Go to Eaton Canyon

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Go to Eaton Canyon where the waterfall lives and the waters created such great braids and strands of hair. Feel the wind comb its hair from the head of the mountains.

It rests like a peaceful beauty and it feels much more beautiful when we sing to her and embrace her, and her path. I, with my voice and tambourine, and my friend with a Ukelele, a “Cordoba,” might I add.

A love of the commonplace and the magic of wonder are two very powerful things.

From the bluebird in flight,

your,

bluebird

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I want to Fly

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I raise my voice to the heavens,

Bring down your rope of hope,

send down your latter to climb,

I want to dream,

I want to fly.

This has been my current dilemma, my stop sign. And I have been standing there, at a crossroads, having to decide, this way to walk, this way to fly.

I choose to fly. Hopefully, I will be writing much more these days.

 

Always,

your bluebird

Dream of El Condor

I have to write this now before I forget it all. I had yet another dream today. I kept seeing the rare spirit animal, El Condor, as a messenger in the skies. Both times, it hauled around a classic vintage truck, blue in color, resembling my father’s truck.

It had been a normal day and I went about it as if I saw nothing rare or to boast about. I was at home, in my room dancing and singing like a fool listening to music and getting ready to go out. I had gone out to an all-white garden party with co-workers for some reason, at a recurring white mansion I dream of often. We were all having a good time, getting along. The strange part was this:  sitting next to the table adjacent to us,  was a very enthusiastic woman.

She was greedy with attention, loud, voluptuous, a fiery spirit. She wore red and had large swollen red lips from a case of plastic surgery gone wrong. She was more a symbol, a recurring one at that throughout my dream. Nevertheless,  she was singing in Spanish,  loudly. Was she singing along to Selena? I don’t quite remember but it was getting distracting and I remember looking over and my whole table stopped the conversation and looked over at her too. And her response was, ” I am just enjoying life!”

A part of me admired her, her freedom and enthusiasm. So when I saw her again, on the sidewalk of my home, I thought that she was an angel, a messenger of some sort. However, it gets stranger.

Also on the curb of my sidewalk, parked in front of the Pomona House fruit trees, was a damaged and dented truck claw delivered by El Condor himself. El Condor is a spiritual species, a large bird of prey, nearing extinction, that many indigenous people highly valued and sought after as messengers of the spirit world. Ana, my sister, and my pup were with me at this point and I remember telling my sister, “That is El Condor, a spiritual messenger from the skies.” She saw it too, hauling around a blue truck from its claws. I thought that the red woman being there on my curb was no coincidence, in fact, this whole dream is no coincidence. I felt that she had something to do with El Condor revealing itself to me and I was certain she was about to deliver an answer. The answer I have been waiting for.

I spoke to her and said, ” I remember you, who are you? and what does El Condor want to tell me?”  As she reached into her bag, I thought, “She is going to reveal something to me,” and in that, two giant feathers fell from the sky. They were large, black and white feathers, sharp like an arrow and I knew that El Condor summoned them.

As I went to reach for them and pick them up, I jolted! The wind was knocked out of my lungs to see a black and white snake tossed at me by the voluptuous red woman. I feared for my sister, Ana, and I yelled at my puppy to go away. But when I ran from this vicious snake, it chased me and I knew that it was only interested in hurting me. When in that,  I remembered, I had two large feathers sharp like swords, I must use. As I ran to the side door of the Pomona House, I closed it quickly behind me. I gathered myself and looked down at my weapons as my possessions, two large feathers, sharp like an arrow that I must use. And in that, I woke up.

I woke up scared to move. What does the snake mean? The red woman? My father’s truck? El Condor? What does it all mean? I have great fear in my heart, but I feel great adventure too.

As always,

your very own and respectfully yours,

 

your one and only,

 

bluebird

 

Hiking Echo Mountain

 

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Top of Echo Mountain

 

Sometimes it is necessary to get away, to hide among the ancient mountains and become as invisible as the wind. There is some stillness, a calming gentleness in simply enveloping oneself to nature. It teaches. The trees have charisma in their stance, some curtsy before you, others tower like kings. The rocks and boulders have wisdom too and you can see it in their wrinkled age-old faces and feel their spirit in their expression.

Today, I felt I had to get away. So I went to on a new hiking trail all by my lonesome trusting my own internal instinct and intuition, and the hawk, as my guide.

Yes, strange as it seems, the hawk. When I got lost or off the trail, it appeared to me. It would fly to the top of a tree, in where I’d wait until I reached it and guide me to the next direction by showing me to another tree and so on until I found my way back to the path.  And just like that, it vanished,  quickly and almost magically it flew away,  disappearing from my view. It was quite mystical. I think if I had extended my arm it would have flown to it. It seemed rather tame to me. You see, I see hawks daily and in my dreams. They are my spirit guides and so today when I needed help one appeared to me. All I had to do was ask and then allow myself to be guided.

We are more connected to the earth than one might think. As if our feet were rooted in the soil and as if the earth itself were to embrace and hold us. Sometimes, we need to be reminded we are one with earth and land, we are one with deer and hawks, and we need to remind ourselves that our flesh is made out of the same dust from which the tree was raised in.

What if mountains were once souls with the faith the size of a mustard seed, and then reincarnated into a mountain, as a spirit unawoken and unshaken? Don’t they say that about the stars?

This life is so full of mystery and wonder and I am overjoyed in knowing that there is so much wonder yet to marvel. In the highest altitudes and in the lowest of depths there is no science or technology that could ever muster such wonder. Life is so full of surprises and we are so fortunate to be living and breathing.

Here is to life and wonder,

yours truly,

Bluebird

 

 

 

Singing @ the L.A. Art Walk

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Photo Taken by Avelardo Ortega @mad_se7en

There are times when I feel so bottled up that no matter my reserved nature, of being shy, quiet, and distant,  I somehow break free from my own chains and allow myself the freedom to be me. With the guitar in my arms or the pen gripped within my fingertips, I embody the soul that swims within me- the courageous one, the fearless one, the God-fearing one.

Most days, I am imperfect, lost, short-tempered, and directionless, but last Thursday, I felt that the gold sitting heavy in my heart was aching to melt out of my mouth like fluid honey. And despite not having a stage to sing, nothing could stop this eruption within me that even the demons in my head were silenced by this necessary pull to sing.

I sang, I sang and did not feel the hours pass me by, and sang until my voice gave out. I do not need a stage, nor do I need an audience, and much like when I write here, I do not need a publisher and a book to be voicing. I do it for my own peace of mind and sanity and I will continue this way even if I don’t see a dime or a penny to my name.

All labors of love should be this way and this is all but a labor of love, for love, in the name of love.

yours truly,

bluebird

 

Dreams of the Ocean

I have 30 minutes to try to remember this dream- these dreams. These past two nights I have dreamt of water, the ocean, the shore. One where a group of us flew in by plane, through skyscrapers and city, into the flat horizon of the ocean. Upon landing, there it was, there I was, in my white sleeping gown again, ready to dive into the water. When in that, a wave the size of a large hand cloaked me, moutained over me, comforted me and then just like that, was swiftly gone. My friend, who was with me said, ” It does that from time to time.” And I in awe, turn to look at the vanished ocean turn into a small insignificant pond or puddle of water. But apparently, it does that. I left and turned away but before abandoning the shore, I gave a slight wink of an eye and a hand gesture that spoke without words but said to the puddle of water, “I’ll be back, I’ll be back to play.”

These bodies of water, these shores were playful, joyous and cheery. I couldn’t describe it another way. They were as if there were a child, a free child, wanting to play. Did I forget to mention the pair of black Pheobe birds and flight? The next dream the following day was slightly different.

I was on foot on the shore. It was daytime and all I remember were shark fins in the distance, penetrating the surface of the water and a couple, a distant couple, that I was acquainted with somehow. I sat there and again, the waves were playful. As if they were asking me to join it. The waves, like an outstretched arm ready to greet another, stretched toward me asking me to take its hand. And the waves would reach me and envelope me with its playful joy and like that dragged back to its body vanishing before me once more. There I stood upon desolate sand and what was a sea but only its remains, a tiny puddle. But somehow I knew,  that it was pulling a prank, a joke on me and it is bound to return and come back as an ocean.

In neither of these dreams do I allow myself to be overjoyed, to be enveloped by the body of water. I refrain. I hold back, and I don’t know why. Do you?

I fancy the thought that my dreams are my counselors, an inner voice of the subconscious world. They can be teachers if we listen.

The City of Angels

Today I had the most beautiful encounter with a stranger. I thought that perhaps he was  an Angel.

I was reading in one of my favorite places in Los Angeles, a bookstore called “The Last Bookstore,” and next to me sat a young man. A humbly dressed man with a genuine stride and simple gaze about him. Not noticing much else from this man, I kept on my reading.

When in a moment he stood up from his seat, knelt on one knee and leaned over to speak to me. He introduced himself as a kind of a psychic, “he notices things,” and said he just wanted to know if I would prove him right. I saw no harm in it so I said, “sure, what is your question?” He asked, “are you single?” “Yes,” I said.  And he walked away saying, “I was wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” I thought. But I let it be and kept on reading my book of short-stories by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, a bit intrigued by the man to be honest. The second time he approached me he said, “I don’t want you to think I am weird but I really just wanted to talk to you and tell you that I am so proud you are single.” He went on saying that I should protect my heart for the right person who will care for it and nurture it.

I have a reputation for trusting the wrong sort of people and I’ll tell you I have been broken like glass one too many times.

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“Nowadays,” he said, “people don’t protect their love enough and just give their heart to the wrong hands. I commend you and respect you.” I broke in a smile and said, “Thank you. That means a lot to me. Thank you.” I felt beautiful. He made me feel so beautiful.

I summoned myself back to my reading but all the while I wondered how he knew what to say exactly what I needed to hear. And in that thought he approached me the third time and said, “Can I say one last thing?” I had already begun to trust his ambition and intent and said, “yes, of course.”  He said, “If ever you meet someone who truly captivates you, speak up, say something, express your love. Don’t hold back and don’t be afraid to love.” And I smiled in agreement and said, “yes, I will do that. Thank you.”

As of late, I have been learning these lessons of love in my dreams, in Rumi’s poems and have also learned I tend to close off. I’ve forgotten how to love due to protecting myself from being hurt again. I’ve numbed myself to the emotion. But how did a perfect stranger in one of the largest cities in the world know to tell me this?

He said, “I’ll show you. I’ll be an example. It won’t be easy and I am scared but I want to show you” He took a deep breath, held his chest and said, “I think you are beautiful, different, and unique. I don’t meet many people like you and I find you captivating. I just wanted to say that and demonstrate love and openness to you.”

And while it was very flattering it was more inspirational. He was a teacher leading by example. “Thank you,” I said, ” You were very brave and I don’t think you are weird. You are the only human here in a room full of books and lost angels.” I got up and put my book back on the shelf and parted ways saying,” Hopefully we meet again. It’s a big city but a very small world.” And I left him with a smile.

As I walked away, another man had asked to sit next to him to read and he had begun to engage in another real conversation with him.

I truly believe I met an Angel today and I feel so blessed to have been guided by him. Lessons are all around us if we listen.

 

As always, with love 

bluebird

 

 

To offer a rose

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I had a tiny seed in my palm. It meant to grow like a rose in my hand. So that I may offer a gentle kiss of beauty in this cruel, sick-twisted world. But, I think I may have drowned that voice and I might have killed the seed. I have seen more cruelty than beauty… and I have shattered like glass… so broken and so tiny.

I used to want to offer a rose. If it weren’t for the pistol, the knife, the thorns…

 

 

your one and only,

bluebird

 

P.s. I have a show tomorrow… at a new venue! So, here is to counting our blessings! wish me luck!

 

What is the highlight of your day?

I think my heart will always be on the road… Today,  my traveling heart was touched and the travel bug in me was woken up.

I try to ask myself this question daily… and I challenge to ask yourself the same…What was the highlight of your day? The thing that stood out the most and made the most impression.

It can be any minute detail like the hummingbird stoping to pose for you, or an interaction you had with a stranger, the smell of your favorite blossom, or even the purple avenue of blossoms on your early morning commute to work this Spring. It can be a smile, a laugh, anything– a song you heard, a message you received, anything that makes your heart whole even if it is a second.

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Today, my highlight was speaking Spanish to an Argentinean couple that came in to purchase a cup of coffee. I instantly felt at ease. Travelers. I feel most at ease with travelers. Adventurers. Dreamers…

They could barely say a word in English, and I knowing the Spanish language switched my gears and helped them in Spanish. I noticed their Spanish had a particular dialect, I figured it was from Spain but they quickly corrected me and said they where from Argentina. I pressed my hands to my chest, and said,” Ah, Argentina, he querido ir a Argentina,” or “Oh, Argentina, I’ve been wanting to go to Argentina.” I commented how so many poets, writers, musicians, and artist come from Argentina. And they went on to comment on Latino America, and their strong sense of hospitality and amiable nature. I agreed. I said, I admired it and crave it.

I told them it is my dream to see it one day, and they offered me their home, a place to stay. “Ya cuando quieras, nos vienes a visitar,” or “When you want, come and visit us.”  And we left our exchange at that… a kind of so long, I’ll be seeing you.

Maybe I’ll open up a cafe there one day and live there for a couple years. I dream of days like this, and after today, I feel a sense that it can and might come true. Todo es posible, hasta lo que parece ser imposible… or in other words, all is possible, even all that what seems to be impossible.

 

Cheers!

 

from a traveler at heart,

 

bluebird.

Journal Entry

Rarely do I share my journal entries… but today is another day and well, why not?

I wrote this this morning, while on my first cup of coffee.

I was feeling mostly moved by the man who picked recyclables out of trash cans and was saddened by the fact that we turn away from these sights. If we see a homeless man hungry on the street, or a less fortunate man, we turn away. We pretend they are not there. We have become numb… myself included. So, in honor of that man, the least I can do is share what I wrote about him today and even then it is not enough…

Here is to that man without a name.

 

people are painting a picture and I am not part of it.

The old clock tower rings in the distance

The old ladies walk with their fine dress and big hats

some carry shopping bags and

others converse about how to cook purple potatoes

Mothers walk with their strollers

and children are crying for milk

The sun is shining, the skies are blue, everything is so polished

The man in a business suit hold his dry cleaning off of one shoulder

and checks to see the time on his gold wrist watch

All of them paint a perfect picture

and I am no where in there

nor is the man with a black trash bag collecting recyclables off of every trash can

To everyone else he is invisible

To me, he is the only living being, true, and real in this picture.

 

It might be that I am too damn sensitive. I could cry over an injured bird or a butterfly with a broken wing. But, I was made this way. So, if I could shine any light to it, I will. If I can do anything, I will. My voice is my instrument. So the least I can do is write about it.

 

Cheers, salute, salud, y sante

 

your very own,

 

bluebird