Animal Body

WOLF

I thought I understood. I did not.

I am learning what it means to be in my body, my animal body.

I have always risen above the darkness, left my body. So I did not “feel” the darkness. I am not accustomed to feeling in this way. I am raw.

My animal body, my instincts, are here to protect me, to warn me of danger, to keep me alive.

I have always associated “instinct” with “intuition.” This is a different knowing.

This is the ears of a doe, hearing the leaves crackle under the hunter’s foot. These are the yellow eyes that can see in the dark. This is my wolf snout, snotty and tracking the scent. This is the wind in my mane. This is my nerve endings going taught, and my fur bristling.

I am animal. I am animal. I am animal.

How did I forget?

I know the smell of the bear on the bark, and I know the smell of blood, and…I could eat you alive, tear the tendon right off your bones, and crunch you between my teeth.

This is why I have come to this place.

-Tanya

 

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Cut Off

The Cut

Cut off a right breast
Offer it up on a gold platter
A fatted calf to feed his holiness.

Pig feet fetish.

Dish soap for a dollar
Black market barter
Unblemished silly cows.

– Tanya

Hot Sea Glass

Sea Glass
Things little mellow
No pink cry.
Words to the sudden
Sea shell green
Safe jar.

There are blue
Bleeds that
Can swim red
Trees in the
Heart heron dark.

Grace me night gold
See between moon.
I will through fare
An earthy fate fight
Wormwind soil.

Hurricane salve.
Wait for warm summer
Tea leaves.
Can Soul cure
All a lifetime cloud

Honey sweet.
Last long into a star
Arms heart
Solace hold bitter peace
Blanket me space.

Sacred plea spoon
Red broken china song
Sugar cup.
Truth sighs a safe house
Blue willow deep bend.

Roots Ginger
On a forehead freckle
Cool fever sweat
Breath dress boardwalk
Stretch sand over toes.

Mountain leagues.
Voice whispers
Low singing sea lions
On a deep wave roll.
Rock salt, taffy sign, wine

And a fly fishing pony.

– Tanya

Library in the Window

WINDOWSILL
Library in the Window

It’s story time and the little ones gather around her knee

On a soft pink rug for rugged knees in tattered jeans from too much playing at

escapist art.

The setting where we venture in some wild adventure into the land of man or animal or Buddha, maybe it was Geisha then,
or an Amethyst with a name

in the windowsill, or in the wood, or in the box, or in the wardrobe,

who knows, as our minds wander in the morning sun, warmed by the fire
of lost boys,
or girls or puppy breath,
or what’s next and then

the plot we know not.

This one stands for majesty, an oak of understanding or

Was it sparkle pump in the profile then, no

the Buddha girl with curly peppered hair who said a circle of friend, just one, with a little help from that book of music.

Oh how they mingle in the windowsill, branches touching in some unspoken meaningful array of

Cobwebs hanging on a wing touched by Oklahoma, no

A tortoise shell, I’ll tell you.

This one stands for then and that one stands for now passing on the mystery to some future girl of tiny gifts in a tiny town invited.

To gaze at a windowsill in wonder, swaying pines, newspaper clad artifacts, and handmade cloaks in closets above a green box of mementos more

lost.
I gather you.

The singing trunks in guitar tunes in the wind of my imagination singing Wagon Wheel over air plants two and two in blue clouds on glass.

Tears marching under the palm of that angel, little tyrants hell bent on a sugar compost high.

Oh and that one with football shoulders playing scrabble carrying dust to the sea anemone to the left of the quartz, or quarterback or

Was it a tick filled skull.

Ouch that hurts.

Dusting things with watered down resin.

I’ll carry that with me forever and you have a peach seed in your pocket now.

How did the story go tell me? Shhh. Let the windowsill speak of the circle of elders watching above a gnomes home in June.

Whistle whistle.
Girl in the Tree.
I’ll be there but I might not be me

Sporting gray buns smelling like bay leaves over
medicine smoke come
healing, loving,
healing, loving,
tall time tales.

Rocking back and forth in a fork of solace on the mountain where we met in apple picking days

stacked on the shelf,
telling children that never came, I died before the guests arrived.

– Tanya

For the Ecosophist

Mark A. Schroll’s “Ecology, Cosmos, and Consciousness: Myths, Comicbook Lore, Dreams, and Inquires Into Various Other Radical Transpersonal Ecosophical States” will be published in the coming month and I’m told that one of my writings is included inside. I’m looking forward to reading Mark’s work on Transpersonal Ecosophy and hope you will check it out too. I will post a link when it’s available.
Ecology Cosmos Book Cover
Ecology Cosmos Book Back

Finding Treasure

My mom has been dead 9 years, and…she used to record and send me movies, which I rarely got the chance to watch.

Its amazing and very hard for me to admit, how many things my mother sent to me, that I basically treated as trivial, and overlooked. You know, it’s just a kid movie, not my thing, I’ll watch it later. Only later ended up being way later.

The first I watched after returning home from the funeral, “The Last Mimzy.”

Then when she was gone, I put them away for a long time, so way later got even later.

I found her book of poetry, which had a poem written to me many years ago. She’d read the poem to me before, but never included the title, “To Tanya, My Daughter,” so I never realized it was a personal apology to me until after her death.

I’ve been gradually watching one of the movies here or there of late. It seems, they each express a sense of her experience.

Yesterday I watched, “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.”

My mom had Multiple Sclerosis, and was often confined to the house when I’m sure she would have preferred to be on a family outing, maybe. I recall she was unable to go to the Cherokee Nation the last time, or the Pow Wow, (but insisted we go) because the walking and heat would have caused an exacerbation that would have taken her down for days or weeks. Only, she wouldn’t say this was the reason. Instead, she would create a big scene and imagined slight, and then refuse to go in an angry storm. I’m sure she felt herself to be a burden at times, both physically and emotionally.

I wish I’d seen the movies while she was here, but even so, I think I would not have received the messages in the same way then. She was not one to admit weakness.

I’m sure there is a lesson in here. I guess, someone can be aware of a thing, yet be unable to, or unaware how to, address or change it. So things go denied, are left unsaid, and then time runs out. My mom was never a burden, physically, but because of her perceived sense of being a burden, and her own feelings of worthlessness, she was often a burden, emotionally, creating scenes that were very unpleasant. In fact, she was very valued and adored, in spite of herself.

I guess the lesson is, to ask for what you need, to be willing to have the difficult conversations for clarity, and to not put things off, consider everything a gift, to be opened, immediately.

Still uncovering jewels here.

God’s Mirror

Gods Mirror

The Steps that led to the showers were difficult to navigate

Not believing in such things

Two flying things in the monks shower stall

When the earthquake came

It picked up the one

Dashing it to its death in a powerful water fall

The second flying thing

Just watched

Undaunted

So courageous

I say the second flying thing had faith

In the earthquake

Do you want to know which one writes the poetry,

And which is the poem?

Ask the chanting monk.
MONKS

In Gratitude

HANDS

I wanted to leave a note in my room for housekeeping, thought I would write a thank you, which I did. Then thought I’d add a little poem about the earth. Opened the book, straight away to this one. Perfect.

Blessed be the works of your hands
O Holy One

Blessed be these hands that have touched life

Blessed be these hands that have nurtured creativity

Blessed be these hands that have held pain

Blessed be these hands that have embraced with passion

Blessed be these hands that have tended gardens

Blessed be these hands that have closed in anger

Blessed be these hands that have planted new seeds

Blessed be these hands that have harvested ripe fields

Blessed be these hands that have cleaned, washed,
mopped, scrubbed

Blessed be these hands that have become knotty with age

Blessed be these hands that are wrinkled and scarred
from doing justice

Blessed be these hands that have reached out and been
received

Blessed be these hands that hold the promise of the
future

Blessed be the works of your hands
O Holy One

– Diann Neu

A Poem and Special Moment Shared One Morning in Marion Woodman’s Rose Garden, Blossoms Bloom in the Fire

MARION

The small plot of ground
on which you were born
cannot be expected

to stay forever
the same.
Earth changes,
and home becomes different
places.

You took flesh
from clay
but the clay
did not come
from just one
place.

To feel alive,
important, and safe,
know your own waters
and hills, but know
more.

You have stars in your bones
and oceans
in blood.

You have opposing
terrain in each eye.
You belong to the land
and sky of your first cry,
you belong to infinity.

-Alla Renee Bozarth

Puzzling the Dream Ago Puzzle

Puzzling The Dream Ago Puzzle; Sometimes a Dream Wants to Play

Not a poem.

Poetic.

Go a little crazy. It’s okay. Squiggly puzzle pieces. I’ll be here when you get back.

Conscious Embodiment
[Embodied Divinity in Dream Words]

[There is some debate about whether it was Moses or God who wrote the second tablet in Exodus.]

A conversation with Pythia Peay and Marion Woodman.

Woodman: “If you are far enough away from something, you can relate to it at a much more intimate level than something that is just pulsing with intimacy. There’s a paradox here.”

Peay: “I see that paradox. It’s as if myth has only just become ‘myth.’ The gods and goddesses of Ancient Greece weren’t considered myths, they were the Greeks’….”

Woodman: “….Bible.”

Woodman: “The soul is eternal. It’s language is eternal.”

– From A Meeting with Marion Woodman in Conscious Femininity, pp.126.

[Why did Moses break the first tablet said to be written by god?]

[When he came down with the second set of tablets, it is said he was glowing radiantly…]

Conscious Embodiment.

Pause.

“the seeing of God, not the merging with God.” – Reb YaKov Leib HaKohain, he said.

[Did not Jesus overturn the tables at the temple, and reject the religious traditions of his time?]

He was one with the Father. He told us so.

The preachers preach, “accept the Holy communion and have union,” acting as if, until.]

Union.

U and I

One.

[When the disciple proclaims, “I have taken communion with the living God, your bread and wine are dead, there is no life there…!” The preacher cries, “Blasphemy!”]

Truth or lie? I only report what is given me.

[Has religion shut the door on revelation and transcendence? Is this why a man must suffer the loss of faith, lose his religion…?]

…Or something like that.

From this perspective, “religion” or at least mainstream religion as we know it, is closer to science than we ever really considered…mechanical, mechanized. Robotized. Concretized. Entangled by the fingers of technology.

Paradox.

Holding the tensions.

To be and not to be.
Of but not in.
In but not of.
Yet both of and in.
A part of but not one with.

Yet in the part we find the whole.

And in the whole we find the part.

Yin and Yang.

Holding the tension.

Pause.

No.

Not “holding” but “flowing.”

Holding Equinoxes. The quick minute between before and after. The sweet spot.

Floating. Flowing. Liminal Space.

Major Tom to ground control.

Ground control.

He was in the dream, you know. Ego.

A quick minute. Minimal space…

expanding.

1+1=1

1+1=2

1+1=1

What is myth?

Are ‘we’ myth?

Rites of Renewal.

Being.

Be in g

Be in g-d

To be or not to be.

The All and the Nothing.

1+1=0

No ‘thing.’

Not material.

And yet,

IAM

Riddle me this: What is myth?

Are you wearing your night vision glasses?

Who am I?

Who said that?

This is fun.

Becoming.

In the middle of…

Being.

Where do I begin?
Let me tell you.

Where do I end?
Not enough time to tell the whole story.

And you?

Enjoying the ride, Ram Dass.

Be here now.

No drugs required, dude. No magic mushrooms.

Just tiptoeing through the tulips.

Silly. Sense of humor.

We’re supposed to be having fun, you know.

“Knowing God and Being Known By God.”