More Words / Less Weight
”The more words you say,
the less weight they carry…”
Grief: 09.30.2024
APPLE tree euloGY
If my life were a work of fiction, then there was foreshadowing in the past week to the events that unfolded today, if by the very nature of speaking so passionately about one of the trees I have loved the most…
Fear: 09.11.2023
WASP
Wasps hung tightly to the picnic area… I’ve been working on kindly asking them to respect my boundaries this summer.
Yearning: 08.26.2024
Plums
How dry is dry enough for dehydrated plums?Because I am grieving and sad and angered that instead of teaching me how to can pickles, my grandmother harvested and prepared a helping of chaos and codependency in her home.
Boundaries: 08.25.2024
Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip Cookies
After enough emotional unavailability, I am becoming ever more selective of who I bake cookies for now.
Balance & Gratitude: 08.25.2024
Left Overs
I am sitting on my kitchen floor, worshipping the goddess who made far more chicken curry than she, past Crystal, knew what to do with...
Mattis rhoncus
The Best Life of a Service Berry
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Grief: 09.30.2024
Apple Tree Eulogy
If my life were a work of fiction, then there was foreshadowing in the past week to the events that unfolded today, if by the very nature of speaking so passionately about one of the trees I have loved the most…Twice this past week I had spoken about the tree outside my kitchen window. I suspect I had spent nearly 20 minutes with one individual, talking about the history and my relationship to the tree, as we mutually admired the dappled sunlight pouring through the window…I had called in well on Wednesday… I would later linger Sunday morning baking and cooing over the ambiance…If I might have known this, perhaps I’d have stayed home all week?I remember I had moved in mid-February over three years ago, and I remember how a cardinal would sing to me, with his dapper hat in the early morning hours, perched in branches of that tree, which at the time I did not know to be an apple tree.It wasn’t until spring, until the blossoms burst and the bees buzzed that I got to see birds pecking at the unopened buds and little ants climbing about.This morning alone, I was basking in the back drop of green leaves behind plump slices of caraway and fennel sourdough french toast, dripping with maple syrup. The last picture of the tree was from breakfast.And last night, after walking home in the darkness, lit up only by street lamps, the big dipper and a single shooting star, I had seen the silhouette of the lower leaves hanging over a bunny feasting on a fallen apple.
The fruits had dropped early this year, well before ripe, but none the less, the wasps feasted on what had fallen.In years past, I had harvested the apples from my kitchen window, on the second story of this building.I did not feel like I lived in Green Bay most mornings…I don’t know how I’ll feel tomorrow.I came home this afternoon, after a long day of subbing… I was on the move all day floating and supporting some of the highest needs.I had swung by the Gray Street garden plot to get greens, and went home to change before running to water the food forest at Seymour Park, and I quickly bolted up the stairs and into the kitchen…The first thing that struck me was, “why was it so bright?”And then I turned my head right, and looked out the window.And I gasped.I have not gasped like that since… I have no clue.And very audibly exclaimed, “OH NO!I was in disbelief from the starkness… I can see houses and yards I didn’t know existed.I messaged my friends that I was sad and then took a picture and then…I began to cry.I couldn’t control it.It started out in simple tears welling up.“Allow yourself to feel the full extent of your emotion…” I remember my friend and teacher Aneela saying recently…I went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped in, and wept.I cried out, tapped my chest. Moved my body… I didn’t keep it in or choke it down.And I was good.Enough…Good enough for now…I thought to myself “it’s too bad I can’t keep a small piece of it.”I cautiously, or perhaps begrudgingly, looked out my kitchen window into the neighbor’s driveway to see if there were pieces left.And there was actually a flatbed trailer, filled with the trunk and branches of the tree.A breathed a sigh of relief for my little big nostalgic heart.But similtaneiously, I heard an engine turn on… the truck hauling the trailer.I threw my shirt on quickly, having just gotten out of the shower and headed down the stairs.He was inching forward and I waved him down.He stopped.He was kind. He was the neighbor’s father.I asked him if I might have a log, and he acquiesced, helping me select just the right ones… not too small, but not too heavy.The log, crooked like an L shape, weighed about that of a child.I carried it over to my steps, wondering what the hell I was to do with it. I had grabbed some small twigs as well as wood stoppers for leather hair barrettes, perhaps a more sensible option, had I thought before bidding for the man’s help with the log.There was less time to consider all of this “typical Crystal bullshit,” as I would tell my friend Jenna later on the phone.And when I say bullshit, I actually mean that in the most loving manner towards myself, for all of the shenanigans I get myself into, I thoroughly adore those parts of me driven to such, such impulse or whimsy or whatnot.Everything is alright.I hurried to the garden to go water the plants. And what a good place to go, to care for the new, after releasing that which was time to move on; all of which I could not control.In a matter of minutes, mourning turned into magic while interacting with others in the garden, while talking with dear Jenna on the phone, while doing all that it is that fills up my heart. I was telling her all these stories, while children asked me questions about watermelon, and I had her on my handsfree headset, just being apart of the conversation.After wrapping up watering, I took the call to Woodman’s, as I had long since decided ice cream was needed for the evening.We continued our talk, and as I was debating about Chubby Hubby vs Everything But The… she asked me, “are you about to bleed?” And I said no, that was last week, but it certainly feels like it… especially with my tears about the tree.Anyways…The conversation shifted and ended and I was home, and I was eating ice cream and thinking of many words to put behind all of which happened today…I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth, and I looked into the mirror, and asked myself,“It’s not about the apple tree is it?”No.It is October. It is here.It is not far from being tomorrow.And it is all the days that lie within it.October is birthdays that never happened.It is goodbyes never spoken.It is the apple.
It is the womb.
It is the sharp turn inward entering into the dream world of winter.
It is boundaries.
It is the month full of the histories of some of the biggest decisions of my life.
It is magic, with every leaf surrendered to the love of gravity.I cannot carry the weight of logs, or worry, or disbelief in the reality of all the beauty that unfolds within every aspect of my life these days.I wrote last night, after walking home… while my belly was full of cake and coffee, a chunk of bread wrapped in paper grasped between my palms, at my waist. The big dipper scooping up the dark sky; a shooting star skimming across its rim while my feet crossed Oakland, homeward bound.I wrote… there is no room in all of this to be afraid.Even with the falling of the apple tree, there is little room nor need to grieve.Anyways…This weekend, I’ll harvest apples, finish rice; and come November, chop the applewood to smoke whitefish to put away for winter dreaming.
Fear: 09.11.2023
Wasp
Building relationship with fear and embracing it with love…Upon our arrival to camp on Friday, we were greeted by many friends, some of whom wanted to get all up in my face, especially after opening a bottle of kombucha.Wasps hung tightly to the picnic area… I’ve been working on kindly asking them to respect my boundaries this summer.This all recently started with my French toast breakfasts on my porch most mornings. Now that the neighbor’s apple tree is ripe, there have been increasing amounts of wasps visiting me for breakfast, as soon as they sense the Penokee gold maple syrup on my plate.I’ve been leaving my knife dabbed with syrup to feed them while I eat, lest I bite one myself unknowingly. It’s been a way to coexist and maintain my porch ritual breakfast.So rice camp was no different…I sat out a cap full of the sweet fizzy lifting drink for them and they seemed to give me some space.Much like with ticks this year, I’m working on not flinching or coiling up. I’m working on easing my nervous system to observe and ask what is needed in the moment.They are just hungry. There are less flowers right now. They are feeling the creep of fall coming ever so closely. They need to feed to prepare for their rest.My friends marvel at my way of charming them… this butterfly whisper is now a “wasp whisperer,” and even saying it out loud, I am now cognizant of the way the words flow out.As I watch this creature sip, I think back to recently when a lovely and kind man told me how he savored how the word “wasps” felt in his mouth…How are we able to be more attuned like that to the very vibration of how our words feel… to the vibration even of how these wasps wings reverberate near my finger tips as I gently place down the bottle cap for them to drink?So many past fears and anxieties popping up right now. How do I not flinch and run away? How do I resist the tensing up that comes with the fear of being stung?How do I stay open?How can I ask my heart to synch up with these vibrations, and be expansive?Breathe.I stand and simply watch.This one wasp, he gets a taste, and he is not afraid to chase more sweetness nor come closer to me.All of a sudden, the buzz echos louder. He has found his way into the smooth insides of the bottle in search for sweet treasure. Not afraid… not afraid of the mess, not even thinking of how he might get stuck.I try to tell him, “don’t go too deep. Don’t drown.”This is clearly my fear, and not his own.His feet slip and he goes in.An observer looks on and says he’ll just drown and then I can enjoy my drink alone once again.I wanted to share it and not keep it for myself. I don’t want this creature to drown in this sweetness.I try tilting the bottle to help him get out without dumping out the whole drink. The dance, the balance of not pouring ourselves out in order to save another.My good friend who looks onward, she sees my increasing anxiety and calls me out on it. She offers a tool, a coffee mug…“Here pour it all out into the new cup, and you too [two?] can drink.”I slowly pour it out and find a small paper for him to climb upon.He is safe. He is not afraid.He starts to crawl upon the picnic table, and he licks off the mess surrounding him.Gently cleaning antennae, feet, every little bit…I watch in amazement of the beauty of his work. He is not drowning in my mess, but rather finds it to be a treasure that he savors in his mouth.I wonder if his wings will work? Can he breathe?My friends look on now…Fears come up, and they get so close, and activate all the past hurts into the present, which does not have to be the same as any experience from the past…This creature who came to me… he didn’t come to eat and sting me and leave… he simply wanted to share in the sweetness I had to offer him.Instead of fighting and guarding, I am learning how to hold safe harbor.I don’t know fully how it works. I don’t know if I will eventually get stung, even in offering this to this creature.But instead of focusing on the fear, I chose to watch and examine him, take the time to let him get so close and see every beautiful detail of his flesh and design. The way he moves and cleans up messes. The way he is not afraid to chase this prize.This wasp and I build relationship…After a few minutes of cleaning, he is ready to fly.He comes to me all weekend now, every meal shared.None of us at camp swat the wasps that swarm us at the table now. We embrace them and ask for them to dine side by side.
Yearning: 08.26.2024
Plums
How dry is dry enough for dehydrated plums?Because I am grieving and sad and angered that instead of teaching me how to can pickles, my grandmother harvested and prepared a helping of chaos and codependency in her home.I’ve got 20 pounds of plums ripening on my apartment floor, and I am trying to navigate between the internet and a borrowed dehydrator, before they rot, of how I’m going to make next month’s rent and credit card debt, when all I want to do is run around the woods and be a black bear.I make myself emotionally unavailable when I chase men who future fake plans of cottages in the woods, when out of the other side of their mouth they fervently cling to the belief of the long-term viability of grocery shopping… when all I just want is their help to carry a bucket of potatoes up my steps that I traded the soil for with my sinew and sweat.Pushing and twisting through brambles, trying to reclaim our ancestral ways that were insidiously taken away from us through the seduction of convenience; through the enslavement of productivity.I don’t want to know your favorite color or TV show;I am yearning to know how you too, are actively tending the call back to the old ways…
Balance & Gratitude: 08.25.2024
Left Overs
I am sitting on my kitchen floor, worshipping the goddess who made far more chicken curry than she, past Crystal, knew what to do with.If not but through her grace, I am about to cry over a gifted brioche bun overflowing with reheated curry coming from the stove top, as I do not own or use a microwave.I am tired.
I am hungry.
I am grateful for her foresight.And I am sitting on my kitchen floor now, thinking about all the time wasted and invested in the distraction of chasing men who told me they didn't like to eat leftovers.I am sitting on my kitchen floor, indignantly judging them, thinking things like, "clearly they do not know what it is like to run a household," or "are their daily take out meals better than my jars of curry?"And clearly, I forget the fact that I'm menstruating, and my perseverance is fulled by this further.And I am sitting on my kitchen floor, and now I am licking the curry juice off my finger, as it is running towards my wrist, and then take that finger and swipe the plate clean, indulging in the flavors, further set into the chicken and zucchini, as it's been in the fridge for several days now.I begin to laugh at myself recognizing that such reflection on what I'm trying to confabulate into red flags I blew past, is just pulling me from this moment; pulling me from being able to savor every little bit of spice that I am.I tuck the rest of the jar back into the fridge for tomorrow, making sure that I have another brioche bun left over to sop up all the goodness that the maturity of waiting can only entertain.
CRYSTALMICHELLE L. BROWN
About
"It dawned on me--I have stories to tell and a voice that is worth being heard."
- Elora May
I have been putting this off for far to long. My intention is to share my words here in preparation for publishing.
I am a story teller. I have many sacred stories I am feeling called to share.
I have other ways in which I engage with the world. To learn more about them, go to: www.inspirednorth.com