Knitting backwards.

Ernest Hemmingway said "There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." He also said "All you have to do is write one sentence. Write the truest sentence you know." Margaret Atwood said "A word after a word is power." "I didn't come to write my heart out. I came to write it in" says Andrea Gibson.

I sat at the table, typing, and crying. Suddenly effort eased and the story flowed. Before I could realize what was happening, out from my fingertips came one giant aha. It loomed before me like a Genie fresh from the lamp. Amazed, suspended, I admired its obvious size and remarked that it could have hidden for so long. Tears stung my eyes. A moment of silence passed in grief and awe; mourning what I lost, honoring that I lived to loose it. And then I continued.

I was telling the story of my grandmother. I was talking about the granny square blanket. I've been trying to find the words for this story for years. And now, they were here.

And then the fire alarm, storming through the silence. Rude. Not great timing.

You say, "But its probably nothing..." while you pull on pants and try to find your bra. "Should I just wait it out?" as you pull one cat from under the couch, the other one collapsing in panic as you approach, and stuff them into their carrier. I picked up my money and thought "nah" I reached for my project bag, but said "This will be over in two minutes" I paused at the door and thought "Do I need my water bottle? I don't have enough hands anyway", and left.

The moral of the story? Always bring your water bottle and craft work! Always have two bucks on you!
We were locked out for three hours. A sprinkler in someones apartment burst. A random accident that probably isn't so random when you take a look at all the plumbing problems we have in this building. So in addition to your water bottle and two dollars, make sure you have renters insurance (although, probably, there go you're two dollars).

It wasn't so bad. In fact, it was a little like show and tell; neighbors showed off their babies and introduced their pets. Bebe the Lhasa Apso with one eye, the crate full of rats, a cat named Agnes wrapped in a towel.

I was hungry. I hadn't noticed how hungry I'd become. When finally home I decided I needed to make the easiest thing possible. I made a one pot wonder (with a side skillet of salmon). The only thing I did different was sugar snap peas sliced instead of regular peas, and no cream- instead olive oil + butter with just regular ol' white cheddar.

Wow. What a meal. It was so beautiful, so delicious, such honest comfort food. I was so satisfied.

In addition to writing my heart out (writing my heart in) I was blocking my completed granny squares, preparing them for their up coming photo shoot and internet debut. And here's how that went

Successive levels of dishevelment. I am proud of them for taking turns though.

Tomorrow I return to school. I wasn't sure I'd go back for the summer, because enrolling now meant paying out of pocket, which made me rave in bitterness. I frequently forget to be grateful; we have the money for me to do this, thanks to my nifty budgeting. Also, education is so precious, a privilege denied many. I should never be anything but grateful.

Learning the response of gratitude is not unlike undoing a yarn project. You make a mistake, you learn to knit backwards, and you try again.

Thank you for reading.
-A.H.

Emergency Scramble

I'll just jump right to it. I'm in a place where most food sounds just awful.
Or it will sound delicious till its in front of me, or till I'm three bites in, and then it sounds (smells, tastes) awful. This happens from time to time and its a major deal; either its the starting pistol for my eating disorder (ED), or its a red flag that lets me know ED is already up to some stuff. When its hard to get enough calories old muscle memories kick in; when my body and brain aren't being nourished my anxieties are impossible to reason with. This creates a neat little feed back loop that makes life tricky.

SO I'm an emergency scramble to find recipes that are pretty, fun, and easy. Deliciousness, of course, goes without saying, but like I mentioned above, my delicious radar is pretty fickle lately.

To be honest, in this Emergency Scramble to Head Off The Eating Disorder At The Pass, the operative word here is easy. Something that wont involve a lot of thought or effort. I'm basically tricking myself into eating. And that's okay. It isn't ideal, but its okay. We do what we have to do to start a positive spin on the snow ball.

Today I made tuna on toast and I'm going to tell you about that now.

My favorite brand is called Sustainable Seas; the 100% pole caught option is in a green can:-)
I fill my tuna with veggies, herbs, and olive oil. This makes it a much more robust mix; it will last you longer, and it really packs in the nourishment.

These are the ingredients I used.
2 whole green onions
1 celery stick
a freaking fist full of cilantro
a wedge of lime (could have used more but whatevs)
3 cloves of garlic (could have used more of this too.)
only a little bit of salt. That bowl is just for the picture.

Not pictured; chili powder and paprika. Feel free to add mayo, veganese, mustard, whatevs.

Those tomatoes will be place directly onto your toast. Once the toast has been achieved, drizzle some olive oil on it, then lay the tomato slices on. Now, while those three are getting acquainted, mix your veggies in with the two cans of tuna. Drizzle more olive oil; we're looking for good fats here to help our brain, our joints, our skin, everything basically.
Sprinkle on salt and seasonings AND BOOM

You have something amazing to eat at the window while you watch the cars.

There are endless variations on this old standby; my favorite involves the addition of black olives and pickles, swap out the paprika and chili powder of cayenne and dill. Slice up and avocado to smash in there and clutch your pearls, you've got a masterpiece.

Thank you, who ever you are, where ever you are, for reading.
-A.H.

Its all just happening.

[When last we spoke I shared about winding myself up to the tearing point over phrases like "good enough" and "less than" and "graaaades". I've been ruminating over these same threads for the last two weeks, taking each one and tenderly reweaving myself back together.]

Much of this work is happening on the banks of the Columbia River, surrounded by Cottonwood riparian forests and an Ospry crying in circles above the shore line. Giant boats and little boats come and then go, a surge of waves that deepen and fade.

I revisited my question with The Mister on a shore such as this, the sun deeply sunken behind the trees, their long shadows brushing our shoulders and dipping into the river, making ripples.

"How does one celebrate something without becoming attached to it?"

I began to repeat myself, as I often do when I am working through something. Because how do we get over something? A series of steps, that's how. No one has ever scaled the entire mountain in one bound. Baby steps get on the bus.

But this time, I was reaching a break through. A kind of bend in the road that would open suddenly upon a clearing with a shock of bright sun and deer in a meadow. A stretch of even road after a long uphill climb. A game changer.

Yes, for the little girl who cried over math and who treated it as her greatest shame, it was important to celebrate these good grades. But what was more important was to tell her that those grades don't matter. I realized I'd been indulging my inner child, and it was time instead to be the adult. And not just any adult, but an adult who's experienced healing. It was time to put my healing into practice; each mindful breath we take we take not only for ourselves, but for our ancestors, and for the ancestors to come. This practice is like time travel; this is how I heal that little girl and myself and those to come.

I wept as it slowly dawned on me, People floating on rafts and reaching into coolers politely averted their gaze. Not only is the end result not the goal, but it is a myth. There is only now. My only job is to show up and do the work. And in being careful not to judge the quality of that work. Anytime I find myself assigning "quality words" to an effort, I need to stop, breathe, and let it float away. In this way I can rid myself of the expectations of perfect. Step by step, practicing.

Because of this struggle I thought it would be a good idea to revisit Astrology for the Soul by Jan Spiller. This book is like therapy, like someone looked into my heart of hearts and told me everything about myself and didn't shy away from the harsh truths either. For me, as Pisces north node, a lot of what Spiller talks about is a pressure for perfection (surprise surprise). Reading this on the shoreline I found a phrase that would again move me to tears

It says "Nothing is wrong: everything is just 'happening'". The waves come and they go. Mistakes are made and we learn. Surrender and find freedom.

Thank you for reading.
-A.H.

Infinite enough.

I'm not certain when I learned this, how to cling to perfection with the iron grip of survival.

Maybe it was the first time the truancy officers knocked on our door and our parents had to explain what might happen if the "authorities" thought we were missing school (enter threat of lawsuits, legal action, foster care). Maybe it was the seventh time. Maybe it was all that hiding, shades drawn, calls screened, friends never invited overt, the incessant questioning of well meaning relatives. I don't know when, but at some point it became clear to me that my survival and safety became fused with my ability to impress adults with my smarts. Every moment was a performance. See how poised I am? See how well I can converse with adults? See how my education and socialization is in no way being neglected?

It was in this way that I survived.
I performed my way right through the years when my education did in fact begin to suffer. I watched the gap between what I knew and what my friends knew grow and deepen, and along with it my nerves and sense of inadequacy. But I was so good no one noticed. Having become a skilled pretender I took this skill and applied it to other areas of my life, tricking people out of their questions. See how I don't count calories? I don't have an eating disorder. See how I have a crush on some arbitrary boy? I'm not in love with my best friend. Watch me convince you why its okay that I can't leave my house.

No one noticed a thing.

This performance of perfection did keep me and my brother safe, out of foster care, and out of harms way. And to be honest, family in crisis probably would not have handled my eating disorder very well. And conservative christian community is not the nicest place to come out. But isn't this is how it often works; unhealthy patterns develop because they serve us in some way. The trouble comes when they no longer do, when you're left with an unhealthy pattern, deeper and more established then ever.

Coming to terms with my inability to be perfect has been a long practice.
It began with changing my language. I learned the phrase "I'm doing my best and I'm not attached to the outcome." Repeat without ceasing, like a prayer. It worked right away and I'm not exaggerating. A profound stillness entered my body. I found myself able to make mistakes without falling to pieces, and even when those around me didn't exactly support this (a boss falling to pieces, for example, over a mistake) I remained centered. Soon my performance at my job improved; rather than devoting all my energy and brain power to ~*being perfect*~ I just did my job.

"I'm doing my best and I'm not attached to the outcome".
It's a wonderful little mantra that isn't so little.

I'm doing my best and I'm not attached to the outcome.
Its an "easy" enough practice when one makes a mistake. To be truthful, you could just say "Oh I wasn't attached to that anyway" dust yourself off and be done. But as it turns out it's a far more difficult practice when one does well.

Bring us up to the present tense.

My straight A's have put me on the Presidents List for three terms now.
How does one celebrate an accomplishment without attachment? Turns out I hadn't figured it out as well as I thought I had.

It took me awhile to celebrate. It took me awhile to tell anyone.
But soon it became something I treasured in my heart like a gem. For the little girl who cried over math, for the woman who cried over math, now carrying A's in math, this was an important celebration. Tests pinned to the fridge with the best magnets. This was a mile stone.

So when did it become a millstone?
I'd become attached. Old threads were pulled. Survival. Panic.

Twice in a term, a team project went awry. Twice I met with my professor and twice was given second chances. Twice I wasn't perfect. The gem turned to stone in the pit of my stomach. Sleeplessness became the new norm. When I did finally sleep, stress dreams roused me every few minutes. I dreamt I was sending species lists to Seven of Nine on a Data stream that kept overloading. I dreamt that when it did finally reach her, she handed it back curtly; "Insufficient." I failed the presentation because I didn't truly care for the plants in the hydroponics bay (see the theme? I just finished Star Trek Voyager). Neelix shrugged and said, not unkindly, "I guess you just didn't get it."

I had wound myself too tight trying to bend into shapes no one asked me to get into.
I feared the loss of my "A", sure, but I feared being seen as "not perfect" more than anything else.

But there it was, right in my face, over and over; I was not perfect.
And I was angry at being found out.

I even had a twitter meltdown about it.
I hollered well under the 140 character limit that I was "Going for a walk!"

A long, hard walk. Fast with the wind in my face. I met my love in the park when his shift was over. He had been saving nickles and surprised me with tea. The neighborhood team was playing a game* on the diamond and we watched from under the Ash trees. The grass itched our ankles but we didn't even mention it because the sky was so blue.

I came back with some thoughts.
The first: I work hard. Life is short. I've got big things and I've got little things.
The second: Its okay if I get a "less than perfect" grade.
The third: what is perfection but an illusion, and what could possibly be "less than" in a universe of such infinite enough?
The conclusion: Experience, and do so without judgement or praise.
I'm doing my best and I'm not attached to the outcome. Good or Bad. Because what do those words even mean?

What a sentence to end on;-P

[Here's a picture we took in the park. How'd we get so cute?]

If you're there, thank you for reading.
-A.H.


* that game was basically baseball with a dodge ball and I can NOT remember the name of it!

Its been a while. Hello how are you I am fine.

And I am fine. In a luxurious way.

Today I sat in the forest for two hours. Strange how loud the trees get when we are finally quiet. I finally learned how to recognize Thimble berries. I traced lots of leaves. I noticed the branches that had wilted, spilling their leaves like puddles across the dirt.

Yesterday was Memorial Day but I kept calling it Labor Day and every time I saw it on a calendar my eyes read Mermaid Day so instead of eating hot dogs I sat in my window and sang song's to the passersby but not one of them was lured in.

I started an internship on Sauvie Island, which is only sort of an island. I work on plant identifications, tracking invasive species, hunting rarities, and knowing the species history of the island so I can ask "Has this always been here?" "Well then why is it here now?" Or "Where did this one go?" This is so that when we work on restoration, we can do so properly.

Sauvie Island has a good many meadows, spotted with oaks, growing grasses from its ears. It reminds me of home, except with water. I think that's why I like it so much. But the birds are different and that's also why I like it so much. Barn swallows. Tree swallows. Black birds with red shoulder pads, dressed up for the party. Anyway, she keeps saying "That's why you're here! I needed a botanist!" And I don't remind her this is my first class. I've decided to jump both feet onto this new path and follow it over mountain and under valley.

Because I'm A Botanist now.

These are just thoughts.

-A.H.

Jammed.

Ailment; stagnation and self pity.

It may have started with an purchase of accidentally decaf coffee.
It may have started with the cold and rain well after Mother Damp Earth was supposed to wake the soil.
But I think it was the decaf coffee that started it all; tired and confused, we kept asking each other "Did your head hurt today?" kept attempting to have conversations that were patch-worked together and eventually just dropped off. When I saw the label on the coffee I laughed out loud. We high fived for not getting into a single fight.

While it may have started with the decaf coffee, it persists to something deeper. A funk. That might be putting it lightly.

The confusion reached into my school and shook up my stored knowledge and all the pieces flew everywhere. I couldn't remember slopes. Or simple tissues of plants. But I once knew. Once.

I briefly entertained the idea of just sticking to the decaf, seeing this come-down all the way through, but decided that with school I couldn't risk it. I'm back on the wagon (or off the wagon) and the fog is beginning to lift, but the funk is not.

Today on my to do list was; Talk to financial aid because we need more money, Call university administrations to ask about requirements, do homework so you don't forget simple tissues again, eat. All those things cause an avalanche of anxiety under my ribs, an achy feeling, like dragging a weight for a long distance. What if they laugh at me? I thought. Why would we want someone like you? They might ask. Or they might just feel sorry for me. Poor girl, she'll never make it.

Then I began to go after my hair, my skin. Why can't I be pretty? I whined with my head on my books.
I wish I could write, I thought. I wish I could write I wish I could write. Agony. Not writers block but a wall. Too much wind and the words wont land. Everything is jammed up, I thought.
Jammed.
Jam.

I should make jam.

Janelle Monae's new video .
Put it on repeat; I'm my own private dancer.

And I made jam.

I neglected to measure the Kumquats. If you cup your hands together, its about one and a half of those.
Slice, seed, simmer, sugar. Success.

The sugar I used was coconut sugar, which gives everything it touches a caramel brown color.
I also added a dash of Cardamom, the Queen.

Kumquats are mercilessly sour, so they're the perfect choice for jam that isn't too sweet. They're bright color and cheerful scent lifted my mood right away, as citrus is wont to do.
Kumquats will draw money and success, and their sour flavor stimulates digestion and aids the liver.
This jam will mooove you. 

The citrus lifted me, but I needed some roots. It seemed appropriate, with all this rain and damp, all the earth worms I've been rescuing. Something needed to sink deep, at the same time that it needed to reach up and feel the wind.

In search for more color I made a hundred beets that stained everything crimson.
We ate them all.
Typically I like to toss whatever is about to be roasted in some oil, but since we were out, I added a bit of water to the bottom of the pan, threw in two Bay leaves, tossed them in Thyme and let them go.
Everything smelled of dirt and spice. Perfection.


Prescription; Color. Spice. Dirt. Warmth in-spite of the wet. Eat seeds till you sprout leaves.

-A.H.

I will say things have been slow, when in reality it is better described as "grinding to a halt". Life is cyclical, I am mostly water, the ebb and flow of this experience is undeniable. Which is why I say things have been slow. I have been feeling burnt out, drained, butter scraped over too much bread, which is concerning in only the fourth week of school. It is not the fault of the actual educational process, but a mismanagement of scheduling and a complete lack of sufficient fundalation that is the culprit.

I would say "when money is tight" but in reality it wasn't tight, it was gone. We weren't even pay check to paycheck. In times like this, I begin to experience life not as a series of moments or sensations or thoughts, but as a series of dollar signs. I keep an invisible ledger of every outgoing dime. Class ceases to be a communal experience of shared knowledge and the building of new neural pathways, but $5 a day. Food is no longer a means to sustain my life and nourish my body and mind, its $15 and even worse, now its gone, and I have to buy more. And the ledger grows and grows till its a mill stone. I can no longer hear my own heart beat above the cash registers mocking jingle.

“Something in me will save me from utter ruin no matter what comes.”
—
Tennessee Williams

And I forget that ever time. I am incredibly blessed, because I have always been saved. Providence with inevitably swoop in with exactly the amount that was needed. The Divine is never far way. The Universe is constantly conspiring in our best interest. Whether is a surprise check from school, or being fed mana from the ravens, I will always have what I need.

Why am I writing this? I guess I'm writing this to future me, next time I find myself in a bind; take a deep breath, and trust.

-A.H.