Hello dear one,

Welcome back, however you are in this moment. Whatever is here with you, it can be here.

As I compile and write these letters across what has now been 4.5 months, each journal collection weaves its way into my 2026-present, molding me and God-winking me further along the path. These experiences I keep in the Here and Now, in the energy shifting my body, and have not documented/shared.

But this week, there’s a small golden nugget I must share with you.

The final entry of today’s section mentions a song that came out of my body while driving a work truck one day. I’d been in-the-moment prayer singing, making it up on the spot. Could have been any melody. But I’d remembered a chunk of lyrics well enough to write them down when I journaled after work that day.

So imagine my surprise, upon revisiting that entry, to see lyrics which are nearly identical to the chorus in “I Sing to the Mountains,” a song which came through me in full spring 2026. I’d truly had no idea its sprouts traced back that many years.

Well, it wasn’t quite surprise. Delight? I believe we don’t miss what’s meant for us. I didn’t record any of the prayer singing on that December day in 2022. And yet some version of this song returned to me, in Right Timing.

All Timing Right Timing.

May this sentiment be as deep-body-exhale as it is for me.

And now, we return to 2022-Rebecca reflecting at the end of an artificial (Gregorian) calendar year, each day unfolding moment by moment.

Rooting for you,
Rebecca

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[If you’re newly joining, this is part 18 of an ongoing journey—actual entries from the years featured in the mythical short story “Root Living.” You can begin with part 1 here.]

December 20, 2022
I’ve already heard a call for less screen time and more outside time (2016) and listened. 

I heard the call for more making and playful creation. 

I heard the call to walk a long walk (2019) and the call to root down in the Desert for healing. 

And now? My ears and senses are open. New seeds and unknowns have been planted with Evan and his calls. 

Do I finish the semester at the community college? Will we move? What will I do in November anyway? 

And so I listen for the call. 

The smaller call tells me to walk and connect spiritually. Grounding is gold. Keep working with Caroline and helping spirits. Spend time with the land, learn from the land, thank the land, this feels true. 

And I take a deep breath here today, at my desk in my parents’ home, and trust all is unfolding perfectly. I will flow with the river, surrender, and trust, know my guides are orchestrating something beautiful.

December 21, 2022
Prompt: Coming out of this last year, I am hungry for…

Community. Women to share sacred space with, stability at home – a home of my own where I control the sounds and smells. Walking. Slow walking. Spiritual walking. Spiritual time with creatures. Cozy reading. Meals with Evan. Rest. Continuing on my slow spiral. Strong boundaries. Assertive words. Sharing reflections publicly again. I’m hungry to know myself and her juicy layers. I’m hungry for loamy spaces. I’m hungry to know how things work and how to fix them. I’m hungry to pause and reflect. More spacious reflecting Sundays.

January 1, 2023
I just had a flash and noticed how heavy a weight it is to be WG7, and thinking I Need to have knowledge and perform and lead like a 7, that people might be shocked to find out I’m a 7. 

If I were still a WG5, not in charge, how much lighter would I feel? How can I bring that feeling with me? What can my reminder phrase be? 

Can I put on a costume and pretend my uniform is that of WG5 Rebecca? Or can I imagine that 7 is simply a pay bump of 5, and that responsibilities are the same? 

What if I spend a season in experiment, and brush off any thoughts of #s and rank? 

I am a spirit in a body, who happens at this time to be making more than some coworkers and less than some coworkers.

How is this feeling, this worry of getting ‘found out’ so strong? I have skills outside of technical/hard, and those are being paid for! Here’s on behalf of all the women who have been underpaid – I’m a 5 with a bonus.

If I act like a 5, what does that feel like? WG7… Wondering Grade 7 - When I was in 7th grade, what would I have thought of all this? 

Better yet, Wonderment GM of 7, what would 7-year-old me say? 

You’re great! Just do your truest at work, and find joys, create. 

I’m tearing up at the lightness and freedom of feeling enough and worthy at work. Feeling of course I’m worth this money and more.

January 2, 2023
Prompt: Last year taught me this:
I am now clear that I will no longer shapeshift in intimate relationships – that the best for all is to speak my truth and authenticity and let others have their own response. I do not control other people’s reactions/feelings.

I am now clear that I will no longer shame myself or regret my sensitivity. It’s one of my brightest lights, my gift, and in other cultures I would be celebrated and taught as a shaman. I will continue to value my experience and thoughts; there is no wrong way to feel or to experience humanity. I will accept radically and lovingly my whole self.

January 6, 2023
Prompt: I’m afraid to admit this but…
It feels such a shame/waste to have light & gifts but not shine for fear of how others will react/perceive me. I doubt my abilities to feel energy and feel less-than when I can’t sense/see an aura, my chakras. My tears are welling. Why so easy to fall into this pit? Why uphill to trust that all is emerging in perfect timing, like acorns sprouting into trees?

The tensing/clenching of my face during Tuesday’s session with Caroline, each time she asked what % of openness felt right for each chakra and I guess-answered each one — body bracing automatically for the backlash of ‘you’re wrong.’

I’m afraid of what will happen with Evan, navigating a change in job/home or a change in relationship.

And at the same time, change is my constant, my superpower, the constant of the Earth. I will continue growing into my light, with my light, and sharing love with the world. At the heart/roots/base, it’s what’s most important.

~ ~ ~

Dear Wall of Good Worker,

Thank you for keeping me alive and safe. Thank you for keeping me employed and often liked by supervisors. Because of you, I’ve learned many things about maintenance and equipment, and I help keep people safe. You have been helpful and also, we’re going to lovingly remodel you. Melt you. Please.

Jan. 7, 2023
Today my thoughts have been:

-I want to reflect on last half year with Dane: proud of, grateful for, leave behind, and what he wants to bring into 2023

-Settling into decision to drop HVAC class. Wanting to blog about this, how it’s centered on how I want to feel in my body for five months, nonurgency, enoughness—not on what the certificate requires; how academic setting is nonhuman and fast, capitalist, disconnected from the body.

-I’m loving this weekend without homework

-I’m dreaming of more s p a c e for being human, not working 40h/week

-Wondering if seeing Kira can remind me to be a human and not a machine that finishes everything well and immediately. She can be my teacher of anticapitalism.

-I want to collect words and make zines/letter courses that teach intentional/precise/Earth-friendly language.

-I see in the Loam how valuable it is to share ideas and experiences – illuminate new, slow ways for others. I want to share a collection of my 10%s.

January 15, 2023 
Prompt: It’s been bubbling up…
The illumination of my rooted trust in heart, and Evan’s tendency to mind-worry himself sick. Or perhaps we both enter both realms, only in different contexts. Though part of me feels it more and more these days. 

A new life in Washington sounds thrilling. An unexpected turn, a plot twist. Could there be a plot-twist that he’s 100% certain he doesn’t want children? It’s possible. 

I don’t know what he feels in his heart, has in his mind, knows in his body. Yet in my heart, my body, my spirit, I feel deep love and safety with Evan. I feel space to be myself, space to play and laugh, space to explore and be curious, space to keep growing and explanding…

Snow falls in large flakes out the window. A deep fresh slate. This moment, and the next, and the next. Space to walk. Space to heal. Space to be. 

Jan 16, 2023 [Loam]

I am in how I listen to myself. 

It is turquoise.

It’s a mountain, rooted and steady. 

It moves like a broom, swiftly.

It feels like rooting.

It is partially born from "be kind to others".

It is also fed by "I'm a spirit in a body". 

It tastes like orange chikn. 

It sounds like a clarinet and looks like a flowing dress from the 60s.  

It smells like patchouli. 

As I live it, I am an owl. 

I think I don’t have time for grounding, staring out the window, and walking.

If I did make space for it, then I could slowly make new tracks in my Soul, connect more often and deeply with the Earth, the Present, Spirit. 

Sometimes I don’t hear the kind things people say about me. 

Sometimes I do hear encouraging and loving voices from within.

My animal self reaches for peace and love.

This moment in my life is a heavy as a shovel of wet snow.

This moment in my life light as a bird, soaring overhead.

I hold it as if I were 80 years old, reliving this moment at 33, today.  

Jan. 17, 2023 [Loam]
This morning I'm using the tractor to push snow before the rest of our crew arrived, so they would have somewhere to park. I know my supervisor is on his way, because he'd texted.

There is so much snow, so heavy, that I can't push too far or very much with the Scoop Dog.

Can't turn, either, I quickly learn. Not a plow. So it's a new way of clearing for me: choose one direction and push. But as always, don't get stuck.

Don't get stuck. Don't get stuck. Don't get stuck.

I clear two parking spots by pushing straight ahead, and then become very self-conscious of the piles I was making and couldn't turn/push on the road.

I keep looking over my shoulder to see if my supervisor had arrived. What would he think of my method/approach? I'm not done yet, this isn't finished.

I do what I can, then park the tractor back in the yard and quickly hop into the Bobcat to clean up what I can before he arrives. Bill likes to run the Bobcat, so I think he'd be extra critical of me in there.

I move some of the piles that the tractor couldn't push, and clear a bit more.

Will Bill ask why I'm clearing our residential road with the Bobcat? Why not leave that for Bry?--he could say.

I drive back towards the shop -- Bill isn't here yet, but others have started to arrive. I park the Bobcat back in the yard to avoid being under Bill’s eyes when he arrives, even though there's plenty of snow everywhere to be removing with equipment.

***

While I couldn't return to myself in the moment (didn't do a somatic exercise scrappily or lean into surrender/acceptance and just keep working in the equipment) and fear very much controlled my actions and thoughts, I'm able to notice.

I could later see how un-grounded, not-lens-of-love my body felt in that moment, and how she autopiloted to strategies that have kept her safe in the past, which keep her appearing competent to onlookers.

I see this moment and say: There, that's what I want less of. That's what I am reprogramming my body/mind/spirit to follow a different track.

I noticed so many of these moments last week--but in a slightly different light. I've felt a flicker of the possibility that this heavy armor could actually be taken off one day.

Jan. 23 2023 [Loam]
It's Tuesday afternoon. Earlier in the day, we removed snow for the eighth time in the past nine days. My coworkers are worn down, and getting bitter about the fact that each morning when there's a late start announced by the superintendent, every other department can use weather admin leave for those hours and stay home, while we are at work clearing snow. 

We'd asked our supervisor at the start of the winter season if we could use those admin leave hours at the end of the day. Bill laughed and gave a hard no. We asked again last week, and didn't get a clear answer–he just nodded along, agreeing yeah, that would be nice to have weather admin leave in the afternoon.

It's about 3:45pm, and I return to the shop from the VC. Three of our trails seasonals–whose crew lead is gone this month at CDL school–tell me they're thinking to all leave at 4pm, an hour before our actual end time.

I shrug my shoulders and say "I won't say anything," meaning I'm not going to tattle, I don't care. But I'm not their supervisor or crew lead, so I can't actually give them authority to stay or leave.

They take off at 4, and it's just Ricky and I – who both live here at this Park. Leaving 10-15 minutes early feels all right some days, but an hour is a solid chunk. I could easily go home, especially being tired from all our snow removal efforts, but I have fear that Ricky will turn me in, snitch like he did two summers ago. My body will never forget that day, how it felt like I was dying, how nauseous I was for days, how evil his eyes looked when he shamed me, "I'm disappointed, you know better." 

A year and a half later, my body still doesn't trust him. Even though he spends long lunches in his trailer. Even though he regularly disappears for hours in the afternoon, works on his personal trailer during work hours, is the first one to leave early any chance he can. Even though just this morning, he wasn't at work a half hour past start time, and our supervisor called him on speaker in front of us to see "where the hell" he was:

R: Hello?

B: Hey, you're a half hour late, are you coming in today?

R: Yeah, yeah, I'm coming in.

B: Okay, we'll see you soon.

B (to us): He acts like I'm weird for asking where he is?

And then Bill hopped in the Bobcat and we started clearing snow. I don't even know what time Ricky came in to work; I didn't see him all morning.

Now that most folks have left, I quickly notice ungrounded feelings arise.

What if Bill calls and needs one of them to do something?

What if the VC suddenly needs multiple maintenance workers, or asks me where everyone else is?

Do I lie and say "I don't know"? Do I say they went home? I can see that my body feels nervous for decisions that other humans have made, as if it's my responsibility.

Also: How can I speak Truth without blowing someone's cover?

Too anxious to go home and rest, I decide to walk the Scenic Trail – which I never do during work hours. If I'm going to stay until the end of the day when I'm this exhausted, might as well walk in this beautiful scenery while there's sun today, do something nourishing for my body. I certainly have not been walking on my off-time at all this winter.

I walk. I try to soak up the lens/feeling of getting paid to walk, rather than drowning in worry about getting caught for letting everyone else leave at 4.

I end up going home around 4:50, a time that feels safe to go home.

~ ~ ~

The next morning, at our weekly safety meeting, we are after-action reviewing all these days of snow removal.

Near the end, our acting crew lead asks our supervisor if on days when we're wrapped up by 3:30/4 and feeling exhausted, if we can use the weather admin leave to go home.

This time, Bill says yes, just text him so he knows what coverage we have.

I see clearly, with that answer, that leaving at 4 the day before wasn't a big deal. I could have enjoyed the hour and rested, but my body couldn't. It had felt so unsafe and dangerous to even know others had left an hour early, let alone to go home myself. Remembering just how ungrounded my body had felt only a day earlier, I think about going back on the supplement that incredibly lowered my off-the-charts cortisol from May to October.

I can't keep losing this much energy over tiny everyday work situations. Moments feel so intense. I mind-know how much my body has been trained within this capitalist society to be a Good Worker for value and safety, how sensitive my nervous system has been.

Trying to unlearn this while working within the system is an interesting dance. Yet at a distance I can recognize it's a very safe work environment in which to slowly meet that edge of discomfort, and practice tolerating situations where we're not Working Hard.

Feb. 1, 2023 [Loam 10%]
My hand is up, using the last of my dwindling capacity to voice a question during the first day of a 2-day Wilderness training—“wilderness” as defined by the U.S. Federal Government in 1964.

(My definition of “wilderness” hours earlier, which we each wrote on a small notecard? “A term invented by a culture whose connection to the land is severed.”)

Six hours earlier, I was completely captivated by Jason—a Diné man who opened our training as a guest speaker. His words resonated deeply, felt True, and my body was in full alignment.

He was so grounded, speaking from a place of deep certainty that the rocks are alive. He spoke with such clarity and smoothness, straight to the core. I could have listened to him talk for days.

Now, we’re deep in policy—learning meanings of words crafted by white men in the 60s, from two white men in their 60s. I’d debated if my curiosity was worth the energy of raising my hand and speaking in front of everyone, an action whose energetic cost has risen as the day has gone on, and my stimulation&new-content got fuller and fuller.

I raise my hand.

The speaker does not see me, though I’m in front, and he adds another thought.

When there’s finally an opening, I put my hand up again. I’m not seen, and the other presenter adds something.

When there’s another opening, I put my hand back up, and the main speaker says in the interest of time we need to move on.

I pull my hand down.

Our Superintendent points to my side of the room, where myself and another person had had hands up, and tells our speaker there were more questions.

The woman to my right begins and says her thought.

When she finishes, the trainer moves on to the next topic and I do not put my hand up a fourth time. I can’t put further energy into voicing this small curiosity.

I notice tears start to well in my eyes. A part of me feels unseen, a part of me is so full on information / stimulus, a large part of me is simply tired—from class last night and that late-night stimulation, interrupting my usual sleep cycle like last semester in school; from the uncertainty in my partnership right now, which has been emotionally exhausting. The full complex human thing.

I know I’m tired, and this is how my body now responds.

I know I’m at information / interaction capacity, and this is how my body now responds.

I think about leaving the room of 20 folks to cry outside. Then I push my left foot into the ground.

My right leg is crossed over, and this feels more comfortable than shifting to put both feet strong on the ground, so I simply push with one, as I am.

I can feel the ground under my foot.

Push, push, push.

Then my right hand comes over and slowly circles on my heart for a minute, and then lands up on my left shoulder. I stay here for many minutes while the man drones on, and feel my body lose some of that height from moments earlier.

Then I do some “these are my arms, these are my arms”, these are my legs, these are my legs, and remain in the room.

At break I go around the corner to the empty stairwell and watch giant icicles drip out the window. I can feel this soothing my energy body.

***

Lynn opens a discussion, our last half hour of the day. She wants input on how we manage our eligible wilderness—ie do we remove ‘invasives’ when upstream, off of Park land, the invasives remain? How to adapt with ‘climate change’? How much managing of this land do we do? When we zoom out, how does this shift perspective?

I don’t know when it’s “effective” or “worth it” to play nature on this acreage. I don’t know their methods of preventing erosion around archeological sites—or if that’s even the ‘right’ move, as the Indigenous folks I’ve talked to said the sites are meant to return to the Earth naturally, not be fixed/rebuilt like the Park does.

But my mind immediately jumps to all of the toxic materials and chemicals we introduce into the environment each day at work, in constructing, in housing. I think about the huge amount of money we spend on contractors (how do they treat the Earth and their employees?) and vendors for tools (what are their values?), and how we typically go with the cheapest bid for government contracts.

Lynn has asked us about this specific area of land, but everything is interconnected.

I want to voice this thing that I don’t think anyone will say. It will likely come out jumbled, yet I’m considering it.

My heart begins to beat faster.

As I think about raising my hand during this next pause, my heart beats faster still.

Wow.

It is Pounding. Loud and quick.

Nick raises his hand just as I’m about to make a move, and he brings up the fire suppression issue.

Discussion gets heated, many folks have things to say about this, as we had two large fires in our parks last summer. At some point my heart resumes a usual beating pace, though I don’t notice the slow down in the moment.

Finally that conversation dwindles down. There are 13 minutes left, and it feels like a good place to wrap up.

I raise my hand.

All the heads turn to me.

I do not build on the fire conversation. I jump back to the initial question posed, and share where my mind went: to the materials, actions, and $$ we spend in facilities maintenance each day—“because it’s all connected, right?”

It feels clunky. My voice is shaky. I can feel this is a stretch for my body.

Soon I’m done being in the spotlight so I stop talking, not wanting to turn into a soapbox about how tiny actions matter. People are staring at me, like they’re waiting for the rest, as if I weren’t done.

Silence.

Everyone is tired and ready to go home.

No one replies or adds on to my thoughts.

The trainer wraps up the session and out we go.

I cry on the way to my work truck, aware it’s releasing emotions beyond these small scenes. I get myself home, make some dinner, and drive to school.

***

I want to one day share my perspectives as confidently and rooted as Jason did.

And

I celebrate all my 10%s today.

February 9, 2023 [Loam 10%]
I wake up sooo tired Thursday from class that ran late the night before. Groggy. The closest to hungover I experience at four years sober. I tend to be bummed by these days when it’s a work day, knowing I’ll likely cry many times, and feeling grief that I won’t be able to spread overflowing kindness and light to the people around me. I might be spreading the opposite, which makes me feel sad. Don’t talk to me today!

I notice how much I don’t want to be feeling this, afraid of the holes that are too easy to fall into in this state. I grab the kombucha that has been sitting in my fridge all week—a grocery store treat, one of my many recent shake-ups in food routines which is bringing a slightly different energy to work—and pack it in my bag. I make a thermos of deep oolong tea.

I get to start my morning by driving alone to Concentra for a respirator fit test. Driving takes a hefty percentage of my daily energy, and lately I haven’t had to do much at work.

As I begin the drive through the trees to the mountain, alone with myself and my heavy tiredness, some part of me knows I need support, shuts off the radio, and begins to sing:

“I sing to the mountains,
I sing to the seas,
I sing to the stars
and I sing to the trees”

“And I thank you
for reminding me
To be”

“And I thank you
for reminding me
To see clearlyyy”

On and on I go, improvising a prayer I never consciously intended to sing. Asking for strength this day when I feel so thin and fragile. I can feel the singing lift me slightly.

As soon as I get into town—where all my energy gets laser focused to all these lanes and cars—someone cuts me off, zips up to pass 3 cars, goes through the green light, and then gets back over into the right lane. What?! I usually have more patience than what I’m feeling.

Argh! You really startled me, made me slam on the brakes, just to get ahead three car spaces??? And now I’m in front of you again, as I’m in the left lane for many more blocks.

Then I remember Return to Sender With Love.

I shake off the anger and return it all to the sender, with love. May you feel better than how you made me feel! I can feel the frustration bounce off of me as I send it back.

The clinic isn’t doing fit tests this week, I learn, so I head to Home Depot. Because I have no purchaser, I eventually drive back to Pinyon.

Two more times (!) today I leave Pinyon and drive through the trees, past the mountains, into town.

And each time, I sing.

In the afternoon it gets deep and jazzy, and I swear this is the best stuff I’ve sang in my life.

I should write this down! As soon as I think about what I’m saying, or how wonderfully it rhymes, though, the flow is lost.

I stay in the singing flow while I drive, appreciating the gift of improv and creation, a vessel for songs that will never be heard again, and it gets me through so many moments of heightened energy today.

Sometime after 1:00 I open my kombucha as I wait for our electrician. I’m grateful the Earth & Intuition have guided me tenderly on this day.

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