Category: liminal
your own, personal christos
When I finally became my own temple, it was clear why 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.
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-membering, 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
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.
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 //
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”dendronglow:
Dendronglow : the rosy or golden light of the setting or rising Sun aglow on trees
akin to Alpenglow
alternatively: dendronglo
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;
dendronglow
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
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
an adjustment of position
breaks the magic of sleep
the anvil of non-specific grief returns to the chest
the coils of hopelessness entwine the limbs
the throat gasps
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
