i didn't have to do anything

December 1 • 2024

I don't know what to write about except this surprising thing. I remember the sensation clearly. The parachute was tacked to the ground on the hill overlooking Plainfield. All I had to do was lay down on top of the white cloth and let it lift me in the air. The way it lifted me in the air, floating, flying, me doing nothing at all but giving into the softness of it all. A puff of wind lifted me high, a large hand holding this small human. 

Blue sky above me. 

It lay me down on the ground, a green leaf landing on the grass.

My beloved brother was there. 

I remember that too.

The miracle:

I didn't have to do anything to make it happen.

xo b

[There's a photo somewhere of that time in Vermont. I'll look for it]

we waved to everyone

 

Maybe it's September

maybe it's another birthday

maybe it's the full moon, gold coin in the night sky

tiny bats flitting overhead

bunnies still as statues near the Mexican sage

Waving to a dog walker across the street

I remembered the ride Jesse and I took down from Vermont.

We decided early on to wave to everyone:

People on front porches, at traffic lights, 

The whole way down the New York State Thruway,

truckers smiling back at us in their 18-wheelers,

Route 84 west into Pennsylvania, through historical Milford, and

the two-lane road surrounded by forest,

 and the Delaware River on our left,

we waved to everyone. 

xo b

it's a wide net

September 3 • 2024

The last time I was here (February 29th of this year), I was restless, writing about falling back into the waiting arms of strangers = one of those trust exercises 😳, needing to leap, but not like people in squirrel suits jumping off cliffs. 

Anyway, I was feeling pretty squirrely.

What does squirrely mean?

Squirrely is a slang term meaning eccentric, flighty, or slightly odd, as in There was something squirrely about the way the suspect gave his alibi.

- dictionary.com

Yes, like that, except without the need for an alibi. 

My daughters will attest to this as back in Pennsylvania, this squirrely energy would sometimes result in a big-ass bonfire in our back yard. We had a sweeping back yard with many trees. Branches were always falling from wind and storms. Sometimes I'd get struck, like lightning in a way, and go out and start a roaring fire in the middle of the day. This was not a let's make s'mores fire. Clearly it was the outer manifestation of my turbulent insides. 

Claire, help me carry this old dresser out. It's falling apart. Time to burn this baby.

Jesse, lift the other side of this old table. It's done for. Let's burn it.

Or, they'd find their mother in the far back of the yard, pitchfork in hand, tending to a blazing fire and throwing the ball for Chewy, our beloved dog. 

Last night I felt a tad squirrely.

But now I live in Southern California. I don't make fires. California, home of the stunning Pacific Ocean, canyons, redwoods, and raging wildfires. With darkness cooling things down, I went out into the backyard (postage stamp) and moved (more like muscled) the wobbly garden table and dusty pots to a different location, raked leaves fallen from the dry lemon and mulberry trees, + enjoyed an ice cold beer under the smattering of stars when it was all done. 

I'm back here, all these months later. 

Every day I make a list because I like lists.

Today's list included:

Write a blog, it can be really short, about nothing special. 

Part of my restlessness has to do with not showing up here. Simply connecting with you, dear reader. Even if it's just one, that is one more than if I didn't share. Waiting for something special or magical to strike ain't happening. Write about the dog. Or the way my girls still laugh when they remember me like a crazy woman at the bonfire. Write about how you can't believe this is a razor-thin election. Or don't write about that. Write about the woman who walks in the mornings when you're walking Daisy, the new dog. How she's bent over looking at the road, and yet, she's out there pumping her arms and moving. Write about how it feels to have another birthday coming up. The privilege of it. And ticking of the clock of it.

Squirrels, leaping, bonfires, art, clearing the clutter, writing, walkers.

It's a wide net, this being alive. 

love,

b

Like a Human Feather

 

February 29, 2024

What I mean by leap is being on the edge of a cliff, being one of those people wearing a flying squirrel outfit, arms spread wide. Leaping catching the wind currents, flying. And somehow, miraculously not plunging to the hard rocky ground below.

What I mean by leap is that game, leap frog. One person squatting down and another, gently putting their hands on the back of the crouching person and hopping, leaping, over them. Then that frog jumping up and repeating the hop/leap. And on and on. 

What I mean by leap is that saying, Leap and the net will appear. This reminds me of a teacher staff development I went to years ago. It was one of those trust building/ropes courses. I remember being up on a platform looking down at a group of people in two rows facing each other, arms locked together like a ladder on its side. I was supposed to turn around and fall back into their human net of arms. In those days, (and sometimes still) I felt the other shoe was going to drop any minute so trusting people to catch me was questionable. 

Everyone was smiling up at me, waiting. Some part of me said, okay and I turned around, took a breath, and fell back like a kid in deep snow about to make a snow angel. I landed in arms that held me. No shoes had dropped. Just me, like a human feather.

One more thing from that day. My other mission was to climb up a pole, another ladder-type thing, walk across a log, thirty feet up, to the other side. I was hooked to a safety rope, maybe wearing a helmet too. I can still see myself pleading with David, our soft-spoken leader, that  I didn't think I could do it. I was a person riddled with anxiety pretty much every day. It had inhabited me and wouldn't leave. 

David looked me in the eye and said, "I hear you. Trust me. Start climbing."

I climbed and walked across the log high up in the air. My human net people were smiling up at me, again. I remember, vividly in my body, as I write this - walking across the log high up in the air and making it to the other side. A shoe didn't drop. I didn't hit the hard ground. And, as soon as I was back on the ground, I wanted to do it again. I was the kid, jumping off the edge of the pool landing safely in my father's arms. 

I remember that. 

Just doing it. 

Leaping.

This past month, maybe longer, I've been feeling a restlessness to leap. I have zero idea what that means. I can't force it, or figure it out. I don't know. All in right time.

I do know this, for sure. You won't find me in squirrel gear on the edge of a cliff. 

Namaste, lovelies.

XO Bets

like a bowling ball

 

December 24 • 2023 🎄

We had homemade cookies for breakfast + might have more delicious carrot cake for dinner since today is Michael's birthday, our Christmas Eve baby. On top of carrots, the cake has raisins and nuts and all kinds of nutritious things. 🙃 Claire has been baking all weekend and there's more to come tomorrow. Sticky buns w/ mimosas? I will officially be a weeble by the end of the holiday season, rolling around like a bowling ball, or something like that. 

•.  •.  •.  •.  •.  •.  •.  •   •.  •.  •.  •   •.  •   •   •   •.  •

⛄️ 🎄 ♥️

XO b

may we be ~

 

December 23 • 2023

I'm happy + tired + out of words for today. But this came to me as I sat staring at my screen. It's what I say at the end of all my writing/yoga workshops/ retreats. Whenever I say it, either quietly to myself, or out loud, my shoulders drop and face softens on the exhale. 

May we be happy.

May we be healthy.

May we be peaceful.

May we live with ease.

Peace and blessings to you and your families

+ this sweet beautiful old earth.

Namaste.

xo b

first of the season

 

December 22 • 2023

What a happy surprise to see this first bloom on our camellia bush when I stepped outside this morning. Camellias are called the Queens of the winter flowers + we are lucky to have a bush next to our front steps. I didn't know much about them until moving to California and our first winter here. I learned more about camellias and other native plants from a beautiful place called Descanso Gardens. Descanso Gardens has an abundant Camellia Collection and is one of the loveliest places to walk through in January/February when the camellias are in bloom. 

If you ever find yourself out this way, no matter the time of year, I invite you to visit this sanctuary. After meandering through the gardens and forests, I always leave feeling washed clean of my worries and other nonsense. 

Thank you, Mother Nature. 🌞

Until you come west, you can check it out here:

https://www.descansogardens.org/gardens-and-collections/explore-the-gardens/camellia-collection/

 XO b