1/2 cup oatstraw
Steeped in 4 cups of boiling water, overnight, covered.
Drink 1 cup each night before bed.
1/4 cup holy basil
1/4 cup lemon balm
1/2 cup oatstraw
Steeped in 4 cups of boiling water, covered, overnight.
Drink 1 cup each night before bed.
Raspberry Leaf Tea
1/2 cup red raspberry leaf
Steeped overnight in 4 cups of boiling water, covered.
Drink 1 cup each day at midday.
A root infusion, if you will.
1/4 cup burdock root
1/4 cup dandelion root
1/4 cup yellow dock
Steep with 4 to 8 cups of boiling water, covered, overnight.
Drink 1 cup each morning when you wake up.
There are some things that impede our forward momentum that we aren’t capable of seeing because it comes on too strong, too fast. I feel this way about my desire to publish my writing in it’s messier forms; short form, writing prompt responses, daily pages. There is a very obvious constriction that comes up for me, and when I settle down deep and ask it what it is afraid of, it says “the readers will see the holes in my facade.”
Wisdom and experience tells me that its OK to show the holes, because illuminating gaps in thinking is always a game changer, and that expressing myself isn’t showing the world a facade with holes in it! This kind of stopping force is strong, if it doesn’t feel safe – it ain’t gonna budge. So when I listen to the expression of this kind of fear, I can tell it comes from a very young part of myself, someone from long ago. Someone who is stuck feeling like they aren’t themselves and have to act in ways to protect themself, so any form of expression could lead to being found out.
But that is not me in this life. That incongruence is what tells me that I have an opportunity to help this part of myself begin to soften and grow into the person who feels deep inside as though they are fit, willing, and able to be present to the reality that is.
Finding these kinds of nuggets is how I’ve always pulled on the strings of my own personal growth. Find the stuck spot, slow down, listen deep, hear it’s concern, and sit with it, let the being heard doing the healing. When the part of you starts to feel relaxed, you can start to move into physical practices, to stretch the capacity for the stuck spot.
Here, for me, it’s the “less than perfect writing” stuck spot. If it’s not well researched and meticulously edited, it cannot be shown to anyone under any circumstances. Can you hear or feel the constriction in that rule? Do you sense it in some way? Do you have a belief that shows up in your life like this? Right now, that part of me is ready to try something new (however hesitant). I want to recognize her here in this post, and together we’re going to write each day, in a less than perfect way, and post it.
What I know about this part of me that is stuck is that she’s been stuck for a long time, and she has a lot to say. I understand that can be overwhelming, so I’ve created some structure so it doesn’t have to lead to stress. In the morning, I’m setting a goal to get out of bed, grab my morning cup of water and a side of beans, and to sit and write a story she has to tell and post it without a lot of editing. I want her to speak from her heart and not panic. Wanna be a part of that unfolding? It could get real weird!
The warmth is returning, and so are the rattlesnakes. Or maybe we’re all just waking up together—the sun warming skin, blood, and earth alike. On these first days of spring, I feel the pull to shed my clothes and step into the light, and I know the rattlesnakes feel it too. We sync up in these moments, drawn by the same quiet urgency to bask in the warmth.
We share an affinity for the heat.
I live in a rural floodplain. This land has been largely untouched since the 1980s, and my partner and I have kept it that way—wild, but just tame enough for us to carve out a small space of comfort. We built an enclosed yard with shade cloth, a place to sit, eat, shower, or soak. A place where rattlesnakes, too, find shelter.
For whatever reason, I’m not afraid of rattlesnakes. In fact, they were among the first animals I ever encountered.
As a child, I was drawn to the wild edges of the world. My mom would let me roam outside our apartment, and I’d climb over the stacked block wall into a wide-open field—brush and dirt, a used-up and forgotten space. It reminds me of the floodplain I live in now, the same quiet hum of nature beneath human noise.
I told wild stories about fighting rattlesnakes, spinning them bigger than life—because I had to be bigger than life. A tiny person in a big world with no siblings or real protection. Bravery was a performance, a kind of armor. But the truth? I never wanted to harm them. I was just taught that they should be killed.
So on a day like today, when I step outside, knowing there’s at least one rattlesnake sunning itself nearby, it doesn’t bring me fear. It brings me home.
When I share stories or photos of the rattlesnakes on my land, the response is almost always the same: fear, hostility, concern. People ask why I allow them to live here. They assume I should want them gone.
But I moved into their floodplain, not the other way around. I happened to build a perfect little condo complex for them. And over the five years I’ve lived here, they’ve thrived.
People want safety. It’s an illusion. They tell themselves that as long as snakes don’t live here, they’re safe from snakes. But that’s not how the world works. I live on the same mound as at least six rattlesnakes, and I am still here.
The desert teaches us to be aware. You don’t grab a rock with your bare hands—there might be scorpions. You don’t move wood carelessly—there might be snakes. You have to be mindful of where you put your hands, your feet, your energy.
Where are you? Come back into your body. Be present to what’s around you.
Living on top of a rattlesnake den forces me to move with awareness. I don’t fear a bite. I’ve read the research—rattlesnakes often don’t strike, and when they do, many bites are dry. Still, I know a bite could bankrupt me in a country where healthcare isn’t guaranteed. Safety isn’t guaranteed.
But I don’t live here for safety. I live here for aliveness. And the rattlesnakes remind me of that every day.
They keep me present. They keep me humble.
It’s undated, so you can use it however you need to plan your weeks and months.
I designed it around my own thinking patterns about my days and weeks. I need some structure but not a lot, I like to write with my hands because I relate to the calendar better, and sometimes I don’t need to plan for a couple of weeks. I don’t want to lose pages and pages of dated weeks and months because I didn’t need to plan through certain times. I hate throwing away a half-used yearly planner.
This one contains 6 monthly spreads, 26 weekly spreads, and pages for notes that are dotted, quad-ruled, and lined too! Lots of ways to get your thoughts out.
It’s available in the shop at www.perpetualanimation.com
Tucson has a vibrant mural scene. Murals are expensive, and artists deserve to get paid well for their skill. Who pays for public art and who decides what artists are chosen?
I’m in the research phase for an article on mural funding in Tucson, Arizona. I’d love to hear from you if you’re involved in the arts, art grants, murals, and the city. Find me on bluesky at bsky.app/profile/itdusty.com