Soaking in the hot springs of Breitenbush in the late summer, I was still. In the water’s stillness, I observed Queen Anne’s Lace, the plant, preparing for winter. I felt connected to time’s sacred dimensions in the natural world. I saw how endings move towards beginnings. I wrote:

Once green, coarse brown stems curl their treasured cloud petals inward. Slowly pulled inside, the density of time changes their form. In time’s molasses, they become caterpillar-like; feet cold and quivering. They are sheltered for winter. They are suspended: the moment before the bow’s arrow is released. They won’t be released. It’s their burial. It’s their beginning.

Summer is like a dear friend that I get to play with and lean on. Its warmth gives spaciousness and ease. As if in a hammock made of light, I feel held and I can let go. In the sun's cradle I don't have to be anywhere else. It doesn't ask me to leave, to do more, or plan for the next thing. It asks me to be still and receive its warmth. In a dreamy wonder, I let myself spill and connect with what I love.

Dear friends. At the beginning of the pandemic, like most people I imagine, I felt scared. Everything that I knew and cared for was at risk; my day to day livelihood was genuinely threatened and I never felt more alone. As I felt the vulnerability of my personal situation, the collective suffering was palpable. The pandemic amplified existing social inequities related to race, class, and gender. As we witnessed the violent death of George Floyd, we collectively wept.

Dear friends, I write to you from my favorite morning spot, my couch. I cherish quietly waking up with the sun as it rises over the Cascades through my windows. I reflect on a common inner conflict - the desire to be productive while feeling less physically and mentally capable to do so. I observe how this feeling exaggerates within myself and with my clients at Peony during the winter.