Pull up a Chair

    Pull up a chair
    and tell me your story,
    a friendship we will christen.

    For your tale and mine
    are intertwined
    if we take the time to listen.


    The Space Between

    In the space between
    you & me
    two circles intersect,
    and what meets in the middle
    is the essence
    of our connection.

    The space between
    you & me
    is a playground for our souls,
    filled with words
    wanting to express
    what doesn't need to be said.

    In the space between,
    we dance together
    to an unheard melody
    and sing in harmonies
    which can be felt
    in our hearts.

    The space between
    you & me
    is energy revealing itself,
    where my truth
    and yours are one
    if only for this moment.


    A Smile and a Wink

    With a smile and a wink you touched my heart.
    And though our tales seem worlds apart,
    When we let our guards down,
    We find common ground.
    For beyond the outer frame
    What makes us human is the same:
      Our heart,
      Our divine spark,
      The still part that knows
    What we all really want.


    Trespassing

    I don't belong here.
    I'm trespassing in someone else's neighborhood
    as I turn off the main road
    and onto the quiet, tree-lined streets where people live.

    This is where I'll take my walk today
    and no one will know the difference.

    The woman working in her garden,
    the man with the four dogs (two large and two small),
    the couple on their power walk,
    all smile and wave
    a friendly good morning
    as though I am a part of the fabric of their world,
    as though it would be perfectly natural
    if I turned up the next driveway,
    walked up to the pale blue house with the red door,
    put my key in the lock and stepped inside.

    But this is not my home.
    I've never walked this path before.


    Don't Mistake My Silence
    for Indifference

    Don't mistake my silence for indifference.
    I need time to soak things in.
    Did you notice the way
    The gilded frame around the frosted mirror
    Behind the bar reflects more light than the mirror itself?
    The way the bartender shakes the drinks
    In time to the bluegrass playing on the old record player?
    The way the waitress in the long, patterned dress
    Disappears and reemerges
    Through the half-draped curtain
    That blocks the view of a hallway?
    I wonder what else is down that hallway.

    Don't mistake my silence for indifference.
    I'm not the type to wear my heart upon my sleeve.
    Have you ever eaten an artichoke from the start?
    Taken the time to peel back the thick, outer layers
    One by one?
    Noticed how each layer is more tender,
    More yielding,
    More nourishing?
    The reward at the center ever more gratifying
    Because you took the time to savor the unfolding.


    Nordstrom

    I was waiting at the end of a long line
    to return something at Nordstrom
    when a young woman came up
    and said she could help me
    at another register.

    Relieved that my wait was shortened,
    I complimented her coral skirt,
    which was light and flirty and made me smile.
    It was chiffon with small pleats all around
    and short, shorter than what I would wear,
    but it suited her petite frame,
    bleached blonde bob,
    pale porcelain skin,
    and the gray t-shirt and black blazer she had paired with it.

    As she was processing my return,
    a man walked up, another associate.
    He had dark hair, almost black,
    and skin as pale and flawless as the woman's.
    Something struck me about the two of them
    as they stood side by side, talking and working.
    And then I saw it:
    his coral pants, gray shirt, and black blazer.

    "You match!" I exclaimed,
    "How cool is that!"

    They had been working together all day
    and hadn't even noticed.


    Filling in the Blanks

    Studies show that most people,
    when looking at a familiar word that is missing a letter,
    interpret that missing letter
    and don't notice that it's not there.

    Most of our universe is empty space
    and yet I see
    and perceive things to be.
      Solid.
      Liquid.
      Gas.
    My mind fills in the blanks.

    Is that how it is between you and me,
    that we can share an experience
    and then go on to tell such different stories about it?
    Are we filling in the blanks
    with our biases and expectations,
    letting our perceptions color our interpretations,
    without stepping back to recognize
    the lens through which we are judging?

    Why is it so hard to notice the missing letters?


    Heavy Metal

    There once was a man from Frankclay.
    In whose head several voices would play.
    He'd put up a fight,
    From morning 'til night,
    To try to tune out what they'd say.

    For thirty and seven full years,
    Through therapy, pills, shock, and tears.
    The voices grew loud,
    Had swelled to a crowd,
    Giving reason to all of his fears.

    Meditation should quiet the mind,
    But no moments of silence he'd find.
    The man with the voices,
    Had run out of choices.
    His dilemma was one of a kind.

    His doctor said, "I've got a cure!
    A remedy known, but obscure.
    Implant this device,
    With music so nice,
    To quell the thoughts you can't endure."

    The radio chip in his head,
    At first couldn't get him to bed.
    Though country sounds nice,
    It did not suffice.
    He'd try heavy metal instead.

    Iron Maiden came on with a roar.
    Metallica settled the score.
    With Kiss and Black Sabbath,
    Judas Priest, Megadeth,
    The man heard the voices no more.


    Same Heart

    I've heard that cells from the same heart
    Beat in time, even when separated
    By a hundred miles.

    I picture you,
    Squinting barefoot at the sea,
    Blues and greens reflected in your hopeful eyes.
    Your crooked smile almost lost
    In a parenthetical embrace
    As your bare arms stretch upward
    To greet the morning sun.

    Do I read your mind
    As I lift my morning cup to meet my lips
    And remember the time
    You told me your truth?
    Is it the flutter in your stomach I feel when I wake
    From a deep and dreamless sleep,
    Unsure of where to begin?

    What thread is there that connects your heart to mine?
    Wispy strands beyond visible, yet
    Bearing some thing
    That no earthly fiber could hold.
    Because though your heart beats a thousand miles away from mine,
    Our feet fall in step as we walk along distant shores.


    Prism

    The facet of you that I see
    is the person I know you to be.
    You seemed clear on the surface,
    until sunlight cut through your angles,
    distinguishing tones
    I hadn't noticed before.

    Something within
    bends the light,
    allowing me to see myself
    differently through you.

    And I wonder:
    When you look at me,
    do you see the self that I was
    or the person I am becoming?


    A Different Version of Me

    Perhaps you'd like to see
    a different version of me?

    Maybe sweet and silly,
    flirty and frilly,
    strong and stable,
    or adept and able?

    Could I be fiercely faithful,
    totally tasteful,
    shockingly shrewd,
    or lasciviously lewd?

    Am I light as a butterfly
    sarcastic and wry,
    boisterous and bold,
    or quiet and cold?

    Which of these might serve me best
    if I had to put them to the test?
    But then again, who's to say
    that I can't be all these things today?


    Tequila Makes Me Frisky, Part 1

    It starts with a touch
    of the fingertips,
    highly charged,
    gently stirring,
    firing signals of anticipation.

    After a moment,
    fingers interlace
    and fold over one another,
    then pull away,
    until they are barely touching.

    Hands hover,
    suspended momentarily by the energy between them,
    until they merge once more,
    holding tight until one breaks free
    and wanders slowly
    to wrist, to arm, to elbow
    lingering for a moment in the fold,
    sending a chill down her side,
    before continuing the journey upward
    and landing
    on shoulder, on collarbone, on neck.

    She turns her head to let hand reach jaw,
    pulls the thumb into her mouth
    then quickly releases it to trace a moist line
    from chin to throat to sternum,
    through the valley created by her breasts,
    finally settling on the soft curve where waist meets hip.


    Unconditional Love

    What would it take
      to give myself a break
      from the not good-enoughs,
      the voice inside that scoffs?

    What would you need
      to feel fully freed
      from the judgments you make
      on the actions you take?

    What would it feel like
      to love our Selves
      unconditionally?


    Morning Cup

    Do you fill your cup with coffee?
    Or fill it up with tea?
    With all your mental anguish,
    Or possibility?

    Do you pour it out for others
    Leaving nothing left for you?
    Steeped in good intentions,
    The result a bitter brew.

    Me, I fill my cup in nature,
    With laughter and good friends.
    By making time for myself
    And a present, mindful lens.

    If my cup is filled to brimming,
    And teeters on the brink,
    There's so much more I have to share
    As I offer you a drink.


    The Space of an Easy Mind

    I sit down on the green metal bench.
    There must be someplace else I need to be right now,
    but I feel like a pause.
    And I know I will catch up with the day eventually.

    It's quiet,
    except for the hum of energy
    from the buildings that surround the courtyard,
    the crescendo of cars driving by on the road
    like swells of ocean waves.
    There are birds somewhere.
    I can't see them,
    but every so often one calls out to its friend
    and a conversation is started.
    Then silence again.

    I'm glad I brought my lunch with me.
    Somehow the food tastes better,
      the lettuce more crisp,
      the blueberries more luscious,
      the avocado more sultry,
    in this space of an easy mind.


    Life in Full Bloom

    I built a fortress around my heart,
    day by day,
    year by year,
    brick by brick,
    until I couldn't feel
    what it was like to be me anymore.

    Moving through the rhythm of my days,
    blocking out the things I thought might wound me,
    but also holding in
    the fullest expression of myself
    for fear of failure,
    of rejection.

    I am trying to let down my armor,
    to let those guards who have been faithfully protecting
    the softest, most fragile part of me
    take a well-earned break from their duties.

    As cracks begin to form
    and rays of light penetrate to my core,
    I begin to feel more intensely:
    the joy of a connection with an unexpected friend,
      and the profound pain when that friend is in
      distress and reaches out for help.
    the exquisite ecstasy of allowing myself to really feel love
      and the fear that if I dive too deep I might drown.
    the exhilaration of turning a corner
      at the moment the sun dips below the horizon
      and seeing the cloud-streaked sky ablaze with color
      and patterns more magnificent than fireworks,
    jolting me awake as I remember.

    There is so much more to this life experience
    when I allow the emotion to filter through.

    The feelings overwhelm me
    and I hurry back to the security of my barricade
    like a startled turtle hiding in its shell.
    But slowly, patiently,
    I am building the courage to keep sticking out my neck,
    Gentle with myself,
    Knowing that one day soon
    I will learn to live life in full bloom.


    The Empty Shelf

    I keep an empty shelf
    in the cupboard of my soul,
    inviting divine secrets,
    synchronistic moments,
    and serendipitous encounters.

    The empty shelf offers space
    for the dream I can't envision,
    sparks of inspiration,
    a gentle kind of wisdom.

    And when that space is filled
    I will clear another,
    trusting that if I let go,
    I will allow more treasures to flow
    into the new space that I hold.


    I've Come to the River to Sit

    I've come to the river to sit,
    for this is where my soul can breathe,
    amidst the grasses and the trees,
    watching the clouds above reflected in the water below,
    a mirror of myself as I take in this moment.

    I've come to the river to sit,
    to pause.
    And it feels right now
    like I am the only thing that is still
    in this wild world around me.

    I've come to the river to sit.
    This is where my soul can grieve.
    The movement of the water soothes me,
    reminds me that life keeps flowing,
    just as the current never changes
    its direction.


    Life Can Be Funny

    life can be funny this way:
    the way the best and the worst are synchronized
    so that the euphoric memory of new life
    can rouse a surge of tears
    as it is so intertwined with a moment
    when the rug was pulled out
    from underneath the façade.

    life can be funny this way:
    the way a person can arrive
    during a time of deep despair
    and bring in a joy so unexpected
    that the wound suddenly doesn't sting with such intensity
    and the unknown doesn't feel so frightening.

    life can be funny this way:
    the way love and rage and fear and gratitude
    can circulate through me
    as I laugh and cry at the same time.
    and the way that comfort comes
    not only in the warm embrace of an other
    but in the still, cold silence of my self.

    life can be funny.


    Do I Cry My Eyes to Sleep?

    "Do I cry my eyes to sleep?"
    asked the boy of himself.

    And something in the question
    pointed at the girl.
    But how can this boy know
    the chaos behind
    the silky locks
    and flirty frocks,
    the picture-perfect picket fences of her smile.

    "Do I cry my eyes to sleep?"
    he asked.
    From pain that feels
    undeserving
    when she compares it
    to what could be.

    "Do I cry my eyes to sleep?"
    he asked.
    Not from fright
    or to escape the light
    but wondering whether
    she is worthy or not,
    worthy of her lot,
    because it seems
    like someone forgot
    to share it.
    And she doesn't know how to care
    in a way that makes a real difference.
    In a way that will make the little boy turn back
    to hand her a tissue
    and tell her that it's okay to cry.


    Why Do I Feel So Small?

    Why do I feel so small
    when I hear your voice?
    With a word or a phrase
    I am sent spiraling back in time
    and I am a little girl,
    meek and timid,
    quiet and shy.

    No longer the well-spoken woman
    the world knows me to be,
    my mind is blank
    at your questions.
    What did you?
    Why did you?
    Explain to me.
    Tell me.

    And where once words
    may have flowed easily,
    and thoughts run free,
    the usual chatter inside my head
    is suddenly silent
    in your presence.

    There is nothing.
    No words.
    No thoughts.
    Just silence.
    And the feeling of
    wanting to curl up
    on the window seat
    of my childhood room,
    nestled against a pillow,
    my blanket pulled up to my face.

    Waiting for the silence that has filled my head
    to switch places with the noise outside
    so that I can once again
    hear my own voice
    instead of yours.


    Lost

    Clouds closed in.
    Fog so thick it seemed easier
    To let myself become engulfed
    Rather than try to climb
    To higher ground.

    The peaks seemed farther away
      Each day
      I followed the path
      That led down instead of up.
      Did I have a choice?
      Lost.
      Lost myself.
      I lost myself.
      How does that even happen?
      To stand on my own two feet
      And
      Let
      Myself
      Slip
      Away.


    What She Wanted

    "This is what you wanted!"
    screamed letters on a tiny screen.

    As if she had a choice.
    As if it were a matter
    of deciding what to wear
    or what flavor of ice cream she preferred.

    As if someone had told her when she was small,
    "You can choose to be anything you want
    When you grow up."

    You can be yourself,
      or you can be loved.
    You can tell the truth,
      or you can be included.
    You can speak your mind,
      or you can be accepted.

    As if choice was a luxury,
    when all she ever wanted
    was not to have to choose.


    Heartbroken

    This is what a broken heart feels like:

    A pressure just behind my sternum
    and suddenly I can't breathe.

    An ache radiating in all directions
    slowly rendering me numb,
    as though a steady drip of Lidocaine
    was running through my veins.

    I want to move.
    I want to find something to hold on to,
    to pull me back into this moment.
    I want to shut down the feeling,
    to pretend that it doesn't exist.

    But pushing against it only causes it to grow.


    Spiraling

    I sit down and feel the energy,
    really feel it in my body.
    Thousands of spirals swirling
    just beneath the surface of my skin.

    It is intense.
    Not painful, but intense as hell and uncomfortable.
    I want to fold,
    to protect my heart and my core
    even though I know
    I am not in danger.

    The woman sitting across from me tells me to breathe.
    Breathe deeply.
    And imagine
    my body
    making space for the energy,
    making space for expansion,
    for the spirals to unwind a bit.
    "This is not a bad thing," she says.
    "You just need to allow it."

    That's when the tears start.


    Awakening

    I almost forgot that world was alive
    As I lay in bed and looked at the
    Quiet
    Still
    Life
    Outside my picture window.
    An old hackberry stands tall.
    I can barely see a flutter through its leaves
    from inside my sealed container.

    I almost forgot the morning music.
    Until I stepped outside
    to a symphony of sounds
    all at once familiar and hard for this city girl to identify.
    I recognize the cardinals' call to come for an early breakfast.
    Two hummingbirds flit from tree to tree,
    sipping water from their leaves, perhaps.
    Is that what hummingbirds do?
    A lizard scampers across the railing of my deck
    and I hear a voice calling from the oak.
    Is the squirrel trying to tell me something?
    I close my eyes and
    listen.
    The creek is full today.
    I can hear it from my perch
    high above the canyon floor.


    Rising

    We are all reaching toward higher space.
    Watch me as I rise in an ever-expanding spiral
    like the butterfly that crossed my path
    at the bottom of the hill.
    She emerged from the tall grass to my left.

    I stopped in my tracks and watched
    as she passed at the level of my gaze.
    She was as high as the treetops
    by the time she reached the other side of the street
    and continued her journey until
    I could see her only as a dark flutter
    against a bright blue sky.

    Have you ever seen a butterfly hesitate in its upward movement?

    Neither have I.


    If Her Heart Were a Flower

    If her heart were a flower,
    it would never cease to bloom.
    Nourished by love from an endless spring,
    lilac and rose and aquamarine buds
    would sprout each day
    on branches that reach
    ever skyward
    to dance with clouds and rainbows.

    "And I can't stop smiling,"
    she said, slightly under her breath,
    though a stranger walking by might have heard her.