individual ecosystem

no place on earth

If there is never stillness here, is it's closest relative motion? The planet is always spinning. I am trying to find the stillness in me, but all my cells are busy... and everyone is on their phone, talking... and the economy is up and down... and even when I close my eyes and plug my ears my body won't let me rest. 

golden, golden braids

Found on the back of a gravestone after my Opa's "funeral." My mother and I thought the words were special. There was no toilet in the cemetery. We all had those giant black umbrellas.

lavender oceanscope

the entire time

I don't actually want to die, but most of the time life does not feel worth doing. There's just no alternative option. Sleep is the closest substitute. Have you ever thought about how, for your entire life, you have been living? The entire. time. That I am chronically exhausted makes all the sense in the world to me.

composed of basically the same stuff

Shapes in my room. Spending much time in bed due to the disabling effects of depression, I find my eyes staring at these objects very often. I sometimes wind up in trouble by getting obsessive about my house plants. I turn into a helicopter parent and no one wins. I don't keep a lot of things in the room because what does one really need, at the end of the day? Some clothes, some music, some water, some books. I prefer keeping my Stuff at a minimum. At this too, I can grow compulsively aggressive and get rid of things I sort of would've liked to hold on to. That's fine, though. Lessons in every act.

i might die here with sunlight on the wall and my eyes closed

like nothing else but rain...

My body doesn't usually feel good, and my brain tells me lies all day. Writing out words in a particular order relieves a weight on my bones. I am especially grateful when the order of the words perfectly expresses my experience in this place. I typed out these lines one morning when the sun was glaring into my bed room. I may look back on this in ten years and think is is crap, but for now, I feel accomplished with this piece of work. (It still doesn't matter, but it's some thing, you know?)

humananimal

Lately I have been remembering that I am a primate hominin, with all sorts of smells and liquid excretions and hairs and soft tissues wound over bones. I look at my feet, my toes, and feel I am inhabiting the body of an animal (I am). I make noises from my throat and tongue to communicate ideas and drink water to keep from expiring. Sugar tastes wonderful and touching humans I trust brings pleasure. Recognizing I am a primate "person" (what is personhood?) takes a massive amount of pressure out of my mind. This is a game with no rules or writers, an experiment of curious evolution and atoms. Pieces smash together and wander apart. Life carries on. 

circle game

Knowing the ocean's waves were in motion before me, and will continue once I am gone, 

brings a tranquility into my body... Tell me I'm Wrong.

plants are teachers; here are lessons they've shown me

Trust. Roots will grow when one is provided the care they need: water, fresh air, nourished soil, music, positive talk, empathy. Roots. will. grow. Even when I have doubted this definite of perseverance and failed to trust new cuttings, my plants have forgiven me, shown me Truth and reminded trust is essential for all healthy relationships. Without Trust, respect is impossible. With Trust, all can bloom. 

Transformation. Being witness to the dynamism of these organisms illustrates how not only they are in constant evolution and metamorphosis: we all are. At no moment are we the same as we were in the previous or subsequent. In fact as energy flows through us and all things - since we are all one thing - we are rivers, eternally alive and in motion. In this way, constant mutability is a kind of assured stillness.

Gender. Plants are gender fluid. They have no necessary bodily position or any kind of binary existence. Their lives emerge from the earth by sensual, ancient harmony and procreate in totally new and inspiring ways with each seed and cutting. Bodies are temples of sacred activity and mine is no exception. My plants have guided me through transition and transformation, constantly and kindly reminding that this material format my Soul sits in can feel and look an infinite number of ways, and all these identities are valid. 

Healing. A leaf may break, but it can also heal. The plant has all the tools within it to heal its own injuries, and with enough support it can become stronger than before it was hurt. These breaks and burns facilitate resilience. It's ok when we don't heal, too. Scars tell stories. We have the power to bandage ourselves; through love, meditation and gratitude. When provided with the care of others, and kindness towards my self, I am able to grow deeper connections with Spirit and emerge wiser and made more after and while I experience trauma and anxiety. When I am broken, plants remind me this too shall pass and pain is as much of a lesson as joy.

Destiny. The DNA parcelled into the glowing greens of plants is the same that is in my own soft, temporary form. Our future is within us. All that must be done to unroll it into the material world is nurture and massage. Our fates have been written and they are contained in the moments of our choices to care and be kind. When we help others form their destiny, it allows our own to be illuminated. After all: there is just one story here; the story of energy becoming. 

Intention. By providing abundant love, support, nourishment and empathy at all stages of a plant's life (especially a new cutting!) it will have the energy it requires to unfold into its most beautiful self, fulfilling its atomic and cosmic destiny. When I live with intention - specifically in gratitude, forgiveness and mindfulness - I am able to embody my most elevated and richest form of Spirit, in communion and unity with a universal force. I am awake.