in the air




in the air

afloat everywhere

set free


it’s own current

sent past our globe

our breathing

turns the planet


birds soar on

its current

bringing the bees

and all their work


the miracle

of movement

stems from little old me

hold on to your galaxy




singing for the fields



three hills,


back & forth

connecting all



a ribcage

of sorts,



structure & strength

holding in


and sounds


the ground

shaped as

a shallow






all the love


nine people

in the center


rings all around


from their throats

from their hearts

syllables  made

of vowels


held in

the dish

of the land

and our beings


the chakra

of the region

aligning to

create a new wellness









A Force is Born… or, A Box of Saws


i’ve never pondered my conception before this moment, and if it’s true that we pick our parents

my parents had only known each other a very short time. after 10 days, they married, it was a late May wedding at the courthouse. the following April i was born…i came through them. the miracle, the assault, the awakening, the beginning of a rush of life, a stream of growth, pain and challenge.  as i look back, look at, allow a new version, a new vision…i see that it’s time to take off the glasses of horrors and look through the lens of Force.

Me. the Force. i forced my way in and through. i had a voice and i had momentun. i had my father’s heart & eyes & ears. he heard and saw me and was a fan of mine, cultivating where he could, the voice and power of the Force.  at birth, my parents named me and the  force  of a grandmother steps in and declares that my name ought to be and will be Candice WHOOSH. the dog also dies the day i am born—-making way for, Me.

the stage is set and i love to be on it. i am in my glory, on stage i flow, i sing, i am a channel of humor, joy and light. HA- how about that! i can sing and dance and make you laugh. oh , the shows i used to put on, what fun i had flowing and glowing and then i was stopped and i barely made it out alive. it’s only now that i finally have this other view. this look at the real me, not just the pained me.

so, i was stopped- forced to retreat, feel insane, to detach, to dissociate….for survival.   this became my breath….3 years of torture alters breath- and i never said a word.   never.      

i silently lived in terror, desperation and constant upheaval. to keep my breath, to keep breathing the same air inside my matchbox-over & over. i didn’t know.

i’m only now getting  fresh air at 43. thank  god and all that has served to wake me up…i am so truly grateful.

creating this constant regurgitation has been exhausting, beyond stale is the air.

and somehow a boy, a son, a wonder has grown in this environment of mine that has been so stifled and riddled with constipation.

surely the most glorious and colorful creatures  have grown in, and out of the cracks and crevices of the stoney mountains that we call ourselves.

i grew through the tangle of my parents and the filth they brought to my life.

somehow that seed in me continues to have that urgency, that inclination to break though and force its way through the blockades and avalanches.

no more emergencies, no more stale air. it’s time for wide open spaces…i have a life to create.

beauty that has the force of a freight train behind it

songs to sing and jokes to tell

stories  and tales  to write

dances to create

hands to hold and lips to kiss

air to breathe and diving into water

sunshine to allow in

love to give

friendships to tend


other Forces to mingle with