Google+ What I Made Today: 2020

Tuesday, December 1, 2020

Welcome to December's Deep Darkness

I'm taking December serious this year... with some earnest down-time, some ruminative stillness, quiet, and BEing. Because I can. And that's a mighty blessing.

December, in my hemisphere, invites us to delve deep into the expanding darkness of night. December reminds us it's our last chance in this turn of the wheel to do so. December cajoles us to quiet ourSelves... and others, to nest 'n' rest, to sleep more... to light candles 'n' fire... to simmer, stew, braise, roast... to embrace meaning in the long night of the soul... and then some.

I feel remarkably blessed (privileged) to be able to fully engage this December verve this year, without demands 'r distractions. Yule, I expect, will be especially sacred after honoring the darkness of the season in ways I've not done for years, quite possibly ever. While I anticipate the return of the light of our world at winter solstice, I shall continue diving deeper into the blessed darkness that the final days of autumn offer us. It's Good Medicine.

Given the nature of our shared world this year, I invite you - as much as you are able - to make time 'n' space to dive deep into the dark depths that only December delivers.


Sunday, November 1, 2020

Welcome to November

This is my new year month. November is my passageway into fresh mystery and manifestation. Now, understand that every day - every single day - holds such verve, yet (for me, anyway) November cradles a special capacity to concentrate it. So it is that I throw a full year spread for guidance as I look ahead and see the bold contrasts, the gentle shifts and pristine starts, complete with formidable challenges and indomitable rewards. For all of us. I thank the mighty reflections exposed and disclosed during October's work for this view, and offer gratitude to the counsel of the cards.

As I look to the year ahead I see revisions in my personal sphere. I see this year as the final year for taking on certificate students, closing a 21-year chapter. I see a rededication to my current students, and more seasonal, custom, and spontaneous teachings for all. I see tarot readings returning. And healing works. I see sharing skills 'n' experiences, resources 'n' wisdom in new ways. 

I see lots of work to do. For all of us. Inner and outer. 

I see contempt in all its forms, denied 'n' subtle, brazen 'n' violent, and then some, exposing itself even more blatantly than present... so that we may bind 'n' banish it. Banish it. Banish it.

I see the coming of a long 'n' solitary winter. In this vision I feel this season - the heart of autumn - invite me to check in on friends 'n' loved ones. I see a chilling phase that challenges me to LoVe in new ways.

I see lots of work to do. Lots. Inner and outer. For all of us. I see manifesting. I see magick.

And I invite you to join me in this November passage. And then some.

. 🕊

Thursday, October 29, 2020

The Season's Garden

Today is for rain. As was yesterday. And tomorrow snow is forecasted. 

Today I'll harvest in the rain. Yesterday I wallowed in October's melancholy and crocheted most of it away. And tomorrow I'll light a fire in the fireplace, light candles, light my inner worlds, and crochet some more.

There will be more harvesting after this snow fall, and the coming of the first hard frost, but it's almost ready to tuck in... the season's garden... and me.


Saturday, October 24, 2020

A Mighty Invitation

The thriving October garden.
Blooms for the pollinators.
Past, present and future.

October is the month in which I prepare for the new year. My new year. 

It's the month, in my region, that the summer gardens release their hold. For those in my region who grow 'n' gather their own food and Medicine it's a busy month. Busy, to be sure, yet a variety of busy-ness that is paced and filled to overflow with meaning and value. A month of harvest, seeding and putting-by. A month of past 'n' present. And future.

It is a month of reflection for me. As I harvest, plant, preserve and be in the shifting landscape, I reflect on the activities, relationships, and so-called outcomes of the past year. I reflect on what has added value to my life and to the lives of others - near 'n' far, known 'n' unknown. I reflect on - and with - the ancestors in every way that I can conjure them... the green slime, Nona Gaia and all her - our - kin, the elementals, my parents and their lineages, and others, including those of the imaginal realms, all who join me and share their LoVe 'n' wisdom when I seek 'n' request such.

Traditionally, I seek projections my October reflections. Yet, in these days we live in projections hold less value. For me, that is. This past year is changed. The present is changed. And so, too, the future.

This year I hear the ancestors, all of them, requesting a shift in action, and as I sit - quietly... in stillness - I hear them whisper an invitation to return to the eternal now... to the present. 

It's a mighty invitation. And worthy, methinks. If I want to continue to affect positive change on the future, I must continue to affect positive change to the present. The conventional world (if you know me, you know what I'm talkin' about) feeds us anxiety for the past and want 'n' worry for the future. That conventional world invests in distracting us from the present... because that's the only place that change can happen. 

So, ironically, as I reflect and project, I recommit mySelf to the present... to positive change... for me, for you, for the past and future, for the earth, for life.

I invite you to join me. And the ancestors. It's a mighty invitation. And worthy.

Peace. 🕊

Thursday, October 1, 2020

Welcome, Beloved October


In many ways this is a wind-down month for me. As the deciduous foliage sings 'n' dances in animated color of Autumn's sinking roots, many aspects of the earth prepare to rest, and what's left of significant harvests and autumn plantings are managed. It's a month of dramatic transition 'n' transformation, of like 'n' contrasting expressions, of dropping seeds 'n' gatherings harvests. It is a month of sensual poetry, filled with sounds, smells, sights, and ordinary 'n' extraordinary sensations. It is the autumnal month of the thinning veils, and the time to prepare for the veneration of the ancestors. All of them. It's my birth month, and the final month before the renewal of the Celtic agricultural calendar, so it is my month for reflecting, projecting... and being, as the earth-rooted activities wane with the daylight. It's a month that often has me dreaming of and anticipating the tuck-in verve of the month that follows.

It's a month - this year - that begins and ends with a full moon. It's a month I relish.

May you make time 'n' space to still yourself this month... to take in the full and blue moon that frames it, to open your senses - all of them - to honor the sensual extremes and nuance of October, to honor the earth, Nona Gaia, her gifts, her kin, and our shared ancestors. To honor the mystery and love of the season. And then... share it with others.


Wednesday, September 9, 2020

Salty's Final Egg


Ol' Salty’s final egg.

Backyard farming has its highs and lows, its ease and challenges, its joys and sorrows.

And I am grateful for all of it.



Thursday, September 3, 2020

Oil Preserved Orange Bananas

It's - for sure - tomato season. Every day there's more to harvest, and I'm so grateful, as I am every year. This year I'm growing four heirloom varieties: Cosmonaut Volkov, Opalka, Romany (known, commercially, by another name), and Orange Banana. And it's Orange Banana that I'm working with today. 
I still have plenty of canned tomato puree from past years, so this year I'm focused on other preserves and preserving methods for my paste tomatoes. One technique I stumbled on that I've never tried before is roasting and packing the tomatoes in olive oil. There's varying information out there, not on the process, but rather how long they keep in cool storage. Some say weeks. Some say months. So I'll be making a few batches to see what my results are, in the frig, and in our basement. 

In any event, the technique is super-simple: Clean, dry, slice the tomatoes (if using a cherry variety I'd poke a hole through them with a skewer, or slice in half). Place the slices on a baking sheet, salt and drizzle with extra virgin olive oil. Roast in a 420F degree oven for 15-20 minutes.

Then pack the tomatoes in a jar, leaving no room for air pockets, and 1.5 inches of headroom... 

Top with at least an inch of extra virgin olive oil, ensuring no plant matter is exposed to the air. Cap and keep in cool storage (IE: refrigerator, or a cool cellar). 

I'm anxious to see how these last. I'm equally anxious to use them in cooking. This first batch I made plain and plan to use it as the last jar in the test. I'll be making two more batches flavored with garlic and herbs.

I have preserved eggplant and peppers in oil with positive results, and am hoping the same holds true with tomatoes. Techniques like this are valuable to me (and to all of us), as they reduce water use, which is vital as clean, potable water continues to be raped 'n' ruined by the captains of greed 'n' profit... the captains of end stage capitalism. But, anyway...

I'll be harvesting more tomatoes to eat, to dry, to can, to ferment, and experiment with. Clearly, tomatoes are a staple in our little hut. ::nods:: 

Peace.  🕊

Tuesday, September 1, 2020

Welcome to September


And to a rumination of randomness...

As summer wanes this month, the pace of harvest 'n' preservation ratchets up, and when autumn arrives the pace will spring into overdrive. So it is that September dances with pace 'n' quickening.

All things considered, the rhythm of August felt balanced to me, and for that I am so grateful, as it was a month that beat with holistic challenge. For many of us. Now, with September's arrival, I know that cadence is preparing to surge, and I'm - yet again - grateful that I was able to make time 'n' space last month to reflect on July's transitions, transformations and actions, and I hope that I'll be able to manifest similar time 'n' space in the coming days 'n' weeks to reflect on August's integrations.

It's been a strange summer, for so many, if not all of us. I pray that we - collectively - are not waiting around for a return to any semblance of normalcy. As autumn approaches, this is our season to plant the seeds, bulbs, rhizomes, creative dreams of action to make manifest something fresh 'n' fair, good 'n' right, caring 'n' just. In big ways. In wee ways. In any way that fits.

As I move forward into September I will give attention my holistic plantings, as I consider behaviors and actions in the gardens, in my community, and in the greater world. I invite you to do the same.

To learn more about what's coming up this month and the special offerings click here.

Peace.  🕊

Saturday, August 1, 2020

August Already

Lammas blessings to one and all.

Harvests happen in every season, yet August is a month that ramps up the pace and urgency that will continue into autumn. After all, it is the final full month of summer.

Given July's focus of emptying the brick 'n' mortar at Whiting Mills, the gardens were a bit neglected, so I'm really looking forward to playing some serious planting, tending, and harvesting catch-up this month. To harvest the early potatoes, the turnips 'n' beets, more beans, peppers, cucumbers, summer squash, corn, herbs, and to see a second (and third, and fourth...) tomato ripen are all anticipations that stoke my heartflame.

That said... yeah, the public brick 'n' mortar is no more, and I'm once again working from home. I invite you all to know that I'm still here doing the work I'm called to do, of which supporting you is a seminal part. I will continue online gathers 'n' teaching, and will provide herbs 'n' herbals to those in my community - by any definition. And I'll get back to arting 'n' crafting as well. All in good time. 

For now my heart is facing the August harvests, of harmonizing the ones I missed in July, and composing for those coming up. Holistically... Gently...

Recently these two cards from one of Lori Barker's Spirit Collage decks came to me... "Let go of control" and, "Be willing to slow down." I couldn't have chosen two more fitting messages for me, for August. The usual tea gatherings are in place this month, as is our Herb of the Month, as well as a couple of classes, but other than that, Walk in the Woods will be yielding to revisiting the pace and rewards of (what I call) randomness. I look forward to checking my privilege and experiencing whatever yields from this yielding. It looks like I'll be turning inward a bit, abandoning much of the discipline around the botanical, mystical, expressive, and justice work that I do. Randomness. That's the tug I feel. And I'm ready to welcome it.

Despite my personal pace and yielding this month, remember that as a Medicine Womyn I am here for you - YOU, so reach out to me for any Medicine you may need. ::nods::


Wednesday, July 1, 2020

Welcome to July

What goes around, comes around. We are born, we live, we die, to be reborn. Spirals of life and living...

Spirals have been swirling around me in increasing numbers, and at increased velocity. The vibrations ripple over and through my being, my life, my world in ways that can not be ignored or denied. Truths, some long known, yet dismissed or ignored, are winding around me and tripping me up so that I must take notice, and action. 

The tripping truths are holistic, encompassing all parts of my life, distant, close, closer, and up-close 'n' personal. 

That said, it is with a heavy and grieving heart that I share with you that I am closing the brick 'n' mortar at Whiting Mills. I will continue to tend to the needs of my engaged School of Botanical Wellness students, current clients, and dedicated customers, and some online offerings will endure as well. I shall do my best to continue to support you all in the generous spirit in which you've supported me over the years.

Walk in the Woods has transformed many times over the past 26+ years, and it's transforming yet again. I encourage you to let me know what you most wish to learn from my experience, as it is teaching and helping others remember that which keeps fading in the shadow of capitalist greed that most motivates me. Now, more than ever, it is time for us to recall the wisdom of the earth, our grand mother, beloved Nona Gaia, to rally our collective strength to bring about positive change for a change. It is not time to go along as if everything is just fine. It is not time to return to some perceived normalcy. It is not time to hide. It's not been any of these things for a very, very, very long time. If, at all, ever.

Change can be good. Let it be so. May we embrace it. For a change.

Saturday, June 20, 2020

A Long-ago Graveyard of Privilege

I didn't grow up in Georgia. I grew up in Seaford, Delaware. Recent social intensities resurfaced a memory buried in a long-ago graveyard of privilege. White privilege. This post triggered a need to (start to) express that resurfaced memory. The memory may be flawed, and certainly narrow, but the essence, I'm confident, it not.
I had to dig out my 1973 high school yearbook to find his full name. I had to. I remembered his first name, it was Leslie, and he was a senior when I was a freshman. He was a star academic and athlete headed to college... headed toward a future. Only he wasn't.
The short story goes like this: He went fishing with his to-be father-in-law. There was an accident. He drowned. He was a young black man recently engaged to his white high school sweetheart.
I remember the hushed murmurs of young and old alike that floated on the undercurrents in the underworld social structure of that little town. And that's as much attention as it got. Life, at least the whites lives, went on in usualness.
This teenage memory, buried in that ugly graveyard resurrected over these past few weeks. And with it the shame, the horror, the complicity of that little town. And of mine.
I hear and see a lot of talk about history these days. There should be, as the lies of the so-called victors, with all the shame, horror, complicity and worse are resurrected, and rightfully burned, and torn down to a rubble. A rubble from which, if we choose, we might build something else. Something better. Something just. Something that, when it weeps, it weeps with joy, with love, and not with shame, horror, and complicity.
There's more work for me right here in this memory, and elsewhere. If you're white and you're reading this, I ask you, no - beg you - to do the work as well.
With that, I bid you the capacity to carve out time and space to enJOY the last of the vernal breezes, and to light a blaze to the arrival of the summer sun that burns to ash all that does not nurture and sustain. All.

Sunday, May 31, 2020


I'm reflecting on the gifts of May. The sweet. The bitter.

As June approaches, and with it more planting, harvesting, and the many threads that lace together those allied and antithetical activities - in the ALL of the gardens - I'm giving conscious attention to the most steadfast patterns around me, especially - if not exclusively - to those present in the gardens, in Nature, in the expressions of Nona Gaia. Expressions of evolution and constancy.

And they reflect in every other aspect of life. The sweet. The bitter. 

NoJustice. NoPeace. 🕊

Friday, May 1, 2020

Welcome May, The Lusty Month

While I'll miss gathering around a Beltaine fire with my comrades this year, the tree-huggin', backyard farmer in me still revels in the sexy verve that swells and explodes in this springtime month. So far, the season has been chill and damp, and some buds, like dandelion and violet are just starting their blooming. And I'm grateful. In the garden proper, the garlic is thriving, the onion plants are settling in, the first batch of three varieties of potatoes are in the earth, and six plants each of Brussel sprouts, cabbage, and kale are planted. Other starts are hardening off, seedlings are being transplanted, and seeds continue to be planted in the greenhouse, and in the earth. Perennials and self seeders are delighting me as well.
That said, for my local friends, I'll have some plants available (free/PWYW) for pick-up at my home. So far there's motherwort, lemon balm, borage, calendula, and nigella potted up, and more in the works. So if you're interested, contact me and I'll be sure to leave some plants for you on the bench in my front yard. ::nods::
As for studio happenings, there are none. Yet I've taken to Zoom, as so many have, with our two regular "Tea 'n'" gathers. Folks have asked about classes, yet most of what I offer doesn't translate well to a Zoom format (what with so much hands-on 'n' all), so I'm conjuring something a bit different...
lettuce patch 'n' first potato patch
Our current situation has really bubbled to the surface the fact that we all have skills. Every damned one of us. Whether we know it or not. Many of you are are playing with new experiences, developing new skills, as well as honing existing abilities. In this reality, we all, every single one of us, have something of value to share, every single one of us has the capacity to be among our Knowing Neighbors.
cabbage babes
That said, join us for our first Knowing Neighbors session this month, featuring two Connecticut fiber artists, Doreen Breen of Soul Threads, and Sarah Castrovinci of A Stitch in Time Designs - two neighbors worth knowing who know a thing or two! 
brassicas ready to plant
Moving forward, we'll feature one to two Knowing Neighbors, every other Thursday evening for the next several weeks into the unforeseeable future. Keep watch for the next one planned for May 28th! And contact me to get on the guest list! I'm truly excited about this, as it is intended to connect us in meaningful ways during this time of disconnect, it is intended to be a way to share our skills and passions, to inspire one another, and nurture forms of mutual aid. Plus, I see other potential in this activity...
second year mullein
perpetual spinach

Saint Joan's wort

Cutting celery, sweet Annie, calendula nigella, borage. 
With that, join us for a Zoom event if you can, and continue practicing social and physical distancing, stay home as much as possible, wear your mask when you venture forth into the shared world, and be well.

Peace. 🕊

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. 🕊

Sunday, March 15, 2020

Shards of Love and Life

I once wrote, "We live in times that prefer to demonize the darkness, to shun the shadows. We're taught to run away from them, fear them, hide from them, lash out at them … but I say go into them, for there you will discover Love in its truest form."


Some 40 years ago I learned that I could love someone without trusting them. I learned the skills needed to maintain emotional distance, as well as the skills to be cordial when physical social circumstances dictated the need. I learned something I've repeated like a mantra over the years: Family is overrated. 

I reflect back on this memory today and feel sadness and gratitude for the innate wisdom that guided me all those years ago, for my actions at the time were not calculated from conscious thought, rather they were rooted in pure intuition.

Yesterday a bomb was dropped on my mental, emotional, (and then some) self. There are shards everywhere. I have a lot of work to do to tidy up this detritus

There are a few shards of love that seem to be the essence of the bomb, and I pull those in close to offer me stability, protection, and healing. Yet, it's the angry shards that beg for my attention. Anger for reckless behavior born of the source of that 40 year old realization. Reckless behavior seemingly rooted in what I can only perceive as vanity, bluster, and well, petty vengeance. Behavior that more recently conveyed a sad and, dare I say, vicious lie. To someone on their deathbed, for fucks sake. That. That is the anger that begs for attention. And it is dark.

As I stand deep in my tears from the nucleus of this experience and swivel to gaze about at the shards, I feel flooded. So many feels, as they say (whoever they are). So, so many feels. Too many.

This is a chapter I did not see coming. This is a chapter that's gonna take some time, will, heart, and extreme care to... wade through. 

Peace. 🕊

Thursday, March 12, 2020

No photo description available.

Beloved friends,

With respect to the current state of knowns, unknowns, and a third confirmed case of (untraceable) COVID-19 in Connecticut, combined with the shamefully inadequate state of our current "healthcare system," I’m making a
hard decision to ramp up my respect for prevention, especially in the form of social distancing. That said, I
am cancelling all communal events until further notice,
which include scheduled classes, workshops, and

All by-appointment sessions are continuing in
the virtual realm, via Zoom or FaceTime.

If there is a class that’s now cancelled that you’re
especially anxious for, contact me, as I am working on
translating some offerings to virtual venues.

I apologize for any disappointment or inconvenience, yet all my scheduled activities are discretionary in nature,
and so are things that - at this time - are best put on hold. 
So it is that after consulting with Nona Gaia and other assorted Mysteries, wise medical professionals, my inner wisdom chooses to err on the side of caution. At least for the moment.

As always, thank you for your interest in my offerings, and thank you, too, for your patience and understanding.

Be well. Stay well. ::nods::

Peace. 🕊

Walk in the Woods, LLC
Whiting Mills, studio 310
100 Whiting Street
Winsted, Connecticut

Monday, March 2, 2020

Welcome March

March Arrives...

and with it, vernal anticipation.

If you're looking for me in the early days of this month, you may not find me. I'll be winnowing and weaving the last of the waning threads of winter's hibernation, to comfort me as I sit with spring's looming.

This March arrives - for me - with intense feelings of anticipation that are coming from many sources. It feels overwhelming. My full year tarot spread suggested that the verve of VII of Pentacles would be an anchor for this stretch of time, and what I'm feeling and perceiving with this calendar flip offers me undeniable validation, and suggests that patience may - indeed - be an ally as the days unfold.

I so appreciate when I'm able to recognize and honor such moments where my personal experience mirrors that of Nature, for surely this a time of seasonal shift when all of Nature is challenged to be patient in expressing spring's poetry of promise.

So I invite you to join me in embracing the powers of patience this month. Methinks its a vital verve for the vernal looming. 

Peace.  🕊

Wednesday, February 5, 2020

My White World - A Personal Perspective

For several years I've been consciously challenging myself to be a better person. Specifically, to be a better white person. And it is a challenge. I struggle with the racism that bubbles up from somewhere deep within my own entitled white genetics, my own privileged white life. I gotta own this shit if I want to add some value to this flawed world I live in. I gotta.

I realize it's always been a challenge. I just didn't realize how deep my own shit was buried. How deep my own shit was rooted. And I'm still digging. I wish more folks who look like me would do the same. I wish more folks who look like me would be willing just willing, for fuck's sake to discuss just discuss, for fucks sake race. After all, it's up to us to to make right what we've made wrong. And that truth alone is a truth that too many folks who look like me can't seem to even acknowledge just acknowledge, for fuck's sake.

Yeah. In the name of all that is sacred and holy, I swear I know two (maybe three) folks who look like me who are genuinely willing just willing, for fuck's sake to share candid words around the topic of race without getting all fragile 'n' shit.

I reflect back to the onset of the #BlackLivesMatter movement and the weird, awkward, vile 'n' vengeful exchanges that took place... an exchange expressed by a smugly smiling white woman, another exchange expressed by an indignant white woman who waxed woke, and not long after more than one exchange expressed by self satisfied blue liners who denied their own racist mantra, symbol (not to mention "flag desecration"), and their own racism. Such exchanges continue. They continue with subtly worded white arrogance of self-righteous entitlement to be racist while declaring they are not. Well, they are. As is the flag mentioned, sans the blue line, but that's a whole other disquieting deliberation.

Some of these people were acquaintances who I've since trimmed from my life. And others are folks I've considered friends, some who've been trimmed, and others who may still need trimming because they're consistently unwilling to make any acknowledgment of their own racism, let alone take any active responsibility for their own racism. They simply will not acknowledge acknowledge for fuck's sake that it's even a thing.

I want to cut them out of my life, yet I feel held by a hope that keeping a door open might yield some willingness, discussion, and acknowledgment that gives way to efforts to heal the wounds of our own making, efforts that are called for, and overdue. After all, I consider this group friends. But... maybe they're not. ::shrugs::

Yet, if we - the folks who look like me - are sincere in our desire to heal the system, we must be sincere in our desire to heal our selves as well.

In any event, it's exhausting. Even this small, personal stuff. If you have any pigmentation, I don't need to tell you that. If you look like me, I do.

I must.

And I will.

Whether you like it our not.

Because it's long overdue and there's too much at stake. Too much  for fuck's sake.

Even Nona Gaia says so.

To be continued, at my own pace, if I'm strong enough... and brave enough... 

Peace.  🕊