There is No 911

There is no 911 to call on this cold wet blustery winter day

when the second feline looks hesitantly toward the other, already nestled between my thigh and pillow supporting my research dungeon—the “happy” Apple computer—when that front left hesitantly placed orange paw tells me he wants to lie with us—near his brother and on my lap.  How can I say anything less than, “Come, mi amore.”

There is no 911 to call on this wet cold winter day, when my cup of herbs runs tepid and low, when the pot on the stove hisses overflowingly in that rhythmic reminder to not fill so full next time.  Cinco’s tongue licks affectionately on Jewel, who took him in tenderly when both arrived within months of one another ten years ago, in a cold winter season—both orange, both castaways, both irresistibly, themselves.  Entwined now, pot overflowing, teacup cool, pen empty of ink—and underneath their purrs, a computer beckons me away from my love of pen and paper, to tell of love.

There is no 911 to call on this cold wet blustery day when a writer’s home has pens further than an arm’s length away and the one in hand has run dry and persistently so.  Cat-presence nourishes, quelling even the writer’s desire to hold the muse for but one moment more.  While they need one another, the writer and her muse, she comes because these feline heartbeats warm our cagey souls and wrap our tenderness’s together, bringing us close and still.

There is no 911 to call when the dregs in the teacup are thick and chewy and cold.  The sinewy bitter bites of osha and ginger roots giving their fullest, right to the end that most often stew unexamined in those remains.  Over-full pot of medicinal tea hissing with metronomic perfection, will change  rhythm—the wave-pattern— in time, mixing with perfection the background hum of electric and gas stove heat.  This rich silence mixed with cat and human breath, weave our tapestry another love beat.

There was no 911 to call then as we lay together, feeling our  body's' warmth greater as three, now as one, sharing heartbeats—our love for one another—as there is no 911 to call today.  There is no moment to hold onto but the moment love takes you and makes you part of it.  Noble felines choose whom they honour in their lifetimes—who is worthy of their gentle discerning souls.  

Kat

12 December 2016

Greens in Winter Rains

The rains continue drenching my garden beds that lie naked in standing water. What grew in sunshine and warmth of longer daylight hours,  absent now from the view through my window.  Alongside on the walkway, thick moss builds up in cushioned verdant patterns--dense, low and vibrantly green.  The key to all golf course putting greens lies in the amount of water,  I conclude.  No wonder there are some that look like deserts all year 'round and others, like moss gardens.

Another month of shorter days before we turn about at the Solstice towards the lengthening daylight.  We still have time, though, to settle deeply within, to search for something that this longer darkness might offer to those who pay attention to seasons, timing, relationship to themselves and others and to the context of life itself.

And the rain keeps giving.  In waves.  Like an oscillating sprinkler pelting rhythmically against my window. Its dependability centers me with its constancy and intensity.  At times, with an urgency that suggests perhaps, just perhaps, it is time to write.

I wrote a poem about rain the first winter I moved here.  I had no idea of rain's consistency and volume until these last few days.  Perhaps more poems about rain will be born this week.  Someone told me recently that Scorpio's were Valentine creations.  "Ah," I said back.  And laughed. All these years, I wondered about all the Scorpios in my family!  My parents were true romantics.  I might have another go at a rain poem if the monsoon pelting my windows doesn't ease up a tad bit.

See you soon, fellow writers--inspired by whatever pushes you to your edge!

Kat
24 November 2016

A Dialogue Within--Duality Converses and Converges

Love and Fear, life’s paramount duality, expose the perfection of exceptional meaning and impact on Soul’s journey—molding life’s internal climate, moment-by-moment through the conscious action of choice.

We journey in this lifetime surprised, unsettled and often upset by the complexity of this simplest-seeming action. Lacking understanding of its critical force upon our unique landscape—in the face of tornadoes, earthquakes, floods, fire and pestilence—all taking their toil when we have neglected to seek balance within and are driven to our outer edges by centrifugal force, choosing fear.

Not unlike the Outback, the deserts can dry us beyond a healthy hydration stasis.  Their dearths forcing us deeper within, withering us, dragging us searching for illusive answers we thirst for. 

It is a conscious choice of love that revives us when wavering in our trust in the flow of life, raising us to a higher vibrational state—choosing love over fear.

dialogue within

“Now? Here? Alone?”  Words spill forth, shaken and staccato with tremors and uncertainty.

“In this moment, all is beauty and as it need be, perfect.”  The reply, calm, melodic, hypnotically reassuring.

Where? When? How? Alone?” An edge heightened with anxiety and obvious building dis-ease.

“Breath, deep belly-breath, stillness and reflection sustain our humanness and ease our heartache,” breathed within deep rhythmic verse upon the ethers.

“Darkness, coldness, aloneness, sadness—alone?  Trembling words slipped off lips loose and moist with briny tears spilling from above dripping off flesh once tight and dry.

“It’s inside. It’s all within—each and every ounce of our capacity to heal the torment and aloneness and awaits precious discovery.  And when we do, it’s ours forever,” she said lovingly from within.

Kat

13 November 2016

Epiphanous Moment

I ached, my body and that place where Soul resides—was it my chest, lungs, stomach, back—they ached as if Soul wandered about wherever it desired—that is the freedom I hear told of the Soul—it seeks flight upon wings that send it into free-flight without boundaries, without judgments, without loss—but forward, with spirit of ease of adventure and will—taking it wherever Souls desire—always with joy and peacefulness.

Yet here I found myself aching in tears, engulfed in grief over losing my husband, my doctor, my spiritual teacher, my soul mate, my lover—all in one man, one person.  I was attempting to grasp a way to go forward—with my own inner compass. 

I’d been attached to my story of Don’s spiritual seeking and path our entire 17 years together—only to discover that one evening in an epiphanous moment,  I, too, embodied God—I, too, was a divine being and as long as I loved myself, respected myself, I would be aligned in my spiritual path and not alone.  The sense of joy engulfed me.  My heart and body-aching dimmed and I began to feel a deep peacefulness. I cried new tears in sheer gratitude of my existence.

Kat

15 November 2015

Flight

the plight of the Soul

I hear told—

seeks its way over the disquieted

as winged fowl in free-flight

without boundaries,

without unease,

without loss

achingly, my body—

the place where Soul resides—

in my chest, lungs, stomach, shoulders, back,

hurting as this personal Soul wanders hauntingly about

wherever it endeavors

Soul’s lightness baring within and upon

the spirit of our willfulness—

our physicality

our dignity

entwining, wherever Souls go.

Kat
12 November 2016

Trust is at the Core of Everything

The voice of the wind whispered, “I’m coming.  I’m here.  Where are you?”

I knew instantly where I was, but how does an animate respond to an inanimate?  A being? Energy?  My thoughts flew rapidly outwardly onto the ethers.

And Wind’s gentle persistence replied, “I’m here.  Where are you?”

And I, as perplexed as ever, emoted these inner disturbances.

Wind blew and grew a bit pestilent, shaking the blue metal roofed adobe’s edges loose from the underlayment.  “Presence is required.  I’m here.  Where are you?”

The insistence pushed at my edges, raising jaggedness up from their depths.  Roof edges.  My edges. 

Wind boomed,  “I’m here.  Where are you?”

The demands caught smack dab in the imprints my heels created as my body weighed into my crouching back-leaning posture.

Wind’s mighty force pushed and pulled at every edge of the adobe, forcing little to shift, with the exception of the roof.

“What do you want?” I cried out into the deafening night’s blackness.

“To dance with you in the llano, under the stars.  To hold you close and kiss your cheeks, turn you twirling and back again.  To share in the delight of all that matters between here and there—the wonders and beauty of life.”

Kat

7 November 2016

Origins Without Endings

Tender lily shoots tipping out

at the creek’s surface

touching air

and sky --

life teams with newness.

Wet unfurling curled cone leaves

ribbon out on tender stems

lushly engorged

on photosynthesis

and early sap flow.

Peeps and chirps, delicate as baby’s breath

fill background silence

of earthy under-story

in oxygen-dense landscape

merging fauna life with flora.

Waxing moon extends
her feminine edges in

tandem with light--

synchronicity with Solstice

reaching new boundaries, yet ancient.

Long ago now, without beginning

with no ending,
life begins--waxes wanes

tender—expanding—maturing—closing

only to begin again and again and again.

Kat

2 November 2016

Like a Bird

Crouching on battered hands and knees, with focused flight, she goes

bowing from the turbulence on her Path—still unfolding

forward, she lifts in flight, upwardly to the stars and goes with focus

tenacious, it is all she knows in this day and tomorrow, this way.

Those who cradled her to their breasts, whispered, “Go in peace and love”

sending her off and out to live life with early riveted focus—flying, she goes

fielding mountainous terrain, low fertile valleys and broad open plains

rich in deep relationship—with focused flight she goes with love in her heart.

Kat

17 October 2016

Fog

In the heat of the baking sunlight,

the force of sand-whipping winds,

thinly oxygenated high mountain air—

there is a clarity within

that holds fast. 

The elements tether hearts and minds, firmly

to the crusted fissured landscape, drawing

the last two percent of moisture from our pores. 

The penitentes drag weighted crosses

on bloodied knees

baring sweated brows and

bulging veined arms. 

Flies hover, bite and amass

on wounded backs of man,

living off the pores of sweat and stink

that feed them well. 

Our plights, with which we wrestle,

small perhaps, yet immense,

draw us deeply within,

holding us down on bending knees—

with humility, molding us into our shadowed form

whether through mortification of the flesh

or by weathering the environmental dearths

until releasing us—

when obscurity becomes bright with clarity

and the heart sings with light.

Kat

3 October 2016

Conversation At 14

Golden bulbous muscle,

wild grainy strands, massed—

a swishing tail against flies and heat,

sweat and sweet hay-smell

wrapping her cocooned hairied body—

moisture and heart

pulsing through to my hands

on her breast,

her face,

thighs,

and with deep soulful breaths

through widening nostrils

she stomps her language

with her hooves

on dry sun baked soil

disturbing dust into the air

and my heart

in unison with hers.

Kat

3 October 2016

Cinco the Cat

“Cinco?  Cinco?  There you are.  Come here,” she whispered, on her hands, sideways leaning in through the unlocked dog door as she stuck her head into the house five doors down from her home on 12^th Avenue. 

Cinco had been missing for hours at a time—sometimes all night long and often throughout the daytime over the past two months, missing meals and making the neighbours suspect in her eyes.  But Mary denied feeding him but once as well as taking him in at night.  In spite of expressing her concern over Cinco’s absence, it appeared this morning, that Cinco was well acquainted with this home and lived there due to someone in Mary’s home.

“Meow,” said Cinco, quietly as he walked gently with familiarity on the insipid grey plaid vinyl kitchen flooring.  

 Oily, petroleum VOC releasing flooring, she thought matter-of-factly.  "Yuck" in her mind, horror in her heart.  My kitty is being exposed to this yuck!!! Horror of horrors!

“Cinco, come here,”  she said more insistently.

“Meow,” as he turned in those allusive cat circles, waving his tail up in the air—expressing indifference to her pleading.

“Cinco, come here!” This time with insistence and no patience, forgetting cat language altogether, and with complete ineffectiveness.

“Meowwwwwwww,” as he turned his back and sprung lightly away as if on air between pads and substrate, as cats do, out of her eyesight from her vantage point—head stuck inside this portal, shoulders held outside by the door's guillotine-like yoke framing and separating her head from the rest of her body.

Pushing further forward, she knew she could squeeze through the dog door and physically locate him….

“Doug!?” a woman’s voice pleaded.

“What are you doing,” he boomed?

“Finding my cat,” she said back, with no apology and with the utmost sincerity of her mission.

“He’s in your house and he is here due to your feeding and housing him.”

“Meet me at the front door and I’ll give you Cinco,” he said in irritation.

“Fine,” came out with relief and equal irritation.

“Mary and I have decided you cannot come on the property any longer to get Cinco,” he announced when we stood facing one another at proper height, weight, relationship now that I was standing fully upright sporting a 5’-6” vertical composition to his 6’-0” stance.

“That is fine, she replied back with her end of the agreement yet to come.

“And you must not feed him or let him in your house any longer, “ she said with as much certainty and outrage that justified her recent appearance with her head sticking through his dog door just minutes ago.

“That is our agreement,” he replied.

“I am fine with that,” she said.  “This would never have been an issue in the first place had you respected my wishes.  $600.00 in veterinarian bills and two months of worry and angst later, we are discussing the respect of my family at this moment.  I appreciate mutual cooperation from now on.  Thank you.”

A few days later, looking for Cinco and calling his name, a part-time neighbor, three houses down, asked if the missing kitty is orange and sports a collar.  “He was meowing insistently at our doorway late last evening and wanted in, but we didn’t open the door,” she said.

Here we go again, she thought to herself…..

Kat

29 August 2016

Joy For Writers!

September's cool moist mornings
giving way to the warming
afternoon sun
flood me
with a lifetime of Autumn memories.

A deep well of sighs escape my throat
pushing my shoulders back
down into their sockets
reminding my entire body
to breathe
to take a few longer moments
between movements.

Nearly as archaic a memory
as bear's hibernatatory jaunt
into her mountain cave
I sense
it is nearing my time, too,
as the daylight hours shorten
and coolness expands.

In the upcoming and increasing months
of darkness
we have more opportunity
to nudge our stories, unencumbered
by summer distractions
onto paper--
to chew the words more slowly

into music for our souls.

Kat
September 2016

Transformation

Serenity washes gently, completely

as a heavy dewed autumn morning

wears it moisture mantel.  

The moistened landscape releases

particles back into the warm atmosphere,

joining in the perpetual misting,

raining upon us.

The fullness, pores saturated

emotionally and spiritually,

poutingly expanded sensually, filling

the core being like water molecule receptors collecting

 their hydrogns and oxygens—culminating

in union and organic fusion of emotional expression

and physical transformation of the elements.

Satiation stills movement of mind, heart and body—

heavily weighted inside and out

like bees gorging upon honey

deep within their hive before

taking flight, 

calming the buzz, the flurry of movement, stilling

rapidity into beeline certainty.

A satiated being bears down peacefully into

hip sockets, ankles, shoulder joints and toes—balancing

fully as certainly as the securely evolved

numerological number four—

which represents oneness, completion—peacefulness—

with inner assurance and knowing

all is perfect, as perfect can be

in the fleetingness of any moment.

Kat

12 September 2016

Treasure Island Adventuress

  It was fate.  Isn’t it always? The alignment of the stars with our birth time—our path combined with our engagement in our relationships—to our family, friends, homeland, environment—the forests, streams, mountains--my favourite oak tree in Los Hueros Canyon,  water rock formation at Norwegian Memorial near Forks, Washington,  the sandstone undulations at Needles, Canonlands, Utah.  The understory lush with nettles, wild strawberry and raspberry dwarfed by leggy chokecherry shrubs along side Los Hueros creek, Ocate, NM.

Each opportunity from my heart, olfactory and visual senses fill me full becoming sensual photographs upon my energies—merged, meshed, intertwined, resonating harmonically and fully.

I met Treasure Ducharme in an ordinary way, on an ordinary day in an ordinary town, Westlock, Alberta, Canada one ordinary year in what came to be an unordinary life.   She was anything but ordinary and I noticed this.  Eyes alive, quick, and full, love spilling from her openness—her presence fascinated me and I wondered what-in-the-world she saw in my youngest brother, her fascination and love.

Thirty-eight years later, broken marriages, a boy child, countries and borders crossed, weaving a roughly etched engraving upon the earth and our psyches, we meet for this trip—aboard a ferry taking us across international waters from Port Angeles, Washington in the glory of a deep blue sky warmed by a giving August sun to the playground landscape, Victoria announces, then northward up the island to Union Bay where idyllic waters hold our kayaks sway, launch us to other islands to art festivals, galleries, and music jams every day.  Her girl-child wants me to visit and explore with her all the crannies she has explored and enjoyed for the past four years.

The child adventuress never left her--perhaps as present today as at 14. Exuding sheer delight and gratitude for sharing her life with those she loves--her community is the world—pulling and pushing unrelentingly, those hearts she dreams to be united with hers.  A dream of love with tenderness and joy.  If a fault can be found, it’s enthusiasm for sharing life to the minutia through which she experiences each moment.  Exhausting at times.  Guaranteed to be an adventure, always with appreciation and love.

Kat

14 August 2016

What is Self-Transcendence?

Self-transcendence is the living we engage in to open our eyes, hearts, and souls to occupy fully in the process called life.  With engagement, we open ourselves to becoming an aggregate of our past, present, and future actions, thoughts and feelings.  With a responsible footing, we align ourselves with right-action and breathe into the wave of life, becoming the wave—the ongoing triplet as in Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata—melding and maintaining our individuality and joining in the cacophony while singing our individual verse from our consciousness.  Self- transcendence moves us through all the snags our fishing line normally catches, and sends our vessel out into deeper still waters—deep clear revitalizing fluid satiating all our thirsts, quenching our desires, stilling our restlessness and holding us firmly at peace until we ready ourselves for the next wave in the ocean of life.

Kat

 8 August 2016

In Love

Lying in bed alone at night,
I hold my breasts,
My inner thighs,
Thinking of you.

Bug-Eyed Optics--Taken from "Insect" a visual of the praying Mantis Painting by Susan Seddon Boulet

Lingering on edges, holding fast to minute specs—it’s the dreams that awaken what might appear lost, and sent reeling beyond logically retainable recognition.

Bug-eyed and lurking high in the sky above the dense tropical forest top, tentacles wave gently in the afternoon, post gale force winds—illuminated, angelic-glowing optic energy pixels pulse organically with a heart beat’s gentle rhythm.   

Assuaged by the aftermath’s frenetic sparks driven madly in the negative ionic storm centers, colliding when natural elements call forth the need for another earth-shattering dance to cleanse the viral bugs and birth newness and its possibilities—hope springs eternal, even when lost.

Eyes do see, however, all that lingers with bug-eyes faceted qualities, clearing away the confusion and viewing the underlying structure and fluidity of all life.

Kat

25 July 2016

Unrequited Love

 Some things disappear in time and for that I am ever grateful.  As a hedonist with deeply passionate sensual qualities, emotions build with utmost regularity and intensity—releasing with joy and renewed wonderment at each experience.  Catching the wind in my sail sends me smoothly over washboard roads, tipping treetops, breathing waterfall mists and smelling plumeria grove scents.

It’s the heart that takes this journey—the yogic posture, opening widely to embrace life with love at the bow, fear at the stern, and choice and freedom at the helm.

As all things real, as much as life is a dream, physical hindrances pose encumbrances—the glass slipper falls off, perhaps breaks, the horse-drawn carriage turns orange pumkinish at the stroke of time and our dreams intersect with right-direction required for a full and balanced life to manifest.

The dawn comes and we face the new light.  Oft times, grateful for an unrequited lost love, memories becoming more faint with each setting sun.

Kat

18 July 2016
prose poem

Fire

At the center of fire is the inferno.   It’s the culling of life.  The disintegration of the whole into fragments of spiraling black charcoal flakes of carbon—devoid of life-giving nourishing water and cellulose.   The curling into itself, the drying of all the other elements, fire takes, remakes and deposits its diminutive remains unceremoniously upon the newly charred earth.

Yet in its profile, is a spark of energy that stimulates regeneration of yellow sweet clover fields, alfalfa pastures, Ponderosa pine and hemlock seedlings.  That carbon and heat feed what otherwise remain in wait for that spark that burns like Dante’s inferno and kindles the gathering of human kind around its edges for its indisputable warmth and subsequent survival.

Kat

27 June 2016

Fourth of July, Seaside Oregon

I went on my evening beach walk among the holiday seekers who blasted the roar of the mighty ocean into mere snippets of her usual magnificence. The booming and hissing sounds and sulpher smells were overwhelming by the time I made it back home.

Rerouted by the beach police I walked among the "camps" of refugee-looking groups, each carving out a fire pit and resting place—some with developed architectural design and attention to engineered heat retention.

The diversity of each cluster's sense or lack thereof to their temporary shelter and cooking abode captured my attention and focused my gaze upon the similarities of the structures and yet the obviously unique signature each group presented to their own tribe and my quizzical eyes.  One reminiscent of Chaco Canyon kivas complete with consistency and beauty, took my attention.  While others, lacking order, design or beauty, threw my gaze searching for something to assuage my inner need for peacefulness and tranquility to weather the intensity of the density of such a piecemeal patchwork quilt of human gathering.

Quite a journey through a foreign land.  Life truly is a dream rich with surprises in all ways, and this fourth of July escapade underlies this truth, yet again.

Kat

4 July 2016

Oregon Country Fair, 2016

Where the world is truly a dream, complete with philosophically-speaking moss-covered trees, mouths wide and wise, giant people giraffes arched and lumbering languidly, 20-foot tall blond-haired fairies in crinoline skirts sprinkling fairy dust down upon our heads, toddlers with curly lime green hair kicked back in wagons pulled by dancing fairgoers, where every shape and size of human being, clad in a cacophony of costume styles from “nothing,” to beautiful unicorn-wigged women, a man’s man bearing bear-bottle glasses and pink Hawaiian hula skirt, and every assortment from the earliest historical period to present day. Even “normal” took on an Alice-in-Wonderland” essence.

A menagerie of our wildest fantasies. When Woodstock happened, in ’68, Joni Mitchell was not w her lover, Graham Nash and his band at Woodstock due to some snafoo. She wrote the quintessential song t capturing the essence of that moment. Sometimes being there is the sum of the experience, while others can ride the edges and write the most provocative, evocative, complete summary of a moment’s beauty sheerly observing, feeling, and ultimately connecting as one upon the ethers that only love and its companeros make possible.

Kat

9 July 2016

A Smile- KB

How I love to excite
the corners of your lips to rise
to crinkle edges by your eyes
when you delight in the words I write.

Kat
9 July 2016

Personifying Grace--White Poppy

A soft-spoken woman knocked gently on the side door of my Seaside home asking after the glowing tissue blossoms held elegantly tall and upright in my corner southern garden.  Fluorescently white, as if reflecting all the light in the universe, bright white, the purest essence of absence of all colour possible—baring no pigment, even in its crinkled shadowed vertical-lined single petals.

Large and earthy-abundant in pregnant-form, overshadowing its plain surprisingly stocky stem with its brilliance--sleight of hand, so-to-speak.  Not with intentional deception, but with beauty, elegance and a majesty of being because its integrity demands an equally determined rootedness to carry it firmly, substantially and gracefully into the air.

Kat

6 June 2016

Evolution and its Encumbrances

Red feathered, yellow footed and beaked, Ruben was not an unusual-looking rooster nor was he set off in any other way from other cocks.  But that he was my first rooster in charge of my first flock, gave him meaning to me.  Proud, I came to understand, was Ruben—and over the months, I noted that his preference for Juliet and only Juliet, set him apart from other birds I later came to know.  Inseparable they were—from coop rung at night, to field grazing during daylight hours, the two were lovers, friends, and where one was, so the other was to be found.

Birds’ brains we are told, are pea-size—and of little matter.  Emotions and feelings, obviously lacking.  Otherwise, how could a human population house birds in the deplorable conditions where beaks and wings are clipped, in cages holding them tightly squeezed and where daylight and movement are absent?

Howard Zinn, author, historian, playwright, social activist and Boston University professor, told us that what a government will do to a country abroad, it will soon do to its own people.  Extrapolating from this, we might wonder how the current corporate US government manages to fool its own people into similarly deplorable living conditions where food, air and water are contaminated with toxic shortcuts for corporate profit--dulling our minds and ultimately allowing our government access to our own choice for freedom. 

The domestication of our fowl came through man’s evolutionary shift from nomadic to agricultural based living. As we might suspect, from Zinn's perspective, our own ultimate fate is clearly presented to us in our animal’s quality of life.  How is it possible for the “smartest” species to be diminished so greatly and that we do not see it upon us?

Kat

2-29-16

Origins Without Endings

Life teams with newness—tender lily shoots tipping out at the creek’s surface, touching air and sky.  Wet unfurling curled cone leaves ribbon out on slender stems, lushly engorged on photosynthesis and early sap flow.

Peeps and chirps, delicate as baby’s breath, fill a background silence of earthy under-story in the dense oxygen-rich landscape, merging fauna life with flora.

The fullness of newness.  The culmination of cycles—waxing of a full moon, extending her feminine edges in tandem with the light—of not only her cycle, but in conjunction with the solstice—both reaching newness of boundary, yet ancient. 

Long ago now, without beginning and with no ending, in my short lifetime.  On and on, life begins-- waxes, wanes.  Tender. Expanding. Maturing. Closing.  Only to begin again and again and again.

Kat

20 June 2016

Fuzzies And All Those Other Sensations

Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow.  While it is getting ahead of you, it is a good way of getting lost.  And sometimes getting lost is a good way of finding yourself.

Do you think? 

Being in love with the fuzzy brown center of a sunflower can be wondrously cozy and life-saving.  Mesmerized by nature’s beauty calms the mind--slowing down the physical breath and finding a place outside your own head long enough to recognize that an entire world is afire with the miraculousness of life itself---and, that we are not only a part of this beauty, we are the beauty--the ocean wave, the sunset, the fuzzy brown cone center, the sweet honeysuckle perfume and all and everything else.

Kat

13 June 2016

At The Water's Edge

She rested near death, head gently bowed, the ever-most tip of that majestic beak at rest upon the grayed sand at the incoming tidal surf.  Wet back, dry neck—those grayish brown hues --feathers muddled together revealing a diminished stature -- all collapsed in a mere puddle of sluggish wet filoplumes.  The feather keratin sloggy and no doubt her body temperature plummeting.

A crowd of gawking bobbing iphone clickers zooming in and out, at arms length, formed a semi-circle around the Pelicanus.  Her final hour.  Click click went their phones.  A background of hushed excited clipped voices muffled in the surging ocean tide.  They know not from where they came, nor where they are going.   

Alas, this world is a confused muddle of eccentricities and too muchness.  Discontented, disconnected souls whose journeys are yet to be understood by those who are on the journey.

And yet, we wander, to and fro.  Some gather at the ocean’s edge, at the magnificence of the Feminine and take in its majesty of her gifts like breath.  While others fall short of understanding we are one—that we are not only to observe, but to act in love and compassion to all in our path.  We must join in concert together in this journey and embrace, aid, love one another and not distance ourselves through the lenses that hold us at bay.

Kat

27 June 2016

Acceptance, Personified

Acceptance is a small quiet room within our house of Jungian symbology, opening onto a balcony of Self-love, located next to the library of Compassion, west to the den of Forgiveness and joined in the middle by the Great Hall of Love.

Kat

3 June 2016