From the Heart of Story

I’m a story person, as you know, and it has become poignantly clear that I am currently navigating the world, professionally and personally, without a map. And when I’m without a map, I think in story.

I’m blown away by how many stories we individually and collectively think through. Unconsciously, consciously, spiritually, non-spiritually, scientifically, naturalistically, and on and on and on. We are swimming in stories and we wear stories and we marinate in stories and we are born through bloodlines that also have their own unique and painful and beautiful ancestral story imprints. 

Here we are, spring almost summer 2020, and we are in a story I never imagined I’d be walking inside of. And wildly, as the world has been launched into this story at nearly the same time, we don’t all agree to what the story actually is, or how we are supposed to follow it. It makes me think of Vassalissa the Brave, who was forced to go to Baba Yaga’s hut in the middle of winter for fire for the hearth, only in order to get the elusive fire of illumination, she had to complete a series of tasks. Complete them fully, you go onto the next level. Don’t, and you get churned into butter or bones. And remember, don’t ask too many questions, or it’ll grow you too old too soon. 

I feel aged from the current crisis/opportunity we are individually and collectively navigating. The figuring out how to navigate the all of it with my mama hat, my teacher hat, my human person navigating the stores hat…it’s overwhelming, to say the least. It’s painful too. Its complicated. It fills me with sorrow. Hope. Contradictions. I wish for there to be a place for all of the complexity of it to dance into a beautiful cloak, spun out of dirty straw and made into gold, creating the shape of a new question. Anyway, one of Vassalissa’s tasks is to sort millions of poppy from mustard seeds. An impossible task, if not for the little doll of intuition (from her birth mother, from her spirit mother, from the wisdom of the sophia mother) in her pocket, whispering, don’t worry, just go to sleep, i’ll do it for you. I’ve been trying to sort it, for myself, my students, the world, and …it’s exhausting. 

For days, I’ve been hearing from the little doll in my pocket, please dear, sleep on it. As Baba Yaga once said to Vassalissa, “mornings are wiser than evenings.” It’s true. And here we are, another day, still navigating this crazy insane beautiful messy wonderful world together, With its crowned-virus. We have access to all the information jumbled in the heap of mustard and poppy seeds before us. We’re all sorting. It’s too much to sort sometimes. And we can choose how to sort. Or when to stop sorting, and when to sleep and when its time to take the fiery skull and run. 

Oh my heart. All of our hearts. Here is one golden question, risen from the pyre of the Firebird’s ashes: “How do we make the World (in all its rising and falling, rising and falling) Beautiful, and Good, and True for the Children?” And beneath that question another question, flapping her golden wings, “How do we navigate the questions responsibly, respectfully and in integrity as adults?

I recently thought about a student of mine from last year, Josh, our dear friend Josh, who was in his death transition this time of year last year. I asked him, “What would you say?” He answered by way of story medicine and offered me the gift of Ivan, and the firebird, and reminded me of the medicine of story. That story, his story (Ivan, the Gray Wolf and the Firebird) mysteriously and unpredictably guided a group of first grade children through his sickness, death and spirit world rebirth. Not any one of us wants to or can wrap our chitter chatter heads around the painful story of a child getting sick and dying. Yet stories have a way of making sense out of what doesn’t make sense, helping us to digest it, as if it is milk from the stars inside the milky way, comforting us as we navigating the dark night without a light. 

What would Ivan do? Unlike Vassalissa who had no choice to go into the dark fairytale forest (sometimes stories grab us whether we want them to or not), he choose to go on his adventure. He had absolutely no idea the trouble it would cause. J.R.R. Tolkein said, “It is dangerous business going out your front door.” And still we have the question: How do we make the world good, and beautiful and true for the children? Here is the path and it is forking in the middle of the dark forest. At a fork in the road, Ivan has three choices…go straight ahead, you will grow cold and weary; to the left, your horse will live, you will die; to the right, you will die, your horse will live. We can choose a different path entirely, and bushwack our way like mad through the thick brambles, or we can choose the paths before us. Either way, it’s not easy. There is going to be trouble and adventure, beauty and pain, disagreements and agreements, togetherness, and times apart. We are going to grapple with the questions. And hopefully we will find, quest for and possibly return with the golden questions that outlive all the others. 

Ivan chooses the path to the right, which to me, represents him following his truth, or doing what he thinks is right, or maybe it is what others think is right. May we all follow the truth as it feels right for us, and do so respectfully, responsibly in a world that we are co-creating for the children. He chooses the path to the right, and his horse is attacked and killed by the same grey wolf who will become his personal spirit guide through the dark forest. I don’t know why it works that way. Sometimes spirit throws you a curve ball, and then guides you, through thick or thin. 

All this to say, we are all navigating stories. Some of them are intersecting and some of them are colliding. Here is another golden question: How do we hold the all of the stories for the children in our lives, in our community and beyond? May we cocreate what serves the one inside the many, without hating one another for our choices, or the difficult position we are in having to choose for ourselves, and follow the path that feels right for each of us. 

When the children are fighting to tell ‘their side of the story’ and for their side to be ‘the right side of the story’ Just as I tell the children, I want to say to you: Neither of you is in trouble. We will take turns. You can say your side, and then you can say yours. Please, no interrupting. No put downs. Please practice listening. We probably have different stories, and while that is complicated, it’s okay. It doesn’t make anyone better or worse, more right or more wrong. Your feelings are okay. Being scared or mad or sad is okay. 

And here we are, back at the beginning, maybe with more questions than answers. Or perhaps for some, this is the end of one story. Or maybe some of us are still in the middle, thinking about the firebird feather, wondering if we will ever see it again. 

happy birthday ee cummings

ee cummings photo

happy birthday ee cummings.

because of you i write.

because of you i feel.

because of you nature is more alive through language.

because of you i think.

because of you i dream in paranthesis.

because of you i love words.

happy birthday beloved poet-teacher-spirit friend.


a wind has blown the rain away and blown
the sky away and all the leaves away,
and the trees stand.  I think i too have known
autumn too long

(and what have you to say,
wind wind wind—did you love somebody
and have you the petal of somewhere in your heart
pinched from dumb summer?
O crazy daddy
of death dance cruelly for us and start

the last leaf whirling in the final brain
of air!)Let us as we have seen see
doom’s integration………a wind has blown the rain

away and the leaves and the sky and the
trees stand:
the trees stand.  The trees,
suddenly wait against the moon’s face.

Cummings’s romantic transcendentalism (which stressed the individual human being and his or her emotional experiences, the worship of nature, and the “spiritual”—or nonmaterial—basis of reality) resulted in the early rejection of his work, for it was not popular at the time.

Read more:

my darling

Depth rising

Summer afterglow.

Post fire and transmutation.

Soft and glow.

The ten-foot tall sunflower bowing.

The expansion of Blossom and ripe and gold. The lengthening wanes.

A fiery feather was found in a tree

in the thrice ninth kingdom.

A heroine seeks adventure.

It wasn’t easy to stretch and grow

But she did.


Seeds now drop


the way they lift

And then descend

To the unknown



Below is a season and

Depth is her song.


And she rises.

Autumn doesn’t fall.

Depth rises.


You feel it in the soil

Then the soles.

Filling up and out

Groin and thigh womb and reproductive caves and swells

And belly soft…lifting

as the melancholy of summer fading caresses the cheek with tears

While heart turns to the within

To the sunlight beating

To love remembering itself through
The souls neverending seasoning.

Write of Passage through Myth & Story

artI’m excited to announce the spring (w)rite of passage cycle: Persephone Rising.

Persephone Rising: (w)rite of passage spring intensive

You know the story. The foundation cracks open.  The first time is sudden. Shocking perhaps. A maiden, daughter of a goddess, descends to the underworld. To the land of the shades. Willingly or unwillingly. Forcibly or by desire. We do not know for certain. Some say, the change was traumatic. Some say, she chose her fate. We know there was a lot of grieving. And we know that the myth itself, seeded 2000 or more years ago, gave birth to spring. 

Regardless, with time and patience, stillness and grace, through the power of the the great, transforming dark, a new queen is born. The myth was once told for initiatory purposes as the Eleusinian mysteries, the annual rites performed by the ancient Greeks at the village of Eleusis near Athens in honor of Demeter and Persephone. Specifically in honor of Persephone’s rising.

From out of the death place, comes new life. Whether you are 13, 18, 25, 36, 42, 57 or 80 years old. In every woman is the triple goddess embodied. Persephone, the maiden, Demeter, the mother and Hecate the crone. They are all integral parts in the story and in every woman. Their story is your story. Your story is her story.  Every woman has a Hecate in her, guarding the crossroads with her ancient crone wisdom. Every woman has a Demeter in her, grieving the loss of some part of her self. And every woman has in her a Persephone in her, a transformation embodied, waiting to rise, anew. 

Persephone. She is healer. She is seer. She is prophet. She is embodiment. She is soul knowing. Depth in bones. Wisdom keeper. Story tender. Compassion. Intuition on fire.

We know that in the below, below, we don’t always know how the story grows or unfolds.

Whether the first time or the thousandth time, Persephone descends and Demeter grieves. Winter comes and the earth is bare. Stories lose their leaves. We lose something we once held dear. We lose a part of our self. We feel cut off from our own knowing or power. We feel betrayed by the world. We are angry at the gods. We feel the stagnancy of our own growing season. We age. We come into the dark shadowy parts of our own midlife. We navigate stories blindly. We lose a love we once treasured. We forget a power we once traveled far to obtain.

Persephone and Demeter cycle through our lives, mysteriously. We relate to the myths new each season, if we allow our eyes to be born anew in spring. It’s hard to see the story with new eyes. Yet when we do, something in us blooms.

There is deep power in reclaiming power. How does Persephone speak through a woman in midlife? What does your Demeter have to say about grief and loss? What does your Hecate, wise woman know about which way you are to travel at the next crossroad? What does your Persephone bring offer as you emerge from the depths of winter, to the surface, to the light?

How does the myth seek to renew you?

We write our way to the wisdom of story. To the center of the myth we discover ourselves anew. We return changed. By seeing ourselves in writing, we witness new truths, like new green shoots. Veriditas! The Greening truths of spring with their holy life force surge through the old story shedding remaining doubts. We discover our own unique miracle at the center of the story. Our own new life in spring. We see the emergence, the becoming of ourselves, blooming before our eyes.

You’ll be nourished by the power of story.  The power of your becoming. You are the author of your life. By editing the past you can transform the present. You can create the new myth of your making.

All stories, all voices, all levels and abilities are welcome. You will dive deeply into an intensive birthing process that allows your story to rise from the deep and into fruition in a month’s time.  Story themes include family stories, birth stories, death stories, grief stories, raw stories, sex stories, taboo stories, reclaiming stories, victim stories, survival stories, identify stories, adventure stories, returning stories, hiding stories, secret stories…

From birth to death, love & loss, sex and longing, stories nestled in the body and stories found in the crooks of trees. Adolescent stories and archetypal journeys.  The story that needs to be told. The story you are most afraid to tell. The story that is hovering with fiery wings, ready to fly free.

Stories about the deep, the earthy, the body.  Good mother/Bad mother.  Stories about the embodiment of being.  The embodiment of seeing. The embodiment of writing. You will become more intimate with your personal authority and knowing.  You will strengthen your voice and know yourself more, as Author. Creator. Sacred.  Divine. Messy. Real. Beautiful. Authentic. Becoming. Brave. Bold.

Participants will 
* receive 4 recorded calls and writing prompts
*commit, strengthen, and/or give birth to your writing self
*generate new material: creative fiction, narrative non-fiction, poems, vignettes and/or journal entries
*through writes of passage processes, experience the medicine of myth and life story

Cost: Sliding Scale $33 – 77 per participant

  • Optional: $25 discount on 1hr Life Story Tarot Reading

How it works

You will receive a recorded call or video each week in April, as well as inspirational writing/poetry and writing prompts to support you in an intensive writing process.

If interested, participants can include a discounted one-on-one life story tarot reading to support your writing process and spiritual growth

my persephone

persephoneMy Persephone doesn’t feel timeless. She looks in the mirror and sees the wrinkles of bark tracing lines on her skin. Underground has its own season. If you spend too much time in a land without sun, you grow strange mushrooms and molds. Not that mycelium isn’t a medicine too. Good for the compost, good for the roots, good for the gardens, good for the worms.

Intellectually, I know she is life eternal. She isn’t death eternal.  Death isn’t eternal. That is a myth. She is that which doesn’t die. She is everlasting transformation. Queen of a misunderstood land. She is placeless and she is everywhere. We see her and we see her not. Daffodil rising to greet the dawn. The yellowing of spring. The greening of the fields. The blossoming on the bough. Bud on a once greenless twig.

She speaks through body differently than she speaks through tree. The body is herstory. Though history is visible also. The old history.  Patriarchy story.  The abduction of persephone. Once, she chose to go under. Then, we are told, she was taken with force, without will.  The heredity of old stories clots in her veins.  Victim to stories she was conditioned to bear. Ancestral patterns repeating themselves. Social patterns and conditioning weeded in her a thousand years ago. Yet,  pomegranate seeds are eternal. They will always be juicy and ripe, jeweled and blood red. Life force is seeded and tucked away. Hidden inside. How we digest the stories is another story.
 I can’t find her story, my persephone song, her now story, through my mind. To find her I must pilgrimage to the butterfly hermitage of pelvis, uterus and ovary.  To the Butterfly of my womansex within me. To the labyrinth of Fallopean tube song. I must listen to nipple and to breast. To all that makes me woman, makes me round, makes me fertile, makes me ripe. Regardless of wrinkles or age.
I have feared her deathsong in my body. Fear of death runs deep inside the Patriarchy’s prison. The misunderstood song of eternal endings. That isn’t herstory. Herstory knows that it is not about dying, but rather, dying to the self. It is the feminine version of the Christ song. The eternal revolution, evolution, revelation, of resurrection. The radical act of change. The radical act of love. It is and it isn’t about the Sun King. It is about what impulse in my body rises to meet the impulse of the rising sun in me in spring. My Persephone song is the song of my mythology and cosmology coursing wildly through my veins. What in me is dying to myself now? What new, tender shoots have the audacity to rise and thrive during these times? Rise oh my soul. Rise oh my spirit. Rise oh my gifts! Rise oh my inner sun, shining, radiating through me. Rise through my bones and blood,  marrow and nerves,  flesh and organs and skin. Rise and thrive.  My Persephone is not a victim song this season this year. She is not the abducted forgotten one. Oh no! The world  knew she was going to come up again. Yes, she ate those seeds way back before she was born again new. Again and again the world turns, the seasons change.  the world went dark with forgetting. and now it is her time to bring geen truths, golden truths back upon the earth, verdant and bold, blossoming and sticky, ripe and abundant.
Persephone, my persephone. Persephone, my eternal. Persephone, my Queen of the death place, which is one of the most fertile regions I know. All that dies gives birth to so much life.
How do I know if I can trust her if I follow her now? Has she transformed into a new form? I find myself no longer wearing her young maiden Kore skin, but rather, edging my way more slowly, cautiously, and yes, wisely and joyfully even in grief, between Demeter and Hecate. Moving towards the crossroads of midlife. Feeling my way into the dark, dark forest where the whisper voices of Italian Renaissance poet-philosophers remind me of stark truths. I find there the Cynical. Hardy. Crystallized. and Sturdy.  And, surely, something in me has a tender, vulnerable, innocent eternal spring. A Persephone truth found only in the courage of the journey.
Beneath the muck, beneath the parts too long grown fuzzy or gray with lichen and moss, beneath the browning and the composting beneath the sludge, beneath the mushroom, something pink. Anemone. Aphrodite pink. Yoni pink. Vagina pink. Clitoris Pink. Nipple pink. The tender hidden interior of seashells spiraling a sacred algorythm that never ends. Yet even Yoni at this age seems a fruit past its season. Where hath gone the eternal youth, the tight unfolding, the bud before the blossom, before the Apple the impulse of Summer? Youth feels a story long gone.
I have walked wearily with Demeter’s Sorrow song.
And I see humor and the wisdom of time and age through the my soon to be croning eyes
We are all of it in its entirety. The myth lives eternally and how we stand in relation to it is how it changes as well as how it changes us, but Life. Death. Life and Death keeps on turning and turning the brown earth red again.
I was lost in this myth. Now, I (w)rite my way back to her Elyeusian Fields. Rite of Passage with my Caduceus. Healing fingers telling somatic stories rooted in place and time.
I choose a new role in this myth. a new name. I choose a new myth.
I don’t want to be cut off from Spring eternally. I don’t want to Wrinkle in Time, despite the grace it has. I resist aging. I resist death and in this confession I finally find the treasure gems of my sweet and salty tears, her tears inside my truth.
My Persephone. Now, finally, now after the Revelation, she reveals: there is youthful impulse in aging, only it looks different than I think. It isn’t a song I know, and I cannot find a branch to tell me so. It speaks from underground. And I need to get still to listen. To allow all of it, all the crinks and wrinkles and pain and heartache and humanness and age to be what it is. I must allow the feelings, all of them, and wait for the words to swell in my uterus to swell to become red again with pomegranate seed life force. They will flow. But what happens when the blood red river dries too?
Hecate tells me  my mind  is spinning, resisting, trying to figure out stories that haven’t yet had their say. Don’t let the mind be a prophet. The time will come for the story to fall like water. Demeter reminds me..for everything there is a season. Even when seasons change their myths and rhymes. There are cycles that cannot be sped, harvests that need to wait, fallows that need to be still longer. Have patience for the time of grieving. Grieve and grieve some more. Allow this to be the flow song. Regardless if the daffodils have found their wings.
And then someone whispers: when she Rises you may not recognize her. But a part of you will know. It’s the tender part. The anemone. That which is selective about how it opens. The pinking of soul is a heart song worth sheltering, worth protecting, worth saving, worth savoring, worth holding, worth birthing. Surrender song. Soft Song. Grace Song. Regardless of what the world says. Go against the stream. The way the strong pink salmon do. 

how to be resurrected

fawnhow to be resurrected

walk barefoot at least once a day
move like an animal
whisper to trees
belly to earth stillness
crawl like a worm
dream deep among whales
turn your face towards the sun.
think like a sunflower.
surrender like the moon.
periodically erase yourself.
let nature crawl into you.
replace your middle name with hers.
remember: i am
the path between
earth and sky.

—stasha grace

the girl who changed her fate

wild 2
it is and it isn’t subtle. the way habits wrap their vines. the way they curl, wind and crawl. tough sinew threads inching towards mind, sky and crown. the way they hide beneath branches and leaves. beneath the forest’s canopy. they way they whisper lies. the way they stick and spin and pull one in.
spiders they are. and all spiders are story makers. habits and their crafty legs spinning spinning spinning fates. web wizards. web mistresses. weavers. habits are that too. they do make and destroy stories. they try to suck the marrow out of the fleshy, cornucopia stories. making gurgling sounds as they swallow. fat with pride. plump with the catching. dream catchers. they are this too. habits grow and habits swell. they slip through our fingers. changelings. moon time they know this too. they speak the language of mold, bone and mushroom. they grow quickly. one moment they are not there. night gives birth to herself. in the morn they are ripe and bulbous.
the girl who changed her fate had wolf eyes for seeing in the dark. she knew which mushrooms to pluck. which bones to suck and which ancestral memories to carve and which to cull.
born a naked star, hurled out of myths. vulnerable to the vines of ancestral memory and karma. clearly a tender shoot in spring. sea anemone floating across dunes. opening and closing, feeling and finding her way through the ecology of becoming human. sometimes caught. sometimes not.
when a constellation says victim it also says hero. when one is fated to something one is also free to destiny. turn a story inside out on itself and butterflies explode out of caterpillars.
deep in the unconscious there was and there wasn’t a victim story. not the kind you think. it’s more subtle than that. it’s the victim to habit. the victim to sleep. the victim to forgetting.
but turn it in on itself and there is remember. return. recreate. turn it in on itself and she is pregnant with destiny.
stories come and stories go. myths repeat themselves in different languages. and then there is the choose your own adventure kind. rather than following the sequence of the pages, she skips ahead to pg. 86. then she closes the book and writes a new story in the language of baby stars.
to die would be an even greater adventure, said peter pan. not the dying to the flesh kind of dying. but the dying to the self. the dying to the old story. the firebird kind of story. the rising and renewing. the flaming and the blazing.
this is and this isn’t a true story. firebird feathers are and aren’t real. dreams grow paths where before there were brambles. one day she pricked her finger. the next she was awakened. one day the wolf gobbled her up. the next day she grew fur and growled at the old vines and ran wild and free through the once tangled forest.
wolf girl2

viriditas: the ecstasy of greening

sleep walker brook shaden

“O most honored Greening Force,

You who roots in the Sun;
You who lights up, in shining serenity, within a wheel
that earthly excellence fails to comprehend.

You are enfolded
in the weaving of divine mysteries.

You redden like the dawn
and you burn: flame of the Sun.”
–  Hildegard von Bingen, Causae et Curae

Tis the greening time. Not the Saint Patty Green, but the greening truth or viriditas. Come oh faithful ferns and fronds. Grow your spirals through me. Antlers and branches reach through my skull. Stretch beyond the beyond towards a new constellation. Where plants sing to stars and stars draw rooted, winged humans across galaxies.

deer brook shaden

Green. Oh lush rolling hills. Verdant echoes of moss. Daffodil before the bloom. Violet leaf and hidden flower. Mathematically perfected from seed to flower. Patterns of sacred geometry growing gently unfolding unfurling whirling twirling microcosms of planets dancing round the sun.

Green. Arms digging into earth the first touch of spring the first descent of toe into mud the first dandelion peek a boo leaves toothed and fierce. Alive. Heart’s forest spreading wide her wintry cocoon, expanding now that birds may fly. High, higher now acorn caps split cracked shoots push push pushing through the impossible cold hard crust now escaping first light of sun ecstatic kiss.

Green. I am to thee your bride. Marry me oh green. Surrender that I may know the healing touch of resurrection that from out of wintered stalks yellowed and gray, brown and forgotten a new bud swoons. Paint my lips crimson with the love of you gardening in the soul of my soles, the soul of my soil, the green of spring so new so unmistakeably bright golden almost not the autumnal kind but bright, cheery, hip hip pip the piper blowing songs through bamboo forests grown a girth wider. Green. To thee I sing the body of you I surrender too. Green me into a thousand medicinal roots and shoots from out of every limb I blossom too.

Green. Grass and blade. Lichen meandering blanketing my bosom soft and sweet the smell of hay wet and damp, dank and the smell of rain rippling the creek beds rising the mother earth hugging her plenty bursting forth at the seems. From out of every crack a green thing emerges. Tiny, succulent, ripe and sweet. May the good goddess feast of viriditas that life, pregnant, creation bursts forth without punctuation or apology.

Green. The truth of green. The bright yes of green. To boldly follow you off the path towards the ivy to where the deer dream of your holy sentences held fast by every tree now singing. Green. The awakening. The ecstatic longing. The healing of green. The heart a hive now humming growing sweeter by each step taken barefoot slowly away now into the green wild world scampering beyond concrete beyond hedges into the secret chambers where pistil and pollen, stigma and stamen await the sacred dance of bee and butterfly. Holy opera of foliage and flower, forest and bough, wild and domesticated, garden and field.

If you, dear traveler are forlorn, lost, dry or forgotten, return to the sun. Return now, whether or not you  missed a turn on the path, return. The way leaves do, new. Listen, can you hear the way the grasses sing?  She’s flowing, more powerful than the rivers, the flow of greenness penetrating every aspect of all life. A reflection of the Divine on Earth.




from the belly

newthere is a new moon in my belly.

she is dark as the hollow crevices beneath the oak tree.

home for a gnome she too is a nest.

listen. magnolias bloom the sounds of pink and milky white. petals open.

it is a revolutionary act to still the self enough to listen to her. wisdom is here for the drinking. revel in the temple that you are. yet the body goes through her motions, the head thinks she is the queen the busy bustle hustles. belly whispers truths. mind chases other stories.

soon, there is a hardening. and a hollowing. trees have rough exteriors for a reason. wrinkles and time, wrinkles and time they too breathe. sap softens despite the cold.

sometimes the belly wakes up from her bear time and growls. she is hungry. hungry to be felt, to be heard, to be remembered. her hunger hollows her, carves her, makes burning holes bright like stars. hollow, once again, dark like the crevices beneath the trees. still home for gnomes gnarled now like knots. stomach hardens. truth coils. memories fade. and the grind continues.

but she rises. like sap in spring she pushes the old muck up and out to the surface. it rises backwards to get her attention. the hollow places fill in and spill forth. truth is inside out and backwards. it takes a mystic to decipher the secrets.

the belly hides wisdom. deep within the folds she knows the way knows the truths knows the self. she is intuition embodied. she is ancient knowing. she is the birth of magnolias before the evolution of butterflies. she is non verbal archeological treasure hunt. she is layers and geologic time. oceanic protean. moon rhythms. words before speech. she is hunger before the hunt. she is buddha inside the lotus flower sleeping. listen. to the hum of bees in the apple orchard. follow the honey below the heart. to the golden jeweled center. all that you seek is waiting to be found.

new moon

Nature Medicine Walk


The crows are screaming. The earth is wet.

Mist. Gray. Blankets and Listen.

Forest sing. Forest song. Crows. Caw.

When I medicine Walk

Crows Come.

It’s louder than normal.

Their cacophany is textured. Nuanced.

I haven’t heard this songline of theirs before.

Into the Woods I Walk.

Vines. Bare Trees

Thin. Branched. Heady.

Despite being in west of city

I nestle now here. Listening.

The crows. Awake. Alive.
“Do you hear? Do you hear?”

“Welcome! Welcome! What are you waiting for?”

I hold a question.

The red of the cardinal.

The red of the buds of a tree who’s name I know not.

The crows. Spiraling outward beyond.

Silent now.

I walk.

Is now the time to walk into nature

with community? With Nature and Imagination?

How ludicrous that I have no time to simply sit and listen.

To behold. To become. To allow.

Becoming is my song.

My words, the emergence of the marriage

between nature and I

whether whole or not

Nature (w)Holy’s my words.

She creates new verbs out of me.

Becoming is a language I love.

And the crows. They are away now. Beyond the beyond blanket of pussy willow white

All is quiet.

The egg speaks.

She is there.

A huge, fog colored egg.

Alone among a feast of gooey broken shells.

My first thought is to devour her

the way crows do.

But she is huge. And in my hands now. A babe.

Eyes scan Upwards, to where branches reach

the nest high, so high

How in the world did the egg fall and not break?
How in the sky do things stay whole?

In my hands now, a new story.

My daughter joins me. Wondrous eyes

Flashing like fish leaping

We speak a wordless language.

The language of awe passes timelessly between the between

In medicine time the language of beauty.

Our egg is now home. In a sock. Wrapped in wool.

For safe keeping. Just because. Who knows?

The question I hold just as precious.

The answer is whole. The answer is clear.

Yes. I will. I will. I will hold the question.
I will trust the emergence of the answer.

Through words

becoming like sprouts

newly through me in mid winter

soon turning into spring.