Finishing

When time and will and inspiration align
Work becomes play,
But such a union rarely arises
And so work becomes fear,
Overwhelming and imperfect;
I am left waiting.
With idle hands and toxic adrenaline.
If, however, as I wait I fill the work
That has fallen out of time
Beyond my reach
With all the hopes of my inspiration,
Perhaps hope will beckon my will
And I will play in the sun once more.

Shamanic Journey

I began in the water. The Salish Sea. The prize presented to me by my knights. The still, salty water bathed me in its cooling embrace. Baptized in the abyss of darkness, yet safe. Safe as I had not known it in so long. So long since I sat cradled in my mother's womb. So long since the black veil meant peace.

And so I journeyed from the water to the path that invited me into its mystery. I walked, wanting to run as the unknown turn of its curves beckoned: Trust us. And I did. More, I cried to them. Take me further into your hiding. That night I had seen her. A face of light consuming the trail. Her eyes let in the darkness, her mouth opening. I remembered her light and then I was home.

I was standing at the base of the stairs, looking out at the lawn and the cacti and the aloe. I turned to my left to see the rose garden. The Sterling Tea rose I bought her was in full bloom. Full of the fragrance of the day. It was day. But what day? I mark my time now, by her presence and her absence. Which day was this?

I shifted my posture and so my gaze to look up the steps toward the door. That place where she stood. Always, that place where she waited for me. Whether in hello or goodbye, I could turn and see her there. The way she opened her arms to me as I looked up, I knew, this was hello.

I knew that place my face would find her neck. I knew those hands that rubbed up my back coaxing that one exhale from me that means, I'm home. I'm safe. I'm in her arms for as long as I want to be. We've been waiting for you for so long, she said smiling that wait-till-you-see-what-I-have-for-you smile.

And so, she guided me through the front door, her hand gently urging at the small of my back. I recognized the living room, but the walls faded. I was outside before I left the house. And there, in a large circle where these women. So many women. And a drum. I began to hear the drum. Kestrel, I thought: Help me to flit about this scene, above and below. Make me small and tall and quick of wing.

The center of the circle let fly a Kestrel who flew due north away from me. I looked again at the center. It wasn't fire. It wasn't water. I couldn't quite make it out... It's okay, came floating toward me. The wind carried whispers and falcon cries and the drum. Women began to touch me and shed my clothing. They wiped at me with muddy hands and colored fingers. They painted me, face and body. The laughed and held me. I want to see her again.

The drum. I look. She's playing the drum. Naked and swollen, swaying and pounding. I have never seen her play a drum. Look at what she can do. Dance took the floor. Women stomped in a circle over circles and creating circles. They sprinkled ash in front of their swiveling feet and pressed it down to mark a grey hoop. A circle made perfect by their connection, by their dance and with me at its center. By the ash of their mortal remains.

She left early, knowing you would follow her here. It will get easier, whispers. You will see us more clearly the more you return. As you return, as you learn the dance, you will become even more present on Earth. It is time to grow. It is time to journey and learn and move about in your life. It was just enough medicine. Just enough for a neophyte. It was a dance in the Oak Grove that watched my mother die as they watch me even now, come back to life.

The Brave Fool

You're my memory

My past

Failure pulls at me

Sharply, and with absolute force:

It is the goad at my heel

The bit in my mouth

I clench and gnash

My jaw, aching, swollen and mangled

I'm held in place, paralyzed

Whilst a tidal wave advances at my back.

Judgement holds my tongue.

I remember all the times before

The passion of the new, quickly met

By the heartache of

Defeat

I cannot summon a contradiction

To testify in my defense

The sins of my fathers, for which

I am held to account.

We have always dreamed and failed

Seen far and held in squalor

Envisioned the thrones of kings

Only to be left alone,

Facing our regret.

Having despised the life we were given

Uncompromising, distant and without hope,

Or too much of it.

At the first spark of intention

Your flame envelops my becoming.;

I am, as I always was.

I will, for we always do.

You would comfort me with wise words

Of precaution:

Did I not keep you from the inevitable angst of loss?

You cajole.

Did I not keep you from forgetting your true self?

You kept me.

And so I am held.

Victim to myself

I cannot lose what i do not risk

Nor can I gain.

Ah, Sophia

Turn your head from my capricious imaginings

Cover your eyes, if you must

As I wander, unarmed into the

Unknowable

But do not stray far from my side

I will need you before the night is over.

I must be foolish now,

Leap into the absurd

I will most assuredly fail

I will lie humiliated before all

I will beg the hands of a hundred starving children

To raise me from my sinking bower.

If death is sure

Why not partake from the rush of youth

Glittering and sparkling in the new sun.

7 Weeks

lost.

6 Weeks

Tidal ebb and flow does not obey my whims,
Not of the great seas, nor of my draining womb.

Pangs of suffering do not ease at my song,
Not of the inumerable oppressed, nor of my straining flesh.

Peaceful surrender does not fall as I whisper,
Not upon the brutality of man, nor upon my fretting heart.

Time's presence and passage does not keep pace with my desire,
Not for the earth's rotation, nor for my yearning impatience.

I cannot summon the moon;
I cannot heal the poor;
I cannot calm the storms;
I cannot speed life on her way.

Though powerless, I bring forth life;
Though broken, you mend my many woes
with
one
quiet
steady
heartbeat.

If only

As another year hastens to a close, I find myself still sinking into the couch, still hoping for health, still pondering the big question: life, the universe and everything. Since I'm not feeling particularly melancholic tonight, but rather easy (thank you codeine cough syrup with a green tea and honey chaser) and inspired (thank you Tony Bordain, my favorite loquacious, traveling lush). So, I'm not interested in deep meaning, but rather a list - clean and simple.

Following is a list, in no particular order of that which I truly long to do at some point in the short time I'm allotted:

Sommelier Certification
The love of wine requires no explanation. However, this particular pursuit might lead to a command of regional distinctions between each blessed grape, getting to use words like terroire without attracting dirty looks, and perhaps most importantly, increased consumer confidence when facing the interminable pursuit for the perfect $5 bottle of Pinot Noir.

Falconer License
After 7 years of study and hard work, I could either be an MD or a falconer. Other than my quiet love of birds and increasing desire to hunt, I find myself longing to beckon a falcon with a slab of sweaty raw meat in my grip for an entirely different reason: they're so goddamn beautiful. The Peregrine Falcon with its be-speckled chest tufted proudly in the waning sun as it clenches and releases my leather glove, lovingly clawing me with its fierce talons... this is a moment I must know.

Publish a Book
Okay, I'll settle for finishing a book. I'm not particular about the genre. I just want to stare down the blank white page that has intimidated me for as long as I can remember, and with a decisive stroke write, "The End."

Study at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris
It's my intention to grow as a cook with each new meal. This is one of the few pleasures that isn't tainted with the nagging necessity to turn talent into a career. I know that kitchen work isn't my cup of tea. However, I also know that food isn't quite done with me yet. We have a love affair that can only be truly consummated in Paris.

Act in Musical Theatre
Though my theatrical resume begins with "chorus member in Annie" at the age of 12 and ends with "chorus member in the Music Man" at the age of 14, my love for musicals remains fierce and true. I'm not looking for a lead on Broadway. But, perhaps a supporting, yet striking role in a humble but dedicated public theatre. You know: Mrs. Hannigan, Rizzo, um... Adelaide.

See Europe
Perhaps the most vague and ambitious aspiration on the list, and yet such is Europe to me. Other than some stolen glances out of the sky high windows of Charles de Gaul, my exposure to that fair continent comes only through Jane Austen, Albert Camus, Mmes. Bronte, and an ever expanding list of foreign cinema. I refuse to let Ethan Hawke's dialogue with that blonde Frenchie on a train through their youth act as the only mediator between me and Venice, Nice, London, St. Petersburg, Barcelona, Dublin, and of course, Paris.

That'll do for now. There are, of course, many more. I have sighed all my sighs for the evening. My insatiable longing for the richness of a romantic life is quite exhausting. Although, I have just this moment remembered one more...

Drink Peyote on a Reservation
I want to have a vision quest. I want to find my soul's mate in an animal. I want to have my hair braided by a gray streaked elder with leathery, pruning fingers. I want to taste freedom and breathe color.

Oh yeah... and I want to Own a Horse of my very own.

regret

when the strain of too damn much erupts
my clammy palms stretch the skin at my temples
reeling back the piercing ache that threatens to overtake me.
can a brain swell from the stress of unfinished business?
like keeping pressure on a wound, all slippery and pulsing,
my hands constrict and push, fumbling desperately at a broken dam;
a life awash in worry, wasting away in the wonder of what should have been,
too preoccupied to entertain the what if.
hope is a commodity too valuable for the angst of regret.