the mud

i’m navigating the ups and downs these days, mirroring the weather. 80 degrees and sunny today. Gray, rainy and cold the next. Ready to sprout and bloom and just hoping there isn’t one last freeze.

some days i can hang it all out on the clothesline and others… i just keep it on a rack inside. i’m only motivated to put it away because it takes up so much space.

i’m not an easy climate to be in right now. there’s some serious turbulence in the air. strong winds foment change.

i see how my process affects the whole. i am putting this time here consciously. i am giving in to a little more selfishness while the opportunity affords itself, while there is full excuse. i need to explore myself this deeply one more time, to savor some last moments with some bits of myself that will need to go find another way to be here soon. it’s taking time and i don’t want to rush it. i need to feel the expansiveness of it and get to know my fear so i can face it eye to eye. i realize that it moves as it should, that it will move as we allow it to, that it is what it is. i contribute to this with my process. i create the space for magic to happen. i offer my belief, i have faith that it will.

please forgive me. i am learning patience and acceptance and truth. this could take a while.





i’m a murderer…

i used to be the one with trays of seedlings, a doorway arched by night-blooming tobaccos, a full daytime array of succulents and blooming cacti.

come over, i’d say. you need to see the san pedro.

lately, i’ve lost several houseplants, most of which i’ve had for a few years since settling into this little mountain town.

i’m not sure why either, which troubles me – i have yet to identify the dis-ease, the un-ease, the lack of ease with which i used to care so deeply for my chlorophyllic friends.

this, more than many things, has sent me into an emotional tailspin.

things in my care are dying.

i am in agony.

right now i’m surrounded by wild bloom – a veritable field of mushrooms appeared first, followed by an even larger field of miner’s lettuce and a huge patch of luneria. dandelions, already providing opportunities to wish. it is green and awe-inspiring.  but also, it makes me a little sad. there is so much i cannot always walk softly. i haven’t yet learned how.

that’s the courage, too, i always say, of being a wildflower. you sprout where chance has placed you and start setting roots. you have a period of growth. if you are still lucky, you bloom where you are. if you are luckier still, you will be able to do that in a place where you will not get stepped on, where you will radiate with color and feed bees before you scatter your DNA and ascend, your essence carried on through the honey and the seeds…

it’s a risk you take if living in a pot doesn’t sound like an alternative to you, but even so you run the risk of having to push through pavement. just hope it’s a vacant lot. or a playground, depending how long you think you might want to have that trip.

what are we, though, really, without that particular struggle? it’s the thing that keeps us connected to the earth, the whole reason we’re here having this human experience, learning to be in harmony with ourselves and everything else. we will eventually learn it, or not. most children leave their mothers eventually.

whatever is inevitable is okay with me. all of it is as is. the journey will more than likely continue. or maybe not.

in the meantime, i wonder what is reflected in the death of my houseplants. is it simply a lesson to learn in letting go? if i take it as such, will i grow careless in places where i do not need to? or is it simply a message from my little green friends that i need to listen more closely, that the details of life really are far more complicated than i’d like to believe, that all things require dedicated focus and special care, and anything that doesn’t, doesn’t currently require my time. some things adapt to their circumstances, and some do not. there is always the compost, which is also a spiritual thing.

i know. i am sensitive, it’s true. i mourn the loss of my houseplants deeply, even though i understand that i am witnessing the cycle of life in all ways. And that i also have the power, here, to honor their deaths with dignity. it still hurts. i think all living things have sentience. something in my care is dying. i am in agony.

minimalism is for empty people.

i used to think that.

in new york, upon entering the moderately-dusty, book-cluttered apartment of an aging intellect, i felt at home. these people were kin. they had ingenious and creative ways of maximizing space. their collected treasures insulated one against the external noise of New York. they would eventually die peacefully, accompanied by their old cat, and then the apartment would be emptied, renovated, and rented for three times the price to someone who shopped at IKEA. it was the way of things. But for the moment, to know one of these old souls, especially one who’d let me visit as often as i liked, was a gift.

That was an interesting time in my life and in my fields of industry, i often found myself in these minimalist, ultra-hip apartments as well – the kind that when people refer to “architectural photography”, these were that. Broad and lofty, they were posh and spotless with expensive, meaningless art on the walls and hard, angular furniture, beyond all scope of possibility for me in both price and environment. i tended to hug the front door in these places. Even in heels, a power suit and a leather bikini, my hair pulled severely back for the role, i feared leaving a trail of dust and reality.

now i live in a 500 or so square foot cabin in a massive northern Californian county that has less people in all of it than the town my mother lives in. I share with my five year old daughter.

i could live minimally. i live in an “outdoor lifestyle” sort of place with woods and trees all around and technically, i should be getting rid of shit and living in the yard, or even perhaps the surrounding wilderness, where i could set up a camp for the summer and save myself $750 a month for a while. I could, I could do this if I didn’t have stuff. Simplicity is supposed to be best in all things. Your child’s brain is supposed to fare better with less, too.

My daughter and i like books though, and good ones make their way to me. someone feeds our local Humane Society’s shelves well. My daughter, she likes art, and art supplies gravitate toward her. How in the hell do you pare down art supplies for a five year old (there’s something terrifying in that, like what if I stole Picasso’s favorite medium and he just never happened)? I have a collection of musical instruments, some of which get played and some of which don’t, but are still very much a part of the family. We like clothes. We thrift them, and we like them.

There is a dog, and there is a cat.

There is stuff and dust and plants and comfort in here, and I guess this is as simple as it gets for me for now.

full moon lunar eclipse impending

last night’s meditation sang:

I start at my root
and ground down
then I move up
to my sacral chakra
tonight’s most sacred chakra
as i lie there
feeling permissive
opening the petals
of the flower of life
it’s springtime
and standing tall
ripe for bursting
is this bud
nectar at the ready,
waiting for a pollinator
someone to elevate her
goddess on the rise
with life between her thighs…

pacifist with a gun

It’s true.

First off, I went dancing last night. Reggae. One love. One “extra” drink, plenty of irie and not enough sleep.

This morning, I got up and went to a hand gun class.

The teacher, he was a sweet guy, despite my concerns that I might be shooting guns today with a Donald Trump fan or something. Thankfully, he did not exude this particular vibe, though he is an ex-cop and when I facebook-stalked him, the first thing I noticed was a meme that stated he was proud to be white, Christian, straight, and pro-gun rights.

i am none of these.

well, honestly… to be fair, i feel the same way about guns as I do about vaccines. They have their benefits, and i don’t trust either of them enough.

nonetheless, i, along with a couple of college girls, plenty of north county cowgirls and an older lady with lesbian shoes and a gruff voice showed up for the ladies’ handgun class today.

we went around in a circle. After everyone except the lady in lesbian shoes (who said she lived in a bad area and that people threw stuff in her yard all the time, so if she ever went out there and found a gun, she wanted to know how to pick it up – yes, truly) claimed they were there because they wanted more “protection”, he got to me.

There’s that thing in me that wants to know what I’m up against. It’s the peace seeker in me. Know thy enemy and you find common ground.

there’s a big part of me that deeply believes in magic. I believe in peace, and I believe in pacifism. But I am not meek. Humble, yes. Meek? No. I can only turn the other cheek for so long before “LOOK, MOTHERFUCKER, ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT, GET OFF MY GODDAMN LAWN” kicks in. I want to be the one willing to offer a place at my table of abundance and peace…

but on the same token – there are people who go wrong. There are people who will hurt you. Do i increase my chances of encountering one of these people should I bring a gun into my periphery? If I truly believe the way I do about the universe, this is highly possible. Common sense dictates the possibility, really – with a gun, I may take myself places I might not have gone before, too.

it remains to be seen whether that is courage or stupidity. these things often get mistaken for each other. But I know what I’m up against now. I answered some questions and now I have more.

i guess it’s not all that coincidental, either, that something happened to my shoulder yesterday as I reached over to the passenger seat of the car to grab something. The pain was so searing that it made my eyeballs roll back into my head. It hurt badly all night and today and it still hurts as I write this 24 hours later, though not nearly as bad.

It hurt to hold the gun up and shoot.

One the other hand, if completely avoiding good ole boy mansmirk at a shooting range were made possible, I know I would enjoy target practice. I would warm up with a semi-automatic because after today I found them easy – but I hated the way they looked. They were ugly and mechanical, angular and monochrome. They didn’t hide their awful truth.

A little stubby 38 special revolver was what stole my heart in the end. It brought the romance back into it all, the idea that a lady merely needed to show possession of said accessory in order to shut a man up and move through. Wild West style and all that.

The romance was short-lived, however, and for that I am extraordinarily grateful. I’m glad to now know how to operate one, and I hope the time never comes that I feel I need to.