on Black Moon Lilith and the Dark Goddess, Western Hemlock, our ultimate transformation

 Tsuga heterophylla : Western Hemlock

(Not related to the poisonous hemlock which is a flowering plant of the wetlands, and is incidentally an invasive non-native here in the PNW). This is a tall conifer prefers lowish elevations and coastalish ranges. Hemlock likes the places in the forest which are coldest and dampest, seeming to thrive where its darkest. As with all plants, where it lives can indicate what it will help us with; Tsugas (like many conifers) are warming and are therefore indicated for wet/damp, cold conditions, like congestion, various pain (specifically suited to the ligaments) and the kidneys.

But that's not really why I wanted to talk about this tree. I wanted to talk about this tree because today Black Moon Lilith squared both the North and South Node, effectively throwing the doors to our past and future wide open, offering us a cosmic grand choice; do we choose regression into the comfortable past, or evolution into our next phase? The trouble is, both options are equally open to us. It is just as easy to slip into old patterns as it is to build new habits. This is a slippery slope, but its also an encouragement; we all know how easy it is to go back to our "old ways", so we should take heart, and take that next step into the new manifestation of ourselves.
But what is that new manifestation?

The South Node is in Pisces now, while the North Node is in Virgo; these are our collective clues for our collective evolutionary process. As a society, we are experiencing crisis, and we don't have to look far to find evidence of this. The catastrophic election of Donald Trump and the horrific human rights violations at Standing Rock are just two examples. Intoxicated by our consumerism, reality shows, daily stress, as well as intoxication by actual substances, we are blinded to the suffering of ourselves as well as others around us, just as an alcoholic cannot effectively care for themselves or their loved ones. These elements of delusion, intoxication, and addiction are Pisces shadow qualities, and it is these that we are being invited to leave behind.

Virgo as the North Node is our chance to "level up", to hone our self mastery and self awareness, to walk with eyes open and hearts humble, and to grow our love so that it nurtures not just other humans, but fish and birds, whales and trees, dirt and water as well.
Be sure to check out your own nodes by looking at your birth chart (try astro.com), because this also occurs on a very personal level as well, and so what this means for you in your personal life may be very different than what I've just described. For example, my natal North Node is in Pisces, and my South Node is in Virgo, which means this is flipped for me in my personal life. But how can this be, you ask? Picture this like an orchestra; we all need to play a song of wide love, justice, nurturing, and holding the self accountable. But each persona has their own individual piece to play. Mine is the Oboe, and it is a tune of private, deep, watery spiritual practice. My partner, North Node in Aries, is playing the Trumpet, and his song is one of standing firmly in his own needs and desires, speaking his truth, and being a little selfish and firey. We each need to play our individual parts for the grander song to work out. So look this stuff up! We need your best self!!

Back to today's sky; As I said, the doors to the past and future are both wide open. There is no lock, we don't need a key or a bobby pin, we don't even have to turn the knob. And who do we have to thank? Black Moon Lilith, that's who. The oft disparaged dark goddess saunters staunchly into our frame of view and tells us exactly how we can make this transformation possible; by using magic, intuition, and assertiveness.

And Hemlock. The spirit medicine of this tree is one which makes use of decay; often the young saplings are seen taking root on fallen nurse logs. These same saplings are able to thrive low light of the forest understory for years, growing slow, biding their time, and waiting for that instant a bright gape in the canopy is rendered. This is when they put all those slowly stored resources to use, and bolt up towards the light.

We are now living in dark times, and they threaten to grow darker yet. For many of us, the oppressed, the ignored, the manipulated, these dark times are not of our direct doing. The light is clouded bwyond our control. But this time is not in vain; in the darkness, we lie in wait, gathering, swarming. Like the unassuming Hemlock, we know how to nourish new life from ruin and destruction, and this is our best secret. We will make good nutritious use of the decay from the systems which W I L L fall. And when they fall, when that shock of light hits our eyes, we will be ready, and R I S E.




[photo of Lilith obtained from astro.com, though I'm pretty sure its public domain. Also, check out those chicken feet!! hello, Baba Yaga anyone?]

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.

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.

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.)

Farmers market

The concrete was slick with rain. Yellow leaves shimmered from underneath my sneakers; golden, treasure, everything precious. I walked along the length of the southern park blocks, not fast; very slow. Crows dipped into my path, settling like a heavy foreshadowing just ahead. One even walked a few feet with me, keeping time with my steps. The sea gulls have come inland for the winter. They cry over head and pick at trash with the pigeons. However, hey don't seem to be too friendly with the Crows, who keep their distance.

I like going to the market when its been raining, everything is bright and vibrant and there are less people, traveling with my growing bag is easier.

A few feet before the entrance is a man who plays the trumpet, a sparse lonely, andante and sad. He once played in a mariachi band and the absence of the other instruments hangs heavy in the wet trees. He only has nickles in his cup. 

By now the trees have switched from Birch to mostly Maple, and the flaming foliage covers the grounds like a carpet, magnificent and priceless in value. Red, red orange, red yellow, even one whose red was advancing from the inside out, chasing the yellow out to the still green tips. Autumnal rainbow. I would have collected them and come home with an armload but I was worried a dog might have peed on them. So, I let them be.

Precisely at the entrance is a man selling The Street Beat. He's always there, today wearing a knit hat with a pom pom ontop because its turned cold. "Yet another high pressure sales pitch!" He always says, except for today. "The Koch brothers would buy this paper! Don't be like them! Get one on your way out!" I bought one then and there. He has a poem printed on page two. "I wrote it on my honeymoon" he said regretfully. 

I stop at the same three booths I always stop at. No samples for me today, I try not to do that every week. I bought a coffee, which was a mistake because its hard to juggle pounds of produce and a hot beverage on your own, but I wanted it and I'm read The Awakening by Kate Chopin and it felt appropriate to give into a whim. 

"Its the Babushkas!" He said as he ducked behind the second register, bearing coffee for his booth partner. We had been chatting while she tallied my burdock and carrots, and stopped to quickly survey each other, a moments hesitation before we saw he was teasing us with our scarves wrapped around our heads. Turns out we'd both lost our favorite beanies and had to make do in the chill. I walked home, warmed with coffee and the idea of me as a Babushka bearing produce, wearing grandpa pants.

I took this picture of myself with my produce bag, but it doesn't do the weight of it justice. Zoey, trying to devise a way onto the new plant shelf. I haven't taken a picture of myself using the timer in some months, which I feel explains my headlessness.

My bag was bursting with radishes, carrots, butternut squash (mmm soup forever) onions and more. So much more. I've been buying so many different squashes my cupboards are beginning to overflow. I still have a sweet meat (hate the name) to try, as well as a mystery one I bought from Persephone's booth at the recommendation of the dude in the Davy Crocket hat.


(This feels silly to be writing like this. I'm mostly just trying to remember. Remember what I saw, remember how, exactly to write. If these seems trite, or vain, or tired, I apologize. Don't tell me. I'll get better with more frequent use.)

-A.H.