Saturday, March 23, 2019


Silence is underfoot - too many thoughts trampling parades of cacophonous monsters and trash into every moment. I wish I could watch it all pass and laugh, but instead, I see everything. I don't believe everything, but I see everything. Then I am angry, and then I am angry because I am angry, which is simply, a big stupid circle of stupidity.

I have been away at this charade for most of the day, and now I am ready to go home.

"BE STILL!" I shout to all of my imagined monsters like the child from WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE by Maurice Sendak.

I want this mind to be a bare mirror, reflecting earth, soul, object, light, and color. Then I'd like to wait and watch while ideas appear like hot air balloons, breathing fire and blowing in the wind. I sit and place a white page under pencil. Then I scribble, hoping the sight will write some of the noise away. I will not be eaten up by my wild things. Clatter happens, and when it does, I climb into my paper sailboat and float for home.

Saturday, March 16, 2019


Laughter moves through me in gusts, belly and mouth, sudden and deep. This is bliss, I believe.

We are the same. You are there on your journey. I am here on mine. We are separated, but only by skin and air and time.

I am a cloud floating inside the container of an animal, and I am expanding, seeping into the soil and sky. I want to be the laughter which moves through me in gusts. I want to be the cloud, the wind, the leaf, the sea, the swallows, the sky.

Thursday, March 14, 2019


I am allowing the worry to abandon me now, letting it leave me like sweat and tears.

Why, I ask myself, revive old rancid regret? Why write out old ugly worry into word and story? Why drag up nets of jagged metal, splintered junk, and wreckage onto the deck of my being?  Why, when I can just release it? I release it now. And when it rises again, I look at it, then I release it like fish, like flies, like flocks of caged birds. For worry is tight and heavy and fierce. I don't want this wild thing. It clots and rots my body. Severs me from soul.

I only ever want to be here. And I only ever want to be a life that is light and clean. I want to sweep out the dirt, guts, and dust of unwanted thought. I want to seek and settle into silence, float within stillness.

I once wore worry like a gold medal. Look at me! Look at all the worry I have! - worry for others, worry for the world, worry for myself! Goodness, I must be good for I feel so horrible about so many things! I would write congested paragraphs of the stuff, scribbled page after scribbled page, then I would open my mouth and spew my fury and fear. I thought worry made me a better person. That it was proof of my awareness for all the suffering, - my suffering, your suffering, the suffering of every insufferable stranger.  I believed that worry made me and the world better. But what has my worry every really made (aside from a false means of activity)? I'm not sure it has done much of anything. For my worry rarely dissolved and evolved into action, which certainly would have been worth my attention.  Instead, my worry formed a wind storm inside me.

Now I let it blow through me.

I once had a water wheel for a heart, a thrashing thump thump THUMP of wood against water. Now, inside me, there is a leaf on a stream, gliding gently gently gently, paper between water and air.

I am allowing the worry to abandon me now,
and good GOD it feels good.

Tuesday, February 26, 2019

I am life.

I once thought my emotions were asleep under my skin, resting there like a wounded beast, weeping quietly, waiting for my attention and self-pity, but this is not so.

It is the show of the ego - an unwanted actor addicted to my cheers and jeers, my whistles, whispers, boos, and bravos.

Well, hello to the show! Hello!

I see you.

I am in the audience, watching your production of pain and conditioned thinking. No longer do I find you funny, fun or full of fury. No longer do I applaud your dramatic monologues, your cyclical sobs, or any of your self-righteous banter. 

Now I am calling for an orchestra of wind instruments to blow through you. Soon the commotion of your emotions will become silence. Then snoring. Yes, peace can be quite boring! Good. You go sleep in the wings, while I fly, dance and sing to the cathedral ceilings of my being. I am turning off your spotlights and I am turning on the ghost light. I am calling for the fall of your curtains too, the letting down of soft consciousness.

One day, I will build a box of metaphorical matches and burn this place to the ground, leaving you a shadow without a stage and me naked in the woods of the world.

I am not you, ego. I am not my thoughts.

I am the naked body. I am the woods and the world. I am life.
Eckhart Tolle told me so. In a book. And I believe him.
I am life. 

Friday, February 22, 2019


Hands fill a jar with cold tap water. Feet shuffle in socks to the couch where this body drops and wraps knit knots around cold legs. The back bends then, touching cup to coffee table where there is pen and paper and book.

Above this body, child and man sleep on wooden frames, spring mattresses, and cotton bedding, dreaming forgettable tales while their hearts beat blood and breathe. My breath is wet as a sea breeze, in and sigh, in and sigh, in and sigh... these breaths of bliss.

Behind the window and behind bold feathery firs, the sun rises like a glittery gold balloon, floating, pulling ribbons of pink and yellow, ribbons that wrap every little thing in light to be seen.

The house is soft and warm and still until  ---BUMP! Two bare feet bark on floor planks followed by, "Momma!"

Another sigh followed by,
acceptance. "Yes, love. I'm downstairs!"

Bump! says a foot.
Bump! says a foot.
Bump! Bump! Bump!
say two bare feet on tall wide stairs
Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump! 
She appears in short dress, no pants,
hair ragged as weeds in the wind,
a shine beneath the nose,
sweat between the toes,
and diamonds in her eyes.
She is glad to be alive!

Who is this person wearing the body of a child?
I don't know, but yes to this moment and yes to this one and this one too! 


I want to be

      be and be 
until i am 


Thursday, February 21, 2019

Saturday, February 2, 2019

The ego would like a new pair of glasses.

The ego would also like a facial, eye cream, makeup, a new hairstyle, hair dye, and a manicure. The ego has also requested black boots and another costly sweater. The soul, however, is warm in worn woolen sweaters and bruised boots and contentment and has requested that the ego instead save the money for good food, drink, and books. 

Thursday, January 31, 2019