Ooh, arousal. It has such a sexual connotation, doesn’t it? And yet it’s important to specify just what type of arousal we’re talking here. Arousal of the nervous system–the fight-or-flight response–is the opposite of sexy. When the nervous system is aroused, stress hormones get dumped into the bloodstream, halting digestion, cutting off blood supply to the extremities, and eventually suppressing the immune system. Great when you need to wrestle a mountain lion off your back, but not so hot on the lion-skin rug, if you know what I’m saying. Continue reading
earthen vessels
Saturday was so warm that none of us could sit still. I felt tingly all over, rousing and uncurling in the light. In the eyes of my children I could see that they felt it too. We put on sandals and swim trunks and marched off through suburbia to the tiny enclave of wildness at the end of our street, a steep-banked stream just beyond the sightline of lawn ornaments and vinyl siding.
I have decided that I do not like the term ‘mindfulness’. I have spent years with an inner voice urgently, persistently exhorting me to be ‘mindful’. But it doesn’t work. The word itself evokes the mind, and that is, for me, the very thing I long to escape. I prefer the term, and the sensation, of ’embodiment’. Ahh. Can’t you just feel the difference? It’s a soft breath, a delicious sinking into the senses, the pleasure of warm sun striking the skin, scent of oniongrass and chickweed, coolness of dusty feet in the water. Continue reading
New stories
1. I used to think I was a flake. Now I know that people called me that because they couldn’t handle my constant creativity. Now I revel in my flakiness: hug strangers, hand out kisses on valentine’s day, break out dancing in the aisles of the lumber store.
2. I used to think my weaknesses defined me. I hid when I was sad or ashamed. Now I know that it is my strengths that define me. When I dwell in my strengths, I lift everyone around me. The weaknesses are there, yes, but they just aren’t that important!
3. I used to think my periods of depression were unhealthy. Now I know that as a woman, I naturally flow through periods of introspection and vision, periods of action and joy. When I feel sad, I call a friend instead of hiding. When I feel tired I go inside and dream. Continue reading
a dark quiet room, with tea.
In the early days of my young motherhood, when my marriage was falling apart and life was an unending cycle of wailing and washing and vomit and sleepless nights, I used to dream of a special room for mothers. In that room, time would stop. There would be endless, quiet hours of darkness and unending cups of warm tea. In that room I would rock, and rest, and recharge against the chaotic and ceaseless cycle of my life.
I was so taken with this image that one night, sitting around a sacred fire with a squealing baby on my lap, I shared it. No sooner had I spoken than a young woman I’d never met before burst out: “I know that place!” She quickly blushed and silenced herself, but after the fire she approached me and she told me of a Korean spa she’d discovered, a place that for a small entrance fee entitled one to soak in warm mugwort baths and sweat in a salt sauna and sip endless barley tea and nap on a warmed jade floor. We set a date, I cashed in numerous babysitting favors, and when the day came I found myself in motherhood mecca.
I had never been to a spa before (I had walked past buildings labeled ‘day spa’, but they were so far out of my realm of experience that I vaguely thought they might have something to do with eyebrows.) My new friend led me into a steaming room filled with laughing naked women. I spent six hours sweating and soaking and scrubbing and sleeping on the jade floor and writing in my journal, and my life was changed forever. Continue reading
Women’s Joy Circle: Living an Authentic Life
Last night’s joy circle was graced by Margot Robinson, a sculptor, artist, author, public speaking coach, and ecstatic dancer who came to share the wisdom she’s learned along the way. We opened with a round of brags: one of us bragged that she had finally finished her grueling separation paperwork, another that she had managed a heartbreakingly difficult week without running away or collapsing. One of us had an incredible business opportunity land in her lap after following the lead of her heart, and one had designed an academic major that brought her personal passions into line with her academic work.
It is wonderful to sit in that circle and be reminded of the daily bravery this life takes, to take a moment and appreciate how sincerely we take this business of living, even when it gets painfully hard. One woman shared gratitude for her cloud of witnesses, remarking that many in her support system are women who had “been made stronger than they should have to be” and how well that strength, born of struggle, had served her in her own difficult times.
After rose petal chai and sprouted-flour banana muffins we congregated again by candlelight to hear what Margot had to say. She first asked: “if you had one question to ask someone wise in the ways of life, what would it be?” The circle responded:
“How do you care for yourself in the face of the press of daily obligations?”
“How do you get past the fear?” Continue reading
languages
the space art takes when
two minds endeavor to
communicate—
the purpose of laughter
a textured voice like
degrees of warmth in sunlight
why language at all?
also try:
outlined eyes
perfume
stepped heels
a soft hand on the arm
jewels
gold
lift of wind
linen on skin
count of syllables
spoken
or told
absorbed?
reflected?
birdsong.
a memory twists sentences in passing.
a note blown on the floor.
Impetigo and Vulnerability
My four-year-old son has transformed overnight from flaxen-haired charmer to disease vector. It’s not pretty. For those of you lucky ones who do not know (oh, I was in your happy ranks but yesterday!) impetigo is a bacterial skin infection, highly contagious and common in the preschool set, that generally presents as weepy, crusted sores around the mouth and nose.
The typical treatment of impetigo is antibiotic ointment, followed by a cycle of oral antibiotics if the ointment doesn’t work. This is where we run into trouble.
I don’t like antibiotics. Bio is life, right? Bio is the good guys! I’m PRO Bio, I’m pretty sure, not anti. Continue reading
when it’s all torn open
There are days when the magic is flowing, pleasure is abundant, good work comes easily, and all is right with the world.
But for all of us, there are times when the beauty of life seems to flee and we are swallowed up in deep, defeating pain. Sometimes the pain seems insurmountable and all-encompassing, the weight of getting through it too heavy to bear. We may have lost a partner, or a job, or a child, or done something that feels unforgivable; sometimes there is no apparent reason and the pain just rises up to consume us.
I wrote earlier about waltzing with medusa, but to be honest sometimes it is less of a waltz and more of an eviscerating body-slam. You can take St. John’s Wort, sure, or soak in a valerian bath, or better yet take a long walk somewhere beautiful. But this kind of pain is not something that can ever be fully addressed with external remedies. This pain comes from inside. It comes from the core of who you are, and if it is to be healed, it will be healed from the inside.
How? Lying there with your heart clawed out, unable to move or think, how can you possibly begin to heal? Continue reading
on time
I have noticed a disturbing tendency in myself lately. I am “moving through” things. You know what I mean, right? You’re reading a book to your kid and flipping over two pages at a time hoping they won’t notice, because it’s a repetitive f-ing book anyway and you’ve got things to do. You’re eating yogurt while standing up and simultaneously reading because it takes too long to stirfry burdock and wild greens. You’re internally rolling your eyes when your child takes up an interest in quilting, because oh my god, are you kidding? Do you have any idea WHAT A TIME-CONSUMING PROJECT THAT IS?
But, at the same time, you have no idea what you’re cutting all of these corners for. At the end of the day you’re just napping, or reading, or checking facebook. What was the point of all the hurrying? And wait just a second, isn’t it freaking AWESOME that my eight-year-old wants to QUILT? What happened to me? Because I say “you”, but I mean “me”. Me, the one who used to live in a hut made of twigs I’d built myself heated by a lard-can-stove I’d made myself, writing my college papers on a manual typewriter because I didn’t have electricity, eating groundnuts I’d painstakingly dug and sipping tea made with water tapped from trees because I didn’t trust the cleanliness of the stream. Now I somehow don’t have time to read the even-numbered pages of Green Eggs and Ham?
the beauty all around us
I used to dislike guided meditation. Why? Because at the end of it, everyone else would have these amazing stories of the powerful beings they encountered, the deep wisdom they received, the texture and sight and sound they dove into like cool water. And there I’d be, having seen only the pink backs of my eyelids and the essential oils I needed to order for next week.
But one morning, in the sweet space of a woman’s circle led by Honeybee Henderson, I was invited into a guided meditation that was very different. Perhaps I had grown more open, or perhaps I felt safe with these women. Whatever the cause, I found myself in a forest of thick-trunked trees, dappled with sunlight and deep shadow. Continue reading




