last night,
we spoke of ragas
(and how they find their way to the end)
we spoke of not being right
(and the right to just be)
we spoke of care and not judging the lost ones
(and i trusted you a little more)
today,
the camellias are blooming soft and pink
(opening to the sun)
A voice keeps whispering, “Let the miracle happen.” So I am. And it is. I’m starting to believe in myself again. And the hurt has transformed into acceptance and wisdom. I see the road ahead of me again. And I see the blank canvas as exciting instead of overwhelming. The voices that have told me…
This morning on the bus, I was running my hands through my daughter’s golden tresses and started giving her a scalp massage. As she relaxed, I said, “Mmmm…this is luxury. This is luxurious like– delicious dark chocolate, puppy breath, a spring rain, velvet on my skin, the sun kissing my shoulders at the beach, red…
at dusk cartwheels on the grass sister teaching sister with ubuntu the crunch of dried autumn leaves fading red sun shimmers on the river pink cheeks hair tumbling wildly we watch our breath appear on the exhale moments woven together with great laughter and love in autumn bliss
“I have abused my power, forgive me. You mean we actually are One?” I wasn’t in the mood to study French so I listened to this entire album while biking around the lake the other day. Biking lends itself to deep listening so I heard every difficult word of this song. So good. I’ve been…
fierce wind dances with wetness warm coffee on tongue, a jet pushes through the sky
She answered me with an Irish glint in her eye.