The silent prayer

The hobbit house is built in to the side of Laguna Canyon and for that reason at night with no heat it feels cozy and held by the earth herself.  I have a space heater Annie and Tony gave me when I first moved in and that's all it takes to stay warm.  With lots of soaking rain the soil is green and smells like life.  Even the morning mist-gray feels right in an atmosphere like this, one that sings Allliiiiive!

Damnit even if the Gods themselves gave me a paintbrush I couldn't of hand-created a life more exactly specific to what I love.  This I tell Serena to ensure her, this, this our hard fought independence, our always-there choice, to live. What Laguna Beach for us actually means.  She has done it every step of the way as I have and I admire her fiercely and devotedly for this.  We will always have this.  I laugh then and say because they did!  I took my brush right from the God's hands!  Said gimme that I will choose the life I live!  Serena laughs too, this our secret, what we treasure and hold dear in the other.

It has been a long road since she left the treehouse upstairs.  Life, which in living gives us what we need.  We are so blessed I also tell her, and yes, yes we are I know, she says back to me.  I feel a gulp in my heart and for us both feel-say the silent prayer.

I am always so wrought through with home and the ties that bind.  Spent two years studying the psyche of this, of these things, and am convinced more than ever of the continuum of earth, of how she uses her people to soul-speak for a place, and in this way keeps sacred the tides of the land.  There is so much life outside any door.  When I first got to California the best part was how new it was.  I vowed never ever to take you for granted Holy California and even though sometimes I start to, in the end I never do.  Or still haven't.  And that's what life is.  To keep waking up. Again.

I consider family, too.  Back east, here.  Derynne and Cam, the kids.  We buried her brother in what for her I know was a long whir of endless sad.  Pacifica family and blessing the sacred space for Eve and Kalen to wed.  Visiting with Atticus, seeing clients again, waiting on Jasmine to get back for school.  Through it all there are tacos at Feast, the hot counter in San Juan with the pounds of chilaquiles, the clerks at the market downtown who tell you they missed seeing you, there is mermaid beach and the other secret spots and burrito joints with surf boys covered in tattoos.  It is amazing how our tiny rounds from day to day connect us in, make life, see us through the daily passings of grocery trips and recycling and take-out Chinese food.  See us to the big ones. Death, marriage, birth, tears and laughter. The sighs in between where words can not fit.

So it life again.  I come back to you.  I let you in.

Love and thank yous

As soon as I saw on Facebook that Igor was sick I knew I was going to make him soup.   But it didn't occur to me that I was doing for him what my wise women teachers taught me to do by doing it for me over all these years until later, standing in Derynne's kitchen tonight.  Her friend, who I've never met til tonight, said 'that's really the best medicine, the vitamins and minerals cooked in from the whole foods.'  Then she took a sip from a plastic red cup of wine that already had her lips joker purple. And she grinned and added 'and all that bright white light~'

It made me raise my brow with my own little grin because indeed as she said that I was adding the last little dash of flavor and also putting blessings of so much love and thank you all over that soup.  This was the first thing she'd said to me directly all night.  I don't know if she saw my smile.  We'd been packing D's house for their move on January 2.  They are going back to the dessert where Cam's tattoo shop is.  Packing laundry boxing taping labeling drinking wine drinking wine making chicken soup.  And dumplings. This gal's either got drunk second-sight or is wild-intuitive.  Either one totally natural.  One homemade pot was macaroni noodles with broth just like Judy taught me to make way back even before I lived on the farm.  To that pot I also added kale and chard-pot like Teena used to make to heal me, when I lived in sabbatical with her those many long days at Chop.  Also tons of oregano because Igor's sinus' are sick and for sick sinus', well that's one of the first things I ever learned working with herbs.  Also back in the days that I used to salvage Judy's herb garden out on the side of her river house.  And cloves and cloves of garlic.  And other secret dashes and smiles.  The other pot was homemade chicken dumplings, the way grandma taught me all those different times standing behind or beside her or out of her sight but her not out of mine.  I didn't make hand-pressed noodles Pennsylvania-Dutch style though, but, with Grandma's recipe and a combo nod to Judy again, little butter dumplings that turned in the broth and before the roux to the warmest, fluffiest balls.  That pot I made for Laura another student of mine, or rather as I don't teach them now, for Laura a woman I know who's far away from her mom's countryside home in Romania.  My students, I mean my friends, so far away from family, during the holidays.

It is cold and clear the night before the last day of the year.  Pon Pon walked me to where I was parked on Adams.  He lives with Igor and Gustavo.  And Bob, who I've met several times through them, and Leo too.  Igor was in bed sniffling and laughing his wonderful Igor laugh.  I made all of them take emergenC's and zincs the way Maria did back when I was first learning to teach and got so sick right after Christmas that year.  Back when Judy first made me homemade chicken soup and showed me how.  And her, and Maria my mentor teacher, how both those good women took turns stopping by to give me care.  Pon Pon handed me a bag of Brazilian chocolates at my car and gave me a million kisses on my head.  We could see our breath.  I live in Southern California, it was almost midnight, I have a sweet artist's studio in the canyon that was calling me home.  All these darling Brazilians.  My sister D and her dear kids, moving away.   I made soup or dumplings for everyone who took care of me this year, for all this precious family here who helped me find my way.  My cherished friends.  I am eating a bowl now.  Thinking about the year that just passed.  Sending cosmic soup with thanks to Mike, my dear friend, on vacay in the BVI.  Remembering how in February in a panic I called him, then drove the Sonoma coast not sure what would be around the bend. Readying myself to leave and come here, all the way South.  The hand-cut life I've glistened up down here since then.  Crafted on nothing but pure love.  Love and lots of help.

Love and thank yous.  Which always work whenever you remember to cook them in.

This Hotel Uptown. Where I've been and where I'm going.

My friend Cindy is the bravest person I know.

She is a renaissance woman of the truest type, baker, teacher, traveller, sailor.  Also artisan, which has been amazing to watch emerge.   She took information on intentions and affirmative thinking and put it in to such masterful, unrighteous practice and results that I sparkle just to be around her and consider her one of the most sacred and wise karma-sisters in my life.

Before meeting her I woke up at Sam's after falling asleep the night before pretty quickly.  We wanted to stay up and watch Starwars and drink tea like we said we were going to do but we were both really tired and surprised by all the snow.  There was snow everywhere in the morning, so meeting Cindy at 7am got pushed back.  I had to make room for scraping it all away and for driving really slow.  It wasn't as bad driving as the night before in the storm tho, driving Amy from downtown Chestertown back to her country house in the woods.  It reminded me of being on acid years and years ago in my little blue hatchback feeling like I was driving through outter space.  Except for in the snowstorm space was entirely white and all the stars and aesteroids whirling and wizzing past me were really crazy numbers of little pieces of snow.

Cindy is amazing and I aspire to be like her. I have only ever said that about one other woman who wasn't famous some sort-of way and once about one man. Cindy prooves that independant, open-hearted, passionate and joyful, creative and honest soft and strong are all possible all at once; and that being an authentic to yourself being true woman is possible to do while also being wife and mom. She also has helped me re-define the idea of "settling" down.

We had the kind of breakfast over coffee talk that made spontaneous joy-tears and feeling overflow from my eyes.  Laughing and tender experience of life-talk.  We used to teach ESL together, we hosted a huuge conference once together, she is the one who introduced me to Teena who is the one who owned and invited me to live at Chop.

transgendered ginger cookie!!

She shared a funny quote with me as we recapped the last several months.  "Good luck, as we know, can be fickle.  Good friends are not."

She is a good friend.

When I left her house I went to Proc's for a slice they've still got the best margharita around and I ate in my car because it was lunch time and if there is any place it's easy to be seen it's Chestertown at Proc's or the coffee shop at lunch.  And when I was done  the same song came on that one by Mumford and Sons, once on RNR and immediately following on XPN.  I was moving fast out of town on 291 on the backroads towards the beach speeding along between the wide farm fields and all that white sun.  I had mean tears trying to blink out of my eyes, Chestertown still feels too tight for me and most of all it's frustrating for me sometimes, what seems like such a long waste of time and love.  I know it wasn't at all not at all a waste but to know and to feel are two different things.  Also sometimes I still get so angry at Josh, who showed up this morning in my email and also last Wednesday on the phone, too.  I hope he is happy and peaceful and I pray often lifting him up.  But far as contact goes, those prayerful intentions are moooore than enough.

I am home now it is my second day off, or my Sunday anyhow.  I took a second job at a big uptown hotel in town, one of the oldest ones I even remember my head spinning in excitement when I was a child and we used to walk in--the atrium large and with an ice-skating rink in its full-bellied middle.  I am making money now, lots, which is so good.  I will work this funny demanding schedule two jobs at times 17 or 18 hour days from Thursday through Monday til I have enough by the summer to go on the road and do nothing but be outside sleeping under the stars swimming in rivers and laying on the earth under the sun and moon.  Writing, visiting friends and poems.  By the end of the summer I will settle on the West Coast, somewhere I am guessing between Santa Cruz and Baja only Harmony and Time will show.

I feel so good, peaceful again and happy.  It's nice to have direction, to feel comfortable and in the know around your own home land, to ready your self and get all your duckies lined up in a happy row.

Spon Down. Glorious Day.

In the sunshine the coffee steam is the same as light rays and reminds me how I used to sit on the bed in the corner of Dave Williams' room the guys on guitar or drums and I'd watch the incense play.  Complete, totally absorbed.  Total absorption.  I used to sneak in at night through the window in to his room.  The metal feeling of rail scrape when I'd hoist my self over and through.  That one time his mom waiting for me.  That pic of Weibe with the beast in his hand, but it's from the mirror and the lights way down so the room looks yellow or orange. The instruction of smoke and still and wavering and blending and one becoming another becoming only one.

I am thinking about California and the sun.  I am thinking about Paul in snow up to his knees.  I am thinking what it would be like to study Anusara at Beth's feet for weeks.  I am thinking about Kiva Rose and We'moon and poetry.  I am thinking about the moon.  My Pandora reset itself or for the first time ever I had to sign back in and my station La Luna, la mama de las estrellas was the only one left.  It was just right for the morning, walking dad to the car still cold earth yawning.  My blue soft bathrobe three sizes too big.  Kissing him goodbye his two big bags of health food cooked up for the week.  I felt like his wife and am happy to be how did we get so close, when, awww to grow up.  I pick up my pen.

Did Erika get on here I think?  There is now a piano station on my Pandora it was prompted a gift given I say yes.  This is how she writes.  Piano she told me once at one of our meetings at her house.  She is my hero.  I let the piano music play it is what I used to listen to on my alarm, classical, when I was a very very little girl.  In the room in the old neighborhood with the two kinds of pink on the walls.  Where we lived with Brian and Little Sean.  Janice.  When we had hamsters and Sean and I would fight and also cuddle every morning.  My toychest with the red painted hearts.  The cabinet that kept writings and stickers not dishes or dolls.

I love coffee and bring some home from the coffee shop for the days that I dont work.  When I do the  real work the writing work the showing up the poetry and play only work that counts.  Days like today fingers clicking in the light from the window the light the plants get first then me the gold light the light catching all the steam.  I am happy.  I will call grandma later when I sit in the driveway in my beachchair like I did all summer I will wear my long johns and sweatshirt and jeans and a beanie and gloves and sit under a blanket when I go out there today.  My neighbor what will he think he takes cardio walks everyday smokes his cigars sometimes if he's really happy he even waves.  He's known me I him since he first retired me in 8th grade tiny cutoff jeans perm in my hair and later that summer, sneaking out.  He knows a lot more than he's ever let on, and far as I know never said word one to grammy back then to Tim or Mary or mom or dad.  All the all the all the cars in the driveway over ohsomany years, the late night back porch noise sometimes music sometimes fights.  Pungent smells ha the smell of weeds.  When I see him today I'll wave maybe he will or wont maybe like me he's sun effective and will wave so much he raises a little from the earth enough like me to light up from within just as the moon.

The new song I discovered on my new reset-Pandora with the one station the same The Moon, mother of the stars is what I will today on my other blog.  It is a theme song resplendent oneness, oneness of me here you there song separate but together us as one.   Oh what a day, glorious... 

What's Rad: Courier Knew

She was mad on my mind yesterday at work: I was lusting over Vogue and my imagination was getting so epically inspired... She lives in me because of poetry, because of poet-heart, because of the heart we therefor live within...

She keeps her own blog, it is snapshot style and concise, which is how she is. Close-fitting and circled-in which is what you get if you dictionary.com the word succinct for other words that mean the same. She frames things the right way with a quick glance, she is accurate each step that she goes and then she puts things together, later, frame by frame. Not like me who is one long spondown wind of abstraction trying to get to the final "right".

This is her blog, READ IT! or experience her snapshots rather, at Courier Knew.

Today is her birthday it turns out, of course it is...

We met in 2007 at Ben's, I guess. There are vague memories of going to his place for spaghetti one night after teaching ESL, me in my work clothes anyway. She was there, she was a blond no make-up ponytail girl which at the time was a tough road to tow around our allnaturalbeyourself (butonlyaslongasyourcool!) kind-of-friends. You know to not have a practiced paticularity about you or whatever. Sam and I danced tossy-style jitterbug together like we always did and also I looked at alot of Banjo magazines that night, if there is such a thing. I remember reading an article about the Clash.

Later, this probably would've been in the fall, we truly met the day I walked in to apply at the Blue Heron Cafe and go to work for Paul. Kirsten was vaccuming the floor.

I think of her every fall now, the way I think of diPrima and Libby, and what secrets are sitting in the trees. The way I think of trees.

That was the season I waited tables and wrote poems to Josh that were actually sign-markers to my self that I was trying to learn how to position, and hold. Poetry is like that, or can be, if you let it talk from your soul. Kir and I used to get over-caffeinated in the Blue Heron kitchen and talk and talk about art and poems and writing plays together and performing and mythic imagination and lying to your self and how this all happened and why did it happen and it did, anyhow, and it also helped the art and poetry to be internally conflicted and most of all, we talked about men. I was on the verge of myself in a new way that I had always wanted to be. In a way that scared me and instigated from me a flight-response that is classic Aries-Kelly of charging blindly ahead. Ramhearted as I am. She was getting her masters and on the verge of what next in career and all those weird creeks and spaces that that can cause. Her passion back then for fault lines and shifting ground. Most of all, also, there was nothing more in life that season than art and darkness and loving the art we were spiraling out of from that darkness within.

As said, I've always always had great love for her. This time last year I sent her an email at random after months of no contact to say hey why dont you come see Brandi Carlile play with me. We both needed Brandi, it turned out, I for coming to terms with moving on and she for the same: yes, always about the men. Brandi played at Rams Head Live and threw a pick in to the crowd and it bounced off Kir's broken heart and landed on the ground. All the lesbians battled for it but Kir just bent down put her hand in to the mass of feet and legs and retrieved the momento easily and handed it to me. A totem now, I keep it in my writing bag with all my USB's.

She is happy, in Canton now, with birds in her hair and our funny man hearts, wink wink Kir my dear friend. I check in on her energy when I quiet and pray or trance or meditate just like I do all my k-nnected friends. But she will always be above most the rest bc of the poetry in her, and memories of starting over in the fall. Starting over, how it comes from reflecting on the bounty of who and how and where and what you been as you root down to take hold and turn over fresh again.

She is friend, who makes me better at me. I am thinking of her today, today birthday today fall today collecting here collecting me collecting her today today today...Today, celebrating You! Gratitude gratefullness grace and space and place for this, poetry and hearts of the matter, Dear Friend...

Dear Friends

Ben's Farm on the Chester, Fall Equinox 2009

Maybe the most important thing we might ever say about a person is I loved her, she was my friend.

Right now, a whole lot of hearts of people that I have at various times held extremely dear are gathering to say goodbye to our friend. The heart lives forever, and so too the experiences there, as part of the living breathing whole. If we let it. O god thank god I am open again, and letting it.

I am so, so grateful right now for my life, for my experiences, for my friends.

I am with you all in spirit, in heart, and in love.

I Love You, Molly
The funniest thing I ever heard about Molly happened while I was in Colorado, visiting our mutual friend Mika. Mika was living in Boulder, it’d been two years since she’d been back east with any the crew from college, and longer still since she’d really lived the life of a college student, partying on Kent Street having a good time. So it was natural that seeing Mika in Colorado in 2005 would make her eager for news of old friends and the going-ons in Chestertown. We got down to telling stories, which of course led to more stories, which eventually led to stories from college days. Mika told this story of getting up one morning after a late night on Kent Street to come out in the hall and discover that Molly had drug a tree, a whole entire uprooted tree, in to the house. Molly was no where to be seen, but the tree, dirt-covered roots and wild branches and green leaves, was propped there, as if the most normal thing ever, against a wall. To this day when I think of Molly, I remember that story and I laugh out loud.

I love you Molly. I love you for having a spirit alive enough to want to live with that tree. I love you for saying why not, when the rest of us so often merely shrug our shoulders and ask why?

I love you for the vintage wrap-around skirt you had on the first day we met, I love you because it only cost you two dollars at the Nearly New. I love you for the Bob Dylan songs you had, behind the counter with me my first day at Play It Again Sam’s. I love you for how blue your eyes are, how they danced with poetry when we exchanged names back and forth of our favorite Dylan songs.

I love you for getting naked, pasty white Maine skin, first. Showing Brandon and me with a simple why not how crazy and fun it would be swimming in that freezing cold stream, 50 degree grey August day on the Maine coast wind and rain, I love you because you said why not, raced to get your clothes off first, and jumped in. I love you for putting sea weed on your head and being a fish goddess mermaid, I love you for taking me to the tidepools, for the wonder and childlike joy that was your grace, I love you for the word Perriwinkle, for teaching me the names of barnacles and snails, for showing me what bravery looks like out on the edge of the sea. I love you for making words like bivalve, whorl, cone, and mollusk come alive, and for infusing them with proof that youth is a timeless quality in any heart.

I love you Molly. I love you for laying in the grass at Truslow Road and painting on wood scraps with me. I love you for the books you’d show up with, the print outs of poems and essays, the whole file you gave me on Outsider and Folk art, for giving me literacy around this. For the passion and love you brought to it, to art of the people how you were contagious with it, how you birthed it deep in me. I love you for your poetry, for being the only one, the one woman in the crowd, to stand strong and speak poems back to me. For believing that this was how we could and would save ourselves. I love you for being that strong, for heeding to the wild impulse, for loving the rebel moon, for following the crazy night-lit sky. I love you for dancing at midnight and wanting more wine. I love you for believing in the power of art, for making this the example of your life. For always going back again, in and in again, to create to create to create and give vision or wild reason to live and to keep creating, for giving light with your each and every birth. I love you for the suffering that you put on the page or in color, I love you for the permission it gave me, the permission for poetry and the permission for pain, the powerful permission to say yes to life and to be.

I love you for the afternoon in May on Truslow Road, on the phone, when I told you the things I thought you needed to stop doing in your life, when I told you I thought you should change. I love you because of what you told me. No you said, no I’m not interested, I will never change, and it’s my life. I love you Molly for being so true.

I love you O Molly, O Sacred Scary Sea Goddess Molly, O Fearless Sailwoman Molly with the Green Mermaid Hair and Snail-eyes of Perrywinkle Blue. I love you Molly, O Ecstatic Witnesser of the Whole White Pure Moon. I love you Molly, Soulsiseter Poet, Rebel Artist Painter, Folk Singer Wildhearted Grrrl and Friend. I love you Molly, good Molly, bad Molly, sweet Molly, crazy Molly, precious Molly who was too alive for this world, you live now forever in my heart where all love ought to be, Molly in that place you will always be so, so true. Molly now you will never end…..

June 5, 2010
Ashland, Oregon
In memory of a dear friend