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Or fear?

How do we tell the Truth

When immersed in

Unproveable sensations

When pasts are filled

With nudges leading

To death

When the moments

Of life’s severance

Unfelt by a daughter so true

When dreams forecast


Never possible to intercept

When excitements lead

To despair, violation and ruin

When whole years are focused

On It, Undeniable

Only to watch the pieces

Crumble, falling

Through the cracks

One day realizing

It, too




Or fear?

Does this sensate body Know

Can I trust to guide

Or will I never really understand

Having to risk, over and over

To see

What remains Mystery


Is it all just a crapshoot

Training, my centering

As the Wheel turns

Up, and Down

Over and over again?



There’s been those nudges

The ones I’ll consider friends

Preventing disastrous outcome

With details I’ll never see


I guess what I’m asking for

Is magick

Pure selfless and unarranged Beauty

Helping to believe

There’s You

In me


There’s a Strength, a Core

A solid force

A Spine

A Something




Or maybe

Just affirmation

Of open channel

Hollow Bones

Letting the wind flow

Holding the tension

Between Intuition

And fear

Of all this Yes

Or No

Left or right

Purpose or wandering

Sacrifice or survival



As it all

Whistles through

Into a bigger song

Than Me




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Do we give it all meaning?

Or is there a force, a face, that’s given us trials to grow?

To open, connect

Is it all random

These children born into war and poverty

Others delivered into wise and safe arms of love

Is it all random

Those faced with chronic pain and illness

While others rock and dance and laugh the night away


Is there reason?

To abuse

To murder

To suicide

To heart’s betrayal

To a body’s failure to thrive

To rape

To violence

To natural disasters, homelessness

To the soul’s 



Do I turn left or right

Into bitterness or compassion

Into despair or hope?

Do I ignore

The rage, resentment, the fear

Chanting myself numb

“It’s all good…there’s a reason…there’s a reason…”

Over and over again

As the ache, dull and deep 


As the room spins

Another day waking

To no further healing?

Do I trust

Or do I wail, sob, scream

Fist to floor, slobbering?

Do I spend my mysteriously appointed immobilizations

Dreaming of better days, pain free nights


Or do I collapse into the waves of terror

Fearing, fearing

There is no God

No meaning

That life, like Nature

Does not care who I am or what I’m here to do

Like the impala, ripped apart on the plains

Like the frozen carcass of blizzard’s wake

Like a coyote’s bleeding leg in trap

Never to walk again


Howling, whimpering, straining to reach

But unable

Hoping one from the pack will come

As the skies darken

As the snow begins to fall

Hoping for teeth to chew him out

Care for his irreversible limping

A lifetime ahead


Does the trickster ask

As his lifeforce leaks onto crystalline

Howling into the long, dark, cold and coming night

Is there Meaning?

Is there reason?

Is there a face

A force?

Is there


~writings from dark times


A Ritual Of Death

Oh Great Ones

Well and healed lineages from Beyond

Help me, help me

To bring Death


Death to the old way

Death to the outworn patterns

Carving catabolic caverns in my heart

To the demons, circling

Ripping quivering potential

To shreds


O Great Ones

Well and healed lineages from Beyond

Help me craft, by candle

A ritual of their Death


A ritual of honor

Of the many ways they’ve served

Of the protection, shielding

I’ve needed for so long

The Old Ones, shrouding

I require you no more

It is time


Help me

Craft ritual of their sacred slaying

Psychopomps, I call you

To guide them Home

Beyond this body

Standing now, in safety


Oh Great Ones

Well and healed lineages from Beyond

Help me line the altar with silver blessings

To spread the path with dark kisses and heart

Sword gleaming, turning

Sending, parting

Across and through the veils


Help me

Help me let them

Help me let them

Help me let them die

Help me, release, return, unemcumber

These loyal soldiers

Give them honorable Death

So that I

May Live


Oh Great Ones

Well and healed lineages from Beyond

I am ready

I am willing

Like a great tree,

Sad to see its cloaking






Sad to see

This turning

Of such loyal, long time protectors

But knowing


The time has come



It starts with an idea

A giggle

A smile

She thinks of ways to capture, describe

She thinks of the simple joy

Of sharing


Or perhaps

She thinks

Her ideas, profound

Healing, helping



Yet underneath

A shadow, nervously paces

Does this not grow at the root of things?

Acceptance by tribe?

Will she be run out


Ostracized to empty, dry deserts

Hung from barren branches

Left to rot

Picked apart by beak and claw?


Or will she be welcomed, celebrated

Will she

In this big bad world

Have the networks

To survive



Yearning for your hearts

But ultimately, it’s reason

Just another version

She’s a puppet

To ancient, gossamer feelings


Connect me

The desires are primal

The desires are real


She’s posted, laughing


After a moment

One moment

A breath

The Silence…


The pacing

Her racing




**If you’d like to check out my first endeavors with creating a podcast with my poetry find it here: https://spotifyanchor-web.app.link/e/BiLo7d1s5sb

Primal Fear

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TW: I by all means do not mean to disrespect the Black Lives Matter situation with this entry. It comes from a recent personal experience and I acknowledge the layers of complexity and privilege with what is happening.

I am sitting in the car. It is just past midnight.

The crinkling of the wrapper crunches in my palm

As I gobble down the night’s protein bar snack.

I look up to see a white car passing slowly by.

It suddenly swoops into a parking space several cars ahead.

I think nothing of it.

A few moments later I sense the air thicken.

A primal fear swells in the space

As a black man walks down the sidewalk

Towards my car.

I try to squash this fear,

Rejecting any sort of possible racism I may be feeling about

The danger

Of black men in the night.

I have black friends

And I stand with people of color

And I hate that there is this fear, rising.

But the feeling is real and I taste it,

Along with the chocolate and grainy bits of protein crumbles in my mouth.

In seconds the passenger door rips open

And the scent of cool air and wet pavement whooshes in.

My heart is pounding in my chest

As the black man…kid…reaches over

To try to wrestle my car keys from my hand.

I scream, “What the fuck are you doing??”

The words stream effortlessly from my mouth.

I feel his own young primal fear body thicken as if surprised.

As if it is the first time he has done this.

The smell of mother’s cigarette-smoked car fabric

And electric pheromones

hangs in the air between us

As our initiation begins

Rites of Passage

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This weekend, I assisted in a powerful rites-of-passage wilderness workshop for young women in the mountains of Santa Cruz. To see these 10-13 year old girls learning primitive skills, tracking, fire-building as well as inner strengthening exercises like facing fear, darkness, challenges was more than inspiring.

One night, we took the girls into the dense forest and in pitch black, blindfolded them and let them try to find their way to a distant drum beat. Their knowledge of listening, feeling the earth beneath their feet, grounding and calming themselves, and facing their fears helped them make their way through this darkness relatively unscathed. Adults were of course surrounding it all and there in case someone was going towards danger, but for the most part their skills got them where they needed to go. At the end we all circled by the fire, faces glowing, and shared how the experience affected us, and my heart was moved by the depth that these young ones shared amongst us all. We sang songs of embracing light, embracing darkness, we spoke of finding the “true drumbeat” to listen for and follow in the dense forests we must walk through ahead in life.

I wonder what my life might have been were I exposed to something like this before my journey with the eating disorder and depression began…would my psyche have taken me there anyways? Would it grab some of these young women too, initiating them in the ways I was? Or would it have prevented the need for such intense initiation? I’m so curious how these girls will turn out as a result of being involved in such powerful rites-of-passage work.

Today, sitting at my desk I faced my fear, my own rite-of-passage. I was inspired by these girls, walking so bravely into the unknown night, trusting the drum, trusting the journey it would take them on. Today, I wrote a letter to the professors of the study I mentioned last week, asking if they might be interested in connecting and talking about ideas, possibly in reviewing my memoir. I wrote the letter pretty easily, but it was in pushing the send button where I faced my own darkness–putting myself, my ideas, my relatively “unknown” status as a writer out there in the wider field. Putting these things out there to possibly get rejected, ridiculed, shamed, all the fears that a writer or any creative has in putting out their heart to the world.

My finger trembled above the enter button as I steadied myself, like those young girls did in that forest. I breathed in, sent my roots down, and listened for the drum–the sound of my heart’s desire to share my story–and braced myself for the unknown that may come of this contact. I have had much practice in self-soothing, in courage, in trusting and daring, but for some reason I really felt the energy of those brave girls affecting me, urging me, to hit that button. So I did, and with a whoosh it has flown into the interwebs to do its magic. We’ll see what happens next.