Freedom Is An Empty Box

All this cleaning-out going on, everywhere!  Not a room untouched, a box unopened, not a paper unread, or a dust-bunny undisturbed.  This is unsettling.

The Blue Bird box is cleaned.  The back porch swept.  The ashes out.  The studio tidied, dusted, re-arranged somewhat.  A box from the storage unit emptied, right down to the layer of pretty rocks on the bottom.

Rejuvenating.  Restorative.  Transformational.

Of the many gifts in living in N. California:  February is the month of ripening citrus.  Oh!  Afternoon light dancing through the orange tree highlighting the fruit, a blatant invitation to indulge in juicy tart sweetness.

Daffodil spears are pushing up through the leaf mulch.  It is late January, after all, the Paper Whites are almost done!  Black lambs are racing around in the tender green grass!  The sky today, regardless of that strong cold breeze, is as blue as possible.

I have been turning the mulch.  Having ordered and received my new panels (5' X 5' made of Balkan plywood for strength and lightness) there is work to be done in the studio.  Surfaces to clear, paintings to move, shelves to tidy.  In the midst of this process I lost it.  Haha.  To be expected, perhaps, with breathing in the dust and stories of "stuff"and sunlight muted by winter-spotted windows.  Yesterday it hit me that actually, I am not an artist, nor am I a writer.  I have no career, education or accomplishments.  Life is meaningless.  Yesterday I did not see this as a gift.  I fell face-first into the mulchy hole.

Later in the evening, when I settled into my chair to watch the Dog Whisperer, I noticed the agreed-upon-box-from-the-storage-unit perched upon the dog crate in front of the damm TV.  No choice (haha) but to go through it, like I've agreed to do.

That Box:  OMyGod.  What a box, even though deceptively small.  Yes, it was a box of destiny.  Past.  Passed.  It contained letters, journals, sketch books.  It contained misery, destruction, heartbreak and failures.  It contained frustration, rage, disappointment and fear.  It contained my worst fears.  Every one of them.

I sorted the contents one by one.  I read the letters.  I looked at the sketches.  I made decisions:  I keep this drawing and throw away the rest.  I put books into another box for Goodwill.  I put 10 pounds of Court Papers into the recycle bin.   I burned the letters.  Something wonderful started to happen, but I didn't know what it was. 

I felt a feeling of emptiness filling me up.

The Mule Got Drunk and Lost In Heaven

The

Mind is ever a tourist

Wanting to touch and buy new things

Then toss them into an already

Filled closet.

So I craft my words into those guides

That will offer you something fresh

From the Hidden's Tavern.

Few things are stronger than

The mind's need for diverse

Experience.

I am glad

Not many men or women can remain

Faithful lovers to the unreal.

There is a kind of adultery

That God encourages:

Your spirit needs to leave the bed

Of fear.

The gross, the subtle, the mental worlds

Become as a worthless husband.

Women need

To utilize their superior intelligence

About love

So that their hour's legacy

Can make us all stronger and more clement.

Sometimes a poem happens like this one:

The mule I sit on while I recite

Starts off in one direction

But then gets drunk

And lost in

Heaven.

Hafiz

For months I have not been able to find my friend Hafiz!  The Gift was in plain sight, I just could not see it.  Home again, next to my laptop, my all time favorite book smiles.  We are back in business!

All is possible.  Hafiz says "Hidden's Tavern,"  Emily Dickinson calls them "possibles."  Each day presents them, each breath enlivens them.  Each word represents them.  Each action fulfills them.

All is possible.  All is well.

I love you.
xoxo
LPC

Garden of Eden, Sonoma Style

Someone Who Can Kiss God

by my friend, Hafiz

Come to my house late at night---

Do not be shy.

Hafiz will be barefoot and dancing.

I will be

In such a grand and generous mood!

  

Come to my door at any hour,

Even if your eyes

Are frightened by my light.

My heart and arms are open

And need no rest---

They will always welcome you.

Come in, my dear,

From that harsh world

That has rained elements of stone

Upon your tender face.

Every soul

Should receive a toast from us

For bravery!

Bring all the bottles of wine you own

To this divine table---the earth

We share.

If your cellar is empty,

This whole Universe

Could drink forever

From mine!

***

There may be no other place on the planet quite as beautiful as this Sonoma County!  The grape harvest has begun.  Days are hot, nights cool, colors exquisite.  Hafiz probably wanders the countryside, maybe drives my car, throws my camera on the floor, dogs in the back, directs me.  And I thank him for his insistence.  I love September.

xoxoLPC

A Couple More Waves

Oh, I am loving this mid-winter mild, sunny day.  Well, it's mostly passed, now, but today was sublime.  I pulled weeds and made great, tangled piles at the edge of the garden.  I let my hens out to enjoy things under the leaves, and noticed that Ms. Carmelita has a drooping tail, and doesn't go far, though she does keep her conversation going.  I dosed her with Echinacea, and hope for the best.  Took out ashes and made a new little fire, though we barely need one.  It is deeply satisfying to me to "do chores."  After what seemed like endless rainy days, this one just seems so perfect.

Have you ever voiced your opinion or thought, and had some one say, "I don't buy that."  For the life of me, I have no idea how that phrase has much to do with anything.

Dinner is in the oven.  Dogs are in wait-sprawl, ready for dinner.  Christmas lights are down and packed.  The robins are singing their twilight songs, ready to settle in for the night.  The sun has set, but there is still light, daylight fading.  This quiet holds peace.

There is still room for reading and writing!  And a cup of tea.

Manic  Screaming

We should make all spiritual talk

Simple today:

God is trying to sell you something,

But you don't want to buy.

That is what your suffering is:

Your fantastic haggling,

Your manic screaming over the price!

***

Hafiz

***

Have a wonder.

xoxoLC

Celebrating Poetry Today

No surprise here, my friend Hafiz just whispered in my ear, "Enjoy!"

Some Fill With Each Good Rain

There are different wells within your heart.

Some fill with each good rain,

Others are far too deep for that.

In one well

You have just a few precious cups of water,

That "love" is literally something of yourself,

It can grow as slow as a diamond

If it is lost.

Your love

Should never be offered to the mouth of a 

Stranger,

Only to someone

Who has the valor and daring

To cut pieces of their soul off with a knife

Then weave them into a blanket

To protect you.

There are different wells within us.

Some fill with each good rain,

Others are far, far too deep

For that.

Hafiz

I love you.

xoxoLC

bad good dogs and flowers; Muse

The possible's slow fuse is lit by the imagination.   Emily Dickinson

The lilacs are loving this long, cool, and wet spring.  They just keep getting plumper, and more purple, and light-headed.  The heart-shaped leaves make me smile beyond green, even.  I snipped an armload of them, it feels so opulent, almost as though it is too much to accept.  Through my years of yards and gardens, I have rarely picked the lilacs, thinking that they are most beautiful outside.  Two days ago, I threw caution to the wind, buried my face in the foliage and fragrance, and voila!  Now they are in one of my favorite old blue quart jars:  Perfect!

My Little Mom used to admonish me for picking flowers.  Some of my choices were deemed "weeds!" and of course, were not allowed in the house, so I took them, in jars, to my room upstairs.  I loved the Dock(Burdock) Weed, yellow buttercups, chamomile, yellow and purple mustard, willow branches, and fistfuls of clover.  Mom loved to pick her own flowers, and in her late-years it was a beautiful daily ritual for her to wander around her yard and harvest her bounty.  She did accuse me of stealing her jars, though.  And yes, this is one of them!  Thanks, Mom.

Okay: get ready for this next photo.  It is painful to look upon.  It shows straight-on the shape of the lawn in the back yard, with little hope of recovery in the near future.  Note to self: figure out something!  This is the tag-team for fabulous four-legged hole-digging.  Could we make money with these two?  Harness this dedication and intelligence for The Greater Good?

Luna loves to bury Emerson.  She holds him down, in the hole, with a choke-hold on his neck.  If I manage to ever get a photo of this I will share.  His expression is one of toothy delight, wide grin, no growls because they get in trouble for growling (don't ask), his feet flailing in the spring air:  Heaven on Earth.

See?  No remorse:  These are the bad good dog faces.  The Possible is always possible.

"the possible's slow fuse..."  This morning I am enchanted with this line.  The Orioles are all here now, the male is piggy with his feeder, hissing and pecking the beautiful female, who hangs upside down from the wire-scroll hanger, unconcerned with his peckish ways.  Patience, my dear, The Possible will reveal itself in a most wondrous way, the flamboyant male will weave the nest with her.

The weather pummeled the Iris.  I felt concern that their unfurling would be hampered from all the rain.  Yet, each day a new colored one reveals itself.

Cucumbers and Prayers

by

Hafiz

All day long

The earth shouts

"Gee, thanks."

Such an exuberant gee,

It starts throwing 

Things

As if God were passing by in a parade encouraging

Rowdy behavior

by looking so beautiful---

That a whole avalanche of mania swoops in!

I like this idea of throwing things at God,

And especially---His making us rowdy!

Thus, as soon as Hafiz is out of bed

I start stuffing large sacks

With old shoes, cucumbers,

And

Prayers

For the upcoming

Consecrated

Free-for-all---

And who knows

What else.

Yes.  Let us plant cucumbers, possibles, prayers.  Let us breathe in this special spring day.  Let us breathe out love and healing.  Let us celebrate!

Blessings
xoxoLC

The Sun In Drag

The Sun In Drag

by

Hafiz

You are the Sun in drag.

You are God hiding from yourself.

Remove all the "mine"---that is the veil.

Why ever worry about

Anything?

Listen to what your friend Hafiz

Knows for certain:

The appearance of this world

Is a Magi's brilliant trick, though its affairs are

Nothing into nothing.

You are a divine elephant with amnesia

Trying to live in an ant

Hole.

Sweetheart, O sweetheart

You are God in

Drag!

Oh. That Hafiz.

xoxoLC

True Art

When I was at the Tea Pot Shop, I found a spiral!  I maybe should go back, so I can find out the name of the shop, and purchase this handsome pot.  Imagine the minty, happy tea that could pour forth.

I do not believe that this painting is really this green.  I am considering entering it in a show called "Still Life."  I like the ethereal quality that develops when I let my eyes soften.  I am not sure if I am done with it.

I love red.  Red everything.  Especially red paint.

And extra especially, red ribbons in Mary's hair.

I will have to see what Hafiz has to say about red.  But that will come later.  Right now, evening has slipped in, the frogs next door are crazed with hollering.  Come to think of it, I believe they sang all day, too.  We had another wet storm yesterday and last night.  Leaves, flowers, bugs are popping out everywhere.  Yellow is actually what's happening, but I didn't take my camera out today.  Left it in the basket.

Hafiz says this about art:

Art is the conversation between lovers.

True art awakes the

Extraordinary

Ovation.

Yes, red is the applause!

xoxoLC

Carrying All the Ingredients

A disconcerting morning: we lost Emerson.  His little cries called me out of dark sleep. I flailed around trying to disentangle from ropes of sheets, blankets, groping spots on the comforter where he usually is stretched out.  Wayne was gone, the light in the kitchen was on, I could hear the fire roaring.  It was a nightmare, except it was 6:12 a.m. (a nightmare to me, who rises in comfort somewhere around 7:30).  I got out of bed, hurried to the back door, in dread that he'd been locked out with those killer cats; he wasn't there.  I went from room to room, called him, said, "Where are you?"  No answering whines.  I burst into the bathroom, where Wayne was shaving in relative quiet, "WHERE'S EMERSON!" He looked at me, and assured me that the pup was in the house somewhere.

What must it be like, to be so calm?

Why do I trace my steps backwards?  Back through the living room, the bedroom, the back room; I have been through them all twice already.  Back out to the porch, to make sure that the cats hadn't hurt him, sliced him open, maimed him.  Whirling around, back in the kitchen I notice that the door to the pantry was cracked open, not latched.  Ha!  I slid the door open, and out he came, wagging.

You see, he is invisible at dusk, and at dawn.  He disappears into the shadows.  He follows at our heels, and when we make quick U-turns, pop out, and close the door, he is stuck.  To complicate things, he cries out in a pitiful puppy voice, and then sits patiently, quiet as a mouse, waits for me to find him.  He even leans on the door, and falls inside when you open it.

Too often I awaken in a panic.  Sometimes I crash back into this plane, after a night of traveling to various solar systems.  It seems as though I spend too much of my allotted time too far away, then need to rush to get back into my skin, arrange the freckles in their familiar designs, begin the waking up.

My boys loved the books, "Where's Waldo?"  So does Mary Alice.  The boys and I spent many evenings before bed, staring at the illustrations of hundreds of thousands of beach-goers,  or villagers, looking looking looking for the weird guy in red and white striped socks.  "Where IS that Waldo?"

Oh, you will love this:  I am wondering, what would my friend Hafiz say about panic stricken awakenings?  About losing your puppy inside the house?  About forgetting to put your freckles back on straight?

Here it is...

To Build a Swing

Hafiz

You carry 

All the ingredients

To turn your life into a nightmare--

Don't mix them!

You have all the genius

To build a swing in your backyard

For God.

That sounds

Like a hell of a lot more fun.

Let's start laughing, drawing blueprints,

Gathering our talented friends.

I will help you

With my divine lyre and drum.

Hafiz

Will sing a thousand words

You can take into your hands,

Like golden saws,

Silver hammers,

Polished teakwood,

Strong silk rope.

You carry all the ingredients

To turn your existence into joy,

Mix them, mix

Them!

Hafiz is so good to me!
xoxoLC

Guest today: Hafiz

1. Open eyes.
2. Close eyes.
3. Take a deep, deep breath; clear to your toes.
4. Let the breath go, just so gently, easy; let it warm your nose.
5. Open eyes.  Notice.

I Saw Two Birds

by my friend, Hafiz

Both of our mouths

Can fit upon this flute I carry.

My music will sound

So much sweeter that way

With your breath and my breath

Poking each other in the ribs

And kissing.

I saw two birds on a limb this morning

Laughing with the sun.

They reminded me of how 

We will one day exist.

My dear,

Keep thinking about God,

Keep thinking about the Beloved

And soon our nest will be the 

Whole firmament.

Forget about all your desires for truth,

We have gone far beyond that,

For now it is just---

Pure need.

Both our hearts are meant to sing.

Both our souls are destined to touch

And kiss

Upon this holy flute

God carries.

Spring, today.

xoxoLC

plant friends and tiny gods

Dear ones,

Beware of the tiny gods frightened men

Create

To bring an anesthetic relief

To their sad

Days.

****

Hafiz

Silene californica pink

Coming back home from the Lake, I saw red in the dried grasses.  Luna was not tired enough to not complain, and I got out of the car and scrambled up the bank.  I am ceaselessly amazed by what goes on in the seemingly dried-up grasses.  I didn't stay long enough to catch the beetles and lizards, but I know that they were there, I heard them rattling around, causing miniature landslides; guess that would be pebble slides.

Growing up we called these "Monkey Faces."  Some grow in meadows where the mountain springs seep down the mountainside.  Some grow on the banks of small streams(rills).  And these were with their friends, The Pinks, in a shady spot on a hot, dry coastal mountain.

And I love this camera that gives me the opportunity to put my nose right up to this bright red; click, and bring it home to be surprised yet again.

Late Tuesday afternoon I moved the little sprinkler in the front yard.  Owww!  My lower back muscles tightened up around the sharp pain, and it occurred to me that one simple chiropractic adjustment may not move this one.  Of course, being myself, I finished up the remaining tasks before taking myself off to evening commitments, which did include the adjustment. Wednesday morning I got my usual cheery self out of bed and about 6 steps away from the bed realized that I could go no further, forward or back.  Oh, I don't like that!

Yesterday was spent mostly asleep.  This morning I was inspired to call my friend Pam, and made my way up to her amazing garden(a post in its own glory), where she dug some Valerian plant up for my tea, and for transplanting into my herb garden.  The beautiful tea, light colored and woodsy tasting, has been comforting.  Maybe the real cure is in the greeting by Utah who jumped so high he put both front paws, very lightly, on the tops of my shoulders!  

Listening to the plants, I was guided to add a couple of Comfrey leaves to the Valerian and Sage.  Later I looked up Comfrey to discover that it is used for "sprains, swelling and bruises...it is useful in any kind of inflammatory swelling."  While my plant-knowledge has been self-taught, with absorbing information from my Grandma Annie, and my mother and my father, various aunts and uncles, I have no "degree."  My talent lay in listening to the plant conversations. They speak readily, if I am willing to listen, and they have the best sense of humor.

I have been writing.  Telling.  Writing into memory, into the scent of summer sun on my arms. Writing into the vulnerability of childhood.  Writing into how beautiful things like wildflowers; how bright their color, how tenacious their grip in the dry soil, how these beautiful beings support me.  

It was not a surprise to feel my back move into pain:  I trust the process; I am safe...Louise Hay.  Today I drew the Valerian leaf, and the seed-head(marginally, as I am a little impatient!).

Luna had another time-out for trying to get into the chicks' house.  The red finches, Grosbeaks, Orioles, Blackbirds, and a host of others including quail, sang at the tops of their lungs all through my nap!  No complaints here!  I trust.  

Much Love.  Big Hugs.

xoxoLC