Wednesday, December 24, 2008

What a Day...

This is a day of a phone call
fueling fresh hope
This is a day of remembrances stifled
to give chance a chance
This day there is a hint of forgiveness.

This is a day of dark eyebrows
laughter driving through the rain
This is a day of mist filling half the air around me
This is a day of good company.

Puppets are calling
Play is the rest of this day.

Thursday, October 9, 2008


You asked about the yellow room. Well, I've been back since then. Couldn't stay away. The air in there is an evolving mystery unfolding before.....not just my eyes, but my spirit. I MUST be there. I must BE there. So many questions I never dreamed of. But I'll tell you how this all began.

I was engaged in a guided imagery and dropped off in front of a long hallway with doors on either side. Well into my imagination and free from inner controls I walked up to a plain, off-white door. The paint color was flat and smoothe, not a nick. The door surface was plain with no embellishment, except for a multifaceted clear-glass door knob. I liked the simplicity of the whole door. It had a classy (glassy?) touch. The knob warmed as I turned it and gave a push.

A comfortable space, I guessed 20x20, with canary yellow walls and ceiling. The only objects in the room were four red Louis XIV chairs, wide and well-padded. They were, it appeared, carefully placed, one in each corner so that the back of the chairs formed the base of a triangle with the plane of the yellow walls. The chairs were all facing the same point in the room....the center. At a glance the room presented itself as ordered and serene, and yet I sensed a vibrant undercurrent. It felt pregnant with, with something......a label escaped me.

I walked to the chair in the NW corner and sat down. As I did this the chair turned yellow as the walls, and the scent of patcholi floated past my nose. Yummy. Love magic. Love patchouli. I sat all the way back in the seat and my arms rested naturally at my side. I felt supported and strangely 'pointed in the right direction'.

Looking straight ahead I noted the other chairs. The line of our gazes met in the center, like an important X. I focused on this spot and a shimmer began to reveal itself. It grew upward into a cylinder of light. I blinked. It disappeared. I focused intently and it grew once more, this time almost touching the ceiling. There seemed to be movement and colors within the cylinder. And then I saw planets, oceans, green farmlands, castles, cavemen, space stations,......Louis XIV !? I tighten my focus and scenes flitted by with great speed until I concentrated on a specific area....a tiny spot of happening. The action slowed and I found myself witness to scenes, interactions, snipits of human activity, some from my past (!), others unknown to me. With jaw dropped and careful not to drool on the fancy chair, I witnessed moments from my childhood: Mom peeling potatoes at the sink, Dad and I driving Aunt Tilly home from work and picking up freshly baked bagels along the way, little me riding my bike on the gravel driveway. I panicked and the activity sped up, becoming a blur. I relaxed and it slowed down.

So this is how this room works. I seem to be pointed in the direction of the past. What if I sat in the other chairs? If I want to intently observe, all is visible. With dramatic awakening, this room's treasure becomes crystal clear, as clear as it's door knob. It's a hologram of life!

I felt my body rest heavy into the chair. I was trying too hard to know more. "No need to try. Just be. Come back whenever," the pillar of light sang out in mutiple pitches. I left, perfectly content.

And that, my friend, was my first visit to the Yellow Room behind the off-white door. I returned earlier today, excited to turn that crystal door knob. I chose a different chair, wanting a fresh perspective on this room. Or is it on Life? In any event I went through the door and sat myself down in SW chair. I relaxed, thought of nothing and looked to the center of the room. There was a rush of air. The hologram was speedily forming. As it rose and filled out, new thoughts came out of my mind, effortlessly. They took the form of questions. "Ask away," sang Big H. I call it that because it was filling the room, it's circumferance almost touching my knees. I thought Big H looked pregnant with possibilities. "That's right". Oooooo. The wonder of the unknown.

I asked without regard to answers. What if I stood in the center of the room? Would I be engulfed by the hologram?! What would become of me? How would that feel? Would I survive? What if I did a headstand in the center of creation? Would I see things in a different way I never imagined before.


What if a friend joined me in this room and sat in another chair? Could we communicate? Could we co-create? What would happen to us? What if I twirled in the center of the hologram, in the center of creation? Would I survive? I want to know: Would I die?
"A part of you dies when a new part is born. It's the glory of Creation. It's a path of Evolution. It's the joy of Living. You are in the chair of dreams never dreamed....a perspective of possibility and grace."

This is one heavy room. My thoughts blanked out as I experienced a current enter my body and rest in my solar plexus. I savored the moment. I'll be back, I gurgled in my best Schwarzzenegger voice. Whirls of laughter filled the space called the yellow room.
Agelessness and Art Books

I love art know, those big picture books in art museum bookestores full of narratives, vignettes and philosophies of great artists with pictures of their thoughts realized as paintings, photographs, drawings. A favorite is Claude Bonnard for his in-depth look at color and his expertise at creating a vibrant wonder on canvas. I lingered at my personal bookshelf, tight with many favorites, and pulled out Bonnard at Le Cannet . I leafed through, reading and absorbing, when this quote repeated itself in my mind:
"His thirst for nature was insatiable, his work in capturing life tireless."

'Capturing life'. Hmmm. Another buzz-word to add to my growing understanding of agelessness. This great painter was empassioned with his way of living fully, and it involved giving color to life as he saw it. He loved this space called life and dared to reach for his potential in expressing himself, reaching it time and time again.

Now there's something scarey about potential realized. What comes next?? When that too-good-to-be-true dream is realized then what lays beyond? Is there a beyond? Is it time to then die?! At least that's what's gone through my mind. The fear of living a fully realized life can paralyze efforts in reaching it. So what's so frightening about reaching a dream, a potential?
I've begun considering that perhaps only levels of potential are reached. Perhaps there are many more levels of passion-expressed to grow with, to choose from.....only, that menu is not as yet available...I must first open the book to get to live the table of contents.

There. That makes me feel better. I won't perish if I reach what I think is my potential. How do I know what that is anyway? Just do my passion. Listen to what makes my heart flutter. Feel what makes my solar plexus ache with a sweet joy. Capture life in my way. I'll know I'm alive.

Ah, yes, this art book is the perfect gift for a budding artist on her 'sweet sixteen' birthday. I wrapped it in layered yellow and hot pink tissue paper and tied a large, flowing red and black bow in one corner. She'll love it.
And so she did.

(written 21December2006)

Tuesday, September 9, 2008


My mind was engulfed by the size of the bounty, the enormity of the situation.

At midnight I settled down to silently wait. The seven dwarfs tiptoed in, wearing dumpy dwarf hats, and each carrying a handful of smashed plastic bottles they had collected from the alley. They recycled. My sidekicks were gesturing wildly as I listened to their body language to surmise how ‘things’ had progressed. Grumpy actually had a relaxed look on his face, but complained in silent animation, nevertheless, to keep his name in good standing.

It was hard to keep still with their energy electrifying the small space of my home. Oh no friends, there was no arguing, just anxious anticipation of my fate.

By morning I had simmered seven pots of tea. We were on pot number eight when Detective Iknew I.Could tapped on the door and slid a note underneath on which he had scrawled: I found your Prince Charming. Eat the apple. All’s well.

Saturday, April 26, 2008


I always thought that if i reached my potential i would die. Enter self-sabotage.
Now i nudge myself to change my orientation in time and space to see that there is not one path, not one goal, not one potential.
There is one step, then another, another, a goal realized, then ooops.....that leads to another goal, another potential reached.
Levels of potential.
Potential of the day!
My highest step to take is to die happy, content, and satisfied with my time amongst the living.
It is not one huge 'got it!'
but one level of potential after another
to feel very good about experiencing
to feel encouraged to take the next step to unfolding
Conscious living is an unfolding of what can be offered to the world in the name of wisdom
bottom-line truths
Always and forever...everywhere.

So i tell self-sabotage to take a day off
Stay if you want but kindly get out of my way
for a day
then another
Move it busta'...i wanna live life.

I cannot know for certain all of my potentials
can't plan them
know all outcomes
But i can strive to grow
knowing that
The daily process of being aware is a potential reached in itself
with the almighty reward of change.

Sunday, April 6, 2008

Finding Timbuktoo - part one

Part one

I had been but a thread's width from death, and in healing had to remain steadfastly in the present. The ego took a back seat to Being. How do I know? Because my first rendezvous with the Pacific Ocean brought a moment of Grace.

As I stepped onto the sand my feet were bathed in warm submersion and gentle rubbing. It had been four months without breathing in the salt air and hearing the sound of continuous power.....the waves rolling in, the negative ions washing away emotion. My head lifted towards the west and my eyes more than saw. They experienced the timeless, true ocean. A turquoise so brilliant, I gasped. I could not move. I dared not move, because intuitively I knew that I was floating on a different energy than those around me. I stayed still in wonder, aware only of the intense blue. Forever blue. True blue. Deep, vibrant blue. My Being was physically binging.

Then someone asked me a question. I responded and thus shifted onto the common energy field. The turquoise faded to an ocean color I had seen many times before. The magic was done. The moment stored away into gratefulness.

How fragile is Grace.
How beautiful to be Alive.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Rosie's Kugel

Rosie's Kugel: a Soul-Tested Recipe

Generously butter a 9x13 pan...have it ready to receive
Empty your oven of all pans and large serving dishes (optional, but a definite in my kitchen)
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees, hot and ready
Boil wide egg noodles (12 or 16 ounces) in plenty of salted water until al dente
Drain the eggs noodles, cool a bit and slide back into the pot
Empty in a can of crushed pineapples, juice included
Scoop out & into a pint each of sour cream and cottage cheese,
Full fat, pa-leeeze
Measure in sugar to taste, usually less than 1/4 cup
Drop in 4 eggs, freshly cracked
Douse with cinnamon while singing an aria
Now, and this is the secret, gently combine all ingredients
while thinking of the loved ones who will be enjoying it

Pour into the ready-to-go buttered pan
Wiggle it a little to settle the mixture into place, filling all corners
Cha-cha to the oven and place it in the middle
For one hour.

This treat is best pipping hot, topped with a dollop of sour cream and those strawberries I forgot to tell you to thaw. Get the frozen ones for the juice.

Kugel was a breakfast treat in our home, but certainly works well as dessert.
Mom liked to start the day off sweetly.

Ranting Rights

Ranting Rights, written on a pink-violet lightbeam....

I don't trust you, she said
I don't trust you alone with my children
Hmmmm, that always worries me
when she says weird things like that
Naive me wonders 'What?! Why?!'
for a while
and then I'm reminded of the truth
A truth that apparently hasn't been adjusted
massaged toward a healthiness
gently dismantled.
She's already done what she fears
I might do.
But I wouldn't
And she would.
She did.
She passed a legacy of hurt onto her child
telling him ugly details
from her point of view
her side of the story
making me the bad guy
planting anger in him.

Earlier as we were yelling about the past
I asked
What do you tell him
when he asks why he doesn't see family anymore?
No response.
I asked again.
Nothing, she blankly (and guiltily) replied
Now if I were to call her a liar she would get all pissed off
but apparently she is
She passed her anger on.
Hell of a gift.
Is that your legacy?! screams my heart
Your heart of gold is poisoned by righteousness
You tyrant!
You martyr!
You're full of fear and you say that's the way you are
That's your excuse.

What a pitiful display
of desperate power
fueled by anger.
You're afraid of being hurt
so you hurt first.
You haven't a clue how to heal.

There's a space in your being
for courage to confront
that is empty
awaiting some speck of consciousness
some awareness
a self-honesty.
It's okay to learn.

Thank you for the multitude of opportunities you give me
to rise above
to expand my heart
to re-frame ugly feelings into healing messages, at least to me
to practice, practice, practice loving someone who doesn't self-examine
to detach so that I may have access to a child I that where your power lies?
Your lovable soul is buried under such excrement.
I'm here to practice in front of you
I pray you notice
a different way of being
with healing results.

If you weren't my sister
who I used to love
you'd be burnt toast.

There. That feels better.

Saturday, February 2, 2008

Leon Russell Review

FEBRUARY 2, 2008

I knew I would find the time to wear these funky, far-out Doc Matrens. Lacing up my zebra boots, donning patchouli in honor of hippier days, I beat it down the highway, trippin' on a local rock n' roll station warming up for Tightrope, A Song For You, Lady Blue, Delta Lady, This Masquerade and more.

Third row friend and I were poised to be entertained and to voyeur the mysterious flow of passion of a legendary, talented performer. Enter Leon, eye-catching and dapper as ever with cascading white hair and beard resting on a white suit. Hat in place, shades on, he was here. After the first song I determined that Leon might as well have been a cardboard cutout. Okay, he's aged. Haven't we all. A quick scope of the rows behind me proved that. Gray everywhere. I needed a little expression of passion, but maybe that wasn't Leon's style. Gratefully, the other musicians were animated.

The drummer, oldster that he was, was expertly flailing away, the fire of youth still flowing. He kept an ambitious beat.

Lead guitar guy's long and lean fingers deftly pinpointed quick melodies and expansions of musical thought. Dark, worn jeans stuck to his long skinny legs, almost revealing the music pumping through his veins.

The bass guitar, now he was fun to watch. Every part of his body writhed in beautiful visual concert when he laid his hands on his guitar. I fell hard for his passion.

The keyboard (besides Leon's) was adored by a justifiably self-appreciating, long-hair who, I think, was blind. He never looked at the keyboard....but he did look inward. His facial expressions told a story of pure pleasure at what he was able to do, and his closed-lip, broad smile seemed to revel in acknowledgment. His fingers moved freely like a bird flitting, lifting and landing easily, the mechanics well-ingrained. This guy knew his instrument. He felt it. And he let us know that.

Oh, haven't I mentioned the sound yet??

I was so engrossed in the visual performance because I was aurally overwhelmed. It was too loud to hear. My discrimination picked through the murky, messy collage to find Leon. I could only locate him with ears held tightly shut. And then I felt like Randy on American Idol: "Dude, you're really pitchy, man." Happily, there were sweet moments in his soulful ballads when my searching heart was thrown a life-raft and I connected with the sound I remembered.

Then something like a prayer was answered. Leon moved. He lifted his dark glasses and looked at us. Sensitive and bright, his eyes lit up a kind face.....and beat a path to my heart. I like seeing the man behind the music. I need the human connection for a little meaning.

With the connection to The Man made, I was as content as I could be considering I was having to survive the highest decibel level from each instrument on stage. Sound check anyone? Sooooooooound cheeeeeeeeck!!!! I took a quick glance at my friend to see how she was faring. Pre-concert, her smile filled her face, rosy with the expectancy of a musical treat. Now she looked bland with facial features being drawn, almost disappearing into a silent scream of "Get me outta here!" I turned to check out the rest of the audience behind us. Gray heads were numbly bobbing.

The noise friend was first up and first out while me and my zebra boots followed, albeit wobbly from the quiet after-shock. It was a night to remember.

Grateful acknowledgment to Jackie Wessel (bass guitar/vocals), Chris Simmons (guitarist/vocals), Brian Lee (keyboards/vocal), and Grant Whitman (drums) who, in a better-suited venue for a musical concert, would most assuredly have been the treat of a lifetime. Nothing takes away from the talent and heart of the creative genius of Leon Russell. Love your songs, Leon. You are a friend of mine.

Thursday, January 24, 2008


sometime in January, 2008...there was this ARGUMENT:

It's black.
It's gray.
It's white.
It's gray.
It's black 'n white!
It's a shade of gray!
Light gray!
White, I say!
Deep, dark gray, perhaps?
No, it's black!
How about bluish-gray with a hint of purple.
(now she's really getting pissed)...Muted, soft gray like Mom's fur coat.
Okay, almost black, a very dark gray like dense clouds in a Buffalo winter sky.
No! Black!
But there are so many shades of gray.
Oh silly me, I know...yes, white touched by copper, a yummy warm tone.
Just white!!
Don'tcha think goblin-gray has a ring to it?!
Great greasy gobs of goober gray.
White, white, white!
I wonder what medium gray smells like?
Oh shut up, it's black or white! (grumble...mumble, walking away)

Get the picture?
Impossible to work with or move towards.......
To move away from an unbending mind held firm by fear
is the only direction.
But wait...I'm the winner.
How revealing and fun that I got to be with colors
and reminisce, imagine, invent
gray hay way
It's gray or the highway, sista!
stay, hey, may, bay
May-bay bay-bay you'll see gray

Lessons from THE ARGUMENT:
* It's good to detach.
* Stay true to yourself.
* Release limits.
* Find the humor.
* Welcome challenges to rise above.
* Search tirelessly for the grays between the lines....Therein lies all possibility.