blinking, she slicked

a colored stain across lips familiar

as her own name.

Grasping for an unchanging taste

of her beauty she stood

in wait.

Another moment, another day

half asleep, oblivious to

the truth hidden within

the ambiguous, eternal something lurking

just beyond her hungry


decaying reflection.

God, thank you for another beautiful day to remember you, to serve you, to spin time and space into Love on the loom of Forgiveness.  Amen.

My New Vocation!

Staring at the blank page.  Five thirty am.  Wondering where I left my soul juice.  Not enough sleep.  But my restless mind won’t let me fall back and hit the rest and release anymore.  So here I am, blinking like an over cooked vegetable at the bright screen screaming at my eyes.  Strange days.  Sometimes when my spirit is ablaze in the infernos of transformation, my body has a hard time resting, fully letting go into sleep’s tender palm.  But I’m gonna pick myself up by the bathrobe straps and fake it till I make it because I have so much to tell you!

I brought my typewriter to the Lake Merit farmer’s market yesterday and sold poetry!  Was I a scardy cat?  Naturally.  But I am getting better at not thinking life to death, and instead just living it.  I think this is one of the benefits of meditation and a commitment to being a Divine Servant.  I have been begging God pretty relentlessly to move me about this life according to the highest will.  Please God, let my life be an offering to the Holy Whole.  Let me continue to heal so that I can be a source of healing for others.  And God said, “That’s right bitch, now I’ve got you just where I want you.  Listen up…”  And then God tossed me my typewriter and drop kicked me down the hill to spin the hearts and souls of others into beautiful garlands of words.  The experience yesterday FAR EXCEEDED any expectations I had (Expectations.  I know they blow anyway… but I can’t seem to stop them…)

Since I’m new at this spontaneous poetry game, I still don’t quite have my “protocol” down… (I reckon protocols are overrated anyway, but…)  I just had a vague idea that when someone asked for a poem I’d gaze upon them lovingly sincere and ask what is in their heart these days, then wait while they stumbled and fumbled for some semblance of a response to this unabashedly deep cutting inquiry.  But yesterday, I barely had to ask.  The majority of customers (about seven) came to me, opened themselves in full trust and emptied their hearts upon the invisible altar between us.  I was pleasantly stunned by this!  (Hold on, I’m gonna go Q-tip.  Be right back!)  Alright where was I?  Oh yeah, so my first customer was a man who said he was getting married next week and he wanted a poem for his wife to be.  He was with a sweet little boy (his fiance’s son) who happened to be devouring one of the delicious smelling artisan waffles sold nearby.  He had an avalanche of powdered sugar all over his face and front, which struck up the choir of instant joy inside me.  I took a deeper than thou breath and lovingly banged out the poem for him.  He loved it and said he would read it to her either at the wedding or the reception.  I was astounded.  Then, spilling with gratitude he handed me a twenty dollar bill.

Somehow it seems sacrilegious to talk about the money I earn.  Like sexuality, another taboo.  Well screw your taboos, you who fear the truths of this mundane play.  As far as Athena Grace LMNOP is concerned, anything goes here on the page.  Especially if it is an accurate, well rounded portrait of her life here on planet earth.  Just had to name that.  But twenty bucks is a far cry from the two dollars and fifty cents I made LAST weekend, eh?  It’s interesting to me to see the monetary values people place on something as non-linear and seemingly “frivolous” as poetry.  It says a lot about the person… I think… It is time for poetry to reclaim its place in the health and wellbeing of our collective psyche.

Then next customer was actually standing under a tree, WAITING (patiently) for her turn as I pounded out the wedding poem!  Who knew that poetry was important enough to “wait in line” for?!?!  Now you know.  You heard it here first!  This sincere and tender hearted woman approached me, set down her groceries and immediately launched into a revelatory outpouring of fondness for her best friend.  She portrayed her friend in a light strictly reserved for the Goddess.  This dear friend, great nonjudgmental listener, earth mama, compassionate, loving mother of twins, home maker, generous, creative inspiring creature lives in LA… and my customer misses her to bits.  The poem slid effortlessly out of me, lubed by the flood of overt adoration between soul sisters.  Shazam!

Then along came an old man wearing a yellow shirt and a Polaroid camera around his neck.  He offered me a photo.  Naturally I said yes.  I offered him a poem in exchange.  I did ask HIM what was in his heart.  He said he was just glad to be here on this beautiful day full of beautiful people and beautiful food… Sometimes the most simple is the utterly profound, right?  I read him his poem, he snapped another Polaroid shot of me “for my boyfriend” and was off to bathe in his fresh picked day.

Another old man.  He was adorable.  Eighty one years old.  Full of wisdom, insight and a peace that you could touch, taste and frolic in.  Initially he just came over to poke around and investigate my typewriter (as quite a number of folks did throughout the course of the day)… but I kept inviting him into a poem.  I used my favorite expression to lure him in, “Come on… You only live once!” (I love this expression since I don’t ultimately believe it to be true!  But that only makes it POP with an endless twist of dimensions.  The dimension that there is ONLY this moment… set against the infinite slog that is living life.  And every nuanced shade of silver in between.)  To this he replied, every moment I live anew.  That opened a door for him and he shared the heavy wisdom that his eighty one years has unearthed in his tender and pure heart.  I was so moved by his wise soul and refined relationship with Love.

In fact, when he left, I was a radiant fountain of AWE.  And this man, who had been lurking in the distant shadows approached me.  “How are you doing?” he asked.  “AMAZING!” I exclaimed.  And then he announced that he was the manager of the market and I was not allowed to be there.  Frown.  But I could feel that his heart was conflicted.  He was doing his job.  I’m sure he could feel the flamboyant love gurshing from within me.  So eventually he suggested a “grey area” location that I could move to.  Sigh… it was not nearly as utopic sitting on the sidewalk under the large palm tree across the street from the market.  Shrug…

But I did have three more customers over there.  A woman who soon spilled over with tears as she requested a poem about change.  She said she was moving to the east coast on July first… And she had an apartment, a car, a family, a job and a horse waiting for her there!!!!!  If that full spectrum cast of assets doesn’t make you smile out loud, I don’t know what would!  I cherished her tears!  I am so happy to be a space for people to feel and authentically express!  I invited her to let it flow.  She was a spark for sure.  The poem that came out for her was a playful portrait of the implicit beauty in all the textures of the human experience.  Offering it to her, I felt it to be an ally, a talisman for her journey.

Was it because the moon was full and had just eclipsed???  The people who showed up were amazing, vulnerable, generous, divine!  I made fifty eight dollars!  I’ve always been afraid that I’ve been too idealistic to think that I could make a living doing EXACTLY what I want to do.  But I’m starting to think that I can and that rattles my bones with ecstasy.


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