When I Am



Day Twenty-four




“When I am nineteen
I want to make a star.”
Sit in a redwood way up high
on eggs to hatch and
follow Blue wolf deep into forest,
fear running the opposite direction.

When I am forty-four
I want to sing an opera with coyote
ringed by sage and arroyos.
Dance flamenco at midnight on Madrid’s
cardinal peak under star breath.
And play my ukulele in summer pastures
by the Chukchi River, shepherded
by camels and shaman.

When I am ninety-seven
I will throw a silver line up to the moon
and tether her earthward.
I will rest in her curve perfectly held.
She will bear me to her quarters
and with a gentle nudge I will fly

When I am me,
now and forever, that’s how
it will be.



Author’s Note:

Prompt for today from NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo:

“Last but not least, our (optional) daily prompt. Today, I challenge you to write a poem of ekphrasis — that is, a poem inspired by a work of art. But I’d also like to challenge you to base your poem on a very particular kind of art – the marginalia of medieval manuscripts. Here you’ll find some characteristic images of rabbits hunting wolves, people sitting on nests of eggs, dogs studiously reading books, and birds wearing snail shells. What can I say? It must have gotten quite boring copying out manuscripts all day, so the monks made their own fun. Hopefully, the detritus of their daydreams will inspire you as well!”

Special thanks to 7-year-old Romanieo Golphin Jr. who, “When I am nineteen, I want to make a star.”




You are ordained by your creation
from our Holy Singularity,
cosmos infused with
each microscopic particle,
each microscopic particle
of You that is part of me
and you and you and you
and every…thing

Under sun’s brilliant rays,
heat warms, gives life,
we burn with passion

By moon’s radiant glow
we rest, we must rest without
fully knowing, releasing to all

With song of owl, wisdom
fills our empty space as
each sorrow is liberated

Along wolf’s path
patience learned,
faith in oneself
and strength in pack

On our bellies slide with
snake closest to Earth,
bendable, lithe to protuberance

Abreast of fox who plays in grasses
yet hears, knows one must be
aware of that which no longer serves

Crow glistens black
against crystalline blue,
we honor, hold one another deeply,
mourn our losses, never forget

Flowing with water
we make our way
silver threads encircle
Earth with life

Stand with preeminent tree,
together roots dig
into Earth entwined

And gaze above,
see our infinite selves,
stars, galaxies boundless,
yet bound to one another

We are ordained, simply by our Creation.




Author’s Note:

Full Moon blessings.













Holy Heretic


Photo by Niko Pekonen


It is a leap of faith, not a loss of one.

A leaf deepens into rich shades,
a gift of time and experience.
Audaciously, it releases from what was,
a liberation away from nourishment
no longer adequate,
loosening into the fall.

Crashing to awakening.

It crumbles and molds into earth,
itself now food for roots to overwinter.
Then returns once more, ready
to re-bud, to burst open,
not of its own accord,
but that of Oneness.

It is the way of a holy heretic.
I un-label myself,
open to the Holy One,
an ordination of new birth.




Author’s Note:
Something happens inside of me when I watch the extraordinary creativity of The Piano Guys. It’s not just their musicality, but their masterful technical and production value as well.

Or when I see a spellbinding performance such as Hamlet that was shown live from the Barbicon last year. I was touched, weakened, heart-wrenched by Ophelia’s mad scene in a way I never before experienced.

Or the dance from my favorite reality show, So You Think You Can Dance, when That Leap happened, I gasped. We had it recorded and played it again, and again, and again. It still takes my breath away.

Or when a photograph captures the essence of an animal as in the wolf above by Niko Pekonen.

When I experience stunning art…

…there is something in my soul that jumps and screams, “I want to create like that!”

Inside of me I am a Creator. I know that. That is my blessing. It is my biggest joy and darkest heartbreak. When I experience great art, deep within my solar plexus I feel such profound acknowledgement of the Divine it’s hard to breathe. I know that I, too, am meant to create in some way. Not like those above, but in my own way.

I struggle to find that way.

When I try to make a plan, forge a road, grasp tight to make it work, it doesn’t. It’s been an eyeopening journey to realize that it’s not my plan. I wasn’t listening, or maybe not allowing myself to hear the Voice. I am now. It’s not for me to make it happen. It’s not for me to corral others into my web to help me attain it. When I do, I fall crashing to awakening.

It hurts. It should. Sometimes it takes pain to get my attention, especially when I’m holding the noose.

I’ve come to realize it’s not the extraordinary that I need to reach out to and try to be. I must simply be who I am. But finding that was the rub. I am getting there. I also understand that there will be more pain in release, followed by more time of quiet and listening. It is the Divine road I yearn to discover. I need to liberate myself and allow it to open before me in its own magnificence and time.

I am in a much bigger place than I was a few years ago when I began to let loose of old traditions, habits, and thoughts. I set out and tried to navigate on my limited knowledge of who I was and what I do.

I understand more now…

…and I’ve changed.

I am ready to pack up my tent once more…and listen to the Heartbeat, our Holy One within. The berth is so much wider and more wondrous than I ever imagined. I will never be one to camp in permanence. I realize now that this is okay. All will be well.

It is a leap of faith, not a loss of one.



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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.