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?

Mystery

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.

Thirteen Years

Siddhartha,

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: 

Stillness

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!

Happy Birthday Judah!

It's been fun, all the way through, with this one.

He was born sharp-witted and ready for the world.

When he was a baby, swaddled in a sling, people would stop to talk to him all the time. I remember, in particular, an old man at the market who payed no attention to me, only the baby. He said to Judah(in reference to the universe), "You've been here before, right? Even though you can't tell me, I know you know. I can see it in your eyes."

And, Judah smiled. The brilliant way that he still does. 

He is baby number three, which means he sits right in the middle of the wolf pack. And this, I believe, is what makes him a bit edgy at times. A little lazy at times. A bit dramatic and boisterous at times. 

Nonetheless, we are all inspired by his mischievous, riotous ways.

In the last few months, 

we have all been astonished by his unrestrained artistic talents. 

He is an artist. Without burden, he is loose and free-spirited with his art. 

His soft sketches, a Love and Peace van, for all of us to fit in to; the puppy, that he desires to have one day; little fat cat, because his sister loves cats so much.

His unfettered hand at monsters.
They are all sorts of demonic and mean and wild, and
he has total control over them. 

Random dudes.
Zombie Joker and other guys that sort of resemble him, in my opinion.

And my favorite, Zombie Avengers, 

the first comic book that he ever wrote. 

Stapled and published by 'Darckhors' comics. 

Love

Recently, the most cherished part of my relationship with Judah has been our friendship. Nine is old enough to share thoughts deeply, but young enough to still sit close and read quietly together. He is quickly maturing into an understanding and kind young man who I am truly proud of.

Happy birthday to my little friend, Mahatma Judah, who I love so dearly.

Regarding His Name: Govinda

His name was Shani until the moon told me otherwise. One of the celestial gods, in Hindu myth, Shani bears the task of granting the fruits of one's actions; he is responsible for punishing or rewarding one in accordance with their karmic action. The son of the sun, he is feared and loved, all the same. As the story goes, after the birth of Lord Shani, as he opened his eyes for the first time, his father (the sun) went into an eclipse. He is known as the most powerful well-wisher and the most feared punisher.

But, the moon had another name for our last little boy.

His name is Govinda, an avatar of Vishnu, the incarnation of Krishna, and the protector of the most sacred creature: the cow. In the tales of the Bhagavata Purana, Govinda revives the cowherds who are killed by drinking from a pool infected by a poisonous snake, simply by favoring them with his ambrosia-filled glance. In reference to prayer, it is said that "If one just worships Govinda, one can easily cross this great ocean of birth and death."(from Adi Sankara's Bhaja Govindam)

So, when the moon was full for three long nights, I labored without realizing that I was laboring. And the baby waited until the fullest moon-night. When he opened his eyes for the first time, I knew that he was Govinda, the magic brought on by the moon. To me, Govinda means nothing more than the pure embodiment of love.

All that he is.

Happy birthday, sweet Govinda Hare!

Happy Birthday Lotus Girl

All the reasons to love Haile:

because she has been known to throw the most Hatter party

because she is so much boy

except for her kiss, which always takes me back to youthful days, 

where everything tasted like lemon-drop lollies

because she is a girl, and that means she is strong

because she resembles all the colors of Fall

because her eyes were plucked from an owl

because she is Nalini, who sits on a Lotus,

and the goddess Gayatri gave her to me

Happy birthday, Nalini Haile, the universe couldn't have picked a more beautiful flower.

Saturday

It doesn't happen very often, but occasionally some days turn out to be absolutely perfect. Usually Aaron works on Saturdays, so Saturdays never feel saturday enough for me. This one was different.

In the morning, there was coffee and cartoons and shared laughter. And then we were off to the library together and back home with comics and novels and board books. Music and reading and resting, all together. And when the whole house was as mellow as milk, I found time to write.

It began as a story with cakes and children and quickly manifested into a strange tale of horror. With English manners and American violence. I found solace in all of its bitter sweetness as devoted writing time is hard to find in this house.

Here is an except of Fairy Cakes, a short story that I hope to linger with in the next few days:

When I was eight years old, I went to a party where I had no friends. All the children there were grim and green, full of ice and too much sugar. Their parents were friends of my parents. My mother mingled with long, slender women holding golden-spritz champagne in white-satin gloves and my father smoked BBMF cigars with a chain of distinguished men; the acronym stood for Big Bad Mother Fucker, and if you saw them, that is what you would call them. I was sent off to play with my friends.  

The green children sat at tables lined with red and white checkered cloth. The tables were filled with cream colored porcelain dishes. Tall glasses held mint lemonade and sweet peach teas. Sponge platters turned right-side up with the sponge batter, layered in a sticky white glaze, turned upside down. Strawberries swam in small tarts and black, blue berries sat fat on top. The children licked their fingertips and used their collars to wipe their mouths. The tips of their noses crawled upwards when I walked past them.

It doesn't always turn out this sweet, but when it does, it must be Saturday. And this one is worth spilling into a capsule. Happy Saturday!!

Luna

Luna

I remember a night, awake

in the middle of a string of pearly dreams:

A deer stood at the foot of my bed

Her eyes were liquid white

and her mouth, spoiled with red

She pulled at the layers of thin white sheets

“Follow me through the moonlight,”

her speckled form

weaving in and out of sight

I slipped out of my gown,

my skin was cellophane

Through the astral night,

we ran lucid like rain

Beneath a sky where stars are strung in lace,

hours held together by a set of invisible rings,

Bare underneath a cotton-cream moon,

she fed me a feast:

white cedar, tea rose, English yew

I ate hollyhock petals and picked the buds of roses

I watched her devour,

basil with licorice tips

We capered across the meadow;

covered ourselves in mint,

and at the bed of a shallow stream,

we slipped right in

The water was full of jewels;

we swam in its belly

and drank from its mouth

The cry of a woken wolf

hovered across the wind

she slid her fingers across my skin

In a cool pool of water,

the wind and the air and the wave

pulled in tight

The sky pressed against our playful thoughts

each moment began to lose its formative structure:

splitting into dancing particles,

twirling in and out of reach,

spinning out of shape

And when the strings broke loose,

the first glimpse of dawn swallowed the night,

sealed it away in a capsule, held together

by the ripe scent of twilight

I woke in the morning,

when snow-in-the-summers

sparkles with dew,

In my room, the air began to melt

my skin, covered in leaves of thistle and mint

my hair, damp and blue

The silver silhouette of the moon

peered its weary head into my window

I stretched my liquid limps,

covered in a thick film of

sea and star and sand,

and carefully pulled

a string of soft, white petals

out of my mouth

Happy Birthday Sunbeam!

After eleven years with this sweet spirit, I know clearly that he will never stop shining. There is a sort of dazzling light in his heart that illuminates beyond all odds.

He shared with me one day the idea that the sun would die and that life would die and how that thought made him feel so sad. I told him to write about it:

"Our sun will become an expanding sun, burn its hydrogen, and then turn into a helium flash, which will shrink and expand and shed its outer layers. It will become a ring nebula and then it will turn into a small white dwarf and cool down to become a cold, dense black dwarf that will no longer radiate energy and then no one will ever know that it was alive and that it produced life." -Sahaj

He is the single soul in my life who makes me most hopeful; he believes in the feasibility of impossible things. 

I'm truly blessed to celebrate another birthday with this beautiful beam!!

Sickle and Hammer Soldier

Siddhartha:

Born in an age of transformation and wonder,

under the blue-light;

the bearer of water,

he knows the eightfold path

and the four noble truths

And after twelve years, he is a true star. He has become a witty comedian, an exquisite writer, and a dramatic artist. 

A few months ago, he gave me one of his drawings: 

The Sickle and Hammer Soldier

I see a young man: worn, wounded, battered; his chest torn open, heart splattered, blue-red blood. With the memory of brighter days, green meadows; lazy summers; spring waters, he carries on. Under the red sun, he holds his inner light in perseverance. And, it is that soul who wanders beyond ease and comfort, who will eventually find the purest form of salvation. 

Happy 12th birthday

to our little

old-soul,

Siddhartha

Judah Turns Eight

This beautiful young man is our middle child. 

When you have two bright and creative older brothers ahead of you and two younger siblings who gather up all the attention they need from everyone around you, you might become a little weary, always placed in the middle of things. Yet, Judah seems to know how to fit into the ranks with his older brothers when it comes to manners and chores and the important things, like remembering when your homework is due. In the same breath, he is able to pull himself under covers with his younger brother and sister, turn on a flashlight, and read stories to them into the night. I've watch their little heads bounce around the covers, and I've listened to the laughter and felt the contentment in my heart, knowing that the little two admire him so much.

Judah, he sees as far as the stars and hears the sound of rain fall. His bright brown eyes and dream-like laughter, his colorful mind, his comfort with each day, makes him a jewel among the tribe. 

I hope that every day is a celebration for him, but today is a day for gifts and love and merry play, for Judah turns eight, and I couldn't imagine my days without his cheerful ways. 

Happy birthday

Mahatma Judah!

Handmade Things

When there is a new baby in the house, handmade things are an ongoing project for me. Now that the littlest, and the last of the brew, is three years old, I have a bit of empty space to fill with handmade love for friends. Here is collection of crafts that I've made in the past few months. 

 For Alli, a pretty young lady, who celebrated her tenth year of life recently. 

 A fall lantern for my fabulous author friend, Kim Culbertson; love the way it illuminates her space.

 Light for our own nature table during the Hallow season.

 And, a fairy flag for Iris, one of our dearest little friends. 

A few words, with a little scent of magic.

Now that Winter Solstice is peering around the corner, I will spend a few days busily crafting stars. Our winter owl hopes to have a silver and white, star-studded alter this year, which means that I must get started on sprinkling glitter and snow around here. 

★

Things That I Love

The things that I love always include some sort of shimmer:

the peak of each season

the sound of a hollow planet, as snow begins to fall

crisp, sharp, horrid, delicate words

a swarm of bees

spring rain, bare feet, a lengthy kiss

capering under a star-studded sky

lavender, hops, bitter tea

a swirling fire in the middle of the woods

and the moon, 
I love most

For some reason today, I felt it was necessary to make a list.

Happy Ten Years, Sunbeam!

Aaron and I sat around last night, talking about how special Sahaj is, and I said to my husband, he's the nicest person I've ever met in this world. And truly, Sahaj is. I don't know anything else more real. 

In our little pack of wolves, he is always the first to stand up and help. I secretly wish I knew what it felt like to have him as an older brother. 

Our only summer baby, he's a ball of delight in every season.

 As you may know already, I have a thing about writing down statements that my kids make. I tuck scraps of paper smeared with their sense and spirit into notebooks. Here is some insite I scribbled earlier this year:

"You can turn something dark into something bright, just add stars." 

-Sahaj

His words are jewels,

just like his eyes. 

This little boy, who is growing into such a handsome, devoted young man, holds my heart(and Haile's, too). 

We've spent the majority of this lazy summer reading, and I've just finished a book which was highly recommended to me by Sahaj, Odd and the Frost Giants. He tells me that he enjoyed most, the part where the rainbow was formed out of ice, and then they fell into Asgard. 

He's just a good kid. I hope to spend so many more days with him, trading books, reading about supernovas, coloring the world, and seeing the trail of magic that is left behind after his laughter. 

A Seething Sea

She set out with her morning song
in the waning hour of the moon
foot soles bare, above the salt water sea
her memories held loose, trailing beyond her dreams

She offers her silence
into the ring:
the shimmering part of her mind
rich, golden flare,
killing the years of her life
thick with gray hope,
where she lost her red heart

The pieces of sky
have fallen a long way now
She gathers them, delicately
inhaling the earliest mist of morning
swallowing each sliver, inhabiting this place

In the distance, she sees
the glimmer of her heart,
hoping to clear this aerial breeze
yet, the sea is never forgiving
its belly, plump and full
waiting for the moon to become ripe again,
the sea - ready to birth another eternity,
swallows her clean

On Love and Friendship

Love lives without any false illusion. It sees the value of friendship,
expects no reward. It is conscious of fault and failure and is accepting
of all consequences.

Blind and abandoned, time passes on, memories loosen, life somehow
darkens, yet love gathers mass, holds itself together; irrepressible,
sustaining. Love is a duty, the essence of every human spirit.

Milk and Honey

I have killed myself, sweetly
bare around the throat
stained with dried cherry

Her long body, eaten thin
mouthful of plump berries
licking the corners of a candied moon
velvet moist, peeling apart a tender crust

When he is with me, delicate white
sour sweet, pouring
over a blood clot night

Silk cotton hour casts a shadow of empty morning
I foam to the top of the cup
Our moment full of sugar washes to the shore
where he once served me, warm milk and honey


*Written for the Sunday Mini-Challenge at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads,
where Grace is hosting a day in the kitchen.

Sharlet, Sometimes I Dream

The light outside 

of this dream

begins to dim

a sudden, sullen

deep, dark pain

The truth is born

between snow falling, 

soft white petals, and you

The liquid in your heart

washes away with the rain

And I know that this dream

is true, in the moment

where I find my breath and hear

the sound of swarming bees,

inside this dream

I laugh and lose my pace

the wind is letting go,

far above the breeze

as the chariot begins to push

towards the sea

In Love

I am in love

and have discovered it

to be a taste:

the ripening fruit of a locust tree

irresistible,

only a sacrament of vows

can contain

On the wing of enchantment

wrong and right, love is

"the smoke made from the fumes

of sighs", cultivating

full, constant light

foolish and wise, love

begets itself

Of the tree, love is

a star, dropping out of the thickness of time

whispering around the moon

while the world lays warm

the sun will never be

as happy as me

here, where I lay

a jewel in my hand

I am in love

At Eleven

Siddhartha at camp last year

I believe it is a sort of sensation, to reach the second decade of continuance. A tenth of life behind and an endless range of possibilities ahead. At the surface, the air is still thin, clear and fair. The days are fresh water, played out in the ease of childish pleasure. Internally, the colors are brighter, the bloom is heavy, and the air is thick as fruit begin to ripen. 

Eleven is a crossing, a cloverleaf; the bridge to a larger path. Our eldest son has reached this pivotal mark. Where his demands are a bit grander. His sense of understanding, based on a more worldly view. His expectations higher as his capabilities grow. Responsibility and frustration become evident with the natural sense of development. Yet, he still carries with him a box of youthful treasure: an innocent wonderment, the earliest light of a sunrise, and the delight in daily adventures. He is still a kid. A treat to say that he is my kid.

A summer day at the pond, which was spent climbing boulders

Happy birthday, my brilliant son!