trust your voice, wisdom
the first time around, fool
could save you some time and some pain, (wo)man
Category: spirituality
surrender.here.now [poetic teaching]
(krishna says in the og bg)
he who teaches those who do not want to hear
is performing an immoral act
but you couldn’t anyway
it is only at the point that you ask the question
that you can hear the answer
it is only at the point when it begins to dawn on you that maybe
all the methods you had available to you thus far
aren’t going to be enough
all we can do at this point is to
share our journeys with one another (thanks, ram ram dass)
as the heart opens
again, if they surrender
vairagya letting go
the karmic eventual non-attachment
the most sincerest of seekers, or life experiencers, will feel
as the heart opens
again, if they surrender
all paths lead to the same place
you can get some of the dynamics of method
other pilgrims walking the true path without a path to follow
only the heart opening
watch in wonder
as the heart opens
again, if they surrender
if i shall be enslaved [poem]
take me to the artists’ queue
let us try to break needs and chains
with color, if not, with death
if something shall enrapture
me, be it a demise of form
attempt to bear witness
if nothing else, on the long path
to the bottom
of the middle
sick in the thick of (fighting) love, dammit [poem]
I do(n’t) want to fall in love. (i’m afraid of it)
I don’t want to risk saying goodbye to the fire in my heart, to the dancing queen in my soul, to the get-up-and-go that makes me who I am. I don’t want to leave behind all the things that make me the me I love the most. Free spirit. Artist. Unconventional bohemian babe who teaches yoga and heals with her hands, and also swears like a badass sailor bitch with a shot of Jameson, another of Patrón, and a sweating Busch light on the bar before me. I want to climb those trees in the furry-filled fuzzy Northwest, and those mountain peaks in the sacred Himalayas. I don’t want to make decisions using my left brain. I don’t want to say I’m sorry, and really mean it, when I realize I was less than considerate of the man waiting in the truck. I don’t want to cry when we’re an hour away from our departure point. I don’t want to have nausea, those fucking butterflies that come, or the weight gain or weight loss that accompanies an emotional experience us humans aren’t blessed to have enough to make sense of within our minds. I don’t want to fall. Fuck. I don’t want to fall. I want to cling to my path, one that has no rules, that believes everything is gray—never black and white, ever—but is a foggy gray filled with regular doses of tye-dye and psychedelic hippies and EDM. A path that sings to Bieber and Johnny Cash. That is full of naked swims at sunrise in the Sawtooth mountains, and naked golden-hour dips amongst canoers and fallen birch trees in the Upper Peninsula. It’s a path that lights my life up bigger and bolder than any path I’ve ever tried ever could.
What’s the worse thing that could happen? (he asks, my therapist, best one ever)
I roll my eyes, laugh at how silly it sounds, but I tell the truth
For me, the worst thing that could happen is he could be my forever person and I could change and get married and have some babies and live in the woods amongst the woodpeckers and fawns and…
I laugh. I cry. So does he
This hurts (my ego who is not vulnerable but strong and willfull and free, don’t you see!)
the reason I’m most terrified is because this is truly unexplored (and i don’t know how to do it)
how do you just be, without a heady head swirling with option and adventure?
how do you just let go of agenda, roles, and truthly keep both feet inside the door?
just be, I suppose
let life happen, I suppose
feel the feelings, I suppose
cry and vomit and let yourself be
sick in the thick of love, damnit
shirodhara: an ayurvedic oil awakening [poem, and embodied request]
drip
drip
drip drip
drip drip
drip drip drip streammmmmmmmm
warm oil streams across my face
pours from a pot above my head
falls an inch below my hairline, just above my eyebrows
running softly across my skull
rushing rivers to my temples
swimming in a swirl of curls
oil pools beside my head, towel on my hair
third-eye sleeping safely, kept under iPhone lock and key
life nectar continues to caress, sweet sweet fragrant oil
thinking momentarily fades away, sweetness in to take his place
simple sweetness, supple powers, of the lady with the oil
inner knowings wait for outer silence sweet sweet sweet
muddled being, struggling with decisions, none
crying heart, lamenting heart, learning not to love, but love
how to disappear and live again, shirodhara oil can you also come
minutes, hours, lives pass by as truth and grace remain
to hold supple hands of a woman in her prime, within an oil awakening
You bowed to me [poem]
how many days have you walked into my room,
rice on a tray, dal, quiet as a mouse
careful not to wake my sleeping son
while seeing my mess, some shame
an american queen, closet concubine, waiting for the work to be
done at a desert hotel with
a pool
today for lunch I demanded plain spaghetti
just boil it and bring it here! I heard myself yell at the phone
why did i speak like this?
disgusted with undercooked beans, abundance
of sunflower and rice bran oil, and salt
tonight for dinner I requested fancy dal not on your menu
one prepared special for entitled tourists like me
dal makhani, it’s possible? I ask
sab kuch milega, you say
when you brought it to me, my robe
closed tight around my chest, lights low, I opened my door, my world,
you entered, placed the tray on the table, silent
you rose, met my gaze, pressed your palms in
anjali mudra, opening your heart
my breath left me
thank you, thank you, I said
who am I to be so proud?
I meant it
I longed to be a beautiful woman [poem] // tale of our first solo scooty adventure in the desert
I caught my shadow on the single-lane asphalt road with broken rocky shoulders that drew a line south in the Thar, save a few curves of sanddunes drifting across the surface. My head was tightly wrapped in an emerald green pashmina from Jaipur, the scarf tail dancing behind our bodies roughly one hundred kilometers from the Pakistan border. It was 95 degrees at ten am. Before we’d set off that morning I covered my son with the usual heavy gray cotton flap of his baby carrier, attached him tightly to my body, and drove down the slippery stone slabs of the fort first gate. It was the first time we’d ride here just the two of us.
The path was edged with desert cacti who wore silken flowers of faded fuchsia and tiny white pearls. The road cut through fields of harvested cumin, gathered into stone-topped drying piles amongst scattered mounds of sandstone boulders. The road curved through one small village of people who lived by shaping them. I smelled dirt. There were sandstone homes, carved beautifully, but most were square squatty concrete buildings, some with bright white lime and turquoise facades.
Muslim shepherds in sweat-stained dhotis with bulging inner pockets, slender frames, walked slowly behind dreadlocked sheep and black goats with twisted horns and rectangle eyes. Six or seven golden and burnt black camels in shade, sometimes alone, like the saggy backed bony cows who occasionally wore 15-inch horns. We passed by dung and clay huts with straw circle tops. Kids chased our scooter, which made me nervous, but happy to be seen. I smiled at the older humans, being, waiting for me to pass.
I longed to be a beautiful woman in a movie, the kind who poetry and novels are written about, dressed with a green scarf round her head, tied at the neck, pair of wheels under her, upon an open road.
Going deeper into the desert, I continued toward the Shakti temple an hour from town.
My dreams were now alive in the shadows on the ground.
The same, questions of your father [poem]
the boys in the temple today
spoke down to me, questioned
again, about your father
eyes, pure white, open and embracing
circles of brown round black, still believing these are
more beautiful than any anyone has seen
I regret what I told them
you will have children. never leave your sons, I say
please do not do what some of your real fathers did, I think
I turned my back and walked away from
my choices, the surprise and hypocrisy and beliefs
your parents, my parents, just products of lifetimes
I hope the questions stop
It’s not the Indian way, they say
abortions, preferred. you think, they think, silent
your father, being human being, a man
tender boy made in mountains, naive, frightened
existence we created, they created, were created, are created
truth, still a mystery to me
father will love him, he is his son, they say
it’s too dangerous to try, you say, they stay silent
nearly two years have passed. I am not the same
surely neither are you alone, in the secret of fatherhood
missing, or dead. to us you seem the same
I hope the questions stop
Worth, part 1 [poem]
what is my worth?
she asks me, a good idea from the shower, she says.
she struggles too, with depth, an eagerness to know
both of us
pulling clothes from the line, sandy feet
shuffle on the marble rooftop
nothing, I smirk
the easy answer, my attitude, my honesty, my pride
there is no value, no real worth, inside my moments
it’s all just now, anyhow
no different am I from the tree just beside
she has no leaves, no blossoms, no bark, yet is
holding tight to the ground, yet gives
shade for the man in gray, offers
view for the bush-tailed chipmunk, a
perch for the pigeon pair I saw mating once, a lustful quickie on a pillar, silent
picture for the neighbor servant
girl wearing red
who am I but the dust that flies
into my child’s eyes, my own
belonging neither to me, nor life itself
able to die more quickly than
one takes, chooses, a life
it’s all a dream, I fear, I feel
jaded as the years drag on
Is awareness always so solemn?
I’ll ask her that, I think
Two loads in a partial-automatic [poem]
Pressed against the concrete wall
Beneath our dripping laundry
Entitlement, arrogance
Ashamed at the abundance
Of both
For 32 years I’ve known that
Only machines, mothers
Do my washing
And now who am I to be
But that
– Jaisalmer, Rajasthan, India // March 2019
Man from the chattri [poem]
you have kind umber eyes
burnt black brown skin
both eager to know me, know love
not knowing we are not the same
I am the wind blowing far from here
not into your desert home
your space and simplicity attracts me
the sweetness in your smile, also this
but I know the machine is still running
coming soon, I say
and I beg of still water, come find me
in the waking body [poems]
It’s true what they say
About holding back
Or letting go
You never really know
Which is best
So you try both
Nature’s way
You begin at birth
And re-find…
if you’re lucky.
The other, created
Taught to and at you
Scared souls…
there’s freedom.
—–
Hearts don’t actually explode
From emotion
Overwhelmed inside the all-consuming force
of their feeling.
Just as throats don’t actually close
They constrict
Requiring, equipping both their burn
and their burden.
Eyes though, they do decide on change
They surrender
Knowing no alternate way of freeing and exploring,
their fear and their love.
—–
Get your ground
let it go
leap into your adventure
It’s only now,
trust truth om
no backup plans required
Adapt and flow
move when you’re moved
let life evolve through you
—–
Placing bets
On the head
Or the heart
Life’s gamble
It’s your call.
Both likely win
In the end.
But which game
Is more fun
to play?
– robin 12/23/18
make me a space to be, god [poem]
make me a space
space to breathe
space to be, god
make me a space amongst sturdy pines and cedar, spruce
to sacred hills and silver boulders
blowing bells, bansuri
water cold, original ice
discipline
himalayan stream, become
om namah shivaya
I ask not of any earthly lover but of god
make me a space on ochre earth and sienna sand
to the dunes and gray green cacti
whistling rattle whips
ancient earth, eternal light
discipline
desert wind, become
om namah shivaya
I ask not of any earthly lover but of god
make me a space
space to breathe
space to be, god
If your eyes are still open [poem]
If your eyes are still open
when the birds begin to sing
stay awake
pour the tea
open the book of love songs
and poetry
wrap your shoulders in a shawl
sit outside
on your balcony
watch the sun change
the sky
from muted gray to lavender and peach
to soft faded blue
and notice the fir trees
and mountain paths
and terraces of wheat and rock
and prayer flags fluttering
in the barely moving wind
and hear the dogs beckoning
each other
to join the bell-wearing donkeys
and the day
and sip, sip, sip
it all
in
Do not ask for a heart made of different clay [poem]
Moon child, my curly-haired moon child, Lay your self open, bold and full of breath, alive, on that still-warm concrete roof, between the Ganga and the hills, and ask me what it is you long for…
But do not ask, ever again, for a heart made of different clay. For I poured my Divine Self into your being — I wanted you this way.
I wanted you to cry those tears, to surrender then resurface, to dance in most pure ecstacy, despite your person’s fears.
I wanted you to find your comfort in the trees and on the shores, to climb up into mountain meadows when you couldn’t hear me any more.
I wanted you to lose it all, to break and say goodbye, to the life you thought you lived, full of fantasies not made for freedom, that couldn’t help but make you cry.
I wanted you to dive so deep into your darkest blues, and only then get a glimpse of Self, in the will-less space of softened ego, without that name, without that mind, without much of what you thought you knew.
I am pleased that you’re still with me, crawling onward toward the light, but now, accept this grace, embrace pure courage, burn what lingers of fictitious flesh still keeping you afright.
Stop resisting, my dear moon child, trust the flow you feel. Release into this moment, for what is is mystic magic, a story sage and seer know as real.
But you’ll breathe it into life solely when you fall in love, with that not-so-broken human heart made of cosmic clay, that needs you to stop doubting, start freeing, and fully soar above.
You have the power, you carry the light, each moment has prepared you. So take one final surrendering pause, then release, my curly-haired moon child, and with love become the truth.
So do not ask, ever again, for a heart made of different clay. For I poured my Divine Self into your being — I created you this way.
….. Rishikesh, India. April 2017.
a man with a grill beside a colorado creek [poem]
his eyes amber green orange and yellow
his mouth soft and brown
so shiny as he spoke to me from behind a grill
El Salvadorian golden teeth, german nose
hooked with a mole on the right, a mirror to mine
speaking hot and dry along the colorado creek
telling me of magic, he’s painting us a story
of a gardener, our age, was cursed with visions, feelings and sensations
of burning, like flames, on his handsome skin
for 30 days, he willed the gods to save him
sat under a waterfall, pounding in his mind, begging of the water
to offer daggers of protection, kill and shield the noise
bring peace silence stillness—a life in the mundane
freedom from the chains of knowing
it’s been 16 years of quiet from the fire in his mind
but never, ever, in his sleep
each night he opens a door
to the purple blue light sky
elders circle boom of energy, no form
three hundred of them welcome friends at the fire
eyes open in our morning world, unconcious, hard, and dense
in spaces of our own
we try to touch
i ask him if he asks them things
my ego want to know
doesn’t he a responsibility to tell me
did he go back to sleep?
[ g r e e n ] 