Sunday, January 28, 2018


Go on heart. 
thump away, keep the rhythm
and circulate the river of life .
Feel and ache with joy or sadness.
Feel it all. 

Go on body.
Get bigger, get smaller.
Shake, drop, droop, 
hold, hug, leap, lift
fall, repair, repeat.
help me dive into life. 

Go on mind, ask, share, learn,
be curious, make a note, 
change and change again.
Know and then not know
and then know again.

Go on being,
intuit, sense and be open
with your invisible strings
of awareness
dear soul, I am listening.

Monday, January 15, 2018


The water fell from the sky
through time
and space
to nourish the earth
and be absorbed 

and changed

it floated as a white dust
to be melted 
into liquid as it touched
a solid 

As a solid
it held a coldness
that brought
soothing relief 
or bitter sharpness,
a whitening freeze

Some chose to enter
water, to float and be
surrounded in its game
with gravity
or to swim in its 
a depth to be explored
or feared
or inspired by
its offerings of 
liquid space

Water flowed through 
time, slowly changing
the shape of the planet
It turned the world 
into colors
and offered growth
a molding of shapes
in slow motion

In time, It rose again 
into the atmosphere
invisible to be seen
by the eye
yet felt by a cheek

Returning again and again
as a drop of magic
falling to the earth

You too, my dears
Are water.


Tuesday, October 10, 2017


I am like a child sometimes. A child who is jumping up and down as she watches you on your birthday as you open a present. She is jumping because she knows what's inside and knows you will love it. 

I am like a child sometimes. A child who is reading Harry Potter for the second time and is glowing because I know he is going to be ok. 

I am like a child sometimes. Because I won’t understand all your words, they will blur together in my head but your voice will ring true to me and I will know just how you feel. The color changes of your skin as you feel will entrance me and your silence speaks so loud. 

I am like a child sometimes, I cry at sadness and anger. I understand your tender heart. Yet I am so resilient and know you are too, so I will keep whispering to you...offering you eyes to see wider into truth. 

If you like, on a hard day, I will be your grandma and extend my maternal fingers out to fix your hair and soothe your sore heart. 

Sometimes just a soft hand on your belly will do, just to rest and recognize your inhale and exhale. So light it reminds you of love.

I love. 

Friday, July 28, 2017


Every July and August the ancient island filled with a myriad of tourist in search of glamour and abandonment. (It wondered if they knew how she toned down her beauty at this time of year). Her land turned brown and dry and the sky dimmed its blueness in response. Yet the bright light was ever present, always exposing each crevice and wild curve. Everything somehow looked like a fantasy in Mykonos. A trick from the joker above, though many humans thought it was their doing. 
The rock groaned with the added weight, yet held it all with God like strength. The rumble of planes riding across its back. The pounding of music reverberating its cement covered land. Tourists moving along its streets like army ants sensing sweets nearby. Cars screeching, horns beeping in order pass each other in an effort to be first, there always seemed to be a mad rush. 

This is what saddened the island, that odd density that filled the air. A thick energy that felt like Hades was nearby.
Yet the island was clever. Every July and August, the island asked the wind to free her of this heaviness, to clean the air and its people.
And the wind came, as friends do.
To wildly tickle the small trees and fields and make the aegean roar with laughter.
On some days the energy on the island was so thick the wind rushed in with force. A wild whipping that shook the shutters and caused the birds to swerve and curse. Yet all knew it was for the best. 
The island grinned, and dreamt of September.

Thursday, July 27, 2017


Katerina woke, yet kept her eyes closed. She needed to pee. Her sigh held resignation.  She never made it through the night now without needing to pee.  Her eyes opened and she looked towards her front door. She must have fallen asleep in her chair while knitting again. Well, at least it would be easy to get up. Her knees were not what they used to be, years of walking  over cobblestones and mountains had once made her muscles firm, now the bumpy corners of her bones were stiff, swollen and gravely. She thought how she resembled this dry island more with each passing day and smiled at the idea.

The small, dark room still smelled of the herb tea she sipped earlier. An infusion of warm comfort taught to her by her Yaya in this very same house. She inhaled the magic deeply as she leaned forward and with chubby brown fingers braced on the chair’s arms,  pushed herself to standing and moved slowly to the door.

She leaned against the front door and felt the vibration of music, a rhythm that seemed to intensify with each beat, drunken laughter and squeals accompanied the sounds. She lifted the metal latch and opened her door a crack. 
In just that small line of open space her house became a part of the disco just down her little lane, colored spinning lights floated into her living room and upon her chair, her knitting needles twinkled. She remembered opening this door as a child, when the moon was bright and the island was silent. In her girlhood she could hear the moon whisper. 

There was no choice, she would have to step out in her nightgown. Grabbing her shawl tightly in front of her, Katerina stepped out into her narrow lane, quickly maneuvering herself past the night’s partiers. Imagining herself invisible as she opened the next blue door to relieve herself. 
There was a time when this little room down the lane seemed so modern. 

The stones felt the slow rhythm of Katerina’s feet. It had known these feet for many, many years now. Recorded the print of her since the day she was born. It cherished how she once flew through the ally ways and down to the sea on a summers day, her feet slapping hard against warm rocks with a rush of aliveness and roars of laughter. How many nights as a teen had she spent looking up at the sky? Ah, her secret night kisses and embraces. Her grieving goodbyes to loved ones yet open door and arms to strangers. She owned kindness and the island felt humbled to hold her. Yet tonight she felt almost invisible.  The earth and rock comforted itself. Katerina’s essence was forever recorded in the stones and air. Knowing her, she would always be whispering humorous thoughts into the human minds as they lost themselves in the maze of cobbled streets.

Katerina looked quite lovely tonight with her silver hair falling, thought the moon. She was beginning to resemble light. How wonderful. She must be on her way soon. How she would laugh to see Mykonos from here.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017


Operations and chemo had left him weak and had not had the results intended. He was pissed.

As I entered the room to meet him, he sized me up. He took in my messy blond hair half tied in a knot, my colorful dress and my flip flops. Not very business like, but very me. He was polite enough not to roll his eyes yet his expression held great irritation at the thought of sitting through a “breath work” session. I could hear the inner dialogue. “What the hell is breath work anyway? What was the point of all this?” I didn't blame him one bit. I could not deny it, this sucked. 

Call it breath work or rebirth breath work. I have heard all the jokes. “Oh! Will I be RE born? Haha. Will I?” “You want me to breathe for an hour? Oh I don't think I want to do that.” 

It’s part of how we live these days, that makes simply breathing, or openly talking about ourselves feel incredibly awkward. Why would you want to review the ups and downs of your life?  Yet that is exactly what I was about to ask this man to do. 
To open his heart to a stranger. 

I pulled up a chair and he sat on the bed, feet on the floor facing me. Legs crossed, arms crossed and eyes stern in an energy lock down. Slow, concentrated exhales streamed from his nostrils in an attempt to hold his “fed up” in check. 

I began simply by telling him about me and my life. The ups and downs that led me to what I do and how I think. I talked clearly with facts only. This was not a man who wanted to hear about intuitive thinking. I understood. Then I asked about his illness, followed by his job. He was a retired math professor, the keeper of rules, the one you looked to for vindication of your worth. 

I listened to him talk, I heard the monotone stories and the ones that made him offer bored and tired sighs, others that pulled inhales deeper into his being. 

I attempted to mention his breath, and how it was effected by his stories. He shrugged, considering it a possibility.

We went to his childhood, to times of strictness and the learning of life’s book of ‘correctness’ according to man. Life in a New England town. There was an almost invisible change to his eyelids as he mentioned his father, who was once a musician. Admiration and an echo of a child crept into the base of his throat and the tone of his voice owned curiosity and freedom.  

What an honor it is to listen to life stories, to listen to a heart opening, cracking, wrenching, blooming, inspiring… To offer truth and have it returned, even when it doesn't feel pleasant. It holds a sense of energy clearing and true validity beyond good or bad. It’s soul centering.

He awkwardly lied down, shy in his resting pose. Yet brave and polite enough to give it a chance. We added some pillows to prop him up, to try to comfort the constant growing pain in his belly. 

“What will we do now?”

We breathe, inhale followed by an exhale. Simple. Just loose that pause between the two. Create a circle. 

Resistance slowed us, he said. “ This doesn't feel good. I feel odd” 
It can feel that way at first. Focusing on the self, breathing life fully can make you dizzy and scared. 
I thought of an image to help him relax.  I asked him to picture his father’s hands, his fingers as he played trumpet. His inhale caught and his cheeks brightened with a rush of feeling. The rhythm of breath became a circle, joining the universe in its spinning. A current all its own as it connected all life. 
I felt myself drifting into the distance of his awareness, as he felt his father. As he felt everything.
I sat
Watching love. 

Time moved.

After a time he said


What is it? How do you feel? 

“I feel, oh. I feel tingly and well, happy. There is no pain at all. I feel no pain just… I am huge. My um energy? It’s huge! Oh wow” More tears.

“Can I stay here a while?” 

Oh Yes. Lets. I put my hand to rest on his shoulder and we hung out in peace.  

Tuesday, June 13, 2017


Resistance definition according to the Oxford online dictionary: 
"The refusal to accept or comply with something; the attempt to prevent something by action or argument."
Consider resistance as it relates to an emotional conversation. Consider resistance as it relates to feeling your own emotions. 
You are here in this magical life and you may not travel the world or fly into space. Yet you are blessed to journey through every emotion. Each emotion holds an essence and a lesson that offers you the possibility of being a better person. Each emotion is a link to honoring of your truer self.
To tell yourself or another you are not sad when you are shuts a door, it hurts.
To tell another or yourself you are not angry pulls a curtain on your needs or thoughts and tells another they are not worthy of truth or trust.
To tell another everything is perfect when you are lost keeps you in loneliness.
To listen to another share their worry is the greatest honor there is. A flight to the moon in its wonder.
When sharing those emotions that you feel may be unpleasant, if you share them softly and from the heart you are offering the raw you, the vulnerable you, the bravest and most gloriously growing you. 
Each emotion holds the trueness of life, so another human can learn to connect to you through empathy.
Each emotion holds healing, as it leaves it turns into a space for insight to enter.
Emotions are not a glue, they do not stick to you. Unless you try to close them in.
And yet, maybe emotions do hold glue when we share them with each other, we become united…
Emotions are like music. Rock, symphony and the softest flute and cymbal.
Music is so close to emotion that a song can echo through your soul and find an emotion to match the melody.
Being able to say “I feel” is one of your greatest gifts. Coming back to the purity is one of the finest pieces of music in existance. It honors your rightness as well as others. It comes from a place deeper than correctness according to
life or religion or education. It moves life towards the wisdom of your soul.