Category: Living on Purpose

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Conversations with my Subconscious

It was 5:15 a.m. and my hands felt like doorknobs stapled to my wrists. My fingers had been absorbing the bulk of rain-wind-early-morning-wintery-chill combo, and I had to garner support from at least three of them to shift the gears on my bike. I’d long since forgotten I possessed toes. I was biking to Il Forno, the Italian bakery at which I play brunch … Read More Conversations with my Subconscious

With the Earth Like This

  How warm the rain this morning! It is a morning to sing along with— the rain a drum beat on the roof of my helmet the whoosh of rubber through puddle a cymbal I let all the car alarms, too, be bird song and my grin swells with the wind and the clouds. It is a day to breathe, like the wind, a … Read More With the Earth Like This

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To Feel Grounded

Over family dinner of Moroccan-spices-plus-all-the-veggies-in-the-fridge, Max asked me a question in reply to some nonsense sentences I was spouting: “What does it feel like, for you, this concept of being ‘grounded’?” Shamefully I had already forgotten the sentence I had said which, I’m assuming, contained the word “grounded”. Actually, I’d forgotten the entire context for it. I had simply been speaking sentences I believed … Read More To Feel Grounded

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What do you find? I beg my soul

  I trudge through the desert while balancing the water on my back, blinking to uproot the flies and to bat away the sticky sweat from rolling in my eyes. My vision is blurred by endlessness; no mountain no tree no landmark just dunes and this dusty shuffle casting fiery shadow prints. My feet sink ever deeper, deeper in the blister sand with every … Read More What do you find? I beg my soul

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To be Human

  There are so many concepts I don’t understand so many theories I can’t fathom I don’t know little things like the number of people in my town or whether my maternal side is republican or otherwise. I don’t know what it’s like to be a black woman, or

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Die Traumdeutung

  Once I was chased by Swastik gents and big boned ladies. The ladies wielded buckets of rotting salmon, I remember specifically, because I hate salmon. The gents wielded extroversion and I couldn’t bear that either.

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To Be New and to Yearn

  O, to be new and to yearn; when my burden is dreams untamped untoppled inevitably unwise, leftover evergreen haystacks upon bamboo and bits of forest, sun filled powdered sugar dreams with no good reason except for every reason.

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Fingers Reach for Moon

  In the darkness I drape legs over the back of the bench rest back upon the wooden planks. Arms unleash and dissolve to the ground, fingers spread to caress velvet Grass. The curl of the seat tilts chin to Stars who moan beneath Shroud. I sing along. Wind captivates waterfall hair and Earth waits. We are breathless.

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Mountain Grows Taller

  As Earth groans and shivers I observe Mountain grow taller; the childbearing summit, too many spines to count in a single lifetime, she sees me. So small below. She gathers Wind and bids him go to me. He whistles through my hair, disrupting cyclical thoughts, for a spell, with gusts of play, then rises and rejoins her. She invites Sunlight in for tea … Read More Mountain Grows Taller

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Squiddy Library

The library is, for me, punctuality’s greatest weakness. Especially Auckland’s public library, a carefully laid, intertwined system of so many books in so many libraries dotting so many corners. I can’t seem to sweep my gaze from east to west without spotting a library. They call to you.

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My Dreams are the Dew

My dreams are the dew on the morning grass and the sound of the drops ‘neath the leaping grasshopper. It seems the cold darkness of a swallowed night blessed the condensation of what deeply matters; that which shines bold against the thousand thrashing insects. I wish I could say thank you, say anything, really, but the sunshine is blossoming over my closed eyelids and … Read More My Dreams are the Dew

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Contemplating Goats

Goats climb high on bamboo branches attempt to avoid the electric fence and I’ve got to say we have that last bit in common. Their switch is to my left and I flick it off. I wonder to whose left is my switch. It’s consistently on— a quick jolt on the left arm, a sharp buzz through the kneecap I don’t know the pattern … Read More Contemplating Goats