Tag: writing

“…what do you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

“…what do you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

Creativity, Joy
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” Mary Oliver It's remarkable how small things can bring big joy into our lives: like the gifts of poetry, writing and blogging for me.  It could be both an occupational and a temperamental bias, but I think some kind of artistic endeavor is a necessity for everyone. It's irrelevant whether you practice your art as an amateur or a pro. What's important is that you honor the creative spirit within. Play an instrument. Paint a picture.Write a play or be in one. Keep a journal or a nature sketch paid or collect photographs of your day. Practice whatever art haunts you. I'm haunted by writing and reading.  I'm not sure I'd know what I think if I didn't write. It's the best way for me to understand myself and
Daily Practice for October 18, 2016

Daily Practice for October 18, 2016

Word:  I am sharing writing from our ezine, the BeZINE, for the next little bit while I focus on healing and moving.  The theme for the BeZINE that released on October 15, 2016, was Rituals for Peace, Healing, and Unity. I was the guest editor for this issue. I offer to you a writing by my friend and colleague, Jamie Dedes: Note: For some of us, our writing – whatever it may be: poetry, fiction, nonfiction, journaling – is our daily spritual practice. It is the place where we consciously connect with our core Self: the Ineffible, which some call God. Breathless Between Language and Myth Here I am, suspended breathless between language and myth. Strands of undomesticated words weave ladders to freedom, and a dove in the stripy-barked birch recites the works of Homer. I found th

The true history of indigenous peoples . . .

injustice, Joy, social justice, writing
The Wiyot lived in the Humboldt Bay area of Northern California and they live in my dreams. For about a year-and-half we made our home in Humboldt County, an area about 200 miles north of San Francisco on the far North Coast. It's a place dense with redwood forests, wild rivers, and creeks that run dry in the summer and overflow in the winter. If you live in a rural area or grew up in one, you might take such things for granted. Having lived in paved-over cities all my life, they seemed magical to me. Our four acres were rich with sequoia, madrone, oak, and twenty-eight fruit trees. Blue jays flew in to feed in the morning. Quail families visited at night. They marched down our drive in orderly formation. Hawks and hummingbirds put on air shows. Rosemary thrived unattended. There wa