The expansion/contraction; the both/and.

My world has gotten so small in the past two years. It has gotten small because the world shut down and it has gotten small because it needed to. Like many of us, I’ve found that processing the real-time trauma and grief caused by the pandemic and its resulting isolation alongside unrelated, personal, capital-T traumas have left me unable to field and ingest much of anything at all. I have little to no patience for or interest in Instagram or other social media. My scope of attention has narrowed, only able to receive what is immediately in front of me, and what feels truly worthwhile. Healing. Meaningful.

We are now nearly two years in. As adaptive beings, we have learned to cope. We are generally less afraid while still exerting caution. We are learning to effectively exist within with this new normal, however heartbreaking it may be. We are re-assessing our lives. Making changes. Slowing down. Scaling back. Creating new visions for our futures that are aligned with the truths and values we’ve unearthed through each of our personal hailstorms of the past two years.

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about expansion and contraction. About the ways of the body during childbirth. That restriction and clenching give way to openness and release, and that it is the symbiosis of the two that brings new realities into being. We were all so contracted for so long. Then hope felt tenable, doors flew back open, connection and expansion seemed to reinvigorate our lives. Until the variants came, and we were all confronted with renewed shutdowns and a sudden, severe contraction once again.

This makes me think, too, of the upward spiral of growth. The nonlinear nature of healing. The two steps forward and one step back. The way we think we’ve made peace with something in our past, our hearts, our bodies, our behavior patterns, only to find ourselves eventually back in the throes of that same wound and its teachings once again.

This cycle is inevitable. And so the question becomes: how do we hold ourselves in the contractions, in the revisitations of those aspects of experience we thought we had handled and left behind? How do we help ourselves see the presence and truth of our growth and change, which always does exist alongside our ghosts?

The following is a piece of journaling I wrote in early May, 2020, six weeks into the first quarantine. It is a snapshot of a precise moment in time, conditions upon conditions and my wrestling with them. It is a portrait of a broken hearted woman in forced isolation during a global pandemic, trying to make sense of her life.

Life is so different now; and still, in moments, so much the same. I share it to share my experience, knowing that there is always something universal in that which is the most deeply personal. Hope you’re all doing okay out there. Sending love.

~*~

May 2, 2020

There is nothing to do but be still and notice. The locus of the feeling in my body. Tightness in the chest; tingling along the spine; a throat clenching back tears. I give the sensations names, words so they may fall into understanding, a safe home in which to dwell. Give them a right to exist so one day they may no longer need to.

In this inescapable stillness, the memories come flooding back. Ghosts that drop me to my knees in fits of tears because of their robust rightness, the yardstick they grew into; my barometer of seamless love. These ghosts of loss and grief, gnarled in my heart amongst such profound anger—and nowhere to put it.

The both/and is a profoundly difficult and uncomfortable place to be. To love someone deeply and know you are better off without them. To allow for the truth of grief nestled right next to anger. To forgive yourself for loving someone who was harmful to your spirit and forgive them for inflicting harm. To allow the truth of the immense beauty and light you made together alongside the truth of how you both tore each other apart. The whole mess of it.

Every morning, I awake to the same. A pandemic. Solo-quarantine. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do but be still and notice.

So, I sit. On my couch, staring out the window at the Craftsman homes with their whimsical gardens, shelter for families living out their own dramas, loves and lives. Sit in the bathtub, staring at the concentric ripples of water caused by my sweating faucet; staring at my own feet. And I stare into screens throughout my eight hour workday and take walks into the hills and do bedroom push-ups and downward dog and on the rare occasion dance and allow myself to bake but not too much and watch shows on the computer and FaceTime with my parents and friends near and far. But at the end of it all, every damn time, the same singular thing persists: me. Alone, in this apartment. With my finitude and infinitude and fickleness and overly analytical mind and big feelings and able body and breath that keeps breathing me into life without my having to ask it to. So, I tend to what I have. This moment. This feeling. This thought. This allowing, if I can manage it. This compassion, if I can will it into being.

Some days the loneliness sits like an anvil in my chest, suffocating and immobilizing. I call a friend who reminds me: "Times are really hard right now. It’s okay. This is being human."

Some mornings, in the liminal spaces of sleep-addled cognition, in the ebbs toward waking, mind grasped by past damages and present salves, there are fissures, cognitive shifts, hopeful awakenings. A flicker of thought: I deserve healthy love.

A great teacher of mine once told me that all people are mirrors, simply reflecting back to us what we already believe to be true. We experience reality through the lens of our interpretations, our expectations, the meanings we impose and stories we spin of things. All life, aspects of our own consciousness. And as our mirrors, people become our teachers. Gifting us experiences from which to self-reflect, to learn and grow.

Sometimes we get lost. And we need people who, through shadow or light, remind us who we are. What we stand for. What we want. What feels transcendent and what feels unacceptable. What we’re afraid to believe we deserve. Who, in their involuntary ways, push us to rise into our light, our trust, our truth, our knowing. Our hearts begging us to return home to ourselves.

On Rest & Reemergence

In our own ways
we all break.
it is okay
to hold your heart outside of your body
for
days.
months.
years.
at a time.

—heal

- nayyirah waheed 

Hello, dear being. Hi.

It is late March, 2021. We have, at this juncture, spent a whole year sheltering-in-place. A whole year in the slipperiest relationship with time, with it passing and feeling utterly stagnant all at once. Endlessly. But now, in March of 2021, we are on the cusp of springtime and vaccines are being administered and for the first time in a long time, it feels like we can see the light at the end of this very strange and difficult tunnel.

I hope you have been managing okay.

Sometime in the early days of shelter-in-place, as I found myself collapsing under the weight of severe depression—triggered by events in my personal life and compounded by COVID and quarantine—I gave myself permission to not work on this blog. Gave myself permission to stop being hard on myself for my inability to show up to my passion-work. A creative get out of jail free card, with no expiration date.

It was the first time I had ever, in my adult life, granted myself this freedom. The freedom of judgment-free not-making.

Beginning in late autumn 2019 and for months upon months following, I felt inert. Hollow. My days were lived in a heavy lethargy and despair couched in mental frustration about my inability to move. Eventually, by mid-summer last year, my existential status morphed into a state that I best identified as “fallow.” I described myself as such to my therapist; to close friends. During this period, I was beginning to remember the foundation of who I was, but I remained preternaturally unable to bear fruit. To yield any seedlings, let alone bounty.

Some weeks after ruminating on my “fallow” state in therapy, I followed a random impulse to look up an artist whose work I had seen and loved in an exhibition in Vancouver a year and a half before. Scrolling through her Instagram feed, I was stunned to lay my eyes on a caption in which the artist described her experience of feeling creatively fallow—and included the definition of the word:

FAL.LOW /ˈfalō/

 “(of farmland) plowed and harrowed but left unsown for a period in order to restore its fertility”

I stopped. Read again.

…in order to restore its fertility.

I took a breath, then broke down crying.

My self-permission to step away from my creative work—not to mention many other facets of life in which I felt I was failing—was not an act of resignation. It was an act of restoration.

Life in quarantine during a global pandemic has taught all of us a great many, varied, often harrowing lessons. Lessons we likely didn’t want or know we needed to learn. Realizing that rest is a necessary part of the cycle of production and that we are all valid, whole and worthy even when we are not producing anything has been a monumental lesson of mine.

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but if you do:

You are allowed to give yourself permission. To stop. To fall apart. To rest. To move through your own unique process and timeline of holding your heart outside of your body, of laying your soil untilled—knowing that this stillness, this active not doing is a vital causeway along the journey of coming back into your bounty.

I have been engaged in so much deep personal work, this past year. Processing severe and acute emotional trauma. Noticing how the route to healing is, in so many ways, through my body. Getting real with myself about my shadows, my patterns, the behaviors I’ve needed to stop repeating and wounds I’ve needed to heal. To forgive others, to forgive myself, and to choose to evolve on from.

Last summer, I shared a candid snippet of what I have been healing from on Instagram. That decision was fueled by a part of me that needed to be witnessed; by my very deep conviction of wanting to contribute to a culture in which these experiences are not hidden or shamed; and by my burgeoning realization that this experience has changed me. That my work and its content would (will) be different moving forward.

In the tarot, suits correspond with the elements. Earth. Air. Fire. Water. Certain cards have a confluence of two; the earth of fire, for example, would be creating something material (earth) out of creative spark (fire). I think, at my essence, I am the air of water: the intelligence of emotion. I am a healer, a transmuter of feeling—in myself and in others. I want to be of service to this. Having been on a long, meandering journey of returning to my wholeness (which, to be frank, may be a lifelong process; a constant returning), I want to use my skills, my knowledge, and my ability to hold darkness with tenderness to help others do the same.

In many ways, food was my gateway to spirituality. It was my gateway to mindfulness; to sparking creative joy; to empowerment. To cultivating a connection with nature and its cycles. To being in deeper relationship with my body via what and how I feed it. I will always, always love food and have borderline obnoxious convictions (depending on who you ask) around it. And. It is not, I think, where my true creative work, spark, and gifts lie.

When we fall apart, we discover what strength lies within us. We discover what we pull forth from our depths that carries us along into our healing and into greater embodiment of our true selves. That inner knowing, that inner fire, that core belief or conviction that was possibly dormant, waiting patiently to be activated, propels us forth. You emerge, without consciously choosing it, fighting for your own life, for your evolution in the way you have always been meant to live it.

\\ ▽ ● ▽ ● ▽ //

And with that…an announcement!

During my year of solo-quarantine, of falling apart and putting myself back together, I spent many hours deepening my knowledge of astrology—which I have been a student and sometimes hyper-enthusiastic teacher of for three and a half years now. I began giving friends birth chart readings, and I adapted the Astrology 101 class that I taught in San Francisco in 2019 for Zoom and led the workshop for a few groups of friends. Teaching, speaking and connecting are activities that I hope and intend to grow in my return to Pollinate and my overall creative work. For those of you who are interested in spiritual growth, healing, and coming into greater self-love—stay tuned.

For now, it is my extreme pleasure to announce that I will be teaching Astrology 101: Fundamentals for Self-Knowing on Zoom next month!

Click HERE to learn more. I hope you’ll join me!

What Do You Worship?

Artist unknown

Last night, I dreamt that someone wove their way through a sea of people at a party to hand me a landline telephone. “Hello?” I asked. My grandmother was on the other end of the line. I knew it was her, even though my repeated “Hello?”s were met mostly with silence. Eventually, she tentatively murmured, “Hello?” back. Without the exchange of anything but those two words, I knew she knew it was me. 

My grandmother died over 18 years ago. Although I’m sure I have, I can’t recall a specific time before this morning that I’ve dreamt about her.

I sit in my living room, watching the early morning sun cast its rose gold glow over the westernmost hills of Berkeley, thinking about those I have known and loved who have died. Grandma, Grandpa, Nana. Nick, who much of my world and heart revolved around during the latter half of college. Donna and Em, who brought lightness to my days after moving to the Bay. I think of my friend from high school and her husband, who—our age—died unexpectedly this year.

Today is Halloween. Samhain. The pagan festival of communing with and celebrating the dead. The day in the cycle of each year where the veil between worlds is thought to be most thin, to allow us to send and receive messages, connect with the spirits who have passed from this world onto the next. Evaporated in form but existent, still, as energy. Because, as shown in the Law of Conservation of Energy in physics, energy cannot be created nor destroyed. Only transformed.

I placed my mug of coffee down on the table. Instinctively began to gather candles of varying shapes and sizes and set them in a circle. Placed elemental totems inside the ring. A quartz crystal for air, third eye, highest consciousness, connection to the ethers. A sprig of fennel, now brittle and dried, that I picked years ago from an edge where the land meets the Bay. A dolphin ring I bought with my grandma at a truck stop restaurant halfway between LA and Arizona, once upon a time. An ornate metal koi fish that belonged to my Nana, its history and stories unknown to me, but of her nevertheless.

I lit the candles. Stared at the flames. And breathed.

•

Worship is an intense word. Steeped in religious connotations, evoking a level of extreme devotion that I think many of us are not accustomed to extending to anything these days. But this morning, because I’m off work on PTO and had the gift of time, because they say the veil is thin and even though I don’t know that to be true with any certainty I sure as hell don’t know with certainty that it isn’t true, I made a circle out of flames. To pause. To direct my attention. To remember. To mourn. To call in. To celebrate. To worship.

•

Earlier this year, while frustratedly spinning my wheels over the phone to a friend about a situation that did not deserve a modicum of the energy and attention I was giving it, my friend politely yet firmly interjected. She asked me, point blank: “What do you worship?” 

I sat, in silence, stunned.

It’s a disarming question.

It’s a disarming question. And a vital one.

•

Many traditions of meditation talk about attention as our most precious commodity. I tend to agree with this thesis.

Where we direct our attention in each moment of each day—whether consciously or unconsciously; with intent or through habit—dictates how we spend our energy; what thoughts we radiate within ourselves and communicate to the world; and how we spend our time. The cumulative sum of our moment by moment attention determines what we grow in ourselves and the world through the simple yet impossibly complex act of living.

I am sitting in an airport. Over the phone, thousands of miles between us, Missy asks me this arresting question. What do you worship? I pause. Think about my answer. My values. What I effort to connect with, to create. To find reverie in. To actively devote my attention, the sum of the moments of my life.

Words emerged. Integrity. Vulnerability. Connection with nature. Community. Empowerment. Art. Love.

And then, a follow-up question. The moment of truth: Are you living in alignment with these devotions? Am I directing my attention and, by extension, my energies in ways that live into and live out these things?

•

Living an embodied existence is messy. Challenging. Impossibly complex. Some days we do better than others; this is true for each and every one of us. When we aim to live our lives honoring vulnerability, justice, nature, inclusion, art, listening, equanimity, beauty and love, friction often occurs because we don’t live in silos, separate from each other or from society at large. We are brought up and live within a system that worships its own set of deities.  

Money. Power. Individualism. Whiteness. Masculinity. Heterosexuality. Competition. Dominance.

And so.

Worshipping love is an act of resistance. Worshipping quiet. Worshipping introspection. Worshipping the earth. Self-connection. Diverse voices. Collectivism. These are all active violators to the gods that are laid before us here, now, in 21st century America. Gods of power, of money, of personal gain at the expense of others and the earth. Gods of erasure and forward motion rather than reverie for the traditions and wisdom of our ancestors, of the past. Gods of separation over unification. Gods of greed and excess. Gods of the material over the spiritual. Satiation and worth found through what we can afford and acquire, not what we cultivate and offer that comes from within. 

Shifting these devotions is an act of resistance. It shapes our culture. Shapes your life. Shapes collective consciousness.

•

And so, today, as the veil may or may not be thin, with time on my side I chose to devote my attention to honoring those who have touched my life and are no longer palpably in it. Who have moved on to their next iteration of existence, whatever that may be.

Cultures and people the world over are worshipping their ancestors today. The love, experiences and wisdom they shared. Living out their gifts and memories as best they are able. Worshipping connection, worshipping ancestry, worshipping love.

•

It is so easy to sleepwalk through life. To succumb to the pervasive distractions, insatiable desires, pressures as invisible as air yet heavy as tar. To give into our internalizations of the values imposed upon us by our contemporary culture, by the world at large.

With so many cards stacked against us, so many conveniences urging us to be passive receptors instead of active creators of our lives, I invite you to ask yourself: What do you worship? What do you devote your attention to? Are the two in alignment? What shifts can you make to live more fully into the values you genuinely want to embody, want to fill your life, want to light up the world?

•

Sending love to you all, then and now, here and in the ethers. May we choose to actively worship that which brings healing and growth, love and joy to us all.

On Supporting Creative Growth | Pollinate Journal 2.0

It’s necessary to take a step back sometimes. To pause and review, reflect, adopt a bird’s eye view. To notice the ways in which evolution has occurred. To question whether your present approaches, structures or habits are working. To be thoughtful about what you might be able to shift to help yourself continue to show up, to do the work, to grow.

This December will be four years of Pollinate Journal. In those nearly four years, this blog has undergone a slow and rather significant transformation. If I’m being honest, I think this journal, this ever-evolving work of art, this digital collection of my thoughts and creations finally is what I wanted it to be all along—but didn’t know how to create, when I began it. Didn’t have the confidence to write what my spirit wanted to. Didn’t trust that I knew what to say; that the words would come. Didn’t have the courage to express with unbridled vulnerability. The wisdom to know my thoughts were worth sharing even though I didn’t always feel wise. (Note to you: your thoughts, your art, your work is always worth sharing, even if you don’t feel “enough”—credible enough, educated enough, acknowledged enough, skilled enough, ready enough, whatever enough.)

So, I started with food. My passion and my comfort zone. And I slowly but surely began to pepper in the heart stuff. The “self-help” stuff. The “how can I do this whole life thing better” stuff.

Writing vulnerably in this space, when I first began doing that, was absolutely fucking terrifying. And. There was a persistent truth that I couldn’t shake, which kept stoking the fire of courage within me. Seeing how perpetually we are bombarded with curated, false and perfected projections of “reality” across the many forms of social media with which we engage, the more important it felt to me to disrupt that norm—and the expectation we put on ourselves to adhere to it—with an authentic voice. I kept sinking ever more deeply into the belief that the more we show up in ways that feel vital to our spirits—no matter how terrifying they initially may be—the more we grow a safe space for others to do the same. So I pushed myself to write. To write about fear, about grief, about emotional eating, about grasping and surrender, about self-worth, about standing behind creativity in a time of political chaos, about what it might mean and look like to really show up in this world.

The deeper I got into this type of writing, the further I got from writing about food, and the more difficulty I had reconciling—or interweaving—the two.

But I kept at it. When I could. Over time, the “when I could” kept growing smaller and smaller. Part of that was due to my beginning to work full-time two years ago; part of it was due to the structure I had eventually—inadvertently—set up for myself. As the focus of my writing shifted, I continued to create recipes. But sooner than later, that led to the debilitating self-imposed expectation that every post must have a recipe, beautiful photos, a thoughtful short essay, and a bit of writing about the food, too. It became so much work that I stopped engaging, almost entirely. And Pollinate, its content, its continuous growth, has basically stagnated.

At a certain point, I had to get real with myself: My process wasn’t working.

//

I think, for many of us, it is easy to get stuck in a structure, process or expectation we’ve created for ourselves (even if the expectation is about needing to stick to what we imagine others expect from us—of which I am certainly guilty). When you’re in art school, you make work and then you have critiques. You talk about your creations, your concepts, your inspirations and the processes with which you’re engaging that get you there. You have opportunities to contemplate, receive constructive feedback, and revise if needed. When you’re creating in isolation, it can be more difficult to pause. To step outside of yourself and reflect. To see alternate routes. This is also true if you’re just plain stubborn. For the longest time, I succumbed to this structure of content that I had created. Told myself I had to share a recipe in every blog post because that’s why people on Instagram follow me—to see photos of food. But if that’s not what is sparking my interest right now, if that’s not what I feel inspired to share, then what’s the point? Especially if it means I hardly post at all?

So, a few months ago, I finally decided to change. To create a new structure—and with it, a new expectation—for this blog, based on the transformation that has been bubbling up with greater force over time. To own it. To reorient the content in a way that highlights what Pollinate has become, while also making it easier for you to navigate and easier for me to create. I have gone through every post on this blog and separated out the writings from the recipes—henceforth allowing myself to sometimes just write and sometimes just post a recipe. And allowing you to more easily focus your attention on what brings you here.  

//

You will now find the content organized as such: an index just for recipes and an index just for writings. Some of the recipes have writing about the ingredients, nutrition or how the recipe came to be that are extensive; others have writing that is super brief. And the writings are, now, just that. Essays. Musings on life, on mental health, on creativity, on spirituality, on wellbeing. On our relationships with our own precious selves and how to make those relationships more compassionate, more present and more full of love.

I suppose, in all of this, the difficult truth I’ve come to is that just because you have historically done something one way doesn’t mean it’s the way you have to continue doing it. It’s quite simple in theory, but much harder to implement. As creatures of habit. As creatures with egos. As creatures who can be stubbornly invested in what we’ve built. But here is another difficult truth: Sometimes undoing is required to move forward. Sometimes you need to fuck what you think people expect of you and dive head and heart-first into what you want for yourself instead. And to get clear about what you can do to help yourself get there. And then, step by step, simply do it.

//

At this moment of pause, of looking back and moving forward, I’d like to share with you five of my favorite recipes and five of my favorite essays to date:

RECIPES

Black Sesame Tahini Banana Bread
(Best Ever) Browned Butter Chocolate Chip Cookies
Asparagus, Caper & Toasted Almond Tartine
Roasted Cauliflower, Dates & Almonds with Herbed Moroccan Saffron Sauce
SQIRL’s “The Sprouty Pod”

WRITINGS

On Self-Doubt, Success & Creating a Meaningful Life
On Coming Home to Yourself
On Turning 30 | Wisdom, Ritual & Grief
On Mindful Eating
On Filling Your Cracks with Gold

Welcome to Pollinate Journal, 2.0. I hope you find softness and stimulation here. Find inspiration. Find activation. Find openings for growth.

// . // . // . // . // . // . // . // . // . // . // . // . // . // . // . // . // . // . //

P.S. MORE NEWS: I’M LEADING A WORKSHOP!

I am very exited to announce that I will be leading a workshop in the Bay Area this month for the first time in THREE YEARS!

If you’re in the area, please join me on Sept. 14 from 10a-1p in south SF for Astrology 101.

I realize this workshop topic may feel like a bit of a non-sequitur from my work here. It is ultimately both a reflection and extension of the ways my interests have shifted in the past few years. I’ve been studying astrology both formally and informally for two and a half years and have found it to be a profound tool for increased self-awareness, self-compassion, recalibration and acceptance of both myself and others.

In the workshop, I’ll be breaking down the structure of a full natal birth chart (we all have one! Our sun sign only scratches the surface of our personal astrology). We’ll go over all the signs, the planets and the houses - and learn how to read our own charts within that context. So fun. I promise.

The workshop is being hosted by Open Windows Cooperative in their stunning space in the Bayview. If you are a sucker for natural light, printmaking or creative industrial spaces, the venue alone is reason enough to come ;). Read more about Open Windows Cooperative here.

You can snag your (donation-based) tickets for the workshop HERE !

Hope to see you there <3.

On Transitions

Ana Mendieta, Silueta Works in Iowa, 1976-1978. Copyright the Estate of the Artist. Courtesy Richard Saltoun Gallery.

Confession: I have spent a disproportionate amount of time tethered to my bed lately. Zoned out in front of my computer screen, binge watching the show UnREAL (which is this truly miraculous combination of wry feminist commentary on professional power dynamics/female relationships and unabashed soap opera. I highly recommend). 

While I have been giving into my body’s recent pulls towards sloth-ness unapologetically and with as little judgment as possible, I have also been struck by our recent seasonal energetic shifts. Have felt small jolts of energy, flickers of desire to move, to create. I have been reading a little more and writing a little more.

For the longest time though, I didn’t want to write. I wanted to want to write…but I just couldn’t get there. All I could feel was that wanting and my resistance to the doing. So instead of forcing myself to write for others, instead of wrestling with inspiration that wasn’t there, I decided to write for myself. Decided to get curious about why I was struggling so much to engage with my preferred mode of creative expression.

My fingers tapped onto the screen:
Where is this resistance coming from?

One silent beat and then:
Fear.

—Of what? 

Kept asking myself questions that I then kept answering. Reminded myself of this acronym used often by one of my greatest teachers:

False
Evidence
Appearing
Real

Fear. False beliefs that we internalize. That destabilize. Debilitate. Seduce us into self-sabotage, into drowning our voices, inhibiting our own growth.

Fear that I will not meet my own standards. Fear that my work will not be valued, be recognized. Fear that my ideas are repetitive. Better expressed by other people. So I do not write. I listen to myself give counsel to countless people in my life and I witness my own wisdom. I see them soften and bloom before me. I see, hear, feel how far I have come in my own thinking, my own awareness, my own relationship to the world, to what I believe to be possible, to my own soft heart and self. Yet I cannot write it. I feel stuck. Feel uninspired or without flow.  

Deep inhale.

Deep exhale.

And then, something surprising. Calm. A crack, a small opening that offered a soft shard of light and within it, some clarity. Presence. Allowance of the emergence of something deeper than my cognitive mind. A softening in my tender heart. Fear and release and a glimmer of courage and spark all at once.

//

The earth tilts and the dark veil of winter is lifted as the sun, its warmth, its radiant light begins to emerge. It is calling to us. Beckoning us out from our homes, our hibernation, our long journey within. We can harness this energy. We feel awakened, catalyzed by it. Magnetized by the sun, the awakening of the earth and its brilliant blooms that surround us.  

Transitions are, most often, not easy. The sun claims its many extended moments hovering in the sky yet our days are still interspersed with rain. Transitions take grace, take flexibility, take presence. They take moving through discomfort, take meandering routes, take time. Seedlings must be nourished by the sun and the rain alike; can only ever emerge in the exact time they take to do so. They do not grow anxious with their development, do not spite the sun for not blazing more steadily, do not question or argue with the journey they are on.

I have felt the warmth of the sun, seen the delayed dusk of these days, felt my drives shift with the reawakening of the earth around me. I have acknowledged Aries season and the inspired, enthusiastic action it offers, it bolsters, it demands. I have spring cleaned, made exercise and eating vows, recommitted to writing, to creating, to keeping this blog alive. And. I am fucking tired. I feel exhausted in my bones. I am not sleeping well and am processing a whole host of other things in my life.

I am in the infancy of a transition and I want to be at the end.

I want to be recalibrated.

But, dear ones, dear self as well—

The only way to be recalibrated is to ever so slowly recalibrate. And the only way to recalibrate is to first and foremost meet yourself where you are. And then to make a series of small, aligned, manageable choices from there. To be real with yourself about all the weight you’re carrying, the fears, the hopes, the judgments, the love, the dreams. To allow it all. To hold it all with tenderness. To give it space to pour forth from you, to express itself, to move through you. When the river runs through, it clears and it creates anew. You cannot rush your healing. You cannot rush your growth. You cannot rush your creative process, your meeting of milestones, your getting to where you are going. It all takes the time it takes. And. You can support your healing. You can support your growth. You can nurture and bolster and take lovingly the hand of your creative process, your meeting of milestones, your getting to where you are going—to where your divine self and inner light want you to go.

//

So, dearest ones, dearest self— 

Let yourself be where you are. Like that liminal space between winter and spring. In the messiness of your transitions. In the darkness and the light. In the exhaustion and the energy; the confidence and self-doubt; the seductive comfort of staying stuck and the deep, fire-y drive to evolve ever forward. Honor that part of your process. Ask yourself what you need to begin to move towards the life you seek to create. Water your soil and douse yourself with sun. Lean into the thoughts, the choices, the practices, the challenges, the connections that nourish you. Be kind to your fear; hear its wounds and its worries. Allow the darkness that is in you and lead it steadfastly towards the light. There is no hurry in this. The transition is the alchemy, the releasing and the creating that will lead you to where you want to go. It is in itself a string of present moments, each divinely perfect in their imperfection, each exactly where you are meant to be.

Happy springtime, all. May this season of renewal stoke all of our fires so that we may shine that light into our own hearts and out into the world <3.

Ana Mendieta, Imagen de Yagul, from the series Silueta Works in Mexico 1973-1977, 1973. © The Estate of Ana Mendieta Collection, LLC.

On Navigating (the holidays) with Self-Compassion

The first blog I wrote, back in 2012, was entirely about food. About the nutritional properties of certain foods and how eating (primarily plant-based) real food facilitates vibrant health. Three years later, I birthed Pollinate with every intention of following the same through lines here. Yet as I grew older and began to weather the personal, professional, physical and emotional storms that adulthood can and often does bring, I learned one of the most important lessons that I’ve yet gleaned in my life:

It doesn’t matter how much healthy food you eat; in order to be truly healthy, you must first and foremost have a healthy relationship with yourself.

And so, my focus shifted.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot these days, as I navigate all the sweets and parties and stressors that have come to typify this season for most of us. The “temptations” that abound and the internal dialogues we have about them—about our allowances of or denials of or relationships to them. How many of us succumb to indulgences, feel badly about it for one reason or another, and then feel compelled to cleanse or deny ourselves certain foods in January to compensate; how the initiation of the new year is always marketed to us as an opportunity—or mandate, really—to develop the “new you,” as if the versions of ourselves who existed previously were faulty, lazy or somehow not enough.

In her weekly newsletter a couple weeks back, Molly Goodson, the co-founder and CEO of the SF women’s club The Assembly, shared what she dubbed an “Anti-guilt guide” for the holidays. The simplicity and lucidity with which she articulated her thoughts struck a chord with me:

Wellness is a tough word because it conjures up one set of behaviors, when in fact it is the intersection of the pieces. Some days the wellness I choose is prioritizing socializing over fitness. Some days it's knowing what I need and going to class instead of the party. This time of year, many days it's eating the damn cookies and going to the event and missing the morning run.

Instead of feeling guilt, feel ownership. The things you choose to do with your time are your wellness. If you continue to check in with your own energy and make the small adjustments to keep that in a good place, you are doing enough. Truly. You know you, so listen to that.

What if we each found space to embrace our choices and accept the non-linear way that wellness looks on a day to day basis. It's a big picture and you're always moving forward. 

Whatever you choose for December to look like — with workouts, with eating, with resting — let's try to take the guilt out of it. The world is heavy enough, so be easy on yourself. 

I loved not only the gentle urging in Goodson’s words for us all to be easier on ourselves, but also the implicit presence in the whole thing. That in order to make choices, without guilt, of what we are to do, we must be actively present with ourselves. Attentive. Mindful. Showing up to the ebb and flow and particular asks of each moment.

I am reminded too, in these times of heightened obligations and opportunities for self-judgment, of one of my favorite descriptions of self-compassion. As described by writer and healer Daphne Rose Kingma:

Self-compassion is a series of choices, a moment by moment conscious turning away from that which will harm your spirit toward that which will nourish and sustain you.

It is choosing, in any particular situation, and over and over again, whether you’ll treat yourself well or beat yourself up; whether you’ll deny yourself or treat yourself as lovingly as you’d treat your child or your most precious friend.

Self-compassion means looking at yourself with kindness, with a conscious awareness of your sufferings, and in time, with a deep appreciation for the way you have transformed them.

And so, I offer you here a reminder to be gentle with yourself, now and always. To relish the season and the joys—edible or otherwise—that come with it. To cut yourself slack and not feel obligated to say yes to everything. To cultivate wellness in the myriad and unique ways that it looks for you. <3

On Letting Yourself Have What You Need

Goodness, what a week. What weeks. What a lot we have to process. Fires raging throughout California. Evacuations. Homes, community centers, businesses burnt to the ground. Lives taken. Thousands of acres of natural landscape scorched. And the fucking relentless, hate-fueled shootings. The mass shooting at a dance hall in Thousand Oaks, CA. The mass shooting at a synagogue in Pittsburgh. The mass shooting at a yoga studio in Tallahassee. The mass shooting at a supermarket in Jeffersontown, KY. And the continuing chaos in our country’s capitol (in spite of some groundbreaking, historical wins in the House and gaining back the Democratic majority, neither of which should we lose sight of).

So much loss to process. To hold each other in. To hold while figuring out how to continue to find hope of creating a different world.

On top of grappling with the seeming homeostasis of tragedy and tumult that typifies our current reality, we have…the holidays. Not at all to be compared in likeness to the aforementioned traumas; solely acknowledged in this context as a time, in spite of its best intentions, of additional stress. A time rife with social expectations and obligations; extra financial spending; potentially activated triggers around food; potentially activated triggers around family or lack thereof; and on and on.

It’s a lot.

It’s a lot in and of itself. And. It’s especially overwhelming during this time of year when our natural inclination is not actually to be hyper-social, but to turn inwards. With the shorter days, the extension of darkness, winter’s slower, more contemplative energy emerging as we draw nearer to her dawn, the fibers of our being that are energetically tied to the earth are asking us to slow down, too. To rest. To get ready for our winter hibernation, as metaphoric as that may be. I wrote about this energetic shift and what it asks of us around this time last year. The trouble is, what the earth is asking of us now and what society is asking of us now are in rather direct conflict with one another.

Which is why it is paramount—especially at this time—that you give yourself permission to take care of yourself.

 //

We all process things differently. Some of us recharge and recalibrate by being around and in conversation with other people. Some of us need solitude and quiet spaces to regroup. The array of ways that ‘taking care of myself’ can look are vast and are all entirely valid.

Let yourself have what you need to take care of yourself.

If you don’t already know what the spaces or activities are that help you process, reset and recharge, I invite you to sit in stillness for a handful of minutes, focus your attention on your breath, and see what arises. What ideas, what longings, what images in your mind’s eye. Stillness is essential, for it is in stillness that the intuitive wisdom of our bodies has space to emerge and where our attention has the opportunity to listen.

Maybe taking care of yourself looks like spending half an hour out in nature, by yourself or with someone dear to you. Maybe it looks like a hot bath with Epsom salts and essential oils. Maybe it looks like going to a dance class or a restorative yoga class—engaging in some form of cathartic movement. Maybe it looks like meditating. Maybe it looks like journaling. Whatever you need to slow down and reconnect with yourself is of utmost importance in these trying and demanding times.

And while we’re getting comfortable with the practice of giving ourselves what we need to take care of ourselves, here’s another gentle reminder: You have the right to say no. To invitations. To cooking requests. To eating any food item. To demands of your attention, your presence, your time. Acting in alignment with your bandwidth, your desires and your needs is a huge part of showing up as your authentic self. We so often agree to things out of a desire to please others (or, in the inverse, out of a fear of displeasing others or “falling short”); yet this only breeds resentment and exhaustion within ourselves. Boundaries are an essential aspect of self-care. You can say “no,” still be kind about how you articulate it, and maintain your positive relationships all the while.

As we practice this prioritization of self-care, we will be better equipped to empower others to take care of themselves, too. Better equipped to honor each other’s individual needs—even within these next couple months of heightened obligations and expectations—and especially within these trying times.

Take good care, dear ones. <3.

On Filling Your Cracks with Gold

Nadja, “Never Let Me Go III”.

"All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on."
—Henry Havelock Ellis

At certain times throughout our lives, we find ourselves at crossroads. Faced with difficult decisions. To continue or to cease. To cling or to abandon. To stay or to go. We choose what is worth fighting for. In these instances, we must notice the quality of our effort: When effort is required, is it is emerging from a deep, internal drive, or is it forced, not easeful? When moving through the challenge or mending what seems broken, is there possibility of fruit bearing at the other side? 

Letting go is often one of the hardest things to do in this life. Letting go of ideas, hopes, work, people. Things we have cared for, tended to, envisioned for ourselves. We are creatures of connection, of attachment. Oftentimes we keep on keeping on with something that isn't aligned with our greatest good or intentions for self because we feel like we 'should'. Like others—peers, parents, colleagues, society, hell, even our own judging selves—expect us to. Because we think we have invested too much to give up. To release. To relinquish. Because we have become attached to the parts of our identities that have become, in our minds, inextricable from that thing. Yet we fail to realize that sometimes, releasing something from our lives (be it a person, a project, an expectation, a judgment, a story we tell ourselves about ourselves) is one of the most freeing things we can possibly do. One of the most vital actions to create space for whatever the great unknown will bring next; what we will sink into, encounter, find anew to fill ourselves up. What new opportunity, new connection, new compassion or love for self we will find. Ashes have the capacity fertilize our soul's soil and in rich soil, new things grow.

And yet. There is a flip side to this coin. The shadow side of release is running away. Burning as an act of avoidance. A refusal to do the work, pick up the pieces, to stand in the fire; to face the hard truths that may in fact be the things to bring you to and through your evolution. Sometimes, holding on is key. Staying when all the hurt and pain and fear in you wants to leave. To bolt. Wants to make excuses or cut ties or drown yourself in distractions. Showing up to meaningful people or projects or ambitions when they are challenging takes as much courage and vulnerability as walking away. The key is developing the presence, awareness and discerning muscle of intuition to know when to hold on and when to let go. And to trust that even when a meaningful thing seems broken, if you show up with compassion and integrity and a willingness to do the work, there is often great brilliance on the other side. 

//

Kintsugi: the ancient Japanese art of mending what is broken. There is a beautiful metaphor here. In this practice, shattered pottery is restored by affixing pieces back together with a paste of lacquer mixed with powdered platinum, silver or gold. What were initially flawless ceramics, then fractured pieces of a thing once whole, become transformed: whole again yet different, polished clay laced with webs of lustrous precious metals.

This ancient practice of repair operates on multiple visual and philosophical levels. Highlighting the cracks with shimmering metals, it punctuates the history, the once brokenness of the thing. It draws precious attention to its evolution rather than attempting to make the object appear as though it was never damaged at all. Rather than negating its life and transformation, it makes them unapologetically visible.

Kintsugi. This tradition of mending by the weaving of gold also, counterintuitively, elevates the value of the once-broken object: it is made more beautiful, more precious, more valuable, because of the breakage and repair it endured. 

There is no shame in feeling broken. Or in having once felt broken. Or in feeling something you worked to build has broken. Fissures let light in. Our healing and our relationships to our scars help make us who we are.

The founder of modern chemistry, a French nobleman and intellectual named Antoine Lavoiser, once said, "Nothing is created, nothing is lost, everything transforms." This is as true for the world on a molecular level as it is for ourselves, in our lives. The question is how we come to and facilitate the transformations. When do we choose to stay and work through a challenge, an argument, a situation, a project or a relationship that seems—or maybe in some ways is—broken? To embrace what emerges in our lives and hold it tenderly rather than negate or disengage from it? And when do we choose, from our place of centeredness and highest self, to let go? And in both instances, what do we use for our gold?

If ever you're feeling stuck or uncertain about a difficulty in your life, about whether to continue or relinquish, to stay or to go, sit with yourself and your breath for awhile. Simply sit. Let all of the anxiety of the situation fall away. Cultivate internal calm to the best of your ability. Tell yourself you are okay right now. And once you are feeling centered and grounded, just listen. Tune into your heart, your intuition. Notice how your body feels when you think about the difficulty or conflict at hand. Notice what emerges with as much compassion and non-judgment as you are able. Stay with the unfolding so that you can begin to identify what is necessary to move through it. Ask yourself what you (and the situation) need. More self-love. Deeper listening. More empathy, for yourself and for others. Patience. Trust. Vulnerability. Courage. Creativity. A shift in mindset. A release of judgment or expectation. Presence. All of the ways that we can fill our cracks with gold.

And know that on the other side, you will be shifted, changed, grown and transformed, even if in the smallest way. And always ever whole.

Claire Knapp, “Kintsugi Concept #1.” Saatchi Gallery.

On Beginning in the Dark

Nadia Alenov, “Beautiful Sorrow”.

We talk and hear a lot in this life about how starting is the hardest part. Initiating a project, turning the seeds of an idea into the fruits of a reality. It's true: starting something has its particular challenges, often marked by fear or anxiety on top of the practical hurdles of building something from scratch. But there is also (hopefully) the catalyzing energy of excitement in the beginnings of a thing. Even fear or nervousness are active energies, if you think about how they feel in the body.

What we don't talk or hear as much about is how hard it can be to sustain something. To keep showing up once you've started, once the shimmer of anticipation has dulled and all the other demands of life begin to take up equal space again. The challenge of continuing to be excited or trust that a project is worthy of steadfast effort even if it is unfolding differently than you had imagined. 

Three months ago, I got a full-time job for the first time in over two years. It's amazing and I love it. And. Holy wow has my life changed—particularly in terms of time. Bandwidth. Ability to devote myself to the activities and projects that nourish me. It is has literally been a challenge to figure out how to spend 8.5 hours at work, commute, cook/feed myself properly, go to yoga, spend time with friends and rest. Add to that my second job teaching 2x a month on Sundays (which started up again mid-September), traveling, being a bridesmaid in a dear friend's wedding, hosting an epic Rosh Hashanah dinner and dealing with a crashed laptop which left me computer-less for a solid three weeks (and without photo editing software for the following four)...you can maybe begin to get an idea of where I've been lately. Which has not been on here.

And still: I am sinking my feet into the practice of showing up. Of meeting myself where I am. Of allowing the ebbs and flows of life that are beyond my control to direct my activity but not dictate it. Of practicing presence, mindful prioritizing and re-commitment in each moment to the things that matter.  

//

So that's where I've been. And where are we all now? Wow, November.

We're in the midst of a potent seasonal and energetic shift at present. Samhain (a Gaelic word, pronounced SOW-in), the Pagan festival of the Dead and the last day of the year according to ancient earth-based calendars, is a festival celebrating the end of the harvest and the beginning of the dark half of the year. In some traditions it is observed on October 31st; in others, it extends from October 31st until the moon is new in Scorpio, which falls this year on November 18th. The most mysterious of the Zodiac signs, Scorpio is the sign of life, death and resurrection, of passion and hidden depth. Of turning inwards; doing deep work. 

Samhain begins on Autumn's cross-quarter day—the midpoint between autumn and winter. Every season has a cross-quarter day, which is the time at which the energy of the forthcoming season begins to percolate, even though its visible manifestations won't emerge for another six or so weeks. I'm compelled by the idea of cross-quarter days, rife with wisdom and metaphor: The insistent slowness of and necessary patience with major transitions or energetic shifts. The fact that everything begins in the dark.

In many ancient calendars (including some that are still observed, like the Jewish calendar), each day ends and begins at sundown, beckoned with the veil of the dark. In Pagan and earth-based calendars, the new year begins on Autumn's cross-quarter day, aligned with the emergent energy of the darkest season of the year. Babies are seeds planted and nurtured in the womb. Ideas are sparked in the depths of the mind before they are ever brought to life in the physical realm. 

I find such peace and beauty in this: the idea, evidenced to us by the processes of the natural world, that just because we cannot yet see the physicality of a thing does not mean it is not there, brewing. Does not mean work is not being done. It substantiates the quiet. The ruminations. The seeds. 

The days are darker now than they are light. Let yourself align with it. Turn inwards. Slow down. Reflect. Release. Reconnect to recuperate. The earth is inviting you to; with such inherent wisdom, it seems rather wise to listen.

On the Paralysis of Political Action: Catalyzing Your Power

Phases of the July 2019 solar eclipse as seen from the La Silla Observatory (Picture: EPA)

“This work of connecting our light to the world does not need to be done through a mass movement, or by millions of people...What matters is the level of participation: whether we dare to make a real commitment to the work of the soul.”

~Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee

“It is time to redefine power, to expand our concept of what being powerful really means. True power is love. It is not power over someone. It is everyone, all of us, standing together in a circle, building power side by side.

“As I build my power, I create a mirror, a reflection of power that you can use to build your power…I inspire you and you inspire me; and together we create a world of healthy, interdependent, creative people.”

~Lynn V. Andrews

I've been finding it hard to justify sharing pictures of food on Instagram these days. Been wondering what place and need there is for this work of mine when America is erupting with groundswells of egregious hate. I've been mulling over how to be an activist, how to contribute to positive change and purposeful resistance when I live in an incredibly liberal place and don't necessarily feel called to rally on the front lines of organized protests—as vital as I believe they are. Maybe you can relate?

Tomorrow, August 21st, much of America will bear witness to a total solar eclipse—the moon aligning directly between the earth and the sun, blocking out the sun's light and allowing us to see its outer atmosphere, haloed in glimmering light. This will be the first total solar eclipse to pass exclusively over the US since the country was founded in 1776 [1]. That's not only bonkers but also eerily resonant, as eclipses are considered to generate energetic upheaval, creating substantial opportunities for rewiring and growth.

As astrologist Cathy Pagano explains,

"Eclipses signify shifts, completions, endings, and releasing along with new beginnings, new directions and openings...This is a chance for all of us to wake up to our unity, and our responsibilities to each other, to Mother Earth and to the future. 

"So we can’t mistake the heavenly advice: America, wake up and pay attention. It is the American People, not the government or the power structures, that this Leo Solar Eclipse calls to. 

"It is our wake-up call to create that more perfect Union. Not only in America, but with the whole world.

"But first we have to be at one with ourselves…”

Why must we first be at one with ourselves in order to create a more perfect American (and worldly) union? Because we don't live in a vacuum. And as much as our egos would have us think the world revolves around us or that we are powerless in the grand scheme of things (among many other self-centered ideas), we are scientifically all made of the same matter and are energetically connected. If we are all ultimately one and contribute to a universal energy or vibration, then it follows that by raising our own individual vibrations (a.k.a. being at one with ourselves), it will impact our communities and will ripple out in ways we cannot comprehend. 

// 

So this might sound kind of nutty, but here's what I'm throwing out: On an energetic level, perhaps 'activism' looks like living in alignment with your full, true self. Are you with me? In order to be one with ourselves, we must first and foremost be present with ourselves. We must listen to all that arises in any given moment, feel it, name it and acknowledge it without judgment so that it can be dealt with or pass. We must act in accordance with that which nourishes us physically, emotionally and spiritually. We must listen to our passions, our callings, the things that bring us joy and pursue them without abandon. And we must be humble. We must know when to step into the power of our voices and when to check our privilege and listen attentively instead. We must do what is required of us to increase our awareness and to grow.

This, I think, is how we go on—how we do our own individual light work and not feel guilty about it when it doesn't directly address the dire sociopolitical situation at hand. We do it with intention and awareness. With acknowledgement that in stepping into our power we are creating mirrors for others to build their power. That might look like posting photos of food or the kittens we're fostering or the music we're making or the marathons we're running, even if they aren't inherently political acts or obviously contributing to the fight for a more inclusive and just society.

//

Do not, however, mistake this for a free pass to political disengagement. 

This does not let us off the hook—especially as white people. Our responsibility to be aware and critical of our inherent positions of privilege and power is perhaps more urgent than ever before. This is equally true for men. And heterosexuals. And cis-gendered folk (i.e., those of us whose gender identity aligns with our birth sex). And those who do not belong to targeted religious faiths.

We don't all need to be on the front lines, but we all must be doing the work of political awareness and engagement—however that feels doable for you. Read the news. Talk about it with your friends. Talk about it with your conservative family members. Approach conversation with openness and curiosity rather than shouting down from your high horse. Explore the plethora of resources on learning about white privilege, check some books out from your library...and then read them. Use the vast social web of the Internet to share what you've been learning, thinking, grappling with and to connect with others about it, too. And then begin to integrate what you've learned into the ways you and your privilege show up in the world.

We are in the depths of a great shift and things are going to continue to get worse before they get better. Yes, I am afraid. But I refuse to cower, to be complacent about the ways in which this system serves me, or to disengage because as a white person living in California, I have that option. I am committed to using this space to promote love, knowledge and healing. I am not a vehement political activist, so most often that looks like pictures of food and recipes and tools for mindfulness and self-care. We all need to keep doing our light work, trusting that it is imperative to our creation of a more just and inclusive world. And we cannot turn our backs to the social and political issues at hand. 

I am with you, all of you. If you have resources you're stoked about or ideas of how to be an activist in these urgent times, please share them in the comments. If you are a creator of any kind or are contributing to our world in positive ways, please share links to your work in the comments as well. Let us all stand in our power and bolster one another up as we do <3.