ramblings of a feral heart

  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. ...

  closed loops keep a soul asleep.  monotony stifles instinct.  boredom invites absence. so ain't it vital to explore the unknown? neural pathways build fresh capacities during unprecedented experiences.  the body-mind knows of sense long before reason.   this morning, what appears to be a juvenile hummingbird is a white-lined sphinx moth visiting violets in the garden.   i remember riddles.  gnosis guardians.  how one must answer to life's continuance.  may the roads widen to hold waking dreams.  may patterns learn of and from each other.  may curiosity of heart guide the belongings. 

moments of being are facets of understanding in this life.   i recall moments, shared or solitary, in which wonder leads me to solemn gratitude.       dandelions with moxie:  sunshine flowers teach of determination; of wishing persistent beauty on all.   candles burning in a sunlit chapel: where laughter and good grief reconcile to the imago dei. a jumping spider with a tiny white heart on it's abdomen: it's immediate trust in me, and the symbol of love flinting above eight wee legs. this magic of reason, purpose, and belonging; of the next, and the always. this deep reverence for the cosmos.   this awe as a bridge...a calling forth...a presence.        awe is attention of the heart.        

     this month, poignant dreams of my former family stir conflict in my waking life.  i don't emote hatred or bitterness as a dreamer, but i still find expired pain upon waking up to daylight.  a reckoning with reality, and a heap of consternation at having no definitive start or end to the process.    so i begin with my heart.  where grief sways in quiet shadows, and hope just a ways beyond.  i say thank-you to the difficult memories as i work away at the mess.  often, i edge close to despair of ever transforming the damages leftover from formative years.    the universe sends me to meetings with animals, friends and loved ones in curiously precious timing.  these living mirrors remind me that we all know of suffering.  each encounter is an opportunity for ancient truth to wash afresh over my eyes: the roots of the word alone are all-one .      the woman who taught me how to read and write advis...