voices

navigating transformation

desertspider — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 16:50:02 GMT

he is breathing me. space is erotic. earth language blossoms. i listen differently. sensual language body language touch language center language. breathing language. breathing sky language through body language no more skirting around the periphery it's wet. rain makes leaves slippery. grass is more blue. river story passion story currents and tides and navigating him navigating me navigating we navigating ... love. and transformation. with and without words.

born again.

desertspider — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 01:05:17 GMT

here i am! through sun and shadow and expand and contract and soft and hard and butterfly. here i am! in sky and cave and earth and water and fire and life. here i am! in love with all that i am becoming and all that is the universe outside my own window door.

oak

desertspider — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 21:31:57 GMT

no more little miss victim. no more little miss the time for change is now.

heart-soul

desertspider — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 01:16:46 GMT

open to spring

roses

desertspider — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 03:04:14 GMT

why not open?

theology of place

desertspider — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 00:55:07 GMT

the tewa elders say , 'pin peye obe' or 'look to the mountain'. to remind people of the long view. the word 'indigenous is derived from the Latin root 'indu' or 'endo' related to the greek word, 'endina' meaning 'entrails.' 'indigenous' means being so completely identified with a place that you reflect its very entrails, its insides, its soul. the theology of nature reverberated throughout art, community, myth, and any other aspect of human social or tribal expression. all were inspired and formed through an integrated and direct relationship of making a living in and through the reality of their physical environments. gregory cajete, 'a people's ecology'

addiction to technology

desertspider — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 00:14:03 GMT

i think i might be suffering from an addiction to technology. is there a support group for this? technology addiction anonymous? school conditioned me. the internet conditioned me. my brain thinks it is the ruler. whatever happened to my body? wherever is my heart? take a backseat brain. you aren't the ruler of me.

the desert landscape

desertspider — Sun, 23 Mar 2008 23:49:48 GMT

loneliness is the human condition. tree branches strewn on the ground. dead junipers. chama river. chama: early settlers called it 'sama' meaning, 'suffering'. two tibetans come to christ in the desert monastary for a life of contemplation. 'chama'? they ask. 'in tibetan, we have this word. it means 'goddess of mercy.' a brother at the monastery says to me, 'the river is the feminine flowing through this earth. you see the geese? the new born calves? there is so much new life here.' i am carried by loneliness. i walk in it. it bathes me. i sometimes contract into it. it hardens me occasionally. it defines my body like a sharp, stark stone. it is a needle on a cactus. it protects the well that nourishes me. are the flowers lonely? is the grass? what about the long dirt road? how can the same green river be both 'struggle' and 'mercy'? i sit inside this desert loneliness. the river flows with two names. i am carried away by them both.

los hermanos y hermanas

desertspider — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 00:32:32 GMT

the brothers & sisters of light. went to the morada today in a northern new mexico town of la madera. where the penitentes have worshiped for hundreds of years to celebrate christ's passion. they no longer perform self-flagellations & crucifications --which is what made their 1000 plus year secret catholic rites controversial. the rites were led by an apache/jewish/catholic/gay man and the brothers. we walked outside on dirt in bare feet. pilgrims walked 10 plus miles or so to share their intentions, light candles and pray. he spoke of integration. and that we are all brothers and sisters in spirit. how necessary it is to gather our communities in these old, simple ways. it was beautiful.

A Lesson in Earth Civics

desertspider — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 15:08:42 GMT

By Chellis Glendinning, Chimayo NM Cultures, past and present, that maintain beliefs and practices based on a respectful relationship with the natural world share more than a set of common cosmological qualities; they share a set of common social practices. These practices are of special interest to us because they model the very social forms we long for, struggle to reproduce--yet rarely seem to attain. What occurs when human beings live in intimacy with the Earth? The kind of society we formulate is likely to be participatory, democratic, egalitarian, leisurely, ecological, and sustainable. Like the elliptical wholeness of the natural world, such social practices shape and are shaped by the psychic state of the people, springing from healthy psyches and simultaneously guarding against the emergence of psychological aberrations like addiction and abuse.

place

desertspider — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 05:00:34 GMT

"what could make a person strong is understanding completely where you come from," says former Rio Arriba county commision president Alfredo Montoya. "Understanding who you are. What your village has to offer. Your history. your traditions and customs. How spiritually there's places to go. And that is why the land and water issues, fighting for the acequias and the land grant movement, are so important for recovering from substance abuse." --from the book 'chiva: a village takes on the global heroin trade' by chellis glendinning

place

desertspider — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 02:24:34 GMT

the village of la madera. northern new mexico. off the 'chiva' route. i'm driving through the village. i stop at the aztec drum shop to take pics. i get stared down. across the street, an abandoned building, 'kill you next time fuckin' punk.' i hear a story yesterday. my landlord 's house was bombed when she first moved here. 'gringos go home.' reading a book on the chivas trade into northern new mexico. the slit throats tightened arms discarded syringes overdose robbery prison. i'm not far from chimayo. today is equinox. pilgrims numbering up to 300,000 come to the healing sands to seek miracles. chimayo was named the number one heroin capita of the nation. with the highest murder per capita. in 1999 the grandmothers organized prayer. they marched: apache, jicarilla, tewa, dine, catholic, moorish, jew, mother, grandmother, activist, survivor the wind blew they spoke the names of those killed because of drugs and the grandmothers screamed and prayed and howled and cried and the rain came. and it was quiet. there was a bust. chimayo: the village w/ the healing santuario is also #1 heroin capita of the country. murders and drug related deaths are up to 6 times the national average. who profits from the drug trade? read between the lines: who is colonializing the people through drugs? and then blaming the people and taking from the people and forcing them to plant poppies and marijuana and dispensing heroin? you want to take people from their lands? numb them. give them a way to make money. force them into addiction. when the slaves worked on plantations some were given cocaine to work and produce faster. you want to strip the relationship from the earth? alter their veins their minds their psyches. and then blame and oppress and destroy them more grow a black mold of hierarchy in their roots. the land rebels. people rise some become dragons some have to battle them and some learn how to ride them resonsibly.

a writing from a spring journal while teaching in san miguel de allende. '04

desertspider — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 02:28:02 GMT

the caterpillars arrived just after the rain. perhaps they were dropped by the giant balls of hail which stormed down upon my metallic ceiling. The rains are greening patches on the hills. The trees bud and green the sky. The cateripllars, bright green like the mesquite leaves have devoured the nasturtiums. Their bodies blend in with severed and decapitated stalks. The desert is still dry. Winter plants turned brown and moisture evaporated so they brush wind and make songs on dry air. Desert cactus share yellow blooms with earth carrying heaps of trash and garbage. Certain cactus when dead fall to earth their limbs becoming serpents. Yesterday the cactus invited me to sit on a patch near them. I was never surrounded by a circle of cacti before. Their sharp spears aimed straight at me leave me feeling uncomfortable. Their bodies open in a receptive stance. I am curious about what stories they have to tell. I've been waiting for the butterfly. I am impatient. I want to experience their freedom. I feel like a caterpillar waiting, waiting. A few Painted Ladies landed in the garden. I ask them to stay and keep me company and remind me of transformation, play and joy. They twiter and flirt and mate in air. They are unpredictable and insouciant. Yesterday we found a painted lady caterpilllar near the tream where a gigantic pig was bathing himself. We placed him on a leaf in our hands and brought him home. The boys were excited to make a home for him out of cardboard. They drew in crayon, a map of instructions, letting the caterpillar know how many days each stage of metamorphosis wd be. We are excited to witness its becoming. The caterpillars and the desert speak of patience. The caterpillar crawls and grows for 2-4 weeks before he is ready to enter his silken cave. Then he waits 7-14 days before emerging. I found a painted lady butterfly trapped in the garden inside the rooster coop minutes before identifying our caterpillar as a painted lady. She let us come near but then seemed frightened. She let us experience her vicariously as she fluttered and bumped into the chicken wire. Upon releasing, she let me taste her medicine. My eyes closed. My wings small and free. Sweet sweet joy of flight after capture. The caterpillar is a reminder. Transformation requires patience. Even here, though winter there, spring feels present but not quite. Once here, the seeds will begin to awaken to the sound of the earth drum. I look forward to meeting the beings who will awaken. I am restless to shake off the slumber of winter. The seeds of winter planted by solstice stars are whispering within, telling me about my pregnant soul. The old stories and old forms are dying and dissolving. The caterpillar dissolves into liquid during her brief hibernation in her sanctuary. She eats herself. The earth invites me to eat more. She tells me it is good. She will transmute it into new life. Winter passes into spring. Darkness is overwhlemed by light. The caterpillar emerges slowly from the egg and eats its way into the darkness of cocoon which will be its veil. He hides the mystery we wish to define for a reason. The caterpillar teaches acceptance by eating itself. Until it accepts its earthbound and often perceived, unattractive form, it must eat and digest what it once was so it can grow into what it has always dreamed itself of being. may the earth be the teacher during the seasons of the soul. Where are you in the cycle of transformation? egg larvae cocoon or butterfly? the caterpillars outside whisper patience while the butterfly within whispers it is coming, can you feel it? it is coming.

Rural Maria

desertspider — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 18:22:28 GMT

when you drive into ojo, the first house you see after 30 miles of rural land is this abandoned one. i think the abandoned things here are alive in other ways. i have met some interesting people. i've been here only a week now. did yoga w/ a group of folks in their 60's, 70's & 80's. one lives off the grid. she's 70 something and weaves. she's from germany and she radiates with a light that reminds me of the image on the house. when i walked into the yoga room i overheard her saying how the sun that morning was so delicious it gave her the feeling of having an orgasm. makes me change how i see 'old' people. across the street is the old church . some say it was first built in 1590. i went in this morning --was the only white girl there. i was in awe of the virgin of guadalupe folk art. but so are shards of pottery. and stories of farmers who get drunk and shoot off their guns while the friends at the parties scream, 'he's got the gun! duck!'. and stories of kids burned in their cars and skinned on the reservations nearby. and suicides. and the heroin capita of new mexico just down the road. my last name is ginsburg which i don't think goes over well here. people keep tellin' me to change my name to garcia. racism is colorful in this area. an anthropologist settled here. she recorded in the field hours and hours of voices. of the curanderos who lived here. she said, back then, there were more curanderas concentrated in this area. now they are mostly gone. but the older 'gringo' women i meet, they are harvesting their mushrooms and gathering their navajo teas and asking if i'll forage rosehips w/ them. its natural and matter of fact, like, why wouldn't they harvest herbs and know how to weave and live off the grid, even at 75, still hauling water and wood. so it is turning. it is turning.

back from the in between

desertspider — Sat, 08 Mar 2008 22:53:47 GMT

don't recommend living in a 'transitional zone!' it's great but strange in terms of navigation. how on earth did i get here? the wind she blew. and the clay people told me it would be soft. the water, she said it would be transformative. the sky, she said fly. so, here in ojo caliente. offering writing programs online and hopefully facilitating retreats too. discovering home in this crazy web. discovering home in my feet. discovering place and ruins and beauty and revelations. image from shards of pottery at posi-ouinge 'the greenness pueblo'. from before the people ran away. potdiggers took the whole pots years ago. holes you can trip in still remain to this day.

from the forest

desertspider — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 16:59:56 GMT

a year ago this was home 100 year old cabin oak wood to burn surrounded by the tallest trees lake superior not too far cold winter 30 below fire to keep me warm.

mi casa, inverno

desertspider — Mon, 26 Nov 2007 02:36:06 GMT

winter casa. oak branches. cholla. starting the hearth. prayer flags. wind prayers. simple thoughts. grace. despite quiet change moves. through me. the moon sings it loudly in pregnant form. i am the quiet of snow the simplicity of stars making snow drops. a trinity in winter.

gratitude

desertspider — Fri, 23 Nov 2007 01:00:26 GMT

i'm grateful for: body memory place pen paper. pat benatar metallica 80's music. bird song territory song gratitude song italian food memories unexpected gifts people earth trees the story of the juniper tree.

migration silver leaf

desertspider — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 14:57:42 GMT

i'm a quiet tree. hardy. i like the birds that come to rest in me. towhee. crow. an occasional hummer. i like that. i haven't much to say. i like sky. i like my branches dying and greening simultaneously. i don't mind. i like dry places. arid places. difficult soil places. i break wind. i like the cholla beneath me. steady companion. doesn't say much either. i feel native to my place because i am here. i don't know why they say i'm not native to my place. i am native to this soil. migration is not only for birds. i grow and help the soil. i'm not invasive like they say. you try breaking wind all day. you try rooting into a desert for thirty years in the same spot. not native to place you say? what does it mean anyway, 'native to place.' i don't know if you see me as a russian olive tree. hell, i don't grow olives. glad the mennonites brought me but that was a long time ago. stories over time, well they grow. me, i'm thinking you could call me quiet silver leaf. yah, that'll do. quiet silver leaf, through and through. Russian-olive is native to southern Europe and to western and central Asia. This wide geographical range, which stretches from the Mediterranean Sea to northern China, encompasses many climates, some similar to South Dakota, but some much milder. Many of the early prairie plantings of Russian-olive failed because trees were brought from areas with milder climates. It was not until Mennonites brought hardy trees from Russia that Russian-olive became established in South Dakota.

circle of stories

desertspider — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 14:47:15 GMT

the ancestors say come together in a circle in the desert the sky is clear and you will hear the stars and the stones

nuts & bolts

desertspider — Fri, 19 Oct 2007 16:32:24 GMT

soil nuts & bolts gravel nuts & bolts ants nuts & bolts silver nuts & bolts diggin nuts &bolts mining nuts & bolts termites nuts & bolts life nuts & bolts

russkaya feya

desertspider — Thu, 18 Oct 2007 15:44:46 GMT

russkaya devushka russian sage sprite ona mudraya ona khitraya ona cornyak, takoi ona krasivaya ona khoroshaya ona belaya ona zhivaya

grandfather hands

desertspider — Wed, 03 Oct 2007 23:47:45 GMT

they really do speak this simply native to grissini bugna caulda polenta dulce ciao ciao bambina un bacio ahora sono gentile sono semplice questi sono perfetto. meadow. age. time they do not speak in rhyme these hands speak in muted tones the kind that carry simple stones the kind that bury loved ones roll dough pat cheeks. these hands love far more than feet wrinkles give bloodline tales of sky and vein protruding streams diminishing these hands will not touch for too many years more my grandfather's hands teach me very simple things