Almost a year (later)


“Bad” dreams stir a sleeping child. She cries in her sleep and no one can hear her: there is silence.

All s(he) needs is to be gobbled by strong arms, gently.

Two jars of glitter balancing a glass stone.

We walked into the warm sun on a cold day. The turtle family is gone. A blue heron stands on an island while a duck swims in the rising pond waters. There is so much water since the rains have returned. You can skip stones, if you can. Today, we keep imagining all the herons return. We keep looking for the strange black bird embracing the sun, the cold, the rain, the fog. We long for the stretch of the Egret’s neck to become invisible.

The clouds are scattering. The Sun is Water. The clouds part for the Full Moon.

We’ve lived here for nearly a year and this is what we’ve seen:


We latch onto the lingering smell of summer when the hot sun boils wild reeds vetiver.

The Earth lovers embrace and hold out their offerings.

A year ago, we barely broke ground; we are now asked to consider dreamspace.

Yesterday, I learned the name of a lady bug turned catepillar: the banded woollybear.

Pre-Full Moon night, a giant spider that wasn’t so giant, spun softly above my door.

We were frightened. We asked the spider to go. It went.

We keep learning when to go first, when to go second, last

and when to gobble each other up gently when we feel so small.



Tarot Card Image by Judith Tamarah Fried




This is where I placed my lady bug ancestor. Inside the closed bud of a dandelion. I wished for a home and a reminder that I am not alone. She landed on my hand while my hands were placed together in prayer in front of my heart. I whispered to my ancestors during dia de los muertos time. I gasped at the unknown. My eyes were closed. I swatted at the unknown sensation on my hand. When I opened my eyes I saw that I slapped my lady bug ancestor across the room. I couldn’t stop myself.

I found her alive and crawling. I let her crawl back onto my hand. I’m so sorry. I am so grateful for her resilience. I realized that I am chasing away love energy. I realize that I am afraid of nothing. I am afraid of my lady bug ancestor.

I placed her in the earth. I let her crawl into a wish. I whispered blessings

may you find your home and be happy and loved. 


Today, the morning fog has clouded our vision. We are at home and space feels tight, rocked. How do we soften space? How do we come home to ourselves?


I sit with myself. I hold my fears of the unknown. I look away from death and recognize I want to slap its hand away. I want to remember how to look at death: hello, goodbye. I want to let death touch me and I don’t want to be reactive. I don’t want to fight the unknown on my way inbetween.


I am looking up and out. The leaves keep falling. Watching leaves fall leaves me sleep deprived. Watching the seasons change leaves me in awe.

I watch death creep into the ponds. I long for the Blue Herons. I long for the whiteness of the Erets, smooth like bone.


I have been meaning to tell you about the black birds, not crows. These duck & geese-like black birds perch on logs and islands. They choose one to spread its wings for the flock. The black bird holds its wings out. Sun bathing when there is sun. Today, the black bird will embrace the fog.


I wrap my mind around the fog, I wrap my heart around the trees, the leaves. I remember this is the time of year when the mortuary home moved like a revolving door. I remember how many families walked through, glass eyed, brave and strong when they didn’t need to be.


An Experiment No. 1

Let’s see how long I can keep this going

An undying love wounded. Wavering. Awake from a deep sleep.

This path is different now


There are less leaves

There is more death

it is constantly cold and grey

I was reminded to take supplements

Vitamin D

when i left the rains

when i returned to sunshine

i fail to follow up on

What’s good… what feeds…what uplifts

What nourishes? Who do you love?

They keep saying to be alone so I stop telling them I’m not.

And yet, we’re never alone

I present my blood, the warm heart still beating love


The life inside, love: is not acknowledged. It is crushed, its mouth covered to keep it from speaking or moaning in pleasure. Trauma haunts us. We are traumatized children. Waiting for our mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers to come home and remember the fire man, the drummer, the one who throws cedar into the fire, the road man. The one who says, welcome home, the one who says, you’re always welcome. Home.


We tried to write into this space. Our failure is this:

Once a dream appeared. I am told why home is so far away. We are not of this world. We are of different worlds–swirling. We have forgotten so much. Our heads, hearts, tongues severed. We are distracted. Keep on waking up. It’s 4:20 AM. I wake in anticipation. Half dreading because sometimes your words are razor blades. At first I cannot feel the mark of cold steel, but then when I glance in the mirror, I see my eyes bleeding.


Sometimes it’s difficult to understand depression. Its rolling wave. The way it sets into marrow. It’s not something you can carve out. It cannot be coaxed. Or can it? I wonder about human compassion. When one says “depression” or when they spell out the word to another, how does that land? When it lands in a lover’s hand will they cradle it, squeeze it tight, hold it gently. I wonder about the strange way we respond to something or someone when we have little to no way of relating–we do not understand. Some step forward to carve out their own pain. They hold it up and out and say “look.” They relate without relating. Some move back and cower. It’s too much to hold. Hold me.

And yet, when we can be kind hearted, open chested, seeing without judgment–infant eyes–then there is movement. The words–blood–flow. There is movement. Water mixes with blood, collects in pockets and soaks into bone. The dark lifts if only for a moment we recognize the light and call her dawn. The brown female body emerges from her pose. A hunched over mass that is cancer. Cancer is water. A nurturer that forgets to nurture herself. Where is the self in this writing. Where does the dream end and begin.


Gram’s 90th birthday was a month ago. She’s always here even though I cannot see her, I feel her here in these words.

Her love released. Her love released. Her. Released.


When we are hunted for so long. We were misunderstood. They could not understand us so they killed us off. We tried to protect you. We tried to keep you safe and remind you that you’re always home as long as you’re alive. The hunted are resilient. Resilience is home.


This path is different now. It looks out and looks in, daily. It binds to the sole. It embraces and heals with each step forward and back. This path beckons and waits. It is the reminder that you are never alone as long as you keep speaking to birds, plants, trees and run along with beauty just ahead, behind and next to you.



// New Moon \\

Yesterday eve

I could feel her: a wink of an eye

watching us

run along the chilled path

where I caught cold

long enough to admire pink waters

a non verbal gesture

sometimes we mouth hello

the rains returned long enough to fill ponds and call the Nutria back

Bello chased a shadow

the shadow climbed a tree

a car ran over a shadow

in my dream

I fell in love with betrayal

I wake crying and realize the deep wounds

abandonment plays tricks

And all along

my family is here

swirling around in endless possibility