Whiffs and Sails

I can vaguely sense that something's being built
in me and around me.
Something of a life.
I'm apart of it and also not.
It is the truest sense of "co-creator"
that I've been able to come to know.
It is both flowing with the River
and adjusting the sails.
A simultaneous surrender and exertion.
Obedience and Will.
I'm getting to know that part of me that Knows.
I used to search for miraculous bill boards
and exaggerated bread crumbs
as if the only way of finding my way was to turn
outside of my Self.
Then, after Great Loss, I swung to Hopeless and
a kind of false maturity that laughed at the child's game
of sign searching.
Sinking into,
"All things are made of chaos and horror and accidents and loss.
Anything can happen at any moment and no one is driving the bus"
I may be peeking out of that shell though,
during winter of all seasons!
It's very subtle and hardly even there
but I'm noticing IT.
This something in me that KNOWS,
that is both me and greater than me.
Getting a whiff of what (I)t wants, then,
not letting my mind object or propose or reason,
Following it, one hope and desire at a time.
Reaching the end, looking back and
every dot connecting in a way that I could not have planned for
but would not have happened had I not followed each whiff.
I am helped.
I am held and guided
and also given so so so much beautiful space.
Space to choose and not to choose and still helped,
still guided,
still known and cared for.
It's just not so separate from Me than I had thought before.

On Democracy and Elections

I don't know what praying is
But I've been doing it.
I've been praying that the fear that's in me right now
would recognize the fear that's in the Other
that allowed this to happen.
And I've been listening too,
to the knowing but quiet voice inside
That's saying, Turn off the noise but don't tune out the pain,
Stay woke and get to work,
Let the nausea and horror of this moment in history
provoke the fruit of Creative Response.
"Accept the unacceptable," and respond.
Where there is fear in and around you,
Move uncomfortably closer.
Put flesh and muscle to the cry-
Stronger together-
Hug the co-worker,
Hold each other's babies,
Let your hand rest on your students' shoulders as you walk by,
Breathe down to your bones on your yoga mat,
Put pen to page and voice to song,
Check in on those in your life,
Commit to eye contact.
Let your living and your life be your protest
Let love and liberation be equally bound to one another
And spread your Mockingjay wings wide
With a wink and a smile.

In most moments these days I'm more frightened animal than human being

But in sacred moments,

Usually while walking, 

I am a Daughter of the Earth, Her who I think I've always known

She is surrendered to Life and it's wild and wonderful Flow

Not fighting what must, and will Be

She leans head back in openness and lets it all pass right through

She hums things like, "Let it Be" 

and, "Just be right Here"

Earth Daughter sees every season of creation 

in all knowing of every horror and beauty,
every death and every birth

and with palms/throat/heart open wide, breathes (( YES ))

Let

It

Be

And with that Life Breath there is connection to the circle

of air and seed and water and soil

She submits to a trusting of the wild, living, pulsing Life Force

Even though Wilderness can lead to fright more often than Certainty

And because in the fall, as a tree begins to mourn it's leaves

All we can do is whisper about how beautiful its surrender is.

All change is both a death and a birth

And everything is always changing, if it is Living

And we do know that it is good to be connected to that which is Living

So she says, I wouldn't have it any other way

And with that thought joins the force of all creation and creators,

In those sacred moments

Wildflower, Wildfower teach us your ways

Today I walked five blocks to my friend's house.
Up three stories through scents of herbs, oils and wood.
I watched over our lunch of chickpeas and rice on the stove while she went down to fetch garden greens and flat bread.
We broke bread and spoke.
My throat felt tight and my voice felt small.
But when it was time to leave she placed eight okra seeds in my hand.
"Is that enough?"
"Yes."
With eight seeds now in my pocket I walked the two blocks to the garden.
North, then west.
The garden is always changing.
Sometimes fast, sometimes slow.
My patch of wildflowers has new blooms.
The golden poppies had burst weeks ago, and I had wondered what other colors waited in those closed buds.
This time, pops of blue and white.
Awe, and joy.
What to do at this sight?
Cut them down?
Take them for keeps?
...But owning them now is to kill them now.
They must stay in this wild space, where all manner of things can happen to them.
And I must be a non-grasping guest to them.
I know they won't last forever.
And so I acknowledge the open hand of flowing with Creation.
I poke holes in the watered soil.
Dirt under nails, I drop two seeds in each hole and bury them under to wait in the dark for the Law of Life to show its grace.
I walk around the bed.
There are snap peas to take and two strawberries.
I walk seven blocks home, snapping stems off between finger and thumb, and tossing them aside.
Crunchy, sweet and earthy, Mother feeds us well.
And tomorrow I will return, to sit with the blooms again.
I, welcoming them, and they welcoming me.
Each inviting the other to Be.