They Say/My House

They say
that it’s like being on a bridge
between where you were and where you’re going
and that nobody builds a house on a bridge.

And so my house is one hundred feet
up in the air, with its thick roots dangling,
root-fingers reaching down, every root-eyeball
seeking seeking for a hold on the earth below.

My house drifts slowly, heading somewhere,
movement directionally consistent
but the destination invisible, the way opaque.

I turn my head just slightly, warily, and my house
blinks, and tremors rumble through the roots.
There are other houses drifting up here, all with
the same heading, all reaching down for a hold
on familiar earth passing below, out of reach.

They say
that the giant Redwoods, towering ancient Sequoias,
have comparatively shallow roots—
not nearly deep and thick enough to support their bulk and height.
Instead, they spread their roots sideways, and link with the others
around them, forming a vast underground network
of support.

In my dream, we sit at a tiny table for two
covered with a thick white tablecloth.
Candles, the murmuring of other guests.
Your hand, stained with roots and dirt,
rests on the table. I reach for it and look up,
and see myself, eyes filled with tears—
I slide into the dark mossy green at the center.

No Salt

No salt. No pepper.
No rice.
No tomato paste.
No almond flour.
No tortillas.
No refried beans.

No way to know, nor when or how.

No one to hear me scream
on the drive home
louder and louder
as the tightness in my chest
and quivering in my breath

No one to see the tears
rush down my face
as I drive by pink snow
beneath a cherry tree
each petal representing
someone who left, someone
who now is capable of being
the blossom and the tree
and the salt in my tears
all at once.

No one to say, definitively,
except me.

No one to see my head snap up
as I remember how it all works.

No one to nay-say me,
my life, my body, my energy,
my healing, my creativity, my spirit.

No one is safe from my love.

The Heat Of Our Now

Out on the water—looking toward the mountains— is where it always seems that tomorrow resides. Back to the sunrise, front facing sunset, hopes flung out on a thread of thought that unreels to land too close still.

Casting, casting, back and forth above. Finally the thread lands on the other side of the mountains into tomorrow. That’s where hope lands, in the place where the sun says goodnight and we fold our hands, fold our wings. We did what needed doing, always thinking about tomorrow.

And the now is where our shoes stand. Looking down at our feet in them we are rooted in presence. Neither before nor after, our now expands, our feet melt down through the earth, all the way to China, where it all began.

The heat of our now becomes all things: temperature so hot we bypass ash and are pure light. We reflect nothing, we absorb everything, become each blade of grass, each owl, each blue spruce, each saguaro, each knothole in each weathered board in each ghost town. Each growling stomach, each blue screen, each pair of shoes, rooted in the now, expanding into the All.

So many at once casting their thought threads over the mountains into tomorrow that the air above is thick with filaments— a tapestry is being woven. Cast ye your filaments of joy and hope and eager anticipation!


The hills across have gathered tribes of trees that watch me, all of them, from afar, to see what I will do. Without judgment but with interest, each tree has cast towards me a thought-thread of hope for tomorrow. They attach lightly, thousands of energized filaments. A tree’s hope feels like calm expectation. No way to go wrong, really. Just feel it….

Bury Your Head

bury your head
in the sand

but leave your nose and mouth
out, and your eyes out

feel the heat of the grains
relax your scalp
and muffle sound

your toes cold and wet
you can’t see
you must feel your way

feeling jumpy
feeling tight

I feel my way to you
my heart

and know
that being buried
in this hot sand
is my resurrection


Even though
big oaks from little acorns grow—

big grown-up oaks with roots in the past
and arms reaching to the future,
stable, strong, multi-talented—
able to take the slings and rubber-tipped arrows,
every leaf attuned to a different channel,
providing sustenance, shade, loam—

even so

it is good to be nut brown and smooth, tiny and hard,
with a nubbly cap, a helmet-beret
protecting my solitude, my possibility.
I fit in your hand, your hand on my head, my head in your lap.

I’m all potential and patience,
strength without striving,
excitement, expectation, and stillness.

Such a mighty thing for an oak to do,
turning into an acorn for an hour or two.

Three Selves

Strange: three selves
all crowded into the bathroom at once
in the dark of the night, in the early new day.

One felt the cool tile beneath her feet, and a full bladder.
This one headed straight for the toilet.

But another self caught her eye…moving along with her
in the mirror, just slightly behind and beside her.

This one looked strange, grey striped pajamas,
Face faded and murky, an unreadable expression.
Avoidance? Fear? Hurry.

And just as she turned to sit, a third self
vanished from another mirror, quickly slipping out of sight.

Hiding they were. Lying in wait.
No longer visible but palpably present.

These selves were skillfully mimicking her.
Pretending to be her, they were nevertheless each slightly “off”:
Movements were milliseconds behind,
They hadn’t quite captured the curl of her hair behind the ear,
the tuft in the back.
Expressions too blank, eyes heavy-lidded, they looked nothing like her.

She flushed, and took a deep breath.
She knew they would pop up again on her way out, chasing her,
Whispering, mocking her hurry, What’s the hurry? Where you going?
She felt they craved her company, waited for her nightly visits.

They are always gone by morning.


I dance, very slowly, in the sun.
There are bees in the lavender,
and probably tiny spiders underfoot,
under all this thick, soft clover.

And I think that where no cruelty is involved,
no fear, anger, or guilt—
or even awareness—
then, when a tiny beastie goes
from a buzzing crawling busy life
to mud,
perhaps a sweet twinkle of energy is released,
equivalent to the brief exquisite scent
of a tiny flower close to the ground,
hidden from view.

And so I dance, probably
releasing many twinkles underfoot.
And I feel lovely vibrations
from the air, the sun, the earth, the trees
the clouds, the tangy seaweed-breeze.

Is this what it means to share the earth?

I am seaweed, I am cloud, I am giant bird—
I am tendril vines, I am miniscule flower bursting with scent—
I am reverent and purposeful in my choice to dance
despite the inevitable deaths underfoot.

I am finished, and I bow.
Namaste, every body.

Private Smile

And there he was.
She noticed him immediately,
sandwiched between a harried mother
and a whiny younger sister,
or rather a whingeing one, it must have been,
because it was London
on the Underground,
the stations whisking by, in and out of focus.

He looked to be eight years old. No older.
Important stuff tends to happen when you’re eight,
and it was apparent that something
had happened
to this boy. Or maybe
it was happening to her, right then and there.


She felt a flutter of mild desperation,
an impulse to give him something,
to reach across the aisle and the anonymity
to honor his shining divinity. But what? What?
Her Tube stop was coming up.
She felt around in her pockets
but all she had
was a smooth lump of hematite, given to her by her father,
and a short wand of crystal, given to her by her boyfriend.
Being just twenty years old, she hadn’t yet come to realize
that either of these objects would have been worthy
precisely because they were precious to her.
Neither did she realize that a dirty pebble would have done the trick,
would have communicated her intent, her reverence.
Would have communicated her desire
to thank him, to bless him, to acknowledge the greatness
of his burden and his opportunity.


Years and years went by,
and every now and then she remembered
her brush with the Holy Boy.
That he was an ordinary-looking probably-working-class
eight-year-old Indian boy, with a mother who was so busy
with her sari and her shopping bags and her young daughter
that she never noticed the God in her family, seemed extraordinary.

But it wasn’t.


The train was slowing for her stop.
She couldn’t approach an eight-year-old stranger,
Realized Being or not,
with his mother right there
and obviously displaying a lack of empathy already.
She kept watching him. He must have heard her thoughts,
for he turned and looked at her across the aisle,
a slow and genuine smile
spreading across his face.
And she smiled back.
And in this quiet moment, Everything happened.

It only took a second for Everything to happen, then he turned back,
soothing the younger child with a stuffed animal.
The train stopped, the doors slid open, she stepped onto the platform.
She rode the crowded escalator up to the surface, and the brilliant sun.

Bless Me

A sneeze happens
and everyone rushes
to bless,
and even if you’re not the first in line
to bless,
you might make eye contact, and nod and smile, as if to say
“I bless you too, I would have said it,
but someone else got there before me.”

Why do we rush to bless when a sneeze happens?
Not the historically superstitious reasons
about one’s soul leaving the body
and needing ushering back in under divine protection.

It’s our burgeoning need to bless. And these days, it feels like
there are few safe, legal, legitimate, accepted, politically correct
ways to bless others, out loud.
Except a sneeze. Sneezes are still fair game.

When you handle my fruit gently at the checkout, you bless me.
When I hold the door open for you, I bless you.
When you touch my shoulder gently as I cry, you bless me.
When I tell you that your new idea is so thrilling that is makes the hairs
on my arms stand up, I bless you.

This ritual of love and peaceful energy exchange
can be extended to anything, right?
And I don’t mean out to all the people of the world,
or the animals,
or the planet itself. No,
I’m talking much closer:
Did you bless your shoes today? What about your car?
And your computer! Your phone!

In blessing my computer or phone,
I can bless
the operating system,
everyone on my Contacts list,
all my FaceBook friends,
all the musicians on iTunes,
all the followed and the followers,
all the programs,
all the apps,
all in one go.

And why not? Many of you already think this way, do these things.