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so many different things

“Eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow you may die.”

What does merry taste like?  The bitter defeat of watching an ex-lover drink and be merry with a new mistress—what else ought I call her?  I want this bitter taste out of my mouth and I ought stop festering, creating hardened plaque of the heart.  To be merry tastes like parsley and dill I just pulled from my garden.  It tastes like sweet and spicy tea I put in with coffee compressed in the French press in the darkness of pre-dawn.  It tastes like saliva I suck through gaps in the teeth of that same ex-lover I kiss in the upcycle of the lines of a heartbeat on a monitor.

It looks like the smile on the face of a child when surprised and delighted by a hello or maybe a tube of chapstick.  It’s seen in the moment another human feels safe and heard and here comes the teeth of ecstasy again so bright and genuine—someone finally got them.  It looks like fog, like snow, like clouds that move like the breath to help me know I’m alive.  Let’s me see that even though I haven’t gotten it right yet, I see in my minds eye that I will.  It looks like that same lover’s profile from the side with one eye mischievous and the other wandering.

It feels like yoga in the morning, popping my back while sitting up or lying down flopping one leg this way or that and the release of tension like dropping a heavy pack on a hike.  It feels like my quadriceps in dancers pose, my back in camel pose, my hips in cobblers pose.  It feels like that sweet spot of muscle, tendon, and relief.  Happiness feels like the present moment finally letting go of the sadness of the past, the tenseness of the future.  It feels like a warm bear hug from the heart where I can soften and come to love, come to understand love hurts like a splinter underneath a fingernail.

To be merry sounds like laughter, humming, singing that vibrates from the lungs and lips of friends.  I always secretly hope those in my intimate circle like to whistle.  It sounds like the phrase “little buddy” and “I love  you, Jen.”  It’s a southern drawl of comfort, a biscuit of the heartspace smothered in the gravy of tiny moments heard in the beginning of gut laughter, and a good story.  It sounds like the breath inhaled right before the next in the ups and downs of contentment.

It smells like the very moment when a child hobbles in from recess smelling of metal, sand, asphalt, ketchup. It smells like dryer sheets and a simmered soup.  It smells like Jovan musk and coal, coffee and cinnamon, like compost in the middle of decay.  It smells like the gasoline of an old Ford truck.  Like hair and my grandpa’s pillow.  It smells like fish cleaned by my father, like garlic and antifreeze, like hot springs.

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘glory,’ ” Alice said.

Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. “Of course you don’t—till I tell you. I meant ‘there’s a nice knock-down argument for you!’ ”

“But ‘glory’ doesn’t mean ‘a nice knock-down argument’,” Alice objected.

“When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, “it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”

“The question is,” said Alice, “whether you can make words mean so many different things.”

“The question is,” said Humpty Dumpty, “which is to be master—that’s all.”

― Lewis Carroll 


everything is waiting for you 

Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life

were a progressive and cunning crime

with no witness to the tiny hidden

transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny

the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,

even you, at times, have felt the grand array;

the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding

out your solo voice You must note

the way the soap dish enables you,

or the window latch grants you freedom.

Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.

The stairs are your mentor of things

to come, the doors have always been there

to frighten you and invite you,

and the tiny speaker in the phone

is your dream-ladder to divinity.
Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into

the conversation. The kettle is singing

even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots

have left their arrogant aloofness and

seen the good in you at last. All the birds

and creatures of the world are unutterably

themselves. Everything is waiting for you.
  — David Whyte

      from Everything is Waiting for You 

     ©2003 Many Rivers Press


nothing is ever created or destroyed

I’m not the first one to say it’s like swimming underwater. Can’t breathe, collapsing lungs, silia no longer moving as everything slows down. Flowers unblooming, rain moving upward, bread unbaked and collapsing. I’m not the first one to say my eyes are glazing over like a teenager told what to do or a child being abused or an adult being sentenced to more time in a cell. I’m not the first one to feel time slowing down watching the sky as the blue turns gray and the horizon moves closer to the ground and where the nuclear bomb is already on its way and we are locked, plastered, in the shock wave. I’m not the first one to say it’s like a dream from which we all know we will never wake but only a few of us admit that this dream is happening and choose the make the dream what we want. Is this what God saw before creation—is this the loneliness he felt before he chose to make this his own world, chose to birth the stars. It has to be because we are all god, we are all starts and the laws of physics that we imagine tell us too that this will end and that we will celebrate ourselves, celebrate our divinity. Because I am not the first one to say this. We are the beginning and the end. We are now.


In my heart, in my head

I feel it like a blanket, like a sudden snowfall, bowels moved by the lightening strike of neurons. Dendrites, brain branches affected by my DNA. I am not okay. I text my sister who says there there and my own voice echoes there there and it will be what it is it will be what it is supposed to be and now I see the mirrors again. My depression and loss stares back at me in the texts of another who was born of the same swamp of masochism as the others and he will love again and I will love again and the crazy will brew again percolating in my brain like an old coffee maker bubbling brown and thick. What of this temporary state and now how to absorb these bits back into my skin and map the potassium and sodium back in the direction that helps me to calm down and steep in peace that I can create in my heart. And in the morning I will drink coffee again and in the now I love.

depression, Dharma, mountains, Self Love, Self Reflection, Uncategorized, Universiality, valley, Wyoming, Yoga

cold fingers of the valley breeze

such is life. waking up with my bed in a different place feeling the cold fingers of the valley breeze through my window and the feeling sinks in again that I have done nothing, will be nothing, and nothing is all there is. like the breeze the feelings ebb and flow and later in the day I worry about another beside myself as I drive hearing air pushed through the vents and a slight whining sound whirr whirr as I think about the forming wrinkles in my face and shift first, second, third…tasks done so many times they begin to become like situations in life—another relationship lost, another opportunity missed, another day of regret. It is not all lost and it is not all shadows but the permanent feeling is the one of being in a dream where nothing is quite real. Symptom of disassociation. Pushing away, moving away, happiness like purple and blue flowers in a mountain meadow or tulips in spring, poppies in August. All in its own cycle with its own branches and veins and systems of life. such is the space that we inhabit and time to settle in for good and take joy in waking up in a bed, in a home, with people-mirrors all around.


today is the first day

i live in fear.  i live in confidence.  i chew the skin around my nails to shreds thinking about how i fucked it all up.  but we’ve all fucked it all up.  we are all fucking up together.  i’ve lost my words for months now and my yoga practice has fallen to the ditch where the beautiful wildflowers of summer grow, healing yarrow and miraculous dandelion.  there is much to be said for falling to the wayside with the wayside dwellers.  my life is not to overanalyze or to feel hurt by her or him but my life is to connect to others like misplaced branches of veins spurting blue and red blood because what is real is not gross.  what is felt is not wrong.  i am not here to feel sorry for myself and hate my existence because my thighs rub together.  whats really important, here.  whats really going on with my privilege.  whats most real right now is the rhythmic panting of my breath and steps as i run, run, run in no direction but simply closer to who i might be, who i really am, and the essence of us all.  today is the first and the last day, the beginning and the end.  today is god. 


self and other

My rib broke.  Close enough to my heart.  Pain sharp and recurring during menial tasks…turning the steering wheel…like violent lightning in my side.  Getting out of bed like Seppuku.  Throbbing rib, broken heart and 40 stickers at the doctor for my responsible lifestyle choices pushing body where mind won’t go…mind like rib and crippled, stifled, diseased by your rhetoric.   Rib encompassing lungs breathing  divine wind in/out/expand/collapse like the mental cycle reflecting all the bullshit and kamikaze mission of your ego.  You took me for one wild mind-fuck. Never shame.  Death before dishonor.  No atom bomb yet still leaking radiation—the poison of your arson.  Inverted surprise attacks losing the essence continuing over time smoldering my psyche taking me down with every shot. The low blows, sound of metal, casing on the ground in small places and never expected and always reminding me of you.


human unearthings

I’m back!  I tried to import all the old blog entries because I forgot the other password.  One month at a time.  Looking through old entries is like cathartic trauma!  What to say, what to write.  Life seems fuzzy, in a standstill, like reading a book with a flashlight under thick blankets with fibers glowing like snakes on the fringes.  Old meets new and I continue to augment, add, stay busy to avoid.  I run around so I don’t have to slow down and think about what’s going one.  Isolatory tendencies in my family start to surface and I see my grandma in my mother’s face and see myself in my sister as we avoid and isolate in bouts of depression.  It doesn’t bother me now though, I don’t mind being alone, and I’ve got so much to do it doesn’t seem to matter anymore.  Where I still together with someone, still connected, what would have been, where would growth have taken me?  My growth now is outward, upward, muscles growing, strength increasing, Wyoming Mobile Yoga expanding far beyond myself in art shows and services to hospitals, jails, schools, people.  People who are so important.  I find myself talking to another human and enjoying her presence so much.  We are all wonderfully flawed, all hopelessly blemished.  And it is truly beautiful. 



The Phoenix and the Turtle

The Phoenix and the Turtle

Let the bird of loudest lay,
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.

But thou, shrieking harbinger,
Foul pre-currer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever’s end,
To this troop come thou not near.

From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, feather’d king:
Keep the obsequy so strict.

Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.

And thou, treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender mak’st
With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st,
‘Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.

Here the anthem doth commence:
Love and constancy is dead;
Phoenix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.

So they lov’d, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none:
Number there in love was slain.

Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
Distance, and no space was seen
‘Twixt the turtle and his queen;
But in them it were a wonder.

So between them love did shine,
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the phoenix’ sight:
Either was the other’s mine.

Property was thus appall’d,
That the self was not the same;
Single nature’s double name
Neither two nor one was call’d.

Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together;
To themselves yet either-neither,
Simple were so well compounded

That it cried how true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason none
If what parts can so remain.

Whereupon it made this threne
To the phoenix and the dove,
Co-supreme and stars of love;
As chorus to their tragic scene.


Beauty, truth, and rarity.
Grace in all simplicity,
Here enclos’d in cinders lie.

Death is now the phoenix’ nest;
And the turtle’s loyal breast
To eternity doth rest,

Leaving no posterity:–
‘Twas not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.

Truth may seem, but cannot be:
Beauty brag, but ’tis not she;
Truth and beauty buried be.

To this urn let those repair
That are either true or fair;
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.