Fire
Fire can be many things. We first think of flames, to cook or to keep us warm.
What we forget about is the fire of our being. What we hold as our individual power in our solar plexus.
Then, there is the Fire Element, stoking the heart and small intestines. The liver is indirectly part of this twosome as it sits in the solar plexus.
As I tend to heal myself I look at all three, they seem closely related. It comes up for me as anger, since most of my discomfort is in the solar plexus, the fire burner. And I’m pissed. I’m pissed I may not see my grandchildren grow up. So one of my goals is to get to the blazing anger. To rid my body of the negative energy, giving me the stamina to continue my focus of understanding fire and anger. To create a leap in my healing to somehow open the holding of my flames that have been destructive to my being.
Patricia
3/1/10
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
In Honor of International Women's Day
In the movie that showed them slaughtering women & children
some mother’s child was killing another mother’s child.
I heard the baby in my womb cry amidst the sound of gunshots.
I had to cry, when I realized what war really means.
How can mothers allow it?
Women-
We must not give up on our vision of a world ruled by caring rather than profit.
We must be power-within, to create the world we hope and work for.
We must act in realms as close as our hearts and as far away as the other side of the world.
We must be peace, while being ever ready to defend the lives, liberties, and way of life of all our beloveds, destroying that which is a miscarriage of justice.
--Terra Rafael
some mother’s child was killing another mother’s child.
I heard the baby in my womb cry amidst the sound of gunshots.
I had to cry, when I realized what war really means.
How can mothers allow it?
Women-
We must not give up on our vision of a world ruled by caring rather than profit.
We must be power-within, to create the world we hope and work for.
We must act in realms as close as our hearts and as far away as the other side of the world.
We must be peace, while being ever ready to defend the lives, liberties, and way of life of all our beloveds, destroying that which is a miscarriage of justice.
--Terra Rafael
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Humanity
Oh, sleeping giant,
Awake from this somnambulistic state.
Shake off the weight of countless lies
And drowsiness of paralyzing fear.
Open your eyes to the sickness
That pervades your soul
Where, even in your pain,
Truth holds the precedent;
A beacon shining in the darkness of the night,
A call to move your bones
Set in the habitude of acquiescence,
Your creaky joints will bend and move again.
Do not turn your eyes away,
Even as you turn the other cheek,
For though you make a conscious choice
To hide your head in blinding desert sands,
You are responsible.
The earthquake that will move your very world
Will bury you and all your sacred cows.
Adorn yourself with courage and stand strong,
Like the sequoia that you are,
Where all the blustering winds
Of fabrications and false blames cannot break your majesty,
Rooted deep within your base of honor.
Let waters rise in mighty waves
To flood your consciousness
And wash away the excrement
That you don’t even notice anymore.
The stench of rotting greed
And putrid cesspools of your callousness
Must be cleaned out for hope to thrive again.
You will be shaken to your very core
If you do not but willingly arise.
Words of truth aren’t easily shrugged off
And those who speak them will not be silenced,
Like murmured whispers in the dark of night.
We think we are immune in isolation,
Anesthetized in trivia’s barrage,
But every child killed or maimed is ours,
As each and every one of us was born to mothers,
Who now lament the murder of our own.
The silence of our shame is deafening,
Screaming to stir up our apathy.
Where is the outrage of our mortal wounds,
That we succumb to comfort’s easy sleep?
We think we are awake, yet on we snore
To drown the cries of conscience in our heads.
No more, AWAKE! No more, no more, no more!
Prema Rose
Awake from this somnambulistic state.
Shake off the weight of countless lies
And drowsiness of paralyzing fear.
Open your eyes to the sickness
That pervades your soul
Where, even in your pain,
Truth holds the precedent;
A beacon shining in the darkness of the night,
A call to move your bones
Set in the habitude of acquiescence,
Your creaky joints will bend and move again.
Do not turn your eyes away,
Even as you turn the other cheek,
For though you make a conscious choice
To hide your head in blinding desert sands,
You are responsible.
The earthquake that will move your very world
Will bury you and all your sacred cows.
Adorn yourself with courage and stand strong,
Like the sequoia that you are,
Where all the blustering winds
Of fabrications and false blames cannot break your majesty,
Rooted deep within your base of honor.
Let waters rise in mighty waves
To flood your consciousness
And wash away the excrement
That you don’t even notice anymore.
The stench of rotting greed
And putrid cesspools of your callousness
Must be cleaned out for hope to thrive again.
You will be shaken to your very core
If you do not but willingly arise.
Words of truth aren’t easily shrugged off
And those who speak them will not be silenced,
Like murmured whispers in the dark of night.
We think we are immune in isolation,
Anesthetized in trivia’s barrage,
But every child killed or maimed is ours,
As each and every one of us was born to mothers,
Who now lament the murder of our own.
The silence of our shame is deafening,
Screaming to stir up our apathy.
Where is the outrage of our mortal wounds,
That we succumb to comfort’s easy sleep?
We think we are awake, yet on we snore
To drown the cries of conscience in our heads.
No more, AWAKE! No more, no more, no more!
Prema Rose
Saturday, March 6, 2010
I couldn't get back to sleep...
I couldn’t get back to sleep. I had drifted off earlier in the midst of one of Nora Robert’s tales of witches and wolves, with Ireland in the background. I’d awakened enough to turn off the light and then thought sleep would claim me as it usually did. I had been tired all evening.
But it didn’t. I lie there thinking about the day, about the past and old relationships I no longer had any interest in thinking about, but my mind had its own familiar pathways to follow.
I turned over, adjusted my pillow, and glanced out the window about me, looking through bare winter branches into the night sky.
Without warning, a shooting star blazed for a split second, arcing through my field of vision, then its light died out. It happened so quickly. Its meaning suggested magic, new beginnings and I thought, do people make a wish when they see one?
I remembered a momentous evening high in a small mountain town almost thirty-two years ago, when I asked the powers that be whether I should herbally induce labor for the next morning, as I was already overdue by some calculations. Or should I wait out the pregnancy. A shooting star streaked through the star-studded sky and I took it as a sign to wait. My son was born to me in that cabin two and a half days later.
So tonight I made a wish for more happiness and the letting go of old patterns of thinking. I knew exactly what I was looking at in my own mind: the places that judge, the places of skepticism and criticality…these were the very things that were keeping true happiness from me. I could see it. And I wanted it that way no longer.
It was as if an outer sign of magical occurrence spoke to the magic inside of me to set me in motion to change and transmute what I could see needed to be a different way.
The shooting star was like the surprise you feel at the moment the gun goes off to start a race. It’s a momentary shock before you’re off and running. I’ve been at the starting gate of change for a while, and now it’s time to actively make the effort to consciously do things in a different way.
Shooting stars, witches and wolves…magic is alive and well!
Jyoti
But it didn’t. I lie there thinking about the day, about the past and old relationships I no longer had any interest in thinking about, but my mind had its own familiar pathways to follow.
I turned over, adjusted my pillow, and glanced out the window about me, looking through bare winter branches into the night sky.
Without warning, a shooting star blazed for a split second, arcing through my field of vision, then its light died out. It happened so quickly. Its meaning suggested magic, new beginnings and I thought, do people make a wish when they see one?
I remembered a momentous evening high in a small mountain town almost thirty-two years ago, when I asked the powers that be whether I should herbally induce labor for the next morning, as I was already overdue by some calculations. Or should I wait out the pregnancy. A shooting star streaked through the star-studded sky and I took it as a sign to wait. My son was born to me in that cabin two and a half days later.
So tonight I made a wish for more happiness and the letting go of old patterns of thinking. I knew exactly what I was looking at in my own mind: the places that judge, the places of skepticism and criticality…these were the very things that were keeping true happiness from me. I could see it. And I wanted it that way no longer.
It was as if an outer sign of magical occurrence spoke to the magic inside of me to set me in motion to change and transmute what I could see needed to be a different way.
The shooting star was like the surprise you feel at the moment the gun goes off to start a race. It’s a momentary shock before you’re off and running. I’ve been at the starting gate of change for a while, and now it’s time to actively make the effort to consciously do things in a different way.
Shooting stars, witches and wolves…magic is alive and well!
Jyoti
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Beer, Whiskey and Pie
Peggy and I became dear friends which was handy as our husbands worked together as linemen for the Rio Grande Railroad. They were based out of Pinecliffe, Colorado, a very small mountain community near where we lived. One of the perks of working for the RR in the “good ole days” were free trips on the Zephyr from Denver to Salt Lake City. We often took the train to Glenwood Springs or on to Grand Junction where our mutual friends Trout and Ginger lived.
I used to make homemade ham salad for sandwiches and Peggy, who was not much of a cook, brought chips and cookies. Before one trip Peggy announced that she was bringing a home made cherry pie. “Fantastic” was the general consensus; anything that went good with beer and whiskey was always welcome. Cherry pie sounded like a real treat!
When we met up with Fooz and Peggy for the trek down to Denver’s Union Station to catch the train, Fooz was already making jokes about the pie. He handed it to Steve, who immediately arched his eyebrows and said, “What did you bake this in, a cast iron skillet?”
Poor Peggy, always the good sport, just laughed. “Oh no, I bought a new Pyrex pie dish.”
“It’s a heavy one, that’s for sure,” Fooz said grinning. “Good thing we don’t have to pay for it by the pound!”
Peggy had never made a pie crust and she did not have Crisco in her pantry ~ so she substituted the shortening with the same amount of liquid vegetable oil. The crust was heavy and the consistency of soggy corrugated cardboard. We ended up setting it in the center of the table, peeling off and discarding the top crust, and devouring the baked pie filling right out of the middle. We washed it down with a few beers and a round of Jack Daniels and enjoyed every cherry. That poor pie became famous as the story was enjoyed for years to come.
Disclaimer: I must admit, since I have re-told Peggy’s foible so easily, that I have yet to conquer the elusive light and flakey pie crust. My mother’s sets such a high standard, my hat is still tipped to her.
* annette
I used to make homemade ham salad for sandwiches and Peggy, who was not much of a cook, brought chips and cookies. Before one trip Peggy announced that she was bringing a home made cherry pie. “Fantastic” was the general consensus; anything that went good with beer and whiskey was always welcome. Cherry pie sounded like a real treat!
When we met up with Fooz and Peggy for the trek down to Denver’s Union Station to catch the train, Fooz was already making jokes about the pie. He handed it to Steve, who immediately arched his eyebrows and said, “What did you bake this in, a cast iron skillet?”
Poor Peggy, always the good sport, just laughed. “Oh no, I bought a new Pyrex pie dish.”
“It’s a heavy one, that’s for sure,” Fooz said grinning. “Good thing we don’t have to pay for it by the pound!”
Peggy had never made a pie crust and she did not have Crisco in her pantry ~ so she substituted the shortening with the same amount of liquid vegetable oil. The crust was heavy and the consistency of soggy corrugated cardboard. We ended up setting it in the center of the table, peeling off and discarding the top crust, and devouring the baked pie filling right out of the middle. We washed it down with a few beers and a round of Jack Daniels and enjoyed every cherry. That poor pie became famous as the story was enjoyed for years to come.
Disclaimer: I must admit, since I have re-told Peggy’s foible so easily, that I have yet to conquer the elusive light and flakey pie crust. My mother’s sets such a high standard, my hat is still tipped to her.
* annette
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
A Family Favorite
Chicken with Parmesan and Yogurt
One split frying chicken or 4 split breasts, bone in preferably
½ c. yogurt (I usually do near a cup)
1 clove garlic or more
4 T parmesan cheese
Salt and pepper
½ stick of butter, or more (a touch of Julia)
Rub chicken with the yogurt and mashed garlic and allow to stand for several hours.
Dust the halves with salt, pepper and grated parmesan.
Place skin side down (or remove skin, if you prefer) in a generously buttered pan.
Baste several times with the sauce and if needed, more butter, thinking Julia. The point is not to broil the sauce away.
Especially good over your favorite noodle or grain. Bon Appetit.
Patricia Jordan
From: Food and What Feeds Us
A Family Favorite
Monday, March 1, 2010
What I Can't Forget
What I can’t forget is the feeling that I had the minutes between when my son’s head was born and his body came out. Even then I thought to myself, “Now I know why two heads are better than one. “ I felt our intertwined bodies wordlessly bridge the gap between our souls. Inside my physical exhaustion, all my heart could do was laugh with joy and oneness.
--Terra Rafael
--Terra Rafael
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