Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Mantra
Knowing love, I shall allow all things to come and go.
Be as supple as the wind, and take everything that comes
with great courage. Life is right in any case,
my heart is as open as the sky.
This mantra comes from a film that hugely impacted my heart.
Maya, the main character, walks with me as I journey. She,
a courtesan in 15th Century India, learns that her heart is
courageous enough to risk grace in even the fiercest storm.
She continues to remind me to be grateful for all the moments
of this blessed life path: that it is up to us to recognize
the teaching in even the most terrifying shadow.
I carry this mantra in my heart and often repeat it, like a
prayer, as I dance the hills and valleys of my days.
Circle of Blessings
Mother Mary in my pocket
Heart-shaped stickers on the edge of my smile
Joyful laughter in my belly
Life-affirming tears on my cheeks
Barefoot on the grass, at the edge of the green garden
I open my heart to the blessings only Mothers can offer.
Safety
Joy
Fun
Open-Heart
Adventure
Love
Friendship
Courage
Health
Learning
Sharing
Mothers make giving your heart seem so simple
Flooding generosity and love burst the seams
of my seamless heart and send me
Laughing, crying, jumping in disbelief, excitement,
and a spirit overcome by the
beauty of a circle.
A circle of women. A circle of Mothers.
A circle of women who love without question and
bless the little girl
whose eyes have only grown wider in 25 years of
walking barefoot over the earth.
A circle of Mothers in a garden.
What greater blessing is there?
Heart-shaped stickers on the edge of my smile
Joyful laughter in my belly
Life-affirming tears on my cheeks
Barefoot on the grass, at the edge of the green garden
I open my heart to the blessings only Mothers can offer.
Safety
Joy
Fun
Open-Heart
Adventure
Love
Friendship
Courage
Health
Learning
Sharing
Mothers make giving your heart seem so simple
Flooding generosity and love burst the seams
of my seamless heart and send me
Laughing, crying, jumping in disbelief, excitement,
and a spirit overcome by the
beauty of a circle.
A circle of women. A circle of Mothers.
A circle of women who love without question and
bless the little girl
whose eyes have only grown wider in 25 years of
walking barefoot over the earth.
A circle of Mothers in a garden.
What greater blessing is there?
One Year Later
The moon dazzles this Virginia summer night with a generous glow, reminding her wide-eyed children that the world is full of majesty. It takes courage to reflect the sun's burning light. But rather than standing by contemplating the pain of a possible burn, the moon opens her heart like a June tiger lily and allows the sun's light to shine through to us all: the ants of Earth, so busy about our activities.
Here I sit, surprised that it has been a year since Rosario made the choice to turn-in her bright-eyes for a cage: a year since I turned to the typing board for the whisper of comfort that free-expression offers. In a way, I feel irresponsible for not being discipline about sharing more of my Guatemala experiences with the vibrant community of people that form the jeweled necklace that my heart wears walking. All of the moments leading up to this Virginia summer night buzz with the support of friends who, like light on water, sparkle in the current that flows in my veins and keeps my spirit alive. And so, how dare I not reach out more often How dare I not share stories and in so doing acknowledge the deep gratitude I feel for the love that has made me who I am. Perhaps it is that, I arrived in a place where I was a burning flame: sun up til sundown blue-orange-yellow alive and inspired by working with children and sisters who taught me to see the smallest wonder and surf the biggest wave. Perhaps it is that I could not bring myself to plug-in to cyberspace when the just-so movement of the banana tree leaves was so spectacular. Perhaps there is no reason in particular: just that the beating of my heart feels seamlessly connected to all of the friends I've met along the way. Space and time no longer feel limiting.
The point is: I am setting the intention to re-engage with the community of brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, friends and practical strangers who have expressed interest in my journey and supported who I am with no questions asked. The greatest gift imaginable. I am on the eve of departing for a tidal-wave journey to Nepal and Northern India. Jane, a friend and teacher, slid a beautiful Himalayan amethyst on my finger two years ago and said: "Two years, love. I think it will be two years." I smiled and somehow knew she was right. Two years to the day, she asked me to be part of a team that will travel to Nepal to deliver the documentary that she and two other friends recently completed: A Gift for the Village. Please read more at agiftforthevillage.com. An incredible story.
And so, in Guatemala with a Himalayan amethyst on my finger, I say Yes! Not knowing what else to say. I knew that answer when I was born. I will have to verify with Mother, but I believe I learned Yes! before I learned No. I finished the year in Guatemala with heart and soul burning with enthusiasm and love for the community of friends, teachers, children and rich-black earth that taught me, above all, courage, humility and a limitless belief in what is possible. I have written to the children about the upcoming journey: I carry them with me into each breathing-life moment and cannot wait to smile at them from the Himalayas. The next time I visit Guatemala, I will have more colorful experiences and surprising adventures (that somehow help me excavate and ponder the brightest parts of my being) to share.
Share: that is what I will attempt to do here, on this blog that will remain Guatemala-Living In the Flow. Life does flow. As Jane pointed out: "do you see that Guatemala contains both the words Gautama and Mala?" Indeed. So it is not so curious that Guatemala leads me to India.
One day, I will fill in the blanks of the Guatemala year. A dozen journals sit under my desk waiting to be read and edited. By the time selected stories arrive in cyberspace, the will be more refined, distilled, precise. In my evolution, I am learning to edit. It is so much harder than writing! For now, I set the intention to share stories from the Himalayas: guided by a dear teacher and an amethyst ring.
Here I sit, surprised that it has been a year since Rosario made the choice to turn-in her bright-eyes for a cage: a year since I turned to the typing board for the whisper of comfort that free-expression offers. In a way, I feel irresponsible for not being discipline about sharing more of my Guatemala experiences with the vibrant community of people that form the jeweled necklace that my heart wears walking. All of the moments leading up to this Virginia summer night buzz with the support of friends who, like light on water, sparkle in the current that flows in my veins and keeps my spirit alive. And so, how dare I not reach out more often How dare I not share stories and in so doing acknowledge the deep gratitude I feel for the love that has made me who I am. Perhaps it is that, I arrived in a place where I was a burning flame: sun up til sundown blue-orange-yellow alive and inspired by working with children and sisters who taught me to see the smallest wonder and surf the biggest wave. Perhaps it is that I could not bring myself to plug-in to cyberspace when the just-so movement of the banana tree leaves was so spectacular. Perhaps there is no reason in particular: just that the beating of my heart feels seamlessly connected to all of the friends I've met along the way. Space and time no longer feel limiting.
The point is: I am setting the intention to re-engage with the community of brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, friends and practical strangers who have expressed interest in my journey and supported who I am with no questions asked. The greatest gift imaginable. I am on the eve of departing for a tidal-wave journey to Nepal and Northern India. Jane, a friend and teacher, slid a beautiful Himalayan amethyst on my finger two years ago and said: "Two years, love. I think it will be two years." I smiled and somehow knew she was right. Two years to the day, she asked me to be part of a team that will travel to Nepal to deliver the documentary that she and two other friends recently completed: A Gift for the Village. Please read more at agiftforthevillage.com. An incredible story.
And so, in Guatemala with a Himalayan amethyst on my finger, I say Yes! Not knowing what else to say. I knew that answer when I was born. I will have to verify with Mother, but I believe I learned Yes! before I learned No. I finished the year in Guatemala with heart and soul burning with enthusiasm and love for the community of friends, teachers, children and rich-black earth that taught me, above all, courage, humility and a limitless belief in what is possible. I have written to the children about the upcoming journey: I carry them with me into each breathing-life moment and cannot wait to smile at them from the Himalayas. The next time I visit Guatemala, I will have more colorful experiences and surprising adventures (that somehow help me excavate and ponder the brightest parts of my being) to share.
Share: that is what I will attempt to do here, on this blog that will remain Guatemala-Living In the Flow. Life does flow. As Jane pointed out: "do you see that Guatemala contains both the words Gautama and Mala?" Indeed. So it is not so curious that Guatemala leads me to India.
One day, I will fill in the blanks of the Guatemala year. A dozen journals sit under my desk waiting to be read and edited. By the time selected stories arrive in cyberspace, the will be more refined, distilled, precise. In my evolution, I am learning to edit. It is so much harder than writing! For now, I set the intention to share stories from the Himalayas: guided by a dear teacher and an amethyst ring.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Bright eyes: Caged Window
Sister. Make me write. For her.
For the little girl whose pretty
face stole her youth and caged her
dream window with iron bars. It
was not only her pretty face that
pushed her onto the street and into
the arms of that cool boy with the
cigarette. Full of false promises.
Promises that evaporate like the
clouds of smoke that cover his eyes.
And her eyes too. The cloud of smoke
that makes her think he is handsome
and kind and ready to offer her a life
that is better than the one she is living
in the four walls of her home. She is
only fifteen. Too beautiful. Dangerously
so. I know they are rough with her. I know
when she arrived late in the night they brought
out the belt and hit her, hurt her, maybe out of
love, maybe out of a lack of education, a feeling
of loss, a feeling of pain. Maybe I would have
run away, too. But not to the caged window. Not
to the house of this new cool catch who speaks
promises and delivers piles of clothes to clean,
piles of dust to sweep, orders to please him with
tortillas and ... she is fifteen. Orders to please
him as he spits upon her dreams of dancing, of studying,
of learning, of her own development. She was just beginning
to believe that her thoughts are worth something, that she
is capable and competent and that yes! she can fly through
that dream window if she continues to work, to try, to dedicate
herself, to believe that she can find a way out other than falling
into the arms of the cool boy who smells of alcohol. The cool boy
who sees her sparkle and wants it for himself. Wants to own it.
Wants to control it. Wants to keep it from the world.
Why didn't she come and speak to us. Why didn't she come to ask for help?
Why didn't she come and speak to us? Why didn't she dare to leave him?
Life is different, here. I realize.
I do not move to lay my judgement on these particular rhythms.
Nor doI feel it is my place to impose my cultural practices on
the youth here. But I do hope to inspire the young people of
these communities, of rural Guatemala, to distinguish the cultural
practices that continue to be useful and positive and those that
no longer serve. Discrimination against women does not help anyone.
Women feeling that there is no way out of the cycle of leaving
their parents' house to marry young (because they are already pregnant
and didn't know they had the right to say 'no'.) Settling submissively
for the cage before they have the opportunity to study, to explore, to ask themselves what it is they hope for in this life...
This cycle. This destructive, caged-window cycle must stop.
Bright-eyes. I hope you can shine through your caged window. I hope
your dreams of dancing carry you to a place of empowerment, of self-respect,
of courage. (Though as I write this, a voice inside says: 'wake up ... not
a chance at this point'.) I miss you. I share your story for all the women
of the world who are made to feel small and powerless and afraid and brainless and thoughtless and invisible. I share your story for all the women in the world who feel like they have no choice but to accept the caged-window. I write this story because I know not what else to do as heart races and throat ties a knot around my tears. I miss you, Rosario.
For the little girl whose pretty
face stole her youth and caged her
dream window with iron bars. It
was not only her pretty face that
pushed her onto the street and into
the arms of that cool boy with the
cigarette. Full of false promises.
Promises that evaporate like the
clouds of smoke that cover his eyes.
And her eyes too. The cloud of smoke
that makes her think he is handsome
and kind and ready to offer her a life
that is better than the one she is living
in the four walls of her home. She is
only fifteen. Too beautiful. Dangerously
so. I know they are rough with her. I know
when she arrived late in the night they brought
out the belt and hit her, hurt her, maybe out of
love, maybe out of a lack of education, a feeling
of loss, a feeling of pain. Maybe I would have
run away, too. But not to the caged window. Not
to the house of this new cool catch who speaks
promises and delivers piles of clothes to clean,
piles of dust to sweep, orders to please him with
tortillas and ... she is fifteen. Orders to please
him as he spits upon her dreams of dancing, of studying,
of learning, of her own development. She was just beginning
to believe that her thoughts are worth something, that she
is capable and competent and that yes! she can fly through
that dream window if she continues to work, to try, to dedicate
herself, to believe that she can find a way out other than falling
into the arms of the cool boy who smells of alcohol. The cool boy
who sees her sparkle and wants it for himself. Wants to own it.
Wants to control it. Wants to keep it from the world.
Why didn't she come and speak to us. Why didn't she come to ask for help?
Why didn't she come and speak to us? Why didn't she dare to leave him?
Life is different, here. I realize.
I do not move to lay my judgement on these particular rhythms.
Nor doI feel it is my place to impose my cultural practices on
the youth here. But I do hope to inspire the young people of
these communities, of rural Guatemala, to distinguish the cultural
practices that continue to be useful and positive and those that
no longer serve. Discrimination against women does not help anyone.
Women feeling that there is no way out of the cycle of leaving
their parents' house to marry young (because they are already pregnant
and didn't know they had the right to say 'no'.) Settling submissively
for the cage before they have the opportunity to study, to explore, to ask themselves what it is they hope for in this life...
This cycle. This destructive, caged-window cycle must stop.
Bright-eyes. I hope you can shine through your caged window. I hope
your dreams of dancing carry you to a place of empowerment, of self-respect,
of courage. (Though as I write this, a voice inside says: 'wake up ... not
a chance at this point'.) I miss you. I share your story for all the women
of the world who are made to feel small and powerless and afraid and brainless and thoughtless and invisible. I share your story for all the women in the world who feel like they have no choice but to accept the caged-window. I write this story because I know not what else to do as heart races and throat ties a knot around my tears. I miss you, Rosario.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Saorsa: Internal Dialogue
"Our life expands or contracts in proportion to our courage" ... Read the quote that plays on the record player of my mind as I stand on the edge of the creative process. One, two, three and I jump with a splash into a sea of possibilities. A sea full of discouraging, spikey fish who tell you that your attempts at art are mediocre and fairly useless when compared to the professionality of the work of the more experienced artists with whom you reside and learn and play. And, there, hidden behind the anemone's tentacles, swims a rainbow fish who reminds you that Creating is about taking risks and experimenting and no one ever told you that you had to be perfect on the first attempt to raise a paintbrush to the easel. In fact, no one ever told you you had to be perfect at any point along life's winding road. Being Alive and Being Human means Being, period. Without the need for adjectives -- especially 'perfect' which is not so colorful and interesting anyhow.
I am. And so I jump -- I jump into a theatrical presentation of a journal entry I made just a year ago as I sat on the screen porch of an oversized beach house on the beautiful southern coast of South Carolina. I have been playing with it, tweaking it, changing it, letting it come alive in my hands and underneath my feet as I walk to the rhythm of the words on the stage, on the rocks, on the dirt beneath the great jocote tree. And a dialogue is born into the world. An internal dialogue. Two women that are the same woman; two voices who lose one another and find one another and support and question and ... discover. Discover the magic of opening and blooming into the acceptance of who you are; opening into the limitlessness of true freedom -- the freedom to fall in love with the world and, in so doing, begin to love oneself, away from the mirrors. The laughter that ripples from the wingtips of your song, the tears that result from the depth of Humanness, the fear that comes at the edge of happiness, at the edge of a dream, at the edge of shedding your skin and -- shining.
I want to share it with you. Because art is for sharing. Art is for everyone. Art is not about ownership and copyrights. Let's throw out possessives and just admit that these words are. They are. Born inside of me. From the experiences I have lived and continue to live as the record plays on life's turntable. But, there are no new stories; just different ways of telling, sharing, communicating what it is to live as an Alive, Breathing, Human Being. I present to you -
Saorsa: Internal Dialogue
“Saorsa”, pronounced “seer-sha”, is Irish Gaelic meaning “free•dom” n.
The condition of being free of restraints.
Liberty of the person from slavery, detention, or oppression.
Ease or facility of movement
Frankness or boldness; lack of modesty or reserve
*Should I write the date? Should stale numbers be the first characters to fill the page?
-Numbers are not stale unless you make them that way. Our realities are created by our way of perceiving
*(and our perceptions are created by our realities)
-It’s cyclical. Like so much in life.
*True. Einstein loved numbers and God at the same time. He painted his dreams in numbers and colorful eccentricity; his hair standing on end as Universe magic fed his spirited-Mind.
-So, are you going to write the date?
*Yea, I suppose so. May 30, 2009. Maybe someday I’ll want to know.
+Beauty is a feeling more than a reflection when you learn to love yourself.
-So, you feel beautiful?
*Yea. I do. I walked away from the mirrors, fell through the looking glass, met a symphony of poets, dancers, teachers, activists, musicians, mothers, brothers, sisters, playmates, demons, angels, drumbeats, silent winds, desert wildflowers and began to breathe.
*Began to breathe -which led to singing. *Began to sing -which led to dancing. *Began to dance -which led to falling in love with the world. *Fell in love with the world and began +to love myself.
*Yes, I learned to love myself away from the mirrors - feeling Alive (-Alive) in the beat of the drum, feeling youthful (-Youthful) in the turn of the cartwheel, strong (-strong) in the pulse of the run, fertile (-fertile) in the curve of the hula-hoop, wild (-wild) in the sweat of naked desert love-making, calm (-calm) in the loving quiet of morning meditation, grateful (-grateful) for the opening of my pores, my heart, my soul to the nectar of this life.
*I am –woman. I am -goddess. Goddess lives in me. She is so happy to break free of her chains. She cannot keep from dancing. She knows the music will slow eventually. She knows she will grow thirsty and want to sit and rub her tired feet.
-But she is not living there, now.
*She is living Here - in the Rhythm. Dancing.
-You are goddess. You are glowing.
* (Smile) I feel the warmth. I needn´t consult the mirror. The edges of my smile and the fluttering wings in my heart are better reflections of how I feel. Beautiful. Thankful. +Free.
___________________________
*You saw the embers glowing,
deep within my soul.
Your breath, a warm breeze from the West
came to Dance among the simmering coals.
Smelling of salt and cinnamon,
you blew a kiss and ignited the fire in me.
I am on fire.
Glowing.
Like Lady Moon,
unfraid to walk naked in the night.
I am on fire.
The world smiles upon the
rosy blush of lovers´cheeks.
And I smile back.
*There is a necessary pause after "lovers´cheeks, before smiling into the last line.
- Read silently, the poem is mediocre.
*Yet, spoken aloud, there is a taste of sweetness on my lips. Could I communicate the decadent sensations I feel in my soul to an audience of young lovers like myself? Could I share the heat that this western Rhythmaker stirs up in me as it blows breezy and kind through the screen porch?
-No.
*Not in the way I feel it. I would have to start speaking and discover what spices I release - a new word, a verse, a more full-bodied, sexy version of this simple picture of a heart.
-Enough circular talk. Who is this Western Breeze? Who is the Rhythmaker?
*I am glad you ask. I do not want to forget. I do not want this energy to evaporate from my body and scatter to the clouds before I try and explain the way it swept me off my feet so unexpectedly. Actually, it is fair to say we swept each other off our feet. +Unexpectedly.
(Pause)
-Where did you go? Do not be afraid. You don´t have to speak. Just write. Take the lid off and pour a stream of you onto these pages …as quickly or as slowly as feels natural.
*My body pulses. A buzz of electricity just under my skin keeps me from sleeping.
-So, what do you do with this energy?
*I reach out. I reach out to the Rhythmaker. West coast lover whose drumbeats vibrate in me - bouncing around my chest cavity like an echo in a canyon.
-You channel your energy where? Why not sit with the moon and tell her your breathless story?
*I do sit with the moon. I sit with you, hands on my heart, asking to temper the pulse in me. Asking for strength to ground myself in the present moment, without wild thoughts of running away; running away from my muse; climbing out the window into the night.
-and you pulse still
We run and jump wildly with wide eyes and inspired smiles … playing with our conjoined skirt, feeling each others weight, pulling and pushing until at last we bump into each other, stop, look out upon the world, upon nuestro camino and say:
*I pulse still.
And there we stand, gazing out upon the world with fire eyes -- possessed by a passion for living, a sensation of freedom so strong that it sweeps you off your feet like a tumble-weed and your curls dance themselves into knots and your skin kisses the sun and you find your way out of the tumble until you are driving yourself and finding your way, seeing the light, living in the flow, Being ... Learning to be comfortable with uncertainty, comfortable with insecurity, Invigorated by the sun, moon, stars (cliche, yes, but we too often forget to recognize the abundance all around. In simplicity. In the stars that give life through their glow. We too often forget to open our pores and Receive our blessings, or we are too afraid of what might happen). We stand there gazing out upon the world feeling thankful and awake.
And so, there it is. A piece about connecting the dots to find your own internal dialogue, to discover the evolving conversation within your being. Imagine this as a stage piece presented more abstractly: many words left out, a certain nonsensicality, jumping around, acting as our mind does -- here there and everywhere. Everyone in the audiene participates in the creation of the piece, fills in the blanks, the blanks of this journal entry that dared to become something for sharing.
I am. And so I jump -- I jump into a theatrical presentation of a journal entry I made just a year ago as I sat on the screen porch of an oversized beach house on the beautiful southern coast of South Carolina. I have been playing with it, tweaking it, changing it, letting it come alive in my hands and underneath my feet as I walk to the rhythm of the words on the stage, on the rocks, on the dirt beneath the great jocote tree. And a dialogue is born into the world. An internal dialogue. Two women that are the same woman; two voices who lose one another and find one another and support and question and ... discover. Discover the magic of opening and blooming into the acceptance of who you are; opening into the limitlessness of true freedom -- the freedom to fall in love with the world and, in so doing, begin to love oneself, away from the mirrors. The laughter that ripples from the wingtips of your song, the tears that result from the depth of Humanness, the fear that comes at the edge of happiness, at the edge of a dream, at the edge of shedding your skin and -- shining.
I want to share it with you. Because art is for sharing. Art is for everyone. Art is not about ownership and copyrights. Let's throw out possessives and just admit that these words are. They are. Born inside of me. From the experiences I have lived and continue to live as the record plays on life's turntable. But, there are no new stories; just different ways of telling, sharing, communicating what it is to live as an Alive, Breathing, Human Being. I present to you -
Saorsa: Internal Dialogue
“Saorsa”, pronounced “seer-sha”, is Irish Gaelic meaning “free•dom” n.
The condition of being free of restraints.
Liberty of the person from slavery, detention, or oppression.
Ease or facility of movement
Frankness or boldness; lack of modesty or reserve
*Should I write the date? Should stale numbers be the first characters to fill the page?
-Numbers are not stale unless you make them that way. Our realities are created by our way of perceiving
*(and our perceptions are created by our realities)
-It’s cyclical. Like so much in life.
*True. Einstein loved numbers and God at the same time. He painted his dreams in numbers and colorful eccentricity; his hair standing on end as Universe magic fed his spirited-Mind.
-So, are you going to write the date?
*Yea, I suppose so. May 30, 2009. Maybe someday I’ll want to know.
+Beauty is a feeling more than a reflection when you learn to love yourself.
-So, you feel beautiful?
*Yea. I do. I walked away from the mirrors, fell through the looking glass, met a symphony of poets, dancers, teachers, activists, musicians, mothers, brothers, sisters, playmates, demons, angels, drumbeats, silent winds, desert wildflowers and began to breathe.
*Began to breathe -which led to singing. *Began to sing -which led to dancing. *Began to dance -which led to falling in love with the world. *Fell in love with the world and began +to love myself.
*Yes, I learned to love myself away from the mirrors - feeling Alive (-Alive) in the beat of the drum, feeling youthful (-Youthful) in the turn of the cartwheel, strong (-strong) in the pulse of the run, fertile (-fertile) in the curve of the hula-hoop, wild (-wild) in the sweat of naked desert love-making, calm (-calm) in the loving quiet of morning meditation, grateful (-grateful) for the opening of my pores, my heart, my soul to the nectar of this life.
*I am –woman. I am -goddess. Goddess lives in me. She is so happy to break free of her chains. She cannot keep from dancing. She knows the music will slow eventually. She knows she will grow thirsty and want to sit and rub her tired feet.
-But she is not living there, now.
*She is living Here - in the Rhythm. Dancing.
-You are goddess. You are glowing.
* (Smile) I feel the warmth. I needn´t consult the mirror. The edges of my smile and the fluttering wings in my heart are better reflections of how I feel. Beautiful. Thankful. +Free.
___________________________
*You saw the embers glowing,
deep within my soul.
Your breath, a warm breeze from the West
came to Dance among the simmering coals.
Smelling of salt and cinnamon,
you blew a kiss and ignited the fire in me.
I am on fire.
Glowing.
Like Lady Moon,
unfraid to walk naked in the night.
I am on fire.
The world smiles upon the
rosy blush of lovers´cheeks.
And I smile back.
*There is a necessary pause after "lovers´cheeks, before smiling into the last line.
- Read silently, the poem is mediocre.
*Yet, spoken aloud, there is a taste of sweetness on my lips. Could I communicate the decadent sensations I feel in my soul to an audience of young lovers like myself? Could I share the heat that this western Rhythmaker stirs up in me as it blows breezy and kind through the screen porch?
-No.
*Not in the way I feel it. I would have to start speaking and discover what spices I release - a new word, a verse, a more full-bodied, sexy version of this simple picture of a heart.
-Enough circular talk. Who is this Western Breeze? Who is the Rhythmaker?
*I am glad you ask. I do not want to forget. I do not want this energy to evaporate from my body and scatter to the clouds before I try and explain the way it swept me off my feet so unexpectedly. Actually, it is fair to say we swept each other off our feet. +Unexpectedly.
(Pause)
-Where did you go? Do not be afraid. You don´t have to speak. Just write. Take the lid off and pour a stream of you onto these pages …as quickly or as slowly as feels natural.
*My body pulses. A buzz of electricity just under my skin keeps me from sleeping.
-So, what do you do with this energy?
*I reach out. I reach out to the Rhythmaker. West coast lover whose drumbeats vibrate in me - bouncing around my chest cavity like an echo in a canyon.
-You channel your energy where? Why not sit with the moon and tell her your breathless story?
*I do sit with the moon. I sit with you, hands on my heart, asking to temper the pulse in me. Asking for strength to ground myself in the present moment, without wild thoughts of running away; running away from my muse; climbing out the window into the night.
-and you pulse still
We run and jump wildly with wide eyes and inspired smiles … playing with our conjoined skirt, feeling each others weight, pulling and pushing until at last we bump into each other, stop, look out upon the world, upon nuestro camino and say:
*I pulse still.
And there we stand, gazing out upon the world with fire eyes -- possessed by a passion for living, a sensation of freedom so strong that it sweeps you off your feet like a tumble-weed and your curls dance themselves into knots and your skin kisses the sun and you find your way out of the tumble until you are driving yourself and finding your way, seeing the light, living in the flow, Being ... Learning to be comfortable with uncertainty, comfortable with insecurity, Invigorated by the sun, moon, stars (cliche, yes, but we too often forget to recognize the abundance all around. In simplicity. In the stars that give life through their glow. We too often forget to open our pores and Receive our blessings, or we are too afraid of what might happen). We stand there gazing out upon the world feeling thankful and awake.
And so, there it is. A piece about connecting the dots to find your own internal dialogue, to discover the evolving conversation within your being. Imagine this as a stage piece presented more abstractly: many words left out, a certain nonsensicality, jumping around, acting as our mind does -- here there and everywhere. Everyone in the audiene participates in the creation of the piece, fills in the blanks, the blanks of this journal entry that dared to become something for sharing.
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