Day 20

rhythm

I’ve been listening to R&B for the last couple of hours, nodding my head in time to whatever the beat is, while I cook, draw, scan Instagram, etc. I keep thinking “that beat though!”

Music has always been a passion of mine. I spent so much of my youth listening to it, playing it, singing, dancing. A good beat has always been the basis for my best moods. I’m sure you know what I mean. (And if you don’t, crawl out from under that rock and tune in.) R&B in particular moves me in this way that both motivates me and makes me feel like slowing down. The beat falls slow, dragging a bit, like an undercurrent. It’s sexy, gets into your hips and you close your eyes, just so you can feel it a bit deeper.

Rhythm is so important in music; as it is in life. We create rhythm everywhere with or without the music. We are creatures of order, and the beat is order. We are also creatures of creativity, so sometimes the beat is complex—syncopations and strange signatures—hence the phrase, “dances to her own drum.” These days the rhythm of my life is definitely slow, definitely R&B or a country ballad. My beat is slow, dragging slightly; and I’m diggin’ it. Usually I’m tap dancing around two jobs instead of swaying barefoot through the kitchen like I have all the time in the world.  Can’t say I miss my tap shoes.

Day 19

friendship

Friendship has nothing to do with how many times a week we meet or how many years it’s been since we met. It has to do with moments of true empathy because we find it so easy to stop thinking about ourselves when we’re with the other. We find ourselves instead thinking about those concerns which concern us both. Friendship is an art that is quickly being lost as the word friend becomes an icon on your computer screen, as the text grows and meaning is buried deeper and deeper in the drivel. It is an art because it requires the same things that pure creative expression require: time, desire, discipline, love. Finally, it is an art because it justifies itself.

The best friends are often born of the most difficult circumstances, when our lives are laid bare and exposed and we maintain our dignity only through the kindness of those who we allow near. The frequent presence of the word “true” before the word friend is revealing. There are friends and there are true friends; the genuine article, the real thing. True friends never miss the worst days of your life.

Friendship is distilled down into little phrases, tiny ideas and diminutive sentiments because we all want friendship, but like much of what we want, we want it to fit easily and require little. But when friendship demands much and doesn’t come easy, we find its true value. We make friends, we don’t buy them.

This is the aspect of friendship that I most value: that despite the efforts of social media, friendship cannot be commodified. It is a true creative act, and I am grateful for the many artists that have mentored me in the art of friendship.

 

Day 18

river

If I ever know true love, let it be consummated on your banks. Let it slip and fall awkwardly in and be carried on that perfect current that rides around every dangerous boulder and into the sea. And if I never find that true love here on the shore, then let me wade and swim, roll belly up in the sun and love you.

I would give you my pain, but the second I see you I cannot seem to find any. I would give you my thoughts, but the minute I touch you, I feel empty. I would give you my heart, but when I step into you, I see that you already have it.

I have nothing to lose that I would not gladly surrender to you. I have no desire that you cannot satisfy in the spring with your glacial force. Give me the gift of alpine icy water and I will wear a nymph’s smile and never leave.       

If I ever know true love, let me go just enough that I can love him the way you have taught me to love:  to trust, persist, commit, nurture, to be shaped and to shape in equal measure, and to surrender my senses to a pure rushing pleasure that ends in a deep sea.

 

 

Day 17

radish

I roasted some this afternoon and am going to make a cool roasted radish dip. There are some foods that really stand out. These little babies are spiked with a bright spice and they are beautiful to look at. I love the way some root vegetables are so colorful; the way they look just after you wash the dirt from them. I love their long tails and the variety of greens that top them. Radish greens are a lovely dark green, like nettles.

The radish seems best raw, so I was surprised to learn that you can roast them. When I am familiarizing myself with a vegetable these days, I always scour the internet to see if there are ways to turn the into dips. This reveals a lot about what you can do with a veggie and what flavors pair well with them. No surprise that the radish is paired with the cool fats from dairy, like yogurt, cream cheese or butter. I love the roasted radish tossed in olive oil with a little lemon juice.

If I was to choose which vegetable to be, I’d go root for sure. The bright hidden introverts of the veggie kingdom. You might have to dig a bit, but hopefully once you get me cleaned up, like the radish, I deliver.

Day 16

voice

Yesterday I heard my recorded voice on a podcast, and it was uncomfortable. Do I really say “like” so often? Is my voice nasally and why do I talk so fast? It was like seeing a photo of myself from some moment in which I was all too aware of the camera, unable to settle into a natural state. I think this is what actors must have to master: the ability to settle into postures, gestures, dialects and patterns of speech so completely that we cannot imagine them in any other way. I am no actor.

I know that I have a number of different voices. There is more authentic, unconscious voice I use with those closest to me, and the voice I hear when speaking to my grown children; a voice that is never entirely relaxed, that is always just slightly taut with concern, a voice that is always asking the question ‘are you okay?’ I have a voice for my husband, which affects a childlike intimacy—my family teases us about the way we talk to each other—like two kids pretending to be adults. We also have voices of tense frustration; curt, dismissive voices that we use to push each other away when we are hurt. That is my least favorite voice of them all.

Then, most fascinating of all, is the voice that only I hear. The inner voice that sometimes whines for more attention, is often critical of me and others; a voice of unspoken envy, frustration, fear, but also the voice of my most personal joys and pleasures.

***

There is one other voice. This one comes to me through my intuition, my imagination; I hear it as if through a thick mist that clears now and then. I don’t think this is the voice of any particular being. Sometimes it feels like it is the voice of the trees and the sky, sometimes I think it is the voice of characters wanting to take shape in a story; often I think it is the unspoken, subconscious voice that we do not even know we are using, but that I “hear” when I watch myself and others, when I listen to what is beyond the veil of what we want each other to know. This is the voice I often write with. A voice that is collective, sometimes narrowing, as a chord narrows to a single note and then expands again to chorus. This voice is mine to use, but I cannot claim it as my own. It is our voice, a voice that all of us use when we let go of our own words, our own solitary expression, and open ourselves up to what we are all trying to say and express.  

This is the voice that John Lennon used when he sang Imagine. It is the voice of our most celebrated poets, musicians, painters, stand-up comics, screen writers, novelists; it is the voice the prophets and teachers of all holy scriptures when they speak of the great mysteries of our experience. It resonates with us, even if we reject it. Ironically, I find that I can only use this voice when the rest are silent. When my solitude is nearly complete, broken only by the sound of my fingers on this keyboard, or of a pen, moving across a page like a dervish spinning across the floor.

Day 15

body

For the first thirty-some years of my life, I avoided thinking about my body. I relied on the gifts of my mind, and on my empathy to get me through. But middle-life has challenged this. Now I have to deal with the chronic pain that follows twenty-years of desk work. I have to face that I never developed an exercise regimen, paid too close attention to what I eat or how much I drink. It all culminates and suddenly I find myself thinking about my body all of the time.

There are so many aspects of this that challenge me, from self-image to struggling with the idea that I can’t physically do whatever I want to do. On a deeper level, I am realizing that there is something about being in my body that makes me profoundly uncomfortable because it brings me closer to this planet and the people on it, and therefore closer to so much suffering.

I am grateful for good health and the use of all of my limbs and senses, but sadly I miss being able to take all of that for granted and I dread spending the rest of my life thinking about how to preserve these gifts.

It is odd that in this moment, the crisis of COVID-19 is a crisis that takes place in our bodies. It is not a natural disaster that we must figure out how to clean up. The fear we feel is for our own bodily well-being and that of others. This invisible threat has caused us all to live more intensely in our bodies, and for me that is problematic.

Breathing helps, and allowing myself permission to disembody by reading or watching TV; but, I also feel an urgency to get comfortable in my body. I see the need for us all to live more consciously in our physical selves, in our physical space. I think that our tendency to leave our bodies and enter other worlds has created separation where there should be unity; between ourselves and others, between ourselves and the Earth. There has been much talk of the gift that all of us staying home has been for the planet, but I hope that we can also discover the gift that being home gives us. It is an opportunity to live with less distraction, to enter our bodies, to eat and sleep, hurt and heal, with more awareness. It is challenging, but there is no doubt in my mind that it is necessary.

Day 14

fantasy


I think it most profound that fantasy is considered so frivolous, yet it informs so much of our childhood and young adulthood. I would argue that it should inform more of our adulthood. Not just because of what the writing has to teach us, but because of how the stories force us to live outside of “real” life and engage our imaginations so completely. After all, we must first imagine what we can become before we can become it. I am so thankful my dad encouraged me to read fantasy. These days I suppose video games are a primary source of the imaginative experience so many people have, and for that I can’t fault them. While there may be a lecture about escapism on the tip of some rational-concerned-parent’s tongue, I think there should be more empathy for the fact that those of us who love fantasy worlds intuitively know there is something to learn there.

Interestingly, it is in these unreal, or surreal, stories that I sometimes find the most useful guidance about how to relate to other beings. I think you can learn everything you need to know about being human by studying the various characters of Lord of the Rings: the bravery of Frodo, the loyalty of Sam, the humility of Aragorn, the humor of Gimli, the attentiveness of Legolas. I’ve read those books so many times that these characters and their primary characteristics are as meaningful and instructive as the bible characters I was raised on.

We have evolved some amazing tech that literally makes the hero’s journey seem quaint and nearly trivial. We forego the physical adventures that used to shape us: the pilgrimage, traveling without money, dating without social media and apps to guide us. Fantasy narratives are grounded in the idea that the development of character happens through experience, humiliations, sacrifice. We could use a dose of this, not because we need to be brought down a peg, but because we need to remember what we are capable of. Reading fantasy is to engage the slow and magical process of becoming those with the courage to slay dragons, reverse eternal winters, or overcome the dark-side.

 

Day 13

dude

Dude, this quarantine though, right?

Today is one of those days where I am wondering if real life is coming back. Not that I’m unhappy, cause I’m actually living my best life right now out here in the middle of nowhere. I’m doing all the things I love to do and not dealing with anyone but my…dude.

I am wrapped in a towel right now, sitting at my dining room table, contemplating the fact that my last bottle of wine is almost empty and we are out of beer and gin. Dude, this is a dire situation. Thankfully I have to drive into town tomorrow and thankfully the liquor purveyors are considered essential services!

I watched some COVID news today (is there any other news) and was, once again, stunned by the words of this man that somehow got elected to the presidency. I don’t like to talk politics dude—but dude, that dude is a dumbass.

 

Day 12

extension

I love to stretch, to move parts of my body away from my core and to feel my joints relax as I release them. Just this morning I was hanging upside down and groaning with relief, as gravity pulled my head away from my neck.

As a writer I also have a sense that I am extending my thoughts or ideas out and away from my core. Sometimes there is a sense of relief as I articulate a thought, allowing creative gravity to pull it away from the thick tangle of my brain work.

So much of our life is lived over-extended. Pushing ourselves to these crazy limits to make money, finish projects, keep our relationships together. Stretching ourselves is good, but it can do so much damage. One of the only regrets I have in my life is over-extending myself at the expense of being there for my kids. This is a fairly common regret for parents, I think.

Again, I try to learn from the landscape I live in. I see a lot of extension in trees, in rivers, even in the vast stretch of a valley. These things are reaching, down into the soil, up into the sunlight; or are being pulled down and away from the high places toward the sea. The sea itself extends from one shore to another and down into depths we have yet to measure. But there is no over doing it. The tree goes just as high as nutrients will allow, the river falls this way, then that and takes however long it takes to reach the sea.

Sigh. If only I could learn to do the same. If only I could be in my body, like a tree, putting down my roots just enough, stretching just enough; trusting the length of the season. Perhaps with some practice, I can extend myself just enough to get what I need, to give what is needed, without compromising my stability. As I write that, I feel its true-ness. It must be possible. I am so grateful for the river to show me the way.

 

 

 

Day 11

divine

The divine is that presence that continues to show up, even after you have rejected ritual, belief, religion, the texts and spiritual comforts, both real and false. It has no need for a name, or form, or even for a home. The divine is at home everywhere, even in the ugly and dark places we avoid, because even there, people must make their way.

The many names are given in a weak attempt to hold onto something that cannot be appropriated. If you have ever encountered an unexpected grief or joy, had no way to articulate its source or purpose, yet were tempted to name or give language to the experience; then perhaps you have more in common with the prophet Mohammed, or the disciples of Jesus, or the followers of Siddhartha, than you imagine. It is not our encounters with the divine, but rather our attachment to talking about it, that presents a problem.

The divine is not known to the few, but is the presence that greets us when we arrive in new or unknown places. When we hold the impossible miracle of a child, witness the fury and aftermath of a hurricane, see the planet from space, give our full attention to a square of chocolate, or touch the body of a person as they die.

The divine is manifest most of all in our questions, our fascination with what we sense but do not yet comprehend. Science is in conversation with the divine constantly; it arrives at each frontier, explaining ten thousand things while revealing ten thousand more, still shrouded in mystery. The mystics too are engaged with the divine, and where the scientist finds answers, the mystic finds a muse.

What the scientist is eager to examine and explain, the mystic simply swallows whole.  The longings of each are met.

This may sound very esoteric, I realize; but I am not digging for clarity. I only want us to be fearless and open. While I point at the moon, I ask that you not focus on my finger. I hope that you see the myriad ways in which you too are pointing at her; and not that we might gather around some secret, but that we might find more common ground.

We are all children in this ancient place; and to be together, awash in moonlight, is divine.

Day 10

dusk

This evening, dusk was gorgeous. It snowed today, but the spring storms blow in and out quickly. This evening the clouds shifted and the last light fell in patches on the mountains around my place. While the sky was mostly dark gray with cloud cover, these patches of late sunlight gave the landscape a strange, beautiful glow.

I’ve always loved the time between times of dawn and dusk, but the latter in particular. While I’m not always feeling very synced up with dawn, I am always feeling ready to wind down when the sun sets. At least this time of year, it happens late enough that I actually can relax with the sun.

This whole pandemic is a kind of dusk, at least where I am. It feels like we are moving through something in half-light. Dusk can be unsettling, ominous even, but the last light today is only the last light of this day, there is always another. It helps to notice. Notice the light, the transition, the time between times. Notice the shift and breathe into it—and it’s okay to rest. Lean into the night, it never fails to deliver a new day.

Day 9

routine

Of all of the losses over these last few weeks, the loss of routine has been the hardest on me. I wake up and do not have to be any where at any time, even if I have things to do. I am less and less aware of what time it is, but unlike a vacation where I just ignore the time on purpose, I find myself looking at the clock all the time, for no reason, and then feeling like an idiot.

Routines make me feel less like an idiot. They let me know what I am supposed to be doing on any given day, even if the routine for that weekday or time of year, is to relax. I am not the most disciplined person, but apparently I am held together by the fact that I have to be somewhere to get something done for someone most days of the week.

Yes, I’m worried about money and getting sick, or someone I love getting sick; but the underlying disturbance in the force seems to be about the fact that I don’t have a routine for pandemics.

Honestly, while I am thankful to have the space to read novels, write, make out with my husband and watch bad TV, I will be glad when I know where to be and what to do again.

Then again, each day of this project I spend a little more time thinking about the writing or actually doing the writing. Maybe, I will finally settle into the routine I have craved for twenty years. Maybe I will learn to respond to the internal clock that all artists learn to consult; set by the muse and powered by the work. I can almost, just barely, hear it ticking somewhere in this quiet house.

 

Day 8

companion

This one, who sits near me now, the most recent and most beloved; my companion. The easy way we share this room, which is flooded in muted light reflecting from fresh spring snow. Our dog in the corner, her soft breath and fur, rising and falling, steady. I am soft too, on these days when we are uninterrupted by everything but the wind and the snow sliding off the roof. I am soft and curled, my thoughts a bit foggy, my heart calm.

Who is companion to my secret thoughts? Who walks beside my shadow, keeping my dark sister company? Even in the shuttered rooms of my soul, I feel a presence. Nowhere and never am I alone.

Do I call it God, or friend, or muse or all of the above? Does it matter if this companion has a name?

My sisters (not all biological) are my life companions; their growing strength like a current that carries me out to sea. One has been there since she was born and I was just two. She stays with me, even in my dreams, always on my mind. Others have been with me since my late adolescence, always seeking and always finding me. Companions in my labor, as I brought two lives into this world. Companions in my joy, a psilocybin-induced romp through the woods on my fortieth birthday. Companions in devastation as my marriage failed, my legs broke, my bank account emptied, my children blamed me. These sisters; companions to all that I have known in my adulthood.

The deepest and most trusted companion: silence. The Divine Silence that provides me a place to breathe, where only my breath is heard. Waking in the dark last night, all was quiet and because I have known her so well and for so long, I am not afraid. As I slip back under, she embraces me, my companion in sleep.

Day 7

taste

To taste is to feel, with your tongue and every corner of your mouth. To taste is to smell and even, sometimes to hear, if you are eating nuts, or waiting on the sensual silence of honey to melt away.

There is a reason that when we see the most adorable baby, or come into our lover’s arms, we want to open our mouths. Our craving to give and receive love is answered only by our mouths. Imagine if instead of a prayer before eating, we kissed the bite of food on our fork. This blessing would be far more suitable than words; a kiss is the prelude to taste.

My worship of the sense of taste is why I lack discipline when it comes to diets and so-called healthy eating. I am totally down with zucchini pasta covered in creamy cashew pesto, but I will never surrender my love of pungent cheese, which can hardly be tolerated by the nose alone, but once in my mouth, I am overtaken by the earthy musk of its flavor. I do not have much love for extremely sweet foods, but a certain type of sweetness, or the right balance against bitterness will make me swoon. As in baklava or a dense chocolate cake.

I think one of the greatest pleasures of my North American experience, is the pleasure of eating foods from so many corners of this Earth. I have learned to prepare and adore Mexican cuisine because so many of the ingredients can be grown in my habitat, and truly this food brings out the most amazing gifts of an arid climate. The heat of the chilis and the depth of the flavors testify to a culture that has elevated processing plants and meats to an art form. Mexican cuisine is the earth, incarnate on a plate, with all the color, aroma and flavor I long for.

Since moving out here to the mountains and marrying my husband, I eat almost no beef, pork or chicken. Thanks to his passion for hunting and fishing, my freezer is full of fish, elk, pheasant, deer, and sometimes (when I’m lucky) squirrel. As I eat them, I taste what these animals eat, which are the plants that I see, touch and smell every time I leave my house. And through the meat of these animals I become even more intimate with the landscape and am able to conceive of how we all depend on each other and must protect our food.

Taste is the imaginative language of amateur and professional chefs, who find their muse in cold storage and spice shelves. Taste is the first language, as the baby comes to the breast. Taste is how lovers discover they can’t live without each other.

Taste bridges the liminal space between hunger and the sublime…if you have butter…

or chocolate…

or grappa…

or olive oil…

or cherries…

Day 6

lounging

…is an art form. Alcohol helps, but is not necessary if you have the right music, book, instrument or show.

I lounge. I do it, like most people, in soft cotton pants, maybe a hoodie. What is it about hoodies? When lounging at home my favorite distractions are books, Tiny Desk Concerts, and shows with Corey because he gets so into it. Also, when I think of the word lounging, I think of my roller-skating days in Jr. High. Probably because of the music and the laid-back feel of those Saturdays.

Lounging is relaxing with attitude. Lounging is what you do with a cocktail, a joint, a tall glass of ice tea. When you are just listening to music, not doing anything else at the same time… you be lounging.

One of my favorite things to do is lounge when I’m camping. Laid out on a blanket in the sun. Yeah, sun is good for lounging. I feel like all the great landscapes are for lounging; beaches, big sandstone rocks in the desert, river rocks. Also, tailgates and camp chairs.

True lounging requires you to turn your brain off, lean in to the moment, let the anxiety fear and frustration take the back seat to bad jokes, sloppy grammar and whatever music makes you feel like yourself. If you don’t know how to do it, now’s the time to learn.

Day 5

wait

But, what do you wait for?

Are you waiting to get back to important work? To put some money back in your account? Are you waiting for the restaurants and bars to re-open so you can sit once again among strangers and feel the waves of their talk wash over you?

Do you wait to be with family, to see your friends? Are you waiting for the fear to subside as the normalcy returns? Are you waiting to travel, to get away or get home?

Look just beyond your four walls. Do you feel the calm? The ground on which we rest also must rest. Perhaps she has been waiting for this moment. Perhaps while we wait, there are things that awaken and are renewed.

Let her rest. Let the sky clear and the rivers fill with the winter runoff. Let the birds move unhindered to settle in their summer homes. Let the water run from the faucet through your fingers and wait to be reminded of the last time you saw water that was not coming out of a pipe.

Lick the salt from your lover’s skin, hold the baby, moon gaze. Remember when you were a child and the moon looked back; followed the car home?

Are you still waiting?

Here’s a thought: All of those millions of us who do not have enough shelter, food, companionship or peace; they have been waiting for ages, and it is foolish to forget that we have been waiting with them.

Until this beautiful planet and all who live with her have what they need—waiting will be our fate.

So, take this moment, this rare moment in which we are all forced to feel what is at the heart of our shared experience. Wonder at it. Ask yourself what we are waiting for. And tomorrow, when you wake up on Easter morning, know that this does not have to be our fate. For every time you answer your longing for wholeness, you answer for us all.

 

Day 4

graduation

My niece graduated from high school this week; unexpectedly early, without having to finish every assignment, take every test, dot the i’s, etc. I suppose COVID-19 has given us a few odd gifts.

The only thing I’ve ever done for twelve years straight is raise kids. I haven’t lived in single house, or worked the same job, or been in a relationship, or even gone to school for that many years in a row. I was homeschooled, so I finished early by taking my GED. My first marriage ended in divorce after ten years, and the one I’m in now is still in its early stages. I’ve not lived in a house for more than maybe five years, but that’s stretching it. I did “graduate” from college at thirty-four, but I didn’t walk or receive the cap and gown. But that was following just a few years of school, a lot of it done from home while I was raising kids. So, I guess you could say I’ve never graduated from anything.

So, it is hard for me to imagine what she is feeling.

Here is what I hope she is feeling:

I hope she is feeling relieved and grateful that she had the capacity, energy, strength, drive, discipline, curiosity, passion, intensity and patience to do all she has done at school in the last twelve years. I hope she is feeling full of smarts and the wisdom that comes when you see something through. I hope that she feels that, in spite of all the challenges and struggles of just simply growing as a human, she has accomplished something for herself. I hope she holds that sense of accomplishment tight and keeps it with her always.

Most of all, I hope that in this monumental moment in her life—as she moves to Europe to study dance, as she leaves her childhood and takes the giant leap into adulthood (good thing she has such long, strong, legs!)—she feels worthy of the absolute love and joy that I know her family feels when we think of her! Congratulations Etana!

Day 3

balance

 

Balance is tree pose, the same number in two columns, the rocks precariously stacked beside the river. Many of us strive for balance, and hopefully, if only temporarily, achieve it.

Balance is first, the acceptance that there are opposing forces. That we do not exist on one side or the other of a line between sacred and profane, good and evil, right and wrong. Balance is not static, but is the constant re-positioning of molecules, cells, muscles, numbers, so that things remain upright or steady. To achieve balance you do not choose one thing over the other, but reconcile yourself to both.

Much of what we learn in this culture, even and especially from our gurus and religions, is to rid ourselves of the bad and the ugly so that we might be only good and beautiful. This is affirmed by the fact that we don’t post the first selfie; we take a hundred and choose the “best” one.

Imagine yourself sitting in a chair, palms up. In one hand you hold all of the things that you consider wrong, bad, less desirable. In the other hand you hold all the things you consider right, good, lovely and desirable.

You are the center; the only center you will ever really know. You are attached to and formed by all you hold in your hands. I think we can agree that it is unlikely you will ever hold only the good. This is not because there is something wrong with you, but because the bad stuff is useful, helpful, teaching you things.

Balance is important because it steadies us as we work with what is in our hands, the good, and the bad. Sometimes we need a steady stance between a daily yoga practice and apathetically watching TV, or between too many cocktails and a strict juice diet. Without that steadiness between these things, we live in a state of anxiety, or swing between self-loathing and fear of losing the Good we have found or achieved.

Take a deep breath and listen to yourself. Your center is there and will let you know what is happening in that sacred place between what you want to be and what you want to abandon. Take a deep breath and know your fear, and know your strength. Inhabit the space between: balance.

Day 2

coffee

My sister Rachelle and I once, through nervous laughter, admitted to each other that sometimes when we are falling asleep, we are already happily anticipating our morning cup of coffee.  This conversation happened during a particularly difficult time in our lives when we were not sure why were getting up in the morning. Well, it was for the coffee.

I have had hundreds of cups of coffee, lattes, cappuccinos; hell, maybe thousands, mostly in cafes in Oregon. There is something about the smell of a coffee shop that massages my brain, relaxing my thoughts, opening me up. Have you ever noticed how people will sit for hours in cafes on the most uncomfortable stools built? This is because of the near-spiritual peace that settles over a room full of people who have what they truly want.

Now that I live in the woods, I have my own simple routine around the morning cup: I roll out of bed, pull on my robe and these ridiculously soft black furry slippers. I put my contacts in and take the stairs from my loft to my kitchen. I let the dog out, start the kettle, crumple newspaper and paper bags for the wood stove, grab some logs from the front porch and start the fire. By this time my superhuman pre-caffeinated ears have heard the almost imperceptible click of my kettle turning off and I grind the coffee. The smell of the grounds is almost enough to get me through the day. I complete my ceremony and sit in my rocking chair, like a little old woman at the end of a long life who has finally discovered what really matters: Coffee.

Day 1

here

Here is the place I always am whether I like it or not, whether I’m calling it that or something else.
This morning here is a rocking chair with a small fire in a woodstove and a dog eating
loudly from her red bowl nearby.
Here is my husband snoring lightly upstairs and the sun breaking the horizon and the snow looking dingy because it is spring and the snow is old and covered in forest debris.
Here is a plane
passing overhead with a presumably light load because most of us are not travelling.
Here is a valley, a region, a country, an entire planet
talking about the same thing; worried about the same thing.
Here is full of face masks and furrowed brows in the potato chip isle.
Here, I am thinking of my dad who is sick somewhere else,
but also, because I am so worried, he is here.


I am trying to stay Here even though I want to be there.

Here is also where the divine calm resides at all times and I am trying to sense that as well.
 It is hard because peace always seems to be elsewhere,
but when I accidentally stumble upon it, I am usually surprised to discover it was with me
here
all the time.
Like my sunglasses, when I am frantically searching,
are often to be found on my head.
Why don’t I ever learn to look there first?

Here is where nature resides, never rushing ahead or falling behind, but forever
simply present and exposed.
The trees shelter in place for their entire lives
and yet sing to each other through mycorrhizal networks.
They are separate, yet communal, and have much to teach us about the long game.

Here stretches and expands to hold the alternate worlds, past lives, and speculations
of the novels I now have so much time to read.
I often read here, and gratefully discover it is possible to be both here, and there.


But, where and what is there...
where and what there is…
is for another day.

illustration by kari gale

illustration by kari gale

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What I am reading, or have just read (which may or may not have inspired or informed this post):

The Overstory, by Richard Powers
An Altar in the World, by Barbara Brown Taylor
The Blade Itself, by Joe Abercrombie