on nature relation,
deep rest, self care, slow life,
well being, becoming whole and
telling my life stories
I began searching for elderberry bushes and harvesting their berries when I was 10 years old, in drainage ditches where they grew together along country roads in Council Bluffs, Iowa. My first forays for elderberries were with my father and sisters. By mid to late September, often at the same time as The Jewish New Year, the berries were ripe and ready for harvest. Many of my memories of picking elderberries are of breaking free into the warm autumn sunshine after a long morning of sitting indoors at the synagogue for Rosh Hashanah services. We'd eat a holiday meal at home or with relatives and then eagerly head out to gather berries. My sister's and I and our father would grab some large brown paper grocery bags and garden clippers and drive to a country road in the east hills of Council Bluffs where we found a favorite elderberry patch. We'd fill our bags with large clumps of reddish-purple berries, hanging heavy on bright red stems and bring them home to my mom and also my grandma Sylvia who was often part of our jelly making process. We'd all help clean and de-stem the berries before squishing them through cheese cloth to get all the juice into a large pot for cooking the batch of jelly- adding just the right amount of sugar and pectin for thickening the tart berry juice as it cooked down.
"I loved my mother's delicious elderberry jam, berry pies and earthy tasting sautéed Morels. Though, each time we ate the mushrooms my mom was on high alert; her adrenaline rushing; expecting to rush us to the emergency room-poisoned by the nourishing, heavenly mushrooms she'd just cooked for us. Mom never ate the wild mushrooms."
At that point in my life I knew nothing about wild crafting herbs nor had I any knowledge of which herbs and foods found in nature might be used to support health and wellness. I did know that I loved foraging close to home for elderberries in the autumn; black raspberries in summer and Morel mushrooms and wild asparagus in the spring. The Morels and wild asparagus often popped up around May Day each year when we also picked violets for our May baskets. I loved my mother's delicious elderberry jam, berry pies and earthy tasting sautéed Morels. Though, each time we ate the mushrooms my mom was on high alert; her adrenaline rushing; expecting to rush us to the emergency room-poisoned by the nourishing, heavenly mushrooms she'd just cooked for us. Mom never ate the wild mushrooms.
When my sister, Heidi, was old enough to drive and I was a young teen, we went berry picking without our father on a warm autumn afternoon. While driving home with our overflowing bags of elderberries. a huge Wolf Spider popped out of one of the bags of berries onto the back seat, just inches from us. We were screaming as Heidi, pulled the car over and parked. We spilled out of the car in seconds and knocked on the door of a nearby home, asking to use their phone (this was about 30 years before cell phones were in use). One of us made the call and my dad arrived shortly, rescuing us from the spider in the back seat of our tiny Fiat. He shooed the large spider out of the car with part of his Sunday newspaper and off we went, terrified to ever gather elderberries again.
It was in Oregon, years later, that my real education in herbs, plant medicine and nutrition began. It was here where elderberry syrup or tincture became a staple in my herb and supplement cabinet for year round immune support. In Oregon it was extremely easy to find elderberry syrup in one of the numerous food co-ops or natural food stores, I was content to buy it off the shelf.
Something big changed for me during the early days of The Pandemic-though nature was a huge piece of my world and work, I found myself in the woods more than ever and at the same time upped my self care practices-every aspect of self care; physical, emotional, nutritional, spiritual and environmental. With the world slowed down, I dropped into slow time and noticed many details around me that I'd overlooked in the past. One day in late September of 2020, on a walk through the neighborhood, I noticed an elderberry bush dripping with ripe berries and the sight of the tree transported me back to my childhood. I knocked on the door of the home where the tree lived and asked the owner if I might harvest some of her berries if she wasn't using them. She told me to take as many as I'd like as she didn't pick them. I returned a little later with my clippers and a bag and was back at it. It had been 50 years since I'd last harvested elderberries and this time, with an intention to make a batch of elderberry syrup. In this part of Southern Oregon, many elderberry varieties are blue instead of the typical black. The blue drought-tolerant variety thrive in our hot and dry climate. Blue elderberries (Sambucus cerulea) are similar to black elderberries (Sambucus nigra). I gathered enough berries for a large batch of syrup; thanked the beautiful tree and left a good amount of berries for the birds. As I walked home with my full bag, for just a moment I had an image of the Wolf Spider from my childhood but quickly let it fade away.
I made my first batch of elderberry syrup from a recipe a friend shared with me. The batch was big, tasty and lasted for months. In fact, it lasted so long that it was fermented by the time I got close to finishing it. I used a small amount each day and have had elderberry, well-known as an ant-viral, in my daily regimen every since early 2020.
I found the first batch of syrup and the batch that followed the next season to be tasty but very watery. I desired the thick syrupy texture I had been used to from herbal farms such as Gaia Herbs or Herb Pharm. This past autumn, I once again harvested elderberries from the same tree and shared in the medicine making process with my friend, Johan, who was all in for this project. I harvested the berries and delivered them to Johan to prep and freeze. A common method to de-stem the berries is simply by freezing them in a bag, causing the berries to fall from their stems easily on their own, once frozen. Johan, in his love for small seeds and berries and from his years of experience gathering seeds and propagating conifer trees for The Forest Service, chose to meticulously remove the tiny elderberries from their stems, carefully removing any bit of tree duff or tiny bugs before freezing them.
Early on I felt the plant and human synergy as we worked as a team-researching and adapting a recipe to make a concentrated thick syrup. We looked at a recipe shared last fall by our friend, Julia Plevin Oliansky, which inspired us to use rose hips in addition to the elderberries. Julia's recipe used dried elderberries and we were working with fresh frozen berries. The proportions of berries and water change depending on if you use dried, fresh or frozen berries. I found a recipe using fresh frozen elderberries which we then adapted by adding rose hips and tweaking the water content as well as the honey. We initially added too many rose-hips for our batch and quickly discovered the natural pectin in the rose hip skins was a powerful thickening agent, so we decreased the amount in the recipe that follows. Rose hips are rich in vitamin C and natural pectin for thickening and it takes very few to get the thickening effect. We gathered the fresh rose hips from my rose bush. They have a sweet and tangy tartness and are full of anti-oxidants.. I scribbled the finished recipe out in my almost illegible printing which Johan proceeded to carefully type out.
Next, we chose a day to get together and make the syrup. A perfect project for the dark short days of winter. Johan thawed the berries early in the day and I brought the rose hips; the spices and a large, heavy pot. Our collaboration took me back to all the years I spent as a pastry chef in professional kitchens with the whole crew working together. Over the years I have been working on my own with the harvested plants as well as doing lots of cooking and baking which I find quite therapeutic, creative and fun. This collaboration with a kitchen partner reminded me of my childhood, making elderberry jelly with a full crew in our family's kitchen, each of us taking part at some level. The collaboration created an exponential sense of connection between human and plant and human-human-plant connection. It reminded me of the magic that happens on a forest therapy walk between the different human participants connecting with one another and all the living nature beings, relating and sharing in unique ways; each time different than the last.
The longer I have related to the natural world, I've found it spilling into all of my life, especially in the form of sensory experience. Making the elderberry syrup was quite an immersion of the senses. The senses of taste, sight, smell, hearing and feeling were all engaged. The smell of the spices and the simmering pot of berries, blended together and created a fragrant forest in the kitchen. The magnificent deep blue berries and red rose hips cooking down and changing color by the moment, transported us into the simmering pot-the plants pulling us into their alchemical mix as they became something new. Through our human-plant collaboration we witnessed nature revealing her power as Earth matter shapeshifting through human-plant relation and intention.
The berries, steaming and simmering away in the pot were deep in an alchemical dance, melting into a new expression or their former selves. The heat and steam from the fragrant pot drifted over our hands and faces offering a potent sense bath. The longer the berries simmered the more grounded and present we became-no longer simply the cooks, observers and planners but an integral part of a newly formed relationship between nature beings and human beings.
When the berry-spice concoction had cooled and the warm pulp was squeezed and strained through the mesh bag, I was really excited to add the honey and do a taste test. By this time, our hands were coated in shining purple juice. When we mixed the raw honey into the warm, thick liquid and tasted the sweet, tart syrup, I felt the whole process settle into my cells. From our original intention to find elderberries to the very first sighting of them on the tree; to the now thick, sweet, purple, jeweled liquid coating on our hands and dripping down our chins, a sense of deep joy was palpable. In that moment in the kitchen, there was simply the experience of nature-relation- plants, honeybees and humans, transformed through intention, connection and creative action. Each time I taste a spoonful of the elderberry-rose hip syrup, I drop right back into the embodied experience of the herbal alchemy created in a warm kitchen on a cold winter afternoon.
Lip Licking-Finger Dripping Elderberry-Rose Hip Syrup
6 Cups Fresh or Frozen Black or Blue Elderberries
30 Rose Hips- fresh or semi-dried from the bush
1 Cup Raw Local Honey
2 Cups Water (add extra water as needed/f needed)
2 Heaping Tablespoons Raw Fresh Ginger-grated
1 Teaspoon Whole Cloves
1.5 Teaspoons Powdered Cinnamon
Large stock pot
Flat End Wooden Spoon
Fine-holed Potato Masher
Nut Milk Bag or Cheese Cloth
Metal Mesh Wire Strainer
Measuring Cups (Dry and Liquid)
Bowl to squeeze juice through Seed Bag
Glass Storage Jars for about 3 cups of syrup
Combine stemmed berries and rose hips with water in stock pot.
Stir and bring to a simmer. Adjust heat for mixture to continuously simmer but do not boil. Press your flat ended wooden spoon to the bottom of your pot and measure how high the mixture is on the spoon-such as an inch deep or whatever it measures.
Stir in grated ginger, cloves and cinnamon. Continue simmering, stirring the mixture as needed. When mixture thickens, begin to scrape the sides of the pot down with the flat end of your wooden spoon and occasionally gently stir. When the fruit is soft, use your fine holed potato masher to mash the berries in the pot.
As the mixture simmers down and the water content lessens, measure again with the wooden spoon. When it has cooked down by half, remove from heat. The simmering process could take anywhere from 30 to 45 minutes or so. Make sure to remove from the heat as soon as the volume of the mixture has gone down by half.
When your berry mixture has cooled enough to handle, place your nut milk bag or cheese cloth over the fine meshed sieve, over a medium sized bowl. Scrape warm berries into the mesh bag. Once the bag is filled, squeeze the berry-filled bag, gently, until you have gotten as much juice as you can from the berry pulp. Be careful to not pop the bag, turning it to different sides as you squeeze. Once all the liquid is squeezed into the bowl, measure out your honey and gently whisk into the berry juice. Adjust your honey amount to your personal taste. After licking your fingers and washing your purple stained hands (and face), pour the syrup into your glass jar(s). It is helpful to use a jar you can dip a teaspoon into, to take out a single serving at a time. Refrigerate. It should keep for a good three months or more in the fridge.
Yields: approximately 25 oz. of syrup
The Liminality of Grief: Befriending The Unknown through Radical Rest, Self-care & Forgiveness
This past year has been filled with unknowns and the deepest grief I've ever experienced. It's been an extremely challenging time of much inner and outer growth, bringing surprises, life-affirming gifts and transformation. This year has been a culmination; the end of a story; the story of my parent's lives in Oregon for the past 20 years. This time has also marked for me an end and a new beginning for myself. This ending and new beginning is something I still am melding and moving through. So, I'll use one of my most potent self-care tools and do what I do; I'll write it and I'll edit it for hours and days until I've sculpted the story and etched it energetically in my heart, mind and soul.
For decades, writing has been a love of mine and my passion for teaching and for self-care has launched me on a path as a Healer and Wellness Educator. I love writing about my life and work. Over the years through my own healing path, I have fully embraced nature and energy practices as potent tools for wellness. When my work came to a sudden halt during The Pandemic, so did much of my writing spark. In early 2020 the day the state of Oregon locked down, my elderly parents moved into a nearby retirement community. With Covid regulations, it was months before I could enter their apartment. My focus was managing their connection to the outside world and their medical needs such as trips to the emergency room, falls or a sudden collapse which became common for them when medical access was suddenly limited. One day early in The Pandemic my dad's doctor actually walked over to the parking lot of their retirement community and in the back seat of my car palpated my father's lower abdomen. For my dad, it seemed it had come down to getting his medical care in the backseat of a 2007 Honda Fit.
With my parents many needs and my work suddenly on pause, I pieced together a new life. Besides stepping into a role as caregiver for my parents, I prioritized tending to my own needs for stress regulation as I grieved the loss of my work, the state of humanity and the planet. At that time when the planes were grounded and the roads were empty, I actually rejoiced in the quiet streets, the silent, clear blue skies and the gentle life of the forest, suddenly reclaimed by residents of The More Than Human World. There were few humans to be found in the woods then. I still smile with memories of squirrels and ducks pattering along the many trails, long used by humans. They seemed to know we humans were taking a pause.
In the past years, in Southern Oregon, the severe drought has intensified and summer and fall wild fires have become the new normal. On September 8, 2020, The Almeda Fire which started a mile from my home, raced through our valley destroying close to 3000 structures, leaving thousands homeless. Our community stress levels skyrocketed with high anxiety, overwhelm and PTSD from evacuation and loss of homes and livelihood. It was terribly frightening. Many have since relocated. I have relocated twice since 2019 in reaction to the climate disaster here and each time have ended up like a boomerang, back to my "village" of Ashland. My community ties of 40 years are so strong it's been almost impossible to leave my people and the land I love as well as my then, aging parents. During The Almeda Fire they too were evacuated and quite traumatized. One year later after another summer of extreme heat and smoke, I relocated to Portland in September 2021 and traveled to Ashland every month to tend to my parent's needs. I finally gave it up and came home after 4 months. I acknowledged that Southern Oregon for now is truly home, even with the environmental disasters.
My parents were managing well, even with my mom's dementia and had moved to an assisted living apartment in 2021. I made the move back from Portland in time for my mom's 90th birthday last January. Ten days later my dad reported not feeling well. After blood work and an echo cardiogram, it was clear that his heart failure had progressed to a new level. I somehow had received an intuitive call to return from Portland even before this news. The cardiologist told me and my sister's he'd never seen a heart so bad in a patient who was still alive. My dad who was convinced at age 94 that he would live to be at least 110, reluctantly signed the intake forms to go on Hospice in early March. We thought he might have a month left. My parents stayed in their apartment with the facility staff, private care givers and help from me as well as Hospice. My dad was very concerned for my mother since he was her anchor and first line caregiver. My mom fully depended on him. During my dad's Hospice journey, though he mostly slept, his presence alone anchored my mom. I was with them often. As my dad's condition progressed, they both needed more care. My dad was so stubborn and so convinced he'd never die that he almost convinced me and his friends as well.
"Once my dad woke up when his Hospice nurse arrived and spoke with her about the light he was seeing as he looked out their sliding door. Dad said, "It feels like this light is here now to stay." At the same visit my dad described to Molly how he had felt like he was dying the previous night. I asked him how it felt and in his Iowa inflection, he said, "Pretty good." This was all happening to a man who had been terrified of death and had described it for years as, "Nothing but blackness." Now on his Hospice journey my dad was discovering a new reality with open curiosity and trust."
My father had no spiritual beliefs though he was culturally Jewish. He had mainly attended synagogue services at my mom's behest or for the socializing and food. He had been terrified of death for as long as I can remember. Knowing this, I was quite surprised when he was gifted with a very unusual 3.5 month Hospice journey.
Increasingly, my dad spent much time in deep sleeps-sometimes in bed with my mom or both of them awake, chatting and cuddling and most often in his recliner during the day. Many times I arrived as they were both waking up around noon and my dad was sharing with my mom where he had been and who he had seen during his "sleep." He would wake during the day after a long sleep, saying, "I'm not sure if I'm dead or alive." My dad shared these experiences with me, describing what I think of as journeying, in rich and vivid detail. It was different than his waking reality and by no means a typical dream. It was so real that he remembered and described the details for weeks. Many times when his Hospice nurse, Molly, visited, he shared these experiences with her. After this happened the first few times, Molly said, "Maynard, it sounds like you may be traveling between worlds." My dad said, "I think I am." He shared about our ancestors who were communicating with him. Often he described his mother and his brothers and sister being present or having spoken to them. Sometimes he would talk to me and my mother thinking my mom was his mother. My mom was not happy about that. My dad was often disoriented during this time, not knowing where he was. Once he told me it seemed like the furniture in their apartment didn't belong to them and that it felt like we were in a store of some kind. More than once he recounted how he almost fell but the most beautiful, shining and loving woman he'd ever seen stopped his fall. My dad was very impressed by her, stating he had never felt so much love. Many times he talked to me and my mom about "the train" he was seeing out the back window, saying, "It feels like we're in a train station." or "It feels like we should be leaving soon." or "Do you see the building across the courtyard? It looks like a moving train." In the midst of these episodes my dad seemed perfectly lucid. He was open to sharing these experiences which he seemed in awe of. It was beautiful to be a witness to this. Once my dad woke up when his Hospice nurse arrived and spoke with her about the light he was seeing as he looked out their sliding door. Dad said, "It feels like this light is here now to stay." At the same visit my dad described to Molly how he had felt like he was dying the previous night. I asked him how it felt and in his Iowa inflection, he said, "Pretty good." This was all happening to a man who had been terrified of death and had described it for years as, "Nothing but blackness." Now on his Hospice journey my dad was discovering a new reality with open curiosity and trust..
My parents many friends came to visit when there was a chance my mom and dad might be awake, but mostly, from mid-April into late June, they both spent hours each day sleeping opposite one another on their chairs in the living room. For my mom, sleeping was a symptom of her dementia. Just before Father's Day my dad started into his active dying phase-sleeping most of the night and day, eating little and very disoriented. On Father's Day he took his last walk with me through their building. He later listened to "Morning Has Broken" by Cat Stevens on his Alexa while looking at a card from my younger sister which contained the song lyrics. My dad listened and looked up at my mother, smiling and extremely out of breath and in a slurred voice said, "Those are great songs." I knew in that moment that my dad would soon be gone. Tears streamed down my cheeks with Cat Stevens voice and my dad's smile tucked away in my heart.
The next day, resting in his recliner, my dad slipped into a coma; his "death sleep", accompanied by severe atrial fibrillation. My mother stood beside her husband of 71 years all night, holding his hand, saying, "I don't think dad will make it this time." She was able to track that he was dying, even with her Alzheimer's. Throughout my dad's Hospice journey my mother said, "What a horrible time to have memory problems when my husband is dying!" She would wake up each day once again discovering as if for the first time that her husband was dying. She knew just by looking at him. My heart was breaking.
The hospital bed arrived the next morning. It was Tuesday and my dad didn't get up again. My sister's arrived the following afternoon. Since Tuesday dad's heart had been racing at 200 beats a minute. The comfort medications Hospice provided barely calmed his heart rate. Though dad couldn't speak we knew it was extremely intense for him. It looked like his heart was jumping out of his chest. Amazingly, a few hours before he died on Thursday evening, my dad, who was known for his side-splitting jokes, pulled himself from his death sleep, and forced his eyes open to mere slits and almost inaudibly whispered his last joke to his beloved Hospice nurse, Molly, her ear next to his mouth. By evening, my dad's heart finally slowed and finally at peace, with my older sister by his side, he took his last breath. My sister's had gone to bed and I quietly sat with my dad's body, waiting for the funeral home to come for him. I thought my mom was asleep as she'd gone to bed just before he died. Once they had taken my father, my mom, still awake, called me into her room and I lay in bed with her. She said, "Dad's dead isn't he?" I told her yes and we lay quietly together holding one another.
My dad's death and loss caused my mom's dementia to spiral out of control. Without her anchor, she could no longer stay in assisted living, even with private caregivers. Within three weeks of my dad's death my mom was in a memory care facility near my older sister in Montana, and has since rapidly declined and is now on Hospice.
My father who had been mentally vibrant up until the end was now gone and my mother too was suddenly gone. Her rushed move was totally out of my control and at the same time necessary. None of us were prepared for how the move played out. At this point my mom has few if any memories of my dad, how many children or grandchildren she has and little understanding of where she is.
My grief dropped me into anxiety, despair, disorientation and exhaustion. It was partially triggered by my dad's death and partially from very painful family dynamics with my sisters, related to the circumstances of my mom's sudden move. My cortisol was rushing and my body felt out of my control. I was taking 1-2 naps a day and waking each night about 3 am, struggling to return to sleep. I have always been a good sleeper but my body clock and metabolism were suddenly out of control. I cried for weeks and let the tears bring me back to balance. Though physically weak I would slowly walk the 2.5 miles to my sit-spot at Ashland Creek as many days a week as possible. I'd sit on my rock and drop into my senses, sinking my feet and calves in the ice cold creek for long periods. After an hour or so, I walked down the trail once again, very slowly. Each time I left my sit-spot I felt a little more alive, more whole and a lot more human. As I walked the trail home I noticed the people I passed gently turning away from my red swollen eyes, offering me privacy and maybe protecting themselves from my grief.
I gathered every self-care tool I had to regain my balance and energy. Self-Care has become an integral part of my daily life following a health crisis which flattened me in 2013. These practices have been a lifeline for my physical, emotional, mental and spiritual well-being. Over the past 9 years I have integrated numerous practices into my day for grounding and balance. Self-Reiki, The Wim Hof Method-breath work & cold water immersion, skin brushing, Medical Qigong, Forest Bathing/Nature Immersion, EcoNIDRA and Gratitude are all core to my self-care.
To manage my energy and grief and regulate my nervous system, I streamlined my daily self-care practices to wherever I felt most drawn. In the morning before rising I typically did Self Reiki and Wim Hof Method Breathing followed by a hot shower ending with 2 minutes of cold. Before breakfast, Jinjing Qigong helped get my body moving and energy flowing. In the cool of the morning, I often followed breakfast with an aerobic walk to the park. After about 20 minutes I gently slowed down to a slow meander as I transitioned to Forest Bathing. I dropped into my senses, letting my attention go where it was pulled and ditching any mental concepts of where I should be or what I should be doing. I eventually arrived at my sit-spot, a place in nature where I'd simply sit and experience nature through my senses. I sat and noticed and sat and felt and sat and noticed. Here I felt safe and present enough to cry and release whatever wanted out. Another practice which helped me through this time, was EcoNIDRA™, a nature-based form of the ancient practice of Yoga Nidra. I'd choose one of my many EcoNIDRA™ recordings and rest on my bed in late afternoon, facilitated through a 3 stage journey- through my senses, my body and The Earth for about 50 minutes. This practice offered radical rest for my body and nervous system while doing absolutely nothing; drifting between a state of waking and sleep. Mid-afternoon and evening allowed me time to ground and focus on my remote work. Lastly, before turning my light out, I'd write in my gratitude journal-the best thing from my day; the worst thing and a list of all I was grateful for.
Between the Reiki; breath work; cold water; qigong; walking; forest bathing; EcoNIDRA™ and Gratitude, my nervous system began to calm and I began returning to myself. I returned to a whole self with a broad perspective of all that had happened after my dad's death and a much clearer understanding of who I was. Life felt new in many ways. My father had died; my mother was physically gone with her mind rapidly going. Through profound grief I had summoned the strength and determination to complete the passage, having pulled myself out of a deep hole. Everything felt new. The grief process helped me let go of how I previously perceived my life. It was a time for release, deep integration and rest. I was Alice on her journey through The Looking Glass, stepping into liminal space. I realized my only way through was to make peace with the unknown; with all that showed up and cross the threshold that had been waiting for me all along - a path to freedom and new life.
I learned that grief takes its own unique course for each person. Before my father's death, I imagined grief as deep sadness and sense of loss. I had lost close friends and older family members but this was my first time losing parents. I discovered grief as much more than profound sadness and loss. The disorientation; exhaustion; fear; anxiety; disrupted sleep; inability to focus or work, along with a sudden loss of my natural social ease was extreme. I would see someone I knew in public and quickly turn a corner to avoid conversation. I screened my calls and sometimes couldn't respond to messages or emails or initiate contact for weeks. The exhaustion scared me and painfully brought back the experience when I collapsed with Meniere's Disease 9 years earlier; when my adrenal glands crashed and it took years to regain my energy. I feared this state would last and I'd be stuck in this new reality. But, contrary to my health crisis 9 years ago, I now had a potent self-care tool kit I'd pieced together over the last decade and I understood how resilient our energy body is. I was confident this would be temporary; that I had the patience, strength and stamina; the tools and emotional and mental capacity to move through this. I knew that nothing would change until I allowed myself to be present with the experience and feel the pain. Through experience I knew one of my most potent allies and self-care tools was my ability to cry and feel my feelings.
Two months after my dad's death I was still really struggling at which time I read a book by a forgiveness educator named, Ana Holub, called, "Forgive and Be Free." I realized in this period that I had much work to do related to long time painful family issues and dysfunctional patterns with my sisters and parents. I have heard it is common that loss within a family can bring up trauma and painful family dynamics. The instant my dad took his last breath, all the dysfunction in our sister dynamic exploded from the shadows. For a time there was no contact between us. At the same time I was blocked from contact with my mother. Ana's book saved my life as I used her method of working each incident from my present and past where I'd felt wronged or felt I had wronged others. Ten days after beginning this work and after shedding a river of tears, I miraculously heard from my older sister. That call launched us both onto a profound path of deep repair and healing of our broken relationship of decades. It began with one phone call, from my sister, "I'm calling to apologize and ask your forgiveness." We were both blessed to dive into forgiveness work together and through facilitation as well. This work has been life changing. I have done so much over the years to try and fix the brokenness in our sister relationship and nothing touched it until now. I am more than grateful for everything that has happened since my dad's death. It was extremely painful and set off a chain of events comparable to a slow fuse sparking for years and finally detonating through our whole family constellation. I had lost my father and mother and through the grief process and forgiveness work, I found myself and I found a true sister for the first time since we were children. I also learned about the vital importance of letting go of relationships that serve no one and only prolong pain and suffering. The forgiveness work opened new doors and sparked a renewed life energy that infused each day. At this same time, a long-time friend and I happened to reconnect over the summer. He too had been going through his own process of loss and grief and like magic our path's merged as we began holding space for each other around our separate experiences. Our connection has slowly grown into a beautiful friendship which we are both cherishing like a newly discovered rare and delicate seed.
My friend Sarah Marshank, founder of Selfistry, recently wrote a piece titled, "Death is Weird." The gist of it is that we each experience the death of a loved one in our own unique way. and how can we know what anyone's experience really is.
Sarah writes, "When we find ourselves about to say we know how it is for others, let’s pause, bite our tongue, turn off our autopilot, and offer an inquiry instead – a wondering. Like this: "How is it for you, your mother’s dying?"
I grew up thinking that death was painfully sad and frightening. It can be for some but perhaps not for everyone. Each death, just like each birth is a unique passage; its own journey. My father's death and what immediately followed, catalyzed healing and transformation, creating a profound opening for new life, filled with goodness, peace and love. It cracked me wide open, leaving light, love, peace, wholeness, new life and hope. The waves of grief still wash through me, unannounced, accompanied many times by tears. I never know when one may hit. What I do know is, as long as I embrace the unknown, I'll continue to move through life in peace and remain whole.
Today is Earth Day. Each Earth Day I think, "Isn't every day, Earth Day?" I often wonder how we humans live each day without an awareness of this amazing being, Earth, we live in and on. It can take a while when for most of us, Earth is the place we have always lived since birth, in our homes, our cities, states and countries, not really feeling an actual connection with the web of inter-being spreading across the planet; the source of our ability to live, grow and thrive from birth until death. Even in death, as our bodies go back to The Earth and become earth. The Earth is where we live our lives as an integral part of her ecosystem and then once again our bodies, at the time of our death continue to play an essential role in her ecosystem.
I'm thinking a lot about life and death these days and about what it means to spend the time we have on Earth as part of her web of life. Though so much seems to be falling apart and out of control all over the planet, I have been living in a world that feels otherworldly these past two months since my 94 year old father went on Hospice for congestive heart failure. With both my parents alive and still together in their 90's, I've gotten used to them being around- for quite some time, and doing a pretty good job of it considering their challenges as they have become quite old.
Now, my dad, always a passionate walker, is walking his final walk in his life on Earth. Being the daughter who is here locally, I have felt ripped out of my life by my roots and sucked into an alternate reality as I tend to my father and mother and arrange for their needs for care at this time. Suddenly, I'm no longer living my own life from day to day on automatic pilot, looking to the next thing; the next thing. Instead, I'm living on The Earth from moment to moment with deep gratitude that she is simply here supporting all life. At age 64, as I prepare to say goodbye to one of my parent's, I know I am here on The Earth in Ashland, Oregon, and at the same time, I have been invited to step into The Rabbit Hole where nothing looks as it once did and I know that nothing in my life will ever be the same again. Once my father dies and I am guessing my mother shortly follows, I will feel my family roots in The Earth more than I ever have, even though my ancestor's have all gone before us. I am learning that losing a parent affects one deep in their own cells. I'm feeling it in my cells; in my daily reality and in my dreams. My sister's are telling me they feel it too.
I'm experiencing a new sense of The Earth and the vast web of interbeing she supports for all of us passengers on this wild spinning ride. I'm loving my father and mother and tending to them as best I can, sometimes with frustration along with the love. As my dad prepares to leave, I feel my mother doing the same and I prepare deep in my heart and soul for their departures. Some days, my father describes a train that he says is moving and tells me and my mother it is leaving soon and he feels like he is supposed to be on it. He says, "We'll be leaving soon." Spending the time with my dad as he shares his experiences stepping between worlds is allowing me a powerful glimpse into his dying process. I'm feeling pieces of the world he is navigating as he has lost all sense of time and sometimes place. I'm learning from my dad's journey how fast our lives on Earth pass, even if you do make it to be 94. He's sharing his stories, joy, sadness, regrets and tears as he looks back at his long life and finds himself, right now, exactly where he is, with a deeply challenging opportunity to look within.
Between Covid and my moves to escape wildfires in Southern Oregon, I now feel I am truly home with my family; my community; the land that is my more than human family. I've never felt anything more right than being here and tending to my father and mother during this time. These past two months, I have barely had the chance to be in nature and unable to do the work I deeply love-facilitating others to connect with The Earth in a relational way through forest therapy, also known as Forest Bathing or Shinrin Yoku- a practice that invites you to fall in love in a new way with The Earth. We forest therapy guides and the thousands who have experienced this practice have learned through this work that what we love, we protect.
I am feeling strongly pulled to connect with The Earth; The More than Human World; community, ground myself again in nature and connect with my own inner nature. I invite you to join me for a forest therapy walk this Sunday, April 24, In honor of my love for The Earth and the billions of lives and life she nurtures and supports in every moment, I welcome you to join me, say hello to The Earth and fall in love.
Forest Therapy Walk
Wild Wellness Guide
Sunday, April 24th
11:00 AM- 1:30PM
Lithia Park, Ashland, Oregon
Sliding Scale Donation- $20-$45
Pre-Register through Wild Wellness Guide
Summer officially arrived last week and here in Oregon, it has arrived with true fire-fire from The Sun and fires in the forests. The Pacific Northwest has been hit with a once in a millennium "Heat Dome." With this show of nature's power we humans are certainly being put in our place. In this fiery time it feels like a good time to reach out and say hello following my long silence.
I hope those of you in The Pacific Northwest are safe in this intense heat wave and staying cool and well-hydrated. I have adjusted my time in nature to either the cool of the morning or late afternoon for dipping in the cold waters of Ashland Creek. I am so grateful for easy access to the shade and cool green of nature, especially in this heat wave.
Hand in hand with the extreme heat, the fires have begun, earlier than ever before, with smoke drifting across the border from Northern California. The presence of planes carrying a large cache of fire retardant on their underbelly are ever present in the sky. There has been ash on my car and on my outdoor furniture this past week. Living in The Rogue Valley, we all understand in real time that climate change is here. We are beginning a very early fire season, still carrying the trauma from The Almeda Fire last September, which on top of Covid, dug pretty deep into the psyche of our community. I am already feeling the stress rising, feeling this extreme heat and looking out my closed windows at the smoky haze hovering over The Cascade Foothills.
The past 14 months since Covid began, has been quite a wild ride for all of us and the fires here have only exacerbated it. Though I have guided a handful of forest therapy walks in the past year, once we were well into The Pandemic and my work had come to a halt, I began learning much about stopping and slowing way down. It took a pandemic to stop me from the constant figuring of next steps; the doing and the planning. At the same time, I was also forced to change my pace to assist my very elderly parents, who depended on me during lock-down. Though it took time, I came to accept my inability to control what was happening outside of myself.
Now, over a year later, much has changed. We all have changed; our world has changed; I have changed. Amongst the Covid carnage; the fear and the death, this period has also brought many gifts. The biggest for me was the slowing down and the isolation which served as an enforced personal retreat. Personal retreat sounds pleasant so that may not adequately describe this past 14 months. It allowed me time to go deep within for self-growth and I didn't do it alone. Thanks to my family; my adult children and my parents, it became a time for serious digging deep into the ecosystem of my own patterns in family communication and relating; pulling myself out of the mud, like a Dragonfly discovering the light for the first time. I am more than grateful for my family members who helped either knowingly or simply through their presence or absence, to shine a bright light on dark and neglected places, pushing me toward a new level of understanding and way of being. I had no choice but to either do the deep painful work or lose myself as well as loved-ones. It has been a year of heartbreak in so many ways and as opposites work, also, a time of great healing, love, release, joy and gratitude. I am grateful to my adult children, my sister's and the many healers, teachers, nature and the plant allies who have all been a part of this transformative journey-and the work continues with each breath, each day.
I have discovered many gifts through this time and one of the big ones has been learning how to step back and stop the pushing, the expectations; the grasping and seeing life and circumstances as things that I can manipulate. I've learned to let go of expectations about the environment. I wonder if there will be enough water for my community; if the air will be breathable this summer or ever, and will our homes be safe from raging wildfires?- while keeping an emergency evacuation kit in my car. There are no longer any quick escapes and I feel how we are all in this together. When I think about planning a forest therapy walk and wonder how much smoke and heat we'll be dealing with, I then step back and feel into it and remind myself that now is the time for patience combined with listening to my inner guidance, informed by quiet, slow presence and holding space for myself and others. Patience and letting go is my new normal.
During this slow, deep and painful work, I have discovered a wonderful practice. I was led to it when I used the slow time during Covid to step up my self-care regimen to a few hours each day. This included Self-Reiki; Wim Hof breath work and ice water immersion; skin brushing; Celery juicing, Jin Jing Gong Qigong and forest bathing. This past February, in all of my doing regarding self-care, I discovered, "The Art of Non-Doing" through Yoga Nidra, an ancient practice, sometimes referred to as, "Yogic Sleep." A practice for deep rest, relaxation and calming the nervous system. Soon after, I found a nature-based branch of Yoga Nidra, called, EcoNIDRA™. I was delighted to find a form of Yoga I could practice lying in place, flat on my back, with no place to go and nothing to do for 45 minutes. My whole life has been so much about moving from one thing to the next. I was always stuck on this: stopping and resting meant I was not creating or producing something- proving my worthiness. Once I began attending remote EcoNIDRA sessions, guided by its founder, Kat Novotna, in The Netherlands, I was hooked. I felt a sense of wholeness that had been hard to come by since the beginning of The Pandemic. My sleep became deep and restful; brain fog cleared; creativity bloomed; anxiety lifted and I felt content to be still and linger in the silence for longer than usual. A new level of patience and feeling the world around me with a sense of spaciousness became my new normal. It's amazing what can happen in 45 facilitated minutes of "Non-Doing", journeying through your senses, your body and through The Earth.
This past April, I began a journey along with a beautiful cohort of, "Dragonflies", to become a Certified EcoNIDRA Teacher™. It felt like a perfect fit and complement to my work as a Forest Therapy guide. I am overjoyed and very grateful to announce that I am now a Certified EcoNIDRA Teacher. I've got my wings and am ready to fly far and wide introducing this slow, gentle practice for deep rest and relaxation. Following a vacation break this summer, I will be offering remote EcoNIDRA sessions through Zoom that you can access in the privacy of your home, as well as remote sessions through corporate wellness programs-even Netflix is now offering EcoNIDRA sessions for their employees worldwide. As well, I will be setting up to guide EcoNIDRA sessions in person through Yoga and Wellness Centers and am looking forward to offering one day and weekend EcoNIDRA/Forest Therapy Retreats.
Watch for live streamed EcoNIDRA Sessions coming soon from Wild wellness Guide
Wishing you Peace, Rest and Wholeness,
I have been mostly silent during this past year of pandemic life. Throughout 2020 I had much to say while at the same time was often speechless and unable to write. Life changed so rapidly from day to day that by the time I completed a piece of writing, it was irrelevant.
Way back In mid-October of 2019, I gently began settling back in Southern Oregon after a life-changing nine-month journey in Idaho. By late fall, I was once again guiding forest therapy experiences and was actively forging new collaborations for my nature-based wellness practice, locally in Southern Oregon as well as other areas of the state. 2020 was off to an active start.
In early January I signed a contract to guide a Memorial Day forest bathing retreat at Breitenbush Hot Springs Resort, in collaboration with sound healer and forest therapy guide, Joy Evans, from The Bay Area. I began planting seeds for the retreat 2 years earlier and was incredibly grateful for this hard-earned spot at Breitenbush. As well, Trout Creek Wilderness Lodge reached out in early 2020 with an invitation to facilitate a forest bathing retreat at their healing center in an old growth forest, later in the summer. I was actively mentoring forest therapy guides in training for The Association of Nature and Forest Therapy and cultivating partnerships between Wild Wellness Guide and others.
Much was in the works by mid-March when my elderly parents relocated back to Southern Oregon after nearly two years of living in Montana, near my sister. They were set to arrive on March 19th to a retirement community in Medford. Little did any of us know what was about to hit. It was quite a shock for me and my parents when they arrived at their new community and went immediately into lock-down following a newly issued state order in response to Covid. I was unable to enter their apartment for over 6 months and my parents didn't see any of their friends for 3 months. I instantly donned my health advocate hat to remotely help my parents navigate Covid life, suddenly filled with communication/technology issues, medical crises and hospital visits.
With the sudden lock-down, my work halted. A forest therapy guide training I was scheduled to assist at in early April was cancelled and the training program came to an abrupt standstill. All trainings were postponed and staff put on furlough while A.N.F.T. began re-inventing itself. After many months of unknowing and waiting, my mentoring work came to an end.
At the same time, I received regular updates from Breitenbush Hot Springs, temporarily closed due to Covid, regarding my retreat scheduled for late May. At this point, when Oregon was beginning to slowly open up in early May, most of us were still clueless about what would follow as a world-wide pandemic unfolded. Breitenbush suggested they might reopen by the end of May, just in time for my retreat. I waited for their update, but it seemed clear that a large venue offering communal dining, hot spring soaking, workshops and shared lodging would be one of the last places to re-open during Covid. I received notice in early May that Breitenbush would remain closed until further notice. By August, the retreat was rescheduled for 2021. Then, in early September, when wildfires raged throughout Oregon, Breitenbush tragically burned down and will be rebuilding through 2022. The discussions for the other forest bathing retreat near Portland didn't even have a chance to move forward. I rapidly discovered that making plans during Covid was an exercise in futility. I was getting a serious lesson about living in the moment.
The world coming to an abrupt stop was a shock to my habit of expecting life to show up to meet my plans. Most of the world was in disbelief, and adjusting in unison to the new normal of lock-down, isolation, Covid deaths, loss of physical touch, covered faces and deserted offices and streets. Suddenly, grocery shelves were empty; we scrambled for toilet paper and Googled recipes for hand sanitizer. My daughter who had already been on lock-down in Hong Kong for 6 weeks, composed a Covid song and warned me to buy toilet paper. Up until Covid's arrival, life was easier than any of us had realized. Though I've had a daily gratitude practice for years, in 2020 I learned the meaning of "taking something for granted." Early into Covid, here, in The West, we got a miniscule peek into how people in third world countries and, in many of our own cities, scramble daily for the very basics. I realized what a privileged existence I've lived.
With no work and the sudden isolation, even though I am a quiet introvert, I felt seriously cut off from my local community. I was in stress mode with my sympathetic nervous system triggered daily by the fear of Covid. At the time, I was living with housemates who worked with the public. Initially, I became fixated on door handles, dish towels, hand towels and kitchen surfaces (which later proved to not be the route of choice for Covid's spread). When one housemate brought home a smashed box of sanitizing wipes that weren't saturated with toxic chemicals, it was like found treasure.
Considering "nothing" was happening, everything was happening on multiple levels. We were early into Covid and the overload switch had been flipped on. With the sudden shock of losing my work and income; the isolation; my initial felt fear of Covid and my parents need for much help, health advocacy and communication and tech support, along with the rest of the world, I had entered pandemic reality.
Other than taking care of the basics and helping my parents, I did the untypical for me- I stopped. All of my doing and creating came to a halt, replaced by being. My daily self-care practices became more important than ever. Mornings began with a set of Self-Reiki, Wim Hof Breathing, a shower ending with 2 minutes of ice water (or on some days, an icy dip in the creek); skin brushing, including lymph brushing; a glass of fresh squeezed celery juice and a set of Jinjing Qigong. Finally came breakfast. I'm still doing all the practices and have recently added in Nidra Yoga and EcoNIDRA. What if we organized our work around our self-care routine, rather than our self-care around work?
Early into Covid, my previous life morphed into a world of liminality as we call it in forest therapy- an experience of dropping out of one's typical mental mind and stepping into the present moment. Though it was still quite cold, wet and wintery, I spent much time in the woods, immersing in nature, dropping into my senses through forest bathing. Last winter and early spring, the streets were deserted and the park trails mostly empty. I often found ducks and squirrels using the paths and bridges which they typically stayed clear of when humans were previously present. After 40 years of walking these trails, I spied my first Jackrabbit at Lithia Park. As the animals reclaimed their forest for a brief time, they seemed to quickly adapt to very few humans on their land. At that time I had several experiences meeting small creatures on the trails who suddenly startled at finding a human in their space. More than ever, I understood whose home this forest was.
As Covid brought life to a standstill, I was stuck on a repeating loop, telling myself I should be creating, making and producing, even though I was being called to stop. The Pandemic brought with it the gift of a re-set on a worldwide scale, not something that comes along in a typical lifetime. Though I felt blocked and frozen, initially I pressured myself to offer guided virtual forest therapy walks or create a nature-based coaching offering through Zoom. But even with my strong passion and love for my work and always feeling driven to keep it moving forward, I couldn't make plans. During my trips to the forest, almost daily, I did take photos and nature videos to share through social media for those with no access to nature and the outdoors. That felt like exactly what I needed to do. After months of this feeling of "stuck" I finally was at peace, allowing my heart and inner compass to lead. I stopped grasping for the "next" thing; gratefully accepted the support of Pandemic Unemployment Assistance and allowed myself the needed space to reorient while continuing to assist my parents. Instead of being in what felt like a sinking boat, wondering where land was, I realized the boat was my life raft where I could find safety through this challenging time. As the year progressed, I noticed more and more people looking for relief in nature, leaving gifts for all along the trails.
This time last year, I walked miles in nature and along the eerily quiet empty streets with darkened storefronts. I walked through the deserted campus of The Oregon Shakespeare Festival and felt the massive loss of Ashland's main economic base. I knew that without Shakespeare many local businesses would never reopen once the lock-down was over. My home of over 3 decades was a new world. The silent, deep blue skies and billowing clouds, minus the air traffic became bluer and more stunning each day as I walked the trails, worked in my garden or practiced qigong in the grass. I wondered where all the people were and what they were doing? All the world together had stepped into the same story, called, "Pandemic"-vividly real and surreal all at once. In this story, I was astonished and bewildered and unable to tap into my previous clarity. Devoid of my former routine and mostly isolated, I entered into quiet. I could feel the shocked state of the world and was reminded of the pain I felt when my marriage ended-when ways of relating, unconsciously established over decades, suddenly shattered into disorientation while accompanied by vivid clarity, and the relief that comes with truth.
The challenges and journey of the past year have been powerful and for millions of people, painful catalysts for growth. My own experience was like navigating class 5 rapids in a raging river with no paddle; doing my best to stay afloat. All the death, loss, isolation, separation and pain on the planet has changed me forever. Just before the winter holidays, I lost three friends to different causes within a period of 6 weeks; each of them, gone in an instant from their vibrant lives. 2020 offered a challenging bridge into my next stage of life. I've finally come to accept and honor the beautiful and unique life I've lived. I am grateful for what is and continue to challenge myself to stay spacious, present and aware as I cultivate how to authentically best live, love, serve and remain whole. It took a pandemic for me to fully recognize my essential need to rest; slow down; make friends with the unknown; meet my shadow and practice kindness toward myself as well as others. Onward.
Many Blessings, Sari
Last September in late morning, The Almeda Fire ignited in a grassy field on the north edge of Ashland. The winds were fierce and the fire's first stop, just down the hill, was Ashland Pond, a riparian wildlife area, abutting The Bear Creek Greenway. We'd had a rare summer, a little cooler than usual with little to no smoke drifting into the valley. We thought we were coasting on the home stretch towards a clear autumn, having somehow been spared during the hell of pandemic, from a typical smoke-filled summer. For the past decade wildfires have tragically impacted our valley's emotional, mental, physical, environmental and economic health. The smoke season has become longer each year, causing many to flee the area. Had our whole town not been shut down by Covid, the 2020 season, would have been the first in years where The Oregon Shakespeare Festival would have made it all the way through August with no closures, causing tourists and locals to flee the toxic smoke. July into September have become trauma-inducing months as we hold our breath and pray for the delay of wildfire season and for the winds to blow the smoke out of The Rogue Valley.
On Tuesday morning, September 8th, I was heading home from Eugene, a 3-hour drive to the north. I had finished the last of my food for breakfast; left my friends and timed my journey perfectly to arrive home to Ashland in time for lunch. When I stopped at a rest area north of Grants Pass, about 45 minutes north of Ashland, my phone was filled with notifications. Friends who knew I was on the road, texted and called to let me know there was a fire raging between Ashland and 12 miles to the north in Medford and that the Interstate and Old Highway 99 into Ashland were closed. There was no way to get into Ashland.
I got back on I-5 and headed south, hoping the freeway would re-open. Just before Grants Pass, traffic came to a halt about noon. We creeped and stopped for hours. A friend in Ashland sent me updates of road closures in Medford. At 4:pm, three hours past my expected arrival home, I-5 was barricaded at Central Point, just north of Medford. Finally, we were getting off the freeway., but at the exit, the highway patrol directed traffic away from Medford, toward a fire burning in White City. Most roads leading south were closed, but I found a back-road into Medford along with closed roads at every turn. I needed food and called The Medford Food Co-op and Trader Joe's, having heard businesses were closing and learned they both were closing soon.
Twenty minutes later, just before they closed, I walked out of Trader Joe's with gallons of water and enough food to last through the morning. A friend called and told me to get to a large parking lot to avoid burning up in the fire. I was sitting in my car, numb, in Trader Joe's parking lot, trying to remain calm. I called my parents retirement community in South Medford to check on them an see if I could seek refuge there even though due to Covid regulations, I hadn't been allowed into their building in all of 2020. Their front desk told me no entrance as they were waiting to hear if they were evacuating since the fire was headed their way. I immediately called my parents, who are in their 90's, to check on them. My mother, answered the phone and said they were sitting on the balcony. I asked, "What do you see?" and she said, "There is a huge black cloud of smoke." I asked, "Where?" and she responded, "Right below us." Trying to keep myself together, I told my parents to get inside; close the door; pack a bag of essentials and call me if they are evacuated. Meanwhile, navigating clogged streets and closed roads, I headed over to some close friends of my parents who lived a mile north of my parent's. They welcomed me and even with The Covid situation were happy to take me in.
I arrived at Flo and Shel's at 6:00 pm at the same time as their friend, Andy, who had to evacuate her home in Talent, 9 miles to the south. Flo, generously made up beds for her two guests and I put some food together for myself as she, Shel and Andy, sat down to eat. I had barely begun eating when my stress hormones kicked into high gear once again. As I glanced out the living room window, I saw a massive black cloud of smoke approaching from the south. I suggested to Flo and Shel that I help them pack their car to be ready to evacuate if needed and we were on it. In the background, I heard a news report describing thousands of people being evacuated to The Jackson County Expo Center. There was no way I wanted to end up there during a pandemic. I also tried calling my parents and couldn't reach them. I was trusting their retirement community would take care of them.
My friend Jonnie, who earlier was mapping my driving based on road closures, continued to stay in touch, sending updates on road and fire conditions. As the black cloud headed our way, I received a text from my daughter in Hong Kong, checking-in after seeing a Facebook Post about the fire. I message her that I was ok and would update her later. I learned that day that texting during a natural disaster greatly raises stress levels. Just before 9 pm, Jonnie messaged that "supposedly", I-5 to Ashland had opened. I decided I needed to make a run for it and get home, 12 miles to the south, and I let Flo and Shel know I was going to attempt to get home. Since the winds were blowing north, I encouraged them to head south to Ashland if they needed to evacuate.
"I was still driving though it felt like someone else was at the wheel. Two miles to the south, the orange firestorm had transformed into smaller white flames covering everything west of I-5. I had reached the small town of Talent, where my parents formerly resided for years. I could see their old neighborhood of Oak Valley, just west of the freeway. The whole development was burning. I kept driving and crying; making my way home."
It was a mile to the freeway entrance and by now quite dark. Just before the entrance, billowing across Barnett Road, came the massive black plume of smoke. Once surrounded by the smoke, my headlights created an eerie scene. I inched my way to the freeway with my headlamps illuminating the lane lines. Gratefully, within minutes, I cleared the smoke and was safely on the freeway with no police barriers in sight. I-5 was unusually dark with just a handful of other cars. Though just south of Medford, it suddenly became very bright. On my right, the sky was fully illuminated above the small town of Phoenix. Instantly I saw a raging orange-firestorm engulfing the whole town. I slowed down, having never seen anything like it before and was suddenly wailing with tears streaming down my face. Though I had seen nothing like it in this lifetime, the flames triggered a deep reaction in my body, that I can only describe as familiar. I felt terror. Though I was still driving, it felt like someone else was at the wheel. Two miles to the south, the orange firestorm had transformed into smaller white flames covering everything west of I-5. I had reached the small town of Talent, where my parents had resided for years. I could see their old neighborhood of Oak Valley, just west of the freeway. The whole development was burning. I kept driving and crying; making my way home.
Just before 10:00 pm, I drove into Ashland. The power was out at the exit. In the darkness I recognized several burned structures. The Burger King, formerly near the exit was smoldering rubble. The smell of toxic smoke and fire was nauseating. I had entered a disaster area. Due to the powerful winds heading north along Bear Creek, Ashland was spared from the worst of the fire, though several homes and structures burned down. The worst of the destruction hit The Talent and Phoenix business districts and residential neighborhoods, where about 2800 structures burned.
Thirteen hours after leaving Eugene, I arrived home, a half mile from where the fire began that morning. I was exhausted and all I wanted to do was sleep, but immediately began packing my car in case the winds shifted and Ashland had to evacuate. The town was still under a Level 1 evacuation order. I was packed by midnight when I finally heard from my father. He said they had been evacuated to another retirement home by way of a 2 hour traffic jam and each had a chair for the night. Soon after, I heard from Flo that their trio evacuated to a friend's home in Ashland. And, finally, I contacted both my adult kids to inform them I was safe. I was awake most of the night with my phone on, hyper vigilant, listening in case an evacuation text came.
In the morning, still shaky from the previous day, I walked a half mile, down the hill to Ashland Pond, located just blocks from where the fire began on Almeda Drive. The pond was a special place for many Ashlander's. It was a unique city park, being the town's only riparian preserve. The lands along the connected waterways of Ashland Creek, Bear Creek and Emigrant Creek were home for centuries to The Shasta and Takelma People. The pond was home to a rich web of water fowl, birds, mammals, insects and reptiles, trees and plant species. It was a hunting ground for raptors such as, hawks, osprey and Bald Eagles. Other pond residents and visitors included, owls, egrets, herons, quail, ducks, Canadian Geese, loons, squirrels, raccoons, coyotes, foxes, frogs, turtles, snakes, fish, mosquitoes, bees, butterflies, dragonflies and numerous species of small song birds and other wild beings. In the spring, River Otter's took up temporary residence at the pond and I would visit each day, hoping for a glimpse of the large family playing and sleeping in pairs on the water.
Last spring, while sitting on a rock which jutted out of the water next to shore, I witnessed a Mallard mating ritual. Two males violently fought over a female. I had never seen anything like it. The female was violently dragged under water before her mate fought off the aggressive male, with a wild flapping of wings; loud quacking and what looked like, "beak punching" as he chased the other male from the pond. The male who had tried to "abduckt" the female, escaped and flew fast and high into the sky. Immediately, the Mallard couple, now safe, swam in tandem toward the reeds on the opposite side of the pond. As the ducks calmed down, I too relaxed following the wild scuffle. It turned out we all let down our guard prematurely.
"Often, what we humans observe in nature is just on the surface what looks to be a peaceful day in the wild, when actually, nature can be quite violent. How can it not be when eagles, ducks, fish, insects, foxes, raccoons, song birds and coyotes share the same home and must eat to survive?"
Often, what we humans observe in nature is just on the surface what looks to be a peaceful day in the wild, when actually, nature can be quite violent. How can it not be when eagles, ducks, fish, insects, foxes, raccoons, song birds and coyotes share the same home and must eat to survive? I have found with the regular practice of "sitspot", once I'm quietly in place and about 20 minutes has passed, I begin to see what may typically happen when we humans are absent. After sitting quietly in the same place over time, the wild creatures either no longer notice a human's presence or become familiar with us being a part of the place.
As I sat on my rock quietly watching, the pugnacious Mallard returned, coming in fast from above like a small, feathered torpedo straight on target. He arrived dead-center above the pond and in an instant took a vertical dive toward the two "sitting ducks" on the water. The duck-torpedo hit the other male fiercely as he skidded in on landing, the impact caused the stunned male on the water to be thrown several feet from the female, at which point, the determined male again pulled the flapping and quacking female beneath the water. The Mallard who was blasted out of the water, flew back, skidding in for another rescue. This time the persistent male flew off not returning during the remainder of my sitspot. I was grateful for the opportunity to witness these wild lives.
There are many surprises to be found in nature when you sit quietly, make yourself invisible and simply observe. Once the ducks calmed down, I gazed into the blue-green water and noticed several schools of small silver fish when a large turtle suddenly surface next to me. Soon, a Blue Heron quietly landed on the large perch in the middle of the pond, built just for these residents. Once settled in at my pond sitspot, I often stayed for an hour or two. It was difficult to leave this magic portal into the wild stories playing out at the pond.
I was holding these memories when I walked to the pond the morning after the fire. As I stepped around barriers blocking the entrance, I felt a pressing need to see what the fire had done to this pristine land; home to thousands of nature beings. All the lush green underbrush and dense thickets of blackberries were gone; vaporized with no trace of ever having been there. Almost every tree had burned and was either blown to the ground or stood blackened; some still smoldering. A fire crew spread out in the area was quenching stubborn pockets of fire, deep in the ground. The pond was a stark, dark pool with no sign of its former peripheral dense layer upon layer of green that offered shelter and private dwellings to the local critters. The fire burned so hot that barely anything survived the fury. The pond, formerly teeming with life had been decimated in minutes. There were a few dazed looking ducks on the water. The ground under my feet was so hot and smoldering in places that even through my heavy boots I felt the intense heat. I quickly left after a strong gust of wind blew down one of the burned trees just in front of me.
For some time after the fire, due to high winds; trees blowing down and smoke levels over 500 aqi, I stayed away from the pond. Just walking through briefly that morning, triggered more trauma as I felt the deep loss suffered by the wild beings of this land as well as the pain 3 miles down the road where thousands of Talent and Phoenix residents had lost everything to the fire. I went home and filled my car with clothes, food and household goods to donate and help where I could.
In early October, with our valley still permeated with toxic wildfire smoke from Northern California, I moved across town to a tiny place of my own. There, in my solitude, I spent autumn and the deep dark of winter processing much buried trauma that was triggered by the fire devastation of early September. By January, I finally made my way back to Ashland Pond. The life there was rising from its deep winter sleep and moving to recover from the fire. There were gentle signs of new plant life and animal life everywhere. I could feel how both The More than Human World and we humans are on a parallel journey of grasping to life, healing and restoration. I slowly meandered around the pond perimeter, called there by the land; the stark loss and profound beauty of a slate wiped almost clean to begin anew. The pond was stunning in its bare state of regeneration and vulnerability. Walking that land has been and is a lesson for me in the healing balm of love, nature and the power of hope and potential when one is certain that everything is lost.
Each day every being on this planet awakens to a new world. The sacred manuscript of nature continues to be my guide and teacher; offering beauty, compassion, inspiration, strength, wisdom, love, and divine intelligence. Navigating through devastation, painful loss and transformation is what brings us the resilience that leads to wholeness. We all are nature.
If you would like make a donation to help survivors of The Almeda Fire, here is a very helpful link and way to donate to the ongoing recovery process in rebuilding our valley.
Yesterday, following a beautiful afternoon of warm, winter forest bathing, I came home inspired to bake the big batch of Hamantaschen I had planned a couple days earlier when I prepared a batch of filling. These scrumptious triangular-shaped cookies, eaten on the Jewish holiday of Purim, which coincides with the coming of spring and always with the full moon, during the Jewish month of Adar. Though Purim is considered by many a child-centered holiday with a focus on gift-giving, theater and mask-making, I think of it as being about taking off the masks that we grown-ups wear daily to present ourselves to the world. On the deepest level, I have found Purim to be about turning all I thought I knew and understood to be true, upside down, while gaining new eyes to see and touch life and our true inner selves. Before Covid, Purim was the time for the community to come together to have a wild party and take on a persona through costumes and reenacting in very humorous ways, the story of The Book of Esther. In a deeper sense, allowing more of one's true self to be seen. This year for me, it is a time for deep inner contemplation. There is much to this holiday, but I especially love the idea of Purim being a time when we remove our masks, together in community. Coincidentally, this is the only Jewish holiday which involves lots of alcohol.
My departed Rebbe and teacher, Rabbi Aryeh Hirscfield z'l, used to share the following Chasidic tale about Purim- "When The Messiah comes, the only holiday required to celebrate will be Purim!" He also shared that there is a linguistic connection between Yom Kippur -The Day of Atonement-the holiest Jewish holiday, also being called, "Yom HaKipurim". It gives me much to contemplate, how the holiest day of The Jewish calendar; a time for deep contemplation and fasting, is deeply connected with a holiday celebrated through wild, drunken revelry while reading The Book of Esther, remembering how The Jews of Persia were saved from destruction. It seems we humans spend most of our lives wearing our masks and if through Purim, we can possibly find our true selves; then it is truly sacred.
Here is the recipe for Hamantaschen. Traditionally they are filled with different types of filling-poppy seed, prune, apricot and sour cherry. The below recipe was adapted by my friend, Julia Plevin from, The Primal Palat. and now, I have added some of my own changes such as the filling recipe.
Makes 4.5 dozen (I used organic ingredients)
3 cups Blanched Almond Flour
1.5 cups Arrowroot Flour
1.5 tsp Salt
1/2-3/4 cup Maple Syrup
1/4 cup plus 2 Tablespoons coconut oil
1/2 cup poppy seeds
1.5 cups pitted prunes (check to make sure there are no hidden pits)
1/2 cup ground almonds or walnuts
1/2 cup pure maple syrup
Grated Zest from an Orange
Make filling 1-2 days ahead,
In small- medium saucepan, combine poppy seed and prunes with approximately 2 cups water. Bring to a boil and lower heat and simmer until most liquid is absorbed (about 30-45 minutes based on when the liquid has absorbed.
Next, place the above mixture in either a powerful blender of a food processor and add all remaining ingredients. Blend until mixture is smooth and add a little more water if filling is too dry. It will also thicken up once chilled due to the action of the chia seed. Place in a covered container in the fridge until it's time to bake. You can play with this recipe and use other dried fruit if you like or additional flavorings.
Purim feels a lot like May Day when we gift others with May Baskets. On Purim, we bake Hamantaschen and share them with others in little gift baskets. Good Purim!
I awoke early today feeling a patch of fat, ripe blackberries was waiting for me. Alright, I was questioning if they were actually ripe, I drove to the spot where my dad and I picked berries every summer, after which, my mom would bake heavenly blackberry pie. I arrived at the berry thicket to find it heavy with sweet, plump fruit. My intuition that morning was spot on and I'm grateful I've finally learned to listen to it. My goal was to pick enough berries to bake a pie for my mom and dad.
Life changed much for my family two years ago when my parents moved to Montana to be near my older sister. Soon after, I relocated to Boise, returning to Oregon 8 months later. Over the years, no matter what else has changed, berry picking has been a constant, I picked my first black raspberry with my dad, in the steamy woods of Council Bluffs, Iowa, decades ago. Now, in the midst of Covid, it brings me great joy as I carry on this family ritual. In just over an hour I picked a heaping gallon of berries, paying the painful price of red, swollen, mucked-up arms and hands along with several rips in my ratty picking shirt. It felt like being home; the thorns; heat; blue sky; bird songs and the sweet taste of the abundant harvest.
My parents, ages 88 and 92 arrived back to Oregon exactly when shelter-in-place began. They wanted to come home to their friends, so my sister's and I helped make it happen. At the time, I didn't comprehend the magnitude of what was ahead, for any of us on the planet. As we Oregonians first hunkered-down, I listened to the song my daughter, Ailee, composed and performed on her ukulele, 5 months ago, welcoming the rest of the world to "The Covid Party." She recorded it, isolated on her rooftop in Hong Kong, where they were already 8 weeks into pandemic life. I laughed when I first heard her witty song, having no concept of the reality of the challenges she had already been living through.
Before the pandemic and for most of their lives, my parent's socialized often with their community of friends. As well, my dad, who lives for coffee, dessert and conversation, cultivated new acquaintances daily, at Mix, his favorite coffee shop. Connecting through relationships are deeply nourishing and essential for our emotional wellness. With Covid, socializing has radically decreased, affecting our mind-body wellness. My parent's move brought them to their new home straight into pandemic isolation. When I helped plan their move, I never imagined, their return to Oregon would coincide with Covid regulations that would isolate my parents from friends and family. When the Plexiglas wall went up outside for visitors, though it created a level of protection, it felt like prison.
I always assumed I would be with my mom or dad were a trip to the hospital necessary. Following their initial quarantine after becoming deconditioned from a very sedentary two weeks, my Dad was rushed to the E.R. late one evening. Due to Covid, no family could accompany him. I didn't know if we'd see him again and prayed he wouldn't die alone in the hospital that night. Thankfully, several gut-wrenching hours later, I got a call to pick him up and then dropped him off at the door to his building, from where my dad made his way back to their 3rd floor apartment at 1 A.M. My mother was there waiting and grateful.
Though staff helped my parents move-in, it was very stressful not being there for them. Placing furniture and wall art took place through video chat between me, my parents and staff. I always assumed I would be with my mom or dad were a trip to the hospital necessary. Following their initial quarantine after becoming deconditioned from a very sedentary two weeks, my Dad was rushed to the E.R. late one evening. Due to Covid, no family could accompany him. I didn't know if we'd see him again and prayed my dad wouldn't die alone in the hospital that night. Thankfully, several gut-wrenching hours later, I got a call to pick him up and then dropped him off at the front of their building, from where my dad made his way back to their 3rd floor apartment at 1 A.M. My mother was there waiting and grateful. With everyone in their building confined to their apartments, my parent's isolation following their big move, seriously impacted their pre-existing health conditions and aging process..
My parent's move brought unknowns, heart-break and more stress than I could have imagined. Though I could visit them outside of their building, I was not allowed in for close to 4 months, until my mother had a heart attack last month. Miraculously, the day she went to The E.R. was the first day since lock-down that the hospital began allowing in one visitor per patient. My mom's doctor scheduled a telemedicine follow-up appointment for the day after her discharge. I requested they schedule her an office visit since I serve as her health advocate and needed to be there. The doctor's nurse told me that wouldn't be possible and it could only be through telemedicine. I'm typically calm, respectful and soft-spoken, but the rigid Covid regulations, barring access into my parents home, along with managing their health challenges from a distance, have seriously triggered my stress response. When the doctor's nurse suggested that a staff member at my parent's facility be with my mother for the appointment or that it take place in my car, in the parking lot, I lost it. The nurse was the unfortunate recipient of months of my pent up frustrations. My blood pressure went up and the following rolled off my tongue, "My mother just had a fucking heart attack. Will a staff person with no understanding of her condition know what to ask; how to advocate for her and confer with the doctor regarding her condition? I will not bring my mom to my 95 degree car for a telemedicine appointment. She had a heart attack two days ago! Many people will die from Covid and it won't only be from the virus- it will be from elder abandonment, isolation, stress, and suicide. I need to be with my mom, inside her apartment for that appointment. I am an essential person for her care and wellbeing. Please, I need your help." Two hours later, after a rigorous check-in process, I donned the facilities' version of a hazmat suit; was chaperoned through the halls; instructed to touch nothing and stepped into my parent's apartment for the first time.
Following the appointment, I stayed longer, helping, organizing, supporting and simply being with my parents in the privacy of their home. They were so happy to welcome me into their home. For once, we were not required to shout through the Plexiglas outside or subjected to staff members running outside telling us to move farther apart, even though my dad needs accommodation for his serious hearing disability. I don't know when I'll be allowed inside again, but thankfully, since June, my parents have been able to go out with me and their friends, with no mandatory quarantine upon return. And now, no one asks us to separate since I have spoken to staff regarding the legalities of my dad needing accommodations for his hearing. Both my mom and dad keep saying, "I never thought we would live to see this."
A global pandemic has brought more meaning than ever to simply sharing time and space with family. This evening, we sat out on the Iawn in front of my parents building and shared fresh blackberry pie, tea, stories and laughter.
Today I bought some great pickling cukes and fresh dill at Ashland Food Co-op, having tried first at The Saturday Rogue Valley Grower's and Crafter's Market, where I am guessing farmer's will have their makings for pickles soon. The most difficult thing to find is fresh dill. Often there are piles of pickling cukes but no dill to be found. Gratefully, today I found both. With Covid still running rampant, it's a perfect time to get some immune-boosting lacto-fermented dill pickles or other veggies put up in your pantry.
"The consumption of fermented foods may be particularly relevant to the emerging research linking traditional dietary practices and positive mental health. The extent to which traditional dietary items may mitigate inflammation and oxidative stress may be controlled, at least to some degree, by microbiota."
Lacto-fermented pickles are so simple to make and such a wonderful way to get a powerful hit of healthy probiotics for daily gut and immune health. When I'm eating pickles and raw fermented kraut, I feel my gut and immune system are getting the essential coverage they need for optimal good gut bacteria balance. The word out from my peeps in the field of Nutrition and Chinese Medicine is that, eating fermented food with each meal offers important support for our spleen, digestive and immune system. Though it is always essential to keep our immune system strong, during this time of Covid, it is especially important. I make raw fermented kraut throughout the year and am now so excited to have just put up 3 quarts of lacto-fermented dill pickles. Adding some lacto-fermented foods with each meal is an important self-care practice for not only nutritional/physical health, but also for emotional wellness. There is much evidence-based research correlating healthy gut bacteria to a healthy brain, body and immune system.
"Properly controlled fermentation may often amplify the specific nutrient and phytochemical content of foods, the ultimate value of which may be associated with mental health; furthermore, we also argue that the microbes (for example, Lactobacillus and Bifidobacteria species) associated with fermented foods may also influence brain health via direct and indirect pathways."
According to a 2014 study in The Journal of Physiological Anthropology, "The consumption of fermented foods may be particularly relevant to the emerging research linking traditional dietary practices and positive mental health. The extent to which traditional dietary items may mitigate inflammation and oxidative stress may be controlled, at least to some degree, by microbiota." The article states, "It is our contention that properly controlled fermentation may often amplify the specific nutrient and phytochemical content of foods, the ultimate value of which may be associated with mental health; furthermore, we also argue that the microbes (for example, Lactobacillus and Bifidobacteria species) associated with fermented foods may also influence brain health via direct and indirect pathways." A great read on the gut-brain connection is the book, "Brain Maker: The Power of Gut Microbes to Heal and Protect Your Brain- for Life", by David Perlmutter, M.D.
So, enjoy these fabulous lacto-fermented, garlic dills. Here's the recipe and method.
Lacto-Fermented Dill Pickles
Makes 6-8 quart wide mouth canning jars
*I like to cut down the recipe and make 2-3 quart batches. This way you get fresher batches that don't over-ferment due to waiting months to eat them.
Brine for about 8 quarts- 9 Tablespoons sea salt or celtic salt to 4 quarts filtered water (mix together very well and remix just before pouring into filled jars- I use a blender)
2 large, folded *Grape Leaves per jar (tannins help keep pickles crisp)
Fresh flowering dill (buy a large bunch and divide between jars)
6 large cloves garlic per jar
½ teaspoon black peppercorns
5-7 small pickling cucumbers- or however many you need to fill canning jar.
Fold grape leaves into bottom of jars.
Place half the dill and some garlic on top of grape leaves.
Pack pickles into jars and add remaining dill and garlic as you pack.
After re-stirring brine, pour into filled jars, all the way to top.
Seal full jar with canning lid ( leave about 3/4 -1 inch to prevent explosion).
Place jar in a low-sided pan, tub or water proof container.
Cover jars with a large dish towel and place in dark cabinet. (55-75 degrees is good)
Let ferment for about 1-3 weeks at room temperature. If your space is warm, you may want to transfer the jars to fridge after only 1-2 weeks. Sample a pickle after one week. They will still continue to ferment in the fridge so judge by the climate of your home. The original method calls for leaving the jars to ferment at room temperature for several weeks but that can be too long unless you have a nice root cellar. Above 75 degrees will require refrigeration sooner than later. If you notice bubbles in the jar, get them into the fridge.
Be careful in opening the jars as they can be wildly fizzy.
* Note on grape leaves- tannins in grape leaves get extra concentrated with fermentation. If you are someone who gets migraine from tannins, simply do not use grape leaves and your pickles will still be awesome..
Yummy Happy Tummy,
Covid-19 is in the news daily; so much that it is dizzying. I have found myself drawn and repulsed by the news at the same time. In an honest check-in with myself, I find that all I want to do is to unplug and get outside to stop my mental mind, rest and recharge in nature.
As a Forest Therapy Guide and Whole Health Educator™, I offer tools to help people find balance and wholeness during life’s challenges. Stress and the anxiety it produces can trigger disease and illness and is also connected to lower immune function. Managing anxiety and stress and keeping one’s immune system strong, is key to staying well and whole. This isn’t a time for panic, though it is a good time for increased awareness regarding our daily habits. Effective hand washing throughout the day is an extremely important practice even when there is not a pandemic and “social distancing” at this time, early on, will hopefully help prevent an exponential increase of infection while we are still in the early stages.
The big picture is still coming into focus as we humans are being called to care for ourselves, one another and The More Than Human World in a new compassionate way to help repair what is broken.
Wellness is not only about one thing. Everything affects everything else. As Georgiana Donadio, founder of The National Institute of Whole Health says, “Everything is Everything. Our, Physical, Emotional, Nutritional, Environmental and Spiritual levels of health work together to support our wellness or contribute to us falling ill. Though I could focus here on the many details of every aspect of health, I am guessing you are reading numerous articles about how best to stay well in these times.
I believe we have entered a new level regarding planetary shifts and will continue to get more potent glimpses of the inter-connectedness of the world we live in, as we humans and The Earth herself evolve together. Human health and wellness is fully inter-connected with the health of all life on the planet. We are not separate from, but fully integrated in the living organism that gives us life-The Earth.
The big picture is still coming into focus as we humans are being called to care for ourselves, one another and “The More Than Human World” in a new compassionate way; to help repair what is broken. Climate change; racial inequality; over-population; poverty; starvation; food insecurity; war; depletion of resources and ancient mutating viruses that we have lived with for millions of years in symbiotic relationship, are shouting us awake. Here is the invitation: to come together; explore and build creative new relationships with ourselves, one another and The Earth as we discover how to share this world together in right relationship.
Caring for Ourselves, Others and The Earth through Nature Relation
An important way to practice “social distancing” is to stay home and communicate with others through online forums or groups. Several countries quickly prevented large Covid-19 outbreaks through “social distancing”. Schools closed; people worked from home and group events were cancelled. The United States has just initiated a month-long travel ban from Europe to The U.S and is asking large groups to not gather. Schools and businesses are closing and people are working remotely. All of this is intended to prevent Covid-19 from multiplying and spreading exponentially.
What do you do when you feel isolated and unable to be with your people and social networks? There is another way to practice “social distancing” and though you can do this solo, you are in no way alone. It’s a practice called, Nature Immersion also known as, Forest Therapy/Forest Bathing/Shinrin Yoku. As a Certified Forest Therapy Guide through The Association of Nature and Forest Therapy, I typically facilitate Forest Therapy in groups.
I have been forced to practice, “social distancing” for years, due to a sensitivity to LED lights and loud noise which caused such violent vertigo several years ago that I could barely be in public gatherings for close to two years. It led me to spend a large percentage of my time in nature where I discovered the lively web-of-inter-being we are all a part of. We live in a human society, but that is not the only world. There exists, “The More Than Human World” which includes all Earthly life that is not us people. The in depth time I spent immersed in nature became a potent healer for my body, mind and spirit as well, it connected me deeply with nature in a new way.
What if you could distance yourself from humans and still find connection and relationship with other beings in our world? How might you step away for a time throughout your week, from all the stress and pulls of life? It might be your garden, a park, the forest or a botanical garden for some solitary, quiet, slow, unplugged time; bathing in the essence of nature. I invite you to explore forest bathing. It’s not a hike; not a nature identification walk and it’s not a run or a fast walk with friends, discussing life stress’s. It is: calming, slowing way down, quiet, restful, unplugged time in relationship with the land and it’s beings. Forest Therapy supports the immune system, mental focus, mood, sleep, regulates blood pressure and reduces anxiety.
A Self-Guided Forest Bath
1-Allow yourself between one to two hours.
2-Dress to stay comfortable. Really layer up in cold climates. Bring a sit-pad or towel.
3-Find a place you are familiar with where you feel safe.
4-Arrive: notice your body and what you are experiencing through all your senses. Look around you. Notice the place- what do you smell, feel, hear, taste and see?
5-Slow Meander-Allow yourself to take time as you explore and notice with your senses. Where does your body lead you? Take a very slow meander and explore with your senses what you are drawn to. Do you feel like sitting with a particular tree, on a rock, near the water or looking at the sky? Then do so.
6-Find a place to sit- a “Sit-Spot”, where you can rest for at least 20 minutes in silence and notice the life around you with all your senses.
7-Finally, plan ahead and bring a thermos of tea and a snack for yourself; Treat yourself royally and set out your tea and food on a beautiful cloth or in the forest duff. Be nourished and held by nature.
Repeat as often as you can.
Blessings for Wholeness, Sari
Some links related to self-care and wellness practices.
Everything is Everythng: The Five Aspects of Health
Spring Energy Tune-Up Part One
Spring Energy Tune-Up Part Two
Raw Fermented Kraut for Body and Mind: The Research and The Recipe
Feet, Feet, They Make Your Heart Beat
Tears of Joy: Crying Yourself Well