When grape vines weep
a micro art installation of words and images
If the desert is holy, it is because it is a forgotten place that allows us to remember the sacred. Perhaps that is why every pilgrimage to the desert is a pilgrimage to the self. There is no place to hide, and so we are found. —Terry Tempest William
When the time comes to change, shift, shed, or remember, it will be in a language all our own. Earlier this spring I wanted to deliberately and intentionally walk into the desert of my soul. I use these words deliberately. Though not a practicing Catholic I grew up entrenched in its teachings. And the forty days Jesus spent in the desert wandering, wrestling, and without excess always intrigued me—symbolic of a requiem to one’s relationship with nature, source, and self.
I committed to a full lunar cycle, the new moon in late February to its return in late March. It was my version of nistisima.(2) It was not anchored to any religion nor diet, as I don’t prescribe to either. Rather it was a time where I committed myself to discovery and remembering, ‘I know I feel better when….?’ When I prepare and eat three meals a day. No snacking, no excess. When I eliminate processed foods and sugars. When I don’t drink alcohol. When I don’t overwork, grind, or push.
Occasionally I’d take a little honey, one date, or stewed fruit to satisfy the element of sweetness. A small spoonful here, a date after a meal there. When I began to feel the slightest derangement from working, my jaw clenching, my ass sore from sitting, I’d make sure to get up and move, walk, cook, do some yard work, something. Anything where I could feel the sun on my skin.
I’ve done versions of this in the past and by ‘this’ I’m referring to a fast or cleanse or Panchakarma. Each one has been slightly different depending on what I want to address, how I feel, or the time I have to retreat, literally. What has remained consistent is the seed of my intent: spaciousness. I find the process a kind of home coming, a way to show up for myself if I’ve strayed too far afield, or a means to which I may discover something new I’d not experience otherwise.
In reality I wanted to audit my dependencies and give my digestion a serious break. I’d been feeling simultaneously frazzled yet foggy. Physically swollen yet confined. I wanted to feel spacious yet settled. It’s hard to articulate, but it’s when the inhale comes without strain and the exhale leaves without worry. It’s what my acupuncturist, Dr. Chu tells me, when I so desperately ask her what I need to do. She tells me, be happy.
My mind is a pharmacy. The thoughts create chemistry and my beliefs rewire my biology.
During this same celestial phase a deep terrestrial shift was taking place. Less moonlight and shorter nights coincided with a rise in the earth’s temperature. And things began to move—flush out, draw forth, and wake up.
The ants, out of sight for months, finally resurfaced. They’ve opened their doors. Building soft granular mounds which freckle the patio. Not yet in full force, the ones I see are likely the most resilient or scouts. Resolute, I imagine they are marking lay lines of scent for others to sense and eventually traverse. While the ants feed, a grape vine weeps.
The old grapevine in my yard weeps. With what appears like giant diamonds on the tip of each cane it draws water from deep below. The large sugary drops rain down only to swell again. Every spring it weeps. It is still weeping, though more noticeable and magical in the mornings when backlit from the sunrise. It is sometimes called ‘bleeding’. It’s a wildly wonderful phenomenon. Nothing bad or to be concerned of as I initially thought so many years ago. It’s a natural response to a late winter prune followed by the warmth of the oncoming spring. The “sap flow is initiated once again...the vine draws water with enormous force from as far as 30m below. This water presses against the freshly cut surfaces which haven't yet callused…”(4) and weeps a sugary sweet liquid.
It’s revelatory. This flow. This marker of time. The same movement of energy which is tapped from the beloved sugar maple. Not a well for water, but a well all the same. Somewhere in the desert a snake willingly moves along a rock’s edge to cut itself, to etch a mark alongside its flank. It’s not out of despair but of revival, intentionally creating a tear in which to crawl anew.
I find it no coincidence that during this time I’m drawn to tap into my own animal being. Are we all somehow triggered by subtle changes in our surroundings? Did the vines weep as Jesus made his way into the desert?
My personal nistisima was gentle yet effective. Physically I feel less swollen and more rested. My thoughts and ideas have been clear and less occupied with an incessant diatribe of guilt and shame-speak around the choice to have booze or not, or how shitty I may likely feel the next morning with even two glasses of wine. The internal critic has quieted. It’s spacious. The irony, I didn’t even realize it was screaming until I noticed the whisper, barely audible and soft. Without the experience I don’t think I'd have recognized the monopoly it had on me.
As someone fascinated by change, the kaleidoscopic way of nature (subjective, layered, undulating observations of beauty), and trying desperately to untangle myself from control, I find it quite interesting to deliberately shake things up. A shift in one's surroundings, be it obvious or subtle, intentional or accidental, can be a good exercise in letting go and trusting life.
Yours, Erin
References
nistisima—the Greek word, translating to Lenten, or fasting foods. It is also the namesake of the incredible cookbook by Georgina Hayden whose many recipes made their way to my bowl and into my being. She writes and I agree, it is not a religious book or a diet book, rather incredible vegan recipes from Greece, Cyprus, Lebanon, Turkey and the diaspora. Every recipe has been tremendous.
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