Fast ... and Furious

Breakfast.

I'm breaking fast today.

It began on the spring equinox, March 20th with an unexpected urge to stymy winter-in-the-northlands habits. Pancakes and maple syrup. Quesadillas. My hand reaching out for a bite of whatever was on the counter. Bad, bad me. Out of the blue-(green forest), I added a fast to my equinox fire and drum. Spring clean from the inside out. Empty and see what drops in.

Perfect timing, to begin with the energy shift of spring and end on the new moon, three days later. I didn't force it. If I wanted to quit any given day I gave myself permission. I longed to taste will power again, a distant player since Saturn has had his foot on my neck for over a year. He lifts it October 4th. Be guaranteed, by then I'll know the exact moment he lifts leg and walks on.

I hadn't fasted in several years. I'd forgotten the diamond clarity that envelopes the brain. The way aches go away; swelling dissipates. The volcanic burst of energy. What I hadn't forgotten was how beautiful it felt, in this world of womb-robbing politicians and kill-club voices, to control something.

It was surprisingly easy to drink water with maple syrup and fresh lemons (with a dash of cayenne) for three days, which tells me how badly needed it was. As if my soul recognized a vital path; an escape hatch to another part of myself. A hibernating chunk of spirit that needed an elbow in the ribs.  

The final day of no food, yesterday, the new moon was in Aries. My moon is in Aries. I was furious with hope as I slugged through over a foot of new wet snow for a couple of miles, accompanied by bird songs of sex. I cleaned floors, did laundry, stretches and then I collapsed into my New Yorker magazine and John le Carre's final book.

I want to fly the coop. Wings are set and plop, a foot of white stuff. Plop again, another foot. This morning, 3 new inches. I'm editing an article set for July publication on "Watching the Wild." And, I'm figuring out what to eat this morning. I don't want to let go of this journey and it's crystalline balance; I like that my one-legged stretches are impeccable; my body doesn't teeter or totter.

Spring equinox marks the day the earth begins. The season of rebirth. I'm giving it all I've got, stretching to the limit.

Full Moon Mink

I sit at the break of day where I can see the opposite bank of the Fisher River. It's only twenty yards away, down a slight hill. Until yesterday my imagination was filled with a sighting of a bobcat on New Years Day. It's always the case. Once I see something in one particular spot my memory seeks to reproduce it. So I'm always looking over there, for one more glimpse of bobcat.

Yesterday had been edgy. The largest solar flare in years bombarded the earth. My body seethed with current. I closed down communication portals following a sweet talk with daughter Hope, took to the couch and switched on a 1946 Sherlock Holmes movie. Turned the house into a metaphorical cave. Darkness fell as I poured myself a glass of Riesling and caught movement out the window; a dark thin form made her way along the bank, west to east, weaving between crusty snow, tawny grass, fallen logs and the bulging river. An otter, I presumed. Because that was my context. Then I realized it didn't move with that familiar river otter hump. It was smaller, sable brown and sleek. Onto Google I went, checking out river otters, martens, fishers and minks. Minks?

She was doing what minks do, moving determinately, working the riverside. I watched for two minutes, which in the world of wildlife sightings, is stupendous. I didn't reach for my camera. I didn't want to take my eyes off the crepuscular creature ... to lose one precious moment of her essence. Almost out of sight, she slipped into the river and swam against the flow.

I'll make my way up that bank today. Check for tracks. A worthy task on this, Hope's birthday; the last full moon of winter. Depending on the culture, this moon is known as the Full Crust Moon, Moon When the Eyes are Sore from Bright Snow (Lakotah), and Moon of the Winds (Celtic). For myself, it will forever be the Mink Moon, linked in memory with the celebration of Hope's birth.

Binocs and camera at my side, my eyes scan the riverbank 'in hope' as I push the buttons on the phone; wait for her to answer that I might break out in one more gregarious birthday song. 

Outside Naked on Blood-slick Snow

I've changed the title of my blog.
Part monumental shift; part seasonal thaw.
Or may be it's the extra cardamon I tossed into the gingerbread yesterday.

The words "Outside Naked" have been swelling my brain for months.

"Outside Naked" because it is here, within the roiling seasons, I am  laid bare.
Chickadee. Song Dog. Beaver. Elk. Bobcat. Moose. Whale. Soul is stripped to essence in the presence of the wild ones and the lands they call home.

There's much to say; even more to feel and synthesize in that place beyond words.

I sit at ground zero in NW Montana.

Wolves, the ultimate symbol of what little wild remains, are under assault as men consider poisoning, trapping, extending the season and hiring bounty killers to take down the beast.

We have been there. Done that.

Men killed over 75 million buffalo between 1850 and 1880. Seventy. Five. Million. Not for food. For hides. For fun. Rotting meat and wild spirits strewn across the west. Wolves, of course, proliferated in the protein rich backwoods and plains. Then came ranchers with cattle. 100,000 wolves exterminated between  1870 and 1877 in Montana alone! As of this month's count, there are estimated to be 653 wolves in Montana, 87 more than at last year. 130 packs and 39 breeding pairs. A 15% increase and the guys are riled. They'd like to be paid $100 for every wolf carcass they can deliver; $20 for every pup. Meanwhile, Utah is encouraging hunters to exterminate 20,000 coyotes.

Manifest destiny. The God-given right to control, dominate and conquer.

Scene Two: Rush Limbaugh, who recently screamed slut and whore across the clear channel airwaves, telling a female law student that her parents would be ashamed that she spoke publicly of a woman's right and need for birth control; how those costs should be covered by health insurance. Because you see, at the heart of this madness is woman's freedom. She must be controlled. Shamed to submission. Just ask Santorum, who would compel a woman carry a rape fetus to full term, and give the rapist parental rights.

We have been there; done that.

Today is the warmest day of the year. The gravel roads are thick with slush and water runs free with the magic of thaw.  The earth stirs. My ears perk up at new bird songs. I pay attention to Ponderosa's sway in the wind as much as the synchronicity of human-made stories. It's all connected.

I want to believe that everyone is gathering force and placing themselves at their personal ground zero, prepared to watch and witness. I like my vantage point at the crossroads of wisdom and wild.

I stand with the holy feral, outside naked.