Gratitude to the Japanese Garden

I met some boulders left by the glacier, terminal moraine they’re called.  I was flooded by Japanese memories of gardens I had known. I decided to bring a Japanese Garden to Durango, Colorado.  It would include a tea pavilion where folk could drink tea and admire the beauty of the coiffed trees and the stone placement.  There would be borrowed view of the mountains and a dry stream to suggest water.

I decided I didn’t have time to oversee that extensive a project.  Probably not enough energy to do that and to run the White Dragon Tearoom too.  So I let the Japanese Garden concept slip back to the place of good ideas.

I was hiking in the hills outside of town and I wandered into a natural Japanese Garden of stony outcrop and native trees.  This would be the prototype garden that  Japanese garden makers studied and duplicated in their gardens of restrained beauty. I sat and admired the perfect beauty and when i was done i faced North and took the view of the snow capped peaks of the La Plata Mountains.

In Japan and in America too, there are kilns known as anagama.  They are wood fired for days and they are usually built up a hill so that the chambers of the kiln have different environments and different results in the ash and fire and air finish of the contents.  The kiln glazes the pots.  The term in Japanese to describe this phenomena is YoHen.  I translate the word as the mind of the kiln.  A potter never knows what will come forth from the anagrama.  He can increase his likelihood of a specific result through trial and error and she never knows for sure.  I am thinking lately that the world is YoHen and I just have to stay around for the kiln opening and see what emerges.  Thunder/ Durango/ Wednesday/ March/Windy Day.


My Last Lover Was A Mountain Lion



                   My last lover was a Mountain Lion


I sat in the dirt on fourth cliff

Overlooking the valley

The lion came from behind

His teeth sunk into my neck

His paws, except for the claws which

Penetrated my chest and held me,

Resembled the embrace

Of a strong male friend


Everything I had feared

And desired

Flooded me at once.


He set to work I still alive

I waited for him to find

The sweet spot that once pierced

Would end brain patter or

Heart Beat. 


He took his sweet time

Tearing sinew and bone

Chewing each bite 100 times

Until I became the dearly departed &

My body became Lion.


The LOVE MASTER at the White Dragon Tearoom Valentine’s Day 2014

We were on pins and needles waiting for Romeo’s outfit to arrive in a timely fashion for Valentines Day.  And sure enough,the designer is a true pro as you can see from the photo image below of Romeo modeling the outfit he’ll be wearing on Friday.  Come pet him and give him a treat as he resides on his Love Throne and change your own Love Vibration forever.


The year of the Horse


I was born in the year of the Rooster and I have feathers and I get all farfuffled especially in relationship to the hen house, the chicken run, the hens, other roosters & knuckleheads  parking in my reserved parking space and those remedials who can’t change the toilet paper roll when needed.  However, this is the year of the horse, the Wood horse at that.  That means that earth, air, fire, metal etc. have each had their turn and now Wood is up.  And Horse is up too.


Before I could walk, this little rooster was placed on the back of a pony, which is actually a short version of a horse made for children.  I think in Mexico once I saw a rooster on a horse, which is a very mythical and attractive thing to see.


My father was a bronc’ rider and a cowboy at heart.   He used to read cowboy pulp fiction at night, clean his six shooter and dream of better times on the range, I imagine. He had a belt buckle the size of a saucer in silver plate which he had won for riding wild horses.


So I was raised with horses.  With the smell of horses and the feel of horses and their marvelous eyes. The slabs of muscle and those hooves which you do not want on your foot.  I wanted to stand on horses with a cape and be noticed which never happened.  Basically, I was left alone with horses for months on end and we had voiceless relationships at the ranch.  I set posts and I tended the horses and they threw food at me a couple times a month.  Thank god for the neighbor girl.


The year of the horse is big energy.  Energy to create and the fire element of this Horse is his horse heart.  For love, for glory, for the joy of the gallop.  We welcome the year of the horse at the White Dragon Tearoom.  You want to create this year…create.



Love is in the Air

Love is clearly in the air.  Jas and Quinn were in today and Quinn read a couple of Hafiz’ poems, of course about the vigor of love in organizing the universe and here is another one below.

The Butcher’s Wife’s Heart

Valentines 2014 for DD

The doctors wanted a closer look at her heart

She went to the hospital for the test,

A test like they do to observe the unborn,

Her heart instead.

Echo Cardiogram.

Name of the test for billing purposes

Sounds like a letter to or from the heart.

She asked her husband, the butcher, to go with.

Two sets of ears and eyes are better than one.

He couldn’t believe what he saw on the monitor

There was her heart undulating like something

Which lived beneath the sea

The valves, that’s what they had to be,

Moved like sting ray wings

They mystified him

Kept their committed rhythm

Delicate and strong.

Her heart was far simpler than he had

Imagined, nothing much to it at all


Especially those wispy valves.

He thought of all the hearts large and small

He had stilled with his knife and his tongue

He grimaced.  Had he only known their Magnificence? He’d done things worse

Than stopping a Fox heart in winter.

She had told him he was embedded

In her heart

He studied the screen

To find himself.

As hard as he looked he couldn’t see himself

Perhaps he was a ripple in the valves.

Or crouched in some rosy pulmonary chamber

Snoozing out of sight.

I can’t see myself there. He told her

You’re there she replied…embedded.

It must be on a different plain than

The seeing plain, he replied.

Perhaps you mean something Hindu.

He didn’t tell her that

He didn’t anymore care whether

He was embedded or not

Because  her heart was just Her Heart

So unutterably brave

Beating time after time

His new notion was awe not Narcissism

He had momentarily forgotten himself.

Lost track of his reflection

In the face of her heart he couldn’t

Find his own face

Dispersed in the broken surface of the stream.

Seeing inside her and seeing her heart

Was terrible

Too deeply intimate for humans

These matters should be secrets

Of some great religion, he thought.

Or for doctors in white coats

Certainly not available to the likes of him.

They should have a Holy Day of their own.

These matters of the heart

Should be reserved

For that day

Which celebrated

The heart and its faithful

Courage which entirely filled the hewn

Stone Cathedral with rosy wonder.