Broken Arrow

I shot down each of my demons

And One by one laid clear my path,

I pulled one with the fletching torn,

As i stood face to face with a monstrous beast.

Without my arms I trembled

Eyes closed and cold sweat crawling zig zags down my cheek.

I died a hundred deaths before I opened my eyes

and saw before me

The beast quivering

eyes closed and beads of sweat.

I touched its shoulder

And the Eyes fluttered Open

My own eyes staring back

Holding a Broken arrow.

I died one hundred deaths

Before I opened my eyes.

I Found My Bodhi Tree


I found my Bodhi Tree 

After class today @balancedlifecenters we had a short discussion about what yoga is. Yoga is not just postures and movement. It is a return to our home, the knowingness of connections and oneness, a return to that place we felt safe to just be without our defense mechanisms up that cause us to grow tight and tense over time physically and calculated and protecting our thoughts mentally. The process of this healing work can often be painful because we are returning back home often by walking through some of our old experiences and pains, but as one student said, “but it leaves us feeling good.” 

We can find yoga in a multitude of ways, Siddhartha found it meditating for 7 days under the bodhi tree which is translated as the tree of enlightenment or awakening. We walk our own path and must find our own path back and some of us are blessed to find the guides that help facilitate that journey, whether it be a guru, child, or even one who might bring out the darkness in us. 

Namaste to this journey of home. 

String Theory 

My name echoed from every dimension of each universe,

Ripples rewinding into one defined point as Goddess conceived me into existence whispering my name, 

“Hannah, Hannah, Hannah, Hannah…..”
I am born again and again and again from that dark open space where thoughts form words to be spoken into vibration then into being as she plucks a string again and again whispering my name as a song made of pure sound and the reverberations sliding through the tight particles of each invisible filter of worlds back into that single point of light at the center of my universe. 

“Hannah, Hannah, Hannah, Hannah…”

I did not see, but hear myself born into being,

Perpetually formed. 

The sage priestess sweeping gold dust and broken glass from the remnants of a shattered hour glass onto a dustpan while guiding me to float in between the panes of universes to experience my creation. 
And each time I hear my name called,

“Hannah, Hannah, Hannah, Hannah….”

I remember. 

  

 

In the Womb 


    I’ve been asked, “how many times have you done a sweat lodge?” Honestly, I don’t know the numbers but it’s always different, but something Paul, the beautiful soul who has been guiding me for a decade now, says is that the lodge is alive and in this last experience, it clicked. 

      I brought my 7 year old son Elijah. Before going he asked very reasonable questions the way a 7 year old would ask them. “How long is it? How far is it? How hot is it?” He wanted facts and Paul’s voice echoed out of my mouth, “it’s alive. We can’t say how long it will take or how hot just like we don’t know how long we will be here or how hot we burn.” Elijah burns hot, as I burn hot. 

    And on the day of, as with every sweat I’ve ever organized, those who were meant to come came, and those who didn’t sent me notice that they would not make it and it was the way it should be, just as our lives are with the people who cross our paths. 

    The only intention I had with this sweat was to help my young son through it because I questioned myself for bringing him, but I felt he was ready and I also wanted him to retain something of the magic of where we come from before he forgets. So as I have mentioned, the lodge is like entering the womb of Mother Earth. I’ve heard Paul say this again and again, yet each time it sends different messages to my brain. This time i started to think about all my past experiences. I’ve had several dreams of dying, several moments where the situation felt like I could very well have really died, and a really interesting shroom trip where I believed I was dying. In each instance, as afraid of dying as I am, i seem to comfortably accept the fact each time and go calmly into the good night rather than rage rage against the dying light as Dylan poetically says. 

      See, I thought of my 7 year old son and thought my purpose was to help him, yet I had flashback after flashback related to this idea of my gentle acquiescence to Mr Grim. The first time I sweat with Paul, then known as Paul Eagle Bear, I had the hardest sweat lodge experience to date. About two weeks before the sweat, I was up in the mountain with my partner then, and we took shrooms on a backpacking trip far from the city. To make a long story short, I had a bad trip in which I thought I was going to die. I had many beautiful revelations before that thought, but I remember seeing myself float away out of my body and thinking this was it. And I was ok with it. I even said,”poor fucker is going to have to tell my parents he buried their daughter in the woods because she she was too far to carry back.” But when I realized it might not happen, I panicked. When I went to sweat for my first time, in the stage of “death” during the sweat, I relived the same feelings of dying but I panicked, lied down, breathed and got through it. And this last sweat with my son, I thought a lot about that moment because I wondered,’if this is like being Inthe womb of our mother, I wonder if, as fetuses, we make conscious prayers for the next round of life so that we have purpose and guidance and if the fetuses experience a sort of death of knowing before moving into the fourth stage of being guided out of a cave or tunnel into light and then we are reborn. 

Click

It clicked for me. 

     Elijah struggled, and even though he was not in the actual lodge the whole time, he experienced the whole ceremony as he should with all the discomforts and revelations as anyone else. My husband accepted to tend the fire and he tended them so beautifully that as everyone else lied down between each session trying to take in as much of the cool breeze whistling through before the darkness and heat came, I stared and watched him with tears because he was meticulously blowing off as much ash from each stone so that we could feel a little more comfort in the lodge. He, the father of my child, was doing what he did day to day, and in what looks like the simple act of removing stones from the fire and bringing them to our sweat leader to place carefully into the pit, I realized our whole relationship and I cried quietly. He stayed with Elijah when he could no longer handle the darkness and heat. 

    I think even Paul was thrown a little insight with having a fireball child thrown into the pit of stones and I felt a strong connection and so much veils lifting, not gently, but as wild as my little fireball child who broke some rules, as he would, but with so much innocence and heart, as he would. 

    And a couple days after, I still feel like I’m sitting on the cool earth with the warmth surrounding me. Almost every time I went to sweat, it was for myself, and those times I found myself struggling. Once accidentally, I went to sweat with little Clarence In my own womb, and it was one of the easiest sweat lodge experiences I had ever had and in the “death” stage I remember laughing so much we ended that round. I talked a lot about it and thought it was only because of Clarence’s light spirit being with us, but maybe there is more to it. 

    “This last time with Elijah by me, the sweat lodge was much easier. I saw my husband bringing Paul each stone and more kept coming. It was ironically running smooth, even with the wild energy surrounding us with the child and another at that (I’ll get to that too). It might have been hotter in there than other sweats I’ve experienced, but realized that i felt comfortable in the heat and welcomed the darkness. I think it was because the mother in me kicked in and the mother energy is strong. I was not the child in the womb. I was the Mother Earth. 

    Paul had mentioned he was a little thrown off because I forgot to mention I was bringing my son and another 11 year old girl, though she did so well in there maybe her soul is much older than mine and we have had some conversations since then and the through the discourse more is becoming clear. 

     The only vision I saw this time was of an eagle with tribal pictographs and the want to follow a deer that I couldn’t seem to fully manifest. There is still much layers coming to light as each petal peels away, but this is sweat lodge. It is like you and me. Each one is different like you and me. Each has its own purpose like you and me. And it will keep manifesting itself like you and me. 

Aho! 

The Sun Always Sets in the Past

  

The Sun Always Sets in the Past

Don’t look back,

Don’t you ever look back!

It’s dangerous they say,

It makes you wonder

Why you floundered 

It makes you fonder 

Of the things that were blunders. 

It means you found her,

And then maybe lost her?

Ah shit! You looked,

And it sparkled. 

The rays of the past shooting right out of your head 

Right before your eyes. 

As if crossing dimensions

To lure you into the memory,

But it’s not real they say,

See how you can only see it in a rear view mirror?

No sun sets in the future,

You can only see them shine behind you. 

Then again,

What’s the harm in repainting yesterday 

Into a thing of warm bright yellow orange lights that melts right over your tongue and forces a little smile,

Because you keep missing the marvelous sunsets 

And only manage to catch the rays through your rear view mirror. 

Why must we always be present

When enlightenment is not my fancy,

And I want to live a life filled occasionally with errors, pain, hurt, loss, tears and heartache,

So that I don’t have to pick scabs to feel alive and I can occasionally look back and let my phantoms be fantastic like the suns sinking adieu at its brightest when I look through the looking glass. 

The Cheese Stands Alone

  

Everyone’s asleep and I am sifting through today’s photos because I’m missing them all.

Then I come across this face and I think,

“Nom, nom, nom,”

I wanna eat those cheeks and drink his eyes squeeze his face because I die every time I look at him and come back to life every time he smiles back at me. 

But better make better 

Use of this time,

Either draw, write, read, come up with new dance move or succumb to sleep like the rest,

Is it true one day lasts forever if I keep my eyes open?

Or is that why i blaspheme 

And wonder if a Neanderthal is God, whom we have destroyed? 

And one day we will be God being destroyed by our creation. 

And then hover over the waters as in Genesis 1.2. 

I Am Poetry



I am poetry

I want poetry to exist like I want flowers to be. 

I love poetry,

I love when it’s in my head, on paper, in front of me, through me, with me. , in me. 

I don’t care if I don’t make a penny, or no one reads it, or even if the whole world reads it,

If it’s got, un-got, made sense of, interpreted, ignored, loved and cherished, or burnt to cinders. 

I love it when it’s recited, internalized, put to melody or some ill beat. 

I am poetry and just need to keep producing otherwise I will seize to be. 

So whether it’s genius, trite or crap, I will keep flowing until my thumbs go numb and my tongue goes dry and my wrist are arthritic and eyes go blind, 

Because it makes me vibrate

Like a song 

And I want to share and spread it so I can fly! 

Figs



When figs are in season,

It always remind me of time. 

“It’s already that time of year,

I get to indulge in such deliciousness”

Only sweet a few months a year and then I get a little sad for just a sliver of a moment before settling down to the normalcy of figless months.

It is only when figs come back do I remember that I must be older because I’ve already moved through a year and I recall so many moments munching on a bowl full of half cut figs,

Or snacking down a ziplock bag full of dehydrated figs that remind me of pockets of warm jam in my mouth, 

Or homemade jam that pops when I chew my sandwiches because of the seeds. 

How many seasons passed already, and why does the time between get shorter and shorter?

But today I scrolled across a picture of a beautiful pink centered  plate of figs that felt sinful at how sensual the nostalgia feels, 

And I wonder how many fig seasons have passed?

Because for the first time I’m yearning for them, 

Even though I feel that it means another season passing where my youth is just a little further from my grasp,

Though that will not keep me from smiling when I take my first bite into a ripe sweet fig. 

Musing nude #11 (The Dragonfly)

With the years coming and passing so quickly and my disposition so capricious, I don’t know how I will be able to keep up with time. Recently I’ve been feeling surges of intense mind blowing moments that I let pass unrecorded, followed by unusual calm and quiet. I can go days without the need to do much and it’s strange. But something’s brewing up there and I feel it. Sometimes I get a little breathless at just the thought that ‘I am alive!’ Which takes me to a ‘shit, before I know it, I’ll be 90 reflecting back and thinking, ‘that was so quick’ and like that…. But then it puts me in my place and I know how small I am in the great scheme of this ‘living’ thing we do, yet how infinite I am in this ‘living’ thing I do.
I drew a card today. I am a dragonfly ready for my emergence. Apparently dragonflies go straight from egg to nymph and wait up to 4 years before they emerge as the splendor of the colorful winged thing flirting over the waters with allure and beauty. So it’s only been four years? That I’ve been staggering around a nymph and coincidentally I have been feeling a little ready for something. Maybe thats why it’s a little quiet in my head space sometimes and almost violent at others.
The iridescence in my reflection is undeniable though.
Anyway, I just wanted to record that I am making my very first New Years resolution to post some kind of writing in a timely once a week manner, otherwise I might lose track of time altogether and stare at the mirror tomorrow and I’ll actually be a 90 year old dragonfly, just like that.

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At Midnight

Shhhhhhhhhwishhhhhhhh
Ssssshhhhhhhhh
BuZz
Clink, clank,
Yawn…
Bzzzzzz
Womp, womp, womp
“Ummmmm” he groans next to me.
And I stare and I wonder
Will I sleep next?
Or will I just lie here a little tired,
Complacent,
But with nothing to do but listen to the beat of the night.

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