And here is the December piece of my alphabetized journal, one complete season (and a little bit on either side), Autumn 2024. In this excerpt, we have mention of the book that sparked this little word journey (though it wasn’t until near the end of the month that I thought of applying the technique to my own writing…) As someone who writes in my journal often, but rarely re-reads, this has been so insightful for me. I love how I talk to myself and what I talk about. This exploration took a whole lot of self-induced pressure off of me. It’s okay for me to write for myself. I am a delighted audience, and because it’s a journal, I’m not criticizing or censoring my writing as people often do when writing for others. Of course, now that I’ve started doing this, I am a bit more self-conscious writing in my journal. I’ve never shared before. But, “little darling, I feel like ice is slowly melting,” and I am having trickle and drip and sometimes even flow in all of my other written expression too. I’m not sure if anyone is even reading this and what a freedom that has been! My friend Delila of Wisdom of Nature Press, who led Sticks and Stones with brave Aries energy into the self-publishing adventure (and introduced us to Erin Donley!) has just put forth her second book, The Nature of Hearts, and on the eve of its debut, she was wondering if her collection of family wisdom and reflection was “too self-indulgent.” (It ISN’T). In some ways, these three blog posts are my answer to that. What could be more self-indulgent than alphabetizing and sharing one’s own journals?! And my sweet and sometimes scared self has so deeply benefitted from this process. I plan to indulge myself in writing, reflection, and sharing. It’s excellent medicine.
I was able to buy Delila’s book, and Dana’s first book Amuse-Bouche too, through Cloud and Leaf Bookstore in Manzanita, using a nifty self-publishing hack called https://bookshop.org , if you want to avoid Amazon.
December 2024
Nothing’s Set in Stone
A beautiful woods view from his very black and white apartment. A day of reading, writing, napping. A different kind of “baby book.” A is for Ancestors.
A is for Ancestors. Also ha ha ha. Also I don’t write much about food. Ancient dub. And I am not alone but nothing’s set in stone. And we are not alone, but nothing’s set in stone. And into Nora’s slippers too, but those want to be leather soled elf booties and so mote it be. And, Papa Dave is quick to point out, at the end you have a clean floor. And sometimes a little mystery too. A self that would last me a very long time (Miranda July).
Beautiful and age 40 and working in developmental psychology. B is for Birth. B is for Broom. Blog post. Blog post. Body, mind, spirit, voice.[1] Brought out new hummingbird food. But why do I so consistently deprive myself of what calms me, grounds me, centers me, fires me up, oceans me down?!
Cards (old) from Amy and Jenny, Vix, Chaya. Christmas / Hannukah 2024. Copied out amb / Loving Corrections quotes. Couldn’t hold the click-open pose.
Dad, she wrote. Dana, Dave, and Tess are all inlaws. Dana and Lou are sisters. Dancing more. D, diminished 7th, George.
December 5. December 6. December 9. December 10. December 17. December 22. December 23. December 25. December 26. December 28.
Distractable AF. Don’t make the same mistakes I did, son.[2] Ducati.[3]
Emily Daggett was there. Every introduction is a poem, not always profound, but primal in its place. Everything can change.
Food is our most complex, nourishing, fundamental interdependency with our environment. Four granddaughters. Four Hunekes: Chip, Tess, Carly, Kenz.
G augmented, John. Giving myself a second chance at childhood. Good food, reading time, writing time, walking, dance, baths, tv, audiobooks, letters to kin and friends. Grace Hall as The Storied Garden. Grace Hall as a writer’s retreat. Grimoire Girl and now The Rural Diaries audiobook read by the author.
Had sushi, miso, chow mien noodles. Having lunch. Hearth-tending. He shot down his own privilege and I feel like maybe I burned mine down, or burned out the illusion in myself that money can keep us safe.
Home-making. Homework. How did that get here? House cleaning. Household. House.Hold. Housework. House-keeping.
I always thought cocoa is better in the rain. I am slow on the golden thread sometimes, following the stories. I am writing with the ink cartridge.
I discovered that sweeping first thing in the morning—sweeping the kitchen while waiting for the kettle to boil, sweeping the collaboratory, the back porch—is an enormous source of data, a review of past events, a repository of history, a literal dustbin of history.
I make space for the stunted parts of myself and I celebrate them and I try to grow them up (Moon Unit Zappa). I’m going to ask MacKenzie to facilitate a book group virtually for us so we can all get in right relationship to our mortality.
In my baby book, my mother wrote my first word.
I prefer my cocoa sad, or weary, or relieved. I remember reading that for the first time and thinking I’d betrayed her. I saw Jo very naturally and spontaneously do a multiplication story with Milo—you have seven tiny animals and each one cost a dollar, so how many dollars was that? I shut down in shock, kind of. I spent the whole day in sexy pajamas. It can keep us comfortable, it can numb us or keep us distracted, it can consume us and become a monomania. It smelled like his closet, cigarette smoke, Old Spice, paper bag of porn magazines, Playboy, Penthouse and Hustler, mostly.
I think I need a different glue solution. I think my bones are strong. I think one of the best things Jas can do for Milo’s development is take joy in and marvel at the new baby’s development. I thought first of Owen, Amy Sunshine’s son, who did some leatherwork and patchwork when he was a kid, but while I was planning to hire him for the task, he grew into a man and became a forest firefighter and his mom married Jenny and moved away. I totally identify with Luigi. It’s been in the fifties during the day for two weeks now, weird for the weeks before winter officially begins. It’s good to cry with. It’s not their job, that a six year old can fix the world. It’s so hard to sustain my attention or efforts (except watching tv or mingling). It’s their time to self-construct. I’ve been in the middle of an inner revolution, a class war in myself. I’ve been upright for so long. I’ve read a wonderful book, an amazing book, called The Alphabetical Diaries. I walked in a daze with a few yelps of animal pain. I will start a family chain letter.
Last night at the Oakshire gig, my fingers got closed in the car door of the Toyota. Life path. Like Pat Ludick did—look at these little hands. L is for lilac. Listen. Listen to the commons. Listen to the drums. Listen to the eagle, to the hawk. Listen to your elders. Listen to the hums. Listen to your kin. Listen to the mountains’ murmuring talk. Listen to the oceans. Listen to the river, to the wind. Listen to the stars. Listen to the voice that’s deep within. Listen to the whistle. Looking for holonic shift.
Make the exact opposite ones.[4] Memento Mori from the library and Powell’s for Sue—also The Serviceberry. Messy but quite light and easy. Milo has also been measuring his own development by adding four and exploring the interval between himself and his sister. Moonshadow. Moved out some mingles, the first in a while. My immediate response, after shouting “Open the door!” was “Oh no, I won’t be able to write.” My right hand.
No bruise. Nothing set in stone. Nothing’s set in stone.
Okay, I’m going to start writing about both. One first eye meet, maybe a handshake, or a tiny grip born new and just wrapped fresh around a parent’s finger. One first wave of words, rehearsed or blurted. On the Loose: A Timeline.[5] Ordered Grimoire Girl for 20 Summit. Ouch.
PAM CUT Co:Laboratory. Pen won’t retract. Permission given to myself. Play (only free children). Practiced my name. Preparing the environment for human flourishing. Put it on. Put it on. Put it on baby.
Quick walk to Hawthorne, not a single leaf.
Realizing that not every moment in life will be deep, or meaningful, or vibrating with energy that would give him the fulfillment that he’d always hoped for, Todd unloaded the dishwasher.[6] Reed Stories: Larry Rinder, Powell’s Loves Reedies, Chaya, Dave, Michelle, Mari and the Gentle Tarot. Roland Rogers Isn’t Dead Yet.
Sanguine: blood red, optimistic, positive. Saw juncos.
Seasons change and so do you. I am always changing too. Sometimes quickly, sometimes slow. Everything will change so new things can grow.[7]
Self-care takes on new characteristics when the self is evolving (and of course it always is). So far, all that’s missing is the sex. Solstice 2024. Some of us are sort of blindsided by our grief. Some people are all celebratory about their cocoa, campfires and breakfast. Spiritual health challenges. Spring Equinox 2021, Wild Love, Joanna Macy, last class. Sprinkled a little birdseed. Started a new book—The Alphabetical Diaries—incredible! Stories shaped by hand, vessels of the land. Stevan, Joanna, Sheri, Pinewood Table. Sweet summer child.
The Beatles chord, the minor fourth, Paul. The Complete Book of Caregiving: Too tired to write it.[8] The healing I wish for my circle is the healing I wish for myself. The hurting stopped so abruptly that I was at first a little scared that I’d lost sensation—but no, the pain was just over. Then I thought of Susan but again the years went by and I bought her black and gold round wooden table with the graceful curves when she was leaving town and moving north.
Then push your child to do the same, and so it shall go, back and forth like some great cosmic overcorrecting yo-yo.[9] The other shoe. There are a lot of places in my childhood and in Montessori life where I had magic that I want my other friends and kin to get to have too. The social and experiential nature of numbers is what we’re talking about when we tell “the story” in a math process with a child younger than six or so. This is a first—when I came to write with a long-time familiar pen, the screw-on part was missing. This is definitely the most magical writing experience I’ve ever had. This is not your trainer’s human interdependencies.
Three squirrels, three crows.
To be deprived of the ability and time to write would be the worst thing I can think of to happen besides losing a loved one. To be really sexy with Papa Dave (oh babe). To be working with love to create a place of happiness, comfort and joy for each of you. To create the conditions for Milo to grow and develop into a decent human being. To create the conditions for this family to develop and grow and evolve into greater community.
Today I am writing. To love reading is to have everything within your reach. Training meeting: last week of October 2025, Chennai, India. Twining with the Mingles.
Valerie moves in, January 19, 2015. Voice in my letters. Voice in People magazine.
Webbing for more. We can be in many combinations of 2, 3, 4. We can integrate the pain and grief, let it teach us. We observed the way math is embodied in the children in our care, with whom we live, eat, sleep, work, play, sing, dance, walk, move, and otherwise express our existence. We roar with pride.[10] We will have each other’s handwriting and DNA. What a relief.
What I did today. What is that? What’s you and what’s the wound? Why I call myself a Dangerous Writer. Why should I be surprised at the fractal kaleidoscopic coherence of myself? Winter Queen, Christmas Eve, hedgemingle, Ripley. W is for window. With Dave, I danced holes into all the socks my friends knit for me. With my dad, Skip, I kept his sweater. Wordle, quordle, secrets, connections, spelling bee. Wrote a song.
[1] A beloved round, and also my self-made tarot spread since 2020.
[2] New Yorker cartoon.
[3] A term of art from when I wrote regularly with The Pinewood Table, referring to an element showing up spontaneously in more than one writer’s weekly pages, a cosmic coincidence.
[4] New Yorker cartoon.
[5] People magazine’s coverage of Luigi Mangione.
[6] New Yorker cartoon
[7] https://mamanous.bandcamp.com/track/seasons-change
[8] New Yorker cartoon
[9] New Yorker cartoon.
[10] Full page ad from the Oregon Zoo.
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