Upside Down Kris

Bonfire Stories The last of August air whispers of mountains or hills. It reminds   me of the crisp air I woke up to once in Tuscany. The sun welcomes you there, but in the hills you have to grab a sweatshirt on August mornings in order not to shiver. I remember wanting to wait until the sun infused the air with its shine before venturing out of my bunk, but at that time I worked at a camp and had to get myself moving before waking the campers. And wake the kids we did, my fellow counselor Marco and I. It was always the same: Marco strummed his guitar while I punctured the morning with my soprano version of "Good Morning". The boys groaned. It could have been the repetition of the same verse over and over, or just because it was too early to be serenaded. Some kids tapped their feet on their wooden bunks but there were always those covering their heads with their sleeping bags. We knew it was the most annoying way of waking them up, and that made it all the more amusing! It b

Climbing Like a Child Her branches are solid and inviting–a muscular gray stretching into waxy, plump green plumes. She is an extraordinary magnolia, extending above the top of the apartment buildings competing with her. She is the queen of the garden, and as such takes her strong stance in the middle. Around her are cushiony clover and spongy moss as inviting as she is.  I slip off my sandals and spread out my toes. Ivory butterflies flit from flower to flower–now fuchsia, now red, then back to the verdant folds of knee-high stalks. A cat plops down among all this awe, observing the goings-on of the butterflies. He absorbs all the colors of the garden in his fuzzy, black blob of a body. I grab onto the magnolia's nearest branch with my hands and step on one low to the ground. It forms a ledge made just for my foot, and I use it as leverage to reach higher branches. Her limbs are just right: not too thick but firm enough to hold me. I push past the tangle of lines that form a canop

Telltale Tales On the other side of the Lion's Gate, I look back through the many circles that make up me. I have pushed through some and rocketed through others, only to find more spirals pulling me ahead. There are some sparkling links to the past, others dull in the forgetting...the various phases of me overlapping. I can't help but touch on those memories that have touched me, that swirl into my sphere. The young girl melds into the supposedly mature woman and visa versa. And I find the same questions popping up throughout my history, important or insignificant as they may be: Can one be ravishing with scars? Does a mark jar a neck, a fair face, or a smooth stomach? Or are we more artistic because of our scars, our great work written into our skin?    Could it be that the sensibility of the scar–that tenderness, that puffy redness–represents the sensibility of a person? Could someone ask about it? Maybe we are touchy, not wanting anyone to touch it, not wanting anyone to go

  The Lion's Gate Portal Right now, we are crossing the Lion's Gate Portal. I wasn't aware of that until the 8th of August, which was the complete alignment of Orion, the Sun, the Earth, and Sirius. The Gate is open until the 12 when these celestial bodies continue on their merry way through the cosmos.  Sirius apparently is quite serious about its shining–unique in its brightness, beaten only by the sun. But they radiate together to help us leap through the gate on the eighth of August. Maybe you know it already, but this date was a sacred time to the Egyptians because it represented the flooding of the Nile, which, if controlled, lead to a great harvest. In modern astrology, this period is thought to help people achieve their goals. It is a time to take action to use the positive energy the portal brings to our advantage. According to an article I happened upon on in the Farmers' Almanac on the ninth, there are ten ways to do just this. I have done nine without even b

 Summer Storm  Coming In A gale bursts in, producing a great slamming that sends us rushing to rearrange windows and doors. One heavy stopper that leans into our room was given to us by an elderly woman who was fascinated by Buddhism, although I'm not sure if she is a Buddhist. The stopper is a bodhisattva lying languidly on a brass bed. He is almost sensual in his elongated pose, one hand holding his head-dressed head and the other following his hips. He is wearing drapes that flow along his contours. The other stoppers are not so elaborate–a bright green wedge breaks up the darkness in the hall and the weight of a round disk is used to hold open the bathroom rather than to pump up an arm. Anything can function as a stopper as long as it stops. The sky is a puffy gray promoting wetness. Some people pedal or walk under it without looking up, intent on their destination. I am intent on them, the sky, and the freshness from my window. The electric lines do a balancing act at eye-leve