Kate Lamberg Center for Natural Healing and Creative Arts~

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