Dear friends,

I love staying in bed on rainy mornings. I used to think my ability to stay in bed all morning was a superpower because I noticed that my husband and former roommates were never able to commit to the practice as deeply as I was. But I recently learned that it’s a common need for people with ADHD. I guess I was just tuned into it all along.

This morning, I opened my big eastern window beside my bed and watched the rain dampen the daisies, asters, adirondack chairs, and Subaru outside. I listened to the trickle and drips on my corrugated metal roof like a soothing steady intonation, imagining all the water gushing through my gutters and into my giant cisterns and all the days of free showers and laundry loads I could get from this one storm.

Lightning flashes overhead, immediately followed by a ground shaking dramatic thunder, and I think how wild it is that we live in a world with such weather. I can easily imagine how the early pagans believed the gods were angry. The sky is raucous with dueling atoms, smashing about above and everything is shrouded and gray squeezing the world in around my cozy little home where I am nestled under autumn quilts writing my morning pages.

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Days like this are perfect for staying in bed. Coffee in bed. Reading in bed. Coloring in bed. Snuggling, of course.

All around the world, people waging wars, people farming rice paddies, people with ten-million super fans, people meditating in caves—everyone can relate to that feeling of a warm bed on a wet day. Even animals curled nose to tail in their dens, which is exactly what I am, an animal gazing out from my den, watching for the last bolt of lightning strike on sagebrush seas as I listen to all the water stored to gratify my daily thirst, collecting in reservoirs of upturned fallen leaves and rock bowl indentations.

In a moment, I’ll open the window to catch my favorite desert scent of wet sage and petrichor, only available after the rain. I’ll breathe in deep the sensation of our dry bones quenched, our parched skins moistened, our earth satiated. Ah, rain.

What about you? Do you like to stay in bed on rainy days?

Take it easy,

Johanna

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This weekend I hosted the third annual Women in the Woods campout in the Pecos Wilderness amongst the towering lodgepole pines and aspens barely touched by autumn's kiss, along the small but strong Rio Santa Barbara, her flow constant and steady, holding us in her current song at the base of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

I have been through many changes these last few years, including starting a business teaching online courses that I've lately felt uncertain about my interest in continuing. I feel increasingly pulled away from connecting online and more and more drawn to being with people in person. I keep asking, “What isn't AI?” and find myself wanting to build with my hands, form poetry circles at the library, join neighborhood associations, and drum in circles with women.

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We drummed under the full moon around the fire, journeyed, sang, called in our dreams for the future. We shared meals. Forest bathing, we noticed how in nature everything is in balance and how balance is a tenuous state that always requires readjusting. The seasons act as a means of recalibration, an opportunity to release what is no longer needed and start anew. We built nature altars as offerings to the waters, beavers, fairies, trees, children and ancestors. We breathed deeply our bodies into alignment.

In the woods, we women remember our bodies, drop into the ancient time, the primordial movement. In our broken hearts and our questioning minds, we feel the breadth of existence and begin to unravel the modern world from our fastened fascia, just a bit.

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My dream is to be part of the 20th annual Women in the Woods campout where every one of us is teaching and collaborating. Perhaps it is on that big piece of land I dream about buying one day. Perhaps it's a week long instead of a weekend. I can't know what the world will be like in 17 years, but what I do know is that the same big moon will shine her face down on us like a balm and the same nurturing earth will reach up to hold and support us.

May you find time to soak in the woods this week.

Take it easy,

Johanna

This weekend I had the privilege of teaching Nature Writing at the Taos Mountain Wellness Festival. This was my third year offering this class and I’m pleased to report that numbers of people seeking connection to nature are growing. Without even knowing the scientific benefits of time in green spaces, we innately sense that our wellness is tied to the natural world. Life indoors in a new invention but our bodies remember on a cellular level our ancient ways of being with trees, stones and the elements.

The clouds released a sudden torrent at the start of our class and so we found shelter under a bridge beside the Rio Hondo, the same river I spent the weekend camping next to at the foot of the mountain’s drainage. One of the first meditations I share with my class is tuning into all five senses one by one—smell, taste, sight, sound, touch, as well as a sixth sense, the heart sense, feel. Since we were so close to the roaring river, its sound overwhelmed all other sounds and there was nothing else to hear for—no breeze shaking the aspen leaves or spotted towhees calling from firs, just the loud rushing of water.

So instead of an invitation to listen for unique sounds in our area, I asked us to listen for unique sounds within the river, parsing out the pieces that create the watery symphony. Within the cacophony I heard tinkling chimes, distant thunder, pearls scattering across a marble floor, machines whirling with industry, the tickle of a feather on breastbone, and the whisper of erosion. The river carried me inward to the waterway of my veins, organs and muscles until only my humming heart knew the cascade of its rolling song.

As our ears tuned in and drew closer to the riverbed, so did our hearts, easing us into an unruly flow. Isn’t life like that? There is comfort in chaos. There is quiet in a roar. The deeper we go within to gaze out at the world from and the more we slow everything down to simpler awareness, the more we may be surprised to discover that things are not how they first appear. There is more nuance to the world than we can imagine or write in a poem.

I invite you to spend time listening this week. What do you hear? What are the sounds that encircle your life? What noises are unexpected?

Take it easy,

Johanna

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If you are interested in my Nature Writing classes and the guided meditations, but you’re not coming to Taos anytime soon, check out my online version:

Last week was a carnival of animals trespassing through my abode and I felt witchier than ever. Sculpted by suburban sensibilities, the desire for a home that is spotless and critter free runs deep. But my reality is that I live in a remote rural area where I am the intruder. This is the home of lizards, coyotes, rabbits, bighorn sheep, tarantulas, pack rats, quail and more. I am only one of a large community of creatures that scuttle across this land.

It all began when a toad hopped out from behind my bed. It was so covered in lint balls that at first, I could not tell what it was. I called down my future-zoologist-daughter and she excavated the reptile from the dust bunnies, uncovering an adorable New Mexico spadefoot toad.

Next came the series of four baby mice. I have a preternatural disgust for mice, which is probably good since they carry disease. Yet no matter how sealed we believe our house to be, they always find another way in. In this case, a nest of pinkies was gestating on their own under the compost toilet after we trapped and killed their mother and left town for a couple of weeks. They appeared one by one squeaking loudly for attention. I admit they were adorable, but we set the snake-snacks free into the mesa and wished them the best of luck.

Soon after, a juniper titmouse flew in through the front door and made a mess of things as it attempted to escape through every window, leaving a trail of disturbed feathers in its wake before I removed the screen on one and it lifted back to sky.

These are moments of surrender. There is no such thing as a world in which I can shelter myself from existence inside a shiny little box and hope the outdoors never makes its way in. I am grateful for the biodiversity that surrounds me, the abundance of summer’s zenith and the little joy of animals who make our acquaintance.

Until next time, take it easy.

Johanna

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It rained this afternoon, a rare thunder that circled just above our casita. I opened all the windows and let in the scent of petrichor and wet sage. Water is such a treasure in the desert, manna, nourishment. I knew this was the moment I was waiting for. The rain loosened the soil. It was time to do what I had been resisting, to pull the growing tumbleweeds from my backyard.

I dressed in long pants and long sleeves to protect myself. Outside the clouds hung low and the air was refreshingly cool. Still, I sweated as I yanked and dug up shallow roots of the thorny invasive weed, so pervasive on land where sagebrush has been removed.

An hour in, I had completed a single patch near my back gate. I saw the horehound in the side yard and the dry grasses in the front all calling me to complete the job. A loud part of me demanded I keep weeding; I had already geared up, I was already started, might as well finish.

But a quieter part asked me to put down my shovel, remove my work gloves and stroll into the sunset. I listened to the whispers.

The sun balanced between horizon line and the grey cumulus burned through the sky like an eyeball gazing on the world. Three nighthawks circled and cried overhead. I breathed deep in the evening air.

Just a short walk. My house beckoned me back to settle into evening, to cook dinner and finish my book. But I was grateful for the momentary lapse in achieving. A time out of time to simply be effortless in the world.

When was the last time you did something for no good reason, did nothing for the sake of nothing? Are you glad you did? Comment below and let me know. I’d love some fresh inspo.

Take it easy,

Johanna

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