In our new apartment there is no designated space for books, so I made one. The kitchen cabinetry (thankfully) doesn’t extend to the ceiling, which leaves a little over of foot of room for all manner of items. While unpacking one day I glanced over at the boxes of books that, until that moment, had no real place to call their own.
After five years living in my hometown, my little family and I moved into our own place. Through that time, our books had become nomads, moving from spot to spot; high to low, and in between things. Their most recent resting place was on the floor under my aunt’s vintage Singer sewing machine. Piled to the top, like a messy layered cake or sloppy tiramisu, were books holding each other up; leaning into each other for support and safety—a community of sacred texts.
I can relate to the migration patterns of my book collection. I’ve moved around quite a bit in my life, including pockets of time spent in Mali, South Africa, Mozambique, and Japan. The thing that always seemed to ground me wherever I am is setting up a space to read and write. Even if it’s just having a special place in my suitcase where I can keep a pen, notebook, and books, knowing that the tools are available brings me peace of mind. The ritual of it has always offered me a soft place to land in the midst of transience and uncertainty.
The start of the New Year—the transition between the Yang Tiger and the Yin Rabbit according to the Chinese Zodiac—has been a cacophony of open tabs. Most days I feel like I am moving from one relay race to the next. Still, I honor this body of mine for trying to put out fires, even when there is only smoke. My nervous system is still in the process of hunkering down from the whirlwind energy of the previous year, the past five years, really. In doing so, I feel every inch of ache—old injuries coming to the surface, repetitive thought patterns, fatigue, and anxiousness. When I feel the need to fight or flee I try my best to engage the breath. I imagine myself as a tree, rooted and reaching towards the light, alert and aware of the gifts around me.
These days it takes more than remembering to slow down, I have to physically do something different in order to encourage my brain to remap. I have to put down the notion that in order to be worthy of restoration I am obligated to do more. Like an old growth forest, I want to know resilience and reciprocity in my bones—to become a community of ancient beings.
Once the books were finally organized and shelved, for the first time in months I turned my phone off, braided my hair, and made myself herbal tea before going to bed. I was in my body in a way that I had forgotten was possible. Finding a resting place for the texts that I love, in the home that I am co-creating, reminds me that I am always in relationship with my environment, and supported by the ecology of the hearth.
Relatives (leave a comment): How do you nourish your home and hearth?
Listening
On repeat, as of late, is Les Filles de Illighadad. I came across their work when Virgo began her journey through Pisces on January 26th, which feels very apropos for the energetics of this astrology. Every song is a vibe.
Reading
A ton of academic articles for the doctoral program I stared at the beginning of the month. I am, however, schedule time in to listen to “A Forest Walk, a guided practice by Kimberly Ruffin, published online by Emergence Magazine.
Creating
Report papers and forum posts, again for doctoral obligations. However, did you notice the new logo? The creation of this update was a collaborative project with my comrade Oscar, artist and owner of Tender-Heart Press. Oscar creates letter press magic from hand-laid type. I am in awe of their work, and feel so grateful for our partnership. Oscar is generously offering 20% off their entire shop for readers of the newsletter! Use the code WHOLLYEARTH at check out to receive the kind offer, valid through 2/28/23.
Here is a link to Oscar’s portfolio and shop: https://www.countrycounterculture.com/tender-heartpress.