Stories from The River Runs Through
Coffee. Creativity. Ceremony. The land. Becoming.
And the occasional story about something I probably should have known better than to attempt.
There are stories about the things we make, the things we inherit, the things that surprise us, and the things that change us.
Come wander awhile.
Scotland Odyssey: The Final Chapter.
I was in my caravan.
Yes, caravan. That's what they call a trailer or manufactured housing in the UK. Yes, we all sleep in trailers—aka caravans—in little bitty rooms more conducive to a hobbit than a full-sized person. We share bathrooms. We eat family-style. We take turns washing the dishes. We make our own beds, sheets and all. We sing. We dance. We hold overnight vigils. When I walk across the nine acres of land, every inch of which has been cultivated, I get a mixed feeling of college and camp. Kids' camp. The kind of place my kids longed to go to all year. Only this isn't kids' camp. We're adults. And we're here because we've chosen to be here. There is a rhythm to the place. We gather together. We open our morning circle together. We have tea together. And there are so many tea breaks in the UK. No. Americans will never understand. We drum together. We sing together. We learn together. We spend time together.
Eventually, I made my way back across the land to my little caravan.
I had just settled in when I heard my name.
I ran to the door.
"...Is your case green?"
The Way Knows the Way
Have you ever gotten a call from somewhere deep inside yourself? A gut feeling that made absolutely no sense to your logical mind? Or simply known something without being able to explain how you knew it?
Have you ever wondered if those moments meant you were being irrational? Or worse, if you admitted them out loud, people might quietly wonder if you'd lost your grip on reality? It's an odd thing to worry about in such an "evolved" society.
But perhaps we're not quite as evolved as we'd like to believe.
Or perhaps our evolution has come at a cost.
This sort of thing has happened to me my entire life. When I was younger, I rarely spoke about what I was feeling or intuiting. Even into adulthood, I found myself making important decisions based on what I can only describe as a deep knowing. It was frustrating because I couldn't always explain those decisions in ways that satisfied other people—or even myself.
Take my divorce. I could give reasons, of course. Rational reasons. But they never told the whole story. There was something underneath the words, quietly insisting that it was time to go.
At the time, I didn't have language for that experience. No one had told me there was another way of knowing besides thinking. I hadn't yet learned that there are parts of ourselves we've slowly been taught to ignore—through education, culture, or simply the pace of modern life.
It was raining. I went anyway.
Over the last year, being surrounded by trees has led me to explore "tree bathing." I took a course, read the manual, learned about terpenes and how trees communicate, and about the importance of simply being with them.
Somewhere in all of that was the suggestion that I spend a night among the trees.
Technically, this is my backyard.
But our backyard is kind of big.
And there is wildlife.
I liked the idea of a digital detox, artificial-light detox, a night of silence, and a deeper relationship with this land.
I was intrigued.
I was also hesitant.
The hesitation wasn't about running water or using the bathroom outside. We lose power regularly here in Maine. I've adapted.
It was the coyotes.
And, if I'm honest, my limited experience sleeping outside.
The Sound of Remembering
People often ask me about the drums.
Or the rattles.
Or why I hold Moon Gatherings.
Sometimes the question is spoken.
Sometimes it's simply the look on their face.
"Isn't this all a little...different?"
Maybe.