sweetness. the constant. (a practice)

I'm never quite sure where to begin.  Rarely in the middle place, I find details mesmerizing (You too, right?  I mean, that's sugar up there, spun into webs that crystallize over time!  And they grow...out of the soil.)  It's paralizing, actually, in the very best way, to sink into the melt.  The thin crunch.  The sticky parts of reality.  The beauty of it all - all of it, all of this life - is highly distracting.

And then.  There is the Whole.

My not-so-secret obsession.  That larger story, the many facets, the diversity of many, the multiplicity of possibilities in the full.  The enthralling potentiality!  How many ways can we feed everyone?  It's a game of paradigms I play.  Spiraling in, spiraling out.  So I guess I'll begin with breakfast. On New Years Day.  At daybreak.

It's only me. Everyday, actually.  In spite of our school rhythms, I still cannot bear to wake them.  I gave D a present last year: he may sleep in, every weekend + holiday for the rest of his life.  He may not need permission that long.  But it's really relevant these days.  Men do deserve to recover from life, yes?  Big ones. Little ones.  I want them to rest like I want them to eat.  

I used to mourn my own sleep. What about the mothers?!!  Complaints are so boring, though.  Now I cherish the quiet.  It's when I chop dates, apples. Put out oats, cinnamon & butter.  It's when I slip out the door.

Fuck. It's cold.  

So here's the nature of my practice :: It takes something.  It's a curiosity tripp.  A daily mystery.  A driven adventure that always ends in an open roof, deep beats blasting, bare feet dancing in some strange soil.  In between, there's miles of Earth in my toes as I hit reset.  Or dust, or hay, or rain or frost.  Depending on the day.  And there's emergent questions, "What's the nature of this threshold?" "What's needed?" "What's there to learn?"  (I'm a what person.  Not so much about why or who or how.  I like to do what there is to do.)  I don't force the intentions or try to make one up. I live in an inquiry.  I savor it, I relish the questions.  This is what it is to be an unschooler.  This is what it is to be a learning activist.  I dance until I can't.  I leave it all there on the ground.  And I leave something for the land.

This morning I pull over, right off the road onto a cracked bit of dirt. And sink.  Two feet.  (Whoa!)  D gave me this car, which I've loved since I was 8 years old, because it's safe for girls with wanderlust who lose themselves in the wilderness.  So I can pull the top down completely & blast beats into space.  So I can four-wheel off-road onto craggy rocks.  Just not...saturated farmland in January.  Within about twenty seconds, the wheels are covered in 2 inches of mud.  Holy shit. I'm stuck.  

So now I'm inquiring with my guides...{hmmmm? really? this is what this year is about for me?  wow}

Followed by...Wow!  That's tight.  I mean, really, really beautiful.  The canyon I've created.  The dirt on metal. I let visual beauty be the only reality that matters for second, another reset button.  I guess it's time to walk.

Removing my shoes, I look to the nearest farm, a mile off.  There it is.

I consider the danger of not having a phone out in the country.  It's ironic, given that I gave up the noise of my iPhone to enjoy my urban homestead.  Ever the city-girl, I run thru a couple of safety scenarios, ask for protection and anticipate a breakthrough. 

I remember the apple seed beds I left on the counter.  Many pointed, mysterious, not for anyone in particular, On Purpose without the need for an observer, they are there to be discovered.  I wonder what seeds are being sown as I hike the gravel, now sharp and icy underfoot.  I wonder what's being broken up, how the arc of my faith is expanding.  I wonder about my capacity for the cold wind in my ears.

Two guard dogs start way in advance of my arrival.  They're tough, fast & big. I remember that I was raised with wolves as pets. Sometimes I forget.  I have to remind myself to remind them. 

Apparently I'm on Buckley Road, on Buckley Ranch, visiting with Larry Buckley, the fourth generation proprietor who owns everything I can see.  Because I get to midwife so many initiatives and think symbolically, I'm a little stoked to make his acquaintance on the first day of this epic year.  Experience has shown me that he represents many, many others who'll come forward, eager to support.  We make fast friends as he realizes I'm out there praying on his land.  I discover he's a proud Native brother with 10,000 more acres on the mountain to the right, and a rig that saves everyone who's silly enough to pull off the road in January.  Of course.

Legit.

Saved.

I realize that we're never stuck if we're willing to walk a mile in the cold to make a friend and a request.  There's so much help to be asked for, there's so many beautiful projects that need support. We always have choice.  I  have to walk anyway, either for my practice or because my home is a mere 14 miles over.  Of course, I would have put my shoes back on.  Regardless, we can always draw the circle of our family larger to include who's in front of us.  

A grand host, Larry is already ready to be generous.  He's a physical expectation of good work needing to be done.  It takes about twenty seconds to pull out my Jeep. D gave me this ride so I'd be safe in my adventures.  I'm reminded that men are the reason this world is safe.  It's their commitment, their honor, to protect & provide shelter.  They all express it differently and I'm fully grateful for who they are about it.

There's so many miracles on this path.

As I sit in the wet soil & breathe in the green, the sunrise, my heart is sated.  My mind is empty.

Fuck.  It's cold.

  

At home they've been cooking.  Improvising.  Licking the pieces.  Feeding each other brother.  Creating sweetness.  I know it takes something for them too.  It doesn't always work out, so we slow down and commit to the sweetness.  It's a practice.

 

I know you're working yours. 

Our beloveds are radly inspiring that way. 

{waves + waves of }

love, Maya