She was the best moose ever. She came into the yard often especially during hunting season. She seemed to know there was safety there. I invited her to stay as long as she wanted. She bedded down behind the shed many nights then would disappear into the woods for what seemed . . . → Read More: Best Moose Ever]]>

Photo © Grace E. Reed.

She was the best moose ever. She came into the yard often especially during hunting season. She seemed to know there was safety there. I invited her to stay as long as she wanted. She bedded down behind the shed many nights then would disappear into the woods for what seemed like a long time. Then just when I thought the hunters had gotten to her she would appear again. That made me happy. There was something about the connection we had as I gazed out at her from my front window. She knew I was looking at her. She would turn and gaze back at me.

She left one day in early spring after the last of the winter snow melted and I did not see her for the whole summer. Fall came and still no moose friend. The winter snow started to fall, coating the ground of the garden where she used to stand to eat the berries hanging over the fence. Winter set in for the long haul, darkness became the norm and I gave up hope to ever see her again. Then it happened! She came back with her two babies. It was strange she would appear in the winter with babies. They were just growing out of their young calf time but they were her family and they survived the late calving.

She had no idea how her appearance gave me hope. Or did she?  You see, I had just lost my husband and was very lonely and sad. The sight of her and her twin calves represented the cycle of life at its best, the beginning. Warm life in the middle of winter is special. She walked up to the window, looked at me and walked to the back of the yard, went over to her spot at the fence and now the three of them bedded down near the old shed. My heart grew warmer and I think I could feel a smile on my face for the first time in awhile. She is the best moose friend ever.

Grace E. Reed is a writer, activist and peace mediator
from Portland, Oregon, USA.

I begin my ascent back to life.

I am at a loss when words elude me

And I lie in a heap of raw emotion.

Words are my solace, my balm.

Words are my liberating key;

I am a slave to words.

They hold so much

And yet they fall like water through my palm,

Leaving me wet . . . → Read More: Wet]]> As the tears suddenly transform into words

I begin my ascent back to life.

I am at a loss when words elude me

And I lie in a heap of raw emotion.

Words are my solace, my balm.

Words are my liberating key;

I am a slave to words.

They hold so much

And yet they fall like water through my palm,

Leaving me wet as they leave me dry.

The emptiness beyond emptiness

The sliver in between

The crack where the light comes through,

Where words make sense, where connection is prevalent

Where the moment feels pregnant with new life

And I am enough.

I am past the crying, the sadness, the self-pity

The longing and the despair.

I am in the free zone, but

I only notice the crack . . . → Read More: The Sliver]]> I am in the space

The emptiness beyond emptiness

The sliver in between

The crack where the light comes through,

Where words make sense, where connection is prevalent

Where the moment feels pregnant with new life

And I am enough.

I am past the crying, the sadness, the self-pity

The longing and the despair.

I am in the free zone, but

I only notice the crack when I am already crawling out of it.

And then I know it will soon be gone,

And the sadness

Threatens

To settle

Once

More.

There is silence.

After the storm

There is no chance for reconciliation

Between Mother Earth and its inhabitants

Between my lover and myself

Between my troubled mind and the larger Mind to which

I long to return.

There was a chance

On the battlefield

In the storm, in the fight, in the moment.

That moment is now.

It is always now,

But now, now, more . . . → Read More: Now]]> After the storm

There is silence.

After the storm

There is no chance for reconciliation

Between Mother Earth and its inhabitants

Between my lover and myself

Between my troubled mind and the larger Mind to which

I long to return.

There was a chance

On the battlefield

In the storm, in the fight, in the moment.

That moment is now.

It is always now,

But now, now, more than ever.

I am Medicine Woman. I need circles of chairs or stones to sit you on and fires in the middle of things where smoke rises to clear night skies full of moons and stars of promise.

I need to smell the smoke of raging fires and sleeping embers.

I need to hear the bark of . . . → Read More: Medicine Woman Needs]]> by Grace Eagle Reed

I am Medicine Woman. I need circles of chairs or stones to sit you on and fires in the middle of things where smoke rises to clear night skies full of moons and stars of promise.

I need to smell the smoke of raging fires and sleeping embers.

I need to hear the bark of sad hard dog skins before the thunder wind that rise for all that have life and live.

I need to touch the bleeding earth at my feet symbolic of what needs to change.

I need to bark and bray and gurgle like the babies of all creatures do.

I need to wave highflier Eagle feathers that see it all and shake their heads at our lack of mindfulness.

I need to hear wind chimes and bells and the clank of wood on wood as wind and breeze stirs and blows.

I need vision and fullness and to feel the tears running down my cheeks from failure, mine, yours, ours, us, we.

I need to look upon the child at mother’s breast and know that one will be at One somewhere, someday or all is lost.

I need to see the owl fly that lets the sun beg for dawn and to see the crab mouth eat a tear and be happy to see the blue shell hear ‘no’ so they can know.

I need to grab the loss from the foul air of time and transfer appliqués of flowers on cloth and paper as an antidote to all foulness.

I need to eat the sweet plums and sour apples and the neutral figs and cut tomatoes in half to form pies of unity food of souls ascending and descending.

I need to stand central to all this and more in my circle facing all medicine in all circles.

I need to reach out and touch scales and fur and steel and wood and cloth and the TV remote buttons to make sense of place and space while my soul soars through seas of ancestors where voices echo through time and seat themselves in present circles.

I need this.

It is only the ocean coming home to me It is only the waves They only seem to be crashing Upon me But really they are individual drops A whole rainforest shower Of wishes.

Kiss each one as it lands And you will be free Of the fear that arises Whey you try to swim the entire ocean On your . . . → Read More: The Ocean]]> by Aya Rice

It is only the ocean coming home to me
It is only the waves
They only seem to be crashing
Upon me
But really they are individual drops
A whole rainforest shower
Of wishes.

Kiss each one as it lands
And you will be free
Of the fear that arises
Whey you try to swim the entire ocean
On your first try.