I love writing in the shower. I love it because I can be alone. Truly alone. No one is going to walk in on me and disrupt my process.
From there, I can be creative — expansive and imaginative.
There is no judgement.
Because there is no one around to judge.
In this sense, the shower can also be a sacred space. When I step through the bathroom door, I pass through a threshold
into an authentic version of myself.
The version that only I get to see
and what I see is sacred solitude. …
This is a true story, be warned. This is an invitation into the dark. A journey through the thresholds of death. Gather your warmth.
We walk deep. We walk now.
Our journey begins
when you take the first step. Be warned.
I will be waiting
in the white space of the afterword.
I was alone and armed with a deck of cards. You prescribed me one a day and sealed them inside a brown paper bag. You had told me that too much prophecy, too much Tarot, would overdose my free will into fate. I do not know why you…
There is a language I am learning to speak. It is echoes and sometimes it is silence. It is loudest in the valleys of the forest.
It whispers me closer.
Closer, to what?
I do not know or perhaps, cannot yet tell you.
I am remembering — the taste of the wind; the sensation of my feet in the sand. Can I look beyond the branches of the Pohutukawa blooms?
This sky, this road once held hitch-hikers, horses; now me.
Sometimes, I forget to drink water — I just keep walking.
We are leaning against the dunes; fascinated by the…
I wish we slept in the forest together, above the ferns; in a hammock with the night birds. I do not believe these concrete trees can breathe.
In asphalt, I wake to take this dreaming-body to the coffee factories of Newtown. I drink long into the blackness.
It’s like we sleep beneath a blanket of pine needles… we wanted a patch of dirt to call our own, home; a feather pillow and a pile of bamboo poles; a canvas sail and rope. But then came the pillars and the framework and the gardens and the plumbing, the plumbers, the rent…
Bless this bed with closed eyes
and slow breath.
Bless this body. I have forgotten my prayers. Press cold water to my lips and bless this water, waiting on the nightstand.
waiting for me.
Dress this body in black and bowtie.
Wait for me.
I will bless this space.
Bless this body, soft spine, slow breath, sore limbs
and closed eyes.
Bless this sunlight and the lingering night.
I call you into this room.
Come sunlight, I open my eyes for you.
Wait for me.
I will bless this space for you.
I hear you.
Life is busy. It is complex and strange. In the middle of my working routine (for the sake of my sanity) I need gentle reminders to remember the Earth. Sometimes, when I am glued to the never-ending feed of my screen. It can take the words of another to remind me: go outside. Walk wild.
Be wild and discover the subtle kingdoms of the Earth.
This is my journey with one of those reminders.
This is about the late and ever-great, master nature writer, Mary Oliver.
I came late in life to the works of Mary Oliver. There are some…
I walk as you have walked. With leather footsteps that leave no footprints on the pavement. I walk as you have walked. Woven and unwoven around traffic lights and side streets. I stand as you have stood at the mouth of the concrete monolith. Doors open to elevators that want to go up but I want to wait for you.
This is our city of wind. Our city of rain. Our Winter thoughts must dig deep into the promise of tomorrow’s sun.
I walk as you have walked across cold carpet floors. I open our communal cupboards and rummage through the questions…
I am stuck in traffic. It’s stagnant and static and so slow. It’s barely moving. Creeping one car at a time into a merge lane. I’m hardly moving but my thoughts move into frustration.
I am annoyed. Then anxious. I’m going to be late. Late. All because these tar-eaters don’t know how to merge.
I wind down my window. Ready to yell. Ready to hollar.
Then I realize: I am the traffic.
It’s a simple truth. A tiny epiphany. But one that makes me think about my behavior.
I wasn’t always like this. Somewhere, somehow through the years of my…
TRIGGER WARNING — This article contains details of suicidal thoughts.
Our shadows can sneak up on us like assassins. When they attack, we spiral. Then our shadows will surround us. Stab us with bitter memories. Stab us until we decline into the dark desires of depression.
Despite our best efforts they do not soften.
They will not relent.
Despite our support networks, we weaken.
We retreat. We just want to sleep…
This is my journey with mental health.
It has not been easy.
But I am still here to share it.
Be prepared and proceed with care.
We’re going deep.