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...long overdue, yet perfectly timed.
Many years ago, I embarked on a passionate and enduring scholarly study of the psychology of Carl Jung, attracted by Jung's compelling emphasis on individuation—a second half of life directive to live as consciously and authentically the largest lives of which we are capable within the time we are each allotted by fate. However, early on I was naïve to the challenges and struggles such a commitment would sometimes have in store for me. Thanks to the women writers trained in Jungian and other psychologies, I found myself provided with a creative language about the Feminine to which I could relate and find support. These experiences continue to influence my life and inform my writing.
Publishing Charting the Lost Continent (Rainbow River Press, 2020) in the ninth decade of life seems both long overdue, yet perfectly timed. Whatever your gender, circumstance, or stage of life, you might be feeling called to add your voice, your gifts, your contributions, your compassion, and most especially your everyday uniqueness to the much-needed rebirth of that lost continent of the Feminine as we do what we can to answer the eternal cry to help make our world whole. My hope for this book is you will find affirmation and companionship here if you need it, as I so often did through others.
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Poetry has the power to help us deeply connect with others while accessing our higher selves. At its best, poetry can act as a reflective mirror and catalyst for personal growth and societal change. Charting the Lost Continent comes at a time in history when its message is more important than ever as both men and women collectively work toward female empowerment, self-acceptance, and gender equality. The author has arranged this collection in sections that reflect the universal themes and life passages of women, taking readers along on a courageous journey of navigation and discovery.
It takes so long
to peel skin from your orange
self you could be dried up
dead before you dare disorder,
laugh yourself sticky, drink
the sky, become cerulean blue.
Better do it now,
devour the peach before
it’s shriveled. Let juice
and bits of yellow pulp
define you, snail along
your tongue, create tributaries
down your chin, then beach
like tiny landing crafts in the soft
crevices of your neck.
Find compassion for critics,
the ones who leave and those
alive in you who fear such messy
appetites. Wear a bright orange
fool’s cap on your head to keep
the heat from leaving when
you have to cry, its tasseled bells
remind there is no need to find
false skins for cover. The unpeeled
flesh is where your juice remains.