LOVE, THEOBROMA - THE FOOD OF THE GODS, THE FOREST GARDEN OF EDEN, AND A RECIPE FOR REBIRTH PART 1

Even as we are dying something is always wanting to be born. Of the great space of nothingness creation stories are formed, it is the primordial waters necessary for life. From the ground which we find ourselves we meet the destination as the journey. This is a story of vulnerability, stepping into the unknown, and walking with the heart. Of destruction, excavation, and rebuilding. Formed from a ripple in the past, this story creates its own ripples outward. Born where no time could be known, a sea of infinite moments holding eternity.

I draw strength from these moments as I recount the times life asked me to become bigger than I currently was, to hold paradox, pain, joy, forgiveness, and the past, present, and future simultaneously. There are resources we can connect with from our past experiences that provide us with strength, courage, and confidence to keep going. In reflecting on each time I faced a fear I can recognized that I lived through it and can embrace whatever comes along. These moments are training for life, especially as we are being met with great uncertainty, that we can face what may lay ahead. I am reminded I can do the things I think I cannot. I embody and share the fullness of this story after cultivating my own inner resilience to be with the parts that were painful and to claim them with love, to not be too proud to admit to my stumbling. Please be mindful as you are reading if any emotions come up. Orient yourself to the present moment, look away from the screen, notice your breath, and look at something pleasurable, like a plant, animal, or work of art. I am still learning how to build a relationship with my past that frees me from a narrative or old story and allows me to integrate it with love and savor the preciousness of each moment more fully in the present. I believe all stories have the potential to be medicine. This story is the compost for the life I am planting seeds in and a reminder of what can never be taken even as things fall apart.

I'll begin here:

A lifetime ago in March 2021, I slipped off the skin of my life and became bare as bones. As naked as an oak tree in winter, I arrived in New York, like the last of the snowfall. My dad's cabin, nestled in the woods at the end of a gravel road that frequently flooded from the waterfall creating a mote to drive over and a barrier for the Amazon delivery truck. Placed on a mountain overlooking the Hudson Valley, three wooden flights up was my home for the foreseeable future. A week prior I was in Asheville, NC anxiously looking for homes during a housing crisis following a breakup. This relationship ended upon returning from a San Miguel de Allende, Mexico and 100 journal entries later where I began uncovering and validating the feelings living beneath the surface. I saw myself as I truly was and what I longed for and began writing the script for a new life. The space away from our home that we had been on strict lockdown in during the pandemic helped widen my perspective, connecting me with a version of myself that was free. I had planned the trip to visit a sustainable home and permaculture project, called Navi Village, founded by Daniel Valdaviezo. We stayed in the city at Casa Angelito's, a boutique hotel worthy of noting. The owners Roger and Rosana were incredible hosts, bringing us to their regenerative farm and property in the mountains and connected us with people in the community. It felt like family there. People shared their emotions freely and openly, something I had longed for, there was a wall of emotions between my partner and I that kept us 7 inches apart at all times. I wanted to be seen in the fullness of my experience and to communicate like the vulnerable humans that we are, that long for connection. Perhaps I was seeking the original love that we all lose upon adolescence that bell hooks speaks so eloquently about in All About Love. Every part of the life I was living felt like a supporting actress role and each scene was its own bit, quite literally, there was a tiny bar in the shed in the backyard, a make shift chicken coop, a bathtub on a stage, and a pirate ship deck. At the Garden of Edward James in Xilitla, Mexico we felt right at home in this surrealist sculpture garden. I loved our eccentric backyard, the tiny meals he'd make and our cooking collaborations. But what happens when you can't keep up the performance nor fit the shape you were playing any longer? I didn't plan to have an exit like a leading actress but I suppose that's what happens when you've outgrown the script (or the bit).

I sat by the window that filled the wall at the head of the bed with River, our puppy, my ex Cory had left to visit his parents on the coast for his birthday, leaving me in the home that was no longer mine to have some space. In a moment of weakness, or perhaps strength in retrospect - following a walk of noticing in excruciating detail all of the things I would be leaving behind: the cherry middle aged woman up the street in the teal blue house with a Portuguese water dog who would jump in our pond every time she came over, our next-door neighbor Mark and his custom pizza oven and the parties he'd throw, the trail along the French Broad River where I first learned about foraging, the chickens in the backyard I raised from one day old, my outdoor clawfoot bathtub in the garden I had planted - I called Cory. At some point in the conversation I asked if he would consider therapy and his response was 'I don't do compromise in relationships.' It were those words that set in the reality and reminded me why I was leaving. I don't regret making that call because it was the moment I stopped looking back. The words that ended the relationship weeks prior were when I said 'I am not happy either.' And nothing else was said. This came after asking for help with dinner and he declared that he did not want to be told what to do and couldn't do 'this' anymore. On that night I also said I would be taking River with me. He said nothing.

I couldn't deny that change was hard on me, and my nervous system that so desperately wanted to feel safe felt like it was under attack. Maybe a prayer of mine was heard when I was notified by my friend Ryan, who helped me move from Raleigh to Asheville over a year prior, that he'd be passing through that weekend after 10 weeks spent on the road out west. He stayed for one night, our conversations calming my worried mind, and my stomach relaxed enough to eat. I didn't know what I was going to do, I was checking Zillow and visiting homes daily and my job wasn't providing enough work for me to feel stable. The next day we both worked from the house and he asked if he could stay one day more - I think realizing how much I needed a friend. The next morning I woke up both crying and with clarity realizing I needed to leave and my attempts to exhaust all the houses on Zillow in Asheville were just distracting me. "Where are you going to go?" He asked when I awoke him with this news. "New York." I responded. It felt true to my soul and he could feel it too. I had a lot of stories to cover over this yearning to just go isolate in the woods, laughing at the absurdity of it, until I took myself serious enough to actually let myself go there. Ryan had me write a list of all the things we needed to get and do to make this move happen, without hesitation we began. First at Lowes gathering tape, bubble wrap, and boxes. From 11am to 4pm the following day we - mostly Ryan - packed all of what was mine away. I set aside a little pile of all the things I would bring with me not knowing when I would see the rest of my belongings again. Ryan left that evening to get back to Raleigh, I hugged and thanked him profusely, acknowledging the importance of what he had done for me and that I truly couldn't have done it without him.

The next day the movers came to bring the boxes to my storage unit. I spent that night in a mostly empty house, I could hear my voice echo off the walls as I conversed with River. The next morning, as a last attempt to stay in Asheville, I visited a property with a barn converted home, a sauna on the river, and a tiny house all on 19 acres, a paradise for any family or future commune. I am not sure if this is a story about trying to find a home only to discover it in yourself but it does seem to meet the qualifications, spoiler alert. It wasn't until I got in my car with the directions to New York that the reality set in. River and I then started the 750 mile trek, stopping in Goochland, Virginia to visit my friends log cabin and rest for the night. He greeted me with fresh caught fish tacos and our dogs chased each other in the yard and I slept under camouflage bedsheets. That next morning I told Cory I had left. He was upset, this was a compromise. I kept driving upwards, River laid across the top of my bags in the front seat even after all the effort to keep her in the back. She held me in her gaze that gave me the strength to keep going. I arrived at the cabin at 9pm, my dad's partner Delia greeted me and looked surprised to see I was with a dog, as she was not a dog person. This was the beginning of another end. A week after settling into the cabin, regulating my nervous system, swimming in the waterfall, cuddling with River, I got an email from Cory detailing his discomfort with me having River and alluding to contacting authorities. He threw in my lack of stable housing for a nice touch. Fear definitely struck me and I barely had anything in me to fight back. I knew my parents were not going to get involved, and there wasn't a lot of support in me having a dog to begin with, although his mom did get involved with another email attempting to strike at my character. I did everything within my power to try to keep River, but ultimately the forces were in his favor and I knew somewhere in me there was still life beyond this choice even though it felt like I was dying. After giving River to Cory, an effort my dad made happen driving me halfway to DC to meet him, I learned from my friends who gave me River (her name was Daisy at the time and their dog was her sister, Pita) that the woman who had her before me had to leave a relationship and couldn't bring her along. I suppose this fate was written on the walls. That day, that was the last day I saw River, I remember reading the quote by Leonard Cohen, 'there is a crack in everything, that is where the light gets in'.

I was struggling to cope with the loss. What is not so often talked about is the well of grief you enter upon many aspects of your life changing no matter how much you wanted, or even needed, things to change. I was carrying the weight of responsibility and a tinge of despair. The temptation to run back and grab something, anything familiar was strong, but as much as I wanted to hit the 'undo' button and return to 'normal' I could not, this moment called for my surrender. In moments like these we are invited by an invisible hand to look honestly and gently within ourselves or we can choose to feed the stories of unworthiness or 'why me?' that accompanies great loss. This is not to say that responsibility should be on the victims of a circumstance, there is nuance, but if we had even a 5% part played in the circumstance, that 5% is what we have to work with. It can feel empowering to take responsibility for that as opposed to blaming the other person involved. It can also be very hard to see what we are gaining at this point, as we humans tend to focus on what we are losing. There is a self-trust building that has to take place, because we might think 'well I am the one who got myself here so why should I trust me?' Building trust with ourselves is essential for any establishment of inner or outer relationships. What I can say is meeting ourselves exactly where we are is the path to trust and healing - even when we feel like a rearranged Picasso-like version of ourselves.

I had to sit with a lot of feelings. Grief, betrayal, disbelief, rage, strength. Learning how to mindfully notice them, identify them (not identifying with them, but to name them and get to know them), and transmute them through art and movement. I learned how to hold space for my emotions becoming a bigger container that could simultaneously hold grief and joy... this took practice, a place to continually re-arrive at. I took medical leave from my job as an environmental engineer because I was struggling to focus on work amidst the change and trauma. Trauma isn't so much of what happened to you but how you react to what happened (words from Gabor Mate) and it looks different for everyone, similar situations can generate a multitude of responses and our coping strategies are often formed before we were born through generational responses. When we are healing and processing grief it is not our job to prove ourselves strong nor show an over glorified 'resilience', the strongest thing you can do is ask for help. Had it not been for all the help I received, and had the courage to ask for, I would not have this story to share. Now imagine a society where we were encouraged, supported, given time off, and taught how to hold loving space for ourselves and others. This is a part of my dream, because it really does make a difference.

Much of what has unfolded came from a curiosity of the perceived roots of my situation, a fascination for the ground, fungi and moss covered, I had found myself on. Studying trauma, mindfulness, working with medicinal plants, flower essences, and somatics, to reconnect with the human and Earth I had forgotten. Much of my studies prior to this were with the intention to help the wellbeing of the planet, but I realized through this process I didn't know much about my own wellbeing aside from health food and yoga classes, which just seemed like a commodified version of health. What did it truly mean to be in a relationship with oneself, others, and the Earth? I had studied engineering after a degree in biology to try to get to the root of and solve our global health and environmental problems, focused on water, what I discovered was that the solutions benefit this growth model and were not addressing the pollution of our water sources nor the increase in impervious surfaces, and runoff from development both affecting and altering the water cycle. The ecological destruction caused by dams. The solutions were in conflict with our planet. Unfortunately, even our best solutions usually don't address the root and have other unintended consequences. A glaring problem is that we don't know how to be in right relation with Earth. I realized that we, like the Earth, aren't problems to fix, that our response to the collective trauma is an intelligent response to being out of harmony. How we and the Earth are responding make a lot of sense, and we can alter this path that we are on through this awareness and taking different action that cultivates reciprocal relationships. This requires intention and a consistent checking in and courage to try something new when an attempt fails. This isn't the linear, growth at all cost we have been taught, nor the dodging of accountability and making it someone else's problem or blaming others (like corporations sneaky attempts to blame the consumer). When we enter a state of awareness and sit with many truths and perspectives it can feel very uncomfortable, and the ways we've been conditioned to respond, through fight, flight, freeze responses tend to show up strong here. In what I have learned, taking radical responsibility in creating what it is we want to create, while simultaneously holding harm doers accountable, it's a 'both/and' situation, is necessary for empowering change. I have found too many spiritual claims that focus entirely on the individual creating this false sense of inner control that can lead to self blame and immobilization rather than looking at the impacts ones environment or problematic situations have. While this is a difficult process with no real roadmap with right/wrong, good/bad, everything becomes an experiment and a learning and information gathering process where you are a part of the scientific method. We can't fail when we are trying and what isn't life giving or serving becomes the compost for something new. What a liberating approach beyond failure/success.

But where do we go from here? We can't change the past and nor should we view ourselves or the Earth as projects for fixing and that this very 'fixing' is meant to benefit what caused the harm in the first place when we internalize ourselves as the problem. So we cultivate the garden of where we are and where we want to go, planting seeds of hope, we move from the mind into the body - a place we haven't explored much in this reason-based society, we tap into the power of community, and alchemy of imagination and love. We change our response from 'everything is fucked' to what could a future of mutual flourishing look like? Love is the raison d'tre of the universe, the bond between all things, the light and life of existence. If you are struggling to believe in anything, believe in love. As the Rumi quote so wisely says 'Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it, and embrace them.' That last part, so often forgotten, feels like the most important. Even when your heart feels numb or like nothing at all, that is still a feeling you can turn toward with a loving embrace. Even when change feels scary, you can turn toward the fear with love. And in owning and voicing your fears you become fearless. I learned pain is a doorway to compassion and is the greatest teacher. I hope my story can be a testament to this powerful force - love, my devotion to it, and gratitude for what it has given me. And I share my story as a gift back to this universe of love. So chocolate...