Own your spiritual power and intuitive wisdom so that you have the courage to live wild, wonderful and free.

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End of Watch

End of Watch

The funeral cortege for my niece’s husband was long.  First came the phalanx of officers on motorcycles.  The engines roared with fury. Behind them, the hearse that...

Echoes

Echoes

I burn to heal, discover and create.
I burn to grey ash, to sticky dust, to gritty sediment.
I burn all that I am not.

Priestess

Priestess

  A lifetime ago, I was invited to “preach” at an Episcopalian Sunday service in Parkersburg, West Virginia, the homeland of my heart. That honor was not available to...

Rosary

Rosary

“Ask my family to say the rosary for me, Lin, please,” Grandpa Jim said. My father-in-law’s voice, warmed by a slight Kentucky drawl, a remnant of his birthplace, was...

Confession

Confession

  “When you approach the confessional, know this… I am only hidden by the priest, but I myself act in your soul. Here the misery of the soul meets the God of mercy.” –...

Poetic Intuition

Poetic Intuition

Intuition is as right as rain.  When it comes to intuition, I’d like it to rain cats and dogs every day.  I’d think the sky was falling if I couldn’t sense it....

The Hymen’s Tale

The Hymen’s Tale

As a young woman, I checked my wild creative nature and sexuality to preserve my cherry. Later, I discovered that the hymen was but a crescent flap of embryonic tissue;...

A Bookbag Named God

A Bookbag Named God

“Hey, Sandy-Beach-Del, you must be po-or. Your bookbag is, like, trashed, man.” The spin on my last name, Sandel, was typical for the boy, a fellow sixth-grader. My...

Girdled No More

Girdled No More

“There is a line of varicose veins on both your legs, mid-thigh,” the woman doctor said, her tone matter of fact. My feet were clutched in the frigid steel stirrups on...

True Colors

True Colors

I couldn’t wear red. Layered against my strawberry-blond hair and freckles red was too much. Red was too much for a good girl. Red was too much, period. Red was a color for a seductress.

Good Morning, Divine Feminine

Good Morning, Divine Feminine

“Mama, I can’t breathe,” she said. Ancient and black, ankles spilled over battered sneakers, she raised her arms to the mystery.

I’m Speaking

I’m Speaking

I’m Speaking. Who’s the “I”? Over a year ago, I started “Method Writing” classes with poet and teacher, Jules Swales. The classes are sculpted around writing like you talk.

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