These Venerable Woods

The crows’ caw at dawn drags me from my half awake haze. Just five more minutes, I whisper. As if on cue, their anisodactyl feet begin an impatient march across the roof while they wait for peanuts. 

The morning air is thick with humidity, cicadas drone from every unseen nook and cranny in these venerable woods. At night the tree frogs, crickets and katydids take the baton in this never ending symphony. Unmannered raccoons crashed the bird feeders overnight, tossing everything like a SWAT team raid on a drug kingpin’s den. Squirrels got nothin’ on raccoons. 

The wildlife here is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before in my own backyard—barred owls, a great horned owl, sharp-shinned hawks, red tailed hawks, a cormorant that shouldn’t even BE here, deer, horses, possums, raccoons, rabbits, bats, turtles, and recently, a four and a half foot rat snake that nearly gave me a heart attack when the dog found it and wanted to play. 

There’s a wildness here that walks the line of supernatural. There is a definite vibe after dark. You can hear it, feel it, sense it. Nature speaks differently here, she’s…persistent, so you must show your respect. She’s sharing her secrets with you, but she’s also watching. Life has new meaning here. 

The forest is alive, her song constant, yet ever changing. 

Mending What is Broken

I’m a feral child of cut off shorts, skinned knees and barefoot summers, of afternoons wading knee deep in icy cold creeks winding through backyard suburban forests, of doing backflips on the trampoline until my head hurt and then sunning myself like a reptile on the warmth of that black nylon, staring up through a canopy of gently swaying trees, dreaming of a boy, and what his lips might feel like pressed against mine. 

That feral girl still lives under my skin. She stands with me on Ostara watching winter’s last breath blow mighty, gusty winds through the trees. She feels every buffet and tendril of white hair that whips around my aging crown. I feel her childlike wonder of the world around me. We feel One with all that is. This is our happy place, where we feel seen, and free, and loved beyond all comprehension. Where lifelong traumas and wounds no longer exist. There is only our feet on the ground and the wind against our skin. In these moments, we mend what is broken. 

I live for windy days. 

Observance and Contemplation

Coyotes yip and howl just beyond the tree line beside the house. They are close. We all pause to listen—the dog's ears attentively perked. The sound is haunting, primal and oddly comforting somehow. Is it a territorial display, a role call or are they simply bonding in the waning light of the most recent full moon? They've been there the last two nights, so probably not celebrating downed prey—at least I hope not, there are a lot of cats around here. 

We're in a new house, surrounded on two sides by woods filled with pine trees, Leland Cyprus, redbuds, thorny locusts, Chinese privet, two huge Bradford pear trees in the back yard and a horse pasture that can be seen through the trees in the back. It is literally a little slice of heaven on earth, well, for me anyway. All this nature is a serotonin goldmine. 

A possum living in an abandoned squirrel's nest in a tree right on the fence line, peers its little face over the edge, and watches me quizzically one morning just before the sunrise. I am smitten. The corner of my eye catches movement in the trees at dusk—a spooked great horned owl just as it spreads its giant wings, silently, and lands nearby. Her, hoo-h'HOO-hoo-hoo confirming it wasn't a specter. Horses whinny in the distant pasture, sometimes I catch a glimpse of them through the break in the trees, chestnut beauties with dark brown manes. Their tails flick side to side as they amble lazily in the sublime light of golden hour. 

There are squirrels, blue jays, cardinals, sparrows, downy woodpeckers, northern flickers, bees, bats, dragonflies...and the coyotes. This place might heal me in ways I didn't know I needed healing. The energy here is quite perfect, and I am steeped in gratitude and thoughtful contemplation of what is possible. Life is so good.          

Healing Generational Trauma

Everybody here’s got a story to tell
Everybody’s been through their own hell
There’s nothing too special about getting hurt
But getting over it, that takes the work
-Duck and Cover, Song by Glen Phillips 2005

No one knows your trauma, not fully. Only you. And your tribe beyond the veil. Are you healing ancestral wounds, passed down from generations long forgotten? There’s unimaginable pain and suffering stored and stacked neatly in your double helix, waiting to be released to the Light—OR are you going to push your trauma down and keep piling onto that ancient stack, ignoring it, burying it deep, passing it on down the generational line? 

Some of us are called to task, we’re branded ‘Black Sheep’ of the family. We’re weirdo’s, troublemakers, outsiders, misfits. But we’re also intuitive, passionate, truth seeking bad asses. We feel our ancestors in our bones, hear their cries in our restless slumber, wear their strength on our weathered faces. Shadow work can make you mad. But that madness burns like underbrush, clearing the way for something beautiful to grow. 

Life is precious. Take nothing for granted. I hope you are well. And happy, wherever you are. 

#dna #generationaltrauma #generationalhealing #blacksheep #shadowwork #gratitudedaily #presentmomentliving