art of travel

I’ve been on the go quite a bit in the last month, the big island of Hawaii and then Bali for their new year. Feeling blessed and blissed out, especially because I was able to do a little paper and cloth dyeing while I was in the beauty of these places.

Desire and Love Lines

Desire can tell you which way the wind is blowing. Love is the compass. ~ me

A lot of my explorations over the last couple years have been on desire and love. We all know Love is good, but desire is often seen with suspicion and sometimes down right animosity. Many spiritual traditions shun desire in a stance that is similar to choosing either desire or love, there is not both much like heaven or hell.

In my observations of my own desires, I find that desire can tear a person to shreds in their endless searching but, desire can also feed your passions. And these passions can be the deep as the ocean passions, which can end up honing oneself into a deeper and truer version of themselves. But it is not at the sacrifice of Love and Honesty but actually with these hand in hand, one finds themselves on their true Love lines and desire lines.

Happy valentines y’all!

Spinning a Moon song

The Moon

Nearly blue and full

Dancing in the wave song

Casting her reflection

Down in the sound

Sweet and strong

Fishing for mermaids

She says

Waters whisper

.

I am solo.

.

Tonight, a random man

called my name

Sumptuous.

I believe I may

Stay solo.

Womens’ smiles

Indicate not likely.

.

I’d like to see

All This surrounding beauty

pave over

Trump.

Trump grows older,

Trees grow stronger

and branches grow longer.

Eyes for the trees

Tear down

Trump’s lunacy.

Women’s March 2018

A year ago I was in Santa Fe and you may remember my photos of the walking tour on the blog.

This year I was home and my niece was here for a visit, to support me in lots of changes as well as go check out the UW campus.. As luck would have it she is here visiting her favorite feminist auntie during the Seattle Women’s march. Yay!!

It was freezing, it was raining and had a verrry sloooww start, but it was great! The crowd (estimates range from 40-175,000 people attended!) was strong and energized and they flowed through. We walked almost the entire march with a great Corp band, so we were able to dance and drum along most of the march! Here’s to the the rising up!

Love calls with her begging bowl.

It’s funny when love calls or sometimes doesn’t.

I’ve lived long enough, now, to not take that personally, even in the hurt.

In grasping, there is a feeling of loss, we reach out and pull back with hope, to find emptiness.

This, this is my current lesson.

So my choices- continue reaching and grasping or… to be still, to sit with open hands, resting in reception.

Can my mind and heart be content with this? I do not know.

Maybe an experiment is in order, experience this, to sit with potential and possibilities…

possibilities…I can be content with that… possibly, maybe…

~

This thread reminds me so much of this poem by Mary Oliver…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~To Begin With, The Sweet Grass

-Mary Oliver

1.

Will the hungry ox stand in the field and not eat of the sweet grass?

Will the owl bite off it’s own wings?

Will the lark forget to lift it’s body to the air or forget to sing?

Will the river’s run upstream?

Behold, I say—- behold

The reliability and the finery and the teachings

Of this gritty earth gift.

2.

Eat bread and understand comfort.

Drink water, and understand delight.

Visit the garden where the scarlet trumpets

Are opening their bodies for the hummingbird

Who are drinking the sweetness, who are thrillingly gluttonous.

For one thing leads to another.

Soon you will notice how stones shine underfoot.

Eventually tides will be the only calendar you believe in.

And someone’s face whom you love, will be as a star both intimate and ultimate

And you will be both heart-shaken and respectful.

And you will hear the air itself, like a beloved, whisper:

Oh, let me, for a while longer, enter the two beautiful bodies of your lungs.

3.

The Witchery of living Is my whole conversation

With you my darlings.

All I can tell you is what I know.

Look and look again.

This world is not just a little thrill for the eyes.

It’s more than bones.

It’s more than the delicate wrist with its personal pulse.

It’s more than the beating of a single heart.

It’s praising.

It’s giving until the giving feels like receiving.

You have a life! – just imagine that!

You have this day, and maybe another, and maybe still another.

4.

Some day, I am going to ask my friend, Paulus,

The dancer, the potter,

To make me a begging bowl

Which I believe

My soul needs.

And if I come to you,

To the door of your comfortable house

With unwashed clothes and unclean fingernails,

Will you put something into it?

I would like to take a chance. I would like to give you this chance.

5.

We do one thing or another;

we stay the same or we change.

Congratulations, if you have changed.

6.

Let me ask you this.

Do you also think that beauty exists for some fabulous reason?

And if you have not been enchanted on this adventure–Your life.

What would do for you?

7.

What I loved in the beginning, I think,

was mostly myself.

Never mind that I had to because somebody had to.

That was many years ago.

Since then, I have gone out from my confinement’s,

though with difficulty.

I mean the ones that thought to rule my heart.

I cast them out; I put them on the mush pile.

They will be nourishment somehow, (everything is nourishment somehow or another)

And I have become the child of the clouds, and of hope.

I have become the friend of the enemy, whoever that is.

I have become older, and cherishing what I have learned , I have become younger.

And what do I risk to tell you this, which is all I know?

Love yourself first. Then forget it. Then, love the world. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

and here is a beautiful Paulus Berensohn, whom Mary mentions above-

Find your own way, Paulus Berensohn

A friend sent me this gorgeous poem by Amara Bronwyn Hollow Bones~

We locked up our wisdom into our bones

And swallowed the keys

They sank in our rivers of blood

And we forgot the maps

Because we had to forget the mysteries

To keep them safe.

We wove our hair into brooms

And swept over our paths

And then burned the earth with our rage

We didn’t teach our children

It was the only way to protect them,

we thought

But in them we planted seeds, seeds and keys

And told them stories and riddles and songs

With no roots, just tangled threads

That would take years to unwind

Just enough time

For the rains to fall again

and put out the fires

For the dams to break

For the rivers to flood

For the paths

to be walked again

For the soil to breathe

And as the old bones crumble

Deep beneath the rubble

We find we’ve always had the keys

Our stories and our maps

Our paths are revealed to some

And the seeds grow again

The threads are unspun

And woven again

-Amara Bronwyn Hollow Bones