November 23, 2011
Love bears all things.
It is the promise of the vacant cross lit by the rising sun,
and the sacred fire tended within the temples of the gods.
It is the burning forge of the illuminated soul.
Our impassioned witness,
our silent confessor,
and our merciful salvation.
The permeable yet unyielding light that wraps itself around the many faces made in His image.
Those images…
reminding us that we are all capable of so much more.
November 4, 2011
I am your Mother & your Father.
I am your Daughter & your Lover.
I am life, death & time eternal.
I am the cup & the sword.
I am the right and the left hand path.
You have no power but what comes from me.
September 19, 2011
The dying Son cast on amber leaves turns to Shadow.
A gentle breeze made of the thinnest air and rising veil runs through my fingers.
The fleeting twilight harkens him to the darkened cradle,
and the promise of Her uneasy lullaby to the haggard babe.
July 17, 2011
We have our own way of Drawing Down the Moon,
You and I.
With lips and fingertips,
evoking a savage tenderness.
An embrace becomes a lifetime.
And in it we dance,
we die,
and are reborn a thousand times.
June 27, 2011
When you spend the weekend with the mountain as your temple, “plugged in” solely to the stars, the gods, and the handful or so of vibrant souls sharing your surroundings your re-entry into the day to day can be abrasive. Monday morning arrived as a clean slate for me, devoid of any familiar patterns. My eyes opened to the warm sun on the back of my neck through my bedroom window, already too high in the sky for it to be my normal waking hour. The house was empty and quiet. No children to dress or send to school. No clocks professing loudly the omnipresence of time. In fact, as I stumbled into the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee I noticed that not a single appliance would turn on. The power was off. The Burrow had in fact unplugged itself.
Robbed of even that vestige of routine I ventured out to procure a more indulgent than usual cup of joe (read Starbucks), and take a long drive to no where in particular. After all, sometimes the best thing to do is to embrace the discord. I let the CD play through the deeper cuts on the album, the ones I had until that moment skipped past. I got lost. Lost high above the city on a very quiet one lane road. Lost back atop a mountain. The voice within repeating two words over and over. Be still. And finally I was.
Silence. The palpable energy that can not convey false hoods, excuses, analysis or interpretation. The space between words that holds only will and meaning.
A vow of silence was my next step along the Path, from that moment until I know it no longer serves me. To live connected without audible language, so that only kisses leave my lips. An adventure!
So, friends and loved ones, forgive me if I do not pick up the phone. Indulge me if our interactions require more face time than usual. I will return your texts as needed, and your emails if required. I’m still here, listening. 
April 23, 2011
Earth Day. As I take stock of the ways in which my household could improve our use of resources both personal and natural I can’t help but take in the symbolic feminine imagery of a “Mother Earth”. Few relics of the Divine Feminine have survived this modern age, particularly in the main stream culture. But it is rarely argued that the planet which bears our existence, weathers our destructive impulses, and shelters us even from our own consequences is archetypally feminine. The symbolism for me is personal.
We have a culturally self destructive relationship with the feminine. As our “Mother Earth” she is at once revered and ravaged. A mother one moment, and a whore the next. This duality frames much of our relationship to the feminine. There appears to be a haunting impulse among ourselves to destroy that which we can not own or bend to our desire. We force ourselves upon the Earth and she yields what bounty she has to offer.
But, not even a whore lies down forever. Repairing the relationship with our planet requires repairing the feminine identity within ourselves.
Painting from Denver Canopy Airport
November 4, 2010
The Crone’s dark shadow creeps across the land.
Thrice she strikes the blunted staff of her sickle upon the earth and bids her daughter, “Rest and bear no more.”
The brittle wasted ground beneath her cracks.
The young mother yields, and taking the sickle from the Crone slays all that feeds un-weaned from her bosom.
Slouched and ailing she shepherds the fallen into the Crone’s black shadow,
and in that fertile darkness,
slumbers.
The Burrow Murmurs 