You are a secret garden waiting to be explored 

Don’t linger outside 

Don’t delay the adventure

Open the door and enter

The journey to self is inevitable

You have always been ready




Within every fruit,
There is the raw and the ripe
And in the rhythms of the sun
There is day and night
Inside the full moon
The also crescent resides
Behind every mist
There is beauty shinning
Beyond this fear
There is the lust for life
Beneath the pain,
There is joy moving like a river
Past this body of clay,
Spirit like wind and fire
Treasure in earthen vessels
Everywhere there is music
Even in the silence
The majesty of life 
Is that we are dying yet alive
And this whole world is a temple
So take off your shoes and kiss the ground
Kiss this moment of your life
Feel the rush,
Feel the silence
Be alive


BROKEN WINGS; Musings on Beauty and Perfection


Is there really a standard of beauty or perfection? Is there really a set of criteria that can be used to measure something as subjective as the appearance of a thing? 
I personally believe that perfection is a commercial concept based on the standardization of beauty. Yet in truth, beauty cannot be defined by nor confined to a set of criteria. It is numinous, mysterious beyond definition and utterly fluid. It can mean anything at any time to different people. And the idea that something or someone should be excluded from accepted standards is certainly something that should give us a reason to pause. 
This pause will help us truly meet the fullness of the people and circumstances we encounter at every given time. Instead of pre-judging our experiences or people, we meet them with a clean slate and fully experience them in the moment we meet them.
Like life, beauty is an inner illumination that comes from the “aliveness”of a thing. That which is here, present, in form and in appearance is beautiful. Everything that is here has it’s own beauty, even a butterfly with broken wings. We will only see this when we look without judging or holding on to predetermined standards.❀❀❀



Listen to my signs

And hear the words in my tears

They speak of my hopes

For a love beyond these five senses

As these jewelled streams dispenses

Don’t just see the spectacle

Of these tantrum throes

Or label me querulous

 A gust of wind that blows

For no apparent reason

But to stir up dust

To you I simply a woman


But this simple village girl

Without a crust of fine learning

Is native to a tribe

Prolific in reading the signs

And deciphering secret meanings

 Looking at the morning sky

And making predictions of rain

Yet going to the stream for water

This thirst is not for the river

But for the conversation along the way

Listen to my signs

And hear the words in my tears

Every smidgen is a treasure trove

A little work,

Some tender loving care

And this heart will open

Blessing you with every womanly secret

A feast of revelation from the san greal