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Happy New Year

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Let us keep on being hopeful this new year, and all days thereon.

 

happy

Let us hope for each other.

Let us pray for each other, wherever we are in the world.

I wish all your dreams fulfilled.

Amen.

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among us

come, get out from your enclosure and stand among us… [the trees say]

we are all creatures of metabolism, come out where your vibration is affirmed, supported, upheld, played out, and so glow strongly by your own light…

come, let us rejoice of life together, let us be thankful together,

stand among us under the sky …

“7.83 Hz alive” by sacadalang 2014

… winter may come anytime, we remain …

7.83 Hz, the Schumann frequency, is the earth’s and the living organism’s frequency. It’s one of the explanations that science has come up with to the question as to why we feel very good whenever we are outdoors. All of us who are alive, and so the earth, vibrate to this frequency. Persistent disturbance to this vibration becomes physically manifested over time, as a health aberration and the like. So it’s not just actually the loads of oxygen and sunlight of the outdoors that affect us, but rather phenomena on the subatomic level, too.

[ this was taken at the onset of winter, and so the other trees surrounding have already shed their leaves; likewise with the green-sky view at the post previous to this ]

 

find your rhythm

 

resume your dance

Isadora Duncan was a famous American dancer.    please click on to enlarge. thank you.

wake up.

resume your dance.

let every cell in your body remember their rhythm.

find your feet, grapple,

find your ground, dig,

touch the earth, reach out, strain yourself,

come back to your voice.

you are beloved.

wake up

This excerpt is part of Estes’ discussion, in her book Women Who Run With the Wolves, using the tale of The Little Match Girl by Hans Christian Andersen, that one of the girl who froze while trying to sell matches on the street but instead lit them one after the other in attempts to keep warm/safe/comfortable.

captured from Women Who Run With the Wolves page, slightly edited

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Women-Who-Run-With-the-Wolves-by-Clarissa-Pinkola-Estes/180239888679436

time to escape

to take off

just go, now.

cut off the strands of gravity from beneath you.

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?????????your only choice is to levitate, and just drift,

simply drift, be carried away.

.blown away

do not resist.

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time must cease to hover over your sky,

someone's artbe free from it.

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.

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.bluish & pinkishbe part of the electromagnetic realm,

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golden movementembrace fluid boundaries.

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just  shift,   shift,    shift.

.

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shuffle the touchdowns, do not touch ground.

it   is  the   moment   to   fly.

taking off now.

April 1, 2014

Coffee Grounds Fertilizer

I am homesick for the reek of carabao* dung drying under the sun.

unripe green mangoesI have come to the point where I now know how it is for paralytics when

                they get to feel flashes of heat and cold at the sight

                of icicles or kettle merrily singing in singeing heat

                because

green unripe Philippine mangoesI now get flashes of the taste and smell

                of damnably sour crunchy unripened mangoes that only my home islands can grow.

I am homesick for the reek of carabao dung drying under the sun,

                the one that we non-farmers harvest from the ground to take home to our

                little plots of tomatoes and eggplants, to make the soil fat,

old nipa hut near coconutsto make the fruits fat, to make us kids fat…

I feel homesick for the reek of caked mud cracking under the sun,

                gray mud turned powdery white plastered on the burnt brown that is

young rice plants, a watery rice paddy                my grandfather’s merrily laughing toothless friend’s skin, who

                couldn’t hear very well the guffaws my Lolo would bring

                whenever we take time from our little garden of okras and cotton and

                come visit him in his tiny tiny

a cogon shack amidst a rice fieldnipa hut stuck in the middle of the flatness of the land he tills

                that is not his. On weekends and on school vacations.

rice stalks almost with grains                When it was a clear day with a slight cooling wind.

                When the rice fields were swaying green, anticipating grains,

or, already stalk-brown, a silent witness to muted gain…

rice straw, after harvestHis name was Lolo Cente, if I remember it right, and mine is Lolo Jose,

                the Jose of Jose Rizal, but who is simply “Lolo” to me,

                and who, unlike that Jose who is Rizal, this Lolo-to-me quit school when he was 7

                because he’d rather ride the back of his carabaos and

                play with them, out of the mud, through the streams, far far away from the school yard,

away from where his teacher and mom could catch and drag him back.

children riding a carabao                A bit of a truant. A bit like Juan Tamad, who wanted to take it easy all day,

,though, my Lolo-to-me was no slacker, no stranger to the singe of the burning sun,

                and he, like Lolo Cente, was toothless, too, by only 2 teeth, but unlike

farmer & friend                Lolo Cente, Lolo could hear even a whisper until

Death peacefully whispered to him at 102. What a life he had.

                That was about 3 times of the Jose’s who is Rizal…

I am so so homesick of the smell of parched soil reeking under a

a well tended rice field                sudden sprinkling of serious rain, of the kind that will soak your hanging laundry in a

                matter of seconds, the kind that will create little oceans and lakes on

                imperceptible indentations here and there along the earth road,

 almost ripe rice grains               the kind of rain that will wedge minute waterfalls and waterways against the edge

                of miniature hills and mountains at the sides of the banked ground that is the

foundation of our wooden house, the one where I spent my infancy in,

                the one where I first realized that adults aren’t so wise after all

rice, almost ready to harvest                when I was only less than 2 and they had me holding my baby brother so that

they could get a picture of us together,

back when Kodak means kodak, means photograph, means to photograph.

                That photograph of me intensely holding on to my reclining position,

                at one end of the, then-popular, plain hardwood sofa, so as

                not to drop my body and my baby brother, tight in my arms, still exists, back home.

mangoes for sale…ah…good old days…

…these words here are just memory lane gone cruising…

                …the less-of-a-second-long flash of the taste of one’s home’s dishes and fruits at

                the back of one’s nostrils that is somewhere inside one’s skull

                does funny things, indeed, to the rest of the brain…

very sweet ripe Philippine mango, cut for easy biteI have used-coffee grounds strewn over my indoor pots’ soil, the ones where I had

                grass-like houseplants stuck onto, my oxygen providers, here, inside,

                where no slight wind sways them from side to side.

[4March2014, 8pm, in about 30 minutes]

*Glossary:

carabao = water buffalo, nicknamed the farmer’s best friend because it’s the muscle in traditional farming

nipa hut = traditional house generally of bamboo and where the roof is of thatched leaves of the nipa palm (Nypa fruticans)bahay_kubo nipa_hut

Lolo = grandfather; the general address for the elderly male

Cente = short and informal for the name Vicente

Jose Rizal = the Philippines’ National Hero; author and medical doctor in late 19th century; studied in Manila, Paris, Madrid, and Heidelberg; martyred at 35

Juan Tamad = in folklore, he was a lazy lad who couldn’t be trusted to get things done; Juan is Spanish for John; tamad is Tagalog/Filipino for lazy

!muchas gracias to the owners of the photos I have here

I Have Beached

beach (1)       Three years I surfed the pages,

arms extended, fingers outstretched,

the gray continental sky indifferent to my need for light;

beach (2)Three years I paced the shore,

back and forth, tracing the break’s contour,

shifting, ephemeral, undulating;

beach (4)On the beach on the sand that is my brain,

lets information like water, in,

pass through, then away, soaked;

beach (5)Three years the troughs and crests and I

kept holding hands and letting go.

The other day I traced the shore at the bus stop.

Concrete platform undulating like lapping waves.

Cigarette butts like flotsam lining the pavement.

I saw the sea foam in my mind.

beach (7)I smelled the salty air.

I heard the rush and splash.

I felt the breeze in my hair.

beach (8)Three years came to pass and I arrived

at how it should have been all along.

how next, Lord?: battling incoherence

Lord, it’s been a long time, since, since when, when I could, I would, think.

it’s been a long time… here I am, again, sitting before You, Lord,

with nothing, with all that I have been, I was, Lord, I’m…

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…I have to start. I must continue. Lord, how?

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how will You do it, Lord? Where to? Is it possible? Can we do it? Isn’t it too late yet?

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Here we are at it again, Lord. And it has become more improbable than all those, the rest, ever were. By the world, I would tend to blame myself. But I’m not ready to, I mean, I won’t blame myself. There are blind spots and it could be said that this is how it should be, that I’m in the best position possible.

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Lord, please help me not to be afraid and not to lose hope. And help me to work properly. Just help me to work, and hard, and not stop until I’d nearly drop.

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Let’s do this again, Lord, like we did all those, the rest, together. Let’s go.

🙂