This has been one of the hardest weeks. My other rabbit, Gnocchi, (Cosmo’s widow) is really sick. We’ve stayed up with her, making sure she doesn’t asphyxiate on the thick, white discharge coming out of her nose. (This is how Cosmo died.) We took her to a second vet, 3 hours away, where she stayed overnight and got fluids and antibiotics pumped into her tiny, critically dehydrated body. We brought her home yesterday, my partner’s tiny house that we’ve been sharing. But I’m moving out, we are breaking up, and I am about to make the long drive back to Oaxaca. 

Gnocchi is so weak that she can’t move around and gets stuck lying down, unable to get her legs underneath her.

I am overwhelmed, exhausted and heartbroken.

The other night, I pried myself out of the house for a walk. I went to the park across the street and stood under a tall tree. I was comforted by how big it was. How long it had been growing. How thick its trunk was. How I could lean against it with my whole body and it wouldn’t budge. Feeling so acutely how thin the border between life and death are with this frail rabbit, the sturdiness of the tree gave me peace. So I did what I always do to try and process something immense and unprocessable. I wrote a poem.

how is it

that life can be as fragile as a leaf 

that browns and shatters to dust

and as solid as the tree,

towering over my soft body

how can it be as final as our last breath

and as dependable as spring

how can it move mountains, erupt and quake  

then whisper, mist and evaporate 

why is death its inseparable shadow

the dark, silent rest 

that creation needs in order to dream

tangled in one inseparable knot

love, heartbreak, fire, stone

some days I am desperate to understand

hovering over the pieces

scanning for relief

I don’t know if it matters 

but it feels better to try

my brain wants to pin it down, like a specimen on the wall, 

accurately labeled, meticulously preserved 

lifeless

to solve it is an illusion

of safety, of completion, 

with no room for growth

that’s not how life becomes the tree

layers of wood, patiently circling outward

reaching higher and higher

rooting deeper and deeper

with so many ideas

each branch, a prayer

touch me - i want to feel the sun

shine on my tenderest leaves

bake them green

give them life

for a little while

I’ve built my life around avoiding cold weather. I live in LA and spend lots of time in Mexico (ahhhh 85-90 degrees of sweet, sweet humid air).

But yesterday, I realized a shortcoming of this genius plan. Winter is the time for hibernation, just ask a bear. And like the Moon, every month, my body cycles through weeks of being more energized and social, then a week of being more sensitive and withdrawn. By running away from hibernation weather, I’m perpetuating the idea that I should be ON all the time. I’m not respecting my nature.

Regardless of the body we’re in, we all suffer from exhausting standards of productivity and perfection. Thankfully, for some of us, those standards shift during “the holidays,” this mysterious period of time in November and December, sometimes creeping into the border months of October and January, where we get some grace to take time off, be less responsive and “be with family.” 

Do we really do that though? Do we really allow ourselves to rest, set boundaries with technology and spend quality time with loved ones? Or do we get a pumpkin spice latte and a tree-scented candle and continue right on being stressed and preoccupied with what’s going on in the world?

How do we actually Winter?

I think in our heart of hearts, we all just want to be cozy and safe. To get to that part of the day when we can just sit on the couch and watch TV, or be in bed snuggling up. WHO DOESN’T WANT THAT?! To let go the day, not think about what we have to do tomorrow, and just BE.

The problem is, all day long, all year long, we’re training ourselves to be…not snuggly. To be immediately responsive to every notification. To chase down every fear and worry that surfaces and get up to fix it. We stay in a state of alertness and tension, anticipating what’s next, ready to be interrupted. Then we finally get to the couch or the bed we spent all day craving and it’s IMPOSSIBLE to shut off those processes.

Do I have answers? I sure have a lot of questions. I sure feel overwhelmed when it all comes down on me and I don’t have it together. I sure feel tired and frustrated and sad when I feel far away from how I want to be.

Here’s what helps me. I don’t have social media. I don’t watch the news. I unsubscribe from things that take more energy and value than they give. When I get a text or email, I ask myself if I have the space to read it and respond before I open it. (I notice that I’m better at this when I’m not tired.) If a thought pops into my brain and it seems urgent, I take a moment to separate the thing and the sense of urgency. Is this thing really urgent, or is it tapping into my fear? (It’s pretty much always the fear one.) 

Basically, I limit the input, and I slow down. This gives me more space to feel. And then I feel safer, because the whole world doesn’t seem like a raging dumpster fire that I have to put out. It feels a little more like being snuggled up on the couch.