Round People, Square Earth

When Ya'Gonna Sing.mpg

2011-03-04T13:11:00.000-05:00

getting better'

© Suzanne Wells , Round Earth Square People, 2010 -2011 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from blog owner and author Suzanne Wells is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Suzanne Wells and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. http://RoundEarthSquarePeople.blogspot.com

Spiritually Speaking Laughter and Music as a Spiritual Practice When Experiencing Life Changes 3/3/2011 - Suzanne Wells | Internet Radio | Blog Talk Radio

2011-03-04T08:09:00.000-05:00

Spiritually Speaking Laughter and Music as a Spiritual Practice When Experiencing Life Changes 3/3/2011 - Suzanne Wells | Internet Radio | Blog Talk Radio

Radio Broadcast from "Life as Art"

© Suzanne Wells , Round Earth Square People, 2010 -2011 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from blog owner and author Suzanne Wells is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Suzanne Wells and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. http://RoundEarthSquarePeople.blogspot.com

Seasonal Affective Disorder- Cures with Music Yoga Ayurveda and a Life Well Lived 2/24/2011 - Suzanne Wells | Internet Radio | Blog Talk Radio

2011-02-26T20:49:00.000-05:00

Seasonal Affective Disorder- Cures with Music Yoga Ayurveda and a Life Well Lived 2/24/2011 - Suzanne Wells | Internet Radio | Blog Talk Radio

Radio Broadcast
© Suzanne Wells , Round Earth Square People, 2010 -2011 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from blog owner and author Suzanne Wells is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Suzanne Wells and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. http://RoundEarthSquarePeople.blogspot.com

Music a muse an art a way of life 2/3/2011 - Suzanne Wells | Internet Radio | Blog Talk Radio

2011-02-26T20:29:00.000-05:00

Music a muse an art a way of life 2/3/2011 - Suzanne Wells | Internet Radio | Blog Talk Radio

Radio Broadcast

© Suzanne Wells , Round Earth Square People, 2010 -2011 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from blog owner and author Suzanne Wells is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Suzanne Wells and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. http://RoundEarthSquarePeople.blogspot.com

Waiting on Angel Original Song

2011-02-26T19:05:00.000-05:00

Original Music for Revolution

© Suzanne Wells , Round Earth Square People, 2010 -2011 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from blog owner and author Suzanne Wells is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Suzanne Wells and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. http://RoundEarthSquarePeople.blogspot.com

When ya gonna sing when we gonna fly ed- ys.mpg

2011-02-26T19:03:00.000-05:00

Originalsongs
© Suzanne Wells , Round Earth Square People, 2010 -2011 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from blog owner and author Suzanne Wells is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Suzanne Wells and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. http://RoundEarthSquarePeople.blogspot.com

Its True Rock Version.mpg

2011-02-26T18:57:00.000-05:00

Vote on which version of the song: ITs True" you prefer and the video with them most votes will be recorded in the studio.

© Suzanne Wells , Round Earth Square People, 2010 -2011 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from blog owner and author Suzanne Wells is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Suzanne Wells and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. http://RoundEarthSquarePeople.blogspot.com

Its True Sweet Version.mpg

2011-02-26T18:55:00.000-05:00

Vote on which version of the song"Its True" you prefer.Rock, Folk, Sweet, Acoustic. The video with the most votes will be recorded in the studio

© Suzanne Wells , Round Earth Square People, 2010 -2011 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from blog owner and author Suzanne Wells is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Suzanne Wells and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. http://RoundEarthSquarePeople.blogspot.com

Vote in these versions of the UTube videos "ITs True and choose the musical version you like

2011-02-26T18:37:00.000-05:00

© Suzanne Wells , Round Earth Square People, 2010 -2011 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from blog owner and author Suzanne Wells is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Suzanne Wells and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. http://RoundEarthSquarePeople.blogspot.com

Writing a Poem a Song and the Rights for Mothers to Mother-with Grace 2/10/2011 - Suzanne Wells | Internet Radio | Blog Talk Radio

2011-02-10T16:16:00.000-05:00

Blog Talk Radio broadcast

Writing a Poem a Song and the Rights for Mothers to Mother-with Grace 2/10/2011 - Suzanne Wells | Internet Radio | Blog Talk Radio

© Suzanne Wells , Round Earth Square People, 2010 -2011 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from blog owner and author Suzanne Wells is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Suzanne Wells and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. http://RoundEarthSquarePeople.blogspot.com

The Impact of Information Technology on Health of the Body and Mind

2011-01-20T13:59:00.001-05:00

The Impact of Information Technology on Health of the Body and Mind

Listen to the Impact of Technology on the Health of Body and Mind on Blog Talk Radio with host Suzanne Wells

Check out music from Suzanne Wells

2011-01-17T15:00:00.001-05:00

Interview with Anthony Johnson founder, director and choreographer of Ballet Magique Entertainment

2011-01-17T14:29:00.001-05:00

Interview with Anthony Johnson founder, director and choreographer of Ballet Magique Entertainment

© Suzanne Wells , Round Earth Square People, 2010 -2011 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from blog owner and author Suzanne Wells is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Suzanne Wells and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. http://RoundEarthSquarePeople.blogspot.com

News-from-Harmoonic-Earth--LLC January 2011

2011-01-07T21:18:00.001-05:00

http://myemail.constantcontact.com/News-from-Harmonic-Earth--LLC.html?soid=1103707843822&aid=eVWT4vFVqTY

Click the link to view HarmonicEarth LLC,s January 2011 Newsletter

Spiritually Speaking: New Year's Eve Special

2010-12-31T15:53:00.000-05:00

Spiritually Speaking: New Year's Eve Special

Reflection for a life in the New Years.

© Suzanne Wells , Round Earth Square People, 2010 -2011 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from blog owner and author Suzanne Wells is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Suzanne Wells and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. http://RoundEarthSquarePeople.blogspot.com

singing for mothers

2010-12-26T18:41:00.000-05:00

Christmas alone, a song, a new Sweater, some PJ's and a dog...

© Suzanne Wells , Round Earth Square People, 2010 -2011 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from blog owner and author Suzanne Wells is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Suzanne Wells and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. http://RoundEarthSquarePeople.blogspot.com

Ion Bârlădeanu

2010-11-28T11:43:00.000-05:00

For artist's birthing art late in the night...

© Suzanne Wells , Round Earth Square People, 2010 -2011 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from blog owner and author Suzanne Wells is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Suzanne Wells and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. http://RoundEarthSquarePeople.blogspot.com

A Night in the Airport

2010-11-07T11:17:00.000-05:00

I slept at the airport last night,
-read papers of opinion.

I squeezed myself into a cubicle there,
-a channel and a screen,
(pass the time)

-A mother and the keys.

I wrote to you, and to God,
-of lonely days and long nights,
-of faces chosen wrong, for directions.

Dawn brings the quake of great birds rising,
Thunderous applause for the coming of the sun!

Sleek bodies shake the vertigo.
The edges of the sky,
turn blue.

The dome expands,
for modern dinosaurs of design.

A Boy on the Road

2010-11-07T00:45:00.002-04:00

“Why must I stay here?” the little boy asked; his eyes blinking in the bright lights.

“Oh, but you must,” replied the Mother. Her voice was warm and kind, and very, very firm, “For it is not your time to join me quite yet.”

“I don’t want to!” he whined, “It’s messy and loud and very fast; and in a strange way - very slow here. People are so clumsy and square shaped. They clop their heavy feet around and never stop to notice anything. They look straight ahead and neglect to note the beautiful swirls that dance in corners.” he continued. “I want so much to come home to you- now; as I feel tired and so old for my young years. I hobble through my days and wonder where I will go. I am ready now! I want to rest my head in your lap. You can rock me and hum sweet songs for me to sleep… like when I was a baby.”

The Mother was silent and still for some moments. The air hung in the most beautiful way between them. The fluidity of the deep ocean buzzed inside his head and soothed his restlessness. He always felt safe with his mother.

The boy moved in a deeper way towards her embrace. She breathed and he noticed (remember!) the rocking rhythm from within her chest. He laid his head upon her lap and let his eyelids drape over his outer view. Inside, he searched through the layers until he found the tether between them - rooted down below. He tugged a bit and sighed with relief; assured of their depth.

“Really!” He pleaded, “This is so much better. The roads out there are filled with debris and I stumble and skin my knees! My body is bruised and weary. I am ready now.” he pleaded. “The faces are all blank and busy and I am lonely. Let me come home to this rhythm that awakens the sparks of dancing light within my cells, and brings me good sleep. I am ready to rest.”

A small smile arose on the mothers lips; she gently lifted him down from her lap. She swallowed and let the warm air into her. It filled her and expanded her warm form. She set her soft gaze firmly upon him. The boy felt tendrils of light, shower on his being. He let it seep into his skin and guided his attention deeper in. He stood on his feet and felt the strength of his legs under him. His trunk rose from his pelvis and his spine grew into a fine pedestal. The roundness of his head perched itself lightly atop the staff - a flower in bloom. The expanses of heaven filled him as the fires within his bones ignited themselves and warmed his weary flesh.

“You will go. You must.” the mother explained; an ease in her voice. “There are paths to unknown lands you have not seen yet! There’s unheard music for your ears and blooms of glorious fragrance that will drift into you while you sleep! There are foods you must taste and succulent fruits for your tongue!” Her voice was melodic, like a laughing brook. “There are rainbows that sit patiently to bring you colors of limitless spectrum - to fill and soothe your tired eyes. It is all waiting for you – behind the curtains.” She patted his head. He felt the warmth emanate from her steady hand. “You are young, and tired I know; but the journey awaits you- for the highest and best.“

The boy focused his gaze on her. He sat into himself and let the silence wrap itself into the scene. Words bubbled into his throat. He swallowed and reached deeper into the giant, silent arms that embraced them.

They stayed there like that, the mother and son, for quite a while. The sun rose and gave the sky to the moons- and back again. The leaves changed their colors and offered their brown shriveled shapes to the earth. Fine sheets of snow covered the plains and seeds tucked themselves under the blankets for naps. The stars rearranged themselves in the night, and the sky greeted the fluff of clouds as they passed. Fine buds woke the trees from the tips of their branches as fingered roots sat themselves deep - to the core. Seedlings sang out, for the glory of it, and sent themselves into the wind.

One spring day, a breath woke the boy. He looked deeply into his mother and silently nodded his head. She met his gaze and a deep knowing pushed through the sides of the silence surrounding them. He tested his feet and his limbs flowed! - like ethereal water, into the spaces around him. He felt the gentle heat of steady fires deep within his bones. He turned and wordlessly made his way down the path. She gazed at his form in the distance and smiled inside. A small tear formed at the edge of her eye.

As he walked, the boy cocked his ear and listened to the silent sounds hidden inside the moments. He let his eyes alight upon colors without limits and let himself fill with all she had promised. He felt the stable earth under the soles of his feet and the sturdy rhythm of his gait. He let the thin arms of flowers enter him and shifted his ears to receive their song. He paused for a berry and the low lying fruit and rested in the shade of the tree branches, when the road grew hot.

He didn’t know when he would see his mother again, but he remembered -always- all the knowing they shared.

The Frozen Shape

2010-04-25T15:51:00.001-04:00

They gazed at the little shack,

and the family who lived there.

Nobody moved.

The sides of the shape – frozen.

Nobody’s gettin’ out,

or in,

here.

I yelled: “Scan the periphery of your life, little shack!”

“Notice the eyes in the woods of the night!”

“There are a few in there who will let you out!”

“The owl hoots for your freedom.”

“The birds rise with the sun and call you forth to a new day!”

The sharpness of the gaze held them there.

I wept. Then, whispered:

“These plants over here are rare and mystical.”

“Harvest their bounty and let their seeds bear you fruit.”

They glanced at the edges of the forest,

and moved for a better view.

They dreamed that night,

of fullness.

The Plants will Teach You Reverence

2010-04-22T17:05:00.001-04:00

“The plants will teach you of reverence” she whispered.

If you listen with ears of tenderness,

and eyes sentimental,

They will tell you stories,

of all the ways you can be free.

Their voices lift, together in song for each ray of sun that warms their backs,

and bow humbly to the drops of rain that seep into their roots.

At night, they tell secret stories to each other of the prizes of the day,

and play quiet symphonies under the silvery rays of mother moon.

The wind tickles their leaves into dance,

as they giggle in flight.

When the sun slips behind the curtain,

they lay their soft petals down,

sure they are safe.

Each morn’ they rise with laughter in their hearts,

for the breaking of the dawn,

And bow their heads,

to the grace of twilight.

They stand firm and noble for the passerby’s,

and let snowflakes dangle on their arms.

They grow up and down and gracefully offer their leaves,

to the forest floor, certain they can trust

all that they are.

Sometimes they softly weep together,

for the gentle way the soft earth holds their toes.

You can learn their hidden language,

in the silent spaces of the forest.

Sometimes Weary Warriors Lay Down their Swords

2010-04-22T17:03:00.000-04:00

Sometimes weary warriors
lay their swords down ,
and mothers with dry, worn out hands,
cracked and bleeding,
come in from the cold,
and put their feet up on the hearth.

Sometimes old village doctors still come,
to your house to check on sick children,
and place their hands upon young foreheads,
to check for fever and illness.

They pull ancient potions,
from worn-in old bags,
and offer kind words,
in the hushed tones of dark rooms,
and soothe young mothers ,
who know not of childhood illnesses and uneasiness.

They’ll ramble down the twisty path,
from the house,
and you’ll be grateful for old ways,
and the kindness and wisdom that comes,
from a life well lived.

Sometimes life is a circus ,
sometimes days drag on,
as if night will never come,
to wrap its dark cloak around to you ,
to sooth the weariness out of long working days,
and too much talking.

Sometimes the sun rushes to greet you,
and applauds your arrival,
to the glorious play about to begin.

Sometimes the sunrise hides himself,
in gloomy old memories ,
of childhood tears spilling on to the curb,
from a kickball game,
with too many captains.

Sometimes it feels like,
we can take in everything,
become full! Overflow! Pass it around!
Sometimes winter stream-beds dry up ,
and wail in longing to drink,
from spring rains and cool melting snow.

The trees! Oh, the trees! They always remember!
Stand tall noble knights! Perfect your gaze!
She will bring it all around to you again…
as She always does,
since time started to tick.

They will tell you - the trees, of all the old stories,
when birds laughed in their branches ,
and they bowed to the sun.

They will tell you the times,
the carrots got rotten,
and small little chipmunks ate,
all of the berries.

They will tell you of blooms,
that pull breath from your lungs,
and of oceans of lavender that drift in breeze,
as they wave their thin arms at the sky.

They will tell you the times,
of the birth and the death,
and of all the cycles and circles,
that roam under your feet and over your head.

They will call you to stillness,
to a deep quiet place,
so you can watch and bear witness to all that will be.

They will tell you to sit a while,
take a rest from your running.

“Come hither, come yonder, I’ve branches for you!
I’ve roots for deep sleeping and leaves for the shade!
Worry not your small mind for all will be well.
Rest here, by my trunk and take in the show.

It will rain and get cold,
then sunny again!
You’ll see it all…become real, like one of the forest.

And then you will know without hesitation,
you are safe beyond safety,
forever to live,
with those who have held ,
the ground for you all this time.

The Clearing

2010-04-21T04:38:00.000-04:00

The Clearing! The Clearing!

The rivers are moving their bodies!

And seeking new beds for the sleep!

The crack of their corpses drifts into my eyes.

Ghosts waking slumber.

I make tears for the dust of the morning.

In between the Waters well up,

behind the dam,

and wait for the possibility,

of afternoon.

She seats herself in prayer.

Holding.

Watching.

The dragons dance,

upon her skin.

Listening.

To the trickling cleave,

of relatives,

in the distance.

Girls with Braids

2010-04-20T22:55:00.001-04:00

Smile nicely,

when you ask for that.

The women are fetching the water.

Make gentle steps,

When you enter the home.

The bear is sleeping In MY bed.

The ways are tricky for peaceful nights.

(Don’t lose yourself there.)

I will tell you sometime,

of grandmothers,

and women who ride with the bulls,

when you’re your youth has rested,

and the sheen of the disc,

weaves itself into you.

San Culpa of the Lent

2010-04-15T18:01:00.000-04:00

Digesting and rejecting,
spoonfed marmalade,
The clever, costly comments,
that seep into your head.

Your waitin’ for tomorrow,
leaving trails of bread and crumbs,
I got the golden ticket,
comes with knives and cuts and guns.

I churned it up inside of me,
regurgitated heat.
I wondered if you ever knew,
that even moon rays weep.

I wanted you to read right through,
the covers of the book.
Where leprechauns and fairies,
dance beside the laughing brooks.

A deeper magic - way beyond,
small minds and straying thoughts,
I tried to cast the sunrays,
into mirrors that you bought.

Reach beyond the ether,
and shapes the bind you in.
Coming home to angels now,
baptism for the sins.

Of lonely ones out in the cold,
you try to lift them up.
A battle of a lifetime,
-reaching for enough.

Plant seeds of magic fairy dust,
underneath their pillows.
Then light the fire of your life,
beneath the weeping willows.

I’m praying over candles,
and beads that heaven sent,
that forms fly forth and plant themselves,
- San culpa of the lent.

Talk to all the children,
take them on your knee,
They’re wearin' ruby slippers,
- sippin' nector of the bees.

Arms of the Shining Island

2010-04-15T04:11:00.000-04:00

Among the dusty, dirty bags,
that blow along Her curbs,
Within the squeal of subway rails,
that beckon to the burbs’,

A Shining Star! - announced in torch,
glistens in the sea,
For promises and refuge kept,
of weary ones and me.

Big and small move into one,
- a timeless, sounding weave,
Eyes ring forth the truth of things,
- when mother never leaves.

Holding still for each travail,
and show upon her grounds,
embracing windy wishes,
of starlets and the hounds.

The hands of swinging bridges,
reach for her open soul,
Her gaze - a mighty astronaut,
for the weary and the bold.

The Beginning Rhythm

2010-04-14T16:00:00.000-04:00

You came rushing out of my words last night,
from the papers that I read.

You surprised me.
(I thought).
I forgot about you.

Was it your voice threading its way through me?

You colored my lens.

I’m glad.

Your tiny verse,
Returned,
to the beginning rhythm,
where no one is lonely.

The Promise of Cogs

2010-04-13T22:24:00.001-04:00

Cogs in a wheel churned,
over and over and over,
in pictures,
on the new walls of a little girls room.

She turned her face,
and hid,
from a future walking,
hollow halls and faceless streets,
where thousands wandered.

The birds called,
through the window (that held secrets of the ocean),
and caught hold of her ears.

The threads pulled her,
into the sun,
for rest.

The Fierce Gaze

2010-04-11T18:10:00.001-04:00

The lines of her gaze were broken one thousand times.
By the lilt of children’s voices shooting arrows in the air.

A mother weeps in silence.

For every picture left unfinished in her head,
and all the roots of possibilities that lie,
withering beneath the winter’s earth.

Shh-sh-sh! The expanses of her mind are wandering!
Into the mystery of unknown spaces,
past the laundry and tedium of your world.

The twilight calls her in again,
for birthing beautiful things,
among the dishes.

Mourning Whales

2010-04-06T09:12:00.001-04:00

I rose to the call,

of mourning whales,

pulling me into the daytime,

of yellow school buses,

and signatures for teacher.

I slid under the covers,

seeking salvation,

from the big-small voices,

of wants and needs.

Kisses at the door,

brought silence,

of a day’s birth,

bursting it’s seeds,

into wild chambers of my soul.

Under the Sea

2010-03-24T11:03:00.000-04:00

I lied there.
Tangled.
in-scaffolding.

I climbed up.

At first,
for the view.

(link here for dolphins songs)

The support was nice.

Then the edges,
poked at my sides.

(I dreamed…)

of Dolphins.
Caught.
in fishermen’s nets.

A melody sings,
for freedom,
of the sea.

Peeking through the Fog

2010-03-23T23:00:00.000-04:00

My feet are dragging,
through the mud of the days.

I leaned my back against the door,
and slid to the ground,
covered my eyes,
in a grand surrender to gravity.

The days slip themselves,
past long lonely nights,
and leave trampled grass
in their path.

My feet heave themselves forth,
to push through the heaviness,
of too many moments bunched into one.

I see space up ahead,
through a tiny telescope,
inside my nose.

It is peeking through the fog.

Balloons on the Sky

2010-03-23T16:53:00.000-04:00

I wonder if I will leave

- a sad, sorry story.

Or if there will be balloons,

of all the colors in the sky,

floating in the edgeless blue,

of no beginnings,

and ends with tendril tongues,

that reach through,

the round corners of space.

Let the Children Play Today

2010-03-22T09:09:00.000-04:00

I busted through the rainbow
fell a thousand miles down,
Traded in devotion,
for the fellows on the ground.

My magic fed me apples,
No matter where I went,
Yours put me in the fire,
Took the suppers that I sent.

I tried to crawl back up today,
Climbing to the top,
to find the magic rainbows,
of Dorothy and the dog.
Just reaching for the view from there
that let whole world in,
when Alice found her rabbit,
and scarecrows made your grin.

I gave my trust to grace and love
In days when I was young,
The old are weary, clever folks,
With bitters on their tongues.

Watchin' children’s faces.

Watchin' children’s tears. The fears. The fears.

Will I ever find the rainbows,
Perfect in my mind?
Are days of grace and virtue
Just pollution left behind?

The perfect little windows,
I looked through from my youth,
Are smoky, smoggy pictures,
Crumbled pieces in my mind.

The children are crying
The children are crying!

I reached for God in trees and plants
When ignorance was bliss,
Making all the graceful rules,
For school kids with a fist.

Let the children come out
To dance in the magic,
Of yellow brick roads
And top hats and magic

Let the children come out
To play in the fields,
Of tulips and daisies
And things that are real.

Let the children come out,
To take in the sun,
Of bright yellow days
No prisons or guns.

Let the children come out now
To old mother’s laps,
To rest their young heads,
Settle in for their naps.

Let the children move peaceful,
In worlds of bright colors.
They like it that way-
under the covers.

Let the children play today.
Let the children play today.

The Nest

2010-03-19T02:01:00.000-04:00

I made ancient shapes,
at the feet of the Artist.

She turned the camera around.

We found the most beautiful garden.
There were flowers growing there.

When I got home,
the windows had mirrors on them.

There was a nest at the door,
I brought it inside for the quiet.

Patterns of the Couple

2010-03-18T15:22:00.000-04:00

When the patterns of the couple,
have worn themselves out,

Fear slips around their necks.

The cobra contracts Her mighty breast,
to siphon the breath from their lives,
and makes them into small, slippery things,
that crawl under the table.

“Rise up! Find the feet of the young to set your bones upon!”
“Place your mighty hands upon the walls and heave yourself forward!”

The eyes you hold each other in are born of cement.
(and smell of dank dungeons under the earth)

There is no room to move there.

“Go to the market; new eyes by the dozen!”
“Appease the fine serpent under your chin!”

The Mother is calling for you to dance.

She weeps at your stillness sometimes.

Her melody is dancing in the ocean.
She is waiting for you.

In between the rise and fall of the waves.

Tunnels of Gold

2010-03-18T01:00:00.000-04:00

Libraries of ancient texts,
sleep in the trees.

a brow furrows,
in the glare of the lights.

intensity pierces,
well formed words.

humans build fences,
safety huddles in the middle.

(Don’t get stuck there.)

Wind whispers,
all her secrets,

inside the tunnels of gold,
of your heart.

The Bells are Ringing Nigh!

2010-03-17T11:33:00.000-04:00

The orchestra! The orchestra!
The bells are ringing nigh!

The city streets are spilling forth,
with fields of daisies,
and waters from the sea.

(The rocks are singing to you.)

Oh! The ignorance!
Of those with deaf ears,
who turn their gaze away,
and sit in the graveyards
of the busy.

(It is calling to you.)

Rapture spilling,
from its edges…
to make you believe again,
in the world inside the lotus.

Oh! The walls. The walls!

That seal off the sound,
of God’s instruments of peace,
inside small seashells,
and swaying blades of grass.

I've heard them today,
echo in the chambers of my heart,
to bring fair tidings,
and vibrate the lonely heartstring,
that reaches to my Beloved,
in everlasting call.

The Preacher on Channel Eight

2010-03-16T04:12:00.000-04:00

The churches of my youth
beckoned for me
as morning called.

I saw Jesus strolling,
His feet were mine,
firm and solid steps,
connecting to the surface of the earth.

He was kind to children, I recall
taking them on his knee,
and telling them stories to,
bring hidden smiles to their young faces .

I became filled up today,
with yearning,
for Great Cathedrals
and wood pews to sit upon,
-one of the crowd.

The bravery and grace,
of those who carry “the word”
to wayward and restless flocks
pierced my heart.

Tears tumbled from my eyes,
for the static-voiced preacher on channel eight.

The Lives of the Busy

2010-03-16T02:01:00.000-04:00

I looked for a bridge today.

The water seems so nice,

for swimming below.

Lives fill up,

with the unimportant tasks,

of busy people.

Can you see the fetus inside the egg?

She is floating,

in her mother’s juice.

From your full life,

is your shell cracking a bit,

or will you stay swimming,

in the center?

The water looked so nice,

under the bridge today.

Sometimes Weary Warriors Lay Down their Swords

2010-03-13T01:17:00.000-05:00

Sometimes weary warriors
lay their swords down ,
and mothers with dry, worn out hands,

come in from the cold,
and put their feet up on the hearth.

Sometimes old village doctors still come,
to your house to check on sick children,
and place their hands upon young foreheads,
to check for fever and illness.

They pull ancient potions,
from worn-in old bags,
and offer kind words,
in the hushed tones of dark rooms,
and soothe young mothers ,
who know not of childhood illnesses and uneasiness.

They’ll ramble down the twisty path,
from the house,
and you’ll be grateful for old ways,
and the kindness and wisdom that comes,
from a life well lived.

Sometimes life is a circus ,
sometimes days drag on,
as if night will never come,
to wrap its dark cloak around to you ,
to sooth the weariness out of long working days,
and too much talking.

Sometimes the sun rushes to greet you,
and applauds your arrival,
to the glorious play about to begin.

Sometimes the sunrise hides himself,
in gloomy old memories ,
of childhood tears spilling on to the curb,
from a kickball game,
with too many captains.

Sometimes it feels like,
we can take in everything,
become full! Overflow! Pass it around!
Sometimes winter stream-beds dry up ,
and wail in longing to drink,
from spring rains and cool melting snow.

The trees! Oh, the trees! They always remember!
Stand tall noble knights! Perfect your gaze!
She will bring it all around to you again…
as She always does,
since time started to tick.

They will tell you - the trees, of all the old stories,
when birds laughed in their branches ,
and they bowed to the sun.

They will tell you the times,
the carrots got rotten,
and small little chipmunks ate,
all of the berries.

They will tell you of blooms,
that pull breath from your lungs,
and of oceans of lavender that drift in breeze,
as they wave their thin arms at the sky.

They will tell you the times,
of the birth and the death,
and of all the cycles and circles,
that roam under your feet and over your head.

They will call you to stillness,
to a deep quiet place,
so you can watch and bear witness to all that will be.

They will tell you to sit a while,
take a rest from your running.

“Come hither, come yonder, I’ve branches for you!
I’ve roots for deep sleeping and leaves for the shade!
Worry not your small mind for all will be well.
Rest here, by my trunk and take in the show.

It will rain and get cold,
then sunny again!
You’ll see it all…become real, like one of the forest.

And then you will know without hesitation,
you are safe beyond safety,
forever to live,
with those who have held ,
the ground for you all this time.

Preface to my Book Part 2

2010-03-13T01:02:00.000-05:00

The events that took place over those years after I drove out of my Ohio driveway in the U-Haul it with three kids in tow, irrevocably changed me in ways that I could have never imagined back there in my broken little marriage to Tim. The events that I struggled through and the places I went within my inner being were not just a little hard, there were times that it was hard all the time, or at least that’s how it felt. Every single relationship that I ever had or ever would have changed…forever. The ways in which I related to the world would never be the same…ever. This pissed me off on the many, many nights I lied in bed, tears rolling down my cheeks in an excruciatingly vulnerable fetal position. I would never see my children in the same way again. My relationships to community, my parents, my soon to be ex husband, the country and the world…all of it…changed… forever. I and all of my relationships irrevocably changed for the rest of my time on this marble of ours.

Part of me thought: “Oh -you should be on your knees in gratitude for the new chance you’ve been given and the new world that can open up to you now that you’ve freed yourself from the confines of a suppressive marriage and the lonely little life of a Midwest housewife!” And the other part of me longed to return to the plain old mom who put Band-Aids on wounded knees, cooked meals my kids loved and could sit down with my neighbors over a cup of warm tea and make the deep and genuine connection all of humanity longs for. All of that changed for me forever when I barreled down I95 full of dreams and hope and the yellow brick road. It was an experience that almost defies description. Words are oh so inadequate to deliver to you the journey I and my family went on. Never-the-less, here we are you and me. We shall both attempt to embark together on my long, long search for Oz.

BREATHE NOW…

I will tell you my story, of how that all happened. I’ll tell you of the places I went after I paid my tolls on the Throgs Neck Bridge bound for New York City. I’ll try to describe how I barreled over that bridge onto Long Island, swiftly turned onto the exit towards the Sunken Meadow State Parkway and arrived at my childhood home in Kings Park, New York. Now, there will be the usual tales of all the usual places, if that’s what you’re wanting, but frankly, I have to tell you, I barely left my perch in front of the fireplace in the worn out living room of 4 Captain Richards Lane, Kings Park, NY. (My mom will tell you I grew up in Northport, because that neighboring town has a high rent zip code and on the surface looks so much better than Kings Park.) I will tell you the usual stories of transition and hardship and sorry, single mothers making it in the New World, but I will tell you too of all the places I went in my mind. There are some exciting parts and we can travel back and forth over time’s yard stick together. I will remind you to breathe, as promised. Together we’ll travel along on the journey that turned my world upside down. For better or for worse, as they say, we can go together.

Facing Death

2010-03-12T23:12:00.000-05:00

I knew a woman once who got cancer and just decided to die…quietly. She was an in-law of mine and I will never forget her quiet decision, how it affected those around her and the peace, grace and steely determination that emanated from her over the long months of her death. She was not that old, in her 70’s I guess, but she was kind of a lifelong loner. She had a big family around her who helped and provided lots of cousins for her only daughter. She never married and raised her only daughter through sheer, scrappy grit in the days when single mothers who chose not to remarry were viewed on with veiled disdain and made EVERYONE uncomfortable. She had a “working man’s” job at AT&T and spent her whole working life there. She did what was expected; worked, raised her daughter, provided three square and a chair and paid the rent on her little house in New Jersey. The family finally found another lonely Aunt to live with her and there they went, making it in the New World, the two Aunts and the daughter.

I used to see her at family gatherings. We always smoked together out on the back porch in a simple ceremony of reprieve from the happy “aren’t we all glad to see each other” commotion that in inevitably rises to a fever pitch and then lowers itself to “it’s time to go home” sort of way, at those types of affairs. She was kind of cranky too, I liked that about her. She had a low, scratchy smoker’s voice and always told you exactly how it was. She had the stocky body of woman who lived alone and she always wore sensible shoes. One look at her and you knew she had strength and that she had “been through it”. I think everyone adored her really, but her refusal to conform made everyone a little on the left side of center. I liked her a lot. Every time I saw her in the family setting I could hear the familiar melody of “How do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?” streaming through invisible speakers that popped themselves into the corners of the air.

One day, I saw her in Boston when my then husband and I went to visit her fine daughter. It was one of those warm spring days that Bostonians are eternally grateful for. She had come to visit her daughter to welcome a newly arrived baby and the recently a purchased home that usually comes along with new babies. My husband and I walked through the entrance to the big, new house and offered all the usual “oohs and ahh’s” to the proud homeowners, as expected.

“Where’s Aunt Gert” I piped happily, anticipating a good “this is how it is” conversation with her. The daughter pointed through the kitchen window to the second story porch and shook her head gravely. I gazed through the window and saw her standing off to the side, in the warm sunshine. Familiar swirls of smoke drifted up into the rays of sun that shone down on her. She looked skinny. Like a skinny, minnie, minnie she stood there… smoking…feet firmly planted on the long boards of the porch, like a tree who knew all the tales of the forest and exactly where her roots were planted. I was struck by her image for a moment. Her frailty seemed counterbalanced by some mysterious inner strength as if she held a secret. She was in deep thought, her gaze intensely focused downward, pondering the floor boards or perhaps the nature of the wood. Simultaneously, there was a ricochet action to her gaze, like a double headed arrow. It seemed to penetrate back into the inner dwellings of her being into some unknown, fiercely private place that no one could reach but her. I tapped gingerly at the glass of the shiny, kitchen window with my fingers. Her head rose as the sound pulled her from her inner abyss and drew her back into now. Our faces lit in recognition and she motioned towards the door for me to join her.

“Hi! How are you!” I bubbled as I walked through the entrance way to embrace her little football body. I felt comforted by her firm stance but noticed something unusual. I felt a weird bone sticking out of her back and a little nugget of worry shifted inside my own abyss.

“I’m good, I’m good.” She offered, as she pulled the cigarette to her mouth and sucked in a long drag. Her gaze shifted away from mine almost instantly and it become perfectly clear there was an elephant in the room and we were both going to dance around it with pleasantries and everyday conversation.

“You lost weight.” I busted out, anxious to state the obvious so we could get on with it.

“Yeah, I have.” She sighed, as if she’d had this conversation a thousand times over the last little while and wanted to get on with it too. The air hung still between us for a moment.

“So, you have a new granddaughter, your first! You must be so excited!” I ruffled through my purse to find my cigarettes and lighter. I didn’t want to do this little pleasantry play with her. I wanted to shout, “You don’t look good, Aunt Gert! I can see that you’re sick! What’s up with that?” But I remained silent and quietly waited for her response as I focused on the tendrils of smoke that rose from my cigarette tip and danced towards the sun.

Aunt Gert could make it perfectly clear when she was willing to discuss something with you and when she was not. Like magic, through some invisible ink, she could make clear all sort of things about how you should be with her. She did this by her mere presence alone. Her demeanor made this clear to me now, so I took a deep breath and tried to find ways we could connect under the surface of our words. I pulled a cigarette from my purse, placed it between my lips and flicked the lighter. We pulled our smoke together and she handed me the ashtray.

“Yes. Yes I do. I have a new baby granddaughter.” she said. We were finding our rhythm now in the mundane play, and we both settled in. We went on for a while like that, there on the porch. Smoked a bit, did our chat. Eventually our ritual flowed to a natural close. We pushed our butts into the ashtray and made our way through the kitchen door to join the rest of the world.

I was always grateful for my clandestine meetings with Aunt Gert at family gatherings. Two smoking loners, politically unacceptable, feet firmly planted, finding a reprieve in each other from the maddeningly boring world that lived outside the doors we stood next to.

I remember feeling glad for Aunt Gert, that she stuck around to usher her granddaughter, daughter to her only daughter, into the world. She died a few months later, quickly and without any fuss. She refused to seek treatment from the traditional medical world during her apparent illness. I never did hear an accurate diagnosis for her death as she refused to let anyone label her in life and I suppose she was never going to allow that in death. I think I did hear that eventually she was given some meds for the pain in the last weeks of her life. I believe she smoked right up until the very end. Her family pleaded and urged her frantically to get care as she withered away. Her daughter grew furious with her, as any daughter would, for not taking care of herself and not sticking around longer to meet her eventual second grandchild. And I suppose if I had been in the daughters her shoes, I would have wanted to shake some sense into her too. But in some secret way I always admired Aunt Gert. She did her death her way and her terms and I respected that.

Aunt Gert did it all on her terms with no excuses or justification to anyone. She lived a life. Maybe she lived it the hard way but she lived it. At least that’s how I imagine it. She was a single mom at a time when single mothers were not what was expected of women and were predominantly unsupported by most of the society. She put years and years into a job at a huge corporate company and retired when they said she should. She got up every morning and raised that little girl. She stood quietly smoking outside on the back porch at family gatherings and listened to all the happy chatter of the engagements of new couples and celebrations of the long lived marriages of old ones. She held babies, in her own gruff, “so cute” sort of way, and always gave a hand in the kitchen, taking her place among the other coupled women, to prepare the food for the family meals. Her private, soulful eyes and searching ears took it all in from the many doorways to patios porches, garages and backdoor stoops. She took in all growing up that families endure. She held firm as the family unit morphed and morphed again through marriages, divorces, deaths and births. The extended family did not exactly wrap themselves around her, for that was not their way, but they appreciated her quiet presence I’m sure. She was not the grand matriarch and received none of the glory from that thrown, which was occupied for more noble married women. No, she was a sort of a mysterious figure standing by the door in the most beautiful, fortified way.

For me she was a presence. I never felt the stress of itchy small talk or had to worry if my hem was straight with her. When I needed a quick escape from the often tiresome, relentless commonalities of extended family, I would slip out the back door and find her there, handing me the butt can. We would smoke, wordlessly sometimes, and take in the soft sounds of nature around us. We were both silently grateful for the unwritten agreement that there would be no formal pleasantries out there in the smoking section.

The good thing about smoking is that to partake, you are forced into nature because that is the acceptable place in most homes nowadays. As I slipped through the door, she would greet me, ask me if I needed a light and we would take the stances of our familiar dance. Once we were lit up, we’d both sort of sigh, plant our feet side by side, rest our bodies in chairs or against the edges of houses and gaze into the world beyond. We stood together smoking at all sorts of homes and establishments and in all sorts of weather over the years. There were spring days when we would gaze into the carefully groomed yards and casually remark on the warm breeze or spot some tulip pushing its arms through the wet earth. There were windy days when we would have to huddle over the lighter flame, in turn, until we were both appropriate lit. There were days of great snows when we would bundle up for a quick one and then rush into to warm house, like to robbers returning from a hoist. And there were cool autumn afternoons when we would have to brush the falling leaves away so we could get into position. None-the-less, like the postman; rain, shine, wind, sleet or snow, there we could be found, the two of us and the butt can with the sounds of happy extended family voices drifting through the nearby doors or windows. We both knew what we had out there together: two lonely smokers, getting a quiet reprieve in each other, in our own way.

I will never forget her, my in-law, adopted Aunt Gert. She symbolized for me the great resolve and sturdy determination of women who have seen too much but have learned to plant their feet firmly in the ground so that the wind could never blow them over. She had a tether inside to herself and I respected that. She may not have had tons of friends or cads of acquaintances but life had insisted that she find herself in the deepest of ways. She accepted you fully no matter who you were and refused to let judgment, opinions and labels deter her from her seat. She was a force in my eyes. I will always be grateful for the many lights she offered me and the way she never expected me to engage in trivial conversation but offered a deeper, silent connection instead. The threads of our reaching towards each other danced under the surface of our comments and gazes into nature and moved me in the deepest, most unpredictable of ways.

Today I see her, grinding her last butt into the ashtray and making her way through the doors into the warm house. If I could, I would build her a big thrown and sit her right up there on it. I’d make a soft platform so her short legs wouldn’t dangle in the air and she could rest her feet. I would sit down at her feet and give her all the glory she so graciously side stepped in her life, to the more worthy and noble. I would tell her all about the things she gave me as a woman and now single mother myself. I would tell her that I respect that she knew when her time was done and that I understood that she knew when she had had enough of it all already. I would take her little football body and give her big embrace. I would make her take it in for a moment, even if she struggled. I’d push past all the hard walls and heavy exteriors her life had insisted upon and tell her that… I saw her too. I’d tell her that I was in on her little secret and that I could really ‘see’ her, whether she liked it or not. I’d tell her I could see her, I respected her and thank her for all she had given me to carry on all these years later. I would tell her that labels aren’t really that useful and only serve to bolster the labeler. I would tell her that I think her life was indescribably noble and that I know, beyond a shadow if a doubt that her young granddaughters carry her firm stance and sturdy roots, in their bones. I’d make sure she hears me when I tell her that she wasn’t really alone and that all along we were holding hands under the surface, out there in the smoking section. I would tell Aunt Gert all of this, and then, I am completely certain, we would light up a smoke.

6 Year Old Son in Blue Jeans

2010-02-23T04:23:00.000-05:00

He comes, my son,
across the room,
in old blue jeans
with 6 year old curls.

Tongue eagerly
searching the pockets,
of two front teeth,
seeking their ancient occupants.

His lilting voice
trips across the air,
and lands,
insides my ‘mothers’ ears.

Instantly weaving
their way
into my consciousness,
alighting the old tune.

A question places
itself between us.
I pause at the crest,
before I answer.

Certain
I will go to him,
to join the melody,
we’ve practiced
for so long.

In these Days of Glory

2010-02-10T07:03:00.000-05:00

I signed your contract
Right off the med line.
Anything for you, I said I’d do.

Show me how, I’ll mark it twice.
Show me where, I’ll roll the dice.
Take me to edges, I’ll hang on ledges.
I’ll give it all to you,
for a moment in your Grace.
I never thought, I never thought.

At the bottom of the bucket,
What’s left to give?
At the end of the road,
What’s left to live?

I signed your contract,
Right off the med line.
How long is the road?
How much is the load?
In these days of glory?

A Mothers's Morning

2010-02-09T18:33:00.000-05:00

A mother moves about the silent house

and under the stairs.

The kids are on the bus,
counting their pencils.

Echoes reverberate off porous walls,
as the sound of her children’s voices
seep through the plaster,
and set themselves into the records of her soul.

Will I always remember who I am
when you are gone?

Was I here before you arrived?

She plunges her hands,
into warm, soapy water,

to wash the morning dishes.

Falling off the Shelf

2010-02-07T23:48:00.000-05:00

From the shelf,

books tumbled with teachers,

praying in the pews.

Philosophy came apart,

and grammar from grade school,

burst open.

I had to give away my library,

and clean up.

When the floor grew shiny,

I could only see music

in my reflection.

From the Bottom of the Well

2010-02-04T00:10:00.000-05:00

There is no up
or down
or out.

There are walls of cold, wet bricks
and the sound of droplets
one by one
plunking on the surface
of the still pot in which you dwell.

The air is still.
You can hear your breath
echoing
in the emptiness.
You dare not speak,
as if the sounds
will break open
your frozen ears.

You gaze into the light above
and wonder
from where you came
and where you are going
while you dwell
in the bottom of the well.

Warriors and Angels, Mothers and Sons

2010-02-03T16:22:00.000-05:00

I've been a mother of three for nine years now. You'd think I would have the hang of it by now. It’s 9PM, two in bed, one to go. Curled into a ball, tears spilling from my eyes, I lied next to my six year old son, as I did every night, and told him not to be afraid.

"Of what?" he seemed genuinely surprised, but unusually quiet.

"Of a mother who cries all the time." I murmured, as I stifled little catches in my throat, like an old outboard with a broken choke, sputtering across a lake, embarrassed to be seen amongst the more worthy craft.

We laid there a few minutes in the dark. His meek body seemed so vulnerable. I tried to do motherly things, kiss his head, fluff his pillow, pull the covers up over his shoulders.

He was reaching for me, I sensed; the mom he used to know. The one who read books every night, invented special signs only we knew, memorized the lines of his favorite movies and sang special songs. The one who could make him laugh.

I laid my hand on him. I knew mothers should do this; offer comfort somehow. My hand settled into the shape of his hip. The bone there was distinct, yet delicate, beautifully curved and filled with space. Living, breathing space, it seemed to me. Space filled with a living breathing life force, which I was somehow, partially responsible for bringing into this world. He sighed slightly at my touch, settled. I could sense the rise and fall of his ribcage and chest as he rode his breath.

Simultaneously, I felt myself rising in exaltation of having the esteemed honor and complete privilege of being chosen to be the sole female on the planet to have birthed and then assigned watch over this magnificent collection of breath, bones and undeniable life. At exactly the same time, plunging straight into the depths of my heart, was an arrow of recognition that I could never, ever, have enough grace in my gaze to reflect back the rays of illumination that shined so brilliantly from his gentle soul.

I wiped tears from my face as I padded across the bedroom, and wondered if warriors ever grew wings or angels learned to fight.

The Plants will Teach You Everything!

2010-02-03T09:23:00.000-05:00

“The plants will teach you of everything” she whispered.

If you listen with ears of tenderness,
and eyes sentimental,

They will tell you stories,
of all the ways you can be free.

Their voices lift, together in song for each ray of sun that warms their backs,
and bow humbly to the drops of rain that seep into their roots.

At night, they tell secret stories to each other of the prizes of the day,
and play quiet symphonies under the silvery rays of mother moon.

The wind tickles their leaves into dance,
as they giggle in flight.

When the sun slips behind the curtain,
they lay their soft petals down,
sure they are safe.

Each morn’ they rise with laughter in their hearts,
for the breaking of the dawn,

And bow their heads,
to the grace of twilight.

They stand firm and noble for the passerby’s,
and let snowflakes dangle on their arms.

They grow up and down and gracefully offer their leaves,
to the forest floor, certain they can trust
all that they are.

Sometimes they softly weep together,
for the gentle way the soft earth holds their toes.

You can learn their hidden language,
in the silent spaces of the forest.

Make Room for the Wind

2010-02-02T11:24:00.000-05:00

Have you left a crack,

in all that you believe?

So slippery women,

can drift into your dreams?

When you gathered your army,

did you tell them all the news?

Have your full breaths

been measured in rows of numbers,

marching up the wall?

Trees will line the forests,

to teach you not to fall.

Sturdy branches swaying

in Her soundless, windless call.

Did you make room in your mind

for the wind today?

My Pedestal

2010-02-01T23:08:00.000-05:00

I impress myself
with cleverness,
ends justify the means.

Seed sprout forth
from my wise words,
I water with my smile.

I paint pictures
fair and gold,
struck by my pretty pen.

I scribe fine stories
far an old,
with imagery and led.

I mastermind
a master plan,
so they can be set free.

Did I forsake
the human soul,
lying in its bed?

I wonder
every now and then,
if hearts can really meet?

Inside the
brilliant words I say,
impressed upon my seat.

The Art of Teaching

2010-01-31T15:00:00.000-05:00

I’ve been contemplating the art of teaching. I myself have taught various movement arts, including yoga, fitness and dance for over 24 years. I am also a student of these disciplines. I’ve attended countless seminars, workshops, retreats and schools in my disciplines of choice. I’ve read books, magazines, traditional texts, and online snippets in an effort to deepen my knowledge and refine my teaching skills. I’ve noticed that some teachers, authors and dancers resonate strongly and drive their point home with efficiently and authenticity. Others seem to fall flat.

Spotting a Good Teacher:
You can recognize gifted teachers immediately. For one, they seem to choose their words carefully. Their sentences spring forth like arrows that land squarely in the heart of each student. It’s apparent when you have been with a good teacher because you feel inexplicitly changed in some way. Good teachers have a strange way of following you home. Even after you finish the book, place the CD in its case or pass through the exit doors of the seminar they stay in your head and continue to teach. As you practice your art, their words often stream back into your consciousness and help you to refine your understanding of the art form and unravel layers of meaning.

Authentic Teaching:
Second, good teachers have authenticity. They are able to shift their voice inflection and volume and offer gestures and pauses to convey to the student the truth inside their words. They are often able to offer authentic connection with their audience by revealing their own experience with the body of knowledge they are teaching. One of my favorite yoga teachers often said “Everything flows nicely as long as you teach only what you know.” You can detect when a teacher is teaching something they have not experienced for themselves. Their teaching will be unable to directly connect with the student and it will lose its ability to move them. It seems to me that if you have not experienced something directly, it is still theory to you and you have no business teaching it.

Authentic teaching does not only come through words. I teach a style of dance that has no verbal cuing whatsoever. The teacher must be able to convey the seeds of truth nonverbally through their own direct experience of the piece. The student must rely on their inner instincts and cultivate keen observation and listening skills to uncover the silent kernel of truth in the dance. They are required to detect subtle changes in movement and musical cadence. A perceptive student will listen for the entry and exit of instruments and watch the instructor carefully to identify the intention and flavor behind the movements and sound. If the student pays attention and the teacher is authentic, the process will strike a chord within the student and enkindle their inner rhythmic flame. Soon the student will learn to listen inwardly and outwardly. They will allow the music to move them and discover their unique expression of the dance. Once this process takes place the student and teacher roles dissipate and they are truly able to dance together within a single rhythmic flame.

Good Teachers Tell Stories:
Third, good teachers tell good stories. Stories are an excellent way to drive home a point and are excellent transportation vehicles for authentic truth. The ancient disciplines of yoga, Ayurveda and dance abound with good stories. They have been recited, scribed and danced for thousands of years and convey many layers of meaning. A good teacher will have a few of those to offer you.
Some teachers choose to share personal stories from their life experience. This can be extremely effective and allows the teacher to connect to the student on a profound level. It can create honor, respect and reverence between student and teacher. The student may recognize themselves in the teacher’s “humanness”. The process gently lifts the teacher down off the teaching pedestal the student may have placed him on (or the one he hopped on to all by himself!), and raises the student to a level where they can see eye to eye. It creates a doorway for the two in which information can be shared without the pretense of “I know more than you or you know less than me”. Some of the most important information I ever learned came from my students.

Good Teachers Enkindle a Student’s Inner Fire:
So, good teachers teach what they know. Whatever their medium; speech, the written word, soundless movement or music, they ring through as authentic carriers of wisdom. They have reverence for their students and their chosen disciplines. They convey good stories and send them like arrows to stir the heart of the student. They offer themselves to the student selflessly. Good teachers stay in your head and follow you home. Finally, really good teachers enkindle a flame within the student’s innate intelligence; knowledge is illuminated and transformed into wisdom so that the student may shine forth brilliantly.

Walking From the Game

2010-01-30T03:01:00.000-05:00

I stepped into your world,

and walked back out again.

Took in all the scenery,

then left it on a whim.

I shuffled all the cards,

dealt a hand for you.

I sat down at your table,

and played the game I knew.

Collected all the poker chips,

all shiny, bright and new.

Strategized my gaming plan,

called my move on cue.

I pierced the eyes of those who played,

made them look away.

I crawled beneath the tables,

thought they’d never stay.

I went to all the dances,

primly took the hands that led.

Practiced all the footwork,

layered deep into my head.

I memorized the melodies,

that drifted through my mind.

And washed away residuals,

they always left behind.

I begged for pomp and circumstance,

then gave it back to you.

I walked into a lonely room,

if only for the view.

Can’t give you all you’ll ever want,

have nothing left to give.

So leave me here so I can find,

a life that I can live.

Whoe Will Carry the Lines?

2010-01-29T03:00:00.000-05:00

Who will carry on,
the lines that weave
their threads
in and out
of the ages?

Who will utter
the sounds that encase
hidden wisdom
beneath their wings?

Who will draw the threads
of yesterday
into tomorrow?

So that throngs of
faces line the streets
to applaud the passing
parade?

A Slow Dawn Creeps into the Morning

2010-01-28T11:48:00.000-05:00

I wept today
under the stars,
in between the rules.

My tears fell through the cracks,
I saw people that I knew
beneath the stairs.

I used to know how to reach them
under there.

I would thread familiar heart strings,
they would recognize.

We became human together.

Now aliens rein.
A slow dawn creeps its awkward rise,
into the morning.

I miss the simple summer sunrise,
when everything was bright.

And faces lit in instant recognition
of themselves,
in mirrors that I drew.

What happened to authentic sentiments
of the unique artist
in conversation?

Small Soldiers, Big War

2010-01-26T18:24:00.000-05:00

Your strategies are steely strong
thrusting you forward with conviction.

You look so bold and beautiful
on your high perch of sound bites.

You rise in elegance of
melodious words and clever punctuation.

Your round mind celebrates
its eloquence and pomp

Every soldier knows his war
like a best friend.

Grace is sitting along your side
leaning into your battle.

She wonders if there is space
for Her to seep into your heart today

And beckons soldiers to lay their bodies down
For rest.

I crawled through a hole today
and listened to her song

She weeps for marching armies
trailing their projectory
as if only she could catch up.

She asks not for courage of Kings
Or the joke of a jester.

She pays no mind to the brilliance of scientists
and the might of a showgirl.

She is little and large
and singing her sweet songs everywhere

She dances with small children
in fields of daffodils

And plays under the setting sun
in layers if orange and gold.

She leaps in the edges of stars
careful not to burn her fingers on their sharp edges.

She is under the earth sniffing the moist soil
cajoling the plants to take their places.

She’ out with the puppies and in with the trees
and never takes no for an answer.

She wonders if your small war
has left spaces for her to seep through.

She sits waiting patiently
leaning up against your edges.

To see if they yield
to her everlasting song.

"Martial Artists' in a Kidney"

2010-01-26T13:22:00.000-05:00

I dreamed you were Israel

shaped like a kidney.

Two misshapen ovals,

striving to become into one.

I roamed backwards,

remembered our dance.

Smelled the smoke drifting off our skin.

A s it rose in alms through the whole in the top of the dome

and spread into the heavens.

Razor steadiness in our eyes,

like we had practiced forever.

There was such beauty in our strokes.

Tendrils of spaciousness trailing the path of our limbs.

Bodies moving outside the perimeter of time.

The second hand paused on its way by.

I remembered our reverence

of old art and ancestors.

Unwavering gaze

kept us rooted.

Was there something bigger

Holding us?

Do circles really have edges?

Or was it just a dream?

I remembered you like you were Israel.

Two misshapen ovals

Blending into one.

When Everything was Whole

2010-01-26T11:11:00.000-05:00

A lifetime fills itself
with cleaning supplies.

Cracked, dry hands,
glue broken pieces back together.

Heaving grunts puff from lips,
staccato in a row.

An Earthsong calls the flesh of the face towards it,
Hanging over bones and beckoning rest.

A weary glance captures broken things
lying in the corner.

Ears weep for the silence of the beginning
when everything was whole.

The Small Soldier

2010-01-23T18:13:00.000-05:00

Oh! The arrogance of those

who take the burning embers for their own.

The soldiers on the streets

who choose the wars from narrow lists.

Destiny will ring her bell

to shake them off fragile ladders

born of small minds

and clumsy kindling.

the righteous always chart

the clearest of paths,

to find shadows creeping in the hallways.

Conviction seals the doors

of the bravest of men

as they burn themselves up

in Glory.

Suzanne's Biography

2010-01-09T16:51:00.000-05:00

Suzanne Wells is an author, certified instructor of Yoga, Pilates, Zumba, and an Ayurveda Consultant. She offers workshops and publications through her company Harmonic Earth, LLC. Her teachings aim to seat the seeds of wisdom deep in the heart of students, so they may shine forth brilliantly.
She can be found at dawn ushering the sun over the horizon in song. Her book lies floating in pieces in the internet clouds and can be read on her blog: RoundEarthSquarePeople.

She is featured in the book: Zumba®: Ditch the Workout, Join the Party! The Zumba Weight Loss Program (Hardcover): Beto Perez (Author), Maggie Greenwood-Robinson (Author) and featured with "Expert Author Status" for eZine and writes for numerous online publications. She has extensive experience writing marketing content for the holistic health, yoga and fitness industries.

Suzanne has over 24 years experience teaching movement arts. She began teaching in 1984 while completing a bachelor’s degree in Finance and Marketing at Northeastern University in Boston. In 1985 she traveled extensively through Western Europe which set the ground for her interest in indigenous culture. She has studied the wisdom of Native American and shamanic cultures, yoga in the Kripalu, Astanga and Shadow schools and invested 11 years in a highly successful sales career with Xerox Corporation. In 1995 she embarked on a 6 month pilgrimage to Egypt, Israel and Europe to study the female expression of the Divine in ancient culture. In 1996, she decided to teach yoga and dance full time. After birthing 3 children and 10 years teaching, she was sought deeper meaning in her practice and a way to live yoga "off the mat". Her search for the expression of divinity within everyday life brought her to the study of Ayurveda (the medical branch and sister science of yoga). She graduated from the Kriplau School of Ayurveda in 2009.

She has served students in several states over the last 25 years in the cities of Boston, Atlanta, Seattle, Cleveland and New York where she lives with her 3 children, a dog, a cat, 3 hermit crabs and 3 parakeets. She continues to deepen her study of pranic reverence and the sacred feminine and remains humbled at the feet of those who have had the courage and grace to walk this path before her. Special gratitude goes to the many, many unseen teachers who touch our hearts and teach our souls to sing.

Suzanne's Writing Resume and Credits

2010-01-08T18:33:00.000-05:00

see http://harmonicearth.org for complete resume and links to publications

PRINT ARTICLES:

• “Chores Music and Mothers” - Creations Magazine, April/May 2010. First person, inspirational piece on mothering, music and spirituality. Creations Magazine has served the holistic minded, health conscious, spiritually centered, creative communities for over 24 years in New York City and Long Island, with a circulation of 42,000 and total readership of 150,000 including web.

BOOKS:

•Interviewed and quoted in Zumba®: Ditch the Workout, Join the Party! The Zumba Weight Loss Program (Hardcover)~ by Beto Perez (Author), Maggie Greenwood-Robinson (Author), p.66

BLOGS:

•http://www.RoundEarthSquarePeople.blogspot.com- a self published blog for the Holistic Health community and practitioners of Yoga and Ayurveda. Includes original articles, links, educational material, poetry and pieces of a book in progress.

ONLINE WRITING –For Others

BLOGS:

www.Whatsittake.com, articles posted

ONLINE CONTENT SITES:

•    EzineArticles.com: Expert Author’s Status
•    CopyPasteArticles.com
•    ArticleContentDirectory.com
•    ArticleCoop.com
•    ArticleOnlineDirectory.com
•    ArticleBase.com
•    WhatsItTake.com
•    Article Pro.com

PUBLISHED ARTICLES:

“Financial Contentment through the Practice of Yoga”
"Creating Warmth in winter through Yoga and Ayurveda”
“New Year's Eve - In Just a Minute”
“Digital Angst in a Technological World”
“A Mothers First Christmas Alone”
“The Art of Teaching”
“Warriors and Angels, Mothers and Sons"

ONLINE WRITING –For Self

• www.HarmonicEarth.org: since 2005. Self published business website which includes marketing pieces, educational publications, biography and links.

MARKETING / BUSINESS WRITING

•   Harmonic Earth, LLC: BS in Marketing and Finance from Northeastern University, writer, 24 years + of a wide variety marketing material for Harmonic Earth, LLC including , complete business plan, product development, marketing content, newsletters, marketing letters, internet marketing concepts, product marketing concepts, direct mail pieces and workshop marketing content.

REFERENCES

•Excellent references on request.

Contentment in a Material World through the Practice of Yoga

2010-01-05T14:50:00.000-05:00

The recent financial climate in the country has brought a need to conserve in many families, mine included. As a long time yoga practitioner, I have been applying the practice of Aparigraha (non-greed). This is one of the Yamas or personal practices recommended in The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, a foundational text of Yoga. The Five Yamas are considered external disciplines as they relate to how we ‘yoke’ to the world. Aparigraha can also be translated as “not taking more than you need”. It is it a good practice and well worth modeling for our children, families and loved ones.

I’d like to say that I had a profound spiritual compulsion to start practicing Aparigraha in order to become a better teacher, yogi and world citizen; but that would violate ‘Satya’ - another Yama that translates as truthfulness. It was my profound inability to practice Aparigraha in the first place that most certainly got me into my current financial crisis. The yoga tradition has a magical way of giving the practitioner exactly what she needs.

Faced with financial hardship, it is easy to become afraid and start contracting. When we are afraid, nagging thoughts of “there is not enough” seep into our consciousness, then into our actions. We start protecting what we have and look for ways to get more. We may envy other people’s abundance and secretly wish it was ours. Fear brings contraction and contraction instantly stagnates flow.

Non-Greed and Contentment:
A better approach is to practice Aparigraha (non greed) in combination with another of Pantajali's recommended practices called Santosa. Santosa belongs to the group of 5 Niyamas or internal practices and can be translated as contentment. The Niyamas are said to guide our actions so they benefit all of life. This practice is one of expansion and helps make us feel full. It is a good for balancing Aparigraha (non-greed).Now the usual practices of gratitude and giving thanks for what you do have are fine examples of the practice of Santosa.

However, I have to tell you, this can be a stretch when you have lost everything, including your home, all its contents, a husband, a job, most of your community, your credit and pretty much everything else. This is where I’m coming from this year. You get tired of telling the kids we have no money for shoes or Christmas presents and they can’t play soccer or have a birthday party. You grow weary of standing on welfare and food stamp lines and visiting the labor department and divorce courts. Oh sure, you become grateful you have food to eat and for the churches who run “Adopt-a-Family” at Christmas. You feel blessed to have schools that secretly slip food baskets through the back door to the playground so as not to embarrass you and for kind neighbors who buy your kids shoes. And you’re eternally grateful that you live in a country that provides Health Care, job programs and basic civil rights unknown to so many world citizens. Yet fear kept clouding my perception and I didn’t exactly feel full or expansive. I’ve been on those welfare lines recently and have looked deeply into the eyes of the others standing there with me. Some seemed depleted and empty and definitely not content. I think they many of them are afraid too.

Four Aims of Life:
In Hinduism, the Purusarthas are the four main aims of life for a householder. They include mundane and spiritual aspects and represent a comprehensive approach to the satisfaction of a man's physical, emotional, and spiritual needs. From lowest to highest they are listed as 1. Dharma-righteousness or duty; 2. Artha-wealth; 3. Kama-sensual pleasure (in many forms) and 4. Moksha – liberation. I have been working really hard on refining my understanding Artha, the wealth aspect.

Abundance is Made to Flow:
It seems to me that in order to coax abundance into one’s life, a certain amount of trust is necessary. I once heard a saying that “fear is the lack of faith”. I have found it to be true. Faith doesn’t have to take on religious connotations; it can be a basic trust in some benevolent force out there that cares for even the tiniest of ants under the biggest of rocks. Or simple trust in the basic principles of energy will work. Wealth is an energy whose nature is to flow. If you contract around it in fear; it will stop flowing. If you move towards it with trust, it will be allowed to flow. It is good to have some wealth and spread it around too. Let it flow to and from you. Allow it to circulate so you can participate in the magnificent cosmic dance of it. Wish for others abundance and happily receive it when it flows your way.

Life Force in Everything:
The word Prana is often defined as Life Force or Chi. It animates the body and brings life to the world around us.It is a dancing, brilliant cosmic intelligence that allows things to shine brilliantly forth. It pulls us out of ourselves and insists on our bigness. The flow of Prana sings within you and asks you to shine your very brightest. You can recognize it everywhere. You can see it in the eyes of Veterans when they remove their caps for the playing of “God Bless America”. You can find it in good art that calls to you and in music that stirs you. It’s easy to see in puppies and babies and in children’s faces when they laugh. It can fill yoga poses and thread itself into musical notes. It is weaved into sunsets and apples and even in the tears that fall upon your chest in deep embrace.

As a yogi, I look for the Pranic expression in everything. Sometimes it’s hard to see and requires the careful awareness of a keen eye and sensitive ears. But if practice you will see it dancing in the corners and glittering off oceans and within rocks and food and even in the eyes of those you are angry with. The thing about Prana is that is connects as all in some way. You can feel it during a yoga session or during the 4th of July parade. You can see it at museums when people take in a really good piece of art or in the face of someone listening to precisely the right piece of music at the right time. Prana itself orchestrates a divine dance in which all dancers are asked to allow the very best of them to radiate forth. Sharpening your discrimination in order to experience prana inspires your fellow dancers to do the same. There is no reason for the dance, no need to earn it or be good at it or be anything different than what you already are. You are simply invited to join the dance for the sheer joy of dancing within Prana herself.

Liking Nice Things:
The thing with my financial dilemma is I like nice things; handmade things, good pieces of art and carefully crafted clothing. I like good organic food and 100% cotton sheets. To my eye, they have more Prana in them, as if the artist, musician or farmer added some of his light into the thing and made it bigger, more full somehow. Having these things in my life, being with them, gazing at them, tasting them, touching them, listening to them, seems to call me to shine forth a little bit brighter. They stir the Prana in me so my humanity feels fuller, shinier, and expansive. Witnessing their pranic expression helps me to feel connected and in union with something bigger than me. The word yoga itself means union and as a practicing yogi it gives me a way to live my yoga.

A life full of particle board furniture and plastic dishes can get to you after a while, deplete you, make you feel small and lonely. This isn’t to say I’m irresponsible. I have hard-won from failing to practice Aparigraha and Santosa. Practicing yoga has allowed me the ability to understand that I don’t really own anything. It’s all part of one big, fluid pranic pie .I don’t need these things to define myself or provide sense gratification anymore. I have begun to cultivate deep gratitude for their fullness. I have a deep appreciation for the way they make me smile inside and fill me with admiration and reverence for the effulgent force of Prana. I feel instantly grateful to the artist, handcrafter or farmer who made the brave effort to bring the thing to creation. I can feel the artists light in his carefully crafted words and within the notes of a beautiful song. I notice in the love a carpenter offers the wood or in the reverence a seamstress gives her materail. I relate with their art and feel a sense of connection to all who have experienced them. I become full, overflowing and spilling from my edges. Living life in this way helps me to move beyond myself and inspires a generous spirit within me. The experience brings effortless practice of Aparigraha and Santosa in a way that fear and contraction could never achieve.

Promise Yourself Flow:
I made a promise to myself and my children this year: when we are able, I am going to find some of those people that were on the welfare lines with us with fear in their eyes. I’m not going to get them something practical like canned goods or new shoes. I’m not even going to get those 100% Egyptian cotton sheets or a finely crafted piece of furniture because that but that would be my dream. No, I’m going to ask them to pick one thing they would really love to have, something beautiful and full. Something that they would never buy themselves because they feel it’s too much, they can’t afford or they don’t deserve it. I’m going to ask them to pick something that stirs them inside, something that makes them feel full and alive and brings life back into their eyes. I’ll ask them to think of something that calls them forth to shine brilliantly whenever their ears, eyes, hands, nose or tongue lights upon it. I’m going to insist on their bigness for one day and then I’m taking them shopping.

Gurus in Heaven

2009-12-24T13:48:00.000-05:00

If I fly up to heaven to meet you.
All the saints will trumpet their horns.

I go there to find silence.
You still the winds and make the forests quiet.

If I bow before you and lay my lips to your feet,
You gently lie your hands upon my crown.

If I offer you diamonds and gold and all the treasures of the world,
You set your smile softly upon my face and tell me there is nothing to fear.

Vines on Trees

2009-10-27T08:40:00.000-04:00

She takes me back, every time.
She pulls me right across the line.
She moves me over from the cracks,
She picks me up and then unpacks.
I rushed to Her for loves embrace,
then push Her back , escaping Grace.
This dance we do, moves on and on,
never meant to stop the songs.

I could never let you go somehow,
forever locked inside you now.
Our rest will come between the notes,
a place we’ll go to jump the moat.
This picture has me inside its frame,

eternity never has a name.

Vines that wind around the trees,
Flowers always call the bees.
My blood has changed since I breathed you,
blades of grass bend to the dew.
Forms that flood into my eyes,
come postage stamped from your side.

Among the changing tides and days,
we’re intertwined between the rays.
My world view irrevocably changed,
nothing ever stays the same.
But you.

She Never Asks for Anything

2009-10-25T18:10:00.001-04:00

Just be

who you are going

to be.

Just live

the way you are.

Just sing

the songs you can sing

and dance

the way you do.

Take from me

the sunsets,

Sunrise

lifts the sky.

And when your lids

lay on your eyes

I will be there

Watching.

Definition of Effulgence

2009-10-05T20:10:00.000-04:00

Effulgence:

"to shine forth; radiance"

-I think this describes the kids in our lives who sing the songs no one else is singing.

Definition of sadness

2009-10-05T19:59:00.000-04:00

Sadness:

"The transfer of a person from a large perfection to a smaller one."

as defined by The philosopher Baruch Spinoza

"The Waters"

2009-08-31T00:08:00.000-04:00

The Moon romances
the swell
of Her waves.

She laps
at the shore
stroking
the sand.

"Hello again",
she sings quietly
in the night.

Stars glimmer.

Witness
to the flow of Her
rolling skin.

She is happy to be
clear.

Remembers

Her song.
Again.

2009-08-30T10:17:00.000-04:00

"Stars"

Stars hang
on little threads.
Opening the sky
so I will have
a place to go
when I bump
into the
square corners
of the earth.

8:30 by Lilly McGrath (my 9 year old daughter)

2009-06-10T21:31:00.000-04:00

At 8:30 at night
diamonds twinkle.
hues are placed into the night sky
At 8:30 at night.

At 8:30 at night
the last song of the day comes on.
when the night birds sing
and the crickets dance
while the fireflies spotlight
At 8:30 at night

At 8:30 at night
I watch the sunset hues go down
At 8:30 at night.

When Your Mother Cries

2009-06-09T15:33:00.000-04:00

Today it rained in sheets of glass.
I thought you could see
in between
the drops?

Lakes enveloped intersections.
Rivers claimed the streets.

Her eager mouth drinks
self made tears.

It comes as if
of Heaven.

And when her thirst is satiated,
there is nothing,
and everything,

in Her fullness.

What You Learn

2009-06-08T20:56:00.000-04:00

When I left my husband last year, I took my 3 kids and drove from Ohio to New York. I was homeless, jobless, single, a little scared... but hopeful. We found shelter in my 80 year old parents basement in an upscale suburb of Long Island.

At the time I thought " this will be good", I'll take a year and learn. I'll learn all sorts of stuff. I'll learn about myself and my parents. I'll learn about my kids and how to rest a little. I'll get out the rat race, figure out how to finally do this right.

Almost a year later, and I've learned alright. Just a whole bunch of stuff I never wanted to learn. Stuff I'm not even sure if I should've learned. But I have it down now.
Here's some of the stuff I learned so far:

Always take a book when you get on the welfare line, the wait is endless.
The sounds and movements of Time Square can soothe suburban nerves.
Basements have a lot of spiders and even 6 year old boys get terrified.
In 50 years, you can accumulate a lot of pens that don't write.
Sometimes "old friends" turn out to be an illusion.
In the suburbs, people can't see past the end of their own driveways.
When you are married 52 years, you know your partners signature by heart.
You can grow up on Long Island and still not know which bridge actually gets you home from Manhattan.
Even 46 year old girls want their Dads to stick up for them.
The people in front and behind you on the food stamps line knows a hellava lot more about how to get food stamps than the ones who take your papers.
Even kids like a good fire in the middle of winter.
On Wednesdays, a group of intense, slightly bored but acutely interested mothers, can spend over an hour discussing what color the kindergarten Halloween cupcakes should be.
You can cry everyday for a year and not be dehydrated
No matter how old you are, your mother can still get on your nerves.
Even little kids will sort and fold their own laundry if you yell loud enough.
Music is healing.
I don't know as much about God as I thought I did.
You can buy $1 pants if you find the right thrift store.
Its hard for mothers to hear their kids pain, they take it so personally.
Dogs can get a seizure disorder. (It costs $200 to learn this.)
Sunny days are the best ones.
Poor kids learn how to wait on lines really patiently, much better than rich ones.
Courts and Government offices can make me cry for no real reason.
The black guys hanging around the front doors of the welfare office, have the cleanest, whitest shirts.
There are actual "approved activities" one must perform in order to earn your food stamps.
There are sometimes really mean ladies who decide if your activity is an "approved one". She then has the power to sanction your benefits if you don't "comply".
People on the Long Island Railroad actually do "watch the gap".
With all the cover bands here, its truly miraculous that anything original ever sprouted off this Island of Long.
Grandmothers like to have dinner on time.
Pregnant parakeets have really large poop.
Parakeets like to fly and don't care where they poop, even if its on your couch.
Kids like to let birds fly free.
Tired, single mothers get really cranky when they have to clean crusty Parakeet poop off the couch.
Baby parakeets look like little old men.
I tunes can drive you mad.
You can be grateful for Steve Jobs.

In the end, you end up never end up learning what you think your gonna learn, but in some weird way, you know that's good.