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Showing posts from September, 2010


The air is changing. A bite in mornings freshness,     a crisp edge in days adjourn. Leaf and grass spin bright with gold,     a harvest moon arcs, round and fat. I feel the seasons changing too. The tick tock of day eager     for the cool, dark of night. I feel, the sweet hint of slumber,     life turning inward, preparing for rest. I hear, the swish-swoosh of leaves dropping,     spent toward earth, The chitter-chat of squirrel     hoarding against hungry night. I smell, the robust scent of time reclaiming verdant youth      with auburn arms and harvest breath. I see, man,     spinning in discordant rhythm,     beset by cell phone, ipod, blackberry, tivo,     plagued by artificial light, alarm clock, calendar,     thought. I wonder at all our busy, self important knowing,    contrasted against the soft ebb-flow of life. I wonder, as the lilac leaves curl against the chill     and the last of the pumpkins turn orange on the vine. I wonder as the win
I ran across this quote today: "You are looking for God with   God's  eyes".

ode to steamboat springs

ode to bodhi

ode to owen

Owen has an alter ego.  He first told me about him two years ago in a confidential interview.  His name is Ace.  He has brilliantly scarlet hair.  He wears a long fitted black jacket, boots an elfin bow and a broad sword.  He is outgoing and graceful, athletic and fearless.  Owen told me that whenever he spins circles in the back yard he is being Ace in a richly imaginative world, complete with monsters to battle and epic challenges to overcome.  Owen has been wanting vibrant red hair for a year now and I have always said no.  In order to dye his gorgeous locks, one first needs to remove that rich walnut hue with bleach and then lay some red color on top of that.  It doesn't last long and it's pricey.  Owen finally said, "Mom, I feel like I need to be more like the me inside of me.  I want to dye my hair."  Well who am I to stand against self expression and so yesterday, while at the Italian Festival in Belmar we wandered into the Paul Mitchell School and Owen and Ace


Who am I, who am I really? Perhaps, there can be no greater narcissism than this... this longing. Looking deeply into the water of self, past reflection and the busy mirror of thought, judgement, concept ...there is wonder. The busy, thinking tide of me, flows again and again. I crash on shore, on stones, on surface. And then something remembers to ask. Where am I?  Who am I really? To listen. A silence rises. For a moment I am and the dance is within me. Then the tide resumes and the me is busy once more.