truth

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falling from the sky, a message a thousand times repeated

silent and steady

called by roots of countless beings in backyards, in parks, on sidewalks, on the riverbanks, in the mountains

called by the hearts of those in prayer.

 

how do you know a truth?

is it something you think? is it something you find in your mouth after it escapes some mysterious lair? is it something you learn? something you earn? is it something you notice only sometimes, like the sunset as you drive from work to the store to home, even though it may always be in front of you? is it something you ignore until another makes you name it? something casually in the background like a confident housecat?

or is it something that exists in your body? something that reverberates inside you? a knowing from that sacred elsewhere that you may have trouble explaining?

 

tightness crawls out of the cave of my chest. my vision changes as eyes feel its pull. beauty and trust are harder to see. is it you? or you? or me? there must be someone around who is making this happen. forget the poison, this is progress. trampling the prairie, the protectors, my heart. even as my words fall out in orderly fashion, connecting history to present, money to management to massacre, my body tries to invert itself. this is not the world it knows. my bones sing the language of the dirt and the stars. my muscles tell me there is tenderness in each human body. my blood shares stories of the water crawling through cracks, roaring in rapids, swelling in waves, floating in air, flowing in bodies in bodies in bodies.

i pray to the water. i don’t know what i am doing but i pray.

how to express the clarity inside me? that those voices saying the pipeline must not be built are right. that the history of us silencing and killing and dehumanizing the original peoples of this continent is all too real. and all too unacknowledged. and is so very ready to be healed.

 

am i mad? this truth that screams from inside out longs to be seen.

and so i light my candle when i am alone. i let my eyes say everything to any who will catch them.

and i surrender to the mystery, to the belief that change is here, to the strength of this spirit, to the work that is before me, to all the feelings that crowd my temple, and to step after step after sacred step.

the r a i n

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the rain.

is

so

beautiful.

dumping of built up pent up buckets thrown knocked over in the sky with careless abandon cover everything everyone down pushing pounding falling apart and together thousands millions of drops one ocean one direction down in into the earth towards the center falling water everywhere in all the cracks in all our ears moving changing creating destroying water falling.

steady pour filling our cups. the chalice of autumn. blowing gusts with power and force. soaking in with pressure, resilience, determination. the constant pull to the earth and out to the mother.

wash us clean oh weathered witch. sacred drops stop us in our tracks. we forget to watch our feet. welcome water. welcome deep feelings. welcome big flowing purpose. welcome change. welcome dark movement. welcome broken sky.

there is so much input all the time. my body saying stretch and slow, that place behind my face saying let the tears go, please let it show. there is pain and grief to honor and see. i feel at once in disbelief and unsurprised. the animal and the socialized citizen. how can officers in uniform, with guns and weapons and an army of disassociation be attacking people praying and standing up for themselves? it is about the safety of the pipeline yes, and it is about the centuries of silencing and colonization and oppression WE HAVE AUTHORED and they have LIVED THROUGH. the first peoples of this land are still here. please, can we honor them? can we start listening to them?

who do i talk to? do you all feel the same? can we change this game? please. lets stop. lets stand with them. help me slow down. i know i am not alone.

four hundred million drops of water saying the same thing. bow to the earth. listen to the flow.

 

this is what you came for

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the slow quiet mornings. the way the sun makes dew into dreams floating up defiant of gravity. the way we choose our path each time, entering again this world of body and breath, bussle and business.

on the other side of a great work what do you find? did you come just to make and fall apart? in these tender days i honor my recoil, i celebrate the aftermath. as if the night were never to compare to the sunset.

if i look like is ending and beginning, reaching and falling all around me. i am also these stages. i dont know if i will ever be without doubt. i know that i have a lifetime to learn how to hold myself in power while amplifying others, centering other voices, and opening to the ways our past has hurt our imaginations of the future. may each morning be an open hand of offering and receiving.

i am my own storykeeper.

it isn’t like much has changed and yet it has. re-center and ground. i know my center. i follow what i know.

the jasmine wants to grow over everything. the lavender has died. the datura blooms and falls quietly radiant. my hair floats to the ground, returning.

in the quiet mornings my mind can try to jump in the car of the responsible, calling out lists and names like a radio detached from the earth it rests on. i bring it back to first give thanks for this life. hello heart, hello body. then i send loving prayer to those asking for it. may rebecca’s body be clear of tumors. may the bears live in health and deep loving connection. and then i let the story unfold a little farther, remembering i can turn back the page whenever i like.

our magic is real.

may we with male privilege know ourselves and hold our hearts well enough to see and hear the voices and stories of those who have been harmed by that privilege, may we risk vulnerability with each other by reaching out to one another for support while showing up for those who may need it from us.

may we continue our work against white supremacy, capitalism, settler colonialism, objectification of bodies and the earth, and continue to learn the slow soft language of trust and patience.

there is enough.

we are enough.

this is what i came for.

these words have a soft voice

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i feel most myself when…

a piece of paper asks for attention, give itself fully to my whim. i make it wait.

go back a few steps and look again. i am surrounded. by walls with hand drawings and words describing the inside of a strangers mind and heart. by questions to and from. by faces in their own stories following their lights. by things my hands have never touched and textures my eyes have never walked across. i am surrounded by moments both shy and brave, standing up and waving and then leaving. the halls of this museum hum with life. i exhibit in movements.

i sit down with these objects at a table. weather. stars. lightening. clouds and all colors of sky. with endless possibilities in front of me i find no overwhelm. no dark hesitation. no perfectionist pause. i simply let my fingers follow impulses and shape as they are able. what if there were giant streaks of yellow casting up out of a silver basin with dark stars highlighting the contrast? what if? now there is. the space between possible and becoming shrinks beyond the place thoughts carry volumes of theory and interpretation. at this table the evening is just the evening. the day is always coming.

i wear clouds and call to the wind. this is the airy shit aquarians are all about. standing by the river i watch the truth move through the grass. i watch it ripple the trees and shade the hills behind. why dont i have names for all those colors? what dont i have words for the different ways the leaves move?

i saw the moon full. i asked friends to meet me, to hear me, to meet me. some came. some i failed to reach. time stealing away as it does and me having more feet to follow than yards to lie in. the moon said we all come and go and come again. there is room enough for all of it in the dark.

the sound of the words.

Possibly whole

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I am a handful. A handful of sand. A rain. A rainbow. A role. A roledex. I am a mouthful. A mouth full of teeth. 

I am here. With a stomach full of experience. A throat full of whathashappened. A face full of canyoubelievethisislife. Hair pulled up in an almostgotitfiguredoutbutnowayreally. Eyes soakingdry saying everything at once. Can you tell I am in love? Can you read the grief in the way my cheeks hold themselves? Can you smell the inspirationanduncertainty? I hold the hand of the day as I walk around, as I sit and study, as I dance and smile, as I follow ghosts in the sky. 

I am a handful of sand slowly falling through your fingers. My parts are piled one on top of beautiful one, obscuring, complicating. I have a glimpse of where I’m going. I can’t tell you much about it. Except that I know a strength that exists that two humble hands can not hold. Why would I try be in such a small and articulate place? Such a loving, tender and specific place? Because I love you.

And yet the world is so big. And my heart is spilling out the wind in the night warm on my face across the space that everything knows into the morning with the happy birds next to the street next to the window next to all the noise full of song and something to say through the coming of the light and the resting of the rest I am here.

And I miss you.

And this is the love I give myself.

Night tremor

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Yesterday I spent the day walking, singing, crying and magicking, praying for a friend, and for us, and that the earth help hold and change the pain of patriarchy, misogyny and sexual violence into something that can feed our dreams. 

The earth gave me a place to put it, a physical space in the ground, and I stayed there for hours.

Last night there was an earthquake near where I slept. It was the first decent earthquake I have been in since I was a young boy. 

You can do whatever you want with that.

No big deal. Just a coincidence. Just two completely unrelated events.

For me, I think it was the earth shaking with the work. Shuddering and moving all we put into her, all the loss, confusion, anger, pain and grief. Showing us that there is strength and power greater than anything we’ve somehow created, greater than our systems of domination and capable of changing anything.

It was frightening. My body awake and alive in an instant, my mind running from dream to this shaking waking life. And as I stood in the doorway overlooking the mountain side in the dark of night I smiled. Even alone without phone or Internet and in potential danger for my life I was a part of it. Exactly there in the middle of life, living and giving my all to what felt right. 

We choose our stories. 

Life of pi. 

I believe the earth is on our side.

Upon a warm night what comes comes

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The weavers weave. The dreamers dream. I surrender to mystery’s grand scheme. Para my fire and will, sowilo be aligned, I commit again to listen to signs.

I know we can heal. I feel truth in the pain and joy. and when my intent falls between my fingers I will pick it up again.

This is a mirror for you to use. For your delight and the abuse you have suffered. May we meet as we are. And as we are may we greet the great turning, the open field of tomorrow, in all its quiet and small prosperity.

This is the mess I am made of

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This is the mess I am made of.

Spilled out over your hands and ears. Sticky mess. Like sap, enticing until your body can’t release it. Some aspect of vitality mixed with mistake. Some doors are always opened.

This is the mess I am made of.

These words I work with are clouds. Dreamy and threatening, carrying weight and made of the unknown. Floating above and casting shadows they are separate and not. My body knows them, moves with them, and yet is of a world altogether different. I am learning the language of my body. I am learning the ways my words fail me.

This is the mess I am made of.

Epic failure. Dedication. I can never be the me of your dreams. It is not me on the night horse, nor the day drifter.

I am this mess. Full of story, song and wind.

This is the mess I am made of

This is the mess I am made of.

Spilled out over your hands and ears. Sticky mess. Like sap, enticing until your body can’t release it. Some aspect of vitality mixed with mistake. Some doors are always opened.

This is the mess I am made of.

These words I work with are clouds. Dreamy and threatening, carrying weight and made of the unknown. Floating above and casting shadows they are separate and not. My body knows them, moves with them, and yet is of a world altogether different. I am learning the language of my body. I am learning the ways my words fail me.

This is the mess I am made of.

Epic failure. Dedication. I can never be the me of your dreams. It is not me on the night horse, nor the day drifter.

I am this mess. Full of story, song and wind.

Hail grief

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Woooooshhhh.

Oh tender hearts. Oh sacred cracks in everything. Everywhere. Shine blessed light. Kiss to those darkest parts. 
The crossroads again and again. 

And what do we pray to? For? If these words are spells let them be mirrors. Let them be transparent. Windows. We always see ourselves, it’s just that we don’t always want to recognize what we see.

We are confronted with ourselves in our interactions with the world, in how we hear another’s voice, in the food we eat, and we aren’t always able to let ourselves in.

I am like a stream. I fall down again and again. Falling short like so many spills over rocks. See me tumble. Stumble. My divine notknowing shining in the sun, glistening in the moonlight.

In each corner there is a part of us hiding. Looking out. Looking in. Falling in love. Falling apart. Hurting all the way into our hearts. Laughing.

Before I leave let me feel the dirt on my skin. Let the holes in my sacred cape be mended by your pain. 

Hail to you grief. May you help us span this distance. 

Flow ice flow. We are not alone.