I have shed tears,
not simply for what could have been
or for that which never was and never could be…

I have shed tears of gratitude
for the nearly narrow escape,
the breach in the wall that was too often passed over.


home to my self

with you, i lost my self.
i drifted slowly, inexorably…
bound by fear and hope,
intertwined and inseparable.
tethered by convention and covenant
and by my need to satisfy myself:
i will have done all that i could do.
together and yet alone,
the one to make accommodation,
subsumed by your expectations
of inexhaustible understanding.
time and again you extracted
my pledge to stand to you.
and stand to you i did
— to my own peril.
oh, yes! i was useful.

and at the last i saw you —
unmasked, naked in your contempt.

you may not yet know,
but you are undone.
and i am reborn.
for without you,
i have come home to my self.

fragile hope

all the times he wounds me
at the heart and mind of me
and i say nothing,
i let it slide
hoping and clinging —
not to him of course —
but to compassion,
this higher purpose that says
you, child, are the stronger
— you understand…
and there is good, too, yes?

but what else do i understand?

i understand that for too long
have i held fragile hope
in trembling hands
and unwound the thread
making space for pain

i understand the picture
i paint for my legacy:
in colors washed by tears it says,
hanging on to fragile hope
is a woman’s obligation

what disservice i do, then,
to cultivate patience
i am no stoic
where is the compassion
for me and my loves?

just now, sister Red Tail flew
across my view, low to the ground
as if to say
you will fly solo
but never alone


On any given day — and on this Sunday in particular — let all of us who embrace the paramount ideals of freedom of speech and press pause to reflect on the massacre in Paris and the loss of so many champions of free thought and journalistic and artistic expression.

Media outlets the world over have been presented with an opportunity to demonstrate solidarity. On principle, newspapers, both online and print, should lend space to Charlie Hebdo and run past cartoons and articles. Political satire is a sophisticated art and should in no way be curtailed by this tragedy. In point of fact, political satirists are some of the best informed persons on the planet! Certainly, there is risk, but can terrorists target every outlet? No. And naysayers to this invitation to uphold free speech and free press should be warned: if terrorists are allowed to prevail in this matter, they will surely be emboldened to continue. And this threatens everyone, everywhere, as no group can be excluded from potential suppression. Today’s silent majority may well become tomorrow’s target.

Religious extremism is nothing new. What is especially troubling about Islamic extremism, beyond its aims of eroding individual and collective freedoms, is the damage it is doing to the Islamic community overall, in large part by being the loudest talking point in relation to Islam. Violence committed in the name of religion threatens to drown out the voices of the sensible majority. Too rarely do we read and hear about that majority, and this dissuades us from looking too deeply, thinking too critically, and availing ourselves of opportunities to see the greater Muslim community as assimilated, culturally enriching, and philosophically moderate. Therefore, news media must make a sincere effort to paint a balanced, objective portrait of that Muslim community, by providing as many column inches to positive portrayals of that sensible majority so that the public is continuously confronted with the reality that extremism is not synonymous with Islam.

a Samhain Blessing

May this turning of the Wheel find you at peace, content to be still for a time, content with solitude.
May you look within and find truth, and may you happily release that which does not serve you.
May you hear and recognize your true voice, and may you experience an opening of your Spirit to all that does serve you.
May the chill winds of the coming winter carry away sorrow and regret, and breathe brisk new energy into your dreaming.
May you honor your Self, your Path, your Beloved Dead, and the Mighty forebears who walked this road before you.
May you find yourself renewed by this dark time, serene and satisfied.
And may the Goddess empower you and guide you, now and always.

So Mote It Be

he said (and i didn’t)

he looked at me. smiled. said, “You look ten years younger.”
i should have said, “That’s the glow of self-delusion.”

oh the things, all the things i could have, should have said.

but the moment passes by…
not because such moments go fast.
oh no.
such moments replay like sport in the mind.
and all the pithy, clever things
one could have said, should have said,
coalesce later,
after one has watched and heard the replays,
once seething turns to simmer.

once the inventory of such moments resurfaces,
with this moment added to the ledger,
all those moments demanding to be seen again,
heard again, all the things you could have said,
should have said but didn’t.

it’s habit, really, this dance in one’s head.
it’s a careful habit, to suppress realism in favor of hope.
such moments come along, however much you wish they wouldn’t.

he said, “You look ten years younger.”
i should have said, “That’s the glow of self-delusion.”


sometimes, in fragile moments,
resisting the vulnerabilities,
i am like the peaches:
surprised to have survived
an early bloom and a persistent winter;
still hard and mostly green;
stony core dominating,
crowding the softness, the sweetness;
struggling to emerge intact
amidst an onslaught of predatory, hungry foes.