Something good

The alarm goes off at 6am.
No, I can’t do it.
I will.

Every week I think of 7am Qi Gong downtown. Sometimes I make it.


But this is the time of savor. This is the time of doing what I want and not making a job out of it.

I get up.

I sing in the car on the way to wake up and prepare for the song I am learning.

On the floor, first time through the form, I savor the deliciousness of being in my own body, feeling grounded. I recently discovered that if I eat breakfast before class – not just a smoothie – it is so much better. I really stretch, toe to torso to fingers and it feels whole, nourishing. Before we come to the end of the form, everything shifts and I am light-headed.

Dammit. I’ve left class because of dizziness and I do not want to leave. Stick it out, girlfriend. Be tough. Well, it’s not about being tough. That way will result in you passing out. It’s about figuring it out. Navigating.

So the second time through the form, I do it small. I focus on the furnace within and consider any stretching as an expression of containment. Locked in, except for when my mind drifts, not leaving my body. My world is here and I modulate the boundaries, all being sacred but the center being here. Not there. Success.

Afterwards, I stop by one of the last earthy cafes in town, looking for familiar comfort, the same old tables, the good smells and ambiance. But it am early. It smells like burning, there is a couple talking too loudly and the staff doesn’t realize in their rush to get the place open that the music is too low. The walls are bare and echoey; they must be between artists.

“This is just an empty shell”, I think. “Like any other room.”

I recover quickly from my disappointment and then it feels exciting, the cool, the starkness, knowing that the fun is in my heart and no one can take it away. I ask them to turn the music up and soon, the couple leaves. Before my breakfast is ready, yummy smells waft from the kitchen. The cafe resumes it’s earthiness, but with me in better awareness.

It’s not enough to get away, to shut those things out that have been eating at your soul.

It’s not enough to find a safe space and hunker down.

It’s not enough to clear the debris and dig into the foundation, to break through to fertile ground and feel again.

It’s not enough to dream and sort things through and find reason and plant a few seeds.

You gotta grow a garden.

You can’t go out into that world without your garden. A rich, dense, undiscovered area to the rest of the world that you may or may not give access to.

Otherwise you are just setting yourself up for defeat again. The wheel of defeat and recovery is too small. Get on the greater wheel, the one that includes the expanse of life not just reached but lived.

Know this.

Know yourself without trauma and you will never want to go back.


That which comes without warning

And then there is the time when after the long awaking, after the split, the sleep and the recovery, after the faith has been held for so long, that sustenance seeps up from the ground. Things look the same but the doors are open. Medicine pours into the dry wounds and pleasure for living returns. The fallow period has passed. All the dreams, the prayers, the offerings to the mother have been heard and the answer is now in your blood.

Live. Live the life you wanted. Defend the new life as if survival depends upon it, because it does. And you know that now so there is no more deliberating. It is a fresh page and you are not a young thing, so take the pen and stroke from your life, the tapestry which cannot be undone yet can always continue.


Not knowing has become fun again, only because of the rock inside. This rock which has been formed through so much hardness, this hardness which has become your strength. To trust in that strength is to find the will to be gentle again. To know that you have become your own protector grants freedom to be able to choose to be open again. This child, inside is safe and brings a joy to carry you forth.

Blessed be the seasons that pass. Blessed is the ground beneath our feet. Blessed is the food and the wake and blessed has been the silence.

We do not run, nor push nor fend. We stroll into a new world with the patience of time. We savor and we test. We choose again and we go for what we always wanted. With skill this time.

Blessed be.


This is my spiritual share to the #metoo trend that is going on. I was sexually harassed on the job at age 16 so severely that I had a breakdown on shift and had to walk out. I never went back. But the experience left me in PSTD for further jobs and set me up for my generation’s culture of “if he buys you a drink, you are obligated to sleep with him” in the following years. When that chapter was over it took me decades to sort it all out and find some semblance of personal sovereignty.
After I moved to Seattle in my 20’s, I had a healing from a dear woman who did multiple extractions of all the men I had slept with – I stated that I could still feel them swimming around in my womb. During the healing, I pounded my fist on the mat I was lying on so much that I sprained my wrist. Afterwards, she had me visualize a space inside of me that was my sacred temple. This was a place that no one was allowed in except for me. My goddess, I was in my 20’s and I had never even that such a container in myself was even an option! It took me many years after this healing to fully realize this conception.
I wasn’t ever raped in my memory. (Though on one occasion I was almost gang-raped in a Fremont apartment. Luckily, Spirit charged me to get out, high on cocaine, before it was too late, and find my way home, unfollowed.) Outside of that, I was emotionally and psychologically overpowered by older men at a young age. I was imprinted to open for men, to act aroused when I wasn’t. When I stopped these behaviors, I found that something had been taken from me that I never knew that I had, or had a right to hold. I didn’t feel that feminine power that naturally flows from so many women I saw around me. I was spiritually/sexually barren. The only way I knew to receive intimacy was through sex because I didn’t trust – wasn’t ever shown – that my mind and humor and creative abilities was enough to love and call anyone to want to be close to me.
Many decades later, after experiencing many emotional flashback without informational memory, I came to believe that something terrible truly had happened to me at a young age that I cannot remember. I am at peace that I may never remember and I am not concerned because the Great Compassionate Spirits and my human spiritual teachers have shown me how to untangle my relationship patterns: relationship with other, with myself and with Spirit. But still, I must admit, now that I have found my boundaries, I find that the amount of time it might take for me to trust a man to let them touch me again, might be longer than most men would be willing wait. Well.. their loss.
Shamanism is about relationship, to all of these things and also to the land, to the tree people, the stone people, the stars, the sun. My superpower, my holy grail is my commitment to my own personal sovereignty, which is about learning to establish healing boundaries in all of these relationships. To say no. To say maybe let me think about it. To make a calculated decision to say yes. To allow myself to change my mind. To allow myself to sing my medicine in any form I wish to, alone always and in the witness of others if I choose to.
Things that do not change, die. It is the nature of nature to change, so when I am stuck, I move. Move towards healing, move through the pain, move into trusted mystery, move away from people and environments where I do not feel safe. I do not need have a reason to say no. I need to listen and listen and listen until I can hear my instincts – and then trust them. And trust my friends on the other side who have walked every step of this path with me.
When we are violated, it can cause a rip in our field where other beings can come in. Where attachments are made with our abusers and where possessing beings can jump from another person to ourselves. And of course, soul loss, as a result of leaving our bodies at the moment the abuse is occurring. All this can take many years to unravel but it must be done. We all have unique gifts, to give to ourselves fore-mostly and through that, to the world and the people around us. As we do the work, the trauma lessens and the flow reestablishes. Our ability to be the hollow bone for spirit increases and our discernment is refined.
As humans, we are naturally hollow bones. To find our song in what makes us the most happy is the hollow bone that we are born to be. That is what, in my view makes us different than the other people’s on the planet. Us humans are hollow bones for a variety of things, not just humanness.
May you find healing in the #metoo expression that is happening right now. May the triggers not make you feel alone as much as you feel one with the rest of us who have had to travel this path alone as well. Collectively, we put together the pieces needed to find our path through healing to our divinity.
Blessed Be.

Dear Facebook Friend,

Dear Facebook Friend,

I hate to have to tell you this, but the real world misses me. I want to still be friends but I cannot see you as often. It’s not me, it’s you. It is definitively you. You suck as a friend. I never see you at my kitchen table. I never hear your calls. When I am around you, I feel less than, as you seem so together all the time. So perfect, so glossy, when my own life is filled with challenges and doubt.

Hello Facebook Friend,

The Book of Faces is not your friend. It is a machine quietly designed to creep into every facet of your mind until you cannot think of anything else. You forget your friends and family. You are late to your date. You are distracted over dinner. Your nervous system is primed to respond to alerts and notes. You are designing posts and pictures in your mind.

One of the biggest mars on the face of kinship was smote by the Book of Faces when they took our precious word “Friend” and used it in their cage of dreams to destroy people’s sense of personal boundaries. You share things with total strangers that you would not mention over tea. Your real world friends think they know how you are, based on the words that flit from your post to their page, so they never call. They are comforted by a cartoon of your multidimensional being. All is lost under the page, the presence of one warm body relating to another warm body, the psychic queues, the quick glance, the nervous tick. We are all cartoons, my Facebook Friend.

The technology used to create this machine, the cage of dreams, is a set of tools with unlimited power. It can connect people across the globe, fuel artistic spirits, form social movements, influence governments. However, the way it is organized, it is meant to confuse and mistake our minds to think that we can source from virtual reality things that can only truly be found in realtime. The game is lure and enchant, keep you wasted, keep you awake in the virtual reality until your face goes pale from lack of sunlight. They would wrap you permanently in their spells if they could. The only reason they are not able to lock the cage is the frustrating truth of our free will.

And free will we must use. Some of us are capable of moderation. We beat the machine by diving in, getting what want, planting seeds, putting down trails for other to follow and then getting right back out. Only the strongest of heart can do it regularly and come out unscathed. Countless others are drowning in the sea of thought-forms and suggestions.


We cannot forget who’s the boss of our minds. In order to regain sovereignty of ourselves, we have to step back. We have to be able to turn it off and turn it on as our tool. It is a technique to slow the rush or stop it for as long as we want to. Our lives are here, where we sit, with who or what is physically around us. We must return to clear mind, focus on one thing at a time, make decisions on what we think, how we think, change things in our lives that we don’t like. For if we do not, the world will not change. Facebook isn’t going to do it. The Koch Brothers aren’t going to do it. Ecosystems are being eradicated, populations executed over oil wars and our power to stop it is based solely on our ability to regain control of our capacities and our free time. This power struggle does not require money or guns to win, merely strength of mind.

If we do not clear our minds, culture will die. True genius is reliant on mental quiet, a stillness that allows the passions to sprout through with new creations. And we, the community, the people sitting across from you on the metro poring over our Facebook Pages, need that. The world has had enough imitations of imitations. Indulgent screentime of any sort is dangerous without a constant grounding in the realtime reality. You know this, you say, but to say it, know it and not do anything about it is the same as an alcoholic who says he is in perfect control as she hails over the bartender.

Please, my Facebook Friend, come out into the light of your own world and help me to do the same. It is better to struggle on a playing field where we can form our lives into ways that delight us than to languish in a reality where the rules are changing unexpectedly by people whom we will never meet. We can find nourishment in realtime and source what the world needs.


We must never be deluded into thinking that the Place of Faces is a benevolent one. It is a major corporation striving for profit. The Book of Faces may be a virtual experience but it has brick and mortar buildings, over 20,000 employees and is worth over 59 billion dollars. The popups that annoy you, the behavior of an access(friend) connection, the rules you are allowed to use as a group administrator, all of this was configured by some millennial sitting in a cube somewhere in California.

The structure of the cage of dreams is pre-designed, limiting and focusing the pathways of how you may communicate in their world, suggestive of confusing, false intimacy. Agenda decides which factors determine what content lands on your Wall, what information floods into your precious, precious mind every time you jump in to play. They intend to make you want to stay. Like a bad friend that knows that you are tired and need to go spend time with your kids before they go to bed, they hand you another glass of wine, night after night, until those kids start to wilt from the lack of your sun shining into their delicate, malleable hearts. Replace kids with creative endeavor, loved ones, self.

And our missteps, our disclosures to people we don’t know, our private chats, the flame wars and the rants, they are all quietly recorded by the state, easily searchable by some other millennial in a cube somewhere behind the walls of the NSA. No boundaries at all.

Bless you, my Friend, Be safe. Be strong. Be effective.

~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~

Join this “Limiting my Screentime” support forum:

Raven Speaks

The Raven, she is relentless.
She won’t shut up and she makes no sense to those that have not tested their trail.

She is loud,
even in her scrapes
because every sound that comes from her,
rings of the truth.
Truth we don’t want to hear.
Truth we bleed for.
Truth of the spaces we missed, of the things we buried.
Truth of the lies spun around us.

Truth of impending doom if we do not follow her into the darkness to retrieve what is ours.


Blood Orange Sun

The world I hold in my heart is crumbling
into ash as the fires burn in Canada.
The world I hold in my heart slowly dissolves
as continents’ edges drown in hurricanes.
One end cracks under the heat while the
other snaps in the cold.
There is no place to hide from our sins against
the mother.


The consumer looks up, wishes for reprieve
on her way to her morning Starbucks.
The consumer drives deeper into the core
for gold, for oil, for coal.
The four-leggeds run for shelter
beasts of sea tangle in our webs.
We are breathing the bones of our ancestors
as the one-leggeds crash to the floor.

The spirits will always be spirits.
The mother will balance herself
as she steadies herself and her people
means death to those of us left.

Turn back the narcissist from the wheel.
Turn back to the mother.
Turn back the narcissist wound in ourselves.
Turn back to the mother.

Final Reprise


When the warrior finally reaches the green pastures and sunny meadow,
when the warrior puts her weapons down,
she feels the heat rise from within her and lies down to rest
under the high grass, smell of lyrical flowers.


Further no purpose, no quarry in sight, she dreams of battles
and then when she rises, all comforts greet her body
and she sighs, and she sleeps again.

When the warrior has found her way out of the darkness
into the light of her own heart
there is no longer need to strive

for arrival is done
and the land is still.

There is nothing left to seek,
yet the song still awaits, as she waits for the song.

Soothe the jagged remembrances of evil;
remember the misplaced soothing of jagged affairs.

Awake she is, like never before and
like never before, she draws from her sleep,

every fiber,
her being whole now,
glistening and listening to the holy voice within.



I asked, “Once the debris has been cleared and demons faced, transformed, what is left in the sacred vessel of the shadow within us?”


and I heard the reply,

“That which one is connected to, but has no words for.

That which gestates and must not be disturbed, lest it be damaged in the process.

The Great Mother, who holds us, who nourishes and who weeps and cheers for us.

This is also the realm of the White Raven, she who has been burnt through and through and yet still lives. She who is Grace with a thin cloak of iron unseen and unshakeable. She who is container, soft as feather, hidden power capable of those very things she yearned to do when in pain but put down as soon as she was able. She is Death, she has seen and understood every aspect of Death and yet she has no need to bring on Death. She holds forgiveness, her compassion gently touches us with the naked light of presence aware.”

Once stagnation is broken in the sacred vessel of shadow, once the river is flowing freely, dreams of the Gods come quicker, our journeys clear in the slipstream of their inspiration. Then when we tell, we tell from a place of the Gods.

This is all I know and I pray for.

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