Eyebrows; End of the Harvest Moon...

I look at my reflection.  All I see are eyebrows. Not the birthmark that normally consumes my gaze, or the chicken pock scar near my mouth, or the sledding scar poorly stitched along my jaw. No. Just eyebrows. 

There! See them? Dark slants of hair arching from the bridge of my nose. They are so OBVIOUS.

I sigh and examine them closer.  Just a slightly different color and the white ones that were giving away my true age are gone.  Dyed.  Brown.  Not the brown my eyebrows had been, but some hairdresser shade of brown to match my hairdresser shade of brown hair. 

Brown but not my brown.  I blink and stare some more.  They are painfully obvious.  

The Buddhist arrives home and I wait for him to comment on my abhorrent eyebrows.  

"I like your hair", he says matter of fact, as he dives into the fridge looking for food.  

"But don't you notice anything else?" I ask.  He blinks.  He looks.  He blinks some more. He knows he supposed to notice something but he can't find any difference but my hair cut. He stares some more wondering what will happen if he never sees it, when I cut him off from further blinking.
"My eyebrows!!" I exclaim, frustrated that he cannot see how weirdly OBVIOUS they are.

"Oh yeah. They look good too." he adds.  

I shake my head in disbelief.  "No. They are weird. Like really big or out of proportion or something..."  I stare at my reflection.  EYEBROWS stare back.

He laughs "No. They look the same.  Your hair is darker though."  

I look at the reflection and notice how much darker my hair is.  Whoa.  It's almost black in some of the low lights.  Huh.  I stare some more.  The eyebrows recede and BLACK taunts me.  I stare more, losing all my features to black strands of hair.  BLACK.  Wow.  That black is really OBVIOUS.

Then a thought hits me.  What good is having vision if it is so willing to be persuaded by our insecurities?  Can any of us look in the mirror and see our true reflection?  Or is it always the assemblage of our various beliefs about ourselves?  AND where else is our vision skewed by our predispositions?  Are we capable of objective vision at all??

I look in the mirror and for a second see all the light and goodness that I embody. I smile, but in a flash, it is gone, replaced by a middle aged woman with oddly dark hair and brown eyebrows.  
But at least she is smiling...

The Blackness; the waning Harvest Moon

"That is not part of me" I say to the young warrior who is holding a lump of black rot in his hands.  He pushes the lump at me.
"No" I repeat. "That is not part of me."

I am knee deep in a lake, surrounded by warriors who are gathering pieces of me adrift in the water.  In a rather dramatic shamanic dismemberment, I have been shattered by a waterfall drop and these young divers are bringing back the parts of me that have drifted away so long ago.  

Yet, this rotted lump of black must clearly be a mistake.  THAT is not a part of me.

I resist again and in a flash, the goddess Kali has called the whole thing off. She is part mother, nurturing but critical; part warrior, irritated and aggressive.  Right now, warrior Kali is exasperated and she asks pointedly "Are you only made up of sugar and spice and everything nice?"

Her appearance is frightening yet so very familiar to me by now.  Her lips are red and glossy; not with lipstick, but blood.  Her own personal struggle with bloodlust is the very reason she resounds with me.  

"No, I'm not just nice. You and I both know that, but that black oozy stuff must be a mistake."  I try to think to my sins; clearly, none of them are THAT bad.  

As if she hears my thoughts, she says "You don't know how your actions ripple.  A small unkind word here. A bit I anger there.  Loss of patience.  And the worst crime is your indifference..."

The words settle over me and I cannot argue.  I know I'm a practiced veteran of indifference. I'm the three monkeys who avoid evil by covering their eyes, ears and mouth...except I forget to cover my mouth...

World events overwhelm me with their horrors so I choose not to acknowledge them.  Hunger everywhere except in my kitchen.  Do not see it.  Do not hear it. Innocent by ignorance, right?

The blackness floats toward me.

Kodachrome, the waning Harvest Moon

Fifty digital photos and I am still looking for the perfect capture of sea and tide.  The Buddhist is perched above me on this coastal rock, his face buried in a book.  He looks up at me and smiles, unaware of my inner frustration.

The waves form a pattern and I wait for the moment to hit that little round button on my new ever so clever phone. 
There!  Click. Fifty one.
Now. Click. Fifty two.  
Hmmm.  Timings off...
OK.  NOW. Click. Fifty three...

All at once, I am transported back to a trip to Maine with my family in the mid 1970s.  I am thirteen and have my Kodac 126 camera dangling from my wrist, an up grade from my old Brownie camera (which I would kill to own now).  Babysitting money and allowance have combined to grant me two cartridges of film- a whopping forty eight photos for a one week trip.  I am fully aware that more babysitting and allowance will be necessary upon my return to extract the images from the cartridges. 

Forty eight photos?  How did I ever decide what was worthy of setting my eye to the view finder and pressing down the button.  That "Kodak Moment" sign was yet to be in vogue, so I had to rely on my instincts.  Not too many photos the first few days.  Make it last! Make it last!  Followed by too many photos of something stupid on the last day...

Yet, the beauty of this primitive photographic system was that I was present every second of my trip.  I experienced the rocks and the tide through my eyes, not a camera's lens.  

AND I had to wait a week after vacation to see the results of my photo prowess.  No do overs. No obsession.  I wasn't musing over memories while still making them. 

I laugh, turn my phone off and wave to my spouse.

Moonrise Kingdom; the Full Harvest Moon

I shift in my seat, bored, as I wait for the show to start.  We had arrived early to claim a good seat, and time was moving painfully slow.  I glance to my right at my spouse and smile as I realize my pet name for him, The Buddhist, is spot on.  He sits calmly with his eyes open and his shoulders erect. By comparison, I fidget, shift, slouch and sigh.

A couple near us is making quiet conversation about someone named Sheila.  It creates a kind of white noise to the otherwise silent space.  More people arrive, find seats, and finally the house lights dim, if ever so eloquently so.

We are on a cliff, one hundred feet above the ocean, facing East in Acadia National Park.  The Buddhist and I are on camp chairs, but most others have stadium seats or blankets.  We all seem to be perched here for the same show: the Full Harvest Moon Rise, yet that can't be confirmed as there were no tickets, no posted show times.

Obscured from view by the cliff, the last of the sunset fades into the west giving the sky and sea a serene sepia tinge.  I grow expectant as I have never seen a Moonrise. In my usual haunts,the Moon must top trees or mountains for me to see it.  I wonder how it will begin and think to ask those around us if anyone has seen this before.  But the couple has stopped talking and the quiet is enveloping.  

The foretold time of the moon rise is at hand and both my partner and I scan the horizon for signs. Will it be a glow?  Or just a big shiny quarter rising from the sea?

Minutes pass, then tens of minutes, then a half hour.  Did the all knowing internet give us false information?  Are we missing some subtle shift to indicate that the Moon was on its way?  I gaze sharper, aware that no one else is moving or shifting.  I see a star, then several, as peace sweeps over me.  I note my stillness.  The impatience is gone.

As the sky blackens around us, a chill sets into my bones. I see a pocket of sky clear and there, briefly, is the Trickster Moon, already risen and going about its trajectory. The sky closes like a curtain.  The show was over before it had begun.

"There" I say, pointing.  The Buddhist nods, having seen it too.  Low clouds on the horizon, unseen in the changing twilight, had concealed the very thing we sought.

"That was beautiful" he says and I smile and agree.

Turmoil- The Start of a New Day; Chapter Three; waxing gibbous Harvest Moon

Turmoil...

in the streets and in our hearts. So much useless suffering...

OH! OH! I am so tired of being defensive and guarded.  (The shields won't take it Captain!)

About four weeks ago, I decided to start smiling. I started saying "good morning" to people and smiling at them when our paths would cross at door thresholds and such.  The result was that I was feeling more content and confident with each encounter.  I liked bringing them a small amount of recognition of their humanity. I even enjoyed when it caught some completely off guard and they would suspiciously scowl.  I loved the ones who thanked me.  I truly adored the people who smiled back.  

This idea came from my Buddhist who told me a story about how he chooses to consciously practice Loving Kindness Meditation while in the line at Starbucks.  He acknowledges each person in the store and soundlessly offers them the simple lines of the meditation.

May you be happy.

May you be free from pain and fear.

May you walk at ease in this life.

The Buddhist said that he could choose to lose himself in his phone as everyone else is... 

OR he could spread something immeasurable but valuable for others and mostly, himself. He spoke of how it was one of the high points of his day.  He felt joyful.

I think I saw him very differently at that moment.  He can be a complete a-hole at times, but he is consciously striving to be someone better.  AND that alone, could change the world...

So please, smile at me and I will smile back.  

It isn't a proclamation of my complete happiness...

It is simply me acknowledging the beauty in you.  

Being the Part, Chapter Two: The New Harvest Moon

So, I want to be a Hippie Goddess, earth connected and beautiful, 
LOVE oozing from every pore...
I Got the look (reference Chapter One)
Now what?

It is so very easy to be grounded and serene when I am in nature; so much less easy moving about my typical day in suburbia.   

What is it about being around strangers- human strangers- that trips our circuits and turn us into deaf and blind auto-trons?  (Scotty, get those shields UP now!)

For me, it is insecurity that I don't measure up. Not cool enough. Not thin enough. Not pretty enough. Not smart enough. Not successful. Not talented. Not the so many words that were uttered to me by insensitive family, friends, strangers or more than likely, just invented on my own.

Isn't it so uselessly cruel that everyone is wandering around in such doubt about their worth?  The less self aware take verbal stabs at others to bolster their perceived inadequacy while the rest of us remain unemotional and guarded. We are all in such turmoil.  Don't make eye contact...

And Yes! even him...that dude over there with the Armani suit and Rolex.  Maybe him even more as he is bolstering himself with his fancy possessions...

Wait, I do that too...Let's not forget Chapter One...feather earrings...

So, Yes, I am in turmoil too...
In the line at Starbucks...
In the food store...
At the small deli I love...
While I type this...

Looking the Part, Chapter One

Route 16 south is moving slow and I'm both anxious and wary of the start of my seven hour drive home. The traffic inches along this main street as I revisit my latest purchase, a large, antique Kali figurine.  I own that mix of thrill and dread; thrill that I will have her in my home to use in my spiritual work, dread at the credit card bill that will need to be defended to my Buddhist spouse.  

I take in a breath as my eyes watch the pedestrians swarm this tourist village. Color and textures flock by. Shorts, skirts, sundresses, jeans, a bathing suit with a sarong, and a business suit pass with their various owners. Long hair, short hair and pink hair.  Flip flops, cowboy boots, high heels.  

I look down at my own capris, dusty from the waterfall hike. I wish I had on the patchwork maxi skirt that I had packed.  I take a quick look in the rear view mirror (ah vanity!) and smile at the necklace I had decided needed a good home on a different trip. I'm truly an easy mark for well made unique sterling jewelry, but this pendant had an additional appeal- it housed a spiral seashell. A spiral seashell!  How fitting for an earth goddess...

I turn away and then audibly sigh at seeing the capris again.  I will definitely change at the next rest area...

And then I am struck by a thought...

Do I really define myself so simply that a skirt and a pendant can make me whole?  

Does looking like a hippie goddess girl result in me being spiritual?

I know the answer is no, but damned if I don't stop at that sweet Native American shoppe and buy those silver feather earrings.

After all, a girl needs to look the part, doesn't she?

A waterfall, a boy and me: Waning Scheherazade Moon

The little boy won't stop screaming to his mother for her to look at him. He is twenty five feet above his mother on a rock ledge strewn with fast moving water. How he got there I cannot reason as I had tried to move higher on this same rock face before finally accepting the rock where my ample ass now rests.  The mother waves and pictures are snapped. One of so many taken here.  Will it be blurry or overexposed? Perhaps the focus will be perfect but the whole scale lost in the lens.  Maybe a month from now the camera will sit in a case, in a closet, the whole sum of her son's accomplishment lost in data.

Yet, no.  The accomplishment occurred.  The boy rejoiced.

Recorded or not, reality happens.  Are we  present to experience it?  Or are we wondering how it will look on Facebook.

The boy rejoiced.

Scheherazadress!! A new identity for a new moon, so long overdue...

I've been remiss.  I've been in my own head. I've been fretting. I've been unsure. 

The moon has been cycling, waxing to waning or vice versa depending on the date and I've been in clouds...
figuratively and literally.  The moon has been very shy in my neck of the woods. It is partly the angle of rotation, partly the weather, partly the time of rise and set. Basically, the moon has been missing from my life for a few months. Or more accurate, I have been missing from the moon.

The new moon was on the 26th. The Sturgeon Moon they call this one. Hardly, a romantic name.  Fish Moon. "Hey Honeydoo, let's cuddle by the light of the big ol' Fish Moon...Pucker up..."  ewwww.

No one has written songs about this moon as they have about the Blue Moon and Harvest Moon...

"Feeesssheeee Moooooon. Oh wonderful Feeessheeee Moooooon. Beautiful Sturgeon of Lakes so Deeeeeeep".   ewwwww. Again. ewwwww.

No choice but to rename it!!!  
I dub thee the Scheherazade Moon.

Let me explain...

Four years ago, when asked what I did for a living I would answer with an unsure "Artist?"  I never quite felt the title was mine and I wasn't even sure what I meant.  I do ART.  I DO art. What does that even mean?  The majority of the public does Art every now and again.  Why is that my definition?  I would love to use the term "Creationist" as I love to create and bring creativity to every endeavor I undertake; however, that term has political and religious implications that are so NOT me.

On a different social media platform, I coined the use of the term "to scheherazade" as to embody the creation of something wonderful from basically nothing. It was a reference to the mythical princess Scheherazade, who spun colorful tales nightly to beguile her husband, the King, who was bent on beheading every wife the next morning. She made fantasy become real. She made something out of nothing.  She spun her tales for one thousand and one nights until the King was very much in love with her. "To Scheherazade" is to make something wonderful and whole out of nothing.  It is to create with the intention of bringing joy. 

So, next time I'm asked about what I do for a living...

"I am a scheherazadress!!"

...and I'll be doing it by the light of the Scheherazade Moon

Caustic Encaustic Wax aka My Unique Bren-ness; the Waxing Flower Moon of Doom

I just ate a bagel with butter dipped into the remainders of buffalo wing sauce that my husband had made this weekend.  It is a total zero in nutritional value, but there is something about how it feels in my mouth that is very sensual- a kind of velvety heat. My lips plump from the spice and my tongue feels thick.  Did I mention that my husband's hot sauce is from his job in college at a local infamous eatery for killer wings. And it is killer.  In taste and in heat. In those days, my spouse smelled of cooked oil and chicken fat.  He smells better now.

That first paragraph is really a procrastination to the real meat of my blog. A way to disguise my shame. So let me just state the painful facts:
I caused the complete evacuation of the local three story Arts Organization where I am taking my second class in encaustic wax painting. Yes. Evacuation. Sirens. Fire truck.  Just like in a Christmas Story where Ralphy is watching in horror as the fire trucks are called to release his pal's frozen tongue from the light pole, I shrink down on the outdoor bench trying to disappear.  I watch everyone milling around as they wonder out loud 'What happened?' Someone looks my way. Me? What? No, I have NO idea what happened.  Shake head, look down.

From the start, I had clouded ideas of what this class would entail. After all, the Fayum Mummy portraits were painted in this medium and I do love all things Mummy. (Anubis nods in approval and I wave back)  I thought it would be a graceful medium that would tweak my creativity in a new way and allow me to make edgy, unique art. Instead, it is like decoupage gone horribly awry. Gloppy wax, cooling to an opaque white covers the art I painfully arranged on my incredibly expensive primed wood art board.  I look at it and think 'huh'.  It isn't the good kind of 'huh'.

The teacher comes over and says "That is incredible. Just incredible.  You have a gift with this."  I have to cough to keep from out right laughing.  This looks like snot. No. Worse.  It is snot covering a rather beautiful collage.  
"You don't like it?" the teacher asks seeing me looking at it askew.
"Um. No." 
"Really?"
"Yes"
"What don't you like about it?"  she asks sincerely and I want to answer truthfully. I swear to god I want to blurt it out that it looks like snot. But I don't. Decorum twists my tongue until I say that I thought it would be more translucent.  Jesus, that is an understatement.

End the first class...fade to black for a week and...TA DA...here I am on a bench wondering why my particular palette of hot wax decided it needed to spill and cover our art, our room and us with dark smoke.  Apparently, the answer is crayon.  Yes, simple crayola crayons. Chopped by me at home to make wax colorant.  I decided after the first class to embrace this medium and make it my bitch. The teacher had suggested the crayons and I ran with it. I thought all week on how I could use what I know and infuse my unique 'Bren-ness' into the class.  I was going to make my mark...
There is no doubt that I did just that... 

Spiders Up my Nose...and Between my Toes! Waning Pink Moon Slumber

"You are not really here..." my husband said to me as we both sat on chaise lounges in the bright sunlight.
"What?" I asked reflexively. I heard him, but that made no sense. Such a Buddhist thing to say. So very much like him. But something felt wrong with me and right with his words.
"You are not really here." he repeated and panic set in my flesh.  He was right. I bolted upright, screaming.

And with this screaming, I awake.  At first, I grip the bed, not sure where I am.  Then I remember and instantly touch my nose.  No spiders! Whew! 

I settle back into the warm covers and look at the stars above. A breeze stirs and the wind chimes play. Next to me, the Buddhist lays sleeping with his mouth somewhat ajar.  I ponder why he does not have fear. Not of the dark night. Not of the lack of a tent. Not of the foxes, skunks, and other nocturnal critters.  Not of spiders. How can he not be afraid of spiders?

I sigh, shift my body, agitated in my restless state, and turn towards him. I imagine spiders parachuting towards us, from the magnolia above.  A flower petal cascades down, as if on cue, and lands near his chest. I imagine an army of super tiny spiders aboard, landing on our sleeping bag beach, ready to storm his semi open mouth and my dangerously defenseless nose.

I sigh again. Turn to the heavens and try to remember why I agreed to this outdoor sleeping without a tent in the first place.  The weather was perfect for it. And despite my groundless spider fears, the insect population after our unduly cold winter was non existent.  Yes.  If ever there was a night to sleep under the stars, it was this one. 

So why can't I relax?  Why I am I sure spiders are coming for me from all angles? I instinctively touch my nose again. All clear. 

Why did I agree to this?

The answer arrives at dawn, when I lay cuddled into the Buddhist's chest, spider free and stunned at the beauty unfolding before my eyes.  A star or two doggedly cling to the heavens, but the sun is on her trajectory.  Everything looks new and dewy.  Birds start to sing "I am awake! Are you awake?"

I smile.  "Yes.  I am awake. Oh yes!!  I am most definitely awake!"

My Pillow; a love story for the Full Pink Moon

My Dearest Pillow,
I've been thinking about you a lot today.  I keep recalling your welcoming embrace as you gently cradled my head and whispered "sleep some more..." and I so wanted to. I wanted my unruly bed head hair to remain nestled in your pocket of protection.  Sleep is the perfect answer.

For a day that seems unremarkable. Plain even.  Nothing going on.

Oh sure, I have things to do.  But I will always have things to do...

So, why not return to your comfort and dreamy illusions of more interesting places? Where I can be both queen and peasant. Both beauty and beast.  Where I can fly and bears can speak.  Why is reality so damn boring by comparison?  Or maybe a better question is why are my dreams so compelling?

The trees are blooming outside.  It is unnaturally warm.  Tonight is a full moon.  And not only full, but a lunar eclipse as well.  Will I abandon my warm sleepy comfort in thy downy fluff for a glimpse of a moon that will be slowly shadowed in red? 

I hope so, but if we are having the dream about the canyon and my spread wings again, all bets are off.

The Moment; peepers are a peeping

You found the email where he had written the recipe. His recipe. Reconstructed from a margarita in Sedona and it feels foreign to you to get down the cocktail shaker, the Reposado tequila, the Grand Mariner. You squeeze the lime, coat the glass edge, run it through salt.  You feel a sensation. Is it anticipation?

You pause to slip on a swimsuit. The hot tub beckons and although you avoid it at dusk when he travels, tonight you can't resist.  Tonight, it is spring. The peepers by the stream are telling you so.  Swimsuit and towel in place, you add ice and shake, being sure to breakdown the agave nectar...beautiful plant honey.

The hot tub cover slides back and you are in.  It is hot, your body pauses, nerves sending data, but then there is a visible welcoming of your body to this heat and you settle in, relax back, and melt.  You had paired the bluetooth speakers to your iPod and the Grateful Dead spills forth, Box of Rain.  The jets are off, and the water has become reflective. You see the stately oaks and locust from the back property line near the stream ripple in the watery mirror. You so often forget that there is a stream. Muddied constantly by a local quarry, it is hardly picturesque.  But the peepers. Yes! The peepers.  Chirping. Chirping. Chirping.

Perhaps the tequila is enabling, but a sensation is building. Sensual. Whole. Healthy. You feel it in your spine. You are quiet. Every part of you is still.  The wind rustles your hair and you laugh. Smile breaks your lips. You are alive. You are here. You are o.k.

You want it to last, this bliss, so you stop sipping the drink; but the water temperature is 103 and you feel your blood boiling. Why can't it last? The pounding starts and you have to flee what once was the refuge.  You quickly do the required maintenance and slip inside.  You sit and write.  Some moments need capturing.  This doesn't do it justice, but you know that what you want to write is Thank You.  So you do.

Thank you for this moment.

You finish your last sip of the margarita and hit 'publish'.

The Hypocrite; My Ethical Chaos

I am a hypocrite. There I said it.  If there was a twelve step program for hypocrisy eradication, this clearly would be my first step.  I can see you all fidgety on folding chairs in some slightly musty church basement, listening to me come clean on this, my fall from ethic grace.  

I would say it with conviction; but half hoping that one of you would step forward and say "No, no, honey...not a hypocrite- just a women making the best decisions she can as information is thrown at her..."

Yes, I would like you to say that, but I would know it is lie.  And not just a lie for my benefit, but one that exonerates you as well.  See, you are here as well in this cramped, unremarkable space.  The smell of coffee and powdered creamer fills the room as the fluorescent light flutter in rhythm to my halted voice. You are here...

The story unfolds...

I like cosmetics. I enjoy wearing makeup. Occasionally, I'll even go as far as false eyelashes. I love the 'sex kitten' softness of that look. Mostly, I just go for a good moisturizer (Estee Lauder 'Idealist' has been my staple for a decade. Cool name too. And coolness matters), and a light foundation (Clinique), eyeliner (Maybelline) and Mascara (Clinique).  Having come of maturity in the late eighties, when animal testing was being abolished in cosmetics, I chose companies that I believed represented my ideals that testing makeup on animals was ridiculous and unduly cruel.  

One recent, fateful night, I spent an evening with my nephew and his girlfriend.  The girlfriend mentioned trying to find a animal cruelty free mascara.  I naively asserted that Estee Lauder and Clinique were animal cruelty free.  She rebutted that my knowledge was wrong. I was polite but undeterred as I was sure I knew better. These companies had at one time been champions in the end of animal testing.  I was curious, though, and an internet search revealed my utter ignorance. Or perhaps not my ignorance, but the calculated misrepresentation of companies that changed their policies and chose not to inform their customer base.

Estee Lauder and Clinique are both entering the Chinese marketplace and as such, they are required by Chinese law to perform tests of their products on animals.  So they are animal testing.  Instead of choosing principles over cash...instead of informing their customers of their change in stance...

But the saddest aspect of this is that they are not alone! 

Products that have been safely used here for years are being retested to sell in China. Insanity. Cruel Insanity.

Let's say I got a dog from a pound, took it home, and kicked it repeatedly to see what happens when I kick it. I know what happens when I kick it from previous kicking. But I'm going to do it again...just to see. Would you care? Of course. That would make me a bad person. Cruel. Mean. The moniker monster might even be dropped.

And that is what I am. Monster. But not because I kick dogs...but because I wear mascara that supports a policy where the Draize eye test is still administered to rabbits eyes until they ulcer and bleed, blinding the the later 'discarded' animal.  

I can't participate in this, so I have been searching for 'cruelty free' cosmetics.  There is great information on the internet and I'm happy to report that I have found new companies to fill my Estee Lauder, Clinique, and Maybelline shoes.

But here is where my ethics get foggy.  Here is why I am before you today as a HYPOCRITE.  My hair dresser uses Redken (tests on animals) and I love my hair dresser.  I use bleach in my white laundry (Clorox tests on animals).  I use razor blades made by Gillette (tests on animals).  That is just the tip of animal cruelty iceburg. From here it gets worse...

I love the sensual feel of leather. Suede is nice too! I love a good steak.  Oh yes!  Bring on the prime rib! Spiral ham brings me unadulterated bliss.  I adore eggs. And butter. Yes. Sweet creamy cow utter butter. Oh, let's not forget ice cream.  So, I am totally OK with some animal cruelty.  Well, not really OK with it, but accepting of it as a cost of what I enjoy.  

Does this make me ridiculous?  Should I abandon the cruelty free cosmetic ideal simply because I show complete hypocrisy in other similar circles?  

I say nay.  Apathy comes from taking the all or none approach.  So, yes, I am far from perfect. A HYPOCRITE. But a conscious one who can take tiny solace that at least her beauty did not cost an animal its life. 

Update:  I have decided to change hairdressers-  Aveda is cruelty free.  Just shows that positive change is always an option.

Play the Violin- why it's hard to be a blogger

I should write a blog. It's been a bit and that last was kinda a downer. Huh. think. think. think.  Oh, I know! I'll write about my friend recently becoming a US citizen. GRRRR. No kitty. Go away.  I'm busy in deep thought. Please stop nuzzling my typing hand.  No. Get away!  Grrrr.

Where to start. Hmmm. I forgot to take the mail out to the box.  Shit. Well, Citicorp, sorry, but you aren't as important as my brilliant prose.  If only I could find the thread, pull the knit apart, find the story woven in it all. Hey. That sounded clever.  Good.  Blog post most be somewhere here. Oh crap, the dryer bell went off, I need to get that next load in or I'm sleeping on a mattress tonight.  Why are sheets so annoying to change anyway?

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 jk;ghl;kflj'fbvd  bd;'g

Ooops. It appears Kitty was here again in my absence.  Maybe she could write a better blog.  Lol.  She would probably have followers.  We'd call it Darwin's Hieroglyphics or some other clever thing.  
OK. Focus. Focus.

Oh blog goddess, please send creative muses...

No?  no worries.  no one reads this anyway...

Simply Be; The Full Worm Moon

Do you ever think as a hearse goes by,

that you may be the next to die?

They wrap you up in a big white sheet

From your head down to your feet.

They put you in a big black box,

And cover you up with dirt and rocks.

All goes well for about a week,

Then your coffin begins to leak.

The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out,

The worms play pinochle on your snout.

(the Hearse Song)

As children, we loved this singsong, driving each other insane with the glibly gross lyrics. Driving our parents to scream "Stop it!" We didn't think much about death. Coffins and graves were Halloween decorations. Ghosts were friendly and named Casper.  Death was a cartoon skeleton in a dark cloak.

Then we got older and if it was not personal for us yet; we at least understood death and the pain it brings by the evening news, by history lessons, by our parents' losses.  The singsong wasn't funny, but death didn't happen to US.

Oh, how wrong we were! Death arrived without any fun candy or pranks. Death just arrived. Dressed as cancer. Dressed as diabetes. Dressed ever so cleverly as Parkinson's, Multiple Sclerosis, ALS, or AIDS...diseases that took away life way before death really set in.  

Wait! Anubis insists on getting a word in here.  "Death is just a transformation, much as birth was and life is.  It is not the end but the continuing."  He sadly shakes his head. "You see death all wrong" he chides.

Imagery enters my head of Egypt. Jars of resin, cloth and sarcophagus. Mummification. Anubis frowns.  "No.  Not a different version of Halloween.  Just transformation."

Grave stones breaking in half with centuries of wear and over grown grass.  Tree roots which grow so big as to devour entire graves.  Names etched off by acid rain.

"NO!" Anubis growls.  "Just transformation."  Here he sits, beckons me to sit as well.  A sitting Anubis is an odd sight indeed.  I try not to stare. 

"What you believe is death is just the Ego ending.  People placing flowers, recalling you fondly, visiting your grave...this is all of the Ego.  Your soul has a name but it sure as hell isn't Brenda.  You can't understand because you can't see beyond your ego. But you will transform.  As did your ancestors, as did your parents.  

Do not be afraid.  Were you afraid to be born?  You simply were.  You will simply be again."

Moon Journal Template: A way to initiate progress

Moon Mandala Journal Template:

It is a cycle for initiating progress.

Just a reminder from my last blog:

The moon journal is to be used something like this:

New Moon: jot down what you wish to work on or make progress in. SET GOALS.
Waxing moon:  use the growing light to work hard on the issue
Full Moon:  celebrate accomplishment, or understand the obstacles
Waning Moon: set your house in order for next cycle, clear obstacles as able.
New Moon: start again.  Same goal or new goal.  There is no failure, only progress; however slow.

Here is the site that motivated me to create this journal page.  
The process is more eloquently described here:
 "Connect with your inner goddess: Flow with the moon phases"

Here is my version of a Moon Diary Page.  
For best results, copy image, print at size 8" by 8" in full color.

New Ways in a New Moon; the Worm Moon

The Worm Moon?  Farmers Almanac must be joking.  We still have feet of snow and more is coming tomorrow...

But hey, a title implies a general truth; not a weather guarantee, so I will remain hopeful.

In Sedona, a few weeks ago, I stumbled onto a website and a moon practice that resonated strongly for me.  I'll paraphrase here, but visit the site when you can.  It is practical and interesting.

The author called it "Connect with your inner goddess: Flow with the moon phases"
It is a cycle for initiating progress.

Goes something like this:
New Moon: jot down what you wish to work on or make progress in. SET GOALS.
Waxing moon:  use the growing light to work hard on the issue
Full Moon:  celebrate accomplishment, or understand the obstacles
Waning Moon: set your house in order for next cycle, clear obstacles as able.
New Moon: start again.  Same goal or new goal.  There is no failure, only progress; however slow.

I am working on a design for a sort of 'Moon Diary Page' template.  When I have it done, it will be offered here and on S6 as a free post.  If it assists, please use at will.

Here is the site I mentioned:
http://www.goddess-body-mind-spirit.com/Moon-Phases.html

Happy New Moon!

Bunny Bodhisattva; the Full Bony (Cold) Moon

The Legend of the Bunny Bodhisattva

Once upon a time, there was a girl...well truly she was a woman, nearing Crone...but her heart was of a child.  She traveled to a mythical land named Sedona as she heard a fancy tall tale about vortexes that healed and this girl...um...woman...was all about the quick fix.

Synchronicity placed her in the path of a trail guide named Akal.  He was knowledgeable and connected to the spirit world.  He guided her and then offered her a soul retrieval.  She was thrilled. Wow. Instant healing. Just add a smudge fan.

All fairy tale fodder aside, something did happen to her. A place in her head that was dusty and forgotten opened up and art poured out.  Goddess art at first. Female power art next.  And on and on.  A story formed in her head about a small bunny.  The bunny was her as a child.  She put this particular art aside; she knew that when it was begun it would consume her.  Two years later, in Sedona, she was guided to bring this story to life. It required her to put aside her previous livelihood and guilt mixed with exhilaration.  She worked fervently. She worked tirelessly.

A book was born.  Quirky and cute, her Bunny became real and she enjoyed its company.

But soon enough...well truly it was two years...the book was finished.

She found she wanted to share the story and the Bunny, but resistance was great to her goal.  And she works still to find this Bunny a voice...

But she knows this much...
The Bunny will show her how to grow...
The Bunny teaches patience...
The Bunny teaches persistence...
The Bunny teaches humility....
The Bunny teaches her to not react to criticism...even when it is family...
The Bunny will teach her how to pursue her joys without regret...

On a full moon, on Valentines Day, she realizes that besides her partner and daughter...she has the most eloquent of friend...a small Bunny born of the soul.

A Monk walks into a Starbucks...

Lazy defines you.  You know it is true; yet the man you share this journey with claims that to be rubbish.  But you know better. You know your heart.  You know that when you ask him if he'd like more wine, what you are really hoping for is for him to offer to get it. Lazy.

You know how to work, and do so when necessary. You don't complain, but you avoid it when there is a choice.  Well, that is all true except when it comes to your artwork.  There you strive, and falter, perfect, and over manipulate. There you do your penance.  There you persist until it takes form.  It really is ART WORK.  Not ART accident or ART almost what you wanted.  No. Here you are a perfectionist.

But back to being lazy...
You surprise yourself by going out to Starbucks for you and him while he sleeps.  This surprises you on many levels.
1.  You are up before him.
2.  You aren't worried about your funky bedhead hair.
3.  You aren't worried about driving the rental car.
4.  You are UP before HIM.

You drive a bit sleepy-eyed the whole quarter of a mile that Starbucks is from the room.  You berate yourself for not walking, but Hey...you are doing this at all.  You feel some sense of selflessness.  He will be pleasantly surprised and this pleases you.  Perhaps you aren't selfless at all.  Just not lazy.  Just this once. Not lazy.  You smile.

But then you enter the Starbucks and the female Monk from the Stupa is there buying coffee.  You look down, avoid eye contact.  You feel a desire to thank her for yesterday balanced with a need to turn and run.  You briefly wonder what she is doing there.  You feel she shouldn't drink coffee, least of all Starbucks.  She should be purer than you. Better than you.  After all, she has spiritual meat.  Not just bones.  She should be something....MORE...

But she is just human.  Well, just human, but also, not lazy.

But you aren't lazy this morning either.  You nod to her on your way out.

Intuitive Super Oneness; Waxing Bony (cold) Moon

Author note: the moon names I refer to are typically from the Farmer's almanac, which slants towards a north eastern view of Indian and early settler life.  This moon name, The Bony Moon, is Cherokee and is in many ways an accurate depiction of my current spirituality. The name is a reflection of starvation; the native people's utter desperation for sustenance requiring ingestion of boiled bones...bone marrow soup.  A hard diet, but life sustaining. 

You have come to Sedona like a neighbor trying to steal a Wifi signal from next door.  Try the stairs?  Signal too weak.  Try the upstairs office?  Close.  Try the empty closet in your daughter's room?  So close...so close...

You have a notion that the Universe will speak to you and guide you if you can get a signal.  You expect this like a petulant child and grow ever anxious by the day.  Where is the sign?  Where is the path?

You seek the Universe's sign on. Choose a network.  Where is it?  It isn't listed...so fly to Sedona. The Universe hub. The modem. All will be solved. Watch your inbox. Check your mail at gmail or aol or yahoo or one of your so many pseudonyms.  Dear Universe, Instructions, please. ASAP. When silence is the answer, assume it is the connection.

But once a signal thief, always a thief...Seek the universe at one of the many drive-by locations.  Bell formation, Cathedral rock, or the Chapel. Before you know it, you've walked smack into a Buddhist prayer service at the Amitabha Stupa in Sedona.  You understand it is some kind of service but you assume you belong.   So you sit and quietly meditate.  Please, oh, please, Universe, tell me what to do!

The folks around you are chanting to a drum. It is beautiful and moving and you feel lucky to have come at this moment.  But more people arrive and block your stealthy egress. Panic sets in. How long will this service last?  And you begin to know you don't belong. Yet, when something like Communion occurs, the Monk offers you their blessings in the form of what appears to be water and cake.  You politely decline, feeling out of pace, feeling shame because it finally occurs to you that no one gets free answers.  Something offered free loses it's value.  And you know that you will restart your spiritual practice with the meatless bones that you lazily discarded.  You will make soup.  You are good at soup.  The broth will sustain you until you find your own answers.

And you acknowledge the truth that you purposefully ignored...there is no Intuitive Super Oneness. It requires work; and fortunately, you are no stranger to it.

And if the Universe feels like sending you a sign, you will welcome it.

Coy Boy: the late rising Wolf Moon

So, you think you can stand me up?
I was there at 10.  I was freezing, I might add.
Do you really think you can treat me this way, Mr. Wolf Moon?

What was that? I stood you up all month?
You expect something more in effort...say meeting you when you are actually rising?

Well, perhaps you make a valid point.  What time would that be exactly?

Are you freaking kidding me?  You are rising at 12:36 am?  

Uh Uh.  No. I'm not doing it. I'm not getting up at 3:30 am so I can see your shiny moon ass rise over my neighbor's house. Nope. Nope. Nope.

What?  I can see you at 6:30 am or 7:30 am?

Oh. I can do that.  You mean I can see you while I drink some morning coffee?  

Well yes, I agree. Just because it is daylight doesn't mean you aren't as beautiful.

So, we've made up then?  Aw. really? the next full moon is Valentine's Day?  How sweet!!  

I'll save a candy heart for you "Call Me" or better yet, "Let's Kiss".  
I so very much need your kiss.

Hey Dude; the late waning Wolf Moon

Hey! There you are. I finally found you.  On my way to an appointment, late as usual, racing up a snow covered street and WHAM! There you are, the moon, large and bright in the lower sky over Randall's house. I'm actually not sure that is his name, as he and I have never met; but he looks like a Randall as he mows his lawn or trims his cherry tree.  We wave. Our "intimacy". 

So, yeah, back to you Mr. Wolf Moon, sir...
There you were, in vivid Moon glory and I thought you were waxing for a sec... but then I was sure your were waning.  Either way, you were gibbous, pregnant and full of moon surface.  

Then I wasn't sure you were the Wolf Moon at all and panic struck that I have strayed so far from my rites and rituals.  I am unborn- a kind of 'born again' in reverse-  something has pulled nature from me and I feel unfamiliar to its rhythms.  I am the lost.  

But not so fast, Mr. Wolf, don't write me off just yet.  The fact that I noticed you at all must mean that I am not beyond redemption.  So, how about a date, later, after dark? when the neighbor children are asleep? Let's say 10 ish?  I'll meet you where I have always, in my best birthday dress.  You and I can stare at each other a bit and then perhaps I might coax you to envelope me, caress my darkness with your light?  Just a little flirt to remind us that we both still exist...
a kiss of light to re-awake my soul.

Warranty Expiring

I missed the New Moon. I missed the Full Moon.  To make it more clear how out of touch I have been, I didn't even know I missed these events until the Buddhist told me so.  Oops! My bad.

I'm preoccupied with a truth...
I am running out of time. 
Not death...No, not that final.  
But I am talking about aging, or more to the point, a very specific female type of aging. I'm referring to menopause.

My body seems to be on one mission right now and it has taken me by surprise.  I am consumed by a need to have one great last fling, an overtly sexual flirtation, a clandestine encounter of naughtiness. I love my partner, the Buddhist. He is a good, solid partner providing what I need in all forays.  And he pleases. 

But my body has some other idea.  The clock is ticking to some end, and my body is craving validation of its virility.  It whispers "Last Call" and like a late night drinker, I desire an elixir to stave the crave. 

I sense that the me that I have known is quieting ever so slightly daily.  Do I hold out hope of resisting?  Do I pretend that I will not change?  As we are mostly chemicals, and mine are definitely shifting, I can't see that change won't occur.  So, my body also screams "HURRY" in the growing quiet and while I am loyal and true; I'm also antsy. Fidgety.

My internal odometer is about to shift out of the warranty period and I finally understand what moves a  fifty year old man to discard their wife and take up with a young filly.  It is what I seek too-

Youth. 

And since I can't have it, I'll accept a costume to hide my truth.  Blonde highlights, a little lipstick, a touch of foundation, a smile, a flirt...
But nothing will stop this body from the warranty end.