And, of course, instead of slowing down, I’ve tried to conquer the overwhelm, to escape it, to stave it off.

There were moments when it was absolutely necessary to push through despite how I felt. I was called to meet the crises. To show up, even with fatigue or fear.

I was blessed to be able to seek support along the way. I dove into new healing modalities and also leaned on practitioners who I’ve relied on for years.

These have been, and continue to be, nourishing acts. Yet, I can still quietly fall into the trap of thinking that something big, a lightning strike or a revelation, will make things all better.

It turns out, the most meaningful and healing moments have been the small, quiet ones.

I’m learning, perhaps most importantly, not to expect that my nervous system will always be calm. Sometimes we need our fear or panic to be witnessed and validated. Sometimes we need to feel the depths of our despair and our hopelessness.

There is medicine in surrendering to what is.

This runs counter to what we’re taught. Our culture prizes competence, mastery, and winning. Conquering energy shows up even in therapeutic spaces. Instead of asking, How do we meet what’s here with compassion, humility, and acceptance? we devise ways to beat, ignore, deny, or stomp the pain out of our awareness.

Yes, we need some conquering energy to get through hard times. We need some get-up-and-go to rise early and go for a walk. We need some stamina to get in our cars, to drive on highways and through tunnels to get to a dance class. We need some commitment to show up to healing spaces.

And letting go of conquering energy can lead to magical moments.

Years ago, a spiritual teacher shared:

We often believe overwhelm requires a dramatic solution, something equally immense to remedy it. And what transforms overwhelm is presence. A shift in perspective, a small act, or a gentle turn.

I was recently reminded of this truth and captured some moments along the way.

I’m deeply grateful for your likes and comments. Visit my website www.eloizajorge.com for info about my practice and offerings.

When visiting my father in Puerto Rico, I’ve made it a ritual to take a 1 a.m. flight home to NJ. This gives me, us, a chance to hear some live music right before I get dropped off at the airport.

These last few times, we went to see the Big Band at Metropol, a restaurant that hosts shows every Monday. While this music is vibrant and passionate, in contrast, the band leader, Humberto Ramirez, is reserved, almost somber.

Sometimes Papi sits in, subbing for his mentee, a younger trombone player who has developed an illustrious career of his own. The horn section is about 10 members deep. Big band, indeed.

While I love the artistry, I don’t relish the symphony-like atmosphere. For me, this music is meant to be danced, not just observed. The roots are participatory, communal. Like a wiggly kid, I sometimes have trouble sitting still in my seat.

One of the last times I visited, my dad and I snuck out early to go to an open-air venue, El Boricua. This is the opposite vibe. Here there are just as many musicians, but in a different array. All percussion and voice. Panderetas, güiros and maracas. And unlike at Metropol, we are encouraged, coaxed to sing along.

This type of music, Plena (like many genres of music with roots in Africa), is sung in a call and response style. Much like a conversation, the vocalist leads with lyrics and the band members (and often the audience) answer.

We arrive but can’t find parking. My father says, “You go in, I’ll wait in the car.” I reply, “No, I don’t want to go without you. You’re the whole reason I’m here!”

I convince him to take one more circle around the block. He rides slowly past the parking lot with a sign saying, “Full”. The attendant peers at us and then waves us in. Once we park and exit the car the man comments “You’re a musician, right? Yeah, I recognized you. Enjoy your night.”

I’m relieved we got a spot but I’m also self-conscious. My father seems used to this special treatment. I, on the other hand, don’t automatically feel entitled to take up space.

We walk up to the venue and the party is already roaring. There is a gorgeous singer leading the chants. I hadn’t ever seen her before and am struck by her beauty and poise. It takes great skill to be able to improvise. The musicians seem to communicate as if through telepathy.

Papi and I go to the bar. He asks for a Medalla and I ask for a mojito. When he sees what I’m ordering, he changes his mind. “I’ll have what she’s having.” We watch the rest of the first set and then have a seat on a short cement wall.

Some of the musicians come up and greet my dad. I watch and smile and nod. They don’t make conversation with me. I’m used to my place in my father’s shadow. Then one of the guys comes back around and passes us a joint.

My dad takes a puff and passes it to me. This invitation makes me feel like I’m hanging with the cool kids. Plus, I figure getting high might help me deal with the anxiety of soon having to jump on a flight.

We sit enjoying the music and my father then casually shares that his doctor instructed him not to smoke. He says that his lung capacity has decreased after his bout with Covid back in 2022.

I’m preparing for your departure. Is there any way to really prepare for death? 

When you fell ill back in 2022 we feared losing you. For seven weeks my apartment was the central hub for your care. Your wife and your three daughters, all of us flitting around. Nursing you back to health. 

We feigned hopefulness, forcing cheer until you recovered. I remember telling you: 
It’s not your time, you’re only 72!

The week before your health plummeted a murder of crows visited my bedroom window. Their caws woke me from my sleep. At first I could only make out their shadows. I thought I was still dreaming.

A few days later I dreamt that the flowers on our ancestral altar withered and died. Omens portending the seriousness of your condition.

I look back to that time with curiosity and awe. Wondering how we survived it. Delighted that you’re still here. Grateful to have demonstrated our love so earnestly. 

Since then, I visit Puerto Rico more often. I want to be physically with you.  To cherish the time we have left. 

The preciousness of your life still very present.

My father says he feels dizzy and drops his phone. Usually inseparable from his gadgets, I know something is wrong when he doesn’t pick it up. His eyes widen and he can’t speak. His body starts to lean to the side and I try my best to hold him up. It takes a moment for others to notice.

One of the singers comes over and they rush papi into a car. Someone gives him a piece of candy and another person presses a cold water bottle at the back of his neck. The men ask me questions and I awkwardly answer in Spanish.

Yes, he’s diabetic. Yes, he’s fainted before. I’m not his friend, I’m his daughter.

As we deliberate driving to a hospital emergency room or calling an ambulance, my father comes to. He insists that he is fine. No hospital for him.

The musicians don’t immediately relent. They treasure him and want to make sure he gets care. I, however, know better than to push once he’s made up his mind. I drive him home, where my stepmother is waiting.

On the ride back he sings this song:

Dicen que me muero, no me muero na’.
Dicen que me muero, no me muero na’.
Es un mareito que a veces me da.
Es un mareito que a veces me da.

They say I’m dying, I’m not dying at all./It’s just a little dizziness that sometimes comes over me.

I end up taking an Uber to the airport for my flight. Once I make it through the TSA line I call my stepmother to check in. She and my father laugh about the night we had. Too shocked to register how intense it had been for me, I laugh along with them.

Holding Back the Tears by Simply Red plays over the airport sound system. I’ll keep holding on. I’ll keep holding on. The lyrics are a bit too resonant, I wonder if I’m still high. When I make it to my seat on the plane I burst into tears.

I’m deeply grateful for your likes and comments. Visit my website www.eloizajorge.com for info about my practice and offerings.

You’ll feel as if your whole world is shattering.
And some will tell you not to stress.

People will say the wrong thing.
And still, you need people.

Some will treat your misfortune like news or gossip.
Their reactions mirror their bandwidth.

Responses will range from 
deep empathy 
to I’m-glad-it’s-not-me.

You’ll figure out where to reveal your tender heart.

A personal catastrophe,
while the world splinters,
will feel impossible to face.

Crawling out of your own skin.
You’ll question everything you thought
you believed about the world.

If you rely on systems,
don’t trust them wholeheartedly.
They are crumbling too.
Yet, you’ll find angels within them.

What you feel, all the losses,
big and small,
matter.

Still, ask others how they’re doing
even when you’re in the middle of your descent.
You’ll see what I mean.

Things will never be the same.
This is not reason to give up.
(And it’s okay to feel like you want to give up.)

You’ll wait for the other shoe to drop.
And sometimes it does.

Looking over the edge of the cliff
is worse than the freefall.
Surrendering is the way through.

Sometimes you’ll think you can’t brave it.
That you will melt into the floor.
And sometimes you will melt into the floor.

And you will keep going.

You’ll use your intellect to make sense of things.
And your body will have something different to say.

Trust your body.

Panicking is not fragility,
it’s human.

You might have trouble sleeping,
or aches and pains haunt you.

Please dear, try to steady yourself.

Whatever deep wounds you were working through
are likely to resurface now.
Might as well shake those patterns loose too.

If you can, 
go to therapy
or acupuncture
or massage.
Something.

You’ll look around and
it will seem like everyone else is happy.
You might feel envy and ask: Why me?

And you will also feel kinship 
with the brokenhearted.

Then you’ll forget for a moment.
You’ll breathe. Smile. Even sing.

Sometimes you’ll walk around
like everything is normal.
Then you’ll trip over a piece of your grief
strewn on the floor, forgotten.

Some days it will be quiet,
and this will feel cruel.
Other days it will be quiet,
and it will feel like a balm.

When people tell you you should be grateful,
resist the urge to punch them in the face.

You are grateful.
And if you’re not, no need to force it.
It will naturally arise.

Don’t try to translate your grief to anyone who’s not
truly listening.

You’ll get to know grief like others can’t (yet).

There can be medicine in despair,
in reaching the limits of your hope.
But try not to make any new rules about yourself 
or how the world works.

Shame never, ever makes it better.
Sunny days do.

Projecting into the future isn't useful
(you might do it anyway).
It’s normal to be afraid of the unknown.
And sometimes good things hide in the dark.

Some meaning might emerge,
don’t rush it.
It unfolds slowly 
or strikes like lightning.

Going to the ocean to cry 
or bringing your sorrows to the trees 
is a good idea.

Spiritual practices don’t solve it.
But praying is good.

And ask for help, for fucks sake.

Life is risky and things are shit. 
Live anyway.

Make loving your goal.
(And love looks like grief and anger too.)

Sometimes you must walk it on your own.
Though we are not meant to do it alone.

And sometimes a purring cat, 
a cup of tea, 
a silly joke
makes all the difference.

There’s no conquering an apocalypse.
Step by step is the only way.

Focus on the small.
Cling to the good.

Share

I’m always grateful for your likes and comments! Please visit my website www.eloizajorge.com for info about my practice and offerings. 🤍

I should say
I want to say

I'm sorry.

You're precious
I adore your smile.

Am grateful for 
your strong spine
this pulsing heart.

Yet I treat you like a tool
something I can control.

I care for you 
more chore than ceremony.

You suffer storms
I gripe about the mud

you plod forward.

This morning I caught a glimpse
of your full breasts 
in the mirror
and wept.

I treat you like my failure.

When you're injured
I'm trapped.

I take for granted
the ways you carry me

up mountains
through ancient cities
across dance floors.

You speak to me
I don't listen

headaches
back pain

ailments to solve
not tenderly heed.

I believe the lie that
if you looked just-right
love would come.

You've been brought to your knees
more times than anyone would predict.

Exposed skin, bruised legs
stilling you for days.

I take you to a seer
who lays hands on you

she names the old wound
in your back
the deep ache we both feel.

Tracing all the way 
to your birth

the hospital room
where your distracted father 
and desperate, hungry mother
first greeted you.

Beginning The Ascent 

the smell of rot
still fills your nose

clothing singed
frayed

a wound resting
in the middle of your torso

exposed heart
pulsing

you will not forget  
swimming in darkness

choking on 
dense black smoke

living among fungi
carcasses
salamanders

the earth wet
yet emptied

heavy bones 
lungs strained

head bowed
the sun touches
your crown 

you look up
shielding your eyes

taking time 
to adjust to the brilliance

the shadows remain

you are beginning 
your ascent

and still 
you track mud 
with your feet.

Thank you for reading, my friend. I’d be grateful if you left a comment or clicked the like button. Your support means a lot. Happy Winter Solstice! xo

My routines remain fairly the same, despite having more time and space on my hands. Except there isn’t as much pressure. I don’t feel the same burden on my shoulders—the kind that has slowed me down, made my back ache.

While I want to more fully relish this new era of my life, worry distracts me. There’s something new I’d like to summon. I catch glimpses of it until something jolts me, stops me in my tracks. A reminder that grief may not yet be done with me.

Most days, I only read the headlines. It’s difficult to take in the daily details of the catastrophe. I’m too consumed with recovering from the personal storms and faultlines that shook my world this past summer.

Still, angst seeps in. At the supermarket, I think to myself, “Maybe I should dress up, even when coming here. What if I’m profiled?” A pang of guilt wells up as I realize my desire to cash in on my privilege—to separate myself from the others. Hired hands, laborers, nannies. To want to feel safe while people are unjustly snatched up by thugs in masks.

While I’d like to imagine myself immune, that my privilege protects me, if the mercenaries descend, they won’t care about my U.S. passport or that I’m still paying off graduate studies. They won’t guess that I’m a professional, that English is my first language, the United States my only home.

I want to brush off these thoughts as illogical, paranoid. And a voice whispers: “Not only possible, probable. It’s already here.”

At the store, the zucchini are limp, the lemons rock hard, and there’s no cauliflower in sight. I think of my maternal grandparents, who met during the Second Great War. Food rations and bombings— uncertainty and deprivation shaped their lives. How will we prepare for what’s next?

How did my thoughts descend so quickly to this underworld? How do I step into a newfound freedom while this nation declines into fascism?

Then, in the middle of this heaviness, scrolling to distract myself— a burst of color and aliveness. Images of Celia Cruz fill my feed—commemorating her 100th birthday. (She died in 2003, at the age of 77.)

A video from the Apollo Theater’s archive shows a 60-year-old Celia belting out a song in a blue shimmering dress. Her voice was powerful, her movements effortless. Unabashedly feeling the music, dancing and swaying her hips.

I watched the video several times over. This is what it looks like to take up space, to generously exude vitality and joy. In her body, at her age, with her style, in no way was she diminished. Captivating, in her glittery gown with her bold jewelry and sultry voice. She, the embodiment of a fully actualized woman.

Searching for inspiration and clues for how to navigate darkness, I’d been watching documentaries about freedom fighters and great thinkers — Harriet Tubman, Frederick Douglass, even Hannah Arendt. It hadn’t occurred to me, until now, to turn to Celia Cruz.

Watching her, in awe, I wondered how she had ascended to such prominence in a male-dominated industry. Her life force, her power, her presence transcended many of the constraints and barriers still in place today.

She acted as if obstacles didn’t exist.

I recalled having the good fortune of meeting Ms. Cruz in 1980, when I was five or six years old. She was larger than life—friendly and warm, with a gap-toothed smile. She gifted me an autographed portrait of herself in braids with beads on the ends.

I felt as if I had met a goddess.

While the musicians (including my father) and sound technicians showed reverence, it was the sweetness her husband demonstrated that I distinctly remember. I’m not sure I had witnessed many examples of men exuding both masculinity and tenderness.

His appearance was striking—white hair and sideburns contrasting his chocolate skin. He was self-assured and smiling as he helped her with her coat. They joked that they still could never get used to New York winters.

I stared up at them as we rode down the elevator together.

Celia’s image is a kind of modern-day myth. 
Her example has the potential to pull us towards radical questions: 
How might we find joy as the world crumbles?
How can we summon the courage to use our voices?
How do we live more freely and authentically?

To me, Celia Cruz conjures another type of rebellion. Not joy despite darkness— joy as resistance to it. Not waiting for safety to feel alive. Searching for ways to invite in aliveness now.

Hi there. Thank you for reading this far! Leaving a comment or clicking the like button is an easy way to support my work. Who’s inspiring you these days? xo

These past few months have been one of the most difficult seasons of my life. The storms my children and I have weathered were interwoven with moments of refuge and unexpected blessings. Still, the effects have been life-altering.

I’m continuing to grieve (even with my attempts to rush it), and I’m slowly getting accustomed to a rearranged landscape. Thanks to the companionship of a small group of generous, heart-centered writers, I’ve been able to gather a few thoughts.

In an effort to rejoin the rhythm of ordinary life, I’m sharing a short piece. I’m not certain what ordinary even means in these tumultuous, confusing and terrifying times. Despite this, I’m dragging myself back to the altar of what I know to be good and true— and trying to find inspiration there.

Thank you for reading.

With love, Eloiza

I grew up gazing at Oceans and Rivers.
Moments of respite, connection. 
Freedom in the midst of clouds and conflict.

Who would I be if I had not had this privilege? 
Summer visits to the Jersey shore. 
My young body tumbling in the waves. 
Salty lips, frizzy hair, cinnamon skin.

Who would I be if I had not known 
the raucous quiet of Pine Forests? 
The Catskill Mountains still appear to me in dreams. 

I remember the Ten Mile River.
How it meandered down 
until it reached the majestic Delaware.
(We delighted in the creek’s frigid water 
and marveled at how it joined the warmer expanse.)

Today, I’m a peninsula 
slowly turning into an island. 
Not adrift, just alone.

I went seeking answers.
To understand life‘s most profound betrayals. 
The healer said, with surgeon-like precision, 
“Your mother sees your suffering, she’s just not moved by it.”
This changed everything.

Falling in love with the wrong person
is no longer a concern. 
Even my desires have packed up
and walked away from me.

My old life dropped to the ground, shattered. 
I stand staring at the pieces.
Unsure how I will gather myself back together.

I wash the floors on hands and knees like my grandmother used to. 
An effort to scrub away the grief.
It worked, if only for a few hours.

I haven’t danced in months. 
The gods of music and drum, 
the ones I used to worship so fervently.
Silent, waiting for my return.

How do you survive 
an apocalypse?

You join with other women
Artists, dancers, writers
healers, witches.

You make food from scratch
Beans, stews, collards, cakes.

You move your body, 
walk, dance, run, stretch.

You gather, you laugh, 
you dream, you sing.

You protect what is sacred.

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Here’s a clip of a talk with friend and colleague, Jen Nguyen.

Here are the key points I'm hoping to convey:

• We are always vulnerable, whether we recognize it or not. Vulnerability is a constant part of being human, not just something we choose to reveal.

• We can cultivate a different relationship with vulnerability — one that softens our hearts and connects us more deeply to ourselves and others.

• Whiteness teaches denial of vulnerability, encouraging an illusion that needs will always be met, which cuts us off from our own humanity.

If these ideas speak to you, I would love for you to join the Getting Free From Whiteness Course beginning May 10th— and please share it with your networks!

Register

Edited Transcription:

[I have] a little bit of a different view of vulnerability. I think that we are always vulnerable, whether we acknowledge it or not. We're always vulnerable to be hurt. We're always vulnerable to be injured, right? We're always vulnerable to be disappointed. And I think that in popular culture, vulnerability kind of got defined as the act of exposing the ways that we feel unsafe, for the ways that we have needs.

I think that's part of it: having the courage and taking the risk to expose [our vulnerability]. And I want to take it a step further: We're always vulnerable. We just walk through the world as if we're not, right? So I've written about this, [for instance] I'm not grateful for the fact that I can walk until I injure myself. And then I become very aware about, Oh, I'm vulnerable to falling or I'm vulnerable to spraining my ankle.

So I think, again, (not that we want to live in fear all the time, focusing too heavily on our vulnerabilities), there's a way that we can also be in relationship [to it]. That it can soften our hearts to be in a different kind of relationship with our vulnerability.

You know, I was talking to somebody the other day and I said that I felt really needy and thirsty. And they said, Oh, don't say that about yourself! And I said, No, actually, I was. I'm parched. I'm thirsty. Right?

So I think that there's some freedom in saying, I have these needs and these needs are unmet, and they're kind of difficult to meet them in this current context that we're living in. But to [also] really soften that and reduce the shame around that, to admit that we have needs.

I think, again, one of the injuries of whiteness is a denial of vulnerability and the ways that whiteness teaches people to walk through the world as if all of their needs are going to be met. And I think that being in the world in a non-white body reminds you all the time the ways that you might be vulnerable.

Again, I'm making generalizations, right, but I think that there's a way that people get cut off from their humanity when they walk through the world as if their needs are always going to be met and they shouldn't ever feel vulnerable and they shouldn't ever feel unsafe.

(I'm not saying that we want to create a world that is unsafe, right? But [we want to] be aware.)

What I find in my work with different women (I work mostly with women) is that all women that I work with (including myself) are grappling in some way with vulnerability. What I find [is that] Black women are really hyper-aware of the ways that they're vulnerable and how they've had to push through certain obstacles because of their vulnerability.

And what I find with a lot of my white clients is that it takes a lot of work to even admit the ways that they're vulnerable. And that a lot of times has to do with family wounds and inherited trauma, but I think it also has to do with the way that we're conditioned in the world.

Also, I'm saying “we’re” because my mother is white. I was raised in a white environment. I experience light-skinned privilege, but I also walk through the world as a woman of color, and so I'm not immune to some of this conditioning.

And I think also being a mixed person helps me see and define things in a way that (because I kind of feel in-between worlds) there's things that I can see and notice [and ask myself], What are the differences between these two worlds?

I was a counselor 
during the fall of the empire.

Had perceived the fault lines.

Still
the tremors
terrifying.

I sat across heartbroken souls.
As we
together
tried to make 
sense of the shock.

It did not wear off.

I started to feel 
the undertow tug 
at my footing.

Back when I was 
a young rebel
white-haired professors 
predicted the empire‘s demise.

It certainly made sense.

But my still-young heart 
could not truly bear 
the weight of 
what it meant.

Surely I would cheer 
at the crumbling 
of the farce 
that is America.

The illusion of freedom
built upon 
exile
terror
and blood.

I too, was seduced 
by creature comforts.
The luxuries I enjoyed
I mistook as needs.

Tucking away the truth
my ease came 
at great cost.

Other lands
Other trees
Other rivers

Other seas
Other mountains
Other valleys

Other fish
Other birds
Other reptiles
Other mammals

Other bodies.

Expendable
Unimportant.
Objects 
to be consumed. 
Or worse
thrown away.

What was there to do 
during the collapse?

Run for cover?
Sharpen blades?
Plant seeds?

Why was love 
the last thing 
on our minds?

I’m always grateful for your likes and comments, thank you.

Please check out my new offering Getting Free From Whiteness, starting May 10th.

Subscribe now

Meandering through the past 
floating into tomorrow.

This moment
filled with terror
and also wonder.

What’s more real?

The majestic oak
steadfast
rooted?

Or men's
shriveled hearts 
wreaking havoc
pretending to be gods? 

What’s more real?

The ancient calamity
decimated lands
slaughtered kin
severed ties?

Or the survivors 
who craft vessels 
from ashes and clay?

The ones who
(despite heartbreak)
weave fragments into quilts.

Dreaming new futures.

What’s more real? 

The love you never knew
the support you never received
the protection that never came?

Or the empathy you sow
the connections you feed
the safety you cultivate?

What’s real when
in the depths of darkness

you dare to
sing and dance and rejoice?

I’m always grateful for your likes and comments! Please visit my website www.eloizajorge.com for info about my practice and offerings. 

Two things can be true at once.
Ugly and arresting,
tragic and gorgeous.

Stillness.
Clear blue skies,
ocean waves.
Silence made full with birdsong. 

While bodies on gurneys decay.
Lungs turned to dust.
Flies swarming,
flesh rotting,
war lurking.

Disease,
isolation.
Crows gather outside the window,
warning of impending strife.

Still, invocations are made. 
Altars tended.
Prayers uttered.
Offerings of candles and flowers and food.

Poems take shape.
Hope sprouting,
treasures unearthed.
Connections 
across space and time.

While sinister demigods 
plot their sweep.
Shrines violated,
barricades toppled. 
The inner sanctum desecrated.

Yet underground, mycelial networks 
quietly spread.
Thriving.

Art flourishes, 
love blooms.

I’m always grateful for your likes and comments! Please visit my website www.eloizajorge.com for info about my practice and offerings. 

Last year when I was putting an old couch out on the curb she stopped me incredulously, “You throwing that out? Someone could use it!”

Surprised by the urgency of her tone, I smiled and responded, “Maybe you’re right. But this couch is pretty old and uncomfortable.”

I began to second-guess myself. Was I being too hasty in getting rid of it? Was I being wasteful? I then remembered this couch was bought secondhand on Craigslist back in 2012. It had survived 10 years plus pandemic couch usage. It was time.

Last summer, my son had mentioned the weird lady was sunbathing again on the six square feet of lawn space out in front of our apartment building. I imagine the ancient shrubs lining the green space are meant to be both decorative and provide privacy.

The shrubs are pretty scraggly, much like parts of this residence. I love where we live, but the maintenance leaves something to be desired. The inside of my apartment feels like an oasis compared to the lobby and hallways in the building.

I have stopped taking my concerns to the management. After years of being treated poorly, I now prefer to handle any maintenance problems on my own. A few years back I was so angry and dissatisfied that I looked for another place to live. I was quickly humbled when I realized that I can’t afford to move anyplace else. I make due. It is fascinating how limited choices can invoke a deeper gratitude for what you already have.

One afternoon, I got to see for myself the quirky neighbor sunning herself like a cat on the sparse grass, surrounded by sparse shrubs. She was fully clothed, making the spectacle even more surprising. I had never actually seen anyone, except for her, use the lawn at all. I certainly would not feel comfortable or entitled to claim the common space in that way.

While my neighbor's choice might seem like a harmless quirk, it also begs the question: Who feels comfortable claiming their place in the world? And who doesn’t?

Sometimes, on hot days, some of the neighbors perch out in front with lawn chairs and alcoholic beverages. I often wonder if those neighbors were non-white, would that same spectacle be tolerated by management? Would Black folks be policed for occupying space and be seen as disruptive or out of place?

Last month, returning from one of my daily walks, I entered the building behind the quirky neighbor. I said hello and she turned to ask me “Can I help you? What’s your business in this building?”

I quickly retorted, “I live here.” She replied, “Well you can understand why I would ask that question. It’s just meant to keep everyone safe.” “Yes”, I said, “Except that I’ve seen you and spoken to you several times before.”

She shrugged her shoulders and walked away.

As you might imagine, her question felt like a presumption that I didn’t belong here, my home. A reminder of the pressure, as the other, to justify my existence.

I’m always grateful for your likes and comments! Please visit my website www.eloizajorge.com for info about my practice and offerings.

The five of us range in age from early 50’s to mid 70’s. We became friends through our weekly attendance at an Afro-Cuban dance class in Manhattan. Lovers of movement and music, it’s a gift when we gather on nights like these. I feel not so lonely, not so blue.

The room buzzed with anticipation. Across from me sat Jay, a young man who had the good fortune of being seated with our crew. To break the ice, I asked, “What brings you here tonight?”

“I’m visiting New York and couldn’t miss the chance to see a show at the famous Blue Note. I love jazz.”
“Where are you visiting from?” I asked.
“South Korea,” he said.

Next to me was seated my dear friend Vernette. Turning to her I said, “Oh V, Jay here is from Korea!” Then to Jay I added, “My friend here is a big fan of Korean dramas.” They immediately launched into a lively conversation about their favorite actors and shows.

Jay joked, “You know more about the dramas than me!” They agreed on the most handsome actors. Vernette pronouncing the name in her (now faded) Tennessee accent, and Jay repeating with the more precise inflection of a native speaker.

Jay wasn’t aware that the artist performing that night was visiting from Cuba. As the lights dimmed, I whispered to him, “You’re in for a treat!”

We heard the music before we could see the band members. The musicians descended the stairs into the crowded space. Servers, balancing trays like acrobats, moved out of the way.

Alain Perez, the headliner, tapped out the clave rhythm with two sticks carved from rosewood. He was singing a traditional rumba Diana— the part of the song before the call and response begins.

Rumba is a quintessential Cuban art form. Born in Afro-Cuban neighborhoods, it’s derived from Central West African polyrhythms and call and response. Improvisation, dancing and drumming are its soul.

Accompanied by two young percussionists, a pianist, and a trumpeter, Mr. Perez toggled between singing, hitting syncopated accents on a timbal and, of course, showcasing his beloved bass guitar.

The talent on the small stage overflowed and the musicians’ mutual respect was palpable. Mr. Perez looked lovingly at the trumpet player as he surprised us with his improvisational prowess— traversing high and low notes with a meandering stream of tones in between.

As aging women, we certainly could have felt on the outside of this masculine display of skill and playfulness, but we didn’t. Perhaps they could have enjoyed vibing with each other without us. Yet there was something special in the sharing. We weren’t up on the stage but we celebrated this marvel with them.

My favorite songs were the ones where I had trouble sitting still in my seat. Our Cuban teachers remind us: the drumming, voice and movement are inseparable. The music compels me to dance. Showing their range, they also played a bolero, an homage to traditional Cuban sentimentality and romance. Mr. Perez’ raspy tenor yet another instrument in this quintet.

This was his first time at the Blue Note. His exuberant smile and energetic bopping made us all want to celebrate with him. Applause didn’t seem enough of an acknowledgment, we shared our hollers and our lyrics too.

The space became a container for something bigger than us. After the band left the stage, the vibrations from the music lingered in my body. I stood there hesitating, it was difficult to leave. I walked towards the door and waited for my friends by the exit.

We wished our new friend, Jay, safe travels. After he left I noticed a commotion.

Police officers stood by as a middle-aged man spoke with Blue Note management. Intrigued, I strained to hear what was going on.

Over the din of the crowd I could hear the complainant saying something about the bass reverberating sound through the walls. He said something about “compliance with rules” regarding the placement of the speakers.

An older man, likely the owner, looking perturbed, listened to the man’s complaint. At one point, they both stopped talking. A standoff. “What did you say?” Silence. “I’ve been here over 40 years. How long have you been here—three months?”, snapped the owner before walking away. The middle-aged man left, the officers trailing behind him.

I made eye contact with the host. Several of us shook our heads in disbelief after having witnessed this moment. I said, “I can’t believe someone would make a noise complaint about this historic place.” The host, shaking his head too, shared, “The neighbors call the police almost every night. This time he came in person. It’s relentless.”

Racial division is embedded into the fabric of this nation, a foundational element that continues to shape our collective quality of life.

This idea is not new– I won’t review all of the evidence that this is so. Academic scholarship on Black identity and racism can be traced back over 250 years.

I believe if we’re going to effectively confront and resist this upcoming era, it’s imperative we understand the roots of racial separation. Building on the ideas of freedom fighters who have come before, I’d like to contribute a perspective that might lead to further healing and awakening—helping to make the unconscious conscious.

Our collective gaze is turning from solving the “problem of Blackness” to interrogating and understanding Whiteness. It’s perhaps helpful to look at Whiteness as a set of ideas or beliefs (rather than focusing solely on individuals and their actions).

Whiteness is a mental construct rooted in division—with psychological, behavioral, institutional and spiritual manifestations.

Whiteness doesn’t define a people, per se. (We might use the descriptor “white supremacist” to point to those who unquestioningly adopt the ideas that undergird this cognitive pattern.) And I think it’s helpful to focus on the pattern of thoughts, the blindness inherent in Whiteness, so to speak.

Whiteness, as a mental construct, can and does touch everyone living in this system (to varying degrees). No one alive today created this system, yet we, often unwittingly, participate in and perpetuate it.

Whiteness is based on the idea, intent, and act of dividing human beings from each other (and from the natural world). At the start of colonialist expansion a split emerged between what was labeled Black (unworthy, low, base, deviant, contemptuous, subservient) and White (pure, innocent, cherished, beautiful, worthy).

In addition to well-known descriptors of the phenomena of Whiteness, I would add:

• Denial of vulnerability and the desire to remain competent-only

• Neediness and fragility masked by an appearance of mastery and infallibility

• Repudiation of anger and rage and projecting the shadow onto others and/or resorting to aggression and violence to maintain control

• Treating others as objects and limiting relationships to primarily transactional ones

Whiteness is a set of ideas and presuppositions rooted in disconnection. It’s meant to protect against our deepest human vulnerabilities and to stave off the danger inherent in the unpredictability of life.

My hope is that understanding Whiteness as a pattern of thinking will help us engage with it more readily. It’s hard work building the stamina to awaken to our current reality. If we can engage with difficult ideas with compassion, we also invite in further connection and healing.

Again, we might view Whiteness, not as a group of people, but as a pattern of beliefs. From this perspective, Whiteness, with its ideas, habits, defenses, is rooted in a narrow world view. These presuppositions serve to limit connections, limit possibilities, limit creativity— constraining the life force we might channel into discovering new solutions to our collective problems.

I invite you to further awaken to Whiteness. To uncover the invisible, “normal,” unseen, unconscious. And for those who identify as White, may you find the courage and stamina to turn inward. To awaken to and interrogate the unconscious thoughts that divide us.

Essentially, Whiteness can be defined as a relational problem. The injury of Whiteness is that it takes us out of relationship with each other. The diminishing and exiling of everything non-White enforces this division .

“We are white children of white parents, white descendants of white ancestors, yet we have few ideas and even less language with which to make sense of our Whiteness. Hovering off-camera, Whiteness works in silence, quietly defining our white families, our white marriages, our white jobs, our white government, our white schools, our white police. It courses like electricity through the walls of white American life — silent, comforting, frightful, binding, beneficent, shocking, avoided.” – Natasha Stovall Whiteness on the Couch

We often focus on the the suffering that racial division has caused/still causes for those labeled Black. And this focus can serve to further the duality between White and Black. The risk is in dehumanizing and rendering Black folks objects in need of saving. They are not perceived as dynamic, complicated, or vibrant human beings.

Housing segregation, police violence, systematic impoverishment and underfunded schooling are all dire problems that result from this split. And treating Black people as problems to be solved is not transformative or healing.

The effects of racial division for those who identify as White are less widely known. They include a loss of connection, a distorted sense of entitlement or “specialness”, segregation and separation, a false sense of safety, and a dissociation from the fullness of humanity.

Guilt and shame will not make up for the problem of racial division. It takes steadfastness and strength to meet with darkness, disconnection, negativity, trauma, and destruction.

And we develop resilience and stamina through creativity, connection, imagination, and love.

Everything and everyone belongs. We are all connected. While this might be easy to accept in theory, in practice it’s not so simple.

I remain curious about how a non-dual perspective might help us soften the rigid binaries that keep us humans separate. Not as a way to diminish the very real world effects of racial division, but as one way to heal it.

Please share your questions for further inquiry and stay tuned for more on this topic in the coming weeks.

With love, Eloiza

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As we stand at the threshold of the new year, we may be prompted to feel grateful. And, for many of us, this time might also engender fear or despair.

Whatever comes up, let’s ask ourselves: How does what I’m experiencing fit in the larger web of life? How might gratitude coexist with suffering? What are the blessings inherent in each moment, even when life feels difficult?

I’d like to offer a perspective on gratitude that invites contemplation of impermanence and loss.

Everything we love, everything we’re grateful for won’t last. In this moment we may be grateful for good health and we will continue to age and eventually die. We are perhaps also grateful for friendships, and relationships change shape and sometimes end.

There are circumstances when we feel joy and safety. And these are momentary, fleeting. When we become aware of a particular blessing, we would be wise to stay close to its impermanence. Our gratitude doesn’t hinge on our comfort.

What happens when the circumstance that once invoked our gratitude no longer exists? The most spiritual and grateful people I’ve met are often those who have battled adversity and suffered many losses. Gratitude is found in dark moments too.

“There’s always something,” is a lament I often hear, usually by women over a certain age. They’re right— there is always some catastrophe, some breach, some ailment.

We often act as if triumph is all there is to live for. But it’s unrealistic and futile to expect perpetual happiness or absolute peace.

Miss Henrietta, a woman well into her 80s, was an acquaintance from the local YMCA. Almost every day, she would attend chair yoga, dance classes, or water aerobics. When she was asked how she was doing, she often retorted: “Well, I woke up today!” or “I’m breathing!”.

Through many a locker room conversation– some directly with her and some overheard– I learned Ms. Henrietta had earned a doctorate, had taught in seminary, had actively participated in the civil rights movement, and, perhaps most interestingly, she sang opera.

She had witnessed the country change. She’d seen many friends through illnesses, surgeries, and losses. And still, there she was, day after day. Showing up, vibrant and alive. Grateful to be breathing.

Mindfulness practices, like gratitude, will ideally bring us more fully into life. And being fully in life includes our suffering. From this perspective, gratitude can be a type of awakening. A revelation not predicated on happiness. While “looking on the bright side” has its merits, it shouldn’t come at the cost of denying our emotions. Profound gratitude and terrible pain can coexist.

Sometimes, we may seek gratitude to ease our suffering. I’ve experienced a temptation to wield it as a shield— a way to avoid the discomfort of negative feelings. We might say to ourselves: I shouldn’t feel how I feel, I should be grateful instead. Rather than freeing us, this “positive thinking” becomes a cage. We might believe if we’re grateful in just the right way, we’ll be safe from heartache, we won’t.

I recently hurt my foot (yet again) and experienced some intense emotional suffering. All hopes for a respite dashed in a clumsy instant. Instead of taking long hikes and doing what I love the most, dancing, I was relegated to a horizontal position. A corpse with one foot elevated to reduce the ugly swelling and morose discoloration.

I’ve had so many injuries in the last few years that I knew precisely how to physically care for myself. Ice, arnica gel and foot soaks with comfrey would hasten my recovery. Yet emotionally, I was at a loss. Reminding myself that a dislocated toe was nothing compared to “real suffering” in the world didn’t break the spell I was under.

To have, quite literally, lost my footing plunged me into a dark place. The ways that I normally muscle through were stalled. The watery depths of disappointment and fear I had, for months, been keeping at bay, pulled me under.

Forced to pause and sink into my grief and despair, gratitude started to spontaneously arise. Paradoxically, this period of being immobile helped ignite my desire to live more fully. How could I have ever taken for granted the pleasure, the privilege of walking?

I awoke to gratitude for home remedies, cuddles with my cat, leftovers in the fridge. Gratitude for insights from friends, guidance from diviners, wisdom from healers.

I was able to take in more of the love that is always around but I don’t always see. I woke up to the blessings.

This didn’t supplant my pain. I could experience the beauty in both.

A way to invite in gratitude, my friend, might be admitting you’re disappointed or sad. Though things did not go the way you’d hoped, you might find love and mercy in a deep breath, the sunshine, or hot tea on a dreary afternoon.

Preciousness is also to be found in discomfort, pain, and loss. Gratitude is not solely a place of joy, abundance, and safety. It's not a place at all, nor a thing to be achieved. It's a state of grace.

Gratitude can and does emerge in seemingly impossible situations. It’s often after going through difficult periods that we feel the most humbled, grateful, and fortunate. All the things we hadn’t counted as blessings come into clearer view.

Yes, continue to take inventory of all that you’re grateful for– shelter, food, technology that allows you to communicate swiftly across thousands of miles. And don’t let it end there. Connect to your own grief or with the sorrow that appears when we take in humanity’s (and the earth’s) suffering.

From this perspective, everything is a blessing. We only need notice an essential resource like water. It’s vital to our day to day existence. The profundity of this miracle is vast. Yet, we are not always, moment to moment, awake to or grateful for it.

In this way, gratitude is not a static state. It’s an invitation to awaken to goodness that surrounds us. As Bayo Akomolafe so aptly puts it, “Ultimately, gratitude is not just sharing one’s appreciation, it is the vocation of touching the conditions of our passing away. To put gratitude to work in ways that are politically generative, one must consider it alongside grief, loss, and the pain of being carried away from home. When gratitude is reconsidered in the context of loss, we come to grace.” As we experience the ebbs and flows of life, may we return to gratitude and life’s preciousness again and again.

A blessing for the new year:


May gratitude and kindness spill from your cracked open heart.

May your full, tender being emanate pure, healing light.

May you cultivate fertile ground for love and faith to grow.


With love,  Eloiza

I thought we were prepared.

Sadly, the days leading up to his departure were marked with tension and bickering. More experienced folks had warned me he would “sully the nest,” making it easier to fly away. He reluctantly went through the clothing, books, and toys he had outgrown.

He packed up bins, bags and boxes, preparing to make the leap into his becoming.

I was excited for him and expressed hopefulness for what lay ahead. I reflected on the immense blessing it is to be able to honor his passions, to develop his gifts. He was our ancestors’ dreams manifest.

But something else also emerged— an invisible burden revealing itself. The feeling was heavy, dense and vague.

His leaving brought resentment to the fore.

Journal Entry— December 5, 2016

How did my role become a source of shame? Anyone who is a parent knows the impossibility, the relentlessness of this job. To do it with no partner is illogical. Yet, here I am.

I left an unhappy marriage with young ones in tow. The promise of a new partner turns out to be a pipe dream. There’s no one to make eye contact with when my children transform into monsters.

No one to rescue me when my fangs start to show too.

When my kids go with their father, friends tell me, with envy, how they wish for a weekend to themselves.

Then there are mothers who have it worse: no father in the picture at all.  Instead of bonding in sisterhood, they insist I shouldn’t complain.

Maybe they’re right. 

When my kids return, they share happy tales of the fun they’ve had. I want to shout in their faces, “I don’t  want to hear it!” Instead I smile and say, "I'm glad you had a good time!”

Years of chronic self-sacrifice had taken their toll.  I’d plan on a peaceful evening, a few hours to myself, only to have a child announce a last-minute school project. Or I’d hope to sleep in, only to be jolted awake by an urgent request.

I cared deeply, the pressure to be responsive gnawed at me. I wanted to be there— to not abandon them or repeat familial patterns of neglect.

While I was determined to be present, I also longed to make art, to dance, or to simply rest.

Journal Entry— February 7, 2017

Meltdowns, outbursts, conflicts with friends– none of these episodes touch their father’s world. He has the luxury of parcelling out his attention at neat and predictable timeframes.

Yesterday, one of my children recounted a nightmare: their stepmother was hunting them down at the playground with a silver gun. I console them, “Don’t worry, sweetie, it’s just a dream.” Instead of admitting, “Yes my dear, it’s true. She hates you.”

When I look in the mirror, I see a hag, a woman who’s lost her shine and vigor.

I should be grateful. At least I get the privilege of making my kids breakfast. At least I have a job.

But when they’re slow to rise or complain about a lunch I’ve packed, it grips me. Coming up from my belly, then through my chest, it seizes my throat– a mixture of bitterness and desperation on my tongue.

How will I possibly get through the morning?

Most women cozy up with resentment at some point in our lives. It’s a setup: we endure hardship to avoid conflict, to hold things together, or simply because no one else will. And we’re not supposed to complain about it. I repeatedly swallowed tiny granules of anger.

Resentment grew, filling my insides like heavy sand.

As I got used to my son’s absence, I was forced to confront this ugly feeling. Having helped other women name their resentment, I suspected what it was. I encourage them to take the risk to express their needs, yet am dismayed when they, unable to voice it, choke on sand too. Was it fear that it would turn into a smoldering fire?

I know that fear too. That naming this quiet anger would unleash an untamable, destructive feminine rage.

In the dark, resentment whispered, “All this work and they leave. You’re still alone.”

I recalled the mindless but necessary tasks: wiping counters, slow-cooking beans, scrubbing toilets. All the chastising, encouraging and supporting— I would choose to do it all again.

So why this feeling?

Journal Entry— May 24, 2017

My child is a few feet away: rhyming, mumbling, vocalizing. Rage bubbles up, taunting me. My brain is on the verge of exploding.

Bits of grey matter and blood splattering on the mustard-colored living room walls. My eyeballs shooting across to the corners of the room where my unfinished art projects wait.   

I worked hard to rearrange this apartment to make it more welcoming– room for big feet, simmering hormones and middle school math.

I wanted this– the three of us to live in harmony. I just imagined that my lovely children would sometimes shut the fuck up.

Even with all the muscle, foresight, and planning I put into structuring our lives I can’t shake the feeling that it could all fall apart at any moment.

With everything just so– dinner eaten, dishes washed, homework done– when I reach for the book or the pen, I’m spent.

This burden feels ancient, like it’s part of my DNA. I stifle my anger, fearing punishment for being disobedient, ungrateful, wild.

I began to feel a deeper kinship with other women, especially my grandmothers and great-grandmothers who endured tremendous adversity (including the daily threat of physical violence).

Instead of denying the resentment, I sat in it, nuzzled it. I reminded myself, “Of course you’re angry.“ Acknowledging it helped me not act it out. Sure, I was grumpy, but it didn’t consume me (entirely).

Once I dislodged some of the sand from my throat, it started to pour from my heart. New ideas, inspiration, and energy emerged. The process felt alchemical. The feelings that seemed unnameable, inappropriate, turned out to be a key to greater freedom.

I searched my insides for meaning, mining the depths for the precise words. Paradoxically, once I named it and let myself feel it more vividly, I then slipped into a deep fatigue. I longed to hibernate— sensing a need to take stock of the toll stress, exhaustion, and age had taken on me.

I reckoned with my body’s limitations. Grief was knocking on my door.

The fire of bitterness and anger had shapeshifted into sadness. And while I often felt alone, I found support too. Sharing in this loss or having already survived this phase, sisters and friends offered healing salves and soothing balms. Their grace helped lift me out of the grey cloud.

The wheel was turning.

As I adjust to the increased quiet and solitude, the demands no longer weigh on me in quite the same way. It isn't that they disappeared, I’m still a caretaker, but I’m beginning to notice more places of possibility. 

Now that my son is settled at school, he freely and willingly offers love and gratitude back. This week, I received a cheerful text from him. It included a photo of a sketch he was working on— a windowsill with the plants I insisted he take to his dorm. 

He wrote, “Mom look. The plants are very happy.” An apt metaphor for our journey.

Surrendering to the truth of my difficult and often messy experience, I am more clear-eyed. This clarity is returning me to the love present all along. 

For what is this journey if it is not grounded in love?

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Since the 2024 U.S. presidential election, I’m feeling like I’m stumbling. Disoriented, fuzzy, confused. I wasn’t surprised by the outcome. It’s reflective of the entrenched divisions Black scholars have been naming for decades. Still, the depth of pain and anger our country is steeped in has been difficult to metabolize.

In the midst of this, I've been reflecting on how to find my footing and stay focused when the world around us feels so fractured. And it’s become clear to me that spiritual work, deeply rooted in the realities of the era we’re living through, is part of my path.

I’m starting to sense the direction I’m called to move in next. But before I take any steps forward, my first priority is to get physically grounded and spiritually fortified. I’m deeply grateful for the supportive guidance of healers, guides, mystics and facilitators lighting the way.

Have you, too, felt the weight of this moment? What or who are you relying on to feel more grounded and resourced?

One of my sage healers recently shared that, at this moment, spiritual work is paramount. She reminded me that a sense of direction and purpose is vital to help us navigate such a polarizing time. As I reflect on these needs, I’m getting clearer about the teachers who I want to listen to more closely and the ones I need to leave behind.

More specifically, I’ve accepted that I can no longer trust spiritual teachers in the U.S. who do not acknowledge racial division as one of the major problems we face. Meaningful spiritual work is not only an inward journey, disconnected from the wider struggles of the world. To claim to be engaged in healing and awakening while ignoring the wounds of white supremacy and misogyny at this point in history is, in my view, deeply misguided.

How helpful is our spiritual work if we’re reluctant to engage with the very human struggles of our time? If our awakening is solely focused on personal, individual growth without recognizing the reality of what we’re living through, what’s the true benefit?

This isn’t a demand for spiritual teachers to take a political stance. I’m not saying that they should adopt a particular political view. I’m asking that, at the very least, they embrace a humanitarian perspective, one that is concerned with all of life.

The following is an ode to a teacher I’m leaving behind.

He was a guide who shepherded my spiritual development for a long while. I’m deeply grateful for his kindness and wisdom. And as I move forward, I’m compelled to chart a different course.

The Lighthouse

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You, my teacher, a lighthouse. 
Me, a rudderless boat 
on a stormy sea. 

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The moon and stars offer some illumination. 
Reminding me 
there’s more to life than 
crashing waves, salty tears, and lonely nights.

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I was initially drawn in by your words. 
My brain lit up with fresh ideas. 
Non-duality, oneness, healing. 

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I stayed because of your kindness. 
A tenderness I had not often felt 
from men before. 

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A bit younger than my grandfather, 
your white hair and blue eyes 
reminded me of him. 

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Sitting around the campfire 
under the night sky. 
Grandpa would say: 
Holding hands is 
the best thing in the world!
My hand safe and warm wrapped in his. 

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I was immersed in your universe. 
Enthralled by new sparks of insight 
expanding my sphere. 

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I thought, naïvely, that the 
choppy waters would cease 
after one year, 
then after four, 
then after 10. 

They didn’t.
I simply tolerated them better. 

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The beam from the lighthouse
helped me survive. 

Helped me breathe after being pulled under.
Helped me avoid jagged rocks. 
Helped me find dry land. 
Helped me believe refuge was possible.

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I had gotten used to 
the radiance of the lighthouse. 
Believing it was my only source of light.

Forgetting that all the while 
I had been learning to swim. 

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I remembered that 
my ancestors were mermaids. 
That the sun's light is ancient. 

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I was called to explore other waters. 
To learn the language of 
coral, squid, and whales. 

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I’m grateful for the light. 
You, my dear teacher, 
are not the source of light. 

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May you continue to shine brightly, 
a haven for other wayfarers. 
A godsend for other seekers.

Amidst the current chaos, what are your beacons of light? What truths will they help you uncover?

xoxo Eloiza

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have you met her?

she descends slowly 
or maybe all at once.

she’s a river
lungs filling in flood.

muscle stiff
you forget how to dance.

blue music drags you under.

the city hums outside your window
instead, you’re locked in a room.

you shove her aside, refusing her
she lies in wait
relentless.

women wail
shredding your tender flesh
cutting to the bone.

yet no sound escapes your mouth
witnessing
brutality on a televised loop.

you fall to your knees
forehead resting on a scratchy rug
the wool soaking up your prayers.

you journey to the Ocean for counsel 
only to find her weeping too.

you awaken 
to the Suffering Mother.

saltwater refuge 
yet you cannot escape 
grief’s embrace.

you hermit away
sleeping through a season of
full moons and snow storms. 

vivid dreams
owls, bears, whales.

pine forests
dark caverns and winding rivers 
unearthing buried treasures.

you emerge 
from your slumber 

a stranger’s smile 
a kiss on the forehead 
children’s laughter shaking the room.