Communication

It's so frustrating when you speak to someone and they only listen until they hear what they need, in order to do what they want. It's a ridiculous somnambulist stunt, that I think we have all been guilty of at some point.
 Do you remember when listening was important, listening to others fully and completely, taking in context, verbiage to fully derive meaning before replying, before expounding, before just waiting for your chance to talk. Remember when listening meant life or death?

The soft stalking of a nearly silent padding of a predator's footfall as it tracks you in the dark. The way the air changes and affects you like a barometer, telling you what the weather is up to? The way animals grow silent when danger approaches. Any one of these instances can be considered a lost art of communication. Most specifically listening to others though, that's where the chain is rusted.

With the growth of technological communication and the inundation of mass media marketing, our attention spans have shrunk considerably. We are no longer content to listen and imagine a story, we now want the "quick" version, to skip to the end so that we can concentrate on this innocuous status update, or returning the text message that popped up while typing said update. We sit right next to the people we love, like, or maybe even don't know that well, and we ignore each other to communicate with others who aren't present. Guess what? Neither are we. "Getting to know someone" means something completely different than it used to. I know that we can never truly know every nook and cranny of a person, all we know is our perception of them and they of us, but when you don't even ask the questions to get that much, what then? We bond over T.V., film, and opinions, but after that initial knowledge, where does the effort go? Everyday we are different, beautiful, moving creatures. "Knowing" what?

Poetry Dervish

Roundness unfolds heavy with the light crinkling of life’s bounty.
Belly burns pleasantly, enamored in breath and the humid presentation of fluttering opportunity.
there is a seeker and in that same sinewy vein a destiny found;
a life living out each fiery raging breath
in a syncopated rhythm
of spontaneous choreography.
The twirling dervish of never ending discovery.

Reaping Womb

Red crescents drag with dogged ease,

release of silt,

rich and encumbered flows through valleys,

ripe,

with aging seasonal fruit,

left rotted on the weaving vine. 

Trembling turmoil extracted,

through bountiful whirlpools of creation,

the filtered light at the end of this lengthy way

quakes in hues of red,

caps of darkness.

Hooded vessels reign,

bathing in the primordial essence of female.

Spoken

Waving, weaving,

a gift in the resistance.
The well-played tune,

 all enmeshed in fillings of fire,
soul’s purpose born,
raging,

a confluence of unknown beauty.
Being,

lightning incandescence struck on flesh,
to purpose reactive,

this truth a sustained beast of ingenuity.

Fear Pastries

Fear is an ingredient in the doughy mass of your discontent, I say knead and mix and bake some dense bread with that dough and feed it to the carrion that live in the fires of inner truth. Take care of yourself and use your strength to let it go. It doesn’t serve you any longer.

Lunchtime Nature Eats

A shrill call to arms from a lofty metal post.

Hair flips and color riots. A brassy affliction of youth.
Sweet tongued silence strewn haplessly
with whispering leaves, a whimsical cacophony
of greens splayed gold.

Fenland sways, verdant in drought.
The soothing clacking of Cottonwoods
creates a lyrical backdrop of white wisps
and tendril-ed cloud tops.

Tree bark ruts and singes bare.
Moth’s wings flutter quietly in hollows,
shadows perceived are the dewy respite
for the mocking’s flustered call.

Paths of floating air, being just so in their creation,
touch lightly, feathering,
beautifully simple,
like tufts of summer snow, free from melting.

Shellacked insect,
green against bone,
bird dance on puppet string.

Bed of flora rolling onward round the bend of what is seen.
 Soluble earth consoled
through summer heat by the cracking of aerated soils.
Fluttering bees busily pollen hunting
amid the myriad colors of the season.

Lilac, buttery yellow, sienna, and burning orange.
A host to beguile the eye of any creature near;
draw flight and sweet creation made of function,
so clear.

Marksmanship

Complacency and worth are the two bullets in the gun and I shoot myself with them weekly.  Laziness is the powder, and ego is the cold steel at the temple of my truth.  Spin the barrel, finger the trigger, BANG! Russian Roulette approved. But truth is a phoenix, rising from the residue growing within you and relentlessly knocking on the cohesive door of your emotional heart and intellectual mind. Allow it to bloom, flame, and burn the apathy to dust with the passion of your inner fire.

Let Me Play You A Waltz

Suddenly, everything has changed.

That is the most poignant statement of my feelings today. I have raw feelings, anger, and hurt but these wounds are no longer being poked by a salient determined hope. An idea of clinging to a crumbling ledge with a disheartened man's face.

I yearn for the movement, my body aches with the longing of emotional movement, the dance of dunces, whatever incongruous yet beautifully guided misstep I may take. It's okay to make mistakes, it's okay to tap dance around a notion to learn how to approach it; to understand fully with laces untied  the syncopation of the solo.

I've never danced well with a partner, I always try to lead, choosing to ignore the angling steps of retreat in their eyes. I cling stubbornly to the thought that we may find the rhythm, failing to notice that the band went home hours ago.

And, one, two, three, one, two, three,

I am spun amok and return to find the waltz I hear is my own tempo, my own imagining, and most importantly, my own creation. I am not only a participant but the tiled floor beneath my feet, the cool air upon my cheek, and the playful rustling of taffeta and lace.

My dance card is open but cautiously so. Not just anyone can punch the ticket to ride this beauty. They must earn it, understand what that means, and cause gentle care to be played against my heart as fingers twine, heads tilt, and the whirl commences.

Scraps for the Motivating

By allowing things that don't serve you to be let go and decay naturally, it can encourage new growth in spirit and body. Those old thoughts, memories and feelings can nourish all the budding seedlings of choices in what is true for you and your path.

Round and Round

When struggling with finding beauty and compassion in the things and people your ego loathes, it helps me to think of those feelings and reactions as reflections of what I have been, still may be, and let it go. Choose to go in a direction that serves. Being thankful for the mirror as a reminder that as humans we are the full spectrum of every emotion and shade of the color wheel is a way that helps me not take the whole thing so seriously. The difference in being defined by the color and shifting playfully through the color comes when we are present and aware in and of the moment. When we know on a spiritual level that the wheels on the bus do go round and round, meaning that nothing is permanent and we always have the opportunity to step into another emotion, to CHOOSE how we handle a given circumstance despite what our ego may be trumpeting; this is essential to the human experience. This is also something that I still struggle with daily. I can be very reactionary in some instances and quite passive in others. ( I guess that's why they call them triggers).

Mirror, Mirror...

If I pricked you, would you not bleed? 

The blood of ancients, a calling on my tongue. 

You’ve been taste tested standing behind me, 

yanked forward,
against this dance of mutual resistance.  

You circle, 

I circle, 

crouched low, eyes locked, 

intent unknown. 

Palms slap and hold, 

pulling unity as flesh and blood slide together 

an entwined duality of this very breath.

Knowing

Lusciously dipped, turned, and draped,
love coated I sit,
in knowing beauty.
Feathered fingers of tingling reliance
trace rivulets,
in the smooth grace of my flesh,
as I accept,
in humbled, assured earnest,
this most treasured moment of sight.

Holding flames encased in glass rooms.
Winding vines and rainy weather run expertly wild.
The keeper sings along with the steady heartbeat.
White heat undulates,
as the pattering resounds on glass opened, yet unyielding.

Welling

These feelings,
wrapping wantonly,
like so many velvety fingering tentacles,
stroke my heart
to the point of a most pleasurable kind of pain.
A melancholic euphoria of darkly melded shapes,
chocolate colored textures,
and purple blossomed ever burgeoning landscapes.
I drift through this satiny weight,
ever so lithely,
running my softened fingertips lovingly
over every shade-lit orchid petal,
each shadow dusted fern frond in turn,
until I know them all by tender touched stroke,
by heady, earth bound scent.
I allow a turgid writhing
of expressed wallowing
in the heavy bountiful soil,
so darkly fertile and settled on the path
through this overcast garden of lushly tended treasures.
They riot and grow,
abundantly birthed of ranging hills,
undulating amidst a bruised sky that never fades.
Lingering breezes gust haphazardly,
ruffling my skirts
and caressing my hair,
playfully delighting in the way it falls,
so sinuously smitten,
through the vibrant electric air.
I am alone here,
but here I'm held the most complete,
ensconced within the heart of my heart,
the ultimate perception,
this aching brood of densely feathered emotions
that hold me aloft,
giving precious foundation
to my soul's boundlessly welling shape.

The Right to Receive

Yesterday, when I was coming to the end of my run I looked up and was surrounded by all the greenery of the trees. The quiet verdant leaves seemed to be tickling my heart, quietly insisting that I listen to the world around me. Then I heard a voice, a female voice, it was the mother in my head and heart.

She said that I am worthy of everything life has to offer me. To never forget that.  It was such a tender moment that I felt my entire being soften perceptively, and I felt so soft and lovely. I. Am. Worthy. Of. Everything. Inhale, exhale, ingest, expel all of those dirty dusting pretty things that come into my path and life for a reason, for a lesson, for a choice.

Expectation

Burning desire to be or do something gives us staying power - a reason to get up every morning or to pick ourselves up and start in again after a disappointment. -Marsha Sinetar

Recently, I've felt the stabbing little jabbings of disappointment, due to a situation that did not turn out the way I imagined it would. But, then again, the key word here is expectation; MY expectation at that. The world is not written, it's experienced. It's felt, ridden, tasted, touched, and melded. It is beautifully raw and unpredictable and can not be bent to one person's will.

Here's what I take from this, it's okay to recognize the fact that you're disappointed for whatever reason. If you can realize that you have these expectations and admit that you feel like you've been let down by yourself or outside circumstances, this knowing, opens the doorway for you to begin to accept and let go of what you "thought" was going to happen. This process is not easy, especially for me, but whenever I have that epiphany of such a simple thing, "Oh, I'm having the feeling of being upset, wow I feel really disappointed." it serves to remind me that it is simple, and that I'm okay. I AM OKAY.

In the end, the best possible thing for you can be the unknown, the unwritten. So, love the disappointment, thank it for the lesson, and then set it to flight amongst the ruins of things that no longer serve you. Imagine what else is waiting in this riotous, buoyant universe, waiting patiently for you to look up, down, forward, any direction but back. Find your burning desires and manifest them, free from expectation, free from restriction. Burn on!

Forgiveness

“Forgiveness softens the hardening of the heart and so renews openness. It is not meant as a process that allows the same thing to happen again, but it will allow greater awareness to evolve in situations that have gone awry. It allows us to unhook the energy from the negative past and free it up for a more positive future.” -Anodea Judith

It is almost as hard for me to forgive others as it is to forgive myself.  In this moment, I'm trying to find the ever flowing strength of my core, to disseminate the vast galaxy of rainbow emotions that are rioting inside of my chest and belly. It's so easy to identify with those feelings, to make them who I am instead of what I have. Changing one word can allow you to step back, take stock, and possibly even find where these feelings reside. I have anger, I have sadness, I have feelings of insecurity. I am not, any of those emotions. Spirit is so different from that. When I step into me, into the soul, I have feelings of buoyancy that allow relaxation and energy flow. I still feel the shaky riot, but it has been lessened with the truth, that I am not my emotions.

I can feel the babbling brook of my mind redundantly running. My essence is comprised of the cold stones beneath the water. I let it run out, and down, fired by all that I hold true, decompressed, layer by sweet layer, respected, and free, of the grasping shape of fear and ego.

Are you holding a space of freedom to, or freedom from whatever has come into your life?

The Jump

Movement and the shining face of acceptance.
No muddling here,
just a clear case of the making of manifesting.
I'm walking the path, doing the work, and opportunities are afoot.
I have an abundance of fear and excitement
and I choose to feel my way down the darkened hallways
molding my perception as I go.
Deep breath, and a jump into the unknown.
Elation gives me wings
and faith keeps me aloft;
the journey ever present.

I have fear, I walk.
I have joy, I fly.
I have words, I sing.

Keep moving, keep praying, keep working.
It IS for you, and you are a wonderfully ever blossoming creation of the ever evolving universe around you.

"All things around me are restored in beauty." Navajo.

A Quote About Diverting

"Give life to things which are beautiful. Don’t give life to ugly things. You don’t have much time, much energy to waste. With such a small energy source, it is simply stupid to waste it in sadness, in anger, in hatred, in jealousy.

Use it in love, use it in some creative act, use it in friendship, use it in meditation; do something with it which takes you higher. And the higher you go, more energy sources become available to you.

At the highest point of consciousness, you are almost a god.
It is in your hands."

~ Osho

I read this quote this morning and it impacted me on such a profound level. I hope that it affects you in any way possible.

Beauty in Everything

"When you seek beauty in all people and all things, you will not only find it, you will become it."

This is such a beautiful quote. However, I find myself resistant to its message. Seeing beauty in the things I loathe is such a daunting challenge. Of course, holding onto loathing for no other purpose but to define what I am not is also challenging and a waste of energy. It is in finding the higher balance that we can sort out what, exactly, is ripening in our spirits. The fruit we nurture, and the seedlings we bury in fear, doubt, and hate. Even at this very moment I feel a lightening of spirit in conjunction with a tightening in my throat. I have so many emotions and concepts that I do not allow to be expressed. I search for the words and find none. The colors are dark, smoky, blacks and greys pillowing toxicities that I allow to choke me. That I ALLOW to remain, keeping me "safe" from my path, away from my destiny. Or so I feel. In truth, I'm still walking, still slowly wandering down the lane with warmth on my soul and the grassy unknown plains of my life ahead. It's really exciting, but I let myself feel mostly dread. It is difficult at times, to look past the unknown and realize if you are walking your journey, the universe will provide you with the necessities you are continually creating.

I am creating a heart full of luscious fruit. The sweet ripeness of love, beauty and compassion. I am creating a mind that is open, sharp, and continually learning. I am creating a root, firmly planted, and blessed with the undeniable right to be here.

Burning Man

Tender tufts of the burning man sink,

ash blown,

as wandering touch ascends to conquer,

cover,

 kiss,

 a spirit burning bright ,

a flame ever rending,

 a soul simply engendered to a message,

the message of all words,

and breath,

 the tones of erratic order.

Tongues wag unheard in their restless fear,

the kindling is all that rages, speaks,

these tufts on the night breeze,

gently screaming,

“ behold my heat and thus explore your own.”

Tale of a Season

The telltale wind whips like a lash.
Binds the soft tressy fibers of her hair
around down, looped and pulled,
in the chaotic gnashing of weather’s wailing.
She blends,
hunter-like, around the shadows
of ingratiating solitude with a solemn façade,
born of rage.
Silent ire building, increasing,
exploding without a single sound.
The decibels lay within her reigning shout,
increasing precipitously
by mute rote
a thief in her silent night of plunder.
Lay waste to her, lay waste to her, lay waste to her.
Environs spike, binding ties,
break,
presumptuous in their knowing.  
 Shielded, missed and missing
she wanders on.  
 The inside struggle strove and touchless
keeps unaware of the notes,
her life music held inside stilted on mute.
She blends,
she is…all she’s ever known of the “I am.”