The Agreement

Being taken care of, provided for, isn’t what I signed up for, and neither did he. I’ve been off work for an extended mental health break since the end of July. It’s been restorative, and I’m not quite where I’d like to be, but my mental state has equalized, somewhat.

Money is a concern, but I’ve been told “we’re fine,” but I’ve known there is resentment there. It has been confirmed. I feel embarrassed, I feel stupid and useless, I feel like a failure. There are no jobs for me in this small town. I’ve applied for two jobs about 40 miles away. I’ve already been rejected for one, so we’ll see how the other one pans out. I’m not telling him I’ve applied. It’s too hard to admit the rejections. And plus, I’m vindictive when I’m pissed.

At least now I don’t have to make any decisions about schooling or what to do with my life. What to do is to get a job.

I’ll eventually find one. I’ll be commuting, which is fine. I don’t have small children. I don’t have anything I need to be home for.

It’s just about money. I really, really hate money, but love to spend it. It’s the only thing that excites me and brings me pleasure. Well, except birds. I saw a Stellar’s jay in the tree out my kitchen window. Birds make me gasp. I may or may not have said that spotting that gorgeous bird was…yep, stellar. And it was. I think jays are magic.

But other than that, not much else makes me gasp except finding the perfect cardigan, especially at a bargain price.

So I’ll get a job, and I’ll keep quiet, and I’ll just trudge through, because that’s what I do. Until I fall apart. And I’m sure that will happen again, too.

But, whatever.

I don’t think it matters all that much. I’ll keep going to church (I’m truly finding comfort there again), keep reading, journaling and monitoring my triggers (this has really helped me go longer in between severe emotional highs and lows–thank you Dialectical Behavior Therapy workbook), and watching Dressing Your Truth videos (I love Carol Tuttle’s energy profiling system, and just joined her Lifestyle group).

I’ll keep being the best mom I can. I’ll do my best to keep the house presentable.

I’ll bake banana bread when the bananas go black.

I’ll keep going. Trudge through. Keep my chin up. Tough it out. Snap out of it. Hang in there. Stay here.


Rave on.


Of Here

It’s difficult to hear someone you admire say something that is, or seems, contradictory to all of the things they’ve said before. An author and spiritual mentor wrote this week that, because we feel pain in this world, perhaps it means that our spirits are not of this place, but of elsewhere.

This, from a teacher of Earth Medicine, whose writings and teachings are of the medicine of plants and animals, the magic of the soil, the air, of nature.

It’s not so much that I completely disagree with the sentiment, that perhaps our essence is not originally of here. But, the idea flies in the face of all that I’ve admired and learned from this teacher.

It feels like she’s changed her tune. Which we’re all free to do, at any time or place, but perhaps an introduction to a new idea, a preamble to a complete change of heart, a warning that everything has changed, would have been a gentler way for the student to learn.

The concept that my spirit, my soul, my essence, whatever I choose to name it this week, is not of here was a very difficult and damaging, and long-held, belief for most of my life. I clung to my Christian faith, in its many forms, ferociously, desperately, and forced it to bleed me dry and empty in its not-of-here-ness. It was a cop-out on my part. If I was not of here, I could simply rely on the “fact” that, some day, there would be an escape. And sometimes, I wanted to make that escape come sooner than it should.

I’ve had several suicidal times in my life, and still think of death in rare moments. However, it has been Earth Medicine, my faith in nature, that has brought me the farthest from the precipice, and has kept me away from swinging out over the edge. I consider the doe. What does she do? She survives. Her absolute purpose is to survive. Why? It doesn’t matter. It’s just what she does.

She is of the earth. She is earth. She survives.

And that is the belief, the knowledge, that has changed me. When I feel desperation slipping into the cracks of my fragile peace, I look to such things as the doe, the rabbit, King Prawn. I look to the sun and the moon, to the stars, the darkness, the breeze on my face. I pick up a pretty, round stone, pluck a sprig of wild sage, a cornflower, hold a twig of just the right size.

And these pieces of the mundane, these bits of silence and birdsong, these things that circle around, season through season, remind me that it is the simple things, the basic and earthly things, that are my sustenance and my refuge. A pink wildflower reminds me of my beautiful daughter. A leaf, grown so large it seems unreal, reminds me of my wildly ambitious son. A buck in velvet tells me tales of my loving husband, my best and most faithful friend.

The moon is my mother, the sun my father, and the world in green and sea blue is my realm, a place of every possibility, every emotion, every wish and desire and dream. I sit on my patio chair, watch the hummingbirds drink scarlet juice, see the ants busily and endlessly about their work, watch the clouds float by through a curtain of aspen leaves. And I am home. This earth is my home. It’s where I come from, and to whence I’ll go.

Yes, I am fully of here. It appears I am my own teacher now. And that is a story of evolution.


A Beckoning

Sometimes we’re not sure of the direction in which we’re headed. And so we study, and we grow, and we learn, and we search wholeheartedly for that one thing that moves us into knowing, into truly living in the essence of who we are. This is a journey of years, of lifetimes. And it is one that all of us share, one that we who name ourselves seekers willingly acknowledge.
We dive in. Even when we are afraid.
Starting With Rabbit has become my little window looking out onto the world, my treetop perch, where I can quietly state my piece, pass my gifts (such as they be), share my passions, and create from the inside out the person that the Great Mystery beckons and calls me to be.
I am made of the sweet smell of sage at the start of a burst of rain, of bird feathers and fallen branches, of the infinite shades of green in early Spring. I possess the brightness of a high noon sun over a sheet of diamond-encrusted, deep-winter snow, and the velvety darkness of the February New Moon.
I am a coyote calling, looking back as I run, going wherever it is that wildness lives. I honor the Earth, and consider this ground my sanctuary.
Run with me.


Dust and Midsummer

Restlessness. I keep moving in and out of this sphere of restless energy, this space of what-is-the-best-thing. Nothing new. Most of my uncomfortable bits are reruns, repeated patterns that I can’t quite seem to shed.

Boredom. But I never used to get bored, ever. It wasn’t a word in my vocabulary. In my kids’ vocab, certainly, but not mine. My answer to their whine of I’m bored? Well, I’ve got something for you to clean. I’ll be using that one on myself now, since I can’t seem to find any other cure for this flatness I feel. After all, I can’t watch Netflix forever.

Uncertainty. What to do? Stay or go? This or that? Now or later?

Midsummer. The growing season is halfway over. Days are getting shorter. Panic has set in, and that tells me that it’s time to rest, time to regroup, time to nurture and tend what’s growing, what’s nearly ready.

It’s not the time to leave it all behind. Not the time to start over. Spring is past. Time to just dig in, trust these roots, and wait a bit for the harvest. It shouldn’t be long.

It’s the heat that does me in. Heat and dust and waiting.

I always forget, by the time the waiting comes round, that the waiting is the hardest thing.

Stay Here

wpid-20141205_170238_sun_vignette_cornered.jpgOver and over.

The track on replay in my head is “you need more education”…”go back to school”…”be something.” Figuring out what I want to be, however, is tough. I want to:

  • teach others how to identify and use native herbs for beauty and wellness
  • lead intuitive art classes
  • help people nurture their minds and their spirituality
  • help others feel beautiful
  • write. write. write. always write.

And then there is the internal dialogue of how I want to feel. I want to feel:

  • respected
  • educated
  • cultured (I know…there is a bit of snobbery in my blood)
  • open-minded
  • artistic
  • writerly (and yes, no such word, but isn’t it lovely?)
  • beautiful
  • wise
  • kind
  • welcoming

Too much to ask? Perhaps, and probably. I’m constantly on the Google lookout for graduate degrees and certificates that will help me achieve the goals in category one, and feel the essence of those things listed in category two. The test is to see whether or not the graduate or certificate program meets both categories. Most often, the program will only meet part of one category or the other.

Throw in a third category of “will my current employer pay for this graduate program?” and my wishes are even less attainable. I work in social services, but it is most definitely not my calling. It is a good job, for which I’m thankful, and my employer has been very good to me for many years now, even allowing me to maintain my work on a part-time basis during a very difficult emotional time (a.k.a nervous breakdown) last year. They’ve been very good to me at work, and they are willing to pay a good chunk of money to help me go back to school.

However, I just can’t figure out what the hell I actually want to do. And to be honest, what I’d like to do most of all is cut hair, and write my heart out on the side!! Ain’t no viable option for that, though. I don’t live anywhere near a cosmetology school, and couldn’t dedicate the significant amount of time and money to the training, even if I did.

I’m taking free courses online in art therapy techniques, and I do so love the courses. But, free training doesn’t lend much to my credibility, even though the courses are taught by a national leader in the field. I also plan on taking a lovely weekend course in 2016 in the art of SoulCollage, which allows a practitioner to lead courses which integrate art and personal, internal spiritual and therapeutic work. The practitioner leading the class need not be a licensed therapist, and this program lights me up immensely.

I don’t want to be a therapist. But I do want to be a helper. I want to help people feel better about themselves, to help them figure out what what motivates them, what moves them, what makes them feel more whole.

I think part of what makes me feel whole is the search. Although I feel a bit of angst and frustration over trying to figure out what courses to take, which avenues to pursue, the seeking and finding of wonderful classes, inspiring programs, and incredibly creative teachers just fills me which such awe. I’d take every class, if I could. I’d be a lifelong, full-time student, and I’d never, ever graduate from anything, because life would be my homeroom, and learning would be my degree. And one is never, ever finished learning.

So, where am I going with all of this? Not far. I am just here, playing, looking for yummy new experiences. I believe I am simply a perpetual seeker, one who always has at least four books on the bedside table (and the dining table, on the floor by the sofa, and on the kitchen bar) at once, one who is always suggesting books to friends, family and people in line at the grocery store (“It’s life-changing!! You’ll love it!”), and one who perhaps will never feel complete. And maybe that is what I want to teach others. Maybe the feelings of incompletion, of the not-quite-knowing, and the motivation to keep searching, really are the point in all of this. Maybe those are the driving factors that truly can help the depressed person, the lonely heart, the lost soul, to stay here.

Because really, staying here is the main thing.