Habituate Joy


I have waited a long time

For Joy to become an unconditional habit

Perhaps I needed to re-member it slowly.

Joy is entirely up to the individual

Only apparent on their terms & caught up in their constructs.

Joy is the sweet smell just before awakening, maybe yellow

Light honeysuckle air.

I need to pull out my pack of Happies

Smoke them over a coffee

Breathe them into me & again out.

I need Joy to be my default; my go-to on life.

First, I found hope, then faith, then love

Once discovering how to work these lower gears

I get to shift into Joy.


Clocks: damned if I do or don’t

Time has grown slippery

I no longer seem to have a grip

On my days, dripping from the calendar

Like sugar crystallizes & drips from cheap candy.

I hold my calendar with both hands,

Writing with the pen between my teeth.

In memory, time always seems to have

Been wrapped in clingfilm, making me hack

At the packaging to get to the product.


Off Grid: different day

I put away the electronic leashes

Just outside satellite range

Time eeled off the devices, heading for the tall grass.



There needs to be a general Amnesty

For not having the true story all this time

But we promised to remain conscious

If it came down to bread & circus; we swore!

I find pardons each day

I bridge any gaps I find

Between unknowing & learning



I’m better at recognizing what I don’t want to do.

I recognize an initial resistance-reaction to interruptions;

I understand the value of interacting with that, though.

I act to disassemble & set that equation aside.

Releasing the knee-jerk automatic response

Artfully changes the landscape

The future is served by service

“Carpé diem” ended yesterday!


New Screen-Saver

Open up to grace every day

To new choices of health, abundance, re-programming

Get those icons of “fear” & “illness” off the home page

Click “awakening”

Click on “cosmic”

Double-click “divine love”



As my “exhibit wall” expands, I do, too. I surround myself with what lifts me or brings me more into vibration with God.

(I write as I await the computer to return to me after faithfully reporting in to Big Brother. We are at 90% on updates, I have two pages to write in the book before it resurfaces its little all-seeing eye upon me.)

My space is not crowded, though I am finding more to put up. All of this will stay for some little while & then recharge the day I get up & take it all down to start.

The change I am experiencing usually comes in September, which has always represented a “beginning month” to me. (It’s mid-August, but I swear in my own truth it is September.)

I am more keenly aware of all not aligning with where I am cannot remain in the “energetic I” long. I think of the frame in the movie Whale Rider where she rides the beached whale into the sea after laboriously convincing him to turn around to face his own reality. When the whale sounds with her, she floats from his back, more than half-frozen, eyes closed, hands unwillingly opening. I cannot see yet at what cost, but I let go, opening my eyes now. Something in the mechanics of being alive changes profoundly.

I thought I needed to get a job & earn money. So, I figured maybe a little weekend work at the café when they are busy. The server there is many-years experienced, but I noticed she could use support work. I figured to bus tables & speed things up – maybe earn a “coinly” wage to supplement supplies. I wrote an application letter to the owners. I gathered up my mail for the post office as a via point, walked across the street & into the café. As soon as I entered, my eye fell upon the second server! Guess this was not my job. Which was as well because taking in their black slacks, stiff white blouses & natty black aprons, I realized I probably can never wear a uniform again.

I deepened other activity times, walking West in the blaze of glory which clothes sunset in New Mexico. I walk to the bridge to see how high the creek is running. This enlarges my morning walk, East, into sunrise, bracketing it nicely. And a new-again Yoga practice to devote myself to.

All of me is coming together. Even as I take the time in consciousness to slow down in my head, I pick up physical speed. It feels good. I do not have to have music or a book; in fact, I begin to recognize a more specific effect that others’ words & stories have upon me. I ask myself if I wish to participate? Cannot tell you how many books & movies I’ve returned to the library after a cursory perusal of contents. But where I once became anxious without a book on hand to dive into, I find I can sit outside of an evening to wait for whatever sounds may float by. I light my luminaria on the table & put my feet up. I psychically repel mosquitoes.

Who will emerge when the Hillsboro Chrysalis opens is anyone’s guess. The women in the West with the best survival rates have always been warriors. But the warrior I want to be carries no weapons; remains defenseless, never calls upon remorse or blame, offers only witness as the ultimate in participation. Bringing none, blaming none, bluffing none. It’s just me again, facing another door & liking the me on the other side.


Anatomy Lesson

The cat living with my roommate was born a twin. They came to this house together. From what I can gather, the kittens were named Pinky & Blue. But Blue took insult to a slammed door & wandered down the road to live with Cactus Jim. Pinky has blossomed.

Blue went missing two weeks ago from his adoptive home. He was the kind of cat cars stopped for: a peach-point Siamese. He was super-social so he would begin a conversation with everyone from a little distance away, meowing louder as he approached for a greeting.

When I lived at the motel, he often walked across the parking lot to where I was seated outside. He’d jump into my lap & settle for about three minutes. If my  door was open, he would wander through the tiny studio & wait by the back door to exit. I enjoyed his visits & his comments…

I was thrilled to move in with his brother!

Pinky, or as I call him, Couscous, (which is what I call all cats as I like its sibilance), has undergone a sea change. I believe a bit of Blue has taken up residence. The cat suddenly wants to cuddle at every opportunity. Usually, Pink was outside from post-breakfast to pre-dinner under our neighbor’s rosebushes. Now he hangs around beyond the door for a couple of minutes to see if I’m following him out with a coffee. Sometimes he will walk out the door & turn around, coming back in when I do not follow him out.

Unlike his nocturnal wanderings of a month ago, he stays indoors most of the night curled up with me. I am so grateful; I have wanted a cat for many years & I love being singled out by him. He is getting used to kisses atop his head, but rather likes his chops kneaded more.

He is an outside cat, & quite the hunter. Two nights ago, Pink brought me a baby bunny body. It was placed ceremoniously on my rag rug in the bedroom. The inner organs were clean & arranged together in the center of the tripartite display; the fur (complete with ear) & right side up, was beside these, about two inches away, also placed carefully. Another bundle of something huddled on the left side. There were no fluids involved. Now, to get this into the house, Pinky had to bring it through his cat window one piece at a time.

The precision of placement of each piece amazed me. I was not disgusted, or upset. (The bunnies have been overproductive this summer, which brings out rattlers.) I am honored to be the receiver of these gifts. I have asked “my people” to talk to “his people” about not bothering to bring more food.

I burned white sage over the remains & thanked the kit for being willing to do ceremony with me. I thanked it for being a sacrifice for love.

Each day: a step to heaven (poems)

God-Mother / God-Father

 Bear down on me

Birth me into all You wish me to be:

Coming towards you

Coming into me

I know you celebrated before I

Was even conceived

I can see you turning spindles of names

{prayer wheels}

Until you turn my name

Into your breath of me.

My name: both appointment & anointment, I Am.


CoINcidence / CoinCIdence

Seems to be the emphasis can go either way, one being an

Immature Synchronicity,

The other an alignment of two paths.


Coincidence is not coincidence,

They cannot even exist in the same plane

Without interfering with each others’ warp & weft

Not to mention homeostasis.


They are, perhaps, a law of similars, called

In from the Jesters’ Universe …

After you toss your life at the wall or

Find a way to re-begin from where you are.


Keeping From the Eye of Horus

There are better things to do with my time

Than live in any rebellion

Past the stone walls of who I claim to be

Unilateral inner boundaries


Free to be the postage stamp home.

Attention does need to be paid

[Got cash?]

We can’t afford to miss much more than we already have,

Before the change of chance & chance of change

Diverge in some lonely wood.


In the same moment, when we cannot either breathe,

We are connected by a fiercely fiery sending:

“Watch me, Baby, just watch me!”


The highway of life is a toll road, indeed.


Cosmic Volunteers

We are the vols & sometimes it’s not to be believed:

stuck in the laundromat instead of a lifeboat.

Each episode we get to retool the set.

We arrive here curled into a fetal spiral

So well-salted, we match the ocean.

The rest of your life is the Unfolding of it.

An origami of an Avatar.

Some familiar clues / cues

(like enough for an army to follow.)

Status points for not opening the Guidebook.

Eyes Open. Tulku.



Another of those words

Hanging overhead like

Campfire smoke

Aromatic, heady

Ready to clear into tomorrow

Of the deed done today.


You Call This A Mind?

 But everything is right there, on the surface.

Don’t you put anything away?

More likely, you put it down without thinking

(Sometimes I lose major organs that way.)

I entered this Life with a full wall of medals

Later stripped one-by-one

I’ve done my time(s)

I personally have only two thoughts left

The You

The Me


Here, Put This In Your Heart

All the texts

Say, “you can’t take it with you.”

You mostly get to keep some essences,

Ones with evocative & menacing overtones.

The heart is about long-term Memory

Your heart is as big as your God

Who tucked you in between the angel’s wings

With a touch to your cheek, saying

“Don’t you miss a minute! I’ll expect a full report!”


 Dubious Honor

I may be the only person on earth who has, yes, here it is, forgotten how to ride a bike.


Make This Viral

 I want to be there when the grandfathers tell their peace stories.


“Where Have all the Flowers Gone”

Half-light morning,

I cross the bridge over a rushing Percha Creek

Glancing into it, mid-stride.

I see three young bucks,

Heads twisted over shoulders

Rumps all twitching in time

Not till they face forward

Do I see the burgeoning racks

Still in velvet, flaring in the little light

As, springing onto the low bank, they disappear.


But, Really, I Love You

I conclude two Italian women cannot talk to each other

Without taking turns at being child, maiden, crone all in one conversation:

Whoever is speaking is in charge…




Something Shiny

In the empire of Duality, the open door is always a Janus entity: entry & exit. The music is always swelling & falling into itself to silence. The darkness is always a placeholder for light.

In the Land of Freewill, choices are made by us in firm decision & at random whim: a right turn instead of a left can result in a drive into bliss.

Thus each moment must result in that ability of choice. It has to be more than paper or plastic when all the holy texts tell us we are unlimited Masters of the Universe. Now is the time to act like it.

Hereupon the crossroads: forgive & walk on unburdened. Deny forgiveness & you may not be given the choice of which cross you bear. We are always in the center between life & “unlife.” Every choice results in change within. Our core energy spirals up & down, in & out, upon ebb & surge. Our nature is duality, sometimes interpreted as “do-all-ity” … tho we are inclined to only do so much before the next task intervenes.

I’ve had “missed takes” in my life which amounted to classic error. I’ve incurred debt & paid in full. I’m sure there could be bestsellers written on my backlog of wrong decisions. It wasn’t just me who suffered through them; only I called it my learning process; the others suffering through these may have had a differing terminology.

If we are born innocent, are we living a lie when we learn? Perhaps this depends on the choice of learning methods. Now is the time to release all which no longer serves us, even if familiar, even if comfortable. The tide of the unknown gathers at all borders & we are chilled by it, even as we thrill to its salted bosom.

The rainbows we climb are ephemeral, slippery. Once we climb up, we must slide down tho at times we seem to fall through. I have a set of reserve wings which are gravity-proof. I can be stilled by the face of emotion & have been known to put my head down & slog on even when all the indicators say “stop right here.”

It’s all right, alright? I AM a beloved, believed-in child of God at play in the fields of the Lord. I created my life in the face of Divinity from some invisible blueprint. Is Destiny a firm destination?

In the moving away, I have constantly, unerringly moved toward. The future unwraps itself into the present & I am won.

La Iglesia de la Virgen de Guadalupe

My summer project to earn pocket money is cleaning Our Lady of Guadalupe, a tiny church which happens to be next door to my house. (My house is more cheerful, being called “The Ladies with the Spitcurls.”)

It has been quite a trip back in time to handle all the articles of ritual I noticed as a child but was never permitted to touch. The names float up from some interior reliquary of memory: ciborium, chasuble, dalmatic, stole, corporal, chalice. The Liturgical Year floats through my mind as I uncover accessories in purple, green, red, white.

This church is a replacement building constructed in 1973. The original was flooded. Adobe does not do well in flood … the building was lost & rebuilt facing east. These days, a priest comes on first Sundays to say Mass & the street fills with new cars & old people.

I have washed & polished the pews, cleaned the medieval torture-kneelers. I have carried the ceramic statues into the kitchen, placed them in the sink & given them Dawn bubble baths. Stations of the Cross plaques are wiped & carefully rehung.

I am now aware of the total lack of joy the Church brought to my life. The “Laughing Jesus” didn’t exist until fairly recent history, although in my opinion, He must have been an Olympic raconteur to have made such a great impression on so many. I think it is one of Catholocism’s great psyops that He never cracked a smile. But, then, none of the statues look happy. Their expressions are pensive, sorrowful, unhappy, pinched. At the risk of total irreverence, I must say they all look like a dose of stewed prunes might help set up a sunnier outlook.

It’s challenging to clean all the folds & wrinkles in their robes & veils. St. Francis has managed to bop me three times on the head while I was wiping him down – those extended arms are lethal. Baby Jesus (cradled in two out of three statues) was truly divine as not one of His representations is wearing a diaper.

Today I bumped a processional crucifix on a long stick. The plastic figurine slipped feet up, head down. I thought how appropriate this was, given the current state of affairs as the world uncovers overwhelming evidence of paedophilia within the Roman Catholic Church. It put me in mind of flying the flag upside down as a signal of distress.

Everyone in my family was a practicing Catholic until graduation day. Then we all beat feet out of church, shook off any residual holy water & headed for the beach. I was extremely lucky to find the Unity Movement in my life – a joy-filled, affirmative shout of individual power & personal divinity extolling humans as the sources & engineers of grace in motion, living in wellness for the highest good.

The days of a nearby convent of bustling nuns to clean up after the congregation are long gone. It falls upon me, a local cynic offered up for an hourly wage. Only my innate & residual respect calls me to honor these representations of what was once a thriving industry. A time ago, the church was a world to me: an arcane,  mysterious, dark place full of echoing silence, redolent with incense & candle wax.

Once again, the language surfaces from that same deep well: confirmation, communion, intercession, rosary, Eucharist, confession, purgatory, limbo, hell & finally heaven. All for the bargain-basement rate of $12/hour!