HEART SHAPES

Walking the beach in a treasure day, I was telling my brother about stumbling upon heart shapes wherever I go (the shape of your face in my hands), and that my son once pointed out how frequently this happens (the shape of your hand on the small of my back), since I had quite a collection (the shape of your name on my tongue) of found heart-shaped things. Really, my brother said. (the shape of the space around your form) You know, it’s all in the patterns (the shape of things to come) that you recognize. And I stopped to pick up a golden, heart-shaped piece of agate, laughing. (the shape of love) Imagine that!

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"Dragonglow", oil on canvas, sold


Heal

In this necessary nightmare, wild wasteland of fallen angels and fractured wings, I step over my own spilled blood and hear the snap of fearful division, smelling heat of hate on the wind. Nothing seems to grow amid fortresses of illness, under layers of mental cancer and piles of our neglect. Nothing seems to flow through these huge dams of greed. So easy to succumb to the swelling of despair… But compulsive lies collapse gratefully, as do all things, into truth; through the ruins I see layers of time in canyon walls, the pattern of pulse through all the apparent heart failure. There are signs of what moves underneath, ancient evidence immune to doubt. Thirsty, heedless of bites and stings, I lie on the parched bed of original flow and put my ear and my naked belly to this earth. Listeners, feelers in the desert know the ebb and flow of silent subterranean current, washing clean the wounds, mending the breaks and cooling the fever of fear. Even here, I heal in the place where sea meets sky; even here I am at home.

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Roses

How many deaths does it take to get to heaven? If someone told me five years back that I’d never left—but no, I needed more dying. I had to play one more kind of fool and step off another cliff, with a different-colored rose in my teeth. Even upon impact, in the midst of the latest shattered role, Love was the only thing that ever made sense. I’d find myself somehow resurrected, walking the path to the top of the next ridge, tasting a thorny stem. Again. Last time, the fall was so long as I looked from the edge, I just knew it went straight to hell. I wanted to sit forever with the view in sharp relief and a dead flower for companionship. Grace had other ideas. I swear I was pushed. The fall was so long that I had time to do somersaults and twists and a complete review of many lives. I had time to catch myself in surrender, even before my sudden landing in your arms, my rose safe in your teeth beneath your laughing eyes.

"Comfort", oil on canvas, private collection

The Path of Devotion

Maybe midlife, and I’m still trying to hide the worst of the scars, while forgetting, more and more, what they look like. The world doesn’t care, and toughly, tenderly breathes me, in each moment, bringing stories and pictures, green grass and the smell of wet cedar. Even when I imagined my abandonment or my prison, the world arose with me each morning and lay down to rest or restlessness with me each night. Obligingly, It became the door I locked or the key in my hand, it loves me that much. When I wanted something to break other than glass, life brought me, unquestioningly a whole procession of breakable things and promises and events. Did I need layers to tear off in grief? It dramatically cried large, ripping sobs, rocked back and forth with me in isolation on the saltwater sea in my eyes. Had I honestly wanted to drown, it would have shaped itself exquisitely around me that way, rushed into my lungs and every pore, until I was perfectly saturated. It loves me that much. Form after form, thought after thought, age after age is this devotion. I must have felt it, somewhere, deeply. I must have known it was wiser than I. There has always been some tiny shrine for me to go, to see if this is true… it loves me so much.

"Canyon Goddess", oil on canvas, sold


Aquarius

I am the Ocean's daughter. In my dream, the water has finally come. I've descended through ashes, through the portal of my own footprint into the underworld. Risen from your breath and bled from your eyes, I have carved new lines on the beautiful, ancient face always cast up at the sky. I am the lover-destroyer leaning upon the greatest walls of stone and steel, patiently filling every flaw, caressing away the hardest shell from the tender, molten heart of this blessed Earth, whom I carry to build upon her womb and fruit the hills and plains. No bridge can span the width, no dam can halt the flow of this current. I am the libation that cannot be grasped, but of which you are ever born; I will relax in your cupped hands, conform to the shape of your mouth, bathe away fear and float the innocent within and upon me. I sing to you in the rain and rivers, rock through the waves as your primal lullaby...the touches may be small as mist or engulfing as a tide; give and take by give and take, they change the shape of this universe. In my dream, the sun enters the day through the West. Water has split the great land in two; there are new shallow seas webbed by streams and canals carrying boats filled with fruit and rugs, herbs and animals of perennial wisdom. I wade the late turquoise of afternoon where the shoreline heals the wounds and the voices are few and full. Aquarius carries me on his strong back tipping the vessel from then to now. Empty your cup; pour it out as an offering.

"Mussels and Cherries", oil on canvas, sold

"Creation", oil on canvas, sold

"Orangina", oil on canvas, sold

"Emerald Afternoon", oil on canvas, sold

"Flight", oil on canvas, sold

"Grass Lady", oil on canvas, sold


"Elemental Woman", oil on canvas, private collection