nude / meditation/ running/ yoga

     Emphatic trees reach down their limbs in a lover's torment towards me. Creeping through the darkness at my peril, sweat drips, as a wall of paint licks my shoulder blade. Plum velvet of my circulatory fades to folds of beige on my flesh. In a dark unspoken urge I think a deer throws me a kiss, in majestic complacency, as the intimacy lends forebode of a past lover. Sneakers skim and float on this sea of pleasure.

I am naked, you are not, and that is why, I run. I will continue to run in all of my nudity, until, you catch me. Countable beads of sweat now scattered on my breasts, drifting into formless intentions, unspoken sensations. Merging my sneakers into my bareness, drifting further along, without my loincloth...meditation is a wonderful tonic....

running / heat / breath / yoga / meditation

Waterfalls cascading from my brow, crawl down the curvature of body parts, pooling in vibrations throughout my soul. Lushness of early morning silence echoes from each rose petal. Succulent beads of dew hang suspended above each thorn.

 The scent of heat so thick it latches onto my breath, as my sneakers peer out from a black frame of pavement. Breath so ensconced in mornings cocktail, that toxic drips of humidity taste upon my lips.

 In the hurried of the morning's heat, my sneakers succumb to a greater force of nature...sweat and heat, become the tightly wrapped shawl which cuts off my breath...

naked / train / wandering / lust / yoga

I woke early, felt the folds of my flesh in the shower, and then stood in awe of my own elongated nakedness in the bathroom mirror. The heat today, somewhat subdued, not as decrepitly punishing as yesterday. The humidity has dropped; taking comfort in the coolness of the cream I apply to my newly shaved legs. Tracing the outline of my abdomen, I apply more cream liberally upward from my navel. I worry about my shoes, flats or heels, as I make no headway in decision, pausing to look at the wan slender ghost of my face in the mirror. My skirt sits high above my knee, teasing the tan lines of my thigh. My thick silver bangle drapes my wrist in a seductive code of armor. Flats it is, as I am already late for my train, so a run it will now need to be, not a meandering sway of my hips. I would like to say that I am reading a very proper French intellectual book, but alas, Shades of Grey peeks from my shoulder briefcase. The avant-garde of my breasts is cold as they collide with the air conditioning of the train. I wrap my shawl, and drape it downward, covering my two pointed soldiers. I now look very casual chic; time has been kind to me, as my actual age is greater than the equivalent that I appear. I watch as the man next to me raises his long blunt fingers to hand the conductor his ticket. I imagine these same fingers to have probably touched some women in all kinds of tempest ways. Self - conscious enough to think that we get too old for sex, I linger in the thought of what could happen on a hot summer afternoon. Am I the only one on the train with such devil's thought? The man on the other side of me is adjusting his tie, and although it is not the more demanding "grey" one, it is a strikingly bold blue, which brings out the color of his eyes. I am self-reassured that I cannot possibly be the only woman on the train whom takes in and harbors such knowledge of thought. Without discussion or exchanging of ideas, the same abstraction is readable on many a commuter's face. Making association between my thoughts and a visual image, I begin to pant, as he begins to take notice. Further I process my theory that, the color of the tie makes little difference, a tie will always act the part of a tie, when in the presence of a skirt.

love affair / tragedy / suffering / yoga

An Ending:

The silence in the elevator had her taking the stairs, as unthinking, a quick tear begins to start. The tear, working its way out of her consciousness over time, soon dries up on the marble floor of the office building, fighting to hold on, yet fighting to let go. Walking down the hallway as if it is the most traumatic walk of her life. The time has really come to say "goodbye", as a powerful Amazing Grace plays inside her head. Covering her tear deep under the dirt of the corridor, feeling the echo of trumpets of a love affair now over. She will miss the dimples in his cheeks, and the soft feel of his lips on hers. His hands now only a memory of how they crossed over her body, playing music on her breasts.

      Looking out from the tenth floor window, from the leather burgundy chair he was so accustomed to be being serviced in, as he watches the sands of time continue to fall. His now trembling hand fumbling at his zipper, pants, as he gets dressed, he is no longer able to turn the hourglass over. She is gone. Gone from his zipper, his office, his life, the silence she left is the most powerful scream he has ever heard. Pouring a glass from the bottle of Jameson he kept on the shelf, staring out the window with nothing but hope, crying with everything but his tears. It is over, she is gone, and nothing can now conquer his loss. She, herself, peers up at his window, walking along the avenue, seeking the comfort to her loss in the clouds above. Tragic death of a love affair, as they suffer together, as their organs weep, as they move away from one another.

KC~~

running / poetry / motion/ yoga

How does hell become so close to our bones, that heaven is not seen in our eyes? How do we move past what harms us, in order to hold the things we never want to forget? 

Sometimes the heart belongs in a body bag, and other times, the sandbags are meant to save us. Leaving behind the twinkling stars of night, as moon shifts to daylight. Standing in this place, no words needed to speak, quiet is all I need. I swore I would ask the birds, but words just don't come easily. How to part the clouds, to find the silver lining, a poet in paint, as I float along the road.

I keep putting one foot in front of the other, very determined to finally arrive, at the place I was always meant to be.

wounds / healing / art / accepatnce / yoga

a still life...red....for all the wounds that healed while I created this....

I think from pain, often sprouts the greatest creativity. We open up, to let things spill over and out, a release of sorts, as if we are filled too much for containment any longer, and we have to let something go. A release of what breaks us, takeing on the form of a piece of art, somehow then, we evolve, and learn to let something go. We uncork ourselves, the better, and the worst, parts of ourselves, in order to keep on moving forward outside the pain. 

The physical pain we usually bleed from, the internal and emotional pain, we sink further into. Often, it is the internal pain, which bleeds the longest, for it is out of sight, and affects our minds. We twist, we turn, we stay up at night starring at the darkness of our bedroom ceilings, making all sorts of compromising promises to a god we barely believe in, but think surely is watching and listening to us anyway. In the darkness we grieve with our pain, until morning comes, and someone, once again, turns on the light. We tuck it neatly back into the crevice of the bones it arose from, until, the next night, when we stare at the ceiling in darkness, and watch the pain hover down around us, again.

 Create something from all of the darkness, and make the pain stay away...art  takes on many channels, redirect the vision, until you can turn off the lights, and fall soundly to sleep...accepting life on the terms it has given to you.........the old, the new, seamlessly married in fleeting moments of acceptance.....

meditation / organic tea / tees / soothing

ready for a new weekend of boutique sales.......meditation bamboo tee now in color salmon. Three new glass plate designs.

another / pain / domestic violence / bullying

I usually post  a runner's excerpt on Tuesdays, Thursday and Saturdays, however, today I am making an excuse to throw that rule curbside. Domestic Violence needs yet another yelp from my corner, in case, someone out there is the guarded "me" I once was......get help, get out...

I enter easily into another's pain, a trait I can only attribute not to some outstanding moral fiber, but rather to my adult life, which has trained my mind and soul to inhabit the skin of another in a way that little else can. I remember the scene now, as if it were yesterday, as he brandished the coffee mug, hurling it across the room into the sink, leaving cup smashed and coffee dripping down the kitchen wall. The vision still sears in my head, as heavy fists hurled against the grey doorframe of the bathroom. I'm sure I cried. I remember shaking my head and asking no - one in particular, why? 

As I write this I turn around and see on my shelf the faded scrapbook that contains the tattered "I'm sorry, it won't happen again," notes, tucked into a nearby shabby box are the ones that didn't fit into the scrapbook. And, together, they make me wonder, would he ever have stopped at all, if I had not been the one to stop it, by finally leaving? To finally end the trail of "I'm sorry, and this will be the last time, I promise "... a trail of notes that seemed to continue connecting like the cars of a locomotive that went on forever. Like every other bit of my life, it has affected me for the rest of my life. It is only now that I have begun to stand still with my own memories, re - visiting a time in my life that is on a constant loop in some recess of my brain. Not that I obsess. It is just that the past is a big part of the present...sometimes memories brightly flare up; sometimes they quietly recede to the background.

 I feel myself fading, being pulled into a dark tunnel that was easier to stay in than consciousness. Here's another memory. He asks why I am mocking his favorite sports team. Before my confusion fully set into an organized thought he punched the wall next to my head. Domestic Violence weren't concepts I knew of yet. Because this was the most normal thing that happened everyday all the time. Each crisis was distinct and discreet behind closed doors. Obviously there were distinctions, but I never readily identified them. As we once upon a time knew, Domestic Violence creeps in silence. It is about power and control, and it often reaches death, for those that don't get out. I have my faults, some are known fully to me, and others, I am sure, feel them more expansively. But, Domestic Violence is not about faults, it is a surge of physical power to control, a bullying that goes on well after the doors to your home are closed for the night. Often, when the doors close behind you, that is when the real bullying actually begins. If I could take back twenty years of my life, I would. My regrets are many........

boutique / shopping

 Spending the day Chalk Painting Mason Jar Glasses with handles for the boutique. Eight in all, pictures soon  to follow

run / yoga / sneakers are wet

Sensation, viral through the webbing of my mind, clatters a beautiful chaotic melody.

The colors are always these exaggerated hues; haze has cleared and unveiled rainbows pour into my eyes. Saturation of overnight rain has ended, mud creeping up my shins, imprints left among the pavement, as my sneakers give away from which direction I have come. The mud becomes individual portraits, my sneakers the paintbrush used to paint on the canvas of black tar.

 Lingering beads of perspiration adorn my flesh, as raindrops still wet and powerful leak from tree branches above me.  A mosquito begging for a bite follows along in my shadow.

Summertime euphoria ensues.....sneakers hum to the melody.........

purpose / beliefs / containment / hqppiness /

Right now I'm perfectly happy, but I've found that I have reached an unsettling - and somewhat surreal time - time in my life. I get the feeling that being in this space, much like many other aspects of getting older is something I'll get better with in time. The world has changed. Life has changed. I have changed. I am having one of those twisty conversations with myself that covers a million topics, to trace back how I got to talk about my life would require flow charts and recording devices, so I will just mosey onward with things I believe in. 

I believe in kindness, goodness, luck, and the importance of good juju. I believe in the Muppets, gene Kelley, Fred Astaire, and Hallelujah, and that Leonard Cohen, is indeed, one of our greatest poets. I believe in long walks, morning runs, holding hands, and keeping the thermostat low enough to still cuddle under the blankets. I believe in hand - written letters whenever possible, music, roses, and doing more kissing, than actually just thinking about it. I believe in the occasional drink, especially while discussing / pondering plot points and characters of life. 

I believe in love. I believe marriage isn't for everyone, but that everyone should consider the option. I believe in laughing every day, wiping away tears, trusting the universe (and oneself), marching to my own drummer, and appreciating the rain, cold and wet, and muddy as it may be. It cleanses. I believe dark chocolate is a birth right, I believe in back roads, forward glances, sunsets, sunrises, and stopping to both smell, and then to pick the roses. I believe in coffee, girlish glamour, great shoes, and turning to check out the man you just passed on the corner (the one with the great rear view). I believe happiness is just as worthy a goal as a corner office. I believe in saying " I love you" (I believe in meaning it as well). I believe that time spent together is never wasted. I believe being alone means having the freedom to daydream, while in your underwear, or nude, out on your back patio, and writing by lamplight until 3 a.m., singing along to embarrassing music that anyone in their right mind would turn off if they were there with you. But, they are not, so you can play it loudly, and often. I believe in living full - throated, all - encompassing and unadorned. 

I believe in the journey of life, each day blowing through your reserve, then, next day, refueling. I believe in reaching beyond your reach, where it cannot be quantified or contained. I believe in never forgetting, not the bigger things like birthdays, or even the smaller things, like the color of the dress you wore on that first date. I believe in 'quarter - life - crises' rather than 'mid - life crises'. I believe in finding someone to be your daily lifeline, and keeper of your secrets. Someone to hold you up, and right your footing, repeatedly, throughout life. I believe everyone feels adrift, confused, about what their purpose in life was, or what their next step should be. I believe the markers our society uses to define success -a degree, a job, children, leads to much unneeded soul searching. I believe in finding someone to be the reason you are not hiking by yourself somewhere, lost.

 I believe in giving the best and the worst of yourself. It makes you, more or less, normal. I believe in the moment of realization - the - light bulb instant when you realize just how much purpose can be found in neglected phrases, unsolved problems, moments of guilt, despair, and long nights of feeling worthless and obsolete. Those moments make you go after things with energy and zeal. I believe to - do lists are always bigger than what is logical and practical. 

I believe we are the people we meet, the dreams we have, and the conversations we engage in. That we take from these. That we are each the brightest light and the darkest corner. I believe that we are a collective of every experience we have had in life. We are every single day, as existence and words run through our veins and fill our minds. I believe in letting go, and holding on, and when to know the difference. I believe everyone has their own truth, their own journey, and their own source of joy(I believe in finding my own personal source) I believe the questions of life linger like a tiny splinter lodged under my skin, unnoticed when touched and then the annoyance lingers past the pain...have I finally found what I have been looking for?

yoga/ balance / run / laces/

Flesh transforms into hot and woozy, seductively narcotic, on the shedding of first arrival body tears into early morning air. Conjuring up vaguest outlines, every passing detail of my shadow on the pavement, tracing the edge of my lip with my tongue, catching a droplet of weeping from my pores.  It is only in the time alone with my sneakers that I find the  balance to work through the complicated and the murky. It is only on my yoga mat that I feel the surrender. It is only in the dampness of my sneakers that thoughts begin to puddle.
Only in the laces that I feel untangled....

summertime / lover / periwinkles/ beach / tears

A canopy of trees, the swish of water, and the goose bumps brought on by a breeze.

It's fingertips enjoying the texture of a lover's back as they curl in.

It's moments; it's memories, carried in by a tide.

It's the pretense and posture

from which we all hide.

It's being lulled to sleep

by the sound of crickets

the hum of an air conditioner

blocking off sound from the world.

Summertime always meant peace

a reason for escape

a safe place to run to, 

moments of release.

Periwinkles running over entangled feet........a tear resting on the shell of a crab, he holds my embrace, sees me weak.........

Ck

transitions / marriage / kisses

I use to love the structured life: the healthy closet, the happy living room, the robust plants giggling on my patio, the neat yogurt, nut, and Clementine breakfast of choice, the resplendent relationship with my yoga mat and my running sneakers. The up 5 a.m., in bed by 10 p.m. philosophy of a healthy lifestyle. (Up with the birds, in bed before the bewitching hour the vampires arrive) Somewhere along the way though, out of the pitfalls of a life destined with epic failures, I met a wonderful man who refuses to think in such tight increments or my substandarized measures.

He sets his alarm clock at 6:03 a.m., or 8:57, or 9:14, because 'life does not need to unfold on the dot." he has gently explained to me the practical matter of eating an Oreo (do I dare?). The need for keeping the top down on the convertible, then turning the heat on because it is cold (go figure). I would like to think that I excel in transition, if that is, in fact, the sort of experience one can master. After years of conflict and post - conflict, the transition of possibly staying in one (secure) (exceedingly comfortable) place for the next years of my life, eating an Oreo here and there is absolutely intoxicating.

I am turning into a Nesting Monster, slowly building it, (my second marriage, my new life). I am no longer allergic to this newest transition, as I humor myself, assembling life block by block by the tick of the clock on the wall. Last night I asked my husband if he thought the merging of our two lives would become cluttered. He replied, " Let me be perfectly clear, it will not. The merger has already become imposingly permanent, imposingly wonderful, the day you unpacked your suitcase, and I then shared with you my empty drawers."

How can one not love a man who says things like that? 

I now plan to indulge more, not restrain myself sooner. Break every rule, transgress very line, simply roll over in bed, and find a place where the sheets are still cool.

Perspiration trickles down between my breasts, we lay together, not touching, but there is an affinity. The feel of his breath on my naked neck, sweet, teasing, familiar and unfamiliar in the same moment. I reach for his hand, and twist the wedding band on his finger; he has lead me from a place of sameness to a place of newness and wonderment. When I kiss him, it is with a question. When he kisses me back, it is always with an answer. Kisses are innocent. They contain no motives, no history. They simply are. Kissing is our game. It is a call and an answer. It is the conjoined enjoyment of the relationship we now share.

flash / running / sunburst

 Feet cemented in my sneakers, straddled in a morning sunburst. An ocean of turquoise blue carries my breath in flight with the birds. The peek - a -boo play of my shadow, melting ahead of me, spillage evaporating on the sizzle of the pavement. The sun light's torch piercing my back, as a river runs deep down the curvature of my spine. The smallest of rounded molecules rolling down my brow, out spoken from every body cavity across my flesh, painting a canvas across my belly. Stepping closer to the edge of pure delusion, under the direction of the forsaken relentless heat of the sun.

memories/ book/ writing/ marriage / rage / reposing

A lifetime of memories will never return quickly, as my memory problems have less to do with the memories having been erased, than my not being able to find them just yet. The filing cabinet is there for them. It is my ability to go to the cabinet that is impaired. I almost have to pass certain levels to get to the next level, some days I reach that level, some days I do not. In the beginning my thinking had slowed, but that has improved, memory is spotty, whole sections still locked in that file cabinet inside my head. I have had to redefine myself, become a new version of 'me'.  Writing very frankly about, well, just about everything, aging, mortality, my midlife crisis, my children, my accident, my surgeries, my marriage, rage, anger, abuse. Anything I stay up nights worrying over, I write about. At this point in life, I have much material to write about. A jaded piece here, a jagged piece there. Yes, that's my life, a measurement of extremes! 

In between all of this, I am also carving out a romantic haughty interlude I have yet to put a title to.


>>..he had named the island after her, turquoise pool of water she often leaped into, her naked body clambering up on the rocks, breasts exposed to the sun. She could sense the presence of his body climbing towards hers, the smell of his skin as it awaited the touch of her fingertips. The rain forest fringed by white sand beaches that hid their secret, often arriving by private ferry, in complete seclusion. She had thought about the valley of desolation, the narrow path of her life that had plunged her to these gorges, the crack in the earth’s crust she had fallen in to. She had tried to back away, but bruised and blistered, she always came back to the cauldron of boiling water that held their secret and the lure of the passion, the fire each held for the other. The island held their secret, as they held one another clinging to branches, fully experiencing the flesh of one another...

boutique/ yoga store/ tea/ soothing

Zen > Cold Spring NY

sneakers/ running / yoga / lace / roses

                  It always catches up to me no matter how fast or far.
To find the drip of sweat splashing to my yoga mat a reason to push forward, lingerie of softest lace, lotion that smells like roses, my running sneakers left outside my front door soaking wet with sweat.

 Healing washes over the wound, Endorphins melt away hurt, thoughts linger in the salt now left behind...meditation soothes all...............................

boutique / opening / teas/ yoga

Boutique Grand Opening went well. Lots of positive feedback > chic & cute, eccentric, interesting mix, unique teas, beautiful pitchers & ceramic teapots, great birdcage staging (for teas), adorable jam & marmalade jars, soothing, love the brick wall accessorized with tea strainers, great totes.....and had a few very nice sales!  All and all a very good start! ( minus the downpouring rain at times)

green tea / boutique / cold spring ny /zen/ yoga

 So, if you are like me, you think, you ponder, you pester yourself with thoughts too obscure for the "average Joe" to even consider worrying about...what happens when I die? What happens if he dies first?  What if we both never die?  Will we run out of money? Will we have too much money for our own good? Will the weather be okay for July 4th? Or rain soaked grass to sit in for the fireworks? Will my boutique have a first sale? A couple of sales?  Will it have a zillion dollars by the end of the day? Should I have designed the canvas tote in Chile pepper red, rather than bluegrass blue? 

Will the teapot I favor the most be the first one to vacate the store? Or the only lonely one left behind, that no one admires, but apparently me? Should I wear a long sundress, or will I trip? Will a short one be too sassy for the grand opening? Should I make herbal ice tea for customers to sample and drink? Will I risk being sued for some weird allergic mundane reaction after the rudest customer of the day ingests it, and blows up like a balloon, or gasps for air? Should I wear heels? Should I wear flats? Should I go barefoot in the boutique, and just be very ZEN? Will my ex husband throw voodoo darts between my eyes all day, hoping for my epic failure? Will customers find my personal writings on the walls to be, well, too personal? Will anyone really give a sh**, other than myself? Or will the entire population of Cold Spring, NY love the sheer guts of me being able to bare myself so open that my skin shows raw? 

Okay, here goes....opening day at the boutique...later, I'll let you know how the day all ends

sweat / sneaker, hole / yoga / pulse

.

Finding breath through flesh and heat, sipping sweat like a cocktail. Beads of perspiration fashion on my upper arm. Feeling cement beneath my feet, pulse resting in the center of my chest. Sweat beads, in a constant flow, as my feet are unnervingly self - sufficient in the undertaking. Jig sawing up the terrain, rising out of the trees like a fortress. A burning that lifts only as I run again, feeling tiny pebbles on the pavement beneath my soles with infused sweat, humming along. Using my arms as shovels to scoop through the air. My toe, mostly bare, as a damp blanket of body dew covers it's intrusion, into hot, humid early morning air. I've stepped out of myself, in a relationship with the hole in my sneaker.... 

Running hard, sweating wildly. My skin burning underneath like a soft pear cooked to a boil. A bird fly's up, breathing the sugar smell of my skin, thirsty for my salt.  

running/ sneakers/ emotion / lungs / yoga

     Holding my breath, inhaling deeply, in an emphatic need to save myself. Lungs swell, and then deflate, in an abandoning need to let all fall away from inside of me. In sinful step, I have turned breathing into fine art, feeling the vibration of pulse inside my chest, lapsing through my body in quiet waves of emotion.

Blasting chatter from my mind, as my flesh tosses back a salty mist. In a darkened animated constellation patterns swirl around my feet as toes probe my sneakers wetness, limbs are loose; body is folding into an arrow of salacious pleasure.
             What if I fail ? What if I fall just one step short of expectation?