September Hot

It's hot.  90 degrees at the ocean, and over 100 on the mountain.

Just reading and eating popsicles with the kids. 

My journal sits, waiting. I'm lazy. Content in the moment, reading and having my best fun.

Soon I will write an update post in my "Change of Place" series. 

See you in a few days. Love to everyone.

Tarot Tuesday and Journal Writing

A few years ago, a writer-friend planned to dedicate Tuesdays to writing about the Tarot on her blog. She was going to use the imagery of the cards to assist with going deeper into writing projects. She wanted to address creative blocks, dialogue, character development, backstory, setting, plot and poetry, and whatever else developed over time. 

I waited and waited but Tarot Tuesday did not continue. Instead, my friend’s writing-life grew wild with deadlines for books soon to be published, her husband became ill, and her blog simmered in the background of her life. 

Still, that one blog post from my friend was enough to get me interested in Tarot. I knew that my friend had studied Tarot extensively and is considered to be a person of knowledge and experience within the circles where Tarot is respected. But I was slow to jump in. All right, I will admit it. There was a time long ago when I questioned the cards. Something certainly not to be taken seriously. Add this to the fact that as person who is very traditional in my Cherokee, Lenape, Seneca beliefs, the Tarot did not seem to have a place in my life. But I’m open to having fun with Astrology (The Moon in Pisces with an Appetite Rising) so why not Tarot? 

A few weeks after the idea of learning more popped into my mind, I took a leap of faith and asked another friend who seemed like she might be open to Tarot. Turns out she had much knowledge. I’d known her for years, but she had never mentioned it. She invited me over for tea (pre-Covid) and also invited her close friend who has extensive Tarot experience and knowledge. Thus, my learning began. 

 

What I have also discovered is how much Journal Writing and Tarot complement each other. This opened the door for me to continue learning, and I'm now a believer. I'm not sure how Tarot cards works, only that it does work. I'm finding that for my personal life and within my writing life, I always pull cards in tune with where I am in my life. 

 

Tarot Tuesday by my friend Patricia 

Getting Started: First rule. I have only one rule I hold myself to, I do my best to let go of any meanings I have ascribed to the card so I can approach things with fresh eyes and beginner's mind. I usually pull only one card to get started. Though you could add another card or two. Please remember there is no wrong or right way. 

To get things flowing I begin by fanning the cards out facedown. I take my time picking one that “feels right.” Then, I get started writing which consists of describing the card in as much detail as possible. Notice the colors. Consider the landscape, the position of the characters and buildings. Is there more than one person? If so, what might they be saying to each other? Jot everything down—even random thoughts and follow where your instincts want to take you. 

Also notice how the card makes you feel. What does it evoke? 

Free write for a set amount of time—ten, fifteen minutes, or longer if you are engaged. Example: For today’s post I pulled the Queen of Swords. After describing everything I could about the card I sat quietly with the image to see if any memories or insight might surface. When nothing came, I began to ask questions. The questions I asked were ones that popped into my head in the moment. Here are a few that came up for me. Feel free to use them for writing prompts if you like. What does the landscape look like around her? What does it look like further out—in the places I can’t see? What is she protecting? Am I protecting something in my own life? (This is where a shift happened and I realized why I was blocked). If so what and why? I find it helps to turn the lens both inward and outward when wanting to go deeper. I usually do this after I have gone further into the process. 

TIP: It helps to keep checking in with your body and how you are experiencing the imagery. Your body can give you a lot of information. I discovered thru this process that what I am writing about (I am working in the genre of memoir) has a lot of emotions attached. I put up a protective barrier and it has created a block. So, the next questions I asked myself were: Can I put down my sword? Is it emotionally safe to do so? Can I create enough emotional distance from this part of my story without needing to be so guarded? 

Can I maintain its energy if I pull back a bit? Is there another way to tell the story? A more effective way? I will explore this further on my own but recognizing why I was blocked in the first place was extremely helpful. Depending on what else surfaces I may create a small ritual around letting go or add a mantra and breath work to my daily practice or it might be as simple as naming the block. Sometimes that is all it takes to get things flowing. Not everything needs to be a huge revelation in order to be helpful. 

Patricia said these exercises work well for seasoned Tarot readers and for people with no prior knowledge of the cards who just want assistance with their writing process, and in their personal lives. She signed her post by saying, "I look forward to sharing more on Tarot next Tuesday."

Except there never was another Tarot Tuesday post on her blog. However, I've discovered maybe I don’t need more. This one post gives me everything I need to explore and find what is lurking inside my subconscious, and it’s proving to give me fertile soil to write from, and to record my thoughts in my journal.

Freefall Home

I'm sending my mind on a little vacation as I write, free falling, wandering back over time, and the scent of good cinnamon sprinkled on my steaming bowl of oatmeal carried me back.

It was a long time ago in the early 1950s, and I was visiting great-grandma in Freefall. I watched her peel and slice apples. I must have been pretty small; I stood on a stool to see what she was making. 

She nodded at me; her eyes were quick behind the thick lenses of her glasses. Grandma rolled out dough, filled it with apples, and put it in the oven to bake. 

Then I went out back on the porch to watch an orange-black garden spider, her web a zigzag of silk, right above my head. The cousins gave me more reasons to notice spiders. My legs were long and thin, and they called me Spider Web. I imagined myself a spider sitting in my parlor awaiting visitors.

In the little town, Freefall, on the edge of the reservation, laughter comes in handy.

Every Sunday went spent the whole day at my grandparents house, and often we stayed until way past my bedtime. I loved being in a house filled with relatives. It meant cousins to play with, lots of cousins. The uncles talked politics, shouting out their rock bottom opinions, while the aunties gossiped and the kids played together like a pack of wild pups.

Although I didn't know what it was called when I was young, I was raised in what is now known as the mixedblood fiddle tradition. The uncles played fiddle and grandma took out her teeth, dropped them into her apron pocket, and played the harmonica. She could step dance too and do the Bluegrass Clog. Often the kitchen was alive with fiddle music, banjo and guitar playing and grandma’s feet tapping. 

Grandma was actually my great-grandma. But I didn't know this when I was a kid. She was just grandma to me. I also had two other grandmas, my dad's mother and my mom's mother. I had three grandpa's too, my dad's father, my mother's father and great-grandpa.

Sometimes instead of music, we watched westerns on television. Since grandma and grandpa and dad and I, and all of the aunties and uncles and cousins were all Indians, I thought it was rather funny that the black and white movies on television showed Indians sitting on horses at the rise of a hill, with their faces painted and living in tipis. All of the Indians we knew drove trucks or cars and lived in houses, like we did.

After dinner, a sweetness of cinnamon and steaming apples brought the uncles into the kitchen. “Grandma’s making apple pie.” Somebody said. I’d never tasted apple pie, but felt positive it would be the best dessert ever.

A few minutes later more relatives arrived. Nobody ever went away without eating. The aunties, apron-bound, brought out platters of fried chicken, biscuits crusty on the outside and soft inside and broiled cracked corn, and everyone gathered around the big table. So much food was pushed onto my plate. Afternoon sun poured through the window onto the table. Tiny dust particles were floating in the sunlight.

“Child, you eat like a bird.” Grandma said. “If you don’t eat more than that you’ll never get fat.” My older, round-faced cousins always cleaned their plates. My family thought it was necessary to eat lots of food to grow up the right way. But I couldn’t eat more, so I plainly could never hope to be normal and healthy.

Finally the pies were brought out.

“There won’t be enough pie to go around.” Someone hollered. 

I smelled sweet, browned piecrust. My heart pounded. I wondered since I hadn’t eaten very much, maybe I would not get a piece of pie. 

A clatter of plates was passed, with a bunch of forks, sugar and cream stirred into coffee. I grabbed my napkin by two corners and shook it out onto my lap and sat on the edge of my chair, my back bony, my elbows sharp, waiting.

Before anyone else, Grandma, all smiles, lifted a large triangle sized piece of apple pie onto my plate, I took a bite, tasted its warm crusty apple goodness, and I felt lucky and special.

First published in Wordcraft Circle of Native Writers and Storytellers Native Realities

Room to Write

For the past ten years I’ve been living a minimalist lifestyle, but there was a time when my cluttered desk told a different story. Open shelves housed every book, magazine and literary journal that had published my work, hundreds of publications. 

I had also saved everything I had ever loved or thought might prove useful in the future. My collections of cards, letters and photographs, made the room feel small, but I thought I needed them in order to be creative because they were linked with my identity. 

 

Here I am in 1994, with my first Mac.

Then one morning I reached my limit and decided to change my ways. With less things surrounding me, I began to connect to the part of me that craves simplicity. A calm peaceful feeling took hold. 

With less stuff everywhere my cluttered thoughts lifted, my writing grew more abundant and I felt rested at the end of my workday, renewed.

Taming the Wild in Me

I peeled down to my tank top, put on a pair of shorts, stretched out on the massage mat, and wiggled my bare toes. My friend who is learning to become a massage therapist pressed his hands into the small of my back. I felt my muscles relax. I have spent the equivalent of years of my life wishing for massages, and I’d hit pay dirt. My friend is training to become a Massage Therapist and he needs 500 hours of coursework and I am his subject. He was giving me a free 90 minute massage. 

If I had a weekly massage, I believed maybe my torso would grow supple, my legs long and nimble. But first I had to hush my thoughts, and not think about anything. His fingers moved up and down my leg. I let my brain float without any barriers. 

Ravens flew through my mind, and a soothing feeling spread over me like sun-warmed rainwater floating down my neck and shoulders and glided over me like feather-down wings. Then suddenly his cat hopped on top of me and was extremely affectionate; he kneaded down on my lower back, purred, his whole body rumbled with cat pleasure. Then the cat leaped off of me. I let out a giggle and then my tense body relaxed even more. My head relaxed, my neck and down to my chest and into the lines and curves of my abdomen. 

Outside the streetlights came on. From somewhere in the distance a radio played a Mexican polka. I felt all the parts of my body as if I’d never before knew they were all there at the same time. The air grew blue dark, and a passing car reflected the corner streetlight outside. I lay mindless and eternal, renewed.

The Moon in Pisces with an Appetite Rising

The sun is high and the days are long. A flock of crow gossip noisily above and a dragonfly is hovering over the birdbath, shimmering with almost iridescent light. In the summer dinner time always sneaks up on me by surprise, catches me unaware in the middle of doing something else. 

But today I’m thinking about dinner even before I’ve had lunch. I'm making the pinto bean dish I collected in Taos the day my friend Luke arranged for me to have my astrology read. It’s one of my favorites, being hot, spicy and down right sincere. 

I probably would not have thought to seek out an astrology reading, and it turned out to be wildly fun when my friend set up the appointment and sent me off. 

Rosemary, the astrologer, had silver hair reaching almost to her waist. She opened her bright blue door and I walked into her sunny kitchen. Her cottage floors were made of used brick and the natural pine cupboards were snug and the doorways were low. 

Open shelves housed baskets of dried oregano, dill, sage, and canning jars filled with apricots and cherries. Fragrant basil spilled out of a clear glass container, a clump of freshly picked cilantro sat near the sink and she had a pot of pinto beans simmering on her coal black stove. 

“I want you to see this Yod. It's forming a star, a parallelogram, by the way it is happening between two nodes and a trine and it’s rare.” The words flowed from Rosemary like clear water from a mountain stream. She handed me a tan paper with my astrological chart hand drawn, in careful script and we sat down together at her kitchen table. I settled into an oak armchair, propping my elbows on the table, listening with a hungry mind. 

Luke and Rosemary were close friends and when I was with her I had one of those feelings as if I'd known her for years too. We talked for hours about astrology, herbs, medicine plants, healing and the helper plants that aren't strong enough on their own and must be used with other healing plants. And we talked about different ways to fix pinto beans. 

The day ended with me gaining a better understanding of the way the planets shape my life. I’m an Aries, with an Aries-Cancer chart type. Sagittarius rising, with a Pisces moon. Most important of all is that I'm a Yod person—it means I should expect the unexpected, which comes as no surprise. 

Everything Rosemary explained about my astrology chart rang true and took me home to who I am. It was like water returning to the riverbed...  and I also had a sudden inspiration to cook. 

My Favorite Pinto Bean Casserole 
About 2 cups of pinto beans 
A small amount of cooked chicken, diced – optional 
1 cup of cooked brown rice 
A few dollops of sour cream, to bind 
1 can (15 oz) of yellow hominy, or you can soak dried hominy
A yellow and red bell pepper, chopped 
Onion, chopped 
2 or 3 garlic cloves, chopped 
3 large tomatoes, chopped 
Fresh or dried oregano 
New Mexico chili powder 
Cumin

There aren't any exact amounts of anything added, because that's the way I cook. Use your own cooking instincts based on if you like it hearty or lean, spicy or mild. I like it hearty and spicy.

In a large skillet over medium heat sauté peppers, garlic, onion in olive oil until tender. Add tomatoes, chili powder and cumin, cook 5 minutes. Take the skillet off the stove and add other ingredients, along with a little bit of sour cream. Stir to blend. Put into a casserole dish and bake at 350 degrees for 35 or 40 minutes. And if you make this in the summer, like I'm doing today, turn the fan on high and open the window wide. 

I like to serve this with sliced red serrano chiles, green onion and cilantro on top, along with with a salad. 

Peppermint sun tea is brewed and chilled, and today I have simmered an extra large pot of pinto beans, plenty to make a bean soup later in the week, to eat along with a loaf of crusty sourdough bread. It's a wonder-fully filling dish in which the main ingredient is the star. The bean soup is amazing after the beans rest in the fridge. I will top it off with a salsa made with fresh picked tomatoes. 

Then I make a mental note to call Rosemary. She had mentioned a few astrology books I might want to read, and I want to hear more about my yod.

Peter, Paul & Mary

Last night I had the good fortune to hear Peter Yarrow and Noel Paul Stookey in concert. Me in the audience, feeling glad all over, thankful, taping my foot, singing along and holding Mary in my heart. 

What a wonderful night, I think, turning it around in my hand to its starting point again. Thinking about all of the PP& M concerts I've been to over the past 50 years, my thoughts landed on the first time I brought my daughter along with me. 

It was April 1992. My eleven-year old daughter and I arrived almost two hours early at the field in Solvang, California where Peter, Paul & Mary's 30th anniversary concert was to be held. 

The field was horse land, but on this evening instead of horses there was an enormous white concert tent, a small motor home and a row of outhouses farther out in the field.

It had been raining all day and the field was a mixture of grass and mud. In the late afternoon a handful of people had gathered and were engrossed in conversation with Peter, Paul and Mary. I hung back, listening to Peter talking with a little girl, telling her about learning to play the violin when he was a small boy. Paul and Mary were chatting within another small group gathered. 

After a while all three left to go to dinner. The rest of us stayed out in the field and watched the stars come out and soon our group grew larger.

A short while later the trio came back, and now they were dressed to perform, serious, quiet and focused. They picked their way through the muddy grass, toward the concert tent, through the crowd of people, speaking softly, saying “Excuse me, excuse me please.” I was giggling at the surprised look on those folks’ faces as they turned around one by one to let someone through and found it was Peter, Paul and Mary. 

The concert was scheduled for 8 p.m. and it was sold out, every seat was filled. The audience was mild and orderly, with lots of gray hair and bald heads, and many people brought children and grandchildren. It felt like a reunion. It was a reunion.

We sat in folding chairs. My seat was about 40 paces from the stage, and my feet on the earth floor which was a blending of grass, mud and wood chips. Right from the start we were the singingest bunch I’d ever heard. Mary had only to raise her hand and our voices filled the tent. “Puff, Lemon Tree, We Shall Overcome, Blowing In The Wind, If I Had a Hammer, and This Land Is Your Land.” Peter coached us over and over again singing “Lemon Tree” and we gained perfect pitch and harmony.

I could feel every heart open around me. Peter said that, “they” were the immediate family and “we” were the extended family, and what a joyful occasion it was for all of us to be together. 

My guess is that the only thing that kept us grounded was having our feet touch the earth; otherwise we might have all flown right through the tent roof out into the atmosphere. Instead we sat cold, damp and humble, singing together. 

Mary told us about her grandchildren and said, “We’re no longer Peter, Paul and Mommy, now we are Peter, Paul and Grammy.”

While we were inside the tent singing, the rain started up again. We sang for 3 hours and when it was over Mary made us promise to go home and warm our feet, and drink hot tea before going to bed.

The night was clear and the stars were out again as we left the tent. The air was chilly and wonderful. We had a long walk back to our hotel and I was glad for the peaceful time to enjoy my thoughts.

Remembering: David Crosby and Me

This is some years ago. I worked front and back office for three doctors, back in the days before scrubs, when everyone in the medical field wore white and each morning I walked to work wearing my white shoes, a white skirt and a white blouse, and I looked like a nurse.  

One morning waiting to cross the street, a young man in a vintage green Chevy pick up pulled up. We looked at each other and he tipped his hat, I nodded to him and then I crossed the street. 

I was twenty-five or there about and I’m thinking it was a Friday, maybe 1978. 

The next week, probably a Friday again, when I approached the stop sign the man in the green truck was there, again. We repeated the routine, him tipping his hat, me nodding, then he watched me cross the street. 

One day I left the house a bit later than usual and up ahead I saw the green truck pull away. After that I kept on schedule and so did the man in the green truck and each week things took on a flirty edge. Him watching me cross the street, in my nurse outfit, with me camping it up a bit. 

Around that time a friend invited me and a few others over and said that her friend David would be playing some music for us. But for some reason I didn’t go. Turns out her friend was David Crosby and he drove a vintage green Chevy pick up.  

Years and years pass and I almost forget about all of this. 

Recently we had tickets to see David Crosby at a small theater in town. I’d planned to wash my hair before the show but ran out of time. Laughing my husband said, “Don’t worry, we’re sitting near the back, David won’t be able to see you.” 

More teasing. “But it’s too bad you don’t have a picture of yourself in that white nurse outfit—to refresh his memory.” 

And that image of me crossing the street dressed like a nurse struck us both as screamingly funny. We began laughing, and for days after, the insane laughter began again.

Be'Leylot Ha'Kaitz and Hine Ma Tov

I’m learning Israeli contemporary and folk dancing. My heart fell in love immediately and slowly my feet are beginning to catch on. And it all happened so dizzyingly fast. Last November I took a sermon writing workshop (that’s a whole another story) and a classmate mentioned there was a beginning Israeli dance class starting up. 

I got one of those knowing-feelings. I just knew I had been “called.” It felt right, like my soul and my heart were in harmony and I willed my body to follow along. All my life only powwow dancing has felt right. The Round Dance. Intertribals. I feel the heartbeat of the drum. Men, and women carrying babies, boys and girls, and the elders who barely move, staying close to the earth. Other styles of dancing I’ve experimented with didn’t call my name. Didn’t woo me. But the ancestors were watching, reached for me and pulled me in. I’m favoring Israeli folk dancing over contemporary and Israeli over the dances we’re learning from other cultures and ethnicities. Though I love dancing all of the dances. 

In the winter we dance at the temple and in summer weather dancing is moved to the park. I’m not kidding anyone if I pretend I’m good, but I’m having fun. Those I dance with having been dancing for many years and they tell me I’m doing just fine and the only thing that matters is to move in the right direction. We hold hands and form a circle. Yemenite right. Yemenite left. Syncopated Grapevine, right. A Box Step. 

All my adult life I have wished to dance and now I am dancing.  Once a week I sail headlong and breathless under the gale force of joy and spirit and we dance.  

Be'Leylot Ha'Kaitz (On The Hot Summer Nights) YouTube

Hine Ma Tov (How Good It Is) YouTube

A Sharecropper's Great Granddaughter

My grandpa, and my great grandparents were sharecroppers in Oklahoma... until grandpa figured out that he could build houses, and then sell them. But grandpa and grandma never lived in any of the houses he built. Instead their home was an old circus tent, and grandma’s cook stove sat in the center and the stovepipe poked out through a hole in the top of the tent.  

Grandma could prepare a meal to feed fifteen of us. I loved to sit beside her coal black stove, watching her roll out noodle dough, listening to her stories, watching the sun set and the way the shapes of the earth changed as the sun moved across the sky.

. . . . 

Our neighbors next door are having their house fumigated, and their house is tented. This morning my husband looked out the window and said, “Either the circus has come to town— or your grandma and grandpa have moved in next door.”

On The Road Again

The sun is high, the days are long, and and I'm hankering to spend long weekends in anywhere America. 

I won’t be traveling in this pink trailer (owned by a friend) but I did spend a night camping near the river and dreaming about the fun I might have if I could write for days and days, in solitude, parked within a forest of pine.

Today I am every age I ever was

 Today I am every age I ever was. I am eleven riding the waves on my raft. I am fourteen and seventeen on my friend's surfboard on my stomach slicing through the waves. I am 35 swimming with my kids in the ocean with our Newfoundland dog towing us along, and I am 66 and 67 standing in the icy ocean, what a wonderful day I think.