Sacred Space

"Survival"

crouched in a corner
shoulders hunched
she waits
for the jaws of disease
to ravage her flesh
bleed her dry
fill its palate
with her fear

she watches you enter
with your arrogant training
and your instruments

will your stethoscope
whip her into submission
for a diagnosis
or hear her cries
in her breath, her heartbeat?

will your pen
cut into her body
and bleed symptoms
or capture her scars
on paper, in reverence?

she searches your eyes
will you pounce
or have mercy?

a hunter
kills its prey
the weaker being
so there is no competition
no mirror to see
its own fear

a shaman
heals the sick
the diseased spirits
so there is hope
a mirror to reflect
beauty in likeness

10/04

*****

I don't have diplomas up in my rooms. I like to have things I've written on the walls. Maybe it's more arrogant, but these written thoughts soothe me, remind me of my purpose. It's like looking at a crystal lotus or mermaid or Hindu goddess. The space is sacred.

Rain

silver droplets
she sobs
send me
solace

silver droplets
she sings
smiling
in silence

*****

Dualities. Some people hate the rain: the cold, the wetness, the inconvenience. Some love it: the cleansing, the introspection, the growth.

I'm somewhere in between. I'm always cold; I hate getting wet; it's inconvenient for my hair. I like the smell and feel of the air after it has rained; it puts me in a somber mood; I especially love the growth both inside and out.

Today, as I got in my car, I automatically slowed down. Californians are notorious for speeding up in the rain, though it's dangerous. Someone was shouting from the sky, "You need to slow down. The world needs a good washing. None of you are exempt."

As I walked from my car to the building, my hair was wet, and my skin and clothes were drenched. My former self would have made a mad dash for dry cover, but I walked slower than usual to the building. I let the droplets tap me, like an wrap at the door of my thoughts - a slow awakening.

I don't want it to stop.

Angel

Whether it be angels, or four leaf clovers, or mermaids, may you find some comfort here.

Revisions

words deleted
lines added
the final type
pristine

i liked
you better
in the garbage
crumpled

rough drafts
are real
better than
best sellers

Meditation

i feel
my breath
a butterfly
fluttering
beneath my nostrils
as I am
still

i hear
sleeping thoughts
the only sound
an infinite om
resounding
in silence

i see
nothing
but endless shoreline
sand
stretching for miles
seashells swimming
in the sea

i sell it
like gold
a droplet
from the fountain
of youth
for free

in the mind's madness
and the heart's heaving

it promises
peace

Half and Whole

He picked me. Of all the women, he picked me.

*****

When I first met him, I was so surprised. He picked me! Family and friends would pat my back; other women would give me a look of approval; even my Mother would sometimes steal a moment among us and cast that loaded look my way, the one that said, “You’re really lucky.”

In the first year of dating, we went to watch Braveheart. At the end, all I could see was him, William Wallace, my future husband, being tortured at the last scene. He could take any beating, but not his dreams being trampled upon, his truth being killed.

I lived like this for years as we were separated by circumstance, the lucky one, the chosen one, the undeserving one. He picked me!

It almost killed me. My insecurity would start fire fights, where all I needed was air to consume by blazing words of how he was not letting me express this, or do that, or be this person. I turned into this bull of a woman, wanting to have the last word, wanting the presence and attention that he commanded. All this snorting and steam…for what?

If I had to pick the exact day that I realized something, I’d have to say that that it wasn’t born overnight. It grew from insecurity, frustration, and a need for a different way. I couldn’t be another woman blaming a man, standing in his shadow because he put me there, unhappy because he always made the rules. Someone once said that no one can make us feel bad. We do that for ourselves.

I get the opportunity to listen to women hang their disappointing relationships like dirty laundry in office visits. So much physical pain, so much emotional drama, and no thought of talking to their partner about the things they want. I often wonder if they even know what they want from themselves, before they can ask for it from their partner.

There are exceptions to this. Women who are abused, or raised with other female role models dependent on men for their validation, will have difficulty seeing themselves alone in a mirror without the handsome prince beside them. Also, the same can hold true if the genders were reversed. Men, too, can look for completion in women without discovering their half of the territory first.

*****

I am far from being the Ann Landers, or guru on relationships. All I can say is, he did pick me. And I picked him. This mermaid may have initially attracted her handsome prince by helplessly flailing in the ocean, screaming, “Help me. It’s too deep.” But I know why you stayed.

You knew from the moment you met me, that I would find a way to swim, to discover the deep, dark recesses of the sea, the deep dark secrets in me. You always stood at the water’s edge, waving and smiling, or paralyzed and terrified, knowing you could not save me or celebrate with me, until I invited you in. At times, you would ignore the high tides and jump in to save me. You would soon realize I could not breathe on land again without coming to shore on my own.

The Woman in the Waves

A blue-green fin. The rest of her is submerged. I wish I could see her.

*****

I saw “The Upside of Anger” today. Some judge a film by its cinematography, or its caliber of characters. I gravitate to the ones that display raw emotions and honesty. The characters usually are hit hard with something, a loss, a life altering event, love, truth, you name it. Some get up and walk differently, some stay down and wait for death, some get up and walk the same, as if a temporary glitch occurred in time. Either way, it’s real, it’s you, it’s about us all.

Lately, I’ve been swimming in wave after wave of turbulence. I’ve been irritable, angry, and tired. It’s the hormones; it’s the depletion of energy after listening to other irritable, angry, and tired souls; it’s anything but me.

It’s me. The sea can rage around me, the sea can be as gentle as a parent with their newborn. The sea is inside my head and heart.

And what I live, I teach. Every day is a struggle or surrender. Every day is one step farther away or closer to the answer. Every day I can choose to tread the waters, turbulent or tranquil. I can stop and see the world around me, ships passing, sea life living, the sun setting or rising.

My answer is this. I do not want to be a beacon in the darkness for thousands. Let me be a lamp for those who come close enough to hear me, long enough to transfer the flame to others.

*****

I can only see the fin. The fin is enough to remind me.

an island
in a sea of despair

the army is advancing
in waves
resounding a war cry
of death
by drowning

sink her
unite her
with the raging
the inevitable
black destiny

no

this island will tame
the waves
to humbly break into whispers
against her shores

a drop
merges with others
into a puddle
into a lake
into an ocean

black to aquamarine
limits to possibilities
the waves are receding
with salt messages
in seashells
songs of soul survival