All I thought I wanted was the hunt.The first time I could, I drove the deer.Every time I could,I drove the boar.The lovely river drew me.I didn’t know it housed a god,or maybe I did.I’d read about such things in books.I damn them both now—desire, fear.The blood on my hands,my spearhad to go somewhere.I rode…
All I thought I wanted was the hunt.The first time I could, I drove the deer.Every time I could,I drove the boar.The lovely river drew me.I didn’t know it housed a god,or maybe I did.I’d read about such things in books.I damn them both now—desire, fear.The blood on my hands,my spearhad to go somewhere.I rode… Read more: Arethusa and the River God
As long as we bend toward nature,
we will make wreathes—
sticks and twigs and berries and flowers
bound together
escaping in unwieldy whisps;
taking the forms of the universe
nests of galaxies
Something grand, seductive, and full of desire dwells in the fields, forests, and waters. That something seeks us wholly. Impregnates us the way Zeus did Danae, Leda, and Alcmene. Takes hold of us and carries us away like Hades did Persephone.
When you wake at dawn, you have no choice. Go outside. The birds are shrieking the song of life. The version of it you are living right now must be lived. Go out. Greet it.
I want to touch the earth with more intentionality. Like spending an hour watching the night sky, slowly tracking the movement of Earth by noting the apparent movement of the stars and moon.
I want to seek inspiration from ancient people, people who only knew that the stars moved, not the earth, and yet, they built structures aligned precisely to the position of the sun and stars.
Would I reach the cold freedom on the other side
where there were leaves to pile and dive into
and red berries on the dogwoods to pick?
The radiator hummed.
Warmth calmed the call to wild things.
Roving helicopter wings beat the air. The windows rumbled. After an hour of regular beatings, it was the sirens that sent my husband to his cell phone.
What the hell was going on in our corner of paradise? Had Trump come to roost at Mara Lago? Shark attack? Boat explosion?
Recently, I started a 10-20 minute practice designed to help me savor two of my favorite things, baked goods and tea. A friend’s birthday party was the inspiration. Her high tea celebration made sipping a hot beverage and nibbling on something freshly baked in the company of friends an exalted, exquisite experience.
Confections only satisfy soul needs when they’re accompanied by the feeling that the person who made them cherishes you and the certainty that not only the recipe, but the love will carry on.
It is the longest, darkest night of all that sheds light on our better selves, if we stop and take the time to kindle it. On this night, the ancients lit bonfires that crackled and sparked to the heavens. They gathered around hearths. As close to the heavens and earth as they lived, it was hard to escape a fearsome sense of awe as the planet rounded a corner.
I have a confession to make. Despite a degree in English and a few decades of teaching young people to appreciate and interpret great works of literature, I love cheesy, formulaic, plot-driven, cozy Christmas movies.
I’m sitting through another hurricane today. So far we’re just getting hit by brief torrents of rain and wind. But the shutters are bolted in place. Canned food stocks the pantry. Flashlights and candles are strategically placed. All of my classes are cancelled for two days. Now there’s nothing to do but wait it out at home, hoping the power doesn’t go out.
It’s late September in South Florida, so it’s not surprising that I find myself living beneath the outer bands of a hurricane, roughly 200 miles from the eye. Wind surges have shaken the live oaks all day. I’d like to say they’ve never been shaken like this before, but I know that’s not true. Our neighborhood rests on a barrier island. From our backyard we can hear the waves of the Atlantic crashing on the shore.
Today there is balance. The earth on its axis tilts in such a way, that the sun caresses it evenly. Our days are equal to our nights. It’s difficult not to feel the harmony, the new, yet familiar slant of the sun in the sky. It’s been in this position before, and it’ll be there again on roughly the same day next year. It’s a comfort to be aware of it. It’s a spiritual practice to celebrate it this changing of the sun, to own that our universe is set up to cycle for billions of years.
Even though I’m not a morning person, I get up at 5am to teach a Sunrise Yoga class. My yogi soul can’t resist the idea of performing Sun Salutations at dawn in front of a windowed wall overlooking a lake.
Hard as it may be to justify, what was once a luxury is something I can no longer afford to lose. The extravagance of spending time in wild places is becoming the necessity it has always been.
Have you ever held a leaf of lettuce up to the light of your kitchen window while it dripped into the sink after you rinsed it?
Have you ever taken a few moments to examine its ruffles of tissue and intricately woven veins?
The leaf in my hands is a vessel for streaming light and holding water. It has the potential for being so much more than what I plan to do with it.
The world needs the poetry of places, people, and passages. Lyricism, thoughts in verse, and whispered prayers bolster us against the machinations of life, to keep us from degrading into hollow images, like those in video games maneuvering at the behest of others, for the purpose of accumulating endless points.
Sometimes I don’t know when to stop. I don’t know when to stop talking. I don’t know when to stop doing. I don’t know when to stop trying, thinking, and figuring. I just don’t know when to stop.
Sometimes I just want to pull all of the holiday decorations out of the closets and the garage and have all the Holy Days of Pleasure and Delight and Belief all at once. It would be a moment of star power with so much energy behind it that the planets would move into alignment and the joy of the universe would sing through all creation.
Late July through most of August is the time of the lion sun. It must’ve been easy for ancient stargazers lying on sand dunes to imagine the fierce, focused eyes of the predator and his yellow and gold mane bursting from the sun at this time of year.
The pandemic didn’t send us all home to rest, reflect, and remember. We plunged head first, full body into cyberspace. When the world as we knew it became unlivable, we moved into the virtual world. It was a matter of survival. We kept moving, going, living two lives in one, but we were outside of reality. Time compressed, magnified, and went out of whack. The watches of the world didn’t just stop. They couldn’t keep up.
Summer is a time for taking journeys . . . .Join me here. Take this inner journey. Reflect. Savor. Fill up your heart with the absolute wonder of you–spirit contained in a human vessel. Accept the gift of time the solstice grants every living being. Your soul has been waiting for it.
I can pretend all I want that I am of this world, but nature will always remind me of the mystery–spirit’s call–the reality of candles, and twilight, and the moon. The magic of life miraculaously ebbs back.
It happened again last night. In the strained distortion between 4 and 5am, wakefulness seized me and wouldn’t let go. A predator had hold of me. Worry, mystified and seasoned by night, turned to panic. The wolf inside fed on her prey.
The most essential work of being human is finding love again and again after we’ve lost it or had it stolen from us. We close up our glowing chests when it’s not safe. We shade the light because giving it away feels like death. But we are wrong. Giving our hearts away is the only thing that can resurrect us from the dead.
