FOR THOSE OF YOU THAT KNOW MY WHOLE STORY, THIS WILL MAKE A LOT OF SENSE.
in high school I had reoccurring dreams of a symbol–a hand with an eye on it. Dreamed it all the time. I had no idea what it meant, but it remained with me always. A few years later I was dreaming I was in this different aboriginal world and we were painting our faces with blue war paint. A woman, the leader, kept saying something very close to the sound of “Fatima” and I bolted out of bed but I could not write it down for some strange reason–it slipped away too quickly. More time passed. I got sick. Really sick.. I’d sob into
my hospital mattress praying the Hail Mary over and over and over until I fell asleep. And everything changed. But I came back to that dream of the hand with the eye on it, and mulled it over while I was healing.
Last month I was at church (a very rare occasion because I try very hard not to cry for some reason when I”m there) and I was walking out with my grandpa and there was a table of pamphlets and audiobooks set up and I stopped dead in my tracks–there it was; Fatima. I knew that name but from where? I kept repeating it in my head. I knew it. It was a picture of the Virgin Mary, the vision in Portugal. I stopped my mother and whispered that I knew this–that I’d dreamed this. Naturally she shrugged and that was that. More time passed.
I looked up “hand with eye” and what came up was the Hamsa symbol–the hand of a holy woman (or God’s hand for some) with the eye for protection against evils. I didn’t read much more because I was floating on the fact that I had dreamed these things and thought maybe–just maybe. I was so drawn to it, I ordered my hamsa ring after waiting years to get it–I don’t know why I waited. I stared at it on Etsy every month or so. But I had to have it. It was me.
Then I’m at home reading the art of Tantra and books on Sacred Sexuality Continue reading Hamsa–The Hand of Fatima & The Virgin Mary
just for you Doug
–something cool–the Islam tradition with mentally ill people that they call the village idiot is sort of extremely cared for and loved by the society because it is considered his soul is gone with Allah and they are to take care of his body and remember they have their soul yet.
So I’m not sure how to begin this post because it was all so intense and beautiful. Some of you may know about Erica. I’ve written several poems and stories about her, including this week’s one “Wonder.” We were true adventurers and kindred spirits, soul mates, when our worlds around us (in private) were treacherous and unknown, we found sanctuary and beauty in each other. “My first love,” as she put it, “love in its purest form.” THat was us. We drifted, we “broke up” in a sense. But we never forgot each other–especially when we each had our own breakdowns on opposite sides of the world. We began emailing and writing to each other and sending music to each other. We confessed our souls out again–and our pain only we could understand about each other. I can’t get into it all because it’d be a novella, but I will get into the last letters she sent me this week. I was sobbing so hard about the transformative experiences I was hiccupping :)
She lives in North Carolina and is about to embark on a 12 week Learning Journey that her boyfriend developed through his Mycelium School, and just recently she embarked on a Grief Ritual (a transformative experience) led by Sobonfu Some. She gathered in a small room with 104 people sitting in a semi circle around Sobonfu, sitting and listening and askiing questions for the first few hours. They talked about g Continue reading Transformative Experiences
The pop and snap of prescription pill bottles
swallow, light, inhale, scrape of the chair,
cluster of tap-tap-taps on the keys, a silence—
beyond this room, beyond this wall
I can almost hear you—the soil
sifting, seeds spreading out, dry in your palm;
folds of light robes around you like
birds’ wings—your child
asleep on your warm back,
your sky a sea, an earth, a breath
because you’re there I’m less anxious
(as I palm another pill) because I rely
on sedated time I sit in my chair,
lost somewhere before the border,
where I see myself later—aged and worn away—
walking to you, palms up.
“Here, here I am…” only you aren’t waiting
for me, time is something else to you—
so I see I don’t have to tell you
where I’ve been or why I am here
but that I’ve arrived
out of the cement tomb;
the rise and fall of my chest is all,
seas of breath and I am.
I know the scent of your skin,
the feel of your warm, bent back Continue reading Borders