“I love to move like a mouse inside this puzzle for the body, balancing the wish to be lost with the need to be found.” 

― Billy Collins, Questions About Angels

New York, New York

“Unbeing dead isn’t being alive.” — E. E Cummings

I read this a few nights ago — it resonated, it liberated, it reflected within my Self.

I am listening to the ‘other’ which is ebbing into my immediate atmosphere while navigating New York. Upon returning, I am witnessing the familiar bonded to the unfamiliar healing we are all engaging with as nature evolves — our ethereal sacred connectivity with All which exists.

I hear ‘impermanence’, I hear ‘education’, I hear ‘Divine Mother’ — I gather the information, I see and allow, surrendering within presence.

I have a drive to bring about greater freedom, equality, and peace.

How? Being alive — will, kindness, and moment to moment commitment to Truth.

“Unbeing dead” is not creation. It feels stagnant, indulgent, and mentally unwell. I’d like to be alive, to teach, to be a student of the student — bellowing with breath, as white dandelion wishes wander.

Yes, there — dancing, still and unbound. I feel we are alive when free, so negating restriction — whether psychological or physical allows for grace. I study often mental health and believe in trusting the Self within seeking greater freedom. Using Katonah Yoga as a metaphor or map, we allow for stability, ability, and vision — we allow for the solar, lunar, and stellar.

Utilize your own emotional articulation as Earth play the role as our landscape to design and will this world, this life, and this moment — right here, and here again.

You and I, equal — tittering about, deeply yearning harmony with All.

Being alive with the wisdom within.

May, 2019 

“Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, 

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he'd call, 

and slowly I would rise and dress, 

fearing the chronic angers of that house, 

speaking indifferently to him, 

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love's austere and lonely offices?” 

― Robert Hayden

Dawn — his rose, his yawning echo of leadership. My father on Mother’s day, speaking of their love in an arching light of raindrop tears, each soft and liquid. Far from the steady devotion of their two spirits, beloved and bestowed to one another — for a greater purpose than parenthood. 

I am now riding East, past meadows and let-go residences — the lush of popped orchards, green and green again and yellow and brightness and weight, heavy wet branches of sweet May. 

I am now recognizing the intensity of love within my becoming, becoming a woman — honoring the Divine Mother today and each day, my mother too. The layering of Forrests and the passing of Time.

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.” 

― Pablo Neruda

I have yet to experience motherhood in the traditional sense — this is the deepest humility I source today, a non-evolved corner of my individual historic home, the body as the abode. Therefore, I exist in my plainness, pulsating out the distention of breath into Space. Creating potential within the womb-dome of planet earth, migrating circles in ether’s musk — a melancholic inheritance transformed for the grandchildren, climate change rescued for the grandchildren, kind communities for the grandchildren. We all must encourage the imagination, as my mother has, as my father has — in God’s light we forgive and grow towards beauty and grace. 

“You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body 

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.” 

― Mary Oliver

April, 2019

Age — structured, static, and conforming to organic matter.

Though I hear a conservative tone drumming in and upon my actions — there is a soft humming, withering each hard place within. I imagine we all understand the notion of expirations, they exist in the jarring light of grocery isles and dated wallpaper. We look to them for cues and clues, to guide our entrance and exit, to perpetuate our lack of freedom and flexibility.

When I think of expirations, I also think, of compost and invention. This is the way of nature — to cultivate, produce, and retire into a new source of being. Perhaps you and I view our milk matter with varying depth, though I feel we both know it goes elsewhere when recycled. It goes on into an unknown fantasy-world of regression, peripherally departing from our human sensorium.

This is true in relating to all substances considered ‘other’ to the ‘self’.

I find my heart is devotional — I cherish what the divine brings into my life, sourcing an unconventional education from embodied emotional experience.

“Love is life. All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love. Everything is, everything exists, only because I love. Everything is united by it alone. Love is God, and to die means that I, a particle of love, shall return to the general and eternal source.”

― Leo Tolstoy

Tolstoy’s words feel familiar to my thoughts. I am left with a residue of weaving within — tittering between exposed form or revolving the Self into our shared etheric essence. I imagine an ever-so-slight opening to the soil of our planet’s diverse population, and I watch as moments expire — I allow for imagination.

I sat in Tribeca — with a small tea and an old read. 

I adjust my gaze from the smoke of a car on fire to the tendered pages of Art and The Theological Imagination

“His growth in the vision and contemplation of nature enables him to rise to a metaphysical view of the world and to form free abstract structures which surpass schematic intention and achieve a new naturalness, the naturalness of the work. Then he creates a work, or participates in the creation of works, which are the images of God’s work. 

Man is not finished. One must be ready to develop, open to change; and in one’s life an exalted child, a child of creation, of the Creator.”

These are words from Paul Klee’s Notebook, from which I gather akin sentiments. 

Much of God is within my practice of all movement — movement which offers freedom, or alchemical freeing of bound emotion, fascia, psychological deterioration, et cetera. All of which is kept within as immobilizing form. I imagine the cells as fractal — all is fractal and connected to a Whole. 

As I spent a few days in Manhattan, in a hotel rather than a home — I reckoned with the disappearance of my grasp upon this vibration, the intense energy of this city and it’s addictive nature. If we follow the thought process of ‘chaos’, we enable this pulsation to press upon our subtle body miles and oceans away. Therefore, I reflect upon my previous behavior and take note of a stronger development of will. I witness my mind untethered and my body protected — by what I believe to be God. 

If I follow the wisdom of wind, of our natural world — I must honor the changing system, finding assurance of external appearances of alteration. The trees from green to white to the sherbet go-between, and like this — my self changes too. This idea pricks my heart’s sense of certainty — I do feel absolute devotion to the Whole of another. 

For T.S. Eliot, he may proclaim this to simply be timing in The Waste Land

“April is the cruelest month, breeding

lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

memory and desire, stirring

dull roots with spring rain.” 

I believe presence is the teacher here, to be with what is, and to cultivate vision of Truth as Spring unravels into Summer heat — then, we are able to burn up the bunkered down inertia of Winter. 

March, 2019

I sit in my office with my dog, Lewis — accompanied by soft rain and grey light. 

I have finished my morning movement, meditation, sauna, and shower. 

I seek understanding — 


By Walt Whitman 

“We follow the stream of amber and bronze brawling along its bed, with its frequent cascades and snow-white foam. Through the cañon we fly — mountains not only each side, but seemingly, till we get near, right in front of us — every rood a new view flashing, and each flash defying description — on the almost perpendicular sides, clinging pines, cedars, spruces, crimson sumach bushes, spots of wild grass — but dominating all, those towering rocks, rocks, rocks bathed in delicate vari-colors, with the clear sky of autumn overhead. New senses, new joys, seem develop’d. Talk as you like, a typical Rocky Mountain cañon, or a limitless sea-like stretch of great Kansas or Colorado plains, under favoring circumstances, tallies, perhaps expresses, certainly awake, those grandest and subtlest element emotions in the human soul, that all the marble temples and sculptures from Phidias to Thorwaldsen — all paintings, poems, reminiscences, or even music, probably never can.”

Nature — organic beauty, it pulses and pulls the inner wisdom out into the open. Our shared space of perceived ‘reality’, the day and all which creates colored memory. Time is passing, though I am present here, and here — again. It is with the breath, and the flickering veils of rain between my chair and the swaying tall pine. 

I’ve spent the last six months in a state of ‘Pratyahara’ — often referred to as ‘a withdrawing of the senses to gain mastery over external influences'. I felt a drugging of my truth, a purely subconscious expression of the impressions which toiled on the street, screen, and scenery of my everyday life. I was forming into an ‘older’ being by way of detachment — lacking the fundamental acceptance of free-will, character, and respect. The witness lapped and lapped in a looping of story — each similar day, portraying teaching, and illuminating mirrors. 

I walked into my own shadow — I pivoted into sore intellect, suffering hallways, and redundant rhetoric which offered brief and iridescent relief from what was real. Carl Jung wrote, “Western Psychology is by no means consciousness in general. It is rather a historically conditioned and geographically confined dimension, which represents only a part of mankind.” (Commentary on the ‘Secret of the Golden Flower’) — this dimension of illusion haunted the innocence of truth. 

Our seeking within, our search for light — the transcendence of dharma. This process led to a piece of writing I shared in my ‘Thoughts’, a theory based upon both the spiritual and scientific. I was seeking peace with what is, this moment, and every glimpse of God. I found grace, I feel free, and I accept all. 

I have carried in my heart, teachings — I remain a student, in awe of all this universe has to offer. As we move into the spring and summer, I will be teaching in Martha’s Vineyard until September, 2019. 


By Walt Whitman 

“Simple and fresh and fair from winter’s close emerging, 

As if no artifice of fashion, business, politics, had ever been,

Forth from its sunny nook of shelter’d grass — innocent, 

    golden, calm as dawn, 

The spring’s first dandelion shows its trusted face.”

I implore you to trust in what will come, again and again — in weathered tumbling winds, we will all receive patient love. I remain within both my shadow and my inner light. I disregard the bounds of ego — knowing the resolved nature of fluid change. 

It is my hope to continue to be both a teacher and a student — to be in touch and trust what is within. 



she heard you,

beating on,

resting there,

woven within a heart,

he existed,

without choice,

present there,

shadowing her fallen,

they spoke,

in only breath,

together there,

love's residue.


When wings collected air full of pollen

the humming quit

Peonies played with kitten ears

his ashes residing beneath desire

A history ripe with olives

tainting his light until abandoned by love.


The scent of you — it must be common

for at random

I inhale our memory close to a stranger.

Do you believe in me — and us

touching together

vivid and close.

I am you — you are I

we seek freedom

from those who are not us.

Are you human — you felt like more

in my soft small hands

collecting cherries.


Her mind tumbled
for a single moment — of passing memories.

She lived unsure


until the silent


their eyes met.

Her heart corralled
in a blissful moment — of telling beauty.

She rarely relishes

within a tangerine

inhalation, elating the


their control escapes.

We see her light — we see it flicker,

we see an angel's choice.


Thoughts of him

peering at the sky —

sunken shoulders

weighted by his dolor.

A simple lenity

hammered her witless

as she sapped slowly —

he eroded a love.

He pleased her, yet left her

a lily-livered voice —

her chosen constant

as their eyes met.


our balloons puffed with gleam — tiny catching

grey dandelions

kind erotic thoughts — captured

pressed tight

courted clementines — fondling flushed roses

tender kindling

cherry tree spruced with so—keener

Amtrak Kismet.

Soft light

They were sedentary

conversing intimately, longing for the other.

One amongst many pheromones — dusted with formality

coquettish fluttering, they did not sway.

Their undisclosed aim lucid as soft light,

two movements — one wind.


Progression is within — intertwined

as vines climbing a brick house,

on the corner of Kensington and Caroline.

Those streets are lit by yellow bulbs — a hum of warmth

a spring bloom,

to write novellas by the vague shade.

One beautiful, shameless society — idle in pursuit of her future

never a dull lamp on Kensington,

casting shadows by-and-by.

We see the small of her neck — illuminated by the lamp on Caroline

a cashmere curve of innocence,

As if a ballerina were dancing upon one spotlight of golden hues.


A delicate harrowing,

her vigorous longing, to hold onto the wind.

a migration of one

a temptation of two

caught in a breeze.

A kite, swaying her heart — softly, yet swift

His distance — her dawn, a rose with admiration on a calm night.