This is from my latest newsletter. You can subscribe here.
dearest friends,
The birds feast on the sorghum that has sprouted from bird seed. It is beautiful how they know how to do this, even if they have never seen sorghum before.
In the winter months, I watch the birds from my meditation room. They congregate around the feeders, the suet and the fresh fruit I put out for them. I put a handmade feeder on the deck this year, because I couldn’t reach it on the feeding station and besides, they are fun to watch during meals. I love the drama of it. My husband complained about the mess they made. He lost patience when a small carpet of sprouts began spreading in late Spring on the newly mulched walkways. We spent a few days pick axing, clearing, digging out and planting flowers and bushes to have these unsanctioned plants begin their fight for life and survival.
I root for the weeds, I admit. I cheer them on in whispers and stolen words. Once you begin the process of learning what and why the weed-plants grow in your yard, it is hard to pull out the ones that simply were here first. They are designed to feed the native animals and insects. But I began the process of cleaning the birdseed from the deck. And by cleaning, I mean, I swept them onto the lawn, beyond the mulched pathways, right at this place where I struggle with the mower, because it is too steep and I have an active imagination, particularly in regards to my own death. I thought the birds might find some food among the grass and be apt to scratch at the Earth a little. Let’s see what happens, I thought. I pulled the mulch up with the sprouts, carrying them to a tree stump on the hillside, and simply spread them out. Grow here, I invited them. Fill in the area. Be plentiful. I put an old planter stand there too, and that is where I put the handmade feeder. Problem solved.
It wasn’t long until I received a message from my local birders group that there is an avian pandemic, spread through backyard bird feeders and well-meaning bird enthusiasts. We are encouraged in the Northeast and Mid-Atlantic to stop feeding them at collective stations, so I just left the feeders heartbreakingly empty. Because I didn't have the heart to cull all the bird seeds that started becoming plants in Spring, they grew and grew in Summer—five feet tall and beyond. They covered the entire hillside. Now, I have the most amazing garden of sunflowers and sorghum and millet, colors of bright yellow and ochre and oranges and reds. The Sunflowers are beautiful and then when they wither and grow brown, leaves falling, the birds began to visit again, and eat the seeds. The Sorghum turns burnt umber and the birds come in droves to eat and pick at their amazing heads. Golden Finch and black birds, starlings and cowbirds, hold onto the strong stalks and peck at the seed that grew out of their own messiness and shit.
This is something I relate to.
Finding medicine and nourishment in my own messiness and shit. Maybe that is what I should write on my website—Angelica Yingst, specialist in finding medicine and nourishment in your own messiness and shit. It is my new mantra--Nothing is wasted. I write so rarely in this newsletter and yet, you have probably heard it many times. I try to embody and model for my clients, my students, my children, my friends, and my family how to deal with shit. How to reach out, how to find a community, how to make things sacred. When I am vulnerable and open, it heals not only me, but also is of service to other people. I recognize this, and yet it is still hellishly hard to be vulnerable and open. I tell stories about bird seed and sorghum and shit because it is hard and I am having trouble getting to the point, so suffice to say, this is me sweeping my bird seed and my shit onto the grass to see what sprouts.
A month ago now, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.
It just came, out of a routine mammogram. Nothing extraordinary—no lump or bleeding or pain or strangeness, just something they saw on an annual scan. They told me it was early and that I was lucky.
I feel lucky.
They told me in the same breath that I would have to decide what I wanted to do, which was basically one choice…one boob or two? Or rather a single mastectomy or a double? Which would I like? Would I like a single mastectomy or a double?
With one boob, I could shoot archery like an Amazon, but I would still have to wear a bra with a prosthetic tit. With two gone, I could have a weirdly unnippled flat chest, which will probably be lumpy, rather than flat, because let’s face it my entire body is lumpy. I probably won’t like either choice, they said, but maybe this choice will save your life. We think it will. Maybe you can avoid chemotherapy and radiation and death, they said, but honestly, you are so lucky to have found it now.
I feel lucky. I chose to remove both of my breasts.
A friend reached out telling me they saw a hawk flying with a snake. I saw the same thing a few weeks ago, like an Aztec myth or a Homeric saga, we are seeing similar signs. We wondered if it was a global message or a personal one. Maybe it is both...I can't help but think, in the way I did so many years ago when my daughter died, that life continues. That hawks capture snakes and people go to the mall and buy stupid shit and dogs bark at the neighbors even though things are happening in slow motion and in fear-o-vision for me. There are signs and synchronicities and healing, but I still have cancer. I am dealing with this by organizing my cabinets and buying hoodies.
When I was given this diagnosis, I kept thinking, "Angie, how will you make this sacred?" How can I capture this time before my breasts are gone forever? If I sprinkle this old bird seed and shit onto the grass, will it grow into something beautiful and nourishing? I know I will create artwork and write, because that is what I do with everything. I have created a crystal grid and an altar and called in Magdalene and Mother Mary and Kali showed up and Vulture…and yet, I simply want to lie in bed and stop the relentless litany of "Things I Need to Do Before DMX Day." And I can’t also, because the litany and the list are real and, from having done the lying in bed, obsessing about not obsessing thing, it doesn’t help. Organizing and making lists makes me feel in control when everything is out of my control.
I am lucky. And yet, how will I release my breasts, the body parts that fed my babies (do you want tetita? I would ask them, as they turned their heads to latch on.) How will I release the chest they lean on, cuddle into, grab for when they are scared? How do I offer up the boobs that offered hugs to my hundreds of clients over the years and my sponsees who ask for their bosom hugs? How do I cut off the breasts that held pleasure and sensuality for my lovers? The breasts that are my husband’s favorite body part?
It is easy to release them when I think of that time in my life when I was still a girl, when my breasts seemed to grow overnight. One day, my landscape was flat, and then small hills appeared. I remember how much they hurt when a football hit my chest. I remember when the boys started snapping bras and reaching over me, so they could graze them for a cheap thrill. I went from a flat, athletic girl to one leered at, an object of lust who still wasn’t sure if she wanted to play dolls or cut out Teen Beat pictures of George Michael. They have been the part of me people glared at, evidence that I was a slut or a hoochie mama intent on stealing their boyfriends. They brought derision and discomfort and pearl-clutching if I wore a spaghetti strap tank. I have wanted them off since they were first unwantingly groped by creepy men or whistled at when I was just mindlessly walking down city streets. My breasts have brought annoyance and trauma and healing and love. It is a complicated relationship.
This is the thing about us humans—even if we have never faced this particular crisis, we know how to make it sacred. I have learned to make it sacred by including people, by reaching out, by asking for support. Innately, we know how to eat the sorghum that grew from messiness and shit. We invite our bird friends to share.
***
I know this is shocking. It is shocking to me. But I have to tend to myself. I have shut down everything in my shop—distance readings and healings, sales and memberships. I wish I could be present and hold space for you, but right now, this deep healing is reserved for me. Besides all I think all day is, “I have cancer. I am so lucky it is not worse.” My thoughts are dominated by this particular paradoxical truth. It is a niggling mantra that I keep wrestling with, like a Zen koan. I am devoted to my clients and students, but I am healing and coming to terms with this and making it sacred. And in that process, I have had to simplify and not be so bloody busy, as well as quarantine before surgery and prepare my home.
I have one more event before surgery on September 15th at Alta View Wellness Center with my bestie, Sharon Muzio. We are doing a shamanic healing circle on August 29th at 4p at Alta View—Sharon will lead the guided journey and I will do the hands-on healing. You can register here.
I am beautifully interconnected to a vast, powerful circle of psychic, empathic healers, priestesses, shamanic wisdom and medicine keepers, seers, seekers, practitioners and beautiful souls like you, many around the world who I have been privileged to work with. If your expertise and experience falls into working with cancer, healing from surgery and making this process sacred, I’d love to hear about it. Please email or call (717-770-9109) and with that being said, hopefully, you understand that I am overwhelmed easily, so I might not get back to you immediately, or take your advice. Please do not take this personally as I am trying to intuitively navigate to what feels healing to me right now at this time.
When I return, I will let you know. I may even write you a love letter or two.
