PaganSquare.com - WitchesAndPagans.com

There are times in which
we are poised at the crossroads,
these waystations of choice and change.
We balance twin forces
of separation and connection.
We move within life’s ebb and flow,
an ongoing cycle of growth and renewal.
However tempting it might be
to set up camp in the middle,
to rest in the not-knowing place,
to linger in the liminal,
eventually we must choose a way.
May we have clarity in the choosing,
trust in the unfolding,
and faith in the journey.
May we listen to the thrum of purpose
that hums in our veins,
the whispers of longing that linger
on the wind,
the fiery core of resolve within our bellies,
the knowing in our bones.
And, collecting what we can of courage,
step through the choices,
our feet feeling the support
beneath them
as our sacred path spirals onward.

Resources:

Being in the world to see it,
is the best way to learn
its secrets and stories.
Walking with a poet’s eyes,
a dreamer’s mind,
and a witch’s heart,
is the best way to
fully inhabit
the story of your own life
as it is being written
right now.
Choosing to see
the magic
that is at work,
right now
exactly where you are,
is a radical and revolutionary act
of re-enchanting the world.

Today, I sought the pines
and stones
once more.
Descending into the steep gully
to look for sweet water
easing its way
from the depths to trickle
across ancient stones.
I found both comfort and delight
in sitting by a tiny pool,
looking into the water,
allowing myself to be held
and restored.
I anointed my forehead,
face,
and shoulders with cool drops
from this smallest
of possible waterways,
both unnamed and essential,
and then opened my palms
to the sky
to invite the rain.
I sat with swaying
sycamore, elm, and ash trees
listening to the music they made
with leaf and wind.
I found a turkey feather
in the leaves
beside the water,
soft and fluffy and tipped
with an iridescent greenish shine
I listened to my heart.
I offered up both hope
and dreams
upon this altar of stone and sky.

I found two tiny brown feathers
on the sidewalk
and a puff of raptor down
caught on the grasses.
I picked some berries off the autumn olives
that line the sidewalk
and ate them,
careful not to spit the seeds
where they might grow.
The plants are aggressive
and invasive,
but also edible,
a friend has called them
“sweetarts of the forest”
and this is indeed how they taste.
We watched our shadows precede us
and talked of dreams and desires,
wondering and wishes.
As we neared the car,
a gust of wind swirled into
the walnut tree ahead of us
and a cascade of yellow leaves
began to dance and twirl
through the air.
I’ve written before of being in
an autumn snowglobe
and though I try to think of another way to describe it,
that is truly how it feels
to stand with your head
tilted back
laughing into the blue sky
as the leaves come drifting down around your shoulders.
This time, as I looked up,
a hawk,
previously unseen,
tilted down out of
the walnut branches
and slid away into the trees
above my head.
We all need time for restoration
and replenishment,
time to stand laughing
in the leaves  
with the sweet-tart flavor
of October
on our tongues.

(Side note: red fruits actually pictured are on a crabapple tree, not an autumn olive.)

And, my new book, In the Temple of the Ordinary is now available for pre-order!

We set forth seeking chanterelles,
past the barriers of thorn and bug
and into the quiet slopes and mosses
of an August wood.
We did not find many mushrooms,
but we did find:
A queen of hearts playing card
and a few steps later,
the jack.
A lower jawbone, worn and smooth,
incisors and molars
still in their places.
A turtle, once wounded,
now healed,
v-shaped crack in its shell
framing its patient
yellow-spotted face.
A copperhead snake,
perfectly patched
for patterns made by sunshine
filtered through oak leaves.
One crow feather,
a bit ragged,
and a gray feather too.
Three white-tailed deer,
startled into flight,
quick hooves clattering away
across the stones.
More spiderwebs than we can count.
The tiniest of tiny ticks,
spilling from seed head
into our shoes
and hastening our steps.  
Moss with sun on it
and tufted titmice
squabbling in the hackberry trees.
A spiral shell fossil,
sparkled with dusting of quartz,
its small curve pre-dating
every moment of the entirety
of human history,
and yet here today
with us now,
reminding us that we walk across
what was once the bottom of a sea.
The sweet sensation of aliveness,
that comes with loving something enough
to give up a bit of blood and body
just to have a taste.

On our morning walk,

two hawks,

“Let us hold hands with the woman who cooks,
with the woman who builds,
with the woman who cries,
with the woman who laughs,
with the woman who heals,
with the woman who prays,
with the woman who plants,
with the woman who harvests,
with the woman who sings,
with the woman whose spirits rise.”

—Pat Mora, Let Us Hold Hands
(in Auga Santa, reprinted in the UU Service Committee’s Gender Justice curriculum)