Reclaimation

Sometimes a day for mourning what was lost is also a day for celebrating what was, what remains, and what has grown out of the ashes of all the losses. I've done a lot of grieving. There is always more. And there is always more to praise too. Today I am feeling so grateful for my incredible body, soul, and spirit, for enduring and learning to thrive beyond violence, violation, and loss.

tonight's soliloquy

To bike to the co-op
or not to bike.
That is the question.
Whether tis nobler in the mind to endure the rain and wind of outrageous weather
or take comfort against a sea of pillows
and within them, drink tea...


ahhh...be all my sins remembered

The auspicous week is upon us and

welp... if Mercury wasn't already going Retrograde it sure as fuck is now.

0.0

"why should I forgive?
under what guise
was I brought to this life?

to scour away
the empty pain
of no-commitment."

question of the week:

is it possible for women to work, in good conscience and self-care, with or "under" men who refuse to acknowledge their privilege or the inherent power dynamics of living in a patriarchy (or, for that matter, who refuse to even acknowledge the reality of the patriarchy and systematic oppression of women)?

and, furthermore, is it possible to have ANY meaningful relationship with a man who refuses to acknowledge AND actively work against these power dynamics on an ongoing basis?

fucking hell. i just want a pizza.

On Trying to Talk With a Man

"Out in this desert we are testing bombs,

that's why we came here.

Sometimes I feel an underground river
forcing its way between deformed cliffs
an acute angle of understanding
moving itself like a locus of the sun
into this condemned scenery.

What we’ve had to give up to get here –
whole LP collections, films we starred in
playing in the neighborhoods, bakery windows
full of dry, chocolate-filled Jewish cookies,
the language of love-letters, of suicide notes,
afternoons on the riverbank
pretending to be children

Coming out to this desert
we meant to change the face of
driving among dull green succulents
walking at noon in the ghost town
surrounded by a silence

that sounds like the silence of the place
except that it came with us
and is familiar
and everything we were saying until now
was an effort to blot it out –
coming out here we are up against it

Out here I feel more helpless
with you than without you
You mention the danger
and list the equipment
we talk of people caring for each other
in emergencies - laceration, thirst -
but you look at me like an emergency

Your dry heat feels like power
your eyes are stars of a different magnitude
they reflect lights that spell out: EXIT
when you get up and pace the floor

talking of the danger
as if it were not ourselves
as if we were testing anything else."

--Adrienne Rich--

Women/Wilderness

Ursula K. Le Guin AND Susan Griffin  (!?!) on the oppression of women and wilderness.
from Le Guin's essay "Woman/Wilderness" in her book "Dancing at the Edge of the World":


Civilized Man says: I am Self, I am Master, all the rest is Other—outside, below, underneath, subservient. I own, I use, I explore, I exploit, I control. What I do is what matters. What I want is what matter is for. I am that I am, and the rest is women and the wilderness, to be used as I see fit.

To this, Civilized Woman (in the voice of Susan Griffin) replies as follows:
"We say there is no way to see his dying as separate from her living, or what he had done to her, or what part of her he had used. We say if you change the course of this river you change the shape of the whole place.
"And we say that what she did then could not be separated from what she held sacred in herself, what she had felt when he did that to her, what we hold sacred to ourselves, what we feel we could not go on without, and we say if this river leaves this place, nothing will grow and the mountain will crumble away, and we say what he did to her could not be separated from the way that he looked at her, and what he felt was right to do to her, and what they do to us, we say, shapes how they see us.
"That once the trees are cut down, the water will wash the mountain away and the river be heavy with mud, and there will be a flood. And we say that what he did to her he did to all of us. And that one fact cannot be separated from another.
"And had he seen more clearly, we say, he might have predicted his own death. How if the trees grew on that hillside there would be no flood. And you cannot divert this river.
"We say look how the water flows from this place and returns as rainfall, everything returns, we say, and one thing follows another, there are limits, we say, on what can be done and everything moves.
"We are all a part of this motion, we say, and the way of the river is sacred, and this grove of trees is sacred, and we ourselves, we tell you, are sacred."
(reminds me so much of this poem of mine: http://alexceberg.blogspot.com/2014/07/dear-mountain-love-river-part-2.html)

truth

"If a man knew what a woman never forgets, he would love her differently."

-Terry Tempest Williams-

In Case You Ever Need It, It is Here (poem)

"Take this as yours
Rip this from the book
of make a copy
fold it in half
and half again
and put it in your wallet
or between the mattress and the box spring
or taped under your desk
so it is there
if.

Know this: what happened
to your body
to your head
to your heart
is not your fault.
It is not something you caused
or deserved.

It is like blaming yourself
for someone hitting your hand
with a hammer.
(If that person is you,
put the hammer down.
Let it be an accident.
Let it be the end.)

The body, heart, brain knows
how to heal. It knows how to knit
back together. How to suture
and secure. Let it do what it does.
Your body is yours.Your body
will always be yours.

You are not what happened.
Your whole life
is not just this. You do not speak
a language made of this, this is
not your name. 

Your name is your own.

Let your name be
The name of someone who
can do the unthinkable:
Stands up and keeps moving.
You are standing. You are taking
a shower and eating breakfast.
You are going to classes
or going to work. You are doing
impossibly hard things. Keep going
and keep going and there
is summer. Laugh even if it is
with rage. Open your mouth
and your fists. Tell the truth.
Tell a friend. Listen to someone
else's heart. it is beating
a miracle. You are
Both here.

When scars are new,
They shine. Be all the glitter
You need."

--Daphne Gottlieb--

process

"On the Weirdness of
The Creative Impulse:

Earth, Fire, Water
If you would create
from original self...

See that rock over there?
Be impatient with the rock...
and nothing happens.

Say, 'Nice rock,
nice rock,'
and nothing happens.

Stare at rock
without end.
Nothing happens.

Pick up rock--
take it over there.
Stare at it.
Pick rock back up
and move it back
where it began.
Nothing
comes of it.

But/and...
Be gently
angry with the rock,
bust it to pieces
and add peaceful
water
to make clay--

Then fashion
the clay
into a vessel
that will hold
the peace of water
from what was
once
wroth by anger.

This is one
of the most
important lessons
of creating...
Impatience
and all the rest
too often
go nowhere.

A gentled
anger often has
true potential
if broken down,
and transformed
in
and to
peace.

I know you know
from soul outward
what this means.

The soul
ever knows
how earth,
fire,
and water
need
one another."

Dr Clarissa Pinkola Estes

[nightmares] until then

Until
by Indu Iyer

"Women live in the silences between men
in between the daggers of words
the shards of hate
the pummels of fists.
We live in the spaces
carved out between
abuse
in between the cat calls
the gropings
the unwanted penetration.
Between discomfort and
pure horror
we fight to stay alive.
as we tiptoe to not wake
him in the morning
as we hold secret bank accounts,
as we call fellow women for help
only once he has gone to work.
We fight as we wear
running shoes instead of sandals
carry keys in our hand
when we walk at night
give fake numbers
to men in bars
not wanting to unpin a grenade.
This fighting
is not valiant and rewarding.
it is degrading business
it turns women into mice
scurrying from corner to corner
with our feet peddling
as fast as they can
trying to locate a crumb
or a nibble of cheese
amid a world of cats.
Let me be clear – Women are not mice.
Women will not be made into pestilence
by those men who choose to hate us.
We will not live in little holes
between the floor boards
we will not be prisoners
in our own homes, our streets, our cities.
We will not live in the spaces between
our abusers and attackers.
We will fight.
We will cauterize our wounds
with our rage
We will rise like
walls of an inferno
ferocious
relentless
undeniable
each day
every day
Until every woman who says “I was raped” is believed.
Until prostitution is no longer an option.
Until pornography is a relic of the past.
Until women do not fear
our own fathers or brothers
our friends, teachers, lovers
because they might believe
they own our bodies
our minds
our words
our lives.
Until every living person knows
without question
that women do not exist merely
to please men
to serve men
to fuck men,
But that women are survivors
that women are warriors
that women are above all
human.
Until love without tyranny
is not a dream
but the only love
ever known to woman
at all."

(From the Montreal Massacre Memorial on the National Day of Remembrance and Action on Violence Against Women)

ok already

"it's only after you've lost everything that you can do anything."

Rooted wandering

"Sometimes I feel like a hobbit watching orks decimate the Shire. I FEEL the land as it is being destroyed. I feel the idiot darkness in those who put the profit motive above the future of life. We love the hobbits so much because they embody our subconscious yearning for home, for tribal community, for humble, beautiful living and for a deep, unwavering relationship with place - with land we can tend and love and know. We love Bilbo so much because he is the hobbit who can know home, yet still be a wanderer. Oh fellow wanderers - it's time to return home and make a stand for our forests, our watersheds, our mountain tops, our salmon, our seed. If you are constantly distracted by the journey, you won't feel the orks coming. You won't notice what's being lost. Those oil companies want you to be addicted to the fuel it takes to perpetuate your flight - so attached to your physical freedom that you will fight for cheap oil rather than get real about how your own unteathered lifestyle is destroying your untended back yard. I'm not saying don't travel... i'm just saying, get real."

~~Samantha Sweetwater~~

grounded flight

"I had to unlearn their prison speak,
refuse to make wishes on the star
on the sheriff's chest.

I started wishing on the stars instead.
I said to the sun, 'Tell me about the big bang.'
The sun said, 'It hurts to become.'

I carry that hurt on the tip of my tongue
and whisper 'bless your heart' every chance I get
so my family tree can be sure I have not left.

You do not have to leave to arrive.
I am learning this slowly.
So sometimes when I looking the mirror
my eyes look like the holes in the shoes
of the shoe shine man.

Sometimes my hands are busy on the wrong things.
Some days I call my arms 'wings'
while my head is in the clouds.

It will take me a few more years to learn flying
is not pushing away from the ground."

-Andrea Gibson,
excerpt from her poem I Sing the Body Electric, Especially When My Power's Out.

the work.

Chop wood

Carry water

Write poetry

Fight the power

The Girl Who Goes Alone

"Here’s the thing about being a girl

and wanting to play outside.

All the grown-ups grind it into you from the get go:

girls outside aren’t safe.

The guy in the car? If he rolls down the window and leans

his head out, run

because the best you can hope for is a catcall, and at worst

you’ll wind up with your face on the side of a milk carton.

Even when you’re a grownup girl, your father—because

he loves you—

will send you a four-page article about how to protect yourself

while standing at the ATM, while traveling unescorted, while

jogging solo,

an article informing you how to distinguish phony police

and avoid purse snatchers, pickpockets, rapists, and thugs.

Tell someone you’re going into the woods alone

and they’ll story your head with trail-side cougar attacks,

cave dwelling misogynists, lightning strikes, forest fires,

flash floods,

and psychopaths with a sixth sense for a woman alone in a tent.

To be a girl alone in the wilderness is to know

that if something goes wrong—

you picked the trailhead where the ax murderer lurks

or the valley of girl-eating gophers—

if you don’t come home intact, the mourning

will be mixed with I-told-you-sos

from everyone whose idea of camping involves an RV

or a Motel 6.

The message is clear: Girls must be chaperoned.

So, when, at the end of the day, you zip up the tent

and lie back in your sleeping bag,

fleece jacket bundled into a lumpy pillow under your head,

the second you close your eyes every least night noise

is instantly magnified.

You lie there and consider the pungent heft of menstrual blood,

how even your sweat is muskier, louder, when you’re bleeding.

Not hard to imagine its animal allure—every bear

for miles around sniffing you on the night wind.

You lie there, listening, running a mental inventory of any

potentially scented item—

did every one make it into the food bag hung from a tree?

Toothpaste, trailmix, chapstick, sunscreen—fuck.

Sunscreen still in your pack, nestled right beside you

where Outdoor Man used to sleep. So you’re up, out of the tent

headlamp casting its too-bright spotlight, darkening the dark

outside its reach

as you lower the bag, shove the sunscreen in, hoist and tie.

Far enough from the ground to elude the bears?

Far enough along the branch to thwart raccoons?

Tree far enough from the tent to keep from signaling

the proximity of ground-level, girl-shaped snacks?

You go alone—in part—to prove that though Outdoor Man

has left you

his body is the only geography he can deprive you of.

He can give his muscled calves and thighs, his shoulders, chest,

and hands

to another woman, but not the Sauk River old growth,

snow fields of Rainier, sea stacks of Shi Shi.

He can keep you from the sweet, blood-thrilling hum

of his body, but not the sweaty, blood-thumping

pleasure of a hard-earned panoramic view or high altitude

starlight.

The thing about being a girl who goes alone, who goes

again and again, is that it freaks

the potential next boyfriend. He doesn’t want

to be out machoed and he doesn’t want to admit it

and he hopes you can’t tell. The thing

about being the girl who still goes alone is that it proves

you don’t need him and no matter how you show him you

want him

it’s not the same

and you both know it.

Zipped back into the tent you remind yourself you’ve never

really been in danger.

When have you ever been in danger? Well there was that boy,

but years ago

a teenager like you, driving around bored and pissed

at the world, his BB gun and his father’s two rifles

on the seat beside him. Lucky you.

The gun he leveled on the window ledge

lodged nothing more than a BB in your thigh.

The thing about being a girl alone in the woods is

you know too much

about the grain of truth in the warnings.

Even if you seem impervious, weird good luck leaving you

so far unscathed

you know the other girls’ stories—your sister

date raped after a party in college, a friend

raped by a stranger at knife-point, the two women

shot on the Pinnacle Lake trail, the singer

killed by coyotes in Nova Scotia.

The thing

about being a girl

who goes alone

is that you feel like you shouldn’t go

if you’re afraid. If you go it should mean you’re not afraid,

that you’re never afraid. Your friends will think that you go

unafraid.

This girl

who goes alone

is always afraid, always negotiating to keep the voices

in her head at a manageable pitch of hysteria.

I go knowing that there will be a moment—maybe

long moments, maybe

hours of them, maybe the whole trip—

when I curse myself for going alone.

When I lie in the tent and all I am is fear.

I walk into the wilderness alone

because the animal in me needs to fill her nose

with the scent of stone and lichen,

ocean salt and pine forest warming in early sun.

I walk in the wilderness alone so I can hear myself.

So I can feel real to myself.

I go because I know I’m lucky to have a car, gas money, days off

the back and legs and appetite

to take me there.

I go while I still can.

The girl who goes alone

claims for herself

the madrona      juniper     daybreak.

She claims hemlock    prairie    falcon    nightfall

nurse    log    sea star    glacial moraine

huckleberry    trillium     salal

snowmelt    avalanche lily    waterfall

birdsong    limestone    granite    moonlight    schist

cirque     saddle    summit     ocean

she claims the curve of the earth.

The girl who goes alone says with her body

the world is worth the risk."

--Elizabeth Austen--

from my first solo backpacking trip

The Dosewallips in Olympic National Park

up to Dose Meadows and Hayden Pass

 September 15th-19th, 2014 

8.2 miles bike-packing  

30.2 miles backpacking

4.6+ miles day hiking

43 miles total

for solitary, solidarity

and circularity

 

for spirit, soul

and body 

for you

and

for me

<3

what flying requires.

"In work of love, the body
forgets its weight. And once 
again with love and singing 
in mind, I come to what 
must come to me, carried 
as a dancer by a song.
This grace is gravity."
~Wendell Berry

As It Is. [Layers].

unconditional

"I curse [and love] my curse
which is to love the curse;
to love unconditionally;
which is to love the lovers back to love;
to love the lost back to life;
to love when loving means losing;
to love when loving means losing myself;
to love when loving means losing
what I thought was wrong and right
[what I thought was black and white];
to love to love to love;
and to love to love to feel
all that comes with love."


(from before. 3/16/14)

tell me about it