Even when it’s all been sung the birds sing their song They greet the day with a song in their heart. Even with the great sorrow, The grief, the rumination The birds sing their song. There is hope and courage in their tune, if I just stop I can feel it. Not an urgency, but a faith a promise that this day brings. So sing their song they must and they faithfully do. I count on their song even when it’s all been sung.
Category: Connection
Stories connect us
When all the Jens turn 50
Generation X Generation post-punk And bands with big hair and even longer ballads. Roller skates and Hot summer nights with no A/C. Curling irons, crimping irons and Aquanet. Beetlejuice, Heathers, Freaks and Geeks, Kevin Smith movies and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Nightmare Before Christmas and Grunge. The Cure on stage Robert Smith holding my hands; Such gratitude and connection to his fans. When all the Jens turn 50, Does that mean we now run the show? We make our own rules. We speak our minds. We still wear T-shirts from our favorite bands Some of the lucky ones still touring. When all the Jens turn 50, We will have gained so much wisdom and insight No longer timid and shy Filled with such doubt and lacking self-assurance Will we ever fit in? When all the Jens turn 50, Generation X has turned the tide. The sun and moon know our true age As we dance around the musician’s stage. From one Jen to another, who has not yet turned 50 In loving memory to my first real friend, Jennifer Lopes (Brink) , who would have turned 50 this year.
At the temple gate
It is more than an entryway. It is a guidepost from the distance and leads to my heart. The path may be faint, Unremarkable even, But the path is illuminated. Stone by stone. Plate by plate. Gently I walk to the temple gate.
Out of the Blue
Like a breath of fresh air Inspiration knocks on the door. Is it a breeze knocking something into the door? Do I answer? Am I afraid of what lies beyond what my eyes can only see? It is in vision that we envision and build a future We can be proud of. We are the architects of our own heart. The hammer and tools are within an arm’s reach. I grasp towards the handle and turn the knob. I open the door to inspiration.
We are Sacred
We tend to work like old cars. Something goes: The engine. The body. The smooth flow of heat and friction. The get up and go. The pedal to the metal, as they say. But we are not machines or computers. Even if society tricks us, Influences us, Tells us otherwise. I am more than a widget giving an output. Yes, we all need each other. We are an interdependent species, Even when we can feel the most alone. Our time is sacred and limited Precious and potent. How can society run simpler? With less friction, tension and pressure So that what we do matters less than Who we are and how we show up? Maybe that is what maturity and the taking time To ask the questions brings -- Not just rote memory Of what we have always done -- That feels like important, sacred, fulfilling work And maybe a focus I can further explore. Today I am grateful that I’m able to focus On what matters: Healing and connection. Asking. Being curious. Showing up authentically. And maybe illuminating a path for my daughters So they do not fall into those same busy-til-you-break traps.
The old bakery
We walked everywhere as kids. Mom didn’t drive so our options were limited. We walked up and down the busy at times streets. Cars whizzed by. The blaring sirens of firetrucks and ambulances. The familiar thud as car tires ran over a dipped manhole cover. I don’t remember why we were in Wescott. There was no bus route or a friend’s house to visit. Then I discovered a bakery. I could smell the fresh loaves of bread long before we crossed the threshold. My stomach growled, wanting to gobble the aroma that danced and swirled around my nostrils. Did we go in? Did we buy a prized loaf? I don’t remember eating the fresh bread, just the aromas lingering as we walked by. A secret bakery, no longer hidden from our path. Sweet, fresh, warm, beckoning us all inside for a bit a reprieve from the walking, how our legs would sometimes ache. And our stomachs’ noise matched our longing. A childhood memory, forever etched in my mind of a long gone bakery of decades past.
Just us
The evening sky is now pitch black. It is hard to see much around me. I arrive with my friends, Josh and Sue. We are at the local elementary school playground. There is sandy grass beneath our feet. It is just us at this time of night. We feel free to play. At the cusp of adulthood. The tail end of childhood. The freedom to yell and shout. The freedom to play without care or worry. We laugh and joke. Our spirits are high. And so are we. I don’t know who started the idea of spinning like a dervish dancer. Spin and spin. The world is a blur of streetlights swirled into darkness. And then we start to run in our dizzy haze. And we laugh and laugh. Because, try as we might, to run in a straight line, our bodies run in zigzags, haphazard, and sideways. And it makes us laugh. How out of control our bodies can be when we are dizzy and high. And having a grand time. There’s not much to do when you’re young and broke. To entertain ourselves in this small town. The cops don’t bother us. We are not encumbered In knowing what the future brings. The lines and plans we make are never straight and linear. Try as we might to head for a target, We veer off course and into unintended directions. Destinations uncharted, and that is thrilling. The surprise. How our bodies seem to have a mind of its own. And we’re just along for the ride. Almost surrendering to forces we can’t control. The world stops spinning for a moment All is still and dark once more. It’s quiet. Our bellies hurt from the laughter. Now in the past a distant memory of a silly circumstance.
The coolness of night
The coolness of night Blankets the earth while I slumber. It sparkles with life When it bathes in the morning light. How did it get there? Where dreamers dream It took a rest Leaving only its cool mist As evidence in the morning. Soon evaporated and vanished. A distant memory On the tip of your tongue. Unsure if it was real Or just a dream.
Rest is a landscape
Rest is a landscape and a peaceful terrain. I feel the wave of relaxation Wash over me Like healing prana energy. I vibrate in its essence. I embody the essential nature. Rest returns me to me. More than a return to center. It’s a return home. Where I am always welcome. A place where I belong. Rest is a landscape And a peaceful terrain Of healing and belonging. It is not a far away place. It is always within me Around me and a part of me.
That Rhythmic Dance
I have shared my love of the skies With my children Just as my mother has to me. It is a connection to the cycles, To the phases. A generation of past and future All tracked by astronomers. The regular rhythms and rotations. The future can be predicted With precision. It goes unnoticed. That beauty. That light. If not for my calendar And my lunar yoga practices, I may lose that connection. Unaware of that rhythmic dance Of the cosmos always happening Hidden behind those clouds. Beyond my human sight. There is magic and certainty, Mystery and always beauty.
Healing Insights 