July: Process Before Exodus

In the saturate and scarlet beginning, we will carve a home in our shame. Secrets will be used as a resource between us, black oil currency for building thick momentum. The soft bit we’ll bite for attention. Secrets will become our home, built in anticipation for storm or wandered into from the wildwood. You will reach for my hand across all of the tables, in the rain between umbrellas, above the train tracks on the way to Vermont; our strange palms will slip their canvas maps against each other, wearing away the deltas that span finger to finger.

Soon our bare legs will ride against the steely hot banister of an afternoon in August. I’ll lift my long haunches, touch the slow gear and pedal ahead. Pressing backward, stretching my spine until descending. My legs will craft an elegant gait and wise step toward the bar. You will look rare and I won’t love you. Let’s have a drink. Let's unfurl and convex what is concave and bitten all over. A second glass of Rioja will twirl another dark thing out of my lungs into your forgiving lap. You’ll hold it with care and I’ll open your pocket and the lint will cling closely recognizing another disposable thing. The sun will fall and spill its colors. Your hair will take on its last blush, silver-pink tufts baffling the vernal lines of your forehead. I will swivel my hair back, gifting my jugular; loose-headed, loose-lipped, pupils wide and tight, shuttering the light of your sweet, quantum heart. Day will fall and darkness now discovers us. Because, you, with a love like that. Shadows settle finely on our skin. I’ll put an ear up close to the ground between us and hear hoof beats. After the third glass, I’ll taste the salt and freckles across your shoulders. The wet apex of my legs tightens. You will find fresh crows feet and sigh hot between my eyelashes. Should we open another bottle?  Place your glass over here. Don’t knock it over. Get closer to me.

Nourish: New York

"Not only are we in the universe, but the universe is in us. I don’t know any deeper spiritual feeling than what that brings upon me."

—Neil deGrasse Tyson

Self-nourishment is a gift rare enough to be considered revolutionary. In the wake of five am alarm jingles and piles of warm Keurig pods, we are the queens and kings of urban adulting. We are champions of hustling and exchanging peace for more of the pie. There is a cost to living and dreaming in a city that never sleeps. We know that going in; the lore of the city is true.

Before we receive the fullness of a gift, we first give and accept its permissions. Permission is awareness. And the depth of our permission is the depth of our awareness.The core of our permission grants us access to the core of our being.   Our permissions fit us with accomplishment and agency. Permissions are daring olives branches and empowering choice-matter to get us from where we are to where we really want to be. In our folded darkness, we turn toward the light within.

The permission to move beyond the peace you know.

The permission to be willing to be willing.

The permission to rejuvenate, in small increments and large stretches.

The permission to accept uncomfortable emotions and not act from them.

The permission to allow and nourish.



Self-restoration is a healing paradox, an engagement with stillness and an agreement to actively allow. To self-nourish is to cultivate with care. Self-restoration comes in waves, and send messages in a language of pain. The fullest expression of our nourishment will depend more or less on our permission to give ourselves what we need. Our restoration will come with fits. We will want to and we will resist. There will be opportunities when paradox is paramount: the fullest action, the fullest letting go, or great rest will be the great activity. When we drive our being with conscious permission, we gain nourishment on the physical, mental and spiritual plane.

Allow a give-and-take of day-to-day nourishment: self-to-self. To restore you on every level is to re-engage and recenter with the great energy found in you. It only requires a simple yes to our wellbeing. 

Where there is authentic power, there is a direct connection with our essential selves.  

 When we look with awareness, we find our light. 

Balasana, better known by its friendly moniker Child’s Pose, harkens a time when we first folded and felt nourished. We begin first a Fibonacci sequence carried from one place to the next. We were a folded beginning in a new world, exponentially aware of our existence and presence. Then we grew further and now recreate this scene over and over again. The mechanics, intentions and participants around us change, but the comfort and release offered in this conscious folding is tangible. Now we fold with intention, to find relief and play. We center. We fold to get closer to our bodies and to listen. We hear our cadences: breathing, pulse, feelings, thoughts. We fold and fall asleep. We fold forward, release. We are animals who mirror basic patterns. We are basic patterns mirroring other animals.

[It feels infinitely better to be an active love. To embody the universal sensation.]



As part of the restorative series in yoga, balasana is an exercise of self-care and its requisite permissions. In this pose we are a resting and compact bullet of self-connection. Returned to the Folded, we remember a state of reception and stillness, both of which are ours to access at will. In conscious folding our senses heighten; we become aware that we are the lightness in our bones and the cardinal slide in our veins. There is a time for strenuous activity and there is a time for rest. You, and you alone, will fill your sails when the time is right to venture forth.  You, and you alone, will hug your body and fill it with every light. You, and you alone, will find real love in the rhythmic dark; it will be yours and you will have carried it this whole way. You alone will do this, and you alone will not. Fold and find your length. Fold and accept your power. Conscious collapse makes room for your expansion. Introversion fulfills the promise of your next most extroverted effort. Relaxed, conscious connection with the body makes room for your expansion.

Restorative poses teach us that we bravely and wholly hold our own space. We become bodies of trust; in ourselves, in stillness, in awareness. It isn’t that we can’t accomplish much of this in strenuous activity; in fact, we can and do. Authenticity and active self-possession. Restoration finds a reception to healing. Restoration is a welcome home. A coming into homeostasis; a wreckage explored and alive.we connect with awareness, maitri (compassion) and the power within.

Conscious folding coupled with conscious breathing recreates a balance and shift in our current physical and mental state.What the shift is exactly will be unique to you and your journey. Accepting what comes up is the key to moving forward to a bigger life.

Bermuda Lux

The axis of our planet slipped and the Bermuda sun fractured against the horizon. Golden milk, hibiscus and lavender were hot bruises on the sky West of the Great Sound. A group of us are homebound toward one of the islands, moving in from the Atlantic after a long day clutching and releasing spears through scales and skin. Two bloated hinds, a red snapper, and large jack sat glaze-eyed and gutted in a bag on the floor near the stern. We felt justified for the bounty and fortunate to afford the luxury of a modern hunt.Bermuda L

For many miles, we drove perpendicular to the current. The engine groaned and chewed on the waves. I understood then the necessity of active resistance. Palpable friction affords passage to the right destination. Even our own minds raise their arms against a thing that is coming with haste and threatening our mark. We could finally accept that not all we resist persists. Eventually the wind changes, the moon draws away, and the pistons churn and push you past the sea.

The night cinched in around us and our seven spirits formed a constellation in the breeze. Our lips were sticky with salt and baked in sunlight. We licked our teeth in tandem, each of us hungry for some private pleasure in the distance. I could see Orion hanging in the far black sky; our worn-white home  beneath it cloaked in shadows. The bay was wet with night and glow worms flickered by in flash dances. Easing the throttle forward and lowering the engine, we stuck our leaden feet to the deck and narrowed our pupils to strike the distance. Any boat can stitch itself to your side and identify with your bones. Need necessitates bond. Its power becomes your power; its spine is now your spine.

When we docked, I hugged the path leading to the sweet, humid house. Some women followed, and some stayed with the men to clean the fish by the water. I walked to our bedroom in a body burned by starlight. I spread my sweating skin on our sheets and let my mind go slack.