SUE WESTWIND

Sue Westwind name logo

Mental wellness, Earth-spiritual practice. Ecosexuality.

Sue Westwind writes from America’s prairie woodlands.

Plants and typewriter

Sue Westwind's Most Recent Posts

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ECOSEX GEMS TO SAVOR

I wondered: how many ecosexual passages might be contained on my bookshelf and in the library books currently piled on my desk? They were everywhere! I started with poetry texts I’ve had for years that I knew would yield delicious fruit. It just mushroomed from there—excuse the food imagery, more

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FOR THOSE STILL SWIPING

After mourning for a time—a widow—I moved like my lonely-heart brethren to inhabit the online dating sites. Someone remarked that the endeavor was like a cage fight with too many participants. Things do move fast. Whole lives dismissed with a swipe left. Specious flattery handed out with less substance than

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MY MOTHER, THE MIRROR

She was 96 and lucid to the end. Today I found another of those little containers she saved—it once held bath gels when I gave it to her as a child. Repurposed to hold her broken rosaries, there were many, garbled into a ball of bead and tarnished wire. I

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THE COLORS, THE DEATH, THE INWARD HAUL

(Warning: contains scenes from our very bad year)   “A kinship with death makes one a better lover, an old hag once told me . . . “ —Danielle Dulsky, Seasons of Moon and Flame   It had been while. My visits to this conservation district taper off during tick

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THE GREEN FUSE, LIT

“The force that through the green fuse drives the flower/Drives my green age . . . .”   Dylan Thomas I sing the body eclectic, a mix of sparks, age, rage, and change. Everyday an erotic challenge, every day nearer its end. I named what I am—earth-eroticist—once my womb finished its

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WHEN A WOMAN NEEDS A FIRE IN THE NIGHT

In my backyard nook, the moonlight’s dear silver calls. What a project it was! A woodlot lumpy with garbage—former tenants’ milk cartons, clothes on hangers covered with a thin layer of dirt, and the detritus of the landlord’s begrudging repairs–shingles and flashing, nails, board rot. The glass! Shards everywhere in

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MOUNTAINOUS LONGINGS

A sinuous hulk on the horizon, stark contours to its gray lift, its body hovering over the oak-trimmed prairie. So much sky above calls attention to this butte where no such thing belongs. But wait, it’s manmade. A working quarry—sand, gravel, and rock—piling its dredge and baking in the sun.

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FREAKS IN THE FAMILY

A dear friend sent a copy of the 1932 film, “Freaks,” banned for 30 years and finally vindicated as one of the best horror films ever made. The film used real circus “acts”—conjoined twins, dwarfs, persons with microcephaly, total amputees—who exact revenge on the able-bodied circus performers that torment them.

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PSYCHIATRISTS UNBOUND: TWO FOR THE REVOLUTION

One is a church-going Christian, the other is skilled at Kundalini yoga. One believes there is a place for medications; the other has thrown away her prescription pad. One is focused on the brain, the other believes that “fear is the sickness.”  Two authors, two books, psychiatrists unbound from the

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FOOD INGLORIOUS FOOD

This post was rough-drafted before Covid, with its drive-thru food pantries, empty grocery shelves, and threats of food shortages. There’s a mountain of evidence that what you eat can be agents of depression, anxiety, and other mood disorders—but with pandemics and natural disasters abounding, eating healthy seems secondary to staying

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NEW WORDS FOR WHAT WE FEEL

It’s all happening too fast to effectively dialogue about. The virus that lingers . . . the suffering from fires, floods, and hurricanes . . . species lost and human communities displaced . . . the Earth speaking back to careless human greed? Or is it that pointed and awful?

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THE PRIESTESS IS MAD

Originally posted at Mad In America blogs, where it reflects more of its times: Trump as president, the George Floyd tragedy, more. Who calls herself a priestess–and what’s she so mad about? Or is she mad as in crazy? Or both? A priestess might be a woman considering the various

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FRESH GRIEF: NOTES FROM A NOVICE

How like human beings to map the stages and micro-stages of grief. We are obsessive about self-reflection, a forgivable pastime, but the first urge to define healing stages must have been because the experience hurts so badly we want to help others going through it. That’s a tender quality of

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TRUMP-DAD: WHY WE STALL, SHOCKED OR SHAMED

There is one thing we are not discussing about Donald Trump. Please, I don’t want to alienate any reader here who finds it in their heart to admire him. My worry is that a close look at his behavior from the angle I’m about to attempt will irk you because

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BEAUTY AND TERROR OVER THE WEEKEND

Natalya kicked the windshield, smack bam yikes. Three times and it was bad, making three horrible holes with those radiating lines, webs where no spider spun a thing. It had happened before. I told caregivers not to put her in the front seat, but what to do when one showed

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WHEN FAMILIES DON’T WANT TO HEAR

Once my father said to me, “It seems like you’ve always been running away from home.” A grown woman at the time, I’d lived in three different states before returning to Kansas—home. The context of his remark is entirely lost now. No doubt he was couching a criticism into another

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THE MAKINGS OF A QUEST: WHAT’S WRONG WITH MY FAMILY?

Update, 2022. I re-read this after attending a local, newly formed autism support group. “Nina” is now 25. All other attendees were parents of young children, and despite decades of the autism puzzle unsolved, they were focused on making the public schools fix their children. I understood their hopes, fearing

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