The Medicine Man

The medicine man imparted these words
before transforming into a raven
and vanishing from this space:

Stop thinking.
Know.
Forced thinking, what you seek dissapears.
Beyond the mountain the valleys
are deep and wide.
Going into them blind, distracted
thinking, will consume you.
Instead enter the gate and immediately stop.
See your arms outstretched.
Welcome the valley to you.
As you have come here.
See with eyes closed.
Touch with arms at your side.
Breath deeply the lushness
and direction of the wind.
Now, search for what you have lost.

In Memoriam

Reblogged from Morton Design Works:

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The grass grows green The marble white The air is still, though full of life Eternal fires and simple stones Patriots at home

The tap of heels in discipline The honor guard always stays An unknown soldier, not an unknown grave For service given Must be repaid

In peace or war They gave their life To wage the fight, with all their might To wear the badge To raise the flag

In Arlington And anywhere our colors run true The Red, White and Blue The women and men We remember you

A beautiful tribute from Greg Morton.

Art, passion, need

As I shrug off the last remnants of the latest migraine, I wonder about why some people are motivated or pushed into the arts.  Some are labeled artists by society, some are by their occupation, and others are artists by their passion and drive.

As I look back on my life, from a semi-clouded state, I remember vignettes and most of these consist of episodes of pain or depression.  In my younger days, I searched and searched for an outlet, some way to cope, and to understand myself better and the world I was growing up within.  The world I was struggling to strike a balance with, as we shunned each other.

It seems that a lot of artists, regardless of the genre or media, were pushed, pulled, or found solace within the arts.  We need the arts as much as it needs us and the creativity driven by passion, driven by true emotions, driven by need.  It is utterly amazing what the mind will create when it is in a state of need.

Poem – Bullets in my Sky

My sky
I built
Hands bound
Tight noose

Vibrant blue
Stretching forever
My sky
I built

My life
I built
Mind controls
Thoughts forgotten

Bullet filled
Piercing blow
Shattered mirror
Glass raining

Outstretched arms
Catching pieces
Razors tearing
Shreds gone

I awake
Palms wet
Distant thoughts
Cloudy memories

Surrounding myself
White sheet
Please forgive
My sins

Minds purpose
Your essence
Pulling together
The shards

Dirty mind
Tainted thoughts
Release them
Drown them

River winds
Through valleys
Below cliffs
Awaiting me.

Home

I have lived in MN all of my 38 years.  It is home.  Family is here.  Memories and history exist in every nook and cranny.  It is home.  For better or worse, there are reminders everywhere.

But, what truly defines home?  Is it physical reminders?  Is it by sight as you drive past landmarks and the memory of being 10-years old, spending the afternoon on the red-swing set, surfaces and a tinge of pain or regret appears; or the joys of careless summer afternoons with your dog at your side?

Is home much deeper, with tendrils extending along the spine and following each nerve; a world unto itself unfurling with spiritual awakening and awareness?

The dog alarm woke me up before the real one, with a slap on the forehead – must be time for breakfast.  Letting her outside, into the early morning of thick, damp, and heavy clouds, I briefly forgot I was here, and was greeted with days spent in Haines, AK.  I had no choice – the smell and the feel of the air on my skin, lifted me and dropped me back into the waters of Lynn Canal.

With something so deep and touching every part of my being, is that home?

Questions, Decisions, Summer, Randomness

Before the sun winks, I am on my way to start another day and wondered, is this what summer smells like?  The air is damp and thick with moisture that has encased fragrant flowers.

The trip to Alaska is coming up quickly now.  I find myself in the same predicament as the trip to Mt Rainier, knowing I need to train more, but not.  Writing, or an hour on the treadmill?  Now that is a dilemma!   Writing has been winning lately, as the Story of Joline has taken a few twists and turns, and what started as introductory prose to the poems, is fast becoming chapters of a longer story, pieced together by individual days.  I know better than to wait and push it aside.  I will forget the words if not written now.

I guess getting older is about priorities, and within those priorities, balance.  To some degree, getting a dog, forced the issue, much to my chagrin.  While at first glance, having another responsibility, seemed counter-productive, and would get in the way.  As time progressed, I find it has flipped, and I am more delicate with how I spend my evenings, and often I am plugged into music, keyboard at hand, puppy asleep or eating dinner.  Again.

This weekend is a poetry conference at the Loft Literary Center.  I am fortunate to be in the same city, and have spent much time there writing, attending events, classes, and drinking my fair share of coffee.  I have chosen breakout sessions focusing on writing about historical events, publishing, and building community.  Featured artists are Mark Doty and Tracy K. Smith, who was just awarded the Pulitzer Prize in poetry.  Those artists in the Twin Cities area of Minnesota are fortunate souls.  If you are attending the conference this weekend, I will be the one that looks like me.

In closing, write because that is what you are and to deny that is to close part of your essence, a part of you that is engrained, that is a gift given to you.  The treadmill is not going anywhere on its own.

Over Lunch

From a distance, over breakfast for lunch, I sit and watch. I listen. Taken in by the environment, I am anonymous, no one special. I do not stand out. Here is what I see:

People hiding behind cell phones, showing affection to the beautiful glow of the screen and downloading apps; intense conversations working toward a goal, that either of the participants may not know; outward signs of impatience while waiting for a companion of some kind; older couples enjoying the time together over coffee and apple pie with genuine smiles and the subtle nuisances in their character; others are metered by the clock and move quickly to a conclusion with an agreement.

What I ultimately see is isolation. Singularity. Individual pods of energy carefully constructed and exposed to the environment, a honed awareness of only the immediate space. I see lost people. Sheep. At this point I look around, peering at faces and actions – is someone watching me? Have I been vetted out? Am I a sheep?

If there is a shift, a spiritual revolution, on the way, these faces hide the internal energy, the mass of charged particles jostling and preparing to explode. I see this coming change each day. It lives and manifests itself across headlines, in images, in the Facebook newsfeed – a constant barrage of the chaotic energy coming to a head and resulting in tragedy, confusion, isolation, singularity, and loss.

The current shift takes up residence and consumes lives across the globe – it is a wakeup call that things are fucked-up. The foundation is weakening. The pillars are cracking. Like wood termites silently gnawing their way through your house, we do not become aware there is an issue until it is too late. People, the masses, are tired of the current state of this world, but filled with questions of how and when things will change.

This shift can be followed by the spiritual shift.

With sledge hammer in hand knock the pillars over. If it is going to fall regardless, take control, take back control, and decide this is the path I am going to take. Turn it inside out and spit out the reality we want.

Is the bottom not yet upon us? Will the situation worsen, to a point where even the most strong-willed and resilient person will break and give in?

One shift is here. Another is coming. How do we manage this increasing chaos? We need each other, and I do not mean this in a “hold hands and sing” kind of way.

We must realize we have a sphere of influence that affects others. Plain and simple. No matter how much you curl yourself within yourself, being in a place will affect others that are also there. This can happen indirectly, for example, if someone is waiting for a phone call, and you do not call them, your inaction, and their reaction is a result of the sphere of influence.

Realizing our influence in the world comes from having an awareness of your self, the environment, others in the space, and energy streaming from beyond that is always present. Listen with mind and eyes, do no think, and do not force a situation.

Stone Path Review – Update

The upcoming summer issue is coming together nicely.  We have poetry, including a piece by Ricci Milan, a new writer to Stone Path Review, a short story by Justin Teerlinck, photography, and more.  The deadline for submissions to the Summer issue is July 1st.  The Fall issue is planned to be larger including an interview with the featured artist.  Deadline for the Fall issue is October 1st.

A Moment of Truth **

Lights fade into a dim glow casting shadows from each lamp, bookcase, and the chandelier above the ornate wooden table with 10 chairs.  A piano sits silently overlooking the floor to ceiling windows facing east, over the manicured lawn, past the quiet streets, before the views becomes lost in the Lake Superior waters.

An empty ship is anchored a few miles out, waiting out the choppy waters and preparing for the snow that is forecast to arrive this evening.  Tomorrow it will bring the anchor back in and complete the journey into port where the cargo holds will be filled with iron ore before heading back out for processing.

The air is filled with an aroma that I cannot place, but it is soothing nonetheless.  Perhaps rosemary.  Yes, I believe those are rosemary cookies baking in the kitchen.  The same kitchen that made the delicious breakfast of cinnamon French toast, wild rice sausage, and blueberry muffins for breakfast in the morning.  The day was busy and fulfilling with a hike through the forest, and along the river, where I attempted to cross the fragile ice and went through.  Thankfully the river that point was merely a few inches deep, but cold nonetheless, and the sounds of cracking ice can be disheartening.

In the afternoon, we stopped for lunch followed by hot chocolate and coffee overlooking the iced shoreline and the crashing waves.  Thoughts quickly came back to life as the wood-burning stove made its way through layers of clothing, to the chilled skin, before reaching the bones.

It was a good day, and now I watch a couple walking their dog across the street as the first snowflakes begin to fall.  The wind is coming in off the lake and hitting the windows, quickly turning the snow to water and leaving streaks, as the fireplace is melting the bodies within to comfortable postures on sofas and overstuffed chairs.

I hear a bottle of wine being uncorked and the methodical pour of chardonnay into crystal.  I prefer coffee and walk toward the dining room and into the room where mugs, glasses, a refrigerator, fresh baked cookies, and the single-cup coffer maker are kept.  Italian Roast is inviting and the rising steam catches my nose and I cannot help but close my eyes, inhale the bittersweet and smile.  Nothing like fresh coffee to finish the task of putting the mind and body at ease.

Walking to the great room, and past the piano, I see you at a small table.  You seem agitated, distant or preoccupied with something I am not aware of, perhaps not even able to understand.  I walk over to you, it seems you did not know I was there, I looked down, to ask you a question, to inquire about what is wrong, and see you are cutting your wrist.


** This is a work of fiction based on real events and is part of the “Story of Joline”.

Poem – A Child Waits

In honor of Mother’s Day and including pops, a poem.


A child five years old waits
patiently, the door has not
opened for some time, a
dining room chair methodically
collects dust. Three dinner plates
have become two, seemingly overnight.

One kiss upon my forehead, though
different, something new as the
touch and embrace last moments
longer, sometimes met with tears,
silent sobs in the distance when
my bedroom door closes.

A child of six grows older
aware of a new knock upon the door
a new face entering, bearing gifts
a gentle smile, kind words,
an embrace for my mother.
Two slowly becoming three.

A glorious day – Mother’s Day

70s and sunny and it is mother’s day.  I normally shy away from warmth and sunshine, preferring grey cloudy skies with rain, or with more excitement, snow and ice covered landscapes.  So it was somewhat surprising that I awoke this morning basking in golden light streaming through the forest green drapes, and felt alive.  I also realized that I did not know “glorious” was in my vocabulary.

On this rare gem of a day, I wish a Happy Mother’s day to my mom – my therapist, biggest fan, shelter, unlimited source of inspiration and encouragement, and the reason I am here.

Love you mom.

Poem – The Bridge

This piece is about the Washington Ave bridge in Minneapolis, MN.  This is the same one where John Berryman (author of “Dream Songs”) jumped in 1972.


The Bridge

Running across the bridge
Spanning the Mississippi
I stay outside the maroon shelter
Preferring light mist upon my face
Blending with tears
Crisp fall day
Leaves crunching underfoot
Lining the river banks with
Color and vivid imagination, the branches spin
And twirl, a vortex of hues and painted scenes

I stop

That from which I run is near
When we break, we fall
Our shadow will follow every step

I stand atop the rail
Looking below, slow moving
Water, slight wake from a passing barge
I try desperately to block the others
Passing by, inquisitive looks glaring upon
My body, my wings
I can fly with pearl white wings
Spread like an albatross
The space around bends and allows
Free-flight to jump

I jump

I awake to a dark room
Stuffy and damp, the air is heavy
My lungs pushing hard to inhale
And exhale the demons

Bolting upright in bed
My mind a mess
These demons consuming me
I do not know who you are
I do not know your face

But the beauty overwhelms
You have been here
Your scent survives

The midnight hour is struck
I head outside
The misty midnight sun, a layer
Of yellow wine shimmering and
Flowing elegantly down the Mississippi

Crisp air filling my lungs
I light a Djarum
Swirling in baked ham and cloves
The crackle echoes fervently into the shelter
I stand near, images growing, hiding
Drifting, play with my mind

Slowly dodging the shelter of maroon
I head to the rails
A thin mist
Wind blowing through my hair
Looking down a slight web of silk
Vibrating, stretched between the rails
Illuminated by the moon

Decompression

Overlooking Silver Lake, I slowly let go of the day, and the past week.  So much weight and so many worries.  The stress is taking over the color of my hair (more character some say).  I wonder silently and within, is it all worth the results at the end of day?  What is the end game, and what will I look like?  How will I feel?

Many species of birds fly far and near, some taking lunch from the bird feeders, rocking back and forth from the northwestern wind.  The lake is a bit choppy and beautiful from where I write these words.  Even with the cloudy, dark grey sky, with a threat of thunder and rain, this is nature.  This is it.

So I ask myself again, is what it takes to get here, worth the effort?

A red-headed woodpecker chases the blackbird away and overtakes the feeder, and for the first time today, I smile, and have forgotten the weight I carry.

I am continually reminded as I continually forget, that nature is everywhere, nature consumes, and nature is just outside the door, waiting for your spirit and open mind to walk into it.  As I write and listen and observe, two robins fly a couple of feet above my head, as if to say “shut-up, stop thinking, and live, here.”

As I say goodbye to the previous week, I thank nature and these birds, for the chance to decompress.

Stone Path Review

Dear artistic friends;

Stone Path Review is an artistic journal that we (Patricia of Twisted Root Studios and I) started last year. We have published two online issues thus far and are reviewing submissions for the upcoming Summer and Fall 2012 issues. We would appreciate and welcome submissions of any media and genre somewhat loosely related to our mission and goals.

There is no submission fee, and will never be a submission fee. We are artists dedicated to artists.

We welcome artists of any level, style, experience – we just want your artistic pieces.

We are unique, not only in what we are looking for, but also that we will provide personal feedback, constructive criticism, and what we liked about your work.

Please visit Stone Path Review, read our guidelines and previous issues, and use our submission manager to send in your work.

Thank you
~ Stone Path Review editors

Shelter

Reblogged from follow the Twisted Root:

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Oberg Mountain | Lutsen, MN 2012

These trees remind me of my son and me. Two strong and independent individuals. Both with scars from growing and learning. Just as a parent attempts to shelter their young… There comes a time when that life must seek out their own sunlight to bask in. The trees are leaning toward that same light The younger planted straighter, with an eager reach pulling away.

Read more… 42 more words

Shelter - words of wisdom