I think it’s fair to say that this site is officially retired. So many intentions and longings left, but my world is a very different place now.

I’m doing my best to survive.

It’s time to let this go.

Thank you, everyone, for your support and dedication over the years. There aren’t enough words to express my gratitude for every ounce of love that you’ve all sent my way.

This was my escape. My exploration. The place where I found myself again.

The place where I fell apart.

I don’t want to be here anymore.

I know where I want to be, but it will take some time. Please join me in the place where I’ve crash landed, it’s not very pretty yet but that’s never stopped me before.

It’s called Above 13 Below.

I have no idea what it means.

/via/

Before I jump into the strategy of choosing the name of your thing/endeavor/business/web presence, you need to know how much you’re going to use it.

Your name is the most important element of your branding. It must be easy to spell. Consistent. Short and memorable. Room for growth and change over time. Catchy. Dominant. We’ll go over all that.

Today is about resources, a roadmap. All the shit you will need to set up.

• Domain url
• Facebook fan page
• Tumblr
• Twitter
• Gmail account
• Instagram

Those are just the basics. Depending on what field you’re entering, you will also have specialized sites that will require whatever clever nom de plume you decide for yourself. And here’s the deal: it has to be unique so you can nab all these spots. You don’t necessarily need to use them but you do need to claim them.

It’s about expression. It’s about consistency. It’s about establishing who you are and what you stand for.

It’s called Branding.

The name is the tip of the iceberg..

Ok, so let’s define what’s happening here. I am writing an ecourse on how to like, live your dreams and shit. This includes technical direction, resources, general intellectual and emotional guidance, that kind of thing. This is happening live right here in front of you. There’s no button to click, no package to buy. It’s free. It’s a gift.

Here is why I’m giving it to you for free:  my brain is like scrambled eggs.

If you expect organization and rhythmic comfort, you can go ahead and find it somewhere else. All information and resources will be posted as they surface from the tank. Expect no rhyme or reason. Don’t get pissed when I fall off the face of the earth for a bit.

It’s hard to know where to begin. But this is how it works. Starting points are messy.

Try This.

If you want to know where you’re going, you need to know where you are. Take five minutes with a piece of paper and write down the answers to the following questions as they pop into your head. Come back later and write more. Pull your answers from fact, from real time. Be verbose. Extra credit if you share in the comments.

• Who are you? 
• Where are you?
• What led you here?
• When did your life take its current direction?
• Why do you want it to change?

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The basis of every decision I’ve made in my life has been pretty simple.  I ask myself one of two questions:

Is this love? :: or :: Is this fear?

What’s the difference between Love and Fear?

It’s pretty easy to figure out once you know what to look for.

Love is expansive. Love opens doors. Love takes the weight from your shoulders and carries your shoes. Love is present tense. Boundless. Love is options. Reflections. Boundless ripples in a slow, soft pool. Love is timeless, playful, open to change. Love adapts.

Love is light.

Light like summertime gentle breeze skin kiss.

Light like the sun as it crawls through the cracks.

Love is open. Expansive. It feels good, like a snow day. The unexpected rush of relief, possibility, the instant of potential. When you stand in love, that feeling never quits.

Ever.

Love has no expectations. Love doesn’t give a shit if you change your mind–it’s like turning your head when you’re standing outside on a sunny day. Look east. Look North. The sun is still there. Even when it sets, it’s still there. Everywhere. And when it goes? It comes back again. Even love rests.

Love is infinite. Abundant.

Anything less is Ego.

And Ego is Fear.

Fear grasps. Tightens. Holds tight without release. Scarcity. Tiny. Dark. Fear stands on your shoulders. Holds onto your leg. Throws marbles under your feet.

Fear has an end. Usually a wall. Fear worries about you. Or doesn’t give a shit at all.

Fear gives up.

It’s a virus. A cancer. A drug. I’m willing to bet that almost everyone you know is under the influence of fear. Fear is addiction. Fear isn’t anything at all. Fear is turbulence and confusion.

Fear wants you all to itself.

Fear employs dirty tricks.

Fear refuses to work with your natural disposition. It tries to change it or puts it on a leash. Fear has arbitrary rules that serve as distraction. Fear runs away.

Fear follows the line. Fear knows the end of the story before it begins.

Fear. Hates. Change.

This is your compass. Your guide.

I’m not your guide.

Your guide is You.

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For those of you unfamiliar with the fiber world, the technique in this photo is a well executed display of freeform crochet. It is the point where new crocheters begin and the place where experts return when technique exhausts itself.

Basically, you just monkey around and see what happens.

At first, you make mistakes.

You try once, twice, three times, laugh, throw it away. Or maybe you try to configure the mess into an object which people who love you happily wear with pride.

Or maybe they tell you to quit.

Maybe they say you should follow a pattern.

Then you can make money.

/via/

Maybe they don’t see stitch patterns, textures, space. Maybe they’re afraid to make mistakes and waste time.

Sometimes you get stuck and you can’t find your way out.

Toss it. Rest.

Watch colors. Patterns. Shapes. What would the trail of a bird look like in thread?

A nest?

What if it were blue. What if it were blue at 7am in winter.

What if you were in Cancun.

What if you were in Kentucky.

Do you know the difference?

Maybe they don’t.

Forgive them.

The place to begin is a simultaneous point of FUCK YOU and I FORGIVE YOU.

It’s called Surrender.

/via/

Keep her in your pocket. She likes to open gates.

Mercury is in Retrograde, so slow down and take care of yourself. Go within. This time of backwards moving starlight cycle is a gift of stillness so do not rush. The answer right now is slow down. Walk judiciously.

Everybody sounds a little bit drunk when they say that word…judiciously. Say it slowly, let it roll easily from your mouth with full syllables intact. That’s the speed of retrograde.

Let’s talk about some things.

I am retiring The Peaceful Peacock.

I never really thought that abandoning this site would be a choice for me. I’ve invested five solid years here, I’ve watched this endeavor shake and shape and bring me to a life I never in a million years imagined. I don’t mean that in the way that I see it when other bloggers write it…this isn’t a siren song of accolades, a ringing in of success and promise and truth.

You see, when a woman runs away from home with two children in tow, some pretty significant changes take place. It’s the kind of thing that moves beyond words, or it would take so many of them that it would fill a whole book.

This is what it looks like.

And the book that I’m filling with all those words is called La Guera en La Cocina. It means “the white girl in the kitchen”.

So there’s that.

But before I get all up in the process of hardcore writing, I have some promises to attend to. About a year ago, I promised a web design course. Rather than pull the marketing/get rich/hey you need this/it will solve all of your problems bullshit, I’m approaching it in my own roundabout way. I’m giving it to you for free.

What I have experienced through this process has been an elixir, a transformation to the core of myself. To teach you to do the same, to find yourself, to heal your wounds, cannot be tagged with a price. There are tons of resources out there that can give you the drill about all the technical stuff (and I am pointing the way, fear not), but what I know best is the medicine that this work brings.

And you don’t charge for medicine.

Because that’s The Way.

This little world here was created with time and it will be set free gently and with great care. Over the next several weeks, I’ll tie the ends up, deliver on my debts, and hold this part of who I am with honor and grace. Then release it. Like a baby bird.

Judiciously.

Slow down.

When you are lost, stay still and breathe.

The work is already in motion.

Relax.

Enjoy your Retrograde.

Moving to Montana all those lifetimes ago was one of the best decisions I ever made. It was hard and turbulent and it threw my entire life off kilter for sure. I spent years unwinding myself from the impact of fences and concrete. I spent years tying myself back up in knots and arrest records. I became a mother. I became a survivor.

And one day, I left.

I’m going home this weekend. To visit, to tie up some strings. The inaugural return on an unquiet hero’s path.

While I’ve been gone, our family cabin burned to the ground in a forest fire. An integral piece of our family glue for forty years, this place.

The structure, gone. The trees, dead. Mostly. A hot flash of fire and smoke and history is erased. The land rich in green becomes bare and silent. Grey.

Yet history, in its serpentine way, continues. Sheds its skin. Holds form and foundation despite the loss of surface.

Weird things remain. Bones. Scraps. Water. The remnants of trees. Graveyards of dogs. A fenceline. The sun.

The moon.

The earth.

The wind.

Do we mourn this? Mourning is for some, I suppose.

Not for me.

For me, this is Montana. My heart. My home. The vast expanses of earth and motion and stillness, all rolled up into one.

She hears me. She knows how hard this is.

So She joined me. She threw it all away and She came with in the only way She could. By walking through the fire.

Side by side.

Because She’s mine.

This is the little spot outside my front door which has affectionately become known as The Canopy. We live on the third floor of our building, nestled in these trees.

The setup of the buildings here is unusual, like little pods. Most places in the valley are spread out and sprawled, stretched across the  landscape in lazy formations of corpulent waste. Tempe is a little different. A little more creative. A little more alive. A strange oasis in a very strange place.

And here, at the heart, is where we are.

When I first returned to Az, I spent some time in cocoon at my dad’s place. He’s the kind of guy who knows a lot of things and discussions with him are always–without fail–incredibly insightful. There was a morning, coffee in hand, where the word “limits” appeared as it pertained to business. Knowing me well, sensing the bristle of the raised eyebrow as I defaulted to the image of life in the cage, he unfolded the explanation.

This is what he said, more or less.

Imagine the walls of a house. The structure, the creation and organization of space. You are free to move around inside, to rearrange things, to paint, put whatever you want inside. Easily and directly, he pointed out my penchant for unusual furniture placement (living rooms really DO make the best bedrooms, I swear).

Does the bed fit in that room? Yes? Then you can put it in there. Does a motorcycle fit in that room? Well, then go ahead. What about a train car? Nope?

Then that is a limit.

I’ve wrestled with this idea for months, assimilating and arguing with the concept of placing limits on my life.

And then I step outside. And I hear birds. And I realize that the thing that I like most about this little spot on the earth where I happen to live right now is the space that has been created by walls.

Walls with no roof, mind you, but walls nonetheless.

They say nothing changes here but that is not true. The weather patterns have changed. The cityscape has changed. The overall feel and sprawled sense of placelessness has not changed. Not a bit.

I have found home.

And it’s not what you think.

You’ve probably seen these great walls of dust on the news, the calamity they cause as they bear down on the desert. It’s a storm system that’s now part of monsoons, called a haboob.

They look terrifying.

People tend to hide indoors.

I was leery, at first. Listening to the dramatic expressions of caution and fret.

“Be careful.”

“Stay safe.”

“Try not to get caught in that.”

This is what they look like inside.

It’s just dust.

And wind.

And that’s it.

When you move through cloaks of curious, places where you can’t see where you intend to get, you can be careful. You can be safe. You can pull to the side and wait for the discomfort to pass, tell the tale.

Or you can push forward.

Keep going.

Become a part of what it is rather than sit aside and watch quietly.

There are times when I fall under the cracks, disappear for some time, abandon all but motherhood and instinct.

Watch the road unfold ten feet at a time. Delve deeply into the moments of uncertainty and the sense of being lost.

Resurface.

Unfold.

Begin again.

The countdown is on for moving to our new abode. I feel like I’ve been waiting in this space for eternity, diligently unfolding each step as it comes.

I know it’s just an apartment. But it’s an apartment that I chose. In the part of the city where I always wanted to live, where I hung out and spent most of my time. It’s easy to travel light in Tempe, with the light rail a half mile away, bus systems aplenty, and everything within reach by bike. Phoenix is the epitome of urban sprawl, so finding a spot that can suit our swing like this is a tall order indeed.

But I found it. Cheap. And there’s a pool.

Sitting in the space of rest is difficult for me. I prefer action, motion, moving in haste. I’m learning, with the grace of wisdom, that there are times when it’s best to hunker down in the discomfort. To sit and be still.

I’m not gonna lie.

I hate it.

The alternative however is drama, the unnecessary toppling of events. So I stare out the window. Take note of the small details of life. Hang tight. Let the storm pass. Allow the growth to come to fruition like a babe in the womb.

for frustration

for boredom

for the bridge between old and new