dispatch from the moon

time loop


I write you from Joshua Tree. There’s 8million stars splattered across the sky, and the quiet is dense enough to make sound. I was last here three years ago to The-Day. Time loops similar to this have caught me up enough times this year to scratch them down on a tally sheet.


With them, the memories. Scent sound vision patterns repetition; in large scale and small, physical and spiritual. For as blatant and plain-spoken as they often are, they leave me in a heap of bewilderment. Again?! Gotta look at this stuff - AGAIN? Didn’t we just do this last month/year/quarter life crisis? “We” the preferred pronoun for what’s grooving in the Physical Plane and the wild entity that’ll travel on long, long after I shuck this earthbound outfit.


It’s impossible to not be deeply curious about the whole cycle, and our multi-dimensional place in it, when you’re in this particular line of work. As a florist, nearly every day I yelp with glee over the re-emergence of something. The peony shrub is budding! Unicorn anemones are back at Blue Heron! The trembling delicacy of the desert bloom - I stare at their tiny faces so fiercely it makes my eyes water..


And every day, I watch it all die. Crushing the slug from the peony shrub. Toss the faded anemones into the bin. I drag out the compost and feel relief that the studio is reset.

Flowers as a medium are one that, after some time, you discard what you made and begin again. They demarcate a moment, a fleeting experience, a tie to the temporal. People enjoy looking at flowers because it helps them remember the past, and are a soft finger-brush on the concept of our own, inevitable, mortality.

Joshua Trees do not bloom every year, but when they do it is universal, synchronized, mystical. Makes me think of the synapses of the brain, and the larger concept of the mycelial network we are all connected to. That is a whole other post, brother.

Next March 30th I’ll remember these, where I stood, who I was.


I’ve had an on-going conversation about the identification of nostalgia - particularly when it applies to the American South. I’m closing in on a decade in the West, yet I continue to identify as a southerner - why? There’s much shadow that holds the notion of a place against hot, muddy ground under a high noon sun. But there is also mystery there, a whisper from the unseen, a giving over to what Nature aims to take back. It’s good to remember.

I’m back in ol’ Virginny first week of May. It’s when the bearded iris are blooming in my father’s garden. My mother turns 65. The Derby runs, and I suppose I’ll have a bourbon. May 4th I’m teaching a class in Richmond, aim to fill the whole of Dear Neighbor up to the brim with local blooms, and listen to all the long-vowel sounds of my students under the Taurus new moon. If you’re in the area, you should come. Not often do I just share flowers for the fun of it - I mean, you’re reading this…shellacked with diatribes on transformation, inner knowing, knocking on the door of the basement-level of your key soul, (ready for a nap yet). Who cares about all that today? Let’s just drink rosé, smile at each other and make something pretty for a time.

turn on the tap


In the last installation of the infrequent, spontaneous newsletter effort - I dug in a bit on my resistance to teaching classes over the past few years. The last was Mexico City, it was everything I wanted it to be, and then I just tapped out. What did I have to say? To share? To guide? That was any different or more of service than the dozens upon dozens of offerings my fine colleagues are putting out there, (in a helluva lot more organized and professional fashion than I)? I could barely stand listening to myself, let alone ask people to invest their time and energy listening to me.

Really setting up this **spoiler alert** new workshop offering strong, aren’t I?

Hang in there because I DON’T FEEL THAT WAY ANYMORE. Why? I’ll tell you everything, but I’ll say it all swinging around my studio with you at my side because I want you to come over and Go Deep. How we gonna get there, you ask? Because my soul-homie Bree is lighting the way.

Don’t you just freakin love this sass human already?

Don’t you just freakin love this sass human already?

Bree Melanson and I met a while back when she was co-leading a moon circle in SF organized by On Our Moon - whom I would like to give a shout out too, as I believe they are doing good, raw work in this world. Afterwards. when I walked up to introduce myself, we basically didn’t stop talking until dragged apart by an overdue parking meter and low blood sugar/h’anger. Bree had just moved back to her hometown of Monterey county after a decade+ in LA, I had just moved to Corralitos from Oakland so, for all intents and purposes - we were neighbors. Neighbors with, coincidentally, similar interests and vibe. Bree is a psychic medium and a channel, but the sort that wears cashmere and ostrich skin booties. I am florist that pulls tarot cards, finds ways to work piles of crystals into client's wedding decor, and doses all my freelancers with “High Vibe Elixir” before install days. I wish I could wear similar booties but would def dump disgusting, rotten flower water all over them on day 2. But still, we were picking up on what the other was putting down.


We made a lady-date that included bougie coffee, shrieking over boys, a long walk on Carmel River Beach, discussion regarding the stonecold validity of alien abduction, and the larger purpose of Universal consciousness when it applies to access to transcendental creativity. Fuck yes. We agreed that to collab on an offering would be a Very Good Thing.


On Saturday, April 27 - we would love ten of you to come over to mine so we can explore how to turn on the tap of your own, totally unique, magical flow of creativity. In my years as a creative, a woman, a human being walking on this planet - what I see again and again is the patterns we become tangled within that keeps us at arm’s length from our highest potential. To getting free and making all the dreams, the possibilities, the connections we were always intended to make. I started pulling at the loose threads on the fabric of my own story when I turned 27, and have been pulling and pulling ever since. Do I still get caught up? 100%, I got an ankle snagged as we speak. Do I work at shimmying to get free every day? Absolutely, it takes work. Observance. Awareness. Study. So let’s do it together.


There is a full description of what will go down HERE at the registration. We’re going to meditate, yes, but you don’t have to have a consistent practice prior. It’s just the vehicle for us to drop in and get in touch with that quiet, wild, unseen part of ourselves. We’re going to make flowers, yes, but you don’t have to be a florist to take this class. They’re just a medium for expression, something I’ll guide but the focus is just to MAKE ART for the freedom of it.


If you have questions or hesitations, send me a note. I hope you’ll join us.

p.s. I love you.

p.s. I love you.

on January and where one draws the line


January in south Santa Cruz County is a dream. Storms barrel through, leaving the air smelling like Technicolor. Frogs emerge in their wake, shrieking to one another across standing water. Green grass comes back like a verdant blaze and you barely remember the crackle underfoot of late summer. The beaches are clear, barrel lines of waves populated by locals, and sunsets fire off phosphorescence before dinner. The turn into 2019 has been a solid one.


I absolutely loathe New Year’s, but I made some promises that evening over dinner with friends so there could be some accountability hitched onto them. More music, more art, more ocean. Lunch money is spent on concert tickets, and I rub my hands with glee adding them to the calendar months out. Long hours were spent in the Getty last weekend, surrounded by that mountain of Italian travertine marble as I stared, hollowed out, at the image of Emmett Mann - small hands splayed on the Murray river’s surface, eyes hawk-fierce as he stares into his mother’s camera lens. I fly out of the house by 4:20pm several days a week, skidding to nearby sands to watch the sun extinguish itself on the Pacific. Getting into a rhythm of Her presence is a warm-up; after a few decades of posturing I finally learned to surf this past autumn and I want to be one of those women who tracks the tides and ignores banal responsibilities to paddle out. I’ve got some hang-ups; timidity to be a greenhorn out on the line, (I’ve always, ALWAYS just wanted to be good at things out-right and avoid the suffering that comes with inexperience), and I’m plagued with seasickness from sitting on the board and watching the waves largely pass, (there’s a lot of that in this stage for me), as you bob around on the surface. I’ll figure it out.

Another, less articulated, promise I made was “getting out of my own damn way.” I wasn’t sure what I meant when I said it, and I wasn’t sure if I was entirely ok with the vulnerability of the admittance, either. Still not – both counts. There’s bound to be some explanation in there as to why at 12:03am Jan 1, I was curled on the floor of the shower, sobbing that way you can where you don’t make sounds. Jacob crawling in after me, putting his arms over the shuddering armored curve of my spine. I don’t remember him saying anything, but at one point I came to a full stop, pulled up my head, said evenly “I’m fine.” and got into bed without drying off.

The next day I kept waiting for him to cautiously ask what had happened, what was wrong, was I all right and what could he do? He never did, and at one point as dusk was closing in on the first day of the year – us descending from a climb up on the ridges overlooking Wilder – I was the one that said, “I’m sorry if I frightened you last night, I’m not sure what happened.”


“You didn’t,” he replied, taking my arm and pulling me across Highway 1 in a gap between cars back to where we had parked. “You just hate New Year’s. Always have.” A moment of indignation, then I let it go. This man, still a mystery to me after nearly decade in his company and some serious declarations. He can fix almost anything in the physical world, yet he doesn’t try to fix me. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he trusts that I’ve got this. Got me. As the bulk of my relationships have been with those who believed they knew what was in my best interests, this continues to be a revelation.

I wonder at what it looks like, to get out of your own way? To be able to wake up in the morning and create whatever the fuck you want without boundaries or restrictions? To shake off the conditions we place on love, and love with such tenacity and boundlessness that there was never any question. ESPECIALLY when it came to loving ourselves?


I am extremely skilled when it comes to loving others. Men, women, creatures – especially creatures. I fall in love, over and over again, with the way the light falls, birdsong at dawn, beats of music, passages read, return of the daffodils. Love wells up in me and makes a mess all over the place, all the time. But it has come curiously to my attention as of late that I am not so sure how to articulate love for my Self.  


This hint has hurtled down like a cartoon anvil from a few most trusted teachers, random articles, conversations with relative strangers. Something bigger than me is trying to drop some knowledge, and I am slowly taking my fingers out of my ears and ceasing the loud, distractive humming. 

Do you know how to do it? How to frame it? What does it mean to you?

What have I been missing out on? How rad could life be, if I just got out of my own way and wildly loved myself whether I was a heap on the floor, or making flowers for a six-page editorial in Vanity Fair? (yo, VF – I have relative availability in April, look me up.)

Oh, the utter woe I feel faced with the volume of self-helpery this endeavor could plunge one into! My mild revulsion at the possible directive to “mother my inner little girl”, wail in parlayed grief in a sweat lodge, or take up yoni steaming. I can get down on a lot of weird stuff, but I have limits - yoni steaming is likely one of them.

And yet, as much of a mountain as this question seems to be – I’m so very curious. It is my nature to seek, seek, seek. Make the list, set the goal, raze the page to the next chapter. But this answer is one for which there is no action plan or template to follow. There is no timeline, besides, I suppose, when my own mortality kicks in. I peer at the notion of self-love and it’s a Rothko, a soft blurring. For a moment I see through it, hear the message, before it re-solidifies to a 2-D pane of color.

Partial Lunar Eclipse, Blood Wolf Super Moon, Jan 20, 2019

Partial Lunar Eclipse, Blood Wolf Super Moon, Jan 20, 2019

Yesterday I was hiking with a new friend in the redwoods. This zen, Piscean, philosophical ceramicist has an uncanny way of redirecting conversation so you’re always talking about yourself. I’d start with, “so tell me about your two years in Japan?” and within two-minutes he’s got me searching for the right words to shape my personal definition of attachment, and how that’s tied to my fear of being left. The fuck. Known this dude for the total of about five hours and I’m spilling my freaking guts.

Anyway - by the end of this particular span of time we’re sharing a small meal, and he’s pouring another cup of hot tea that is spookily always within his vicinity. People who drink tea in this consistent manner rattle me. They generally enjoy a better handle on their adrenals, have no problem with lapsed silence amongst company, and sincerely wish good health upon the disgusting hacking-cough sitting across from you on the subway. I had just wound up yet another TMI divulgence; this one centered on a Great Love who once told me I was created exactly for him, and how this was simultaneously the most destructive and insanely hot thing anyone had or has ever said to me. He asked if I had ever believed that anyone was like that; made for me? I was silent a long time, thinking, and finally I looked up.


“Don’t you think that you were made exactly for you?”

Winter Solstice Pop-up Realness


Here’s the deal. The long and the short of it.

We’re doing a month-long pop-up shop all December!


12 06 till 12 22

Thursdays | Fridays noon to 5pm

Saturdays noon to 7pm


By stellar alignment; the amazing women of Cameron Marks have opened the doors of the Annex to let me shimmy in the space for the winter holiday season. Opening on December 6 (New Moon in Cancer) and closing on December 22 (Winter Solstice’ turn), I’ll sling a large swath of gorgeous flowers, botanicals and groovy offerings for your gifting/self-gifting needs.

There’s gonna be wreaths!


Infinite-existence wall hangings!


Bulb plantings, wintery botanicals, and table centerpieces available for pre-order and pickup! (More on how to order those at the Online Shop soon)


And, to my great delight, a curated selection of naturally inspired products, hand-crafted by dear friends and fellow makers. Tea blends from Steep Tea Co, bud vases by Sarah Kersten, gorgeous fragrance from LAROMATICA and a few surprises along the way. You’ll just have to come by to see, (read: hang w me).

bud vases by  Sarah Kersten

bud vases by Sarah Kersten

I’m stoked. A little nervous. A lot curious - if this feels right, 2019 may have a whole different tilt. To be honest, it does already - doesn’t 2018 feel like we’ve been trying to get out of a winter coat of hold-ups, hang-ups and bullshit for 300+ days? That’s another blog post.

So come over, peruse, hang-out. Looking forward to being a part of the beauty of your holiday season. ILY, K

Marvin Gaye

We continue to arrive, with gross repetition, to this place of cultural disbelief. Another young man taken from us. An explosive outcry against oppression, violence and killing. Brothers and sisters march through the streets, and eye one another with suspicion. We are like wary foxes in open fields, ears lain flat against delicate skulls as the concuss of heavy footsteps - racial inequality, hate, social injustice - vibrate up our legs.

In the 400 years since the origins of slavery in America, there are wounds that have remained oozily open by the perpetuation of false truths and inherited fears. This insidious pathogen of hate has been carried in the bloodstream of the most outrageous of the Klan, and by the most submissive timidity of a nervous housewife. But as we stand at this place of economic wealth, intellectual acceleration and societal recognition; no longer can we lay blame on our past. The past is PAST. There is far to much damage long done, with scar tissue far to thick to allow for new beginnings. 

I am a white woman raised in an abundant household. I never went hungry, or kept awake by the danger of my situation. I have never been forced to choose between saving my life or bowing down to someone more powerful. The acute awareness of my fortuity can feel like shame. The lack of conviction and justice for the systemic, calculated killing of those who have not been allowed to move through life as I have been allowed is inconceivable. But it is our reality.

What must we do to heal? Whom do we look toward for leadership? How to break these patterns, and these chains that tether us to an existence that simmers with quiet rage?

The answer is not bloodletting, nor the hunting out of a created nightmare. We can no longer lay the blame on our past, or wait anxiously for others to simply hand over our future. It is time to create our present. Happiness, safety, health and peace. Believing in the deservedness of Loving Kindness for all our Brothers and Sisters. We must clearly see the struggle borne of economic destitution and the suppression of an entire people. It's not just the lifting up of a class - it's the recreation of an entire class system. Speaking up for social justice, carrying the flame for those who have been lost, taking on the burden of change. Do not rely solely on our civic leaders. The system is too broken, and the cataclysmic shift exists only in us.

Start small and be a warrior, in your own life, for love. Extend your hand towards others. Speak to your children and your contemporaries about acceptance, about equality, about race. About the ways we may seem different, but - at our core, are the same. BREAK THE PATTERN. This is no longer our story! Though we may stumble through this red, heated haze, on the other side is the opportunity for the truest change our world can know. Do not sit down and wait. Stand up, make the choice to speak out, listen hard and bear witness.