To: My Love

You are a feral thing, my heart
Still licking the blood of the past from your teeth. 
Astonishing, how you'll dig through your own skin
To excise the disease beneath.

You are a frightening thing, my pet. 
Too large for this body, you'll swallow the Earth
And ache as wide as Solstice skies
To show everyone what they are worth.

You are an ancient thing, my sweet,
Brought to life when this world was born.
You've lived too long to do things by degrees
So go, claim your right to that primordial throne. 

You will be the villain in their stories, dear,
For seeing too much, too deep. 
When you show their wildness back to them,
... You've seen how they retreat. 

I love you, my love, for all you 
Dare not pretend to be.
I love you most of all, my love,
For loving something like me.

She was a tiny little thing, runt of the litter by a long shot, but she had the sass and swagger of a cat who knew she could take on anything.

My friend, understandably, is devastated. As is anyone who met tiny Subaki, myself included.

I did what I always do for lost beloveds, including my grandfather last October: I etched the kitten’s name into a candle and lit it last night, to help her find her way to wherever we go next.

I don't know when or why I started doing this, and I don't know if it helps, really.

But if paganism has taught me anything, it's that the belief is more important than the action. If being alive has taught me anything, it's that a single candle is more comforting than total dark.

Any comfort is better than none at all.

Rest well, little Subaki.

August in the PNW means sweaty arms, smoky air, long afternoons in the water, and — of course — blackberries.

The bramble queen is a jealous thing – 
She guards her laden branches 
Dripping with the sweet black gold of late summer –
Keeps them behind steel-stiff thorns, alert against 
Fragile, fleshy fingers.

“Sparrows and spiders are welcome here, 
But no, not you,” she says. “You are too clumsy, careless;
I do not trust you to hold what is 
Most dear to me – I do not trust you not to crush 
Me.”

The bramble queen is a jealous thing,
But patiently the flesh persists. 
You have enough, oh beautiful queen,
Won’t you share the fruits 
Of your labor?

“I have multitudes, I am abundance,” says she.
“I made these not for you, but for me. 
And you, oh flesh, you seek to claim the labor
Of my love as your own? 
Bleed for me, is my command – 
Not once but again, again, 
Again every time you reach for what is mine.”

The bramble queen is a jealous thing,
But cautiously, the flesh persists –
Curious, questing digits dart beyond 
The queen’s half-inch defenses.
Success! A fruit, sticky-sweet comes loose 
Carefully pinched, now cradled 
In tattered fingers.

The bramble queen is a jealous thing, 
But still the flesh persists. 
The flesh is such a greedy thing,
But still, the bramble queen insists.

Of course, I have to give an honorable mention to the other Blackberry in my life:

A year ago on August 8th, this kitten I had never seen before followed my tabby into the kitchen and walked around like he owned the place. When he showed up again at midnight with a bad limp and a bleeding paw, I knew he wasn’t leaving again. Officially dubbed Blackberry Leon (he did show up on Lion’s Gate Portal, after all), he responds mostly to “Baby”.

I still think spring is my favorite season, but I sure do love blackberry season.

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Earlier this year, during spring quarter, I had an incredible opportunity land in my lap: an internship monitoring endangered butterfly species here in the Pacific Northwest. During the internship, I was to work with field biologists and botanists identifying butterfly species, observe how much they traveled in various habitats, identifying native and non-native plants, and learning about the restoration processes for our glacial outwash prairies.

At some point near the middle of May, when butterfly season was in full swing, I was out with my team counting Taylor’s Checkerspot Butterflies. It was the first day warm enough to wear shorts, and I was questioning my decision to do so as nearly each step scraped a shin against something itchy, woody, or covered in thorns. I found myself delighting in the discomfort, though, that persistent reminder that good things are worth a struggle. I hadn’t seen a butterfly for about an hour, and my mind was beginning to wander when a blur of orange and black floated by: a Checkerspot! I followed it for a few steps to confirm that it was indeed what I had seen. I tapped my phone a few times, marking the location and time of the sighting. Rejuvenated, I continued on my path.

At the bottom of the prairie, facing north from Muck Creek, there lay before me a view only possible at the hand of a divine painter. Red-tipped sheep’s sorrel and white mycranthes flowers carpeted the gently undulating ground. Bright orange spots of showy harsh paintbrush snagged the eye. Turquoise Roemer’s fescue wagged at knee-height. The purple camas flowers and golden western buttercups offered splashes of contrasting colors all the way to the top end of the prairie, where the Douglas Fir barrier cast its shadow. Mount Tahoma (sometimes called Rainier) stood, snow-covered sentinel in the East, reaching into a sky the color of hope.
There was no coming back from a vision like that. I knew it then, and I know it now. I had fallen madly in love with these Pacific oak prairies and the things that lived in them.

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Later that afternoon, while chatting with other crew members, I discovered two very important things:
First, that our seven sighted Taylor’s Checkerspots in that unit of land were the first ever to be recorded there. From a land restoration perspective, that meant the habitat was suitable for these bugs to stay. From a population perspective, it means that the previous year’s captive-raised butterflies had survived long enough to lay eggs in the wild that in turn reached maturity. Seven is not a large number, but a 700% increase in population is a huge win for an endangered species.
And second, only two years ago that entire section of prairie had been covered in dense Scotch broom, an invasive woody shrub often found along the sides of highways that grows to eight feet tall and forms impenetrable thickets. It only took two years after burning the broom for the native grasses and flowers to recover to a point where Checkerspots could expand their habitat range.

That was when I fell in love with the work of restoration.

There is a restoration forester in Vermont named Ethan Tapper. I stumbled across his Facebook page while mindlessly scrolling, a habit I’ve been trying to break. A sweet-faced blond, his back to a wall of living green, Ethan smiled as he spoke to the handheld phone camera about hearing more variety of songbirds in the forest on this particular day than he had a year ago. Other videos he posts include information about the types of trees and forests he manages, what a healthy forest ecosystem looks like, the planning that goes into forest management, and of course little tidbits and anecdotes.
(He’s also written a book, How To Love A Forest, that I haven’t read yet but will purchase as soon as next quarter’s funding comes through.)

Something Ethan discusses frequently, and something I heard often on the prairies, is the concept of “good habitat”. I’m no expert, but I can tell you that in the glacial outwash prairies of the Cascadia region, a good habitat includes a wide variety of animals, multiple species of pollinators, swaths of bare ground, and an abundance of native flowers, grasses, and certain trees. Fire-resistant oaks are welcomed to the prairie, but fast-growing Douglas firs are problematic. There need to be flowers blooming in early spring and others blooming in mid-summer. A good prairie supports many life forms, each one dependent on the others. A good forest does, as well.

We know what a good habitat might look like, but as stewards and residents of a wounded land, what does it mean to be a good human?

Personally, I find there are three crucial traits in those who are striving to make a difference. I found them in the ecology crews this spring, and I see them in Ethan Tapper’s videos. I read them in the words of David George Haskell as he explains the intricacies of trees, and I see them in the stubborn set of Greta Thunberg’s chin when she addresses the media. To my great surprise, I found them in myself, too.

The first is curiosity, and this is why I gladly answer any inane question a child asks of me. I love to see and support curiosity. Those initial questions — What is this plant? Which bird is making that sound? Can I eat this berry? Why do the willow reeds stay short but the trees get tall? Who lives here? — expand our awareness of what is happening around us, and invite the mind to explore beyond the sense of individual self. Without these questions, the sense of self atrophies, becomes concerned with only what the body experiences.
Curiosity doesn’t begin and end in the tangible environment, either. Inquisitiveness opens doors to all conversations. Think of how many conversations you have in a day that begin with a simple question.
The first step to loving something is to learn about it.

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Secondly comes empathy, though it is often hand-in-hand with curiosity. I’ve found that those who are uninterested are also those who simply do not care, and vice versa. Empathy allows us to connect. Any biologist, ecologist, scientist, mystic, or child can tell you that everything is connected.
Caring for something outside of myself allows my sense of identity to include that thing. My friends, after seeing me light up when I talk about restoration, are asking more questions about their own environments. Several times now, I’ve received a picture of a random plant or insect with a simple: “What is this?” Loosely translated, these texts mean: “You’ve taught me to pay attention. I don’t know what this is, but you might know, and I love you so I want to know.”
In my connection to the prairies, and my friends’ love for me, I have joined the prairies - or at least, paying attention to the local environment - to my friends.
It’s all connected.

Finally, being a good human means to take action. Any action — no matter how small, late, messy, stupid, or imperfect — is better than no action at all.
Love is often treated as a noun: a static, passive thing that is experienced only within. In my experience, love works better as a verb. Knowing and loving a thing, be it your child, pet, garden, town, hobby, country, partner, or self, means to provide, protect, and care for that thing. Love means to take action.

One of my closest friends was battling cancer two years ago. We’d only been friends for a short while, but it was one of those connections that stretches across lifetimes, and we’d become close. At the time, I was overwhelmed, struggling financially, sorting through some deep wounds of my own, and lived an hour’s drive away. I had no idea how to help her, but I asked one day, “What’s your address? I’m bringing ice cream.”

(Before anyone starts to worry, she has since recovered from her battle.)

Ice cream didn’t cure her cancer. Nor did it pay her rent while she was on sick leave. It felt wildly inadequate for so enormous a struggle, but my friend still references “That day you showed up on my doorstep with ice cream” as one of the moments she felt most loved during that difficult time.
And during darker moments of my own, she not-so-gently reminds me that what I do for others is show up.

On a global scale, we are seeing the harm inaction is causing. Israel is committing genocide against Palestine, starving its people to death by barricading humanitarian aid, and the world leaders are doing nothing about it. The US has hired goons abducting people and placing them in horrific concentration camps, and some state Representatives are gleefully egging this on. Every day, I hear calls to action: call your senator, call your representative, donate, protest, inform, boycott… the list gets longer with each passing atrocity.
One person can’t save the world.
But I have $10 I can donate. I have a Saturday off to attend a protest. I haven’t set foot in Target in over eight months, Starbucks in more than a year, spending instead at local cafes and secondhand shops.
It’s ice-cream-against-cancer levels of inadequate, but showing up this way is all I can do. So I will do all I can.
After all, everything is connected.

I fell in love with the Pacific oak prairies, and in doing so discovered what I need to be a good human. A good prairie has lots of bare ground and sunlight; a good forest has different stages of growth in its trees; a good human has an abundance of curiosity and empathy.

Knowing what to look for — in an ecosystem or a person — can guide us in a positive direction.
Let curiosity guide you.
Let empathy guide you.
Let love guide you.

The world will be better for it.

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There is an orphaned wild bunny (possibly two) that lives under the huckleberry bush behind my patio.
There are a lot of animals that make the thicket behind my place their home: the spotted towhees raise fledgelings each spring, and Mr. and Mrs. Dark-Eyed Junco are regular visitors to the patio through the year. The occasional hummingbird will buzz through, asking if we have a teaspoon of nectar they can borrow. The squirrels tease my cats in the window, to everyone’s delight except the cats’. One of the robin families serenades me late into the evening, seeming not to mind the darkness, seeming not to mind that theirs are the only voices questing into the gloaming.

I know my human neighbors well enough; living in an apartment complex in the city means it’s best to be on good terms with those around you.
I know my non-human neighbors much better. Perhaps it’s because they don’t ask me how I’m doing.

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The rabbit known as Notch-Ear, so called for a split in one of her long ears, was a secretive member of the community. I saw her mostly during the fall mornings, when she would come out to graze. Though the hill behind my unit is dense with brambles, ferns, salal, and other thick greenery, the surrounding area is dangerous for a rabbit: cats roam night and day, and the road at the bottom of the hill is busy. There are dogs and hawks and owls and plenty of other hungry things to worry about when you’re small and prone to freezing. So I didn’t let myself become attached to Notch-Ear.

I didn’t know she was a mother.

I didn’t know she was a mother until after her children were orphans.

I had been sitting on the patio, chatting with a close friend while she smoked. The evening had passed and it was fully night when we saw the little shadow move. “What was that?” we asked each other, and strained to see in the mostly-dark. It moved again, and we could make out the shape of a tiny rabbit, small enough to fit in the cup of my hand.
”Where is your mama?” my friend cooed at the bunny. “You’re too little to be out here by yourself.”
Mama, who was Notch-Ear, had already lost her tussle with a predator. She was rotting down the hill by the road, as I discovered a few days later.
The baby rabbit didn’t seem to be afraid of us; whether too young to know better or too desperate to care is hard to say. It set about grazing with an audience of myself, my friend, and the stars.

For several weeks, my roommate and I were on Bun Watch, constantly keeping an eye out for the baby that would periodically emerge to graze. There is a distinct white stripe on his head that is sometimes very visible and other times so hidden it seems to have disappeared, which is why I think there may be a sibling.
I reorganized my patio garden to include a small bowl of fresh water. I put a belled collar on my cat in case he slips outside, which he does from time to time. I spent hours on the patio each week, just waiting, watching, ensuring Baby Bun had lived another day.

I often wonder about what community means. I spent the spring season hiking through prairies, counting butterflies, and learned about the connections between the plants, the pollinators, and the people, how one does not exist without the others. I think of my friends, and how our group has changed and fractured and healed over the last year. I think of the town I live in, the ways in which my neighbors are safe or unsafe, the ways we keep each other safe.

“Community” comes from the French root “comunete” which stems from the Latin “comunis”. Loosely, it means “a group.” What holds that group together is the refining factor of the definition, be it location, interest, social class, or something else.

Pride month wrapped up a few days ago. The Queer community is one I feel supported in and represented in, but it’s hard to celebrate in the current climate. When people are being whisked off the streets by masked men in vans solely because of their skin color; when people in power celebrate the opening of a concentration camp that amounts to cages in the swamps during hurricane season; when every “How are you doing?” comes with an implied “… aside from everything?”; when one of my closest friends discusses fleeing to a country where she can get her hormones; when the disabled woman I care for is too ill to work but insurance won’t cover the care she needs because of her work history… it’s not a celebratory mood.

But it does remind me of how Pride month celebrations began: by ordinary people, persecuted, who said, “We are all we have, and we will fight to protect one another.”

It feels silly to say I have a community with a wild rabbit. But it’s equally as silly to say that the lesbian couple in the next building, whose names I don’t know, are part of my community. It is equally as true.

In my lower moments, I sometimes imagine what Mama Notch-Ear might have said to her babies in that secret language of rabbits. Deep in the warren, while the spring rains drummed on the leaves above, did she tell them to look out for each other? Did she say that the towhees and juncos were good neighbors, to listen to the jays when they call out alarms?
Did she tell her babies that their community is those who look out for them?

Broadly speaking, I can’t do much to take care of the vulnerable people in my community. I’m neither wealthy enough nor politically powerful enough to be of much use. But I can take out the trash for my wheelchair-bound neighbors. I can act as a buffer for my trans friend when she’s afraid to go somewhere alone. I can disrupt call centers for reporting “illegal” immigrants.

Shortly after I first saw Baby Bun, as he’s been affectionately termed, I promised I would take care of him as best as I could. I can’t teach him to be afraid of hawks, or to avoid the roads and dogs. But I can shoo away the cats. I can leave out fresh water.

We are all we have.

Introduction

As a child, I believed butterflies to be faeries: small, winged, charismatic creatures that captured my attention and then disappeared within a blink. I would spend hours each spring lying in any garden I could find, imagining the private lives and interpersonal dynamics of these beautiful mysteries. There were queens and princes, and sturdy bumblebees or whip-fast dragonflies served as their gallant steeds. They had rich lives made from simple things: acorn-cap crowns, ball gowns of shed flower petals, decadent feasts of seeds and berries and leafy greens.

The scientific truth is much less exciting than my childhood fantasies would like it to be: butterflies are bugs. Their emotional and cognitive complexities are limited to basic survival needs. Their interpersonal relations amount to, “Can I fight you?” or “Can I mate with you?” and – after the quizzical experience of having a silvery blue try to fight me, a human – I realized those relations are not limited to members of their own species, indicating that these bugs don’t know the difference.

However, the mystery of them remains. Certain grassland species, like the Taylor’s Checkerspot Butterfly and the Mardon Skippers, are disappearing at alarming rates. These fascinating fliers may not be otherworldly in nature, but they are a crucial part of the ecosystem, and a key indicator of the health of our environment. How do we ensure that they are present for future generations to marvel at and make up stories about?

A Brief and Incomplete History

First, it’s important to understand the reasons these butterflies are disappearing. In the Pacific Northwest, the Taylor’s Checkerspot Butterfly (Euphydras editha taylorii), Puget Blue Butterfly (Icaricia icarioides blackmorei), and Mardon Skipper Butterfly (Polites mardon mardon) are glacial outwash prairie obligates. Their habitat is defined by open spaces and native plants like Roemer’s fescue, common camas, golden paintbrush, deltoid balsamroot, and sickle-keeled lupin. Lots of sunlight, bare ground, and short plant material is key for all three of these Lepidoptera species.

For thousands of years, the indigenous peoples of this land practiced controlled, low-intensity burns to maintain the health of the land (personal comment from Sam Bussan, PhD). These burns cleared out thatch and litter that blocked the bare ground, prevented the encroachment of fire-sensitive conifers into the prairies, and the nitrogen-rich ash would be mixed into the soils by fossorial critters like moles and gophers, providing the next generation of native flowers and grasses with more nutrients. Additional activities, like digging for camas bulbs, impacted the soil in ways that have so far been undocumented by colonizers. This reciprocal relationship with the land allowed the plants and animals to co-evolve with human activity.

As colonization spread through the West, the glacial outwash prairies were attractive agricultural land, and were quickly reformed into farms, orchards, and cattle grounds. As the genocide of Native Americans escalated, their practice of controlled burns was abandoned, leaving the substrate litter to build and opportunistic invasive grasses like meadow foxtail and reed canary grass to set up shop. Douglas firs, snowberry, and Scotch broom, with no fire to dissuade them, have forested land that was never meant to be shaded.

“The idea that setting aside a reserve without managing it will not preserve biodiversity has been long established relative to plant communities. In particular, grassland and savanna communities are vulnerable to displacement by woody vegetation through natural successional processes. Because of the damage that these processes can do to plant communities, they can also damage populations of butterflies that depend on these communities.” (Taren, 2015)

After a couple hundred years of neglect and destruction, ecologists and conservationists are faced with the daunting task of restoring a habitat that has been reduced by over 97%. What is left is fragmented, one prairie too far away from another to be easily recolonized by the butterflies in question.

Current Restoration Efforts

Since the early 2000s, several methods have been attempted to restore these pacific-oak prairies. Herbicides are a common go-to, though the long term effects of these chemicals remain unknown. Mowing and deforestation are handy tools for managing the taller shrubs and trees, but it’s a time-intensive practice that needs to be repeated frequently. Manually removing woody shrubs like Scotch broom is incredibly labor-intensive, and volunteers are harder to come by (personal comment from a booth-holder at Prairie Appreciation Day who had been working on Glacial Heritage Park for 30 years; I did not catch his name.) Fire is making a comeback as a tool for land management, which – in my research – has had the highest benefit-to-cost ratio. However, it should be noted that the increased dryness of the PNW due to climate change has made managing the blazes more challenging. Additionally, preserving patches of plants to be excluded from burns is a complicated process, both for the preservation of the butterflies and the management of the humans involved.

But most crucially, none of the treatment plans alone work as well as treatment and reseeding the area with native grasses and flowers. Stanley, Dunwiddie, and Kaye had tried a variety of treatment combinations across a series of plots in the PNW, and concluded that any method plus native seed introduction worked better than any combination of treatment methods alone. In their article Restoring Invaded PNW Prairies: Recommendations From a Region-wide Experiment, they state: “In our study, we found that treatment combinations alone caused no increase, or a very small increase, in the number of native species; only seeding substantially increased native richness.” (2011)

Because many of these butterfly species are obligates of a certain plant, the health of a butterfly population depends largely on the health of the flora in question. The Taylor’s Checkerspot, for example, uses golden paintbrush (Castilleja levisecta) as both a nectar source and a place to lay eggs. With the decline of this sturdy flower across the prairies, checkerspots have adapted to lanceleaf plantain (Plantago lanceolata) - a non-native plant that seems to do well in dry, low-quality soil along roadbeds. Contrastingly, mardon skippers will lay eggs only in Roemer’s fescue grass or California oatgrass – native plants that grow in small bunches, which can easily be overshadowed by meadow foxtail and other, non-native grasses that stand a bit taller. The mardons have not found a way to adapt to their declining habitat. Similarly, hoary elfin butterflies (Callophrys polios) only use the plant known as kinnikinnick or bearberry to lay their eggs, pupate, and nectar as adults. Kinnikinnick is a low-growing leafy plant on the prairies, and hoary elfin populations have declined to threatening levels on the East Coast of the U.S. Here in the West, they are being carefully monitored to ensure further declination does not occur – and this means burning with the high-oil content of kinnikinnick in mind. Puget blue butterflies (Icaricia icarioides blackmorei) lay eggs on sickle-keeled lupin, a low-growing, purple-flowering plant that needs abundant sunlight.

Why Is It So Complicated?

It is not so easy as razing a patch of land to the bare earth and scattering some seeds, however. The survival of species like the checkerspots, mardons, Puget blues, and satyr butterflies depends upon continuous disruption and reconstruction of an area.

The St. Francis’ Satyr butterfly (Neonympha mitchellii francisci) only exists in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Its historic habitat was frequently flooded by beaver dams, but when the beavers were hunted out of the area, so went the butterflies. It’s not just the satyrs, either: in the 2015 article Habitat Restoration as a Recovery Tool for a Disturbance-Dependent Butterfly, the Endangered St. Francis’ Satyr, Cayton, Haddad, Ball, et al succinctly state that “A commonality shared by many rare butterfly species is the dependence on habitat created by disturbance.” (2015) After managing the land in North Carolina for several years in the hopes of reintroducing the St. Francis’ satyr to its natural habitat, they conclude: “Disturbance-dependent species such as the St. Francis’ satyr can be managed with multiple restoration techniques... but long term success requires monitoring to determine the continued effectiveness of the restoration actions.”(2015)

Additionally, while some butterfly populations show positive trends within the first couple of years after a controlled burn, some take longer to reestablish themselves. In Vogel et al’s Direct and Indirect Responses of Tallgrass Prairie Butterflies to Prescribed Burning (2010), they found that the species of butterflies, both total numbers and habitat specialist species, increased in richness after a prescribed burn. The earliest point at which a population began to decline post-burn was thirty months. One species, however, did not decline even at seventy months post-burn, at which point the research ceased. (It’s worth noting that this experiment was conducted in Iowa, not the South Puget Sound area.)
By comparison, a similar study was done with mardon skipper butterflies, and Black, Hatfield, and Jespen comment, “...[M]ardon skipper populations in burned areas do appear to be making a comeback after 5 years. This accentuates the need to leave substantial habitat when using fire as a management tool for mardon skippers. Leaving enough habitat so that a large enough butterfly population remains to sustain a prolonged (although ideally short-term) decrease in habitat quality is essential.” (2015)
These two studies show that butterflies experience a short decline in population and species richness immediately during a fire (presumably due to vegetation loss and mortality), but they make quite a comeback in the years that follow precisely because their primary vegetation bounces back. This information underscores the importance of prescribed burning, and also highlights the complexities of habitat that relies upon disturbance.

Potential Solutions

So, what’s to be done? Land managers and restoration ecologists have their work cut out for them, and it’s tempting to believe that there are no satisfactory answers. Again, we look to Doug Taren for wisdom in his article Managing Land for Butterflies (2015). He suggests, with evidence, that managing the land in order to restore the plant community will have a positive effect on the pollinator community as well. These things are inextricably linked, and Sarah Waters (2018) defends that position with her plant-pollinator science network. Additionally, Taren suggests that we pick our battles: find one or two species that need the most hands-on management, cater to their needs, and trust that the generalist species will thrive as well. If this means creating fire-exclusion zones around patches of kinnikinnick to help hoary elfins, so be it, because the bumblebees will respond positively to the efforts as well.

There are also suggestions that hand-rearing butterflies and then releasing them may be beneficial to their population as well. I have seen firsthand the success of last year’s Taylor Checkerspot release in areas of Joint-Base Lewis-McChord: during our surveys, we found checkerspots in areas they have never been catalogued before. This is a huge win for the checkerspots, and indicates that the work that has been done on the prairies is going as planned. The expansion of these butterflies is a direct result of restoring habitat to their liking. This success is tentative, though; as with the St Francis’ Satyrs, the checkerspots need regular disruptive maintenance in their habitat to ensure that they continue to thrive. All of this is to illustrate that hand-rearing butterflies may help with their population numbers for a season, but the habitat also needs to be stewarded for the efforts to be considered successful.

Conclusion

Working on these prairies in the last couple of months has opened my eyes to the successes and pitfalls of restoration efforts. Lack of funding seems to be a key issue in project management, and sometimes conflicting goals cause tension, but the underlying cause is apparent in all: this work makes a difference. It is challenging, absolutely, but the continued efforts speak to the rewards to be gained.

My niece is four years old. According to my sister, she is going through a “butterfly phase” - everything she wears, draws, colors, and wants has butterflies on it. Maybe my niece will take after me and believe these charismatic insects to be visitors from a more magical place; maybe she will grow out of this phase and move onto something else; or maybe, if we are very fortunate, she will understand the importance of caring for the land to keep the magic that is already here. Hopefully, by the time she is old enough to understand that butterflies are bugs, there will be more research to explain how to care for the environment to support their populations; hopefully, the checkerspots and mardons and Puget blues and satyrs and hoary eflins will be safely off the Species of Concern lists; hopefully, the need for environmental care will be understood as urgent hands-on management, not characterized by neglect.

We can change the world by showing that we care.

Citations

1. Cayton, H., Haddad, N. M., Ball, B., Henry, E., & Aschehoug, E. (2015). Habitat restoration as a recovery tool for a disturbance-dependent butterfly, the endangered st. francis’ satyr. Butterfly Conservation in North America, 147–159. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-94-017-9852-5_8

2. Hatfield, R., Black, S. H., & Jepsen, S. (2015). The imperiled Mardon skipper butterfly: An initial conservation success. Butterfly Conservation in North America, 117–145. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-94-017-9852-5_7

3. Kaye, T., Stanley, A., & Ross, D. (2011, July 30). Dispersal Behavior and Habitat Variation of Taylor’s Checkerspot Butterfly.

4. Schultz, C. B., Henry, E., Carleton, A., Hicks, T., Thomas, R., Potter, A., Collins, M., Linders, M., Fimbel, C., Black, S., Anderson, H. E., Diehl, G., Hamman, S., Gilbert, R., Foster, J., Hays, D., Wilderman, D., Davenport, R., Steel, E., … Reader, B. (2011). Conservation of prairie-oak butterflies in Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia. Northwest Science, 85(2), 361–388. https://doi.org/10.3955/046.085.0221

5. Stanley, A. G., Dunwiddie, P. W., & Kaye, T. N. (2011). Restoring invaded Pacific Northwest Prairies: Management recommendations from a region-wide experiment. Northwest Science, 85(2), 233–246. https://doi.org/10.3955/046.085.0212

6. Taron, D. (2015). Managing land for butterflies. Butterfly Conservation in North America, 103–116. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-94-017-9852-5_6

7. Taron, D., & Ries, L. (2015). Butterfly monitoring for conservation. Butterfly Conservation in North America, 35–57. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-94-017-9852-5_3

8. Vogel, J. A., Koford, R. R., & Debinski, D. M. (2010). Direct and indirect responses of tallgrass prairie butterflies to prescribed burning. Journal of Insect Conservation, 14(6), 663–677. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10841-010-9295-1

9. Waters, S. (2018). A New Tool in Conservation of Prairies and Other Plant Communities: Plant-Pollinator Network Science. Douglasia, 42(3), 6–9.

I grew up, as children often do. For many years, I forgot about the bird entirely. Last spring, in 2024, I heard that sweet, two-note whistle again, and was momentarily a young child on their way to elementary school. The moment passed; I was a grown-up once more.

It’s the song of a black-capped chickadee, I discovered early this year. At 30, I finally had an answer to who was singing their heart to me at age 6. We’re more familiar with the high chick-a-dee-dee-dee sound they make, which is their warning call. But the two-note hey-sweetie song is their mating call. It says that they, too, are looking for someone to tell them they love them.

Not that they’re interested in humans, but I still say, “I love you, too” whenever I hear them call. Just in case.

As you may know, I started an internship this month studying endangered butterfly species. In my conversations these last couple of weeks, I’ve discovered how large the gap of knowledge is between the layperson and the world we inhabit.

My dad didn’t know that butterflies and wasps serve a purpose as pollinators.
Another intern realized she didn’t know what an American Robin sounded like (they’re the ones singing cheer-up-cheerio outside my window right now).
My roommate didn’t know that many wildlife rescue and rehabilitation organizations run on the backs of retirees volunteering their spare time; since many folks can’t afford to retire anymore, wildlife rescues are dwindling.
My ornithology professor of last quarter had no idea that over 97% of the original Pacific grassland prairies have disappeared due to agriculture, development, and forest encroachment.

And why would they? Until this year, I didn’t know any of that, either. I didn’t even know the name of the bird singing my favorite song.

One of my favorite words lately has been recognize: to know again. To recognize the world around you is to know it intimately, by heart.
I don’t remember how I came to the understanding that to love something, you have to learn about it, and the reverse is true as well. It was an idea that just sort of… appeared one day, and it hasn’t let me go since. But I see this concept daily in the conservation workers and managers around me. The values they carry speak to the love they have of this land, that they recognize a piece of themselves here.

We so often are swamped by the news of what other humans are doing that we forget to learn about the world around us. So the urgency to understand, know about, and love the natural world often feels pale in comparison.

But it is urgent. It is crucial. It is up to me to share what I know. It is up to you to share what you know. It is up to us to take action.

If you do nothing else today, I hope you listen to the birds, even if you don’t know who is singing. I hope you tell them you love them, too.

“I’m sorry, I’m nervous,” says the redhead to the megaphone.
“I’ve never done this before.”

And her knees shake together in those
Lavender-hued bell-bottoms.
Is this what strength is, I wonder:
Announcing to the crowd, to the heavy sky,
To any who will hear
And listen:
That you are afraid
But you are here?

I am reminded of chickadees –
The small, common resident of the wild and
The urbane.
Each weighs less than an ounce,
So small as to be insignificant.
But if there is a threat:
An owl, a cat, a hawk –
Together, ah,
Together they are a force,
A multitude of ounces
Banded as one
To drive the danger away
And not a one is so small
As to be insignificant.

Our threat is orders of magnitude larger.
We fear not owls, but tyranny.
In lieu of a hungry cat, we face jaws slathering for power.
It is not a hawk that looms, but the collapse of all security.
And a single human weighs so little,
It’s easy to feel insignificant.

But together –

Ah, together we swarm, we rally,
We protest.
We cry for justice, democracy, equality.
We can drive out the threat of fascism

Even if our knees shake

Because we are here.
Because this is strength.

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Books are still my go-to when the world is too raw for my still-child-heart, but I read for different reasons, now. Comfort, sure. Escapism, occasionally.
However, the books I’ve gravitated towards recently are not to forget myself, but to find myself. They tether me back into this lifetime, where I am called not to merely bear witness, but to act: to act in defiance of despair; to act because it is my responsibility; to act because I am here and this is what I’m supposed to do.

My action at this moment is to share them with you.

Sounds Wild and Broken:
Sonic Marvels, Evolution’s Creativity, and the Crisis of Sensory Extinction

David George Haskell

This was an assigned reading for my “Communicating Through Sound: the intersection of linguistics and bioacoustics” program that I took last quarter. David’s* book takes the reader on a journey reaching behind the Cretaceous period and extending forward into futures we have yet to imagine, and explores how sound came to exist in the first place, how it has shaped the natural world, and what humans have done to shape the nature of sound.
Even if it weren’t assigned for a class, I would have latched onto this book and others written by David solely because of his writing style. It’s both factual and lyrical, and weaves deep science, ancient history, and the existential crises of the modern age into the same breath. He writes like an impassioned professor lecturing a class; he writes like we’re sharing tea at a cafe and he’s talking about his recent travels; he writes in a way both accessible and gentle, and at the same time unyielding to discomfort.

We humans, distracted by our newfound powers [of colonialism] turned inward and largely forgot how to learn from the voices of other animal species. If this is true, then by reawakening the practice of attending to the voices of others, we will dim the destructive impulse and renew the creative powers of listening and learning.

This book changed how I perceive the sounds of the world around me, including my own. It opened my eyes — ears, more accurately — to the grand cathedral of the natural (and human-made) world that I inhabit.

Rooted:
Life at the Crossroads of Science, Nature, and Spirit

Lyanda Lynn Haupt

Lyanda*, like David, brings scientific fact and ecological mysticism into the same tapestry, beautifully illustrating how the two are irreparably connected. All life, as any poet, artist, ecologist, scientist, and mystic will tell you, is deeply interconnected, and Lyanda’s book explains the why and how of protecting the home we all share.
Lyanda has a way of weaving her personal stories into the greater thread of the subject she’s writing about, which has a unique effect of personalizing the point at hand (David does something similar). Again, it’s like sharing a coffee or tea with a dear friend who is excitedly sharing what she’s discovered.

This is a book I am currently reading; as such, I cannot summarize the book in my words. However, I can definitively say that this book expresses the necessity of action in a way that reverberates through my essence:

I discovered this visionary definition in a Benedictine monastery library some years ago: Hope is “that virtue by which we take responsibility for the future,” and a quality that gives our actions “special urgency.”

Hope, as any chronic hopeful will tell you, is not a gentle, fragile thing. Hope is tough, hope is raw, hope is a necessity. Hope looks disaster in the eye, because that’s the only way to know how to respond. Hope is not a blind faith in some vague future where everything passively goes the way we want it; hope is agency embodied as she rolls up her sleeves and says, “Let me help.”

We can only help if we acknowledge what is happening.

Devotions

Mary Oliver

What can I say about Mary* that hasn’t been said already? Devotions is a collection of her works through the years, and I can open it to any random page and find exactly what my heart needs to hear.
Mary’s poetry frequently asks the reader to slow down, to observe, to be still. Her now-famous quote, “What is it you are going to do with your one wild and precious life?” is about spending a whole afternoon watching a caterpillar in the grass. Her poetry is about finding a place in the natural world, and to recognize that it and we are of the same origins.

And to think, that quote has been co-opted by the Hustle and Grind culture, the Let’s Get This Bread culture, this capitalist-poisoned culture where there is always something bigger, better, and bolder to be obtained, earned, owned.
As if that could possibly be more desirable than watching caterpillars.

A Lesson From James Wright

If James Wright
could put in his book of poems
a blank page

dedicated to “the Horse David
Who Ate One of My Poems,” I am ready
to follow him along

the sweet path he cut
through the dryness
and suggest that you sit now

very quietly
in some lovely wild place, and listen
to the silence.

And I say that this, too
is a poem.

Other noteworthy books that deserve to be read include: Finding the Mother Tree by Suzanne Simard, and The Soul of an Octopus: a surprising exploration into the wonder of consciousness by Sy Montgomery.
I’m sure there are plenty others I’m not currently thinking of, and even more that I have yet to read. Suffice to say, there has been a trend in my recent reading of naturalism, the merging of science and spirituality, and of reconnecting to myself through the natural world and written word.

And on that note, I’m going to take my dog for a walk in the woods. I will listen to the birds and the water, admire the new buds and blossoms on the trees, and will likely touch a mushroom or two, just to say hello.

*At the risk of being overly familiar, I refer to these authors by their first names for a couple of reasons. First and foremost, to level the playing field: many male authors are referred to by their last names in deference, and female authors by their first names as a way of lessening their cultural impact. Secondly: I find myself in deep connection with these authors, and their writings feel like those of a dear friend, or even like some future version of myself at times. As such, it feels stiff to use last names. And third: in Mary’s case, she has become something like a patron saint, a guiding light, and we don’t refer to saints by their last names. For the authors listed who are still living (which is most of them), I ask forgiveness, and also I would really like to meet you one day.

What have you read recently that stuck with you? Why do you read? Based on these books, do you have any recommendations you think I would enjoy?

Yesterday, March 20th, was the Spring Equinox in the Northern Hemisphere. Yesterday also ushered in Aries Season, the final breath of winter expelled to be replaced by the first lungful of renewed springtime energy.

The astrological calendar starts with Aries (in March) instead of Capricorn (in January), because the astrological calendar is more closely associated with the lunar calendar. The Gregorian calendar, which came quite a bit later, does a poor job of aligning humans with the natural rhythms of the earth. On a personal note, I’ve always felt more inspired, refreshed, and excited when the weather warms and pale blossoms start poking their fragile heads out on the tree branches.
Plus, my birthday is coming up, and I like finding reasons to celebrate.

My celebration for myself this year is to get a tattoo. The design concept is a spider weaving an ammonite shell, because spiders (to me) represent fate, and ammonites represent ancestral connections. With the recent loss of my grandfather and some intensely spiritual revelations, this design carries a good deal of weight behind it.
Funny how it’s only this morning that I realized tattoos can be a potent form of blood magic.
I still do not enjoy seeing spiders in person, though they’ve been showing up in my dreams quite a bit lately.

The last handful of months…

I live in the U.S., and watching it get gutted by megalomaniacs with too much money and not enough self-awareness is a daily heartbreak. I won’t say this country was ever great — I never swallowed that pill. The States have always had one intent in mind: to colonize and control with enthusiastic displays of force.

But also, I live here. The people I love live here. My niece is carrying full conversations now, and she lives here. My dog and two cats live here. My parks live here. The birds I watch, the butterflies I’ll be studying, the grass and the raccoons and the foxes and the owls and the deer and the salmon and the bears and the rabbits — they all live here. The graves of my ancestors are here. I don’t want to see it ruined; I don’t want to have to leave.

And that’s just what is happening on Turtle Island. To speak nothing of the horrors occurring overseas…

So it is with this heavy awareness, ever-present in my mind and flavoring each thought that dares scurry through the darkness with a spark of light, that I celebrate the following:

• On February 1st, I organized my first poetry reading and book signing. It was a hit success (six people came, all of them my friends).

• Vegan Bacon: Poetry and Fiction has made over $100, which feels insane. My writings made money? MY writings made MONEY??

• Because of this, I was able to order more copies to distribute to local bookstores in the South Sound area. It’s also available on Amazon, to my chagrin. If you would like a copy but don’t want to support them, send me a message and I’ll mail it to you directly. You get a book, I get more than 30% of the proceeds, and Amazon doesn’t see a dime. It’s a win-win.

• I finished winter quarter with 102% and glowing feedback from both professors. “Communicating Through Sound” was an incredibly interesting program to take, and it opened my awareness to the world around me. Even now, a week after classes ended, I find myself more attuned to what I hear, and what information is being conveyed.

• For spring quarter, I was accepted to do a “learning internship” (essentially, I’m working and earning credit towards my degree). I’ll be studying and recording movements of endangered butterfly species for an ecology conservation non-profit. This was a last-minute offer, and I had been stressing about being waitlisted for every class I signed up for. It continues to surprise me when the Universe lets things fall into place if I just stop trying to jam the square pegs into the round holes.
  Prepare to read quite a bit about butterflies.

• I decided on a name for my next poetry collection. The working title is Confessions of a Prickly Pear, and if I keep to my current timeline, it should be available towards the end of 2026.

Evolution

A poem inspired by the winter classes, to be published in “Confessions”.

I often don’t know what to do with myself
So I enrolled in college again.
I’m always a little bit lost when I want to learn,
And I always want to learn.

The world is a vast and sonorous place,
Though that was not always so,
As I learn in Intro to Bioacoustics.
Dogs have twice the hearing range we do,
Cats double the double.
Fish experience sound as a full-body pulse –
We think. We haven’t been able
To ask the fish.

Whales sing across entire oceans;
Trees groan and volcanoes moan
Before disaster strikes,
But we humans live in quiet ignorance.
Our audible range is ideal
Only for hearing human voices.

The working theory, as I’ve come to understand,
Is we evolved this way for a reason. Animals
Will adapt to what is most crucial to survival –
Will hear what is most useful –
Will listen to what keeps them alive
Just a bit longer, which means

Not matter how lost I feel, the most
Important thing in my environment
Has always been

You.

Everything feels awful, lately. In the States, at least, everything is going exactly how we thought it would, which is to say: awfully. It seems every day there is a new headline to be upset about. Every day brings more executive orders designed to overwhelm, mystify, and upset us, the masses. Food is increasing in price; coffee is set to become prohibitively expensive. People, families, children, are being rounded up regardless of their legal status to be here; a journal entry from Anne Frank’s diary feels entirely too relevant today.

It’s hard to feel hope.

But if hope came easily, it would be delusion, wouldn’t it? Despair is so tempting to give in to, so it takes grit, it takes guts to believe there is an alternative. It takes skinned knuckles and broken teeth to rise again, again, again. Anything less than that feels like a thin veneer, a denial of what really is.

I think where I’m going with this is: when everything feels awful, I go for a walk.

There’s a lovely little nature reserve behind my building, and it is often there that I find myself meandering - usually with Hiro, who loves these excursions, but occasionally alone, when I really need to lose my sense of self. I walk slowly, and I look closely, and I listen intently.

I’ve long held that curiosity is my favorite trait in any human or animal, but especially in myself. And in learning more about the world around me, I fall more deeply in love with it. Being able to identify the red cedars, the alders, the Douglas firs and blue spruces adds variety to the wall of green that feels ever-present here on the rainy Pacific coast. Oregon grapes have their own spiky flavour, but snowberries wag merrily on the winter winds. Mushrooms and fungi have their own names, and to know them is to recognize an old friend.

The sounds, too! In my bioacoustics class, taught by the fun-auntie-type ornithology professor, we’ve been emphasizing the studies of bird calls. How rich, then, does the air become! The harsh cry of the Stellar’s jay becomes a joy, signaling the lengthening of the winter days as spring eases her way forward. Is that the kaw of an American crow, or the throaty gronk of a raven that I heard? The chips and trills, the crescendos, the elaborate songs all have meaning now, instead of being a muddled cacophony. The red-wing blackbirds are territorial, and warble their distinctive buzzy notes to keep the migrating sparrows (and each other) at bay. The sparrows, for their part, are clamoring in the Douglas firs, and I like to think they are checking in with each other: “Marie, I’m over here! Over here!” “Dougie, check out this perfect nesting spot I found!” The American Robins are returning, puffed up to the size of softballs against the chill air, giving their all to the songs as they seek out mates.

I, in my humanness, am prone to imagination. As a naturalist-in-the-making, it’s a trait to be wary of, but here in the reserve, surrounded by chip-chip-zweeeeet! I am immersed in a world not my own, and I indulge. What could the world be like, if we prioritized the symphonies of sparrows, wrens, robins, and blackbirds? What might it look like if we valued the space we share with raccoons, deer, spiders, and trout? The Indigenous peoples of this land have known for thousands of years what that could be like; what would it take for a return to that way of life? A life where we are not separate from the world, but a caring, loving part of it?

It would take skinned knuckles, broken teeth, and a hope that refuses to quit.
Do I have what it takes?

I like to think I do.
I think so, because I like immersing myself in birdsong.

At least, that’s how it would pass if I had my way. No need for fireworks and parties; just a quiet nod from one year to the next. So much can be said with a nod.

However, the end of each year oft inspires reflection of the preceding twelve months, and what seeds we hope to plant in the coming seasons. To wit —

Where We Left Off

I didn’t finish out National Blog Posting Month after my grandfather’s funeral, which I think is the last time you heard from me. I’m okay with that. There were other things happening and I needed to rest, not write.
December arrived with news of my acceptance into a State University and choosing classes. I’ll be on campus starting in January, and the trepidation of returning to school is somewhat overshadowed by the fog and timelessness this time of year brings to me. It’s hard to know what “January” is when you’re not even sure what “you” is. (I also have a cold, so that may be the medicine talking.)

December also saw the final result of months of hard work:

The publication of my first book!

Smells Like Bacon-ish

Titled “Vegan Bacon”, this collection of fiction and poetry has been in the works for years, really. It was officially available for purchase starting December 20th, and the support and kindness I have received since has been just a tiny bit overwhelming, and so affirming. If ever there was confirmation that I’m supposed to be writing, publishing this book has been it.

My youngest brother, on learning the title of the book, asked what inspired the name. A fair question; I don’t know many poetry books named for food. “Vegan Bacon” is the titular poem, which discusses the lies anxiety tells us. It stemmed from an experience I had several years ago, when I tried the offending food for the first time.

“Vegan Bacon” is currently available on Amazon as a Kindle and paperback book. My next project (because starting school isn’t enough of one) is to distribute and raise awareness locally. I plan to start with my town in the South Puget Sound region, and branch out as I am able.

If you would like to support my writing, you can subscribe to “The Acorn Forest” or — better yet — buy my book!

Purchase Vegan Bacon on Amazon

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The Real Hard Work

“Vegan Bacon”, while a culmination of literal years of writing, editing, tossing out, and replacing — is symbolic also of the internal work that had to happen.

2024 had an intense focus on the emotional and spiritual healing that I had to do, and by no means was it a pleasant undertaking. Realizing how much of my personality was actually a mask, then looking under the mask and seeing my shadows for what they really are, and then embracing them in order to integrate and accept myself more fully, and seeing how little compassion I held for myself, and how this manifested in pushing people away… It was a pretty brutal wake-up call. Much of my journal from this past year contains, “I’m not sure who I am, or who I want to be, and I am terrified at the not-knowing. I thought I knew.”

I know that many of us go through these times, sometimes multiple times. It isn’t the first time I’ve been lost within myself, and it probably won’t be the last. As I wrote in my short story “Skin”:

The statement is true of snakes, and also of healers. There is no final form to be achieved. We just have to trust the process of shedding.

One of the wounds I carried was a deeply rooted fear of wanting something, and of putting myself out there. I realized that, while certainly open to new experiences and taking risks, many of my decisions were largely inconsequential outside of myself. But if I wanted my book to come to life, to be more than an idea or a dream, I had to want it with my whole being. I had to hold the possibility of success as well as failure, however specious those definitions may be.

I had to put it outside of myself.

The healing isn’t done, because it never is. But the ground I stand on solidifies a little more each day, and that is enough.

What’s To Come

The beauty of a wish is in its potential to come true. The beauty of the future is in the multitudes of possibilities it contains.

Some of the future I can predict: I will go to school, I will write, I will spend time outside and with those I love, and I will begin to include myself in that list.
Some of the future feels like something out of The Twilight Zone, because I live in the U.S. and I think that’s all I need to say about that.

Beyond that, I’m not sure what 2025 will bring. But I hope to greet it warmly, to listen to what it has to say, and I hope you’ll be there with me.

All my best,
Mica Sage

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We can learn a lot from our animal friends.

Dogs

I think a lot of people (especially men, in my experience) like dogs because of their loyalty. Sometimes these folks do mean “loyalty”, but sometimes they mean “obedience”. They want a companion who will do what is asked of them, when it is asked. And yes, any companion or working animal should be able to do what is asked of them. And yes, dogs have a reputation for being loyal. But if what you want is something that will do the same thing you ask, every time you ask, you want a machine, not an animal.

I’ve found the greatest lesson to be learned from dogs is their ability — no, willingness — to forgive.

I have a guilty pleasure of watching rehabilitation stories with rescue animals. I call it guilty because it yanks on every single one of my heartstrings, and sometimes the emotional cost is too high, but I pay it anyway. There are countless stories of dogs who have been abused, abandoned, and left for dead — dogs who would have no reason to ever love or trust a human again — forgiving the human species and living the rest of their lives happy, sheltered, and loved.

Hiro is a sensitive guy. If I’m trying to do something that requires zero dogs (like yoga), and he shoves his 65lb-self into what I’m doing, I shoo him away and he pouts. Every harsh word or stern yank on the leash is taken personally. And I feel awful when I hurt his feelings, but — like with any relationship — sometimes it happens.
And when it does, he forgives me.
Without resentment, he forgives me.
Without fear, he forgives me.

A dog’s greatest lesson is their willingness to forgive.

Cats

It’s often said cats are a lesson in consent, and that is true. But I think there’s another layer, there.

The people who say they like dogs because they are “loyal” when they mean “obedient” tend to really dislike cats. A cat’s loyalty is to their own self, and as such, they do whatever they want, when they want, regardless of what you have asked of them.

With cats, the lesson is respect, especially respect of the self.
It’s a weird lesson to learn from funny little guys that like to sleep in sinks and get the zoomies after using the litterbox, but it’s still a good lesson.

I think what sets cats apart from other companion animals is that their respect has to be earned. You have to prove yourself to them before they decide to trust you.
I used to volunteer with a cat rescue in Flagstaff, Arizona. I’d clean out litter boxes and feed and water the cats available for adoption. There was one cat, a gorgeous muted calico, who was moved from the rescue site to the adoption site with her kittens shortly after I started working there. Her name was Shale, and her kittens were Granite, Basalt, and Clay. For weeks, she hissed at anyone who approached her cage. She wasn’t aggressive, but she certainly made her feelings known about having anyone in her space.
Every day, I spoke softly, narrating what I was doing in a calm voice. I moved slowly, giving her plenty of time to see what I was doing. I’d pet her kittens if they came up to me, but I was careful not to reach for anyone. I’d clean the litter, freshen the water, fill the food dish, and leave her be. Other than talking to her, I pretended she wasn’t there.
Gradually, Shale started to relax. She stopped hissing at me one day, then stopped glaring at me, then by degrees took an interest in what I was doing.
Then the day came where she approached me for attention. I pet her head until she retreated, then left her alone.
A week later, Shale curled up in my lap while I cleaned. Two weeks after that, and I had fallen in love with this sweet little thing, and considered adopting her for myself, despite the fact that cats weren’t allowed where I lived.
Someone else took her home before I could. I still think of her often, and I hope she’s happy and purring in her owner’s lap.

Many animals are like this, especially fearful or abused ones. But even cats that have lived with humans their whole lives still will demand to have their autonomy respected before they are willing to interact with you. If you respect their space and autonomy, they will return that gift with affection and a willingness to be held.

May we all learn to respect ourselves the way a cat demands to be respected.

Horses

What makes horses unique as companion animals is that they are giant prey animals. Cats and dogs are undeniably predators. But a horse’s evolutionary self-defense mechanism is to run on their fingertips and have a “If I go out, I’m taking you with me” mentality.
Also, they’re big.

Which, as I wrote yesterday, is why they are such great teachers of trust.

A horse is a mirror; they will reflect your state of being back to you. If you are defensive, aggressive, impatient, high-energy, or otherwise agitated, the horse is likely to react fearfully — which can be dangerous with any animal, but especially one that typically weighs in at a thousand pounds and has the instinct to run away.
On the other hand, if you are calm (or can pretend to be), patient, and willing to listen to the horse, they will place their lives in your hands. They will literally carry us into battle — the most chaotic environment we humans are capable of creating — and still listen to us.

Bud trusts me because I trust him. I know he’s a good horse, and he was like that long before I came along. I needed to trust him — that he was going to do what I asked, that he wasn’t going to throw a fit at every snapping branch, that he wouldn’t kick me if I picked up his feet — in order to trust myself.
In the same vein, he needed to trust me — to have faith that I wasn’t going to take him somewhere dangerous, believe that I wouldn’t try to hurt him, and know that I knew what I was asking for — in order for me to trust him.

It’s a give-and-take with horses, like with any other relationship. In the wild, horses have to trust each other to survive as a herd. It’s a survival instinct, but it’s not one freely given. It has to be built.

It’s their incredible magic to build trust.

I didn’t include other animals — rabbits, sheep, birds, guinea pigs, rats, lizards, snakes, and so forth — because frankly, I don’t have a lot of experience building relationships with them. If you have, what has been your experience? What do they teach you about yourself?

What else have you learned from animal companions?

This post is part of a subset of National Blog Posting Month, affectionately termed NanoPoblano. You can learn more and find other participating writers at the link below.

NanoPoblano

I rode here and there, paying for rides when I had the extra money for them. But for the most part, my time with horses was a thing better left in the past, for the safety of my ever-fragile emotional state.
Until, of course, this year.

At the beginning of this year, I knew something was going to shift in a big way. It was long overdue for me to take the time and dedicate myself to healing what was bent, bruised, and battered within me. A month after my thirtieth birthday, I followed through on a promise I had made to myself three years ago: I booked a trail ride.

Unwittingly, I had booked with the company who took my friend and her boys under their wing. They have since taken me in, as well.
My friend was on that first ride with me.
She’s been on almost every one since.
But this isn’t about her.

As spring warmed to summer, I bonded with one horse in particular.

It’s hard not to fall in love with Bud. He gleams like a newly minted penny and has a magnetic personality. He’s gentle, and willing, and loving. He has just enough spice to make you pay attention to what he’s doing, but not enough to be hotheaded or unpredictable. Everyone who meets him is drawn to him.

Because it’s been so many years since I’ve regularly gone riding, I wasn’t sure of my skill level. Many old practices have fallen to the wayside, like keeping my feet down at a trot, or how to properly tie off a cinch, or the finer points of reining. There were plenty of things I never learned at all, like the barrel pattern, or how to jump obstacles, or how to collect a canter.

I worked through all of that with Bud this year, but any good horse would have sufficed.

It was the other things I had forgotten — forgotten about myself — that Bud helped me rediscover.

Pointing a thousand-pound animal in a direction and asking them to go requires trust in the animal and the animal’s trust in you.

There are countless examples of Bud telling me he trusts me, and I can undercut them all by saying any good horse would do that. Any well-trained horse will pick up their feet, or take the lead on a trail, or try something new, or stay calm while someone else freaks out.

Bud is a good horse, and I believe he would do those things regardless of who was working with him. But, horses are sensitive creatures, and they see a person’s intention long before another human will.
And if they don’t trust you, they won’t do a damn thing to help.

He reminds me that I am deserving of that trust.
He reminds me that I can be trusted.
He reminds me that I can trust myself.

I don’t have the same bond with Bud that I had with Good Night Moon. My heart-horse can never be replaced. That’s okay.

I found myself singing to him.

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This post is part of a subset of National Blog Posting Month, affectionately known as NanoPoblano. You can learn more and find other participating bloggers by clicking the link below.

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The page, the page, that ever-daunting presence of potential.

I feel the potential on the horizon, the rumbling storm in the closing distance. Change is here, the thunderheads boom.

Change is within me, releasing the storm from the skin that holds it. The rain drums behind my eyes, blinding me.

Blind, but seeing for the first time all that I have chosen to not see. Seeing the possibilities within me, if I can get out of my own way, first.

But I am tapped, spent, drained. There is nothing left of me —

Except potential.

I am learning — for the first time — that my body is not a punishment, and I can make it my home if I want.

It’s an odd thing to say, but a true thing, and I want to take the time today to expand upon that thought.

Before we get too much further, I want to inform you, Reader, that this post discusses various harms the body can come to, especially at the hands of others. Please use discretion reading this, and take care of yourself.

One Substack I’ve been thoroughly enjoying is “Becoming Whole” by Dr. Erica Matluck. She has a background in clinical medicine, but uses a spiritual and holistic approach to healing. Admittedly, I don’t have the extra spending money for a subscription to access all of her work, but in what I have read (which is excellent), and in other spiritual healing practices, I’ve found an emphasis on “coming back to the body” as the basis for spiritual healing.
The premise of “coming back to the body” is that there is an emotional/mental/spiritual disconnect between that and the physical self, and by engaging and regulating the physical self, we can be more engaged and regulated in other areas of our lives. Certainly, in the so-called information age, we are constantly bombarded with chances to distract and numb ourselves (or we are bullied into fabricated rage and hatred, which also is a distraction) rather than tune into our bodies and what our physical self is trying to communicate with us.

I think somatic therapy, or “returning to the body” is absolutely key for an empathetic, physically healthy, emotionally-regulated society. The tired animal in me sees the tired animal in you; let us rest together; let us nourish one another; let us build more equitable systems that allow us to rest, together.

However.

The basis for “coming back” to the body implies that the mind or spirit, on some level, knows that the body is a safe place to be.
For some of us — for me, at the very least — that wasn’t true.

All the grounding techniques, the exercise, the eating healthy… None of it stuck for very long, because on an unconscious level, I felt like my body — habiting my physical self — was an unsafe place to be.
Even my gender identity suffered — as I said many times to various therapists and friends, “The issue isn’t that I’m in the wrong body, the issue is that I’m in a body.” I identified as a strictly non-binary person for years, because it was the closest I could get to existing as the formless cloud of thoughts that I envision myself to be. It’s a lot easier to say, “My gender is three raccoons in a coat” than it is to tell a stranger, “I don’t ever feel comfortable no matter how I present myself, and we don’t really have a word for that.”

(Okay, Reader. This is where it gets rough. If you have to, scroll ahead to the picture. It gets easier after that.)

I remember being a child, in preschool, and being unhappy with my body. I blamed it on my snarled mess of brown curls, or my small stature, but the fact of the matter is that I was intensely uncomfortable being human. At that point, nothing had happened to me. I count myself fortunate, because I know many others can’t say the same.
As a preteen, I remember being absolutely dismayed that my pants went up in size. My body was changing, and I wanted no part in it.
I was a teenager when I was raped by my boyfriend.
I was coerced into sex that I didn’t want many times in my marriage. I attempted suicide to get out of that union, but when that failed, I ran away and filed for divorce from the other side of the country.
In relationships after that, I experienced abuse after various abuse. It got to the point where anything without violence felt false, or bland. Pleasure of any sort fostered feelings of shame, which led to abject disgust.
As I started to break those patterns and choose partners who cared about my comfort, the question, “Does this feel safe?” was moot. Nothing felt safe, so it didn’t matter what they did. The disgust was there regardless if I felt safe or not.

Years of intensive trauma therapy, cognitive behavioral therapy, and spiritual healing got me to a point of being okay. But there was always the nagging feeling of not wanting to be embodied. And of course, I have developed an arsenal of disassociative techniques to deal with this constant, low-grade level of discomfort, the ever-present desire to crawl out of my skin, that even the most profound and thorough grounding practices couldn’t touch. If I wasn’t actively trying to stay grounded, I’d feel like a trapped and tortured cat, trying with everything I have to claw my essence of self out of my bone marrow.
To clarify: this process has improved over the years. I currently go weeks at a time without a derealization episode or other disassociative issue. The shame, though…

It wasn’t until recently that I found the source of the issue, during an entheogen session. In a past life, the one right before this one, I had experienced constant and increasingly violent sexual abuse from my father. It started when I was about four years old, and ended only when I hung myself in the barn at age 15 or 16.
I don’t know all of my past lives. I can gather bits and pieces of them, but not much by way of details.
That one, though… That one I know very clearly. I even remember what I looked like.
Because I didn’t stick around long enough to work through the damage done in that life, I’m tasked with working through those lessons in this life.

(The worst of it is over, now. I hope you are able to regulate and care for yourself.)

Because I have been carrying that wound from the previous life, I never had a chance to establish my body as “home”. It’s been something to deal with, begrudgingly take care of, and suffer through, but in the last two lifetimes at least, I haven’t seen it as “a safe place” to be. So the healing process of “coming back” to the body is akin to visiting your childhood home expecting warm hugs and music and loved ones, and finding instead an abandoned factory, full of broken pipes and flickering lights, ice cold and filled with broken skeletons of machines, the only sign of life being the rats gnawing on your toes, and saying, “Ah, yes, this is exactly what I remember; I feel safe here.”

Right? It just doesn’t work.

Physically, emotionally, and spiritually, I am the safest and most secure I have ever been. So, the question I am now tasked with is: if my body is supposed to be my home, how can I make it a safe place for me? This body is what I have to ground myself into, so how can it become a place I want to ground myself into?

I think it starts with curiosity. It starts with wanting that relationship with myself which, for the first time in thirty years (give or take a couple lifetimes), I want to experience.
It starts with asking myself:
What happens if I eat better?
What happens if I move my body more?
What happens if I drink more water, or tea, and less coffee?

I’ve done these things before. I’ve gone on strict diets and inhaled as much cheese as I could find. I’ve ran several miles a day, and lounged on the couch for several months. But in the past, I did those things to try to hammer my body into being something different. I had a goal in mind, an unrealistic one regardless of what it was, because that goal was to ultimately not feel like I’m in a body.

This time, I’m starting a conversation with my body. What do you need to feel okay, so that I can feel okay being here?

This process is so new that I don’t have any answers, yet. What I do have is a feeling of hope, and a fragile sense that I’m on the right track.

For anyone who experiences a permanent sense of ungroundedness, of feeling like your body isn’t a safe place to be, I hope you know you’re not alone. And I hope you know it doesn’t have to stay that way.

I hope you can approach yourself with curiosity.

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This post is part of a subset of National Blog Posting Month, affectionately termed NanoPoblano.

The day has ended, yes, it’s true —
But it’s not yet time for me to feed you.

Daylight Saving’s is a bitch (no offense to your mother)
The hours have changed, but it’s a day like any other.

You whine at me, “My bowl is bare!”
Yes, my dear, I am aware.

I promise you I did not forget,
It just is not time to feed you, yet.

You look at me with your best puppy face —
Fine! I give in!

… It’s five fifty-eight.

This post, like all my posts in November, is part of a subset of National Blog Posting Month, called NanoPoblano. You can click the button below to learn more and find other great bloggers, writers, and humans.

NanoPoblano

One thing I inherited was her love of words and puzzles, and the puzzles that make up words.
My favorite word lately has been “recognize”.

The Oxford Language dictionary defines “recognize” as:

1. identify something (or someone) from having encountered them before; to know again.

2. acknowledge the existence, validity, or legality of

The etymology of “recognize” is quite simple: it has Latin roots, from re- again, and cognoscere- learn.

To recognize is to learn again.

Once, I went back in time and retrieved a piece of myself I had left in the past — the three-year-old version me who called into canyons and hoped the echo wasn’t lonely. I knew who she was from having been her before, but I did not recognize (acknowledge the existence of) her as a part of me until then.

When I met my best friend ten years ago, he felt familiar. I knew him, even though I hadn’t met him. I think we’ve spent several lifetimes around each other, and my soul identified his from having encountered him previously.

The trees that I don’t know the names of I can identify by their resonant energy. To know their scientific names is simply to know them another way.

Some days, I don’t know myself. I don’t recognize the person in the mirror, except that she looks vaguely like the person who keeps looking back at me, even though that’s not what I look like when I think of myself. So, I am in the process of recognizing myself, of learning again who I am in my entirety.
I am learning — for the first time — that my body is not a punishment, and I can make it my home if I want.
I am finding all the sharp edges and rough-hewn boundaries and feeling for the softness that I remember is beneath them. I don’t know the name of the softness, but I’ll recognize it when I find it.
The things that brought me joy were the things that I could escape into. I am learning for the first time to find joy in being grounded and present; I am learning again what brings me joy.

What are you recognizing about yourself?

This post is part of a subset of National Blog Posting Month, affectionately termed NanoPoblano. You can learn more — and find other brilliant bloggers — by clicking the link below.

NanoPoblano

I’ve lived with depressive episodes my whole life, and a couple of years ago was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. Winter is a struggle for me, too. I wrote this poem in the midst of a wicked combo of burn out, a depression slump, and Seasonal Affective Disorder last winter. It holds true every time the Fatigue crawls in bed with me.

"The Mania Speaks"

Mycelia communicate ancient spiritual power
Through the dead soil
Connect to the network and flourish
No more foraging for
Magic.

Intelligent mold
She would make love out of your mistakes
Psychedelic wisdom only if my conscious state
Can break clean from human brain decay
I must see death to grow and know
Healing.

Please shaman
Medicinally kill every poison
Of this strain.

Enormous mycology benefit
All health within a diverse
Natural
Web.