Kate Lamberg Center for Natural Healing and Creative Arts~

For all my dear friends, and relatives, Wishing you a most beautiful and fulfilling 2020, where miracles appear and dreams come true! The Center for natural Healing and Creative Arts is most grateful for those who have sought services over the past year. I am most excited to report new classes and retreats in the New Year. Music and poetry for healing~ a branch of Center for Natural Healing. Poets and musicians are sent to areas in the community: schools, recreation centers, and natural venues to share the beauty and healing inherent in the arts. Why don't you join us? Times and dates will be posted here as the interest grows. Again, my heartfelt New Year's greetings with all my love and gratitude, kate december 31, '19

a haiku and four duets not too far in the distance sits all the garden tools needed for next spring's flowers the garden tools rest both beneath and above the thin layers of winter snow, impossible to know what they're thinking the immediacy of action expresses a finality of laziness dance as both art and social commentary attempts to get folks off the couch in the course of a single song, a uniting energy drapes the world- in this instant no one can be made to feel wrong the divisive cutting of our planet ruptures relationships and all living things the healing begins with a single garden tool, a forgiving earth

Ushas for healing The maple tree shakes a little from the north easterlies. Thankfully, the wind has died down considerably since yesterday. At times the tree reaches out, and scrapes her lithe long dancer's branches against the rough red brick building. This is when I wake to the howling wind, and the occasional scraping of branches. One hour before sunrise, the Ushas guard the house with persistence and grace. Ushas are the guardian spirit of the pre-dawn hours. Fears and disturbances which wake the inhabitants of the red brick building shall be received into the acceptance of the forgiving Ushas-- with their kind layers of blue green silver gossamer. The human fears will then be transformed into tree songs, to incise the air at sunrise. These 'Tree Songs' offer a more positive countenance to all who wake to the sun.

There was Nothing on the radio at the ungodly hour of 5 am. She put some warm clothes on, and stepped out into the chilled December air. Suddenly, the natural cacophonic music of seven black birds was heard overhead . The music pierced the air with a sudden rush of kindness, a true soul connection. The connection dissolved any uncertainties (like tears in the earth) of silence's attempt to create a kind of jailhouse blues riff-- 'too early in the morning to call anyone.' Freedom from being weighed down with ill-fitting thoughts- reinvigorates the grey dying swan sarabande lightens her dancing feet with a more natural fire engine red ruddy glow one of understanding, one we can all sing and dance to- a spot light in the wings seems to know

duets The maple tree at dawn coated in freezing rain shone like a million starry eyes once again. It was too dark to get a clear photograph. She would wait until after the sun rose to try again. Praying the temperatures would 'hold steady', she danced and hummed the Aretha Franklin song. Now, the sun is up on a purely gray day. The shiny glints of diamond wonder are gone. Now just a short term memory, left in neural bundles-- to be ignited again by looking at trees, dancing in a freezing winter wind.

a solstice sambha waking to cold darkness, fringes of snow grasp trees, rocks, parked cars sky moves from coal black, to slate grey, to grey-white in the time it took to scribble thoughts for a song, to make black coffee, hot and strong to muse about the simple and true beauties of solstice unfolding in spirit--no I and you- as snow on pine fronds relaxes into--oneness wearing peace

awakening to sunday's cold darkness fringes of snow grasp trees, rocks, parked cars sky moves from coal black, to slate grey, to grey-white--in the time it took to scribble thoughts for a song, to make black coffee hot and strong to muse about the simple and true beauties of solstice unfolding in spirit--no I and you as snow on pine fronds relaxes into--oneness wearing peace

(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 early in th...

" What we speak becomes the house we live in." ~ Hafiz Sitting, listening to classical music, I thought I heard thunder. I turned off the radio to listen more intently to the music outside my window.. Yes there was a low faint thunder, rumbling for around five minutes soon after sunset. For reasons unknown to me, I found it to be a most comforting music! A music, which would lead me to stand and stretch, do a little yoga, and then return to meditate in the beige oval chair. Entering the silence pooled with extreme darkness at 4:44 pm, I felt utter gratitude for the moment, and for all moments up to that moment. Gratitude arrives with a deeper breathing and shining eyes. Here and now, I celebrate the gift of life, my ability to share my soul traveling through the art of dance, meditation, and yoga! entering the purity: silence a rooted feeling of stillness after dancing, transcendence kjl '19

( flash non-fiction, from ussr journal) Outside the Hermitage Museum, the river looked as if it had been blessed with tiny points of light-- chiseled like perfectly asymmetrical diamonds, drifting down the Russian river. All those who would stop to gaze-- could not help but be carried along the murky gray green sheen of this river known as home. Russian river vocalizes softly alongside the museum, home to several impressionistic paintings. The gathering of treasured art happened before the century turned itself on its own head. Values of light blessings, and sacraments made sacred by a demure smile in the dark red square are sequenced by black birds against an opaque creme sky. Here, where secret languages are revealed, and warm hats secured-- for a stroll around the museum, mid- day. Amidst a faint sun, a quick spiraling snow surprises strollers with large white shreds, and black and white speckling. I am reminded of black and white tv--black birds and white birds on the ...

memory- for russia with love the curators grabbed the paintings which would be cause for celebration hanging in the beloved Hermitage museum the tributary of a Russian river, an arterial pulsing through a snowy spring garden in April- Chekov stories coming to life St. Basel by moon light, the finest vodka freely flowing in the Metropol, and caviar bursting in drunken mouths followed by a crooked gait, walking through Central Square-- St Basel lit in reds and greens carried by a friend, who loved the woman just turning eighteen kjl '19

the nebulous quality you're feeling may add richness to an already heady brew of words what appears to be a random dance of angel words, is actually a thought out procession of dots and dashes, and washed up slashes winter seabirds winging like grace notes on the clean lines of an eastern seaboard a coast of rocky soil, algae, pine needle nautilus, salty sea--blue stone paths connecting like neurons firing, free your verse-- as part of the collective unconscious (according to Jung) -- is a gilded spoke(n) word-- within a massive wheel of our universal language

for daniel The birch bark canoe was placed upside down, alongside the back of the house, nose pointed upstream, since the end of October. Now, at the beginning of December, it is the time when winter makes her self perfectly clear. Our beloved two person canoe, Canna would have to wait until late April to be dropped into the nearest lake or river, for a wind biting, chilly as hell canoe trip. The banks of the Susquehanah River would still be covered in snow, and sculpted for our delight- in faery ice formations, sparkling in the faint April sun. By Mid December, we experienced the depths of a deep winter freeze! We would spend more time lazing around--like bears, hibernating in long johns by the wood stove. We understood the fine art of staying warm--with bottomless mugs of sweet hot whiskey drinks, and classic bear hugs at the hearth of our home. We gave each other the gifts of mutuality: the love of music, and the music of loving! We would improvise on keys and strin...

memories tucked into a blousey sleeve of non-reasoning- because we can feel everything bubbling up in some kind of nervous tragic comedy makes our humanity swoon possible at no cost to the thread baring pas de deux- by the handsome french doors, opening up to the river seine- seen in films, slide shows, and most savored in dreams where lovers are known to stay with you for the duration of the holiday racing around fountains, diving adroitly-- more frequently than bunnies in spring for the crushed velvet paramour-- who's standing across the street, singing gregorian chants in the rain

the cuckoo clock and the clock on the stove stayed at twenty to six for the duration of the dream time stopped the time was always the same I returned to my childhood home It was dinner time no one was home but me and the clocks ticking the house, immaculate as if no one lived there the same turquoise and white tiny squares of swirly linoleum below above, two clocks measuring time for waking, eating, sleeping the cuckoo clock needed to be wound up each night we'd hear the cuckoo on the hour then the Austrian ladies and gents would come out to dance a wooden dance after a few years, it stopped working we kept it on the wall for a few more years then we replaced it for a shiny blue ceramic clock the old fridge continued to hum wistfully perhaps missing the beloved cuckoo clock, once at its side given away to make room for a clock that kept perfect time *droem=a dream inspired poem

Sometimes our light goes out, but is blown again into instant flame by an encounter with another human being. ~Albert Schweitzer pure darkness upon waking- from a dream, laughing fearlessly reaching through the dark tentacles to receive light's imminent nectar

silent eyes peer out to feel sky wind shaking trees, and the dance of elements, jolting- a sleepy soul awake

why we wade in ankle- deep chilled waters becomes the pine koan as predictable as the weather--salt water fish laden waves splash languidly against a deserted sturdy cabin lining the beach like a poem- needing several pairs of rested eyes to evaluate its poetic merit requiring a revision of sun beams, joists, clear panes, the local fallen pine's perpendicularity carpentry learned from generations of fathers dancing the foxtrot with daughters- while wildness howls shamelessly outdoors inside quiet wraps around parlor in fuzzy pastels quarry tiles smooth, and warm to the touch of young feet tethered to earthy elegance how effortlessly the tides change- bringing all the goats and rams, lambs and lions to roost together again kjl '19

Happy Birthday Georgia O'Keefe! letting more orange surge into a grey skied day second chakra spins

after midnight awake, and then to sleep and dream the evening, far from quiet-- with the fierce cold November wind, let me fall asleep, and enter into a dream the after midnight dream offered a view of peace- from a newly discovered door, opening to a secret cozy room my cats and a baby deer were dining together on a low coffee table, covered with an old flannel red and gold table cloth the deer had her fill of what looked like milk and cookies-- then jumped out the nearest open window; the cats were unconcerned

The trajectory we were headed for promised all the accoutrements of a sudden understanding. Before sunset, transcendence captivated commonly revered viscera. Until dawn, truth paralleled dreamed parables- soft into the warm night.

who has not known the disruptive searing of loss- at a cost to a giving gracious demeanor the sudden shearing of a loving heart is helped to eventually heal- by the slow building hands of humbleness the crunch of death within the beauty seen in amber and crimson leaves is not cause for despair staying open, on this damp warm aired morning-- a pair of green eyes gaze solely, infinitely skyward

I hear that Mother Earth is Dancing in both passion and rage. She wants you simply to listen to her humble truths and receive her all embracing blessings. From now on, it's either, "mother earth first", or a spinning of our mother--out of control forever.

There was a feeling the sky was deepening, and changing. It was not dissimilar to her own internal day light clock. This may be how she returned to being a ballet dancer, spinning pink pirouettes. She wore the magic charms of freedom, transforming all that was heavy into a lightness of being. The feeling was followed by leaping out partially opened doors, and windows-- to explore her natural twin. The sky- redolent of reds and pinks procured an organic meditation. How it echoed exactly what her reticent mind had meant to say remains a symmetry, not found in an ordinary world.

Without music, life would be a mistake,” ~Nietzsche Before the morning light distracts the dreamer, rising--the softest song bird braves a charcoal sky. With a high-pitched song, this totem bird lifts all the hurts housed inside the poet's rib cage. From the harbor's edge, a poet watches what no longer is needed for a fruitful life to gently be-- one with the sea.

akin to the sea, I let my mind drift, flatten, and rise up--to the present velocity of moon's integrity simple spirit of liquid jewels-- at times jars- and only within moments, flip-flops into a beveled becalming stoking solidarity-- coastal breeze appeases, cools rage- the secret agent of change mind divides on its own accord: as honestly as the red sea at sunset-- then comes together, whole in prayer at sunrise

enroute to Charlottesville trucking down.route 81 going south medium strength sun filtering through various shaped mammoth clouds, while phillip glass piano softly plays-- no peace ever felt so clear- no beauty ever touched me this near in the allowing, all things move to meld--and do defy separate beams of splintered light forming a single flame Autumn Journal,'17

Secrets become revealed in the swish of a silken scarf. how soft the secret becomes a part of an open heart ready to spring out of drama What was hidden becomes shown like a slice of moon after a heavy rain. openness to nothing staying the same, we can sense clarity after the rain The truth that was kept from self comes crashing down like heavy boulders. how the truth comes down crashing becomes the music of liberation inescapable The new-found reality of interpersonal relationships return balance and lightness to each person. no longer needing to please or be pleased by past glitter, heart shines golden

I love you as certain dark things are able to be loved in secret between the shadow and soul. ~Pablo Neruda how shadows shorten at high noon-- and slip into distortion at night as night pulls the strings- obscuring everything-- our penny loafers dance in long shadowed walks, and wind swept talks between moon waning, and sky raining- curtailing the cataclysm of hoofs a Monet impression in the greying snow-- just outside my living room window is it a mourning dove or a magpie-- singing, and nibbling on the old seeds she sings in the wings, in woody allen oboe tones while shadows shorten--and then again-- going to shadow's greatest length until her evidence is no longer sensed as night pulls the strings of marionette birds, filling in the choices of what to eat-- hardened corn, sunflower seed, cherry flavored black seed: a mix for royalty- birds on high the domestication of a song cannot be sung- for freedom needs the wings of starlings, and ...

Darkness wraps around darkness wraps around like a wrap- around porch-- keeping the mystery safe and warm letting secrets loom high on the list of priorities- so early in the cold morning Birds refrain from singing before six a.m. music is a hot pink western-- sky brightens, minutes before the bursting of our celebrated sun then how loudly the birds sing arias to soften a once roughened heart

Their paths rarely crossed. When they did it was always the mechanical perfunctionary day lit dance between people who would rather not proceed deeper into a friendship. With out rough sunken feelings, just the clear understanding that certain people create toxic mist. Such a fine misty dusting that it sometimes takes years to discover. This was the same person who had grand ideals she spoke about near to the hem of her heart-- such as, " Why can't we all get along? "

convinced of the flannel softness of you-- this poet in gray can waltz down back roads- and be swept up with warm gusts tightly rolled bales of hay, lightly resting musing at the quiet spaces, as rests- between scores of Chopin, and Debussy swerving untouched through the curves of country roads- dusting off the yellow jackets of bees as they perish, drunk on the honey- sweetness of pink and yellow flowers- throughout the warm waking hours

rotten crab apples fall from the tree, prematurely- just fall onto the rained on earth the earth welcomes the old, the heavy, and the misshapen worm infested fruit the earth is impartial to appearances: she lets the sudden thud of the sour apple drop onto her rain soaked body

It's your heart on fire-- unafraid to spill some emotion. It's your mind fused with source- dancing under, and through the dark rainy overpasses. It's your soul telling it like it is something you believe in. It's your truest self reading it out loud and believing it in real time. It is the truth --like old paint peeling-- revealing the rust, the dust, the naked nebulae shining..

The rain at one a.m. woke her out of a dream, and cooperated in having her forget all her dream fragments. The uncaring rain poured without an agenda. It cared more than an acquaintance who would never return phone calls, but appeared to be neutral and unbiased as to where it fell, and what it saturated. The garden at five am appeared moistened in the best way possible. How delighted the gardener was to find the garden lightly dappled in warm rain drops. The iris greens, now retired for the season lay in long slim strips, stomped on, and wedged in a pile for removal. They were found dotted in wonderful punctuation marks: periods, colons, commas, and semi-colons. As if written in the 'I Ching', the changeableness of water wields wisdom for the earnest seeker.

why wait to enter the realm of heart's vastness-- begin oneness now-- again the leaves fly crisply-- become one with sky weaving russet hues...... we too integrate, drop boundaries- merge in love-- our self, as other

cowrie shell necklace clicking in the wind-- shining in the moon light, mixing with sea salt spray on holiday river rescue, running to get closer--to the edges between salt water and fresh water rainbow fish and trout frolicking-- allowing the current to lift their thin skinned souls- and to embellish their minor scales with smooth river rocks, and pensive pebbles-prowling the river's bottom sunlight shimmers on the surface-- no telling what philosophical proverbs will be articulated-- in the spirit of fish meeting up with rocks and sunlight--pioneers of rivers and lakes almond morning eyes--seeking the terraced life of multitudes-- laying down the tracks of folk rock operas breathing through the gills of Gillian's bible-- braving the storms-- that situate themselves right outside of heaven---- pearly gates gutted, hurled out into the ethereal field of poppies-- unknown galaxies-- still, we arrive home in time for dinner

sometimes the end arrives-- the darkest dark arrests breath-- gives way to a medium gray day---- sometimes there is no end--- to what she wants to say-- to what she wants anyone to hear--- sometimes the end arrives, and no words can soothe, or make finality's presence. create-- just necessitates- the timeless zones of crystal unicorns-- 'Yessongs' on plush headphones-- feelings cleave to sweet music-- like coconut sugar as it flies..... surrendering palms, fingers, and arms overhead-- what is dead is left unsaid

When prayers and wishes skip town--and all that is left is music and trees, we rake the leaves into piles. Then, we watch them spin out of control. We do cartwheels at this one great changing time. We dance hosannas into the light. This light can fill hats, and other accessories with the panache' shared with chickadees and sparrows. This light becomes pared down with the possibility of a recipe for Pelican punch. The lake at Manatou Wabing holds its own chilled beauty. When untouched, yellow weeds and warblers move to warm abandoned eyes. As barns and drift wood catch fire, there appears to be another Eureka moment! So this is how the eyes turn to be welcomed, with simply one tender elegy.

It is raining without the one who notes smiles for no reason. It's all because the river gets high along side the trees. Then there are sighs from afar--noting the one will open the protective bronze door unhinged, and free. Burgundy light pours in strains of Mars and Mercury. Those planets bespeak determination and desire. Fire does attempt to sustain. The one does not become severed by ice or rain.

in the dream, I was rearranging two green anjou pears, in a basket with one heavy golden pear everyone at the dining room table was drinking pomegranate juice-- talking about the weather my dad, at the head of the table was instructing me what to do with the pears, and how to handle flying at night by myself during inclement weather, and the fine art of keeping things together kjl '19

Patience is not learned in safety. It is not learned when everything is harmonious and going well. When everything is smooth sailing, who needs patience? If you stay in your room with the door locked and the curtains drawn, everything may seem harmonious, but the minute anything doesn’t go your way, you blow up. There is no cultivation of patience when your pattern is to just try to seek harmony and smooth everything out. ~ Pema Chodron

 The street we walked on housed several hippie stores I could not wait to explore. I was only twelve, and was in no hurry to grow up. When my friends were into lipstick and boys, I just hungered for books and posters with peace signs, flowers, and rainbows, all in vivid day-glow.   I excused myself from my parents for an hour, and headed straight for the book store, a two story affair. Let loose, I was ecstatic!  Skipping every other step on the pine stairs, I got to the second floor, and looked around for the first book that caught my hazel eyes.. I found a window seat with the sun bouncing off of the bay, and straight on the page of the book I  chose to read.  . A how- to metaphysical book that surely would  influence my future choices in books, and in my thinking styles as well.

Jealousy, that dragon which slays love under the  pretense of keeping it alive.     ~ Havelock Ellis

The idea of karma is that you continually get the teachings that you need in order to open your heart. To the degree that you didn’t understand in the past how to stop protecting your soft spot, how to stop armoring your heart, you’re given this gift of teachings in the form of your life, to give you everything you need to learn how to open further.

 When a beloved dies, they are just hiding in paradise.  They are MORE PRESENT in our lives than when they were alive.  In this case, I am thinking of my dear father  who departed in April of 2014.  I hear my dad  reminding me  to take the garbage out, and buy new shoes.  He laughs with  me when the day's challenges leave me on my head.  He gazes at  me in bodily form.  Those who pass away have gymnastic skills surpassing any Olympic star. They can ricochet through walls and doors, jump off of  buildings--- flying higher than any bird. They are not supermen or superwomen  They are simply magical, and convey their magic to us when we stop long enough to listen,   to watch,..... and to believe. Yes, I do believe in magic!

   how heroes know there is never any fear in trusting the pulse of one's own blood- coursing like a race horse unconcerned about finishing first-- but simply to finish the paradisial concourse unscathed--- more than ready to disperse shadows into the almighty blue sea to allow the widening of light swaths to paint golden orange flowers on the outskirts of one's cerebrum--meandering into a cha cha by the almighty blue sea kjl '19

thin gray fog obscures the reliable rising sun; choices mask "no need to choose" joy sweeps us up into a farmhouse waltz barn wood walls ring, and do sing the very melody that became stuck  on the roof of our mouths -- resounding in the cupola ceiling crystal beads growing brighter as the million eyes readjust to the dark, to the blatant incision of trust-- carved on wax, ice, yellow pine, rust no time or interest in stoking the fire: friends come, hang out, and disappear it's the time of year  to be clear with how we spend our free time our investments in our friends never end because the other is weathering an inner storm-- no balances need be drawn the drawing room is saved for spontaneous guests as rocking chairs glide past the  wrap around porch, take wing, do reach the furthest chagallian star left for the dreamers-- whose capillaries course clearly-- a filigreed communication with room for spaces, . the holy breath th...

 The purpose of nirvanic moments of mindfulness is to create an ethical space from which to see, think, speak, act, and work in ways that are not conditioned by reactivity. ~ Stephen Batchelor, from 'A Buddhist Brexit' photo by kate lamberg (c) '19

No sun emerged in the east today. However, at one a.m., I saw la luna setting in the west.  She-moon is now in dreamy Neptune ruling, Pisces. Time to dream big, and  let those dreams  become larger than life.   Then we can  color in the spaces, with all our dreams, and conceive  how to concetize what once appeared  as  "simply a dream." Dancing occurs at any old tim e of day or night: Sometimes, under the light of the moon,  and sometimes in the pitch blackness, where only the ghosts can detect our erratic  frenzied movements.  Ultimately, there are extraordinary moments when we dance i n the broad swaths of golden autumn day light.  We flow with our visceral beings inside out,  backwards, irreverent, and free! Berries dangle on the edges  of autumn branches. Witnessing t he burnished leaves  and dying flowers does not i llicit sadness. Black walnuts fall off of trees, and make ...

HEALING RETREATS FOR FALL AND WINTER! Gentle yoga, Sound Healing, Yoga Nidre', Meditation, Guided Relaxation,   Reiki. October 5th, and December 7th . 10-2 Includes a vegan lunch. Suggested Donation- 40. Students/Seniors-   30 . Lead by Yogikate- Kate Lamberg, yogi/dancer, musician, poet, healer, workshop facilitator (since 1980). She has composed music and written poems specifically for healing. Her musical compositions for piano, and poems are utilized during  the relaxation/meditation portion of the retreat. No previous yoga experience necessary To register, and for directions, you may call or text: 631 334 2663 Namaste'!

Trepidation left the scene, at exactly the right time. Surety was felt in her fingers, veins, and feet. The change she desired was taking place in the proper order.  There is finality in action.    She would have a thought, and then there would be visible evidence that the thought form had  manifested into an action.  That was most favorable, practically a miracle! Her observations were noted. No conclusions would be made  until all  the evidence was delicately gathered. Not unlike viewing and gathering ...the last of the crisp vase- ready hydrangeas. Sadly, we had to view the demise of the huge white and magenta blossoms of  the towering myrtle trees. Now, the myrtle trees are almost as tall as the maple tree, the latter planted seven years ago-- on the northwestern corner of the property.

Reggae blares, "I will never fall in love again, only my heart feels the pain". The sky is clearing. From the living room window, the maple tree waves in the morning sunshine. It's green huge leaf hands will soon glisten golden orange and cordovan. Songs of leaving, being left keep pounding on the radio. Why is it that romantic song lyrics always elucidate th e fact that there is only one responsible party for break ups? It is always both people responsible. One person asserts that it is over, when it has been over for awhile . Both are too busy trying to keep it together. They're trying so hard to maintain status quo, that it begins to feel artificial like plastic flamingos in the yard. Those pink plastic flamingos never eat or sleep, never talk or listen.They are forever pink and innocent like babies, pink rouge, cherry soda, and watermelon. Enjoyed for their immediate beauty...but don't get too close! The feeling of touching plastic flamingos never satis...

Now—that’s the key. Mindfulness trains us to be awake and alive, fully curious, about  now . The out-breath is  now , the in-breath is  now , waking up from our fantasies is  now , and even the fantasies are  now . The more you can be completely  now , the more you realize that you’re always standing in the middle of a sacred circle. ~Pema Chodron

While moving to cicada sounds, with the rhythms of maracas, and the bubbled resonance of rivers, she noted to herself, how could there be anything BUT unity in the world?     

All night she slept under the canopy of stars, birds, trees-- the music that would be a part of her next composition on the ivories. She waited until after sunrise to walk to the piano, eager to have her fingers heat up, slip slide, and melt into the keys. The mutuality of their love for one another was concrete and unquestionable. For someone who did not know her, or the piano, that would only be evident when she began to play. When away from her baby grand, she moved with grace through the woods of her childhood. She knew that no experience in nature would be without grist for the mill-for her song compositions. Like the raw sugar spun for cotton candy, or the vinegary brine responsible for the perfect dill pickle, the power of transformation was up front and center--guiding the song, the dance, and the poem.

Sounds come thundering down. Peace bleeds with destruction on the news and between friends, before an understanding is established. . In all the arts, emotions birth poems, songs, paintings.  Often the triggered memories are incised with a plethora of emotions.The eureka moment is received  when the dusty books of  uncertainty are blown into crystal goblets   of understanding--  for absorbing, drinking, savoring. I never wanted to be someone who assumed anything in the artists' motivation for creating.. My motivation is understanding, my way of discovering is having patience in the unraveling.