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A former techie and now a "deep-seeing mystic" and student of western Sufism. Moving more into spiritual service -- as an energy healer, teacher, Elder.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010


Thirsty for the Light, you turn your head to the horizon.
In disbelief, as that passionate friend drops out of view.

You try to pull yourself from the roots and chase that vagabonding lover,
but firmly grounded you remain.

Yet in that pulling strain, you call up the soil's moist offering.
That each night you transform to the morning's yellow joy.

Helen Klebesadel, Where Are the Bees? II
Original Watercolor

Sunday, December 26, 2010

The Offering Maker

You devoted your life to those intricate festival offerings we carried to the altar.

Your hands still remember the old prayers crafted of wood and fiber.
Offering service to these bodies -- our earthly temples.

Wine Stains on Your Robe

Everyone feels the flame. So why not embrace that fire?

We hunger to taste the wine spilled in those taverns,
Whose mandala-like stains swirl at the hem of your priestly robe.

The Dervish Tilts Her Head

The dervish has been turning.
Infinite whorls of creation appear and dissolve.

Tilting her head, a new doorway opens.
Lifetimes tasted and savored.
All forms moving in the Dance.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

A Tree Burns

The tree stands lonely guardian over the winter's field.
Squirrels find shelter deep in its trunk.

Listen carefully friend: this time the sap returns early.
Pushing past old scars, new leaves will dance in the Divine One's breath.

The fire consumes from the inside.
Only the bark will burn.

Hungry Travelers

You greet the travelers with colorful stones cupped in your extended hand.

Your smile draws us closer. "Take one," you offer.

Warmed by your heart, sitting in our pockets and purses, they sing of the Beloved.
Dancing now, our hunger gone, we bless your generosity, and spill the wine.

No Miniatures

Taken by the Beloved's had to the Center of Creation, the artist returns to decorate the temple.
Windows, walls, the floors themselves, encoded with intricate patterns of the great mystery.

Now that work is complete. The DNA is revealed. The door is thrown open and we step gently across the threshold.

Now another canvas awaits. New brushes stand ready for bold splashes of color.
No miniatures here! This path has been waiting for your bigness.

The Gardeners Called Away

The gardeners, getting older in body, tend the flower beds a little slower this season.
Each cluster of shoots holding the promise of a summer-revealed scent, colors yet to be revealed.

Called away, gloves removed, the spade wiped clean. Others will have your attention now.
Leaves unfurling under your loving gaze, it is time for celebration.
The garden waits in safety for your return.


Filled with nectar, you sit in a circle of gopis. Expansive and radiant.
Behind you is the Beloved Friend and guardian.
Step into the vortex to this time and place.
From the place of abundance, come and remind us of our gifts: of the bigness of our souls.