2016 - The Year I Started Living

2016 was an incredibly challenging and heartbreaking year for our global community. Yet at midnight on New Year's Eve, I stood amongst friends with Prosecco glasses raised to toast the new year and reflect on the old. The general consensus among us was that for each of us, personally, 2016 was actually one of our best years yet. In fact, 2016 was arguably the best year of my life.

I left full-time employment in February and began a journey of healing myself physically and mentally. I was fragmented, worn down, worn out and imbalanced. I spent the first couple of months doing absolutely nothing but passively watching tv, sleeping and eating. I was very worried about that becoming my new normal and never doing anything meaningful with my life ever again! But my husband, who was wiser than me in those early days of my rest and recovery, encouraged me to savor it and soak up the lazy days as much as possible. He knew that once I became fully saturated (and bored) with rest and relaxation that my drives and desires would start to return and I'd want to spend my days meaningfully again. He was right.

I ended unhealthy relationships and began new friendships this year. I have friends who are vibrantly creative, kind-hearted, and immensely interesting. I'm so grateful for these relationships and I treasure them. Y'all nurture and inspire me. ❤️

I worked my way through Artist's Way, which radically changed my life. (If you haven't read it, you should). I became reacquainted with my real self that I'd buried as I grew into adolescence and adulthood. I started making time to nurture myself, to honor my interests and desires without judgement or censorship, and to let my heart have more voting power instead of being ruled by my brain. It was thanks to working through Artist's Way that I had my most powerful experience of all…

When I think back into my longest, oldest memories I can't remember a time without fear and anxiety. I was a colicky baby and a nervous and anxious child. I don't remember when I first started feeling deep down into my core that life wasn't worth it, but definitely by the start of junior high. For all my vibrancy and playfulness and expressiveness, I secretly believed, way deep down, that life wasn't worth living and I resented being stuck with a life to live.

This isn't the kind of thing that you can casually share with others, so I never spoke of it. People tend to assume that a longing to die would be synonymous with an intent to take one's own life. The two were never related for me. I never had an intent or a plan. I merely had a deep melancholy I couldn't shake and when things felt hard or scary, death felt like the most assured way to stop feeling the fear, the anxiety, the loneliness, the despondency. So I wished for death as the ultimate way out, but never felt like it was an actual choice that could be made. It had to be made for me, by fate, hence the wishing and the desperate longing.

2016 is the year that the longing to die simply vanished. I mean, completely and utterly disappeared. It felt like someone flipped a switch. It wasn’t gradual, it just surged up in me suddenly while I was journaling for Artist’s Way one day, about five weeks into the curriculum. I suddenly had this strong urge to live like I’d never felt before. Like someone had been hiding inside of me and suddenly burst forth to speak loudly how desperately they wanted to live! There wasn’t any internal argument, the longings in favor of dying just weren’t even there anymore. That was in June, and it holds steady. Apparently (and joyfully!) it’s my new normal. I have a drive and a meaning and a purpose for living.

I attribute this joy and vibrance to reconnecting with my inner-child. The real-self in me that I’d covered up with responsibilities and ‘shoulds' and ‘musts’. I was finally able to acknowledge that I’ve spent my life in fear (of messing up, of letting others down, of making wrong choices). I’ve forever been a classic people-pleaser who hates to rock the boat and who avoids confrontation at all costs… I was living the life that others wanted me to live. This year I’ve started facing that I cannot be true to myself and my deepest desires, beliefs, interests, and passions while also being the person that others in my life would have me be. I’m bound to disappoint plenty of people, but I’ve finally found that it’s much easier to live with letting others down than stuffing myself into someone I’m not.

I’m still not working and I don’t have the foggiest idea what my next step is. We’re learning to live more frugally so that we can sustain ourselves in the city we love with less than before, and while that’s a creative challenge, it’s worth it. In the meantime, while I discern my path, I’m living my life well: reading, learning, growing, experimenting and exploring. I’m not used to not having a plan (well-thought out by my over-active brain) but I'm learning to trust the process (and my heart) and to be okay with the not-knowing of it all. I have vague thoughts about where I might like to be in 5 or 10 years, but I am also growing in comfort with letting things unfold naturally, perhaps even manifesting in ways I can’t yet imagine. So although I’m walking in a fog that prevents me from knowing where I’m headed next, I’m also truly the happiest I’ve been since childhood.

A Samhain Feast

Autumn is my very favorite time of year. A time of slowing down and turning inward that I feel in my bones. After the vibrant heat and color and activity of summer, autumn feels like a welcome retreat; an invitation to start spending more days indoors cultivating nurturing hearth-warming activities like spices simmering on the stove, baking ginger molasses cookies in the warm oven, and cozying up with warm blankets and pots of hot tea against a backdrop of candles and fairy lights.

The changing seasons always quickened my senses as a child. Some of that wonder was lost as I aged and got busy with extracurriculars, employment, and taking on a home of my own. In June of 2015 I first came across The Wheel of the Year: an annual cycle of seasonal festivals celebrated by modern Pagans. I was immediately and completely captivated by it. It stirred and reawakened in me much of the wonder that I'd felt for the changing seasons as a child. I started my first year of study of the eight holidays and traditions simply enough: by obtaining the Llewellyn Sabbats Almanac and reading about each festival as it came to pass. It was a helpful tool in guiding meditations, activities and observances throughout the end of 2015 and through 2016.

I was raised in a Christian home and loved the seasonal rituals that came around each year. My family enjoyed many creative ways of marking the seasonal religious observances and it was the topmost thing that I missed after leaving the church many years ago. Finding The Wheel of the Year was such an unexpected and delightful surprise. It gave me the ritual that I'd been craving to mark each passing year, rooted in the connection that I'd long felt to the changing seasons. As I worked my way through the first year of observances last year, I quickly noticed that many things that I'd felt and observed in the changing seasons, but hadn't had a name for, were marked in rituals stretching back across time. The Wheel is what I'd been searching for without knowing it. It brought these two seemingly disparate parts of myself together.

So, this next year I'm devoting myself to in-depth study of The Wheel. I'm reading everything I can get my hands on, seeking to understand the rich history and depth of how seasonal festivals have been observed by cultures throughout the world since ancient times. It's a true passion project of mine, combining my love of research, history, ritual, and nature. These days, I'm spending most of my free time reading and taking notes and making trips back and forth to the library. I'm also seeking like-minded communities to learn from, and I'll be integrating all of this learning into creating meaningful rituals through each of the eight Wheel festivals.

Even though I knew it was coming, Samhain (Halloween, the first of the eight festivals) snuck up on me this year and suffered from under-planning. However, it was still quite a magical evening. Benjamin and I prepared a feast together, listened to one of my favorite podcasts' episodes on Samhain and ate our meal in the dark, by candlelight, connecting with the darkness of this season. It was lovely.

Since I wished it had contained more (more ritual, intent, thoughtfulness), it was a great motivator towards redoubling my efforts in planning for Yule. (In fact, that's what delayed me finishing up this post for so long! I am reading all-the-things all-the-time. It's awesome!) I hope to post occasional festival updates to share some of how we mark each observance. Thanks for sharing this journey with us here!

Ginger Molasses Cookies

I had a really early morning today, up and out the door to work a frosting shift, and I didn't rearrange my Sunday evening to get an adequate night's rest. I finished my shift about 8:45 this morning, leaving a whole vast expanse of day with which to achieve all of the goals for my day that I carefully listed in my bullet journal before bed last night.

It's a quiet, cool, cloudy kind of day. (as I'm writing this, it's finally raining outside which makes all the cloudy grayness even better). I spent the day at my desk, working in my bullet journal, writing a letter to a friend, and catching up on administrative sorts of things. When lunchtime came, I took a break with a lovely bucolic book I'm presently reading then returned to my desk. The quietness, gray and solitude were lovely companions to my day... until about 3 o'clock, when my inadequate night's sleep caught up with me and it was all I could do to stay awake.

Harboring hope that I would still get a few things done on my list, and not wanting to take a nap for fear I'd never want to go to sleep tonight, I knew a change of pace was in order and headed to the kitchen to wash some dishes and find a snack. Before I even crossed the room to the kitchen, I knew I wanted to make ginger-molasses cookies, and I realized delightedly that I had everything I needed on hand to get the job done.

With the oven preheating, I pulled out the few simple ingredients and started mixing. While my coconut oil softened on the stovetop, I washed the dishes left in the sink from before. By the time my coconut oil was soft and ready for adding to the dry mix, I already had a clean kitchen. I put the first tiny batch of mini-cookies in our small oven and washed the few items I'd used to make the cookies. 9 minutes later the first batch was done. 

Like I said, we have a small oven, so I use mini cookie sheets. Since I'm still getting used to this new oven and haven't made this recipe in it yet - or figured out the oven's baking quirks (and it sure does seem to have some) - I opted to bake one tray of cookies at a time, so that I didn't have to worry about one tray cooking differently than another or affecting each other's conduction of heat.

It took three 9-minute runs to get all of the mini-cookies baked. But this felt like a perfect way to spend my time, sitting with the cookies as they baked, rotating them as they finished. It was a nice diversion from the stillness I'd had at my desk all day.

All through the afternoon I'd had trouble shaking the chill off of me, so I was more than happy to babysit the oven and sit near its warmth. As the second batch started baking I depanned the first six small cookies, and proceeded to eat them, still hot and chewy from the oven, while I waited for the second batch to finish.

After the last batch was on the cooling rack, I took Pepper for a walk in the rain and returned to a house that was inviting in its warmth and its autumn spice scent. The act of baking, washing dishes, walking the dog (and no doubt the tasty molasses) gave me just the extra boost I needed to come back here and get a few more things done before I call it a day.

And not only did I give myself a boost, but Benjamin was delighted to come home from work and find the surprise of fresh cookies waiting, still sitting out to cool. Isn't it lovely when everything's on hand for a last-minute bake-off? There is much to be said for the benefits of a well-stocked baker pantry as a means of nurturing ourselves and others.

These cookies are grain-free and vegan. I adapted them from http://comfybelly.com/2011/12/ginger-snap-cookies-using-almond-flour/#.WA6JTzKZPeQ

Ginger Molasses Cookies

Ingredients:

• 2 cups blanched almond flour

• 1/8 teaspoon salt

• 1/4 teaspoon baking soda

• 1 teaspoon cinnamon

• 2 teaspoons ground ginger

• 1/2 teaspoon cloves

• 1/3 cup molasses

• 1/4 cup coconut oil, softened

Directions:

• Preheat your oven to 350°F

• Grease baking sheet with coconut oil.

• Mix together flour, salt, baking soda, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves in a bowl. - I used a coarse almond meal because I like the nutty, crunchy texture in these cookies!

• Combine molasses and coconut oil to a small bowl. If coconut oil has chunks in it, just set it over the oven vent on your stove top until it melts.

• Add the molasses and coconut oil to the dry mix and blend well until a soft dough forms.

• Roll about 1 tablespoon of dough into a small ball and place it on the greased baking sheet, about 2 inches apart.

• Press each cookie with the palm of your hand, or a fork, to flatten it out.

• Bake for 9 minutes or until the cookies are turning golden brown (it may be hard to tell with the dark molasses color of the cookies, and they do tend to burn easily. Try anywhere from 8-10 minutes depending on your oven).

• Eat hot right out of the oven for a super-chewy, warm, delicious cookie. Or, let it cool for a crispy outside and a chewy inside. YUMM.

Yields about 18 mini-cookies.

The Grief & Loss of Moving

Tomorrow my family moves to a new home on the other side of the city. We've known for months that this was coming. We've been preparing for it for some time, for most of the last year, actually. The last time we moved we covered 6 states in 4.5 days and logged 2,365 miles pulling a trailer behind our small car. We had no place to live upon arrival and all our things went into storage for a few weeks while we looked for jobs and a new home. Everything had to be carefully packed and loaded for cross-country travel and storage.

Packing to move across town has been much simpler. Things are more lightly wrapped, more casually boxed and labeled. We know exactly where we're moving this time and have a home waiting for us. Being small-space dwellers, we don't have tons of stuff, so it won't take us too long to unpack and items won't languish in boxes for too long after our arrival. It all seems pretty simple and straightforward.

Then, two days ago I was hit with complete and total overwhelm about the move. Despite careful planning and all the feelings of excitement and hope for the future, despite all of the packing I started well in advance, and despite seeing how relatively little left there is to do in the last days before the move, I felt myself completely shut down. I couldn't find any energy, will, or excitement for these final couple of days. I spent yesterday despondent and depressed and on the verge of tears. I tried writing about it and the words wouldn't come. I tried finishing up some written correspondence to friends and family and didn't have any words there either. I couldn't get myself to focus even on non-moving related tasks.

Given the relative simplicity of this move compared to our last, I was surprised by my sudden overwhelm and at a loss about my total shut down. A well-timed text from a friend to check in on how the move was going led to my receiving a song from him about moving, his favorite song for such seasons of transition. As I listened to it, I was finally able to cry and I first began to realize the unrecognized grief that I was carrying. Still, though, I stayed largely shut down for the remainder of the day, unable to engage in anything productively.

When Benjamin came home that evening and asked me about my day, I told him about all of my feelings of overwhelm with the move. I expressed stress and was tearful, but it wasn't until I tried to put words to my grief, to explain to him what I'd been surprised to discover earlier in the day, that I was rendered temporarily speechless. Finally creating the space to acknowledge it, to speak it aloud for the first time, allowed the grief to well up in me with surprising force. It ebbed up so fully in me that I at first couldn't find the words, and when I did, I realized I was heartbroken and I sobbed openly.

I felt the depth of loss at leaving our community. I love our neighborhood and in all of my past hopes for the future, I hadn't planned on leaving it. Circumstances changed over the last year and a move across town became beneficial for many reasons, and I was on board with it and even looking forward to it. But I didn't realize that through all the planning and hope for the future and the surface-acceptance that I was coming to about leaving our neighborhood, that there was a deep, unacknowledged grief about leaving it too.

We moved to Seattle almost 6 years ago. We've lived in the same home, in the same neighborhood since our arrival. It was the neighborhood that I dreamed of living in upon our arrival and the only one that we looked for jobs and housing in. It takes me a while to settle into a new apartment. There's always a prolonged season for me of feeling like it's someone else's space. It took me about 4 years to fully settle into this space and only in the last year or two have I felt completely settled into it, like it is truly my space and my home. It nurtured me through a season of crippling anxiety and overwork and the accompanying periods of restoration and healing. It's my very own, cozy and personalized safe space amongst the busyness of the city whether I'm having a good day or a challenging one.

Pepper was a youthful 5 when we moved here. Now he's a full-fledged senior. We've watched him slow down some. He sleeps more and snuggles more. We've been through not-so-scary and really scary health challenges with him and have finally found a team of healthcare professionals that are perfect for him. This November he turns 11. We've walked him up and down the hills of this neighborhood, through its tree-lined streets. He's been shopping with us at the local pet-store in the valley behind our home, just a short walk away. Our neighborhood is filled with lovely parks from small pocket parks to the vast, expansive and gorgeous Arboretum. We've enjoyed time with him in these green spaces.

I know the plants and how they reflect the seasons. The bright, cheerful camellia bushes in front of our building are always one of the first lovely arrivals of Spring. There is a cherry tree down the street that bursts forth in fullness with so many blooms that it seems like something out of the most wonderful of dreams. I find that tree enchanting. There are tulips and daffodils and hyacinths. There are bright green leaves all summer long shifting into the gorgeous colors of autumn. I've seen our neighborhood in the wetness of a cold winter and the mossy warmer wetness of spring. I've delighted in seeing it completely transformed under the cover of snow. I've stood on the balcony behind our building which looks out across the entire valley, across the lake, and on into the Cascade mountain range. I've seen the sun rise over the valley, I've watched fog hang low over it, I've watched tiny fireworks bursting with color all along the other side of the lake as each of the smaller towns put on their annual fireworks show. I have loved watching the seasons change in the valley.

Tomorrow morning we load up the truck and move to a new home. We will find places to tuck and store all of our belongings and adjust to those new habits and routines. The new neighborhood will have its own loveliness and relationship to offer. We will be just across the street from a lovely park and botanical garden and very close to two of the largest and loveliest parks in the city. The neighborhood is more bikeable and I can't wait to reintegrate my back back into my life again for errands and for pleasure.

But for now, I want to sit with the grief and sorrow of all that I will miss. It is only by fully feeling grief that we move through it. So I'm finding ways today, and in the coming days, to process this loss and acknowledge what it means to me. I know what to do with grief: to ask for help and support, to treat myself with patience and compassion, and to find ways to engage with it and process it and move through it. Grief is an unstoppable force, there are no shortcuts. I just hadn't realized it was inside of me until it quieted me enough so that I could hear it speak.

---

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

Water Portraits

It was a hot day, the kind of day that is way too sultry to happily stay in the city. Without a plan for where we would end up, and with our cameras in tow, a friend and I headed east along the interstate out into the mountains. When we found an exit that seemed good to us, we pulled off and entered the back gravel roads of the National Forest. Happily we found ourselves on a wide river cutting through the mountains that rose above. We parked and made our way down a steep, inhospitable slope with our cameras and proceeded to spend the day there. At first, we snapped some photos, but mostly we draped ourselves over the fallen trees, smoothed with weathering since their descent. We soaked our feet, legs, arms and anything else we could submerge in the clear, cold water, kept our clothes mostly dry and wished we'd brought our swimsuits.

I wasn’t expecting to enjoy a day of water, and left my lens filters at home. When shooting water, I’ve always used polarizing filters to reduce glare and reveal more of what lies beneath the surface. But, feeling drawn to be in and near the water, as I always am, I decided to see what I came up with without my usual filters. The sun was high so the lighting was good, but the water was moving at a steady pace and I wasn’t sure how it would translate into still images. However, I found that I was having immense fun enjoying the challenge of the ever-changing water and light, so I tried a few different approaches for a while before taking up residence on the aforementioned fallen tree.

In the time it took to snap those few photos, I managed to unearth a desire in me that I hadn’t before known existed. I knew that I wanted to photograph water, to commit to it, to create a body of work, and to see what came of it. I left that day feeling inspired and eager to get home and look at what I’d captured from the day’s brief shoot of the river.

As the photos uploaded to my computer and I saw them in full screen for the first time, I was astounded at some of the incredible images I was looking at. The colors, patterns, texture, movement and lighting were unlike anything I’d imagined. I knew more than ever that I absolutely wanted to focus on creating a body of work centered on all that water has to offer.

Twenty-three days ago I went to the river not knowing how it would change me and spark my passion and creativity. Since then, I’ve had opportunities to travel with friends and photograph water on the Pacific coast, at a pristine glacier lake in the Olympic Mountains, and in and around Puget Sound. I’ve discovered color and texture and playful light that I’ve never seen before, some of it unearthly and mind-boggling to me.

While all of the travel to gorgeous bodies of water was amazing, and the photography was absolutely rewarding, it was also a challenging process. Water and light are so fickle in their movement and in their relationship with one another that I shot countless photos in hopes of coming away with a handful of solid pieces. That meant there were so. many. photos to weed through and consider. There was a period of about a week when I was just completely overwhelmed and definitely couldn’t see that there was any hope of coming away with a solid body of work ready to show. But I kept walking away and coming back to my collection day after day after day. Every day I saw them new and differently. I was able to better discern what I liked and what I didn’t, which ones communicated to me or didn’t, and was able to delete a few more each day. It was an incredible boost to my skills as a photo editor to have to weed through so many shots to find the very best.

I’m also proud to say that all of the fantastical colors and textures featured in this collection have only received basic edits or none at all (and certainly no filters!). I loved so much of what the camera was capturing on its own that few of them needed much post-processing work. I feel that’s important to say because even as I was snapping the photos I was astounded by the bizarre and beautiful images staring back at me, so I know others will have a hard time believing them as well!

This is the first time I’ve ever had a body of work to showcase. I dabble here and there with a variety of creative endeavors that I enjoy, but I’ve never committed over a period of time, having a goal in mind, to create a portfolio of art. Doing so feels surreal and exciting and humbling all at the same time. I know these photos won’t appeal to everyone, but I hope they’ll appeal to some like-minded folk who know and love water like I do. I hope it helps others to look at water differently and to notice patterns and textures and the play of light across its surface and that doing so adds some extra sparkle to life. ♥︎

Photo of the artist at work by Katie at seekwelfare.com

---

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

---

This series was born out of my deep love for water. I've always been drawn to water. Sprinklers, water hoses and swimming pools, mountain streams, waterfalls, lakes, oceans, rivers, all of it. I most want to be in water, but if I can't be in it, then get me out on it or right next to it (although, if I'm next to it, it's safe to bet that at the very least my feet and legs are going in!). I decided to marry my love of water with my interest in photography and see what happened. For three weeks in late Summer of 2016, I traveled to a mountain river, a rocky Pacific coastline, a pristine glacier lake, and in and around Puget Sound.

I shot with a manual focus lens so that I could control how the light was reflected and translated through the camera. Believe it or not, these photos haven't been highly processed. In fact, the stranger any given photo seems to look, the less I messed with it. No photo-editing could come up with some of the strange beauty revealed to me during my photographic adventures! What I enjoyed the most in working with this series was discovering what's hiding in plain sight. Water is fleeting and moving and ever-changing. Constant movement paired with ever-changing lighting conditions makes for so much color, light, reflection, and movement to capture. The challenge of an always-changing subject makes for a most rewarding experience. My efforts were not only rewarded with a collection of photos that I love, but with a heightened ability to see water differently with the naked eye. I now notice details, textures, patterns, and colors that I missed before. It's most rewarding, like uncovering mysteries again and again.

---

Cloudy Respites

I awoke way earlier than I wanted to for a Saturday morning. As I lay there hoping I would be able to sleep a few more hours, I noticed it was cloudy outside. That realization came with a deep sigh of relief and a letting-go of tension that I hadn’t known I was holding onto.

With summer in full swing, I’m savoring afternoons at the beach, the feel of sun kissed skin and the ease of throwing on lightweight summer clothes and sandals every morning. But the sun also has the power to overwhelm and drain me. The constant unfiltered bright light inevitably becomes too much for me to absorb. By the end of each hot day, the air feels oppressive and overwhelming. Waking up to cloudy skies and cool breezes this morning was a break from all of that: the glare, the temperature, the ‘too-muchness’ of it all.

Yesterday I went blackberry picking. I was prepared for hot work and thorns, but I wasn’t prepared for how drained it left me feeling. After traveling out of the city to the farm with a car full of people, picking berries in the heat of the day, and meandering our way home, I arrived back in the city immovably exhausted, and terribly overwhelmed. It took me a while to suss out what exactly had me feeling so off kilter, as the blackberry gathering had been a success and the company of those I had traveled with had been excellent. But picking berries from wild, unkempt and inhospitable bushes, near a noisy highway, in the very hottest part of the day left my skin stinging from the sun and all of the thorn-pricks. The social nature of the day left me running on empty, having not had space for this introverted soul to take a breath in some secluded place and find my balance to see me through the rest of the day.

Presently I’m in a season of learning to sit with that which makes me uncomfortable. Instead of panicking from overwhelm, or feeling discouraged and desirous of escaping it, I’m learning to be fully in it, to turn it into a meditative practice and keep putting one foot in front of another. I found that place in the thicket of blackberry bushes yesterday: feeling the sting of the heat and the thorns, accepting it, and picking one ripe fruit after another. With a history of facing challenges with anxiety and overwhelm, I celebrate each time I choose acceptance instead. The blackberries were a win for me. Another opportunity for growth.

But as I’m learning this new way to be, I need to remember that I also need space to recuperate from times such as these. Being in groups for any sustained period of time is always draining for me. Facing challenges head-on and staying in a healthy brain-space is still new to me and takes focus, energy and effort. This all necessitates quiet recuperative time afterwards. So still in a place of confusion and distress yesterday evening, not able to articulate what I needed, I called off any other plans for the evening and through Saturday morning, and retreated into myself. A cool shower alleviated some physical discomfort, and an evening of drawing and reflecting and dancing alleviated some mental discomfort. By then, I was more than willing to fall right to sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow and to sleep for as long as my body would let me.

So when I woke up at 6 this morning, I was rather disappointed. But I noticed the cloudy blanket outside my window and felt myself relax. In and out of sleep over the next 3.5 hours, I saw the clouds and sun dance in and out with one another, enough of a compromise of bright and muted to remind me that life isn’t always only overwhelm… that there’s peace to be had too. I’ll be spending the rest of my morning in silence, with the shades drawn, working on some project or another, and perhaps taking a nap before I have to go out this afternoon. By then, I suspect I’ll be better prepared to enjoy the sunshine and the company of others again.

Furniture With a Story

One of the things that I love about living in a city is the constant recycling and moving around of furniture. Oftentimes pieces are older, made of real wood, and so unlike anything in modern stores. Seeing these pieces always makes me wonder about their story.

Sometimes people leave furniture out on the curb for the taking. Other furniture comes from Craigslist or thrift shops. But whatever its origin, inevitably some of this furniture will make its way home on a bus or on foot. People buy used things when they move into the city and give it away or sell it before they move out. Everything has a story.

Earlier this week, Benjamin came with me to pick up my [new to me, old in age, real-wood] desk. We carried it out the door of the guy's home, down a couple of flights of stairs, out the front door of his building, and headed down the hill, along the sidewalks for a mile until we got it home.

We had a blast. We smiled at a grandfather and a mostly naked baby out in their yard as the baby watched us and the grandpa talked to the baby about how hard we were working. We stopped for cookies when we passed our favorite cookie shop. I told him about an awesome 80s movie I started watching today and he told me how he's been thinking recently about how many different shades of blue my eyes can be. I sang out "I've Been Working on the Railroad" as we walked in step to the song. And now all of that is added to this old desk's story.

After making a space along the wall for it, I pulled out all the doors and vacuumed it out. Then I spent that evening, late into the night, finding new homes for all of my stationary, paper-crafts and art supplies. I savored the process. Now, in our tiny home there's a space, fitted to me, to sit and dream and create. The desk's latest narrative began last night with its journey home. I look forward to continuing that narrative as I use the space it holds for me.

Strawberry Summer Solstice

I'm writing this on the other side of the longest day of this year. It's gusty and dark now and the sky is intermittently afire with flashes of lightning. Another Summer Solstice has come and gone. Here in the Pacific Northwest, we enjoyed 16 glorious hours of daylight today. The day started off cloudy but gave way to clear and sunny skies in the afternoon. A relief to me, as today was also the Full Strawberry Moon. It's not a very common occurrence for the two events to fall on the same day (it's been 49 years since the last occurrence) and I was dearly hoping to catch a glimpse of the moon this evening.

We took our dinner down to the park near our home and enjoyed the waning sunlight, hoping to see the moon. As clouds hung low below the bright sky above, we decided it was improbable that we would catch the moonrise, so we headed home where a strawberry pie awaited us.

I've never made a strawberry pie, but I wanted so much to do something to honor the Strawberry Moon. I think it has the very loveliest and most poetic of names, and it seemed to me that in this place, where winter feels extra long with its short days and long nights, that a Solstice Sun and a Strawberry Moon deserved celebration indeed.

Learning to understand the changing seasons, observing the broad and subtle changes they bring, and celebrating it all helps us find meaning and purpose in the long dark winters. Growing up in the south, I never needed a reason to celebrate the radiant sun; it was an ever-present companion. But here, I've learned to savor the sunlight, to bask in it and soak it up, and also to find meaning in the dark, cold months.

The Strawberry Moon is so named because it comes in the height of the strawberry season, a bright, sweet gift brought to us each summer. While the Summer Solstice marks the first day of summer, it also acknowledges autumn, then winter, as days begin to wane: imperceptibly at first, and then with increasingly less discretion. So now, as the sun begins its turn south, so too do we remember that darker days will come. But for now, there are strawberries and sunshine and these experiences sustain us. This is why we celebrate.

The Body as Art (4 of 4)

Bodies are amazing for their universality and diversity all at once: we're all the same but also different. Bodies communicate what we're thinking and feeling, often without us even realizing that they are transmitting information to others. Light plays differently off of the colors of our skin and the shapes of our curves and lines, creating hills and valleys, shape and form. This combination of shape and form, light and dark, posture and mood creates compelling artwork. Art is experience: for the creators who make it and the viewers who receive it. These are the themes that compel me about nude art: the form and beauty, and our complex relationship with the nude form.

Firstly, the body makes a compelling subject. Bodies are amazing and beautiful and dynamic: a moving form that can be sculpted and shaped, shifting with each moment, allowing for infinite possibilities. With each movement, the light and shadows and shapes change. I've worked as director, stylist and model for photography shoots and have loved my involvement on every level. It's a compelling challenge to work with lighting and living, moving form all at once.

Secondly, I believe deeply in the need for nude art. Because we live in a world where bodies are shamed and kept secret. Where bodies are owned and exist for the pleasure of the viewer. Where bodies are made sterile with medical talk and procedure. Women are told that they are gross, that they must be "modest and appropriate" and also that they exist to be fantastical objects of desire. Nude art, guided and directed in collaboration with the photographer and stylist, is a powerful way to empower a woman to own her own body and to be comfortable moving in her skin. Women have a right to exist as embodied creatures, period. Just to exist. Not to be shamed. Not to be sexualized by another. Using the body as art can be wonderfully empowering for the participants.

Thirdly, sharing and displaying the finished products challenges cultural assumptions about bodies. Art exists to elicit responses from the viewer. Some will be bored with it because they've seen plenty like it before. Others (I hope) will be delighted or moved by it and it will make them step in closer and interact and reflect. But there will be many who are bothered by it because of their own feelings and beliefs about bodies, especially women's bodies. Not everyone will choose to dance with their discomfort and look within to see where it comes from, but if even a few take the time to do so, then I am honored and grateful. Because a reshaping of the thoughts and dialogue around bodies, women's in particular, is so desperately needed.

Each nude shoot that I've been a part of, whether as director, stylist or model, is an act of protest that declares that I will no longer be shamed or sexualized. I will no longer exist on the continuum of extremes in which women in our culture are relegated to: from virgin to whore. Instead, I will be a woman, with a body, who exists in that body, and who insists on the right to do so. I am so much more than my gender, but I can use it to hold others accountable for what they would have me believe about myself because of it. My body is a tool that I use to communicate my right to exist. It's a tool to create art that is beautiful and thought-provoking, whether I’m in front of or behind the camera. It’s a tool to create dialogue, to redefine what it means to be a woman, and to empower men and women alike to consider that women are more than what they’ve been told.

Naked. Outdoors. (3 of 4)

There is nothing like being nude in the outdoors. It's difficult to express the feeling of sunshine or wind or rain or a warm breeze as a full experience on the whole body. It's the kind of thing that one really must experience for oneself. 

In my experience, I would describe it as feeling more alive. It is an exercise in mindfulness. It reminds me that I am part of this Earth, that I am of the Earth, not detached from it. It gets me out of the busy headspace that is going and doing and being all of the ways that I'm usually going about. It focuses me. Reattaches me. It is a sacred space for me, one that calms the chattering voices in my head and reminds me to breathe slowly and deeply. 

Sure, part of that is being down by the water: hearing the gently lapping waves against the shoreline, watching the ducks and geese swim by and the eagle swoop overhead, seeing the breeze move through the trees and the mountains rise up in the distance. But sensorily, all of that is heightened when I become fully a part of it, not separated, but integrated. 

I lie on the damp ground and feel the coolness of the earth through my blanket on my belly and the heat of the sun on my back. I take time to read, to visit quietly with friends, to splash and play in the water with them as we toss the beach ball around. I find that the nude-beach people are generally a relaxed bunch. The beach is secluded, there's no partying, no vendors, not much noise. The intermingling of voices engaged in quiet conversations wafts over the grass and can create a low hum that is positively relaxing.

Beach people are good people. People who take time out of their day to gather around a common need to reintegrate with nature, to quiet the mind, and to be fully present. It is a sacred, humble space and one for which I am deeply grateful. It is a balm to my soul.

This post is part 3 of 4 in a series on nudity. In the next post, I'll talk more about the body as art.

The Nude Beach (2 of 4)

It's difficult to pinpoint the beginning of my longing to be naked in the outdoors. I simply desired it for years without having a place to express it. It just made sense to me, to be beneath the sun, on the grass, in the water, and not be guarded against it with clothes. Now I live in a place where there's a space that allows for nakedness outdoors and I am so grateful for it. I'd like to share my experience, what I've learned, and why it's been so valuable.

In my previous post, I wrote that the danger of keeping bodies secret, hidden, and shameful is that we believe ourselves to be flawed, damaged, gross, and in need of fixing. One of the greatest gifts in being naked with others is how normalizing it is. All of the bodies are the same (torsos, limbs, heads) and yet none of them are the same. It finally sank deep into my soul that I am normal and fine just the way I am. My body looks just like everyone else's and also like no one else's all at the same time. I'm normal in my embodiment and I'm normal in my uniqueness. It continues to be a healing part of reformulating the shaming narratives of my past.

Furthermore, I was very surprised to discover that being at the nude beach also made me much more confident and social. I didn't realize how strongly influenced I am by pre-judgement based on how a person is dressed, whether it be their clothes or accessories (whether fashionable or technological) or geographical context. Realizing everyone's 'sameness' (sans clothes and in a shared geographical context of beach enjoyment) created a safe space for me to interact with others. I found myself more willing to approach people, to engage in conversation and to just generally be friendly and conversational, which is in contrast to the reserved, awkward and uncomfortable way in which I usually carry myself.

The nude beach is a space of acceptance. No one judges. It's not uncomfortable. It liberates us from the baggage of body image and normalizes the bodies in which we dwell.

This post is part 2 of 4 in a series on nudity. In the next post, I'll talk more about the spiritual experience of being naked in the outdoors.

"Nudity In the World Today" (1 of 4)

"I would just like to say a few words about NUDITY in the world today."

One of my favorite muppet segments ever is Sam the American Eagle's rant about nudity. I mean, the bird makes a good point - that underneath our clothing "the entire population of the world is walking around COMPLETELY NAKED." (If you haven't seen it, it's on youtube and is such a laugh).

It's true. We are embodied people. We all inhabit bodies. Many of us have complex relationships with our bodies. Whether it's due to self-image (I wish my ____ was bigger/smaller/etc.), health (I hate that: I'm allergic to ____ /____ doesn't work right.), societal pressure ("Don't do this ever." "Always do this.") or some complex mix of all of it, the result is lots of feels about our embodiment.

For myself, I can sum up my experience as feeling lots of shame related to my body, specifically from being female. As a growing girl, I learned

• Girl bodies are to be covered, modestly. If not, then you are immoral or "deserve what's coming to you," or both. But in all cases, it's your fault for existing as a young woman in a way that isn't modest or "appropriate."

• Sex (and sexual feelings/urges/attractions) are also bad. Unless you're married, then it's okay. You still shouldn't talk about it, but it's okay to have it. Silently and secretly. Until you get married, you'll be feeling all sorts of things and they'll be confusing, but you shouldn't talk about it with anyone. You most certainly shouldn't act on any of it. Ever. 

• Your body poops and gasses and bleeds and smells funny and does other body-things. These things are gross and should not be observed by others or discussed. Except with a doctor if there's a problem. Then it should be fixed (because it's somehow damaged or broken). Any part covered by a swimsuit is especially bad and gross.

It's taken me years to work on unpacking these damaging narratives. These beliefs have impacted my relationship with myself and others. But Sam the Eagle is right. We ALL have naked bodies. Every single one of us. All of our bodies have the same parts (or close approximations thereof) and they all do normal-body things. It's not weird, it's not gross, it's not shameful, and having a body is not a tragedy in need of fixing. Bodies are normal! Bodies are awesome. They allow us to go places and see things and learn. Bodies let us give and receive hugs and laugh and dance. Let's learn to love ourselves, to love our bodies, and stop perpetuating shame in ourselves and others.

This post is part 1 of 4 in a series on nudity. In the next post, I'll talk more about why going to a nude beach is one of the best things I've ever done.

Rewilding

“I always thought she was a little wild.”

I think it was during a podcast that I heard a woman describe another in this way. It was not a disparaging remark, but a description without judgement. It resonated with me deeply. My heart spoke up: “This! This is who I want to be!” Adventurous and playful in spirit. Engaged, exploring, learning, growing. WILD.

Our cities with their paved sidewalks and streets, with parks and gardens landscaped into lawns, playgrounds and flowerbeds. We forget what it means to dig, to walk barefoot, to get down on ground-level, to get dirty. We forget what it feels like to run and chase, to hop, to lay in the grass. We are turning to stone like the urban environments that surround us. Repetitive motions, behaviors and routines confine us and make our bodies and hearts contract. Under-use and limited range of motion in our physical movements and in our dreams renders our muscles tight and our hearts dull.

When I think back on my childhood, I have fond memories of wildness: riding my bike all over the place to explore hidden neighborhood treasures, running around barefoot all summer long, playing in sand and mud and water, building treasures and forts and play-things out of other people’s junk, eating lunch and dinner outside because I hadn’t been inside all day. My feet were tough and calloused and could take me anywhere. My muscles were supple and limber and could bend me in all manner of directions. I was more creative and open, less censored, tired and anxious.

The message that has been speaking to my heart most prominently in these last months, is one of chasing wildness. It means behavioral changes, like sitting in the grass, going barefoot, and paying attention to the shifting seasons and engaging with the flora and fauna. It also means mental and spiritual changes, like seeking new learning and knowledge and letting my behavioral and intellectual experiences shape my soul.

I am returning to my truest self. Following my heart to a natural, grounded state.

I am rewilding.

Why I Love Tarot

Meditation promises many benefits including reduced stress and improved mental and physical health. It's long been something that I've been told that I should do by well-meaning others. But my mind and heart weren't ever able to connect with it. That changed last year when I found tarot. Now, I'm a practical person who doesn't put any stock in hogwash. Tarot isn't something I ever would have even remotely considered because there's no way I could buy into the belief that cards (or anything else) can tell me my future. But it turns out that’s a misunderstanding. In reality many people use them in a way that makes practical sense for someone like me.

What finally engaged me with the tarot was learning that it can be used as a meditative tool. It provides a physical object to handle and interact with. When I sit down with my cards, it automatically puts me in a different mind-state because they are a tool used only for meditative purposes - I’ve created an association that helps my mind and body slip into a quieter and more focused state of mind. As I start shuffling them I begin to breathe more intentionally and think to myself about what it is that feels out of balance or unanswered or in need of attention inside of me. Then I ask a question to myself in that vein. When no questions come to mind, I just inquire about general wisdom to guide me through my day.

So far, this may still sound to some like hocus-pocus mumbo-jumbo. But it's the intent with which I approach it that makes the difference. I'm know that the cards don’t hold the answers. I approach each meditation knowing that I already have all of the answers within me. The cards are just a tool to help me quiet and focus and find what's already inside. The question emanates from within, and the answers do too.

Affirmations & Crinkle Lines

For the last few months I've engaged in the morning practice of speaking affirmations. Some weeks it's a quote I've chosen, or maybe just a word or two. Usually I speak them to myself in bed right after I wake up and before I get up to start my day. Yesterday though, I got up and going before I remembered to do it. So after making the bed, getting breakfast started, and getting dressed, I decided to speak them in front of the mirror.

The only time I ever stand in front of the mirror is when I have grooming to do, or to check how my outfit is looking before leaving the house. I realized when I looked at myself in the mirror that I can't remember the last time I looked in the mirror to really see myself.

Suddenly, in a mere moment, I felt reconnected to myself. Like seeing a friend I hadn't hung out with in a long time. I was surprised how much I liked seeing me, not to poke or prod, but just to be present. I was surprised by how blue my eyes are. It made me smile. And that made me discover that I have crinkle lines forming around my eyes when I smile that weren't there before.

I've been watching Benjamin's crinkles develop in slow-motion over the last few years as we've entered our thirties. I love them. People who smile with their whole faces up into their eyes have always been my favorite faces. And to watch that smile develop and deepen with age in the one you love dearest is most precious.

To find that I'm also cultivating my life story in my own eyes was a true delight. It only made me smile all the bigger.

Finding a New Path

Presently I find myself in a season of transition. A time of finding a new path, without having any inkling as to where the trailhead is. For the first time, I don't have a 'natural-next-step' pointing me in any particular direction. Typically, this would be cause for me to ramp up into panic and anxiety. However, because that has never served me (or those around me) particularly well, I'm adopting a different strategy this time. I'm learning to be okay with not knowing, and even to savor it. I'm using the opportunity to learn to be open and let things flow naturally. I'm learning to resist strict control and self-induced pressure to highly achieve. In the meantime, I've taken a reflective look back on what all of my past diverse life experiences share in common, to see what sort of enlightenment comes from that.

When I was completing my undergraduate studies in social work, I was selected for an interview in the campus magazine. When asked why I had chosen social work, my answer was simply 'I want to help people.' It was a simple answer, but one that was pure of heart and hasn't changed. I am a helper to the core. I'd rather be behind the scenes supporting others' work than in the spotlight. I'm also creative by nature, which drives me to find creative ways to surprise and delight others in times and places when they least expect it.

My wide range of interests and ongoing quest to live out my creativity has led me down varied paths. In the eleven years since that article was written I have worked as a social worker, a secretary, a dog behavior consultant, and a professional baker & cake decorator. These are all jobs that I really relished for a season. While they appear unrelated, the common thread throughout was that in each situation I was able to integrate my love for creativity with my desire to be helpful. The biggest challenge I found with each of my previous jobs was balancing my own need to blend into the background with the requirements of each job to be in the foreground.

Personal history has confirmed over and again that I must not be too much in the spotlight. I wither and burn out when spotlight situations are sustained. My creativity also has to continue to stretch and grow and innovate. Historically, I give of myself fully, pour all of my creative and problem-solving efforts and my heart to be helpful to others and not let people down until I find myself, yet again, too much in the forefront and too busy with managing the day-to-day (and my sanity) to invest in creativity.

In this next stage of my life, I am seeking the balance that feels right. It's not a balance I've ever found before, and I won't know if I obtain it for a few years, because it usually takes a couple of years for me to run my full course and recognize my burnout. But the difference this time is that I am striving to move slowly and be mindful each day, each step of the way. I'm also seeking to fill my days with tasks, projects and a work environment that suits me instead of trying to shoe-horn myself into environments and situations that are close, but not quite it. In this stage I am endeavoring to find enough quiet removal from being in the foreground with plenty of opportunity to reach out and delight others. Enough time away to think, ponder, savor, contemplate and create, and then to put it out into the world for those who need it.

On Being Open

Pressure. Tension. Control. Clinging. Breath held. Fear of failure. Fear of messing up. Fear of being wrong. Gotta be the best.

Those words describe very well how I've approached my life. My formal education from childhood into adulthood was characterized by this kind of stress, fear, anxiety and pressure. I have a history of approaching extracurriculars in the same way. The moment I commit to the forward trajectory of an assignment, class, project, or job skill, I put my blinders on, and strive to be nothing but the best. This approach leaves me stressed and alienated. I resist seeking help or support for many reasons: everything from delusion that I should be strong enough and able to handle it alone (regardless of the size and weight of the task at hand) to fearing that no one else would be able to do it well enough. This results in a miserable process in which I make myself sick and anxious, followed by a total collapse in which I burnout and retreat into a season of hiding.

After my most recent ending-of-things and retreat-back-into-myself, a family member (and lifetime observer of me) remarked that I haven't ever really learned how to pace myself. I can't argue with that as I am well acquainted with sprinting until I have nothing left.

But the more I've reflected on those words, the more I've realized that that is only the tip of the iceberg. It's also a need to be open, to let people into my process, to ask for support, to allow hands-on help, and to go with the flow. It's giving myself grace, patience with the learning process, and permission to not be the best; to know that average or 'good-enough' is not only okay, but life-affirming and nurturing. If allowing myself to be average means less pressure, anxiety, and fear, then it's one of the best ways I can show myself love and compassion, and enjoy more of life and living.

In my heart of hearts, I don't want to be famous (or any other such thing), so this drive to be the best isn't even moving me towards a desired goal. I desire a small and simple life where I can quietly do good. To carve out my own small corner of the world and to welcome passersby. To converse with them and grow and learn and share with one another.

So in this next stage of my life, I am finally choosing a new approach. My aim is to not have any answers, to not have it all mapped out or to have a plan of attack. I will resist, moment-by-moment, the temptation to start grabbing, clinging, and controlling. Instead I will remember to breathe and to stretch. I am committed to remaining open, to experiencing life as it comes and welcoming people in sharing those moments with me.

Open. Breathing. Flowing. Praise. Approval. Relaxed.

In Defense of the Selfie

Selfies have a bad reputation. Selfies (and those who take them) are vilified for being vain or insecure. I admit, selfies aren't my favorite thing to come across my Instagram feed. I'm not on Instagram to see an endless stream of selfies of all of the people I follow [although I do love putting a face to the artist!]. I'm on there to see their work, their art, their passions lived out in their gardening, baking, photography, travel, etc. It inspires me in how I live my life and create my own art.

But it's disingenuous to suggest that selfies are only bad. As one who lives 2,000-2,700 miles away from most of the people I love the very best, selfies are a great help in easing the weight of that distance. Selfies most certainly have a special place in personal photographic documentation and exchange.

I grew up in a snap-happy family and got the bug for photography at a pretty early age, snapping away with my primary colored kid-Kodak camera. Standard practice in our family involved everyone posing for the camera while the photographer (usually mom) was omitted from the frame. With my parents leading a quieter life these days without growing kids and family gatherings to warrant pulling out the camera all the time, photos of them just weren't happening, which left me lonely for their faces.

On a trip home a few years ago, I laid it all out for my parents and explained what a selfie is, how to take them, and why they are necessary for our relationship. I promised them a 1 to 1 exchange rate of selfie per selfie. Now whenever I am missing their faces, I just send a selfie and wait for one to come back my way. It's the very best. It applies to anyone you live far away from and miss: siblings, best friends. It's such a boost to the spirit to see a smiling (or funny!) face of a very favorite person show up in a text exchange.

Now that I find myself well-established in my own family, which consists of two adult humans and one small dog, selfies are a lifesaver. Sure, the humans of the house swap turns taking photos of each other with and without the dog, but when you are home alone sharing a quiet moment with your favorite furry friend and want to capture that, or when you're out adventuring on the hiking trail and want pics of you together, the selfie saves the day. We use both selfies and tripods to get pictures of the two (or three) of us, because we want to look back on them and remember those times and see ourselves together, and not with half of our duo unseen behind the camera.

In a small family such as ours, that's what it takes to get everyone together in one shot. In a spread-out extended family such as ours, that's what it takes to share faces and experiences across the country. It's not vain or insecure, it's a way of creating community and sharing life. My mom always had duplicates printed when she took her film to be processed, because she knew that the grandparents would want copies too. Now I also share copies of our photos with our family and friends. Just because we have to pose them ourselves with a long arm or a tripod doesn't make them any less valid or lovely.

* * *

Some of my favorite selfies of all time are with my little brother or my mom. But I have a strict privacy policy regarding other people's lives, so the following favorites disproportionally represent my selfie collection. In general the collection includes lots of me with my partner in life, with my beloved pup, with my very favorite humans [not pictured], with animals I meet, and the singles of myself that I send in selfie-exchanges to my top 5 favorite humans in the whole world.