i buried my secrets in the santa monica mountains
this body was born from calcareous sandy loam and fine sandy clay loam, ancient sea creatures, the silver leaves of sage and the rusted buds of buckwheat.
this body was born from a land that crackles and burns in fall months and is covered by soft green grasses by march.
i buried my secrets there,
where the sea salts the air and tickles the monarchs. (it cleanses).
there, where i rub California sagebrush between my wrists and under my jaw, because it smells good but also so i can remember the places i’ve walked through.
the soil taught me pressure, particle, history, body, breath, water. it showed me what crumbles from the corners of our mouths when we let our faces rest in the heat of the sun.
the wisdom i know from these mountains is told in the silence of smoke: from the mouth of the fire that burns and builds, releases seed and spore, curls the edges of sycamore leaves and smolders the bodies of oak trees, the smoke whispers back the secrets we choose to forget but still know too well.
fire humbles. it quietly devastates, and from it emerges a beauty that resembles the mystery of a newborn child.
there is a stillness in the air when the fires stop. sometimes this stillness can feel apocalyptic; haunting. the ash of lemonade berry bushes, yarrow, matilija poppies, and coyote mint pulls tears from our eyes. the soil reveals the truth in its resilience when the storms come in february. but if there’s one thing that the fires, that the calcareous sandy loam, that the sage and buckwheat and sycamore and oak have taught me is - life is in constant motion- some things have to die to be alive, and even if the fire reaches the tender heart of an oak tree, new life will always find its way between the cracks.
i buried my secrets here because this land knows its own wisdom. it cleanses itself. it burns and breathes. there is trust in the ancient, the beloved, the sacred, the silver, sienna and viridis.
