International Women’s Day

     I spoke with my mother today. She is the one who encouraged me to travel in the broader world and paid for it. I remember International Women’s Day in Sri Lanka when I was 19. A march sown in the streets, women and girls singing, calling, chanting, a protest, a convergence, an initiation for me. I came home from a trip visiting seven diverse countries ( India, Sri Lanka, Brasil, Hong Kong+mainland China,So. Africa, Kenya, Japan ) recognizing that “I have no country, as a woman, I belong to the world.” Who is the Original Mother? She began to rise in me, like a seed just tingling in the right conditions. Women and their relationship to nature, the Nature of Everything, surfacing in my awareness to become a map I would follow this lifetime. .. a lifeline, really…an on going moon dance.

Who is the Original Mother? Here, on Earth: ‘teach our children well and educate ourselves,’ says the parent and consummate student within me…learning and relearning the tenderness that enables the actual ability to respond…compassion being the bridge across objectification, intuitive understanding of our interconnectedness through suffering and joy leads to actions/prayers/dances and songs enabling Us :: keep weaving our Motherhood into livingness.

Displacement. With the full moon approaching and spring about to be sprung on the calendar, I ask: how can we reunify / rectify our inherent ability to pulse inside the same rhythms that dance through all nature? How can I make decisions that reflect +support unification internally and then, in my outer world/s? How can the displacement I may feel with my body, bloods, sexuality, health, creative visions, with my ancestors, with the source of where my water and food are gathered, with technology growing as a captivating form of ‘intelligence’, with politics tempting to seduce us to a game of thrones for the sake of intensity, with an amnesia that plants speak, stars are our beloved dead and that water IS LIFE so our tears awaken a sweet grief that can re open the senses and Mind to what matters. Matter or ‘mater’ being ‘mother’…if we/I dam what replenishes and nourishes life then this can only make me/us sick with the repressed knowing: I am not in alignment with how I was made. Another reason to converse with the Original Mother.
Ranting is reasonable today.

     With fierce love, V


emergent heart workshop

sexuality is orange. circle up!

 a template for intimacy and healing with presence and reverence.

February 24,25,26, 2017  Littleton, Colorado $350 (includes dinner Saturday)


Like the glow of the round sun as it emerges from the horizon line and departs from our sky view at sunset: oranges reflected. The color of devotion, of monk/nun vestments, of passion woven into will and service, of the primal connectivity to the Earth’s body, to the volcanic molten mix. This is the ripe fruit, the vibrant flower, the eye catching pulse of the second chakra according to hindu map making of the mystical, energy body. And it is here that we will focus for the workshop.

This productive, reproductive, sexual + creative center (planet orange), will be animated through expression, tenderness, and witnessing. Each of our journeys inward to recover the innocence of sexuality/creativity’s expression is inherently unique. There are universal patterns that can inform and instruct, yet each flower is a world of mystery unto itself . Beginning with our actual conception, our sexual root system is dependent on circumstance, environment and timing. The weekend gathering is a space to honor each of our stories : both the raw + distilled truth’s of being human and sexually based. We will move safely and slowly.

Some of our core sexual woundings may revolve around shame, distortions or traumas that the young psyche could not integrate. By greeting, with an open and grateful heart, the energies and stories that come forward, we may begin preparing the soil (again) for our own fertilizations! Whether we are working on/surrendering into physicalizing reproduction i.e.:trying to get pregnant, or we are wanting a more developed and accessible vessel with which to enjoy the pleasures of our sexuality, or we simply want to make peace with our distinct  histories , we will use the heart as center and move into discovery. We may acknowledge the pain of blockages and the exquisite nature of opening into Creativity’s endless waves.

Partners are welcome, and this weekend will facilitate the language between lovers to enliven. What is also true : the focus and encouragement of the inner journey. The gathering, in the shape of a circle, encourages intimacy and healing through presence: reverence offered toward the infinite landscapes of the Self. We prepare to engage the limitless possibilities of meeting, releasing, igniting and embodying sexuality through dreamwork, exercises, sounding, sharing and writing. This  Emergent Heart Circle Orange serves as a safe, confidential container. Open for  all those who seek to deepen one’s relationship inside the mystery of wholeness, sexual nature and the vibrancy of orange-ness!

 Thank you Kathleen Bowman, Tom Bowman and the fierce, amazing Circle for the invitation. Stretching, Vittaimg_3588.jpg

John Morgan : writing about him #1

Once upon a time, a time when I thought there would be time after times, John and I were walking through his neighborhood. It was night. It was not uncommon for John or Kimberly to suggest an evening walk to stretch about the streets and have an opportunity for the kind of conversation that arises when the body is active and engaged in adventure. Adventure is a key word for the Morgan Clan.
Anyway, this walk has silly moments, quiet moments and a moment that I write down when we return home. It goes like this:
Two mystics who love Brugh Joy and Maria Elena and all their Circle buddies and then, everyone else in the world and other worlds, are strolling. These two friends are well on their way to accepting themselves and many of the the dilemmas/gifts of being human including being at the end of the receiving line of blessings/curses from their ancestors.  Well, at some point, there is a soft spot in their exchange, a nearly quiet opening.
“Is this all there is? This Love?” he inquires aloud.
    ” Can you live with that?”
     “I can live and die with it.”
I remember this exchange because it could have occurred within either one of us as a singular, inner conversation. But instead, it popped into the air with sound and timber and two-ness. These unrehearsed and perfectly sculpted, scripted words pierced something. Like a the falling away of wanting more, the letting go of feeling inadequate or anticipating that things will get better or inventing a hope that I may be errantly entitled to. Here was a clarity.
A nudity. A walk without end.
I am so grateful, John Morgan. Thank you. I love you.
Ah, the echoes of Echo Park!

Good morning, 2013.

Here we are.
The calendar has ended.
The world is still spinning and the Unknown continues branching out like rays of a sunrise.
We begin 2013.
On January 1, my 6 yr. old daughter, Aurelia, and I watch the first streaks of an electric orange orb climb it’s way out of the damp cloud horizon. Perched vulnerably on our blue sphere of a perfect spacecraft, she and I roll toward the luminous dawn. The sun has reappeared during a high tide and has the fragrance of fullness. A water world. We are placed here in a vulnerability because of the fragile genius of our earth’s eco-balancing presence. Simultaneously, we are held, inhabiting a firmness of place, of center, of ‘we belong here’ which engenders a confidence to make friends with all that IS. When Aurelia queries, ” Why don’t we feel the earth spinning?” I reply, “We do. It’s all we know.” Meaning, we simply don’t apply the realization that we are turning; that is our intrinsic experience of our natural, unconscious, and dynamic relationship in humanness and earthliness and interconnected galactic citizenship. (I recall an African truism that her godmother once shared with me: A woman’s hips circling keep the entire world spinning. Yes.) Her response:”That’s not all we know, Mama. We know the trees and the the plants and the animals, too.” My smile becomes as bright as the glow we are witnessing. The light of this day continues to enter our sensitive eyes, as long as we can hold Sun’s gaze.
Later, we convoy with our neighbor’s to Rodeo Beach. We walk the hills then descend to the sand to make a circle. Daren brings deep yellow roses. We collect 7 stones. Aurelia draws a circle in the sand and instructs us to stand on the line she had etched. With that, we were ready to improvise a ritual to greet the New Year. Daren passes out a stone to each of us.. The sea booms onto shore as the crest of each wave surrenders to gravity ,arching in a perfect circle, crashing into itself. The voice of Mama Ocean resonant, strong and encouraging. Daren explains that the stone we now hold is a symbol of something we wanted to offer back or leave behind or simply release. We take turns saying a few words and individually casting, skipping or placing this weight toward the water. Aurelia rounds the circle three times as we adults speak and stand in silence: round one to draw a heart at our feet, the next to wipe the line she had made and sprinkle sand, and the final, an embrace. We watch one another, listen to the sea’s response in Her language of form and dissolution, and honor the opportunity of the moment. Seven bodies, seven hearts, one un namable wish at the center. A circle. Next, Aurelia, representing 2013, gifts us each our flower. She instructs us: remove the petals one by one. Once everyone had completes, we move together to the water’s ever changing edge. Aurelia suggests we hold our hand with the petals above us, allowing the wind to carry them onto the surface of the sea. This scattering is delicate. A floating, a sweet fall from the heaven’s reach above our heads to the wetness below resulting in a dancing constallation of yellow sparks on the dark sand and then, the water with white foam pulling at Her hems.
This day becomes a prayer. Our company, the intention to willingly move forward despite+including the hardships of last year, and the desire to create a marking through ceremony. New Years Eve/January 1 honors Yemaya. She is the Sea Goddess/Orisha in the Santoria and Yoruban traditions. These are African in origin and span Brazil and Cuba… This connection flashes as the flowers reach the water. We are certainly not the only ones committing gifts to the ocean, thanking the Great Mother, grateful for the beginnings of Life and the fluidity that sustains and harmonizes Us.
The change is here. The change is us. The change changes us and changes and changes. Each moment is a birthing. We are being born within it. Each moment contains a deathing, we are being born within it. Dying, rebirthing, breathing. and in the center a stillness, a middle chord, a music or song that is eternal and present.

True Love.
This brings adaptability, restoration, chaos, flexibility, flesh ability, and a skill for remaining open in our vulnerability. If my heart could speak of strength it is only through it’s woundedness. For this, I carry my stone to the ocean and thrust it upwards into the sky. It will not stick there as I’d imagined. Instead it drops, plump, onto the damp sands. I laugh. There is no where for anything to disappear into…all this energy grounds itself, even if the form changes. And, then again, there is nothing here anyway…only spaciousness, nothing-ness, everything-ness folding into one another/itself, having an intimate conversation about attraction and pull and poetry and undying love.
The waters connecting all lands.

Bow Now and Again. Remembering.

Tomorrow will mark the one month anniversary of the death of Elizabeth Blue.

She was and is my eldest godchild, my goddessdaughter.  I witnessed the marvel of her first breath.

When she died I thought, this is the first day in over twenty two years that the world experiences the absence of the breath of Elizabeth Blue.  What will life be like without her here? I do not know.  She is a person who informed my world. And each day, since September 23rd,  has been different than any other day I’d lived thus far.  It still is.  I am still stunned. The miracle of her birth and the miracle of her death have me astonished.  I am rolling, cajoling and stumbling over what the meaning of relationship is, what my response and responsibility to connection and action are, where stillness lives and how deep is the well of grief.

I do love the poem by David Whyte: The Well of Grief.

Time makes no sense any longer. It hasn’t for quite a while, maybe since Aurelia’s birth or from the first time I glimpsed beyond the veneer that there is only one thing happening at once.  I can honestly say, I do not believe in time and that I like the concept, finally.

It’s funny, but the mind and time can sync me up without a second thought: “do it now, it’s time, ” or “make it happen,” or you only live once,” ( which I learned around a campfire in Napa this weekend is what the ‘younger folks’ are saying irreverently) or “now is the time, you can do it, hey, you are doing it.” And, just to pay my respects to paradox:, “there is nothing to do. Ever.”

Elizabeth is with me all the time. There is such a palpable living-with-me-ness in our relationship.  Elizabeth is with me all the no-time.

Elizabeth got straight A’s her last semester at university, while having her chemotherapy treatment. That is how she lived into her dying process: she aced it.  The last two months of her life were exemplary, a fulfillment of sorts.  She was clear, kind, radiant, honest, transparent and called out the best from those around her.  She was courageous, generous, compassionate and a heart at home.  I could feel her, because she showed me, that she was building something for her departure.  Something to leave with and something that would connect all of us with her after she wasn’t living in her body.

Why so young?

Well, that takes us back to time.  There isn’t such a thing yet, it is compelling as an organizing concept. People around me offer their condolences and say, ” how unfair, she was too young,” and ” it shouldn’t have happened.” These sentiments show me that the person sharing may have resistance to their own grief, which helps me see my resistances. In my understanding of Nature, there is an inherent order to the things that occur and do not occur. Nature is animated and intimate and interwoven with the Everything and Nothing that we emerged from and deserves respect and awe and at least, a bow now and again. The spinning song of the universe is beyond us and so is our control of how long a beloved lives. Now don’t misunderstand, I have a strong preference  that Elizabeth were still here, healthy, texting me about the boy she likes/doesn’t like, instead of what recovery from yesterday’s chemo was like.  I wish we were making a plan for my next to visit to Tucson so we could hang out and laugh and smoke cigarettes and share stories. I wish she was going to be alive beyond my death so that she and Aurelia could be allies in this ‘growing up.’  I also accept that these feelings are normal and associated with the young one inside who wants to be in charge. Death teaches me: I am not in charge.  I have never been.  This isn’t even my own heart or body: it belongs to something larger.  It belongs to the earth.  And the earth is a spherical spaceship that belongs to the cosmos.  We are all astronauts and we are all in relationship with something science calls the H particle and religion may call god and that poets call love and that healers call presence and that artists call creativity and that Elizabeth called Blue.

I know as young people, like my daughter (she is six) it is important to ask why.  At the age of 37, while in the jungle of Peru, ‘why’ simply served to distance me from ‘what is.’ There is no answer to the depth of the ‘why’ I was asking that could quell my curiosity. The curiosity remains and part of my new question is: how? How do I open to accept what is unbearable? How do I accept this change that I do not want? How do I remain open to love and to a faith in the goodness of participating in life, in relationship, in my own broken heartedness and powerlessness? How do I find redemption?  How do I honor the beloved Elizabeth?

I can honor her by accepting her death time was perfect. That her lifetime was perfect. Perfect meaning : in divine order. I am a part of it, she is, we all are in relationship to this Time.

Me: student. Elizabeth: teacher.

Lately, meaning the past month, she has been showing me how together we are.  She has been trying to get my attention, sometimes successfully.  She’s been arranging ways for us to communicate.  It is a lot like how it was the two months before she died.  Those days when she could read our minds; she didn’t need speech.  But often we did.  We who were still holding on to form and attached to the old ways of what relationship looks and sounds like.  I came to simply trust what was happening in the moment with her and that experience of trust is what I am being schooled in right now. It seems she is showing me how to be alive and in the presence of that which never dies. it is not the easiest thing to describe: one, because it feels new so words cannot lasso the breadth of it and two, because it is a mind bender for me, which, I suppose, is the point! Yes, once again, something beyond my ordinary awareness and something that is outside the collective.  That is always a stretch for me, cause I like company! Luckily she is good company and is giving me courage too.

The hummingbirds today that were clicking and buzzing and protecting territory and playing and then, just resting.  They were with Elizabeth and me. I ask myself about the difference between being in connection with Source and being with Elizabeth.  Nothing really. Especially since we are all god. And, yet, there is a distinct flavor/quality when I am with the Elizabeth in her essence. Something dynamic continues, as if she is looking out of my eyes and I am looking out of hers: we are sharing.  The morning light on the water  of the bay has a glow.  This is not simply another morning, this is a blessing. Pause.  She is seeing it, I am seeing it. I am feeling her see it with my eyes which are connected to my heart and she lives in my heart. Gratitude. Grateful for Elizabeth’s presence and for being alive today. Accepting the gift of this moment means accepting her death.

” I remember you, remembering me, remembering you.” -Martin Prechtel: translating a mayan song addressing the ancestors.

“I feed you, feeding me, feeding you.”

Just to be clear, I have been devastated. I have cried and felt like I’d like to die, rather than feel/bear this excruciating loss, because I am breaking. I have been out of my mind with disbelief.  I know that in our shared archetypal theater, this death reads as tragedy. I am reverent about that sacrifice.  The sacrifice of Elizabeth Blue.  I cannot stand it.  It hurts. And, so it is. So it is.

Contemplate Water

It is nearly two in the morning and I am awake… floating back from Mexico, still and still. Whole and freshly dunked, like a plump doughnut saturated by the fat of love. The pace of life has been speedy enough that my new skin is already sloughing off to make way for the newest development . I meditate daily which can transport me back to the land of the healer’s Don Antonio and Cynthia. And, I am also increasingly more here: inside my family, Aurelia’s school, the dock, the flow of energy sessions and improvisational social encounters. Every hug seems to chant a knowing: welcome home!

The main internal advice I hear is: don’t look back. It is natural to miss ‘touching heaven’, and to shed tears about the walk back from the sky dance. Don’t turn to salt. Let go, keeping the rhythm of the movement toward ordinary life pulsating underneath the feet.  Simultaneously, a little portion of god’s land is an oasis planted, rooting, sprouting into a promised maturity. It is within the human heart I carry in the spaciousness of my chest.  And this is no desert mirage, this is water , sweet water, that is available for dipping, sliding and submerging into…underwater, there is another language.  There is a kind of visibility and vulnerability that makes it possible to navigate being a being of two worlds.

“Contemplate water,” Don Antonio recommends. And so I do.

And when I open my eyes, gazing onto the bay from the living room windows on the houseboat, there are large ripples moving towards us. What a responsive element! Ah! That was last week.  Since, I have been looking at Charlie’s sea urchin’s, marveling over the the size of the heart of a whale, wondering about the internal waters of the pregnant Virgin de Guadalupe who is carrying the unknown new life force, watering our potted garden dockside, dancing Oxun and Yemaya (goddesses/orisha of the waters) in Anna’s Brazilian class, bathing, boiling, drinking, melting, crying. Today, during the Japanese ceremony, scoops of water were added to the rice while the celebrants wielded their sticks, pounding the mixture toward mochi. Water helping dissolve and the fire of effort , energy and intention reconstituting the grain. Then, hands shaping the moist body of a many grain merging, into bite size cakes. Hm…water.

Naturally neptunian, I am seeing the sea everywhere , like riding the wave of a dream. Because things that we think of as firm, material or fixed can dissolve into near transparency, I imagine what comes out of the blue, the depths, the unconscious, as a gift.  Similar to what I find at the water’s edge when I am exploring the coral strewn beach at Akumal. On our third day after arriving there, I sit on the shore, in my purple one-piece, and wonder why haven’t gone for a swim yet?  Then, I feel the sensation of recognition mixed with a fear in my belly: because, it is foreign, mysterious, unknown and possibly dangerous.  Just then, my eye catches sight of a plastic bottle bobbing with the sea’s wavelet surface. Oh, a bottle! I must retrieve it!  And I ‘m in.

Four years ago my nephew Emerson, and his father +uncle and I were out in a modest  motorized vessel for a deep sea fishing experience.  No fish took the baited hooks.  After hours of trolling about…out, out…we did discover a small group of sea turtles.  Two were entangled with ropes upon which were attached plastic bottles. When our captain used his large ‘cleaning’ blade to sever the rope from around one of the turtle’s throats, it gasped, audibly inhaling the air it was yearning to be filled with. This event of freeing the turtles makes me more aware of our impact/interconnection with the ocean and her homies. Our original home.

Isn’t this something, I think swimming quickly toward the wind shifting empty bottle. This is the thing that could/can get me wet today; move me beyond my comfort of being terrestrial on the sand with my warm towel under my sprawled, relaxed+reclining body.  This love is moving me beyond my fear. 

I am the golden doughnut drenched in the love of the Great Mama.

Once ,with my eyes closed and palms held gently over mid-chest one mexican early morning, I saw: a blue field with 4 blue dolphin harnessed to a blue chariot with blue reins carried in the blue hands of a blue bearded and everythinged man. Moving through water…breathing into the blues.

Preparations to Fly


To pack and prepare and sense that a part of us is already in Akumal.

This is a familiar sojourn.

I am delighted by the 2012ness of being in mayaland , in body, open to what the moment may deliver.

Daughter Aurelia sleeps.

She is the treasure I must leave at home, on the houseboat. Her papa will be here. I will not.  This remains the challenge in being ready.  I know how to make my list, check off the items in the suitcase, repack so it’s more compact. I do not know yet, how to leave my child and fly away for 11 nights. In 6 years we have not been apart for more than three nights at a stretch.  And although there are times when I wish I was anywhere else but home in the middle of a crying + yelling swirl of chaos and commotion, I have never been so grounded + present as with parenting.

Time now to close my eyes, rest, follow the dreams into this rainy night.