Sunday - Dreams of Forgiveness

I’m back to starting my day at my desk, writing in my journal. It feels good to be back in this rhythm. (Thanks, Hank.)

When I woke this morning I came out of a dream that I am sad to have lost the beautiful details of, but which had me in a place where giving grace and kindness and forgiveness mattered so much that my mind stayed in that space the few moments I was still abed. I hope it stays there for a while longer.

Mary has been busy crowing the sun up the sky, and out this south-facing window I can see the fruit of his work as the sky gets brighter and brighter. The corvine crows have gone by several times on their early morning missions, cawing and calling. Perhaps encouraging Mary, perhaps encouraging the sun. Perhaps doing their own crow things and not paying attention to the rest of us.

That “us” - my mind spoke it with the someplaces British pronunciation. Uz. Welcome to the weirdness of my brain.

Currently 22 degrees here, feels like 15. Currently extremely grateful that we built the barn and coop last year, and that I have the physical ability to haul warm water to the chickens. Hail, chickens, givers of eggs and fluffy butt happiness.

By the by, after the last cold snap all of our girls are now laying their eggs inside the old roosting box instead of on the floor. I hope that practice continues, but one never knows with chickens.

And also by the by, Mojo spent about an hour hanging with us and playing in the living room proper last night whilst Hank was passed out on the couch. Cottage normal seems to be on the horizon.

I’m holding hope for a quiet day here. Maybe some chores. Maybe some kitchen witching. Definitely some writing.

What’s going on with you?

Peace out, peeps. Be easy if you can.

p.s.: Double-decker cats for cat and Cottage tax.

#bearpathcottage

#mojo

#chickentales

#onthebearpath

Memories of My Grandmother

Leaning into the strength and resilience of my ancestors. 

Mae Augusta Curtis Barker - my Gramma Barker. Today would have been her 106th birthday.

Gram was not an easy woman to understand, but I will always wish that I had spent more time with her and that I had never known things that children need not know.

During my early childhood she lived right around the corner from us on East Walnut Street. She had grand skills with needle and thread, as well as with crochet and knitting needles. I wish she had been inclined to teach me. One of my earliest memories is of my little towheaded self clutching my precious dog, Spot, and running as fast as I could to her house so she could stitch up his ear to keep the bell from falling out. She made slippers and mittens and the many squared afghan that was kept on our couch.

She was the Christmas morning tree guardian, and the story teller when I walked with her to church or the beauty parlor or the grocery store. She was Lipton cup of soup in Tupperware mugs, Bachman's cheese popcorn, jam and butter sandwiches, and TV dinners on trays while we watched old movies. . "For goodness sake, Sheri Ann, stop fidgeting. Every time you move the reflection catches in my glasses." 

She was handmade lace doilies on her furniture and pretty pins on her sweaters. She was hospital corners, chocolate oatmeal, and washing your face before going to bed. 

As a child she roller skated on slate sidewalks in the same neighborhood in which I grew up, and on one Sunday morning walk to church she told me about her skates and the key that helped to fit them and that she wore that key around her neck on a ribbon. It was hard to imagine her so. Gram was the only adult I knew who understood that the old stone gate markers that stood in various places around the block bordered by Walnut, Wilbur, Grove, and Elizabeth streets were magical. 

She was a shared stick of Wrigley's juicy fruit or spearmint gum in the pew at the Methodist church, coffee hour after service, and helping with a church dinner. She was the most magical winter evening walk to the most magical church bazaar, and the giver of the little crochet dolly that I still love. 

She was the stern and disapproving look that could break a heart.

She was the keeper of mysterious things that belonged to the half-sister I adored, and bazillions of salt and pepper shakers and the red cabinet that was a joy to have in my own home. She was butter mints in a crystal dish and a box of saltwater taffy tucked away in a drawer.

I remember just once that she held me, during a time when I was terribly ill. Her hands were kind and strong as she held a cool compress to my forehead.

My grandfather died young, two years before I was born. She surprised me by telling me stories of frequently seeing and hearing his ghost in their house in Durhamville. I once asked her why she never remarried. She answered, "Because there is no one like him." 

I don't think she ever realized that there was no one like her, either. 

That which is honored and remembered, lives. Happy Birthday, Gram. I love you.

Raymond C. and Mae A. Barker

Ray and Mae in the Adirondacks

Mae with her sons, Ray Jr., Donald, and David

The Shine

A couple of weeks ago I was writing an article about witches and pagans and turning inward during the dark part of the year. That gave me pause to think back over this year and in doing so I realized that I actually started that turning inward process round about July, and this year I have gone further inward and traveled farther to Other places than I have ever done before. 

This was not a deliberate attempt to disengage; my actions were instinctive and the journey itself was the only destination. Disengaged just happened to be one of the places I landed. 

The pause to think also led me down a thought road to the conclusion that the depth of my journey and the degree of disengagement both helped me make it through a time of year that is often extremely difficult for me. I hope this awareness does not change the process as I move into January's emotional storms. 

I have talked publicly and honestly about a lot of heavy emotional, mental, and spiritual stuff since 2011 when I first shared my thoughts about my youngest daughter's struggle with mental health and addiction. At first I wrote because I needed to get it all out of my head, and then because I hoped it might help someone else if they could see that there were not alone. The issues are different now, but I still write for both those reasons. 

I think it is important to be honest and real about the way grief, depression, and anxiety sometimes knock me down, and just as real about the fact that I always get back up. Always. I want everyone else who is struggling to know that it is possible to do that. I want people to know that it is normal to have a less than Hallmark holiday perfect life, that it is normal to talk about it, and normal to ask for help carrying the stuff that gets too heavy. That is it normal and real to enjoy a moment or an afternoon or a day and then have some random word or song or thought send you hurtling into the brick wall of an anxiety attack, then find your way back to good space. 

Life is like that sometimes. PTSD is like that sometimes. Grief is like that sometimes. Even love is like that sometimes. 

I watched my father drown himself in depression-fueled grief over his misguided and anxiety driven perceptions of every mistake he ever made in his life. I sometimes take similar nose-dives, especially related to my parenting failures and mistakes. But a huge difference between me and my dad is that I have learned how to do the work to get out of those riptides and he never did or never could. I will always believe that inability to heal is what killed him. 

Shadow work is not a walk in the park, but it is an important part of the process of deep healing. I am grateful for those who showed me that it is possible, and for those who help me along the way. I am doubly grateful for whatever or whoever it was that brought me into this world with a spirit that was never afraid to search for answers, knowledge, and magic.

These days I share a lot about the happy aspects of my life; Rhodes in his many forms of being, my kittens, my gardens, my spiritual path. Even though there are days I don't want to get out of bed, days when anxiety holds court, days when I cannot stop crying, I always look for the better, brighter side. I won't ever deny that the dark side exists, but I don't ever let it beat me, either.  

Part of defeating the darker aspects in any persons life and of this world is keeping them out in the open and shining light on them. When I ask folks to "rise on up and put your shine on" I am asking them to be a part of the light that helps keep darkness at bay or at least shows it for what it really is. 

That doesn't take a falsely manufactured megawatt smile, or a bubbly, gushing personality. It just takes being. 

Even the softest light pushes back the darkness. 

Peace out.

Chicken Time

Daylight Savings Time doesn't matter much to me these days. I know so many people hate it when we fall back and darkness falls earlier, or spring forward and lose an hour of sleep, but Rhodes and I are both retired, and most of our days don't run by the standards of time as most people see it. I've talked about this enough times that most people who know me probably get the basics: we sleep, eat, work, and play on our own schedules. 

There is, however, one major exception to that: my father-in-law lives with us, and we have dinner together every night. He prefers to have dinner between 6 and 7:00 p.m., so dinner prep and dinner time revolve around that schedule. We don't always make it, but we try. 

At certain times of the year the conflict with that schedule doesn't come from any human source, but from the 11 feathered bodies in the backyard. 

I have kept chickens for about a year and a half now, and one thing that hasn't changed in that time is my concern for losing birds to predators. Our chickens are part of our Cottage family, and I hate the thought of them dying in some terrible, frightening manner, so their "free-range" time is more of a "supervised-range" time. Through trial and error, I have figured out that they are happiest when they range right before they go in for the night. 

Every evening, 60 to 90 minutes or so before sunset, Rhodes or I go sit in the yard with the chickens while they roam around eating green plants, hunting bugs, and playing chicken games. I use that time to read, talk with friends, do barn chores, meditate, write, or just be in the swing, watching as the light changes and darkness moves in.  

With daylight savings time having rolled in, this means that I am out the door no later than 4:30 for chicken time, and when it comes to chickens it isn't a human time construct issue but an actual sunset issue. The chickens have their own circadian rhythm that sends them looking for their shelter a little before the sun sets, and our automatic coop door works on the basis of available light and has been closing at around 5:40 p.m. 

For some reason going outside "earlier" makes it seem easier to have dinner prepared on the nights it is my turn to cook, and with the cooler weather, I sometimes use chicken time for looking up make-ahead casseroles that Rhodes can just pop into the oven while I am out with the birds. 

Dinner conflicts, cooking, adjusting schedules, and all else aside, no matter what time of year it is, that time outside every evening is always a best part of my days. There isn't any rushing it; even with the automatic door, I still have to make sure that they have all gone into the coop. Sometimes cloudy days or rain can mess with the birds' sense of timing. Recently I came home from running errands and went to check on them within half an hour of the sun having set. It was a rainy day, and I found most of the chickens huddled and miserable on the steps by the closed door. They were sitting ducks for any predator that might have wandered by. 

Sometimes they are all in 10 or 15 minutes before the door closes; other times the last one squeaks in just before I hear the beeping alarm and the metal door slides down. Both of the Smokey Pearl chickens, French Broad and Miss Frizz, are unimpressed by stories of the monsters that wait for them in the dark and frequently push their luck by going in at the last possible second. 

Bottom line, chicken time is my outdoors, fresh air, slow down and breathe point in almost every day, and I am grateful to have it. 

I have also learned that having a light on inside the coop when dusk starts to fall encourages my chickens to move into the coop and helps them get settled. I often feel that way about going inside, too. 

The light in the window draws me every time, and most nights when I come in and step into the hallway and see the light coming from the kitchen and smell homecooked food my spirits are lifted even more. 

Birthday On the Bear Path

Two days ago, as has become my tradition, I started the celebration of my actual day of birth where we all begin life - in a space between the here and there, between the now and then, between the beginning and the end. Not by design, but in answer to a gentle invitation, I kept one foot in that space and the other in this one from the early hours of the 16th until I watched the first blush of color rise in the sky this morning. That experience was a neatly wrapped gift from the divine.

As midnight fell into my birthday I was sitting in the front garden, light-bathing under the waxing gibbous moon. Flowers in sunlight are a beautiful thing; flowers in moonlight are a whole different world, and after completing a deep meditation I lingered outside, conversing with the Moon and the flowers about my birthday, about Autumn, and about many other things.

15 minutes or so after I came back into the Cottage, mama bear and her cubs came strolling up through the tiny orchard. Watching the video, the first thing you can see is her shadow cast onto the embankment by the headlights of an approaching car. Then there is the floating eye-shine parade, as she moves along with the cubs coming behind her. She was actually well ahead of them, and as she reached the edge of the driveway turned twice to make sure the car wasn't a threat to her cubs.

Seeing these bears well and healthy, chubbifying their way towards the winter months, was a grand present. Being able to witness their journey always brings me a great deal of joy. As I've spent the last two days walking in between worlds I had a lot of time and a good many reasons to muse about bears and why I care so much about them, and about the whys and hows of all the things I wish for and wish not.

That lead to a great deal more thinking about how walking the Crow Road merged with being On the Bear Path; how living with grief is moving towards living from a place of healing. I hope to share more about that soon. The grief I carry is never going to be a gone thing; it is never going to go away or get better. But it does not hold me in a place of stasis or stagnation; in fact, it frequently brings change and growth and continued healing, and I am learning how to give grace and compassion to myself when I have need of such things. I am embracing this new year of my life with courage and hope, and looking forward to strengthening foundations and empowering transformations as I continue my journey On the Bear Path.

Slip Slidin' Away

 I'm somewhat adrift these days, but not in a bad way. I don't know what other folks think of it, but this song by Paul Simon has always been, to me, an anthem of hope and belief in myself. 

I'm reclining in an existential unicorn tube on a spiritual lazy river, wearing cut-off jean shorts, a tank top, and my favorite sunglass. I smell of that coconut-scented sunscreen I used in my teenage years. My fingertips are trailing in the water as I drift along. Occasionally I bump into something or someone and stop for a few moments, and I enjoy the contact, but I know I'm going to keep moving towards where I'm supposed to be. 

It may not seem like it to anyone watching, but I finally know where I'm going, and this is the right path to get me there. 

Peace out. 

https://youtu.be/iUODdPpnxcA

"Slip slidin' away
You know the nearer your destination
The more you're slip slidin' away

God only knows
God makes his plan
The information's unavailable
To the mortal man
We work our jobs
Collect our pay
Believe we're gliding down the highway
When in fact we're slip slidin' away

Slip slidin' away
Slip slidin' away
You know the nearer your destination
The more you're slip slidin' away

Slip slidin' away
Slip slidin' away
You know the nearer your destination
The more you're slip slidin' away
Mmm"

February Romance

 When trying to build or assemble or design something, I never had trouble stepping back if I hit a wall and started to feel frustrated. I'd go for a walk or sit down with a cup of tea and a good book; basically, I would hit the pause button and give my mind time to untangle the problem and find a new approach.

After my knee surgeries, I took that skill to the next level and became a goddess supreme at working out ways to accomplish whatever I wanted to get done. I even learned to accept help, although I admit I will never be comfortable with that. Two of the most important pieces of that adaptation were developing deeper patience with myself and acknowledging and accepting that it is okay to stop and rest when rest is needed.

Despite all of that, it took this long winter for me to figure out that I could address my creative walls and limitations in the same way. Who knew? I have long held the practice of letting Love elder Ego when dealing with other people, but it was no easy task to apply that principle to myself.

I've been writing for nearly 50 years. This winter, I renewed my love of the process and my love of language. I'm feeling pretty darn happy about that.

Here Comes the Sun - a Celebration of Science and Nature

This memory from December 2019 has been on my mind for the last few days. I know the extra challenges that isolation amidst the pandemic and other social issues are adding to my life this year. I can't help but wonder how many people are struggling to connect with something, anything, any piece of hope or happiness they can find. 

I originally shared this story to highlight how simple it can be to let someone else feel like they matter. A year later, when so many are walking a tight-rope, I am sharing it again for that same reason, and perhaps as a reminder that there is at least one seasonal option for a celebration that has nothing to do with faith or religion. 

December 2019

I stopped at a chain pharmacy store to pick up a few things tonight. I usually avoid new to me places, but I’ve driven by this one 13,000 times since we moved, there weren’t any cars in the parking lot, and I needed two specific items and some chocolate. Don’t judge.

I was browsing the holiday stuff aisle, amazed at how much crap we consume in the name of giving, when a voice said, “Can I help you find something?”

I looked up and almost walked out of the store when I saw the female clerk standing there. She was one of the far too many women who look like my Beth did towards the end of her life. Sometimes seeing those shades of my daughter is a total system shock, much like going into cold water for a swim.

I paused to catch my breath, then answered, "No, thank you, I’m just looking."

She said something about holiday shopping that I couldn't quite hear, and then she quickly walked away.

When I was ready to check out, that clerk was at the counter. I was determined not to even look at or chat with her, but you know I can't do that. I cannot treat people as if they are invisible. Once again, she said something about the holidays and then said, “Not everybody wants to celebrate them. Not everyone can.”

I responded with something like, you know it’s okay if you don’t. Somehow, that removed the wall between us, and while I was standing there at the checkout, she poured her heart out.

She isn’t a Christian and doesn’t believe in Christmas. Her daughter is 18 this year, and they won’t ever do Christmas again. It’s too hard, just too painful, and it costs too much, and, and, and.

And.

I just listened as she talked. She obviously needed to vent, and why not let her? Why not hold space for and share space with someone else’s daughter? The last thing she said in her recitation of pain and unhappiness was that she likes some of the pretty decorations, but there isn’t anything for her to celebrate.

I said, "Well, you know, the Sun is coming back. I think that’s worth celebrating."

“What do you mean?” she asked. 

I offered her a brief explanation of the Winter Solstice and Yule, that the days will be getting longer again, and that it’s just science and a love of sunshine and warmer days. No belief system is necessary.

She was silent while she finished ringing up my purchases. After I paid and she handed me the receipt, she smiled at me and said, “I think my daughter would like that idea. I’m going to see if she’ll help me look it up.”

Then she smiled an even bigger smile and wished me happy holidays.

Of course, she has no idea that I’ve seen that smile before. Of course, she has no idea that she brought a bit of unexpected brightness to my day, to replace the unexpected sadness.

I hope I brought the same to hers. 

Please choose kindness when you are able. Be the Sun.

And oh - Sing this with feeling. 

https://youtu.be/KQetemT1sWc

In Liminal Space

In the early morning darkness, I ease out of the world of dreams and into this here and now. Lately, I have slept deeply but without gaining rest. Sometimes I wake uncertain of where I am or whether I am actually awake. I wonder if the places to which I travel in my sleep are the real world. If so, then this assumed reality is not reality at all but is, instead, a dream.

My Gone Befores appear in my dreams more often than ever before. This world is in turmoil, and some of them seem unsettled by that. Some wish to comfort and give guidance. Others remember every version of the warriors they have been down through the long ages. Even now, they are ready for a fight.

I have spent many years walking between the worlds, and for the first time, I am no longer sure of the boundaries. Are they blurring everywhere and for everyone, or is extreme fatigue dulling my perceptions of space and time? Perhaps current events are so emotionally and relentlessly exhausting that I sleep hard like a sun-tired child. Maybe these in-between spaces exist only in my head.

These are my thoughts as I get dressed and then step out the back door. This is heady stuff for so early in the day.

The fog is hanging low and heavy, and the trees at the edge of the yard are nothing but shadow figures. The moment I acknowledge the shadow figures, a chill runs up my spine. I don't even give it time to run back down before I distract myself by thinking random thoughts about fog. There is weather lore that claims that there will be a snowfall in winter for each morning fog in August. In many an August past, I told myself I would keep track of fog days and snowfalls. This year, I have taken up the task. On the first morning in August, I wrote a heading on an index card: August Fog/Winter Snow, and taped it onto my desk. Every morning I made the tick marks; there are 22 in all. I am now prepared to see what winter brings.

I tend to the chickens, then walk to the south yard so I can trim back the gone-too-wild tomato plants. The fog clears for a moment, revealing the mountain ridge to the south. Low-lying clouds shroud its peaks. I am caught in a moment where another world beckons to the adventurer within me, and oh, how she longs to travel. I appease her with promises of a trip to the orchards to the south later in the fall.

The clear spot in the fog and the mountains beyond it vanish, and I am back in the mist enveloped world of the garden. After taking a deep breath, I turn to look at the tomato vines, reminiscent of scenes from the original Jumanji. Now that was very definitely a between-the-worlds space.

Moving to the far side of the raised bed, I settle into work on untangling the vines. Eyes and fingers follow the lengths of green vine until it becomes a meditative process. I pause to remove a bug or pick a ripe tomato, then move back into the meditation. Organizing, clearing out, and supporting are the dominant themes of the work. Breathe in. Breathe out. The garden is still wrapped in a light mist, with bits of morning color and birdsong all around.

The rumble of thunder sounds in the distant west. Should I head into the house to beat the rain? I start to gather the pruners, my knife, and the garden twine to put them back into my mom's dark brown basket. She purchased it years ago from one of those at-home parties and was so proud of it. She filled it with a spray of purple flowers and kept it next to a shelf filled with special treasures. I know it made her smile. Would she smile now to know that I use her basket every day? I close my eyes and call up her image, here among the tomatoes and marigolds.

How little effort it takes to move between those two worlds - hers and mine. The simple basket at my feet becomes a magical object because of the memories associated with it. I smile, remembering her smile and her love of her garden. I decide to stay and keep working, regardless of the rain.

Once again, I trace a green line back to its point of origin. Yes, this one can go. No, this one must stay. Snip. Snip. Drop the worm into the pan for the chickens. Trace another green line. Pause to talk to the sparrow and the wren, pause to seek out the form of Crow high in the tall white pine. He certainly has a great deal to say. Crow is another linking point between the worlds; I have been walking the Crow Road since before my Beth died. It seems I always will be, now that I am aware of its existence.

I had thought the road would end. That I would reach some destination after her death as I worked my way through the grief and trauma. But this is the road I am on now, even while I am living a vibrant life. Not one foot there and one here, but moving back and forth and between, sometimes in dreams, sometimes in memory, sometimes in reality. Crow has added layer upon layer of depth to my understanding of walking between the worlds and being in liminal space.

The rain begins. Coming first as a heavy, moving mist, but then the drops fall on me. I turn my face to the sky. The water washes over me. I close my eyes. I don't want to be aware of anything but the feeling of that water on my skin. I wonder if I will be in a different place when I open my eyes. Beth might be there with me, in the place where she is whole and healthy and always glad to see me. I hold my breath, and that moment of hope for a moment. I open my eyes. She is not. And I am not. I am in the Here and Now.

The rain keeps falling. I go back to the work that is simply work now. Good work. Healing work. The rain is warm and sweet, and its touch on my skin is gentle. I am content.

Daily Practices

I have been working on re-establishing some daily practices. I had overwhelmed myself by trying to establish new routines for my entire day, and since my brain just isn't wired that way anymore, that attempt was a colossal disaster. 

So I backed off. I forgave myself for my perceived failure. I regrouped and reconsidered, and decided to try a more gentle approach, going in toes first instead of diving headlong. 

I found something new that interested me - setting a trail camera on our property to keep an eye on wildlife activity. Then I set the alarm on my phone to remind myself to go and change out the SD card. The alarm has a distinctive sound, a clip from John Denver's song "Wild Montana Skies." https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8RRgIP-0pHk It is not a sound I can ignore, and I haven't been ignoring it for about two months now. Every night I change the card, regardless of the weather, or how tired I am or if I have a dozen other things to do. There are no excuses for not completing the task. The lure of a new thing, the alarm reminder, and determination helped me establish that new daily practice. 

At the beginning of August, I found another new thing that interested me. The first foggy morning reminded me of the lore that says that there will be a snowfall in winter for every foggy morning in August. Every year I am reminded of that lore, and every year I say I'm going to keep track, but I never do until this year. I have taped an index card right next to my keyboard on my desk, and it is divided into two columns: August Fog and Winter Snowfalls. Every morning I make a hash mark on the index card if there was fog. Today is August 21st, and so far, we have had 16 foggy mornings here at Bear Path Cottage. Another daily practice in place. 

Somewhere in the foggy morning check, I decided to add my daily walkabout and outside morning meditation back to my practices. Because I already have to get up and get outside to tend the chickens, this was a logical next step. 

There are other daily practices I have reintroduced or created anew. Meditation. Ritual. Writing. It was easier to build off the first one in place than to implement them all at once. A key to my success in maintaining these daily practices is to allow myself some flexibility with time. That flexibility keeps me from feeling like the day is ruined if I don't have Practice A done by a certain time. I have reclaimed my ability to roll with the flow. 

This morning as I sat for meditation, the sky opened up, and a soft rain started to fall. I stayed where I was, under the juniper boughs, undisturbed. I knew that when I went back inside, I would fix a cup of tea and carry it to my desk. I would sit down to mark the fog record, and then I would begin writing. The tea would warm the chill from the rain, and the daily practices would continue to bring comfort and stability in difficult times. They contribute to maintaining a sense of being grounded and centered in a tempestuous world. I am grateful for the circumstances that allowed me to recognize the need to rebuild my daily routines and the life experiences that have taught me how to do so.

Today's tea: Catskill Mountain Tea Company's Winter Cherry

The Great Re-Grouping

I wrote this in late March or early April. At that time I hoped the collective "we" would do all the right things. That we would manage to collectively be decent, and civil, and compassionate. I allowed myself to use the pandemic to erase 4 years of certain sectors of people in the United States becoming progressively, aggressively, anything but those things. I hoped we could all work together to make things better, especially when we moved from Pandemic to Pandemic + Civil Rights Movement. When I first wrote it, I wrote this line: "Choose who we are when this is over." I realize now, it won't ever be over. There isn''t going to be a continuation of life in the after. Things will have to change in significant ways, and not necessarily bad ones.

Look where we are now. Look, if you can bear to. I can't do it everyday, anymore. I realized it is self-harming behavior, and there's no need to keep traumatizing myself all day long. 

I see enough to still believe there are more good people who want good for all of us than there are horrible people who don't care about anyone. Or ignorant people who fall into any number of mind-numbing psychological pathologies about identifying with the school yard bully. 

However...I remember quite clearly the day my boss and I were in the office talking about the upcoming election and I said these words outloud: "This country will never allow that to happen." But it did. I have never since said something can't or won't happen. 

Realistic optimist? Hopeful pessimist? I don't know if there's a label that fits, or if I'd accept one if it did. I just keep working to prepare myself and my family for whatever might happen. I mourn those who are dying, and grieve for their families. I am outraged that children and teachers are being placed on the frontlines of this pandemic when every bit of evidence says we are putting their lives in danger. I am outraged that my government is not doing its job, and continues to allow a narcissistic, treasonous conman to keep breathing. I will continue to do the work I need to do, but I won't be caught off guard again. We are being swallowed whole. But I'll be damned if we aren't fighting fiercely. 

The Great Re-Grouping.

I have lived alone before
and wrapped the silence and the house sounds
around me for comfort and strength.
But that was different.

My life has often been measured 
in before and afters.
Boxed up, wrapped up, compartmentalized into
Now and Then. 

Some of the durings mattered, 
but they happened in real time, 
in the everyday, in the middle of
life as we knew it and 
they were swallowed whole. 

But this. 
This great Re-Grouping.
This cosmic time-out, go to your room, and
Stay there...

This is a During that will make or break
a person
a family
a community
a country
The World as we know it.
Life, as we knew it.

This is a during we better remember.
It might be our last, big chance to 
Choose who we are now and
Who we will be in the New Times.
If we let this swallow us whole
All will be lost. 
We will be lost. 

My Personal Almanac

There has been a feeling of detachment hovering around me lately, of disconnection and a low, abiding sorrow seemingly outside the scope of the world as seen through the lenses of the impact of the pandemic, isolation, and civil unrest. I haven't been able to pinpoint the source of these feelings,  and not for a lack of trying. I've just been missing something and I'm not quite sure what it is.

Two days ago I received a package from my favorite tea business, Catskill Mountain Tea Company, with seven different blends of tea. Rootbeer, Thorne Valley, Autumn Leaves, Golden Sunrise, Winter Cherry, Rip van Winkle, and Serenity Valley. The names themselves are delicious, and the scents overwhelmed me in a happy way as soon as I opened the shipping box. Sassafras, lemon, rose, ashwagandha, jasmine, just to name a few. I opened each bag and tin so I could take a good whiff of each tea and decide which I wanted to try first. As I did that I finally identified what I have been missing.

As much as I am a homebody, I also love to be on the go, adventuring with my love. I am used to noticing and marking the passing of the seasons by what I see blooming in gardens and fields as we drive along. The seasonal views and the bloom cycles of the native wildflowers of the Blue Ridge Parkway are part of my personal almanac, and I feel somewhat adrift for not seeing them.

I miss roadside produce stands and their hand-lettered signs that tell me what they have in stock, and thereby knowing what is in season. I even miss thinking things like, "It's too early for peaches here, those can't be local." I miss thinking nothing of driving down to South Carolina to find peaches, then driving home with the car filled with the intoxicatingly sweet scent of luscious, juicy goodness. I miss going on an unplanned day-trip around this area, seeking berries and corn and green beans and knowing that we could stop whenever we felt like it for a meal or a drink in a local diner. I miss seeing a large bloom of honeysuckle and parking nearby to breathe in that heady scent and harvest a few blooms to taste the nectar.

I miss wandering through farmers markets, taking in the vibrant colors and aromas, marking the seasons by what is available, what looks healthy, what smells fresh and good. I miss asking the growers and makers about their products. I miss coming home with a basket full of goodness.

I am surrounded by gardens here at the Cottage, but I am in the early stages of knowing the seasons here because they are quite different than they were in the shadows of Mount Pisgah. When I moved from upstate New York to the mountains of North Carolina it took time for my body and spirit to adjust to the differences in how and when the seasons presented, and I was able to do that by paying attention to the sensory clues that nature makes available.

Now that I know what I've been missing, I will work on finding a way to adapt.

Going Green, Gone Solar

About 750 years ago I was a little kid living in a small town in upstate New York. It was actually the only city in a rural county, surrounded by dairy and farm land, and from my youthful perspective not the kind of place where progressive thinking was a common thing. Yet somebody was progressive enough to install a solar energy system on a little house near the high school, and before I knew anything about anything I was enchanted by the thought of the Sun keeping a home warm. Solar energy became part of my eventual dream for a little cottage. 

Fast forward centuries later, and Rhodes and I bought a little house last year that clearly had the potential for becoming our combined dream home, and the house that needed some work became Bear Path Cottage. 

As a couple we are committed to going green as much as we can. We aren't ever going to win any awards for being environmental heroes, but we do our best to reduce our negative impact on the environment, and to reduce our carbon footprint. The green changes we have made to the outside of the property are the most visually evident ones; adding gardens and planting trees and other things to attract and sustain pollinators as well as make our family a little more food independent is a big deal to us. If we don't beat the birds, raccoons, and bears to the berries every year, well, that's just part of the gardening game in the mountains and they are just some of the neighbors we can share our harvest with. 

Some additional changes we made were replacing the electric tank water heater with a gas tankless system, replacing old windows with more energy efficient ones, and when we decided to add a parking space for my father-in-law's entrance to the house we opted for a permeable parking system. That choice was inspired by (though it looks nothing like)  the amazing parking system that we saw when we visited The Wild Center in Tupper Lake, NY. (https://www.wildcenter.org/thrive-together/sustainable-building/our-green-facility/) Those water penetrable paver lots made such an impression on us we carried the thought of them with us for four years. Thanks, Wild Center!

We had long discussed and agreed that we wanted to implement solar options if we bought a house where it was suitable. The long roof side of Bear Path Cottage is directly south facing and is basically a solar dream. After we closed on the house I attempted to research reputable local solar companies, but it is not easy to find information about that. The regional electric company was also no help, and there is actually a great deal of misinformation on the internet. We decided to put that project on the back burner until we could find more information. 

We had just started talking about it again when I saw that a former colleague is working as a sales rep for a solar company. I chatted with her a bit, did some research on the company, and then she came to meet with us to discuss the process. We were excited by the options presented to us, and couldn't wait to get started.

In February of this year a crew installed the solar panels on our roof. I admit it was a little disconcerting to listen to people drill holes in the less than a year old Cottage roof, but the work crew was professional, our rep was on top of everything, and in half a day's time we had the bones of the system in place. 

Duke Energy seemed to drag their feet on their end of things that had to happen to get the system running, and then the arrival of a pandemic and the related shut downs also slowed things down a bit. No worries - we are patient people. After more paperwork, and more emails, and the installation of the net meter, we were finally ready to power up. 

Four days ago Rhodes followed careful instructions from the solar company and flipped the switches that officially turned Bear Path Cottage into a generating facility, complete with a net meter and a solar photovoltaic generating system. But what do these $5 words even mean? 

For starters, it does not mean that we are off the electric grid, and it does not mean we can make money from the electricity generated by our solar panels. Duke Energy doesn't like either of those things, and does not allow them to happen. 

However, it does mean that we are now offsetting our electric bills with renewable energy produced through the solar panels/generating system installed at the Cottage. This is how our solar company explains our system: "After solar panels are installed on your home you begin producing power. Any excess power your home doesn’t use will be sent back to your utility company. Your electric meter will run backwards. You will feed excess energy to the utility company during the day and then receive it back during the nighttime, at no cost."

It also means that some time down the road when solar batteries became an affordable option we will be able to store any excess energy produced by our generating system and then potentially go off grid. Additionally, we will still pay Duke Energy for whatever usage we have over and above what the Cottage produces. 

In less than four whole days the system has produced 58 kilowatt hours of electricity, and yesterday produced nearly 25 kWh. According to Duke Energy, we used 773 kWh in the last billing cycle of 31 days, which averages out to slightly less than 25 kWh per day. Translation: overall we are breaking even with output and usage, so are successfully reducing our use of fossil fuels and our carbon emissions. That's a good feeling, and another part of the dream coming true.

Dear hometown person from the 1970's who installed a solar energy system: someone noticed, and it made a difference. Thank you. 

Note: No photos, because the electric system bits are boring, and the panels blend so well with our roof that they are difficult to distinguish from the angle from which I could take a photo. So, here's a photo of the view from the Eagle's Nest at The Wild Center. 

Time is on my side...

I wonder what I would tell this kid if I could go back to 1983 and actually sit down and talk with her. I wonder if she would listen to me, but even more than that I wonder if I would like who I might have become if she did. I do talk to her, and to many of the versions of my Self as they existed within this lifetime; doing so is part of the healing work with which I am engaged. As for going back - all I have to do is close my eyes.Time is nothing more than a human construct for measuring events that seem like they should matter. The more in tune I become with fully living each moment, experiencing each event, the less relevant the construct of time becomes and the more relevant the event. Eventually time will have no meaning to me, and hold no sway over my existence. When did I last see your face? Last hear your voice or your laughter? When did I last see the roses bloom or drift with the ocean? It was just now, this moment, In the room where memory is always present. There is no need to hurry through or Hurry on or hurry back. Doing so negates the value of being In this moment. Doing so negates the value of being.

For there is nothing lost...

I had a fairly well established daily routine before the COVID-19 pandemic initiated the Great Regrouping throughout the world. I am not a very social person and my anxiety disorder prevents me from straying too far or too often from home, so I didn't think social distancing would change my life very much. Wowser, was I wrong.

For the first time in my 53 years of living, I have had the opportunity to allow my body to find its own rhythm. I have a once a month writing deadline, and I am currently answering only to the demands of nature for working to get my gardens established. I might sleep three hours in a night, or I might sleep ten or twelve. I might be up before dawn or not go to bed until then.

My daily spiritual practice has evolved into happening while I am working in the gardens or outside for a walk about. It happens while I am sitting under the loblolly pine, watching the baby American Robins in their nest, or sitting under the night sky. Bear Path Cottage has become a rather substantial sized altar, and my connection with the Divine is ever deepening.

Inside the house, well, some days it looks like I am losing a game of Jumanji, but the world hasn't ended because of this lapse in housekeeping. This is just another part of life that is slowly settling after being shaken up. When my kids were little I embraced a "messy doesn't mean dirty" housekeeping style, and I am once again keeping home with that liberating philosphy.

I am shaking off a lifetime of constructs created by a world external to me, and that is exhausting work. I am grateful for the time to allow my entire being - body, mind, and spirit -  to rest from this work as it needs must. I am most grateful for the journey work that has led me to a place where I can recognize what is happening and embrace it without paying harsh judgment to myself.

I am also mindful that I am not living within a destination. I haven't arrived anywhere. I am still traveling, no matter how far I go or don't go. I am living wholly in this moment. I am alive.

“For whatsoever from one place doth fall,
Is with the tide unto an other brought:
For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.”
― Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene

Finding Grace

Today I wrote to a friend that I have been trying to find some grace in every day.

I am tired. Somedays I am exhausted, even beyond the normal fatigue I deal with because of some health issues, or the physical fatigue that comes from working outside as much as I am able, and I think that this is normal during this difficult time. The pandemic and the political climate in this country, on top of everything else going wrong in this world, can be overwhelming. So I make myself slow down, I make myself see, I make myself hear, I make myself feel, and by doing that, I find grace, which in turn gives me hope and some sense of peace in this Upside Down.

Yesterday morning I was busy moving wagon loads of plant debris from the raised bed in the front yard to the compost pile out back. Its a bit of a walk and on my second trip back I sat down on Blueberry Hill to rest. The sun was warm on my face and there was a light breeze blowing. I closed my eyes for a while and did a quiet meditation, then I opened my arms and let that wind move through me, carrying away all that was negative.

When I opened my eyes again the day seemed a little brighter. I heard the low cooing of a Mourning Dove in the loblolly pine branches above me, and I turned my eyes to see if I could find the bird. A pair of them had been nesting in another tree in our front garden, but had abandoned that nest after a wind storm. I was hoping to find their new home space, but they both moved in and out of the high-up branches and then flew away.

Movement on the ground caught my eye and I saw a female American Robin doing a funny little walk/run across the driveway, moving towards where I was sitting. She would stop and look at me, then run a little more. She eventually went up the hill past me and I watched until she caught a worm then flew up into the tree over my head. And lo, there it was. This year's nest in the loblolly pine. The minute she stepped close to it two little heads on two scrawny necks popped up out of the nest, and those little mouths were wide open, ready for their elevenses.

The Sun was lined up so perfectly behind that nest, behind that branch, that in that moment the babies were completely backlit. The light actually shone through their beaks, illuminating them and making them appear transluscent. It reminded me of last Autumn when the rising Sun shone through the sunflowers blooming in our front garden; the whole scene was so magical that I held my breath, not wanting it to end.

Then their mom moved to feed them, and in the next instant she was fluffing her wings and settling down over her babies in the nest. Take whatever message you want to take from that moment, from that image, but I was just so overwhelmed by love that I cried.

I sat there under the tree for a while longer, musing about that moment of grace and about the way the Wheel turns. Moments pass, days go by, the year moves on, but I am often gifted with reminders of how everything is connected. Sunflowers and baby birds kissed by the same Sun. Friends who share music that makes them dance, or laugh, or cry, or worship. Art that makes people smile or sigh. Garden talk and critter pictures; despair and hope; loss and love.

There is grace in every bit of it, and I am blessed.

One Mississippi...Two Mississippi...

I am awake in the wee hours of the morning, summoned by the noise and power of the first real thunderstorm of the season rolling through the river valley in which I live. Without even thinking about it, I find myself counting the intervals between each flash of lightning and burst of thunder, and my mind is flooded with memories of comforting and empowering my children in the dark and stormy nights of their tender years. 

The helper is a simple meditation and sleep ritual that I never realized was either one of those things until now. The children would call to me or come to me in the dark, frightened by the storm, and we would wind up snuggled together, sometimes just one of them and me, sometimes all of us snuggled together on the couch. In the lull after a boomer I would ask "Are you ready? Let's watch now," and they would very nearly hold their breath, waiting for the night sky to light up. When it did, we would count outloud together: One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. 

BOOM! The thunder would come, and they would jump, but their eager minds were already busy watching for the next flash to cross the sky. As they grew older those lulls between flash and boom were often filled with questions about different kinds of lightning, how storms move, or what animals do during storms. They each went through a phase when they just had to spell out the word, Mississippi, in the sing-song rhyming chants so many of us know from childhood, and I remember a night one of the girls dissolved into giggles because she was missing her top front teeth and couldn't say the word. 

I would gently encourage them to hush, to watch, to listen, to quiet their breathing so they could hear. They learned that they could tell when the storm was drawing closer and when it was moving away. The lull between boom and flash would lengthen, their fear would settle, their breathing would slow, and eventually they would not so much fall back to sleep as to be carried there by the peace of the lull and the sound of the rain. 

Sometimes when it storms now, I wonder if they remember. 

The boomers have passed through now, and the sound of the rain is hypnotic and sweet. My gardens are being watered, and I am going to wrap myself in gratitude and allow the rain to lullaby me back to sleep. 

Yarrow for the Heartache

Walter has insisted that I work at my desk this morning, so here I am. I'm catching up on messages and emails, writing a review, and staring at my journals and my pile of unused journals like maybe I recognize them, but I'm just not sure. You know, like when you see that person in the store or on the train or at the show, and you are wondering if you went to school with them or maybe met them at a business meeting or they might have sat at the table next to you at that restaurant you went to two months ago when we still believed it was safe to dine out.
I have been woefully neglectful of my daily writing practice, and I realized yesterday that it is because I am avoiding writing about COVID-19 and what it is doing to the world. I don't know. Maybe it is triggering the Anne Frank nightmares of my childhood or something. Maybe it is just one too many traumas; one more level down the abyss that this country's current political environment dragged us into. One more monster in the Upside Down.
I am saturating my social media content with garden stuff because that's where the hope grows for me. That is where the distraction lies as well. I'm soaking up all the art and music and nature that other people are sharing because my spirit needs those balms. Who knew that Penguins touring zoos and aquariums could actually warm the human heart?
There are times that I am overwhelmed by everything that is happening, and it usually hits me from out of the blue. I will be sitting on the couch or out in the garden or talking with Rhodes, and all of a sudden I find myself crying. All of a sudden I am aware of the fear and concern I have for the people I love, for my friends, and for my community, both local and world-wide.
My daughter works in a health care practice that is essential. Their office cannot close, and they are affiliated with the local hospital. My mind does not allow me to acknowledge this in every minute of every day but I am all too aware of the number of health care workers who have died from COVID-19 and I am terrified for my child. I keep that fear locked away in a box inside my head because if I didn't I wouldn't be able to function.
I am worried about other people in my family, some as much for the psychological strain caused by unemployment and uncertainty as for the disease itself. My 82 year old father in law lives with us and we have just now managed to convince him to stop going to the grocery store. We have everything we need in this house right now; there is no point in risking his life or our lives for things we might want.
I worry that I can't do enough to help other people at a time when I *should* be helping as much as possible. And then I remind myself, or my husband reminds me, that we are doing the best we can to help those we can help, in all the ways that we can help, and that is all anyone can do.
So, I am silencing my muse because I am afraid of what she has to say. She rebels in my head, gets wild and loud and crazy, and sometimes bursts through the seams so that I hear little bits of what she has to say. But while I am silencing her, I am tuned in with perfection to the Divine all around me, and I have a sneaking suspicion they are passing notes.
A few weeks ago before things went completely topsy turvy, I acquired some plants for the altar we keep for our Beth. I've never grown yarrow, but I've seen it and admired it, and I saw some at the nursery and I just had a sudden knowing. "Get the yarrow," the quiet voice said. "See how beautiful it is? Beth would love this." Then an even quieter voice said "Yarrow for the Heartache. You could write about that."
I got the yarrow, and later that night when I sat down to do some research, I'm fairly certain I heard the quieter voice giggle when I found a dozen articles about the uses of yarrow to comfort the heart.
I'm still musing about how to write about the Yarrow, but here's some free verse that's flowing through my head like water over the rocks in a small creek, catching here, stopping there, turning, skipping along.
Peace out, peeps.

When this is all said and done Will you remember when a stranger bumping into you In the market was an annoyance and not a death threat?

Will you remember the privileged horror
Of the finally undeniable truth that children in your
Neighborhoods go hungry every day?

Will you remember that Margie next door
Baked homemade cornbread for the neighbor girl
Who brought buttermilk home for her?

Or that Kim shared beagle pictures to make us smile
And Star shared recipes and let her cats work the stove
And Karen's cat learned to use the Ipad to watch videos?

Edie who kept her grandbaby and crossed generations to care for those she loves.
Chris who has to love her mother from a distance, and
Others who cannot touch or hug or see their children and grandchildren or friends.

Will you remember those who shared wisdom and
Those who shared words intended to comfort and
Those who reached through the screen to send love?

Those who stood up against injustice and
Those who muddied the waters and
Those who fought for all of us and meant it?

Yo Yo Ma is giving us Songs of Comfort and
So are Garth and Tricia, Paul Simon, Jimmy Fallon,
Gail Gidot, and people who can't carry a tune in a bucket
And my ears are drinking it up.

Sidewalk chalk art is as inspiring and beautiful as the
Free tours of the Met and the Getty and the Tate and
Dear Goddess, please let me keep believing that I will
Tour them for real in the Great Regathering someday.

I am crying for strangers and grieving for families and whole nations
And thinking of the exquisite bouquets my friend Wrex creates
And the love and hope that she effortlessly and magically imbues them with

And I suddenly feel hopeful again, thinking wry thoughts
About how to show love in this Time of Chaos,
And offering Yarrow for the Heartache we are all feeling.