Loosely Binding


The making of Hanji paper ….


Mulberry bark


skin, boil, wash, pound

In winter

cover with the root mucus … of hibiscus manihot.

Blended together … artfully form.

In a warm room … dry slowly … covered with stones.

I am durable … unpreserved I outlast civilizations

Enter my door … I am cool in summer, warm in winter

Impenetrable … the rain that falls can not dim my light


Accompanied by cricket sound in a field of stars

I sit in the soft glow of papered lamp light

it’s ancient tradition a beckoning

all my loved ones resting deep in sleep,

and tonight a great nest of grandchildren

dreaming of mountain tadpoles

and the wild strawberries they picked

as their own sun kissed bodies ripened in the sun

In this moment

I wonder at the naturalness of this great love that binds us

I am dazed by this spiraling life my heart forever flies towards

while still maintaining my own self … full, nurturing, self providing

I sit here like an open field arms held wide for it all

Tonight looking out at the shadows cast in response to our light

the dreaming of this family and the vast silence of living surrounds me

I wrap myself round with the wonder of it all

At the strength and resilience this steady cadence our hearts beat

Seemingly fragile

But oh, so strong


Hanji paper is a traditional paper made in Korea from the inner bark of the paper mulberry. It is durable with archival properties and can be openly displayed in museums without protection. It is a good ventilator but can also keep a room warm so it is used to cover their wooden framed doors. It is also waterproof. It’s translucent qualities lend well to the artistry of shading lamps.

Hanji Paper Artist: Kitty Jun-Im

The Poetics of Light #13





The beginning of this series starts here


             Through the strangeness and my own flickering resistance, a wisp of light burned slow as the flame held steady and I could see we had now come to the heart of our work in the dialogues. For the next three years I became immersed in an attempt to understand the archetypes and our singular human relationship with them. My initial introduction to the archetypes had been a challenging and an uncomfortably visceral experience. I would soon understand that our explorations would demand everything from me and remain personally experiential, a necessary condition in order to understand the vast empathic realm were were exploring. It was inevitable that I would witness my own soul’s history. For it was said that the soul is simply the memory of our own personal and multi-layered song of suffering.


“Becoming human

is poetry without words

a poem about suffering the song of self.

Each person carries their own harmony or dissonance.

In the Continuum

it is all the same song”


          The archetypal traumas themselves were not defined. It wasn’t until the end of the dialogues that I was asked to give name to them from my own being.  At this point in our work it was once again reiterated that each archetype had within it inherent vulnerabilities and acquired strengths, which brought into context our earlier discussions concerning reincarnation. We talked again about the memories of unresolved archetypal trauma that we bring with us into our current life to be healed. Since this is generally unconscious, it manifests as an emotional and/or mental inclination that has the possibility of adding a mental and/or emotional weight to our life’s challenges. It was here that the difference between reaction and response was emphasized and became an important distinction.

          we then began randomly compiling the emotional and mental symptoms relevant to archetypal trauma. The symptomology itself was reflective of the reactions a person might have when experiencing archetypal trauma and were eventually broken down into the categories of reaction to the trauma itself, a crisis state, a masking state and an indifference state, while also from the perspective of an infant or child, a teen, or an adult where relevant.  For the next few years this became the bulk of our work.

          It was difficult not to be effected by the symptoms themselves, particularly the aberrations of the empathic state of indifference. Their order was randomly arranged, continually shifted around, added to, deleted, and never categorized until the very end of the dialogues. It was a long, strange and very arduous process, but this way of learning was a blessing since I found that I was deeply effected by my own relationship with traumatic experience and our empathic relationship with archetypal energy.

          Triggered by the work itself, I was able to receive validation of the layers of my own past life unresolved trauma. Far from an abstract acknowledgement, since this is embodied memory, it was interesting that my awareness of these traumas came only when a relevant memory was surfacing. This aspect of myself became very real as a memory rose more clearly to the surface of consciousness. For the most part they appeared as layered vignettes with only fragments of specific detail that I was asked to witness, but I was becoming more adept at recognizing their surfacing and in seeing how they wove through my life coloring my experience, a more subtle but more relevant revelation. Their gravity created an emotional and multi-layered labyrinth. Since this is embodied memory, the breath of remembered trauma is quite real and easily overwhelming. I was able to receive confirmation of this process, and since it was from a source I trusted implicitly, this grounded and steadied the process accelerating my understanding of both myself and a necessary aspect of understanding the many complexities of our work.

          At the same time it was inevitable that I would need to further address my relationship with traumatic experience relative to the physical and sexual abuse, and the resulting PTSD, I have personally experienced in this life. One day while working, after months of the work of compiling random symptomology, it was startling and frankly exhilarating to list and organize a long length of symptoms from my own being without conscious thought. The work became flesh and bone real. It was an odd juxtaposition of known… and unknown.




“Becoming human

We engage the velocity of light”


       As what seemed like a finale to our work together in understanding human perception and archetypal traumatic experience, I was finally led through a clarifying insight. In order to assist our own explorations, I feel it is best to introduce this beautiful insight here … at the beginning of our attempts in understanding the complexities of archetypal perception.

           Perhaps this insight is a spiritual metaphor that acts like a map or a compass, a way to comprehend the inexplicable tailored to my own level of comprehension. But then, everything I’ve learned continues to illuminate that all physical life, all energy, embodies and exhibits a spiritual intelligence. Metaphor, map or compass, it still became and continues to be the key to understanding all that was explained in the dialogues.

           That quiet afternoon in July, I felt I had reached the top of a high mountain after an arduous climb. As I made that last step over the rise the insight was simply there, present and unfolding like a flower hovered over by ardent bees. It was a still point of osmosis and pure exhaustion. I felt as I must have felt being born. It was my first introduction to the Principles of Light.


“The waiting is over

The next step is containing yourself

Beholding the truth is sacred”


In the Continuum of Life energy is self-contained and manifests as frequency, which is light.

Light has both form…structure

And movement…velocity.

All manifestations of light in the Continuum share a self contained species frequency of structure and velocity. As human beings we share a common human frequency. Within this species frequency we have a physical structure and personal velocity.

Light is the motivating principle of everything in manifestation within the Continuum. Light has memory and is holographic. It maintains the memory of the totality of the existence of its manifest forms. Thus life, in all its forms, in turn manifests this intelligence.

This all encompassing memory is continually in attendance, potentializing and maintaining itself in each moment. In this way Light is holographic.

The natural order of relationship in a holographic continuum is reciprocal.

Structure is the infinitely diverse expression of every manifestation in the Continuum.

Velocity is the means of communication in a spiritually intelligent world.

Velocity in structure is resonant relationship.

Light potentializing within structure and velocity creates infinitely diverse species frequencies communicating in reciprocal resonance.

These conditions of light… to be both a particle and a wave, to have total memory of itself in existence within the infinite variety of its manifestations in substance and velocity, and to reciprocally maintain a balancing within itself, is the nature of the holographic Continuum of Life.

Within the holographic whole, each expression of light in structure and velocity finds reciprocal resonance.


          I was filled with an indescribable elation, poised and resonating in the nucleic center of birthing. The words of the final principle resounding through my entire being. “Within the holographic whole, each expression of light in structure and velocity finds reciprocal resonance”.

         The insight culminating in these simple words “finds reciprocal resonance” dispelled the burden of hierarchy, dissolved the tension of the consequences of cause and effect, balanced the fermenting chaos as empathic connection reinforces personal pain. We are not in exile. We never have been….


“Trust is the radiant child birthed

as the masculine (Yang) actions of humankind

and the feminine (Yin) responsiveness of nature

intertwine in complimentary reciprocal creation

in a spiritually intelligent world.”


           With synaptic speed I had experienced a synergistic understanding and I realized that the Principles of Light presented a structure that lit up a once impenetrable darkness. I was a weed in the cracks of a concrete sidewalk growing in its light as it illuminated the possibility of understanding all we’d been working on.


“Bountiful stars”



© Jana H. White

The series will continue in two weeks on Sunday, December 4th



thought hovers

is this thought mine?


I watch the few words

just there

I look askance to see if they move

do they move of their own volition?


they hover


we’re moving through walls

what does this mean?


I once could hear through walls

I’d lost my skin

rendered immobile

I heard nuclear indifference

red lights green lights

flying metal and a dying jesus

I wet myself

although the bed stayed dry


I looked for what was left

at the time

I was empty

much later I understood

this was the right place to start


it takes awhile

starting from nothing

to un-know everything


we hover

not knowing

we move through walls



    Acrylic on paper….j. h. white



The push the pull the moon’s sculpting hands

Its broad face spilling transparent

over lunar mountains

Full bright

but veiled by cloud’s chattering


yet still felt in the marrow


With a tactile sensing

for the peaks and dark hollows

My blood its own compass

I map the edge of the sea

as the tide recedes

filling the carved pools as it leaves


The clouds drift away in their own mystery

as the moon glides free

in luminous ascending

and I sway as a puppet in a shadow play

bathed in luminous manna



Pencil sketch and poetry: j.h.white

note: a photo attributed to Joshua Black Wilkins was the inspiration for the sketch. ( I was unable to verify the source however)




Peter Harskamp


The beams, thirsty in their plumb aligned structure,

drink deeply of the improvised sound issuing from the garden

The cello’s notes satiating the kiln dried wood


In an upstairs bedroom a woman moves to the music

unbidden thoughts seeping in slow aching, wandering

the intimate landscape still mapped within her heart


Shaking them loose, she leans precariously out of the window

listening to the ripening tenor notes, admitting she’s

grateful now to be by herself yet questioning…


What am I to do with my internal tenderness?

There is no one here to reach for

listening to the first bird’s song?


This softening moves through her

seeking to be moored in the infinite, not in the observed

third person distance of Wife or Her or She


Bending her head to the low deep notes of the cello

the forest memory of its burnished wood

resonates between her thighs


I’ve reawakened the elasticity of my flesh

by becoming weightless, a quickening again

There is no measure in this


Vulnerable it moves too fluidly to have a name

it spreads out and collects

like dark pools reflecting sky after rain



Painting….Peter Harskamp

Slow Infestation


He was a wolf …

a solitary wolf culled from the pack

expertly herding his words

through her undulate terrain.

She welcomed the seduction

amply savoring his patois.


Beguiled by his seeming intimacy

she failed to assimilate the slow infestation

of his oblique aural patternings

insinuating edgy consonants

and limbic vowel howls.

It was her stomach at first that resisted the enchantment

with small flutterings of continual distress.

Slowly she became aware

that his words were predictable

acid but effervescent

lying tips of tongues

corroding her silence.

They dangled from her

like wind chimes with little meaning

Their fractured light cascading

from her now weary ears

pummeling the surface.

So she gathered herself

and sent him,

and his errant words,


Though at times she could still hear their echoing…

The scent of him having so easily

permeated her skin.


To ward off this sonic residue

she bathed daily in lovage root and vervain

and made a tincture of his words,

a verbal potion dissolved in fine brandy

She took one dose timed exactly

as the cusp of the horizon split day into night


Three drops under her tongue,

with a twist…


I had fun with this one. Looking over older work I saw a story weaving between a few different poems and so I threaded a needle and sewed them together. The drawing is an old one too. Newer than the poems, it is cut from the same cloth.


PoePoem and drawing: jana h white                 Drawing: Pastels on black paper

balance balance


The swaths of sky above crisscross in a babble of breathy scars

I see more than chemtrails though…

I try to imagine the people up there in the winged bullet

making its way across the sky

their feet dangling in mid air

save for a foot or so of wires and baggage and metal.

From this perspective, looking up, it’s barely comprehensible

that people are really up there at all.


When I think about it,

anxiousness and excitement both feel the same

The same pit of my stomach startled wings

 A choice of persuasion then?

My choice what to make of it?


Perhaps ‘being lost’ and ‘being free’ are similar

the same choice of persuasion of this or that.

I’m not talking about real loss

The punch in the stomach that takes my breath away,

but the weightless existential can’t find my shoes

want to sleep all day being lost

translating into the realms of flesh.


Aren’t both ‘being lost’ and ‘being free’

a casting off from the perceived familiar?

Being pushed off or pushing off

from a finely honed routine of nomenclature

that causes a shift in my internal gravity?

Are they so different?

I stand in the middle of either …. lost or found


Even while recognizing the breath of this feeling though,

my feet want to touch the ground

whether covered by moss, or sidewalk, or water.

Pragmatic, I want intimacy to have a face, a hand, a leaf, a claw

and be swayed by ideas or feelings

that have grown from some shared fertile ground.

It’s simpler to pick them up and put them to use

to make something, to hold, to do.

Even if it is simply making dinner, holding my grandson’s hand,

or doing nothing at all.


Painting and poem by j.h.white

Blog Tour


I was double dared to join in the Blog Tour by my friend, and fellow blogger, John Clinock over at Art Rat Cafe.  If you haven’t been over there, make haste and partake in some of John’s artful, sublimely  intimate and open armed hospitality.

The rules of the Blog Tour are to cite the person who asked you to join, answer a few questions about your own creative process, and to invite three (or so) bloggers to the tour.

Why do I write what I write?

I began writing seriously about a year and a half ago.  I needed to explain, also to myself,  an experience I had that changed the way I view my life and the world.

I started this blog, knowing that I didn’t want to work in a vacuum. At the time, my identity, that I considered once stable and solid, shimmed across the surface intangible as a heat wave. Uprooted from everything I’d known for decades, I was gravel in a hot dryer. It was a perfect time to begin something new. So I intuitively jumped in with enthusiasm if not vigor.

Within a few posts my word count distilled into a poetic language. I abandoned prose, for the most part, and embraced poetry encouraged by the fact I could say exactly what I meant without having to use so many words.

I’ve gone through many phases as they lead me along. Words are both holy and often an aphrodisiac. They are alive in me, as well as surrounding me. They provoke and prod, undermining my resistance and enlivening my humanness. They continue to puzzle me. Always intimate.

What is my writing process?

Poetry gave me the confidence, and the community, to consider tackling prose again. I prefer the way my life feels when I’m in the space for poetry though.

Writing poetry is always spontaneous and intuitive. The words just arrive … sometimes like a sneeze… short, succinct and full bodied. I know exactly what I want to say, understand it perfectly and then the words flicker and I lose it. These are the puzzles to unravel.

Some well up from the ground of my being … and release into a chest gripping harmony… old wounds healing.

In some I feel I’m treading water … way over my head. I put my swim fins on and dream through them for meaning.

Some are just romps through my day.

Prose on the other hand demands a method. I’m very disciplined in this regard. I usually start working straight out of sleep and begin writing the first draft, having a general idea. I continue to intuitively wade my way through all my thoughts on the subject. At this point I cannot attend to sequence or order. I arrive at a more cohesive sense of the subject by writing freely.

Then for however long it takes, I search for the rhythm. Now I can jump in at any time to work and I am able to work for long hours at a time. I write on scraps of paper, in various size notebooks but primarily on the screen and I quit when my eyes give out. When I have a reasonable draft, I used to read what I’d written out loud, but now I’ve switched to recording … over and over, listening for a genuine voice, possible repetition, awkward sentencing, lazy language and for sequence. This is generally how I find the ending of the post I’m working on and often times the beginning of the next one.

How does my work differ from other genres?

I haven’t a clue but I know each demands commitment. I’ve witnessed here on Word Press how combining different art forms compliment each other, giving a fuller experience. I’d like to have the momentum in writing to begin exploring a more visual language.

What am I working on at this moment?

I’m involved with an ongoing project attempting to artistically translate the work of a surreal, magic-realism flavored three-year mystical tour through the collective unconscious. In order to clarify my own understanding, I wrote a six-page text. Everyone who has read it, however, unanimously finds my initial text unreadable and incoherent.

So I’m learning to communicate. At this point, I am about half way through the text.

Right now I prefer the immediacy of this virtual community. I’m continually inspired and it makes a difference that I know who I’m talking and sharing with. There’s energy in this that moves me forward and compliments the work, which is still very much in process…and maybe this is what it’s all about.


Of all the luscious in word writers I have the great good fortune of following, and of being in community with here, I had to consider my leanings toward the storytellers.

Bonnie spins the most curiously mindful, quirky rhythm-ed, uncannily insightful stories….a master Mistress Spider.    Maxada Mandala

Stacy … oh Stacy. What it is to be woman.When I see Stacy has posted…I know we are getting down to it. Her poetry is simply food.   the language we speak

Mark doesn’t so much as weave his stories, as immerse you in each word of his short fiction. His stories are verbal film noir….  each nuance palpable in black and white. Chris is a quick, spontaneous eyed photographer.  Each of her photos are captioned and worlds open up. Together they have begun working out a collaborative comic ….Mark writing and Chris drawing.  The Brokedown Pamphlet  and Spartan Eye


Sketch: Self-portrait     “Start at the beginning and work towards the end?” 











Balancing, not so delicately,

on the heads of seven pins

I wake in the middle of the night

dazed by the hurrying of the sun and the moon through the sky.


Somewhere there is an open field

where the seeds of tall grasses live out their days

in dialogue with dew and stars,

Cicada legs thrumming the air

a stillness held in their cadence,

Where fire flies lace the leaves of trees in encircling forests

inscribing their delicate electrical tracings of desire,

a lit calligraphy of … hello, come see me

I am aflame with light


Somewhere there is an open field within me

amidst the deep woods of words 

the impregnable tall trees of thought

a vast silence of living

wrapt entirely in wonder





Traveling solo … back,  forth, sideways across the country

coast to coast scouting but cautious I was

winding snakes with wheels

I carried only an old Post Office bag

empty but for a toothbrush, a sewing needle and some colored thread

preferring the company of an ocean front cave that leaked with morning  tides

a mountain stream in heat that slowly dried

Everywhere my tongue tasted the air, flavor there was

I grew a belly of  lightening and substance

pregnant with the road


40 odd years and I’m still a pilgrim. I look left. I look right. There’s a cliff on both sides. One is seductive  … the other a freefall …. staying in the middle  promises promises but is cluttered and empty. The world is held in consensus agreement … each day … which side am I on?

When my grand daughter Bella tries to touch the moon and says ” jump Nana!”  ….   I smile … and jump