rumi.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

-- Jelaluddin Rumi,
translation by Coleman Barks

this came to me from the incredible teachers ana maria & samantha at yogala in echo park.... a cozy, love & beauty filled yoga studio in echo park. definitely check it out if you live in los angeles...

i'm here.

missing you.

missing me.

missing the spatula to turn the poems over, to turn something over. and i am turned over. definitely feeling burnt on one side, on the inside. trying to feel into when i might be ready to come off the heat and cool down. hoping for a gentler day, forgiving and open. this phase, this beauty ride. i want to find the balance. i want to stop the noise, this idea that i am so late, so behind, so tardy for my dreams. as these other dreams, the ones you can't even dream about because you can't imagine them...they are the miracles, oceans and beauties. i want to stay dressed in the blessed feeling. beauty sleeps so i can write down one more word. i am trying to teach her to soothe herself. i am trying to teach me to soothe myself. she keeps her little sweet mouth open hoping for something to calm her... and if the zucchini had a mouth, it would be open, up against the door of the fridge, crying for me to make that olive oil cake. the kitchen waits for me. the words wait for me. i do what i can with green zebra tomatoes, the beginnings of acorn & kambocha, little red pears. my first frittata with frisee and figs keeps me alive. empty cake plates stand proud and almost grounded. they inspire me. i didn't want to wait one more minute to let you know, i'm still here. just holding on, so i can keep going. holding on tight to this beauty ride. i want to feel light, a souffle of myself or even a crepe might work, flat & round. oh and thin, that could be nice. i could fill me up with berries and chocolate and a squeeze of lemon. i'm here and now i'm hungry. see you in the kitchenxxxx

crowns & words.

i birthed beauty and the poetry inside that journey is still connecting the dots inside my hips, playing hide and seek in my joints and needs more water, more water, more water.....my body is still processing this next chapter. i might be here longer than i want to be.... i might be here after i have written and read the story many times. who knows. the heaviness that feels like me today, the pastry bags of my breasts, feeding beauty to keep her growing as i try to feed myself that other beauty.

the beauty inside rainbow chard, baby eggplants on a cake plate, the lemon basil in a ball jar on vintage cookbooks... breathing in all my bowls, the roundness feels like a safe place to land, to nap, to cry lots of tears... listening for an echo of myself, seeking my shadow, hoping to have a quick chat about the good old days... finding a swatch of myself somewhere inside this new landscape....

keeping the altar behind the sink real simple... bringing the shade down to keep it cool in there. that might be more important than all the other things.... inhaling gratitude, how blessed i am, and how heavy it still feels... exhaling trust, knowing it will pass, understanding that this is the life of a renaissance mama... wanting to do so much, yearning to water that poetry in my thigh to see what will come of it.... how will it grow once nurtured?

i want all that time back...

with my big ass wing,

i pick up all my needs...

one by one, combing their thin blonde hair... i look for those sweet chamomile buds & make a crown for each need, letting them know, i will be back soon.

gratitude.

stories inside the womb

of a wooden spoon.

the round, wide edges of my ancestory

that i continue to discover.

the warm healing in the kitchen,

over and over and over again,

showing me the way.

discovering a specific lingering that is in the

crack of the cuisineart, the scent of basil meyers soap.

whatever your story, the poetry, the song... they live in your

kitchen... maybe this is the time you come out to greet them...

lets thanks & give everyday....

lets roast, saute, baste & play everyday...

let's connect with this excited child that lives in the aroma

of a sweet potato souffle... connected to this nourishing piece...

lets feed her and nurture him everyday....

i am so deeply grateful to all the spoons, the patient creators of all the round things, the wide bowls, the stories inside the wood, the sterling silver, the cobalt, the gold, the kitchen connection, the planet for holding us,the circle, my family, the ocean, the beauty, the process of growing, caring, nourishing and nurturing everything...

feeding you and feeding me. xxx

first hour.

that hour, I was most myself. I had shrugged

my mother slowly off, I lay there

taking my first breaths, as if

the air of the room was blowing me

like a bubble. All I had to do

was go out along the line of my gaze and back,

out and back, on gravity's silk, the

pressure of the air a caress, smelling on my

self her creamy blood. The air

was softly touching my skin and tongue,

entering me and drawing forth the little

sighs I did not know as mine.

I was not afraid. I lay in the quiet

and looked, and did the wordless thought,

my mind was getting it's oxygen

direct, the rich mix by mouth.

I hated no one. I gazed and gazed,

and everything was interesting, I was

free, not yet in love, I did not

belong to anyone, I had drunk

no milk, yet -no one had

my heart. I was not very human. I did not

know there was anyone else. I lay

like a god, for an hour, then they came for me,

and took me to my mother.

Sharon Olds (from 'The Unswept Room')

to stop, read something amazing & let it sit somewhere inside can be the best gift. i love this poem and this is how it feels, sometimes, when you are birthing a new part of you... see you in the kitchenxxx

praying.

praying

it doesn't have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones; just

pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try

to make them elaborate, this isn't

a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

mary oliver

soaking beans overnight gives me this moment,

this steeping in gratitude that holds an inexplainable self-caring,

a nourishing, it's something that is taking priority over the noise

& delicately interrupts, in the most gentle way, my life.

it is a type of praying for me.

it also makes a really good soup.

see you in the kitchenxxx

prayer poem.

"whether or not

you have ever dared to be happy

whether or not

you have ever dared to pray"

mary oliver

praying with my

wrist

these words

this ink

praying to the morning

that it made it here

prayer is

thank you

praying is breathing a lot

of the day &

there are so many sounds

of a prayer

it can be silent or

it can be

the whisk

hitting the side of the bowl

like it means business

and this thing is going to come out whipped

there is so much to learn

when we get quiet

like this

we make room

for the prayers

that want to come

in

i want everyone to know

their own story -

begin

sharing

them

with a wooden spoon

telling the tales of those bowls in the hutch

stirring

corn,

leeks,

salted butter

creating a home

framed in an aroma of protection

a scent shield

believing in this

creating

what goes in

our bellies

makes us

shine

jbdxxx

magic.

opening yourself up to

strawberry figs

currants

chilled soups

nourishing this piece in you

and me

it's like magic in here

grounding in

the gratitude

trees bearing fruit

trees all around

trees reaching

devotion

just allowing yourself

just giving permission

to be fed

to (maybe) learn another way

even if you have a map

compass

tools

sharing

gathering

creating

eating

digesting

this magic

*this is the incredible, inspiring work by su blackwell*