I'm in-between right now. Floating in amniotic bardo space where time means nothing and I cannot seem to make a blog post. This will end when the birthing begins. Until then . . .
. . . here's a note just to say hey - here's what I'm up to.
This post is just to say hello - to wave and tell you some things that are going on over here so that you don’t think I’ve disappeared. I’m still here. But I’m floating - I feel as if I’m neglecting you so I want to tell you the truth - always - and the truth is that right now, I am building a garden.
And trying not to make too much of the fact that we are coming to the anniversary of my stroke. It happened almost a year ago - on the evening of the summer solstice, June 20, 2024. I am trying not to make that into an anniversary or a sign or a portent.
I would like to just cross over it, the way that I used to, every year for 66 solstices. To close my eyes and, in my sleep, move from spring into summer without incident. To wake up in the morning - no headache, no strange numbness in the right side of my body and greet the season.
To say, Hello summer. You’re here.
Yay!And go about my business.
Until then . . .
Every morning I go outside at dawn and sit on the bench that I made out of the wood scraps my husband brought home from a construction site. I sit with my feet in the dirt, sipping my first cup of tea, watching the sun climb the sky behind the farm.
Then, I start digging. I make holes, piling the dirt inside the garden - a trick my daughter taught me when she was home two weeks ago. Inside of the holes, I place seeds, or plants - lavender, tomatoes, some thyme that we picked up at the organic plant sale at the farm.
(That was a fun day - we walked there together. My son and his wife, my daughter, my husband and me, the longest walk I’ve taken in a year. We saw so many friends - people from the neighborhood, the community that buzzes and bubbles around our Waldorf School. People I don’t see when I hide myself at home.)
I dig holes and talk to my tomatoes and the bees come and buzz around me while I work. I go get the kitchen scraps and stir them into the compost and snap the lid back on nice and tight.
Then, I come into the kitchen and have breakfast: a hard boiled egg - maybe some oatmeal or smoked salmon and avocado on a gluten free bagel. I take my second cup of tea out to the swing with whatever book I’m reading. Today it was Gathering Moss, by Robin Wall Kimmerer. Yesterday, it was Jung and Yoga, by Judith Harris.
I read until the sun moves directly into my eyes. Then, I get up.
I try not to come online too early in the day - I can get lost in reading all of the amazing stories and essays. I can get pulled into a live chat over at the Contrarian or drawn into another gorgeous, soul-quenching (or wrenching) exercise at Jeannine Ouellette’s Writing in the Dark. I can get sucked into answering emails or posting Notes.
I’d rather be meeting real people in real places, which right now for me is mostly in grocery stores and at Art Cafe. But I feel this longing . . . to touch people. To shake hands. To hug.
This morning, while digging, I started dreaming about doing a live retreat. A real life gathering in a real place with real people. No livestream. No recording. Sitting in a circle talking and dreaming and journaling together. A place near a sweet town where we can get tea or ice cream and walk around window shopping. I want to set it up so we can share meals - maybe bring in a whole foods chef - at an AirBnB or some small conference center. There don’t have to be a lot of outside attractions - the attraction would be us - sitting around a real campfire or table and talking to each other. So that’s on my mind.
Anyway, after breakfast, when I would normally be writing you a blog post (and completing the final module of The One Who Blesses (from my Sacred Pause series (I promise, it’s coming.) I get in the car. I drive to Starbucks and order a decaf oat milk latte. I drive somewhere.
Every Monday, I go to yoga. Back to the room where, the evening before my stroke, I had a strange out of body vision (which may have been the onset of the stroke but may have been a visit from an angel, who placed her palm against the back of my heart and said, “We are going to do something hard now but I will be with you every step of the way.”) I am trying to be brave and not blame yoga for the stroke. I’ve been back four times now. Once with my daughter and three times on my own. The first time, I lay on my mat and just exhaled. Home.
Other days, I drive to the Goodwill bins and shop around for a while.
While I am sorting through bins filled with used clothing and handmade baskets and brand new SmartWool socks and all kinds of games and puzzles and greeting cards and sometimes art supplies and beach towels and flannel shirts and down coats and sandals . . . seriously, they have everything. Rugs. Handbags. Notebooks. ..
. . . I think about whether I am going to open a little shop in the vintage mall that my daughter and I found when she was home. I keep thinking about it. I keep looking at the (many) things I’ve collected that we really have no room for.
Like, right here in this room: there’s a pile of quilts that I couldn’t just leave there. This one, from Eileen Fisher, is champagne-colored silk. It’s king size and gorgeous but far too big (and the wrong color) for my bed. And these gorgeous wool blankets from Scotland and Maine and Peru. And this work of art - a hand-felted blanket of red and white wool - which my husband wants to nail to the wall - that’s how beautiful it is.
And this one - a soft blue green - the color of the water under the bridge that time when we drove from San Francisco to the mainland. The light did something making the water a color I have never before seen water be.
Oh, and these pillows: Brand new, tags still on, from Ralph Lauren - marked $130, which I told my husband, I would sell for maybe 30 or 40 and he looked at me like, “Oh, so you’ve decided to sell things.” And I looked back at him like, “Maybe I have… “ And we laughed. And he went back to work and I made dinner.
Anyway, I just wanted to touch in and say, hey. I hope that you’re well - I’d love to hear from you. Tell me what you’re doing these days. Tell me about your gardens. Your summer plans. Tell me if you’d love to join my imaginary (for now) retreat when I make it real.
During my ‘in-between’, here are some blog posts you may have missed.
This is not the eclipse of everything good. A post that I wrote after Hamas sneak attacked Israel and everyone was taking sides and I found that, even though I was upset and triggered and confused and sad - I wasn’t able to take sides.
It’s the only medicine that can break the spell of our split world. In which, I share a dream with a scary bad guy and the magical garments that save the world.
You’re upset because it’s upsetting. My most recent post. With cows and a tractor. And how the world feels overwhelming right now and maybe, it can help to keep the strangers (on TV) out of the kitchen.
Three Series to check out (all free!)
The Flow Transmissions are over at The Guidebook now. Seven years of my conversation with The Guides, angelic guardians of the field of love.
Join me as I share my book, Sea of Miracles, fifteen years after publication. I’m sharing stories and reflections as we go through the entire book, chapter by chapter.
Join Sacred Pause: The Reflection Work. A series of study-yourself workshops. Currently free to all subscribers.
I am sending you all the blessings of the season.
Warmly - with great love.
Amy
xxoo
I am so very glad, entirely grateful to the Universe, that you are still here. Even if you are in-between. We don't interact as often as we used to, you and I, but my heart feels so strongly connected to yours. I would find a way to be at a physical retreat with you, when it happens. I have been manifesting much, and muchly, these recent days. I can throw in more for a retreat with you. Always love. Always.