She says:
Hold on to yourself.
You are not done unraveling,
pulling thread
upon thread from the ply.
Trust, have faith.
Soon all the stories
that were not yours
will be spun out
pulled from the liminal edge
of your sacred space;
cast to the wind
to spiral pirouetting
into their own destinies.
Not yours though,
untwined and rubbed raw

you will come before me
to ask the question
that is yours alone to ask;
A circle opening and closing,
creating the sanctuary
Of your being

Can you feel it?
The healing sway
of the willow tilting
your grounding to beyond

Can you hear it?
The red-winged call of blackbird
parting the veil
to wilding mystery

I am here
I have always been here
The sacred weave
Of your numinous holding.

Ode to an early riser 

Have you walked on the liminal edge 
Of early morning light? 

Mist cloaking 
The sleepy face of the river 
Before the day pulls 
Aside her white veils? 

Haunting calls 
Of the geese lingering 
Beyond the cattail quietudes 
Of willow-bound solace 

Delighted wonder 
From last night’s rain 
Dripping into the harmonies 
Of the forest floor 

Have you come 
Into the solitude that was always to be your gift 
Dissolving muddy night questions 
Into the liquid alchemy 
Of presence? 

These moments are beyond telling. 

Will you come, asks the river 
Will you meet me 
On the edge of all things 
To become, just for a moment 
Everything and nothing?


I didn’t know I needed to grieve 
Until the blackberry grove 
Opened itself within me 
Thorny dome entangled 
As it was with all the sharp 
Rage that had held me together 
And kept me apart. 

Enter it said, 
Move within the protected hollow 
See the white petaled stars 
Softness behind the pain 
Lay within the hallowed womb 
Until you become as water 
Flowing around and through 
While the night cascades around you.


Midsummer day
The leaves shimmy
Beneath a changeable sky
This moment, these moments
Cycling year to year
Threaded through the 
Eye of the solstice
Despite my tired countenance
I connect. Into the legacy of
Our sun rhythms
The tilted dance
Of millennia of seasons

Remembrance flares
Of many circling hands
Held and spinning
The shimmer of sacred space
For a moment my singularity
Is blinding in its ache
I lean in, breathe. 
The poplar fluffs float by
A gentle nudge
   to the now
   to my belonging to this place
   to this time
   to today's solstice gifts. 


I am more than an opposite force 
More than a definition of absence 
I am not the negative space left 
    by your expectations 
I am presence. An additive
Even with all these mosaic pieces 
Scattered colours and patterns 
Held together in synergy.  
The piece you see
Are not placed in defiance 
Of you 
     your patterns 
     your palette 

An oeuvre expression 
Of longing to become. 
An emergence beyond 
My childhood factory setting 
Into a unique definition 
Outlined by a knowing 
That is not yours 
But mine.  

I am more than a comfortable landscape 
To hang on your wall 
A bought solace ready 
To comfort you with pleasant 
Unchallenged in your perspective.  
I am no Rorshach 
To project yourself onto  
Nor mirror 
To reflect back 
The form of your preferences

I am an unfinished piece 
As unbound, dynamic 
As the changing seasons 
Pulling crimson fire 
Against alabaster drifts 
Bursting verdant 
From within a cerulean flow. 

I am more 
And less 
Then what you have conceived 
Then what you see 
I am no angel, nor devil 
Rather a complex balance 
Of line, shape, and composition.  
Could you come to appreciate 
Me, even if you don't understand?   

Regardless, I must persist 
In the insistence 
Of this multi-faceted vision 
That continues to reclaim me 
     heal me 
     save me       
     create me

Palm Marks 

Palm-marks press into soft moments 
A feathering lineage outlining  
The hands 
Of me 

I trace these branching wonders 
Proof of passage 
As delicately as I hold all the 
Entwining joys and sorrows 
They leaf from the same stem 
Unique in pattern, and far more intricate 
More complex 
Than any shape I could try to squeeze myself into 

This is me, lines that carry beyond the borders 
A brief imprint of the hand-held vulnerability 
Ever ready to reach out and hold the sky

The First Night 

My memory of that night
Is fluid
The way memory is
Events flexing,
adapting, absorbing
the liquid context
of meaning.
Stories layered upon each other
alternate versions
of truth within
each textured discovery.
What doesn’t change
is the title;
the meta knowing
that however flawed,
however mutable
this is our origin.
Cherished in each
edit, rewrite, and translation.

The Quality of My Love 

I am of birch and wind
The fickle response
To the urge for immediacy
And the slow breath
Of trees and stars.
This place in between is
Where I live.
Between silence and beat
The stillness of listening
I am of seasons and flow
Moving within
The presence of remembrance
A cycling resonance
Of water and light.
This is the quality of my love.


Did we know?
—in that moment
when our eyes met across that room, 
across oceans of time, pain, and place—
Did we know a secret magnetism
was calling us home?
Green on blue map markings,
course-correcting bearings
among all the navigated savagery,
across all the lost wilds
we had traversed without.

Did we know this wild rose
would bloom between us?
Poles shifting until
starry-eyed, our circle connects;
A fixed point amidst torrents
of world-worn chaos and despair.
Our love, our commitment
a beacon in the night.

Enduring. Constant. True. 


In the most literal content-based sense
Sisyphus had a problem.
A boulder shaped disparity
Between expectation and reality
Within the absurd monotony
Of a repeated empty struggle
Without change, without purpose.

​ Let's roll with this for a moment
Clearly Sisyphus
Had a pattern that on first glance
Could be called maladaptive.
Punishment enacted over and over
For living life too preciously
—Too cleverly—
In the pursuit of all
The immersed pleasures of earthly existence.

​ How heavy is that?
This micro-focus on every pound
Of that existential weight.
The muscle shake of resisting
The dreadfulness of futility.

There is more. There is always more
The whole greater than sums of parts.

For there is an instant,
A wild exclamation at the pinnacle
When the stones of sorrow and toil
Release downwards
When Sisyphus stretches his arms
Light as two fallen feathers
And runs joyful, wind in hair
Descending rebellious free
To laugh meaning into the moment.

​ There is value in his process
Of pushing hopefulness ever upward
In the lightness of a mind organized
Around transcendent levity
Rising up again and again
To disrupt the silence of stone fate.



Find Me



Previous events


Shades of the Living Light The music of Hidegard von Bingen

Yoga MCC, 2028b 33rd Ave. SW., Calgary, Alberta


Shades of the Living Light

The music of Hidegard von Bingen

March 12, 2016 7:00-9:30pm

$30+ gst

Vanessa Cardui - voice, guitar

Sora - voice, piano

Dorothy Bishop - cello

Trudy Hipwell - percussion

Prashant - bansuri, guitars

"The beauty and depth of theme found in Hildegard’s theology, philosophy, cosmology and medicine can all be found condensed in her music as in a jewel."


Sands of Time Exhibit

Essentia, 1113 Kensington Rd. N.W., Calgary, AB

We would love to invite you to the Sands of Time Opening Reception where you will be able to view Liba's incredible peices of art, while contemplating time. Sora will also be singing Celtic melodies that are sure to put you in awe!Liba Labik is a local visual artist who explores in her latest work time and its impact on life. She is using mainly oil, encaustic and mixed media in her work.During Liba's Opening Reception for "The Sands of Time," Sora will be singing. Sora is a World/Celtic singer, songwriter and multi-instrumentalist whose soaring voice and poetic lyrics have garnered her international acclaim. *30% of each art piece sold in January at Essentia will go to the Calgary Wildlife Rehabilitation Society.For more information, please visit:


Annual Candlelight Shindig

The Lantern Community Church, 1401 10th Ave SE, Calgary, AB

A Christmas story interspersed with holiday music.