I’m 24. I’ve just given up make up for Lent, which after about a decade of daily mascara, makes me feel insanely self-conscious. My mom calls to tell me Dolly Parton will be making an appearance at her sister Stella’s Red Tent Women’s Conference. She buys me a ticket. Once my shift at the hair salon wraps up, I drive downtown to the DoubleTree hotel and follow the signs in a nearby parking garage, so I can be in person with the Queen of Country Music.

On the way in, I strike up a conversation with a sweet girl named Jaci. Sundress, cowboy boots — I can tell we’re both heading to the same place. We sit together and swap details of our mutual Dolly obsession, and this is when I learn — Jaci’s apartment landlord also happens to be the conference director. Jaci says she’s letting her sneak into the VIP meet + greet after the performance, and she offers me the chance to tag along.

Dolly walks out and I watch, amazed, hearing her sing, feeling her energy uplift every single body in the room. I cry a little. I try to be as present as I can, but to be perfectly honest, I am freaking out about how I might actually get to meet one of my heroes.

Jaci and I rush to find her landlord after Dolly’s set is through. We see the long line of ticketed VIP guests. Jaci asks if I can go in with her and the landlord flat-out says no — she’s sorry, but they’re already pushing it on time, I won’t be able to join. I look her straight in the eyes, dig deep, and I try again.

“Please. I promise you I will be in and out, no one will even know I’m there.”

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The garden across the street, always + meeting the group who takes such wonderful care of the space, the Second Sunday Gardeners. (full gallery here)

The most nourishing tallow soap from my neighbor LaTanya, The Old Hemp Farmer’s Wife.

The Borage growing in my own potted garden.

And the windowsill basil keeping my kitchen pretty.

Wild Blackberries

I kept getting caught on the blackberry bushes.

I’d reach for a ripe one and find that my hair, or my shirt, or on a couple of occasions my arm (I’ve got the scratches to prove it), was stuck on their stickers.

“Gloves,” I thought. I’ve got to get a good pair of gloves. It’s important to know how to protect yourself, and on any given adventure, what kind of tools you may need.

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I first got acquainted with the Mulberry last May. Out on a walk at Shelby with one of my favorite nature queens, I noticed some fruit hanging down above me. “What is that?” I asked — a question that seems to precede all significant journeys.

Then a couple weeks later, while researching creation stories and reading Merlin Stone’s When God Was A Woman, I came across this page:

But the serpent is not the only link between the story of Adam and Eve and the worship of the Goddess. Another most important symbol in the story is that of the tree, the tree of knowledge of good and evil, from which hung the forbidden fruit. There are legends known from classical Greece about the golden apple tree of the Goddess Hera, about which the serpent Ladon coiled. The tree, incidentally, was said to be given to Hera by the Goddess Gaia, the Primeval Prophetess of the shrine at Delphi. Though legends of apple trees were known in classical Greece, I suggest that the tree of knowledge of good and evil in earliest times was not an apple but a fig.

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Earth Day Writing Workshop

Tell Me What You Want, What You Really Really Want

In honor of Earth Day, and inspired by Octavia Butler’s notebook pages, let’s plant the seeds of our dreams by writing them down together. Things to bring: your journal, a pen, and plenty of audacity to go with them. 4/22 at 6:30pm.

RSVP to the Workshop

Artisan Bread Recipe

Originally from Cooking Classy and passed along by my dear friend, Caroline.

Ingredients

• 3 cups King Arthur all-purpose flour

• 1 1/2 tsp salt

• 1/2 tsp instant yeast

• 1 1/2 cups warm water

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“THAT’S MARY MAGDALENE!”

—Me, pointing at the tv, while watching The Little Mermaid for the several hundredth time with my niece

She’s like that, Mary Magdalene. Right there, the whole time, hidden in plain sight. Once you see her it’s hard to believe you ever didn’t.

In the Christian tradition, Maundy Thursday, at the Last Supper, is known as the start of the Easter event. But I’ve found it’s Wednesday — when Mary pours out oils over Jesus, preparing him for burial through the ritual of anointing — when things really begin. When the disciples completely freak out about this, unable to understand what it is she’s fully grasped herself. And Jesus says, “Truly I tell you, wherever this gospel is preached in all the world, what she has done will also be told in memory of her.” (Matthew 26:13)

If you’d like to learn more about what her love made possible and what that means for us now, I’ve got a few offerings:

1. Linden Dreamwork 101 — a workshop rooted in The Gospel of Mary, honoring the power of inner vision. Tonight at 6:30.

2. Hail Marys — a book of stories, photos, and poetry capturing my journey of discovering the sacred feminine.

3. In Memory of Her — a digital guide I’ve dug out of my archives, where I gathered many of my favorite Magdalene passages and works of art, songs and pieces I’ve written — all the things I love coming back to during Holy Week. Because Easter feels different with a woman included at the heart of the story. (password is: remember)

“I had a vision that Mary of Magdalene saw the future that awaits just before Good Friday eve”

QUOTE OF THE WEEK

When a new infusion of love is needed, Mary Magdalene shows up. Our only real choice is whether or not to cooperate.

—Cynthia Bourgeault, The Meaning of Mary Magdalene

Thank you for reading Make It Delicious. I’m deeply grateful for your presence and support, which gives me the space to create the work I love in community. xo LB

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I added more butter. An extra splash of vanilla extract. This helped. Maybe I used too much flour? (I am what you might call a wing-it type of baker. My recipes are *flexible* due to living in apartments without central AC + tons of Tennessee humidity and always needing to feel them out depending on the weather.) And maybe that was the problem here. Maybe it was so cool the ingredients weren’t meshing like they usually do? At any rate, I’d salvaged the dough enough to at least bake a few cookies and find out if they were edible.

I threw them in the oven and started making breakfast. I opened the refrigerator and instantly gasped — oh my god. I forgot the egg. (If you are a baker I would bet real money you’re laughing because 1) you guessed this was the case from the get-go because 2) you have made this same mistake and know how crazy it feels.)

There’s this ancient legend about Mary Magdalene, post-resurrection, that associates the egg with Easter. She travels to Rome and appears before the court of Emperor Tiberius Caesar, where she tells them about Christ — about her love for him, about the injustice of his trial and death. About how he had risen. And to help explain, she takes an egg from the feast laid out before them, so to say: everything comes from within.

Mocking her, Caesar’s like, “A person can no more resurrect than that egg in your hand turn red.” She holds it up — the egg immediately turns red. (Source: Mary Magdalene Revealed by Meggan Watterson.)

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Backyard photo project, Spring 2023. Quote by Clarissa Pinkola Estés.

The Workshop

The Earth is officially waking up, buzzing with new energy, and so am I. I’m feeling especially inspired to grow The Workshop branch of Linden this season, focusing my attention on 1:1 Sessions.

Whether we’re talking Dreamwork, Enneagram, Earth wisdom, composting, Moon cycles, Human Design, or the Gospel of Mary — these sessions offer a space where you can turn inward, see what’s soul and what’s ego, and move from your whole, true self. I’m here to empower you along the way. If this sounds like your kind of spiritual guidance, I’d love to work together.

You can learn more about the 1:1 Sessions here, and you’re welcome to reach out here with questions. Don’t be shy about the sliding scale if cost is a barrier — I’ve benefited from scholarship, comp, and pay-what-you-can options myself and I’m happy to provide the same in return.

The Workshop

Dreamwork Recipe

Great for daydreams, too.

Ingredients

• I Am

• Co-creation

• Vessel

• Inner Vision

• Inner Work

• Wholeness

• Community

Instructions

1. RSVP to Linden Dreamwork 101.

2. Come to the workshop on April 1st.

3. Eat some cookies.

4. Gather instructions.

5. Dream on, baby.

I love Dreamwork as a spiritual practice because it dares to say: my power comes from within. My connection to the divine comes directly from within this body. Nothing and no one — no force, no system, no empire can take that away. It’s a reclamation of the feminine wisdom many of us have been taught to devalue and distrust. It’s also wild and weird and always keeps me guessing. In this workshop, I’ll share what makes up my personal Dreamwork practice, then we’ll set intentions to bring into our own unique dreamspace and spend some time discussing any burning questions.

RSVP to Linden Dreamwork 101

Pop-up Event

First pop-up of the season will be at Thunder Moon Collective this upcoming Sunday, March 29th. Come hang!

April Book Club

With energy being poured into new places, April will be our last in-person book club, and The Girl Who Baptized Herself feels like the perfect one to end on. I’ve so loved meeting with this group — big thank you to everybody who’s shown up, and I hope to see you there on the 12th.

“hey you, hey you, who you think I’m talking to”

QUOTE OF THE WEEK

I will teach you about what is hidden from you.

—The Gospel of Mary Magdalene

Thank you for reading Make It Delicious. I’m deeply grateful for your presence and support, which gives me the space to create the work I love in community. xo LB

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The blog I started a dozen years ago.

The first essay picked up by online publications when I gave up makeup for Lent.

The song I wrote later that same year, in hindsight, by no coincidence.

I keep getting emotional because I knew so much, so deeply, in a way that was in my bones. Before I learned all about an Enneagram 8w9 or a Human Design projector or a Leo Rising with a Taurus Moon and Mars in Scorpio. Before I discovered the Gospel of Mary and had scriptural proof of the kind of Love I believed was true. Before bell hooks rocked my world and probably before I understood how to properly use the word patriarchy, too.

I had guts. I knew my own mind, what I thought, what I felt. It was innate, intuitive.

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My calendar is full of dates. A phone date next Tuesday. A weekly walking date before that. Breakfast dates, coffee dates, craft night dates, potluck dates, museum dates, chicken dinner dates, movie dates, Costco dates.

I look around at the flowers I picked up at Trader Joe’s, the cookware that was handed down to me, the garden I’ve planted in the courtyard, the fresh loaf of sourdough from my favorite pair of sweeties. The new leaves on the houseplants, the books and music I’ve written, the necklace my niece gave me for Valentine’s Day, the artwork made by friends covering my fridge. And I can see:

No, I’m not dating anyone. But I am partnered.

Partner one another. Partner diverse communities. Partner life. Partner any world that is your home. Partner God. Only in partnership can we thrive, grow, Change. Only in partnership can we live. —Octavia Butler, Earthseed: The Book of the Living

I knew with my whole heart that it is best to have a circle of love, with committed bonds that extend beyond one privileged partnership. —bell hooks, Communion

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January 29th, 2020:

—Dreamt something about two dozen cookies. Said we could freeze them if we needed to. Mainly just remember the two dozen cookies. Something about politics was in the conversation.

—I saw a giant stack of toilet paper on a chair.

Fast forward three months, and I’ve sold nearly 1,000 cookies in a week. While this wouldn’t seem too strange in my current life, at the time, it had been years since I’d done any professional baking. Photography was my main gig, and then covid hit, and then my income for the foreseeable future disappeared.

When that happened, I tried not to panic, shifting my attention toward a book idea instead — only to open my laptop and discover that, overnight, a crack had formed across the screen. I wrote one page before it became unreadable, and I put it back down. If all else fails, just take a bath — a philosophy I lived by and chose to put into practice. At which point, after filling up the tub, I heard a mysterious alarm coming from the garage. A major plumbing issue, as it would turn out. The repair would not be cheap. Finally, I decided to bake some cookies about all of this.

I posted a picture to my Instagram story. No caption, no explanation, no second thoughts about it. A friend DMed me, “Is delivery available?” And something in me lit up — that inexplicable something that I could try to find words for but know I’ll never quite do justice. I considered the question for a moment. I had the ingredients. I had the pink boxes. I had the desire, and I certainly had the space in my schedule. Then I recalled — that dream I had months prior. Selling cookies by the dozen, freezing the dough. As for the giant stack of toilet paper — well, March 2020, you remember the madness. So I said yes.

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“What you say, you say in a body; you can say nothing outside this body. You must awaken while in this body, for everything exists in it: Resurrect in this life.” —The Gospel of Philip

Four years ago last Sunday, I stopped going to church.

It was the first week of Advent, the start of a season to prepare our hearts for the coming of Christ, and the end of the road for me and Catholic mass.

The departure wasn’t loud or dramatic and it certainly wasn’t sudden. I was raised by a mother who taught me the Church was man-made and therefore wasn’t always right. That being gay is not a sin, women aren’t subordinate, and God is love that goes by many names. For as far back as I can remember, I’ve been allowed to disagree with doctrine. I’ve been in touch with my own inner spiritual authority before I knew what to call it.

One time, in the second grade, my friends and I tried to perform a Spice Girls song in our Catholic school talent show. We practiced that choreography out on the black top for months, planned our costumes and memorized those lyrics, only to be told at the last minute that it was “too racy.” Devastated but not defeated, we pivoted to Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn” instead, where we received another big ol’ no due to the word “naked” in the chorus. Even then, at eight years old, I knew, these people have some serious stuff to work out.

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I turned 36 this month. It got me asking the typical birthday questions — what did I learn last year? How have I changed? Expanded? Grown? So much happened in my world — in the world — where could I even begin? But then a memory popped up, a simple but potent lesson that stuck out.

It came from a woman I know, who’s in her late forties, when she proudly announced to our breakfast club, “Listen — if I don’t like the book I’m reading after about 100 pages, I’m done. I don’t finish it. I don’t care if everyone swears it’ll get good. I don’t have the time. I’m too old for that.”

What a revelation. I thought yes, it’s that but with everything.

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It’s 8am. I’m making coffee. I haven’t put pants on yet. When the fire alarm starts blaring through my entire apartment building, neighbors rush outside, and the maintenance crew says, “It was just a test.”

We laugh, we exchange hellos, we talk about what’s growing in the courtyard. And one man, a hemp farmer, asks if I’ve picked up any apples from our local community garden. I tell him no but I meant to all summer, to which he replies, “I’ve got a whole bagful upstairs, they’re yours if you want them.” Joy courses through me. I accept his offer.

As he passes them off he mentions, “Don’t be scared of how they look. They’re organic, from trees across the street, not like what you’d find at the grocery store.”

After years of researching, reworking, and reimagining the Christian creation story, if Eve has taught me anything, it’s that knowledge is power. Knowing what’s true in us, knowing what isn’t. And gnosis — knowing from direct experience, with our very own bodies — is what it’s all about.

I ate the apple. Turns out what appeared imperfect, questionable, bruised — actually tasted quite good.

The Fall is now available. Get your copy here.

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This line from ’s Native always gets me, “Human beings have been destroying the earth’s natural ability to make her own decisions for centuries, and she is beginning to let us know that our actions have harmful consequences.” I can’t wait to dig into her new book + discuss all our favorite parts together.

“Now I know Love”

QUOTE OF THE WEEK

I wanted to eat life by the mouthful, to devour it, to be swallowed up in its dizzying vertigo, to be both actor and spectator, to possess and be possessed, to discover and to create, to make of my life a work of art.

—Simone de Beauvoir, Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter

Thank you for reading Make It Delicious. I’m deeply grateful for your presence and support, which gives me the space to create the work I love in community. xo LB

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turned me onto composting — both learning how the process physically works and applying the concept to my life metaphorically. But toenails — they’re what made me love it. That, and a flowerbed full of marigolds.

When I realized the toenails I threw into the compost mixed together with the food scraps, the pizza boxes, the egg cartons, the dead houseplants…

Then decomposed to eventually became soil…

Then went back into the garden…

And then grew a bed of marigolds…

“We are the Earth,” took on a whole new meaning. Not just in theory — it was lived. Felt. Experienced. I saw my body in those marigolds. My very own toenails were included.

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Because there’s just something about physically holding a story you’ve written in your hands — I’m publishing a booklet featuring two favorite personal essays on Eve, Lilith, and the forbidden fruit, called The Fall.

Years ago I set out to give Eve a rewrite. The “evil temptress” character I’d been taught was a real bummer, “wise beloved” was who I knew by heart. These are a couple chapters of that larger piece — I love them so much as a pair that I wanted them to have their own glorious moment together.

The Fall is now available for preorder, as a pay what you can offering.

Place your order here, then follow this link to choose your price through the Custom Amount option.

Share share and share some more, wherever you share things, with whoever you share things with.

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Apple Crumble Bars Recipe

Ingredients

For the apples:

• 8 medium apples, about 7-8 cups

• 1/4 cup brown sugar

• 1 tablespoon lemon juice

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

• 1 tablespoon cornstarch

• 3 teaspoons cinnamon

For the crumble:

• 2 1/2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats

• 3 cups all-purpose flour

• 1 cup brown sugar

• 1/2 cup granulated sugar

• 1 cup salted butter, melted

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

• 1 tablespoon cinnamon

• 1 teaspoon baking powder

• 1/2 teaspoon nutmeg

• 1/2 teaspoon salt

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Mother Mary was a bad bitch. This is a hill I’m willing to die on. This is a hill I have died on, several times over, if ego death counts.

A couple weeks ago, I visited the Mary garden at a church I used to attend, and as I sat there looking up at the statue of her and the infant Jesus, I remembered her husband, Joseph.

Have you ever read the story of how he got on board with the whole Son of God thing?

I’m paraphrasing, but an angel appeared to Joseph in a dream while Mary stayed busy minding her business. (Queen.)

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I applied for my first grant last month. It was clarifying and empowering — telling Linden’s story, speaking its worth, sharing the plan for my vision, asking for financial support. I don’t know what the outcome will be, but I know doing it made a difference. The process alone was healing.

Because the night I sent it off, I had a dream. I was talking on the phone with someone, when all of a sudden, my grandmother came bursting into the room. The same grandmother who studied the Enneagram in the 80s, who practiced Catholicism but also did tarot. It’s been almost 30 years since she passed away, but here, she was full of life. She was dancing.

I’d have dreams like this every now and then as a teenager, but I didn’t think too much about it back then. It wasn’t until my late twenties, when they became frequent, that I started paying them more attention. Then I read ’s The Meaning of Mary Magdalene and realized my experience wasn’t so unusual. There were words, languages, whole spiritual paths devoted to this kind of inner-communication with loved ones on both sides of eternity.

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Here in Tennessee, seeds are sown in mid July-early September for a Fall harvest. I know because I googled it last week, wondering about timing while planning out my next creative projects. I’ve started doing this since I became a gardener — looking at my life like the garden I’m growing. Treating my desires and my zinnias with equal intention.

What am I planting?

Does it have the right soil?

Should I bury or scatter the seeds?

What’s taking off?

How can I best care for them?

Any pests? Any problems? Any weeds?

I’m always learning new lessons this way.

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I was walking to the garden across the street when I saw two older women up ahead. A smile swept across my face that I directed their way. Coming toward me, holding arms with each other, I noticed one of them seemed to be guiding her friend.

Then she approached me like we’d met before, looked right at me and said, “Welcome to a beautiful day!” Something about it was so moving, so perfect, so—funny, because it was almost 4pm.

Her message made me remember — you can hit reset at any time. You can let a little love in.

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I was silenced once. I hated it. As a singer, a writer, a teacher, losing my voice in any way felt like torture.

But if I’m being honest, something in the most rebellious part of me was curious about what lesson might be revealed there. Pretty soon after, I had a funny realization — as in, it actually made me laugh out loud.

I’m a poet! Are you kidding me? I’ll say whatever I want through metaphor, symbolism, myth. Hidden subtext is my stuff.

There are countless ways to communicate a message. I’ve seen this up close while studying Mary Magdalene. The heretical medieval artists, painting their beliefs about the bride of Jesus. The “would-be female ministers and priests and bishops” recalls, who were never formally ordained but whose ministries were concealed in plain daylight: Charlotte Brontë publishing Jane Eyre, a fiction full of spiritual commentary, under the pseudonym Currer Bell. Sojourner Truth, announcing at a women’s rights convention,

“Then that little man in black there, he says women can’t have as much rights as men, ‘cause Christ wasn’t a woman! Where did your Christ come from? Where did your Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with Him.”

Then it dawned on me how massively the plan to oppress people through forced silence, specifically women, backfires on the patriarchy in the long run. Though undoubtedly fucked, attempting to shut us up will only make us more powerful.

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