Saturday, August 24, 2013

Smoke slowly fills the valley.
A bit south homes are being evacuated,
your worth reduced to people and land,
everything else superfluous and refundable.

I think of Tipi Camp and my essentials --
pillow and sleeping bag, yoga mat and journal.
What I needed most was the sunrise over the lake,
the blanket of polished stones.
The voice of Paul as he put me deeper in a
tunnel of my own understanding.
The light and dark.
Karuna adjusts my hip and decades of over-extension
release into the open sky.

I no longer hear the voices of my children.
No longer wake to the to-do list in my mind,
the huge and mundane mixed
to create a full life.

This life is full with understanding.
It's full with stories that transcend
alarm clocks and lists of objectives and outcomes.

The objective is this moment.
The outcome is being here.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013


Re-entry is the rocky depths.  It's the in your face to-do list.  The laundry and toilets and groceries and layers left un-done.

I escaped my real life for a week.  I escaped to a tiny island in British Columbia.  Tipi camp is magical and twenty of us went deeper then many go in a lifetime.  There was a glow to our days, an aura of sorts bringing forth all shades of light, all levels of dark.  Asana practice was deep and intense, Karuna's first few adjustments on me better than any I've ever received.  I was more in for movement than meditation, but that soon changed.  Paul's courage and conviction lead me to places so deep, so beautiful, so painful, expansive, spacious, real.  There was uncontrollable crying and unabashed joy.  Much of it felt somehow altered, like life amplified.

It's almost hard to write about it now that I'm back.  I was so deep within myself that I didn't miss anyone.  I was so deep within myself that all I could do was write and move, breath deep and dream wild dreams, messages and symbols shouting to me from all directions.

Now we're on to integration.  Yesterday I set up a little alter and woke with asana, tried to sit still, prioritized writing in my journal.  But last night anxiety seeped in and all the little, mundane realities of life began to slip into my consciousness, wake me in the night, leave me feeling twitchy and frustrated.

Today at breakfast I focused on the faces of my children.  Eliana and Solomon sang along with their Disney Pandora with all the gusto in the world, bright and earnest eyes and full hearts.  I realized that it was okay to make that my moment to savor, that the pieces of me have been placed in a giant mixing bowl that is me with my contexts, me with my family.  I felt more settled when I forgave myself for not holding the holy reigns on a new practice.  I don't have anyone cooking glorious and healthy meals for me at home, don't have an endless supply of tea and fresh fruit.  Don't have the simple choices of journal or swim, child's pose or downward dog.  So integration is upon us.  It fills me up inside just to write it down.  Integration in an attempt to hold on to that other piece of grace that is me. 

Tipi Camp

At Tipi Camp we rise in silence.
Hot chai waits,
the simple joy of warm water
on my face.
The pink of sunrise matches the pink of sunset.
I'm settling into my driftwood bench
after a night of fluid dreams,
revelations to explore -
connections -
when two bare bodies greet the lake.
One lithe, strong frame on the tiny dock,
one full, lovely shape makes ripples
in another direction.
They are nymphs, are women, are
the glory that is all things
open and bare, seen and unseen.
Their bodies float back towards me
and I'm filled with longing for
what they're doing.
Want that expanse of cool water though,
I know,
I too can have that.
Want that fearless freedom,
though I know, too,
that I am a heavenly water creature,
that I too was made to float.

On the last morning at Tipi Camp,
I wake to a beautiful face and a
silent invitation to swim.
We make our way down the pebbled beach,
peel back bed clothes and stumble in.
I push off a rock, push myself under,
arms propel cool, clean water.
I remember strokes I learned at eight,
how to make a heart shape with my arms,
my legs little frogs.
I am all amphibian and nymph,
one with wild water bugs and their skittish ways.
We skim and dance,
float on, energy and grace.
Her face is so lovely as it rises from the water,
new friends so full of vital life force,
so ready to connect, go deep,
be born. 

And from nowhere geese start singing,
breaking our silence.
Heads turn and the birds' discuss,
rally, decide to take flight and
bring their song to another bit of shore.
They rise, voices fading,
float in a perfect line beyond the point.
We are a collective catch of breath,
a remarkable and full sigh. 

the tango


My children are fairies.
They drift in and out of worlds,
rules, songs, memories.
They lift gently, float, fall, delight.
My children leave a trail of splendor,
sparkle, golden sand and long, soft curls.
He speaks her language,
repeats what she says,
guarantees to play by her rules until
he doesn't anymore
and they flap their wings
in frustration,
like all mythical creatures,
it isn't all harmony.

In Neah Bay the wind whistles
suds curl like wishes back and forth on the water,
in her hand, carried like precious bubbles.
We wear hoods and huddle on cool sand,
await the sun through the trap of marine layer.
In the distance, the black shapes of surfers,
up close, two children who race and imagine.

I place my belly on the mat and
take my notebook out of the bag.
Mama!  You said you'd help us with the sand!
Pretend you don't see me, I say.
And, as if by magic,
they pick up their pails and move down the shore.

I know there will be a time not long from now
when I"ll miss their endless demmands,
little limbs and hard heads in my space,
voices that travel through sand dunes,
across campsites,
over ocean waves,
Mama!  Come here!

Monday, August 19, 2013

Boys and Girls

Boys and Girls

The fan whirs above us,
the moon is full.
We lie atop the white sheets.
She’s still, on her side,
watching the last piece of orange sun
dip into nothingness.
Exhausted body, longer than yesterday,
she’s all scabbed elbows and matted curls.
Earlier today we treaded water in a mountain lake,
flew up and down dusty trails,
she guards castles with her fellow princesses,
dirt smudged on terry cloth capes,
 silently sifts and sorts memories,
new ideas,
so still on her side.

On my left his heart races through his smooth back,
through the crook of my arm, then down to my toes
and still straight to my pulse.
His head flops from side to side
fingers count the sky,
knee in my back
one, then another,
then huge, hard head in my ribs,
flop back, head at my jaw,
flop back.
He is all motion all the time,
has had too much and can’t stop,
the wild uniqueness of the day’s adventures,
stick swords, butterflies,
the July heat.
He can’t bring it down.

The moon rises
a bit higher.
She softly exhales.
His final thrash.
Our breath congruous,