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November 27, 2022

When they ask where you have been, say you have been swimming 

in the River of Awe again—dropping skins to arrive here, 

to be bathed and reborn in this starlit current. 


Some of the most difficult work we will do in our lives—

is to retrieve joy from the clutches of bitterness.


There is a choice along the path—the many crossroads. 

Will the crucible of living soften you, or simply thicken the armor?  


In a recurring childhood dream—I stand at the edge of the sea—

watching a mountain of a wave surging towards me. In that moment, 

I know just how to turn my body inside out to create an opalescent shell.

So that when the wave crashes, I tumble unharmed in the wild foam. 


A teacher says to me, perhaps it is time to let go of that dream—

for now you know you are the sea itself. 


When the fierce visitor of dis-ease has come to reside in your own body, 

in your own mind-heart—you must learn how to receive 

the teachings and let the teacher go. It is only the raft 

to the other side of midnight. To the other side of the wounded self.


A revelation—to see that your story is not as personal as it all seems.

That the gods are not out to get you. Nor are they here to save you. 


It’s more elemental than that—this body a landscape where storms 

wash away entire canyons before the sun rises again over green shoots.

Yes, this map of you is rewritten over and over by these elements

that shape you, as they shape the mountain.


Go to the River of Awe and let the waters clear the pain 

of the small self. You may feel the disorientation of this—of unhooking 

from the familiar habit of you. And yet there you are emerging—

the light streaming off your skin. 


You were given this Oracle long ago. 

There is an Intimacy with life you are offered. 

It requires everything of you. 

Even the surrender of the story of the life 

you thought was yours to live.


©Laura Weaver



October 9, 2022

8,829 Basket Of Plums Stock Photos, Pictures & Royalty-Free ...

It’s erotic—my hands sifting through 

plum flesh for pits—the purple skins,

the golden juice like a fine wine—

this bowl overflowing. 


But wait, there is more to that story.

There is the moment when we stood

in the September dusk in the storm light—

four women laughing in awe at the miraculous

choreography of this evening—harvest moon,

late summer wind blowing through 

branches so laden with plums they fall 

off by the dozens into our open palms.


Gathering to harvest the way peoples

have always gathered when the year 

spins around to equinox again. Each 

to make our own version of plum jam—

the alchemy of this particular summer, 

where grief and beauty have been lovers.


This season where we have all lost someone

where we have sung river songs 

by the river and laid our bare bodies 

on warm rocks in the sun, finding the places 

where our mythologies weave, 

where we dream not only for ourselves

but for each other. 


Yes, this is the taste of a summer

that will be remembered in mid-winter—

carried in the essence of these plums—

this memory of bright stars and purple asters 

and the bears rumbling around 

gorging before they sleep. This moment 

of equal day and night, just before the sun

sun slants south to the honey of fall 

and then the crystalline thin light of winter. 


But wait, I am here, standing in the kitchen

my hands plunged into a bowl of pulp,

plums boiling on the stove with cardamom 

and cinnamon –thinking of 

all the ways we make love with life, 

all the exquisite ways we are offered 

to commune with the fruits of the world—

so freely given. So freely given.

©Laura Weaver


September 27, 2022

Standing in a trembling grove of aspen

tasting the fire in their release—

I see all the moments in my life

as shimmering leaves

on the Tree of Life. 


And I see how all of these moments—

even the ones I have prayed 

could stay—will turn to gold, 

speak their story, and fall 

back into this black earth. 


How I never could have never imagined

this face of mine after five decades—

the unique shape of this life of mine,

the particular harvest baskets I carry

full of the seeded grasses of childhood, 

the plums of love, the late summer 

blackberries of longing, the boughs 

of elderhood that beckon to me now.


We are travelers through a life 

that re-writes itself again and again, 

season after season, so we become 

unrecognizable even to ourselves. 

And as time passes, we become 

more intimate with all that is transitory—

resting in to the unknowable, 

all the urgent questions falling away,

become chaff for the next growing season.


So now there is only the bliss that arises 

from this particular quality of light—

the scent of these leaves, the silver crescent 

of moon in violet sky, the imprint 

of all we love, of all that loves us.


As evening comes, starlings murmurate –

spectacular oracles speaking 

in the language of wings and wind—

and I feel the autumn weaving 

its magic again on the loom of my being

for another round of seasons—


And this blessed weight 

of my harvest baskets 

filling and emptying 

and filling once again.

©Laura Weaver



September 22, 2022

Some days we fall to our knees

and pray for a new heart

that is free from the scars of this life.


For this ancient heart of ours

has been dragged around the wheel of time

behind the horse cart of suffering

for a few miles— or perhaps thousands!


There is our childhood of course—

this perfect wounding

that is passed between generations—

the pain we thought we should take on—

this pain that is not even ours.


Maybe there is even an existential

exhaustion we only notice

in the moments between sleep and waking—

an obsession with hand wringing

we can’t seem to turn away from.

It all seems so personal!


Just remember— We were warned!

Our hearts were made to break open~

It was in the contract we signed just before

we tumbled down the spirit ladder.

It was in the fine print we don’t ever read.


It said:

You will encounter the tumultuous winds 

of your unfathomable fears 

and the blooming 

of your own exquisite light.


You will feel abandoned, disappointed, betrayed.

You will be asked to forgive everything—

and most of all –your own luminous self. 


Your heart will break open—

and spill its mysterious treasures—

This is good news! 

Don’t try to stop it!


You may feel like you are on fire

with all that is awakening. 

You may feel you won’t make it 

to the other side.


But this is your heart—

and your heart was made 

to break open.


And as you pray at this altar

of your broken open heart—

you will find the handwritten note

you left yourself on the mirror

of eternity so long ago.


Note to Self:

You will have the chance

to be healed by Love.

Take it!

~Laura Weaver 

©Laura Weaver

God is the Crack

September 5, 2022

Between the towering red sandstone—

is the deep cut of the crack. And here,

the tree of life blooms –this wise juniper 

with gnarled trunk and serpentine roots.

She is older than memory –

and the wings of her branches drop 

blue-green berries into high desert soils—

an act of divine faith to put seeds down here.

Yes, god is the crack—god is the place 

life emerges—disruptive and outrageous.

Not the ordered heavens where all hums along 

in a temperature controlled starry glory.

But this storm—this rumble that trembles  

our bones, announcing its arrival—

this lightning that blazes through sky,

this precious rain on our upturned faces, 

leaving pools of water in hollows 

of lichen-streaked rock.


God is the crack. The way the down of the milkweed 

splits the husk, the way the egg shatters 

into furry body and untried wings. 

God is the way the rainbow of mushrooms

explodes out of earth after storm—

these fruits of the underworld 

that can you kill you or sustain you—

this living neural web that nourishes 

and transforms the forest. 


This life depends on rupture—

thrives in places where edges meet.  

And yet so often, we want to curl into the comfort 

of the static—as if this would save us 

from being part of everything

as if this would save us from the torrent 

of time carving us into new shapes 

we have never seen before.


God is the crack. It is the place where the gold 

lettering of your soul speaks its truth.  

The places where the bent and curvy dance, 

where the dandelion defies the concrete, 

where the mustard seed turns

a fallow field into a parable 

that would feed the world.  

~Laura Weaver 

©Laura Weaver


June 2, 2022

Because sometimes you are down and in 

the cauldron of transformation—

deep in the fertile darkness

where the underground waters flow—

and you feel you’ve been 

here for an eternity.


You’ve met your demons and angels.

You’ve unspun spells and curses—

and unraveled the beliefs

that kept you wedded to the past.

You’ve spit out  

the bitter poison 

of your own resentments.


The holy waters

of forgiveness have flowed through

and soothed the raw places

in your soul. You’ve let your love

out of all of the boxes—

and untethered your spirit

from the anchors of safety.


You have even seen 

the great shining sea

where your ancestors rode in

on their galloping horses

bringing gifts.

And now, you say, now 

you are ready

for the next chapter—


you are ready to arrive back

in the outer world 

back into the upper world

to return with the gifts 

from the fertile darkness.


You come to the gates, eager—

And yet still, the beloved turns you back. 

No darling, it’s not yet time—

there is more here.

Stay in this alchemical vessel, 

the good part is just beginning!


You put your ear to the ground. 

press your belly against the earth’s belly—

you, who are the cocoon whose 

butterfly cannot be rushed. 

And you realize it’s the very resistance

to being down and in,

the very attachment to the one of you

who lives in the shiny world 

that you are being asked to release. 


And you recognize the one of you 

who would come up and out 

of the belly of earth before 

you are fully cooked 

in these divine juices.


For no, it is not the old one of you 

who rises, Oh Lazarus. It is the one 

of you who is so much older than that. 

It is the one who remembers

the first instructions written

in your own bones. It is the one

who knows the codes~


It is the one who can turn 

all the lights on in the house—

not because you are afraid of the dark,

but because you have finally 

learned that this is not a waiting place

not a place to eternally endure—

but the sanctuary 

of the Holy One 

with 10,000 names.

~Laura Weaver

©Laura Weaver


May 22, 2022

I saw you in the sky yesterday—your wings 

spread out to the edges of eternity. 

It was as if you had forgotten 

your worn out ways–and the waves of joy 

shimmered in the late light on your feathers. 


But then, as I watched, you seemed to reach 

the edge of an invisible horizon-

the boundary of familiar territory.

Some tether pulled you back—as if some great 

distraction caught all of your attention. 


You wobbled in your flight—looked down,

and in that looking, plummeted to the ground 

where you began to peck at the same square 

of terrain you’ve pecked at for centuries—

pecking at all those places that hurt. There are 

a thousand holes in that well-trodden ground.

Don’t you think it’s gotten a bit obsessive? 


Perhaps there comes a time to leave it all alone, 

to unhook from those tethers of the mind, 

and send the mad logician home.

No more need to try so hard to relieve ourselves 

of the ache of being a single dancing body 

in a World Soul- or the body of the world 

dancing in a singular soul.


I saw you in the sky yesterday—your wings

spread out to the edges of eternity. And now, I will bring you 

the golden feather that dropped from your wing. 

I will remind you not to look back.

~Laura Weaver


April 18, 2022

Every year the king tides come

long and strong against the coastlines—

the full spring moon pushing behind

towering swells and sheets of spray. 


Something in me is drawn close—

closer than is safe. Something in me 

wants to take that wave inside me 

like a gong and let it wash away 

all the debris—to be filled with the sheer 

open roar of white noise. 


I think there are angels

who line the arcs of these waves—

there is a taste of heaven in this tide—

some lust for the shoreline

some promise of the mortal press, 

the union of water and land—

the hard and soft, this holy third thing 

that is created here—

a breath we long to breathe. 


Something in the sheer pounding force 

shows me there are powers far greater

than my small mind that seems to find

so many threads in the weave to pick at.  

For now the waters rush up the riverbeds 

that usually flow down to the sea—here, 

there is an insistence on the fluid forces

that reshape us, either little by little 

or in a flood, in widening gyres.


Yes, how the life we lived 

a decade ago is now a distant song—

a set of waves we catch glimpses of 

in dreams— poems from old lovers,

fireflies through windows, cedar and lilac 

on summer wind, fresh honey on the tongue— 

all these notes that plummet us 

into the cave of memory.

But this is not us anymore. 


We are like crustaceans who must leave 

one home for another or die—

and we are so vulnerable in between. 

And yet, this is what is here—

these moving shifting currents of time,

the blossoming faces of loved ones,

the strange unexpected mysteries 

that arrive at our doorsteps 

when we least expect them. 


And so I turn to the King Tides 

and say yes, take all the old versions

of me back to the sea— for I am ready 

for this new shape of myself—

the one who is riding in on this full moon, 

while the calla lilies bloom on river banks 

and owls cry the night open 

and the angels ride on the backs

of the King Tide to re-make us again. 

©Laura Weaver


April 15, 2022

Come to the dream temples

where the gods of healing live—

Where the snakes of our primal knowing

flow up from the center of the earth

where our own lungs are filled 

with the breath of Dreams 

that show us the way 

our center is connected 

to the navel of the world.


Incubate a dream ~

call it to you with your attention 

let your body become the vessel 

for the Great Dreamer

who casts a net into the stars 

to catch the one golden fish 

that will speak the language 

of our soul, our own particular myth. 


For though in these times 

so much seems impossible— 

the reach of the Dreamer 

is infinite. And as day dreams 

and night dreams weave their tapestry—

we see that all that is falling away, 

all that is breaking down at the end

of empire is becoming

the fertile soil of the garden.


It is so easy to give up. 

It is so easy to have blind hope. 

But what is awakening

is some deeper medicine—

the way under the cities you can 

feel the river of fire running.      

The way underneath the structures 

of modernity you can hear

the web of roots speaking.

The way you can see 

the bonfires of the future lit

on the shores of this now. 


Come to the Dream Temples.

Incubate a Dream for the great waves

of generations to come. See them 

flowing out from this birthplace—

right here, from this pregnant moment.


Meeting Eros

April 3, 2022

Because after the snow and the rain

the redwing blackbird trills in the cattails

and the song of the inner life is born again. 

And from out of our dark caves

we stumble and call to each other 

wondering what has been transformed

in the winter months and who will now emerge. 

We are like bears bounding 

out of the mountain, slightly bewildered

blinking in the bright new light,

ravenous for the world. 


This is eros unleashed—

the seduction of apple blossoms –

petals raining on wet fertile earth,

hummingbirds unzipping the cerulean sky,

the glint of streamflow and bare skin.

How the full moon pours Maylight 

upon our upturned faces, 

and the breezes carry the scent of longing 

and melancholy, lilac and the spice

of all that is greening. 


We have died a thousand times 

and been reborn for this.

To lie back, even for a moment,

into the arms of the world—

to meet eros in every turn –

to be courted by you who stirs

the inner waters and tears apart

the old husks. Yes, you 

who makes us want to eat fire

and lay down in every meadow.


We have been waiting for your arrival

and now you are here,

no longer a Stranger, but a Storm–

you, who strikes the bell of awakening, 

so the whole body rings out 

with Delight.


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