words are foreplay for the soul
December 30th, 2009

2009 in the rear-view mirror

A year ago I had just moved from a country that didn’t want me to a bare echoey white place hidden under a stifling canopy of tall dark trees. I adore trees, and loved lying in bed looking at green branches, but the bare echoey place had an inner emptiness that rang loudly in my ears.

Plus it had weird carpet.

In the spring I discovered forested trails and alternate universes. I sat, motionless, sometimes for hours, staring out through a skylight and eventually emerging into a giddy, childlike state, a person who thought lakes were oceans and wondered whether she should be driving real cars.

A year ago I had a job, a sort of a job, a full time gig for part time pay, plus a promise of a someday full time pay for the time I was putting in, so I wrote and I wrote and I edited and I wrote my little heart out. In February that world exploded and it limped along through May, and then I was done. No job, no pay.

I jumped out of a perfectly good airplane and found my way through a maze of fears. Later, a motorcycle fell on me.

In June I moved to a smaller place near the water and near the trails and across the street from a banyan tree and in a community. The Magic Bus drives up from time to time and takes people places. I look out my tiny window and see a slice of ocean. The place isn’t hidden, is sometimes a fishbowl with the world looking in, but it fits me better. I have an easel and paints, and I write. The sun shone on this place and now the rain falls gently on my sari-clad zen room and my bicycles smile through their gears.

In July my intentions caught up with the world.

In August I brought my heart-pieces closer and together we walked my world, now theirs. We ate 18 pounds of blueberries. We laughed. We parted with new paths woven between us.

I discovered a box.

Summer tumbled into autumn and soon the bright crunchy leaves became dank and moldering and slick underfoot. Outward turned inward. Not being a joiner — ever — I joined and joyed. I sang. I found a home, at least for now.

Now, inward, I sing. I joy. I raise silent lips in inner song, singing my heart into wholeness. I breathe and become one with my heartbeat, and with yours. I walk and feel aliveness in the dirt under my soles, in each sparkling raindrop on my face, in each leaf and sound and sigh. I touch hearts and they touch mine.

What do I wish for 2010? More. More of what comes next.

June 1st, 2009


Q: Does time really slow down when you’re in an accident?

A: Yes. Oh yes.

I bought a motorcycle. The whole idea originated at about the time I fell out of an airplane, when doing things that made my heart stop and that created the World’s Largest Sudden Outburst of Endorphins made a lot more sense. I left New Zealand with the conviction that above all else, I must procure a motorcycle license, and soon!

The class to get the license was sort of funny.

About two-thirds of the students already owned motorcycles, had been riding around illegally on them for years, maybe, and were just now getting around to the whole license thing. Why they didn’t just march down to the DMV and do it all for free is beyond me, but it may have been something to do with the little T-E-S-T and the fact that interestingly, in general, motorcycle riders don’t tend to be the sharpest knives in the drawer.


Yeah, so this class was mostly a lot of standing around (outside) listening to specific instructions on just what we were going to do (outside) when we got on the motorcycles that had been assigned to us (outside), turned them on, and rode around in a particular manner (outside).

It almost snowed that weekend, but not quite.  It did, however, rain.

In the classroom the night before they warned us about hypothermia. “It makes you stupid!” the instructor cackled. “You can’t think! If you get that cold, you shouldn’t be riding!” Inside the warm classroom, we chuckled knowingly at one another. WE would never get that cold. WE were taking the class that told us not to.

So, alternating standing with riding all that next day, eventually my shivering stopped.  Just like Mr. Hypothermia said it would.  And on the way home, all I could think about was getting into a scalding bath and being warm again.

Have I mentioned the huge temperature fluctuations in the hot water here?

Depending on how active the water heater has been lately, hot = anywhere from barely tepid to furnacelike.

This was a tepid day.

I did eventually warm up, but the whole thing brought home the fact that Them Thar Motorcycles Are Dangerous-like.

Still, I insisted on buying a motorcycle almost immediately.   Whereupon I promptly parked it in the garage, too scared to ride it much.  Then Matthew brought his helmet down, thinking he’d dust off his own ancient almost unused motorcycle license and see if he could ride mine.

Excuse me?

Yeah, that didn’t go over so well.  I hated that he seemed better at it than me (whose bike was this?) and that he offered to take me for a ride — behind HIM.  Nossir.

So, I got over the thing of being precariously and vulnerably perched on a machine that could kill me, and rode it.  Got really comfortable.  The idea was to ride it around town, pick up groceries (when not using a bicycle), and also be able to take it out on the open road.  Power between the legs.  So to speak.

Friday, it was beautiful here. Sunny, warm, just gorgeous.  So of course I hopped on and went around, drove down to the beach, drove up to a lake I hadn’t seen before, had a nice ride.  I planned out the whole rest of my afternoon: I had already been for a run in forest in the morning, so I thought a bike ride after I got home would be perfect.  It was so nice out.

Missed the turn onto my street.

It has happened before; there’s a blind hill just beyond the turn, and you can’t see oncoming cars until they’re almost right on you, so on the bike I’m a little shy.  Something about being blindsided while on the motorcycle and being crushed/run over by an oncoming car acts as a wee deterrent.  So — shit — here comes a car, I twist the throttle and go on up the hill.  Turning around, when I get back I don’t recognize my own street.  Sure, I never approach it from that side, why would I? Missed it again.

That’s okay, there’s another way to get there; I’ll just go around.

At the top of THAT hill, something happens there by the stop sign.  Time slows down.  I think about using my leg to keep the motorcycle from falling over, but I wonder because I’ve had issues with that hip before.  Maybe I’d get hurt.  But the decision is made for me, and I feel the entire weight of the bike crushing my foot, which inside its heavy boot is bent in a way I am pretty sure feet are not supposed to bend.  From there to laying under the bike yelling FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK I’m a little hazy.  Also the part about getting my foot and bruised crushed leg out from under it.

I do remember the guy from around the corner approaching me gingerly, not wanting to scare the crazy yelling lady, and not wanting his toddler’s ears to burn with so many repeat refrains of FUCKFUCKFUCK, and he helped me pick the 350-plus pound motorcycle up because I was pretty sure I was incapable of anything at that point.

I did ride it home.

I didn’t get the foot xrayed.  What’s the point?  I’ve always known when bones break.  How can you not know this?  I even once made a bet with my parents, so sure was I that my (other) foot was broken, and offered to pay the doctor’s bills if I was wrong.

I was not.

Plus, fun little indicators like PAIN and BRUISING and SWELLING and DIDIMENTIONPAIN are also a tipoff.

So this, happening a mere three days before I was supposed to move to a! new! house! just seemed Extra Ironic.  With sugar on top, and a cherry.

However, I have an arsenal that depends heavily on the strong conviction that energetic healing, even from afar, really works.

So tomorrow I move.  I can walk: slowly, carefully.  The pain went away almost immediately, once the Big Healing Honchos started working on it.  This from semi-excruciating to simply uncomfortable, in a few minutes.  And tomorrow two guys come and put my stuff into a truck that’s far too big for the amount of stuff I own and we (I) drive it to my new place, the one I went over and cleaned today.  This time tomorrow, new house.  (And no internet, but that’s a different story…)


May 4th, 2009

Wandering, times three

At 24, on weekends (when I had them off) for a while, I took to walking through the too-large, too-empty colorless high-ceilinged rooms of my new house, walking slowly past the new furniture, wondering where my soul had gone. Time stretched into frightening nothingness and it seemed that by walking — slowly, endlessly walking — I could somehow fill that void.

It’s easy to find ways to fill up the void.  Having a job that you take home nights and weekends, every night and every weekend.  Having children.  Then having more.  Letting life revolve around you, propelling you round and round, always in a different direction, any direction.

There are too many blank spaces again these days.  Life has conspired to leave room for thought, for direction, and the idea of becoming one’s own rudder again, when the rudder itself stretches into gaping darkness, seems like an endless bad dream.  The walking has begun again, only there’s nowhere to walk to.


I read something today that seemed incredible to me, a laundry list of things one might feel when beginning a spiritual awakening process.  Every single item on the list was also a sign we associate with depression.  Deep inner sadness. Check.  Sleep issues.  Check.  Physical disorientation.  Check.  Every one.  And I have felt ALL of them, at one time or another or all at once, since about the age of 9.  Which means that:

  1. The awakening signs list is a load of crap, or
  2. I’ve been depressed since I was 9 (or before), and
  3. Everyone else I know is depressed as well, OR
  4. There’s totally something to this awakening stuff and it completely absolves me of guilt over feeling so crappy for so long, BUT
  5. Since I was 9? Am I not yet awake, then? WTF?
  6. Because dude. That awake stuff is, like, my business.  I help OTHER people.

I don’t know whether to feel heartened by this or to feel like running screaming in the other direction (maybe that’s an overreaction … checking list for “overreacting”).  Does knowing this, if true, mean I can release not only any expectation of this ever to go away but also and sense of responsibility about it?

It’s like a relief and yet not.


Speaking of reincarnation, I’m going through a sort of one.  That’s, of course, in addition to any painful deep inner stuff I may have already mentioned.  A job thing, squeezed now into a smaller space, and soon my belongings, rapidly and unwelcomely having grown out of the everything-fits-in-my-car stage of only a few months ago, to be also squeezed into a smaller physical space: I’m moving in a few weeks.  Again.  But this time I get to take along new things like a bed and a chair and a desk and a coffee table and dishes and a TV (why?) and a Wii (why??) and a motorcycle.

The alternative seems to be along the lines of chucking everything into storage and leaving the country for someplace exotic for many many months, but that was going to take planning, and since the farthest I got on that road was to buy a guidebook and I am still lacking small details like immunizations and visas and plane tickets and, well, PLANS, moving seemed easier.