once upon a time in a village of gold a very curious little girl went out into the forest to find a prince. Along the way she met squirrels and owls and coyotes, each one by one taking her by the hand and whisking her away to the enchantments of the woods.

Exhausted and weary from playing with all the creatures of the land, the young maiden laid down for a rest by the babbling brook. As she came out of her slumber a majestic figure approached her and lifted up her head to the light in the sky, twinkling and glossy. Unfortunately the animals grew jealous and sent in the snakes and the bats to puncture each toe and and each finger so that she can walk no more towards the dream of her prince.

Desperate to hold on to this royal boy suspended just out of reach, the majestic figure suddenly dissolved by the bite of the scorpion and bid her farewell never to be seen again. This little girl wept and howled, much like the fisher cats. This little girl retreated and regressed much like the momma bears hibernating in the winter; until she found herself all grown up and naked in a field of lilies.

This lovely girl, now a lady creeped down into the stiff grass to search for wild edibles to sustain her on her journey through the weeds in the valley. Running, skipping, jumping and bouncing under scorching sunbeams and shivering star dust she tripped and fell flat on her face and got stuck in the mud.

Frozen in suspense to the flora seeping into her nose and sand filling her mouth she grabbed tightly to an invisible rope back up to standing. Emerging, dirt ridden skirt and grey hairs matted down by leaves and twigs, she witnesses her ugly reflection in a puddle nearby. She spent a moment and an eternity studying this impression barely recognizable yet mesmerizing.

Lost in thought and safe from the viscous beings of the dark, a warm sensation hugged her back like a snug bug in a rug. Not wanting to scare this comfort away, she sat in stillness daring not to turn her head but instead sat dazed at her own eyes fawning back at her from the crystal clear waters. Eons passed and still she would not move from this gaze or the warmth, praying to keep it forever.

Finally she grew lonely and looked up to the oracle in the banyan tree for guidance. Tentatively she confessed that as nice as that reflection and that warm hug may be, she still deeply longed for her prince. She sat like a totem statue listening for a pin drop, when a fierce gust of wind that stretched each of the tentacles of each of the branches of the great banyan had attached itself to her shoulders, hips and ankles and twisted her around like a tornado in slow motion.

It Lifted her up with the grace of a feather to the top of the mountain and to the bottom of the well and back to her perch on the ground decorated by brown eyed susan’s. As she regained her balance she searched frantically for her puddle and cried out for her lost warmth, fearing moving made it gone. She walked aimlessly for centuries making meaning from the vision until one day, surrendering to the memory and regret the maiden got so distracted by a luminous bed of buttercups.

A childlike glee swept throughout her soul as she recreated all the wonder that buttercups bring, not thinking of her prince or her puddle or that warm hug. All she saw was yellow yellow everywhere. A yellow better than gold and better than silver. A yellow so pure that nothing else can exist. Am i dead, she wondered, not really caring and just basking in the fleeting moments of pedal after pedal. Then, as if by magic, this lonely girl captured a face in the center of a daisy poking its head out off in the distance.

She spotted two eyes, a nose, and a mouth etched into each new seed ready to be set free by the hummingbird. She stared closer as the daisy seeds morphed into a man just like her, with mud on his face and dirt in his mouth. She noticed he also was enjoying the endless color of yellow and the simple joys within that garden of flowers. And…In that moment she knew that her king was staring back at her and she never again went searching for her prince. The End

Solitary Journey

Being an artist is a solitary journey. I am Jane Eyre watching my word children and book husband dance before me. The fear and delight of letting my secret skeltons out of the closet like fireflies or butterflies desperately catching and releasing.

Rumi gave us bird wings as a map to independent isolation and a volcano simmering to create a new island. Maybe in Hawaii where the sand settles to host the mainland then plunges’ into the ocean for a future to rebirth.

I contract and i expand within my own source of validation praying for life to take notice. Pretending to not care as the fist open and closes. Wanting it forever open but rumi told me no.

He gave me that guest house to sit and ponder on its friends and enemies and endlessly capturing the not quite there and good enough. Are we connected to an invisible master or have we lost our minds. A thin veil between mastery and muzzle. Lined up so pretty to throw a buck or two into the tip jar and grateful to be invited.

A hobby that overtakes all my waking and no person can truly see. Pushed aside to make room for overhead lights and back to my cubby little girl fancy. When are you going to grow up. echo when are you going to get serious. Words of pain do not pay the rent so back up and allow me to be better than you.

Pride to make mistakes and prejudice to tally my knowledge and memorize my labor. A Coppermine testing my skin to see what is below the field of brain rantings to be part of the group. King James reminds me of the simple gift of not knowing intelligence and off the beaten path towards Edenborough castle that I see through this obscure camera. Melting at the drop of water but a symbol none of us can deny.

I am on a solitary journey with the way set forward by the lost writers we celebrate on a silver screen.


What can you do in eight minutes and forty two second?

Brush my teeth, take a poop, have a quick shower.

Eat my cereal or maybe some oatmeal but not the steal cut kind.

pop into cumbies and grab a coffee with one shot of either chocolate or coconut syrup; depending on my mood, add 5 sugars and a lot of cream but keep the engine on or i will be late to work.

stop at the dispensary and hope there is no line but if i order online i can just make it.

100 maybe 200 situps if i actually did sit ups, i prefer the hula hoop it burns more calories and is way more fun.

quick trip to the ladies room before classes, not because i have to go but i just need to get away from the dam kids.

write two poems, not necessarily profound but meaningful just the same.


Can you be friends with an EX?

So during my personal sabbatical/quarantine/healing alone time i have been reconnecting with friends who i closed my heart to during this struggle with codependency. I started with the easy friends. The ones who always forgive me because they know my wounds and patterns. Next were those friends who I had major falling outs with and the repair was done but a fear wall of trust still existed. Work in progress. Now i have been contemplating the thing i always avoid with all costs. Can i be friends with an ex boyfriends?

I always thought i could because i have no problem being friends with ex lovers. I thought that made me the mature person; however i realize that there are no stakes to be friends with someone who loves me more than i love them. My ex boyfriend confessed to me that he had never been able to be friends with an x girlfriend. I remember the arrogant judgement i felt when he said this. I was very young by personal standards and this was my very first “Adult” relationship. It wasn’t until years later and numerous failed relationships that i had to accept that i have never been able to be friends with an ex. Why is that? The excuses i use are that they will get the wrong idea and think i want to marry them, or that i will get confused and think i made a mistake and should have stayed with them. The deeper excuses are that their new wife or girlfriend will feel uncomfortable and i don’t want to interfere; god forbid we admit that we knocked boots and played house.

It is an odd vulnerbilty that is based on nothing as I reach out to my first love. The illusion that i am the person that i was after we parted ways and that he will think i am still heartbroken. I deny it when we run into each other and he sincerely invites me for tea and a catch up but my inner child echos the words of my mother thinking that all relationships are sexual or desperate for sexual. It is quite sad to have voted him and others off the island when we shared such sacred parts of ourselves and no damage was done in our breakup. We mutually agreed yet still there is fear to trust that he, they are in my corner and had a genuine love for me as i do them.

Intimacy is a tricky thing when sex is involved and past wounds make it impossible to be with the things you love about a person without the tension of partnership. Luckily this man gets it and our souls communicate on an energetic level. You can’t live with a person for 2 years and not be forever connected. So I continue to contemplate if i can be friends with an ex…………………..time to meditate…