fractal wound

vulnerability

soft folds
(ripped open)

revealing

deep slash

bound

peer into darkness
(infinite landscape)

fractal wound
binding

like a river winding
through a canyon

he saw all worlds
contained

we both saw
Her

here.

now.

Ekphrastic poem inspired by the Hana Hamplová: Meditations on Paper exhibit at The Frye Art Museum.   I saw it once, alone, and once with a date.   We both marveled at the raw eroticism of these photos.   No idea if that was the intent.

These photos are a reminder to me of the ephemeral nature of life.  Of bodies, words, ideologies.    Flesh changes throughout our lives, a constant reminder of change.  Once tight it becomes thinner but also softer, revealing new worlds beneath.  Discovery always awaits attention.

I recommend this exhibit which ends December 31st.  It’s truly beautiful and thought-provoking.

in the stunned silence

like a hummingbird
flitting
forward
and back
sipping the sweetness
never still
never landing
too fast to be captured

until she flies into the glass
headlong

f
a
l
l
i
n
g

in the stunned stillness
hands reach out
holding
protecting
sheltering
feeding

(not all hands hurt or capture)

dance of joy

I wrote this song with words/content from some Facebook friends today.  I’m gonna be singing it tonight at A Creative Commons Celebration hosted by The Seattle Star.  Here are the lyrics if you want to sing along:

Today I dance a dance of joy
For my ancestors and yours
I wanna break down these walls
And unlock every door.

Today I dance a dance of joy
For my ancestors and yours
I wanna break down these walls
And unlock every door.

Today, I will be kind
I’ll hug you if you don’t mind
Today is a gift
Let’s make the shift
Dance for remembrance

Come on let’s dance a dance of joy
For my ancestors and yours
Let’s break down these walls
And unlock every door.

Come on let’s dance a dance of joy
For my ancestors and yours
Let’s break down these walls
And unlock every door.

In the light of the moon
I dance for you
Under the sky so blue
I do this dance of joy for you
Grass ‘neath my toes
Wind on my thighs
I got something here
To put a glint in your eye

Today I dance a dance of joy
For my ancestors and yours
I wanna break down these walls
And unlock every door.

Timing is everything
Or so they say
Today I’m just gonna get out my own way
And play
Play
Play

Let’s dance a dance of joy
For my ancestors and yours
Let’s break down these walls
And unlock every door.

Come on let’s dance a dance of joy
For my ancestors and yours
Let’s break down these walls
And unlock every door.

11/16/17 Update:  After performing it a capella at the event, I decided I needed to add some instruments.  Spent a few minutes messing around with it in Garage Band today (Literally one take on the vocals).  Here’s the work-in-progress.

(insert Creative Commons jazz here when I have time.)

how to use the F word

How many times are we told to forgive a transgression? Like it’s a prescription. It’s supposed to make us better or so the story goes.

The point being what? Enlightenment? Brownie points in heaven? Feeling good inside? I wrote recently about how yoga has made me feel more vulnerable and more forgiving towards myself and sometimes others. It’s true. I mostly feel more open and aware of my own heart.

It’s also unlocked some deeply buried pain.  Pain most especially from the men in my life who haven’t just hurt me but keep coming back to hurt me again.

And again.

And I have let them.

And let them.

(I take responsibility for that, for the record.)

Recently in yoga, my teacher said, “Yoga stirs things up.  It brings out the darkness and the light.”  It does.  Life does.  As a reflective person, I’m realizing how important it is to truly honor all the parts that come up.   She said, “Namaste means honoring all the parts of us.  The light.  The dark.  The demons and the demigods. ”  I gave a very emphatic Namaste in class that day.

This is the work.  Honoring all of it.

But as a “good Christian woman” I was only taught the forgiveness part.  I wasn’t taught about boundaries.  I wasn’t taught how to use the F word.  Wasn’t taught to say FUCK YOU nearly enough.

I wasn’t taught to draw some boundaries around myself and my own psyche with an energetic sword.  With my tongue.

In the past, I’ve received negative feedback about having a sharp tongue.   Guess what?  I no longer give a fuck.  I’ve learned that it doesn’t matter how I say something; if the person who did something hurtful doesn’t want to be held accountable, they will push against whatever words are spoken.  After years of therapy, I’ve learned that it’s really okay to speak my truth and ask for what I need.  That’s how trust is built.

I can forgive people but not let them off the hook.  Amends need to start being made for bad behavior.   We are doomed to keep repeating old patterns until we stop the cycle.  Sometimes the cycle is stopped by a good, solid FUCK OFF.

Today,  I honor my demons and demigods.  I honor my Mars in Aries self.  I didn’t come here to fuck around.  I didn’t come here to play small.

So I won’t.

The glorious Helen Mirren was quoted as saying,

“At 70 years old, if I could give my younger self one piece of advice, it would be to use the words ‘fuck off’ much more frequently.”

I find myself wondering how different things might have been for me in my life if I had been raised in a culture where women were encouraged to draw boundaries more often.  I wonder if so many women would have fallen prey the abuse from Harvey Weinstein if we were encouraged to speak truth to power and expect to be listened to instead of told to forgive and carry on or worse, threatened for doing so.

So, lovelies, now you have permission.  Like most powerful tools, use it judiciously but use it all the same.  I did recently and guess what?  It felt amazing.

changing the room of my mind

There’s so much I want to say.  So much I could say about friendship, and belonging, and how care (or the absence of it) feels deep in the center of my being.  About feeling dehumanized so often.  Objectified.  Plunked into the fantasies and projections of men who said they loved me but didn’t show me care.

I could talk about how my ache for belonging has led me to saying yes when I knew it should be a “no”.  About how finding the courage to finally say “no” meant being cast out.  Shut out.  (Or worse.)

About how that makes me not trust anyone, especially myself.

I will write about those things and more. I  know there are others who need to these stories but today, just for today, I’ll linger on the sweet sustenance of this poem by Hafiz and just let my heart rest deep inside my animal body.

“All the Hemispheres
Leave the familiar for a while.
Let your senses and bodies stretch out

Like a welcomed season
Onto the meadow and shores and hills.

Open up to the Roof.
Make a new watermark on your excitement
And love.

Like a blooming night flower,
Bestow your vital fragrance of happiness
And giving
Upon our intimate assembly.

Change rooms in your mind for a day.

All the hemispheres in existence
Lie beside an equator
In your heart.

Greet Yourself
In your thousand other forms
As you mount the hidden tide and travel
Back home.

All the hemispheres in heaven
Are sitting around a fire
Chatting

While stitching themselves together
Into the Great Circle inside of
You.”

~Hafiz

Update:  After I wrote this, I went to yoga with one of my favorite teachers, Ashley.  At the end of class, she put my head in her hands and gently said, “I’ve got you girl.”  Quiet tears rolled down my cheeks.

Trust is earned but we have to remember to open to it.  Opening…