A way back

So I am going to try to blog more.

(Got that Kelly, here it is, in contract!)  I told Erika over email I will check-in on my blog as much as I can.  I will rely on the only thing I've ever fully committed to--writing--as the frame to help me commit to the other new changes on the helm.  Writing, which I once wrote is my tool, and my reward.  How it keys me in, cuts my trail in to my inside.  Then leaves an archive map, a way back, to who I am just behind.

Summerland on Friday was so rad.  When I used to sit in my room in the Pines and relax and breathe and listen to my poemas de la luna on Pandora over and over again I would feel where on the map in California that I belonged.  And it was always Ventura.  All along.

Not that I'll move.  Just, I can't wait to have this reason to go there where the trees breathe and the coast is quiet once a month.  This reason, this commitment to myself.  In a book I got at the bookstore at Pacifica on Friday it says They need to mature before they will be able to protect themselves.  The book is about unfolding the sacred in women and the quote refers to symbology in the dreams of  the two writers.  Symbols speaking to the burgeon of understanding they were growing of their individual spirits.  And I read this, and knew communion.  And thought yes, yes.  These next steps are about that.  I know where I am heading, always have.  But I must go make this deep passing now.  I need to mature my vision so that I will know how to protect it.  And in protecting it, allow it its process to grow.

Nick and Norah's was great.  It made me want a boyfriend to run around in whimsy with taking random roadtrips up PCH stopping to eat ice cream and singing really loud out the windows.  It made me relish the youth in me.  Going to Derryn's today for a BBQ.  Looking forward to yoga and a long bike ride in the sun.  Talking to Beth tonight.

There.  Check in, number 1.

Through the tiny kitchen with our food

Dora and Leo are here, Dora made miso soup and delicatas for dinner, I did dishes, Bebe amazed us all by her fascinating processing and enthusiasm. It was just like being back at the farm.

At the training I thought often of my Humboldt family, missing them with a sense of magnetism I was sure they felt. I spoke to Em and Nick, Bucket and Dora Saturday night as soon as I left the hills and it was true.  We felt what we thought we felt.  That is the thing about California, there are already bodies here washed through with love for one another so strong it will forever be home.  

Dora and Leo are going to Hawaii in the middle of February, meandering slowly to San Diego than back before then.  Mo's in Nevada City with her honey, Jon's sitting meditation at Joshua Tree.  I am eager to see all the rest.  Which is not to say I am elsewhere uneager:  the rainy season is here, the river is fast and brown, the tires make the wet noise on the air.  We drink hot soup from bowls and I hunker in cafe corners, writing poems.  I have a whole new family, my fairies in the Cazadero hills, my mama mentor who Starhawk will now forever be.  There is so much to do.  A whole book to write.  Southern California beckons.  We circle around one another in Bebe's little cottage, circle round the woodstove, the loft, through the tiny kitchen with our food.  We meet in the hot tub, text one another what's next in the rounds.

The circles look like rainbows to me in the North California mist.  It all feels so good.

And we are just us.

The moon is a skinless fat slice of pear, juice dripping in the air.  It is white out the window, it is cold out the window, I hear Jandro out there on the phone with his man. There are two spots on the whole farm where we get reception.  If you're clever like him you have a blue tooth so when the cellgods are happy and you get one bar then you make a call and can walk around the yard outside of the cabin.  In the cold, on the phone. 

Nicki made us watch the funniest thing.  Which in real life I would find disturbing like I'm embarrassed by this and my secret embarrassment makes it funnier.  But here on the Cosmic Murk Farm it was hysterical, and we are just us.

Dori is home, tonight she played me guitar.  There is a song by Gillian Welch that reminds me of us, of us saving money eager with our whatnexts but also of us, here.  Under the pine trees in the hills.  I played it for her tonight in hopes that she can learn it for our fire tomorrow.  On facebook there was a thread to/for/from all my cousins with 22 names attached, it was about a cousin slumber party at Thanksgiving which I wont get to be a part.  In Bmore.  One of my homes.  Seanie and Jame and the baby will be there!  It made me sad but also so happy to see the boy cousins making fun of one another and our cousins-who-are-friends-that-have-become-McCousins a part of the whole thing too.  Life is good.  Let's sing this song....

I love these women.

There is nothing, nothing, nothing that compares to the love of good friends.  No expectations other than your self.  How lucky we are~how blessed.  How much you grls have made real my real life~