The Endocardium

Journal Ramblings from the innermost layers

Hello. It’s been awhile. I’ve missed the generosity of readers. I’m glad to be back.

I bought a new, shiny green notebook in May and have found that writing in cursive in my notebook is much more enjoyable and cathartic than typing on a computer. So I haven’t shared much in the past year, but that’s okay because I believe that art is for the artist first and foremost. It’s a healing practice, one that is even more meaningful when shared.

Below are just a few snippets from my journal that I’ve strung together. I’ve resisted the urge to rewrite these little seeds and have kept them in their raw and unedited version.

It feels good to send out words into the uni-verse again; I imagine my chest bursting open to release these, like doves of my heart.

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May 31, 2024

Today is my dad’s birthday. I’m outside and it’s beautiful. I am noticing the dragonflies that move around my garden.

We saw dragonflies outside the window of my dad’s hospital room while he was dying. The hospital was a large and old building—drab and obtuse as one would expect—but it on the edge of a peaceful tidal river. We were on floor five and the view was like a resort view. The hospital room though was like a government building from the 60s. My mom slept on the room’s vinyl sofa while her husband lay dying. The vinyl was cracked wide open.

The smell of someone dying is putrid sweet.

Currently, there’s a breeze blowing on my neck and I’m in the backyard. It’s peaceful out here. I’d like to die out here and not in a hospital. I’d like to die into nature and let my body be consumed by it.

Two days ago I found a stunned bird, sitting out in the open, in the grass. It was a brown thrasher which holds special meaning for me. My nature-loving grandfather—dad’s dad—studied this bird. It’s the state bird of Georgia, my home state. I’m not sure what happened to it. Maybe the cat got it? But there was no blood.

It was a soft bundle of feathers, a beautiful living thing. I picked it up with a towel and gently carried it over to a shady spot out of the hot sun. The bird never protested. Its eyes were open. The spot I chose was was hidden beneath a bush. I brought the bird a small bowl of water and some chia seeds. There, I left it. Several times throughout the day, I quietly checked on it. The bird never moved. Once, when I peeked at it, the bird’s eyes were closed as if it was resting. I left it for the night and the next morning when I went to look for it under the bush, it was gone.

June, undated (note to self)

You just start getting more honest.

June, undated

I just learned a new word. Yardna or Yardena is an ancient word that means ‘flowing waters’ and they are ascribed to rivers where baptisms take place. The name of the river Jordan is derived from yardena. Yardenas are bapistmal waters because they are flowing. Flowing waters are living waters. This sounds like a big clue to life.

August 1, 2024

From Oracle Girl, Precision Focus 5

“Did you notice how much stronger you felt in your body? … It’s simplicity. It’s stillness but it’s a type of stillness which is commanding and holding a fluidity and universal current which has unlimited power and creative potential.”

September, undated

Healing is a state of surrender

to grace.

It’s a slow-go, not-to-be-rushed,

process of letting go.

letting go of expectations

letting go of what you thought you knew

letting go of the way life was.

healing is a liminal space

a between space

a space to humble oneself

healing is forgiveness uncomfortable

redemption

rebirth

relife.

September, undated

breathing in the oneness

breathing out the separation

breathing in the oneness

releasing the separation

if we saw each other as ourselves,

how would we act?

how would we treat each other?

land belongs to all people

rivers belong to all people

September 29, 2024

CREATIVE ABUNDANCE IS OUR BIRTHRIGHT

October, undated

Looking at my hand here, I feel a great witnessing, like what I imagine the sculptor of David (Michaelanglo?) did as he was carving. He saw the body as sculptural. My hand and pen are sculptural and there is a connection here flowing, even if I write jibber-jabber. Dad came to me in a dream last night. He is with us, always, he said. The beauty of death is that one gets to be in all places at all times, and with all loved ones. There is no more separation.

He was just there, standing by the door of a mountain house with us, watching as the kids played in the peaceful river out front.

Oct, undated

(genealogy notes: my paternal grandfather’s maternal lineage)

Electa Slade

b. 1804 Savoy, Berkshire Co, MA, USA

Died Nov 9, 1878

Seven Generations:

7 Electa

6 Sarah

5 Nema

4 Ruth

3 Leonard

2 Russell

1 Katie

Electa: from eklektos , meaning Chosen. A common Puritan name.

Slade: Valley. “As you and baby enjoy trips to forest glades or hidden rivers, the name Slade is sure to remind them of the natural treasures and lights that this world holds.”

November, undated

In the continual flow of life—nature’s way—situations arise and disappear. The light of ourselves shines through it all. Every feeling is temporary and every moment, fleeting. Our minds love to get attached to stories, but we are the captains of our ships. The light of ourselves can shine through it all.

November 25, 2024

The endocardium is the innermost layer of tissue that lines the heart.

The endocardium is the pure art space, the creative origin.

It’s here where our own unique magic begins to unfurl.

thank you, as always, for taking the time to read

Xo,

Katie