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Hem of my Heart

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A poem is like a thread…
Just tug the end gently
And it keeps coming
Before you know it,
Your whole heart is sitting in your lap.

Words are like that
They love to travel together
Make endless lines that
Run on and on and sometimes
Say something grand
But sometimes nothing at all.

Words tumbled on a page
Casually or carefully
Create an image, invite you in
A story told or simply felt
Open to interpretation.

A Poem is made of words
Words and tears,
Words, tears, and callused hands and soft smiles
A human heart, a tattered hem…..
the thread pulled clean out of it.

 

©Marianna Louise Jones 2017

 

 

Mine is the Morning

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Rising before dawn, greeting the day to come, a steaming kettle, my pen and ink, real writing on real paper. The air is sweet and cool still, Autumns turning feels fresh on my skin, I love edge times. When seasons bleed into each other, chilled mornings and bright afternoons, the potential for change is ripe.

Morning has always been my time, when Alice was young it was the time I had to spend a few minutes alone, frequently writing, praying or a combination thereof, with my morning coffee comfortably beside me. My ritual is much the same, now, Alice may be readying herself for work, or sleeping in. I no longer wake her and ready her for the day. Our relationship is no longer one of hands on parenting in that sense, at 19 she’s now her own morning maker. I find myself with more space for quite goodness, reconciling with the day to come, more writing, some yoga and perhaps an extra cup of coffee some days.

I have this image in my mind of gathering back together, like pieces of a broken mirror, or rough edges of quilt patchwork being lined up before stitching. I feel this way, I am unstitched. Sleep seems to separate me somehow, it is hard to put into words, morning gathering time. All of me arriving in one place, as if perhaps I travelled elsewhere through the night and only now arrive home. Maybe it is so, dreams seem to hold a power and purpose of which I cannot claim to begin to understand.

I have read about the idea of a “power morning.” A purposeful start to the day, early morning achievements to set the tone for positivity and productivity. I have even been accused of this practice by some well meaning folk. This is not so, my morning ritual is one of habit rather than one of virtue. As often as I find myself in simple contentment  I find myself in a fractured sorrow and wondering what the meaning of this all is, if there is a meaning at all. Quiet reverie is lovely and all, but this is real life, and real life hurts.

What I notice in my experience is that this time, be it in joy or in sorrow, connects me to myself. Mornings of bustled busyness and podcast listening as a get ready for work, feel like an attempt to not feel me. A scattered escape into the worlds demands, a diversion from really feeling. Stephen Harrod Buehner, one of the great thinkers of our time says that Descartes got it all wrong when he famously said ” I think therefore I am.” Stephen’s take on this is that ” I feel therefore I am” would be much more accurate portrayal of what it means to me human. We feel, some of us feel a lot. Unless we keep ourselves too busy, distracted and medicated to allow the feeling to enter.

I am a feeler. Sometimes to my great detriment, or that is the perception I grapple with. Sometimes feeling a little less would seem to be an easier path. I often wonder how other people do it, by it I mean make it through the daily deluge of human sorrow, and non human sorrow that surrounds our lives. Yet, I guess I make it too. I am here after all, writing these words as the sun streams in and simultaneously rain falls. A wonderful image for me as a look deeper into the many waves of feeling and being that make up my experience.

My morning rituals help me to bring presence to my life, and create space for the feelings. I settle in the same spot most mornings. A little nest I create on my floor by the bed. A blanket over my legs and a cushion to rest my journal on. A bookshelf serves as my coffee table. I have a view of the oaks from there, and one splendid Big Leaf Maple. Often a cat is resting his head on my shoulder as he sleeps on the bed, and my old Jasper dog curls up beside me. This is my perfect space to think, feel, and write. Sometimes the words I put on the page are beautiful, sometimes a list of fears and worries. It is not so much what I write as it is that I write that makes meaning of my morning time. I have these journal all the way back to my teen years.

I learn myself through writing. I see my patterns, my thoughts, my fears and my beauty. Sitting and sipping a hot creamy cup, breathing and looking out at the trees. Until the words come, and spill forth on the page just as they are meant to. This is my first act. From here the rest of my day grows, and in a sense from here the rest of my life grows. Quite time, then movement, then what ever else may need to happen.

I am in general not a very consistent women. My interests change, I fly off in new directions of fascination and inspiration frequently. I start and do not finish many things. Yet I always find myself back here, pen in hand, and a full heart waiting to pour onto the page. This feels like grace. A small wonder that holds me together, the pieces fitting back in place, a renewal of some sort, or an offering…to who or what I do not know. Perhaps it is an offering to myself, this ritual act of writing. If so, I accept it, and hold alive in me the wish that 70 years from now I will be still sitting and writing, and that birds will still sing to me as morning arises from the dark earth.

Hank’s Poem

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This poem was left as a reply to my recent post,A Measure of Worth. Hank has left me poetic responses to a few of my posts and I always treasure his skill to respond to my musings with his own mythopoetic beauty. This one I felt called to share and do so here, with his permission. This makes Hank Delison my first guest poet on the blog. It is with great joy I share this poem here. If you have not read the post I linked above, please do, and you will see the powerful lines of connection that Hank weaves here. A big thank you to you Hank, for your support of my blog and your willingness to share your poem here. The thistles on the header are in remembrance of our mutual Scottish heritage ♥

Worth is a false idea, it is empty.
It was invented a very long time ago
To control behavior.
We accept it as we accept the mountains

There must be a scale
From worth to non-worth
For worth to exist.
And there is no such scale.

For such a scale to exist
There must be a worthiness judge.
For thousands of years people
Have tried to create a worthiness judge.

We have called these judges
God, Gods, Goddesses.
But they have all been false,
Because they are all human made.

But God, Gods, Goddesses are useful.
Priests, holy men/holy women use them
To mold their bit of humanity into
An understandable controllable whole.

What if you do not accept
Worth as having meaning?
What if you accept yourself
As who you are?

Without worth?
Beyond Worth?
Outside of worth?
Worth-less?

Then you cannot be controlled.
You
Are
Free

Delison 2017

I too, am Animal

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I wrote this poem last May. While away at my first solo writers retreat. You can read more about that experience here,  A New Old Forest, My Birthday, and the Power of Following my Heart, a few poems are in that post as well. I am sharing  this poem today as it seems to connect so well to my post from yesterday, A Measure of Worth. This inquiry around worth has been burbling inside me for some time, asking to be examined. I do not usually write in rhyme, but for some reason quite a few of my poems from this particular retreat came in the form of rhymed couplets, I do not know how I feel about that, to be honest… but here it is. I desire to share this anyway. Rhymed couplets and all .

I too, am Animal

Swallow does not question God,
he just proceeds to fly
Bear is steadfast in his good,
he needs no reason why.
Deer knows she is worthy,
it was built within her bones.
But somehow, I have lost my way,
can find no path to home.
Otter plays and feeds herself,
she does not need a list.
To track her time and plan her days,
to make sure nothings missed.
Yet it seems that I have chosen,
to live another life.
Away from being animal,
in worry, debt and strife.
I doubt my good, I cannot fly,
I rarely play or fish.
I live my life within white walls,
And always have a list.
To check a box, to prove I’m good,
To set the markers high.
So that I deserve a place to live,
I rarely question why.
Yet somethings shifting in my bones,
I am seeing crystal clear.
That I have picked the short straw,
I would rather live as Deer.
Or Bear or Otter for that part,
live free and take the risks.
Then settle into servitude,
and securities deadly “gifts”.
I’ll tear my hair from its confines,
Let my face grow brown with mud.
And sun and wind and wildness,
feet planted on the ground.
I’ll bathe in rivers cold and clean,
until my skin is pink.
And live on wild berries,
and the shoots and leaves of green,
I return to the Earth,
And her enormous lap.
To suckle on the breast of God,
And never to look back.
Oh, culture you have tricked us well,
But you have not won just yet.
I return to the wild now,
With no pains of regret.
Welcome me home-
Sweet green ground.
Take me as your own,
The bride of life,
The soils wife,
Marvelous and brown.

 

~ Marianna Jones 2017

 

Soul Food

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A few weeks ago, the Fourth day of September. I gathered in some of my closest kin, to my home for a very special dinner. It was a celebration, as well as a declaration of who I am and who I am becoming. I invited my beloveds to come, feast and hear, what I could share, in my  own stumbling way, of the learning that was bestowed on and in me in my first session of Orphan Wisdom School.
I prepared food all day long…
A leg of lamb, to honor my Scottish Kin.
A Potatsalat(Norwegian Potato Salad) to bring in my Norse roots.
Fresh cucumber salad, an ode to the bounty of Oregon summer gardens, my homeland.
Bakewell Tart with a British custard sauce, to honor my English ancestors.
The meal was scrumptious, a victory for me as I was creating foods that I had never cooked before, not my usual when having a dinner party. Everything came out so delicious, the timing was right, the flavors on point. I truly enjoyed treating my loved ones to such a feast, that I prepared with my own hands. I also send a shout out here to my little brother, Gabriel who chopped, diced and supported me throughout the last mad dash to get the foods on the table.

The real beauty was in the people around me and the love shared that night. As the food came to the table and we gathered in. I welcomed them, and lit two beeswax candles. One for all those who came before us, and one for my dear sister Sarah who was working in another state and could not be with us in the flesh. She was invited in through the flickering flames of that small candle. I shared a poem, in the place of a prayer, not that there is much difference… the power, the cadence, the same felt sense of the sacred.

As we joined in a spirit of convivium, I shared some of my learning. Although I must say that it felt like a paltry offering in the face of the immensity of the undertaking of knowledge imparted to me at school. How could I weave a web that even begins to touch the depth, power and sorrow of my studies? I regret that I could not. Years of learning, speaking and grieving will need to pass before I can do anything close to justice to the grandeur of these teaching.

And yet, that is not really the point. My heart is called to this work and I have answered that call. I gathered in my loved ones and welcomed them into this piece of my life which is so sacred to me. I cooked for them with the wood chips saved from a spoon I carved in Ontario, each chip seen as the sacred thread of the web of life it is. I blessed the food with song an prayer. I wove into each mouthful the bit of grace I have to offer, and offer it I did. My ancestors, back and back and back, the good, the bad, and the ugly were all honored on this night. All given a place at the table. That is the point. That I showed up in my life to offer of myself, of my heart. And it was received with deep gratitude.

How blessed I am, to have not only a family of origin that holds me and sings my life back to me, but also one that hears the deep call of my soul, and at least for a time, sits with me as I sing my song. My Parents, my siblings, my husband, my daughter and her partner and some dear friends, all there to hear my voice and offer to me their attention and sincere interest. I could not ask for anything more.

I still have some chips of maple, and somewhere in the garden at Orphan Wisdom School lies the spoon that came from that branch. It was carved by my hands, with  a knife made completely by the hands of my husband. The chips may long to be wedded again to the body of the spoon but they are with me. Saved for a time when I can again light a fire and offer their fragile bodies to the flame that cooks another meal, one I will share with my dear sister, Sarah. I will tell her then the story that I need to tell, and gather her into my heart and the folds of my learning.

This meal, this learning, this sorrow in my heart. It is all part of my becoming. Becoming a woman of consequence. Holding my place in this world. Owning my life and living on purpose and with purpose. I matter. You matter. We matter. As humans we come in with original gifts, our offerings, our destiny. I am on the road of destiny, I cannot call it a happy one. I can only say that this grief soaked time in which we live is all I know and I will walk it faithfully until my end time comes.  And as I walk I will gather my people in, offer a hand and say in my strong clear voice ” welcome home, let us feed our souls together”

OWS1OWS3

The Age of Lonesome Hearts

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I have a confession to make. I am a lonely woman. Surrounded by love and friendship, with work that feeds my heart and creativity that feeds my soul, I am lonely all the same. I have been witnessing in myself and in others for some time now this deep and tender longing for community. Not the fragmented and separate social interactions so many of us call friendship. Not the frenetic busyness of activity and obligation. Not the planned excursions and classes. Though these all have value in their own way, they are a  poor balm for the deep wound of the lost web of a tribe.  No, what I am hungry for, ravenously craving, is the village.

What has befallen us as a people and a culture that we have arrived here, in this state of abject relational poverty, disconnected from the sense of wholeness that in all times before our own held us together as a single living organism. An interconnected system of reciprocal relationship, a messy, gloriously burdensome and indebted way of being  whole, that at this point in time is nothing but the glimmer of a memory in our blood. The bonds that once held us, in true interdependence have frayed at the ends, fibers worn and giving way, sacrificed to the Gods of independence and autonomy. Words that ring of freedom in this time, yet on a closer examination taste of cold steel and sorrow.

For all the years that humans have lived on this land we call home, this earth, we have walked together, ate together, slept together and raised families together. We find ourselves now in a place of extreme separation, so much so, I would propose, that the idea of living in interdependence with others sounds terrifying to most of us. Myself include. Not only terrifying, but also undesirable. We believe that we need space, privacy, independence. And indeed, living in the times that we do, with the current cultural conditioning that we have been subjected to, we may actually need that space to feel comfortable. What a poverty that is.

The rise of the nuclear family, which I will point out here is a uniquely modern arrangement, has left us separated from the feeling of tribal, communal inter-being and strapped us fully to the wheels of capitalism and all its tyranny. When we have to have an individual family home, two cars, two kids, and a houseful of barely used, foreign made belongings to feel good, we have become slaves to our way of life. Working to simply pay for our home, to pay for our appliances and tools, to pay for childcare, home maintenance, all of it I could go on and on, but you get the picture. The choice to live as single families is a deeply debt ridden and isolating idea, that causes pain and suffering for the individual family as well as the collective.

Humans, being social animals need companionship to thrive. We need support to thrive. The type of support that we can receive only form being in deep relationship with many people, not just a spouse or our children, a living active network of others, with shared values and shared work. I believe this is how we were born to live, and the deep sorrow, depression and addiction that plague our people is tells a story. Our needs are unmet, we are desperately lonely.

So where do we go from here, where do I go from here? Knowing this poverty, holding it in my hands, feeling the ache. How can I, busy, overworked and so time tight that I feel almost paralyzed, create community? Not just online, but right here in my own home. I have no answers and in fact at times I feel hopeless, but I do have some ideas, and I think they may be worth something so I will share them here. In hopes that also they may be of some value to another lonely human out there, perhaps reading this, known to me or unknown to me.

So here it is, my few tender ideas that could perhaps bring more connection and joy to my life and the lives of others. I think in fact I can sum it up into one main vain of thought- To have more – we must have less.
We must have less because in order to have and keep and own and store all that we feel we need is a prison. We must have less in the way of property and perceived material wealth so that we can learn what real wealth is. We must have less so that we can work less and love more. Somehow we must step out of this tyranny of time scarcity and delve into a relational space where we share what we have and create a new way of being. This is our system, we can dismantle it, we are not powerless.

Sacrifice is called for. Vulnerability is called for. Can I learn to break down the walls of perceived safety and connect? Invite the neighbors in, even when the house is messy and I am unsure if they are “my kind if people”. Borrow and lend tools and services, ask for help when I need it, offer help when I see it is needed? Can I extend the invitation that neighbors and friends can come pick from my garden, and ask for help with canning? These may seem small things, In fact I feel some shame that I am not comfortable with these action now, but they are not small for me. I am so conditioned to believe that mine is mine and that I have to, in a sense defend my territory. I did not choose this, I inherited it.

Could there come a day when I could give up my own sense of needing so much space, so many boundaries, that I could live with other families in the way my heart calls, screams and begs for? I don’t know, but I sure as fuck want to believe that. I don’t want to be lonely anymore.

As I tear down the walls of my conditioned beliefs and look into the lies I have agreed to live in and ignore, the social norms, the way things are. I cannot help but feel , mixed inextricably with the anger and despair a sense of purpose and knowing that this is not how things should be. And in that knowing is a strength and power to change. It starts with me, here, today. Putting these words on this page and saying out loud, or in print, that I am longing for something different, and that I am willing to sacrifice to see it come to birth in my life.  If perhaps you who read this feel a tugging in your heart as you read my words I invite you to reach out to me, to let me in. I want to talk about this hunger, and how we can feel full, together.

 

 

 

A New Old Forest, My Birthday, and the Power of Following my Heart

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I just celebrated my 36th Birthday,36 trips around the sun. That is 13,140 days I have been alive and breathing outside of my Mother’s womb. Incredible. It seems like a lot when you count in days. Long enough that I have learned many things, unlearned a few, and have oh so many I am still learning. I feel young, I am young, but I also am no longer a youth. I am truly a woman and very much feeling the power of that truth.

I spent my Birthday in the woods, writing, eating amazing food, wandering in the rain for hours and making some unexpected new friends. Truly magical, and made more so by the circumstances of my coming to be on that land at that time. I will share this story of how I came to be on the land, on the weekend of my Birthday and share also some of the poetry that come from my time immersed in the power of nature.

More than a year ago I read the profound book Braiding Sweetgrass,  by Robin Wall Kimmerer. I was deeply touched by her work and to say that this book was life changing for me would be and understatement. It actually changed the way that I see nature and my place in relationship to all life. It is a book that weaves us as humans back into the whole of life in a way that helps me believe we may make it as a species after all. It was in the pages of her book that I heard first of Shot Pouch Creek.

She tells the story of  a man , Franz Dolp, who bought 40 acres of land in the coast range of Oregon and devoted his life to restoration of that land. He tended the trees, planted natives, kept them safe from the hungry mouths of deer. Nature was a direct route to the divine for him, and that resonates so deeply with me. I immediately felt an affinity with this man, now deceased, and longed to see the place that he so loved. A new old growth forest.

Being that it was located in Oregon and I am as well, I knew that I needed to go there. I consulted google to find out where exactly the land was and how I could gain access to explore. I learned that the land is not open to the public, and the only way I would be able to visit was with permission of OSU. I also saw that there had recently been an event called The Trillium Project, in which residencies are granted for creatives to be on the land and create projects in relationship with the land.  This is a program offered through The Spring Creek Project which is a part of Oregon State University’s Liberal Arts Program. I signed up for the newsletter so that I could keep up to date on happenings and events as the overall feel of the departments online representation felt like something I wanted to be part of.

Over the next many months I read the newsletters that came in my email, feeling more and more called to be part of this work. I also read Braiding Sweetgrass twice more. I was learning so much about being a human being, my relationship to other non animal beings and how we can all thrive together. It is mind blowing to start to feel that not only do I love plants, but they love me back too! Incredible and maybe even delusional, depending on who you ask. But this was my felt sense and I honor that above all else. My body does not lie to me.

Early spring I was excited to see in my inbox the call for applicants for this years Trillium Project! Here it was, my chance to go to Shot Pouch, my chance to be on the land and write, in the peace of the new old Forest. I submitted a proposal, and was elated to be chosen for a writing residency. I was elated to be able to go to the land I had long dreamed of, but also to be chosen as a writer for this project. I am not a scholar or an academic and it was a big thing for me to submit that proposal. I think I have a touch of imposter syndrome when I comes to calling myself a writer. I am a writer, yet I am also shy to say these words. Shy to claim my place as a writer of words and a maker of poems. Stepping into the unknown and away from my comfort zone always pays off for me, and this was no exception. I listened to my heart and was richly rewarded.

I left early on Friday May 12th, car loaded up with my camping gear, extra tarps (thank God!) my writing supplies, some watercolor pencils, and a cooler stocked with really delicious foods. It was after all, my birthday weekend. I drove south to Corvallis and then west into the Coast Range. My heart humming, ready for what was to come and excited to be going. It was one of those times when I felt almost disbelieving that it was really happening. How could it be that I had read about this place, wanted to go, and a year later found my way there? Not just to be there but to dive deep into my writing and contribute to a project that is so deeply inline with my beliefs and principle. Incredible. When you jump, sometimes you land right were you are supposed to be.

As I arrived the rain had stopped, I fumbled with the lock box for a moment and then was able to open the gate and drive through the intense green all around me, over a small bridge with a flowing creek beneath it and pull up outside the cabin. It was quiet surreal to be there, to really be there. Surreal and not what I had imagined at all somehow, but so beautiful all the same. I wandered around for a bit to get the lay of the land and let it all sink in. Then I set up my tent, at the edge of a meadow, right by the creek. It did not start to rain again until I had my rainfly up.

Rain came hard after that though, so much rain! I was cozy and dry in my tent home and had good gear to keep me dry outside as well. Quite content I walked in the rain, began to think about writing and ate some much needed lunch.
My time there was nurturing on so many levels. I was first of all there because of answering my hearts guidance, that itself was comforting. I met three amazing women who were there at the same time as me, and they welcomed me into there group with so much affection. The poems began to flow and came through me with astonishing ease and grace. My senses all feasted on the beauty around me. Truly such an amazing place in the world. Fertile ground for all life, mine was no exception. I found myself blooming right along with everyone else on the land. All the plant people, in all their forms blooming with me. A richness of life appearing for me in a profound way. I am humbled by my experience and will treasure the memory for a long time to come.

This trip will live on inside me, and will also live in the pages of my writing that came from my residency. I am compiling and editing now, in the hopes of creating a chapbook of my writings on ecology, spiritualty and humanity. Below I will share two of my poems from this trip as well as some photos. It is with a full heart that I write this. I have so much gratitude for life bringing  this dream of mine into being. SO much gratitude for Robin Wall Kimmerer, Franz Dolp, and the Spring Creek Project at OSU. Life is full of blessings, if our eyes are open to see them. Nature is not only there for us, nature IS us. All flourishing is mutual.

Shot Pouch

This land called me-
and I came.
Driving from city streets
down long highways
and curvy roads
and then – here
I have arrived.
Rain and apple blossoms
the creek softly humming outside my tent
A foragers feast of green
How often I’ve imagined this!
the meadow wide, trails ascending
Maple and Cedar greet me
I walk slowly, expanding my senses
smell and touch
the earth, water, air
It is all so alive here
Cedar fragrant against my fingers
Earth soft and damp beneath my feet
bird songs encircle me,
for now I have come-
home.

Grandmother

My grandmother said – “nature is my temple”
and so I worship there as well.
Cathedrals of green canopy above me,
prayer rugs of violet and clover,
the blessing of life giving holy water.
These are my sword and shield,
my crown and chalice,
my strength.

When Grandma was dying,
her bed was moved outdoors.
To the garden, under the edge
of the green cathedrals canopy.
The place where she could see
the face of God above her.
She lay still for a long time,
just looking up,
and then almost voicelessly whispered –
“Thank you.”

Green fills my spirit when I think of her.
my hands become hers,
brown with soil,
rich with life and food.
I draw her from the earth,
Root, stone and bone.
All she left undone is now on my lap,
I release the mantle of her sorrow,
we are both freed.
I have only one wish left –
That my last words be
‘Thank You”IMG_3600IMG_3605IMG_3575IMG_3570 (Edited)IMG_3598IMG_3591

 

 

 

 

Foragers Prayer

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My poems often feel like prayer. Erupting from a space deep within myself, almost fully formed. It is a remarkable sensation. I do not fish,  yet somehow I know that this feeling is akin to a bite on the hook. The gentle tug and dance, and then voila! I meal is in your lap. My poems feel like food, soul food. They sustain me.

I’ve been spending as much time as I can out in this beautiful world. Looking for food, watching the birds and immersing myself in my landscape. I love this place I live. I love seeing the plants return, greeting them as old friends. I may in fact have been chatting with the Camas I saw last Friday night as bewildered walkers past by on the trail just behind me. Spring is incredible to me every year. Life is just so impossibly beautiful.

It has been hard for me to go to work. I want only to be free, in the wild, on the soil, tasting life. This poem, or prayer, came to me on my drive to work as I struggled with the desire to just keep driving. Past the confines of the city, past the constructs that hold this system together. And into what feels to me like the only true thing. Natures teaching.

Foragers Prayer

This is a day to slip my leash
lose my shoes
Move soft footed through the wooded hills
Green calls my name
the sun is dancing just for me
All  is beauty
so alive it makes my skin ache
I want to bathe in this
Roll in it, let the dew soak through my clothes
I want to eat it
Green in my mouth
Pungent, bitter,wild
It is all too much to bear
my heart beats a rhythm
A deep sweet pounding
this wonder of spring
let it pierce me, consume me
green growing from my heart
Tendrils twining round my ribs
Petals unfurling in the iris of my eyes
I am in love
And I am love
Nature grows
and grows me
blooms in my heart
and calls me home
to Her

Finding my Wild

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I went out early Saturday morning. The sun was shining, such a rare treat in this exceptionally wet NW spring we are having. I have been wanting to fill my bottles from the spring, it’s been weeks since I made it out there. Sometimes the 60 miles feels like a long trek, life being busy as it is, I can choose to put it off for a while… and then I can’t anymore. Nothing is quite as sweet as fresh spring water! IMG_2370
I loaded up all my empties, about 28 glass gallon jugs and assorted growlers. I have the system down, cardboard dividers to prevent breakage, towels to dry bottles, gloves for fingers that become numb as the frigid water rushes out. I made sure I had my garden gloves with me too, and a knife, scissors and gathering bags. It is spring and the forage is on!
It takes a little over an hour to get out of Portland and to the spring. Enough time for my mind to start to calm down a bit. As soon as I leave Hillsborough I can feel the shift happen. More green, less pavement, more space, less hectic. My body begins to feel its breath again. Why do I live in the city?? I seem to ask this question with greater frequency of late.
I love going out early. Missing the rush of folks driving down to the coast for the day, even at 7 am I see a lot of surfboards. I arrive at the spring by 8 am, its still only 37 degrees out and I can see my breath come in puffs. I am glad I brought the gloves and that I have dry boots to put on for my drive home. Filling up can be cold wet work.
I always stop in wonder, to see this perfect clean water pouring in a constant stream, free and plentiful. How blessed we are to receive this gift. Doing nothing to be worthy of it, save simply being. A gift freely given, the love of our mother the earth. I am breathless, in awe of this. I pray first. Thanking the water and the earth, I drink deeply and bless myself. Anointing my head and heart with sacred water. A ritual older than religion. Holy water was not invented by Christians after all. The practice of blessing with water is ancient as we are and just as primal.
The water flows quickly into the bottles, so cold they instantly fog up. I wipe each down as I cap it an place it back in the car. It only takes a few minutes to fill them all. The water keeps on flowing, so strong and steady. As I make ready to leave I pause again in gratitude  and reverence. I bow and drink deeply one more time. So thankful for the gift of clean water. Driving off, I look back fondly…until next time my dear spring!!
Leaving the spring I drive a short way to a trail head. In the winter I make this trip just to forage water, but it is spring and greens are coming on strong and bountiful. Gloves, scissors and a gathering bag in my hand, I head into the woods. Following the path of  stream over fallen logs and under low hanging branches. My eyes begin to adjust to the variation in color and texture of the foliage. Moving from the “wall of green” we city dwellers see, to the keen eyes of a gatherer. I see the nettles, small and tender. The tell tale leaf shape, the fine looking fuzziness that will sting my skin and stay burning for hours if I am not careful. At first I see only a few and then its as if they all suddenly appear. Really they were there all along but my eyes adapt. Carefully I harvest, listening to where the forest guides me. Thanking each plant. I leave behind any that tell me no, please don’t choose me. I listen with my heart not my mind. So easily I could  disbelieve my hearing, so easily talk myself out of knowing. I am learning to hear with my hearts ears, learning to speak the plant language.
The gathering is so peaceful. I alone, in the forest. There is some sort of magic that over takes me. A heightening of my senses, acuity of smell, taste, hearing, seeing. I become more alive! I love to sing as I gather, blessing songs, lullabies, simple crooning’s to let the plants know I love them . I can feel the ancient power of this practice, how long have we gathered food in such a way? Seeking nourishment and giving thanks. It is so familiar to my soul.
To have survived so long, my ancestors must have been good at gathering, no small wonder it feels so natural to me. I have read the theory that our cultural addiction to shopping is a stand in for our deep need to gather. We seek out sale bargains instead of seeking the choice greens or ripest fruits. This makes sense to me, our powerful skill built over eons of seeking the best we can find, misplaced in the malls and outlet stores. A sad remnant of what we once knew, what we once held as our own.
I gather for my own nourishment but also for the nourishment of my people and my heritage. I Gather to remember how to be a human woman, providing from the land. I gather for the plants, yes, I eat them out of love. I want them to know we have not forgotten, we need them still and honor all they do for us. I gather to know who I am, the forest sings it back to me, again and again, reminding me of my place in the circle of living.
Driving home, my car filled with water and greens. My heart filled with moss and glory. I am at peace, no wait, I AM peace. Now the cleaning and storing begins. The real work. Now it is time to get back to city life, yet I am still hungry…ready to head to the woods again.

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Simple Gifts

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“Tis a gift to be simple tis a gift to be free! Tis a gift to come round where you ought to be…and when you find yourself in the place just right you will be in the valley of love and delight. ”

These words danced from my mothers lips throughout my childhood. The sweet and simple tune, a lilting soft spun sound, like the rhythm of waves lapping at the shore. She sang as she cleaned the house or drove in the car, as we walked through the streets of Northwest Portland. Sweet hymns where her songs and they became mine too. Simple gifts was her mothers song as well,  so it is truly in my blood, my generational memory, my DNA as well as my heart.  A song which now holds the power to make my heart swell to twice its size simply on hearing the first notes of the melody. This song has in fact become one of my own simple gifts. A treasure I carry with me, a comfort, a portable  piece of home I can never misplace.

I mostly sing this song in praise and moments of joy, I snuggle up beside it. The familiar feel of its presence so companionable. I sing it for Grandma Marjorie, an audible prayer of remembrance and devotion. It says “I won’t forget where I came from, my home is in your heart and yours in mine.” It is one of the ways I carry the bones of my ancestors with me. I sing it for the girl child I once was. Small sticky hand pressed into my Mama’s larger, less sticky hand. I sing it because I remember the feel of her cheek on mine. How her hair would fall over my face, that long heavy braid engulfing me. A curtain of Mom. Could anything be as beautiful as her hair?

Simple Gifts is a teaching song. Teaching a lesson we desperately need to learn. As life grows faster and faster with each passing generation. Simplicity is losing its place at the table. Being replaced by gadgets and gizmos, social media and netfilx binges. Can this small  song serve as a vessel to reconnect me to what really matters? The simple, free and beautiful blessings that life is made up of? Can I hold the teaching close enough to feel it?

I walk out in the morning. Rain falls softly, of course it does, it is spring in Portland. I do not have much time before the hustle of the day begins. Morning is my time, I make it my own. My thoughts are dark this morning. Life feels hard, how will I make it? How can I ever fulfill my dreams when I work so much and seem to have so little? Seem to save so little, my world feels little. I am a pawn in a system I cannot change, the thoughts begin their downward spiral once again…then I see the bird. Small, so small. A bushtit I believe. A fluttering of brown in the low shrub I am passing. The roundness of the birds body, stark contrast to the long angles of the branches. There is no fear of failure in his bright eye. No self pity in his morning foraging. It looks like joy, the way he moves through the shrub, onto the ground for just a wee moment and then brightly returns to the shrub. Watching me, head cocked just so in greeting.

I remember….Simple gifts. This is the gift to be free. To walk in the morning with an old dog beside me. Now so deaf that he hardly pulls on the leash at all. The bushtits calls do not attract his attention, he just keeps on sauntering, smelling, peeing every few feet. This is the gift, pure and simple. The gift to be in my life. Fully present and aware. To see that sweet bird and let his fearless joy for life swell in my heart. The unspeakable tenderness for this shared experience of the sacredness of life. This connection of being alive on this planet together, us three. Bird, dog and woman. Intrinsically linked in this pursuit we call life.

 

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When true simplicity is gained to bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed…..