Image by Allec Gomes
A giant wave, a rising fist
curling to throw a hard
anticipated sucker punch.
But look how it breaks
into humble foam, a tender
kiss embracing your feet
as you entrust yourself
to the unknown.
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A giant wave, a rising fist curling to throw a hard anticipated sucker punch. But look how it breaks into humble foam, a tender kiss embracing your feet as you entrust yourself to the unknown.
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 Image by Susan Wilkinson When the world keeps knocking on your door making demands, insisting that you owe it something special, look for the jewels inside. Let the body become a primordial womb nourishing all your desires as a tiny fetus inside grows plump with that longing. It does not need to answer to anyone until it is ripe for passage through a canal of wonder so ready to meet the world outside perceived, conceived in love. inspired by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
When my day is punctuated by periods it feels like a dead end, a life resigned to a screenplay written by someone else. What if I filled the day, the story with semicolons, one eye winking in mischief and mystery with the other wide open? The store closed at 5pm; it opens again tomorrow; there is more time to decide! I’m stuck on a word or line in the poem; how delightful for intuition over intellect to respond! Oh, periods in my life, I know you must close some doors as the nature of impermanence declares. And to live this life with an open heart saturated with semicolons; there is always more to the story- a run on sentence without end… Who are the grammar gods anyway?  Image by Satya wrapped around him like a divine consort we watch an orange sphere melt into the cold, dark sea a timeless phenomenon over the centuries never asking much from its spectators whispering instead through restless tides stay, stay  Image by planetMitch aunger Jhana Bliss liquid light bathed in gold so precious it’s easier to let go  Image by Guzmán Barquín Love Me, You Say Inspired by Hafiz Love me, you say to the sleepy, aching body to the smoky skies in Barre to the multiple hindrance attacks. Of course, you so not say this out loud. Otherwise someone would call the Dhamma cops. Still, think about sitting in an eternal wellspring of happiness. Why not see with a full moon in each eye, saying in that sweet moon language what every aching heart is dying to hear?  Image by Oleinikova Olga Images of Desire Smoky mysterious darkness. She enters slowly in the heart’s shadow tenderly holding a candle, breathing into the flame-- the Dharmic principle of loving desire gently whispering, What do you really want, my love? I want this! I want that! The dualistic mind is relentless. Bear the tension, soften the grip, My Love. Every flash of color, every sound, word, sensation, and smell are simply guideposts to an unfathomable beyond you can never reach. Smoky mysterious darkness. She enters slowly in the heart’s light through the images already here-- painting, perfuming, pulsating with all of this world as Soul.  Image by Haberdoedas When I’m sitting at the kitchen table, debating family about whether one can believe in God and the existence of dinosaurs, or missing out on the great pink berry yogurt dessert ritual, I take myself on a solitary hike the next morning into the foothills. Here, I can listen to the whispers between the branches and tall summer grasses, chirping and high-pitched warbles of wild ones I can’t see, soft crunches of dry leaves underneath each step as a brush rabbit scampers across the path. Here the forest does not judge, but simply grows around the eccentricities of its inhabitants. Oh, to take this back into enclosed spaces, the house that I love, the heart that is guarded, to tell each of them how much they mean to me. The partner who is solid, the child who defies stereotypes, the mother who communicates in a language of care I am still trying to understand. Why do we wait until someone is dying to share what matters most?  Image by Daiga Ellaby I have this love/hate relationship with you. Loving the possibility of you always near to punctuate the run on sentence of my life, and pause the ongoing narrative. Hating you for making me feel guilty and unproductive while binge watching a series on streaming platforms or reading for pleasure, when I should be clearing out the garage, cooking something savory instead of ordering takeout. Maybe this writing is also an attempt to escape you, needing deep insight or a clever poem to save me. Sometimes I forget your other names - rest, patience, ripening - a harbinger of brilliance that could not be anticipated watching the Buddha or Sir Isaac Newton lounging under apple trees.  Image by Debbie Hudson Tight tank tops to accentuate a small bust, long skirts to hide thick legs, fasting from time to time to look like those models, those movie stars, never knowing what they were starving inside. Oh, to be comfortable in my body back then, learning to listen as I do now, as if a wise and holy ancestor is sending her poem forward in time, so I don’t make the same mistakes that she did. I’m listening, Dear One, I’m listening. There is no one right diet, exercise, sleep pattern, stress reduction, social connection, or spiritual practice that will fix you. Let lifestyle changes be motivated by kindness and not shoulds. It’s your care that most satiates the need.  Image by Dhvani Patel The moan of pleasure as my lover licks the feminine pollen from the depth of a dark iris, like a George O’Keefe painting, but without the tongue. The balanced blend of pomegranate sour, blood orange bitter, and sweet guava in our mocktail as I converse with my beloved aunt about spirituality and healing, and we share macadamia and coconut glazed salmon with crunchy brussels sprouts and asparagus, neither raw nor overcooked. Raindrop jewels accumulating on the cell phone screen as I hike outdoors attempting to articulate something more than what is experienced. Then there’s the reality of aging, complicated relationships, a world on fire. As each painful emotion is carved in sand, let the breath be a wave clearing the beach to satisfaction. I can still read the words, feel the heaviness within as the sun scattered sparkles of forgiveness on the water as if to say, This, too is beautiful. This, too belongs.  Image by Leio McLaren Three hundred and twenty-eight days. That’s the time it would take me swimming from Palo Alto to Melbourne just to see you, almost the length of a year. Why not take a plane? you ask, only sixteen hours in the air and you can rest- a drink in one hand, a pen or journal in the other. We’ve been trying to meet for three weeks over Zoom navigating time difference and schedules instead of ocean or air currents. After we finally met today, it was as if no time had passed diving in the deep waters of Soulmaking, flying with our angels of the imaginal. Still, there is something in me that yearns for more face to face, more heart to heart, more presence for a world longing to know its own soul. |
AuthorKaveri Patel, a woman who is always searching for the wisdom in waves. Archives
July 2026
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