VERONICA LEE

Tender. Raw. Life wrapped you
in a blanket of welcoming.
"Feel this," She said.
The senses helping ground
your incarnation.
The noises, no longer muffled,
now pinging your eardrums
with sharpness and clarity.
The constant heartbeat replaced
by a symphony of too much.
Soothing voices and softness
were preferred.

Was the blanket warm and soft?
Or did small balls of scratchiness
roughen the swaddle?
Vague visions of new came in and out
of focus as your eyes adjusted to form.

Did you savor the sweetness of colostrum?
Or did the fabricated mixture of
trying-to-be-milk coat your tongue?
Your tiny nostrils carried air and
scents; some sweet, some foul.
All part of Life on Earth.

Was leaving the womb your first
meeting of sorrow?

I wonder how welcomed you felt?
The hidden story - fairly confirmed
by Ancestry - is that your biological
father was not your mother's husband.
I wonder if only she knew?
Did you sense her shame,
sorrow or fear?
Did resentment interfere with her
mothering of you, or the succession
of siblings to follow?

When did sorrow and survival kick in?
Your childhood stories
are haunting, at best.
My sense is sorrow had to take a
back seat, tucked away till you could
afford the breathing room to process it.
A tablespoon at a time.

The barrage of injustices turned to rage
forging a strength that defined you,
allowed you to move toward transformation.

Body and heart damaged, you landed
safely in your mind, devouring books
of escape and possibility.
Fantasies, teachings, hopes
filled the hours.
Nose to page, no one noticed
you were practically blind.

Your teen years brought you glasses,
sharper visions, a husband, and me.
Yet you still carried the burden
of saving your siblings.
And you tried.
​
You actually wanted to save the world.
Feminism, anti-racism, human rights
became your unshakeable conviction.
Activism your way.
Healing injustices, your innermost need.
In efforts to transform all of it,
you touched Life because of your sorrow.

What is before me?
Clutter.

I scoot my laptop away to make
room for pen on paper.
Yarn, olive green cotton, awaits
its next project.
A blue half-knitted hat 
yearns for completion; 
forgotten under the 
new ball of green.
A scattering of crochet hooks
with identifiers too small
to see with blurry vision
rest side by side, poking
their necks out from 
under the laptop.

Glasses, not the ones upon
my nose but the brown ones -
cheap and non-prescriptive - 
offer backup as they lay
adjacent to the coordinating 
tortoise-shell hair clasp that
is also considered backup
when preferred flowing 
tresses simply get in the way.

A thick pad of functionally lined
Post-It's hold the right corner of
the laptop to keep it level with
the raised edges of the table.

So many objects-in-waiting
within arm's reach to satisfy
function and desire; assisting
the need for order or feeding
my creative impulses.
Or both.

Scattered before me the
curated clutter defines my 
small work table most days.
My eye catches the notes
and numbers indicating
income and expenses
anticipated for the month,
reminding me that most of
the wares are good enough. 
I really don't need more.

But how can one cap ideas,
creative yearnings, or 
the need for more yarn?
The work table is small.
It knows its limits and 
can only hold so much.
But I am a master of
curated clutter, of 
finding new surfaces
and baskets and bins
to carry out my 
ever-evolving impulses
for creativity and order. 
​And always more yarn.

Meditation.
Morning.
Monday.

Open.
Wide.
Centered.

Tinnitus.
My right ear.
Drawing my attention.
In the quietude.

What do I need to hear?
Where am I not listening?

Meditation moves to mantra.
"I listen.
I hear what needs to be heard.
I listen deeply, with clarity."

Meditation.
Mind. 
Me.

I offer myself focus.
Or is this a distraction?
A need to keep the monkey mind busy?
No matter.

The ringing in the right.
The pulsating tiredness.
The dullness of eyelids.
Closed.

Meditation.
Meeting.
Moments.

My body breathing itself.
Easeful and present.
Barely discernible.
I want to stay here.
Allow for the stillness.
The beauty of being.

Meditation.
Meditation.
Meditation.

I've carved out an hour of permission.
A half hour of meditation.
A half hour for writing.
Interestingly, I find the writing the harder of the two today.
I want to return.

Meditation.
Mindfulness.
Mesmerizing.

A practice of freedom.
Yet with the sweetness of discipline.
Encompassing it all.
My body continues to breathe itself.
My spine enjoys its erectness.
Each pause.
I close my eyes to fall back into the silence.

Meditation.
Meaning.
Mysticism.

The pause.
The breath.
The listening despite the tinnitus.

What wants to be written?
What are the exact words?

I still the channel.
To feel.
To listen.
To understand.
Clarify and write.

Monday.
Morning.
Meditation.

Aligning the cosmos with my soul.
And making room for a few written words.

Right there. 
A spot at the top
of my crown. 
An ache.
The focus of a headache
and my full attention.
It melts slowly over my eyes,
to the outside edges,
that burn with forgotten tears.
Tears that can release
at a single thought.
Or maybe a flood of
thoughts that feel like one;
a collage of memories on 
a page of what was.

I was never a past-dweller,
but what was lingers 
all around me. Boxes of
semi-sorted photos,
arts and crafts the children
made, your half of our bed.

I rarely stretch to your side.
Who wants to get comfortable
with all that space?
Who wants to claim the center
as if it were wonderful and
permanent?

The girls are gone now.
Our babies, only 17 when 
you died, just turned 21.
In their own apartment.
Far too far for me to hop in
the car to see them, 
even without the clutching 
anxiety that now hovers 
when I drive to wherever feels
like "too far from home."

From this couch, where my
body is anchored and my 
headache throbs, everything 
feels like "too far from home."

I reach for my warm tea, 
the hint of sweetness streams
across my tongue in hopes
of soothing my soul.
It's here to remind me of the
sweet simplicity of a quiet
spring morning, perhaps to
soften the ache in my head.

It's a new day and, like time, 
it's merely an assistant to
what may form, to my body,
to memories.
And I meet myself at the 
crossroads of headache, 
memories and warm tea. 

Hold still.
You are holding
space for you.
Opening your heart;
your being.

In the stillness of opening
you are free.
Allow the freedom.
Allow the space.
Let got of any and
all expectation.
The space is enough...
not to be filled;
simply allowed.

No need to examine
the experience.
In examination, you
become an active energy 
in that space.

Soften. Rest.
Breathe and soften more.
Allow and soften.
Allow for emptiness
and clarity.
Sweep away thought
and expectation.

I see you.
Let me share what arises.
Holding space, with hearts open.
I am not looking for flaws.
Just listening, paying attention
to the patterns, sensations,
directions and words offered
to me by your soul.

You've asked, now I seek.
A scan, a witnessing,
remaining as neutral - yet as 
loving - as possible.
Then I translate it, as best
as I can, to words.

Feelings, beliefs, wounds and
transformations find their
way to my voice, pouring
over you with reverence.

That wound of yours?
Yes, it may be holding you
back, blocking you from your
full expression, but its
intention was to protect - 
preserve - your gifts.
Your open, loving heart that
needed a shield, keeping you
safe from harshness and blame.
Your foggy claircognizance, 
once sharp and attentive,
giving you some distance 
from knowing too much.

I see and speak to the 
whole of it - of you - trusting
in your remembrance of
your wholeness, your holiness.
With gentle awareness,
I reflect back to you that
which you already know,
but may have tucked away 
for some kind of safety.

It is okay to allow for witnessing,
to see your reflection
and observe what may not be
so easy to see without a mirror.
We all need mirrors.
Clean ones, ideally.

My work is not to heal or
fix or make you anything 
that you are not.
My work is to see you 
so clearly and lovingly
that it makes it safe to be
seen and accepted
just as you are.

And by recognizing those
gifts and the textured shields
that have obscured them
for preservation, I trust
that you will dissolve 
whatever you no longer need.
That you will rekindle your
own trust in all that you 
already are.
That you will reconnect
with your truth, your power
and your joy.

My intention is to hold space
for you to remember your
inherent worthiness and 
align with who you have 
come here to be.

There's no-thing I want you to know.
I simply am.
If I desire you knowing me
it comes as a longing.
A longing of acceptance
because something in me
doesn't fully accept myself.

Yes, I am my truth.
What I express, do, am
are all aspects of truth.
Even when I lie to myself.
How can it not be?

In no way can I not be truly me.
All the layers, the clouds,
the stories, the games - 
they are all aspects of
my truth, however
muddled or subtle.

I need not justify me.
I spend way too much time
in longing for different
or acceptance.
The either-or of
wanting peace.
Inner acceptance, outer change.
Inner change, outer acceptance.
Both battle for my will, my focus.
Both true and untrue.

There is no-thing I want you to know.
I'm tired of knowing.
The mind gets so fixated on its 
belief that it could ever truly 
know anything.
In fear of not-knowing, it seeks.
Grasps. Devouring so-called
facts, information and even wisdom.
But how can wisdom be harnessed?

Like me, isn't its truth ever-present
as Is, ever-changing from Is Not?
With Not being some kind of illusion?

There is no-thing I want you to know.
Or maybe I do want you to know no-thing.
It's the no-thing that is the closest
that my tiny semblance of wisdom 
knows as truth.

The empty. Ungraspable.

I revere that.
And in some way I trust 
that I am that.
And then no-thing allowed for something.
A perception, maybe.
And all these perceptions 
poured in, became multi-faceted
and real.
Creating me.
And then I longed.
Longed to be touched,
to be loved, to be seen,
to be known.
Because I believed I was -
I am - something.

And that something longed
for validation to make
itself more real than no-thing.
In fact, feared no-thing,
feared its own emptiness.
Always wanting something,

So, in truth, I affirm:
There is no-thing I want you to know.

The cauldron of my creativity.
Open. Vast. Even a bit frightening.
The lifetimes, secrets and power
it embraces
to be offered in sacred quantities
of giving.

The cycle welcoming back into itself
for pleasure and remembrance.

One drop. A tantalizing nectar
of truth that leaves a mild
bitterness on the tongue.
A way to remind us of its
potency; the magic
of its singularity.

One. Only. Yet all.
Ever encompassing itself
as life unfolding as
experience.

The cauldron, rich with
possibility, expects nothing.
The illusion is we must put
something in. We must add,
mix, and stir the perfect
selection of ingredients.
There must be effort,
thought, planning.

But the cauldron needs not.
She is the container and
the contents, fully
capable of an
alchemy beyond
practical.
Her mystery is known only
to her, yet each of
us was born from it.

A creation that is singular,
tethered and All That Is
unto itself outside
the cauldron.

Existence is witnessing.
We must witness to remember.
No eyes, no mind,
no knowing of anything at all.
Breathing in. Breathing out.
Allowing the cauldron of creativity
to alchemize her magic
as we witness her manifestations.
Trusting in the truth of creation,
opening our hearts to
remember the joy of it all.
​
Why not welcome the joy
of her exquisite alchemy?

Words are precious.
I'm glad you had them till the end
even though they barely etched
the air with whispers.

Your brother came.
In hindsight, you had
four more days.
Your machine provoking you
to breathe.
With its mask
crowding your face, 
you turned to me.
Your eyebrows lifting, 
connecting eye to eye
to assure communication 
in spite of the struggle.

"Tell him," you pained,
barely audible,
"Tell him what I want
him to do with my ashes."

The grief of writing this
three and a half years later 
seizes my chest and throat.
Yet those whispers pierce
time with conviction.

Your wish.
Your love.
The river.

Your brother's vow.
Our tears.
Your comfort at that assurance.

You would - once again -
grace the river you loved.

I see you now - 
recall the many hours 
you stood thigh-high
in your river.
Fishing pole in hand,
watching each ripple,
tuning into the bouncing
of the tip, the pull
of the line.
Your feet anchoring 
your meditation
within the current.

He was sent half
your ashes; his
duty was his honor.

Though the cabin 
had long been sold,
he still found his way 
back to the Trinity.
Back to the banks
that cradled your 
family for nearly 
five decades.

Every rock you turned
over, every branch you
broke, each fish you
caught and released,
or caught and ate, 
filled your melancholic
being with the truth
of your soul.

As I hoard my half of
your ashes - knowing
one day I will offer some
to our river here - 
I am beholden to 
know you and the Trinity
are forever merged.

It haunts me, entices me,
invites me in to form words, thoughts,
or squiggle along its edges.

I tore up my first diary, started 
somewhere in the awkward years, 
beyond cuteness and into self-consciousness.
Wide gap between my two front teeth,
unstylistic freckles, and hair that
was ratted by sleep and a lack
of brushing past the top layer.

I have no idea what was written
by that ten year old girl...
Crushes? Loneliness?
Shameful desires?
Nor do I remember the age I
was when I destroyed the
journal - cursed the contents
into oblivion.

My memories, like the 
diary, are torn into bits.
A corner of a page - earnestly
confessed by a child - appear
at the bottom of dusty boxes.
Boxes that have been
​carried through the
decades, but carefully
hidden behind necessary.

I wonder what that
wounded child shared?
Or is the angry teen that
buried the child's words
who needs compassion?

There is a lostness of it all.

In my trusting days, I
began journalling again,
vowing never to destroy - 
only hide.
Stacks of journals
covet the deepest of
my emotions - mostly pain.
In the potential safety of
my journals I have purged
the deep, the dark, the rage,
the triggers of life's dramas.

Each time pen blazes across
those pages, the words are
tinged with exhaustion and
too much-ness.
Yes, I may be too much,
but those moments reflect
the extremes.
Though I will concede that the
celebrations are savored 
in the here and now and 
rarely documented.

Journalling, poetry, 
articles, essays, dreams,
plans and to do's are 
ever-unfolding from
my fingertips.
The whiteness of the page
inviting me to share, to
think, to purge, to organize
with ink and lines, or 
even computer screen.
But that intentional binding
wrapped beautifully around
empty pages offers
a semblance of safety to
share from the darkness...
and probably the light,
but there's no crying 
need in the light.

The standing invitation...
with lines to keep me orderly
whether or not I know 
where I am going, where 
I end up, or my future self
approves of what's been
​written.

Is it possible that I am empty?
That all the cells and molecules
of my existence are actually
the void itself?
My mere witnessing of self
seems to make me so.
And others.
And life's happenings.

I witness.
I feel.
Oh, yes, I think therefore I am, right?

But what if I wake up from a dream
that felt so real with its linearness
and multi-faceted characters,
and sensations of real pain and orgasm,
only to be relieved - or saddened - it ended?

Would the true I feel the fogginess of
swollen eyes and roll over to check the time?

Would morning still be morning with its 
crispness and wonder of what's to come?

That true I - whoever she is -
might not be a she at all.
No periods, no menopause, but 
also not the gloriousness of
pregnancy and childbirth.

I wonder...
or at least I think I wonder,
as this could be the wonder of the dream.

If that is the case then why can't I fly?

Now that I think about it, I haven't
flown in dreams for a long time.
Let me tell you of the flying dreams
of my she-character.

They began at a young age, launched in flight,
barely out of reach in fear and escape.
As horrific as my water swimming, I could
hardly doggie paddle, an embarrassing effort.
Some kind of chase. Some threat.
Often within a big building and no where to escape.

As I grew my flying became more easeful, 
but still a necessity of escape.
By my late twenties I had mastered flying.
No longer hovering above heads, 
I could move amongst the stars
though the sense of the earth's shield
containing me here was palpable.
I even began teaching others to fly.

But now my butt is anchored heavily 
on my couch, my eyes swollen 
from aggravated dreaming.
A dull headache worsened by 
pancakes and syrup because -
well, it's Saturday and I owe 
myself pancakes and syrup.
Eaten to fill that emptiness
and aggravation.
An emptiness that longs for more.

"Fill me," it aches.
Like the void itself.

I hear her.
I hear her called to be filled.
She needs the matter to
take up her emptiness.
And it tries.
But no matter how big
or scrumptious or sharp
or willing, it can never fill 
the void.
It only pretends to touch her.

And she is left
​contemplating
her emptiness.

Direction.
Forward, never back.
As back implies negative,
to be less than empty.
But memories are full,
rich with scent and emotion.
Yet forward is the goal,
the go-to, the place where
we all must strive.

Strive.
A compassionate gesture,
softer than a command,
holding space for evolution.

I imagine stillness.

The present.
Sometimes it seems less tangible
than memories or plans.
The comfort of planning,
especially when infused with
the intention of striving,
wraps my present
in a thin veil of better.

Better is always better, isn't it?

And then there is contentment.
That evasive striving for
contentment of my now.
But now can feel so...
ordinary.
Unspecial.

I long for special.
Special moments.
Special connections.
Special conversations.
Special dreams.
Special interests.
Presently, interests barely pique
through the ordinary.

Perhaps memories of
what was supposed to be
pull them toward negative.

We are told we must stay positive.
Positive thoughts.
Positive outlooks.
Positive attitudes.
Staying above that line
where zero sits.

But I am that zero.
I find comfort in that big round circle
that protects me.
Allows me to balance
at the fulcrum point.
Looking toward negative, 
past and less than.
And, whenever I choose,
setting my gaze toward positive,
future and more.
From this vantage point
I can look up or down,
allowing my focus to soar or plummet.

I so recognize the multitude
of dimensions, likely beyond that
singular point I imagine as me.

Encircled, I can soften into what is.
I can experience directions as
merely invitations to move
beyond the nothingness.

The moon asked me to lose myself
as she, too, found herself 
eclipsed in the night.

"All of me," I wondered.
Fears of "but what about..."
raced through my mind.
Not my past! Not my identity!
Not my grief!
And I took another surrendering
breath from the blackness.

Without streetlamps or nearby homes
the moon offers tender reminders
of her presence in my woods.

She had been oh-so-bright, 
glowing silver upon the trees.
But now the dark swallowed
all of us.
I found strange comfort in seeing
only blackness with eyes wide open.
There was nothing to adjust to.

"You are releasing all of you," she whispered.
I reached into the void to grasp the
hands of my late husband, of my mother.
Another wave of her eclipse pulled
everything of me farther out 
as I softened into the witnessing me.
A me that was allowing freedom
from a belief in self.

Edges of light assured me that the moon
was still there - that I was still there - as
I walked to the window to check on existence.

As I nestled beneath my covers, 
I felt the safety of warmth and hiding.
But I wanted to seek more.

With a hand placed on my identity, I asked,
"Then what is arising new for me?"
There must be fairness, after all.

I watched as my heart unfolded
from darkness.
"Weakness," I assumed, tinges of
unworthiness ever ready to strike.
The movement and grace of the
heart-dance washed through my 
whole being - the one laying unprotected
in the dark, the one with an outstretched
hand into her past.

"No vision?," I thought, wishing to
use my powers of imagination to create.
"Don't I get to have a say?"

And the moon continued to wash me 
with the softness of my own 
​surrendered heart.

I want good bones,
     the strength of which to
     make the sense of
     security permanent.
Come quake, fire or flood,
     I still want the promise
     of good bones... 
     and be they mine.
Not rented, not wondering
     when a 30-day notice 
     may come.
Not feeling thwarted to
     move bones or any other
     parts or pieces exactly
     where I want them.

Interior design was my thing.
     I had an eye for beauty.
     form, and maybe even style.
I played that out for a while...
     commercial, not residential.
Drafting, copying blueprints 
     and picking finishes - unembellished. 
Not nearly as glamorous as
     I envisioned, but it was a start.

But Motherhood was the true dream
     and my own good bones and flesh
     supported the creation
     of more bones... 
     little humans displaying the likes
     of me and my husband.
His good bones - every one of them - 
     hammered, dug dirt, replaced
     sheetrock and efforted all the
     demanding tasks of building
     and repairing the substantial
     good bones of others.
Along with Motherhood, I longed 
     for homestead... wholly ours.

Twelve years - it's been exactly
     twelve years since we landed here.
A saving place from the foreclosure
     of my mom's good bones that
     held us, somewhat securely, for 
     those strenuous years.
Six people and a band of pets
     cozied into 1000 sf of
     good enough for now bones.
I am grateful for the land - 
     acres of play space and trees
     to comfort the weary soul.

No, I've never believed the bones
     of this home were good - and
     I've repeatedly bitched about
     cold drafts, low ceilings, missing
     baseboards and flimsy walls.
But I must admit they have been
     good enough for now.
They've witnessed children's cries,
     victories, arguments, heartfelt
     apologies and the most intimate
     of life's undulations.

It was here, in these good enough 
     for now bones, that my husband
     and my mom took their last breaths.
Here that we washed their bodies
     with warm water and love.
Here that grief has been honored.

Admittedly, I still complain about
     its shortcomings, and long for 
     owning my own and what I
     imagine to be truly solid
     good bones... often.
And in my contented grief
     I can surrender to the
     comfort, memories, and 
     transformations these 
     good enough for now bones
     have unwaveringly pillared.



     

​Alone.
So often alone.
An only child.
One.
Me.
 
And the striving for
connection.
Am I okay?
How do I relate?
My way?
Must things always
be my way?
 
As a child, yes.
And shamefully beyond.
Me.
Mine.
I want.
Feed me attention,
Mommy.
There was no daddy to ask…
well, so distant and
far between that it was
pointless to yearn.
An occasional
weekend would
have to do.
 
And single Mommy
worked.
A lot.
A lot of alone time
and unfulfilled need.
Likely for both of us.
 
But these patterns unfold
their wounded arms
hoping to catch
some love and
connection.
 
And we must learn
to relate.
To communicate.
To go beyond
me, mine, neediness.
Because that demand
doesn’t serve so well.
 
And then, almost
surprisingly, came the love
that landed… here.
And the learning curve
weighted with pangs
of insecurity.
Softening into the ease of
relationship when - being
so loved and loving
back - obstacles were
climbed together.
 
Our two grew to six.
We adulted as best
we could over family.
He and I meandering
through with tenacity
while our soul shadows
offered us more than
we wanted.
Than we were really
prepared for.
 
So beyond the
interconnectedness -
nuclear sacredness of our
family - our connections
were few.
While adoring grandparents,
ever-available, were
the sparkles
that shone over us.
 
Yes, I had – have –
friends, but so few.
I never really
mastered that skill.
 
Yet hundreds supported
us through his terminal illness.
I shall never be able
to fully acknowledge
or pay forward such
generosity of those
who reached out…
reached into our homes,
our hearts.
 
And then the quietude
of intimate grief.
And aloneness.
Utter aloneness
that cradled me
in protective
never-to-be-hurt.
 
Familiar.
Empty.
Necessary.
Me.
 
But the chill of
isolation has begun
to warm again.
Even in the emptiness
of confusion.
Do I want connection?
Do I need it?
Is alone a sacred
honor, bestowed
on those who
have never found
the right-sized
courage?
 
I’m not so sure
what connection
means outside the tiny
circle that seems
to be losing its form.
Do I want to challenge
my comfort zone
and allow for
more connection?
I trust in the sweet
friendships I have, but
I see, too, that
I have never mastered
the skill beyond
Only-ness.

Of Spirit.
Of Source.
Of All.
All That Is.
Is.

And the names 
unfolding itself
to be seen.

Seen... by whom?
Self?

A fragment of
the whole
witnessing itself.

Finding pleasure in
the connection,
the visibility.
The holding of
the gaze.

A soft gaze, at times.
Fierce and protective
at others.

The soul is deep.
Don't get lost,
a worry arises.

Worry.
The start of separation.
Or perhaps the
mere witnessing is
the separation.

Eye-gazing.
Soul gazing.
Seeking to see
and be seen.
By whom?

​One Self.

   ---

I am of Spirit and 
what I want you to 
know is our hearts 
are one.

Ever connected by
fibers unseen.
Forming in dances
of interaction,
of curiosity,
wonder.

A sleek and
sensual dance
beholding the form
of me.
Soft. 
Round.
Sometimes 
vulnerable in my
nakedness.

Of Spirit and body
fashioned from the 
fibers of love.

Expressed as me.

I want to buy $150 yarn.
One ball.
Golden Autumn, Icy Teal…
I want to touch it.
Qiviut.
 
Never heard of it till that click.
Facebook knows my weakness,
from just a few impulsive clicks.
 
I click on yarn ads.
The patterns.
The temptations of beauty
asking what I wish to make.
 
I can knit, I know. I can buy
patterns to stash and hope.
And I hoard yarn like a
problem knitter.
Or crocheter. But that is too
Granny for me. A secret
side hobby that wants to look
more sophisticated than it
possibly could because…
well, crochet.
So I prefer to knit.
 
But $150 yarn?
Qiviut.
Who knew?
Made from the “fine
undercoat of the Muskox.”
Are those real?
Warm, extra soft, I’m told.
Sold?
Enticed by the blurb next to
the price, as my mind
wraps around the
fact that Muskox
exist in someone’s world.
And someone harvests
their fine undercoat.
 
Imagine – $150 for one
small ball… waiting alongside
my $15 and $30 skeins.
I’m not even sure if I’ve
ever spent $45 on
a skein, but wished on them.
 
I examine the ball shape;
wonder why isn’t it
twisted tenderly as a
luscious skein, soft,
supple, virginal looking?
 
I have only purchased
one skein by mail, and
promptly followed through
by crocheting it into a hat
from the top down –
just in case.
And, as fore-concerned,
ran out of yarn just before
the brim. Almost!
Then the hunt to find a
coordinating yarn to finish.
I had to finish it, as I
have too many incomplete
inspirations that cost
money and time and that
vivid picture of my
end product… beautiful,
boastable, worn.
 
Yes, that $150 yarn would
make a lovely hat.
Or gloves.
Or something.
Or not…
And that is the thing.
 
Imagine Qiviut yarn,
in Winter Berry maybe…
or some shade of green,
and feeling absolutely
no guilt or stress or
pinch of the $150
debited from wished abundance
and not having to do a
damned thing with it.
 
Or luxuriating in
the promised warmth
and softness and
hand-madeness of
whatever that would feel
like touching the part
of me that deserved
$150 Qiviut yarn.

Life, my ever-present companion.
Breathing into my body.
Holding my soul with muscles, skin
and too much thinking.
I thought myself away from you.
No, I could not leave you, not so far,
but my awareness that you are my 
constant companion has faded.
Possibly from that first breath.

In my sorrow, you are there.
In every joy and celebration.

Were you twice as present when 
I was harmonizing with a new life
inside me?
There was certainly a wondrous
appreciation.
But as I delivered Life anew 
my focus held my babes - 
their lives, their breath-taking.

And breath-taking it has been.
Until those last breaths I witnessed
with Eric. With my mom.

But you were their companions,
weren't you?

And in my grief you have never
left me, though in my darkest hours
I sometimes felt the pain too great to 
appreciate or want you. 

In so many ways I've taken you
for granted - assumed you
owed me more. Or that I must
do something right, useful,
productive in your honor.

I've also assumed the role... 
that I somehow own you.
But do I?
Could I own any companion?

You've walked with me while 
I was believing in loneliness, 
likely wrapping your arms
around my forgetting.

I am dumbstruck at my blindness - 
how could I not recognize your
faithful bond?

As I searched the ethers for
Higher, Greater, Most Loving,
Source to find connection,
meaning, answers or strength,
I though not to recognize you.

Life. My devoted companion, 
accompanying my every second 
I am here.
I now see I will never be alone
​in this, Life.

The planet is dense and beautiful.
Usually in a state of paradox,
but you know this 
as paradox IS.

The people have forgotten... 
which is, of course, the point.
But... to remember. 
To see.

You will be able to see. And feel.
Witness. Notice.

Delve into the human experience.
Feel every aspect of it, but
remember the strength
of your soul.

You will be lonely. Indeed.
It is in this that you will
find yourself, rediscover
that which you are.

Play. Lean into your gifts.
Yes, they are gifts of magic.
Use them, show others,
honor, but not in seriousness.
There is simply too much 
seriousness on planet Earth
already. So you must 
remember to laugh.

Vibration informs you.
Know what you know.
Enjoy doubt and then 
roll it over.
It is simply doubt.

Stay connected to your
heart. Though the planet
sparkles with beauty
and kindness abounds, 
so too are the edges.
Sharp, unexpected, 
ready to puncture your
heart, but only if
you let it.

Crawl if you must, but 
stay true to your earthly
life, to your ancient soul.

All answers reside there,
but there is no need for questions.
They will haunt you endlessly
if you let them. 
A distraction from your knowing.

And then there's the Mystery.
You mustn't forget the Mystery.
It is the life force unfolding itself
with wonder and creation.
Honor the Mystery as 
its own emanation.

Crystals and incense and ritual
can be part of your life journey,
but never mandatory.
Nothing is mandatory.
Even your Earth trip. 
It's merely an option, 
Ancient Soul.

All is well. It will always be well,
but planet Earth is a place 
to forget that. It's practically
the ticket to enter.

Here, now... it is your choice.
Are you ready to enter?
Ready to incarnate once again?

Open your heart to the experience...
enter and forget.
Agree to unworthiness - it is your
challenge - and as you will see,
it is a collective one.

Humanity is shedding their 
collective belief in unworthiness
and you can hold the light of
Truth as you all re-awaken
to your inherent Perfection.

My heart. 
The tears.
Touching. Helping.

Oh, to work with our hands!

I hold a large knitting needle
in front of the class.
Demonstrating.
Clarity.
Instruction. Here's how.

​Eyes fixed upon me...
or are they?
Some children can focus
while others look distractedly
at what everyone else is doing.
As if watching the hands of another
child interprets the teacher.

"We're simply holding the needle
like this," I show.
Right hand commanding the
smooth wooden stick.
"And right now your yarn is
hanging like this, with just
one loop on the needle."

Talking.
Hands struggling.
Compliance. Confusion.
And those tears.
Different classes, different
students, different tears. 
Same concern: "I don't know 
what I'm doing."
"And that's why I am 
teaching you," I offer.

The tears of desire and eagerness
and wanting to learn
bursting from confusion,
perceived failure and 
disconnection.

Oh, to work with our hearts!

Leaning in.
Compassionately.
Confident. Assuring.
"We're all learning together.
No hurry. I'm going to hold
the yarn just like this and 
come help you."

And yet the clock tells me 
it's time to end the class.
A mere 45 minutes.
It's only day three. 
We have all year to inch
toward new skills.

A sigh of relief.
A process.
Baby steps. Learning.

"I'll be back on Tuesday and
we will keep learning how 
to cast on your stitches."
I pack up my needles and yarn
and leave with a contented smile.

I belong to everything, yet separated
by body and belief.
I belong to my children though life
would convey the opposite.
I don't mean to be a martyr - 
as mother is certainly more balanced.
I belong to everything, paradoxically
no thing.
I belong to the earth, gravity
reminding me of my place.
I belong to my pets as they
claim my lap, my time, my bed.
I belong to the stars and I strive
to remember their wisdom.
I belong to everything and
sometimes I resist that.
I belong to no mother now
that she has died.
I cannot belong to my father
since he barely claimed me at all.
I no longer belong to Eric
but I am lying to myself here.
Yes, I still belong to Eric,
his memory and love hold tight.
I belong to the IRS with each
monthly payment billionaires avoid.
I belong to everything - air, water and
energy creating the illusion of me.
I belong to my body and do my
best to nourish and care for her.
I belong to my thoughts, from fucked-up
to fabulous - they basically own me.
I belong to my truth and no matter
how I pretend, it's always me.
I belong to my power, and sometimes
that scares the shit out of me.
I belong to no one, as I am somehow
a sovereign being.
I belong to the universe and I hear
many claiming it has my back.
I belong to love and know it
makes up every aspect of my soul.
I belong to my house, though I've 
never wanted to be so trapped.
I belong to money and that's been an
interesting dance I'm trying to grace.
I belong to commercialism, capitalism and
all things programmed into me by society.
I belong to my lineage, as multi-diverse and
blended into homogeny as it's become.
I belong to my poetry, ever wanting
to express through me, unfiltered.
I belong to my words which run faster than
I can tame, and are supposed to be impeccable.
I belong to life, death and absolutely everything.

Returning home...
What does this even mean?

In the literal sense... I did.
Evacuation order lifted.
Gratitude. Grace.
The drive.

"Thank You Firefighters!"
welcomed me back to the 
Residents Only area.

Tears of relief.
My road, my driveway,
my sweet little home.
Messy, but unharmed.

My feet, hesitant from
leftover shock, carried me
inside, room to room.

Glances for things 
intact and mine.

But mine is an illusion, 
isn't it?

Are the drapes mine?
The couch? The dust?

I sweep away cobwebs.
Feather duster my way
from shelf to shelf.
Photos... too many to 
pack in an emergency.

But mine?

I wish to claim it all.
In that claim I grasp
at security, permanence. 

In this living room,
permanence stopped
breathing - twice.

In this home, I witnessed
uncertainty in plans,
lost dreams of being married
for fifty years.

But we did make it to 
twenty-five, celebrated
here in this home.

And more impermanence
as I held her hand, too.
Same living room, same
hospital bed, same hospice.
Just a different week, 
a different loved one.

Were they returning home?

Three years have passed
and there are still times I
dread returning home...
to the loss, the emptiness,
the dust, and even 
the pictures.

But it's the only home I have
and I want to claim it as mine,
although it isn't.
I can't sell it, or remodel,
or make major decisions.
But I can act as if it's 
mine, fill it with things
called mine, hold tight
to some kind of order,
cleanliness, style...
and experience a 
sense of home.

A home that had two 
parents, four children,
numerous pets and, 
at times, my beloved mother
each returning home
for the evening, for the 
holidays, for the summer.

But two have left,
transcended these living
rooms walls forever.

Two have grown and
moved to bigger places -
the real world, maybe.
And, yes, they do still
return home for visits.

And then there are the  
younger two, ready soon
to move on to adulthood
and find their ways through 
life, ever unfolding.

So the impermanence 
rises again...
again bringing me to the 
realization that home,
to me, is the most
sacred of words.

Regardless of growing children,
terminal illnesses, potential fires,
or the nuances of ownership, 
it is always my intention to welcome
myself back... returning home.

Right here, right now, I am centered.
It helps to be led by a soft invitation.

My head aches.
Smoke.
Tinged sky of smoke and ashes
bronze the room.
I am safe inside.
Separated by walls and a window,
relying on conditioned air,
though I don't think it is being cleansed.

There's heaviness in my lungs,
and breathing feels tight and shallow.

Yet... centered.
I am right here, right now.

My eyelids, too, feel heavy.
Sleep has been fleeting, as adrenal
gland warn my whole system to
stay alert.

Watch. Notice. Listen. Smell.
Right here, right now, centered,
yet alert.
Alertness unfolding to the next
moment - just in case.

My mind wanders to Wednesday,
the before moments, when going
to Costco felt necessary
but heavy.
I don't like crowds or shopping,
but it was a task we committed
to take.
And we left.

The dog, alone in the house, in 
the woods, in the dry summer of
fire season.

I only left her because I knew 
Kendall was right up the road 
and could get to her,
if necessary.

When has it really been necessary?

Yes, past scares, but never more
than minor... and far away.

"I smell smoke," she said when she
called me, "can you check?"

So, check - and a photo was posted
on our town page. Evidence.
Smoke rising from that bend - I
know that bend too well!

She headed home - a
four minute drive.
And by the time she got there,
the evacuation had been ordered.
"We're leaving," texted my neighbor.

Technology let us FaceTime her.
I drove, Delaney held the phone.
A forty minute drive home 
for us. 

The cat, the dog, Dad's ashes, 
that red file with our passports and 
documents, photo albums... 
What else?!

"Callie's barking and whining at me!"
Not her behavior...Did she sense Kendall's panic, or was
she warning of things unknown?

GET OUT!

Foot to pedal - forty minutes
of forever to get there!

Breathe. Stay calm.
She's only been driving a few months -
thank God she has a car!

Right here, right now, I'm feeling 
the surges spike again.
Heart rate, once more, elevated.
More shallow breathing.

Slow, deep breath.
Right here, right now.
Fill those achy lungs,
stay centered.

We are safe. We are protected.
At least for now.
Nothing is permanent, I know,
but - for now - we are okay.
Right here, right now.

Somehow, I keep forgetting my Divinity.
And my inherent Perfection.
In that way, and only in that way,
do I repeat the pattern of
believing in my unworthiness.

It's not true.
I shout it from the rooftops
of each article I write,
from the lowest chakra of
my foundational anchor in
this body. And, yet,
I forget - too - that there
is nothing I can do that
will make me anything less
than whole. Than holy.
​
And, so... subtle or gross,
the mistakes of forgetting
and then playing out that
forgetting cycle back at
me like fractured mirrors
begging me to find the
reflection of truth no matter
how tiny or shattered
life has made them.

1:11 AM
Angels
Or Mom…
Same.

Tonight is officially tomorrow.
Marking three years.
She was only 68.

It was about ‘68
when she discovered
Metaphysics.

Taught me about
Contemplation.
Visualization.
Manifestation.
​
I lay in my bed.
The place I dread
Contemplating
at 1:11 AM.