making space for nothing

There is something so painstakingly difficult about prioritizing time to create in a production oriented society. Can it be monetized? Shouldn’t I share each creation, every moment of process with the world to prove that my time is being well spent? How many chores will I sacrifices for this time of silence, this quiet, this nothingness?

I know the value of space. Most of our bodies are made of spaces. We are interstitial beings with intracellular matrixes that need us to pause, to dispel the debris, to clear out the space junk. And as above, so it is below. Each organ in our body goes through this process when we’re in a state of homeostasis, each cell is regenerated only through a period of rest. There is proof of concept.

And yet, holding has become our collective habit. Holding our breath as we try to hold onto water. We avoid the stillness, maybe as a strategy to avoid grieving, to avoid letting it all go. It turns out, I have much to say about nothing.

Give space here in this moment to yourself, in the form of breath. Pause with me.

Breathe in.

Pause.

Breath out.

And remember, creation is born of nothingness.

the dawn

One of the books I’m currently reading, Gathering Moss by Robin Wall Kimmerer, has launched me into a frequented liminal state of consciousness, a place for experiencing. I’m waist deep in reflections on micro and macroecosystems. I am ruminating on ways often overlooked details affect us, in tangible and intangible ways.

In the middle of the book Robin describes a Berlese funnel, “the tool typically used to study the nearly invisible fauna of microcommunities such as moss.” The process involves the desiccation of a clump of plant material under a heat lamp, it’s extreme temperatures driving invertebrates toward the moisture at the end of the funnel. Only the moisture is formaldehyde, a preservative that ensures instant death and allows scientists to quantify the potential capacity for life in each gram of moss. Robin illustrates her preference for observing life rather than counting bodies by “taking a walk” through the moss under a stereoscope using a needle to push her way through uncharted territory. The difference in approach is a testament to her humanity and an indictment of linear thinking.

Much of our modern science is based on these colonial enlightenment practices, medieval tools that prioritize dissection; violent separation of parts from a whole, undermining the complexity of the collective. Often times its only the raw data that “justifies” the brutality of the process. In this case, the numbers are astonishing, one gram of moss contains an average of 150,000 protozoa, 132,000 tardigrades, 3,000 springtails, 800 rotifers, 500 nematodes, 400 mites and 200 fly larvae. A bustling megalopolis under our shoes at all times.

We commit these crimes of fragmentation in ourselves too, ecosystems unto ourselves we hold life and space for thousands of parts. One could look to the microbiomes of humans for tangible comparison but I’m referring to the metaphysical compartmentalization modernity requires. I’ve done it for years; separated the spiritual from the physical. I’ve kept my expansion and my intuitive plant practice separate from my professional narrative. But the truth is, no such separation exists. I am in conversation with land spirits as often as I am in conversations with clients. The physical matter that we alter with our hands is intertwined with changes to our metaphysical realities. Each seed sown is a prayer.

Thus, I welcome you all to Our Temenos, our consecrated offerings to the spirit of the wilds.

Welcome to the new epoch.