A Great Adventure I'd Like to Have

Once upon a time there was a woman who knew how to visit her ancestors and her great-great-great grandchildren. She would do it early in the morning- between midnight and daybreak, the time when so many women wake up and wonder.

She never knew for sure if she was living into the past or the future on any given journey. She wondered to herself,” Is that young woman I am seeing my great-great grandmother or my great-great grand daughter? “

The far future and the far past didn’t seem so different. And after all, it didn’t seem to matter—she felt akin to each one she encountered in her world between dreams and beyond. She saw homes, gardens, and oceans of familiar and unfamiliar lands. Her journeys were connected by the lineage of her DNA, stretching through the ages and the lineage of her shared spiritual body, shining across history.

She delighted in her private journeys and made sure that she taught her daughter and son to travel these strands of life and love as well.

--Terra Rafael

Christmas In Bali

Christmas time is upon us once more and, as I enter into this festive season, I am filled with a rush of memories and the magic that Christmas has held for me throughout my life. I have written about several special ones in other memoirs and, now, I will add another.

In 1995, I took my four children on an extensive trip through Hawaii, New Zealand, Australia, Bali, Thailand, and India. My two older children had graduated from high school and they could help me home school the two younger ones. Besides, what better education could they have than to live in other cultures, even for a short period? I had promised to take Suryananda back to her birthplace in Auroville , India and here was the window in our lives that made that possible.

We were in Australia right before Christmas and it was odd to experience a scorching heat wave with all the North Pole, Santa and the reindeer, motifs. However, the spirit of Christmas transcends the settings and permeates the atmosphere. We went shopping for Christmas gifts that could be packed and carried lightly in our luggage. I went off on my own and “What to my wondering eyes did appear?” no not tiny reindeer, but the cutest koala clip on ornaments for a Christmas tree. They spoke so beautifully of an Australian holiday adventure that I had to get them. Then, of course, I needed a tree to put them on. I found a small Christmas tree that just fit the bill. The shopkeeper packaged it up to survive the plane trip to Bali, where we would be spending our actual Christmas. Also, this was to be a surprise for the kids. They were puzzled by the box that I had as a carry-on. They guessed and asked twenty questions but couldn’t get it out of me. Then, one of them hit it on the head and, having a lousy poker face, I gave in.

We stayed at the house, in Ubud, of an Australian man whom we had met in Bali while he was away on business. He was a gem collector who bought his stones in Australia and polished them at his home in Bali. We set up a delightful space for ourselves between two bedrooms and a beautiful covered veranda. Up went the Christmas tree and we decorated it with ribbon bows and the koalas. It was as magnificent to us as any of the nine-foot trees we usually have, from the forest behind our house in Colorado. We wrapped all our tiny gifts to place around it and waited in anticipation for the magical night to arrive.

I really wanted to celebrate with a Christmas service and one was being held at a hotel nearby. I had befriended a driver of a motorcycle who would zip me over there and bring me back. The children wanted to party, and there was plenty of that in Bali.

I cannot celebrate Christmas without Christ. Although my understanding of what that is may not fit into the a strictly Christian concept, I will engage that Light of Love born in the cave of the heart to live according to Christ’s teachings, not just on a surface level, but in the depth of esoteric meaning.

Everyone slept in from the night of revelry and slowly we gathered for a Christmas morning breakfast and gift giving. Each of the treasures was unveiled to our astonishment and delight. Each had been chosen with such attention and care. The best gift of all was the love between us and the trust that had grown in our family though these months and trials on our journey together.

Later, in the afternoon, we attended a Balinese dance performance of the epic story of the Ramayana. I will cherish this memory in my storehouse of magical Christmases.

Prema Rose

A Writer

A writer is someone who sees and hears the smaller things, conversations that go behond most people’s ears, catching the hawk’s wing as it soars around the corner of a building.
A writer uses the language of words to convey his point of view and is usually open to the writing process.
A writer is a chronicler of time…the times she lives in, the passage of time, and the moments and events contained in a time frame. Being a writer means you need quiet time to draw from your internal structure, from your internal world that is sometimes richer than the day-to-day physical pursuits of ordinary life.
Some writers live alone so that the writing process isn’t interrupted by another’s thoughts and conversations. Other writers just close the door to friends and family periodically, in order to let a stream of consciousness and language to spill onto the paper, onto the keyboard, and record their awareness, musings or insights about a particular something.
Being a writer, myself, means all of this to me. I began to notice the shift in my mind as I began writing more and more.
I know I think like a writer now. It’s not just noticing something outside myself, I also see that I immediately begin to grope for language, specific words to convey what I’ve just witnessed. It becomes a natural extension of the witnessing… clothing in words what I understand.
Being a writer is being with my truest self aside from where I go in my meditation.

Jyoti

Book Release Party

Our writing group, A Week's Worth of Women, is having a Book Release Party, for our new book: Food and What Feeds Us.

Come celebrate our new book
and have a taste of our stories,
our foods and some wine.

At BookCliff Vineyards Winery
1501 Lee Hill Rd. #17
28th and Lee Hill Rd.
Look for balloons.

Sat. Dec 12. 2-5 PM

Thanksgiving Day, Dinner for One

This morning, as I calculated the correct time to put the turkey in the oven, I find myself remembering a long ago dinner. It was my first holiday after my divorce and, as fate would have it, my little boy was going to be spending the day with his father. My friends were worried about me; concerned that I might be lonely and sad on this “family” day. It was sweet to receive so many dinner invitations but I just wanted to be alone. I had worked hard to make my new little house a sanctuary for healing, and I thought that I wanted to enjoy a quiet holiday.

Earlier in the week I purchased a medium sized turkey and had the butcher cut it in two; sticking half in the freezer. I brought home all the ingredients I would need to fix every thing that I was used to. Dinner for one? I had no intention of “cooking down”; I was making the whole darn menu. I could live on it for the next week so it would be worth a whole day in the kitchen. The night before I made my cranberry salad and made sure my turkey was thawed out. I had everything that I needed.

I woke up the next day with the flue, head ache, queasy stomach and all. I was so thankful that I didn’t have to go anywhere and that no one was coming over for dinner. I was actually relieved that my little boy was with his father. I could eat dry cereal if I felt like it.

Moving slowly but surely, I baked the bird and sweet potatoes. The rest of my planned menu could wait for another day. I lay on the couch and watched the parades and then the football games, almost too lazy to change the channel. But I wasn’t sad or depressed; I totally relished being slovenly. I was comfortable in my baggy sweats and only answered the phone when I wanted to.

I was feeling much better by the end of the day; the 24 hour flue had passed. I gave thanks for the quiet experience, actually stronger than before and with a knowing that life was going to be okay. Days might go awry, the menu might change and my head may swim with possibilities, but I will face it one day at a time.

I give thanks, I give thanks, I give thanks!
Amen.

* annette

The Stream

After following a trail interwoven with a mountain stream I eventually came to sit by her side. The giant boulders welcomed me as I settled into a sunny and smooth place to listen. The sounds immersed me in their melody till I settled deeper and soon fell asleep. A coolness floated in with the sun disappearing behind the clouds and gently woke me. As I sat up I heard the stream calling, almost a yearning. I wondered "What is this?"

It was then I saw the bundle of sticks and leaves stuck between some rocks and blocking the flow of water on its way downstream. I hadn’t seen it earlier but now it was all I could see. The gunk was thick as it had obviously been in this condition a long time. It occurred to me to move a stick, a small trunk, some more sticks and then the leaves started to be swept away with the oncoming clear waters. Before long it was as though there was never a block.

I sat breathing in the crisp yet warm air. A sense of satisfaction settled into my bones. An understanding of how nature gives us gifts without a saying a word. I listened some more as she now sang her tune with renewed clarity. I packed the moment in my pocket and continued on down the path smiling.

Mary

Old Friends and Sickness

This new place I have found myself in, a lack of wellness, is teaching me so much. I’ve wondered why we wait to connect with someone we haven’t seen in years. We wait, but for what? Do we think we don’t need each other unless there is something serious? Its beautiful that the old love between friends can be stirred and deepened and made stronger. But only in the time of need. Loss comes into play. Remembrance of all the fine sharings of the past. With some, a card, a phone call, or email is all that is needed. Love comes to play once again, shining forth a light we each held together.
Patricia
11/21/09

Poem - To My Elderly Friend

Let my touch
comfort you,
like when your mother caressed your cheek & brushed your hair with adoration,
and let it comfort me,
like when I have tended to my own mother.
Let me bathe your tired body with tears of joy,
as I see your soul shine through the tangle of dementia, through your eyes, and into my heart.
In this way,
we glow as we move forward together,
filled with the illumination of unconditional love-
we are Angels to each other,
lighting up the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

--Terra Rafael

God Is In the Details

God Is In the Details

How much attention to the minutiae of detail is present in the entire scope of existence? It is boggling to comprehend. In fact, I find it impossible to absorb, although at times, I examine my immediate surroundings with that question in mind.
If I can bring one nano-iota of the focus needed to create that kind of exactitude in the present moment, I will have honed my awareness to a laser-beam precision. Since I am nowhere near that level of ability, I can only strive and succeed, on rare occasions, to focus my attention with the tools I have been given and practice to the best of my momentary awareness.

Thus, when I am able to remember to do so, I look at the details of creation in my life. Of course, starting with my in and out breath and the position and weight of my body upon the Earth, I expand my awareness to the other aspects of the moment. Even the meanderings of my mind, as it endeavors to focus, can be observed objectively, when I am not entirely lost in them.

If I do a task, I try to bring that attention to detail in the exactitude of the accomplishment. This is a great exercise. My inclination is to gloss over something, usually due to laziness or sloppiness. Often, I will go back and pay attention to make the result as perfect as I can. I call this, “God is in the details”. I am not able to hold this consciousness most of the time, but it is an exercise with which I challenge myself that, coupled with the sensation exercise, brings me to a level of awareness that enhances much of the rest of my life.

Well, you might label me with an Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder and you may be right, but I choose to live my life with as much awareness as I can and this way of looking at my co-creation with the Higher Powers, serves me to live more consciously.

Prema Rose

The Story I’d Like To Be Told

I’d like to hear the true story of Adam and Eve. I’d like to know what the first man and first woman were like, what they did with their time, and how they felt about the Garden they were given to live in.

I’d like to hear what really happened at the dawn of human creation.

Did we come here from somewhere else and coax existing animal bodies into a speeded-up evolution so that we could inhabit them. Did we bring human evolution to the Earth or was it already happening here.

Another story I’d like to hear is the uncensored story of my family line, from beginning to end with me. Who were these people in my ancestry line. What did they do in their daily lives, how did they think? What did they dream about? Why did I choose this descendency to incarnate into.

And continuing that line of thinking, what has my spiritual history been? What past lives and past life lessons have I lived through to bring me into the present moment? Have I lived before? It seems I have definite predispositions for certain cultures, foods, art, philosophies, and others I have an unusual amount of dislike towards. I figure the latter represents lives I didn’t do well in.

So, in all three of these areas of musings, I think the theme is: how did I get here, where I find myself today, either by racial evolution, family descendency, or my own choosing of adventures and growth experiences. Someday I’ll know.

Jyoti

For those of you in and around Boulder...

Come celebrate our new book
and have a taste of our stories,
our foods and some wine.

At BookCliff Vineyards Winery
1501 Lee Hill Rd. #17
28th and Lee Hill Rd.
Look for balloons.
Sat. Dec 12. 2-5 PM

A Week’s Worth of Women’s
Book Release Party
for our new book:
Food and What Feeds Us

Cakewalk

Barbara Schnepp was my Girl Scout leader. She made cakes for every occasion: weddings, funerals, church suppers, and family reunions. Cakes were her thing. She made my wedding cake. I grew up on her cakes. But one memorable February night, in my mind, she made the cake of all cakes for the PTA Cakewalk.

I held my breath for a moment as I beheld her beautiful angel food cake with blue icing dripping down the sides like icicles. There were other delicious-looking cakes that night but Barbara Schnepp’s angel food wonder stood out like a crown jewel on top of the old black piano where Mrs. Hopkins sat playing. I could not keep my eyes off that cake, shimmering in the bright lights of the school gymnasium, where all the important community events took place.

There was a long line of people who had dropped a quarter into the glass jar for a chance to walk on the big chalk circle drawn on the floor. My dad gave me a quarter and told me to get in line. We had arrived late so the line was pretty long. I screwed my eyes up tight and made a million wishes while other people took their turns ahead of me. Mrs. Sabin’s chocolate cake went, then Mrs. Kellicut’s spice cake with white frosting was gone, Mrs. Heinline’s carrot cake, then a cake with the chocolate chips on top, but the crown jewel was still there! I couldn’t stand still. I jumped up and down until I felt my mother’s hand on my shoulder reminding me to keep my feet on the ground. And, of course, I had to pee. I had to hold it until my turn came. I thought it would never come. But it did.

The gods smiled down on me that night as I walked the circle and won the last cake of the night. THE cake.

I felt like a million bucks driving home in the old green station wagon that night. I sat in the only safe place, between my parents with that huge cake in my lap. Six brothers and sisters were hanging over the seat licking their lips and sneaking a finger toward the cake for “just a little taste.”

Getting out of the car I held the cake high over my head and ran as fast as I dared while my brothers held off our dog until I got up the stairs and into the house. Everyone gathered around the kitchen table excited to be sharing such a treat well after bedtime. Dad brought out the butcher knife and made a big show of sharpening it on the wet stone while Mom got out the plates. Our dog pranced around the table while we kids argued about who would get the biggest piece. That was a no-brainer. I did!

Jesse

Guardian Angel

I am a huge believer in angels ~ angels that over-light my work and personal life, angels of horses and angels of Honda’s …. I could go on and on. There are pictures of angels in my house, angel candles ready for special prayers, and garden angels in my yard, well, you get the picture.

I am pretty sure that my early adult life might have been quite taxing for my Guardian Angels ~ plural ~ for I am positive there must have been many, many angels watching over me night and day. They surely had a rotation schedule worked out, over-worked and under-paid. Having survived my past, I thank the Creator for my personal legion of angels with every morning prayer.

But this is a little story about a rag doll angel that I actually never met. My mother and sister were at a Cracker Barrel Restaurant and they were shopping the little country store attached to every feeding establishment. They found themselves in front of a shelf of little angel dolls, all dressed up in gingham gowns with lacey trim. One however, was a ragged little doll, looking worn out and as if she had seen better days.

My sister picked it up and showed it to my mom saying, “this must be Annette’s Guardian Angel.” They both had a good laugh over that and I had to grin when they told me the story. Yes indeed, that is how I too envision my “early” Angels. I am sorry that I did not get to see this particular raggedy little doll; I would have given her a place of honor in my house. I would have taken care of her gently and lovingly, just as my sweet, sweet angels took care of me so many years ago!

* annette

Wind

As the wind whipped by

I heard her whisper

I saw her touch trees

and watched the fall of their leaves

She wrapped around homes

danced with plants

and peoples

as she reached up toward steeples

She frustrated all who resisted

with quick turns

she laughed and laughed

then twisted

Her presence you knew

as the hats blew

she stole glances

with her whistles and prances

All the while

she smiled with glee

at the day

and the play she created

Wind whipping by

catch her hand

and you will know

it was all a show

Mary

First Snows

Barely into November

Two snows have laid themselves upon us

Beautiful, thick and fluffy

Showing their whiteness over the gray and brown dried earth

Rain is promised tomorrow, then sunshine bringing in a certain

November greenness, a lushness we don’t expect this time of year.

Patricia

The Story of My Name

Originally my name was TERRY MOAN. I was named “Terry” by my father, after a movie star of that era. “Moan” came to our family when my father's parents arrived from Norway. My grandfather's name was Peter Petersson, following the Scandanavian custom of the last name being after the father's first name, Peter. His sister would be Pettersdotter. When being processed by immigration, some anonymous bureaucrat decided that there were too many Peterssons arriving and another name should be taken. “Moan” was the name of the Norwegian village they had lived near. This cruel person led these innocent people, who didn't speak English, to take such a sad name – moan. We always pronounced it mo-en. But, of course, most would say moan, as in “a moaning sound.” My only childhood nickname was “moan & groan.”
“Terry” didn't please me. It was really a boys' name. In the second grade, when I moved to a new school, the teacher even gave me a boy's chore, thinking from my name that I was a boy. That clenched it.

Arriving in Colorado after college, I decided it was a great time to change my name. I contemplated what I wanted. It only was a shift of a letter “y” to a softer sounding “a” and “Terra” felt more like myself. “The earth,” it's meaning, grounded me and connected me more to the natural world. I liked “Terra”, both as meaning and sound. It wasn't a legal change, just for daily use.

A few years later I married Gilles Palmarini, cutie Frenchman. My name changed at the courthouse where we tied the knot-- now I was legally TERRY MOAN PALMARINI.( They wouldn't let me legally change my first name with the marriage.) 'Palmarini' originated in Italy, when one of Gilles' ancestors received palms as an honor from the Pope. “Terra” and “Palmarini” went together so nicely – I liked sounding Italian. The knot of our marriage unraveled in about 5 years. I kept the name.

When I met and decided to marry Charlie Richardson I considered keeping the name of “Palmarini” but I didn't want to be rude to Charlie. When we married, we went the common law route. I ended up later legally changing my name in court to TERRA PALMARINI RICHARDSON. I often used both last names and many people assumed that “Palmarini” was my birth name. In this way my name still had a common thread with my young son, Julien Palmarini.

So, by this time my name had morphed several times. One of my friends, a few years older than me, changed her name at 50 years old to a final, self determined form. She too had changed her name several times over a life of marriages and divorces. The idea appealed to me - to mark the stability of maturity and menopause with a name never to change again. I wondered how Charlie would react to this, when the time came.

It turned out, our marriage ended in the year of my 50th birthday. When our divorce was finalized the judge allowed me to change my name to TERRA RAFAEL. How did I choose “Rafael”? It came from talking with my Maya healing teacher from Belize, Miss Beatrice. She told me about the Archangel Rafael, who protects healers, the mentally ill, travelers, and is also the patron saint of happy marriages. Sounded like this Archangel covered several of my bases. “Rafael” translated from Hebrew means “God has healed.” I consider my name, Terra Rafael, a prayer, repeated over & over by many voices, a prayer for the healing of the Earth as well as for my personal well being.
--Terra Rafael

Peace

Peace

This tiny spark of knowing
That we are infinite peace
Is carried in the heart of all of life,
Cherished by a love that unites us
In our common Beingness.
This web, our thread of woven dreams,
Cannot be broken.
Tested by the winds of Fortune,
It twists our fibers of experience
Into an invincible rope.
Hold onto this lifeline.
It will lead you back to that core,
Where all is still.
Through our multitude personas,
Lived in sequence or simultaneously,
There runs a golden thread of longing,
Longing to return
To the cavern of our Heart
Where Peace reigns supreme.

Prema Rose

Winter's Coming

Winter’s coming.
and with the blanket of quiet,
a refocusing into fireplaces and books,
warm food and friends.
Time for small things easily remembered.
Time for self and candle-lit soaks
and crunching footsteps
in virgin white landscapes.

Winter’s coming.
Snow geese ring the air with sound..
They’ve remained to give voice
until spring returns the smaller,
noisier flocks.

Winter’s coming,
and I welcome the inward space
to dream myself into the deeper dream
that is my life.

Jyoti

Party Line

I am dusting the antique black telephone that now sits on my end table. This very phone used to sit in the front room on my grandparents heavy oak desk. The access cable is cut and is connected now to nothing more than my memories.

There are no numbers on the face plate; rather it has a black knob that still cheerfully rings as I crank it around. That one continuous ring would have notified “Central” (the woman in town who sat at the switchboard) that I needed assistance to reach a phone number outside of my party line. My grandparents ring was “long-short-long”. Any other combination was notification that the incoming call was to someone else on our party line.

I can still see my grandmother tip-toeing across the floor to her corner desk; rather short and plump, she moved with a quiet gracefulness. She would settle in and then very gently pick up the heavy black handset and bring it to her ear. Without making a peep, she would listen in on the party line to her neighbor’s conversations. When I think back on it now, it strikes me as so incongruous for my sweet little grandmother to be such a voyeur. I remember it now as a Sunday afternoon ritual, but everyone did it. Sometimes there were so many folks “listening in” that the connection would get really bad, the spoken word growing fainter and fainter. No one could hear, not even the original two parties! Someone would have to hang up so the conversation could continue. You may have heard how everyone in a small town knows what you are doing? Well, back in the old days of rural telephone party lines, you were hard pressed to keep a secret.

I can also remember a long ago drive in our car, when one of us kids wondered out loud how birds could set on telephone lines without getting electrocuted. Could they feel the words as they zoomed through the wire? We were looking at dozens of shiny black starlings perched on the telephone line as it stretched out on either side of the tall, tar-smeared wooden pole. My mother said they must be having a party, listening in to all our secrets. “It’s a party line” we all giggled. To this day, I think “party line” every time I see them.

* annette

Trust

“Trust you own process.” my aunt said. As the words resonated within I relaxed and let the current take me. It was all making sense. Each and every part perfect. As I allowed this space to myself I could see all facets in their perfection radiating. Each and every moment perfect. I just allowed.

Often we give others their voice but not our own. I’m surprised with clarity at how clear it can be. The diamonds of light sparkle on water’s surface to reflect the wonder of the meeting of two.

I sink deeper into the quiet of the current, knowing it knows where I am headed. Knowing all is deeply well. Knowing, allowing, process and the light of clear waters wash over me.

Mary

Poem - The Seal of Death & Life

Fading fog shrouds the seal,
Now overflowing with death.
Now deposited by high tide on the beach.
Edges, once a head & tail & flippers,
already eaten away in the sea.
One white gull at a time meanders,
through the gathering cloud of bugs
as though trying to hide its desire,
to pick at the edges of exposed flesh,
to digest it back to life that can fly.
Take.
Eat.
This is my body given for you.

--Terra Rafael

Work

Work

I am excited to go to work! After so long without a job that would give me something of a consistent income, I am loving to work at a company that fills all my requests.

I had envisioned and asked to work in an area that is meaningful to me and that serves the greater good. I needed it to be part time and flexible, as I have so many creative and entrepreneurial projects that consume much of my time and energy. I wanted something that I could do well and where my talents would be utilized. Not being one with great computer skills, I was never cut out for an office job. I needed to make enough money to support myself at a basic level, as I had dug myself into a deep financial hole. That was partly due to the fact that I had earned quite a bit more in the past than what people are willing to pay these days. I was stuck in what I thought I should be paid for my time and my abilities. Oh well, it was not possible to continue on that way with those assumptions.

A dear friend and former midwifery partner called me to let me know that Wishgarden Herbs was looking for people on a weekly basis to fulfill orders for a big push that they were experiencing. She had been one of the founders of that company, back in the day. Barbara Wishingrad had started it as a complementary business to a beginning midwifery practice twenty-five years ago. It stayed within our midwifery community as Arlee took it over and then our sister writer on this blog, Terra, became the owner. She sold it to Catherine, who took it from a small backroom endeavor to a thriving national operation. It is growing exponentially.

Anyway, I am working there now, at least for a couple of months, and it is great fun. The people are wonderful and the atmosphere relaxed and playful. My work is to label and shrink-wrap bottles. It is very exacting work, as they have to be of the highest quality to appear on the shelves of the stores. But the hours slide by to the rhythms of African, Reggae, Funk, and Soul. Even the silence is sweet.

It is fun to a part of something that I have seen evolve from those early days of the eighties. Although, my part in this company is minor, I am sure that I can and will be called on to contribute more. We are bringing in some high-powered equipment that will change the structure of the workload and that will change the way things look and are done. The days are long, but filled with camaraderie. The pay is small, but better than nothing. I am happy to do something repetitive and not have to create the Universe every day. It is a welcome respite.

Prema Rose

Poetry

For the first time ever
perhaps
I’m learning what it means
to be true to one’s own heart…
and how infinitely graceful it is
to give that space to another.

Jyoti

In the Secret Hall of Dreams

In the secret hall of dreams
I see my mother’s hand
Floating on a breeze
Gliding over sunflowers
On the mountain where she lives
And wild grasses on the alpine
Bend and bow
As she moves by.

Her hand is thin and wrinkled,
Knotted, misshapen with age
Yet she holds her brush steadfast
Above the canvas
Painting to honor that mountain
The soul of the earth
Her Mother.


Jesse

REMEMBER THIS

The air … cold, crisp, fresh, exhilarating.

To the east, the sun, not yet visible,
but already lending brightness to the new day.
Thin low clouds reflect back its orange promise.

To the west, the sky forms a deep blue background.
The mountains jagged, rugged, would be harsh if
not softened by the snow that mellows their identity.
This same snow blushes pink with the caress of the sun.

A quiet knicker brings me back to the task at hand.
I bury my nose in the velvet coat of a large warm body.
The dried green richness of last summer’s fields
combines with the earthy molasses of her favorite sweet feed.

Stepping back out into the early morning air,
surveying my assets, lingering on the western view.
Slightly off center, to my eye, hangs the large full moon
iridescent, glowing, throbbing, urging remembrance.

* annette

Learning To Receive

Has this been my lesson in life? It’s a difficult one, letting go of lack of all kinds.

Does this lack come in the form of weight, in the form of fun, love, joy, there are many ways to keep our system less abundant.

Being sick opens everyone’s heart. I have never received so much love in my life.

It hasn’t been easy letting it all in. I know it helps all those around me to assist in whatever way they can. I am reaping the benefits. Its part of my healing, the receiving is the most I’ve been blest with, all my heart is opening, growing, letting of protection.

Patricia

Poem - Asilomar Beach

Her morning fog pheromones
Pull me towards Her waters.
White sand
Descending under my weight,
drawing me closer & deeper.
Her rumbling voice from afar
Becoming clearer,
As I clear the dunes &
See Her vastness
Roiling towards me—
Waters of Life,
Waters of Death,
Washing over me.

--Terra Rafael