Partaking

In my own way, I partake; 

not like Lawrence of Arabia, 

not in the swirling sands, the blinding wind, 

not crossing a white expanse, 

caked in suffering and fortitude. 

I pull my sick body out of the house.

I sit down in the Adirondack, face South,

feeling the sun's magnetic warmth in January,

the cold biting at numb fingers as I crochet stitches,

counting into the silence, stopping to recount.

But then the sun ducks behind the telephone pole;

the cardinal noisily knocks the birdseed onto the logs.

And as the sun descends, the cold raises its voice

decibel by decibel, sun sinking by degrees, by stitches,

until I'm done counting, and I must go back inside again. 

It isn't much, not impressive. But important

in its own way. And at least I had my one small dose. 

Herb Fever

Every so often, my family gets slammed with a particularly bad illness. One Sunday morning, about a year ago, I happened to click on a YouTube video recommended by my friend. She insisted I would swoon at this video, and she was absolutely correct. More than creating an emotional response, though, the video changed my life.

The video was, Juliette of the Herbs. 

The old video of Juliette de Bairacli Levy changed my life in a way that felt something like an enchantment. There is something centering, grounding, and deeply moving about watching this little, wise old woman. I love hearing her talk about rosemary and southernwood, watching her eat nasturtiums (a plant particularly dear to my heart)... I love the way she loved gypsies, animals, and plants. I love the way she saw the world, through a truly unique lens that was founded on learning from others with compassion and openness.  

How often are you inspired by someone else's life? How often does that introduction spur you toward better life choices? 

With any luck, Juliette has made me a better, more tenderhearted person. My relationship with nature has changed. I have started to see the natural world with more gentleness and more sensitivity. She awakened me to something...to seeing, hearing...to loving that same world. Children are naturally fascinated by and drawn to the natural world. But our adult selves are often too busy, too hurried, doing "important" stuff. Juliette didn't fall into that trap, that delusion.

The world was always there for me- it never went anywhere. The world never grew up or became cynical. The natural world, created by God, has always been full of marvelous things, of enchantment and wonder, of secrets and the power to heal. 

When I was a child, I would look up at the underbellies of trees and marvel at the way sunlight filtered through the leaves, creating moving patterns, different shades of green. I collected bean pods and fanned them about, showing off my wealth. That magical world of textures and smells, of layers and constant movement...that world didn't grow up and leave. It is still there, waiting for us to return. And yet, it is always changing. Today's world won't be the same tomorrow. Tomorrow's sunrise won't be the same as today's.  

When my household gets hit with an illness, I am immediately reawakened to the joy of necessity, the calm and necessary art of seeking healing from the elements. I roll up my sleeves and go to my reserves. I inventory my herbs, my teas, and my essential oils. I "touch base" anew with the old healing arts, though my own experience and knowledge remain woefully shallow. I am at the beginning of something yet. I'm at the brink, the precipice, still. But I am marveling at my view of the path ahead. 

Now that resolutions are delightfully out of vogue, I feel more invigorated than ever to take this quiet month to reevaluate and re-calibrate my focus and energy, to re-center. No stranger to failing to achieve my own goals, I delight in setting in view new ideals, summoning new energy for a challenging task. After all, missing the mark usually means making progress- and that is always the real goal, isn't it? Even slow progress is progress. Even disappointed hopes involve learning something new. 

This year, I've set for myself the intention (dare I say "goal"?) of completing an herbal course each month, growing something, and trying out new remedies. 

Rather than waiting for the next medical event to occur before spurring into action, I'd like to make herbalism a more constant part of my lifestyle. Rather than getting sudden bouts of “herb fever” and wishing I’d learned more throughout the year, I’m planning to cure myself with slow and steady herbal education.

It's my delight to share with you Juliette's video below. 

Swoon away.

Sincerely,

Natasha 

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL3AB9CB55FC33B536

Poetry in Perpetuity

One gray-skied October morning, I sat outside on my back porch alone in a rare moment of solitude. I was feeling a lot of feelings, experiencing a lot of sensations, about finally being gloriously alone, and instantly missing my four children. 

I looked up into that gray, wet-blanketed sky and saw to my right, a few crows. 

"The crows above the forest call;

tomorrow they may form and go.

O hushed October morning mild,

Begin the hours of this day slow,"

Bits and pieces of one of my favorite poem by Robert Frost came back to me like an old friend sidling up to hold my hand. I wasn't alone in that moment. Robert Frost had known his own October mornings, good or bad, and he had feelings, too. 

A smile dawned on my face as my mind was taken away from my loneliness and ushered instead into what felt like a hug. When you memorize someone's poem, you connect with that person in a profound and beautiful way. Poetry truly is a gift that keeps on giving. 

I enjoy hearing my children recite poems like, "The Little Turtle" by Vachel Lindsay or "Jabberwocky" by Lewis Carroll. It's fun and delightful. But even more than that, I enjoy encountering poems that were memorized long ago, and summoning them back to this present moment. It is looking at them from a new angle, relating to them in a new way. That poem is now a part of me in a way it wasn't before. 

Memorizing a poem with someone else brings an even greater fullness to the pleasure.

On a particularly pleasant, mild day in December (think: September/October weather in Oklahoma), my youngest child and I walked home from church alone together. We didn't walk in a hurry. We stopped several times to pick up and admire "nature treasures": a red leaf here, a yellow one there. We admired acorns and wildflowers, too. When his little six-year-old hands were both so full of leaves that he insisted I take home and save forever, I gently reminded him of our most recent Robert Frost poem we memorized together. 

We prompted one another until we'd gotten through the whole thing, "Nothing Gold Can Stay."

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

If you're new to memorizing poetry, this one would be a great place to start. It's a reminder that the best things in life- the most real, the most precious- are also fleeting. It speaks to me, too, because I've never been one to take lots of pictures of my kids' childhood. Sometimes I feel the urge to do the "dutiful" parent thing, to try to preserve a moment for them and myself in the future, so that we can revisit it again. But there is also that part of me that knows this is delusional. Pictures are nice and fun to revisit, but they don't stop time, and they don't truly preserve anything- at least not the thing we really want to preserve, which is the moment. They don't slow down life by one second. 

In fact, I've often noticed that the very modern (and motherly) American habit of trying to photograph everything often takes up precious time that could be spent in the act of just being present to one another, giving our full attention to that moment in real time. It dulls the gold. Resisting the urge to grab my phone makes those moments even richer and fuller, because I acknowledge that they are but momentary.

These precious moments of motherhood are both golden and fleeting. They cannot stay anymore than the sun can keep from setting. The dawn MUST "go down to day." Springtime cannot be perpetual. We must have our Summers, our Autumns, our barren and sometimes dismal Winters. Good times must give way to hard times. Nature's gold is green and it is her hardest hue to hold. She cannot hold it, but loosely. As a mother, too, I can only hold these precious moments loosely, knowing that many memories will slip my mind, will fade over time. 

I think of the Virgin Mary as well. Luke 2:19 "But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart." 

It always reminds me to stop and silently, quietly, treasure today, with all the gifts that are given to me. In that moment, I know that what I have been given is plenty, is overflowing. I know in that moment that I'm well taken care of. 

Unlike a photograph that cannot truly hold a moment in perpetuity, a memorized, well-loved poem, can offer solace and enchantment year after year, can revisit you when you least expect it, and can be an uplifting friend come to hold your hand anew. 

What poems have you memorized? Are there any that you'd like to brush up on? Any poems that you have long-loved but never memorized? 

Sincerely,

Natasha

Evening Prayer

 

I rediscovered an old, well-loved friend today. 

It's really strange to stumble on an old poem written when I was particularly inflamed with an insatiable desire to write poem after poem. It's surprising that the poem doesn't now ring as naive or dull or embarrassing. Some do; this one doesn't. 

Evening Prayer

2007

And so I pray

to somehow learn to cope someday

with that ever aching flower caught

so that pain sinks away with every distraught pose

in quiet reverent thought

as the gently shining oil stains

in those old gravel service lanes

reflect the risen crimson rose.

And so I pray

to fall and bend and break

as the clouds shift in colors bright

-feel that tinge of orange that flows

in humble glowing light

and as they swiftly fade and pass

my flesh, I know, is merely grass

yet that I may be the patch that grows. 

_______________________________

Is it naive? Is it flawed? I don't know. But I know that it makes me feel echoey and light, breathless and pensive. It's so surprising that it still makes me feel raw and tender and fills me with something like awe and quiet reverence. I love that the poem does that to me even now, and from here, after coming along all this way (18 years), and perhaps, in some ways, remaining in the exact same place.

Have you ever stumbled on work from long ago- some artwork or writing that still surprises you today? 

Sincerely,

Natasha

The Sun Came Out Timidly, First by the Fingertips...

 The sun came out timidly, first by the fingertips, then slowly baring its whole shy self.

We are a rather predictable sort of family. We look for nature wherever we can find it, moved perhaps instinctively toward every landscaping in medical complexes, outside of grocery stores, wherever we happen to be. We go down to the creek to do “nothing,” really just to be there. Sometimes we bring a picnic or a nature journal, a book or some whittling. But that ever-elusive "nothing" of the Christopher Robin variety is really what we're after.

To be clear, it’s uncomfortable. Growing up with debilitating allergies, chronic ear infections and as a highly sensitive person, my relationship with nature has always been a tenuous one. It is my children who have strengthened it. That constant questioning of, what do they most need? What will nurture them the best? These questions often lead me back into the arms of Mother Nature. 

We came here and found a dry creek, animal teeth, a relentless wind, and the harassment of ants and poison ivy. But we also found solitude and community all at once, endless objects of interest, and an expansiveness that really allows you to inhale with gusto. 

Here we find our spirit's rest. Here we can be still and know that Yahweh is God. We can't help but gaze around in awe and wonder at what He's made, at what He's given to us, at the beauty He's constantly creating in the skies. This is precisely the antidote we needed for the season's hustle and bustle, for the constant pressure to "attend," "sign-up," and "join-in." It's such a pleasant way to opt-out for an hour at a time, to go get lost, and to find one's calm anew. It clears out the noise and makes more space for our coming joyful triumph, for those same deep inhales taken by shepherds and friendly beasts and angels alike, to rejoice in Christian community and proclaim the coming of Christ. 

Sincerely,

Natasha 

P.S. I just started Bright Evening Star by Madeleine L'Engle. What are you reading this holiday season? 

Backyard Kingdom

 

I love my backyard. Wherever I live, I love it. These photos were taken...maybe last Winter?

I love poring over Herbal texts, contemplating the magical (and scientific, natural) powers of plants. 

I love that God made the outdoors magical and truly enchanting. It's the children who discover it first, who remind those who left the Enchanted wood and the Galleons Lap of A.A. Milne literature behind long ago. 

It's the children who show us the way again, who remind us. Because we certainly need reminding. 

I will never get over the color green. It speaks life to me. I want to be enveloped in it, to luxuriate and revel in its liveliness. Austin, Texas stays remarkably green in the Fall and Winter. I may miss the snowfall of Oklahoma, but I do find plenty to appreciate wherever I am. That isn't a "humble brag" about how content I am. God really made an incredible, beautiful world. Or, perhaps, I'm just lucky to happen to be in the most wonderful, beautiful places. 

The Italian by Ann Radcliffe was rather difficult to trudge through. I felt like I was dragging myself along with the characters through the Italian mountains. As someone new to the idea of monasteries and monks, asceticism and liturgy, I found this to be a particularly unsavory literary encounter. But when you have met an author and fallen in love with them through their writing before, (Mysteries of Udolpho), you are willing to trudge far and wide, knee-deep, and often uncomfortable just to be with them on the journey. Though I found the book to be uncharacteristically dull in places (compared to M of U, which was sheer joy), I couldn't help but admire her ingenious ability to weave an intricate and unpredictable plot. 

Ann, I still love you. :) 

Through novels, I get to travel all over time and the world, all from my own sunlit backyard. I feel rich, luxurious, and quite at my leisure on my quilted throne, if only for twenty minutes at a time. 

Sincerely,

Natasha

P S I would love to hear about your own backyard. Or perhaps front yard? Front porch? What do you do? Drink? Read? Tell me in the comments.

Setting a Table

 

I love home. 

I love creating a vision for a refuge, an art studio, a dinner party. 

I love creating spaces for repose, for artistic expression, for serenading. 

I love creating spaces that are aromatic, energetic, restful, or inspiring. I love nurturing. 

If we take the case that life is something to create, something to author, a dance to choreograph...then it isn't happening to us. I love creating the life I love.

I love creating safe spaces for people, for animals, for the lost or lonely or needy. 

I love setting a table for the hungry- whether it is a physical hunger or a spiritual one, or an intellectual or emotional hunger. There is something nourishing about a soft rug, a folded linen napkin, a lit candle, a familiar prayer. 

As much as my life is bound up in the home, I feel that every day is an adventure. Everyday has the capacity, the potential to be a thing created, a thing carefully crafted with heart, soul, purpose, and with authentic self. Everyday, I am in the presence of fellow creators, of inventors and dancers and explorers and artists. Everyday, I am in the presence of the soulful, the hardworking, the curious, the hungry. Everyday, I set a table for hungry minds. 

But I reside in the consciousness that I, too, live hungry. I, too, must set a table for myself. I must feed my curious mind. I must nourish my body and my soul. I must forage my space for beauty, forage my library for new ideas, forage my yard for fresh dandelions, forage my Bible for new strength. 

Setting the table for myself is an old art, but always a challenge. Yet, I am conscious that I am always partaking of the things I serve others. It is always reciprocal. We are always symbiotic. When one suffers, we all suffer. We thrive on communion, unity, and the incessant exchange of energy, ideas, and rhythms. 

I am not an island. But I cultivate my cozy nook, arrange my table, let in the light, and bask in the rain-freshened air of an open window. I dance across the newly cleaned floors. I lie around with books, compiled notes, and all the paraphernalia of the perpetual student. 

What table are you setting today? For yourself, for others? For body, soul, and mind?

Sincerely,

Natasha