At Djaruna’s funeral in July I was inspired by her poetry. I love her very much and feel close to her when I’m writing. It encourages me.
Every morning when my eyes open…dusty remembrances of the day past.
This time the slip of time between dreams and the dawn is perfect.
My vulnerability expresses itself fully.
Thoughts of regret, thoughts of fear, hopelessness.
This is my fertile soil for Love.
Working on Holiness
Meditate on the morning, remember to smell the bicycle ride.
You read your Rumi, you breathe knowing it.
You practice sitting upright, observing the little itches.
You surround yourself with raw, authentic magazine and around tea talk about free will.
You use essential oils and clay tooth powder and little crystal sticks for your sweat
The ritual of making a cup of coffee
this is so sacred to you.
You keep your oily beans in a Mason jar in the pantry.
They rattle as you place the jar next to the grinder and the small glass French press. You’ve already brought out the heavy cream, it’s there too, in the glass bottle with the green lid.
You grind, shake into the press, fill with boiled water from the robin’s egg blue kettle from Angela.
You season the ceramic mug, the sea foam green one with the faint, small bird and the delicate cracks from the firing.
Pressed, poured, creamed,
and then the world stops and eyes closed you sip
and the creamy hot bitterness is perfection
and this is the holiest moment of your life