Karinaland River

Certainty Evaporates insights harvested on beach visits, each ebb and flow forges new worlds waves sculpt, breathing new life into undefended dunes, glaciers collapse gates of heaven calmly burst, swollen sea belly summons rising oceans flooding us with pure possibilities, yet-invisible embryo is pressing against your diaphragm, breathing the future, a faint fragrance heart wings are wildly fluttering, inevitably unfolding seven generations giggling you and me we shapeshifting with clouds wind sand salt between teeth splendid sky shatters into drizzle, spray, grainy mist  ten thousand waves affirm transformation certainty evaporates, curious we remember to be pulsing or how to fulfill destiny morphing into electrical storms, burrowing new channels, listening for revelations patiently, undefined grace being born naked anew a new anew evolving  emerging Karina Epperlein, Berkeley, Sept/Oct 2026

Even If We Are Afraid At age nine, we know what we want. We roam in the fields, climb trees, steal a few cherries, or apricots when ripe. We love the sky. We draw houses, trees. We know that we want to be ourselves when grown, or an architect, a  dancer s or singer. We outrun the boys. We know what it is to be free. We bold – protect the weak, adore those ignored, othered, invisible… we grow winged…. Then comes life with all its struggles, storms, temptations, learning, waves, guides, wonders, good-byes, celebrations, loneliness, transformations. When old, suddenly we know we’ve lived a very full – truly wonder-full – life. Surprise. We belong to ourselves again. Awe. Together with the young girl,  still agile  we dance on tree limbs, swing high into the canopy… stretch our limbs…. Many-armed we bend the bow, sow the seeds, teach, prune, write, cook, pray, embrace. We know that our scars and wrinkles attract hummingbirds, butterflies, owls, hawks, moths. With every word a...

  Piercing   evening sun, fog is cooling, tempering august intensity delicate fragrance of quince seeps under skin gently… subtly… slowly… kindly just like that   a woman’s voice on the radio sharply defensive, anxious, fast, with urgency interviewer  quickly  tries to puncture her he a fervent sledge hammer just like that   we perceive perfectly polarized propaganda piercing us from all sides, I am right you are wrong, it works just like that   tempering our mood is a delicate affair, requires skill, patience – long view lowers the heat, no quelching but steadily relieving tension radical like that   really? releasing? letting go? when really, we need need need need need need all that speed might not otherwise all collapse? like that   messages of quince bring me back to earth, hands picking yellow fruit crawling into gnarly tree, imperfect shapes, beholden & beholding just as is   fingers on velvet fuzz, sensing golden goodness, in...

  Perpetual Promise   Sometimes people from the past appear out of the blue. Recently, a former long-time student of mine writes to ask about my current T’ai Chi classes. She is a memorable and lovely person, and a good writer.  “ I would so love to take one of your classes again — they still linger in my mind as times of great pleasure, peace and progress. ”  We catch up a bit on our lives in our e-mail exchange. I write back about possibilities for her to join. And we add to all the previous p’s: pleasure, peace and progress – possibility. This strikes me as a wonderful game. I add my own p’s as the days go by. There are word-wizards in the world, I am not one of them. But the palpable popping of the syllables is enticing. Just like the dry seed cups of my poppies ready to spread precious potential. Fleeting gentle explosions, play of lips. All the p’s pouncing…   Luscious memories of lingering on the floor with dictionaries. What is progress? I am on my belly...

  Simple For many years now, my life has been shifting to more and more simple. Not by chance – I work on it. Eliminating unnecessary distractions, setting clear priorities, keeping needed focus. Those are my tools in order to be of good use. In our age of “more-not-less,” I find myself an outsider. Limiting everything to essentials, to stewardship of land, students, and my own destiny. Simple life. As an eight-year-old, my relationship with Spirit is a secret refuge, my citadel. Precious. I dialogue with elusive, yet palpable, "spirit presence" through  feet,  sky, moon, trees, sounds. It lives in all things and everywhere, inhabiting my body, too. When alone, I dance in slow-motion, feeling that clearly something  unknown  is flowing through me. Or I engage in shapeshifting, seeing the world from the viewpoint of a tiny daisy in a meadow.  At age twelve, I start inventing slow sequences, gestures, postures. It's a language, an architecture. An invisible r...

  Steady and Smooth   Another meditation on qualities which we have  most likely  not explored enough. Our times are fast, rough, and ruthless. After Slow and Sweet here comes Steady and Smooth . Sounds boring, right? Who needs it, when we can successfully act rash, forcefully, flashy, edgy, getting attention quickly – succeeding in the short run. Increasing quick spikes of addictive highs, followed by devastating lows. Dullness that craves fantasies and passive hope. How to get into the groove of pleasurable active-ness? When you repeatedly sound the word “smooth” out loud, extending the vowel into an elongated cooing caress – mysteriously, soothing rivulets will start permeating your heart-body. Like a trance. Listen. Try. One long out-breath....   It feels good to sail smoooothly… all along refining sound and technique. Mindful, curious repetition, relaxing our nervous system, becoming reward, rather than achievement. In my teaching, I have noticed with old ...

Slow and Sweet   where to turn for true sweetness? slowly drink tender streams of nameless soothing? not related to fast rash harsh sugar stuff we buy, are addicted to, but rather singing swooning   flowing glowing snowing sowing   murmuring melodies, gentle waves quietly lapping at the shore of soul’s secret lake, deep inside, waiting breathing, listening with yearning ears, heart aches can we pacify the savage greed, more more more not enough?   going for the spectacular, advertised and sold as fun biggest, loudest, fastest – are we too dull, deaf, numb so insensitive, not even recognizing what is salty truth? Playful life offers  spontaneous  steady sparks,  small  sacred insights   creeping reaping weeping seeping   where can we taste slow and sweet? searching between split seconds, confounding gap amidst an in  and  out -breath, swaggering in sloppy slow-motion seeking to amaze us, sweeping our cheeks’ smooth skin snow ...

  Honesty as an act of resistance full moon freely illuminates forlorn nights will try to teach us wistful winds, the chimes will speak direct and multi-languaged, but never double tongued   as an act of resistance skeleton of sand, grains, waves soundless honest shapes, sign language whatever we always obeyed, submitted to avoiding, actively ignoring plain truth courage to be   bison being, human memories still haunting us because we did not ask, could not face what is in front of us till death enters as an act of revelation we never admitted, but it was always present   whether rudely robbing, extorting enslaving, exterminating, hiding history not willing to unmask, we take part passively gladly removed, also seemingly so innocent fierce rays of suffering now reveal helpless resisting   cold tragedy, troubled business of peace directly avoiding deft dialogue, within, without dutifully we remain deaf-blind to what is in the picture till clearly a...

  Ode to Loss When loss strikes, we have to dig deep. Such goes the saying. Looking back at the arc of my life, I realize what a large part loss has played, small and big, devastating and minor. Unexpected, and unavoidable, always carrying gifts and growth with it. Offering transformation in mysterious ways. On our life’s path, we encounter many kinds of valleys and mountains, rains and melting snow. Gentle or ferocious, our sorrow sings in streams, roars in rivers. On a steep winding trail, measured steps merge rhythmically with heartbeat. Resting on a mossed covered rock, we spot hidden mushrooms. Gratefully polishing an apple, eating it whole, leaving only the stem behind. Slices of rye bread held together with sweet butter. New ways of being, people, things, emerge miraculously. Nothing stays the same when we lose. A friend, a partner, a homeland. That’s why I fall in love with the little blue shovel that finds me – out of the blue – at the beach in January, after the last fero...