Arrival..

The early morning sun shines on the
diamond dew of the spring grass,
coaxing me down to the pond.
I sink my body down on the soft, wet earth.
I wait with a full, warm heart.

The red winged blackbirds  dance
up and down on the dead dried stocks
of yesterdays reeds.
They scream with excitement
at new life rising from the dark brown water.


The swallows swing low and
scrap the water,
snatching some nourishment from
the skin of the pond.

The old boat sits half beached on the shore.
I can hear the squeals of the summer children,
and the gentle plop of the oars,
that starts their adventure.

 As I sit,
breathing in the new green life,
My face warmed by the sun,
My ears full of the grateful sounds.
I prepare a gift for you.


I pick the first soft shoots of reeds
rising from the muddy bottom
of this every spring pond.
The sweet, precious green
rising from the deep muddy pond.

I weave a basket for you.

I will take the smoke from the fire
and the ashes of the past,
And place them carefully in the basket.
I will set the basket afloat on the the pond.

I will wait for your arrival. 

Nx

the gaps...

There it is.
In the space between the notes.

There.
In between the last whisper of the out breath
and the first feelings of inspiration in the next.

There.
In the spaces between
the thoughts and the convince.

There.
In the space after the last word spoken,
and before the first word heard.

There.
In the space between the foot lifting
and the foot sealing itself to the earth.

There.
In the space between the thought and the action.

There it is.

Nx

such a lovely love poem.....

How shall I hold my soul
to not intrude upon yours?
How shall I lift it beyond
you to other things?
I would gladly lodge it with
the lost objects in the dark
in some far still place that
does not tremble when you tremble.

But all that touches me,
 you and me,
plays us together, like the bow
of a violin that from two
strings draws forth one voice.
On what instrument are we strung?
What musician is playing?
Oh Sweet song.

Rainier Maria Rilke

the eagle calls.....

The eagle calls.
My breathe stops .....I feed on the sound.
There again. 
A quick inhale.
A small burst of air escapes from top of my heart.


My throat opens.
An opening that hears no difference,
Between the eagles wild call out to sea and mine.

A saddened plea to never leave.

The eagle glides effortlessly over the beach.

Searching.          Nx

rooted like trees...

If we could surrender
to the earth's intelligence,
We could rise up
rooted like trees.

Ranier Maria Rilke

alittle more orange.....

The colored earth calls
 to the falling autumn leaves,
hoping for just a little more orange.

Nx

At the pond......

The leaves break the silence with their chatter.

A bird enjoys an enthusiastic bath
behind a green, feathery cedar curtain.

The spiders create small circles of light
as they dart effortlessly over the water's surface.


I am unnoticed. 

Nx

the rock called to the light.....

The rock called to the light.

The light wound effortlessly
Through the branches, and falling leaves,
Through the crooks in trees,
And warmed the rock
with clear yellow light.
 
The moss stretched out
To meet the sun.

What an astonishment

As the visiting light
Ignites the diamonds
Laying softly in it's arms. 

 

Nx

you do not have to be good.....

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Mary Oliver

cooking....

Cooking is not a mystery.
The more heart we put out
the more heart we put in.
To bring cooking alive
we give our life. Giving
our life willingly we don't
get put out.

Washing cutting cooking cleaning,
finding ways to give life to our life.
Not knowing already how and what to do,
practice feeling it
out of what is not known
through the warmth and the anxiety,
not sticking to a particular way,
insisting it is the only way,
open to feeling out what is possible,
what gives life to our life.

To feel out our left hand, our back our toes,
to feel out our breathing, our movements, our stance,
to savor the taste of a radish or a fresh fig,
this is our freedom, this is our wisdom --
Spirit moves.
The mystery is that it is possible to do
what we don't know how to do.

From the Tassajara Cookbook

the violet.....

The small violet flower
hidden under the frosted leaf
ready to unleash spring.

Nx

Resilience........

I was walking with a dear friend today.

 She and I take these walks and, at the same time, we journey into the narratives of our lives. Inevitably and, always surprisingly, these narratives reveal intimate details about our relationships with the world.  We study ourselves by listening and speaking our most honest and heartfelt stories.

 Today, our narratives were about resilience and how intimately resilience is connected with unconditional confidence.The confidence in our ability to return to the original form after being bent, compressed, and stretched.

 

The confidence to take uncertain journeys deeper into the places of our hearts and minds. The places that sit unattended and unloved; well fortified with walls of avoidance. The places that we have chosen not to know about ourselves.

During our walk along the ocean this morning, we decided that how one is even able to court the idea of visiting these challenging places is the unconditional confidence in the ability to find the way back to the center. To have some assurance in your heart that you have the skills of focus and patience. The knowing that it may engage all of you and you will need your breath to stay and stand firmly, but you will survive this meeting with yourself.

 This confidence in the return....so that you can explore the gap between yourself and yourself.....and see if the gap is not extra...........this journey can not be accomplished without the resilience of confidence. ..the ability to find your way back to zero.

 What a precious slice of grace to find a human in your life who is able to be present......allowing a short visit to the place where your ability to be intimate ends.  A presence that challenges you to stand right in the spot where you can actually feel the little bit of you that you hold on to .....the place where you are now not sure if you are safe. A wonderful journey and encounter with the places where you keep yourself separate. 

Deep gratitude from me to you, my friend.

I am the child....

I am the child,
the birth,
the new way,
the inbreath,
the energy of life,
the surprise we all know about.

I am the joy spirit,
running and jumping,
trying to reach it,
singing outside your kitchen window.

I am the dancing child,
Watch me move in the air,
to fly and land
to fly and land.

Nx

A thin thread of breath....

The sadness in her eyes
as she polished her womanly shrine,
Her spirit resigned,
Her dreams modified,
This is how she would love God.

Nx

the spider......

Always in search of a new home
In the air outside my window.

Holding softly to the thin lines
of sun spotted dew
Throwing her bulbous body into space.


Intricately designed limbs
Perfectly folded beneath her.

She secures another refuge
in the evening's autumn air
outside my window. 

Nx

What kind of flower are you?

 During my last trip to San Francisco, I was fortunate enough to be able to attend a meditation session and dharma talk at the Zen Center. What a gift to be able to meditate in a space so rooted in the ancestry of Western Buddhism. After the meditation, there was a dharma talk in a room full of   seasoned monks and nuns, eager students and visitors.

 

A roshi in her late 60's came into the room, sat and began to speak.

 She began by saying that she was about to resign her position as the head roshi of the zen center, and that the decision to step down had been challenging for her. The thread of her dharma talk focused on her journey to the middle way of this decision......the choice that would cause the lest harm and be the kindest for everyone.

She told us her story.

The previous year, she had been walking on a busy San Francisco street when she noticed the bus that she needed to catch on the other side of the street. When she saw the bus, she was filled with a sense of childlike joyfulness and inhibition. Filled with the energy of this enthusiasm, she impulsively  made a dash across the street to the bus. The next thing she remembered was being taken to the hospital by ambulance.

She giggled as she told the story ...amused at her own heedless behavior.

She had fallen and incurred a head injury. After the incident, she began to have headaches and other symptoms that were interfering with the performance of her job as the roshi of the center.  She had tried to carry on her duties for a year before she realized that, since the accident, she was "a different kind of a flower". She would have to find the right conditions for "this kind of flower".

And this beautiful thought was a great insight to me.....a metaphor that could point the way to the middle of the river.

She explained that for a fern to live fully and completely living out its fern-ness; it would require the conditions of a rain forest.....lots of water and intermittent light.  A fern's roots are shallow and they need water that lies on the surface of the earth. It enjoys small droplet of water on it's skin and just enough sun to call out its fronds gently to the light.

Now if the kind of flower that you are is a cactus ..... you would not thrive in the rain forest........this rain forest does not have the conditions that a cactus needs. A cactus needs the long days of hot sun and intense light, the infrequent water, the cold nights........a fern would do really poorly given these conditions. It would be such a struggle for the fern to be a fern, in the conditions that created the most splendid cactus.

Now the fern is perfectly a fern. When a fern has the conditions that meet it's needs, it is always whole, beautiful and a pleasure to behold....have you ever seen a fern, being anything other than a fern  that was not stunning. No extra effort to be a fern.....just the right conditions.

And the cactus is perfectly a cactus. No extra effort to be a cactus if the conditions are right. When the conditions are scrupulously met......the cactus becomes fully cactus-ness. It takes no extra effort to manifest a flower so brilliant to the cold black starry night and so magnificently scented that every grain of sand in the desert breathes in deeply, grateful for the moment.


Norma

Who understands me but me......

...I cannot fly or make something appear in my hand,
I cannot make the heavens open or the earth tremble,
I can live with myself, and I am amazed at myself, my love,
my beauty,
I am taken by my failures, astounded by my fears,
I am stubborn and childish,
in the midst of this wreckage of life they incurred,
I practice being myself,
and I have found parts of myself never dreamed of by me,
they were goaded out from under rocks in my heart
when the walls were built higher,
when the water was turned off and the windows painted black.
I followed these signs
like an old tracker and followed the tracks deep into myself,
followed the blood-spotted path,
deeper into dangerous regions, and found so many parts of myself,
who taught me water is not everything,
and gave me new eyes to see through walls,
and when they spoke, sunlight came out of their mouths,
and I was laughing at me with them,
we laughed like children and made pacts to always be loyal,
who understands me when I say this is beautiful?

-Jimmy Santiago Baca, "Who Understands Me but Me"

The nest

The threads of grass, so round and dry, intricately woven,
With small beady eyes and sharp black beak
the blue green lichen is so mindfully placed.
The soft deep center gathered with special care,
Such a safe, delicate place to set oneself.
And all of this love held so high,
Safely cradled in the crook of the limbs
Or delicately balanced on a branch
Covered by design or surprise by the big broad leaf,
To keep the treasure dry and shielded from prey
That would pluck and feed.
This sacred place so instinctual in its creation.

Guided by a small heart beat and a tiny breath
And supported by the assurance of the preciousness of life.

 And here I am.

The creator, the nest, the limb that holds the nest,
The broad leaf that protects the softest deepest place.
I hold my hands out and bring that softest part to my heart.

Nx



.

The seaside....

So kind to me as it caressed my feet, my ankles,
a small line of solid surface moving up my body,
the under of it filling every crevice
until my mouth is full and my eyes disappear in its cool kindness.
So grateful for its loving touch
On this warm summer day.

Nx

like the bird....

The wing is my extention,
my search for balance.
The wind is my ground.
The bird's hollow boned flesh
echoing in the wind.
Earth.
I am your projection,
Fill up the space with the other.

Nx

You came to visit me last night in a dream...

You came to visit me last night.
What a surprise.
A clear, crisp, textured visit.
You showed me your new tattoo
and said, "it does not read the way I was hoping."
We smiled together at the imperfection of our lives.

I had forgotten how pale your skin
and how red your hair.
Always so thick and wild.

When you touched my skin,
It was full of no goodbyes
And when I touched your skin
I felt all of your body
so solid and sure and strong
cradled in my open heart,
laying safely in my arms.

I brought out the basket that I had made for you
from the first spring shoots of the reeds in the pond.
I filled the container with all the gifts that
I have received from you.
I wanted to return them to you.

So we could be human together.

Nx

Desire change

 This is a raw poem that calls from real and authentic places...........places that may be alittle frightening if heard with an open mind/heart......the whole way.....it is a bit scary when you are peeking at the truth of it.............read it out loud!! Read it to the whole audience!! 


Desire change,
Be enthusiastic for that flame
in which a thing escapes your grasp,
while it makes a glorious display of changes.

Be enthusiastic for that flame
in which a thing escapes your grasp,
while it makes a glorious display of transformation.

That designing spirit, the master mind of all things of earth,
loves nothing as much in the sweeping movement
of the dance as the turning point.

Rainer Maria Rilke

you are alive

You do not breath to stay alive,
You are alive so you breath,
You do not eat in order to live,
You are alive so you eat.

Bernie Glassman

the painting

The paint still drips with the enthusiasm of the first stroke,
The red, the yellow, and now the orange
Changing shapes and hues with every push and pull of the brush.
The image is clear, then hides deep inside the shadow of the blue,
Now a face peers out from the darkness.
A little lightness and the face is gone but from the light shines
A setting sun sliding down the mountain.
The moon in the corner must shine on something
Or can it be as it is?
All round and white and full...just that is enough.
No need to show as anything other than what has
Lived behind my eyes.
Nx

I am the one who.....

I am the one who holds it closely and then pushes away,
I am the one who shuts it down and opens it up, 
I am the one who rocks the baby with empty arms
I am the one who rolls in the ashes,
I am the one with the electric body
I am the one who drinks it right to the bottom,
I am the one who never sleeps,
I am the one who sits until all the branches have fallen,
I am the one who coughs up the pain from wounded beings,
And swims in the tears.
I am the one who talks to the chickens and cows,
And asks the little green frog in the grass to stay the night
I am the one who smells the fur of dogs and purrs the cats,
I am the one who bites the pill and races through the wind,
I am the one who plunges deep in the water and rests in the silence,
I am the one who is adored by the dead mother,
I am the one who adores the dead mother,
I am the one who lays in the forest between the rooted columns
And melts into the moss,
I am the one who hears with her eyes
And sees with her ears. 
I am the one who is always listening for the voices that have been left behind.
I am the red one who is always just alittle to big for the room,
I am the one who lets the paint run down her arms
And drip off the ends of her fingers,
I am the one who aches for the love I have lost
And lays tingling on the floor,
I am the one who ran the  beach
feet numb with achy cold water,
I am the one who climbed the mountain
Following the tracks of the wild ones,
I am the one with the slippery skin who slides off the rock
and disappears into the deep cold water.

Norma

The plunge

The small body flew in the air,
Arms and legs searching for the balance
and connection.
Shattering the sharp surface.
And then the silence, deep, dark, unseen.
The relief of weightlessness.
Held in the thick syrupy arms of the water
As it carried her to the surface and sun
As effortlessly as the breath it knew
She would need.

the swing....

The grandfather had planted the pear tree's roots deep
With full assurance of  his heart.
The branches held the ropes tight.
Confident in the strength of its capable limbs,
The swing leaned back with the weight of the child's joy
Head thrown back...body follows....arms stretched long, feet high
The small eyes capturing the canopy of summer leaves and
the sweet yellow fruit.
Just enough room for blue.
All the way home to her grandfather's arms.

Nx

Meeting of the moment

The old mother's hand was laid softly
On the new baby's belly,
And with her  constant heart
And the warm touch of her steady hand
The baby was calmed
And the old woman remembered.

Nx

may your trail be crooked.....

Benedicto: May your trails be crooked,
  winding, lonesome,
dangerous, leading to the most amazing
  view.
May your rivers flow without end,
 meandering through pastoral valleys
  tinkling with bells,
past temples and castles and poets' towers
into a dark primeval forest where tigers
 belch and monkeys howl,
through miasmal and mysterious swamps
 and down into a desert of red rock,
blue mesas, domes and pinnacles and
 grottos of endless stone,
and down again into a deep vast ancient
 unknown chasm
where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled
cliffs,
where deer walk across the white sand
beaches,
where storms come and go
as lightning clangs upon the high crags,
where something strange and more beautiful
and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams
waits for you---
beyond the next turning of the canyon
walls.

--Edward Abby

The distance was so short
 Between the raven's scream
And her heart.
"I missed you," she said.

                           The click of the Raven's feet on the roof
                           He has come to drink
                            I find my breath
                            And return to the world

Relationship Prototype #1


















The way we do one thing,
Is the way we do everything.

Nx

The scarlet thread....

Ever since childhood, I have always been grateful for the sounds of the small birds in the early spring.  All of these sweet small  voices, gathered in hedge rows, singing like a jazz choir,  replacing the sound of the wind and the rain. Their sounds like sharp shards of colored glass. 

As a small child, I was very curious about this subtle change in the sound scape. What is this? The delight of the beginner's mind.  I think there must have been endless questions about this phenomenon, as my mother was drawn in by my curiosity. She would wonder too. She would pretend in that moment that she didn't know either.  We would go to the morning window and with the sunlight on our faces, search the bushes in the yard. I can remember the small heads of the birds that we spotted, slightly raised to the sky as they opened their small mouths and wailed their one good song...over and over.

 My mother carried the names of everything. She had the names of the birds the same way she always had the names of the flowers....effortlessly, these marvelous words would spill out of her mouth. She would tell me what the birds ate and where they would find water to drink. She would explain how the unique sounds would tell one bird where the other bird was living. How they just knew that it was time to make a small home to accommodate their babies, the same way they knew to have a drink from a dew drop on a leaf or exactly where to poke a hole in the ground for a big juicy worm. And when they had assessed the conditions that were just right for them, a nest would be constructed.

What! Not only could they sing and communicate...live on worms and bugs and drink dew....they could construct a perfect home. As a child, this seemed like such a lot of things to do. I really wanted to lend a hand. An anonymous act of kindness. Just a little help to free of up their precious time for a little rest.

 I had decided the front porch was the perfect place to arrange an assortment of building supplies for their nests. It could be seen from the large chestnut tree in the front yard. If they chose this tree, I could climb up and peek at the nest, or wait patiently underneath it for the small bits of sky blue shell to appear.

My mother and I would lay small gifts to the birds on the iron railing on the front porch. We would leave out small bits of cotton, balls of fluffy things....soft bits of cloth we had found and prepared in the house. I imagined I could see the surprise in the birds flapping wings and hurried flight, as he retrieved the treasures.



I would always add a piece of red yarn to the building supplies. If I found the nest in the chestnut tree....how joyful would it be to find the small red thread woven mindfully into a nest by a small yellow beak. It would be fine if I was not able to locate the exact nest that used my very special piece of scarlet thread. I would always have the image in my mind of this nest, somewhere in the forest, cradling the fragile featherless bird who would soon grace our yard.

I climbed a lot of trees as a child. In my life time, I have found and carefully wrapped many small blue pieces of robin eggs shells in paper and carried them home to place on my altar.

Nests have always been about my short precious time with my mother. The scarlet thread that was carefully placed ..... in my hand from my mother's hand.

Norma

make fire..... not ashes

"Poetry is the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash."

Leonard Cohen

It is not important to make more ashes....make more fire.

And we still cook....

Any moment, preparing this meal,
we could be gassed thirty thousand
feet in the air, soon
to fall out poisonous on leaf,
frond, and fur. Everything
in sight would cease.
And still we cook,
putting a thousand cherished
dreams on the table, to nourish
and reassure those close and dear.
In this act of cooking, I bid farewell.
Always I insist you alone were to blame.
this last instant my eyes open
and I regard you with all
the tenderness and forgiveness
I withheld for so long.
With no-future
we have nothing
to fight about.
May all beings be happy, healthy, free
from suffering.

from the Tassajara Cookbook by Edward Espe Brown

Golden Eggs

The universe has presented us with many very special chicks, who never found their way into the coziest part of the nest. Nx