Things seem to get better with age

“Just because something is old and used doesn’t mean you have to go out and replace it with a new one.” — Sodaiho Harvey Hilbert

When I was in graduate school I joined an order of Zen Buddhist practitioners who gathered twice annually in the snow-covered mountains of New Mexico for a silent meditation retreat. Our beloved abbot, a PhD professor at the university, guided the retreat and gave the kind of wisdom-laden, spiritual “dharma” talks that had us all sitting with straight backs on the edges of our buckwheat-filled zazen cushions, eager students wanting to be filled to the brim with new insight and green tea on Japanese style trays.

I must have been ready to hear what my Zen master had to teach, because over a decade later, his wisdom-filled words still resonate like the sound of the metal gong that is struck throughout the day to signal a shift in attention.

My master was a perfect one for my twenty-something body, as I was (and still am, to some degree), an avid runner. During my graduate school days, I didn’t feel quite right unless I ran at least 3 miles daily. In keeping with Zen Buddhist teachings, this of course could not remain permanent in my now 40-something-year-old body, though I have managed to live up to my master’s behest: “Decades from now,” he said to me, “I want you to come back to this monastery and do yoga on my porch.”

(I couldn’t respond to him at the time, because we were in a silent retreat). Let’s just say his words made a deep impression on me, and I wished very much to live up to it.

Sodaiho had us all running together for miles and competing in regional competitions where we sported our Zen-consciousness t-shirts that said “Stillness in Motion”. He cheered us on at the finish line because he always finished first, to our amazement. We were proud to be his students, and I’m sure he inspired me to keep striving for … well, come to think of it, nothing.

I mean, that was the whole point of running. To be in a state of motion without getting anywhere at all. To realize that the finish line was no different than each footfall during the race to nowhere. To be here… now.

So, I suppose that’s why I still go jogging years later, to practice stillness in motion, which is why I keep practicing yoga postures. It’s all a metaphor for life. No matter what the circumstances, don’t identify with your posture (attitudes, beliefs, opinions) and definitely don’t expect it to stay the same forever. (Have you ever been in a headstand posture before?)

Things change. They break, fall apart, go away, reappear, and get repaired. People. Things. Relationships. Jobs. Every. Thing. Changes. Constantly.

This morning, by the end of my jog, I discovered that my running shoes had worn out completely. I jogged the rest of the way home with my toes sticking out, socks getting soggy in the puddles. I smiled and remembered Sodaiho’s wise words during our retreat: “Just because something gets old doesn’t mean you have to go out and replace it with a new one.”

I’ve been using the same pair of old sneakers for 5 years and I’ve literally run them into the ground. I think they’re beyond repair. But I held onto them and used them until I couldn’t anymore. Why replace them with a shinier, newer brand? Like wine and cheese, most things seem to get better with age.

I’m learning to consider how this teaching applies to my significant relationships. I might be better at keeping sneakers than partners. I think that’s worth some deeper introspection. I’ve been discussing this with my neighbor, a wise and respected elder in my community. He’s taught me things that are more valuable than all the gold in the world.

In the folly of our youthfulness, we can forget the value of spending time with our elders, listening to their wisdom. When we know it all, pride could prevent us from appreciating the good that comes with age and experience.

This post is dedicated to my teacher, Sodaiho. (It’s because of you that my running shoes got so worn out). I’m still practicing. What else is there to do?

Call me crazy (I don’t care): I consider it a compliment

“It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.” —Krishnamurti

I’m not mentally handicapped and no one has declared me to be mentally ill, though I’ve been evaluated by licensed professionals. My accolades, among other accomplishments of merit, would indicate that I’m highly intelligent: I was valedictorian of both my high school and college class, which means that I graduated with the highest academic achievements of my classes and delivered the valedictory speech at my graduation ceremonies. I’ve written and published over a dozen books.

I’d like to think that my intelligence would port over into all aspects of my life, including relationships, but history would demonstrate that I’ve fallen short in that area. I suppose that’s one reason I’m still alive: I have more opportunities to learn and grow, at least in terms of relationships. But then, I know a lot of smart people who are challenged in relating well to others, probably because our brains have the capacity to entertain, ponder and originate far more ideas, concepts and theories than most other people. For those of us whose minds are firing at the speed of light, we typically don’t relate well to others.

Consider the bell curve. For those on the far end of the spectrum, we are fewer in number. We prefer to spend time alone. We tend to isolate ourselves. We are geniuses. Prodigies. Anomalies.

Like autistic people, we can’t help but express—sometimes nonverbally—what we are actually seeing, thinking and feeling. Everyday social interactions become uninteresting and difficult, because most people can’t seem to get beyond superficialities. We tend to relate better to animals and nature.

As a highly intelligent woman who speaks her mind and follows her heart, I’ve been accused of being “crazy” on numerous occasions by people who are not worthy of mention here. I take no offense, because I know that the designation “crazy” bears no real meaning: “Crazy” is a label that is often slapped onto people, especially women, whose ideas, behavior and/or actions stray from the norm. Again, consider the bell curve. For women on the far end of the spectrum, we are fewer in number. We end up alone because there are fewer men who make suitable matches, and we prefer not to compromise. Our standards are … higher than most.

When a woman is considered to be “crazy”, it is most likely due to the fact that she challenges and therefore compels others to question reality. She is courageous enough to examine her assumptions, therefore inciting others to do the same. Willingness to look more profoundly and honestly at oneself and the world inevitably makes one more accountable to self and others. Women, in general, possess the uncanny ability to intuitively “know” things that are beyond the purview of most men. It’s something we do because we nurture life. We are in tune with the cycles of nature.

Women understand the cycles of life more naturally than men, while men often try to control and dominate the natural cycles. Women know this isn’t possible, so we gracefully and graciously stand aside while the men run around asserting themselves, to no effect. Look where it’s gotten us.

When a woman is labelled “crazy”, it’s probably because she doesn’t accept things the way they are…. She probably misbehaves and gets called a “bad girl”… She doesn’t politely say “yes” and follow directions like an automaton. She is probably stubborn, strong-willed and unwilling to accept the status quo. A lot of people probably don’t like her. In the past, she was burned at the stake, whereas in modern times, she gets unfriended on Facebook and smeared on social media.

I know, because I am one of these women. I don’t know whether or not I’d prefer not to be one of these women.

In a patriarchal society marked by gender inequality, men seem to assume that they are in control and pretend to dominate nature. When outspoken women like me take a stand—regardless of how eloquent or compelling our verbal expression—it’s common for us highly intelligent women to be labelled “crazy”, especially those of us who are change-makers: Our words and actions challenge the sociopolitical norms. Women who catalyze change in a patriarchal society will inevitably be vilified, ostracized or, at worst, killed by the sociopathic patriarchy.

It’s been happening for centuries. Consider the Middle Ages. The Salem witchcraft trials. The classic novel, The Scarlet Letter. Women who push the envelope often end up pushed overboard, burned at the stake, or sliced into pieces and buried.

Like the elephant tied to a rope on a stake, perhaps we women have gotten so used to it that we don’t realize we have the strength to break free. For some of us, we’ve given up. We’ve stopped making waves. We’ve gone into hiding. We probably cry a lot. We’re probably accused of being “overly emotional”…. Here, I’d like to reiterate the masterful Krishnamurti’s incisive observation on this topic:

“It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.”

Do I need to convince my readers how and why our society has become profoundly sick? I think not. I surmise that the latest news media can make the case convincingly enough without further commentary. This, incidentally, is why I live the way I do.

I practice “non-participation”, at least politically speaking. I don’t bother keeping up with the news. I make my own news. Every day.

I believe that I make a powerful statement by living the way I do and being who I am.

Since I am living within a profoundly sick society replete with sociopaths all over the world, I realize and accept that I could die any day, at any moment. I could be intentionally or inadvertently killed by a wild animal or, more likely, a member of my own species.

I am proud to be “overly emotional”…. I make a sincere effort to cry and wail as often as possible: Not only is it cathartic, but I believe that it is spiritually uplifting and therefore necessary for anyone who wishes to be honest with themselves about who they are, especially living within a profoundly sick society. Most people can’t handle a woman wailing. It’s easier to simply call her “crazy”… when in actuality, she is the sanest one of all for shedding heartfelt tears.

We women have good reasons to cry and wail. We need to. We ought to. We must express our heartfelt emotion and not suppress our emotion. Perhaps this would serve men, too, but in order to do so, men would need to overcome significant social constructs that limit men from being openly vulnerable and emotionally expressive. Here, I digress.

Proverbially speaking, I wear my heart on my sleeve. I’m honest with myself and therefore I make it possible for other people to be honest with me and maybe with themselves too.

It appears to be my role to hold myself and others accountable to their actions—actions that they otherwise wouldn’t be accountable to, were it not for their happenstance interactions with me. Consider my history: I have played a pivotal role in landing five men in jail and having two men reported to the local police and/or FBI for their unlawful activities. Over the course of my life, I’ve noticed that when people get close to me, whether physically or emotionally, I catalyze some kind of transformation for them, whether it be physical, emotional, mental, and/or spiritual. I suppose it has something to do with my role as what could be called a “healer”: I fervently hold a clear intention, which I put out to the universe in prayer every morning, to be of utmost service to my fellow humans and to myself.

I remind myself of the female protagonist in Terry Goodkind’s fantasy novel, Wizard’s First Rule. “The Confessor” is the woman from whom anyone can receive redemption by revealing and confessing their most egregious sins. I don’t claim to be a “confessor”, though my history would demonstrate that I’ve played a similar role in the lives of people too numerous to keep count. When I interact with people to any significant degree, I always manage to be some sort of influence in making them accountable to themselves and to the world. I’d like to think this means that I hold myself accountable, but I’m not certain. I think I’m still learning.

An experienced Mayan astrologer once explained to me that my day and time of birth designates me as “Toj”, which means that I am instrumental in rebalancing what would otherwise remain imbalanced. This implies that wherever I show up, everyone’s dirty laundry is bound to come to the surface, be scrubbed clean and aired out. Including my own transgressions. It’s not an easy or envious job, and it’s certainly not glamorous.

Over the years, I’ve discovered that I seem to have no choice in the matter. I catalyze transformation, wherever I go, no matter how hard I try not to. It just … happens. It makes for challenging relationships. It’s an unpopular role. Who wants to hang out with the lady who makes you confess your most embarrassing sins? It’s a lonely job, but I suppose somebody’s got to do it. Apparently, somewhere along the way, I volunteered for the job. Since it appears I have no choice in the matter, I might as well make the most of it.

My friend, a fellow therapist, once described her perception of me thus: “You are challenging. You bring stuff up.”

What I assume she meant by this comment is that I have a way of bringing hidden “stuff” to the surface to be looked at. Examined. Questioned. Transformed into something different. I incite change. I know others who seem to do the same, though we are few in number, and we’re not sought out for Saturday night parties. After all, we’re… challenging.

I’m proud of who I am, but, as I’ve already mentioned, it’s not an easy job. I need breaks, which is why I prefer solitude and remote places surrounded by nature. In isolation, I can turn my shit-stirring penchant inward and focus on myself. But in due time, I need other people to act as my mirror. After all, they’re all me, anyway. Where do I end and you begin? If I can see it in you, then I must have it somewhere inside of myself. Ultimately, I’m responsible for myself, which implies that I am responsible for everything I experience, including whatever I observe in others.

I once related these insights to a dear friend of mine who is the author of a historical romance in which the goddess-like female protagonist is imbued with superhuman powers of intuition, beauty, and far-reaching influence.

“I keep sending guys to court and putting them in jail,” I told him, expressing my dismay.

He replied, tongue-in-cheek, “Callin’ court, Queenie?” referring to what he perceives as my “larger-than-self” role as an empowered woman, holding men accountable to their actions within an otherwise imbalanced, patriarchal society. The Confessor.

It’s no wonder that many men—and women who side with them—would prefer to call me “crazy”: It’s easier to invalidate the person who is holding up the mirror than it is to take a good, long, honest look. I know, because I’m guilty of it, too. I confess. And I don’t need a priest to make my confession. I confess of my own accord, within my own heart, which I believe is precisely what “The Confessor” character symbolizes: She is the goddess within all of us; the unconditionally loving female who listens, nurtures and loves us, no matter what. We all need a good dose of her medicine on a daily basis.

I suppose I am capable of offering this kind of medicine, to the extent I’m empowered to do so, with specific people under specific circumstances. I’ve put out my proverbial shingle to wit, and it appears that the universe colludes to support me in my intention to be available as a catalyst for peoples’ inner and outer transformation. My client testimonials speak for themselves.

I don’t say this to boast; on the contrary, I point this out as a testament to my own courageous journey, which has taken me deep down into my own rabbit hole, through countless wormholes, up into nameless galaxies, and back down again, where I must integrate all I’ve learned along the way. And I keep learning.

Call me crazy; I don’t care. I consider it a compliment. In a society gone terribly awry, I am proud to be an anomaly.

In addition to holding a Master of Arts in Education, I am a Licensed, Certified Massage Therapist with over 1,000 hours of formal training and years of experience. Over the past twenty years of my professional practice, I have seen thousands of clients, most of whom I’ve had the privilege to impact in a significant way beyond the physical. As soon as I placed my hands on one client’s shoulders, she sighed and remarked, “My God, you have such a healing touch. Where does that come from? What is that?”

I appreciated her forthright, sincere feedback.

Without thinking, my first reply was, “Well, I don’t know. If I knew, I don’t think I’d be able to do whatever it is you’re feeling.”

A hollow reed. An empty vessel. I’m just a channel.

I prefer to stay out of my own way. I just… show up and breathe. I just… am who I am, like it or not.

 

On a daily basis, starting with my 4:00 AM meditation, I attempt to examine, observe and empower myself through personal, transformational practices that I believe have served to engender a tremendous amount of inner strength and willpower. The long-term effect is that my influence on the world seems to be… impactful.

I conscientiously and deliberately swim against the stream. I do so because I don’t want to be well adjusted to a society that I believe has gone terribly awry. For me, my spiritual life is purposeful. Practical. Powerful. In my case, a lifesaver.

I consider myself a strong-willed, successful, highly intelligent woman who’s accomplished mostly everything I want to in this lifetime, except for publishing my novel and living in a house of my own, the latter of which appears to be imminent, once I nail together a ladder to climb upstairs into my bedroom loft.

My curriculum vitae attest to the fact that I’m highly intelligent. Even so, in the past twenty years of my adult life, I’ve been accused of not only being crazy, but being mentally ill and generally being ostracized because of how I think differently than most people, and I seem to have the capacity to strongly influence the people around me on an energetic and spiritual level, thereby challenging myself and others.

I’ve given up on being well liked. I’m okay with not fitting in anywhere. I seem to fit in more with the howler monkeys in the tropical jungle than with most humans. I realize that it comes with the territory. I’ve grown to be comfortable with solitude. I’ve actually grown to love and appreciate myself far more than I used to. I accept my role as a change agent. I own my power and I wield it as responsibly as possible. I’ve failed in the past, but hopefully I’ve learned.

I courageously ask myself, “Who am I” and “Why am I here?” as often as possible. I believe that these questions are becoming especially relevant and urgent, not only for myself, but for humanity as a whole: Who am I? Why am I here? What am I here to do, and why?

It appears most people would prefer not to ask these uncomfortable questions; at the very least, most people avoid or deflect them with any one of the myriad distractions available in our modern society.

As for society, I suppose you could say I’ve dropped out. I’ve become somewhat of a recluse, though I still welcome the opportunity to engage with people, as long as they are prepared for the highly probable outcome that something significant will change as a result of our interaction. It’s my honor to play this role.

I’m proud of who I am.

Call me crazy; I don’t care. I consider it a compliment.

Safe

sunrise float in calm sea

Immersed into warm saltwater

The calm sea at sunrise

 

Lie back

Inhale deeply

Chest rises

Torso floats

Legs follow

 

Breath held

Body suspended

Weightless

Head tilted back

Eyes closed

 

Surrendered to stillness

I am safe here, held

I feel you

 

Exhale fully

Breath releases

Head lifts

Chest lowers

Folding at the hips

Legs sink slowly

Feet touch the sand

 

Inhale again 

Chest rises

Torso floats

Feet rise up

Legs follow

 

Breath held

Body suspended

Weightless

Head tilted back

Eyes closed

 

Surrendered to stillness

I am safe here, held

I feel you

Preacher Man

girls at church service

He came all the way

from Orlando to Belize

to preach the word of God

 

A young black man

tall and handsome

I could have made it to the NBA

 

When I heard the call of God

I gave up basketball

I started preaching and never looked back

 

Four years now

I travel the world

I’ll go anywhere God calls me to go

 

It’s my career now

I read and study the bible

at least three hours a day

 

I internalize the Word of God

It’s a living gospel

God tells me exactly what to preach

 

I want to move something

In people, especially the young adults

The young people need guidance

 

Sometimes I plan ahead

and I write my sermon

But sometimes, right in the moment

 

God just talks through me

 

 

Princess

 

princess feetEvery little girl

dreams of being a princess

treasured, adored

 

Then she grows up 

She forgets to dream

 

She searches for a prince

to remind her

 

Then she remembers

I am a princess

 

And she knows

She is beautiful

 

Beheld

Beloved

by God

 

Ablaze: A personal story of igniting my heart aflame

cover-tinted red

My second poetry collection, Ablaze, sheds an honest light on my raging desire and passion to consummate the dream that beckoned me to abandon my home and blaze a new trail here in Central America, amongst rural villagers in isolated tropical jungles, amidst a backdrop of ancient cultures enriched by traditional customs for which I have deep respect. Having been forged in the fire of my heart’s desire, I am now faced with the opportunity to make choices that could determine the course of my life for many years.

Parama sitting on couchThe flames are burning bright, and I cannot escape the heat.

Five years ago, before I first arrived in Belize, Central America (a tiny country just south of Mexico), I was living and working as a schoolteacher in the U.S., when I had a vivid dream in which my Buddhist master teacher, Geshe Michael, appeared to me and told me that it was time for me to leave my home country, that it was okay to go… “The same thing happened to me,” he declared in the dream, while I extended my hand to touch a slow-motion panorama of tropical plants, flowers, and coconuts….

When I woke up, I recalled the dream as if it had really happened, and I was emboldened: I resigned from my job, booked a plane ticket, and packed my bags. Waiting in the airport, I earnestly prayed and (heard God?) tell me, “You will almost die down there. But you will be saved. I am with you.” … While this may seem crazy to my readers, perhaps it is worth mentioning that I seem to be endowed with a gift of clairvoyance, whatever that means. I honestly can’t explain it, at least not scientifically. I don’t know whether to consider it a blessing or a quirky talent that comes from a rare genetic mutation… or both.

bird of paradise flowerForewarned by the somewhat alarming message that my life would be endangered, I forged ahead nonetheless, bolstered by the support of the man who was then my husband, mutually inspired by our shared vision to purchase a small parcel of fertile land in a rural area where we would build a small-scale permaculture farm and develop a vocational education center for the benefit of our local community.

In the U.S., I had established over ten years of a successful career in special education as a consultant in public and private schools; in addition to earning certification and practicing professionally as a Licensed Massage Therapist and yoga teacher. I earned a Master of Arts in Education and gained a wide range of experience working with children and adults who were diagnosed with developmental and learning disabilities. I enjoyed working in the field of education, but I felt deep dissatisfaction with what I deemed to be a restrictive, top-down model that limited my creativity and freedom to design my own curriculum.

Parama w studentsI became disillusioned with the public school system in the U.S. and envisioned an innovative approach that involved outdoor, experiential education on an organic farm. I wrote and published my first two books that became bestsellers in experimental methods in education. When my husband suggested that we move to Central America and purchase land for our own school, I was forced to choose: Do I stay with what is familiar, or do I take the risk of trying something completely new? . . .

I chose to leave behind the security and convenience of my comfortable, middle-class life in the U.S. I took my innovative ideas with me on the road – south of the border. As I was about to expose myself to an entirely new life in a foreign country, I felt a high degree of anxiety mixed with a deep inner conviction that I was doing the right thing, and everything would work out, somehow, eventually….

Parama hugging tree at Palenque copy

We arrived in Punta Gorda, a small agricultural and fishing town in Southern Belize, Central America, surrounded by Mayan villages and ancient cultural ruins. Instead of falling into the typical tourist routes, we … blazed our own trail. We immediately focused on establishing community liaisons and connecting with local people who were living the way we had envisioned: off-grid with minimal resource consumption and growing food on their own land.

Parama harvesting bamboo copyFinanced by our own meager savings, my partner and I knew that we needed to secure an ongoing income to support ourselves. We discovered that we could work locally as English teachers, earning a small but adequate salary. We traveled and found temporary work assignments in Guatemala, where we lived and volunteered on an organic farm while simultaneously purchasing one acre of our own land in Punta Gorda, Belize, beside other neighbors who shared our passion.

At that time, I did not expect that I would soon end up alone, following through on our project, after my partner became too ill to continue living in Central America. After many months of trying the best I could to help him recover, I determined that he required specialized therapy which was unavailable in Central America – impoverished, third-world countries with limited infrastructure and resources. He refused to seek adequate treatment and suddenly left me while we were living in the mountainous region of Chiapas, the southernmost district of Mexico.

sunset at Kiki's copy

Heartbroken, devastated and discouraged, I almost returned to the U.S. and my previous career as a schoolteacher. Instead, I chose to make Central America my new home and community. I resolved that I would continue what we’d started, because I did not want to let anything derail me from realizing my dreams….

Parama at KikimundoNow a young, single woman in a somewhat dire situation, I had unintentionally become a “woman at risk” and found myself desperately seeking a means to support myself while living in the third world, where job opportunities are limited and rarely offer any benefits beyond a small wage.

My persistence allowed me to support myself by establishing friendships within my local community as well as creating my own work opportunities wherever I traveled, looking for safety and security while still recovering from the loss of my partner’s companionship.

I discovered the importance of resourcefulness in order to survive as a single woman in Central America. Looking back, I realize how much courage and persistence it took for me at the time to continue seeking and finding opportunities, and now I can honestly claim that I am grateful to my beloved former partner for leaving me with no choice but to dig deep within myself to find my inner strength (Thank you!)…. While I wrote and published a series of books, I worked in many different communities as a massage therapist, yoga instructor, English teacher, and house-sitter. I lived for periods of time with host families in Mexico, Guatemala, and Belize. This proved to be an extremely challenging opportunity to grow and learn while immersing myself in the various cultural traditions of Central America.

door colorful copyEven though I do have the privilege of a broad educational background and qualifications, I learned first-hand what it must be like for local women who have little or no formal education to become caught in a “cycle of poverty”, to be taken advantage of, and, unfortunately, to be abused. Although I could speak fluent Spanish and interact with the locals in the marketplace and at work, I experienced many incidences in which local men, seeing that I was vulnerable and traveling alone, tried to take advantage of me in different ways.

I gained a deeper understanding for how “at-risk women” find themselves in precarious situations where they are endangered and oppressed. In spite of many dangers and challenges, I persisted and continued to pursue my dreams, relying on my own skills, faith, as well as the help and support of caring friends, near and far.

Parama crouching at pyramid copyYears later, I am proud to have stayed true to my own heart, despite countless moments in which I just wanted to give up. Now, I want to believe that I am “living my dream”…. Yet, something feels incomplete, like there is some surprise waiting right around the corner for me, if I could only muster the courage to be vulnerable and open my heart, even as it still heals from the pain of my past….

Since I arrived in Central America five years ago, I’ve been an intrepid solo traveler, exploring and living alone in many different places in Belize, Mexico, and Guatemala. I’ve learned a lot about myself and discovered my own inner strength….

Like the “locals”, I have worked hard and saved up enough money to recently break ground on the construction of my new home – an off-grid, thatch roof hut (in process!) – on my one acre of land in southern Belize, where I would like to expand my infrastructure and… eventually… open an innovative school and community center for the locals.

Parama's house

For many years I have persistently held the intention for The Farm School project in Central America to help women achieve their dreams and goals, whether they are single, have intact families, or are struggling, single mothers. The Farm School is a vocational, experiential training center that promotes health and wellness within the local community, especially for women, while supporting them to become more self-sufficient by learning practical skills.

Butterflies training copy

My heart burns with raging passion to create something that has never been done before. I hold fast to my vision to help at-risk women in need of support, encouragement, and opportunities to make their own dreams come true. Yet, I perceive that I have arrived at a crossroads. My vision may need to take shape in a different form, for now…. I wait and wonder and marvel at the mystery of the fire.

sunrise in AntiguaFive years later, after countless adventures, meeting new and interesting people along the way, nearly dying at the hands of those who would wish to do me harm, I have survived many dangers, overcome personal challenges, and learned what it means to be a warrior dedicated to a mission that can only come from touching the flames of burning passion within one’s heart, enlivened and inspired every day to keep blazing the trail….

Fire must be fed to stay alive. The strength of the flame is derived from a dynamic interplay of elements. Passion can be recognized and shared between two people who are uncontrollably drawn toward one another in a mutual desire to burn in the conflagration of hearts united and ignited. The flames burn and rage, transforming the landscape of the heart, regenerating the soil, making it fertile ground for new growth.

Please click here to download my second poetry collection, Ablaze