Wisdom of Plants & Upcoming Offerings
Observing and Trusting Plants and Ourselves
When I was growing up, our yard didn’t have flowers. We had a few overgrown rose bushes that when the house was built in the 1950s were likely well kept and flourishing. Once or twice, a wizen bud would appear and quickly die. The other bushes and trees that bordered our side and backyard only produced grief like the little round thorn bombs of the Sweet Gum tree. In the back, we did have one tree that produced fruit; the plum tree was not climbable, but it made up for that with its imperial flesh that stained all my shirts and fingers—a sweetness that I still associate with the close of one hundred degree summers. I enjoyed the plums every year, but I also despised the flies they attracted when left to rot on the ground. It never occured to me how much the tree gave. Or that I could plant and grow my own fruit or food. In the 1970s much of our fruit came in a can or a hostess pie.
One Easter, when I was about ten someone gave me a packet of watermelon seeds in my basket. With a a big metal kitchen spoon, I dug a hole in our otherwise foxtailed red clay dirt backyard and placed a handful of seeds a few inches down. I dragged the hose over and watered the little mounds. I took a long drink from the metal opening, happy to cool off and celebrate my soon to be watermelons, a favorite fruit and rare treat. By the next day, I forgot about them. A week or two later, I was out back feeding my dog Partner, and I remembered the watermelons and walked over to the three mounds. I saw the sweetest little green sprout coming up through one patch of reddish dirt. When I touched it, the whole seedling fell over, baby hair roots and all. I wasn’t shocked, but I was deeply saddened as it confirmed how I felt about myself at that time in my untethered life. Who was I to get excited about a watermelon? Who was I to think I could make something special? Silently the dead green beginning read: warning: don’t expect or think you deserve joy. I had no guidance that it could be the arid soil, the time of year, the lack of fertilizer, or the many reasons that could have soothed my dashed hopes.
For decades after I left my childhood home, I didn’t become observant of plants or attached to them. I killed countless houseplants that were gifted to me and I moved so often (more than 15 times), I knew not to get attached to that lemon tree or that basil plant because it wasn’t going to last long or be mine one way or another.
Growing a Regard for Plants
I developed a love and appreciation for plants when I met Michael. He brought family cactuses with him when we moved in together. We gave succulents as our wedding guest gifts and even had succulent corsages and bouquets for our Gay of Honor and Best Maid. One of our favorite pastimes was to buy plants, planters and redesign our deck garden like other people redecorate their living room or bedroom with Michael being the expert. We even got Lazlo and Harrison into the soil with us on many occasions. And when we left the US, gifting our plants felt almost like giving up a pet for adoption, we chose each recipient carefully and with solemn trust.
As we begin our third year living in Cabuya fully immersed in nature, I realize how the trees and flowers teach me about my own aging body (it’s still strong and can learn new things) and my own emotional wellness. I trust nature to do its flourishing business and dying without my worried gaze. And, I finally trust myself to observe and love all of my parts, nurture my loved ones and myself, and expect growth and wonder.
After more than two years, the plants in our yard still knock us out with their magic. I feel ready to start writing about them: their sensuality, hue, scent, transactions with birds and ants, and their vulnerable parts.
Gateless Writing Salon on Saturdays in April
My first Gateless Salon on April 1st was lovely, with time to ground, breathe, write and share the magic of the word in a safe and supportive community. Try out Gateless Writing Salon for the four Saturdays left in April. 9-11am PST. We start with a brief meditation that flows into a writing prompt. Twenty five minutes of writing. Then sharing and support using the Gateless method (we cheer on what resonates). The workshop is generative (create new work) and is great for all levels and types of writers. I see you poets! Sign Up Here.
Questions about Tranquilo: A Retreat for Neurodiverse Families
Yesterday, I had the pleasure of doing a IG Live with my friend and partner Kelley Colihan Robertson. We chatted with friend, Harrison’s former teacher, and an all around nervous system expert, Chrissy D’Agostino. I always learn from Chrissy, and this Live was no different. She explained how it is helpful to look at tricky behaviors in our complex kids as clues of nervous system stressors. Approaching hard behaviors as if they are volitional (very rare) misses an opportunity for connection and regulation, which is what our kids are likely needing from us. We also talked about practical strategies parents can use to care for themselves during and after those challenging moments.
For those of you who are considering attending Tranquillo but were worried about your kids’ response to a new environment and social situations, we want to assure you to “come as you are.” Kelley and I are both moms of neurodiverse, complex kids, so we move with compassion and actually crafted this retreat with your family in mind. You will be radically accepted and supported.
The retreat will be deeply restful and life changing for your family. You will have your own cabina steps from the beach, pool, full restaurant, and a community of staff and families who care deeply. For more information and to reserve your spot with a deposit (only a few spots left), visit our website. There are payment plans available.
House as Memory
Open to the elements and migrations, not just anyone who stays past last call. Here nature is part of the house, its breathing. The hibiscus furls with the sunned stucco. We never locked our door but maybe we should have. Rilke was afraid of a storm in a city, but not the country. He said the storm sees the lone house as part of itself-- Perhaps a small appendage or a pulse. I slept through screen doors slapping, parties that staggered til dawn. I stepped over bodies, empty cans, and ash trays to eat my bowl of cereal and head outside undetected. Here two wood rails sneak out from behind vines at dawn and dusk to drink from pools of rainwater. With each sound, they bustle and freeze, unsure who is predator and who welcomes their passing.