Thursday, February 29, 2024

Like a Human Feather


 










February 29, 2024

What I mean by leap is being on the edge of a cliff, being one of those people wearing a flying squirrel outfit, arms spread wide. Leaping catching the wind currents, flying. And somehow, miraculously not plunging to the hard rocky ground below.

What I mean by leap is that game, leap frog. One person squatting down and another, gently putting their hands on the back of the crouching person and hopping, leaping, over them. Then that frog jumping up and repeating the hop/leap. And on and on. 

What I mean by leap is that saying, Leap and the net will appear. This reminds me of a teacher staff development I went to years ago. It was one of those trust building/ropes courses. I remember being up on a platform looking down at a group of people in two rows facing each other, arms locked together like a ladder on its side. I was supposed to turn around and fall back into their human net of arms. In those days, (and sometimes still) I felt the other shoe was going to drop any minute so trusting people to catch me was questionable. 

Everyone was smiling up at me, waiting. Some part of me said, okay and I turned around, took a breath, and fell back like a kid in deep snow about to make a snow angel. I landed in arms that held me. No shoes had dropped. Just me, like a human feather.

One more thing from that day. My other mission was to climb up a pole, another ladder-type thing, walk across a log, thirty feet up, to the other side. I was hooked to a safety rope, maybe wearing a helmet too. I can still see myself pleading with David, our soft-spoken leader, that  I didn't think I could do it. I was a person riddled with anxiety pretty much every day. It had inhabited me and wouldn't leave. 

David looked me in the eye and said, "I hear you. Trust me. Start climbing."

I climbed and walked across the log high up in the air. My human net people were smiling up at me, again. I remember, vividly in my body, as I write this - walking across the log high up in the air and making it to the other side. A shoe didn't drop. I didn't hit the hard ground. And, as soon as I was back on the ground, I wanted to do it again. I was the kid, jumping off the edge of the pool landing safely in my father's arms. 

I remember that. 

Just doing it. 

Leaping.

This past month, maybe longer, I've been feeling a restlessness to leap. I have zero idea what that means. I can't force it, or figure it out. I don't know. All in right time.

I do know this, for sure. You won't find me in squirrel gear on the edge of a cliff. 

Namaste, lovelies.

XO Bets



Sunday, December 24, 2023

like a bowling ball


 









December 24 • 2023 🎄

We had homemade cookies for breakfast + might have more delicious carrot cake for dinner since today is Michael's birthday, our Christmas Eve baby. On top of carrots, the cake has raisins and nuts and all kinds of nutritious things. 🙃 Claire has been baking all weekend and there's more to come tomorrow. Sticky buns w/ mimosas? I will officially be a weeble by the end of the holiday season, rolling around like a bowling ball, or something like that. 

•.  •.  •.  •.  •.  •.  •.  •   •.  •.  •.  •   •.  •   •   •   •.  •

⛄️ 🎄 ♥️

XO b



Saturday, December 23, 2023

may we be ~


 










December 23 • 2023

I'm happy + tired + out of words for today. But this came to me as I sat staring at my screen. It's what I say at the end of all my writing/yoga workshops/ retreats. Whenever I say it, either quietly to myself, or out loud, my shoulders drop and face softens on the exhale. 

May we be happy.

May we be healthy.

May we be peaceful.

May we live with ease.

Peace and blessings to you and your families

+ this sweet beautiful old earth.

Namaste.

xo b






Friday, December 22, 2023

first of the season


 










December 22 • 2023

What a happy surprise to see this first bloom on our camellia bush when I stepped outside this morning. Camellias are called the Queens of the winter flowers + we are lucky to have a bush next to our front steps. I didn't know much about them until moving to California and our first winter here. I learned more about camellias and other native plants from a beautiful place called Descanso Gardens. Descanso Gardens has an abundant Camellia Collection and is one of the loveliest places to walk through in January/February when the camellias are in bloom. 

If you ever find yourself out this way, no matter the time of year, I invite you to visit this sanctuary. After meandering through the gardens and forests, I always leave feeling washed clean of my worries and other nonsense. 

Thank you, Mother Nature. 🌞

Until you come west, you can check it out here:

https://www.descansogardens.org/gardens-and-collections/explore-the-gardens/camellia-collection/

 XO b

Thursday, December 21, 2023

sign me up



December 21 • 2023

It's officially winter and here in Los Angeles, a dark, rainy day. After some grading for my winter course, a trip to the library and Trader Joe's, I am a cozy mouse, curled up under a blanket on my bed. A pile of books on Michael's side. Daisy the dog sleeping by the bedroom door.  Michael made a big pot of chicken soup last night for dinner. Happy knowing we'll be having a second helping tonight. 

Nothing to do, nowhere to go. Watching the rain. Quiet. 

Much is written about winter being a time to rest and reflect, go within. 

Slow down. 🐌 

Sign me up.

xo b






Wednesday, December 20, 2023

what shall we plant?


 













December 20 • 2023

I'm thinking about the hundreds of bulbs I planted in our yard back in Pennsylvania. Every year I'd be a bit behind, but always managed to find a few days in December when the ground was wet and soft enough to get them in the ground. 

Always daffodils and tulips, + some prayers for the new year.

What shall we plant this year? 

The world needs so much light. 

So much peace and love. 

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XO B


Tuesday, December 19, 2023

in memory




December 19 • 2023

This tiny band of angels go back to childhood winters in Delaware. My brothers and I sledding down South Road on our flexible flyers, hooting all the way to the bottom. Everything else still and quiet, muffled in pillows of white snow. 

Snowsuits, wet mittens, snow angels.

I don't know the origin of the angels except they were my mother's and now they live with me. I can hold the lot of them in one hand: the one with the cymbals, a coronet player, the flutist with one broken wing, the drummer. Claire lined them up on the mantel, front and center, watching over us this December. 

On this Winter Solstice, I remember my beloved mother, my angel. 

xo b

 

           

                  






             Dorothy Southam Jackson

          July 7, 1926 - December 19, 2001