New York and back...

I'm back from a quick visit to Ithaca, where I met with holistic healer, wild-crafter, and herbal teacher 7Song, who runs the Northeast School of Herbal Medicine. Though about to depart for Nicaragua to work in a free clinic for a bit, 7Song was kind enough to chat with me for a while on the phone before inviting me over to meet in person - and who can turn down an offer like that? So off I went.

I'm not sure where my herbal journeys will take me next, but it felt like a real honor to meet someone I've heard so much about from so many herbalists whose work I respect, from David at the Rosemary House to Darrell at Blue Boy Herbs. There are so many different styles of herbalism, from the strongly scientific to eclectic to intuitive and on, but people seem to honor and recognize strong healers and practitioners for the work they do, despite - and sometimes because of - their myriad differences.

Thanks and praise to the medicine makers, healers, and plant-tenders who share beauty, health and knowledge as a way of life. The world needs you.

Familial Oddities (where do You go when you...well, whatever?)

So I'm making a faux-nouveau version of my Grandma Ruth's familially famous chopped liver, playing around with an extra hard-boiled egg here, some sauteed pecans there, when I happen to look at the windowsill above the kitchen sink. Semi-hidden among the potted plants and glass tchotchkes and the little round top piece to the pressure cooker is...

"A pet cemetery for cat whiskers?"

My mother startles out of her anti-dumb-American-actors conversation and looks momentarily chagrined before doubling over in laughter.

"Mom?" I ask. "Is this you?" She's laughing so hard she can't talk. My father watches us, bemused. I look back at the window ledge, just to make sure I haven't imagined it. Sure enough, on the far side of a small, potted succulent, a miniature modern art installation rises out of the soil at haphazard angles. There are six whiskers in all; all white, all different sizes. My mother is still laughing.

"You're the first one to notice," she gasps, and for some reason, the idea of my father and brother standing inches away from the little cat shrine/totem/hidden message every day as they wash their dishes or walk to the bathroom is too much. I slide down the counter, hysterical, and sit on the kitchen floor, hooting with laughter.

"How long have you been doing this?" I ask her, when I finally get my breath back.

"I don't know," she shrugs, and cocks her head to the side.

"I guess it is kind of macabre. But they're body parts. I couldn't just throw them away." She pauses reflectively, then shrugs again.

"Besides, as far as strange personal habits, this one isn't so bad. I hear someone on your dad's side used to keep a jar of toenail clippings."

I stare at her, aghast.

"Toenail clippings?" I ask.

"Uh-huh." She nods. There's a pause.

"I'm blogging this," I announce.

It's a strange house. My brother psychoanalyzes the cats (depressed and anti-social), and my father plays the baffled pater familias with disturbing accuracy. And none of us can make it through a simple conversation without breaking into song. Right now, Evan is singing "Hurts So Good" under his breath.

"Why are you singing that?" I ask.

"Because," he replies, totally serious and without a moment's hesitation, "The ginger ale I just drank burned my throat when I swallowed, but it tasted so good. It was pretty apt, actually."

He pauses. "I didn't even know I was singing."

i hadnt thot of thhat...

My dear Mr. H sent me this cartoon (courtesy of shoeboxblog.com):
Good 2 no their r still some evils the world's willing 2 abhor. Thots?

PS- Is anyone else's right eye twitching right now?

'Resolutions' Part II

Hey, umm, guys?

These resolution things are kind of trickier than I thought.

Just sayin'.

On a slightly-related note, one of my loverly grandmothers is teaching me to knit. (The other one is attempting to teach me common sense. Please wish them both patience.) I only mention this because it explains why when I think about self-improvement strategies my brain fills with phrases like "wrap up your loose ends" and "even out your stitches."
It's not a handicrafting metaphor, but my mother also suggests that I should add "overbooking" to my list of jetison-worthy activities.

Consider it done, oh Maternal Font of Wisdom.

Or at least added. Easier attempted than accomplished, but like they say, a long-ass row begins with a single knit. Or perl.
Or something.

Just Out Of Curiosity...

Am I a Bohemian?

I kind of think I'm too conventional. Which says a lot about Burlington, all things considered...

Sigh. It'd be nice to have a title besides "vagabond herbalist."

Hark, A Vagrant

Every so often I find a comic artist who's work I really, really love. Kate Beaton of Hark, A Vagrant (pictured here with her Younger Self) is one of those few amazing online critters who I've been reading for years.
Not only does she write hilarious historical comics, she has a wicked grasp of facial expressions, is fantabulously self-deprecating, and is also, I'm pretty sure, far more brilliant than any of us will ever be. No offense to us... she just rocks.

And no, I sadly don't know her, I just felt like it was time for one of those plugs I sometimes get around to. I mean, seriously. Is this not the most amazing Tesla comic ever?
Napoleon, the Brontes, Nietzsche...Pretty much any historical personage I know anything about I learned from Hark, A Vagrant, then realized I didn't know anything about and decided to do some research on ... alright, fine, True Confession Time: sometimes I just read the comics and laugh, even though I don't know what the bleep she's on about; they're that good.

Do I get extra internet geek points for that?

PS, Kate Beaton if you're reading this, please do one of Margaret Sanger! (Or Charles Dodgson if he's not too creepy...)