Beloved friends,
Greetings and blessings to you upon the turning of the season, the autumnal equinox. On Tuesday we crossed from the light-is-greater side of the year to the dark-is-greater side of the year here in the Northern Hemisphere of planet Earth. I was reminded of the locality of when I reached out to wish a witchy friend a blessed holy day and she, who is sailing in the French Polynesia, noted that it was the vernal, spring equinox for her in the Southern Hemisphere.
Autumn is afoot here in the Cascadian forest. Today is the first good, solid, hours-long rain. Early this morning James and I were abed. I was awake, reading quietly, when there was a sudden strong increase, and the gentle roar of the rain on our metal roof woke James. He lifted his head, squinted blearily at the trees outside, mumbled, "Oh, the forest is so happy," and went back to sleep.
The palpable joy of the trees in the rain is really something. The cedars in the front grove are perky and bright now, with raindrops sparkling on their needles. The bigger cedars on the hillside behind the house are still drooping with thirst, but they'll perk up soon. I'm wearing the velour tracksuit a friend gifted me for my birthday, and the whole house smells of cinnamon and apples, gifted from the orchard of friends who called and invited me by to share in their harvest this week. I carried the dining table candelabra into the temple for candlelight in some of my evening yoga classes this week.
I love this liminal season, this shoulder season, turning season, harvest season. The Long Light is behind us now and the Long Dark will be here in the PNW soon. Just this week we had to close the open-half-the-year door to the tiny deck off the bedroom a couple of times. I've begun to turn on the heat in the temple before getting onto my mat for morning yoga. There is sweetness in this, in the change, in the flow of time.
I've been wanting to share with you a little treasure, and I think I'll do so here, as evidence of the flow of time. Perhaps you've noticed this Buddha in my recent images of the night-blooming cereus whose buds have been giving me some zesty joy? I want to tell you about him.
I bought this statue for a couple of dollars from someone selling things on a blanket laid on the sidewalk in San Francisco at the corner of Church and Duboce many years ago. I was struck by his luminous joy, his beautiful belly, and the fact that his hands had been broken off led me to wish to care for him. This was a Buddha who'd done some living: he was sticky and icky. I took him home, cleaned him up, gave him a good oiling, and tucked him into a little nook above the kitchen sideboard. When we moved onto a boat he came along, tucked into the shelf above the nav desk. Here in Cascadia he found his home right away on a little ledge someone added to the center sunroom window. I have a tendency to treat any flat surface as an altar, but this one very clearly was.
In SF Buddha sat beside a pothos and I draped the vines over his raised arms. Aboard Rejoice James tucked a plastic flower that a woman he loved had worn beside the Buddha. Here I screwed a little loop to one of his wrists and tucked the quill of a large seagull feather into it. I picked up the feather while walking on a beach in Marin with a dear friend, a sister on the path. This feather speaks to me of the sea, of Northern California, of love and of time, of Kate, and, as all feathers do, of lightness, of flight, of the magic of incarnation.
The thing I love most about this Buddha now is his gentle sheen and the rich color of his wood, evidence of care and time. When I first brought him home, he was dry and had a crappy finish sort of visible on his surface, unintegrated. He looked shoddy, frankly. Over the years I have oiled him again and again. Sometimes with the Old English Wood Furniture Oil I used on the interior of our boat, sometimes with the cocoa butter and beeswax oil I make for oiling our wooden kitchen utensils and boards. That is what I've used most, and it's my favorite. There is such sensual pleasure in scooping the wood butter out of the jar with my hands, rubbing my hands to melt the butter with the heat of my body, and slathering it into all of the Buddha's curves and crevices. I let it sit for a day or so before I buff him.
Over the years, the oil has seeped in deeply, nourished the wood, and what once looked like a shoddy knickknack has come to have a lush luster. You can see it in the image above, even on a rainy day: how he gives back the light and the care that has gone into him. How he shines.
As I've been writing this, a sharp-shinned hawk has perched on the branch of the biggest fir at the edge of the meadow. He's taken off now. And so will I.
Love,
Dahlia
Resources
Slathering
I love Heidi Swanson's simple recipe for spoon butter. I use it on my wooden spoons, tongs, spatulas, ladle, knife handles, cutting boards, the Buddha, and when I am done I clean my hands by rubbing them anywhere dry: my knees, elbows, feet. I keep a jar to toss the stubs of candles into for the beeswax and use the same coconut oil I cook with. My favorite way to do this is to pick a sunny day so that the wooden things can toast up in the sun to make application easier.
Heidi Swanson
Stretching the Mind
I just finished the third book in Jeff VanderMeer's Southern Reach series; originally a trilogy: Annihilation, Authority, and Acceptance were published a few months apart. 10 years later a prequel, Absolution, was added. I'm going to re-read Acceptance before I move on, because I want to savor it and deepen my understanding. I've got the next one, Abdication, due out in October 2027, already pre-ordered.
Jeff VanderMeer and Helen Macdonald
Jason Sheehan, for NPR, says in reviewing Acceptance:
VanderMeer is trying to pull off a delicate trick here, trying to tell a story that's not about knowing and understanding (which is what all books by rational, non-insane people are basically about), but about the impossibility of knowing and the failure of human language and intelligence to encompass something that is completely and totally alien to us."
If you like the strange, if you like to wonder, and if you can tolerate waiting until the third book for answers – which will be both clear and inconclusive – I can't recommend this warmly enough.
I do my reading both electronically and in physical books. Bookshop sells both, and has a great app for reading ebooks. I love not giving money to That Behemoth when I read!
Dancing
Sylvan Esso has a new album out! If you missed their 2014 eponymous debut, it's an all-time favorite of mine and of many. They are fighting the good fight for musical artists and resisting Spotify, so you won't find it there, where, their singer Amelia Meath recently said, 82% of streaming happens. You can see their NPR Tiny Desk Concert on YouTube, though:
and you can listen on Bandcamp. Their new album Ow ∞ is on both platforms. Here's the Bandcamp link. Amelia had video on Instagram in which she said that they are, after having removed all their music from Spotify for a year, reluctantly putting their new album there because it isn't financially feasible not to be on it and employ all the people who work for them – they have a recording studio named Betty's and a an indie label called psychic hotline. She ended by saying that she hoped we wouldn't listen there, so. You can, but you can find the link yourself. I'm excited to receive the vinyl soon!
My favorite song on the new album is Sledge. Like a lot of Sylvan Esso, it sounds and feels sunny, but the lyrics are dark:
Let me be like the sledge, angel of death
Destroy, destroy, destroy
Lemme be the one to ruin and rip it all back
Destroy, destroy, destroy
I find the combination cathartic and life-affirming, and in harmony with my efforts toward wholeness: I embrace my darkness and light, my shadow and shine, my love and my rage. And oh, there is so much it would be good destroy right now!
Resistance
I found the image below to hold a similar useful complexity. In its echo of the horrifyingly famous "Grab 'em" remarks by the ailing felon who is our current president, it was infuriating. In the untruth it holds – that if you're registered to vote, "they'll let you do it, it was infuriating. And all of this feels absolutely vital. This is the galvanizing rage I and we need to keep us awake, to keep us fighting, to get us out to vote and support others in doing so. Thanks to Deb
Last week I offered to share my daily resistance actions log with anyone who might wish to use it as a resource for action. Not a single person took me up on that. I'm a bit discouraged. I do not have more resistance action to share with you this week. I'm thinking about what I can do that might be more engaging. Your ideas are welcome.
Supporting me in supporting you
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