earth.water.fire.air.ether.rig.yajur.sama.atharva.

Sunday Scribblings: Possible

2012-01-22T22:42:00.000-08:00

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is possible.

On my morning walk I stumbled upon a crow.

Who, in a raspy voice said, "Morning. I've been waiting for you."

I asked him with my brows, why?

"I have something to tell you. To tell Helena, won't you?

That the north wind has taken her Blue Jay away."

The sky that you saw last night was one that made our stars bright.

Snow has settled in.

His breath is numb and his voice is low.

He wants her to know that he had to fly.

The Coniferous branches are weak.

Tell Helena that he hopes she will not cry.

He's taken with him, nuts and grain.

I helped him carry a bit of shrub.

He hopes that she will be a dear and wait for him until next year.

"Won't you assure her of one thing?"

I answered, yes.

"That he will hear her lovesick cries."

And in the spring, he asks that she wait in the woods.

Where her home is no longer dark.

Before he left he showed me a potion.

Of love, if it is possible.

This part, Helena must not know.

For magic is needed.

When cherries begin to blossom.

Perhaps they will elope.

"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind." -Helena

Winter Solstice and Yuletide Blessings

2011-12-22T16:28:00.000-08:00

When a mistletoe hangs and holly is abundant, the colors turn to red, green, and white. A part of the world is silent and magic is practiced ever so peacefully. There are wishes and hope and cheers, our planet will soon be new again. This celebration is for Sol, the sun that will rise and fall, endlessly.

On this hemisphere, life will be short today. Along his journey across the sky, we'll see the sun linger a bit. This night will be our longest. We'll set out candles, draw a ring 'round a fire, and listen for our sun set still.

The Cimmerian season starts today. Homer described this place as "land of perpetual mist and darkness." Within this fruitful darkness, new life will eventually emerge. Let this dim light play the role of a spiritual cradle, within it, the Sun is reborn. Father Time with his sickle, bids farewell. Earth will lay dormant, it's night silent and still. Some creatures will sleep this season away. Others will rest, waiting for the slow build toward longer days.

This isn't a day reserved for Wiccan or Heathen, it is indigenous. Newgrange and Stonehenge and Woodhenge, or where ever else you may be. An Indian tribe might reserve it for dreams. In the Celt lands, a hilltop bonfire, surrounded by people hoping to keep the darkness at bay. In India, they've already beckoned the goddess of light. Rama has returned and the portal closed on the third day.

Each day will serve a little longer, light becoming a bit stronger, as we watch Sol wax and the darkness wane.

Some will carry a tree home, fresh scents of pine and cedar, and dress him with ribbon and garland and light. Others might chant and drum until the end of the night.

Whatever your tradition may be, let this also be a season of light. A time of year to make a simple wish, to color our homes with thistle leaves, to ring a bell at dawn, to scatter the scent of peppermint and gingerbread. Burn a yuletide log. It is the season of song and dance. A time to divulge our dreams aloud.

Sweet dreams and warm blessings.

Happy Winter Solstice.

Sunday Scribblings: Life Is Good

2011-11-13T13:03:00.001-08:00

This week's Sunday Scribblings is life is good.

When a revolution was fresh, life was good.
From a royal bloodline, it's nobility of Italy, a commander was born.
It has been repeated that Bonaparte was the greatest military commander of all time.

His coup d'état, the 18th of Brumaire, led to French Consulate, and on to Emperor.
His campaigns, so victorious. Would he have ever dreamed, two hundred years later, military academies would study his tactics all throughout the world?

Bonaparte, the Emperor.
With a Grande Armée, their faith so religiously placed upon him.
He who spent his youthfulness hating a country he would one day rule.
A barbarous Corsican, stories would say.
He would eventually conquer his conqueror.
And he would have his good day.

An idealistic revolutionary.
He vowed that Corsica would be part of Revolutionary France.
Exiled, a mountain man for days, his own people chasing him out.
He became a refugee, banished from the land of his birth.

Little did France know, what rebel their beloved Emperor would be.
When he was twenty-six he wrote, "The enemy attacked us. We killed a great many of them. Now all is quiet... I could not be happier."
And on he would reign.

With a guerrilla in Spain, Napoleon would shake.
Bonaparte would soon make his most fatal mistake.
An invasion of Russia, would leave the French hegemony in Europe, bitter and weak.

Crossing the river, Neman, half a million men strong, the Grande Armée marched through western Russia.
The fate of the war, decided on the Moscow front.
Napoleon's army, frailed.
Russians, settled and scorched-earth.
The largest and bloodiest single action of the Napoleon Wars.

While he was left with no more men waiting to refill his loses, Russia rained with millions.
With Russia replenished, someone else lived this good life.
Napoleon was forced to retreat the same way he had come to Moscow, emptied.
And riddled with death.

When Tolstoy wrote, soon after, "..one must believe in the possibility of happiness in order to be happy, and I now believe in it. Let the dead bury the dead, but while I'm alive, I must live and be happy.” He would write of Napoleon's war and his peace.

Inspired by the book I am currently reading, The Passion by Jeanette Winterson.

Sunday Scribblings: Omen

2011-11-06T21:21:00.000-08:00

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is omen.

As darkness evolves I hold on to what is burnished and clear.
As Adam and Eve expel from their garden-temptation must always fall, my Friday is full of qualm.
So the woman eats, and gives to the man who also eats.
"Upon your belly you shall go, and dust you shall eat all the days of your life."
Subservient to man, childbirth, the pain within.
My dreams sense death.
Naughty flies come in in the cold.
A fiend, feasts on dead things.
A bat strays still in the corner of my room.
I spill minuscule sands of salt, as I send it over my shoulder.
I remember a man who once spoke of Halley.
A shooting spirit, visible twice to the most naked eye.

"I came in with Halley's comet in 1835. It is coming again next year, and I expect to go out with it. It will be the greatest disappointment of my life if I don't go out with Halley's comet. The Almighty has said, no doubt: 'Now here are these two unaccountable freaks; they came in together, they must go out together.'"

And then Mark Twain died on 21 April 1910, the day following Halley's subsequent perihelion.

Happy Birthday Govinda!

2011-10-15T07:50:00.000-07:00

Last night Aaron and I talked about a little boy's very first year with us. A boy that was born because the moon needed him here. We sat around reminiscing about his earliest nights. Aaron said, "He would let me hold him, love him, dance with him. He transformed me."

He had a purple hand, it stayed that way for weeks. He was our biggest baby. A happy one. He was silent and sweet. Not so quiet these days, but Govinda still seems to be coated with candy.

He spends most of his time in an automobile, whether is truly exists for not. He is also a mechanic. The yellow and green wooden tools compete to hold his interest, but Govinda finds his dad's tools to be more entertaining. Rusty tools and the dangerously sharp, pointy ones. He operates on his baby dolls with them; he's a doctor also. He frightens me.

He tries his hardest to emulate his eldest boys. He yells at Judah a lot. He doesn't want help putting his shoes on anymore. He adores his baby sister.

He wears mittens in the summer. He looks for the moon at night.

What I remembered last night was simply his touch. There is a succession of Zen Masters who are linked together by transmission of mind, pure thought transferred from mind to mind with no words. We tend to dwell so little on our whole range of sensory perceptors and receptors that our touch feels bland compared to what it would feel like if our awareness was one hundred percent. I remember Govi's "original touch", as Ina May Gaskin refers to it. She says that a baby born blind doesn't lose his original touch because he can't afford to pull his attention out of his skin and out of his hands when he gets so much of his information about the Universe this way. Govinda reminds me to hold on to my original touch. He is alive and electric. And I hope that he stays close forever.

Happy Birthday Govinda Hare!

Happy Birthday Haile!

2011-10-04T10:23:00.000-07:00

When Haile came home she was still dead asleep. After spending those vampire days with her in the NICU, I didn't quite feel like her mother. I had to bring her home from such a horrid place, a hospital. All we could do, for lithless weeks, was figure out a way to wake her up. The hospital gave us a bunch of plastic bottles and told us where to find powder. I felt like I had never been a home-birth mother.

We fed her with a dropper, drop by drop, the purest of pure. And sometimes we had to give in, mix powder, for Haile would only fall deeper into that distant sleep upon her mother.

We gave her her time and we watched her shine.

Last week she gained her first 'war wound'; busted lip, swollen mouth, crusty scabs, and all. That's what she gets for playin' around with a bunch of ruffian boys all day.

I've watched her steal their food, she makes Govi cry sometimes. She plays their games, I hear her laugh when they try to scare her with wicked masks. I've caught her leaving home a few times. No more preemie, that Haile holds her ground.

She shared with us, something that baby boys, born at home with their comfortable start, had never shared with us. Her womb world.

In that maze of exhausted days, we couldn't imagine who she might become in a year. A scrumptious peach and a twinkling little star. Lotus blossom.

Thank you for sharing your womb world with us.

Our blessed little empress eye.

Happiest of birthdays, dearest Haile.

Haile at nine months

My Summer Flame

2011-08-08T08:53:00.000-07:00

Last school year, Sunday nights were for family poetry.
Sahaj wrote a few haiku's.
Here is one.

Summer Flames

Summer feels like fire.

My birthday is August 8th.

Summer's brightest day.

Eight times around the sun today for our little Jahson.

Sometimes I walk in on his heartfelt conversation with his sister.
He tells her things like this, "You are the most beautiful girl on the planet."
And like this, "I hope this world never hurts you."

Before he goes off to bed he shows us his warmest smile and tells us things like this, "I want to wake up and live this day with you all over again."

He's nothing but light.
A happy birthday to our brightest boy.

Sunday Scribblings: Standing Ovation

2011-07-31T22:20:00.000-07:00

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is standing ovation.

I choose something that I had not yet finished developing but it seemed appropiate for this prompt. It may be sketchy but, hopefully, it's still worth a read...

Much Ado About Nothing

Juliet wandered onto stage, her careless air staggering behind her. A howl and a whistle floated her way from somewhere deep in the crowd. She sat down in a balcony of verbena and vine, lifting her gloved hand and settling it against her cheek. "Oh dear, oh dear," she whispered to the moon. It happened to be the only source of light this evening, blood orange and new. It seemed to whisper back to her; Juliet had an ability to draw out the attention of anyone and anything, even the moon.

She rambled on about the heir of Montague; her masked paramour; her truest love, family names, and her despair. Her voice was flat and plain and her eyes wandered.

As Fall fell into the night, a river birch draped its arms around Juliet's balcony. Its feather-veined leaves came dancing along the way. She lost her focus and brushed them aside. I sat in my set, amongst an audience full of admirers and I wondered if anyone else had noticed just how little Juliet cared. James leaned over and whispered to me, "She has such a mesmerizing way about her." As you can imagine, the last thing I needed to hear from my boyfriend was that he was mesmerized by my sister.

Her Romeo stood cloaked against the shadows. He improvised as Juliet struggled to remember her lines. No one seemed to notice.

How she had managed to bewitch not only Romeo, heir to Lord Montague, but Count Paris as well, and my Jimmy too. And every other simple sensed small town boy remained a wicked mystery to me.

Sunday Scribblings: Distant

2011-07-24T21:36:00.000-07:00

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is distant.

Before my father walked into the light my mother's eyes were blue. She never saw the vile things he did. His tea, spiced and milky, was always waiting for him after work. On days that he spent time with us, she smelled of peppermint and rose. He gave her small treasured jewels that she kept in fuzzy pill boxes. There was always something new for her to wear. She was a tall woman, her legs slender, mysterious, and she never wore stockings. Her dresses were short, violets, crimson, maroon; thick belts hugged her slim waist. She was henna and onyx. Beautiful and strange. Her eyes found a way to see only what she allowed them to know. Only what was undisturbed, newly born, not yet tarnished.

He would only stay for a few days at a time. His work was important, my mother would say. And in his absence she would play her violin. I'd listen to her, playing to the wind, and spy on her from a window bench in an upstairs room. She kept her distance from me during this time. She roamed our house alone; those days when I lived with a ghost. I was left to care for myself. My clothes didn't get washed but I would cook my own meals. I learned to bake, scones, muffins, and cookies for dinner, hoping that the scents would awaken my mother. Outside, under a trellis, crawling with stars, jasmine and anise, I would spy her sitting for hours. When my father was away she didn't eat. She would make bouquets, ornamenting her empty space, her violin never leaving her shoulder, bottles of Bordeaux, Massandra, and Montrachet she emptied with ease.

My father had another life. It wasn't as though I didn't know this. My mother fooled herself, she decided that I was naive.

There was an autumn morning when the world was turning orange and the winged things were taking flight. I woke up early knowing that my father had left in the middle of the night. I found a stack of boxes sitting on our kitchenette table. Gorgeous hat boxes, I knew they held things that made woman beautiful, perfumed scarves, mohair sweaters, muslin skirts.

I played in the garden till noon that day. When my mother decided to wake she came to visit me. She walked towards me softly, her feet bare, her presence unexpected. Across from me she hugged herself, draped in a cream colored robe. Her skin was starchy and pale and she smelled of drunken sickness. She explained to me that my father was gone. She told me that he had taken his life. She said that I was unaware of how he suffered in his head. My mother stood across from me that day, her cheeks salty and smeared with blush, and covered me with her lie. She said that he had ended his life, walked into the light, she said. I knew that this was a lie; he decided to stay in that other world that he lived in, leaving my mother and her blue eyes, colorless, faint, and distant.

Happy Father's Day

2011-06-19T07:00:00.000-07:00

Boys. The stories that they tell, their games of element wars. Their tokens and treasures and quarter machines. There are some games that they only play with you. And those moments when all of you whisper, "Hush, Mom's here," when i walk into the room. It must be something about being a dad. While there was no one there to teach you, I imagine four sets of feet mimic you one day.

Endless trips to the library, bare feet and Kuk Sool, frisbee, football and soccer. Baseball and all of the other balls you've rescued from the other side of the fence.

The skate park, Thor on a Sunday afternoon, those tickets to Amon, you little people should have gone. Gum, the arcade, giant candy bars, Army of Darkness, it only happens with you.

So easy for you to do.

Your blue collar week and then science and history. Weekends of solar systems, magnetics, illusions and Gita, botany, and still time for me.

One day they will be big strong men. Hairy and free. Your integrity, honor, and discipline will live with them forever. The most faithful gift you've ganted them, memories of Father, truth, and pure friendship.

Life is Good!

2011-06-15T08:12:00.000-07:00

Life is good when another tooth comes rolling out and a boy collects

five dollars.

I'm so pleased to know that my children still have so much faith in

freckled little fairies.

Sunday Scribblings: Sweet

2011-06-05T22:48:00.000-07:00

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is sweet.

Empyrean and earthy,
along morning's earliest peak.
The water, steadily, falling.
The only way I would find her,
in trance, listening to an early bird calling.

She lived her nights in a hallowed out tree,
feasting on bugs, feathers, and feet.

Today, she offered me a different treat,
a handful of berries.
Sugar pear, saskatoons, elder. Globular in shape.
They were sweet and smelled of September sun.

I wanted to tell her how beautiful she had become,
but her skin had started falling off,
revealing brushed flesh and swollen vessels of blood.

I rubbed my fingers along her back,
her spine ached and curled underneath her ghastly gown,
as old as the decades that had long passed.

She coughed and hissed,
spraying out a mirage of seeds and blood.

My time with her was short now.
As Earth searched for its coldest hour,
beckoning frigide seasons filled with powder,
swallowing her breath,
stale and sour.

And on the darkest hour,
when Anubis comes back to wash away all that is fertile,
the soles of her feet,
I'd watch,
sink into soil.

Her arms, reaching out.
Holding on, as the rest of her flesh,
ripe and bittersweet,
would silently fall.

And Earth,
closing its mouth, once again,
on all that has lived
long enough.

Sunday Scribblings: Design

2011-04-17T22:06:00.000-07:00

A Sunday Scribble with design.

The seasons of death are far behind us.

And now, an appropriate time to create a design.

With sunlight on our side,

in this season of life, an array of abundant seedlings appear,

full of curiosity and light.

For tea and honey, scones and marshmallows, and those busy little bees, lavender.

As folk wisdom shares, it is quite aromatherapeutic.

Nestled amongst a dandy crime of color.

And, with much necessity, this design for an herb garden under a Camellia sasanqua tree.

A teensy-weensy forest for Lilliputian play.

Work in progress and a burn ceremony for a later solstice.

Grass seeds and little kid seeds.

Oh how small blessings grow!

A healthy medley of mess made along the way.

For a wishful display.

With purplish hues of peppermint,

lightly scented spearmint, and leafy speckles of chocolate mint

a garden is on its way.

Thank you Sunday Scribblings for this reflection on

design.

Sunday Scribblings: Messenger

2011-04-04T08:02:00.000-07:00

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is messenger.

Running down the steep mossy hill, thin sandals underneath my feet, I would giggle in glee, knowing that my mother would be so pleased. My bangles chiming, doing their own enchanting dance along my young slender arms, I hurried home down the hill.

Aji, my father's mother, filled this jar especially well. With her wet kisses and a few lemon drop lollies, candy, she sent me on my way. Our weekly jar of ghee, butter, my mother would wait for so anxiously. She rarely went up to Aji's house herself, although we lived at the bottom of the hill and she owned the house we lived in. I would imagine that she would much rather keep her distance from Aji, for her moments alone with my grandmother would probably be spent complaining about my father.

On those mild summer mornings, I was her messenger. Waking up early to the sound of bhajan, Indian chanting, the house slightly stale from a tang of masala and onion, for the evenings dinner was always curried, I would find my mother donned in sari, sweeping the back porch. She would ask me to wash my face and pick out a dress. I had so many, stitched with lace, soft cotton, and sewn together in her moments just for me. I gathered up the yellow one with a ruffled collar and three white buttons along the chest, a mirage of speckled bangles, I rarely lived without, and I would wander through our house waiting for a jar. My mother would give me an empty one, still oily from last weeks ghee, and I would scurry away, trotting up the hill. In all of my four years of life, this was my one chore. Hardly did I consider it much of a chore, rather a privilege being able to collect my grandmother's treasured ghee and delivering it to my mother to simmer and saute the weeks chicken and lamb and chickpea and ahloo dinners.

I'd sit at Aji's table next to her handicapped son, my uncle Jai Ram, he was much younger than my father. Not saying much, he would smile at me plenty, he scared me a little. I waited, drinking fresh milk from a small porcelain cup and eating spoonfuls of honey while Aji filled small containers and my mother's jar with ghee. And down the hill, my mother waited for me, only coming to see Aji when my father avowed.

After two seasons of honey and butter breakfasts and my delivery down the hill, we moved to America. That would be the last that I would know of Aji. I like to imagine that she would continue to wake up early those mornings, boiling, watching it foam and sputter, caramelizing and carefully separating. Spreading her glass containers, smelling of nutty butter, cleaning up after Jai Ram.

Once in while, my father would surprise me with a bagful of lemon drops. I couldn't quite taste these without craving honey and the smell of sauteed butter.

Sunday Scribblings: Free

2011-03-21T10:59:00.000-07:00

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is free/freedom.

When Harvey and I were thirteen we rode our bikes out to that lake. He spent that summer with his grandfather, his house three blocks away from mine. I would see Harvey everyday. Our days on the lake, he would pack a picnic for us. A peanut butter and banana sandwich for each of us, spicy sticks of reddish gum, a Pepsi to share, and two Marlboro reds each, which his grandfather never seemed to notice missing. We would sit in the sandy dirt, our sneakers kicked off, our hair sticky and damp from a late August California sun, for several hours, sometimes silently. I would always bring a book and sketch paper so that I could draw him. He invited me every time but never seemed to need the company.

Harvey would wonder off on his own sometimes. Once, I hiked around the lake looking for him for nearly one hour. I found him, nestled uncomfortably between a brush of blackberry branches, his palms hiding his face. When he noticed me, I realized that he had been crying, his face flush from warm tears. He buried his head against his chest and started weeping again. I ran away, not knowing what to say. I rode my bike home alone that day.

Those summer days were the warmest that I had ever known. We would walk together barefoot following the shoreline. I would skip along without him, a cloth bag draped around my shoulder, searching the sand for treasures. Stones and shells and occasionally, feathers. One distant afternoon, Harvey had wondered away again. I sat against a leaning rock, collecting small stones, one after another, skipping into the water. Stoked by silence, knowing that Harvey could wonder for hours, I fished my fingers through my treasure bag looking for the smokes that Harvey had tucked away for me. I pulled out a little sandwich bag, as always, it held a couple of cigarettes. A neatly folded piece of construction paper sat amongst them, today. I held the cigarette to my lips, lighting it with one hand and carefully opening the paper with my other. I recognized Harvey's letters, sleek s's, sharp m's, barely a curve in his c's. I could feel his rigid air as I read. Alli, You are so close to me. My mother sent me here. She doesn't want me to come back home. I don't want to go away, but... A rush of thick musty air filtered through my nostrils and nicotine tickled my temples. she phoned last night, not asking to speak to me. I heard grandpa say that he wouldn't let me stay. That old bastard wants to send me away too. Alli, you are so close to me and I want to stay but I can't no more. I felt my breath stuck in my chest. At the peek of sunlight, the sand glistened at the edge of the lake. My palms suddenly wet, moistening the edges of the message. I guess they will all have the freedom they need without me. Goodbye Alli. There were two hearts sketched at the bottom of his note, colored in with red crayon.

I sat, starring into the water, my cigarette falling from my lips, scorching a cluster of sand. My eyelids filled with weight, the sound of hallow space filled my eardrums. I found my feet underneath me, following the edge of the water, I ran. Letting his note fall into the lake I shouted out his name. I ran in that endless moment, until the sun set and the water drifted from cool to cold.

At the edge of the lake I rescued my bike while Harvey's rested in the sand. I peddled home slowly, my head dizzied and flooded in tears. Leaving my heart laying in the lake, I never returned to find it.

Harvey was missing and no one found him and no one looked for him.

The summer passed and the sky turned gray again. An early rain dampened our evenings and my memories of late summer had started to fade.

Early one morning, sitting on our front porch, I watched Harvey's grandfather walk up our driveway. With a grim and hopeless glare, he approached me. Without shedding a wink of sorrow he handed a box of books and cards and clothes to me. Some of Harvey's things. They found him in the water. He didn't wait for my replay. I took a seat on the steps again, holding onto the box, I knew that Harvey was the one that was now free.

Happy Ireland Day

2011-03-17T06:34:00.000-07:00

It's a ritual day. Saint Patrick's. Not such a Happy way.

"Driving the snakes out of Ireland", would he know that they

would not stay away?

It's a Druid deal. Heathen, some would say.

Ancestral traditions, indigenous religions;

pour out offerings, speak Their names, tell Their stories.

Morrigan, Lugh, Eiru, Manannan mac Lir.

Worship restored; let Them know that you have not forgotten.

And do celebrate in this glorious restoration.

Pour a little whiskey in your tea!

Barley, coffee, or cream. Uisce beatha, "water for life".

Irish moonshine, Irish mist, little magic monsters, and an old Leprechaun's kiss.

Celtic's Brew, Ireland's Ale, or a classic Extra Stout, whatever your style may be, celebrate for the struggle of spirits.

A pint and a pinch.

Wear your knotwork today and rejoice in an old Irish way.

Happy Saint Paddy's Day!

Sunday Scribblings: Big

2011-03-12T22:39:00.000-08:00

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is big.

The recent 8.9 earthquake off the coast of Japan spawned a massive tsunami, destroying towns, swallowing cities, and leaving hundreds of people to find a way to say goodbye to loved ones.

A shallow sense of reality,

in a life so fragile.

Within our safe havens, upon this planet, we drift though days, we dance in celebration, we tuck our babies to bed. We make New Year's resolutions, we save up for rainy days, we make financial investments. We upgrade our vehicles. We throw away dreams, we wash our hands of messes, we pray for better days, we follow a path, we make our own destinies. How often do we slow down to recognize a bigger plot? Our consumption, our chaos, our necessary chores.
As we continue our endless cycle, Earth itself cycles through her days leaving us, at times, empty and idle. Leaving us to accept our fates, asking us to allow her her own determined course.

Lazy Reading Day

2011-03-09T14:23:00.000-08:00

Happy Birthday, Eldest One!

2011-02-04T07:34:00.000-08:00

Nine years ago, you are the one that made me a mama.

My oldest boy, you were first for a reason. Patient and clever.

An old old soul, you've shared so much.

Those ancient eyes speak of so many stories. Tales and tall-tales

all the way to the tips of your locks. A bookworm baby.

Art, unforgettable and the poems, all too much. A Gautama was on his way, and we knew this long before you came. Siddhartha, it shall be. And my my my, you have truly lived up to all of that name.

The best big brother to so many little people.

Siddhartha, my dear, I'd love to sail around the sun with you, so long as it burns.

So blessed we are to be able to celebrate another year with you, eldest one!

It was a Gift

2010-12-21T08:58:00.000-08:00

Ten years ago we made vows before the moon and wrote eternity in the sand...in a world of impermanence and constant change, of growth and destined decay, we found immortality in US... Knowing that silver and gold can be melted away, taken off and abandoned ,we instead committed ourselves to Jatta...the blessed knots that adorn our heads and forever hold the Ganges close by. Ten revolutions of the sun and ten revelations of the moon have brought me to your answer my love. "What was life like before the endless 3"......just you and me...You and Me.

Ten years are just the beginning.

From: Aaron

Siddie's Dreamcatcher

2010-12-21T08:20:00.000-08:00

Eclipse and Solstice

2010-12-20T00:12:00.000-08:00

Full moon, ecliptic lunar, rich merlot, and a dark solstice.

Couldn't have run into a more magical night.

Happy Solstice!

An Ode to Love

2010-12-16T06:22:00.000-08:00

True blue.

I only have eyes for you.

Ten years, five babies. Weed, whiskey, and slayer; Down with a southern boy.

An eco-village, a few pipe dreams, a quest for the past, the primitive ways.

Furniture.

North Beach and a cliff house. Vegan.

Feeding off of moon-lite nights and treading on sand. Machine Head and babies in baskets. I street and the Red Vic. Dreadhead, Brother Jay, that class together. Commi Ben and all of your other homeless friends. Walking away together, breakfasts and the studio.

Gautama, Malcolm X, and the way Johnny Got His Gun. The bookstores, SF, a true anarchists plan. Zendik, Enota, Deadwood Oregon. The Evil Dead bridge.

Dracula 2000, gross, why did we go? The stage, Land Park, and that mid-summer night's dream.

Incense and ash. The bluest god we know. His third eye. Varanasi, Baphomet, and calling down the moon.

Our days before the boys and that little girl. Ten years ago.

An oath. Under a star, the moon, and ocean. The meditation cliff.

Gita, sand, hemp. Rudraksha.

Sealed. Ten years ago.

Happy Anniversary, my love.

♥

I could only find this song live.
Anyway, enjoy...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=122vEPXielk

A Star for Haile

2010-12-14T07:33:00.000-08:00

A Big Day for a Little Dude!

2010-12-09T07:20:00.000-08:00

I couldn't have more fun with any other boy. You little Mahatma.

Your havavy house, I'd come over any day!

You're a big bother to two. You've come a long way to be with us.

You little man of many costumes. The cutest turtle tot.

It's hard to let you grow up, you're way too much fun this way.

Easy breezy baby.

War Machines and Men of Iron, your world is full of so many warriors.

Somedays, I don't understand a word that you say.

May your world be forever filled with animated play.

Cherished five years.

Happy Birthday Mahatma Judah!

A Hat for Haile

2010-11-27T13:00:00.000-08:00

Within the few spare moments I've had recently,

I've played with colors not so common to me.

A hat for Haile.

Life with a baby girl.

Welcome Nalini

2010-11-01T20:29:00.000-07:00

In the middle of the night, someone else was with us. Govi and I sleeping together, as always, but this night, someone else was in the room. Some sort of shrieking and bitter scream, a giant's footsteps, a blow to the head, and the collapse that made time feel final. A strange, sudden moment of darkness. And then, Aaron screaming in my ear, "Stay with me, Arch." My numb lips asking him to stop. Children. Judah, jumping up and down, frantically yelling. Four sets of terrified eyes upon me. Dizziness and drool and barf and sirens. Medics. A bunch of them huddled around me, most of them useless, asking me all sorts of necessary questions. I could barely recollect my own name as the questions came. Large boots and swift footsteps carried me away as I laid strapped to a board, carelessly duck-tapped. I felt the night's chill reaching for my toes, my legs felt frigid, as I realized that half of my body was entirely soaked. Drenched. And I knew that something strange had happened, in the middle of the night, and that I would labor soon. And I realized that Haile would not be born at home. And I slept.

IV's, antibiotics, and some other weird shit that made my tongue feel as though it might slip right out of my mouth. And bags and bags and bags of blood. I felt like a vampire.

Dr. Leon. All that I remember are his dark evil eyebrows, inducing my labor only to kick me out of his hospital. Thank the gods that Tosi stayed with us through out all of this. Another ambulance ride. It felt like Nicholas Cage was driving and I was on my way to Hell.

It wasn't as bad as I had imagined. The birth, wild and magnificent, was as I had dreamed it would be and, fortunately, I was able to remember every movement, mine and hers. Until the moment when I held her tiny body against my chest, did I realize that six sets of arms were waiting to whisk her away from me. And the nightmare became my reality again.

Eleven days in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit for a baby that didn't exactly need to stay so long. Laissez faire doctors, stubborn 'know it all' nurses, my rage and helpless bitterness, and all the while, a little lady's very first days upon this planet.

Certainly, our bravest little star yet.
She rumbled her way unto Earth, waking up her momma,
and setting a striking presence right away.

Our wee little beauty.
Her brothers waited so patiently to have her at home.
And when she finally made her way here, they loved her so deeply.

An overwhelming pregnancy, a sudden awakening, her hurried hello.
We called her Haile, at first, she is nothing we've ever known before.
A delicate little gift, the Universe does answer all prayers, and our tiniest beam of light.
Welcome to Tribe littlest one.

A Little Lion turns Seven!

2010-08-08T08:23:00.000-07:00

Birthday Wishes

Born under Jah's blessed light, he's simply the softest baby I've yet to know. Sahaj Jahson Sharma, his ember puppy-dog eyes, irresistibly luscious lashes, each blink allowing fireflies to roam.

Born on one of the sunniest days of the year, our first home-birth, Sahaj means natural. He's yogic, ayurvedic, and kind. He lets me put beads and braids in his dreadlock trend.

Stung by so many bees, he never wishes them harm. He is one that truly lives, faithful and hopeful. Pure and wise.

A lover of creature: amphibian, that big dolphin, the ones that are brilliant with wings, and especially, those prehistoric guys.

Easily a favorite. The best-est friend to have. Speckled fairies grant him gifts, wicked gnomies steal his many treasures.

Wishing the happiest birthday to my liOn-heart...Tribe would be nothing without you.

Seven years ago today. Sunshine will never allow a brighter gift, happy birthday my darling son.

Sunday Scribblings: Birth

2010-06-19T21:01:00.000-07:00

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is birth.

After giving birth to four babies, as clean and pure and close as possible, I am in that birthing realm once again. I've written about birth a number of times and this is an ode to the beauty of birth that I wrote last year. A home birth, a baby boy, and that fertile place: the Full Harvest Moon...

The Moon-Blooded Boy

Each baby arrived early, but never in this lucid way. The boys, ever so ready to tread their way about, could not be late. More so than his brothers, hungry little Govinda, beckoned by an autumn sky, embraced a graceful yet sudden welcome. Little did I know, he would not wait for a dim-lite night.

I was asked by my mid-wives to consume a healthy dose of Vitamin C, for he had ruptured the first seal early. Off to the Co-Op we went, all the while, Govinda(who we referred to as Shani, of the Navagraha, then) breaking his way through blood and womb. Allowing my senses to fall from reality, an endearing acceptance of pain I had willingly developed by the forth pregnancy, I paraded on.

Waddling from aisle to aisle and back home took quite a while. A ridiculously bumpy ride in Hildagard, our 1969 Volkswagen bus, was the escape Govinda anticipated. Under the light of the golden sphere, my flesh, quickly becoming a servant to pain. An invitation from the night's sky, Govinda would leave his cloudy ocean behind to devour a hearty brew of oxygen and hue. Senselessly drunk on a melange of milky midnight, mother, and moon.

I nudged him to stay and swim a bit longer, not knowing that his blood belonged to the moon. And Mani must have his way. So, there he came under the glittering ball in the sky. I closed my eyes, painfully shut, accepting his mulberry bottom in my right palm. And in that moment, I was immediately conscious of who he was, the bringer of a full night's glow.

His papa insisted on holding him bare under the Samhain sky, listening to Autumn's cry. I watched and danced against cold concrete on achy nude feet. Aaron, always humming a whisper to Jah when his newest son is born; Govinda, a silent Hare; me, accepting the shallow howl from a distant breeze; the Full Moon, placing a spell: every twenty-eight days, the moon thirsty boy and his herd of the many who are hungry and free, must come out and play.

Dance in the light of the Moon, Govinda Hare!

Sunday Scribblings: Superhero(ine)

2010-06-13T21:35:00.000-07:00

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is superhero or heroine.

As much as I love Batman: his dark dilemmas, his dusky disguise, and his dreadful ego, and I realize that much praise should go to his creator, Bob Kane, I'll have to admit, the real superhero in one of my favorite graphic novels is Sam Kieth. I don't usually discover new comics at the library, but when I came across Batman: Secrets a couple of years ago, I had also discovered who would become one of my most admired illustrators and writers.

As writer and artist, Sam Kieth has placed Batman inside of a dark tunnel where his most beloved nemesis, Joker, waits and watches as Bruce revisits some of his most strange and dreary childhood secrets.

Sam himself seems to have a clear grasp on images of strange. His faces are always lenghty, hair and chin showing some sense of liquid. He has a way of illustrating Joker's sinister smile, his hellbent eyes and bloodthirsty lips. "Bang" and "wham" and crimson streaks and very nice girls in polka-dot dresses. Mr. Kieth has an incredible eye when it comes to lay-outs. He cuts and he pieces, one stringy scribble on top of another. His idea of interlude in this trade, are dark pages of debate between Batman and Joker while they are "...trapped in the same hell together, on opposite sides."

There is the anniversary of the Apollo Moon Landing, the idea of live satellite broadcast television, media and its lustful thrill-ride on the expense of others dismay, a young Bruce Wayne, the Joker with a story to share, and a creeping secret, a single shell and the feeling of feathers and the smell of foul.

It is full of a lot of Joker's "Ha, ha, ha's!" and all of Batman's suppressed rage. And as always with Gotham's Dark Knight, never a redeptive feeling.

Sunday Scribblings: Mess

2010-06-07T09:48:00.000-07:00

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is mess.

If this is not true testament of how mankind has diseased itself, I don't know what else is.

Our insatiable thirst has left so many peoples of the world displaced and hungry and riddled with war. And we continue to ask for more.

An ocean that has defied a beginning and an end. Its existence stretches far beyond our minuscule capabilities and our simple thoughts, yet we have skillfully mastered a way to clog and burden and stain.

Is it too much to ask for urgency? How can we hold a corporation accountable for a mishap of this multitude?

There is more to this place than us.

Blood and our lustful thirst for war, this desire to drill, constantly initiating unjust sanctions, Earth and her silent call, our pathetic idea of a 'left' who denies the necessary progressive leap onward. And most importantly, our water and Her air and yet, another filthy mess.

Sunday Scribblings: Mantra

2010-05-31T06:15:00.000-07:00

The Sunday Scribblings prompt for this week is mantra.

गु रंग हा

When I gave birth to my first son, Siddhartha, I was a mess. The hospital made sure that I went home with as much distance from him as possible. When I became pregnant with Sahaj, I cried, laying next to Aaron in our bungalow-style apartment, for months. Within the eighth month, I called Amy. Her name was passed along to me by a clinic run by midwives and they referred to her and Susan as Full-Circle Midwifery. I've never forgotten about what they have shared with me. When I first spoke with Amy she told me that they would find me and help guide baby anywhere, a rented room, outdoors, if it had to be. They would come anywhere to make sure that I wasn't a mess.

I remember when Amy walked in. Her footsteps were small and her smile, lasting and sweet. I watched her set up. Her movements were subtle and I didn't realize that it was time for the new one to come, when Amy had arrived. She looked over at me a few times, there was a touch and a few slow sighs, never an interruption.

I remember my midwife, as near as she could be, the comfort of this type of distance, and I remember her listening. There was a mantra that day: Gu rang ha. And she listened to me breathe in gu ranga, as I took in Brahma and she listened to me exhale ha, as I vaporized Shiva. I didn't hold on to the mala that was given to me; my hands were held by Aaron, his breath was larger than mine and his eyes were so close to me. I saw everything in green that day.

Little Sahaj came and it was something as simple as life could be. And there were many salty tears and a stream of sweet whispers. There was this midwife, Amy, and her delicate glow. The way that she sighed when she closed her eyes with me. There was the happiest man in the world, grassy, he was an emerald forest for me. There was that baby, he was hardly there; so quite and clean, for months, he would be. Only through ra, could he be.

There were mudras and bandhas and plenty of bhakti. There were beads, not as many as one hundred and eight, but just enough to breathe in. There was a mantra and a world that became forever infinite to me.

Tribe

2010-05-19T07:20:00.000-07:00

We went to the Whole Earth Festival in Davis recently and, as always, it was sublime. Wicked drum beats, Zeke the clown, bunches of happy old hippies, friends, the girls in flowing skirts and dancing bellies, the ones that we call 'family', colorful children, the smell of smokey dreams, beautiful people, and mid-wives.

Dad and Govinda in the drum circle.

My mid-wife Tosi, mystic and amazing. Listening to the sound of me, ever so delicately. Her presence is necessary, on another occasion.

Tosi, a comfortable me, radiant Rachel, and someone new.

The Universe clearly lied; there were no more to come. Yet, with each lucent breath, laying under a sun-spotted sky, I listened to the familiar sound of another. A mermaid laugh, my nacreous pearl; you are lucid in trance, iridescent in soap with glossy butterfly wings. I can hear the trident god, under the sea, shaking the shell and making lightening spring.

I spent the first couple of months silently wishing you away; I had nothing let to give. My silent good-nights were really goodbyes. You stayed; you did nothing more than grow. Invading my space and sending my senses through another maze. I spent those days sitting in my shell and when I did speak, it was nothing but a yell. Your brothers knew nothing of you then, so they made little sense of what I would say. You've continued to swim, gather, and grow.

It was Mother's Day weekend when I laid on a tiny quilt at a noisy college campus, Tosi and Rachel and Amy and Tricia, where I found it impossible to resist any part of you. Especially your sound, the ocean and your wave. No more moments of strayed faith.

A sweet little thing I captured this year at Whole Earth.

A tiny tribute to Che, whose change was not extreme.

Where faith was not buried and only in tribe life was free.

A small someone will don it soon. 'Viva la revolucion' with us, little one.

It seems to be the same tradition for us. Me: tired eyes, stumbling feet, and bellyful. Aaron: holding on, dreaming of someone new, that mellow man, becoming a new father again and again.

Under the sun, lit by the moon, in the haze of our days, that moment will come; welcome to Tribe, our newest darling one.

Sunday Scribblings: Recipe

2010-05-15T21:21:00.000-07:00

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is recipe.

टाइम तो यात!

It was simple and fresh

and green.

And yellow and orange

and red. Ayurvedic, indeed.

Rice, always sticky in this house. Chutney, it's tomato tonight. Vegan, with plenty of protein. Mustard greens and mustard seeds. Garlic, ginger, onion, whole. Haldi, masala, and the necessary garnish, cilantro. A cozy night and a blessed meal. Mama's roots and healthy brews.

Thank you Sunday Scribblings for this delicious prompt!

Bon appetit!

Sunday Scribblings: Dinner

2010-04-25T06:45:00.000-07:00

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is dinner.

I didn't think that a bottle of wine could make this any easier. Maybe two.

"A Cabernet Franc form Bordeaux would be great . And we've already decided. We'll start with an order of Mussels Marinara and then an order of your Chicken Sorentino. The same for the lady." Alex barely gave the waiter an opportunity to glance at me. I hated having to eat chicken when we went out.

The waiter collected our menus. Alex looked up at me, his eyes were still dreamy. "Well." He rubbed his palms together as though he couldn't wait to dive in. "Well. This, this is nice." I couldn't help stuttering; I felt feverish from the heat of romantic attempt.

"Two years together, Dev." He made my nickname so masculine. Why couldn't he add the i to the end and call me goddess?

The waiter delivered our bottle. I was almost too flushed to drink.

We sat together and sipped slowly. A small grove of lights decorated the outdoor patio. A Roman fountain splashed out in the center of the courtyard. It reminded me of the Fountain of Moses, of Rome; a place of such dedication and beauty at once and of tragedy and decay at its end.

I starred across the setting. He carried on about our two years together; our 24 months; our 730 days together, it felt so long to me. I was still amazed by the fact that my silence never bothered him; how the stillness agitated my senses, incredibly. How some people slip so easily into the delusion of love while others hunger for sensibility and a way out.

I sipped and then I gulped. I couldn't believe that he wasn't waiting for the dessert opportunity. His words carried him to a desperate gaze. I held it with him. I knew what was coming. He would present a tiny leathered box with a gem at the front, a magical stone would sit underneath a pillow of velvety cloth. My existence would become eternally sealed, a fate of chicken dinners, annual Thanksgiving football, and his family. I had anticipated that this anniversary would end in vow.

I couldn't hold on to a laugh. He asked what was so funny. My head was dizzy enough to tell him the truth. I had already missed this opportunity a few times. I held on to the heat from the Cab and from my excitement.

As I sat across from his smoky fantasy-filled eyes I waited for my moment of freedom. There was nothing to interrupt us but the sensitive voices of dreamy eyed couples and the serene state of Rome surrounding us. I would cry for him tonight.

Earth. Willow and Wings. and all of Her Wonderful Things

2010-04-21T09:30:00.000-07:00

Butterflies, the last of the lovely moss, ginger and cinnamon finger nails, smudged palms, the taste of mist lingering in the air.
Swelling buds, wisteria, honeysuckle.
The Sun gods, Tonatuih; Apollo; Freyr, Sol; Lugh; Horus; Surya; sharing their light equally, their whispers so prevalent through darkness.
Pure and clean, everything in green.
Spring and all of Her living things.

When the neighbors invited Aaron to co-op a garden on their property, he eagerly became bio-dynamic. A bed went up first, but the double-dig earth layer sits to the left of this photo, on our friend's property, waiting for corn, tomato, zucchini, watemelon, and bean seeds. In the meantime, on our side of the fence, Aaron decided to set up a mini garden for me! A place for herbs, fairy dwellings, and zinnia seeds.

He came across a huge boulder. He needed a pick axe to remove it. That wasn't his only problem; he didn't realize that a small man was hiding behind him, waiting to start a bar fight.

I was crushed when I thought that we wouldn't be able to compost here. Aaron made it doable.
Can't wait to start filling it!

Lots more for the boys to do!

The boys are spending their Earth Day evening with seedpods and I think these guys will make it into the ground tonight.

They gave me a gift. The bottom layer of a nest that they've been working on. I'll gladly finish it!

Govinda won the fight with dad and dad won the fight with the boulder. Hooray!

A couple of wonderful books for the occasion.

Cedars and dirt, dust and clay. Let's take care of our marble everyday.
May it be the most blessed Earth Day!

Sunday Scribblings: Wonder

2010-04-18T07:03:00.001-07:00

This week, Sunday Scribblings, is curious about wonderment:
What do you wonder? Have you experienced wonder? Is it a feeling? An emotion? A place? Tell us about wonder.

Wayward and Hallow

A seed that wanders
a weed that withers
will it ever be real for me.

To reach existence
a swim through light
all to taste the blight of day.

Through serenity and womb
to pick Mother's bloom
I must eat through flesh and doom.

Gulping down the bloodless moon; in search of home
the scent that sails about the sun
how many more times around?

For every moment of woe and wonder
with every wakeful eye
a third shall fail and die.

Sunday Scribblings: Deadline

2010-04-11T12:43:00.000-07:00

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is deadline.

Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_zapr0yIfE

Blue Oyster Cult
Deadline

You said you'd be here at a quarter to five
I didn't know if you were dead or alive
How long you think that I can sharpen my knife
I've got better things to do with my life

It's almost the deadline
Don't miss the deadline, darling
When all your bad dreams will come true

Don't miss the deadline
It's almost the deadline, darling
I wouldn't want it to happen to you

Phil screamed at him, and he hung up the phone
I wonder if he ever felt more alone
He never finished his coffee that night
The photo they showed David was a terrible sight

He missed the deadline
He passed the deadline, darling
And I believe that somehow he knew

He crossed the deadline
He passed the deadline, darling
There wasn't a thing anybody could do

Listen my darling, now, don't play with fire
You find a way to balance faith and desire

It's almost the deadline
Don't miss the deadline darling
Consequences are easily misconstrued

Don't miss the deadline
It's almost the deadline, darling
I couldn't live if it happened to you

Sunday Scribblings: Mentor

2010-04-04T15:00:00.000-07:00

This weeks Sunday Scribblings prompt:

Have you had a mentor in your life? Would you like one? For what? Have you been one? How? Everyone could use a little more help in their lives, can you see where you could be a mentor now?

I met a rasta man nine years ago. I spent three hours with him. My husband told me where to find him. He runs a shop in Sacramento. It is open for business twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I found him.

I asked him to turn my natty hair into dreaded hair. Three hours later, he did so. I walked out with my temples slightly throbbing and with a sense of dizziness. My hair was sticking up in all directions; it was such a wild do. I felt like pinhead. I loved it. I thanked and praised him.

He gave me so much more.

Jay didn't say too much to me. I sat, a bit nervous, in his barber chair and felt every strand of separation. He carved small squares into my scalp, pulled and twisted. The aroma was pungent. Slightly sappy, salty, pure. I never asked what he was using. I imagined awapuhi, hemp seed, olive, beeswax. Trees.

I was alone in the shop with him the entire time. He wondered what I had been wondering. I told him travel. There were no babies then. Aaron and I were recently contemplating some sort of flight. A place that we hadn't seen before, maybe it didn't exist, but we held onto an idea for a simple life, villages and islands and a quaint home with lots of land. I told Brother Jay about our anticipation for discovering a passage. A voyage. He said that I had fears. He was right. He told me not to dwell on an exact route; he told me to "go". He never gave me a sense of where, but he spoke of his time in Vietnam, of his property on an island, of his wife, freedom, Africa. He mentioned Fiji. I was beside myself, how did he know?

He said that there was no need to search for a passageway, that I was already on the journey. He told me to keep going. He was working on creating intensely tight locks. I felt dazzled. He never stopped to show me a reflection in a mirror. He worked slowly. He spoke with confidence. With ease. He said that if I kept going I would get there.

He gave me so much more.

I didn't walk away from Brother Jay with a plan. I slipped away from his shop with a lighter head and a shear sense of contentment. Confidence. I whispered to myself, "I'm already there."

Aaron had a visit with Jay the day prior. I never asked my husband what they spoke of.

The following week we were 'let go' at our jobs (we worked for the same company then). They never used the word "fired". They, simply, regarded our hair as "unprofessional". There was no use arguing, so we walked away together. This was our first month in our new apartment together. I was pregnant two months later. We were poor. A bit scared. I thought about Jay. I visited his shop a couple of times, during those days, just to look at beads. He didn't say much to me, he just looked at me. He bore the most telling gaze. And I knew, that the journey had already begun. That we were ready for our flight. That the squares had paved an undeniable path. That we would go.

His wakeful eyes, his thinning hair, his endless locks. His clever sense, witty and sound. The man with the yellow van and the discount prices is a guru.

He helped us to slip from the cracks and allowed us to let go. I wonder if he knew that we would never come back.

photo by Carole Herzog Photography

Sunday Scribblings: The book that changed everything

2010-03-13T23:35:00.000-08:00

This weeks Sunday Scribblings prompt is absolutely wonderful:

#206 - The book that changed everything

Is there a book that you read at a particular time in your life that changed everything for you? Is there a book you think should be written that would change everything? Words have an incredible power if they are read/ heard by the right person at the right time. What collection of words has been powerful for you?

I love this one!

During my junior year in high school, I found myself living within more than one world. In one, I belonged to contentment and mirth and in the other, to daydream and illusion. In those days, I found comfort crossing the thin line between reality and delusion. This was the perfect time to discover one of my absolute favorite authors, till this day, Neil Gaiman. A close friend of mine introduced me to the Endless, immortal siblings in Gaiman's graphic novel The Sandman: Brief Lives, a world of twisted mythology, gods and demons, confusion and reality, chaos and existence. Quite certain that this was a reflection of my own world, I easily fell in love with the siblings of the Endless: Dream, Death, Destiny, Destruction, Desire, Despair, and Delirium.

Brief Lives takes the reader though a bittersweet story full of choices and consequences, loyalty to family and mortal responsibility. Destruction, the missing brother of the Endless, chose to leave behind his cosmic chores, 300 years ago, for a simpler life; one or mortal duties. Delirium, the youngest of the Endless, is intent on finding him, but Destruction has no desire to be found. He has adopted the idea that mankind does a fine job destroying things without him; his realm is no longer necessary. Delirium, who only wants her family to return to the way it was in the days of more delight, asks all of her siblings to accompany her on this journey. Dream, the Sandman, is the only sibling who accepts her invitation, as he is dealing with the devastation of a lost love and is in need of a break from his worries and woes.

In this volume of The Sandman series, Delirium is forced to recognize that the Universe is changing. "...she was growing up or at least growing older...she was no longer Delight; and the blossoms had already begun to fall in her domain, becoming smudged and formless colors and she had no one to talk to..." In so many ways, my own light had become smeared and deluded.
The Sandman , in it's own epic reality, has always exposed tragedy and humor. As Delirium struggles with the idea that she must except change in her own realm, throughout her journey she is able to enjoy moments with her beloved siblings, their words and their wisdom. We are able to experience the idea of 'brief lives' at the end of an awkward dinner, where Delirium walks away from her meal, a pair of chocolate people, and we see the food has suddenly identified a sense of life through her transcendent touch. As the Endless brother and sister turn their backs, Gaiman, so exquisitely writes, "Touched by her fingers, the two surviving chocolate people copulate desperately, losing themselves in a melting frenzy of lust, spending the last of their brief borrowed lives in a spasm of raspberry cream and fear.” One of my favorite descriptions in this issue, this line clearly helps us recognize the idea of our lives within this brief dream. We are granted time, and not much of it. And change is inevitable because life is equal parts bliss, absurd, and awful.

Years ago, The Sandman became my dream away from dreams. And to this day, he still comes to me in so many unforeseeable ways.

It's Such a Magical Place

2010-03-11T08:05:00.000-08:00

The trees are friendly, captivating at length. Earth, up here, is the color of pumpkin and peach, misty, with tiny pools of dew that hang on all day. The night's sky makes me feel like I'm wrapped in a blanket of jems. Glistening, shimmering, indigo blue. It's a sky to roam underneath. I hear that the farmers' markets are never few. And these morning turkeys, clicking and gobbling along the path, on the eastend of the house. We have adapted comfortably. The mountains, and then the foothills, and then the charming little place.
It's home.

It snowed during our first week here!

The boys are so funny.
They ran downstairs, barefoot! And came back up, screaming!
Frosty toes.

I think that they ate more snow than they played with.

The sunshine, melting away the powder.
A halcyon sky.
Grass Valley, a little jewel of a town.

What's goin' on, Govinda?

2010-02-26T10:04:00.000-08:00

Govinda is quickly turning into a brave little boy.
I sadly, say
goodbye to my baby as the world gains a bright little boy.

A young Spartan!

Treasures and toys

(Thank you Renna for these lovely hats!)

His favorite brother, sweet ♥Jahson♥

Wide eyed with Roby

Soul sounds

His beats make mommy happy.

A tough crowd is hard to please.

Goodnight folks. Govi has left the room!

Thank you, Govinda, for so many moments to savor.

Sunday Scribblings: "When Pigs Fly"

2010-02-22T00:36:00.000-08:00

This weeks Sunday Scribblings prompt:

"When pigs fly!"
"When hell freezes over!"
Is there anything in your life that you are so certain of, you'd say these words? That won't happen, "In a month of Sundays?"

leads me to a single image and an eternal thought.

Immortality

Sweet Treats and Stuffed ♥'s

2010-02-13T23:05:00.000-08:00

I cherish the love in our home.
In this season, we look forward to the celebration of all things sweet and lovely.
In our house, it is a moment for the monsters to go away; a moment for the noise to start a angelic whisper; a moment for a little boy to ask cupid for a hand to hold.
A day full of whistling I Love You's and glossy hearts. Blowing kisses in the air. Folding pink paper, enjoying the curve and its symmetry. Finding fairy goblets while the tulips bloom.

The sweet aromas of romance.

The boys are quick to find the prettiest treasure, throughout the house and about.

Goodbye to a silent Winter, I hope for the sugary scent of Spring. I create in the warmth of peach and pink.

Lavender. Lilac. A fuzzy felt heart.

Everlasting smooches!

'Yarn'ing hearts.

Swimming in candy-coats.

A little I Love You.

I couldn't ask for a more heart-filled way to celebrate this day.

I hope that your day is filled with honeyed Hello's and sugarcoated kisses.
Happy Valentine's Day.

A Lesson in Love

2010-02-13T09:28:00.000-08:00

is always a lovely thing!

New Light and the Season of Imbolc

2010-02-10T09:47:00.000-08:00

Well into a brighter season and already, the earliest blooms stand strong and still.

Brigid in disguise and a daffodil opens its eyes.

Happy Imbolc!

Sunday Scribblings: Message

2010-02-07T23:35:00.000-08:00

I am absolutely thrilled to participate in Sunday Scribblings this week! The prompt this time is message. What message do you have to share? What message have you gotten? What message is life giving you? Did you listen? Did someone else? What's the message here?

Mr. Zinn, with a message so loud and clear, revered and loved by many, passed away recently. Articulate and earnest, he left behind volumes of language, reflections, and messages intended to stimulate critical thought and to promote autonomous ideas and analysis.

As a historian, for the people, an activist, an author, an intellect, and an Air Force bombardier in World War II, he was an advocate for civil rights and a voice for labor unions. In his time he gave much thought to the injustices of the legal system and helped organize anti-war efforts. His accomplishments exposed the true struggles of Native Americans against European defeat and expansion. He explored the accounts of slaves, women, and unionist. All of which he included in his influential and widely-acclaimed book, A People's History of the United States. With this history textbook, he allowed readers to recognize the flaws in historical narrative and he inched open a doorway to thought-provoking departures from the common history books. His messages provoked many to question a superior history of omission.

“Civil disobedience is not our problem. Our problem is civil obedience. Our problem is that people all over the world have obeyed the dictates of leaders…and millions have been killed because of this obedience…Our problem is that people are obedient all over the world in the face of poverty and starvation and stupidity, and war, and cruelty. Our problem is that people are obedient while the jails are full of petty thieves… (and) the grand thieves are running the country. That’s our problem.”
— Howard Zinn

Salutations and a goodbye to a man that devoted his life to acknowledging the whole of our social structure, to representing true accounts of life and action, and to recognizing submission as our greatest weakness. Thank you, Mr. Zinn, for your message and your greatest feat: fostering individual inquiry and activism.

Eight is Great!

2010-02-04T06:30:00.000-08:00

Today, I have an eight year old! It must be a spell of magic, how time slips away. Eight awe-inspiring, spectacular, and certainly, fulfilling years. Days and years and seasons filled with his wonderful ways:

His old soul wisdom,
his adorable quarks,

his slap-stick humor,
his patient ways,
his sensitive nature.
His comfort,
his control.
He will never know Ego.

Sometimes I crave a bite of his reality, just to ingest it for a small bit. My first dread-head, may he forever be lost in his articulate world.

Happy Birthday, Siddhartha!

Siddie, at age four.

Sunday Scribblings: Milestone

2010-01-30T22:24:00.000-08:00

Govinda walks!

He is the last one to go. This I know, I've spoken to the Universe about it, I know. This one has held on the longest. Siddhartha strolled away at eight and a half months, tiny and trotting. Sahaj wandered off at ten months, still yet straying. Judah cruised through the door at one year, tough and trampling! Govinda, a spider monkey, wrapped his legs around me for so long. And now, he must go.

He was most anxious, when saying goodbye to his womb-home yet not so eager to go, away from my hip. He saddled my waist, in a hand made sling, until I started to sway in one direction from his weight. Our biggest boy. These days, he sleeps all alone. Except for the shadows and the glow. And an everlasting flame. I wonder when he will become content with a simple kiss goodnight and a story to go.

Oh dear, Govinda. Looks like you are on the go!

Morning Fog

2010-01-27T09:19:00.001-08:00

I stared into the valley: it was gone-

wholly submerged! A vast flat sea remained,
gray, with no waves, no beaches; all was one.

I may have seen a shadow then, an errant
shadow, bearing a bundle on its head.
I saw-and no more saw, in the same instant.

All I could hear were the uneasy screeches
of the lost birds, the yelping of the stray,
and, on that sea that lacked both waves and beaches,

the footsteps, neither near nor far away.

excerpt from
"In The Fog"
Giovanni Pascoli

I woke early this morning, I hadn't realized that my husband had already wandered off to his day. I walked outside and stood by myself. Everything held still, never speaking of day. I couldn't help wonder what else lived under the moonlight; many lives in between time. I felt a distant runaway.

Sunday Scribblings: Yes

2010-01-23T23:56:00.001-08:00

We used to say yes to everything. A midnight trip to the Bay, slushy shoes and a bag full of sea salt and sand. Yes, we could make it back, later that morning, just in time for a quick cup of coffee and in the nick of time to start our work day. What about six children and the billy goat? Yes, lets get started. Eight is just enough. And Mr. Mutton? Indeed, the babies will love him! He'll gift us with plenty of gold: milk, cheese, butter. Wool. Casting on and "casting off". I will learn to make knit shawls and fuzzy sweaters. Or maybe we should escape to an island, call it our home, learn the native tongue, have babies and grow old. Yes, count me in. French Polynesia is only some where near four thousand nautical miles away. What if we find an apartment, in the center of a noir city, quit our humdrum jobs and create a way to stay afloat? Yes, why not. We can write a film script, a prequel or a sequel; zombies and social unjust. We can have it done by lunch. When the homeless lady needed a place to stay. Yes, by all means, we are moving out of this studio anyway. (The first bun is in the oven.) She can have the last month all to herself. We have packed up already, from I street to V street, just in time to receive our first little one. The communist boy on the streets needs a sweater? Yes, naturally, give him the vegan V sweater that I ordered off of the net for your birthday last year. He needs pencils and paper and a few books. Sure, give him Malcolm X and he will give us a list. He says we should read it now: Tolstoy, Lenin, and Engels. Emma, Karl, and the infamous manifesto. No reason to say no.

There was never really a reason to say no. That was four babies ago, when our world only presented unfettered proposals. Dreamy eyed and alive, we generally settled on yes and relieved ourselves of no. Not all of what was affirmative then actually came to fruition, though. Four babies instead of six, the Polynesian Islands still wait for us, Mr. Mutton, wakeful only in our Grimm thoughts, a draft or two has been scripted to some degree by both of us but never an exhaustive manuscript.

We used to say yes to everything. Maybe our ways have been naive, too trusting, and a bit unsophisticated, but after nearly ten years together as parents and partners, Aaron and I still find it difficult to say no. These days, saying yes is more essential than ever. Four admiring sets of eyes watch and wait for us to show them this world and its ominous and awe. Four pure and hope-filled hearts thirsty to live beyond this box. Yes, we will bring more babies than our parents ever knew. We will birth them at home with myrrh, frankincense, the goddesses, and the indigo moon. Yes, lets keep driving, cross the California border, through Eugene, and head a bit closer to the coast to a place called Deadwood, that no one has ever heard of. Then cross over the Delphian bridge (which I still believe was in Evil Dead Part 2) and make our way to the old farmstead on Alpha Farm. Yes, we will paint peace signs on cardboard, scribble pro-socialist mottoes on signboards, and wave our fists in the air on 16th and J. The temperature, 96, Judah resting on my hip, and his brothers shouting, "Stop this war. Honk for peace!" Yes, no doctors for me or for you. Yes, we will teach you at home. The same room that we eat dinner in you will call your classroom. Our days will be long and consumed with experiments, literature, song, and soul. Your days will be spent with mother and brothers, dancing and dueling and searching for art. Anointing our spirits and enjoying our latitude and playful moods.

As our home grow smaller and somehow the rooms filled with six, our hours had to accept limits, yet our senses never let go of "Yes".

Rain

2010-01-21T10:09:00.000-08:00

Earth is pouring down upon us so eagerly these days.

Siddhartha has had such stimulating words to say."Oh my god, mom! It is raining so hard outside! It's like
Earth is a puddle."

He stunned me with this phrase, charmed by his words, I sat and rediscovered Earth: a pure lagoon underneath a bucket of stars, brand new, fourteen billion years ago. Solar and Milky, expanding and birthing. One lonely moon. Blue moon, new moon, full moon, one moon. Her many years floating in debris and dust. Countless prevalent species, eating and breeding and creeping amidst weeds and rust. Martians and men exploring, dancing their days away without gravity or trust. Cosmic yet solid. Material. Matter and mass. And eventually, annihilation, extinction, and obsolescence.
Earth, would be, a thing of the past.

We sat in the rain that day and felt water and vapor. Molecules, some still holding on; deciding and dancing, others forgiving themselves and letting go. The trinity asked me many questions that day. Govinda crawled around, splashed and soaked. I could only answer the boys from ideas that I had read about or from the moments I had felt. Their theories are always much more simple and palpable than mine, so easy to digest. We sat in a puddle that morning, steeping. Infused. So many ideas, not much to mistrust. "Absolutely, son. Earth could surely be a puddle and you and I, a mere speckle of star dust.

Sunday Scribblings: "The Good Old Days"

2010-01-17T21:01:00.000-08:00

Fiji. Oceans ago. The river and laundry and enormous rocks. Chasing my mother, baskets tucked under her arms. My bangles, so many. The red scooter, wooden and worn. Coconut milk in the early morning. Warm rain, lizards slithering in the riches hues, teensy-weensy frogs. The earth, always an olive green. Chutney and pickle, onion and pepper. My kaleidoscopic world. Nani and the ghee; my grandmother and the melting butter. My mother, taller than trees, willowy and wise. Her scent was a fusion of clove, cardamom, and camphor. Her hair, onyx. Endless. Her eyes, tired and stone...
Sweet sixteen. An ocean away from home. Sloshed and stoned. Goodbye Daddy. Alone. California summers, the valley, and heat. Stale and sugar plump. Bittersweet. Friendship and solace. Midnight movies on the Old Sac lawn. Mushrooms and ice-cream and voices. Lip gloss and glow sticks. A sodden song. A river so long. Trips, talks, and a decade to treasure. Water, a wave, and the wash...
Adult. Acceptance, trial, renewal. A new shore. North Beach. More enormous rocks.

One Small Change while welcoming in the New Year

2010-01-05T08:42:00.000-08:00

I recently discovered a beautiful challenge. An idea which is quickly inspiring a growing community that is moving toward creative and ecological change. One Small Change. Hip Mountain Mama and her idea for bloggers to make one sustainable lifestyle change each month until Earth Day. Fabulous. Count me in! Without any hesitation, I've accepted this challenge with a goal of only using cloth diapers for my tiniest boy. We have used cloth regularly, yet I have used disposables, out of convenience, here and there. I am quickly realizing that there is nothing convenient about disposables. The argument supporting cloth diapers, in my opinion, is clearly more sustainable, comfortable, and convenient. Considering the approximation of five million tons of untreated waste being deposited into landfills by means of disposables, every year and when thinking about the chemical used to make disposables adsorbent, sodium polyacrylate, I clearly feel that my one small change needs to start here!

Cloth diapers have supported little ones on their early flight since the dawn of time. Thanks, Hip Mountain Mama, for supporting our change!

At the end of Jingle Trail we found Snow Village

2010-01-03T18:33:00.000-08:00

Sahaj and Judah take a trip to a tiny hamlet of frosty folk

and littoral treasures.

A sea without a shore. I never imagined it could be! A blanket
of snow, a milky man and his egg yolk nose, glistening bells and
their ancient spells, yet never a single sight of ocean blue; a
seashore that ended so new.

Thanks Liam and Tricia for the birthday bag that provoked

a visit to Snow Village.

The Moon-Blooded Boy

2009-12-30T21:53:00.000-08:00

Each baby arrived early, but never in this lucid way. The boys, ever so ready to tread their way about, could not be late. More so than his brothers, hungry little Govinda, beckoned by an autumn sky, embraced a graceful yet sudden welcome. Little did I know, he would not wait for a dim-lite night.
I was asked by my mid-wives to consume a healthy dose of Vitamin C, for he had ruptured the first seal early. Off to the Co-Op we went, all the while, Govinda(who we referred to as Shani, of the Navagraha, then) breaking his way through blood and womb. Allowing my senses to fall from reality, an endearing acceptance of pain I had willingly developed by the forth pregnancy, I paraded on.
Waddling from aisle to aisle and back home took quite a while. A ridiculously bumpy ride in Hildagard, our 1969 Volkswagen bus, was the escape Govinda anticipated. Under the light of the golden sphere, my flesh, quickly becoming a servant to pain. An invitation from the night's sky, Govinda would leave his cloudy ocean behind to devour a hearty brew of oxygen and hue. Senselessly drunk on a melange of milky midnight, mother, and moon.
I nudged him to stay and swim a bit longer, not knowing that his blood belonged to the moon. And Mani must have his way! So, there he came under the glittering ball in the sky. I closed my eyes, painfully shut, accepting his mulberry bottom in my right palm. And in that moment, I was immediately conscious of who he was, the bringer of a full night's glow.
His papa insisted on holding him bare under the Samhain sky, listening to Autumn's cry. I watched and danced against cold concrete on achy nude feet. Aaron, always humming a whisper to Jah when his newest son is born; Govinda, a silent Hare; me, accepting the shallow howl from a distant breeze; the Full Moon, placing a spell: every twenty-eight days, the moon thirsty boy and his herd of the many who are hungry and free, must come out and play.
Dance in the light of the Moon, Govinda Hare!

Thistle and Thunder: A Mushroom Wonder

2009-12-30T07:35:00.000-08:00

We found her today!
Thank you for coming. Do stay. Share our abundance. Teach. Wouldn't it be a delight to taste you? Play. Invite whomever you know. Pixies and pirates. Silk and snow. Bangles and banjos. Thistle and thunder. Oh, how you grow under Winter's glow. Drench and dance. At night, we know, you prance. Nestled upon quilted sheets of moss, hidden underneath the last season's strawberry tree, catching its last wrinkled leaf. Stepping so softly against ivy to free; Earth's creature, hold on ever so tightly! Through fire and rain, you've come to be. In darkness you thrive and when Summer ignites and fumes, we will no longer kneel down to you. Heat struck and stoned, you will wither away. Empty of dew. Fading underneath Dawn's whispering glow. Quietly crumbling, beyond dusk and snow.