Tuesday, April 20, 2010


I settle crouched over in the bathtub in humility as though I'm ready to receive a blessing. The water is warm on my back--the light from the flame emanating through the curtain, soothing. This alone is almost enough.

I reside in the centre of myself, present and aware. I feel single droplets of water trickling down my neck, softly, gently, like tiny kisses. My ears perk up. The sound of the water becomes music--I sense the pattern of movement, the time signature of the piece.

Then I feel a breeze, like a hiccup, coming at me from my left, my right, and above. I take a deep breath. Now, I can't stop taking deep breaths. I don't understand where he comes up with the notion that I need to get in touch with my feelings, that I need to reflect and dig deeper, to be quiet and still. He must not know me, doesn't read me correctly, is blind to what I am.

If I dig any deeper, I'll just lose myself in the pit. So he says, And then you'll find your way out... I guess I ought to feel proud, of my potential strength to overcome. He doesn't realize the pit and I have an established relationship. And I don't feel like talking so I keep my mouth shut while my mind rambles on and on and on.

Then I move to that place again and use the sword as my focal point. I've had so much practice, you'd think I would have cleared the cobwebs by now, dissected my thoughts with enough precision to allow the sun to pierce through the clouds, but no. Then it dawns on me. I can't hear what my heart is saying because it's shrouded, burdened and consumed by thought.

Now I feel like a child--young and naive, immature and stupid. I hear Mick Jagger. I want this whole thing painted black. Give me a paint brush and let me do what I will with it. Let me begin anew, to dissolve and be transformed. I want another chance. And he says, Time is now.

But I resist. I resist what I want because it's too important, because there's too much gravity in presence. I should be smiling, should be welcoming risk. You won't believe the synchronicities I've been experiencing. So I let the water do what it does best--calm the nerves and still the mind. As I settle, I remember the words of my spiritual teacher, as though they were meant just for me, When your heart is open, you will never be bored.

Friday, April 16, 2010


You're the only one I'll allow to hold my hand and take me down the paths you walk, to those places most people dare not go because they fear what they might find.

On my way to work, the sun just rising, I hear the words, Under slate grey Victorian sky, Here you will find, despair and I. And here I am every last inch of me is yours, Yours, For evermore. The music makes the ideal bride for the words you choose to express.

But I'm not sure Morrissey. I'm not sure I want to walk with you today. I don't know if I have what it takes. I'm empty. I doubt there's anything you're able to give that I'm able or willing to receive. But, I'm powerless. Your words have a way of filling me up and then drying me out. I know the depths you've been to. I know what words can do. I know how they can lift and tear down, how they can deliver and deceive--with or without intent.

You and I are of a different breed. We don't speak for our own amusement. There's meaning, there's purpose, there's power because word is real. We're real. We're the normal in an abnormal world. And we continue to be what we are because the voice inside won't have it any other way. But there's a risk in all of this, isn't there? Words falling on deaf ears, feeling misunderstood, experiencing a kind of loneliness others fill with the superfluous.

We allow ourselves to feel the poetry, to laugh and to cry simultaneously. We won't compromise at the expense of soul. It's simply too important.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

'OK Computer'

I'm not leaving this place, not for a while.

I like being here under a navy painted sky, with accents of whites and grays. I take my brush and soften some of the lines to create more impact. But then, with some force, some acceleration, I use Pollock's drip technique. I sigh. Now, I can relax.

I have Radiohead's OK Computer with me. The music is all over me--on my skin, my hair, my clothes, my lips, in my blood. And suddenly the clouds look menacing but they keep a watchful eye which provides an eerie sort of comfort. I have no desire to paint these skies blue or pretend they can do better than what is. I know where the sun is hiding.

Let Down comes in like a gentle storm but with that mischievous east wind, I know what's lurking not too far behind. And then Yorke wails like he's in despair, like he's reaching for something too far beyond himself, like he's searching for someone who isn't there. I look up. I want that lightning to strike. Now would be a good time. I wait and I wait and I keep waiting. I yell, Just strike already. Be on purpose. Be what you are. Don't go half way. Thor, Zeus, Indra, whatever your name, roll those boulders across the sky. Fire the canons. Come on. I don't need your mercy.

I sit on a hill under my favorite tree in this open and endless field. In the far distance is a little house but there is a kind of shelter out here that no interior can provide. Now, I'm pulled back, drawn in, melting with drum. I feel Yorke's voice spiraling inside of me. Karma Police I've given all I can. It's not enough. I've given all I can... And he's howling and my hands reach out to these dark skies. And with that last climactic drum roll, I see the lightning, I feel the crashing roar, the loud burst of thunder. But the gods tease. I'm the only sound I hear.

How can these gods be asleep? Are they not moved? Do they not see? Am I the only one awake? Their lack of delivery is inexcusable. It's poetically unjust. It makes no sense. And I plea, I beg, What are you waiting for? This is my scene, my story, my way. But I'm always late, always looking for the climax, within and without. Where's the climax? And Yorke can't wait for me either. And like that first gasp for air after a long battle, he comes rushing in. For a minute there, I lost myself, I lost my...se...e...elf. Phew, for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself...

Before I know it, Exit Music has entered and filled every crevice inside me. The music plays with my emotions like they're keys on a piano, strings on a lyre or hands on a tabla. I'm calm but I'm the queen of anticipation so I can't completely enjoy this experience, these moments. Then right before Yorke's scream, his siren, the clouds fuse, creating spark, getting ready to join us mortals in this orchestra we call life. Finally, the music, the scene and I, we flow into each other becoming one, becoming whole--something I never quite fully believed was possible.

And I laugh and I cry because it's perfect. It's all so perfect.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010


Nothing like 6:00am morning rain to get the juices flowing.

I'm sitting under a tree--its branches like arms arching over me, its trunk--my beloved offering support and a platform from which to dream.

I don't know where I'm going. I'm sinking way down, down, down. What if I got on that train? What if not knowing where I'm going is finally me catching up to where I need to be? What if hanging on is a form of letting go?

I've noticed references to trains these past few days, the most recent the last song off an album Dark as The North Atlantic called A Beautiful Train that sits like a temptress under another track called St.Theresa. How convenient for me. I'm full of synchronicities. In my post Wind & Waves I realize I never reveal who I'm having a conversation with. Just so you know, it's St.Theresa. I would have never thought to mention her if this album hadn't crossed my path, my atmosphere, my personal space. I'll leave it at that.

Back to the tree. I feel things. I feel too much. My mind wanders and then comes back to a point in the ground. Now I find myself sitting on the edge of a cliff cross legged looking ahead but eyes moving down, settling on insects in the grass--ants and ladybugs--and purple flowers. I take a deep breath, the deepest breath I've ever inhaled in this realm. And then slowly, I exhale the greatest heart pang I've ever felt--a wound so deep, so sweet, I find it difficult to part with.

I sob like I've never sobbed before, and the rain finally comes down, drops blending with tears, my hair all about me. My heart centre opens up in ways I had not imagined, had not thought possible and out of it pours every dream, every useless pain, every unfulfilled want, every stained river. I can't tell you how sore I am, the distances I've traveled to get here, the trains I've missed. And the breaths move deeper, filling spaces I didn't even know were there. My sounds become ancient. I'm the flute the Universe chooses to play, altering my pitch by blowing and fingering.

I'm not a warrior today. I don't even know where my sword is but I know where it's been. I feel like Lady of Shalott, like Ophelia, the same two women I keep running back to, the same two ladies I need to run away from. But I can't change what I see, what I feel, how I move especially in this dress which is too long, too heavy, too painfully beautiful. As my hands rest on my belly, I hear the first roar of the skies like a child being scolded by her mother, her father, her teacher. But I don't care. It adds to the pangs, the breaths, the beats, the highs and the lows of my spirit. I'll create an opening for it all so that I may release...And I hear two verses from Alfred Lord Tennyson's haunting poem.

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

There is a beauty here I would not have known unless I allowed myself to be carried through these kind of mental and emotional storms.

Lucky me...