Sink your hands into moist loam, feel the granules massage your fingertips, the heft of soil press against your skin. Lift a palmful to your nose and inhale the sweet, earthy scent, squeeze it into a ball, and then watch it crumble back apart. There’s something so satisfying and primal about the sensory experience of soil. Why is that?
A good part of my love affair with gardening is how it makes me feel. That’s why I was excited when I read research that offers some explanations for how dirt can lift my mood, and how contact with soil can treat anxiety, depression, and a host of inflammatory diseases.
Do you ever find yourself saying, “If only [this] was different, then I could do (or have) what I want”?
Many of us resist or lament the constraints in our lives (even ones we have chosen). But they can actually generate a lot of power. Think about the way water moves. Within narrow banks, water flows with greater force and speed, while wider boundaries let water slow and spread.
Her work has touched so many of us, lovers of the natural world and seekers of things unseen. Here, I join the chorus of thanks since her death. Mary Oliver, your life invited more life in ours. We’re lucky it still sings out in your poems.
This poem partially inspired my healing practice name. I love how it points to mystery in the mundane, to magic and possibility.
A number of things have changed since the last time I wrote here. I became the mother of a baby girl, Lucy, who has rapidly grown into a sweet and adventurous toddler. The experience of nurturing her through her early months has empowered, humbled, and changed me in more ways than I can articulate, and I’m deeply grateful she is part of our family. Continue reading “Fluidity”
To honor this transition for our family, I am going to take a few months off from offering healing sessions in Middletown, starting next week. I will miss working with you folks during my time off, but I am excited and grateful to be able to cocoon away with our new little one. I will let you know when I am back to work and open for sessions.
When I observe creatures and plants in the natural world, I am often struck by how boldly “themselves” they are.
I recently watched juncos bathing in puddles on the first clear day after several weeks of rain. These little birds did not mope about wishing their legs were longer or had more meat on them. Nope. They unreservedly threw themselves into the winter water bath, shaking their feathers, gripping the mud with their toes, raising their beaks to the sun.
For those of you who I haven’t seen in a few months, I have news to share: my husband and I are expecting a baby!
I am six months pregnant with our first child, and what a journey these six months have been for me: Nearly constant nausea in the first trimester . . . the adventure of hormonally influenced emotions . . . developing a relationship with a miraculous, unseen being growing inside me . . . a deepening of trust and newness of purpose with my life partner (the photos in today’s letter are from our recent Southwest “babymoon”).
I pull on a wool hat and down jacket, stuff my pajama pants into rain boots, and head out to the woodpile. My breath leaves a trail of tiny clouds in the frosted air. The wheelbarrow rumbles through puddles and over lumps of mud.
I throw back a tarp and, though I have seen the sight many times before, this time my heart swells.
“You have suffered enough and warred with yourself. It’s time that you won.”
This past weekend wasn’t the first time I’d heard the song “Falling Slowly,” by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova, from the film and Broadway musical Once. For several years now, I’ve enjoyed the soulful, raw harmonies in the song, with sweet acoustic guitar and piano. But until this last weekend, I hadn’t noticed that set of lyrics: “You have suffered enough and warred with yourself. It’s time that you won.”