Christine Greyson

Treating Wounds In The Wild With Pine Resin

2019-12-28T18:55:00.000-08:00

After bashing my brains in by an old, heavy barn door today, I thought the situation created a nice opportunity to talk about a little bit of wound care out in the wild. Maybe it will reside in someone's mind after reading, and one day they'll find themselves pulling the remembered tips out of their subconscious while hiking and falling on a rock or something; I don't know. I do know this, though; we absorb information and store it for later use. And this is going to be useful at some point in time to somebody, somewhere on the planet. Things like this is how I've made it this far.

I'm going to talk about pine resin. I think it's good stuff. A long, long time ago, I found myself hit pretty hard by a man, and I ended up running away to a wooded area to hide out. Now before anyone goes bazerk, that was the past. I've moved on, and I don't carry victimization with me. It's unnecessary. Lessons stick, though, and while I was out there, I learned how to recover alone in the woods. While I wasn't there long, I was very safe and surrounded by enough resources to heal myself. Some kind of common sense mixed with an inner knowing brought me to the conclusion that I should scrape some sticky resin off a tree and use it to stick together my wounds and stop the bleeding. I don't know if it was an inherent human instinct, or some kind of celestial whispering that made its way to my ear. But I used it to sort of “suture” my wound together (a cut on my face that was caused by a blow with a fist wearing a ring). And so today when I was struck in the face by an archaic wooden door, I knew what to do.

Now since that historic stint in the woods with raw pine tar, I've learned it's actually a thing and there's a better way of using it. And if you live in the US or Canada, you're probably going to be surrounded by various forms of pine in any chunk of forest you encounter. They're everywhere, and they're full of medicinal properties. Pine trees are wonderful trees. In addition to producing edible superfoods, they're durable sources of timber, the resin can be made into turpentine, torch fuel, and even a substitute for glue if you're making a working pipe. The needles can be boiled into tea, and have five times more vitamin A and C than an orange. You can plug leaks in water containers and boats, and the pollen collected in the spring time is an outstanding hormone balancer. But let me get back to wounds.

It has always been understood pine resin protects the tree from outside damage. It seals it against wounds and creates barriers to infection caused by critters and fungus. It acts as an antimicrobial to the tree as well as human beings. From this, it's easier to understand why it would be a fantastic medicinal treatment for skin lacerations. While I just scraped it from the tree with a stick and applied it to my cut that lonely day in the woods, I'd learn later I could actually harvest it and mix it a little more constructively. Now note that one thing is going to confuse; pine resin will actually stimulate the inflammatory response. So it will appear that the wound is getting worse, when it's really speeding up the healing process and allowing the body to do it's thing. Let's look at how a wound heals naturally. It happens in stages.

If the wound is somewhat deep and bleeds, of course it's going to clot and form a scab to protect itself from outside interference. Swelling is inflammation and fluid buildup, and this occurs because the white blood cells are rushing to the injured area. Chemicals are released that cause pain to try and prevent any more movement or overuse in that area. It's a warning. Most of the time, however, this warning response is excessive, and you shouldn't avoid use for too long. A complete dismissal of use can lead to more problems and a slower healing time. Swelling and inflammation are necessary, and shouldn't be feared so much. Your body needs increased blood flow to the wound to provide white blood cells, and it will heat up for this reason. A type of white blood cell called a phagocyte will start to clean up foreign particles. It has the ability to engulf and digest these foreign bodies. If inflammation and swelling is not allowed their cycles at all, the wound will take much, much longer to heal. Pine tar (or pitch, as it's sometimes marketed) applied to the wound will stimulate this process and help the body's natural processes along. It's a complimentary substance to our bodies, as we're very similar to trees, actually.

While I used a pine pitch salve that was store bought at a co-op, you can make your own. I recommend adding this to any first aid kit, as I believe it's invaluable.

Gather the pine resin in the spring while it's still soft and sticky. It will later harden and is much more difficult to get. Use gloves and old clothes, as it will get all over you. (It can be removed with oil and soap.) Gather in glass jars with lids; don't use plastic jars. It's pretty sticky, so I'd recommend something like old peanut butter jars instead of ruining good canning jars (replace plastic lids with metal ones). You can use a slow cooker or double broiler to render the resin. Simmer water in a slow cooker to melt and render the resin. Let it go overnight or as long as it takes to melt the resin. When finished, any debris or bugs will sink to the bottom of the jar. The clean oleoresin will be on top and can be poured away.

In a new jar with the clean and rendered oleoresin, add beeswax and some type of oil (olive, castor.. whatever you'd like). You can also add essential oils at the end for various medicinal purposes if you want, like calendula or tea tree. I like to keep things simple, so I usually refrain from pine pitch that has added essential oils. I'm wary of something like tea tree oil irritating an open wound, and would prefer my main source of pine salve to remain basic.

Pour the pine salve into tin or glass jars, label and date. You're done! Easy peasy. The stuff's also great for eczema.

So the next time you get to walk through the woods, take a moment to look at the pines around you and notice their value. These are majestic, healing trees that will shelter with abundance.

Two Frogs; A Japanese Folk Tale

2019-12-09T13:01:00.000-08:00

This story is taken from The Violet Fairy Book, published in 1901 and edited by Andrew Lang.

One beautiful day in the country of Japan, two frogs lived their lives at such a great distance apart that they had never even heard of one another. One had made his home in a ditch near the town of Osaka, on the coast of the sea, while the other dwelt in a clear little stream which ran through the city of Kyoto. Strangely, however, the idea came into both their heads at once that they should like to see a little of the world. The frog who lived in Kyoto wanted to visit Osaka, and the frog who lived at Osaka wished to go to Kyoto, where the great Mikado had his palace.

So one beautiful spring morning, they both set out along the road that led from Kyoto to Osaka, one from one end and the other from the other. The journey was more tiring than they'd expected, for they did not know much about traveling. Halfway between the two towns there arose a mountain which had to be climbed. It took them a long time and a great many hops to reach the top, but there they were at last, and what was the surprise of each to see another frog before him!

They looked at each other for a moment without speaking, and then fell into conversation, explaining the cause of their meeting so far from their homes. It was delightful to find that they both felt the same wish- to learn a little more of their native country! And as there was no sort of hurry, they stretched themselves out in a cool, damp place and agreed that they'd have a good rest together before they parted to find their own destinations.

"What a pity we are not bigger," mused the Osaka frog, "for then we could see both towns from here and tell if it is worth our while to travel on."

"Oh, that is easily managed," returned the Kyoto frog. "We have only got to stand up on our hind legs, and hold onto each other for support. Then we can each look at the town he is traveling to."

This idea pleased the Osaka frog so much that he at once jumped up and put his front paws on the shoulder of his new friend, who had also risen in haste. There they both stood, stretching themselves as high as they could stretch, and holding each other tightly so that they might not fall down. The Kyoto frog turned his nose towards Osaka, and the Osaka frog turned his nose towards Kyoto; but the foolish things forgot that when they stood up their great eyes lay in the backs of their heads, and although their noses pointed towards the places to which they wanted to go, their eyes still beheld the places from which they had come.

"Dear me!" cried the Osaka frog, "Kyoto is exactly like Osaka. It is certainly not worth such a long journey. I shall go home!"

"If I had had any idea that Osaka was only a copy of Kyoto I should never have traveled all this way," exclaimed the frog from Kyoto, and as he spoke he took his hands from his friend's shoulders. They both fell down onto the grass. They then took a polite farewell of each other, and set off for home again. And to the end of their lives they believed that Osaka and Kyoto, which are as different to look at as two towns can be, were as alike as two peas.

Cherokee Legend; The Ice Man

2019-11-01T07:18:00.002-07:00

I woke up to our first frost this morning, hugging the mountain and spreading that slow, quiet whisper across the sky & indicating the coming winter. Things like this make me think of old native legends regarding the weather. Since I live very close to Cherokee, I'll tell the story of the Ice Man. The Ice Man is a Cherokee tale. I'm going to tell it my way, which is much like playing a cover of another song if you're a musician, but storytelling in lieu of music. First, you need to know a little trivia. It was once a common practice among Native tribes to burn forests in the fall of the year. They did this for several reasons. They could get rid of underbrush and facilitate travel, which was important in the east coast mountain ranges, for the woods here are thicker and rootier than in the west. They did it to herd wildlife during hunts, and they did it to enhance berry plant production. Blackberry bushes, for example, grow back very well after forest fires. You have to remember this was far before we all stripped land for mass agricultural production. Imagine territory very hostile and almost impossible to get through with groups of people varying in ages and physical condition, and wildlife so thick and dangerous we were the ones at serious risk of losing our lives and our children on a daily basis. This was a time that was completely different, and required different techniques to stay alive. It's easy to sit back in our recliners and heated homes, with our manicured yards and coil over herding animals for hunting when we have better options in 2019. I've lived in the wild now for two years, and I can honestly understand how that untamed land and predatory wildlife would have been pretty savage to work around. It's very hard to imagine if one has never been exposed to these severe conditions on a daily basis. Our first instinct is to judge from comfortable positions and forgotten history. Anyway, let's get on with it. The tale of the Ice Man.

The Ice Man

Black, sinewy smoke rose from the ground in ghoulish silhouettes, threatening to claim the breath and lives of all those who witnessed their dance. The fire burned too strong this time; opening a hellish cavity in the earth. The people became afraid, as their forest fire was out of control. Embers glowed under the burning skins of wood, raising a new breed of life; red and destructive, spreading and torrid along the ground. The tribe concerned, began restlessly trying to come up with a plan to put out the fire.

"There is a man who lives in an ice house in the north", yelled a boy cloaked by the billowing smoke. The others listened carefully between shooting sparks while trying to catch his face in the haze. The boy went on to tell a story of magic, in which this man from the north could put out fires and bring cold rain down upon the land. With no other options, messengers lit out on their horses like lightning to find this magic man.

They came upon a very small fellow with his hair braided into two plaits that hung all the way to the ground. Their dilemma was explained, and the man replied, "Oh yes. I can help you." He then began to take his hair down from the plaits as they watched. As each strand was loosened, the air began to chill around him. He soon stood with all his hair sweeping the ground, which seemed to craft an eerie kind of cold about the room.

The man then took his hair and slapped it on his hand. His eyes grew white and a light rain began to fall. He then took the other side of his hair and slapped it on his hand again. Sleet mixed with the raindrops, and the skies grew dark. He struck his hair across his hand one more time, and cold hail blasted through the room and the air as though it had come right out of his hair! "Go back now," said the tiny man. "I shall be there tomorrow." The messengers returned to their people, who were worriedly bustling around the great, burning pit.

The next morning there came the coldest, deadening wind from the north. The icy feeling caused sharp, biting pain on their skin and brought a sudden quiet across the land. Fear stirred in their hearts, and they ran back to their homes for shelter. A storm rose with a strong whirlwind that forced its way into every crack and crevice where fire burned the earth. Hailstones and rain beat down the heat and embers until even the smoke died away. This took two days. At the end of the frosty storm, the land was quiet and gray. The great pit seemed to sleep as a gentle snow fell and erased the damage. It watered the earth and put her to bed for the winter, until spring could wake her back up to life. Old man winter had been called, and would return each year from then until today, when we wake up to see the frost covering our ground with shimmering crystal dew.

The Bridge

2019-09-11T04:38:00.001-07:00

A year ago, my mother and I sat on a wooden bridge we'd built together that crossed over the creek by where my cabin would eventually be. It was the first, and the only thing we'd ever constructed like that in our lives. This was more than a simple bridge; this would be the dawning of a new life, and a new purpose to that life. I'd come back home. I attempted to turn the neglected land into a livable space. I was still staying in a tent at the time, and my uncle had just taken a giant tractor to the weeds that had taken over the hundred year old farmhouse property. Mama and I sat sat there exhausted, thirsty, and incredibly proud of our little bridge; we'd crafted it to be large enough to get a small lawn mower across so I'd be able to mow the yard my future cabin would sit on. We didn't know at the time that cabin would never make it across the creek. I'd eventually have to settle for having it placed on the side by the old house that had seen years of decay.

It was a dream to be back after living in NYC for the past five years. The scent of fresh cut weeds mixed with the cooling effect of the rushing water as we sat there in silence, watching the wind blow through the trees and calming ourselves down. It hadn't been easy. The land here had suffered oversight for so long there were hidden vines that would pull you out from under your own feet, and rough cut treelings that impaled anyone who ventured across the field without proper safety shoes. Poison ivy was thick, and snakes ruled the lot. It took that entire year to cure the area in a way that allowed me to live somewhat comfortably, and I'm still working on it to this day.The little hollow is truly wild.

The bridge was a new beginning and the first place I had to actually sit down. I started with nothing; I either built furniture or refinished and restored old pieces, or I had to sit on rocks and the trunks of trees. It was hard, but it was refreshing compared to congested, crushing city life. I was much more attracted to exhaustion from simplistic building as opposed to mental strain and constant stress. And that bridge was a beautiful piece of work. The cabin went in, the weather changed. I watched as storm after storm threatened to annihilate our carefully crafted structure. I stayed glued to the weather reports that came in as the floods of 2018 took over the mountain; weather patterns that hadn't been seen since the seventies. My mother and I would be right out there in the middle of rainstorms, trying to chain our bridge to the trees while the wind slapped our wet hair to our faces, blinding us while we kept working despite everything.

I even learned the energy of the water as I'd wade up to my waist, moving with the current and figuring out how she would carve her way through the ground during those floods. And then one day, it happened.

I was jerked awake by a loud crack around 3:30 am. I grabbed a flashlight and went out onto the deck to see the water splashing right up against my home! There was nothing but a pure, black sky and an ocean of water. I shined the light out to see the weather had finally won. My yard had washed out on one side, taking the stability right out from under the bridge. Giant railroad ties, the biggest I'd ever seen, had washed down from a neighbor's property and was knocking against what was still chained to the trees. The water rose higher and eventually covered it all up. I saw my fence we'd built by that time, along with its grand gates, bowing in and creaking with some giant mass pushing against the other side. I panicked, for my truck stood not far from whatever was on that side of the gate, and it looked like it was rocking. So before my ride completely washed away, I impulsively jumped right down into the water and began swimming against the current to where the creek had disappeared under the wash. I carried the flashlight in my mouth while I clung to uprooted trees and what was left of the fence line in the dark. I had to save my truck...

That night was awful. I was worried sick my cabin would float away like a plastic monopoly piece. My fear brought me to my knees and I prayed as I listened to the crashing and howling outside once I had removed the logs pushing my vehicle towards the water. I was alone, stuck, and waiting for daylight and any break in the storm. Thank heaven my dog was on higher ground. She was confused, but she was in a better position than me that night, watching from the hilltop of the yard and in the safety of a very expensive and big dog pen. I sort of wished at that point that I could have been a dog.

It's been awhile since that happened, but that bridge has lain in its broken state ever since. I couldn't move or clear it without help. Today, help came. It was pulled out of the creek, and I'm finally able to put it all to rest while I clear up and restore the creek side. My mother and I watched its retirement together, with teary eyes and saddened hearts. But just as one chapter closes, another one begins. It's always been that way, especially here in the little hollow. This tearing away of the bridge marks the end of my first year back; the year that prepped me for a greater life. My spring creek is different; she's wider, and holds more of that precious, healing water. The storm turned up a lot of stones and revealed shimmering pieces of minerals & unknown particles in the sand. Uncle wants to pan for gold now; he's fairly certain it's in there. Mama wants me to put an easily removable bench by the water as I'm building my rock wall, and I think I'll do that. The strength of all those storms could not take away the beautiful, cool and crystal clear flow that eternally runs by my home. The moon shines down and picks up the shimmering lights of those strange, glowing minerals at night. It seems this place is energized in a stream of magic that completely separates me from the rest of the world. I'll never take its grace for granted.

I learned trust here. I learned confidence, patience, resilience, and I learned how to drive away fear of the unknown. I shared my space with friends and family, and we've sat on that bridge together for hours. We've shared stories on it, and we've shared beer. I've had unexplainable things happen while I sat there. I remember my mother walking down towards me with a piece of paper in her hand one day that turned out to be a miracle and would fund a dream of mine. Sitting on that bridge. The bridge that never washed away, even when it broke down and couldn't hold any longer. It was a tough and generous one, and it stayed with me. It taught me to be tough and generous, and to stay loyal. Tonight I can hear the change in my spring creek's music. She's softer now that the bridge isn't there to dam up the water, amplifying the echo. Her gushing has relaxed into a calmer song that sings across the rocks. The harvest moon is at its peak this Friday, September 13^th,and the light is already reflecting the shiny gems in the water. The spell of the new year is cast. It's time to enjoy these new treasures, explore my new chapter, and move forward. I'll be building a fire in honor of it all this Friday as that moon hangs over my sacred hollow.

Music; The Light & Language Within

2019-08-24T07:55:00.001-07:00

A shadow moved over the mountain, running off the heat hanging so heavy in the air. The brutal summer was starting to calm down. Small moths from the night still clung to the mosquito netting over the door. The lantern was cold, sitting in silence on the nightstand. A gust of chilly rain poured down over the little cabin in the woods, ordering everyone into their nests for awhile. The birds took shelter under thickets, and raccoons stayed banked in their deep dens. The woman of the wood settled her wild heart and poured a warm beverage to take the chill off her skin.

There's a rhythm to it; these messages received from the depths of this place. They're strict, clear, and are in constant movement according to all that exists in this impressive coalition of life and death, action and rest; the unified dance of all that is. To denounce our connection to it is to rip a child away from its mother. It sets up a dysfunctional cycle that will last until we find our way back. It's cold and wet this morning. The creek is in her serious, busy mood, cooling down the earth and its heated root systems, preparing for the season of sleep. The springs in her belly are icy and fresh, killing off toxins and healing the skins of river stones. The sky is laying down a clean, filtered atmosphere, much easier to breathe than the fiery heat that squeezed our breath over the summer. Something that has no humanly comprehensible explanation whispers to me through the flow of the water. It talks to me through the actions of wildlife, and through the music of what I hear coming through the deliberate stirring of the wind as it plucks the leaves of the trees like the strings of a harp. Rain only amplifies this orchestrated grace.

For one who's never heard the songs of the mountain, it's a composition to be respected. It's more than a couple of unidentifiable noises coming from the throats of unseen critters in the wood. The water itself is a tune that never stops; it takes its audible rushing and winds through culverts and around earthen walls. It rushes down with gravity into pools and spreads out, forever searching for new highways. The wood has its own section, with whistles, rattles and chimes; creating such a complicated system of sound that you don't know where half of it's coming from. Wind courses through, lending its hand to the flow of the water and the brush of the trees. And the creatures with eyes! Buzzing and chanting; the crickets alone keep a steady mantra before frogs move in with their harmonies in what seems like some miraculous timed performance. Layers of birds begin filling in spaces, and any solo coming from the throats of larger beasts literally echo across the hills. It's the most astonishing thing in the world to me, the music of the mountain. It's so dynamic it pulls at a hundred emotions at once. I'm captivated, stricken, startled, calmed, excited and yearning for more. And as my heart is wound onto the strings of this melody and I'm drawn up into its verse, my spirit recognizes which way to fly. It always begins with the song.

Music is the most powerful language I know. You instinctively understand its message without words, and it takes you past that limited space where belief only lives in tangibles and in what physical, imperfect eyes want to anxiously explain away. It is forever there, rising up through the depths of earth and across the highest peaks, singing to us every single day and night. If we can't hear it, then we've deafened ourselves to the oldest and wisest conversation in existence. Music is life and it is death. It's everything. There is nothing- absolutely nothing, that can ever take its place. Those who want to continue to conjure it with their instruments and their voices must keep this connection moving in order to retain that power and captivate others in a magical kind of joining. Losing influence in the composition of music happens when its maker has strayed from that honesty; that thing that keeps their heart wound in unison with what's natural. But it's easy to come back and tap into this symphony when we remember how much we're caressed by the songs of night, nature and beast. It's easy to begin hearing the melodious lyrics and the messages behind them, guiding your hands and your soul. It's like coming home.

One Of The Keys: The Sunbeam

2019-07-06T12:20:00.001-07:00

The wind kept still and I could hear my shoes hitting the rocks below me. Harley had disappeared from view; I couldn't even hear her rustling in the woods off the path, chasing after usual fluttering wings or quick lizards. My world was suddenly just my own heartbeat, drained breath, and those shoes- sounding louder than thunder on the gravel road.

The muggy heat covered me like an outer peel. I could feel the sweat stinging the back of my arms as the sun clouded my vision, or was that mist? I strained to fight through exhaustion until I managed to focus my eyes on something bright to the right of me. I was looking down at my canine friend standing knee deep in the flowing water beside the most celestial sunbeam coming from outer space. I stood, unable to take my face away from its grace.

Immediately, my mind jerked me back to the memory of a quote I'd read recently that summarized a quick explanation of quantum entanglement. I began to feel drawn to this sunbeam like it was life itself, and I felt every part of me on fire with response to it. This was an extra arm reaching out of me and into the heavens, pulling my mind through the dark forest and away from my current station. I felt like a time traveler, and Harley was my guide. She had found the portal, after all.

This was a moment of connection, and I was being transported straight towards that ancient & nurturing force that has been since time dawned. My message was that there was a healing, warm fire from the sun that could break through the darkest of wooded places and touch me anytime I looked for it. And I would have never seen it if I'd not been away from the world, walking and walking and walking through nature until my breathing grew heavy and the atmosphere grew still. I had to push myself through heat and past civilization, be alone and separated from media and humanity. I had to slow down and put myself in a raw, unsheltered headspace. And that sunbeam was only visible to someone who happened to walk by that quiet, flowing river, taking the time to look over the ledge of the road and glance down into the hollow.

This revelation was another key to fostering my Eden. It takes a certain fire to sustain life and pleasure, for fire is life and pleasure. It's a creative build & drive that I feel at one with; a force that keeps me sane, safe, and whole. I sometimes imagine this sun of ours being the realm of an angel, and its fire not unlike desire; something strong and natural that I'm always trying to hold onto despite little minds doing their best to dissuade me. There is one thing about all these keys I keep finding, though. They get heavy if you horde and keep them. Hiding them in the heart can weigh a person down.

Once you find a key and unlock a door, you no longer need to hang onto it. So give it away! Not everyone has access to an excessive walk though the dark woods, leading to a magic stream and a Hollywood-grade sunbeam shining down from outer space. There might be someone sitting in a tower somewhere like Rapunzel, unable to free themselves long enough to go hunting for keys. And what if Rapunzel has high social clearance? Would I rather let her sit there unhappy and prone to dumping her pain all over everybody, or would I rather hand her a key to something beautiful? All misery does is breed more. Remember that quantum entanglement thing? What about latching onto others with an aura of misery, causing the response to be the same? We tend to give what we get. This is why it's so important to take the time for introspection, and to surround ourselves with the right things. One of my right things is nature. I see epiphanies through things like sunbeams- and plants.

When I look at a flower or a tree, I see a life living in its own world. I see its state of health and figure out how to use what it's using in order to sustain my own. The water keeps flowing, so I do, too. The bird keeps singing, so I do, too. The sunflower reaches its face to the sun. I respond in unity. What do too many buzzing wires and electric lights do to a delicate moth? They'll confuse and kill it. So I cut off my electricity at dusk and exist in harmony with the night creatures. It's nice. With open windows, it brings me back to a place of peace and meditation before bed. And that, I've found, is a tremendous thing.
Now take this key that the sunbeam across the water showed me this morning. Use it to open whatever portal you wish, and then toss it over to your neighbor. Eventually, all of us will be able to find all the best stars.

Trust, & The Little Icky Man

2019-06-13T23:07:00.000-07:00

Fear is a little, wirey, green man with chattering teeth and eyes wide. Anxiety bleeds them. Fear hides in the corners of our houses, just creeping out when we're alone with our own heads. He's so strong he's got his own form. And you can catch a glimpse in the corner of your eye as a shadow moves across the room.

I still find him once in awhile, trying to pick a fight with me and lick the meat from my brain. Fear is the reason for the death inside of us; the breakdown of communication and the apathy that starts to grow like mold on our hearts, locking us down into a hole of heavy mud. Scared of each other. Scared of ourselves. Watching our own convictions disappear into the quicksand. The world is sinking.

Art becomes dirtied up with tacky trinkets, fetching money that's no longer money. Men close their doors in distrust, and women throw theirs right off the rooftops along with declarations of angst. Another child runs away to a nearby barn to play with matches, and a life is lost in the confusion. Weapons take aim from across the sea, while the lonely lady next door adopts a sea otter.

Why bother to keep getting up every morning, fighting to prove the heart is real? Why keep stretching those voice box chords like a delicate web about to break, striving to mimic the primitive, sweet song of the indigo bunting? Because it just has to be. While the darkness keeps falling down like acid rain; while the trash keeps washing up against our doors, that song is the one thing to hold onto every morning. So wipe the tears away that Fear knocked around your face, and shower off that sticky mess of a nightmare that keeps trying to follow you to the door.

Keep getting up, resetting that mind clock and breathing the air; whether it's cold or hot, smoky or wet. Listen to a song. Look up at the sky. Music and skies live forever, and they don't smother your soul. Now let me tell you the story of Trust.

Trust can be built for two reasons. One of those reasons lives saturated in self-absorption and deceit. It's meaningless and works to manipulate into a state of obligation. The other is more sacred. When someone genuinely trusts, guards are let down and an innocence seems to wash over a person. Faces become pure light, and it's beautiful. Nothing should cause a blight on something so chaste. Mangling up trust is the reason our world is sinking into a thick, dark hell.

Whatever happened to that safe space of pleasure felt when someone we admire is simply happy? Why does it have to get all stained and greasy from some kind of hateful need to take? It's that old creepy green Fear slipping in again, that's why. Planting slimy seeds in the fields of our minds, making us believe we have to own a person's innocence in order to feel complete. Absolute disgust.

I choose to be a garden. Go ahead and lock up that secret in a tin box, and bury it in my body. I'll sleep with it and grow roots and flowered vines over it so thick they'll have to be burned away to get to the box. And if I burn, I die.

And this is the way souls are cherished and held sacred for an eternity. With no need to own, tell, control or kill. When obsession is no more, and desire becomes a more open & free kind of love. One that can allow that soul to smile, play, walk away, maybe to come back around for a dance once in awhile under the moonlight. We don't build trust just to cut off the head of the innocent. I'd rather go to my grave than live in a world that black.

Before you go to sleep, smear a line of blood by the door to keep Fear from crossing. Light a candle and let the song of the indigo bird lay your eyes down. Wait in dreams for morning, when the sun will warm the sky and your heart might find time to breathe again.

The Sexy Cosmos

2019-06-08T18:42:00.001-07:00

We are literally stardust. Stars explode, some of the heavier ones bursting into supernovas, and it all falls to earth where it showers over us, the plants we eat, the air we breathe, and the water that takes up most of our physical being. This happened millions of years ago, and it continues on forever. Our bodies are in a constant state of regeneration. We are made up of the same, old as the universe stuff that kids dream about when they look up into the night. Ask any astrophysicist. As a matter of fact, there's a book one of them wrote with his wife called Living With The Stars. They explore the logistics of how we genuinely mirror the natural world. And it's amazing.
Now take one step forward to how are compounds are formed. The highly volatile sodium, for example, is present in dying stars and even sometimes used a a "tracer" to study them. It falls to earth, eventually seeping into the ground and everything else. Sodium possesses an extra electron on its body which results in a huge explosion whenever it hits water. Chlorine, also unstable due to its lack of an electron, is bouncing around from element to element, looking for stability. It can combine with many, but wants just that one. When these two molecules find each other and connect, an extraordinary thing happens. Their opposite charges attract and form the magic of salt, completely balancing each other and calming down volatile and poisonous actions.
This is happening on every level of the Universe and within our bodies as we breathe. We are living, walking copies of a constant dance to regenerate and decay. We move colossal volumes of energy with every thought we burn, generating an erotic flow of perpetual constitution. This impulse is a sensual affair with creation. It is the most powerful force that exists. Sensuality is an energy that imitates the creative forces of our Universe, yet we seem to do everything we can to find fault in it.

The general consensus in dealing with sensuality is to slut shame women, or to emasculate men for being sensitive to these instincts and connected to the galaxy. We cannot stand to see anyone embracing their sexual nature, or defying the tradition to remain stoic and constantly focused on work and production. This works to separate us from each other and from our natural world to an unhealthy extent. This confusion stemming from a need to control each other creates chaos, and we become the ones bouncing around, searching desperately for that missing electron. There are over 4,000 religions in the world, each one sporting its own rule book for how and when and why we should feel anything in regards to each other. Moral standards, created by man and relentlessly changing with our ongoing society, demand we follow blueprints that don't even make sense before everyone decides to believe in them in an attempt to escape punishment. Trying to control people's emotions and natural feelings is a losing battle. (And I'm not talking about the act of sex; I'm speaking of feelings, which are not actions.) Shaming and guilt-based manipulation drives true feelings & honesty so far down inside they eventually blow up in some unstable way and cause the damage we're all afraid of. You cannot contain one of the oldest and most magnificent forces that exists. It lives for a reason. We are literally trying to organize the chaos of something too big for us to even comprehend, simply out of some fear based in society's norms. We're fighting against what's natural, and making up our own version of reality. I feel a strong sense of sadness when witnessing abuse that surrounds this limited logic. It looks like a mass obsession. And there is so much more to the world and to life than an obsession.

There is so much wrong with the idea that choosing to live pleasurably is irresponsible. By living pleasurably, I mean allowing ourselves more time for relaxation and recreation than we currently do. I mean allowing ourselves to love our world. Most of us feel guilty for not keeping ourselves productively busy from morning 'til night. We've developed a life for ourselves that produces the highest and most unnecessary levels of stress there can be. It's killing us, and not even that slowly anymore.
There is the idea that we could very well be killing ourselves off as we mentally evolve, since it happens much faster than our physical evolution. We're stubborn and so focused on deciding what's morally acceptable and not so, and we have a tendency to blow it out of proportion. So, what happens when we worry?
There is a bigger chance that you develop anxiety from environmental situations than from hereditary sources. It's rare that anyone is born with anxiety. We develop stress from our surroundings, and that then influences genetics. Cognitive structuring is the way the brain develops over time. Reactions to our environment is recorded in the brain, telling us what to fear. Those fears can eventually be triggered, causing anxiety.
Anxiety is, most simply explained, adrenaline, norepinephrine and cortisol. And practicing a behavior over a period of time becomes automatic. With every thought, we're restructuring our own neural pathways and setting off chemicals. You are the controller of your own reactions to life in this regard. The reasons for the release of these three hormones are very important. Norepinephrine is discharged when we feel arousal of any type. This makes us more alert. Adrenaline is the action, and is usually referred to as the fight or flight hormone. Cortisol is then released to maintain homeostasis. In a perfect world, this works beautifully. But we live in a world that demands more from us than these hormones can systematically handle. And we're the ones who built it.
An overproduction of adrenaline is rare, but the consistency in which we produce these hormones together on a daily basis is what's killing us. We do it too often in order to counteract our society's pressures. This causes most ailments, like obesity, high blood pressure, mood swings, and dehydration. It throws the balance of our bodies off course and sets up a foundation for disease later. This is a major reason why we need to re-evaluate our lifestyles and our need to work constantly.

There is no concrete solution to this, but we can shift our lifestyles just enough to bring ourselves back into balance. And one of those ways is to stop trying to separate ourselves from the Universe and sensuality. Of course, that sounds hokey, because in addition to shaming each other for embracing our sensuality, we've also decided it's ridiculous for anyone to experiment with the idea of a more connective relationship with the natural world. A lot of us have categorized the terms used to explain this under the division of Bullshit. Think about these words; spiritual, new age, Universe, attunement, and cosmic consciousness. We tend to associate them with feeble and airheaded, naïve characters who are too doped up to make any sense. It's a shame, because experimental musing and contemplation is what makes us change and progress. You can't have a functional, tangible new idea without that first chaotic seed. There is no need to ridicule anyone for being brave enough to explore the sustainment of their own happiness.
Once we've begun to wrap our heads around this radical idea, it naturally follows to become more sensitive to our cosmic surroundings. It is possible to revisit the abilities we once had years ago; to be more conscious of the language of pheromones, quicker to understand more subtle actions, and able to instinctively hunt down what we desire. At this level, there comes a more real connection to the natural, quite real, world. And here it gets just a little more seductive.

Who has an easier time of getting what they want and need in life? Those with money? Not necessarily. It's been clearly proven that those who are attractive have an easier go at it all. Let me explain my idea of attractive in this regard.
While physical symmetry and good looks absolutely do play a big part in attraction, the lack of those things can be made up with other devices. People gravitate towards people they want to be like. If you display a sense of proportionate confidence, skill and compassion, you will draw in the loyal affection of others. When you top that off with a strong and healthy dose of sensuality, you have the power to knock it out of the park.
Sensuality is attractive. The reason people get ostracized for being sensual creatures is not because it isn't alluring. There are a million other reasons for the bad rap it gets. In some cases it might have something to do with competitiveness and jealousy. Sometimes the idea of a sensual person makes people think of promiscuous meatheads without any self control. But real sensuality is nothing more than melting into the flux of nature. It just happens to be visible in body language and behavior. And it's attractive because everything in the Universe has some shameless degree of it. We're all subconsciously driven to possess it. We need to retain sensuality in order to maintain creation; on many levels. There are more obvious levels of creation, like having children. There is also a higher level of creation, such as the arts.
The most beautiful people I've met are those who are the most comfortable in their own skin. Those with a relaxed and more content sense of self, who practice genuinely charitable compassion are the most attractive people, and they usually end up getting most of what they really need in life. In a world full of excessive greed & soul-sucking, shock culture television, these more balanced people shine like the sun. I find myself going out of my way to accommodate people like that. And so does everybody else.

There are endless physical benefits of being a more sensual person. It literally slows down the aging process. When I was taking Phlebotomy, I spent a lot of time studying the complexities of aging and hormonal influence. One of the main antagonists of aging was what was going on in the pituitary gland- and lo and behold, its sex hormones.
Pay attention to the major difference between sensuality and sex. Sex is the physical, active goal of sensuality, and sensuality is expression & pleasure; the driving force behind these actions. We can even achieve complete satisfaction from being in a state of sensuality alone, without actually engaging in the act of sex. (Some call it Tantra.) What is interesting about this is that the feelings we have in this regard will produce the hormones responsible for sustaining life and youth. We can put ourselves in a state of pleasure from fantasy or a conversation with someone we're attracted to. This sets the pituitary gland into motion, generating a delicious cocktail of those healthy hormones. If and when we ever decide to stop paying attention to these feelings, or repress our fantasies, a funny thing happens. The pituitary goes, "Oh, we're not reproducing anymore.. Let's kick up the aging process now." And that is exactly what happens.
Testosterone and Estrogen is produced a lot less frequently. We start gaining weight, getting tired, losing our hair quicker, and our skin loses its elasticity. Our cells are racing to die. While we might have brains full of experience and information, we've opted out of life. We can't live without our bodies, and our bodies need different stimuli. Have you ever seen brains walking around without their bodies, functioning and talking about how great it is that we've finally achieved moral competence? Our mentality can evolve faster than our bodies because thought is so quick. We can make the mistake of dismissing the power of sensuality as something unimportant and in the category of physical. Our society seems to demonize the physical. But sensuality is that one crazy thing that falls into both physical and mental categories. And sustaining a state of balance and good health means embracing it, regardless of how embarrassed some might feel about the idea due to years of brainwashing.

If you've ever wondered how people in the room with you are feeling, take a quick look at yourself. We all bounce and reflect off one another. We're sensitive to voice tones, pheromones, anxiety coming from others, and more. Our ideas of being separate bodies are illusions. We see functioning entities walking around, contained in a skin shell. But this isn't how it works. Those pheromones, sound waves and other energies are moving freely through that skin and into everyone present. If you want people around you to be at ease, then put them there by being the first one to actively relax. If you're good at it and you're putting off enough of that energy, you will control the room.
This is why you actually draw towards you the same energy you put out. It isn't new age karma, or whatever. It's a chemical reaction, and it's real. The only time it doesn't work is when someone you're dealing with is so mentally unbalanced that they cannot be reeled back in easily. The way to bring pleasure into our lives is to look inside and work on our own fears and feelings. Pleasure doesn't pop out of thin air. It doesn't come from other people. It comes from our hearts and that funky thing called sensuality I keep talking about, and we have to create it. One cannot create pleasure while drowning in the snake oil we've been sold by an over-extended, prudish society that's so scared of getting hypothetically raped it can't naturally function anymore.

We don't have to reach for the stars. We are the stars. We've just come to a stage where most of us believe the pursuit of pleasure and happiness is irresponsible, or that it's something we can't have unless we follow someone else's rules. Our ideas of what brings us satisfaction is based on the perversions of a society that's missing what's right in front of its face. We're bonded by sensuality, and it's the most natural, sustainable thing we have. It is a hypnotically dazzling force that is too big for us to fully understand, for it is creation. We wouldn't be here without it. We can use it to our advantage. We're playing with the strongest force imaginable; pure creative energy. Yes, it feels sexual and it feels good, so we'll be inclined to use it. But this doesn't mean we have to disrespect boundaries and take advantage of people. When are we going to finally understand the idea that being sensual creatures isn't the same thing as being trashy and tacky?
Sensuality is very attractive, and I wait for the day when society stops showing contempt towards those who embrace it within themselves.

It's possible to process life on a much deeper level, and to gain the ability to do and understand more about its mysteries. Every book, study and story has been written by a human being, and if one can do it, so can another. Every epiphany, every philosophy, and every bit of recorded knowledge- we did it, and we did it out of inspiration. You are no less than every single man who discovered physics, or those who bothered to write down the doctrines of every therapeutic idea or religion that exists. We have the ability to take anything to the next level whenever we want to. Instead of relying on someone else's perception of how you're supposed to behave, why not look at at the Universe around you and listen to the answers it has always been trying to give you?

A Message in a Field of Daisies

2019-05-15T05:11:00.001-07:00

I walked away from my little cabin, crossed the creek, and headed for the patch of sun blazing over hundreds of daisies in the field ahead of me. Yesterday felt like a chilly day in autumn, and I was craving heat. So that instinct to be a moth and gravitate towards the light kicked in. I wanted the sun on me.

As I walked through a stretch of waist high flowers, I spotted the old dead tree mound left behind years ago by a logging company a man had decided he'd sell some timber to for quick cash. It hadn't even lasted a week in his pocket. The destruction did, though, in several giant piles of brush now housing snakes during the dead heat of summer. It's still early and the weather's cold though, so I climbed up on the pile and took a seat so I could see the entire field and over past the creek towards my nest.

Trees sheltered my lot and hugged the water's edge. They were thick and green, and looked like a crowd of people gathered around the rushing water- and it was then that I realized they were. These trees were a group of beings focused in on that one stream of abundance; they were hungry for it. The stronger ones crowded out the weaklings, and the big ironwood trees reached out and over them all. I saw my cabin; so small in the shade and surrounded by little hills and the garden. My new resident bluebird was acquiring a new girlfriend, and together they dined on bugs daring to go near my vegetables. It was a place of business. I sat on the tomb of trees and watched in silence.

Just then, the wind picked up and sent a chill over me. My senses peaked and I saw that I was far, far away from that daily, habitual focus of my life in the woods. I was an outsider, looking over at what was happening on that busy side of the creek. I was stalking my own nest like a buzzard parked on a nearby ledge. I came outside of myself, and everything that normally took over my mind was replaced with the clean, new perspective of an old bird.

The words are easy. “We get caught up in our daily routines and need to take a breather every once in awhile." But saying it feels like kicking a dead horse. The power of that moment in which one finally realizes how true it is is just... different. I had to be sitting on that mound of dead tree flesh in the spiritual body of a buzzard in order to truly understand its strength for the first time. We usually don't escape our own heads as we power through our daily routines. As we judge our own relationships, and as we assume things that haven't even happened yet. In a group, it's even more addictive- because everyone's doing it. So finding the skill to step outside of it all and look upon yourself like an outsider is pure wizardry. I had an idea as I became the buzzard.. it was a strange correlation between the way we think and engagement in weight training.

When one works out, either the upper or lower body is focused on for a day. Then that area is rested the next. This keeps the muscles from overextending and damaging the results. Why don't we do that with the way we think? Doesn't anyone ever think it's possible that we're overextending one hyper-focused thought pattern? I know that to create a thought or action and nourish it every single day will actually cause the brain to connect certain neurons together and make it easier to do. This creates a habit. It becomes comfortable and addictive over time. Doing anything different starts to feel strange and seems harder, because we've developed our minds in that one area only. Maybe this kind of attention to one area can be blown out of proportion and start to become toxic instead of helpful. Maybe it takes us into a state of becoming trapped in our own heads. I'm not a neurologist. However, I know obsessing over any one thing has always been counterproductive to accomplishment or problem solving. We're complex creatures. In order to adapt and advance, we have the ability to use many parts of our minds. We were fortunately given that gift, and it seems a shame to allow ourselves to become too lazy and addicted to routine to use it.

I've always found better solutions when I've stepped outside a situation, or rested a minute from trying to solve a problem. When I come back, I feel "fresh" and recharged. My mind has acquired a second wind. I've now begun to understand, from my silent experience in the daisy field, that my mind needs time to rest just like my muscles do. We have the poisonous ability to become obsessed over just about anything. Work, relationships, people, business deals, fears, money, territory, competition.. this is a list that doesn't have an end. Obsession is not a healthy focus. It's a state of being stuck. It throws you out of focus. It crosses that boundary between genius and crazy.

It's easy to think too much in one direction. We wire ourselves to do it. That unwillingness to bend might be keeping us from finding our best answers. Call that much needed brain rest anything you want; prayer, meditation, a siesta.. it's easy to be afraid of words here and desire to name our actions something that erases the guilt of not constantly being in a state of production. I personally think our fear of relaxation is silly and downright unhealthy, but hey. If meditation is more of a working word and makes one feel more serious, then by all means, use it. I'm just trying to encourage a moment of rest for that overworked brain. It will thank you.

Here's an exercise for those who might find it very hard to detach and get out of their heads for a minute.

Go somewhere you can be alone. At least away from those who know you. This is a speaking out loud exercise, but if you feel uncomfortable appearing as though you're talking to yourself in front of strangers & it's impossible to get away from people, then whisper under your breath or something.
As you walk around, speak what you notice out loud. This will drive home what you tend to focus on, and sometimes surprise you. For instance, as I'm walking in nature and saying the words of the things I'm focused on out loud, I'll start to realize I'm honing in on either life or death. Positive or negative. Do the dying flowers stand out more than the vibrant, green leaves of laurel to my mind? Am I focused on how I dread the upcoming mud puddle because I know my shoes are going to get temporarily wet and dirty? Or do I focus up ahead of it where the sun's coming through? Am I concentrating on the uncomfortable and negative aspects of this walk? Or am I concentrating on what good things the walk is giving to me? Speaking these focuses aloud will take away the tendency to push those realizations way back in the recesses of our brains. We'll be unable to deny what we're doing to ourselves.This can be taken further, and we can start to speak entire thoughts aloud. How does the shadows rolling across the mountain top make me feel? What shape is it? What does it remind me of? An entire story will start to unfold in my mind, and I'll come back home with new ideas and epiphanies. And those newer, fresher ideas always have a way of providing my day with more power.

I do love the trees by my beloved water, but I don't want to find myself stuck like that, hanging over one creek and fighting for my drink. While the water can nourish dozens and tons of living creatures (and she does), it still seems very much like being back in NYC, watching the crowds rush for the money again on Wall Street. I know that's an odd comparison to make, and I had to travel outside myself & become an old buzzard sitting on a patch of death in order to do so. We're not trees. We can move and take ourselves out of a situation for a minute. We're not forced to rely on one body of water for nourishment. This is what makes us fortunate. And now that I've become the buzzard and polished this new perspective, I can genuinely say I feel incredibly stable of mind and more relaxed about the day and my placement in it. Now let's hope I don't have to go devour a carcass in order to experience my next revelation. 😉

L'aigle Noir (The Black Eagle)

2019-05-05T14:29:00.000-07:00

"All this worldly wisdom was once the unamiable heresy of some wise man."
-Henry David Thoreau

It was bestowed upon her the epithet of a moonstruck fool, by those who feared a beating to their reputations. Why would anyone dare chance the notion that centuries of following traditions had been a waste of time? But she didn't believe in following ceremonial protocol. There was no need for trinkets or instructions written by monks, or even weekly visits to hear another fellow's translation of the same ancient story that could be told a hundred different ways. She'd already seen more profound miracles than any other, and she'd looked straight into the sun. There were no more following silly methods to obtain this or that; no more words or wills getting in the way. It had always been all around her. She just opened her eyes one day.
Dressed in loose fabric that would dance in the wind, she trailed off through the trees...

Her black eagle flew low over the woods, conjuring a large, quiet shadow along the ground. Spotting her tiny form, he dove down and landed by her side. She crawled up his unfolded wing to take a her seat, and they took off swiftly into the sky. This was her route to heaven; to shut out the noise of pulpiteers promising recovery from a miserable state. Here, she was already one with the purest of creation. She picked up the adrenaline of a small herd of deer underneath her ride as their hooves warned of movement from the west. She understood the messages of sparrows and the lessons of coyotes as they passed their experiences on to her starving senses. The aid and persuasions of more reliable creatures held more decent truths in her mind.

Her black eagle was a ruthless predator. He'd wait for hours in the sky and study his prey, slipping in and out before they could feel him coming. He was not a reckless or impulsive bird. Slow moving, meticulous, and easily guarded by shadows, his lesson was that of stealth and survival, disrupting man's ideas of what was fair. He took those faulty ideas of fair or unfair, those made up decrees by insecure and fearful scholars, and burned them up in the sun.

The traditional habits of resting and nesting birds were shaken as he moved in, as he'd feed on other small birds as soon as they became careless and dropped their guard. He swallowed bats. He devoured snakes, rabbits and rats. He was bold, careful and feared. And now he carried her.

She knew humanity's dogma could not interfere with her magnificent bird, nor the natural order of this sacred space. Those human decrees influenced by greed and a desire to control, driven by self absorption over the ages. Their rules and norms were too close to worshiping some golden cow; the real way in which one sells one's soul to the devil. She looked forward and out through the blue sky, taking in the fresh scent of rain starting just over the threshold of the forest's edge. Black eagle turned his head to the right and flew her away from the storm's path. They rested in a feathered thicket dense with twigs and down.

How did she reach the stars? How was such a small, seemingly lost girl so well cared for in a dying world? She was tuned in and turned on to what was real. She no longer relied on the corrupted and confused. She respected the natural world; that world that led directly to the power that crafted it. And in turn, it gave her every answer she searched for. Would you keep talking to someone who disrespected you or didn't pay attention? Nature won't tolerate it, either. And nature talks just as much as we do.