Ponds Meet Ocean

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Dive deep into the past

bubbling

disconnected lineage

you have

DNA. Put a story.

Attuned to energetic field–see through

What is the truth? vs. What someone is saying.

feel the energy

in some form or another

learn power dynamics, fear, danger

Lead and protect others

 

Tides are turning, please sister, get us to safety

 

What’s my name?

 

Saturn. Pluto. Jupiter. Mars. Aquarius Moon.

 

What can I really do?

When we know disaster is coming

 

Run.

 

 

a drop in the ocean

 

We are not separate

 

I might just float away

 

 

Conquered people

Loss of nativetongue

Here you are:

You can’t be the one who falls apart

Invite the water, the ocean to remove

Shame.

 

Return to yourself. Return.

 

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Dear Daughter

August 2016 HB

This is a song to sing to your heart when core gives out and all you can feel is the sand rain down.

Please, she said. Please. Return to yourself. 

I can feel for miles, sandblasts if I walk too far from the sea. We run closer to the ocean waves, chase birds. Bello still wishes they’d take him up up and. He circles back, barks free and wild. As if the ocean air, the sand and the birds awaken his senses.

I run alongside, I see others run alongside, too. As if the sea gives us permission.

I dream of living here: the ocean: my heart. The shore: my home.

We’ll take a moment, the opportunity is before us to drive up the 101 and write this book. Together, we’ll decide if the ocean calling is a myth. Is this where we’ll disappear? Or am I city bound? My roots so strong, they’ve got to pull me back before I’m gone gone.

I stood at the ocean’s mouth. I felt the water beckon surrounding my body. Reaching for [my] truth.

We are moving towards Aquarius Full Moon. A lunar eclipse. An end. A beginning.

 

This is the time to come back. Come back. Come back.

Mothers constantly reminding us to love, love ourselves, love yourself. Be who you are.

Who are you?

Live authentically–you. That is the alarm call in the newsletter I proofread this morning for astrologyheals.com–written by a mother.

A liquid fire ignites our truth.

When we wake and hear our truth escaped our throat hollows, eyes widen. Heart beats blood and face flush. A self that isn’t afraid to speak spoke you.

And also not you.

Words sharp as shanks dive into another. I don’t want to hurt no one. No. I don’t.

But I do. I did. We hurt. We hurt others. Ourselves. To let the world know: we feel pain.

 

I tried to keep my mouth–the way a funeral director sews the mouth, sometimes with thread, sometimes with wire, so the dead looks beautiful. Perfect.

 

She’s just sleeping. Do you remember your dreams?

 

Sometimes I think we are too late. It isn’t too late to hear the words that need to be said outloud.

I can’t imagine not crying one day without tears. It’s not always because I feel my own and others’ suffering. I cry when I think of Bello, when I remember my sisters, when I see love–grow.

 

Mom said, you need to respect yourself. I didn’t know I had stopped.

Mom said, you need to love yourself. I didn’t know I had stopped.

 

Mom said, Please.

And all at once, the circle of women, the circle of love, strength and support I dream about, enveloped me.

Thank you Mom.

 

only1 A+B

Egrets, Blue Heron & Bat

I keep meaning to write the sweet musk of summer boardwalk reeds. The earth’s vetiver at the peak of midsummer. Now that I’ve made time outside the machine. I can mark the sound of ducks, geese, herons, egrets. The plop plop splash of whatever swims so close and so deep obsuring its identity. A dark cloud in the green leaf filled ponds. The waters have receeded since the last rains, you can make out islands, murk and landfill.

If you walk gently, without heavy hands that startle, you can watch the turtles sunbathe on a log so carefully placed in the center. Today under crunch of gravel, the Blue Heron stayed on a thin perch. The egret flew away from a mess to be made. A white splash in the water. A shuddering. The throat seemed to vibrate. Blue Heron feathers spike at the top and the neck turns as if to meet you.


Is this how you digest (violence)? 

Is this a purge?




Here: we walk and wave like the ringlets in the ponds.

Here: we ask ourselves, is it worth leaving? Love. Flight and green growth that appears wild. You could very well find a nook to nest into.

At the first quarter, we walked at dusk to sing songs staring up and out, down at la luna. Her reflection blurs as my voice begins to tremble. An ocean meets a pond. I keep reading, as if speaking to my ancestors. Telling them why the fuck. The ducks and geese hush now. A bat flys in a loop-di-loop pattern. An infinite course that calls this sacred.

“I look when you tell me to”

This page opened. Without a word.

 

The Moon was New one week ago. I drove past Mountain that was Sky.

 

I said, “Sky” and listened to the Wind.

One week later, there are tears.

There were tears then.

On the road with Mountain fading into Sky

We are approaching the First Quarter: we did not make blood, she sings.

 

We stare into mirror, reflect on time, momentscreatelines, a boundary that continues to erupt, pour out, flow, but never heal. The kind of line borders are made of—unbreakable and yet, malleable. Imaginary. “Now you see it. Now you don’t.”

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And what if the Sky I call out to is ground? The very gravity that holds us. It’s mid-summer and the page, the word re-calls the brokenhearted and tiny life that lives. My eyes point to Sky and I rush outside to see misty grey, watching faintlight and color bleed together.

 

 

“Hold Up”

We danced between a counter, a corner and redwood shadows. After Giggles’s wedding, an end of July backyard potluck, the words became clear. She can say my name.

Friend. Not friend. Unfriend. Ghost.

Dancing shame, it’s such a shame.

“I went home and cheer friends who I called friends long ago, it seems. Sometimes we must admit to ourselves: who are friends and who have your back only momentarily. It’s all momentarily. Some catch us in our most vulnerable and without asking, [some] take.”

A moment after reading wonderland nonsense. There was an up and over.

Gasping. A dream. Broke.

Mt. Shasta seemed to blend with the sky. Snow became clouds and the New Moon in Leo roar is a cry. A blue ghost stands in pond waters without a shadow, the reflection’s so clear.

I dream. She’s inbetween. Bardos. Transference. Transition.

She’s crying. I hold her and ask, “Where will you go? What will happen to you?”

“I’m going to get. On that road. And it’ll all.”

May the road heal us.

How many homes will we build and re-build, shake and re-claim?