Lying underneath a blanket of stars,
Gazing up at a million tiny eyes of light,
Soul expanded,
I never knew
Such perpendicular pleasure
Until now.
The grass is tangled in my fingers.
Alpine firs murmur in their sleep.
The Milky Way slides up the soles of my feet,
A tenacious shiver in the marrow,
A warming of the tendons,
A pulse of blood inside the veins.
What is feeling
Other than physical sensation?
We think we know things-
We do not.
We only pick up on a quiet murmur
Of some voice,
Whether distant or close,
And presume it to be our own.
Who is to claim that our knees are not mountains,
Our belly is not a lake,
Our fingers are not tree branches?
I certainly would not rob that
Shy pleasure
Away from anyone I cared about.
Perhaps our bodies are not so different than the earth.
Perhaps the glue of feeling is actually starlight,
Perhaps the ambition of the heart
Is really the sun
Pressing in on a forgetful world,
Trying its best to warm us with divine foreplay
So we are charmed
Back into our bodies,
And back into life.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Instead of Hovering
Instead of hovering on top of life
I have descended down the staircase of longing
And been nourished there.
Instead of holding back from
Everything that feeds me,
I have feasted
And my flesh shows it.
My bones have changed.
My mind is no longer a fugitive
Inside a cluttered skull,
But a small observer
Of the three-dimensional shape
My soul has grown into.
I think from my belly now.
Understandings come without explanation
Or mental processes.
No words
Only perception, starlight
The net of time.
A fierce knowing,
Unquestionable strength.
No need to push further -
What I need is already arising.
Surrendering to a fight is not losing,
But allowing a greater force to animate and
Carry you where you belong.
You don't realize you belong there
Until a few moments after you arrive,
Unblinking,
And recalibrate your heartbeat.
...
August 29, 2011
Journal Entry
Today I cleaned all day, scrubbed the bathroom, cleaned the refrigerator from years of roommates moving in and out. It all feels so real now. Moving out, applying for my India Visa, chatting with Emily about her travels abroad. She shared many insights learned from doing non-profit work in Jamaica and Sri Lanka for six years. She said it's best to educate someone, to teach a local person some skills and work as a team, rather than just being handed something and doing all the work yourself. That way the organization can have something valuable to continue with when you go away. Emily shared her story of how she started a non-profit that served Lesbian, Bi, and Trans women in Jamaica, how it grew organically from a need expressed by those women. What a beautiful friend, and beautiful memories. All over a delicious dinner of butter chicken and veggie curry at Kuan Yin Teahouse.
This morning was cloudy and chilly.
Tonight was windless, clear, and warm.
I collected old sparklers
Left over
From last year's Fourth of July,
And danced with them
Amongst the plum, pear, and pine trees
In the back yard.
I have come to know these trees well.
I have prayed, sung, danced, and cried
Outside
In their presence
For a whole year.
They have become my friends.
I have descended down the staircase of longing
And been nourished there.
Instead of holding back from
Everything that feeds me,
I have feasted
And my flesh shows it.
My bones have changed.
My mind is no longer a fugitive
Inside a cluttered skull,
But a small observer
Of the three-dimensional shape
My soul has grown into.
I think from my belly now.
Understandings come without explanation
Or mental processes.
No words
Only perception, starlight
The net of time.
A fierce knowing,
Unquestionable strength.
No need to push further -
What I need is already arising.
Surrendering to a fight is not losing,
But allowing a greater force to animate and
Carry you where you belong.
You don't realize you belong there
Until a few moments after you arrive,
Unblinking,
And recalibrate your heartbeat.
...
August 29, 2011
Journal Entry
Today I cleaned all day, scrubbed the bathroom, cleaned the refrigerator from years of roommates moving in and out. It all feels so real now. Moving out, applying for my India Visa, chatting with Emily about her travels abroad. She shared many insights learned from doing non-profit work in Jamaica and Sri Lanka for six years. She said it's best to educate someone, to teach a local person some skills and work as a team, rather than just being handed something and doing all the work yourself. That way the organization can have something valuable to continue with when you go away. Emily shared her story of how she started a non-profit that served Lesbian, Bi, and Trans women in Jamaica, how it grew organically from a need expressed by those women. What a beautiful friend, and beautiful memories. All over a delicious dinner of butter chicken and veggie curry at Kuan Yin Teahouse.
This morning was cloudy and chilly.
Tonight was windless, clear, and warm.
I collected old sparklers
Left over
From last year's Fourth of July,
And danced with them
Amongst the plum, pear, and pine trees
In the back yard.
I have come to know these trees well.
I have prayed, sung, danced, and cried
Outside
In their presence
For a whole year.
They have become my friends.
Rampart Lakes, Alpine Lakes Wilderness Area, Washington
September 3, 2011
Journal Entry
Backpacking with Janel and Ida up at Rachel and Rampart Lakes, near Snoqualmie Pass area. Hiked in yesterday, spent last night camped at Rampart Lakes. Today we hiked all the way to Alta Peak, just over 6,000 feet high. Gorgeous 360 degree views surrounding us. It seems there are only three elements here: rock, fir, and water. The lakes are a blue-green color, fed by glacial melt. The peaks around us are intensely barren and rugged, like cathedral spires in the distance. Lots of mosquitoes at camp and whenever we slow down or stop walking. There are other little trails here and there between the many lakes. It is so beautiful here, like honey squeezed from a jar and poured into a lake, then mixed with emeralds and sapphires and dusted with gold. Dry bones of mountains are exposed from underneath their typical winter snows. Delicate wildflowers scatter themselves all over: daisies, lupin, heather, Indian paintbrush. We saw a herd of deer yesterday - there must have been five or six of them. Sweet innocent things. They waggled their ears at us and stared with liquid ebony eyes. Tonight we played Pictionary after supper, since there are no fires allowed at this elevation. It was quite fun, and got us all giggling uproariously, especially with the one about Tibetan Poodles (or was is Afghan Hounds? lol). Tomorrow we hike down past Rachel Lake and out to our car, about five or six miles. I hope to wake in the middle of the night tonight to see some clear stars above, and to wake early tomorrow morning to see the sunrise.
Journal Entry
Backpacking with Janel and Ida up at Rachel and Rampart Lakes, near Snoqualmie Pass area. Hiked in yesterday, spent last night camped at Rampart Lakes. Today we hiked all the way to Alta Peak, just over 6,000 feet high. Gorgeous 360 degree views surrounding us. It seems there are only three elements here: rock, fir, and water. The lakes are a blue-green color, fed by glacial melt. The peaks around us are intensely barren and rugged, like cathedral spires in the distance. Lots of mosquitoes at camp and whenever we slow down or stop walking. There are other little trails here and there between the many lakes. It is so beautiful here, like honey squeezed from a jar and poured into a lake, then mixed with emeralds and sapphires and dusted with gold. Dry bones of mountains are exposed from underneath their typical winter snows. Delicate wildflowers scatter themselves all over: daisies, lupin, heather, Indian paintbrush. We saw a herd of deer yesterday - there must have been five or six of them. Sweet innocent things. They waggled their ears at us and stared with liquid ebony eyes. Tonight we played Pictionary after supper, since there are no fires allowed at this elevation. It was quite fun, and got us all giggling uproariously, especially with the one about Tibetan Poodles (or was is Afghan Hounds? lol). Tomorrow we hike down past Rachel Lake and out to our car, about five or six miles. I hope to wake in the middle of the night tonight to see some clear stars above, and to wake early tomorrow morning to see the sunrise.
Up on the Mountain, Descending, Home
July 31, 2011
Diamond Lake
Alpine Lakes Wilderness Area, Washington
Up on the Mountain
Yesterday we hiked to a grassy hillock surrounded by the cathedral spires of snow-encrusted mountains. It seemed as though we were only just born there, in the center of the Universe, blessed by the sun and the Grandmothers of the ancients. The mountains sang like bells, clear notes ringing out over river valley veins and lush pools of snow melt. This is where the deer bed down at night, those gentle, plant eating four-leggeds. This is where the seeds of buttercups, lupin, and indian paintbrush sleep under a blanket of white to be sung into flowering spring by songbirds at melting time. This is where, if you land in this place, everything else falls away and all that is left are mirrors, air, and light.
Descending
Climbing down from a mountain is a treacherous thing. At the end of the day we are tired, our bones creak and our muscles shiver. With each step we come closer to the earth, our home, our camp, our human destiny. We recross two meadows we hiked through before. We trust our previous footsteps in snow to lead us back to where we came from. The return brings flavors distinct from the departure: Sun ripening towards six-o-clock, bodies thinking of dinner, fire, and bed. We lose the trail momentarily in the snow and fear creeps in like an icy wind. Retracing our steps, restarting, regathering trust with prayer and intention, the forces of nature smile upon us again and we glimpse our path back to camp and safety.
Home
Once home by our tent we remember the gifts of being human and innocent: our particular naked bodies ringing with laughter under the splash of a mountain lake, lighting a fire with dry sticks and cozying up, telling stories, singing, eating and drinking. The hearth of friendship is warm, small, and specific - this is where you get to be you in all of your crackling bones, particular flavors, and singular scents. This is where your body gets to just be a body, where your soul can rest and your personality takes over to make jokes and sing songs for the benefit of all. Here by the fire is the unveiling of the human mystery - while up in the mountains the gods are revealed, here by the hearth the human is remembered back into glory.
Diamond Lake
Alpine Lakes Wilderness Area, Washington
Up on the Mountain
Yesterday we hiked to a grassy hillock surrounded by the cathedral spires of snow-encrusted mountains. It seemed as though we were only just born there, in the center of the Universe, blessed by the sun and the Grandmothers of the ancients. The mountains sang like bells, clear notes ringing out over river valley veins and lush pools of snow melt. This is where the deer bed down at night, those gentle, plant eating four-leggeds. This is where the seeds of buttercups, lupin, and indian paintbrush sleep under a blanket of white to be sung into flowering spring by songbirds at melting time. This is where, if you land in this place, everything else falls away and all that is left are mirrors, air, and light.
Descending
Climbing down from a mountain is a treacherous thing. At the end of the day we are tired, our bones creak and our muscles shiver. With each step we come closer to the earth, our home, our camp, our human destiny. We recross two meadows we hiked through before. We trust our previous footsteps in snow to lead us back to where we came from. The return brings flavors distinct from the departure: Sun ripening towards six-o-clock, bodies thinking of dinner, fire, and bed. We lose the trail momentarily in the snow and fear creeps in like an icy wind. Retracing our steps, restarting, regathering trust with prayer and intention, the forces of nature smile upon us again and we glimpse our path back to camp and safety.
Home
Once home by our tent we remember the gifts of being human and innocent: our particular naked bodies ringing with laughter under the splash of a mountain lake, lighting a fire with dry sticks and cozying up, telling stories, singing, eating and drinking. The hearth of friendship is warm, small, and specific - this is where you get to be you in all of your crackling bones, particular flavors, and singular scents. This is where your body gets to just be a body, where your soul can rest and your personality takes over to make jokes and sing songs for the benefit of all. Here by the fire is the unveiling of the human mystery - while up in the mountains the gods are revealed, here by the hearth the human is remembered back into glory.
Diamond Lake Dream
July 30, 2011
Diamond Lake
Alpine Lakes Wilderness Area, Washington
Last night as I slept under a blanket of stars I dreamt I was tending to a hive of honeybees. An elder man was there with me, showing me with great exuberance and a bit of clumsiness how the bees work together to create combs and honey. They were all swarming and buzzing with delicious content, their little bodies glowing golden across the delicate paper hive. As I watched I realized where we were: on the beach, atop sand, by the shoreline where waves were crashing and eating the physical reality back into the deep. I wept and cried as I watched the golden bees get swallowed up by each wave, slowly sinking into cold sand. I put my hands atop the swirls of sand and could still feel, taste, and see the honeymaking lovers of life sinking gently into the dream world from whence they came. I awoke with grief pouring out my ears and heart - a great loss that was beyond my ability to control - and I was sad. I was angry at the elder man for not being more careful about his honey and his bees. The bees themselves were not disturbed by it - their delight at honeymaking gently bled into a larger form, the collective of sandland eating them and savoring each bite. Maybe the bees secretly knew they were an offering to the Mother Earth, sent home to re-sweeten the river of nectar at the heart of her veins.
Diamond Lake
Alpine Lakes Wilderness Area, Washington
Last night as I slept under a blanket of stars I dreamt I was tending to a hive of honeybees. An elder man was there with me, showing me with great exuberance and a bit of clumsiness how the bees work together to create combs and honey. They were all swarming and buzzing with delicious content, their little bodies glowing golden across the delicate paper hive. As I watched I realized where we were: on the beach, atop sand, by the shoreline where waves were crashing and eating the physical reality back into the deep. I wept and cried as I watched the golden bees get swallowed up by each wave, slowly sinking into cold sand. I put my hands atop the swirls of sand and could still feel, taste, and see the honeymaking lovers of life sinking gently into the dream world from whence they came. I awoke with grief pouring out my ears and heart - a great loss that was beyond my ability to control - and I was sad. I was angry at the elder man for not being more careful about his honey and his bees. The bees themselves were not disturbed by it - their delight at honeymaking gently bled into a larger form, the collective of sandland eating them and savoring each bite. Maybe the bees secretly knew they were an offering to the Mother Earth, sent home to re-sweeten the river of nectar at the heart of her veins.
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