Embodiment cont.

I’ve found as I get older I have been really settling into my own skin and my own weirdness. I lived for so long in survival mode that I never really had a chance to fully feel okay with who I am or what I took joy in. And now that I have that space to really fill out the nooks and crannies of my own mind and body, I can’t help but feel joy in the way my mind works, the curves of my form, the endless freckles on my skin, the capacity I have for continual expansion of understanding of human consciousness, and the ability to give others that space as well to make mistakes but do better without judgement and harshness like I once had. It’s freedom in a tirelessly unfree world. I only have so much control in life and in a world that tells us to water ourselves down, be palatable, be smaller-and fuck that.

Cheers to being ourselves and doing so without shame.

Here’s photos of three items in my house that really feel to sum up this ridiculous existence I am embracing wholeheartedly.

If you had to pick three items you have that would describe your existence, what would they be? Would you want to change that?

Slow down

In a world that wants us to be constantly busy and too overwhelmed to think or feel or enjoy, it’s a radical act to do slow projects. This yoke for the canoe is a labor of love and I really hope that the person we are borrowing the canoe from will end up loving it when it gets returned and it will bring enjoyment for many many many years. (Yes, he is fully aware the old yoke rotted out and a new one is being made by us.)

Note: maybe don’t sand/carve something for 6 hours straight by hand with your already arthritic hands unless you want to end up in excruciating pain that night from a carpal tunnel flare up. 🫣

Berry Stained

Summer had always been a hard time for me. Growing up in Southern California, look, it was hot as balls. And then moving to Louisiana, Jesus. The humidity made it downright unbearable. The only way I could really describe the feeling of going outside in the Louisiana summer was like climbing deep into a vagina. DEEP. But since moving to Vermont, I just can’t believe what I had been missing out on all those 30 years of summers that had come before.

Yes, there were a few things here and there that only happened in summer that I looked forward to, like cherry picking with my dad and then eating so many cherries on the drive home that I just couldn’t possibly eat dinner that night. Or dressing up, in what I actually just call everyday wear now because I just don’t give a fuck about having an “occasion” for it but I digress, to go to the Renaissance Faire, and watch the jousting, and drink mead, and sharing fried ice cream with the wasps in peace. And those times of swimming naked in the river in Texas and stopping to get an up close look at tarantulas crossing the road on the way home.

But, the way of summer, in a cooler climate, is absolutely magical. I look forward to the ripening berries and telling myself, “maybe I’ll make a tart with them” but then just eating them all on my front steps before that could happen because there’s nothing quite like eating sun warmed berries. There’s canoeing to secret coves where the fish try to swim up against your legs in the water. The gathering of sparkling blue stones. The gardening that doesn’t make you want to cry from the heat exhaustion.

It’s just magic.

And now I need to get to work on fixing up the broken yoke on our canoe so we can go swim naked in our secret cove.

*the fish better be respectful 🙃

Topsy Turvy

There is no right side up. No upside down. Everything is every which way all of the time.

There is sadness in my happiness and happiness through the tears. Moments of excitement for future plans coupled with remembrances of trauma. Creation with destruction. Stagnancy swirling with “everything is going too fast and I can’t grasp on fast enough.”

And while I fear I may never get clarity I’m also finding that the confusion is perfectly clear.

I’m okay with being the misunderstood one. The forgettable one. The fucking bonkers one. I just hope that the mist of all that, I’m also known for being the one who wasn’t afraid to be seen. Raw. And wasn’t afraid of loving. However unconventionally.

The one, that in spite of it all, kept on living on her terms.

Wonderland

A semi localish friend is having a croquet/tea party day because her and her husband have always thought it could be so fun. Do I know how to play croquet? Nah, that’s fancy people stuff, but it’s not going to stop me from smacking some balls around and saying things like “I do declare” or whatever the fuck fancy people say.

And because we have been living through plague times and don’t hang out with people anymore it seems, it feels like quite the occasion and thus I have been preparing for it for over a month now. My family decided we would dress up in Alice in Wonderland inspired outfits.

I was originally going to dress up vaguely “Alicey” but then realized my outfit is way more aptly suited to portray Absalom. But the more I work on it, the more I realize I’m just going as goddamn Wonderland itself. And I’m not sure this is what John Mayer meant when he said, “Your body is a wonderland.” I’ll refrain from slapping a tag on my outfit that says, “eat me.”

It’s not that kind of party.

^trying to figure out how to make a teacup holster for Joey’s March Hare outfit out of thrifted purses.

Two years

I wrote a blog today about how it’s the two year anniversary of publishing the book Natasha and I created, about how I hope it did her words and life justice, how I hope she knows it’s out there and how I hope her poetry has touched others souls deeply and then the app glitched and it deleted it all. And that felt…fitting. I’ve tried so hard to put on a brave face and pushed through all the pain of losing her so tragically to make sure her words got put into the world. And normally this is the part where the person says, “and I’d do it all again.”

I desperately want to be that person, the person that would do it all again, knowing the detrimental effects it had on themselves, to honor someone else’s life despite the pain it had caused themselves. Maybe that makes me selfish but I’m not sure I’d do it all again. Don’t get me wrong, I’m deeply proud of the book she and I made, I’m deeply proud of myself for publishing it all on my own, I’m deeply proud that I’m still here, but I’m also angry and exhausted that I was left with that choice. The choice of scrapping it all because it was too much for me to do on my own, or pushing all my anger down, all of the loneliness aside, all of the feeling of utterly drowning and just feeling like my life is only to make sure others stories are heard and known.

And the irony of it all is that this poem of hers is the one I keep returning to, over and over again.

I am drowning. The feeling of being a burden or not enough, or too much.

I don’t know if anyone is actually reading these posts. I’ve just been writing because it’s cathartic and my hope is that in writing, I’m somehow connecting with a friend out there. I’m reaching out a hand desperately hoping one will reach back.

It’s been two years and I still feel like I have failed her somehow.

Dreaming again

Exactly a decade ago, I started an herbalist course that I was so excited for. The little kid in me that felt so at peace in nature, was finally going to realize a dream of hers. Unfortunately, that turned out to be my first lesson in falling for what the snake oil salesman was selling. The course ended as quickly as it began, no knowledge gained, only money lost. It was, an epic disappointment.

That disappointment planted a seed within me. A deep distrust of any herbalism course. So I spent the last decade gathering knowledge from books and google. But still, a place within me sat empty. A place that once knew such knowledge from lifetimes past. I was too hurt and too weary to try to open that door again, however.

So I’ve spent that time, remembering the little girl that felt magic in the wind and healing in the mud. Sitting with plants. Gathering the “weeds.” Concocting medicine with plants for my family and friends. But it’s not enough. And I’m finally ready to open that door again and use that knowledge to carve out a space within the community, you know, beyond my off beat humor and adorable awkwardness I bring to the table.

The journey to this path starts with earning the funds for the course. And that begins with art.