Wander 8: Organ of Connection

Please pardon my absence friends.

The last month has involved much for our little family—and probably yours too—as it seems an era of change is with us.

I am writing you now from our re-newed home in Moab, UT. A longing led us back here—my partner, Andy, finds himself immersed in building net-positive, strawbale homes for the workforce of our town. And I am finding myself working very part-time on the organic farm where we now magically live. Our back bedroom door opens up to the most beautiful chickens I’ve ever seen, our front door to sunflowers, tomatoes and peppers growing, and bushes that bring the hummingbirds in close.

Utah is not the place I learned to wander but it is the land with whom I have spent the most time cultivating a reciprocal relationship.

This weekend I had the opportunity to wander in a small familiar canyon—a place where I am often graced with privacy, and a little cool on a 106 degree day. A desperate need for alone time spent seeking spirit sent me out on Saturday. Kneeling at the beginning of the trail path, I asked for the ability to be present, to greet this place again, to grieve.

The sandstone walls shed soft sand into this place. I always end up taking my shoes off and carrying them in one hand. Feet feeling the sand, cool at first, and hand tracing the sandstone wall, I felt the power of familiar touch. Remembering moments of deep connection with this place, I bent down to touch the unfamiliar layer of clay that had encased much of the canyons walk as the water last ran out over it. Bombarded then by the high pitched wings of the mosquito army. I swatted at them and carried on slowly—wanting to ignore them and stay with the feel of the sands. But they persisted, hungrily. I gave them my full attention, letting them have the rageful energy of a person who has not been meeting her needs for some time. I told them first they weren’t welcome. Then I tried to outrun them to safety. Still they were there. I took my rattle and stomped and hollered that you cannot feast on me. You cannot have my blood. I am already giving of my body nearly more than I can handle. I sat down and began to cover my legs in the sand. Then my trunk. Maybe they would forget I was human and let me be. They did not abate and I continued my massacre and anger. I needed them to help me embody the helpless frustration I have felt as a new mother, as a citizen, as someone who finds her Beloved in the earth that we treat so carelessly, so that I could again be present, be receptive, feel something besides trapped in my own skin.

I kept going into the canyon (really not that far) with no hope of the mosquitos letting up—but my being succumbed to sensing all of where I was, the mosquitos and my rage did let up. Leaving me to feel the presence of the place, to take in the dappled light, the clay crust, the quiet container of the canyon’s walls, be with the birds and lizards who call this place home, and smell the sweet leaves of something I'm calling water sage—as I have yet to know who she is.

My body has been missing the hugs of friends. I walked past a plant whose scent was intoxicating and I felt was reaching out for me. Her many stems reached out into the riparian walkway and instead of avoiding her, or pushing her out of my way, I felt her asking me to lean in. I felt her again my back and arms—as she illuminated the edges of myself. The container of connection. I understood my skin as the organ of connection in this moment. The grass let me feel the edges of my new postpartum body—to know myself a little again. Then to lie down on the earth, contained and held, and in time with being part of this place for a moment.

My invitation for this Full Moon cycle is to explore this organ of connection, or the edges of yourself with Nature somehow. My guess is that most, if not all of us, are longing for more touch than we are able to share at the moment during this Covid era. Touch, what feather, tree, grass, rock, water can you hold and be held by—communicate by touch. Who can you meet outside to remember your contours, enliven your senses, immerse in the sensory connection of all living beings.