Writing is inviting a few monkeys into your home 
to do away with order, 
all of the value placed
on this stone, 
a gift, your prayer mat. 

 It all becomes Holy,
everything of equal importance. 
The Reverence for the shrine, as deep of a bow
as The Great Honoring for the coffee pot,
every morning an invitation.


I call upon a forgetfulness of my self. May it feel good coming out of me, and may it always be nothing more than that that matters. May I be alone with myself while welcoming in everything that comes to my door. Let it dance with me as it arrives, then take me home when it is time to.

Loss is on my mind, and I mean that in all ways loss exists--
the branches removed, 
the uprooting of the neighbors we got used to growing beside. 
The losses we remember, the losses we feel but cannot see.. 


Where should I be the loudest? The scaled and bloody and feathered within, sings louder and more gloriously reckless every day, in front of anyone near. From womb to wind, it arrives before my mind gets in the way.

“You are learning about you. And I am learning about me.” To love is to embody and witness sovereignty– welcome it, encourage The Right to Belong To Oneself–allow it to be. -On how many ways there are to love me

We should take time to study our minds while they are not being fed, 
gaze at what we are in the rhythm of feeding ourselves.
Play with what the patterns that exist within us
long to create
out of color, matter,
symbol, sound.

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