Google+ What I Made Today: March 2020

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.  🕊