Fourteen Women Writing
The Tone of One Drone
I wake to a stream of light through the window. A curved bowl hangs, shining, holding golden liquid that streams down in a beam onto my floor. The moon wanes and rests mid-sky.
I force myself to wake – it must be time to write – then realize it’s only 3:19am. I can’t go back to sleep. In the dark of my room, I watch a video of Chinese doctors chanting over a woman with cancer. They show the tumor on an ultrasound screen dissolving in less than three minutes. They say it’s not a miracle but a tool. This power of intent. This feeling in the heart. To feel that she is well has made it so.
By 4:30am I’m back to sleep and dreaming of poetry.
At 7am I wake to dusky purple light. It’s been a long time since I’ve slept till sunrise. I hear the bullfrog at the stream. He seems to have one simple drone, free of having to decide how to express.
What if there were just one tone that I was given? I could stick with that, let go of mind, and just move my song to calm and trance. No doubt and never wonder.
But I’m human, and I wonder
Would I really like a single key?
Night Walk with the Poet 1996
Words from past journals seem to be the transport through which I am moving through time. I skim pages through a time-space continuum. As I craft a piece (known hereto as “The Submission“) from an era when I was 23, I find new insights, discover little gems.
In 1996 life’s proverbial road gave me one of those sharp arrowed signs, so abrupt I almost missed the turn. 
My trajectory was swiftly skewed with an unexpected surgery that removed an ovary from my womb and deeply scared my heart.
Until that detour, I’d been gearing for flight to Hawaii. In a sudden shift, I was shuffling at a snail’s pace in suburbia.
Healing stitches at my childhood home, I sorted old boxes. Took slow walks at the doctor’s suggestion. Wrote letters to the Poet in Massachusetts. Full of sweetness and incredible artistry, the Poet was the kind of guy that would send me typewriter pages of exquisite verse enclosed in a hand-painted envelope he’d crafted himself. Sometimes wildflowers or butterfly wings would fall out of the folds.
Having just left a year of living in the woods of Vermont, I was out of my element on old turf. I was adjusting to both neighborhood living and my body’s molasses pace. I took solace in the presence of the Poet, even when he was 3000 miles away.
October 24, 1996
leaving cardboard boxes
taped and labeled
hefty black trash bags
strings drawn and taut
I stepped into the night air
black and blue and California cool
the sky had her jewels
(though lots were moving men)
and I searched to find the crescent
instantly I thought of you
so we walked together
you and I
through manicured lawns of suburbia
my pace was slow
we took our time
and the breeze rustled the tree leaves
cul de sacs led to no where
they rounded out our time
but we were in no hurry
watching headlights speeding by
(and above)
alone in my old neighborhood
surrounded in cemented sidewalks
with love
and love
and love
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