tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40475047601557337112024-03-12T20:36:27.782-04:00Dream Big WordsAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-53124353091139848262017-07-30T12:37:00.001-04:002017-07-30T12:37:48.487-04:00New Home for Big Words and DreamersThis page has moved to <a href="https://dreambigwords.wordpress.com/">Dream Big Words</a> at Wordpress.com - see you there!<a href="https://dreambigwords.wordpress.com/"></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-69827333005161327302014-04-17T11:49:00.000-04:002014-04-17T11:49:15.445-04:00Little Flower<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_-Fz1hDiTRA/U0_2rzGdcXI/AAAAAAAABcY/mHE1EYNL5Go/s1600/medium_6417398345.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_-Fz1hDiTRA/U0_2rzGdcXI/AAAAAAAABcY/mHE1EYNL5Go/s320/medium_6417398345.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
I want you to know <br />
Your tiny heart is perfect<br />
And we hear you in our daydreams<br />
Through the winds<br />
And in ourselves.<br />
<br />
You are in our place of love<br />
Even if your hands and feet <br />
Aren’t seen and touched<br />
The way we want;<br />
The way we wanted.<br />
<br />
Now the gentle wings of angels <br />
Fold around you,<br />
Carry you with tenderness and care.<br />
<br />
The days here are not simple;<br />
The way they turn with<br />
Magic and then sadness.<br />
I don’t have a reason<br />
For the pain,<br />
<br />
But I do know love can lift us<br />
When our safe world is undone,<br />
When spirit flickers dim,<br />
And nothing's fair.<br />
<br />
We call them now;<br />
The daffodils, the willow leaves, lush grass<br />
The robin songs and rising suns<br />
What healing we can find;<br />
So that our spirits sing with you<br />
And fly with your sweet grace.<br />
<br />
~abigler 2014 <br />
<br />
<br />
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/8525214@N06/6417398345/">antonychammond</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-65075286720597062612013-12-02T16:48:00.000-05:002013-12-02T16:48:14.810-05:008 PointsIt was sad to watch; your<br />
Wild life ether<br />
Tame; there on highway.<br />
Eight points knocked off<br />
Soft; fur like my dog.<br />
A moment like that<br />
Cold hand <br />
Dark eyed lesson;<br />
Slow down.<br />
<br />
Listen;<br />
Is your life rushing on<br />
In webs of thought<br />
Slushy pasts<br />
What if futures?<br />
<br />
Be on the road; awake<br />
As roads are shared<br />
With those<br />
Who do not see<br />
Our armored rush.<br />
<br />
Did you know life had value?<br />
Yours and mine.<br />
And also those who<br />
Run and dream on<br />
Paws and<br />
Wings and<br />
Hooves.<br />
<br />
~abigler 2013<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Upf4kYksaOY/Upz-lJhPDSI/AAAAAAAAAjs/7fWgD5Y1BIY/s1600/medium_127266063.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Upf4kYksaOY/Upz-lJhPDSI/AAAAAAAAAjs/7fWgD5Y1BIY/s320/medium_127266063.jpg" /></a></div><br />
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/jerbec/127266063/">jerbec</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-31473124924472350462013-10-03T10:23:00.002-04:002013-10-03T10:23:51.520-04:00Good WriterShe makes me angry.<br />
Who can cut an edge finer than that?<br />
Every word; my visceral heaven,<br />
I eat them raw, to the hilt.<br />
<br />
Who puts poems on screens anyway?<br />
A digital mist; pixelated lake.<br />
She lays hers on thick, linen sheets,<br />
I press them like wax under flame, and she's<br />
<br />
Possessed me.<br />
She knows she burns;<br />
The nightmares, the sacred.<br />
I'll come back, crawling and spent.<br />
<br />
The strike of the pen,<br />
The creak of my heart.<br />
Every page drowns me,<br />
Her ink dredged revenge.<br />
<br />
<br />
~abigler2013<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y0PZYArgOgE/Uk19aQep67I/AAAAAAAAAi0/xhTVsH9djKI/s1600/medium_88419650.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y0PZYArgOgE/Uk19aQep67I/AAAAAAAAAi0/xhTVsH9djKI/s320/medium_88419650.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/rogersmith/88419650/">Roger Smith</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-26225217155837603642013-09-08T17:39:00.000-04:002013-09-08T17:39:29.947-04:00spiritI rattled all the chains<br />
in the old kingdom<br />
thinking I was wind<br />
or dirt, or rain<br />
<br />
a ghost<br />
<br />
pressed <br />
in the miles thick earth<br />
a whisper stoked <br />
by worms or armored friends<br />
<br />
the bark fed climb<br />
and I'll be rising<br />
find me calling<br />
fresh, reborn <br />
again<br />
<br />
~abigler 2013<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-srY5Px_yuKs/UizsZoQx-GI/AAAAAAAAAgk/cEGX63mTQhk/s1600/medium_226187309.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-srY5Px_yuKs/UizsZoQx-GI/AAAAAAAAAgk/cEGX63mTQhk/s320/medium_226187309.jpg" /></a></div><br />
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/anitagould/226187309/">Anita363</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/">cc</a><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-10477291012907212622013-08-10T23:10:00.000-04:002013-08-10T23:19:58.396-04:0018 Summers (for Audrey)There have been 18 lovely summers<br />
<br />
Think of all the beaches where you walked<br />
And how the sand tucks between toes<br />
The salt air scent<br />
<br />
The world can make you new <br />
In any moment<br />
Wake and spread your fingers <br />
Towards the sun<br />
<br />
Just start again<br />
That is the trick<br />
To keep on moving<br />
<br />
May the path unfold before you<br />
Clear and shining <br />
Like your heart<br />
<br />
May you feel her sworn protection<br />
Nourished roots, the warming wind<br />
Her gentle peace among the waves and rain<br />
<br />
May your breath carry you through<br />
Along with your clear vision<br />
and your heart and light and strength<br />
<br />
May purest love surround you<br />
A centered, fluid flame<br />
Inside and out<br />
<br />
May you laugh and smile and dance<br />
May you take the time for peace <br />
and brilliant dreams<br />
<br />
May you speak all of your truths<br />
And sing your songs<br />
May you let yourself be seen<br />
For all your light<br />
<br />
May you love and be loved back<br />
In balance and in care<br />
The treasures of the spirit<br />
Shining through<br />
<br />
There have been 18 lovely summers<br />
Or beats of the world heart<br />
Or years of the great earth<br />
Where we've been blessed<br />
<br />
Today you start again<br />
Another turn towards the sun<br />
That life heart dance<br />
<br />
<br />
~ abigler2013<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-u2M9N5sFspk/UgcCG_2kYoI/AAAAAAAAASA/KSITIYQz-nc/s1600/medium_2532364715.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-u2M9N5sFspk/UgcCG_2kYoI/AAAAAAAAASA/KSITIYQz-nc/s320/medium_2532364715.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ashleyrosex/2532364715/">ashley rose,</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-6072316614899382562013-07-22T20:43:00.000-04:002013-07-22T20:45:18.455-04:00LucidIf she could think herself sane<br />
She would follow god maps<br />
To clean, tempered planes<br />
Even-keeled, deepening rests.<br />
<br />
She'd soften her mind<br />
On grass-fed rains <br />
Her feet pressed<br />
In long settled earth.<br />
<br />
Maybe there is a way.<br />
<br />
Sometimes the paint<br />
Sticks to her skin<br />
Long after the brush<br />
Pushes in.<br />
<br />
Perhaps she drenched herself<br />
There in the flecks<br />
Where she can be colors<br />
And rays.<br />
<br />
And you wonder how<br />
She imagined<br />
How she swept through<br />
The taut pain.<br />
<br />
If she could breath out<br />
Through the frame<br />
She would sing<br />
And you would believe<br />
She was sane.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F51LlRLIphU/Ue3OgwqNEnI/AAAAAAAAAN0/Akrza0uRfQQ/s1600/medium_2426974366.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F51LlRLIphU/Ue3OgwqNEnI/AAAAAAAAAN0/Akrza0uRfQQ/s320/medium_2426974366.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
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photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/freeparking/2426974366/">deflam</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-49973584212037434902013-07-09T20:48:00.000-04:002013-07-09T20:48:26.489-04:00FreedomWhat were their words<br />
When they left the king?<br />
<br />
Life<br />
Liberty<br />
Happiness pursuits<br />
<br />
Sometimes we forget<br />
This intention <br />
Of light<br />
<br />
I know they forgot<br />
Half the nation<br />
at least<br />
<br />
But insert yourself<br />
into the meaning<br />
<br />
You deserve<br />
Freedom<br />
Equality<br />
Rights<br />
<br />
Your crown is yourself<br />
Now be free<br />
<br />
~abigler 2013<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-91xmzN3dPVw/Udyu7gvvpFI/AAAAAAAAAM4/mP_SYfkkCww/s1600/medium_6218482933.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-91xmzN3dPVw/Udyu7gvvpFI/AAAAAAAAAM4/mP_SYfkkCww/s320/medium_6218482933.jpg" /></a></div><br />
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/fiddleoak/6218482933/">fiddle oak</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-79302988488615180062013-06-13T21:30:00.000-04:002013-06-13T21:44:08.412-04:00her dreamWriting her dreams
<br/>
I follow her in.
<br/><br/>
She craves the old path
<br/>
Coyote, crow, fox.
<br/><br/>
The tricksters are at it
<br/>
Again.
<br/><br/>
~abigler 2013
<br/><br/>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-g95eUyVAlDY/Ubp1E47WU7I/AAAAAAAAAL8/aFHN3q597ag/s1600/medium_4226019793.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-g95eUyVAlDY/Ubp1E47WU7I/AAAAAAAAAL8/aFHN3q597ag/s320/medium_4226019793.jpg" /></a></div>
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photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/h-k-d/4226019793/">h.koppdelaney</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-63525965384403013002013-06-06T08:49:00.000-04:002013-06-06T08:55:43.368-04:00Sri Anandamayi Ma<br/>
Meditation
<br/>
Not like a dream
<br/>
but a gentle way
<br/>
you hold yourself
<br/><br/>
So many people
<br/>
forget to be loved
<br/>
to be love
<br/><br/>
There are smooth
<br/>
tender ways
<br/>
to move through the
<br/>
mountain high hills
<br/><br/>
The fog lifts
<br/>
stage curtains
<br/><br/>
Swept back
<br/>
from theater
<br/>
into the life
<br/><br/>
~abigler 2013
<br/><br/>
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yFmJ5r_XjCg/UbCD1cNJ5kI/AAAAAAAAALM/msDq6kBcEOU/s1600/medium_6801744816.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yFmJ5r_XjCg/UbCD1cNJ5kI/AAAAAAAAALM/msDq6kBcEOU/s320/medium_6801744816.jpg" /></a>
<br/><br/>
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/piper/6801744816/">CaptPiper</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-46040417336907247362013-05-30T18:01:00.001-04:002013-05-30T18:01:58.178-04:00A Poem by my Mother<b>Reflections</b>
<br/><br/>
Had I been adequately prepared for your visit
<br/>
I would have...
<br/>
Plucked the weeds from my garden
<br/>
And replaced them with budding beauties,
<br/>
Invited you to sit on a soft carpet of moss
<br/>
Shaded by growing greenery,
<br/>
Planned a picnic of your favorite delicacies from distant lands.
<br/><br/>
I could not arrange an appropriate setting,
<br/>
Yet you made yourself at home among weeds and unpainted boards.
<br/>
You refused refreshment and placed my needs ahead of your own.
<br/><br/>
Like our Lord, you came to serve.
<br/>
Long after sunglow, I'll savor your sensitivity.
<br/><br/>
~Nancy J. Ressler
<br/><br/>
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FmTX7EaLWtM/UafLkbc5t-I/AAAAAAAAAK4/ZEGSOvK66ZE/s1600/medium_2947232487.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FmTX7EaLWtM/UafLkbc5t-I/AAAAAAAAAK4/ZEGSOvK66ZE/s320/medium_2947232487.jpg" /></a>
<br/><br/>
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/grantmac/2947232487/">Grant MacDonald</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-34067371929276143292013-05-20T08:23:00.000-04:002013-05-20T08:23:20.200-04:00GraduationThere was a day<br/>
each year<br/>
when baby ducks<br/>
were led<br/>
from the garden<br/>
behind the school<br/>
through crowds of <br/>
children, teachers, praise<br/>
over bright, linoleum floors<br/>
to the lobby<br/>
where all applauded<br/>
duckling footsteps<br/>
to the door<br/><br/>
they would leave<br/>
the nest<br/>
smooth, round tables<br/>
long days of numbers and words<br/><br/>
for dreams of water songs and wings<br/>
made real<br/><br/>
~abigler 2013
<br/><br/>
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9PFYiCNaC2g/UZoVZUWMxnI/AAAAAAAAAKo/Bw800BuQf2M/s1600/medium_489411216.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9PFYiCNaC2g/UZoVZUWMxnI/AAAAAAAAAKo/Bw800BuQf2M/s320/medium_489411216.jpg" /></a>
<br/><br/>
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sherseydc/489411216/">stevehdc</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-36623189873223544282013-05-11T09:34:00.000-04:002013-05-11T09:47:42.326-04:00All These DaysHaving her in my life is like deep, clear water flowing gently over stones, meandering through the bed of earth, that fertile ground, this blissful place where life begins. Having her in my life lets this live in me, this courageous stream, this knowing she is safe. Heart beating, blood flowing, living, smiling, human life, the gift.<br /><br />The place where we begin is sacred. That bright star traveling through, crossing paths with the light of the heart. The mother says hello. When I had her I was glowing. Galaxies and stars were in my body, that divine spark of creation. When I felt this, it took over all the pain and labor, dissolving all that ache. And when we looked at you and held you we were safe. We were so blessed to know you in that space. We lay together with you in the hospital bed. You were ours for one day. We looked at your fingers and toes, saw how bright your eyes were, understood what it meant to be pregnant. There was some time alone when I rocked you. Just you and me in the low lit hospital room. I didn’t know you. I didn’t know anything, just that my heart was breaking. I didn’t care about anything, except that you were safe.<br /><br />Everyone came to see you and hold you and love you, and as we all got to know you I kept a certain little distance knowing the inevitable separation was coming. The worst part was goodbye. The day they came to adopt their baby. We all wept - there was no medicine for that. They were so happy and smiling. They gave me a stuffed bear, they held you and they loved you. I thought that was the end.<br/><br/> We packed up my things, I was wheeled out with my belongings and my new stuffed animal. We sat on the sofa and talked and cried. My mother helped me into the tub, She felt so bad for me, I curled up in the hot salty water holding onto myself. In my bed I clung to my stuffed bear and your little hospital hat. It was an unforgiving, dark volcano, molten hot dust. It seems like forever the fire. Seemed like years that I was seething and angry, some little animal growled and bristled.<br /><br />It wasn’t long before his family found out about you. They say that things done in secret come to the light. Now what do I do? A chance to keep you in your family, to see you, to know you? How can we break the hearts of those who adopted you? Take you back. Give you away again. The fire passes into the winter place, it dries and hardens to protect. In time this old wound cracks. Starting down inside I wonder, how could I make up for all this loss? That infinite void of quiet, frozen emptiness. What could replace that connection? Seventeen is too young for these weighted decisions, but we made them and now you are here. Your new parents held you and loved you. They smiled and they were happy. Your room was ready. Your house, your yard, your dog and cat. We were there to see who loved you, where you lived and to visit and hold you and play.<br /><br />I couldn’t survive being twisted and angry forever. You can’t live in the dark that way, that scared, that lost. Open your eyes and realize what grace has come, what the world has to offer – a girl who lives and breaths, the daughter of us all. I slowly braid myself back together. My light brightens and strengthens with years and years of healing between me and the losses and pains. Even still I work on it, the letting go and the mending up, the ebb and flow of me as I change and bloom and get to know myself.<br /><br />Oh little girl you are sacred, so many relations and roots. Your family tree is doubled, your tribe is all around you. Any of us would do anything for you.To see her live is like dancing, to know her name, hear her voice, see her expressions, to read her words. Every little thing is important. It seems preposterous to be so blessed, to have this chance. In these moments the heart outweighs all else and fills me up. <br /><br />I thought it would be too difficult, too hard to see her there in front of me while holding myself at a distance, to walk that tender line of appropriate vs. not, detaching for the safety of the heart. And it was difficult and it has been an exercise in contortion, but it was better than not knowing, it is better to hug heart to heart, to look into your eyes and talk.<br /><br />In all that wonder of who we are and what we are doing here, the connections and the experiences matter. For all these days of magic I give thanks. It could never have been any different. We are people making choices, imperfect and uncertain. We grow older but we are still little inside, we still don’t know what we are doing. We do the best we can most days. We give and take and take and give.<br /><br />I’ll take this gift of time and hold it close, every single moment spent with you. <br /><br /><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1Kfga-DMuek/UY5IGfj1M1I/AAAAAAAAAKA/cjdg16odmAs/s1600/medium_5927919392.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1Kfga-DMuek/UY5IGfj1M1I/AAAAAAAAAKA/cjdg16odmAs/s320/medium_5927919392.jpg" /></a>
<br/><br/>
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/patries71/5927919392/">patries71</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-58995416328020439502013-05-02T13:32:00.001-04:002013-07-10T10:49:50.949-04:00Surrender I should have bowed down <br />
And surrendered <br />
Every day <br />
<br />
I should have told you <br />
I could see you <br />
Lovely <br />
Like the wings of all those geese <br />
Who flew away <br />
When we could not <br />
<br />
<br />
Our minds are different <br />
Every nuance <br />
Every chord <br />
Like tight wound wire <br />
Exposed <br />
<br />
All the songs and visions <br />
Overwhelm <br />
The feelings come in swarms <br />
Through skin and bone <br />
And brain <br />
<br />
All those nerves <br />
Are reaching <br />
For a breath <br />
Within the flame <br />
<br />
Without it <br />
Where would words be? <br />
Would summer be so deep and hot? <br />
Electric <br />
<br />
Can we live without ourselves? <br />
Maybe, for a day <br />
What then? <br />
A quiet respite <br />
In a tired, pill stained grave? <br />
<br />
You have a light <br />
Surrender <br />
To the weight <br />
Of all these <br />
Prayers <br />
<br />
Heavy <br />
Till you bow down <br />
Head to earth <br />
And shed the blame <br />
<br />
~abigler 2013 <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZWrNRIMWB1g/Ud10Xxi0MsI/AAAAAAAAANI/PVUjhkJ3SlA/s1600/medium_5444277959.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZWrNRIMWB1g/Ud10Xxi0MsI/AAAAAAAAANI/PVUjhkJ3SlA/s320/medium_5444277959.jpg" /></a></div><br />
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/chiaralily/5444277959/">chiaralily</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-379928521428980192013-04-15T13:00:00.001-04:002013-04-15T13:00:59.575-04:00Turtle Time<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zd-J8GudabM/UWhJff1VMXI/AAAAAAAAAI4/OICEjvqmm6k/s1600/medium_5860909991.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zd-J8GudabM/UWhJff1VMXI/AAAAAAAAAI4/OICEjvqmm6k/s320/medium_5860909991.jpg" /></a>
<br/><br/>
Yesterday, my friend and I were out hiking around a nearby lake and she pointed out two bumps on a log in the shallow water. We rushed to a better vantage point and confirmed that it was two turtles, one big and one little. Their long necks were stretched out of their dark shells. We could not make out their expressions, but I imagine they were happy to be together warming in the sunlight.
<br/><br/>
Right now I feel like a turtle taking small steps in the writing of my book. This is a time of cautious reflection. I, like the turtle, need my four feet on the ground. Inside my womb-like shell I can wade through the pages and ask myself the big questions. What is the goal of this book? What scenes matter most? What can be left behind? How do I balance the heart of what I have to share with an adventure that engages the reader?
<br/><br/>
What I know for certain is that it is a book about finding light in dark places. It is about our roots, the ones we are born with and the ones we create. It is about the magical point of light that can save you on the darkest journey. The kind of spark you see in lucid dreams. This tiny, spinning orb hums as it pulses and shines. You reach out to touch it and it radiates through you as a warm, inner blanket. I want to take you with me into this forest, transform and fire you with the elements and send you home polished and new. I want you to feel what it is like in the mysterious rabbit hole and guide you back to life.
<br/><br/>
I'll venture back out when I'm done.
<br/><br/>
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OfIV9pvGjf4/UWhJlnR8OZI/AAAAAAAAAJA/F98647d8Rmo/s1600/medium_891396702.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OfIV9pvGjf4/UWhJlnR8OZI/AAAAAAAAAJA/F98647d8Rmo/s320/medium_891396702.jpg" /></a>
<br/><br/>
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/usfwsnortheast/5860909991/">U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service - Northeast Region</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">cc</a>
<br/><br/>
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/starside/891396702/">wander.lust</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-23074369385192992412013-03-27T14:45:00.001-04:002013-03-27T21:40:18.330-04:00A Wish For MarriageLast March I was in Kauai, worshiping sunshine, ocean and coastlines with my husband. We did that thing where you date for 7 years, get married at the JP, have a wedding celebration the next year and go on your honeymoon the year after that. So there we were, basking in the rewards of all our efforts. All those blessings we enjoyed were gained with sweat.
<br/><br/>
In the beginning, when the immediate pheromones are wearing off, the maniacal chemistry cools and allows you to return to things like sleep and food and laundry and yourself. And this is the worst because you recognize that the other person will now see you as you are and that means you have to hide or run or surrender. I liken the ravaging burn of surrender to that of re-entry, when the space shuttle is hurtling back into the atmosphere and it absolutely has to go through this fiery quake to get back down to earth.<br/><br/>
Ack! That’s what it was like. I was doing cartwheels in the atmosphere and now here’s the terrible fear of being seen and known and loved. I was an exposed mess, my tiny ship in flames. You know he stayed, this man. He saw me and he stayed and we learned how to swim together. All those tides in all those different oceans, we kept going. I kept shedding layers as we went. It became safe to let this person share my raft. <br/><br/>
I imagine that any relationship takes a course like that - and care. You can’t just let it lay there, you must laugh and hug and talk and listen. Such a delicate respect. I hope there soon comes a day when everyone who has done this work can celebrate and say, “Look at us, we’ve come this far and now we’ve gotten married. We’re sharing this commitment and this promise with you all!” I hope that everyone who bravely loves can swim along the coastline hand in hand regardless of their gender. Because really, a marriage is a sacred bond we cherish and to say we cannot share that based on gender is the blinding, selfish, hate that separates.<br/><br/>
May we all have the right to fly to space with whom we choose, to re-enter and cool and swim and cry and float with our dear loves, and then have equal rights to marry and commit in a public, legal space.
<br/><br/><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NHa3ZQGtuG4/UVM-Okctc5I/AAAAAAAAAIc/mhTLwaVogqQ/s1600/dolphins+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NHa3ZQGtuG4/UVM-Okctc5I/AAAAAAAAAIc/mhTLwaVogqQ/s320/dolphins+3.jpg" /></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-49920512371281792952013-03-21T09:46:00.001-04:002013-03-21T10:12:23.380-04:00Redwood Dream<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xFiqECrO3eQ/UUsO7qQmEUI/AAAAAAAAAIE/UlpdvqS2_Eo/s1600/medium_6648548769.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xFiqECrO3eQ/UUsO7qQmEUI/AAAAAAAAAIE/UlpdvqS2_Eo/s320/medium_6648548769.jpg" /></a>
<br /><br />
Dreaming takes down the
<br /><br />
light curtain<br /><br />
bathes us with visions of pregnant earth<br /><br />
her life, her dreams<br /><br /><br /><br />
if we could listen in<br /><br />
hear her whisper in the trees<br /><br />
see the color in their dreams<br /><br />
those monolithic earth whale redwoods<br /><br /><br /><br />
go see them in your heart<br /><br />
when you cannot feel their leaves<br /><br />
or bark<br /><br />
or roots<br /><br />
inviting <br /><br />
you<br /><br /> <br /><br />
she meets us there<br /><br />
that sacred<br /><br />
that vision<br /><br />
that rooted beauty <br /><br />
folds our prayers<br /><br />
into her soft bark<br /><br />
her singing leaves<br /><br />
her living roots<br /><br />
inviting <br /><br />
us to strength<br /><br /> <br /><br />
footstep by footstep<br /><br />
connected in<br /><br />
her graceful image<br /><br />she<br /><br />can<br /><br />hearten<br /><br /> all of them<br /><br />these waking walking earth dreams<br /><br /> <br /><br />~abigler 2012
<br /><br />
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/justinwkern/6648548769/">kern.justin</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-43525679305017928432013-03-16T10:53:00.001-04:002013-03-17T08:19:12.283-04:00<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VzVzrP1lst0/UUSGBtfsQdI/AAAAAAAAAHo/db-_ZwW7IVU/s1600/medium_6565188459.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VzVzrP1lst0/UUSGBtfsQdI/AAAAAAAAAHo/db-_ZwW7IVU/s320/medium_6565188459.jpg" /></a>
<br/>
<br/>
Bathed in words
<br/>
<br/>
She glanced within
<br/>
<br/>
and grinned.
<br/>
<br/>
Was anybody watching?
<br/>
<br/>
Who could care?
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
~abigler 2013
<br/>
<br/>
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/thelotuscarroll/6565188459/">Lotus Carroll</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-9010780581233659492013-03-08T10:45:00.000-05:002013-03-08T10:45:25.052-05:00woman<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kobGngJlCf4/UToGuE-J6GI/AAAAAAAAAHI/jumQkRvND0Q/s1600/medium_2124663742.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kobGngJlCf4/UToGuE-J6GI/AAAAAAAAAHI/jumQkRvND0Q/s320/medium_2124663742.jpg" /></a>
<br/>
<br/>
To be woman
<br/>
Is the flowing strength
<br/>
Surrender
<br/>
<br/>
This caring for others
<br/>
Breaks my heart
<br/>
But lifts me
<br/>
And my curves
<br/>
And bone
<br/>
Smooth pelvis
<br/>
<br/>
What is different
<br/>
Is my voice
<br/>
More like a song
<br/>
Or spirit
<br/>
Than a masculine gruff
<br/>
Not that I can’t growl
<br/>
And bare my teeth
<br/>
And burn
<br/>
<br/>
But my soft folds
<br/>
Add dimension
<br/>
And my million thoughts
<br/>
Create
<br/>
A certain way that contrasts
<br/>
Yin from yang
<br/>
<br/>
To be woman
<br/>
Is the pulse
<br/>
And wind
<br/>
Melodic mounds
<br/>
Of birth
<br/>
<br/>
No matter if her
<br/>
Children are
<br/>
Her words,
<br/>
Her songs,
<br/>
Or beings
<br/>
That she tends.
<br/>
<br/>
~abigler 2013
<br/>
<br/>
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/auro/2124663742/">[auro]</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-87027394399923266532013-02-28T19:39:00.001-05:002013-03-01T17:34:22.716-05:00the leap betweenOn February 29, 2000, my mom leaped between worlds to a new place where I could not see. I drowned without warning, unable to swim as my roots were now tangled around me. To return to land, I took my own leap through cold time, dark embers, and hologram waves of the psyche. I since came around to myself, but recast. Death must be something like that, a luminous transformation where the soul is returned to the source but now changed.
<br/>
<br/>
The thing about the Leap Day loss is I have more comings than goings. Each August we dine on her favorites, sweet corn on the cob and ripe peaches. All of us feel the heat and the storms. The lightning is common and deep. The roots of the willow rise up to meet the lily, hydrangea and lilac. We are dressed up and singing like heaven or love when it's new and celestial. Your heart, that is summer, her birthday. The day she arrived in this world.
<br/>
<br/>
Since 2000, we’ve had Leap Day 3 times. It felt strange to see the occasion marked there on the wall. What else could I write in the square? Most years send the gift of detachment but here it was staring me back. Is there really a way to escape? Perhaps the void between the 28th and the 1st is the space the most real regardless. Because I wasn’t there when you came but you even shine at the end and I could replay pools of darkness but you always gave me your light.
<br/>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-okay_YxRy7s/US_3r3FzA_I/AAAAAAAAAGY/EWzUiNd14r8/s1600/medium_2630466183.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-okay_YxRy7s/US_3r3FzA_I/AAAAAAAAAGY/EWzUiNd14r8/s320/medium_2630466183.jpg" /></a>
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photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/haniamir/2630466183/">Hani Amir</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-79567191542499037972013-02-18T12:18:00.002-05:002013-02-19T09:52:51.066-05:00St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wSfxhkAsEAk/USJhnAk-d3I/AAAAAAAAAGA/biw6M7lb_iU/s1600/wolf.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wSfxhkAsEAk/USJhnAk-d3I/AAAAAAAAAGA/biw6M7lb_iU/s320/wolf.jpg" /></a>
Now and then I come across a piece of writing that sets my heart howling. Like hearing a song that ignites you to break dance or watching a film that moves you to take part in your own life. Maybe you brush your fingertips across a painting that you long to crawl into because the grass is that perfect and it’s warm, acrylic wind sweeps up around your skin and brings you in. That’s how I feel about this fantastically absurd story of a home for girls raised by wolves.
<br/>
<br/>
The parents in the tale are werewolves who want a better life for their human children. A group of nuns take the savage girls into St. Lucy’s to be groomed and normalized for civilized society. The idea of these girls marking their rooms, wearing shoes on their fisted paws and learning to stand up on two legs is delightful because it is so bizarre, so ridiculous to imagine that they can somehow be made normal. They are really trying despite the fact that their words are more like growls.
<br/>
<br/>
Where reality is vulnerable, the notion of being raised by wolves brings primal romance. Imagine a place where inherent wildness is valuable and under protection from the pack. Survival is amplified with the keen senses of the wolves living telepathically as one with the cavernous, dark trees. Those who cannot connect safely, can relate to the desire to say that “Yes, I was raised by wolves and therefore cannot eat without making a mess or color inside your heavy lines! No I cannot quiet and soften where I am harsh and rough!”
<br/>
<br/>
There’s something alluring about these feral images. The deep inner call to tear with pointed teeth. Any child who has been hurt can tell you what it’s like to bristle and spit at every shadow. If only there were claws instead of fingernails and jowls instead of jaw, there would be some way to wear that old wild coat less painfully. How comforting it would be if there was a great furred pack surrounding our fragility.
<br/>
<br/>
Often in my life, I’ve felt like an impostor. Walking around in clothing and brushed hair while keening to bolt into the woods and take up shelter in her earthy folds. I could dig out a bed under a pine tree and circle into the soft needles. I could transform into my true <i>criatura</i>, let the wild woman howl right through my tangled fur. It’s what writing does for me. Here I roam unhindered with my paws out of my shoes. I am protected by my pack. One man, two dogs, one cat. They lick my wounds and nudge me back onto the path where I am writing my own heart out on the page.
<br/>
<br/>
I wonder what happened to the girls after they finished at St. Lucy’s. Do I ever pass them on the street and get a scent of that old legend that they lived before they polished up and blended? Maybe we all attended there in some way or another. Maybe we’re howling to each other when we nod and say good morning.
<br/>
<br/>
Thank you, Karen Russell, for this wonderfully strange vision.
<br/>
<br/>
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/dougbrown47/6000671312/">Douglas Brown</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">cc</a>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-64515947615738805872013-02-09T14:12:00.000-05:002013-02-09T14:21:05.078-05:00Mental HaikuSometimes, when my mind is busy and spinning and sparking a notch too fiery, I tell it to be quiet. When that doesn’t work (that never works), I try to ignore it and find myself reading (but not quite retaining) self-help or reminders on post-its with advice for myself from myself.
<br />
<br />
If my mind is still reeling, unable to settle, I will write a list of the pulls fragmenting my attention. What books I want to read or research that needs to be done. There are scenes to be fleshed out. A page of displaced sentences impatiently awaiting adoption. Phone calls to suffer, people to connect with and appointments to schedule (the dentist - you must!). Not to mention the numerous life changes necessary for perfection.
<br />
<br />
The list expands into a fury of unrelated obligations and reminders about posture, forgiveness and potential dog behaviorists. I write a list of things to list on separate lists, and now I’ve really (totally) lost it, for underneath lies the compulsion to achieve it all instantaneously. It is the habitual inner crusade that drives all thoughts together into an impossible tangle of immediate demands. Now I am caught (again).
<br />
<br />
What I long for then, is to reset the mess and get clean. I seek out my haiku book. The white one with the fresh, spring green pear on the cover and open to any page. I carefully read one three-line set and float into simplicity and calm, thankful for respite and peace.
<br />
<br />
<br />
The time it takes –
<br />
For snowflakes to whiten
<br />
The distant pines
<br />
<br />
- Lorraine Ellis Harr<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/68244807@N00/6650631489/">jsbanks42</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/">cc</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-49436497307051720142013-02-02T09:13:00.000-05:002013-02-02T09:13:35.432-05:00PoemThe soft inner touch of the spark
<br/>
Meets the ancient turn of grace
<br/>
And really what is grace
<br/>
If not poetic
<br/>
Or soft
<br/>
Or a spark
<br/>
<br/>
~Abigler 2013
<br/>
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photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bernatcg/3728619339/">bernat...</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3n8XT0sD7mE/UQ0d_99vq_I/AAAAAAAAAC4/i4GREu9_70E/s1600/spark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="159" width="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3n8XT0sD7mE/UQ0d_99vq_I/AAAAAAAAAC4/i4GREu9_70E/s320/spark.jpg" /></a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11493342396229099689noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4047504760155733711.post-18021334868545356382013-02-01T18:09:00.001-05:002013-02-01T18:09:48.009-05:00Maiden Blog VoyageI dreamt of a blog where I would share words. Not just the big words but excruciatingly skinny words, frighteningly lucid words, gigantic, irrepressible, delicious, beautiful words.
<br/>
<br/>
My words. Your words. Poetry, memoir, fiction, thoughts. Pictures, drawings too.
<br/>
<br/>
A mishmash of the moment. Lucid dreaming. Fairy tales. Magic. Zen wisdom. Bipolar observations. Healing consciousness. The writing life. Yoga poses. Chakra mantras. The quest for inner peace. Thoughts about cats. Thoughts about thoughts. Communion with dogs. Blessings of life. Varied ways of breathing. Tools for the path. Theories on death and the mystery and everything. Nature as healer. God, Goddess, Wind.
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<br/>
Pictures of pets. Pictures of trees. Pictures of birds.
<br/>
<br/>
Thoughts on birds and the way their quiet wings are really layers upon layers of carefully spun threads.
<br/>
<br/>
Words are like threads. They weave us together.
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photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/hvargas/3256299279/">HVargas</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">cc</a>
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