Wednesday, June 17, 2015

In Woods

The sweet smell of Manzanita woke me up this morning. They grow in thick clusters among white fir and yellow pine. The trailing smell of incense cedar 

and the possibility of life inside this tree, kept my imagination alive today. Perhaps if we were to sketch a doorknob here, we might be able to enter, at least to peek inside:

 I imagine a damp floor with rows of glittering mushrooms. And bare-foot children looking after them, drunk on laughter. The walls are syrupy, painted with sap; red spiders, the size of salt grains, suck inside the sticky ooze. It is hot and wildly humid inside, but the children are all happy. And when they believe that no one is standing on the other side of the door, they open it and spill outside; their small, bare bodies parading in hellish humor. They work quickly at gathering up as many fallen Manzanita berries as they can find. The pump, red seeds are just the size of their own heads. When they settle back inside of their tree-home with their treasure, they squish the seeds and collect the sugar from inside. I imagine the rest of their day spent stirring the seeds and skins with prickles of pine needles, starting a small fire, and watching their cider simmer. And all is warm and sweet and happy inside.

What do you imagine might live inside of trees?

Tuesday, March 3, 2015


I've known her all along
watching over me
white-tail feather-wing

she is the center of this place:
deep inside of me
a living shadow
an infinite bloom
a mystery

perched, motionless
sitting in a dream
I feel her glare slip over me
drowning in her breath
a lucid aspiration

she wraps her wings around me
I carve out her eyes
glorious red globes
I swallow them whole
embed her inside of me

I've known her all along
hovering over me
in motionless sleep
she is a mystery

I wrote a poem after listening to a song about an owl-girl that felt a little incomplete to me. So, this is in the spirit of song writing.

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Thirteen Years

our oldest, is thirteen today. He his an exceptional child. Brilliant, beyond his years. His spirit is solid. He is a student and a teacher. His capability for self-control is uncanny.

What I have noticed most recently about him is that he doesn't talk to me so much anymore. And, when I talk to him, so often, he simply nods. As a mother, there is a stinging sensation, naturally, but certainly this phase will pass. He is, by nature, unfurling. Spinning wildly out of his core. Into that climatic air of development. 
A true experimentation of his inner-spirit. 

The other night when I told my husband that I didn't know what to write about Sidd he said, 
write about what he truly is: 
That young man who is affected and unaffected, all the same. A true Gautama. Anchored. Untouched by this fickle illusion. Aaron reminded me of how comfortable Siddhartha has always been. Transparent. Ariel. 
Free in his time here. 
An old soul. 

With expectations from so many of us, he is braced by his own restraint. 
Aaron has always talked about the importance of abstinence. 
The renunciation of desire. 
I understand Siddhartha to be the embodiment of that.
A witty kid, a fun brother, a sage in this world where many worlds fit.
We are blessed to share this life with him.
Happy birthday, Siddhartha!