Call me a homebody.
On being one year in.
I’m writing to you on the
fall equinox
with the urge to cook everything
in sage, coriander, cinnamon, cumin,
nutmeg, cardamom, and cloves.
I cannot stop making blended squash soups,
roasting chickens with
freshly foraged mushrooms.
I’m writing to you on the
fall equinox
and I’m nervous
because Monday was our anniversary and
these are the first words
I’ve shared with you in weeks.
Because this newsletter might not have existed
if it weren’t for you.
I’m writing to you on the
fall equinox
and I’m elated
because I am celebrating
the anniversary of a milestone
in the deeply committed relationship
between me and the North Olympic Peninsula:
the day I purchased my home.
I’m writing to you on the
fall equinox
as I am surrendering
toward the truth
of another.
I’m writing to you on the
fall equinox,
a waxing moon,
two wildly different feeling anniversaries,
the holiest days in the Jewish year,
the day my grandfather passed,
the day my grandmother was born,
and I am wondering how I am doing.
No, I wonder how I am being.
No, no, I wonder how I am healing.
I will come back to this,
I promise.
Baila is a seasonal newsletter, and the potency of this month has been disorienting. I have struggled to know where to start with this month’s writing—how to explain, where to dive in first. I have decided to start exactly where I am. (Always, as good a place as any.)
This newsletter is a personal, yet shared container for much larger lessons of trust, surrender, authenticity, and vulnerability that are profoundly present for me, I hope palpable to you.
This newsletter is not just a newsletter in the way that my home is not just a house.
There is a deeper Knowing than I can currently explain that’s weaving the story of my life. I know that being here on the North Olympic Peninsula is an inseparable part of it. I knew that on the trajectory of my path, I needed to get myself here. And so it is.
I mentioned that we’re in the holiest days of the Jewish year, marked by Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. These days are saturated in deep reflection and atonement with Spirit, a gateway before entering the New Year ahead. Perhaps this explains why I’ve found myself perusing old journal entries over the last several weeks, nourishing myself through timestamps and flashbacks on my growth. I revere writing because it is such a utilitarian, sacred practice.
The power of writing continues to permeate my life. In my reflection, I was reminded that I literally wrote my way into this home. Every offer I submitted throughout my home-buying search included a unique and heartfelt letter, and I never knew whether it made a difference to the seller. Despite my real estate agent telling me it likely wouldn’t matter, and despite having four offers in a row rejected, I insisted. I knew.
I knew the moment I saw the listing of my current home that this would be the one. There were two other competitive offers on the table, and you can imagine my overwhelming joy and relief to receive the call that mine had been accepted. My search was finally over. I could begin again.
It wasn’t until weeks later that I learned whether my letter mattered at all. I was moving in, and when my next door neighbor came by to introduce himself, he somehow already knew things about me. When he saw a confused look on my face, he simply shared, “Oh, I read your letter. Neighbors talk. I told them to pick you. Welcome home.”
I stood stupefied.
It was my voice that brought me home.
(May it always, always, do so.)
And in the spirit of nothing-is-a-coincidence, it feels equally magical to reflect on the fact that the first thing I bought upon moving to the Peninsula—unintentionally to my conscious thought—was not a laundry basket or a coffee maker. Not bed sheets or a dish rack.
It was a journal.
I’m a year into homeownership and I can’t stop looking around.
At the 94 trees, shrubs, bushes, and flowers I put in the ground by hand, each one fertilized with seaweed and a prayer.1
At the deck railing that Luke, Abbey, and I built in the rain, hungover the day after my housewarming party, so that my homeowners insurance wouldn’t cancel on me.
At the massive garden beds held together by thousands of pounds of quartzite rock that my dad and I picked out, arranged, and filled with soil in a single day.
At the custom fire pit my friend Kelly welded me as a welcome home gift.
At the impeccably organized and intentional bookshelf in the dining room that so clearly explains who I am and who I want to be.2
At the altars hiding in plain sight all around—on the living room’s tv-less tv stand (west), the handmade marble lazy susan on the dining room table (north), the heart-shaped shelf above the dish rack (east), the windowsill above my bed (south).
At the artwork and hand-written cards displayed on the refrigerator door, reminders of the incredible love and beauty expressed through my loved ones, of which I am the most grateful recipient.
At the precise angle of the sun as it filters through the backyard forest patch; at the yellowing of the big leaf maple across the meadow; at the sweet and wet croaking of the tree frogs that will always mark this special point in time.
At the vision of all that’s ready to come into being on this special slice of Earth—a studio yurt, a greenhouse x bathhouse, a shared orchard, food, and medicinal garden, pockets of native plant and pollinator sanctuaries, a meadow, pathways that meander to nooks for gathering and play, a hand-built community banquet table beneath a romantically lit pergola and mini outdoor kitchen, and a sauna, to start.
At the possibilities that the cultivation and existence of these spaces will create—for we, not just for me.
I’m a year into homeownership and I can’t stop looking within.
At the abundance of ever-unfolding lessons this process has taught me, including, but not limited to:
Embrace the mess. Trying to keep it all together will exhaust, evade, and distract you. The amount of times I’ve procrastinated on other work (both external or internal) and tidied up the house instead, is comical. Yes, a clear and clean space is a clear and clean mind, and, spotless kitchen countertops will not heal your trauma, nourish your relationships, or bring your dreams into reality. When the sink overflows with dishes and my room reaches category 4 hurricane status, it means I’m deeper into other work that necessitates a mess, that necessitates my coming undone. Sometimes that other work is a project, sometimes it is time spent away with other people and places, sometimes it is grief, fatigue, or overwhelm. Chaos, too, is a sacred rhythm.
Do whatever you want. This mantra brings me so much joy and instant relief. A wonderful pairing when embracing the mess. Izzy, this is your house. Your life. You have complete and total agency here. No one is checking to make sure you ate your vegetables and went to bed on time. You can eat chocolate ice cream for dinner. Smoke joints inside. Have sex on the dryer. Stay up late. Go for dawn patrol. Throw a party. Go to bed at 7pm. Paint the walls. Blast reggaeton. Take a midnight bath. Stop living by anyone else’s desires other than your own. Honor your intentions, honor your values, but please, honor exactly what you need.3
Alchemize the pickle. You will be relentlessly confronted with conundrums, situations, pickles, and dumpster fires for which you do not yet have the knowledge or skill set because you have not had to navigate it before.4 Take a moment to reflect on why, check whether your privilege has anything to do with it, then send a sweet, loving, and forgiving breath to yourself and all who’ve shaped you. Next, transform the feelings of dread, overwhelm, shame and/or intimidation around the current pickle/knowledge gaps into genuine excitement about what lies in front of you waiting to be learned. At the fact that this experience will equip you to help someone else in this same situation, with increased empathy and compassion. At the massive opportunity, the blessing, really, to practice asking for help and building interdependence and reciprocity with your community.
Do it right, do it once. Once you have completed the major lift of alchemizing a pickle, you won’t want to do so again. This will mean doing your due diligence, prioritizing quality, and moving slowly. This will mean biting off a smaller amount than you want to chew. If you break any of these rules, you will regret it, and you’ll end up in a similar place to where you began. There are lessons to be learned in repetition, but much more joy and satisfaction in taking the time to do it right the first time. Anddddd, (because everything is multifaceted), you should probably shower all of this in grace and just try your best, knowing you can evolve and improve anything down the line.
Do less. This has been a massive year of learning, the hard way, how much is too much. Of spending far too much time in a state of overwhelm and saying I’m fine. Of spinning multiple plates on tiny little chopsticks while unicycling blindfolded through an obstacle course in the rain. I offer myself grace as I work to undo decades of conditioning around taking on a monumental work load as normal, healthy, and necessary for my self-worth. Slow is smooth; smooth is fast. May I move mountains in my stillness.
Find, do not force, your unique contributions to your community. I live in a perpetual state of awe and gratitude for the talents, skills, and gifts that live within this community. Farmers, fishers, foresters, carpenters, artists, herbalists, biologists, shapers, mechanics, chefs, entrepreneurs, to start. I have often found myself wondering what it is I could possibly add to such a capable place, so I listen for what this community needs. I commit to perpetually tuning myself to this question and orienting my actions around the answers I find. I commit to de-centering myself, removing ego, and eradicating saviorism in this exploration. I commit to balancing this with the truth that there is always space for my unique magic. That my offering will be more potent the more authentic it is to me. I am grateful to have already found several trailheads to explore, and know I will continue to find my way by plugging into existing efforts, asking questions, and showing up for others with love, care, and attention.
Find, do not force, your people. Moving to the Olympic Peninsula felt so seamless in large part because I’ve been cultivating a relationship with its people and places for years. I threw a housewarming party after living here for one month and had dozens of people sipping wine out of every drinking vessel I owned, blessing my home with warmth and chatter that spilled out into the streets. It was an experience I’ll always cherish, and yet it’s been a journey to settle into who my real people are. The ones beyond a head nod in the line-up. The ones who show up to your house unannounced to say hello, who reach out to make sure you’re included because they notice you’re not in the group chat. The ones who don’t flake. The ones who make sure you’re not stranded at the bus station. The ones who know and ask about your family, who remember what’s going on in your life, who hold space for you exactly as you are.
This absolutely cannot be forced. The most control you can possibly have is how you choose to show up, and where you choose to put your energy. You show up, and then you let others do the same—exactly as they do, exactly as they are. You release expectations of how you want them to be for you. You just let them. In this process, you will be surprised, delighted, and disappointed. Then you use this information to orient your emotional and relational energy—whether that means more directly asking for what you need, or simply moving toward where you feel greater reciprocity, or a warm and embodied “yes.” The movement of authentically growing into others is one of the most beautiful in the world. You will find each other.
It is a dance to both feel so connected to this home as an extension, container, and mirror for who I am, and also not be so attached.
Yet the tethering is impossible to ignore.
When I find myself in Seattle, I stare at the ridgeline of the eastern Olympics and feel comfort, knowing my heart is being held over there.
When I make it across the Hood Canal Bridge, my entire nervous system relaxes.
When I walk through my front door and am greeted by the warmth of teak and oak furniture, the rounded archway to the kitchen, and the unique blend of 100-year-old-house-with-residual-copal-smoke-and-musk, I settle.
When I complete a home improvement project, no matter the size, I feel the most authentic joy and empowerment radiate from within.
When someone points out something sloppy or in disrepair, even if I had nothing to do with it, I feel an immediate, sinking heaviness in my center.
When someone tells me they feel cozy, safe, and welcome in my home, I feel deeply connected to my purpose. I want to put my arms around them, and realize my home has done so already.
It’s because
I am this home,
and this home is me.
I care for it,
and it cares for me.
It is as true for my home in Port Angeles
as it is for our home in Mother Earth.
Our health—physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual—is inextricable from our environment at all scales. It’s why violence to the land is violence to the body and no, that is not a metaphor.
“Systemic injustice and racism is always related to safety of body.” – Matika Wilbur, All My Relations, Healing the Land is Healing Ourselves
It is a sickening and painful truth,
among the deepest roots of injustice,
To look at how land has been weaponized as the literal ground for systemic oppression and abhorrent violence throughout the historic and continued colonization of this country.
To look at how maps of the most toxic and polluted sites are identical to maps of the worst health outcomes, identical to maps of the least-white, least affluent areas.
To look at how the scars from the original trespassing on this land5 are identical to the scars on women and femme bodies.6
The examples are infinite.
Yet the inverse is also true—when we heal the land, we heal ourselves, and we can heal generations of trauma and injustice.
It is a healing and hopeful truth,
among the most powerful levers for change,
To look at how rematriating, returning, and restoring rights to Indigenous land restores power, balance, and benefits literally every sector and issue we face today.
To look at how communities who have access to traditional foods and medicines, organically and safely grown nourishment, tree cover, green spaces, have better health outcomes.
To look at how even after everything, everything, we’ve put the Earth through, even as She rages through a fossil fuel-driven climate and ecological crisis, She is still capable of healing us by simply allowing us to connect with Her.
The examples are infinite.
The layers of the systemic challenges we face are so interconnected,
and so are the solutions.
I told you I would return to how I am doing,
No, being,
No no, healing,
through the relentless waves
of change and complexity
rolling through my life right now.
It is,
it always is,
by returning home
to Myself.
I pride myself on my ability to hold multiplicity,
which is holding multiple things simultaneously
and seeing integration,
rather than a binary,
and I am learning,
over and over,
that is it one thing to hold them in your mind
and entirely different to live them in your body.
I am returning home to Myself
through the medium of my body,
my ancient and wise suitcase,
more than I ever have.
I am healing
the over-intellectualization
of everything, by holding tenderly,
and quietly forgiving my
malleable mind.
I am asking it to leave,
inviting it to return only on special occasions.
Your mind simply cannot guide your bodywork.
Thinking will only bring you so far,
then it will lead you in circles,
and call it a sacred spiral.
No.
I am going deep within Myself,
down to the dark and still bottom
of the ocean floor,
where I sit,
resting beneath it all.
My legs crossed,
my arms wrapped around
a giant, heavy stone,
immoveable in my equanimity.
As I sat in my bathtub in reflection and prayer on Yom Kippur, as I stared at myself submerged in warm water, hands placed on my womb, I realized that what I most had to atone for was for every time I abandoned my body, because that meant I abandoned You.
I guess this makes me a homebody.
Over 50 percent are native species, and counting! Shout out to the Clallam County Conservation District native plant sale.
“Do you ever feel the best of you is something you’re still hoping to grow into?” –Andrea Gibson, from “What do you think about the weather?” in Lord of the Butterflies
Also, must give an honorable mention to…consequences.
You grew up in the suburbs of Atlanta, Izzy, and now are a first-time homeowner in a rural area in the opposite corner of the country. This is going to keep coming up.
The original obliteration of consent. Dive deeper with Dr. Sarah Hunt’s “Decolonizing the Roots of Rape Culture.”
Want to know why Mother Nation is the nonprofit beneficiary this newsletter? Because, for me, it all comes down to this. Native women experience more gender-based violence and greater systemic barriers for justice than any other group. As an ally and a survivor, it is essential to support the amazing, Native-led work happening in this space.
This was lovely to get lost in. Thank you Izzy.