your own, personal christos


When I finally became my own temple, it was clear why my own religion, worship services and prescribed prayer had felt largely inauthentic, self-conscious or weird for me all my life.

Once one knows and understands that they are an embodied spirit temple, there is no longer a need for a facilitator or mediator to commune with the Mystery — with Source Consciousness.

Some of us are descendant of a conscious “Entity” — a “Beingness” — but our near-complete devolution and severance has us worshipping false gods and idols — whether old ones or new; following false prophets; and practicing hollowed rituals, meditations, ceremonies and sacraments.


a defiant trickster,
an anarchist — exposing and destroying
The System and its systems /
Jesus,
a beautiful, laughing Aeon.

This Understanding, this Knowing, this gnosis, is inherent, existent in every spirited being, and — by grace, by catalyzed re-memory, or by the cultivation of an intentional interior communion, we may enter and traverse the liminal space where we experience our origin, and recognize our true Self.


GOSPEL OF THOMAS

(28) Jesus said, “I took my place in the midst of the world, and I appeared to them in flesh. I found all of them intoxicated; I found none of them thirsty. And my soul became afflicted for the sons of men, because they are blind in their hearts and do not have sight; for empty they came into the world, and empty too they seek to leave the world. But for the moment they are intoxicated. When they shake off their wine, then they will repent.”

(3) Jesus said, “If those who lead you say to you, ‘See, the kingdom is in the sky,’ then the birds of the sky will precede you. If they say to you, ‘It is in the sea,’ then the fish will precede you. Rather, the kingdom is inside of you, and it is outside of you. When you come to know yourselves, then you will become known, and you will realize that it is you who are the children of the living god. But if you will not know yourselves, you dwell in poverty and it is you who are that poverty.”

GOSPEL OF THOMAS (Lambdin Translation)

Continue reading “your own, personal christos”

slouching toward bethlehem

i resist stirring, opening my eyes, or thinking

as the dog wakes, and waits

i am in the center of another dawn-dream,
on the precipice of
experiencing some thing, of understanding some thing

but it cannot hold,

evaporating
with every
slouch toward consciousness

i open my eyes to
the grey of the room, to the dark white gyre of the sky through these generous windows
i open my ears
to the beat
of crystals pummeling these generous windows,
once and again, realizing
i possess slow thighs,
heavy lungs, a heavier heart,
an entire weighted mass,
and a mind — less than half-known / half-known

i want to re-bury myself in the warm sands of sleep, the enveloping weightless numb
and drift back to
the liminal/

this must be the
feeling
of the fully-gestated
unborn fetus, warm,
quiet, still
waiting to be born
yet resisting being known, moving on

Continue reading “slouching toward bethlehem”

ghosts

if you’re seeing this, you’re alive,

though dying — no matter your age, health, relative safety, relative comfortability —

on this living, though suffering and actively dying, planet

Earthlings and Earth together in a protracted hospice

right now, in these brief years, these grief years,

we are the “ever-living ghosts of what once was”

a “was” that most all of us alive this morning have never known as lived experience — save for the untouched tribes — 10,000 Uncontacted Peoples — 10,000 unsystematized, “uncivilized”

and the Ocean, and the few, still-standing Ancient One Trees; the untouched Desert, and the Mountains — even the youngest of them — The Tetons and The Himalayas, know what it “was” to be alive.

we are mere ghosts, walking dead.


Continue reading “ghosts”

is this real life: zone of interest

happy saturday afternoon.

i am making a marinara, but i may pivot and make it a vegan bolognese, served over bucatini or vegan mushroom or eggplant ravioli.

i haven’t yet decided — while children are being genocided

by intentional starvation

in Gaza, Palestine.

there is famine in Sudan. And Congo. And Ethiopia, too.

how is this real life?

in 2024, while The World can watch from their screens. while knowing there is enough food in The World for all of them.

yet, here, i am deciding: between listening to a podcast about one of my favorite fellow outer-ruralers, Ted Kaczynski (the irony is not lost) — or, a pandora station mashup of caamp and uncle lucius – both bands, i first learned of from time with my son in wondrous and humbling wilderness landscapes and cozy lodging — or, continuing my Clarissa Pinkola Estes audio book the Power of the Crone Myths & Stories of the Wise Woman Archetype //

so many choices for dinner, intellectual stimulation or joy while i am safe and warm and mostly, whole.

how does this dichotomy exist?

that is rhetorical.

i feel the grief of helplessness most acutely when i am in the grocery store shopping for food and while i am preparing and cooking food — the most basic of human tasks //

a meadow in Michigan, The World.

this is a foto of golden-rosy light shining on the snow-covered meadow that i have the immense privilege to nurture, protect and observe, on land i occupy — at Sun’s peaceful, not violent, rise this morning — the precious snow all melted by afternoon

Crone tip :

when you glimpse the blaze of golden-rosy light, you must act instantly:

get to the window, get outside, with or without an artificial lens or shoes — because the glow is gone in less than minutes.

Human Earthling tip:

when you glimpse a genocide and famine you must act instantly:

you must speak out, loudly; you must resist in all possible ways; you must refuse to look away as you live life; you must do something, anything, to try and stop it; you must do anything, something to try and help other Earthlings; you must resist and “refuse to be an accomplice to genocide.”

Our World sits just outside of Gaza, of Palestine. We are All in the zone of interest, right now.

Continue reading “is this real life: zone of interest”

definition | author | proof of life:


foremost Earthling, crone,
and mother to a golden boy;
nightly traveler into liminality;
mostly obeisant
to intuition & premonition;
poet, writer;
heart-sleeved,
bleeding heart pessimist;
devoted friend of crows (at last),
meadow-restorer/tender,
& long-lost sister to snakes, bats and coyotes,
deer & bluebird whisperer,
seed saver, food grower,
an admirer and propagator
of lilacs, hydrangeas,
sycamores, mulberries, pawpaws and oaks;
dna-tested kin to goldenrod, milkweed,
bison, cottonwoods, thistle and monarchs;
wader into ephemeral and glacial
lakes and deep snow;
Moon’s luminous, loyal daughter
& Sun’s prodigal, ever-questioning shadow
equally;
devout, ecstatic
desert, forest and river worshipper;
reverent of and humbly deferent to
bear, wolf, moose, elk & bighorn sheep and hummingbirds;
a mountain, canyon, valley,
prairie and beach walker;


i swam and swam and swam my way alive.

Continue reading “definition | author | proof of life:”

the visitation

absolutely familiar
though this composite
is arresting and near unrecognizable

appearing as face and form of a human woman
who never endured, nor knew of, disease

wearing pleromic countenance
without tongue for human words, without neurons for human thoughts

yet fluently exuding
all the truth
that is

now hers

Continue reading “the visitation”

the mourning cloak

near invisible,

imagine silk organza, chameleoned

peach-pink colored, when i Am naked,

the color of water as i bathe.

sky blue, golden, sherbet, grayed or midnight black,

when i Am outside

ever-shifting with the time of day and weather,

once, even green,

as i knelt down in the cold grass

while diaphanous to all the unobservant

i Am dressed in this cloak of mourning

and the hem is lined with lead

Continue reading “the mourning cloak”

o holy night

the golden light
stole her attention, as per
halted her forward motion, as per
the Sun’s set
would be the first
without Her, earthside
she took some photos, as per,

/but also, to remember that very first one/

she then acknowledged
that the Sun, Moon and Stars
herald no one’s birth, announce no one’s death
and perhaps that’s why
the Star of Bethlehem
and a midday eclipse

Continue reading “o holy night”

the first 24 hours of loss

the first night, the long night
the first sleep
sobbing or wailing into oblivion
eyes forced shut by swollen lids
eventually the mammalian body
succumbs to the exhaustion
from the metabolic expenditure of emotional agony and adrenaline

the next morning
the first sweet seconds of confusion of time and place
as the tender light or familiar sounds of daybreak
breach the senses
a suspension of forgetting
the devastation of yesterday

those must be the most ephemeral moments
in human consciousness

then a stirring
a shifting in bed
to adjust position
breaks the magic of sleep

the anvil of non-specific grief returns to the chest
the coils of hopelessness entwine the limbs

Continue reading “the first 24 hours of loss”

the last meal of a woman

the last meal that She cooked for herself

was in the late afternoon of the 18th of September the Year of Our Hearts, 2023

that same evening
She would spend the last night together alone with her only child, her son, in Their house on Adams Street

he had already stopped at Chik-fil-A
– or Quesabroso? for his dinner

he, sixteen forever, for Her, not even licensed for a year yet

She thought, then said aloud to him

“pasta. i want some pasta.”

and so She very slowly set about

choosing saucepans, boiling water,
sautéing a little ground beef with a bit of diced onion, and minced garlic from a giant container from Costco,
adding in a half jar of Rao’s Original, some dried herbs — nothing too spicy or fancy now,
cooking her favorite gluten-free rigatoni,

or was it penne, mostaccioli?

She ate, rinsed the pots, loaded and ran the dishwasher, put the combined leftovers in her fridge

and at dinner time the very next day,

She told her oldest and dearest friend about it

her friend listened, and watched Her plate, reheat, and sit down to eat those leftovers — She wanting to do all that for Herself, still

She taking the smallest and most intentional bites possible,

every delicate swallow and cough amplified in the too-big-for-two, unusually quiet house, the parade of Her friends and visitors gone until tomorrow

“i’m not supposed to drink with these meds, but lemme have just one lil’ sip of your wine”

Continue reading “the last meal of a woman”

Harvest Moon, northern hemisphere, 2023

i missed the rise of the
Full Moon last night,
preoccupied in thought
hands busy in work

she missed the rise of the
Full Moon last night
preoccupied in pain
early to bed, early to bed-ridden

i say, i will witness Her tonight
waning only slightly, gibbous,
99, 98 percent
or next month,
with confidence, and guilt

i say, she won’t witness Her tonight,
or next month, or any phase
Zero percent
wondering if she ever considered the Moon,
with confidence, and guilt

the word “full” lingers on beyond the Moon’s illumination
— as relative,
in these lives of ours

Continue reading “Harvest Moon, northern hemisphere, 2023”

art appreciation: thresholds

first in a series


The Entrance Gate on the far bank of The River Tuoni according to the Kalevala and as depicted by Finnish artist Hugo Simberg

THE ENTRANCE TO TUONELA, 1898,
oil on canvas
Hugo Simberg, 1873-1917
Finland

Tuonela


In this piece, which is an interpretation of one of many universal myths which impart the water crossing and trek we all are to embark upon after death,

most of the departed climb up the steep, barren embankment and enter the tunnel individually, while a child and a dog are tenderly escorted — led by the hand or carried by chthonic monks into the tunnel leading to the

Underworld

the tunnel appears under geological strata — presumably the surface of Earth, with blue sky and forest in background above it

interestingly, the artist’s limited use of perspective also allows the sky and forest to be viewed potentially as the Great Beyond itself — as a Northern or Alpine “paradise,” a Valhalla, beyond the sojourn in and through the tunnel

a high, solid, wooden fence bisects the river, embankment and tunnel and prevents arrivals from observing the exiting monks — only one-way vision and traffic for the dead

and while the monks do not cast shadows, the human figures continue to be accompanied by their shadows; for those who subscribe to Jungian analytical psychology or gnostic texts, the physical shadow depicted may be interpreted symbolically as the anima/animus of the person — which would ultimately disappear during the tunnel upon the full reintegration of the Self/Soul/Spirit

through re-unification with one’s divine twin (which is sometimes also called the cosmic/celestial twin or daimon) after having been separated during human incarnation and birth.


author’s note: 

i often and prefer to call the underworld aka afterlife “The Great Wide Open of the All” — which in my liminal gleanings is a supremely contented blackness of universal consciousness, devoid of thought or sensation — a perfected existence in the dark cosmic fabric of nothingness,

there may be levels in the afterlife which may manifest our own personal imaginal constructs of paradise — far beyond what our limited sensory perception and experiences of life on Earth are - such as, an Alpine Paradise upon emerging from the tunnel -

i know full well the breathtaking beauty and feeling upon exiting a scary and lengthy mountain tunnel where my heart and eyes are stunned by a grand vista of forest, peaks and sky — from my many road trips in the Western U.S.

yet, i truly prefer the former — when i die, i want to rest for all eternity — although with just one desire, one sensation: warmth.

Continue reading “art appreciation: thresholds”