golden voice of a prophet

singing redemption songs 

with the early morning sun

my day was abundant 

at this blessed early hour

thank you for your songs of

freedom. 

NaPoWriMo Day 7: Four Red Lilies

Four red lilies festoon my kitchen table

dangling their stems in a square glass vase

turning their heads from huddled yellow roses

in the back of my square table

Four red lilies bloom on my kitchen table

One opened so wide losing every petal in two days

another perfect and trying to stay that way

while the last two hold tight to save themselves for another day

Four red lilies die on my kitchen table

drowning in murky brown water

one petal remains from the first

the second still botox beautiful

and the most tragic, the two that shouldn’t have waited

Four red lilies still on my kitchen table

NoPoWriMo Day 4: Paper towels

Paper towels

Yeah, paper towels

such a common everyday item

pull and rip

taken for granted

unraveled to the hollow core

paper still grasping

holding the core

made of the same tree essence

all three

towel, roll, and tree

discarded disregarded

no problem as long as we still have oxygen

copious amounts of convenience are ours

NaPoWriMo Day 3- A birthday poem for my dear friend

My card with no envelope

open, unsealed

sparkling diamond refusing to be restricted in a box

if the world gets you a bit dirty

May you polish yourself

and keep shining

NaPoWriMo Day 2- Second Class Sleeper to Pune

blue plastic seats

thin sheets

best sleep

lulled away to pune

on a second class sleeper

garam garam chai withsugarwithoutsugar

ek chai withsugar

and what the hell is chickenlollipop?

must wake for 4am arrival in pune

there won’t be an announcement

will the train even fully stop?

never thought sleep could be this sweet

with arm cautiously linked through purse

feet hanging off the edge

alarm set for 4

when we will be born

kicking and pushing

each eager to be the firstborn

train doors miraculously spreading

to accommodate all this

and the afterbirth of luggage

This Is What It Sounds like When the Unicorns Cry

It is hard to pinpoint the exact trigger for laughter or tears. It seems to vary by individual and circumstance. My two month old sometimes gurgles with joy at the sound of my off-key singing, but it can also send him into a fit of wailing if done at the wrong moment.

This morning, my baby was in the mood for some music. My sister took a break from filing H1B visas and decided to visit. I played the Baby Einstein Pandora station while my sister and I sang along and did the Hokey Pokey around his cradle while he stared and smiled.  My sister and I are usually pretty deadpan. We both feel pretty awkward in spaces that call for audience participation, so watching us sing along to children’s songs while doing awkward dance movements would be a shock to many. Luckily babies have no judgments or expectations.

After my husband came home in the evening, I picked up my sister and headed over to our neighborhood yoga studio for a restorative yoga class. This was our first time taking the class, and little did we know that we were in for our own musical treat.  We almost stumbled over bolsters and blocks as we tried to find a place in the crowded room. The teacher was instructing everyone in the crowded room to get three blocks, three bolsters, and two blankets each.

Once the cloud of prop chaos settled, she began talking. She informed us it was a special day. “It’s my birthday, and my husband will be playing live music for us.” He was a sound healer, and they had lived in Bali where people traveled specifically to benefit for this time of healing. Each person was to receive healing during savasana. Her husband, dressed in an ethnic shirt and beads, waved to the class and smiled. I started to feel like I was in the middle of a Saturday Night Live or Portlandia skit. I stifled a laugh. We were about to begin.

“I like to chant,” the teacher stated. The class was chanting Om. There are a couple mantras I say at home, and I can get down with spirituality, even small doses of new agey white people appropriation type spirituality, but for some reason this was a circumstance that was triggering my sense of humor. I started saying Aaauuuu...but had to bite my cheeks and hold my breath to avoid guffawing. It was especially more difficult knowing that my sister, who was likely experiencing amusement as well, was just a few inches away from me. Instead of feeling more relaxed, I felt tension in my cheeks and stomach from holding in so much laughter.

The ninety minute class consisted of doing about five poses for a duration of eight to twenty minutes each. All of the poses just involved hulking on some prop. I would love to get paid for teaching such a class. We finally assumed savasana for the last twenty minutes. The teacher’s husband began his healing.

And it was unexpectedly truly magical. When he hovered above me with his tuning fork, something strange happened. I felt a vortex of energy extend out of my forehead. Unicorns were real. I was a spiritual unicorn with my energy horn. Unfortunately, my sister did not have the same magical experience. She had to use the bathroom, so her healing only consisted of the vibrations of her bladder resonating throughout her body.

Once class was over and we were safely out of hearing range, my sister and I burst into laughter that lasted all the way home. Once I got home, I shared the story with my husband. I was laughing so hard that tears started pouring out of my eyes.

I could look at the class as a waste of fifteen dollars. There was nothing restorative about the yoga. But then I thought about it. I had not laughed so hard in months. My sense of humor was restored, and I had tapped into my inner unicorn. Laughter and tears bowed to the divinity they found in each other. Namaste.

Inspiration Point

My friend E and I decided that we would go on a sunrise hike once each season. It would give us an opportunity to witness the early morning and get some exercise and inspiration. We aptly decided that the perfect hike for this trail was the one in Tilden Park leading up to Inspiration Point.

I was not planning on going to Tilden Park this afternoon. I was first planning on going to Bodega Head, but that was not in my destiny. I decided instead to go to the Hayward Shoreline. I drove through  heat and traffic to discover that there was construction going on in that particular area, so the hike would not be as quiet and serene as I had hoped. Since Hayward was being all wayward, I decided to just go on the tried and true Inspiration Park trail.

As I walked up the trail, I noticed the lack of people. There was a good number of cars in the parking lot, so there had to be people, right? I kept walking.

After a while, my imagination took over. What if there was a mountain lion? I reasoned with myself. The chances of encountering a mountain lion on such a heavily used trail were slim. But strange things do tend to happen to me.

The trail was taking longer than I remembered. Then I noticed that I wasn't enjoying myself as much as I expected. The view was stunning. The scent of the forest was pleasing. The sun was shining. The breeze felt good. Why wasn't the turn-off leading up to Inspiration Point yet there? And why weren't there any people on the trail? The mountain lion fantasy had not quite left my mind. Then I heard a strange creaking sound. It sounded like the door of a haunted house opening. There were no houses around. What was that?

I had been walking for about 35 minutes, and the turn-off had to be nearby; still, I turned around and decided to walk back. Less that a minute after I turned around, I saw an elderly man walking his dog.

My saunter down the hill was peaceful. I stopped and sat on benches. I walked off the trail to check out the view. I took pictures. I inhaled the forest air. I never reached Inspiration Point, but I was inspired to enjoy the rest of my hike.

Fear is a strange thing.

So is imagination.