A pattern I noticed emerging in my night dreams in early February, was the persistent theme of being pregnant with or caring for a baby. I have no desire to be pregnant or become a mother in this literal sense, nor does my boyfriend wish to become a dad, and we take the necessary precautions to ensure that doesn’t happen.
Besides all that, dreams (especially my dreams) rarely if ever are that literal. However, in my business, my sacred work, and my personal life I am very much in a phase of midwifing a new “baby”, metaphorically speaking, into the world this year.
Aside from this endeavor, I’ve also been bringing in practices within my daily routines for a “rebirthing” of myself within my own body.
Spring cleaning in preparation for birthing
I have regular rituals of “housekeeping” throughout the year and the early spring days might be my favorite time to declutter and reorganize. In preparation for what I’m birthing, I removed facebook from my phone and only check it now when I’m on my laptop during work hours within the week. Since instagram works best on mobile, I decided to keep it on my phone for now but I’ve removed it from my home screen so that I have to search for it if I want to check it. I’ve done the same with threads. This has greatly decreased my impulse to scroll.
The only social app I keep on my home screen at the moment is Substack. I check and post to Substack from my laptop anyway and so far I’ve found it unappealing to continuously scroll on it from mobile. The posts on Substack are longer and more thoughtful and I can only read one or two at a time before I feel quite full. The slower pace of Substack makes it easier to remember not to over-indulge.
With just these small adjustments I’ve greatly increased the amount of time I have in my hands in a day, and thus have been spending more time on personal projects, developing new craft skills (such as spinning cotton and weaving), and spending time on nature walks to become better acquainted with the land, plants, and animals around me that I’m still pretty new to.
New teachers and the practice of noticing
I’ve been living out West for two years now in a Skoolie with my boyfriend. Despite living in a Skoolie which we could easily freely roam in (and do regularly throughout the year), we’ve been planted in one location for the majority of this time due to his work. However, we’ve recently moved to a new town (not far at all from the one we were in), out of one person’s backyard and into another.
In the old location nestled within a neighborhood, I observed the sky a lot, the clouds, winds, weather, and stellar and planetary movements. We were pretty fenced in with sheep on one side of us and goats, pigs, and chickens on another that I enjoyed having as neighbors and befriending. However, this new town we’re in I am enjoying much more because not only do we have an excellent view of the sky here but we’re also within a short bike ride to the river, a lovely yoga studio, and to so many trails with a variety of plants and wildlife to get to know.
On February 9th I wrote:
On my walk this morning I noticed mourning doves cooing very intensely, which they do during early spring when they start mating. I looked up just above where I was passing through and saw the dove in question perched on the highest branch cooing after another nearby in flight. After stopping to feed some horses handfuls of grass from the roadside, the wind suddenly rose and I heard from right behind me a distinct maraca-like shaking sound and turned to face a stark tree dripping heavily with the long, dark, brown seedpods of the honey locust. It rattled like a shivering skeleton and I continued my walk. I noticed the first blooms of the year on the roadside—the tiniest purple flowers with deep green lacy leaves that I think may be Redstem filaree aka Common stork’s-bill, but I’m still pretty unsure about that. There were also strings of slightly shriveled yellow berries along otherwise barren, drooping stalks that I assume are a type of nightshade.
Incense
I became inspired at the end of last year to start making incense again. Since our recent move I’ve become further inspired to wildcraft incense from aromatic ingredients I harvest locally or from wherever we end up traveling to.
On February 6th, after a hike to collect sagebrush and juniper tips, I wrote:
The air moves gently through the open doors and windows of the bus and occasionally drifts the scent of the tiny sprig of sagebrush I have tucked behind my left ear, past my nose. I picked this sprig yesterday on my hike to collect juniper and sagebrush for future incense making in the spring and summer months. There is such an abundance of juniper and sagebrush out here in the red rock region of the states.
When I first decided I’d start making incense again this year I had intended on choosing specific intentions to build recipes around. For example, a Root Chakra blend, Black Cat blend, a blend to enhance psychic abilities, etc. Now I think I may have been thinking quite backwards. Now I realize I want to meet my ingredients in a mutual conversation and work in collaboration with them. I want what they tell me they have to offer to be what guides me through the crafting process to it’s intended use.
So my first two teachers are Juniper and Sagebrush.
As the scent of the sagebrush drifts by my nose I’m picking up a note of “clear nectar”. The vision it conjures is a drop of yellow-gold nectar reflecting a dot of sunlight and the entire world of the top of the ridge in its microcosmic droplet dome. Layered atop that note is the usual peppery, minty scent, conjuring a vision of a breeze rustling through the shrubbery. And then a sweet afterthought: candied berry.
Weaving
At the end of last year I knew I finally wanted to learn to weave. Weaving is a craft I have wanted to learn for practically my whole life and besides basket weaving, it’s a mystery why I haven’t taken the time to learn it yet. But like it was for me with writing last year, I had a heart-to-heart with myself and said, This year. It’s now or never. You’ll either learn to weave or you won’t. It’s up to you. And so at the end of January I ordered my first loom from Guatemala: a practice loom for learning backstrap weaving.
Why backstrap weaving? Well, I live in a Skoolie, which means I don’t have a lot of room for a full sized loom, though I’d love to have one. The backstrap loom is easy to pack up and is portable, which, besides it being a requirement of Skoolie living, have always been rather important standards for me for most things I own.
With a backstrap loom you can weave pretty much anywhere you can find something to tie it too. Plus, I love the rich history and culture that surrounds the backstrap loom (dating back as far as 2500 BC) and I’ve always been enamored by the vibrancy and intricate designs of the traditional Guatemalan huipils that are woven on them. So the backstrap loom only seemed a natural choice for me.
On February 7th I wrote:
I have come back to the river to weave. This is my third visit to weave and this is my favorite spot to sit and weave on the backstrap loom. I am still on the beginner practice loom, weaving indigo and ochre dyed threads together. The finished product will likely remain on the loom to become a wall hanging as it wasn’t warped with the intention of it being removed. I have another backstrap loom, slightly bigger, already warped and ready to go to continue plain weaving and begin learning brocade. Once I’ve complete that weaving project I’ll remove it and learn how to warp the loom myself.
I usually head out to the river around 2 to 3pm, when the sun hangs lower in the sky, just above the ridge. I face my back to it, covered in a long sleeved shirt and sun hat to protect myself from burning. There is little shade by the river, especially this time of year with trees sans foliage. I’ve observed by about 5pm each day, my back suddenly cools and the sky noticeably dims all in one moment as the sun finally dips behind the ridge. I know at this time, without even looking up or checking my phone, that I have about 30 more minutes before I should pack it up, get back to my bike and head home before the sun fully sets, knowing that each day it sets about a minute later.
Cottonwood
The tree I’ve been tying my loom to by the river is a cottonwood, I’m pretty sure. The last time I visited it by the river it was still pretty barren, so difficult to tell. But I know cottonwoods grow along the river here.
Another place I like to sit and meditate or read here is among a circle of cottonwood trees in a nearby park I can easily walk to. Though these trees are also still pretty barren I recently learned they are cottonwood by the shape of their dead leaves that blanketed the ground around them and their new buds I found scattered among them. When I first noticed the buds I was struck with a sense of familiarity, though cottonwood is not a tree I had been acquainted with before.
Just this week I finally recalled what they reminded me of. Balsam poplar buds. Though I also have never made an acquaintance with a balsam poplar, I’m familiar with the Balm of Gilead salve that can be made with the buds, and lo and behold, cottonwood buds can be used for the same purpose.
However, we’ve been off camping for a week and I feared by the time we returned it’d be too late to gather the buds for the salve. Yesterday, upon our return, I walked over to the park to check the spot I had previously seen the resinous buds scattered and before I even reached it I already came across several on the path that had broken open. By the time the buds break open, it’s too late. Alas, it appears I’ve missed my window! But I’ve made note and now I know to look out for them next year.
And there is still yet another season of the cottonwood to come when it blankets the world in snow in late spring to early summer. I plan to collect the fluffy cottonwood fiber and see if I can spin it into thread on the charkha, my new portable spinning wheel I’ll introduce in a future post.
