October 12, 2020

This is one of my favorite weekends.

For a decade I have ventured north this time of year, to British Columbia. First for the fall foliage. Realizing it coincided with Canadian Thanksgiving accidentally. These days, it also coincides with Indigenous Peoples Day, a holiday reclaimed from Columbus to the true American people.

In my world, it’s like the kick off to everything I am SO thankful for. The color and sweetness of transition. Of travel. Of adventure. Of friends. Of family. Of many cultures co existing. Of amazing food 😉

I moved to Montana from Virginia in 2004. Where I was quickly immersed and welcomed into a brand new community. My guide- an amazing Indigenous women. Her family and friends quickly became mine. Virginia has a tendency, like much of America, to write “Indians” into historical archives. An inconvenient antagonist to the noble, white, civilized, Christian, harnessing of American ground, resources, and space. I thank any deity you believe in that we are reconstructing this narrative.

As I sit nested, in my native Virginia, watching the rain, and green foliage hinting towards the autumn that’s full color up north, I am reflecting on gratitude and authentic traditions. On multi-faceted stories, people, places, lives.

My tapestry of love and life are brilliantly colored by Montanans, Canadians, Virginians, and more. The space and seasons in between. Of course, I feel homesick for the north country and my sweet traditions and my sweet chosen family there. Immersed in Appalachia, seasoned by this multi faceted mosaic, I am most of all- Thankful.

10-20-19

Let the waters settle and you will see

the moon and the stars

mirrored in your own being.

~Rumi

March —> April, May, June, July, August, September —>October

Six months between a home base where my daily tasks are centralized. After a winter that was equal parts harrowing and heartwarming, I left Montana in March. I reduced seven years of life into a 10′ Uhaul truck decorated with a lime green alien I nicknamed Zebadee. Sharing the cab with Semi, Oona, and a small selection of plant clippings, we traversed the country like 21st century pioneers, praying for a motel each night with an outdoor entry between Zebadee and our beds.

We landed in Virginia when the red bud trees were budding and spring gully washers softened our newly carved edges. We adapted to a home mostly off-grid in a little cabin at the foot of national forest land stretching to the Blue Ridge Mountain tops a couple miles away. I sent hundreds of people down the Upper James River. Life was busy attending to simple tasks in a contemporary frontier.

The leaves began to fall. Oona and I strapped on our backpacks and sought cooler temperatures and orientation in the Adirondacks. Semi and his new friend Nimbus, (former wild cat) looked after the homefront. Once reunited, all of Appalachia exhaled the efforts of summer into autumn. Cool nights, the return of rain, and walnuts decorating a fresh blanket of fallen leaves.

We are barely moved into our home for this season. I have been sorting through boxes sealed in Montana in March. Reconfiguring which things are essential to daily life. My plants have been repotted many times in six months, and now stretch happily in window sills. Semi and Oona are cozy, warm, content. I am happy to make meals from scratch and be surrounded by art again. Creation. Nourishment. A grounded foundation of comfort.

The waters continue to settle while the landscape of who and how I am shift and reform from the storms of last winter. I am so thankful for this container of the in-between. A cozy cottage coccoon.

3-2-19

Surrender came slowly, and through an extra-ordinary amount of seeking, questioning, crying, trying, and dying.

Ideas and dreams gestating… months, years… precious seeds breaking through soil in their own time, each with a specific conjuring.

Enough heat from refiners fire. Enough depth and darkness. Enough water.

Surrender came from understanding what is enough.

Trusting my ability to read rapids and move forward, I took one master stroke, the current sweeping me into its path of least resistance.

Of course, I ached for the world I’ve known, that I felt fading. Of course, I ached for the hope of all that may lie ahead. Of course, I opened wider to all that is, in this moment.

Breathing in Wonder, at Motion.

Sunday Yoga

I realized this morning one of my favorite things about  yoga is what it teaches me about life, and how I exist. The past three years I have consciously brought so much intentionality into my days and life. Tempering conviction with love and grace continues to transform my world, internally and externally. I wrote on my calendar a week ago I’d go to yoga today. I’m real into planning and outlines. With an artist’s space to rough in the details while life unfolds. But there are SO many things we cannot plan.

Mary Oliver’s recent death has flooded my social media feed with beautiful tapestries of words from a brilliant, humble mind. One stood out to me this morning,

Tell me, what is it
you plan to do with your
one wild and precious life?

I remembered I’ve always loved this sentiment… and that these days, I don’t even know how I feel about “plans”. It reminded me of another poem… one I found half my life ago, that narrated and defined my world for over a decade…

After a while – Veronica A. Shoffstall

After a while you learn
the subtle difference between
holding a hand and chaining a soul
and you learn
that love doesn’t mean leaning
and company doesn’t always mean security.
And you begin to learn
that kisses aren’t contracts
and presents aren’t promises
and you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and your eyes ahead
with the grace of woman, not the grief of a child
and you learn
to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow’s ground is
too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down
in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
that even sunshine burns
if you get too much
so you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting for someone
to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure
you really are strong
you really do have worth
and you learn
and you learn
with every goodbye, you learn…

It’s a hauntingly bittersweet poem. One of self reliance, temperance, and resolve. In many ways, these mantras carried me through my 20s. But I am not there anymore.  I’ve learned what I needed from living from that place, and I am choosing a different mantra, moving forward.

The more I practice tuning into my body, heart, and inner wisdom, the more I realize how easy and graceful life yearns for us to be. I am learning I have always been enough. And I have enough. And more than ever, how gorgeously light shines into darkness. It is a beautiful space to stand within. I realize that humans, at their best, are kind and good. And what God, the Universe, or whatever greater power you give thanks and petition to wants, more than anything, is for us to be ourselves, wholly, joyfully.

This morning I showered, drank veggie juice, put on yoga clothes, and wrapped up stage one of the day’s tasks to get to yoga at 10. Then I realized, sometimes, it’s ok to release myself from commitments or plans. And that, itself, is yoga practice. I looked at the clock, made my choice, and released myself from plans in order to love myself and appreciate the moment. I heated up yesterday’s coffee, iced a gingerbread cookie with brandy butter, and returned to the day’s tasks, with a steady snowfall out the window.

I have plenty of “to-dos” on my list. I always will. But lately I’ve been teaching myself to appreciate ALL my efforts. That internally wrestling to grow, is valuable, helpful, work. That laying on the floor, letting my broken heart sob, is part of flowing towards healing. That three hours at a hole in the wall restaurant with a best friend and her mini mes is just as important as a long hike.

So I keep working through paradox and balance- plans and playful movement, holding intention and openness in the same space, breathing in, and out. Like any devout, brandy butter eating, yogi would.

Sentimental Salad

Two months ago I made the decision to leave my full time job and take four months to invest in myself… present and future.

Tonight as I sat in the backyard, with Oona at my feet, Semi atop his ladder, a salad in my hands, I was awed. I bought the mixed greens last week at the farmers market. Since leaving my job, I have every Saturday off (unless I choose otherwise with self-employed efforts) and I have evolved into getting most of my food from local sources, with cash, looking it’s growers in the eyes.

Atop the greens were roasted beets, overflow from Caitlyn’s Community Share Agriculture (CSA) weekly produce allotment. It’s been less than 10 years since I realized I like beets. Pickled, from a local source, is what did the trick. Last week at Dianne’s house she explained how to roast them, from the root vegetable to enjoy them. Today was my first attempt at that… sautéed then baked in a cast iron pan, reclaimed from one of Errin and Kelly’s friends.

I also put brussel sprouts on there. Grown locally, bought at the farmers market, another veggie I learned to prepare from Dianne (and still don’t make super often). First I cooked the bacon in the cast iron skillet, added halved sprouts, and once browning threw in a bit of local honey. Bomb . com.

Errin taught me how to buy the best cheese from our local favorite, lifeline farms. Veggies topped with onion garlic cheese curds, recommended by a midwest curd expert… again… major win. Mix in my favorite pumpkin/cheddar crackers and it’s a foodie dream. Prepared at home.

The zucchini muffins from Casey’s overflowing garden are still cooling.

About four months ago I started to experiment with food I rarely cooked… primarily meat. As an ovo-lacto vegetation from ages 14-29, the skill or habit of preparing or consuming meat is not a normal one for me. Hector used to bring me groceries his wife would get from the food bank when my budget and time were super tight at my old job. Often the surprise groceries included meat I was clueless about. Johannes, a call or text away, frequently gives me cooking advice from Calgary. In my life it’s a close second to not being able to cook with Grandma McDonald.

I’ve become reverent about food. And community. And nourishment. And how it’s all connected. This year I have begun to understand, and integrate, how and which things feed me. I am so thankful.

Today Nathan encouraged me to let go of loss. A day after the Sun enters Scorpio season, and a week before Halloween and Day of the Dead and Grandma McDonald’s birthday I thought, yeah… I suppose it’s the time to have peace with that.

I saw a beautiful graphic three falls ago, of a colorful tree, shedding it’s leaves. Beside it, the words “The trees are about to show you just how beautiful letting go can be.” This fall, as I dance in the moonlight with Caitlyn, or debrief University course instruction with Libby, that could not feel more true.

I am in awe of how one idea can snowball into a life altering decision, and ultimately a string of growth meant to corral and keep me in the current of my own life and purpose. I am in awe of the community of nourishing love and support I have fought for and found. Most of all I am in awe of myself… for believing and being my dreams, present and future.

Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray. ~ Rumi

It happened.

I crawled in bed, under all the blankets I love, cozied up to the salt lamp, and cracked open the latest Journal of Interpretation Research. I enthusiastically flipped pages… Elaboration Likelihood Model, exhibit redesign and visitor engagement results. I cruised all the authors, curious of their work place or previous research. I thought about my students: their exam tomorrow morning, how to best prepare them for their upcoming interpretive media assignments. Somewhere in the photos of hands-on rhino care displays and quantitative charts of how long visitors spent with old vs new signs, I realized, it happened.

I thought about all the instructors I admire and all the moments in graduate school I thought “You read this stuff for fun? How do you follow this field like the latest album release of your favorite musician?”.  And all of a sudden I understood… Passion. Curiosity. Talent. Commitment.

What a gift, to live from this place.

1.11.18

I was looking at the side of the river canyon, with clouds traveling up it, the winter air warm, and wet. And I thought perhaps, I heard him again, Boreas. Whom often speaks to me in quiet, unexpected moments… of the north country and secrets afforded to one traveling the wintry winds.

I had been thinking about God. Why any of us believe in the whole thing. Why any of us wouldn’t. What it mattered either way. But as they say on NPR, perhaps none of those are the right question.

I was feeling like Fantine. Scratch that. Am. Feeling. Like Fantine.

Therefore, thinking about the hard times a body lives through, and how anyone digs themselves out of holes, save for karma, grace, and the help of others.

How positively populist of me.

95% of the things in my home have come into my life in the past 5 years. Many by charity. Still, I look around and feel I’d huck them at market were the price fair enough. 10 francs for the hair.

Boreas, whispers Service verses…

Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, groveled down, yet grasped at glory, Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole? “Done things” just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story, Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul? Have you seen God in His splendors, heard the text that nature renders?(You’ll never hear it in the family pew.) The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things – Then listen to the Wild – it’s calling you.

I know, I tell him.

Brushing my hair back from my face, like the clouds up the stone, I comfort in his company.

 

Letting go

My neighbors like to yell.

They shout at each other back-and-forth, reminding me of so many people like them in my life.

My mother, my father, the preachers, the teenage version of me.

I think of these and the sound of those voices, drowned out by the neighbors, screaming over who knows what.

I sigh.

I breathe.

I release those voices and pieces that used to haunt this version of myself.

In. Out.

In. Out.

My twitching battle scars become at ease again.

And I thank myself, for remembering that deep breaths, and the smell of petunias are better than maliced fire spewing from my mouth.

 

 

Story Water ~rumi~

A story is like water

that you heat for your bath.

 

It takes messages between the fire

and your skin.  It lets them meet,

and it cleans you!

 

Very few can sit down

in the middle of the fire itself

like a salamander or Abraham.

We need intermediaries.

 

A feeling of fullness comes,

but usually it takes some bread

to bring it.

 

Beauty surrounds us,

but usually we need to be walking

in a garden to know it.

 

The body itself is a screen

to shield and partially reveal

the light that’s blazing

inside your presence.

 

Water, stories, the body,

all the things we do, are mediums

that hide and show what’s hidden.

 

Study them,

and enjoy this being washed

with a secret we sometimes know,

and then not.

March 23, prelude

I lingered in quiet

the moments searching for song, the right songs, for this

fruitless.

A stillness, a folding in,

to myself, to you, to this mist stretched out, binding us

together.

Learning this new thing on earth

a universe of energy, with no impossibilities and reverent peace in hope

somehow

simultaneously comforting and bewildering.