i love the girl i used to be
the one i am
who i am becoming
let me slather myself with love
like a soon-to-be-basted
with so much thanks
in my heart
for this life
i love the girl i used to be
the one i am
who i am becoming
let me slather myself with love
like a soon-to-be-basted
with so much thanks
in my heart
for this life
in love with my wild wild self
the embrace of the earth shoots up my legs
tendrils growing through the mass of my feet
i hug myself and worlds contract within this warmth.
my own heart leaps in the face of extreme human suffering
the girl strung out in relationship with meth
the man with codine and self hatred
loud with the voices of wanting, of desperation
calling out for something to ease the pain of inner turmoil
to make everything alright. just alright. like in the hug of mama’s embrace.
my own heart leaps God’s love toward them on the path of life
until we all know that we are good enough
children of God’s own creation, sprung out of the earth
like the feet and mouths of the earth eating itself
the time is now, brother sister,
the veils all drop down. we know ourselves as spirit-earth-walkers
embedded in the mass of time, materialized like the oak leaf
in the sands of time, walking, what is the cause of our being here
one friend leaves his body,
“do not call it a suicide,” he writes in his last note
“instead, know that I have continued on my journey into the
realm of spirit; man-walking without a body.”
and, “perhaps now i will be your guardian angel.”
what is the cause of his self-killing? the recent scorpio new moon
paired with the eclipses? we are living in extreme times
yet, perhaps we are just seeing through the veil
Time becomes constant; i mean: there is no time
the only time we have is no time and the veil of the ancient temple is rent
there are no priests and priestesses besides ourselves.
and, i mean,
I am you and you are me, are we ……… and God is among us
there is no future salvation or damnation or eternal elation
it is all here in your smile, and mine. in your hug. in this embrace.
and in the dance of hearts with babies being born and friends leaving the body
i see with clear eyes the dance of human life
how short of time there is here
beneath this blue blue sky
upon this good green earth.
When they started playing ‘Thank god I’m American where at least I know I’m free,’ I knew then that we were in a mind-control zone. Las Vegas is a place of entrancement and of illusion. My third eye glowed and pressed the entire time- I wasn’t going to be fooled or sucked in.
All this year my lips have refrained from alcohol- a message I received while with ayahuasca bid me to abstain for the year. It’s the first year since my early 20s I’ve not had anything to drink. On Bourbon St in New Orleans, the closest thing I’ve witnessed to Las Vegas, I tried all of the ‘drinks to have’ and, of course, wound up incredibly drunk in a near-stranger’s bed.
Being very sensitive, alcohol, paradoxically, was my way of coping with strong & base energies, cigarette smoke and ‘heavy’ environments. It gave me a kick of unconsciousness that I would’ve otherwise not had, and probably wouldn’t’ve been able to endure nor had the desire to engage in many of the social climes I’ve dipped in.
Yet tonight, and all this year, I’ve been thankful for this sobriety. My warrior self needs it as I connect dots and see all that I can see. We didn’t spend any money on the strip, save $2 for parking. We were driving through the area on our way to California from Arizona and thought, Hey, let’s check it out (in a “keep your enemies closer” line of thinking– and from curiosity). We tried the free slots on Freemont St. Ini got 2/3 on all three we tried. A man tried to rope us into some promo deal. We walked on.
Quickly I started to feel sick in the unnatural lighting, smoke and glaring emptiness. In an earlier moment I might’ve grabbed some booze to acclimate, so that I could actually be there/ stand the environment. Yet we walked on, observing all of the displays.
Only two people, out of hundreds, were dancing and singing as if they had won something significant. They were two older republican-looking men wearing near-matching Polos, skipping, arms around each other. Everyone else was wrapped up zombie-like staring at some half-naked dancing person, street display, or glued into the machines.
I knew we were in a mind-control area when that song started playing. Everyone stopped moving and many took their phones/cameras out and started videotaping the ceiling which became a uniform image of an American flag with scrolling military faces and fighter jets. Then that song came on. All noises collaborated with this one song. Every disparate energy became united beneath the American Flag. Drunk people started singing and tearing up. We were surrounded by patriots and, though previously they were like hotels flashing vacancy signs, they all suddenly woke up and started marching like wind-up toy soldiers. It felt like a moment at church when the people are moved by something that strikes you as preposterous. Yet everyone was playing along, entranced. That’s when I saw the thread connecting this reptilian lineage. Money, War, Oil, bright flashings lights (media) and the songs and symbols (flag) that tie it all together.
I learned that song in 5th grade. We sang it, all of the grades in unison, at our end of the year performance at Amy Beverland in middle-Indiana. It probably felt so good at the time, as we basically unconsciously learned this song, to all sing together, ages 6-10. The attempt at programming, you see, has passed by all of our gazes. It’s especially strong with the bright lights, naked dancers, cheap booze and possibility of winning thousands of dollars, but it’s as subtle as a McDonalds on every corner and the media craze of the ‘War on Terrorism.’ The Patriarchs from our country are terrorists enough; they ought to call war with themselves and leave our land and people alone.
As we drive away from the bright lights into the solitude and darkness of death valley, the moon rests in front of us. Yellow timeless crescent, she will far outlast these bright shining lights. Our culture is like a pigmy elephant riding the back of a large whale in the middle of the ocean the size of three worlds. It doesn’t make any sense and it is so very small in comparison… With time & galaxies firing and off setting.
Ayahuasca gave me this message, too, as we laughed into the night. We all are so small! Generations! Ha! It’s like the skin off of that Great Serpents back. Shed and shed and shed. We are like a flicker in comparison of the passing sands of time.
It’s good for me to remember this, to reflect with the moon as she sits there cradled in the sky and I feel the dark close in around me, the pressing dark of the cold desert night. In the reptilian game of bright flashing lights, the built up system of money, all of that illusion of external gain, it is good to feel the cold, powerful desert press close, womblike, as we ride into the night and I remember what endures as the stars shine overhead. Perhaps tomorrow we will be mesmerized and directed by our solar system’s brightest flashing light, our sun and further humbled by the heat. We are out of Las Vegas into Death Valley, after all, and that precludes a whole different game of survival.
One time when I was little my family went to Florida for a couple weeks. We rented a house there right by the ocean and her white sands. I remember feeling so excited! Oozing with the glee that makes you shiver.
Erin and I made it out early one morning and found purple sea cucumbers splattered all over the beach, as if it’d been raining squishy tubes. Long and responsive, we poked them with sticks. Purple goo came out. They were still alive and I didn’t understand them. I felt intrigued and a little creeped out and made sure not to step on them.
I found sharks teeth in the eroding cliffs and I remember the house we rented had a shower room, not just a stall. With two shower heads and tiled walls. I loved the shower. It forever changed my ideas of what showers could be.
Our ancestors can pass on many things to us. Mine passed onto me white skin, which, as I grow older, holds a lot more implications than I realized as a child. One also passed on a few shares of stock in McDonalds. Isn’t that ironic?
We get many patterns from our family, some of which we may wish to no longer keep. We’re all dying. And with us, hopefully, generation by generation, our unheard & unhealed patterns and wounds. Our nasty repetitions embedded before birth, hammered home in childhood and cemented in adolescence to be lived out into maturity and passed on once again.
We can be the ones to shift the cycle, though some patterns feel as deep as the Grand Canyon. Time, presence, awareness, loving support, envisioning and witnessing new possibilities- all of these can help to start shift age old patterns. Some may seem as natural as breathing, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t room for change.
I was reflecting on the patriarchal control or possession often called love or care. How these things don’t always make sense and they’re not easy to put into words because they’re so pervasive and therefore hard to see. But these hold memories too, capable of being fresh, recalled, and looked at.
For example, this morning the smell of lumber, black coffee and a sound like the droning of Rush Limbaugh (who I used to complain “gave me a headache” even in my youth), brought back memories of feeling trapped and detained as a child. Not all childhood memories are sweet and not all parents’ actions are perfect, not all of the ancestral hand-me-downs are things we consider keeping. Some should be burned in an incinerator. The patriarchy is dying and, as I wrote earlier, so are we all.
Let these cycles stop with me. Let my form be a fresh breath of awareness. Learn me love full of freedom, care without control, & loving intention without possession.
Let there be true love in the world and let it start with me.
May these old forsaken patterns die with us. May we awaken to a fresh dawn, a new spring, a lively, enchanted and bright morn.
As we make our way throughout the United States of America, I am reflective on the use and ownership of land- of the rigorous, insane (literally etymologically, unhealthy, unwhole) and whole sale theft and disrespect (can’t really find a fitting word strong enough for what actually took place) on the part of the pioneering and enterprising Europeans to the native groups of this land. Nearly everywhere we go there is the sorry story of some native group pillaged and removed from their homeland.
I feel a sense of loss for their vibrant and wise indigenous (of the land, of a place) cultures. Poignantly do I feel the absence of my own generational land-based heritage. Instead of being something intimately known and loved, land is a commodity, something to own.
There are two songs here that reflect well some thoughts/feelings I have journeying through this land, reflective on history. I want to share them here:
The Nightwatchman – Take Away My Name
Diane Cluck – Sylvania
Medicine for the People – My Country
2014, for us, started in Peru, in South America, which is, indigenously speaking, very related and in kinship with ancient native trade routes, customs and beliefs stretching all the way up to what is today North America. I cried many times then feeling the connection the people have with the land, with pachamama. In March, Ini and I went out to Massachusetts to pick up this veggie oil car we love and use so well. I distinctly recall sitting on the Boston Commons watching a squirrel scramble up trees, Unafraid of people or heights. The commemorative placeholders and memorials in that region are largely Patriarchal in heritage and remembrance. A very clearly delineated His-tory.
Then, an image of homesteading on an Appalachian mountainside. Fresh, cool mountain stream. Generations of people “eeking out a living” in this fertile land. At the local library, I read accounts from ancestors of people who neighbor the land we’re on who say, “Wake up, it’s time to hoe. After lunch, more hoeing. When I close my eyes I see corn and beans.” Their descendants now have a garden, yes with corn and beans, yet also with a motion-controlled radio to scare away deer. Living on the land is tough, they all seem to say. After a few months of dipping my hand in these waters, though refreshed by the mountain spring water, I realize I’m not quite ready to go “back to the land” in such a vigorous -or isolated- way quite yet.
So back to Indiana, my place of birth and raising. Will I follow the footsteps of my forebearers? Start a business, get a 9-5 working for the Man? I am not quite ready to start a large-scale alternative project to What Is. But we gotta eat, after all. Can’t live on idealism. Yet, the inner drive wants nothing to do with the machinations of my father. We do not see eye to eye; we hardly see the same world at all. Again, jumping the nest after touching base with the karma of birth, we are freebirds once again, taken by the travel.
Boulder, Colorado it is. Yet when we get there to meet some teachers who drew our attention, we find the land far commercialized from the initial hippy hay-day we heard it once was. No fodder for us, we continue on the travel. Well out of vegetable oil fuel for the car, we are now running mostly on the dinosaur bone and ancient fern slop that dictates the actions of so much of our warring and exploitive governmental system. It’s against our internal compass, but it’s “the way things are now.” We continue along on the highways, occasionally off-roading it, like so many others channeled and funneled along the main stream.
Yet we are not mainstream. For the first time in my life, I catch people stopping to stare at me, whispering about our rig (the car is full!) or possibly about me. I’m not really sure, but I feel the difference. And I continue to feel how far I’ve strayed from being a good daughter of the Patriarchy.
I am not loyal to my government or the mores of the cultures of this land. So much of it ain’t sitting pretty with me.
We continue on through the ancient dwellings of the Southwest, reaping inspiration each step of the way. Pueblos stretching across miles of desert aligned to star and moon, equinox and solstice. These people were in rhythm with the earth. Give me some of that old time living! And the living ancestors of the people of Canyon de Chelly, still farming and shepherding amid the deep canyon walls near the ancient petroglyphs of old. (And even these Navajos were originally removed from the canyon only to be allowed to return a few years later, most of them dead or ill, spirits sick.) So many times I catch wind of what the native peoples did (and at times still do) and I think, “That’s the way I want to live! How to do it this day in age of rentals and bills and impossibly expensive land?”
As Thoreau once said, perhaps the person who seems out of sync with the dominant culture is just marching to the beat of their own, privately heard drum. In the old days, this internal que could be called someone’s daemon, or creative spirit. Now the church, as in so many cases, has skewed the meanings of old words and daemon is too close to the evil in demon to be commonly employed, Yet it is this creative force which leads me into the future, into the bright realm of possibility, the unforeseen.
Now we are in California and I already, in some ways, feel “at home” again (though Ini and I have established a pretty good home on the road). The freedoms in the air of this most western point on the map are historical as well as current. Diversity is rich, as are alternative lifestyles and natural beauty.
I still don’t know where we’ll land for now; I remain curious about that. Until then, we continue following the trans-migrational rhythms of cyclical nomadics or seasonal workers from coast to coast.
So much of this country is in dire need of soul. And chances are it’s not going to be found on the TV. It’s so important that we can still see our night sky. It connects us Ineffably and magically with so much of what it means to be human. Spend more time outside. Breathe in the winds. Go hug a tree, really. Give thanks for water. Cities and waters are too often polluted. We need to start caring about the places we live, it’s our only way forward if we will pass on any beauty to our future generations. This is a message we so desperately need to hear, and the indigenous cultures, among other uprisings, have it.
I am not Navaho. Duh, anyone can see that. I am white. And what is my inheritance? Is it being able to read the wind in the trees? Knowing I sprung from the earth like so many mushrooms?
My plight is not the plight of so many Navahos today. Rich dad poor dad, learn the rules of the game. How to win. From birth, given the rich white mindset of entitlement, of the oppressor. I am given inherent privilege that cannot be won, lost or stolen and taught independence and one up manship. My inheritance says, Always go into business alone. You can’t trust people. Those streets aren’t safe. It isn’t safe to be a woman. God only thinks its cool if men lead and speak in church, and are heads of the households. Those people are poor because they are lazy.
And, to top off all of these shenanigans, This is just the way all these things are.
But I want the inheritance of understanding the wind, reading a rock, presence, intimacy with the external world instead of domination over it. The wind in my hair, the earth in my toes, my heart open, understanding of oneness. I do not want to be Navaho, but I do want to be earth-child-woman-lover.
So I went out and got myself a turtle rainbow family. I learned to trust people and absorbed the old wisdoms that people who live close to the earth and store potatoes know.
Now I am earth bridge spirit walker. Like all of us could be, sprung from this same earth like so many mushrooms. Human at last. My inheritance formidable.