Artist: Christi Belcourt (Michif), The Wisdom of the Universe, 2014, acrylic on canvas
Collection Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto
Greetings~
Today marks the beginning of spring in the northern hemisphere, Imbolc in the Celtic tradition, which literally means 'in the belly.' In northern climes, this time initiates the lambing season, and in some places is referred to as the 'lactation of the ewes', when the milk comes down in the teats of the mamas to feed the babes not yet born. It is an expectant time, when we can see the new life just showing under the surface. As we move from the belly of the winter, it is also a natural time to let go of what has been and turn towards what is to come.
In southern California, the earth is steadily greening from the blessing of the recent rains and I am beginning to feel the stirrings of new life within and all around. The winter has been a time of slowing down for me, tending close to home and hearth and I am still enjoying that pace. In the challenge of these times, with so much falling away and so many dying, the letting go and precious endings bring to focus the tenderness and beauty of this existence, while the spirit of renewal implicit in spring offers gentle balm. We are reminded by those on their death beds who speak of what is important in this life... how well have we loved. How well have we opened our hearts. How much beauty have we made. In the end, this is what matters most. In her recent book, All About Love, bell hooks highlights love as a verb and action, and how ill equipped we are in this modern dominant culture in the ways and practice of loving.
I would also add the ways and practice of beauty. Beauty is the nature of this world. There is so much to love, as well as so much pain. Of course, we feel pain because we love so much. And when we are in pain, beauty often feels far away. We need beauty, and it is our birth rite, essential nourishment for the heart and soul. Just as we are provided with all we need on this earth in an exquisite and holy generosity, we are also beauty makers. How do we truly honor what sustains us in this life while we are here? I have been reveling in beauty. I have the privilege of feeling and being safe enough in my body's daily existence to take in the beauty of our world. This is not the same for everyone. In fact, I heard yesterday, that one in seven people in the USA does not have enough food to eat. Our work in these times is clear, understanding the ways we other and divide, within ourselves and in the world, taking responsibility for healing and creating a culture of belonging and care for all, living our part to turn the collective tide toward love, justice, beauty and ecological wellness... to co-create The More Beautiful World Our Hearts Know is Possible, of which author and activist Charles Eisenstein speaks.
In the practice of orienting towards what is beautiful, I share two phenomenal poems below by inspiring and powerful women: "The Life of Beauty" by Joy Harjo and "Hozho" by Lyla June Johnston. Joy Harjo is the United States poet laureate and the first Native American to hold the position; and Lyla June Johnston is “an Indigenous environmental scientist, doctoral student, educator, community organizer and musician of Diné (Navajo), Tsétsêhéstâhese (Cheyenne) and European lineages from Taos, NM.”
Lastly, I held an online gathering on the new moon last month and will continue to do so on or around the new moon for the next three months to transition into spring in the presence of community. If you are interested, please see details below.
May you find a beautiful and simple way to mark and honor this threshold time as we transition into spring.
Grateful blessings and wild peace,
Alexis
Women's Spring New Moon Virtual Gatherings
Monday evenings from 6-8PM PT
February 15th, March 15th & April 12th
In continuing to open to community spaces online, I invite you to join me around the new moon each month for the next three months for a collective field of support and inspiration, communion and connection, in the virtual presence of each other.
This invitation is primarily for women in my practice and community with whom I currently work or have worked with in mentorship, groups, retreats. However, if we have not worked together before, and you feel called to join, you are welcome. I am also acutely aware of the binary implicit in the dominant cultural gender narrative. If you identify as non-binary, trans, gender queer, non-cisgender and are called to join a space that centers the experience of women, you are welcome. I have personally received so much from women's spaces, and am working to bring awareness and care to the ways I am complicit in perpetuating otherness around gender.
This is an emergent space - poetry, meditation, context, and invitation to share. With the energy of the new moon, we listen together to what we are each and all calling forth, and that which is naturally coming into being. There is no requirement to commit to all three dates. If you are interested, please email me, and an email with a registration link will be sent out each month for that month's meeting. This container will hold us as we transition into spring.
What a treat it was to gather with some of you on the new moon last month to share what is moving in us in these powerful and transformative times - stories, laughter, tears, poetry, dreams, celebrations, struggles and remembrances. Thank you for your presence.
Zoom registration link for the February 15th, 6-8PM PT gathering. (Please click early so as to register in advance)
Inspiration
THE LIFE OF BEAUTY
The sung blessing of creation
Led her into the human story.
That was the first beauty.
Next beauty was the sound of her mother’s voice
Rippling the waters beneath the drumming skin
Of her birthing cocoon.
Next beauty the father with kindness in his hands
As he held the newborn against his breathing.
Next beauty the moon through the dark window
It was a rocking horse, a wish.
There were many beauties in this age
For everything was immensely itself:
Green greener than the impossibility of green,
the taste of wind after its slide through dew grass at dawn,
Or language running through a tangle of wordlessness in her mouth.
She ate well of the next beauty.
Next beauty planted itself urgently beneath the warrior shrines.
Next was beauty beaded by her mother and pinned neatly
To hold back her hair.
Then how tendrils of fire longing grew into her, beautiful the flower
Between her legs as she became herself.
Do not forget this beauty she was told.
The story took her far away from beauty. In the tests of her living,
Beauty was often long from the reach of her mind and spirit.
When she forgot beauty, all was brutal.
But beauty always came to lift her up to stand again.
When it was beautiful all around and within,
She knew herself to be corn plant, moon, and sunrise.
Death is beautiful, she sang, as she left this story behind her.
Even her bones, said time.
Were tuned to beauty.
-Joy Harjo
HOZHO
It is dawn.
The sun is conquering the sky and my grandmother and I
are heaving prayers at the horizon.
“Show me something unbeautiful,” she says,
“and I will show you the veil over your eyes and take it away.
And you will see hozho all around you, inside of you.”
This morning she is teaching me the meaning of HOZHO.
There is no direct translation from Diné Bizaad,
the Navajo language, into English
but every living being knows what hozho means.
Hozho is every drop of rain,
every eyelash,
every leaf on every tree,
every feather on the bluebird’s wing.
Hozho is undeniable beauty.
Hozho is in every breath that we give to the trees.
And in every breath they give to us in return.
Hozho is reciprocity.
My grandmother knows the meaning of hozho well.
For she speaks a language that grew out of the desert floor
like red sandstone monoliths that rise like arms out of the earth
praising creation for all its brilliance.
Hozho is remembering that you are a part of this brilliance.
It is finally accepting that, yes, you are a sacred song that
brings the Diyin Dine’é, the gods, to their knees
in an almost unbearable ecstasy.
Hozho is re-membering your own beauty.
My grandmother knows hozho well
For she speaks the language of a Lukachukai snowstorm
the sound of hooves hitting the earth on birthdays.
For my grandmother is a midwife and she is fluent in the
language of suffering mothers
of joyful mothers
of handing glowing newborns to their creator.
Hozho is not something you can experience on your own,
the eagles tell us as they lock talons in the stratosphere
and fall to the earth as one.
Hozho is interbeauty.
My grandmother knows hozho well
for she speaks the language of the male rain
that shoots lightning boys through the sky,
pummels the green corn children,
and huddles the horses against cliff sides in the afternoon.
She also speaks the language of the female rain
that sends the scent of dust and sage into our homes
and shoots rainbows out of and into the earth.
The Diné know what hozho means!
And you know what hozho means!
And deep down we know what hozho is not.
Like the days you walk in sadness.
The days you live for money.
The days you live for fame.
The days you live for tomorrow.
Like the day the spaniards climbed down from their horses
and asked us if they could buy the mountains.
We knew this was not hozho.
But we knew we could make it hozho once again.
So we took their swords and their silver coins
and melted them
with fire and buffalo hide bellows
and reshaped them into squash blossom jewelry pieces
and strung it around their necks.
Took the helmets straight off their heads
and turned it into fearless beauty.
Hozho is the healing of broken bones.
Hozho is the prayer that carried us
through genocide and disease,
It is the prayer that will carry us through global warming
and through this global fear that has set our hearts on fire.
This morning my grandmother is teaching me
that the easiest (and most elegant) way to defeat an army of hatred,
is to sing it beautiful songs
until it falls to its knees and surrenders.
It will do this, she says, because it has finally
found a sweeter fire than revenge.
It has found heaven.
It has found HOZHO.
This morning my grandmother is saying
to the colors of the sky at dawn:
hózhǫ́náházdlíí’
hózhǫ́náházdiíí’
hózhǫ́náházdlíí’
beauty is restored again…
It is dawn, my friends.
Wake up.
The night is over.
— Lyla June Johnston