Ink and barefeet

Wet Earth

I write to smell the rain. Writing marks the pulse of life. Expressing through words with pen and paper allows me to recognize the impermanence of all things and also the creation of all things. As a child there were aspects to life I did not understand and so I used writing to escape. To create a world that existed beyond my current reality and life has changed since then in so many ways and I am grateful for change. Writing instigates change. Writing is important to me because it is my closest companion who has held space for me to be who I am in my fullest most raw forms: the messy, angry, clever, joyful, excited, charming and terrible.

Writing allows me to forgive myself, to find peace, or make sense of a world that is really confusing. I don’t know why there is so much anger in the world or rage within myself. I trust however that in touching these shadowed places where I’ve kept hidden the darkness and shame it is also the process of healing them. I am here to heal. I am here to forgive, to make peace with myself, love all of me, accept humanity and inspire the world to be seen because when I see another woman or a man touching their beauty in all their light and dark places it makes me celebrate being human. Writing allows me to celebrate what it is to be human. Today, it smells of wet earth.




It isn’t so much death I fear; living with pain is what I fear.

Cracking open with salt and tears and wet. Body bent, head bowing to the ground or on the ground, mind taking the back seat as snot and water and folding hands touch face and ground and knees pulled tight to chest. Swaying and shaking and at some point no movement. Words seize to exist. There is no sense to make in this space of siphoned senseless.

When the heart stops beating we die. The rhythm however does not seize to exist.

That sound: the sound of eternal rhythm lives in my blood and in the waters and rocks and fire light of stars.

I am made from the eternal and that part of me will never die.

Pain moves from the skin of me and mine to us and ours.

We hear each other’s breathing. We smell the fear and the release and the ecstasy of death. We learn to let go.

To taste the small deaths each day so we can breathe life and live full, deep, long inhales.

Exhale.             Inhale.

               Exhale, let go.                             Inhale, we embrace.


The Cycle of Bones

Thousands and Thousands.

Countless ages stored in my bones. Ash compacting.

Tears squeeze out to make room for more.

More sacrifice.

More quiet.

More pain.

I think: the less pain I show the world the less the world will be in pain.

But then I see her.

I see her pain.

And her aloneness, and isolation, and fear.

It is mine too.

I begin to catch her tears

and rather than stuffing them down to the quiet echoes within,

I feel them. They are wet.

I taste them. They are salt.

Her hands open. Two. Side by side. Creating a basin.

Open to receive me.

And the tears they flow.

Without words we see

each others eyes

our rhythmic hearts

feet: bare.

The earth who holds us celebrates our union. Our sacred waters flowing, being caught by the other.

Received. Blessed. Released.

Making their way back to the ocean.


Cycles of bones and blood and tears toss in the waves.

Birth and Death dancing spirals.

And we… we feel the wet.

And we taste the Salt.

size the wave


She moves me. I don’t quite know what to do with these feelings. I try to feel them. Invite them into my gut rather than the mind. The mind wrapping concrete threads through their bones. The ones who touched me with their depths. And laughter. And clay painted skin.

She opened her home for us to gather. Offering an I.V. drip. And it courses through my blood, I know, but I left and so I am going through withdrawal. Withdrawing into static gray walls. Feeling hope and despair in the same blue glass bottle.

I left the blue bottle at her house. She’s everywhere. In the shells we released to the ocean the day before I left and the seeds we planted in the sand at the center of our feet’s rhythm. I let her down too. I betrayed her by allowing another to come between us and I cant go back and change it. I cant tuck these pieces of guilt into the hollow cells any longer.

I empty. And I empty. And the doors close through the corridors of night. My eyes adapt. I see cracks in the stone walls and light shining through. The shining ones. Radiant. Woman. She’s in my dreams. Reaching out in red and turquoise beads. I see her poetry tattooed between my veins. I feel the DMT flowing through my pineal gland showing me her forms of creation.

She is creator and calls out my ink. My blood. Offering to the earth her waters.

Spacious. At ease. Creator sharing bare feet to earth. I bow to her sacred feet. Her writing, drawing, dancing, drumming, climbing, singing, crying, playing, howling limbs. She swims with the whales and meets the eyes of owl at night. I dream with her beneath the waters. Touching one womb.

womb colors

Writing in Spirals

writing the spiral

We are writers. Creators with perspectives and experiences. Themes coursing through our bodies and dreams and we search for meaning. We search. Looking for words to fill the blank spaces, the question marks. To make sense of the world.

I write because, as I write, I am heard. A built in friend, guide, lover, muse. One who stands by me no matter what.  Who stood by me as I was unsure of who to share my love with. Unsure as to where I wanted to live. Or even now where we will live after the cabin in the wilderness this summer. What we will look like.

It’s not always safe to express my words to others. Still too scared to disturb or make others uncomfortable, or more so myself uncomfortable if judged or written off. Not wanting to show anger or ugly. Get mad and rant. Or vent. It’s selfish. I don’t like hearing others rant about their lives, breathless, getting out the frustration. It’s hard not to take that shit on. Unless they pull it back to themselves, that essential piece of reflection, of taking responsibility for ones experience. So, I don’t want to burden others. That is why I write. Because without it I dam it up. The sensations. Putting pressure on my insides. My throat. My navel. My womb. Tucking pain and grief and fear and loss in the folds between my organs.

I write. I write to ask questions. To look back years later and see the answers revealed. In time. And we are all writers. Scripting our lives. The stage, set, costume design. Entry points and exit points. Transitions. Characters. Plot twists. I write to encourage life and creation to live through me. I write to find courage. I write to empty. I empty the mind so the body has space to dance. I dance.

I dance and I hear the thread of music that has existed before humans had feet. Before trees had names and the Walrus’ tusks were mere nubs on his cheeks. I saw a Walrus in Alaska. A whole island full of them. Young boys fighting. Wobbling into the ocean, up rocks, rolling onto one another. And an old one, in solitude. His molded brown blonde body on wet rock giving little attention to our passing boat, indecisive whether to bark or burp. And young ones playing in our wake, vying for our attention. I give attention to that which shows up in life and make choices as to what roles I will play.

I write the roles I play. And then resist the roles because roles are like boxes and  I don’t want to fit into a box. Cramped and uncomfortable. I write to see beyond the limitation of form. To taste the formless. To integrate and disintegrate. Deconstruct, reflect, reconstruct. See life as the spiral that it is and become aware, perhaps, of these lessons I keep circling around. The knots I am to work out of my shoulders and knees. My right shoulder. I think I dislocated it too many times showing off as a kid. Lame. But I have been doing more movement lately. Yoga classes. Submerging body in ocean waves. Bringing more oxygen in to the body. That feels good. It supports my relationships.

Primary relationship being that with my self. The bed I sleep in and dream in and make love in: this journal. Lovemaking with tools and props: ink and paper. Hand. And head. And heart. And throat, though still a bit tense, doesn’t have to keep down the sensations coursing through my veins. My spinal chord has room to elongate. Feel the gravity of life and the pull of the ethers. Space to dream.

I dream. I dance. I write.

33 christ light copy

The Curb


The Curb coffee shop. Honolulu, Hawaii. Artisanal coffee. Iced Toddy on nitrous. Skateboarder, jittery, stumbled out, found his feet on board and cruised off. Cast of characters, caring about quality caffeine. Coming and going. For a tiny corner shop there’s quite a scene. Japanese. German. Haole’s and hapas. Speaking of languages and travel. Of a friends mother who speaks so quickly its amazing she is able to breathe.

It’s cool to be able to walk these streets I came to almost ten years ago. This coffee shop between 10th Ave. and Sierra Dr.

Exploring makes people come alive. Makes me come alive. Tasting new arts, new cultures. And languages. Just now, a man, long sleeved shirt, and jeans with a tight belt ran past me on the sidewalk of Waialae Ave. Arms out stretched. Chest thrown forward. Head thrown back. And I, I catch a glimpse of a moment of his journey. My eyes and mind a witness left to wonder. To watch.

I feel my heart beat quickening and see a mans hand through the window next to me shaking back and forth. Pausing for a moment. And shaking again. Thoughts may be accompanying the movement. Maybe aware of his hand. Maybe not. And two people inside, maybe early twenties- are animated. Radiating excitement. And I do that too. Express the excitement of connecting. Putting forth and being acknowledged for our expansions in life. This girls experience of receiving a scholarship because a mentor/teacher applied for her. No effort needed. We share these parts of ourselves and our lives. The parts full of magic. Unexplainable.

So many comings and goings. In a coffee shop. In a city. In one mans life. It’s important for me to get out. To feel this. The expansiveness of life. Of so many people so involved in their own experiences mine doesn’t exist. I disappear.

I cried this morning on the steps outside the house. Steps made of concrete. I  feel judged. Not good enough. Looked at too much. Like the way my sensitivity falls on broken leaves breaking their seams all the more. Unable to control my weight.

But then, I have writing. A confidant. Lover. Muse. Making sense of the insensible. And life is what happens in between.

Enlivening the magic of symbols.

“I come seeking knowledge and you mock me!” A guy inside the coffee shop just shouted, laughing. Teasing. Calling out.

Pirate Adventure

jolly rogers ink

Today we became pirates. Initiated by Captain Hammerhead Allen and Black Sand Bob. We met them days ago after a plot to capture their swords while in their sleep. This was before we met them. Before we found their ship in the harbor. The moment we spotted the ship we were on an adventure. Kallai had Noah and I hiding behind bushes. Questioning their intentions while here in Honolulu. Where they came from. They came from our dreams, you see. And dreams walk to us as we walk to them. But we have to walk to them, you see. And Noah didn’t want to walk to them and follow the ship into harbor. Time holding his feet to predictable forms. Well, I scatter magic, you see. And enjoy watching the hands of the clock dance in spirals. And Captain Hammerhead Allen he saw my amulets and called me out as sorcerer.

El Barco Circular. The Circular Boat.

Closing a circle. A yurt here in Maui. Last night. Packing. cleaning. feeling the presence of friends turned family. It hurts letting go. Heart being pulled out of me looking back with tears. It’s a flow. Tides turn. Boat sails on.

no blown out barco

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