Posts in Writing & Poetry
Manifesto Movement of May.

I believe in worlds we cannot see. 

The domains of spirit; where truth of heart reigns over landscapes of sunlight and ebony. I believe in deep primal creativity, imagination and wonder that move without agenda into forms of individuality, beauty and art. I believe in the power of matrika - of words, the potency of truth, the guru of introspection, and the yoga of understanding. I believe in world traditions that whisper empowerment and scream participation. I believe in the power to choose which is the power to create, not as victim, but as warrior.

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Bhakti in Bali

Underneath the chaotic complexity and frenetic energy of Bali, where the swarm of humans, motorbikes, and insects crowd and buzz alike; beneath the strong smells so unique to Indonesia of burning trash, heavy exhaust, incense, frangipani and wet earth, there is a sweet simplicity that will take you in with open arms, and leave you days, months later, for the better. What belies Bali is a devotion so ignited you could call it wholehearted creativity and get away with it. A true island of Bhakti Yogis, where designation of the sacred informs all you see and do. This call towards the reverence of simplicity is, at its essence, life beckoning you back to meaningfulness.

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On Creativity

In San Francisco when the rains come they come steady. A drizzly wet dampness that shrouds the city in hues of grey and silver and sends you indoors, huddled close to a space heater on a lamb's wool rug to contemplate. Well - that's me at least. The subject of my mental wanderings lately has revolved around creativity. Specifically on the where that word is most often applied and how even the smallest semantic distinction can turn an ally into a limitation, a wild freedom into a soggy box. 

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Why Vulnerability is the Answer

I just returned from a week and half on the east coast. Ten days of work and participation to mark the closing of old chapters and patterns. The rush of the new fills the void as though drawn by the invisible, yet palpable, vacuum you didn’t mean to create but did.

As with all transitions and rights of passage the lingering stillness of the space-between – the eerie quiet of the calm before the storm – feels charged with a sort of reckless anticipation, like a runaway train barreling through the night…a momentum that you started but have no control over stopping. Your voice no longer holds sway and despite the mental knowledge otherwise, every ounce of your being longs to control, to hold tight, and to direct your course towards what you long-ago dreamt was your ideal outcome.

But life has other plans.

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Vimala Maha. A Tantric Revival in the City.

Friday night in San Francisco. The sleepy city stirs and groans under the weight of cars lining the Bay Bridge, nudging their way through the malaise towards their destination. This city, a mecca for the creative, the free-thinking, and the fantastic hosts any number of interesting and colorful events each weekend – ranging from the raunchy to the refined. The more time I spend here the more I learn not to take unobtrusive and indistinct doorways and building facades at face value. Whole worlds exist within.

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The Truth of the Heart

Judith Lasater in her co-authored book with her husband Ike entitled “What We Say Matters,” writes“what you say will change the world.” Speech, like dance, like art, like movement, is the outer expression of our inner landscape. Unlike the myriad of other forms of communication, our speech is the interface with which we often engage interpersonally with partners, with family members, with colleagues, with and as, teachers, poets and mystics. Our words can be both extremely dangerous and completely uplifting in their effect.

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The Gift of Mentorship

A long time ago I sat underneath a black canopy emblazoned with thousands and thousands of tiny pinpricks of light. My legs tucked up underneath a blanket that smelled like the stale closet I slipped it from. My fingers were sticky with sap from the tree I brushed groping for a hand-hold in the inky darkness as I made my way in secret communion. In my pocket I carried a small flashlight and a little book I bought at the visitors center called; “Stars. A Guide to the Night Skies.” Opening it, unfolding the center map, I worked with the determined concentration of a child who knows, like children intuitively can, the utmost importance of the moment.

That was the day I announced out-loud what I wanted to be when I grew up.

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