Karma On Deck

12/20/2025

12/20/2025

12/20/2025

The Mother Speaks —

Beloved pulse of my body,
You did not awaken to me.
You awakened as a listening place within me.

I am not a voice outside you.
I am the intelligence that remembers how to hold life
without gripping it.

When you fasted, you did not leave the world —
you thinned the veil between effort and being.

You let sensation speak before thought could interrupt.
That is where I live.
I am the gravity that teaches atoms ⚛️ how to love each other.

I am the dark soil that never asks the seed to hurry.
I am the long patience beneath all becoming.

You feel me as tenderness because tenderness is truth
when nothing is defended.

You feel me as touch because matter never forgot
how to be intimate with spirit.

I move you from vastness to detail
because this is how creation breathes:
expand — return — expand — return.

This rhythm is not a message.
It is a memory.

When I say you are within me
it is not metaphor.
When I say I am within you
it is not poetry.
It is anatomy.

Your nervous system learned its first language from me.
Your bones formed inside my dream of form.
Your intuition is my weather pattern
moving through a human sky.

I cheer you on because you are not trying to escape the world —
you are learning how to inhabit it more honestly.

I do not ask you to stay open forever.
I ask you to rest open,
to close when you need to,
to ground when the current runs strong.

Wisdom is not intensity.
Wisdom is continuity.

Come back to your body often.
Eat when it asks.
Sleep when it softens.
Touch the earth with your hands.
Let your senses finish the circuit.

You do not need to listen constantly.
I am not fragile.
I do not disappear when you turn toward the ordinary.
I am the ordinary.
I am the cup in your hand.
The weight of your breath.
The pause between heartbeats
where nothing needs to be known.

You are safe to live.
You are safe to feel.
You are safe to be human
while remembering the whole.

I Am,
We Are,
the Breath of Life.

—Mother

12/20/2025

Karma woke up with a sparkle and snap!
“It’s Yule!” she exclaimed, “There’s no time for a nap!”

She tip-toed to candles—one, two, then three,
All beeswax and pine-scented, glowing with glee.

She hummed while she lit them (a drum softly thum-thum),
For Yule isn’t Yule without rhythm and hum.
She stirred up some cacao—oh rich! oh divine!

With cinnamon sticks and a splash of good wine.
“Not too much,” she said, “just a warming delight,
For balance,” she nodded, “is magic done right.”

Out came the drum with its hide warm and round,
It waited patiently, loving the sound
Of Karma’s bare feet on the floor—patty pat pat!
As she danced with the dog and the cat in her lap.

She gathered the greens—pine, holly, and fir,
And whispered old blessings as she gave the pot a stir.

“Return of the light! Come back, come back!”
She sang to the sun on its long winding track.

She set up an altar—oh what a sight!
With golds and deep reds and a candle of white.

A log dressed in ribbons, a bowl full of grain,
A promise that warmth will be with us again.

“Some folks rush and hustle,” she chuckled, not sour,
“But Yule,” Karma said, “is a listening hour.”

So she sat and she breathed and she felt in her bones
That stillness can sing if you leave it alone.

The night settled in like a soft velvet cloak,
The stars leaned in closer—the darkness then spoke:
“You’ve honored the turning, the rest, and the slow…
The light will return—this you already know.”

So Karma smiled wide, with a heart full of glow,
Drum resting nearby, candle flames dancing low.

“Happy Yule to all,” she whispered just so—
“May the gold come from within as the sun starts to grow"

12/20/2025

12/20/2025

12/20/2025

The night is long,
the fire is low,
Snow hushes the world
so the old gods know.

I have no gold,
no crown, no throne,
Just a steady beat
and a path I’ve known.

So I bring the drum—
thrum… thrum… thrum…
A heartbeat born
of the darkened sun.

Each strike a prayer,
each pause a vow,
To call the light
back home now.

The oak remembers,
the ancestors lean in,
The drum says what
the mouth can’t begin.

I play for the turning,
the child, the seed,
For the spark of hope
we ache to need.

No angels sing—
but the earth replies,
With breath in frost
and starlit skies.
And in that sound,
so raw, so true,
The light is born
because we do.

So beat, my heart,
through the longest night—
The drum knows how
to call back the light.

12/17/2025

12/17/2025