My King

My King does not come riding on a dragon or a steed. He did not lift a single sword to make another bleed. 

My king does not wear armor or prepare himself for war. He gave his body over to be marked by blood and gore. 

My king was not too proud to fear, to beg a different course. But he, my king, died anyway, and yielded to the source.

My king does not need glory, nor sacrifice or fame. He gave the world a gift whether or not we know his name. 

My king is not a dead man, is not a man at all. He is everything that came before and all that will befall. 

My king is queen and she is him and he is you and me. His kingdom is within myself, though mortal eyes can’t see. 

My king is every color skin and every tongue on earth. He passes through our world with every death and birth. 

My king is someone I’ve always known, even when I hide. He’s rested in my soul, been patient as I lied

My king is dead and risen, today and every day. He lives again with every breath no matter what I say. 

Show me the place

Show me the place
where the forest meets the lakeshore,
and all their differences reconcile in the rocks and sand that wed and divorce them simultaneously,
where the easy morning light creeps over them with equal tenderness
and leaves the shadowy depths of both lake and woodland to their secrets.
Shimmering surfaces, uninterrupted landscape, boundless horizon….
Show me the place
where rock meets sky and its clouds bend to kiss and soften the jagged edges of the reaching stone, where the diving wind carries nameless birds in patterned waves over the cliffs and swiftly, effortlessly climbs back up again.
Show me the place
where the hunted are free, where the stag does not flinch to hear my company, where solitude does not beget loneliness, and my breath is not stifled by buildings.
Show me this place.

Another Day, Another Prayer Floating In Cyberspace

Words seem to evaporate inside my head as soon as they are created and within moments after they are spoken. So I’m writing. To God. To myself. To the world. Hoping the ink in this pen will somehow endow my words with a power to break through the walls surrounding me and elicit an answer from the universe. From some higher stream of consciousness that knows better than I do now and can see the mess I’m in with perfect 20/20 hindsight and fucking guide me through. I’ve never felt so disconnected.

This isn’t a journal entry. This isn’t for self preservation. This is a prayer. A cry for help. I don’t want to talk or explain. I want answers from YOU, who already knows my heart, my story, my soul. Why are you leaving me in this chaos? I’m not learning or growing. I’m spinning my wheels and growing tired, and bitter, and losing faith. I need a god damned intervention, so show up. Please. Show up for me. Take any form, but for the love of all that is holy, can you not be subtle about it? I’m disconnected. I’m losing touch and won’t hear your whispers this time. My chaos is too loud.

The wind is howling outside but still I will crack the window so the spirits of nature can pass easily into my home. Find me waking, find me sleeping, alone or in company, just find me and help me. Show me the way and light my best path.

I remember as a child begging for signs like this in my darkest moments. I cannot remember the outcomes. Somehow I became a spiritual adult with a belief system so expansive, it is at times a limitless wonderland. Unless I’m desperate. When my heart is broken, I always feel forsaken and cannot hear or feel past the sadness or the anger. Why? When I need my faith the most, why am I unreachable? Please, find me here. I’m not meaning to hide. I’m not meaning to barricade myself inside walls of fear and despair. I invite you in. I forfeit my ego and my will to the best of my ability so that I may hear, see, and know my best path. Show me the next right thing.

I’m listening.


I don’t remember falling. Did you ask me? Did I ask you? Or did we both just answer a calling. I remember when your eyes met mine. The first time. The last time. Time is interrupted. And I’m orbiting within the blue. Bathing in your kindness, your calmness, the life you’ve lived through. In those suspended moments, I’m alive. I haven’t just survived. I’m seen and I see. I’m loved and I love. I’m finally really arrived. In the present.

It’s a high place to fall from. From present to past. A bitter contrast. Thoughts move too fast, and I can’t attach any feelings. I’m lost in the cost of repairs, in the price of affairs, in the multiplying layers of confusion. Is it delusion? Do other people feel this conflicted? Maybe I’m addicted to the fire.

Can the ocean in your eyes hold me when I’m blazing? Can you see past the flames and stay gazing? My god that hue is amazing. Let me linger, before you look away, take your fingers, and touch me while I stay, in your waters. Let me love you here and now, let me kiss your furrowed brow and make you happy. Don’t look away. This is all we get. Don’t look away. This is almost perfect.

Fuck Titles

I finally decided to pray

Dear God I’m not okay

I’m listening and I’m looking for signs

I keep on cleaning, keep on cooking

But I’m blind

I see nothing divine

I keep on going through the motions, daily devotions of hope

And fear

Why can’t you just appear

And fucking guide me?

Everywhere I look is a reflection of my grief

Where is the reprieve from the heartache?

What is possibly left to break?

For my sake, for their sake, for fuck’s sake

Let me rest

I mean, you know what is best

Or do you?

Do you care or are you indifferent?

A complacent God, an omnipresent fraud

I’m still praying…

Change my mind

Show me kindness, heal my blindness

Let me know how the fuck to heal

I don’t want to feel

Can we make a holy deal?

My pain for – anything you say

I’ll pray every day

Dear God I’m not okay

The truth

You want the truth?

It’s streaming down my face

It’s hidden in transactions

Charges for therapy

Haircuts and makeup and new clothes

The truth is everything is temporary

Feeling good

Feeling lost

Feelings stopped mattering a long time ago

And yet here I am

Grappling with loneliness

and anger

and fear

The truth is I’m dizzy

I’m completely and totally fine

Until I’m not

Before I unplugged

Staring at my phone, eyes moving frantically over the apps I have installed, looking for an escape from my anxiety, from fear. Is there a distraction I haven’t opened yet? Is there a horoscope reading to make sense of my feelings? Perhaps I’ll refresh Instagram. Maybe I’ll look through my own photos. No, that’s a trigger. I can’t shop, I know that. Hey, progress! I could message a friend. It’s late and even later where my cross Atlantic friends are. What curiosity could I satisfy with Google? Is it too late to start a book on the kindle app? Maybe I’ll watch the workout I’m going to do tomorrow. 

No, no, no, no, no. I know better than this. This is just blue light. This is just confetti. This rectangle in my hand can not connect me to any answers. I know I have to meditate. And then, to sleep. The answer is in stillness and silence and focus. I will grow past this discomfort. I might grow past even my comfort, and I guess that will have to be ok, because I can’t stay here.

Now what

It was a long way to fall. She knew. She had looked over her shoulder for years, and still climbed higher, listening to the rocks as they broke free beneath her bare feet and tumbled lifelessly down the cliff side. She knew her fall would make a different sound. But her life was this god damned mountain. Her destiny was not to reach the top. Her destiny was to die trying, and she knew.

She was born on solid ground, beneath a beautiful and sheltering canopy of trees. They let in light, as all good trees do, but year by year she glimpsed more, until she began to seek this mountain. One that jutted far above the treeline and seemed to face the sun, always.

My god, was it spectacular to climb. To see so far. To feel the wind and the mist from the cloudy edges of heaven. She was born again and again. A mile high.

But when you climb a mountain, there is nowhere to rest until the top. She had to hold on, always. She knew it would not be sustainable. She knew she would have to fall, or jump, but for years she clung, mind body and soul to that rocky face, turning her attention ever away from her bloodied hands and feet and towards the breathtaking beauty.

When she did fall, because of course she did, it was not on purpose. It was not a premeditated day. She was not ready. But then she was never going to be ready. She flailed and clawed at the unforgiving rock before hearing the deafening wind. Not like the rocks that skipped down the mountain before her. Just a vacuum of air. Space and time passing through and around her as she fell to the ground that she barely remembered.

She didn’t know how long she would lay still, in the prickly shade of the forest floor. She knew it wouldn’t be forever, but she did not know much else. Maybe she would start to climb again. Her body ached sorely at the thought, but her heart broke to imagine a life on the ground.

She looked up at the rugged wall of rock and saw her tracks. She had changed the rock forever, as it had changed her. She had survived the climb and the fall.

Now what.

Portraits of girls

There’s a portrait of a girl that I know well. 

She has hundreds of followers under her spell. 

She’s buffed and she’s waxed and she’s dressed up to sell. 

Enough makeup and hairspray to dress up hell. 

Her freckles are faded and her lips are red. 

Not a trace of feeling in her perfect head. 

She exists just so you can compare and contrast. 

Your body to hers and surely come last. 

Don’t listen, don’t look, don’t edit your eyes. 

Be real, and feel, be someone who cries. 

Over books, over music and never disguise 

your age, your birth marks, your beautiful skin, 

and if you forget, I’ll tell you again. 

I see you. I love you. I’m a part of you too. 

Namaste. Go in peace. Be real. Be true. 0CFCE14C-98ED-4089-BE54-7C7CC8F88DC2.jpeg

I am more than a mother

This all consuming love

Is an honor

To experience childhood  and motherhood in tandem 

Is the singular thing in life

Greater than childhood itself

And yet I am more 

I was a child once

And then a girl

And then a woman

Moving forward


On only two feet

Until I became a mother, and suddenly

My identity divided 

Moving now in three different directions 

On six feet

All at once

But my daughters are not divided

Despite carrying my DNA and my voice inside them

They are wholly themselves

The way I once was and am now but for the way I am reflected


I am more than a mother