"The Balm That Soothes My Soul," a poem by Melissa Bingham

I'm feeling so jumpy today

Like I can’t stay in my skin
Not sure what it’s all about
Other than a sense of urgency

Things I want to do
Things I have to do
Things I’m called to do

Focus
Get organized
Just do it

Everyone wants a piece of me
I want a piece of me
I want all of the pieces of me

The ones that are scattered in the wind
The ones that I gave away
The ones that some one took from me
The ones I forgot I had

This body doesn’t feel like home
It feels strange, achy, fat, tired
What happened to me
It twitches with nerves
It jumps from thing to thing
It can’t seem to focus on anything

Just accomplish one task
Just focus on one thing
But… but… but…

Sit still
Be still
Listen
Listen
Listen

Only move when you are still
Be before you do
Really, really be…
Not just that mediation
You check off your list each morning
Actually establish yourself in being
First

The nerves are calming
The words pour forth
They are the balm
That soothes my soul

To write is to breathe
Stop worrying about form
Just put the word on the page

A keyboard or a pen
A journal or a screen
It doesn’t matter
Just get them out

There are so many
That want to be free

Your words
My words
Our words

Stop reading
Stop seeking
Listen and write
Listen and write
Listen and write

The answers
Are within

In the stillness
In the silence
In you

Listen and write
Not for them
But for you
Writing is the balm
That soothes my soul

Deep breath
The nerves are still
And so it begins
Again

MELISSA BINGHAM 

"Writing is my soul food.  Not writing press releases or marketing pitches or thank you notes or e-mails, it's writing from my soul through poetry, scenes and stories.  I ache when I don't do it.  I hear stanzas and dialogue in my head all day long (often next to lyrics of my favorite musicals).  When I read or hear a great piece of writing, my heart longs to pen words with such power to stir someone's soul.  (Actually, I truly just want to honor my own Soul by expressing her beautiful, radiance and realness through prose and it's impact on others is just a lovely bonus gift.) I have to feed my soul."

I had the distinct privilege of meeting Melissa recently at her home. She was offering a free, guided group meditation, that I was invited to, and I showed up. Not only was she absolutely delightful, the way that she led the meditation, was my very favorite style. She offered an intention first, then we went around our small group, and shared what we were planning to focus on specifically. After breathing, and taking a moment to giggle at the sound of a deer bathing in the creek behind her house, she offered a guided visualization. Then she minded the time and allowed us to meditate in silence. I had a truly beautiful experience. 

This week, I asked Melissa if she had any recorded meditations that I could purchase, but she instead gave me a few for free. She is planning to launch a podcast which will be a combination of interviews and meditations, so stay tuned for that in November. I would also really encourage you to go to her website. Melissa offers incredible ways to help you connect with her, your own spiritual path, and others who are on the same journey. The poem and excerpt above was written in a blog post that Melissa wrote this month entitled "What Soothes Your Soul." In addition to her blog, she has a daily intention focused Facebook group you can learn about and join, she does one-on-one counseling sessions, she does a weekly prayer call, she leads group mediations and she offers classes. 

You can find all of the above information at Melissa's website:

http://melissabingham.com

Peace, Silence and Breath,

Your Jess

"Oyster," lyrics by Jess Coffman

His hands are rough,

He’s rough and tumble.

But I like the way he chatters, 

clatters and mumbles. 

His bumby mood, 

Makes me seem so smooth.

His tough exterior’s not inferior,

In the bed room...

He’s my oyster,

And I’m his pearl.

He’s my protector,

And I’m his shiny girl.

And though it’s true,

I bother some...

He makes me stronger everyday,

In his self-preserving way.

Who knew a wright man could be,
The right man, and... 
My new favorite delicacy?

I love his arms,  

and his calloused hands.

And he loves the way I whisper my  

Adorable demands.

He always waits, 

For me to come. 

And I when I do...
it's with a hippy groove, 

That makes his edges come undone.

Cause he's my oyster,

And I’m his pearl.

He’s my protector, 

And I’m his shiny girl. 

And though it’s true,

I bother some...

He makes me stronger everyday,

In his self-preserving way.

Who knew a wright man could be, 
The right man, and...

My new favorite delicacy? 

He dresses me in dainty things, 

Mainly calcium carbonate rings, 

Cause I’m the prize and he is my shell.

I am wild, extremely rare, 

He’s a catch, we’re quite a pair.

We both thrive in extreme moisture. 

He’s my world, He is my oyster.

When I fall to pieces 

He can always fix it, 

He creates beauty, out of nothing.

He just gets it. 
When he opened up, 
I was thrilled to find...
I'm the pearl, 
But he's the treasure, 
He's every woman's pleasure. 

The perfect man...
The strong and loyal kind.

Yes, He’s my oyster,

And I’m his pearl.

He’s my protector 

And I’m his shiny girl.

And though it’s true,

I bother some...

He makes me stronger everyday,

In his self-preserving way.

Who knew a wright man 

Could grow to be,

The right man, and...

My favorite delicacy.

He's my one and only favorite delicacy.

JESS COFFMAN

"Oyster," is dedicated to all of the men out there who work really fucking hard with their hands, to support their women and their families. My dad is a teamster and I was raised by an incredibly hard-working and hard-loving "wright"man. Men who work with their hands, are beautiful, strong, often surprisingly sensitive and usually masculine as hell. 

These lyrics are meant to be in the cheeky/sexy/jazzy style of a Norah Jones tune, such as "Turn Me On," or "Man of The Hour." I came across "Man of the Hour," on Pandora while listening to the "Ella Fitzgerald" radio station, and I absolutely fell in love with it. I was grateful later to perform "Man of the Hour," at Caffe Vivaldi in NYC. I got the crowd giggling and howling with me afterward. 

Check out all of the giggling and howling in the video of me singing "Man of the Hour," at the link below. 

Jess sings "Man of the Hour" at Caffe Vivaldi

Peace, Pearls and Oysters,

Your Jess

"Spring Rain," a poem by Stephanie Weyand

Chopin Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2

(Click on the link, and read "Spring Rain" as you listen.)

As delicate as a Bolshoi ballet, I contemplate the raindrops as they dance across the quivering water. Each one giving all their heart for the performance of one beautiful piece. Those same droplets softly dabble on my skin, a warm reminder of earth's magnificent creation.

I close my eyes to listen to the chorus and revel in the breeze that caresses my cheek.  I take a deep breath and let the world surround me just this once in a swaddling of wonder and existence.

I can hear the trees accepting this display of nature, the precipitation hitting each leaf like a spectator clapping gently in awe. They too are swayed by my friend the wind, joining in the exquisite dance. 

Perfect shards of sunlight peek through clouds as spotlights illuminating each majestical movement of this rare choreography. Always adding a note of joy when least expected. 

The elements play with each other like children playing tag. Sporadically glistening on its own then suddenly throwing prisms of color all over the place as the gentle wind playfully pushes the moisture coated foliage into and out of the sun's rays.  

Mother nature has made the most beautiful composition, it's almost as if very few are invited to take part. Being honored with a secret rendition, I take one last glimpse of the beauty surrounding me before continuing on my way. 

STEPHANIE WEYAND

 "I am very interested in classical music. More specifically a huge fan of Chopin. The morning I wrote this, I was listening to Chopin's nocturne Opus 9 #2.  It was a very rainy dusky morning, and I intently watched while it slowly stopped and the sun started to emerge.

 I just noticed how when we really take time to break things down how beautiful things are, even if most people think them dismal."

I am honored to call this beautiful woman and poet, Stephanie Weyand, my family member. We only just met this past spring when I went to Pittsburgh to meet many of my east coast Italian family members, for the first time. I was loved immediately, by this family that I barely knew. And I loved them immediately. Over potato salad and homemade strawberry wine, Stephanie and I discussed music and poetry. (By the way, Chopin Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 is my very favorite Chopin piece, so that is awesome too.) We discussed how we are able to get into "the flow," and how gorgeous beauty will reveal itself within nature and people. We agreed that when that happens, we have to respond by writing it down. Truthfully, she sent me this poem months ago, and I am just now getting it out on my blog. I am so honored to be connected to a woman who sees beauty in the simplicity. I am thrilled to be able to celebrate her work. Thank-you Stephanie for your perspective and bravery. 

Peace, Rain and Chopin,

Your Jess 

"well," a poem by Jess Coffman

There is a deep dry well.
I squint my eyes, 
and peer with melancholy curiosity. 
But it's just as I'd expected...
no energy of living water,
too deep to see the bottom. 

There is a deep dry well,
hidden in a thriving forest of
redwood trees,
that have been threatened and 
and scorched 
by self-serving fires.
But still the giant mothers persist. 
They live in resilient silence. 
The fairy rings attesting to their 
loyalty and 
perseverance. 

There is a deep dry well,
that I always come back to 
after frolicking in the forest,
and attempting solace 
within the fairy rings.
I encircle its stoic stone mouth,
But my wishes never make 
the water appear. 

There is a deep dry well,
and one day after almost years,
of returning back, and finding 
nothing there,
I get brave enough 
to lower down a humble wooden bucket.

With flattened brow 
and anxious heart, 
I, with connected 
and cautious effort, 
lower the humble wooden bucket,
mouthing a prayer, 
for a trace of life at the bottom. 
My ears on high alert,
I finally hear my humble wooden bucket,
hit the bottom with a thud.
emptiness echoes upward,
and my little heart sinks to my heels. 
With distraught posture,
I pull what must feel like, 
a dead body,
up the stoic
stone well wall.
My biceps and back burn
as I labor with great sincerity 
hoping to birth, something alive.
hope, feeling sick.  
With heaving breath 
through gritted teeth, 
I examine my humble wooden bucket.
I am astonished to see
that the bottom is indeed wet!

I sip in a breath of life and love.
I close my eyes and smile,
involuntarily beginning to dance.
My mind at rest in pale periwinkle.
My arms back stroke through the air.
I skip in freedom.  
I pique within and around 
my friends, the fairy rings.
I leap to catch dandelion seeds, 
and chase the chipmunks, giggling.
But as emotion begins to recede, 
the silence becomes deafening.
my ears feel like two conch shells,
hearing an ocean that was never there. 
I reach upward to pull the joy 
back into my body. 
But the joy lifts up and away,
like a single red balloon. 
My eyes slowly open.
blackness. 

I'm alone. 
I've celebrated alone.
I've danced alone. 
The moonlight kisses
the back of my head,
and the stars lead me back
to my deep dry well.
I look down at the 
stoic stone mouth,
and see only blackness. 
I release a grieving sigh,
and living water ripples, 
catching my eye. 
disbelieving, 
I reach down tentatively.
I graze the top of the stoic stone mouth,
and with immense relief, 
soak up the wetness on my fingers.

There was a deep dry well, 
and it is filled now with my living water.
to drink, 
to take, 
to honor, 
to be reverent to, 
to be cleansed in,
to release in, 
to forget. 

JESS COFFMAN

These photos were taken while I was on a grand adventure discovering the Quarry Hill Botanical Gardens in Glen Ellen, CA. There were so many beautiful sights to see. 

I took a video of a natural spring, which I never seen before. 

It was several little springs, that eventually created and continues to fill this entire lake 

and all of the life within it. 

Don't ever assume that your little natural efforts, won't amount to a brilliant and fulfilling life. 

Peace, wellness and living water,

Your Jess

"gray chair" a poem by Jess Coffman

I sit in a gray chair,

It's simple and wooden.

The gray paint brush lines 

Run down the back, 

and flat along the seat. 

My jowls are sunken,

my lips over to the side

I bite the inside of my cheek

in a Picasso kiss. 

My forehead's relaxed,

My eyes, glint with drowning brightness, 

that dim with passing shadows. 

My knees buttoned up,
obscuring my lady bits from within my dress. 
my toes turned in toward one another.

My elbows rest on my thighs,

and one hand bares the weight 

of my heavy perspective at the moment. 

I can't take my eyes off of the lavender daisy on the shelf.

The center so brightly yellow,

The petals, vibrant and soft in color at the same time.

Regal, but in an unassuming way. 

So graceful, so delicate.

Alone and tilting slightly left, 

in my pale pink glass vase. 

She is at first so proud,

Thrilled at her chance to

fulfill her potential. 

Not aware that she is no longer

connected to the ground.

That the sun which she once

stretched so tall to lift her face to,

is nothing like the cool and aloof 

LED light above her,

in the ceiling. 

She has no idea, that she has been cut,

That she will never grow again.

She is heading ultimately to the composte bin,

If she's lucky. 

She would probably prefer that to the regular trash,

if she had a choice. 

She has no idea, that she is already dead. 

Though as her posture and over all mood begin to dip,

She becomes aware that it gets significantly harder, 

not to bow her haloed head. 

I sit there, in the gray painted chair,

knees buttoned together, head cocked to the side.

Sadly watching as the tenacious and youthful daisy,

ages so rapidly, 

Her head becoming heavier and heavier,

as her awareness increases slowly,

lower and lower. 

I could tell, the moment that she realized

that she was in fact dying.  

That she had been dead all along.

She really gave in to gravity then. 

Her stem curling up and in, 

Her last effort toward life was to lean, 

In the direction of the window, 

Where some weak sunbeams 

would shine in, a little before noon.

I have always loved flowers. 

When I was a little girl, lavender daisies
were my favorite. 

I had bought this single daisy from a bodega,

put it in my only pale pink glass vase,

with the hope that it would brighten my mood. 

But instead it only made me incredibly melancholy.

Flowers, being one of God's most pure, varied and highly stunted creations.

They are constantly being taken from their natural environment. 

They are plucked from growth, 

Removed from the soil and sun that feeds them.

Then admired for their smell and beauty,

fingered, picked and eventually die a slow death,

In the homes of those who never fully internalize 

their beauty and sacrifice. 

I finally consider leaving my post, 

Feeling as though I properly 

experienced the life and death process 

of my lovely lavender friend. 

I chose her. 

I appreciated her beauty for days, in mirthless repose.

And I observed as she gave up, and died. 

In shallow grief, 

I stood up, leaving the gray chair.

I walked heel to toe,

over to my defeated and gorgeous friend. 

With calculated care, 

I pulled her body from the pale pink glass vase,

I smelled her moldy stem,

Kissed her almost crispy petals,

and contemplated how to best honor her life. 

A man may have promptly thrown her out in her decayed state,

And gone out immediately to buy a fake one. 

But I chose neither to keep her pressed in a bookmark,

or let her decompose with the egg shells and used condoms. 

I said a prayer and lowered her into the sink,

Down into the garbage disposal.

And I couldn't even muster up a single tear,

as I flipped on the switch and heard her body,

get ripped apart repeatedly 

by the shining and murderous metal. 

JESS COFFMAN

Caffeinated, Processing and Fine,

Your Jess

"all bright" a poem by Jess Coffman

She enlivens the room,
With a flash of her smile.
She hugs your whole being,
She discovers your good.
She laughs under beanies,
She cries everyday,
Her glassy eyes see you,
and beg you to stay.

She dances on toes,
Meant to swim in the sea.
Her soul is wide open,
Her love's given free.
She's heaven's soft kiss,
and Gaia's pure gold,
She'll give you her life,
And her hand to hold.

But those eyes never lie,
and her words spill like tears,
When her faith is dried out in the sun.
Though her legs are like roots,
And her voice like a flute,
She can't see herself as "the one."

Light offers light,
in the hopes that she might,
See her worth, as a beacon of love.
But she gives herself up,
Sacrificing her cup,
Clipping the wings of a dove.

She envisions a world,
plugged into peace.
She shows up each morning,
Attempting hope.
She offers her stories,
She trusts in the path,
She faces the battle,
Easing the wrath.

She receives, what she gifts,
Tiny slivers of God,
She's grateful for each,
then releases.
She sprinkles them over
The heads of the needing,
Truth scattered,
In millions of pieces.

But those eyes never lie,
and her words spill like tears,
When her faith is dried out in the sun.
Though her legs are like roots,
And her voice like a flute,
She can't see herself as "the one."

Light offers light,
in the hopes that she might,
See her worth, as a beacon of love.
But she gives herself up,
Sacrificing her cup,
Clipping the wings of a dove.

She'll help you see life,
As an endless bounty,
An abundance of beauty and rest.
She's never resolved,
She lives by the call,
She'll break herself, doing her best.

She takes every challenge,
She'd save any stranger,
Her beauty is lasting and fair.
I pray that someday, she would thrive
In her glow, and would remain
Forever aware.

She's radiant love,
She can fly if she wants,
Her heart reformed and relieved,
She's heaven on earth, a channel for good
She is All,
If she only believed.

JESS COFFMAN

"all bright" is inspired by and dedicated to my beautiful soul sister Alicia Albright. I have had the immense privilege of getting to know her, be lit up by her, listen to her, learn from her, be supported by her, be super weird with her, dance alongside her and love her. 

She is one of the best humans I know, and quickly has become one of my favorite people. 

Let's be real dear, you're one of everyone's favorite people. 

Peace, Light and Sisterhood,

Your Jess

"echoes of gold" a poem by Jess Coffman

The rooster calls,
My body's awake,
It's still and it's clenching,
Building to break.

The woodpeckers peck,
at the chest in my chest,
keeping the gold,
locked safe 'neath my breast.

Breath, sipped and shallow,
that surrenders to sighs,
that surrender goodbyes,
amidst weakening thighs.

I close my eyes softly,
accepting the gift,
As time watches wittingly,
"the present is swift."

Eyes seeping ocean,
Blue angels await,
Tension surmounting...
it quakes,
then abates.

Energy swirls,
golden flecks in the calm,
It blesses then settles,
as we lay palm to palm.

The silence is smooth,
soaked with mercy and peace,
We pull in so tightly,
And with awareness, release.

Each moment heavy,
like a single tear,
filling with grace,
dropping to disappear.

The breeze exhales,
cherishing my face,
it reminds me that fate
has a friendly embrace.

The woodpecker stops,
when my chest opens bare,
and a single gold coin,
floats to spin in the air.

I watch as the coin,
descends to our hands,
I let go in our grip,
So it properly lands.

I smile, as your fingers enwrap
'round my treasure.
Forever to keep,
of this moment of pleasure.

The look in your eyes,
whispers words with no voice,
They grant me the promise,
to honor this choice.

The rumble of bliss,
echoes across our hearts,
As wholeness concedes,
so the future can start.

JESS COFFMAN

"the voice of providence" a poem by Jess Coffman

Arms open wide,
Fingers splayed with white energy shooting from the tips. 
Choking hesitation,
Knees buckled, with eyes open wide.

"Don't look down," my heart whispers to myself.
"Don't do this at all" or "Leap into your Life!"
my heart,
my fearless guide. 
Though, not always the clearest or wisest guide.
She has led to the edge before.
Though I've never felt quite like this.
So, I'm contemplating the idea, 
that she may be getting wiser. 
Though my soul, I know to be the most wise.
Listening to my soul's voice, 
as opposed to my heart, 
is exposing itself to be, 
my most profound adult challenge. 

I inch to the edge, 
And of course I look down to the immense beauty below. 
I'm learning to stop and take in my choices,
Instead of flinging myself off the cliff of possibility.
Openness I do well, it may be one of my best qualities. 
But an open heart, even if its strong, 
Shatters at the bottom of the ravine,
If thrown with uninhibited force,
and without proper buoyant protection. 

My heart says "Leap!" "Go!" "Do It!" 
But my soul says "wait." "be cautious." "be aware."
The voices compete for my attention. 
And because I've listened to my heart over soul,
over and over again in my life, 
My heart voice is much louder. 

I close my eyes softly,
seeing the light behind my eyelids.
I feel the silent gravity of the chasm below. 
It neither calls to me or rejects me.
It just waits, with enormous beauty and space. 
Timeless. 
I'm ready to jump into its depth,
And fly-dance all the way down,
Painting the air, with my love.
All of my vibrant colors firing out of me,
and splattering on rocks and trees, and animals. 
The muted colors ooze out, becoming ribbons  
that twirl and stay near to me. 
New colors are created, and I'm high-delighted.
Everything I am, exploding and trickling out
at the same time, and I feel so alive as I fall. 
My chest squeezes itself in an excited hug. 

The weight of the colors and the numerous amount of ribbons,
entangle to form a hammock of safety for the way down.
And I'm safe in this parachute of peace. 
I slow down immensely, and tiptoe, then collapse into the hammock. 
Legs open, one over the edge, arms outstretched.
I rock gently side to side.
I take in the scent of the earth,
and the sound of the woodpeckers and hummingbird wings. 
My heart beats slowly, my mind relieved, surprised, peaceful. 
My soul gleams. 
The bees smile. 
I land so softly in the ravine, resting upon the colors of my life. 
My hammock becomes a boat, and I float calmly
on these cleansing waters. 
My heart and soul, at peace. 
In alignment.
Speaking the same words,
And I don't have to choose, 
I am. 

When I open my eyes, my vision beautiful and clear. 
I take stock of my body, and feel the wind as it pushes me back. 
I feel the weight of the air in my lungs, and my body on my feet.
I step back from the edge,
waiting for the voice of my soul to speak. 
I am listening.
I am aware. 
It is silent, but I am patient. 

JESS COFFMAN

Peace, hope and stillness,

Your Jess