Posted in journal prompts, journaling, poetry, Writing for healing

Nothing to Fix

back alley 1 copy

Journal entry: on a deliberately UNPLUGGED Sunday evening in the desert…looking through my art…trying not glare at the news about a new radioactive leak being reported. Maybe fantasy works as a temporary cure for mankind’s insanity. I am grateful for having lived so many years without a television. Now I know better and have to take serious breaks from the dang thing.

 

   There’s nothing to keep up with,

    nothing to fix,

    turning it all off

    while ignoring the mix.

 

Above: tempera on wood- 1998 -San Francisco.

 

 

 

Posted in blog challenge, blogaday, earth friendly, journal prompts, spirituality, Writing for healing

The Scent and Moods of Mother Earth

Seasonal scents-The prompt is about the scent of summer. I’m doing a freer interpretation…this is a rough draft of my memoir in poetry.

Note: I changed tense in the middle of the poem deliberately…bare bones…
zen tree trunk copy

The earth is a woman.
When I was young the changing seasons reveled my senses.
Hard cold endless winter made brighter by the sun as she turned
my bedroom window gave way to
eager smells from the sometimes open screen bringing life in again
blooms open and trees turned
fields swelled up to the glorious greens.
My woman friend wears an endearing eau de fresh earth and bark.

The earth is a woman.
I roamed, I roamed.
Time tended the years, deliberately taking leave of the Southern Ohio balmy woods
I flew to Oakland to explore ivy laden hillside streets and alleyways to grand avenues.
Laced curtains billowed in bus filled streets as sociable angels on bikes dwelled with truth seekers and poets.
A student, lover, attendant, and mother, when the baby is a year old we make the northerly trek
to the mountains of my power days. Mountain woman walks with her friend.
My earthy friend is the duskiest most delicate sweetness and she never leaves me
when tears drop on the ground.

The earth is a woman
my companion is forever a sanctuary, her moods can be soft or rough or raging.
The scent is manzanita, water-kissed pine and redwood, deep and sturdy sphagnum oaks
hold me

in a funnel of comfort as I transformed from young woman to middle age.
Then, as gorges deepened in the meadow and trees fell, so did people and the lines
on my face, your odor is still as sweet as baby’s breath with new spring rain.
I cling to your wisdom, your stories, and searching, searching,
The children leave home all grown.
The summers roll on lovely and lavender, full of jasmine and rose.

The earth is a woman.
My man becomes discontent the quarrels erupt as plump, pregnant summers give birth to
wood-smoked fall. We adventure out, unsure, then make a plan
to move to the sparkled and bright-aura desert where my woman friend throws off
the sent of sage a turning couture of fashionable brevity. She offers newness-the
nascent wafting – sand after the monsoon, blossoms nudge rabbits to hop and lizards to dance.
The desert broom, mesquite and palo verde make a wreathe around my head
as creosote and ragweed change my sinus cavities

and his will to live. Heart surgery. Success.

the drops on creosote bush

The earth is a woman.
I am evolving faster than she, but still my soul opens in quiet gratitude.
Her  sensuous scent is a daily gift of ceremony, sunrise and sunset
accompanied by gaudy displays of color and drama.
How can you smell so darling and then so foul, as when a big saguaro decays?
Later I laugh only after squelching the memory of the nasty rot
Right in the front yard, the odor so bad, I thought there had been a murder in the neighborhood.
Could it be horse in death? No, a giant had fallen.
I become the aging woman, my earthen friend has shown me a thing or two.

the sajuaro silhoutte

She wins, hands down, but bellows out an uncharacteristic command.
I am she on whom you all stand. I feed you, console, bathe, give you lovely teas and coffees, fruits
and vines with bursting melons, medicines for your bruises.
But yet, you trample me, drill me, extract my blood and juice, attacking me.
Stop hurting me and raping me!

Tell your humans to stop.
If you do not stop I will send more hurricanes, and big earthquakes and I will
deliver a rage more devastating
than your puny, tainted interpretations of a wisdom you call ‘God.’
Vengeance is mine, sayeth the earth.
I’ve had enough now. I might leave you all behind, if you don’t change.
The earth is a woman.

 

 

 

Posted in intuitive readings, memoir, social commentary, Writing for healing

Begin, Begin, Begin.

“Miracles are a way of earning release from fear.” A Course in Miracles

Welcome to my new blog on WordPress, raw bones and all. The widgets and links will come later. Meanwhile it’s great to be back in the writing circuit. I wanted to write something light and airy however my thoughts are otherwise. With journal writing what emerges is often intense.

We need some miracles.

Begin: I made resolutions for 2013 and I’m excited about them. I’m going to help people learn to read. My resolution is  to continue working in the field of spirituality, education, and expressive arts therapy. My resolution is to continue believing in miracles.

Begin: How can we begin again after each tragedy? Newtown. Aurora. Tucson. Columbine. Does anyone even remember Paducah, Kentucky? How about Conyers, Georgia?

Consider: When tragedy strikes again asking ourselves “why” is ridiculous. I still find it interesting that families hide mental health issues We hurry on to the next topic. People will talk about broken arms, the weather, and hauling kids to basketball practice, but don’t go to that other place. You know…about that…problem? An evasive hint becomes a silent scream.   Even close friends hide the truth from each other. Don’t talk about that! Don’t talk about depression, bipolar disorder, sexual abuse, betrayal, or the isolated and  anxious relative. Are we so embarrassed to be human? Hush, hush, bang, bang.

 One phrase that keeps repeating itself is that ugly cowardly phrase “nobody said anything.” This doesn’t mean we become busybodies or blind supporters of pablum. It means somebody files a report somewhere. It means somebody took a chance. It means a caseworker, supervisor, or detective worked a longer day. A neighbor reached out.

And sometimes we can do nothing-but I can’t accept that.

I think Oprah Winfrey singlehandedly blew the lid off of families hiding problems. We still have a long way to go because neighborhoods and families still hide secrets.

Begin: Talk about issues. Talk about life. Ask for help.

Consider: The issue is never about blame. Anyone with an iota of understanding knows  blame is useless. It  is a psychological defense mechanism. The concept of blame belongs in the caveman era. Blaming someone, unless the current scenario is centered on catching a criminal before another offense is committed, is not part of intervention, healing or therapy. The goal is to understand the reasons underneath thoughts, impulses, and behavior when children are young. The goal is to guide people in helping them understand that options are available.

Begin: I recommend a couple of books. Stop Teaching Our Kids to Kill  by  Lt. Col. Dave Grossman and Gloria DeGaetano, written in 1999 by a retired  military man and his educator co-author,  delves into the facts of our violence epidemic. We may argue until we are numb, but interpersonal violence seems to be on the rise. How many ways can we spell a cry for help?

 The second book that may now seem dated is: High Risk: Children Without a Conscience.  Published in the late 80’s, High Risk is still loudly relevant and should be required reading in any psychology or sociology class. Learn to spot problem behaviors, not only in children, but in family dynamics to understand how deviance can be intergenerational. Recognizing challenges is the first step in learning to acknowledge the red flags and then to address them.

Beyond the simplistic and moronic territorial view of blame, shame, and name-calling, families and teachers have been asking for early childhood intervention, programs for education, and community involvement since the inception of Head Start and other intelligent programs.

I believe there is hope for the future and the future is now. Let my first blog of 2013 be part of the act of beginning.

Coming up: What is an intuitive reading?