Kate Lamberg Center for Natural Healing and Creative Arts~

It is love alone that gives worth to all things. ~ St. Theresa of Avilla (16th century nun and mystic) Good morning to my dear new and old friends, I agree with the Beatles that "Love is all we need." Right now, I'd like to add that love is all there is. Anything we experience outside of the experience of love is actually an illusion. We came into the world fully present, awake, loving and bright lights of joy. Somewhere along the way...we lost (in varying levels of intensity) this profound innate wisdom. We have tools to re-learn how to experience being in this state of loving through the rest of our days. It is both a mammoth undertaking, and yet it can be easy with the proper conditions, and teacher. Take some time each day to go within, and check in with how you are feeling. It doesn't need to be a formal meditation. Turn on soft music, or sit in nature quietly and just listen. Count your in-breath as "one", and out-breath as "two". Go up to t...

  "The quieter you become, the more you are able to hear." - Rumi watching the maple tree, outside an open window light up, as sun paints the fields-- long declarative lines of gold on green birds dart to greet the eastern sky: how the warmth of morning opens- like hands released after prayer silence, the open door to our inner world, spinning more blues riding on a breeze  

    waking in the dark- smiles & laughter line the shadowed crevices   remembering intentions from last night's yoga class: may the peaceful nurturing found be transported to all people, at all times to counter-balance the inefficiencies of a wailing world

  Sleep softly my old love my beauty in the dark night is a dream we have as you know as you know night is a dream you know an old love in the dark around you as you go without end as you know in the night where you go sleep softly my old love without end in the dark in the life that you know WS Merwin From ' The Shadow of Sirius' British Virgin Islands, by katyajo (c) '13

  blue day dreams are spun while walking east, mid-morning warm sand underfoot

  I want to do the right thing, but often I don't know just what the right thing is. Every day I know I have come short of what I would like to have done. Yet as the years pass and I see the very world itself, with its oceans and mountains and plains, as something unfinished, a peculiar little satisfaction hunts out the corners of my heart. Sunsets and evening shadows find me regretful at task's undone, but sleep and the dawn and the air of the morning touch me with freshening hopes. Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny. — Carl Sandburg

  gray day, sodden earth signs of decay, and dear life: holding on, letting go

rainy gray morning the sun still burns within one common heart at dawn    

  Saturday begins cool and damp. Sun pops in at lunch time, then vanishes with a northeastern breeze, through the maple trees.   By mid afternoon, the sky plays shape-shifter. One second the sun strikes through the Japanese maple- lighting up the rosy beginnings of its leaves. Next second, sky sighs in gray, and wind dies down.    By late afternoon,, the wind picks up speed, then abruptly stops. A slight gust from the south, with darkening clouds signals rain is imminent.   One bird rests on the peak of the pine, then flies southward.   We will see the sun reappear like a bunny in a magician's hat several more times before the sky turns to deep shades of blackened lava.    A velvet texture as sumptuous to eyes as to our viscera-while lying on a cool dark mysterious earth. Praising all beings, burning holes through deception, declaring love matters most of all.    

 Hi dear friends, There will be no garden yoga today at 4:30 pm, due to rain today, and a very damp earth. Hopefully, we'll meet again on Friday, at 9:30, weather permitting. We hope we can continue all Garden Yoga classes, through the month of October.  Beginning November first, we will be moving indoors. Pre- registration is required,as we can only accommodate four yogis at a time when practicing yoga. Namaste 🙏💜.                                                            -   Yogi kate

sky brightens, a soft cantaloupe sky nourishes...so early-- birds sleep in, dreaming--of sweet fruit, rising.. with delight...then waking, tasting----- in meditative flight

Greetings to New and old friends. Who doesn't love fall? Apples pumpkins, hayrides, mulled cider and crisp cool autumn walks with the dazzling colors: crimson, yellow,burnt sienna leaves spiraling off trees... What's NOT to love about fall? . Earth and Sky Center has been busy preparing for opening its doors once again for healing treatments, one on one gentle (chair) yoga, yoga classes and Healing Retreats. We care about you-- your health and safety as the pandemic has not left us just yet!! We disinfect all surfaces before and after each client. We ask you to be vaccinated, and wear a mask for all services, except outdoor yoga( masks optional for garden yoga). For more info/ directions/ schedule, kindly email: healerkate77@gmail.com or call, leave message( no texts please). 631 334-2663. Thanks for your interest in our Center. We look forward to meeting you, and to continue providing wellness services to you, your family, and friends. Bright healing Vibes!💜💥💜 Ka...

The act of writing remains a wonder. How we find time, space, and focus to channel words becomes our freedom. Our poems are our blessings, transcending opinions, those locked in beliefs on how the world is suppose to look or sound like. Breathing up new paradigms. Peace!!!!!! peach melba sky in the east sweetens the tar black night--replete with nightmares  of watching water rising....  a flood in the valley, feet frozen in outmoded dress- facing fear head on... like a deer staring at the headlights of a car, stopped for a moment driver's hazel eyes locked in... a trance with the deer's jeweled eyes... closing in on autumn-- hazelnuts and mulberries freely fall... on metal, asphalt and the soft shoulders of country roads driver in no hurry to get to destination allows deer to steer the conversation- into lengthening life as she knows it cooperating with other live beings-- within this changing leaf color season... surviving to see how each color pressed on w...

she loves to wake up to feeling the undulent waves beneath her yogic spine, mimicking the sea waters' symphony...  connecting endless summer days together,  like long airy necklaces breathing each day up with the openness of a toddler-- shrieking  to echo a new sea bird's song...  in early morning--when the day leaps ahead of baby steps- birthing the sweet soft cushion  of strawberries- -bridging memories, with what is spiraling-- in swings and see- saws so early, the air is loaded with promises-- how she follows the sounds--like a star hurtling through infinite blue jay skies

a bright golden sunflower, and two long stemmed red roses float on the eastern shore of the lake-- colors of both flowers intact-- act as bright spots, atop the bottle green waters... the cerulean blue sky and spanking bright white gigantic clouds drop into lake's surface... providing an earthy palette inviting all who look-- to linger a little longer, feeling slightly stronger peace, culled from the simplest things: above, sea gulls softly sing... soothing all that stings

walking, high tide, earth-bound...  saltwater sounds of evening--  restores a kind faith

by the time we got to Haight- Ashbury, the hippies were no longer visible on the streets-- they were laying low in flower fields and tree-houses... it was 1968, and being twelve, I was focused on buying a pewter peace medallion, a Patchouli scented Indian wrap around skirt,and dancing my own kind of modern.. holding visions to live like a hippie, sip herbal celestial seasonings tea, walk barefoot, in harmony... over wildflower fields... letting love and peace be the only philosophy that would travel through my blood stream for the rest of my time on earth... we stepped out of the hippie shop to witness-- a man running from the cops, blood on the streets, a crowd screaming in an uproar-- salt in the wounds of a twelve-year old-- whose peace seeking has never stopped

When two monarch butterflies circle around me twice in a given day, I feel so blessed! Surely this path is the choice- less choice my soul has been seeking. No choice but to let go--of people, places, and things that have no interest in soul's awakening. I would rather be walking by my self happily, in this wisdom, than being with egoic self-serving individuals, whose only interests are power over others and the almighty dollar. Beginning to feel the natural peace, which arrives without striving. Blessings bubble up through my heart and mind. Awakening from dreaming, on this path of choiceless choice.❣

thunder and lightening act to wake up-- restore a passive universe living for self only... opening eyes to the needs of other groping souls... who want exactly what any one wants-- to be heard and cherished-- exactly how they are-- nothing fancy-- just peaceful paradigms unfolding, like ancient texts, understood... a universal language- a love for all people revealing restoration-- at every step on bluestone path-- in the aftermath of storm's unconscious bullying... trees dance as grandparent messages... so soft and kind-- reminding us of no differences internally; we fight because we think we might win another round of, "I know better"-- there's a sweeter way of learning about one another, than bullying-- just because your voice is louder, heartless in heart you once knew-- but you grew a thick protective veneer over all four compartments-- to keep you safe from arrows hurled... also keeping you from feeling....

that runs as deep as a river, as high as the sky---- me, you, thee, thou--no,not in a million incarnations--- we are what we remember: both sunshine and thunder running amok, and in grace.. we tenderly utter-- breathing in and out-- without memory we'd be-- just a cloud crying out loud, or a torrential rain--our own sweat blood tears... falling to touch earth-- once again, filling the chalice of our lives, and those whose lives and well-being we value

When we meet (in our minds) at the clearing, surrounded by cottonwood trees, wild sumac, bachelor buttons, Queen Anne's lace, hip high grasses...don't forget--to take a photograph to remember how we--smooth as silk, met in nature. How we will both die in nature-- in separate fields of wild flowers, dancing. How elegant hundred year old evergreens, scratch the moire' blue sky. The rain will eventually come in a burst of letting go of our entire life's entrapments--our bodies, clothes, records, books, jewelry, fruits of our labor--no longer needed. We will enter another world of peaceful prairies- where prayer and loving continue. May we finally rest--without any pre- conceived ideologies. May we meet again in a pas de deux-- a.deja' vu.

no difference between pond and sky-- as they both hold all the magic, do drift into each other before dawn-- how can it be--in the wee hours-- sky and pond appear to be one cohesive interpenetrating force-- as love- making serves to forget self... pond becomes sky, sky becomes pond- as you and I forget self long enough to really hear what the other is trying to say... correct me if I am wrong; I was born between the beats and the gypsies-- carrying the magic in breath of my grandma who knew at an early age I was to be more than smiles for a camera-- more like a poet dancer, sweeping through the back roads of suburbia-- anchored by trusting my ancestors,--reminded in dreams and photographs how little we really choose: as the music of words, and the timbre of music are the only prayers that make any sense to the poet--perched between branch and bird, pond and sky

jazz notes fill all the uneven sentient surfaces between keys and windows-- the calicos strike yoga poses, as someone looks out the window-- waiting to make sense of a single phrase--seeing if it works in the whole scheme of harmony-- the soon to be harvest insists a poem will be written in the apple orchard at dawn-- when grapes dangle care-free, vines remind anyone, how--the heavy rain helped to get the shining purples there... purposely praising all weather- leaving knee jerk reactions for bulls in rings-- goats and lambs hardly ever complain about the rain...

into the wind- wing on wing the ship believed in forward motion--- however slowly the vessel kept its snail salutation, pure integrity sail-- for finality needs nothing... but the moment, fusing with flood gates open... emotion in bubbled sea, carrying the source-- that claims the meaning to be... one's self both during, and after the storm-- that only slows the essence- never obliterating an inner circumnavigation-- back to the free fellowship of all vessels meeting... beyond the shore of safety-- beyond, beyond, beyond: to the eureka homeland... living in levity anywhere within the constant churning-- souls burning clearly, in a watery sea

(written at two a.m., when all I could hear was the ticking of my low pressured heart, tranquil sleep music, and the bursting rocket sounds of my twenty year old air conditioner-- sounding like a Verdi opera in slow mo)................ ...............salamander at the door-- there is no going back to a small life- that dearth like shrinking--so others can swing the baton, dictate my fate--- .......lion in my house--arms, legs, and torso grow-- as soul courses out of the amniotic sac-- a nascent gathering of humble pie--- as happily as children collect leaves, and roll down a grassy hill in autumn.... as purposefully as i grow my own purple wings-- defying gravity.... as elegantly as a single flower-- who believes kindness matters- in sunshine and in rain.... caring for others at the cost of losing one's selfishness- restoring mahogany canoe-- with a fresh stroke of prussian blue

truth be told, peering through key holes-- upholding door jambs, exercising caution during an almost full moon, now in capricorn flooded with a rivered emotion, picking up momentum: in dreams-- unfurling like roses ...who let go of petals- just as soon as they bloom walking unharmed-- while healing the hurts of early childhood-- pressing an ear close to the ground... where blood red gladiolas are found, rooted: some gone shooting high into one cornflower blue sky while others, hell bent on flopping on their crown...sighs, surrendering to the sound of goodbye

the warmth almost robbed her of her valuable resources: calm, cool, centered~ it missed thankfully due to a once sunny sky, now becoming more crowded with clouds from the west-- bless all of this... and how open are we to look beyond the present circumstance ~staying centered, carrying neutrality uppermost-- to just immerse in the isness of the details: comprising a single moment gazing out windows... trees' leaves only gently waving-- clouds separate again, a ballet jete'... without a bloody promise of anything more than the crisp sound of one acoustic guitar, and the soft light fabric of linen in summer-- keeping body cooler than ordinary cotton-- breathing in between the threads... air escaping on time, without haste or hesitation-- jeering self on-- carrying on down the dusty pink trail of nirvana nestling

she climbs to the summit of the fairly steep mountain--peering out to the hazy green mountain in the distance-- the view feels watery in the mist.... as she looks at the churning bright blue green sea below--- diving into a perfect arched dive-- the sea welcomes her dancer figure,so alive... cooling her spirit in ways only angels could understand... then she swims, focusing on the jagged green land she calls home

a cascade of words follows the deliberate babble of birds on the rocky trail. at the summit- she reaches the vortex between hard rock, brilliant flowers, and one expanding twilight sky.... total immersion in the pool of water colors restores resilience

feels like whenever I have an urge to write in the format presented, I rise-- like a red wing blackbird, take residence on the nearest telephone pole, have perspective when viewing the ancient whooshing harbor...... seems to be either luck, or I have burned off enough old karma to see: a shimmer spit shine in this little world of mine, and of yours--supine.... both on fire, and flooded with unending cascades of purposeful mind..... writing lines on wings: painted red to be seen, and intent to be gently heard-- by those who pass by on this rainy warm morning-- made more peaceful by such a humble bird

When I cannot sleep at the time of a full moon, I go outside and gaze at la Luna..... At four a.m., she was golden faced, surrounded by the lace of passing clouds-- just before setting behind the neat row of Aspens.... so I stepped barefoot on the cool damp grass,visited my garden,and sang softly to the flowers.... Not dissimilar to how I would treat my own children: I did not want to wake them, but needed to let them know how much I appreciate them in my life...

you cannot live this way without finally choosing..... it's safe not to decide-to wait it out-- until conditions become more favorable for deciding-- right now it is raining without hesitation-- the earth, flowers,and summer trees are getting rained on-- whether or not they ask for it... one cat on my lap purrs, the radio plays folk; dreams, by now have long vanished from this morning's cerebrum... another cup of coffee sipped- trying to cull a more long term memory-- day dreaming the start of summer: a dancer at eleven- how the lush rain scented green brings me there-- not the business of psychotherapy- or pharmacology-- but the gift of time's blessing-- noticing the cypress in the yard has shot up an entire story in the breath of time living here-- as the pine in the garden, now hip high.. began with a single branch, and a prayer

she dreamed of Calder mobiles, spinning-- in the hot summer air, catching the high intensity sunlight, singing black red yellow white in a peaceful reenactment of all beings living fearlessly under one roofless sky

There is more blue in the sky, and more oxygen in my lungs--since I chose to step back, claim more space. My navel is calling me to be reacquainted with all its whorls and textures. I will be at the harbor if you want to talk through smoke signals. Not classical smoke and mirrors. Real live white sage smoke from Oregon and tiny mirrors sewn into my orange and red caftan from the Himalayas. Gazing at the baby blue waters I call home, I slide my toes into the icy cold refreshment. Tide, dead-low, I could walk across the narrowest part of the harbor to the sandy beach where the house of my dreams sits. I would knock-on a perfect stranger's robin's egg blue door, and see if the home owner was available for a tall class of Iced tea and conversation on the porch. We may talk about what I see from the south looking north; you'd share how sunrise is better from your vantage point. That my sunsets must be more dynamic- as if the sun plunges into the warm blue green harbor wat...

lovers do love........... like mourning doves, cooing------------- melting, by an opal moon

'Seamless', my newest collection of poetry is ready for the printers. I am hoping it will be ready by Autumn, '21. included: short poems, narrative poetry, prose poetry, ekphrastic, and droems (dream based poetry). You may email me to get on the alert list when book is ready: healerkate77@gmail.com.

Earth and Sky Center for Natural Healing now open for healing treatmemts. Shiatsu, Reflexology, Reiki One on One Yoga Gentle Chair Yoga: Monday at 4:45 pm, and Fridays at 9:30 a.m. With Yogikate-- 33 years as healing facilitator, musician, poet, and sound healer. Three Village area...near East Setauket and Port Jefferson, NY. Monday- Saturday Morning and afternoons. healerkate77@gmail.com 631 334-2663 text, or leave message 💜💙💚💛🧡❤

to resist napping on this rainy Sunday afternoon in May could not rattle any nature lover... we can learn a new song... with the rain as the background-- bossa nova--jobim style jive... how the rain drops slap the pavement-- in syncopation... pushes the percussionists to dust off congas-- and to get on with laying down the beat, the music-- bathing floor to ceiling- with a driving pulse helps to distract from the desire to walk in a light drizzle at dusk-- the sweet ending of May still satisfies our need for the profusion of flowers falling...gently-- with the rain-dappled petals at our feet Words/ photo-- kjl '21

Before bed, I had a idea for a poem. When I woke from a dream, I had all the imagery for embellishing the poem that still sat unwritten, resting--in the gray crevices of my skull. To tap the initial burst of the poem would require sitting in a darkened room with pen and paper, and simply pour out words uncaring as to how they would initially flow. To achieve a rich rendering would necessitate a patience and laser-like focus--not unlike the way Leonard Bernstein conducts---not distracted by the dancers on the stage, or in my head.

no, no, no--don't want to know  why you're still sitting in the shade this earth is made from carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen-- igniting the heavens and waters with a warm brush of blue currents embracing the swimmer in non-linear expressions-- how long can water assist a non-motivated swimmer to mingle with rainbow fish, shining irridescent daring the muted cartwheels, the opus handspring-- blessing the seamless pirouette, turning

patiently waiting all day for the skies to separate, degage', and dance the dance-- simply known as blessings in the form of blessed rain; surrendering seems to be the only choice within the domain of harmony

light meets up with light-------------------- in the dawn hours--not unlike------------- the inter- facing found between------------- people, plants and flowers---------

Ginger snaps are crumbled in the kitchen, as she experiments with a new recipe- invented on her own. When people meet as adversaries, it becomes a challenge to ever see each other any differently. Oh, if only they could bathe in the same peaceful light! A cloudy coolish start to a Monday leaves her wearing a blue cardigan, and leggings, poemless. The cicadas woke her at three a.m., keeping her awake for hours. Such audacity for him to assume she needed weekly prompts for poems, or guidance writing haiku. Blessings arrive in scribbled notes read from a spiral notebook. The world is held closely spinning in control of not back sliding before the movie ends. Chances taken by speaking what she feels at any given moment does cleanse the build up of edifices- those false promises. This might get anyone closer to living a blue rivered paradise. There are flowered trees waiting in the depths of the woods for some folks to escape KJL '21

She hears the rhythm of warblers in the hollowed out oak tree. Like a rotund baritone drone, or a sleeping snore--as a steady background to everyday sounds- garbage trucks, and low flying helicopters... circling above- as seagulls, not doves. Still droning, hardly owning anything besides a fireplace, wild- flowers, and a singular smile. Staying awhile for boggle or scrabble-- deep into the late spring night. Drone ends. Luciano Pavroti sings his favorite aria. No other sounds make any sense. Ears open to listen, quite intently to beam-- in triplets the richness of sound. Crowning our sensibilities into song. Doggie barks are terse punctuation marks--- in between the non-stop lawnmowers in stereo. Looking up at condensed garden and one un-assuming sky- brushes purple rouge over a pallid canvas, high in the catskills. The purple money plant, prolific takes over the pile of ceramic and plastic planters left since last spring-- underneath the wheel barrow-- leaning against the...

a yellow green grey light permeates windows needing washing-- a heart gone to saturn and back in the time it takes to have seven cycles of dreams-- bicycling down the atlantic coast- sea green grasses, yellow sun, forest green trees... higher than the horizon--serving to brighten any sediments of grey found in crusted over fossils-- evolved vessels come not from venting, but by standing up to the indirect wind: an ancient tiny perfume bottle wedged into a safe sandy bit of flat earth, surrounded by the sea water of my birth... a comfort only to sit along the sides and allow the forces to wash over me-- to ride unbeknownst to those who have exited-- we know we'll be following in god's time-- without reason-- people do what they do, and we witness only the morning light streak.a golden tray offering the riches once found before we could walk, before we learned to speak a land of wood nymphs, flower faeries, a holy blessed irridescent ground -kate lamberg..(c) ...

Dear friends, After a 6 month hiatus, I have returned to post poems, prose, and "what's happening" at my Center for Natural Healing. Feel free to follow me here, so you are are able to comment below. I have missed this format...freely writing within the mystery of not knowing who may be reading! Wishing you the best that this spring has to offer...flowers, newly budding trees, walks on the beach and the chattering of our beloved birds. Love light joy peace kate💖