The Treasure Becomes the Knowing

If I learn one lesson each day; it has been a good day. Some lessons are weighty and emerge after considerable contemplation. The syncopated pushing and pulling conflicts with my natural pulse. The heaviness settles deep and presses hard against the walls of my heart.


I watch the truth linger behind a soft silky veil. I know that I want it and reach for it. Merging is freedom. However, at times I prefer to look away, embracing my own perception (the one which no longer serves me).

I continue to climb, pulling myself up the mountain hand over hand, scraping against the defined edges of each craggy rock and tightening my grasp when the loose earth falls away. I tell myself that I won’t fall. I will not lose my footing. However, just as I convince myself of this; the silky veil thins and truth reveals that it is best to fall (right then and there).

I let go.
Truth and I are together, swirling inside of the tumbling chaos.
When we land, I am surrounded by a pile of scattered debris… all that descended with me. I can sift through it, ignore it, pack it up and carry it with me, or I can walk away and leave it where it lands. I weave together multiple strands of truth and continue.

I feel the pain of the fall – scratches, bruises, bumps and random scars – all reminders.

The journey waits. No longer afraid; I choose the untamed path, the one with the most unknowns.

I find lost treasure. I rejoice. I hold onto it and marvel at its goodness. I am warmed by its shine and hopelessly muddled by its charm. I am inclined to sing and dance because before there was no cause. In the midst of it; I discover the art of reclaiming that which was never lost to begin with.

When I realize that the treasure was always present; the treasure becomes the knowing.
Journal: Scarlet Lily

Finding the Moonfield: Unleash Your Wildness

I miss the nights when I played with my children in the Moonfield; a place that explodes in the silver light of the moon, illuminating all that lies beneath, casting distinct shadows typically acknowledged by day. 

A full moon is not required for such brilliance. Take last night for example; the moon is in the first quarter – a perfect night for frolicking.

At one time, my children and I often climbed over the stone wall to the field by the school to our first Moonfield. We had endless space to run freely. That is when we created our game of “Moon Tag”. Just the mentioning of it conjures up the echo of innocent laughter that drifts away to the edges of the field into the long, thin, lines of tree shadows.

Of course this game can be played in sunlight; but there is more magic in the moon.

The object of the game is to chase each other’s shadow – tag the other person without physically touching him or her – your shadow touches his shadow. It doesn’t count if you make physical contact. I started this game with my three children when they were about four, six and seven years of age.

It works well on a variety of levels. It is possible to play the game when the moon rises early in the evening, just after dark. It gives your little one(s) an opportunity to run, laugh and exercise in the fresh air, making way for a good night’s sleep. [Actually, this game is not limited to children. If you were here now, I would initiate a good game of “Moon Tag” with you.]

It invites silliness. I love that part about it. There is no competition. At first it’s a bit challenging to work with shadows as opposed to your physical beings. However, once you get used to it…the game rises to a new level because you now comprehend moon shadows.

Games in nature have depth in meaning. We are able to use the power of our body, mind and spirit in imagination. We are in the wild, living our wildish nature. Batteries, chargers, smart cards and other stuff are not needed, nor do they matter. When we play such games in the Moonfield (or other Gaian places), in addition to connecting with each other, Our Mother and the moon; we connect to our heart, soul, and to the wildness that resides within. We have an opportunity to externalize our untamed nature, which stirs the colors of our vibrancy, stimulating emotional, spiritual and creative growth.

These games played in the Moonfield reclaim that which has been lost in the age of technology, which are weakening the senses. We merge with our vision and values, responding to the joy of being where we belong – out there with our feelings that both tickle and roar within us. We fold up the joy and vitality to carry with us for darker times, to awaken from a psychic slumber, unfolding and returning to it when needed.

I have had many Moonfields come and go in my life; each providing great opportunities for capturing bliss and meaning – both vital to me. Take this newly found wisdom and go play in your Moonfield. Pay attention to the environment and be a part of the lessons woven within. The Moonfield exists in each of us; honor and celebrate your place in it.
Journal: Periwinkle

The Harrowing of the Soul: When to Stay and When to Keep Moving

The change of seasons – a time to welcome the next cycle with anticipation, honoring sacred rituals steeped in tradition and the passing down of old stories sprouted from intuition and ancient wisdom. The end of one cycle and the beginning of another invites us to unravel mysteries, face the unknown, achieving fierceness and awakening to tenderness.


However, in time I have formed a deeper connection with Our Mother, unearthing my wildish side and considering my very basic instinct. I have become intoxicated from seductive blossoms that invite me to touch, feel, smell and taste as if each time was the first. I am in awe of the finding and digging up of accidental treasure – roots and greens and buds and seeds. I bow to the healing power that lies quietly in Our Mother’s womb, waiting for the perfect time to emerge and offer miracles with little or no return. How much we can learn from Our Mother – the great teacher of humility, resilience, balance and forgiveness.

In parched fields carpeted with wilted grasses, along the banks of poisoned rivers, lakes and streams, under fallen trees in ravaged forests, we continue to seek the transformative fire. We gather together with our collective rage as it turns into sorrow before bringing us home to do our work. Through our wandering and taking back; we mustn’t get caught in the rage. Sometimes the healing begins with simple acknowledgement and other times it is hard and gritty. Often it hurts to see this truth, as it may lead to the harrowing of the soul.

As I return to Our Mother over and over again; I return to life. I sit under the sun amidst the harmony of winged creatures and give a tear to healing. I sit aching and drenched in the rawness of rain asking the obvious questions, longing for Her restitution.

We move from one cycle to the next; beginning and ending; living and dying, with hope lost and hope found. Knowing when we know and knowing when we don’t.

I thought I was fine with the coming of autumn, embracing the coolness in underlying shadows, yet in awe of the brilliant hue of death. However, the shiver under the cover of night was my reluctance to leave summer, when I reclaim and resurrect wholeness. With my hands in dirt; my inner life is in motion. I am authentic and instinctual, thriving and glimmering, and I find answers to my deepest questions.

Today it was warm. The rains came and summoned me to play under a pinkish gray sky, somewhere between the world of feeling and thinking. A transparent molted snake skin lying on top of the rich brown earth evoked the hunger. What needs to be shed or disposed of to stay in the wild creative flow? Am I willing to crawl out of my own skin to remain in that soul source? Nature knows that which needs to leave to make room for new life yet to be. You know when you know… when to stay and when to keep moving.
Journal: Babies Breath

The Tiny Black Key: Lost or Found

It kind of looks like a diary key, but might be too small. It’s made of metal and has a heart-shaped hole so that you can put it on a key chain. I know of nothing on the premises that has a lock small enough for it.


It showed up last night on the mahogany end table in the living room. There is nothing else on the table except for a white antique hobnail lamp.

I picked up the key and examined it. It reminded me of the first leather diary that I wrote in faithfully when I was a young girl. I wondered what happened to my dairies and hoped that they didn’t end up in the wrong hands.

I brought the key into my office where it sits on my desk. I thought of throwing it away, unlike all of the well intentioned, random buttons that I have placed in a neat line on the shelf in the bathroom.

I looked at the key again. What if something locked suddenly needs to be opened to reveal valuable treasure? I would have to fish around in the garbage for the key.

Does keeping it make me a hoarder? I do hold onto things that have served their purpose well beyond their intended use. I am apt to think that I might need it at a later time but rarely do. Then the time comes when enough is enough. I throw away all of those useless items that I saved so protectively. When I am in that mood; I have been known to discard things and regret it later. It’s a delicate balance.

The mystery was solved when I asked my daughter (who has been far and away) if she knew about the key. She told me that she found it on the sidewalk in California. So now someone 3,000 miles away might have to bust open her diary to make an entry, re-read mournful confessions and hopes for her future.

I think not.
Perhaps this tiny key of wisdom and compassion was there for my daughter to find and claim, bringing her home to unlock her deepest knowing, allowing her to open the door and peer into what her soul truly wants.

Sometimes it is not enough to be loved and supported, lost or found, exhausted and well travelled. Sometimes you need to find that tiny key on a busy, littered sidewalk… pick it up and hold onto it – the knowledge – the signal that says I can feel. I can return home and give my heart to the entire process.

I will not throw it away.
Journal: Periwinkle

The Prayer: Life After Hope

I have been away; here but away. Today I reclaimed my focus, returned to my passion and resumed my work. When I fall out of step with Our Mother; I lose my integral rhythm. This learning and navigating is a vital part of life cycles – the smaller ones within the larger ones. If I meet with a particularly jarring tempo; it may take longer for my pulse to return to where it needs to be. If I don’t already know how to maintain this balance; I learn.


There is value in everything. Once we filter through the source of the upheavals in our emotional, spiritual, physical and creative selves; we can find the knowledge within and transition from student to teacher. We discover, identify and process these changes as students and when we find the light and lesson that it carries; we become teachers.

This applies to all of the fluctuations that we experience, including the raw and messy ones; they usually present the most significant opportunities of all. The danger is when we ignore our feelings or instincts. When we deny them, we are denying personal growth and missing possibilities. It is when we become fully aware of ourselves that we begin to shape our experiences into useful tools – either for our own perceptions or how we relate to others.

I learned a long time ago to be careful of what you wish for (and pray for). It is important to be careful with the wording. This has been a hard lesson for me on more than one occasion. I learned. I pray carefully and with intent. I don’t bother with the rote prayers that hit the ceiling and fall on the floor. I am clear and thoughtful and never hasty.

If you have read my articles about “Traveling Kids”, you will know the intent of my prayer. It was ongoing in earnest for almost three years. It started out as a desperate prayer, but then I realized that desperation meant fear, and I did not want fear to reside anywhere within my being. Therefore, it was imperative that I release it. How do you do that? I was faced with a challenge, because simply verbalizing or meditating on it or even praying to let go of fear wasn’t enough. I had to learn how to release it myself. Of course you can ask for assistance but it is ultimately up to you to figure it out.

I had to rely on my own transformative efforts combined with Divine guidance. This was a multi-faceted, yet genuine task. I practiced trusting the universe and accepting that everything happens for a reason and as it is meant to. I also had to accept that each of us has our own destiny. So for me it boiled down to trust. It was necessary for me to also have clear boundaries between what was mine and what was not. When I made those boundaries, I often had bursts of rage. This maintained its own value within natural emotional cycles. I felt it, dealt with it, allowed it to fall and then released it as new energy.

As soon as I felt the vibrational pounding of fear at my door; I met it with determination. “Oh…it’s you.” I faced fear for as brief a time as possible, and allowed myself to be taught by it and then recited a mantra in my head repeatedly, taming it (the fear) before letting it go. My favorite mantra is, Sophia is the love that sustains me. (Sophia is the feminine face of God). I am deeply connected to the feminine through my years of studying the Gnostic Gospels and of course my wild nature.

This struggle with fear carried with it a possible threat to my entire being, not only the rhythms of my body, but all systems. I needed to resolve it. Within time, I learned how to trust God/ Sophia and the Universe and I devoted myself to my creative work and nature. I spent much time in solitude and prayer, and found solace in the gentle curves of Our Mother in the wild. I learned how to pray. I learned how to balance. I learned how to hope. I discovered that it was better to stop asking why and focus on what to do with it. I prayed with the highest intentions. I did not miss a day and sometimes prayed several times a day. I discovered that there is life after fear and anger.

About a month ago, my prayer was answered. I didn’t recognize it at first, but it started to reveal itself. It didn’t come free. It requires a great deal of patience and effort for the answer of this prayer to reach full maturity. I am grateful for the opportunity to work with Sophia. My prayers are now filled with gratitude. It takes conscious practice to transform our lives and others for the better of the whole. If we take one step at a time; we will not fall down. There is hope.
Journal: Periwinkle, Scarlett Lily

Skeletons: The Fall of Summer

Summer falls into random patches of green outstretched before me. The meandering of September begs me to follow and sing with it. I have a strong urge to do so, yet I am halted by the heavy hand of reluctance. Where will it lead?


First, I sink my bare feet into the middle of the deepest green – soft, thick, feathery leaves of Yarrow. I sit down and run my fingers through them, recalling when it was hot, when sweat trickled down my spine and when the temperate wind caressed the damp curls pressed against my temples. I filled my basket, slowing down enough to harmonize with bees. Deliriously untamed and perfectly content; the love of my work was made visible.

Skeletons of flowers that once thrived in brilliance now rattle against each other with crooked, broken limbs, trading the magnificence of a grand centerpiece for a symbol of survival. I do not cringe. I do not hunger. I set aside grief and honor their past. I am kind in their presence, grateful for their potential to bring forth new life in the next season.

I catch sight of a few red clover blossoms, surrendering, humbled by the quietness and bowing their browning heads towards the earth. How easy it was before, when the sweetness of a tiny, light purple blossom lingered on my lips, offering a ray of light into the darkest part of myself. Like us all; flowers make entrances and they make exits. Some are more difficult to grasp than others.
Journal: Babies Breath

O Daughter, Where Hast Thou Been Since I Last Saw Thee?

Traveling Kids Segment

I promised myself that I would not shed a tear when I had to say goodbye. The worst was two years ago when I dropped you off in a littered, abandoned parking lot beneath a busy underpass in Worcester, Massachusetts. Everything was broken, rusted, devoid of life. It was just before sunset and I could not breathe. This was another trip when the heavy hand of dread pressed against my chest harder with each passing mile.

You looked at me apologetically and said it would be alright. Your partner was too busy fixing his pack to notice that I was dying in the front seat of my car. The dog was up for the next adventure, the next train ride, the next handful of food. Somehow I had to find a way to breathe and never do this again.

I couldn’t erase the vision of you reaching for me in your poufy, satin dress, with your new shiny patent leather shoes and perfect ringlets as I picked you up and carried you over a mud puddle. This earlier version of you is a memory, one that I must honor and not allow to haunt me.

The questions churned in my head like a sickening merry-go-round…what could I have done to prevent this? For the thousandth time I thought about keeping you as a prisoner.

I got out of the car and stood by weakly and watched you as the sun finally slipped behind some old, vacant factory buildings. I thought I might throw up. I hugged you so tightly that I’m certain we merged. I inhaled your scent, knowing that it would soon be replaced by road dirt and grime; stuff from boxcars. You held me longer than I expected. I had become accustomed to the definite need to separate, to figure out where you end and I begin. Woman, child, cellist, poet, dreamer, creative goddess, faerie… we share it all. I promised to see you as you and not an extension of me.

I let go. At least I think I did. But isn’t that somewhat impossible? I wanted to scream at you for allowing me to drown in fear. I wanted to scream at those who abandoned us, crossing generations. I wanted to scream at God for playing this trick on me. I thought that if I loved you hard enough, it would be okay in spite of our shared betrayals. Instead, I screamed at myself, inside of myself.

I dared to listen to Mozart on the way home, knowing that he would bring out more tears and help me to find an end to them. I thought that if I suffered intensely all at once that I would purge it and be done with it once and for all. It was just part of an illusion that I once constructed and have long forsaken.

After a three hour drive and emtpied of tears, I made the decision that I would never bring you to such a place again and I would never let you see me cry when you set forth on your next journey.

I know that you were surprised when after spending two weeks with me in Florida; I dropped you off at a highway exit in Tampa…you, your partner and the dog. This time I waved and smiled and honked the horn like I was leading the hometown 4th of July Parade. Your look of astonishment matched my own feeling of awe. I had finally risen to a level of acceptance and trusted God.

This was a significant lesson. Maryjane, how are you going to continue on this journey? Will you fall apart? Will you always think the worst? Or will you have faith, trust and practice unconditional love? Will you choose to be wise and grounded, setting an example? Or will you become weak and dispirited, not the strong woman you are and can be. I was awake. We would be okay. Better than that.

After I got on the highway the tears threatened, but more of a relief this time. I let a few escape but I decided that it was time to finally take this experience and give it to God.

You were better at keeping in touch, texting and calling on a more regular basis. I have become an expert at US Geography, running to the map every time there’s a shooting or a tornado striking near where you are living in a tent somewhere with your ever-changing band, waiting for the weather to clear so you can make a few bucks busking on the corner. I held my breath and texted you, telling you to find a safe place. You did. You assured me that you were on top of it. You were.

We spent time together last summer. Good time; meaningful time. We laughed and played music and cuddled and made promises to each other. I loved sitting with you on the bench by the river watching the red squirrels dash around in preparation for winter. I left you off at your partner’s house where I found myself comforting his mother and wiping away her tears, as both of her sons are traveling kids.

When we visited in New Orleans last winter, I trailed behind as you made your way down ‘your street’ in the French Quarter and everyone knew you by name. They knew you as the girl who not only played the banjo, but who also played Haydn and Bach and the rest of the boys, because you managed to scrounge up a cello. You didn’t want me to see where you lived, but you actually had a room in an apartment. I could exhale.

This time it was you who rode away, leaving me behind. I stood in the hotel parking lot and watched you ride away on your bicycle until you turned the corner and disappeared into the dirty, disheartened city still reeling in the shadows of Katrina.

It’s been a year since you’ve been home, since we sat on the front porch together wondering about the rustling sound in the woods and then dismissing it to praise the moon instead. Once you arrived in the Pacific Northwest, you started to have problems with your phone and I slipped into the mother’s imagination thing every time I tried to call and got the instant recording. Once again, I became a slave to my cell phone, taking it with me everywhere, checking for messages and missed calls. Then I remembered that you weren’t ever alone and that I had placed it in God’s hands. It helped.

After spending a great deal of time camping in the Redwood Forest, you had your cell phone fixed and you apologized for going off the radar. You told me that you would never be the same because of the redwoods. You sounded strong. I recognized you in your voice. I was reassured at the sense of you remembering who you were and from whence you came.

I pray for you every night, even though I know that God is with you. I ask that you are guided, protected, guarded and blessed. I stopped asking my father to watch over you quite some time ago. I no longer accept fear.

The excitement between us continued to build as we discussed your plans to take a Greyhound bus from San Francisco to home; the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I am counting the hours until midnight, when you will roll in. I have prepared your favorite foods, washed the flannel sheets with a hint of patchouli in the final rinse and hung them out on the line. Beatrix Bunny is plopped by the pillows.

I look forward to imprinting your essence and looking at you, brown eyes to brown eyes. A part of me longs to know of your journey; a part of me knows that it isn’t all for me to know.
Journal: Periwinkle