I ALREADY KNOW, SO I DON'T NEED YOU TO TELL ME THAT...

i am a straight up latecomer to every, every, everything but it's indeed good, cause once i find it i am indeed ready and willing and able.

track number 6 in full effect, repeat mode. dig it.

And we'll shed of our skin like trees do
with leaves we'll glide together down on winter breeze
and rest in the earth intertwined at the roots
until we have grown into one me and you

and we can be new

--a.

RECIPE FOR A DELICIOUS EVENING

2 children fast asleep
1 spouse working o/t
1 warm vanilla candle
1 cool water incense
4 pier one pillows: orange, lavendar, yellow, green
12 tracks on Maxwell's Embrya CD
2 sharpened dixon ticonderoga medium #2 pencils
18 tight, tight pages of my good chapter 6
betty crocker fudge style brownies

g'nite.

--A.

THINKING ABOUT...

...what else my life's work includes. dreaming tonight of overseas work, setting up clinics in rural areas, teaching wellness and self sufficiency; thinking of community gardening/farming/agriculture in urban areas; thinking of teaching english as a second language in costa rica; thinking of teaching writing and poetry to african children.

then, stumble across a very apt description at i-village:

Scorpio travel profile:

Scorpio is that mysterious stranger on the train. Those born under this sign are truly go-anywhere, do-anything kind of people - the seamier, the better. Sex shops in Amsterdam would be a natural for a Scorpio, seeing as this is the Sign of Sex and Death. Kink will always be 'in' with the Scorpion, but the passion within also runs to any unusual life experience. The destination doesn't have to be pretty, just anywhere interesting lessons can be learned.

In the end, that's really what the travelling Scorpion is all about: the experience. Ruled by Pluto, the planet of regeneration, Scorpions will internalise much from their travels and are likely to return a different person. Hard-to-pin-down Scorpios prefer to travel alone, but when they do opt for a group it's a given that their agenda rules. Not only do Scorpions like to get their way, they also want their experiences to be utterly complete. Thankfully, these people are resourceful and will always have the means (whether by money or intelligence) to get what they want. For the passionate Scorpion, travel is yet another of life's seductive charms.

So true.

--A.

STRIKE THE POSE

Exercise and I have a tenuous relationship. We are like angry lovers moving about the place, knocking stuff down, swearing and cussing, vowing to leave and never return, all the while knowing that neither of us can survive without the other. It's a good thing I have good genes. Weight has never been an issue for me, even after two children who each added over forty-five pounds to my small frame. I try to commit myself to it but it seems to resist me, laughing like a hyena in the wild. No harm though, because I tell it that it is a waste of my time. Hmpf! I'd rather be writing anyway. And off to the desk I go, sweatpants and t-shirt in tow. There's only one form of exercise I can and do willingly commit to and that is my yoga. Yoga and writing are, for me, branches of the same tree.

Last Sunday (having committed Sundays as my official Wellness Day wherein I commit to the study and pampering of my Self--aromatherapy, herbs, QiGong, etc) as I was reading up on Chakra Balance and Color Energies (orange = creativity, desire) I stumbled across some very useful information about Kundalini Yoga, the Yoga of Awareness.

Kundalini, a Sanskrit word meaning "curled up," is one of the mechanisms for concentrating the movement of ultrapotent Prana. Tradition says that Kundalini resides coiled in an area called kanda at the base of the spine. It awakens in one's life only infrequently, if at all; uncoiling naturally, it usually stirs gently but might upsurge toward the brain like positive charges in a lightning bolt's return stroke.

If you've ever experienced sudden inspiration, the ability to complete complicated taks easily or a sudden clear insight which gave your life direction and meaning, then this is Kundalini. If you've written a beautiful poem that was seemingly effortless, this is Kundalini. If a page or two of your novel seems to be transmitted from some Higher Place, this is Kundalini. Christians call it the Holy Spirit. Tibetan Buddhists call it Fire Gtumo. Taoists may refer to it as Chi. Any which way you call it, do know that it exists within each of us.

So anyhow, there are poses and colors and stuff and one of the greatest poses for the stimulation of Kundalini flow is the Warrior Pose. Now, of all my poses, Warrior is indeed the most challenging. I can do it, but I shake and shiver all the while. The other day, I asked myself why this pose is so difficult for me. Why am I able to master Cobra and Tree and Downward Dog and even the Triangle poses for goodness sake. What's up with Warrior? Why are my thighs burning and knees aching? I ain't that old.
And then it came to me. I was trying to strike the pose of something that I was not believing I could be. I was posing but I wasn't being.

Umpf!

So I dwelled on it a bit more and sure 'nuff I've been recoiling in areas where I shouldn't be, closing up my Chakra number five when I should have it wide open. I've been constantly lamenting the assault on my time and it's effect on getting my novel edits done. And instead of crying about lost time, I should have been planning my days the night before and sticking to it. I should have been walking away from situations that are nothing more than distractions. I should have been demanding and commanding that, Hey! This is my time for writing and though I want to, I cannot meet you for coffee and I cannot chat with you on the line. I got a deadline to meet. I should have been telling people, No you cannot touch my hair even though you've never seen curly locs like mine, even though you're amazed at how fast my hair is growing, no you can look but you can't touch. I should be speaking instead of not wanting to hurt their feelings and in the process negating my own beliefs about people and their energy. I should be saying something to someone, writing a fiery email to someone about the gas that is costing me two-got-damm-dollars and nine cents a gallon instead of complaining to my spouse. I should be online ordering those Seventh Generation cleaning products for my home that are gentle to me and my babies and the Earth, rather than getting in bed with all these companies that are filthy-fying my drinking water. (Is filthy-fying a word??)

And so, the thing about Warrior Pose is that you have to be one. You have to know that you and the Creator are one and together you share a limitless power. You have to know and clutch within your hands, the vision that you hold for yourself. You have to believe and furthermore, you have to do. If time is trying to get away, grab it by the balls and make it step in line. If people move out of their correct space, put those suckers back where they belong. If there's a book to write, movie to produce, children to rear, then hey, just do it.

And so today, I go home to light my orange candle, write, and strike the pose like only I can do it.

May the force of Kundalini be with us all.

Namaste,
ANGEL

COUNTRY GIRL

They say that you can judge a lot about a person by the books they have on their bedside table. If the books I have received of late are any indication, then I'd have to say that my friends are brilliant, soulful, warrior women indeed.

The other day I arrive home from Little Lady's school play to a sparkling silver envelope in the box. This time I recognize the handwriting...like that of an architect or someone whose mind thinks with sharp precision. (They also say you can tell alot about a person by their handwriting). I open the package and sure 'nuff it's from my sister-friend in Memphis. Maker of Saints by Thulani Davis.

Now, here's the thing. I had that book in my possession many many moons ago; a time when I wasn't ready. But I was drawn to it. Tried it but couldn't hang. I took it back to the library disappointed. Something about the language and, I realize now, my own lack of sophistication with understanding and being patient with, plot. I love Thulani Davis's spirit and I truly enjoy reading her work in the Village Voice. Aside from that, she's also an ordained Buddhist priest. And so my friend, knowing where I am right now, knowing the space I'm operating in, sends me this book. No forewarning. No, "Hey sistergirl, keep an eye out on the mail. I sent you something." Nothing. Nada. Just like true friends do.

But wait. I've never laid eyes on my sisterfriend. We met out here in the wilderness some time ago. She's a lover of words and a fierce writer and a true to the core artist and that is what united us so deeply.

But wait. She told me recently that when trying to choose between a northern MFA program and a southern, she chose the southern school because she is a country girl at heart. Find her somewhere in a dainty white cottage, growing tulips and pansies, painting her rooms azure and fire orange and red and carnation pink perhaps. Find her growing vegetables and making handmade cards for her friends. Find her running to the well to pull up fresh, cold water. Find her on a porch swing, legs tucked beneath her, sipping lemonade and reading a novel. Find her, writing longhand on yellow legal pads out on a blanket in a field of lavendar, composing her next bestseller. Find her with real flowers tucked on her hip as she takes command on the stage reading her poems. But don't look for her in the city.

Huh? Me, a city girl at heart, I said. Give me the metro, theatre tickets, that meat-on-a-stick that they sell in New York. Give me cafes and lattes and that pizza so greasy and cheesy that just the sight of it clogs the arteries. Give me the Guggenheim and the Whitney, Central Park and Soho. Don't forget to throw in the South Street Seaport and a walking tour through Harlem. Give me the Nuyorican and Caroline's and Sylvia's and don't dare forget Two Steps Down in Brooklyn.

But wait.

There is a country road near my home that I frequently turn onto. It's the last of only a few. I find that I drive this road whenever I feel the need to clear my mind. The road reminds me of my sisterfriend. It must be a warrior woman road for this road exists smack dab in the middle of typical suburbia. It has survived the sprawl and the residents will not allow the town planners to run their proposed six lane monstrosity through this small section of heaven. It is a winding, two lane road. One lane running north, the other south. Blink and you may run into oncoming traffic. It's not a road designed for changing the radio station or talking on the cell phone. It's a grip your wheel and pay attention kind of road. A no-sidewalks-kinda-road. Beautiful victorians with wide, wooden porches squat in the distance. Well worn rockers sit on the porches not for decoration as you find in suburbia, but for daily use. Cottages with window flower boxes and gingham curtains. White sheets flapping on the clothes line like waving hands. Tires on ropes hang from century old trees filled with wide-winged cicadas that no one is trying to kill. Children at play. (Play? What's that?) Playing with sand and hand shovels and trowels. Muddy shoes at the doors edge. Garden gloves beside juniper bushes. Magnolia Trees. Bicycles. And no matter what's going on on the main road, no matter how much smog is coming from someone's gas guzzling SUV, no matter whether a fire is burning the whole city down, somehow, back here on this road the air is filled with a sweetness that makes you want to open your mouth and taste it.

This road reminds me of my sisterfriend, Jamey. And everytime I drive upon it, I think of her. A road that reflects a different kind of life; a life that honors both the old and the new. A life that treasures nature and fresh air and good, hearty dirt. A road that forces you to slow the heck down, for nothing is so important that you have to kill yourself trying to get there. A road that makes you hang up the cell phone and say, "Hey, I'll talk to you later." A road that makes you just be silent, to think and ponder and wonder and dream. A road that reminds you that life is still good. A road where life slows down to see the goodness rather than the tragedy. Truly, a diamond in the rough.

This is my friend Jamey. Truly a diamond in the rough turning me, a city girl, into a country girl at heart.

I love you, J.

--ANGEL

THIS IS LOVE

I awoke to Spouse climbing the steps, white postal envelope in hand. Something for me? No recent orders from Amazon, nothing from Carol's Daughter nor Sweet Raine.

I check the return address and smile. Inside, a simple card:

"Dear Miss Angel: Thank you for your friendship."

and, CIVIL WARS by June Jordan, a collection of essays, copyright 1984. Pages old and yellow, just like I like 'em. I held it to my heart, inhaled the scent on the card and closed my eyes.

How did she know my feelings for sister June? How did she know how much I miss stumbling across her essays in Mother Jones? Does she know I've patterned the collective's Open Mic/Open Mind after June's Poetry for the People at UCLA Berkley?

The package was from a sister I have come to love through the miles; a sister whose words have been a balm to my soul, a warm blanket about weary knee; a woman whose love I have felt through this thing we call a "mother board," -- an ancient, tribal love, communal and safe. Her love is black hands on steel drums; a pounding rhythm that courses through my veins.

The first principle of Shambhala vision is not being afraid of who you are. Ultimately, that is the definition of bravery and hence, warriorship. Warrior in the sense of living life without fear. Lately, I have come to understand the deep, abiding love that can exist without fear, without consequence, between women. I am not ashamed to say that I am in love with my women friends in a way that, I'm sure, eludes Western understanding and hence, Western definition. Here, we limit the state of of being "in love" to that which is sexual. I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about a love that is spiritual; a union of hearts and souls. A balm kinda love. I'm not even talking about "Girl, let's go to the mall," kinda love -- especially since none of my friends are mall types and neither am I. I am talking about walking down a sacred path and seeing her face, taking her hand in yours, assured that you are indeed gonna be okay.

The woman energy around me right now is definately in the flow of change. One friend is on her way to grad school, pursuing her dream of an MFA. Another just sold her house to finance her PhD at Howard U and last week, successfully coordinated a national conference for the anniversary of the Brown v Board of Education decsion. Another friend spent Sunday evening at my home -- she massaged my scalp with Healthy Hair Butter from Carol's Daughter, my temples with a soothing, calming oil from Aveda, and began teaching me how to retwist and maintain my own locs. She is writing a memoir, chronicling the ten year life of her locs that fall just above her waist; amber colored wavy ropes that cascade around her shoulders like soft rain. We called it "Sacred Beauty Day," where we talked about her tenth year of natural, organic living; we made plans to go down to the Co-Op to shop for our families. We talked about obesity in the community and our own commitments to better health and wellness; we talked about Queen Afua and the "Womb" necklace her mother made and blessed for her. We talked about the altars we are in the midst of putting together and the items we are selecting; we talked about her flowing sarong wraps that she wears everywhere, even around the house, to remind herself, her man, and her children that she is indeed a Queen. I brought down my collection of wraps, some purchased in the islands, and told her that I was saving them for the beach and when I go back. She said, Saving them? "Sister, there is no such thing as saving beauty. Beauty is everyday." We exchanged different tying methods for wearing them as dresses, skirt wraps and scarves about our head. "It's all in the tuck," she said, as she threw her locs forward and wrapped her locs into a crown of glory. Spouse says he loves me moving about our sacred space in my wraps and I like the unrestricted flowing feel. The children said they are beautiful, and little man likes to touch the fringes that dangle above my ankles.

Another friend just announced that she too is putting her house on the market -- pursuing her "last hurrah" home, someplace rural and quiet, as far from the noise as possible. She plans to grow her own vegetables and herbs and spend her days consulting on water treatment/conservation plans.

Today, an impromptu trip to Sweet Raine threw me onto the same city block as a friend who announced her published piece in the city paper. Her first Op-Ed credit. We celebrated over lunch and a leisure stroll in the boutique, sniffing scented soaps and more of Carol's Daughter Body Balms.

Maybe it's the Shambhala training that's causing such an awakening, an awareness of the goodness that lies in every day. Maybe it's the meditation. Maybe it's the energy. I don't know. But I do know that this is love.

ANGEL


"The Shambhala teachings are founded on the premise that there is basic human wisdom that can help to solve the world's problems. This wisdom does not belong to any one culture or religion, nor does it come only from the West or the East. Rather, it is a tradition of human warriorship that has existed in may cultures at many times throughout history." Shambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior