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.

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.