Boundaries and other things


Yesterday, 6 years ago…

Yin needs


Replenish me.

I write to Gram and roll the letter into a scroll, secure with a bow. I contemplate placing the words into the ocean.

Are you happy?

I have red roses that I will feed the mouth of the ocean. I will watch the waves dance with the petals and then swallow them whole.


I have a Rei Ki doll and on our walks we find purple flowers springing up.


We protest and that is action that is hope. Hope as verb. I remember. Connected. Disconnected.


It’s so cold and grey, but sometimes there is sun.


I tell him he is the Sun–he is my Sunshine.


I call him, Love. I call my heart. Home.


We somersault around the core of our selves and make wishes and pray to heal.



There are times when the empty air flares

In this moment, the energy is still


We are told gently, it’s a good problem to have

They recommend healthy boundaries

They tell us what we already know. More blood. More Vitamin D.

Until all the Sun does is shine and shine.



Dear White America

An open letter to Eugene, Oregon:

“Perhaps the signs are there with good (white) intentions?”

To place a sign in your door, through the glass, so you can see: “I’m welcome.” “I’m not.”

To let others know–others who check “other,” who don’t look like you, who frighten you–that there is no need to feel fear of you. Your doors are open for us.

You stand with us. You don’t. You don’t know what it feels like.

And what of the places that do not hang signs?

Why are we looking for signs again?

We have forgotten we have always looked for signs.

Were we always so explicit?

The landlady placed a “No Trespassing” sign up around a tree since someone took shelter outside: hidden behind a shrub, pressed against the house. The landlady had a fence built so someone would stop shitting in the piles of leaves, outside squatting near theĀ house.

I called for helpĀ and asked for light to flood the darkest nights. We can change the lights from white to red to green.

I am awake and slip from history’s pages

I am awake and move my brown body from place to place.

A white Buddhist town where I experienced rape and racism.
A bustling segregated big city where my family, las mujeres, experienced rape and erasure.

As the years go on, I realize we have to search for signs that say, you can place your body here. “Go ahead. No one will hurt you. No one will treat you less than. Someone will be with you soon.”

Once, I tried to fill my water cup at a bar in Eugene, OR. I was downtown on a Friday night and a young white man who hovered around the water jug, spoke to me with hate speech. I couldn’t believe my ears. My eyes saw a scared white boy. Why are white boys hating or in fear of brown female bodies?

I am awake and yet. There is a feeling: I’m dreaming. I see my Gram. She is always with me. Gram, how can we set the clocks back? How can we take backwards steps at a time like this?


I’ve always said, I want to go home. And now, I know what it means.