Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. 

December 26, 2018

We don't need to annihilate everything--every indiscretion, every mistake, every awkward moment, every regret--in order to begin a new day, a new calendar year. 

On the contrary--the skeletons of our past are a lovely landscape feature. We are gardeners in this life, and what's left to go to seed has value, aesthetic and nutritive.

All of it will, eventually, get raked into the compost, feeding whatever it is that's coming next. 

December 19, 2018

There's really no sense in doing anything without the hope--faint though it may be at this point--of magical intervention.

December 12, 2018

I don't think we need to hold on to relief, to hold on to contentment when we come across it. As much as we'd like to, I think it's pretty clear from collective experience that it just doesn't work. 

No, it's almost like a shift in the light, a scene that stops you in your tracks because it's suddenly illuminated. You're grateful for it. but too busy being struck by the unexpected revealing that it never occurs to you to want to hold onto it, to want anything for that matter. Instead, the light shifts, and you move on, lighter indeed for the chance revealing. 

November 21, 2018

If we can rise above our daily fears, the small things that nab us with sticky fingers and for whose minor marring of our day we contort ourselves all out of shape, then we will have the clear head and clear sight necessary to sink effortlessly into endless beauty and infinite potential. 


January 31, 2018

As messy as this end of winter can become, there's still something acutely refreshing here, and it's not just the weather, but the way we handle ourselves and handle our days. At some point, we stop caring about appearance; we're just so tired of being cold, mud-spattered, salt-stained and careful, that we dress for the elements, fashion be damned. That's a refreshing detox in and of itself--a little rebellion some of us, if we're wise to it, can carry through the rest of the year. 

And, of course, I like the clear delineation between end of day and beginning of day--the self-imposed efficiency leaves my brain free to wander elsewhere, and the darkness is convenient for creative dreaming. 

February, I think, is the best month for this kind of channeling, this kind of astral traveling, if you will. It's a short month, a cold month, and while it's still a dark month, light leaks out at both ends of its days. Perhaps that kind of generosity, that kind of brazen bravery can inspire us t...

January 30, 2018

The thing about winter is that everything is obvious, everything is laid out and bare and you can't really turn away from it, give it the cold (ha ha) shoulder. The thing, too, about winter is the light. The light--there is no other season with light like this, no other season when the light lies low on the horizon, just touching it all long enough to expose what must be dealt with, completed, or stored before tucking itself away, giving us ample time to rest up for the next cycle of rising and setting. 

It's both gentle and stark--a tough-love sort of season that urges us to work now because soon the distractions will be all too many and all too much for us to focus on ourselves, on our healing, on our deeper needs, and on a landscape that is such a relief in its lack of pretension, its lack of pretending, and its unapologetic authenticity.

January 29, 2018

Petals, this has been one hell of a month. This has, without exaggeration, been the hardest, most exhausting, most adrenal-taxing, mental-drain of a month I've ever (almost) lived through. January is generally my favorite month of the year, so it's doubly discouraging. And that's the exact word for it--discouraging. It has been one heck of a downhill slide with no brakes, too little light, and not nearly enough sleep to manage this landscape. 

I have a feeling I'm not alone in this. I have a feeling this has been one universally walloping, take-no-prisoners kind of a month. And when your well-crafted, finely-honed tools are barely getting you through the days without you taking to your bed, well. All I can say is, we're almost there. 

I don't think it's a coincidence that a full moon/total lunar eclipse ushers out the month. These are big, painful shifts, like the ache of a broken bone, slowly and stubbornly knitting itself together. There's nowhere to go, nothing to take that can quell...

January 26, 2018

Our intuition, our access to the divine/our higher selves/our guides--whatever you want to call it, contains just as many moving parts as does any other functioning unit in our bodies (digestive, circulatory, or nervous systems). In other words, if something is a bit wonky and it goes ignored, it will just get louder and louder, pulling in support from neighboring organs, bones, and nerves. Or in the case of the spirit piece of this mind/body/spirit triad, robbing us of sleep, focus, or energy.

Eventually, what was once a gentle nudge becomes a full-on, distracting and impossible-to-ignore irritation. But even then--even at the height of the discord, we can just stop and still ourselves, waiting for the one clear note underscoring the entire mess, then trace it back to its source. 

Healing, it's true, is virtually impossible when symptoms are clamoring for our attention, monopolizing every bit of patience we've left. So we deal with the discomfort until it's mana...

January 24, 2018

Restlessness is a good sign--it means we're moving through the cycle as we should, stockpiling energy as we should. We don't build enough time for rest in this culture, and the enforced hibernation of winter is, I think, what has saved us. Our adrenals, our nervous system--they can't wing it on sunshine and coffee. And though we're addicted to such warming stimulants, we need to push past the jitters, the cravings, the moaning 'if onlys' and just rest.  

Sun and spring and thaw come soon enough. Soon enough will come the mutterings of 'too little time/too little energy/too much to do.' But here in this space of winter--we still have time. We still have time to sink down, to bury ourselves, to speak in hushed tones to a cranky restlessness, soothing it in quiet murmurs to rest now. Spring will come. 

January 18, 2018

There is always a thaw--that's become my inadvertent motto for 2018. I haven't felt it, not as a warming on the skin or a shedding of layers, but I can see the sun through the windows and sometimes that's poetry enough to keep us just this side of inspired, just this side of freezing to death. 

This is January. This is when we remember our strength and our ability to generate, to maintain, our own heat. 

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