Tag Archives: love

Leave your shadows behind


that hour.

on the long path to spring,

when darkness clears

and the trees drop their skeletal shadows in the snow

like a bad memory,

like baggage one no longer needs

to carry.

when the frost glistens with a gazillion different suns

in a myriad different eyes

and the crows’ croaking falls



that hour.

like a letter from someone you love,

a letter you never thought

was coming.

when you

leave your shadows behind

and walk into the light.

that hour.


Falling in Love


In the dead of night –

In that longest of nights

he came to me,

all aglow.

An illumination of love.

I was ready to let go,

having run out of things to hold on to.

“The world has done violence to your spirit”,

he spoke through my sleeplessness,

and his voice was husky.

“But fear not. I have defeated the world.”

I lay with him on the threshold and –

breath by long, quiet breath –

I bore him children

of peace.

The Pond


How the landscape changes

With the moving seasons…

No rebirth without dying

Water and cut grass

Shoulder-high saplings

And all the encounters with pain.

The piercing shrieks of white gulls 

Plunging, and us happy to disintegrate

Why is it that in nature

The lost are found, and dying

Is grand and mollifying and fearless

Like an embrace?

Blessed solitude that transcends

Loneliness and need

Feeding, soothing, nursing

The lightness of your being and

The fullness of your light.

Critters, short-legged, short-lived

Going about their business



(Post)modern obsessions


Have you noticed how the following themes keep popping up, almost obsessively, in contemporary discourse – in the media, in the public sphere and increasingly in ourselves?

This obsession with sex – and complete devaluation of love and tenderness and commitment.

This obsession with doing – and complete devaluation of being.

This obsession with the intensity of fragmented experience – and complete devaluation of profoundness and resilience and eternity.

This obsession with work and maximization – and complete devaluation of contemplation and spirituality. Of the time it takes to realize that you have a soul, that you are a human being capable of transcendence, not a machine plugged in to churn out as many objects as possible per unit of time.

We treat ourselves and each other as equipment, as products. We apply to beings the logic of machines. We have transferred the maximum efficiency mantra of the technological sector to human life. We have internalized the algebraic depersonalisation, the callous disregard, the flattening subjugation of being to efficiency and utility present in our discourses. We find it OK to behave and to be treated increasingly like predictable robots or like working animals. Like mammals, all dapper and happy to be allowed to act out their basest instincts.

This obsession with Darwinism, with us as little more than physical organisms in biological evolution, this bench-marking against apes, not against angels or saints. This devaluation of angels and saints as melodrama and cheap esoteric – or, even, as oppression. This talk of our “natural instincts”. Nature, our nature, as a new goddess. But should we always make way for our natural instincts? Will that improve us? What will build more character and more goodness and a deeper path to the absolute we secretly yearn for?

(Is something good or legitimate simply because we were born with it? Because we acquired it? Because it is fun? Because it brings pleasure or monetary value? Are we not supposed to transcend ourselves?)

This frenzy of devaluation… No religion, but brand religion. The branding iron.

What is slavery for theoretically free individuals? According to Simone Weil, the disconnect between one’s efforts and their life’s work. (We work, but we no longer have a life’s work, an opus, an oeuvre. We expect our work to be the foundation of our identity, but in fact, so many of us no longer feel like creators. We no longer develop our being in the process of our work. Work all too often feels like odd life-draining tasks under excruciating time pressure, away from the ones we love. It no longer feels like purpose. Just endless busyness. Our work has control over us, but we no longer have much control over it.)

What else is slavery? In Gravity and Grace, S. Weil goes on to say it is the coercion to accept that “reading” of yourself, that interpretation of yourself, which others stamp on you. Having no choice or having only wrong choices. Allowing yourself to be devoured by exhausting activities, and making all this daily effort simply to stay in your current condition – no horizon, no finality, mere survival. Day to day to day. The arbitrariness of how you are treated. The dependency. The addiction.

Any illusion begins to feel real when enough people accept it and internalize it as “the thing to do”. Repeated, it reproduces, it propagates.

This destruction of the human soul…

We no longer recognize the sacredness of our own and each other’s being.

Will the human spirit ever rise against this flattening iron?…



The Remains of The Day


timid spring.

the careless beauty of my children romping in the woods today,

sharp, colorful, against the greening gray backdrop,

gathering twigs for a “bonfire” but first washing them in the tumbles of water or

stacking them one upon another and into bridges

alongside the brook where they were leaping, looking for frogs;

huge stones splashing in that murky fluid, one foot deep, and up bursting fountains of light,

their voices rippling across the clearings,

their giggles, their eyes flickering – light, love

shooting out of them like glittering spearheads through the trees, shouting, climbing, jumping!

what sweet, suffocating melancholy; soft warm fluff settling heavy on my soul,

my soul – itself by now the peaceful glowing aftermath of a fire,

dilated and silent, with only the crackling of cooling cinder

and water trickling on nearby, my soul

suffused with nothing but


yes, the quiet serenity of the desire to embrace life, the world,

the sizzling beauty of raw earth sprouting, of budding leaves and yellow and pink flowers,

of young lives so thick with promise, of souls so nimble, of days so limpid!

my children. my gift. my promise – to them:

a love so full, so simple, so complete.

a love absolute.

don’t hold me. you’ll lull me back into nothingness.

don’t hold me…

Aborted Fetuses


I have aborted myself to feed my children.

my love, my thoughts, my writing – all of them, aborted fetuses,

because my children needed to eat regular


but behold! –

my children are not necrophagous.

they do not thrive on the smell of death and destruction.

theirs are the souls

enraptured by the seed of light

theirs are the hands

that carry the torch.


Loss of faith


i swam like a fish to the bottom of my being.

at the bottom of that sea of sand i swam into yesterday.

i drilled softly for the pearls to collect in my little necklace of happiness.

i flapped my little fish tail around and stirred up the sand at the bottom of the sea

to drill for more depth.

to bury myself completely on this side and emerge all the more alive on the other.

to find a shell still intact, a crustacean, a remnant of the great continent’s air fleet, now sunk.

but no. the love had petrified and become

this hard sepulchral distance between us

between me and everything.

insurmountable. and i knew

that happiness was for fish.

all i could hope for was a sparkling bead here and there at the bottom, like a shard of light,

where the ocean just happened to smile on that day.

My Roommate


It’s morning.

A spider has just rappelled down on my desk,

where I was writing a goodbye letter.

He stopped an inch short of touching it

and is hanging there, by his own thread,


like me.

I cannot breathe.

I’m watching him wrap the whole room up in sticky wordless webs,

so nimble, like an eight-fingered pianist’s hand,

tapping the table,

waiting for a thought or waiting for


He’s off. He scurried speechless.

They say it’s bad luck to see a spider in the morning.

Soaked in flames


it’s raining.

it’s raining damp juicy rock ballads into my soul

in through my lips out through my mouth

like cradles for the coiling vapors of my vast, feisty melancholy.

i want to burn

i want to open my lips and spit out the flames that will char

the tips of your long, chestnut-brown mane

i want to emanate the kind of heat that pushes your wings up through the crowds of dead birds

up in the sky, on a thermal

i want you to see the beauty gliding on my warm breeze and i want to tear your clothes and give you blisters until you

remember how alive you are, we are;

i want to set myself ablaze with the joy of being so godlike

so full of love

so equal to myself

so free through the knowledge

that the sky stretches on forever.

and i am not afraid of the sun, i welcome its searing plasma

i welcome the scars i get from all the sharp beaks plunging from the clouds

i will swim through a sea of razors

i will shout at the top of my lungs, “i exist!!!!”

i’m not over yet, i keep the flame burning, i keep the candles on in my temple of animal passion where angels

come to drink voraciously out of these puddles

because it’s raining.

the hell with this. it’s always raining.

it always has and it always will.

so what?

what does that have to do with keeping the flame alive?

it’s the rain that makes it all worthwhile.

keep trying.

keep dreaming

the most absurd dreams writhing like worms in a tomb

let them eat their way through you

never give up

until you are

eaten alive.

you’ll never burn better than when you are soaked.

Life is a cucumber salad


I’m into natural beauty. I hear people are giving their daughters nose jobs for their 18th birthday. I love my daughter’s nose, and I’d much rather cut up anybody who comes near it. It is perfect just the way it is. Who would want a mass-produced Barbie for a daughter?!..

But that’s another story. This is about me. I’m beginning to grow old. Time forgives no one, bla bla… well, the thing is, I keep noticing these gray hairs here and there, these new wrinkles and pores and spots on my face, and I realize the time has come when my skin just needs additional support systems. I figure nature always has the perfect remedy, so what I do is use a cucumber mask.

It went from a little thin slice now and then, stolen from the kids’ dinner, to hoarding enormous reserves of cucumber in the vegetables storage compartment of my fridge.

And let me tell you, life is full of cucumber moments. Every time I cry at cartoons, every time I don’t get my 8 hours of sleep at night (which is almost every night…), I place a slice of raw cucumber on my face. Whether I’m happy or sad, in love or in the middle of a fight, watching my kids sleep or watching a sentimental movie, feeling elated or despondent, the moment tears start dripping down, I lunge for that refrigerated cucumber. I feel a tear coming and bells start going off in my head: uh oh, cucumber material! And I dart.

So when my husband of 12 years decided – for no apparent reason – to declare his love spontaneously for the very first time (and – may I add – quite convincingly, too) while we were driving the kids to the lake the other day, I looked at him with all the shock and disbelief of someone just awakened from the dead and I almost begged him to stop.

But then I thought, ‘it’s cucumber times like this that we are living for’, and I let the floodgates open. Tears started flowing like tap water. In his eyes too. We just had one of those moments. We kissed, and my son grumbled “Oh, not agaaaain…” and life sort of made real sense. I may have bulging red eyes and a lot of wrinkles, but I feel like someone whose missing child has just been found safe and sound and is on his way home again.

So, next time when life gives me cucumber, I’ll just make a salad.