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My book launch for So Speak the Stars at Big Blue Marble Bookstore in Philadelphia.  That’s the beautiful Beth Kephart introducing me, and the wonderful Grant Clauser preparing to interview me.

I am coming back to life after a gorgeous weekend recovering from my book launch for my second poetry collection, So Speak the Stars, at Big Blue Marble Bookstore in Philadelphia. Yesterday, Kristina Moriconi, who is a brilliant essayist and memoirist, and also a beloved friend, took me out for chai teas at a cozy little coffee shop and read the first chapters of my memoir, which I’ve been scared to share (though I did read it on the radio a few weeks ago, but that felt sort of insulated, because you can’t see the people who might be listening). The work, about the five years I’ve spend living on the road, re-finding me, is very personal, and also, I’m nervous about its artistry, because I’ve never written a memoir. Kristina got super excited when she read it and said the most beautiful things about the work.  She even offered to send it to an editor friend of hers when it’s done, and that gave me so much faith in the writing.  I guess my next book is going to be a memoir called Butterfly F*cking: A Memoir(ish), y’all.  It’s official.

The book is titled so outrageously for many reasons, one of them being this pair of butterflies I saw on the street, right before I started living on the road.

Afterward, we went to her favorite record store.  Kristina and I have bonded over all kinds of things, but one of them is our shared love of music.  Since I arrived in Philadelphia, we’ve spent many hours huddled in her studio, sharing secrets, listening to Bruce Springsteen on vinyl tell us that it’s a town full of losers, and he’s pulling out of here to win.  (So are we, damn it.)  I told Kristina that I want to get a record player when I settle down, so when we were at the record store, she bought me a record my daddy played constantly, Linda Rondstat’s Greatest Hits (why, oh why, did I not listen more carefully to “Silver Threads and Golden Needles”?) to inaugurate my new life off the road, as the new me.

After the record store, we went to Big Blue Marble Bookstore, because Tawni, always the master of organization and detail, had forgotten to get the money she made on her books at the launch.  Sawyer Lovett manages the store and is one of the smartest, grooviest cats I’ve ever known.  (He’s also a brilliant writer.  I’ve had the honor of reading a section of his novel, and it’s mind blowing.)  Sawyer gave me cookies (does he know me or what?) and this Where the Wild Things Are pin.

where the wild things are

To understand why I think this is so wonderful, you must know that when I was little, my beloved daddy, who was an incredibly gifted artist before he was a preacher, painted a life-scale mural of The Wild Things dancing on my bedroom wall.  While this may have contributed to some of my adult neuroses (you try waking up to a roomful of giant monsters dancing around you when you’re two), it’s also made Where the Wild Things Are my favorite book in the world.

If you don’t know the story, Max gets a little saucy with his mommy, and she sends him to bed without any supper, and his bedroom turns into a secret world, and he sails off for a year to the land where the wild things are. Max screams, “Let the wild rumpus start!” And they all dance under the moon and howl and go crazy and have tons of fun, but after a time, Max gets lonely and wants to be where someone loves him best of all.  So he steps into his boat, and the wild things howl, “No, no, please don’t go, we’ll eat you up, we love you so,” but Max leaves anyway, and sails back through a year “and into the night of his very own bedroom, where he finds his supper waiting for him.”  And it’s still hot.

Ok, I just realized, as I was recapping that story, I don’t really need to write a memoir.  The story of my life is called Where the Wild Things Are.  Anyway, if my history is encapsulated in that children’s book, this past year, and especially this weekend, felt like the coming home part.  Because I was launching a book that was my true heart in “fuck-it-I’m-writing-what-want-to-write-form,” mostly compiled while I was hiding in the woods for months, meditating and talking to the stars.


Because my beautiful daughter, Desiree Wade, illustrated these poems, that are such a profound piece of my heart.


Because the bookstore was filled with beautiful friends I’ve made during my travels, who see and love me for who I really am. Because Kristina bought me two cakes for the launch, one of which was a carrot cake, and my momma always made me carrot cake on my birthdays when I was a kid.


Because one of the writers and humans I admire most in the world, Beth Kephart, introduced me with some of the most moving words I’ve ever heard about myself.


Because another of the writers and humans I admire most, Grant Clauser, interviewed me, asking insightful questions that dug right to the heart of my writing.

me and grant

Because afterward, some of my dearest friends went out to celebrate with me.

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Me and the beautiful Carla Spataro, partying down with our bad selves, post-launch.

And because I was brave enough to sing my songs, songs I’ve written through the years but always kept hidden.

Rewind: When I was a little girl, I decided I was going to be an actress, a singer, and a writer when I grew up.  I did the acting and the writing, but not the singing, because people always mocked my voice and told me it was ugly.  So I pursued my love for music by becoming a groupie instead of a musician.  But I couldn’t stop writing songs and ferreting them away in the back of my psyche, my dirty little secret songs.

I sang them first at a reading I did last week in Madrid, New Mexico because it’s an artist colony made mostly of paint and glitter and sparkly rocks, and sparkly things make me brave, but singing it at a book launch in the big city felt like it required a whole new level of courage.  Singing those songs in conjunction with releasing a book about the deepest love I’ve ever known felt like letting my soul out of the box. I was terrified, and I said I was. I think my exact words were, “I’m scared shitless, so I’m going to close my eyes.” And then I opened my little mouth, and I did something I thought I would never do. I sang my songs at a book launch. When I was done, so many people said pretty things, and now, I really don’t think my voice is ugly, and no offense, but fuck all y’all who said it was.

When I go home to New Mexico in April, I’m supposed to meet with some of the musicians who were at my reading in Madrid.  They heard my songs and asked me to sing one of them again while they played, and now, they want to get together again and set them to music, so maybe, someday when I grow up, I will be a singer after all. (The word “band” was tossed around, but I’m not sure I’m ready to use such grandiose language.)

You can buy So Speak the Stars, by Tawni Waters, here.  And you can read about it here, because the wonderful Beth Kephart featured So Speak the Stars in Juncture Notes.

Last night, Kristina and I sat curled up by her fire, drinking Manhattans, watching a fox look for food in the woods outside her house.  “Why is the fox looking for food outside her house?” you ask.  Because apparently, Kristina was leaving him whole rotisserie chickens in her yard.  When I get reincarnated, I either want it to be as one of Kristina’s dogs or the fox that lives in the woods outside her house. What follows is an actual conversation Kristina and I had.

Kristina: Oh, my god. The fox is looking for food. I wish I had a rotisserie chicken.

Me: You could give him eggs.

Kristina: But they’re raw.  Do foxes like raw eggs?

Me: No, they hard boil them in their caves.

(You can see why I love Kristina.)  Anyway, sitting with my dear friend, watching the world turn white, I looked down at my little Wild Things pin and thought, “Well, damn.  I’ve found my supper waiting for me.  And it’s still hot.”

P.S. I used to always end my blogs with a P.S. and a song.  I’m doing that again today because this song has been in my head, on repeat, for days.  It feels true.  Morning has broken.


Capturing the Elephant

elephant 2

Religion is like those fairly grotesque paintings of elephants created by Europeans in the middle ages who had never actually seen exotic animals from other continents, but had read descriptions of elephants written by travelers, wanderers who had actually seen them. I imagine the travelers–those ones who had first hand knowledge of the animals– wrote their descriptions in an attempt to share the wonder, grasping to put the astonishing, the impossible, the ephemeral into words. But words are never big enough to hold truth. (If you don’t believe me, fall desperately in love, and then try to write a poem about it.  The poetic result will be laughable, compared to the ocean of inexpressible love that crashes inside you.)

When the ones who had never seen exotic animals read the words of the travelers, they tried to paint what they imagined as they read, and in so doing, they continued the travelers’ attempts to calcify the ephemeral.  Instead, they gave birth to comical monstrosity.  A big gray thing with a long long trumpeting nose? Well then, it must look like this. (Drum roll, please…)

I give you an elephant!


And those who have actually seen a living, breathing elephant laugh and laugh. The difference between reading about and seeing is the difference between watching the weather channel and being swallowed alive by a hurricane. Reality should never be represented and cemented by those who have not seen.

When _____ spoke to Moses from the burning bush, Moses asked his name. _____ said, “I am what I am.” Meaning don’t try to define me. Don’t try to name me. Don’t try to chop me up into bite sized pieces your mortal mind can understand. The second you slap a label on me, you have reduced me to something smaller than I am because words are too small to hold me. I am what I am. And you are what you are. And it is enough.

In some places, it is considered blasphemy to say the name of ______. That is because those who have caught a glimpse of the elephant know that ______ does not have a name mortal language can grasp, and the second you give ______ a name, you have blasphemed, imagined yourself as A God bigger than _______, egotistically declaring yourself as one who has made the infinite finite, the unknowable known, the unseen seen.

And ______ looks at your comically monstrous so-called elephant and laughs and laughs.

The second you were born, you were named, and your infinity was blasphemed, and the _______ within you laughed and laughed.  And they called you a whore, and the _______ within you laughed and laughed.  And they called you a saint, and the _______ within you laughed and laughed.  And you cried at your imaginary losses, and the _______ within you laughed and laughed.  And you died, and you were still there, and the _______ within you laughed and laughed.

eye of horus

The sky is there to remind you of all you do not know, all that you, in your present form, can never know. The stars go on into a forever your mortal mind can never grasp. So stop trying to hold them.  Let infinity swallow you whole. Then you will be whole. Then you will be a drop of water in a crashing ocean of all, moving mindlessly in time with the great dance. Then you will know______ for a split second, for the length of time you can stand to behold without grasping at knowing. Then you will catch a glimpse of the elephant.

Let ______ pass. Don’t try to paint a picture. Gasp at the elephant’s infinite beauty, and let the gasp be enough.

Or if you pick up your paintbrush and create a monstrosity, look at your folly and laugh and laugh.  It is a great joke.  Don’t make too much of it.  You can always burn it in the fire.  Or hang it on the wall so others can laugh with you.  But I beg you, don’t frame it.  Don’t ask your neighbors to bow before it.  Don’t put guns to people’s heads and force them to the declare your laughable monstrosity the epitome of elephant-ry.

It is scary knowing you were wrong.  But fear is funny, just a strange drawing of the infinite elephant, a clumsy attempt at making sense of  ______, a way of interpreting reality that got is all wrong.  Laugh at it.

___ is what ____ is.

You are what you are.

And we continue to draw our comically monstrous, one-dimensional, so-called elephants. And the infinitely-dimensional wonder of creation that lies just beneath our feeble labels, our cartoon blasphemies, our garish lies, laughs and laughs.

And the sky goes on forever.

And the ocean keeps on crashing.

And ____ keeps on being ______.

______ is always laughing




It’s been a long ol’ time since I posted on this blog.  Mostly because I needed to go inward for a while.  Mostly because my new poetry collection, So Speak the Stars, is coming out on March 1, and I’ve been hella busy.  Mostly because once you start eschewing posting on your blog for spending your nights staring up at the stars, it becomes a habit.  Mostly because I am addicted to moonlight.  But I wrote this a few nights ago, in the throes of light bathing.  I was looking for a pic of a red bird to post with it, and my dear friend, artist Ken Wolverton, posted this painting on Facebook.  My poem doesn’t include a pig, but the painting was too beautiful to pass up, and he said I could use it.  This poem is a prayer of some kind, as are all of my poems.




Unharness me from the terrestrial.

Unhinge my mind.

Undo these lies, the cries

of madmen who see flesh when they see me.


As if I was not born with cobras dangling from my ears.

As if you did not speak in shades of blue.

As if the clouds were not grasping and vaporous, gaping

to swallow us whole, hungry as they are for God.


At night, I weep in my sleep

for the scars on your knuckles

as if the holy books hadn’t warned me that mere men

make messes of miracles, nailing their feet to trees.


In my dreams, I am a fish licking your heels,

drinking drops of the holy water upon which you walk.

In my songs, I am cardinal.

I flurry before you, filling your hair with red feathers.


White light bends in your direction,

and who could blame it?

Seeking to be sifted by the prism of you

as am I.


My third eye opens

wearing your face as an iris.

I dive into your throat

and float in a moat


of love.





A preliminary drawing of the cover for So Speak the Stars, created by my Desiree Wade.

So if you didn’t notice I ran away from home, I’m a-ok with it.  You have a beautiful, messy life of your own to live, and no doubt, it is throwing you curve balls, because that’s what life does best, I mean, besides giving us love and flowers and carrot cake and the occasional flu.  But I did indeed go into hiding for a bit, sometime around July.

I’m not gonna lie.  I did it because life had been super hard, and I was on the verge of breaking.  My momma got stage three breast cancer.  I lived with her during the treatment, and I will tell you, watching her suffer like that was one of the hardest things I have ever done.  I will never, ever get over watching her cry as the nurses wheeled her into surgery.  We all think our parents are gods, or at least many of us do, but my mother’s cancer showed me the vulnerable child in her, a child I desperately wanted to protect and couldn’t.  It was a great gift, but it was also very, very painful.  As if that weren’t enough, in the middle of my mother’s cancer treatment, my brother, who is one of my best friends, had a massive heart attack, which killed him twice.  He was dead for four minutes.  They were able to revive him, thank God, but all of this, and other more personal suffering, left me feeling like a husk.

Truth be told, I was also having a hard time adjusting to being in the public eye much of the time.  Not that I’m anywhere near famous, but when I started selling books, I went from invisible to fairly visible overnight, and the constant output of emotional energy was hard for me.  As laughy and dancy as I can be in public, I’m truly a loner at heart.  I wasn’t taking the time I needed to recharge, and I was about to wither up and blow away.  So I told my dear friend, Beth Kephart, how I was feeling, and she gave me the courage to go off the grid and hide in a cabin in Colorado for as long as it took to get back on my feet. I spent tons of time praying in that cabin.  Lots of time meditating.  And most of all, I wrote.

Me at the cabin.  Ok, maybe I drank a little wine too…


The truth is, in addition to feeling overwhelmed, I’d also lost touch with the passion that brought me to writing in the first place.  It was starting to feel like a job with no point, a full on mid-career crisis I talk about at length in an essay that will be coming out in Hippocampus Magazine in February.

At the beginning of my hideaway time, I read Beth’s novel, Wild Blues.  It utterly changed my life.  As my eyes danced over her exquisite prose, I remembered why I started writing—the passion, the joy, the love affair with words. Beth is one of the few people I know who hasn’t lost an ounce of that after becoming a writer who publishes regularly.  Even after publishing 23 books and being a finalist for the National Book Award, she has managed to keep her eyes on the prize. And no, the prize isn’t the National Book Award, or any other accolade.  The prize is the words themselves, the glorious, heartbreaking, mysterious process of bringing art into the world.  Her words are always wild and blue, which to me is a sacred color, the color of Krishna, the color I see in my dreams when I visit heavenly realms.  Reading Beth’s work brought me back to my own words.

Me with Beth’s masterpiece, right after she gave it to me when I was teaching at the Rosemont College Writer’s Retreat this summer.

I started working on two books—a poetry collection called So Speak the Stars and a memoir with the working title of Butterfly Fucking, though I think my publisher will likely change it when the time comes to bring it into the world, what with the big bad F word being fairly unacceptable in most circles.  After my time in Colorado, my mother and I took a month long trip to Europe to celebrate my birthday and the end of her cancer treatment.  Our time together, in some of the most beautiful cities in the world, was revolutionary and beautiful.

Momma and I in Amsterdam, one of the many cities we visited during our European adventure. 
Stunning Stonehenge.  Palpable magic.  

When the time came to leave, I didn’t want to, so I didn’t.  I stayed in Prague, the city that had most captured my heart as I traveled with my mother, to finish writing that memoir.

Our street in Prague, just before sunset. 

I have been waking up every day this week feeling true joy and contentment, emotions I hadn’t fully experienced in for a long time.  I know the magic time away has worked.  I am me again, only better.

Me in Prague, wearing a Prague-ish hat. 

And this week, I got some wonderful news.  My poetry book, So Speak the Stars, was accepted for publication by Texture Press in Philadelphia.  We will be launching in March.  My gorgeous daughter, Desiree Wade, who happens to be a brilliant artist, will be creating the cover image and internal graphic content.

My beautiful daughter, Desiree Wade, and me at the launch party for my last book, The Long Ride Home.  

In this book, I reconnected with my heart.  I didn’t write this book to sell it.  I wrote it to dance with words again, to paint my heart in big sloppy colors all over the page.  I wanted to break rules.  I wasn’t even sure what genre I was writing in. Half the poems think they are prose, so there’s that.  In other news, I was told by a poetry teacher early on that I shouldn’t use the word “love” in poems, that I shouldn’t, in fact, write about love, because it was cliché.  Fuck that noise.  At least half of these poems are unabashed love poems.  It’s what I want to write.  I’m sick of writing for an imaginary panel of old white male intellectuals, or for a mysterious, mythical beast called the publishing industry.  If I can’t write my heart, I don’t want to write.  I’d rather be a barista.

Honestly, I didn’t think anyone would want my wild, from-the-heart book.  But someone did.  The editors at Texture Press fell in love with it, and now, I feel as if I have fully returned to the passion I felt for writing before I started publishing.  Writing isn’t about money, or big audiences at readings, or prestige.  It’s about art and passion and love.  That’s all I ever want it to be about again.  I want my words to forever be wild and blue.  I don’t care how big my book advances are.  I don’t care how many people show up at my readings.  I don’t care if the publishing industry thinks my words are “unmarketable.” I’m not here to be marketable.  I’m here to fill the air around me with magic blue.

So thank you, Beth, for giving my words back to me.  Thank you Valerie Fox at Texture Press for championing my manuscript.  Thank you to my baby Desi for collaborating with your momma on this piece of her heart.

It’s a good day.  I’m back.

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Reconnecting to the kid in me at our house outside of Munich.  I’m gonna stay this girl until the day I die.  


Groupie me dancing (rather enthusiastically)

Almost four years ago, around the time my kids moved out and my first two books were released, my life upended itself.  I won’t go into detail about everything that happened (well, maybe I will in the memoir I’m writing), but so much of who I thought I was fell away.  Some of it fell away whether I liked it or not.  Some of it went because I chose to let it go.

One of the things that went the way of the dinosaur was my house.  “Who the hell am I really?” I asked myself.  “I mean without all the trappings and labels that come with a normal home and existence?” More rapidly than I would have liked, the universe set about answering my earnest question. A series of brutally serendipitous events pushed me to give up my permanent residence, and filled with terror, I started to travel full time, thinking I’d embrace the itinerant lifestyle for about a year.

I have since lived in the South of France for a bit, taught creative writing in Sicily, performed in Mexico, and done all of those things just about everywhere in the U.S.  I’ve just accepted an offer to do a stint teaching for the Rosemont College MFA program in Morocco.  (Yayyyy!!!)  I’ve lost relationships that needed losing, repaired loves that needed repairing, and found a slew of new friends who are wise, generous, brilliant, and all kinds of bad ass.  I’ve yet to give up traveling completely, but the trek I’ve been on has been beautiful, horrifying, and utterly guided.  It has served to peel away my layers of bullshit and unearth a version of me that feels more authentic, powerful, and honest than anything I’ve ever allowed myself to be.

Before I gave up my house, I’d been following a rock band for almost 20 years, and I had all kinds of clothes I dubbed my “groupie clothes.” The time I spent following that band changed me forever.  In fact, it ignited the genesis that made me into a woman who would dare sell books, throw away houses, wander the world alone.

But suddenly, I was a groupie-no-more. I was teaching writing at universities and conferences and reading my work in front of audiences.  Believing, as most of us do, that the real me was completely inadequate, I decided the best thing to do was stuff my real self in a box and pretend to be “professional.”  (I know.  This behavior was diametrically opposed to the question that made me set out on my quest in the first place.  I never claimed to be a logical being.) I put all my groupie clothes in storage, bought a bunch of grown up stuff, and set about trying to be Margaret Atwood.  (I’m just gonna go ahead and say I look really weird in khaki pants.)

And then, as the travel started working its magic of revealing my truest soul, and I simultaneously became more and more comfortable in front of audiences, I realized my classes and events were way better when I was just me—good ol’ earnest, probably gonna trip and fall, definitely gonna cry at least once and drop the f-bomb twice, more likely to reference Springsteen than Bukowski, can we talk about how love will save the world Tawni.  When I let that girl out of the box, I was shocked to find how enthusiastically people embraced her.  Who knew?

A few weeks before I came to Philadelphia to teach at the Rosemont College MFA retreat, I took my groupie clothes out of storage.  As I packed for the trip, I threw some of the clothes in my suitcase, thinking I might where them to social events–say maybe to drink at pubs with other writers. Today, as I was dressing to conduct a series of manuscript consultations, a favorite shirt fell out of my bag.  (I first wore this shirt to a CD release party in 2004, after which I followed the band everywhere they went on tour.  It was a huge part of my artistic/spiritual genesis.  I wrote much of Beauty of the Broken on that tour.)  As I stared at that ball of flimsy blue fabric lying on the floor, memories of my groupie years–some of the headiest years of my life–washed over me.  In an admittedly characteristic act of impetuousness, I decided to bring groupie Tawni out to play with writer Tawni.  I paired my rock-n-roll shirt with a semi-grown-up black skirt (as opposed to the thigh high boots I paired it with way back when).  I was kinda worried it would make people think I was trashy, but I don’t know if I’ve ever gotten more compliments on an outfit.  And for the first time since I sold my books—maybe for the first time ever–I felt like I was wholly me.

Today, rock-n-roll Tawni and writer Tawni merged.  I kinda think this outfit is a metaphorical answer to the question I asked four years ago.

This is who the hell I really am (for now).

groupie tawni writer tawni
Groupie Tawni and Writer Tawni, all in one crazy-weird package



floating in flowers 2.png

In dawn’s blossoming light

I see.

I can tell you this single truth:

Kittens are worth more than dollars.

I measure wealth in the intricacy of eyelashes,

not pennies.

I must ask:

Why was I so afraid of this world he tried to show me?

And why did I run so far from the breaking of my clay vessel?

Let the light in me leak out.

Around me now, flowers bloom

bursting into sunrise

replicated on the hillside

again and again and again

colors not seen in the gray world I used to know

a loveless web of shoulds and musts and death.

In your story, the grave is the end,

but I have died, and I am still alive.

What do you make of that,


What do you do with the miracle of me?

You must ask yourself this question now:

How do we subdue a star that has already risen

far out of reach?

How do we silence the wind?

How do we unshow the queen the diamonds that grew in her bones

now that she has been boiled down to glittery marrow?

I perch on the tip of the crescent moon

singing hymns to divinities

who had nothing to do with your petty churches.

My gods do not bow

to idols.

Yes, there is forever.

I sit at its center

and bloom.

I am a lotus

a blue egg a wandering Christ found one night

and cracked.

My sunrise yolk bled out.

Yesterday, you crucified him

because he didn’t look the way your book imagined he should.

My king wore jeans and dusty boots instead of sanitized white robes.

The story is always the same,

but no matter, beloved fools.


It always ends with resurrection.



I have ascended
come to the place
where every molecule is infused with light
I can see the future and the past and the present
as one.
Krishna’s blue shines here.
There is no fear.
on the mountain of perfect love.

I scaled the gates of hell to find
my soul’s true home
tangled with screaming demons
wrestled with death itself
while ahead of me
the Christ walked

Follow me home.
Follow me home.

As I climbed
I lost everyone and everything
I thought I knew and owned
because everyone and everything
I thought I knew and owned
were links in the chains
binding me to hell’s gates

I cannot show the way.
I can only point to the door.

Look into your heart.
Open it.
Walk inside.
Meet your Christ
and your demons.
Your pride
Your envy
Your horror
Your pain
Dispatch them one at a time.


The road to heaven is not just narrow.
It is steep
and strewn about with terror and grief.
The road to heaven passes through hell
because to get to paradise
you must conquer
the hell within your bones.
To find your true self
you must kill the false self.
To live
you must die.

I do not fear death.
I have died.
I do not fear this life.
It is an illusion.
Perfect peace is true reality.
Unmitigated light


Today, my hatred melted in the blaze of breaking dawn.
I pity those who stole from me along the way
strapped links from my chains
around their necks
strutted in their newborn diamond studded collars
while around them
the specter of death closed in
for them reality
because they believed
as I once had.

Your mind is your prison.
To escape it
you must break it.
I cannot show you the path
only the door.

Look into your heart.
Find the Christ
whose voice is a whispered

There must be something more.

Follow him
one agonizing beautiful step at a time
Your soul knows the way home.
It is harder than anything you have ever imagined
and worth it.

Lose everything
to find your

The Christ said,

Many are called
But few are chosen

I say,

Many are called
But few choose

Because the way is horror.
It is not a formula for manifesting
a trip to Tahiti
a mansion
a romance.

It is not a religion.
a free ticket to the sweet by and by.
It is a wretched road to salvation
in the here and now
that will cost you everything.
It is a path through your own insanity
into divinity.
It is a lifetimes long trip to heaven
via the hell the that lives in your head.

Most see the door and say,
The price is too high.
Better to decorate my hellscape
and call it home.
A house here.
A new car there.
Another bout with bondage masquerading as love.
How about a fancy job?
How about a soothing church?
How about a seat in the cool kid’s club?
Hell drives a hard bargain.
If you can be bought at any price
you will be.

Those I have lost along the way,
I want you to come with me.
Hear my voice now.
Open the door.


Beloved brothers and sisters
I cannot fuck you
or give you the fleeting solace
you think you want from me.
To do so would be to
descend again into hell.
I can never go back,
but I can give you this
My map to the door.

Christ in you. The hope of glory.

I love you.
Come home.


A photo of a strange, gelatinous creature, by David Dinner. 
Last night, I had writer’s block, so I decided that I would write a poem about the first post that appeared in my newsfeed on Facebook.  The lucky winner was an odd, lovely post by my friend, David Dinner, puzzling over strange, gelatinous creatures he’d seen on the beach that day (see above).  I kept my promise to me.  I think the poem ended up being about mermaids and promises and love.  Among other things. Who knew gelatinous creatures could be so inspiring? Unicorns, you’ve met your match.
I speak to you from the mount
of strange gelatinous creatures
where walking on water ain’t shit
but legs on land?
Now that’s a thing.
I will make miracles for you.
I will read your past in salted tea leaves
and serve you up a cup of stars.
I will deliver to you the meaning of Christmas
and translate the oracle of Captain Ahab
into the mysterious language of bats.
I’m talking sonar, mother fuckers.
Slip into my coral bed.
Sleep beside me.
My eyes burn with longing.
My fins quiver.
If only if only
I could surf the sand with you.
Listen, long legged lover
sink into sunset with me.
Let maw-mouthed tangerine sky
swallow you whole.
Take the hand of
one of the animals that didn’t quite
make it onto the ark, two by two.
We are the forgotten ones
who drowned by the thousands.
But the gods of seaweed had mercy
raised us up mermaids
and men who are lovers of myrrh.
I am an underwater Hildegard von Bingen
I have learned to astral project.
I land on land each time the sun plummets
never mind my tail.
My insides are made of oysters and pearls.
I have more in common with snails
than people.
I am Anne Boleyn’s ghost.
On the evening my marriage was annulled
I picked up my head and slipped mist-like
into the bed of my soul’s true love.
I taught him to sing in the tongues of angels.
I licked his scales til they glowed.




I wandered the world searching

only to find my heart

was always buried in this desert

where I was born.


I didn’t need champagne. I needed dirt.

I didn’t need mansions. I needed trees.

I didn’t need money. I needed the moon.

I didn’t need parties. I needed prickly pear fruit

purple, tart, infesting my tongue with barbs,

and even the impaling feels like heaven.


I didn’t need a million lovers. I needed one perfect soul.

Yours. It comes to me now, gliding over stones

like the tongue of the wind. It licks me

from top to toenails. I bask in the glory

of your spirit saliva, laughing at how crazy

it sounds when I write it down like that.


How did I imagine space and time could ever steal our love?

What was I thinking anyway, pretending to be like them?

Why would a wild woman like me ever want this world’s safe version of sane?

What did I mean when I said I was poor?

Didn’t I know my bones were encrusted with pearls of truth?

Didn’t I see every jewel in the sky was mine?


My fingers dig in, marrying the soil.

I baptize me in desert stones.


Dear world, a confession: I have always been my father’s daughter.

I have always seen visions.

I have always dreamed dreams.

I have always heard the voices of angels in the breeze.


Dear world, a revelation: It is always Christmas if you take the time to notice.

The pines dangle with cones full of pinon nuts, red birds, moonlight tinsel.

The wind sings of the birth of redemption.

The mountains glitter with strings of stars.


deer by rock
The deer that was waiting by my rock when I went to meditate last night.

About a week ago, I stopped eating sugar, flour, and processed foods.  The day after I started the cleanse, I was a wreck.  I felt like I had a really shitty flu.  That lasted for a couple of days, and then, I started to feel stronger, clearer, more centered and energetic and whole.  Shockingly, I started sleeping.  (I have been an insomniac my whole life.)

I woke up this morning and had a cantaloupe and berries for breakfast. I was stunned at how amazing those things tasted.  It was as if someone had woken up my taste buds, after a decades long sleep. It was as if I were borrowing someone else’s mouth.  Now that I am not constantly saturating my body with fake food full of quantities of sugar and fat and salt that never occur naturally in the physical world, my taste buds are returning to their natural state. It had been so long since I’d tasted food like that.  Really tasted it.

It got me thinking about the ways in which we live in our modern world.  Greedy corporations have studied the human body and mind, with the intent of saturating us with all the things that we are hardwired to want.  We are hardwired to want fat and carbs and sugar because they occur so rarely in nature. For most of human history, stumbling upon any of these things would be like winning the nutritional lottery.  Our bodies could use the jolt of energy they got from these rare finds to keep themselves running for a long time.

So corporate America used our biology against us, pumped us full of manufactured shit designed to trigger those centers in our brains that said, “Yes, you just won the nutritional lottery! Eat more!” We won the nutritional lottery every second of every day, only these manufactured things we were driven to eat had none of the positive qualities of fatty, sugary, carb-y foods that occur in nature.  Corporations didn’t care about actual nutrition.  They cared about stimulating ancient centers in our brains so that we would buy more, more, more.  If we died as a result of their tinkering, so be it.  And we got sick, and fat, and half-dead, walking around our mazes like lab rats, pushing buttons to get more, more, more.

We are hardwired to get a dopamine jolt from connecting from other human beings, so now, we can get constant likes on social media.  Another like.  Please.  Another like.  We can’t connect to real human beings when they are in front of us because we are watching our phones, waiting for that dopamine hit.

We are hardwired to want sex, because our souls need to connect, and our bodies need to reproduce.  So we have all the increasingly bizarre porn we could ever want at our fingertips, 24/7.  More, more, more.  Give us more.  No true intimacy, mind you.  No human connection.  Just a dopamine hit.  Just a drug.  Never mind that this 24/7 sexual smorgasborg never could have occurred in nature, and it is probably doing terrible, destructive things to your natural human brain.  No matter that your erotic senses shut down, the way my taste buds did.  No matter that when you have an actual living being in front of you, it does little for your overstimulated brain, who never in all of history could have seen so many naked people doing so many intimate things and now isn’t particularly impressed with one naked person who wants to love.

We are hardwired to love stories, the connection we felt sitting around the campfire, sharing our insights, our myths, our lives.  So now, we can Netflix binge on stories 24/7 if we want.  Increasingly brutal and hyper-sexualized stories, because like my taste buds lost their ability to discern the taste of cantaloupe, our brains need increasingly intense and bizarre stimulation to produce the rushes we used to get from hearing simple stories.

We are constantly stimulated and placated and saturated.  But something is missing from all of this.  Humanity.  I don’t know if I am just a hypersensitive person, but I came to a place where I felt like if I didn’t find actual meaning, actual love, actual connection, actual self, I was going to die.  That was when I started living on the road, letting go of possessions, socially constructed ways of being that had nothing to do with who I really was, lies I had told myself about myself.

It took me so long to sift through the lies to find truth.  As I was traveling, I came to realize that so much of what I was doing had nothing to do with me, my humanity, what I was really created to be.  The way I was eating, the way I was drinking, the way I was handling my sexuality, the way I was handling my social life, the entire way I was living had more to do with me being some kind of a lab rat pressing a button again and again, wanting another rush, another fix, than it did with being authentically human, authentically connecting to my world, my life, my heart, other human beings, other non-human beings.

People always ask me where I’ve been, why I don’t go out anymore, why I’m not as much fun as I used to be.  The answer is, I’m learning to be human again.  I’m learning to exist in the reality around me instead of my head, or worse, in the constant stimulation provided by the modern media machine.  I’m treating my body like the temple it is.  Not as some act of repression, but as an act of pure self-love.

I rarely drink anymore.  When I do, I do it mindfully.  How about one glass of wine you really taste instead of ten you throw up the next day?

I work out daily, and the whole time I do it, I tell myself, “I’m giving you this time as an act of love.  I love you enough to honor you.”

I’ve stopped taking all medications, not because I “should,” but because I don’t need it anymore.  I don’t need anti-anxiety meds.  I don’t need anti-depressants.  I don’t need pain medications.  My body and mind (they are irreversibly and gloriously intertwined—don’t let anyone tell you differently) are really and truly healing.

I’ve stopped having sex because the way I was handling sex and relationships was incredibly destructive.  I stopped taking unhealthy, empty sex into my being the same way I stopped taking bad food.  I want the real thing.  I want love, and the miraculous, delicious, life-altering sexual connection that grows from that.  Someday, I want to experience sex with the person I love with all my taste buds woken up, because I’ve stopped saturating them in mass produced, meaningless shit.  And until then, I am experiencing the connection I was looking for (and never found) in sex everywhere.  I feel truly connected to myself, to my life, to nature, to my loved ones.

More and more, I make quiet time for myself, despite the fact that technology is always, always clutching at us. At first, when I went to sit alone in the woods with no media devices, no music, no ability to connect to anything but the world around me, I felt panicky, like I should do something else.  Wasn’t there a to-do list that needed checking off?  Wasn’t there a message I needed to reply to?  Weren’t my friends posting interesting things on Facebook?  Wasn’t I hungry?  Didn’t I need a drink?  But as I sat with myself night after night, that passed.

Now I love the hours I spend each night sitting alone in the woods, looking up at the stars. I can sit there all night and never get bored, listening to the voice of the wind, watching the intricate branches wave overhead, feeling the connectedness of all things.  It is more of a rush than any manufactured stimulation I ever experienced.

And even though they aren’t physically with me, or hitting me up on Facebook, or texting me, I connect, truly connect, to the hearts of those I love, and they feel more present with me than they do when we are messaging each other, or texting, or liking each other’s Facebook updates.  I am learning that love is a force that doesn’t need constant physical reinforcement.  That love exists even in the moments we are separate from our beloveds.  That we were all connected 24/7 long before social media came along.  The more time I take to just be present in what is, the more whole, human, and truly centered/peaceful I feel.

Yesterday, an entire herd of deer came to visit us here on our mountain. My mom called for me, and when I came running, she pointed to the cluster of deer outside the window, snacking on trees. We stood in awe, staring, not believing the miracle of them.  Afterward, I walked over to my brother’s, and impossibly, a buck was standing outside his door.  When I went to sit on the rock I have claimed as “mine,” (where I meditate as often as I can), there was a deer standing near it, watching for me, seemingly waiting for and welcoming me.

These deer.  These beautiful, miraculous deer.  Where did they come from?  How did I get so lucky?  Watching them be, and then watching the sun set over the mountain that was my first home, and then looking up at the bowl of stars overhead, I said, out loud, “I am the richest woman in the world.” They mean more to me than any party, any sex, any number of likes on Facebook, even any publishing contract, ever did.  I wonder if they would have five years ago.  I wonder if I would have been too busy looking for my next social fix, my next “romance” (I use that term loosely), my next dopamine hit, to be awestruck by a bunch of deer.  I wonder if all of me is waking up, the way my taste buds seemed to have woken up this morning.  I wonder if the whole world is a pile of cantaloupe and berries, and I was too busy drowning myself in Cheese Puffs to even notice it existed at all.

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Tasting, really tasting, one glass of wine.