Viene Aqui

Come to me

My beautiful unknown

Come to me

And I will feed you

Pomegranate Seeds

I will lay out a picnic

On these golden, grassy hills

And invite you to dine

On apples and clemetines

We'll read to each other

Feeding hearts and minds

We'll be drunk on laughter

But I'm still glad I brought

Apricot wine

Come to me

All that I can not imagine

Come to me, and I will feed you

Pomegranate seeds...

Exercise 3: The Absence of Play

I notice the absence of play when I mourn the past. A deep darkness, slamming my head against the wall. Heavy in my chest and in my bones. Like permanent low blood sugar. Everything is an effort. My throat is tight and sore, my eyes want to cry. I am missing someone, some time when life did feel joyful and fun. The feeling is of no return. The absence of playfulness is somber, mournful and heavy.

I notice it creeping into my consciousness in small, insidious ways. It's my mom's voice, admonishing me to tone down my jewel tones and paint the walls of my house beige in order for it to rent for the most money. It's my dad's voice, telling me to get "a real job", preferably corporate. Become more conservative, take out that nose ring, cover your tattoos. The absence of play is very beige. Or grey. Greige.

It is ugly, plain, boring, humdrum, the taste of metal file cabinets. It's forgetting to make things beautiful as well as functional. It's the feeling of I have to do it all by myself - all the decisions, all the phone calls, all the chores, all the errands. This feels plain ol' tiring.

The absence of play is the absence of joy.

The absence of life.

Onions and Pearls

"Opinions are like onions - The both make weep"- Retreat participant

Those 3 famous words
"In my opinion"
With their weight, authority
Testimonials and reviews

I can be satisfied
With my own opinions
With my body's messages
Of what I truly value
Even cramping right now
Serves a purpose

True serenity comes
After grinding grit against the mother
In my hands
I hold the pearl of wisdom now

Stepping off my pedestal
I let go of self judgement
Moving easily along my path
Discriminating, discerning
Choosing each step carefully
If not fussily

I notice letting go of the opinions
Of plum trees and small violets
Of spotted lillys and green mosses
I even let go of the opinions
Of this particular circle of women
Criticizing my writing now

I write slowly, I read clearly
Raising my shaky voice
To tell the world what I think
In my experience, in my opinion

There will be those who agree with me
And those who don't
Either way -
They'll know their own truths

Longing for acceptance is paradoxical to
Being center of my universe
This ugly ducking
Is ready to be queen of her unnamed pond

There are times I am sweet
And times I am sharp
The Rose
is always protected by the thorns

You might think I'm eclectic
But I am bursting with life
You might think I'm eccentric
But I'm bursting with joy

I soften my sharp tongue
Coat my words with honey
Choose to be engaging
Come be on my team

I pay attention to the details
Loving all my many qualities
I pay attention to myself
This is all I have to do.

Exercise 2: Archiving the Alien

 Part 1: Write down a childhood memory

I am in the 4th or 5th grade, living in Kirchberg, Luxembourg. I am my best friend Vicki's house, and we are having a sleep over. Each of us are in our own seperate twin bed, with the covers over our heads. Our feet are pointed straight up, making a tent with the blanket. We are playing space aliens, and these are our space ships. We are each in our own little tent world, and we excitedly communicate with each other about shooting down UFOs and making spectacular landings. It is so fun to engage our imaginations together. I want to craft a consol for my space craft out of cardboard.

I feel so bonded in the moment to my "American friend", after feeling like such an outcast at the European School. Vicki's mother makes a big deal out of bringing us hot chocolate, but my mom's hot chocolate is better. I am so aware of how old her parent's are - twenty years older than mine. Vicki has a grown up brother that she never sees. I love going to Vicki's house because she has all this "American" stuff like Barbies and Archie comics. She's bored of them, but I am fascinated and want to play dolls all the time, even though I am "too old". Vicki's mom collects porcelain dolls dressed in Victorian clothing that we are not allowed to touch.

 Part 2: How does this memory relate to today?

This childhood memory relates to my feelings of being alien, the foreigner, of feeling alienated from my community over the last few years. It relates to this moment in terms of my searching for true companionship - that feeling of being in collusion with another human being. We are each in our own craft, our own body, but we are communicating, creating a consensus reality. I muse on the words communion, come union, and communication.


It relates to my feelings of looking for acceptance, of where do I fit in, of no longer feeling like the outcast. I relate it to longing for family, for hot chocolate moments and the creating of traditions. It's a longing for belonging.

This memory serves to remind me of the feelings of "here is someone who gets me, who understands me and encourages me, who supports my wild imaginings. Someone who really wants to play with me." It relates to me being open to what new relationships bring - new toys! New games. More fun. The joy of sharing. Indeed, shared beliefs, shared joys, shared laughter.

It relates to my search for a new best friend.

Exercise 1: What was "play" like as a girl?

When I was a girl
I would play
In my imagination
Throughout the whole day

I'd create my own stories
let my mind wander far
Every time we went any where
Especially in the car
When I was a girl
And because I was sick
I had to make things up
Yep, that was the trick

My brother was busy
My dad wad too
my mom was gone
But was I blue?


When I was a girl,
In my hospital bed
Nothing could compare
To what was in my head

Some kids were mean
and didn't want to play
I felt lonely & isolated
Sometimes quite gray

When I was a girl
At times it felt so fake
All that pretense
Was just a big escape

I realize it now
I spent my life in fantasy
Now as an adult
I try to create my reality

When I was a girl
I'd dream day and night
When I was a girl

It's what kept my heart light.

-kgr 2009

Silent Retreat: Day 1

 The quieter you become, the more you can hear. - Baba Ram Dass

Last month I set off on an adventure - a four day writer's retreat, which was also a silent retreat, down at Mission St. Antonio, just south of King City. I left on a Friday after my last client, turning off the radio after Watsonville, setting the proverbial tone for the weekend.

Driving through the golden California hills, here was Steinbeck country - a baking 78 degrees in the valley, cabbages and artichokes filling the fields as I sped down 101. "Bless those hands, bless those backs" I thought, watching the workers, musing on who had picked my food, who had toiled to harvest the grapes so that I could have wine at my table.

I reached my destination after a few short hours, parked the car and meandered off to find my room. After plucking the crucifix from the wall, I made a swift altar to creativity on the windowsill, with various journals, colored pencils, a moon book and a deep red scarf. I added an apple and a pomegranate, invoking the Madonna in my tiny monk's cell.

After unpacking my few belongings, I realized I forgot a few essentials: no jacket, no flash light, and no alarm clock. My cell phone was out of service, so I plugged in my lap top despite no internet access, simply to know the time. Indeed, it was strange not to type all weekend, but to journal by hand instead. I meandered around the Mission, exploring the rose garden, taking note of the warnings for rattle snakes posted in the bathrooms.

We had a delicious dinner, simple and filling, seventeen women in complete silence. The crunch of the fresh bread, the scrape of a chair as someone refilled their ice tea, the dull clink of silverware on the plastic bowls as we polished off the hearty pumpkin soup that had been provided.

Afterward, we had our first workshop, our 3 minutes of speech for the day, briefly introducing ourselves and setting our intentions for the retreat. As we sat and meditated before our first writing exercises, I was aware of the sound of crickets, the rustle of paper, the closing door, a distant bell ringing. The theme for the weekend was "Cultivating Lightheartedness."

Walking back to my room, I had to laugh at myself - the moment I saw a cat I broke silence, calling softly to the long haired Siamese - my first thought was how to get it to sleep with me. Over the next few days we became friends, along with her black haired sister. Fierce hunters, these two, soon bird feathers graced my altar, the sacrificial remains of the day.

I was pleasantly surprised by how much I was already enjoying the silence - I felt a deep peace and stillness, a deep relief at not having to entertain or amuse, to counsel or comment. The relief at just being able to eat without interruption, without conversation. I smiled at everyone, and wonder what brought them here...

There is a voice within, that no one, not even you has ever heard. Give yourself the opportunity of silence and begin to develop your listening in order to hear, deep within yourself, the music of your own spirit. - John O'Donohue

Let Me Be Known

"Your reputation always precedes you" - Chinese proverb

Let me be known as intelligent and creative, brilliant and sparkling, always inspiring. Let my reputation be as a great business woman, a compassionate healer, a knowledgeable teacher, an excellent mother and a renaissance woman.

Let my fame be for being a good listener, the keeper of the tavern, the keeper of confidences. Always the deep reflective mirror, a soothsayer who tells the truth in gentle and kind ways that the truth may be heard and responded to in appropriate ways.

Let my fire bring warmth to those who seek its' comfort and illumination, may none be singed or harmed by my sparks of passions or electrical emotions. But I here Mae West chuckling in my ear: If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.

Let me be seen as authentic and original, beautiful and eclectic, quirky, queer, and quintessentially whole. Let my reputation light my way like a lantern in the dark, contained and self-sustained.

Let me be known for my integrity, my loyalty, my wit and my wonder.

Blessed Be.