the truth of the wind

Isn’t it funny the stories we tell ourselves?  Because I have words that need to end up on a screen somewhere to be read I suddenly cannot write.  My fingers go all staccato on the key board and I forget that I can breathe that my ribcage has the capacity to expand and contract.  That if I wanted to I could even slide my fingers underneath my bottom most rib and feel into such a private space.

What I feel instead is this overhanging darkness blurring the outlines of everything.  I am not struggling I am nothinging.  I am fighting my own self.  Because?  Because I want to give something complete.  I want to create in mirrored worthiness of each blessed life.  I want to be of service.

I end up pushing myself away from my desk to go reclaim my cat.  I am sure she is in my neighbor’s house again.  They have taken to feeding her and letting her in.  I beg them not to but a myriad of life blooded reasons makes them unable and unwilling to listen.  It is a situation I don’t know my way out of.  I go there and get her.  I put her in my house and shut the door behind me.  I stand in the front yard.

I am still blurred out.

Slowly I wake up to the basics – almost by mistake.  I see earth.  I see grass.  I see sky.  I see sun.  I see sunlight in the sky bouncing off layers of clouds and the the trees silhouetted against all this brilliance and I soften.  I am not sure why I got so upset.  Why I jump to assume the most terrible.  Why I think you only want to read perfection.

The sky she reminds me of so much.  Expansiveness.  And more than that even just the feeling of being okay.  So, she told me this,  Just tell them what you wrote.

Processed with VSCOcam with p5 preset

 A list of secrets you are free to know as the veils thin:

That the exact map of the stars – of the galaxies – lays in your own body of flesh.

That you may curl yourself up and rest in the negative space left by the crescent sliver of the waning moon.

That if you turn due west and close your eyes you may taste the truth of the wind.

That is is possible to make anything a vessel of sacred.

That the children will spin and dance anticipating the thinning.  Their own systems still tuned to the Mystery of the Universe.

Magic resides in the ordinary.

When your bones are just bones you will have been whatever you have decided to be.  You are free to step towards that.

That there may be parts of your own heart that have taken cover in the gentle sway or rigid holding of your pelvic bowl – seeking safety and respite.  Cup them gently.  Introduce yourself when you feel ready.

Someone is wanting to hold your hand.

That some cords are scaly with age and sunk root like into your belly and still in just a few breaths we can dig them out, set them free, burn them to nothingness.  That we are free to compress time to cultivate healing.  This is fact.

That some witches survived.  You may see them in the produce section of your grocery store in skinny jeans and boots.  Or at the post office sending a care package abroad.  Or reading quietly in the corner of the coffee shop.

In anything broken love is the answer.

The word yes is healing.

That some witches crossed over.  They will teach you now from the dream world.  They will cook down broths and stir mighty stews through the night and towards the end of it all they will look you square in the eyes letting you know how they love you as they hand you a steaming cup of divine.  Without uttering a word.  In a whole night of silence you will have been accepted into their particular ancestry of knowing.  An unexpected gift rising out of the shadows of well lit mistakes.

You are free to indulge.

One plus two is three.

It is ok to forget.  You will be reminded.

The veils will thin again.  Like the moon will wax.  Like your heart will beat each day.  Like you will find darkened edges, and blurry, and sunlit clouds, and space to breathe.  Life.


robin e. sandomirsky

luminary explorer.  freedom igniter.  warrior blooded game changer.  bringer of truth, velocity, and golden embodiment.

i am a writer.  i am a healer.  i am home.


co-creator of liberated lines.  come play daily creative liberation with us.

a liberated lines FLASH: tell me

out of ((re))trograde

There’s a small part of my curious mind that slips over alchemic notions + celestial patterns in a whip stitch,
moving over + under + through, guided by the heralded hand of destiny, divinity, inescapable me.

has it always been leading to this moment?

Some argue for predestination, the factions of life patched together very purposefully, a quilt of knowledge.
Others argue that the free thinking man is the greatest power in the heavens, resplendent in innovation + pioneering
every old path, finding all the new ones.

The only thing I think of: these ideas of predestination + free will? The thought feels like a Choose Your Own Adventure,
where the pages follow a predetermined system, but the reader gets to decide which door to walk through.

((Hindsight being the cheats + peaks into which pages lead where, in order to pick the best option.))

Perhaps if I could settle in long enough to get cozy, by the afternoon light + the cool breeze, a fresh cup of coffee,
I could spend the appropriate amount of time flipping + folding through the book, my fingers the moon pulled waves
against the pale, soft sand-colored paper.

Because most days? I don’t feel equipped to make the distinction, to honor the choice or the surrender.
Some days, I don’t even think on it, letting Fate sit with spine uncracked, gathering dust in a long-forgotten corner.
Some days, I don’t even make it to the library to check out the well-handled beliefs, this destiny that has been passed down
from generation to generation like a bad hip, the shape of lateral incisors, cheekbones, height, heart disease.

Truly, to me, it makes no difference. I could take it or leave it. If it’s a fate I can’t escape, I’ll face the gallows like a friend
whose introduction ushers me into a new state of being, the kind of friend that is Experience herself, a relationship from which
I will will not and cannot remain as I am now.
If I can choose, my predisposition to walk during midnight hours would still lead me to the shadowed road beneath the stars,
bumping into Death again, after all these years, and finding him to be haggard with the mistaken identity thrown over him
like an unfit cloak. Perhaps, if I can choose, I’ll offer him a hand + walk beside, reminisce over earlier meetings, + send him home
smiling, a bit lighter + possibly happy that someone took the time to be a friend.

See, my spirit is the kind that would choose what would be given, or choose the exact opposite. If I am to be happy,
I must explore. If I am to understand, I must live my own adventure, letting it choose me beneath the stars, in tree tops,
following me to the riverbank to hunt for stones, resting in the cool grass, savoring an apple on the walk home.

I will run right into my transformation again + again + again because I am too busy to think about the library.
Let someone else read the adventure, deliberate + flip around + find the best route.
I’ve done all that already. The knowledge didn’t change my nature.

So if you see me, strolling down the street, window shopping at the jeweler’s beside a tall, handsome stranger,
if you see me hunched over rows + rows of pumpkins at the corner market, a  glimmering light on my hand,
understand one thing:

I have made my choice. I cannot renounce who I am. I am cut from the cloth that would quiver in the wind,
a ship’s sail, a nightdress, a wedding veil.
And I am happy.

IMG_3627i will marry the dark
be the moth’s light
draw life from the paradox of
day + night.




 spiderweb garland 1


I ask myself: am I lapsed or just faithless? do I, in my absence and inattention, diminish the gifts that are mine?


I’ll talk of fallow time and muse upon the cycles of the moon – noting carefully how she tugs and pushes, nodding thoughtfully as I walk past the stack of notebooks and dried paintbrushes.

I walk the dogs.

the leaves are a thousand shades of gold; the wind sings stories of northern lights and the starlings dance in a brooding sky.

 turkey feather


let it go, I tell myself, stop trying to control the wild things.

we do magic tricks. his make-believe is cobbled together from movies and computer games and things-not-from-him, but when he stitches them back together, it becomes his own. he’s not supposed to have an imagination.  whoever said that of these children, forgot their humanity and the divine spirit that dwells in every one of us. he humbles me with the way he claims his right to create – he does it naturally and without hesitation – and I’m ashamed of my arrogance and relentless questioning.

the spider’s web is jeweled with dew. they hang from the wire fence and the drooping husks of Queen Anne’s Lace like the discarded garlands from a faery revel. it takes twice as long to get to the school bus stop because I have to pause to take it all in. how can this be? I ask her. how can anything be so marvelous as this?

I see the way the light has shifted through the waning day and I see the subtle, glorious, hues, of the dying.

I see the murmuration; an ancient, wheeling dance, a calling to gather on the threshold of winter.


art journal page can you feel it



in my faithlessness, I look for moving statues. i forget that while the notebooks gather dust and the paint dries on the palette, I find magic in the land and see poetry in the spiraling leaves. in the eyes of a star-boy, I’m reminded of the infinite; in the thickening warmth of my soul-pony’s coat, I feel the pulse of the eternal rhythms of life.

in the truth of my soul I remember that there’s no separation of art and life; that there need not be time set aside – fragmented and compartmentalized – to pay homage to the magic.

I weave the very essence of it into my days; I let no miracle stand alone, without witness.

I am in it.

I am of it.

it is everything.






writer. magic-keeper. fire-raiser.

seeking the stories of the land;

re-wilding creativity,

witnessing divinity.

I dwell in mythpunk and poetry -

because that’s where the magic lives.

The Art of Whitespace

“My soul isn’t designed to be cluttered. It longs for space to taste beauty. To breathe. It’s always wanted what God intended for me. My soul was designed for spiritual rest: spiritual whitespace.” Bonnie Gray, Finding Spiritual Whitespace

What is whitespace? It’s an invitation to rest. A moment for things to feel less full, more spacious, breathable. In art, “whitespace” is that place of visual emptiness, a place for the eye to not feel bombarded by what it’s viewing.

10733353_10100794050543537_2009489148_o    IMG_0063

Not all artists include whitespace in their pantings. Think of a Jackson Pollock piece: FILLED with drips and splats and lines and color and a web of paint. His work feels manic, energetic, full. All points on the painting are visually intense. His work did not often include a place for the eyes to rest.

I, on the other hand, prefer whitespace in my work. I find rest and visual comfort in these areas of simplicity. By not communicating anything, they allow the focal points—the areas of most importance and information—to stand out. The empty balances the full. The simple balances the complicated. The two work together to create an informative, but not overwhelming, work of art.

Come Sunday   Screen Shot 2014-10-14 at [Oct 14] 10.56

And whitespace doesn’t have to be literally “white;” it just holds the shape and space of simplicity and visual quiet. In fact, sometimes whitespace can be quite dark…

Screen Shot 2014-10-14 at [Oct 14] 10.48   Natural Flourish

The concept of whitespace is both literal and figurative. And, in the figurative, we must ask ourselves where do we have whitespace in our lives. Do we want to live like a Jackson Pollock painting, or do we want to live so that our minds, bodies, and souls have a place of rest? This kind of life-layout is intentional. Whitespace does not happen by accident. Whitespace is something we choose to incorporate into our space and time.

How do you live and rest in whitespace?

Mandy Thompson

Mandy is a mixed-media artist and art journaling instructor. She has carefully crafted her own creative process, and is passionate about helping others find their creative pace as well.

You Came Here For It


I picked the Neverland mug again for coffee this morning. I have noticed my gravitation to it as of late. My hand hovering over the Wild Strawberry mug, the Evoke mug, the tribal mug, trying to give any of the others a fighting chance, but knowing full well that all I really want is my mug from Valerie with her East Coast photo of the schooner’s sails. The mug that reminds me of Captain Hook’s flying boat, hi-jacked by Peter Pan and his band of Lost Boys with the help of the sprinkling of a certain fairy’s dust.

I am sitting here in the gawdy, olive, floral-patterned chair, drinking my pixie dust infused Neverland coffee and getting reacquainted with Alanis Morissette while reading snippets from a new obscure book I purchased called Finite and Infinite Games.

There is this section:

“No one can play who is forced to play. It is an invariable principle of all play, finite and infitinite, that whoever plays, plays freely. Whoever must play, cannot play.”

I can’t help but think that my worldview was thrust upon me in a “you must participate and here are the rules, so get to it” sort of manner. I was scared to death I’d break a rule and lose the game. I think that’s what my 30-year-old thrashing boils down to – an eyes wide-up open shriek of, “I NEVER WANTED TO PLAY THIS GAME, BUT I DIDN’T KNOW I COULD SAY NO.”

To think I could have said no at any time baffles me.

“Thank you disillusionment.” -Alanis Morissette

Screen Shot 2014-10-20 at 7.19.01 AM

My Love Interest has a name for the intermingling exercises often utilized in social situations where a large group of strangers are gathering over some common theme. “It’s Forced Fun,” he says. Forced Fun may as well be the nickname for my first 30 year stint.

For round two? I’m making my own rules, my own game, my own fun. (It’s proving to be entirely more difficult and not nearly as applauded or accepted.)

“Illusion sounds like you’re making it up. Accept that you’re making it all up.” – Esther Hicks

I know this has something to do with why the Neverland mug keeps making its way into my cradled hands. I am like a wizard, rubbing cupped hands back and forth while something glowing emerges in the sacred dark. I am not even sure what is emerging, but it warms me and comforts me and even burns me sometimes. The heat is so intense and wild.

They say beginner’s mind is an admirable place to hang out, and my dry erase board has been wiped clean. I am sitting here in this moment, my yellow candle burning, my first stick of incense gone out, coffee three fourths gone, Alanis still wailing the truths, the first signs of my family waking, and I am treasuring the massive expanse of nothing. Of anything goes. Of what would you like this life (this game) to look like if it could look like anything?

My creative friend Slim says, “it’s a crazy game, but in the end, i think that’s all it is. a silly game. has to be laughed at, or i run out of tears.”

So here I stand laughing, on the edge of Candy Land meets Risk, of Trivial Pursuit meets Tarot, of War meets Solitaire.

This is me jumping ship – from Titanic to Jolly Roger. I’m not setting my sights on the second star to the right and straight on till morning. I’m creating it (or it is creating me) within my very own cupped hands.

Sometimes I’m not sure I have what it takes. Other times I know I do, if I can only deprogram what I’ve had defined for me as the “REAL world” or the “ABSOLUTE truth.”


When I rode my bike home from work this weekend I discovered that when I am coasting downhill, if I raise both of my pedals side-by-side, my feet the same distance from the ground instead of one up and one down, I go faster. I was picking up such great speed I felt like I was flying. My teeth knocked together whenever I would hit a bump. I had to look down and check my bike basket to make sure E.T. hadn’t climbed inside. I didn’t want the moment to end.

Whoever play, plays freely.

mandyI am looking forward to going dark again with The Wild Mystics. I feel a creative playful energy will accompany me this time through. It is so hard to be freely playful when you also long to be taken seriously. Have you ever laughed at a child when they were lost in make-believe land, only to watch them resurface to “reality” with their feelings hurt or their cheeks blushing in hot embarrassment? I find I am an easy target, but play matters intensely to me, so I must see to it and learn from my feelings of shame and fear and anger and embarrassment as they rise up.

an open conversation

Are you there, love?
Come closer.
Lean into me.
I need for you to hear me,
to hear what I have to say.
I am tired of feeling small.
Every part of me aches to grow, stretch, and expand from the inside out.
Will you take time to nourish me
each and every day?
Can you accept me for who I am
and what I have to share with the world?
Hear me.
I crave this time with you.
Time to play in the creation.
To tell stories of your design.
I long to hold my trembling hand out to those who are hungry for connection,
especially you, my love.
Real, ripe, soul-full connection is within our grasp.
We can leave our mark.
Be remembered,
if only by the blank page that we spill our words upon.
Put your trust in me,
for I am ready to help you fly.
Take a deep breath and just leap.
Jump into the shallow end with me and we will sail to greater depths together –
Don’t worry about where we’ll end up.
Just know that we will find our way home,
within each other.
And we will nurture each other into existence.

 With lustful longing,
Your Inner Creative


Gina Kimmel


Extractor of connection.
Witness to nature’s divine beauty.
Pen to the truth that captures them both.
When she isn’t gazing at the clouds or documenting moments of beauty through the lens of her camera,
she is inviting others to embrace the ordinary and find splendor in the mundane at

Embody the Actual

I’ll write it down with bullet-points and you’ll read the list and we will all be in our heads, all

up up up and thinking thinking thinking.

I’ll take the same bullet-pointed list and jumble it with

living living living and down down down,

and gone is the clarity and goals, the precise knowing-where-you’re-going. We become faced with the reality of living-confusion, of discomfort, of unease. The guiding North star falls from the sky and lodges in our bellies and we are told to trust the interior guide, the inside speak, the individual truth come home to self.

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Embodiment Practice

  • own/be in YOUR body
  • open to now. now. now. . . . {unending}
  • live your ACTUAL circumstances
  • live in your ACTUAL body
  • create from your ACTUAL source
  • take in your ACTUAL now
  • live your reality; your ACTUAL true.

Embodiment Moment

*please consider reading out loud, in a whisper, allowing it to pass through

Embody body embody mebody me me body body body e m b o d y m e embody me as is embody me as I am right now actual actual actual now actual body actual me now now now breathe and be and embody as is as I am as I actually am now now now actual now be fully aware as fully as is possible be honest be here see taste hear exist in actual now {b r e a t h e} there is a song that is now the actual now of melody rhythm breath pause words lyrical now actual now now that is without period or ending or beginning but always now now now actual what is now that is embody body embody me body {b r e a t h e} embody surrounded body surrounded filled excavated filled delivered returned filled filled filled beyond body capacity filled filled with now with now of delight now of deluded now of devoid now now now surrounded surrounded by source creative embodied source source true real reality true source in in in take all in out out out body send all out {b r e a t h e}

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This is me embodying my living – my vibrating, overwhelming, messy ACTUAL. This is me embodying the unbelievable perfection of my magnificent pain-filled symphony.

Tell me, how do you embody?