WaterDragon

WaterDragon

Friday, October 12, 2018

Ponderings on What Make a Community

In a whirlwind of time, my life has turned colour.  The shift of seasons from summer to fall caught me up in its kaleidoscope of inevitable change. And tripped me, tumbled me, as the winds tumble leaves and ocean waves loosen their rocks upon the shoreline, easing rough edges smooth or smoother.

Asked to ponder when and how does a gathering of people become a group, when and how does the group morph into a team or band, and when and at what point does it become a community, the answers slowly developed over a moon's cycle. To reveal the obvious through an achingly somatic experience that this cyclical process embodies a sacredness not only for myself, but for each and every person within the gathering who has become part of the group and in time, the community.

These questions, posed to me once I left my Seaside and Astoria communities and traveled northward this September to begin a new life, held me riveted day in, day out. Sensing that I could not rest until I understood the deeper meaning within this riddled set of ponderings, I came to realize that I was a part of the grand evolution bestowed upon those who come together into a group to share their passions, and ultimately morph into a community. And that I was mourning leaving behind community, connection, respect, nourishment and love for and from the people in my groups. I had no idea that leaving would would throw me into a depression.  Nor that my leaving would impact others.


To be the wayward wind, identifying with a disconnected alone sense no longer defined who I was. While I had not considered myself a group person, over time I found my writing group,  my music groups and other groups nourishing me, holding me connected, feeding my deepest passions.  Stories unexamined for too long, held in the subconscious, unexposed to the light of consciousness, can imprison us, keeping our pathologies alive rather than freeing us to live with an ease to explore maintaining continuity and connection to self and others.

 
Jill Liedloff in in her book “The Continuum Concept: In Search of Happiness Lost,” writes about our need for continuity.  Comparing a stone age culture’s intact social structure and the impact upon the children, and ultimately the ease among the village, she shows us the suffering tribal members experience who leave their village to live elsewhere--their loss of connection, acceptance for whom they are, their place in the tribe and their importance as a tribal member. Ultimately, the impact upon their psyche.


True to her studies and postulating, leaving everyone and everything jolted me deeply.  There was little solace for my sadness.  The light that shone, went dim.  I withered along with the autumn leaves.  My voice grew still.  Briny tears fell in rivulets down to the Straits of Juan de Fuca, to the shoreline, commingled and became one with this tributary, taking sorrow out to the Mother herself. On down the coastal currents, into the waters across the estuaries making their way to the mouth of the Columbia, crossing the state line into Oregon, and to the shores of Astoria, and further down the coastline to Seaside and beyond.


It was through these tears and sadness that I understood the pondering riddle.  We morph from one shaggy individualistic bunch into a diversely connected passionate group and community when respect for one another, appreciation for our individual gifts and personalities, participation through our commitment to show up,  responsibility to share our creative process, and acceptance and honouring of others is maintained at the highest calibre.  The icing on the cake so-to-speak is the learning and teaching exchanged in the process.


The continuity of a group and ultimately a community is as dependable as the moon in her cycles, the tide in the oceans, the seasonal shifts from one year to the next—binding us together in a metaphorical sense of home and nourishment for the soul. Always evolving, shifting, as everything alive has a pulse, ultimately commingling into a richer gathering of people with each passing moment. As if nature’s commitment to show up, be present,  is guiding us in our own values, understanding that we, too, commit to the greater group and through that, thrive in our interconnectedness to self and others.


Kat 
12 October 2018

Thursday, July 26, 2018

Ric's Poetry Mic

Hello fellow poets, inspired wordsmiths,

August nuzzles in closely to July’s foggy afternoons and evenings, well before summer has danced fully upon our ocean shores.

The relief from searing summer inland heat contrasts splendidly with sharp cool haze along the coastal band of salty brine-soaked air.  Plump ripening tomatoes, bulbous blood red beets with tops upright and glistening and bliss-sweet tasting carrots tell us that a season is maturing, waning, and that time passes in its perfect unfolding.  Sunflowers face towards the light unmistakably when the sun shines.  And when the fog holds it at bay, they stand still, waiting.

My bicycle’s chain and thinly plated metal parts rust beneath the grayed veil making what once was new and shiny, discoloured, textured with pits dislodging slivers of decaying metal.  Sheets dry slowly on the line in the misted foggy daytime-- the heavy cotton flannel that never made it to the cabinet to be replaced by smooth high thread count Egyptian cotton for those anticipated sweaty hot summer nights.

The seasons pass marked by wildlife birth and growth, garden plant's maturation and ultimate harvest.  Our need for sunshine and barefoot experiences on sandy beaches.  Everyone is changed in the presence of the seasons at the ocean. Her majesty winds into our pores, our nostrils, changing our physical composition. Our minds shift, our mitochondria register the messages she brings on a cellular level.  And those ripening scents of lavender blossom, honey-laden hives, maturing honeysuckle and browned tipped field grasses mix into her briny caldron casting spells upon us all.

To some, it registers joy. To others, sadness. And every possible variation between these extremes. The stories, brought to one another, determined by what we know, what we choose to see, feel and believe. The impact of a force great and encompassing as the ocean herself, promises transformation. This is the water's edge after all, and we precariously walk along her bounty with all her gifts before us.  Nestled in the continuum of the seasonal unfolding.

Kat
26 July 2018
Mercury retrograde

Wednesday, June 27, 2018

Ric's Poetry Mic

Hello fellow writers, inspired wordsmiths,

Tardiness is a curious word.  Brushing closely up against delinquency, which bears a heavy-handed connotation.  Both share a similar place at the table for the writer who dines on words from a wordsmith's perspective. Although the former, an adjective and the latter, a noun, they describe my behaviour of having missed my usual obligation of getting the timely call out to all of you regarding our upcoming writer's "Ric Poetry Mic."   I am trusting that regarding the delay, you will be able to attend even at this short notice, and accept that I have equally good reasons to have skipped a beat, as my heart is doing just that these past few months.  Falling in love can have profound impacts upon one's heart and responsibilities.  Sigh.  Smile.

The quality of writing, the camaraderie, the sheer magic of our gatherings with full-packed quarters at the enchanting setting Winecraft offers us perched on the old wooden pier outlooking the glory of the Columbia river add up to an experience, rich and satisfying.  While our gaze is fixed upon one another and the poet at the mic, I must admit, I peak a glance behind me now and again marvelling at the beauty of this provocative landscape.  Often the ocean-going barges overlap in a stream of backlit sunlight.  Creating an expansive image well beyond their normal massiveness.  Roll on Columbia.

I want to take this moment to thank fellow poet, Florence Sage, for making this venue possible. Not only is this location beautiful, but in my experience, it is in large part the reason the calibre of our presentations each month have risen exponentially.  There is beauty in poetry.  There is beauty that supports poetry.  The landscape around us can nourish the delivery and the substance of what is created.  Context matters, and the place we meet to share our stories and poems adds a supportive foundation to the words we creatively weave together.

With the forth of July soon upon us, we are about to begin summer with a blast again.  It is my pleasure to know that we will be gathering to read our writings to soften the world with our creative juices.  Let us again bring forward all we can muster in the delight knowing that words matter.

Come join us and share your creations at our 23rd "Ric's Poetry Mic".


Kat
26 June 2018

Saturday, May 19, 2018

Physical Bliss


Sarah and Serre rode those peaks of physical bliss higher and longer and more divinely than most peaks dared to rise to receive such attainment. They tipped and topped and rode them into thin crisp clear high mountain air of that box canyon's mesa rims.  Their breath deep, shallow, short, long, full, soft and sweet.  Taking delivery of their souls' flights and journeys with  breathlessness  and awe of their spiritual journey. 

The peaks remained breathless.  The canyons deep and cool in the heat of passion.  Sweetness basked in their hearts as they held onto one another in the waning light.

 Kat
20 January 2015

Saturday, April 28, 2018

today is spring



a master puppeteer and his marionette
he danced me about the stage 
            I, wooden bodied and jointed
gracefully matching his skill
            to dive me effortlessly to and fro
rhythmically upon the ethers in fine costume of old
            brocaded skirts full with golden trim and tightly waisted

I smiled permanently under the spell of the strings
            that moved me
and the spring scent held upon my lips
from dawn till dusk
            until he gave me rest

today I breathed in spring
briny ocean droplets
fresh cut grasses
            harkening ancestral toil with teams and ploughs from dawn till dusk
wild blossoms tenderly sweet
            young love’s lips on clear complected faces
this wafting tea, light complex, pleasuring my senses
            lifting the corners of my lips



Kat
25 April 2018

I was that, today I'm this and a bit more


I used to clean with abandon
today I love, abandonly
my house, a reflection of my knowledge
Jung’s dreams taught me that metaphor as Self

every blade of grass swept and neatly cut
now randomly sprouts seed balls in the llano
weeds once eradicated and composted today
nourish my body with their healing DNA

irritation at disorder thinned my lips, tightening my gaze
chaos abound, my mouth opens in laughter
            sealing my eyes near shut
I gathered objects of beauty reflecting form and impression
those that stole my heart hold it mightily
beauty has no expiration

loss revealed that abundance is in the heart and mind of the beholder
less is more and more is less and
beauty lies in the details
loss becoming beauty in the awakening

my mind churned to find solutions, even near perfection
today knowing I am my own limit to my own being now
            leads me free, to be
I follow my path
unafraid in love 


Kat
27 April 2018

Saturday, April 21, 2018

Waxing

Daniel Lynch Waxing Moon 2018


 The wind has picked my chimes up, stirring music into the air.  The grey skies, now blackened, show no new moon or stars.  What gave me light last night, is not there now.  I find that I hold hope for those glimmers at tomorrow's eve.  They hearten me.  And I miss their brightness when they are away.  I became fixed upon their presence while in the land of enchantment.  And yet I readily moved on, to new adventures, new landscapes, knowing that I would yearn for them. And I do.

The dryness of the desert, chafing skin and ridged heels, endless skies replete with constellations— polar opposite to the Northwest’s monsoonal moisture and ever-present gray veil, whose bland wash defiantly declares an opacity that won't lift or shift. Until it does.  A permanent dye upon the land, sea and air finally giving way when we breathe our last breath of acceptance in a moment of surrender to its power.

Landscapes hold their yin and yang longer and today, appear to be establishing regional personalities rather than seasonal affairs ranging from sunshine to rain and in between, smoothly sustaining flora and fauna without stress. 

Droughts and floods, extremes concretizing polarization, bear harm on micro levels.  And that harm telescopes like a bump under linoleum.  Pushing upward, revealing discord in what otherwise could be mistaken for normal.

This shift in reality, the Mandela Effect, now topsy turvy, disrupt our knowing with early budding, late blooming, year round calving and molting.  It is good for the soul to look up.  Way up.  To notice those constellations.  The moon in her cycles.  That is real. Those glimpses through broken clouds lighten the heart.  And we remember. 


Kat
20 April 2018 

Ric's Poetry Mic

Hello fellow writers, inspired wordsmiths,

With snow, hail, sleet, wind and rain, we sally forth with words that tumble upon our pages.  Regardless the climate.  Often in spite of the weather, inside or outside.  Our own temperaments paving the way for metaphors that tickle our imagination.  The desire to share them with others whose appreciation match our own.

I took a brief detour from the Oregon coastal climate and basked in New Mexico blue skies where the sun arose daily over the Ponderosa pine tops casting a red glow onto the sandstone mesa. While not hot, it was reassuringly joyful to see the size, colour and brilliance of that sphere each day.  And to know with near certainty, that those skies would hold it again upon my awakening the next day.

As my skin began to turn from silky soft to sandpaper dry, lips chapping in the arid breeze, I could feel myself leaning evermore to the west.  Toward the ocean.  Listening for seagulls screaming over the Necanicum as they chased bald eagles up and down the tidal flats.  The absence of the ocean's roar filled the vastness with abject silence.  Sweet scent of high mountain pines, llano grasses, dried to tinder brown mixed together in a gentle wafting fragrance, stealing my heart once again.

The tear between the inland and the edge.  The yin, the yang.  The polar opposites of climates, communities, dearths and abundances.  I left New Mexico wondering how such extremes between the coastal Oregon and this inland place could both occupy my heart with such equal intensities and allow my sanity, intact.


cheers
Kat
3 April 2018

Thursday, February 22, 2018

Ric's Poetry Mic 6 March 2018

Hello fellow writers

Do you ever get the sense that life has taken an abrupt change of direction?  That life as we have known it, is shifting?  That perhaps we spend more time in artificial-living with technology than in direct communication with others, in nature, with our own self?  Or certainly moving in that direction? That creating virtual realities is becoming the norm in people's lives and that reality is becoming obsolete?  Have you seen the movie,  "Obselidia?"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGbbyjKUu2k

There is a ponderation walking along side me, in every moment along with every breath my body inhales and exhales.  A wondering how it is that my humanity can be usurped quietly,  imperceptibly.   Yet I do notice and my entire being bristles at the idea of my humanness being altered through falseness of news, facts, profiles,  electric and magnetic fields, artificial weather, artificial intelligence, poisoned air, water and  food.  That my mind is being altered by a reality that is someone else's.

The reliving of the well-known story,  "Emperor's New Clothes" is happening all around and no one truly saying anything.  Yet.

http://www.andersen.sdu.dk/vaerk/hersholt/TheEmperorsNewClothes_e.html

Thankfully we are the observers.  The writers.  The storytellers.  Poets.  Watching, listening.  Recording.  And through our own emotional wiring, noting that things that truly matter--those things that make us human, we are remembering, dreaming, and bringing into consciousness. Setting signposts--markers, that denote progress and transgressions of our humanness.   Not unlike the small child who exclaimed, ""But he hasn't got anything on."


Come join us and share your creations at our 19th  "Ric's Poetry Mic".


See you soon fellow writers.
Be well and inspired,

Cheers,
Kat


Thursday, February 8, 2018

Ric's Poetry Mic 6 February 2018

Hello fellow writers

The high winds and persistent rains are lifting the darkness and opening us to the light.  Isn't it remarkable how nothing remains the same, yet familiar in each breath?  The wind is ripping against the outside of my home.  I feel a bit like the piglet in his straw house with the big bad wolf at his door.  Banging, insisting upon entering. Wanting more than just to say "hello."   Unlike the piglet, I am not in fear.  My house is built more strongly than his.

It is curious though, to hear doors rattling in rooms behind me.  We are in the midst of a mighty ocean gale and it is thrilling to say the least.

2:00 am tsunami alert passed me by, and all my friends as well.  In fact, I think I was dreaming then.  Counting sheep most certainly, or maybe pigs.  Head with face upward toward the sky taking in all that happened that day.  Shaping it into a conscious dream filled with gratitude and appreciation.  I always do this upon falling asleep.  I like to give my unconscious something savory to digest so that when I awaken in the morning all those sweet thoughts have refreshed centered and filled me.

Already one month has passed us by in this new year and I am not even ready to say that I am familiar with the newness of 2018.  Each year at this time I feel a bit more like Rip Van Winkle awakening from a deep sleep to  find the world around me less familiar with each passing day-- wondering whose dreams are truly creating my reality.  There appears to be no room for slacking.

I focus to create more intentional dreaming in those last awakened moments at night and with pen and paper during the daytime hours. That wolf most certainly appears to be at our doors.  And Rip Van Winkle awakens time and again.  Wondering.  Pondering what happened while he dosed for ever so short a time.


Come join us and share your creations at our 18th  "Ric's Poetry Mic".


See you soon fellow writers.
Be well and inspired,

Cheers,
Kat