A long time ago I left my home
For a job in the fruit trees
But I missed those hills with the windy pines
For their song seemed to suit me
So I sent my wages to my home
Said we’d soon be together
For the next good crop would pay my way
And I would come home forever
One more dime to show for my day
One more dollar and I’m on my way
When I reach those hills, boys
I’ll never roam.
–Gillian Welch “One More Dollar”
(Homesick. For Oak trees that look burnt with fall foliage. For the smell of the earth against November sky. For spaciousness and quiet and a lifestyle where it just isn’t so hard to find what you need. Where what I need is different and less because what I receive is abundant and less fractured. The thrum hum of land pulls the same strumming down my legs and I have less to hold, don’t have to hold on to myself so tightly, there is room to unwind and something that catches.)
The past two mornings, Fern, Leo and I have wandered down to a little tucked away garden just two blocks away. I haven’t spent much time there, as it has long been in transition, and is often shady and on a hill where it is extra cold.
Now in November, as the trees that surround it drop their leaves, sun filters through. Opening a latched gate reveals a patch of light for baby to sit in while mama explores and takes pictures.
(I like the iron fence that encloses. I have been feeling aggravated by noise, by the expectation of interaction from strangers on the street, having a difficult time processing multiple stimuli. Overwhelmed. In moments where I don’t feel supported by circumstance and when I can’t support myself, when my boundaries aren’t respected and someone is verbally slandering me through their own paranoia, I build ironworks of my own. )
(Jeff has more work. Hooray! Which means he also has far less time. I have one work day a week that is solely mine. 8 hours to do everything in the world that I need to do. But now I have to let it go. I still have time to see clients two evenings a week, and to do the trainings and group supervision necessary for my internship. But those work days…they were keeping me sane. At the end of the day when my patience is thin and Fern wants boob for the 9 millionth time, when I’ve already done the dishes five times and am starting on the sixth, when I am navigating yet another baby caused interruption to my…whatever….process, project, thought, reading, bathing, eating, sleeping….it is the thought that in three days, in one day, I will have 8 hours just for me, that keeps me going. Those 8 hours weren’t pure…probably half of them still went to tending to baby love, but still. Jeff needs those 8 hours now. What to do? )
Such simple goodness. Such magic.
(There are a lot of external constraints upon us right now. A new focus on making money that requires sacrifice that doesn’t quite feel worth it. An interpersonal situation that has a stranglehold on our family. I wish I could talk about this more here, but I just can’t. When I back off from it, I remember the saying “If you want to make god laugh, tell him your plans”. When I remember to trust and stop limping around like I’m bereft of the love and support of the universe, Things feel a lot better. But still, so much frustration, and sorrow, and the impediment of Will that doesn’t feel good. Chomping at the bit and snarling at the starting gate.)
(Curl up and hide me. I’ve been looking into too many dark corners, practicing too much self-criticism. Looking backwards and thinking I can predict the future. Staring at what isn’t here now and assuming the void will only grow. Sitting in the void and not wanting to come out.)
(Turn my face to you, dear life, until it doesn’t hurt so much anymore, until I remember that the vulnerability of my heart is a gift and a strength. Remind me of the alchemy of gratitude, of the present moment. Give me warrior courage to grieve dreams, so that when my gut is torn by the thought of HOME, I can be a conduit for the sadness to flow through. And hey, while I’m asking for favors, can I put a bid in for this one? That somehow, someway, we find our way to a new dream of home? That somehow, someway, we find the house, the land out there that is dreaming of us? The acres that need us to tend them, the soil that is a mirror of my own heart, the trees that desire to do the same healing work I do? The glade that is heartbroken because it doesn’t have a garden, the meadow that, when we step foot in it, will send up silent songs of glory and thanks that we have finally arrived.
I love our house in the city. But I was never meant to stay, and I can’t stave off the river of purpose by “being happy with what is” forever. It’s time.)
In this hidden garden I found this chamomile like plant, with leaves that smell like apples and crushed pine.
An infusion made from the fresh leaves, taken 1-3 times a day for two weeks should cause migraine headaches to cease occurring. You can tincture it too, but most research I have read urges the use of fresh.
I don’t get migraines, and yet I couldn’t stop thinking about the flowers and we went back to see them again this morning. I looked up their use as a flower essence.
And lo, I found this:
Synchronicity is happening all the time.
Love is the name of the game.