“One final paragraph of advice: do not burn yourselves out. Be as I am - a reluctant enthusiast....a part-time crusader, a half-hearted fanatic. Save the other half of yourselves and your lives for pleasure and adventure. It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it’s still here. So get out there and hunt and fish and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, climb the mountains, bag the peaks, run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, the lovely, mysterious, and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to the body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much; I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those desk-bound men and women with their hearts in a safe deposit box, and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators. I promise you this; You will outlive the bastards.” ― Edward Abbey
the smell of dew at dawn. bare feet in the garden.
hot brewed coffee. sweet, dark blackberries.
squirrels jumping through the tree canopy.
sound of water spray splashing on plants.
My mornings these days begin early, but slow. No where to be. No one waiting on me. And that feels damn good.
At dawn I pull myself out of bed and away from lorax's sweaty, clingy little body. There is always those few moments that I sit, watching them as they sleeps, struck by the heart's capacity to feel such a big love and immense gratitude.
But at the moment I've got hours of alone time before they wake, as long as I get up with the dawn. Hours to move slow and settle into my body for the day. To write, to reflect, to work in my garden, or to just sit and watch the early morning bee frenzy over at the borage.
These days I get to sip my coffee slow, and watch the sun rise up over the trees and neighboring houses.
I offer my morning prayers to the sun, and open up my senses through song. May my heart be opened to the flow of grief and praise today. May my ears hear the songs of spirit all around me. May I see and walk my path with ease. May I remember to think of love in moments of irritation or impatience.
As I pray, sing, and meditate the moments turn into minutes, which turn into hours. And even still, the somatic memories of the decades spent rushing out the door and the anxiety of being late flare up, as if my body is still learning that there really, truly is, nowhere to be. To be gentle with myself and my process, I just funnel that energy into my garden work, trying to get as much done in the garden as I can before lorax wakes up and the late summer heat comes on.
As I work, I contemplate the year ahead of us. After seven years of being entrenched in academia and other life restricting situations, this year long hiatus will serve us well. I've committed to giving us this precious and well deserved year with no academics, no activism, and no community organizing. And I have no regrets. No bitters. Just the sweetness of being unhindered and mobile.
I send my blessings to the folks who will continue in their efforts this year in protecting the water and the land, but acknowledge that the urge to join the effort has been usurped by this even greater desire to give myself the time and space to connect, heal, and integrate.
I ponder on the places we might go. The people we might see. I think about how it might feel to have such open spaces to roam and wander freely for such an extended period of time, and if I will ever be able to go back to confinement.
I put that last thought away though just as I become aware of it. I don't have to think about that right now, or anytime soon. There will be time for that later.
Right now there is just me, this garden, this sunshine, and a zillion other sweet sensory pleasures to enjoy and give thanks for.