The Mystic

The blood of channels of ages

of ancient mad philosophers

waking at dawn,

resting bare feet

upon the face of Mother Earth,

staring in wondrous awe

to a skyline that speaks

of truth and wisdom.

Whispers of the velvet night,

and the newborn dawn,

sing in hushed angelic choirs,

comforting the spirit,

guiding the traveler,

like lanterns held high

in the searing desert sand,

telling the mind, body and soul,

to keep

moving

onward.

The well is not far,

dear friend,

and it is deep. 

The moss covered stones

have secrets

for you.

Step lightly,

in reverence,

drink of only

what is required

to sustain your spirit,

for there are others

following your tracks,

even if hidden

by the wailing wind.

They follow your scent,

like fireside smoke

spiraling,

above this dying world.

Rejoice,

for you are blessed

with the knowing

that existence is eternal,

and that this life 

is but

a dream. 

words & photography © Susan Marie 

starshower

in the spaces
between us,
the cracks
and crevices
of time -

the evolution
of the Earth,
spinning
on its Axis,

the tear
the smile,

the cirrus wonders,
and celestial star-showers,

the words spoken
in haste,
and ones never
uttered,

the listless breaths
caught in passion,
and released
through lips
full,

in the shine
of heaven,
and the tarnish of hell,

in between,
the light and dark
shadows of our souls,

are merely
- cracks -
like lines on palms,
- direction -

- the middle of the road -

connecting me
to you,
and us,

to
everything

 
that
is.

words & photo © Susan Marie 

Metallic Gold, an Artist, a Friar and a Marine

For me, there is no death, there is only life.

Places of burial are sacred to me. They provide me with immense peace. I am at home standing upon the thin line between worlds I wholeheartedly walk into. It is natural for me to be among the departed.

Spiritual weight I am used to. I am an ultra-extra sensitive empath, medium, energy and body worker and all around practitioner of the healing arts as a whole, so I kind of have no choice in that matter and accept spiritual matters humbly and with reverence.

Boundaries are crucial. What is disturbing is when others, beyond your control, overstep the boundaries you have carefully honed for yourself as you bled through life when you step away from the calm serenity of the world you created and into society. 

Not all society, mind you, but most of it. That kind of suffering is beyond my control and I am exhausted from having to deal with it. Alas, this is how the world currently works. I stay away from it as much as possible, yet we must exist within both worlds, simultaneously at times.

Jean-Paul Sarte penned my state of being nicely in Being and Nothingness:

"Sartre contends that human existence is a conundrum whereby each of us exists, for as long as we live, within an overall condition of nothingness (no thing ness)—that ultimately allows for free consciousness. But simultaneously, within our being (in the physical world), we are constrained to make continuous, conscious choices."

No kidding. Not an easy thing to do.

Upon waking, I wished to get deep into the woods, my ultimate grounder. Instead, I was diverted to a cemetery to visit my Father on Memorial Day. The need to go there was so intense. Magnets pulled me there.

Driving, I turn down an old walking path, one not meant for driving, yet I drive down it anyhow. I entered a part of the cemetery where the sun rarely shines. On this day, it did.

Directly before us were rows upon rows of trees. 

I put the Jeep in park, got out and knelt down on one knee on that path. I crouched down low and listened to the birds singing, to the hum-buzz of the dead, living. The wind whipped my hair around my face and in that moment, I was fully awake and alive staring up and into trees.

Kneeling down in awe to those before me on this strange Earth, I knew then why I was guided to this healing place.

My son and Mother were with me. It is always only the three of us visiting my Father and my Uncle. They are side by side, yet passed 15 years apart.

My son diligently dressed up my Father's military memorial stone. I was only 15 when he passed so the gold faded to grey. My son, the artist, on his knees in the grass, painted over each letter and scroll, in shiny metallic gold, matching exactly how that stone was the day my Father left this plane.

Next to my Dad is my Uncle. The Franciscan Friar. He never fully took that oath publicly, spiritually, yes. I tore away the overgrown grass, the three of us worked in the sunshine, a perfect day, soaking up the energy of this dear Earth. We cleaned the stones, polished them, and placed flowers and memorials by each.

As we worked, silently, the birds, squirrels and wind sang to us. The beauty of nature, existence itself, rumbled within and around all of us. Freely, open and accepting of all that is, the three of us understood that we were in another world, standing and praying on holy ground.

I knelt before a most divine tree and took several shots of her upturned arms reaching towards heaven. I placed my right palm lightly upon her ancient skin letting her know that it is safe, that I am here in reverence. Then I turned my chin upward and saw dozens of emerald tops of sainted holy heads, all standing in lines, like soldiers. 

On Memorial Day. 

At that exact moment, my son yelled out, "Mom! Look!"

Two massive, majestic hawks flew over all three of our heads. The wingspans were immense. They circled back and forth, like fighter pilots, several times, painting the sky, and our lives, with blessings personal to each of us. They continued to circle until we left each graveside.

There are no coincidences.

I inhaled deeply, my hair dancing with the breeze, and looked all around me. My blood, my bones, my very soul, all of me - on fire - with the absolute aliveness of nature and the spirits that guide me on this well worn path.

They told me to keep going and that everything will be fine. They told me I am loved and watched over. They told me not to worry so much. They told me that life, dear soul, life is good. They told me that they will help me grow into the woman I am yet to become.

Struck

On Soundcloud 

thunder
struck -
barren and stark,
against the
full moon,
howling.

a tree branch
cracked -
and I felt my heart
snap -

and my hands
shook,
worn and lined
from years of spilling my soul,
on pages
upon pages
of ink,
that turned to blood.

and you,
you, oh my dear soul,
how your silence speaks
louder than the mightiest maelstrom
and I,
my wings, white,
mourning.

I set my body
to fire -
blazing like lightning
that struck
once,
my breath
the wind,
my hair
the grass,
my eyes
cloudbursts,
my arms
rushes and reeds,
my blood,
crimson bursts
of buds that bloomed,
and my smile -
the sunburst,
that once did give sight
to your now blinded eyes.

you would not recognize me
as I do not, you
for I am taller
than the mightiest oak -
my limbs reach
through the dirt and earth,
to crevices and fault-lines
that can hold this planet together
or break it,
apart.

and you,
you once held me dear,
so dear,
oh so utterly dear,
and now -

you are a rock,
stuck in mud,
not moving,
gathering moss,

and I peer down low
and kneel,
in holy prayer,
and pick you up
once,
in my palms,
so utterly precious -

and throw you

as far as my soul
can see.

photo and words © Susan Marie