Trying Times (Keep on Trying)

Thank you to everyone who spoke out against the deregulation of Roundup Ready alfalfa. I appreciate your support, phone calls, and shared outrage and concern. I can't help but feel extremely disappointed by -and in- our government at this time, and the short-sightedness that led to a decision that is so obviously dangerous to our environment, food supply, economy, and the health and well-being of not only Americans, but all our relations, across the globe.

At the same time as this is happening, though, I am encouraged by people's interest and creativity regarding ways to grow, support, sustain, and "green up" their local communities.

The paradigm is shifting; I can feel it. Not everywhere, and certainly not all at once, but it is happening, and in enough different and symbiotic ways that I remain hopeful and loving despite this calamitous setback. We CAN join hands. We CAN open our hearts. We CAN reshape the patterns that no longer serve us, welcoming in a new day of service, understanding, and respect for others and ourselves.
We are not waiting for change, we are changing. We are growing. And once again, we are holding the line of Light against what seems like the darkest part of an unending night; keeping the cold at bay with nothing but the warmth of our beating hearts. Yours in faith,

Blackbird's Daughter

Aaaaand, we're back!

...And utterly grateful to be here.

After almost 2 months, 2 countries, poverty and decadence, ghettos and jungles, close encounters, sticky situations, spiritual epiphanies, flayed-open
fears, the kindness of strangers, homemade ice cream, illegal taxis, thirty foot cacti, moonlit skinny dipping, sweat lodges, street food, sick dogs, scorpions, Cuban cigars, fresh papayas, salsa dancing, emotional revelations, flirtations, prayers, songs, the hard-earned bones of a long-awaited book manuscript, and more blisters than I thought possible, I'm back in New England.

Tanned. Bruised. Pummeled. And finally -thankfully- humbly... whole.

I have apologies to make.

For the times I've looked down on simple pleasures I didn't understand, or let my fears trump my love. For the many times I thought love meant holding others to my standards, or holding myself back. For trying to do too much, too hard, because I was scared that the things I knew I could do would never be enough.

For assuming that anybody else's Path would look like mine, just because they happened to overlap.

I had my ass and my heart handed to me on this trip, and one of the things I learned was how much joy there is in appreciating other people's pleasures. So go out there and do all those things that make you happy, and know that if I didn't get it before, if I rolled my eyes or lost my patience or had some snarky reason why I wasn't going to join in...

...there's a good chance I still won't understand. But I'll do my best to love that it brings you joy.

There's more to follow, as I sort through laundry, memories, and the random odds & ends of the past two months' adventures. And of course, now I've got the next stage of my journey to plan. Feel free to come along on as much of it as it serves us to share; it's gonna be a doozy...

Living In Season (also, some nifty news & NOFA notes)...

...all brought to you by your favorite vagabond herbalist, who finally got some business cards printed up, just in time for this year's Northeastern Organic Farming Association winter conference. Also handy as I travel down to Mexico this Friday.

Did I say Mexico? I meant Mexico. Viva la aventura!

Let's do a little backup, catch up, "what the heck has Blackbird's Daughter been doing for the past month and a half, 'cause it sure as shooting wasn't running a blog" Q&A, shall we?

The quick answer is that Blackbird's Daughter has been trusting in the slow, dark, incubatory energy of the post-Yule, pre-Imbolc season, that's what.

The longer answer is that I've also been working incredibly hard to envision and craft what the next growing-cycle of my life will look like, while also striving to stay grounded and present in the here-and-now.

The tricky part of this late-Winter, early-Spring time (and yes, according to the Euro-pagan -for lack of a better phrase- calendar, it is now early Spring!) is that there's not a whole lot you can actually do, other than wait to see how all those bulb crops come up, tighten your belt, plan out your new plantings, and enjoy the quiet of the woods. Sure there's lots of stuff like missing buttons and old mail and the back of the refrigerator to attend to, and that's all fine and good and necessary, but it doesn't have the same feel of easy production as, say, a few months from now, when you won't be able to set foot outside without walking over parties of tender, delicious little baby dandelions and plantains and other weedy delectables, all popping their nutritious and impossibly green little selves out of the ground and shaking their little baby groove things in the wet and warming air. I don't even know what to call them, they're so many and cute and everywhere, like a blanket of tiny green rainbow gatherings with miniature drum circles and euphoric ant dancers all over the place. Those ecstatic, brave little plant-friends aren't just adornment for the lush and muddy soil, they are a full-on, plan-ahead, bring-the-kids Event; a not-to-be-missed Happening unto themselves.

But of course, that time is not this time, and this time is, by most accounts, pretty darn stark. Money's tight. The apples are wrinkled. There are only so many root vegetables you can cook in so many ways before you find yourself re-rummaging through the back-of-the-cupboard international cookbook pile, desperate for any legume-based culinary inspiration, and even those $5.99 boxes of insipid, pinkish strawberries start to look like a possibility.

Luckily for us, it's not actually that long a season. I know, I know, I can feel readers' polar-fleece-lined indignation from here, but bear with me on this one:
I'm not saying that almost six months of cold isn't a long time - I'm saying that it isn't just one extended limbo of non-growth and desolation. What we think of as "Winter" is actually comprised of multiple seasons: Winter (from November 1 through January 31), and Spring (Feb. 1 through April 30). This doesn't show up on the current American (political) calendar, but then neither does Presidents' Day on mine, so I guess we're even. (For the full and righteous eco-faith shebang, you gotta git on over to the Mystic's Wheel of the Year - go on, git!)
The way I've taken to viewing the year means that while lots of folks are bemoaning a dull and dreary landscape, I'm taking emotional refuge in a richly diverse series of gloriously minute shifts and soul-expanding beauty. Look at it this way:
When the year ends at Samhain (October 31), we have three months to reflect on and cast off the old patterns of the previous year before Spring is born at Imbolc (Feb. 1). Now that Spring is here and the castings of the previous year have fully sunk into the earth to fertilize the new one, we can look forward to the growth that is quickly working its hidden magic beneath the soil. The past few months have been a time to let go and relax into the greater cycle, acknowledging that we've accomplished all we could with last year. It's done. Let it go. It's time to allow ourselves to have faith in what's new.In the counseling world, this would be considered the Season of Closure, followed by the Season of New Beginnings. (Mumma, I'm giving this one to you- the "Mental Health Wheel of the Year" - see bottom of post.)

There's powerful medicine in this particular season of darkness, but if we're not used to living cyclically, it can be a time of great depression and emotional difficulty. We can remedy that by 1) accepting the Truth that nature, the planet, and our bodies are telling us, and 2) letting go of the rigid expectation that we strive for chronic consistency. This (often self-imposed) drive for uniformity & peak performance is akin to planting a tree and then expecting it to take root, acclimate to its new surroundings and climate, bud, blossom, bear fruit, produce sap, store nutrients for later, use those nutrients, photosynthesize, grow a healthyMycorrhizal network, interact with said network, grow taller, insulate itself from cold, feed millions of critters (both minuscule and large) etc etc etc....all at the same time. We wouldn't expect that of our plant allies, so why on Earth do we expect it of ourselves?
This sort of seasonal disconnect isn't just unrealistic on a personal level, it's incredibly unhealthy systemically, culturally, and planetarily, and it's a recipe for exhaustion, burn-out, illness, and a whole host of other unnecessaries.

So while it's true that I've been staying busy bopping up and down New England, selling my car, reconnecting with my amazing and talented sister-goddess (you can find her amidst the vanilla-scented cloud over at Life Is Short. East Dessert First.), planning for a spur-of-the-moment trip down South to explore the Curanderismo (herbal medicine) of Mexico, attending the NOFA Winter Conference, and planting seeds of possibility for this summer, I've been consciously working at respecting the fact that this particular liminal time in my life is both necessary and healthy. And you know what?

It's working.

I've been in Vermont for eight years now, and the longer I stay, the shorter the winter feels, and it's got nothing to do with global warming. It's the fact that I quit my jobs and got out of my car.

Seriously.
Here's what my old Winter schedule used to look like:
-Get up in the dark.
-Drive down gray city roads lined with gray, exhaust-covered snow to my gray and green place of employment.
-Stay inside for the entire time it was light out, with occasional breaks to accompany students somewhere or dash across the parking lot for a pre-meeting cup of coffee.
-Drive the same gray route home in the deepening dusk.
-Repeat.

Here's a sample of what it looks like now:
-Get up when I want.
-Work for someone else when I want.
-Work for myself when I want.
-Go outside when I want.
-Travel when I want.
-Repeat (when I want).

This new schedule leaves me very broke, extremely open to possibilities, intensely aware of my choices & challenges, and pretty darn happy. It forces me to be consciously vulnerable. It lets me be stressed out in way that I have control over changing. It teaches me to breathe.

And for the first time since I was a kid, it gives me the opportunity to really live with and in my surroundings, experiencing the climate and ecosystems the way we used to, from our feet on up.

On that note, I'd like to offer a huge thanks to NOFA and all the amazing agriculturally-minded folks that attended this year's Winter Conference.
Thanks for bringing the median age of farmers down for the first time in over 40 years. Thank you for revitalizing our soil and keeping our food chain real, healthy, and local. Thanks for taking on the absolutely critical role as the next generation of farmers, growers, bee-keepers, and more. Thanks for following your passion.

I guess the long answer to the question that started this all - What have I been doing? - is simply that. Following my passion. It's all I know how to do. But I do it well.

The Mental Health Wheel of the Year

In which Seasonal Affective Disorder is not an illness, but a positive sign of unconscious connection to our animal, place-based Selfhood; a "sane response to an insane world"; a 'symptom' of deeply-rooted wellness and an opportunity to grow and live in synchronicity and ease with Nature.

Samhain Season – active (act of) change making

Winter Solstice – closure

Imbolc Season– planning and readiness, new beginnings

Spring Equinox – new changes, skill growth, reflection on new needs

Beltane – big new change/awareness of possibilities/fertility of choice

Summer Solstice – maintenance/balance

Lammas – harvesting new changes

Autumn Equinox –reflection, readiness for change

For those who don't know, my mom is a pretty amazing holistic mental health counselor. She founded a practice called Liminal Therapy, where she references things like the hero's journey and helps her clients change "I should really..." to "I could really...". Here's a quote from her:

“Liminality”
Refers to the middle stage of change, the threshold between what was, and what is yet to be.
It is when we are forced by circumstance or choice to leave what is familiar; to journey into a place of uncertainty. It is a normal part of being human.

So inspiring! Anyway, I bet she does amazing stuff with this one :)

Hare Krishna, y'all!

I'm on my way to visit Blue Boy Herbs and the New Talavan community for a few days. Here's a quick video from Thanksgiving at Blue Boy Herbs... the man with white hair is Darrell Martin, founder of Blue Boy Herbs, and the woman at the end of the video is Lynda Baker. Her magical kiddo is the one radiating purple light (a phenomenon that hadn't happened before on my camera, hasn't happened since, and isn't likely to happen again, since I recently broke it and haven't gotten a new one yet - ah well, c'est la vie...



Of all the religious places I've visited, the Hare Krishnas have the best music and vegetarian food (though I still miss Mrs. Dietz's cooking!)....as Lynda says, "Thank you Jesus for the food, and thank you Krishna for Jesus!"

Po' Lazarus (forgiving Jesus): Part 2

Remember the Dietzes, whose farm I was on last month? They were kind enough to invite me to church with them, and while it was my first time at an Anabaptist house of prayer (the elder Dietzes are part of the River Brethren group of Mennonites), I was struck less by the similarities and differences of the the service and more by the content of the sermon, which was based on the story of Lazarus.
This past Sunday I went to a Jahovah's Witness service with Sarah's lovely Iranian neighbors, the Haghighis, and once again poor Lazarus was brought up (this time in conversation, if not flesh).
We humans hold so many beautiful, powerful myths tucked safely away between the pages of our holy books, ready for the days we need them. Like any strong story medicine, Lazarus' tale resonates in different ways at different points in our lives. Back in Pennsylvania, I found myself drawn in by the sheer humility and wretchedness that both Jesus and Lazarus' sisters experience "for the glory of God;" last Sunday was a good reminder that I'd been meaning to blog about it for a while, so I might as well get crackin'!The Story of Lazarus is a misleading one if you go on title alone. A bit character without any lines, Lazarus himself lurks at the edges of the story, surfacing only at the end as a vessel for Jesus' superstar powers. Popular mythology doesn't help; from paintings to witty similes, we tend to focus on the theatrics of Lazarus' situation. Try to abridge any of it - Jesus hears his friend is sick, arrives after he dies, and brings him back to life - and you miss the point entirely. But read it aloud, give yourself time to mull over the verses individually and in their collective entirety, and a different, deeper tale emerges; one of duty and submission, pain and resignation, of power balanced with empathy.

We have an almost universal passion for asking Jesus for forgiveness; I'd argue that there are times when we need to forgive Jesus. It's a common enough sentiment to feel upset with those who lead us (presidents, parents, bosses, you name it), but it's less acceptable to do so when that leader is Jesus. The story of Lazarus says it's not only acceptable; it's been going on since he was there to hear about it, and what's more, it can be a way station on the path to personal peace.
I'm sure the very notion of Jesus needing our forgiveness strikes some as sacrilegious, but let's think about it: here's a story about a (really nice) guy who knows his friend is dying, knows the depths of suffering it's gonna cause, and lets it happen anyway, in order to prove a point. And let's be honest, here: he doesn't just do it to prove a point, he does it to prove a point that he knows is going to make him look good. Really, really good... godlike, to be exact. Now, the fact that Jesus lets his friend die because it's for the greater good, and besides, his leader told him to, doesn't negate the fact that poor Lazarus kicks it, and Jesus doesn't do squat for two whole days.

Talk about tough love.

We've all experienced tough love, or betrayal, or abandonment, and while it helps to try and understand why people make difficult choices, and to acknowledge that it often hurts them to do so, it's also important to let ourselves experience the anger that comes from bearing witness to the imperfections of those we love. Not because it changes the outcome of their choices, but because from there, we can parse our emotions down from anger to sadness to love. And therein lies forgiveness.
"How could you do this?" becomes "You hurt me."
"You hurt me" becomes "I trusted you not to."
And if we're really brave, if we're really willing to humble ourselves before God and those we love, we can arrive at the nitty, gritty truth of the matter: "I put my trust in you because I love you."

And "I love you" becomes what it always was, even when it was hidden away under everything else. It becomes itself. It becomes Truth.

That Jesus suffers tremendously over the death of Lazarus doesn't negate the truth that everybody around him was thinking: "If you'd been here, Lazarus wouldn't have died."
If you'd been here. If you'd done your job. You have a gift, you have God's ear, "whatsoever thou shalt ask of God, God will give thee," and you did nothing.
You did nothing.

Why?

The question is so strong, so keening, it practically levitates from the text, and it's a rare one of us who hasn't asked that same lost, wretchedly humiliating question of the Cosmos. Why?
Here, in this myth, the answer rises up clear and clean, though elsewhere in our lives it might lie rotting, shrouded and still, buried behind the boulders of our pain. In the story of Lazarus, Jesus sacrifices his friend, and (I'd argue) a part of himself, for the sake of his greater task.
He does it because he has faith that it's the right thing to do; the thing that God asks of him.
He does it because it's the thing that will serve the most people the best, though it hurts his friends the most.
He does it because of all the painful places on his personal Path, he's finally arrived at that one, and the only way past it is to keep walking.
He does it because if he didn't, he wouldn't be Jesus.

In what other text is Jesus' humanity wrought so clearly as it is here? This is a family that Jesus loves, and one that openly loves him, despite the fact that their neighbors want him dead. These people are his allies and his followers, and yet when they call out to him in their direst need, he refuses to answer, though the consequences make him groan.
It's telling that when Jesus gets the message that Lazarus is sick, he knows immediately that it's for his benefit, and yet he keeps the news to himself for two days.
Why does he bear this alone, when he's surrounded by all his disciples?
Perhaps he knows what he has to do, and is unwilling to risk being swayed by what he or anyone around him wants. Or perhaps talking about it would just make things worse. Who among us can't relate to that?

In the end, though, the time comes when he has to tell them, and that's the second place we can see how much it hurts him. Incidentally, this is one of my favorite lines in the story; the dialogue is so sparse, but it holds worlds of angst and meaning. Where else in the Bible do we get to hear Jesus say, "Some bad shit just went down, and I was part of it, and you know what? Y'all got something outa this, too, and you don't even have to believe me, but that's what happened."
I'm paraphrasing, of course, but you get the point. (BTW, the previous post is the American Standard Version; feel free to write your own retelling. Everybody else did.)

There's more beauty to be found here, and more to write about eventually (ohh, eventually...), but I want to get on with my day, as I'm finally starting to feel resurrected myself (Louisiana climate + mold = one sick wandering Jewess), thanks to the miracles of Dr. Terry, one of the amazing naturopaths and co-founder of the Center for Natural Healing. Good People are everywhere, and Dr. Terry is at the top of my list. Now... to clean my car!