DESERT DOORWAY

It’s only a matter of deep time before your dreams come to claim you. To see how you might hold them.

It’s not up to you how they decide to arrive.

It’s only for you to decide
to Unrust your Hinges and enter or not.

Every doorway is a threshold—the limen, in Latin.
It’s the bottom part of the door
and gives us the word liminality,
the betwixt & between,
passage between two stages.

We sever to make space for what is arriving.

Outside to inside & vice versa.

Sometimes what is leaving IS what is arriving—
but shapeshifted with a new look in its eyes.

They might be our own.

That crossing is the key—Magic happens here.
All the good deaths & births acquire flesh.

That’s Threshold Living.
To live in the door of the moment, knowing everything is perpetual departure
and everything is perpectual arriving.

We the yearning ones live for tender intervals
thin as new feathers,
thick as a feast of hearts.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘔𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘺-𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴-𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦
𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩
𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴
𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴

𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘶𝘱 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵
𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘨𝘰

𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦
𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦

𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦
𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘩.

𝘗𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘥𝘦-𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘮 𝘩𝘢𝘵
𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨

𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦
𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴 their 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘦—

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘔𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘺-𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴-𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵
𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩

BEAR-ING WITH-NESS #1: RIVEREVER

River sings. River watches. River Listens.

I’m returning from a couple days speaking with River. By speaking with, I mostly—but not exclusively—mean listening. Being in presence. With-nessing.

And by River I don’t only mean water flowing a meandering course. I mean also Osprey, who greeted my as I arrived into the canyon; the scent of jerusalem oak goosefoot (I call them pineapple plants, after their smell); and frog, hummingbird, tortoiseshell butterflies, American dipper, acrobatic fish, and the ghost pine sentinels that stand like sentinels on the cliff overlooking my temporary camp. All our part of the spirit of this place; none are disposable. Truly, River is athrum with this considerable agency of non-humans forces.

As anyone who’s gone from the city or a schedule to River knows, it’s not always easy at first to listen. Our minds are too noisy, our bodies too habitually oriented towards agenda, process, futures. Our own dramas take center stage. It takes me some time to arrive. 

There are so many layers: Layers of numb. Layers of noise. Layers of unacknowledged grief. Unexpressed joy awaiting to emerge.

Autumn’s yellowing cottonwood and maple leaves and gurgling water over rocks helps me let go of these layers. 

As I said, I mostly listened. I did float a couple questions, and bent my ears for responses. But I also sang—Spontaneously, awkwardly, and unscripted. Something about mutual thriving and going to the sea. Yet the words don’t matter, it was the gesture, the vibration that counts. For lack of better word—It was devotion. It was prayer. I offered them up, letting river carry it downstream.

And let’s not forget stone. Dear Grandfather Stone, as some First Nations cultures (e.g., Lakota, Seneca) say. I don’t say that, because that wasn’t my culture. ‘My’ ‘culture’, the mainstream North American one infused with equal amounts relic protestantism, consumerism, and scientism, would find such a notion laughable, or damnable; or in better moments, endearing, though not true. A beautiful mistake. 

But dismissing stone wisdom and ancestry is yet another form of exiling ourselves from a truly alive world…

(to be continued)

EARTH INTIMACIES

𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘌𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵. 𝘕𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦. 𝘞𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘭. 𝘞𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘶𝘱.” —𝘈𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴 𝘞𝘦𝘣𝘦𝘳

When Grasshopper flies into your ears
You have a duty to send your ears out hopping across the land

Chomping on the big and little
and allying with the wind

You’ll be forgiven for thinking
you know what the wind is,
some dull breeze or background

When Wind is the wing-lift
of every sky-bound being

Is the pheromones, the pollen
ash kin and Ever-born,
bearer of unconventional truths.

Sex and death and wisdom
in conversation with one another.

Just as Rain isn’t always grief
and Thunder isn’t always anger

but ways to communicate intimacy
with what is.

When Grasshopper flies into your mouth
You don’t know what to say

So you say it
with a strange and dusty accent

Just as Water speaks
a thousand dialects
in their undying pilgrimage

And when Grasshopper flies into your heart
their green gears grin
at all your precious purities.

You find yourself
no longer fearing
the depths of entangled love

You become impure, a porous prism
pulsating raw and riddled rhythms—

Your presence, an homage
Your feeling, an inter-folding
making the world anew
in each moment

_________________________________

Wild Nature Heart’s New course journey THRESHOLD: Earth Intimacies & the Art of Transformation starts Sept. 29)

1000 WAYS AND ONE

I’ve got 1000 ways to leave my heart—
Some are named 
Others aren’t 

A 1000 paths from heart to head—
My body
left for dead

A 1000 ways to flee the scene—
None of which
make me free

A 1000 claws to cling to pain—
keep it close,
push trust away

A 1000 strategies of escape—
No matter what
shape it takes 

A 1000 forms of being right—
A sharpness
urging flight or fight 

A 1000 paths to plot and prey—
make sure things
go my way

A 1000 routes to resist what is—
skip the season,
jump ahead

But there’s just one way 
I’ve found to stay 

it wears the face
of pause and play 

like these drops of rain right now
traveling from creative clouds

Falling on my field within 
welcoming what is, and then, 

feeds the wonder, finds the Wow
frees the beauty, fuels the bow 

Restores me to the sacred why
Anchors me in the biggest sky 

Returns me to the many hearts—
Some are named,
others aren’t. 

AT THE FEET OF THAT BRUTAL, BELOVED TEACHER

What does it mean to walk with death?

You can walk with death
as an act of the imagination

having conversations with love
on the way to the death lodge

Don’t think it’s not there
just because you made it up

You can walk with death
an uninvited guest

climbing hand over fist
with a closed throat
up the mountain

You can make of yourself an apprentice
at the feet of that brutal, beloved teacher

learning lessons sorely needed
knowing that fall lives in the spring seed.

For how can you 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 be here
saying hello to each moment

without a goodbye
on the tip of your tongue?

That is how to pray, it says,
the first and only lesson.

Finally, you can walk with death
as life’s partner

hand in hand, allied
as a ripe citizen of the earth

with—if not praise—then respect
holding it gently to your heart

for this one who arrives at every hour
or any hour

So do not be surprised
by its walking onto the scene

with a beguiling smile
Praise will come later

when the heart swells beyond measure
For is that not the way

of each bright new petal
every astonishing sunset

taking your breath away?
Taking away all breaths

so there may be the new?

ATOPIA

There you go again—
half-way to somewhere
else

which is a somewhere
that you’ll also try to flee

without really being there
with the tidal fog
and stinging nettles of you

one foot out of the door
of the moment

allergic to the shelter-in-
the-here-and-now

and its ravine
of awe-full voices

On the other hand—
on which there are at least five
more ways of touching things—
Perhaps no place

is exactly where you need to be
for a strange and slick surprise to unfold

Without some tight agenda
some do-gooder-grasping
for a spring on the other side
in which you really live

Perhaps it’s no u-topia
nor dys-topia

but a-topia
a no place

the deepest center
of everywhere and when

inside which a beautiful breath
lurks

how to get from there
to the next season of things
is anybody’s guess

even the nettle seed
and tidal fog
and the ravine that holds them all