Kate Lamberg Center for Natural Healing and Creative Arts~

"Every beauty which is seen here below by persons of perception resembles more than anything else that celestial source from which we all come." ~ Michelangelo holding tight to the weather where old worn boats are still able to cross the corpus callosum a driving rain, a gentle snow red cheeks burn against the freezing wooden boats sing in cloistered song swinging from left to right focused boats move between dense earth and placid sky claritas softly play through cardinals wing flight everlasting words/photo~kate lamberg (c) '15

it has been an epic winter since we did see whole families of birds in spring, they disperse, & reside in neighboring trees shaded happily-- there is no reason to hide within enormous pine, & sweet maple tree ~words/photo~kate lamberg (c) '15

pachebel canon in d, sweeps through the pine trees,  bedecked with snow piled up for the last two weeks, it's hard to know how much longer any of us can take this incessant cold; but wait! there's a persistent sunshine- dressed as warm music splashing on icy walls, right here there are scents of blueberry cobbler, nuzzling affection from two calicoes, yoga circumnavigating around hearts and muscles this new moon mid - february afternoon where the sky shines a pale, yet clear blue where new birds are singing below my window at both dusk and dawn- a palpable turning winter's last hurrah---she is  vigilant, she is ruthless see how she parades without premeditation shaking the world upside down; see how  she forces us all to go more deeply within to find the riches, inherently incised upon our ivory pink crimson hearts beating a song of gratitude for this incredible joyful life we silently say amen ~words/photo~kate lamberg (c) '15

(for jobim) holding loosely, there's change in a sudden drop in temperature the way clutching in automatic leaves us pining for the convertible summer balmy evenings wait, without pardoning the storm-- we do get on with the seemingly never ending winter, having us up before dawn deliberately walking armored in wool, fleece, thirsty boots-- attacking the source of melancholy creates more to box up and send hardly puffing in our face to face misting, fogging up glasses kisses in the convertible late summer, strong scents of seagrass cranberry bogs wafting, tart fragrances slowing down.... by the rice paper birches-- planted with care at the northeast corner how celebrated the death of wind when sun emerges between the languid birch branches sweeping madly once in february soon rest for a trifle--tenderness never felt so undone- floating felicity, bringing in the whales who, with bellies down milked the warmth of the atlantic ocean so ear...

lately...every song and poem waxed in wind tunnels, for all to hear-- seems to be about death, dying and fear loss in of itself is not what scares-- it's the splitting of hairs between groups who claim to want peace they say their version is superior, more greatly researched "the one" to bring back the sun i say we all came from the same tree let's rise above the border between tree and sky and simply hold hands, circle round, and for a moment feel the blessings which align us as kindred souls with common needs to sleep, eat, love, and to be loved as far as we are willing to travel beyond any cookie cutter stipulation-- that love look like a red heart on a white fringes when at the moment, a small piece of dark chocolate in the shape of a jagged icicle draws me near to bite into the sweet unctuousness, nary straying, diving into the depths of quickened hearts on fire sprinkled with burning desire in dimly lit corridors, eyes pro...

"Only in the reality of the present can we love, can we awaken, can we find peace and understanding and connection with ourselves and the world.” ~Jack Kornfield, A Path with Heart: A Guide Through the Perils and Promises of Spiritual Life presently walking through hardened snow bone chill wind cuts through the trail a uniform grey sky of steel i keep trudging forward letting my face feel stopping only long enough to take a few pictures, and listen to the rhythmic crunch of the snow the blessed peace, always served in the finest sterling silver platter the sky echoes my unspoken intention: to be here without an agenda to feast at the feet of these giant pines to know a little less of the world as nature allows me to become in awe....this darkening afternoon frozen air simply warmed by my out breath--letting go of all that no longer serves to open my heart to this flow words/photo~kate lamberg (c) '15 ·

we walked for hours, and still could not view the river in it's entirety sometimes we saw the thin ribbon of slow moving water in winter snake towards the north, receiving the strong north easterlies upon it's sleek cold blue back, as it continued to move mostly from west to east--cutting rock, lifting small stones, carrying green veils of sea weed, soft small sticks of balsalm the river, never self conscious, would not complain of the cold, the early darkness, or the extra weight of an occasional canoe, gliding down her blue black back-- or a dozen sea gulls splashing at the border, between damp firm grey sand, studded with pine cones, & her daring waters slowly dancing in a thin line-- all that remains floating upon her blue black spine words/photo~kate lamberg (c) '15

la luna, dressed in creamy porcelain with touches of gold restores the world so cold-- her fullness freeing the thoughts that enslave, the imbalances that starve, the atrocities that scare.... she, in her gentle, persistent style brings humility possible, & allows us to embrace for awhile the blessing of what is true dropping the lies on contact learning to give away and renew words/photo~kate lamberg (c) '15

"If I waited for perfection, I'd never write a word." Margaret Atwood what is perfect to me may be just an irregular shadow of a tin pipe tarnished in the sun the perfection of a moment can only be the one that is most fully experienced the still point between the out-breath and the following in-breath even the thoughts of wondering how... no person ever goes down the same uneven pot-holed road similarly some can notice the clear lines of feet parallel to ground, while others take notice of the first of the sails being raised on a still temperate morning so early we can, with deliberation, detect the rich citrus scent of an orange peeled at midnight- while looking up at the almost full moon- it's golden solemnity pooling through all the sleeping eyes and those, such as mine, looking at yours--from a distance of a million stars, close enough to taste the sharp points made by a super nova overlapping with the smooth awaken...

kate lamberg (c) '15

how a garden in winter allows us to see our inner light buzzing circling round the smooth stones--roughened bark of pines, purposely providing softness; no wonder we cling to nature's story; she's in her glory when--we understand her realigning focus, bringing all eyes closer to becoming-- no different than the softness of snow: bathing the roughened bark and then---we can, follow her spiral towards the sun, a loquacious lark, burrowing though the coldest softest snow words/photo~kate lamberg (c) '15