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Building Temples (volume 3)

I am no damsel in distress in need of saving. I have been saving myself for a lifetime.

I am a Queen. I am a Priestess. I am a Goddess.
None of these titles require another to pick me up off of the ground and protect me from dragons.

I am my own dragon. Raw and fierce and breathing fire.

These titles require a quick wit, deep contemplation, a strong sword, movement, flow, trust, tranquility, space, peace, love, joy, sadness, pure intoxication from within.

I am power. I am Divine. I am the glitter of vibration connecting all living things in the Universe.

These titles sit inside my bones and grow into who I am becoming. Birthed from my rounded hips, the truth of who I am, and who I will be tomorrow, is written between sheets caught in a whisper. To be saved by another only endangers Self. This lifetime has gifted me knowledge and wisdom with every wooden door, double pane window, and unexpected rock underneath my foot.

I am strong. I am powerful. I cry. I feel ecstasy. I create beings, language, and love. I dance with my heart. I love with my soul. I break into a million pieces of glass when my heart feels broken. The shards are collected, turned into dust, and given back to Spirit to be blessed, healed, and transformed.

My voice moves me forward where dragons lay in wait along the road, and the sway and rhythm of my hips becomes my song.

Building Temples (volume 2)

White Ink runs through every woman I meet, she does not need to have birthed or breastfed a child. It is the line of her ancestral mothers running through her body. Flowing through mine. I feel her breath inside my own. It is the beat of flow which each woman shares, the power to nourish another human being. The power to nourish Self above. Yet, in our world of anger, hate and violence, it is the drum which calls to all women to gather to feed our world, starving for compassion, gentleness and kindness of heart. Golden Light replaced by the Darkness of societal rage. Violence and trauma has become part of every Being until we find a way to break the cycle and discover the dimensions which pass through us in whispers. To be reminded that we are not alone and we can move beyond our DNA and memory of thousands of years coursing through our cells. Replace these memories, which have multiplied fear with a new vibration and a new Light to seek out the moment, any moment, in which Divinity shows itself.

My son drank in white ink, mine. He does not carry his own, just the memory of “sweetness,” and how he misses it even today. He does not understand why boys cannot feed or birth babies. He touches his tummy to make his point. And I remember my professor in college who said that “men fear women because they can bleed without dying.” Perhaps they fear women because they can grow and sustain life without the need to hunt and gather. It is the nature of woman to supply need and want with her body, and she does not need man to assist her. Is this the reason for so much violence in our world because some men feel unnecessary? Therefore, without feeling as if they are needed, man will use control and force to dominate woman?

Men have an important job, I tell my son: “They get to be daddies.” Daddies love and hold their babies even if they do not have milk. When they get older, Daddies can cook and bake for their children. They find other ways to feed them. And of course, they sing to them, dance with them and throw them wildly into the air until giggles fill the Universe.

The sky is spring blue this February, trees branches dip and curl above my son’s head. Moments ago, he was feeling frustrated over a cancelled play date. Now, he stands on our brick pathway under the apple tree, didgeridoo held tightly in his hands. The sound permeates his six year old body, deep and powerful, he brings voice to his soul. He is calling, for rhythm and dance. His body, torn between fists and kicks, relaxes into rhythm. He draws practice breaths in circular motion to replace harsh child words.  He is communicating. Calling on the Light to heal this part of himself, and so for twenty minutes, he plays.

Rhythm teaches us that it is Time. This is the moment to come together in Light and Divinity to offer prayers and blessings for love to replace fear, and peace to replace violence. Too much harm has come to our mothers, daughters, sisters and sons. Our children need to know that they have purpose and reason for being in this life, and that the rhythm of their bodies calls to them through sound. It is the call of our own voices needing to be heard which will allow us to rise up and speak, so we can once again know our lineage and know our names.” As they are called again.



Building Temples (volume 1)

Writing is my breath, my awareness, my way of connecting with myself through meditation.  When words find themselves through my fingers, I can breathe more easily because a thought or a thought process is released. They are released through my fingertips on the this keyboard, or through my hands with a pen and paper. Both work equally as well for me.  I write with “white ink” (Cixous, 1975).  It is the ink of transformation given to me by the Mothers who graced life before I was born.  White for the milk pouring from their breasts to nourish countless children over countless generations since Time began.  I am one of them, now.  At 40 I was graced with a child of my own, whom I breastfed for over three years.  Giving him life, nourishment and protection.  As he grows into his six year-old Self, I learn.  How to be a mother, a healer and an artist.  In this moment, before tomorrow begins, I learn to be brave as he lay sleeping in another room, in another house.  Where, for tonight, I am not.  When we talked before bedtime, he, in his sweet child way, asked for a motorcycle helmet.  And, I,  in my sweet motherly way said, “I’ll think about it.”

He is my breath, my life, my measure of awareness to which I am held at the highest of standards.  And so my Channeling begins with white ink upon my paper.