Work. Breath. Voice. Death. Life. Poetry.

I was a vocal coach today. At Jack Straw productions, here in Seattle. For high school students, all from other countries, all learning English. They had written poems, in their classes, with a poet/teaching artist leading them. Poems about their homes.

Homes in Afghanistan. Russia. Vietnam. Romania. Iraq.

Poems about their lives. Uprooted lives, begun on one continent and now unfolding on another.

Poems about their friends. Dead friends. Friends, killed by bombs.

Poems about their homes, what they missed. The roses in their gardens. The stuffed animals in their rooms.

Poems about religion. Poems about bombs. Poems about their favorite foods.

And I got to stand next to them as they read, in the recording studio, and help them. Help them articulate, pace, communicate. Breathe. That was my job today. I am blessed, on days like this, to get to do this work. I am blessed.

My life has been so easy. So unbelievably, unmistakably EASY. Help me to always and forever know this, to remain in gratitude and humility. Easy.





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Autumnal ramblings

Of a mental sort, at least.

It is the Autumnal Equinox. I got a voicemail this morning, from my dearest friend, wishing me a happy one. Wishing I could join her for a circle of women. I wish that, too.

Leaves will be getting wet, underfoot, soon, on Whidbey Island. I remember a Samhain with Tom Cowan, when Janine was still alive, a circle of wild power at the Marsh House. Is Joy still there, I wonder? Her cat died that night. Sassafras, I think. A cold, wet, windy night with a moon somehow peeking through, and the body of Sassafras quite, quite dead. And we buried her, together. Joy's white hair whipping around, her powerful old body digging into the earth.

I think that happened. Although I might have made it up.

I miss Janine. And Joy. Janine I know has passed on, and I know she's happy there, wherever she is, lighter than air, flying about on pale purple wings I imagine, tending the souls who are hurting, everywhere in the world.

It is the season of dying.

May not seem like it here, in the land of sun, but it is. What part of me will die this Autumn?

What part do I want to die? What part do I want to purge, shed, peel away?

There is so much weight on me. I feel heavier, in every way, than I have in a very, very, very long time. Psychically, painfully heavy. Oppressed, I would go so far to say. And I would like to shed THAT. I would like to shed the weight of regret, of dishonesty, of escapism, of addiction, of un-tended to pain. This is my call, my prayer, for this Autumn.

I intend to shed. I intend to jettison my flotsam. I intend to peel away, I intend to surrender, I intend to heal.

Finn sings behind me: "Down came the rain, and washed the spider out..."

Yes.

Yes.

Please.

Please,

Aho.







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