Kate Lamberg Center for Natural Healing and Creative Arts~

why she writes doesn't interest her as much as why some days she finds her being staring out into space..... letting the pen invite her in, without a filter, fresh word snow coddling some labor pains--  indifferent to whether or not it rains; healing the indifference, making each word count, round about it has never been this quiet during a storm--cats asleep, bird song muffled, secrets we do keep-- and still-- the sun returns-- in the distance a pick up truck carries bushels of apples, still dotted with last night's heavy rain words/photo- kate lamberg(c)'18

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 cupula 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 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: the listening room, enlarged for ...

wind in the maple tree helps to stir healing-- at dawn the gaze remains inward

Dried trees stand limp and lifeless. There has been no rain for almost two weeks, requiring gardener to hand water what is left of the summer garden flowers. They are ready to quit, to leave this earth on this late summer day.  Even the crickets and cicadas have lost their impetuous singing at dusk and at dawn. The stillness coupled with the damp heat forces the gardener up before the sun would rise. A tiny breeze at seven a.m. acts as a mini prayerful reprieve. So much has been lost, yet so much can be savored. Tomatoes and corn, show- stoppers at all the farm stands bring folks to buy locally, and to cook native vegetables and fruits. Harvest time is upon us. What dear friends are we harvesting in our soul--to keep the temperate sun of summer within our hearts-- throughout a long snowy winter? May integrity, compassion, and non-harming guide our choices, with fruitful outcomes of lasting inner peace and joy! -kate lamberg

1) her emotions feel pond-like, self- contained ---- she could spend an entire string of cool cloudy days like these--  a tightly strung string of green adventurine beads, cool against cheek bones grateful for the resources springing into little natural springs of believing self-- 2)  amidst the lies that have become a foundation-- this shaky political arena, some call democracy... proof unravels like a cheap trashy novel left out in the rain--  smutty parts ripped out, flung across the river-- confetti bits finally fall to the unconcerned ground gossipers take joy in painting caricatures 3) the honesty of a mother's love turns into rain clouds  daughter's need for space to create orchestrates one gala placid clear sky here, where seasons don't lie, they become a broken record-- 4)  the stupidity of the climate change deniers--  cleaving to their fancy time shares--there will be less time to share those ersatz dwellings...

what ever happened to the sounds of sincere humming, dangling waterfalls, seabirds,  and the gentle  swishing of the rushes by the bay.....hay stacked up to the ceiling in the barn scented in green tea and just picked apples--soon sliced for pie, high in the rockies without imagination, there becomes no declaration of freedom ida reds, macouns, golden delicious bunches of apples cooling in barrels jazzy mid-western film plays out  no chance for a single  breeze or sunshine-this whole afternoon kate lamberg 8-20-18

" Inside myself is a place where I live all alone, and that is where I renew my springs that never dry up." - Pearl Buck the evening's sky settled in like a toddler belly flopping in the shallow end of the pool..  the swimming teacher gave up on this wild child. -- whose resistance to learning how to swim made her prey to gazing at seagulls and butterflies... skimming over the blue chlorine scented pool--in a neighborhood where everyone had them floating on her back, she prayed for her turquoise stingray spinning on the dead-end black top block, and her ballet slippers sweeping  a hard wood floor-- sweet chopin playing waltzes-- as she would dance in threes--  never a care for pop up fires or leaks, leading to floods-- within the spooky rambling ballet studio she later learned to be a little guppy fish--in an ocean of stars, dancing on the surface of the wavering waters - kate lamberg (c)'18