Inside where you can be small11831650_10206099436596878_7218317075227400681_n
there is a preciousness there.
It is safe like a seed protected
from the elements until the
right time is given.

Stay small, allow yourself to be
vulnerable, be you. There
is a master plan. No need
to start anew when some
date on a calendar demands

If you learn to listen in that
small dark place from within,
you will grow just at the right
time, but you must trust.

Be small yet generous with
your time of quiet, even in
noise filled caverns, if you
are quiet, you can hear
the tiniest beats of life.

Listen for them, not in the
rush or banging of the big
world, it is in the smallness
of surrender truth is found.

Go out today with gentleness
and sweetness as your guide.
Meet the onslaught with your
hallowed self, the same little
shoot that grows into a
redwood strong and noble,
listening, giving the world
new life.




Happy New Year!

Clean Slate

The longest night is past.NativityFinal2015

Within its dark, a frightening
place to be, I opened
my eyes to face my frailty.
There I see your Light,
growing gently
with steady breath,
never to be extinguished
by my uncertainty.

And again, You come to me,
take me by the hand anew,
warm it with yours,
remind me of Refuge,
a place where I once more
learn to stand, accept
my mistakes, walk
lightly, shine of me.

When I become that
child, crying under a
star so bright three
could not help but follow,
we are newly Oned,
at the beginning,
slate wiped clean.

In this growing Dawn
I see I am the gift given,
You the Reminder.
I am the Beloved quartering
the Light, a precious
vessel empowered
by Boundless Devotion.

I am One with You,
let us shine together.

Merry Christmas.
Happy birthday.

Amen. Amen. Amen.


Cat and Bert

Today our writing group met. I so enjoy these gatherings that don’t happen enough.  We feasted, told stories, and then chose a random number between one and thirteen to draw our writing prompt for the afternoon.

My prompt: I counted the cash I’d taken from the ATM and turned around. My next-door neighbor was standing before me with a gun in his hand…

(I rarely write in first person in my narrative writing. I save that for my poetry)


Cat and Bert

Cat counted the cash she’d taken from the ATM and turned around. Her next-door neighbor was standing before her with a gun in his hand.

“Put that thing away.”

Bert looked at his gloved hand. His mother’s pistol sat in his open palm. It was a good thing Cat would be the one to use it. It made him sad. It reminded him of his mother. Bert was afraid that if he were to be the one to use it, he might falter. Tears, you know. And that wouldn’t be a good thing.

“It’s about time. I waited as long as I could. I thought you’d never get here.”

Cat shoved the money into her coat pocket. Took the card and tossed it into a nearby trashcan. Bert followed.

“What took you so long?”


“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I told you I would feed you. I always feed you. We needed money first. Where did you get food?”


Bert most often answered with one word, especially when he was under stress. Taking his mother’s gun out of the apartment made him stressed. Even though she had been dead, or gone to Dad as how Bert thought of it, for roughly a year now.

Bert left the apartment completely like it was the day she died. Except for his room. He would clean his room and Cat would do his laundry. But the rest of the apartment was gathering dust. He felt blessed to have Cat as his next-door neighbor. She was pretty. And smart. She could get anything they needed and she didn’t even have a job.

Bert was pretty, too. It actually caused him a lot of problems. When you are the way others like Bert are, people would usually stay away. But when you are pretty and are like Bert is, people have different expectations of you.

When your face is smooth with coffee skin and your hair is thick, black and curly. When your eyes sparkle a brilliant blue and change to match any color you wear. When your nose is perfect and your lips shaped just right, people accept you. People think you can talk with them because you must be charming.

Bert hated that because that was his nickname around the neighborhood – Prince Charming.

But he wasn’t. He couldn’t talk with people. Nothing would come out of his mouth when he spoke and if it did it was thick and garbled. It was never what he was thinking in his head. It just wouldn’t come out.

He hated being noticed. He couldn’t hold a job because he would have to talk with people. And he wasn’t smart either. His mom tried sending him to different schools, scrounging up different jobs offered by relatives. None of them ever worked out. Even if he made it to the job the first day, he would leave within ten minutes and walk.

Bert liked to walk. He walked for days once. His mother kept calling him on his cell. At first he answered until she started to stress him out. Finally, he threw the phone away and kept walking.

It was spring then and he could sleep outside. He liked that. He liked looking at the stars. He knew about some places where he was safe to sleep. He scrounged in dumpsters for food. He knew when certain restaurants threw out their remains so he could get them fresh.

After two weeks he went back home. As he was climbing the steps to the front door of the apartment, the door flung open.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? That’s my stuff. Come back here you little fuckers.”

And there was Cat. That was their introduction. She pushed Bert aside causing him to lose his balance and tumble down the steps as she took off running down the street.

Bert sat on the sidewalk rubbing different parts of his body as he watched Cat stop half way down the block. Whoever she was chasing disappeared into the crowd. His mouth opened just a bit to suck in enough air to be sure his ribs were okay.

Cat let out the loudest howl he had ever heard. It was as if she was a lioness on the plains of Africa who had lost her babies. Bert sucked in the little bit of drool that had started to creep out of the side of his open mouth.

Cat turned back, breathing heavily as she stomped toward Bert.

Their eyes met. Bert still didn’t feel stressed. She was magnificent.

“Why the hell didn’t you stop them from taking my stuff, you asshole?”

Now he was stressed. He tried to stand but kept stepping his jacket or catching something. As he was finally able to right himself, his knees buckled. He gave up and sat back down. Bert sighed. She would see him for what he was.

Cat took deep breaths as she watched Bert’s struggle. She closed her eyes and said her mantram. That always helped.

When she opened them, Bert had a tear running down his cheek. Cat sighed and reached out her hand. It wasn’t enough. Bert was tall and stalky. If he worked out that would have only added to his Prince Charming problem.

Cat reached to him with both hands. Bert grabbed on. She pulled with such force he was able to stand. But the momentum was so strong he just kept moving and landed right on top of Cat.

“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.” Bert kept mumbling and rolled off of Cat.

He waited, still as he could be. And then it began. Not the string of curse words for which Cat was so well noted, but the most beautiful laugh he had ever heard.

They laughed together as people stepped over them, shaking their heads in disgust at the two drunks laying on the ground.

This is how Bert met Cat. And now they had some money and his mother’s gun.

Life was good.





Why, in the end, was it a magic trickImmutable
that was needed to get my attention?
I can be so jam-headed.

At first You didn’t make sense.
A gentle healing in the same way
You are on snowfall mornings
when crystals, each one an individual
creation, brush by in winter wind
to ice my skin. Your immutable
presence underscored in deep silence
beneath the storm holding me dear.
Instead, I settled behind closed doors,
warm and safe.

I was not yet wild enough to hear
Your fathomless love song.

It’s not my sins that need to be forgiven
in an act of terror or a rising again.

It is knowing in the sweet cry of a babe
on his birth-day that we are the Same.
I know You walked on feet sore
at day’s end, slept fitful with worry,
struggled to be understood,
yearned for a gentle touch.
You were just like me.

This knowing heals my shards,
smoothes my edges, tames my fears,
what some may call forgiving my sins.

You and I are One this holy season,
this new start we begin again,
remember Grace in what You did
to realize I can do it also.

It wasn’t a magic trick in the end
that Oned us, it is the birth into this life
as we walk together.




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Night Season

Night Season yieldsIMG_3039
an interval, a time to peel
away layers, winter clothes
stratified around my being
stripped off in complete
leaving me tender, naked.

Night Season.

It furnishes still space
to be without shape of being,
ego unable to structure
itself around, within my
unformed substance.

In this hallowed dark I release
all that encumbers me
to see your glow, feel the
shine of your precious face
conscious that you matter.

There I watch your hand hold
something so dear, so full of trust,
I fill with Unbearable Light.

Night Season.

You demand of me
what I cannot do alone.
In You I surrender to
Your proposal of radiance.




Author’s Note:

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I am offering this piece as an experiment. Our writing group met this afternoon. The words we were charged with using were taken from our environment: parsley, introduction, source, design, famous, envy. My randomly chosen opening line was: The chocolate sauce…

This is very different from what I usually post, a fairytale of sorts. Enjoy. Or not. But do come back.



The chocolate sauce dribbled ever so slightly from the corner of his mouth.

The bear sat on a parsley green chair next to Corrine’s bed.

He wasn’t always there. Only sometimes when she was alone, so alone, and when she needed company.

Tonight he was there. A bit of chocolate escaped his ravenous mouth leaving behind a tiny recollection of its pleasure.

“I’m glad you came.” Corrine waited.

She always waited for an answer. Sometimes the bear replied with a big guffaw making them both laugh until tears escaped from the corners of their eyes and they had to blow their noses. Corrine always used a tissue from the evergreen box on the wooden nightstand made famous by her chocolate drops. The bear simply rubbed his snout against the back of the parsley green chair.

The bear looked into her hazel eyes not offering a clue.

Was he listening? Was he angry to be called upon when sleep had been deep and warm?

“I’m sad.”

Corrine waited for a tilt of his wide head or a small release of air from his lungs.

“I don’t think I want to finish.” She waited.

He stared at her. She hated that. Sometimes he would shift in the parsley green chair and that way she would know he was listening.

Today the bear with coarse tawny fur that protected his soft heart gave no indication.

Corrine reached over to the nightstand and lifted another chocolate drop from the crystal plate rimmed with white painted snowflakes. The only thing she ever changed for their liaison was the plate. It always matched the season. She lived by season. So did the bear.

She didn’t care for chocolate drops, but the bear found them perfect to his taste. She had to be careful lifting the chocolate drop to his muzzle. She could never tell if he was in a nasty mood, so she needed to be ready for a quick pull back as she released the morsel, else there would be blood.

That was their introduction. He appeared one dusk rimmed afternoon as she awoke from a nap. She thought he smelled the chocolate drops. He was unable to tell her it was the jasmine scent of her dream that drew him to her.

She offered the bear his first chocolate drop and, not thinking, left her hand a bit too long. It frightened her more than hurt. But there was blood. She dropped her hand into her lap and let blood soak through her nightgown. She wore the stain that wouldn’t wash out as a reminder to be careful when around the bear.

Tonight Corrine wondered if envy was the source of his countenance. Did he know she had shared the chocolate drops with another? It wasn’t her fault. The wolf with silver blue fur showed up at dawn after her evening sleep under a dark moon. She just did.

After the chocolate drop, the wolf and Corrine walked. For hours the two walked without words breathing in rhythm, not together really, more side by side as two on a journey, yet one in union.

That didn’t matter now. The bear was sitting on the parsley green chair with chocolate sauce dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

Corrine reached out to his powerful jaw, the crystal plate with white painted snowflakes now empty.

Integer of Creation


The moon hung, a bittersweet glow
cupped against midnight blue behind
boney arms of our grande dame maple,
whose leaves never turn red in fall,
only yellow then brown on fallow grass.

As I watched,
just past a new day’s first hour,
I could almost see her luminous
crescent rock back and forth drawing
my eye upward, higher, a need to tilt
my head back and forth to discern
Your gift through lacy silhouette
branches standing guard between
me and Eternity.

But she pointed me to it,
to a god always present,
maybe in a conflicting place
from one night to the next,
but always there, Jupiter,
a thunderbolt-bright comfort
knowing once and again
he would meet me.

I am created no more
or less perfect than these.
I hold within myself the same
wonder of stars and moon
and trees rooted deeply into earth.
I grow and change, not staying
in one place, although I have lived
in this same place all my life.


When the world groans
under sorrow made
by hands of stone…

Not stone that changes
the course of rivers.
Not stone that greets
a wanderer along her craggy pass.
These stones are as Spirit filled
as every heart that beats…

But when the world groans
from counterfeit hands
made of false stone that cannot see
within themselves the utter sweetness
of the Beloved, nor the Beloved’s
consummate sweetness in souls
they stone, I feel pieces explode until
all that is left is blackness, a dark hole
so profound not even Jupiter
could spark a flame.

From where I stand
I must be what I am first made,
gentle light, devoted lover,
precious consecration of You.

My hands, made of Your passion,
must open
to each integer of Creation.

I cry out like thunder in the desert,
groan and writhe,
but know You will hear my prayer
and open our eyes
to our manmade
stone hands of annihilation.

May our prayers transfigure
our false hands
back into cupped hands
ready to receive Your timber.




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