​It’s like I can touch her and then she’s gone. There is interference. Static. Someone else’s needs arise, whether at work or at home, a student or child. Even the dogs have needs, the cat, too (don’t be fooled by the nonchalance).

But she is there, intermittently embodied. I want her for more than a moment, more than a fragmented thought. How am I to reach her given the demands of the external and the limits of her functionality?
​
This is how. You must find her in language. If she asks to write to you, if she writes to you, take it as a gift. You are getting the most of her. More than a conversation, more than her body. Let her write to you.

Excerpt:

If everything in the land body has a purpose, like the wolf or the juniper, then what is ours — our human purpose — collectively, as a species? Leopold dichotomizes between the land body and the human body, yet he also speaks of ecology and the relationships of all things in the context of a system.

For instance, of what use is it that humans go into nature to excavate our own psyches? We do it. We are unique in our ability to do it. How does that contribute to the ecological whole?
​
Published in the Silver City Anthology, summer 2023.
​

The last time I felt excited about a job interview was in 2003 when, after  living as a volunteer in a tent at The Ojai Foundation for some months, I initiated an entry point onto the staff there. Questions in the interview included, but were not limited to, “How do you deal with your anger?” and “How do you get your need for alone time met?” I felt excited about the practice of hiring people based on who they were intrinsically (not necessarily by pedigree or credential) and on how well they seemed to know themselves.

The Ojai Foundation was a place, in 2003, where I felt at home and recognized. I felt stimulated intellectually by the minds there and also spiritually by the mysteries that lived alongside those minds. Nature was the container for it all. Lush, green, and everywhere. I suppose it was a school, of sorts. A boundless one.

I spent a great deal of time in stone circles on that land. I learned from many teachers about what the circle could be, could mean, could teach, could hold. I learned the way of council, speaking and listening from the heart. I learned what it meant to live that way -- the way of the heart, the way of nothing wasted. I also learned what it looked like to teach it, yet not live it fully. Everything has a shadow, after all. I still keep watch for that one in particular.

Here, in our small, communal courtyard in the desert, I continue to live the way of council. I continue to spend a great deal of time in stone circles, even on snowy mornings like this.
 
 
 

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Excerpt:

​Synthesis
Each of us who is not seen in this world, who is not invited to be present in our full eccentricity, in ownership of our truest gifts, is abandoned.
In an economically driven world, we are orphans, forever in need of love and nurturing, holding and listening.

greet the desert after a long absence
give thanks for rain

​find a place in the wide open
​
slip off shoes
​dance barefoot in a slow circle
sing
touch the ground with bare hands
ask the unanswerable questions
love the journey
say dreams out loud
​commit self in service, again
​whisper the names of beloveds
pray, thank you
watch the lightning
feel the gentle rain
listen to crickets
open heart even wider

​greet the desert after a long absence
​give thanks for rain

Entering the Gila Forest, I feel as if the boulders, trees, pinyon jays, soil, icy puddles, coyote scat, everything, are part of an elaborate theater set. I hear a helicopter overhead and imagine the pilot seeing a smattering of humans and their canines below at various places on the road and off - stage left and stage right. The hollow sounds of fists knocking on tree trunks or dog paws treading over terrain reinforce this feeling of construction. It is quiet out here, like a vacuum. Who would create such a set, and why? What am I doing in it? If I change the set a little, could I alter the play? What an interesting thought. If I move a few moss covered rocks here or there and enact a small ceremony, will I change the fabric of the world, constructed or otherwise?

There is a scene in the film, “Off the Map,” in which the actor Jim True-Frost realizes that a story he was told about himself as a child, which he had believed since childhood, may not have been true. I thought about the significance of that scene today while out walking.

First, I thought about the blind trust we place in those around us to tell the truth and what happens when/if we learn that they have not.

Second, I thought about stories of self and how significant they are. What I say and do, who I love, the possibilities I imagine for self and world, and so on, are based on stories I have either been told about myself, or stories that I tell myself. If it is a faulty story that I am carrying, imagine the outcome.

I reflect on the myriad stories societies tell about groups of people, and the projections of stories made daily by loved ones. I make a commitment to clear out my own story house, with love and discernment, and to allow both self and other to be new in each moment.

What if relentless self-help and self-scrutiny are addictions based on the lie that who we are right now, in this very moment, is not enough?

There was a meeting about Jasper. You were there.
I jumped back in time, back to when I walked by your side.
Now nothing here makes sense.
Who made the blue and pink paper starfish on the table?
Whose black dog is this?
Who am I?
The seeds of me were there when we were together. I am not different now than I was then. And the seeds of you were there and you are not different now than you were then.
But we have lived these incredible lives between that time and this time. We have had other lovers, other friendships. We have lost our fathers. And a dog. Our child is nearly twelve.
All of time must exist at once.
Who made the painting of the chicken’s feet on the table?
I don’t understand.
And I do.
We just went to a meeting, our own psyches on display in our son’s - your propensity for compartmentalization and my inability to fail well, to not know.
Our First Born worker was there. What are the chances? Remember how she visited when Jasper was an infant? Now we watch as Jasper pulls a tractor tire by rope across the school parking lot. He has purple hair. You are both distracted and engaged. I am catapulted back in time. All of time overlapping. We do not age. And we do.
A little girl made that blue and pink paper starfish. Her name is Alea. She is eight, the daughter of someone I love who is in the Grand Canyon, who painted the chicken’s feet. Remember?
Remember that time you came by with Jasper when he was two and I wasn’t here and you wrote a note on the giant sketch pad filled with his artwork?
"8:30 AM. We tried stopping by. You can come for Jasper when you return. Love, Us."
What time is it now? I didn’t hear you knocking.
---
The blue and pink paper starfish sits atop a paper. The title of the paper, written by our son is, “Why Are We Here?”           

I track the wilderness inside. I am leaves and seed pods littered across your cleanly swept tiles. I am muddy paw prints on your carpet, traces of fur on your favorite shirt. Outside, my temerity will make a run at you. Better run fast.