"If you can raise your head and shoulders there is some sense of joy. It's not any kind of cheap joy. It's individual dignity." --Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche 
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Dear Tribe of Mat, Poem & Pen~

I hope you are well in the midst of all that's happening in the world as relates to body rights, inclusivity and our aching, ongoing need for embodied empathy. As seems only fitting for someone curiously questing around what it means to be in a body in a beautiful and broken 21st century city, I had my own run-in with the "in good times and bad, for richer and poorer, in sickness and in health" vow of self-partnership I've made as I make my way along in my own unfolding, and I could only make sense of the experience in all of its mystery by  transmuting it into (as of now) semi-prose poetry. (The rest of the line breaks and fine-tuning are forthcoming...) All I can say is the creative gods must know I'm currently alchemizing my next Poetry and the Body offering. 

This Independence Day
I knew my resistance in going to the ER initially was against the surge of pathology / as on-call nurse said: “you should go, if you can’t swallow” both somehow shaming my uncertainty, / scaring me away from exaggeration's edge, / stammering my semi-conscious belief we weren’t supposed to go to the ER with covid-19 / even if it was life threatening. It was no longer wanting to be the patient on holidays. It was the self-same silence (when she put it that way) collapsing my mother as I sat outside the emergency wing / able to eat after Advil, Tylenol, and lidocaine hydrochloride the nurse gave in thimble-size cup for throat-numbing. / And I couldn’t help but see how as I sat on the edge of the borrowed bed at 6 in the post-independence day morning, / looking for how many miles the Lyft ride to the hospital would be after a second night of a handful of nails in my throat upon each swallowing, / I was allowing myself need, prioritizing my body, going against that familial way of sacrificing self for the celebratory, / individuation allowed within collective social body. I couldn’t help but see in prioritizing my pain, believing there should be something to ease this suffering, I was both undoing an ancestry of helplessness cast in me, / and speaking out loud against the transference of initial wounding. As I packed books to read while I waited in the ER for someone to see me—The Heart ArousedPloughshares prose and poetry, a hat in case July hospital AC was surging, / banana because it was carbohydrate-rich and squishy, and my rose quartz Lady Quan Yin statue I held in my sweaty palm as we waited for the trash truck to move because it was Tuesday, / I couldn’t help but hear Khal Drago faltering with breast-maim being called “my moon and stars” by his Khaleesi, both on horses desert-riding in me, / as if familial mirage from my fever dreams, as if he or she, with momentarily un-swollen tongue, were calling to the beloved in me. 



I'm aiming to open my 6-week Poetry & the Body course again this August.  We'll experience all the ways crafting poetry and exercising our creative voice gives rise to our unique life's meaning, body agency, embodied empathy and personal autonomy. Please visit the website link to read about the course, cost, and drop me a line (just hit "REPLY") to reserve your seat! We'll limit the group to 10, so if you know you're in,--let's go!!--don't hesitate to email me. 


Any course questions, please email me!

In Poetry, Self-Love, & Embodied Creative Alchemy,

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