29.78

The air rushes into my body,
stopping, starting, stopping,
sputtering.
Like I am breathing underwater.
Like I am breathing for the first time.
Pressure pushes my lungs to take in oxygen again,
quick, short, jarring,
sputtering.
It does not flow.
It happens again and again,
as though the air were poison,
and I do not, cannot, take it in.
But there is no poison, there is just life.
There is no rhythm to my breath,
no systematic in and out,
pulsing my blood throughout my body,
causing my heart to lub and to dub.
There is just spastic contraction and expulsion of air,
of life.
There is no control.
There is a smell.
The plastic smell of latex;
sterile and musty at the same time.
And the light is dispersed here.
Lucid.
I hear raindrops, but I don't feel the wet splash
of drops landing, kissing my face.
I remember how it should feel.
I remember how it should smell.
I remember how rhythmic my breath should be
when I breathe in and exhale out.
There used to be a rhythm to my breath,
a rhythm to my life.
And now all it feels
is like I am drowning.

29.35 ish

Just found this one in the archives...wrote it in Peru?

The key
to life is simple.
Don't try too hard to be profound.
There is not meaning in every leaf.
Every cloud.
Every tear.
But savor the moments of growth,
of sun,
of joy.

29.67

I spent the flight in Palestine.

.

Locking arms and legs with Ellen,

in front of a dozer and a police van,

staring into the eyes of an Israeli soldier,

falling in love with Muna and Mohammed.

.

Confused about my voice.

.

For in my thoughts, it held no volume.

The anger at injustice building in my chest,

rising through my throat and

promptly stopping behind my lips,

resting on my tongue.

Wanting to dismantle every structure of

violence and oppression

that has ever kept me silent. Taught me to be silent.

To be still and not move.

Out of fear.

My soul screamed.

.

Be a good girl. Don't rock the boat. Do what you are told.

.

And now the voice inside of me is calling me forward, calling me forth.

Leaving me confused, and scared.

Which is where the system wants me.

And again the frustration begins to swell.

I want to yell.

I want to scream and expose the ethnic cleansing of Palestine.

I want to parade the crimes of our government against the marginalized

out in front of naked eyes, watching them become aware

of the horror, of the damage, of the pain and loss suffered everyday.

I want to air our dirty laundry.

I want to wash it.

So that one day, there is a chance for it to be clean.

So that one day Muna and Mohammed

will have the chance to sleep without

fear

Won't have to hold onions and garlic to cut the stinging of tear gas.

Won't have to live the violence my cousins

only know in the video games they play for fun.

.

And you ask me if Palestine actually exists,

or if the land I am speaking of is actually Israel.

You puncutate it, IS-RA-EL, like I don't know what you mean.

All I can do is think of Ellen and her story.

Her words.

Her experience.

Her heart.

Her family.

Her arm being shot from 15 feet away

by a bullet that the United States paid for.

And though those images are ingrained on my mind,

they are not mine and never will be.

But slowly, those images loosen my tongue.

The images in my mind are slowly forming into words

and quietly I begin to speak.

29.66

My grandfather, Waldo Tuttle Peterson, passed away yesterday night after three long months of struggle. I wrote this poem on November 1. May his memory, and the memory of all our ancestors, be a blessing.

A Life on Fire

.

The cold night air enters my lungs and embraces my body.
Days shorten almost without notice.
The winter constellations of my childhoon
walk back across the sky
to the homes they inhabited
the night we first met.
I walked up the street,
an eight year old child on a cold Colorado night
with my star map in hand and
my father walking behind me, freezing.
The stars walk their yearly path, as I walk through every year.
They accompany me through the cycle of the seasons,
the cycle of the moon, the cycle of life.

.

I walk every year through fallen leaves

dead on the ground. Dead on the trees,

dead but beautiful. Beautifully dead.

Burning orange, yellow and red.

Something is alive in their death.

Something lives in their change.

In their transformation, something is on fire.

For them, it is the end, but life continues.

The source of their life, the tree,

continues to feed,

continues to feel,

continues to fuel.

Continues.

And the energy of the dead leaves,

already transforming,

readying new life for growth,

does not cease.

.

As I walk through these leaves a thought lingers on.

My grandfather's body remains, though his voice is now gone.

His brain continues to think, but verbal communication has ceased.

Lying in his bed, he waits to fall from our tree.

.

You and I, we do not speak.

Our thoughts walk past one another as all words fail.

But our energy still courses.

We are still on fire.

Like a phoenix, we burn.

.

And I pray, like a phoenix, we will return.

We will be reborn, our energy renewed

to feed and to fuel a life,

to watch the colors change,

to wind down our days walking through fallen leaves.

.

The coursing energy continues to cycle

as a new old man, holds on to sight,

holds on to breath, holds on to life.

And the energy courses and continues to cycle

as a new eight year old child

becomes aware of the stars and of the leaves,

of this life and of the tree.

29.45

5 am raining
pitter patter drip drip drop
raindrops do not sleep

29.63

Dara's Birthday Song

Can't you hear creating sing,

with all that life is offering?

Hey, come on.

Can you feel it? It's moving deep.

Something says get up on your feet.

Hey, come on.

Open up your arms to the skies.

Embrace this life and let your spirit fly.

I am your daughter. I am your son.

Don't you know we are the ones?!

Hey, come on.

Take my hand. Come be free.

Won't you dance with me?

The traffic in the streets,

the waves from the ocean deep,

will help us keep the beat.

Brother deer and sister tree,

sunshine and starlight be,

our sweet melody.

Open up your arms to the skies.

Embrace this life and let your spirit fly.

I am the moon. I am the sun.

Don't you know we are the ones?!

Hey, come on.

Take my hand. Come be free.

Won't you dance with me?

And as the earth goes round the sun,

dancing makes this life more fun!

Hey, come on.

And in the moments, when it's still,

I pray that your soul be filled

with joy and love.

Open up your arms to the skies.

Embrace this life and let your spirit fly!

I am your friend. I am your love.

Don't you know we are the ones?!

Take my hand. Come be free.

Won't you dance with me?

29.61

The world is on fire with light.

Burning endlessly,

waiting to be noticed.

If only we stop moving for a moment.

If only we stood still.

We would see.

In awe,

the fire would become us.

Creating light of us.

29.60

My body collapsed.

My head to the floor.

I breathe out.

Your name hanging on every breath.

The connection between us grows stronger.

I relax into your arms,

feeling as though I am hugging the world.

Feeling as though roots grow out

from my arms and legs and head

down into the floor and across all of creation,

cementing our connection.

And in every step I take through my day,

those same roots reattach and keep me grounded.

On the surface, not six feet high,

I continue to walk.

So, I will continue to collapse.

I will continue to connect.

In this way, I continue.

29.28

Once again, behind schedule..... last Tuesday I spent with Mana (fair trade artisan group in Peru) and we finalized a new bag made of reycycled fabric from an old flour sack. It is really cool, and if I had uploaded the photographs, I would post them here, but I haven't....so no photo. Should be available from Partners for Just Trade this fall sometime.

29.27

On the ground.
Grounded.
Firmly standing I see
straight streets and pretty houses
painted in similar tones.
Each one the ghost of the next.
Beige
Line in. Line out. Row after row.
Just like headstones, in a line
with corpses rotting
beneath, below.

I rise up.

Up above the clouds.
Below I see the mountains.
In the mountains, the streams
RUN WILD, RUN FREE.
Cascading this way, then that.
Coursing, Surging, Plunging
to the path of least resistance
the ocean their goal.
To join the others who have run the path before them.
To be a part of the motion, the energy existent in the ocean.

I do not want to live my life
like a corpse.
Dead in my shell.
Dead in a row.
One by one. Line by Line. Day by day.

I want to life my life organically.
Coursing, Cascading, Flowing
as I run the river.
Finding bliss in my return to the ocean.

29.26

29.25

Jenny Milagros Koball Valles

29.24

Moyobamba is the City of the Orchids.

29.22

In broken English he said,
"So, your heart is in Peru then?"
Smiling,
I sat in the back of the cab and knew that it was true.

My heart is here, it's not with you.
The hole inside of me, where we grew, is slowly being filled by
days, hours, minutes, seconds,
breathes.

But you are still part of me and you are part of my story.
So, as I write
poems and songs,
as I tell my story,
know that you are here,
with me.

Just like
Olga, Ciara, Rachel, Tiffany, Todd, Doug, Jared, Robin, Pug, Andrew, Ben, Amanda, Jordan, Linda, Chris, Jim, Will, Eric, Jake, Jami, JC, Gretchen, Ginny, Toni, Sarah, Adelle, Leslie, Alex, Matt, Carolyn, Libby, Rima, Varga,
and countless others, unnamed, unknown.

29.21

29.19

LATE last night, I finished the back of my sweater.

29.18

Bride in the Plaza de Armas, Lima, Peru

29.16

I know that this is a redo, but it was Miss Sarah Gillespie's 27th Birthday on September 30th and she did request Haiku's.....so here they are.

Twenty-seven years.

One more year to celebrate.

Filled with joy, love, peace.

Te deseo un

feliz cumpleanyo y

abrazos del sur.

Sarah Dear, I hope you had a wonderful day. I am so excited for you discover all the adventures that await you over the coming year. Long live Tall Tribe.

29.17

Almost up to date.

Last night I started three new songs.

Man I wish I had my guitar with me.

And I can't wait to get back to Stony Point so that the

Amazing Leora Abelson

and I can start collaborating on music.

Excitement.

29.16

New Product from Bridge of Hope Fair Trade Artisan Group MANA!!

Recycled Fabric Shopping Bag

More details to come!!

(like when I have a tape measurer)

29.15

These photos were taken by the kids of CAMBIALO! from LaOroya, Peru

and myself over a period of three days.

They were so wonderful to work with and

I hope you all have the opportunity to read a little bit more

about who they are and what they are up against in their lives.

http://www.kidsforlaoroya.org

http://www.cambialo.org

http://www.facebook.com/CAMBIALO

29.14

So, this might be cheating.
I wrote this about 5 years ago when I first moved to Washington.

The moon was out tonight.
Orion at her side.
Her blue light shining
on the back of my hand, clutching the steering wheel.
And it brought me back...
to a large snowy field,
with two girls lost in footprints.
to rolling down a white hill,
with stolen cigarettes on our breath.
to a depressed and happy time in my life
when you were there.
The bumps on the side of the road
bring me back...
to my hands righting the steering wheel
of a different car, in a different state without snow,
in a different year, a different time.
But the moon's blue light
still glows on the back of my hand
and I am still a scared young girl in a snowy field
and you are still with me.

29.13

29.12

I was in the desert.

My mouth was dry. I could feel the sand, the grit against my teeth, whipped up by the wind, unknowinly entering the dark cavernous realms of my mouth.

I was walking along a road, red rock mountains in the distance. I came upon a tree, the only shade for miles. Caught in the uppermost bows was a kite of pink and yellow and green. Trembling in the wind, trying to loose itself, to fly, to be free.

I watched it dance it's imprisoned dance.

I sat below the tree to rest. The leaves of the tree played a sporadic melody as the wind continued to wind it's way across the plain.

In the distance I saw a mirage. A man was walking towards me, dressed in white. His loose clothes hung over a skeletal frame. He carried a cage made of wood, sticks bound together in a manner I had not seen before. There was nothing inside.

He walked as though I was not there below the tree. I thought perhaps he did not see me. I was hoping he would pass by. He stopped.

He turned to face me. His eyes were closed. The wind failed. The leaves quit singing. I could hear his breath. In, then out, then in once more.

Nervous I watched him.

His eyes opened suddenly.

They were the color of the ocean, far from land. Far from the reach of the average person.

I felt as though I was falling into them, into their depth. Into the depth of the ocean.

My breathing failed.

I felt as though he was looking not at me, but in me. Into the very center of my being. Past the layers of protection I had constructed through the years. Past every defense I held, into the heart where my deepest wish and my greatest fear both resided.

My eyes continued to hold his gaze. It seemed as though they posessed all of the knowledge ever known in the world. I was lost.

He raised his palm as I stared entranced. Showing me each finger, he slowly opened the door to the empty cage. He thrust his hand inside, feeling around for a moment, then clasped his hand tightly. He retracted his closed fist and held it for a moment in front of me, then threw it into the air and released his grip as a small white dove took flight, away into the heavens she flew. He watched her as she ascended and began to laugh, the sound of which made the leaves sing once more as the wind began to whip up the sand from it's momentary rest.

He lowered his gaze to mine once more, and with the force of a wave meeting the shore, my breath returned to my chest.

He turned and continued walking, his gait slow, and never once looked back.

29.11

Come on now,

put your hand out,

touch the rock.

I know it seems a long way off,

but I promise you it's not.

And it may seem

too big,

too far,

too scary,

but if it didn't seem that way,

would it really be worth doing?

29.10

Mira la luna llena.
Filled with reflection
of the absent sun's rays.
I watch silently.
She shows me the sun
even though it is night.
She shows me what's gone wrong,
as well as what's gone right.
Unaware of me as I stare
searching for energy
an answer, a prayer.
All she shows me
is all I can see.
Reflections of who I am,
who I'm called to be.

29.9

From yesterday... I knitted for about 4 hours. Sweater on the way.

29.7.8

29.7
First off, I am finding it hard to post everyday here in Peru. Secondly, it is trying to get photos on to a computer that is connected to the internet making me less zealous in my post a day quest.

Anyway, on Tuesday, I spent time reconnecting with two of the artisan groups that I worked with when I lived here before, Mana and Kuichi. It may be a stretch in some ways, but I think building relationships definitely falls under the category of the creative act. But, with Amelia and Bertha of Mana, we made a new reusable grocery style bag out of an old flour sack. It's pretty dang skippy if you aske me (I will post the photo when I can). I also started knitting a new sweater.

29.8

I have returned home.
To a home of hospitality
where chicken is the norm, I'm never fat enough, and toilet seats are rare.

I've missed Lima in ways I never thought possible.
Like the odor that wafts down every street...it may be strange,
but it feels good to smell it.
And the crazy commotion of the traffic in the streets,
seemingly constantly out of control with horns blaring and tires squealing.

The utter lack of control forces me to relax, to let go
and learn to be like the water under the control of the moon.
Forcing me this way, then that way, then this way again.
I must float here, without control, without consent.
It is something I strive to imprint on my life and my actions

--but then there I go--

trying to control my life and what happens there in.
When in all reality, it is not my life -it is God's life- to do with what God chooses.

My only job is to flow.
With the water, with the moon, with creation.
To do my best to follow the path set before me with as much grace as possible,
and with my gracefullness being akin to a walrus on dry land
I need to be reminded daily what water feels like.

What it feels like to float, what it feels like to swim.
I need to remember what the blundering, clumsy, non footed mammal looks like when she swims.
Gliding under the waves, unstoppable.

And so I pray, God
let me ride the waves as I ride in a taxi cab,
coursing through traffic, pulled by the moon, pushed by your spirit.
Help me remember that it is your Will and not mine.
That is the lesson I keep forgetting to remember.
It is not my plan, it is yours.
And my energy, and my spirit, and my passion all come from you
and to you they will return.

29.6

Growing hurts.

I would imagine if our ears could hear
the voices of the trees and plants
there would be a constant piercing cry.
Howling their pains as their roots dig deeper
craving stability in the darkness,
and their green parts reach up to the sun,
their goal in life to be shined upon.
It is natural to grow.
And as we grow, as we go around the sun,
sometimes in shadow and sometimes in light,
I think that sometimes we are meant to scream.

29.5

Well, I did not write this today....but it has been stuck in my head as I have traveled south. Again, at some point I will get it recorded and share it with you.

Ever After

Let me tell you a dream that I dreamt as a child.

It found me on the banks of the river wild.

Unaware of things that I never knew.

It followed me as a I grew.

Forts and trees and images in the sky.

Peter Pan and kites that wanted to fly.

There I was with a broom dancing free.

He was my prince, now my prince is me.

Over rocks, and years, and trees that I've climbed.

My dream has stayed through the passage of time.

I will tell you once and I'll tell you true.

My dream, it was never for you.

The only dream that I have for me

Is to find my way through life, happily....

Ever after.

Ever after.

Ever after.

29.4

29.3

New Song Lyrics.......when I get it recorded, I will figure out how to share that with you as well.

California.

I've never been to California
I wonder if I'd like it there.
People tell me there's sun and beaches
Birds flying, fresh ocean air
But I can't see you there.

I love to float in the water
Feel my body warmed by sun
Taste dried salt on my lips
Watch the stars when the day is done.
But I can't see you there.

I told you I would follow
Anywhere you wanted to go.
You wanted California
But You wanted to go alone.
Now I find myself in New York
About as far east as I could go
For the most part life is good here
but it's gray and kind of cold
I think I'm missing the sun
I think I know where I can find that.

I've never been to California.
I heard you never went.
Maybe it's time I took control.
Maybe it's time I headed west.
I think I'm needing the sun
I think I know where I can find that.

I've never been to California
I think I'd like it there.
People tell me there's sun and beaches
Birds flying, fresh ocean air
I love to float in the water
Feel my body warmed by sun
Taste dried salt on my lips
Watch the stars when the day is done.
And I won't see you there.
No I won't see you there.

29.1 ...

Hey Everybody.

Again, it's been a while...and now I am a 29 years and 1 day old. I am still living at Stony Point Center in New York state, struggling with what it means to be in an intentional inter-religious community committed to nonviolence and peace building and all that entails.

Through an interfaith young adult farming internship I participated in this summer, I have found that I am, in fact, an activist, and that I am very interested in living out the idea of nonviolence in my everyday life. Yes, that means in participating in the dismantling of systems of injustice, but it also means participating in the creation of peace. This is where my heart truly lives, and where my blog is going to be changing. I am hoping to share my creative acts here. I am not going to vow to write everyday, or take a new photograph, or write a new song....that is something I would fail at. But, I am going to challenge myself to live out my experience of creation through my words, lens and voice....and whatever other means I find along the way.

To start this new practice off, I want to share with you a poem I wrote on my first Eid (that I was aware of, at least). After an intense Ramadan, I was struck with the beauty of Islam and the importance of my Muslim family in my life--and that despite my best efforts, I remain irrevocably and unapologetically Christian.

My Little m.

I grew up in a left to right,

top to bottom

world.

Where God was three people

and souls were lost and found daily.

Where I bowed my head and held tight my eyes

as I laced together my hands, finger in and finger out,

my lips silently moved as I spoke words I knew

but don’t ever remember learning.

And as I have moved through the cycles of the moon,

as Saturn returns to the place of my birth,

I am finding a world that flows from the right to the left

and God is praised with every breath, with the entire body

and the voice in prayer is audibly shared, communally recited as

God is just one.

And I am aware of my little m

as I pray in motion, I bow in prostration,

with my elbows up and my angels Salaamed

and I wonder if my little m is a big M in disguise.

As if I am a child riding a bike with training wheels

unsure

if I can take the next step and say those words

from my heart with witnesses present

as I don’t know if I can believe them and trust in them,

AMIN.

And so maybe my m stays small and I stay in awe

of my body in motion, and my call to prayer

is a call to be present in a life we all share,

and my three part God, stays in three parts—but three parts of one whole,

and my whole soul seeks it’s path with honesty and an earnest ear,

listening for the waves,

entering from the left and receding from the right.

I stare down the shoreline and

I notice as I turn my head that now the waves

come from the right and leave from the left and

it is just one ocean and

there is just one shore and

we are all God’s people

waiting and

seeking and

listening

as the waves continually venture towards our souls.

copyright katie rains 2010

Peace to you all as this fall brings the start of many holiday seasons and many seasons of preparation.

love, katie