In the desert of purple shadows

Last night I dreamed of walking miles through a brittle desert. Wil was there. And Revel. We walked and walked, following the shadows cast by a bright moon. Purple shadows, like bruises, painted over cool sand, and marking our skin.

I felt tired,

there was no end in sight.

We just kept walking and walking. Dry soil crunching softly under bare feet.

I’ve been thinking about surrender lately.

How it can be an act of giving up, or quitting,

backing down from the fight.

But also it can be a giving into,

a turning towards the unknown,

an opening up to new ideas, things, and worlds.

Surrender can be a kind of listening, I think.

A kind of seeking,

a sort of looking for answers

outside of ourselves.

Being alive right now requires constant work,

demands an endless ability to live and grieve at the same time.

The push and pull of this is painful. But not altogether unpleasant.

I’ve been lost for awhile. Awash in a sea of questions and demands. Awash in a sea of survival, small civilized worries. Yet again tricked into playing the game. Or at least making an attempt to.

But suddenly we’ve lost our home, my small family and I. Painfully, and traumatically, we lost the only security we had left.

Our little house sits, emptied of us, but still filled with the things that make up our lives. The books on their wooden shelves, the bins of toys, some drawers of food. Small things. And even smaller things. Beads. Little statues. Skulls, birds nests, art.

We’ll get all of our stuff back of course if we wish. But sitting here separated from the things that make up our home, I can’t help but wonder, are we better of without them? Already in my mind their purpose seems fuzzy, their importance seems…not so important after all.

And what now? Do we find a new home somewhere? A rental, more expensive really than we can pay, to house our small things and smaller things, a place to rest our heads at night after long days spent doing things we’d rather not do to pay for a home we’d rather not have to house the things we don’t really need when I all I really need is right here, sleeping in this borrowed bed, in the home of my mother who loves me?

And all in the name of what? Survival? Progress? Because it’s the right thing to do? Because there’s no other choice?

Questions, questions.

So we walk, onward and onward through the desert of purple shadows, forced into a cross examination of our lives.

And always in the distance there is the wild calling.

Surrender.

Thank you for listening,

Love,

Natasha

photo by Michelle Johnsen

photo by Michelle Johnsen

Faith

Mostly, now, I feel an immovable writer’s block. What is there to say that hasn’t been said? We are living in a time of collapse. The world feels very chaotic. It’s hard to find peace, stillness, quiet. The wheels are spinning out of control, while at the same time, the gears are grinding to a halt.

We are being torn asunder.

And yet…

This morning I took my little son and my nephew for a walk in the woods. We wandered barefoot, and they found magic in everything. Blades of grass morphed into wands. Trees turned to dragons, and old rotting stumps transformed into knights. We delighted in miniature monarch butterfly caterpillars chewing at the underside of the Milkweed leaves, and marveled at the brilliant orange of the baltimore oriole flitting across the sky.

How can it be this way? That somehow even in death we are in life?

This planet is dying! I want to scream.

I want to grab the massive bouldered shoulders of the earth herself and shake until her teeth rattle; scream “wake up!” I want to gaze into her crystal clear eyes flecked with blue and yell, “Why don’t you do something!? Shake us off, murder us, throw us from the surface of your spinning, marbled world. Ruin us, destroy us, end us, put us out of our own fucking misery!!” I want to spit at her, claw her sun kissed skin and pull her wild hair, blame her for letting us do what we’ve done, blame her for all that we are doing.

And you know the worst part? I know she would listen. With her gentle mother ears she would hear me and understand.

But she would never ruin us. She wouldn’t and she couldn’t. Because she is us and we are her. We are held here at her breast to suck even though we don’t deserve to, even though we can never understand the love she has for us, even though most of us don’t even care that she’s alive.

We’ve forsaken our mother. But our mother?

She will never forsake us. She will only guide us through the rough spots with her abundant love and forgiveness. She will hold us tight with both her arms again and again, bandage our scraped knees and kiss our brush-burned elbows, whisper “there there” into our hair. She will feel our failures like the sharp blade of a knife but she will not intervene.

We are her children.

And even though we cannot yet understand it,

She is teaching us a lesson about faith.

Thank you for listening,

Love,

Natasha

photo by Michelle Johnsen

photo by Michelle Johnsen

I need to say a huge, heartfelt thank you to my friend April, who sent me the beautiful poem below when I was at my lowest point. Thank you for giving me a lesson in faith. Thank you for allowing the earth to speak through you. Thank you for sharing your words.

Our Only Obligation
by April

In the middle of the night I am awoken by poetry –
words spoken like dear kin I had one lost or forgotten,
and it’s been so long that when they stumble from the dark
to pronounce their voices visible, I hardly recognize them

as the living, breathing beings
they have somehow come to be.

These words
they shake me –
softly at first, but then
with a lustful force
when I try to roll over
and simply go back to sleep.

They are fed-up with being rejected.
They arrive without warning or invitation,
and will not go away until I promise to entertain them.

So I pull my bare-skinned body up and out of bed,
leaving my love behind to safeguard our stockpile of dreaming.

I sit in the dark of our house,
quietly receiving. Curled up on the floor
like a crumpled piece of paper, carefully
ripped from an old and well-worn book of poems,
written in a language only the sacred can remember.
I pray these wasted lines, which now emerge from my wrinkles
and folds, will be in service to something greater.

My only obligation is to listen –
to the spaces between the silences
where we drape all the blessed things
we never quite know how to say

things hung in the open air to dry
like aging meat, fat unfastening from its bone.

I hear the snow curling over the mountains,
casting a storm that promises to be bitter
but not more than it longs to be beautiful.

I hear your heart beating, miles and miles away,
and I hear your life changing, well before you’ve learned
how to let the conviction of change, take your quivering hands
and guide you deeper into the night. I hear urgency

straddling our flailing limbs as we flee down the face of the mountain,
and I hear loneliness in the people who are constantly running
from each another, but since distance has become such a trustworthy aid
somehow those people have forgotten they are still running.

I hear the tremor of the imperfections
we’ve been hiding from all those
who threaten to step in too close –
flaws that favor the landscapes
where love can take root and grow
into acres and acres of fruit bearing trees.

And I hear horror in the hacking of our forests.

I hear misguided messages
blaring into our hardening hearts,
telling us it’s perfectly normal
to keep our grief private.
So much so, that we hide it

even from ourselves
and when we go to find it,
we discover it will always
be buried bellow boxes
of seemingly more serious
of things. I hear the heaviness

of our footsteps, weighed down by clay and
all the artistry we’ve been unable or unwilling to see,
like the traces of those who’ve walked before us
or the nearing wail of the ones who’ve not yet come
into being, begging that we listen
to what is beautifully hidden,
yet is too obvious not to be wholly seen.

You return again and again to the bones of your ancestors

You return again and again to the bones of your ancestors.

Smooth as silk and bleached by the sun

you caress the softness of them

and can feel the place where healing took place after a bad break.

Kneeling, body sinking heavy into hot sand

you gently lift each femur and rib-bone

nuzzle each knuckle and toe.

You need answers.

Your people are dying.

Murdered and hunted,

thirsty and ravaged

you cover miles of terrain each day, exhausted

but still cannot sleep at night.

There is an ache in your chest

that will not go away

even when you breath deeply

or splash cool water over your arching back.

The old stories don’t hold true anymore,

the old songlines are broken, like so many tattered maps blowing in the wind.

You lay with your family under the full moon and

remember the days when the water was sweet

and your belly was round with child

and how the food practically dripped from the trees.

You look up at the stars and wonder how it got to be this way,

so broken.

And so you return again and again to the bones of your ancestors

looking for answers in the curve of a vertebrae

or the jagged edge of a

sawed off tusk.

skullcandy

Elephants, keepers of the ancient memories. What can I say? What explanation can I give? That my people are touched by madness? That we are intoxicated with power and drunk on destruction? That we will not settle until this planet is dead and we choke on our own boiling rage?

I don’t have any answers. If I could I would sit at your feet and listen. I would travel many miles upon your broad backs to the place where the river meets the sea and play in the water with your young ones.

But I’m here. In my small house next to my own small, sleeping child.

My people are young compared to yours

and stupid.

We have so much to learn from you,

but I’m afraid it may already be too late.

Your numbers are dwindling,

your grief must be very great and difficult to carry.

I want you to know mine is too.

I wish there was more I could do.

Thank you.
I’m sorry.
Please forgive me.
I love you.

Thank you for listening,

Love,
Natasha

The tipping point

There have been mothers who lived for so long underground in the dark that they could recognize their children’s faces with the lightest touch of hand. Yes, there’s his delicate nose, and her whisper soft eyelashes. The curl of soft hair tucked behind tiny ear.Yes, these little ones are mine.

There are mothers who have pressed palm of hand to tiny crying mouth praying for silence willing danger to go away. Waiting, waiting, waiting…minutes, hours, days. ok safe to come out now.

There are mothers who have walked 40 days through deserts colored with purple shadows searching for water only to press lips to springs long ago run dry. Always thirsting.

There are mothers who have willingly walked into gas chambers in a gruesome kind of trade. My life for theirs…please, please, please. Breasts still heavy with milk, grown cold.

And there are mothers who have held their children close as bombs dropped outside, or as soldiers cleared the streets, or as forest burned to the ground

praying, praying, praying
that there was someone there to listen.

And now?

The threat is very real. Sometimes it’s a soldier with a gun. Sometimes it’s a bomb. Sometimes it’s war, and terror, and violence.

Horror.

But sometimes it’s the terrible knowledge

that your young son will most likely know elephants as legends

and Monarch butterflies as magic stories

told at night.

Sometimes it’s the understanding that he will most likely only know frogs from story books, and rhinos from movies.

That he will live in a world without fish, or most birds, or fresh water to drink.

And that it’s very likely that at least one of his parents will one day die from cancer.

This is a time of great threat. But many mothers have lived with that. The horrible knowing.

Only this threat we’ve brought upon ourselves. This threat could be stopped. Anytime we choose.
And yet

most everyone is doing nothing at all.

This is a genocide, an ecocide of such epic proportions

we may be wiping out our children’s, children’s, children’s, children’s, children’s, children’s lives. And their children beyond that.

We don’t need to go to mars.

We are alien enough here as it is.

We have reached the tipping point.

And it will take the greatest mother’s love

to forgive us for that.

I know the pain is blinding.

But sometimes it is the blind who can truly see.

Thank you to everyone who has chosen to fight the system in whatever way you have deemed fit. Here’s to the resistance, alive and well.

And hopefully,

winning.

Thank you for listening,
Love,
Natasha

Revel as baby. Photo by Lynn Johnson

Revel as baby. Photo by Lynn Johnson

Where the Wild Things Are

A few weeks ago I dreamed of poison.

Blue and purple, sticky lidded petals like a little cup.

Monkshood.

One of the most poisonous plants in the world, as beautiful as it is deadly.

There is such potency out there,

running through the veins of the leaves and the marrow of the bones,

lacing delicate tendrils up the chiseled rock face of mountains

and pooling in the wet slick paw print of the predator.

Nothing like the ghost faced presence of civilization

with its smokestacks and asphalt,

supermarkets and hospital rooms,

glass, steel, and machines.

The boys are getting bigger now and they’re wild.

Running, jumping, screaming, fighting, playing

until the walls can’t contain them on these frosty winter days

and we pile up layers,

boots, mittens and scarves,

jackets, and hats,

double pairs of socks and

tumble outside.

We pick up sticks for protection,

stalk a group of ducks and dare each other

to find the cardinals first.

We run over the bridge,

breath like smoke coming in puffs through the air,

around the bend in the trail and into the woods,

mostly box elders and multiflora rose,

“junk” species,

but to us pure magic.

And that’s where we find him,

the large buck.

Unmoving, lifeless, still.

Eyes sunken.

Huge antlers, stretching skyward.

I explain death,

clumsily.

The boys worry over him, wish he would get up.

Finally we whisper thanks for letting us look

and apologies that he can no longer run with us,

and go back to bounding through the woods.

Later we come back with Wil, to remove the antlers,

the boys so proud to show him this prize.

We’ll use them for flintnapping arrow points from cast off glass and bottle bottoms,

or for the handles of tools or the fine, sculpted pieces of traps.

And we’ve watched, as the deer disappears,

day by day, seemingly melting before our very eyes,

consumed,

returning to the place from which he once came.

That’s how they’ll learn about the world,

my boys.

In the small patch of woods

where the wild things are.

Across the bridge

and just around the bend.

Thank you for listening,
Love,
Natasha

photo by Andrea Herr

photo by Andrea Herr

To the people of Ferguson, Missouri

I love that the people of Ferguson, Missouri are fighting back,

have taken to their own streets to protest the loss of a promising young life,

are battling a system that continues to oppress

individuals for the color of their skin

and the amount of money in their pockets.

I love that they have succeeded in ousting a police force

much too eager to use violence

when something far more gentle

would do.

I love them for reminding us

that we ARE in control,

that these cities,

and townships,

police departments and legal systems,

work for us,

the people.

Not the other way around.

I love them for showing us that we do still have

a VOICE, 

and when we join together

it is LOUD.

We don’t have to ACCEPT.

Instead we can RESIST

Revolt,

Rebel,

and 

RISE

UP.

To the brave people of Ferguson,

thank you.

And to Mike Brown,

the victim of appalling police brutality

and a civilization intent

on destruction,

I’m so, so sorry.

Thank you.

Please forgive me.

I love you.

Thank you for listening,

Love,

Natasha

 

Turning to the light

In the days following the end of this project I walked around like a ghost.

Not quite sure of how to proceed without the The Year bringing focus to my days

I took long walks through my favorite field

played with Rev, Zander, and Wil

and wondered why I felt so lost.

It took at least a week to replace even one article of black clothing with color.

And when I did, it was a blue green shirt

the color of a warm sea,

or Robins’ eggs

or the ancient beads of turquoise my dear friend sent Revel

for protection

upon his birth.

When I wore black every day
I felt safe

Supported by the fact that people could recognize I was different in some way

Set apart from the other mothers in their bright colors, pinks, purples, and greens

the black was an outward sign of my sadness within. A recognition that something is terribly wrong.

But now, dressed in corals and golds, and greens and blues,

I look totally normal,

nothing to show my endless grief

or the lost ones that are burned into my heart.

But I could wear black for the rest of my life,

like a shadow, the new moon, a dark night,

and it wouldn’t change a thing,

wouldn’t bring back the ones we’ve lost, wouldn’t stop this madness from swallowing up the world.

So I’m turning to the light.

Like the first spring tendrils reaching for the sun.

Finding solace in the herbs and plants growing outside my door,

covering hillsides and meadows,

spilled across the thick and fertile forest floor.

I’m busy making remedies, mixing and stirring, crushing and brewing, cloaked in the heady perfume of wild ginger, yarrow and bergamot, bee balm, lemon balm, and valerian root.

It is a comfort spending time with friends from a world,

so much wiser than my own.

I’m using my hands to heal, using my hands to plant,

hoping to help my family and friends and community

get healthier so they will have the strength and energy to fight,

the battles that are coming,

the battles that are here

now.

Yes it is hard to be alive at this time. Yes it is painful and sad and frightening and wrong.

But we are here. And is our job to be strong enough to stand up.

Kind enough to forgive weakness

and brave enough to fall in love.

With each other,

with ourselves

and with the wild.

You are not alone.

Remember it, and repeat it to yourself.

You are not alone.

You are part of something much larger than yourself.

Be strong.

There is a new day dawning.

I promise.

Thank you for listening,

Love,
Natasha

bee balm

In the days since the end of this project, Liminal, my novella has been released for sale. Please buy a copy, read it and then pass it around. It can be purchased through the websites on the link, or directly from me. And I’ve started a small practice, “Womenfolk: Reiki and Herbs for Women.” To help myself and others mend the broken parts of ourselves.

You’re welcome to check out the links. And please, in your saddest and loneliest moments feel free to write to me for support. We are all struggling. It helps to share our stories. I am still here to listen. Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart, for your continued support!!!

womenfolkunite.wordpress.com

http://www.blackandgreenpress.org/2014/07/liminal-is-in-house-pre-orders-shipping.html?spref=fb

liminal