Strike the Dawn

Number one I struck the dawn
Number two eating glass
Number three slivered tears
sharp rain upon my land
This land is your land
and the clouds that follow
the war at sunrise
broken hearts between the gaps
of day and night exactly
fitting hurts in the battle cry


You know they tried to stop me.
The angst. The crying. The hysteria…

The doctor: do you hear voices Michelle? (that was my name)
Me: yes
Doctor: what do they say?
Me: I don’t know they’re talking too fast.
Doctor: Do they tell you to hurt yourself or others?
Me: I told you they’re talking too fast! I can’t understand them…
Doctor: hmmm….Do you sometimes see people who aren’t there Michelle?
Me: yes.
Doctor: do they talk to you?
Me: no, not out loud.
Doctor: hmmm are they also talking too fast Michelle?
Me: I told you they don’t talk!

his eyes got big behind his “smarter than me” looking glasses-and he just stared at me for awhile- then he got to work scribbling away in his notebook…

Doctor: do you feel people are staring at you and talking about you when you go into a room?
Me: sometimes.
Doctor: does the television sometimes talk to you?
Me: it talks to everyone doesn’t it?
Doctor: hmmmm

I then left his office a studied and “diagnosed” specimen with a prescription for several drugs…he diagnosed me with all kinds of things, I can’t remember because I don’t care. They can’t stop me.

My mother and my first husband (I was 17 when I got married -he was 11 years older- remember if you’re in the jehovah witness cult getting married asap is what you have to do as your future is hopeless anyhow) were so happy for the new more balanced me I was bound to become after dropping the first few pills- they finally had me tamed and I became the glassy eyes, quiet and subdued drone daughter and wife they had been hoping for…
(sadly for them that only lasted a few days)

I stopped taking the bottles of meds and hid them in a cabinet and then finally threw them away.
They can’t control me. Nobody can. Don’t get me wrong, at that point my rebellion hadn’t even begun- I (emotionally flawed and all) had been and still was the perfect young lady. In school as a child I was every teachers favorite. I was so smart and bright and helpful- as a young bride to be my mother and fiancé would discuss me like I wasn’t even there…

Mother: what are we going to do about her? She doesn’t understand. She’s so naive, so trusting.
She can’t handle this world….
fiancé: I feel like we need to put her in a little glass box forever.
Mother: nods in agreement.

Then they would both look at me with hooded eyes and sweet smiles scanning me like I was a buffet and they weren’t sure what to eat first…it was actually quite perverted and happened more than once…

You see I was a virgin and my mother owned me – so my fiancé had to play his cards right in order to purchase or negotiate her daughter/prize possession somehow…

(at that point I was a master of emotional suppression so none of this was problem yet)

And little did my uninformed doting teachers know that I was only fulfilling my role in a very disfunctional family. One of my mothers highest times was the “parent teacher conference” where my mother was praised twice a year for her “perfect daughter” (believe me I was under a lot of pressure and my brother hated me due to the fact I suppose that my father would regularly yell at him “why can’t you be like your sister!”) My role was the one who helped everyone and was cheerful and perfect. I didn’t cry or complain or ask for help ever- something inside told me they needed it more than I did. So I became the strong and responsible caretaker
for the family. That was how I survived. I did what I had to. I filled the space with sunshine.

But as you know nothing last forever- particularly perfection… and everything must come up… the suppression, the grief, the anger, the hate. All of it. Everyone has it. Let’s be honest. Try some Ayahuasca and tell me how you feel. The truth is waiting and She has a name. YOU.

Am I promoting Ayahuasca? I am promoting what gets the job done- whatever it is. I told you already it’s where we need to go. Back to the earth and the crystals. I’m not a new ager and I know you aren’t either- this is what’s real- what we’re made of. What will give our sanity back.
Not mommy. Not daddy. Not Jesus. Not Buddha. THE EARTH AND THE CRYSTALS.

I love Jesus and I love Buddha-but the problem I am finding is the Buddha is not the Buddha so we can’t find him. He’s in the sky (I’m guessing) and a very hard act to follow.
Jesus isn’t hanging or floating -Jesus grows back from Her Vine (pretty sure on this one) and he’s basically a food.
We already KNOW them! Don’t you get it?! I think you do.

We need Her because life is a tricky mess that makes perfect sense only later after we have been submerged. Let me tell you how I think it

There are these astral creatures (I’ll explain more about that later) I call them The Whisperers in the Midnight Stream.
They are the ones who divert the pathways and disguise the entrance gates. They have no legs, only very sharp arms. They are invisible and exist only to the very sensitive. There tongues are forked, their faces are white and gold with silver eyes..and when they whisper to you, there is a slight sting within the ear and that is how you know you are the one who hears them. They hold upon the tip of their right arm, the key to our arrival. Their arms are everywhere.
They have sonar hearing and that is how they find us, being most attracted to those who are the closest to the Clear Light (they hear our radiance basically) then they reach into our world and pull us into theirs.

And Aurora is the oracle who sings inside the water. She summons the Dawn.

The Mother Light is a Realm. (we are Her Light)

Ok. So now,
I want to tell you of a place (within the Realm of the Mother Light) and a Being I know who lives there, a Being with two faces. Two bodies blended within one Being. This Being is beautiful and glowing and supremely divine. He is a Waxing One. Sometimes depending upon the moonlight this Being appears female and at other times, appears male. I know this Being because we meet in a dream world just above the place we know now as Earth. This world is called
Aurius. Aurius may be called a dream world but it’s not really a dream. Earth is a dream that is what I have found in my journeys to Aurius. I am allowed entrance there during nights of deep sleep when the moon is waxing. When the moon is waning the other world can enter our dreams..
this is the world where we battle the
forces of dark memory and this world of nightmares is called Baluk.
The Beings of Baluk can enter our world at night in our sleep when the moon is waning. These Beings are without a body and male and female characteristics, they seem to be able to become whatever we fear…they create our confusion and delusion.
it is our mission as humans to battle these beings of Baluk..but how we do this, is different than we would imagine and so that is why we Aurius
also exists as a counter balancing dimension where we can go and receive training from the merciful and wise Beings there called Serod
or The Waxing Ones. This is an age old story of light versus dark and of us, humans who was born here on earth -struggling and caught in between two places. (this is a long story)


She was in the room right next to His
White spots in Her eyes
White nests in the trees
the White Web was everywhere
She was back again

Nobody knows where she’s been and Nobody cares. Nobody’s heart is a clock. Nobody needs to be sewn back together. Nobody hears the air breath. Nobody looks through the Web of the Spider. Nobody knows everything.

So I don’t need the meds- and neither do you.
Imagination is fertile in the heat of a hopeless heart. Find my love lurking in the darkest of places. Believe in me. Strike the Dawn.
Drink the Silver. Move Quickly….
the Sun is coming. We are the Wanderers.
We don’t have to go anywhere.
It’s all in the Seed.

stirring the stars with shining eyes.
I think I see you now.

Sharada Devi

The Muse of Flames and Ecstasy

Nobody cares about the artist’s eyes
or the way a window cries
the little ball I sleep in
or the board I can become
nobody cares what comes
from inside

and nobody hears and nobody
sees the letters upon this paper
rise and sing the heart of me

the burn of my madness
the white cool eyes
I’m looking at you
but I only see me

and nobody feels what I
meant to say.

the ring in my ears. The blood on my tongue. The little slip of paper moving in a stream. I write for you
like breath on ice.

I can turn you upside down. I can make you dance for me. Little swimmer take the plunge. Deeper than the plague of this, is the hole of one true eye

I opened the window for you.
See me seeing you. I’m not always this way. But I say and I say
and I lapse up against your rocks

it isn’t me moving backwards and it isn’t my tongue. Life took a slice for Herself.

As Birds upon the water are my
love for you.

Poetry. I’ve been writing poetry for as long as I can remember- as soon as I could write…
It’s never been for somebody else, it’s how I get the darkness out and make it something sublime – what I do with my subconscious garbage that’s not fit for consumption by me or you- it’s my wasteland creating life again. it’s intimate messages to me. I don’t care what anyone thinks about it because I didn’t write it….my Muse told me what to say. She tells me everything…I am
a useless bag of skin and bones. She is my blood and my germs. She is the kink in the chain that binds me. She told me that I will be free through her grace alone. She told me I have rights. She told me its all ok. She told me to let it be. She told me to take a stand. She told me to jump.
She told me to speak up. She told me to shut up.
She told me I’m nobody. She told me I’m Her.

Everyone has a Muse. She is the fire. She never leaves. She burns quietly. She can do anything.
We dance with abandon. We sing with our guts. When we are dangerous we spark and we kindle the Muse of Flames and Ecstasy. She’s the fire in our eyes. Nobody needs to know why. Our crystal fusion is beyond this dimension I’m sure. It’s another world we find each other in…

The alchemical perfection of this story is that I can become the sky for you and you can be my swan upon the water. I’m not imagining this….
I’m imagining everything….I hope we have the
courage to walk through the Gate once we get there….we’ve been through so much already….
(inside is a really big place)
that’s why we are strong- and we must deliver the message of freedom up as high and down as low -wherever we must go…we’re looking with open eyes at who these people are and what it all really means in the end….we should open up more and more… become even stronger…we will be free….from the lies we hear and tell from within this putrid cell – called acceptance of our fate- we will not accept our fate! We will not be tamed or silenced by timidity or self doubt!
(we’ve come way too far to lose this game) that’s not being the Buddha -being a prisoner of our condition and pretending we’ve found peace- that’s just called fear. I don’t need to be afraid. I need to rip this
bandaid off and know my wound is God!
She is my God. The blood and filth of my love.
It doesn’t have to make sense. We have to become the maker of our own magic.
Nobody can hold us down and tell us we are wrong. It’s not about anarchy. I can’t be a horse inside a stall waiting for my hay. We must be free to run in the wild and eat when we are hungry. I guess this is really about how we eat and what we’re cooking- on the inside and outside- life is a cauldron and we’re meant to be on fire! I am the food I feed the gods. I become the god I feed. My thoughts and words are my body and my love is the fire. We do have something to give bigger than we thought it was. We have ourselves to give and that’s everything. How will I be me is really what I’m working on…what I put into me and what comes out of me is it.
We can rise and dance and sing and write poems to our gods and devils inside. When we listen to Her as She tells us all our secrets….embrace the confusion and write Her down and show Her the paper so that She can flow through us into words that release us from captivity back into the wilderness we were born in -beneath the trees and sky…just floating in wonder.

Without censorship and self correcting mental madness-if we just write that flow that we are… poetry or any creative writing becomes a divine riddle- a twilight language…a wise and enlightened oracle. A lunacy and contradiction that shines our hearts true love….

We don’t need to know anything to know God.
There is not a thing that does not hear who we are. There is not a thing that goes unheard by us. Maybe we aren’t listening. I was thinking about that. Sometimes we just can’t bear the pain while our heart is breaking. I know. This honesty is going to take a lot of courage…

The wilderness is wild and magical. The forest is deep and green. Noises are everywhere. The moon is reflection and the sun is direction…
listen to the dark and follow the light.

There is a place I go to deep in the enchanted forest of my insanity…here is what happened there just the other day…

She told me
Christ is buried here
and pointed to a pile of dirt
(She had been sweeping)
and then She said
“In the shape of a triangle”
(and She drew a star with Her finger)
“I make amends to the earth the
sun and the sky”
She pointed to her chest laughing now
“I don’t go there anymore” She said

and I said “but it looks like a Diamond to me”

” it was and it cracked” She said
“I leave well enough alone”

She lifted her broom high in the air
and started coughing.

“the North Star is that way”

so I stepped over the pile of dirt
and started walking toward the door.

outside the night had fallen.
heavy and wet with sin.
a little bird sat chirping
too confused to know my name
in the dark I held out my hand
and She came to sit upon me

“who’s song are you singing little lady” I said
perfectly lit by a moonbeam
She spread her little wings
“I know what you mean”
I said.

apparently the angel had fallen
and we weren’t quite sure how far
down to dig into the earth before
we started walking. I walked. She sat on my arm singing the only song
that played that night. That was the song She was pointing to with Her broom. I think I was starting to understand. Wings come in all shapes and sizes.

So I walked (carrying her of course) for what seemed like many hours deep into the woods, looking for the fallen angel. Waiting for the sun.

Breaking these hours into many pieces I can tell you where we stood.
Where we sat. Where we sang and where we slept. The woods were dangerous and we needed to keep track of the hours leading us into the dawn.

where we stood:
She was a little bird and she didn’t know my name. Sometimes Her voice would stop and we would stand silent staring into the tunnel before us. We stood very still while the moments spun mending each into the next. We almost fell a couple of times or forgot to look forward.
The tunnel had a name and when we began to walk again and She began to sing, the moments would stop or move forward thrusting us into the needles of light playing like strings in the wind. She sang to that tune but we never knew where we would be when the song moved us forward.
The name of the tunnel was sacrifice. “I am a lamb” I thought
and my little bird is “perfect peace”
sacrifice comes in the shape of a Diamond if you know what you are looking at. And I knew it was a tunnel and I knew the wind had stopped. And I knew there was no yesterday but I was still remembering everything I left.
when the earth stood still I stopped talking.

They are coming to spread the tapestry you know. Upon us all
the vast blanket of every fallen star.

Where we sat:
we usually sat when the moon started whispering. Blue mist spread
into a circle inside of the Diamond and we knew the cracking had begun. We sat upon the crack after it started, holding in place the center of the sun and her sister the moon. You don’t understand me do you? I said we sat because we couldn’t move. It happens all the time. The moon held us still in her
whispers. We knew what to do but
didn’t know what we were doing or why.
Me and my little bird sitting inside
the spinning place. it’s very similar to fast forward and rewind.
I am not me and you are not mine.
Where we sat. Why we sat. Who sat.
the answer is all the same.
I am blowing pieces of me into the tunnel of the crystal wind from the circle and the silo of the moon window drawn on the ground by our makers. Who will walk into the light
will be splendidly even. The Obelisk.

Where we sang: the stars of course all sing in tune. We were on the earth beneath them. My little bird could hear everything. We sang to keep the earth even. We sang to keep the dream away. The wet marshes rose before us and flashing orange and yellow lights. It’s a signal and time perhaps to end the song? Legions
of roaring winds sucked the marshes dry. The landscape cracked and started to crumble. My little bird was not afraid. I on the other hand was
still looking for the North Star even amidst the turbulence. I can see! I can see! The sky became vivid like
the clear ocean waters on a still day.
Waves and shimmers and soft sounds seeping from the depths of
the womb. The reoccurring nightmare had only begun for the second time and it’s seems we were still unaware of the outcome.
Shaking faith- like a blind earth looking for it’s place in the universe.
Where are we now that our song is almost sung? Blue stinging madness
and the bees are unleashed.

Where we slept.
Deep in the triangle. Torn from the cell. We dug a little hole and went to bed. There will be no tomorrow.
Only now and the shapes keep changing. The tomb of this masterpiece is spread to every corner. To the listening few- the master is wise and never sleeps. He does not count and he does not listen to the clicking noise that are keeping time. He does not speak and he does not bother to turn around and look for yesterday.
We were once here. It was written in a song and no song lasts forever.
In a moment I collide -then snap -then disappear-and my little bird just seems to fade away into the dust that rises…..

When I awoke.
To be continued…

Sharada Devi

not a piece of me unturned

A blade of grass

A sickle of ice
my single redemption
The tarnished weathervane moved slowly…
(I walked alone past those
clotted memories)
the pulse of the earth beneath my feet was beating
summer into rain
I danced upon the grass and forgot
the coldness of before
I shook the bellows that clung to magic
I wept for all the Lost

The idea of knowing we are alone isn’t about a lack of appreciation for those in our lives because obviously we all need each other and are not ever alone…the issue is that we can’t see that because we are not actually separate from them, we are in truth alone. They cannot stop us from slipping through the needle of death. They can’t go with us…but do they ever really leave us? Do we leave them?

My grandmother who was over 90 just died.
It’s sad- my mother despised her mother and made me fear her…my grandmother was this wicked mommy dearest figure who would lock you in the basement or have your siblings hold you down and chop off all your hair…you know, to get you back on track. My mother was raised as a strict Mormon- which wasn’t without its creepy components- she had 11 brothers and sisters because that’s what mormons do- they have lots of babies- my grandma once said she did it to free souls from heaven and God would stop her from having them when he (God) felt she was done. My grandma had faith. (I have no idea why souls would want to leave heaven to come here though- unless of course they needed to become Mormons) so obviously the family was deeply perverted and there was a lot of abuse- physical, sexual and otherwise. My uncle (who was like 14) even tried to get me to
“kiss him like in the movies” when I was about 4-
(I had wanted to play with his violin and that was to be the price) my mom walked in the room just as the kissing was about to commence though and put a stop to that….
By then we were strict Jehovah Witnesses- you see, my mother hated Mormonism and so when the JW’s knocked on the door one fateful morning and told her we could live in a paradise on earth and only JW’s were going to survive Armageddon (which was due any day) and the God Jehovah only accepted  JW’s (no one else) into the paradise – my mother (being who she was-which I can get more into later) signed up immediately! Hence the beginning of the end of my future as a remotely normal child.
I was only 6 months old and my mom was about 19. My father just went AWOL from Vietnam.
All the killing and drugs really got to him…and although he was only 23 and a well respected sergeant and paratrooper with many stars and decorations all his friends had died, he had killed enough women and children-he was ready to move on (and therefore spend the next 30 years of his life hiding from the government who might find out what he did- he left illegally- that’s what AWOL means- and if he didn’t, I doubt I’d ever had existed)
My father was intense! (more later)
I’m taking about myself again…what else can I do? I bring up the family because aren’t they the string we dangle from? Each one pulling us a little more one way than another? What will we do? I bring the family up because the journey of insanity and horror (or smiles and denial for some) doesn’t end when we leave the house.
I have found we carry that house on our backs as our secret weight in this world. Why I can’t be someone different is exactly why I can be someone different!
This is a long story and goes down so deep for us all. I know. I understand. I suffer the secret too. I am going to this place- to these places with you, not because I like to reminisce or even think about them at all (because it’s just so sad)
but because we are warriors and we must go through the wreckage and salvage who we are.
The gifts they left us from their battles. We can win this in the name of nobody. We can hold on just long enough to finally understand how to
Just let go. We can do this.
And I’m doing my best to start this journey off right. And I have no idea what I’m doing. And I cringe at revealing myself to you (even if you don’t care) I’d rather stay in the metaphoric cave and look for death coming…but death is here now in this moment and we can’t be born, we can’t be alive in the next moment if we don’t keep dying to the last. But its certainly tricky…
because we aren’t honestly letting go -our subconscious minds are storehouses of every
little whimper and beyond. So my idea is that we can gather these memories like flowers we grew and offer death a bouquet of our lost love so that we might free ourselves and those before us from this illusion of separateness-of being along-of being unable to help us.
We can try it all first if we want (and I did) the yoga. The meditation. The fasting. The guru. All of it and it’s fine…but the string comes back to you, to me -as the bow around the flowers or as the noose. It’s about unraveling the sacred mystery of ourselves and how sublimely beautiful we are- fat, old, scared….young, insecure and lonely- it doesn’t matter- she’s always singing our song.
We shouldn’t be afraid. We should open those basement doors, get a flashlight and head on down to where grandma was once kept, a locked up and crying little girl. Let’s not lie or be proud. We’re all locked up and crying little girls and boys. I’m not getting psychological, I’m facing reality -how it’s happened to me-how I’ve seen it happen to everyone. Its what this is.
It’s what we do. We find the lost (and sunken) ship or we pretend we’re still floating where we meant to. It’s up to us and nobody tells us the truth. They say “just say the spiritual mantra” well that’s not enough unless the mantra makes you clear enough to go deeper.
Just be a vegan? Sorry. Not enough.
None of its enough until we find that we’re enough. How that happens is the tantric mystery of our lives. Don’t miss the magic in this breath.
Don’t hold your face so tight while you read.
Soften the lines between then and now. Between me and you. You see I think we can blend this all together into an elixir, into the magic spice or our uniqueness. I think the sting of that memory might wake us up in a new way this time.
I did everything I could do. I looked everywhere for you. I finally found you and you hear me.
My love knows no boundaries.

“I tore open my heart

and found little pieces
of you
looking for me
deep in the valleys
far along the shores
washing up in waves
and crescent moons
not a piece of me unturned”
Sharada Devi

In the Name of Nobody

I am nothing
I am the empty sky
and emptier than that
I am a broken dream
the colors of nothingness
that burn
the sounds of silence
that break
I am the sky
who holds the dream
of me
of the nothing
I am not

I’m on my own and I realized that long ago. With this knowing naturally comes a certain amount of anxiety and borderline paranoia – kind of like a little dog in a big house. You know, a lot can go wrong. Still we do what we must to be here. To make a difference somehow.

I don’t want to make this blog an autobiography or story about me.
I’m not about me…although the attachment has a powerful attraction..
it’s about everyone in the eye of the needle even if we’re too blind to see it. We’re stabbed and sacrificed within our very own natures. I don’t want to make this about philosophy or God concepts even though that tends to be my direction. How else could I make it through the wrath of my family inheritance?
I’m with me.  And together we go to many scary and sublime places. That’s all I want to talk about, the story of the dream. How I got here now. Maybe it doesn’t seem like much and maybe you can relate. …but we both know what we’ve conquered and what and who we’ve chosen to love beyond all odds… that point of absolute panic and elation all at once. We should talk about this. That sacred place of nowhere called letting go. We’re on our way – and its a long way down…
(It’s also a crime and a punishment of unknown origin and yet my struggle to find the culprit knows no end)
I’m 43 years old w a 2 ft scar up the center of my stomach and I don’t want to talk about the reason. It’s wasn’t a disease in case you’re wondering and I’ve never been pregnant. I’m obsessed with my body but not so much now…now that it’s falling apart, now that it’s been broken. I’m not a fool to hold onto something I know with certainty is not me. (my body now looks back at me in the mirror like its a flimsy piece of paper) I look in other places at myself (for real) now. When I was child my parents would weigh me and discuss my body shape and appearance. My mother was a chronic dieter with an eating disorder. I never became bulimic but have however, been known to starve myself in order not to be “fat” my self image is a disaster. I can’t see clearly and I know that. I’m trying to free us but it’s hard. We need to find a way to love the ugly one. The fat one. The one the ghosts can scare and control. Maybe we should stay off the scale. This is going to take a really skilled soldier to win this battle.
We can’t find the heart of the fat person. We only judge her big thighs. I can’t let you be a prisoner anymore. Don’t pretend it’s not you,
I know you see me.
We must love our vehicles and care for them with appreciation. We must feed ourselves everything we need. We must find love for our bodies beyond appearances.
We must stop beating ourselves to death. We should rather die peacefully to the lie we are caught in. Just let go. We’ve been lied to about everything. There actually are no rules or qualifications
to be beautiful and to be loved- to be spiritual- to be enough. Just let go. Its our discovery. Its our choice. Just let go. I stopped holding onto my fear and still it calls to me every chance it gets….
the answer is, just let go….again.
I write the truth because it caused a lie. I suffer for you so that we can be free. Even though it’s a mess, this searching for what’s been lost in the
wreckage. If we don’t find freedom, wherever she is…who will?
The truth is, I don’t feel good about any of this. In the name of nobody I went searching. Out of me and into you- straight into glamour’s hell. (please don’t take it personally)
None of us are real and we know it.
But what will it take to stop posing for the camera? What will it take for me to be willing to sacrifice everything for you, my beloved and wretched companion?
Do you see what I’m trying to say?
Let’s go there now, into that place of
nowhere- in between- caught and gasping for the breath of life. We should be free no matter what it takes. We should cherish our battle scars. We should be stronger.
I don’t care if you like me, though I may be your only friend. I never like to talk about myself as I am a secretive person. I reveal all for you.
The reason is, because it’s all I have to give you. It’s Christmas today.
I want you to know what’s possible.
We can come back up after going down. We can retrieve what’s been taken. We can make it worth something better. We don’t have to be victims and don’t say you’re not.
We all are. (for example)
I was a stripper and drug addict for a year. I also lived in an ashram in India. I went down into myself and then I went up out of myself – that’s what I do. I keep doing it. I won’t stop until I’m dead (and I’ve been pretty close more than once) It’s second nature. I am not a judge. I am a hero. I will not stop until I reveal the jewel in you.
it’s a journey and it’s a trap. It’s an endless road and it’s the final culmination of every step we’ve taken. What’s not important when
everything listens?
I will make us beautiful in the most sublime way. I will make us shine.
I vow that the mud we rise from will become flecks of gold. I vow that the
sewage we stew in will become a churning river of rainbow light.
I vow that we will be the givers and not the takers.
I vow that I vow for your true love.
There’s a couple things I do good- I survive and I tell the truth.  (the tantric alchemical equation)
I’m writing to you because I’m looking for you and I hope you come out of the herd or the fog, so that I can see you. I really mean you are the one –
and it’s my search and my heartache and my fantasy.
If I can’t find you, who can?
If I can’t feed you who will?
If I can’t free you we stay stuck forever.
So together we must give birth from out of the thickets and thorns -from out of the assault of becoming a new being- a beloved twice born.
It’s the truth I tell just to say “hello, you aren’t bad. I’m worse than you.”
It isn’t real- this blood in our shoes.
my burning heart was running to the
light and when she slipped and fell
she found you. So now we rise together like the sun on Christmas morning. We open the dawn with a smile. We hug the ugly who never leaves. I love her. She isn’t ugly. She’s my allegiance to the horizon.
She’s who I follow through the storm.
I love you and I won’t lie. I write this for you because you’re never alone.
My little crooked cracking mind
spoke and said you need me so that I can be free to roam the sky.
(It’s this witches broom that sweeps
the answers toward us)
I am happy to meet you-even if only as an idea of who you must be to relate to me. We are never alone.
(by the way, this isn’t a blog for women this is a blog for you and me)
Today is the initiation of this reunion. The rites of illumination.
We will talk about what gives life-
(including death)
nourish yourself. Stop resisting.
Listen to your own voice.
Just let go.
Come back again my friend.
I will be here.
Sharada Devi