The Last Day


On the last day of this life as I’ve known it—
each day for a year savored
like the precious elixir it has become—
the white snow falls softly on the face
I’ve turned to the sky in wonder
at what a new dawn might bring.

I blink the drops of melted moisture
off my lashes and they fall to my cheeks,
become icy again dripping from my jaw
into the ringlets of my hair.

My face has become like a mountain,
stone eroded slowly by water and time
until I am no more than a flat place,
a meadow where daisies might spring up
again when the sun warms earth
into another life.

But today I am nothing but possibility,
longing for the warmth of love
that might slip his warm hands
into the place where skin
is now urgent to be released
from the lonely solitude of this day.

I have given up hope for happiness
of that fleshy path of the spirit
and must be content to trace
my own exposed collarbone
at the nape of control.

The breath is my messenger
to the next life—
in and out, slowly,
with gentle compassion
my lover now—
the only companion I can find
as the light dims to blue
and violet healing
of the night.

Tomorrow I will be reborn again,
the chance to take life into my own hands,
a tender seedling
needing tending
attention and absolute kindness
to bring blossoms.

Even if I must start here,
watering the tiny green gift
with my tears and sheltering her
from the winds of uncertainty,
I will do what I must to bring her
to bear fruit,
to offer this sacrifice at the altar of love

This is the only tomorrow I dare dream
into a new morning.

The Darkest Nights

December dark nights
don’t bother me.
I need the balance of them
to wrap themselves
like the black winged bird they are,
feathers like lashes covering my eyes,
letting me fall into
depths of the richest despair,
letting me fall asleep,
focus on blackness
that amounts to less than
the imagination can grasp
in her hungry, outstretched palm.

When the darkness comes,
my breath comes easier
as I dive back into the womb-cave of time.
My hands trace the face of memory here—
etch the symbols someone
might someday understand
to mean something
like absolute kindness.

If I place my hand over the heart
of my child self,
the one who wants to call out
to all of our mothers,
I calm her,
rock her to sleep
in this darkness,
and I let her slumber
next to the warmth
of your enormous love.

In the darkness, we turn
to each other as innocents,
wrap our arms around the other,
and become one light
that will be the spark
that will start another fire
and sustain us until spring.

Chinese Story

I'm learning to be the cook today.

The ox sits before me
so still after the slaughter,
his blood pooling
near his cooling neck
as evidence of this crime
of need.

I hold the smooth wooden handle
trying to forget the violence of the blade
and the death
that eventually
brings nourishment.

What will it be like
to plunge the steel
into this flesh
and watch the heavy hind quarters
or a shoulder
drop like clods of dirt
to the floor?

My hands are clean.
I have given thanks
for the soul of this beast.

But what of the sweet smell
of fresh blood swirling around me?
What of the bowels that
tumble warm at my feet
onto the sacred places
of this moment?
Do I wash them away
into the river of dispair
or let them pay witness
to the rest of the quick slices
into the truth of this necessary
sacrifice?

There is nothing to do
but wait for the moment
where the soul leaves his body
and I am called to find the places
between the joints where the blade
touches no bone
and the hand forces
nothing but release.

Drinking to Love

My lips hover
at the edge of this glass of wine
filled with gratefulness and hope.
The faintest smell of sweetness
gathers at my nostrils
waiting for the next breath
to bring you inside
this intoxication.
In this moment I have the courage of language.
I have not forgotten how to sing
and I am dancing in the deepest awareness
of a love that has transformed everything.

We have walked into this field of daisies
a hundred thousand times to place our skins
next to each other.
Even in winter it is possible
to burn clean the place where our souls meet
with one single, compassionate kiss.
Even in the light of a clear day
our brilliance outshines the noon sun.

I am dreaming the violet aura of a crown again.
This time I am the queen of a gentle universe
crushed by the suffering of my people
being lifted off the distant minds of time.
From this primitive, silver place
we will all rise, holding tightly
to the promise of that absolute emptiness.

I sip slowly at my overflowing cup,
spilling this generous love over both our bodies—
unashamed of knowing the joy
of each moment of this mystery.

We have uncovered the miracle of eyes wide open,
awakened to knowing love
in the face of every living being.

When I hold you,
I hold the angels of each body
you’ve ever been
next to my lotus heart.
Out of these dark waters
has come what we know
is nothing but truth.

How Do We Color Love?

Step out on a clear December night
and look up past the shadows of tall pine,
the shape of smoke escaping the chimney
into the white hot stars
and you’ll realize it is impossible
to describe the color of love.

Try, if you will, to make the mind move
into the rustling sweetness of happiness,
kick your feet through those leaves of joy,
rake them into a pile of pleasure,
walk away and turn quickly
to run back into ecstasy
only to fall heavily, confused
to the cold frozen ground of expectation.

When I was a girl I stretched out in the warm
green grasses of shaded June afternoons
and imagined myself into the clouds
above the Minnesota prairies.
I could get there,
a little bird of hope,
resting at the edges of that misty whiteness,
it was where I first knew the infinity of the soul
rested only in my young body for a moment
and then it learned it must rise up to the call
of our mother’s loving voice.

When you close your eyes each night
at the end of a long day of trying
not to be swallowed
by the grief of all the strangers--
by planting the healing mind in the center
of each suffering heart—
what color do you see?

If I am lucky,
if I pay attention to the collective breath
of the gentle universe
in the stars of one clear December night,
I see the brilliant purple Aurora Borealis
start at the edge of my dreaming,
the ripple of beautiful forgiveness
for needing to know again
that this kind of enormous love
has no beginning
and no possible ending.
The crimson of this blood
will eventually run clear
without the sacrifice of one more child
in this kingdom of grey forgetfulness.

Perhaps it will be here,
in this place of calm abiding,
we will remember
the color of love.

As If We All Matter

In the dream this life is becoming,
I can only go gently from day to day
consorting, and sometimes dancing
with angels.

These heavenly beings are my cousins
in this incarnation,
sharing stories about the vibration
of the stars in the fibers that make up
the essence of our hearts

And our minds fly like hawks
to and from the roosts
we’ve made in the stony places
overlooking the oceans,
gleaming and fresh as we find the quickest passages
to the places love needs us most.

How can it be that just yesterday we flew past the dark face
of a crying child without compassion
toward the breast of a mother
aching t nurse her sleeping son to health?

We open all compassion for all children in the nipple she offers
to those small, pink lips.

How can it be true that in the place I am from
could deny bread to the sad, hungry eyes of a neighbor
on the way to put out the fire at a stranger’s home?

We hold the cup of cool water
to the parched mouth of all.

What safe haven, safe harbor
will we douse from heaven
for all the suffering to bathe in laughter
and safety,
heal in the quiet pools of kindness,
if we only notice a single drop of dew
forming on the edge of a leaf at dawn.

I must be willing to talk honestly
with my sister angels
to clear the sky of all clouds and darkness of doubt
to fly straight into the fear and ignorance
that blocks our vision of the truth.
There is too much to be done to be anything less
than magic and miracle
with each beam of light approaching this atmosphere
searching for hope.

I reach out both hands
to the other dreamers waking and acting
as if the God in each of us
really matters.

Accepting the Invitation to Dine

Even the wisest of my handmaidens
don’t understand the way this vibration,
this movement that starts just inside my mouth,
at the place where my lips come together in a smile,
at the epicenter of where all things kind
have changed forever,
this pulsation of truth,
is the source of forever.

Right here inside of my mouth
the universe is transforming herself
into something wonderful.
My tongue can’t help but find the edges
of this miracle ready to explode into every cell
of my body—I’m ready to depart on this journey
to the cessation of light into light.

Who could have imagined this would happen to me
in this lifetime, with this set of maps that anyone else
would confuse for directions to nowhere. North is not
where it seems to be. The heart is the only compass available.

But you knew, from the first time you saw me,
in this simple form of woman sitting unaware
in a place of no significance,
even blinded by the illusion of beauty,
you knew that I would be here facing this lonely path.
You knew the words before I spoke them
because you’ve traced them under your skin,
you’ve wrapped your wrists like a prisoner
with the vows of loving kindness,
you knew that you’ve promised
a thousand lifetimes
to help me find my way.

I wouldn’t ask you again
to this same place of sacrifice,
our children and our honor on the line
if it didn’t matter so much to the birth of another reality.
I wouldn’t ask you again if I didn’t feel your heart
continue to beat in my own chest
when I only stop long enough
to notice one breath.
I wouldn’t ask you to help me
if I didn’t know that you are the last key
on the ring that holds the answers to everything.

I am packing my bags carefully now
one item at a time. You know how it is
to leave again the place that has become home.
Why wouldn’t I want to choose carefully the garments
I’ll wear to the place we will meet.
Each morning I bathe as if I were the bride
preparing for my groom, careful to smooth
the roughness of each weary foot, arranging
my hair and perfuming my skin with goodness,
ready to accept the invitation to dine at this shared table.

There is no hurry now because I am no longer confused
about my place in the future or how to get there.
I have meditated quietly and have been answered.
You have opened the doors fully to the truth.
I am waiting for that love to bring you home.
This is where you will remember how to love me.
This is where we will openly seek our thanksgiving
and rejoice at the abundance we’ve become.

Circle

How can I tell you about the dimensions,
the circumference of these colors and fractions of fragrance
in these places that are no longer flat,
no longer round like the curves
of the horizon,
only wave after wave of life
crashing blue, green, and healing purples
against my skin.

The sky is constantly changing in front of my watchful eye.
I have learned to read these clouds, the graying smoke signals
of change, the dreams of all the people I have been—
the love that pounds messages from stone.
Delicate petals on the white places of promises.

You circle my mind like silver
wrapped around the small bones at my wrist,
priceless, with delicate instruction
in how to take a vow.
The heat of this sincerity burns my flesh
with truth. Ink pointed under the surface of cells
helps me remember even when the body is gone.

What kindness did I lay at your feet
when you were lost
to bring this unconditional desire?
Foamy resistance to nothing
as the quiet lapping of this miracle
slowly erodes my resolve,
breaks my heart open, gushing with thankfulness.
This is the fountain where I offer you
everything I will ever be.

Wise circles of jade and gold, pink quartz,
stone and metal unite in the breath we now share.
Come find nourishment here under this wing.
Come here to the place where the swirling universe must stop,
stand completely still
and bow to love’s absolute power.

The Force of Love

Your story about the hip of the woman
stretched out, sleeping next to you
is hiding in the corner of my mind this morning.
I call to her from this rocking chair
wondering where she’s gone to
in her too quiet play.
You said you put your mind
to that fleshy place—
a healing mind that brought warmth
and the tingle of life to those curves
you attach yourself to.
No wonder you prefer that place
with the strong arms that enclose you in embrace.
I have nothing to offer you
from the drafty attic of the ghost I am becoming.

The force of love isn’t what we all think it is—
hearts with the richness of the darkest chocolate
rolling on our tongues, fragrant fruit or the swoon
of red wine, a hand
brushing a wisp of hair
from the flushed cheek, replaced
instead by long kisses
leading to the bed of shared grace.
No, that is not what you would find in this sanctuary,
empty of any warm prophecy,
only the flight of the soul exiting the vessel
again and again, night after night alone.

You comfort me,
patting my shoulder with your words,
kind with the reminders you are witness to this leaving.
Sometimes I think you might like to join me,
book passage on the same steamer
across the great waters of time.

But then there are those hips
and the gatherings around the fires
that draw you back
to the recognition of the healing of laughter
and the promises of more
made to your children.

I close my eyes to that longing, the tightening
fist around the thing not offered to me,
and begin to sing another song.
This song sends what is left of my generosity
to encircle your head with the crown
to my small, yet royal, domain.
Here I can offer you
the remains of the riches
I have gathered
and must now leave behind.

This kind of love
is the only inheritance you or I
will ever require for that safe passage
past the gates of forever.
The apple orchards blooming
with delight as we enter.

There are only three things
that are important in a life.
The first is to be kind.
The second is to be kind.
The third is to be kind.
–Henry James

Everything Has Changed

I can’t remember when the things of my old self started to fall apart
to where they are now—where everything has changed.

This is not to say
that my life, from the outside, is much different.
My children are happy
and growing up
as children will do
if we are lucky—like I seems to be today.
I haven’t decided to leave my current husband—
though I often plan my escape route
for when he will have me no longer.
I wake up to tea with cream, drizzled with maple syrup
each morning grateful for my tall cup of goodness
as I watch the seasons change around the white pines
of my windows in the woods.

But everything has changed.
Every cell in my body has been replaced by a knowing,
brick by stony brick,
toward a stairway to a home
I’ve never seen.
Each exhalation
I am shedding my old skin
from the inside of my snake self out,
layer after layer gone
until I crawl, naked
of any knowing.

There is nothing to say of this loss.
I am a neutralized solution, condensing again
toward a droplet of pure truth
on the tongue of God—
a waiting tear of joy and forgetfulness.
Until I am ready to fall
into that great nothingness,
I must remember to be kind.

I must walk gently
in the midst of mere mortals
without disturbing the myth
of the importance of the mind.

As my feet touch the wooden floor
of daylight, I am reminded
to be grateful for the lack of pain I might find
in the world, my ripple on the surface of the pond
of compassion
bringing comfort to everyone,
on even the most distant shores.

And, when the time finally comes to depart
and my shining key of kindness locks the door
behind me one last time, I will gladly place that glowing hope
in the hands of my loving family of friends,
my palms and pockets free
to scatter the seeds of goodness
along the path of searching,
feeding the birds
and small creatures
that will heal all of tomorrow—
making my way without words
clear as a dark December sky.

Unbreakable

In this new body
I descend the familiar stairway
into hell again,
past the snake of temptation,
sharing the secret password
only snakes can know--
Eve’s lesson still fresh
in my mind.

In this new body
I gladly walk the plank,
swan diving,
back flipping,
into the depths of redemption
pulling hard at this thick water
toward the pearl
hidden from my view,
my lungs filled
with the heat of holding
until my face can break surface,
gasping for just one more
bite of sweetness.

In this new body
I am learning to strip myself
naked of fear,
bind my feet first.
then hands together,
with faith in knowing
the oncoming locomotive of future.
In this speeding light
and trembling place
I lay my willing nature
down on these tracks
waiting under calm
for this accident
to release me.

The planets know this body of light
like a sister. They have orbited
my soul for a million millennia,
watching this cycle,
this rebirth like late night reruns,
sleepy in the artificial light
of illusion, faces glowing blue
through the windows of the universe.
They are tired and waiting for real rest to come
or for the surprise of something new
to watch.

In this new body
smoking fresh from the fire of creation,
crawling, clawing, with my nails dirty,
embedded with the earth,
I gather the remains of wise old blood,
compassionate flame,
struck new again
to light the way
of a new set of footprints.

And what of my love for you, sweetness?
What I would give to exchange
just one true kiss.
From this place of passion
I would turn us to stone,
frozen in time,
longing finally captured,
contained in the unmoving
marble of these two
unbreakable hearts.

Transitioning to Grace

I wish I could tell you
or even myself
what happened
watching the moon rise
full over Mascoma Lake last week
my heart in lodged in my throat
my mind completely silent
but for the attention
to the mechanical buzz of light
that has taken up residence
in the connective fibers of my body.

In that almost November wind
the urgency to touch anything warm
to the palms of my hands
and the deep ache in my side
were finally quiet.
The air, full of the crisp coolness of fall,
went undetected by nostrils or nerves that might
register cold, even the light of the bright moon
became filtered, less brilliant
by the changing landscape of my heart.

I am numb in this place of cross currents and unsure
of what comes next.
I feel the soul’s trapped wisdom
in this newborn body,
where the exposure to the elements
rips my unwilling flesh raw.

I wish I could sing, chant,
celebrate this non-attachment,
but instead I moan with grief.

If only I could remember why I started
toward this big water,
perhaps then I might understand
why I am left alone again,
unable to make my way home.

Letting The Fire Take Us

How does one chronicle a life?

In letters. In photos.
In the people and places we’ve loved?

If a fire overtakes the house of one’s soul
what do we grab as we escape the flames
before the intense heat
turns our lungs into useless bellows
for the life force of the long days
and nights of breath?

Images of faces—
our baby selves
and our children’s bright new eyes
unable tofocus in all the light—

Our mother’s longing smile
at forty next to the lines that will follow you
into the next twenty years
if you are that lucky.

The embrace of a life folded
into the pages of albums and boxes
that pale in comparison to the memory
or to the life itself.

If Buddha took my hand,
lead me out of the flames,
sat me down next to his tree of abundance,
he would tell me to leave it all behind—
illusion and all,
notice the fleeting sense of permanence,
he might tell me not to burden myself
or my children with anything but the joy
and suffering right in front of us today.
The knapsack of this life is already heavy
and it is time to release myself
and continue on the journey
lighter than any heart has traveled.

I could give it all to the fire today,
every single item and misplaced trust,
even leave the ashes of my children
with no guilt or sorrow
for the promise of the path
beyond the farthest star.

I would easily fly away there,
never, ever come back
to these tired and charred remains
with a grateful smile
on my true face.

From that distant place
I might finally find peace.

Driving Toward Home

Today, somewhere near Charlestown,
or maybe it was Claremont,
I drove down Lover’s Lane
going exactly the speed limit
for the first time
in a long time.
I wasn’t in a hurry
to get anywhere.

On the seat beside me
was the dream of a box
shared with a heart
as sweet as the universe can be,
like the copper of November oaks
left to fend for themselves--
nothing but the grey sky
and the smell of snow
to keep warm.
Geese sing sleep as they pass
on their long flight to the river
just ahead of winter.

Meanwhile, the box remembers
the hands of her maker,
trembling with joy at the thought of that love,
that gentle touch.
It woke her before
from a sleep so sound
perhaps she had never been
this alive.

I was witness to another kind of love today,
just as pure as hers.
In that light I was smoothed
like stones,
removed of all my rough edges,
rolled by water and wind
of a storm no one expected.

Now I yield to my partner,
the universe. His will places his hands
carefully, solidly balanced in my core
where I could never go alone.

Talk Love To Me

Talk love to me.
Wrap your words around my waist
and pull me in
close to your belly
soft with breath,
guiding yourself into me
to the wet acceptance
of this spirit we share.

Your love came to me today
in the form of a tree--
a shower of sun yellow leaves
on Washington Street.
A wind blew your name
on my neck.

Lover, you can have me anywhere.
No body is necessary
when the spirit emerges
fireworks more brilliant
than all the individual joy
collected in one thousand lifetimes.

The thought of holding you
is so real
the ghost of you
becomes flesh again.

I take your words in my hands,
trace the shadows of your chest
with my mouth,
and guide you deep
into the core
of my flowering lotus.

Unexpected thunder rolls through my body
like a fire and I am released from my suffering
before it even begins.

The Virtue of Silence

I knew it was over
the day you told me
about the hike into the hills,
deep enough to find a cave
made for meditation

or if the sun shone
just right on the opening,
in the days that equal nights of the fall,
a place where you and I could strip down
to just our skin and merge
into that leaving light
and finally touch peace.

You said
you didn’t have time
to show your true face.
It wasn’t real enough for you
to take that risk in the shadows of faith.

The cave,
the place a womb could open
and birth pure love,
it is here you decided to take the path
another way home.

Though this heart couldn’t be any more shattered,
than it is tonight, a mirror always raises the pen
and puts words to the page
and writes an oath to the self.

I will not be the crumbs
you leave along the rocky way
to find your way back
to this longing.

If I am lucky
I’ll find my own cave soon,
crawl inside her warmth
and heal the hurts of all humanity.
Here there is no betrayal of hope
in the face of a deeper calm,
the tremors of kindness abounding.

You will shake the memory of me
from your weary travel clothes.
The virtue of this silence will save us all.

Leaving Desire

Close the windows so we can’t smell
the sweetness of the breezes
evaporating the dew from autumn leaves today.

Draw the blinds and pull the curtains tight.
The sun is too brilliant,
inviting us through soft fog
to walk in this morning, this new October.

I will stop cooking food
rich with butter and salted delicately to taste.
No pumpkin bread will emerge steaming hot from my kitchen
with cloves, cinnamon, or allspice.
Apples and peaches are now out of the question.

The sound of my children laughing as they play must stop.
Those smothering giggles of absolute joy are more than one woman
should endure.

I vow now to give up digging into the doughy dirt each fall,
placing the promise of daffodil, tulip, crocus in her breast.
There will be no purple hyacinth or Star Gazer lilies next year.
I promise to pull up the peonies and bleeding hearts.
And, my God, the daisies,
right at the roots, give them away.
My soul is at stake, after all.

Perhaps when my work is done
I will stop,
lie down in the quiet of my dying room.
Here I will find the courage to say goodbye to your face,
the feel of your hands at my waist
and the cupping of my breasts to your lips.
I will ignore the sound of your voice
as you say my name, low
in time to the skipping beat of my heart.

Finally, when I’ve done all that leaving,
I must quietly acknowledge my desire
to love your generous heart.

The naked truth of that absolute lust
must be locked away in the tomb I will occupy.
It is the clicking shut of that key
and the rattling of these chains of wanting
that will release me from all these illusions
and suffering attachment to this last life.

Evening Train

As I board another evening train toward grief
I have a confession to make.

I have begun to say farewell to this body
and to the paper men listed in my black bookof love,
like the log of endangered species
they might become
without my memory
or the chance of passion they found
curled inside of me—
the tendrils of my long hair
falling in the face of truth.

Tonight the bones of the earth
gleam in the fullness of moonlight
and I recognize the cool fire near this track,
my heart racing at the place in the throat
reserved for the holy communion
of looming loss.

I lean into the glass of this dark window
and will not deny the fear I find
in the face I see looking back.

After all, confession is all about fear.

The darkness of this place was meant to calm me
as I open my mouth to speak.
Instead, a lifetime of knowing rushes in,
humming like drones to a queen
and the healing silence launches into the skies.

I can feel these wings emerging white and strong,
sprouting from my shoulders, opening to victory.

Soon I will find the courage to open the door of morning
and take flight.
This view of heaven
just as clear as my breath.

Payment In Full

I should have known this was coming
the time I was told the story
about the grandparents on his father’s side
sleeping, each in their own twin bed,
lined up next to each other, alone
for as long as he could remember.

Perhaps that is why his father
is the selfish only child,
spoiled by lovers who slept
out of reach of even the cool fingers
of night after night
without embrace.

I don’t know how else to explain it to myself.

I tried once
to imagine the grandfather
approaching his momsel
with body on his mind,
stiff with the anticipation
of youthful pleasure.

In my mind,
she rolled toward the wall,
letting out a sigh that sent him away
to memories of Russia
or to the dark eyes and hair
of some other girl who might move over
or call him into her abundant breast
and strong arms,
long enough to come home
and find the comfort
of her gregarious flesh.

What sins are passed unforgiven to our children?

If tomorrow I walk into the vaults of compassion
and distribute riches to the most needy
what is to keep me tethered to this life?
Will I have to pay my debt to all those I’ve wronged
in order to set my children’s souls free?


If that is so,
you are the first on my list of debtors.
I want to make your payment in full, with interest,
and exact change.

I want to retire to my own sweet sheets
fresh with forgiveness,
washed clean of any residue of guilt.

I will dream,
communicating with all your ancestors,
let them know my children are finally free
to make their own mistakes
in love.

I will have unloaded their traveler’s packs
of any baggage
or heavy stones
of someone else’s journey,
and, like the late night movies I adore
in this sleeping space,
I will look you in the eye
and finally tell you
I’m gone.

Remembering How to Fly
for Joni Hullinghorst

On my darkest days I fear
that kind of oblivion,
fading from my mind each day
into a darkness that can’t hold the light
of even one day in view.

In that slow dawn toward nothingness
what would my sisterhood remember?

The touch of a child skin,
the crescendo of October,
the beads of sweat on the whispering
lips of a wide awake lover,
the milky smell of the ocean.

This hush of loss haunts me,
strips the flesh from my bones
leaving me picked clean of hope.

Who am I to call on the muse now,
scold her for not staying with us
in this garden ready for harvest?
How can I be angry she planted the seeds,
pulled witch weed from between the rows,
called down the rains from the highest clouds,
and even watched the blossoms into fullest color,
just to leave us here, alone with the unforbidden fruit?

Instead, I am left here with all the other dreamers,
waiting for our turn to forget
the pull of gravity
and remember how to fly.

Surrendering

Tonight the moon slices
blood orange across a harvest sky
sinking beneath the horizon
like some lucky ship
and I am reminded of the wetness
deep and dark inside
the folds of my sweetest skin.

I find hope in this softness of night,
her velvet covers smoothing
out the rough hands of disappointment
and rage at these awake days.
This good mother of night
leaves me alone
to the sound of crickets
and tree frogs,
and to the forbidden thoughts that pass
unmistaken by the knowing belly
of the mind.

Stars like I’ve never seen before
populate the sky with the lightness of forever.

You could take me here
in the open fields
on the last days of summer.

I would surrender
everything to you. I would
give you my children, all of them,
and their bright, shining souls, for just one
lifetime of absolute rapture
found in the hems of this red dress.

It would all be worth it
to have you press your cool lips
to the edges of this human gown.

The Destination

In this year I have chosen
to be fully alive
where the moons turn
like pages of a book
toward the ending of my myth,
I want to put my ear
to the center of your chest,
kiss you exactly above your heart,
and set my ear back at that place,
listening like a woman
waiting to hop a midnight train,
feeling the vibrations
that will explain
how I could squander
the brown and black of your eyes
as if they were blue
or even emerald green.

When the snow comes,
and it won’t be very long—
we will build the city
in which I can love you
without the tall walls and heavy doors
of deception.
There is glass and light
as the train pulls into the station
and the conductor calls out our names,
punches our tickets
and proclaims
with a wink and whispers,
“The journey is the destination.”

Knowing How

The heart knows how to love—

this morning when I woke
mine was racing toward
the face of the universe

arms open wide
and ready to embrace
the unconditional
through me.

And what was I
asked for in return?

Each heart
is given the gift
to expand indefinitely,
without boundary or fear.

Here the sun still rises
and the crescent moon sets
ushering each loving day forward
toward another end

wiser and more sweet than the last.
This is what knowing how to love
becomes, the breaking of light

and offering it to the birds
one seed at a time at the feeder,
one soul at a time with each breath,

each naming of a child
as she is called
to the body of another human life

know just how
each sweet kiss of the lover
imagined,
lasts an eternity.

"We look forward to the time when the Power of Love will
replace the Love of Power. Then will our world know the
blessings of Peace."

*William E. Gladstone 1809-1888 British Statesman

Why I Have A Crush On You, UPS Man

Why I Have A Crush On You, UPS Man

you bring me all the things I order
are never in a bad mood
always have a jaunty wave as you drive away
look good in your brown shorts
we have an ideal uncomplicated relationship
you’re like a cute boyfriend with great legs
who always brings the perfect present
(why, it’s just what I’ve always wanted!)
and then is considerate enough to go away
oh, UPS Man, let’s hop in your clean brown truck and elope !
ditch your job, I’ll ditch mine
let’s hit the road for Brownsville
and tempt each other
with all the luscious brown foods —
roast beef, dark chocolate,
brownies, Guinness, homemade pumpernickel, molasses cookies
I’ll make you my mama’s bourbon pecan pie
we’ll give all the packages to kind looking strangers
live in a cozy wood cabin
with a brown dog or two
and a black and brown tabby
I’m serious, UPS Man. Let’s do it.
Where do I sign?

“Why I Have A Crush On You, UPS Man” by Alice N. Persons, from Don’t Be A Strange

I am just back from a couple of weeks of vacation. It is hard to believe July is racing to a finish. I was at a beautiful NH lake and was able to share time and space with family and friends, eat great food, talk about great ideas and thoughts, write poetry, finish my exams, and enjoy time away from the regular routine of home.

This seventh month of my journey with “A Year to Live” is supposed to be about creating a place to die and leave this world peacefully. Creating a shrine of what my life is about has been wonderful. I have flowers and books that have helped me think clearly. I have candles and a Buddha, a crucifix and a mirror, quotes and words important to me. I don’t really have photos at the shrine areas (yes, there is more than one) because I already have so many photos of my friends and family around. I feel pretty unattached to things and people right now. The shrines, in some weird way, feel like grounding places for me. I can notice that I am here and of a much greater experience and universe at the same time. It feels so simple and freeing. . .a celebration really.

Here’s a draft of a poem I wrote last week. I think it works for month seven.

Nobody knows
I’ve died this year,
that my body is returning to the earth,
slipping into the water of the miracle.
Mile after mile, no longer dipping just a toe
to check the temperature
of this pleasure.
My head is pointing toward the grave.
My feet walking away from home.
I have begun living in code—the one
where I can rock in the boat of quiet hours,
sealing my inner harbor,
safe from any storm.

There is no more trying to surprise God.
The aspects of Eve that live in my days
and in my nights,
in my blood and in each of the bones
of my ribs, each surrounding and guarding
my heart. . .
These pronounce each syllable,
each beat loud and clear.

I am a woman who has turned the corner
and can let go of the mystery. Instead,
I know I am the mystery.
I have understood with each conversation
the new language I speak.
I alone know the power of these words.
I awake with symbols of birds
and fish etched into my skin,
and the flowers—
the lily and the lotus bloom
in the glorious sound of the music
flowing from my soul.

This birth, from the child curled within,
stretches and offers her hand in thanksgiving
toward the opening universe.

Daisies

In a perfect life
you bring me daisies,
sprinkle them on the morning’s table
of our life together—
gather them gently from June fields,
enormous bunches
left humbly at my feet

or next to the cool sheets of a bed
where we find each other,
our bodies free to explore like children
discovering the magic of fireflies
at dusk.

You drag the white petals softly
over my eyes
closed in meditation
dreaming of waking
to the greatest mysteries of these days.

We are each other’s guide
to the peace of flowers
and only knowing
the enormous pull
of love.

I am in this world and of the greater universe at the same time. I am spirit and mind. This is a balance I can come to understand more fully by just being present to my life. What an amazing realization to follow and an almost unreal lightness to this awareness.

Respect and Honor

One should honor women.
Women are heaven, women are truth,
Women are supreme fire of transformation.
Women are Buddha, women are religious community,
Women are the perfection of wisdom.
--Candamaharosana-tantra Scripture
Reading about women and leadership in education is bringing me to more and more wonderful corners of knowledge. This is a passage that keeps bringing me to the truths about the ways women can be honored and respected by some cultures and religious practices. By digger deeper and deeper to find these ideas and ways in which building them into daily life is useful and healing, I’m able to uncover places that bring new lightness and understanding. What can be wrong in any circle of experience where we honor women and treat them as we would any who would bring us closer to truth and wisdom. . .even transformation if we are very attentive? I want to be a woman of wisdom that is welcomed into such a world. I want to be a creature of transformation with the power of supreme fire. I’m certain that kind of knowledge and action is within my reach if I can focus and move closer with each day of my experience of this life.

Near the Bottom of the Soul

Is it possible to find myself my true self
so near the bottom of the soul--
so empty the echo rings off the sides of this space
like the pebble dropping into a well
dug by hand
by one experienced
in longing?

I am so near empty tonight
even tears are hard to bring up
as witness to a life
unworthy of reflection.
Why cry when the slate is so blank?
Why mourn a loss unrecognized by no one?
What meaning can be found in nothing?

Alone, unaccounted for,
no one waits to hear the reverberations,
the sound that comes again from a call
into the darkness.

Looking up at death
is so easy.
Looking back on this life
I step away into the darkness
relieved of the body
searching for something soft to hold onto—
a child’s hand in the depth of night
probing for the comfort of warmth
of the breast or some small, sweet gesture
of humanity.

Tonight I keep death close
as a reminder
to breathe.

Tulpa

I feel you breathing tonight
my hands resting on my heart and below--
my belly rising and falling toward each exhalation,
each awakening of this sacred knowledge of love.

Each night you come quietly,
your body curves around mine,
gathers me in from the day
of wisdom or sorrow
like the flowers, brilliant blue
and the purest white,
from a mountain meadow.
You, always gentle and strong,
find this path to me so easily in the dark
of this aloneness. The stars or moon,
some cool breeze or distant song of a wood thrush,
let you follow my voice to this new place where
the love of a thousand lifetimes comes alive again.

Each embrace, each exotic kiss lingers in every ignited cell of my body.
I am awake and looking into your eyes,
our heads bowed to the heart of the eternal
and the purple flame where we are transformed
into the mystery of all that we cannot understand at this moment.

Patient lover. Generous lover.
Place your trembling hand on my breast
and feel the heat of this desire.
You honor me in this way
as we are woven together,
fire and water,
by the universal weaver.

You come invited to the tips of my fingers, the curve of my neck
and the small of my back. You come to feast on sweet citrus, warm
bread slathered with butter and honey, and to drink my wine.
You must remove my soiled sandals,
wash my small feet in cool water,
and stroke my humanness with your compassion.
It is a sacrifice we both know from our lessons--
the teachings and the tasks being asked of us.
It is our duty to draw up this impoverished world by the hand
and embrace her, offering her the enlightenment,
the bliss of unconditional love.

the alter of living

I’ve been listening to a audio version of “A Year to Live”. It is very powerful to hear the voice of Stephen Levine reading the words I’ve read several times and tried to bring with me along this path. I’m realizing that there’s so much more attention I want to bring to this life I’m experiencing. The mind is so full of ideas about what should be. I want to be living in my heart and that open space that can bring so much more love and understanding.

I keep hearing Stephen’s voice tonight telling me to soften around pain and fear. I’m hoping that I can get that voice to stay with the mind and heart as I open to the possibility of really living in the present moment. I’ll just keep noticing the fire in the heart and the fluidity of the essence of what remains in my life force.

That’s the alter I want to live and die in front of.

heart wide open

June 1st

Love looks not with the eyes but with the heart. –Shakespeare

If love really looks with the heart, that’s where I want to be this month. I want to open my heart up over and over again to look at the world as if it were only through the heart’s eyes. My retreat was a place for me to remember what I know best about myself—I am centered, compassionate, loving, open, optimistic, whole.

That’s what June gets to be about. . .looking at the world with my heart wide open.

Love looks

Love looks not with the eyes but with the heart. --Shakespeare

Luna Moth at Mindfulness Retreat
26 May, 2007
Barre, MA

Sweet moon flier
captured by day outside my window
like a snapshot of the broad smile of a girl.
The crescent of the night
tempted you with happiness.

The breath of spring air
is on your green, feathery wings,
lightly reminding you of the dark
and the other breezes that brought you
here to me now.

Or, was that just a dream?
Imagined pure joy—
to be heaven bound
toward your true love,
round and full of peace—
a pregnant kiss on the cheek
of nothing but the hope of trying
again tomorrow.

Until then, rest here with me.
We will share the darkest longing together,
in love with what this waiting offers us.

Retreat

I leave for a three-day silent meditation retreat this afternoon. I’ve never done this kind of retreat before and I’m so excited about opening myself to the possibilities of just focusing on the present moment for a long weekend. There’s so much I’m sure will come up in me. I can only imagine on this end of things what I’ll feel like on Monday afternoon on my way back to New Hampshire.

Of course, leaving the world of my everyday life behind is not an easy prospect today. I miss my children already. With my father just out of the hospital after his big fall from the ladder at the farm, I worry something might come up for him over the weekend. My schoolwork should be ready to put on hold after my conference call with my mentor in just a little while. My worries about my relationship with my husband will float in and out of my head I’m sure. Planting the garden will have to wait. Getting a mower for the yard will have to wait. The uncomfortable place of not hearing from my potential dream job will have to be put aside in some other place of disappointment—unattached to the current experiences of my life.

AND what of the world where I run from one thing to the next? I guess that is what I get to spend each breath letting go of.

Yesterday I remembered for a few minutes, in my breath, my mind, and in my body, what it was like to be peaceful for most of my experience in this life. I’m determined to get back to that state of calm and openness to the present moment. I know that is the core of who I am and it is where I am supposed to spend most of my time. This retreat will hopefully get me turned back in that direction. That is the peaceful state of being is where I find my passion and my joy in each day.

I do remember that much, that peace, in this transitional time on my life journey. I think that this time is what this empty space on the map is helping me return to.

Last Week Before My Comprehensive Exams

I really never imagined I’d be at this place in my academic career. . .I’m done with my coursework for my PhD and a week away from starting my comprehensive exams. I guess if I stuck around higher education long enough, getting my PhD was inevitable. I’m really excited about preparing my mind for the exams. It feels like I’ve been waiting to do this and I am exactly where I’m supposed to be. In a little more than two months I’ll start my dissertation, if all goes as planned. That’s really a trip! I’m pretty sure that I can push toward finishing this process up by the end of the year. The idea of then moving on in my career and making things happen on that end, is also very exciting.

So for now, I’m breathing deeply, getting ready for a silent mediation retreat over the Memorial Day weekend, and coming back to write this exam with all the enthusiastic academic energy I can muster. It is what I am supposed to be doing-I just know it.

Regret

You heal me—
burn bright
behind my eyes, each holy kiss
rearranging the cells,
all the molecules of a body
that has forgotten love.
This secret chemistry
heats inside us,
boiling at nuclear precision,
firing exactly
as predetermined instructions read. . .
iron of my blood
and oxygen of my breath
combine carbon
and silver rings around each finger—
encircling the lobe of an ear
and turns the mysterious
into solid, shining gold.

Purple flame, magic flame,
I have invited you in
to the sacred space of my heart.
Thankful transmutation
moves what cannot be moved
in one lifetime
into the spirit world.
This is not the lavender
or lilac of spring, but the eternal
color that permeates my soul.

You bring me closer to God.

I am a witness of your power
standing still at the entrance
to Nirvana.

Mark me with that white, cleansing heat.

* * *

How I resist this bond now,
the one forged in gold
that sits, staring in judgment
at me each day,
mocking the promises
I’ve made,
my hand heavy with regret.

Who was I then,
the woman with such certainty
of a future filled with abundant laughter
and a satisfied heart?

It was folly to wager on happiness,
knowing what I knew
about the statistics,
the imperfected formulas
for this kind of chemistry.

Today I want to cast off these invisible chains.
No one else can see them anyway.
There is no loss
that cannot be healed
by freeing myself from a false hope.

There is only freedom in the acknowledgement
of constant change.

* * *

Each waking these days
I am more and more aware
of what is right in front of me.

Each breath
a meditation.
Each step forward
an opening up of the universe--
to change that brings peace and hope to my heart.

If I concentrate with my eyes
on the dew forming into droplets
on a blade of grass
sliding down,
soaking deep into the earth
right outside my kitchen door,
or if I direct my heart
to open
to letting love rush in
like a great thunderstorm
waking me from my sleep

it is all the same.

I can’t ignore the calling to this prayer,
this place of steady, smooth sound.
I am a singing bowl
perched lightly on an elegant, red pillow
calling what can not be seen
home to the fire,
home to rest
for an eternity of knowing.
This is the truth
each soul is searching for
in a thousand lifetimes of searching.

I open my mouth,
smile,
and I am filled again
with undeniable love.

Transmutation

Transmutation

Come and find me
when you discover
where love begins,
where love ends—
when the elements
that make up your body
and my body
are not a betrayal,
but an opening to the great
knowing of all the ages.

Run to the dark corner of the universe
if that is what you must do today.

It does not matter. Love
will find the opening--this door,
in this life, or the next,
or the one after that.
It is then that the atoms
that make up your spirit
will understand
who you are
as a great lover,
the bringer of some small peace
to a world confused
by the expectations
of a false pride.
There is no ego here.
There is only the transformation
of the world from fear
into the golden flame
of love.

Love

I can’t do it today. I can’t make my face look happy. If this were my last year, this would be a sad weekend of loss. I should have been overflowing my joy for celebration of my son’s second birthday and for digging up the ground to get ready to plant. I just couldn’t get myself to that place.

What is it about life. . .when everything should be wonderful, happy, content and it doesn’t seem possible to get there. So much of my life, when it is unhappy, is about being confined by people’s expectations or the norms of our culture. Left to my own patterns and opinions, I’d be happy most of the time. If I could ignore what other people tell me I’m supposed to think and feel. . .I’d be left without that veil of doubt.

Let’s talk about love for a minute. A friend recently asked me about being “in” love. I told him I didn’t really know what that meant any more. As I learn more about the world . . .there’s nothing I know about American “love” that fits. If I am left to my own thinking and feeling, I can often get filled up with love for my children and for my friends. I can find good boundaries and outline this life with lots of love. But “in” love seems to be something more of a function of our cultural expectations. . .Hollywood. . .In love for me is about being so filled with love that I start to overflow into a spiritual/sexual/physical expression that is about an unexplainable connection. This love can’t be contained in words or a common life of adoration. . .it spills over into the passion of creation and connection that can only be absorbed at the spiritual level. I think I’ve been “in” love a few times in my life. I am just not sure my evolving definition fits with anything I meet these days. There’s no definition that fits in our culture for the person I become when I think of that kind of love. It isn’t who I am as a wife. It is more of who I am as a mother or a friend. It is much more expansive than one relationship—sexual or not.

Today I want to tear down my expectations. Today I want to take down barriers and untie myself from any kind of rule that makes love smaller. I want to be open to the possibilities of something much greater that what is available to me now. I want the universe to rush in to all the empty places and fill me with joy that knows nothing of fear or disappointment. I want to be ignorant to everything but love.

I applied for a job today. It is a position I think I’m very ready for at a college community I’d like to be a part of . . .I’m pretty sure it is my dream job. I really wasn’t looking for jobs yet. I was hoping to be done with my comprehensive exams. It seems like I need to focus on that process and then start my work again. Sometimes the universe works this way. I was feeling a little impatient with the study period I’m in. I guess this is the universe in action.

Tomorrow my youngest child turns two. I just love two year olds. The people around these amazing human creatures are given such a gift when we take the time to pay attention to the beauty these small ones discover in the world. There’s so much fun there. We’re doing a little party. I should probably make the cake tonight. The family chocolate cake recipe is so great.

Let me go find that and I’ll post it here.

Buddha's Birthday

Buddha's Birthday

You find me kneeling
on the alter of this spring,
on the alter of a love bigger
than one life.

The color of the leafing trees
makes me drunk
with a joy that has no words.
The thirsty earth
longing for a slow,
soft rain to touch her skin
reminds me of how much
it means to find you here
kneeling next to me,
watching as the planet turns
toward the sun.

On Buddha's birthday
a thousand years ago
you lay with me like this too.
We had other faces
and bodies then,
but I recognize your soul
as we find these red threads
encircling our open hearts.

How can we deny ourselves
a happiness that keeps finding us,
century after century
discovering the truth of love,
disguised, at first, in the form of a stranger?

It is meant to be shared,
this opening of the lotus
to the sun by day
and the vast darkness of the moon
and her sister stars each night.

Buddha is smiling,
showering his blessings on us
as we find our way back
to a loving embrace,
saying, on his birthday,
"It is right, always, to love."