Peering out from behind the mask-Who is under there?

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I wear a mask. You can  not see it on my face, but it is there all the same.  Well concealed are the parts of me that I would rather you not see. The parts that hurt. The shame gremlins. The sorrow. I learned to wear this mask when I was so young. A self preservation method that worked, on some level to create a perception of safety. A wall around my heart. How can we live in world that feels so cruel when the heart is so soft and tender How can we grow up whole when culture teaches us to tear each other apart? We learn  to see the hurt, the otherness, the awkwardness  in others as a sign of their weakness and lack of validity. We learn this early. Our parents do not have to teach it. We have another mother who happily teaches us the ins and outs of judgement and the social power structure, mother culture.

Most of us have mastered the tool of masking before we are 8 years old. The skill grows quickly and insidiously  from that first age of self consciousness. In many cultures and faith traditions, a child until seven years of age is considered blameless, or  “sinless.” If we look at the etymology of the word sin, meaning “to miss the mark” then we see that children in the younger years are truly sinless. They have no mark to miss. No plotting or planning, and no masking. Pure expression and experience. Pure love and emotion. Of course the age at which we learn to begin hiding varies greatly. Some children probably learn much earlier, as circumstance requires of them.

I consider a mask to be a form of separation we create to hide from others, or even to hide from ourselves. This is so subtle that we may not even be aware that we are masking.  We hide so that we don’t feel wounded. Or we hide because  we have been wounded. The trouble with the hiding is that it also keeps us from expressing the truth of our being. The truth is the reason we are here on earth. To express our truth and the wisdom of our souls is why we accepted the assignment of life school in the first place!

Many of the things we learn in childhood serve us at the time we learn them. We use them and we need them then. As we grow older the behavior that was so useful when we were young may no longer serve us. Alas, we may also no longer know that it exists in us, until we begin some real inner excavation. Masking is one of those tools. I use the word tool here not to say it is necessarily a healthy life skill…but in  more rudimentary sense. A tool = an implement that get a job done.

The bitter truth is that we live in a culture that is built on people being willing to wear a mask. We admire humans who seem to have it all together. The friend we all have who  works endless hours, trains for a marathon and is always put together and smiling. Families that are intact and happy, with clean young children and perfect Christmas cards sent out each year on time. Women who hold high power jobs, parent perfectly and go to spin class faithfully. Celebrities  and television characters that make life look like a perfect picture of ease, fun and excitement. All of these projected images of success have one core thing in common, they make us feel like we  could be more. We could be better. We could be thinner and more dedicated to our work. We could make more money and travel more. We could have invested years ago and have it now be paying off. Our teeth could be whiter and we could have more friends and more fun! This feeling of longing, of wanting to be more…it makes us feel like we are less.
Here is the trick, here is mother culture speaking untruths in our ears. Here is the trap that keeps us tied up, wanting, waiting, wishing, comparing and masking. Because you know what? It fucking hurts to want what you don’t have. And it takes raw vulnerability to say    ” yeah I want a lot that I don’t have and it hurts me, I feel less than, I feel left out.” So we don’t say it. We throw on a custom made mask and we head out the door with fake ass smile plastered all over our poorly concealed sorrow.

The trap has been set. We grow up with images of life that are unreal and unattainable for most. Even the wealthy among us find out that our needs are not met through the accrual of things or power. We think we want a life that look a certain way, that meets these standards of success that we were taught would make us happy.  Everything in our culture sings this same song, produce more, buy more, you will be happy….or at least you will look happy. Most of us do not even know how to find out what happiness mean to us. We give up our sovereign right to know our own minds and we settle for the daily grind and an ever changing mask. Can we be brave enough to look outside? Can we peel the corner of that mask off and allow ourselves to be seen? In all our longing, confusion and fear? If this speaks not to your souls experience dear friend, do not feel compelled to read any further. But if you feel the call of longing to set down the mask and find out who you truly are, stay with me in this inquiry.

As I began this writing I spoke of childhood wounding and of sorrow. I would propose now that all of our searching outside ourselves, all our longing and all our masking are tied to this same root. The need to  love and be loved. In fact, our entire consumerist culture is built on this. The desire for love.  We humans are truly so simple. Food, water, warmth, shelter, love and sex are really all we need. Love topping the list. I remember reading of the Harlow study done using baby  Rhesus monkeys. A cruel horrible study indeed. In which the infants separated from their mothers were given the choice of a wire fake monkey mother with a bottle of milk attached that the young one could drink. Or a soft plush fake mother that had no bottle that the young one could feed from. Each time the baby chose the soft, more life like fake mother monkey. Coming only to the wire one to feed when very hungry and then scrambling back to the security of a soft body to cling to. Even though it was a doll and lifeless, the security of something soft to cling to, the only mother these poor creatures were allowed to know.

In this life where so many of us feel isolated and alone. We substitute the needs for love and connection with the pursuit of things, status, wealth and power. It is a cultural madness that leaves us always and forever wanting more. Of course we want more! Our basic needs are unmet so we try again and again to meet those needs, attempting to fill up a hunger that cannot be filled by anything you can consume. Not food or drink. Not drugs or sex. Not new clothes or cars. Not the latest iPhone or gadget. None of it will even touch the longing, only numb you for a moment so that you can’t feel the pain.

This drive for love is under and around everything we do. Beginning in childhood with our family and then as we grow older at some point the focus shifts and we desire to have this love from our friends and peers. Many families cannot give the love we seek, many homes are full of sorrow or fear. Peer groups are fickle and ever changing. We can grow up seeking that which we want more than anything else in any place we can find it. This shows up in addictions, in compulsive behaviors and unhealthy relationships. We desire so much to be loved that we try to find the parts of ourselves that we deem unlovable and hide them. The masking has begun.

To begin the process of taking of our masks we must become willing to be seen. First seen by ourselves. Willing to look into the dark corners of our lives and see what we have been hiding from. This takes great courage. Until we can see our own truth, we cannot start to really learn how to be honest . In learning to be honest, first with ourselves, we can the learn what it is that we really want.

My mask comes mostly in the form of “I am fine and everything is ok.” I wear it so well and so often that for many long years I did honestly not know that it was there. I wore it into the desperation of addiction which eventually brought me to the place of needing to look under the mask to see what hurt so badly that I was unconsciously trying to destroy myself. Hidden under my mask, is a deeply sad and confused little girl. With a huge tender heart who doesn’t understand why the world feels so cruel and why she is so alone. In seeing this clearly, as painful and hard to admit as it may be, I open the door to see what it is I am longing for. Love, security, and belonging. I know I am not alone.

I know I am not alone because this is what all humans want. A place to feel safe. To be loved and to love. To be accepted as we are and able to shine! How sad that we don’t learn to give this to each other. How sad that instead we feel we have to hide out behind a mask that presents us as something we deem to be more loveable than our true selves. When nothing could be farther from the truth! Our true selves are what is loveable about us!

I am ready to learn a new way. I am ready to put down the mask, to stop saying “I’m fine” when all I want to do is lie down on the ground and weep. I am ready to allow the pain and the beauty of life to break me in half. to crack my mask, once and for all. I will leave that mask on the floor and step over its broken pieces on my way to the freedom of living as me. Like it or no. I am who I am .

As the wise teacher, Krishnamurti once said  “it is no  measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.” It is no strange thing that so many of us are sick, in this profoundly sick society. How can we change the way we live as a people to start meeting the true needs of each individual and of the whole? How can we create a new world where we honor the life of ALL beings as holy? How can we make our children feel safe enough that they never have to learn to wear a mask? I don’t know if I have answers…but I do have some ideas, and I am sure you do to.

We can learn to listen to the call of our heart to meet the heart of another. We can slow down in our lives enough to be with the people we love and meet new people to love! We can hug more and make eye contact with strangers. We can commit to leaving every person we meet better than we found them. We can speak up against injustice and tyranny. We can bravely be willing to say what we need and what we feel. We can make our homes safe for our children to do the same. We can get to know our neighbors and offer our hands in service and love. We can grow our own food, cook and eat it in our homes with our families. We can learn to hear the parasitic voice of mother culture as she tries to tell us we are not enough and call her, then and there on her bullshit. We can be examples in our own lives of fearless, simple and heart centered living. We can be thankful for all that is given and all that is taken away. This is my prayer. This is my commitment.

I’ll leave you now with a simple poem by the great Hafiz. A call to being brave enough to let your heart be seen. Know that you, wherever you are and whoever you are, have a place here. You are whole. You are needed. You are welcomed. You are loved. Leave your mask at the door tonight. Let’s meet each other in the plain beauty of our own sweet faces.

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Frittata with Kale and Leeks

A weekend morning treat…

During the week I usually do not have the time to make a breakfast with this level of time commitment. It is simple enough and reheats well, so I will be able to enjoy the leftovers during the week, oh yeah! I love creative egg dishes and since I eat  mostly grain free, eggs are the go to for breakfast. Also my hens are laying again now that spring is on its way, so eggs are again in abundance (thank you girls!) One of my  intentions for this blog is to have a place to share my  recipes. I LOVE to cook and frequently have requests for recipes from friends. Let me know if you try this dish and how it turns out for you, enjoy!

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Recipe

Ingredients~
8 eggs, pasture raised is best
8 oz. pork sausage (optional) this is also super yummy as a meat free dish
2  plump leeks- cleaned and trimmed of tough greens (don’t forget to save greens for broth! They are excellent and can be frozen until you make your next pot.)
1 Anaheim chili, or could substitute any pepper you prefer
1 bunch kale-I used Lacinato, also called Italian black Kale
1 tsp salt
1 tsp black pepper
1/2 tsp dried thyme leaves
1 cup grated cheddar cheese
butter or coconut oil for sautéing

 

Method

Preheat oven to 350 and grease a 8×8 glass baking dish

  1. Prep all your veggies. Cut leeks in half lengthwise and then slice thinly. Prepare chili by deseeding and dicing. Clean dry and tear kale into small pieces. Set all aside, ready to go when you need them.
  2.   Heat fat in your pan and sausage if using. Sauté until browning and turn heat down. Add leeks, keep heat at a medium setting to avoid browning leeks, easy does it. After the leeks have softened some and reduced in volume by about 1/3, add in chili, sauté  for a few more minutes and then add the  kale and continue to cook until wilted. Take off heat to cool slightly.
  3. Break eggs into a bowl and beat well. Add salt, pepper and thyme to egg mixture.
  4. Grate cheddar cheese and add half of it to your egg mixture, set the rest aside for the top of your frittata.
  5. Mix your sautéed vegetables and sausage into your egg mixture. The cooked ingredients should be cool enough as to not cause the eggs to start scrambling. If in doubt, wait 10 min and then add.
  6. Pour egg and vegetable mixture into prepared pan. Top with the remaining cheese and put into the oven. Bake for 30- 40 min at 350. It will look golden browned on top, and will puff up slightly in the center. Eat and enjoy! img_3396

I served my Frittata with a fruit salad made of fresh grapefruit and thawed raspberries with a creamy topping of whipped cream and cream cheese blended with yogurt and a few drops of vanilla stevia to add a touch of sweetness. It was such a delightful and special weekend breakfast! Green smoothies are great, but this was such a treat!

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Happy cooking and happy eating!!
Love,

Marianna

 

 

 

In memory of my beloved Rajah

He has been gone almost two years now. My dear beloved orange one. Love of my heart. I didn’t know I could love a cat so much. I miss him everyday. This poem came at the time of his death. I wanted to share it in honor and gratitude for all he gave me. img_0316-edited

For Raj

This grief, in my body, is not tame
This grief is wild grief, it makes my bones feel heavy
And my heart hollow.
This grief of mine is not small or pretty
It is not concealable, its open wide.
How can it be that powerful love means powerful loss?
How can it be that to come and to go is built into the divineness of the one?
My grief has no room for philosophical platitudes.
It pounds on the door, whining.
It pleads for answers, again and again
While knowing there simply are not always answers,
And when there are, usually we don’t really like them anyway.
My grief consumes every square inch of my torso, my throat, my eyes.
It is too large to be boxed up for later
Too messy to be “to go” wrapped.
I must eat it now.
Right here, right now.
This is placed upon my plate
Remember- there are not always answers
Remember- this too shall pass….
And what will remain??
The love
It is all that ever was
Anyway.

THANK YOU RAJ, for loving me, for knowing me, for blessing me with the brightness of your spirit, and finally for teaching me about loss and separation. My cat guru..I am forever grateful.

 

My Hungry Ghosts

Sikkim - Land of Discovery

I have been roaming around the house. Aimlessly cleaning, wiping surfaces and loading dishes in the dishwasher. I ate two paleo truffles, dark chocolate and with maca and cardamom, and six pieces of bacon. Dinner. I was full but still searching for something to fill me. I came home from work on the late side today. It’s dark and rainy. My dog still wants to walk but I don’t. I am all stirred up. Restless, irritable and discontent. I know this place too well, it should feel friendly by now but it does not. These feelings are not welcome, but still, they are here. My ghosts are hungry.
Gabor Mate, in his incredible book In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts, tells of a Tibetan Buddhist story. Of ghosts with small throats and large swollen bellies. Their throats so small that never enough food can pass through to alleviate their great hunger. They can never be filled, are always hungry, always craving, longing, wanting. This is a perfect  analogy for addiction. The hunger that never stops, can not be filled, and takes many forms.
I haven’t had a drink in two years, two years, it feels like a along time to say it. In reality it feel like no time at all, its just my life now. The first two months of sobriety felt like  a way bigger deal than the two year mark. I was like a baby those first months, everything was new. How did people do life without alcohol? So many firsts. My first sober dinner out with my husband, his martini was painfully distracting. My first sober beach trip, who knew, you can actually have fun at the beach without wine, and yet still long for it with a gut level ache that words cannot due justice. Every new experience felt like a big deal, yardwork (look at me working in my garden, sober!) hiking, hanging with friends. A hundred firsts. Learning a new way of being in the world.
Somehow, quite sneakily if you ask me. Alcohol had woven itself into nearly every area of my life, settled in and made a home in me. So cunning that I did not see it taking up occupancy until it had become so deeply  entrenched in my daily life that I felt I needed it to survive. Can people really do laundry sober? Boring. I had somehow come to believe that in order for life to be fun or fulfilling that I had to have a glass of something in my hand, better yet a bottle of something. A glass didn’t last nearly long enough.
Addiction is such that once seen it cannot be unseen, you can hide from it for a while. Most of us do, but the knowledge that something is not quite right will not ever really go away. I tried to hide for a long time. I tried everything under the sun to get away from the fact that I was dependent on alcohol, that I had lost control. But truth is persistent, and usually wins in the end. For me the truth was, I could no longer drink alcohol. I still  cannot drink alcohol. It is a hard truth to see, especially when we live in a culture where it is the common currency of social bonding, the sweet lubricant of conversation, the easiest way to connect with other humans. To not drink is to choose to learn a new way of living and connecting. Not an easy task, but truly a worthwhile and rewarding endeavor. I may write more about my process of choosing and working for sobriety in another post. Today this feels like enough. I have never spoken so openly about my recovery before and I feel vulnerable in doing so here, but it feels right as well, and most importantly, true.
So here I find myself, sober, having learned so many new ways to be. Yet still suffering. My ghosts are still hungry. They still will not let me rest . Some days I am tormented by longing. I just want something to make me feel better. I don’t always even know what it is that is hurting, what I am running away from. It can manifest as this aimless restlessness, almost a feeling of being lost, of despair. This is where I found myself today. In the realm of my hungry ghosts. I want to put things in my mouth, just for the sensation of tasting. I can get away from me for as long as I am consuming something else. I can fill myself up, if only for a moment… food never really fills the hole. There simply is no physical solution to a spiritual problem. Addiction doesn’t go away because you sober up. It still lives here. I still have all the pathology living inside of me that lead me to drink. Yes, it is better. Much healing has happened here for me. Still, there is a lot of healing yet to come. Maybe it will never be completely over. Maybe I will always have days where the ghosts roam through me, hungry and longing. I don’t  know, but I imagine this is so.
I do know that I can survive this. I have survived much worse. I do know that I can sit right in the seat of my own discomfort and still find a way to smile. I have learned that I do not have to be perfect or happy all the time to have value. I have value simply by the virtue of being born here in this human form. And maybe some of that value truly comes from weathering the storms of this messy imperfect life. The perfection of my imperfection.
I can let go of any ideal of what my life needs to look like. I can rest, I can surrender my need to control, I can eat bacon, I can let the ghosts howl hungry all night long….

Oneness, Separation and Super Bowl

It is Super Bowl Sunday here in the US. I found myself at the grocery, shopping for a few veggies to add to a delicious roast leg of lamb I am making in the Dutch oven, it is starting to smell divine…
There were so many people at the store, carts and baskets full of cheap processed game day goodies. The bakery tables overflowing with stacks of commercial grade cupcakes with colored frosting. Shut up tight in plastic clamshell containers, with list of ingredients of unknown origin, unpronounceable and unfit for human consumption. People stop and look at them, shove them busily in to their carts and go on, fast, fast, fast…must get home before the big game begins.
It all makes me feel sick inside. Is this how we celebrate? By tuning into some sports match that has no real effect on our lives and shoving processed crap down our throats and those of our children? I found myself feeling more and more triggered as I wound my way through the produce. After being there for no more than 10 minutes, I was terribly glad that I only had a few things to purchase and I left feeling  anger, sorrow, and of course, judgement.
As I drove home, after eventually making it out of the parking lot, I could not help but see that my mind had hijacked me in to “us” and “them” thinking again. It happens all the time. A simple trip to the store had turned me into a churning mess of thoughts and resentment. How could they…What a terrible way to celebrate…Sports are so fucking stupid!….What an absolute waste of resources, we could be doing so much better…
And while all these statements on their own do seem on some level seem true to me, I saw so clearly that I had fallen in to the old story of separation. A story where I know better than others and they should be doing better. A story where there is a clear black and white, right or wrong, good or bad meaning to everything. This I know to be untrue, life is much more nuanced than that,  thank God.
So I pull myself back, I look for the similarities rather than the differences, I remember that judgement and resentment ALWAYS lead to suffering and that I get to choose which thoughts and beliefs are welcome here. The question I have to ask myself is; What is really going on here??
When my mind lists off all the things that are “wrong” with Super Bowl, what is the root of that emotion? What hurts? Because truly all anger comes from some unspoken, frequently unseen hurt. So what does hurt me when I react in such an inflamed and emotional way?
A sense that we could have more. We could have real celebrations of connection and community. We have been robbed of these things by the commercialization and monetization of the modern sports world. It hurts because my heart longs for a way of living where all life is celebrated. I cast judgement on the wasteful excess of Super Bowl because my heart longs to live in place where the care of all beings comes before the betterment of highly paid professional footballers and the glut of advertisers that reap the benefit of the huge amount of money made by events such as this.
The danger is that in creating this division between those that love the Super Bowl and those that find it garish and wasteful, is that I fail to see the root of desire that is shared by both parties. I fail to see the similarities and emphasize the differences.
When my heart hurts as I witness the American family gathering round a TV set to root and cheer for teams that seem so arbitrary to me, what I am really feeling is a desire for families to come together in sacred connection that is healing. What the families gathered around their TV sets today want, is I am sure quite similar. They want to come together, to be close, to have fun and to, in their way, celebrate life. If I can see that, I can find connection where there was separation and understanding where there was judgement.
This inquiry into my own reactivity is a healing path for me. I am able to see why my beliefs cause me to suffer and I am able to see what values I hold true, that I perceive to be compromised by this national day of sport worshipping. I can find acceptance without disowning my feelings.
I believe there is a better way to live and celebrate. A way that honors all beings who live on this earth. I believe that our massive overconsumption of food, television and goods is a symptom of a deeper illness, a social sickness that has set in and separates us from living in harmony with life. And I know that if we are to heal this sickness it will not be through separation, judgement or condemnation of the “other.”
This Super Bowl example is a micro of the macro. How can I contribute to the healing of the world if I can’t even get through the grocery store without hating people for their choices? Simple, I can’t. It has to start with me, home base, my life, my thoughts. I have to do the work.
I know I am not the only one who is dealing with a mind that separates “us” and “them” with alarming frequency. Our whole culture is built on this premise. In fact colonization itself is an impossibility without this belief, and we are products of colonization through and through. To change the way we live on the Earth we will have to become willing to learn a new way of being, a way that does not condemn and separate, but rather connects and supports. When we see someone as “other,” they have no choice than to be other. When we decide we are right, we leave no choice than for the “other” to be wrong. Can you see the sickness in this thinking? Can you see the suffering?
We are in times of great upheaval and strife. Political, environmental, social. These are just the tip of the quickly melting iceberg. What is to come may drive us farther apart. It is so hard to stay grounded in love when all you hold dear seems to possibly be going up in flames. I want to stay, and to urge you to stay, in the new story of connection and cooperation. I want us to remember we are more alike than we are different and to hold ourselves to a code of conduct that reflects that. I know there may be days of war ahead, I know we must stand strong and fight misogyny, racism, environmental terrorism, fascism and fear mongering. I just want us to remember that we can fight without sacrificing love. That we can grow without hating those that grow more slowly, that we can lead by example and spread truth. I believe in a better world, a more beautiful world. I believe it is possible and that it will take a lot of work and a lot of heart, It starts with me, and it starts with you. It starts with offering all that you meet a place at the table. Whoever you are, wherever you are….I offer you a place at my table. We will find what is common between us and let it grow, I will speak my truth and invite you to do the same, I will open my hard heart a little bit wider, enough to let a beam of light into my darkness. I will remember, all flourishing is mutual.

My Ancestors

There has been a deep well of  thought swirling around inside of me since my reading of the incredible book Die Wise by Stephen Jenkinson. The depth and sincerity of his inquiry in to what makes a good death, and what makes a good life, have unfolded layers of possibility I have not known prior to this time in my life. I am sure I will be unpacking this work for a long time to come. He discusses at length the historical and cultural need of humans to know their ancestors. The terrible poverty of spirit we suffer in the loss of this connection to people, our people, and place. Truly knowing our roots, let alone having any type of tangible connection to the land of our people is a foreign concept to most of us here in the west. This touched a chord deep in me, as sense of loss. I knowing only bits of my family history, nothing past my great grandparents and of them truly not knowing much. There is no blame here. My parents have shared with me much of what they know, and I am blessed to have a family that is quite intact and connected. Yet, I know there is so much more that I do not know than what I do.
I certainly do not know where the bodies of my dead lie. I do not know with any certainty, even in what countries they are buried. This feels like aching loss to me. What were the names of these people before me? What words were native to their tongues? What songs did they sing? These feel like questions of great importance to me in this moment. There is a sense that a part of me is missing ,an integral piece of who I am just not there. If you don’t know your past how can you know your future?
This is the plight of the immigrant, and we are almost all children of children of immigrants to this land, here in North America. We cannot leave our homelands without leaving our homes and without leaving the bones of our ancestors behind. This was their greatest fear, all of our greatest fears..to be forgotten. To be left behind. The hurt of this abandonment runs in my blood and if you look deeply I would imagine that you will find it runs in your as well. Though you may not have seen it  there before and you may not feel its deep ache at this moment. It is there, a rift, a space, a longing for something so old we almost forgot it existed, our history. 

As often happens when I am in process of something that feels big to me, a poem erupted out of the space of this inquiry into ancestry and belonging. Poems are healing balm for my human soul., maybe your soul as well. I leave this one here to share with you and with all my own ancestors, back and back and back. May they know my gratitude.

BONES

I have lost my ancestors.
Their bones lie buried in the ground
many miles from here,
many miles from me.
I do not know under what earth they lie,
Nor where they breathed their last breath
T
hat memory is lost to me, if ever I had it at all.

 My ancestor’s lives are shrouded now,
cloaked in fog, mostly gone,
whispers of that time before
heavy beneath stones in some land that I do not call home.
I know not where they are
Nor what of them I carry inside myself.

 Yet I know I am born and built of the same material,
a
nd I am here due to their surviving
Again, and again and again,
Generation
on generation.
They must have been good hunters, good mothers, survivors
with strong bones and sharp teeth.

My ancestor’s bones lie buried in my bones
I carry their blood in the rushing of my blood
I sing their songs in my own voice
I feel the cool earth in my hands,
it is the same earth that came before me
Earth made up of the bones of ancestor’s
Earth made of life
Earth made of death
I call this family.

                                       

                                                                                            

                                                                                                                                                            

 

So I begin…

Sitting down to write, to begin this blog. It seems my mind is grasping for a perfect introduction for you, dear reader. A perfect way to express my intention here and sum up neatly what is to come and what the purpose of this endeavor shall be. But that won’t be happening today . For truly, I do not know what is to come to life on these pages, only time and inspiration will reveal that. I know only now, that I want to write. I want to write because the words and feelings inside of me need a place to live an put down roots, a place other than the folds of my mind. I want to write because life is desperately beautiful and equally horrible and somehow, someway, I am trying to make sense of it all, if there is any sense to be made. And if there is not, there is at the very least ample opportunity for growth and learning. For this I am grateful.

I will be exploring many facets of the growth and learning that come across my path. As well as many, many questions. Of the small nature such as ” are lemon peels good in compost?’ as well as of the larger nature “what does it mean to live a good life?” I can assure you now that my inquiries are broad and varied and that there are few things I enjoy as much as a delicious pondering.

I will as well be sharing of my heart, my experiences, my dreams, my poetry and artwork. I hope to create here a fertile ground for my discovery of self and life, a place where I can grow and share my deepest wisdom and my most beautiful aspirations. I am a born maker. I love to create something from nothing. I love to lose track of myself for a while in the process of midwifing something new into the world. Sometimes that something is tangible and solid, sometimes as transparent and subtle as these words on a page.

I welcome you to join me here, as I explore life, learning, my own mind and my joy filled heart. I welcome you to reach out to me if something I say touches you, or if you wish to connect with me. I am dedicated to being of service to my community at home as well as abroad, wherever you may be. May we all be happy and free, may we all be wondrous and wise and may we GROW!