All is revealed when the subject is ready to receive. You asked for me to come and I am here. That is how you came to know the brunt of your heart, daring to open.  Last Friday you spoke out loud that you desired a fluid made of my wing.  I heard you and on Monday I gave my life for you.
Driving the spirit van, all senses on hyperdrive as you held, fast two hands gripping wheel.  Gliding past billboards advertising cancer, asbestos, law suits the majestic Mississippi on your right the beautiful S shape of Plaquemine town. Do you remember praying for me? I heard you sing the water song,
nibi, Gee-zaw-gay-i-go  Water, we love you
Gee-mee-gwe-chi-way-nay-mi-go  We thank you
Gee-zhaw-way-nay-mi-go  We respect you
I saw you slowly exiting town, I waited spirit above my body ready for you to see me.  I called to your heart, you looked over at the 55 miles per hour sign and your heart skipped a beat.  Slowly pulling over and getting out of the moon, oh how warm the weather is for this January winter day.  I called you to open me to feel my warmth just leaving my body. You listened scared fingers afraid to touch me.  Bringing me over to a live oak tree you laid out my wings and offered tobacco while you prayed under shaking voice.  Freshness of a robin egg, the color blue, rising up, a bruise at my heart center, the area I was struck, caught your breath.
I was there a mythical bird from your dreams come to life, to tend and make part of your medicine bundle. I am the cleaner of death, picker and re-cycler of life.  A reminder of death circling in the sky, willing you to die everyday to find true living.  Now I am with you always.
My body laying in the back of the moon, my spirit merging with you as you shivered and shook  along the river. Trance state driving over the cypress filled water world we blend and weave a mighty flight to your earth bound domain.  I am grateful my right will will be made into a flute, my left wing a wand for healing work, my feet to be merged with stone and crystal for your alter.  My head rests in your rose garden waiting for nature to clean me and my body buried so carefully under your ancestor tree in the north of the land.  I am dismembered yet in all way remembered.  I live on, my spirit rides with you. You carry the magic of North American condor now. The gnosis of transformation is in your wings. ​

Have you ever gone on a Sunday drive to a place you have never been before only to arrive and know you know this place?
The very journey predetermined and the feeling of falling into a portal of de…. ja….. vu…..
This place of star knowledge, 13 years in the making, a manifestation of vision playing out for me to find.
Entering into the gateway, something inside me that has never been claimed before has turned on my spirit  informed.
This constellation I recognize as my homing beacon.
5 vertical dots in the center
2 dots on the right
1 dot on the left.
It is I who has come to remember!
Walking on and in through a matter of “Heart of Fact”
This angel man who's heart bleeds, a way show’er for a world lost in itself, I know you.
Yes I notice that fire resides in this portal and the way to transmutation is to choose the right path into transformation.
Rays, angles and angles mark my way.
I Choose the path of the bleeding sacred heart to transform.
I stop to see the fire, to see that angel with the time running out, I see and I am grateful for the knowing.
Bird tribe’s are awakening, yes I see the line up for wings. An awaken-er to the tribes you are and the eagles know the way.
Up ahead the history of human kind is being played out on the tower a portal of initiation to star knowledge.
Yes I know I must walk into the center of the space.
You a brick layer by trade, creating the way beyond history.
Stepping into, swirling bricks, beehive dome up to an eight sided star.
Ready steady go. go. go. go. go.

in becoming new I arrive to great brown water and boats flowing by for blessings.

You knew for 13 years to create this awakening that I would come and remember.
Today it is 3 days later and I think of you. Visioning the knowing, leaving no trace, no ego. Completing your mission and walking away.
My soul knows you, your teaching has spoken.

Say you, I am here, I am here, I am here.
Being here now, yet where is here?
As hearing is here?
As seeing is here?
As sensing is here?


Here so fast, timeless, flowing, endless to:
No where.
No space.
No past.
No future.

Maybe here on planet earth is all of the above and none of the above all at the same time.
Never choosing one or another.
Dyeing to a small self.
Diving into swirls of unworthy, letting go of fear and strength.
What is your fear of being?
How do you, who as much to offer not judge the plan and timing of yours and others offerings?
Maybe its in your alignment, the way a compass aligns to true north?
The very magnetism of allowing creates the direction.
Do you not see that all is all, all is the way.
Sitting unruffled, unadorned or vibrating colors of intuition there is no way for your light not to shine.
Yet how do you follow this unmade, uncharted path with no one to show the way except your self empty, magnet pointing and pulling true north.
Somewhat like a boat on a sea, no tiller or sail just a spirit rudder holding corse that no hand has to hold just a heart trusting its very magnetism of corse.
Yes the water is calm sometimes and many times so rough the little boat cannot see any sun or shore yet rudder under waves is steady on.



Prepare little boats for launch, the journey has been prepared for you.
Align your heart to true north and let your known world fall away from shore.
The time is now to walk away from fear into a magnetism of the all of love.

One
Spirit writing, spirit drawing
 a light player plays.
Playing color, opening fruit
vibrations of transparency.
Spirit made, playing matter.

Two
What does it matter for matter to matter.
It needs to be played by spirit.
Is your shadow of serious getting in the way again?

Three
Laying down tobacco, call in the empty vessel.
Allow the breath to become the holy flute.
Unadorned, animated by wind, open to the dirt of being.
Step through shadow to play as light.

Four
Unknown knowing, mastery in play, awaken out of your mind.
See the sea through the black hole, open eye of unknowing knowing.

Five
Can you open to hearing as a flute opens to breath warm and lush?
The landscape of color traveling through spirals of sea shell to register where?
Where in your mind palace does hearing occur?

Six
Yard bird calls to lawnmower’s,
Crepe Myrtle pour color as vibrating waves of pink on arching front porch.
No one comes to notice.
Only the yard man to spray chemical mist,
spraying away the very bee’s that create the bloom.

Seven
All matter of buzzing stops.
Yet color vivid, vibrates still.
What color vibrates, red, pink or purple?
Are you healed by seeing?
Can bird song open your heart?
Where do you long to be?

Eight
Energy of color vibrating you of hidden hills.
The house at the bottom of the drive.
A river of light flowing from north to south.
Owls nesting in the east canopy.
Red, red, all ages of red, barking chirps to each other and to me.
Finding the hidden places to rebirth the union.
Seeing the lines in the air as the birds arch to and fro.
Stillness are hills hidden, no bother of city noise or light of night.

Why didn’t you ever tell me to watch how it moves, see how it flows each step toward a new beginning?
If no one is central and all are equal parts of the whole then separation into individualization would be an an expression of the whole as well?
I watch as the tributaries separate and unite, the linage of my river, what lies before and what and where that river travels after I am no longer me.
Before me Carty’s, Trainor's, England, Ireland, Scotland going so far back to have been on the Mayflower. Then going in another direction, Henderson’s, Gagliardo’s, Scully’s into tributaries/branch’s of Bianca, and then Maisy, Quinlyn, Alistair, Tatum, Sebastion, Fiona, Griffin, Windsor and a baby yet to be in the river yet.
All central to the whole, each tributary connected into the human organization that guides all life within my body. I watch and see how they flow. Each a unique expression of the whole, none better that the other yet each greater the they can see.
What is the legacy you are leaving for these tributaries flowing from your stream? How is this legacy connected to the cosmic river of life? Do you leave an imprint of love in memories with those you love?
These musings a reminder of teachings learned on my journey to medical women taught by Karen, Judy the Shaman’s of Peru.  Musings of the  three type of connections kayo the smallest of streams, payan the equivalent of a local river, and Kollana, an ocean. Choosing to take these type of connections to explain all connections from our relationships with each other, to nature and to the cosmos.
Asking the question of connection, how are your connections and how do you relate to these types of connections? What do you in-train to? Do you get stuck in Kayo trickles, little muddy puddles? Finding yourself splashing around in old wounds, dramas and stories. What if you never to choose to flow from the river to the sea of connection choosing to thrash around in backyard puddles?
I see light of the milky way reflecting in your eyes. I travel in stillness in, through a portal of light seeing the river flow to the sea. A kollana connection in the eyes of my grandchildren. Maisy your love, beauty, you who hold space for all to sit, unique open, tolerant of all. To chose to not be involved in the drama of high school pattern’s of society. To make space for "I see you” love. This Payan river of love flows from me to you and from you to me. This connection, this seeing see’s in and beyond into a Kollana connection.
Quinlyn traveling in your eyes as you learn and share your learning with me, never critical of another. You who can see solutions to needs of others, joyful in exploring.
I see each, I watch each, I travel through a connection of linage eye to eye, heart to heart a channeling connections of kollana love.

An altered un-reality
it’s an altered un-reality.
Can you see how funny it would be if you just let go of your known reality and the un-known divinely suited for you, your very own altered un-reality would come rushing in so happy to be home?
The unsettled things in your life are only your hungry ghosts haunting you to find fault in the very unfolding of magic.
An altered un-reality of seeing that the very name you thought to name your business RECLAIM BELONGING could by seeing in your new altered way say RECLAIM BELONGINGS and who whats to reclaim someones old worn out belongings? Seeing in the un-altered way it made sense to name the business RECLAIM BELONGING, for this was the essence of the idea of coming home to your belonging, the very core of what inspires you. Yet now all ropes are cast off and the ship of altered un-reality has left port, never to dock on that shore of reclaimed belongings again.
At times it feels a bit unsettled not having strong opinions to feel and feeling of settled even when all around feels unsettled. This feeling of rocking to a sea of joy, I could never have imagined. A joy unbounded by circumstances, so little needed to maintain, so much time in this new space of abundance. A birth of light has occurred inside that stillness, inspired and cradled. New light unattached to outside influence.
I remember my magnetism test, May 2015, Dona Alayha, Cuzco Peru, testing on where I was and what I had to work on to increase my magnetism to become the earth keeper a member of the Light of the Earth.  Remember how you walked in counterpoint neutral, the peacock feathers parted in her hands when you were 50 feet away. Remember that writing on the black board, unique messages for me, that age is just and number, and you are ageless and timeless. Remember you now are stepping into this new are of timelessness. That all is done in un-doing. This is the altered un-reality. The way of what this outward world might think insane yet your remembering knows is home.

I made up my mind to let go of the vulture eye.

The eye (I) watching for the way into a conversation, a place to dominate with my opinion.

What if you took your dear self to the party of life and you only asked questions?

Refusing to name anything, to not add your opinion to the soup of conversation. The need to be heard in the crowd less important than the listening, the asking, the wondering. Creating your life like a performance art piece. Each interaction another question, another skit. Nothing more important than being in the now to capture the essence of energy.
How many times do you find yourself on a desert island of human gatherings, a place so lonely and desolate your drowning. All of the humans wanting only to  drink in validation, to thirsty themselves to offer water.
Some dominate, others eat, some are loud drinking wine and letting that spirit control their very essence. Each human hooked up to their IV of choice, looking to hook up for sustenance. Some like drama so the relationships of childhood get acted out in a playground full of grey haired 3rd graders.
Choosing to come together to hear and ask the questions of a life, to wonder rather than play in the childhood playground of patterned society/culture. Who bullies, who shares, who cares, who is the victim, one up, one down? What if we all stepped away from ‘normal culture” and became wildly whimsical, bumping, playing, caring and listening?
Gratitude for the separation away from self, to become a little more selfless. To listen, truly listen without waiting to pounce with a opinion. Asking the question of “What is your vision of the future of the world?” The depth of connection deepens and the desert blooms with possibilities. seeing each human flower unique and exquisite in it’s place. Removed from the well worn tracts of habitual behavior, free to dream.

Part I
When the habit is placed to one side informed hands start to move. Somewhere in the distance a vision appears yet the way to create it is not totally clear. This point in time is beyond the future and released of past. Stepping into feels like the toe entering into the 1st step of a hot spring, a tingle radiating up and through, pulsing, energy expressed out of vocal cords is AHHHH.

Part II
Bending shaping, wrapping the unconscious strips of torn muslin as one would wrap wounds to keep the vital life force inside. Winding, creating, legs, arms and wing buds. This knowing is trusting the process, shaping, stuffing and padding with cotton, grown from this Louisiana south land. A stick or seed some left in others removed. The space is a studio overlooking a lake, high as a bird house surrounded by water, trees and bird song each weaving a language into hands that wrap and create.

Part III
Did you know the “It” is never the ‘It”, that this awakening of the bird tribe will come for you when your not looking or talking about “It” As it is, the way with angels want to be born. Trusting these wrapped mummies, face-less, hand-less, feet-less and wing-less to inform the next action. The voice wants to talk, don’t listen for the secret needs to remain hidden. Hand’s and heart inform the next action. Clay made from volcanic ash and paper pulp, molded, shaped, faces spring forth and the animation and expression will be informed by the clay itself. Process is process, get out of the way and will it out of you.

Part IV
Sitting, wondering, how to build out the bud wings?  What will this that has never been made, be make of?
Studio is never clean, always layers upon layers of scraps, pieces of thread, all a spiral of achicologocal treasures. Each reclaimed cloth holding the memories of the person who's spirit wore it. Tapping into wings using words written on fabric, messages given to me by the bird spirits to awaken the wings of flight. Sewing symbols of angelic flight, each wing invoking a prayer of remembering. Do you remember dreaming of flying? The kind of dream where you knew you could? Just flap your arms and slowly you would lift off. When did those dreams end? Is the knowing that you are born to fly coming back to be remembered now?


Part V
Can you feel your wings? It takes no effort to bring back this knowing, only trust. Dreaming while awake is how the creation is born, from the breath of what breaths you is the energy source. Do not stop to listen for you will surely loose your way. Even now as you read this one who listens is close by wanting to correct. Step back into the dream, open your heart, trust, flap, flap, flap and you will remember. You know how to fly.

To exit the gates of the physical realms into the metaphysical the ether of creation maybe starts with that first pull, need to be filled, birthing what longs to be suckled and nursed.
Once I saw a young couple sitting together on a park bench, the sun was shining and warm and life was buzzing all around them and yet they did not notice. He was laying on the bench with his head on her breast, she gazing down and so gently stroking his face and forehead almost a scene to intimate to watch. Something inside of me knows this place of tenderness. It is not the biological need to copulate kind of love it is the kind a mother feeds her child. To create is erotic, tender and fierce a women's way is though the 5th essence.

Prompt from Stanley Kunitz A Wild Braid
Writers Writing Group 4/5/17 Lafayette LA