rituals of release

these days i have noticed how often ritual is really about directing my attention, towards and away from emotions, energies, lives, futures. tonight i need rituals.

this week i am in a place i love, which i must let go of without much agency. where is the ritual for grieving other people’s homes and lands that have also held your heart? where do you whisper into the dirt: “i fell in love with you, with this curve, this ridge, this stand of birch – you changed my life…”?

tonight is my last night here, probably forever. the moon still feels full, waiting for me to release, so i write.

i am laying in the room where my youngest nibbling was born, and i remember how the light poured in that day like the sun itself wanted to see her first. still when i first glimpse her bright gold hair i remember that light, her swimming to her mother and everyone gasping, crying with miracle.

i remember that winter, waking up every three hours to go down into the cold basement in layers and layers of clothing to tend to the furnace fire. that meditation, finding the spark in the ashes and blowing, feeding, waiting…the satisfaction of the fire roaring, knowing the baby, the mother will be warm.

and in the dark outside the window, just a short walk into the wood, lay buried the bones of the infant phenomenon, the little one whose spirit often visits me here, usually in the kitchen, dashing behind me, caught out of the corner of my eye. i hope the next family has kids for them to follow.

in the morning i will wake up to the small pond, one of millions, with its particular cycle of geese, winter ice, summer muck. this pond taught me the sacred gift of catching sunrise, it is so simple, and one of my favorite views in the world. it’s summer now but i think my favorite is fall, this same swath of trees bright red with change.

the hill between the house and the pond is worn bare by sledding, and i remember dragging sleds weighted with children back up that incline.

i will miss these gardens which i didn’t work but watched burst each year with abundance. i miss watching my eldest nibbling bend close to eat broccoli like a wild deer.

how many times did we rescue ourselves from the doldrums of a long day by going for a walk up the driveway, then the dirt road, left, throw rocks in the first pond, left, climb into the creek bed, race to the rock pile, leap over the tiny stream between the next two ponds, grunt up that first hill, run the ridge past the white trees until breathless, reach the fire pit, the yard strewn with soccer balls and obstacle courses and frisbees, populated with frogs that wanted to say hello. how many times?

how many times have i made the double batch of pancakes? in this kitchen i can do it without a recipe. in this home i have been a different me, barefoot, in an apron, satisfied with the work of love and care. covered in paint, flour, dirt, whatever the children had touched before they needed to hold me, hug me, be carried wrapped around my leg, or tucked in a wrap against the back of my heart.

i remember dancing, joy, laughter, building forts and bonfires, mayday poles, a briefly functional kiln. rocking my nibblings to sleep in the dark and then trying to not wake them when everything in this house groans and sings. my nibblings’ feet hitting the floor in their bedroom half a house away, racing to climb into bed with me, my middle nibbling all elbows and knees, the oldest telling me dreams, the baby complaining about the existence of morning.

here i crafted books about my nibblings, for them, like mandalas: take my heart, destroy it.

i want the babies to remember their naked wild years here, skin to soil to sun, safe enough to climb the apple tree and venture out onto the ice, country enough to beef with the neighbor over dog etiquette.

i wonder if they will recall their bedroom full of books, their bedding piled on the floor, rejecting comfort. the safe spaces they generated for themselves and each other.

here i learned about relinquishing control, flying alongside of parents, being kind while sleep deprived, the layered summer dance of dragonflies, the soundtrack of crickets, grasshoppers.

i know why we must go. even flooded in nostalgia, feeling the perfection of this patched together house that has held my family, i know our chapter here is done. i am trusting the universe that this release will honor a plethora of destinies. grief here is truly gratitude.

i grew up moving every two years. as an adult i am wary of any effort to bind me to a place, and yet i am so grateful for the parts of my life, my family’s life, that could only have unfolded on this land.

tomorrow i will gather dirt, offer water, burn words and pray for abundant release. nothing is permanent except the cycle of change, and this place is one of my favorite teachers of how life is unbearably beautiful and ever shifting.

goodnight, sweet home.

notes to self aug 7 2019

notes from the Northstar church pleasure activism event in Durham last night…

first, read these notes about Toni Morrison:

and @thisandthatkat said: “tweet’s southern hummingbird was my shower soundtrack this morning. as “oops (oh my)” played on repeat, i thought of toni, this twitter post, and the part in her doc where she fondly reminisced on being “loose” as a howard undergrad and unapologetically declared, “it was lovely, i loved it”. toni was sensual. she reveled in the sweetness, the pleasures, the fullness of black womanhood and encouraged us to do the same. thank you, toni”

and these:

i got to sit between Omisade and Nia and listen and learn about the pleasures of the crone.

we thought and said, aging is humbling, can make you invisible to huge portions of humans, can make you feel shame about falling apart. but you can remind yourself to feel into your body, that you are just changing, that each day is still miraculous.

we uplifted the #decolonizethecrone work of Omisade – have you heard her podcast, A Black Girl’s Guide to Menopause? Omisade pointed out how we give tons of attention and information to people getting their periods, but so little information about menopause, how it will feel, from the inside to the interactions.

in this conversation i was reminded that both outside of and because of age, ability is always shifting. i want to be in my body in a way that increases my joy each day – each day is another day to make good on the contract of creating a beautiful life for myself, for my people.

i shared something i learned from Alexis Pauline Gumbs, whose essay The Sweetness of Salt was the centerpiece of tonight’s reading. Mya read the section about Kai, Omisade read the section about Cara. it was a very Durham love burst.

Alexis taught me about time travel, how we can transmit across time and space. i spoke of my two formative grandparents tonight, and felt their distinct presences in me, the celebration of being remembered, the joy of being useful, that sparkle coming up my back in ancestral shivers. i spoke of how i can see the pleasures my grandmother missed, working multiple jobs as a maid while raising seven kids…where were her footrubs? massages? meals cooked for her, orgasms just for her? i gather these delights and send them back to her, share them. for a moment, i can fold time and let her feel good.

at some point we spoke of the weight of grandmother wisdom. and how sometimes it’s racist, patriarchal, transphobic, close minded stuff. we got to the idea that when we come across people acting out from that inherited ignorance, part of our work is to remove the weight, bring them to current time.

i was also reminded that, often, those who are most conservative in my life are older women who believe themselves to be in a covenant with god. it’s repression, shaming, self negation, denial, all in the name of being closer to god. and what helps me navigate the conversations is to understand that even the force i am moving against, that force feels sacred to the other person. i must contend for divinity to really move the conversation. to say, god, goddess, god-is-change also made me, particularly.

also, did you know men can use beet juice and a vegan diet to grow virility?

oh and nia taught us how we must decide, and begin to practice, something new. in the here and now. that’s the work of spirit house, to build a foundation for the time when we win, are free.

we remembered, from somatics, how compassion helps us soften in the face of shame, and move through it to the terror, or grief, or other big emotions that shame protects.

this was a beautiful day for thoughtful feelings or emotional thinking. one day at a time, but each day has lineage and dreams.

today we dreamed within the revered energy of the Phil Freelon. it was an honor to feel the goodness of that space, the love he rendered.

toni morrison, fly

so. you set down all that weight,
gave up all that shit?

cleared the ghosts’ hands away from your heels?
straightened the wide brims of their hats?
kissed the men on soft smirked cheeks?
danced beyond the reach of your children?

you knew how to end the long tale

precisely

you knew how to meander without waste
you kept our attention on their faces

you heard the black women
folded, almost disappeared between the pages,
but you told their stories
and made them our stories

we all learned to love our eyes
we all remembered that we are not wrong
we all looked at whiteness with a withering eye
we all knew the cost of enslavement

we all needed you
we are all grateful

ase

meandering thoughts after murder

i am from el paso, i was born there. when i saw the news of this latest mass shooting, i felt gut punched. i ignore a lot of the news. i know it’s all a total crisis, i dedicate my life to focusing on and testing for solutions that will work across the wide range of crises.

but then i see that a black man saved children in the process. i thought of my father, young and black in el paso taking me to the store. he would have done that too. and all the other black men, military or not, who do the right thing, the brave thing, all the time, over and over, and still have to carry the weight of racist dehumanization.

my heart is tired of grief, intimate and stranger.

i turn to the goddesses, and my tarot deck, and children, to ask how we keep moving, or when we will stop, interdependent questions that lead back in different ways to an answer of broader love.

honestly, i am not satisfied.

i start reading about the people who died in el paso, and then the people who died in the other mass shootings this weekend. this month. this year. i let the grief come, let the tears wet the altar, let the pain move into anger, rage, protection, connection.

i feel hopeless and frustrated around this issue, because it’s tied to the chasm, the massive gaping chasm at the heart of the US…on one side is racism, imperialism, greed, patriarchy, small minds, hateful moves. on the other is, largely, a vague sense of moral outrage, with a tiny band of revolutionaries on the left screaming, “it’s all connected!!”

that is still, always, the thought that lifts my chin from hopelessness – it is all connected. the horrific behavior is all connected, down in the roots and up in the white towers and under the masks. we can’t work one issue at a time. but if we keep pulling at these roots, saying what the fuck when it’s appropriate; saying not in my house, not on my watch, not on my dime, not in my name; keep pulling the toxic roots up and out, tossing what we cannot hold to our ancestors, pulling it out from the very very lowest point, bringing it all into the light – i know, by which i mean i can feel, that we are going to pull the foundation out from under this empire of awful.

and i will keep working to make sure we know how to love each other in the chaos. loving you, new strangerancestor or beloved friend or aligned reader, right now, in this chaos, is good practice.