The deep


small rusted tacks                                                      medium_133146861

holding my toughened skin

to bone

to muscle

like pictures cut from a magazine

pinned to the wall


I’ve given up looking for saviors,

no messengers with bright news.


I see only inside

this heart



in the warm darkness

listening to the words spun

from the silk of the stories

we’ve given wings.


photo credit: <a href=””>striatic</a&gt; via <a href=””>photopin</a&gt; <a href=””>cc</a&gt;

Night mirrors

In my winter dreams

I look for seeds that have curled up in dry dark corners

caught there when the floods washed through.

I pull away the broken limbs and detritus that collect

and watch the seeds that float to the surface


Like mirrors end to end

they shift and turn

reflecting the barbed light of other suns.

Birthing memories.

The only heat sometimes is in memory

passing through the heat of the wound.


I wake from these dreams disconnected

I have instinctively stretched out in time.


Deep in the night

no birds singing yet

waiting for light.


intro page




                                     All you see is the glow from the warming fire

                                     The cold night

                                    the bright moon

                                    your breath in the air


I often pull myself together in the YWCA pool, swimming laps… water therapy. I joined the Y initially to cure my fear of deep water. I can float and swim but for some reason when I try to tread water I sink to just above my nose. For months I dangled around in the deep end with a very large floaty. Then I discovered swim fins. Continue reading



                                                             Winding down

                                                              inside the mountain.

                                                              Fingers tracing the edge of shadows


                                                              this is leading

                                                              to air and light.

                                                              Spinning slowly

                                                              arms freed from gravity’s holding

                                                              into the deep.


I used to think archetypes were stories we collectively tell ourselves that eventually, over time, become the fabric of our personal considerations, but now I understand they are more like skin.  More real, more intimate than the clothes we wear to define us.  More intrinsically ours.  The calluses, wrinkles, birthmarks and scars. 

It would seem that in order to have weight, to be as intrinsic as skin, an archetype would have to hold more than just story.  We are our skin.  Skin is experiential in every sense.  It is our largest sensing organ.

Going deeper…individual cells make up the structure of skin.  Cells replicate, know their purpose, are in relationship with other cells, have memory.

Archetypes are both the macrocosm and the microcosm of skin. Experience and memory.

photo credit: D. Sharon Pruitt at