Hello dear ones!

Time feels like it is on hyper speed right now, but here we are still in Leo season and I have for you ~ fresh off the press ~ your Leo season meditation.

Amidst all of the rearranging and shifting and running around that’s happening right now, I hope you find time and space to allow yourself this moment of pause.

Each astrological sign rules a certain part of the body. The sign Leo rules the heart, so this meditation will connect us to our big and beautiful hearts.

What you will need:

• A quiet space that you can linger in for 20 minutes

• A notebook and pen to write down any feelings, images, textures, sounds that come up as you explore your heart space.

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What an exciting time for this little corner of the writing world. I just wanted to take a moment to celebrate this completely unexpected milestone.

As a thank you to all my dear readers, I am offering a 20% off discount on annual subscriptions for the next 48 hours. To redeem, use the discount code “CELEBRATE20” when upgrading your subscription.

Your continued support helps in tremendous ways.

It can be a challenge for independent writers, so it is an honor to have this opportunity to share these offerings with you all.

Thank you for taking the time to read these words, it truly means so much.

with love,

katie shakira

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Butted up against my home are two buckeye trees. In the winter, their limbs are bare and I can see out to the sea. Slowly the trees suck water up through their roots and trunks, filling the branches until the buds break and sprout leaves. One by one the leaves collage until the views of water get swallowed up by green. Last year, I went on a road trip and left when the buckeye blossoms were still buds. When I returned, I was welcomed with a full bounty of soft pink tinged white petals, gracefully offering their sloping finger like leaves for a kiss . I buried my face in their bosom, crying with homecoming, weeping with release.

The buckeye tree is one of my favorite California native trees. I grew up in a town nestled in a valley with redwoods and salty air on one side, and live oaks and coyote brush on the other. On the oak side of the valley sits a trail that I would visit frequently. A trail whose smell, so thick with sagebrush and chaparral, always felt like home the second its perfume landed on my nose.

This was the trail I turned to during times of heartbreak, of feeling lost, of feeling hopeful. This is where I would run and cry and write and learn about landscape. I have always communed with the elements, but it was on this trail that I learned so much of how to be truly present. I would watch the golden eagle as he circled overhead, feeling his current ripple through my body. I would say hello to the two small trees standing next to one another who I called “the lovers” - a grey pine and a manzanita who grew tangled with one another’s limbs.

One of my favorite things about this trail was witnessing it change with the seasons. The story remains the same but the magic of the season-inspired shifts still catch me in wonderment, even after a couple of decades laying witness to it all. Watching the dirt swell with water in the season of muddy shoes and dodging newts. Witnessing the little pond break free from its dormancy as it gets filled drop by drop, calling in the ducks and frogs. Watching the green slip into brown then slip into grey and then back to green. Being in the company of the black tailed deer as the mothers have their babies and as the babies grow antlers who then learn the dance of establishing rank and power. This is the trail that strengthened my bond with snakes. While running I would play the “twig or snake?” game, jumping over a stretched out ring-necked or gopher snake, and occasionally passing by a rattlesnake the color of summer dirt.

I would sit on my favorite rock of serpentine and watch spring unfold itself in a tapestry of poppies and tidy tips, lupine and buttercups. Watching the wind play with the hairs of the oak savanna. The gnarled live oak still sits at the start of the trail and welcomes those who pass by its outstretched limbs. And of course, there is the great buckeye tree. One year, I was on a run being consumed by thought, and the plume of blossoms stopped me in my tracks. I remember being brought to tears at the sheer volume and abundance of this tree. That was the first time I truly registered this great tree, whispering “who are you?” and later learning their name. Every time I passed by after that, with a whispered “thank you”, I’d put her sweet petaled hands up to my face and inhale. Bringing the scent with me as though its delicateness had the strength to remove the weight of whatever I held. Looking forward to whatever phase it would be in the next time we’d meet, always there as I reach the bottom of a particular descent, located so symbolically at the threshold.

I moved into my current home during the height of winter, I now live on the redwood and salty air side of the valley. In the season of dormancy I had not recognized the two buckeye trees that stood next to my house. Come spring when the blossoms started to build and I registered who it was, I was overcome with belonging. I had found my way back to these trees. Every morning I would greet the buckeye that stands next to the redwoods alongside my deck. Witnessing the humming birds and stellar jays whip and twirl around the newly lush limbs and branches. Oh, how I wished to be a hummingbird in those moments… to kiss the buckeye so intimately, to sip sweetness from the tiny blossoms, to bring its taste into my body.

I knew I was going to be home for every phase of buckeye this year, so I decided to capture its transition. Every week or so I took a photo of the tree to document its shift from winter to spring. Excitement would build as I saw the buds slowly forming. As I saw the blossoms slowly opening. But then I noticed something else. The leaves around the blossom stalks began to brown. Rusted leaves slowly spread to rusted blossoms. It is now late June, when this time last year the buckeye was in full bloom, but now it is in decay.

After doing research, it seems that maybe it got too hot too early for the tree, resulting in stunted blossoms and shriveled leaves. Abundance cut short. An exhale halted. I kept holding out that its flowers would come, but eventually I realized that this year, the tree would look a little different. As I write this, my heart pangs with grief as I look out at the reddened dry leaves. Spring came early this year, we had several hotter than usual days early on in the season, and the trees grew their blossoms early making them susceptible to losing their tender petals to the heat.

I don’t know how to end this post except that I am holding out hope that next year will be different. I have hope that the tree will bounce back after shedding its burnt leaves. I have hope that it will let go of what didn’t work. I have hope that come winter, the buckeye tree will return to itself and regenerate under the blanket of dormancy.

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March 9th, 2022

even the rush of blossom fades
color drips and falls away
words unspoken still remain
tucked behind lips and stuck in throat
swallowing rocks and harboring grief
as images get covered in paint
my skin waters to release the pain
swallowing muddy water in dreams
i spit to release the taste
yet still, the bitterness remains
the plants keep me company with their silent words
their silent reaching
their silent teachings
sometimes i forget and sometimes i listen
their growth is subtle and quiet
sometimes like my own but sometimes
the fire leaks to the outside
a blazing even i cannot hide
i turn to blossoms and buds
and hold the potential in my palm
an intimate exchange
before the burst of blossom fades away
- katie shakira

All photographs from this post were shot on film unless otherwise stated

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An invitation: Ode to a tree. This post is dedicated to the buckeye tree. Is there a particular tree that you feel most drawn to? If so, spend some time meditating on this tree. What aspects of the tree calls you in? What feelings does this tree invoke?

What I’m reading: North Woods, by Daniel Mason. This book is a love letter to home, both the structure in which we sleep and the landscape that surrounds. Mason’s stunning prose paints such beautiful and vivid images. Part historical fiction, part haunting, part nature writing. This book contemplates both the transience and legacy of human life, and the flora and fauna that become so intertwined with our stories even when we don’t think about it.

What I’m listening to:

Community resources:

• California Native Plan Society From their website, “The California Native Plant Society is dedicated to celebrating California's native plant heritage and preserving it for future generations”

• California Native Seed Store. California’s only indigenous owned native seed store. Not only do they have a seed catalog to browse and purchase seeds from, but they also offer a variety of classes focused on learning about California ecosystems and the plants that inhibit them.

• The Tribal Marine Stewards Network. From their website, they “provide support for programs dedicated to cultural practice, land and water stewardship, and education.” They have lots of great resources and information on their website, and have ways for people to support their mission for those who are called. They are doing amazing things!

• The beautiful land in the Santa Cruz mountains that I get to call my home is stewarded by the Amah Mutsun Land Tribe, which consists of the different tribal villages and communities who have called this land home for thousands of years. Find out more about the efforts they are making to restore the land here, and find out how you can donate to the tribal band or make recurring land tax payments if you also live on this land. Unsure of who the land stewards are where you live? You can find that out here and see if your traditional land stewards have similar efforts.

sending love from where I reside at the peak of summer,

katie shakira

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It started as silhouette. All lines and space and dual dimensions. Tracing the subtle ridge with fingertip. Blowing dust off of the page - itself this outline of what it once was, a tree stretching in all directions. With each breath and intention cast, shape beginning to fill. Form beginning to take. Dream beginning to materialize. Spirit turning into matter. Pneuma spilling into once empty cavities - pneuma carrying with it life and energy and purpose.

Microorganisms and subtle structures that animate the inert. A seemingly lifeless thing slowly inhaling into being. What once was silhouette now stands alone projecting shadow to the ground. As idea gets birthed into structure.

What is the moment?

That point in time when a dream becomes reality. When the thing that worms and swirls around in the mind gets seeded into earth. Finding relief with its release. A tickle in the throat before the words get spoken. Consonants and vowels all conspiring into syllables to give my thoughts away.

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Lately I’ve been reflecting on the dreams I’ve had year after year. Intentions that linger in my periphery like a dusty box of words quickly sprawled on a page so that I wouldn’t forget. But how could I ever? And year after year, the same words scratched on page after page. My to do list becoming a copy and paste. I think about its silhouette drawn in a corner of my mind. My calculating brain trying to work out the steps needed to fill in its flesh. I trace its lines over and over again until the groove of it forms a crevice that deepens within my landscape. And what good has this served me? What is the benefit in keeping these silhouettes in a two dimensional form instead of bringing them to life?

What is it about fear that holds you frozen on your path? What is it about stagnation that feels safe despite the restless circulating current that churns and turns your internal terrain? My chest, thick with inhales, gets stuck at the exhales.

Unrealized intentions sit like collected dead branches, a gathering of inert energy waiting for the spark of action to turn into flame. Intentions alone cannot make the fire. Intentions and desire must collaborate strong enough with will to create action. Sometimes all it takes is the littlest step to move an idea out of its dusty box and into the light. Sometimes all it takes is an allowance to approach its creation with curiosity instead of perfection in order to dispel the fear that keeps your feet in place. Leading with curiosity instead of needing to get it “right” to invite playfulness and wonder into creation. I find it helps to remember what it was like to create when when I was a child, and embody that same lightness with my work.

The root of the word create means “to grow”, which helps me visualize the starting point of a new project as something small like a seed - something that’s within reach. Inviting its unknown outcome to let bloom the curiosity of possibility that allows space to flow outward into expansion.

Sometimes it feels easier to stay stuck with an idea instead of bringing it into being, but I also know how draining and restrictive it can feel to keep something hidden that wants to be shared. I remember when I was a child feeling such joy when I’d openly share my art, my little poems, and skits, and songs guided by imagination.

When I create from a place of play and curiosity, that is when I remember the magic of it all. That is when I open the door to let light cast on the once shadowed dreams. Allowing the first steps forward to feel less like trudging and more like a dance.

This is your reminder to pursue the dreams that scare you.

All photographs from this post were shot on film

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An invitation: Pursuing the dreams that scare you. What is the dream that keeps lingering in your periphery? What do you keep writing in your year ahead intentions year after year? Spend some time exploring these dreams. What is the thing that prickles your skin and dilates your eyes? The thing that feels like life force, like purpose. Now write down one thing that is within reach that you can do to bring life into your creation. How can you invite play and curiosity into this practice?

What I’m reading: Essentialism, by Greg McKeown, is such an important read for anyone who takes on many things and has an ever growing to-do list. The discipline laid out in this book is something I am still striving to be better about. This book was a good reminder that if we want to bring more play in our creations, we must carve out space and time for us to do so freely.

What I’m listening to:

Community resources:

• The beautiful land in the Santa Cruz mountains that I get to call my home is stewarded by the Amah Mutsun Land Tribe, which consists of the different tribal villages and communities who have called this land home for thousands of years. Find out more about the efforts they are making to restore the land here, and find out how you can donate to the tribal band or make recurring land tax payments if you also live on this land. Unsure of who the land stewards are where you live? You can find that out here and see if your traditional land stewards have similar efforts.

• The Tribal Marine Stewards Network. From their website, they “provide support for programs dedicated to cultural practice, land and water stewardship, and education.” They have lots of great resources and information on their website, and have ways for people to support their mission for those who are called. They are doing amazing things!

sending love from where I reside with the budding scent of summer’s opening palm,

katie shakira

If you would like to support my work, you can:

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• Give this post a heart <3 if you liked what you read

• Share your own musings by leaving a comment if these words resonated with you

• Share this publication with someone who you think would enjoy these offerings [this post is public so you can share it with friends and re-stack it, it really helps!]

Thank you for being here ♡

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sometimes i just want to listen to the soft mumblings of my home. the birds whispering their last evening words through the open window. the rolling boiling bubbling of pasta cooking. the soft sizzle pop of zucchini and swiss chard sautéing. the loyal heater as it stretches and creaks to push out heat. the puttering of rain tap tap tapping on the walkway made of brick and moss. sometimes all i want is to sink into the warm still bath that is noiseless. motionless. moving limbs so slowly to not break the surface.

sometimes i want the radio silenced. music turned down. no podcast or audiobook or anything else.

it is in this quiet that i let my breath spill out. sometimes my voice escapes to play with a note or two. sometimes my throat reminds me in its ache that it is still learning how to open. sometimes when i allow the stillness to settle, i am left with nothing except everything.

and i remember the days when i was left alone with the deep black vastness found in the space between stars. swallowing darkness and spitting constellations. struck with the reminder that we are no different. electrons and atoms and exploding space dust. the times i used to just sit in my room, self-orbiting, face against mirror, pen to paper, music ricocheting from my diaphragm. submerged in the immensity of my being, i explored the varied terrain within ribcage. the softening warm sand dunes of my rolling arms. the piercing shriek of volcano sputtering through my veins. the still of water’s skin gently lapping in my thighs. the deep green blanket that is the forest of my lungs. it was in those moments of perceived solitude that i opened the channels to speak to everything - from the stars, to the rosemary bush in my backyard. i communed with god in their many forms. i inhaled their words and spit them back out in patterns like it was my life force. consuming page after page like the very wood from the very tree with its very leaves that supply the oxygen that gives me breath.

but sometimes i forget…

i forget to stop at the oak tree dripping with lichen and stories. i forget to sit with the rosemary and listen to her grandmother’s wisdom. i forget to put bare skin up to the palms of life, all wet and fertile and holding in its fecundity. i forget that god is there. tip tapping at my window. waiting patiently for me to turn down the stereo and silence the phone to let the message come through. i forget that the point of all of this is found in connection. even though i know it, sometimes i forget that to be with god is simply to witness. and sometimes all it takes is an opening of a window to see inside.

All photographs from this post were shot on film

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An invitation: Explore your inner landscape. Play around with imagining the different environments that come together to give you color. What texture and sights and sounds does it have? Write down what makes up your inner landscape.

What I’m reading: The Signature of All Things, by Elizabeth Gilbert, is a book about noticing and understanding the world around and within as it weaves together science, religion, and magic. This book still haunts me in the best way, its words are aching and true.

What I’m listening to:

Community resources:

• The beautiful land in the Santa Cruz mountains that I get to call my home is stewarded by the Amah Mutsun Land Tribe, which consists of the different tribal villages and communities who have called this land home for thousands of years. Find out more about the efforts they are making to restore the land here, and find out how you can donate to the tribal band or make recurring land tax payments if you also live on this land. Unsure of who the land stewards are where you live? You can find that out here and see if your traditional land stewards have similar efforts.

• The Tribal Marine Stewards Network. From their website, they “provide support for programs dedicated to cultural practice, land and water stewardship, and education.” They have lots of great resources and information on their website, and have ways for people to support their mission for those who are called. They are doing amazing things!

sending love from where I reside at the tail-end of pink jasmine season,

katie shakira

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If you would like to support my work, you can:

• Subscribe

• Give this post a heart <3 if you liked what you read

• Share your own musings by leaving a comment if these words resonated with you

• Share this publication with someone who you think would enjoy these offerings [this post is public so you can share it with friends and re-stack it, it really helps!]

Thank you for being here ♡

Refer a friend

December 20th, 2025

writing poems in a book store
decaf americano
just a splash of milk
so enthralled in this book
my crossed leg begins to ache
I switch sides
my eyes fade in this dim light
but I must continue on 
inject these words
these scratches on a page
straight into my bloodstream 
following these scratches on a page 
like a wolf hunting
hungry 
one onto the next
feeding
word by word until no more are left
and I am all but consumed 
consuming
as the world of another comes crashing into 
I hover
gulping, tracing
step back and replay it
the crunch of letters between teeth 
the soft roll of words tickling my tongue
the weighted space between lines
throat close, heavy jaw
finger print at page edge
turning from one moment to the next

it is

the visceral lightning strike
of words
selected and formed
a crack into chasm
an opening straight to -
and here I am
in a bookstore with a decaf americano in hand
utterly devoured 
by words
- katie shakira

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December 19th, 2025

Here I am again in New York City. I arrived late, flight delayed. My body heated and irritated. Wanting sleep, everyone moving slow. I stepped out of the airport as the cold sprang intoxicatingly into my lungs. Greying snow still clinging to the ground. I allowed excitement to stir me as I left for downtown Brooklyn, where I’ll be staying with my friend who is cat sitting. My dreams this morning were parenthesized with bouts of being awoken by thumping cat paws, requesting meows, and slow rolling drool from mouth to pillow. Dreams did come, though they arrived suddenly and left in a fog. No remaining fragments of messages came through strongly enough to grasp. Somehow I managed to wake feeling rested. The clock said 10 am - a time by which I usually accomplish so much. Yet this morning amongst the dulled hues, I allowed myself to linger in the liminal with no agenda.

December 23rd, 2025

Yesterday’s bright blue sky was drained of color to create today’s grey upon grey. The wind picks the sleet up and carries it every which way. A momentary excursion wetting my shoes in sludge to grab coffee and pastries from the French bakery around the corner, and then quickly back inside to watch the little flecks of silver sprinkle past. One cat lays by the windowsill. The other runs around chasing shadows.

We went to the MoMA yesterday and I left feeling deeply inspired, a regular occurrence after museum visits. I found myself gleefully lost wandering around the many mediums of art. Somewhere on the third floor I had to stop, to sit down, to write some questions and future project ideas while they were fresh in my brains. Wandering around the museum made me think about all the different kinds of art I’ve put my hands on. All the things that excited me. All the pathways that I wanted to pursue but then didn’t. Thinking about what it would have been like if I had continued following the threads of this form or that form while they were still in my hands. And now, feeling inspired by all of the artists, I am reminded that it isn’t too late to pick those threads back up.

As I wandered around, I observed a pattern between the style of art that was made and when it was made. I thought about how certain world events influenced the kind of art that became popular. How surrealist art became more prevalent following the 1st World War - Artists such as Salvador Dali, René Magritte, and Leonara Carrington created images that spun the aches and realities of living with a dreamlike lens. They created art that played with fantastical images that explored truths hidden behind reason; truths that tapped into the personal and collective subconscious. When the external world felt too grim, the collective steered away from the more concrete and bold art towards art that allowed escape. Art that held abstract representations and dreamlike images with the blurred lines of conscious realism and revelatory subconscious themes. When I view art from that era, the images are unexpected and yet evoke a sense of familiarity with a softness.

I think of the present day, when art made by AI is on the rise. Images created by AI that feel illusory and lead us to ask, “is this real?”. As we enter another time when tyranny and upheaval and disconnection and fear are the rise, I see an increase of people seeking the surreal. Seeking glitches in the fabric that allow escape in the digital form. I notice that in this time of ever increasing artificially made art, there is this pull towards mediums that mimic the tactile. I’ve been seeing “digital film” cameras pop up - creating the illusion of tangible. VR creating the illusion of landscape. AI creating the illusion of creation.

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Even those of us creating using analog mediums find ourselves digitalizing our art to add to the algorithms. I find myself reflecting on the days when I used to create more offline in a variety of ways before the algorithm was even a thing. Before it led me into a pigeonhole of repetitive content. I have to actively block the influence of the algorithm as it tries to convince me what I should create, so that I can allow what it is I am meant to create to come through. I find myself trying to silence the increase of external voices, missing the days when things felt more quiet.

With my mind on all of this, I write down intentions. I write them down again. I keep repeating them until they feel like mantras. Like threads that tie me back to purpose. Like something to hold onto amidst the noise and the illusions and the time that slips past my hands. I repeat them until they feel like hope.

I look out at downtown Brooklyn, I sip room temperature coffee, the sleet has just ceased. The heat just turned on. And I am longing for the quiet release of snow.

December 24th, 2025

the sun is bright, cutting
the wind is sharp, whipping
cold bites the bit of flesh that risks exposure
it is jarring to the lungs
breath suspended in air so thin
it is beautiful

taking a break from the wind
a warm cafe
layers of clothing dismantled
I usually have milk in my coffee,
but because I'm reading Patti Smith,
I drink it black
I ate waffles that were too sweet
they forgot my coffee so I took it to go
we decided to walk back instead of taking the train
something about the cold air in my lungs, I crave
there are people about doing last minute Christmas shopping
the line for the butcher snakes around the corner
there is a young woman arguing on the phone with her mother
every time I'm here, I imagine myself living here.  I think about when I almost lived here.  I think about parallel lives.  what would it be like? if I had chosen to move here.  or if I did move to Paris.  what would I be doing?  who would I be?  or if I decided to take proper guitar lessons.  or if I continued doing fashion design.  I wonder, would any of it be enough?  or would I still be writing these pages, asking what if? 
- katie shakira

all photographs from this post were shot on film

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An invitation: This post’s invitation is an art activity. Go somewhere where you can sit and watch people walking by. Test your observational skills by creating a piece of art inspired by what you see. This could be a drawing, or a painting, or writing a song, or writing a poem. Devote this little piece of artwork to the details. What do you notice? What patterns and shapes and colors come through?

What I’m reading: The M Train by Patti Smith. Smith’s prose is honest and sharp. This is a pretty short book, so the lightness of it makes it a great book to travel with.

What I’m listening to: To honor the threads of art that I used to dabble in, for this post I am sharing a video that I created in 2021 for an astrology and art class. Creating videos was one of the threads that pulled me, so it was great to have the opportunity to experiment with it during that class. This particular project asked to highlight my natal Mercury placement in Virgo. Following Virgo’s lead, every detail in the video was intentional, from the accompanying song, to certain scenes playing in reverse (Merc was in retrograde when I was born), to the psychopomp oracle. See how many Mercury in Virgo themes you can spot. The song is “Henry Lee”, created by fellow Mercury in Virgos Nick Cave and PJ Harvey. Please don’t mind the loud waves in the video, I was living on the coast in Nicaragua at the time… where the ocean played a strong role in the art that was created.

Community resources:

• The beautiful land in the Santa Cruz mountains that I get to call my home is stewarded by the Amah Mutsun Land Tribe, which consists of the different tribal villages and communities who have called this land home for thousands of years. Find out more about the efforts they are making to restore the land here, and find out how you can donate to the tribal band or make recurring land tax payments if you also live on this land. Unsure of who the land stewards are where you live? You can find that out here and see if your traditional land stewards have similar efforts.

• The Tribal Marine Stewards Network. From their website, they “provide support for programs dedicated to cultural practice, land and water stewardship, and education.” They have lots of great resources and information on their website, and have ways for people to support their mission for those who are called. They are doing amazing things!

sending love from where I reside where the earth slopes towards early spring,

katie shakira

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If you would like to support my work, you can:

• Subscribe

• Give this post a heart <3 if you liked what you read

• Share your own musings by leaving a comment if these words resonated with you

• Share this publication with someone who you think would enjoy these offerings [this post is public so you can share it with friends and re-stack it, it really helps!]

Thank you for being here ♡

Refer a friend

October 5th, 2025

i am in the deep woods of the McCloud mountains on a bike camping trip with a couple of friends. we started in Shasta, my first time really exploring the area instead of just passing through. the sound of bird song and the sight of a seemingly endless blanket of green greeted me as i awoke. the sun rising turns the deep muted greens aglow with honeyed light. i feel at peace here. i slept quite well the last couple of nights despite waking up frequently from dreams to shimmy around in my sleeping bag. rearranging limbs to relieve aching shoulders and hips. i would love to come back to this land in the winter to see the sea of green parenthesized with the white of snow.

i think about how my heart longs for this when i don’t have it and when i have it, i grieve its ending before it’s even gone. being surrounded by tall pine and the soft fuzz patch of new growth trees. i am all breath and blood and purpose. and yet when i am here, i am the softening floor of drying pine needle and sloughed off bark. i am the bright green lichen making its home on the branch of a lodgepole pine. i am the mushroom body taking its time to emerge from the mud.

it is here that i am all symbiosis and network and my purpose is to just be. silently and softly breaking down matter. i succumb to the forest floor and then reemerge as a new form. i think of what it would be like to be that bright green lichen on its branch while i slowly sip coffee, write words with cold fingers, and wait for the sun to warm this vessel of skin and bone and ache and pleasure.

October 5th, 2025

at 5 am in the woods
there is only silence
i awoke to vastness
with only the stars as my companions        even
the full harvest moon tucked itself behind trees
no wind, no twig snap, no rustling
the only sounds
come from my thoughts underground
replaying scenes from a dream
sifting through old memories
over and over and over
until they send me back to sleep
- katie shakira

all photographs from this post were shot on film

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An invitation: If you could embody a non-human form for a day, what form would you want to take? It could be tree, or falcon, or rock, or lichen, or...

What aspects of this being drew you in? What characteristics would you like to call in? If you feel called to, share in the comments what form came to you first.

What I’m reading: The Covenant of Water, by Abraham Verghese. I haven’t finished it yet but was hooked by the first page. Verghese is a physician as well as an author, and writes with such detail and grace. This book is aching and so human.

What I’m listening to:

Community resources:

• The beautiful land in the Santa Cruz mountains that I get to call my home is stewarded by the Amah Mutsun Land Tribe, which consists of the different tribal villages and communities who have called this land home for thousands of years. Find out more about the efforts they are making to restore the land here, and find out how you can donate to the tribal band or make recurring land tax payments if you also live on this land. Unsure of who the land stewards are where you live? You can find that out here and see if your traditional land stewards have similar efforts.

• The Tribal Marine Stewards Network. From their website, they “provide support for programs dedicated to cultural practice, land and water stewardship, and education.” They have lots of great resources and information on their website, and have ways for people to support their mission for those who are called. They are doing amazing things!

sending love from where I reside within the watery depths of winter,

katie shakira

Subscribe now

If you would like to support my work, you can:

• Subscribe

• Give this post a heart <3 if you liked what you read

• Share your own musings by leaving a comment if these words resonated with you

• Share this publication with someone who you think would enjoy these offerings [this post is public so you can share it with friends and re-stack it, it really helps!]

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there was a time

when we allowed the earth to rest

truly rest

when after the season of planting came to an end, we would burn the land. we would invite the energy to flow subterranean. we allowed fire to bring forth change to the landscape. instead of focusing on more and bigger and faster, we had seasons devoted to cutting back, halting, pausing. we took heed of the fallen leaves. composting ourselves into decay so that we are renewed come spring. fully replenished because our energy went underground. tending to our roots. casting spells within the hearth. retelling stories and sharing words amongst the fire. spilling our words into the spitting flames to call up all that happened in the past year to stir the pot of the dreams we will hold for the seasons to come. our hands weaving and stirring and kneading. the focus shifting from skin to bone. finding deep warmth amongst food and drink and fire and each other.

There are communities that still practice seasonal burns, though the consequence of these burns is now more complex in our man-made climate crisis of ever increasing CO2 circulating the atmosphere, embedding in the soil, and warming the ocean.

This article talks about the “domestication of fire”, and how for millennia humans have worked with fire for various purposes: ritual, cooking, pottery/tool making, tending the land, keeping our blood warm. The industrial age brought forth a shift in our relationship with fire. Our fires went from slow and controlled and intentional to bigger and faster and hotter in order to make more products, create more fuel, and clear more land for larger scale farming. The more we suppressed intentional seasonal fires to thin out vegetation and dried brush for a healthier ecosystem, the more we set up the land to have more devastating burns. A cascading of events - as more forests are burned, more CO2 is created leading to warmer temps making it harder for the ocean to sequester carbon - and with less trees photosynthesizing carbon, we get stuck in a loop that further exacerbates the cycle. We stopped allowing the earth to rest.

We live in an age where our species’ population has far exceeded what it used to be, which means we rely more heavily on fuel and materials to sustain our livelihoods. But what would it look like if we took the teachings of seasonal fires and brought its intention back to basics? If we allowed ourselves to listen to autumn’s song and burn off the remnants of the harvest now past. Answering the call to return to the land and really think about the health of our soils. To allow ourselves to be fallow. To surrender to rest instead of burning ourselves out into embers. What would that look like? How would that feel in our bodies? Now, most of us do not have jobs that slow down for the winter season, and we are still required to work even when our bodies are asking for a break. With the complexities of the current system (and not planning on quitting my job any time soon), I am contemplating somewhat simple ways that I can do a proper clearing to lighten the heaviness that I carry in order to bring forth proper rest. What are ways that help you turn your gaze inward to your innermost landscape to see what it is that your body truly needs in order to rest?

I keep thinking about this connection of the suppression of proper rest and clearing coinciding with our suppression of fire use for ritual and land stewarding, and how suppressing and ignoring often leads to a more devastating outcome. Where instead of intentionally calling in rest, often something happens where you are forced to rest. I have experienced this in a physical capacity when I would go through bouts of heavy activity which would often result in some sort of overuse injury. And I have found that it is much easier to rest when there is a physical overuse injury than it is when I feel mentally or emotionally overextended.

I myself have been feeling like my internal garden is full of overgrown tomato stalks, unfulfilled cucumbers, wilting leaves. My soil feels tired. My skin has been itching for change and to pursue projects that have been dreams for a long time, though what my bones need first is rest. Because in order for me to actually give my dreams the space they need to sustain, I need to clear the garden first. I think about what it would feel like to set fire to all that I am still holding onto, all that is preventing me from moving forward. All of the dead brush and wilting leaves and spent growth. With eyes closed, I envision letting go so that I can sink deep into earth to breathe new life into my soil and hibernate so that come spring I am fresh. So that come spring, the path is more clear for my readying steps. So that come spring, my inner landscape will be ready for new seeds.

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This poem was written a few weeks, inspired (as always) by the elements and the lessons they share with me.

December 3rd, 2025

oh fire,
teach me something
about change
that timeless way of alchemizing pain
and turning it into 
beauty
flames licking at wounds until all decay is consumed
and what remains is nothing but the truth
oh wind,
teach me something
about love
not just about the soft tendrils of air silently shifting my hair
but the bellowing blows that come to knock on the door of my flesh
to find out who is home
oh water,
teach me something 
of surrender
the way you sift through my fingers
lift me up
and sway with the strength of waves
how the cliffside gives way to your tides and dissolves into sand
oh earth,
teach me something of letting go
when fingertips grip tight
may my grasp loosen so that 
dirt can fall from palms to cover the seeds
as i give up control
walls crumble
shoulders drop 
to give what has been planted space to grow

- katie shakira

all images from this post were shot on film

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An invitation: Here are some practices and journal prompts for you to wander through ~

Is there a particular landscape where being in its presence feels like the world stands still for a moment? When you close your eyes and think of this landscape, is there a specific scenery, colorscape, weather pattern, scent that arrives in your periphery that feels most restorative? Is it the beach? On your porch? The sound of rain? The feel of wind? The immense green of forest? Is this landscape easily accessible to you? If so, can you dedicate time to sit with it (truly sit with it) and allow your self to be fully immersed in its presence? If it isn’t accessible, find time to sit with the envisioning of the landscape, allowing yourself to receive its medicine even from afar. If you feel called to, share in the comments which landscape characteristics came to you first. For me, it’s laying by the river with the sound of moving water and rustling leaves with a gentle breeze and a warm sun with nothing but my devotion to the river and the river’s devotion to its path.

What I’m reading: This article discusses the nuances of the complex relationship of fire in our current climate/ecosystem.

I just finished reading Goliath’s Curse by Luke Kemp ~ a thorough account on societal collapses throughout human history, analyzing what makes a society vulnerable to collapse, how the path of our species from our beginnings as hunter-gatherer Homo Erectus led to eventual settlements, predisposing colonies to form hierarchies and empires. Goliath’s Curse takes anthropological evidence to glimpse into what our futures could look like, highlighting the effects that various times of climate change had on our species and how we adapted through each one. Kemp also provides propositions on how we can prevent further devastation in the Anthropocene. I really enjoyed the depth and expanse that this book has, as Kemp touches on many aspects that impacts collapse: environmental, cultural, economic inequality, effects of war, hunter gatherer vs agricultural societies, migration, technology, and the importance of community. At 592 pages this book is no light reading, but it made a great audiobook to listen to while driving, cooking, knitting. I’ll leave you with a couple of quotes from the book that I loved that touches on the beauty and importance of human connection following a devastating event/collapse.

“The world crumbles away often revealing the best in us.”

“Where the fabric of our reality split open and revealed not chaos, but the possibility of a more intimate and meaningful community”.

What I’m listening to: At the end of the day, each one of us is Mother Nature’s bitch.

Community resources:

• The beautiful land in the Santa Cruz mountains that I get to call my home is stewarded by the Amah Mutsun Land Tribe, which consists of the different tribal villages and communities who have called this land home for thousands of years. Find out more about the efforts they are making to restore the land here, and find out how you can donate to the tribal band or make recurring land tax payments if you also live on this land. Unsure of who the land stewards are where you live? You can find that out here and see if your traditional land stewards have similar efforts.

• The Tribal Marine Stewards Network. From their website, they “provide support for programs dedicated to cultural practice, land and water stewardship, and education.” They have lots of great resources and information on their website, and have ways for people to support their mission for those who are called. They are doing amazing things!

sending love from where I reside as the cutting December air invites me into presence,

katie shakira

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ears perked to hear the sound of absence of what once roamed.

a notable shift in the landscape spanning only a few generations. searching for prints from the past. i put my hand to dirt, eyes closed, waiting for the remnants of a pulse to resonate through me. in silence, i wait.

how long does it take for a track to dissipate? for the wind to lift up dirt until all traces fade? until bone erodes to earth wiping away any remains… melting with fallen foliage of a big leaf maple and conifer droppings. until the very last strand of hair gets claimed by earth and turns to duff. cells succumbing to salt water and decay.

The last California grizzly bear was seen in 1924. For thousands of years, grizzlies roamed this land providing a beneficiary role to the ecosystem and contributing to the wildness and soul of the terrain. And then the gold rush came. What resulted was a mass rush of settlers and ranchers and colonizers that initiated an unwilding of the land by clear cutting trees and killing the wildlife that threatened their settlements. Probably the most drastic wildlife alteration of this movement was the extermination of the California grizzly bear, as one by one, the California grizzlies were all killed off with the expansion of colonized land. Going from a population of about 10,000 to 0 in 200 years.

100 years later in the Santa Cruz mountains where I live, a settler myself, I can feel the resounding silence left by the grizzlies. Thinking not only about what the extinction of the California grizzly bear has on the ecosystem, but symbolically what that invokes. When I think about grizzlies, the first word that comes to me is wild.

What does it mean that the state of California declared the grizzly bear its state animal after its extinction? What does that say about how we crave wild but are afraid of actually living with it? We are intrigued and yet when it comes to being up front with it, we hide. We run away. We let it rest within a dark corner of our mind, hearing its faint low hum every now and then. We clothe our bodies and our feet and build up walls to keep the wild on the outside. All the while… we crave. Our bodies, hungry to return and yet wanting to hold on to the comfort and safety that comes with separation. It is complex, yes, and yet there is a deep longing ache for that piece of ourselves that we only get briefly at best when we allow the sway of surrender to move through our being (I have felt this surrender most when I am running through the woods, wild camping, howling, swimming naked in a river, and dancing uninhibited).

How do we repair this relationship with that part of us that wants to be released, reintegrated, returned? How do we come to terms with the killing of the grizzlies and what that means for us now as part of this terrain? How do we reckon with the silencing of that wild roar that once echoed through the valleys, circulating its sound amongst the DNA of the trees, the stone, the fungi, the roots?

When I walk slow enough amongst the redwood trees, I put my ear up against the silence to see if I can catch wisps of that reverb. With grief, I hear the outcome of when the colonizing men took the fate of the land into their own hands. A vast void of what was and a longing ache for the wild within.

I think about the current debates about reintroducing grizzlies back to California. The physical impact on the present ecosystem and populations is beyond my scope, but I am more pondering this conversation on a metaphorical level. A metaphor for the complexities of allowing the wild back into ourselves, and the risk that comes with truly embracing our wholeness as animal. For what would the impact be of following the tracks back to a time when we held our whole selves under sunlight? Before the taste of shame trickled down the backs of our throats leading us to swallow the parts of our being that knew the songs of wolf, the foot print of grizzly, the specific sway of each specific tree. Before we began to walk by our non-human kin with blinders of forgetting, before we stopped greeting the mountains and all they contain by name. Before we separated from ourselves with the weight of an unnamed sorrow, leading us to seek these pieces elsewhere.

It has been 100 years since the killing of the last California grizzly bear. These grizzlies had roamed this land for thousands of years and were killed with purpose and intention. The effects of the Anthropocene on the places we call home and the places we escape to that we call wilderness, ricochet within the very foundations of these landscapes. But it is not lost. If we put our ears up against the soft dirt of our insides and listen, we can hear the sounds of remembering and move towards reintegrating our wild.

I am always inspired by the elements and I am forever grateful in the way that they hold and teach especially during times of grief - personal, ecological, and collective grief. This poem was written to honor that and to bring to light my own wild so that I may never forget.

August 16th, 2025

i am a mosaic of
birdsong and moss
a collective of 
lichen dripping from tree
all limbs and river flow
a weaving of rocks both smooth and sharp
there are claws and talons and feathers and fur
i weep with movement
grief watering my feet
as my roots take hold

and it is in the shifting tides of wind that my shape takes form
it is of the earth i am molded
warmed by sun my watery palms trace
a curvy trail littered with flower and decay
i listen to all around
all within
i surround
the holy within my hands
she is soft under my weeping
i am full with her nourishing
as she listens to my petitions of release
with loosened fingers
i surrender

with feet sinking deeper
into the landscape of me
witnessing with reverence
this wild tapestry

- katie shakira

all images from this post were shot on film

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An invitation: The journal prompt for today is to think about what it means to re-wild yourself - what emotions or feelings does that invoke? What would it look like to allow yourself to sink your teeth back into landscape that lives right outside your door? Close your eyes and contemplate the terrain of your wildness. What are the sensations, scents, sights, sounds that are calling to you?

What I'm reading: Some further reading on grizzly bears:

https://www.biodiversitylibrary.org/page/10205985#page/87/mode/1up

https://faculty.weber.edu/jcavitt/ecology/Readings/LeopoldEssay1.pdf

What I'm listening to: This is one of my favorite songs to dance uninhibited to. I’d recommend playing it loud and allowing your body to move in a way that it feels called to move, whether it be soft flowing water or jutting quakes and anywhere in between. Trusting your intuitive movements.

Community resources:

• The beautiful land in the Santa Cruz mountains that I get to call my home is stewarded by the Amah Mutsun Land Tribe, which consists of the different tribal villages and communities who have called this land home for thousands of years. Find out more about the efforts they are making to restore the land here, and find out how you can donate to the tribal band or make recurring land tax payments if you also live on this land. Unsure of who the land stewards are where you live? You can find that out here and see if your traditional land stewards have similar efforts.

• The Tribal Marine Stewards Network. From their website, they “provide support for programs dedicated to cultural practice, land and water stewardship, and education.” They have lots of great resources and information on their website, and have ways for people to support their mission for those who are called. They are doing amazing things!

sending love from where i reside as the sound and scent of October rains drift in through open windows,

katie shakira

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if you would like to support my work, you can:

• subscribe

• give this post a heart <3 if you liked what you read

• share your own musings by leaving a comment if these words resonated with you

• share this publication with someone who you think would enjoy these offerings [this post is public so you can share it with friends and re-stack it, it really helps!]

thank you for being here ♡

[the final installment]

june 11th, 2025

we made it to our camp spot in southern Utah. a 7 hour drive in terrible heat, arriving flustered, hot and hungry. there is a wisp of a breeze coming through every now and then that i try to catch. i feel tired and dehydrated. Colorado had me feeling nourished and inspired. we parted ways from Jamie and Kopi. in between silent moments of contentment, our our evening was woven with conversation. a question was asked, what is the point of having children when the world is seemingly crumbling? i say, “it’s the same reason why we still make art”. even though yes, there is hurt and greed and sorrow, we never stop needing beauty. even in the face of destruction, we still create. we still plant gardens. we still love and make love. we still seek moments of truth that lie in the kindness of humanity. why have kids? why create art? because it pulls the threads of hope. hope and belief in the goodness that can come from sharing what you create as a means of opening your heart to another. as a way of breaking the walls of isolation to create connection with one another. breaking the illusion of aloneness. for how many times have you opened up to someone and received a “me too” in response? we all share the complexities of being human. and it is leaning into the strength of community and learning from the gifts of others that inspire us to be held and move through hardship. if there is a desire to put forth a creation into the world whether it be art, or children, or raising animals, or building a homestead, or creating a business, or making nourishing food, then it is imperative to the health of the mind, body and soul to follow that desire into action. this is something i need to remember.

i miss the electrifying sting of submerging my body in glacial streams as i am greeted by this dry heat. this trip feels like a shedding of skin. my lips, a physical representation of this - raw and tender with old skin flaking off. a reminder to be gentle with myself during times of transition. i just don’t think i am the same person as when i left. it has been a while since i’ve shed this much.

june 12th, 2025

we arrived at our campsite in the eastern Sierra. i decided to leave Utah a day early to escape the heat. we made it over in time to visit the ancient bristle cone pine forest - i have waited years to be here. and to touch these old scraggly trees and be in their presence with my dog felt like a surreal “i made it” moment. this landscape holds so much magic and energy with all of the hot springs and snow and peaks and river flow and meadows and even more ancient rock formations. this is where earth collides, comes apart and sustains life. i am so grateful to be ending this journey here.

june 13th, 2025

i am feeling tender with it being the end of our road trip. something that was once a dream and now has happened. i am so full of love for this life, for the beautiful landscapes my body has been in, and for the dog who has been with me throughout. she has only been in my life for four months yet i feel we are already so intertwined. she is my teacher. seeing her today walking in front of me on the trail surrounded by snow capped mountains, wildflowers trailing at our feet. passing by the wild roses, i realize how similar they are to her - beautiful and soft yet not without a bit of thorn, and with a scent that feels ancestral.

i ended up getting food poisoning. all of a sudden feeling nauseous and miserable. all i wanted was to rest, but i kept needing to get up to dispel what was inside me. this is quite the finale of my trip, as i am literally purging and releasing whatever poison i held inside me.

june 15th, 2025

Devika and i arrived home yesterday. i feel a little disoriented coming back. like coming off of a long flight or waking from a long night of sleeping and dreaming. body feeling heavy and head in a daze. we were greeted by the scent of spring fading into summer. the buckeye trees outside our home still hanging onto their blooms. their heady sweetness welcomed a tearful homecoming. a hummingbird sips eagerly from one of the blossoms. i lean one cluster to my nose and inhale deeply. i kiss the blossoms softly in gratitude. gratitude for this land, and for the spirits and creatures of this land for giving us a home that feels good to return to. and it is here that i invite myself to be slow in integrating all that was held on this journey and all that was let go.

june 6th, 2025

where the late winter wind blows
tufts of tundra grow
rock is speckled where the lichen erodes
and then all of a sudden
the sun faded into snow
i open my mouth
catching icy petals on my tongue
i breathe deep
sucking cold air into my lungs
where frost freezes over
i melt away the numb
with the electrification of life and all of its pulsing
running through my blood
- katie shakira

all images from this post were shot on film

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An invitation: This road trip happened at the cusp of spring turning into summer, and I share these words and photographs as summer slips into autumn. The invitation to you is to muse on seasonal transitions: How do you honor the time in between seasons? Do you have a favorite seasonal threshold? In what simple ways can you invite ceremony to the shifting weathers?

What I’m reading: Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck. This book is Steinbeck’s (often humorous) tale of journeying across the country with his dog. I was inspired to read this upon my arrival back home and although it was written in 1962, a lot of Steinbeck’s reflections on change, whether it be personal, interpersonal, or regional, felt quite relatable.

What I’m listening to: This road trip offered many quiet moments when words and rhythms greeted me, and I was grateful to have the time and space to document them. Here is a snippet of a song that flowed in one day while we were resting during one of the many afternoon rain showers, not forcing any direction of any kind but instead receiving openly. Maybe one day there will be more flesh to these songs that came through. But for now, here is a wisp.

Mutual aid:

• Immigrant Defenders Law Center is a non-profit organization helping protect people who are at risk for deportation. They have ways to donate and share their work to help them continue providing support for our immigrant community.

• I am grateful to reside on the land of the Amah Mutsun Land Tribe. If you are living on or near the California central coast, find out more about the efforts they are making to restore the land and to pay your land tax here.

sending love from where i reside as the drench of summer trickles into autumn,

katie shakira

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• give this post a heart <3 or share your own musings by leaving a comment if these words resonated with you

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thank you for being here ♡

june 6th, 2025

Devika and i have made it to Crested Butte. we sit in the sunshine at our campsite in the Gunnison forest. both of our bodies are starting to settle after the previous day’s traveling. we had gotten in at the onset of night after driving through epic Colorado landscapes - dramatic tall red cliffs, snowy mountains, dense pine forests, moose grazing creekside. yesterday’s drive brought me over two high mountain passes as snow storms started - the exhilaration under the flurries of snow felt like a remembering of some sort. lighting up something that had been stagnant. a dormancy on the verge of being split open as icy winds cut through my entire being. i breathed in deep at the top of the summit, mouth open, lips chapped, snow melting on my tongue. there was a moment on the drive last night when i thought i was going to get lost. my signal dropped out, it was nearing dusk and i only had a vague sense of where i was going - if i can just descend this pass and follow the river left. right as i approached the river, i was greeted with a rainbow breaking free from grey and my phone’s signal returned. i giggled with delirium and delight as both adrenaline and awe circulated my system.

june 8th, 2025

i stare at the face of the mountain and it stares right back. snow still tucked away inside its wrinkles. that ancient, grand face that knows so much. this chiseled face with stubble made of aspen and pine. an impeccably cut jaw line to contrast the soft sky as the wind blows cloud pillows past. and i can’t help but stare. my eyes trace every jagged edge as if i could memorize these etchings in my mind. my dog sleeps behind me while i lay enthralled with what stands before me. this ancient sculpture jutting from the earth’s very core. and i feel the intimacy of that so deep. tenderly gazing at the earth’s insides on display. i catch my breath at the thought. at the mere mirroring within eye’s reach for those who wish to see. as the sun has its fun shedding light to tease the shifting shadows. how vulnerable it is - to lie naked with naked landscape. neither of us shrouded by obstacles. meeting as flesh merges with rock. as fingertip merges with lichen. as limb merges with branch. as the evaporation of my breath collides with the very structures that keep me alive. an exchange of atoms. a dance as old as time. and it is upon witnessing your face that i slowly unravel the very fabric of my being into the most simple structures of life. it is here that i drop all the complexities and absurdities and intricacies that have weighed heavy from my shoulders to my toes. and like a tree emerging from winter, i let the cool mountain wind blow away my cloak of snow, making way for the elements to remind me what it is that truly need.

june 9th, 2025

we met up with Jamie and Kopi in Silverton and made our bumpy way along to find a spot to camp, slowly weaving alongside the creek of rushing snowmelt. we picked our campsite on a meadow with a view of the mountains.

[the rest of this journal entry is redacted. this is when Devika ran straight up to a moose and lived to tell the tale. i will spare you all the details of this learning experience. we are both so grateful that the moose was only interested in eating the fresh spring greens.]

june 11th, 2025
it was in
the high desert winds
that my old skin sloughed off
and away it went
away i went
heeding the canyon calls
deep within forest
i shook off my solitude withdrawals
craving nothing but
the sound of
wind through leaves
bird song and chipmunk greets
putting my body in cold glacial streams
face changing
self rearranging
i look in the mirror and no longer recognize who i see
when i return back home, who will i be?
and it was with
the mountain peaks with their sunset drip
when i got lost in the landscape
of juniper and pine
and the rivers and creeks and streams and rain
asked me to open my hands again
to let go
all that i was ready to let go
and it was just like that
driving through the snowy mountain pass
that i let my new form take a breath
and i exhaled away the rest
- katie shakira

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an invitation: reflect on what nourishes your soul - true nourishment. nourishment that fills your cup like fresh air in your wanting lungs. is it time with friends? being alone? being in the ocean? writing? make a list of what comes to mind and dedicate some time to do a couple of them, observing the sensations in your body before and after. what does it feel like to be nourished?

what i’m reading: this trip was accompanied by the book “I Who Have Never Known Men” by Jacqueline Harpman, recommended by a friend. it is a post-apocalyptic science fiction tale that is so gripping and poignant. the whole book is haunting and yet there are moments of pleasure sprinkled throughout. exploring the question stated in a previous post: when the world’s current structure crumbles with destruction, what is the point to all of this living and creating?

what i’m listening to: “Sunday Morning” by Maroon 5 was one of the songs that kept popping up in my head while i was on the road, so i decided to learn how to play it one rainy and cold morning. welcoming a moment of slowness following the previous day’s long and thrilling drive on those snowy mountain roads, arriving at this teeny tiny cabin by the river at the tail end of dusk. it was just me and my dog in the whole campground and the peaceful, chilly morning the next day invited us to not rush out the door, so i brought out my ukulele and we settled in. here is a little snippet of that of moment:

mutual aid:

• The Sanabel Team - a community led project providing aid to the families affected by the genocide happening right now in Gaza. find out more and how to support here

• Donate to The Amah Mutsun Land Tribe if you’re living on or near the California central coast. find out more about the efforts they are making to restore the land and pay your land tax here

if you would like to support my work, you can:

• subscribe

• give this post a heart <3 if you liked what you read

• share your own musings by leaving a comment if these words resonated with you

• share this publication with someone who you think would enjoy these offerings [this post is public so you can share it with friends and re-stack it, it really helps!]

thank you for being here ♡

[words written on my solar return, shared on my lunar return]

this was the first year where i didn’t feel the need to make a wish when i blew out the birthday candle. even with all of the insecurities, the works in progress, the not quite there yets, i realized that i actually AM here. every year on my birthday i take inventory. i look to see what sits up on the shelves. i take note of what is still packed away in boxes. i shift and rearrange the furniture of my mind. i count like petals my hopes, desires, dreams not yet manifested. when i recount past birthday wishes that i have made, i come to the realization that they are now tangible. the garden, though moved many times, is growing.

every year my birthday has an underlying tone. last year it was sorrow. the year before it was an abundant garden of flowers. this year, i check in with my body and the waters seem still. a lake at dawn. the morning air still crisp and damp. the eyes and body still heavy from waking. the mind still processing with dreams still simmering. my eyes well up with tears. and the heart - on the verge of something. i never know what. but this year - unlike previous years - it doesn’t feel like a flood. it is a slow lapping at the shore. a cold dip. as my own waters move through my insides to meet the outside. i say my quiet prayer in the same way i have done for years: “for healing, for replenishing, for nourishing, for connecting”. so may it be.

the breath in my lungs already feels like a cold plunge - the exhilaration of being alive sending cold electricity through my spine down to my very root. the tendrils of which i feel snaking deeper and deeper within earth as the years progress. as the lines in my face stretch on. and i examine a hair now loose from my head and notice as it shifts from brown to grey to brown to grey. my own tree rings signifying times of loss, times of joy, times of unsettlement, times of peace, times of ache, times of release. i examine the threads that have led me here. the choices made. the trajectory of the arrow that my bow is aiming towards. now that i have reached this age, i feel time more acutely. i contemplate mortality. i see the vista from the top of the summit. and i witness it all with stillness before continuing my steps. i take this moment of pause to linger at this knot holding the path of where i was and where i am going. i linger a bit more to witness the rippling reflection of the lake. mirroring the as above back to me. still feeling the depth and expansiveness of what lies below surface and letting it create space between ribcage.

and for now, i allow those depths to just be as the ripples increase and the winds of change find their way to me.

once again.

and it is in this space of stillness that i breathe the air of what is to come into my lungs before my feet continue on.

this short and sweet poem was written on my birthday. what came through was heart-centered, which afterward upon reflection registered as no surprise, given that leo rules the heart.

exposing the tender underbelly of the heart
taking notice of all of its nooks + crannies
exploring the deep caves and shallow waters
like art hanging on display,
from all of the times the walls broke open
over + over + over again
letting the light seep in
casting the shadows away
as golden honey warmth
softens into every curve
- katie shakira

an invitation: since we are still in thick of leo season, this post’s invitation is a little meditation for your sweet sweet heart. <3

what i’m reading: The Overstory, by Richard Powers. where do i begin with this book? it took me 5 years to finish reading it mostly because i didn’t want it to end. i needed to savor this one. The Overstory explores the complexities of our relationship with the world that surrounds us and it is such an important read for anyone living in the Anthropocene (which is all of us). Powers’ writing is so potent - both poetic and straight to the point.

what i’m listening to: with mercury retrograde in leo, i have swimming in nostalgia. so here is a song from a band that has held me through many life moments since high school.

mutual aid:

• The Sanabel Team - a community led project providing aid to the families affected by the genocide happening right now in Gaza. find out more and how to support here

• Donate to The Amah Mutsun Land Tribe if you’re living on or near the California central coast. find out more about the efforts they are making to restore the land and pay your land tax here

sending love from where the moon’s full face casts her glow unto earth,

katie shakira

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june 3rd, 2025

Devika has been more on edge today. though right now, we sit in the car with the back door open - a cool breeze flowing in as she sleeps. i take photos of her with the pine and aspen trees in the background. tiny rain drops glitter the windows. i stop and take a deep breath. her ears move subtly, listening to hear what the wind carries. she has sap on her paw and its been bothering her. the light right now from the clouds is beautiful. we came back from a hike and it felt good to move my stagnant body.

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there is something so familial about cold wind hitting my face. about dappled light playing tricks on my eyes. my nose welcoming in the scent of pine. this is a moment i want to remember forever - listening as the wind picks up to bring in the afternoon storm. feeling its chill on my skin. my dog laying in front of me, exchanging the cold air with warm breath. watching the still-wintered aspen trees lazily lean in the wind. breathing in the thin Wyoming air. the microbiome of this soil collecting under my fingernails. the smell of pine sap and of early spring not yet budding. the smell of my dog. the smell of the sun-warmed dirt. the smell of coffee as i softly inhale in the post-dawn light. clouds moving swiftly. green flooding my eyes. i sip in the cold air like it’s water. like i’ve been in need of it forever. and i have.

sometimes all you need is to remember that this is the moment that you have been waiting for.

[this video was taken shortly after this poem was written, wanting to capture the moment that inspired these words]

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june 3rd, 2025

paw pads thick with sap
from pine trees post-shed
double fur coat drenched from an icy stream soak
under foot comes
the crunch of snow
tick tock
the days pass by like clouds
to bring in an afternoon storm in between sunshine bouts
the wind brings forth a remembering
with its cool touch to my skin
i sip its scent like i’ve been waiting for it
i sip this moment like i’ve been aching for it
and i am ready for it
letting it seep into every inch of me
amongst the many miles, i welcome this reprieve 
so that i remember
that this 
is the moment that i have been waiting for
- katie shakira

an invitation: it can be easy to be so focused on what lies ahead that we forget to really appreciate where we are and where we’ve come from. when you have space, i invite you to take a moment of pause to reflect and write down some dreams that past you had that have since manifested. allowing gratitude to seep into the present moment to remember that yes, this is what you had been waiting for. it is right here.

what i’m listening to: a good road trip song, this one was on repeat. dedicated to my little golden wolf.

what i’m reading: i’ve been reading Rumi’s book of poems, The Essential Rumi, for a couple of years now - slowly digesting the words - and it’s one of the books i brought with me on my trip. Rumi writes about many things so beautifully, especially of love.

mutual aid: Immigrant Defenders Law Center is a non-profit organization helping protect people who are at risk for deportation. they have ways to donate and share their work to help them continue providing support for our immigrant community.

sending love from the height of blackberry season,

katie shakira

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may 30th, 2025

last night, Devika and i arrived at the first campsite on our road trip. i did not sleep as well as i’d hoped, though waking up to the sound of an early spring rushing creek, bird song, and the filtered light through the trees all have a way of settling me. i realized this is the first time i’m camping without another person. it feels empowering to be autonomous navigating the landscape with only inner dialogue. i am blessed to have Devika as my guardian. i watch her as she watches this new place, ears perked and nose wiggling trying to capture the sounds and scents. today we will drive to our next campsite in Nevada where we meet up with my cousin and her two dogs who will join us for the next few days of our trip. in this early moment of solitude, i lay down my intentions for this trip. quiet whispers and pen etchings made to solidify why i am here. to make real that yes, i am here.

june 2nd, 2025

we made it to Wyoming. the past couple of days were filled with driving and quick adventures. singing my favorite songs across Nevada to a sleeping Devika. wiping dried salt from her paws at the great salt flats. witnessing her run and explore with her friends in Utah. drinking up the landscape as the miles rolled on. my eyes darting and resting to witness it all from different angles. it has started raining so we retreated to the car, i welcome this moment of pause. there’s thunder in the distance and Devika’s warm breath is on my arm. i have already learned so much on this trip about trust. trusting Devika that when she is given freedom, she will return to me. and trusting that doing so will strengthen the kind of relationship i want us to have.

she has been such a mirror to myself. for i am also still learning to trust myself off leash. the sense of freedom and confidence she exudes when she is running is what i strive to feel. and it is what i feel on this trip. this landscape feels so wild, and unfamiliar - and yet my bones do remember what it was like to traverse an exhilarating unknown. this landscape is unleashed.

when we got close to the snowy mountain range, we were greeted with intense winds, thick dark clouds, and wide open spaces that quickly turned into vistas of mountains still drenched in snow. i stop at the top of the summit to take photos. the lake we had planned to dip in is still frozen over. the cold strikes my skin - dried from the Utah desert. i let the wind, thin mountain air, and sun chap and peel my lips. i let the high altitude train my lungs to breathe in this new space. i let the dirt pile under my finger nails. i bathe naked in the rushing glacial streams. i notice the trails of wrinkles running on my face revealing all of the times i’ve known joy. i let my dog run wild in the snow. she runs and puts her own body in a snowy creek and then emerges looking like a little wolf. my wild, content creature. with a fresh slight limp in her gait from the sap that got stuck on her paw - a side effect of adventure. i kiss her wet and cold face and tell her how much i love her.

she is my mirror. i had told myself i wanted a confident, secure dog, and instead i found myself with a dog whose fears and anxieties are strikingly familiar. she has taught me so much of my own insecurities. She has taught me so much of what love means. and sometimes love means to let go. she reminds me of the kind of love i want to foster and cultivate - a kind of love that feels free. a kind of love that feels wild and alive like the feeling of swimming naked in a cold stream. a kind of love that feels like returning home knowing you will be received with open arms. no judgments, only questions about your adventures. a home that encourages your wildness. the more i unleash my dog. the more i unleash myself. the more the two of us learn what it means to feel safe, the more confident we feel when we explore the space of freedom.

i let her loose in wild Wyoming as i learn to release my own inner wolf. i have neglected a lot of the kind of writing i used to do - uninhibited writing to release my thoughts - but it is here, sitting in my car with my little wolf after being inspired by watching her run in the snowy wilderness that i once again let loose the wild that is my mind as it traverses the landscape of this wilderness called life. i have had this dog for three months only and she has already made me more aware of myself than i have on my own. may we both continue to trust and love in a way that feels unleashed.

june 2nd, 2025
a lesson in love -
as learned when surrounded by aspen and pine
sitting in my car
during an afternoon storm at a Wyoming campground
my dog's warm breath on my arm

to love a love worth loving
is to
love with open palms
release the grip
let that leash slip
and unbind the wild heart
- katie shakira

an invitation: reflect on ways that you can cultivate the wild within you. take a moment to close your eyes and feel into your body. what does wild feel like to you? does it have a texture? does it have a sound? allow yourself to explore this landscape in ways that feel good. in ways that feel expansive. in ways that feel like a remembering.

what i’m listening to: this song is how a wild and free love can feel like. “you taught me how to love myself and now i’m fearless”

what i’m reading: i’ve been reading Rumi’s book of poems, The Essential Rumi, for a couple of years now - slowly digesting the words - and it’s one of the books i brought with me on my trip. Rumi writes about many things so beautifully, especially of love.

mutual aid: Immigrant Defenders Law Center is a non-profit organization helping protect people who are at risk for deportation. they have ways to donate and share their work to help them continue providing support for our immigrant community.

sending love from where i reside at the peak of summer time,

katie shakira

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this post is in honor of my serpente nero era. as part of any journey, there is a beginning. though any beginning’s edge can be blurred when one step leads to the next. so let’s just start with the year 2018.

i had spiraled down to a state of rock bottom that eventually catapulted me into deep transformation - which also meant that i was doing a lot of writing. at that time, i didn’t share my poetry, writings, or film photographs publicly because of fear and so, i kept them underground. however, the more i traversed these inner landscapes, the more and more words kept flowing. and the longer i was in the underworld of healing, the more restless i became feeling the urge to share my words.

it was during this 2018 year of travel and pilgrimage that i was inspired to create a second instagram account under the name “serpente nero” as a place for me to share my words and film photographs in a detachable way. i was doing regular spiritual work with the archetypes of bee, spider, and snake. i chose the name serpente nero (Italian for “black serpent”) to honor my Italian ancestry and to honor my relationship to the snake archetype that i connected with so deeply. it was a time of moving and creating underground, riding the scaly back of serpent through the corners and caves of my inner world. it felt safe to share under the guise of that name and creature.

i’ve always felt a kinship towards snakes, feeling a sense of both fascination and understanding whenever i would come across these misunderstood and often feared creatures. so many times when i was on a trail i would think to myself that it would be cool to see a snake here, only to turn a corner and there would be a snake. the name serpente nero to me was my way of honoring all of the complexities that the snake archetype means to me. and acknowledging the desire that i had for still remaining under covers silently working and creating before quietly releasing them in bouts into sunshine before retreating again. sharing under that alter ego slowly faded into me sharing more on my main account. in 2020, i created a series called “Wednesday Word Weaving with Katie” (still accessible under the hashtag #wordweavingwithkatie on instagram) in which i would share a poem paired with a photograph. this eventually led to the creation of my substack later on in 2020 when i felt the need to expand my words beyond the word limit and share my photographs uncropped.

in 2021 i left a terrible relationship where i was treated unkindly and had to take a big step back from the darkness to reset my nervous system. i sought refuge in softer things like lilac blossom and redwood tree and the gentle holding from community. after the release of my book when saturn returned, i started to really feel a shift away from the serpente nero name. i no longer posted my work on that separate instagram account and instead i stood behind my words openly. my life and practices had moved away from the deep dark underworld work of my scorpionic healing journey, to finding healing in another way. i dropped the dark loop of the lemniscate and walked towards the loop that lay in the sun. this new name magic in the mundane is a result of crumbling foundation being sloughed away to emerge with new skin eager to be kissed by sunlight.

i will always have an affinity for snakes, their ancient wisdom and archetype, but now it is time to emerge from the solitary shadows and be more like bee - sipping from flowers and collecting pollen to bring back to the hive as we all come together to make sweet nectar.

i started writing this brief telling of history before releasing my most recent substack post announcing the name change, and i finish it now after having returned from a road trip that further affirmed my intentions with this publication. i took time away from social media which allowed me to tap into what came through on that journey in a way that felt so familiar yet honestly a bit neglected due to being so busy and going through various life changes. the words and movements that came through during my road trip felt like gulping fresh air into my lungs after a long time of holding my breath. joints cracking, limbs aching, i slowly began to unfold myself so that i could properly receive. and it felt oh so good.

who i was before leaving was a different iteration of who i am now that i’ve returned home. the name change from serpente nero to magic in the mundane feels even more appropriate, for i have shed so much both metaphorically and physically - given that my actual skin is being sloughed off (thanks to the high altitude and UV rays of Colorado and Wyoming), bringing me back down to basics.

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more will be shared from the road trip, but for now i want to leave with this conversation that i had with one of my friends who i met up with along the way in Colorado. a question came up that asked what is the point of bringing children into the world even though there is so much toxicity and destruction? i responded with, “it’s the same reason why we create art”. even during times of war and crumblings, art is still made. we still seek beauty and reminders that there is hope and faith in humanity and in the wonders of the world. we continue to make art, continue to have babies, continue to love and continue to make love because energy is so real and continuing to create beauty is a way of countering that which is unjust instead of succumbing into a passive state.

i came back from my trip to news of the “no kings” protests happening all over the country to protest against the current president’s immigration policies amongst other things. i saw a couple of my friends creating art to raise money and people coming together in community, using their voices and creativity to support those affected by the immigration policies. it’s these moments that serve as a reminder of the beauty of togetherness that comes from sharing our gifts with one another even (and especially) during times of turmoil.

i wanted to share two poems written in 2019 when i was deep in my serpente nero era. the first one portrays well the threshold of remembering. the second is an ode to my ally and alter ego (alter ego definition: an intimate and trusted friend), the snake. all film photographs shared in this post were taken when i was in the thick of this work from 2019-2020.

August 14th, 2019
she comes to me 
from distant places
though she is never far away
she showed me
my old face
in the velvet black
mirror reflecting back
the story that i hold
this story, i am told,
is one of ancient ways
ancient knowings,
ancient names
though i had forgotten
they leave me
crumbs on the trail
so i may return to my tale
and it will not be too long
before i remember the song
for my time in this skin
has really only just begun
but now the veil is thin
and i can see all the webs
i had spun
when i was old raven
but now i am young
and i must relearn 
the words
so they can drip
once more
from my tongue


August 26, 2019
i live under the floor boards
of your house
but i am more than just a stalker
of a mouse
i slide into your head
and swim in dreams
when you’re in bed
then i slither down your throat
leaving my venom there to coat
so you may speak
smooth and effortless it seems
when you sing,
down in the heart i form my rings
right at the knot in the chest
you will find the space between breaths
when i am done there, do not fear,
behind your navel i will reappear
there, i will stretch under sun
remembering the songs that were once sung
songs that are never done
for they lay with me inside your sacrum
etched in bone
they are unmoved like stone
so do not worry
i am in no hurry
coiled at your root i can hide
or you can feel me swallow in your spine
slinking and sinking ever so deep
with every layer i shed
the path to self becomes more steep

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what i’m listening to: sticking with the theme, here is a song that was a big go-to for one of my movement practices during those serpente years - specifically this version with the harp. the lyrics also perfectly mirrored what was coming up for me as i stepped further into my purpose. “the sea waves are my evening gown/and the sun on my head is my crown/i made this queendom on my own/and all the mountains are my throne”.

what i’m reading: “The Mists of Avalon” by Marion Zimmer Bradley was a book that affirmed a lot of what i had experienced in my spiritual work and dream work during that time. i would get chills at the synchronicities when reading it and it is still one of my favorite books.

mutual aid: my friend Missy is creating t-shirts to raise funds for Immigrant Defenders Law Center. Missy is such a badass human, mama of two, and has such creative power for real. she just finished making a batch but here is a link to Missy’s instagram to direct message her and order a shirt - help raise funds to protect our immigrant communities and get a sick shirt, a win win.

sending love from where i reside at the sunset of spring,

katie shakira

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with great pleasure (and a little bit of tears), i’d like to welcome you all to the new name of my substack:

~ magic in the mundane ~

in autumn of 2020 the words “magic in the mundane” came to me while sitting outside at a park feeling a bout of aloneness. i looked above me and saw in the trees a spider weaving an iridescent rainbow web when the sun hit it just right.

i kept shifting my angle to play with the colors, first the web is there and then it disappears, and now it’s back. focusing and then unfocusing my gaze. no longer feeling alone, my eyes swollen with tears at the complete magic of it. magic in this mundane act of a spider weaving its web in a tree. magic in the realization that if i had not looked up, i would have missed it. in that moment, i wrote the poem that i share at the end of this post. “magic in the mundane” is a phrase that kept coming back to me over and over. as i looked out the window while washing dishes. as i felt the cool spring morning air tickle my flesh. as i listened to the sound of birdsong, a gentle wind stroking my hair. i dedicated a post to this back in 2022 (you can read that post here).

an excerpt:

i found what i was looking for, what i needed. i stretched into this new found space with play and exploration.

i found ritual in the arms of loved ones, sharing words and wine. i found ritual in my morning coffee speckled with cardamom and cinnamon. i found ceremony in eating a meal shared with others at home. i found magic in the way the sun dances through shadow to create pattern, ever-shifting. i found magic in the blank space of potential on a wall. i found magic in watching the lilac buds open, then flourish, then dry all in a matter of a couple of months. i found magic in community. i found magic in snipping a flowering branch and putting it in a vase. i found magic in the dancing altar that is my body. i found my own way of magic.

magic in the mundane

~ it is the presence of beauty and divinity in basic life things. for there is divinity in just feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin. in the smell of my dog. in turning dough into bread. in the evolution of bud into blossom. in witnessing the slow glide of a hawk. in closing your eyes and napping to the sound of bird song and bee. for in all of the heartache and crumblings and uncertainty, there is also the laughter of friends, the full-bosomed buckeye tree, the taste of fresh jam straight off the spoon. it is slow full body nourishment. drinking in the sweet nectar with gratitude and reverence for all of the beauty that we get to witness.

since the release of my poetry/photography book when saturn returned, i have been aching to move my body in a certain way. it truly did feel like a “release” and i knew it was time to shed.

there will be a follow up post to honor my serpente nero era, and to share the journey of how that name came to be. but for today, i will keep it brief to allow space for this transition to settle.

for in this moment, i write while sitting in the sunshine with my dog laying beside me, a bumble bee kissing a little blossom on my little lemon tree, with the smell of bread fresh from the oven, and the heady scent of jasmine beckoning. and i am once again overcome with the tenderness of this life.

what to expect with magic in the mundane?

• more sharing of prose, poetry, and film photographs.

• invitations to bring more magic into the mundane that will come in various forms: meditations, journal prompts, practices that are within reach to fit in every day life.

• sharing songs with one another is a love language. you bet i will continue sharing songs that i am listening to.

• book shares. sharing book recs is also a love language, am i right?

• tangible offerings: this is my written intention to finally make my pottery and film photograph postcards easier to view and purchase online. more to come on this.

i am as excited as a bee in early spring and so looking forward to alchemizing all of the pollen i’ve collected from all the yummy flowers i’ve been sniffing and turn it into honeyed nectar to share. my intention with this shift is to help remember that there is beauty in abundance to go around.

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and now here is the poem that was inspired by the spider weaving glimmering rainbows in the autumn light.

October 26, 2020

may i embody the Mother
i honor the Mother by honoring
myself
not just what comes
in the as above
but what lies in the 
so below
our mother in the sky
and our mother within the flesh of the earth

also, remembering the divinity 
in the mundane
cleaning as an act of blessing
cooking as intention setting
touching dough to hold hands with your ancestors
putting bare skin on earth to honor
the sacred
with every inhale
and exhale
a marriage between Beloveds
putting words down on paper to bring in spirit
touching lips to fruit
to call in the goddess herself
blessing you with each bite
blessing her with each bite
honoring the mundane
the routine as ritual
the body, a sacred vessel
the life, as ceremony
for each cell
is the culmination of all who came before
each cell, a glance into the future
of all that will come after
let rose remind you
there is divinity in the common
and there is wisdom in both
petal and thorn
-katie shakira

an invitation: next time you walk by a flower, give it a little sniff. maybe eyes closed, maybe eyes open to see the petals up close. what does the smell of that particular flower bring up for you? how does your body react its scent? if you could put a word to its scent, what would it be?

what i’m listening to: this one is short and sweet.

what i’m reading: The Secret Lives of Country Gentlemen, by KJ Charles. an intriguing and cheeky love story. i’m about halfway through, it’s been a slow and steady build up of characters and plot with just enough sweet, spicy, and sultry moments.

may the elements hold you with love wherever you are,

katie shakira

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february 22nd, 2024

i bleed when the moon is full
i bow to the sun
tucking itself in behind mountains, leaving a blanket of orange and purple in its wake
and when i wake
i again give thanks to this day
to these feet with their steps
one leading to the next
to my ancestors' foot steps for guiding my own to walk this land
to the spirits of this land
an image of Shiva appears in the stone in my bathroom
smiling upon me
and i feel at peace
with each word i write, the purple in the sky thickens to swallow the orange
the sky is clear tonight and i wonder what constellations sparkle down upon this part of the world
if i close my eyes and feel for the threads, i can trace my way back to when my ancestors looked up at these same stars
around a fire
after dinner
weaving stories amongst spiced fumed air
crackling wood warming hands, scarves wrapped around heads
fennel and jaggery
ginger and honey
if i close my eyes the taste returns to me
i open my eyes and i am here - the taste still present on my tongue
i let it seep into my blood stream
it is familiar
i am here in the home of my family, i feel them with me
their hands on my back, they are brushing my hair
they welcome me home
with nourishment from their bones
it is in the food that i am remembered
it is with the food that i remember

february 25th, 2024

my last day in India. i walk by the homes with the mandalas by the front door. the women do a different mandala every day in powder. throughout the day the mandala fades. a lesson on impermanence. a lesson on ritual. a new day comes with its own mandala. my henna from the wedding is fading. a little bit of color lost each day. and i learn to let things go. i have been India for two weeks and yet it feels like a lifetime. who was i before i left? who am i now? my body feels tired. and i am learning about impermanence.

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february 22nd, 2024

i started my period this morning
i give thanks to the mountains, "suprabhat" [good morning in Sanskrit]
for greeting me with their majesty
my body is sore from the trek yesterday and my womb aches
i am glad today offers slowness
i dreamt again of needing to move out of my house, feeling anxious and sad.  Pluto has entered Aquarius, squaring my 4th and 10th houses - squaring my natal Pluto in my 4th house of home and hearth. feeling this hard friction with my desire to build a home, to nest, to homestead.  it feels like the soil beneath me is being dug up and i cannot see where i am to be replanted. and to go through this while i am in India - one of my most prominent places of ancestry - i know is no coincidence.  where am i being redirected to? 
the lesson here is trust. but my fixed ways want to hold. slowly, though i do feel my muscles loosen, my grip slackening.
i watch the birds and i envy their perceived freedom
no baggage, no belongings
with the mountains thick with green placed before them
they fly as a group and perch on a wintered-tree
the wind helping to carry them to the next
their chirps adding to the collage of landscape
and for now, i let myself ground into the green
i let the warm sun melt my edges
i let the wind carry it away
i let the cold water hit my face and sink into my skin
i let my skin change color and my hair grow longer
i let myself be nourished by the people here
i consume food made on this land - made with love
i eat the landscape with my hands
a bird flies into the building where i write and eat and drink warm tea
we open the windows but it has not yet found the way out
finally, it flies out and soars once again over the curves of the Himalayas
and i feel it like a current within me - that feeling of release followed by unknown
limb by limb, it is a reconstruction
and i must trust the words, "what comes is better than what came before"
as my ancestors did when they had to leave their home in India to start anew
and so, i will move my body and move through this
i will find the open window

                                                                  i receive
                                                                  i release

something i loved learning about in Diana L. Eck’s book on India was how all of India’s geography is sacred. there is divinity found in each landscape, with the earth itself a goddess. the rivers and streams and rocks are sacred. throughout India, there are forest goddesses with many different names who live amongst the groves of trees. there is an earth goddess in Bengal who is said to have a yearly menstrual cycle right before farmers plant their seeds when plowing is forbidden to allow the earth time to rest. there are village gods and goddesses. there is Shiva, a prominent god of the mountains and villages who resides over many peaks of the Himalayas as well as the plains in between.

not only is there sacredness in the destination, but also here on the ground in which you stand. for the wisdom of the cosmos is not just reserved for the shrines high up at the top of the mountain peak, it is universally present in the simple and mundane for we are it. tapping into this divinity means opening our eyes to landscape and truly witnessing. in India not only was i enamored by the rolling hills and the snowy peaks and the ancient rivers, but also by the birds and the moss growing on the pines and the rhododendron flowers.

magic in the mundane - this is not new to me. for i have grown up whispering amongst the fairies beneath the cloak of rosemary whenever i felt alone. i have frequented a small boulder that held me many times while i was crying and writing and confiding. and to remember all of the ancestors who came before me who also had this intimate connection with landscape was a thread that came to me in India to remind me that in those moments of solitude, i was never truly alone. for in those intimate moments with landscape, i was also connected to them with their soft hands upon my back.

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february 16th, 2024

last night, i went to an aarti on the Ganga. an aarti is a ceremony performed to connect to the divine and bring light into darkness. i was planning on going to one to meet Neelam and was on my way to walk there when a rickshaw asked if i wanted a ride. a group of people already in. i said yes. not realizing when the rickshaw went past where i was meant to get off. there was a young woman from Delhi (Tanya) on the rickshaw who said she was going to the main Ganga aarti at the Triveni ghat so i decided to go with her to that one. Tanya is here on vacation and said it is her first time going to this aarti, too. our rickshaw drops us off and we follow the group of people toward the river.

we leave our shoes at the stand and walk barefoot to pick a spot to sit. 4th row. the sun is low in the sky and the pollution makes the sun bright red. like a bindi on the sky’s face. imprinting its reflection on Ganga’s surface. a rippled mirroring. we put our feet and hands in the river to bless our body with hers. we take photos hoping they will capture the beauty that our eyes are drinking in. the big red sun slowly tucks itself in beneath the mountains leaving a dusty purple pink in its wake.

and then aarti begins. camphor burns as priests stand on tables conjuring up the blessings. the air is thick with chanting, perfumed smoke, and deep reverence. deep reverence for the divine and the sacred landscape that brings color and nourishment into these lives. the aarti is followed by music and dancing. prayer and love bringing us all together. i am flooded with the feeling of belonging. of community.

the rivers in India are life force. and the Ganga is the mother of them all. being in her presence in this way feels surreal. but i am here. being alive in the here and now as sacrament to life and to honor all that has died. the divine motion of energy flowing. like a river. and together, my new friend and i are clapping and singing and dancing to celebrate all that is holy. coming together as a family. the priests walk around to give blessings to everyone. we take blessings from the fire. we take blessings from the river. our father and our mother.

i put my whole body in her waters. and i let her wash away all that i hold inside that i no longer want to keep. i let her hold me. her waters are soft as i let my body be cooled by her touch. i let her play with my hair and stroke my back. i let my lungs breathe as she tells me it is okay to release.

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february 21st, 2024

i arrived at the goat village last night, greeted by lightning and thunder. the Himalayan peaks at sunset.

the layers like collage. the thin air greets my lungs.

jai nag devta [victory to the snake god]

i visited nag tibba - the snake temple

not an easy feat, it consisted of an icy 7k trek uphill. a shiva temple resting at the top with his trident. the bell is rung. i bow down to shiva and i bow down to snake. i feel that kundalini energy as we snake our way up to the top. and i give thanks to the mountains, these gods all cloaked in oak and rhododendron. their shawl of snow draping over their heads and shoulders. each mountain looking like its own king. they remind me of elephants, a family of king elephants. as the sun gods peel away the clouds to kiss the top of their trunks. rolling curves of divinity.

each step up we ascend to shiva. each step down returns me to snake.

and i feel the devas amongst the trees as we spiral through. this is a land where the serpent energy is alive. the mountains, the trees, the rocks - all are sacred.

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the colors of an Indian wedding:

the yellow of turmeric. the red of sandalwood. the pink of rhododendron. the purple of eggplant. i am in the process of forgiving myself. i put my hands on my heart and my belly and i breathe in forgiveness and breathe out bitterness. i hear the bells chime. the incense thickens the air. the spices of my ancestors: cumin, coriander, cardamom, fennel, ginger.

my ancestors - they eat with their hands. they walk ~ feet bare ~

does landscape remember? can i trace my veins back to the roots of the banyan tree? if i run my fingers along the mountain’s spine, will it awaken a remembering within my own? there is something i have not yet experienced until India - walking amongst people who look like me. it weaves within me both love and sorrow.

returning looks like eating the food
touching the fabrics
drinking in the nectar of life that is spiced
in the form of
rhododendron flower juice
chai tea
ginger tea
lassi, badam milk
i gather up the dhal and chickpea
the aloo and fresh paneer
with roti
i bring in the food that nourished my ancestors
food that grew on this land
seeds forming seeds
seeds coming from seeds
connecting me to them
my ancestors - 
taking these seeds to Guyana to continue their lineage
continuing
i have inherited their hair
my eyebrows
the melanin in my skin
for all the seeds they planted 
i place my hands on the earth blessed with tears
a present nourishing for future flowers

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