This morning I harvested mullein flowers for mullein oil. I gathered culinary sage, lemon balm, red clover blossoms, and a bit of chamomile all for tea – or rather for infusions (more plant material, soaked longer). The garden is so abundant; it’s almost overwhelming. It feels like such a dance – this freedom that is created by growing and making my own medicine and the dedication and consistency that is required to plant, water, tend, harvest, preserve and use the medicine.
We were thinking about going backpacking this weekend, but I panicked. Too much calling me here. I’m in the market for day-long hikes where I still get to come home and water the garden. I love the woods, but it feels like my work is here this season.
Lately, and more than usual, I feel fragments of my personality/being asking for different things. There are parts that want to stay on silent retreat in my home for weeks, parts that want to go out clubbing in the city, parts that want to stay in the woods for as long as possible, parts that want to host house parties and play music. I’m not sure how to sit in the center of all these parts and navigate what is most true for the wholeness of my being. How to give myself the nourishment being asked for without sacrificing other aspects?
Yesterday in our writing circle I wrote this:
Open the window; the howling begins. Howling and keening and dancing. I want bonfires and I want the end of self-consciousness. I want to wander in the mountains and live on berries and bark. I want to set down my pink polyester backpack and my pink polyester raincoat and strip down to my birthday suit and “c” words all about: caterwaul, careen, carbone, caper, cartwheel, chitter, crawl, and cachinnate. But there are mosquitoes and I don’t like to be hungry and I don’t know how to take down the boundaries of this technological age and let myself be taken into the woods for vision. I’m not sure what true freedom would look like or how to get there from here.
I also wrote this poemish:
Outside I say yes, sure, find.
Inside I hunker down to find a soft warm hole to slip into and sing myself lullabies.
Outside I look, or try to look, confidant, composed, alert, on top of it, present.
Inside I am dreaming of magic, of self-cleaning kitchens, Thai food ordered in, and a bed so comfortable I never have to leave.
Outside I’m getting it done, crossing if off the list.
Inside I’ve set it all aside and will spend the next ten years diving inside the sound of the willow leaves rustling against themselves.
Outside willow nubs are dropping into my lap.
Inside I am dropping up into the willow, swimming in layers of leaves. Dancing and tiptoeing my fairy feet on the branches. Catching a ride on the cottonwood fluffs and allowing myself to be taken by the wind over to the next horizion.
Outside I wake, I eat, I bathe, I sleep.
Inside mostly I breathe. The heart beats. And this is enough to fill my whole universe for eternity.
Breath. Pulse. Here.