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.

A Year of Radical Self-Care

January 5, 2017

I've come to see busy as just another four letter word. It's the sludge we hide behind when we don't want to (or feel like we can't) listen to our own needs. The world wants us to be constantly plugged in, constantly expending energy, constantly making noise. Moreover, we live in a society that values extroversion, overwork, and excess over the softer virtues of introversion, meaningful productivity, and mindful consumption. Even our New Year's resolutions must be loud, extreme, and quantifiable in some tangible way (I've certainly been guilty of imposing arbitrary and often unachievable markers of personal growth on myself over the years).

So what about our needs? What about the importance of self-care? Since January is the month of clean slates and New Year's resolutions, it seems like the perfect time to pour this transformative energy into a vow I can keep: a year of radical self-care.

Think about it: Radical. Self. Care. Not do more. Not be more. Not checking off arbitrary boxes of self-fulfillment. Not imposing unrealistic ideals on myself. Just take better care of myself. This is more challenging than it seems because it requires me to truly to listen to myself, my body, my mind, my soul. No small task in a world that can demand too much of us and make us forget what genuine self-care looks like. To help chart my self-care progress year, I came up with two guiding questions:

What will bring me joy?

What is sustainable?

First, if something doesn't contribute to my overall happiness and health, I let it go. It's as simple--and as hard--as that. We live in a world that tells us more is better, so I must relearn the joys of less. I must also be honest with myself about what brings me joy (hint: it's often not what society says will make me happy). Second, I have to think about the long-term substantiality of any new self-care routine I want to incorporate into my life. Working out an hour a day is not realistic for me with my teaching and writing schedule, and neither is cooking an elaborate meal from scratch every night. But exercising five days a week for a half an hour is, as is whipping up a simple soup or salad to enjoy in the evening. If the goal starts making me feel spread thin, I ditch it.

The irony of committing to self-care is that you rarely have tangible evidence of your growth--not like with traditional New Year's resolutions. Only the fullness in my chest that tells me I am living well. It is so deeply personal that only my bones and heart whispering their contentment tell me that I am truly listening to my needs. And if I get off track, I won't berate myself over it. I'll simply root out the culprit that kept me from tending to wellness--usually overwork--and get rid of it. If I can't greet each day excited for the potential it offers, then I need to examine how I've been living and work my way back to happy (and yes, self-care is hard work!). With all this in mind, I've come up with a few guidelines to help me in my radical self-care journey:

1. Eat whole foods. Subtext: avoid processed and packaged foods. I don't eat processed foods, but want to push this further and avoid anything that comes in too much packaging. Bonus: it's much better for the environment too. Bottom line, I want to go back to buying bulk ingredients, whole organic foods, and (mostly) cooking my own meals. Grabbing a quick take-out or indulging in more carbs than are good for me might seem soothing short-term, but it does nothing to nourish my body or soul long-term. Cooking at the end of the day helps me unwind and tune into self-care.

2. Exercise regularly. Dance. Walk. Cardio. Strength. Doesn't matter what it is except that I commit to it at least four to five days a week. This one I've actually been working on this past month after seeing how tired and cranky my body felt after a month of infrequent exercising (darn mid-semester!). Even when I felt at my busiest, I found that ending the day with at least 30 minutes of exercise transformed me. I went from tired to rejuvenated. Totally worth it!

3. Do yoga every day--even if it is just five minutes. I keep this separate from my exercise plan (although it can be sweaty business!) because nourishing the mind-body connection is such an integral part of self-care. And I'll be honest: I used to be good at doing yoga every day first thing in the morning, as editing my blog reminded me...but not so much anymore. It's time to get back to that quiet me time in the morning before the day takes over. I find I'm much more settled at the end of the day if I make the effort to do my morning yoga rather than hit the snooze button.

4. Rest...without guilt. Get 8 hours of sleep every night. Takes naps. Spend an afternoon reading or otherwise losing track of time. I know this sounds like a tough one for teachers--especially during our heavy grading time--but I can't function without a full eight hours of sleep or regular downtime. At the end of the day, it is more important that I get a full night's rest or spend some time knitting than try to finish everything on the day's to-do list. It all eventually gets done anyway. This goes double for having playtime on the weekend.

5. Keep it hygge. This Danish term for cozy is all about enjoying the simple pleasures that make life delicious: the scent of burning beeswax candles that waft through my home as I type this; the joys of a hot cup of tea; even the bliss of wearing your favorite pair of fuzzy socks. You'll notice these are tranquil, calm joys. Part of living hygge, at least for an introvert like me, is to give myself permission to indulge in the quieter joys of life even when the world is asking me to be louder than I want to be. That's what I'm all about! Still when stress hits, it's easy to stop paying attention to the happies we get when tuning into the day-to-day pleasures life can afford. I say less stress, more hygge!

...and a bonus self-care goal: leave more time to talk with the Universe. I know what you're thinking. What does this have to do with self-care? It's simple. We forget that we are part of a big, beautiful world when deadlines loom and that our lives are more than just pushing papers around (even though I do love my work routine!). We need time to have conversations with the stars, ask the moon questions, and share our deepest wishes with the Universe--and hear them respond in turn. When we forget to nourish everyday magic, we forget to live.

So that's my goal this year. Radical self-care. Radical enjoyment. Radical magic making. If you want to rediscover what those things mean, join me for another year as I continue to explore the dreams and delights that make life delicious.

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!

Comfort Me with Books...& Other Simple Pleasures

November 16, 2016

I'm always drawn to the quieter domestic pastimes come November. I want to cook and read and daydream and find healing in the realm of the imagination and kitchen conjuring. This is, after all, a season for introverts when the changing weather calls us indoors and our gaze inward. A seriously always want to hibernate come November! But I feel this urge to withdraw is twice as strong this year as I grapple with the implications of the recent election results. I find myself in need of self-care, simple pleasures, and everyday magic more than ever.

As it turns out, I'm not the only book-loving foodie introvert searching for a little soul mending. What is fast becoming one of my favorite book blogs, Smart Bitches, Trashy Novels, wrote the much-needed Books & Comfort Food Pairings to sooth and heal after shocking news. This post spoke to my soul: I needed to read. A lot. I needed to cook. And eat. And slather myself in self-care rituals that would allow me to mend. I needed to surround myself with beautiful things. Hopeful things. Delicious things. Inspired by Smart Bitches, I've put together my own book and food pairings (and let us not forget the power of a good cocktail or body butter) to find our way back to joy...and thoughtful progress as we once again go back into the world. These pairings are in no particular order, just what I instinctually reached for this past weekend.

Also, keep in mind that these aren't necessarily highbrow stories (it's rare that I read anything like that!), but real sweep-you-off-your-feet mysteries, romances, fantasies that have a way of putting our world into perspective, when I'm not reading inspirational non-fiction. Most notably, I found myself turning to fairy tales and stories inspired by them. Maybe it is because I've been teaching fairy tales in one of my courses or maybe it is because fairytales, as my students and I found, have a way of reminding us that darkness does exist in this in this world--and that we can defeat it.

Whatever the genre, these are all stories of hope. They feature strong characters living on the social margins and, ultimately, finding ways to triumph over injustice and build a better world. The nonfiction pieces remind us to look for pleasure in unexpected places and relish the power of pleasure to transform.

I keep of copy of We Could Almost Eat Outside on my writing desk; this book, in so many ways, has inspired the whole concept of my blog. It's a delicious look at the simple pleasures that are too easy to overlook in our daily hustle and bustle, but so worth the time to stop and enjoy. It's grounding. It's earthy. It's about routine. Pair with a quiet evening at home, a calabacitas tart and a giant mug of oatstraw tea to feel the full effect of this soothing read.

If you want more earthy goodness, check out the award-winning Uprooted, a fairy tale story about wild woods, dragon-wizards who kidnapped damsels (or so the village thinks), and one woman's journey into her own magic. Pair with a lazy afternoon and cozy blanket on the couch, dried apples and a pot of autumn harvest tea.

More fired up than that? Try Mercedes Lackey's The Fire Rose, a gorgeous retelling of Beauty & the Beast that takes place in 1905 San Francisco. There is elemental magic. There is a slow-budding romance that appeals to any book lover. And there is the breathing-taking plot about redemption and hope and, once again, a woman coming into her own. Pair with vanilla bourbon and cinnamon-orange chocolate cups, to match the lush setting.

For those who don't feel like cooking would be soothing, try putting together a collection of appetizers to graze on, like in my Italian apertivo, and whip up a gimlet made with orange-rosemary infused gin. Pair with jazz records, your favorite pajamas, and this total escapist steampunk read, The Watchmaker's Daughter, about a woman cast into the fringes of society and forced to fend for herself, only to find herself swept up into a world of mystery, intrigue, and magic.

Sometimes we just need to indulge in a rich bubble bath, for which I would recommend bringing along a cup of Everything's Coming up Roses Tea (or let's be real, a glass of wine!). And while you're at it, commit to a hedonistic read. There's no time like the present to remind ourselves that pleasure is oh-so-powerful, which is why I would recommend reading The Ultimate Guide to a Multi-Orgasmic Life, a delicious book about living life with more joy and, yes, more orgasms! Seems to me a full-bodied orgasm is a lofty goal to end the year well. Pair with Aphrodite's bath salts & sugar scrub. Finish with a slathering of Winter Solstice body butter and a long nap.

After a long weekend resting and rejuvenating, I was reminded how important creature comforts. They heal. They soothe. And they allow us to conjure good energy to carry into our day.

Confessions of a Sin Eater

October 27, 2016

All it takes is one kiss. Lip locked, you can suck out their sins and use the light inside your chest to burn them up. You can almost taste the guilt and regret these people hold inside themselves like caged demons fighting to break free.

This is your power.

Just one kiss and they can know the peace of exorcism. You've even acquired a taste for it, like bitter gin on your lips, though you can tell by your charred ribs how it costs you—and so you're careful, knowing full well the danger in the dark taste of others. As careful as a sin eater can be, anyway.

Because this is yours to do.

There is the gristly piece of shame that you can't quite swallow--you can feel it stuck in your throat. Whereas the little kinks and guilty pleasures slide down with ease like melted chocolate or red wine--not really sins at all unless you're of a more pious nature and then everything's a burden. A part of you relishes this glimpse into the internal lives of strangers.

You come from a long line of Sin Eaters, most of whom are eventually devoured by the very phantoms they swallow. Yours is not an easy path. Like the broken promise that rests in your belly like a shard of glass, your lives are shaped by the sins you collect. You are the sea creature eating up the trash and ephemera others carelessly toss into your clear waters.

This is your legacy.

They can't even look you in the eye. They can only plead, sometimes without a voice, to absolve them...of too much to put into words. You know the look well. The pressure to swallow the pestilence painted across their broken brow that wants only the quick catharsis of confession. In this, you are not unlike the priest—without the pretense of a screen. Only your magic works. For a time.

They can feel the sweet relief of their souls scrubbed clean; they even go so far as to promise you and themselves that they will never, ever commit those sins again. They might even be foolish enough to believe what they say--though you never will.

This is your gift.

Zero accountability. Then you are cast aside like a used condom when the deed is done. Afterward, they cannot look at you because you know them for what they are. And they know what they have asked of you is unspeakable. That is their ultimate sin: asking another to carry the burden of their own making. They cannot see you. You are not a person anymore. They see only their greed and temptation and carousing look back at them from behind your tired, burning eyes. The light burns brightest when the fire is fed.

This is your place.

There they go and commit another one. That's the thing about sins. They taste so good. And not just to you. Take away that which they are most ashamed of, and they always look for a way to get it back. Even if they are happy to be rid of these chains, they cannot stand to look at your sullied soul. You are rejected time and again. Not welcome in any home. Never asked to stop in and share a morsel, unless—

—they invite you to eat the day old bread resting on a beloved's breastbone as if you didn't know the history and mold settling into the crusty morsel: a final offering from the dead.

You are paid well for your unspeakable service.

With each swallowed sin, a little bit of your own light dies. Your insides blacken and curl with smoke. Your stomach roils with indigestion. Sometimes you cannot tell the difference between yourself and the demons caged within—or which of these creatures belong to you and which have been collected along the way, like chicken bones and bloodied feathers. Leftovers from your meal.

Did they expect you to look monstrous? Twisted and broken by the weight of your—their—sins? They are always surprised to see fair features and respectable attire. You could be any of their daughters or sisters or wives. Perhaps if you ate them more often, the barbed wire from where they have trespassed and the swollen bee stings from violating the natural order would mold your bones into the gnarled frame of a dying tree.

That is your future.

So they hope. Committing your body and their sins to the grave so that they may never speak of them again.

That was your legacy.

But you no longer have a taste for wickedness. Not unless it’s of your own making. So much more delicious to collect your own experiences like sea glass or cracked-open clam shells until you have shadowbox filled with once-ugly things made beautiful. You need not go so far afield, either. The rotted pumpkin becomes a home for the worms that make your garden thrive. The ghost behind your shoulder is one of your own making. He will leave you in time when you are both ready to be rid of each other. Until then, you have one companion that isn’t afraid to look you in the eye.

This is your freedom.

You could suck out the poison of each and every soul that knocks on your door. Some may even call you a saint for doing so. But you know the real work happens when a person wrestles with her sins, real or imagined, and sends them back to hell herself. Everything else is just swallowed smoke and borrowed time. You know this because you have made that journey yourself. That scars along your rib cage--one for each layer—are proof of your hard-earned exorcism.

That was a price you were willing to pay.

The journey was long. You climbed down all seven layers, releasing sins as you went. You let your fire burn away each transgression as they burst from your lips. Then when you reached rock bottom, you began the arduous task of pulling yourself out of the darkness. The only sins—such as they could be called—that survived were yours and yours alone. Selfish? Perhaps.

That was the gift you gave yourself: sins that make a woman.

Not a saint. Not a sin eater. A woman.

Conversation with a Zombie

October 19, 2016

He said he would love to have me for dinner--but I was careful.

I made sure that I wasn't on the menu for one. And I took particular effort to choose a location full of breathing bodies. A restaurant for the living. It wouldn't do to surround myself with a host of these purgatory-like creatures, else my limbs become stiff and my skin turn as gray and rotten as a cadaver's. You become who you hang around, they say.

Still, I was curious.

We sat across from each other at the dinner table. The white tablecloth was as smooth and unblemished as his collared shirt. He had dressed for the occasion, taking care to hide the evidence of his affliction as best he could (though truly there was only so much he could do, with a missing ear and half a brain). Still, the tuxedo and carefully applied makeup was enough to create the illusion of pumping blood beneath his pallid, blush stained cheeks--in the right light. Which was another reason why I chose this place. Candlelight can hide a multitude of sins.

He studied me as much as I did him as if he was trying to remember what it was like to be alive. When I reached for my wine glass, so did he--only his thick decaying fingers almost crushed the stem, whereas my nimble live ones carefully brought the dark red to my mouth. I tried not to notice how he stared at my lips--stained now from the wine--wondering, perhaps, how I tasted.

That could have been me, of course. If I had enough in me to make my heart stop beating and my brain stop questioning.

They're always the first to go: the ones that want to be lead. Then the tired. Then the hopeless. I could never be any of these things, though I have at times been weary and known the company of despair. No, I could never be any of these things. Not with the fire burning in my belly. I could feel the heat in my cheeks as if to remind me that blood still pumped through my veins. Perhaps it was just the wine.

I couldn't even call what we had a proper conversation. For one thing, it was hard to make out his words as he struggled to form sentences around a fat and full tongue without lips to soften the vowels and only a few teeth to slide against the crisp edges of constants. For another, we were both frequently lost in our own thoughts, wondering how things might have been different if I had just a little less heart and he a little more.

In the end, we let the darkness beyond our candlelit table swallow any of the taboo questions: do you miss the taste of buttered toast or pickles? Or is gray matter your only desire now? And then the ones he refrained from asking me: Can you describe the way your filet tastes--and the mashed potatoes? Will you remind me what it is like to wake in the morning after a full night's rest, ready to greet the day?

We both politely ignored the blood pooling around my rare steak and the ring of red our wine glasses left after a nervous waiter overfilled our cups. The poor man didn't know that the infection wasn't contagious. Well, not like in the movies. It was the thoughts that did it. Or, really, the lack of them.

So much easier to silences your questions. So much easier to allow yourself to be swept up in the collective undertow and drowned in mindless oblivion. So much easier--if it weren't for the fire in your belly. The light in your veins.

How to Kill a Typo

October 5, 2016

First, you have to root them out.

They are very good at hiding. A typo is like a splinter or a thorn that wriggles deeper into your skin as you poke and prod it with tweezers--or pen tip. And where there is one, you know there must be others just beyond your sight (these beasts travel in packs). So be merciless, regardless of the casualties.

Their favorite trick is to hide in plain sight. They know all your weaknesses too--like your tired eyes. Or your desire to just get the damned thing done. Even your hope (faint and foolish as it is) that just this once, you wrote something that doesn't need editing. You spun straw into strands of sunlight--but no. Perhaps you should take that last part out? Best not to get carried away with metaphors. And anyway, it means fewer words for those bastard typos to hide behind. Scratch that--fewer words for those bastard typos to hide behind. They see all of this and perhaps your biggest weakness of all: you see what you want to see. Your eyes read past the form that should be from because you want it that way. And they love you for it.

But here's the good news: once you find these pesky literary rodents, they can't be unseen. You'll find the best way to discover them is by clicking send or publish. Watch how these black marks outshine every sterling piece of prose when they think your work is out of your hands. Typos love an audience. The bigger, the better.

That is their one weakness, this showmanship. The moment they are most vulnerable is when the curtain is drawn and they can preen for all the world to see. Still, it would be wise not to underestimate them. They will try to plead and bargain with you, arguing that their presence is a sign of your humanity--your perfect imperfection. But don't listen to them. Gather your words and let them be your strength. Let your stories turn on those impostors hiding beneath your hard-worked worlds. Let them devour the little beasts that would infest your carefully built ink-grown realm.

Let them feast on the unnecessary comma, sucking it up like a strand of spaghetti and swallowing the excessive o's in one fat gulp. And if there is anything left of these diseases bred from consonants and vowels, let your pen do the rest. Strike them out. Tear them from the page. Snuff out their life like the weeds they are.

Then bury the fibrous leftover limbs in the slush heap with all of your other abandoned prose. Every good garden needs a compost.

Things I Want to Relearn

September 28, 2016

The curve of your own smile. Sometimes you touch your fingers to the corners of your mouth just to feel the way they turn up when the sun kisses your lips. You don't always believe that your body remembers how to express joy.

Then there's the bliss--more a memory now--of abandoning yourself to the woods. The city, a thing forgotten like an unremarkable story or adequate meal. Where is that spontaneous wildling unafraid to go deeper? The forest (be it in a book, heart, or landscape) is made up only of trees and dreams and roots and shadows, after all. And they all want you there, going so far as to lay down a bed of fallen leaves to pad your steps and covering their rocks with moss so that you may rest your head in comfort. It has been so long since you listened to their secrets. So long since you told them yours.

And how did that game go, where you picked your way across the stream, searching for the next foothold on rocks smoothed over by the water's caress? You weren't always thinking of snakes and eels hiding under them. You weren't always worried about slipping. There was only the cool, clean feel of the water lapping at your feet and rushing between your toes. Feel it now and let the wet ripples carry away your worries.

And you can't forget your hair, nor the times you wore it loose and wild (though some would call it a thorny thicket or a nest of copper wires--but those are voices best forgotten as you relish the way your curly auburn locks cascade down your naked back and fall around your open shoulders). You must remember how to weave flowers into your long tresses and let the only chains you wear be made of daisies.

Next, find those delicious beats that pull you toward the dance floor. Court your inner hedonist and let her play and laugh and move her body in the way that it was meant to be moved: in time to the heady heartbeat of congas and claves and vocal chords wrapped tight around a melody. This is you remembering that your natural state is joy--and that there's nothing wrong in sinking into a song's lusty embrace.

Perhaps by reclaiming these pieces of yourself--like stray strands of string and dandelion heads--you can begin to weave a new story unfettered by the dead-end plots that made you forget yourself in the first place. You never belonged at the bottom of a well or stuck under the heel of another's boot.

Weave together more forgotten things into this wild tapestry: scraps of bright ribbon and grapevines, bits of memory and the feathered corners of well-loved books. Stitch it all together with those small pops of energy that tell you everything you need to know before logic tries to smother the sparks. Then, when you have incorporated your last fingernail and sage leaf, finish it off with the whispers of the universe--here in a dream, there in the roadrunner crossing your path--that ask you to remember, relearn, truly understand that you are a daughter of the moon.

That your life is in long fingers curling around tree bark, feet resting on fat branches, as you peer past the foliage into the endless horizon.

Things I Want to Unlearn

September 14, 2016

They are like the tight laces of a corset, these lessons, cutting into your ribcage and squeezing the air from your lungs, taught to you by people and things that prefer you breathless—and so, unable to speak. Each tug of the ribbon wraps steel and bone tighter around your frame. Containing you. Small sips of air sucked through half-open lips are the only sign your heart still beats. Those and one delicious thought: a pair of scissors.

You could use the ones you have set aside for your embroidery. No bigger than the palm of your hand and engraved with bird’s wings. Silver and sharp. Stronger even than the metal jacket closing in on your pumping heart.

You give into your impulse. Wrap your hands around the cool silver of the thin blades. You are alone. No one can stop you. Slowly, carefully, you reach behind you for the knotted tongue at the base of your spine. You almost can’t slip the thin blades under the satin; the laces are so tightly pulled together. But you do it and feel the first lace pop loose of its eyelet.

There it goes—

—the temptation to search for the rotten fruit in a barrel full of blush stained snow apples. All you need to know is that you have an abundant crop—and faith in your ability to pick the best jewels from the orchard. You’ve been through enough harvests to know the difference between worm-softened cores and firm flesh.

Then another:

The flash of disappointment when you see your imperfect body, alone, at night, freed from the corset’s confines. The puckered skin along your stomach—the shiny purplish lash along your arm—the bruised streaks where your ribcage pushed against the corset’s skeleton all day, every day—and others, so many others—aren’t scars. They are life lessons tattooed on your skin. Trophies from the risks you took, the jumps you made, even the moments when you knew it was best to retreat into yourself. The times you dared to live beyond the narrow path someone else decided you should walk.

More air in your lungs. You can feel your chest expand.

Enough for you to reach higher and cut through another lace—

—and there goes the bricks and mortar you once used to make a fortress for yourself. You called it a home, but the walls grew bigger and bigger until it felt like a tomb. A place to bury the pages of your stories. The ones that no one would read because they lacked the light that could spark them to life.

Let those bricks be reduced to rubble. Let your stories breathe like you can now. And find their own homes when you set them loose like birds to the sky. In their own time. In their own way. And remember that your real home is never behind tightly-cinched cloth-wrapped whalebones or mortared stone.

How long did it take you to remember that your home is in the earth and the sky? That the roots of trees and flowers will always be your welcome bed and the wind is there to sweep away the last cut ribbon from your cage.

Midnight Meteor Shower Picnics

August 11, 2016

This has been the summer of picnics. At the park. In the backyard. Midday under a shade tree to beat the heat or post-monsoon afternoon searching for rainbows and sipping iced tea. Any summer occasion is a special occasion and so worthy of its own picnic. Naturally, when I found out that tonight marks the start of the annual Perseids meteor shower, four little words entered my mind: Midnight. Meteor. Shower. Picnic.

Seriously, what could be better?

Earlier this season, I wrote about how to plan the perfect picnic. But it has now occurred to me that midnight picnics are their own kind of event mostly because the focus is less on good food and more on the night sky, especially for such a special shower we should expect to see tonight.

What makes it so special this time around? Well, we are likely to see twice as many shooting stars this year (almost 200 an hour compared to the average 100) as in previous ones. This is because of an "outburst," which is when the earth's previous orbit debris mixes with our current debris (yeah, I'm not sure quite how it works either...but you can read more about the specifics here). The bottom line is that we will be gifted with a spectacular meteor shower that can't be missed! So make sure to plan ahead, pack plenty of creature comforts, and prepare for a lovely night of stargazing. The show starts at 10pm Thursday and goes into early Friday morning.

1. Bring blankets. While all picnics require a thick blanket to sit on, a midnight picnic requires other wraps of soft throws to snuggle under as the desert night turns cooler. Maybe even a few pillows to lie back on as you stargaze. Think of it as making an impromptu outdoor bed.

2. Plan to stay awhile. Looking for shoot stars is like fishing--you have to be prepared to sit and wait in order to catch something good (either a fish or a star, wink wink). If you rush the experience, you miss out on witnessing the beauty of shooting stars. Treat it like a meditation--truly, there is nothing more lovely on a summer night than stargazing, even without a meteor shower. So pass the time by trying to map constellations like Perseids, where the shower originates, or make up your own. What matters is that you take the time to converse with the stars.

3. Pack a thermos (and a flask if you're feeling risqué!). A mug of hot tea will keep you both revived and awake while you stargaze. Fill it with an energizing (but caffeine free) herbal tea and bust it out when a case of the sleepies hits. You'll keep yourself awake for the big event without hindering your ability to get some Zzzzs once you're ready for bed.

4. Pack easy snacks. As with any picnic, you should keep your food delicious and simple; that goes double for a midnight meteor shower show. Think blueberries, nuts and edible treats that won't distract you from your stargazing. The point is to nosh as needed without tearing your gaze away from the sky.

5. It's all about location, location, location--this is especially important for shooting star viewing. Now we can't always get to the perfect location, but if you can, find a spot away from harsh city lights that drown out the glittering stars. Or, if you're like me, and going to stargaze in your backyard, turn off all the lights and notice how many more stars you can see.

Summer is by far one of the best times to forget about the clock and spend some time communing with the universe, getting lost (found?) in the constellations adorning the night sky, and keeping an eye out for those elusive shooting stars. Happy stargazing!

Homemade Bug Repellent ~ Just Say No to DEET

June 28, 2016

A couple weeks ago, I was enjoying a glorious summer evening in the backyard with my family. We indulged in a luxurious meal on the patio and then played with my little niece long after the sun went down. It was the perfect embodiment of the season...

...then I got home and found that I was covered in mosquito bites! It seems like there are more of these pesky insects this summer than in previous ones. Yuck! It was time arm myself with my Homemade Bug Repellent. This all-natural, non-toxic spray is perfect for stashing in your picnic tote or spritzing on before some late-night stargazing...or any other time you want to frolic in the wilderness. Why do I prefer to make my own bug repellent? The answer is two-fold: I have all the ingredients readily on hand (many of them are also used for my homemade body butters and other goodies) and I've long since given up on the toxic DEET (see what Wellness Mama has to say about how this chemical spray negatively impacts the environment and your body).

I whipped up a pretty basic recipe after looking at others from Scratch Mommy, Thank Your Body, and Wellness Mama. I used vegetable glycerin to as a binding agent rather than oil and mixed it with what essential oils I had on hand. The glycerin binds the water and oils together and ensures that the spray sticks to your clothes and skin. The key factor here in keeping away bugs is the strong scents of the essential oils so you will want to reapply every hour or so to keep the scents strong. I used citronella--a common ingredient in natural bug sprays--and lemongrass. (Both of these plants can also be grown in your garden as a natural herbal repellent FYI.) I love the citrusy scent! You can also add in other essential oils like eucalyptus or lavender. The measurements here are for a 4oz spray bottle.

Ingredients:

Water

1 tablespoon vegetable glycerin

30 drops citronella essential oil

30 drops lemongrass essential oil

Mix glycerine and essential oils in a 4oz spray bottle, then fill bottle to the top with water. Shake well. Apply regularly (at least once an hour) when you plan on being outdoors. What more homemade bug repellent ideas? Check out the Prairie Homestead's list of natural bug spray recipes.

Summer Solstice & the Strawberry Moon

June 21, 2016

I went moon bathing last night.

I wanted to coat my skin in the rosy glow of June's strawberry moon on this of all days: the summer solstice. You can love the light of the year's longest day. You can enjoy the way the sun's rays stretch from dawn until the last whispers of dusk, straining to reach the farthest corners of waking experience. You can admire the way the unabashed luster of the fading daylight makes the mountains blush deeply as if anticipating things best tasted at night. But you must not forget the moon. Or the stars.

And that is why I moon bathed last night. I wanted to honor how the full moon brought more light to this day of light, illuminating the thoughts and forgotten corners that would otherwise remain in shadow. Better to know what lingers under the stardust and hides under the moon-kissed rocks. It is bliss to find that half-forgotten memory buried amongst my herbs; catharsis to finally rid myself of the pests that take advantage of the cover darkness offers. This is my chance to ask the moon for answers (it will not be this receptive again for another 70 years and then-- where will I be?).

So I asked my questions--and she gave me answers. She filled my mouth with the full sweet taste of ripe strawberries until their seeds burst on my tongue. She washed my hair in a waterfall of her silvery light and rubbed my skin in the promising perfume of rose petals. She confided that now, midway through the year, is the ideal time to find my story within a map gifted to me by the constellations. She asked the cicadas to sing so that I may dance. And she told me--as the moon always does--to remember to dream. Deeply. Tenderly. With wild abandon. She bid me stain my fingers and thoughts and beating heart with her lunar liquid, tonight the color of berries pressed between lovers' lips.

Dream. Always. For the best things begin in moonlight.

5 Tips for the Perfect Picnic

June 15, 2016

Picnics are one of the most delicious simple pleasures of summer. There's nothing quite like a leisurely afternoon nibbling on tasty treats and sipping lemonade in the park or lazily reading (okay snoozing) under a shady tree after an impromptu outdoor lunch. I especially like how adaptable picnics are; they can be everything from a lavish outdoor afternoon tea or as basic as a sandwich and peach enjoyed in your backyard. It's also the perfect way to turn a quick lunch into an event that makes us slow down and appreciate the world around us.

Imagine my joy when I found out that there is actually a day on the calendar dedicated to this wonderful pastime. June 18th is the official International Picnic Day. As if I needed an excuse to bust out my basket! To get ready for this big day, I give you five tips for the perfect picnic.

1. Plan ahead. I've gotten in the habit of keeping a picnic basket on standby along with a little grab 'n go bag filled with the basics: a blanket, a straw hat, homemade sunscreen, DIY bug repellent, and a book or two (for that afternoon snooze, wink wink). My basket likewise includes a stash of reusable enamel plates, silverware, stemless cups, cloth napkins, and kitchen towels (for inevitable spills). This makes impromptu picnics easy and carefree. I simply load up some food then I'm out the door. Last but not least, don't forget to keep an eye on the weather and know your location--both determine what additional accoutrements you might need.

2. Keep it simple. A good picnic is all about enjoying the great outdoors with little fuss. One of the best picnics I have ever had was when I was in Sitges, a lovely beach town near Barcelona. We put together a hasty picnic from goodies at a nearby market: olives, jamon, dried fruit, caper berries, nuts, cheeses, and crusty bread were heartily enjoyed on the beach. We had no plates or silverware, just the bags our goodies came in. Bliss!

Ahhhh that perfect no-fuss picnic at the beach in Sitges...

I used to be enamoured with the idea of making fancy feasts for my picnics--complex meals and fussy seating inspired by what I saw in magazines--but they always proved more trouble than they were worth. Food got soggy or was difficult to eat, preparation was always more labor intensive than I thought it would be, and I found myself spending way more time (and money) on a good picnic than I did actually enjoying it. The reverse was also true: the more low-maintenance the picnic plans were, the more fun I had. Now this doesn't mean that you can't have your lavish afternoon tea party, just keep the menu uncomplicated with easy to assemble tea sandwiches and other make-ahead treats. So bottom line: simple be thy mantra.

3. Go green. Ditch the plastic cups and other disposable items. Use cloth napkins, real silverware, reusable storage and durable plates. Picnicking is all about enjoying nature so it only makes sense that you would make sure not to use disposable goods that damage the environment. If you don't want the hassle of bringing along plates, you can always up the fun factor by using foods that fit easily in mason jars for a low maintenance picnic. Greening your picnic basket has aesthetic benefits as well--your spread will look so much lovelier using real tableware or mason jars! You can even keep a stack of durable enamel dishes at the ready in your picnic basket for easy prep like I do. Want more ways to green your picnic routine? Check out Pure Home & Body has to say.

An assortment of easy-to-prepare goodies and reusable dishes ready for the basket.

4. Keep it real...the food that is. In keeping with my theme of simplicity, stick to whole foods and easy nibbles. Grapes, olives, cheese and a good loaf of bread are hard to beat (remember that Sitges picnic I told you about?). You can also pack a mason jar salad--my Greek or Tuna-less Nicoise mason jar salads would be delish--or an assortment of in-season veggies with an Aioli or Pesto dip. When you use fresh quality food, preparation is at a minimum. Ripe cherry tomatoes are delicious on their own or tossed into this quick Tomato & Mozzarella Salad while fruit gets an extra kick from cured meat in my Prosciutto Wrapped Apricots. Use what you have in your fridge, including Quick Pickled Veggies or Apricot Basil Jam paired with Ricotta, for a no-fuss meal.

Dessert should be equally easy: dark chocolate and fruit, or single-serve bites like my Vegan Peanut Butter Fudge. If you are sticking close to home, you can stash Mango Chile Lime or Pina Colada pops in the freezer until you are ready for them in your backyard. Top off your meal with a bottle of bubbly, Orange Lavender iced tea, or lemonade and you're good to go. If you want to go the extra mile, you could even whip up a batch of Coconut Water Kiwi Lime Cocktails (vodka optional) or a pitcher of Watermelon Coolers.

5. Make it festive! Now that you have your easy menu and picnic goodies at the ready for a spur-of-the-moment lunch, you can indulge in the picnic's whimsical side. Wear a blowsy hat and frilly dress to this oh-so-important date, scatter edible flowers across your plates, bring bubbles for the kiddos (and kids at heart), and get ready to twirl in the sunlight. Or take a cue from one of your favorite literary picnics and plan your meal around it. This a strawberry-picking inspired feast from Emma (but without the drama!), a honey-laced affair that would make Winnie the Pooh proud, or invite Alice and the Mad Hatter for a tea party on the lawn.

Whatever the occasion, whatever the plan, summer is for picnics.

A delicious spread for two strewn with edible nasturtium and pansies for a touch of whimsy.

On Reclaiming My Writer's Roar: Visiting the Argosy, the Morgan, & the New York Public Library

May 31, 2016

One of the New York Library Lions, though I don't know if it is Patience or Fortitude...

My first visit to New York was at a pivotal time in my life. I was all of fifteen years old, and like most teens, desperate to be a cultured adult. I had just decided I wanted to be a writer and had committed to a serious daily writing practice. Heavy stuff for someone still in braces. I got drunk on words and the worlds they allowed me to build, worlds that took me far, far away from the study in human misery that was high school. So when the opportunity arose to visit my brother in New York--and miss school to do it--I was bursting with excitement to taste what to me was the artistic and literary life of The Adult Writer. I will always love the city for what it was and what it continues to be for me: a distilled memory of a young woman first finding her words, her stories, and her roar.

One of the most influential stops that trip was to the New York Public Libary, which in the mind of a budding writer, was like a bibliophile's haven in the midst of a world full of chaos and uncertainty (hey, I was a teen and so allowed to be a touch melodramatic). I fell in love with the various reading rooms and the romance of so many shelves dedicated to so many books. A small figurine of a Literary Lion, like the ones flanking either side of the library's main entrance, accompanied me home and became a fixture on my writing desk, a symbol of the literary life I would devote myself to...

...and then came graduate school. It felt like no small cosmic coincidence that I lost my lion figurine within the first quarter of my advanced studies. I've since learned that those library lions are named Patience and Fortitude, which somehow seems the perfect metaphor for the unfolding nightmare that was grad school. Don't get me wrong: I'm glad I have my doctorate degree, yet I also found that I wasn't the traditional academic scholar I had once dreamed of being (it was, in retrospect, a mere detour in my development as a creative writer). Never had I felt so silenced. Never had I struggled so hard to keep my natural exuberance alive. Never had I struggled more to keep my free spirit independent from the hive mind.

By the time I finished my dissertation, that enthusiasm for the written word had dwindled to a small half-dead spark. Then came those purgatory-like years in which I identified as a Recovering Academic, thirsting for a time when I unabashedly loved big books and knew who I was as a writer. It took some time--years--to painstakingly relearn the joys of storytelling and even longer to find my Writer's Roar again. This blog, in fact, started out as a daily exercise in reclaiming that wild woman writer with a lust for life buried under bureaucratic dust. Patience and Fortitude, indeed.

All by way of saying, I found myself taking a similar sojourn to this city fifteen years after my first life-changing experience there to celebrate the return of My Writer's Roar. The dwindling spark I nourished for so long had suddenly burst into an unquenchable internal fire. I had done it. The realization hit me at my writing desk one morning after tending my blog. I was literally living The Writer's Life teen-me dreamt of for so long. I was a teacher, a writer, a healthy yogini with a home (okay apartment) of her own. And I was one with my stories again.

It seemed only fitting to return to this literary mecca after recently finding that I had, in fact, found my words again. I must pay homage to the city that fueled me as a young writer. And so began my pilgrimage to the place that marked the beginning of my writing life.

One of the beauties of traveling is being open to the synchronous moments where you stumble upon the exact thing you didn't know you needed. Like those magical instants in our daily lives that push us in the right direction, an impulsive decision to get off the New York subway blocks earlier than you intend can lead you to marvelous places. Such was how I found the Argosy Bookstore, New York's oldest indie bookstore and my first (unexpected) stop on my day-long feast of books.

Interior shot of the Argosy Bookstore's first floor.

Here I was wandering the streets of Manhattan in search of a good cup of coffee on my way to the Morgan Library when all at once I was in front of this magical store. It was like walking into the inside of a story or some literary alchemist's den where only the most potent tales were spun. Old and rare books lined the shelves, stacks of antique prints teased the eye, and, my personal favorite, rare books and first editions on the occult promised otherworldly insights on the turn-of-the-century "new sciences" like astrology and clairvoyance. I drooled over rare prints and first editions of fairy tales, novels I'd grown up reading, and older than sin Shakespeare folios. What more could a woman ask for?

My splurges: first edition occult texts circa 1920s from the Argosy.

The books were alive here. Breathing living things made up of leather stretched across book board and handstitched pages smattered with inky words. Needless to say, I could have spent a whole day there. There was splurging. There was a rekindled love of old books and the rich vanilla-like smell of stories that have had time to marinate on their shelves. And there was also that fantastic cup of coffee I was looking for from a food cart on the corner of Park and 59th, thanks to the recommendation of the bookstore's employees. The day was off to a good start.

My next stop was the Morgan Library, a must for any bibliophile. Once the home of famous financier and avid collector Pierpont Morgan, this museum, according to the website, houses "illuminated, literary, and historical manuscripts, early printed books, and old master drawings and prints." What does this mean in layman's terms? Only the first edition of Jane Austen's Emma, in the original three separate volumes; or the remains of the earliest known tarot card set, circa 1450; or a 15-year old Mozart's attempts at a symphony; not to mention preserved hand-written letters of Samuel Johnson to his publisher and Victorian-era musings on magical flying machines (hello airplanes!) and early discussions of what we now know to be computer coding. But perhaps the most breathtaking piece on display was a first edition of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass, which he wrote, designed, published, and marketed himself. Now there was a free-spirited writer if there ever was one.

First edition of Jane Austen's Emma (1816). — First edition of Jane Austen's *Emma* (1816).

Four Italian tarot cards from before the deck became associated with occult practices (1450).

First edition of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass (1855). — First edition of Walt Whitman's *Leaves of Grass* (1855).

This is to say nothing of Morgan's fabulous library where you feel you could while away an afternoon reading selections from this marvelous collection or spend an evening in thoughtful conversation with the man who so passionately hoarded these treasures. And even if all those manuscripts aren't enough to stir up writing inspiration, then there's always a Hemingway three-martini lunch (featuring three 2 oz martinis) to top off your visit. Writer's fuel never tasted so good.

The secret vault where Morgan kept the most prized pieces of his collection.

My final stop that day (but by no means my last literary adventure in the city) was the New York Public Library, naturally, and just a few short block away from the Morgan. I wanted to see how good 'ol Patience and Fortitude were doing. It had been a long time, but they were just as majestic as I remembered them. I spent some time wandering the library, through the various reading rooms and up and down the wide, imposing staircases, remember how big it all seemed to me at fifteen. Okay, how big it still seems to me.

Like your favorite novel, you never get over your first time reading it. Each successive rereading is enriched and informed by that initial experience. This is the only way I can seem to describe what it was like to revisit this literary landmark. Walking through those halls I was fifteen again, awed by my first exposure to the bigger world--bigger possibilities--outside my own small teen life, and I was also thirty-one, seeing the library through the eyes of a woman with a little more seasoning under her belt. I'd done things. Gone through stuff. Made mistakes and made things right. Had adventures and even written some of them down. Experienced the plot twists that make life--and stories--and people--interesting.

Best of all, walking these halls, sitting in these reading rooms, and reclaiming those literary lions (I just had to get a magnet of them for my fridge!), I realized I always had it: that spark. The internal joy of living and reading and writing deeply had never left me. Not really. All I had to do was reclaim my Roar. Own it. Because there is no room in this world for anyone who thinks they can silence you. There is no room in your stories to submit to being silenced. I owe this lesson to Patience and Fortitude. As with many of my travels, I went a long way away to find that I what I needed was right in the palm of my hands.

Patience and Fortitude manning their posts in front of the New York Public Library.

Honoring the White Rose: A Tribute to the 9/11 Memorial

May 17, 2016

Those of you following me on social media will have noticed that I did not post any photos of the 9/11 Memorial during my recent trip to New York. It was, in fact, one of my first visits to the city and never have I been so moved or awed by melancholy as I was watching dark rivers of water cascade into and even darker, endless abyss that made up the tribute to those who lost their lives in the 9/11 attacks.

And yet the saddest thing to me was not the memorial itself, but the number of people taking selfies--complete with big smiles and thumbs up--using this place of tragedy as their backdrop. Don't get me wrong, I love a good selfie as much as the next person, along with the joys of documenting travels and adventures. But all I could think when I saw throngs of people mindlessly snapping photos was that they have already forgotten the terror of that day. They must have, or why would they so carelessly pollute this landmark with elbow-shoving and photo-snapping?

This is a place where countless people lost their lives, a place where the American psyche has been irrevocably scarred. There is no room for selfies here, only solemnity and gravitas for the fallen, as touchingly expressed by the single white rose left in one name inscribed into the dark marble of the memorial--one of many victims. I later learned that survivors place these roses in victims' names on the day of what would have been their birthday.

So I could not take a picture here (the one you see in this blog has been lifted from the 9/11 memorial website). I could not devalue that pain and suffering this day caused, and continues to cause, for so many people. To this day, the 9/11 Memorial will remain one of the most profound studies in grief for me and, likewise, one of the most touching memorials for this overwhelming loss--for those who took the time to truly engage with it.

I have clear memories of visiting the Twin Towers during my first visit to New York over fifteen years ago. I was a teenager, happily playing hooky from school with my dad to visit my brother in this grand city. We spent the evening walking through the financial district after dinner, seeing the famous bull of Wall Street, among other sights. I recall clearly how my imprudent strappy high heels clacked on uneven streets; I was still under the illusion that women could somehow walk miles in strappy heels without pain or blisters. We had gotten it into our heads to go for a nightcap at a restaurant located at the top of one of the towers. It was when we entered the ground floor of one of the towers that I gave up on my dreams of effortless glamour and took off my high heels.

I walked, at fifteen, still in braces and wearing a too-tight dress (I had yet to outgrow that conception of glamour), walked barefoot through the twin towers, my utterly gorgeous but impractical heels swinging from my crooked fingers. We never got to the rooftop restaurant that night for one reason or another. Next time, we said.

A year later, my brother called from a rooftop in Manhattan, saying planes were crashing into the towers. My sisters and I were on our way to school. We turned on the news. We watched as the second one fell. The rest of the year was spent in a stupor, worried for my brother's safety, crushed by the immensity of what had happened. The was numbness. There was crying. There was scarring. Terrible, terrible scarring. And we were the least affected by this horrific tragedy.

So no, I did not take a photo of this memorial. I wouldn't smile for a selfie behind the white rose, a token that somebody with a still-beating heart mourns for another burried beneath this city. I will honor the white rose and the souls, like each drop of water in the memorial, that forever fall into the abyss.

5 More Ways to Green Your Routine

April 21, 2016

Every year I get a little better at greening my routine. As I read more about the impact we have on our environment and the little but important changes we can make to our lifestyles to leave a greener footprint, I become inspired to live in better harmony with nature. Surprisingly, as I've gotten greener over the years, I've found that it hasn't just improved the planet, but my overall sense of well-being. I use less. I buy less. I enjoy what I have more. My home is clutter-free, as is my mind.

More and more, I cannot escape the intrinsic link between the planet's health and my own. Where once I was stressed or anxious, I found healing in de-cluttering my life and simplifying my needs. I unplugged from what mainstream society says will make me happy (buy more, do more, move faster, burn hotter) and found, in creating space to connect with myself and nature, that my happiness comes from slowing down, doing less, and enjoying life's simple pleasures.

The changes I've made have been radical in their own small way, from giving up conventional makeup, which was causing severe skin irritation, to using only the organic kind, and now, beginning the adventure of making all my own products. I've switched from conventional groceries and the traditional food pyramid of health to organic, local produce and a whole foods diet. I've even terminated one-use items like paper towels and plastic wrap in favor of reusable mason jars for storage and old towels for rags to reduce waste.

Each step to a sustainable lifestyle was challenging at first, but then became a delicious expression of a balanced life. Now I could never, ever imagine eating fast food or buying drugstore mascara. What's more, the transition to a better-quality lifestyle was easier than I thought it would be once I got past the mental block of thinking that going green was difficult, expensive, or labor intensive. The eco-friendlier I get, the more addictive it is. I am healthier, happier, and more in balance with myself and the world around me. Want to feel these good vibes too? Check out these easy ways to green your routine.

1. Say goodbye to junk mail. Not only is it a nuisance, but it wastes so many trees, not to mention huge amounts of water and energy to produce what essentially goes directly into our trash cans, or if we are more conscious, our recycling bins or compost. Luckily, opting out of junk mail is easier than you think. Simply sign up for a free account at DMAChoice.org to stop receiving catalogs, credit card offers, and other miscellanea. Not only will this one small change make a huge difference in the environment, but it will also make sorting your mail easier. Want to know more about the environmental impact of junk mail? Check out what Sustainable Baby Steps has to say.

2. Reduce plastic use. Part of moving towards a zero-waste lifestyle is saying goodbye to one-use items like plastic bags, wrap, and other conveniences like bottled water. The energy, water, and materials it takes to produce these items are nothing compared to the resources it takes to actually recycle them...when they can be recycled. Too often these disposable items can't be reused or recycled because they are made of the cheapest (and most chemical-laden) forms of plastics that have no life beyond covering your leftovers. Even worse, these items end up in the ocean, destroying marine habitats and harming sea life. Check out the Earth Resource Foundation to learn more about how harmful plastics are to the environment.

The good news is that reduced plastic use is WAY easier--and addictive!--than I thought it would be. First and foremost, I eliminated bottled water, including my favorite, sparkling water (I got a fizzy water maker instead and love it! It lets me get my bubble fix, is more cost-effective than buying bottled water, and easier to store). I also don't buy plastic bags or saran wrap anymore. I admit, it was hard to give up the convenient plastic bags at first, since I used them for so many things. Now, though, I could never go back to using them. I use what I have (I won't buy more wasteful products) and then get creative about how I store my food....hello mason jars! Turns out, they are just as convenient as plastic (and bonus, more aesthetically pleasing!). I still haven't gotten rid of my Tupperware, but I'm not buying more of it either. I'll use what I've got, then invest in glass and silicon storage containers when the time comes. The funny thing is that thought doesn't seem so intimidating as it once did before I gave up plastic bags and bottled water.

3. ...and paper towels. I just use old cotton dishtowels that no longer look pretty in place of paper towels as rags. I love never having to remember to buy paper towels. I keep a set of old towels as bathroom and house cleaning rags and another set of towels strictly for kitchen use. If part of living a green life is reducing what we consume, then giving new life to old items is a smart way to limit the production of unnecessary disposable goods. Did you know you could also compost towels made from natural fibers like cotton, silk, and hemp?

4. Recycle your clothes. Every few years, I clean out my closet and donate anything I haven't worn in the past year. That's recycling in its most basic form: passing along usable items to someone who needs them. But what about those wardrobe staples you've worn to death? For a long time, I never knew what to do with these items and often threw them away, for lack of better options. Now I give those items to Goodwill or your local Thrift Town because I learned from Earth 911 and some strategic web searches that these places collect unusable textiles and sell them out to other companies to recycle or reuse them. To make it easy on them, I keep my wearable clothes and well-used ones in separate containers.

5. Conserve water. This is another simple yet important part of green living. Most of the water we use day to day is actually wasted--the time people leave the faucet running on high while washing dishes, for example, or taking a super-long shower. Take shorter showers (and if/when you are shaving your legs, turn the water off!). Same goes for tooth brushing and dish washing: clean first, then, rinse, keeping the faucet on low. Sustainable Baby Steps has even more ways to reduce water use that are easy enough to incorporate into your everyday routine.

Bottom line: with a little extra care and a few tweaks to our lifestyle, we can make substantial positive changes to our environment and improve our overall quality of life.

Easy Homemade Dishwasher Detergent

April 13, 2016

In an effort to make my home eco-friendlier, I've begun making my own cleaning supplies. Not only is it cost-effective, but I feel like I'm taking care of myself and my planet by being more conscious about what I use to care for my home--including the dishes I wash.

As a fan of home cooking--the ritual of preparing a nourishing meal and the health benefits of doing so--I can rack up a lot of dirty dishes just by spending an hour in the kitchen. I've found that many green dishwasher detergents include unnecessary and, in some cases, harmful ingredients. Thus was born my quest to find a more sustainable solution to the sinkful of dishes waiting for a good cleaning.

This recipe for my eco-friendly dishwasher detergent is a love child born from mixes by Wellness Mama, Thank Your Body, and Overthrow Martha. After months of testing, I found the perfect recipe that gets dishes clean and, with a little help from vinegar, sparkling. An added bonus to this recipe is that, since you aren't buying packaged detergent, you are also cutting down on packaging waste. I buy the ingredients in bulk and mix as needed, storing it in a mason jar.

As with all my recipes, this one shouldn't take you more than a handful of minutes to whip up. Homemade anything is wonderful...as long as it isn't too labor intensive!

ingredients:

1 cup washing soda

1 cup citric acid

1 cup baking soda

1/2 cup sea salt

Combine all ingredients in a large mason jar (or another container) and shake vigorously. Makes three cups (roughly 24 loads). Pour approximately 2 tablespoons per load. Add vinegar in your dish washer's rinse compartment to avoid clouding on dishes. Enjoy!

Two-Ingredient Laundry Detergent

April 6, 2016

I've fallen in love with homemade laundry detergent. Why? Because it's earth-friendly, cost-effective, easy to make and even easier to use. With a few minutes and two simple ingredients, you've got yourself a great detergent that is gentle on your clothes, your wallet, and the planet. Still not convinced that homemade is better? See what Wellness Mama has to say.

I avoided making any liquid laundry soaps because they are too labor intensive and more difficult to store. I also chose a Borax-free recipe, because this ingredient is so controversial, as Crunchy Betty can tell you. That, and I try to only use ingredients that I readily have on hand. I'd rather use baking soda and castile soap than have to buy additional ingredients. It reduces clutter and keeps things simple for me.

I adapted my recipe from ones by Thank Your Body and Mommypotamus, finding that the fewer the ingredients and the quicker the recipe, the easier it is for me to be eco-friendly. This recipe makes enough detergent for about 50 loads at roughly 5 cents a load. Of course, you can always double or triple the recipe to save yourself time and energy. All in all, after using this on my clothes for six months now, I can never go back to traditional detergent.

Ingredients:

1 bar Dr. Bronner's Castile Soap (5 ounces)

2 cups washing soda

Using a fine grater, grate the full bar of soap. Mix with 2 cups washing soda in a bowl until combined. To use, pour 1 tablespoon in washing machine before adding clothes. Makes about 3 cups (48 loads of laundry). Enjoy!

The Wind in My Hair

March 10, 2016

Sometimes it is like thick, cool fingers grabbing a fistful of tendrils, but today it is soft, gentle. The hands of a child braiding your thick coils together.

It won't let you be still--it wants you to twirl and dance the way it does, whipping around trees and snaking its way through the dry brush. This force of nature shapes everything, even the hard granite. The wind only wants to kiss away bits of silt that grind against the rock's back. That is how it feels today: a slow, consistent presence molding you into a better self.

Other days it is pushy. A big flirt stuffing its long fingers between the buttons of your blouse and tugging at your skirt. It throws fits too, casting sand and pebbles your way when it knows it's not always welcome.

Still, in whatever form it takes, it will always carry away your burdens--the heavy heart, the endless to-do list, the crick in your back that makes your dreams feel smaller and smaller. The wind wants you to get tangled up and flustered and maybe even a little gritty-eyed so that you forget to hold on so tightly to the flotsam of your day, the small hard facts that you think make up your essence.

You are not the pebble in your shoe, it says. Or the number of tasks completed. You are the number of dreams you plant and the moments you lose track of as you feel the caress of the sun-warmed breeze tickling your knees.

So let it whip away the debris. Let it remind you that you are the hopes you tend.

Leap Year: Or the Magpie and the Time Thief

February 29, 2016

It can't help itself. There are so many shiny little seconds, like copper pennies, buried in the sand. And all those fat marbled minutes that roll downhill and find themselves half-submerged in a puddle. Then there are the hours, glittering gears forever moving forward one plodding step at a time. The magpie must have them all, plucking them from their gutters and trash bins and other places time goes to be forgotten.

The thrifty bird plucks a lost second from the bottom of your pocket--a strand of silver tinsel in its black beak. Broken-down minutes are trapped in its wings as if stardust were woven into each feather. It greedily clutches and grabs for the heaviest and most elusive of treasures: the hour that slipped away from you, frittered away or just lost when you forgot to look for it. The bird hooks its claws through the gear's hollow center, careful not to let the teeth bite into its scaled bones.

Back to the nest.

The scavenger's home becomes a museum of so many beautiful moments. So many grains of sand that escaped the hour glass. So many sparkling instants that could have sprouted another story, a different path. They all belong to the magpie. It wants to gloat over its hoarded treasure buried between rounded twigs and moss, revel in the delicious possibility of lost time.

But the temptation of finding more--bigger--gems lure it from its nest.

That is when the time thief strikes. She waits and she watches the magpie fondle discarded clock faces and rusty numbers that used to mean something. She hides in the shadows cast by the brilliant light of those silver timepieces and memories swept away with the seconds between blinks. And when the magpie shakes the last of the stardust from its wings and flits off in search of more sparkling tick-tocks, she makes her move.

Gathers all the dazzling lost instants and stuffs them into one day so that she may bask in the warm promise of extra time. (She knows too, that this borrowed time will always fetch a high price at the market.) Like the magpie, she cannot resist the glittering cogs that insist there is a past and a present and a future. Who can withstand the rotation of two hands on a circular face?

Certainly not the magpie who returns to its nest, drawn by the luminous day built from its hard-scavenged treasure. It will take back its precious collection, drive its sharp claws into the thief's spine--but the thief knows better than to turn her back to the nest. She instead hides in the shadows of the waning light, attempting to pull her stolen loot along in her wake. The bird tugs back, wrapping tinseled seconds around its beak and claws for better purchase; the thief refuses to let go, holding fast to a handful of minutes.

Push-pull, push-pull, until the moments and hours and seconds and minutes shake loose and scatter themselves over the earth, once again disappearing into gutters and drainpipes, under rocks and tree roots. The magpie has no choice but to start its work once more. The thief returns to the shadows, waiting until the bird's nest is once again full of lost time so that she may feast upon it herself.

The earth circles four times around the sun. Four sets of four seasons sweep through the land. And the cycle begins anew.

What Love Looks Like

February 11, 2016

You find it in the small hand, no bigger than a silver dollar, pressed against your forearm as your niece finds her balance. Each finger, barely larger than a thick blade of grass, has left its mark on your skin though nobody could tell by looking at it. You find it too, in the fuchsia baby blanket that cannot possibly hold all the tenderness you feel for this little creature that has made her way into your life; this blanket gets bigger and bigger with each passing day so that you can loop happiness and abundance into each shelled stitch. You want her to remember that her palms were once wrapped around your thick thumbs as she learned to hold herself upright--you want her to know that she has always been strong, always been eager to experience this world. She only has to look at this blanket, or wrap it around her slight shoulders, to feel the support of her auntie and know that she, like her mother, is a force to be reckoned with.

This four letter word people bend into two kissing curves that pucker into a point looks nothing like a real heart. A real heart is messy, made up of pumping blood and so many veins and memories that keep it going. And something else that you cannot fully name but know it is sweeter, more life-affirming than the oxygen that this organ provides. It is that moment (years ago now, a recollection tattooed into your artery walls) when you said everything was fine, and your parents knew what you really meant was that you were slowly being swallowed by fog, and so sent you a care package full of sunlight, red chile pods, and pinon coffee. Yes, that kept your blood pumping and chased away the darkness. You were not alone.

It is on the journey home with your older sister and the promises you made each other to live as extraordinary beings (and the bottles of wine and long conversations that prompted those promises, now like so many matches lit and thrown into your enteral fires). Then when she found her roots and wings, you found another brother. Here is the solid earth-forged spirit that grounds, ready to remind you that you don't need to carry so much weight on you shoulders--shouldn't. But there is more. You find this ephemeral warmth in the taste of kimchi and oysters on the half-shell chased down with a dirty martini. This is always somehow accompanied by images of your brother arranging all your boxes, most of them books, into your travel pod so you could bring your life home. Or of him and wife walking through the park that was once your refuge on their wedding day. There was so much sunlight that afternoon.

And still, you find this thing--this beating, pumping thing--woven into each breath. You can't even look at the inside of an orange peel without thinking of long full fingers scraping away pith one orange quarter at a time to transform this fruity carcass into leathery hugs, a reminder that your younger sister is always close though an ocean separates you. Close enough that you can never simply tear a banana open with a quick tug of its gnarled stem but must carefully slice the skin apart from stem to nubby bottom so as to better preserve that yellowed husk; she would know somehow if you took a shortcut. And you think of the man that loves her. Here you know a kindred spirit, one who understands instinctively that the internal life is just as important than the external one--perhaps more so. There is much to be found on the page and the inward-turning gaze.

You don't have to be anything other than yourself with these people; you can be the quiet wildling with bare feet and kinky hair happy to get lost (found?) in a book or a garden--or a kitchen. And when you can't always give yourself permission to be this elusive creature, they remind you that your soul was forged from ink and summers playing outside with your siblings and always, always from feeding the wonder and delight that makes each day worth getting up for.

That's the day-in-day-out of it: the barely contained smile from your sisters because they know you are all thinking the same thing...and probably shouldn't say it out loud. We are surrounded by strangers, after all, and the thought is not fit for polite company. Even the frantic lick of puppy tongues on your hands and pawing of your furry charges when you haven't seen them for some time tells you that your life is full. Or the smell of green chile stew and the pure pleasure of a tortilla fresh from the griddle in the kitchen you grew up in that reminds you at the end of the week that you are surrounded by love.

That's it. That's the word. Such a small one for an awful lot of feeling.

Writing at the Kitchen Table

February 3, 2016

Sure you have your own writing desk, one lovingly crafted over the years. You can still see evergreen where it bleeds through the turquoise you painted over it, a tribute to the expansive lightness of your beloved skies. The inevitable wear and tear of scratches and well-worn grooves where your feet rest on your chair are as familiar to you as the lines on the palm of your hands. And the scattered gemstones, carelessly placed daisies, and stacks of half-read books only add to this still life, a study of a writer's mind.

But sometimes you need to forgo the creative splendor of that desk for the warmth and sanctity of the kitchen table. Here you can spread out and make your journal and pen at home with the salt and pepper shakers. Your hands can smooth the wrinkles from the homemade mustard and ochre tablecloth strewn with embroidered vines and buds impatient to burst open, a gift from your mother; this homey task is a welcome respite for your fingers, much more soothing than finding their way around the roughness of each wooden groove and lost story on your writing desk.

The only music is the whistle of the kettle and the sound of you and your words breathing in unison. Perhaps there is even some stew simmering on the stove, perfuming your cozy space with comfort and garlic. There is no room for dainty tea cups here, just as there is no time for a lady-like cup of Earl Grey. Only fat mugs will do, enough to hold the rich brew you concoct out of oat straw, alfalfa leaves, and astralagus root. This is working tea. It fills you up with nourishment from the earth and protects you from the elements. Each sip brings you closer to the ground, where you write best.

It is easier to plant your letters in that minerally dirt and watch words bloom. Their sun is the glitter from the mica mugs from which you slurp your tea. And you watch with the pleasure of a gardener who has pulled the last weed from her plot of land, as those words unfurl into sentences, and burst into story just as the tight buds on the tablecloth erupt into bloom.

Only at the kitchen table can you get your hands dirty and your mind clear.