We may wonder
what there is to celebrate,
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We may wonder
what there is to celebrate,
..."When she arrived at her building, she noticed a beam of silvery light shining down on the front stoop. Even after all those years, the moon still knew where she lived."
--Elizabeth A. Gould (The Well of Truth)
The Well of Truth is a creative synthesis of novel with metaphor plus myth, allegory, symbolism, and archetypal experiences of truth. I’ve never read another book quite like it—it blends the fictional story of a woman’s life with larger mythical understanding and lessons and reads more like a “teaching” than like strictly fiction.
...I stood beneath
the eclipsing moon,
the sound of whippoorwills
a chorus
rising from damp trees.
Thin white clouds
scudded around fresh stars
and I recited
the Charge of the Goddess,
slowly and alone,
remembering as I always do
the feel of sand beneath my feet
and my baby’s head
against my heart
when I first memorized
these words,
“let your divine innermost self
be enfolded in the rapture
of the infinite.”
The sky that day was gray bowl
above the sea,
spitting rain onto my shoulders
as I turned in wide circles
across the sand,
letting the words
become a part of my soul,
sink into me,
until my bones remembered
them too.
Now, I stand,
hand on my heart
and say aloud:
“Goddess, we need a world
that does not hide you
and that does not hide from you.
Let me be a part
of creating this world.”
I feel her,
as I do,
both beneath my skin
and everywhere,
all at once
and I allow myself to be
enfolded for these
breaths in the rapture
of the infinite,
the full moon
becoming enclosed
in the shadow of the earth.
There is a red-winged blackbird
with only one foot
that comes to our bird feeder.
It balances precariously,
small stump churning the air,
as it selects its seeds.
There are flowers
on the mulberry trees
and bees in the raspberries
and we saw three
monarch butterflies
in the field
and watched an oriole
who hit the window
manage to fly again.
There is a pair of cardinals
who visit the bird feeder too,
they sit together
with their shoulders touching
and sometimes tenderly
choosing seeds and putting them
into one another's beaks
reminding me of how
I watched my great uncle's hand
softly caress
my great aunt’s back
one afternoon
at the park in the rain.
Twenty-seven years ago today,
I went on a first date
with the man I married.
It was a last first date
for both of us
and here we are now,
watching those two cardinals
feed each other seeds,
knowing how they feel.
These things
give me hope.
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I rose early seeking Beltane dewdrops
with which to anoint my brow.
the cupped violet stems and clover
were dry
and I found no dewdrops
in the chickweed stars.
Instead, I put out oranges
for the orioles,
ran my fingers through the dandelions,
and pressed my nose into the lilacs.
I spotted green flowers
on the mulberry trees,
found the first wild pink geraniums
and tender bells of columbine
and came face to face
with the quiet black eyes
of solemn deer in the raspberry bushes.
These things
their own kind of anointing,
their own small and significant
rites of May Magic.