27 lessons in 27 years

I'm 27 today.

As I write these words, I'm in an empty bedroom. Nearly all of my belongings are packed into boxes and bags in the next room. Our furniture has been sold and carted away. Tonight will be my last night nestled in these blue, misty woods filled with wild turkeys and the occasional red wolf. This weekend we're trading mountains for skyscrapers.

I thought I'd take this quiet moment in this quiet space and share 27 things I've learned in my 27 years. Inspired by Joy.

Life is bittersweet. The good is always tangled up with the bad, and visa-versa. Even the most beautiful, perfect moments are lined with a certain sadness because we know they're fleeting.

Platinum bread yeast is freakin' awesome. If you're a baker-- just, you're welcome.

Optimism is magical.

Friends don't make fun of things that are important to you. Surround yourself with people who take you and your ambitions seriously. Everyone else can be dropped.

Dancing alone is just as fun now as when you were 12.

Boundaries are integral. Know yours and protect them with ferocity.

You can know a great deal about a person by how he or she treats customer service workers.

Being right is almost never important.

Being a good listener is the basis of all deep, lasting relationships.

Don't brush off compliments. It's disrespectful both to yourself and to the one complimenting you. 

Don't brush off constructive criticism. Even if, in the end, it isn't helpful to your particular situation, give it some consideration, especially if it's coming from someone who cares about you.

Do brush off hurtful criticism. The sort that is very unhelpful and often is an insult or an attack in disguise. 

Crystals = awesome gifts. Baked goods are the best, too.

There's absolutely nothing wrong with eating peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon.

Madness is relative.

Respect children. They are human beings, just like you. 

Passing judgement is easy and cheap. Try empathy instead. It is something you can learn.

Body shaming is never, ever okay. Ever. (See above).

Science is important. People will take you much more seriously the faster you figure this out.

Being on the fringe of anything doesn't make you special.

It's okay to not meditate every day. Also, those small moments of awareness-- in which you notice the glistening beauty in the water droplets while washing dishes, or take deep breaths when another annoying siren whizzes by-- those count as meditation, too. It's not always a lighting-the-candle-sitting-in-a-perfect-lotus-dramatic event.

There's nothing wrong with being an introvert.

It always feels amazing to get rid of clutter.

There are always people who think they know everything, especially about the things they actually know nothing of. Just let them be.

Pain and loss can be used to fuel deep, engaging creative works.

Read poetry. It's essential.

Don't try giving up coffee ever again. It's just not in the cards.

Baking your own birthday cake can be a happy, fulfilling experience. Unless you're about to move to New York and all your cake pans are packed. Then it's okay to order a slice of decadent, caramel cheesecake. Which I shall. : )

--

See you from the city next time.

-Blessings-

Stepping into a story

I wrote almost 5000 words of my new novel last week. I was scheduling its words, carefully planning the completion of my first draft. I figured it could be done in a month or two if I stayed productive enough. If I stayed on schedule.

Something about the words, though. They just weren't right. When I reread them, I felt that they weren't true. The voice of my protagonist was much too hurried, too young, too superficial. I just thought to myself, I'll fix it when I work on the next draft. And I kept writing.

I've come to a screeching halt, of course. I couldn't write untrue words for long.

The thing about a new story. It's a new world. A new household, with its own rhythm and sounds. I wouldn't get to know a new place by rushing through the door and taking notes about it as fast as I could. I'd wait til I was invited, and then I'd slowly step inside. Get to know the feel of the wooden floors and the spots where it creaks the most. The way the sunlight pours through the window in the afternoon, then retreats as the rays of light grow orange and wild. How the neighbors play mariachi music every Sunday morning like a spiritual ritual. 

The story I've been invited to has a home that is located in the future. Its windows are missing and the wild is seeping in with its vinery, flowers, and dried leaves. Sometimes, a red fox comes and sleeps, curled in the corner under a secret door that leads underground.

Before I can know and understand this place, I need to read and research. The history of Cuba and its fringe religions. The history of warfare and the manipulation of the media. The relationship between woman and machine and the natural world. I have to understand what DNA is, not just in the scientific sense, but in a mystical sense, too. I have to find the mystical in the line between different methods of creation. 

So, I've put the words aside, for now. As with every rough draft, there's a seed in there that I'm going to keep and nurture. After a little more while of stepping into this story, I'm going to open that secret door and dive into the underground. Then I'll be ready to write.

-Blessings-

Blog and other updates

I'm going to be blogging less frequently for the remainder of the month as I prepare to move. Since I've already packed up my art and jewelry supplies, I've closed my Etsy shops temporarily. They'll reopen once we're settled.

I believe that's all for now! Thanks for hanging in there with me, dear readers.

-Raquel

Update on Manuscripts

I'm buzzing with excitement.

Mystical Manuscript is done. Well, it's been done for a few weeks now. I just needed the time to let it fully sink in.

It's been nearly four years since I first began writing it by hand in a blue spiral notebook.

It's gone through about 10 drafts (4 major and 6 or so minor).

When I reread it most recently, I only deleted a word or two. Replaced my protagonist's name with "she" in some paragraphs. I realized that it, the story itself, was as good as I could possibly make it right now. 

I feel so happy and proud of it and of myself. I've been writing novels since I was 16, but this one was the one that came from my heart.

I'm ready to begin a new novel. I do have 40,000 words of Complicated Manuscript hanging out, but I don't feel like joining that protagonist right now. She requires a lot of energy, angst, and bitterness. Its story is incredibly seductive, as I said before, I needed to pry myself away from it last time I reread it. But I'm not ready for her world just yet. I want to step into something completely new.

I already have an idea of what I'm going to do. It's a ghost right now, and I'm beginning to call down its bare bones. So far, it has undertones of the folktale "Bluebeard" and shamanic dismemberment. Undertones, though. These elements will not be overt nor recognizable once I flesh it out.

After writing all this, I'm unbearably excited now. I'm off to do some research.

-Blessings-

Happy Anniversary

Heather Black

Two years ago today, we were married in a forest surrounded by lanterns and family.

Also, happy Beltane!

-Blessings-

The Green Forest and Intention

Today, between downpours, I threw on my shoes for a hike. I couldn't believe how the rain has changed the landscape so quickly. Everything is so green. And the humidity is so refreshing... like the atmosphere is hydrating me from the outside in.

Does anyone see the face or is it just me?

I've been thinking about my goals lately. I don't really like to think of them as goals, since that sounds so corporate. I like 'dreams' better, but it's a too little wistful and incorporeal. Intentions is closest, for now.

One of these intentions is to witness the aurora borealis firsthand. I don't know where or how, but I imagine sitting in an open-top Jeep Wrangler (no idea why a Jeep) in a deep and empty field. Drinking coffee, taking photos, and watching in meditative silence. With perhaps the experience inspiring me to reread the "His Dark Materials" series so I can savor the experience in story-form.

Another one is to live in Italy for a season or two. I've suspected I've spent a lifetime or more in Italy and the land has laid a spell upon my soul for my return. Again, I've no idea how or when. But I imagine a cozy stone dwelling near a rustic market filled with wonders that overwhelm me. Immersing myself in the language, maybe even reading poetry in it. Vineyards, barefoot dancing, pizza...

Another intention is to write a book detailing the hero's journey for women. While Campbell did a wonderful job on the monomyth in his life and work, he was still influenced by his times and just didn't see the journey itself as applicable to women. I wholeheartedly disagree with him on this. I've been looking for a book that satisfies my own feelings and experiences on the matter and have been disappointed with what's out there. I realized recently that I'd love to write it myself, if I can. A part of me says I'm just too young. But the intention is there, a spark in my consciousness for now.

What are you intentions?

-Blessings-

The Rosehip Chronicles: The Earth Bringer

*

I find myself in a landscape filled with small hills, each one covered with short, yellowed grass. They go on for as far as I can see. One has a tree growing on it, some sort of elm. This is where I land.

I climb up the tree and find a whole new universe in the branches. There are tiny cities within the bark and airy beings that live there. Somehow they are able to capture sunlight and save it for energy. I'm completely enchanted, just being there and observing it, until I hear the thick roar of a machine. I'm horrified when I see the branches being cut off, one by one, with a sort of chain saw. I don't see who, if anyone, is operating it. I start to cry as the tree is hacked to pieces. The loss is too much to bear. This is when the chainsaw cuts off my head.

My emotions are abruptly cut off. My head rolls down the hill and settles into the silt of a river. I'm surrounded by smooth rocks and moss. I can see the clouds in the sky and it begins to rain. Soon, there is nothing but a skull. 

A man comes and finds me. He picks up the skull and puts it in his bag and drags me for miles. I can see how much the landscape has changed. There are shrubs and birds everywhere. I don't see any trees or hills.

The man takes me to his camp and his people. He tells the elder where he found me. Or, I guess this is what he's saying, because I don't understand the language. The elder picks me up and examines me. I see his face now and instantly know him to be of an unusual, ancient lineage. He takes me inside his dwelling.

He puts me on his altar. There is a book and two feathers next to me. He cuts open the top of my skull and stuffs dirt, berries, leaves, and flowers inside. He repairs the skull with some form of magic. Then he lays it on the ground. 

The rest of my bones emerge from the earth. I'm a full skeleton. I jump up. He gives me bread and cheese to eat. The bread is dense and dark, the cheese sharp and soft. After one bite of each, my flesh is restored. I grow muscle and tissue and organs. I see in a mirror my form-- a large male warrior with a wide jaw and black eyes. I know this is what the elder is projecting, expecting. I don't know why he thought it was the skull of a warrior.

We sit in the middle of the hut. He has a fire going. He wants me to look into the fire and tell him what I see. I stare at the yellow of the flames. There is the land, his land. There are railroad tracks being laid down. There are telephone polls being staked out. I see the age of the machine, and the energetic chaos interfering with the currents of the earth.

He says that I cannot fool him. And my warrior image falls.

I'm a woman. Nothing more, nothing less. 

He shows me an image. From his hands, I see a woman wearing a nightgown on the edge of a dock. It's evening time and the waves are crashing all around her. She's crying and on the verge of jumping. He pulls his hands back and the scene is gone.

"No," I say. "You can always choose joy."

He jumps up and kicks me. 

"Is this joy?" he asks. He kicks me again, harder. 

I grab a piece of pottery next to me. It's a relic, even older than my own skull, which laid by the riverbed for 12,000 years. In my hands, the bit of pottery is infused with energy, with light. It blasts him away and he is gone.

I step outside the hut. All the huts are abandoned. There's no one here anymore.

I see a book at my feet and pick it up.

Then I return.

Analysis

This is a really new journey. I haven't had much time to let it simmer, for its own truths to bubble through. I don't know what to make of it yet. 

-- 

Added 4.24.2013:

I've been rereading this journey and the conflict that I see the most in it is the man vs. woman theme. This also makes me uncomfortable, which leads me to believe this is an unearthing of my own personality, dark spaces, and ideas of the self.

I recently read that the male energy is about action, whereas female energy is about being. I can see this in what I do in this journey. I sit and watch the airy civilization in the trees. I sit and watch the fire. This all takes presence, the 'feminine' energy. 

The masculine is the chainsaw cutting off my head. The elder kicking me. I feel this is my own masculine nature. In the first part of this journey, I am not strong enough to assert myself and my sacred spaces. I'm unable to balance action and being. As a result, my head is cut off and rests for 12,000 years.

A man finds me and a man resurrects me. The elder thinks I am a warrior. Perhaps this is what I think I must pretend to be in order to be worth resurrecting. Because in the end, I am the one who cannot fool him. I drop my mask and my costume.

He recognizes I am a woman because of what I see in the fire. I am able to read the flames. This is not the job of a warrior. This is the job of a seer, one who contains feminine energies, who can 'be', and be receptive.

He shows me an image of a woman who is besieged with her own emotional turmoil. He is trying to remind me that I am submissive, weak. I have been all these things many times in my life, most notably in an abusive relationship. I reject the image, though, and say joy is a choice. This is my first action that is my own. This is my first embrace of the masculine energy of action.

He kicks me while I am down, and I have access to an important relic. In my hands, it is infused with a powerful light. This comes full circle to the airy beings that can store and use sunlight for energy. My light is like a beam, phallic, even. This is about me owning my own masculine energies.

There are many layers to this, and this is just one interpretation. I'm still searching for meaning for many elements. I think I'm on the right track, though.

Last Words

"There are very few human beings who receive the truth, complete and staggering, by instant illumination. Most of them acquire it fragment by fragment, on a small scale, by successive developments, cellularly, like a laborious mosaic." --Anais Nin

-Blessings-