I literally may have forgotten how to do this.

Well, hello dear old blog. I have really enjoyed not having to fiddle with you, truly. Something about the process of getting a blog post up and tinkering with changes is too much computer and headache than just the beauty of the words, the balance for a while just tipped between knowing how long it would take sitting here with not writing work versus being able to share the bits and pieces appropriate for this form, the dailies. I have enjoyed using Instagram as a mini-blog of sorts, but let’s get real; we can’t fit all our stories into a picture and a tiny box and our pocket. They need room and I need space.

My two younger children are at a friend’s for the morning so that I can work. I am ostensibly trying to make some money again out here on the farm, in about twenty directions, none of which have really stuck enough to become a real business yet. Still, instead of heading straight to it, to a late planting of beans that I hope will survive the deer nibbles, to some fall crop seeding, to another bit of elderflower gathering for elixir, to cutting back the catnip and oregano, to weeding, always weeding, and getting some really pretty basil potted up into boxes, to this farm that I love and that keeps me grounded, connected, inspired, and holy, I opened WordPress. Because what is burning inside my brain all the time is the way life continues to coalesce into narrative, so deeply beautiful, impossibly meaningful. Because if I die tomorrow, as the saying goes, I want to have given these pockets of madness that are my human experience back in form to this embodied experiment of life.

Last year stripped us bare. Us, the collective us, all of us, individually. At least it tried to. In a post everything world, we have two choices. Continue to let the crumbs fall where they rightfully should, or decide with all our might to co-create a wildly better world.

And somehow, for me, I know that weaving stories that build bridges, between the land and the people and people and their innermost selves, is my way to make reparations, to help repair. To heal. To encourage the remembrance and radical connection necessary to wiggle through this wormhole we have been offered.

So, I will see how this little extra room fits for now, this morning at least. To be growing always, and wild, means being okay with both constant imagining and continued surrender. The ego quiets, the mind clears, the heart pumps, and one step in front of the other, you let your brambly, prickly, weedy, purposefully lovely self make your medicine and you share it.


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