Spirit Memory



While attending a sick friend, who fails to heal to the music of her violin, a soul appears next to me at the end of her bed. His earthly tenor I do not recognize, but he speaks a nostalgic melody that resonates through me. I listen in silence to his lyrical lines, memories awakening, patterns emerging of our souls in synchronicity.

A mystic chord, vibrating waves of light move me across time; before an ancient portal, I step through into a garden oasis. Entering a child body, I breath in fragrance from a sea of flowered blooms; insects circle buzzing a symphony, a place of harmonized delight seemingly orchestrated for me. I follow the cool shade of green leaves along the curve of white walls. Wandering through plant mazes, I explore with small fingers, searching for a lost treasure.

I hear what I seek, a voice–it thrills, it glides along the silver stone floor inviting me to dance. It soothes; it stills the garden’s earthly chorus, nature in reverent silence listens to the tone. It lifts me to an embrace, holding with each note, it imprints in me a beautiful song.

Back in the room, I find the soul of the man who visits my ailing friend. His musical words sang to me through a corridor of spirit memory. His song radiated spirals of sky lights, mapping eons of our shared harmony.


The White Dome


On a high mountain, we visited the temple of the white dome.

First, green everywhere, rows of fruit trees, periodic turn-ins to old country stores, each one the same—rusting door hinges creak of old voices come and gone. Layers of concealing paint peeling away, showing crude structures. The wood porch, the bench, and on it the ancient native man as if carved from the same tree. The old one’s frozen stare fixes on me. He seems to see my grandmother’s blood—part of him. Does he think me a sign, a child of the lost tribe come home? How long will he sit in wait for signs?

I’ve traveled this road many times as a little child. Does he see me now as he did at first meeting, in mother’s arms with my raven hair? Did his blind stare see my hair change from black to yellow, then to red as I recapitulated then shed ancestral heritage?

Our people have broken nature’s trust, their man made structures falling in polluted dust. Forests of stone casinos replace the spirit ways. The sacred circle is broken, the native ways forgotten.

I stare back at the old one, I want to tell him the children of the fire circle have spiraled up—come with me to the cosmic temple that opens to the sky, where we can see to follow their light.

The road climbs in hairpin curves; just two of us follow it today. We are alone, not pushed by the daily rush, and we go slowly. At each turn we take in wider vistas, the lime green of the valley, hills thick with tree brush, the mountains tops covered with velvet green pines. Even the far silver sea sparkles on the distant horizon.

Mountain sun rays, gifted to us by the winter Gods, our hosts, light the temple’s white dome. At night the white spherical eye will open and gather the light from billions of suns clustered in galaxies 1000 millions light years in the deep.

Galaxies magnified, collapse the space between the eye and God—I’m through the telescopic star gate, my personal histories vanish as if mere hallucinations born from toxic earth fumes.

Far below toward the cities the blanket of earth-light hides the holy stars of endless space, but here the light is focused, clear. My visual leap extends beyond the dot of earth’s star, a faint radiance among his galactic brothers, and an invisible atom in our galactic trinity.

Back at the white dome, green everywhere, down through the trees, past far vistas, past the old native—the world is closer than before, yet more distant and strange. I see not only the trees of Earth, but the trees of many Earths. The clouds echo nebula from far off worlds; the vistas are mirrors of landscapes beyond our sun. I look through the blue sky and I know that beyond the cold of space is hidden the warmth of countless bright and living worlds.

One Man’s Pain


She feels pain and calls to the Gods, “why pain?”

She leaves the body, enters another, a perfect physical man. Godlike, blond curls frame his finely formed face. His eyes reflect light of a crystal blue Mediterranean Sea. He is ruler of all that surrounds this place.

Today he stands, self at the center of a circle of wise-men and asks, “Why do do I have pain.”

One who knows answers, “Because you love only because you are loved.”

Child Remembers Angel

Marva angel

Dark skinned from Indian blood running through me, here I am standing before a great river of cars–crossing guards having gone home–leaving this five year old to cross this treacherous river alone. A bus pulls across my path–miraculously becoming a rescuing chariot from heaven. The doors are opening, at the top of the stairs is an angel–from my story book–tall thin with a massive golden yellow crown of curly hair–she descends the cloud stairs–a marvel to behold. Descending her wings encased me–wings becoming hands–gently holding mine. Proud little me, a dark version of “Buster Brown”–in a dress–walking home with my very own golden angel. Together through the front door, into my bedroom, and beyond that another door–where my angel disappears into her magical place. While keyhole viewing her secret space, the entrance to the vestibule opened–looking upward toward her great height–smiling she gave me no fright–“Would you like to come in?” Marvelous icons before me–my eyes are reflecting pools of imaged visions–seeing the eighteen year old’s room only through veils of gossamer fairy wings. Pinned to the wall drawings of fashionable gowns, penned by her hand, become hieroglyphs of some sacred script, a moving machine that mysteriously spins her light and airy garments, infinite numbers of bottle and boxes filled with shining jewels and magical potions to enhance and adorn her beauty. So many years between us–forgetting so much, since her bright light lived around me. Only a few years passed when she flew away to paradise–not by her wings, but on a big metallic silver bird. Photo flashed images sent, capturing her in flower gardens a blooming, ocean waves, with smiles of glory. Hawaii must truly be the paradise where angels go.

By the Ocean

Between Two Worlds background sky water morph light

Today, while sitting on the ocean cliff looking at the far horizon, I thought how wonderful it would be if everyone had a view of a seemingly endless horizon. I know my ocean perspective is but a speck of the greater ocean, but below the surface I also know that a multitude of magnificent creatures live there. Like a child, I delight, as if seeing for the first time a seal gliding through the shallow waves or three dolphins bobing up and down in the surf.

 I died and was born this morning, again this afternoon, and again this evening. Let us think about each other as if we are seeing each other for the first time and treat as if we will be seeing each other as if for the last time.