November Sentences
a month of transformation
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I just typed out all these single(ish) sentences from November, inspired by Chris La Tray’s single sentence journal, and I realized how truly transformative this month has been for me. On so many levels, I have been asked to transform, upgrade, throw out, re-imagine. I feel a bit wobbly and curious, though guided by a new-found clarity and non-negotiability around health and family. Re-establishing what “home” means, what “sanctuary” means, what “Leah” means.
This is a little peek into the daily goings-on of a woman, a mother, living in the wilderness, in America (not America?), with all the humaning required to homestead, parent and transform, all the while circling around the Sacred, as understood by said woman, as cultivated by said lifestyle.
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November Sentences
11.1. As I walked enormous infinity signs in the parking lot of the laundromat, I began to feel like I was floating.
11.2. Fever dreams in the night: Earth telling me over and over again how much she doesn’t like when we stick metal into her and attach it to electrical wires - could illnesses be the way Earth speaks to us?
11.3. We planted seeds between snow storms.
11.4. A turning point.
11.5. I was carefully bringing the copal smoke to each corner of the sweat loge and as I circled back to the entrance, I noticed it had started to snow.
11.6. My home is buried in a mountain of cloud.
11.7. I spent the day painting Amara’s piano while Scotty plumbed in the clawfoot bathtub; in the evening we took our first ever indoor bath, by the light of a few candles.
11.8. I walk and walk until I disappear in a world of white.
11.9. As the sun sets, the snow melt in my tiny pond turns pink.
11.10. Amara helps me water our winter garden with melted snow water.
11.11. I haven’t washed dishes in such an epic commercial kitchen sink since my time volunteering at the Garchen Buddhist Institute.
11.12. A chance meeting at the grocery store may open the door to many good things. Giving thanks.
11.13. 3:00am meditation and my spine feels like a cobra.
11.14. “They are like the unicorns of the mountain,” Scott says, describing the elk on My. Lamborn.
11.15. The winds wrap around the yurt, whipping the walls and roof as we hunker down by the fire.
11.16. I meet the entire universe at Wild’s free store on my way to the mystery school.
11.17. “Loosen, loosen, baby//you don’t have to carry//the weight of the world in your muscles and bones//let go, let go, let go,” becomes my new mantra.
11.18. An ancestral elf, the village witch, a volcanologist, the water poet, a child, a dreamer and the rememberer, circle around the fire, feeding That which gives us life.
11.19. It’s 18 degrees when we arrive home and the stars are glittering crispier than I’ve seen in a long time.
11.20. The whole family walks the goats in the blue snow as the sun sets.
11.21. Deep in the sage field, running with Amara and the goats, we salute the wild deer.
11.22. Cutting, hammering and sanding copper trinkets while I remember the Awareness is all we truly are.
11.23. Feeling tired of relationships.
11.24. Amara holds a bundle of wild sage up to her forehead, closes her eyes, strums a single string on the guitar and starts to sing.
11.25. We arrive in our new townie home and Amara snuggles deep into the bed covers until she reaches my toes.
11.26. “Mama, are you crying Light?”
11.27. Rose petal lattes with vanilla cardamom muffins, sharing company with an ancient friend.
11.28. That uncomfortable feeling of something unresolved lingers at the dinner table.
11.29. We walk to the coffee shop, gaze upon incredible Latin American recipes, meet some friends and discuss how mainstream culture is like a bag of skittles: cheap, addictive, quick-fix sugar rush, unnaturally bright, leaves you feeling bad and wanting more, wrapped in crunchy packaging that never dies.
11.30. The new moon reminds me to notice the synchronicities, so I update our latest fundraiser page.
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