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.

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.

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.

a thousand
shimmering lights
in praise
of no particular 
occasion
can we be
that bold?

Pigment fading, your shoulders curl
in before you shrivel up and detach
from your stem. I used to find this
unacceptable, resisting the inevitability
of my own skin turning sallow,
shoulders pinned against time.
Blossoms drooping, the sagging of skin -
if we are to be compost
for the next generation
let us not depend on form,
but feeling to seed the next
​embodiment of love.

Image by David Aler

She was a lover of the blank page. In 7th grade Mrs. B unlocked the door
to her swooning heart with a story of apartheid, and her first poem marched
forth in a brave cry for beloved justice and care. Sometimes words would trip
over each other pouring out of a thought cloud pregnant with emotion.
At other times, the landscape of poetic prose was dry, an arid dessert
where every last drop of creativity was squeezed from any life remaining.
She loved the way swirls of cursive ink would decorate the white space
like paintings hanging in an art gallery. The danger was always in judging
the words, revising them multiple times till they were journal worthy
of belonging. What if this is not the final draft, she thought, 
the blank page an open door to something more.

I’m swaying with the music, singing periodically, in tune with the canvas and my own creative potential, as the mind bows to the heart and body below. Sea green and fuchsia swirls begin to intuitively fill a white background, cotton candy hearts reminding me of childhood. The gaps are filled in with lavender. A face begins to emerge, eyes closed in creative contemplation, a crimson lotus at the third eye.

Then the canvas is colored by more crimson lotuses and streaks of ochre, a crimson om to remind me of culture and duty. Something about this feels messy and heavy, yet necessary and meaningful. It feels like I am opening to the design of my life with more acceptance.

When we are asked to paint an image of Ma somewhere on the canvas, I am drawn to the white paint, and try to paint a profile of Her that is worthy, that captures my devotion and profound gratitude for Her unconditional love. Instead, what appears is a small face.

Feeling as if I’ve failed, the energy becomes frenetic trying to paint green leaves and a massive trunk over us both, as if an image of a tree can save the painting and still express my deep love for Her.

I don’t like the painting at all, and wonder about the process. Driving home from Sonoma after a long day, I’m too tired and careful not to juice the experience for significance to the point of dehydration.

The next morning in meditation, She appears as white paint, gentle brushstrokes covering any fixed ideas I have about myself or the painting. I’m struck by Her patience, Her kindness, Her forgiveness. Ideas and colors are born from a primordial white womb of not knowing. They capture expressions, experiences, and feelings at a certain point in time. Are they permanent?

Even these words are an attempt to capture an experience that cannot be reduced to a single cause or meaning. What if we are all in process, blank pages and white canvases with the chance to begin again and give ourselves to the possibility love, however it shows up?

When I hold fear hostage inside the house, trapped in thought bubbles expanding
to burst and tense muscles aching to move, it begs for mercy, for release
into a larger space that doesn’t judge it for being so restless. We go for a walk
in the neighborhood, less worried about being hit by a car or bicycle,
or an unstable telephone pole. The scent of lavender and rose and jasmine
bathe fear in the floral scent of late spring as birdsong and the tinkling
of wind chimes almost displace all worry. Almost. Anxiety is now garlanded
in the scents and sounds of a larger space that welcomes it
as if to say, may you be loved, may you be free.