Graces to Greed

The ganja ranches on Humboldt Hill spread across rolling lands towards the ocean of both fog and sea. Long corridors of Redwood trees barrel the sunlight into misty canopies as it seems almost eerie and uncertain to which way this long dark road will ultimately lead. I realize the more and more we venture down this long highway, the farther away I am getting from what is safe, stable, routine... I am truly on my own, as I have offered my love, light, and heart to an industry of auspiciousness. As the hills climb in elevation where marijuana operations fade from visibility of the winding highways, I have offered myself as a humble servant to the ganja mamas.
They perch, in gallon pots, with stems reaching as high as 10 feet. Their most prized beauties are bundles of joy and medicine tucked away in the folds of their leaves. Sparkled with silver fairy dust, crystals glistening in the sun, the buds were rich and abundant, dark green and purple, with pink hairs golden and gleaming, speckling the surface. The plants that yield fruit are the female plants of course, growing their buds bigger and frostier everyday to inspire the male plants to grow in close proximity for reproduction. This is ultimately their purpose. The more beautiful they become, the better their chances are at reproduction. Therefore, the byproduct of their life’s goal becomes our obsession. The ganja farmer constantly tends to the mamas, a humble servant, fueling their productivity, pumping them full of nutrients and building them up to be the most beautiful and most potent they can possibly afford. It’s as if he is almost tricking them into thinking they will reproduce. But the truth is, they will not. They yield their fruit to become the most beautiful they possibly could grow, and then the farmer deceives them, cuts them down, and sells them off to be consumed by our addictive nature to calm and ease our human pain. The farmer is such a unassuming mechanic, not realizing that maybe the intelligence of these highly advanced plants already understand they are not going to reproduce. Maybe the mamas are okay with it. They realize there is a need for the medicine of the world, to be a part of the human race, in a way that they can infiltrate the world and make it better. Only, at the end of the harvest, I saw an unprecedented and vicious nature between man and plants erupt. Just as the mamas were about to be pulled from the earth, they backlashed, and began to grow their male counterpart organs themselves. The mamas turned on us. They became hermaphrodites to protect their strain. The ganja farmer was mortified, as more than half his crop was wasted to their protective nature. Is it because we are so greedy to bring them to such a high place of production? Could they feel our deceit? Can we return to harmony with these plants or will we continue to mistreat their graces to our own greed?

Ganja Mamas

Larabee Butte road is tucked away upon the acres of mountainous terrain, masked by treacherous landslides and entrenched gulches. It’s practically impossible to get up to it without a rugged vehicle or an airlift. The acreage is coveted by hoop houses, and masked in the valleys of larger pines with locked gates and chains. Gun shots ring through the air throughout the daylight hours even though all of it is pretty much federally illegal. Everyone is kind of in this hush, hush state of consciousness, even though the whole country knows what’s going on up there. The cabin was filled with dust and mothballs. If I were to tip the cabin over, over a million dollars worth of weed would fall out. The corridors in the cabin were filled with trash and boxes, piles of papers, and ganja roaches littered the floor. Seven men and zero females, other than the mamas, inhabited this place. As the first lady to arrive, my work was cut out for me. Not only was I to trim as much weed as I possibly can, I also needed to find nurturing ways to love up these boys, for they had been working the fields since March. This time in September, the weather was just starting to change again so there was an opportunity for me to come in and help be the light. I started to cook, to clean, to massage, and to oversee the production within the domestic realms of this operation. And then, just like the mamas, I began to feel like the more beautiful I made the place, the more I was taken advantage of. The boys made me feel like I should have this much energy anyway, because I am a woman, that I could handle it, and more. I, too, back lashed. There were times I couldn't even look them in the face because I felt like they mistreated everything that couldn't be put into a pipe.

Guerilla Work Fare

I am licking mullein extract off my lips to shield my lungs of a massive influx of dust and marijuana that has taken over. Drink tea, netti pot, trim,, sneeze, drink some more tea, trim, trim, trim, smoke weed… so much weed. In my nostrils, in my lungs, in my head. Alas, I surrender, as the layers of the Madrone tree, laying down the earth and invoking the mountain spirit in. Just shed the layers. I noticed the frame created by the trees when I was sitting and working one day, I watched the leaves change color and fall to the earth completely reinstating my faith for being there. It’s funny how I came back to California, and ended up in a dusty situation once again, same time from last year.
I’m back in a similar place where my throat has closed up and the dust has taken a toll on me once again. I am taking long strides in the forest to shield myself from the Humboldt Hills’ mundane work day. In the morning’s early light, I take reprieve from the congregation of ganja trimmers and smokers’ overindulgences, just enough so that I can be certain. But even though I’m aware, the trimmers awake, and blaze blows and coffee until the sun is high in the sky and I just continue smoking copious amounts of weed to keep up with them. So many toilet paper roll sized joints passing through our fingers, no wonder why I’m yearning to find something to overcome the onslaught of mucus and spacey thoughts erupting in my head.
My hands are puffy and swollen with the cold mountain air. Tecate’ and jabs at the corn cob pipe filled with fresh buds comprised our daily breakfast. I sit forlorn to the beauty from beyond my ganja work station. I desire to experience the desert and the sea of California in yet again a more hands on way, rather than viewing it through this rose colored lens of heart-shaped window. My sights are like daydreams, as I must stick to the task at hand. I accept this opportunity I’ve been given even though I am imagining myself in another place. My work is to take care of myself right now. My art is to sculpt my mind, my body, and these precious little nuggets, into a beautiful and tight package for the world to openly accept. The money maker part of it relies on me doing it as fast as I can.

Try to fake it and get booted

In the past few years, I have visited a lot of places. I fully submerged into the alignment of that place.            

             I went to Hong Kong, and lights were always on. People were walking, talking, chatting, eating... all the time. Trendsetting revealed itself through new architecture, new clothes, new buildings, new trinkets, new everything. Skyscrapers truly defined the word skyscrapers. Street fairs and markets blasted the streets with characters and imaginations of the real 'Chinatown' became truth. Even with all the emphasis on being new and different, the culture homogenized through the adverse complexities of itself, by itself. Hong Kong's adaptations of the elite, advanced, and reprogrammed society of China circumnavigated its dreams of being 'individualized' back to operating in its archetypal ways.  I arrived with my eyes set high and dreams on the horizon, then soon quickly realized how my dreams have already been categorized. I just had to go to the Chun King Mansions building #7, floor 52, and find God in his office with a Macbook log database filing my hopes into a Chinese marketing firm. Not to say that people weren't living their dreams in Hong Kong, but it seemed that every friend, neighbor, foe already knows, everything. The only Chinese that are good at keeping secrets are the poltitians leading the country. After living there for one month, my body and my perspective assimilated. Participation is key in an environment where humanity is dependent on rhythm and connection. I recall seeing the traffic lights move like synaptic connections. A steady vein of lights and chatter polluted the air and streets. Although I loved the new movement that I was experiencing, I realized my body and perception swelled with the onslaught of such trends all around me.

When I moved to Hawaii, I talked 'story' and reinvented myself with every new place and face that I saw there, a complete reflection of me, myself, and I. I seemed to open my eyes and my heart more and more everyday to the tales of the islands. The native words, plants, and people generated a rich nectar inside me that I cultivated and buzzed about. I noticed my skin, my hair, my shape, my perspective in alignment with what was light and bright and colorful all around me. I felt like a true goddess, alighned with the abundance of the earth for the first time, first hand. I continually asked questions about how to continue to grow and change there, manifested quickly but also waited for changes patiently as I found myself often, pacing, waiting, and listening silently to the murmur of the sea. With a place so vibrant and indulgent, the history of how/why a person may end up there for an extended period in mind is the true gold of their experience. To witness the island so intimately, and to learn of the origination of such beauty is a blessing. It also made me contemplate the alchemical nature of the island. What parts of our past has put on their on such a small piece of land for that synchronistic amount of time? Why did we meet in such a place where our hearts continually pull in directions of the moon and sea? My life slowed down as I was becoming more of a witness, than a participant or a leader. Another pace of life that I was so grateful to understand, but in a way I also knew, deep down, that it wasn't the correct rhythm for me.

My sights and travels brought me to Portland, a complete antithesis of both Hong Kong and Hawaii. If there were two opposite spectrum ends, than Hong Kong would sit at the pot of gold and Hawaii would be the end of the rainbow. Portland, to me, is the tricky little leprechaun that makes all the magic happen. "Why the hell would you leave Maui for here!?" is usually the next immediate question I'm asked after, "So, where ya from?"

There are many reasons to leave and not to leave any place. I gauge it by how my body is changing and how my energy feels adapting. I don't think it's coincidental if I get nose bleeds or I'm sick all the time in a certain place. I conclude that place is not for me. Portland has allowed me to slim down and rev up. I'm tickled by the sights, sounds, and routes to take around this town. Everyday is a beautiful representation of the beautiful details I've see in life. In this town, I'm not the only one that sees it. There may be a certain groove or grain that is helpful to follow, but the more a person wants to carve their own path, the more adept to the city of Portland they become. How beautiful. This area is encouraging to be bold, to dare, to change. It is accepting of the essence of things. Well actually, when you try to fake it is when you get booted.

Dream Embers

    It's almost as if I couldn't deny him a night together, or then maybe what I experienced never existed. The logs in the fire cracked and shifted, and without any hesitation I turned my head and puckered my lips.

A portal of images flashed through my mind.  His mouth tasted of whiskey and lime juice. Hands were rough like sandpaper. Goosebumps coated my skin like protective armor to all the visceral sensations that were seeping through, and I felt closest than ever to my reflections of truth.

"Are you cold?" He stopped and said to me, as I noticed my fingertips were quivering on his cheeks.

How could I be. This fire burning between my heart and my stomach, a smoldering burst of energy and flesh surging from within me. I quickly turned back to look at the fire. The flames continued to dance in the same way I felt. My memories of us together were waltzing in my head. The prana from his lips, lingering on mine, seeping like raw honey,  a sweetness between us that reminded me how I am very much alive. And, maybe if I just hold onto him a little together, when the morning light rises above the horizon to wake us, he will still be here.

So, I laid my head down. And redreamt the scene, until I woke up again
.

Sharks

He moved away from Georgia to be irresponsible and free. He’s one of those guys you hear about back in high school thrown out of senior class for locker room vandalism. You often catch him running down the hall in an all-black hoodie laughing at the chubby high school security tripping over their toes behind him. He sneers and flashes a hoodwinked smile when he gets caught and scolded, laughing all the way to detention, and he winks at you when he’s walking by, and you always wonder his name…
On the beach on Kona side down makai, I met Evan at Hookena Sands. He was charming and good looking with wild blonde curly hair and no shirt on, most of the time. He sang his heart into guitar with a sexy swagger and embodied surf spirit, experiencing life just like his rides into the reef. I would jump in his orange truck as he reached behind his seat, grabbed a PBR, and bolted for the sea. We ran wild. He drove recklessly. We crashed waves, parties, camping spots. We worked on coffee farms, harvesting beans for 80 cents a pound, and selling mushrooms to hippies at the nude beach. We never knew how we were going to make money, but he somehow always had a beer to drink.
Satiated days began with a joint slapped to my fingers as he blew beer and weed into the waves of the ocean with intoxication. Sunshine swooned moments with Evan, as we fumbled through the hours of dusk and into the strange and mysterious nights. But then, truth came into the shadows and I realized this was yet again a path that would not yield certainty. A concourse in my life goes as follows:
1. Indulge irresponsible romance
2. Only come a bit shy of an ultimate orgasm
He adored me, and I him, more than we both could handle. .
I had to meet Evan because he is the most careless person I have ever known. Every day I seemed to kill him a little bit more when I stared deep into his bloodshot eyes. I wanted to see his eyes, soft and clear like the ocean. I found myself wishing for things that weren’t there. We were just having fun, but somehow my presence seemed to reflect the man that he wasn’t ready to be. We were on drunk-punk love, and intimacy only went as far as our immaturities, but even so, we still undressed ourselves enough to see what was underneath.
With Evan, I experienced both freedom and shackles. I ran free with him and opened my heart to being sexy and reckless. In hindsight, what I really needed was a partner to be masculine and secure and dive first into the waves. Evan’s fresh approach to each moment was beautiful, I certainly was never bored, but he also revealed to me a truth in careless love. He reflected my obsessions and mirrored them back to me through a path of disregard. We never had any money, and I was always curious as to what decisions he would make, and whether they would be for just him, or for us.

I kept on telling myself that it wasn’t going to get bad. I convinced myself that I could just put dab some peroxide and it would go away. I looked into the eyes of my lover and realized there was nothing he could do.
 My pride got in my way. And, I almost died. I was unwilling to admit I came down with a terrible staff infection. It seemed dirty and unnatural, a reflection of maybe the lifestyle I had chosen to live.
 I began to imagine my life again, without Hawaii, without reef, and beer, and Evan. I remembered how it was when I had a clean shower and a proper bed. I longed for a stable moment. I waited days to tell Evan, because I felt in my heart that this would be our demise. One day, he pointed it out and showed me how the red area was surrounding my entire thigh. It was on the back of my leg, a bite I scratched, and turned into a volcano of a terrible wound. I came down with a fever and my skin started to turn green. Staff infections enter the body through an open wound, and send bacteria in and throughout the bloodstream eventually resulting in a fatal response. It could take as short as one week for the disease to spread. On the sixth day of being sick, Evan volunteered to go down to the nude beach to sell some mushrooms so he could help me pay for anti-biotics. He came back with two beers, a bag of guava fruit, and 17 dollars. The next day I called Sukothai, one of the only restaurants in Pahoa, HI and asked Jean for a job. Coincidently she had a huge lunch party coming in that day and could use my help. I made 80 dollars and went straight to the doctor’s office afterward. He shot me with an IV, and told me it was a good thing I came in. Things would have been real bad if I had waited any longer.
As I returned to health, I knew I could finally leave Evan. At first, the infection on my leg made me feel like I had no way to run. The situation seemed like a complete manifestation of our relationship. But I had to get away from him, if I wanted to live. I loved him, but my spirit was hurting from grappling with all the dark spirits that dwell in our life of volatility. I couldn’t continue to live with him, curious about how he was ever going to grow up, not knowing if something were to happen to me that he could be there to alleviate my pain.

He’s still hurling his body into the waves,
Taking his life in lazy strides,
Abstinent from the work hour days,
Governing his peace by the ocean tides.

The earth, as her lover

 Monumental giants hug the earth with a steadfast anchor
that bolts strength into the ground. Their plateaus are faces
of ancient chiefs calling, upon the servitude of warriors,
puffing smoke signals high into the atmosphere
of pink and purple sky.

These castles are a vortex,
along with fears down the crevasses
of earth so that it ceases,
to interfere with souls ascent to the stars.

The ancient souls in the rocks of ages
continue to ask me to claim my right,
to accept the calling of nature,
to be one of the Earth, as her child,
as her mother, as the earth herself, as her lover.
To listen closely to the romance, and climb.

I counterbalance between hands and feet
scaling up the side of the cliff.
250 foot climb with a 6% grade and circular footholes
perfectly fit the front side of my boot. No gear, no chains...
 Only my own strength and mantra.

I am capable.
I am strong.
I am deserving.
  
 I am balanced with the wings of my angels,
guiding by the movement through the backs of my shoulders,
hurling each motion upward and spiriling,
through space between my heart and lungs.

My feet grip the sides of the rock, clung to it
like a fledgling to the bossom of cracked earth.

Anchored to the land, amidst the play between
elder and child, heart and soul, and rock and sky.
The sandstone finds its way into grooves of my spirit,
by the weight of mere experience,eroded by weathered age.
Calcified chunks of iron protrude as I clamber with foolish feet,
 treading heavily through which I once thought to be mud.

Each move I make, brings me closer to the understanding
 that I tread where rocks have stood for thousands of years.
I conquor each breath in the moment of my toiling,
forgetting my fear of death, only listening to the faint whispers
through the wind and sand that remind me
 I am a child of this earth and I am free.

 

An Arrowhead

Last summer I touched back in Florida to regain perspective. I landed in my hometown to witness my childhood friends getting hitched, wearing strings of pearls and toe-length ivory gowns with progress in the comforts of their lives not farther than their own boyfriends' backyards. I got there just in time to feel sorry for myself for not receiving one single wedding invitation when I landed. I helplessly arrived with many expectations. I imagined us to have healthy dinner parties at my house, with ample support and practice erupting in my old yoga studio walls. I daydreamed of old surfer buddies, excited to take me out on the Atlantic coast with my fresh perspective straight from the Hawaiian pipeline, to be our guide in the spirit of the surf. After the second week of being home, I realized that, though my physical proximity was closer, my connection to this town had drifted away. Three friends called and rescheduled dinner dates and two others stood me up at the waterfront for a yoga practice.

Mom called from Ankara, Turkey relating the sights of her trip and consoling me for my solitude. "Use this time for you then, babe. You can't take it personally." She told me to call a dear friend of hers, Chris Peck, and gave me his phone number. "Call him up, he's an amazing musician, traveler, and friend. He will take you out babe, do some yoga with ya. A good guy to hang with."
So, I did.

Chris would catch your eye across the room, just as a star would if it were falling from its fixed point in the sky, and leave you struck. Amazingly handsome man, 42 years old, his musical talent, voice, and swagger made him a wave of spiritual light in a place where most artificial light exists. Among all things, he was desirable. With his great gifts came great responsibility, in which his free spirit rebelled. His musical inclinations and his passion for wine and spirits encouraged experimentation in his consumption, as he tended to test himself and see how much he could really handle. Therefore he constantly challenged his tolerance. He tried all kinds of practices, drugs, mind altering therapies, to continue driving himself stronger, regardless of possible consequences.
We hung out together two nights in a row. We talked about all the things I dreamed of telling my old girlfriends when I arrived. He listened intently, keeping my wine glass far from empty, and my satiety full to expend all the tales of my travels. We jumped in his pool on Thursday night and swam around each other in circles, naked, creating a whirlpool of energy, completely void of expectations that a man and woman might face in an intimate situation. "I feel super comfortable with you, Erica. And, I love your mother very much. This is a special bond, the three of us have." At about 3am Friday morning, I felt pruned enough to call it a night. I drove home and nestled quietly in my bed. The following evening, a mutual friend called me with a somber tone. "I hate to tell you this, Erica, but Chris Peck was found dead in his pool this afternoon. No one knows yet how he died."

Nothing smaller than a golfball sank from the middle of my throat to the bottom of my heart. I was and couldn't say anything back."How!? What? Why!" I was just with him last night!" I hung up the phone without any answers, immersed in disbelief. My next immediate thought was my mother. I knew I had to be the one to tell her. I wondered why this had to happen while I was home. I was channeling her when I was with him, and noticed myself referring to her, saying things she probably would have said to him if she were there. I feel our support mutually connected to his soul, especially at this point of my first time meeting him. I was open and honest with him, void of any judgment, allowing topics of discussion to come up that maybe we otherwise wouldn't tell anyone else, and my mother was the bridge that made of feel confident that our secrets were safe among each other.

Chris and I only had a few hours together, but what we uncovered rang true for ions of spiritual growth. He taught me a lot that night we hung out in the pool, shared so much of his wisdom, and even more so when he passed. I understand now, what it is to be the witness of such amazing beings, especially in their impermanent states and everlasting influences. My mother doesn't know it but she was there that night, too. She stabilized the strength of our triangle, an arrowhead with three points. It was as if the three of us called upon those angelic realms that Chris often tries to invoke himself, through his experimentations. Only this time, they responded and his body couldn't withstand the transition, leaving it behind.

I remember driving home that night with such a big smile on my face, thanking him he whole way home for sharing his love with me. At whatever place that holds in the timing of his journey, I know for sure that my thoughts and prayers will guide him with strength. I honor his life and his spiritual journey forever. R.I.P Chris Peck

Pre Toast

I sat at the corner of the Croccodile Lounge on 14th, sipping a vodka cranberry, staring at the gaping canvases on the wall. I saw him redrawing one of the paintings in his notebook. He was sitting alone. His head was bent over a few centimeters away from the page with both his legs wrapped around his stool in front of him. His clothes were unkempt; a blue rimmed sweater with holes in the armpits and a chocolate brown tie swung over his shoulder. I asked him about his work. I talked to him about perspective. He told me about storyboard and comic book scenes; upward shots, wide angles, close ups. He said its all about the scene lighting, or shading in his case, mood, and tone setting. White lighting makes it look innocent and dark colors give it something less welcoming. The scene could be hopeful or it could be incriminating. The characters are either flawed or emergent. The situations you put them in and the scenes you create give them a story. The scenes could be beautiful and hopeful, gruesome or nightmarish, but it’s all how you see it. Give them meaning.

Everyone has a story and sometimes not all of them are pretty, he told me.

Bombs Away Yellow Submarine

Everyone is on their own trip. Nothing anyone does can be taken personally because they have their own two eyes and their own lens, some a little more dusty than others. Outlooks can often seem narrow, like a viewfinder in a camera, our scopes dialate according to the amount of light we let in.
I see my life as a series of incredible moments. My ego sticks to the idea of accounting for the experiences that set me apart from an ordinary life. This lifetime is not a competition. It is a declaration of freedom and feminity. I am a thread of the fabric woven to contribute to the quilt of humanity. I am a distinct length and color, width of yarn, vibrating at my own will. I realize that I am in it to hold us together, no matter how much I imagine the moments I feel as if I were to fray. When my brain capacity understands that we are all one, that I won't even need a brain anymore, only the natual function of the organ of the heat, because the ego will inevitably diminish in pure essence and that will be bombs away yellow submarine.

Letter to the Unfettered

Dear Eli,

I saw you for the first time across the room and knew that when our eyes met, it would be intense. Apprehension was my immediate defense. I danced around you and away from you. At the party, I saw you looking at my in the corner of my eye and darted into safe quarters. The connection from a distance already scared the shit out of me. It was only a matter of time before we would come close enough to see right into eachothers' souls. We never even talked that night. The next morning you met me in the meadow. I announced I was going on a morning walk to pick wild flowers and you followed. Fields of golden lust and flower petals dusted with desire illuminated the sensuality burning from between my thighs. You came to me in open spaces where even the slightest bit of my regard was carried away with the Maui shore winds. You swept me up in the trees as I succumbed to the whims of my desires, without further investigating if our personalities could, in fact, sustain the pressure of our lustful attractions. Enrapture in tall grass, rolling around in pure bliss shocked my systematic responses against my heart's unveiled spirit. We climbed high into the banyan tree, as I recalled one of the most beautiful and erotic experiences I had with one of those exact trees. Proclaiming that nothing in this world could in fact top that experience, the next couple moments thereafter, I found myself lowering myself down onto like a fairy descending from the canopy. My skirt raised up as you became my seat, more like a throne, in which all inhibitions wilted along with the trees' loose leaves. The tree limbs shook with our love making, and time warped around the meadow. I was began to question where you ended and where even I had began.
We returned to the house, and could barely look at each other again that day because our connection went beyond mere eye lashes and scainty words. I was lost in love, and let you go on to real life situations, where lust and love hardly coexist.
Three weeks later we ran into eachother, and refused to leave eachothers' side. My bliss directly correlated to your presence, and our encounter in the field was only a dream until the day we reunited. Then, I learned of you. Alcohol mixed with the influences of others tested the love we made in the field, and brought a weakness out of you. Fear of distance and cloudy perceptions led you to a nightmare of insecurity. Each sip drew you in deeper, to an abyss and drunked stupor where all logic and love ceased to exist.
I've been there before, not as the sailent, but as the rescuer of demon days. And once again, I felt reluctance to find myself here, as the woman rebuilding the man to be a man. Knowing you as a spiritual man first, and then seeing you crumble amidst the bottle made me question whether or not I even wanted to travel down with you, wondering how much it would sustain if I were to try and pull you out.
But, at this point, I didn't care. I felt as if I've been here before, but not with you. I recoiled from past failures, and surged my own strength to walk away for the both of us. I left you to face the morning light and burn off the remnants of your own destructive behavior, memory, and misery. You knew you fucked up but you didn't know how much. So, I forgave you when I walked away, told you I loved you a million times underneath my breath, and didn't look back.
The truth is that I don't doubt the pono man inside you, I know him and I made love to him the moment I met him, and kissed him daily since we met again.
I went against my patterns, making space for bright love. I dug my toes in, held my dignity and respect up high, and held space for you in my heart. This romantic place that you and I met eachother is where we only can exist. I asked you whether you though we could make it beyond this world that we've woven into by our complete fascination in each moment and lust for eachother. And you said, "we could." But, I understand, that we cannot. There's nothing about a regular relationship that excites you or I. There's too many feelings that lie insecurely underneath troubled perceptions. We could imagine our lives to be unaffected by our own samskaras or outside influences but true moments were timeless memories and will remain secure in our hearts forever. I surrender you, I surrender the notion of us, and I will continue to love each moment in life with admiration for all the memories I have in which you taught me the true essence of love, even though we are far apart.

Bird Pecking Shells

I know that every part of this experience is a reflective manifestation of every emotion that hasn’t been able to surface in my developing years. I feel fear and reverence with the planet, as she is heated and tumultuous by the mistreatment of her children. I empathize with the changes she is going through and her incongruences with the frequency of humanity’s transitions. It seems as if people are ready to step into their higher power, as demonstrated by the aina herself. But, we don’t understand what needs to be done to nurture her, as she exists within us.
The men and women on this island are strong and fast, as people around here tend to move with the ocean tides of their emotions, allowing Pele to govern their moods with the moon underlying its energy and tugging it down below the earth crust. Some successfully manage their lives in direct reflection of their surroundings. As the energies move through their bodies, they sense the strength in their standpoint, and continually realign themselves with the frequencies of the earth, manifesting symbiotic connections in themselves and others in which all the systems and emotions can operate in a harmonious way. Some resist the tides and hurl into the waves, unaware of their effect on symbiosis. They are limiting the possibility of expanding love and respect in their lives and are too distracted to listen to the ground shift beneath their feet. To honor the true nature that is within us as well as all around us is to first start with what is inside us. When we see that the ocean is a pure representation of the ebb and flow of our own experiences, then we accept when the wave knocks us down. We understand life’s challenges as a mode of strengthening and improvement, and we see the beautiful relationships in our lives as the foundations that keep us grounded and help us get back up.