ramblings of a feral heart

  the woman who raised me is not much longer of earth.   i know that her physical body is passing away, without medical diagnosis, or familial confirmation.   the stories and patterns she and i share are my first informants.   a dear friend brings me a message from his dreamspace, where he saw my little mother swaying in a white embroidered dress by the warm seas of hawai'i.   he admits that he knew her by her feral loveliness, and i smile lopsidedly.   he tells me of the word she gave him.   patience. a wild rose bursts into bloom for the first time in years, after months of drinking up percolated coffee grounds, and water bowls of my own menstrual blood.   as i stare at the shock of magenta petals, a coastal wind whispers the words extinction burst to anyone listening.   fighting the grief in my throat, i whisper back blessings of peace and the unavoidable let-go. to create a medicine wheel in my wee...

  the reach is cosmic.   to reach for another being, matter, or idea is an instinct of existence.   to reach in want or need articulates a belief in difference of pattern or possibility.   a reach declares that  yes and no  are pivots of knowledge. are dandelions reaching out eagerly to share wishes? i recall the day his hands reached to betray my childish body, and i lost trust in touch, even my own. i consider the reach to fling the door open for a stranger;  the solemn reach of shaving a skull bare in mourning;  the reach to scoop an earthworm off of hot asphalt; and the reach of silence when words ain't around.   these opposable thumbs of mine mostly reach for book pages, embroidery needles, wild animals, spires of stinging nettles, half-drunk coffee cups, pilot pens and scrap notepaper, green rocks, and an egg-shaped salt shaker. every now and again, i find my hands in a hush, holding one another to etiquette or twid...

  sometimes, i shake my head and stare nowhere.   there's a grief pulse old enough to forget itself.   i feel it keen in the stares of survival and uncertainty.   we humans ain't getting anywhere fast. recently, i noticed that my inner child still sings hymns in the sacred garden, and quotes scriptures to comfort herself.   she loves a peculiar story.   she buries the honey bees and wasps and spiders with miniature crosses and posies.   she cries for any creature's hope.   she sits still in the tall grass and listens.   that child knows a reckoning or many.  that child knows of dreams within dreams.  that child knows. i take my thousand yard stare to dreamspace.   i bring emptiness, detachment, and silence to help my heart re-member.   God swoops in outta somewhere with a chuckle.  "beautiful view, huh?"

  you spoke to me of failure when last we bore our truths to one another.  this word of insolvence lingers sharply at the intersection of heart and soul.  although my own contemplation can never pretend to know your feelings, grace must provide what shame cannot. there is a Divine sweetness in every spirit...a tender recognition which helps before the ask; waits for the straggler; prays over uncertainty; and smiles upon the lost.  this holy love is for you also, precious one. failure is the beginning of belief, as you permit yourself acceptance of grace.   who are you to forgo the compassion of eternity?   who are you to forget your birthright of becoming and belonging? wisdom resides in the owning of self-made mistakes.  growth arrives in the acknowledgment that failure is attached to behaviour rather than identity. may you bring kindness to your past, accountability to your present, and forethought to your future.  may you be true to y...

  "lord almighty," i mutter, waking up to another greyed revolution of time.  "i'm still fucking here." habit helps me locate a half cigarette from last night.  i smoke in a garden of violets, ferns, roses, dandelions, and horsetails.  it's the tiny world my tabby cat lingers in, her whimsical fur alight with wildness.   this nation still exists.  so do those actively at war.  we humans forgot how to ask for help, and now bullies thrive in mad rule. not to worry, though.  orca matriarchs are attacking great white sharks, and luxury yachts.  lions are killing child predators.  whales are dying onshore beside loved ones rather than abandon their sick and lost.  the creatures who go extinct are loved more in memory, and don't they know it?!   pattern recognition is how i understand this matter of being.  i watch the metronome of life and decay with a grim curiosity, asking only that the truth tell on itself.  i...

  she who raised me is a woman of superstitious nature.  she is my mother.  we haven't spoken to each other in four years now, but today a branch on her namesake rosebush in my garden snaps in the spring winds.   this is the first year of blooms: sprays of wild berry hued roses.  i notice there are no buds or flowers on the broken branch, so i shove it into a pot of soil. she who birthed me is also a woman of superstitions.  she was not my mother.  it is her birthday today.  her number is still in my phone.  an inner peace reminds me that some beginnings are also endings. i decide not to augment our texts to each other. she who recognizes me is a selectively superstitious woman.  she is my chosen nona.  it is her birthday today.  we share bonds of persistence, awe, tenderness, and soul deep delight in nature. she has the feral kenning, too, and gifts me a St. Regina's medallion.  i wear it daily around my neck. ...