A dream of Infinite possibilities...for any living species that is born of our civilization, with a cage tied to a rope, secured on a belt too tight to ever wear. The house never has enough room to breathe. A dog, a snake, a bird...one of us.

To remove ourselves from the cage. Because...as our beloved Mike Kelley put it...

"It would be nice if a bird could be born in infinite space..." 

When the rivers rise 
to meet where my words once fell and failed me,
so that the words can find balance in swimming.
When I can remain still and comfortably desperate at my desk to write, 
in order to forgive myself of my wrongs.
When the day comes that I can finally move on,
from everything that I thought I was, 
in a universe I constructed with balsa wood foundations
and houses made of sand castles of his ashes.
When the rivers finally rise to make mud of those ashes,
so that the sun can set the ashes to clay, 
as a reminder that everything was real.
And when I can wake up to put a smile on, before deciding what to wear,
and he's still there.
When all of this...is, not dreamt 
is when I can say I found the Ark that Noah built,
the one that saves us from ourselves.
The 'animals' were just an illusion.

the wind draws fast, 
our desires onto us. 
we say hello to yesterday, 
goodbye tomorrow. 
sleep on my pillow, 
to wake in our bed
your skin on my back, 
with pleasure to follow.
the wind draws fast, 
our memories from us.
hello, my morning.

It takes hard work to know how to be sad. It's like learning to drive a car...that drives your life to it's next destination. And with so many stops along the way, strength and courage can roll down the window...let some air in. But it takes our entire being to get out of the car, and take in the view. And it only matters when we're ready. And we're only ready when we let our love consume us.

good things sit on other sides of hills. endurance and desire are the true friends of a climber.

Yesterday I lied and said I can't write about him.
His strong fingers still holding onto fragile memories.
I want to protect him, keep him from the hurt that can surface 
when words pour over an open wound.
So I lied again and told him that all I want to do is write about how I'm crossing my delicate fingers, 
waiting for memories to let go
and for me to slip in. 
And I lied again. And again after that.
And then it happened 
That version of him disappeared. And all that's left is truth. 
Sitting together, as words fall on wounds that will take forever to heal, if at all. 
We stare at them, and each other. 
And let us happen. 
And learn that harmony isn't found in the letting go of our long-lived memories,
instead it's found somewhere in the letting go of the fight. 
Love needs room to grow, and there's no room left 
in a space filled with war.

...the inspiring awe of a Teslin Lake, embedded into the curves of a simple smile. The fishermen have shown me the certain greatness that lies beneath the magnificent beauty of the still waters, and beside the restless trees that embrace them. A life so beautifully delicate and complex that even men yearn, as women do their families, to foster a particular process of sharing time with, and to better understand, what’s hidden below.

And now, perhaps in my journeyed existence as a young woman, I’ve discovered that even beyond this life in the waters, stirs an even greater purpose. As a clown disguises his sadness in his false smiles, the waters cry out to us, not as sadness but as proof, that a smile is what we should seek to take when we explore its robust, still body. A smile that reminds us that it’s the world that we should make happy, and we merely follow. Our lives belong to this world, and the essence of our being lay still in the water. It’s the all-recondite joy we should share and remember, without asking why. Happiness doesn’t begin or end with a view or photo of a lake, nor with the fish caught from it. Happiness begins with awareness of the fragility of our lives and our response to all that the Earth has given us, including that smile in the lake.

2013 memory of Teslin Lake, Yukon 2005

Not understanding constitutes the magic that drives us to the forest; rich with vertical stories as tall as Merton’s seven storied mountain. We can’t explain what can’t be conquered, what shouldn’t be reached, the echoes that can’t be heard.

Yet, somewhere in that unexplainable, sleeps an answer. An answer that will wake when the sun rises. The sun that never sets; the one that shines eternal. Edison would bask in this everlasting sun. This certain brilliance that lights the way to our happiness. The light in all of us.

And after this, who shall say a God doesn’t exist?