What's in the gallery?

We dissolve stuck and rewrite patterns. We apply radical playfulness to life (when we feel like it!), embarking on internal adventures (credo of Safety First). We have a fake band called Solved By Cake. We build invisible sanctuaries, invent words and worlds, breathe awe and wonder.

We are not impressed by monsters. Except when we are. We explore the connections between internal territories and surrounding environment to learn what marvelously supportive delicious space feels like, and how to take exquisite care of ourselves. We transform things.* We glow wild.**

* For example: Desire, fear, worry, pain-and-trauma, boundaries, that problematic word which rhymes with flaweductivity.

** Fair warning: Self-fluency has been known to lead to extremely subversive behavior, including treasuring yourself unconditionally, unapologetically taking up space, experiencing outrageously improbable levels of self-acceptance, and general rejoicing in aliveness.

What's in the gallery?

We dissolve stuck and rewrite patterns. We apply radical playfulness to life (when we feel like it!), embarking on internal adventures (credo of Safety First). We have a fake band called Solved By Cake. We build invisible sanctuaries, invent words and worlds, breathe awe and wonder.

We are not impressed by monsters. Except when we are. We explore the connections between internal territories and surrounding environment to learn what marvelously supportive delicious space feels like, and how to take exquisite care of ourselves. We transform things.* We glow wild.**

* For example: Desire, fear, worry, pain-and-trauma, boundaries, that problematic word which rhymes with flaweductivity.

** Fair warning: Self-fluency has been known to lead to extremely subversive behavior, including treasuring yourself unconditionally, unapologetically taking up space, experiencing outrageously improbable levels of self-acceptance, and general rejoicing in aliveness.


a pool by a river, with water flowing into the pool from the fountain

Image: a pool overlooking a river, with water flowing into the pool from the fountain


Each day it gets a little colder here, and I wake up with the daunting knowledge that my first and biggest challenge is going to be finding my way out of bed. Bed is, if not the good place then at least the comfortable place: burrowed under a weighted blanket weighed down by more blankets, snuggled up to a heating pad, toasty-warm, inviting me to stay a while longer…

Getting up is the opposite of enticing: cold, anxiety-inducing. A source of dread.

My tiny house is unheated, I know that I will see my breath for at least the first few hours, already anticipating the shriek I will let out when I go to wash my hands, the water so cold that it almost burns.

Some way or another, I am going to have to be my own hero, braver than I can imagine from within my cave of blankets, braver than the marines, and just do it. Just get up, babe. I believe. Mostly.

What time is it? Bravery time!

I keep my clothes in my bed, like on a camping trip, so I can change out of sleepwear and into a different set of warm layers, safely beneath the covers. In between I reach out a hand for the wooden handle of a dry brush, hanging from a hook on the wall.

Dry-brushing skin is good for my anxiety, good for keeping me grounded, but is also the part that demands the most bravery.

I have learned that it helps to play music or a podcast to help me focus, and also that this is not enough: always set a bell as a timer, or I might end up staring into space for hours, caught up in a stim-cycle closed loop, running fingers through my hair, or drumming them on the bed.

Then it’s bravery time: hat on, run into the front room, turn on the space heater, light three candles, measure out two mason jars of water to heat, one at a time, start running. 3:33, let’s go.


Running is an exaggeration, it’s more of a light jog, which might also be an exaggeration, let’s call it slightly faster than a brisk walk, tracing figure eights on the kitchen rug, arms crossed tightly or hands folded, thumbs pressing into my chest because I definitely don’t have the ability to navigate a sports bra these days, the goal is to keep painful jostling to a minimum.

3:33 = the time the timer is set for.

One set of 3:33 of kitchen-jogging, combined with the humming space heater and the steam from the kettle, warms me up enough to be able to take my hat off. The second 3:33 might get me to unbutton my top layer. Progress.

I usually do 3:33 x 4, or 3:33 x 5, depending. One of these is the right amount of time for a jog. By the time I’m done, the sky is less dark, I am slightly more energized, and am rewarded with a steaming jar of hot water with lemon to drink. The second jar of heated water is for washing my hands, delaying the shriek until later when I inevitably forget to heat more water.

Progress, again. It all counts.

What’s in a habit

The word habit is so boring, and yet the work of rewriting patterns (and what is a habit if not a collection of patterns 👀) is maybe the thing I am most passionate about, the reason I started this business nearly twenty years ago.

And if I know anything about shifting habits, it’s that the work of [Trying Things, Without Judgment], always yields results. All experiments are useful experiments, maybe even especially the things that don’t work, or don’t work the way I think they will.

We try things, but mainly: we try them with a playful, compassionate approach

This practice is also how we accidentally stumble our way into things that do work, many of which we might never have come up with through trying to be practical or logical (like 3:33, why does it work? I don’t know, it just does, for me, right now, and that’s enough), it works until it doesn’t, it is until it isn’t, and then we try something new…

Transitions & sweetness

The difficult thing for me (after being the bravest person on earth and getting out of bed, despite all odds) is the transitions, whether that’s the transition between Warming Up and starting my workout, the transition from breakfast to getting things done, the transition from doing into rest time.

This is also heavily ritualized for me. Ten minutes on the balance board. Dance around the room for three songs. The right snacks, currently: a dried banana and a slightly caffeinated warm beverage.

I am also big believer in the twin superpowers of Dessert First and Solved By Cake.

Yesterday I made chocolate halva pudding and this morning I had some for pre-breakfast, and it was the answer to so many things.

Enticements: what are yours?

But then again, I really, really like enticing things (yes, I mean both the practices and rituals that feel enticing to me, and also of course the verb, being the enticement), and so this is information I have about myself that I can use both playfully and strategically.

The pieces of intel you acquire as you do reconnaissance on yourself, or the things you already know to be true about yourself that you can use (to tempt, motivate, inspire, or simply remind you of the things you know you will forget) might be different than mine, which is fine.

That’s why we experiment.

We are just gathering information about how we function in this world, and what we need to function better, and both of these might change over time. That’s okay too.

Use what works, take notes, try again

Being a human in a body is complicated and weird, and that might be both the least and most wise thing I have to say on this topic in the moment.

All experiments are useful experiments, a thousand points (at least!) for trying.

We use what works (or what might work), we take notes, and we bravely try again.

Hot water and other mysteries

Do you remember when my hot water heater stopped working back in February (probably from the pipes flooding, but also it turned out there was a rat’s nest inside of it, love this journey for me), and then I was stuck in limbo waiting on a small and hard-to-find part that was delayed indefinitely due to supply chain issues…?

The missing piece was located, but it turned out that the heater is still unfix-able, so now it needs to be replaced, which launched a disagreement that turned into a series of fights between me and former handyman.

He wants to keep things on propane, while I am still traumatized from last year’s house fire and want to move to electric. He wants to install a larger heater underneath the house, I don’t want a situation where if the heater stops working again, someone needs to take off the siding and slide into a crawl space, especially when the only people who fix things around here are close to seventy years old and recovering from hip surgery.

So is this even about hot water, I’m not sure

I am told there are places where people will just fix things the way you want them to be fixed? Like, you can just say what you want and the person you are paying to do it will do it? But not here apparently, or maybe this is yet another ongoing experiment in Boundary Stuff, we will see.

Anyway, the point is that I don’t have hot water, the situation seemingly has no solution other than that I need a new hot water heater and someone to replace it, and somehow there are only two people in the entire county who know how to fix things if you can catch them when they aren’t busy, also I do not particularly trust either of them, and at least one of them is going to fight me hard every step of the way.


I make do with daily hot towel “baths”, dipping washcloths in a jug of steaming water, fresh from the kettle, using wooden tongs to fish them out.

When I can’t take it anymore and need a proper shower as well as the experience of being immersed in water to satisfy my piscean nature and to tend to the trauma self who wants to basically live in warm water full-time, I take myself on a day trip and visit some hot springs.

Some are nicer than others. I’m not sure how this is going to work when winter comes for real and the roads are snowy or icy, but I also don’t currently have another way of solving this other than lighting candles at the altar of And It Solves Itself.

May it solve itself, easily and beautifully, without my input. I welcome all simple, sustainable solutions.

Talk to me about IMMERSION

Hot springs are an obvious form of immersion: source from the source. Into the waters.

But writing is also an immersion. 3:33s are a form of immersion.

Immersion supports wishing. Immersion supports new ways of seeing things. Immersion is hope-based (may things get better), and immersion is a release-mechanism (may I stop trying to push and force my way into answers when I can let the warmth of the water remind me about softening…)

Immersion versus Immersive

I am thinking about experiences of immersion and immersing, and how they are similar and different, like meditating and meditative but also not like that at all.

Similarly, I am thinking about containers of time as a form of intentional immersing.

What qualities, wishes and experiments am I immersing myself in for November, or from equinox to solstice?

November wishes and superpowers

This morning it was easier than it has been for me in a while, to bravely get out of bed, to launch myself into 3:33s, to flow through 36×17 sun salutations (another form of immersion, another form of stimming) and to get myself to eat warm, nourishing food, with less coaxing needed than in October.

So that’s a hopeful noticing, and I am collecting good omens like this for It Solves Itself November, which is also Resetting The Rituals November and Higher High Regard November, a November of Surprise Ease aka Even Easier Than That November, which might also be Find The Fun Way November.

My friend Kathryn suggested NO-vember (to help refuse things that are Not Yes), which I love. Just Say No (vember!) to whatever is not needed here.

I also love Vember, a mystery word that rhymes with remember, and after all the work of rewriting habits is in the remembering. I love how Vember is not a word but it contains V + Ember.

V + Ember

V = Victory, Vengeance, Voluptuousness, and things that are Very-Very (over the top, delightfully too much which is just enough)

Ember = still burning actually, aka even when I think I have lost hope or my sense of self or a sense of what I desire or where to go next, the fire is still lit, a small sweet spark, eternal flame, still going.

Wishing some wishes for November and beyond

I am wishing for:

  • more immersing (in delicious warm water and in general)
  • sweet sweet focus
  • a simple easy solution to having hot water in the trailer
  • simple easy appealing solutions for showering
  • rituals that are fun and enticing (how can I make them so luscious that I crave them)
  • treasuring myself even more (new levels of high regard)
  • reinforce what needs reinforcing
  • no worry no hurry (but also not going into tendencies of being overly-flexible, cough, people pleasing)
  • finding the joy in trailer life
  • what is the opposite of dread / what would it be like to stop second-guessing everything?

Calling on (and in) some superpowers for November and beyond

Superpowers of…

It Solves Itself
Victory From The Embers
A Thousand Points For Remembering (and no judgment for forgetting again)
I Am A Badass Cowboy Actually
I Am A Creative Force
The Return Of Desire
The Fun Way Exists And Will Reveal Itself When I Look For It
Even Easier Than That

The Fun Way Exists And Will Reveal Itself When I Look For It?!

Tell me more about that please…

Things That Solved Themselves In October

So many things in this category, actually! An astonishing number.

Including: finally convincing the wifi company to send out a tech to adjust the satellite so now I have signal again. A friend who is possibly an actual angel came to visit from Washington State, camped out on my property, and insulated beneath my trailer, and also made a list of all the things local fix-it people did not do, despite having said they did, and then did those too.

Oh, and as you may have noticed from this long-form piece that was not finger-typed on my phone, I now have a working keyboard again! With love and gratitude to a retreat person / blog reader who sent me a spare keyboard, so now I can type again, the joy!

Another retreat friend researched local flu shots for me when I was having an especially bad brain week.

And I finessed some recipes I’ve been playing with for a while: green chile cauliflower potato soup, a chocolate dandelion root powder banana bread, and the perfect pre-breakfast halva pudding.

It was solving itself all along

Sure, there may be many items still in the Ongoing Frustrating Unsolved Mystery category, and yet, when I remember to pause, pay attention and ask the right questions, I am able to recognize all the ways in which things have been solving themselves all along, problems generating their own solutions, is that not also an immersion in luck and love and magic?

If it was solving itself all along, what else is solving itself right now, beneath the surface, generating its own solutions?

Let’s keep remembering, noticing, asking, playing, wondering, wishing, getting out of bed (when we can, if we can, if that’s an option) or the symbolic equivalent, being brave for three minutes and thirty three seconds at a time, getting back into bed because that’s also a win and sometimes it’s really the only indicated answer, and let’s keep investigating these questions.

What do I need? What might help? Where is the ease?

Lighting a candle for the questions.

Come play with me, I love company

You are welcome to play with any of the concepts here in any way you like. Come play in the comments!

You can brainstorm experiments & practices, for rewriting any patters or for whatever you might going through, People Vary.

And as always, you’re invited to share anything sparked for you while reading, themes you’re playing with, or add any wishes into the pot, into the healing zone, as a friend of mine said, who knows, the power of the collective is no small thing, and companionship is healing.

A request

If you received clues or perspective or just want to send appreciation for the writing and work/play we do here, I appreciate it tremendously. Working on some stuff to offer this year, but between traumatic brain injury recovery & Long Covid, it’s slow going.

I am accepting support (with joy & gratitude) in the form of Appreciation Money to Barrington’s Discretionary Fund. Asking is not where my strength resides but Brave & Stalwart is the theme these days, and pattern-rewriting is the work, and it all helps with fixing what needs fixing, currently focused on making it through winter.

Or you can buy a copy of the my Monster Manual & Coloring Book if you don’t have it!

And if those aren’t options, I get it, you can light a candle for support (or light one in your mind!), share one of my posts with someone who loves words, tell people about these techniques, approaches and themes, send them here, it all helps, it’s all welcome, and I appreciate it so much. ❤️

What is the opposite of a fire

What is the opposite of a fire

Each morning I ask a question (of myself), and then I don’t try to answer it.

I just kind of hum on it throughout the day, if I remember, which I often don’t because my memory is broken (both in the sense of fragmented and in the sense of kaput), but it doesn’t matter, the question percolates.

The question and I percolate together

No answer (or answers) required. Just percolating.

Little bubbles.

Slow hum. So Hum.

One year

Saturday was the one year anniversary of the fire that went through my kitchen.

My question for the day was: What Is The Opposite Of A Fire?

What Is The Opposite Of A Fire?

I didn’t think about it much but at the end of the day when I reflected on this small commoration feast day experiment, an answer revealed itself through simply naming how I spent my day:

  • tending to kitchen space,
  • cooking creatively,
  • cleaning up,
  • reorganizing the pantry,
  • stretching on the rug when the sun came out…

The answer was the experience of being in the opposite

I learned that I had spent my day being present and engaged in the place where the painful thing happened, layering on new memories of better things; sweet sanctuary and comforting comfort.

There was time. There was Intentionality and Slowness.

And maybe all that is the opposite of a fast-moving emergency.

Maybe that experience of the opposite is or can be the rededicating.

Come play with me in the comments, I love company

Company is so welcome.

My keyboard isn’t working and I finger-typed this on my phone, which is both an intimate and lonely way to write, somehow these co-exist and I can’t explain it better than that.

You are welcome to play with any of the concepts here in any way you like. You can ask your own question of yourself and then put it into the pot, answers not required. You can share anything sparked for you, or name an experiment you would like to try. You can light a candle for the opposite of a fire.

I had more to say (of course I did) but keyboard is broken and sometimes less is more (and maybe that’s also a form of What Is The Opposite), so we are working with What Is.

All love glowing your way for your experiments, your internally directed questions & your opposites.

A request

If you received clues or perspective or just want to send appreciation for the writing and work/play we do here, I appreciate it tremendously.

I am accepting support (with joy & gratitude) in the form of Appreciation Money to Barrington’s Discretionary Fund. Asking is not where my strength resides but Brave & Stalwart is the theme these days, and pattern-rewriting is the work, and it all helps with fixing what needs fixing, currently focused on replacing three windows and installing a heater to make it through winter.

Or you can buy a copy of the my Monster Manual & Coloring Book if you don’t have it!

And if those aren’t options, I get it, you can light a candle for support (or light one in your mind!), share one of my posts with someone who loves words, tell people about these techniques, approaches and themes, send them here, it all helps, it’s all welcome, and I appreciate it so much. ❤️

Burn After Naming

a tea light in a tall glass jar is a makeshift incense burner

Image: A tea light in a tall glass jar is a makeshift incense burner, with a small plant & art print of a cattle skull, gold backdrop


I wanted a feast day to commemorate the one year anniversary of my concussion (consussiversary?), and you will be unsurprised to learn that I got so caught up in trying to solve one small detail related to how I wanted to feast day to look and feel, that I wore myself out and the feast part itself didn’t happen.

In fact, the feast, rather aptly, turned into a Recovery Day.

That’s okay. Feast days are an evolving practice, really an ongoing study in the relationship between ritual and compassion, and each time I attempt one, I learn more about why (and how) they are complicated and challenging, messy and hard.

Forgetting, again

I re-learn this truth: feast days can be complicated and challenging, messy and hard. This doesn’t mean a feast day is not a worthwhile endeavor, it just means I want to approach with more kindness and lower my expectations.

And while my tendency with lowering expectations is to lower them in small increments, they actually need to be lowered by a lot. I keep learning this.

And then I forget again, the blessing-curse of this new mind, or, who knows, maybe my mind was always like this, I don’t remember, and can’t tell you. Or possibly the forgetting-again is a human constant that I forget about too.


Complicated and challenging, messy and hard.

What is the menu for a feast day that honors these qualities?

Another thing I am learning: Maybe I like menu-planning more than I like feasting. Can I make some room to be okay with that? Do I wish to investigate further? Maybe the menu-planning is the ritual.


Commemorating anything is complicated and challenging, all the more so when the [whatever it is] being commemorated is fraught or painful, marking the moment between The Before and all that came after.

I got into a late night fight with a (possibly haunted?) chair in June of 2021 and I don’t know what happened, I can only tell you that found myself slammed against a wall, blood running down my face, eventually it became clear that I now had a different brain.

The chair stole so much of my ability to focus or remember, or to even care about the things I apparently used to focus on or remember, and then Covid knocked me out in January and took what was left.

Honestly I don’t even remember what to mourn, I just remember that I used to care about things, I think I had goals (???) and worked towards them (???), now I can’t seem to hold one in my head long enough to even determine out a possible next step, never mind take it.

Anyway. That’s a hard and painful thing to think about, never mind to actively take time to reflect on, no wonder I didn’t want to sit down for a feast, even one whose purpose was to celebrate marking a year of new brain.


I want to make a lot of room here to genuinely give acknowledgment & legitimacy to the grief in this perception and assessment, and, at the same time…

I also want to remember to keep asking What Is True And What Is Also True?

Can I let in the also-true reality that I do sometimes have flashes and glimmers of goals and desires again? And a flash is not nothing. A flash is hopeful. A flash is a beacon.

Disinclination to pause…

You have probably heard me say this, I think it’s something we need to regularly remind ourselves of.

We exist inside a culture that is go-go-go, no time to process, deliberately built to keep us from reflecting, invested in making sure we don’t get to grieve, feel, experience, contemplate, shift in relation to. There’s too much pressure to keep moving.

And it turns out that creating a container for this work, taking intentional time or making intentional space to reflect is really scary and intense, no wonder we try to skip that part.

Do-overs forever

Somehow nearly three months have passed since the proposed feast day. And a few more weeks since I wrote this essay that you are reading and then forgot I wrote it, until today.

Three months? That makes no sense to me, but the calendar says it’s true. Do-overs forever!

Maybe if I try for a feast day each quarter, eventually I will end up with cake. Possibly even a cake I really like.

Chop wood, carry water, wash one (1) top

The other day I needed to hand-wash a black top that can’t go in the laundry.

I made the bed and then carefully laid out this garment on top of my bed so that I couldn’t forget, like a flashing sign. SOMETHING IS HERE, PAY ATTENTION!

Then each time I passed the bed, I wondered what it was doing there, because I forgot. Then I would pace, trying to remember what it meant: clearly a clue, what is it a clue for?

In the late afternoon, I suddenly remembered why there was a piece of clothing on the bed, so I washed it out in the sink, then rolled it up in a towel like a burrito to coax out excess water. I knew I needed a hanger to hang it up, so I set off to find one, only to forget what I was looking for.

Keep in mind that I live in a tiny house on a trailer, and my entire home is 150sq ft, not that many steps to walk front door to back door (and nowhere else to go in between), so it’s not like I’m going up and down stairs or forgetting because I am distracted by other rooms, there are no other rooms.


In the evening, I found the rolled up towel, wondered what it was, discovered my black top, carried it with me to a hanger, and put myself to bed.

Pretty sure that was all I got done that day, having the brilliant idea to wash one (1) top, eventually washing it, eventually hanging it on a hanger to dry, continually losing focus and refocusing on the world’s smallest task took an entire day.

It wasn’t even on my List of Ten Thousand Very Important Things I need to do.

It wasn’t the metaphorical chop wood carry water of repetitive daily life chores.

Just the ongoing experience of trying to hold a thought long enough to act on it, and not being able to do anything about this wish.

Visiting worlds

I can still find my way in the world of concepts.

Unfortunately though, we exist in the world of things, and I am a stranger in the world of things.

Sure, the world of things was never my home, I was always just visiting, but I used to be able to fake it, and now I really don’t understand how to get around at a basic level.

Tea lights

I am out of tea lights, ran out when I was trapped during the monsoon floods. I like tea lights, they are cheery, and I use them to heat the loose incense I make.

Scent helps me focus, it helps me remain calm and remember to breathe.

Regular incense is sometimes overpowering, sometimes too smokey, and it costs too much. Burning loose incense by way of a tea light gives me many hours of diffused scent. I like this method.

I don’t like burning loose incense on charcoal, it involves remembering where the charcoal is and how to light it. That’s too many things to remember.

A tea light in a glass jar, with a sink strainer on top, the kind you can pick up at the grocery store, that’s my method. The strainer holds the loose incense, the tea light slowly heats it from below.

There is something cheery, steady, and calming with this method, the light through the glass, the wafting scent without smoke. Love an easy solution that is elegant in its simplicity.

Elegant in its simplicity

All you need is a tea light, if you can remember to procure tea lights.

Which I can’t.

In theory

There are no tea lights within a three hour drive that I have found. Unless you count scented tea lights at Walmart, but I don’t wish to give them money for anything, never mind candles that smell like fake vanilla or pumpkin spice or rum raisin, I can’t remember what unappealing synthetic variation on a food flavor they had for candles, but it was a clear and easy nope.

In theory, I could order tea lights online, but I only get wifi a few hours a day on a good day, and despite having written TEA LIGHTS in large letters, underlined many times, on many pieces of paper, I have not once remembered to do this.

Burn after naming

During the wild rains, I made three new loose incense blends.

Interestingly, the last time I made a loose incense blend was on concussion-anniversary day, so: maybe incense-making is a form of feast day celebration too.

Maybe it was a feast of scent and sensations instead of a feast of foods.

Smashing scented-things with a mortar and pestle is a delightful rainy day activity, and something I like to do on the new moon as well if I remember, which is a maybe.

But my favorite part of making an incense blend is the naming. And after you name it, you burn it.

So of course my favorite name of all the names I have come up with for [magic that I name and then burn] is Burn After Naming. Would you like to know my favorite names for incense blends?

Villanelle Tea Party

Villanelle Tea Party blend is the new name for what I used to call Sonoran Sorcery, a mix of cedar, creosote, rosemary & cloves, it reminds me of the desert on a summer evening.

Villanelle Tea Party was also name I came up with for the feast of forgetting.

Villanelle is the antagonist (though possibly the protagonist, depends on your perspective) in the show Killing Eve, she is the one intent on killing Eve. Though sometimes it seems as though Eve might be the one who will end up killing Eve, or, who, through her obsession with Villanelle, loses herself, and so obsession itself is killing Eve, if that makes sense.

And for me, because I grew up with Jewish feast days, a holiday always begins the evening before, the pre-, the Eve Of, It’s always the Eve of something.

So Killing Eve is a spectacular double-meaning, it is about killing Eve (who is to be killed? Eve), and it is about the BEFORE of an ending, the eve of the killing, something must end and it is the eve of that, the eve of things were one way and now they are not, the eve of it’s all over now, baby blue.

More about Eve (but not all about Eve, and also not All About Eve)

Eve is also the English version or transliteration of my very Hebrew name. And in some or possibly many senses, I was killed the night of the concussion. I am the Eve of, in the phrase “the Eve of”.

I am Eve, and I am the eve of.

Killing Eve is also the show I binge-watched during the ten days I spent in bed after the chair beat me up.

So I had a lot of time, because I live in the world of concepts and because the world of things was entirely unavailable to me, to think about Eve and being Eve, and what Killing Eve might mean, but also to study Villanelle who was utterly fascinating to me.

More about Villanelle

Villanelle, in the show Killing Eve, is a sociopath, a serial killer for hire, who works for bad people and does bad things. And has a lot of hot sex.

Villanelle is also hilarious, fun, glamorous, witty, playful, perceptive, a wild sensualist, honestly a delight of a character.

I was surprised to discover that I found Villanelle enormously relatable. And I think her relatability is intentional, showcasing the brilliance of the writing. A high-likability assassin is partly what draws you in.

Mmmmm, and I also think, more specifically, that I found a sociopathic serial killer so relatable because there is something deeply sad and very blank about this character, and deeply sad and very blank is possibly the best way to summarize what it feels like after your brain has been knocked out of its orbit.

Not to mention an appropriate tagline for these difficult times.

2020-2022: Deeply Sad And Very Blank.

What’s on the menu

But while I often feel distraught about the blankness and my inability to care about or remember the things I had once cared about, Villanelle revels in not caring about anything, other than Eve. Villanelle loves to care about absolutely nothing, Villanelle loves a good obsession, Villanelle sees no paradox here.

Villanelle is a NIHILIST but also a HEDONIST and an OBSESSIVE, and there is something extremely appealing about that combination.

When something gruesome happens (something that Villanelle, for once, is only indirectly the cause of), she shrugs and says, “We must get ourselves a very good meal now.” What an approach. I love this.

Yes, a good meal. A feast. Let me plan the menu, I love that part.

When sad and blank, a party

Villanelle wears a party dress to her psych evaluation.

What does this sad blank situation need? A feast day. Solved by cake.

What am I still excited about even when I believe I have lost the thread?

What am I able to celebrate and, more importantly, what’s on the menu?

More about a tea party for Villanelle

Villanelle loves dressing up and being glamorous and eating dessert, and so I wanted to make a rich chocolate lavender cake for Villanelle, to commemorate a year of everything is different now.

I wanted the cake to be very small, and to sit on top of an overturned wine glass. Villanelle loves presentation and display, Villanelle loves Use What You Have, Villanelle would kill you using the tiny chair just because it’s there.

But I got lost on the way to a lavender farm trying to procure culinary lavender, and wound up in a twilight zone, so that never happened.

Or, it hasn’t happened yet. I still have the recipe though. Chocolate lavender cake, and something about me making it for her, because Villanelle doesn’t bake, but I do, I have notes about this somewhere, let me find them.

The elements

Here are the elements and superpowers that Villanelle brings to a tea party, or to anything:

Captain, Sir!
Something about Velvety Decadence, is that cake-related or bigger than cake?
Glamorous, Formidable, Witchy and I Was Trained To Be Devastating…
Luscious, Hedonistic, Attention to Detail
and a dose of Hell Yes, Over The Top!

Devastatingly Delicious, as in: this rosemary-rose horchata I made is so good it needs a more beautiful glass to honor it. Also feeling some Olivia Pope energy there. Popcorn and red wine. Over a cliff levels of dedication.

Villanelle is a Wild Sensualist, extremely primal & scent-driven, instinct-driven, this is about atmosphere as much as food, beverage, elaborate cakes on cake stands, and let’s not forget aphrodisiacs.

Don’t forget aphrodisiacs

Villanelle is only about APHRODISIACS, I’m about DIY.

And the difference between us is not that she’s a sociopathic serial killer but that she’d go to a cafe in Paris in pursuit of the best cake, while I need to DIY it because DIY is about sorcery and about independence, it’s fine.

It’s fine.

Soll Sein Mit Mazal

Soll Sein Mit Mazal (Yiddish for “it should happen with good fortune” or “may it be with luck”) is my next incense blend: lemon balm, poppy seeds, cedar, nutmeg, cloves.

The name comes from a story about my grandmother, whose parents mostly spoke Yiddish and were old-country superstitious. They had a ritualized way of closing the windows before a storm, and they would say, I believe, Soll Sein Mit Chesed.

If you speak German, than you understand the first three words, even though that’s not really how you’d say it in German at all. It’s a blessing, or: the opposite of a curse. Chesed is the Hebrew word for compassion or mercy. So the phrase means something like, may god be merciful.

Something akin to “The good lord willing and the creek don’t rise…”

Luck luck luck, please, some good luck

According to a family story that is blurry in my lost-brain, my grandmother was quite young and at home alone when a storm came on. She knew she was supposed to close all the windows but she couldn’t remember the magic words, so she said Soll Sein Mit Mazal, may it happen with luck, may we be blessed with luck.

And now I say this.

During the monsoon and the flooding, the river rising and rising, I said it each time I looked out the window at the wall of rain. We should be so lucky. May it be lucky. The good lord willing and the creek don’t rise, compassion, compassion, compassion, mercy, mercy, mercy, luck, luck, luck.

Whatever works, right? Whatever fucking works. Whichever magic words are at your disposal.

Burn After Naming

Burn After Naming is my very favorite name that I have ever come up with for an incense blend, because it’s literally what you do: you name it and burn it.

Copal, sandalwood, sarsaparilla. Naming is wishing and invoking. Burning is the process by which the scent is released, like the prayer flags tattering so the prayers can be set free. Destruction as alchemy.


Burn after naming makes me think of the Coen Brothers movie, Burn After Reading, it’s the phrase of spies and top secret files, it’s classified, you read it and burn it (or I guess nowadays you declassify it in your mind, if you are the most embarrassing and dangerous former United States President).

Vital intel is meant to be consumed, in the sense of taken in, and consumed again in the sense of destroyed by fire. Learned and forgotten.

The moment of epiphany, the moment that it’s gone. The scribbled note to remind you of a dream, but the note makes no sense.

Put this in your mouth

That movie is such a wild ride, entirely tied together by Brad Pitt’s oral fixation, that man just keeps putting things in his mouth for the duration, who can say what happens or if anything happens, it’s kind of just one long series of snacks.

So again, my interests are more centered around menu planning (Villanelle, come to my tea party, I made something for your mouth) and less about content, because I can’t follow the plot these days anyway.

Make this delicious thing, set it on fire.

Make this delicious thing, put it in your mouth.

Obsess a little, it’s all we have left really. Sensual pleasure, scent, the moment of igniting, the fleeting joy of a good obsession.

Disappointment Cookies

I have been on the prowl for gluten-free cookie recipes that I can make one at a time in a waffle maker, or, also one at a time, in my tiny EZ-bake style oven, because I don’t have access to a real one yet.

I made a batch yesterday, and they did not turn out the way I wanted and I got so frustrated with my broken brain, my inability to navigate the world of things.

This particular recipe contains coconut oil, coconut flour, and shredded coconut.

The first two get blended into the batter, and the last goes in at the end right before the baking. I mixed these up despite checking the instructions easily a dozen times, my brain just reversed them, and so I left the coconut oil out of the batter, instead of reserving the shredded coconut.

I get so upset with myself. So many monsters of self-criticism, about how I am wasting ingredients and time with my mistakes, why didn’t I double-check (I did! Just can’t remember anything!), why even try anything if I’m just going to ruin it, I screw everything up, it’s never worth it, etc.

I’ll give this to my monsters: they are nothing if not consistent.

Mostly falling apart

Of course they turned out fine, my panic was overdone but the cookies were not. They’re cookies. Cookies are delicious, even weird-looking ones that, like me, are mostly falling apart.

And not-yes cookies are still a clue about true-yes cookies.

And: I will get better at this.

Everyone makes mistakes, and a lost tourist in the world of things possibly makes more mistakes than they expect to, but okay, that’s part of this too.

What is the real story?

Is the story really that I screwed up making cookies because my brain doesn’t work, or is the story that cookies, like incense, are a form of alchemy, that experiments are intrinsically valuable, and that my intense disproportionate panic over outcomes is a step I can eventually remember to skip.

Just skip that part. Omit that ingredient. Maybe that’s aspirational, but maybe that’s okay too. Maybe just remembering that this is an option is the new step, whether I can pull it off or not.


Here are the superpowers I named (yes, burn after naming) and asked for to help me in this moment of falling apart over falling-apart cookies:

Bob Ross Happy Little Accidents
What If The Easy/Wrong Way Is Just As Good, Or Even Better?
All Experiments Are Useful Experiments
All Cookies Are Good Cookies Because Oh Hell Yeah Cookies
Hey What If This Is Unfuckupable Actually
Falling Apart Is Part Of The Process
All Points For Trying
Now We Know What To Try Next Time

As well as any other related or unrelated superpowers I haven’t thought of that could be of help here, I call them in, come in, powers of Sweetness.

What would Villanelle do? Devour three cookies and get right back to the mission.

Soll sein mit mazal. All luck and good fortune to us.

It’s all over now, baby blue

Bob Dylan, hilariously described by Israeli songwriter Meir Ariel (at possibly the last concert he did before he died) as one of the greatest Hebrew poets of all times, can write a hell of a poem, that much we know, and It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue is a masterpiece about endings.

Your lover who just walked out the door
Is taking all his blankets from the floor
The carpet too is moving under you…

I’m not sure if there is a better summing up of this specific kind of heartache-loss of an ending than someone leaving, and taking the floor with them. That really is what it feels like.

What was now isn’t. It was until it wasn’t, and this is the moment of gone.

What was now isn’t

The carpet too is moving under you.

The ground is suddenly unstable, not there, you have no balance, no proprioception, no way to even interact with anything that’s happening because it’s all been decided for you and without you.

The floor is not the floor, the ground is no longer the ground, nothing is how you thought it was, it’s all over now, baby, blue.

Strike another match

I like many versions and covers of this song, and don’t want to pick a favorite at the moment.

It does what it does, a perfect depiction of an unbearable goodbye, or, worse, an exit without a goodbye. It is also an accurate portrayal of what it feels like when the brain you have is not anything like the one you had before. You must leave now, take what you need you think will last, whatever you wish to keep, you’d better grab it fast.

It’s all over now.

But also: Strike another match, and start anew.

We’re putting our best guys on it

Speaking of the Coen Brothers, I keep thinking about that perfectly executed scene from The Big Lebowski, when the Dude is trying to get information on the whereabouts of either the missing car or the missing briefcase that was in his stolen car, and the car lot cop is entirely uninterested, and just gets more and more sarcastic about it:

Yeah, the briefcase, sure, that’s a big case, we’re putting our best guys on it!

Okay, I had to go to the library for wifi to look it up, here’s what he actually said:

“Leads, yeah, sure. I’ll just check with the boys down at the crime lab, they’ve got four more detectives working on the case. They got us working in shifts!”

So basically this but with my brain. Everyone is on the case, everyone is looking for it. They’re working in shifts.

Rise again

Phoenix superpowers of from the ashes, burn after naming, remember and forget, forget and remember, start over, it’s a new day, strike another match and start anew.

Name it, wish it, set it on fire, start over.

Burn after: naming.

What does it mean to name something? What does it mean to name something when you have no working memory, no focus, everything is blurred?

It is brave to name things when so much has been burned. I think so. My monsters disagree, they think I should stop being a baby and just get better. Which is honestly a beautiful wish. To just get better. Okay! We’re putting our best guys on it.

Let’s name some feast days

So many things to mark and celebrate, or to mark and not-celebrate, to just pause and breathe and take note, again, remember, again, that some days are complicated and messy.

We will Bob Ross Happy Accident our way through, or burn things and cry, or eat a cookie. Possibly some combination of the above. We will make it through.


This week was autumnal equinox, which in the past was my ritual visit to the sunflower fields, but I don’t have energy for that, so the sunflowers will have to come to me.

And now it’s new years for me, Rosh Hashana, which begins with Erev Rosh, the Eve of the head of the year. Will I make a very tiny honey cake? Maybe. Probably not. Let’s start small and go easy.

October 8 is the one year anniversary of the fire in my tiny house, October 9 is the day my mom died. Maybe that chocolate lavender cake is still in the cards. We’re putting our best guys on it.

Strike another match and start anew.

What was, now isn’t. But what is could be exciting. Let’s find out, welcome in the unknown good surprises, make a new batch of cookies, try again.

Here’s to a beautiful sweet new year if you’re celebrating today, or a beautiful sweet new whatever beginning you are in.

Come play with me, I love company

You are welcome to play with any of the concepts here in any way you like. Come play in the comments!

You can brainstorm experiments, practices, rituals or feast days, cookies or menu items you would like to play around with, whether for your own times of loss, heartache or change, or for whatever you might going through, People Vary.

And as always, you’re invited to share anything sparked for you while reading, themes you’re playing with, or add any wishes into the pot, into the healing zone, as a friend of mine said, who knows, the power of the collective is no small thing, and companionship is healing.

A request

If you received clues or perspective or just want to send appreciation for the writing and work/play we do here, I appreciate it tremendously.

I am accepting support (with joy & gratitude) in the form of Appreciation Money to Barrington’s Discretionary Fund. Asking is not where my strength resides but Brave & Stalwart is the theme these days, and pattern-rewriting is the work, and it all helps with fixing what needs fixing, currently focused on replacing three windows and installing a heater to make it through winter.

Or you can buy a copy of the my Monster Manual & Coloring Book if you don’t have it!

And if those aren’t options, I get it, you can light a candle for support (or light one in your mind!), share one of my posts with someone who loves words, tell people about these techniques, approaches and themes, send them here, it all helps, it’s all welcome, and I appreciate it so much. ❤️

Precious Cargo

vibrant golden wildflowers overtaking an empty field, forest and sky in the background, a sunny New Mexico day

Image: New flowers after the rains: vibrant golden wildflowers have taken over the field by my gate (a watchful gate guardian blowing a kiss)

Precious Cargo

I made pudding while trapped in the sailboat during the monsoon floods.

It’s not actually a sailboat, in reality it’s a tiny house on a trailer bed that I imagine to be other things.

In my free-range imaginings it is sometimes a sailboat, sometimes a safe house for a semi-retired spy, sometimes a fierce dragon, sometimes a lair, a place for some light sorcery (do you love a double meaning too?), sometimes a cowboy bunkhouse.

What are you up to? Some light sorcery, and pudding.

No small miracle

It has its flaws, as a structure. Many, actually. Not the least of which being that it is not the tiniest bit climate-controlled. Brutally cold in winter (icicles on the inside, remind me to share pics), it becomes a glass box of sweltering heat in summer. Good times.

Meanwhile, the hot water heater has been broken since February, and the only person in the area who knows how to fix things broke his hip and also stopped responding to my texts. Showering is a distant sweet memory.

However, during a flooding event, the sailboat that doubles as a cowboy bunkhouse turns out to be quite the cozy, snug and rain-proof hideaway in which to cry and make pudding. So there’s that. No small miracle.

Pudding du jour (ask your server)

So much crying, so much pudding. Each day a different pudding.

I used to work in a bar in south Tel Aviv, there was a chalkboard sign on the wall by the bar that said:

Pasta of the Day (ask the waitress).

And over the course of the two years that I worked the bar five nights a week, people would ask every day what the pasta of the day was, and it was always, but always, pesto gnocchi.

Then why do we need to ask, they would ask, reasonably.

Anyway, this was my joke while trapped by the flooded roads: Nu? What’s the pudding of the day?

Ask your server.

The important part

So, in the end, the important part, all that matters really, is this:

I was held in safety, kept safe, warm and dry, and I had pudding.

Blessings upon the baseline good

Blessings upon the simple pleasures, the baseline good: enjoying a ramekin of delicious pudding while cozy, dry, safe. A thankful heart for this.


I want to tell you that I made pudding each day because sweetness was indicated, and that’s not not-true.

Sweetness is practically the definition of light sorcery, sweetness has a generosity to it, sweetness is healing.

Yes. Pudding is good medicine for a hurting heart and a confused, tired, struggling brain, and I am in possession of both, or they are in possession of me.

But mainly, and more to the point, the larder was bare and I was out of most non-pudding options.

Pudding was the answer because there wasn’t another answer.

No one expects the expected, I guess, unless they do

(They probably do, it’s right in the name)

I keep flashing on the Monty Python line, No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.

To which I must say, “Too Soon?” Yes. Absolutely. Very much Too Soon, my people aren’t over it.

But in much the same way that no one expects the Spanish Inquisition even though they might have and should have, and, generally speaking we too might expect or at least anticipate the possibility of [things we would prefer not to happen], I somehow did not anticipate being flooded-in for a week.

Nor did I expect to lose signal in the storms and be unable to reach anyone.

And stir

I mean, yes, of course I definitely imagined the possibility of potentially being stranded for a day or two.

And then, in an unlikely spell of a limited and impaired imagination, our protagonist, usually quite imaginative, sometimes known to be overly-imaginative, stopped there and didn’t imagine beyond that.

Add extenuating circumstances and stir.

Or, since we are making pudding, whisk constantly.


In my defense, there is a somewhat reasonable reason I was not stocked up on food and supplies, the backstory is boring, though possibly I will tell you about it anyway.

Either way, it happened the way it happened, and I found myself not only stranded, but out of most forms of food, subsisting mainly on green chile rice with pistachios, which is delicious actually, though perhaps somewhat less so when it’s the only option, and you have no way to replenish the ever-diminishing supply.

The road was flooded in both directions, nowhere to go, the rain thundering away relentlessly.


But I had plenty of rolled oats and shredded coconut that, combined in a blender I never gave back to an ex, with cold water from the well, yield, briefly, a liquid that approximates milk.

And I had thickening agents too: tapioca starch, and sahlav.

Sahlab / Sahlav

Sahlab or Sahlav is orchid flower flour, I love saying that, flower-flour!

It sounds redundant but it isn’t; it sounds poetic and it is.

And of course, the scent is intoxicating.

Sometimes, even when I am not making pudding, I will open the jar just to induce a brief sensory catharsis.


In other miracles, I found brown sugar in the pantry, a packet of which I’d picked distractedly, up on a whim, for a recipe floating in my mind that day, a recipe I can’t remember and definitely didn’t make, at a market in Deming, on a day which at the time I would have described as more or less one unending disaster.

It was a day that both began and ended in unexpected heartbreak and tears (no one expects the Spanish Inquisition), but now we can see some saving grace, in this realization of surprise sweetness, and that’s poetic too.

Residual sweetness, I’ll take it. A new meaning to leftovers.

Flooded in both directions

The rains hammered away, the river rose and rose, I can’t see it from my place but I could feel it rising.

It crested at 15.26 ft (4.65 meters), breaking the previous and much lower record of 11.2 ft (3.4 meters), from all the way back in 1997.

I knew none of this at the time because wifi signal was knocked out, connection would vanish only to mysteriously and miraculously return every twenty four to thirty six hours for three to five minutes, sometimes as many as ten, during which I would frantically text a couple friends to say I was safe.

Checking the weather to confirm: nothing to hope for, just rain and more rain, if I was lucky, and fast, I could capture a screenshot of the forecast to pore over later.

Nowhere to go, nowhere to be but right the fuck here. Let’s make pudding.

Of grandeur (my favorite kind of delusion)

The heartache hit me again when I wasn’t ready, though what is ready when it comes to matters of the heart, and I cried until I hyperventilated, cried until I vomited, all previously un-felt heartache determined to land at once.

As if the sailboat was now also a landing dock for lost heartache.

Not sure if this is Delusions of Grandeur, or, alternately, could be hallucinating from not eating enough, I wrote, half joking, maybe a quarter joking, can something be an eighth of a joke, let’s call it that, in the captain’s log, aka the world’s longest text I was composing to Kathryn in case I ever got some signal to send it…

…but let’s just say it: I can’t stop crying and neither can the sky, what if I am turning into a piece of folklore, a scorned lover archetype who floods the earth with tears, god I hope not, because wow, how completely embarrassing for everyone involved…


The rain descended in sheets, not so much drops as collections of plops, and then just a vastness of rain.

An undifferentiated mass, loud and relentless.

Please stop, I begged the sky. I am not brave enough for an apocalypse. I am not brave enough for any of this.

The rain did not let up.


Every few days a reprieve, a spell of several hopeful hours of not-rain, and I’d bravely pack up the car to see if I could make it to town to do laundry, fill water, get provisions, maybe exchange a few words with another person to feel human again.

Do you remember the fires? They took out the topsoil, and now the ground has forgotten how to absorb the water (come on, ground, you had one job, be thirsty for monsoon season!), it runs off the mountains and there’s no room in the river, the water floods the road.

Honestly relatable, I too have forgotten how to do many of the things I am supposed to know how to do.

Anyway, I’d make it a quarter of a mile before the road turned into running water.

Turn around, unpack the car, cry and make pudding.

All roads lead to never mind, turn around and make pudding

One day I even tried the back road to town, not my favorite, there’s no center line, the road is narrow, tight switchbacks, sheer cliff drops, high elevation, surprise deer, and usually an impatient truck behind you.

I made it several miles, past a few dips I thought might be iffy, and was just starting to feel moderately hopeful when I rounded a curve at 45mph (72 km) and right in front of me, the road had disappeared, turned into a fast-flowing river.

No more road. Bye bye, road. You’re a river now, baby.

Never mind, let’s make pudding.

When life doesn’t give you lemons (okay, you forgot to buy lemons)

Would you like another miracle? Yes please. Keep them coming.

I was sure there were lemons in the bunkhouse, only to discover they were all already in the process of becoming preserved lemons, to be blended and used to enhance the next batch of zhug I planned make with fresh cilantro from the farmers market, except the market got rained out…

Where are those lemons when you need them most…

However, even though I never buy those plastic containers of lemon juice, in an unlikely plot twist, I’d picked one up last minute because of a reason I cannot remember (concussion brain and long-covid brain are dependable in one area, and that’s never remembering the reason!), anyway the lemon juice makes the well water tolerable.

Of course if the electricity goes out, which has happened more than once in the recent storms, then the well pump is useless. I filled some extra jugs just in case.

Destroyed by Pudding

If you scroll through my recipe documents, you will find one called Destroyed By Pudding. It sounds like a fake band (just one guy), but it’s more of an ethos.

Basically though here’s the concept. Pudding is, on the surface at least, the most non-interesting dessert option available. Conceptually. It has no intrigue, no mystique.

So if I’m going to make pudding (and do all that whisking, for what, for what, convince me), I need the end result to bowl me over with lusciousness.

Wreck me.

Make me cry. Make me mad. Be outrageously, infuriatingly, impossibly delicious.

Break my fucking heart, pudding.

Leave me a helpless puddle, nothing left. In the calm after the storm. I have been destroyed by pudding and its unexpected decadence.

I let love in

I want to feel about pudding the way I feel listening to Nick Cave: I let love in. I let love in.

As in: I know I shouldn’t have, but I had to. I regret this completely and also I have no regrets. You know how it is, no one expects the Spanish Inquisition. How else could this have gone down other than like hurting exactly this much?

No, I want to feel about pudding the way I feel listening to Rachid Taha and Jeanne Added redo Now Or Never.

Completely and utterly undone.

It’s now or never

What a shattering rendition of that song, pudding-worthy, truly.

I never even appreciated that song until that specific take made me re-hear it.

It’s now or never.

What a surprise (not a surprise), I said now (quietly, in my heart) and they chose never and disappeared. It is what it is and it was always going to be exactly like that, illusions and delusions aside, all sweetest dreams and sweetly hopeful hopefulness aside.

Never mind, turn around, let’s make pudding.

It used to be a road, what can I tell you

When the road is no longer a road, even though you really thought there would still be a road around the bend (and to be fair to you, there usually is), what do you do.

You give yourself all credit for coming to a stop just in time, for pulling off a complicated tight turn, for being hopeful, points for trying.

Points for trying. You let love in and you were brave, or maybe you were brave and you didn’t. You said yes, now or you said eh actually never. Either way. Now we make pudding.


I make a velvety rich chocolate-chili pudding, with the spicy drop-kick coming in at the end, unexpected, every time, even though you told yourself it’s coming.

You know, like heartbreak or the Spanish Inquisition. A pudding worthy of being destroyed by.

Sometimes chai-chocolate pudding, with mesquite powder and my cinnamon-sorcery blend. Or the most intensely-vanilla vanilla pudding with ginger syrup.

And sahlav, of course.

Which is my favorite? Whichever pudding I am currently making (whisking constantly) is my favorite.

Precious cargo

I keep meaning to order one of those silicone lips that attaches to a pot, to help the pudding make its way into tiny jars. But then I forget, I have access to wifi so rarely, and my list of things to do once I have signal is so long.

So the only way to effectively coax the pudding from the pot into the jars is to say the pouring mantra, and if I forget to say it (and I do forget, every time), it spills everywhere.

That’s how I always end up spilling on the first pour, wildly, all over the place, but then I remember and whisper: PRECIOUS CARGO.

Saying the words, precious cargo, while I pour, is the only way to not spill. I don’t know why. It just is.

Cherish me on purpose

Once I said it out loud, by accident, we were tearing down the road from the mountain, rounding a curve at an improbable speed, and I blurted out PRECIOUS CARGO, meaning me.

Please tend to this precious cargo, cherish me. Keep me safe from harm.

I will never let any harm come to you, they said, and then a year and a half later, parachuted abruptly out of my life without a goodbye, leaving no trace, as if they’d been given a roadmap on exactly how to hurt me. Which of course they had.

No one expects the expected.

The fires

Fire season was long and arduous and enormously stressful. The two biggest fires in New Mexico history raged at once. I ran away and hid out in Arizona, disconnected from everything.

Hid out and did a lot of waiting. Waiting, hoping, worrying, making sorbet.

The heat

After two months of praying for miracles, the fires died out. I’d burned some bridges too, the metaphorical kind, and made my ragged way back to the sailboat on the back of a heat wave.

The only room cool enough to exist in was the bedroom, which really is just barely big enough for a small bed and me on top of it, so I’d get up early, work out, make a meal, clean up, be back in bed by noon.

Close the doors, close the shades, pour water into the chiller, turn on the fans. If it was 89 degrees F (31 C) outside, I could get it down to 77 inside (25 C). Siesta mode. More waiting it out.

I didn’t have a refrigerator and when I tried to write a list of wishes, the only thing I could think to put on it was ice. What do I want? Ice. What else? I don’t know. Just ice.

(What do you call this form of heat-induced blank slate?)

I don’t know how to explain who I was or what I did during those weeks of Siesta Mode.

It was like a blankness, a nothing, but different somehow than the blank nothing of depression or concussion recovery, or the brain fog from long covid, and I don’t know that I can quantify the distinctions between any of these.

Too hot to think or plan or do, too sluggish to be tactical or strategic in any way, or even to remember what that mode of being is like. Hope wasn’t gone, and yet it also wasn’t around. I wedged myself between two fans, read bits and pieces of recipes and stared out the window a lot.

The animals were equally mystified by the extreme heat. The bunnies took to flopping dramatically on the dusty patch of ground beneath the awning, bellies snug against the dirt, doing their best PAINT ME LIKE ONE OF YOUR FRENCH GIRLS poses.

The birds hung out on the porch a lot, doing not much, occasionally peeking in the windows with an expression of “what the fuck is this”, and I would have to agree.

The floods

Everyone said it was coming. The barometric pressure headaches confirmed it.

We all thought monsoon season would be an especially rough one.

I just figured I had more time to prepare.


I said PRECIOUS CARGO while funneling well water into bottles, while crying myself to sleep, while hyperventilating, while lighting the last tea light.

And I watched nature television (the bunnies gathering to play in the dirt beneath the awning, through the window) while standing on a balance board.

Bunnies, precious cargo, balance, light, light sorcery, listening to the endless rains.

The snake (or not a snake)

It was small, dark grey, I think, and moved very fast. Slithering and fast across my rug. A legless lizard possibly, or a New Mexico blind snake.

I don’t know how it got in but I did not like that it was in my house. I took several days off of yoga to hide in bed because I did not wish to find myself face to face with a snake. But then I didn’t see it and eventually I braved the floor again.

It must have left, my friends reassured me. But that was not particularly reassuring: if it can leave, then it has egress. If it can leave, it can come again.

So many things are like this, do you see. I just want to know. And there is no way to know.

The hummingbird

Each day that I was stranded a hummingbird came to the door or kitchen window and paused, eye to eye with me, a short entrancing visit, a majestic mini-hypnosis.

The blur

One morning the monsoon storms took a break, so imagine how confused I was when I heard the startling sound of thunder very near me.

That’s odd, I thought, the storms stopped storming.

Then something flashed past my front door, absolutely enormous, incredibly, breathtakingly fast, a thundering blur.

Turning my head towards the window, I saw the massive elk bound over my fence like it was nothing and disappear, almost flying, off into the hills.

The two hawks

The two hawks made circles in the air in front of my porch for a very long time.

“Hawk!” I shouted, to warn the bunnies, much in the way that we used to shout “Car!”, as kids playing in the streets in the 80s.

The hawks did their circling and soaring, so graceful. I admire them. Powerful and fierce. Unhurried, unbothered, patient. They know exactly how much effort is needed for everything.

The two deer

Four baby deer have been playing in the field the past couple weeks, but two of them came right up to the gate and poked their heads in and played for a while. I love their goofy enormous ears.

Remind me and I will share deer pics.

Ghost ninja bunny

My favorite of the bunnies is the one I call ghost ninja bunny, my mourning companion & morning companion, always there before the others.

You know how cats sometimes act as though they are fighting invisible spirits? Ghost ninja bunny does that but with impressively fierce pugilistic moves: athletic leaps, incredible flips in the air. A fighter.

I get it, ghost ninja bunny. Everything is scary right now.

My friend suggested that nature was maybe trying to make it up to me for the snake invasion, with all these charmed visits from animal friends.

Nature is reclaiming, I said, taking over. The monsoon rains grew the wild grasses up around my house, as tall as the porch, the sailboat is an island now. I can barely make it down the driveway.

Sahlav, again

You know that I am required by law* to wildly enthuse over etymology with you, and of course I also need another excuse to say flower-flour, because it feels so good in my mouth.

*by law = by autism, apparently

Okay, so this pudding-drink which is sometimes more drink than pudding and sometimes more pudding than drink, depending where you are in the Middle East and whose family tradition etc, is called Sahlab in Arabic, and Sahlav in Hebrew.

Both of these words mean orchid. The flower. Though also the flour. Made from orchids.

Made from

In Arabic, you say zaharat al’sahlab (or so I was taught, I am not an Arabic speaker yet by any means) which means The Flower Of The Orchid, when you are referring to the flower specifically, as opposed to just saying sahlab when you mean the drink-pudding-dessert made from the flower-flour.

In Hebrew you use the same word for both, but the flower gets the emphasis on second syllable. When you mean the dessert, you kind of give it that Ashkenazi eastern European first syllable emphasis, it feels a little slang-ey and casual…

Look at this beautiful orchid: Sah-LAV
It’s a chilly evening, you know what would be perfect? Yeah let’s have SAH-lav.

Cozy sweetness

Tragically, the orchid flower-flour has been over-used to the point that it’s somewhat endangered, so these days it’s more common to use corn starch or a blend of starch and flower-flour, but yeah, there’s just something about that flower-flavor.

Anyway, it all works out, you flavor your pudding with rose water or orange blossom water anyway, and maybe dried rose petals on top if you’re feeling fancy, so whatever the thickening agent, you still get a full-flower experience, that taste memory of cozy winter sweetness.

Hot vanilla sounds wrong, but hear me out

This pudding is the middle eastern version of hot chocolate, except vanilla-rose-orchid instead of chocolate, and hot vanilla just sounds wrong.

But it fills the same form of warm and sweet, it tastes like cozy and contained. I am homesick for places I cannot ever be again.

Sometimes someone parachutes abruptly out of your life, and they take with them the place you want to go to be comforted.


Samin Nosrat talks about memory cards, a preserved sense-memory of a taste, and sahlav is a very intense memory card taste for me, a nostalgia moment.

Or you could say that pudding for me is a category of memory card, and sahlav a specific sense memory, sprinkled with cinnamon, coconut flakes, pistachios, comfort.

I want treating myself like precious cargo to be a memory card too.

Before I lost wifi, I was listening to a podcast interview with a baker who was talking about destroying nostalgia, taking a beloved taste-memory, breaking it down, starting over. I don’t know how to do this yet, but I’m going to have to learn.

How to drink

I was reading about a fancy mezcal while I had wifi, I don’t remember why, reading about it was a sort of necessary rabbit hole, and there was something I was looking for that was not this, but here it was:

How to drink: Neat. In small sips (like a kiss)

Okay, slay me, go ahead and break my fucking heart, booze copywriter. You have me now, shattered.

Like, there I was, like in the poem by Cameron Awkward-Rich: hand on my heart, hand on my stupid heart

No one expects the poetry

There is poetry everywhere, and especially where I don’t expect it.

In lines from my lost captains log updates:

…had some pistachios, the last of the pecans and raisins, making rice again, anxious (poem)…

And in a perfect tweet I saw before I lost connection: “Don’t touch that, it’s my load-bearing sadness!”

I am dealing with my load-bearing sadness in the usual ways: cooking, sorcery, cleaning, repetition of movement, talking to the bunnies, finding the poetry.

Or the optimism

I love this clue from Katie Anthony, who said, on an entirely different topic:

For me the question is not “Where can I find hope?” but rather “What will I do once I’ve found it again?”

I love the optimism in that, there is something immensely heart-warming to me in the idea that when speaking of hope, it is not a question of where. And if it isn’t about where, then it isn’t lost.

Here is someone who thinks hope is plentiful and the problem is not the how of finding it, or whether or not you will find it, because of course you will, that’s a given, for Katie, and I love that. Instead the challenge is to discern the course of action.

Let’s discern a course of action then.

Let’s see how this wants to end / Take it to the river

Eventually the waters cleared.

I made it to town, to the laundromat, acquired the most frivolous snacks because I very much needed something not-rice and not-pudding and not-well-water.

Forever in search of dopamine.

A few days passed. I took myself to the hot springs and it felt so good to immerse in the warmth of the water, and I cried some more. I cried and asked the Rio Grande to help me.

Specifically, I asked the Rio Grande how to heal my hurting heart sadness, and it said: Find something to be excited about again.

I asked it what I can be excited about, and it said: Healing your heart.

Stones in the river

We stan a wise river.

And, also: I don’t know how to be excited about (or to channel excitement towards) healing my heart. Generally I think of heart-healing as kind of a slog, a frustrating, mostly mysterious grief process that mainly requires a great deal of time.

Compassion and time, patience and time, sweetness and time, time and more time.

But the Rio Grande hasn’t lied to me yet.

So if my river friend believes that excitement is the answer, and that I can be excited about healing my heart, I am going to have to investigate that, skip some stones on what that might look like, where I might start.

Start where you are = start with what you have

Let’s take inventory. What do I have?

A load-bearing sadness. Plenty of pudding. Cookbooks. Dustpan and broom.

Clove oil that I made on the new moon. Loose incense (three versions) that I made and named. The first day of a new month. A shirt I am not giving back because it’s mine now. The color green.

New flowers after the rains.

How do I feel? What do I need?

Shell-shocked. I feel shell-shocked. Is there a word for shell-shocked but as it relates to matters of the heart? To be in heart-shock, a state of bewildering shakiness.

I have been trying to distract myself with small obsessions, making the perfect-for-me non-dairy milkshake, for example, or refining my pudding recipes, with notes upon notes for future experiments.

Anything I can obsess over that is not related to my personal situations is good.

What does the precious cargo of my heart need from me other than space, time, comfort and sweetness?

I will know when I know.

The poetry of repetition

Precious cargo. Precious cargo. Precious cargo.

Focusing on what I can craft in my compact kitchen, the art of destroyed by pudding.

Zeroing in on questions of what is exquisite and delicious, comforting and enticing, and how does it relate to this work of pouring without spilling, rehoming my concoctions into tiny jars.

New flowers after the rains

A small prayer: grant me the flourishing powers of bold yellow flowers, newness after the rains.

Come play with me, I love company

You are welcome to play with any of the concepts here in any way you like.

You can brainstorm experiments, practices or rituals you would like to play with whether for your own times of heartache/stranded/shell-shocked, or for whatever you might going through, People Vary.

And as always, you’re invited to share anything sparked for you while reading, themes you’re playing with, or add any wishes into the pot, into the healing zone, as a friend of mine said, who knows, the power of the collective is no small thing, and companionship is healing.

A heart-rooted thank you

While I was going through the [everything] of the past few months, I was mostly unable to look at email, either because I didn’t have wifi or because I was overwhelmed and having ten thousand panic episodes a day about the list of things that is waiting for me to attend to once I have attending-to-things energy again, I hope soon.

But it turned out that many blog readers were generously sending me money as well as the kindest words of hope & encouragement, and I was so deeply moved to discover that everyone has been rooting for me and my recovery. What treasure.

Thanks to this incredible warmth and generosity of heart from readers, I was able to outfit my tiny house with a small refrigerator which miraculously arrived the week before the floods. And my hopefulness returned.

So I cannot imagine how I would have made it through without you. Thank you. It means so much, and I am at a loss for how to express just how much.

A request

If you received clues or perspective or just want to send appreciation for the writing and work/play we do here, I appreciate it tremendously.

I am accepting support (with joy & gratitude) in the form of Appreciation Money to Barrington’s Discretionary Fund. Asking is not where my strength resides but Brave & Stalwart is the theme these days, and pattern-rewriting is the work, and it all helps with fixing what needs fixing, currently focused on replacing three windows and installing a heater to make it through winter.

Or you can buy a copy of the my Monster Manual & Coloring Book if you don’t have it!

And if those aren’t options, I get it, you can light a candle for support (or light one in your mind!), share one of my posts with someone who loves words, tell people about this work, it all helps, it’s all welcome, and I appreciate it so much. ❤️


Recipes for times of free fall

malabi pudding with pomegranate syrup and shreddedcoconut in a tiny glass jar

Image: A large pic of a tiny pudding (malabi), a vanilla rosewater pudding with pomegranate syrup and shredded coconut, in a mini glass jar

Entry / pre-

This is a very long piece, 8400 words last I checked, four times what I usually write, no way to write less.

Wanted to let you know in case you needed to prep some extra comfort for the time/space/experience of reading, in whatever form that looks like for you, snacks and a refreshing beverage, a more comfy way to sit, I don’t know.

And I wanted to add that, yet again, things are tumultuous out there in the world, and seemingly accelerated at the same time, so: lighting a candle to welcome whatever hope-glimmers may come, may they arrive swiftly. ❤️

Recipes for Times of Free Fall

What is in my brain right now

I am having more trouble than usual holding onto a thread of attention. Long Covid has turned my ADHD up to eleven, and I cannot maintain a thought, remember where said thought was going, or even where I was going, and I mean this in the most literal way.

I repeat everything I am doing to myself out loud so I don’t forget.

“Come on, babe. We are walking into the next room to fold the laundry, here’s the plan, we will fold the laundry, then put it away, you can do this, I believe in you, where are we going? To fold the laundry!”

One brief brisk lap later

And then, much like my cousin’s pea-brained dobermans who will meet you, decide you’re okay (after having been informed and sternly reminded that you are family), but then immediately forget that they already know you after having done one (1) brief brisk lap around the kitchen island, I too forget, again, what I meant to do.

Joshua: No, you know Havi!
Dogs: Oh right, yes, okay, we do know Havi
Dogs, after one lap around the kitchen island: WHO IS THIS INTRUDER!!!! HOW DARE!!!

True story, I did not find this amusing or relatable at the time, and yet, now I am these dogs, anything at all can erase whatever small progress has been made towards the forgotten-goal.

All that to say that today’s piece of writing has been kicking around in my head for a while now, and I lost the thread so many different times, and find myself now with only a confusing tangle of clues.


So, I have made a list (which reads like an accidental poem) of what I wanted to write about, or am reasonably sure I wanted to write about when I was writing this in my head, aka the pre-write, and, who knows, maybe I will write about any or all of those things, we will see…

The contents of my brain right now

Let’s turn them into a table (of contents!)…

On Vibrancy / To Vibrancy
In Times of free-fall
Recipes for self-soothing
Refreshing (double meaning)
Pomegranate juice
Into the kitchen and into the cauldron
The Greenest Green
Beige (which sounds like the opposite of green but it is not)
To life (which also tastes green? it tastes like green!)
Ringing and also Ringing In (the ice cream truck in my head)
To Life To Life, L’chaim


Just about everyone I know is free-falling right now, in free-fall, a state of.

Not yet landing. Still falling. Motion: continuous. In the ongoing-ness of a wild ride. Or at least, immersed in these perceptions of This is a free fall. Immersed in this experience of Excuse me, this plummeting is not what I signed up for actually…

The ongoing-ness of the wild ride

Ride is possibly too neutral of a word, this specifically feels like a descent. A tumultuous downward motion-experience that is an undoing.

And not just an undoing, but an undoing into the unknown.

Some of these people I know are also going through absolutely heart-wrenching personal tragedies. And sometimes the tragedies are the pre-free-fall, the impetus, while sometimes the loss and the sensations of falling are just happening at the same time. What do you do?

What do you do when you are in a free-fall

What do you do when you are in a free-fall?

One of them asked me that. To be clear, I am also in a free-fall, of a different flavor.

Sometimes I really like the way text doesn’t give information in the form of intonation. You have no idea what octave anything is in. There’s something playful in that to me, if one can be playful while free-falling, I am not sure, but it’s what I’ve got in the moment.

A question is offered to me, devoid of tone, and I can read it in a variety of ways. It could be [what do you do in a free-fall] or [what do you do in a free-fall]. Or, possibly, what do you do in a free-fall?????

We have options. I like options.


You know when you go to look up a recipe online and there’s a whole prelude about the person’s childhood, their last vacation, a weird dream they had, and/or the history of plums?

I think though sometimes they give you a link where you can skip all that and jump to the actual recipe, and I had this panicked moment just now like, wait, should I be doing that with my posts and link to the parts where I offer an actual technique???

(Panic because I don’t know how and don’t have energy, and who knows if I will get to techniques today, who knows how many times I will lose the thread?)

But then I laughed because oh wait, why am I worrying about this non-issue, this isn’t even a cooking blog, people come here for the complicated winding backstory, not to mention the parenthetical asides within parenthetical asides that I believe are a feature, not a bug, of adhd storytelling. If there are recipes to be found here, the recipes are just a bonus.

I will not apologize. This is not even a cooking blog! Haha, okay, babe, let’s keep going.

Except when it is

Yeah, okay, I don’t know, this online space been many things to many people over the years (and I am waving to people who have been reading my words here since 2008, possibly some of you were getting my newsletter all the way back in 2005), so maybe it kind of is a cooking blog.

Certainly many actual recipes have been posted over the years, and certainly self-fluency techniques are like recipes, in that you can take the heart or essence of what they are about, and substitute your own ingredients. Use what you have, work with what you have, start where you are.

The Recipe to a recipe (yes, this is backstory)

The reason, I’m told, that food blogs do The Winding Backstory thing, is that recipes, even the ones we ourselves have invented and believe in our hearts and kitchens to be the most unique, are not.

Someone else came up with the exact same way to make a pie that you did, and the only way to be able to claim a recipe as yours is to add something that someone else couldn’t; what makes your recipe proprietary is the story-telling.

Which I don’t feel the need to do here, but I like stories, and especially when I don’t know where they are going, I like to be surprised.

Anyway, I am convinced that the reason people are so reactive to this phenomenon goes beyond just a case of being hangry while looking up recipes, or impatient to get to the steps. I think it’s the dissonance.

Something about the story that is set out before the recipe is not ringing true. I don’t mean that the story itself is untrue, just that something about the filler-ness of it sets off a quiet alarm of [hmmm something is disharmonious], if that makes sense.

I have a story about pomegranate juice (it is not a filler story)

I have a story about pomegranate juice that is related (in my tastebuds and my sense memory) to a recipe-recipe, and related (in the way my mind calls up a web of interconnections) to what might be my most-reached-for personal recipe for what I do while in a free-fall.

It is also, I think, a story about what free-fall reminds me of.

And about the elements that live inside the opposite of free-fall for me.

(We Do Grounding Things, Pleasure Is a Grounding Thing, Anything Can Be A Ritual & Rituals Are Healing, Right Here Right Now, Acknowledgment & Legitimacy, for starters…)

Mr Magoo

Many, many years ago, I was a yoga teacher at, among other places, a studio in a suburb north of Tel Aviv. My boss: an ambitious person whose grandiose plans often involved a complicated web of lies.

And, with the astonishing Mr Magoo levels of luck that narcissists seem to mysteriously access, he was never found out in any meaningful way, that I know of. Or people knew but there were no consequences. You know how this works. You are familiar with the phenomenon of men in positions of power.

Though of course we can hold out hope — and light a candle, for a hilarious well-timed downfall that does or does not (this part is optional, in his case) lead to some genuine remorse, stranger things do happen.

(And if we’re all falling already anyway, why shouldn’t we get to enjoy the rare pleasure of watching a well-timed crash here and there…?)

Well well if it isn’t the President

This is a small example, but it is also the funniest example: What would you do if you wanted to be the head of the Israeli yoga teacher association but it wasn’t going to happen? Well, this guy invented his own association with a similar name, and appointed himself president of that one, which didn’t exist.

He then made business cards to that effect, and took them to conferences in the United States and Europe, where he invited world-famous yoga teachers to come to Israel for weekend workshops, introducing himself as the president of something that sounded like it might plausibly be a thing.

Possibly he called it a federation instead of an association but even the name was basically a copycat, though, again, this association-federation was, much like the Fake Band of the Week — just one guy.

And, impossibly, it worked.

He pulled it off and soon was bringing in bigger names (and because of this, sometimes bigger crowds) than the actual yoga teachers association which did exist, and in fact existed for this very purpose.

Accidental tour guide

Sidebar to say that I was the only teacher at this particular studio with very fluent English, and the only one whose first language wasn’t Russian (classes were in Hebrew).

Between that and being able to get by in German, I often was the liaison for these visiting guest teachers.

And that combined with being the only one who lived in Tel Aviv was how I ended up in the role of a tour guide one afternoon, tasked with showing [world famous yoga teacher] the best of the city in a brief amount of time.

I figured if we only had couple hours, might as well experience something beyond the beach and the Bauhaus balconies. This situation called for fresh pomegranate juice.

If you know, you know

Besides, in addition to being one of the sensory wonders of the world, pomegranate juice also lands squarely in the category of the most [this is what you do here if you’re in the know] things.

Zigzag your way to a tiny stand in a corner of the market that looks like a it might not be a stand at all, maybe it’s just a guy sitting on a bucket by a table, prepare to have your mind blown.

Ahhh, nothing in world like the freshest fresh pomegranate juice from the grumpiest old man alive who seemingly both loved and hated the art of pomegranate juicing, who might curse at you if he spoke to you at all, hameyvin yavin*, I lived for this.

If you know, you know

Ah the daily calculus of death

But then, as we were weaving haphazardly through the alleyways at the edge of the market, heading directly towards chaos, it occurred to me that possibly people who don’t live in Tel Aviv aren’t inured to devastation in the same way, maybe not familiar with the daily Russian roulette of running errands in dangerous places.

Could be they don’t have the same risk tolerance, I’d never been to Santa Monica and couldn’t compare.

Did I have a moral obligation (and either way, was it a good idea or not), to inform him that suicide bombings in the market were a thing, and that we were making the opposite of smart life choices, those being to avoid crowded places and steer clear of obvious target areas…

The famous yoga teacher was acerbic, funny, a true wild card, delightfully unexpected. Very much a lover of life, and I mean that both in a contemplative yoga teacher way and in a full-speed-ahead hedonist way.

Clearly the only correct approach was to level with him.

All in

“Soooooooo, here’s the thing,” I said. “Small-ish chance we could die. Small-ish to medium. We probably won’t die. We’ll do this fast. In and out. But if we do die, as long as we drink the juice first, it won’t be too big of a tragedy, totally worth it, assuming we get the juice. Of course if it happens before we get the juice, then that’s a disaster.”

I wasn’t sure if he’d get, or be able to appreciate, the extremely on-brand Tel Aviv humor but he did.

“I’m all in. Sounds like great juice! What do we have to lose, other than everything you just mentioned?”

The equilibrium of juice

I always got pomegranate juice from the same guy; his juice was sorcery. Actually I was half convinced there was some secret law of nature at work here, as if the potency powers of this juice existed in a delicate equilibrium, in some inversely proportionate way, with the sourness of his mood.

I warned the famous yoga teacher that this juice-acquiring venture involved not only a small to medium risk of explosion but also a very temperamental man with a machete. He seemed fine with this.

The pomegranate-juice maker glared at us. Coins were handed over and placed on a low table. He said nothing and reached into his box of fresh pomegranates, then matter-of-factly took vengeance upon them with his terrifying knife. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

He squeezed out cups full to the brim with liquid rubies, and waited, arms crossed, knife in hand, for us to taste.

Nectar of rubies

To taste and exhale that very specific full-body-joy exhale, to smile that lost-in-pomegranate smile.

This juice just glowed, there’s no other way to describe it. Like it was made of sweetness and light, and also the opposite of both of those. It was rich, complex and thrilling. A sensory catalyst for tingliness.

Nectar of the gemstone gods. Sensational, in all meanings of the word.

Holy shit, said the visiting famous yoga teacher.
I know. There’s nothing like it.


I think a lot about this fresh pomegranate juice in a small cup that I used to somewhat regularly chance death for because it was just that good, how it tasted. Almost as if the word VIBRANCY were a taste.

As if ALIVE were a taste. As if IN THIS MOMENT I AM JOYFUL ABOUT BEING ALIVE were a flavor, in the way that sour or sweet exist as taste sensation. Can pleasure in aliveness be allotted its own special space on the tongue.

Replicate, Reconstitute, Recapture, Reconstruct, Re-conjure

I also think a lot about how I am always trying to bring back the essence of that. To replicate.

In the kitchen, in my movement practice, in sweet and in sour or terrifying times, while free-falling, while clawing my way out of the narrow places.

From the depths of the depths, how can I source that dopamine surge of VIBRANCY again. Forever seeking the sensation of that first sip of pomegranate essence, nectar of rubies, alive, alive, alive.

A very specific sensation that reminds me that yes, I want this, I do want this, I want to be here now.

The pleasure (this pleasure) is all mine

Like, oh wow, what an honor to be alive, honestly an honor to even get to play, an honor to taste refreshing aliveness like this.

I don’t always feel like this, I often don’t, but this is in many ways what I am trying to replicate or reconstruct. To invite it back from wherever it is hiding. To throw it a party when it returns.

THE RETURN OF THE DOPAMINE. Hello, sweet friend, how I have missed you and missed missing you.

That’s it, really, at its essence. I’m just a wandering desert sorceress, a retired assassin with amnesia, in search of tiny tastes, these sweet momentary reminders.

Grounded sensation, grounded pleasure. Yes please to life.


We made it out alive.

I made it out alive.

From the many terrible things that happened to me both in that job and in my many years in the city.

That’s really all I want to say about that for now. Here now.


I live in New Mexico now. I love New Mexico.

New Mexico feels good to me, good for me. The food and the sky and the way I feel when I’m there, and no one asks me to explain how I evaded army service, though of course I will tell you, if you want.

Let’s be honest though. No one here is inured to devastation either.

This country (the United States) is violent, oppressive, terrifying and heartbreaking in other terrible ways, I certainly don’t expect to be spared from loss here either, and, to be clear, I remain appalled by and deeply ashamed of both my countries. I want better for them, and mostly I want better from them.

It is unbearably painful to read about Uvalde, about Buffalo, the endless mass shootings, the Supreme Court, the massive fires devastating New Mexico, and still some days I find myself unable to stop refreshing for updates.


New Mexico is on fire right now.

The two biggest fires in New Mexico history are both happening at the same time, and one of them, the Black Fire, is near me. A few miles from the marker that tells me I am just about home.

Between these two fires, so much forest land has been consumed that put together the burnt lands are the size of the state of Rhode Island.

There is a ready, set, go evacuation system in place. For a moment there, my sweet mini-house that I call The Sailboat was in READY, now it’s in SET. I do not like SET. Set is the thing that happens before a free-fall.

SET is more stressful than GO, in some ways. SET is knowing and dreading while also not-knowing and still dreading. I am not enjoying SET.

Mainly I am remembering all the many times I have been in SET, and everything that happened after.

Time to hit the road

People keep saying maybe it’s time to leave, and obviously I already left.

The smoke was way too much for hsp me (extremely high sensory processing sensitivity, among other sensitivities) long before other people were reacting to it. The weather app finally updated the air quality as “hazardous” yesterday. No kidding. I could have told you that a week ago.

The worry was too much too, and not having signal out there where I’m semi off-grid means no way to even know when SET becomes GO, so I self-selected an early-go in the interest of Safety First.

Thankfully, I am extremely fortunate to have some good safe house options “next door” in Arizona, a few hours away. I bolted and have been overdosing on updates, reports, reports on the updates and updates about the reports.

Safety First

Safety First and choosing towards life. To life.

Which now I’m second-guessing (the part about early evacuation, not the part about choosing towards life, I am still choosing towards life, every day) because everything I love is in that tiny trailer.

So yes, I want to rush back and rescue things except I don’t have the energy (understatement), and am not inclined to set myself into motion towards the thing I had to flee from. Ahahahaha, yes. This of course is about not just fires.

And again this part abut how I seemingly can’t stop. I can’t stop refreshing for updates.

Refreshing has more than one meaning

Refreshing is what I am doing right now, compulsively, on my phone. Refreshing the evacuation map. Refreshing search engine searches.

Refreshing to see if there is more news about the danger. Gotta get a taste of that fresh, fresh news.

But refreshing is also the opposite of that. Refreshing is a cool breeze, the sweetness of rain, the miracle of juice fresh from a just-thwacked pomegranate, juice like liquid rubies.

Refreshing is summertime pleasures. Refreshments are desserts piled high on trays.

Made fresh

Refreshing is the act of something being made fresh again? That doesn’t make sense, if it wasn’t fresh, how can it become fresh? And yet, here we are, refreshed and refreshened (I am not sure if that one is a word but I want it to be a word).

I am refreshing the updates. But also: seeking tastes and sensations that refresh me, that are refreshing.

That yoga studio I worked at was in a place, formerly a town, now a suburb of the city, and its name means FRESHNESS. Refreshingness? To reflexively refresh, you refresh yourself.

The name didn’t fit the town other than in a very aspirational way, but that is true of a lot of places.


Is tinnitus another Long Covid thing?

I always had spells of ringing in my ears but now it’s all the time, I can’t always tell the difference between the timer going off and the ICE CREAM TRUCK living inside my head.

Lost my train of thought, again. Long Covid, ADHD and concussion brain are fighting it out, in the ring.

I am thinking about things ringing true. About ringing clarity. About bells and how they clear space, but also sound the alarm.

The internet says yes, this is definitely another Long Covid thing, that’s fun.

To circle and encircle

A stone skipped into the water results in a reverberation of circles: a ringing of rings.

The circles are ringing the stone, we are ringing ourselves. (But not wringing, that is different).

Ringing into clarity is the opposite of a free-fall, it might even press pause on a free fall, ringing as a redirect.

A refreshing reframing: maybe nothing was falling to begin with. Maybe we just zoomed in or out too far and too fast, we lost perspective. Maybe we are more steady than we think. Maybe.

And a ring is something you seek in fairy tales and stories. A ring can be a MacGuffin, or it can be the treasure. I am free-falling, but there is a ring of protection, a circle of safety, a team on the ground. To life.

I pretty much never tell people what to do here

You may have noticed.

That’s because People Vary, and at different times we need different things.

But it’s also because there is nothing to be gained from me having the answers. Which, to be clear, I don’t.

Of course I only have my answers. And even if I did have someone else’s answers (I don’t believe I do), there is no benefit to anyone if I agree to step into the role of the giver-of-answers. That’s the opposite of self-fluency.

That leads to guru culture, which is unappealing to me in all ways, but especially because of this: when we put people-with-answers on pedestals, we forget how to access or trust inner knowing and hard-earned wisdom.

The opposite of having the answers

I want the opposite of that, which for me means playing, experimenting, documenting my experiments, modeling how I practice. Yes to sharing techniques, approaches and idea sparks, and a no (for me) when it comes to instructing, and a big no to any form of This Is The One Right Way.

I am not interested in being the answer-haver or the answer-giver or the person at the front of the room.

Instead I want to keep engaging in the ongoing process of self-tending, self-cherishing and seeking out (or being receptive to) the clues and questions that feel compelling to me in a given moment.

Ideally, modeling that process makes it easier for other people to be playful and intentional in their own process, whatever that looks like. We are all running our experiments and dealing with our own challenges, being alive and in a body is not a piece of cake.

Interruptions of sweetness

Though wow, not gonna lie, and people vary, so this might not ring true for you, but for me sometimes Solved By Cake is truly a great solution, or an intentional interruption to a free-fall.

We interrupt this message to bring you a moment of sweetness.

A recipe for self soothing (part zero, the pre-step)

Anyway, all that to say the same thing to you that I said to the beloved person who was free-falling:

I know that you are a conscious, capable, wise person who already has some hard-earned A+ self-tethering skills (in the positive sense of that), so I would say go with what you know works.

Aka the principle of Whatever Fucking Works.

Whether that’s writing your way back to yourself, because journaling is what works for you, or rolling around on the floor because rolling is what is needed. Moving or not moving or having a good cry, or taking yourself to a place where you will be gifted with a symbolic (or possibly literal) change of perspective, if that’s an option. I am a big fan of whatever works.

We all have some Known Things that help. Maybe some are off limits because they aren’t available right now, and maybe some are off-limits because we have learned they don’t actually help. We can revise the list. It’s okay. New list is good too. Let’s just start naming them. Here’s one of my favorites.

A recipe for self soothing (1)

This is where I start.

My personal most helpful for me thing to do in a free fall situation is sounding sounds in the form of humming, and here’s the key to the whole thing:

The humming happens with my thumbs pressing my ears shut and index/middle fingers pressing center of forehead, sometimes referred to as the third eye, if that helps you feel into the location.

You hum your hum, with ears shut and fingers touching in.

It kind of mimics being underwater (in a good way), it reminds me of how I feel in a float tank. Like something has hummed me into quiet, almost as if, if you can imagine this, you are humming your way into being your own self-contained singing bowl.

No matter how distressed I am, doing this helps me access a state that I like to call 10% More At Peace.

10% More At Peace

The great thing about 10% More At Peace is that the effects are fractal.

Also, there’s always another X percent, which is both kind of freeing and also shows me what to do next.

I can hum myself this way into another ten percent more relaxed, ten percent more functional, ten percent more at ease. Things are already different. Even if I am still distressed and distraught, still very much not at peace and not at ease, that ten percent shift actually makes a big difference.

And I can keep going, onward, let’s see if we can yawn and hum our way into the next ten percent, or the next indicated step (rolling, crying, writing, whatever is indicated)…

A Recipe for Self Soothing (3)

Lighting a candle (imaginary or not), or lighting incense (imaginary or not) for this free-fall, for a simple elegant solution, for comforts, for miracles, for whatever is needed.

I am lighting incense in Arizona for the safety of my home in New Mexico, for everyone who is hurting, for justice and a great righting and rewriting.

Rituals help. Monsters of self-criticism say this is isn’t useful counsel, that a ritual only a starting point, but so what? Starting points are great.

A Recipe for Self Soothing (4)

I like the intentional practice of making something delicious in a specific way.

Whether that something is the thing itself (making something to eat) or the plating (taking what is and making it beautiful, luscious and enticing).

We Do Grounding Things

I am practicing a lot of We Do Grounding Things, between the fires, the news and everyone I know being in a crisis that is also a tragedy that is also a free-fall. At least. Sometimes it’s also ten crises in a trench coat.

Anyway, I made salsa. Because salsa is a grounding thing.

(The food and not the dance, though dance is also a grounding thing but I can’t talk about that because I miss dance so much that I cannot bear to even think about it, I will cry, so we are talking about food instead.)

Of the earth

But first my radish greens were about to wilt so I made a pesto with them, tossing in parsley, spinach, brazil nuts, pumpkin seeds, and a garlic chili lemon oil I made last week, with cumin and aleppo pepper.

This was not a recipe and very much Use What You Have, and it ended up being exactly what I needed.

This pesto was rich, peppery and very much OF THE EARTH, which was the sensation I was craving.

Then I thought about making a spicy pineapple salsa, or possibly zhug which is the Yemenite spicy sauce of my dreams, but ended up making tomatillo salsa, because of Use What You Have. ANYWAY, SALSA.

Time for a new sensation

Here’s how I change the topic these days: ANYWAY SALSA

Gotta go, making something grounding and delicious. I am craving sensation. Stirrable spoonable spreadable sensations.


A clue

This, from Alyssa Harad, on Twitter:

“Another friend with very serious Long Covid alerted me to the fact that it often takes a long time to move from ‘I have a problem, let’s fix it’ to ‘whoops I have changed, this is my new identity now’, and until people make the shift they’re often in isolation.”

This was a clue for me not only about Long Covid but about a variety of current circumstances, and I think it might also be a general clue for any tumultuous life situations, so if this is also a clue for you, here you go.

Anyway, Salsa

It’s not a clue I particularly like, it’s a clue I appreciate (and I also appreciate Alyssa).

Absolutely I am not enjoying coming to terms with the notion that I may just not recover energy or brain power, that each day might be for one small thing, if that, and given that I am very much on my own, I have been rethinking and recalibrating every aspect of how I live in order to survive.

Still, I’d rather work with what is. I am not relinquishing hope for surprise miracles, and not deciding what is impossible or possible (because how can I know), just staying with the be here now of it, and figuring out my next move based on the knowns of whoops I have changed, this is my new identity now.



The tomatillo salsa I am making is a recipe from the Taste of Tucson cookbook by Jackie Alpers. This is a beloved cookbook that also tells the story of how Jackie, NJG (Nice Jewish Girl) from Cincinnati (a place I adore) ended up in Tucson (a place I also adore!) and how this place changed her, how her tastes changed as she immersed in Sonoran cuisine, reinventing her life and kitchen.

I live for the way she describes food.

Can green be a flavor? That is how Jackie describes this salsa, and that is why I wanted to make it, because that is what I am craving, the taste of GREEN, served with a spicy rice recipe she includes, with the following description:

“This rice is like summer in Tucson — dependably hot, greener than you might expect, and full of complexities that must be experienced to be appreciated.”

Yes please to all that. This sensory experience of GREEN as color and flavor, heat that is breathtaking, complex and craveable. And yes, you can depend on it. I want exactly this. I crave exactly this.

I want to want and crave again. The Return of the Dopamine. Calling this into my cauldron.


Is that the word I want?

I am on a food budget that some people might describe as severe, and trying to make it playful, a game. In the way that a haiku or a sonnet is based on restriction but the restriction informs the creativity.

Part of the game involves batching recipes in such a way they hopscotch one to the next, the radish greens become pesto, which along with the radishes goes into sandwiches and into salad.

The leftover garlic from my chili-lemon-garlic oil gets blended with the leftover yogurt for a spicy dressing for rice and salad. The rest of the yogurt becomes labneh, the whey from the labneh is used to make a savory breakfast loaf in place of buttermilk. It’s an elaborate game of timing.

I am always thinking three days ahead, scheming ways to turn what might look like not much into a feast of plenty and beauty, thinking about A Kingdom of Making Do, which I also refer to as Estuary It.*

*anagram for austerity, a truly depressing word, but estuaries are about flowing and movement and giving it to the water, Estuary It reminds me that I am playing a game.

Blessings of good fortune

I feel incredibly lucky, because the last time I was in a similar situation, the circumstances were more dire and also at that time I did not have access to a kitchen, or anywhere to store food, so my creativity had to be a hundred times more creative.

That was not a game. That was just trauma.

But right now I am hopscotching, and feeling very, very lucky. I like kitchen time. I like We Do Grounding Things.

I like tasting something and feeling the aliveness of the enlivening, feeling how the peppery richness of a radish green pesto is connecting me to the earth, the luscious pomegranate syrup I made for malabi takes me back to feeling high on pomegranate aliveness as we exited the market. Thwack!

What is the opposite of a tangle

My least favorite thing (okay, top thirty) is being misunderstood, and misunderstood in such a way that the misunderstanding becomes so tangled that I am unable to undo the tangle no matter how much I over-explain, and wow do I over-explain. This might be an autism thing.

And by this, I mean every single aspect of what I just said.

Obviously the worst form of being misunderstood is when someone misunderstands you in such a way that shows that they think you are a terrible person.

But all forms of wow no that was not what I meant, how do I convey the meaning.


Anyway, here is a memory that I emerged while I was making malabi, and then again when I was thinking about how the green of the pesto and how much I love that Jackie describes the tomatillo salsa as CAN GREEN BE A FLAVOR?

I was a little kid and in the way of the world of little kids, Tiny Me was asked what’s your favorite color.

Tiny Me told the truth: our favorite color was beige, and everyone laughed.

Quiet vibrancy

It took me a long time (years and years) to realize that of course we were talking past each other, this was, of course, like so many other things, a misunderstanding.

And really the problem was that I, being a small child, did not possess a richness of vocabulary to describe what I meant, and they, being neurotypical, didn’t have a richness of sensation to draw from.

So I am guessing they were picturing a bland beige, like a hotel carpet, while I was experiencing a rich, creamy, textured, buttery beige, something wholly delicious. A color to immerse in, a color so soothing that it could tabula-rasa away all the overload.

The beige I meant was calming, infused with its own golden glow, possessing a quiet potency, you only notice it when you know how to notice it. If you get it you get it.


Malabi is from Yemenite Jewish cooking, a vanilla-rosewater pudding, and you pour pomegranate syrup on top. The syrup forms a gorgeous deep red layer and it holds itself, which is part of the aesthetic joy of this dish. Then it is topped with pomegranate seeds, or my favorite version, shredded coconut.

The last time I made malabi it reminded me of my lost love, the color beige. I’d run out of granulated sugar and subbed light brown sugar, and worried the final product wouldn’t deliver on my third favorite thing about malabi, the first favorite thing being that I love malabi, the second favorite thing the way the syrup balances on the pudding, and then mixes itself in when you dig in with a spoon.

My third favorite thing is the contrast between the white pudding, the magenta-colored syrup, and the topping, but the malabi made with light brown sugar turned out to be an even better color, almost the color that I was unable to describe all those years ago to the children laughing at me.

Anyway, sometimes VIBRANCY can be quiet.

Vibrancy can be quiet

It’s not always the punch of spicy heat — though I adore spicy, and spicy can punch me as much as it wants, I’ll keep eating that spicy rice that makes me think of Tucson-in-108-degree heat and smile.

And it’s not always the ecstatic bliss of fresh pomegranate juice thwack thwack thwack that makes you think, yes, that was worth risking it all.

Sometimes vibrancy can be restoring myself to myself, reclining on the floor, thumbs in my ears, fingertips of index and middle fingers pressed to the center of my forehead, humming until I feel like I make sense again.

This is canon now

Sometimes the humming turns into some good rolling around which turns into pretending to be a bobcat which turns into more familiar movements that I have picked up from favorite teachers over the years, and I had the thought the other day while doing exactly this that yoga is stimming, actually.

And that probably lots of yoga teachers and other movement instructors are autistic, because a movement class is literally a place where it’s socially acceptable and encouraged to roll around on the floor and do repetitive self-soothing movements, and you get to INFO-DUMP ENTHUSIASTICALLY about a variety of your special interests.

Interests like physiology, anatomy, biomechanics, proprioception, self-awareness, pattern-mapping, compassion, playfulness, People Vary, literally all my favorite topics, would you like to hear the good word about yawning and why I think it’s so important?!


Being myself is therapy (it’s not, but also it is)

There is a teacher in Tucson whose motto is Yoga Is Therapy, and I don’t necessarily disagree with that (I mean, okay, yes, I would argue that therapy and therapeutic are not the same thing, and also I extremely know what this person means, so I am not really going to argue it…)

Anyway, all parenthetical asides aside, maybe my personal version of that phrase is something like Movement Practice Is Inherently Autistic As Fuck Actually And I Love It, and is it a phrase or is it a battle cry

Anyway, the thought that all the yoga, feldenkrais, other movement classes I have been taking since oh 1996 or so have been secretly a mission in the autistic pursuits of stimming, info-absorbing and joyfully info-dumping made me laugh delightedly.

I got up and ate malabi with a tiny spoon and felt better about everything.

Tiny Spoon Malabi is therapy and also a form of ANYWAY SALSA.

Recipes are poetry to me

Recipes are poetry to me.

And maybe that sounds as nonsensical as X Is Therapy, but I actually mean this in the sense that I need to edit them three thousand times, and in the sense that they can bring me to a heightened state of curiosity and emotion.

A poem is also a recipe.

Or: Sometimes a poem is a recipe.


I am thinking about Cameron Awkward-Rich: Meditations In An Emergency

That is a poem and a recipe to me, it just happens to not be about food.

I also reach for a poem in the same way that I reach for recipes: when I need to calm the fuck down, or to be inspired in some way, or shocked into feeling something, or reminded of a grounding truth, a grounding pleasure.

Or just be reminded that other people also feel chaotic and dispersed, overwhelmed and undone, and sometimes they have to go write something and sometimes they have to go cook something.

A beautiful recipe

This Sandra Lim poem on Endings

The story has two endings.
It has one ending
and then another.
Do you hear me?
I do not have the heart
to edit the other out.

This poem helps me in the same way that reading a hundred recipes helps me.

I can’t explain it, it just helps to know that someone else is thinking about X —- let X = grief, loss and sorrow, let X = pesto, let X = pomegranates — as intensely as I am. Thwack. Thwack Thwack Thwack.

Notes, missions, things that are not in opposition

I leave all my notes in my recipes, so that each one is 90% notations about trial and error, the winding path of how I arrived at my most up-to-date working hypotheses re the ultimate pleasure-joy version of the dish.

Devoted to my one wish, the Return of the Dopamine.

The poet knows that grief is not linear, the recipe-writer knows that there is an order, there are pre-steps to the steps, and also that each time you make something it is new and evolving.

Poetry and recipe writing are not in conflict, their missions intertwine for me, even if on the surface it seems like [non-linear] and [follow the steps] are in opposition.


I never made pomegranate juice when I lived in the dome in southeastern Arizona. They grew on my property, and I’d talk to them sometimes, to the pomegranates.

Maybe I didn’t try because I knew it could not live up to my sense memory of thwack thwack thwack liquid rubies in a small cup. I knew it couldn’t be like that, and I didn’t want not-that.

That’s also why [a lot of things in my life actually].

I also did not make prickly pear juice or prickly pear jam, even though I was on five acres of prickly pear. At the time it sounded labor intensive and messy, but now that my brain is broken and I am looking for meditative repetitive therapeutic things to do (Prickly Pear Syrup Making Is Therapy ™️), I could kind of go for that, oh well.

Blessings upon the mission (of doing literally anything that helps)

I am definitely not going to tell you that cooking is therapy, and not just because People Vary, and also not just because I differentiate between therapy and therapeutic. Which I do.

(And, to be clear, I am in favor of both of them, therapy & therapeutic pursuits, providing you can find someone good for the former. Though honestly, the benefit of the latter might be the way it doesn’t involve wading through a bunch of garbage in search of a gem.)

I maintain that therapy is great, if you can afford it and find the right person which are too big ifs, but worth it if you can. As you know, I still see my therapist from the mid-90s, in my head, so there’s that.

And therapeutic is a blessing, absolutely, yes, find as many things in this category as possible, or one thing in this category that really does it for you, and go to town. Blessings upon this mission.

Blessings upon the healing things. Whatever fucking works, whatever helps. I support it.

Kitchen time

Either way, cooking and food-prep are therapeutic for me in these times of trauma and fires and *gestures at everything, and I have been dealing with things by chopping. Thwack.

Decorating and plating are also like cooking, and like poetry. Creative space. Recipe-making is very therapeutic for me.

Yesterday I wanted to make more malabi, but didn’t have rosewater, and it occurred to me that what I actually wanted from the malabi was not so much the nostalgia of malabi, but that luscious CONTRAST in colors and flavors.

So I made an anise chai pudding (in the exact right shade of true beige), and a coffee-cardamom syrup that I mixed with cinnamon syrup, and served it with an obscene amount of shredded coconut, and it did the thing I wanted it to do…

I got to feel like a culinary genius for a moment and I got to taste Vibrancy, the Return of the Dopamine, and I got to run a tiny very delicious experiment that had no downsides.


I was talking to a friend who is really going through it about how we are both experiencing cooking as a saving grace in a difficult time.

We talked about how cooking is truly such a sneaky form of deep healing and most people don’t give it enough weight or credit.

She pointed out that it’s the one thing holding everything else together, the one thing you know you are going to do each day.

For me it’s also about [okay, yes, this takes time but it’s worth it] which is kind of a metaphor for the grieving / healing / recovery process itself, and all the hard things.

There is a time for stirring and a time to refrain from stirring

We talked about how it is Be Here Now, it is step by step, you do this one thing and you do the next thing and you know what comes after that. So in that sense it is very much not like loss and grieving, but it is grounding.

It is a sensory experience that comes with an accomplishment. There is a lot of repetition. You just keep chopping, you just keep stirring. Or now is the time that you need to not stir even though you are tempted.

(Jackie Alpers says, re beans, to just leave them covered and not stir, apparently stirring is the sign of an unsure cook, which makes them feel insecure, I love this, it feels like a rabbinic midrash.)

To every thing there is a season (and also a seasoning).

And the eating is also grounding. Taste, sensation, here now.

Up the lusciousness

Mainly I am just trying to UP THE LUSCIOUSNESS QUOTIENT so that no matter how hard or scary a given day is, no matter how intense the free-fall, at least I ate one thing that was like oh fuck yes, if this experience is brought to me by being alive, then aliveness is so good, this is what I want, these moments of taste, sensation, being of the earth.

And when I can’t achieve that, oh well, we are coping, we are doing our best, tomorrow is a new day, onward towards vibrancy.

A really good yawn and then several more, calming breaths, 10% more at peace, and VIBRANCY.

Just add vibrancy

I bought a small container of pomegranate juice and turned it into simple syrup (elevated with lemon zest), and used it to make malabi which you can see in the picture at the top. I made it in tiny jars, because tiny jars are adorable, and because everything tastes better with a tiny spoon, that’s just science.

So much of the mission of The Return of the Dopamine is about what enhances, what adds vibrancy, and tiny delicious puddings are a step in the right direction for me. If you want the recipe, I can post it sometime.

Mainly I am thinking about how else can I add vibrancy, what else can I infuse (in the kitchen, in my movement practice, while driving, while free-falling) with vibrancy?

To life. To health. To vibrancy.

To toasting with tiny pudding, and celebrating small moments of lusciousness, richness and life-thrummingly delicious flavor where we can find them.

Come play with me, I love company

You are welcome to play with any of the concepts here in any way you like.

You can brainstorm experiments, practices or rituals you would like to play with whether for your own times of free-fall, or for whatever you are going through, People Vary.

And as always, you’re invited to share anything sparked for you while reading, themes you’re playing with, or add any wishes into the pot, into the healing zone, as a friend of mine said, who knows, the power of the collective is no small thing, and companionship is healing.

A request

If you received clues or perspective or just want to send appreciation, I could use some miracles right now with my various emergency situations.

I am accepting support (with joy & gratitude) in the form of Appreciation Money to Barrington’s Discretionary Fund. Asking is not where my strength resides but Brave & Stalwart is the theme these days, and pattern-rewriting is the work, and it all helps with fixing what needs fixing.

Or you can buy a copy of the my Monster Manual & Coloring Book if you don’t have it!

And if those aren’t options, you can light a candle for support or light one in your mind, share one of my posts with people, tell people about this work, that all helps, and I appreciate it so much. ❤️


The Fluent Self