I have been thinking about time recently. I can only read a certain amount of books in my lifetime and if I actually calculate it, it's such a tiny amount. I can only be very close to a limited amount of people, my heart will only beat a set amount of times, by body is going to loosen, I can only learn so much before I leave this body. I stay up at night not wanting to sleep, envious of people who feel good on a few hours, wondering if that extra time makes them feel more alive. When I am still, I feel time moving across my arms and I get scared. I want to pause in moments where I feel happy, strong, beautiful and connected, exist in them until I am ready to move on. Then time and the fear pass across my shoulders and I begin thinking about something else.
This May marks two years since my dad died, grieving and healing have been a constant. I feel ready to move, to focus on joy and work, to meet new people and go dancing, but my body is not ready. It feels like the end of a cycle, but to move on and digest all that came up, I need to heal from parasites, Epstein Barr, and Lyme disease. It sucks. There's a lot to learn from all of it, but I still just wish I was healthy.
Since I graduated from Bard's MFA program in August I've attended five births as a doula, learned hypnobirthing and comforting touch, but I've had to take a break while my body is exhausted.
In February, for my birthday, I drove from New York to LA to Portland, OR and back to NY on my own. As long as I can remember I have been terrified of sleeping alone, checking closets and under the bed multiple time before being able to fall asleep. I hiked desert mountains, swam in hot springs, slept on the beach, in a boat, in a cabin among chaparral and wild tobacco, I drove in silence for days, wept when I hit a cat crossing the road, screamed as huge mountains appeared after 500 miles of flat dry land, slid down white sand dunes, danced and sang to herds of cows, saw friends I hadn't seen in years and came back to a freezing east coast to spend ten days of silent meditation in three feet of snow.
I've been able to recommit to being in my studio and have become much less afraid of what it means to be an artist, to make sculptures, to make what's inside and invisible outside and seen. I think of all of the work I do through Herban Cura, teaching, healing my body, and making art as ways of creating a home in myself. I don't want to look for homes in others or outside of myself, but to have my own to share when I find others who have one too. I've been working hard at saying "no", speaking the truth, and creating boundaries so that I can love and nurture only when it feels good.
At Herban Cura I've been making balms, butters, teas, and smoke blends. I've been working on product and website design as we build a strong foundation to continue working through. May 1st has marked the last day of frost for the Hudson Valley since I was a child, it is the day my mom and I start to put seeds and plants in the ground. This year wehave had the pleasure of starting our Herban Cura garden, the sprouts of tobacco, tulsi, chamomile, ashwaganda, madder, catnip and so much more have begun to grow.