Before his assassination, Martin Luther King wrote about his end in his journals. I know this, so I have always added it to my superstition. When people I know die, they come in threes. A white horse on a hill grants a wish, like blowing a dandelion. And I have always known that my next year is given to me upon hearing a loved one sing happy birthday to me. If no one sings happy birthday, well this is the only year that has ever happened, and I didn't know what to do with it. So in the back of my mind, I wondered if I would not live to be 37. Then I went on with about a month and a couple days ago, I got an empty fortune cookie (without a fortune tucked inside.) "That's it." I thought. "One more bad piece of luck, and I will die!" Superstition probably is really hard for non-superstitious people to understand. It's like these arguments I keep having with mostly family. I know I love my people more than the arguments, but too often I have chosen the arguments.

So my sister did something I found unforgivable. But I love her, so I decided to let my love win over the dispute, after all. It was really hard, but I am letting that part of me die, the arguer. I am letting that be the part of me that dies this year, that doesn't live to hear another birthday song or fortune. I am sorry for all of you whom I have hurt, even you other person who imagine I could just maybe be talking about you. I love you, in a little way, or a big way if my sister. I love you, and I am sorry.

Posted Tue Oct 2 11:34:33 2018

I was in a flunk most of yesterday. I took a mental health day in what I was doing. I needed to go swimming but I was convinced it would not be the best thing because it does involve a pool of people and I just needed space. I just needed to isolate myself for a while and absorb the quiet of my room and home, with my pets who fortunately don't talk.

I wake up early, so much of the morning and early afternoon was filled with me trying to rest, trying to zone out in front of TV that just didn't work, and trying to nap which didn't work, and eat junk that didn't work. Then around 2:30, I started seeking more information on a sort of manual to kill my ego, which I did not shoot with my first intended bullet. (See previous entry.)

So I looked up TED talks on the ego, but found they didn't speak to the nature of my problem, and they seemed to ramble about problems I really don't relate to - a common kind of negative self talk. My problem seems to be that other people say things that bug me, so I began researching talks with both ego and relationship as a search term. But that was a fail too. So I went to Audible, which always seems to have something for me.

The book that came up as the highest rated with my search terms was "You are the placebo." I listened to a clip, though. I wasn't going to buy it, even with a free promo code, without listening. I was a little apprehensive of the new age title. I found myself giggling at the featured clip. I was truly unsure of whether the voice of the writer and narrator was legitimately serious. But I was allured into buying the audio book by Joe Dispenza, and I ultimately also got the second book in the pair of recorded books only on Audible.

I listened to the whole first book, laying back in my dog's comfortable chair. I became a nonbeing, floating around in space, whether my eyes were closed or when they were open. It brought me great peace, even when I was laughing out loud at the strange serious, slow nature of Dispenza's instructional voice.

Yesterday was open mic night at Bloom. So I decided I wanted to try to lead the coffee shop in guided meditation. And I did. I tried to make my voice just as unusual and commanding as Dispenza. And in the same way that I was filled with peace listening to his book, I hoped my audience DE-stressed in hearing my performance.

Then at the very end, when I was done, someone I know and admire came up to me saying it worked for him.

Posted Thu Oct 4 17:24:22 2018

...born in some Eastern city

hither to yon, with plums growing

even though it was winter

those plum blossoms snowing.

...born with a wealth

a silver spoon

New Englander

a healthy loon.

...why oh why

is everything free

asked the frosty transplanted

New England plum tree?

...she looked around her

a Siddhartha lady

and decided to resettle

and earn her own pay day.

...over forty years

she worked and she earned

raising five kids and many others

and riding wheels that turned.

...her kids grew up

and most moved far away

(except for a daughter poet

with a disability.)

" the skin of my teeth

I bought each car.

And now my teeth have bout run out

and my ride won't go far."

...when the transmission

about dies

hills become

increased in size.

...she's worked so hard

caring for all the others

it's a song so often sung

about tireless mothers. good as he was,

the father moved South

and Momma almost lost all hope

for the freedom of driving about.

...until the rest of her family (including the Dad)

in an act of generosity

pulled together efforts

and bought her a Suzuki.

...her family knew

an economy

that she had put more into than any of them -

an economy of generosity. imagine a world

where Trump



...for scientist know


really is a controlled hallucination

at best. other words as New Aged as it sounds

to a certain degree

we create our own


...and even if

you don't agree

I'd better quit writing

for simplicity.

Posted Sun Oct 7 23:00:52 2018

Suzie the Suzuki.

Suzan B. Anthony.

Dream ride.

Posted Sun Oct 7 23:10:03 2018

Every poem, the man who taught her words,

surpasses her last arrangement.

Every poem, the girl flies triumphantly

past the father.

He edits his verse twenty years,

until it's ripe and done.

Until at last he

gives up on it.

She spits them out, seeds,

until some waning week or month,

when she imagines

she'll never write again.

Poems are like the Indian's land

the tribe that knows it's family.

A part of our inner world

we can never deny.

Sisters and brothers

surging ahead

as whose most prolific

can't forget the roots.

Odes to death.

Odes to forgetfulness.

Odes to poems.

Cars full of odes,

traversing wherever the GPS directs,

up Georgia Road on the long ride,

to the Pentagon if asked,

but hopefully home.

Posted Sun Oct 7 23:24:25 2018

I've seen her shores,

flooding their sand castles,

washing them to cave

in long pools

up and down the beach,

sanderlings wading,

a one leg sea gull

laughing and wading

and waiting to catch a puffer fish.

Just as I've seen her shores

reeling out

where we used to find sand bars,

where the pelicans used to go,

now must go out deeper

past the sand dunes sheltering.

The oldest water on the shore

is replaced by some miracle,

a wave to body surf upon,

salty water spitting high.

Posted Mon Oct 8 01:10:05 2018

We don't live on poor street, but it wouldn't be a long walk

from here. The oldest car on our street was replaced

by the newest one. I know these homes; it is so easy to love

their bones. You can paint the walks or hang a witch,

but you can't remove the home from the house. A house

is a home. The empty home across from where we inhabit

has a chimney habitat for swift birds, swooping down.

When first I saw your home, I knew it must be worthy.

But when I saw the house across the drive, I did not know

its story. So it took some time before I saw the beauty

in the suburbs. Beauty is heart. Beauty is a tug on the strings

of emotion. That's why beauty can take narrative to know.

That is why I know you know my home is home beautiful.

You who have trusted your way through my back alley with me

and trespassed your way behind my paw ways

back to my home. I know you loved my home.

I know you loved my beautiful home, because beauty takes love.

"Am I beautiful?" Loosely translates: Do you love me?

"Is my home beautiful?" Means: Do you understand me?

These things take practice, a rested heart,

a belief in the emotional bed of life.

Posted Mon Oct 8 01:29:29 2018

Facebook is a "shit fest." This is a fact of life, and it could easily be said about Twitter too. But going online can bring a feeling of connection, understanding, and expression. I have been itching to read blogs but I don't always know where to find the good ones. Plus there are forums and places to connect online of intrigue. I hope to make a lengthy list. In fact I am going to look up some of the blogs of my favorite writers and use this as a personal directory for myself. If any of my readers will add in the comment section your favorite blogs, or just places you like to connect at online, I would really love to grow my list that way.

blogging and reading blogs Convert your kindle books to audiobooks, get free promo codes for audible.


Patchwork/ scuttlebutt

Dating websites.

Posted Thu Oct 11 13:41:51 2018

I have four bumper stickers left, though I think Charlotte agreed to take one. So three more lucky people get these:

I am still putting out audiobooks on audible. So this list is growing. If you are new to audible or simple want a free promo code to purchase my book, I can hook you up if you ask.

The producer, MJ Helmer, who did the voice for Anne Lamont in Bird by Bird, has agreed to read my memoir Moody Tourist in Costa Rica. So that will be upcoming.

A few of my new books on kindle and paperback are unreviewed as of yet. I would love to have you read and review these books. The new books include two poetry collections, Sow's Ear Children, and Chronology.

Posted Fri Oct 12 10:26:02 2018

Is there a land where everyone is purple?

And what does it mean to be purple?

What is regular or typical?

Can everyone be purple

or just shades of red and blue?

Posted Sat Oct 13 10:23:10 2018

October stretches wide.

Windows sealed up to keep the cold out.

Flocks passing above chimneys.

Grannies tucked in bed much later.

Pups huddled at their feet.

Marigold seeds scattering.

Posted Sat Oct 13 10:29:54 2018

Last night I dream of a boy I once knew.

I knew him when he was eight and I was 17.

Mutual family friends rarely seen.

I build a wall around the world

so he can play forever free.

But it blocks migratory corridors of song birds.

They start dropping to our feet.

We're torn between rescuing them

and fearing disease.

I wake up missing the nineties

then drift back to sleep

to a land I can control.

Brick by brick I tare down the wall

and build shelters with the leftover bricks

to house the homeless people

in my mind.

Kid must be 27 now.

Not a kid.

Someone who saves orcas for a living.

You never know the impression you are making.

Posted Sat Oct 13 10:43:29 2018

When I'm 27

I finish college

with babies.

School of minnows.

School of thought.

School employs leisure.


the babies

turn 27.

I look back

wishing I had

bubble wrapped them kindly.

Posted Sat Oct 13 10:48:48 2018

Brazen got her stitches removed a couple days ago. A big improvement from spewing blood everywhere, my pup's paw pad is still a fragile state, so we still use either a head e collar cone or a boot.

I need to invest in some gloves or dig in the basement and go out in the back alleys picking up glass. I never broke bottles but it is irresponsible to expect the people who throw their trash around to clean up after themselves.

I am pretty sure it is not a universal understanding, the bond shared between a pet and their human. Of course they are our favorite family members. I would do anything for my puppy. So I am glad she's getting better.

Posted Sat Oct 13 10:57:36 2018

Broad is the land

stretched between protective banks

rows of porches

Southern streets

locust trees

catalpa trees

bended knees

the gardeners prays for their country.

All of them do.

Rows of gardeners

pop up across thick meadows

pushing plows and lawn mowers.

Some kill weeds.

Most pour sparse water o're the dirt.

Humanity is a garden of gardeners.

Sometimes for money.

More often to feel the playful quality.

People gardening

with little terriers digging parallel holes.

Every few moments the pause for breath.

The Earth can lie fallow for long stretches.

So much need for rain.

So much rain.

We all live in the most beautiful spot

from Timbuktu to Kabul to Helsinki to Bristol.

Posted Sat Oct 13 16:41:14 2018

Nightmare, you are not my reality. I do not hate you. I know you came because you feel fear and pain. I am lying here in the same bed now. I've decided to pair the bad memory of the nightmare with an actually quite peaceful experience of resting, warm and cozy, with the dog cuddled at my feet. I hear her deep breathing in and out. It is wet out and autumnally chilly. Nightmare, you elicited fear that I am not wanted. But my meditation guru shared something with me so maybe others enjoy me still. I will let my good exchange with her sit next to you, like a dog at your feet, a companion balled next to you, a friend for you, to keep you balanced. May you be free from suffering and the cause of your suffering. May you be filled with compassion.

Posted Sun Oct 14 16:37:29 2018

What is youthfulness? It's painful. Bones broken through bleeding flesh. Skinned knees. Alley fights and sovereignty. Stalked by drunken men, scratching their balls through sagging trousers. Fighting uphill to school and uphill the way back home. Young and turbulent. Striving too hard for no good reason. To prove self.

Egotistical growing pains. Restless to be somebody. To know all the answers. An unwillingness to take steps one at a time.

Yet childlike, a goal worth seizing. Hold tight to those childlike qualities. Stay true to your child within.

*Upon reading recent negative reviews of Kingsolver's new novel.

Posted Tue Oct 16 14:25:25 2018

Inspiration is an open letter box. Inspiration. I've been writing email poems to broken sticks in the trail to the garden. Soon I'll go into the back yard to harvest Zinnias, Zinnies as Onie would say. Her Silas was this sort of Bible worshiping man. I was thinking of him, on my drive home. Listening to this new channel for me, Christian music. I really promise there is not a bit of me that identifies Christian. Though they read a verse from Peter, and it reminded me there is a lot of good in that book. Book. It was about forgiving people who will never apologize. Then they read something about the devil being in that situation of not apologizing, but also in the not forgiving. What a rambling paragraph. Anyway, I never wanted to believe in Satan, but maybe the Christians are right. I don't know. But Silas is right. I'm not sure what he thought on Satan, but I reckon he thought there was one. Thing is, we all struggle internally. We might be thinking about these things, God, Satan, as external forces, but I guess I am understanding that we have Satan in us, if we have God.

Friends are Sticks

to Wren

Friends are like sticks,

and it sounds funny

but some people collect sticks.

Until it doesn't sound funny.

Until, we write "well duh"

with our short leaded sticks

and we walk home

leaning on sticks

or we bend over and see

the reason -

they are beautiful.

Then we look at the other half

lying in the path

on the other side of our brown boot.

Snapped in two,

and we apologize

not enough,

and thank God for the beauty.

Not enough.

And we hobble home

with our sling

full of sticks.

I was trying to define whether I am in a time of opening but I think the correct word is growing. What seeds in October? Greens, at least in my Dad's garden in South Carolina. You can't really start cabbage outside in October. Better to try in June to get those seeds going. They take a little more maintenance.

Our inner workings are the ocean and the shore. Our emotions and psychology and minds and hearts and souls. That is the whole world. For so long, I see myself as a slug inside a shell. I can see nothing but my darkness, a little light shines through from time to time. It's just a snail I am identifying with this day or month or year. Places I have been, feelings I have felt that seem to be gone forever, skills I once had or now have. Everything is a fleeting phase. We are flickering here and there always. There is no permanence. But we appear to be.

Posted Fri Oct 19 21:12:01 2018

Please accept this poem,

which hides in between the rolls

of the land like a heron I spotted.

It doesn't need to fly to be known.

In fact, let it stay

where peace parts the barely noticeable

banks of Boozie Creek

and I drive by so cautiously,

trying not to be seen seeing

in a big red Suzuki.

And it stays still as a puddle

in that tender little place

where I don't think I have ever

seen a heron.

Posted Fri Oct 19 23:00:58 2018

You are making a remarkable effort this run. I see Flaccavento signs all over Washington and Scott counties. Griffith can be defeated. I hope!

It's been a while since I had emotional energy to invest in a political campaign, and I am sorry I neglected yours. I could have phone banked, and I do have a way of convincing people about political things. I'll help with your re-election!! You've got to win. We don't see eye to eye on guns and maybe one or two other things. But I just hadn't considered what is really happening with your election. I am in the process of dashing off a letter to the editor for you. The rest, I'm afraid you've got to do. So be reinvigorated knowing Tennesseans are relying on you at holding your head tight in the chopping block a little longer. You've stuck your neck out for anyone who cares about streams or health care. I'm praying people read through the BS and you are knocked over by the weight of their votes.

Please win.

Your Friend, Maggie Hess

Posted Fri Oct 19 23:08:51 2018

Have you ever lost a friend?

One of the most intimate truths a friend ever told me, was Wren long ago. Long before her name was Wren, Huck spoke of losing friends.

Said some people lose friends more than others.

Some people go through anguishing feeling divorces with people they wanted more than anything to trust and love.

That so many of her most beloved friends slipped through her fingers.

She could not take them where she was going.

I've long approached friendships, by default, by accident, like seeking a best friend and grasping for air.

She said until that point, actually when she was telling me that story, a decade ago, Wren said that telling me was a turning moment for her. She said it on the spot. She defined the moment as she lived it.

My friends see me standing there grasping for "the one." Some think it's romantic. And sometimes it wants to be. They listen to me. They hear me say I've been hurt badly by my own mental illness, I've been hospitalized 5 times. They hear me pleading with them, saying I never in my life tried suicide or drugs or even hardly alcohol more than a few samples.

I'm surprised every time, but my true real rock solid best friends say to me, they want me to have vices. They'd understand how to help me if I followed a "normal" structure of self hatred. They don't understand what I am doing, whatever it is that I am doing. Nobody is hospitalized 5 times just for being mentally ill. Then I explain, I was. And all I need is a friend, a shoulder to cry on now and then.

And they say, oh, Maggie, I'll be your shoulder... now and then.

Then, well, my pattern used to be I would keep coming to the same friend and wear them out. And family too. And like after a million times, and a weirdo scenario, they just couldn't take it any more, being my person.

So I realized, I don't have a person. I have a best dog. And I have a bunch of people I can call on now and then. And sometimes no one can talk, and then I write.

And Wren and I are still friends. She's made a solid foundation of a life for herself, and I am proud of her. She is a famous homesteader and a free spirited wife and blogger and poet.

I think of all the friend fish I have let slip through my net, and I just am so grateful for fish and water and life in general.

I got lost once. When I was a little girl, I don't remember how it happened, but I was at Bayes Mountain with my family, and I lost my family for about an hour. It is a blur of a memory in my mind, mostly composed of the retellings of stories my family told.

It's good they found me.

Posted Sat Oct 20 03:11:07 2018

I had a dream more vivid than most of my waking hours. One of my most real, practical, and long lived friends betrayed my trust in the worst possible way. She lied to me as a regular course of action thinking she was protecting me. When I found it out, I started screaming at her. (None of this ever would happen.) (Right?)

I put my hand on the door to slam it, but her hand caught it as the door began to hit the frame.

In that moment, I see her gesture, and again she is trying to protect. It is her job. It is her. She is a mother, a nurturer, a friend.

As a mentally ill person with a disability for my mental illness, I have had a great struggle trying to cope with "patronizing people."

It is a lack of trust in my character. Not something simple like lacking my intellectual abilities. More entangled.

But in the dream, my friend clearly wanted to protect me. Maybe it was not a nightmare, but a vivid dream only.

There were times in my past when I needed help coping way more than just a phone call or health care. Some of my friends remember vulnerable fragile Maggie better than they know me now. And I have no way of promising I will be this way another day, or even a year.

I don't know. I have hope. I think I am super strong and amazing.

I barely can just take care of myself lately. And there aren't many friends hanging out here with all that people do.

It is complicated. But I do take care of myself, albeit barely. I make it through.

It is a strange balance, on my end trying to cope, and trying to live up to my potential, and having relationships with people who don't know what to expect from me. On the end of the loved one or friend or new acquaintance, I say I hate being patronized, but do I like occasional compliments? And how do you do that? How do you actively not patronize people?

I seem to generally seek people who are really good at not patronizing me.

And dreams are just all in our heads too.

Except I guess they also are channels of reality that can be turned on and switched from time to time.

Comments are rare, but I would love to hear what you think!

Posted Sat Oct 20 03:32:02 2018

How can people be like rivers? Long ago in Kyoto, Japan, a man named Chomei lived in a spacious house.
Like the river he lived beside, Chomei knew neither his dwelling not his own life would last forever.
He was trying to be a great poet and he won big awards but he did not feel happy yet.

One day a giant whirlwind swallowed up his house, dumping all the pieces around his yard.
Chomei salvaged the parts that were not broken and he threw them in the river, and washed them down to a new place, where he built a medium house of them.

He still wasn’t happy.
One day an earthquake struck the city of Kyoto and much of Chomei’s house fell down again.

Again he salvaged the remaining parts, threw them in the river, and reassembled them downstream into a small house.

Then there was a big fire that came to his house.
Chomei saved remaining parts of his house by washing them down stream, as he had before.

At last, he built his final home, which he called Hojoki, ten by ten hut.
There he was able to find happiness, and he wrote a beautiful poem, a masterpiece of

Japanese literature, also called Hojoki. People can be strong like rivers.

Sometimes it helps to identify with something in nature, like a stream or a house. People are resilient like Hojoki, the ten by ten hut that Chomei made.

We can sit next to a waterway, throw sticks in, and watch them race slowly along.

It is okay to think of ourselves as pieces of the Earth for a while.
We are the water and the bamboo, a type of plant that some Japanese huts are made of.

We can dream while we wake.

We might build an actual house someday.

We might learn the wisdom of simplifying our needs. We can be poets of these days.

We can tell stories that touch generations.

Posted Sat Oct 20 12:27:47 2018

Years ago I got the great honor of bringing two friends home to a Tri Cities Thanksgiving from Berea. When we were leaving the giant meal my Bristol friends had spread out at Roseland's table, Mike turned to me and he made a comment about how "these are remarkable, successful, good people I'd like to know but they do not see you." I did not take in his remark, but benchmarked it in my mind for much later.

For much of my life, I have lived in the shadows of big trees and for much of the time, I actually did not see myself because of the rest of the forest. A sort of big fish in a small pond feel was elicited by Mike's comment, but my Roseland friends were not small sorts. What is it to grow up the least important or thought of person in a cluster of high achieving, winners? Well, I can say it's strange, but I never really thought about it that way. I just never did.

It is true though, I am peerless, in my family friend group. And they do not see me. It is ice worth thinking about as it swallows down. I guess it is why I always was a pretty friendly child and young adult. I made efforts to reach out. And I finally did, for a brief time of college, exist in a new forest where I was a little more of a stand out tree. Of course part of that is I have overcome through challenges different than most of the others at Berea. In fact, being disabled for mental illness was a new one for Health Services, when I was there, according to one staff person.

This sounds mopey. It is a reflection of events, but very recently, I drove to the grocery store. I saw someone pushing a cart who just had a cool look to him. As I found my way to park, all the people I encountered fit that description. Everyone was groovy and had a story worth listening to and really learning from. Everyone in the lot impressed me. But I don't always approach average strangers as if their book is as great as mine. I am not conceited at all, but there is a feeling of separateness in existence. People are just busy. We spend a lot of time watching TV or working our asses off or packing school lunches, but it is not in community that we generally dwell. Here on this street, I feel I have community because we all know one another, to a point. But connection and having time to actively care about the other trees is a big deal.

There is this thing I know that I always have known, that has not been really apparent through all this writing, and it is nobody is better than anyone else. So all of this talk of trees being taller is just entirely socially constructed. That nobody is better than anyone else is one of my most deeply held beliefs. But when you talk to people it hardly ever is said or suggested. Instead from the first minute, the parties involved locate the "top dog" or "dawg" and proceed. We have to look at all the grocery shoppers with eyes of equality, yes. And when we talk to them and about others, we have to be equals because we are all equals in the Light of Truth.

Posted Sun Oct 21 17:38:55 2018

Photo credits Adrianne Hess.

Posted Tue Oct 23 11:15:55 2018

Posted Tue Oct 23 11:29:43 2018

In Personality Theories class I studied perspectives and the truth that no one knows the full truth. What we each believe depends on the person, and what we believe about ourself depends on who we are, but we just can't look at ourself from an objective perspective. We can try to, and we will have clearer results. But self analysis is never perfect.

When we studied Nature Nurture, the professor seemed certain each of these influences carry half the weight on us on determining who we are.

I used to say I never had writing block, just periods of not writing that I accepted as the course of writing and not writing I would inevitably experience. Maybe this helped me with the writing which followed the dry spells because I was not fighting the dry spell, just letting it take its natural course.

When I was in Berea College, the well inside me for words was turned on. I wrote and wrote and wrote, often creative poems, constantly journaling, recording every word and every thought, then also always completing my essays for school, and often creatively. I believed I was going to be a poet professionally. I already had published over ten poems. Now I've published forty.

There was no turning off my well of creativity. But I think there was one thing that could do the task of shutting me and it did inevitably happen that I wrote less. I am not certain this is why, but I am no longer on 2000 mg of Depakote. I take half that amount now. I think that some of my creativity originated in over medication.

Now I certainly write, and I likely will if my doctor tapers me completely off the unnecessary mood stabilizer, but it is more that I am crafting the language now than they are firing out of me uncontrollably.

My analysis could be wrong though. It might be I just write poetry with or without effort, but it waxes and wanes.


Walking across a most rickety bridge

Praying to God that she hold me

Down underneath the muscles sing my dirge

But I know better than them

Oh the geese they did fly through

the arched reams

In couplets and triplets they soared up

Just to land on the brown muddy water.

May 7, 2010

Berea, Kentucky

Posted Thu Oct 25 11:57:51 2018

I've been depressed and thinking about depression, but actually, the thoughts elicited are pretty hopeful. Depression today versus early depressive feelings in my mental illness, a decade ago, are marked by similar feelings. But the depressions I used to get, I was not sure how to define or what to make of them. I didn't know if they meant I would never do well in life or if I would never feel happy again each time I fell into depression. Now, I am more accustomed to the negative feelings I am experiencing. They are less surprising to me. I don't have to worry about what they mean and to a degree, I can just let them be. Sometimes they just mean I need to rest more or lie in bed watching TV, and that is okay for now.

It's not super easy though. I had some bad PMS just last week and I didn't know why my thoughts were so harmful until I recognized PMS as the culprit. Knowing why we feel how we do can make it less amplified.

Posted Sat Oct 27 14:18:06 2018

Who Owns This bog?

The bog itself

The whispering wind

Human interests

Rich man

Strong man

Is my purpose for this bog better than yours?

Who owns the mineral rights below this land?

Who owns the sky? 

If a child owns no land,

If a child owns no home,

Is the child homeless?

I own no land.

I own citizenship,

And what I can carry.

My breath,

So far is free.


Posted Wed Oct 31 12:00:10 2018

Care wholeheartedly

for yourself

you will die one day.

Posted Wed Oct 31 12:03:33 2018

I am listening to an audio book by Toko Pa Turner called "Belonging: Remembering Ourselves Home." I have been intermittently savoring this book, between other readings for over a month, and am nearing the end of the listen finally, though I have 3 or 4 more hours left of her beautiful voice.

In the chapter on Longing, the hidden center of the word Belonging unfolds in its meaning. I don't know which chapter this is in the regular book, but it is here where Toko Pa Turner talks about Rumi. I had read about the history of his coming into poetry, how it streamed out of him, as vocal transmissions, but Turner puts it in an eloquent way that opens for me a larger truth. I don't have the exact quote but I rewound and listened twice to her amazing revelation that Rumi did not write poetry. All of the poems written by Rumi were written by the people who were around him in his life, who recorded the poems that came as a result of what was happening with Rumi and his Longing.

Of course, Rumi, really was the most amazing poet. But so much of his poetry, his longing, was his life. It is just so interesting to read and read again.

Posted Wed Oct 31 14:46:36 2018