Real grandfatherly wisdom from Chuck.

Reflecting on the shadow and the light that has nourished the roots of my 32nd year … my year of B L O O M.

Under the blooming influence of May’s first full moon, I sip a coratdo, banter with baristas and muse on the yellow-brick-road days of my twenties. I’m no longer Dorothy, I’m in the new archetypal life-stage of The Mother, and in entering this phase, I reflect, revere, and ripple prayers to the mothers, and to the loving mothering strength within us all.

Of all things … I just happen to be in Fort Lauderdale for what reports will rightly label a “biblical storm.” And so after the storm, I sit with surfaces and find my footing, my rooting into the true foundation of inner safety.

Hawk medicine guides me to float and surf on an upward spiral of interests, whims, elevated indulgences.

Soul-shining in The Magic City.

Story medicine to liberate us into an instinct-led, healthy living.

It’s February, and I’m musing on all the holistic and organic products that I wildly love. Toothpaste included.

On the eve of Imbolc, I walk in metaphors under the all-loving, all-patient gaze of the waxing moon.

On New Year’s Eve, I celebrate my past year’s journey by baking a fresh, homemade batch of buttermilk biscuits. I slow down, savor and see that these biscuits are proof of my healing, and soften into the flour-sprinkled knowing that we can bloom in winter by resting in deep enjoyment of simply being.