Essay #2- Water

"Elemental Pool"- San Diego, CA

When I feed my son a cup of water, I usually find myself saying something to the effect of, "Did you know you're made up of mostly water, baby?"  Then I think to myself, "Wow, that doesn't even scratch the surface."  Sometimes I continue on a baby-sized rant about the very water that's in his cup coming from the faucet, from the pipes, from the reservoir, from the rain, from the clouds, and so on, and so forth.  When I think about it, it occurs to me that I am trying to explain one of the most elemental and monumental concepts ever to my 9-month old son, and then it occurs to me that with some of my simplifications, I am actually telling him a few untruths.  This is reminiscent of the age when my teachers thought I was too young to understand that there were numbers lower in value than zero, therefore didn't bother going into negatives.  Years later I remember resenting this.  But now that I have a mommy-sized brain, I am much less offended that I was spared the negatives at that age.  I was allowed the gift of blissful ignorance.  That is no longer my gift to have, but it is one I have passed on down the line to my little Sachem, for him to decide what he'd like to do with it.  In the depth of my existence, I hope he decides to ride the wave as long as possible, and decide what reality is for him.  When it comes down to it, there is only so much that I know about the very technical intricacies that are involved with condensation and evaporation and all of those other annoyingly boring terms that simply add up to the much more interesting...TRANSFORMation.  Water gives life, changes life, and takes life.  Sometimes I feel the water in a stream and almost expect it to reach out to my hand and pull me into another world.  Often times when I'm on the beach, I feel the ebb and flow of a monstrous wave, lurking far out of view, waiting for an unexpected moment to rush the shore and reunite me with creation.  Even in the bathtub, the thought remains, underneath the surface exists a world wholly unknown to me, always whispering and cajoling me to sink below and experience the yang to my yin.  To transform would be to truly live, to feel the splitting of every part of my body into the rushing rivers and surging seas all over the world.  Then words like vaporization and absorption would no longer be how I would try to teach my son of water, but I could instead help him feel what it is to truly be connected to everything, by being water.  

"Running Steps"- Staten Island, NY

52 Essays- An Assisted Weekly Mental Exercise

After enough complaining about being lazy/scattered/unmotivated about the millions of fragments of projects I have forming in my brain (and cannot seem to get started), my husband and I came up with this plan:

Once a week, after the baby has fallen asleep and I have a bit of time to focus, I will sit down and prepare to write.  To avoid the issue of not knowing where to start, my husband will give me a random topic to expound upon, and I will have 45 minutes to let it flow.  This will hopefully help to clear all the cobwebs out, for better or worse!  That's it (plus some OG Angel Mackinnon photographs).  GO!

"Spider's Web"- Lake Caloosahatchee, FL

Essay #1- Trees

"Up the Tree"- Staten Island, NY

In many ways, it seems "the tree" is the anti-human, which is interesting, considering how many things we actually have in common.  On the surface, we are both living organisms that grow from a fertilized seed.  We both stand, breathe, and live to make more little baby trees.  We both transform sunlight, water, and oxygen into food and nourishment for a life that can be as long as a day or as short as a lifetime.  We both live in the gentle balance of the Earth and all of her children, serving as the elders for plant and animal life the world over.  However, for many humans, these enormous and truly elemental similarities amount to little in the way of shared experience or comradery between species, and instead many cannot see beyond the paramount differences that set us apart from one another.  Perhaps our relationship with one another has been forever plagued by sheer human envy, as "the tree", in it's enormous intricacies, seems to embody many of human's simplest desires.  "The tree," you see, is the king of the forest.  It stands taller than all others, and bears witness to every event, serving as sentinel and watchman.  "The tree" can be a most trusted friend, who listens to the secrets of all plants and animals, never betraying a confidence, and always staying until the end of the story.  "The tree" may even be the best friend any man or woman has ever had, never asking for anything in return.  It provides shade for a summer picnic between lovers, and is willing to forever bare the mark carved in a heart on it's bark, proclaiming that "Jonie loves Chotchy," or "Jimmy Wuz Here."  "The tree" embodies all of the most humane and steadfast qualities that any good human should want to live up to.  It shows us what stability really looks like, and how to plant our roots where we stand.  Strange enough, "the tree" knows more about being human than most of us could ever dream of.  Perhaps it's more accurate to say that the human is the anti-tree.  

"Wandering Roots"- Long Beach, CA

Birth Story

Everyone says to write it down before too much time goes by, because the details that create the story get lost along the way.

This birth story began about 8 years ago with a well-planted seed, when I was witness to my beautiful sister Prairie giving birth to her son Jahsiah at her home in Chico, California.  The scene was set perfectly like something out of a hippie storybook; incense lit, Bob Marley playing on the stereo, inflatable baby pool set up in the living room, the midwife working tirelessly, and family all around, anxiously awaiting Jahsiah's arrival.  Fiercely powerful and warmly comforting woman that she is, Prairie created and held her space with great balance and intention, lovingly allowing everyone present a slice of her joy, pain, strength, endurance, and faith.  It was my first experience with birth, and one profound enough to relay this message to me: When I have children, I want to have them at home-the hospital is just not an option.

Heartbeat at Home

Fast-forward 8 years to a married and pregnant Angel, with the seed from so long ago having blossomed into an undeniably fortified tree.  My husband Dylan and I took an exploratory honeymoon traveling from East to West, following the path of the sun, with intentions to lay down our roots long enough to birth our baby naturally, at home, and on our own terms-a story we intended on writing without the help of institutionalized medicine.  After all, countless millennia of women have successfully birthed their babies in the wild; the trees, rain, soil, and fresh breeze among their children's first experiences outside of the womb.  Home-birth was our vision.

Settling on the magical landscapes of the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State, with the snow-capped mountains nearly hugging the sea, our path quickly led us to Carol.  We all fell in love rather immediately, as Carol was a midwife with vast experience and faith, and we set off on our journey to home-birth together.  Everything was right with the world, and our baby boy grew inside of me like a flower in the most fertile soil, his father vigilantly watering and feeding his growth every step of the way.  Months of preparations were made as we patiently awaited the harvest, creating our birth cave, the first place our baby would call home.  Even our cat was ready, acting as the guardian and keeper of the cave, and a powerful soothing presence during the labor that was to come.

Labor Land of Love Cave

By the time my husband started to sympathetically feel the nesting instinct, reluctant to leave our cave, we knew it was time.  My water broke two days before my due date, and for a few moments we experienced a sort of anxiety that is like no other, which seamlessly transitioned into love for each other and excitement to start the final leg of our journey.  We were ready, but as it turns out, our baby was not.  A few days of light laboring and no progress encouraged us to try some aggressive herbal inductions at home.  These quickly hurled us into what seemed like full-blown labor for 10 hours, only to dissipate by the morning when Carol came over, expecting to see me much deeper into contractions.  A trip to the hospital told us that is was a false alarm, and after all that time, we would just have to wait a bit longer for our flower to blossom.  We were tired, but elated at the second opportunity to birth our baby at home.

For the next ten days, we didn't get a single night of sleep.  The days were as calm as a serene pond, but the nights yielded uncomfortable contractions which varied from slight to intense, an hour apart to 7 minutes apart.  There was no discernible pattern to them, and I knew intuitively that they were not the kind that would bring a baby.  This was the most saddening part, because I wanted nothing more than to finally hold my baby in my arms, continually dreaming of that most amazing moment of relief, when after so much hard work I could collapse into the birthing tub, my prize looking me right in the eyes.

When I was one week past my due date, Carol came over to check my progress, and was faced with two emotionally and physically exhausted people.  She brought us wonderful news though, that I was dilating well and my cervix was 95% ready to pass our baby.  We were so overjoyed to be closer to meeting our little person, and by the time she left, I was again hurled into full-blown labor.  Throughout the night, I experienced the most intense contractions yet, with such a pattern as to tell me it was happening.  She returned in anticipation of our birth, and after some time realized again that I was not progressing as she would have hoped.  She suggested that perhaps I was just too tired from the last 10 days of sleeplessness, and that we should go to the hospital so that I could get some rest there.  This meant an epidural.  This simple word was already a far cry from my birth plan that, although I agreed to her suggestion, I cried the greatest tears of defeat into my husband's chest because I felt like I was already a failure.  If Prairie could do this at home, Jahlelah and Lindsey too, then why couldn't I?  

Partial Posse Shot

Always in the back of my head, however, were some of the most insightful words ever uttered; "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."  John Lennon was really on to something with that, so as we left our cave, I attempted to maintain my positivity.  We bypassed the hospital right down the road to drive to another one an hour and a half away, whose motto was, "If you can't have your baby at home, have it here."  That atrocious car ride while in active labor was well worth it, it turns out, because although everything seemed to spiral out from arrival, we were given the space to process and accept the current situation and mourn the loss of our ideal birth scenario.

The epidural helped for the pain, but the contractions tapered off even more.  With the onset of the Pitocin, it seemed like we were moving forward, but after about another 10 hours of labor and no further dilation, examinations yielded the knowledge that in so many words, our baby was stuck.  The words I had dreaded since accepting to go the the hospital were finally uttered, and the doctors suggested that we seriously consider a Cesarean before it is an emergency.  Around midnight, my husband and I asked for a few minutes alone, the last of our heartfelt pow-wows before we would meet our baby.  

Staying in Touch with Each Other

It was time to face our fears, and it seemed we both were terrified.  Dylan, his mother's second of three children, all delivered via Cesarean, had the opportunity to face his latent emotions attached to the way that he entered the world, how that affected his view of his mother, and ultimately what that meant about himself.  I was able to share my greatest fears, those of dying during surgery and leaving Dylan alone with our baby, or worse, our baby dying and leaving us both shattered people scrambling to pick up the pieces.  But faith had gotten us this far together, and faith was going to have to help us find our way out as well, so we embraced and cried and loved and moved forward.  We had a baby to deliver.

Father and Son, Sachem Thunder

Dylan begged me to keep my eyes on his eyes throughout the entire operation, and he held me lovingly with the strength of a thousand men.  He spoke to me of the most beautiful times we've had together and the baby we would soon meet, asking me to recount stories for him to keep my mind away from what was happening on the other side of the curtain.  He refused to look, so as not to allow me to see the fear in his eyes.  He was the Earth and the stone for me, and as I was shaking like a leaf with fear and adrenaline, he was strong for me.  I knew then just how lucky our son was to have him as a father. And after I felt three grown adults wrestling my baby out of my pelvis where he had been wedged for a week or more, I heard him cry.  Nothing ever sounded so sweet and pure, and I would be willing to bet nothing ever will.  I saw Dylan with tears of happiness and amazement in his eyes, cutting our son's umbilical cord, seeing how large his hands were, still trying to keep my gaze away from containers filled with suctioned blood and membranes.  I then begged for more medicine because I started to feel the pain of the operation, and it was suddenly time to go to sleep.  I woke up unsure of whether I was dead or alive, since seeing Dylan holding baby Sachem could have been a bit of Heaven or Earth.  He told me I was alive and I believed him.  The truth is that my body was still alive, but my spirit had been completely reborn.  This isn't just Sachem's birth story, but that of a mother and father, grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins and guardians.  

It didn't happen the way we hoped/expected/anticipated/planned.  There was no collapsing into the birth tub with relief after delivering my baby into my husband's arms.  There was no incense or Christmas lights to set the mood of the cave.  The guardian cat was not there in the operating room.  There WAS Bob Marley though.  Dylan said that while I slept and the doctors were putting me back together again, they played Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds," and let him hold the baby to his bare skin for the whole time.  For this and countless other things, I am thankful.  For being face to face with my greatest fears, for modern medicine, for Washington state, for Sachem Thunder, for the Great Spirit, for Amor Fidelis, I am thankful.  For knowing that this was not the time to feel like I was a disappointment, but rather to revel in the empowerment of life and birth, I am thankful.

New Family on the Elwha River

Sachem means chief or wise man of the North Eastern Algonquin natives, and we have learned that the most dependable wisdom is gained by navigating your way through real hardship and adversity.  This may not have been exactly how we wanted it to happen, but it's just what we needed, and hopefully our adaptability, health, and strength are signs of our fortitude as individuals and as a family.  After all, a healthy seedling planted by a human hand bares no fewer fruits than one spread by the wind.  To know this is to know life, and to accept all of it's mysteries and majesties.  

4 Years Later

      

Cracked Earth in Death Valley, CA

"It seems like just yesterday" seems to me a trite way to pick up where you left off.  However, we do what is appropriate in all situations, and this one warrants me starting off with...

...It seems like just yesterday that I wrote my first blog entry four years ago.  All things considered, I know it wasn't yesterday, but more accurately 1,501 yesterdays ago when I was embarking on a great adventure, and I can still feel the weight of every single day in between.  I have the scars, ex-boyfriends, college degrees, burnt bridges, tattoos, extra pounds, photographs, and trail dust to mark the memory of those days.  Perhaps more importantly, I have the acknowledgement that it was not all a dream, and certainly not a fantasy.

It is safe to say that I truly struggled through most of that time, as I was constantly fighting the subsequent rebirth aspect of death of self.  And where does THAT leave you, other than an ethereal limbo that is difficult to emerge from?  You simply cannot escape if you barely know you're there.  This state could possibly be compared to that acquaintance that some have who has never fully returned from an acid trip and relates better to a glass of orange juice than to his fellow man.  With the onset of my internship at the Tracker School, I was consciously putting an end to everything that I had previously known and grown tired of, accepting that I was going to start my life over.  It seems I did this without fully understanding the extent of that simple truth, and the painful death that had to come first.

Glass Beach at Fort Bragg, CA

Upon returning to Staten Island, I was lost without a map; up the creek without a paddle.  At times when I could have been growing socially and being more generally productive, it seemed perfectly natural for me to hide from all the world and go off into the woods or to the ocean by myself.  My camera was my faithful companion, and we made memories together.  That's all I needed.  But if we are made to wonder if a tree makes a sound when it falls alone in the woods, then what kept me from wondering if I really existed out there at all, if there was no one there to see me?

(Hence all of the pictures of my feet!  It seems, after reviewing all of my photo libraries, that some very well-developed themes have emerged.  Among them, Isolation, Wilderness, Juxtaposition, Shadows, Destruction, Tracks, Starkness, and my own Feet; surely proof to myself that -YES- in fact I did exist.)

With any crisis of identity (or worse- existence), there comes a very well-marked crossroad; that point when you've endured all the pain and learned all you need in order to choose your new direction.  With any luck, you'll have a welcomed guide to help you across that threshold, as it can be really fucking scary to take that leap alone.  It turns out that while wandering the urban jungle, feeling the isolation and starkness that my photos were portraying, I was never alone.

     

The Beach at Southampton, NY

Neither in the light nor the dark, but in the shadows were my friends and advisors.  Sometimes they led the way, and other times they followed me, but always we walked together.  This realization brought me to and through the threshold of my reality, to my proverbial rebirth.  One of the truths that I learned was that, yes, you can hide in the shadows forever, and lose yourself in that grey limbo between death and rebirth, in the world of dawn and dusk, the beauty of the beginning and the end, but then you'll never feel the warmth of the sunlight, or marvel at the distance of the stars.

I believe the real trick is to learn to live with the shadows, as well as the light and the dark.  One cannot and does not exist without the other, and even if you could conjure up a world where that is possible, the result would be blinding imbalance, that may be nearly impossible to consciously emerge from.

Ready or Not

Piney Marks the Path, Pine Barrens, NJ

I am just about one month out from embarking on an adventure, a journey that promises to be one of the hardest things I'll ever have to do.  It was all my choice, in fact I was very persistent about being considered for the position.  Position, hah!

On the surface, it seems that I have committed six months of my life to living in my tent in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey, enjoying very few luxuries, including no running shower, no electricity at all, making fire for warmth, forfeiting an income, and stirring a ten-gallon pot of stew for hungry students who won't even realize that a one-pot meal is exactly what they should be eating at this moment.  

But who still focusses on what's on the surface anymore?  I know I certainly wouldn't be doing this if I were still stuck like a fly to sticky tape to the surface.  When it comes down to it, the Tracker School has opened a door to the attic in my mind.  This door has always been there at the top of the stairs, but the cobwebs and dust that have formed around it made it easy for me to forget its existence altogether.  The knowledge of what's beyond this door into eternity seems to have always been with me, lying dormant like some untreatable virus that threatens to wreak havoc if ever awoken.  

Clearing the Air

There is this world of pure truths and deep mysteries alike, sharing the same space and no space at all.  This world of spirit can be reached in many ways, accidentally and by purpose.  LSD, psilocybin, ayahuasca, and mescaline are some well known transcendent-aids for people who have made the conscious decision that they are ready and willing to be thrust into a world they have never known, but have subconsciously yearned for since their conception.  Reading Carlos Casteneda's series of books has given me a unique respect for this method of reaching the countless entities that are constantly watching us in our world.  It has instilled enough wonderment and curiosity in me to follow this path to a certain extent myself.  The intensity of these foreign chemicals entering into my human form and bringing me across the threshold of reality and perception has led to a duality of conclusions.  This is based on the idea that Tom Brown Jr. has been able to prove to me, that the same mysterious world of spirit that Casteneda speaks of, is one that can be reached through the help of no hallucinogens at all.  

Employing various awareness exercises, traditional Native American sacred ceremonies, and incorporating the basic primitive skills such as fire by friction and tracking, Tom claims to reach the same manner of connectedness that Carlos does, however on a completely different plane.  The methods are so different, and yet equally as viable as the other.  This duality, this forked road that does in fact lead to the same spirit in the sky, seems to all be some sort of alluring proposition.  I see nothing more sensical than, while lost in this world of what's simply on the surface, the billions of worker bees buzzing around, bed to job to school to gym to bed, to try to reach a higher level, by whatever means one sees fit.  

On a Quest for Roots, Long Beach, CA

That's precisely where this six-month internship comes into play.  I have already busted through the barriers of the surface, the meniscus can no longer hold the volume in the beaker.  It is time to try something new, even if it hurls me into a world I am deathly afraid of.  But if there is one thing that I know for sure after 23 years of struggling through this wondrous world, it is that fear is something to be embraced and appreciated, just as one would hold onto a loved one for protection.  Fear and death constantly act as advisors in my life, always walking ten paces behind me, whispering in my ear, casting shadows, and giving their advice.  All I know for sure right now is that in one month, I will be taking the very persuasive advice of my overindulgent fear-body, and basically let go of the world I have known.  But I am constantly reassured that I won't regret any of this.  Although I may not be as perfectly prepared as I "should" be for this internship, everything will be fine.  Tom always says that it's not a matter of whether you get all of the steps of a ceremony completely correct, but as long as your intent is pure and intact, the message will get across.  That's what I'm banking on.