words are foreplay for the soul

Archive for the ‘Ho, Earthling!’ Category

November 11th, 2011 by Akua


A beautiful wild dream erupted in pink-glowed majesty this morning. Rough white-tipped waves greenblueing between me and the leafy redyelloworange panoply that lay at the feet of Spirit Father as he rose through the mist into a magical glowing golden sky.



O my father

guardian of this watery green

and low bluegray

on weary feet.

O my father

this, this blink

this gasp

this wonder.

This is why we come

and sing our dreams

into the graycloud skies.



April 19th, 2011 by Akua


There is something about looking westward into the waning light that makes me incredibly happy.

Once I drove through Illinois under a spreading wide field of fluffy white that extended into infinity, cottony sheep drifting gallantly and with amused authority over the highways through a sky-blue background.

Then, for a year, I watched purple merge with golden pink over the jagged silhouette of the Front Range, lost in Chief Niwot’s curse of the Flatirons. When the year was over I could still glimpse pinkgold over jutting mountains in my rear view mirror as I turned for east again.

Then for a brief time I saw gold in the brilliant dusk mirrors of the tall crystal buildings along False Creek in Vancouver, sighing every time I biked past the Burrard Street Bridge, glimpsing silvergold on acres of glass standing tall along the water’s edge. I sighed at the beauty of this city that wasn’t mine. Read the rest of this entry »

April 4th, 2011 by Akua


Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove…

In the morning I am awakened by warmth seeping in close to me, a breath, a heartbeat. I move slowly from dream into being, your heart-filled eyes inviting me into another day. Twin mugs stand by, steaming coffee’d warmth and life with each sip, feet on lap, talking of the day to come. The sun streams in through a wall of panes, inviting us to catch a scent of summer blossom through half-open door; or rain streams over, pattering, rivulets, and we two are snug inside with logs blazing into heartwarmed embers. Twin names on the mailbox, a testament that we walk this path in tandem, hands held, joining.

The day unfolds. I write. A painting emerges from my soul. I sing love into being. You inspire, inquire, clarify, evolve. We taste, we create, we experience, we harvest the richness of being loved and loving.

We dance separate dances, now touching again, now moving apart, always connected, always aware.

Wine glasses clinking, voices, music, shared conversation and laughter. Or reading far into the night. Or drumming, smoky fires, ancestral visions. Or sensual delights, a candy store. Our tandem dance continues. Finally darkness settles in like the purring cat between us, comfortably, contentedly. The world stills around us and we sleep, breathing, joined.

March 16th, 2011 by Akua


It takes more than one hand to list the animals that have been showing up for me lately, filling the air with their song and presenting me with wisdom, perspective, challenge.

[Note: I count on my fingers beginning with the thumb. How many people do that? I would wager not many. Not many Americans anyway.]

One. Hawk. The messenger. Visionary power and guardianship. Paying attention to what might otherwise be overlooked.

Two. Eagle. Bald eagle, off to the west of I-5 somewhere around Stanwood. Ability to see highest truth or viewpoint. Spiritual energy. Connection from earth to sky, symbolizing balance.

Three. Ants. LOTS of ants. Many more than I am comfortable with. The warm spring winds awakened them and they scuttled inside looking for solace. Attending to one’s foundation. Community. Perseverance. Accomplishment through discipline and structure. Read the rest of this entry »

February 10th, 2011 by Akua

T + D

Time and distance.

I know a place in a forest where there is a gateway to other times and other places. Step through the invisible shimmering curtain and the tall trees feel 10,000 years older, transported suddenly across the globe to somewhen. I’ve been to this place several times. Each time it felt nearly the same. Magic.

Time is a funny thing. I observed nearly two months ago (!) that time had slowed down, stretching into exquisitely endless golden hours. It hasn’t changed since then. Time still moves luxuriously. Languidly. Taking its own sweet time. Seconds drip into hours. Worlds are created in a breath. There is always enough, yet I always want more.

Distance is a funny thing. There is physical separation, but … is there? Isn’t distance simply an illusion? I could take one giant step northwestward and be standing among giant redwoods or on a rocky pine-kissed beach. And even if I chose to accept that a mile is a mile and 1112 crow miles is 1112 crow miles, the sense of proximity could still be there. If I close my eyes and feel with my heart, I feel warmth. A presence. A heartbeat. It is enough, and yet I want more.

January 17th, 2011 by Akua


Fingers intertwined. Scent of winter-flowering trees. Bare expectant branches, contrasted against a muted backdrop. Verdant aliveness, sap running within, hearts beating in warm repose. Cloudburst-sated, yet wanting more, more, until waterfalls crested over mossy hillsides and the emerald turf drank a thousand years of delight.


Things I love: perspective, the unexpected, golden afternoon light, lush wetness, the way colors pop on a muted overcast day.

Seattle Arboretum view brought to you by serendipity, a romantic sensibility, and Hipstamatic, the second coolest app on my iPhone.

December 25th, 2010 by Akua


I’m haunted this week by Colorado. It keeps coming to me in different forms and from different places, SMACK a flash of memory. A mind’s-eye snapshot of brilliant white light filling rooms from every window. Bike paths winding through chirping prairie dog villages. The brilliant sky in tones of gold and vermillion, a different view in every direction. The purple crystal heart that hangs from my rear view mirror. Freedom. Loss.

He was ten that year. The cello was a natural instrument, but they weren’t friends at first. Not long before Christmas, something clicked into place. He sat taller, straighter. The instrument became part of him, an extension of him. Notes flowed from his fingertips into the warm golden-brown wood, and the house sang. A room at the front of the house became the music room, and every night we were bathed in golden brown.

I always liked Pachelbel’s Canon in D from the first time I heard it while driving to ballet class one Pittsburgh Christmas season. How had I missed this? I wondered, and turned the radio up louder. Now Pachelbel sang in the music room, the deep bass notes and the dulcet golden middle tones combining in joyful abandon. He taught me the bass line, and I felt a little body recognition in the way I held the cello, fingers curling around on the left, a taut bent arm bowing on the right. It felt familiar. No wonder he had become a natural. One day he’d play professionally, maybe.

Six months later, the sunsets dwindled in the rear view mirror and my bright dreams turned to ash. Colorado became a bitter memory of loss and defeat. The worlds I was creating, of cello players and horse girls, fell away into dust. The cello went back to the music store, forever a part of that one sun-washed year.

I heard my Christmas gift over the phone this year. It’s five years later and he’s bringing music back into his life. He picked out the notes of all the parts of Pachelbel on a keyboard nearly as old as he is, and played a hip hop version for me while I wept silently on the other end of the phone, remembering the tall boy who sat taller when he held his cello, regally coaxing notes from the golden brown wood and sending them off into the ethers, a blessing to the universe.

December 15th, 2010 by Akua

Time stretch

Time has slowed way down. I feel it stretching into ever-thinner spools of gossamer, strung this way and that across the myriad doorways of possibility that fill each second and every breath. Those breaths become entire new worlds, ripe with green juicy wonder and dripping with the clear cold freshness of the breath that comes after, and after that.

Nineteen. I count backwards, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, until I reach the touchstone that began my realization that I have become a Time Sorceress. And with every moment hanging in stillness, if I choose for it to be so, I have infinite time to use the power of deep desire to create my every What Comes Next. There are no limits, and there is no end, for every new breath brings a new limitless world to populate from that same deep place, if I should so choose.

Worlds are created from my lips. From my heart. From the scent of my skin. They spin off into the light beyond and shatter into millions of gleaming shards, each tiny bright light an entire new world of its own.

I drove off an island ferry tonight onto an oft-traveled road that led to my home and bed. In the darkness, or in the silly-putty stretchness of time bending, I felt like I had driven onto a new planet, an only partly familiar world that stretched into foreverness at the end of my headlights. I sped past mountains and lakes. I breathed and counted backwards again. I created one more world from the scent of home, a world that grants me limitless new worlds ever-spinning from each breath, ever moving into shards of light, ever asking for more, more, more.

December 10th, 2010 by Akua


My good friend describes his life as what exists between the swings of the pendulum. Moving from one extreme to the other. I can relate; years ago I described my life to someone as a sine wave moving along a graph. He was pretty horrified by the thought and said he preferred to live life in the middle, escaping the extremes. The thought of having no high-highs and low-lows horrified me. I love the extremes. I live within the swings of the pendulum. My life is contrast.

Once I thought that living that way meant I had to allow myself to become immersed in the low-lows when they moved in and covered me with inky blackness, taking me to the depths of my inescapable inner cave. Now I’ve figured out how to ride the wave, moving from high-high to less-high and then back up again. The cave is filled with light, and when I want to explore the dark recesses still there, I know I have the choice to move outward into the light again.

I still feel the shift in contrast, though, but no longer does it take me to the depths. I don’t feel a lack when the high-highs move away, only a change. This past week has been filled with contrast, and I’ve been riding an undulating wave of movement from one crest to another. The intensity of some of those moments has been exquisite, almost-but-not-quite painfully so, multiple bright orange-red explosions of juicy in-the-moment sensation, the rightness and perfection of the moment becoming crystal clear. In the flow. The universe has lined up.

It’s the contrast from these moments of near-perfection to the ordinariness of all the other moments that brings it all into sharp focus. Today I made coffee. Danced. Read my email. Looked out the window at the wind’s effects on the tree across the street. Texted some friends to check in with their day. Breathed in and out.

July 22nd, 2010 by Akua


Feels like I’ve been away FOREVER.

Yeah, yeah, I know it’s certain blog suicide to talk about one’s posting or lack thereof, but dude. I’ve been conspicuously absent from my writing gigs, especially this one. Time to limber up the (two) fingers I use for typing, kwim? And get some grey matter out there splat on the page.

Summer has hit here in the chilly, damp, pacific Northwest. I should know, because I bought white jeans that don’t even cover my ankles. I know I’m the only person in the PNW who still wears sweaters and socks when it’s 70 degrees out (why aren’t I complaining about being “hot,” wearing tank tops and jumping into the bay like everyone else?), so it takes a lot of sun to convince me to bare my body, any part of it, to the elements.

Last week we drove north from Portland toward Bellingham and took the long way through some of the Columbia River Gorge and past Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Rainier. Rainier, when seen driving south on I-5 past around Seattle, always appears magical to me, a floating mountain shrouded in white and a looming presence that must have figured prominently in ritual and presence years ago when people remembered their connection to the earth and the life upon it. I expected the east side of Rainier to have even more presence and meaning for me, but no. It was St. Helens that captivated me.

You could feel the earth humming at its feet.

I heard the mountain speak.

We crossed a small bridge over a river and I slammed on the brakes. “We’re stopping here,” I said. We got out in the cold wind of the altitude and found sand at the river’s edge, so we lay on sun-warmed sand next to the vibrating river. I felt alive. Warm. Filled.

Last night I drove to Vancouver and we biked down to Kits Beach to watch the fireworks amid thousands of people. The crush riding back was huge, like a slow tidal wave. I felt sucked into it, a part yet not a part of these people who all had homes to go to, cars to drive in. By the time we found space apart, away from the crowd, you still couldn’t hear the night-quiet that I love when biking alone after dark. There were too many of us escaping the crowds, using the bike-highways. I felt battered, alone, yet not-alone. I longed for a cool breeze, the sound of my single set of tires buzzing along the street, the exhilaration of riding in the dark when all the world is inside.

I think I’ll go for a ride tonight. It’s summer.