Looking for Cows and Finding Angels

The lane in front of my gates

It has been almost a month since I sat to write, though I have ideas fill my head everyday. No space in my new casita yet feels like an “office”. My dining table could serve, but no nearby outlets without fumbling with a long extension cord to create an office corner, and it is my least favorite room to be in now, serving as path to the tiny kitchen. With a bag of dog food on a chair, my large box of horse tack with no place to go, a hutch ( available from my landlady with a few other furnishings) holding my dishes, my fridge and microwave. In Tzintzuntzan I worked on the patio everyday. Here, I do not (yet) have a feasible outdoor space with shade, or  comfortable outdoor furniture. But the main excuse, is I was busy packing up, moving, arranging things, shopping for what I deemed necessities, and all that went with coming to this little yellow house in the rancho of Las Cuevas. Settling in here has taken some time and remains a work in progress, but I really love much about it. Closer to Patzcuaro than before, and certainly much quieter than festive Tzintzuntzan. This area has an open, lovely landscape and feels good to the spirit. 

But no more excuses, there are stories to share. Each day, usually late afternoon I turn right out of my gates with the pups and head up the road that turns from stone and gravel, to dirt and rock,  and finally to dust. It passes by lines of stone fences with barbed wire or metal gates. Many nopal cactus, some trees, cows, volcanic rock covers the ground, all filling the landscape, and a beautiful view to the mountains if I turn, is always there. I have seen the man on the mule a few times, coming and going, but by late afternoon, all is quiet, except for the consistent late afternoon wind. I have found a few easy crossings into pasture land and explored off the road to find draws full of long shadows and channels that will fill with water come rainy season, even a pond. One day I walked until I was at the top, and finally came to one house set back behind fences and a healthy avocado orchard. From there you could see the mountain with the tower atop, over behind Tzintzuntzan. Seeing the tree covered friend, that I walked many times in my first three months in Mexico, in a different light, from a different angle made me smile. A sense of place orientation connected to feeling is always meaningful for me. That was about two miles up the road, and I had to turn and head back as the sun was growing lower in the sky. I would love to take a horse, and keep going, but until that day, I will have to start early morning and continue on to return, before the hot part of the day.

Heading back from a walk

Three days ago, I started out later than usual with the pups, of course, and an old beater of a red truck passed by. I waved, and said “Buenas Tardes”. They passed, then another four hundred yards I saw where it had pulled over near a gate, thinking folks are checking on their livestock, or maybe harvesting some nopal from their land, and kept on going. After a bit, up ahead, I saw the woman, perhaps some older than me, in her skirt and shawl walking towards us, looking down at the ground. When we met, she began to explain, and though I could not understand the details, from a few words and observing, I understood she was “buscando una vaca” searching for a cow.  We tracked together for a few yards, and then I recalled, maybe eight hours earlier, seeing a cow come trotting by my gate. I was out in my outer yard and saw what looked like a black and white holstein go by. Seeing cows in or around roads is not unusual here. Then I saw a young man on a motorcycle go by in the same direction. I didn’t know if they were together, but took it all in. I did my best to share this with the woman. She responded that “Si!” their cow was blanca y negra, like the one I saw. We walked and talked all the way back to her truck. She loved my dogs, and shared the information I had with her husband. They loaded up their dogs in the bed of the truck and headed back toward the rancho, where I had last seen the cow heading. We smiled and waved.

This is a simple story, but I felt there had been a meaningful exchange (for me), and I felt a step more into being a small part of this community. I recognise the folks on my lane, we acknowledge each other. The young man across the street has some English. We talked about his wife, and son, his horses, cow… and I shared a little about me. He offered to help me in any way he could. I thanked him, and added, I would be pleased to help his family with the animals, if they ever needed to be away, or in other ways. Since then I have met Martha Jonathan, and a cousin. Soon I will walk to the small tienda in town. It is where everyone meets at different times of the day. I have driven past many times, smiled, waved, greeted, but haven’t gone down the hill on foot yet. There are some dog “enforcers” sleeping or overseeing their territory that has kept me from walking my two down.  I have seen them go high alert when other dogs in the back of trucks go by. But I want and need to “go to el rancho”, and buy a limonada or cervaza, jitomate or huevos.  I need to see what is in the store, and also see and be seen on foot, rather just in my car heading out and in.

Cactus and sky

My lecciones de Español begin next week, with my goal to concentrate on get better at speaking and listening/understanding over the next year(s). Communication with my landlady, my neighbours, and participating in all the ins and outs of daily life in Mexico will be so much richer and fuller once I have better skills and confidence. What I do now is use the words I know, adding in my own brand of charades to try and “be heard”, but I want to understand the responses, as much as I want to speak. This leads me to angels. I have been to Mexico three times total, every time I have had angels.

In Mexico City, Tepoztlan, Morelia, and Patzcuaro, I some known, some unknown angels, wete present for me when there could be a “situation”, one that might evolve into a high level of anxiety, at least. The first time I came here in 2016, I was lost, in Mexico City, no Spanish, I had just closed my eyes in the bus terminal, and was taking a few deep breaths to empty my head and formulate a plan. I am sure I said a few words affirming, “ this can be sorted out.” Clearly I could not find a bus to where I needed to go, as I was aware of having taken a bus to the wrong terminal, and unable to communicate. When I opened my eyes, a young man was standing in front of me. He spoke English, looked on his phone at bus terminals, schedules etc…took my suitcase, put me in a taxi, got me across the city to where I needed to be. Once there I saw the sign, bought my ticket, waited 30 minutes and caught a bus to Patzcuaro, a five hour trip, where someone was waiting to take me to a cozy bed. In Morelia, in 2018, I left my wallet at of the ticket counter at a movie theatre, the night I went with a group see “The Shape of Water”. I didn’t even know it until the next morning. A friend and I went to Morelia the next day, and there it was, behind the desk, everything as it was, an unknown angel, watching over a distracted American woman.

There are several other stories to share. Being taken care of, like when I “partied” apparently too hard and fast with kind folks celebrating a Birthday. I passed out. When I came to, I was on the ground with people holding up my arms and legs and talking to me. Then they sat me up and eventually got me to my room, coming later to check on me. And I was fine, albeit embarrassed in the morning. Angels. Recently, I had taken a lamp I bought in town back for a chain repair, and to place a downpayment on some custom shelves being built for me. The woman I had been dealing with was not there, as it was late afternoon. But Jesus was. Alone at the store, a workman, he repaired my lamp, took my downpayment gave me a receipt. His English was about the level of my Spanish, but we “talked” awhile, then I left. I had just gotten home, when my phone rang, a Mexican number unknown to me. I answered. It was Jesus. Finally I figured out what he was telling me. I had left me wallet at the store in town, and he was calling to let me know. It was almost 7:00. I asked how much longer he would be there, and he said he would wait for me. So back in the car I went, 20 minutes and there it was. I told him he had saved my life, “Me salvaste la vida”. I was carrying more pesos than usual, but it was my visa temporal, credit cards, driver’s license, et al the would be the huge hassle to lose. I offered him a reward, he refused, I smiled and bowed with prayer hands and told him, he was an angel (my angel). And he was. 

Today, carpintero Mario came to my house with his wife, sister-in-law and ninety four year old madre. He came to measure for cabinets in my kitchen and hall,  much needed, and exciting to have done, but their presence here was the true gift to me. We shared ideas and feelings over an hour, discussing connections between people, healing, energy, and family. He told me about his wife’s shoulder. I scanned it, and said, I would love to work with her on the table once I have my healing space and tools in place, (very soon, I hope). But, for today I gave her a brief treatment standing in the yard. Guidance said to offer a chevron amethyst, so I dug around and found one, offered a little information of how to use it in self healing. It did not go unnoticed, that over the last week, I have been wondering, how will I offer Reiki and other expressions of energy healing here in Mexico. It is my Lifework, with a capital “L”, and has been hard to put aside for so long, (between the pandemic and the move). Although I use Reiki in my daily spiritual practice, assist folks/situations with distance work, and send conscious healing to the planet (and myself), working with clients one on one is what I long for, again. Seekers of deep relaxation, those that want relief from issues/patterns, physical or emotional, are everywhere in this world. I felt a door to possibility open in this small interaction in my “new” life. My introverted self finds it hard to go talk about myself /the work/practice in public, especially with folks that do not know me well. Sales is not my strong suit. I think of it always as serving, not selling. My webpage, where this blog shows up, and my Facebook WisdomWays page are out there, but haven’t stirred up a huge amount of interest, yet. So, I will see if this angel, Valentina’s, reminder, opens a door that may have gone unnoticed. 

Yesterday, a friend, came out to help me hang the art I had shipped down from the States. He arrives on time, with a pallet of plants from his roof garden, avocados and eggs, all for me, as well as the tools needed for the job. We spent over four hours talking and laughing. Some in Espanol, some in English. Everyday is an opportunity to learn, and just be you, figuring out who and what that is, in an easy way… like putting on your favorite socks, or eating that special comfort food. Much simpler down here south of the border. Balance comes as we release the pressures and anxieties that seem to be a steady diet for most folks in the States. Even a rural retired life. I had my strategies there, most not much needed now. A little breathwork, a few affirmations, some stretching, brief self and other Reiki, and just moving into morning slowly, but consciously is all that I need to maintain peace most days. I am taking care of myself. I am matching up well with energy. Much of what may have been aggravating or even raised anger or frustration within me before seems small stuff. My senses recognise the movement within the circle of life around me and that ebb and flow of activity feels familiar. That truck, always there this time of day loaded down with grass, the man on the blue roan heading south, the older gentleman on the white horse with his perfect posture tips his hat, the dogs of the rancho and what they do, the whinnying of the pregnant mares up the road, the daily ringing of the church bells. Familiarity, no matter how small, provides something the soul needs. Just as the mystery, wildness and unknowns of travel or adventures (of all kinds) do. We all lean one direction or the other, and yet appreciate the excitement, or ease of the other. Balance.There are challenges living here, for sure, but now I feel more of, “It will be fine, I’ll figure it out.” Early to bed, early to rise. Sleeping deep without tension. My patience has lengthened. Answers seem so much less important. Searching for cows, and finding angels is enough. Really, it is bountiful.

Truck filled with grass and a dog

Wheelbarrows, Buckets, and Baskets

I completely enjoy the beauty of sunset, the letting go at end of the day, and experiencing fully that hour of power. I love giving myself over to the mystery so strongly felt under a starry night sky, witnessing the changing moon and her story. But I have always loved the early morning most of all, when it comes to time of day….any season of the year. The promise that lives on the wings of coming light, following the restoration of a night’s sleep, never ceases to awaken joy within me, and the optimism of possibility. 

Getting up and out early here in Mexico is a special treat for the senses, whether you are in a pueblo, rancho, or city. When I first wake, I listen. Yes birdsong is everywhere, and roosters crow, cows low, horses whinny, goats bleat, and pigs squeal. The gas trucks begin their traveling announcements around town. Having my coffee outside I consider my plans, check for new blooms in the garden and enjoy the growing expanse of blue. Heading out in my car, I often follow the same “last gasp” pickup, with old metal milk cans on board. I have watched the farmer stop and make deliveries along the way many mornings. Four leggeds graze out along the road and street sides. Artisans begin setting up and displaying their crafts for sale. Dogs sleep in the sun. To an American (even a rural one like me), much that you see feels like stepping back in time, centuries perhaps. Although there are, of course, trappings of modern life, much here remains traditional, done in the same way for the same purpose, for a very long time. Find the woman with her bucket, that grew the blue corn, ground it, and made the tortillas that morning. Notice the oxen pulling the cart beside the combi van, the SUV passing the burro carrying firewood, the man on his horse, or woman with her staff easily moving animals down the road while traffic waits and breathes in a new day’s air. There is often an interesting juxtaposition of old and new. 

Morning brings out locals pushing wheelbarrows, carrying five gallon buckets or large baskets filled with any and everything. You may even see wheelbarrows carrying young children from place to place, or filled overflowing with grasses, corn shocks, vegetables or fruits, just bought or to sell elsewhere. And from the magic down in those buckets and baskets you come to know the people and their goods. There are the tortilla women, the bakery helpers heading out from the panaderias, and those cooks setting up on corners with steaming tamales or other delights. Watch the daily set up of  stands for eating tacos, enchiladas, burritos Michoacan style, with their steaming pots and sizzling pans, served beneath the shade of trees or from a cart along the sidewalk. Mexico must be the capital of street food. Just smelling the air makes me hungry. And there will always be music. Yesterday I heard an older man singing opera, a young man interpreting Leonard Cohen in Espanol, and the bold baritone voice of a traditional Mexican singer/guitarist in my brief walk around town. Mondays at the Basilica, start early to join the long lines for Quiroga’s famous carnitas, brought over to Patzcuaro ( or just make a 30 minutes drive over for many vendor choices). The daily scene of trucks, full of watermelon, oranges, or mangos, sold by the kilo along the road, and the busy town markets paint a backdrop to all the sights and sounds, smells and tastes. Roasted ears of corn, caramelized whole sweet potatoes, fruit gazpachos (mi favorito) fresh jugos (juices) or agua frescas often flavoured with tamarind, hibiscus, or a blend of fruits, grains, seeds are waiting for you to walk by. By midday, many stands welcome you to try their cheladas or micheladas especial with your comida. And yes you can drink beer out on the street at all the stands. If you are hungry or thirsty in Mexico, you do not have to go far, whether living rural or urban, or traveling 

Last week I joined friends at a spa de aguas termales. After several hours of soaking in hot waters I felt lightheaded, so I decided to buy a little food. I walked under  what seemed to be an obvious menu sign, where a group of people had a table set up covered with food, all talking. I entered, and in my borderline basic Spanish asked them for something to eat. They all looked at me, and within a minute, I realised this family that had come to take the waters and picnic for the day. I smiled and apologised, stepping back. They laughed, and encouraged me to come back and fix a plate, Saying “Here, eat”, offering a beer, as well. That food stand sign also had said “weekends, only” and it was a weekday. So, I learned a new term in Espanol and tell the story, because my experience has been one of warmth and generosity in this culture of food and drink wherever I go. Greetings of “Buen dia or “Buenas dias” are usually spoken to those you meet, or pass, not just the people you know. There is an ease of moving through the day, like light filtering through leaves and finding your face. 

Mornings begin quiet, but become busy. In the coolness life stirs into activity. The sun heats up the air quickly.The landscape has a misty, smoky, slowness to it, but much is happening. Some seasons, fog hangs over the lake and in the valleys for awhile. Around me, people are leaving for work, or beginning the work that sustains them and their families. Without cars, or choosing to be economical, many folks depend on the pretty incredible combi van system to get them where they need to go. Locally, bicycles also get people form place to place. I am not talking about fancy bikes and gear, just two wheeled transportation. And some younger folks have motor scooters. Many days since my arrival in Tzintzuntzan, I have watched an older caballero on his blue roan heading along the road. I notice the nice headset on the horse and the rider’s light hand. He is likely not pleasure riding, but heading out to work somewhere.

Turbo type power tools and a machine oriented way of getting things done is not the norm. I see some tractors, often relics, but they run. Sure, there are fancy tools to be had, and contractors and bigger agricultural companies may need and have them, but the average person has hand tools and whatever materials that can be found around their community, or in nature that can be repurposed and reused. Hands seem to be the greatest tools around, with a knowledge of how to weave a basket or a fence, cut stone, build a wall, form a pot or bowl, gather nopal, pat out the perfect tortilla, make fabric and embroider… all work creating extraordinary beauty with (and from) the ordinary. Some of the fixes I see to “make it work” are unique, functional, and pretty amazing. People here have skills mostly lost generations ago in wealthier counties. It may be a simple life, but living simply is hard work. And it starts early. Wheelbarrows, baskets, and buckets need filling, so they can be emptied. Cycles repeat. The sun rises, the day opens wide, the sun sets, night falls. Wake up again. Stretch. Rise and begin, under the big dazzling Mexican sky. Siesta perhaps from two til four.

Late September Fog

Esplendora coming to the barn

You may need to remember the curve of road

When driving over the mountain at night, 

As all is lost in the low beam of searching headlights.

Sometimes, fog is what is left over from an Indian summer shower,

Holding fast to desire for moisture on a warm afternoon.

I know the science of cooling air, longer nights, humidity, and dew point.

But seeing from high above, the thick sea of fog with its island hills

Down below in these misty Appalachian valleys, there is a conjuring

Of ancestral spells, something ancient, just beyond remembering.

I hear a distant tune, a song in a minor key.

Early morning, I find the sun still behind the slowly lifting veil,

A muted white circle, existing in that certain stillness of “fog quiet”.

Even birdsong is suspended within it.

Walking under the shadowless forest canopy, 

Leaves, just beginning to turn, release a steady, muffled drip,

Mosses and ferns by the creek, so green, 

Shine against the surrounding rock and grey air.

October shows off, and distracted by the dazzle

We don’t mourn the coming loss of color against the sky.

But today, I whistle and watch the horses appear

Out of a silvery shroud, nickering, ready for grain.

Feeling the familiar bittersweetness of Autumn as they join me,  

Rubbing their soft, furry coats, heavier now, 

I take a long deep breath and exhale slowly.

Two tears meet the smile below them.

I am grateful for the slow revelation nature offers —  

The ephemeral curtain, this seasonal pause between what was, 

And what is to come. A secret shared, a memory recalled.

A longing lived, once again.

The Honesty of Animals

Yolandi and Maria

In the golden sunlight of September I sit, doing one of the things I most enjoy in life...watching animals. Whether it be farm animals, pets, or wildlife, whether they be furred, feathered, amphibious or reptilian, I find them fascinating. They surely teach me how to “see” and to have deep patience. Back in the day, had I not been so afeared of science, and pursued it, I think I would have been a damn good field biologist.

Most evenings you’ll find me watching my flock of chickens ages 3 mos to 5 yrs. Even then, there’s the interplay of cats and dogs, herds of deer in the pasture. No matter who I’m watching, it is about their relationship with others, with the environment, and their sense of self. Yes, their sense of self. That’s pretty much the way it is in the human world too, except for the ego part. That instinctual wisdom really is light years beyond ego, (in my humble opinion). Animals bring me peace. The human world not nearly so much. With the animals in my care it is about my relationship with them, but now that I think about it, it’s also about the deer who know me, my routine of chores, and our relationship, the birds that know I fill the feeders, talk to them, and who trust me after all these years.

Mazzy playing on a walk w/ me and the dogs

One thing I love so much about animals is their complete lack of self consciousness. They honestly represent themselves, with no care about anything but direct encounter, sustaining themselves, and finding a place of comfort in their flock, herd, pack. Sometimes it may seem brutal or unfair, but the order of things comes first. Once the order is found, peace exists. I shy away from anthropomorphizing animal behavior, but sometimes what I see, over time, and occasionally in an instant, is out of what we two leggeds consider “the norm”, creating new awareness about creatures and what is even possibile. Animals are surprising, too.

There is so much learned on any given day about need, tolerance, intelligence, resourcefulness, and honesty from a simple flock of chickens, trio of barn cats, herd of horses or deer, gang of turkeys, family dog pack, murder of crows. My life is blessed by observations and interactions. Like many indigenous peoples, that looked to animals for lessons and stories, I too, find truth in animals.

Back deck w/ my friends

Why I Love Watermelon

“Don’t swallow the seeds,”

My old maid aunts would say

At the weekly watermelon ritual,

“Or a watermelon will grow inside your belly.”

But I never paid attention

And dreamed of bathing in the sticky sweetness

On hot July afternoons,

Plunging my mouth into a cool red wedge

And sucking out the juice

Like a giant mosquito out for blood.

I savored each dripping piece.

Once, I even got shot at

For stealing one from a private patch,

But I was crazy with watermelon madness,

And struck by the spell of thick summer heat.

At the rodeo in August

I won the bareback event,

And the third annual seed- spitting contest

Before a crowd amazed by my talents,

Each seed hitting the mark in a puff of powder.

Then the boys chased, caught,

And dragged me under the bleachers

To push my face deep into an over ripe melon.

But I ran away laughing.

Laying under the long shadows, drawing designs in the dust

With the heavy syrup, I squeezed the meat dry

And threw it up at unsuspecting legs.

Ah, the sweetness of watermelon dreams!

I saved the seeds for the red bird’s winter visit

And my little horse liked the rinds

Even more than corn or carrots.

And just like the certainty of never being able to kiss my elbow,

I never grew a watermelon inside my belly.

Chickens as Teachers

Gathering by the fire pit

I do not imagine most folks would consider a chicken to be a spirit animal. I know they are not in my medicine card deck. They are certainly not fierce and powerful, like the wolf, bear, or lion, fun loving like the otter, or swift like the deer. We honor the stealth of the fox, the mystery of the owl, the work ethic of the beaver. Much has been written about our connection to other mammalian domesticated animals. Riders experience the freedom given by the beautiful horse. There is the fine example of loyalty, so true of the dog, the independence of the cat. But what about chickens? People that keep them adore them. Having done so myself for the last ten years, I feel I have lived with them enough to see their unique qualities, from which humans can learn. Native Americans observed the animals with whom they came in contact, and revered them as teachers. In an older blog piece I wrote about wild birds and my observation, love, and admiration for the winged ones. But my hens and roosters, though feathered, have a different energy altogether.

Beneath the backyard bird feeders

In our language chickens are much maligned birds. It is an insult to be called “chicken”, after all, or to have “chicken legs”. Yet, I wish I had the natural abilities of my flock. Their sensory awareness puts ours to shame. They are a prey animal, so they are tuned to shifts in any sounds, sights, or movement. The rooster alerts the hens, if a shadow passes overhead and all head for the bush. They watch out for one another, and form bonded relationships within the flock. There are extroverted hens and introverted ones, social gals and outliers, but they all find their way back into the henhouse to roost together at chicken dark. They like to go on small group adventures and have their special hangouts, sometimes to soak up the sun with their solar panel wings, and sometimes to stay out of the weather or heat. The other day I saw little Delores jump on the BIG teenage rooster, George, when he waylaid her best friend (my other older hen), and chased him off. I had NEVER seen a hen teach a roo such a lesson. It felt like she was saying “Respect your elders, surprise attack breeding doesn’t fly here.”

Arrival of new pullets at the chicken house

Chickens are easy, require little space or work to thrive, especially if they can free range and forage. Yet they give a gift, regularly…the perfect protein of an egg. And a farm egg, well, there is nothing like it in any store. They eat garden pests and appreciate kitchen scraps. They spread the manure in your pasture fields, naturally. I find their feather patterns beautiful, and just enjoy watching them move around the farm throughout the day. Perhaps because I invest time developing a relationship with them, they often follow me around. Gardening might give them rewards of a grub or worm, but many mornings, they just come sit with me and preen while I have my porch swing coffee, or evenings, my back deck beer or glass of wine. They will lay quietly at my feet, or perch on the back of a bench. The current tame Orpington rooster, Buddy Roe, might even come sit in my lap, looking for a treat. My small egg business is called “Peace Love Chickens”, and I have the same primitive sign I painted over the hen house door years ago. It may not be very original, but says in a few words all that I feel about being a chicken keeper.

Over the years I have had several favorites in the flock. Adelaide was one such bird. She taught me about love and trust. A special needs pullet, having come to me missing a few toes and sadly, a malformed beak, so it was hard for her to eat. We trimmed it regularly, and gave her special attention. As she grew up, she found ways to compensate for her physical challenges. Very comfortable with the family pets, Adelaide could be found hanging out somewhere with the dogs or cats, but always ran to us when we came around the corner. I remember being amazed and surprised by her first egg, a beautiful olive green. She was my first ever green egg layer. Adelaide liked water, and sometimes stepped into the puppy pool to cool off, and was such a sweet kind spirit wherever she went. Now there is Spot, one of the four Buckeye hens, always underfoot, and very talkative. The breed is so smart, and brave, yes brave, and will take on a wood rat or a snake, and devour it. They are omnivores, after all and you can see the reptile in them, from their scaly legs to their “giving nothing away” eye. If chickens were five feet tall, they would be high up on the predator list.

Adelaide cooling her feet

Eleanor

But I digress. My enthusiasm for chickens in general, and my affection for those that have been here on Red Horse Flats over the last decade is not the real purpose of this writing. I am not a chicken whisperer. I am a chicken observer, and witness to their “ways”. Remember all those graphics on tee shirts, cards, and totes, with “Advice from…”  just about everything . I loved them. Someone understood, what a butterfly, a river, a tree, an eagle can teach us. Maybe there is one for chicken folks, too, though I have not seen it. So I am here to share in a few words what might be of universal value from my own noticings. So here goes:

What Chickens Teach Us

Start the day early, no matter the weather.

Come together with your flock/family every evening, regardless of what may have happened during the day.

Be in tune with all your senses.

Pay attention to the small things all around you, as there are treasures to be found, sometimes in unlikely places.

Take care of the young. A loving Mother sustains the world.

Beauty comes in all colors, sizes, and types. At the end of the day we are all the same.

We all have a gift to offer that comes from us, and is unique to us.

Let others know when you have created something special.

Inform those around you where the good stuff can be found.

Notice changes around and adapt as needed.

There is a time for confrontation, and making noise, and there is a time to be quiet and still.

Maybe chickens are not everyone’s cup of tea. A floggy rooster IS problematic. But my Queendom is all that more peaceable because of the feathered friends with whom I share it. There is great reciprocity with farm animals, no more so than with chickens. I take care of them, and they feed me.  Providing me laughter and meaningful interspecies interaction with their funny individual personalities is just one more thing to appreciate. My belief is chickens are teachers, no less than any other animal. They are due respect and kindness. I would proudly wear a tee shirt that says “Chickens Are My Spirit Animal.” 

Conversation w/ the flock

Winter time

Water Wish

Tilly swimming in a nearby pond

All winter we rehearsed it in our minds,

And like fish to water we long to enter the summer element.

Now we dream of cool still water within the pond’s calm center.

We see the surface shimmer that slows down time.

The whole sun, butter like, melts down on us

With its certain summer light, hanging heavy,

Poised to watch our water wish come true.

Beneath the glare, welcoming currents

Wait to revive us, with their miracle tonic.

This iridescent elixer, friend to every skimming bug,

Flick tailed fish and bird, opens wide

Cleansing us with its life giving medicine.

Water Creatures

Nearby pond

We are creatures of the water.

Our summer survival sends us to it.

You will find us where salt air moves through pine and palmetto.

Amidst the splash and churn, we ride the shoulders of the waves.

You will find us among blackberry vines on banks of secret ponds.

Like the Great Blue, we are lulled to listen and know stillness.

Yet, we dance and leap with gleaming trout and crafty bass.

We swoop and dive, free as the swift eyed pelican.

We float and frisk, plunge and play.

Seekers of swimming hole creeks, woodland rivers and runs,

We rise early, before the heat makes us lazy,

And stay late for the pleasures found in lengthening shadows,

Always taking shelter beneath the trees and clouds,

And refuge in the water.

The Greenbrier River near Hillsboro late summer

Midsummer

Photo taken Midsummer on the South Island of New Zealand 2019

Midsummer balances in the trees

And I feel trusting of that joy.

Existing in the happy chaos of discovery,

A singing fish, I search out this element.

Long hidden beneath the surface calm,

Forgotten, the playful thrill

of swift current, the dance of rock and rapid.

Lost for a moment in some back eddy.

Now I swirl forward, splashing, leaping.

I am the silver flash of change,

seen within the inner eye.

Things of the earth mingle with me,

and I, with them.

The membrane breaks, all rushes out.

Stretching to this intention like a seed

And straining to come to form,

I sink down deep to rise up high

Like the river that carries me on.

Appalachian Beachcombing

Bottles and pans found nearby

Living in these mountains, near old homesteads, and sadly where folks dumped their trash for generations, in the hollers or limestone caverns, I have found a pastime I call Appalachian beachcombing. It is a skill honed, from just noticing how many odd treasures could be found where and when. Especially after hard rains near the creeks, and around the areas water comes pouring off the mountain, across backroads, and down steep places, they are waiting. I learned where the best spots were for bottles, old pots, and odd metal parts, ( I admit to especially loving the sun/star burst shaped gears). Sometimes you need to dig a bit, but there very well may be something that wasn’t visible, or even there a month before. 

Sadly, there are still those that think nothing about throwing trash from their cars windows. Bud light cans just go in a horse feed bags for recycling and other un-recyclable stuff ends up in my own trash. It is older items that pique my interest. The cobalt blue bottle barely surfacing from the ground, or an old bent enamel pot upside down in the water are the treasures I seek. The pans find a new life, filled w/ succulents, the bottles rest with others in my kitchen window. On these walks, I also appreciate how nature has made beauty and art with the juxtaposition of rusty old mattress coils, or sculpturesque car fenders. They almost seem to enjoy their new life away from the hands of man, with greenbriers and grapevine creating interest around them.

Winter hunting is best, as a glint, or odd shape is easier to spot without the green cover of warmer seasons. Often I find a jar that has made its own lovely terrarium of mosses, leaves, and grasses. I leave them behind now. I learned they do not flourish at home, but are happier in the woodsy environment. Sometimes I go check on them, to see what is new in their little ecosystem. Perhaps my greatest find years ago was an old bent washtub, now placed in front of the house. Each May I fill that repurposed container with flowers, so it always sits there to greet us beside the stone path as we walk to the door. I wonder about its history, who used it, how was it purposed? And, even more —what are the stories of the mountain folks that touched all the pieces I have collected over the last 20 years. 

A salt shaker

The rock batter on the property boundary and the creek behind us offer many stones for use on the farm. This is also part of beach combing—finding just the right stones for what is needed. The borders to flowerbeds, paths, and gravestones where the beloved pets rest up on the hill— all come from these places, adding their natural beauty anywhere they rest. I remember the gathering of the rocks we used to build the fire pit every time we sit there, and enjoy the process all over again. More recently the patio off the front porch was a project. I am no stone mason, but feeling the weight, shape, and energy of the stones, and working with them was meaningful. When sitting in the porch swing most mornings, I look across those stones placed lovingly in the ground. We worked with those we chose — their shape, size, and the mosaic like pattern, but it was those mountain rocks that decided how it would be. Now they are settled into their new space beneath the pussy willow tree. 

Old washtub looking at the patio beneath the pussy willow

That tree, and the trumpet vine beside the shed, were two of the first plantings I made here on the farm. The grandmother of a student, my first year in West Virginia brought in pussy willow for my classroom. I rooted and planted it that summer. Now it provides shade over the patio stones.Today is another perfect summer day. The dogs sleeping at my feet will be more than happy to go Appalachian beachcombing with me this afternoon. One never knows where the trail leads, though I have a few places in mind. But being a wanderer/stalker means you go where you are called. There are secret spots that seem to often ask for my presence. Gifts await. I will pay attention, noticing the details with mouse-like vision among the grand whole of this big world. 

An old roller skate and a part of a coffee percolator

Creatures and Critters 1) Birds

Heron on the pond in February

It started when I was little. Like most of humanity, I was inspired by the effortless flight of birds, their habits, and beauty. I marveled at stories of their migration. How did they know when to leave, when to return? How could they travel all that distance, as small as they were? My fascination and respect grew the more I learned.

Mama fed the songbirds, keeping binoculars by the large den windows. She taught me the names of those she knew, and an identification book was nearby on the bookshelf. Though better now, even then I could match some nest constructions and songs to particular birds. Much of my childhood was lived in a large tree filled backyard, bounded on all sides by mixed pine forest. A rope hammock hung beneath the biggest oak tree, becoming a perfect space on a summer day for observing birdlife up above. Many twilights were spent listening to the whip-poor-wills call. Whistling the bobwhite quail refrain brought them from the woods up close to me, though I felt guilty for fooling them. Seduced into deeper woods, pasturelands, as I grew older, I walked with my dogs or rode my horse to cover ground all around and through the rural community. There were blackberry thickets, pond banks and creeksides to visit that brought different flyers and waders in. Secret, special places called me to come, sit, observe, and listen to life there. I felt “free as a bird” out living under the sky. That has always been a great attraction for me.

Through time, humans have assigned many qualities to the winged ones — the bluebird of happiness, the white dove of peace, wise as an owl, to name just a few common phrases. Hummingbirds in the Aztec culture were believed to be the messengers between the living and their ancestors, and their gods. They also have been our native peoples symbol for good fortune, joy, and love. In Incan culture both the condor from the south and eagle of the north fly together in the same blue sky, integral in their spiritual cosmovision. Our native peoples also revere the eagle, of course, and did long before our young nation took it as as their symbol. The eagle’s image is found on the United States seal, our money, and other places as a vital symbol of strength and freedom. In the celtic and norse spiritual traditions, the eagle, is seen as the visionary. Other birds are also powerful totems. The god Odin was always accompanied by two ravens, Hugin and Mugin. Each offered him their unique guidance. There are many bird references in the Bible. Horus is a falcon headed god of ancient Egypt. These are but a few examples, showing all cultures hold birds in high esteem for their flight, qualities, and specialized skills. We have absorbed these ideas unconciously, had our own observations and interactions. We are drawn to birds.

Hawk feather

Birds are teachers. Who doesn’t feel that catch inside while watching the perfection of a hawk spiralling above, or stopped to listen with a rush of feeling their “kee  kee-ing” across the sky? They amaze and teach the big view. I am blessed to listen to the barred owls communicate “who- cooks- for- you” across the woods on so many evenings and to hear the crows chortle during mating and nesting each spring. On the farm there have always the crow brothers walking around the horse pastures. There were four, now in recent years, three. I know it is the same birds. I talk. They talk. We have conversations.They know my habits, are keenly observant, and they are unafraid of me. They teach me to pay attention and use my voice. When gathered in a large group (a murder) in the treetops, crows teach the importance of hashing out disagreements. I call it a murder meeting.These days, when I change the suet cake, the downy and red bellied woodpeckers, nuthatches and flickers just hop over to a branch, wait for me to refill the cage, then come right back to feed when I am still present. It is meaningful not to be perceived as a threat, but a provider. They teach patience and trust. The barn swallows raise their young in the rafters each year, building a new nest just out of reach of the cats. Here they raise two or three clutches. The fledged adolescents stay around and assist their parents in feeding and raising the others. The second hatch continues the tradition if a third comes along. They teach commitment to life and each other. The many doves that nest in the huge firs along the driveway teach the value of community. The mockingbird waits all winter alone for his mate to come back from down south. He teaches the importance of holding space for family when they are away, and then to sing 100 songs about it every morning after their return. The great blue heron stands unmoving near the cattails, sun sparkling on the water. She teaches the value of stillness. The gangs of turkey up on the mountain teach us to look closely at the world, and be adaptable.The ducks flying overhead between ponds each morning and evening, teach me to honor the transitions of each day. I think of the wren that nests in the box on the fence post, the shy bluebirds, the singular towhee that appears occasionally, the flash of indigo as buntings fly up from the roadside brambles. They all part of life. They are our relations with wings.

To have rescued a few hummers from their accidental entry into the house, to feel their tiny heartbeat so fast, then watch them fly away from my open hand, following their confusing struggle, brings me fully into the presence of bird energy. I close my eyes and can recall the moment, feeling it all over again. The summer I worked as a back country ranger in Wyoming, ruby throats would come often to my campsite, hover around my head and face, then disappear, as if greeting and welcoming me to their world in the wilderness.

female ruby-throated hummingbird

Last week, sitting right here, several doves flew up suddenly from the ground, and one hit the bedroom window and fell into the tangle of flowerbed beneath. Immediately I remembered the times I carefully took the stunned birds that found my parent’s windows, placed them in a shoebox of grass, and tried to nurse them back to life and flight. Seldom was I successful. But I tried. Those that recovered from their trauma to fly again brought such happiness to my young heart.This dove died, but I held her, acknowledged her life, admired her tan and grey iridescent feathers, her tiny feet, and broad breast. I stroked her warm body and said words, just as I did as a child. 

downy woodpecker

This spring, different birds showed up for a few weeks in a flash of excitement before departing. Among the goldfinches, cardinals, chickadees, bluejays and the other usuals came orioles, grosbeaks, to the feeders and scarlet tanagers in the woods. I noticed their interactions w/the home birds, their unique energy, and felt thrill and wonder. New relations, new teachers. I save feathers and fallen nests. Sometimes I find nests designed with the mane and tail hair of our horses. Of course I love them best. When I brush the horses, those long strands are put outside the barn for foraging birds. They use it to wrap and cushion their eggs in that circle of life creation called a nest. The found nest and feather offerings become part of my home decor, gifts to others, and are present in my spiritual practice and work. It is a way of honoring the blessings of the birds.

With the sunrise, meditating on the element air, the feel and action of wind, and the wisdom shared by the eastern direction, I find birds appear, sometimes alone, sometimes in a flock. Always, the two that I “know” to be my totem bird allies are nearby to offer guidance —- the nocturnal owl and the rowdy kingfisher. I feel “chosen” by them. Experiences brought this awareness. My eldest son likely remembers camping as a child, and following an owl for quite a ways, flying and showing us the path through the woods. Such things happen consistently. I feel something dormant activated within when I hear or see the kingfisher patrolling, These two are such feathered opposites in every way. That may well be part of their teaching, and my learning. Once I read an article describing a study that discovered although birds have calls to alert others to danger, to communicate to chicks or a potential mate, or other purposes, their song, be it a warble or a trill, is an expression of joy. That is a lesson of tremendous value. I ask myself, “What is my joy?”and “How do I express happiness out in the world?”. Birds are angels here on earth, come to restore our spirits, reminding us when we forget that we two leggeds can also feel free, soar, and sing. I am grateful for the teachings. I carry that joy inside. I love birds.

small ceremonial fan

a few found nests

exploring the elements (5)–spirit/storm (and politics)

storm rainbow Greenbrier county

It seems a lifetime since I sat down to write. Although this has to do with Spirit (which I had intended to write about somewhat differently next), my focus has shifted. So much happened that called me away. The protests and events in the news precipitated by the murder of George Floyd, and all that has followed took and held my attention. It brought me into a space of personal reflection, feeling through how to best support the Black Lives Matter movement in my own way. All this has been on my mind and in discussions with others.

A fairly political person all my life, still in High School in rural South Carolina, I remember well writing in 1970 a paper for my English Class titled “Black is Beautiful”. I received an “ A+” and supportive comments from one of the two best teachers of my educational career. Place this in time, where there was not full yet integration of schools in my county until my senior year. Black families were required to sit in the balcony w/ a separate outside entrance at the picture show, and were not allowed in the town pool. My Daddy’s (Dr Wise) waiting rooms were designated “white” and “colored”, though there were no doors and everyone could see each other. Working for him in the summer, I learned the protocol was equality based. People signed in, and you took each person back to one of the three examining rooms in that order, no preference to skin color. I pretty much lived a life of white privilege, though I did not know it then. But there were people, experiences, and moments that formed a different response to the culture in which I was born. I read “Life” and “Time” magazines, watched the news, and thought about it. Several black students came to the “White School” as a transition, when I started 6th grade. Some were athletes, and we were on the same teams.I considered all my fellow classmates, and friends.

But I was not allowed to have black team mates to my house, when I wanted to invite Everyone for a post season party. After an argument that I could not win, I chose no party. Yet, Dr Wise served the entire community’s health needs his whole working life, making housecalls to families, both black and white. I went with him often, sat on the porch or in the kitchen while he saw his patient. It was clear he was fair and committed to healing all equally. But even as I child, I witnessed his own personal struggle with racism and its conflict with the message of Christianity. They were following the social/cultural norms of their community and we had a certain status in that community. I witnessed that my parents understood there was something wrong in all of it, but were not able to take different stand. I never felt they encouraged hate at any time, and importantly, they absolutely promoted education and thinking for ourselves.

My family had a black woman begin working for us from my oldest sister’s birth on through when I went away to college. Rosa Lee was a huge influencer in my life. A special relationship of unconditional love, and physical affection existed between us, unlike what I had with my parents. I went to her little house on the ”other side of town” when my parents were gone occasionally and, played with the neighborhood children. I looked forward to it. When I was a child, she was always around, always caring. She was the archetypal nurturer, though she had no children of her own. Her sister worked for my cousins and Lucille, too, was a beloved figure, as was Rosa’s niece that worked for my parents off and on, then again in their last years after she returned to retire from Washington DC to her hometown. These women were all extraordinarily kind, giving people during times that must have been difficult for them. And there was also Levi in tattered overalls with his blue black skin who sometimes did heavy work in my mother’s yard and garden. He let me ride on the back of his mule…a thrill for this equine crazy tomboy. He ate in the kitchen, of course, and I loved listening to him and Rosa Lee talk and laugh. They treated me like family. I saw and felt the disparity when I was young, but rural feels different. Not until traveling to the nearest city to shop, and my mother getting lost, did I see urban poverty from the back seat of our thunderbird. That experience, among others around the same time, affected me deeply. Together they brought inequalities and injustice into better focus, made me question and talk to my pastor, and strongly pointed me toward a trajectory of different thinking.

In 1968, with the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr and Bobby Kennedy (both heroic in my eyes) the Viet Nam war, pronounced civil unrest, as black people continued their struggle for justice, and the Mexico City Olympics. In that moment on the podium of fists raised in black gloves and bare feet, something snapped inside and I walked away from the part of my cultural roots that loudly proclaimed and quietly allowed for and supported racism. I did not return to my 10th high school reunion, because it was only to be a party for the white members of our graduating class. But what is writing a letter, and taking a very small stand compared to those with the foot of racism always on their backs from government and the oppression of separate and NOT equal in their own communities? By the 25th reunion, all were welcomed, my eldest son accompanied me, and it felt right.

Many died before George Floyd. Known massacres…Tulsa OK (1921), Rosewood FL(1923), Colfax LA (1873), Wilmington NC(1898), Elaine AR (1919), and Atlanta GA(1906), lynchings, police brutality again and again. I will not go into the history we were not taught, or the whitewash we were sold, especially as southerners, but informing ourselves is crucial. I wonder if folks who cling to the more palatable version are under the influence of deep guilt, and therefore cognitive dissonance is at play. I do understand that. Ashamed of my own southern-ness for years, I had to make my own peace with it. Racism exists everywhere we go, and has no Mason-Dixon line. One of my Mama’s last spoken thoughts was a wish that she had been kinder to Rosa Lee, who passed before her. She had come to truth of deeper understanding. Being able to say those words allowed her to make the transition ahead without regret in her heart, and with the gift of forgiveness awareness offers.

Yet here we are 2020, where the dark underbelly is being forced into the light. I believe, the ugliness of the last three years was created by folks fearing the loss of the power they know their “whitness” provides, the vocal racists still clearly out there, and a reactionary response to having an erudite black man for president. Fear exists. We know it, and it holds up a heavy m, hard hand to change. Now, we are having a reaction to the reaction. All is out there to be seen. This is an awakening of spirit. All the elements come together in Spirit, creating storm. Storm that cleanses and clears. The Power of Air engages our thoughts, our knowing, and collective values. The Power of Fire ignites our will, reminds us to take action, and create anew. The Power of Water mandates the deep daring required to face our feelings. The Power of Earth tells us to listen, hold all firm within us, and gives us courage. Spirit/Storm is the call to Activism, to be , to trust, and to even surrender to it. At the center of the compass wheel, but spirit can not be explained in any scientific way, as can air, fire, water, and earth. Yet it is the connector, a balancer between stillness and silence and the action of transmutation… change not only of appearance but of form.

Being the best human we can be, requires us to dive into the inner work, and also work outside ourselves in this world we were born into. Service and/or activism can take us forward in everyday ways, in our family, friendships, community, or in much bigger ways. When we balance the gifts of the elements within, the stillness of spirit and the moving cleanser of storm, real healing occurs. This is the sacred space in which we feel, find, and experience love of all kinds. Acceptance, forgiveness, also, of self and others resides here. Let us work to heal our own wounds, the ones that need a holyfire light to see everything clearly, and the burning passion to act for good of all. There are many ways to bring the change. There is not just one way.

We can take to the streets. We can work in political organizations. We can live our lives and dare to speak truth to power, and to those we know well, that still hold fearful/ hateful views. We can live our lives as an example.

Let go of white privilege as we come to understand it better. Stop being complicit in our silence. Have conversations. Ask questions. Listen, because we have lots to learn.

We can make a difference. Spirit wants us to. Storm clears the way.

exploring the elements (4)---(earth)

I love the earth! Earth is home, our green and blue planet spinning through the vastness of space. In my mind, earth has always been synonymous with nature. I resonate most strongly with this element, my sun being in mutable Virgo. The nurturance and power of nature has sustained me through all these six plus decades. I was lucky. I had ponds and creeks, woods and fields, animals, and was left alone to make my way through it freely. As a result, I always feel accepted by Mother Earth, even when I have not in other settings in society. It is where I am still most at ease. My interaction and relationship with her plants, animals, minerals, and the other elements is one of curiosity, reverence, and intimacy. I know I am never alone.

Our breath is an oxygen/CO2 exchange with her plants and trees. We are part of it all, no separation. Earth is alive and we share a deep connection with her even when we are not aware of it. The indigenous peoples and all who live close to the land have this “knowing”. Great wisdom comes from an understanding of interdependence. Chief Seattle (1786-1866) clearly spoke,

“Human kind has not woven a web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect.”

We need to expand our definition of kin and community in our lives to include all with which we have relationship…the winged ones, the swimming ones, the crawling ones, the 4 leggeds, the standing ones, the stone people. As someone who works with stones, I am reminded everyday by the power they hold in their structure, their color, feel and shape. They taught me how to go into silence, and slow down my listening to receive their messages. Stones are the wisdom keepers, the record keepers on earth. Transmitters of energy, crystals are highly evolved on their evolutionary path, and willing helpers as we travel ours. Just as plants do, the mineral queendom offers healing for body, mind, and spirit.

Over a decade ago Richard Louv wrote his classic, ”No child left inside”, beginning a sort of “back to nature” movement calling for us to reconnect children with the outdoors. The consequences of that loss are seen in many ways in the lives of our youngest ones, that are often left modeling the lives of their parents. Prior to technology becoming such an enormous part of daily life, children spent time in the wood and ditches, or at least in their yards playing and learning under the sky, clouds, and trees. With a touch of necessary benign neglect, we were free to explore, and free to do nothing. Free to listen, to feel, to be. As adults, disconnection from our earthhome leaves us stressed, depressed, anxious, and overwhelmed. And so follow the children. They see us, and their lives seldom support connection to the spirit of an embodied childhood in nature these days. Since the industrial revolution, society pushed a different agenda for success and happiness, and the divide began and continued to grow. Nature that brought access to spirit through its beauty and wonder, became something to use or subdue. Now is the time to reclaim our place on earth, restoring balance and creating harmony for ourselves and to our earthly home.

We must be grounded to do this work, present in our bodies, to fully experience our relationship with earth. We can let go of all the static from our thoughts, with awareness. We can focus on the energy coming up from the earth into us, filling our body vessel, and let distractions fall away. Feel our roots grow down. Breathe in the energy from the mother and let out outbreath fill the body with the energy of her constant presence. Sit with the power of her support. Important in meditation and ritual, grounding is no less so in the activities of our day to day living. Grounding brings us into alignment, helping us recover our balance, integrate spirit and body, providing stability and ease. Gratitude to the earth for all she does if we just let her! We can choose to walk the beauty path each day, acting with consciousness.

Today I go barefoot, sensing that grounding energy coming up through my feet…so good for my wellbeing, and with my hands working the soil, planting seeds, and saying prayers, I smile. Gardeners know the secret of opening to the blessings of earth energies. Watching and tending a garden through the seasons, and nurturing it along is soul fulfilling work, and it centers us. I find real magick in growing flowers, all kinds, but am a true lily lover, and I also await the end of summer for the blooms of the heavenly blues that greet me each morning when I have my coffee. Twining around the deck bannisters, their splendid radiant color connects the sky to the earth with their bright glory. This afternoon with its mix of sun and rain, I see the peonies and purple iris are opening, the trees are fully leafed out, and fecundity rules. Up on the mountain there is a celebration of every shade of green.

The elemental compass has earth resting on the north point. Its always been the point of power to me, representing winter, the dark of midnight, time of rest and incubation. It is associted with Mystery, with a capital “M”, and the power of silence. The physical body, bones, crystals, stones, and the colors black, brown, and green, are all associated with the earth. And here is where I envision the great earth mother. Lately I have come to revere Pachamama, as understood by those of the Incan tradition. She is earthmother, fertility goddess, and independent, omnipresent female spirit overseeing the planting and harvesting of crops. One with the mountains, with her generous, self sufficient creative power, she presides over life on earth. Like Gaia, from the Greek, and Danu from the Celts, and every other ancient tradition, Pachamama is the primordial mother of life, a feminine deity that protects and sustains her children.

With every heartbeat, with each step, each breath, honor and bless the earth, in return for all the blessings given. Let us begin again- to listen, to sense, to learn.

Grow things- in a garden, in your house. Lay flat on the ground and close your eyes. Find a stone totem to keep in your pocket. Sleep outside sometimes. Really notice trees, and be fully with them. Love the animals and care for them. Get outside for awhile everyday, in every season. Take off your shoes and let your feet touch and remember the earth. When you eat, acknowledge the earth, and all the elements, plants and animals that brought the food to your plate, and be thankful. Watch the changes in nature in a familiar place day to day, week to week, month to month, through the cycle of a year on earth. Feel the mystery. Know your connection. Hold the moments of wonder and beauty close.

Earth is sacred.

Mitakuye Oyasin

exploring the elements (3)---fire

Today the sun burns bright, pouring gold on the 100’s of shades of green that are late May’s dress up clothes. The color of sky, blooming flowers, and all it touches, as I sit writing on the deck, is enlivened by sunlight. I love the sun, the heat, the expansion that exists because of it.Today my attention rests on the vivid red honeysuckle planted for the hummingbirds a few years ago.Within it I feel nature’s expression of fire on earth. But even on the starkest winter day, the fireball sun gives its energy creating contrast in the landscape. In many traditions the sun is Father, or Grandfather, the male counterpoint to Grandmother or Sister moon.The fiery outer, active, creative force balances the deep, dark receptivity of the feminine (water). Of all the elements, fire is probably considered most dangerous.Though air brings tornados, water floods, earth quakes, fire with its unpredictability of volcanos erupting and wildfires raging seems much less controllable. We are warned from childhood, not to play with fire.Yet, fire is the warmth of hearth and home. Fire is also the peace and hope of candles burning.

We gather around the campfire to tell our stories, sing songs, and ponder the mystery. It sustains us and, in its unique way, brings community. The holy spirit is seen as a flame in the Christian tradition. All world religions, and indigenous peoples have strong associations with fire. We speak of the spark that begins life. Remember, there is a burning molten core inside the earth mother, our closest life sustaining star, and all those that fill the night sky. I was attuned to the energies of holy fire in the Reiki that I practice. We know fire is transformative energy, like all the elementals, cleansing in its own way. Out of the ashes the phoenix rises. Humans have a deep unconscious fascination with fire, its power, and potential dangers. We know the heat of desire, sexual attraction and pleasure, and the passion of creativity that we feel “burns” within us. We experience, in moments of true awareness, the powerful focus akin to lightening striking the earth. Remember Saul on the road to Damascus? And it is in the heat of the forge that humans created tools of both war and peace, the sword and the plow. So fire is paradoxical, as are all elements, and can be supportive and nourishing, or destructive when out of balance. Although essential for us to live our lives on earth, fire gives a clear reminder to pay attention and treat its power respectfully.

On the elemental compass fire follows the eastern position of air, residing in the south, with its quadrant ending with water in the west. Fire needs air to burn, then water comes after, keeping balance and control in the west. When not connected to our deeper feelings from a place of wisdom, the fire of anger can do harm to us and others. We need fire to motivate us, spur us on, and express our will and intent. I believe there are times for righteous anger where change is needed, to evoke courage, and when injustice needs a voice.

The tarot symbol and tool on the elemental altar expressing fire is the wand. A wand symbolizes primal energy and inspired creativity, ambition and expansion.We have old tales from many cultures of the magick wand, a stick that directs incantations or prompts transformations. Used for good in the Cinderella story, we easily relate to wanting wishes to come true. But it takes the heat of the sun for earth to do its alchemy, inner passion to catalyze our creativity, warm pleasure of commitment to the home fires that offer communion and connection in a daily way. Fire is our guide in manifesting our wishes, moving them to action, and expression.

Stir the pot. Lay in the sun. Wear red and orange. Light a candle. Build a fire. Dance an ecstatic dance. Create an adventure.

There is magick in the mundane. Raise your energy. Channel your life force. Feel empowered joy. Fire is sacred. Enter the fire.

exploring the elements (2)---water

The last few months have been wet. The end of winter and coming of spring changed little as winter was milder than usual, and spring cooler. But both have seen much rain, from days of drenchers to intermittent showers. The barn lots have been a mess of muck, that sucking mud that holds your boots tight. Muddy horses stand with heads down, backs against whichever way the wind blows the cold rain in, when they don’t choose to be under the shedrow. Because of course they want to be out munching that delicious new grass. Damp hens look for places during daylight hours to get out of the worst of it and still find those earthworms that wash up from the saturated earth. Wet dog smell permeates the house.

Not a fan of long periods of cool, cloudy, and damp, this season has been an opportunity to open the senses wide and acknowledge the blessings of water. Beyond the mesmerising rhythm of ocean, majestic waterfall, or rocky river, we love water. It shifts something in us. Baptised this year by the constant, yet essential cleansing stream from the sky, I remember farmers pray for rain all summer. I recall how often our recreation is interwined with water. Animals live nearby a creek, lake, or river because it creates an environment for them to thrive. Humans feel called to be near it as it nourishes our spirit selves with its energy. We drink it for health and to quench our thirst. We shower and bathe our bodies. In religions we may dance for it, cleanse our souls in it, or christen a baby with it. We swim through it, delighting in the rush around our body. We travel down or across it, for pleasure of being “on/in the water.” And we are largely made of water ourselves, after all.

As an element, water, dwells in the west on the compass, the place of feeling and emotion. Always in motion, water is known by an understanding of transition, of “flow.” In the tarot deck, water, symbolized by cups, looks at feelings beneath the surface, and all emotions moving and shifting through our lives. Water has depth, carrying the deep unconscious below, and yet, light reflects light off it. When calm, it can be a mirror. Water is transformative, as it shapes to its container, and is ever changing. Restorative to our body and spirit, water adds beauty and meaning to our daily lives. I think about words often. River rhymes with giver, and ocean with emotion. That seems right. Without water and connection to feelings we would lead parched lives. Salty tears fall from our eyes in times of grief and sadness, when we are joyous, or touched by deep feelings of love and caring.

The balance on our blue planet is precarious in these modern times. Humankind has lost its way of being stewards of our precious resources, or even to acknowledge their importance. Years ago government created The Clean Air and Clean Water acts, but most recovery and protection work has been done by small (sometimes larger) groups of committed citizens. We dam the wild rivers. We send our waste into our water sources. Decisions are made with no thought of damage to the blood of the earth. The correlation between the wellbeing of our physical bodies and our spiritual selves is enormous, but neglected. Like air, water is life. And water is sacred. Without it, we can not live. Without emotional connection and awareness of our feelings, we do not feel alive. We are separated, isolated from ourselves, and others. This is an illness. Water as an elemental force, can show us the wayback to ourselves.

Tonight I stand under a new moon sky, listening to the spring peepers calling out loudly their chorus of thanksgiving for the water. So I welcome this season of falling rain, and the glory of green that inevitably follows. I welcome the sponge of soft earth, grey clouds, and hours spent in the house or barn, or just reading in bed. I listen to the sounds on the roof. I see its power in the swollen streams and creeks. I claim my connection to water, to my deepest feeling spirit, to change and growth. May we all be blessed by water, and may we honor it.

exploring the elements (1)---air

In this season of spring, although the earth is greening with the sun offering growing light and heat, it is the elements of air and water that have my full attention. We have had more than showers of rain, or spring breezes this year. The transitions between the seasons always have reminders for us, messages, if we pay attention. This year, such days of wind, I seldom can recall. One can not talk about the element of air, without speaking first of breath. Transitions between birth to life, and life to death depend on that first and last breath. It is breath that sustains us. We breathe. Our cells breathe. Breath is life.

When we go to the wheel of the year, we begin in the East. It is air that resides there, aligning with the energies of spring, sunrise, new life, the winged ones, awakening sound, clarity of mind. It is birdsong on an early morning. It is the air moving in our throat when we sing or speak. It blows across the mountains, and oceans, carves patterns in desert sands, rustles the old dry weeds and grasses left standing after the winter. Air brings freshness. Air brings life.

Connected to our thoughts, ideas, and learning, air is an educator. Related to our intellect, swords in tarot, or the athame in the Practice, air w/ its associated tools, supports us cutting through confusion, bringing the world into focus, and supports our discernment for truth. 2020, coming into spring, has had much on the wind. Covid- 19 has us looking closely at our personal breath, our community’s health, and the world’s viability and values. I’ve heard so many say “they were holding their breath” in the last 3 months. We have been required to literally “see” the preciousness of breath, ours and the earth’s. I can not help but know in heart and mind, it is the correlation with the degradation of our air and water on the planet (with other complex environmental factors/climate change) that has brought us to the point we are now with the global coronavirus pandemic. After decades of burying our heads into “not looking.”

If we are to use the gifts of the elements to empower us in this crisis, air tells us to begin again and to make a new start, one that shows us how to breathe with intention, in a grounded in the earth, into a place of coming back into balance. By using the gifts of our clear knowledge, we break down the old rickety structures and systems that have not served us very well for so long. There is a quote that comes to me that says something like, “Who knows where the wind blows?” The wind is blowing everywhere, and it wants to clear the way for a re-claiming of wisdom that sadly self serving humans lost along the way during our short tenure here. Re-claim, not by going backward, but forward, with power based in honorable co-creation with all living beings. Air offers insight. Air blesses us with every breath. Let us return the blessing.

The First Tattoo.

Arm on the Farm

I had made it through 64 years nearly with no body art. Never thought about it again since my elementary aged children talked me out of going with friends for a tat, 30 years ago. But then, out of the unconscious, all 6 symbols came to me in a dream ( 6 is my personal magickal number).Waking with them in my mind, I felt directed to put them in order, and have them permanently placed on my body. I was sure that the design was to be made vertical, their meaning easily seen by me anytime, and placed on my non-dominant, receiving side. Lower inner arm was an easy decision, and I felt the story being told began with the circle image (spirit).The double chevron (creating our own reality) follows, and the elemental compass, central, honoring my spiritual path. Below it, comes a mountain symbol for adventure. Then, the chevron over an open triangle (being open to movement and change). And finally at the bottom, Awen, a Celtic/ Druid symbol with its the 3 rays of light denoting “flowing inspiration” (poetry, music, creation…), and the 3 dots, drops from the cauldron of the goddess Cerridwen (knowledge, transformation, rebirth). Awen is seen as divine essence. 3’s dominate Celtic patterns and knots (spirit, mind, body; sky, earth, sea; past present, future…) I asked my talented son, Schuyler for help joining them together, to make a more artistic design. He and I agreed on his vision, adding 2 small dots and 1 larger, creating what I now have on my arm. After i lived with it awhile, I noticed the story meaning can be read or told from both top or bottom.

Not long after, I left on a 4 month adventure in the Mountains of Michoacan Mexico, having never been out of country before. That is a story of beauty I blogged about elsewhere, culminating in 3 days with the Monarch butterflies. Over the winter of 2019, my lifetime dream came true when I traveled solo again, to New Zealand for the full season there. The communion and solitude I found in that paradise changed me. The life map my tattoo provides everyday reminds me to follow inner guidance, and trust it wholeheartedly. After my return, everyone soon asked “Where are you going next?” and I answered from my knowing, “This is my sacred West Virginia winter”. Spending it here in my home mountains has been a great adventure of a different sort, but just as meaningful and interesting. Time has been dedicated to rumination and reflection, reacquaintance and resilience. It led me to open an office in town, being less solitary, and more willing to be known in my community and the world. Trusting my intuition was good, with the Covid-19 showing itself. Although sadly having clients on my table came to an abrupt stop, the open time allowed me to devote myself to creating this webpage w/ my designer friend up north, dream new dreams, create a new reality, while remaining open to change. So, my first Tattoo has become my WisdomWays brand logo. Until the website process began, it had not been clear to me, but then suddenly, it was. Seems just right. I carry it with me everywhere I go. As Don Oscar Miro Quesada says, “We are creativity, creating creation.” Led by spirit, fueled by inspiration, with my spiritual compass which embodies all times, worlds, and possibilities, I am finding my way each moment.

springtime spiraling

Longer, warmer days find me everywhere but inside at my laptop. This is a good thing. On my knees in the flowerbeds, weeding for hours yesterday with the sun on my face and a flock of chickens surrounding me felt like heaven on earth. Granted I have a quarter sized raw place in the palm of my right hand from pushing the trowel beneath 10,000 deeply rooted dandelions, clumps of grass, and hawkweed. You know I can not wear garden gloves that separate me from the tactile pleasures of the soil. Last night I was that good kind of tired, slept deeply, and awoke to a cardinal calling me from bed at daylight. My knobby old fingers were sore and a bit stiff reaching across the frets for a little morning music, but I was happy, and definitely felt like singing. Another day begins.

Supper never graces the table til after dark now, and it will continue to come later and later, as the daylight grows into the summer. These are changes I longed for all winter. Each morning I feel Walt Whitman’s, “A Child Went Forth…Everything I see becomes who I am…” for a stretch of minutes or hours, lost in time. The spiral brings me back to childhood, adolescence, and years of  being a young mother. Returning to this season of doing, blooms of  tulips, periwinkle and forsythia may as well be the same ones I played beside in my Mama’s garden, the same ones where the pleasures of romance found me at college, or the same ones planted so hopefully in the empty yard of a tiny rental house with a baby cooing on my back. Everything changes, yet everything remains the same. I know this blue sky, this nearly neon green grass, this gusty warm air like the lines on my face. And I can close my eyes and be the tomboy child, the barefoot girl in a long dress, and the young woman wanting to make a home for a family. So much has changed, but all those incarnations are alive and real, just waiting for permission to come out and play. The years fall away…a tear, a smile. I feel it in my heart, my belly. 

If we are formed by our experiences,  I believe it is the experiences out in this place of doing that form us. Spring always declares a beginning. Open the windows. Turn the soil and plant something. Clean and organize.  We are getting ready for the fullness of what comes next. The buzz of life calls to us to use our minds and bodies, to notice, to begin, but mostly to remember the all of who we are and what we know. Shake off the amnesia. Let the child go forth to wander. Let the desire of first love reawaken. Let long ago dreams polish present ones.  Long ago I may not have imagined myself filled with delight in finding worms to hand feed my hens, or in “manure meditation”( the process of picking up the barn lot in silence, broken only by natural chanting from all parts of the farm and woods). But the dreams of a little girl in Buster Browns, playing with her plastic horses in the rocks by the forsythia bushes give such a shine to the dreams I live on such mornings.

Front Porch Swing

Front Porch Swing

Yesterday brought all possible weather. April came in like early March with gale force winds driving sheets of snow into the creaking trees on the mountain. The curtain like movement seemed a daytime version of Northern lights made of white flannel. Then, suddenly the air would clear, the sun would shine, and mist would rise up from the ground. Next it would rain, or hail. This pattern repeated over and over. The wind seemed the great sorcerer in all this.  A wild weather spell was being cast. So today when I woke to quiet golden light, with birdsong fluttering into my senses, I had to go see. It is easy to throw back the quilts on such a morning. I went out to see what magick had been left… and found a rare and brilliant day.

I noticed down along the river yesterday in Ronceverte, the willows leafing out with their characteristic color. Every year I am again reminded of the first four lines of  Frost’s” Nothing Gold Can Stay”.

“Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.”

This is that hour!  I do not want to close my eyes for fear of missing even a single minute of it. Once dressed I went first to the chicken yard to let them out to forage. Thunder, the giant black Australorp rooster, led the way into the frosty field with his hens following along scratching here and there. Standing in the polished light, flapping and crowing, striking green and purple iridescence reflected in his feathers. Off to the barn, the horses stood slumbering in the warmth,  heads down, a back hoof cocked. They roused easily, stretched, then walked over, knowing the joy of  turnout onto new spring grass.

What next? I get to choose. Coffee in the front porch swing, for the first time this year, wins hands down. This becomes a ritual once the weather turns warm, usually before the morning chores call my name. Today I sit there at a bit later  hour. My coat and boots keep me comfortable. All the cats and dogs find their places around. Even old Sage, grey tabby, sits with me. He hides out in the hay all winter, grumpy and acts a little crazed. This I understand. But once Spring breaks open, he comes out, seeking attention. This is a good sign. I notice  for the first time the rosy blush on the cherry trees and maples along the fence line. Another good sign. The muck will thaw, the lilacs and apple trees will blossom, the horses will shed their buffalo robes and be slick and shiny again. This body will grow used to feeling looser and younger. I will go searching for wildflowers, and say all their  names out loud. I will write  poems in my head as I walk. I will  find more questions  than answers, and delight in them. There is no going back. The world expands and calls. The inner ruminations of winter are coming alive again on the front porch, in the woods and on the creek banks of Spring.

dirty fingernails

When I finally let myself down into the steamy tub last night to soak in mineral salts, I took a moment to look at my hands and fingernails. They were ragged, banged up and stained. But I couldn’t help but smile, having never been able to keep ladylike hands. My hands have always been big, strong, and very busy. Now because of age, add knobby and wrinkled to the list. And I can’t get off the tight jar lids like I used to. But when I see dirty fingernails, I pause to think of the working pleasure that put that soil under them. It has always been that way. Remembering  sitting in church as a child, with a pretty homemade dress on, and my not so pretty fingernails makes it clear that I have not changed much. Saturdays were spent in the building of hideouts with pine branches and tall weeds, messing with horses, or digging for treasure in clay ditch banks. There is much pleasure in the sweet smelling earth that can only be gotten to with hands.

This Sunday morning my hands are the same as fifty years ago, with their torn cuticles and dirty fingernails. Ahh…another Saturday spent enjoying myself! Mama sewed those lovely Sunday dresses for my sisters and me to wear, and yet never criticized my tomboy ways.  She loved to work in the dirt herself, and chose a life dedicated to her enormous yard, spending countless hours in happy creation. She loved the peace and the beauty only found under the sky. I am her daughter that way. Yesterday while I was digging the big hole for a fire pit, fully engaged in determining placement, depth, shape, and size, I remembered Mama building a bench with local rock and mortar, and always adding to her paradise with planning and hard work in a hundred different ways. I felt her there, right over my left shoulder. She was pleased.

Garden gloves get in the way. They prevent the intimacy of the process, such a necessary component. The shovel is a great tool, and digging with one is a satisfying full body effort. But taking off the sod and removing the rocks is a job for hands. When you are on your knees you smell the cool ground, and see its many details. The chickens were scratching around here and there, delighted to see the grubs, beetles, and worms I threw to them every so often. I thought about my mother’s mother, Grandmama Langston. She kept chickens, had a beautiful flower garden and screened in porches filled with swings and rocking chairs. The drinking ladle hung by a spigot at the large front steps made of crushed shells and mortar. This place by the swamp, the heavy scent of her mock orange and the multitude and beauty of her Sweet William beds still live on the edge of a waking dream. It is funny how I am just in the last few years connecting the generational dots.

Although the daffodils have been putting on a show, and all the tree and plant buds are getting plump, we had a few inches of snow last night. The newly dug hole looks cold and raw surrounded by white, in the empty grey light. The search in the rock batter along the property line for good flat rocks to line it, and others to surround it, will have to wait a few days. I can imagine the future however, and completing it will allow for new expression of  life out here in the country.  This will be a place to reflect, alone, and also a setting for friends and family to gather, tell stories, and sing. One more way to be out in the air, beneath the stars or sun, all seasons of the year…where past and present meet, and dirty fingernails and ancestors are welcome.