Tibet 1995: We Are Strands Married In The Web of Life

My friends and I climbed all day
to reach the summit ...
where the unseen air
moves the prayer flags
in a dance
that joins the infinite
with the finite -
the visible world
with the invisible realms ...
beyond perception.

I sit on a large rock face
overlooking the world.

Out of the palm of my hand
I extract the splinters
I gathered
spinning the circular frame
of the prayer wheel
over zealously
this morning.

It was my attempt
to turn the wheel,
overturn the central axis
of my fate
and confirm the end
of my karmic life cycles.

I draw out
the wood and metal
embedded into my hand
with great respect,
with the same forgiveness
gifted to any module ritual.

I press my palm
to express what was
further pressured
into me
from the outside,
from the push
in the climb
to these new heights.

I inhale deeply
stinging my lungs
and chapping my throat.

I am very cold
and wrap my handkerchiefs
tightly around my wrists
to seal my cuffs.

I have no buttons,
I gifted them away to someone
who treasured them more than I.

Yesterday I watched an Elder,
a sightless lady
focused intently on her worship -
her vision was impaired
yet the sanctity of her faith
was not blind.

She turned over,
end to end,
each one of her prayer beads
only to stop, once -
to grab my arm
to capture and hold my attention.

I held her hand in mine
and I felt her textures -
her sunny skin burnt-golden
and the creases of her smiles.

Her heart caressed
my purple corduroy coat,
she had a fierce grip,
as unrelenting as her determination
to live out her life
on the terms of her own devotion.

The buttons on my coat cuff
resembled her prayer beads,
and each time her hand found a button,
she turned it over
smiling as she passed it
between her fingers.

Each button was treated sacrosanct,
sensed as if it held a beaded memory
and the mere touch of it
released a familiar store
of past sights and sensations -
treasured relics from her
boxed and buried past.

I felt her touch,
her fingertips brushed
the softness of my fabric.

I felt her sound,
her prayers penetrated
past my exterior coat
into my padded inner-lining.

I wished my coat sleeve had more buttons,
offerings for her to redeem
along each step in her Soul's search.

I sat down beside her
and I took her free hand,
then I glided my fingers
over the gilded pads of her fingertips.

I traced her configuration,
the structural arrangements of her parts,
the concentric circles 

that her uniqueness carved
and printed into the flesh 

that covered her jointed bones.

I felt the fabric of our universality,
the pattern that had built up over time,
the relationship of elements
in our bodies to our substance
and systems of being.

My wrist clicked 

from the dampness,
and my breath slowed 

from the high altitude.

I bent myself into a whispering position.
I shivered from the chill in the ground.
I wrapped myself tighter 

whenever my body shuttered.

I found my voice, I quivered.
Blind chance and cold made me sound
like a chanter, a singer of town cries.

Softly and cautiously 

from my mouth spilled
the stuttered lyrics 

of an ancient poem -
about a mountain that had a temple,
which housed a Monk,
who told a story -
about a mountain that had a temple,
which housed a monk, who told a story.

The Monk's story was about

a mountain that had a temple,

which housed a monk who told a story.

Each time she asked

what the story was about
She giggled 

as I repeated the poem.

She knew her part 

and I knew mine.
We both played our roles 

and found fun in the game.

We were philosophical 

about life and meshed.

We were fabric 

woven together 

at regular intervals,
a system related, 

connected parts,
paths that crossed 

in the manner of strings 

threaded into a net.

We talked and she prayed
that someday ...
We would all Self-realize,
remember to see, that ...
We are all connected,
strands married in the web of life.

~~ Other People's Fingerprints ~~
Henrik Johan Ibsen sometime after 1828 wrote;
"If you want to be of value to society,
 there is no better way
 than to forge yourself
 into a vessel for its use."

Photo taken by my friend Lisa Kristine

"White, Blue and Gold Light" by Karin Lisa Atkinson

Yucatan 1986: The Veil In Front Of My Eyes Thins

The rain sweetens the annatto seeds 
that I grind into red achiote paste.

My fingers redden wet from weather.

I rub paste onto a freshly sacrificed fish.

Ready for baking 

I wrap the fish 

in young green banana leaves, 
which I picked this morning.

The grey ash falls away, 
as I poke the coals to see 
if they will reveal 
their internal glow.

I lay the fish 
next to the baked bread 
keeping ready-to-eat-warm 
underneath the hot ash.

I have met many wise women in Mexico.

They gifted me their family secrets 

of cooking dishes and baking sweets -

curing through healing plants and spices.

I safeguard 
the art of curanderismo, 
respect their secrets 
when I cook the sacred recipes.

I brought in my canvas bag
some marzipan from the city of Puebla,

famous for pastry legacy dating from 

19th century French presence in Mexico.

I fell in love with Puebla's signature dish,

Mole Poblano a sauce made rich

from grinding chiles, nuts, 

herbs, spices and chocolate.

For my traveling herbal bag,
I carry renowned chocolate of Oaxaca.

At neighborhood mills people 

grind cocoas beans into atoles.

As the rain pours down faster, 
the wise Mayan curandera, 

comes out of her jungle home. 
smiling her sweet-toothed smile.

She has been making some tea 
to heal her cousin’s arthritis.

Cousin's constant fear penetrated 

wet-cold into the dry-warmth of his bones.

My friend guides me with her eyes 
to notice the fleeting shadows -

the soldiers are getting closer
and potentially may threaten our meal.

She motions with her hands 
for me to look behind me,

in hammocks slung between trees,

are soldiers sleeping.

The smell of our food cooking, 

must have lured 

the soldiering men 

from the jungle hideout.

The chocolate rain 

is now tasting 

both salty and smoky 

from aromatic wood burning.

The soldiers want to be fed,

so my friend brews a sedative, 

lavender tea to keep these warriors 

docile and friendly.

I make more chocolate cake,

adding the relaxants of yerba buena 

spearmint and lemongrass, 

which calm down soldiers' warring nerves.

I am alive 

swimming in now, 
exactly where I am to be, 
to create my life point.

I feel my body, 

my skin suit 

full of watery biology, 
walking the planet in gravity.

Feeling life’s miracles, 
as a spiritual being, 
in a soulful 

physical form.

On this edge 

of my next step, 

I pace out the space 

that contains me.

I move my Self, 

beyond the open window, 
even if I do not yet see 

the entire view.

I see the nature, 

of my true Self, 
and remember,

my place of origin.

I step into the game 

of free choice,
and pray the veil in front 

of my eyes will thin.

~~ Other People's Fingerprints ~~
Sometime somewhere Serge Kahili King wrote,
“… shamans recognize no hierarchy 
or authority in matters of the mind;
if ever a group of people 
could be said to follow a system 
of spiritual democracy,
it would be the shamans of the world.”

"Beautiful World" by Karin Lisa Atkinson

Image Credit: Tz'utujil Mayan Indigenous Art of Guatemala

Cuba 1987: Begin Another Round of New Beginnings

The ocean waits for me each day,
born to that spot before me,

a fluid statue 
upholding the knowledge 
that I will come.

I am here 
to cast shadow castles 
in the sand, 
build dreams at my feet.

I sit at the end of the street 
where the road ends abruptly, 

falling its paved loose 
chunks of asphalt 
into the tides. 

Ocean mixes with sand, trash 
and international tourists 
tanning on the beach -

there is stillness here 
on the half broken stairs 
to somewhere.

My back is up against 
the torn rusted barb wire fence,

which supports me just enough, 
so I can dangle my feet 
dangerously 

over the precipice 
of the suddenly terminated road,

which from my current vantage point, 
leads to nowhere.

I am doing nothing in particular, 
except humming and overheating,

simply turning the weeks, 
and the world’s events 
over in my mind -

I wait for the sun to set, 
to end the day, 
in this part of the world ...

then two sisters appear 
beside and above me.

The youngest at twelve, 
stands shyly on the road, 
at the top of the stairs -
her hand on the railing 
ready to brace, 
in case 
she suddenly falls 
from innocence.

The elder, fifteen, 
little by little 
ventures down the staircase,

onto the sand, 
into my line of vision, 
where I am 
kicking up my heels.

At first I thought 
the sisters were from Mexico, 

part of the socialist tourism fraction 
which arrive smuggling 

their army of smells
from Canada, Russia, Mexico, France and Spain. 

Descending daily 
into this body of heat 
the planes disembark 
their foreign cargo

of international ambassadors 
who reflect the rising tide 
of socialist market economies.

I study the sister girls, 
they possess 
relaxed natural beauty 
and an unspoiled intelligence.

The girls laugh and point
to their origins, 
only a few yards from here, 
near, 
very local.

The sister’s steps 
forward to befriend me 
are cautious, 
typical in Cuba, 
yet something 
novel within them 
shines through - 
connecting us 
to each other, 
as we move the dance 
into deeper communication.

I am fascinated, 
not so much 
by the form 
the girls’ identity 
starts to take,

but by how 
their awkward 
freedom of movement 
plays out 
into a display ...

of child-like 
wonder and amusement, 
an exhibition 
that charms 
any and all 
fears away.

Their childlike innocence is magnetic 
amidst the pull of Havana’s sophistication.

The eldest, bored by stillness, 
wanders about the sand 
investigating everything underfoot -

as if she has never seen a beach before, 
even though the ocean is her doorstep.

We talk about the politics of fish bones
and the society of life in the ocean.

The sun crowns 
the girl’s long dark hair 
with a glow of wonder, 

adding a communal sparkle 
to their homemade,
handmade, seashell jewelry -
their all, and everything, 
highlights the knowing 
shining from within them 
outward
through their eyes, 
the windows of their Soul, 
their life force is vibrant, 
clearly present.

They giggle 
as I describe the ocean 
and sand elsewhere 
in Canada, Mexico, Florida.

Girlishly they cling around my neck, 
all coral pink smiles, 
ruffled fringed skirts 
and fingers 
entangling my hair ...

I become shy 
at their unrestrained affection, 

and look down 
at the purple seaweed 
woven between their toes and mine,
creating a cultural tapestry of togetherness, 
framed healthy, 
peacefully cherubic.

I overcome my shyness
and open my heart further 
to receive their loving kindness -

as their love penetrates deeper 
I see more clearly, 
I see 
that their faces possess 

an emotional spirit of comfort, 
a sweet smell of consistency

enveloped 
by the pleasure 
of childhood 
vulnerability ...

these forces of their true nature 
sculpt an uncommon awareness, 

a self-determined self-sufficiency 
heroic in it's inquisitiveness.

Through the freedom these girls grant themselves,

I am born again 
by their natural invigorating 
qualities of curiosity -
I am enthused 
and inspired
to my core
to again begin 
yet another round 
of new beginnings.


~~ Other People's Fingerprints ~~
 In 1963 Carilda Oliver Labra wrote;
“Please, don’t point your weapons at the sky:
the sparrows are terrorized,
and it’s springtime, it’s raining, the meadows are ruminating.
Please, you’ll melt the moon, the only night light of the poor.
It’s not that I’m afraid, or a coward. I’d do everything for my homeland;
but don’t argue so much over your nuclear missiles,
because something horrible is happening and I haven’t had time enough to love.”

"Landscape of a Seascape" by Karin Lisa Atkinson

Zanzibar 2006: Head Above Trees

Zanzibar tapioca lies on the ground, heavy.

It is easy to be a root vegetable, uprooted.
I travel from Kenya to Tanzania to Zanzibar to Ethiopia.
I travel from Ethiopia to Zanzibar to Tanzania to Kenya.
This week borders were closed into Sudan and Eritrea.

As I fly, I notice there is no snow on Mount Kilimanjaro.

In the international media coverage
more people are concerned about bird flu -
than human cargo or families of refugees.
I do not believe in hope,
I believe in simply being what I am, to be.

In my pocket I have a list of endangered fish.

No one I have talked to has heard of this list.

I read it to restaurant cooks, managers, 
patrons and fish sellers in open-air markets.
More people are concerned about fowl flu
than marine life and ocean health.
I calculate that birds are tired of high attitude, 
while the ocean is simply exhausted.

To be fair the birds are fatigued. 
Tired of flying high enough 
to survive being targets.
Being the prey of bullets
from hunters hunting.

Being the collateral damage 
of Heavenly aimed friendly fire. 
Being bodies bagged by cheering soldiers 
celebrating their self-proclaimed wins.

I have grown tired of hearing gun fire and fire works.
I now confuse the two, both explosive, both deadly.

This latest round of East African victories 
did not reach the front page of the daily news.

Most news deserving readership 
seldom travels the length of any page,
particularity the international parched-mental tabloids.

I travel from Kenya to Tanzania to Zanzibar to Ethiopia.
I travel from Ethiopia to Tanzania to Kenya.
This week borders were closed into Sudan and Eritrea.
As I fly, I notice there is no snow on Mount Kilimanjaro.

I meditate on what is the price of humans
their value calculated for their labour,
a mother's worth is never done,
her travail is enshrined for months
within the temple of her heart.

Every time I go swimming,
the flying fish brake the surface tension.
Wings spread, as I trail my hand, 

in the turquoise waters of Zanzibar,
my hands become covered in shiny silvery fish scales.
These jeweled waters are transparent mirrors of life.
Time does not travel here, but remains calm, still.

I touch the schooling jelly fish,

and I enjoy being shocked.
The tiny electrical shocks become predictable -
a useful occurrence for me to rebel against,
or submit to, depending on the day -
depending on which way the current travels.
Depending on if my inner peace is full of peace.

Either way, the currents evoke images
of what is inside me that is not still.
The restlessness of not I,
the not mine to carry,
the not-my burden
around my own neck.

Yet, I feel,
I feel my energies weigh down
and baggage my body,
handsomely tiresome,
ionically cumbersome.

I reach inside for my inner peace.
I don't stop until I reach inside and feel my peace.
I don't stop until I reach inside and fill myself with peace.

I travel from Kenya to Tanzania to Zanzibar.
I travel from Zanzibar to Ethiopia to Tanzania to Kenya.
The week borders were closed into Sudan and Eritrea.
As I fly, I notice there is no snow on Mount Kilimanjaro.

An Elder, takes me to the church 
in Zanzibar's old town square.

This pink coral Stone Town used to be 
the central slave market for East Africa.

The church's cellar housed the slave cells, 

the incubative rooms, which divided 
mothers from their children 
and husbands from their wives.

My guide, in a body, of an older man, 
asks me to read and help clear 

the energy from this space.

This time encapsulated misery, 
which still holds this island haunted -
captivated and enslaved to 
grief-stricken poverty-consciousness.

Zanzibar has always been spiritually rich,
a wealth of wisdom from transforming 
the knowledge of sages throughout the ages.

I stare at my breakfast,
hot and spicy in this heat and humidity.
Rooftop, of the last Sultan of Zanzibar's guesthouse,
I watch the Masai Warriors below me,
sell their red coloured crafts.

The bright fruits, perfumes and spices
growing on this island plantation
is a mix of scents and sensibilities.
White jasmine mixes with vanilla flowers.
Each morning newly-awoken minds stir,
captured by smells which entrance emotions.
Zanzibar's true wealth is it's knowledge
of how to enslave the senses of the heart.

I stare at my breakfast
served to me just the way I like it,
with a smile and heavy on the spices.
I meditate on the history of being part of history.
I consider what it is simple to consider.
I simplify what is complex about life and living one.

It is easy to break open the shell of an egg
already cracked from the drop at birth -

even cosmic eggs are fractals 
of fractional history unified at source 
in a solitary individual cell.

Coded at it's core the eggs knows 
how to Self replicate, divide 
and conquer multiple singularities.
The human is the oddity, 

with illusionary desires, 
to enslave and control 
the uncontrollable.

The extent of heat within
the spicy sauce smothered,
on my fried eggs is amazing.
A delicious that defies explanation.

Astounding is the price of eggs in cafes.

Unless eggs are honoured 
and seen for what they truly are -
'an incalculable soft layer of protein

birthed from the bottom 
of a chicken’s womb.'
Life exiting via the out door.

I meditate on

'What is the price of humans, 
birthed from women -

incalculable value.'
Women, for their soft layers, 
make children, Soul's base
housed in protein-enhanced 
water-based matrixes.

Enshrined for months 
within the temple of a Mother's Soul,

birthed from the bottom 
of a Woman's heart.

I travel from Zanzibar to Ethiopia to Tanzania to Kenya.
The week borders were closed into Sudan and Eritrea.

As I fly, I notice there is no snow on Mount Kilimanjaro.

In Kenya I saw a herd of giraffe, 
standing heads above the trees.

The sun highlighted their ears, tail twitches,
many spots of different colours.

I closed my eyes and felt 
the fur on their necks,

smell of their breath, 
I warm myself with their body heat.

They moved with grace,
a swagger and sway 

that balanced their truck of a neck 
with their suitcase body - 

all held up by four legs hoofed 
and rooted into ancient soil,
heads and shoulders 
above the rest.

Giraffes give birth standing up, 
and are silent, 
except when looking for their young -
then they cry ~
long sobbing cries.

My eggs crack open, 
laid out before me I feel the yoke of it -
the yolk of history runny, not fully formed.
I feel the wind on the bottom of my feet.

Now, if I could only see
the reflection of their giraffe Soul, 

in their eyes and tear drops,
when their young go adventuring
head above trees.

When their young go adventuring,
head above trees,
may they see 
snow on Mount Kilimanjaro.


~~ Other People's Fingerprints ~~
Sometime after 1929 Martin Luther King Jr. said;
 “Take the first step in faith.
You don’t 
have to see the whole staircase. 

Just take the first step.”

"Head Above Trees" 

Masai Mara, Kenya

"Curio and Curiosity"

Stone Town, Zanzibar, Tanzania

'Brothers'

Stone Town, Zanzibar, Tanzania

"Gentleman" 

Stone Town, Zanzibar, Tanzania

'Zanzibar Hospitality'

"Singing A Chant By Firelight" 

Masai Mara, Kenya

'Sister Brother'

Oromia, 

near the Sudan and Ethiopia border, 

at the terraced valley 

of the Holy Caves of Miracle Healing Water, 

Debre Libanos Monastery ደብረ፡ሊባኖስ

'Friends and Family'

Nairobi 2006: I Ripple My Beauty Awake

My clothes still smell of dirt,

the smell of the many feet 
that walk these paths.

My clothes still smell of clay

the smell of many hands 
who sculpt history.

My clothes still smell of rain,

the smell of many bodies washed -

the thirst of a land never quenched.

My clothes still smell of the Sun,

the smell of skin baking –

the heat of a land never burnt.

My clothes still smell of moon,

the smell of faces glowing, beaming smiles –

the light of a land never in darkness.

My clothes have been washed many times,

the smell of life never fades –

the warmth of my flesh never cools.

My clothes have been worn out over time,

the smell of my experience grows stronger –

the taste I have for life never diminishes.

It is beauty that unites 
love with passion and ecstasy with eternity.

The sound of your voice in my ear startles me alive.

My beauty ripples awake. I startle myself awake.

Body shivers still, quiet, sounds come in,

I am impressed - a singular experience in this lifetime.

The capability of my self-recognition,

recognizing the art of my choices,

remembering beyond my understanding of myself.

My beauty ripples awake. I ripple my beauty awake.

The seeds in my core fall from the tree of my life.

I plant myself firmly on the ground,

command my roots to reach deep into the ground -

I ripple my beauty awake.

The Sun rises, the Sun falls, 
the Moon rises, the Moon falls –

the all of the all, 
ripples my beauty awake -
I choose to ripple my beauty awake.

~~ Other People's Fingerprints ~~
Canada First Nations, Ojibwa chant;
 “And it is going to echo clearly against the sky 
when I come along making my noise.”

"Masai Mara Dawn" by Karin Lisa Atkinson

"Rippled Beauty Awake" by Karin Lisa Atkinson

"Family Meal" by Karin Lisa Atkinson

"Family Walk" by Karin Lisa Atkinson