instagram pinterest linkedin facebook twitter goodreads facebook circle twitter circle linkedin circle instagram circle goodreads circle pinterest circle

Impeachment Musings

Circle of Love Inside Prison Outreach

My absence since my last post is due to the fact that Amma has given me an enthusiastic thumbs up to assemble and edit a collaborative book about Amma's prison outreach program, Circle of Love Inside. Riveting accounts of volunteers' experiences will be featured, along with inmate poetry and art.

The letter-writers' stories will reveal information about prison conditions, inhumane and racial. Quotes from inmates will give life to the authors' narratives. The Circle of Love Inside book will present a vital message to the world about those living in the shadows of our society, and about inmates' lives before and during incarceration. Tales of redemption are found in the ways spirituality helps prisoners find peace behind bars.

One of the inmates I write to has this to say about receiving mail:

Next to visits, mail is gold in prison. You should see the men who wait with expectancy to receive something, only to receive nothing from no one. It breaks my heart daily to see the reality of the abandonment of priceless human souls that just needed someone, anybody, in their corner.
—Apollo, Inmate in a California prison

The Circle of Love Inside personal accounts will show how writing letters to prisoners can be life changing for both inmate and person on the outside.

Don't be discouraged by your incapacity to dispel darkness from the world. Light your candle and step forward.

 Read More 
Be the first to comment

Flamingo Day in Maine

July is the season. We here in Southwest Harbor, Maine, pretty close to Canada, very definitely North Atlantic, we pretend we're in the tropics. For one day. Villagers get all decked out in pink clothes, many gardens are strewn with plastic flamingos, and then our parade. A celebration of warmth and just plain old goofy fun.

All the ones in the parade throw candies out for the children...or for anyone who likes candy.

Yesterday while I was riding my bike home from the library, I heard a band practicing. "When the Saints Come Marching In." I watched them march down one of the side roads. And now today, there they were dancing down the street, their horns loud and wonderfully out of tune, marching in the Flamingo Day Parade.

"You that come to birth and bring the mysteries,
your voice-thunder makes us very happy.
Roar, lion of the heart,
and tear me open!"
--Rumi Read More 
Be the first to comment

Gold Finch

Gold finches and chickadees populate my balcony, their main interest being my bird feeder. Every once in a while a larger bird such as a cardinal tries to perch at the feeder, but usually fails to gain purchase. Instead the cardinals crouch down in the white pot, eating the seeds the gold finches have thrown away.

Anyway, the little golden fellow in the photo seemed to want his picture taken, posing on the top of a piece of driftwood. He is surrounded by pansies and red flowers (I didn't ask what they were called when I bought them as my main interest was attracting hummingbirds). The finch's piece of driftwood sticks out of a large white pot with dill, parsley, and climbing peas.

"O friend, understand: the body
is like the ocean,
rich with hidden treasures.
Open your inmost chamber and light its lamp."

 Read More 
Be the first to comment

The Day After the Full Moon has come to a close. I've transferred everything that was important on that site over to

One thing dies and another is reborn.

Life is constantly changing.

Summer has finally arrived in Maine after a troubled start. Dense, cold fog yesterday. Today, warm. That means the veggie garden will be very happy.

A mother duck led her 7 or 8 ducklings into Norwood Cover waters. They all sort of spilled into the water, a bundle of downy feathers. The osprey was no longer cheeping and soaring overhead. Those brave ducklings followed their equally brave mother in one single file, down the center of the cove until they disappeared from sight (too small for my eyes to see).

"All night I could not sleep
because of the moonlight on my bed.
I kept on hearing a voice calling:
Out of Nowhere. Nothing answered 'yes.'"
---Zi Ye (From Jane Hirshfield's Women in Praise of the Sacred
 Read More 
Be the first to comment

The Day Before The Full Moon


The beginning of eternity
the end of time and space.
The beginning of every end,
The end of every place.

Be the first to comment

Summer equinox

This Path of the Mother website experienced a renewal today, with me adding and subtracting many things. And it was a fine way to spend the first day of summer, while the rain was pouring down all day long. A lovely rain.

I imagine that tomorrow when I go downstairs to my raised garden beds (2 of them, 7' x 7' each) I'll find some very happy newly-planted flowers and veggies (some from seed and some from seedlings).

Meanwhile, at the moment, the light of day is fading. Rain has come to a stop. One lone bird sings an evening lullaby.

When the mind is pure and quiet it becomes one with the universal mind. That mind is like a mirror. The secrets of the Universe will be revealed there. --Amma Read More 
Be the first to comment

Spring in Maine

Spring Equonox has come and passed. On that day friends balanced eggs on their tips. Day after day, the people of Maine began seeking evidence of the coming of spring. It snowed and snowed some more. The sun came out and the temperatures rose to 50 degrees one day. Then came the rains, followed by snow, followed by hail. Rain. The snow is melting. The sun comes out more often. Birds sing. People are out walking again. Even smiling.

I give you a poem I wrote:

"Only One"

Only one lobster boat on Sunday morning.

Only One.

Only one chair.
Only one ladder.
Only one lobster.
Only one crack in the 78 record.
Only one song.

From the empty church,
with the roof collapsing over the altar,
only one host growing moldy.
Mold growing in his beard,
on his feet,

until the pond arrives
landing on the meadow,
yellow daisies and lavender asters
dancing to the one bag pipe in the center of the pond.

The man stomps his feet to the drum of the jig
as the women arrive in a coracle
on the river flowing in a spiral around him.
He dances in the middle of the line of women
holding hands,
snaking their way in and out,
pulling him along with their song
from the broken record
filled in with silver scales from the fish
that now leap in profusion,
offering themselves on the banks of the river—
a feast of the host.

His feet grow pink in the twilight,
a baby’s feet,
his hair on his beard, the peach fur of a young boy.
The women touch him all over,
finger tips,
a tingling of energy—everything, everyone, every animal and tree,
with the energy that glows in the dark.  Read More 
Be the first to comment

Spring Equnox Approaches

It's nearly time to poke your head out of the hibernation cave. A few more snow storms, a little warmer outside. It's time to get into the spirit with another poem, this one by E.E. Cummings:

"i thank You God for most this amazing"

I thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
 Read More 
Be the first to comment

A Wordsworth Winter Secret

During your long winter hibernation, many months you've hidden away, you read to the boy from this poem by William Wordsworth, composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey

Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.--Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!

With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone.

 Read More 
Be the first to comment

Rafting Secret

The boy has returned with the supplies. You tell him about a dream you had last night in which you are riding down a river in a raft. The details of the dream are hazy, but it is apparent that you are to go on a rafting adventure. You have no idea why. You and the boy discuss your options. He will help you put the raft together.

While camping there by the river, on the other side of the hill, with goats grazing nearby, you and the boy construct the raft out of saplings growing in abundance there. You are careful to take down the little trees in a way that it is hardly noticeable, a thinning that is needed, no more. You use river reeds to bind the raft together.

The boy gives you a milking goat to take with you, along with some of the grains he has just brought with him from town. He gives you a couple of clay pots, and you know how to start a fire with flint. You’re not sure about a milking goat on a raft, but one young goat has been following you around everywhere. It’s her first milking season.

The raft is finished. You’ve even designed a little shelter where you can rest or sleep in bad weather. You will use a long pole for guiding the raft. On most nights you plan to go ashore to make campfire, to hobble the goat so she can graze, and then to sleep under the stars. You know how to read them now.

Early one morning the boy pushes your raft off the shore onto the wide, lazy river. As you enter the current and begin to glide downriver, the goat has misgivings and begins to bray. Her friends and family answer back. You have a lump in your throat, as you’ll miss the boy and you aren’t sure how you will get back. But the boy says you will.

With tears in your eyes, you wave until your raft sails around the first bend and you can’t see the boy any more.

“As if dreaming, I return to the place
where the Highest lives,
and hear a voice from the heavens:
where am I going?”
—Li Qingzhao  Read More 
Be the first to comment