Category: Poetry

Playful Writing

I can’t remember the exact date I joined the writer’s group I belong to, but I am very grateful to belong to this collective. For those of you readers serious about writing, it is infinitely more fun to find support among like minded people who encourage, lovingly critique, and celebrate each others’ writing efforts. Because we meet weekly, I had binders full of not only ideas, some of which have bloomed into full stories, and even novels which I have published, but there were many that seemed complete just as they were. So many of my blog ideas come from these writings. I lost insight of that with the past crowding me. Now that it has been dealt with, I hope to share some of those overlooked pieces.

This bloomed a couple of years ago on 9/19/2022. For those of you who like numbers, 919 seen often can signify a change coming. Hopefully, the change for me is being able to write more often. 

Meditation Writing – Playful

What is it like to be in the center of a creative moment? Is it a swirling tornado careening across a plain, or a capricious dust dervish hopping over the sands of a desert?

Is it a roller coaster with screaming kids or a quiet walk in the forest? Did it toss you off a cliff, pound you under the surf, or did you float in a deep lake, sparkling with pricks of sunlight?

What is it like, the center of a creative moment?

Does time stop?

Does the world…disappear?

Does darkness creep around the perimeter of your head wondering,”What’s going on in there?”

Do you connect with More Than Self, or do you find connection with Self? Does it fill you with bubbling laughter, or crushing pathos? What is it? What is that center, the very center of a creative moment?

Does self bow to not-self as some mysterious impulse takes over to write itself?

What is it like…what IS it like…to be…in the center…of a creative…moment?

The second prompt of that night was “Lost in Passing Seasons.” Sometimes, the first few minutes are spent uselessly, as in this first attempt:

“Pass the seasons, please.”

“What? You don’t like the weather?”

“Huh? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You just said, ‘Pass the seasons.’”

“Yes. Please.”

The best course of action is to scratch it out, or if you are typing into a computerized program, hit delete. Fortunately for us today, I always write by hand at these meetings, even when they are online. It gave me a chance to reject what I consider…c^@p! 

In and out of the garbage pail worked better that night:

Passing seasons.

Pass the seasoning.

Did you season the sauce?

She’s a seasoned warrior.

‘Tis the season to be jolly,

Have a holly, jolly Christmas

Pass the Christmas cheer

Pass on Christmas.

Happy New Year!

Finally:

A lion and a bear pass seasons differently.

It’s amazing what can be written in ten minutes, even if it never sees any life beyond the notebook you put it into. If you want to be a writer, just write. The more the merrier. Mary had a little lamb. Lamb chops, chopsticks, stick in the mud, or in your eye, or better yet: Stick to it. Just write.

Tick-tick-tick

Tick, tick, tick.

The clock ticks with relentless accuracy while I wait for a shiver of connection. In the trunk of this tree of self, I realize it’s on me now. I am my own advisor. If I were to actually act in that capacity, what would I tell myself? “RIght now there is nothing.

“Nothing about which to worry, nothing about which to rejoice, no aches, nor pains, no elation, nor disheartening ennui.”

There is only a moment of quiet – the tick, tick, tick of a clock, counting the seconds of this empty moment of peace.

I wonder if this is the normal truth of most lives, or am I alone here? Is this why we are driven toward busy-ness? Would life seem to last forever if this moment lasted the length of it? 

Tick, tick, tick.

This was the kind of thing running through my mind while waiting for the voice of inspiration during the ten minutes of writing time on August 8, 2022 after the opening meditation. For that ten minutes, the voice of inspiration never came. I had no words to address the meditative prompt, no words to tell a story. Just emptiness…so, that’s what I wrote about. I kept this, because even when the muse is absent, one can still write something. For me, these moments occur. 

All. 

The. 

Time.

Later that night, for our last prompt, the muse brought me an acrostic. The prompt was Beyond the Beyond: 

Beautiful dreamers create
Everything they see.
Your life is
One like this
Never empty, always budding
Day after Day.

This is
How we
Endure.

Beginning with one thought
Each trmbling into the next
Yearning for substance
Otherworld to ours.
Now is the time.
Dream.

Hold On Tight

And the storm continues
    As, one by one
        Despots dictate
            Anger, greed, and fear.

And the storm continues
    As, one by one
        Lights turn on
            Worldwide knowledge awakens.

And the storm continues
    As, one by one
        People choose Love
            In all its glorious forms.

And the storm continues
    But the sun rises
        The moon wanes and waxes
            As, one by one

We hold on tight
    Hand in hand
        Circling the Earth
            As the storm continues.

Thoughts About Spring

Four writers from the collective, Wise Women Write share thoughts about Spring and creating space for light. 

Beauty of Spring

Amel Tafsout

After so many weeks of rain, I feel revived by these first spring days. The sky is wearing its azureus color, and the trees are waking up from their sleep. In one day, they transformed themselves, dressed in their most magnificent shimmering leaves and letting their blossoms burst to celebrate the awakening. The lawns covered with fresh grass look like a velvet jade carpet of bright green with tiny wildflowers. People are coming out of their homes starting to work on their garden making sure to decorate them with the gorgeous colorful flowers. Singing Birds are flying, interacting with each other, and announcing that the spring is back. I love seeing the tree blossoms in white and pink; the tulip tree rising, opening its gorgeous pink blossoms looking like bells of silk petals.

The weeping willows are wearing their lacy leaves, bending on a small lake giving shade to everyone. Why do they have such a sad name? I would call them the lacey whispering willow. Life is back, joy is here. My heart is open. Let’s breathe the spring breeze!

Anne B. Jeffries

The cherry Blossoms

Lilt white around their edges

Pink tunneling down

Silky plum petals

Spiral towards their soft centers

Brown stamens stand up

Lynnea Paxton-Honn

New blooms in this vintage yard – surprises. Tiny white blossoms climb the wire fabric draping the cement wall. Clusters light the drab gray. “Look,” I say, “Look, we have new blooms!” I am excited. Every Spring the yard presents us with something brilliant and new – a treasure missed by the weed whacker or mower. The soil is so moist, and nutrient filled, home to earthworms accidentally uncovered as weeds are pulled.

I am entranced, enchanted, bewitched, charmed, enamored.

AV Singer

Bumble bees

Connect dot to dot

Flower to flower

Not a care

About dallying visitors

They earn their name.

Honey bees

Make plans

Hovering

Deciding, diving

Or flying elsewhere

Unceasing, determined.

I pause  

Sit on my walnut stump

Mesmerized warm

By sunshine

Lulled by beesong

The exquisite dance

Brings peace.

Peace

Follows me indoors

Baby lemon trees

Stretch on a windowsill

Safely sprouted in 

An empty Toasted Nori container.

A young grapefruit tree

Reminds me with

A sweet scent of citrus

I am thirsty now.

Please water me.

I counsel

A tiny avocado

Growing next to an older

Brother

I am going to trim you

Right here 

Be prepared.

Nature

Inside and out

Becomes my family

My heart swells with love

Love for bees

Love for trees

Love for Spring.

Simplify to Amplify

Amel Tafsout

All my life I moved to various places, cities, and countries. I packed and unpacked, repacked then packed, repacked and unpacked again. I needed to get rid of so much, pieces of memories, giving books and clothes away, leaving furniture behind. What an amazing feeling to be able to do so. I remember my nomadic ancestors, who had nothing, they faced hardship and challenging weather and managed to live with less. The feeling of simplifying my life starts with having less.

I never heard the term “hoarding” until I came to the US. Why keep so much stuff when it would be great to let other people in need enjoy it, and feel the freedom to have less?

Having the flood in my storage unit enabled me to release more stuff.

The more I give things away, the more I amplify my life. I feel light, free, and at peace. My life is amplified with my memories and my life experience. That is what I will take with me. Loving people, beautiful moments, laughter, and kindness.

Anne B. Jeffries

A jutting cliff edge

My body the narrow ledge

Itself

Nothing beside

Or above

Or below 

Except

Everything 

The sea, a perpetual cycle of depth and layer

All metaphors exhausted

The sky

A wide, domed light show that shoots 

Gulls across its face

All the previous noise released as music

Lynnea Paxton-Honn

How could she get this across to her audience? Such a big concept – PEACE. Too many words just detract – words create unrest as brains worry to get understanding.

PEACE

Even one thought can distort the unity and cohesion of PEACE.

PEACE is unconditional Love. Is that too simple? PEACE is not the absence of antagonism but the fullness of Joy. It is our true HOME –  our infinite, eternal  dwelling space.

AV Singer

Pesky fleas jump. Their burning bites instigate a purge, an urge to rid this house, and consequently my mind, of all that no longer matters.

Demented flies swim upside down across the newly serene floors in a mad attempt to capture my attention. “Persist, adapt, transform.”

I text my children. “I feel a burning desire to simplify.” They’ve seen it before, this need to get rid of dusty, outgrown treasures to amplify Light.

If you are interested in reading more from the writers in Wise Women Write, here is the link: 

River of Words:Wise Women Write

Backed-up Stories

Thich Nhat Hanh wrote in his book, Interbeing: Fourteen Guidelines for Engaged Buddhism, “in this piece of paper is a cloud.” Inspired by his words, Anne B. Jeffries gave the women in my writing group this prompt on August 28th: In this tear is everything.

Lynnea Honn wrote:

Foretelling

Foreshadowing of

winter shadow stretches out

and yawns Preparing

Shari Anderson wrote:

Cascading 

         Sounds, tones,   

Ideas, words

                           Water-falling

          Pummeling

                     Cleansing

                            Rubbing

      Wearing away

                                            His-story

                 Revealing Myself

     Wholly New

I wrote:

In this tear is everything – every story ever told, from the inception of our Earth until this very moment, and this one, and this one, and this one…and…this…one.

Writer’s block is not a myth. It exists. Most writers experience it. What is it? In my opinion, writer’s block is a symptom of all our tears – the backed up stories carried inside – stories one does not want to face.

You know what I mean. We all tell ourselves stories to get through life. When we tell them long enough, they seemingly become truth. I bet writers have more than their share because they tend to narrate moment by moment.

As a writer, I dumped bits and pieces of my story onto my characters and into their plots. I’m beginning to wonder, can I continue to pass off my life to imaginary others or should I own up to my stories and claim them? By claiming them, might they become part of your story as well, just as yours would become part of mine?

Fig Leaf

My neighbor worried that my fig tree was giving up. There were several reasons: I cut her back so she doesn’t have to work so hard while Californians ration water.  She lost the shade to which she was accustomed when the large companion tree that sheltered her was trimmed. As a reluctant gardener, my plants fend for themselves. I am not heartless, instead I am desperate to help conserve our water supply, so I wait and watch wondering what grows here naturally, and hoping some of it will be good to eat.  

Who will survive the new, harsher conditions? 

My Black Mission fig leafed earliest. The first inflorescences began to bud late this Spring. 

What makes her so successful? 

Figs have fed hominids and others throughout history. Uniquely adapted for harsh conditions, it grows where other plants fail. Technically, that which we call a fruit is actually an enclosed collection of flowers. Stem growth forms a bulb within which this cluster of flowers develops. Each blossom is destined to become a single, tiny drupelet. Encased within a protective womb, they do not need to fight heat or dry conditions. Some species, forming both male and female flowers, do not need assisted pollination. Others invite a miniscule female wasp into their chambers to spread pollen while she lays her eggs. These flowers then grow into a cluster of drupes, all encased within their pristine environment. (No worries, the babies escape before we eat the figs.)    

This year, a few flowers ripened early, oh so sweet. I await the others. My fig  thrives in this hot, dry climate and can live a century. Planted during my lifetime, she will be my companion as long as I am here. 

On Monday July 17th, Shari, one of the members of the writing group to which I belong, threw us this prompt: fig leaf.  A short ten minutes later, we had the following offerings. I am thrilled to present my writing sisters and their responses to her prompt.

Fig Leaf – Shari Anderson 

When I was a young child, my father planted a grapevine and a fig tree in our backyard. It was

biblical 

“Every man under his vine and his fig tree” 

inspired. 

I don’t remember the grapes –

maybe they never fruited, but the figs were juicy and delicious. The leaves of that tree were 

wonderful, 

unusually shaped with lots of rounded edges, sensual, with female curves.

Why a man, under his fig tree? Why not a woman? Why not just the fig tree itself, shapely,

verdant, simply divine?!

But, my favorite backyard plant was a wild cherry bush, which we used as a hideout, gorging ourselves with fruit while fighting off attacking pirates.

Fig Leaf – Dianne McCleery 

The other day, I had to duck under fig leaves to reach Valarie’s front door. And I loved it. I love the hugeness of fig leaves. I love their shape. And, of course, I love to eat figs, especially since they are really flowers, not fruit. I’ve always appreciated adding pansies or nasturtiums to salads, but their tastes are “eh,” not like the deep deliciousness of figs. Yes, I am a fan.

Fig Leaf – Joyce Campbell 

The fig leaf reminds me of an outstretched hand

Welcoming and offering a space to land.

Winged beings pause there, some large and some small,

And those with vibrations I can’t see at all.

Hidden below in the cool of the shade

Sprout tiny green nuggets, a prize for their fame.

Soon to be wrinkled and golden with age,

Dried to perfection a treat with no shame.

Fig Leaf – Anne Jeffries

As far as I’m concerned,

Eve’s “transgression” freed humanity 

From an unconscious tunnel of an existence.

Imagine Utopia:

Yours different than mine, I suppose

But however that flowered garden is laid out before you

Without the snake

Slithering it’s SINewy offerings

There is no Will

No humanness at all:

Our choices and failings, our triumphs and joys, our sufferings and lessons.

Eve took us, perhaps out of our pure animal nature.

She gave way for the fig leaf of shame

To eventually free us from innocence

Fig Leaf – Amel Tafsout

Covered with a gentle morning frost.

Stretching your fingers to many directions

The lines of your open palm

Go back to the beginning of creation.

Your soft green color soothes the sight

Attached to the blessed tree.

You share shade generously.

You hold your sweet biblical fruit with care.

Then leave with the wind.

Blowing to a new world

Moving with lightness

Dancing your way freely

Ending on Adam’s private part

Covering up Humankind

Living in the complexity of reality.

Afternoon Delight – Barbara S Thompson

Do you remember the scene from

A Woman In Love

When the meal slowly unfolds 

at the garden table

like luscious lovemaking?

As guests

caress and stroke

kiss and swallow plump red grapes,

black olives and

cheeses, soft and hard.

In slow, sultry nibbles.  

Alan Bates leans back in his chair

with heavy lidded eyes

 preparing to explain 

the proper way to eat a fig,

It is an English garden after all.

When Eleanor Bron selects a smallish fig

piercing it’s base with one long, elegant finger

splitting it open to reveal the pale purple fruit within

Heavy with seed and fragrance

Slowly she opens her mouth 

biting into the flesh 

her soft moan echoing around the table.

Fig Tales – Betsy Rich Gilon

Ancient one, your leaves flutter,

The desert wind  murmurs,

Camels leave footprints.

Would I have felt

The stories you tell,

Had I bitten into your flesh

Fig Leaf – Symbol of Shame? – AV Singer

Protection from sun

Invitation to hunt

hidden treasures,

Oh, fig leaf,

Why you?

           ∞

Fingers of mercy

on palm so large, 

how long

must you

hide me?

           ∞

Figs ripen

hidden behind

green curtain.

Why is this 

forbidden?

Please connect in the comments, or by clicking on the Like button. For more information about figs, follow these sources:

Sources:

https://journals.ashs.org/hortsci/view/journals/hortsci/42/5/article-p1083.xml

https://www.thespruceeats.com/history-of-figs-1807598

Magic of Connection

I am very grateful for my sisters of Women Writers of the Well. If you are an aspiring writer reading this, I recommend the idea of joining or creating a group of like-minded people who meet with the intent to support each other’s writing efforts. The magic of connection is everything. It’s a miracle. Without the support of these women, it would have taken much longer to find my way out of the dark, uninspired hole into which my creativity fell. They shone a light into that darkness and helped me crawl out step by step. I am still climbing, but I can see the way ahead. 

In an effort to get me working on this blog again, I asked my writing sisters to share work with me any time they wanted it published. Anne B. Jeffries shared my last blog. This blog I share with Shari Anderson. She sees the Light everywhere and shines it brightly for her students, her musical sisters and brothers, her family, and her friends of which I am so blessed to be considered. Shari combines musicality within her prose and poetry. She isn’t afraid of experimentation. She publishes songs and chants, and is a beloved performer in this lovely area of California. She is one of those people that prefers to see the positive even when others can’t see it. Here is the sample of her writing she has sent to share with you: 

Meditation Writing  

Her voice – 

warm and compassionate

Magically weaving wisdom and breath

Loving head to knowing heart

In, through and around

A creative dance from impulse Divine

traveling as words into our minds

                                                      Shari Anderson  

                                                      2/6/23 

Family Dynamics 

Why does the word, dynamics, when paired with family, feel so very different than the same word applied to music? 

“Family Dynamics” feels complicated, determined by emotional responses and past triggers, but talked about with rational, linear vocabulary completely insufficient to the task.

Dynamics in music evokes: expressiveness, freedom, flow, creativity, give and take, communication.

Maybe the key to better family dynamics is a musical approach, an excitement, a curiosity, an impulse to dive in so we can soar.

Shari Anderson 

                                                                                                                       2/6/23   

“So, we can soar.” 

I agree with this wholeheartedly, having come up with a different viewpoint from the prompt “Family Dynamics” using words such as:  responsibility, expectations of generations, fear tactics, grief dynamics, frustration with education, anger and growth – family – it is what it is: life shared.

The fact is, we all come out of families with a better understanding of who we are, and how to love. 

That is cause for celebration. That’s enough to make us all take flight. 

Shari is the one that pointed out that my attempts at creating acrostics with the word ‘practice,’ amounted to a journey through a lifetime study of music. My words take flight here because she found the value in them. I didn’t read these in this order because I didn’t write them in this order, but she saw it this way and now I do too:

Thank you Shari. 

Thank you Readers. May you take flight until next time you land on my blog space.

AnaValarie

                                                                                                                                  

Big Heart

In June of 2020 I ‘graduated’ from teaching. Teaching requires mindfulness and extreme focus, a one-hundred percent investment of love during time spent one-on-one with a child or with a group in the classroom. It requires setting aside self to see and hear others instead.

One of my sister writers, author of “Cross Roads,” Anne B. Jeffries, agreed to post on my blog this week. She had just finished a full day of commitment at school but she came to write with us.  She is adept at pouring Heart. When she attends our Wise Women Writing group, she feeds our souls. In a mere ten minutes, she addresses each prompt with profound honesty. Her act is an inspiration for the rest of us. She demands authenticity for herself, while maintaining curiosity, joy, love, and compassion for the rest of us.

Dear Readers, I don’t know what some of you do, but I do know that if you are reading my blog you have a sincere desire to connect with heart. Anne’s heart makes a big connection.

Anne, thank you. I feel honored that you have  given me your words to give to my readers. Fellow teacher, fighter for children, fighter for people, Anne, I love your heart. You pour out all it carries every day and I know your students feel your intent. Your writing takes away my breath and reminds me that teaching is something I still love to do. 

Memories Sleeping

It’s not just my memories sleeping,

It’s all of it.

A honey drip slowness.

I can catch up tomorrow.

Just want to sink down in sleep.

Rest.

Like a frenetic fall.

What is the charge?

Is it my nervous system that signals the experience to fizzle,

Lose its edges?

Then, sink away in categories and compartments,

With no present security access?

Where is my agency?

Who is filing these memories and who granted permission for this protocol?

Or, maybe, it’s all chaos and no “thing” has access.

My consciousness just sifts above it all like a metal detector pulling up old coins.

What about the pieces made of wood and plastic?

What loosens those?

Eternal Minutes

He said it’s like wearing a lie on his face.

I feel that way all the time.

In class- with him- with them.

Like I’m a puppet driven by a motor I did not program, or know how to run.

Today, 

For hours,

I peered out from below the lip where I stuffed myself down into a pouring cup,

Until all the drops of the eternal minutes,

Ran out against the automaticity

Of that forced time.

Family Dynamics

There is something about the inability to walk away.

A fabric woven together?

Fabric doesn’t work

because it’s made of thread that can be woven into something else.

My sentiment is too deep to separate out –

Like color in the sky?

Nope

Color is only light.

What holds us together?

Is it, in fact,

A choice?

Check it out

If you would like to read more of Anne’s work, check it out here:

Anne B. Jeffries, Author

Memories Sleeping

Author’s Notes: Writer’s block. Everyone has heard about it, jokes made, condolences offered. It’s a real thing, a time most Creatives face. The well of ideas runs dry, the lake of inspiration empties and a desert of despair stretches farther than one can see. I had it bad, wandering that desert for at least six months.

One of my writing sisters sympathized, stating her creativity had recently become dormant. We discussed the idea. She was taking a course by David Whyte who offered a solution.  

She shared it with me. “Ask yourself,  what do you want to say that you are not saying?” 

It is a question any creative person can mold to unblock many avenues of stagnation. For an artist, “What do I need to see that I won’t look at?” For musicians, dancers, actors, “What do I need to feel that I haven’t allowed?”  

When Lynnea Paxton-Honn shared this with me, my re-awakening began. “What do I want to say that I am not saying?” 

In California, where we live, January roared into our state with a deluge capable of filling dry lakes and ponds, and creating new ones, seemingly overnight. It ferociously filled rivers, washing away many things. Tides surged, waves plundered. From Earth’s perspective the rain was needed even though it was so destructive. From a spiritual viewpoint, it was a physical expression of the need to wash away all that no longer serves, a process that caused great grief, but also opened new solutions and opened hearts. It awakened memories, and filled our creative lakes and wells with words for both of us…I am thrilled to present Lynnea’s poem Memories Sleeping. 

Water–Life Giving

drips, drips, drips

through layers of rock

and sediment,

leaks out through fissures

into the outer air,

trickling from mountain aquifers,

runoff gullies down

spilling over rocks,

around root tangles,

debris caught and bundled

catching all the matter

torn from banks

barricading the streaming water,

damming the flow,

holding the power

of the stream no longer streaming,

but pooling, pooling as it pushes

against the barricade, blocked

until it’s not

and tiny tear trickles

begin to slide through the micro

cracks in the barricade.

The things I do not want to say come forth.

❤

Lynnea Paxton-Honn  January 2023

❤

To read more from Lynnea, you can visit her blog site: heartofahorsewoman.blog

Or her author page at: Author Central – Amazon

Because You Asked….

You asked me what it feels like to connect with the imaginal realm, a place where trees and plants speak with scent and with flavor, animals speak with images, angels with colors and ideas, and where humans speak with emotion rather than voice. In this liminal place, the geometry of serenity is a rosy quartz-colored sphere, joy is a sturdy rectangular plane upon which to stand, knowledge is fleeting ether that passes by unless witnessed. The imaginal realm seems utterly empty, profoundly silent until observed; then, it springs to life with all there is.

Those that honor it feel completely bonkers, but only because those cemented in matter cannot smell what they smell, taste what they taste, see what they see, hear what they hear, or feel what they feel, though it is possible for them. It isn’t a matter of a sixth sense. It does not take anything extra. It is a matter of heightened senses, using what is human and extending it to include other dimensions.

Connected as you are, what you really ask is, how does one observe this imaginal space?

Considering you are standing in the middle of it, all it takes is a willingness to believe that what you sense is actually happening. The energy of potential can seem like a mere wish, a daydream or a passing thought. Dismissed as such, it is fleeting and not noticeable…until it is too loud to ignore.

Humans speak in emotion. They can say whatever they want to, but their real language is emotion. Humans are shouting right now. Floods, fires, global warming, pestilence, earthquakes, volcanoes, unrest within and between countries…it’s nuts. Emotions are running at an all-time high.

 I find myself cautioning those around me lately, “Slow down, examine what you feel. Is what you are feeling right now your own emotion? There is a possibility that you are picking up on the emotions swirling around us.” The liminal world is knocking at the door.

What is happening in your life? Where are you this very second? Stop right now, and assess.

Assessing…assessing…assessing.

Is something happening that is truly yours to be sad, angry, or frightened about? Then, by all means, you should be sad, angry, or frightened. Those emotions will help you discern what to do next, but for the rest of us, we need to get out of your way to send you support and strength. The only way to do that is to be in our own space, claim our own emotion, and not add to the fervor of whatever emotion is swirling about.

Stop.

Ask.

Is this my emotion?

If not, instead, breathe. Take into account what is really happening around you. What is the appropriate emotion for that?

Emotional ownership is a thing.

It’s important to know if you want to extend your senses into the imaginal world, because that world is EVERYTHING, with no judgment of right, wrong – good, bad – happy, sad. It is there waiting to be witnessed by YOU. You will witness that which you look for.

This is the first step to observing the imaginal realm. Own your emotions. You are an emotional being. You speak with emotions. Trust me on this. Words have secondary, and sometimes false, meaning. Emotions tell truth. It is hard to believe I am saying this as a writer, but I am and I don’t think I can say this or write it often enough. Emotions are a human’s primary language. Use them appropriately.

Think of it as a mindfulness practice. Pay attention to your first emotion of the morning. Observe emotions that follow. Do you see a pattern? Stop and ask, “Is this really me? Do I really have reason to feel this way?” Watch for stray emotions that don’t match your life, especially loud ones.

There are moments when I burst into tears, or laughter, or quake in sudden fear…for no apparent reason. Extreme emotion is easy to observe. It’s a perfect time to practice. I always ask, “Is this mine?”

For instance, yesterday I was singing Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell, recorded by Josh Groban and Sara Bareilles. I had already listened to the song once and thought, “Gee. I can’t remember these lyrics.” So, I looked them up to sing harmony with Josh and Sara. Totally engulfed within the music, I suddenly choked on tears at the line, “I’ve looked at life from both sides now.” Ugh. Tears streamed down my face. Just like a wave, despair washed over me.

Since I have been doing a lot of negative pattern clearing, I first looked at that. I didn’t have any emotions swirling around me from those experiences. I don’t watch the news, I feel safe and happy in a quarantine situation, my friends and family are all well.

Living in California, it’s probable that it came from outside me. I was singing, which is my primary go-to for connecting to liminal space. I live in a fire zone. People have lost everything they have. I live in a high Covid-19 zone. There are people dying from this dreadfulness.

This wasn’t my emotion to own.

I stood tall, and strong. I took a deep breath. The waved washed back over me and disappeared into source. I finished the song. It was, literally, that fast. There was no need to hang onto it.

I have been practicing letting go of that which isn’t mine. You can too. The first step is asking, “Is this my emotion?” Be aware of that which is and that which isn’t. The emotional response won’t stop, but if it isn’t yours, it will pass within 90 seconds for most of us. All you have to do is acknowledge it, and let it move on through you. Simple, huh?

Good luck this week. May Peace find you wherever you are.

AV

P.S. Here is a poem for those on or curious about the Twin Flame path, and a tiny glimpse into my life and the imaginal realm.

You asked me what it feels like to connect.

Your first touch

awakens my body

with a lover’s song.

I gasp and whisper,

I feel you.

I seek liminal space:

silent, luminous, black velvet.

There is only

one question in my heart.

Will you stay?

Between breaths I hover still as stone,

Listening, waiting…waiting.

Eyes closed, I see nothing, but I hear

the world around me.

For each tick, whoosh, and shudder,

I linger breathless,

poised to find quiet that matches the emptiness

in which I sit.

Indigo flashes interrupt

the blackness of inner vision.

A small flare to the right, a color we share,

grows bolder.

I trust you are here.

In my mind,

Your gentle fingers find their way.

Your palm, light and warm,

settles over my heart.

As you move close

you tug the chord between us.

My heartbeat jumps once, twice –

as if to free itself from  

the constraint of flesh and bone.

I gasp again.

Soft twin pulses drum deep within me;

Our hearts, beating side by side.

How did I live without this?

How can I

ever again live

without this?