Dream of Lemon Balm and Roses

Upon entering the garden in the community one morning

Quite to my dismay, I found my gardener friend had pulled out 

The white yarrow, my medicine plant. 

Not only so rude were they who cut my yarrow but also cut 

The lemon balm- such a delicate fragrance, bright and clear.

All the wonderful gourds fell down as summer was over,

I mourned deeply, 

            flower petals fell as tears  tenderly upon the soil, 

                              the rose that climbs above the lemon balm wept softly,

Returning to her gaunt form, all thorns and branches.

Where is my lemon balm tea? She cried out, cut to the root.

I vented, then I cried, wondering too-

Suddenly I knew, 

That in the dream I'd had of planting the rose at that spot beside

    David's plot was a prayer 

                for healing to bring good vibes into the garden 

                                    as it climbs high to the sky, dreaming

  With Lemon Balm returning to hover at her feet.

                                 Lightness of Being

Losing self-importance I find contemplation at eventide.

Patience returns in deep shadows while watching the setting sun.

Gently he strokes me,  silent laughter.  

Lithium crystals leave me floating in a sea of lightness,

Releasing stuckness as my identity drops away

Expanding into buoyancy sensing no restriction. 

Karma shifts  while my soul finds relief in non-ego,

As passion recedes I find humility w no struggle,

Compassionate embrace, hands of attunement rest in green ripples

Slipping off the choked garment too tightly woven,

Grasping hiddeously, revealing ecstatic freedom.

Meditation arises, we receive inner wisdom, 

I feel gratitude knowing how much you cared, and that we loved.

In quiescent moments my senses exult in aroma of cedar and rose.

I have no claim on your freedom-I am in you and you are in me.

Our golden glow has faded into gratitude, 

Timeless loving envelopes cool shadow wisdom.

Not much time left for selfies.

 

Each Basket Has Its Own Meaning

I also wanted to share this poem I wrote while working with Corinne Pearce (who I just adore)

a Pomo basket weaver.

Baskets are symbols of that moment in time when we

Weave what is present in our lives as body/mind/spirit,

Spirit doors reveal an opening in a fabricated aura;

There are no mistakes.

This morning in my meditation

I felt all that is connected with

                               my spirit window in my basket:

              All the people who are my spirit family,

              All my own kin, my tribal ancestors

                                 that are there for my healing

              All the activities that feed my spirit,

              All the nature spirits that know me,

              All coming through my spirit window.

Revealing the fragility of my nature

             Nurtured by lightness of being.

I wove a basket as Mother weaves the morning

My basket sits in the corner filled with petals of roses

That came from the rose bushes planted and tended this year

In that corner is also a watercolor I painted of my spirit plant.

Nearby is a picture of Saraswati, Goddess of Wisdom.

I bow before what wants to be honored.