Grass Journal Podcast

TranscriptHey thereSo I am walking the backside of this little meadow, forested area where my mom livesIt's on the edges of old farmland and I'm about to hop over a split rail fence, which is a little awkward, it's a little tallThere's some, a lot of native plants around here, and also some volunteers from elsewhereOregon ash and cottonwood, willow, aspenThere's a grove of hawthorn in full flowerThis is a place where deer hang outFloods in the winterIt's marshy where I am right nowI could probably set up a tent back hereIt's quietI've just come back from the far east side of the stateI was off grid, down in a canyon for four days, in some pretty crazy country, working on a project and just existing reallyI think it was probably the least I've interacted with screens and media in maybe a decadeI didn't really have cell phone signal for about a week and a half, pretty intentionallyI basically just didn't turn my phone on unless I needed navigationAnd then there were three nights and four days when I was down in the bottom of this canyon where I really didn't do anything at allI just kind of existed down thereAte food and had a little fire now and thenWatched the light changeAnd it was beautiful and hard, easy, lonely, quiet, all the thingsAnd I've been thinking a lot about why I do what I do, my work as an artist and personI don't want to think about it too much, but doing something like that made me really consider a lot about why I make things, share things, live the way I doThere's just a lot thereThere's a lot of assumptions, a lot of reasons I've been doing stuff for yearsA lot of time passed, a lot of habits, that kind of thingNow I'm in the Grove of CottonwoodsIt's kind of a flood groveSome reeds back in hereMaybe there's sedgesSo I don't have a lot of answers about why, but I think I discovered a new language of some kind down in that canyonDefinitely a new relationship with myselfThere wasn't much to hide down thereTurns out being alone for long periods of time is pretty toughI mean, I've done it before, but this was different somehowIt's really good to do, but it's not easy sometimesParts of it aren't easyParts of it are really incredibleIt's always funny to be alone in a place like that and run into a person once in a while and realize that pretty much everybody else is out there with other peopleIt really got me thinking about the reasons why people do things and why I do thingsFor me, a lot of it is to get away from loneliness, actuallyFrom being alone with my own thoughtsPartially because they can be boringPartially because it's really not maybe the healthiest long term to always just be alone with one's own thoughtsBut I think that there's something really deep thereAnd I don't consume much mediaI mean, maybe a podcast every two or three daysSometimes I don't listen to one for a week or soBut something I thought was really strange down there is I had songs that I hadn't listened to for many days just repeatedly looping in my headAnd it was almost like my mind was just spinning in neutral, trying to find something stimulating to remember or to latch on toOr maybe it was just digesting everythingMy friend Martin said metabolizing, which I really likeActually metabolizing the experiences that I've hadAnd I think it takes a really silent, open, empty space without any direction, honestlyNo structureNo one else aroundNo informationJust the sun rising and settingAnd sitting in places like that really makes me reconsider kind of my whole life.Why do I do what I do? Why do I want to share writing and recordings with people? What's really at the base of all that? What need of mine is being met? Am I doing it as a means to an end? Or am I doing it as an end in and of itself? And I've decided pretty conclusively that I want to do things in my life that are an end in and of themselvesI don't want to be chasing different activities for a lot of my life because they're giving me something that's not inside of the activity itselfAnd I think I do want to share what I make, but it's difficult to know whether that's worthwhile or not for othersAnd so I decided that I'll do it for my own joy and my own insightsAnd if others want to come along for the ride and see what's thereI mean, I've been doing it this way all along, but I think that there's always these shadow sides, like hidden unconscious sides of any activity or anything a person does that aren't fully available to them unless they sit and really delve into the whyAnd an activity I've been doing recently is asking myself why seven or eight times about something really gets down to the root of what's going onIt's hardI feel like my mind wants to squirm away from those kinds of inquiriesBut I think it's pretty necessary and helpful in the long runI'm leaning on a tree and there's moss on itIt's youngWhat happened is it fell overProbably got blown overThat happened a while agoThe original shoot has since been pruned off by the tree itselfIt's broken off and healed offAnd right above it, the tree is totally horizontal from where it fellAnd right above that crook, there's another strong, young stem coming out at a 90 degree angleAnd there is one back further, too, before this one was the main apical meristem, I think is what it's called, which I learned about in my pruning work over the last couple of monthsAnd that one's now 20 feet tall and the roots are still somehow connectedAnd in fact, the trees put down more roots to stabilize and this tree is probably going to be here a long time nowIt's nice to see that when things get knocked over, they can get up againThat's kind of how I felt this last yearLots of knocking over, getting up againI think I can hear seven different birds singing right nowThanks for listening. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

DONATIONSI am currently at a residency, in the midst of a self-funded project. Donations on Buy Me A Coffee, PayPal, or Venmo are all seriously appreciated right now—Thank you! In this episode I share a poem I wrote in Idaho last summer, reflections on the residency I'm attending, and some insight about remnants, joy, and grief—life, and death. I also have shared some photos from recent times.Listen, read, and subscribe on the website: https://walkaround.run! This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

If you think about it, what draws people toward something these days is often about reclaiming our humanity.What's healthful, and thus has gravity, are positive expressions about who we are, resiliency, and beauty, especially amidst hardship and grief. Dance, song, creating—expressions of our hands and bodies, and what we can do as humans. The modern craft movement is reweaving the tapestry of our culture—towards something that is functional and healthy, through our own hands and bodies.Mo Hohmann first learned to grow and weave willow in the mountains of Oregon from Peg Matthewson. A craft older than pottery, weaving comes from our ancestral past. Nowadays it's being brought into the light of the present by courageous and inspired makers like Mo and Peg."It's an innate human experience to be drawn by beauty. And beauty is pretty subjective. But it's my experience with the baskets that there is this gravitational pull towards what is beautiful. Because it feeds this deep need as human beings. It's a soul food right? It's something that brings a sense of belonging."Check Mo's work on her Instagram and website: https://woventhresholds.com. Also, Mo offers online classes through Coyote Willow Schoolhouse, and plans to offer in person classes soon.https://linktr.ee/woventhresholds2025.03.08 Update: In the podcast, Mo discusses watertight baskets and her teacher Peg. However, Peg did not teach her about them, which may have been unclear in the original episode This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

There's a moment in most of Miyazakis films, when the dialogue and often the music cuts, and a single character (usually the protagonist) is left alone in the raw and open experience of something. It takes mastery to convey a moment such as this, a moment of space and presence.This is the kind of moment I can relate to, when I know that I am who I am, when everything makes sense, when I know right from wrong, when there is magic in the landscape around me. But this type of moment is under relentless assault. https://www.walkaround.run/p/ma This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

TranscriptThis morning I downloaded and logged into InstagramSomething I haven't done in a month or twoI mostly got off of the platform because I don't really think it's doing good things for humanityThe problem is so many people use itTheir communication and time is used up on itAnd many people have a picture of their reality from itAnd so to not participate is somehow to not exist as a creative personThis is something I've been ruminating on for yearsBut this is just such a short note because what I saw on there this morning, after I made a post about possibly selling some prints to support my schooling, was the two of the most extreme directions that humanity participates in, which are death and birthDeath and birthAnd I saw them in extremely gross expressionsI saw an explosion on a roadwayI saw a giant fireball engulfing cars in a place that I have no idea if I've ever been to or will ever go to or know any of the people or even if it's realBecause it very well and even likely could have been something that an application generatedI don't even like to use the word, but artificial intelligenceIt was probably thatIt probably wasn't even realAnother thing I saw was a video of someone getting slapped so hard that they passed outBut it wasn't only thatIt was an AI-generated image that showed his face collapsing in an unbelievable wayBut it wasn't realBut if someone's just scrolling and they're not paying attention and they see these things, they think, oh, this is realThat just happenedSomething I thought could never happen just happened in front of my very eyesAnd so that's deathThat's actually the death of the human spiritThat is complete collapse and destructivenessBasically to be creating fear through falsehoodAnd then on the other side, I saw a picture of a woman in a dressCould have been AII don't knowI don't know the contextI didn't click on the imageBut she was standing in a shimmery dressAnd so these images..I guess I should add that the dress was very tight-fittingSo basically what I saw was extreme violence and pornographyThat's what is being shown in the algorithmic feed on Instagram that people in general are just being subjected toSo what do we do with that? Well, I reported every single post that I sawIt's not going to change anythingIt's not going to do anythingBut it made me feel better to at least do somethingIn fact, it might make it worseIt only took me about five seconds to do these thingsBut I think it was worth itThe point of this, though, isn't to blame the Instagram platform and the creators for being evil, even though they areEven though the platform is destructive and horrific and terrible and uselessIt's also useful and creative and profound and abundantThe fact is, everything in the world ends up being related to these thingsTo skate along on the surface and believe that these experiences won't touch us is impossibleBut by interacting with the world through a screen, it seems like we can have some distance from the realitiesAnd we can just entertain ourselves by watching them instead of engaging with our livesAnd I think that this is extremely dangerous, and actually more dangerous than being shown violenceI think what's more dangerous is complacency and lack of connection and engagement with life, which is what these platforms really wantThey want you to just feel fear, feel lust, and then not do anything about itJust to consume more fear and more lustThat's the goalBut there's something profound beneath all of this, which is that the reality of fear and desire is inescapable in lifeBut the fact is, we have to be in control of our fears and desiresAnd it doesn't matter what the world shows us or serves us, what the algorithm displays, if we can't keep a center, there's no hopeRight now, it's election day, and the political stratum is basically birth and deathNot a positive form of birth and death, but the most deranged formsIs one better than another? I don't knowIt's all part of a cycleThe cycle doesn't want to endSo, we have to be the endI don't really know what that means, but I'm going to keep engaging with my internal world, with my internal workStaying true to what I know is important and what mattersI'm going to keep focusing on what is beautiful, and what seems powerful to meAnd I won't let my center be swayed by violence and lustThank you for listening. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

Questioning my assumptions, and an encounter with Amanita, the Fly Agaric mushroom. Be sure to check out the images of the Nehalem and Wilson as well as the dunes at Bayocean Spit on the website This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

Hello,Welcome to Walk Around. This is Hudson Gardner. It's been a little while.I've been out and about, traveling, hiking, running, doing things that I love, spending time with wonderful people, seeing beautiful things, having really beautiful conversations—learning about myself, learning about others, and by that, learning about this world we all co-create and exist in togetherI'm back in Port Townsend, where I live, and sitting in the pasture near a stand of trees on the edge of the field.It was my birthday a couple of days ago, actually, a week ago, and I have been coming back into some kind of personal awareness and depth inside of my own body and mind recently, thinking about things I've left behind for too long, things I've been incapable of doing, reflecting on life in general.Read more here at walkaround.run This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

Transcript (includes errors)Hello.Welcome to Walk Around.This is Hudson Gardner.I am sitting at the edge of a field where the trees come out a little bit into the grass.And there's a little secret spot surrounded by hawthorn trees, there's an aspen that has a lot of young aspen around it.And down beneath the willow tree is a place that I come and make a little fire and have tea.I want to tell you a story today.Something that happened 10 summers ago, which feels like a different life, completely different time.a different world,a different person who was living and somehow that person was me and it was thesame life in the same world.A hummingbird just landed on a twig of this little snag and he's just watching me.I almost feel like he's listening.So I'll tell him the story too.Ten years ago,I was living in southeast Nebraska in the town that I more or less grew up incalled Lincoln.And I was getting ready to do something.I had been there a long time.My luck was running out.There was a general feeling of uncertainty, major change coming that I sensed.I had gotten out of a relationship that was,had been about three years long and it was a messy breakup and it was a hard time.My mom was living on a farm outside of town.And so I was staying in one of the guest rooms as I figured out what I was going todo with my 25-year-old life.And back then I felt that I didn'treally have a conviction yet about who I was or what I had to offer I had thebeginnings of it but it was more like just a question and it's safe to say that Inow know what that answer is but how to do it is still elusive but back then I'doften go out to this zendooutside of town on a farm called Branched Oak Farm.It's a dairy farm with probably 15, 20 Jersey cows, some pigs, chickens.Pretty sure it's still going.And it was the best milk I've ever tasted in my life came from that place.Deep, deep yellow.I've never had anything like it.There's something about the pastures in the Great Plains that are just unlike anyother place from all those millions of years of bison and care.And one time I went out to the Zendo and I was in a strange headspace, I guess.I mean, who doesn't go to a Zendo in a strange headspace?And I went out there and before I went to the Zendo that day, I went out to thislittle reservoir nearby.It's the namesake of the farm, Branchtoke Reservoir, Branchtoke Lake.And below the Branchtoke Lake,there's a series of less hills that were blown there by the wind over millennia.And there's grass and trees and little groves of flowers andI pulled off on the dirt road and in Nebraska you pull off on a dirt road 20minutes outside of town and you can sit there for an hour and you don't see anybody else.It's a quiet place.And it was probably one of those days like today,beautiful,sunny,big puffy cumulonimbus clouds growing on the horizon,some kind of storm forming in the distance.the wind blowing across the grass and I went into this draw and I don't know what drew me there.I just had a feeling that I should go there and I walked up through the grass and Icame to a grove of plants and I had this intense feeling inside of methis anger at myself for being so old and so incompetent.I felt like I didn't know anything about the world,like I'd been wasting my life sitting around putting myself through school andcollege that I didn't want to go to,staying probably too long in a relationship that wasn't good for me or for theother person,unfortunately.And just being too comfortable.And so I had all those feelings when I walked into the draw and I knew I was on the brink of change.It felt that way.And I felt so angry and there was this plant, there's a big patch of them.And I thought I'm going to show that I have some competence.And I know what to do when I'm out in the wild places.And I took out my knife, which is something I would never do now.And I used it to dig up the root of one of these plants.And it was a pale white root.And it smelled like carrots.But it was not carrot.It was hemlock.And I ate it.And I didn't die.I've been thinking about why that happened.I've never really figured it out for all these years.And the fact is there's so many things to learn in the world and there's so many ways to learn.There's such an expansion of possibility, so much beauty.so much intricacy, so much information.And then it's also so simple.And because of that, it's so heartrendingly elegant and it's so beautiful.And it's taken me 10 years to find out what the simplistic, elegant message from that plant was for me.And it happened just a few days ago.I was harvesting hawthorn flowers with a friend.And there's this kind of back corner of this tree.pasture I live on and it's all overgrown with roses and blackberries and it's allbrambly and thorny and there's a bunch of hawthorn trees back there and we werekind of going through this shadowy shady part and as I was going through there withmy orchard ladder and picking bag moving on to the next tree I suddenly realized Iwas surrounded by hemlockAnd it wasn't even that I saw them.It was almost that I just sensed that they were there.And I didn't even pause.I just thought, well, hello.Hello again.It's been about 10 years.It's definitely been 10 years since that plant showed up that intensely to me.And there it was again.And in this case, the hawthorn had led me there.As the next few days went by, I thought about my discovery of that plant here.And I thought about that time a long time ago where I nearly could have died and about my encounter with it thistime and what it might be telling meAnd I believe that there's a part of life and a part of us that if a person is notliving according to their code or to something that matters to them,we're really on the process of finding that out or being genuine and honest thatthe body itself and maybe our spirit in some way will begin toa series of self-destructive mechanisms because there's no point in living life without meaning.And somehow our bodies know that more than our rational minds.And at that point, 10 years ago, I was led to that plant because my bodyMy senses, my spirit were saying, no, you cannot stay here anymore.You can't just live out your life in this little corner of the world.You can't be comfortable anymore.You need to go out and find yourself.And so I did.I planned to move to Oregon and then two weeks,maybe even,I think it was two days before that I decided to move to Vermont and I didn't knowa single person in the state.I think a friend of mine was traveling through fortunately.And so I connected with her and somehow I found a place to be.But that started off this whole chain reaction,this trajectory of where I am now,which is someone who has an understanding of themselves and their abilities and whofeels some level of competence in the world.I've gone from misidentifying hemlock and almost dying to having a relationshipwith the plant and to knowing hundreds of plants and to beingon the path of a physician or a healer or someone who helps others.And that's the type of competency that's hard to achieve.But I believe that I will achieve it.And so now I don't even need tohave my spirit endanger me in order to know that I'm at another point of departure.All I need to do is see that plant and think, oh yes, this guy again.I just need to pay attention.As you all know,or some of you,or maybe not most,but a few,I have been in the process of entering school for acupuncture and Chinese medicinethis fall.And I recently decided that it was too much.I don't want to go into debt.I don't want to compromise my health for three years at a program that's going to run me ragged andI mean,if you think about it,it's going to possibly push me to achieve things I never thought I could,but not on my own terms.So I don't know what the point of that is.I think I'm going to find my own way to practice medicine.And, um, a friend of mine is starting a cohort that I'm going to join and we'll see where that goes.But it won't lead to a license.So it's going to be curious to see how it will work out for me.But I believe in myself and in my abilities.I believe in what I see and understand.And I believe in living a life on my own terms as much as I can.I believe in freedom.And I think by living this path, my most genuine path, that I'll be saved from despair and depression.And I will eventually find belonging.That's the message that I've learned from Hamlock.Thank you for listening. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

This poem came to me when I was sitting on the rocks near a wharf off water street in Port Townsend. I had climbed down off the sidewalk and found a spot where kids hang out and tag. It's a quiet place but some other person came with a notebook and started sketching. She kept looking toward at me, and I wonder if I made it in the drawing.I've been out on my bike recently, and the color of the sky and water is almost unbelievable. I've started to notice things again, my sense of smell has begun to return, my mind feels clearer. I get headaches now and then, still sleep strangely, often feel like crying or angry out of place, and often the urges almost overcome me. But I am not going to give up.Thank you for reading & listening.AQUAMARINEThe water blue, no, green — offshore glistens The wind • • • in fits & starts traces low along the surface. Creosote pillars sunk deep in, braced, kept stable by toxcicity — nooks where life still lives despite heavy - metals - pain. Imperfectness, imperfection, needless ease, persistence of the tides, wind on the water and — look, be open — and the view becomes                  so wide. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

As spring has gotten into gear around here, I've been noticing the general abundance of plant life, and weather, and birds, and social engagements—and it's got me reflecting on different kinds of abundance, overabundance, scarcity, relationships, community... From that corner of the human experience of consuming and creating the dynamic between those two aspects of our nature, you could say...Listen & Read More This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

This podcast covers the issue of addiction.If you are in need of help, call the national hotline, 988.Transcript (may contain errors)There's a bell that I've taken around with me wherever I've livedI can't remember where I got it, maybe in Portland at the Japanese GardenAnd I've often hung it up outside and the sound has become familiar, even as all the places I've lived have changed for so longAnd that familiar feeling just hit me as I rode up this little hill through an orchard towards the cabin that I'm living in these daysI never really realized I'd developed a familiarity with it until that momentNow I'm standing out kind of more towards the field behind the cabin looking at a willow that's flowering and the first bumblebees I've seen this year are collecting nectar and pollen from the flowersThat's pretty hopefulBack in the forest behind the edge of the woods there's a giant ant nest, the biggest I've ever seen actuallyIt's probably home to hundreds of thousands of antsIt's probably four or five feet wide, a couple feet tallIt's been there who knows how longOld growth ant nest, ant pileRead more or listen here: https://www.walkaround.run/p/thank-you-for-listening This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

A week ago I sent my friend Jen a poem I wrote called Selfheal. They told me that they too have a meaningful connection with the plant, and then sent the above image back. When I saw it, for some reason these words came: "Believe in your next steppingstone."Jim Harrison interview: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3L3STymsjeg&t=932sListen and read more: https://www.walkaround.run/p/the-most-important-thing-about-lifeJen's Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/chthoneural_/ This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

Recorded near Port Townsend, Washington. A short rumination on movement, landscapes, and people—how they all connect. I read a poem called By Firelight, and discuss a run I took on Christmas Eve. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

Transcript (Includes typos and run on sentences)Welcome to Walk Around. This is Hudson Gardner.I've always been attracted to edges.And I feel like I've written about it.About edges, I guess, many times, trying to understandWhy I'm always kind of going along to edges and right now I'm sitting right at the edge of light in open oak woodland in western Oregon in the Willamette Valley.It's a really rare type of place these days, actually, in this area.It used to be the dominant ecotone or guild, kind of a mix of sedges and grasses, reeds in the more marshy areas, madrone, old standing doug fir.and kind of some open meadows and kind of like a prairie savanna.I think they call it an oak savanna.And it's one of the most beautiful types of environment that I think exists in the world.You have these huge gnarled oak trees that have branches going every different direction and they're so articulate and so complicated and so beautiful and so stable it seems, so strong.And then you have the grasses in between them and younger oaks coming up and flowers when it's raining in the spring and all these insects that you can hear.Stellar's Jays going from dead trees, from a snag to a snag looking around for things to eat.Woodpeckers and hawks.And then you have this forest edge here that's just a solid wall of big doug fir and some elderberries and young ash trees.And here I am sitting right at the edge and the edge of the light thinking about how I'm so attracted to spots like this once again.I was once talking to a friend who was an ecology major in college, and she was mentioning that when we were stopped somewhere, we were standing with some trees behind us looking out on an open space—and she said “it feels good to be here.” And we both started talking about: why is that?Why does it feel good to be in a spot like this?With the trees behind and open space in front and I think it's a very old feeling.It's a feeling of possibility and openness in front and then behind safety and shelter and places to hide and get out of the elements and stuff and also another different type of food and resource available.And I think that's why standing on the edges of forests and fields has always felt good to me.Maybe it's this very old kind of a feeling.And then there's all these edges in life, like transition, which I feel like in a weird way for the last 10 years or something, I've been in some state of transition where I haven't ever really touched down and stayed wherever I've been.I feel like there's many people who listen to this podcast who've met me in one of the many places that I've lived and then moved on from.And transition is really hard, actually, because everything's up in the air.You have to find all the things.Whenever you get to the next place you're going, you're constantly considering about what you need.Friends aren't just a given.Community isn't just a given.It's this thing you're having to build actively every time you move somewhere else.Being on the edge like that for so long, like I have, I feel like has been really hard.And it makes me wonder why I prolonged this kind of lifestyle, endlessly moving around.I feel like I've talked about this before,It's all led me to where I am now which is I think been an essential and really important and extremely I guess extremely necessary pathIt's like the more situations I've found myself in and moved on from, the more I've learned.And not just touching down and staying somewhere has really opened my world to a massive possibility of people and interactions and ways of life and ways of thought and it's really cleaned my brain out and my body I think in many ways.and kind of detoxified me from some of my harsher tendencies towards judgment and criticism and things like that.To set out into the world really makes a person realize how insignificant they are.Especially if you go somewhere and you're always having to rebuild your life wherever you stop.You're new to everyone.You have to explain your story.After a while it starts to get old and you want to just rest and be somewhere and have community and it's hard.I guess I would call that an edge too.Edges are important because it's where interchange happens.If you look at the edges of a cell orA bioregion or the ocean or a field in a forest, that's where all the activity is happening.Or a lot of it.A lot of the biodiversity, for example, in ecology is in the edges of places like estuaries or where rivers meet the sea or the edges of forests, as I was mentioning.because the light penetrates and allows different things to grow and it brings creatures there and then they have interactions with the plants and other creatures and if you often look around on the edges of fields and you see old trees cut back in the forest there will almost always be a hawk in them if you look long enough because the hawks are watching the edge of the field for mice where the mice come to get the fallen grains and seeds from the grassAnd so it's this great interchange.It's this place of turbidity and interaction and commotion.The edges are where it's really unsettled, which is, I guess, why it feels unsettled in some ways to be there, but maybe also why I relate to the edges of places so much.The center, on the other hand, represents, if you think about it, it represents home, it seems.The center, the middle, the place that we move outwards from.It seems like it represents some kind of potential point.And then the edges are where we reach out to, where I found myself reaching out to in my journeys.I think I have a lot of home trauma because II haven't really had much of a sense of home since I was eight or nine years old.I kind of had to build it over the years and then deconstruct it and build it again and it's been pretty hard.Wow, I just saw a pileated woodpecker.I wonder if you can hear that.They're huge.They're almost as big as a hawk.That's special.So this beautiful oak woodland is part of a Catholic Abbey.It's a monastery for monks, actually.Our Lady of Guadalupe Franciscan Monastery, I think.Or Trappist.It's a Trappist Abbey.Not a monastery.Trappist Abbey.But it's a beautiful place and I've come here in many seasons.I haven't come here in late summer in the evening though and it's just so beautiful, the light and the lack of people and all the animals are going about their evening business and could ask for nothing more.I've been working I'd say 10 to 12 hour days, maybe sometimes 13.Six days a week at a winery and it's been really hard.I think partially because I see it as very much a dead end kind of a job.I'm not intending to go into wine nor do I really like wine.It was just the only job that I could find around here without having to drive into Portland and get a job there because I'm living at my mom's house.because my plans to go to college fell through for my acupuncture degree.So I'm in this weird purgatory at the moment of not being able to go to school but kind of waiting for an entire year, which isn't really very much fun.So I'm working at this winery and the only thing that's really keeping me sane has been getting to know the people that I'm working with and getting to know their struggles and listening to them and talking with them and trying to kind of get to know how to be a temporary ephemeral friend to them because for the most part maybe totally I won't see any of them afterthe work is over most none of them really live anywhere near me and we don't really have that much in common though there's a couple people that I feel like I could be friends with but they don't really live around here well they don't live here at all they live in a bus we have a lot in common but um it's been rough because I haven't really had any time to do something like come to this woodland andJust sit and think and reflect and kind of puzzle out what my next step is.Some of the things I've been thinking about a lot are how my art and creativity is such a solitary kind of a practice.I mean, I don't really interview people that much, which I guess I could do more.um but my writing and photography i mean all of it's done alone for the most part or i guess sometimes kind of with you know walking around with a friend or a significant other or something but um it's not like i do something for people two of the people i work with are tattooers and so their art is very muchThe art that they choose to turn into tattoos is very much something for others.And that's very useful.It's a very applicable kind of art.Flexible, mobile, you can get paid for it.Especially if you're as skilled as they are.But for writing, it's like nobody even reads anymore.I mean there's these statistics which I feel like are just booked that have been coaxed by publishers that are like, well actually more people read than ever before.That's gotta be nonsense.I feel like, unless it's people that I don't know about or something, I feel like less people must be reading than ever before.Or at least they're not reading with much attention.They're more like skimming stuff or something.Maybe I'm wrong.Who knows?But it's a weird time to be a writer.And that's why I have this podcast.Because being a writer is likeWow.Good luck.Um, so I've been thinking, you know, I would really like to offer medicine to people.Um, once I get licensed and stuff and that's going to take four years.So boy,what a process I found myself in.I think purgatory is a pretty good word for it.At least it feels that way.And there's this other thing, I don't know if it's just my age or it's my social group or what's going on, but I just feel like more than ever before my social connections and ability to kind of make friends is really lacking.There's a couple people I've reached out to that I feel like are maybe going to work out as somebody to meet up with and become friends with, but I feel like as people get older, it's like most people don't do the thing I've done, where I've moved around so much, and they've just stayed somewhere for the ten years or whatever it's been that I've been wandering around, or at least for like five, or at least like two.And in that time they found their set of people, their relationships, their job, and their stability more or less. And they have a hell of a lot more stability than I do, that's for sure.Like for the most part, I feel like people of my socioeconomic class and race likely have a lot more stability than I have at the moment.Very privileged, you know, and me as well.So when I come around or am kind of lurking around the edges of social groups or whatever, it's like, well, you know, who's this guy?Maybe if he lives here a year, I'll like run into him enough to be friends with him, but it just takes forever.And, uh, it's really like I'm striking out.In fact, I feel like to be a lone male of my age, it's almost just like suspicious because I'm single now.So, it's like, well, what happened to you?Oh, boy.Today, there was a rare wind event that was really not that dramatic, but it happens from time to time when the dry sometimes cool but sometimes warm air blows from the interior of the state towards the ocean. The normal flow of the winds blowing from the west reverses and the winds blows from the east. And so today we had kind of a hot dry wind blowing all day. And now there's one kind of playing around through the grasses. And these scrub jays nearby seem to be having a discussion and the winds moving around andI am walking around trying to figure my life out.It's just been a lot that's been going on and this is really the only place I can talk about it without feeling like I'm burdening people. Because if you don't want to listen to it, you can just press pause and move on with your life.So thanks for listening this far if you have.It's really kind of you.And I think things will get better.This is quite the self-absorbed episode but you know honesty is important.I have a friend who's a psychiatrist in residence and he always tells me that he really appreciates my honesty, and maybe more people do too.I don't know.I think honesty is really, really, really important.And I think that if there's any type of resistance in a person about being honest, that is really a good place to start looking and kind of being curious about.I just watched this Stellar's Jay fly out from this Ponderosa and grab a moth that was flying through the air and chomp it.That was pretty cool.It's nice to be in a natural area rather than just surrounded by tens of thousands of pounds of grapes.As my friend Cedar calls it, the sticky job site.Thanks for listening. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

This is Hudson Gardner. Welcome to Walk Around.Right now I am sitting in the shade. It's really hot today. So I'm sitting next to a guest house I'm living in, looking out across an unmowed, untended field. It's kind of like a little pasture. This is actually a place I've been coming since I was four or five years old. The first time I came here, I can't even remember. But it's my aunt's house.And it's such a beautiful place. It's one of the only places that has stayed the same for my whole life in terms of something that I returned to, which is really neat and rare for me.I've been walking around a lot recently. Surveying for what some people call invasive weeds, walking the prairies in northeastern Oregon....For full transcription & beautiful images, please visit the Walkaround.run website: https://www.walkaround.run/p/dont-worry This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

GlobemallowYear after year after yearSmooth rocks smoothenedBy water and even sand in wind and even windJuniper scrub grew to a tree                split and diedRemains as snag             mostly still aliveRodent holes take refuge in sandy soilBeneath the globe mallow crop waiting for the seven year piñon to dropSeeds. Many young evenOaks in little gullies of green grass meadows hidden pond and aspen stands big Mesatops catch the rain as ifSome rock giant has been slowly gardeningThese clefts for a billion yearsBut groves of bright orange mallow and yellow and blue penstemonAgainst the rain fingers touching the horizon, blurring the distanceAnd us journeying along an imperfectFamily group forged and beaten still smoking from the birthWithout a place to call home together so we wander, create traditions and stories, move onward to places never heard ofA group of young souls just born into the still smoking mud of which we feel the heat of what we were also molded fromAnd a rag of trash wound up in an ancient sagebrush bush that I take three stems from and show them to Todd for a sniff, stuff myMouth full of globemallow flowers and gain sustenance from the land and I'll tell you I've given up on meaning and instead work with how I find feelings out in places both empty and full suchMoments of presence to convey a kind of resonance that doesn't need these words for you to come close to itBut it's like a fire stoked by attention only and itGoes out and everything is dark in that realm that you don't know or see into become likeThe old ones who rest in the hills gardening their patch near the piñons and living with theLeast chipmunks and the mule deer and the visitor who comes for cota from the house overPuts his feet up by the door and stares out at the rain fingers and the mallows and the piñons and junipers and rodents and distant cities and collapse and reforming and smallnesses and bignesses and the Colorado river and the lack of water in the lakes and he sits with his friend staring out and and says only for hours: after all these years…..PS. Thanks for reading. Funds are tight right now so if you feel like it, throw a few dollars my way. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

In many ways my experience is as vast or constrained as I allow it to be. I mused on this idea in this week's show. My conclusion? Walk around, and look around. And maybe be slower to be define how something is, or isn't. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

It's rare to find a flow in life where all needs align. Usually, some needs have to be traded for others. And sometimes it's hard for me to even know what it is I really need.Talking with my friend Blaine Benitez on this episode, I think he's someone who is working to understand the ebb and flow of life, pursuing his needs, and the discovery of them, in an intuitive way. And there's something beyond all that too, something impractical, purely biological, in the way and for the reasons he runs. To me, Blaine is an artist of movement.To build an altar for something that others see as unproductive, to shape your life around that idea or pursuit, takes a lot of belief in that thing. It takes a kind of patience or endurance that is found all on your own. But the flow of motivation is a collaborative act. Blaine is inspired by his friends, the mountains he lives near, and the feeling he gets from running in them.In the podcast we talk about taking it easy, but taking it. How the idea of running all 11,000 foot peaks in the Wasatch outside SLC came about, and what it was like to do that in one push. We talk about how we both go outside every day, how Blaine runs every day, about sleeping and napping, sponsorship and priorities in life, how endurance doesn't need to be an intense thing. We talk about how a mindful, content feeling can be accessible in the next breath, the next step, and the idea that resistance uses energy, and creates tension. And we end talking about running beyond reason.Be sure to listen to the whole episode if you have time, it's really worth it. And feel free to donate here to help me keep making things like this: DonateBlaine's AccountsInstagramStravaYouTubeIndex* 3:50 - How Blaine found his way to Salt Lake City* 7:00 - Figuring out how to camp for free, and how to travel to trial and error* 9:40 - Making a living* 12:10 - Stability vs flexibility* 14:10 - How the idea of the Wasatch 11's came about* 20:00 - Waking up on an 11,000' summit and running into work that same morning* 21:00 - Memories of the Wasatch traverse* 22:50 - Wasatch Traverse: Being present and easing tension* 24:40 - Focusing on the next step, and having a healthy internal environment* “A really mindful, content feeling is accessible in the next breath that you take, so it's nice to spend that long in such a vulnerable and physically demanding state”* 26:16 - "Take it easy, but take it" - Running without suffering* 27:10 - Gary Snyder - "Watch the ground below your feet speed by"* 29:30 - "You can always take another step, you can always alleviate some tension"* 30:10 - Asking hard questions about making things and being someone* 31:20 - The use of the word endurance, and its relationship to patience* "Endurance doesn't have to be an intense thing"* 32:10 - Running every day* 34:00 - Finding a flow in running* 37:00 - Running as a way toward mental wellbeing* Running is primarily a tool for me to navigate internal framework/mental health* Instead of thinking about something, I turn myself outwards* 39:40 - Going outside every day* "Running outside is a biological need. I absolutely need it just like I need food"* "Running is a way to fulfill biological needs and to fulfill a purpose"* 43:30 - How running and athletic can be simple, and without goals* 52:50 - Dan Price and living life on your old terms* 54:20 - Injuries* 59:00 - Getting sleep* 1:05:00 - Hardest runs that Blaine has done, and the Bonneville Shoreline trail* 1:18:00 - Traven's Dragon Wing Visualization in the Quad Lock (Rock) Race* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2PmcNmzdjbE* https://www.youtube.com/@EnduranceSlack/videos* 1:21:00 - Fear and the unknown* 1:38:00 - Sponsorship and priorities* 1:45:40 - Running beyond reason* When I'm at work or when I'm around other people I can be a lot more pleasant person around my coworkers* 2:00:00 - How resistance takes energy This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

TranscriptThis morning I went for a run in the woods, on these really beautiful trails that are used by snowmobiles.The organization that maintains the trails and works with landowners to allow access is called VAST - The Vermont Association of Snow Travelers.I'm not really sure if you're supposed to walk on them, but I don't really mind it, I meanI'm not a snowmobiler. I don't think it messes up the trails when they're really hard to walk on them, or to run on them. And they're really the only trails I could walk on right now without snowshoes around here. So I just kind of do it.The run goes up the hill beyond the yard and down into a field and it crosses a little road. And then it goes into some woods. The woods are pretty young, I'd say between 10 and 50 years old at the absolute maximum of the trees. There are a lot of beech trees with this canker disease, they have some yellow birch, silver birch. And a couple of maple trees, paper birch, and once in a while there's a pine tree. Kind of a scraggly woods over there.But the trail is nice, it goes up and down following the grade of a hill. And it eventually gets to this really large field that's owned by a family called the Mudges. And they are summer people, so they aren't here right now. There, the field opens up, the view opens up to something more than you'd expect in Colorado or something. There's a split rail fence and a grove aspen trees and you can see a far ridge with trees on top. If you took a photo of the right way, and people didn't really notice that you're surrounded by deciduous forests, you probably would think that you are in the Rockies or something.And the magic thing about it is of course, besides the snowmobiles that sometimes go by, there's no one on the trail ever. Because, this part of Vermont is pretty remote. It's not really close to anything, it's about an hour away from everything. And that makes it nice in some ways, but also pretty lonely.I ran up a steep hill after that through a different set of woods after crossing another road. And into this area that was a logging tract that's owned by owned by this guy named Hemenway who owned a couple thousand acres of forests around here. And he is a good forester type of a person. He contracted out to companies that just do very careful cutting. And so there's a lot of diversity in his woods. And he himself loved to walk in them. And there's been some memorials about him because he did such a beautiful job of preserving access and the woods themselves.And so those woods are pretty nice, they're pretty well thinned, and some pretty old trees in there that he left, probably told the loggers to leave some of the old trees, which is really good for wildlife.It's quite a steep hill over there, and running in the snow makes it really hard. And I think it's probably 500 feet vertical from the bottom to the top of it, maybe a little bit more. And the whole course is around 1000 or 1200. I would say it's about three and a half miles one way.I was trying to run in a pretty decent pace today. But running is always weird. I just I never know how fast I'm gonna run. Maybe it's because I have a phone that's like five years old. Doesn't really record stuff very accurately. But anyway, it was a good run.As I was coming back down to the big field. I started thinking about something that has been on my mind for a while. Which is this experience that I had when I got a vasectomy recently because this morning I had talked to my friend Beau, who's a Chinese medicine doctor, acupuncturistand herbalist, Alexander Technique practitioner, Tai Chi practitioner, lots of different things he's, he's into and really skilled at, and I was doing a consult with him. And so something I wanted to ask him about was this experience that happened during the vasectomy that I just had. I went to the Planned Parenthood in Burlington because I've only had good experiences with Planned Parenthood. With my girlfriend's needs, different gynecological needs over the years. And everything went pretty well.But there was this moment when I was on the table, when the nurse practitioner had cut the wrong part of some tissue, that was supposed to be the vas deferens. And the situation with this surgery is that they have to find the vas deferens by palpating them, touching them with the fingers, and then essentially using forceps or some kind of a clamp to pull them out of the pelvis.And it's extremely traumatic.I didn't really know that going into it. But it's like the worst pain I've ever felt, probably is like getting shot in the pelvis or getting kicked or hit with something really hard.And so she had to do that sensation, where she grabbed the vas deferens with some kind of forceps like three times instead of just two. And it did some damage.In the moment, what happened was I had what's called vessel vaso-vagal syncope, which means that you're fainting. It's like a state of shock. So what happened was, my hands and my feet started to go numb.And I started to get really cold and the pulse and the pulse oximeter on my finger, which is those little clamp-clamp things that measure your pulse in your blood pressure and stuff. Actually started to stop working because there was no blood in the extremities anymore. It started pool in the organs. Basically what was happening is I was undergoing a shock—because I saw some indecisiveness in the nurse and I was wondering how long this procedure was going to be prolonged because it was extremely uncomfortable. And I was wondering if she had done it right. I was wondering if she had hurt me.I have pretty good control over my physical reactions to things. But I guess this was a little too much. And I started to kind of go into that state of fainting.And it was really strange because the nurse and her assistants just wouldn't look at me. I think they felt embarrassed or afraid. And so they didn't look at me. They looked at the monitor. And the monitor wasn't reading anything. And so they were frustrated with the technology not showing them my vitals.And I felt disconnected from the experience.And I felt afraid of course.And in the end, what helped me was they said one thing I could do at the beginning was squeeze the assistants hand, so I reached out and took their hand and squeezed it. And it felt really warm and strong.And that's what brought me back.The nurse had me breath some oxygen from a tank, and that didn't really seem to do anything. But squeezing the person's hand, feeling that warmth and that comfort, was really what worked. And I remember at the end, standing up feeling fine. Saying something to nurse like, well, I guess this is a learning experience for all of us. Which probably wasn't the right thing to say. But I don't know, I can be kind of straightforward sometimes. And maybe she needed to be humbled a little bit. I don't know.What I felt like when I was laying there was that I wanted to get away from the experience. Things flooded through my mind. Places that I've been beautiful places that I've kind of left a part of myself, so to speak. Places I've hiked, camped, slept, places outside in nature, really. And it was really interesting that my mind went to this specific meadow, in the Gros Ventre wilderness, in northern Wyoming. It's extremely unused and extremely remote, even though it's close to a couple of national parks. And my mind went there to that place in that moment of fear, which I found pretty interesting.And then, as I recovered from reflecting on that experience, I started to feel bad about myself, I actually apologized to the nurses after the procedure, because I didn't want to inconvenience them, because I felt weak.Now, weakness comes from fear, or fear, creates weakness, or fear is part of the feeling of weakness. Anyway, they're related somehow. And I've always felt weak. I've never felt like a strong, physically strong person. And so weakness is something that I've always battled with. Athletic activities and stuff have never come naturally to me. And I never really was fast or strong, or any of those things that that men and boys are often expected to be. And so I've always felt kind of weak overall.And so when I was laying there, and I couldn't handle the pain, seemingly, of this operation, I felt weak. And I thought I had long ago left behind that kind of feeling. Because when I first left my home, which happened to be Nebraska, I started going on trips across the country alone in my car, and I wouldn't choose the direction, except West, and I wouldn't really choose a path and make a plan. And I wouldn't really decide on campsites or anything like that. My only rule was that I didn't want to pay for camping.And when a person is 18, or 19, or are in their early 20s, and they're pretty young and inexperienced, the world seems like kind of a scary place. At least it did to me. I had a lot of anxiety about my car breaking down, or getting lost or getting stuck somewhere, somebody yelling at me and telling me to leave or—just kind of unfounded fears that have since I've learned about now, that don't make any sense, but they were there. And I've always wondered about where those fears came from. And now even though I'm perfectly comfortable with traveling like that now, not paying for camping, camping wherever I find a flat space, on bike or on foot or in a car or whatever, just finding some pull off and going into the trees—my favorite kind of camping now, which used to terrify me. I used to not sleep when I did that. But that kind of a fear I thought I'd gotten over. Yet when I was on the table, experiencing that shock from the surgery kind of going wrong—I realized I hadn't. Or at least that fear still lives inside of me somewhere because I still felt weak, which is really the source of where that fear came from.In other words, I felt bad about myself.I felt like I wasn't good enough or strong enough.A friend of mine is a really good runner. I can't even explain how beautiful he looks when he runs. I've never actually seen him run in person just videos. Which makes me sad to say. But the fact is, if we ever tried running together, he'd just completely leave me behind. So it probably wouldn't be much fun for him.But he's the kind of person that I look up to. Because he seems so strong. I know that he's probably got his own problems. Everybody does. But it seems like he's a representative of something that I feel like I'm never really going to be that good at, which is physical strength and endurance.I've often wondered where that damage came from.Because if I look at my genealogical history, I've come from very strong people.One of my grandpa's lived to 92. And the only reason why he died is because he let his prostate cancer go untreated.Another one of my grandpa's was 87 or 88, when he died, and he basically died of a broken heart because he was so he was a mountain of a man with a laugh like a volcano.And he was a logger. And my other grandfather was a logger as well. But then he was a farmer. And then he was an insurance salesman. At the end of his life, like probably for the last 30 or 40 years or so. They're really strong old style dudes. They knew how to do everything you needed to do know how to do on a farm.And then my dad ran many marathons. He grew up on a farm. He knows how to do everything that you need to do on a farm.And my mom grew up on a ranch, raising horses. She knew most of what you needed to know how to do on a ranch. She also ran marathons. So I always have found it strange that I have not been as strong as my parents or grandparents.And I've always been curious about that.And I think that, for me, the things that I've struggled with in life have been emotional damage.Growing up, my parents got divorced, which I had no idea—I didn't understand what was going on when I was seven, eight years old when that happened. But I can see that that influenced my growth or inhibited my growth in a certain way now.And it made me addicted to things to try and escape that pain.And I think it influenced me to this day. And I think that it gave me an anxiety disorder that I've more or less taken care of—through extreme amounts of effort, and care for myself.But it's just so interesting to see how generations of people can be changed by emotional trauma.What that can do to someone for their entire life at least, that's what I think my legacy is.So to stop these endless digressions, I'll just read this poem now and call it done.The title of it is Swallows from Capistrano, and it's about my grandpa on my mom's side.Swallows from CapistranoHe had bright blue eyes, with an old-timers folded lidsthe blue that looks like cracks in a glacier, they glowedout from his stony countenance, his bear-like laughfilled the low room where he satwith his wisdom about everything.The scent of pine smoke hung even in summeraround the eaves, the fresh pine needle scent wafted toodown the hill from the hot sun, and he watchedin the spring the swallows who came backfrom the eaves of the mission in far south and hotCapistrano. My mom says she has a strange mind like him, seeselements as part of people, the rising of fire into smokeas a type of person, or a water-earth type, my grandpa,he must have been a volcano under a glacier—those blue eyesand his rumbling chest, pouring forth wisdom and lovefor sitting in the sun. Once everyone could handle him no morehe lit fires with diesel fuel and wet wood through the cold winterand in springhe sat and watched the swallows.So I guess my hope is that by noticing what has hurt me, in life, I'll be able to heal certain things.But I also don't think life is just about focusing on what's wrong.I think it's about listening to what feels good to me.And one of those things is being outside.I think that's why my mind went there, when I was laying on that table, in the Planned Parenthood clinic in Burlington.It's because that's my place of refuge.And I'm lucky to have traveled to the places that are so unimaginably beautiful that they don't seem like they exist on the same earth as everywhere else.And I'm also lucky to be able to find those places seemingly anywhere. It's more about how you inhabit them, maybe, then the places themselves.My grandpa, both of them were tough guys.Somehow, even though they sustained a lot of damage, they were very physically strong, despite all that.I guess that kind of a damage that they got went deeper, and it changed their ability to listen.Fortunately, I've become a pretty good listener. So now, through my running habit, I'll hopefully be able to become stronger physically too.And heal all these things that have transpired.Thanks for listening. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

A short episode about a piece of music by Dario Lessing that I have been enjoyingElfe by Dario Lessinghttps://open.spotify.com/track/5DVGcnv54vwvqFxYg5rH7n This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

Some writing about a bridge I used to run across all the time, and my thoughts on a manuscript I've been working on. Recorded by a small pond on the edge of a field outside Forest Grove, Oregon. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.walkaround.run

Transcript (sorry about typos)I've been trying to learn a short song on the piano recently. Because right now, I'm house sitting at the place across the road from the yurt that I live in. And there's a piano in here, an upright. It's not very clean, it's actually kind of out of tune. And that is just the kind of quality of sound that I like. Trying to learn something that someone else made, trying to copy it, is a very different process then just sitting down at the piano and playing whatever comes into my head—which is what I've always done. Trying to intentionally press certain notes is a lot more difficult than just letting the notes come out as they will. But as soon as I started to learn some of this tune, I realized that there is music in the tune; that there is expansion available to these pre-made notes. In other words, there is further music inside of that tune to be found—and so I started playing around within the phrase, I guess it's called. To be honest, I have no training in music, so I don't know what I'm talking about. But I started playing around in the notes themselves.And I've realized that just in that snippet of the song, there was maybe so much variation—just in five seconds of music.And I really like that. Doing more with less: the idea behind that, what it brings up, what it results in. And I like that even though I'm not good at copying someone else's work, when I start playing, immediately what comes to mind is finding the music within the music.When I write, I write in an unconstrained way. I never find myself writing to a rubric. I never set a certain amount of time I'm going to write for. I never set a time itself to write. I never set any kind of a goal.I just have this general idea that I need to write as much as I can, which doesn't always work out. Because it's not very disciplined. But actually, it kind of does, because it seems like I tend to write a lot by not putting any constraints on it. It seems like I allow what comes to come, and I don't deal with the garbage. I don't produce crap in order to get to the good stuff. I just don't produce when there isn't anything worth writing, which I think is up for debate with a lot of people. And the funny thing is I recently haven't been able to really write, as well as I've been able to just talk. And talking is even more unconstrained, because as I speak I don't really remember what I just said.All I'm doing is following a thought pattern. I can't go back and read the words I wrote down, I'm just here in the present saying whatever is coming to the forefront of my mind. And I think that it's a sign of a lack of constraint and an abundance of creativity: to be able to just talk, and not need a form, and still produce something intelligible.Which I think is pretty difficult.So, I've been thinking about the heart recently. Just last night, I read a piece by someone, I kind of, sort of know, who lives in Maine. Her name is Jenna Rozelle, and she writes about food, but it's more the idea of nourishment. I really appreciate her writing.I think she's very articulate and prolific, and I like that. She hunts and has a relationship with wild landscapes. And she wrote about the heart recently just last night. In the article, she explained her experience of this season, and taking heart, and what gets her through some of the times, and other things.Anyway, you should go check out her newsletter, Appetites. You can search for her name too.So it got me thinking about the heart. And what I think of the heart has a very particular association with a lack of constraint. Because if anything, the heart ceases to function when it's constrained—when it has atherosclerosis in the arteries, calcification, or a lot of people deal with arrhythmia. Or afib.And it's this idea of constraint that brings me back to thinking about the heart. My experience of the culture I live in, and what is being asked for in that culture and what is being permitted, and not permitted. In other words, constraint has a direct effect on the heart, in my opinion.And this is coming from my studies recently with Chinese medicine and energetics and holistic medicine. But also, just my sense about these things that has developed for a decade or so now. And so what I see when I see constraint is a lack of heartAnd to me the heart means also—so there's this idea in biomedicine that the heart is a pump, and it's goal is to push blood through the body. And while that's true in some sense, the heart has been shown by other medicine forms to be more of a sensory organ. And the perspective of Chinese medicine, of many perspectives on the heart, is that the blood actually is what pumps the heart.So to explain that—the blood carries information in its temperature and flow. And so when it heads out to the periphery, it is cooled and comes back. The heart notices those changes. And it adapts as a result of the process of the blood moving through the body. And then the blood does so many things, obviously and the heart is adaptive to those needs. And so the heart I see as more of a sensory organ. And so, if you think about someone who has a closed heart, or a hardened heart, what do you think is going on there? Maybe a lack of of sensitivity of the world around them, a lack of sensitivity of their own emotions and of others.And as for someone who has an open heart, what do you think their sensitivity of the world around them would be like? What kind of things do you imagine that person would allow in? What would they constrain? And where does that lack of constraint, or need for constraint, come from?My idea is that it comes from a sense of protectiveness—of someone trying to preserve their internal well-being because they feel attacked, or they have trauma. And so if you come across an uncaring person, the result of that lack of care is often that they had extreme trauma. And they can't be sensitive anymore because they're trying to protect themselves. Which I mean, this is not revolutionary thinking at all. But a couple years ago, for me, it really was. And maybe for some people, thinking about the heart as a sensory organ, that responds to the needs of the body and even the emotions, rather than that it's a pump that goes on mindlessly—maybe this is a revolutionary thought.So from what I understand in Chinese medicine is that the heart is seen as the place of one's spirit. It's where the Shen, as they call it, rests every night. The Shen is kind of an animating principle. It is the quality of a person's experience, and intention in the world.So it's this reflective or responsive phenomenon that makes up who that person is. And so you can see a lot of interesting aspects here—if, for example, someone is hurt, often as a young kid, their Shen changes. And that would have a responsive or reflective aspect on the heart function. But potentially as well a you can actually see a shock such as that in the pulse. You can see it in atrial fibrillation. You can see it and tachycardia, or arrhythmia. You can see them being unstable. And so it affected the terrain, these shocks, and you can actually see it in the body. You can even see it, sometimes, on people's tongues.So in other words, the heart works best when it's unconstrained, when it doesn't have trauma, when it can be sensitive to the needs of the body and the spirit and to others around it. So the heart to me, is something that governs what is let in or what is excluded.And that's really interesting to me because in the cultural moment that I perceive, there's so much hard-heartedness going on. Everyone wants to immediately come to a conclusion about who someone else, and what they believe in. Why? Because people are deeply afraid. They're trying to protect themselves from something that may hurt them, or has hurt them.But the moment a protective wall goes up, communication stops, and calcification manifests. And I think it's really terrible to see all of these boxes that people or the culture want to live in, or basically build around themselves as a protective measure.And I wonder if the this has deep implications. The number one cause of death in the United States is heart disease, right? So—it's like heart disease, maybe, comes from closing off oneself to external sensitivity and others emotional needs and a person's own emotional needs. And then the second one is cancer. Cancer may come from grief, unresolved grief... I don't know. It's pretty interesting.Of course, this isn't conclusive information at all about how chemistry works inside of the body. But I think it has some interesting implications. And for me, explains to some degree how the heart looks and functions. What it does. In terms of the blood and sensitivity and how it senses relationship with others and how it makes up our sense of self.And so to be grounded in oneself means to have a strong heart. To be sure of oneself is to have an intact circulatory system, essentially, an emotional system, and therefore a strong heart.And to be open to the world means to allow things that may damage. But also to know that even though those things might cause damage, that can be healed or not necessarily fatal. That they can actually make the system stronger. So when I first started running a couple years ago, it hurt. The circulatory system is not prepared for the muscles calling for so much oxygenated blood and the heart and the lungs and the blood suddenly have to work harder. And it's a process that takes time. But once a general fitness is achieved, it doesn't fade very quickly, I've noticed. Maybe it's been that I've been active for a lot of the summer, but I think it's interesting to understand that aspect of the heart—when stresses are placed on it, actually gets stronger, as long as the stresses aren't chronic and insidious. If they're healthy stressors, like difficult relationships that are worth it.So when I write unconstrained, I feel like I'm letting my heart open. I'm allowing it to take in my thoughts. My emotions. What's happened before? What's coming next? What's happening right now? I can take in the world around me, by being unconstrained and open. And I find that I allow real sustenance to come in.I guess that's what the heart means to me. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit walkaround.substack.com

I recently heard about a story telling event nearby. The theme was Rural Life in Vermont. It made me pause, consider: if I had an audience in front of me, what kind of story would I tell?Awhile back I set out toward what interested me. You could say that by today's standards, I set out to be a failure, because attached to that idea was no intention to make money. In other words, to most people, my future had no future in it.As time has passed I haven't always felt like I chose the right way forward. And there have been moments, that have become funny over time, where people challenge and judge my way of life. And yet despite the hard times and so on, I never felt like I've chosen the wrong route—on the good days.There were moments when I could have been this or that—for example, a magazine photographer. But when I was taking photos of people doing interesting things, and writing profiles about them, I realized that it was actually I who wanted to live that interesting life. I didn't want to be someone who documented it, I wanted my own way.And what I've realized is that living a truly interesting life isn't usually paid for. What I mean is, the back and forth commute and static routine most people have, I would say, is not interesting to me. And yet so many people I've met tend to think, and demand of others, that it's the only way. If it works for them, that's fine. But to demand others live the way you do because you think it's the best way, makes no sense at all. It says more about who you are than anyone else really. To be honest, this kind of policing and judgement makes me sick.For one reason or another attention to basic things has always been interesting to me. I remember being very small, just a child, and having one toy I cherished above all. For a while it was a tiny grey fighter jet no longer then the first joint of my finger. And then it was a black plastic goat. Now I find myself interested in the details of life. Where do I hang the kitchen towel so it stops being in the way, yet is easily reachable? How do I make efficient use of this single room I live in with another person? How do I maintain and lovingly take care of my axe and knives? My body? My relationships? How much do I really need to be content?I was lucky in that I found out about a philosophy when I was just 19 that talked a lot about contentment, and what it required. Turns out it can require very little, to be content. As for me, I've found challenges that I overcome to be the most satisfying type of possessions. Who I become through growth and change, is all I really have. And to be clear, I don't even have that, in the end.The route I've chosen has made up a meaningful life so far, if only for myself. And while I may not have much security, or own a home, and I share a car with my partner, I feel healthy overall. I had this idea recently that the entire point of my life is good health. If my health is good, it means everything else is going well, right? At least, that makes sense to me. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit walkaround.substack.com

Welcome to Walk Around—a new direction for this podcast.Last summer, 2021, I had an idea while walking in the high country—to make a podcast about walking. I've walked a long way, and to be honest, my creative path as an artist started right there, with walking.Walking itself is so simple, yet so corrective and health generating. For me walking, running, or any self-powered movement have always helped me find traction on ideas, reckon with problems, or work through difficulty, in ways nothing else can. Maybe it's that moving my body through space at an understandable rate allows me to untangle what I seek to understand. Movement unties the knots, mental and physical, that life builds up. It clears my eyes, mind, and spirit.I never got far with the idea, to rename this podcast & newsletter, because it seemed too single-minded. I don't intend to write “about” walking. I just want to write what I find useful in the moment, along themes of understanding and communing with nature.Below is a transcript I recorded during a run today. I hope you enjoy listening or reading what I shared, and the new direction I am heading.Transcript(the text below is verbatim, so it's a little awkward read rather than listened to)There's a beaver pond a couple ridges over from where I live. Recently, I rode my bike past—and yesterday I stopped there on the way back from picking up some flour with Anna for the bread baking that she's getting into. The first time I drove by the pond, I saw a beaver swimming along. And the pond was really smooth and glass like, reflecting the hills and the trees around it.It's not much of a pond though. It's kind of abandoned looking. The trees aren't very big the brushes scraggly. There's an old dike or something, some kind of an old dam. Someone used to drive their car over it to someone's house, back in a hollow that's now been razed. And the only only thing left is a stone foundation. In other words, it's just the kind of place I love.I like places that aren't really noticed by anyone else. And they have a quiet solitude. Anna & I walked over the Beaver Dam and into this old pasture-meadow, that's since grown up with a lot of trees. There were many game trails crisscrossing the area, headed to the apple trees, down to the water, along the creek, through the trees. It was astonishing. Animals seem to go where people don't like to go. And I guess that's why I like some of these places. They have a special gentleness to them.I like beaver ponds too because while they serve a function that we can all see and understand: by slowing down the flow of water, allowing it to soak into the ground, creating a reservoir underneath the pond, keeping the water cold for fish, allowing cleared areas along the edges of it that the beavers keep cut for food. Allowing amphibians and other small mammals and large animals to flourish because of the abundance of food and space and water. And allowing sediment to be trapped from the rivers to keep them running clear and high. Those are all the physical functions of the beaver pond. But I see it as a refuge. I see them as refuges. Especially now, when everywhere weather is more drastic, temperatures are higher and lower. Even though they're small, they maintain a homeostasis in some way. Just because of the amount of water that's sitting there, which acts as a sink for hot air and a reservoir for cool water.And energetically I think that kind of a feeling is present in those places. When a person goes to a beaver pond if they're in the right frame of mind, they can feel that it's a refuge. And it's not just a physical refuge. It's a refuge for emotional well-being.And that's just really the kind of place I like.I'm going to read a poem I wrote recently when my mom was visiting. It was a beautiful visit. She is such an amazing person, and I love her so much. She's taught me so many things and she's so wise. She's really seen a lot of people. She was a teacher for three decades, moved all over the country—and she just has a lot that she understands about how the world works. Most recently, her final frontier has been true self-care. (laughs) Which is good because she's always been someone who's given herself away to everyone else around her. So, if you're listening, mom, try to find a beaver pond or some refuge to go to today. And here's the poem I wrote when we were walking along one of the branches of the rivers here in Vermont together. It was on one of the only paths I've been able to find that goes right along a river without a road between the path, or running too close. It's really rare here. Every single valley has a road through it. But maybe there are some mountain streams I haven't found yet. I'm sure that there are, but there aren't trails along them. It's interesting. There needs to be more relationships with rivers here in that way. It is the circulatory network after all.So here's the poem.The title is from something my mom said, as we are standing at the end of the trail, after walking it."To be here is to begin to understand" The view downstream     below a tulip poplar        eeks out a turn. In the yellow current     the water slides and plays        over dark grey rocks. Golden leaves mark the black river bottom as we walk down a flat path. Between trees glimpses of the stream. A leaf falls, and lands Our conversation contains spaces, and turnings Old knees, and new Rise, and fall As we find our way Gently, completely forward. I paused there—I don't know if you could hear it, but just after I stopped reading, there was a breeze that blew through the trees. And a bunch of leaves fell. I'm surrounded by bright yellow leaves in a maple, beech, birch, and pine forest.But things like this just seem to happen. It has been completely dead still this morning. No wind at all. Not even a single leaf moving. And then just as I stopped reading this breeze comes up out of nowhere. And it was just right here, right next to me. I mean, what is that?And I tell you, it happens all the time to me when I read poems or read things are experience things out in nature like this, it just happens. It's just a mystery.But when I dropped my mom at the airport, she had tears in her eyes because it was so sad, she lives across the country, and I'm probably only gonna ever see her twice a year or something. And she said: be sure to watch the water that goes by because it only goes by once.And I think that that is something someone with a lot of collected wisdom can say, with conviction. I think it's important to live that way.I often wonder, especially recently, if I'm living the right way. Because there's so many models around me that show me that there's other ways to live that are more comfortable or easier. And what am I getting for living this way? It's kind of difficult and I refuse to spend most of my time, just to be honest, working for money.If I worked for money more often or worked harder on a career, I could afford to buy a house or have land or not live in a place that doesn't have a sink or a toilet or insulation really, or more than one room. But since I want time, I am stuck living in a way where I can't afford those things. It's my choice. But sometimes I really doubt that choice.But when my mom says something like be sure to watch the water as it goes by, because it only goes by once, I realize and remember the life is finite. I don't know how long my present state of mind will last. And so it makes sense to do what my deepest calling feels like, even if it makes me poor.That's what I really believe.And for some reason, that means doing things like this.Thank you for listening. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit walkaround.substack.com

I've been having the hardest time making things recently, maybe ever. So I decided to just go talk outside for a while.This is the least edited thing I've ever put on the internet. I decided to put it on here because I think other people might be able to relate. And because it tells a lot about my problems, what I struggle with, and so on—which are things I don't often talk about. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit grassjournal.co

WinnowingIt happened when the grass was flowering: pale puffs of dust, appearing with a breeze, or even from a tiny beetle landing on a stem. Just enough to send life outward. Snipe stood on a log that morning, just watching. I thought about the sound he makes as he flies all night and he watched me, and I watched him, and as usual, the sun rose. The good from bad, it seems the thoughts, or feelings are of different weights. Tossing them to the wind what blows away from me are good feelings. What falls to the earth are the bad thoughts. Which seem to pile up. But what is good, or bad, to a snipe? Or to a tiny granule of contained life sent forth by a beetle's landing or the hum of a flies wing? Snipe stands on one leg and scratches his head, watches me, pollen, trees, beetles, sunrise, and as always things I can't yet see. What do you see snipe? What does the winnowing sound of your night flights mean? Why this morning do you stop, on a log, to watch me? Have your eggs hatched? Do you know if your nestlings will have a marshy home? Or are such thoughts beyond you? You must be just a piece of life itself. Not good, not bad, but beautiful fully real, and peaceful. Your silent morning log watch and scratch, your handsome, calm brown eyes are a gift to me. Dear subscribers. You may not know this, but I spend multiple hours every week writing and researching. Very little appears for others to see, but such is the life of any artist. I feel like my work, even if mostly unseen, has value. So I wanted to make a request. Due to an unexpected loss, I am really short on funds right now. If you appreciate my work, please send a few dollars via my Buy Me A Coffee page (though I actually drink tea most of the time!) It really makes a difference to have people use their hard-earned cash to support artists. I live really frugally, keeping expenses under 1500 most months, but when unforeseen things happen, even frugal living might not be enough. You can donate here. I also take crypto at this ETH/AVAX/HARMONY address: 0xAb48173c5A9eb467E3AcE38005316A47D4512CC4 (please no doge, shiba, or musk coin) Note: If you have donated in the last six months, you're good. Your generosity has been received, so don't worry about this message. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit grassjournal.co

I think it’s hard to be present, because I have been taught all my life that the point of life, the purpose of it, is to progress. There’s always some achievement or some better future off in the distance.Yet what I’ve learned is that the present is where life occurs. It doesn’t happen in the future, and it isn’t a goal. It’s actually happening right now as you read this.I decided to record some words about this. Feel free to listen—it was recorded totally off the cuff, with no planning, on the edge of a huge beaver pond near where I live in Vermont. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit grassjournal.co

Wellbeing is a net.And we are a strand in the net. The strands around us are made of people, places, what we consume, produce, see, feel, experience.I think of this in the fading evening. The leaves and hills have changed slowly this season. The tops of mountains have snow. Distant hills disappear in morning mist. To the south the valley is hidden by mountains. The air cold in the morning, the grass gold or brown, the trees bare, the geese moving and honking. The water of the river reflects the clouds, turning silver. The pebbles darken with morning dew.Most evenings I go running. During the day I study sleep, neuroscience, nutrition, plants—just to pass the time. I write and organize. Life is but people and places and things, and what you do. Wellbeing is a net.I notice that experience compounds as my life goes on, but my gathering basket has holes. Most times are forgotten, those that matter stay. What matters is not always good. What matters is what impacts, changes: for better, or worse.I wandered Elko, Nevada between work days, talked with a friend, and we both agreed it might be impossible to even understand one thing fully, in one life. And so many regressions.The great task is to be here for it. To not run, to accept, compress, and take care, pay attention, and receive instruction from what occurs.The good and bad, the things that matter. To forgive and realize: the wounds others carry make up part of their net, one of their many strands. And isn't it amazing that individual neurons can live over a hundred years? Maintaining, connecting, remodeling, constantly in connection with others around them, or they die. The sense of ourselves is encoded, somehow, in the form and waves of activity that science has revealed are less based in parts of the brain, but the interconnectedness of them all—and the neurons themselves are nets with strands: axons, dendrites, synapses. Yet there's a difference between knowing and feeling. And physiology doesn't explain everything. And we have known this intuitively for thousands of years. Yet as there is more powerful ways to study, the "truth" eludes. There is still, and always will be, mysteryWellbeing is a net. We are a strand. There is no separation between ourselves and wellbeing. The things that come together, or move apart, are part of us. They produce thoughts and feelings that become us. This is what it means to be a strand in the net.The geese and trees know this. Or better, they feel, or produce it. There are human cultures in my dreams that greet each other by saying:"I am you, But,I am myself too"I wish I could throw a rope around certain feelings that would never fade. But wellbeing, and life, are a net, and the strands are manifold, moving, changing, uncovering, disappearing—never staying the same. That's the beauty of it.Thoughts come and go, come and go with the currents of the mind.I wrote this once. Then I wrote again. I write my present and my future, and I write my past. It is written into me, my thoughts, feelings, my "amygdala", my "neurons", my strands, and what is beyond—my friends and relationships. The future depends on how I feel, and what I have, or what I choose to do even now. To think, to be, stay or change, are for me to know. But I am also you.And we are: together,little gossamer strands.Glowing in the sunlight.Growing and changing, severing, or explaining. Rippling in the wind.Wellbeing is a net And we a strand This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit grassjournal.co

Thoughts about being present and ignoring obstacles—to focus instead on what you can do. Credits to the young hawthorne tree that has taken root on a hillside where I boil tea. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit grassjournal.co

There is a little piano against one wall of this house I live in. I play it from time to time. When I first began, I noticed all the melodies I played were sad. I knew I had some sadness in me. Actually, I knew I had a lot. But, I didn’t really know what to do with it. So I played the piano most days, but the songs were always pretty sad.For one reason or another, I have been carrying some sadness based on grief for a few years. It has been hard but not without its lessons. I think that sadness can teach us about what others feel. So I’ve learned that. But there is a point when the lesson has been learned, yet the sadness still hangs around.And then about a week ago I was looking at the field below the house where I live. In the sky a few hawks circled. A group of renegade chickens, who escaped months ago from a coop and went wild, took notice of the hawks and fled under the porch—their shelter.And just before that, I had stood up from the table. But this was different than the hundreds of times I had stood up from a table recently, because for years I have been dealing with knee pain—but at this moment, there was none. Yet, I noticed my muscles tighten, as if trying to protect myself from pain that was no longer there.I stood watching the chickens cower, and thinking about pain. About how mental pain becomes physical, and physical pain becomes mental—about how pain works its way into us, and hangs around.It’s not that I haven’t done my best to grieve, or get rid of pain. I have really tried. But I failed. Yet in this moment, noticing the lack of pain, I felt the way my body still held itself tense around pain that wasn’t there. I thought about the chickens hiding from the death of the hawks. I thought about what it is to protect oneself. And I thought about vulnerability, and how opening is needed to allow healing. I knew all this, and have practiced it too. Yet somehow in feeling my body respond automatically to pain that was no longer there, I saw a different way forward.Later that week, I listened to Wilson Wewa, a Northern Pauite elder, tell the story of the grieving woman and the sage grouse.Long ago, before there were people, there was a woman. She was crying, crying, crying endlessly because her husband had died. She was utterly and completely overwhelmed with grief. Her people did not understand her grief, and they did not know what to do. So she grieved alone. She was carrying so much pain. And so she went out into the desert all by herself. While she was out there alone, she heard a noise. She walked to the top of a rise and looked down. There, down below her in the sage was a group of sage hens. And they were dancing. They were in a big circle, and they were having a good time. And at the end of their song, they would open up their wings and let out a big joyful whoop.One of the sage hens noticed the woman crying. So she came up to her. And she said to the woman that she should not grieve uncontrollably. And the sage hen said that our grief is not good for us when it makes us sick. The sage hens then taught her a song that she sang. And she found comfort in the song.When she came back to her village, she brought the song and the dance, and she taught the people.I listened to this story, turned it over and over in my mind. And the words came to mind: Pain is a Practice.It is a practice because it’s something that we have, whether we want it or not. A practice is something you have to work on. So the practice of pain is a choice. Though this practice is not a comfortable one.As I wrote the poem Pain as a Practice, something left me. And something came in, too. But I don’t know if this pain I carried for a long time is gone forever, in my knee, or in my mind.But, I do know one thing: the grief has passed. It has stopped making me sick. And I hope that going forward, I can play other songs on the piano, and write other words than the ones that are sad.Pain as a PracticeWhen I stand up from the table, I shift slightlyto allow my weight to land on my right leginstead of the left.Twisting under weightseems to bother the left knee.When I write I try to make the wordscome out in long sentences and paragraphs, again.But I cannot.Pain has modified my ability to write stories.Each sentence written has to hold what it needs— like me, in each moment.I can’t always tellwhat is good for me.So I use pain as a practice— because it shows what hurts. It’s important to keep up the practice, of painto not let it slip awayinto numbness.Because, I’ve learned, the pain will still be there.I am getting in good shape this spring because I am planning to walk five hundred miles, or morestringing together a rough route on CalTopoon Shoshone, Bannock, Crow, and Blackfeet land.And so, just recently, I noticed my left instep is weaker than my right which causes my knee to sway slightly inward. My suspicion is that this most subtle instabilityis behind a nebulous knee pain I’ve had for years.And so I practice: little exercisesto strengthen my footand suddenly, the pain is gone!But,my body remembers.It has been sensitive to that pain for years.Yet now that it’s goneit still won’t let it go.The pain might come back at any time, my body thinks, and Ithink, because I am also my body— I think, without thinking: I must stay safe from pain.Yet, this protective notion protects the trauma, not me.This is not the painful practice that will be a freedom from pain.This practice of protecting the painmight create an imbalance that brings it back again.And so I have to let it go.I heard a Pauite elder saythat endless grief can make us sickand even hurt those who love us.We have to learn to be human beings again, he said.“We are small. And we don’t know everything.Nature can teach us things.”Caught in my mind,I forget I have a bodythat can work out the inside problems by itself. By a simple moving through the world.What it takes, is this subtle noticing a mind of care, for my own wants and needs.A hand to the wind—A vision through the drainageof down trees, and bogsto get to that far ridgewhere the walk doesn’t end, but, beginsat next days first light.Then Again,and again, and again, and again…. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit grassjournal.co

A story about following a coyote’s tracks in fresh snow. And, in turn, thinking about my own life. Full text below.Piano and story by me, Hudson Gardner. Tracks by coyote and deer. Snow by earth.…At the base of the hill, past the muddy shopyard and cattle fences, across the bridge that planks over Chimacum creek, and just before the salmonberry groves, were two perfect prints in the fresh snow.Light snow filled in the almond shaped grooves, with the gradually tapering tips softened by fresh flakes that fell overnight.The tracks were staggered, by just a few inches, almost one atop another. About an inch long, they went nearly through to the dark ground. They were the tracks of a young black tailed deer.We followed them, leading away from the road, down a path through a low boggy area where gravel had been spread in late summer. Halfway through the bog, the tracks met a coyotes—coming the opposite direction. Though the coyotes were fresh: not hours, maybe not even minutes ago had his-her warm breathing body passed this spot. So we followed the tracks, one going forward, one backward, and read the animals stories.Late in the night the deer had been walking north. Early this morning, the coyote was headed south. At one point, the deer tracks split and headed west, into a thick cedar bog. The coyotes backtracks continued clearly up the hill.The coyote showed a habit of winding around, following their nose. A shuffling around spot in the snow revealed a hole down to bare grass, where the coyote had ambushed a rodent in their track.Further up the hill the coyote had deviated from the main line of path, heading into a field. Another hole, another rodent crunched. That brought the count to at least two rodents for breakfast, probably in the space of less than five minutes.Around an alder copse the tracks went, then to a little rise in the ground. And then they stopped.There was a little circle of melted snow and ice, where they coyote had, at some point late last night, curled up to sleep. And beyond that little circle, a path of older tracks led away into the distance, marking where he-she had come from.Standing, looking at this little place of rest, the choice made no sense. It was open on all sides, with no tree cover. But the longer I looked, the more I realized how perfect of a place it was. The grass all around was flattened, giving good sight lines in all directions. By barely lifting his-her head, the coyote could see hundreds of yards in all directions. Yet, due to their location on the small rise, they couldn't be seen until they either heard someone approaching, or saw them. It may have been the most protected place, as far as sight lines and escape routes, in a square mile of hills, forest, and bog.From the little melted circle of rest, the coyote's tracks led into the distance, toward a farm house and a few hills. Beyond there, I knew that a lake lay, and somewhat remote young forests interspersed with clearcuts. The coyote may have come all the way from up there, or he-she may spend a lot of time in this field, hunting the plentiful voles and mice. I would never have known this story, but for the rare snow that told it to me.Following this track in the snow got me thinking about my own story. I set out a while ago to write in a way that was like a river: vital, ever moving, multi branched, yet still knowable. Formed, and form-ing, ever changing, never staying the same, yet having some sense to it. I wanted to write like that. And in learning to write that way my life itself has inevitably taken course changes.Life always seems hazy to me, a constant process of testing. And yet there are these crystalline moments, where it seems like everything has led somewhere that it all makes sense, like how a river always has a source. Yet just as that feeling is grasped, the solidity and good feelings tend to dissolve again.I wonder if there are more trails I can follow, larger than my own knowing. To be supported by, yet not be exploited by. Such things make me think of my best times. I think of when I have felt understood, or made something worth understanding. And like I told someone recently, these crystalline moments seem like little guide posts I have hammered into the ground as I've gone. And from some perfect place of rest, on a low hill, it may be possible to look back at them. And then to wake up, and keep on going....That was backtracking, and I hope you enjoyed it. You may notice in this episode that I avoided using the word "it" when referring to the deer and coyote. That is because the word "it" often refers to something inanimate, something without consciousness. I don't believe animals lack consciousness, I believe they feel things just as we do—have memories, stories, and lives—so I prefer to use the word "he-she" when I don't know their gender, or "they" instead of "it". Just something to think about.I love you. Take care — Hudson This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit grassjournal.co

In this episode, I share a poem I wrote, and a little about my writing difficulties and successes over the last year or two. I really like this poem, and think it is one of my best. So I hope you find something in it too.Music Credits: Liberty Bell by Darkside.Calligraphy of a Stream I A gray jays wing looks like old cedar wood grain. Grown from melted snow, and stolen sandwich bits. The jays move in flocks, take turns landing softly on my hat. The lower lake, frozen solid, but for the edges, coated in glistening snow. A small stream flows from one end— like black ink spilled on paper, then melting it, and running downslope. The jays drink, and watch       us in all our human awkwardness. Gracefully stealing tidbits for a free lunch Even though I heard: nothing in life is "free" The woods are soundless today, but for the shushing of trees shedding snow. Almost like the silence is asking me to listen, but then laughing: a jay swoops in to steal part of my sandwich again. II The cold     creeps    downhill, along the stream. Flat rocks    on a dark, gravelly bottom. People walking far, up from stuffed parking lot,    into this silence leaving behind their cars carrying their     conversations holding onto things. Then resting in the rare light, here at the edge of a lake. I wonder how easy it is to leave it all behind? To come clean    to the creek-burble? To cleanse       the mind? —Grey jays winging softly, along tree'd edge of the lake III In mind, I gathered thoughts, and things, but wasn't always there for the beauty. Maybe if I drink snow melt, sleep outside, these things become me Or am I them? The transparency of the self grows clearer, in the calligraphy of a stream: Slowly flowing under frozen snowy bridges As we walk         together Back to our complicated lives. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit grassjournal.co

Credits:Piano by Hudson Gardner, Fire cracklings by fire, Wind by Earth UntitledTrackless trackless mountain cloudwhat do I ask to be?To be you, to be you.Coming—going into nothingwhat do I ask to see?To see you, to see you.Trackless trackless mountain pathwhere do I ask to go?To find you, to find you.Trackless trackless meadow of flowersWhat do I ask of you?To believe you.To believe you.Does it ever feel, to you, like you are doing what you were made to do? I wonder if everyone has some feeling like that, at some point in their life. It comes in and out, like static on radio, for me.I think the idealized life is often said to be “in balance”—work-life balance, family balance, relationship balance, or balancing your checkbook (just kidding). Maybe a life that feels aligned is one of balance? Yet, for me, those moments where I feel properly “in the flow” aren’t continuous. Which leaves me wanting them when they are gone, which, in a way, creates imbalance.I read recently that the idea of balance in the natural world is actually misguided. The natural world is a chaotic series of successions. A forest burns and fireweed sprouts. Aspens, their roots underground and safe from fire, send up shoots in every direction, eventually shading out the fireweed and almost anything else. In fifty to a hundred years the aspens grow huge and die and fall, just in time for the seedlings of fir and pine and hemlock, which grew from seeds brought there and cached by birds and mammals, to rocket skyward.The idea of balance, this unattainable thing (if we’re being honest), is applied to human lives, since it exists in nature, right? What if it doesn’t exist in nature, what then? Maybe our lives are actually not meant to be balanced, and the attempt to seek some perfect balance is impossible. It makes us chase that “in the flow” feeling, which sets up life to be a series of ups and downs. Life is and always was and always will be a series of unpredictable events. There is no perpetual balance within uncertainty. Maybe life is more like an infinite act of rebalancing, or, you could say, flowing.And yet nature functions well, and we do too. Nature has us beat in that it does not worry about balance. It just expresses, in all its mystery, the breath of life. And I feel myself, myself, what I am made to do, if I am honest, is to do the same.Yesterday Anna and I drove the truck up the mountain to a creekside trail we found a year ago. We went down it together, amazed at the colors and motion of butterflies that seemed to spontaneously appear in the sunlight. The aspen trunks were white and snow lay in crevices along the path. We wound down to the river and walked along it for a while, then found a meadow. I set up my tent, just for fun, and used a small camp axe to buck some wood for whoever would have a fire there next. Anna laid in the sun, or watched the river flow by.Over Anna’s chest and down the left side of her body hung a massive, thick braid. I picked up the end of it. “Remember biking the road up to Big Bear?” I asked. “Yeah, I was just looking at photos from then”, she said, “and three years ago we did that ride. After we got back I went up to Washington and stayed with Brit and Sam and then went to my mom’s house and cut off all my hair.” “Three years of growth,” I said pulling lightly at her thick braid.To realize three years had passed since then felt funny and sad at the same time. Because, mostly, this flow of experiences we name Life doesn’t always flow easily or clearly. The pain of the turns can be acute. And yet, they all flow together somewhere, and get bunched up in memory, and then you can sit on a rock in the spring sun in the mountains and think about all the times when things weren’t so good, and the times also when they were good, and then come back to the time right now—which is really all the time we have. And it’s strange to think of, that there is a physical representation of all that time that hangs beautiful and thick from Anna’s head—of a thousand thousand strands braided together—of three years of growth. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit grassjournal.co

Thanks for tuning in to this edition of Grass Journal, titled: Coming Into Contact With Ourselves.In this episode I discuss wilderness with Beau Vandendolder. He is a doctor of Classical Chinese Medicine, licensed acupuncturist, and Alexander Technique practitioner. He is also a dear friend, though I have seen him only sporadically over the five years we have known each other. He and I have one of those rare connections that seems to not rely on having to see each other that much. I've only had a handful of friendships in my life like this one, and so I am really glad to have him on the podcast to talk about his view of wilderness, medicine, and getting off the trail of life.Thank you for listening and I hope you enjoy our conversation. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit grassjournal.co

Beautiful intro music by Anna Pallotta, cover of Regina SpektorDear anyone,I hope the world isn't hurting you too much these days. What have you been up to? Today the sun came in through the clouds and the south facing windows. It made me remember how important it is to notice things like that. For a span of time, to have just a few thoughts of my own.But, I know you have felt a lot of that lately. Being alone has been the theme lately. As I looked at the lonely looking clouds I listened to some music this morning. And that reminded me of how great it is to share a feeling with someone else. To be able to talk and to share things.—The sun was bright as I trespassed through the grassy field filled full of broken down cars at a turn in the gravel road. Through the fragrant woods I walked, to a trail flagged by hanging plastic tape. Up into the ferns and alder slopes, then along and above a draw into the darkness of a spruce wood. Out into the sunlight again on the flat of a ridge I went. Then down a gravel logging road, looking into the trimmed firs on both sides for a way through the ferns and stacked thinning piles. I struggled through the head high brush for a time and then saw a few boulders seated amidst a low natural spring, where deer, squirrels, and birds come to drink. In the distance a pileated woodpecker seesawed his way up a tree trunk, and in the distance were bright maple leaves signalling a direction to walk in. Following my eyes, to where looked best, I came to a two-stemmed cedar near a little marsh. I cleared some brush off the uneven ground. I sat down and gathered a few twigs. I started a fire in a folding wood stove to make doug fir tea.As the tea simmered I used a small axe to notch a rotting alder so as to mark, from a distance, this space I had found by the brightness of fresh cut wood. I gathered handfuls of alder twigs to stoke the small fire. I fed the fire and smelled the smoke of the alder, and the spicy smoke of a few cedar twigs.After the fire burned down I sipped tea, and watched the light fade in the West, through the tree trunks. Far below a car or two passed. Not too far aside from where I sat a gravel road ran where people would sometimes walk their dogs. But no person ever came back to where I was. In this space, not silent, not far away, I came to contemplate. Indeed, to think on certain things.I have heard of such a place—kept in mind, or in physical space. A place of refuge. Yet the tendrils of certain things still creep in. The sound of a car below, a plane above, of someone walking their dog—calls me back to a moment out the window with a small chickadee, eating seed. A truck blasted by on the road above, which made the chickadee flee, to the grape vines above the ground. As the world shrinks smaller, the footprint of our sounds grow larger. And where is the wilderness left to be seen, burned by fires, trees, no leaves, salvage logged and steel cabled, to the cry of more people who need jobs to live on.And it all sinks into me, in this quiet place under these young trees. A deep breath, then another, as the light fades further and the leaves open their own stomata to breathe. And I breathe too. And so we together breathe.“We practice in order to cultivate a sense of agency. To understand that a range of responses are open to us. We practice to remember to breathe.To have space in the midst of adversity.To remember our values,and to seewhat we really care about.We practice to find support in our inner strength,and in one another.” — Sharon Salzberg This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit grassjournal.co

Dear subscribers, You can find my podcast on all major platforms now. Also, every episode will also be sent out on this newsletter. Here are some links:Spotify • iTunes • ListenNotes • Google • TuneInLast week, I sat down at my birch table and recorded this episode more or less on accident in the bright late October sun.Things discussedCommunityHow spiders move in the fallRentRootednessPaying attention to beauty This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit grassjournal.co

Sangre De Cristo Mountains above TaosThis newsletter is now a podcast too. I will send an email when the podcast is available on all podcast platforms. I also have a donate button on the bottom of this post.I have often felt confused in my life about how I fit into the world as an artist. Or in simpler terms, how my ideals can coexist with a world that is inevitably not ideal. Partly, the confusion I feel is about finding my place, my work. While I know what matters to me, I've had a hard time actualizing it.This poem, from my Body of Water manuscript, is my way of writing about this confusion. It was written when Anna and I were driving around in our car in Northern New Mexico, looking for a place to live in Taos. We slept in canyons and closed campgrounds and somehow it was cold and rainy almost every day; which, at 7,000 feet, when your car is packed with your worldly belongings, is not the ideal situation. It means dealing with wet gear on top of socks, boxes, and kitchen stuff.Looking back, it was just a month or so of this kind of situation before we found a small adobe apartment in Talpa, a spot in the road just outside of Taos. But for some reason, when enmeshed with the difficulty of finding a place time seems to drag, and everything feels impossible. Nowadays, I am still not sure what my path is towards offering something. I think I hit on it when trying to understand my confusion in this poem: I want to be someone who goes out into the larger world, then comes back to the human realm with something to offer. And maybe the offering will only be who I become. There is a saying in Buddhism and probably in other places: the messenger becomes the message.Confusion is a kind of loop. So what do I come back to again and again? The idea that I want to be a steward of something. Just a caretaker. Not to leave a permanent, indelible mark, but to maintain something, even restore something—heal something. Then be ready to pass it on to the next person, place, animal. Again, and again, and again. But how do I do that with no money, no platform, no place particularly in mind? Being in community seems to be part of it. But to have a home, a place, and somewhere to steward isn’t as easy as it sounds. It’s not that I want to start some kind of foundation. I just want some kind of living space on the edge of a field, with trees behind, and a stream nearby, that I take care of. Maybe a place people can come by and feel at peace in. And then, to be able to work on writing, and to make enough money in an ethical way. That’s the entire goal. This poem also has notes of pain and chaos—about a murder that happened down the road from our little apartment, about the barbed wire people relentlessly string and layer everywhere to protect their property, and the dogs that will chase and attack you if you get too close—all done to protect what people have worked hard for.Yet for me, I don’t desire protection of my hard earned work. I want my work to be open to all, accessible to all, free for all. I don’t want to profit off my hard work, or protect it.That’s what I have to say about this poem.Reader Note: Please flip your phone to wide orientation, or read on a laptop for proper line breaks.Taos means Red Willow. The people of Taos Pueblo call themselves The Taos People, and a long time resident of Taos in general is called a Taoseño. The Red Willow People.Taos — Being BornFirst night of wood smoke.First flow of water.First time picking trash from the acequiaamidst old rocksplaced by hands passed on.Clear water runsbelow roadspast dogsunder barbed wire hungby someone.And after a hundred yearsfalling downand rustingin the water.Across streams are strandsof old, bad barbed wire as ifwater were something to be protected from life—Though I see no sign saying this or that.And a man was shotjust a hundred feet down streetfrom where this acequia flowsunder barbed wire.At the end of a roadI open a smooth wire gateand walk past wild rosesand along Rio Chiquito,where an acequia is blocked, pools—the water floods a field.Six old apple treesgrow above the dry streamthat sometimes has water.Their fruit hangs heavy above strands of rusty barbed wire.~~The water less every yearsixty degrees between day and nightpeople grow things still—burn brush fireslate at night.An old man stands, and says“The best wayis to go into the fieldand make a fireand cut them stalksand cook them on the fire.Asparagus       in the storecomes five hundred milesten days old          by the time it gets here.Isn’t the same thingas what grows out of this groundbeneath my feetthat I cut      and I cook,      and I eat.”Rocks rise on the edge of a piñon plainwhere I was born.There were treesmostly: cottonwoods.Hills, arroyos, dry rockclean streamsthe sun rising or settingcrystal blue skies.And children don’t notice heat or cold, or what is a homeuntil they lose it.Patterned portraits on yellow sand, red, green, or white.Roasting chiles, eating at night.No sky as clear as a desert,no mind as clear as desert airno thoughts as clear as one that looks backas I enter again.Taos, New Mexico—against the mountains—aspens high—piñon lowlands,rio grande cañon, hidden down low—entering the world through our tent flapafter all night rain and cold.Clouds shredding overdark black mesa    eyes filling with tearsfor no reason I know—hands tremble to light the fire—all night rain, and cold.~Arroyo of rock chunksby rainwater, sand drytracks of another personlong gone by.~Slept in a closed campgroundfrost night before, and aftertent coveredwith glossy pitch from a drought stressed pinesticky zipper stuck and brokeon the tent. Our home.Taos.Low clouds and the huge view, coming down in the caradobes, as long ago, and cedar stick fences.Tiny backroads, colored old graveyard.Taos.Twist aroundto a coffee placea man talks, for an hour— “the grizzlies eat nuts of the white pine but they are dying to the bark beetle so bears come lower, for corn and get shot.”Taos.What work is mine?Where did I end up?Four years back was told to speakfor what couldn’t. Yet I haven’t.Taos.Still rainingsnow highwater flowingfrom the mountainsto keep what grows in the lowlands alivenear Taos.Tempted to say: I will do the sameto places quiet I goand I sit, I saynothing.Then come down to townslike a spring that flowswithout ending, or offering anythingbut itself.Taos. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit grassjournal.co