There is an orb of labradorite after the storm. Perhaps the rainbow encircles us. We are in the middle. The moon speaks to the earthly–calls us to ground and receive the light. The thunder, lightning and rain urge us awake. Striking fear and yet, also a sense of urgency. To rise to the occasion. To question why these hills are black. To crop out wires and a signal. When we lose power, are we really gaining some(thing) some(time)?
If we could only harness the energy of lightning, thunder and rain. Listen to the drum beat on the way. And return West with the answer to drought.
There are always unexpected guests. Visits with ghosts who are so real you can embrace them. Hold hands for a while. You might be so lucky to meet their “other half” and make two new friends in one day. Without trying. You find your way through crowded streets, where love is flowing and the lights shine all night. All day. For a moment, on BART, a woman standing, holding on, was overheard–something about autopsies and accidents. Then, as the week boiled down, there was comfort in a ladybug, squash and Alamo Square–how the hill top held her–as she breathed with the sky. Before returning, she spent an evening running through her favorite alley, remembering her hand inside her Gram’s hand… and years later, how much her hand resembles Gram’s and her mothers.
we spill blood and send happiness wishes into
a realm we hope you are listening from
perhaps this is déjà vu?
The moment when you pause and notice.
Sitting after smoke settles
the root of suffering surfaces
The impossibilities of -isms and -ics
How to wrap your mind around that?
Holding space for the criers, the mothers’ salt
Holding space for some reason, peace is all that comes
What does peace look like for the families lost?
We are move ready. To hit the ground running. So they say. In a new city. So many lakes. Will we forget the need for Ocean, Mountains.
There is plenty of snow without mountains. Rocky shore lakes that might stretch so far. I can pretend.
The smoke lit with intention. I remember resistance and peccadillos
I would do anything to breathe breath into a memory. Into a minute more with you.
The Road: signs count down miles to a long lost never home and cultural attractions. Sightings–let’s call them. A turned over truck/bus. The point in which we realize the significance of a swerve. On the way back to California, Mt. Shasta appears straight ahead and in the next moment, instead of driving into the mountain, Mt. Shasta is slowly disappearing from sight. No longer visible in the rear view mirror, we look straight ahead. Another swerve.
As if the road calls us. To drive along the cracked trail is a response.
I am thinking about the response to becoming. In tune with the almost summer heat. The waves of brisk fog that washes over the Sunset and the warm kiss of the sun.
Notice what you notice:
The quiet Downtown streets on a Monday evening. After a late siesta, walking Bello, the air is still. These are the times of the hermit. Retreat. Inside the cavernous hole. (What does your hole look like?) And when retreat is necessary, when will you emerge? And when you arrive on the ground level, can you return to the same hole/ underground get-away? Are we always looking for something to help us feel whole?
“We are always in transition.”
Bombarded with “freezing the abundant eggs of youth” ads and recognizing myself falling into a “stereotype,” based on biology, I am reminded that the ground must be fertile (emotionally/physically/ spiritually) for the seed to take root. I consider how this relates to healing and writing. In order to conceive of ideas, birth creation, the creation of open space: write through the failures–write the book that is the pre-writing. Then let the mountain wind carry the words away. What is left, the debris, may inspire the next book, and the next.
The confessional. And also: Meditation. Dance. Music. Song. How these practices activate the stuck energy in the body to move through the system, meridians, chakras, nadis. Balance.
I am inspired by healers who discuss this “lost puzzle piece” to fertility. I stumbled upon Get Fertile, Stay Fertile. As i consider my own somatic practices, i am grateful for these “at the right website at the right time” moments.
space with somatic
allow us to
We will write
[The above is an experiment with erasure. An accident. A second look/ glance at what the words are trying to say: somatic writers. present the body.
As I am considering somatic experiments for my workshop on Bodyful Space, i realize the practice i am proposing. Creating space to slow down, to notice what you notice, within and outside the body–the Earth Body. When that space is open, we may notice our emotions raise the body’s temperature or increase the heart beat… these events are affects of the trigger. The moment that caused the heat or cold reaction. The heat wave. The earthquake. We can notice our bodies in relation to the natural environment. How do they communicate? How does the body–sitting, typing furiously–mimic the humid heat of the PNW?]
I am thinking about mobility. The constant flux. Migration. Moving from state to state. The feeling right before the engine starts. The sigh. The different routes one can take to move from here to there. The opportunities or misfortunes that can follow. The traveler. The seeker. who sees what lies to the left and to the right of the highway. flashes, visions moving so fast. There is a need to pause. There is a sigh again. When West is the word, what comes next, Mid-West? East?