Enchantment Learning & Living Blog

Welcome to Enchantment Learning & Living, the inspirational space where I write about the simple pleasures, radical self-care, and everyday magic that make life delicious.

Spring Bath Bombs

March 31, 2015

Have I mentioned I love bubble baths? Oh yeah, only like A MILLION times! These bath bombs are a perfect way to indulge in the glories of spring and give yourself (and your loved ones!) a little TLC. The citric acid removes dead skin cells, brightens skin, and gives it an overall glow, while the baking soda acts as a detoxifier and softener. The coconut oil moisturizes and replenishes your skin.

Seeing as it is spring, I chose to use essential rose and lavender oils and flower buds in my bombs; I went all out and used Easter egg cupcake molds (see picture above) to give them a festive flair for gift giving. If you don't want to get fancy with the molds, you can hand form your bombs or use regular muffin tins to shape them (see picture below). Just make sure you keep tins you use for DIY beauty treats separate from those you bake with. You can also omit the flower buds in your mix if you don't want them floating around in your bubble bath. Personally, I like it!

Finally, as you all know, I like to keep my ingredients as earth-friendly and organic as possible, so I used I used beet powder and a bl ue mineral powder for the coloring from my local herb store--but you can find them online by clicking on the links above. The beet powder gives off a pink hue, perfect for my rose bath bombs, and a slightly fruity scent. The blue mineral dye adds a soft tint to my lavender bombs. Remember a little goes a long way with these tints so use them sparingly to avoid potential staining (which might happen if using the beet powder in large quantities, like over 1/2 cup for this recipe, which is way more than anyone should ever use).

Ingredients:

2 cups baking soda

1 cup citric acid

4 teaspoons coconut oil

1/8 cup water (in spray bottle)

100 drops essential oil (I used lavender and rose) of choice

1 teaspoon coloring of choice (optional)

1/4 cup dried flowers (I used lavender and rosebuds) of choice (optional)

Combine all dry ingredients in a bowl and mix thoroughly, being careful not to raise too much dust. Then add in coconut oil and essential oil of choice and mix thoroughly with hands, making sure that oil is evenly distributed throughout mix. Here comes the tricky part: adding the water. You need the spray bottle to ensure that you aren't adding too much water at once otherwise your bath bombs will begin to prematurely fizz.

Going slowly, spray water into the bowl, stirring completely as you go until it is damp but not soaking wet. You will probably not use all the water in your spray bottle. You can test the readiness of your mix by squeezing together a handful of your mix and seeing if it sticks--if it does, you can go ahead and place it in molds. If not, you'll need more water. Once you have placed the mix into molds or hand shaped it into balls; you can let your bath bombs air dry for at least two hours or up to overnight. Remove from molds (if using) and store in a dry place. Makes about 9 bath bombs. Enjoy!

Enchantment Learning & Living is an inspirational blog celebrating life’s simple pleasures, everyday mysticism, and delectable recipes that are guaranteed to stir the kitchen witch in you. If you enjoyed what you just read and believe that true magic is in the everyday, subscribe to my newsletter below for regular doses of enchantment. Want even more inspiration? Follow me on Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter. Here’s to a magical life!

DIY Seed Bombs

March 27, 2015

Nothing says spring like planting seeds or enjoying the beauty of bright flowers splashed across your backyard. There is no better way to enjoy both delights than with these super easy seed bombs. What's a seed bomb, you might ask? It's just what it sounds like: a ball of dirt and seeds that you can throw anywhere in your garden. They make lovely gifts for spring celebrations like Easter--better than sugary confections. They are a gentle way of bringing beauty to the lives (and yards!) of those you love.

I used a mixture of organic flower seeds that would attract butterflies in my seed bombs because my little niece is in love with butterflies right now--and bright flowers. Now she can have both in her backyard! You can feel free to use any kinds of flower seeds you would like, however. You can find the red clay at your local herb store or here (it's the same stuff you would use for a face mask). Go easy on the water--just mix in a little at a time until the dirt and seeds are just wet enough to form balls otherwise you end up with soupy seed-sprouting mud.

Ingredients:

1 cup red clay

1/2 cup soil

1/4 cup seeds

Approximately 1/4 cup water

Mix all dry ingredients in a bowl and slowly, one tablespoon at a time, add the water until the mixture is just wet enough to form balls. Then roll blend into one inch balls and let rest on a drying rack overnight. Make sure there is plenty of air circulation--you want the dirt to dry or else the seeds will begin to sprout! Makes about 9 seed bombs.

On Kundalini Energy

March 24, 2015

There she sits at the base of your spine, sometimes a thick coil waiting to snake her way up your back towards your wings, other times so tightly wound, she forms a nest, pulled down from her upward spiral by the worries you've absorbed throughout your day--so many of them not your own. Yet it would seem you are asked to carry them, as if you are surrounded by cuckoos wanting to bury their eggs in your light, among your carefully cultivated dreams so that you might take them as your own and they, they will be free of the burden of those unhatched futures.

She grows too heavy to reach your wings, too full for anything but to hold those eggs tighter lest they spill from their makeshift home; your back, too, feels the weight of this, as if these eggs are stones rather than hauntings of another or what-might-bes. But your light is stronger than those leaded eggs, your sleeping serpent ready to shed her skin, cast off these stories that don't belong to her. Slowly, she begins to twist and contract, to wriggle and writhe until each egg, each burden falls out of this sinuous basket at the base of your spine. Until you are left with only your light-as-air hatchlings--all yours--made of hope and long hours on the mat.

She remembers what she is, not a cuckoo's nest but a spiral of energy, always evolving, helping you to shed the debris of the day, cast off all those memories from other or past selves until you are left with a love song, a dance between your spine and your breath, that upward moving coil kissing each vertebra as she reaches for the light. It is not your job to hold other people's pain, she says, nor their stories--only your own joy.

Last Night I Dreamed of Tulips: An Ode to the Spring Equinox

March 20, 2015

Last night I dreamed of tulips.

There were so many of them--brash pinks and lush purples, tawdry red and demure whites, to say nothing of those playful yellows with orange stripes eager to mirror the sunrise--large ones splayed across my yoga mat and the small ones in the vase on my kitchen table. But when had I planted all these egg-shaped cups now bursting out of my bookshelves?

I wondered this--when?--as I gazed at the bounty strewn across my bedspread and brimming in buckets on my patio. For, true to dream logic, I knew I had planted all these blossoms in the same places they now sat. It must have been in the fall. That's when most bulbs get planted in gardens or books.

Yes, it was then, when I knew the earth would hold them and nurture them through the inward-turning months when they could gather themselves, absorbed the soil's nutrients, ready to take root in their own time.

And then they did, grounding themselves into the mat, the bookshelves, the kitchen table, these new ways being ready to emerge after a season of gathering. I did not know it as it was happening; I only saw them reaching for that first sunbeam that kissed the earth on the day that winter no longer was, on the day that promised more light. They could emerge at no other time, I realize now, except for that perfect alchemical moment when the sun and moon hang equally in the sky and I have forgotten to fret over them.

I remember now, those bulbs so carefully sown all those months ago--they are nothing but paper-thin husks surrounding the green shoots and thick stamen-ed ovals bursting with pollen. Once only small intentions, barely whispered hopes, these tulips reach for the sun before me. All the same, I know one truth that stays with me even as I flit between dreaming and waking (who's to say which is which?): once a seed, now a blossom.

5 Ways to Celebrate the Spring Equinox

March 17, 2015

Ahhh...spring! I can feel it in the air. The days are longer and the trees are in full bloom--pink and white petals raining down upon us with the slightest breeze to scatter across a landscape dotted with daffodils and tulips. The sun spreads its warm fingers across my back, the promise of barefoot days outdoors. My mornings begin in birdsong, and I already look forward to shedding my winter coat in favor of the sun on bare skin. Okay, maybe I'm getting a little carried away here, but seriously: spring is almost here!

Spring is the season of renewal and regeneration. After long months of hibernating we, like flower bulbs, take all the nutrients we have gathered in our roots and push out towards the light--a new blossom, a new potential waiting just within sunlight's grasp. Now we can reap the benefits of fall and winter's inward-looking gaze and begin again. In honor of this forward moving season, I have come up with five ways to celebrate it--try one, try them all, or invent your own. Whatever you do, take the time to honor the hopes and intentions you have planted in your soil this season.

1. Watch the sunrise. Seriously! I know it might feel like a lot to ask for, but there is no better way to welcome spring than to watch the sunrise; after this time of equal night and day, the light hours will lengthen. Put on some coffee, wrap yourself in a blanket, and enjoy the sun's light washing over you, sweeping away the last of winter.

2. Plant some seeds...and fill your house with flowers while you're at it. Spring means gardening. I admit I cheated a little and already planted some radish and lettuce seeds, but that's only because I can't wait to plant some herbs and ready my garden for future produce. Gardening is good for the soul too; each seed you plant is like planting your intention for a more fulfilling life, conjuring up another way of being. Don't have a garden or a green thumb? Buy some flowers. Big, bold spring flowers--and place them in vases around your house. There are few things more delightful than waking up to a vase of happy daffodils on your nightstand.

3. Take a nature walk...even if it is in your own backyard or neighborhood. Last week I found myself consumed with mid-term paper grading only to come up from it a few days later to realize that the trees in my neighborhood had bloomed. When did this happen? I asked myself. Naturally, I then stopped to enjoy this fleeting wonder. Take time to absorb this transient season!

4. Put out birdseed. Thank those finches and doves that making waking in the morning such a pleasure--and encourage them to serenade you anytime by putting out seeds in your bird feeder.

5. Spring clean your home. This may not sound like the most joyous activity, but there is something to the idea of chasing out the dust and heavy thoughts that might have settled over the winter. So clean your home. Throw some new sheets on your bed. Add more fresh flowers to a room. Purge your home of anything that doesn't bring you joy. Open windows and let nature in. After all, spring is about letting go of things that once were and embracing the potential for what might be.

On Why I Won't Wait on the Sidelines to Dance

March 13, 2015

Because I don't need permission to dance. I will not waste precious time sitting on the sidelines waiting to be asked to the floor like some forlorn teenage girl at prom--not when I can be a song beating out the rhythm of my joy.

I have allowed myself to sit too long on these foldout chairs, a would-be-wallflower wilting under the silence, the invisibility of my own hesitation. It is no longer enough, a small voice inside me whispers, to sit and observe. Abstaining from the pleasure right in front of you is no virtue.

And it is a pleasure, a pleasure to never be without a dance partner because they see you are unafraid of hips and hands and feet and sweat. It is a pleasure to twirl around the dance floor, allowing each turn to peel away one more petal from that old wallflower until you are the boldest expression of your dance.

You are no longer vulnerable when that last petal falls to the ground, forever banishing those years of sideline-sitting because in your desire to move your body there is freedom. There is power in your grace, though it is your job to follow. And even if you lose a step or fall out of rhythm, you are on the dance floor all the same.

And you will stay on that dance floor (those old foldout chairs a distant memory of some other woman).

I Used to Write on Napkins

March 10, 2015

Beside you sits a wrinkled napkin, a yellow-brown ring half-formed around its center--the offending tea cup sitting just beside it now. You cannot say why it caught your eye as you loaded up the papers you'd been grading, getting ready for the next item on your to-do list--only that it stirred something inside you, loosened an almost forgotten fact from the crevices of your mind:

You used to write on napkins. Even used-up ones like these. Just out of braces and feeling oh-so-adult with your new teeth and your after school hostess job, you decided you had stories in you. But when to write? (An even bigger question than what to write--you figured that would answer itself, so long as you could convince the ever-moving clock that words were worth your time.)

You were still under the vague impression that writers--"real" writers--must devote every moment of the clock hands spinning around its face to build stories out of ink and fantasy. But you were a high school student (an identity you only grudgingly admitted to) and a pub hostess (perhaps, you hoped, you looked more worldly than your 17 years). And you lacked the funds to run away to Paris to write. So you squeezed your scribbles in after cleaning tables and seating customers, in those brief stretches between filling water glasses and folding napkins--those napkins again.

You kept the cloth ones for the customers and contented yourself with the cheap cocktail napkins to scrawl across. On one frayed edge was the start of your first novel (mercifully gone now, buried deep inside your creative compost); on a crumpled corner, a nonsensical story; on the inside flap of another napkin, the quick sketch of pub scenes, like the couple getting too cozy in a corner table, or the boisterous bar-side conversation of friends.

You would stuff these worldly scraps into your pocket like someone would a crumpled tissue and pull them out when you got home smelling of French fries and cleaning solution. Carefully you would untangle them and stack them upon your writing desk to cure overnight. Perhaps tomorrow they would yield the seeds of a story.

Now, you eye your watch--those hands winding around fat numbers--and glance back at your napkin. You still have a few minutes before you really need to go. So you settle in, however briefly. You take up that napkin and a pen--and you write.

The Body Beautiful

March 6, 2015

Your body is a story shaped by bone and wrapped in tendons and muscle. You are too often afraid of it, this story, afraid to pull back the skin-like cover and really feel the histories embedded in your marrow.

It knows no other truth but the physical, the raw power of experience; it is made up of living memories, proof that you are nothing but delicious nerve endings and pumping blood, feeling everything, holding back from nothing. You are each of its curves and scars, a moveable history of your journey through this world. The baking burn on your arm, faded now with time, the puckered quarter size mark next to your belly button, the smattering of beauty marks and freckles across your skin are parts of a tattoo mapping the person you have become.

Inside you is another universe still, a hidden map of the people you once were, the places you once lived. And deeper still are the tiny organisms, those worlds with worlds, that make up you though you cannot conceive of those tiny seeds all piled within you.

Too long have you been asked to sit in your chair or idle away hours in empty stagnation to contain the power of your body, to silence the stories. But your body, your body wants to move, to lift you from that frozen seat and see if you can experience--if you dare to experience--those seeds bursting to life inside of you peppering your history, your memory with new life, new vines in your veins mapping new roads in your ever evolving story.

Reflections on a Snow Day

March 3, 2015

The universe gives you a snow day. Although you don't have to teach (it's your work-from-home-day, after all), the thought of classes being canceled gives you permission to throw your carefully scripted plans out the window. No need to be at a desk today. Your kitchen is calling you.

You make soup, so much soup and pots of pinto and garbanzo beans until your home smells like comfort and your freezer is stockpiled with spoonfuls of love for those days when you won't have energy to conure it yourself. You even pickle green beans to the backdrop of Spanish guitar music and once naked tree branches dusted with tiny white pearls outside your window. It is as if the crystal blanket across the city has given you permission to care for yourself.

That night, you sleep under the soft kisses of snowflakes and awaken once again to a city cleansed of its busyness by ten inches of snow.

You venture out into that wilderness armed only with a strong cup of coffee and hiking boots, past iced-over streets and neighbors shoveling their sidewalks in their bathrobes and snowshoes, towards your neighborhood park looking like nothing if not an open prairie. The scent of winter and cedar burning fireplaces fills the air, as does the stillness interrupted only by the chatter of birds oblivious to the snow piled atop their homes.

In a few hours, this quiet expanse will be taken up by kids rolling together snowmen and falling back to etch snow angels into the earth. But for now, it is just you and a lone cross-country skier in this vast morning.

You cannot help yourself: you cut across the safer street paths where your feet can land between car grooves and into the unblemished snowfall of the park, though you know it will take you calf-deep into the snow and your shoes and socks will soak through. No matter. You are on your way to a blazing fire and hearty breakfast with your family--and what is a snow day for if not plunging into nature headlong?

Later, after the snow is nothing more than a memory and puddles under the sun, you still soak up the gift of your snow day as you soak in a bath piled high with bubbles as fluffy as the snow you trekked through this morning. For a day--two, really--the snow stopped time, allowing you to tune in to what really matters: early morning walks and luxurious family breakfasts, lazy schedule-less days and long naps.

The universe gave you a soul day.

On Body Wisdom

February 27, 2015

Every day it speaks to you, sometimes even in your dreams. It speaks of long-held memories buried deep within the tissues of your muscles, of the hope ready to spring into action coiled at the base of your spine.

It speaks to you about the wings making their way out of the crevice between your vertebrae and shoulder blades. It reveals the scars engraved into your hip sockets. Scars so old you didn't even know they were still there--until a movement, a memory stirs them up again and you can begin to release them as you would weeds from your garden, gently loosening their roots from your soil.

It is limbs and torso that tell you when you need to move, to dance, to release yourself, free yourself from the bonds of the day, the shackles of limited logic. And when you must be still, your body tells you to be still, still enough to hear only the beating of your heart and the new seeds you planted cracking open to lay down roots where weeds once were.

Your body is the deepest wisdom. The surest answer found in the physical expression of your soul.

On My Bookshelf

February 24, 2015

You find yourself gazing at this six-tiered monster, three cases wide, stuffed full of stories with no plan, no pattern. You used to be so careful with your books and their placement. Once they were arranged alphabetically; another time by theme (here the epic fantasy series all the books stacked together in one fat row; there the collection of poems next to your Victorian women authors); and yet another by height. You went so far as to separate your hardbacks from your paperbacks once, but that formality didn't last long.

Now they sit squished together, Victorian authors with the sword and sorcery, the poems mixed in with your cozy mysteries amidst knick-knacks and treasures, just as your sister haphazardly placed them when she unpacked them from their moving boxes. You cannot look upon your shelves now without seeing them as another sister-memory sewn into each book spine. These precious books, collected over the years, are stuffed into each shelf like paper sardines--you almost do not have enough room so your books must shed their modesty and take up house with a kaleidoscope of other words. Yet you cannot make yourself bring order to this joyful chaos.

You wonder what they have to talk about, the Collete novels that kiss your collection of fairy tales and hold up your cheesy romances written in Spanish. You wonder, too, if those stories begin to bleed into one another with their covers pressed so tightly against themselves. Your bookshelf seems to sign and settle, breathing in the weight of so many stories upon its back, within its skeleton.

It is a map, in many ways, of the stories you will write, a tangled ball of words that you un-knot from your writing desk to spin into new beginnings.

I Live in Stories

February 20, 2015

I live in stories.

They frame my world so that each turn of the corner is the prospect of a new adventure, each long-held gaze, a mystery to uncover. I hold on to the power of narrative in the hopes that it will shape my life, guide it along the path of the heroines that have come before me. It is never enough to simply do but to record each action, shape them into some semblance of a plot, that tenuous thread that turns ordinary moments into synchronous events.

I live in stories because I am uncomfortable anywhere else.

I am made up of the words and books I devoured as a child, and later still, as an adult. In my veins are the ink and pulp that shape the worlds I carry into my own. The spine of the leather-bound book on my desk is my spine, holding together pages upon pages of written memory with glue and vertebrae. I do not know how to be anything other than imagination and so flail, often wordlessly, hopelessly when I brush up against the literal--that heavy brick that does not know the meaning of wings.

I live in stories because I know that my life is a mercurial entity, always twining its way through this world in a curious expression of abundance and experience bound by the layers of what could be.

I live in stories because I know that I am a story.

On Enjoyment

February 17, 2015

You will never understand those who are too stingy with it--squeezing it in on the weekends, stuffing themselves full in a panic as if Monday might steal their ability to enjoy the world. They ration it out across each evening, Sundays through Thursdays, push it out of their nine to five days. It is as if they feel their supply is limited, that they must bottle it up, store it in a small jar in the back of their pantry and save it for some other day.

But that will not do.

Enjoyment is too precious a necessity to sit neglected on some dusty shelf. It must be brought into the light and savored every day. You cannot live without the lush, bubbly feeling that tickles your senses like a glass of champagne in your belly, getting you drunk on the pure deliciousness of one moment experienced fully.

You will not turn away from such bliss, nor wearily resign yourself to a stint (a week? a month?) at more chaste living as if you were perpetually half-ashamed of your hedonism. No, you will call to it, search for those pockets of enjoyment in your day to day.

You will revel in the early morning bird song, that melodious foreshadowing of spring. You will relish the stolen afternoon planting your radish seeds--perhaps too soon, but the warm weather has made you reckless--and the feel satisfaction of unscrewing the lid to your mason jar lunch, all that spinach stuffed into such tight quarters a welcome sight come noon. You will even take pleasure in the afternoon call to the plumber that keeps you home to write and tend house, bringing you back to you.

Enjoyment is a big-hearted creature, growing bigger, bolder each time you seek it out. It will take over everything if you let it--and you should. Get drunk on the sunset. Let the hum of your daily work wash over you, a rhythm made up of pen on paper, classroom to office. Embrace the heady perfume of your dinner cooking on the stove, the lure of a half-finished book on your nightstand.

Enjoyment is found everywhere, in everything, unapologetically revealing the seemingly mundane as nothing short of magical.

Everything's Coming Up Roses Tea Blend

February 13, 2015

This tea is like a cup-sized celebration of the bounty in your life, the eternal spring in your heart, and the perpetual enjoyment of love and life. It is also a perfect February tea as it's laced with winter's warming spices yet heavily perfumed with roses--the promise of a new season.

I used two types of rose petals here; the soft pink ones give a light floral aroma while the red petals offer up an earthy flavor that pairs well with the black Assam tea. Calendula lends a pop of color. This tea is a thoughtful Valentine treat for the tea lover in your life that you love to love--try saying that three times fast--or for anyone who needs to be reminded that everything is, truly, coming up roses!

Ingredients:

1 cup Assam black tea

1/2 cup red rose petals

1/2 cup pink rose petals

1/2 cup cinnamon bark chips

1/4 cup calendula

1/8 cup cloves

Combine ingredients in bowl and transfer to a mason jar or other airtight container. Store in a cool, dry place. Makes almost 3 cups. Enjoy!

Health benefits of ingredients:

Calendula: anti-inflammatory, aids digestion, reduces swollen lymph glands, soothes irritated skin.

Cinnamon: antiseptic, aids digestion, calms nervous system, anti-inflammatory.

Rose petals: soothes skin; mild sedative and natural stress reliever; rich in vitamin C.

Clove: antiseptic, antioxidant, aids digestion.

On Tenderness

February 10, 2015

Tenderness--that timid little beast full of its own kind of ferocity. It dares what no one else will: to reach beyond the safety of its armor and the armor of others to stop the world with a soft caress, a squeeze of a hand, or a gentle whisper of things half-said.

It is enough to acknowledge and be acknowledged it says. Enough to cast aside the temptation to perpetually coat your words in irony, your face in schooled ennui. Tenderness does not just wear its heart on its sleeve but carves it upon its skin, a reminder that there are blood and bones beneath our shells, and --tucked behind a living cage--a full beating heart.

It might feel like a bruise at times, that carving, or a pulsing scar, but that is only because it must feel, always feel everything around it so as never to be fossilized by urbane manners or cool posturing. Those things do not touch it, will not touch it. Must not touch it.

This little beast knows that to cast aside its armor, so shoddily made of unfounded fears, is to become stronger--to offer itself up to the world as a song of muscle and memory so as to see whose soul beats in time with its own.

There, there lies the naked power of tenderness.

Aphrodite's Sugar Scrub

February 6, 2015

Valentine's Day is a celebration of the love in your life--and not just romantic kind. It's about sharing your gratitude for the people who make your day a little brighter and a little sweeter. What better way to honor this love than by giving them this sugar body scrub to shake off the winter blahs?

Full of cinnamon and roses--long considered natural love potions--this scrub inspires us to invoke the divine Aphrodite and to relish the simple hedonism of a long bubble bath (maybe with a buddy!), pampered skin, and a rosy outlook on life. Pair it with my Aphrodite's Bath Salts, and you've got a match made in heaven!

Ingredients:

1 cup organic sugar

1 cup olive oil or coconut oil

1 tablespoon cinnamon

1/4 cup rose petals

30 drops cinnamon essential oil

30 drops rose oil or rose water

10 drops clove oil

Mix all ingredients in a bowl and store in a mason jar or other airtight container. Makes about 1 cup. Enjoy!

Aphrodite's Bath Salts

February 3, 2015

With Valentine's Day around the corner, you might be thinking about what to get for those special someones in your life beyond a glitter coated heart-shaped card, a box of chocolates, or a bouquet of roses--all wonderful, natch, but sometimes it doesn't hurt to shake things up. And let's be honest, they've probably already used the treats you made them for the holidays! I like to think of Valentine's Day as a time when we can try a little tenderness, as the song goes. That includes pampering the people that fill your corner of the world with love, light, and happiness.

And who knows? If you want to treat an extra special someone to some TLC, the aphrodisiacs mixed into these bath salts might just make things a little more interesting. The clove and cinnamon oil are antibacterial and add a warming energy to your bath, while the rose petals bring a touch of romantic glamor as well as skin-softening and toning qualities. Adding rose oil and powdered cinnamon just takes this delectable soak over the top!

Ingredients:

1 cup Epsom salts

1/4 cup olive oil or coconut oil

1 tablespoon cinnamon

1/4 cup rose petals

30 drops cinnamon essential oil

30 drops rose oil or rose water

10 drops clove oil

Combine ingredients in a bowl until thoroughly mixed. Store in an airtight container indefinitely. Makes about 1 cup. Enjoy!

On Turning Thirty

January 30, 2015

Thank sweet baby Jesus.

You're thirty. Or better put, your twenties--that hellish brutal decade--is over. No longer living hand to mouth. No longer surviving off of hope and credit or talking yourself into stupid or dangerous or stupidly dangerous situations because "that's what people your age do." Maybe they do--and maybe they shouldn't--you really don't care anymore. Just like you don't care about trying to prove you have nothing to prove.

You don't want to save the world anymore either. Or give yourself over to A Cause. You have learned that your happiness stems from tending your own little corner of the world and nourishing the relationships within it. Let others find their own path because the only one who can save them is them--just as only you were the one who could pull yourself up from the muck of your twenties into the bliss of the here and now.

At thirty, you simply do not have the energy to be anything other than who you are. And now that you know the delicious power of self-respect, you can't talk yourself into trying on those other identities like so many cheap, ill-fitting dresses. So you now wear your loud colors and your wild hair and too many rings stacked upon your fingers--and polka dot dresses because why not? You dance and you read books indiscriminately (what's a canon except for a collection of books that at one time or another were considered trash?). And you celebrate the fact that your life is made up of listening to your jazz records and cooking marvelous family dinners and star gazing and writing things people read and always, always being open to the unexpected.

So you will light your birthday candles (all 30 of them) and make your birthday wish and eat your birthday cake and with each bite, relish that you have found it: that ephemeral thing called Happiness. Day in, day out--that's where the magic is at.

On Bravery

January 27, 2015

Bravery.

The act of planting a small seed in soil you aren't sure is fertile enough--but hope, desperately hope--that it is. And the seed, a small husk holding only a new possibility, that fragile little flicker of promise--of what, you might not even know. Yet you still dare to image another way of being.

Bravery, vulnerability's bold lover. Not in donning armor but consciously, when the moment is right, casting off that thick chainmail and exposing the tender skin underneath to wonder, to the simple chance that there is life beyond the mundane. It is in that tentative first step into a new way of living. Pushing past the fear, the little whispers that try to keep you tethered to the safety of the un-evolving.

It's in taking the risk to believe that you are on your path even as you wonder if it is a path at all (you only see a faint ribbon of dirt half-buried in bramble). No matter. You will make it one. You have made it one. Your feet moving forward--first one, then the other--do so in response to the prompting of the loose earth beneath your feet--it calls to your soles--soul--as your soul calls to it. And that is enough.

Things that Make Me a New Mexican

January 20, 2015

Your bones seem to be made up of sun and clay, formed out of days curing in the desert heat. The landscape is made up of infinite colors--ochre, mica, taupe, sienna, layered together to form hills, plateaus, and muddy river beds. The colors are never still, never just brown, never just layers of settled dust (regardless of what those outsiders say).

It is the smell of pinto beans cooking on the stove and the necessity of homemade tortillas (are those store-bought discs really worthy of the name?). It is knowing the difference between "chile" and "chili"--the former in your blood, the latter, a sacrilege. It is knowing that tequila and tamales are the best medicine, though you know your way around the herbs in your garden, a gift from the curandera magic running through your veins.

And then there's the turquoise. It has taken over the sky, filling up the city corner to corner like the dry desert air fills up your lungs, chasing out the soul sickness that settled between your ribs when you lived--briefly, the desert always called you back--in a damp, dark place. Plus the sun. Always the sun. Always the sky that goes on forever making it impossible for you to hide from yourself.

It is your collection of rocks and crystals, each stone a link in your connection to the land, and the faint smell of burning sage in the air to cleanse your home of stale energies. In the bright colors you scatter across your home and the big earrings that will always call to you. In the different colors that make up you--brown, red, white--never quite at ease with each other and yet part of the same soil that birthed you.

Yes, it is the sun you must have, and the wide open sky above you, and the desert earth beneath your feet. Only then are you whole.