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Friday, April 3, 2020


I'm still sorting through the fucking shards of March's pi bomb. Nonetheless, I can feel some resolve steeping in the murky ooze. I wrote to someone yesterday these (among other) words:

"While I've always valued forgiveness as a premier healer... not this time. [She] has taught me that some things are unforgivable. Maybe, this, too shall pass... but I'm not feeling it at present."

And I'm not. For the first time in my life I'm reevaluating the healing power of forgiveness. This, to many - if not most - of those in my healing circles would be judged unconscionable. And even with that consideration, and the possibility of being shunned by a critical support system, I'm willing.

Willing to be fierce.

The hen pictured in this post is named Salty, Salty the Straw Boss. When we first got her my spouse looked at her and said, "she's fierce." I didn't see it. Not really. Yet, in comparison with her flock members (all of whom she's outlived) I was able fathom his perception. Even with the new little flock, she is top of the pecking order. She's different in appearance, and in demeanor from her peers. She's a survivor. She's past her prime, yet still laying eggs. She is fierce.

I don't know what Salty has to do with this forgiveness journey of mine, but she's one of our flock of four layers that sustains me, entertains me, that inspires me to laugh, and that lightens a heavy heart.

And that's the Medicine I seek now: The sustaining Medicine that lightens a heavy heart. And right now that feels like Humor.



Dark, fierce, unforgiving humor.

I think I'm ready.

Peace. 🕊

Thursday, March 26, 2020


Anyone who knows me in any meaningful way, in the physical or virtual realms, knows that I'm adopted. It comes up and out in the most usual of conversations ranging from familial associations, medical history to behavioral backgrounds, genetic memory, and so on. I've always known I was adopted, and its simply always been a key defining piece of who I am. In most ways, I've been comforted by it, and have never had any inclination to seek 'n' know anything about by birth mother, or the Y chromosome contributor. 

I've never asked to know. I've never wanted to know.

Who I am in this veil of mystery has always resonated with me, has consistently been a comfort to me, has always felt Just and Right.

So when someone - She - shared unwanted, unsolicited birth mother detail with me, without even checking in, my world rocked. Fucking rOcKeD. What's worse is that the teller - She - did not own the story, and to my knowledge, the owner of the story - the birth mother - took the story with her into the big mystery. And that was her choice. As was the adoption. As a woman who respects women in an actual meaningful way, and their choices, I respect my birth mother's choices. Period. Bottom line. End of sentence. I respect any woman's choices in any such situations, no matter what the choices are. 

So sharing the birth mother story with me, without the slightest bit of check-in, is nothing short of cruel - to both of us.

What's quite possibly worse is that this rather personal detail was shared with others before it was shared with me. How fucking weird is that? And worse still is that it was shared to me in a letter that was sprinkled with passive aggressive poison. And the worst bit of cruelty, from my view, is that my birth mother was told - by She - on her death bed, along with other other venomous fictions, that I knew and that I was angry, and that it was the reason I chose distance from a family that - clearly, now more than ever - needs no reason for said distance.

That last bit rips my heart out. Fucking rips it out.

I'm still sorting through the shards of this bomb. As a Medicine person, I take this work seriously. As a Medicine person, I've always placed premier value on the Medicine of forgiveness... but now... that may shift. And if so, it would shift a deeply rooted aspect of me. And that truth leads me to wonder: Is that selfish? 

So there's more work. And the heaviest query, it seems, at least in this moment, rests on She, and the puzzle of how anyone can be so mean. To so many. Dead, dying, and living. 

It's beyond sad. And quite possibly beyond forgiveness.

Peace. 🕊

Monday, March 23, 2020


Nine days after the pi bomb and I'm realizing just how frustrated and angry I am. It ain't pretty. I haven't responded to life with this much tearful anger, methinks, since my young 20s. This is not good. And yet, there it is. I'm angry at COVID-19 because I can't confide in a healing syster as I would like, face to face, side by side, heart to heart, to be heard so that the next phase of healing may commence. And that's bratty. I'm angry that I can't shove this fucking genie, that I was perfectly fine without, back into its fucking bottle so that I might shove it down the odious, lying throat of She.

See? It ain't pretty. I'm not liking it. In fact, I don't think I've every really hated anything in my life, but I'm pretty sure it's hate I'm feeling for this. And to process it all alone is not resonating. But at least I can vomit up the poison here. I just hope I discover forgiveness in the spew.

Peace. 🕊

Saturday, March 21, 2020

Valuable Relationships

I give thanks to my relationship with Nona Gaia, my beloved mother earth, and to the spirit of all her rooted and ethereal kin. Today, and every day. Yet recently, my gratitude has intensified. My tap root has sunk deeper. My stem, however, has wilted.

Nonetheless, I am grateful for that sinking tap root. I am beyond grateful. Beyond.

Over the past week I've witnessed in undeniable ways the potent holistic value of my relationship with Nona Gaia and her kin, and I honor with increasing valor their steadfast willingness to support me. And all of us.

A lot has happened over the past week. A fucking lot. For all of us.

Nine days ago I made the decision to cancel all classes and gathers. A week ago, that personal pi day bomb dropped.

And I'm still sorting the shards.

It's a strange, unnerving, unsettling experience to learn something about oneself in one's 61st year of life. Something that was never sought. Something that was never requested. A story conveyed by one who owned not the story. A story conveyed in written word, peppered with (typical) passive aggressive judgement to boot. I almost didn't open that letter. But it wouldn't have mattered, because the poison was shared with others and would have made its way to me anyway. On day six. Because it did. Anyway. This remarkably personal bomb was dropped on others before it was dropped on me.

It's so fucked up.

Eight days ago my personal life had deep roots and footing. I was a grounded person. My stem was strong and straight. Seven days ago that all changed.

I didn't ask for this.

I understand that life happens. Heck, I say it all the time. Life happens. We all receive unrequested gifts. That's how it rolls.

Yet this was not She's story to tell.

This is hard, hard work.

And it's come at a time when I'm unable to sit with friends to share it, hash it, heal it.

And that adds to the hurt.

Forgiveness will come hard. Yet, sweet Nona Gaia, in the name of all that is sacred and holy, it must come. And you will help me. And I am grateful. Grateful for this sinking tap root.

Peace. 🕊

Thursday, March 19, 2020

Stung, Skewed, Settled

I'm so grateful to be perched at the cusp of spring. I see the earth waking, even earlier than the earlier years past. We wandered our little acre yesterday, and harvested bits of wild things to add to our dinner. The nettles are still too wee to harvest. I had to sweep aside some of its leaf mulch to even see them. But they're on their way. As always, blessed Nettle is intuitive and generous. They reminded me, among other things, that stings pass, and most often offer Good Medicine in the bargain.

Thank you Nettle.

This morning I journaled that my world felt a bit more settled. Still skewed, but less volatile. So I'm going to relax with that today, give myself a break from "the work" and focus on some utilitarian tasks and deadlines that have taken a back seat to my pi day distractions.

That said, if anyone happens to be reading these personal entries, I wish you well during these challenging times. I'm isolating as much as possible, and when engaged with the greater world, it's at a minimum 10 feet distance.

Peace. 🕊

Wednesday, March 18, 2020

Damage Done

This morning I sit in the chill, damp, slimy wreckage of these recent days, handling that most vicious shard with relative ease. I reconcile with the damage done. It's done, and can't be undone. A beloved left this realm unnecessarily wounded; with a wound so deep that I can feel it. A wound so deep that others in this realm and in the big mystery feel it as well. A wound so broad and deep, forgiveness may be hard to find. Yet, that's the challenge of healing work. Like it or not.

So now I set that shard to the side (I'm not done with it yet), and pick up others to explore.

If the Medicine of heART journaling has taught me nothing else, it has taught me that something healing, forgiving, beautiful even, can be made manifest from waste, cruelty and damage.

Peace. 🕊

Tuesday, March 17, 2020

I See She

The recent correspondence with She of Some 40 Years of Questionable Trust began back in August 2019. I kept copies of my letters, notes and the single postcard I sent to her. Because I knew.

I Knew.

Thankfully, I knew.

One short phone conversation on bomb-drop pi day has her saying to me, "You're wrong."

Of course I am. I speak the truth, then my truth, and I'm wrong. Fucking rich. Fucking predictable.

Lying has - apparently - taken on a new respectability in these days we live in. All we have to do is look to the US president, his administration, not to mention the current so-called front runner of the Democratic (hah!) Primary to bear witness to this sad, regrettable truth. Not to mention cable news. And then some. But all that foolishness aside...

For She to share a lie, an especially vicious lie, with someone who's life is fading, who has little or no recourse to seek truth on their own, and to do it knowingly - knowingly - is beyond me. Beyond beyond. This slimy shard is so hard to hold. I want to crush and crumble it to oblivion, but it would slip from my grasp, or cut me, or both. A part of me would love to throw it in the face of She, but that would be cruel, and that cruelty belongs to her, not to me.

So I hold this slick, piercing shard, gingerly, as I seek the goodness, the Medicine, and the love that it holds. Or, perhaps, I'm mistaken, and this darkness will be the exception that proves the rule?

It's got me wondering what is truth and what is not, and if such... concepts actually matter.


Peace. 🕊

Monday, March 16, 2020

Grim Shit

My mother has been dead for almost seven years now, and still - still - there is one who continues to demonize her. And me, too, it now seems. This is a shard so sharp 'n' slippery I can't get myself to pick it up for closer examination. And yet, I must.

I won't be able to nurture understanding, compassion or forgiveness until I am able to handle this slimy razor-edged particle, and I must - must - work through this. Failure or delay to do so will poison me, and already I feel a hideous seething. I'm feeling a deep disgruntled disdain for the shitty, piddly-ass problems of others. Even the bigger-than-piddly-ass ones. And this is unfair. Because this challenge belongs to me, not to others. This challenge is brought to me by one, not many. And, as a Medicine person, others are my Medicine. I rely on them as much as they rely on me. ::nods::

Yet in this moment I find myself wading by degrees in grim, toxic waters. And there's no way out until I pick up this shard, poking up out of the shallow, mucoid murk.

Day one, I stoically digest, pushing away feeling as much as possible. Day two, digestion continues as I acknowledge and honor the feelings. And there's lots more feeling to do. Today, day three, I digest, feel, and begin to acknowledge the darkest of dark feelings.

And it's some grim shit.

Peace. 🕊