Dec 28, 2022 A rainy day in Tucson. A breath of fresh air. Synonymous. I was sleeping late, pleasantly anchored by a house panda who erased the guilt of excessive hours under covers. I didn’t feel guilty when I kept it to myself. Quietly going about my day with gentle steadiness. Realizing my “daily” list always held within it at least three days' worth of todo’s. But when I looked out at the world beyond, all I saw was more. More moments of private lives splayed in front of the camera. More posting. More production. How could we keep up with this? How could we ever create enough to share that much? And how much of that were we absorbing each day? Too much to process. Today I woke up to a rainy day, a black’n’white cat sprawled across my midsection and the hankering buzz of notifications reverberating between my ears. It was the perfect day to snuggle in bed but I couldn’t sit still thinking that there were messages meant to look at. A sales text about a detox program to kick off the new year. A video from a friend soliciting donations for their friend. A woman asking if the succulent I posted for sale is in a 4 or 6” pot. None of it urgent. All of it could wait. Why didn’t I feel like it could?

Nov 3, 2020 If I'm at Whole Foods and get a banana for a snack, I'm more likely to save it than throw it away. Toss it in my compost heap when I get home, relieved I'm contributing to the creation of rich, hearty soil in the very ecosystem surrounding our bungalow instead of piling one more thing in a landfill. Recycling's a toss-up these days. Because it's currently not a commodity, trucks drive straight to the same destination as the trash. I diligently clean and dry our recyclables anyway, on the hopeful off-chance this is wrong, depositing them in the blue bin and rolling them to the curb every other week. My body products are minimal. Our shower doesn't require so much as a caddy because we no longer use conventional shampoo, conditioner or body wash. We treat ourselves with specialty soaps from outdoor markets and boutique shops just for kicks. I use a sea sponge for a loofa. Household cleaners consist of baking soda and white vinegar, Mrs. Meyer's Clean Day all-purpose spray and one, undeniably toxic lime-away spray for heavy duty grime removal in the tub. We utilize foaming Miracle II soap as face, hand & body wash, detergent, stain-remover and general cleaner. On a typical day, if you open our fridge or scour our cabinets, you won't find meat, dairy, coffee or anything that comes in a bag other than dried fruit. I'm officially hippie as fuck. I'm not political. I don't celebrate holidays. I don't vote. I always seek a holistic, energetic or dietary healing option before resorting to the medical system. I have dreadlocks. (This means I do basically nothing in the way of primping and never buy hair products anymore.) Most days, I don't wear deodorant or makeup. I also buy lotsa shit (beyond what I need) on Amazon. Binge watch TV shows. Go on DoorDash jags consisting of the unhealthiest fast food and heavy fare imaginable. Sometimes I drink wine until I'm drunk. I occasionally smoke cigarettes. I exercise regularly for a while, and then I don't, at all. I use a bit of bleach for my whites every few months. And when the diatomaceous earth doesn't get the job done, I treat the leaf cutter ant holes with poison. I'm a hippie, and a city girl. I'm healthy and I'm not. I'm a beautiful bundle of contradictions. And I'm ok with that.

Jun 20, 2020 Me + The P.I.C. have been turning off electronics at 6. In these long summer days, it's still light out—deceiving, in the best of ways. I unravel the hose and replenish my garden plot, then the surrounding crates of plants that bore the heftiest dose of afternoon sun, watching the bunnies spread flat on their tummies in shaded dirt nooks, impressed by the vocal endurance of the birds that perform an opera from morning to sun fall—no recess. When the sun goes away, I drink steaming cups of herbal tea—red clover, fennel, lemon balm, licorice root, hibiscus flower. I'm comforted by my vast and replenishable collection of cut herbs that offer a variety of soothing, healing brews. I read now, more than ever, at the frequency and with the passion I always wanted. I always felt like a reader, but never really was one, not in the "avid" category, until now. Sometimes I feel like I'm missing out. Mostly, I feel like I'm finally stepping in. To the life I'd convinced myself I never had time for. I'm sensitive. Easily swayed. A glutton for distraction. Never give me advice because I'll probably take it. I hate that feeling. I can't stand it when someone else claims to know what I should be doing. Even worse, when I welcome it in, and listen. With everything changing so fast, I've felt stirred up in my quiet, cozy little life. The long path my soul intuited isn't stretching out in my mind's eye quite the way it was only months, weeks, days ago. I've let too much in. I've sacrificed my stream of focus to fear. I've made the mistake of casting my worries and anxieties outward, hoping for answers, certainty, anything to soothe my sense of safety that's been shattered by a flood of unknowns. Seeking safety in others' opinions has resulted in a scattered bumble of redirected priorities that don't reflect my inner core of knowing. What was meant as a productive push has been a plug, stopping me up, paralyzing the achingly incremental progress I've finally been excavating, digging into, feeling into reality. I've literally walked in circles, pulled between one thing and the other, the barrage of todo's and suddenly "urgent" tasks that make me feel overwhelmed and somehow getting nowhere fast. Then I freeze, bogged down by it all. I forget what's important. I've found that what's really important is almost never what other people say it is. Something about me: I create best when I feel free. When I feel like I want to do something instead of having to do something. I still might "have to" do it, but feeling that way paralyzes me. I avoid. I run in the opposite direction of anything resembling obligation. I see this not as a shortcoming, but one of my greatest strengths. It's deeply important for me to set up a lifestyle that grounds me. Limiting noise of every kind, to a point that most would consider reclusive, is so immensely spirit-opening for me. I find myself in long stretches of quiet, uninterrupted alone time, solo activity. We're "those people" that don't own a TV and talk to each other. We take walks. We pull oracle cards before bedtime and talk about what they mean to us, how the sweet divine Spirit always meets us where we're at. I always know as much as I need to without throwing myself in the fray. Face-planting the feeds. The only time I've caught a glimpse of the "news" is in some unavoidable place where hopefully it's on mute (the airport or tire shop). Enough awareness creeps in by merely being a part of the world. The things I remain happily on the edge of roil on without me—sometimes remedied, sometimes not, and then the "next thing" is circulating around the water hole. My time is so very precious, and sometimes I don't honor it. I'll change my plans on the spontaneous whim of a friend's schedule. Or make a phone call midday, cutting into the precious creative hours of technology time that are essential for moving all things forward. It takes courage to quietly sit through lonely moments when I crave a distraction. Tonight, I made an exception, and kept my screen open until the sky has turned violet. Cicadas drum the air like a net of sound. As a kid, they used to terrify me. My brother would fling dead ones at me in the pool and I'd scream. Now, I barely give them a second thought, I even like being enveloped by their distinct buzz. They are an eternal sign of warm summer nights, and their sound is my reminder to power down, unplug and step into my life.

Apr 13, 2020 My phone had only been off a few hours, and I felt my lungs expanding—sensing more space to be filled, as if inside the house I was breathing at only a fraction of possibility. No Audible, Amazon Music or YouTube self-development spiel penetrating my ears. I was standing in the dirt under a patchwork of shade from the citrus tree, raking leaves, trimming an outrageous overgrowth of lantana, breaking a subtle sweat, surrounded by the vibrating natural buzz of everything outdoors. Plants and bees and birds and so much I couldn't see—all the life—amplified. I straightened up my back and gulped a thick helping of citrus-laden air, sweet, zesty, invigorating, comforting—like lemon meringue pie. It fed me deeply, down to the cells, into my soul. This was the life I'd been missing. The one right in front of me. Free of the teeter-totter of urgency and longing that had me grabbing my phone 80 times a day just to look and be let down somehow. Seeking a depth of interaction, something fun or enriching or someone sending me something that made me feel special. Most times there was nothing, or something that annoyed me—another email to deal with later or unsubscribe from, an unfulfilling interaction that felt more obligatory than fun. I voraciously consumed technology and it left me lacking a greater depth of connection I felt as simply as stepping outside and listening to the aliveness of my surroundings. So easily, I forgot this. I looked up in the branches of the citrus, astoundingly sour and deemed inedible by most counts, plucked a bulbous, dimpled round and ripped into its pulpy hide, spraying juice in a glistening fan. I gulped the aroma, saturated lemon lungs eating the moist, tangy air. In that moment, suspended in the subtleties of scents and soft spring breezes, away from the minuscule todo's I'd made so paramount, I was content. With air and sun and little moving things all around, I had it all.

Feb 27, 2020 Life has become so serious. Not a day has passed in as long as I can remember where I haven't overanalyzed the crap out of every aspect. Every bite of food. My unwavering inability to nail down a daily routine. My dissatisfaction with not finishing my book. Some days, most days, it's like everything in my life craves drastic improvement and I have no energy to lift a finger. I'm a chubby hamster running myself silly when nothing seems to be changing. I feel really sad inside. Always thinking of everything that needs to be better. Looking disappointedly at the lack of it. Wanting everything to be different. I keep thinking of ways to spin this so I'm not an Insta turnoff. I hate eliciting pity, but this kind of writing does just that. Maybe because we feel wrong for being sad, or depressed or dissatisfied, especially in internet-public. It's uncomfortable to look at, because we're supposed to be shooting out beams of light 24/7. A slump is a rut is a wall is a dead-end, a death. Something always exists on the other side of it. A renewed sense of determination. A release of pressure. A new beginning. I go through it to get to the other side. In my time. My own way.

Oct 20, 2019 I bent up with an "Ooooof!" of pained confusion, only to see my cat's hindquarters fly off the bed. He had readied for launch from the window ledge above my unknowing, slumbering body and catapulted himself through the air, landing on my stomach and reverberating a sharp pang through my midsection. He then halted at the doorway and began to meow like a long-neglected feline. Knowing this drama would not cease until I peeled myself out of bed, I surrendered and padded out of the room, barely missing a puddle of throw up with my moccasin slipper. Another hairball to begin the day. Oh goodie. I cleaned up the mess [that also blotched every level of his cat tree and dripped brown sludge down the wall], quickly dressed and gathered my stuff for a trip to the coffee shop, feeling a micro blog ready to pour through. After settling in with a non-dairy mocha and gluten free pastry, I realized I forgot my laptop. But I didn't want it to be another one of those days! Where I tacked along, pulled by one fire after another to quell or distinguish, until the next nebulous of mishap encircled my entire scope of productivity for the day, dashing any hope of creative momentum. Sooooo . . . I did what I often do when something doesn't really go my way and I don't know what else to do. I bought a plant. Actually, three. As I meandered around our delightful neighborhood nursery, I studied the descriptions and caressed the leaves of pretty green things, surrounded by Halloween-colored monarch butterflies hovering on the slightest of breezes. The air was both crisp and warm. It was so quiet I could barely detect other plant lovers as they moved impressively mellow and gentle, rolling around their green carts to restock soil and pluck plantings for fall. On the drive home, light painted my forehead and air careened in through the sun roof. I suspended myself in the beautiful subtlety of a Sunday morning, absorbing the resonance of church bells as I unpacked my new succulent babies, relieved that I got outside to welcome in a different day than the one that kickstarted rather annoyingly. Jaxy Panda Oreo Cookie Baby Boy sauntered to the door with true cat swagger and an "I have arrived" meow. I swooped him up, snuggled his scruff and recited words into his fur so he could read their vibration. The same words I tell him at the beginning of every day, "Good Morning, My Love."

Oct 20, 2019 Every once in a while, me + The P.I.C. allocate a little cash to give away. It's an extension of our "Happy Money" practice—feeling thankful for everything down to pennies that cross our path, and in turn, giving a little back. I've heard certain money mentors and motivational entrepreneurs say that charitable amount should be 10% of what you make, but as with everything, the amount we give should never be decided by anyone other than ourselves. I've had many moments with only a smattering of change in my pocket to put in my gas tank or waiting until my credit card payment went through so I could get groceries. Even in those scraping-by times, I'd stop for those at traffic lights and pass along some coin, looking them in the eye and wishing them well. I've never felt like a savior for it, or even an especially charitable person—it’s just become automatic. And, it's reminded me that no matter how broke I've been, I always have something to give. Clothes and home goods—we donate to thrift stores, some of which support people or animals in need. Books—go to the library, where I've bought many a bestseller in excellent condition for fifty cents, and rented countless DVDs for free (even the subscription services don't have exactly what you want to watch sometimes!). I recently found a site where people request and give items, all for free. Which, BTW, is even more proof that the saying - "Nothing is free" - is bullshit. Awhile back, The P.I.C. made change for a ten so we could each have five dollars to hand to someone who looked like they could use it. My bill sat in the console for over a week until one day I was driving around and I became aware of it again. I really wanted to use it for myself. I really could have used that money at that time. I felt annoyed that we had set it aside to be given away. Its presence made me feel starved and desperate. I wanted to blow it on a dollar menu somewhere or add it to my secret stash I tried to grow but regularly depleted. Then I came up on a light, and a man was there with a sign I couldn't read and didn't need to. I rolled down the window and gave a wave, handing him the five with a smile. It felt like a big give in that moment and I had freed myself from the guilt I would've shouldered keeping it. It felt good, just like giving does, even when we need and want more for our own lives. I'd like to think it welcomes more in, by instilling pause and reverence for how much we do have, and every bit that serendipitously comes our way, just like for those on the receiving end of what we pass along. It frees us up from clinging so hard, gripping every dollar like we'll never have another, when always something more is on the way.