Thursday, December 31, 2015

Burst, bloom. Happy New Year.

It is the last day of the year. And what a year, she said with a sigh, before taking a grateful gulp of whatever was in the cup (it was coffee). This year has been full of love, the kind that saves, and the kind of pain that saves, too. And sorrow, and joy, and the rug as it flies out from under you and suddenly you're floating. This year has been open, open, openness. Raw and riotous, like a wound, like a bud warmed by the sun; burst, bloom. Have you ever watched a flower bloom? Time lapse photography is a gift. It's slow going at first, the bravest petals unfurl like toes testing the waters. Then suddenly a symphony crescendo, a sudden sighburst, bloom, and it's opened to the light, the bees, the shock of cold air on pink petals. Feeling, for the first time, it's own glorious weight. That's what this year has been like. Open, like a sigh.

I am still learning all of last year's lessons, and diuble. I said I wanted to let sorrow dig a well in my chest where I could find deep and nourishing streams. Instead, time bought me callouses and cement. I am still learning to be soft. I am still learning to be mindfull. I am still learning to let loving kindness be my first reaction. I should tattoo that on my knee for when it jerks.

For Christmas The Mister brought me home a sweet bouquet of white flowers, sprigs of juniper, and two mystery buds. Time has passed and the sneaky buds have begun to bloom; pink carnations. Shock of color. Riotous sigh.

A year in retrospect seems like the right thing to do right now. With my ever faithful helper cat close at hand, I wanted to share it with you, because I have a lot to say about it.



A week or so ago, when asking about clarity and my lack of it, I pulled the 8 of swords upright-what was blocking my clarity? Me. And it was true. And it felt heavy, like a weight you've been carrying for so long and then someone says "wow that must be heavy ".

But today she's reversed, like a cup whose contents have been spilt, allowed to return to the earth. That energy is gone, that weight set down by the road side. Release. Burst, bloom. Walk away.



Fast forward to the Home card in a position I dubbed "what to let go". Why do I have to let go of cozy comfy feelings she whined and cast here eyes out the window. Okay, take another look. This is not, per se, about a home with a mailbox. That's a house. This is about letting go of the notion that home is anyplace outside of yourself. Home is not an address, or a familiar block (as a Taurus that's hard to say), and as nice as that line "home is wherever I'm with you" is, that's not home either. Home is in your breath, the cathedral of your ribs, the glory of your cells as they flash into being and then die, like stars. This new truth will keep you safe.



The three of cups landed in the "darkness" spot. Yes, I've neglected my craft. But that's okay. It was a hard year and I couldn't find up.

How to combine the light and the dark? Ace of swords. Grasp that which wounded you. Embrace your suffering. The truth will set you free; speak yours.

What to take with me? Wisdom. These experiences want to make me wiser. Those lessons want to be learned. Compile them where they can be easily accessed for future needs. They can be written in a book, and they are. But I like the idea the Monarch butterflies had; store your wisdom in your dna, let it live in your cells like a map to guide you long after mountains crumble. Tattoo them on your knee, so when it jerks, you have a wise response.

To what end? Healing. Simple. How beautiful. Burst, bloom. Riotous sigh.



(Before I go, look at all those birds. A Raven, a Swallow, a sparrow or some other LBJ. Here I sit now, at my window, watching crows and gulls swoop and dive in the blue, clean-slate sky. What of their daily struggle, when they let go and glide, and are this effortless on the winds? Riotous sigh.)



If you're there, thank you for reading. I hope your new year is full of love, and peace, and deep breaths.
-A.H.

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Dark Moon in Scorpio 11*11




Today is the New Moon (Dark Moon, for those of us) in Scorpio, trining with Chiron, sextile Jupiter. Chiron is the healer asteroid who teaches us how to navigate our past as we move ever forward into our future. Jupiter is the great expander, calling us to grow in as we grow out. And Scorpio, oh Scorpio, her medicine is destruction and creation. Magnificent and terrible, her heat reduces us to our elemental forms, and we emerge as something entirely new. Or as new as we want. If you've been looking for a change, now is your hour.

Or maybe your heart is hurting. Maybe your summer wasn't as kind as it should have been. This New Moon, with her deep, deep Scorpionic and Plutonian waters, with her overarching, expansive sky, can heal that ache.

How? Mercury is sitting close and snuggly with the New Moon, offering us his microscope, that we may see with sharp clarity the elements of our lives. What helps us, what hinders us; our thought patterns, love habits, how we care for our bodies. And Chiron offers a remedy.

But that all sounds very esoteric. How, you may be asking again. How do we access this remedy? How do we spot it in the first place?

Well first off, let's talk about Chiron a bit more. As I've said, Chiron is the healer, and also the teacher of the cosmos (and the Greek pantheon, he's an interesting Google search). He originated in the Kuiper Belt, near Pluto, an area full of debris thought to be left over from the big bang. Pluto is ruler of the underworld; Chiron is the trigger of our deepest, most primal wounds. Chiron is the trigger that brings this wound to the surface, so it can heal.

So one way to facilitate this healing is to check out your birth chart to see where Chiron was when you were born (try Astro.com, and pay special attention to what house it's in, as well as what sign). This will tell you where your wound is located, and offer a remedy. For example, my Chiron is in Gemini, who is already ruled by Mercury. This means that my wound is located in communication; I struggle with feeling uneducated, I find it hard to believe in my own ideas, and I often feel unheard. And my prescribed remedy is about learning to speak and stand up for my truth, and to fully let go of what others think.

Another way is just simply to plug in. Again, how? Meditate. Have you ever imagined that swirling around your spine was a warm, glowing Kundalini serpent? Do that now. Just try it. Sit back and feel the warm glow, spiraling wider as it works it's way down. Now feel it unwind and dip into the earth. (If you, like me, live 8 floors above the earth, this will take a little longer. Watch that root reach down past each floor, twisting along the steel frame, and then finally bursting through the concrete. Don't worry. Roots were meant for this). Feel it pass through earthen layers till it suddenly plunges into a deep and secret pool. Linger here. Drink the water and let it nourish you. Dwell on the transformative power of water, how it whittles away all that would hinder it. Now think of what hinders you. Send water rushing over it, till it is swept away.

(Or, if snakes are scary for you, you can also think of a crab stepping out of its shell. That's what I mean by growing in while we grow out. We grow out of an old self and into a new one.)

As you do this work, answers will float to the surface. This is a time of intuition. You'll know it when you know it, and then it's your responsibility to apply these answers. Its up to you to call on these cosmic energies. Change doesn't just happen. You must do the work. And as you do the work, you can know that you are infinitely, cosmically supported.

What does this have to do with knitting? Destruction, creation. What don't you want? What doesn't quite fit? Take it out and examine it closely, find the snag, seek out thee missing, or the extra. Undo. Redo.

How is this New Moon treating you? What do you see when you look through Mercury's microscope?

Thank you for reading.
-AH


Thursday, November 5, 2015

November, your voice is a flute.

Its a new month. Its the best month.



Its odd that for me, a spring baby, the deep autumn-that-is-almost-winter is the most important time of year for me. Its full of unique energies, and I make good use of them. Its a time for getting down to brass tacks and into the heart of the matter. This is the shedding time in the cycle of regeneration and rebirth. Just like snakes shed their old skin and crabs crawl out of shells that no longer suit them, the trees shake loose their leaves and flowers trim themselves back to the root bulb. There is often talk of dormancy, but I don't think its dormancy that dominates this time of year. It is waiting yes, but a useful, productive waiting. There is ruminating, germinating, rehabilitating, and rest. This is when the roots and branches and birds really get to spend their time thinking. I imagine them holed up with good books and warm lamps glowing, keeping out the cold and finally free of the burden of making and raising young.

(Not to mention that now is the time of year that the crows move to my block. Hoards of them come in with the sunset and crowd together on roof tops and in the bare trees, silent and still as stones, standing watch. And the leaves on the hill have begun to smolder, and this is what I watch when I write to you, or when I do my homework.)

I've begun a new tarot challenge. Having hopped on board a few days late I'm playing catch up, and so today I'm doing the spread for the 3rd of November, who's prompt was simply "Shadow".

Sometimes I jump unceremoniously into readings. But there are some questions, and some journeys, which we know will go deeper and into darker places, and these require a bit more preparation. Descending down, gingerly over rocks and under earthly ceilings into the still air of musty roots, you will need smoke, you will need fire, and you will need mindful breath.



Lighting my candle, I bathed in lavender smoke for a few moments before I fanned out my cards. This prompt comes at an opportune time. My shadow self has been particularly active of late (I've written a bit about it already) and its been a real effort to keep myself afloat. The best response to a looming Shadow is to walk right up to it and ask "What do you need?"

But this is careful work. My Shadow Self comes in the shape of a small girl child, my inner child, shut away in the past by PTSD, phobias, eating disorders, and loneliness. So it doesn't do to go charging into the dark corners and demanding answers or obedience. I don't think Shadow Selves of any age or sort respond to that approach, but I could be wrong. A more tender approach, slower and deliberate, is required. Here's that smoke, here's that breath. So I fan out my cards and place my hand over my heart. And I inhale. And I exhale. And I ask, sweet and soft as Lavender smoke, "What do you need?"




The Sun, 2 of Wands, and the runes Nauthiz and Wunjo.

What does my Shadow self need? Attention, apparently.

This is an almost endearing response. Or it would be, if Shadows weren't known for fucking your shit up. While I talk often of this topic and use words like tenderness, mindfulness and understanding, its important that we understand the power involved here. I think of my eating disorder and my shadow self and my inner child as all the same thing. Merging them helps me manage them and maintain a sort of adult "inchargeness" over my compulsions. But even as an incharge adult, I have to admit I'm frightened by this girl child, however "merely conceptual" she is. There's a reason why scary child ghosts are put in horror movies for adults; they're deceptively small, but having lived for an untold number of decades, they're stronger and meaner than you'd think. A combination difficult to overcome. If you want a picture of what this interaction looks like when it goes wrong, picture Elastic Heart. A very small, very scary person who pops up and wrecks havoc.

Another very scary thing pops up and wrecks havoc is an eating disorder. Eating disorders have the highest mortality rate of all mental illness. I once compared it to Gollum and the One Ring; its the thing that you love which kills you, and it cares not; it wants your life, and it will undo your connection to reality as well as your very humanity to get it.

When looking at The Sun in light of all this, it could be interpreted as an almost comical or maybe even a deceptive response. But I don't think so. When we follow this disorder to its deepest root, what we find more often than not is a child, wounded.



This is an image before the Sun was blotted out; her first and truest nature. Free, innocent, greeting the world with a gleeful warmth. She's bursting forth in rays of light and flowers in their fullest bloom while the 2 of Wands looks on.

So what does my Shadow self need? Attention. But lets pause, that needs some more thought; there's good attention, and bad attention, and children who aren't shown good attention will seek both without distinction. So how I can I give what is needed in a healthy, productive way?



I pulled Nauthiz from the pile of runes waiting in my lap. It is an image of two sticks rubbing together to make a fire. This rune has a lot to say about struggle, resistance, and constraint. It talks of hard effort and the force of growth. What it also says to me is "patience" and "understanding". In an tired voice its telling the tale of how the Shadow got here, and reminding me to be kind.

I then pulled Wunjo; Joy. A rune that has been showing up often for me, and a most welcome sight. Wunjo is Joy, Harmony, correct application of will, contentment, hope, family, bonding, trust. "It wards off woe and sorrow so that abundant gifts of the multiverse have no trouble bestowing themselves on you." "In Wunjo we find harmonious energies characteristic in functioning families." "Wunjo reduces alienation by broadcasting love into the human energy field."

This is what I can give her. As an adult I have access to all these things, because as an adult I can correctly apply my will and make these beautiful elements part of my reality. It is this that is being handed to that small baby on horseback.



This idea of multi-generational, multi-dimensional healing isn't a new concept. Its one that's been hard at work in Buddhist psychology for ages. Thich Nhat Hanh writes about it, saying "If we take one mindful step, we take it for our ancestors who have come before us, and those who will come after us. If we take one mindful breath, then they breathe with us." Another particularly pertinent passage comes from his book Touching Peace;

"When we touch our pain with mindfulness, we will begin to transform it. When a baby is crying in the livingroom, his mother goes in right away to hold the baby in her arms. Because mother is made of love and tenderness, when she does that, love and tenderness cover the baby and, in only a few minutes, the baby will probably stop crying. Mindfulness is the mother who cares for our pain every time it begins to cry. ... When pain is in the basement, you can enjoy many refreshing and healing elements of life by producing mindfulness. Then when the pain wants to come upstairs, you can turn off your walkman, close your book, open the livingroom door, and invite your pain to come up. You can smile to it and embrace it with mindfulness, which has become strong. If fear, for example, wishes to come up, don't ignore it. Greet it warmly with your mindfulness. "Fear, my old friend, I recognize you." If you are afraid of your fear, it may overwhelm you. But if you invite it up calmly and smile at it in mindfulness, it will loose some of its strength. After you have practiced watering the seeds of mindfulness for a few weeks, you will be strong enough to invite your fear to come up anytime, and you will be able to embrace it with your mindfulness. It may not be entirely pleasant, but with your mindfulness you are safe."-Thich Nhat Hanh, Touching Peace.

I appreciate the fact that he says "probably stop crying". Any of us who have cared for babies, even if for just a short time, know that this isn't always the case. Sometimes it takes hours and some pretty inventive measures to get babies to quiet down. Mostly it takes an intuitive listening to what is needed. But with patience, and love, and understanding, it happens.

I also appreciate the cautions Thay shares, saying that only once we've strengthened our mindfulness through meditating daily on joyful things can we bravely and skillfully invite our pain and fear to sit with us and be transformed. Its a wise piece of counsel.

I go back to the cards and take a loot at them, because I always wonder what I can do in actuality. These are nice concepts and ideas, but what can I do in a physical, material way to facilitate this healing? Wands are the suit of creative energy, creative fire. Practically speaking, maybe its time to explore and express myself in a creative way, beyond the cerebral sphere of words. Perhaps its time to paint a picture, create some happy trees for my wall.

Here's to hoping you find the sun, even in your November shadow.
-A.H.



Tuesday, November 3, 2015

Harmless monster in the liminal light.


Opal Creek, raging.

Its been awhile since I spoke at any length about my eating disorder. I think, as silly as this may sound, I actually hoped I was "done" with it. So long had it been since I'd experienced a trigger of any size that I did kind of think, well, maybe..

But now, maybe not.

I guess that's what I'm here to talk about right now, the seasonal nature of things. Seasonal indeed because somehow this autumnal shift, my favorite time of year, has sent me reeling across my recovery. Maybe the darkness has seeped in too far, past my windows and into my skin, maybe its the cold or the desperate look of the bare trees by the river.Whatever its origin of source I feel it, the way someone standing too close brushes against your arms.

But I've learned what to do. And I understand why this shadow part of myself would rise up to be seen at this time of year, with its liminal nights and transparent curtain and heavy action in the 8th house we had on October 29th. Its fitting. I can now recognize this eating disorder, this shadowy, dark, and truly honestly dangerous part of myself as my inner child, tugging at my hem because she needs something that I've over looked. In this light, soft as bedsheets, this monster is not so dangerous. With compassion and gentleness, I ask, "What is it?" With compassion and gentleness I eat, and sleep, and coo that test scores aren't everything, and don't drink too much caffeine.

And so it goes. Soon it will pass and she, and I, will rest again. Tides turn, trees burst and bloom and rest again. Eating disorders are far reaching, touching each aspect of our lives, ready to morph into new triggers we never would have expected, like having to put your cat on a feeding schedule.

And so it goes. And I'm thankful for these seasons and cycles, in the trees and in my body. The stubborn, gorgeous insistence on survival, no matter what the odds.

-A.H.

Monday, November 2, 2015

Limbic memory and savory yums.

There are many ways we get in touch with our past. Some of us take up knitting (me) or genealogy, meticulously regraft our family trees. And some of us borrow cook books and feast our way through the pages.

A familiar scent can call up memories so deep they lie in our limbic system; the very definition of "muscle memory". These limbic memories are why you never forget how to ride a bike, or why you keep reaching for the coffee pot by the stove, even though you moved it to the counter weeks ago. Scent fits like a key in a lock, sweep right past our conscious mind down to the deepest recesses of our nostalgia.

And perhaps even further. How do Monarch butterflies remember a mountain that hasn't existed for millennia, when no one generation of them makes the complete trip? Its in their genes. You know the saying, that something is so second nature to someone that its "in their blood"? That deep-as-marrow instinct that tells those Monarchs to divert inexplicably round an invisible mountain is the same heart warming (or heart sinking) feeling you get when you smell Lilac's, salty air off the ocean, or the spices aisle at your favorite grocery store. Its no wonder that the favorite way many of us connect to our past is in the kitchen, in those little four by five cards covered in swoopy handwriting and gravy stains.

But what if you don't have Grandma's recipe book? You'll have to start somewhere else.



"A Mediterranean Feast" by Clifford A. Wright is a big, dignified book with a beautiful red and gold spine. The Mister recently borrowed it from a co-worker in exchange for fresh pasta once a week, and he's cooking his way through.

Part One begins with the tantalizing title "An Algebra of Mediterranean Gastronomy" and sweeps us through the history of Mediterranean food, beginning with the Cabbage and a recipe for Minestrone di Cavolo, a.k.a. cabbage soup. "Make this soup, and the lessons of this chapter will be well digested" says Wright, and its the truth. Cabbage soup is super healing, specifically when it comes to the digestive tract, knitting up that lining, clearing the way so that we can get in touch with our "gut".

This soup, while simple, is perfect. This is the soup you want on a cold rainy day. Its hearty, and it lasts. Eat this for dinner on a chilly night, have it for lunch the next day, and maybe even the day after that.



Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy something delicious tonight. Treat yourself to some warm fuzzy nostalgia. Let those memories nourish you.

-A.H.

Monday, October 26, 2015


Batten down the hatches everyone. Its time for the Celtic Cross.

I don't often read the celtic cross just because its so huge. But honestly, after pages of notes and even with Death in the future position (not as yikes as it seems) I think I may have had a change of heart. It was so beautiful to watch the cards interact, very humbling to be a part of it, and sometimes staggering with how "right on" this reading was.

This was my first attempt at "elevating the Ace". The Ace of Swords was initially in the past position; when I elevated it, the Ace of Wands took its place. So I elevated that! The Ace of Wands was replaced by the Hermit. The Ace of Cups was in the advice position, and was replaced by the 5 of Pentacles. I really enjoyed having all this powerful, positive Ace energy hovering over the reading, touching ever other card.

There is a lot of love, creative energy, renewing water, and calls to action and boldness in this spread. If you want to listen to me ramble on about what i see, keep reading.

To start off with, we have the Seven of Pentacles underneath that Fool; This card has been showing up a lot, so I'm not surprised to see it here. This is telling me that right now, there is energy of abundance all around me. Projects are ready to flower and fruit. But while this abundant energy may be readily available, it requires diligence, and "girls just want to have fun" right? Wrong. really this girl is just running from her responsibilities because they're big and scary and she's a little afraid of the rejection one risks when we try (looking at that King there.)

All my energy and hopes are being poured into my relationship, in spite of the fact that in my subconscious I'm alone. There are a lot of opposites between these two cards; The Lovers are naked, the woman is very clothed. The Lovers are together and even share their space with a deity, the woman is alone. The Lovers are in a wide open space, the woman is hedged in. This is a very good depiction of what I want vs what I have/what I'm manifesting. This 9 of Pentacles opposite The Lovers carries with it a warning against selfishness, an insistence to get out of my own head.

The Lovers + the Ace of Cups is a wonderful Omen. The Ace of Swords cautions to not let our communication waver, and the Ace of Wands has all the fire and passion we could ever need.

There is a lot of aloneness here; The Hermit, The Fool, The 9 of Pentacles. I've spent many years feeling alienated, perhaps to the point where its become my default setting. The Ace of Cups + Death says it is this, this loneliness, that is coming to a close. In fact, its important that this chapter of loneliness ends so the next one can begin. But changing patterns this ingrained is hard. Expect a culture shock.

The 5 if Pentacles is dismal looking. Here is startling image not just of financial struggle, but loss of faith as well. So what advice does this card have? It is a cautionary tale, warning against becoming so bogged down in your misery that you miss the help that is right under your nose. This card + The Full Moon in Taurus that is happening RIGHT NOW is about choices. Asking for help, admitting mistakes, these things make us vulnerable, and vulnerability hurts our pride. Ask anyway. Your alienation is unnecessary. Times are tough right now, but keep the faith. Help is at hand.

I want to talk about that King in the Hope/Fear spot for a minute. I drew the King of Wands last night as my "who am I" for the tarot challenge I'm doing over on instagram. I have a weird relationship to court cards, and an even weird relationship to cis-men, so this was... I'll just say it, unwelcome. But tarot is here to make us look deeper. And let me tell you what I found.

The King of Wands sit on his deserty throne, dressed in lizards and lions. He wand is bursting into life (ehyo) and his gaze is steady and focused. Notice the flames on his crown compared to the flames on the tree of life in The Lovers; they're the saaame. This King is fire. Led by intuition, he boldly does things his own way. I have written in my notes (forgive me, I don't know where I'm quoting this from) "he has harvested the core impulse of the dawn of creation".

So what is there to be afraid of? Getting exactly what I want? Yes.The higher one climbs the farther one has to fall. Can I be brave enough to take the risk?  Will I succumb not only to the sheer height, but the egomania that comes from that level of success? What if no one likes what I have to offer? What if no one wants me (there's that hermit, that fool, that lady with her bird.)

A few days ago I drew the Poison Oak card from the Bach flower essence deck, and this is the mantra

"Masculine fire burns bright within me.
Sheltered in my strength, I invite vulnerability.
I am secure, so I can risk.
Power and love are united in my soul."

With this mantra in mind, I understand why the King of Wands is showing up for me like this.

The 6 of Swords can be unnerving. Its undeniable somber. But lets look deeper. The family is together; in fact they've grown. The water is smooth, the sky is clear, their journey will be a safe one. The shore ahead has trees, they've made a good choice. Maybe it looks somber because we aren't used to the quiet. If there is a caution here, its to release emotional baggage. Only keep what is necessary. How many swords do you actually need? Don't carry old grudges with you into your new life.

I want to talk more about the Aces.

Lets start with the Ace of Cups and The Lovers, and Death. "Perfect love casts out fear." As a matter of course, when we truly love someone, fear looses its footing and fades. So we can, with peace, let this chapter close. Let the loneliness fade; now its time to partake. Reach for the Divine body and know that it is already in you. Go down to the river to pray. Wade into the waters and emerge new and fearless.

The Ace of Swords lets me know that wisdom I discovered during The Hermit will be incorporated into my new life, becoming deeply personal truths that will serve to bolster and protect me.

The Ace of Wands. What a welcome sight. The Source Fire that the King had captured and laced into his crown is epitomized here with the Ace. This is source. This is the core impulse of the dawn of creations, and it is within me, and it has been at every moment, but it's creative fire energy is especially available to me now. All I need to is grasp it. The time is now to start something new. Act. Be bold. Be creative.

The Ace of Wands lets me know a big shift is coming (see Death, 6 of Swords) and though it be huge and tricky, it will work out in my favorite. The Wand is in my hand; the shift will happen on my terms, if I keep my wits about me.

The Ace of Wands+Ace of Swords= Stop worrying. You will be well received (haaay laurel wreath)
Ace of Wands +Ace of Cups=a lover will be integral in your creative ventures. Which is true; we're together in every card (that isn't strictly to do with me) even in the difficult times, we hobble along together.

My favorite piece about the Ace of Wands from the website Keen.com and it says this

"The Ace of Wands is not about creativity that is taught or learned from books, or approached as a hobby. This is boldly finding your own voice and insisting that the universe make a place for the manifestations of your visions. A moment of bold expansion is marked."

This is a rallying cry. In conclusion? Its time to stop puttering around and putting things off because I'm afraid. Its time to stop hiding. Its time to make a bold leap. Its time to make things happen. The best way to make things happen is to take a risk. Its time to trust myself, trust the universe, trust my partner, and go forth.

If you're reading this, thank you. I hope you're well. I hope you do something that makes you feel brave.
-A.H.

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

The Mountain

My first exposure to the concept of walking meditation was reading Thich Nhat Hanh's book Being Peace. The idea is that you don't have to sit lotus and watch a flame (but you can) and you don't have to chant om's (but you can) and you don't have to have a bell or a special cushion or an extra room. Anything we do can be a meditation, even dishes (though I have yet to master this one). Walking meditation is probably the easiest way to work mindfulness into your daily life. Simply by being present, by knowing this moment of our foot on this spot of earth, by taking a step and knowing that we are taking a step, that is the key to mindfulness. Its ridiculously simple and actually pretty difficult sometimes, especially when we're running late and out of sorts. For me, the work is worth it. The mantra "I have arrived" is never far from me (i wrote it under the clock in my car, stitched it to my sneekers) and helps me to remember that this moment (now) is my home.

But as I said, some times are harder than others.

In life we have joy, and we suffer. Sometimes the suffering can feel like a slow degrading, or a gradual tightening.Sometimes we can point to the suffering as it approaches like a sand storm on the horizon, we can use its hue to guess its source, we can turn the cups and bowls upside down. But then sometimes the suffering comes all at once, like an avalanche. Its always from the mountain we weren't watching, leaving a familiar landscape altered. Trees groan under new and sudden weight.

What follows the furry is the white white sea of sudden silence, and in this silence is the unexpected gift. We are left with two choices; We can let our brokenness make us bitter, or we can let our brokenness make us soft. The sadness can drown or it can dig a well. Wells are useful. Wells give life.

Didn't Rumi say to train our eyes upon the broken place, as this is where the light enters? A broken heart will usher in a sudden and complete summer. Even after the first frost there are butterflies and singing birds. There's iced tea. I've become preoccupied with things that become better once their broken; the precious shells of seeds and eggs. I'm mending now with gold and bright thread. Green bursts through the cracks, moats of sparkling dust swirl in the empty space.

Choosing this lightness over bitterness is dynamic. And most of the time I am swimming somewhere between the two shores, seeking one, but being pulled by the tide to the other. Each emotion passes through my heart, like the night and the day. Like waves on the shore. Its okay, I tell myself. Let them come, and go. Take each moment one at a time, carefully lest I drown or become crystallized, like the salt birds in Lake Natron.


When we began our climb up Dog Mountain, I was still in a mostly grateful place of answered prayer, in awe of miracles witnessed. But after about half a mile, after two days without sleep or much food, my gratefulness faded into a kind of Super Anger, the kind that could tear a house down. Even as my heart pounded I could feel it harden. Crystalline corners took shape at the edge of my arteries. I counted their spires while the Avalanche traversed the mountain with a carefree ease. My Super Anger turned to a Rampant Envy, which is worse. Anger can be a driving force, a vital fuel, but Envy is just poison.

So what could I do? I sat down and gave in. I verbally acknowledged that there was nothing I could do. There is an undeniable freedom in knowing "its not you", but there is also a helplessness; when you can change nothing to make things better, you can do nothing to make things better. Suddenly everything is in the hands of the Avalanche. Trees groan, their limbs snap and echo across the mountain. Sudden silence under the weight (the wait).

So now get up. Train your eye upon the broken place. Watch the new light drift in and transform the patch of earth. It was barren and dark. Now rain drifts in and sun, now seeds sprout, bees and butterflies visit. Now life. This is why they say to count it all joy I guess.




Avalanches melt. They say nice things sometimes and you realize that maybe some avalanches didn't mean to be avalanches, they meant to be a pleasant drift of snow, and things just got away from them. They tell you to take your time and let you walk ahead. You will laugh and make jokes about an old tree stump that is a forest palace, and the Fallen Log Apartment Complex where the Forest Queen's subjects live.



The Dog Mountain trail is not a long hike. Its a little over six miles total, but it is a swift climb up to 2800 elevation, and that's what gets you. Its difficult, and its very beautiful. The trail begins with oaks and passes into predominantly conifer forest with a few stubborn maples waiting for their turn in the sun. In the early spring the mountain is lit ablaze with wildflowers; by now, late summer, there were only a few late bloomers left. It was so green and quiet. It doesn't take long for one to hike above the sound of traffic below, into the wind in the pines that sounds so much like the ocean. I took slow steps, even paces, maintaining the same speed whether I was on flat ground or uphill. With each step I said to myself "here." "now." I kept my eye on the crack. I let the ache in my lungs be the sorrow that would dig its well. And I climbed.




Traditionally humans go to certain places on this planet for certain reasons. We go to the river to pray. We go to the ocean to heal. We go to the desert to petition. And we climb tall mountains to receive.

I wasn't looking for anything in particular. I was simply cracked open. Listening to the ocean in my heart, like a cockle shell.

The wind was strong that day. It picked up every time I said I was hot. It was always at my back, like a gift of cool encouragement. High above my head the whole forest swayed together in a generous dance, maple leaves fanned and caught the light. While we rested I pressed my cheek against an old Doug Fir, so tired I didn't even wonder about spiders. I let my feet grow roots which made friends with Doug and the mycelium. Elijah was fed by the ravens, I by forest spores and sunlight.




It was here in this sun-lit land-ocean of the swaying forest that the word "Conspire" came to me, and kept coming to me. Like a song stuck in my head, almost audible.

Conspire comes from the Latin word "conspirare" meaning "to breathe together". Sunlight and wind. Ancient water in deep wells. Co-conspirators. Everything conspires together for my greatest good. Take a wild leap and trust that.






The summit was truly beautiful, burnt a white golden in the latent summer sun, now setting broadly over the Coastal ranges. The wind swept over us powerfully and we had to plant our feet to avoid being knocked over. The Avalanche and the Tree met in an embrace on the side of the mountain and let the warm sun wash over them. Melting, the avalanche learned he could feel, and the tree was watered. We ate a dinner of tamales and coconut water and felt the good ache of hard effort. Tiredness, earned.




The descent was a race against the setting sun, but a loosing one, and by the mid point of the mountain my knees had reduced me to a hobble and I settled on the realization that Oh wow I'm not getting younger and I should probably be taking care of my body in a way that means I can use it well for the rest of my life and lets start with these knees.

What would meet me at the base of the mountain? More swimming between shores, carrying dueling realities in my heart. A heart full of heavy questions. But a heart also full of the light, and the wind, and the melting, and the ability to trust my co-conspirators always at my side. This is how we go on, how we reach the top and go back down again, one moment at a time. Here. Now.

This was a more thank worth while hike, and one that I plan to do again and again. Should you endevour to go, and you should, assess your abilities and allow for time to take breaks. You probably want to start by 10 (we started at two, and hiking down in the dark wasn't the most awesome) and bring plenty of snacks and water. And make sure your camera batter is charged, or else the photo's you take at the summit will have to be with your cell phone.

Thank you, whoever you are, for reading.
-A.H.

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Pause.

For some reason, we never do the tea ceremony.
I mean, there it is, casually on the menu, pretending its not mysterious and interesting sounding. But it is. And it knows that it is. And that's probably why we never get it. Intimidated by tea.

On the East Side you can find pockets of another world. The luxury of a hushed intersection, lacy shadows of old trees, song birds. This is where we come, afternoon vacationers in quiet, clean Neighborhoods. Neighborhoods full of pauses. Strolling, we pick out our house, color, trim, garden style, porch. We talk about turning the garage into a studio and building a tree house. We met stargazers growing right out of the ground, reaching their long necks over a wrought iron fence to the sun. The Mister bent in too near and came away with polka dots of yellow pollen across his face. I teased him about making out with flowers. The bright yellow color would stain his skin, evidencing joy for the rest of the day.



Then we got a cup of tea.


Frugally, most times we'll share a drink (then buy a bag of chips with those three dollars our frugality briefly won us).


Today, we splurged, ordering two drinks at The Tao of Tea, a dimly lit tea house deep in Portland's east side that still somehow manages to be brightly lit. Its shelves are covered in Pothos vines and items of interest - neat tea pots and Matcha whisks. I wanted to take our tea to go, to walk some more past old and big houses I might never be able to afford. But by the time The Mister made his way to the counter to ask, our server just cast her eyes slowly down to the carefully arranged tray with a hesitation and a sort of disappointment I couldn't bear. Backtracking quickly we waved her over and over compensated with our smiles. "Never mind! This is perfect!"


And it was. I ordered the White Peony, the young buds and one leaf plucked in the Fujian province nestled on China's southeastern coast. One of my favorites, White Peony is the only tea to regularly lure me away from the the Tea Forest Green; green tea harvested from an old growth tea forest who's trees are several hundred years old, towering at 50 feet. The Mister asked for a cup of the Monkey King, probably in no small part to the swaths of mist that shroud the mountains in the description box on the menu. Money King is a pan fired green tea from Anhui, China. It was good, but mine was better (winky face finger guns).






After a while the indoor chatter became a subtle background noise, ambient and pleasing. At the Tao of Tea you're given two cups, one Terracotta "gaiwan" in which you steep your tea and a palm sized tea cup from which you drink your tea. Its an efficient processes; while you enjoy one cup, another cup is steeping, on its way. Its also a slow process. It requires that you pause and just wait a minute.




Finishing off the last that the leaves had to offer, we traded cups and read each other's future. I have a up and coming bridge that I must cross, it wont be easy but goodness waits on the other side. Marcos has a stroke of luck at his feet, but he has to entice it with his wit and cunning. Strokes of Luck really respect wit and cunning, I said.

-A.H.

Sunday, July 19, 2015

Staying on track.



I've been having Big Days, in which I do Things, that were previously daunting and scary and seemed like forever. But they weren't forever. Or at least they aren't when you have the energy to do them. I credit Norwegian Kelp and finally, for some reason I'm not sure what, getting some sleep.

Yesterday was a Big Day.

I found authors* on twitter, added their books to my goodreads list, and burned again with a passion for stories.
I took out the elastic on one of my favorite shirts so that I could finally wear it in comfort (and its even more favorite now).
I ate an amazing lunch while watching Captain Janeway save all the days.



That amazing beef soup is based off of this recipe for Taiwanese Beef Noodle Soup by Dang That's Delicious and let me tell you, it was. Unfortunately for me, I didn't have half the ingredients (no bean past, no garlic chili paste, out of anise, womp womp) so I just made due with what I had and followed the recipe otherwise (basically it was just beef soup). Boiling the meet with the green onions, garlic, and ginger made the BEST broth I could ever have hoped for. I used mung bean noodles and sauteed a handful of mushrooms, with a pinch of cilantro to top it off. This soup lasted us three days and we're making it again real soon. After the soup I cooled off with cucumber salad, dressed with olive oil, cilantro, and a squeeze of lemon.

Straight from my cousins orchard, I look forward to these lemons every year. My mother sends them to me from Southern California and I make lemon jam out of them that takes me from one summer to the next. (this year I added rose hips to that jam. No scurvy here.)

When I sliced into this lemon to dress my salad I found, with a gasp, four sprouted seeds complete with developing cotyledons and roots. The root of one particularly determined seed had gone as far as to hit the rind and, finding it impassible, traveled back up towards the center to find another way out.

see those two green blobs? those are my lemon twins,
saying hello to their new lemon sibling. 

Carefully, and under sufficient lighting, I birthed this little one (a citrus c-section, if you will) fairly confident the root brain (err, I mean root cap) is still intact. The four seeds are planted and at the time of this writing two have already peeked their heads above the soil and a third is about to make its debut. Soon I'll have my own orchard. I'll call it Eight Stories Up.

Then I cleaned. In order to understand the mountainesque nature of this task I'd have to show you before pictures which I wont, because it will be softer on my pride to show them alongside the after photos, which aren't ready yet. Yesterday's job was the bedroom, which we don't use, which looks like Jumanji just happened. In one day, I got about half way done. All the clothes up off the ground, some sorted out to be given away, the carpets freshened and vacuumed. The contents of each box was handled, turned over in the light, to see if they should stay or go on.

I'll be honest, a lot of them stayed. I'm a creature of familiar things, steeped generously in nostalgia and remember whens. Things that were once precious to me often stay precious forever, even if the reasons have been lost to time. Like the brown bag full of ribbons and one two dollar bill, kept together in that same lunch bag for years, since back when I used to wear ribbons in my hair, tied in bows. I never wore these, but I loved them. And I always kept them with that dollar bill.

Like my Baboonya's clothes filling almost a whole drawer, some waiting to be altered, some waiting for a special occasion, some waiting for me, too, to turn 80. Three slips, two silk one cotton with the straps held on by safety pins, a paisley dress, a red cotton sweater, a pink sweater, a sweater full of flowers, a button up sweatshirt with the sleeves chopped off at the elbows. That was her Saturday Cleaning Sweater, my mom said as she handed it to me, tearful.

That was almost a year ago. I tried it on again, one humble button left at the collar. I thought about her, tapping the comet against the edge of the sink without money to buy more. I put my hands in the pockets and pulled out two wadded up pink tissues and burst into tears. Is this wrong? -I couldn't bare to throw them away. Instead I took a picture and put back in the pockets, thickly lined with lint from countless other tissues forgotten and thrown into the wash.


These are things that help me keep track. This is how I trace a line through history, connecting the dots of stories and memories, as deep as DNA, and just as impossible to deny.

If you're reading this, thank you.
-A.H.

*the authors I "found"
Kathleen Alcala @katkat_alcala
Sofia Samatar @SofiaSamatar
Andrea Hairston @AAhairsto
Karen Lord @Karen_Lord
Zen Cho @zenaldehyde
Naomi Jackson @thenaomijackson
seriously, check them out.

Monday, June 29, 2015

Happiness for the Here and Now.

We're busy people. You probably are, too.
Often and far too easily, life becomes a series of To Do Lists punctuated by appointments and piles of dirty dishes. Caught in a feedback loop of exhaustion and late nights, focused on keeping our heads down and our hands at the task, we rarely escape beyond the boundaries of asphalt and traffic. Respite is a TV screen and an easy meal.

That isn't true. My work actually often takes me out of the city and into the semi-wilds surrounding the Portland area. I often find myself tramping through fields and under trees, chatting up snails and writing poems about Vultures. It is Marcos, my Mister, who rarely breaks loose. He works endlessly and then comes home and works some more, all the while clinging to a big picture that promises us a happy Someday Soon. We do take regular trips to the river, but even these are covered in reminders of the city; freighter boats, other peoples trash, the downtown skyline looms on the rivers other side.

Add to this the fact that its been hot. 51% humidity. Record highs for Portland in June. Honking horns, sirens, steaming bodies melting and shriveling without air conditioner or wind from the right direction. Sweeping right past the windows, nary a breeze stops in to say hello. We needed some coolness. We needed some happiness for the Here and Now.

I was traveling to Silverton, a town about an hour south of Portland, to pick up a box from my mom sent from L.A. on the Cousin Express. I decided that I would bring the Mister along with me and budget and car troubles be damned! -we would follow those signs I always see for the Silver Falls Tour Route and we would find some water to swim in.

I like Silverton. It reminds me of Selma, CA, and makes me feel at home. The drive from Cousin Station in Silverton to Silver Falls National Park was a pleasant countryside route with cute houses and cows and a few surprising flower farms; A speckling of red, a blanket of purple, a foam of blue and pink


                                                                                                                                                                                           

It was a short walk from the parking lot to the Upper North Falls along walls of sword ferns and salmon berries, glowing in the sun. Wildflower's still bloomed in the relative coolness of the canyon. Camps of purple Foxgloves basked in the sun, while her white counter part kept to the shade. 




On our way to the Main Attraction we passed by a baby waterfall and lost our senses. You know you're from the San Joaquin Valley when you call a diminutive  trickling a "waterfall" and then proceed to run through it as happy as if it was what you came to see.


 

The damp coolness of the little alcove, the symphony of water and pebbles, enclosed by a wall of verdant green, made us delirious. Drunk were we on its simple beauty. We sat there for some time, passing the camera back and forth to snap pictures, whispering to maiden hair ferns, squealing over mosses. This may have been a silly spectacle; after all, there was a more majestic water fall, The Main Attraction of our trip, just a few minutes up the trail. Why did we linger in such a seemingly no-account place? It might take us longer to get somewhere, but I prefer to be this way, pouring out excitement over the little things. Because sometimes (all the time) the little things are actually not so little. The world is full of such sneaky wonders. Moss is really a tiny palace for the earliest members of the food chain. Water issuing forth from stone is a miracle.

It was under these Miracle Falls that I met Liverworts in the wild for the first time. They snuck up on me. The joy of this chance happening still has, at the time of this writing, not yet settled.


The area of Silver Falls was once a logging community founded in 1888. In the more remote corners of the park live black bears, black tailed deer, coyotes, and cougars. We didn't even see a squirrel. The only intimation of wildlife came from the song birds pontificating in the higher branches of the Western Hemlock and Doug fir.

The quiet rumble of a water fall, growing louder with each forward step, is something I'll never tire of. It is an other wordly sound that I didn't hear till I was an adult who moved to Oregon, so almost two years ago. Typically transfixed by the endlessness of them, I'll watch the water fall (verb) for ever, mystified that it never ends. How can it never end? I watch enrapt, waiting for them to trickle then settle into silence, but they never do.

However this time I wasn't taken with the verb of falling water, but rather with the result. The Upper North Falls cascade over basalt lava flows from the Oligocene period into a quiet, glacial cold pool. Glowing golden near the edges and gradually deepening from turquoise to a rich and royal blue at its core, the water swirls gentling in pockets, tumbling over low stones, till it becomes a creek and travels on. I was captivated.



 Somehow, by some stroke of luck or Grace, we were the only ones there.
Gradually, gingerly, we slipped in. Hooting and hollering at the shock of cold against our hot skin. The cold made us purely giddy, and we shouted and giggled with abandon. Marcos was, of course, the first one out and under, leaving me at the edge in a panic that he'd go into shock and drown. But he was totally fine. He's an all in kind of human, whereas I am I a layer by gradual layer person. It took awhile but I was finally in up to my shoulders, holding my glass on high above my head, shouting "OKAY. OKAY. I'M READY!" then asking "AM I READY??" and answering "I DON'T KNOW!" while Marcos shook in shivers and laughter

There is no graceful way to dunk your head under cold water. I sunk beneath the surface, completely panicked, and came up gasping with my hair slicked over my eyes. Marcos howled at the sight and sounds of it all. I went under one more time; same panic, same gasping, but this time with the presence of mine to rise to the surface so that my hair was slicked back and out of the way, sputtering as I went.





A baptism.
Immersed in the gold, the jewel tones, the ribbons of light weaving their length across our goose bumps, I experienced a presence of mind so complete I didn't even notice it happening. Only in reflection did I remark upon it. The cold and color banished any other thought and I was fully in the moment, in my body, in the light, under the trees, with my love, in a way I never truly have before.

We emerged alive. I said "I feel like a person." It felt so good to let go. When was the last time we laughed like that? When was the last time we felt joy that deep? High-fiving for our newly built neural pathways, this rush of adrenaline and dopamine was just what the doctor ordered.

Stretching out on fallen logs, we dried ourselves in the generous sun while munching on seaweed and sipping warm coconut water. By this time others had joined us with their folding chairs in tow, easing into the pool with hardly a reaction. A grandmother held a baby suspended above the shallows, swinging the little one low to dip precious toes in.

It was a wonderful place to visit. You should come here too sometime. Everyone should, at least once in their life, plunge into an unassuming pool of icy temperatures. When you rise, gasping, place your hand over your heart and be surprised at your body's persistent warmth, at the life coursing through you, glowing golden as it it tumbles and travels on.

[If you come, bring a snack, because fun requires fuel, and bring water shoes. They aren't necessary (I didn't have them) but they make walking across the rocks much easier (I wish I did have them). Also, if you bring your dog, pick up their poop and keep them on leash. Don't be that guy who ruins it for everyone else.]

Thank you for reading.
-A.H.