I love it when "barefoot season" starts again in early spring. Even though it's still cold out, it feels wonderful to be able to wander around through the sand and mud without any shoes. At the end of the day, though, it can be tough to scrub off that mud and grime... that's why I developed these super convenient single-use foot scrubs with anti-fungal sagebrush, refreshing mint, and healing tea tree oil. You can take the celebration of "barefoot day" even further by creating a little foot-awakening ritual with a friend too, which can be a somber or silly way to show care for one another and mark the first day of "barefoot season." The recipe for these cubes and the ritual that accompanies it can be found on my blog (link in profile.) .
So, I have this PO Box - mostly it’s just a convenient location to put as a business return address. Any way you slice it, though, I don’t check it unless I know I have a package or a return to pick up - and a couple of weeks ago I swung by to do just that.
As I pulled out the box I knew would be there, a tiny cascade of pink sheets fluttered out as well. Notices that I had had another package to pick up, the first a month old. And the most recent, from the week before? It was emblazoned with two of the most terrifying words I’ve ever read in a post office:
Now of course, just to complicate things, all of this happened when the post office wasn’t open - so I had no one to ask. I went home, heart beating fast, and figured out what I could on my own. It was a package that had been shipped halfway around the world in March. It had bounced around in customs for awhile before, unexplainably, being sent back to me. And after all that time, I hadn’t heard from my customer either, which only added to the worry.
The next day I went in to talk to an actual person about tracking down the package. The minute the lady behind the counter saw my “Dead Mail” notice, she gave me THAT face - the one that said she had bad news to tell. See, dead mail is where mail goes to…die. As she explained it, there’s a giant warehouse in Atlanta filled with unclaimed mail and finding packages that are sent there? Almost impossible.
I stood there trying not to visibly shake, making bargains with the universe to let my customer be ok and to help me save my artwork - and it worked. Somehow, my box was found hidden in the back. I heard from my customer (she is ok and on the mend). It could have gone so many ways…but it all turned out ok. Thank goodness!
In the end, the jewelry stayed with me - two necklaces, pulled from that battered box and held close for a minute after their long journey. I relisted them on the website a couple of days ago and one has already found a home, but this necklace - the Sage necklace - she’s still looking. So if you missed her the first time, maybe this was all meant to be. You can find her in the shop now (just follow the link in my bio!).
One thing I just downright love is being smacked in the face by a delightful coincidence! ✨
Less than a week ago I revisited the art of print making by carving a cicada out of linoleum. Nothing in particular made me choose a cicada other than their beauty and they seemed like a fun and manageable shape to carve. In anticipation of a trip this week to northern New Mexico with @mark0yolo I decided to print my linocut onto a shirt to wear during our travels. Little did I know that just a few days later I’d have the pleasure of meeting my very first live cicadas in the land of enchantment! 🌶
After crossing the state line into New Mexico we pulled over to stretch our legs and were immediately greeted by a sonorous soundscape emanating from the sea of sagebrush. A little poking around revealed a thriving population of these gorgeous mountain cicadas, Okanagana bella. 🧡
I’m just in awe, what could possibly be the chances of such a serendipitous occurrence?!
Just did the math: I drove over 2,500 miles in 7 days. This was Day 2. Day 7 looked more like 🤪😭😴
One of my great loves of this trip was the continued resurgence of sagebrush. In Nevada it was one of the only plants we saw. It’s absence was a clear indication that we had crossed the state line into Idaho, a state that met us with the white blooms of potatoes and the short stalks of young corn.
But then, there it was. In Idaho, Montana, eastern Washington, eastern Oregon. The last view I had of it before delirium, darkness, and perhaps, finally, its absence took over was in the highlands surrounding Mt Shasta. I’ve known our own coastal artemisia here in Santa Cruz for some time, but I am happy to now know its high desert cousin.