New Moon

New Moon

New Moon

Will you come spiral a dance with me

without your shoes or dress

on the naked earth

with a smile and a blush

your only adornment

under the dark of the moon

or the lavender of twilight

gleaming highlights of stars

on the curve of your knees, hips, and breasts

while the lungs of summer exhale

its final breezy breaths

until the wheel has come full circle?

Will you surrender to the rhythm of night

embracing the cicadas and crickets

as the treble notes of the living dark

while the thumping of our feet on the dirt

rustle leaves like the skirts we puddled

at the edge of the clearing

where the last of the season’s fireflies

beg for a mate to relieve their lonely hearts

while we build momentum in the cooling air

wildly sacrificing modesty for our natural state of being.

I See You

Kaleidoscope_13I see you. You are not invisible to me. When I look at you, you wear no clothes. You wear no physical form. There is a ball around your body that lights up when you’re around people you like and dims when you’re not fond of them. The ball has colors and patterns that are spectacularly blended to me. I see you.

You’re a kaleidoscope of vivid colors that ebb and flow depending on how you move the liquid essence that you float in unwittingly. Where there is pain, I see the darkness. Where there is love, I see the light. Where you reside is usually a central color that tells me everything I need to know about you. I am a voyeur of sorts but not the creepy kind. I will not jump from your closet unexpectedly one night. I will meet you on the terms you’ve established. Because I can feel your intent.

I’m sorry if you feel I’ve invaded your privacy. I don’t know how to turn it off. I don’t really don’t want to because it’s served me so well. It’s proven invaluable to me to seek others of the light. It’s proven invaluable to me when I know I can’t trust a person because they are too consumed by material things to know they’re spiritual beings. It’s guided me effectively to incredible experiences through people with knowledge so deeply profound that I sometimes weep with gratefulness while others cause me deep caution.

It’s a feeling of authentic appreciation of identity that can only bloom with the watering of confidence when I see people that fit into their spirits; That “get it”. When I see someone working actively to grow into their spirits, I can forgive almost anything they do because I witness the evolution of color as if a perfect painting were in the works and I get to watch the brushstrokes fall on the canvas. It’s glorious to see. My gift allows me the privilege without effort.

There are also people who are not exactly dark and not exactly light. They are in a flux between worlds. The material world grabs their ankles and wrists tugging them away from their destiny. Their spirit self does a watoosie trying to find footing, trying to fill in the blanks. There are some that stand in this disarray and cry out that they don’t know who they are or that they don’t know what they’re doing. Nobody knows for sure what we’re doing. We just come up with a plan and see how it pans out. If we’re lucky, we have guides to show us the way out. I am one of those guides but I don’t know everything.

It is increasingly difficult when I feel as if I am carrying/dragging them towards the light. They start off saying, “Oh yes! I really want to do something different and I really like your ideas. Let’s go on this journey together.” I comply and we have long talks deep into the night. The kind that feels like it is the most important conversation I’ll ever have. For that moment in time that glimpse into the moonlight or the daylight it truly is. The intensity can’t be matched because it is so relevant. It is crucially real. But they fall back asleep and forget that we’d every spoken the conversation. With some, that shine so brightly but fear themselves, I keep trying to wake them up because I believe they need to be; because they said they wanted to be.

I don’t say anything to people who are dark. I don’t squeal with delight when I see them. Their wounds run far too deep for me to do anything other than shine a light at the end of their tunnel and coax them from sleep if they’re ready. There have been times when words came out of my mouth that weren’t mine but were intended for a particular person. Just like that, it’s as if a small miracle, sometimes large, happens but it isn’t mine. That’s when my light can reach into that dark place and help bring them home to the light where they belong. Those are the people that shoot past me like a rocket grinning from ear to ear on the tides of self-discovery and I cherish each one that finds that place. I do not gift them because it’s already theirs as it is yours. I may just nudge the light a tad to the right so they can see they’re really okay.

But I can’t carry them. I can’t wake them up. I can’t do that. I can’t pick someone up and force them to embrace their colors. It is ALWAYS the individual choices that color their spirits. It is ALWAYS their responsibility. I learned this and other rules of engagement when watching the masterpieces I encounter.

I can’t tell people what color they will become but I can tell them what color I see. The colors don’t have traits as much as they have emotions attached to them. When I see the colors and I really like them, I have to wait. I can’t immediately bond with them because rarely, but it does happen, they are wearing someone else’s colors. Like maybe they had a bad interaction with someone so it clouds their spirit or they’ve just received great news and are wearing that instead of their normal vestments. It’s the wolf in sheep’s clothing that causes me to ease my steps.

The physical being, the way you wish people to see you comes second. When I see someone that matches their physical self with their spirit self, it’s a feeling of home. It’s a feeling of such personal integrity, I think, “YOU! You’re there!” Sometimes it surprises me so much to find an authentic person that I actually say that out loud. There are many people who come close to matching but, it’s like they choose the wrong pair of socks or the wrong shade of happy. It’s just enough off for me to recognize that they’re missing parts of themselves or aren’t aware they are. It is my experience that it’s typically the latter.

The physical being does matter. I don’t wish you to have the wrong impression. I do see it, but not until I’ve peered through the spirit. When I tell someone that they are beautiful, I see them as I’ve described to you. I wish I could paint each person so they could see their beauty too. As if, if I could create them on canvas, they might appreciate their own divinity that seems apparent to me. But instead I’ll follow the advice of my kind Uncle Les who said, “Mare, whatever you do, keep doing it. The world needs more of it.” So it is written, so it is done.

The Mute Woman

How to make a daisy crown

How to make a daisy crown

I made daisy crowns and dandelion necklaces.

I climbed trees with my knees scraping bark

to see what was on the other side of my neighbor’s fence

or down the hill, or off in the distance on a sea of treetops.

I drank water from the dog bowl to see if it tasted different.

I tried cat food to see if they liked things the same as me.

I wove elaborate stories, like plays,

that I repeated until I had them memorized

then performed them to blank-faced audiences of dolls.

I became a mosquito scratching relative legs until they sprayed me away.

I watched from my window, every day through winter to see the first robin of Spring.

I dashed wildly, madly through the scented Autumn leaves.

I splashed loudly in puddles

when I didn’t have on rain boots and when I did.

I drove a pedal car up and down the sidewalk in front of my home;

Mine was green, my brother’s blue.

I rode my bike as fast as the wind

skinning the ends from my toes for riding barefoot.

My baby doll became a real child needing care

right down to being walked in a baby buggy, pampered and cuddled.

I sang songs when there were people around

and when there wasn’t.

I wore the brightest clothes I owned with pride

but refused to wiggle my fanny at school for embarrassment’s sake

foregoing the envied bunny tail.

I dreamed of long hair like my favorite Aunts

but my hair was wild, unruly, and never behaved appropriately.

I played race car with the electric socket and a key

learning just how many people I could scare at one time.

I saw my world as beautiful, wondrous, and awe-inspiring.

My memories have not been muted, although faded a bit,

Dog-eared around the edges, notated and rewritten with crayons

reversed into a parking spot reserved for each one.

I take them out and drive them around adult conversations

but they get dismissed as comical fancies

disapproved of as childish rubbish.

But they’re wrong.

My childhood held many terrifying horrors.

I don’t think these wonders I hold in my memories are comical or rubbish.

They represented my soul unfurled like a battle-worn banner

proclaiming my liberty from my aggressive oppressors.

They were a time of exploration, learning, and comprehension.

They were and are my life boiled down to the simple things

that so many struggle toward, but I hold dear to my heart.

Retrieve the Wild Woman

A common missing soul link

Once, when you thought no one was looking, I saw you open your heart so wide that the earth fell in. Once, when you thought no one was listening, I heard you sigh so deep that the oceans roared with support. Once, when you thought no one was around, every atom in this universe rushed forward to embrace you. Again. Thank you for existing so intensely.” –Sera Beak

When we are young girls, we’re told we can be anything or anyone we want to be. We’re encouraged to explore the world, to be inquisitive, to engage with wonder the nouns we’re exposed to every day. But then we hit the “tweens” the rules change dramatically. We’re told that we can no longer do this or we can’t do that. We’re chastised for being who we were told we could be, who we are. We’re told to keep our voices down, not only by the older women of our clans but by our peers and by society. We’re told that we are expected to dress this way or behave that way because after all, who wants a wild woman? Behave yourself, ladies. It’s about to get bumpy.

When we reach the age of dating, the rules shift again as we learn how to act around the alien species that we remember swimming with bare chested down at the swimming hole for endless summers past. But at this point, we’re expected to catch his attention with guile and grace that awkward teenagers don’t possess. We’re taught that by watching society, media, and our familial matriarchs we should already know these things. Even when we seek guidance from our peers, we’re mocked for not understanding how things work even though, sincerely, the other girls don’t know either.

We can no longer play in puddles even if it’s our deepest desire to do so because girls just don’t do that. We can’t strip off our shoes and socks and go wading into the murky depths squishing the untamed silt between our toes. We can’t jump into the gathered waters to cause a gratifying splash because that’s unladylike. We become tamed and complacent in our lives because that’s what we’re supposed to do. We’re coerced, instead, to step around the puddles and even to avoid them while looking regretfully at the unmarred reflection of what could be flying water.

Then the age of marriage, children, relationship issues, and responsibilities inundate our thoughts and who we were fades into a small bubble within our spirit that is nor more noticed than our own shadow. Meanwhile, our Wild Woman just floats along behind waiting, staring longingly at those mud puddles, swimming holes, and endless hours of laying in the grass staring at the clouds drifting by in the blue. It’s that Wild Woman, that didn’t have boundaries for exploration, inquiry, and engaging the world as our adult selves are required to have. It is the part of us that’s starving to be noticed, begging to be reintegrated into our daily lives.

I’m challenging you to jump in that mud puddle. I’m challenging you to make the ripples. I’m asking you to take the time to watch the skies. I’m asking you to be a rebel, a Wild Woman. I can hear the brakes in your mind going off. I can hear the thoughts of “But what will other people think?” Let me tell you why what “they” think doesn’t matter.

A study done by the National Science Foundation claims that people have on average 50, 000 plus thoughts a day. This means that even if someone thought about us ten times in one day, it’s only 0.02% of their overall daily thoughts. That’s a pretty powerful.

One way to understand this statistic is the more we think and worry about what other people think about us, the less time we have to think for ourselves, to follow our own path, to speak about what matters and is valued by our spirits. To embrace our inner Wild Woman as a place of solace and contentment, liberty and freedom of our wonderful souls is where personal contentment can be found. But that sounds pretty selfish and we’re supposed to be self-sacrificing, right?

Let’s approach it a different way. You love the color blue, but everyone else claims that they love the color green. When you can no longer pretend that you love the color green you tentatively reach out to those closest to you and you say, “I love the color blue more than green.” Some may reject you outright because that’s just not how it’s done; EVERY one MUST love green. But then, there may also be some of like mind that will say, “I too love blue.” And another creature may hover around your groups saying, “I don’t like either of those colors at all. I love yellow more than any other.”

Standing up for what you believe is right is not how a lady should behave, right? That’s not a Wild Woman practice, right? Oh, but it is. It’s saying that you’re not content with the way you or your fellow Wild Women are being treated. It’s standing up and saying, “I love blue, not green.” It’s demanding that your opinions, thoughts, and beliefs hold water like that splashy fun mud puddle. And you know what? You’ve jumped into the middle of that puddle by valuing your own opinion, by finding worth in what works for you. Pretty awesome, right?

Do you remember laying on your back in the green grass, staring up at the clouds as the sun warmed your skin? If you haven’t had the pleasure of this activity, I highly recommend it. And if you haven’t, imagine what it would feel like. The sounds of the breeze rolling through the trees as they wave at you with life flooding their branches. Inhale the scent of the earth and feel it filling your body until you’ll nearly burst. Can you hear the birds singing you a lullaby of complete contentment because they already know they’re birds? Can you see the clouds gliding the sky with their shifting watercolor painted beauty? Close your eyes and ingratiate yourself to the feeling of just being or keep staring up to the heavens filling your spirit with life.

So what do these simple activities have to do with retrieving your Wild Woman? How can these possibly make your life easier or happier?

When you allow yourself to embrace your own personal likes, dislikes, opinions, ideas, thoughts, you’re allowing yourself to tap into the Wild Woman soul. When you acknowledge to yourself, as used in the example, that you love the color blue more than green, you’re honoring yourself. You’re honoring the Wild Woman. The one your ancestral tribes glorified with natural movement dances around a fire while howling at the moon with the complete understanding that they were women and they had power.

When you jump into the puddle and publicly declare that you love blue more than you love green, you send a ripple of rebellion, a whisper of “What if…?” a passionate plea for others to embrace what and who they love as well. You’re giving permission, not only to yourself, but to other Wild Women hidden in the confines of “Don’t do that.” When you take off your shoes and socks and dip that toe back into the puddles of things that matter, you’re shaking off the oppressive ideals of who you are supposed to be and can then allow your heart to open so wide that the whole earth falls in.

When you take time to contemplate, feel, surround yourself with beauty, as in laying in the grass watching clouds, you’re cherishing the most valuable person you know, yourself. You’re giving yourself permission to rest. The dishes will be there when you get done. The bills will still be awaiting your check and stamp. But making time to just be who you are with no labels is becoming that Wild Woman that stands up in a banana skirt and declares she loves blue more than green. It entwines your passions and desires into a solid form that can be nibbled upon or swallowed whole. When you remember to make time your own, you become the ruler of your own oceans whether those oceans be blood, sweat, or tears; you matter.

The Universe is bidding you an invitation to glorify you in your natural state of being a Wild Woman. Be still and listen. Do you hear that in the wind? Do you see that in the sun or moon or stars or lake or leaves? It’s everywhere and it’s calling for you to be who you are. It’s beckoning for you to jump into those puddles, cause the ripples, stare at the sky and dream, because YOU are worth pulling in those gifts that float around you like confetti, bring them home, you Wild Woman you!


The statistic was found in an article found at: