Do Unto Others

What can I ever hope to add to this earthly experience that is novel or distinct, but than to catalog the woe and mystique that a sweltering Southern upbringing can conjure.

There is blood in these hills and the land has been worked and reworked nigh unto death on the backs of the broken. Still she provides for her children and delights at those with a gentle touch and a kind word of gratitude for all she offers.
We are returning, one by one, to the way of reciprocal living..
Pray it be before the madmen have their chance to burn us all up with their fire and their fury, and their endless greed for money and power and profits from this war.. Or that.

Fought somewhere over there.. And here?

They say they pray to Jesus.

What good is your place in Paradise when your children and their children are left with naught but rubble and ash?

Do unto others.

Masonic 9.28.17

I have a love of exploring and photographing abandoned places.  They are unintentional time capsules, left to be reclaimed by the land. It is always fascinating for me to discover what was deemed unimportant - or simply forgotten - and left behind.  There is a creepiness factor that gets my blood pumping as I usually prefer to explore these places alone and it's impossible not to play the scene of any horror flick in my head and wonder if there's a psycho killer waiting to grab poor, unsuspecting me. 


The Masonic Ruins of the Eastern Sierra have a creep factor of about 9 out of a possible 10.  They are rumored to be haunted and my day-trip there back early October made me a believer.  From an already remote location, I drove a further 15 miles on very rough back dirt road to arrive and find that my dog and I were the only ones there.  I approached slowly and the breeze blew the main structure in a way that created a cacophony of creaks and occasional bangs.  I almost turned around and left.  For real.  I was walking back to the car thinking 'never was there a more perfect place for the psycho killer to lie in wait'. But in the end I pushed through the nerves (read: I put my knife in a more accessible place) and had a glorious day there on the mountainside with my dog, my cameras and the ghosts of another time.  Highly recommended, if you're into that sort of thing. 😉

I Want to be Startled

I stand on a mountainside, staring out over a landscape of endless thirst.. Beautiful in its bleakness.  I want to stand in silence and drink in the moment. 

I want to be startled -- startled into the next adventure, wanting that adventure to become the Great Purpose of my life. 

We are what we are becoming, yet we know not what for the moment. 

And in this moment, the desert wind caresses softly as a lover or a good, good friend and not as the bringer to bear over this scorched and desolate earth.  

It wakes me.  It warms me. 

And so begins the thaw and the unfurl.  This is the bloom in the desert.

Devils Golf Course

On Meditation

My mind is a whirlwind.  Swirling bits of gravel and grit, pulling at my attention with their pings and their stings.. Ever leaning towards that whip-up.

But still I carry on with this practice, for in the midst of the swirl I remember my breath and I pull back to the rise and fall and the blessed sound of silence.  It is in those moments of nothing that is comes through; a word, an image, a torrent bursting through the dam -- a holiness all my own.

It is there in stillness that I remember how to dance and how to sing and sometimes how to shout up to the rafters and bring the whole goddamned place down.  Sometimes it's easier than others.  Sometimes no silence can be found.  Still I stand here in the whirlwind and command those swirling bits to ground.

Artwork: "Ellipsis" by Dan Hiller

Source: https://www.danhillier.com/

From small things...

When I was a little girl I would gather acorns and bring them home to my mother at the end of the day.  She received them in the same spirit as they were given; as tiny treasures, and she kept them in a beautiful box on her vanity.  The box  has since come into my possession, a treasure containing treasures.  Something inside me knew that there was something special about these little things - so often overlooked and crushed beneath careless feet.  I didn't actually know what they were then (I was three or four) but I gathered them up for the woman who filled my existence with love.

Thirty-three years later and I find myself marveling at the perfectly-formed acorn of a California Black Oak, found on a walk this past Autumn.  Of course, I know now what it is and that from the acorn comes the tree. I take this knowledge into myself deeply on the heels of a winter season that has been a season of intense shadow work and inner exploration.


It is the seed that grows the garden, the spark that builds the fire, the tiny Chickweed flower - often overlooked, but full of powerful healing properties and it is the acorn that grows into the mighty Oak tree.  From small things, greatness often comes.  I receive this medicine as the days grow longer and tiny bits of new life begin bursting forth all around me.  I meditate on it now and remind myself in the moments when I feel small.  

Feeling small often keeps me from putting pen to paper - or when I do, from sharing the words with other eyes.  But more and more I feel compelled to.  I feel the urge to hold out my hand to anyone who may want or need to take it - for anyone who may be feeling small.  It is never too late.  You are exactly where you need to be in this moment.  

What great thing are you growing into?

Acorn