Curator of My Space

I am the curator of my hidden space.The revelations come as a trickle, a wink —a river of stars while I dream.Ideas are heldin the secrecy of growth,near the fruit of the womb,under the cloak of becoming. While I carry hiddenness,I no longer hide me.I’ve taken off the gray cloak of doom.Vibrancy is my outfit of choice.Even as I glow —My antennae explore the room for discernment.What is necessary to share, to refrain from speaking?With this inquiry,I become the curator of my open space. Sensitivity to myself and others is a gift I hold.I do my best to meet others…

How to Keep a Creative Holy Fire Burning

“I’ve seen women insist on cleaning everything in the house before they could sit down to write… and you know it’s a funny thing about housecleaning… it never comes to an end. Perfect way to stop a woman. A woman must be careful to not allow over-responsibility (or over-respectability) to steal her necessary creative rests, riffs, and raptures. She simply must put her foot down and say no to half of what she believes she “should” be doing. Art is not meant to be created in stolen moments only.” – Clarissa Pinkola Estés Listen, first things first.You must protect your…

A spark for the “Me? I’m Not Creative” Types

Do you feel the tingle? the stretch of pain and pleasure leading you toward expansion? the pressing of what leans you into the edge of your comfort zone? the passion of what rises inside and asks you to please honor her? the sizzle that warms your form to spark goodness into the world? I’ve heard you say, “Me? No, I can’t write draw paint sing dance” Yet, you are the one who wakens each day with a desire for more. Your body cries out to heed her message to bend toward space for imagination. Look outside. the sun rises again….

Silence (And the Divine Thread.)

At times, silence is harsh given because you’ve dismayed the one or the masses, haven’t bent to the agreed upon wishes — whatever they may be. At times, silence is weary given because words have fallen away leaving you lost in darkness fumbling bone dry amid the injustices of the world. Yet, I know a silence that isn’t a weapon, nor a secluded woe. This silence meets me in tender places, grief places. This silence cradles me in critical spaces, peaceful places. This silence washes over me like untethered wings allowing me to see what lies right here right now….

Breathable Space

  The soul, the soul — she must be wooed to come out of hiding, to come out from her secret space. She will suffocate under the weight of perfection, crass demands to keep up, do better, try harder. The soul, the soul — she must be wooed by spans of breath to enter into a space of discovery. She will bloom beautiful as she tries and fails, discovers anew, plays for the fun of it. The soul, the soul — are you ready to meet her? Consider the spaces you’ve been in, the ones buzzing with life, ones where…