Costumes...

Superficial layers of color and cloth, covering flaws, concealing anything real that might give insight into a heart or a soul. Longing to fit, to find a perfect piece in a fucked up puzzle, they sculpt and mold and otherwise modify until existence is minimal, and exhibition is the main. Seeking satisfaction, regardless of reality, nothing made of substance and genuine depth, but merely illusion and shallow deception, they stumble through, unknowing, careless of what is real or no. Pain is perpetuated, truth unknown, self-destructive source of motivation driving them on.

Together they perform, filling empty roles, playing false parts, life is a stage and the director is a whore. Souls are sold for the lust in their eyes, diverting deep emotion for the pleasure of the flesh. Dreams are discarded, love is denied. Whims of society decide which act goes on, an erotic portrayal of a marketing ideal or perversion of true passion, either way it isn’t real. Discouraged, disillusioned, denied… devastating awakening, time and time again… prices will be paid.

In Motion

A broken blanket of white shrouds the world around her as she makes her way out into the early morning silence. At the edge of escaping this world, on the verge of caving in, she does the only thing she knows to do… she moves. Often, simply finding motion is enough, a change of scenery, a change of space, anything to keep the blood flowing. Sometimes she has been able to find groomed trails, her course smooth and easy, built for running, and she has been able to move with abandon, fast and free. In these times she reaches goals, climbs mountains, exists within her dreams. In these times, she runs for the sake of running, for the thrill of being alive, simply to feel the sun on her face, a gentle breeze guiding her in celebration.

At other times she feels trapped and runs for her life, escaping as she is today, as she did yesterday, and the day before… As she wanders into the dimness she can hear the echoes of other such runs, voices calling to her, reminding her of failed attempts at breaking free. At these times the road is rough, uneven, strewn with pieces of her heart, with scattered shells of broken dreams, with hazards and traps and the lies people tell. Often she navigates the path on her knees, unable to rise above the anguish and devastation. Crawling through the landmines, pulling herself up when she can, moving uneasily, unsteadily, she is focused only on the step she can take. Anything to stop hurting. In the quiet cold of morning, she is drawn to contemplation, and the pattern of her history creeps into her consciousness. As she walks unseen in the darkness before dawn, she begins to see that location is not the ghost which haunts her, the answer isn’t found by starting over elsewhere. Relief, she understands, will only come by truly centering herself again and by standing within her pain, accepting it and allowing it to move beyond her on its own.

Her life has too often been about turning the page. She wonders if perhaps she should linger a bit more with each one, taking time to truly absorb the words, the moments. If she lived a while longer on the page, maybe she would begin to understand the story. Rather than rushing to the climax of each event, pausing instead to savor the depth of each chapter slowly, feeling the pain as well as the love, maybe then this book, this world would make more sense. Maybe then she wouldn’t keep re-learning the lessons. Her past is littered with roadmaps, each one an ill-equipped guide for finding her way home, unable to lead her beyond the struggle. She knows that geography isn’t the issue. Yesterday found her touching down briefly in three counties, only to find the same aching sense of isolation, stronger each time she landed. Silently she acknowledges that the answer won’t be found by moving on, the fears and frustrations faithfully follow. Solace will be found by moving within, by embracing the emptiness, and opening to possibilities. To this place there is no roadmap, instinct will be her guide. Gently she relaxes her grip on the page, and in letting go she finds comfort, releasing it to turn in its own time, knowing all will be as it should.

Winter Solstice

The longest night of the year… dark hours stretch unending before her, unyielding, unforgiving of this emptiness within. The loneliness seems to compound with each new moment hidden from the light, it builds within her, a pressure in need of release. Yet, where does she find such release… relief… room to breathe again? She wonders to herself just how long she has roamed, unable to pinpoint the beginning, unable to foresee an end. It has somehow become a part of her, this abyss beneath her breath.

Yet, now and then there is a soft stream of light, a ray of sun, the gentle glow of the moon … or maybe just the tail of a comet as it streaks through her world, rocking her, messing with her equilibrium, her sense of place. She closes her eyes at a sudden memory, of a glimpse once caught, the gentlest eyes she has ever seen. A gaze which tore at her substance, stirring feelings never before awakened. She sees those eyes everywhere, they call to her, captivate her, will not release her.

Desperately she looks for other eyes, failing miserably to refocus her heart and its attention. She clings to words, works of art which affect her deeply, yet cannot draw her away. She searches for new spaces, hoping perhaps a change in geography will make the difference. She wanders the earth in search of hope, in an attempt to find a new source of light, of heat. There is no rhyme or reason to this chase of hers, this expedition of the soul. There is no promise that she will find that union she longs for, that recognition. Nothing that will erase the memory of those eyes, nothing will fill the void they leave in her world. For in those beautiful eyes she saw her light, and when they looked away, darkness fell upon her world… she waits for them to shine on her again, knowing that with them returns the sun.

Open Water

Storms are passing over land, and through her life. She knows there is no point in talking about the weather, nothing will change, it will be as it is, regardless. The storms which thunder through her heart are no different. Beyond her control, wild and unsettling, they move through her world with a passion capable of turning it upside down. Some around her offer assistance, advice, direction… with no consistency from one suggestion to the next. Instinctively she drifts towards safe harbors, attempting desperately to drop anchor somewhere, to dock her craft out of reach of the wind, the driving rain, the rolling sea, the cold… She’d give anything to feel warm again, to feel safe, to rest.

As painful as it can be to ride out the storms, she wonders how the blood of the planet would circulate without them. Perhaps she senses her own need for turbulence, for motion. Without movement, she would stagnate, she knows that, believes it, and even understands at some unseen level. But in the midst of this hurricane which hovers over her soul, she desperately searches for the eye… for that moment of stillness where she can find the quiet space to catch her breath.

She debates with herself about the validity of sailing in the open waters, and wonders if perhaps it would be safer to cling more closely to the shoreline. But she’s been bashed against the rocks and has run aground in the sand before, she knows the presumed safety of land is an illusion… or maybe it’s better said that the land can be safe for some, but offers its own hidden dangers, its own method of destruction. The known risk of sailing alone at sea is sometimes less terrifying than the unknown which waits onshore, even in the face of a storm. Some prefer to avoid the sight of land completely, navigating the waters of this life by instinct, and by the unchanging nature of the sky. Weathering the rage of wind and rain in isolation, far from the coastline and its rocks. Some, however, throw caution to the wind and risk everything for a glimpse of life in the estuary, to witness the sunset from a bed of sand, and to watch the colors play off the rocks and the trees, at the treacherous and breathtaking edges of the ocean.

Ascent

Sometimes the outside world is simply surreal. It’s like being underwater, where life is silent and vision is altered. You feel isolated somehow, removed and separate. Underwater this is part of the adventure, the mystery… an expected part of the game. But feeling these things above the surface, on solid ground and in day to day experience is unsettling. As if the coffee spilled across the roadmap blurring the lines and coloring the world a muddy sort of brown. I guess it’s a little like being lost, or maybe just the anticipation of getting lost, of knowing that what lies ahead is unknown, and that your map is stained with coffee.

Inside the isolation, in the place where intellect and emotion meet, inside your head, the path is often clear. Some form of instinct presses you in a clear direction, the vision is detailed, your focus intense. That others don’t recognize your guideposts is irrelevant… this is your path. You are unable to do anything but follow it, so strong is the pull within you. Beyond the bubble of your existence, voices are distorted. Though you reach out, tentatively, into the waters around you, you never quite grasp what it is you’re longing for. The attempt is painful, and you bear many scars, each with a memory of loss. Bleeding, grieving, often you find yourself retreating within, to that known space, serene and silent. To the familiar, lonely place, under the surface, beneath the waves.

Now and then, in attempting to ascend, to rise above the liquid and its illusions, you find yourself looking into the watery eyes of a kindred soul. Together you struggle to stay afloat, to remain where the sunlight can reach your heart… to resist giving in, exhausted, knowing that in losing hope, you will find yourselves sinking into the darkness again. Rage against the pull from below, against the doubts and the depression. Look deeply into the other’s eyes, hold the gaze as if it were key to sustaining life. Know that you are not alone, know that together you are safe. Together, you’ll never be lost. If you look far enough into those eyes, connecting, uniting… truly, deeply together, loneliness will never claim you. Soon, you’ll notice you are no longer on the watery surface, but floating in the gentle warmth of a summer breeze.

Snow at Hood Canal

As I lay here last night, in the darkness within the storm, my senses heightened, I could hear the waves pounding, crashing against the rocks, against each other. Their rhythm moved me, feeding an energy that is increasing, building, gaining strength... far beyond my control. Like lovers pulsing, in intimate, intense motion with each other, they rolled and surged and tumbled over one another, again and again and again...

I wanted to move with them, engulfed by a power greater than my own. I longed to join in that dance. I wanted to be one with the breathing of the earth and the caressing of the waves. I wanted to fully embody the nature of water which is both soft and hard, gentle and powerful, able to support a small feather floating on its surface and move a mountain, carving its way through the rocks in search of the sea. I wanted to ride the earth as it shook, until we reached the place where lovers go, hearts pounding in unison, joyously abandoning the worries of this world, to join the cosmos in a dance of the senses, unmatched by those on earth...

And now the tide is out, and snow is falling… the serenity of this place is stunning. Even after the storm last night raged and shook my senses, all is quiet… there is peace, intimate and deep. It is breathtaking to lie here in bed, with the shades open to the waters, watching white lace as it falls from the sky, lending an easy gentleness to those hard marine edges… the docks, the rocks the timbers… softening the edge of the shoreline itself... slowly taking the watery shape of the swell, melting into it… becoming part of the rising and falling… of the breaking of the waves. Flowing in this new form to places beyond the edge.

This place is unaccustomed to soft white blankets, but somehow, this time, the offer is accepted. The silence is beautiful…

Direction...

Get it right. Get it right. She follows the stars into the night sky, the color in her world fading with the sunset, utterly aware of the emptiness of the universe. Deep breath, get it right. She is brutally conscious of the decisions before her now. One dream slowly, painfully dying like coals of the morning’s fire… one dream flaming into life, in full force, after the embers had gone cold. Which one is most likely to burn faithfully and steadily? Which one does she nurture and tend to? Either one is likely to die out, or both will. She’s been left cold beside a dead fire before.

As she travels the skyline road she is suddenly aware of city lights far below her, on both sides of the ridge... countless lights, numberless individuals, indistinguishable from each other. Her faith could as logically be place in any one of those small sparks as it could in any dream she might have, so why the stress over these choices? All seem as equally likely to meet her needs for warmth and light, or to leave her cold. Some people insist that the choice is already made, we just follow the path. She often isn’t sure about her path, or her dreams… so many times they have been broken. High on this ridge the wind blows dreams far beyond anyone’s reach, along with the fallen leaves of bronze and gold, scattered and shredded and sent scurrying over the edge, to float below with the sparks and the lights, often evaporating before they could be kindled into a flame in the shadows below.

Beyond the burdens of this terrestrial existence, she knows there are possibilities. Somewhere deep inside she knows there are still dreams among the stars, reflected below in the light and the embers of this world. Precursors and remnants, befores and afters… she simply doesn’t know where to focus anymore to find the substance that should fall between the beginning and the end. Knowing her purpose has never been a problem, even when no one else could understand what she was doing, she always knew, she was always confident in the steps she must take, in the direction she needed to move, her inner compass unfailingly strong and clear. Why the uncertainty after all she has accomplished, after what she has survived. Why the disorienting doubts? Why now?

She stops to watch geese in flight, in tight formation, some unseen yet unwavering connection holding them together. They glide low above the trees, unafraid of that which is unknown, unconcerned, given wholly to the ‘V’ and the movement. Silently, she asks to join them, to be swept up with the force of the group, to be taken in, to belong. She knows they are escaping a darkness too, following the light, the warmth, seeking a place more gentle and supportive of life. She wants to be warm again, to be held, to be part of something unspoken.

Leaving the lights of the city behind, she finds herself beneath a desert sky, engulfed by darkness, yet blanketed by the stars. They still take her breath away. Though she’s studied them for years they still have magic to share with her lost and wandering soul. How many times has she stood below them, asking for direction, for help? How many times have they offered comfort simply by their constant presence, their permanence? Tonight it seems like someone spilled the salt across the sky. She stands in awe of their presence, their ability to penetrate such a vast expanse of emptiness to shine in her world. She admires the nature of the light, the directness of purpose that keeps it on task, traveling beyond the life of its source to reach this place. She longs for such direction again... too tired to reach out, too disillusioned to believe it will come in its own time.

She returns to the mountain, hoping that if she climbs higher, towards the stars, she will gain purpose once again, direction. As the trees rise around her, the darkness gets deeper, heavier. The stars remain, but her view of the sky is limited, no longer a shimmering shroud, comforting her, surrounding her. A misty mask of gray begins to settle in, blurring her vision of the trees and the sky. She struggles to keep her eyes on the road, resisting the urge to search for landmarks, for guidance, trying to keep faith in the path she has chosen, trusting that it will lead her into crystal clear sunlight someday. Maybe that’s what’s wrong… her line of sight has been limited by pain or disillusionment, from many failed attempts which have left her broken, her dreams shattered in a million tiny pieces. If she could only gather them up once again, and fling them into the night with enough force to reach the stars.

Transparent

Invisible. A non-entity. No longer seen or accounted for. She's a ghost in her own time, blown off by those who mattered most... burned off like morning fog on a sunny day. Only she hasn't seen the sun in weeks... she's become shadow, gray, silent... without substance. The sun stayed behind, in her past.

That's where they go when they pass her by - to her past, the one that nearly killed her. That's where they all go - those that belonged to her before the past. They leave her cold and shaking, retreating into herself... alone, belonging nowhere and to no one. They go back there.

She fades a little more. Transparent. Like water or air...

Defined only by the vessel that she's hidden in.

To be warm someday...

Sometimes, we want to be anonymous, to disappear in the crowd, to go unnoticed. At other times, it seems important to be recognized, appreciated, known… we long for a human connection, something meaningful and enduring. The lucky ones find it. So many never do... And some want it so badly they destroy themselves in the illusion…

Today I left those who begged me to stay. I have failed much in my life, then picked up and moved forward again. Alone… Always alone… No one has ever cared enough to question my reasons for leaving. Yet today, there was love, and open hearts, and pleading eyes asking me to stay. And still I walked away… Yes, there is a dream I follow, but today my vision is too blurred to see it, my senses too dulled by pain to feel it. I sit here struggling to understand, fumbling through feeble attempts at reasoning with myself, aching with aloneness I haven’t felt the equal of. Why am I not hardened by now? Why am I not cold? I don’t want to feel anything if it means I must feel this shredding of my soul again and again. Hope is a dreaded thing, a light to be avoided… yet I am continuously drawn there, as a moth to a flame. Scars are thick from a lifetime of seeking the heat of a love which is true, of reaching out, wanting warmth, needing to belong somewhere, only to be burned by the fires of guarded hearts. Knowing this and knowing that today I left the only place I have ever felt wanted makes me question my sanity. The hope I had in finding a better way flickered and died today. The hope I believed in was an illusion. There is nothing left but a gaping wound… the same empty, aching hole in my heart that nothing seems to fit. Lying here in the rubble, I wonder if my heart should have stayed where it was wanted. To matter to someone is a rare and precious thing. I wonder if I can ever stop reaching out. If I pull my arms out of their sockets, would that help? If I cauterize my soul as it bleeds out all of my focus and determination, staining the dying grass a colorless shade, would it give up this dangerous game it plays with love? If I pull it all inside myself, can I keep my core warm enough to survive, or should I simply let go and fade away? I’ve heard that dying from the cold is like entering a peaceful sleep… I would like to sleep again… Clearly there is no reason to continuously reach for the flame. I fear I will never know the warmth that I so dearly long for, but only the pain of getting close to the fire.

yeah... what he said:

"All people dream, but not equally.

Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their mind,

wake in the morning to find that it was vanity.

But the dreamers of the day are dangeous people,

for they dream their dreams with open eyes,

and make them come true."

-T.E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia)

"Something within fishermen tries to make fishing into a world perfect and apart - I don't know what it is or where, because sometimes it is... nowhere in particular except somewhere deep. Many of us would probably be better fishermen if we did not spend so much time watching and waiting for the world to become perfect."

-Norman MacLean, A River Runs Through It

Foundation

Shattered lives

fractured, crumbling

survivors stunned and moving

slow-motion through the morning

Chalky air hanging thick like fog

limiting vision

smothering

contributing to the confusion

But below

within

rooted deep, is a foundation

Eyes closed

breath focused

it is there

Solid

Unchanging

Look for it… feel for it

Shallow veneer

thin layer of “looks good”

covering the restless, relentless hunger

A façade, a sham

a barrier to true connections

Nothing is missing

but simply unbalanced

Seek it within

deeper

below the bling

It is there

Consuming

using, abusing

Borrowing, borrowing, borrowing

Unsatisfied with simply being

A balancing act destined to tip

to fall

leaving wreckage in the wake of the wave

Find the foundation

the center

the core

The place where we are human

The place where we connect

Beating hearts

breathing

bleeding

feeling from the gut

reaching for each other

nothing less

Life...

What else matters?

Leaving at Daybreak

Softly, silently, a misty rain settles the dust, all that remains of the summer. Dawn is breaking gently over the land of sage and sun, leaving watercolor strokes of bronze and gold in its wake. Nestled deep in the driver’s seat, she follows the river of pavement into tomorrow, stretching before her like a silver thread, tying the pieces of her life together, as if any of it made sense.

Shadows that scar the landscape dissolve without resistance in the watery light, the way her own scars fade, defenseless in the face of possibility. The healing hands of time loosen knots, relieving tension, easing the pain in her back and in her heart. She finds joy in the early morning journey, a solitary guest at the birth of a new day. Completely present in the moment, in the morning, in her movement through the desert, she has let go.

Uplifted by the winds of change, blowing easy, steady at her back, urging her forward into the future, she glides gently with the current following the path she has chosen. She read somewhere that between people and the light there are too many rules. Considering that thought, she finds some peace in the knowledge that she finally learned to look beyond the rules that block out light, and to embrace the brightness of unfiltered, unshackled, and uninhibited love.

Carefully redirecting her mind when it wanders in search of the future, she is focused on the beauty and the light that surrounds her now. She has chosen her path, and it is a good one. Not without danger or darkness, but still good and full of purpose and potential. She follows the breaking day as its light reaches ahead, illuminating the way... Her way... Her path. For her alone to follow and to understand. She takes a deep breath, inhaling the quiet brightness of dawn, her eyes on the horizon, her heart open, her mind attentive to every detail present in this place, at this time. Exhaling, she embraces what is. Accepting… allowing… enjoying what is. Trusting in wisdom and grace greater than herself. She is free.

Hope Lost... Love Remains

Contemplating the notion of simplicity, she lingers a moment at the leading edge of life. "Slow down" she whispers to herself, knowing that if she doesn't heed the warning, the whole train wreck will careen beyond that edge, and who knows what damage it will do. At times like these she'd like nothing better than to walk away. The load is so heavy she can barely breathe. She tried to set it down, but it didn't stay.

Exhausted, defeated, she gives up the battle. She cringes as she thinks of the damage already done, the stress he endured, the frustration. If her love causes him pain, she'll stop feeling it. But, God... can she stop? It's beyond her, or rather, it has consumed her. She can't control what she feels, she'd have done that by now. Expression... that she can control. She's learned to bury, to hide, to retreat. She can focus on that. Blank, immobile, unexpressed...

So, she loses again. She lets him go, and with him goes her heart. She won't need it anyway, she knows the only way she'll get down this path is to stop feeling. So, there you go, she thinks. Just stop. Stop thinking, stop wanting, stop loving. What was that word he used? Yearning... stop yearning. Let it go.

Losing hope is different than stopping love. Hope is fragile, easily damaged, often destroyed. Love, when it is real, is strong, enduring, resilient. Love goes on, even if it must go alone.

She understands now that it will go on.

And so will she.

Letting Go

Now and then I find myself learning to let go
to turn within
to settle into an easier presence.

Unreliant on another
unattached
independent, self sufficient
free.

My assumption is that I will loosen up
lighten up
perhaps to the point of floating
someday.

But instead
this centered, settled ease

leads me deeper
nestled, rooted, focused
comforted

connected.

Beyond the beginning
to the realm of pure existence
to the place of calm assurance
to the strong and steady, gentle current
of all enduring love.

Empty, Still

Used & abused seeking used & abused
Cloaked by night
Creeping 'round dark edges
Grimy from years
Wasted years
Of smoke and sweat
Of piss
Of tears
Solitary against sticky walls
Drawn to a flame
Mindlessly together
A jumbled mass
A stumbling mess
Writhing, reaching, grasping
On the floor
While timekeepers, dream weavers,
Interpreters
Gather on the stage
To witness the disease
Played out
The inflicted puking pain
Bleeding confusion
Swaying, rubbing, grinding
Groping for connection
That isn't there
Empty, still

Refuge

She sits in quite solitude, above the river, among the rocks, in easy company with her thoughts. Closing her eyes she feels the heat rising from the boulders. She absorbs the energy, feeling somewhat grounded once again, sensing new direction, new hope.

But hope is the wind… unpredictable, insubstantial, unseen. Like hope, wind is best experienced with closed eyes and a quiet heart. Focus. Feel it. She is aware of how it caresses her cheek and the base of her neck, whispering gently across tender places, stirring tiny hairs on soft skin which yearns to be touched. Breezy fingers trace a lonely curve, following a line to the small of her back, pausing there, and in doing so, ceasing to exist.

It is the same way with hope. She sighs, feeling dampness at the corner of her eye, a tightening in her chest, a squeezing in her throat – as though the wind is being forced from her, along with any hope. She is aware that as long as she has a direction to move, she can feel hope, blowing softly about , keeping the air fresh and alive. But if she pauses, like the wind suddenly stilled, hope fades quickly into nothing. So she keeps moving, keeps creating, keeps dreaming. In doing so, she struggles to hold on.

Opening her eyes, she lets the sun guide her focus into the distance, following shadows cast down from the clouds into the mountains to the west. It can be mesmerizing, watching forms change, colors glow and fade, shadows dancing through rimrocks, through valleys... and through each other. Dreams change too, depending on the light, or on the shadows. And they change according to perspective. She knows that the dream she holds in her sight is hers alone. No one sits with her, sharing space and vision. From the other side of the mountain, maybe the dream can’t be seen at all. Nor the path. Nor can her trembling be felt as she thinks of losing touch... From there, perhaps clouds don’t appear to cast dancing shadows, perhaps clouds seem threatening, ominous, destructive. And from there, perhaps mountains seem like no place to dance, but instead an obstacle to be overcome.

Below the rim where she rests, sorting through thoughts and reasons, there runs a river. A giver and taker of life. From these rocks it looks quite benign, quietly contained within wandering banks of green. But the river, too, is not all it seems, difficult to define with any accuracy, continuously evolving, morphing, moving. Taking with it ancient elements whose remnants are the very rocks she’s taken refuge in.

Refuge... A word which shakes her soul. Suddenly she has found herself without a refuge. Or maybe it hasn’t been so sudden. Looking back she can see how it happened; a vague pattern perhaps, and somewhat sketchy, but she notices from here how the boundaries of her last refuge have been chipped away, peeled away… so violently blown away. Shit, even given away. She winces in recognition of her own part in the destruction. Means and reasons don’t matter, the refuge is gone. So, once again, afraid and exhausted, she must look within, to find answers and healing internally. That’s why she’s come here, instinctively returning to a place of beauty, of rest. Drawing energy from the elements of the earth, and finding hope in the wind… opening her heart, and gathering strength for the next big step.

The Journey

Trapped. The only thing she fears more is being abandoned… left behind. Misunderstood and left for dead or desperate, neither of which is true about her. At least she still knows this much, so she hasn’t really lost her mind, just her focus, just for the moment. She feels everything too deeply to be any shade of dead, and if she were desperate she would settle for the stuff life has thrown at her. She’d stand against some cold, stiff wall with arms outstretched; taking whatever comes, until something stuck. But she knows her own nature well enough to know that she’ll never be passive about life. She’s not a reaction, she’s more of a trip… or maybe that’s “journey”. She remembers an old friend who after arriving safely from the road, would answer the standard “how was the trip?” with “hippies take trips, we had a good journey”.

To be a decent journey, there must be adventure, and some measure of safety, although not too much. She wonders if she’s played it all a little too safe… no, that can’t be true. In her own way she’s lived right out on the edge, baffling friends and frustrating family. She defined wild for herself, not with in-your-face behavior or with drugs, but by simply defying expectations, refusing to do or be anything just because "that’s how it is”. Sadly, sometimes she tried... to follow the rules, to be what was expected. Time would always take its toll, and she would start to crumble, to fade, to die. Intelligent people deserve better than that. She knew that even when she was young. Knew it at her core, in her heart, in her head… in her gut. She thought that following her heart would keep her on the right path, and that often meant taking the trail to the left rather than staying on the highway where they said she belonged. She has sat on the edge of the road many times, studying the world with a sense of fascination. She is aware that often people assume it is judgment rather than wonder that she feels. Sometimes it’s more than wonder, it’s longing. An ache for what seems like a simpler way to live. Sometimes the wonder and the ache reveal an awareness of the pain people feel in that world. In her head, she knows that all people suffer, but sometimes she convinces herself that she’s made life too complicated, and a good hard party would be better. Or maybe to just get laid… to hell with spirit, emotion or connection… to hell with love. Put on the costume, practice the lines, join the party… Why wait any longer? Waiting hurts. Being left behind hurts. But in her soul, she knows better. To live to the fullest, taking every chance is one thing, to be a fool, the jester in someone else’s court, forcing a fit where there is none, is another. It is best to carefully follow your own heart, even if the path gets lonely and dark.

The journey is an adventure. She smiles when people think she’s tame, when they don’t understand that all facets of her are not displayed publicly, lightly. And sometimes she bleeds because of that, and sometimes she grieves. Being misunderstood… one of her greatest fears. Yet, some things are more real, more alive if allowed some sanctity, if exercised with purpose, if experienced with heart. She knows that, but she doesn’t make the rules. “Wild” has its own expectations, its own image. The drinking, the partying, the stupid illusion that one has to lose self-control to be any kind of edgy, any form of free… to feel any kind of life… any passion. She can’t play that game, never could... not that she didn’t try, she just didn't play well, couldn’t fit in. It always felt like a sham, a fraud... a street level performance of tabloid exhibitions. Players pretending to be erotic, exotic and free when they were really just hiding, needing something artificial to get someplace else, to get high, to get wild, to connect... to fit. No one seemed strong enough to face their authentic self, to illuminate shadows they might be running from. So they ran, and she stopped. Some suggested stopping was weakness. She didn't bother to argue, it only mattered what she knew… and she knew no weak soul could stop, and no weak heart would understand her. Some things you just have to accept.

She recognizes this feeling of being trapped. She’s felt it before. She talks herself through the thoughts, the words... tries to be mindful of the experience, to accept the feeling, and to know that it will pass. She remembers the teachings, that the experience, the feeling does not define her. It is a thought, it is not her. She is not trapped, she’s simply experiencing that feeling. Like feeling lost. Like feeling alone. She is not lost or alone, she's simply conscious of sensations. They are temporary, they are illusions, they will pass. They always have before. Like with quicksand, it’s hard not to struggle against the feelings, but struggling, fighting, trying to control them simply gets you stuck there.

Breathe, let it go.

Focus on the heart.

Focus on the path.

After all, how can you trap a journey?

I

I am the rock wall, burnt by the sun, too far from the water to quench my thirst.
I am the boulders and gravel and dust crumbled from the wall, lying at its feet.
I am the sun which warms the rock.
I am the frost which heaves it down.
I am the river, ever changing, flowing through the jumble, around boulders, over gravel, carrying the dust with me as I go.
I am misty moisture, returning to the clouds, rising, cycling, ready to be thrown to earth again, diving with abandon when released - with the storm clouds behind me and thunder urging me on, crashing into the rocks, dripping into the dust.
I am the echo rolling along behind the storm.
I am the lightning racing through darkness.
I am darkness itself.
I am silence.

outside

There is this distant place, a vast expanse of dust and rocks, of too hot and too cold, of wind and of resistance. It is a false haven of the “us-s” and a true hell for the “thems”, it’s the in-crowd and the out. It is a divided place. Yet in many ways the place is beautiful, sometimes staggeringly so. Maybe it is only the sense of separation which causes the pain. Maybe the separation is an illusion. She isn’t always sure.
As she thinks about this web of reasons she realizes she hasn’t been there in a very long time. At some point in the past ten years she excused herself from that place. Or maybe she made no excuses at all, but simply stepped outside. That would be more her style. Now-you-see-her, now-you-don’t… Over the years she has learned that nothing is ever worth the struggle, the uphill battle, the “one against the world” bullshit that people make movies about. Save it for the cinema. One of the few truths she accepts is that everything is connected; life is of one web. Knowing that reality, what’s the point in fighting? Wrestling with someone else’s illusion is a waste of precious time. So when she reached that point, she must have simply walked away.
She can’t really remember making that kind of considered decision, but somehow she ended up outside the battle again. It’s more comfortable here. Standing outside looking in, she can barely remember what it was like; it all seems so foreign to her now. Yet, she knows she was there. When the light is just right she can still see the scars, still finger them just beneath the surface of her skin. Though she was told to let the blows roll off of her back, too often she felt them sink in deep, deeper than they could have if she had been stronger. And she knows she left some damage of her own in her wake as well. The thought makes her cringe, her stomach tighten, her mouth dry. Karma, be kind… She never intended to hurt anyone, disappoint them, fail them. The pain she felt herself must have made her somehow blind, numb. It was that half-crazy struggle to keep it all together. That illusion. The illusive dream. Another’s dream, as she lay dying. She sighs, shaking the darkness once again, and figures that must have been when it happened. Like Alice through the looking-glass, she simply walked away.

Tidepool Dreams

I feel the heat rising from the sand, coaxing my body into a quieter place, gently prying my fingers from the problems of this world, easing me into stillness. My toes curl and burrow beneath its surface, and for a moment I close my eyes, imagining that I could sink into the sand just as easily. To bury my body in the bake-oven of fluffy white beach, to be held there in the warmth, maybe that would ease the knots which have lodged themselves in my shoulders.

I tip my face to the sky, inhaling sunlight and the breeze which moves softly across the water, bringing with it a misty kiss from the sea. The surf keeps a soothing rhythm, rolling gently in and back out again, like the sleepy rise and fall of breath - easy, quietly, in surrender to the night. There is something in the movement here, the patterns at the shoreline, which so clearly proclaim the life force of the planet. The rocking of the waves and the shifting of the sand, the salt, the sun, the ever-moving air currents… all moving in unbroken union with each other. Moving within me.

I open my eyes and try to take it all in. Rising slowly, I move to see the tidepool left as the water receded. The surface is still, protected from the wind, smooth as glass, reflecting the sky and the world at its edges. Beneath the water there is life, swimming, spinning, circling… resisting the confinement found within the limits of the tiny body of water. There is also that which is motionless, a starfish, perhaps unaware of the limitations, perhaps confined before and resigned to this reality. But then again, maybe it believes it is in the sky itself, as it is reflected on the pool. Life here is easy to overlook if you don’t pause to study it, to look past the reflections.

Rocking back into the sand, looking this time at the reflections, I wonder how real they might be… the mirror image of this life around me, within me, the vision of possibilities. I’m tempted, as always, to reach out, to feel for myself and experience this reality. With the desire to touch the dream also comes the realization that in doing so I will disturb the stillness and the image reflected there. I ask myself again, as I have so often before – is the vision unobtainable? Meant for glimpsing on the glassy surface of tidepools or mountain lakes, but not meant to touch or to hold? Doubt wells up like a silent storm, churning around my heart as if it would consume me. I sink slowly back to Earth, the warm sand welcoming, comforting. I close my eyes again, and dream a tidepool dream.

“I am an experiment on the part of nature, a gamble within the unknown, perhaps for a new purpose, perhaps for nothing, and my only task is to allow this game on the part of the primeval depths to take its course, to feel its will within me and make it wholly mine.”

– Herman Hesse

Today is one of those days, when I feel especially experimental... or rather, like the experiment. One that isn't going so well perhaps. One that is being studied by that kid in the back of the room, you remember, the one who never really paid attention - the one who was always blowing things up in the Chem lab...

Then there's that "will" of the "primeval depths"... oh, yeah - there is that. Surrender, you say? "Get in the game and leave it all on the field". What if I'm no good at games? What then...

In The Mist

Today feels like the first true day of summer, and here it is half-way through June. Ah, what we wait the longest for perhaps is more deeply appreciated? I don't know, but I'm just glad it's here... spending the day in the garden, I nearly missed some of the early bloomers. It's good to be back :)

I have this urge to go hiking... but first must tend to the chores that should have been done long before now. Or maybe I'd go fishing, it's been a long time...

In honor of those temptations, and as a promise that I will give in to them very soon - I thought I'd post "In The Mist". Written for a college project a couple of years ago, and then buried amongst other work that comes with seeking knowledge - I stumbled upon it again a few months ago...

*****

Rise early and be waiting, clear the fog out of your head
The sky begins more grey than blue; the sun will paint it red
The mist lies in the bottoms, and hides a secret at its feet
As the sunrise fades from red to gold, at the waters edge we’ll meet
The mist now softly rising, toward the sky of newest blue
Revealing now the water, and the valley it flows through
The mist surrounds my outfit, leaves me to walk with my disguise
I ease up on the river and imagine I am wise
Study life along the banks; pick one to join the dance
Hoping I can do my part, give the mist a parting glance
It’s just me and the river now, and the secret at its depth
I lift the tools of fishermen, of artists who have left
I’m here alone at water’s edge, the mist has disappeared
I’m lifting now the instruments those who came before have shared
Feeling the connections - from Grandpa, through, and past me
From man to fish to river, from thing to everything
Those who stood with me before, in part are with me now
All within me and beyond me, have joined to show me how
I lift the ancient master’s tool, the old line meets the wind
For an instant we are dancing, Grandpa and I (a kid)
A momentary rhythm - and no longer in the mist
I return to quiet solitude, the water and the fish
Step back from the water, put the old fly pole away
The fish remains a secret, to reveal another day.

DJB

EOU Fall 2006

spring

New foals dot the landscape

as I make my way home from Bend.

Something in my heart stirs,

remembering.

What is it about horses and men

that gets in a girl’s blood,

under her skin,

and lingers forever in her heart?

Memories of sweet breath,

softly stirring,

velvet against skin.

Quiet strength

just beneath the surface,

muscles rippling,

almost understanding,

poised to wheel and run

if movement comes too fast.

Content to share space,

comfort lost if held too tightly.

Heartbeats joined,

moving together,

flowing with the other.

Neither acting nor reacting.

Not controlling but being,

coexisting,

experiencing the wind and sun as one.

Awesome

Graduation day
Tears in my eyes
Joy in my heart
Celebration in the air

Be safe, my loves… go out and change the world

I know you have it in you to do great things!

Each has climbed a mountain,

overcome challenges

reached out from a place which only he or she can truly understand

each is unique and beautiful

solitary strength

yet connected to each other

Tears in my eyes

Smile on my face

Love and joy and celebration in my heart

And always, belief in you

Breathe....

Yesterday, Tuesday, witnessed yet another arrogant attempt by the military regime currently in power in the US to strong-arm another nation into bowing before its demands. On the heels of celebrating the hope for real change in this nation, as Barack Obama steps into his role as the Democratic candidate, more venom spews from those who currently, and incompetently, speak for the majority of Americans. For the US Secretary of State to say that engaging in talks with Iran would be “pointless” is irresponsible and destructive. Status quo for BushCo. More enraging was the pandering to Israeli Prime Minister Olmert. More pitiful is the way this administration attempts to use Israel to bait its neighbors into armed conflict with the planet’s biggest bully. It’s like watching the mean kid down the street teach little brother to find trouble, so the older can prove to everyone just how tough he is, with aggressive offering of defense and support.

How can dialog, with anyone, anywhere ever be “pointless”? Perhaps there are occasions when talking may not be productive, but never pointless. The simple act of talking, breathing words, keeps life-giving oxygen moving, keeps energy flowing, and relaxes muscles which might otherwise harden. And it keeps fear at bay. Fear; the ultimate tool in a fascist ruler’s arsenal. Fear means control, or lack of it. When fear is present some outside, often evil force is in control. Those afraid never have it. As soon as they surrender to fear they have surrendered control. Stop talking, stop breathing, stop reasoning… The resulting tension feeds an increasing fear; the vicious cycle spins furiously, its victim oblivious.

How dare anyone who represents my country say that talking is “pointless”? Talking is imperative, just like breathing. In a former life I rode horses, and I battled fear. I learned that to sing was my strongest defense, because in singing I was breathing, and in breathing tension fades, oxygen circulates, and the brain functions. Perhaps we should teach Ms Rice to sing?

Holes...

In trying to make life a little happier for the dog, I’ve left the screen door open so that she can lay in the sun, yet come in when she wants. It seems that this may be too much freedom for one young, mostly lab, big, black dog. I recognize that dogs often have an instinct to dig. I read once, a humorous explanation, of why Labradors so desperately need to dig. The story states something like it’s due to many generations of selective breeding to be truffle-hunters for the royal family… it was much funnier in the original. I often regret not keeping a copy filed somewhere. Given my love for the Lab, I face the instinct often, and find myself needing to laugh about holes in the yard.

I also have instincts too unruly to control… although, unlike the dog, I do know better. I find mind and my body twisting and collapsing back upon themselves as I channel the energy from these misled instincts into something more productive. At times like this even meditation doesn’t help to convince my being to simply let go. Rather than a time for centering, for healing, and for renewal it becomes quiet time for my heart and mind to wage war against my sanity, with constant dialog and practice runs of what I might say. Most of the time I win the little battles, I don’t say what I’d like to say, knowing that the words would be unwelcome in the hearer’s world. I don’t take the action that I’m created to take, but simply walk away. Other moments find me wound too tight, a tired old towel from the locker room floor, used to soak up the mess from too many footprints tracking water from the shower, thrown down and stepped on, then twisted and wrung to rid me of any sense. It’s in these moments that I say things I shouldn’t say, and find myself alone with the dog.

“My Heart Is Afraid that it will have to suffer," the boy told the alchemist one night as they looked up at the moonless sky. “Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams."

~Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

It’s the last day of May, and I believe the clouds are wringing out the last of their moisture, dripping it carelessly across this normally dry land. They say that even with the continuous rain for what must have been forever (actually, less than a week), the month of May has been dryer than normal. Funny how what seems impossible can be real.

There are only two days of school remaining for our seniors. That seems impossible. A week left of this college term for me, and my last paper completed today. I never thought I’d finish. My youngest turned 19 last month, my oldest 21 on Friday; just yesterday they were babies, I swear. How could they have grown into such fine young men so quickly? I didn’t take my eyes off of them for a minute… or at least I tried not to.

A good friend is saying goodbye. At this moment my heart is like the boy’s, fearing the pain that is sure to come with parting. Perhaps the Alchemist is right, that the fear is worse than the suffering. But what if shelter is only found in the pursuit of dreams? Ok, so I guess I also have dreams, but the sweetest ones are of the one who is leaving. Maybe it's time to focus on solitary dreams. Man, it feels like I’ve been doing that forever…

So if all this is illusion, perhaps there is no real parting anyway. No separation. I can find a little comfort there, but not much. One day my soul whispered softly, “ah… my friend, there you are…I've been looking everywhere for you.”. Maybe there will be another reunion in this life. Or maybe the separation really is just an illusion. Yeah, funny how the impossible can be real.

Friends...

Life is surprising; sprinkling brief glimpses of humanity here and there, in the course of a simple day. I guess that’s a lesson for living in the moment – that it’s impossible to accurately plan ahead, knowing these tiny gifts of the unexpected will arise in spite of the plan. And for the same reason, to resist the urge to gaze into the past, reflecting on happiness that has come and gone. Everything in its own time. All as it should be. These truths are difficult to accept when the night is lonely, or the load is heavy, or the road is long… or a love is forsaken… yet, they are truths which can offer stability to an accepting heart, one which is then free to delight in the experience of the beautiful miracles of each moment.

What about failed love, then? How can one simply extinguish a feeling, one which is so easy to experience, and so all-consuming? Perhaps that is part of the acceptance, to embrace unrequited love as it is, without clinging, or attempts to alter – but with a simple and compassionate acknowledgement of the presence of love, and the strength to move through each breath, sharing all moments with an intimate ghost.

We need not fear that our love will die. Daily we are given opportunities to practice compassion and empathy. These are the cornerstones of an honest love. They steady the foundation for all future opportunities. The warming fires of compassion and empathy burn gently, waiting for the time when love’s light will be kindled by their simple flame, its embers cradled eternally in their warmth. Everything in its time… All as it should be…

Silent

I sit cross-legged on the couch, in quiet contemplation of this work before me. A few feet away, across the carpet, and also silent, sits my old guitar. Once it belonged to my Dad, but it has been mine for many years. For a while it was my steady companion, but we don’t get together much anymore. It sits there, a few feet away waiting, while I sit here, cross-legged on the couch doing homework. One shouldn’t still be doing homework at age 40…. It’s been a journey of 3 1/2 endless years now - a long, lonely road, this college thing. At first, there was still time for that old guitar, but it’s been a while now, and I miss it. I keep promising that I will make time, but there is so much that must be done. This must be what the last leg of a marathon feels like.

The guitar itself is simple, honey-colored with some wear on the neck where many chords have been fingered. The strings need to be replaced, but since it has been silent for so long, there is no hurry. The nut should be replaced too, having been patched back together once. And I’d like to get electric pickups, if I ever get the time to play again.
The case it waits in is ragged. It’s cracked in places, with a hinge missing here and there. And it’s dusty. I should at least dust it off. One thing has changed since dad had it; there are 19 fairly progressive, rather opinionated, sorta rebellious stickers plastered all over the front of the old black case. Dad hasn’t seen that yet, and I’m not sure what he’ll say.
I’m 40 years old, why does it matter what he says?
It’s my instrument now, my voice is my own.
Why do I leave it silent?




I can’t get through the reading without choking up. Breathless… fearful of being seen and fearful of being misunderstood, trying to hold it back, and failing at every word.

What is this fear of not being understood? This is the 3rd time in as many months that I’ve faced that realization. The first time is in the midst of a conversation, when I’m feeling completely devastated at the thought that I might not be understood by someone, or worse yet - misinterpreted. The second time was during a songwriter’s workshop for kids; when taking turns talking about what we fear when performing, I said that my fear was that people “wouldn’t get it”… would misunderstand what I was trying to communicate. It knocked the wind out of me, that “ah-ha” or rather “oh-my-god” moment when I realized that this was a common thread running through the fabric of my tattered mind. And here again, in writing class, this thread is laid bare…

And in my life I find myself silenced by the fear of miscommunicating my thoughts. So many things I should have said when I saw him. So many things came to mind, and I held them back rather than risk misinterpretation, yet again. Yet, I know better than to let that happen… to let a day go by without letting one so precious know my feelings… often there is not another chance to say the things we should say, to those we love. Communication is risky, but it’s a risk that should be taken. Like getting out of bed in the morning. Breathing the air. Walking in the rain, or even in the sun. Life is about risks, I guess. Even if it hurts at times… Pain is part of the fabric of life. The secret - I forget sometimes - is to “wait with it”… observe the emotion, without fear, without struggle. “Joyful participation in the sorrow of the world” a wise man said…

theme? what theme?

Writing class is exhausting. Emotionally exhausting. Liberating, exposing, unearthing, and unnerving... draining. Wow.

In selecting an object to write about, I chose carefully, hoping to avoid the emotional torrent which overtook me at the first reading of even a tiny piece of my work. It seems instead that even a deeply buried, tiny piece of my heart is sharply sensitive to the light. Can't the callouses protect me? It used to work that way. So much to say, so much I'd rather not say. As I work through the seemingly benign assignments, ever wary of exposed nerves and thinking that I'm avoiding contact, I find myself instead faced with a steadily rising, slowly surging flood of tears. A helpless feeling, as if the toilet didn't quite flush, but instead regurgitated its contents back upward, creeping towards the rim, almost in slow motion - but not as slow as my reaction, reaching for the plunger, breathless, fearful of what's coming, yet unable to stop the flow of tears... or shit.

Better than math...

So here I am, unsure for the most part of what I'm getting myself into, but I'll admit - also a little eager to see where this path may go. Yes, there is homework that should be done, and housework that hasn't been done in far too long. There will be time for that... for now, I am exploring.

Memorial Day. Not much to say this year, more sadness as young lives continue to be lost for a cause not worthy of their sacrifice. Yet, if we can get beyond the politics and the argument against this war, we still must honor the human lives lost because of it. I can't call it a celebration, though. That would be asking too much. A hell of a day to start a new adventure.

So much moving around in my head, as I sit searching for words which might communicate my thoughts without leaking out the secrets of my heart. Ouch. That may be hard to do. Perhaps it is a lesson in waiting and watching for what may come of its own. But what keeps surfacing is more than I am willing to admit, certainly more than I'm willing to publish. Maybe beginning is enough for one day...