On Strawberries



On the second day of summer, we gorged ourselves on strawberries: filling our faces, filling our bowl, and digging among the leaves and runners in search of more. We ate strawberries until we thought that an explosion might actually be possible, and kept eating until the curious cats that circled us gave up hope for something tastier – a bird, perhaps –  and wandered away.

I tried to pay attention to this feeling: my world has been lean on celebration and ritual these last years – solstices and cross quarter days have passed without any significant marking of occasion. I am slowly learning how much I need this sense of occasion: it makes me more of a participant, less an observer.
Even though our festivity was a day late and deeply modest, I could feel the difference: a moment of being awake. Ankle-deep in overgrown grass and hunched over a raised bed we found these berries, sweet and nourishing and jewel-hued, made only from dirt and sunshine. How is such magic wrought from only dirt and sunshine? It is. Everywhere, it is – not just in this strawberry patch, but in my garden all around: in these asparagus plumes enveloped by bees, in the gentle shade of a maple canopy, in these roses that bloom until they collapse upon themselves and then bloom some more. These are all products of dirt and sunshine, all glorious growths that, in turn, feed us.
Here are some questions for you: what nourishes you, and where do you bring nourishment to the world? What a you crafting out of your figurative dirt and sunshine? Who gets to see your magnificent blooms, share your fruit?

Growing Things

I didn’t understand gardens until my daughter was born. My mother and father had both been gardeners, and my grandparents all around, on all sides. Motivated by beauty and an escape from poverty, my entire lineage has had their hands in the soil. Although I  appreciated surreptitious raspberries taken from the back of Gran’s wee plot,  enthusiasm for the dirty endeavour generally escaped me. But then, I gave birth. I recognized what it felt like to welcome living things into being, and I could not stop.
I began by planting fruit trees, hoping that they would feed my child into adulthood. I also began by sprinkling wildflower seeds in the lawn and just waiting for the bouquets to emerge (they never materialized).
It was shortly thereafter, when my mother died, that I truly understood my garden. It was May, but I remember little of that summer, or the few after that. What I do remember is a montage of plunging my arms into the soil, using mud and leaves to patch the great, gaping loss that had torn through me. I remember so slowly realizing that even in the face of death, I could usher things to life. I could surrender to the cycle; I could participate in it. I could destroy slugs and pull buttercups by their roots. I learned that everything has a time to die.
And if I had watched at the doorway while my two most precious people had passed through – my daughter into life and my mother into death – I could also try to map out the route they took, in tiny rows of carrots and tangles of Wisteria. Every one of us has, at some point, searched for reason amidst chaos – in religious text, astrology, self-help books. I had dirt beneath my nails and close encounters with a hundred thousand growing things all around me, grasses and hoverflies. I could use them to divine some meaningful patterns, I could craft a sense of order and purpose, even on a minuscule scale.
Over the last 13 years, my garden has grown, and where some things have flourished,  others have faded away. It keeps a few secrets – the falling-down fence and chains of blackberry struggling for domination hide the most fragrant roses you could imagine, and some honeysuckle besides. It is untidy and it is romantic, in the broadest sense of the world.
I have returned to this garden after a two year absence. It is still my favourite salve for restlessness, confusion. I really feel like I am making magic, when I am out there – wresting control and being overcome, resurrecting plants I thought were lost, getting drunk on the smell of springtime (there is nothing more intoxicating).
This year, for the first time, I am recognizing that this land does not truly belong to me – this is unceded K’omox territory, and my ownership, my order, is a beautiful illusion. The relationship I have with the land is a gift (albeit one that comes at the expense of others), and “my” garden is as temporary as I am.


On Letting Go


I have been paying attention to my people, watching the process of letting go, and I notice patterns emerging. I want you to imagine that these patterns are beautiful, like shadows cast through wrought iron on a sunny day. They are mutable and consistent at the same time. These past few years, I have been releasing my own treasures: physically, emotionally, mentally. There has been a downsizing of beloved people, pets, and material things. So many material things – costumes and props from past lives, pieces of history.

Some things were surprisingly easy to let go of, and some I still half-heatedly cling to. By some standards, a few of the items I have chosen to keep feel bizarre – there is a jug of probably-vinegar-by-now-kombucha (complete with scoby) on my counter top. It is laughable how difficult I find it to discard, but really, my reluctance isn’t about the kombucha. It’s about surrendering the idea that I will one day be the kind of superhuman person that not only lovingly tends to their own self-care by drinking probiotic rich beverages, but also single-handedly crafts those same beverages in an artisan, cost-effective manner. So, I stare at it, and it stares back at me. This humble bacterial soup is as rich in symbolism as it is in beneficial microorganisms, and it makes me think about the reasons we grasp some things so tightly: not because of the function they offer, but because of the implications they provide.
Think, for a moment, of the unused badminton rackets, sewing machines, tools hiding in workshops, garden sheds, and kitchens; imagine that, in addition to these things, we also carry the weight of the unlikely hope that we will one day play/cook/garden again, because we are unable to let go of the possibility.
Think further, to the elastic space that exists between possibility and security, in the context of relationships. These are opposite ends of a spectrum- the known and the unknown. They are threads of promise and stronger bonds of familiarity, and they can each bind us firmly to places, people, and things that don’t serve us at all.
While it is true that we all connect with and detach from each with different degrees of depth and ease, I would bet money that every one of us has had a relationship as useless and difficult to let go of as my rancid kombucha.
The point to all of this is simply to invite you to look at what and who anchors you, and be sure this is a place you wish to be anchored to. If “nature abhors a vacuum”, what do you suppose might fill the void when you leave your most challenging luggage behind?




So I saw this article on self-compassion, and I want to talk about it.

I want to talk about it, because self-compassion is a practice that has absolutely and unequivocally changed the way I move through the world.

However, I can’t talk about it honestly without talking about my drinking, so this is going to get a little personal, y’all. Even if you don’t relate to my story of addiction, stay with me.

Some of you may or may not know that I used to drink. Lots! I started on peach pastel “champagne” at around 15, moved over to espresso martinis and lemon drops in my early 20’s, and settled into a steady routine of various shades of wine around 25. Occasionally, when the massive quantities of bottles stacked up for recycling, I would tell myself, “I’m not alcoholic, I just have European sensibilities.” It was never, ever, less than a half bottle at dinner.  Most often it was more. Sometimes much more. Once, it was five bottles of Chardonnay (a “tasting”) over the course of an afternoon with a friend. One afternoon. One friend. I used to wake up, like clockwork, at 2 in the morning, and lie awake for almost exactly two hours. I would dedicate this time to a special practice I call “self-loathing”.

I really did. Dear friends, I would itemize all of the ways I knew better and could do better, and how I was just a little extra trash, because I knew better but DIDN’T do better. I knew in surgical detail what this consumption was costing me financially, emotionally, physically.

This happened nightly, because there was never a night without alcohol. Fourteen hours a week of concentrated self-loathing. Fifty-six hours a month.  I became an expert.

I would take penance: run to the gym, clean the house. Fortunately, I did not loathe myself during other hours – not audibly.

I had the good fortune to work in a terrible job with a wonderful woman. I don’t remember if I was engaged in a full-fledged confessional (it’s possible), but she started talking about the concept of self-compassion. She used words that struck me as distinctly old-school woo-woo, like “inner child”.

But listen: the “inner child” is an absolutely apt metaphor, because we are all on a fundamental level, soft-bodied, comfort-craving creatures who lack meaningful lifetime experience and are driven by base desires. On some level, we are all fumbling as toddlers, bundles of feelings and impulse, and inescapable bodily functions.

At those two o’clock in the mornings, I gave time to the idea that I could forgive myself a litany of fuckups, just as one would forgive a puppy for pissing on the carpet or chewing a precious family photograph. Ideal? No. Deserving of compassion and understanding? Yes and yes.

At two in the morning, I started to silence that voice that spewed vitriol in my own direction. I started to regard myself as that kind of fucked-up little mammal who meant well, but who kept pissing on the carpet (Metaphorically, you guys. Metaphorically). I began to respond to myself in same the way I would respond to my loved ones: with gentle forgiveness, and encouragement to do better.

Do you know what? It was transformative.

It cleared the space so that I could really learn to love this incarnation.

My world is much more richly textured, now. Some days I am given to delusions of grandeur – I won’t go into detail, because it’s embarrassing, but let me tell you: those days are fun. Other days, I am convinced that I move through the world with all the social grace and sexiness of a high-pitched Mr. Bean. Some days, I am basically a rocket scientist; other days, it takes me ½ an hour to realize that if the office kettle is broken, I can still make tea in the microwave (true story). I let myself have all those moments: moments of being amazing and moments of being a little weird and kinda gross, because frankly, we all are all of those things, and none of them affect our ultimate value.

I did, ultimately, learn to moderate my drinking. I still need to be careful: if alcoholism is a riptide and sobriety is the shore, I still stand in the inter-tidal zone. I am vigilant about portions, and about balance: marking my sober days on a calendar, and paying attention to the contents of the recycling.

The self-compassion allows me to still love myself when I fuck up (and fuck up I do). It also lets me see honestly where I am, and allow me to adapt my behaviour accordingly.

Even more, the self-compassion also allows me to spend time painting, even though I will never achieve perfection in paint. It gives me permission to write when I should be cleaning out the sentient beings that may have spawned in my fridge. It lets me take responsibility for my failings, and move forward.

All of this is easier without the weight of untempered shame.

I am imploring you to try it. I promise it will feel profoundly ridiculous and embarrassing, but so does everything. It is like the lifting of a heavy blanket that you didn’t know was suffocating you.

On love


This Valentine’s Day, I am holding space for all of my brothers, sisters, and gender-fluid siblings, who have fallen in love with someone inappropriate, or unavailable. I am holding space for every person who has ever watched love back quietly out the door, for everyone who has ever been held captive by their own hearts. I am thinking about those for whom romantic love has been ruined, and those who exist on the starvation diet of active imaginations and acceptance.

We are told, over and over, that this is a world for THAT kind of love. That for love to be real it must be singular and intensely sexual, that it must be a happily ever after, and that anything else is beneath consideration.

None of this is true. Love IS a thread that stitches us together and rips us apart, but it also is also a light that illuminates everything, whether we want it to or not. 

Tomorrow morning, when you wake up, take a moment to adore your own body, in all the places you are free from pain. Take a moment to remember a kindness that you have done for someone else, and a kindness someone has done for you. Commit to paying the latter forward, because love is not static: sometimes it is steeped in joy, and sometimes it demands sacrifice.  You have probably experienced both.

Tomorrow morning, take a breath in gratitude for the loved ones you have had to release into the world to continue their travels without you: lovers, children, parents, pets. Take another for those who have loved you, and let you go (there are more of these than you probably realize). Take a breath in gratitude for the love that still permeates your life, and one more, in faith, for the love that you haven’t learned how to see (it is massive).

There is no question that Valentine’s Day is a commercial construct with dubious origins. That is the truth. But it is also a day we can choose to be reminded that love is expansive, not singular; it does not require chocolate or diamonds, or expensive dinners. 

I am choosing to celebrate Valentine’s Day in this way – not because I haven’t yet figured out how to swim the murky waters of romantic love, but because romantic partnership is just one slice of a very large, delicious pie that we all deserve to dine from.


Observing, Uncategorized

Sometimes, I can feel the sun, before it rises. I can feel the clearness of the morning skies on a cellular level, like trumpeters announcing with fanfare an approaching Queen. THE approaching Queen. Here in the Pacific Northwest, we have been swimming in grey for weeks, and now I feel like dancing.

I did dance, this morning. I put on highly inappropriate music and bounced around my living room, around my bathroom. I danced in front of my aging reflection, and mouthed words of welcome to the spring. Toothpaste went everywhere, because: multitasking. 

Last year, around this time, I walked to the ocean just before dawn. I sat on the sandstone formations that make up McFarlane Beach, and waited for the light. It came, but not as I expected: it was not a silver thread spreading where the mountains touched the lightening sky. It was more the drawing down a curtain. The sun washed from the treetops down to where I sat on the rock. At that moment, I really did feel a part of everything. I am reluctant to name god/dess, but in that moment, I felt profound evidence that this blissful light that touches everything, touches me, too (and conversely, the light that touches me touches everything else).

Isn’t this the closest thing to being in love? This anticipation and expansion? This soft, soft air like a whispered kiss on our skin? 

It is so easy to contract in winter’s fallow, to forget that spring could not be held back, even if we tried.  Let us all be like apple trees, preparing to bloom.

Be brave.

Painting Lessons, Uncategorized

If you have never done so, paint a self-portrait.

Trust me on this: you will rediscover every bit of your beauty. Do not make it a faithful representation, a record of the ravages of time on skin: there are more important songs to be sung.

I am begging you to be bold:

If you cannot find a canvas large enough, use a cotton sheet. Make it a bed of burnt umber, on which you can lay your extravagant colours.

Place your scars, like road maps. Carve in red your bleeding heart, and stitch it together with threads of gold, the way the Japanese practice Kintsugi. Let these metallic lines mark your journey, so that you can remember where you came from, and again find your way home.

Like the old masters, surround yourself with symbolic things: your grandmother’s gloves upon your knee, a love letter. Give yourself permission to apply them to the canvas – use glue and safety pins, if you need to. Draw in the words you cannot bear to say aloud, and then paint over them. The canvas will remember. It will hold all of the things no one else has learned how to see.

When you are finished, begin anew. Begin, this time, on bed of gold, and on it, inscribe upon it all of the things you wish that were. Give yourself a crown, or a babe in arms, or seat yourself upon a stack of every book ever written. Do this, so that you can remember where you are going. Do this, because the paint is magic.

I know that paint is magic, because the first time I was in New York, we went to the Museum of Modern Art. At the time, there was a painting by Matisse hanging in the stairwell, between the second and third stories. In seeing The Dance, I was confronted with pure joy, manifested.

I guess that here, that you might pause look up the painting – but it will not describe the painting any more than a photo of cake describes the experience of cake. And even if you do find yourself standing in New York or St. Petersburg facing the one of the originals, it may not be your brand of magic. You might not stand, awash in embarrassing tears, on the second floor stairwell, and then again on the third (because you needed to see if the rapture applied on third floor, too). Matisse may not have written in the language that you speak, but listen:

On that canvas, Matisse illustrated a kind of ecstasy that gave birth to that same feeling in at least some of those who saw it. It generated that which it described.

So: imagine all of the ways that the world might rise up to greet you, if you tell it where you are going. Imagine what you might manifest, if you record all of the things that you carry with you, and then resolutely carry on.

I know it is not the same thing, to paint a feeling and a person. I know, too, that Matisse is Matisse, and the rest of us are humble mortals, but still: paint a self portrait, at least once. Claim your story, and let the threads of your insides and outsides tie together.