Synchronicity

Whenever I use this term, I must sing it syllabically ("Syn-chro-ni-ci-ty") whether in my head only or aloud to the melody of the Police song by that title. Lately, so many instances have occurred that I feel buzzing with excitement.

This particular time began with a forwarded e-mail referring me to a talk by poet Kim Rosen titled "Poetry: Medicine for the Soul." I'd not heard of Kim before, but I've always loved the idea (and experienced the reality) of poetry as a means of healing, so after listening to this talk, I ordered her book (with an accompanying CD), Saved by a Poem.

Though I didn't have time to begin reading the book before leaving for a short trip to southern Oregon, I did bring along the CD to listen to on the way. While in Oregon, I was invited to stay the night at the lovely woman's home where I attended a meeting because temperatures dropped quickly into the teens and a late-night drive back to the California coast on icy winding mountain roads would have been dangerous.

The following morning, drinking tea and talking to my hostess, I mentioned Rosen's CD and asked whether she'd heard of her. "Well," my new friend said, "Kim began writing that book in the room you just spent the night in. In fact, she's going to be in Eugene soon, which is only three hours from here." The details of how Kim Rosen ended up staying there are my friend's own tale of synchronicity, one rich in meaning to her life.

Needless to say, we are going to hear Kim Rosen in Eugene on Sunday and my anticipation over following the next length of thread to this event is growing.

Women Who Run with the Wolves

Lately, I read from this book by Clarissa Pinkola Estes (I fondly think of her as "Pinky") each day, allowing these archetypal stories to slowly steep in me. Over the last few days, I've felt this sinking in my spirit, a feeling I once named depression but now choose not to name it (and thus all-too-conveniently wrap it up in all the [sometimes false] notions I have about it) but to explore the feeling instead.

Estes refers to the "peaks and valleys" of our lives and how wolves "ride them as efficiently, as fluidly, as possible." She goes on to write that "the instinctual nature has the miraculous ability to live through all positive boon, all negative consequence, and still maintain relationship to self, to another." I've been working to become more attuned to my instincts and intuition over the last year (as opposed to focusing on knowledge and reasoning), which has opened me up to remarkable and surprising synchronicities and associations/relationships----what I've been needing for so long. It's these relationships that our culture so easily cuts off with its pressures on us to produce and maintain a certain style of living.

And so, I am trying to focus on looking at the depressions I fall into on occasion not as something I should or even can avoid, but as a kind of "compost pile" I'm naturally a part of at certain points on my wheel of living, a necessary breaking down in order to find myself built up again.

To quote Estes: "We have erroneously been trained to accept a broken form of one of the most profound and basic aspects of the wild nature. We have been taught that death is always followed by more death. It is simply not so, death is always in the process of incubating new life, even when one's existence has been cut down to the bones."

Thus, when I'm depressed, I can remind myself that I am in a necessary period of incubation, preparing for the new (and surprising) that is to come.

Peter Gabriel's THE BOOK OF LOVE

I Am Thankful. . .

for the bountiful beauty all around, the peace and warmth of our home with our fellow furry beings, for friends---old and new---my heart's full to bursting.

In the Company of Women

Having grown up in the South with only an older brother (no sisters), and relating more to my father than my mother, in general I've seemed to look up to men more than women for much of my life. As a pre-adolescent, I hung out with my younger male cousins, leading them into the dense pine woods "in the back" and proving to them (and myself) that I could find a way out again. In high school, I admired and looked up to my brother and his musician friends (and even married two of them).

Conversely, I looked at (and experienced) most women as shallow, interested only in the trivialities of appearance, in vicious gossip or fundamentalist Christianity, or in out-doing other women somehow, whether in gaining power in the workplace (and working head-to-head with paternalistic men) or in their homes, bragging on how they manipulate their husbands.

In this transitional time for me, now that I'm living in the Northwest and have retired from full-time work, I realize that in the fifty-four years I lived in the South, I formed only one long-term friendship with a woman whom I continue to stay connected with on any deeper level. Yet in the year and a half I've lived here, I've met and befriended (and continue to meet) several women of different ages who are willing and eager to connect at a level I never expected possible for me to enjoy----without competition, supporting and reveling in our differences and various talents and gifts.

What an unexpected pleasure it is to be in the company of women and to love it so.

Remembering Dreaming

Dreams have fascinated me for as long as I can remember, so reading Jane's piece about dreams inspired me to take her advice and simply ask to remember my dreams (since remembering them has been a problem lately). Raised on Southern Baptist teachings, the biblical "Ask and ye shall receive" seems natural enough (though I've long since left behind the patriarchal religion), but I'm amazed at how often I don't allow myself to ask for what I need, even when all that is required is for me to personally address that entity, to treat her with respect, and acknowledge her mystery and power.

And what do you know. . . I've been remembering my dreams again, busily scribbling down their essence before fully waking each morning. Somehow this ritual makes me feel more whole, less hurried, and more attuned to the beauty of life. And I am grateful.

Sometimes I have "movie dreams" in which I'm not really a part of the dream but am merely an observer----and elaborate, often beautiful stories develop. Though I have my own examples, I'll refer you to a fascinating one recorded beautifully here by my dearest friend Anita.

Even my little Corgis seem to enjoy their dreams, their short legs twitching as they breathe heavily and irregularly, eyes rolled back in their heads. I remember visiting a friend once who had an Irish setter that apparently dreamed of running after some delectable prey while my friend prompted him on by whispering "Get him, Aesop; get him!" and the dog's legs, no longer relaxed though he was still asleep, would begin to move in unison, faster and faster, as if he were really carrying his body through that field of dreams.

And who is to say that our spirits aren't really visiting these places we dream of, that my father, dead these past four years, wasn't really communicating with me this morning as he pointed out to me the little squirrel turning and turning an acorn in his paws, and I showed him the blue jay perched in plain view.

Mill Creek Trail, Jedediah Smith State Park

Mill Creek ripples over smooth stones with the gentle sound of applause from a distance, fall leaves drifting by in its clear water, sun breaking through clouds as I stopped to look up, to breathe deeply the cool fall air, recently rain-washed clear of the dry season's dust.

The irony that such a lovely body of water would be named "Mill Creek"----which speaks of man's belief that a creek is not an entity in itself so much as a thing to use----is just another reminder of how fortunate we are that this paradise was allowed to remain despite civilization's hunger for turning nature into man's designs.

Fear

Reading Resolute's piece on fear on the Anima website reminds me of how often fear has surrounded my life, constricted it in ways I have tried to ignore rather than face.

When I was a child I was so afraid of the dark, I'd lie in bed with the covers pulled over my head, trying not to breathe deeply, watching to see whether the covers moved when I took my shallow breaths, imagining something or someone looking at the bed and deciding that it was empty and thus moving on, leaving me alone, which was all I desired, I thought----to be left alone.

I lost this particular fear at some point but gained a whole slough of others, it seems, as I matured and came to see myself as somehow "different" and thus in need of hiding again----because how could I allow others to see what I really thought, that school was boring and pointless, that I had no true friends, that my parents didn't really care about me, that the world of so-called "normal" people seemed alien to me and I had no idea how or whether I even wanted to fit in.

And so, it seems, I've tried to do essentially the same childish thing again and again in my life, to figuratively hold my breath and remain unseen as I negotiated the world of school, marriages, family, work----hiding from others, and as it turns out, from myself.

The most pleasant release from this fear that I learned when I was young was through music, reading, and being in nature, all of which continue to soothe my fears, but it seems their release must come from more concentrated efforts that require me to be patient with their revealing themselves over time---- these layers and layers of suffocating blankets I'd come to hide under----peeling them off, one by one, and shaking myself free.

Red Rock

Last week I drove with a friend over 3,000 miles on a (round) trip down to Taos, New Mexico, to participate in a writing workshop given by Natalie Goldberg, whose books WRITING DOWN THE BONES and WILD MIND continue to inspire new and experienced writers alike. As with any organized event, one can easily find fault, which I did, but after another day passed, I could feel what I'd learned begin to register in my body and mind, and I'm grateful for having gone, in spite of my disappointments.

All along the way, driving through such dramatically different country, I felt tugged and pulled to stop (which I had no time to do), to touch the ground, to linger and appreciate the beauty of the place. What torture it is to speed through nature. We did pause in our trip for a couple of hours at the Arches National Park, though, where monolithic sculptures stand as fabulous testaments to the passage of time and the wearing of wind and sand.













Another briefer stop was at the Earthships community, where we toured through one of the off-the-grid houses. Though I wouldn't want to live there---not enough trees, and the water supply is too limited---I would love to one day build one of these houses. The sloping, rounded edges of their colored-glass-studded interiors appeal to me, as do, of course, their energy efficiency, sustainability, and independence. What fun to use cast-off material to create such a lovely home, partially submerged and nestled into Earth as insulation and comfort.

WATER

Set in 1936 India, the film WATER explores the lives of widows, another horrid story of female oppression. I hadn't known about this tradition but it reminded me again of humans' darkest side, our ability to shut out others based on sex. And so I sobbed through this film before walking over to my neighbor's for a little visit, and she sent me home with an antidote, another movie titled KINKY BOOTS with a very similar theme, actually, though this time with a cross-dressing man in London as a central character and a more cheerful ending. Only now did the similarity between the two films strike me.

Which, I suppose, takes me to the value of writing (which I have a regular argument within myself about).

I'm a huge fan of Derrick Jensen's writing because he has broken through so many taboos about what can be written about (and writes with such courage about aspects of his own life), which has literally saved my life before because I can relate to his descriptions of how civilization silences us on so many levels.

I attended a conference recently where a great many brilliant, mostly younger (around my daughter's age) people met to talk about the era we're in----I'll use the title of a Jensen book to describe it----ENDGAME-----and how best to be the activists and proponents for Earth (as opposed to civilization).

Of course everyone at first acknowledged the elephant in the room, and then proceeded to speak the veiled language one must use when one must be super sensitive to how that language could be interpreted by someone unfriendly to one's causes. This lent an air of unreality to the entire scene that made me feel as if I were, indeed, playing a game, while at the same time knowing it wasn't.

And so, it was difficult for me to maintain focus on the tasks at hand because I wanted to discuss the "meta-" characteristics (i.e., situated behind or beyond; more comprehensive: transcending—usually used with the name of a discipline to designate a new but related discipline designed to deal critically with the original one) of what I observed at the event and of civilization in general, which is one of Jensen's themes that most interests me, how people are silenced, how we learn to self-censor. To quote from A LANGUAGE OLDER THAN WORDS, "Underlying the different forms of coercison is a unifying factor: silence" (p. 263). Also, a bit further on, he states that "in order to maintain our current mode of being, we must ignore a tremendous amount of information" (p. 303). And, of course, "to ignore" is to repress, to silence. I'd jotted down this additional quote (and I may have truncated it) but don't know which Jensen text I took it from: "Abusive systems (whether personal or political) work best when the victims police themselves (through internalizing their helplessness in the face of 'invincible abusers')."

And so, I overheard in a nearby group one young woman wearing dark sunglasses in this bright room say, "I'm a hermit; I'm very shy; this is hard for me," and I could only praise her in my mind for being so brave in coming to the event, but I wondered whether she'd find what she was seeking----a relief from silence.

My own experience in one of the groups was more silencing----someone who said that the "personal" should be withheld and instead the political task at hand, a prompt, should be the focus of the discussion.

That's what made me realize I was in the wrong place for what I desired----there wasn't enough room for me to dip water from this stream. I see most things as personal (and definitely value the personal over the political). After all, without people who feel connected and trusting of one another, how far can the political take us?

Tolowa Dunes

The Tolowa lived in this northern California paradise a long time before any pale European faces showed up with their conquering mentality and muskets. Walking through sandy-soil pastureland through patches of shady spruce on to the rolling sand dunes that finally lead to the ocean feels as if you're walking back to a simpler time, when plants spoke as clearly to you as the birds. The St. George Reef Lighthouse is visible from afar, a foggy reminder of men who wish to point the way.

Transported by Music

Antony and The Johnsons performing "The Guests," by Leonard Cohen
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l48aOXWKx4E&feature=related

Not Posting for Now

Sometimes it's enough to be silent, watch the garden grow, and now, begin to wither in its time.

Soaking up the sun of a bright fall day is preferable to the glare of a computer screen.

Events, visitors, and travels fill this month's and part of next month's calendar pages, welcome in their odd converging during this harvest time.

To any reader(s) out there, I'll be back!

Thinking about Tolle

I'm reading Eckhardt Tolle's A NEW EARTH and also watched his DVD "meditation" in which he mentions something I wasn't aware of because I don't watch much TV nor do I keep up with popular news except when I'm reading magazine covers in the grocery line----that Opra featured his book a couple of years ago, apparently, and he is (or perhaps was, as such phenomena go) quite the rage. That in itself would have been enough to keep me away from him (since I am dubious about anything that masses of people go in for), but, as I mentioned, I was unaware of all of this when I bought his book for its subtitle (Finding Your Life's Purpose) in an airport bookstore.

What is his message's appeal? Learning to separate oneself (one's ego) from one's "stories," reminds me of my own youthful efforts (inspired by Don Juan in Carlos Castaneda's fictions that I consumed earnestly at the time) to not identify too closely with the language that builds up in our heads nor in that of others about who we "are" or even who we are not, which can be an equally appealing stance, making us feel strong and powerful in our fist-raising against the "majority" or some other group perpetrating what we perceive as wrong.

Yet Tolle reminds us to get out of our stories and to live in the present moment, to BE. Stop the incessant talking in our heads, the repetitious droning, and notice what is here, now. Experience it fully, bodily. Breathe deeply. Be open to possibility (rather than always defining it and thereby limiting it). Release yourself from the illusion that you have a future (since one can only truly experience the present; even when one remembers a past event, its memory is re-envisioned, and changed, in one's present mind).

I don't think it's "transcendence" he's proposing but total being, unless you understand his recommendation to release yourself from the mind's chatter as "transcending" the mind. He mentions four primary states-----sleep, dreaming, normal awareness (in which we are thinking and telling stories), and this state of more-than-awareness. This state is similar to that of an infant or of an animal who appears to be entirely present and unjudgmental, yet since it is accomplished by one who is learning to silence the endless mental storytelling, it's different from those who do not have words (and different from those who are ill, suffering from dementia and stranded in an eternal present moment filled with confusing pieces of stories, swirling incomprehensibly).

And I can't imagine that he proposes we remain in such a state, only that we are able to achieve it, to add this dimension of being to our awareness and to experience its many benefits to ourselves and to others.

Clearing

Clearing away clutter in our study this morning, I came across a packet of old photographs and report cards my mother had given me some time ago, and discovered one of my favorites among them.






















The excitement I felt as a brave four-year-old climbing atop a pony for the first time I can feel even now, fifty-one years later. How many suburban children of my generation knew this pleasure, made more real in its photographic commemoration?

Seeing our yard in Baton Rouge also brings back vivid memories of going outside to play in the morning, returning at lunch for fuel, and eagerly zipping back outside to play some more, digging with a spoon in dirt, making mudpies, exploring the ditches for tadpoles and frogs, stirring the street's hot asphalt bubbles with a stick, running back to the house to plead for a nickel to buy ice cream from the passing musical truck, tagging along with my older brother, observing his games with his friends. We didn't have television yet.

My mother sometimes caught me after lunch, made me lie down to nap, and I can remember measuring my breath against hers, watching her fingers tap out (seemingly unconsciously) piano tunes on the bedspread, her eyes shut, wondering how I could possibly sleep, with Mother saying "Just be still for a while," and then finally taking her advice and falling into a slumber, riding into the sunset on my painted pony.

Sinkyone Wilderness

A friend and I drove down to the Sinkyone Wilderness, about four hours from here, in Mendicino County, California, a lovely place to hike, with elk roaming about but no bears, only marauding chipmunks that chewed up part of a peach we left out on our picnic table. The herd is seen here at dusk, bedding down. After clicking on the photo to enlarge it, notice the nursery of small ears in a grouping, and then some adolescent ones in another huddle.






This is the vast view beyond the herd.













And here's a proud male, looking quite ridiculous to me, but clearly feeling powerful and bold in his leafy headdress, which he hopes will catch some strong female's eye. . .














The visitors' center there, where friends are hosts for a while this summer, is named for Needle Rock.

















Part of me likes to see nature consuming industrial remains, another part feels this poor tree must have indigestion.

Movie-Watching Again

MRS. PALFREY AT THE CLAREMONT is a rich, beautiful film, full of the sadness of a life lived fully yet coming to its end, in contrast with that of a young person trying to find a way to live. (It's based on a novel by British author Elizabeth Taylor, which I've not read but plan to.)

I'm at the odd mid-point in life ("odd" only because I'm in it and if we pretend for a moment to view it linearly with an assumed quota of years), a tipping point of sorts, moments of youthful yearnings juxtaposed with longer periods of dealing with my own demise, and so this movie made me tearful as I considered the poignancy of the unexpected and undeserved generosity of relative strangers.

Who ever thinks of strangers as generous. Instead, people tend to fear those they don't know, ever believing the weird media accounts to be indicative of the entirety of humanity (except ourselves, of course). When a kindness is shown, it's inspiring to us all.

Addicts of Ideas

To continue my thinking on When enough is enough, I'm aware that our consumer-culture encourages, first, our identification with THINGS in order to keep us buying them, of course, but it also has commodified ideas, so that people identify with their collections of ideas, of how much they perceive they know, of how many diplomas they have displayed on their office walls, of the lists of books they've read, music they know. . . all of which is ego-driven behavior, designed to have us identify with this fiction we create called "I." And, of course, the creation must be ongoing, so that one NEVER has "enough" of anything, and the comparisons and competition are neverending. Perhaps this is one reason the proliferation of easily-accessed information via the Internet is so popular. One feels powerful to be in control of so much knowledge, as if the person who accesses it has somehow internalized it, has become this wealth of information, and thus is also powerful.

How good it feels to step outside of this ever-striving behavior, to simply BE and enjoy our lives.

And how much better life could be if more people would step outside of their little self-creations they tend so carefully and take long walks in the woods, wearing paths of care and observation into the thickets, clearing their minds of the brambles and briars of ego, taking adventures into the unknown moment.

A Daily Dose of Beauty

In Wolf Hardin's latest essay, Nonsensical Economy & Champion Greenbacks, he states that

I believe I’d really have enjoyed being alive at an earlier date when both words and money were spent carefully, when meaningful conversation was of more importance than accumulation, when free time for having fun was seen as more valuable than owning more toys, when a good friend was considered worth more than a thousand investors, love more precious than gold and one’s word more bankable than a lawyer-penned contract.

Some of us try to live our lives honoring these values today, but it's true that our culture in general doesn't encourage our doing so, instead pressuring us on all sides to live our lives as shallowly and fleetingly as possible, paying more attention to things than to our loved ones or our own welfare or the source of all we are, Earth and Spirit. Yet people like to rebel against the expected, no matter their age, so maybe in such a spirit more and more will begin to raise their fists against this kind of wasteful, thoughtless living, to take time to connect with others beyond the surface, and to create meaning and beauty in their daily lives. Though it may not change the world, it will make our own lives more pleasant, and it can't hurt!

Enough

We modern folk often create goals as merely shiny gold stars to mark our "progress" in life, when all we are really doing is collecting marks on a page, forgetting to notice the day-to-day beauty and meaning in our lives, and instead continually focusing on what's next.

As a young child, I remember loving the unexpected, but I didn't think I always needed to orchestrate it, I simply needed to be open to it. I played outside, poking around with a stick, turning over leaves, digging in dirt, discovering delight in what some might call the ordinary.

After starting school and becoming more enculturated, I came to realize that this sort of piddling play isn't valued much. To make "progress," I had to have something to show for it. Thus, the question formed and has been repeated over and over again in my life and in ripples throughout our culture: When is enough, ENOUGH?

Such a Relief

All this hoopla about my health has been suddenly released by one telephone call from my doctor, telling me to celebrate; I'm fine.

So now these pains I have are just that, not some indication of impending doom, but merely the aches and pains of a woman who is aging normally, dying slowly, as we all are.

I took our two dogs for a long walk to the ocean this morning, sat to watch the waves, listen to the sea lions barking, hitch my sight on soaring sea gulls. Later, Jon and I picnicked in our back yard and I took a nap in the hammock while he worked on a redwood carving of a whale.

I'm no longer waiting.

Waiting Again

No number of lists can make someone who is depressed care a whit whether anything is ticked off or not.

At the small hospital yesterday where a radiologist did a needle location procedure on my breast, inserting a long needle with a wire into it, then taking two mammograms, looking at them, and coming back four times to readjust the needle and take two more mammograms (and then, because my head was in the way for one and the technician forgot to put in film for another, re-take two of those eight (?) mammograms----I began to lose count), I finally was wheeled in to have the incisional biopsy done, which at that point, I looked forward to because I felt absolutely traumatized by all that squeezing and needling. Think of it. Just a mammogram is bad enough (especially if your breast is tender, anyway), but with a needle poking out in addition to that? Torture. The only way I could deal with it was to keep focused away from what was happening, to basically give up my body to the two nurses and the doctor who came in and out after studying the location of the needle on the film. His aim was finally perfect, as he showed me the image of the needle just touching the little wire marker that'd been left there from an earlier procedure, and he then injected some blue dye to guide the surgeon's blade. At no time did I dwell on the fact that this is MY BREAST with a needle in it they're looking at. I actually told the doctor that it looked perfect. It all seemed rather absurd.

In the times I've been anaesthetized, I always like to try to anticipate when I'll "go under" before the weird waking up (which seems like moments later) in the recovery room. It never fails that I think it's not going to work, that they'll begin cutting on me and I'll still be awake, but then----I'm gone. All I remembered this time after that initial doubt is my thought (upon being rudly awakened by a nurse calling my name) that I was in a huge blue field.

The dreaded procedure is behind me, so now I'm waiting for the results, which I should know sometime next week.

Don't Worry; Have a Cup of Tea

In the novel INTO THE FOREST by Jean Hegland, two young sisters who are the primary characters finally begin to explore, collect, and use wild foods after civilization has collapsed. Depressed at her accurate depictions of human nature, I'd put the novel down for a while. Hegland portrays a world not very different from the one where we live, and when the sisters had finally used their last tea bag and began drinking merely hot water with the dust of tea leaves from the bottom of a box, I'm internally screaming at them to go outside and pick some blackberry leaves for tea, until finally, which is what kept me reading, they begin to open up to the wealth of what nature can offer. They didn't hear me screaming, though; it was a book of their mother's that saved them.

The more I learn about how much industrialization has poisoned our food and air and water, the more sad I become. I watched a PBS piece recently on honey bees' demise, and learned that if the current trend continues, in only 25 years or so there will be NO bees. . . no pollination of over half of the flowers that produce the wealth of fruits and vegetables we enjoy. . . no honey. . . no beautiful bees.

Bruce Cockburn expresses my sadness in the most poignant song, "The Beautiful Creatures Are Going Away." I cry every time I listen to it and feel absolutely powerless.

Indian Pipe

Our dear friends who were here visiting with us last week after having driven all the way from Atlanta, Georgia, hiked with us in the forest, and Tom spotted and identified this little native wildflower, Indian Pipe (also known as Corpse Plant), which doesn't contain chlorophyll, as you can see, but is instead a parasite. I may not have noticed it on my own, even though it's one of the many wildflowers pictured on the poster hanging near me now, "Wildflowers of the Redwood Forest," because most of the ones we saw were beneath the redwood sorrel, hiding their little piped bodies in the cool darkness like tiny plant-vampires, pale and fragile-looking.

Having moved here from my native South a year ago now, I realized how much more grounded I felt when our friends were here with us, and how often I've felt as if I'm floating here. But more and more, Jon and I are sending our own shoots out and down, stabilizing ourselves in the forests and on the Pacific beaches here, in our little gardens by our house, getting to know the names of our neighbors and plants, weaving our own webs of stability we call home.

Waiting

I've never been a patient person, and waiting for anything can be excruciating. Yet waiting for something painful, for a medical procedure that has the potential to reveal that I'm another number added to a horrendous statistic (close to 20,000 women in California are diagnosed with breast cancer every year, and 1 in 9 Caucasian women will develop breast cancer during their lifetimes) seems almost impossible to bear at times, yet my fear increases as the day of reckoning approaches. I've "dodged this bullet" before, ten years ago, and now I struggle not to apply yet another cliché superstition to my own life----that my "luck may have run out."

Of course, it has nothing to do with luck. I'm older and have been exposed to dioxin (along with every other person on Earth) and a long list of other poisons for longer. After all, I lived in "Cancer Alley" down in Louisiana for most of my life. What should I expect.

So I've been watching documentaries (THE CORPORATION, which I highly recommend, and THE DEVIL AND DANIEL JOHNSTON, on an interesting musician) and science fiction (KNOWING, predictable, but it kept my attention)----trying to keep my mind off of worry, of fear.

Distractions are what we turn to when we can no longer control our feelings.

Ahhh, Music

Ecstatic music by Andrew Bird, "Anoanimal"

The Discipline of Doing

Sometimes pushing oneself to do what one believes is best can become an internal battle, the voices arguing for so long that time passes, and the deeds go undone, regardless. We have so many choices to make in our lives----the primary ones, I believe, being how to spend this moment and upon whom (or with whom).

Dividing our time to spend on what we desire to do and on what we need to do in order to feel balanced is essential, yet how often do I just let my feelings hold sway on my days. Somedays I'm like a blind person, listening, listening to my body, wondering what I feel like doing, examining my feelings like fingers over corduroy, then getting mesmerized with the process, losing all sense of time, and finding the hours to act have passed.

So. . . do I plan my days, schedule them tightly, and act upon them, regardless of my feelings? Of course, I do plan larger events----travel, events like music festivals and writing conferences, hiking.

But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm referring to reading, writing, exercising, gardening, the myriad hobbies that we wish to pursue-----in addition to most folks' need to earn "a living" (i.e., pay the doctor bills, put food on the table, repair the roof or pay rent).

How do we ensure our lives are a balance of desires and necessities? Is it merely good planning? Somehow creating a schedule for everything I want to do doesn't seem right, yet how else can we accomplish that which we desire?

Signs

Our friends took us for a long hike yesterday, a hike with a destination----a place known as "Dr. Rock." The modern-sounding name is actually a sacred site to the Yuroks, who make a twice-a-year pilgrimage to the place to experience its power and conduct their rituals. I know little more than this, which made me nervous enough about going, since I'm sensitive (not that my friends are not) to other culture's holy places and didn't want to feel I was defiling it unwittingly by going there.

On the winding road we drove to get to the trail, Jon suddenly said "Did you see that snake?" and our friend stopped the car and backed up a bit. We all got out to watch a five-foot-long rattler, his little package held high, accompanying his slithering fat body across the road with its constant percussion, sending a chill through me, while Jon walked closer, stick in hand, to observe.

I wondered whether this was some kind of warning to us not to approach any closer and fully expected to see other snakes on the trail, as that has been my experience. It seems that because I have such a fear of snakes, they are put in my path and in my dreams at every turn. Yet I do have a fascination with them, too, and have forced myself to touch the nonpoisonous ones and have even held a boa constrictor before.

When we finally arrived at the huge rock, we sat on a ledge, looking down into the crevasse where Yuroks camp and cook, felt the power of the place, honored it as best we knew, with silence, with a prayer and a response from another percussionist----some kind of unseen insect that clicked its legs or wings noisily----before taking the long, hot hike back.

Herbing

I like the idea of herbs as plant allies. That plants feel us (as we do them) and wish to be helpful to us, too, is encouraging.

Sunday, over sixty folks from our small community showed up for a talk and walk with a local herbalist, which surprised me and delighted the sponsors, who naturally profess a desire for everyone to be knowledgable about the plants that live here. I selfishly find larger groups of people draining after a short while, but if I can stand off at the edges, I'm better.

Being in large groups of people brings out my desire to be separate, and I often start feeling depressed because I'm reminded of how overpopulated our world is becoming. I also started picturing hoards of people marauding the local fields, pulling at plants and stuffing them in their mouths like voracious cows.

Okay, okay. . . I know it's an exaggeration.

As a child in Louisiana, my grandmother taught me the names of our plants, but as a newcomer to Northern California, it's younger folk who're teaching me the names of herbs that proliferate here.

Learning herbs and their uses is a wonderful addition to the bumper-sticker admonition to "think globally, act locally." I'd like to see another sticker that says "Be kind to plants; they're people, too."

Self-Heal

Seeing this lovely flower in our yard, I was reminded of bee balm's flower and thought it must be some sort of herb, so the quest was on. What is its name? I asked some old-timers at the Fourth of July parade, and they agreed that it's self-heal, also known as heal-all.

How much better (in the language of medicinal herbs, that is) can it get?

After sitting with it (á la Jane) in our sunny front yard yesterday, I found it to be a twisty little plant, as I had to insinuate my fingers into its close-growing body to find a place to pull off a branch to sniff. No discernable scent (other than purple, which most folks may be perplexed by, but it's meaningful to me in that it's reminiscent of grape Kool-Aid, which most kids of my era are fully familiar with), even when I crushed a leaf a little between my fingers. But then I thought I smelled the green of any plant's leaf-scent (such marvelous science conducted here!).

According to the herbal I found it in (100 Favorite Herbs by Teri Dunn), this relative of the mint obviously enjoyed a fine reputation as a treatment for many things, including a topical salve or poultice for cuts, burns, rashes, and bleeding hemorrhoids. Taken internally, it was reputed to reduce fevers and could serve as a diuretic. A tea brewed from its leaves was said to be soothing to gum inflammations and sore throats or as a mouthwash.

Another way humans have used this beautiful plant is for its dye properties. Its leaves are said to produce a soft yellow to golden color in fabrics.

But it's not a plant's "usefulness" that interests me most, it's its beauty, and the humble self-heal has insinuated itself into our lawn like a hidden treasure.

Writing

Posting something here gives what's been written such an air of finality----as is typical of any sort of recording, whether through art or writing. (Type-)Writing can look so finished, which is why many people fear and avoid it (and many others should) because our lives and thoughts are not in any sense finished, not even when we die. We're always open for revision. . . for learning. . . for change.

And so when I look back at something I've written (which isn't all that often) and suddenly find all sorts of arguments against it, part of me wants to stop recording, to acknowledge my general inability to encompass enough to ever feel I've written the true thing.

But I keep at it because I'm never quite convinced, and occasionally, there are moments of clarity for me, and maybe even for someone else. And not only that----sometimes these pieces just serve as sparks, whether to further thought or argument or doing something.

I guess I'll keep at it a little longer.

Flowers

My own mother and grandmother always kept fresh flowers (or leaves, or twigs or whatever was available to their itchy fingers and visual palettes) in vases in their homes, and I find that I'm happiest when I keep to this tradition. Though Mamaw (as I called my grandmother in the Deep South) also knew some medicinal plants, it was the medicine of their beauty she most desired, as, apparently, so do I since I keep putting off making that rose tincture or elixir and instead imbibe through my eyes (and nose, since my favorite flowers are scented).

Some recent bouquets:

Inspiration

From whence does inspiration come? The unconscious? The fully conscious, responding to Earth and its myriad forms? Other folks? All of the above and more.

Yet sometimes I find myself slipping into a realm that believes only in mystery, in the half-looked upon, the star that can't be seen directly, and I come to believe that my own inspiration and ability to act upon it is somehow tied to that mystery, a mystery that will disappear if I look at it directly or question it.

Of course, that's superstitious, and I try not to encourage that vein in myself, but inspiration can be so wonderfully present at times and then so dried up at others that one can't help but try to figure it out----this essence that cannot, will not be captured----yet can be encouraged (and of course, dismayed).

Reading and Doing

I write to learn. If someone else reads it and learns, too, that's a bonus.

As a child, my favorite book was THE LITTLE RED HEN ("I'll do it myself" is what I carried with me from it), and, according to my mother, I never tired of hearing her read it to me. I can picture myself, book in hand, asking her to read, wanting us to sit in the rocker where she almost always read to me, to hear that creaking wood soothe me with its familiar sounds and rhythms, to feel the warmth of my mother's lap, her accepting and cocooning self keeping me safe in the moment, rocking.

A new friend of mine recently told me that she's not writing so much anymore, not reading so much, but is living more, attending to her spirit more.

Her saying this caused me to consider how often I've believed that if only I can learn just a little more about whatever it is that's currently obsessing me, to read just one more book, then I'll be okay (and what does "okay" mean?). But what these books often do is put off the inevitable, the crucial, the necessity of my simply acting.

It's as if I think that I can figure out how to live my life by reading what others have done, and yes----it's interesting to do this and often helpful and inspiring, but knowing what others have done doesn't necessarily prompt me to act. In fact, reading about others' actions frequently keeps me from acting on my own; instead, I live vicariously.

I guess what I'm finally figuring out is this: Books and ideas aren't going to save me from these emotions that overwhelm me still on occasion. Nor can they make the decisions for me about how to live each day.

Now that may sound a little ridiculous, but at one point in my life I actually thought that If only I had more time to read. . ., kind of like those people who say to themselves, If only I had more money [or time or whatever]. Yet now that I have all the time in the world to read, I realize it's not enough. Reading is not enough to make me happy, though I admit that I love ideas, I love considering this life of ours through the prisms of different people's ideas, and reading remains a great pleasure for me.

"I know I don't have much to give"

This line from an old song by Blind Faith prompted me to say in response----It doesn't matter how much we give of ourselves, all we can do is give what we have. Of course, that's Steve Winwood singing, and he's given quite a lot, in my opinion, and if I had to compare my own giving ability with his, I might feel pretty empty-handed, but that's not the point, is it.

If we value diversity, and if we see that life is not a hierarchy, then what we each give from the overflowing of our beings is enough, plenty, and can only have the wonderful effect of adding to the lovely diversity of life and an increase in all that is good.

No comparisons necessary.

ILLUSIONS

I'm blessed with a wonderful neighbor (after living next to the neighbors from hell back in Louisiana, I'm very grateful now) who pressed a well-worn book into my hands recently, one that I took my time reading----as it demanded----titled ILLUSIONS, by the seagull author, Richard Bach, and I've written several pages of quotes from it and ordered my own used copy to keep. Here's a quote that attests to the truth of what I've been experiencing a great deal lately (aka "synchronicity"):

Every person, all the events of your life are there because you have drawn them there. What you choose to do with them is up to you. . . . Just be who you are, calm and clear and bright. Automatically, as we shine who we are, asking ourselves every minute is this what I really want to do, doing it only when we answer yes, automatically that turns away those who have nothing to learn from who we are and attracts those who do, and from whom we have to learn as well. . . .

I've either heard or read similar statements several times over the past year, and it's finally getting through! It's okay to be who you are, even if some folks don't particularly like it. Another:

The Golden Rule doesn't work. How would you like to meet a masochist who did unto others as he would have them do unto him [or her]? . . . I do not exist to impress the world. I exist to live my lfe in a way that will make me happy. . . Anybody who's ever mattered, anybody who's ever been happy, anybody who's ever given any gift into the world has been a divinely selfish soul, living for his [or her] own best interest. No exceptions.

And finally---"Our true work is this voyage, this adventure." What great ideas.

Being in One's Soul

I've just begun reading Bill Plotkin's Nature and the Human Soul, Cultivating Wholeness and Community in a Fragmented World, and especially like his saying that "a person is in her soul, or at least potentially can be, rather than saying that her soul is in her." Our continual evolution toward seeking this "ultimate place" or soul in life he likens to an "evolving conversation" through which "both the person and the world are changed."

This reminded me of something I learned from Wolf Hardin, who talks of how our appreciation of nature, our loving and experiencing it, is a recriprocal process----not only do we gain pleasure in and from nature, but nature becomes more fully sentient through our appreciation of it. Thus, not only do we feel gratitude for nature's bountiful beauty, nature feels gratitude for our appreciation!

As a child of nine or ten, I remember lying in bed at night, looking up at my hands spread in the air, moving my fingers, marveling at my hands' construction. I felt that I had streamers of light emanating from my fingers, but I didn't have words for those feelings at the time.

Only now am I coming to understand that this feeling is a part of my learning about my soul and coming to inhabit it more fully. What a beautiful way to see life, as a progression toward this ultimate habitat of nature-woven soul.

Crater Lake National Park:

Questions that Inspire

Chris Guillebeau (thanks, Tracey!) on his inspiring website asks us to explore a couple of questions, and I have to say that questions of this sort have TERRIFIED me in the past. It's as if I think that answering them will somehow pin me down to what could turn out to be a mistake, and what if I'm trapped in a mistake? How silly of me. . . No one is in control of my life but me, right? So, at this time, this is how I answer these two questions:

What do you really want to get out of life?
My own basic desire has always been centered on appreciating the beauty of nature and the creativity of others (whether in writing, music, art, drama, whatever!), and on somehow reflecting this beauty back in my own unique ways, with the hope that others will more enjoy and then be inspired to create their own unique reflections.

I seek to do these things by experiencing and remembering to be grateful for nature's beauty each day, whether in my home's everyday surroundings or in my larger explorations when I travel (which I love to do----mostly with my husband Jon, but also alone or with a friend). I seek a balance in my appreciation of nature/the nonhuman and human culture, and I want continue to learn throughout my life.

How can you help others in a way that is unique to you?
Through our voices----which I'll define as our own unique ways of representing what is most true to us, to our souls----I believe we can encourage each other. My own soul's voice has most often sought expression through writing, whether poetry or other kinds of reflections, but also through different modes of art. However, only very recently have I begun to be able to share my essential self with others, having felt in the past that, since "there is nothing new under the sun," why should I presume to cast out my little net?

Now I understand that it is only through our casting that we can weave this stronger, larger net that can support everyone, not just a privileged few.

What We Gain

As I contemplate (sideways, not directly----too soon for that) the probability that I will face breast cancer (my mother had it, and now, I have the same sorts of pre-cancerous cells in me that are having to be removed), I wondered why so many tend to focus on what we've LOST as opposed to what is GAINED. Thus, we consider "lost youth" rather than "gained perspective, experience, and wisdom."

Or maybe it's just in our more pessimistic moments that we focus on loss, in those moments when we look around us at our society and its continual focus on the superfluous, or on the bright and new----quickly disregarding or relegating to the sidelines what appears old or tired.

Not a novel theme for me, I have wondered this in my earliest journal from my teens/twenties, summarized in song lyrics by John Prine:

Hair

What is this obsession with hair about? Either it's too straight, too curly, too thin, too thick, or too gray. Women (and some men) apologize endlessly and make excuses for their hair----think of all the "bad hair day" jokes and cartoons. And if you're anywhere near my age, think of how much time has been wasted considering the nuances of hair.

Men often pride themselves on what's on top of their heads, experiencing varying degrees of crisis as they adjust to losing their hair or its turning gray. Some men grow facial hair as compensation or shave it all off, choosing the bowling ball look over the patchy one.

Of course, a whole industry exists to support people's vanity over their hair, barber and beauty shops ubiquitous in our towns and cities, all with the promise of making a person more handsome, prettier, more youthful looking.

Figuring out how to "properly" BE one's age is difficult, as one all-too-quickly discovers when, for example, she realizes she's no longer considered by any segment of society to be young. At 55, in fact, the young consider you old, while one's peers mostly still refer to you as middle-aged (though with a doubtful and sometimes pessimistic reference to "feeling old" at times).

My mirror tells me I am beginning to look like my mother as I remember having noticed her suddenly looking older, the sagging jowls, the creeping neck, the thinner skin, the parchment-wrinkled hands and blue veins beginning to show, the wirey gray hair she finally let grow out. In my youthful arrogance, I remember feeling a little angry at her, as if she should DO SOMETHING about all these things! Stave off disintegration a little longer, Mother!

My own friends----who range in age from young to old----are responding to their aging in different ways. So far, I am tending to just let it happen to me (though I've spent my fair share of cash on eye creams and such while spending more time than I should questioning all of the hoopla), and listening to my husband Jon as he calls me "beautiful" and "young girl with gray hair" and other such endearing (and, I have to say, mostly unbelievable) sentiments.

But it's our HAIR that seems to take the brunt of our self-criticism and the burden of making us (and others) think we are younger. Think of those ads for men and women for the hair dye that shows a progression from gray to darker hair, and how "She looks ten years younger!" after the hair has been dyed.

All of this causes me to wonder why so many mostly intelligent people can continue to hold such negative preconceptions about "older" people and to sadly lump each other into these little categories, rather like a syllogism: she has gray hair, therefore . . . What? She's less worthy? Less beautiful? Less interesting? Has her personality, her very being turned gray along with her hair? Is she fading into oblivion with her hair color?

And it's not just the topic of the color of hair on a woman's head that's been bothering me, either. What of our equally bothersome fetish of not having any hair on our legs or under our arms? What's that all about (besides lining corporations like Gillette's pockets and catering to men's desires to have their women unnaturally smooth like little girls)?

I still flaunt my gray hair, but even after all of this, I do shamefully wonder on occasion whether I'd "look ten years younger" by dying it. Until yesterday, I had hairy legs, but I decided to use Nair on the damned things because I was spending more energy hiding my legs than on enjoying not having to shave them. I'm one of those women with rather thick, dark hair on my calves (certainly not one of the lucky blondies), and I was unwilling to feel the ire of humanity at their sight, so now that I want to join our local swimming pool, I succumbed to the pressure rather than feel like a leprous outcast.

What's with this ridiculous focus on hair?!

Depression

These are the symptoms of depression (found on many Internet sites and on cards in doctors' offices):

At least one of the symptoms must be either persistent sad or "empty" feelings or loss of interest in activities.
Constant sadness
Irritability
Hopelessness
Trouble sleeping
Low energy or fatigue
Feeling worthless or guilty for no reason
Significant weight change
Difficulty concentrating
Loss of interest in favorite activities
Be sure to tell your health care professional if you're experiencing any of these symptoms.
Call a health care professional right away if you or your family member has any of the following symptoms, especially if they are new, worse, or worry you:
Thoughts about suicide or dying
Attempts to commit suicide
New or worse depression
New or worse anxiety
Feeling very agitated or restless
Panic attacks
Trouble sleeping (insomnia)
New or worse irritability
Acting aggressive, being angry or violent
Acting on dangerous impulses
An extreme increase in activity and talking (mania)
Other unusual changes in behavior or mood

For me, because I'm no longer required (by having to go to a job every day) to fit in to our society's definitions of normal, instead, I can allow what used to be the debilitating emotions I felt all too often on top of my general sadness (especially hopelessness, irritability, difficulty concentrating, loss of interest in activities, feeling agitated and restless, being angry, and also some acting on dangerous impulses [though "dangerous" can be defined in many ways], and occasionally an extreme increase in talking or activity) to simply happen without undue concern, knowing they'll pass as I come to an understanding of why I'm feeling the way I am, and then figuring out what to do next to shift my emotions to a better plane.

But this isn't what I want to consider. . . I want to think about how all of these symptoms can be the result of someone who is simply, naturally, reaching out and attempting to make changes to an unbearable lifestyle and how this simple act can be considered an illness by our culture. (And consider this: if our culture teaches us that reaching out to make changes is an illness, then the obverse must be considered healthful----i.e., stasis, doing what's expected, being happy, happy, happy all the time----thus the preponderance of antidepressant prescriptions.) Our culture tells us to take that pill, stop thinking so much, and "Don't worry be happy now."

Change isn't encouraged in our society. Flux is considered an illness. Losing interest in the "familiar" is a symptom of depression. And of course, depression must be treated with antidepressants and, preferably, with talk-therapy, which can be a saving grace if (and this is a big IF) you can find someone who can relate to you and you to him or her.

My being able to make friends with two good therapists saved my life. If it weren't for the last doctor I had (John Bolter), a prescribing psychologist (i.e., in Louisiana a person with a doctorate in psychology can become further certified to prescribe medication to patients, rather like a PA or physician's assistant), and one other therapist (Jim Purcell) back twenty years ago, I might not be here now. I just needed to talk through some issues that were important to me and to have someone really listen to me and assure me they didn't think I was "crazy" for thinking the way I do. And, of course, they provided me with ideas for acting or coping (or at least, they helped me formulate plans of action). Finding a way to act in a constructive way seems to be one of the most pressing needs of a person who's depressed because when you're depressed, you're physically and mentally stuck in a viscous universe that causes you to move more slowly, rather like trying to push your body through mud.

Why did I feel I needed to pay someone to listen to me? Partly it's because our society seems to require such substantiation to deem it "real" and valid. A person must have "qualifications." But it's also the depressed person's way of saving her friends from the pain of listening to the mental machinations of someone who's thickly and painfully sad and stuck.

Not many people want to dwell on how awful things seem. However, it's a quick way to eliminate from your life the folks who only thought they were your friends----talk to them about the way you really feel and think, as a line from an old CSNY song goes, and you "separate the wheat from the chaff."

But right now, I've talked myself right out of this mood and am preparing to take a walk in the redwoods with a local botanist who works with the parks---a "June blooms" walk at Tolowa Dunes to learn the names of some of the local wildflowers.

I'm making that shift from inner to outer, to nature, the source of healing.

Silence

I've been on a movie-watching binge lately because I'm anxious about a medical procedure scheduled for Thursday and have been trying to stay out of myself, or at least to worry less. One of Revolutionary Road's main characters, played by Kate Winslet, states at one point, "No one forgets the truth, they just get better at lying," and I added to that "or remaining silent." This film's young couple fill in some emotional gaps in my understanding my own parents and their peers, who were around their age at that time in history (the 50s and 60s), and they also help me see how easy it is for people to defer their own dreams to societal norms.

How many times have I wondered the same thing----Who made that "rule" and why should it be followed?

The themes running through this film also segue nicely (it's not that I think you don't know this word, I did this because I hate the way this word looks---so unlike its pronunciation) with a book I just finished reading, The Other, by David Guterson----and the themes I've been intent on exploring in my own life: what it means to "fit in" to our culture versus critically standing outside of it, questioning the reality that so many seem to accept without bother; why some of us are disturbed to the extent of our sanity being questioned while others are able to be quite happy and maintain what some describe as "successful lives"; how those considered "insane" are often the most sane and perceptive.

Coincidences can take on more meaning than we intend sometimes and either become elating synchronicities or disturbing potentialities, which only time can tell. In my blog-browsing, I recently came across a photograph of a woman naked from the waist up, arms raised in exhaltation to an open sky, one breast removed.

Synchronicities are seen in hindsight.

Defiance

Though we purposefully don't have a television connection, I do watch movies occasionally, and yesterday I watched the film Defiance, based on a true story about Tuvia Bielski and his brothers who, in 1941, basically took to the woods to hide from the Nazis, eventually forming a kind of resistance and gathering more and more Jewish people in their wooded community as time passed.

My focus on thinking about this film has been its most basic premise----of escaping into nature and allowing it to enfold and protect----and of how generous nature can be to humans, yet how cruel humans too often are to nature. Escaping into the surrounding forest was possible in the early 20th century, but I wonder whether those forests now exist to an extent that would allow them this. Based on humans' destructive tendencies, I think not, since 95% of all old-growth forest has been destroyed.

I read statistics like this and feel as if I've been slapped, only to remain uncomprehending.

Learning to Do

To me, learning to do something physical is oxymoronic: I have to physically go through the motions to learn how; I can't be told how to do it and then actually do it with impunity. That technique induces me to do it with idiocy.

For example, Jon and I thought we should take a little 3-hour class in kayaking before venturing out on our own. However, by the time we actually sat in the kayak and pushed off into the water, I wanted to leave that little teacher behind and figure it out for myself, in the quiet of the day. At one point when I was waiting (waiting, waiting) while she instructed us, I was fiddling around with my oar (thinking of a line of Donovan's "a simple act of an oar's stroke put diamonds in the sea"), and she stopped to ask me what I thought I was doing. "Just playing," I humbly giggled, feeling as busted as a kid in junior high.

So if I go out and die while kayaking in the future, it can all be blamed on my not listening properly to my teacher.

Rusty, Kayak Zak's dog, looking quite debonair:

Digitalis----foxglove----growing wild near Lake Earl, where we kayaked:

Opening and Closing

I was dubious about beginning a blog for many reasons, even wondering to myself why I could desire "strangers" to read what I'd written (which is a rather odd thing to think, I see, since most of us are [and will always be] strangers to one another, and, ahem, that's what writers do). But then I felt a certain purpose in writing here that turned the key, and the door has, so far, felt good being open, especially when some truth actually sifts through and miraculously appears on top of the dross.

And so I was surprised at my reaction this morning to finding that a blog I was following had been unexpectedly closed. No note. Nothing. Gone. This little window into someone's soul, shut. I miss her already. She played guitar, sang in the loveliest low voice, posted her artwork, and generally inspired many, I'm sure. Where has she gone? Is she okay? art-teri.blogspot.com.

I'm not an obsessive blog-checker, but I do have a bit of a ritual in the early mornings, usually, or sometimes late evenings, depending on what's happening in my life. The relationships we form with people via this machine are mostly shards of our larger selves, pieces we chip away and post here to offer others, by chance to do some good. When our computer was in the shop recently, I have to admit that I missed this a bit. In the computer's absence, I felt a certain airiness, a freedom that I also feel because we have no television connection, no way to get lazy and sit in front of the tube. Now I realize that if I ever do disconnect from the computer, too, I'll want to leave a note to say why. . .

Finding What I Need Is What I Have

I know. It's cliché. (But as I used to say to my students, there's a reason for clichés' overpopularity: they speak truth!)

Wolf asked me why we decided to live in town, and why in a Victorian (when I was telling him how much I miss living in the country, being closer to wildlife). All I could say was that I've always loved old houses and had pictured myself living in one with bay windows----and with an attic, where I could play in those rafters with secret nooks, a childhood dream realized.

We had a fine big attic in the old Acadian house we restored in Louisiana, but it wasn't a place I felt comfortable----especially not after having found a snakeskin up there. . . yes. . . a snake shed its skin in our attic----and of course it's so hot and muggy there, leaving only a few weeks out of a year that it's cool enough to stand its upper realms.

Here, however, the attic is quite cool most of the time, with only isolated days that it might heat up to an uncomfortable degree. And so on rainy yesterday, here in June with our coastal temperatures still in the 50s during the day, I sought out the warmer attic and began to make what my goddaughter Mary-Margaret has made before and now her grandmother-age protegée has made, too: an attic nest.

But what's the impetus to go up there? In part, it's the height----here, there's one window from which (and this is where I've carved out my little space) you can see the mountains meeting the Pacific a little over a mile away. I could sit and stare at this view for hours. (Folks, of course, do this out on our little town's famous Pebble Beach Drive, but as you know, houses with ocean views are exorbitantly priced and they have almost no gardening area, as we are fortunate enough to.)

But the height isn't just for the view; it's also for the feeling it gives me. I think of cats who are always looking for the highest point to perch unexpectedly, just looking out. Thinking. Imagining. Separated from the everyday lived below. A retreat.

And so I've hung a few curtains and other fabric as soft enfolding walls and am looking forward to developing this attic spot as a focus of creativity. The narrowness of the attic steps has so-far prevented my hauling up a more comfortable chair to sit in (I even thought of putting a bed up there!), but here are the beautiful rugs that our lovely Fritz chewed holes in when he was still a puppy, the drawing table I wasn't using downstairs, and the old wooden ironing board, which is perfect as a table.


Now to begin one of those projects I've been meaning to! Sometimes, it just takes finding a new perspective.

Moving Energy

The concept of "moving energy" interests me. I'm thinking of it in a certain context----that of being in a situation in which negative energy is apparent, and then using our ability to change it to something more positive----whether through humor, a show of compassion, a simple smile, a deep breath, or some other means. Our intellect might call this manipulation, but I like the more expansive idea that a person can move energy.

We can all think of examples when we've done this (and also when we wished we could have). It may occur by simply focusing elsewhere: you are with someone who is in a terrible mood, energetically grumpy, and instead of going down that path, you turn your eyes to the window, look outside, see a robin hopping on the ground, and suddenly----you're feeling better and the shift in energy occurs. Perhaps the grumpy person feels better, too.

I'm eager to learn more about rituals that can cleanse spaces of this sort of heavy energy.

Our being in a photograph----especially in relation to nature----makes us into icons, and just as we view the photo, we become larger than our lives.

For example, here are three generations, sitting with an ancient one:


My desire for my daughter and granddaughter is that they take these feelings with them when they move to Austin over the next month or two, and that they feel safer and more whole because of them. Austin's a big city compared to our own little town here, so I am hoping they can find places of calm, clarity, and grounding to help them in their own continual acts of balancing.

Jon and I hiked Dolason Prairie Trail in the Redwoods National Park Sunday, traipsing over rolling hills and then down, down into shady redwood forest, ending at Emerald Creek, where we turned around and, one foot after another, made the 4-1/2 mile walk back up to our trusty Ford Ranger waiting patiently for us. Signs at the beginning of the hike warn that it's tick country, so we followed the directions to tuck our pants into our socks, which kept the little critters from getting up our legs, but they sure wanted to climb in from the neck! It's good we began this trek not knowing how bad the ticks were; we may never have gone otherwise----and look what we'd have missed.

Grounding

Terms that remind me to get my feet on the ground (which does not have to mean that one's head cannot simultaneously be in the clouds of imagination) are serving me well, keeping me in touch with Earth and ultimate, sensual reality.

Having just read an essay by Derrick Jensen that is to be included in a compilation of essays written by President Obama, among others, I am reminded that it is this basic disjuncture between humans and Earth, between humans and the real, that can explain in great part why our planet is in the trouble it's in. As Derrick says, our agreed-upon social constructs, cultural clichés if you will, have by their very nature of being ubiquitous, blinded us to the obvious: our planet will be killed if the current industrial civilization continues.

We don't want to believe it.

To use an ordinary example, I enjoy my hot baths more than most, I'd venture to say, yet these baths are obtained by turning on a faucet in my old clawfoot tub that is connected by pipes to a monster water heater that uses diesel from a big tank outside our house to fire it up. Every six months or so, we have to call a company to send a driver over in one of its big tank-trucks to fill 'er up. I don't need to go on, but it is in great part these sorts of comforts that keep people's feet from the ground because rather than knowing them as conveniences, we come to believe them necessities.

At the Anima sanctuary, I bathed just once in the five days I was there, and that one spit-bath I took, pouring water over my head with a pot over the kitchen sink while a fire crackled in the wood stove, was quite satisfying----not as pleasant as a hot tub, but still nice, especially when I was done. I had the same feeling of renewal.

Bathing took on more meaning when I had to heat a pot of water on the wood stove and then dole it out to my body in parts, slowly. With all of the conveniences we take for granted in our industrial civilization, we lose track of the effort and the costs paid for them. Just because they are easy for us doesn't mean they come without a cost.

Hanging Out Clothes to Dry

I love a clothesline----shaking out a shirt, figuring out which way to hang it, snipping on a clothes pin to one corner, then the next, bending over to pick out the next item to hang. Sometimes I arrange all of the like items together, sometimes not. In this picture, all of Jon's underwear is hung in a row, discreetly toward the back of the line so it's not as visible from the street. After all, we do live in town. Who knows what sorts of delicate sensibilities might be driving or walking by. Then there's the sensual delight of the smell of freshly dried clothes----that scent of steeped-in sunshine. Of course, there are the proverbial sun-dried sheets and pillowcases that not only titillate the sense of smell but of touch, too----smooth, crisp, line-dried sheets as an aid to more restful sleep. Towels hung on a clothesline are, perhaps, an acquired taste----stepping from a tub and using their rough texture to dry off is somewhat akin to using a loofa to wash with. Add to this the pleasure of feeling a bit less weighted down by one's connection to the power grid and the big metal monster that churns out dry clothes for a price, and using a clothesline becomes another freeing moment in a sunny day.

Recurring Themes

Paying attention to recurring themes sometimes means hearing an unusual word several times in different contexts over a short period of time. Today, Kiva wrote about chiaroscuro, a word I've come to love for its lovely mixing of black and white, and which I've heard or read several times over the past three days (after not having done so for some time). When these synchronicities occur, they naturally serve to slow us down, tugging insistently at our skirt tails like a child demanding our attention. I have to stop and wonder why. . .

Is it because I tend to set up arguments in my mind about how I "should be" by facing them, chessboard-like, against each other? I am either doing well or not? I am either happy or not? I am either reading and learning or not reading and not learning?

How absurd! And yet, I face these sorts of dilemmas daily in my mind, dilemmas that are set up poorly and thus are problemmatic from the start.

Sometimes, our lives improve simply by recognizing that we have set up faulty ways of perceiving, of questioning, of exploring. It's a matter of puzzling-out a knot in the tangle of our thoughts, a knot that we didn't even realize had formed until we trace it back to its origins and actually feel it.

How freeing it can be to untangle and release that energy. . . every day. . .

The water line is rising and all we do is stand there. . .

With my feet on the ground, I feel the tensions, too, and when I heard this song, all of the unshed tears held back like the floods behind the sandbagged levees four years ago broke through, and I cried, not just for us humans who insist on hiding from truth, but for all of Earth, hurting, hurting, hurting. . . (Click on the title of this song below to hear the You Tube version.)

WATER LINE, Sage Francis
I just sit there
and let the thoughts flood
And I remind myself it's all right,
it's all good, it's all love,
it's not though,
cuz there's a kink in the armor,
a pot hole I'm sinkin' in,
and while I think of the drama
so I stand up
I start to pace in my living room,
set my eye to the highway
knowing that I’ll play chicken soon
It’s a vanity plate with my name on it
There’s a Davy Crockett hat
with Masonic fat cat under it
A musket rifle spittin’ at my feet,
they want me to dance
in the middle of the street
And I respect my elders,
so I do as I’m told,
but I offset the bell curve
When I do what was sold,
losing control
Guilty feet do have rhythm
they just dance to the wrong theme music
to amuse the villain
Instead of killin’
I’ll spare the raccoon
and start fillin’ sandbags as I stare at the moon
and let the thoughts flood
Blessed are those who are dammed
When the levee broke come in and choked on the steps of a slow dance
A staircase to a hug with no hands
Accountability hung out to dry
on the line of command
We let the thoughts flood,
we remind ourselves
it’s all right, it’s all good, it’s all love
It’s not though,
‘cause there’s a kink in the armor,
a pothole I’m sinkin’ in
I’m sharin’ a drink with my father
It’s a family affair
The vanity we share
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there

Writing Trickery

A new friend of mine had the idea that we would write on assigned topics and share our writing. This project didn’t last too long, but the first topic was “from the corner of my eye,” which I decided to post here:

From the corner of my eye, a tiny spot of blood blossomed, overflowed, and slowly bled down my cheek. As I felt its smooth descent trenching my face, I imagined that it burned into my skin, creating a red scar. But that’s all in my imagination.

I must watch carefully, without being seen to be watching, peripherally, though with focus, from the corner of my eye—as one must do in order to see the faintest star, not looking at it directly but just to its side. This sort of watching is studied, unlike the casual way people typically walk through life, blind to all but their own thoughts projected on their inner lids. To be seen as a studied watcher is to be disdained as one who is too serious, too determined to understand what lies beneath the façade of faces with pasted-on smiles or blankness.

This watching-without-watching made casual friends at work nervous, like my former students, who were slightly afraid of me, wondering (in the way students must) how this might affect the difficulty of tests, their grades, the practical matters that fill ordinary students’ minds. These would-be friends asked me probing questions that I responded to according to my mood, either seriously (which might be like listening to a doomsday report) or not (which may turn them on their heels feeling they’ve been spoofed).

But just as we must watch from the corners of our eye, we find ourselves being watched. Is this merely part of our consumer culture, to watch, to assess, to take in, to devour with our eyes?

I remember feeling as a teenager that maybe I would be better off blind* than living as another judging member of the sighted, another person who thought she fully understood merely because she saw something. How quick others were to judge based on how a person looked, and how this attitude pushed me farther and farther away from what I perceived as the judgment of others, which I never wanted to participate in.

Reading and seriously taking in every word of Carlos Castaneda’s Don Juan didn’t help, either. For Don Juan stated that we should not tell others our history because in this stated history were chains that bound us to another’s view of us, probably a limited, and definitely a temporary, slice of our lives.

And so this watching is frequently done from the corner of my eye, yet sometimes, it is a bold staring, a staring that has resulted from my feeling invisible at times. As one ages in this culture, as hair grays and wrinkles appear, one also fades from the view of others-----especially from the young who don’t know John Prine’s lines about passing some hollow, ancient eyes and saying “hello in there.”

*I recently came across the yellowed hand-copied poem by May Swenson that encouraged my youthful self in these ideas about the benefits of blindness. Here it is:

The Blindman

The blindman placed
a tulip on his tongue for purple’s taste.
Cheek to grass, his green

was rough excitement’s sheen
of little whips.
In water to his lips

he named the sea blue and white,
the basin of his tears and fallen beads of sight.
He said: This scarf is red;

I feel the vectors to its threads
that dance down from the sun. I know
the seven fragrances of the rainbow.

I have caressed
the orange hair of flames. Pressed
to my ear,

a pomegranate lets me hear
crimson’s flute.
Trumpets tell me yellow. Only ebony is mute.

May Swenson

Stasis and Change

All of the energy swirling from our gathering of folk at our home Saturday evening is only now beginning to dissipate and to allow me to finally feel a little more calm and focused. Sunday's gardening literally grounded me, but I couldn't sleep well that night, and yesterday is almost a blur as I rather blindly bumped and stumbled around (picture yourself at night in the darkness walking in a strange room, your arms and hands before you, feeling, feeling the air to try to avoid the pain of contact with a wall or piece of furniture), taking out projects, doing a little on one and then finding myself working on yet another.

I'm attempting to pull together a few poems to send out (not because I really feel like it at this point, but because I promised myself I would) that must be postmarked by the 15th----only three days hence. However, instead of doing this, I stopped to read a few old journal entries (which I very rarely do----every ten years or so at most) from when I was in my early 20s, and realize that I haven't really changed that much. Should that make me happy? Sad?

Surprisingly, I feel good that our essential selves do not change, rather like we have an anchor after all----that we are not merely drifting aimlessly but we have purpose.

I think of other women whose blogs I've read (and linked to), women who are also seeking purpose yet finding themselves smack dab in the middle of it. . . finding clarity unexpectedly, yet with that odd sense of familiarity-----like coming back to ourselves----rather like these cows of Gary Larson:

Permission and Synchronicity

I have mentioned this before, but how odd, I remember thinking, when Loba asked me what brought me to the sanctuary, that what would come from my mouth was "I feel like I need to be granted permission to be myself." Not only that, but she wasn't surprised by my response (as I was) and only said that she had heard this from others before me.

Where did this come from? I hadn't consciously thought it before.

This morning, it occurs to me that as children in our culture, this "asking permission" becomes so common and pervasive (in school, at churches, at work) that we internalize it to different degrees, and even some of us who are natural-born rebels and questioners are tainted by it without even being aware. We learn to stuff our natural responses to people, to events and situations, to our own feelings and thoughts, desires, and instead of responding authentically, our minds and bodies become accustomed to fingering-through a little Rolodex-file of responses to choose one that has been deemed "culturally appropriate."

How wonderful it is to begin to trust one's own intuitions again, to believe in the rightness of our own responses, no matter how different they may appear to the culture at large.

And to quote from yet another synchronicitous (I just love all forms of that word, the way it dances in the mouth and mind) inspirator (to use a bit of a made-up word), Jane:

Truly, our lives just start singing and shouting and having a party when we nourish ourselves with an “essence” that sums up something important to us. The magic is this: what is potent medicine for you is going to be that arrow that sings right into the heart of another and shifts or softens or provides something that’s needed.

Among Folk

Though I am an inveterate loner, I like to put together gatherings of people on occasion, and then flit around the edges on my tattered wings, land here and there next to different people, listen in, maybe say a word or two, withdraw, sit at their feet petting our dogs as others speak, cuddle up quietly next to someone for a moment, then remind myself I must move on. Others' energy is so palpable to me at times, my focus becomes that flitting and fleeting movement. Only with individuals, at a distance from others, can I feel myself separate, can I think more clearly. And even then, depending on the individual, I sometimes have difficulty.

What is this permeable self I inhabit?

I have to guard myself from feeling "less than" others when I am around those who so glibbly state their thoughts and arguments, as the best I can do at times is kiss my dog's ears and soothe my exposed nerves. No longer do I have the numbing effect of antidepressants to hold my self in, so I may fall into tears or laugh too loudly unexpectedly, or find words evading me like slippery fish.

And so today, it's back to Earth, hands in the dirt, into the garden, where instead I will visit with violets and occasionally hack at invasive ivy and non-native blackberries, happy for this balance, this give-and-take, this lovely reciprocity.

A Gathering

In a small gathering of six, elk grazed peacefully beside the roadway, looking up when someone pulled their roaring hulk of color closer and silenced it, its sides splitting as one of those bipeds emerged with his hands in front of his face, eyes obscured by a little dark box he fingered and pointed at them.

Such peace. . . even in the midst of these loud and mechanical interventions. . . Huge animals standing in the green of new growth, nibbling, their presence emanating in waves.

If only this peace could happen here this evening as a gathering of folks come to our home to eat and be.

If you talk to the animals
they will talk with you
and you will know each other.
If you do not talk to them
you will not know them,
and what you do not know
you will fear.
What one fears
one destroys.

Chief Dan George

Kokopelli in Action

Stephanie McMillan's cartoons strike me as particularly interesting with their roundly ironic "cuteness" and pointed messages. Just as Kokopelli continues his dance though his burden basket is full, so we are reminded to live beautifully while acknowledging sadness in our continual tightrope walk between the moment that is and that which was and will be.

Making Choices

I'm thankful not to be limited by my health in the choices I make, and now that I'm retired from the all-consuming 9-to-5 workday, I find the most difficult aspect of my life is deciding how best to occupy my time. People I barely know graciously include me in their lives and imaginations. Do I really want to be included? I don't know unless I try, but then at some point, I must decide whether to stay involved. I ask myself whether my involvment is serving others and myself to become more fully alive and connected (or whether I feel that I am merely a "yes" person, nodding in agreement without thought). If I find myself becoming numb, wanting to pull the covers of isolation over my head, then I don't think anyone is served (at least not if I am always isolated). If I find myself losing focus and purpose, I am not where I want to be.

Yet I also know that I tend to hurry. . . I make quick decisions that may not be the best ones. I'm impetuous. How long do I "give" these involvements before cutting clear of them?

Sometimes I feel I know little more than a child about how I should live, which says a great deal about how our culture operates. We are encouraged from childhood not to think but to go along with what is "expected" of us. And, though I've always questioned these cultural norms and admired those who break clear of them, I never quite committed (other than internally) to acting decisively in regard to my own life. Instead, I've always lived from this secret self that questioned, raged privately with knotted fists, yet externally, mostly appeared to be rocking right along on the calm waves of our culture.

What do I expect? I just don't know yet. . .

Self Image

I just realized that we tend to hold our "self images" to ourselves as if they are something we own and can somehow contain and keep from others we deem undeserving. Thus, with this idea, we believe ourselves justified in becoming angry or hurt when someone "misunderstands" us. We believe we can take ourselves back from them, reclaim ourselves from their misbegotten hands, as if this image is a physicality, an unmutable thing.

How others perceive us is not within our purview unless we wish to mold ourselves according to what we think others think. . . and how convoluted this can become, how downright crazy!

In the small writing group that my neighbor invited me to, this same neighbor wrote a moving and perceptive journal entry and read it to us yesterday, an entry about her own hesitancy in owning the name "writer" for herself and an exploration of why this is true. Partly, it is her unwillingness to be taken in by others' expectations for her, i.e., others may expect a daily entry to read and then clip out to put in their little file of her saved and treasured columns. Another part is her sense that she is losing too much energy in worrying about what others think and expect (how does she avoid feeling guilty at not meeting their expectations?). And then, there is (especially in this small town) the feeling that one is no longer able to be anonymous when one wishes to run into the grocery store and not be stopped for long conversations when the time isn't right.

As she was reading these "reasons," I thought that I'd just be considered rude by such people because I can easily tell someone else that I can't stop now but would be happy to talk more later. I also know this person to be very good herself at setting limits, at communicating her desire to be alone without lashing out angrily at someone or hurting them. But I know that people can literally suck you in to their worlds, and these may be worlds that we do not want to enter and don't even realize we've been sucked in until we've spent a great deal of time there. . . .

Instead of attaching myself to a particular "image," I want to become truer and truer to what I value most, to what I believe is most beneficial to me, to Earth, to the greater good of which I am but a small strand, though my own small strand in this fabric of life may help hold on a button or two, and that is good, too. To do this, I personally do not always have an audience in mind other than my own striving self, and if anyone else can benefit from reading about my journey, this can only add to my joy, not detract from it.

After a long day hiking at Patrick's Point outside Trinidad, visiting a plant nursery for a Harry's Walking Stick and other lovelies for our garden, eating a fine meal at the Moonstone Grill as we gazed out at the ocean, commemorating the day's end with a bit of silliness, thanks to Tracy and Jane:

To Myself, Today

Slow down. Pay attention. Don’t go tripping over your tongue along the path, yammering about every feeling that passes over your nerve endings. Slow down. Stop that incessant interpretation of what you think and feel. Get out of that self-defeating spiral, the one that spins faster and faster the more you lean into it, the more words you feed it. That criticism you feed on. . . Stop eating it. Don’t worry if you can’t identify what every feeling is. Don’t allow your curiosity to drive you slap dab crazy. And stop telling yourself you’re “losing it” unless you really want to lose it! This, too, shall pass. Do not assume it will be forever. Go on that hike. Try to be silent and not worry about other people’s feelings so much. They can take care of themselves.

I’m awfully bossy, aren’t I.



Consider the sleeping dogs on the chair. . . They do not worry or toil. . .

"Response-ability"

I've always been extremely responsible to my word. That is, when I say I'll do something, I do it, "come hell or high water"----as my father used to say. However, I never was especially "responsible" as our culture defines it. I never minded calling in sick to work when I didn't feel like going (though I've generally been blessed with good physical health). I never felt obligated to join clubs or to agree with what a person in power said, both of which some consider to be acts of the responsible. I never cared about gaining outward accolades for good work. And I never minded asking "Why?!" about anything, though after reading Wolf's piece on the Anima blog today, I see that the more responsive question is "Why not?"

Wolf reminds us of the importance of "taking responsibility for what [we] care about and are devoted to. . . " and then it is up to us to figure out what these things are, based on our values. One value that trumps all, I think, is to acknowledge that "every living thing is dependent on the rest, that life itself is a series of mutual dependencies" (as eloquently put by Lierre Keith in the book of hers I'm now reading, The Vegetarian Myth). As I've alluded to (many times) before, it's much easier to know what we do NOT want, but figuring out what we DO want, especially in this culture that throws so many distractions in our way, isn't so easy.

I'll end with one other quote from Keith's work that summarizes nicely what I've been thinking, too: "The challenge of adulthood is to remember our ethical dreams and visions in the face of the complexities and frank disappointments of reality" (p. 76), and that "reality" may simply be our learning better by peeling away another false reality.

It's Poetry Month

"[W]e all should realize, that just as there is no revolution worth attending unless you can dance, any struggle worth engaging has a poet’s heart. . .pain, effort, caring, anger and especially humor made more meaningful as well as beautiful through their apt and artful expression, set to the rhythms of campfire crackle and late night recitation, trumpeted from the mouths of the young and uncompromised, echoed on mountain cliffs as well as glass fronted buildings, recorded with music or cached like survival food, knives and blankets in the pages of patiently hopeful books."

--Wolf (from a Web site piece)

I've been writing poetry (and prose), off and on, for thirty (!) years, since I was 15. Now, I might look at this critically, even self-defeatingly because I've mostly chosen to write in private, sharing only occasionally, for many reasons. Some of those reasons have included my fear of stating the obvious (and I STILL fear this!) and being harshly judged on my writing; of being "pinned down" by ideas I've written about and later learned better than; of not wanting to "sell myself" by attempting to have my work published; of simply not being "good enough.". . . The list goes on, and just as I can state reasons why not, I can also refute them with why sos, but the best way to do that is to simply write and share.

And so, this year I've decided to push my envelope of comfort a bit by attempting to get a poem or two published. . . just to prove to myself that I CAN do it, that I'm not merely afraid of failure. . . because I love poetry and even have a certain admiration for those who write "bad" poetry (or that which I think is too sentimental or obvious) and boldly proclaim it! Yes. . . poetry is the natural language of the heart, the emotions, intense beauty recognized and eagerly consumed, language that expresses our uniqueness to be celebrated.

As Eliot so beautifully writes in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" (which the Academy of American Poets quotes from), "Do I dare disturb the universe?" I say, please do, even if no one reads.

A Gift of Words

In Wolf Hardin's latest post , he tells readers to "Have confidence in the gift of your words," and once again, gratitude at this reminder hits home as I explore others' journeys and struggles in their efforts to become more authentic, more true to themselves, closer to our natural Earth home.

On one such site I came across, Wanderings and Wonderings, I saw a lovely picture of a bit of artwork Luna created while in a bookstore, based on some text she found in Llewellyn's 2009 Magical Almanac. Her drawing inspired me to create my own doodling of the words "BE MAGICAL" with the borrowed illustrative text beside each letter of that statement. Playing with color and form, focusing on the messages relayed, and forgetting my perfectionistic ways was just the tonic I needed this evening.

I love this piece----not just the music, which is wonderfully ecstatic, of course, but also the contrasting perspectives, and that these guys didn't let fear keep them from doing this. Take a look:

The Beatles: "I've Got a Feeling"

Tired of Words

As I mentioned early on, one goal of mine has been to stop taking antidepressants----to see what I'm really like now, without their influence, and to test whether they were merely dulling me to the pain of living as I didn't wish to live (but felt I had to live), or whether I'm one of those unfortunately diseased folk who must take chemicals merely to live. If I am the latter, I will learn to deal with that at some point.

Okay. I'm entirely off of the things now, as of yesterday. Because I didn't exactly follow my doctor's directions (designed to keep me from feeling the side effects so much), I've been feeling . . . strange: my eyes feel like they zoom back and forth on occasion, which makes me feel dizzy; I feel these little shocks (for lack of a better term) all over; and I'm a bit agitated, irritable, impatient, though MUCH more energetic.

I was in tears by yesterday evening, overwhelmed, and highly critical of myself (which is typical of my past, this self-wounding), but I stayed up late keeping myself busy with gathering all of my art supplies around me, organizing them so I can more easily access them when I'm in the mood, and listening to music, which took me OUT of myself, where I wanted to be.

Rising very early this morning (unusual for me since I hadn't gotten more than five or six hours' sleep; I can remember a time not long ago when I thought I needed at least 10 hours' sleep), I decided to look at my blog, in delight noticed a new follower (my best friend in Georgia had been the only one), and looked to find out who on earth could be interested in my page here, only to find another kindred soul. . . and to be reminded of myself.

And so, if anything I write here can serve as help for a lovely person who is trying to feel that strength within and to act upon it----without guilt and self-doubt----with joy and celebration of the immense beauty that is possible (in the midst, we acknowledge, of the great sorrow that Bruce Cockburn sings of in "The Beautiful Creatures Are Going Away") AND with the knowledge that she is not alone, then these words I write here, words that feel sometimes like so much "belly-button gazing" to me, are worth the discomfort I sometimes feel because they help serve to tell someone else "you are not alone," just as I learned only too recently, that I am not alone.

Because yesterday, I felt like a dry wind had blown through my soul, touching everything with its sucking fingers, leaving me feeling vulnerable, exposed, and hurting, hurting.

It's hard not to care what people think (and, yes, those of us who are sensitive CAN read minds on occasion), but I think it's absolutely necessary to be able to ignore it and to live to our fullest and truest, regardless of the perceived criticism, regardless of the difficulty we have in holding our feet to the ground when that strong wind blows through and threatens to take us with it.

Conundrum

Thinking about my own tendency to be restless, to seek, to experience more, and then the opposing urge to balance this restlessness by living in the moment made me wonder how this differs from what I despise about civilization: its never knowing when enough is enough, its emphasis on growth----what becomes cancerous growth.

My own seeking is more like expansion than growth, as one who breathes in deeply, expanding the lungs so capacity eventually increases, yet never expanding beyond their capability; it's a metaphorical/metaphysical expansion of the spirit that craves beauty.

Yet I, too, wonder how best to live for now and still accomplish what I wish. Living in the present moment hones my senses and develops my gratitude, but as someone pointed out to me, I'm still attached to outcomes/results, which sometimes makes me anxious about whether I'm "good enough," or whether I've "produced enough," or even whether I've read enough. True, I'm thinking of poetry and the arts/crafts I create and all the books I am eager to read (not factory farming or parking lots).

Is it that we need to plan as if there is a tomorrow yet live as if there isn't?

"Rapt Attention and Silent Applause"

Having just read Wolf Hardin's latest entry on "Marriage to the Land" (from which the title of this post originates), I am reminded yet again of the importance of telling our story, of creating our own art, since, as Wolf says,

it is story that centers us in our beliefs, in our world, in the progression of past, present and future. . . the threads that stitch us back into our contract and our place, a portion of life’s crucial lessons handed down through the inheritance of craft more than genes. . . to walk in gratitude, forever, together. . .

Sometimes my days are hoisted up and appropriated by others, and at the end, I wonder---what happened? Time slips through my fingers like water some days, and I wonder whether this water quenched any thirst since it appeared to leave no trace other than in my mind. Living deliberately, with intention, with balance and focus on what matters isn't so easy----especially when our habits have been long-established. Though I never watched much, I've given up television entirely (we don't even have a connection), but I still rent movies on occasion, and sometimes my choices are disappointing and I'm left wondering whether even they are a waste of my time.

After having spent 25 years working in an 8 to 5 job, it's not so hard to figure out why I'm having difficulty with focusing on what I want to spend my time doing now. . . Rather than having my weekdays laid out for me, my calendar is clear except for the penned-in days when I look after my granddaughter or when I go to the little writing group I've joined, walk to yoga, or join the committee planning the next writers' conference in our town. I even walked to the library the other evening with Jon, who played a couple of his own songs on guitar, and I read a couple of my poems, something I'd never have considered doing not that long ago----before I realized I was withholding my best self out of fear----fear that not only was I not "worthy" but also that my audience wasn't. It feels so good to let go of those fears. How did I do it? To borrow from BOLT, a movie I enjoyed with almost-5-year-old Emma: I put it aside, stuck a pin in it, and left it behind.

Around these planned events, I find myself joining this online "tribe," which is rich and varied, yet still doesn't address my basic need: to work to bring out my own . . . what? . . . essence? . . . true self? . . . art?. . . being? . . . purpose?

Of the tribe members I've visited electronically, Jane's Medicine Tree is most like my own yearnings----to create an imaginative world of art, writing, music, that is yet in touch with Earth, water, fire, air----the sacred connections that give (or, to use my newly-favored changing of that verb to a noun/verb of Wolf's) gift others and ourselves.

Yes. It's planning I need, a weaving of intention with openness.

Connections

From Wolf's having generously linked to this site from theirs, this site became linked to others, which connected me to Starhawk's writing (and I've seen her referenced in many other places but hadn't had a chance to delve more deeply yet) and a "Declaration of the Four Sacred Things," which I'll post in full below. How deeply I feel these things to be true, back-to-my-childhood-feelings deep, and how wonderful it feels to connect to these truths and to those who honor them. After reading this aloud as a personal manifesto on this Easter Sunday, I felt like shouting (as is done in certain Southern churches I've been in) AMEN!

DECLARATION OF THE FOUR SACRED THINGS, Starhawk

The Earth is a living, conscious being. In company with cultures of many different times and places, we name these things as sacred: air, fire, water, and earth.

Whether we see them as the breath, energy, blood, and body of the Mother, or as the blessed gifts of a Creator, or as symbols of interconnected systems that sustain life, we know that nothing can live without them.

To call these things sacred is to say that they have a value beyond their usefulness for human ends, that they themselves become the standard by which our acts, our economics, our laws, and our purposes must be judged. No one has the right to appropriate them or profit from them at the expense of others. Any government that fails to protect them forfeits its legitimacy.

All people, all living things, are part of the earth life, and so are sacred. No one of us stands higher or lower than any other. Only justice can assure balance; only ecological balance can sustain freedom. Only in freedom can that fifth sacred thing we call spirit flourish in its full diversity.

To honor the sacred is to create conditions in which nourishment, sustenance, habitat, knowledge, freedom, and beauty can thrive. To honor the sacred is to make love possible.

To this we dedicate our curiosity, our will, our courage, our silences, and our voices. To this we dedicate our lives.

Choices

Choosing to live in town here was, we thought, well-reasoned, yet all of the possible hitches to the plan have come to light, also just as expected. Does this mean that I didn't listen to my intuition and instead focused on my fears?

A couple of evenings back, I watched a Woody Allen movie a friend gave me before returning to Netflix, and saw two characters who embody such choosing in Christina Victoria Barcelona, though their choices have to do with whom to love rather than where to live. Christina finds it easier to say what she doesn't want and continually readjusts her thoughts according to her experiences. Vicki has rationally come to conclusions about whom to marry and live with and had committed herself to this person until she allowed herself to slip into Christina's mode of being for a while and experience a more passionate evolving of a relationship that then haunts her, even after she's married. I suppose that both, in the end, do not know what they want until after having experienced it. I can fully relate.

I am haunted by the choice I didn't make----that is, living in the woods in a more remote place rather than in this noisy and bright small-town with barking dogs, sirens, and the widows across the street with their bright porch lights (the better to scare away intruders, they think) blazing through our bedroom windows at night.

True, we have a big enough yard to have planted apple trees, satsumas, lemons, blueberries, and to continue to enjoy the lovely plum trees that produce prolifically already here. We just planted a little garden of raised beds and have put in a large herb bed. I've spotted the yard here and there with flowers and bulbs, so it's beginning to look playfully colorful. We can walk to the farmers' market and to everywhere else in town, not to mention to the rocky Pacific coast and its trecherous waves that our little newspaper's headlines all-too-frequently blare about yet another fisherman or careless beach-walker who turned his (no women yet!) back to the ocean and was killed. We can bike to the redwoods or the small college. I walk two blocks up our street for yoga on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

All so . . . civilized.

Which is why I tend to become restless and unsatisfied in so little time. I spin and spin my little deeds and then feel like I'm spinning my life away rather than living fully in the moment, rather than feeling truly connected. How easy it is to lose ourselves.

How difficult it is to make choices, in part because we cannot know everything in advance. We have to experience certain things in order to know, in our bodies, what is right for us. Guess this is why we humans can't seem to learn from history and the experiences of others.

Carrying the Burden and Joy

Kokopelli is emblematic (at least among those at the Animá sanctuary) of one who carries burdens (that's what the "hump" is on his back) while continuing to dance ecstatically and live joyfully. I’d seen this figure before but didn’t know his significance until my visit there.

Somehow, just learning of the value Wolf and Loba place on this ancient figure gave me strength to imagine and attempt to live this way again myself. I’d always thought of myself as strong----which caused many problems in my life, as I too-often became emotionally entwined with men I believed I could “improve” by showing them my strength. However, instead of their becoming stronger, I felt myself wearing down, losing energy, and becoming more and more critical of myself, living----not with joy----but abandoning myself to a despair that grew, in part, from feeling defeated. (After all, we cannot control the actions of others. How many times have I said that to myself?)

How much simpler to deny such people access to my life, to seek those who contribute to peace and joy and beauty instead. Is that so difficult? Only if I decide others are more important than I am. To love myself is so basic, yet----for many reasons----I lost sight of this over the years. . .

. . .which reminds me of another simple idea (that is too-often ignored): There comes a time when explanations are not sufficient or even needed. Action is more important. All our thoughts mean nothing if they remain in that nebulous realm.

Control

We're reminded over and over again that we have no control over anyone but ourselves, yet how easy it is to think that perhaps we can have some little influence. From there, we begin to have expectations, and then. . . the inevitable disappointments.

For example, this is a photo I just took of two toys my daughter brought over with my granddaughter today:


Anathema.

Mindfulness

"Mindfulness" seems a bit of a misnomer. It isn't the mind that's full of anything, it's really the body. . . in the present moment. . . aware of that moment and nothing else, absorbed and perceived through our various senses without the mind's unnecessary interference.

And it's not always so easy to do----this being mindful. Why? One reason is our love of words, of description, comparison, contrast----of the many ways our minds luxuriously complicate the interesting moment, melding past and future with present, swimming in and out of time as if we owned it, as if we are in control----all delusional, of course.

Sometimes I wish to be disconnected from language, to purely experience something without my mind's interpretation. Yet this sort of reality seems to have almost been lost to modern folk who convince themselves that it is only through language (and the retelling of an event, whether through the written or spoken word----as in media such as television or film) that anything is real or valid.

Primary experience----and I'm thinking of experiences in nature, walking through (and stopping in) woods, on the ocean's shoreline, through a field, by a river or creek----has become rare to most people. They're always aiming at some future point, marked by a number on their wristwatches, with dollars and cars filling the interim.

It's no wonder minds are so filled with worry, the antithesis of mindfulness and living in the moment.

Disheartened

Someone commented that she was thankful for my "transparency" here. . . and I've thought of that comment several times, rolling it around in my head. What I was reminded of most was an experience I had about fifteen years ago when my ex-husband moved out with my 13-year-old daughter while I was away on a work-related trip. When I returned home, the house was half-empty and I had no idea where my daughter was. I discovered their whereabouts a few hours later, and that's a long, mournful tale, but it's not what I want to tell here.

A few months after this event, I was so depressed that suicide seemed very tempting, so I checked myself in to the mental health ward of a hospital for 9 days, as it turned out.

My point? While there, I had the best, most meaningful conversations with people than I'd had----even with close friends----in some time. Why? Because folks there had lost all pretense. We were hurting, soul-wounded, searching for meaning, and we, too, had become transparent in our hope of finding help or being able to give it to others. No comparing, no one-upmanship, no criticizing----we felt a love for each other, especially since we were so vulnerable.

I felt that sense of love when at the Anima sanctuary, and I want to BE that sort of presence to others myself, but it it's not easy. Too easily, I become swept up in others' problems, I'm too sensitive to perceived criticism, and I become discouraged when I feel alone in my quest.

Yet we are alone/and not. No one can live for us. No one can die for us. Yet we all live and die together. What a conundrum, this life.

Thinking of Gardenias

"No biblical hell could ever be worse than the state of perpetual inconsequence."

This statement, relates a mother's dilemma in the film Dangerous Beauty (which is based on The Honest Courtesan , a 1992 biography by Margaret Rosenthal about a 16th-century Venetian courtesan named Veronica Franco)----to condemn her daughter to a boring marriage by contract or to have her train as a courtesan. It is her own hell she refers to----and that of many women of her time, and of our own time, unfortunately. She would prefer to have her daughter live a more educated and exciting life, albeit one of selling her body for the duration of her youthful beauty, than to have her live in the relative ignorance and dearth of love that defined a marriage at that time.

Jumping back to the present, many women (and men, I'm sure) feel inconsequential as a result of our competitive culture, always comparing themselves to others (either depressingly falling short or egocentrically superior). Many never feel "good enough" to enjoy the moment, it seems, and are always encouraged to do more, buy more, be more, more, more. Many people are simply lost within our culture----unable to feel good about themselves, unable to recognize or acknowledge their strengths if they do not match the media-driven "ideal" of the airbrushed face, the muscle-lined skeleton, the politically-correct drivel.

In Italy, aging courtesans once treated royally became streetwalkers abused by men as if it were their right.

What happens to women now as they age? We become invisible or "inconsequential" to many. . .

I was reminded of what Gardenia wrote in response to my first post here when she said, "In this ageist society, we women past 45 are shamed into erasing every line and vestige of our being ~ I battled eating disorders for over 27 years, when it just fell away as the fear of a frailer body took over and I allowed myself to eat 'permitted' foods that would not put on weight.... but still at my age of 57 have not been able to answer "what do you want to be when you grow up?" Must we all have a given purpose? How to find it? How to trust that inner true higher self voice and know that it is not our childish, frightened, wishful thinking ego? Where are our ELDERS? I used to envision myself as becoming an old Squaw, what a wonderful word that is ~ does a Crone mean age or wisdom?"

Forget Who's Watching (or Not)

When I was in my teens and twenties, I remember saying that I had this ever-open "critical eye" that held me back, that kept me from enjoying myself or from ever really completing anything artistic because that eye told me nothing was ever "good enough" (which was contrary to what some of my favorite teachers told me and also contrary to what real friends might have said). I ignored positive remarks and praise, dismissing it as fatuous.

I thought I'd blinded that eye in my thirties----I finally believed that I was in control of it----but its influence continued in more subtle ways, instead becoming a censor more than a critic, one composed of so-called "friends and coworkers," who were better known as acquaintences, and who had a similar affect on my life. These, too, were watchers, and though they may not have expressed their criticism in words, I could see it in their eyes (I'm not blind) and feel it in their (usually) more subtle words or body language. Yes, I'm "too sensitive," a phrase used against me since childhood.

But it isn't my sensitivity I must give up, it's caring what such people think that I must give up.

Of course I've told myself that I didn't care what they thought, for decades. Yet my feelings and my responses said otherwise. I felt mostly sad, asking variations of "Why do people have to be so mean-spirited, so small-minded?" over and over, knowing the answers, yet still unable to accept them and wishing for it to be otherwise. My disappointed WISHES have caused me more pain than anyone can know. And what a waste!

Finally I am breathing deeply, feeling who I am, and attempting to act upon that. How freeing. . . .

What took me so long? What hideous tentacles of this culture were able to have such a strong hold on me? I can't blame stupidity----I read, I think, I'm not overly impressed by the credentials of our society and recognize the difference between them and being truly intelligent----or insensitivity, though I have been taking antidepressants off and on since my early twenties, and mostly on since my mid-thirties, to be able to cope. (And, by the way, I'm mostly off of them now, and will be entirely off by April. We shall see whether it's my body chemistry that's screwy or not sometime after that. The truth isn't so clear in these matters.)

Was it merely a fear of being judged that hurt me so much? I'm not sure.

Carving Out Quiet Space

Making time to dwell entirely in the moment, notice our feelings and relationship to our surroundings, is difficult enough, but finding the silence to actually enjoy it is another matter. Try it with a rambunctious 4-year-old.

Ideally, after having made that wonderful time-stretching trip to the sanctuary, I'd have driven peacefully back home to reconsider and apply to my life what I'd learned. Instead, I drove to my former home-state, Louisiana, to help my daughter Lily and her daughter Emma to move here to northern California. Emma drove what turned out to be a rather emotionally grueling 4 days with me in my little car, as she had no concept of such distance. "Are we in California yet?" she continued to ask after we'd finally reached our huge state.

Every philosophy of substance reminds its practioners that we have no control of the circumstances in which we are often caught up and to cultivate instead the mindset that allows us to find peace within ourselves in spite of our surroundings.

Easy to say. Not so easy to do, especially in our more typical whirlwind existences that tend to be out of touch with that which we are trying to BE: authentic. . . here. . . now. . . close to nature.

But I do know this: It is easier for me to find peace when I'm surrounded by nature, when I'm as close to the natural rhythms of life as possible, than it is when I am caught in the mindless goings-on of the typical modern person who looks for things to arrange or buy or do, things that fill their spaces, their time, things that eat up our souls and leave no residue but regret.

It's even easy to use nature as a thing when we drive to a plant nursery, buy the flowering lovelies, and arrange them in our little yards. . . that is, if we are not present, if our attitude is one of "hurry-let's-do-this" instead of "grateful-for-being-in-this moment."

Yes. Gratitude is a key, and gratitude comes with the stretching of the moment in a soulful quiet that allows us to see the wonders that surround us in the natural world.

The Path Taken

Discouragement is easy: we enjoy the moment when others express their care, when they notice you as a real person, when the sun shines especially brightly on the path you're on, and then. . . suddenly. . . clouds form in grey heaps in the sky, you can't see the path clearly anymore, and you begin to wonder. . .

Are these merely more words added to the great Web, sticking like so many insects caught haphazardly in their innocent flights, waiting for that big spider to suck them dry? Would you write them if no one read them?

For a while I would. But it is true that I like to think of being of some service and wonder whether this writing might be that means of giving back. But for now, writing here is my attempt to understand what I'm doing, how I'm changing, how to become more REAL, and it is my hope that someone else benefits, too.

And so, for the first day of spring, I walked our little street here up and down with my neighbor Sharon (who's only a couple of years younger than my mother, yet unlike my mother is wonderfully interesting and interested in living and giving), each of us dragging beside us our large garbage bag like some reverse-Santas, picking up every bit of trash and cigarette butt along the way. I told her I was happy she encouraged me to do this with her because I'd likely not have done it on my own. She said she's done it alone before and would again.

I remember the wise saying that we do not always know whom we benefit and how, yet it is important to continue, regardless, as if we did.

Elation

Sharing our elation----and actually finding someone to listen----is such a joy. Just as I began writing here to share how I felt about finding a starting point to begin my journey to a more authentic life (and learning that a few people actually care and read!), so it happened yesterday that as we sat on the rocky beach looking out to a Pacific sunset, our two short dogs ran up a span of the wet grey beach to greet a man walking with a pack on his back who'd stopped to tell us, breath-quickened, blue eyes wide, grinning hugely, that he'd just circled the St. George Reef lighthouse from a small plane with an open hatch from which he shot photo after photo, he said, in what amounted to perfect light, which we, too, had admired earlier. "Thanks for listening!" he told us as he walked on up the beach away from us. I wondered where he was heading----whether he lived nearby and was walking home or whether he was topping off his day by walking to a camping spot, but I didn't ask out of respect for the moment.

A Few Favorite Quotes from Wolf's Works

"Discipline is turning away from that which is contrary to our purposes and intentions, or draining of our spirit. And always turning toward that which is most relevant----towards that which serves our spirits, deepens our compassion as well as our understanding, and furthers our most meaningful purpose."

"The problem is not so much that we have a hard time trusting the sources of truth, but that we are unwilling to give up those things we wish were true."

"Beware of confusing obligation with responsibility. The former is what one is expected to do, while the latter is knowing what needs to be done."

"The root of the word 'discipline' is 'disciple.' Thus true discipline is neither rules imposed from outside the self, nor punishment for their violation. It is, rather, a state of devotion and focus----a carefully considered allocation of our precious time and energy."

"Objectivity is perspective uninformed by emotion----the perspective of machines."

I lose track of my body easily.

At the sanctuary, though I would also lose track, each day Loba's lilting voice came drifting sweetly in like the aroma of the gourmet meal she walked down to me each day to prepare. A sample menu?

-Stinging nettle, garlic, and potato soup, dotted with fresh mozarella cheese and fresh clover pesto
-Corn on the cob
-Thick slice of home-baked bread with egg and garlic on top, toasted crunchy in an iron skillet
-Cranberry/blueberry/nut bread-pudding with a baked apple

Served to me on a plate or bowl arranged quickly yet deliberately and always beautifully by Loba as she talked softly on occasion, listened, and worked intently for me-----a gift I didn't take lightly-----mealtimes were quite special. Before eating (unless I forgot and stole a first taste, which happened once or twice), Loba took my hands, looked in my eyes, and said a blessing of gratitude over the food and over us, a ritual I'd mostly given up (but now wish to begin again, with a new attitude). This prayer served to summon me, rather like the wind that works its way into a small tornado summons the leaves and debris in its path to its form. I could focus on this moment and its beauty----on the delight of eating and the wonder of such bounty and color.

Even the tidying up afterward was special and reminded me of childhood Sundays as I watched my grandmother puttering around her kitchen picking up dishes, standing over the sink, washing them carefully and stacking them to dry as she finished up before taking a towel to rhythmically wipe them dry and set them back on the shelves.

What makes these simple moments so beautiful? The moments are full, blossomed open like flowers in their prime, no noise or hurry (like a television or radio blaring in the background) to disturb us, all focus on the coming meal or its satisfied passing. As the body's sacred needs are met, we are reminded of our connection to each other and the earth and grateful for the opportunity to take notice.

Permission

“What is your intent in being here?” A simple question. Surely one who traveled 1500 miles alone and walked tenderfootedly barefoot through several freezing river-crossings over rocky beds should have an answer, yet all I could seem to come up with at that moment was that I thought I wanted their permission to be myself and to feel that this was good----this being me. How strange it was to say this, to realize this as true.

Of course, I could have said many things; I’m quite adept at explaining and rationalizing, intellectualizing, saying that which makes me appear a certain way----rather as an actress who dons roles like clothing and tries to decide whether truth lies in any of it or not. It’s being clear and simple, clearing away all of the superfluous that is difficult for me----and, according to Loba, who told me that many who come there say similar things, that they, too, want permission----it is for others, too.

To ask permission of someone who has no power over your body is to grant them a power over your spirit, and for you to grant this power to them must be a gift of trust----trust that they want what is best for you, that they wish your strength, beauty, and love to shine for the betterment of all, that they wish for you to be free.

So here I was amidst relative strangers asking their permission for me to be myself.

Doesn’t that seem strange to you? What had brought me to this state of mind? Partly, it was living for years among the walking dead: those who do not question how they are living, those who drift along on the status quo, watching others, doing as others do, doing as television tells them to, thinking only what the mass media tells them to think, being good citizens, good consumers, good Americans, watching as nature is decimated for the short-termed “benefit” of humankind, watching buildings replace trees, concrete coat pastures, grocery stores replace farms, listening to friends spout politically correct arguments (or not politically correct) or claiming a politician will save our lives, cause the changes to occur that will make all that was wrong now right. . . .

I’d come to believe that I didn’t fit in anywhere, that I was unloveable and perhaps could no longer even love myself or others. I could find no reason to open up, to share what was good in myself because all seemed to have become a competition-----and I refused to compete. I’d become silent.

And now? Was it as simple as my accepting this permission granted from someone I respect?

Wolf warns of gurus and cults (as most folk I respect do), and I am, perhaps, too suspicious of such figures and movements to ever succumb, but when I find something or someone who speaks clearly to my spirit, I’m also capable of giving in to that feeling and of learning from it. Thus, when I woke that Thursday morning in the riverside cabin, just four days into my solitary retreat, and felt glowingly grateful and so open and happy for who I am and where I am and what I am doing, I wrote a thank-you to my dear hosts, and I thought of Wolf as yet another (I didn’t say this in my note; it’s a bit crazy-sounding, but I’ll say it here) Jesus or Ghandi or Buddah-----another who is able to synthesize the best and communicate it in such a way that others are able to free themselves because of this.

What could be better?

A Contemplative

Before the poetry reading, she introduced herself to me. “I’m a contemplative,” she said in passing, knowing I would understand the implications, knowing I was one of these, too, adding “I’d like to e-mail you.” I’d heard her read from her work-in-progress several months before, knowing somehow that one day we would meet, and appreciating how good that it was this day.

How is it that we seek each other out, that we recognize each other? In one of Wolf Hardin’s songs, he says that we are connected by the great web’s strands----all of us who are sensitive, intuitive, in tune. What a wonderful realization that we are not alone here, that there are others not in competition with us, not wishing us small to appear larger themselves, but rooting for us as we are for them, to strengthen these ties so that we all may become stronger, more creative, more health-giving, more in tune with our greater selves and the whole of this world.

When I first arrived at the sanctuary, my mind was blank, open, that slate awaiting the writing, I thought. I walked around like a child, experiencing, not (as is more typical for me) explaining to myself or to my imagined future audience what I was seeing and feeling. What would be, would be.

Three days later, amazingly enough, I still had nothing to erase-----and I walked to the overlook with Wolf, staring down at the far bank of the river where beavers had downed some of the “children” he’d nurtured these past 30 years----gnawed down in a day. Sadness sat beside us on the edge of the high split-rock, the ancient circular inscription on the cliff’s face behind us marking this holy place as we talked and laughed. “Be decisive,” Wolf admonished, and at that moment, “decisive” was the perfect word to describe how I’d not been. Even though I thought I was decisive and had claimed to despise those who are not, apparently I’d subconsciously included myself with the indecisive, circuitously thinking that if I punished myself, I’d already made amends and made myself a better person----all without any positive action, though.

But how is it that this sort of self-flagellation has come to be so important to many of us trying to get along in this society? Somehow we seem to think that if we can explain what is wrong, if we are aware, then that is enough-----we do not need to DO anything. I think this lack of action is what kills many of us----snuffs our spirits into grey smoke that disappears and merely leaves a dirty smudge. We become distracted by all of the calls to inaction-----living vicariously through escapist films, working for more than we need, wasting this moment while expecting to have many more.

From the corner of my eye, a flicker caught my attention. On the outer edge of the boulder I sat on, a small moth, one wing tattered, managed to land quite smoothly, flapping rhythmically, yellow with purple veins of furry color. When I was a teenager keeping one of my first journals, I drew a moth in it, delighting in its wings’ complex patterns, and accompanying it with Don Marquis’ Archy and Mehitabel’s poem, “Lesson of the Moth,” the lines most important to me including “it is better to be happy/ for a moment/ and be burned up with beauty/ than to live a long time/ and be bored all the while.”

Sometimes I think that I knew what was best for my life before I was 18 and have gone more and more wrong every since. . . until now.

What Brings Me Here; What Took Me There

Friday (the 13th's) poetry reading at Blue Crow Studio in the harbor took me to a place I'd been wanting to visit yet needed multiple reasons, apparently, finally to take me there. Thus, poetry was the impetus for me to get closer to a potter's wheel and my subsumed love of playing in mud, just as my love of nature and simultaneous itch to peel out of the person I'd felt compelled to become in order to survive while working too many years in a city took me to the remote riparian Anima sanctuary, where Wolf, Loba, Kiva, and Rhiannon live and welcome others to their holy home.

Words typically used by those who have visited the New Mexico sanctuary are those of the nebulously grateful, the spirit released yet tethered to the wonder and weight of rock, dirt, river, body. People who go there seem continually thankful for the awareness that pain provides (the same people who often come from a too-comfortable life) as they stub their toes and gingerly walk barefoot on those rocky paths, picking out the occasional thorn, finding the current moment, finally, more vivid than the fading busy-thoughts of the culture not long left behind.

How oddly contradictory to our true natures that we have become so alienated from the everyday magic of air, food, water, earth, temperature, simple pleasures of the body, that when we return to their awareness, our beings are filled with such wonder.

Drinking the cool water collected from rain barrels or dipped from the San Francisco River satisfied me like nothing else while I was there----and not just because of its purity, but it took my effort and I knew its origins, just as walking to the composting outhouse, climbing up those few ladder-steps and parting the curtain that blows in the breeze, to sit there with the coffee-tin ready to fill with sawdust to dump below, again connected me to the simple present.

And why are we so enamored of this present moment----needing continual reminders that it is ENOUGH? Look at the aspects of our culture we are trying to leave behind, at all of the proddings to live and hoard for the future: the wristwatches sold as jewelry and even as toys for children----attempts to convince us we can own and control time; the continual bombardment of television commercials for goods to make our lives more comfortable or long-lived; to make our bodies more "beautiful" (i.e., bodies that require the constant upkeep of those products being sold----razors, creams, diet aids, hair dyes, clothes and shoes to show off these Barbie-bodies)---all in a future that, we are told, is OURS. . . for a price.

Having paid a price, as many have and are----years of attempting to fit in, to work as I was told I needed to, to become more acclimated to the world I lived in (rather than to live as I knew I should)----I was suddenly faced with the need to forgive myself for having subjugated my own feelings and desires for too long. This does not make me selfish, as a Christian upbringing lead me to believe, it makes me whole, and it is only through my being whole and authentic, closer to what is true within me, that I can help others in their journey, too. My culture tried to convince me I could be an island. Now I am aware I never was nor could be separate----that instead I am an integral part of life and others and that what I do and think does matter, not just to me, but to others, too.

This is yet another "obvious" epiphany from the Anima sanctuary, played out in the drama of another life that had come to think of herself as separate and alien within an unnatural world. But how happy I am to see that I am not the alien----it is this culture that is. As a teenager still connected to the innocence of childhood, I knew this, yet somehow I became more and more convinced as an adult that I was the crazy one (and thus had to take antidepressants to deal with this disjuncture in my life), not the culture.

And so through my recent reading of other folks' trials in our culture, most notably Derrick Jensen----who interviewed Jesse Wolf Hardin and thus led me to Wolf's own writing and way of living----I, too, have rediscovered living as an adventure (rather than as something to be endured), am beginning to withdraw from antidepressants (with my doctor's support), and find myself making connections to other people who share my desire to become more authentic. . . as we all celebrate the beauty and fierceness of nature and our unique willful desires to be ourselves within this wonderful whole.

I plan to use this means of communication----this "blog" (a word I'm not fond of, as it sounds too much like smog, grog, plod----all heavy and ugly words)----to record my journey and, perhaps, to encourage others along their own.