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.

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.

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.

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.

Tea meditation; thinking about the simple things.

Today has been lovely.

Saturday morning crept in under clouds and fog, barely announcing her sunlight. We woke late and barely got a chance to say good morning before Marcos rushed off to work. In spite of this harried start, my morning was slow and luscious. While the coffee brewed I rolled out my mat and did a few rounds of sun salutes to ring in the new day. It felt good to move and stretch. It felt, in a way, like meeting my body for the first time. Joints creaked who used to be silent, muscles that used to move, didn't. I thought, that this is the goal, to great my body every day anew, acknowledging it as an ever changing, growing thing.

Taking my mug and a blanket round my shoulders, I meditated. That sounds so stilted, "I meditated." Id rather say "I breathed." Up till now I've been consciousness of the mindfulness principles, and my focus has been on being present in all things. I try to apply this when I'm doing dishes, cleaning the litter box, driving in rushour on the I-5. I have come to the conclusion, however, that to attempt to integrate this practice without first setting aside time to really JUST practice is hard. Its hard to be mindful while scooping a stinky cat box. Its hard to be mindful when someone cuts you off. I need to set aside a time where I can just meditate; I need to reset my baseline.

I've been reluctant to do this. Mainly because it, also, is difficult. It involves waking up earlier. Which will probably mean that I, instead of my husband, will be the one to have to run downstairs and pay for parking in the morning. I've been reluctant because I'm lazy. I'm think I should, probably, I guess, challenge that. Today was my first day challenging that. It was great.

After all this I met up with a friend and we walked in the mist and drizzle to the Lan Su Gardens. We meandered through various covered walks and mahogany alcoves and oohed and aahed at interesting rock formations and Japanese maples without their leaves. We pondered at mystery water plants and, as textile fanatics, swooned over the patterns made with rocks and moss in the different courtyards.  Almost bewildered, we kept commenting on how everything was beautiful and new from every angle. The gardens were not sparse, they were spacious. There was breathing room. Every plant and stone had its moment in the spotlight, without any need to compete.

This one ^^ was called "Plum Blossoms on Cracked Ice.

I couldn't find the title for this courtyard, but it made me
feel like church, or sanctuary. Without the baggage.

We ordered tea without ceremonies, which I somewhat
regret at this point. I sipped a green tea who's aroma is rather
floral, and it is said that is thanks to the cimbidium orchids
that grow round the trees in the spring time. I've never felt fancier.
April ordered Frozen Summit. It was either that, or fire dragon, she
said. A few nights ago she dreamt of the word "fortitude" and he tea
options were fitting of this word, that dream, I think.

The tea house was the tallest building in the gardens, full of windows
who's shutters were cut with elaborate twining vines and knots. It was not
quiet. It was rather full of people discussing their tea choices, of boisterous
children who, while being officially welcomed, had spent the whole morning
in a place not really organized for their little feet and big energies. But it
felt quiet. The room sounded well lit and like dark wood. It sounded slow.
Time got away from us, and halfway through tea April had to dash to work.
I finished her Oolong and ordered myself some cakes. I drank our tea slowly.
I breathed slowly. I chewed slowly. I was in the moment and no where else.

The walk home was brisk, in pace and temperature. My body felt good, lungs
and heart both capable. I felt space inside my body. That rarely happens.
This has been like the long stretch of blank highway, and suddenly coming
across the marker that you've been waiting for; you're on the right road, you didn't
take a wrong turn at the gas station.

Something touched me deeply here. Perhaps it was the simplicity and the ornateness, both occurring simultaneously without contradicting or overwhelming each other. Or maybe it was the spaciousness of the gardens, the luxury of breathing room afforded every tree and shrub and stone. Something felt familiar and distant. I am incoherent in explaining it, and yet there is no other way to explain it.

Walking home I repeated over and over "Peace is every step." I knew, without dwelling, that things had changed. I have too many things, and nothing can breathe, I knew. I've begun putting this in boxes. I've routed the way to shelters and worthy causes. I know I have been blessed beyond measure. I know I will always have what I need, so I don't need to hoard these blessings. I can let them come, then I can let them go. So I will let them go, like water into soil, like dandelion spores on the wind, with wild abandon.

-A.H.

(an aside, peace is every step is a reference to Thich Nhat Hanh's book with the same title.)

There are years that ask questions,

                                        and there are years that answer. -Zora Neale Hurston

                                            


What kind of year was 2014? Was it the question kind, or the answer kind?
If I said it was both would you call that cheating?

It was the answer kind. I can say that with an attitude that might mimic a form of confidence. Last year took my questions and cares into its arms and held them till they grew solid. It took time and repetition. In other words it took practice.

Practice is a word that has become so dynamic, the pairing of syllables and sounds hardly seems fitting for its meaning any longer.

Quantum Physics is mostly beyond me, but it is fascinating like women who wear three inch heels and mini skirts in the freezing night of new years even in Oregon; it is undeniably beautiful, heroic, and ever so gently saddening though you aren't quite sure why (its because it makes me sad to watch people shiver. Jesus multiplied fish and bread, but I couldn't multiply blankets and coats.) And though this school of thought tells us we make our own reality, and that we don't really know what happens to things when we aren't looking at them, because looking at them changes them ( i.e. magic) I would casually say that there are limits to the control we have over our lives, and I would remind us that there are systems of oppression and privilege that structure our day to day lives, and our inner selves.

That being said, there are some things I can control. I can control what I practice. I can practice fear, or peace. I can practice frustration, or compassion. Judgement, or love. I can practice tightness in my chest and muscles, or I can practice breathing and space. These are the things that are up to me. These are some of the answers 2014 gave me.

It is easier to practice in the face of adversity, because it is a tangible response to an urgent need. If I am dealing with an abusive co-worker, or a boss who wont pay me/is threatening my security, it became almost easy for me to remember to breathe and let go. It wasn't "easy", but after having practiced it for months, it was becoming my first response. My knee-jerk reaction had become peace and non-attachment.

Then life became peaceful in its own right. I now work for a wonderful woman in her beautiful home. My marriage is strong. School went smoothly. And in this absence of urgent need, I fell out of practice, and back into tension, judgement, rash thinking, and so much fear.

So the word of this new year is Practice. What do I want to practice? Breathing. Coming home to my body. Herbology. I want to practice the concepts Masaru Emoto practiced in his water studies; I want to be aware that everything around me is mostly water, and I can make it crystalline and lovely with my gratitude and love. I want to practice gratitude and love.

I've been reading the books of Thich Nhat Hanh as though they were devotionals, asking what I need to think about today, then opening to a random page. On Christmas Even I opened to the story of the Buddha's mother, and how we all are carrying baby Buddha's inside us (very appropriate for the day, I thought). On New years even I opened it to the story of the confrontation between Mara and Siddhartha. Even thought Siddhartha was long practiced in meditation, Mara still came to him, time and again. The book says

"Mara sometimes appears as doubt, sometimes as anger, darkness, jealousy, craving, or despair. When we feel doubtful or skeptical, he is there. When we feel angr, irritated, or lacking in self confidence, that is Mara. Siddhartha had been visited by Mara many times before, and he knew that the best way to treat him was to be very gentle."-Touching Peace, Thich Nhat Hanh, pg 40

Raised in the dichotomy of good vs evil, this approach of "being gentle" with the darkness is very new to me, but it has been so healing. Everything exists together. If we all have a baby Buddha in us, then we also have Mara in us, perhaps even a baby Mara, and both need our compassion. I have compassion on my darkness, which for me arrives in the form of my eating disorder and phobias/anxieties. I picture myself when these mental formations came to me, as a small child, coping in the only way she could. I keep her close. Harmless Monster, with flowers in her hair. Its alright to recognize her. She deserves love and compassion, in spite of and because of her darkness.

"Mara continued, 'I know you have practiced, but have you practiced enough? Who will witness that you have practiced long and hard enough. Who will testify that you gained enlightenment?' Mara demanded that someone confirm that Siddhartha was going to become a fully awakened person. At that moment, Siddhartha touched the Earth with his right hand, very deeply, with all his mindfulness, and said "The Earth will testify for me." Suddenly the Earth trembled and appeared as a goddess, offering him flowers, leaves, fruits, and perfumes... and Mara just disappeared."-Touching Peace, Thich Nhat Hanh, pg 41.

Mara demanded a witness to Siddhartha's changes, but perhaps that was not so misguided. Is it unfair to ask someone's credentials? We all crave a witness to our lives, our triumphs as well as our struggles. This is what friendship and community is about; bearing witness is a powerful thing. So could it be said that there was wisdom in Mara's demand, both in the asking for credentials and the reminder that we are humans, even the Buddha, and we need a community to bear witness for us? I don't know. I'm a novice. This could be a form of Buddhist blasphemy.

What does it mean that the earth is our witness? I thought about this all night and all new years day. We went to the beach. We made it with only an hour of daylight to spare. It was not cold, I didn't need gloves. We walked till we found a short seat of driftwood. It was damp and there was enough for just the two of us to sit awhile. And we did. I took off my heavy backpack and closed my eyes to the warm sun on my face. The gulls were quiet, except for a few lilting cries inviting the flock to move to a new spot of sand. Behind us a group of beach combers built a fire; even at our distance the crackling flames warmed me. I thought of the Earth as our witness, and I was chilled and comforted at once; for us she gives flowers and fruits, every kind of beautiful thing.

"The Earth, our mother, has brought us to life many times, and each time she receives us back into her arms. She knows everything about us, and that is why the Buddha invoked her as a witness."

I thought of the garbage island in the pacific ocean, of the mountains and their unnatural crew cuts, of Orangutans. I thought of Mike Brown and Eric Garner. I thought of wars and false flags and everything for profit. If she knows everything about us, then she knows these things too. Thus invoking her as a witness seems serious. Does she see this, our darknesses, and still vouch for our good nature?

I sat with the idea of what it would mean to be a person the Earth herself could vouch for. What would that look like, how would I need to live. I felt tremendous gratitude, because even in the face our darkness, there are still fruits and flowers, and every good thing. There are still stars, guiding us home. We have not been kicked off yet.

The sun sunk lower against the horizon and a chill crept in my coat, not unwelcome. Under and above all, the sound of the ocean that most people call a roar, but today it was not a roar, it was a song, gentle and varied, lifted us. My first day of practice.

-A.H.