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