tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-227605742024-03-14T11:49:22.334-07:00RiversGraceNavigating the Sacred and MundaneUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger175125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-80213977580109565212009-04-02T20:22:00.000-07:002009-04-02T21:23:08.633-07:00Build It and They Will Come...I don't know what's next but I hear a knock at the door. When I open it, just blank space. Easy enough to close it again, but I allow the emptiness in. I hear a whisper, "It's time." I want to say, "For what?" but I don't. Understanding enough to follow the voice, I want to see what it has to show me.<br /><br />"Really? What do you want me to do here?" I wonder.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmmCXGA1eCUulIxBuax2idRW3IKRtK1IEe_6Y0pkUYaFq-PKGspuidW0Wzjee6sGmspZJxStea7_pe16ObMHreWbiAx8uPa7qLTz1hetjv5V6qF4X7JzdqfDQbXlNPW6fCw8TdA/s1600-h/IMG_0212.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmmCXGA1eCUulIxBuax2idRW3IKRtK1IEe_6Y0pkUYaFq-PKGspuidW0Wzjee6sGmspZJxStea7_pe16ObMHreWbiAx8uPa7qLTz1hetjv5V6qF4X7JzdqfDQbXlNPW6fCw8TdA/s400/IMG_0212.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320302569490105426" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSq5IgXbUq3Mjww1Wn7Ei6BwZiPdF-x6657McYMr9EhC2zAiY0bJF79Ya5hwjE7o6jwPbrx6pbDuUBbiUQ6E_VyW7TucntbGTn9xlo-HkeLNoxmgCxuvzB21IRJe1oGSFHiLe1RA/s1600-h/IMG_0216.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSq5IgXbUq3Mjww1Wn7Ei6BwZiPdF-x6657McYMr9EhC2zAiY0bJF79Ya5hwjE7o6jwPbrx6pbDuUBbiUQ6E_VyW7TucntbGTn9xlo-HkeLNoxmgCxuvzB21IRJe1oGSFHiLe1RA/s400/IMG_0216.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320303133273167922" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg02oZbvy9ews1Z-8ahpk8SwvoHCNoK2An1wR7WYugymaO3ZLbPNxkaKnxhIbOdUL6Kk7K3u8u9b9068F9eKbNbxqDXts0TUMj4hT8irq0lZM-tyxmSwxV64nHufX4JUkNvI0WPMQ/s1600-h/IMG_0213.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg02oZbvy9ews1Z-8ahpk8SwvoHCNoK2An1wR7WYugymaO3ZLbPNxkaKnxhIbOdUL6Kk7K3u8u9b9068F9eKbNbxqDXts0TUMj4hT8irq0lZM-tyxmSwxV64nHufX4JUkNvI0WPMQ/s400/IMG_0213.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320303502430901394" border="0" /></a>"Hmmm, you want me to start from the beginning?"<br />"Blank slate," says the voice.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbVb9WuCENBl-9HGFHP2siEied0VfQ3oSL8JFuGrAWFqDKQdxFR33bZfsXz5DUHD3WLltaTrK7W-PDwrwFlrgKL9rj-aEkKoo77wNLVDOpJE2zdCE6xC9unV_YbT7eEPWFMLmPQ/s1600-h/IMG_0278.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbVb9WuCENBl-9HGFHP2siEied0VfQ3oSL8JFuGrAWFqDKQdxFR33bZfsXz5DUHD3WLltaTrK7W-PDwrwFlrgKL9rj-aEkKoo77wNLVDOpJE2zdCE6xC9unV_YbT7eEPWFMLmPQ/s400/IMG_0278.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320304252173517586" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2s9TheRUOYyg3SLxJCLDTKrRX5utRCNPSmO2fY1V5lUjE-jCDLBXMWqLa9SzmeDXF3jC6QwH44M57GwDK6MK91raAIvYlS25s2jtbJPAoVOcXf8li_zu6NQTQvut6ERA-oATSGA/s1600-h/IMG_0290.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2s9TheRUOYyg3SLxJCLDTKrRX5utRCNPSmO2fY1V5lUjE-jCDLBXMWqLa9SzmeDXF3jC6QwH44M57GwDK6MK91raAIvYlS25s2jtbJPAoVOcXf8li_zu6NQTQvut6ERA-oATSGA/s400/IMG_0290.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320305247263342114" border="0" /></a><br />"Try out a little color," it says....<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgie7BGkEkshvcVkha-e1KPpv2KGGg7lLLX70RwQHcQo0DC7_MLjkZweo9OW0zhabkoCVB9M4cY2VjBiPB_nRKL3ZyPYzoZBvB0ljMCCnGVYJQoSavpluk4Rp3MZ3MQojiw2SOotg/s1600-h/IMG_0273.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgie7BGkEkshvcVkha-e1KPpv2KGGg7lLLX70RwQHcQo0DC7_MLjkZweo9OW0zhabkoCVB9M4cY2VjBiPB_nRKL3ZyPYzoZBvB0ljMCCnGVYJQoSavpluk4Rp3MZ3MQojiw2SOotg/s400/IMG_0273.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320304440933327538" border="0" /></a>"Now add some life..."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLkXb4I_zEkAKRxjJVZifYGiZ_3fnSHRXNFkGnbyhru7fEeiwURZwEGRFWXrUqcZ_8T0WNsAVkry6aEQdX4ae3dybt9aFp4FVZio0S3O-WXxCaThyizbUA0E9Z0Vz9rXY7ZKvykw/s1600-h/IMG_0364.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLkXb4I_zEkAKRxjJVZifYGiZ_3fnSHRXNFkGnbyhru7fEeiwURZwEGRFWXrUqcZ_8T0WNsAVkry6aEQdX4ae3dybt9aFp4FVZio0S3O-WXxCaThyizbUA0E9Z0Vz9rXY7ZKvykw/s400/IMG_0364.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320306061523869506" border="0" /></a>"Let the beauty find its way," it says...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUveEoMAomhd1QeLGz5MvMJKlwkn6Ju0UnLodDcCZ8HWeu0Kh_cxWrHWIbs9bU7QUueEZ0C2mp0VjJX5Jcsj6cG0b7O0uwinPjAm2Cz9gAYMA6hWJNH-gpnu3VfFuc2fRXOsZx6A/s1600-h/IMG_0370.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUveEoMAomhd1QeLGz5MvMJKlwkn6Ju0UnLodDcCZ8HWeu0Kh_cxWrHWIbs9bU7QUueEZ0C2mp0VjJX5Jcsj6cG0b7O0uwinPjAm2Cz9gAYMA6hWJNH-gpnu3VfFuc2fRXOsZx6A/s400/IMG_0370.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320307120481632466" border="0" /></a>It tells me, "Look around..."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5XD3qgeZeFnEaf1Qhrb2ahFmHHn2hqwHDKg4lF4g539tbhgtR-3JClpfV8kxkdUZrF3TM-2U6y2zwz1ChaZhemM-ruMKATXxW5eoyHKgtq4HV1OErxvTmfb_rkdSKIbLuDy48UQ/s1600-h/IMG_0210.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5XD3qgeZeFnEaf1Qhrb2ahFmHHn2hqwHDKg4lF4g539tbhgtR-3JClpfV8kxkdUZrF3TM-2U6y2zwz1ChaZhemM-ruMKATXxW5eoyHKgtq4HV1OErxvTmfb_rkdSKIbLuDy48UQ/s400/IMG_0210.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320308199376496594" border="0" /></a>"Have faith..."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI0ciWR3Tlb-skjpWK1TJ0ZLdefsjviwmMEpq4_Aq6E8PZYfTwkHFr0grQc79_EZH4_KukFvl-c5T97i4qa2FtaxUoCNZzB0Et9HUOVOHRa_WXlqH7_Kz7oXF7gHCMoTZAfBh3CA/s1600-h/IMG_0431.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI0ciWR3Tlb-skjpWK1TJ0ZLdefsjviwmMEpq4_Aq6E8PZYfTwkHFr0grQc79_EZH4_KukFvl-c5T97i4qa2FtaxUoCNZzB0Et9HUOVOHRa_WXlqH7_Kz7oXF7gHCMoTZAfBh3CA/s400/IMG_0431.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320308605688743810" border="0" /></a>"Make room for the magical to enter..."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpJJKsqIKDVCzdNrYW-iQlX7eZmAV0BOgOqCsX57NchzEax_PgueKbJofr9zfTKuXD7lgYiB1WDEASqe-ZQNsEk8eL0vDAOIN5Q6gq2lomNUPJN3JWqdPxIanD_v4DgCCJbVhhHQ/s1600-h/IMG_0350.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpJJKsqIKDVCzdNrYW-iQlX7eZmAV0BOgOqCsX57NchzEax_PgueKbJofr9zfTKuXD7lgYiB1WDEASqe-ZQNsEk8eL0vDAOIN5Q6gq2lomNUPJN3JWqdPxIanD_v4DgCCJbVhhHQ/s400/IMG_0350.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320309676644182514" border="0" /></a>"It's time to take your seat again, Prema."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMW5fIQPmRCL512SaBYUfZ2XRuGV-MZSg9LMsIG40MIR3IttbnG17dE2F4sVyDyJqHhNzFldQ-PKR-xBsi2zrmQoABKKFO5Ff_WDJaTr1dHzoUz37QPaCm4_BZxBNCSBIhbSOoGg/s1600-h/IMG_0407.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMW5fIQPmRCL512SaBYUfZ2XRuGV-MZSg9LMsIG40MIR3IttbnG17dE2F4sVyDyJqHhNzFldQ-PKR-xBsi2zrmQoABKKFO5Ff_WDJaTr1dHzoUz37QPaCm4_BZxBNCSBIhbSOoGg/s400/IMG_0407.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320311114221512706" border="0" /></a>I say, "Please remind me, in every direction, how to sit."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi62buIq3zJ12DSvShNQMqsi-NTLo7FftodUBStRm2-1mE45batwqd3p3oHxz0e7sQ7T7AhNwBkoSZsjpyiOv0FJoH17qnkyk2pUrzfegFIXby4rO5VlMub0MvBqnJVcU63UjTYtA/s1600-h/IMG_0401.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi62buIq3zJ12DSvShNQMqsi-NTLo7FftodUBStRm2-1mE45batwqd3p3oHxz0e7sQ7T7AhNwBkoSZsjpyiOv0FJoH17qnkyk2pUrzfegFIXby4rO5VlMub0MvBqnJVcU63UjTYtA/s400/IMG_0401.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320311644739486466" border="0" /></a>"Help me to be simple..."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2LPXtRwVD_JOALfXpw4Ot6YVOjOy2v91ioDGV4ACL_JqrQ0d8OviBIPiD5XVO8dxjx56-dR9o6Ef3-8LgGBde9hbWUDNpLR8yv9DJ82NTfOnEIMt4jdRqSo1x7o1Q6O6qyT1oGg/s1600-h/IMG_0430.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2LPXtRwVD_JOALfXpw4Ot6YVOjOy2v91ioDGV4ACL_JqrQ0d8OviBIPiD5XVO8dxjx56-dR9o6Ef3-8LgGBde9hbWUDNpLR8yv9DJ82NTfOnEIMt4jdRqSo1x7o1Q6O6qyT1oGg/s400/IMG_0430.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320312076264341778" border="0" /></a>"And mindful..."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnhuez2_lRnAAQ-WIyEx0-9jNqWeIqirJNXmQET1T0xzdA52KMDFzmfIDdu-dwlgImWd7lx-FOVlam6wfAOMHgZg9eLvS3PZDy75bqIUEvyCYIoMaLiY3s6VlMnl84-FJkzQE2gg/s1600-h/IMG_0416.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnhuez2_lRnAAQ-WIyEx0-9jNqWeIqirJNXmQET1T0xzdA52KMDFzmfIDdu-dwlgImWd7lx-FOVlam6wfAOMHgZg9eLvS3PZDy75bqIUEvyCYIoMaLiY3s6VlMnl84-FJkzQE2gg/s400/IMG_0416.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320312822834938242" border="0" /></a>"Let it be spacious..."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPGLZFxGq7Ks1YSgqtk7jNfPhhSfk4hyphenhyphenhDHSCaIVRvGFXpCR_OdPHOf3DLigzUQ0-q8DcV-ALzKnpuEhfc3-mlyCuD3hmuW-T1iVDjCZfxx2jkl_XQI5F3WK09pif0NCIzX08X3Q/s1600-h/IMG_0418.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPGLZFxGq7Ks1YSgqtk7jNfPhhSfk4hyphenhyphenhDHSCaIVRvGFXpCR_OdPHOf3DLigzUQ0-q8DcV-ALzKnpuEhfc3-mlyCuD3hmuW-T1iVDjCZfxx2jkl_XQI5F3WK09pif0NCIzX08X3Q/s400/IMG_0418.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320314103203271314" border="0" /></a>"And, please, above all....welcoming."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikuSDhxArsJG-F5e9PfTz3r2KBnRLhf0sTFS-yilDKBGfb81wd2-iV8UlAbztzFgzrK5qPfhHRUjl7_rhMpyI9RZhkZS9oWkfzfD2xzDQAbVG2NqRK0yUqVrPcf4Y7zEbgLv19Ww/s1600-h/IMG_0441.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikuSDhxArsJG-F5e9PfTz3r2KBnRLhf0sTFS-yilDKBGfb81wd2-iV8UlAbztzFgzrK5qPfhHRUjl7_rhMpyI9RZhkZS9oWkfzfD2xzDQAbVG2NqRK0yUqVrPcf4Y7zEbgLv19Ww/s400/IMG_0441.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320313271970294866" border="0" /></a><br />Done. Silent and full. I lay in the middle of the rug and turn my ear to the whispering one. "If you build it, they will come....."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-79234184891899912022009-03-20T22:02:00.001-07:002009-03-20T22:02:30.987-07:00India Arie - Beautiful Flower<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'><p><object height='350' width='425'><param value='http://youtube.com/v/0Zbn7Khv8zM' name='movie'/><embed height='350' width='425' type='application/x-shockwave-flash' src='http://youtube.com/v/0Zbn7Khv8zM'/></object></p><p>For all our of years of darkness, and our years of unknowing. Sing back the light. Sing back the light. Sing light. Sing. </p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-10614462226349554742009-02-11T12:17:00.000-08:002009-02-11T12:44:35.837-08:00Befriending the MuseBeautiful people....<br /><br />I hope you find this talk as inspiring as I do - it resonates so clearly about why I am called to write - why, despite all odds and circumstance, whispering words follow me throughout the day. I haven't been showing up for my part lately, and am in the process of making more room for the muse.<br /><br /><object width="446" height="326"><param name="movie" value="http://video.ted.com/assets/player/swf/EmbedPlayer.swf"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><param name="bgColor" value="#ffffff"></param> <param name="flashvars" value="vu=http://video.ted.com/talks/embed/ElizabethGilbert_2009-embed_high.flv&su=http://images.ted.com/images/ted/tedindex/embed-posters/ElizabethGilbert_2009.embed_thumbnail.jpg&vw=432&vh=240&ap=0&ti=453"><embed src="http://video.ted.com/assets/player/swf/EmbedPlayer.swf" pluginspace="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" bgcolor="#ffffff" width="446" height="326" allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="vu=http://video.ted.com/talks/embed/ElizabethGilbert_2009-embed_high.flv&su=http://images.ted.com/images/ted/tedindex/embed-posters/ElizabethGilbert_2009.embed_thumbnail.jpg&vw=432&vh=240&ap=0&ti=453"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-78816651104813061132008-11-26T09:09:00.000-08:002008-11-26T10:17:07.016-08:00Finding Water<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjesTVSwSIhxwbctGnwX8pZAtF9EiDAR-zxt37ixbQC4oHIUhCwzzQRlneWKCsZ_nlhGYJnLB1da2SCEpCslmJrq5qr9wuat40x6-TqGzwfzlsiALJsvjSVI-wPVizzWqcejNfeAw/s1600-h/angels-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 302px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjesTVSwSIhxwbctGnwX8pZAtF9EiDAR-zxt37ixbQC4oHIUhCwzzQRlneWKCsZ_nlhGYJnLB1da2SCEpCslmJrq5qr9wuat40x6-TqGzwfzlsiALJsvjSVI-wPVizzWqcejNfeAw/s400/angels-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273026932588627666" border="0" /></a><br />Running through days. Days into weeks and weeks into months, I am spinning so fast that I am now held in great stillness. A top in perfect motion, after the wobbling momentous push and before the teetering slowdown, I balance.<br /><br />I miss writing.<br /><br />The back story is that we are filing for bankruptcy and losing another property, our final one, our home. And losing possessions, many of which are the last and only things my mother left me. For twenty years I've stored and moved beautiful heirlooms and never imagined this would be their end. But truthfully, I am not a woman who lived in the same house for thirty years. I have moved sixty times in my adult life, nomadic at heart.<br /><br />Dreams and ideas, longings never manifested, all this is going, too.<br /><br />These days I'm really no good for conversation with other moms in the preschool pickup line. I'm staying clear of most gatherings and opportunities for small talk.<br /><br />Yesterday, I spontaneously wept in the produce aisle. I'm not even sad anymore, not raw or plagued. I'm past that place. I don't have a lengthy prayer list. Really, I have few words at all. I did curse Martha Stewart with the woman working in produce, though. We had quite a belly laugh about that.<br /><br />I've been getting up to watch the sunrise, and feel greatly comforted by the emergence of color - red from behind the dark sky. I've been moved to watch my daughter's face upon waking, how spirit illumines the body.<br /><br />I find myself closing eyes in the in-between moments of busyness, and find a meadow, silent and serene, some sort of natural divinity.<br /><br />I see all the effort I expend to 'create a life' and watch how it all comes falling down when I live like that. I try to recreate what was given to me in childhood, even though it didn't really work then, instead of residing in what was given to me in the years of spiritual seeking.<br /><br />We are always given a chance to accept our soul's right path. I wonder now, outside of the addiction of ideals, how long I will refuse that opportunity? Feels like, after a long dry spell, I am finding my way to water. All the money and stuff, the big houses and way of being a family.....was exhausting. I haven't slept much in the last four years. I'm beginning to sleep again.<br /><br />Loss is a great teacher. It opens up to a simple love.<br /><br />Let go, let be, listen inside.<br /><br />Happy Thanksgiving. May we all embrace the love around and within us,<br />and may we accept blessings for the journey.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo by J. Uelsmann</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-27961467762743433012008-10-06T09:33:00.000-07:002008-10-06T11:02:33.684-07:00A Great Life<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBqxqbBMW7lxdOYjZ7koLV5_6xdbybO2VfV8afE9VnE4cawc2RzSSBwRgZpeqoKPzyOkj2EDghT-dbcdCbo-P5Hq7-ZF71SH9S28SSO7jqpiP3gtjmZkugDhlvmAnX9bmZ71HAVA/s1600-h/ba-mosley13_ph_0498921555-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBqxqbBMW7lxdOYjZ7koLV5_6xdbybO2VfV8afE9VnE4cawc2RzSSBwRgZpeqoKPzyOkj2EDghT-dbcdCbo-P5Hq7-ZF71SH9S28SSO7jqpiP3gtjmZkugDhlvmAnX9bmZ71HAVA/s400/ba-mosley13_ph_0498921555-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254098939165186946" border="0" /></a>This morning I'm running around, the list is long in my mind, and out of nowhere I think of an old client. She comes to mind so strongly that I feel a tingling in my limbs. In the basement twenty minutes later, folding laundry, miles away in gyrations of thought, a plastic tarp nailed up to divide rooms begins to sway. There's no wind, no gust, no movement of air nearby. The presence of my old client, dear woman, comes to me again - so clear, eerie - and I stand up, fully cognizant of the sensation of spirit.<br /><br />I run upstairs and google her name. It's been a few years since we've spoken. Five links down and I see what I expect to see. Her obituary. I can't breathe for a second and then emotion overwhelms my airways.<br /><br />The first time she came to see me she literally fell through the door, onto the ground. Without hesitation, I hit the floor, flat out, eye to eye, and that's where we started our journey together. From that first moment, from panic and terror and despair, we found our way, year by year, to profound depths of awe and wonder for life. Together we found a more suitable map for her life - left by the great poet-saints, wisdom teachers, and seekers - and with that new orientation, beholding her life as a journey - a full-on, full-out, spiritual journey - she went forth in her amazing way and touched so many others with an indomitable spirit.<br /><br />We sat together through the dark night of terminal diagnosis, remission and return. We sat with the poems that delivered her to the liberation of spirit and love in the body. We allowed the sacred to enter our exchange - her courage to open anew was astounding to me. I've never met another human who so thoroughly and wholeheartedly embraced life. She changed me, and I waited long hours with her until she was changed from the great light within.<br /><br />I challenged her with every stitch of faith in my bones. I challenged her to dig deeper than the pain....and she did. In turn, she took me where I had never been before.<br /><br />I struggled silently with her, with myself, with life, with my own mortality. She never knew how much I cried on my drive home after our sessions. Such was the incredible nature of her journey. Now she knows, and I feel the spirit of compassion coming through these waves. I've often felt like I've lost all my teachers, but this morning I bow again, truly.<br /><br />Please honor the life and passing of a most beautiful woman, <a href="http://www.law.com/jsp/ca/PubArticleCA.jsp?id=1202423530678&rss=ca">Deb Mosley</a>. May her life inspire us to choose the wise path instead of the small stage.<br /><br />Please hear Deb, <a href="http://www.baysnet.org/videos/climb05.html">in her own words</a>, describe her experience of climbing Half Dome.<br /><br />Blessings on your journey, Deb. Wherever you are now, may the light open and open and open.<br /><div class="newsletterbox" style="width: 95%;"> <h2>When I Have Gone</h2> <div style="float: left; width: 265px;"> <p class="italic">When you hear that I have gone,<br />honor me with a good death. </p><p class="italic">If I die alone,<br />marvel at my love of solitude;<br />if I die surrounded,<br />know that I loved good company. </p><p class="italic">If my brother comes,<br />know that we made peace;<br />if he is absent,<br />know that we respected our differences. </p><p class="italic">At 82,<br />celebrate my good long life;<br />at 37,<br />toast my wise old soul.<br /></p><p class="italic">If you hear I took the pills,<br />accept that I was ready to surrender;<br />if there were no pills to take,<br />know that I considered taking the pills. </p><p class="italic">If I do not suffer,<br />let it be said, I longed for peace;<br />if you hear that I was weeping,<br />think not sorrow,<br />but Glory,<br />Magic,<br />and Wonder. </p><p class="italic">If I have time for parting words,<br />let it be said,<br />"They were profound!"<br />And if I say nothing,<br />be patient;<br />it'll keep, until we meet again. </p></div> <p class="italic">If my bones are ravaged, and the fire dances<br />in the marrow,<br />be comforted;<br />I was curious about the fire,<br />and say, "Damn! That girl could dance!"<br /></p><p class="italic">If I am wide-eyed and wild, gasping for air,<br />imagine heaven is an ocean,<br />and I just became a fish. </p><p class="italic">If it is said that I was white-knuckled and<br />clinging to the bed sheets,<br />do not assume I wanted to take the bed<br />sheets with me... </p><p class="italic">Perhaps I just slid onto the seat of my new Harley,<br />and I wrapped my fingers around the throttle...<br />Vroom! Vroom!<br />My God! Marilyn sure feels good<br />with her arms wrapped around my waist,<br />and her breasts pressed up against my back. </p><p>© Deborah A. Mosley </p><p><br /></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-33889834901941327252008-10-01T09:59:00.000-07:002008-10-01T10:52:40.388-07:00Refuge and Grace<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbC9ChQWyu9RHVifkq2VqWNkG9uOftsQfyOQ0SSoZm40FQaf2LVAg8VDdw_40Ex6wjqTFz5Tzi3S2KhYsUi7-ujjQeeB5qfru1Rc3QvQwkuNAu-gTLKCLOyt-65VggM9o_ldwlpQ/s1600-h/Airplane+Clouds-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbC9ChQWyu9RHVifkq2VqWNkG9uOftsQfyOQ0SSoZm40FQaf2LVAg8VDdw_40Ex6wjqTFz5Tzi3S2KhYsUi7-ujjQeeB5qfru1Rc3QvQwkuNAu-gTLKCLOyt-65VggM9o_ldwlpQ/s400/Airplane+Clouds-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252243451700796642" border="0" /></a><br />Feels like all this time between me and this page - feels like clouds beneath a sheath of light, golden sun streaks across the surface like heaven. When you're on a plane above it all and you lift that plastic window shade and you wonder, with such gold brightness, if that kind of dimension of sky-road is heaven. You know that feeling and that question?<br /><br />And you think, here I am insulated in this speeding capsule through time and through space. It's all so strange, this wild predicament of being in a body at all and then being in a world of green shimmering beauty, and then lifting above the mass, up into an atmosphere of wind and invisible forces. We look down, as if that's normal, as if careening through space is what we do.<br /><br />But it is what we do. Birds lifting off, soaring, sky bound, earth ground. All around. This is our life.<br /><br />Tired from the day, exhausted really, I flip to Oprah and am reminded that I might be the one in eight who discover a lump in my breast. That could be tomorrow or next week or never. I flip to CNN and one minute in, I'm wondering if the world is going to end in a day or two. That's the message behind all the derisive debate. Will we all make it? Will we make it one more day or a week?<br /><br />I turn off the TV to screams down the hall. Small voice wrestles in the dream, and I just don't know how to help her navigate. All the openings and snake-like passages, and all the input from unknown sources. In the dark, I cannot add to the psychosis of thinking I am in control of anything in particular, except just the offering of my embrace in a single moment of the night.<br /><br />She says, in delirium, <span style="font-style: italic;">I don't want to be alone</span>, so I gather her up, legs around my hips, hand at the back of her head, walk down the hall, into my room, and lay her down in my bed. She grabs my arm, drapes it across her ribs, tucks it under the other side, and finds sleep in three seconds. Spooned. Safe.<br /><br />When I finally turn to grace, this morning, it's just a few piano chords, repeating over and over and over and over and over -- I am reminded that there is refuge in these times. Momentary, and if I am blessed to remember, I will not drop that thread for long, but know that refuge is possible more than once in my day.<br /><br />Looking down the river, knowing that I must step into the boat, I see....rapids. Rough waters. Turbulent current beneath. The sun has risen already and I wonder if that kind of gold on the surface is heaven. I wonder if this will be my last day, or if it will be one in ten thousand. Either way, I find my seat, find the posture of prayer and centered sitting. Flexible solidity. Fluid glide over parting elements, into the sun.<br /><br />Blessings to all my friends, known and unknown, may you find that place that sustains you and take refuge.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-85042293744835132312008-08-30T10:02:00.000-07:002008-08-30T10:48:39.239-07:00Rebecca Shapiro<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu7frX4opBDnW3-PyGSZem2oQLxcZ2SHzbWOnGa6RrQw0kv5Jt5ML5g5vBfTfrsmLY53FLFwX3e_w6H3jSW66_DKgFvAjYHeBZ6M_oxnenFXSeXHu0NdaMTm9FhXzC-lG1whl36w/s1600-h/n1229334228_77211_1300.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu7frX4opBDnW3-PyGSZem2oQLxcZ2SHzbWOnGa6RrQw0kv5Jt5ML5g5vBfTfrsmLY53FLFwX3e_w6H3jSW66_DKgFvAjYHeBZ6M_oxnenFXSeXHu0NdaMTm9FhXzC-lG1whl36w/s320/n1229334228_77211_1300.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240362866962156370" border="0" /></a>It is my great honor to announce the wonderful blog of my dear friend, Rebecca Shapiro. She is an amazing artist, entrepreneur, and visionary woman. I've known her for almost twenty years and our paths continue to cross at the deepest junctures. She is the Portland leader for <a href="http://www.ladieswholaunch.com/incubators/view/OR:-Portland">Ladies Who Launch</a>, a resource and social network for women entrepreneurs.<br /><br />She also started <a href="http://galleryverno.com/">Gallery Verno</a>, the first sustainable, on-line, green gallery in the world. Check out her article on <a href="http://www.ladieswholaunch.com/magazine/greening-your-business/731">greening your business.</a><br /><br />While she is a savvy business woman and inspiration for others in so many ways, I want to introduce you to the artist - because creating art is her soul's work, her true love and joy.<br /><br />Head over to <a href="http://rebeccashapiroart.com/">rebeccashapiroart.com</a> and wander around. You'll find links for her abstract and encaustic art, illustrations, doll creations, and view her wonderful photography throughout.<br /><br />Welcome to the circle, Rebecca!<br /><br />Love you,<br />Prem<br /><a href="http://rebeccashapiroart.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-59383540532136897812008-08-27T11:05:00.000-07:002008-08-27T12:23:39.343-07:00Stepping Lightly on the Path<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJurYaT2u7H0EVLQz5V-bbrxAyErCr5dP5nWJJ24G1QtK8PQSGgMBnPgjkCTvsTK3cifgc7FyrXz1u3k87_hXV-cDMtKuvSqnq7gdy1KK65d0NVJJhAiWs3Uk3iAwEyR0CKOnEPA/s1600-h/url.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJurYaT2u7H0EVLQz5V-bbrxAyErCr5dP5nWJJ24G1QtK8PQSGgMBnPgjkCTvsTK3cifgc7FyrXz1u3k87_hXV-cDMtKuvSqnq7gdy1KK65d0NVJJhAiWs3Uk3iAwEyR0CKOnEPA/s320/url.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5239278121996915650" border="0" /></a><br />In case you didn't know, having another child is not in the realm of possibility any longer. I've raged and grieved, acted indifferently, and tried out a number of other responses. What to do, time to let go. I've spent a good three years putting my energy behind it and the answer is no.<br /><br />It's a baffling thing when you think you are reading the signs correctly, that you are showing up for what you think is your destiny, and the doors remain closed. Passwords, chants, pleas, and prayers aside now, I'm turning around and looking to see what else is in front of me. Squinting, I don't really want to see the sun, don't really care about the way my curiosity begins to translate the landscape.<br /><br />Heavy with the implications of decisions I need to make for myself and my daughter, I look for the best immediate path to take. One foot in front of the other, that's about what I can do. I don't have to look far, not more than an inch. There it is, the path that has remained open to me all my life. I don't know what to call it really. It's about sitting with people. It's about reframing personal stories until rightful meaning and honor are restored. It's about embracing the unknown with wholeheartedness and looking into the face of the present. It's about mindfulness. And about curiosity. It's all about love and permission and healing. It's about showing up. It's about vision.<br /><br />I've made my way on this path for many years and have been so fortunate to have the support of great teachers and mentors. I've been blessed with amazing 'clients', people who have earnestly looked at their lives, all the way down and back into their ancestries, with fierce humility and courage. I've learned so much from those people who entrusted their process to our relationship, to my guardianship for however long it took to find that opening of light, to that place where we both nod in silence, work well done, this leg of the journey complete.<br /><br />All these years, I have not been a fan of psychotherapy, the scientific method, or the models of self that I feel have done and do harm us if we do not understand their limitations. Any model is useful if we accept it as one tool among many. To assume that our western psychotherapeutic ideas are the authoritative answers, that they are always accurate and helpful - worries me. So I've avoided that path, personally and professionally.<br /><br />I never accepted the labels put upon me as a child and teenager by therapists, and thank god I had the wherewithal to look further. I didn't just look, I ran as fast as I could and didn't stop running for years. And I did gather tremendous understanding along the way. I learned that other cultures sometimes have better, more accurate models. Looking to ancient yoga maps, to the philosophies that have existed for thousands of years, expanded my own vision of my life ten fold. A hundred fold. The perennial wisdom traditions gave my life story dimension, layers and layers of meaning and connections to other maps and models.<br /><br />Even our own scientific models, in their change and evolution, provided more insight, more dignity, more visionary probability, to my file of useful maps. Mechanistic, reductionistic ideas of self gave way to systems theory and quantum theory and chaos theory. Imagine how our notions of self expand when the science behind our developmental theory expands.<br /><br />Sometimes, though, it just takes too much time for models to change. Our textbooks don't keep up with the view from the frontier. Practitioners, therapists, doctors in rooms with patients and clients are still using outdated maps - they haven't been given the new information. So this behavior and that movement look pretty black and white, according to their picture, according to the current data.<br /><br />But I want to know what the shamans in Peru are saying. I want to know what the plants have been telling them for eons. Because when I'm a kid laying in the dark of my room after an incomprehensible act of rage, what the plants have to say may speak more to my experience than a bunch of dead white scientists who decided something at a conference in 1946. As someone suffering and also exulting, I need to know what the texts say from yogis who have received their knowledge from great scholarship and spiritual stewardship. What can they tell me about that doorway at the bottom of the well? Or how about when you're walking down the street in a small Midwest town and suddenly the quality of light moves through your cells and you weep and no one has ever told you that could happen? Who do you want to see, someone who wonders whether you're delusional or someone who can place your experience within a global context of transformative change?<br /><br />That being said, like every other basic step I skipped over to survive, I am turning around to take care of some things I missed. While I love the knowledge and experience I have gained, I have also given up the opportunity to belong to a larger community of professionals. Rebellion and change from the outside of the circle is fine, but in the end not so useful. Too easy to reject and polarize the 'other', and too easy to feel excluded, on the fringe, different. And I need to revise my own assumptions and judgments about the Western Tradition.<br /><br />So, I turned in my application for the local, state school, graduate counseling program. AND because I applied so late, I have been advised to take the GRE without studying. Yep, you heard it. How insane is that, right? I'm the one who failed every standardized test I have had the misfortune of meeting. Never thought I'd have to go through that again. Tomorrow I will practice a complete letting go. Don't know most the right answers on that test, but I do know what the plants are sayin in Peru. So, fine by me. I'll just jump through the hoop, and remind myself that failure is the underside of a blooming flower.<br /><br />Tomorrow I take the four plus hour exam (so if you do know math, etc., please do whisper in my ear at 10am, ok?). I should be studying fractions and algebraic formulas, the format for a critical essay, or the 3,500 word list of words, but, alas, I'm listening to the sitar and drinking my latte, thinking of you all and about the path.<br /><br />I don't really want to take any step, but life comes to get us when we wait at the wrong door, and shows us, gently, <span style="font-style: italic;">here you go, your life is in this direction.....</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-53875673192832818382008-08-24T11:34:00.000-07:002008-08-24T12:33:27.802-07:00River's Grace<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx9fhDlFfwRk6fNQ6McMO3J--77BrCYzNUJcwUhVWmOdd7-mMFz6FfyGhFN0REFI43mBugE935jReY' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br />Three years ago I set out to write a memoir. As with most plans, the content I had intended transformed into something else, guided by the presence of my newborn daughter, River. Most days, sitting down to write, she slept next to me at the cafe. Closing eyes, waiting for the muse, I was always surprised, always led through humility, and always greeted with the opening of eyes - hers to the world, mine to the story making its way onto the page.<br /><br />I have over 300 pages, letters to River, about life, lessons, the daily grind, and the sacred seed in every moment. After a few attempts to edit and find the right beginning, I put it away. Life always seems to take over. I am not an easy woman, and River is not an easy girl; our relationship is not easy.<br /><br />Most nights I still don't sleep more than a few hours. Most days I don't know how to be right with her. It's hard to justify a book, filled with love and a deeply held conviction for the spiritual path of motherhood, when these days we're well into the woods of forgetting our true connection. She's only three and a half and I know, already, the forgetting is here.<br /><br />But still, some things have a life of their own. In the past few weeks I've had one offer for publication, and another strong showing of interest. Without pursuing its outcome, <span style="font-style: italic;">River's Grace </span>is finding its way out of the box and into the light of day again.<br /><br />For the next few months I am rededicating myself to giving it a chance, to listening as deeply as I did for that original year of writing. I ask for your blessing and prayer that the exhaustion stand back, that the daily frustrations of my life stand down, that a space be cleared for the inside voice to be honored and given a body.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-33749915937799108772008-08-16T13:02:00.001-07:002008-08-16T13:03:46.346-07:00Revival<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><p><object height="350" width="425"><param value="http://youtube.com/v/LrVVn-Angak" name="movie"><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://youtube.com/v/LrVVn-Angak" height="350" width="425"></embed></object></p></div>You have to stay up all night and be kicked repeatedly by a toddler.....then just play this over and over and along with a strong latte, the world begins to round out again, and you remember it's the full moon.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-27042232182708065922008-08-16T12:30:00.001-07:002008-08-16T21:38:35.483-07:00Restoration<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><p><object height="350" width="425"><param value="http://youtube.com/v/teWzsxITB1s" name="movie"><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://youtube.com/v/teWzsxITB1s" height="350" width="425"></embed></object></p></div>Waking up is hard to do. Thanks, <a href="http://www.benharper.com/">Ben</a>, for your willingness to be the medicine and the music and the reminder. Thank you for being the reed, the root of the root of the feeling. And for calling to that place in us that can be that beautiful medicine.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-29723514071834894702008-08-16T12:29:00.001-07:002008-08-16T12:53:08.402-07:00Repetition<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><p><object height="350" width="425"><param value="http://youtube.com/v/-rEJ7zImP9Q" name="movie"><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://youtube.com/v/-rEJ7zImP9Q" height="350" width="425"></embed></object></p></div>The thing about sleep deprivation is that you repeat things mindlessly. But then, some things are worth repeating...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-73893950804926399952008-08-15T15:25:00.000-07:002008-08-15T18:10:27.693-07:00Summer SolitudeAfter a busy two-weeks of adventuring around Portland with visiting friends and family, River and I have a silent afternoon. Me at my kitchen desk.....<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioiEPRwhyK4bb8uNsNkAoaxCaneclSKdpCtFd41iAcR0UrHrW4VPAnhespJlzKTiATjqfyAXJkOQ3SI6tFMKEWDxNO_8AkaY49dY3ROEL8ryoKEfwspnvvTGqnqflVWDpTEoz8VQ/s1600-h/KitchenDesk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioiEPRwhyK4bb8uNsNkAoaxCaneclSKdpCtFd41iAcR0UrHrW4VPAnhespJlzKTiATjqfyAXJkOQ3SI6tFMKEWDxNO_8AkaY49dY3ROEL8ryoKEfwspnvvTGqnqflVWDpTEoz8VQ/s320/KitchenDesk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234876310435406770" border="0" /></a>And River out in the living room. I think to myself, <span style="font-style: italic;">wow, she's really playing so well alone. So focused. </span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMY8kQvkVsmvF7oM4TIrVxXSkW-bnRFhr2NrXm6M4grBAfuWrH_Mz0fn1ID9isUnrhVsJsTDH_uywDAIKgduLiV9Qk2J1MiCb6qc-mjFJuHQ3l2FIT7EaGDPvNEPMy5GWNrOa-4g/s1600-h/Bluedress.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMY8kQvkVsmvF7oM4TIrVxXSkW-bnRFhr2NrXm6M4grBAfuWrH_Mz0fn1ID9isUnrhVsJsTDH_uywDAIKgduLiV9Qk2J1MiCb6qc-mjFJuHQ3l2FIT7EaGDPvNEPMy5GWNrOa-4g/s320/Bluedress.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234874454907244082" border="0" /></a>Until she appears before me with shiny, shiny lips. Shiny cheeks, too. "Whatchya doin Riv?" She shows off her lipstick, proud and beautiful. I discover the trail of shininess leads to the other room, to the faux suede couch, where a tube of chapstick is smeared across the pillows.....<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjqkRv73zlQAhxokiLBdixjhZ3oiRyQjPwJhi_258-2DdmhDl_7al-We5plJezksFylu2slR6NV7d83Rq8bQp-EO5-ntzJUdzfiPS7H6CZQTkWnspt63mx6TX5IDHWzpMuDNqUrw/s1600-h/animals.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjqkRv73zlQAhxokiLBdixjhZ3oiRyQjPwJhi_258-2DdmhDl_7al-We5plJezksFylu2slR6NV7d83Rq8bQp-EO5-ntzJUdzfiPS7H6CZQTkWnspt63mx6TX5IDHWzpMuDNqUrw/s320/animals.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234874308411268066" border="0" /></a><br />As I declare how oil will not come out of fabric, she has a declaration of her own. With great feeling she explains how important it was for her to put lipstick on <span style="font-style: italic;">all </span>her animals. That's what happened, she doesn't know anything about the couch.<br /><br />Summer, my friends, is almost over....Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-18600170340978130522008-08-02T17:02:00.000-07:002008-08-02T20:48:26.914-07:00Saturday in Portland<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6lU8GA_J6An2f_kEFvXmQS3VuYYluYldJqg3FRzL55kESH-DwtfW4s7LBKBm-Ecr4JLRCKzAKdEJzggKKauHEwNekxQ0ngYz2a4g9zD5DeBIssRkRaz-xsmaM2HafIIRWiV-hiA/s1600-h/Claire.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6lU8GA_J6An2f_kEFvXmQS3VuYYluYldJqg3FRzL55kESH-DwtfW4s7LBKBm-Ecr4JLRCKzAKdEJzggKKauHEwNekxQ0ngYz2a4g9zD5DeBIssRkRaz-xsmaM2HafIIRWiV-hiA/s320/Claire.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230076083371540530" border="0" /></a>My stepdaughter, Claire, is visiting for a week so we've been having fun. Today we went on the famous Portland Bridge tour, led by my best friend's mom (and all around fabulous woman!), <a href="http://www.bridgestories.com/biography.html">Sharon Wood Wortman.</a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFj8ryE8d0ZWUOT28Tr-J2zol2nmJpESyMDOBepDmwlymw8hWDHsQJck1Eyp-CFbR-B0CzZtCLb7bwkkB2_Pj1WlJSD3eXjDG2iihPo_aX-eifuuTeT33DpWmWPYy7uCC6USlycw/s1600-h/Sharon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFj8ryE8d0ZWUOT28Tr-J2zol2nmJpESyMDOBepDmwlymw8hWDHsQJck1Eyp-CFbR-B0CzZtCLb7bwkkB2_Pj1WlJSD3eXjDG2iihPo_aX-eifuuTeT33DpWmWPYy7uCC6USlycw/s320/Sharon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230076789858528386" border="0" /></a><br />If you don't already know how amazing the Portland bridges are, get a glimpse of the Broadway Bridge.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPfgQoCZIiVv4F9sN50XEEP3Gr_R6rbi-YCQ8N4R2SPblLiqz-V79AzuuVvWMDcu63Lc0WNDU-K21yuhWj03J6MbdRYdP-DjnuS-BryM6HegLl_YSsw7ZBnGiH4xWd8WQ7NHrbRw/s1600-h/Broadwaybridge.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPfgQoCZIiVv4F9sN50XEEP3Gr_R6rbi-YCQ8N4R2SPblLiqz-V79AzuuVvWMDcu63Lc0WNDU-K21yuhWj03J6MbdRYdP-DjnuS-BryM6HegLl_YSsw7ZBnGiH4xWd8WQ7NHrbRw/s320/Broadwaybridge.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230077703948618146" border="0" /></a>This is a photo of the Morrison Bridge. I took some great pics but they're stuck in my cell phone. While Steve and Claire went down below the bridge to view the huge gear shifts, Riv and I sat in the booth on top. We had front row seats for the raising of the bridge.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXd3LrFLNUPfwWpIPWVpgYbgXWj-n52Ia2Ak7MhF8CkmsJ6mR3ILneYUsi5-gYh8ISfbCSnPiPnnf4zK4K2b2Zi02SmLUvm6YJkR-3yjSmNF6VhbWACJTSItJa2JkLmrznPnkMfw/s1600-h/2758_19991001_Morrison_Bridge_Closeup_from_SW.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXd3LrFLNUPfwWpIPWVpgYbgXWj-n52Ia2Ak7MhF8CkmsJ6mR3ILneYUsi5-gYh8ISfbCSnPiPnnf4zK4K2b2Zi02SmLUvm6YJkR-3yjSmNF6VhbWACJTSItJa2JkLmrznPnkMfw/s320/2758_19991001_Morrison_Bridge_Closeup_from_SW.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230090152649746162" border="0" /></a><br />Here's the Steel Bridge - the bottom deck is lifting to let a sail boat through.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicFBodwSskpbX7YO0tkvqIHwvbEqNX5dRgbBm_oA-d-Tm1ysWb6l2UFdVXVwsBAYvvm8-4vSi6FTwW5ycoff-vzNbNXT8CoDLoku0Y0FNITtHwcq46otkdkd8uQhCSLApt6ZlJ6g/s1600-h/Steelbridge.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicFBodwSskpbX7YO0tkvqIHwvbEqNX5dRgbBm_oA-d-Tm1ysWb6l2UFdVXVwsBAYvvm8-4vSi6FTwW5ycoff-vzNbNXT8CoDLoku0Y0FNITtHwcq46otkdkd8uQhCSLApt6ZlJ6g/s320/Steelbridge.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230077832995651906" border="0" /></a><br />Here's our wonderful, old train station.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-uS85ayduoKcliGDkjNIoXjiUE6soQ66Q4aDNtqUfI3JzSGFmjJUytAg4g3CoLypP0JBmCX0OD0B-xFNOJZMgWOnSwfF2B5Kj1QBAXk3FUH8mry10EMLBQAj4DWZzdyPa_COUhA/s1600-h/Unionstation.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-uS85ayduoKcliGDkjNIoXjiUE6soQ66Q4aDNtqUfI3JzSGFmjJUytAg4g3CoLypP0JBmCX0OD0B-xFNOJZMgWOnSwfF2B5Kj1QBAXk3FUH8mry10EMLBQAj4DWZzdyPa_COUhA/s320/Unionstation.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230078095293798114" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBeQeaV_ger1QPQwItck0m8k0fmk65mx7p6PKQDFML_OAYcLQGV9Q15UxLtVfVBlsfn5vsrDMOA3m6SuiSZYm3uLHa7OtKBfqRzpxNOh7PPVr7NopSorjgJO7AdvQsW8QR8GzRLA/s1600-h/Trainstation.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBeQeaV_ger1QPQwItck0m8k0fmk65mx7p6PKQDFML_OAYcLQGV9Q15UxLtVfVBlsfn5vsrDMOA3m6SuiSZYm3uLHa7OtKBfqRzpxNOh7PPVr7NopSorjgJO7AdvQsW8QR8GzRLA/s320/Trainstation.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230077963022874402" border="0" /></a><br />And then, well, there's nothing like a stupid Red Bull event to draw thousands and thousands of people. We waded through the throngs to watch grown men in getup drive vehicles straight into the river to crash. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij_n2anwRK0MUB9OBzy41EkCsIlH0LmtZR-CTpe6eyOsdVn2rjHmfxaZBdB0Uqr0mR9k27Z_S5GiSd_uHGV_8ALpARGdOd1xUKMvLIMna9y56x6osAYqWRo20HNF2c9r1UTCN0Dg/s1600-h/RedBull.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij_n2anwRK0MUB9OBzy41EkCsIlH0LmtZR-CTpe6eyOsdVn2rjHmfxaZBdB0Uqr0mR9k27Z_S5GiSd_uHGV_8ALpARGdOd1xUKMvLIMna9y56x6osAYqWRo20HNF2c9r1UTCN0Dg/s320/RedBull.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230102231794067634" border="0" /></a>When we had enough of that, we headed to the famous VooDoo donuts to wait in a thirty minute line for a half dozen. Much more mature!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjugNjQDb_zn-58pjyEnmAQj1vuoaKhSx8Qq4FkeXjLhqpxRikOEF-pdT1laUYZc31HjBsvnpGg6MSkZkYJWsbTgKwKO7yqMEGcn7w_3zzDKRJ9eEqbqYyZvPhCdS4JH_L4sGiKIg/s1600-h/VooDoo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjugNjQDb_zn-58pjyEnmAQj1vuoaKhSx8Qq4FkeXjLhqpxRikOEF-pdT1laUYZc31HjBsvnpGg6MSkZkYJWsbTgKwKO7yqMEGcn7w_3zzDKRJ9eEqbqYyZvPhCdS4JH_L4sGiKIg/s320/VooDoo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230081208954438242" border="0" /></a>River was pretty excited to wait with her big sister...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbHHaI8ENxYatF5vvWHL4Ao-Qxy7bPcdQR2wbkzqRJf8nxWeasIYQ8XoRzwY7lujDe421MMUEU2dXlmTBKRdbTUIAksa0fc1i0MX2B2djnfZRRqrNNYcrgjh6K53A3_Ote9399Nw/s1600-h/Riv&Claire.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbHHaI8ENxYatF5vvWHL4Ao-Qxy7bPcdQR2wbkzqRJf8nxWeasIYQ8XoRzwY7lujDe421MMUEU2dXlmTBKRdbTUIAksa0fc1i0MX2B2djnfZRRqrNNYcrgjh6K53A3_Ote9399Nw/s320/Riv&Claire.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230077588738453778" border="0" /></a><br />And mama's not cool anymore when the hip girl's around.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6mbHjnSI0v2YEmfsQm9DzooNPUw703Fnu97jOJHp_MOqOrQE953-VBhUnm9WlpVpEcF51ChyVXSatW6mSCUteJy9ElP1v7yJGmKVesGZb7MVBa_hnpeHAn053TKubbnpiBEA2A/s1600-h/RivHiding.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6mbHjnSI0v2YEmfsQm9DzooNPUw703Fnu97jOJHp_MOqOrQE953-VBhUnm9WlpVpEcF51ChyVXSatW6mSCUteJy9ElP1v7yJGmKVesGZb7MVBa_hnpeHAn053TKubbnpiBEA2A/s320/RivHiding.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230078425834913682" border="0" /></a><br />You have to appreciate a donut shop with the motto: <span style="font-style: italic;">magic is in the hole.</span> Yep, it's printed on the undies above the counter, too! The girl with the orange hair made sure we walked away with the most popular donuts.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpyAjnZF5gwgHz7WbXmYtqKNvxWPDygIN3ysZuTZQMWs78ArgHshTjV6iD4IYx6hMiKLTA_kVhFl43h4oD9_nP8GpjqnKVQKTIRccPk5y89ORiIYfgMdd9uVDb5El0qnHGkSUp7Q/s1600-h/Donuts.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpyAjnZF5gwgHz7WbXmYtqKNvxWPDygIN3ysZuTZQMWs78ArgHshTjV6iD4IYx6hMiKLTA_kVhFl43h4oD9_nP8GpjqnKVQKTIRccPk5y89ORiIYfgMdd9uVDb5El0qnHGkSUp7Q/s320/Donuts.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230078627154449778" border="0" /></a><br />We had to lay them out at home to figure it out. Turns out they're not really for eating, especially if you haven't eaten a regular donut for twenty years, but it was part of our fun Saturday so that's good enough for us.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-xLgleQlVEChhhv0jm9rtNU7YxU946NCNKBxVykbdJ2EJ7tQNHFf23uHaGREZZfXfXpN4H44-qR-nXVxhIYpINK9Xw7ohrM3IdXZzHvwVw7FaYpsDUyNK_Cj0jQmaies6HHsfzA/s1600-h/Donutplate.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-xLgleQlVEChhhv0jm9rtNU7YxU946NCNKBxVykbdJ2EJ7tQNHFf23uHaGREZZfXfXpN4H44-qR-nXVxhIYpINK9Xw7ohrM3IdXZzHvwVw7FaYpsDUyNK_Cj0jQmaies6HHsfzA/s320/Donutplate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230107056092390898" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-26218334393051228982008-07-30T10:49:00.000-07:002008-07-30T12:58:39.619-07:00What Shapes Me<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDvgX50-5Xe9BWEQ5dNthj6BkM-Wiv9cxNMoTpDzElAewQDCb0voc0mws1y3p7bIuxCxkpsAK8TXcMK5g-rTBUyWdf1wd0igRxXdT5NAnCycHTLcKZlGZkcN8_gOABNXIN6ma8SA/s1600-h/Mama&Riv.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDvgX50-5Xe9BWEQ5dNthj6BkM-Wiv9cxNMoTpDzElAewQDCb0voc0mws1y3p7bIuxCxkpsAK8TXcMK5g-rTBUyWdf1wd0igRxXdT5NAnCycHTLcKZlGZkcN8_gOABNXIN6ma8SA/s320/Mama&Riv.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228878655723524882" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Working Together</span> <p>We shape our self<br /> to fit this world</p> <p>and by the world<br /> are shaped again.</p> <p>The visible<br /> and the invisible</p> <p>working together<br /> in common cause,</p> <p>to produce<br /> the miraculous.</p> <p>I am thinking of the way<br /> the intangible air</p> <p>passed at speed<br /> round a shaped wing</p> <p>easily<br /> holds our weight.</p> <p>So may we in this life<br /> trust</p> <p>to those elements<br /> we have yet to see</p> <p>or imagine,<br /> and look for the true</p> <p>shape of our own self,<br /> by forming it well</p> <p>to the great<br /> intangibles about us.</p> <p> <span class="style33"> -- David Whyte<br /> from<em> <a href="http://davidwhyte.com/house.html">The House of Belonging</a> </em><br /> ©1996 Many Rivers Press<br /></span></p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlwIU82ThuEKnJagJdLKuB1bf9uQzK7qQiE7-QU97bW60IpucgrytXwyA4_TZ2s5wDLj0n1orZrg7majlKZJYfsIt_gForcJMcPHILhGZRAyIt11qasr85XM7JIKH4IXMEEv31Yw/s1600-h/Riv&Cedar.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlwIU82ThuEKnJagJdLKuB1bf9uQzK7qQiE7-QU97bW60IpucgrytXwyA4_TZ2s5wDLj0n1orZrg7majlKZJYfsIt_gForcJMcPHILhGZRAyIt11qasr85XM7JIKH4IXMEEv31Yw/s320/Riv&Cedar.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228898682434369922" border="0" /></a></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-5911937152379500492008-07-29T14:48:00.000-07:002008-07-29T15:25:26.732-07:00Light Dream<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5-WOxyuKTxs6CJm5WneHCtWFQF7ITKkijUYxNMjqfFa7SsheY4SWW8tU3qiCsJ6WZqJLzapnBFOhC9EyP0MEz0otM7vSbm0EWgbYJSSKM_lZATktyhcB8kAH0ijYemUU5_KHKbQ/s1600-h/Sunrise.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5-WOxyuKTxs6CJm5WneHCtWFQF7ITKkijUYxNMjqfFa7SsheY4SWW8tU3qiCsJ6WZqJLzapnBFOhC9EyP0MEz0otM7vSbm0EWgbYJSSKM_lZATktyhcB8kAH0ijYemUU5_KHKbQ/s320/Sunrise.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228557633434828290" border="0" /></a>This morning, fumes from two hours of sleep, I dream that I am walking the aisles of a grocery store. A large black man follows my steps, gaining proximity as my fear builds. Looking behind me to protect myself, I run right into him around the next turn. He grabs me from behind, both arms easily wrap my circumference, and holds me still. Sliding to the ground I wonder if this is it, the end. Eyes closed, knees from behind lock into the bend of mine. Warm width, chest to back, air on the nape of my neck. It takes a moment to realize that he's spooning me.<br /><br />With all the feeling behind me, I begin to remember the feeling of comfort.<br /><br />I shouldn't really call it a dream. It unfolds in predawn delirium, must have sunk just enough to ride that wave. Standing from sleep, from the strangeness of contact, I walk over to the window; the hint of light from the horizon meets me at the pane. The only wonderful part about being awake. <span style="font-style: italic;">It's a new day, Prem</span>, I whisper.<br /><br />It's more dark than light, so I wait. I want to wait. I want to watch myself see. And more than anything I want to understand finally and forever: light emerges from darkness.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1_cDz5BH9dGY6CWpKIvStOl0sFVOd-56TFYEsR74LB8tGlm5nSnLMGXWd8hSpN4N1RWg30FqAQOF7lvvnQ4QB4NIUY-rwcTO0rB1asGRWhsWcbxsDIcWaVf7PMZ1XidG4gAawuQ/s1600-h/Sunrise2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1_cDz5BH9dGY6CWpKIvStOl0sFVOd-56TFYEsR74LB8tGlm5nSnLMGXWd8hSpN4N1RWg30FqAQOF7lvvnQ4QB4NIUY-rwcTO0rB1asGRWhsWcbxsDIcWaVf7PMZ1XidG4gAawuQ/s320/Sunrise2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228557476456620450" border="0" /></a><br />More light than dark and the mountain appears, illuminated edges at the sky. Moments earlier, it is still obscure. Light unveils what is already there.<br /><br />I lay on the couch, cold under fleece, and accept the rays at my feet.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-59204995540326674802008-06-27T14:01:00.000-07:002008-06-27T14:21:56.891-07:00Love and Letting Go<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-3jCEGG2N3udJrwhP0d6ji_YFmJ9OMoQKWPaZjS9_KHXXdNEBj8-JPK7-9iNjbvLXYBk8qC6c2qvRWqL7kbOyXlEsdFWV79DBzb7ch3T_xU1EGzE_dSEAFFm0SHPE54Htp_RDIA/s1600-h/logging_truck.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-3jCEGG2N3udJrwhP0d6ji_YFmJ9OMoQKWPaZjS9_KHXXdNEBj8-JPK7-9iNjbvLXYBk8qC6c2qvRWqL7kbOyXlEsdFWV79DBzb7ch3T_xU1EGzE_dSEAFFm0SHPE54Htp_RDIA/s320/logging_truck.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216674508171672242" border="0" /></a><br />It's hot in Portland, sun like it's meaning to shine. My wedding rings rest in my change purse, and I'm taking off the one on the other hand, the ring with my teacher's name inscribed in Sanskrit. I've worn that one for twenty years. It's been a golden force for my mind, something to hold me as I held onto it.<br /><br />But now I just want to let go.<br /><br />Listening to a song about growing up in the sixties and seventies, about having faith in so many things. So many possibilities. And now, how being a child of that history, it's all just a river.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Sing me an old song and remind me what it means...<br /><br /></span>Earlier today River and I see a truck full of trees on the highway. She says, "Mama, what are the trees doing in that truck?" I pause. "Well, trees are made of wood and people will cut that wood with a saw and use it to build houses and buildings."<br /><br />"Do the trees want that?" She's puzzled.<br /><br />"I'm not sure, Riv. I don't think so, but maybe they don't mind helping out."<br /><br />Silence in the back seat. "Then I won't be able to hug those trees..... I wuv them."<br /><br />With her visionary heart, for the next half mile, we follow behind the truck. "Let's send those trees some love, babe, for their journey."<br /><br />"Yeah, mama, let's do that for them."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-85512609687464748142008-06-25T15:00:00.000-07:002008-06-25T15:24:00.633-07:00The Mindful Bridge<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPMFEc3w-vPKam_SVRihk6q7tK_IYY0fq__c_32WNlUa3Vbe5512jsV_YU6zz0ri68uAmUo68s-h-YsJRdyvWeoUTZ_uhO4Rn-IDHHCKCGbfGQOpsMb-jsxjumRkjMIgS_f8R4sw/s1600-h/p235534-Ashland_OR-Lithia_Park.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPMFEc3w-vPKam_SVRihk6q7tK_IYY0fq__c_32WNlUa3Vbe5512jsV_YU6zz0ri68uAmUo68s-h-YsJRdyvWeoUTZ_uhO4Rn-IDHHCKCGbfGQOpsMb-jsxjumRkjMIgS_f8R4sw/s320/p235534-Ashland_OR-Lithia_Park.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215947845081895906" border="0" /></a><br />Down hwy 5, 5 hours, 5 days, <a href="http://www.hakomiinstitute.com/About/intro.html">Hakomi Therapy</a> retreat. It's been twelve years since my training and before River since I've been able to sit in it's circle of community. It took more than three days for me to land, to feel into the one in me who holds vision and the willingness to go as deep as deep leads. Three days of shedding marriage and motherhood, aging and coping, habits and attitudes. And finally, softly, I felt the way I take my 'seat', the way simple presence presides and shines and holds another in illuminated faith. From that place, confusion becomes just another wave on the water, equal and welcome. Not knowing, almost delightful. In that way, engaged curiosity, defenses down, supported, we set off, we sail, we become pilgrims in the most basic way.<br /><br />Now I'm back and struggling with what happens to that openness in the midst of all the other roles, and how very painful it can be to remain simple and open.<br /><br />Crossing that mindful bridge...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-31364549044955445772008-06-10T14:48:00.001-07:002008-06-10T15:11:43.047-07:00Cell Phones Make Popcorn<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><p><object height="350" width="425"><param value="http://youtube.com/v/V94shlqPlSI" name="movie"><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://youtube.com/v/V94shlqPlSI" height="350" width="425"></embed></object></p></div>In case you wondered about the merits of a head set......Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-52877378506570097432008-06-09T10:50:00.000-07:002008-06-09T11:40:25.306-07:00Forgiving Progression<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggxEc3O5GbqTiUB96_euaRUjNKR1-rui4mi0xYJXVZaOHc4qOlF6EJqgLNe3uqehFr8HJY4taZw-W5JNz3dUyZ5ALHNcIUY3xpCeIFpEfCvXa8UbKHXjKon-WnFT9NDoNjSdeEDg/s1600-h/Angel+Vatican+04+weba.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggxEc3O5GbqTiUB96_euaRUjNKR1-rui4mi0xYJXVZaOHc4qOlF6EJqgLNe3uqehFr8HJY4taZw-W5JNz3dUyZ5ALHNcIUY3xpCeIFpEfCvXa8UbKHXjKon-WnFT9NDoNjSdeEDg/s320/Angel+Vatican+04+weba.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209953228898374050" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Listening to a track titled <span style="font-style: italic;">Forgiveness. </span>It's instrumental, thank god. I'm on the earth, flat out, in my mind, and these chords become the touch, a soft blanket over my body, no words. As if something could touch where I am, possibly eye to eye with understanding. That some element might be just the shade of sensation that I cannot even name for myself, that the fabric would become a mother for a moment in my world and hold me.<br /><br />There's not enough air in my lungs even as I inhale dirt, mineral spirits for revival. Time to close my eyes and dig deeper. Tears held behind sinewy jaw, and I recall how my closest friend says at midnight last night how hardened I have become, how that's difficult to watch. Yeah, damn right. Except I could have used that twenty years ago before all the bad decisions, dominos tip back year by year.<br /><br />Acoustic reams of forgiveness stroke the regret as I step into the next morning hour. Preschool pick up, and my girl flying free in the wind as I push from behind.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-16778762961420640582008-06-03T11:21:00.000-07:002008-06-06T10:09:20.278-07:00Finish Line<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6I-jg2R-bFJjRaejqAbTG0Akv1OQVAeF6f9sJlquejHFyBjEHdHMrwOaw3YE9PKmd1rn5dv3kDUcO0OvhInuJzatYcT1fu5JaHkvGnUm07qsIYt2snLaGbozfv51kFZgeLCpXFA/s1600-h/Marathon+6+PR+916071.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6I-jg2R-bFJjRaejqAbTG0Akv1OQVAeF6f9sJlquejHFyBjEHdHMrwOaw3YE9PKmd1rn5dv3kDUcO0OvhInuJzatYcT1fu5JaHkvGnUm07qsIYt2snLaGbozfv51kFZgeLCpXFA/s320/Marathon+6+PR+916071.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208813949535319106" border="0" /></a>Another grey day in between intermittent days of sun. I lift my sunglasses every few blocks but I can't tolerate the silver sky. I drive around in a darker day.<br /><br />I'm not pregnant. And my husband has stated clearly that he doesn't want the burden. I know what he means is that he doesn't want to have another child with me, the burden of this particular marriage.<br /><br />Before I hit forty no one could have told me what I would learn about being a woman and a mother. I never would have understood the sometimes deep calling to bring forth a child, despite circumstance. And how it can have little to do with fulfilling a purpose of marriage. Some beings have their own purpose. We can have all the pat answers for why conditions must be this way and that....but isn't it the way of nature to grow in the limbs of adversity?<br /><br />That's how I have grown. I have given up most of my truest callings for relationship with a man. And that's my fault. Here I go again and this time I can't figure my way around it. Except to let go. Or force my will to get what I want and go that path alone. Worse, go that path alone while married.<br /><br />My parents were older parents and they both died young. Though I have much older siblings, I lived most of my life alone, without home or guidance, safety or grounding. I don't want my daughter to be alone, and no matter what anyone says, I know that she will be alone. So that's the hardest part of letting go and moving on. I should be grateful that I have my daughter but right now I feel like I am turning my back on something else, something present and pulling on me, something calling me the way every real thing in my life has called me.<br /><br />No one teaches us how to fulfill our purpose. No one can do that for us. And yet....those closest to us can say no, and that definitive shapes our destiny.<br /><br />I asked for two more rounds of insemination, knowing that the odds of conception are so slim that I was simply showing up to complete a process. These last few days I carry the image of running a marathon, seeing the finish line, understanding there won't be another race and making peace with that -- and, wanting the feeling of crossing that line myself, from my own actions and my own will. Proper completion. But I'm on the ground breathing pavement, kicked in the knees at the home stretch.<br /><br />It would be so easy to take the low road, and for some kind of sad comfort, I'm taking it here and there. The high road is around the corner and a million steps from here.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-3669572126370383422008-05-28T14:25:00.000-07:002008-05-28T15:48:58.063-07:00Strands of Consciousness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpnBwOQVbbVcRlFWAxW26KU7JfqjOncclyGo3aqpMLl-oim88Va3sdDzlMy-NgNHpXX8LZqKPl74yCCqb_qxv0tE2yfvF-XJ0cTwdbqTLBoAcgqOJkW5uA8o0GiNXO32g0A1Prpg/s1600-h/untitledma11176497-0001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpnBwOQVbbVcRlFWAxW26KU7JfqjOncclyGo3aqpMLl-oim88Va3sdDzlMy-NgNHpXX8LZqKPl74yCCqb_qxv0tE2yfvF-XJ0cTwdbqTLBoAcgqOJkW5uA8o0GiNXO32g0A1Prpg/s320/untitledma11176497-0001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205562595352672210" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Days of writing in my head, coming through air streams while I drive, or walk, or eat, or shower. Literate strands and seedlings of insight float through in-roads of attention. Truths and tenets, teachings and trajectories, connect by shades of light, and I ponder how to put them all on the same line of logic.<br /><br />That, perhaps, is reserved for the great thinkers and writers. Those who are able to remain in one incredible state, while all other states weave to transcribe words to match. Can't really do that when you don't stay on any one topic for more than a few minutes. The gift of motherhood. Thoughts begin to mimic minor tasks, a constant picking up of things, bits here and there, quickly, and then the return to do it all again in successive rounds by the hour and day. All your wonderful previous philosophies funnel through like laundry; grand tomes reduced, sadly, bite-size.<br /><br />But if I may, one strand was about shifting consciousness. Memory wants me to see, serves images, death-like, of crossing over, when it's conscious, into another territory - be it in rising or sinking or expanding states of meditation, or by way of plant medicine, that visionary induction into realms of indigenous wisdom, vast super highways of information - and how if we want to go there we must agree to die, let go, relinquish the egoic grip on the space/time rope, surrender, willingly transform. Or maybe we are delivered through sex. Have to stretch to remember that one. We might also be taken and transported through trauma, a direct and unflinching route. We don't get to watch ourselves shift in that one, we are here and then we are not here. Like that.<br /><br />The next strand was about language, communication, dimensions of cognition. On the radio today the announcer reports that we still don't know how animals communicate, how birds know where to fly, how ground hogs warn each other, across distance, of imminent danger. I immediately remember years of visionary witnessing, whereby I was shown directly, by a plant spirit, exactly how plants communicate with plants, animals with animals, and how we do so on a completely different (though wired for accessibility) channel. So much of what is confirmed by science is already experientially known by yogis and shamans - they learn directly from the plants and animals. We can, too. But not before agreeing to die.<br /><br />Gradations of spirit/soul/heart/mind merging with surrounding realms of cognition. I look at all this - look with that eye that remains constant while everything else shifts and changes. This is how life touches me when I'm not attempting to master domestic life. While this comes with ease, organizes itself into rows of internal files, book shelves full and resplendent, a perfect home. That's the internal life.<br /><br />Follow the lens, view from the moon, descending through the atmosphere to the Pacific NW, down through the clouds above Portland, just south a bit to my house, and you will find me standing alone in my hallway, blank walls, utterly confused about which room to enter, where to begin to clean, just how to clean, just where to put things, just what to do about dinner - <span style="font-style: italic;">this </span>is the great perplexing equation.<br /><br />And while I stand perplexed, I swivel on the axis which inspires all the heady discourse...<br /><br />Potentially pregnant, probably not. In between, thoughts of birth and death. I planted red flowers by the front door the other day, in case I'm in that latter boat.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-60521895139060747432008-05-20T09:28:00.000-07:002008-05-20T10:10:57.004-07:00Layers of Life<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO565sn8FSaCKkeFlt9cH8FFm5omlVnyGnhL6ZX7JRJY3Epw6ExDv9k477sptrFegaSHpZDnnLDspRseGiBgG5Q2raT3_cQYpitPYDmC6jPywdl2j1lMRirpPFwFGZ01_WkEanRg/s1600-h/800px-Maple_leaves_in_May_in_Helsinki.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO565sn8FSaCKkeFlt9cH8FFm5omlVnyGnhL6ZX7JRJY3Epw6ExDv9k477sptrFegaSHpZDnnLDspRseGiBgG5Q2raT3_cQYpitPYDmC6jPywdl2j1lMRirpPFwFGZ01_WkEanRg/s320/800px-Maple_leaves_in_May_in_Helsinki.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202508130093024050" border="0" /></a><br /><br />At the cafe and native flutes drown out the morning buzz. That's a joy, drowning the buzz, watching the lesser vibration synch with the greater one. Sometimes, just to be a part of that is enough. Sometimes that's all I can do. Notice. Witness the movement behind all the movement.<br /><br />Maple leaves in layers off branches, across the street, something to behold. I'll get a call, take out my headset, say hello, <span style="font-style: italic;">what are you doing?, </span>nothing I say. But what I don't say is how long it takes to get to nothing, and how satisfying and crucial it is for my morning.<br /><br />A man walks by, crevices across his face - deep rivers and a trail of years. I want to keep looking but I only have a half-second, social agreements and all, so I fill my rolling, open landscape with a glimpse. Now it's his smooth head, paper thin to the brain, so close, and up an inch in scope, maple leaves, layer upon layer.<br /><br />I paint with color and fill with story to saturation. My aloneness with the one who witnesses, perfect company. Healing the morning disappointments, righting the flight path of my emotional stride.<br /><br />It's raining more shades of green into the spring light. More flowering than I've ever seen before. Portland.<br /><br />Every few minutes I wonder whether cells are dividing. We inseminated on Saturday and by Tuesday here, has it taken place? That I don't know is the strangest condition, like never being able to see your own back. How completely odd.<br /><br />We know and may know, the potential is out of the reaches of our imagination, and yet, simultaneously, it's built in that we don't know, cannot be privy to the most essential information of life, moment to moment.<br /><br />Right now, tables full of business men, students pouring over pages, cell phones waving, and I'm content to watch the leaves. One hundred percent full-moon.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-69606517224307712112008-05-17T06:00:00.000-07:002008-05-17T17:52:37.550-07:00Branching Woman<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikh1i-BMh45IsxCyu2I9GGGrWmJsfAL2dqf1_JQaz2X9xppcN6FJoz5iNZDwXvv047nYzgtq4spAIkWo_OJPAmJmag7kL4xCdJNs5xr2ckivgUFDZ_UZKD54LcJdqfAJqL_9C9eQ/s1600-h/dancin-tree.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikh1i-BMh45IsxCyu2I9GGGrWmJsfAL2dqf1_JQaz2X9xppcN6FJoz5iNZDwXvv047nYzgtq4spAIkWo_OJPAmJmag7kL4xCdJNs5xr2ckivgUFDZ_UZKD54LcJdqfAJqL_9C9eQ/s320/dancin-tree.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5201058054644613922" border="0" /></a><br />In the mirror this morning: wrinkles around the eyes, deeper and I look with shock. Bending over the rail from the road up top, I see the grooves of a dry river bed – it used to be so full and flowing. What happened?<br /><br />Summer pants from a box in the basement. None of them fit.<br /><br />I remember young years of hot sun and hours of practice on the tennis court. Baking my skin and running my joints into a future ground that I would not feel into until now. Until now when I cannot turn in bed without pain. What happened?<br /><br />All that passing age. All that sun so that I would be beautiful for men. What a waste.<br /><br />I’m turning up the folk song to blast because, god dammit, it keeps in such perfect time with regret.<br /><br />I look at my three year old – that milky soft skin and those dimply knees. That’s divinity. I cannot imagine sending her out into the world with the message to subjugate her growing to please others. For love.<br /><br />That we should ever ever ever manipulate our deepest impulses to fit a cultural image - that’s a sin if sin exists.<br /><br />And what if you’ve done that all your life and now you’re looking into your fourth decade, all the careless signs showing. This may be the first summer that I want nothing to do with being tan and attractive.<br /><br />I want honest health and real vitality. And I don’t know how to get there from here.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22760574.post-51929384138317995362008-05-16T10:50:00.000-07:002008-05-16T11:44:25.279-07:00Insemination Nation<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXCczbq-g90uHX5z4Q6JL-0Cqtd7KYhe9TSfeGw6DOmwAhVEgbTomKYXBiGiL-m6V7BZiqqXwopxcbYRuY6idWoANoSKOxP8AMeEx5Vr2xMhqdd8_7KTtaNY_AvJlx7BsjsKvgJA/s1600-h/38fert.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXCczbq-g90uHX5z4Q6JL-0Cqtd7KYhe9TSfeGw6DOmwAhVEgbTomKYXBiGiL-m6V7BZiqqXwopxcbYRuY6idWoANoSKOxP8AMeEx5Vr2xMhqdd8_7KTtaNY_AvJlx7BsjsKvgJA/s400/38fert.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5201044705886257938" border="0" /></a>Do you ever just drop off a cliff, or is it just me?<br /><br />Two weeks of flu, hips and back all funky, fertility drug in the middle for psychotic measure, daily temp and tests, blood draws, and the extreme swings of a new home business have me feeling a tad busy. Oh yeah, and my three year old seems to have sprouted taller and older. She suddenly looks like a girl. She corrects, "A wittle garl, mama!" Ok, so she's a little girl and <span style="font-style: italic;">no longer</span> a toddler.<br /><br />Could this mean freedom? Are we just emerging from the chute, ready for the warmth of summer grass?<br /><br />Not quite. Instead, I'm walking around town every afternoon, holding my bladder for four hours so that I can test for ovulation. Four days down and I'm thinkin' today may come up positive. That means we inseminate tomorrow. Or maybe we'll inseminate on Sunday?<br /><br />I never thought I'd be calculating conception. I also never thought I would have to schedule a birth, which I have, indeed, already done with River.<br /><br />While I'm waiting around for the moment of creation, I'm also dreaming up a life for an orphaned child somewhere in the world. Since I am an official member of the social experiment family club, I'm thinkin that maybe we'll adopt a baby from Ethiopia and give them our Portuguese/Spanish/Mexican last name, Sanchez. How American is that? This white girl, fake blond, blue-eyed mama, will pick up my African American child at school. Negasi Sanchez. Kind of has a ring.<br /><br />I felt weird growing up because my parents were just old. Ha, I'm older than they were. It's a complete freak show, totally outside the box of what I ever imagined for myself. But it's a <span style="font-style: italic;">conscious</span> freak show.<br /><br />I've always felt like a stranger in a strange land anyway, a refugee from the midwest, alien to my own family, outsider in my own culture. Why not weave a family from that web and those roots.<br /><br />Recently, an astrologer explained that the defining phrase of my life could be: <span style="font-style: italic;">Journey to the Oracle. </span><span>That describes what the stars have in store for me this time around.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>No matter how weird, that's all I want to be doing with my days, in whatever form it takes - finding my way to the oracle. Only now the teachers and teachings are not in front of me. Now it's just my own body and the way consciousness spills and forms in the spinning globe of my heart.<br /><br />Seeds and sun, moon toward full, planting for new life in the weathered soil. Prayer and more prayer for ease in the joints, ease in the mind, and for full song and a shared circle.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2