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If it isn't my earliest memory, it must be at least one of the earliest.

It's night. The summer thunderstorm has waked me out of a sound sleep, and I'm sitting in bed crying, terrified. Our house is near the top of the hill, and the crash of the thunder and irregular strobe of lightning seem to come from all around.

The door opens, and my father comes in. He scoops me up into his arms. I have a distinct visual memory of moving from the darkness of my room, through the hall, and into the kitchen, where the lights are on.

My mother—entirely understandably—is saying: Russell, what are you doing? Russell, what are you doing?

Dad opens the back door and steps out into the rain, which is bucketing down. (We must both have been drenched to the skin in seconds, though I have no memory of it.) He snags a lawn chair in one hand, goes out to the center of the yard, and opens it. He sits down, and sets me in his lap.

The storm's initial front has moved on. Together we sit in the rain, listening to the grand rolls of thunder and watching the play of lightning on the horizon.

That's all I remember, but—as dad had intended—ever since then I've loved, not feared, the beauty and majesty of thunderstorms.

Some years ago, having belatedly had some experience in the field myself, my father and I were discussing the fine art of parenting. I cited this story as one of the wisest examples of creative, proactive parenting that I could think of.

I pride myself as being part of a family unit that is not quick to judge people. We have raised the kids to look at the bigger picture, listen to others, do some investigation before judging. Give the person some time to show their true self. When you are quick to judge, you miss out on a potential trustworthy friendship.

Yet, as I write this, I find us judging a young man. And I'm torn.

“It’s a wild snail festival out here!”

—Tanner (age 3) 

We recently got home from a family mini vacation to Table Rock Lake, about three hours away from home. 

Violet Moore Higgins, "Three days agone - I found a tiny fair-haired infant"

This year has been a year of changes for me, some of which have yet to occur and others that have already occurred. The biggest, of course, was the birth of my second child in August. With her came the upset of routine, family dynamic, sleep, and all those other disorienting but completely natural shifts inherent in bringing a new life – a new spirit (or spirits, depending on your conception of the Self) – into this brilliant, dynamic world of the living. Of course, thanks to modern medicine, childbirth for me was a much less daunting experience than it was for my ancestors (and, sadly, for those today who live without access to adequate medical care).

“Doing shamanic work with children is magical and luminous, even miraculous…”

—Imelda Almqvist

We are circling
circling together
joining hands and singing our heartsongs
this is family
this is unity
this is celebration
this is sacred...

(We are Circling)

The first candle on the Solstice Wreath is lit. The element of Air. Breath. Life. Hope. Clean air for everyone. Clear communication. Family harmony.

Cynthia Eller in Living in the Lap of the Goddess notes that, “some spiritual feminists say that having a divine mother is a way of compensating for the frailties of human mothers, giving women a more perfect mother…” This is not actually true for me; I’m fortunate enough to have an excellent human mother. I am more liable to see myself as a mother reflected in the empowering imagery of the Goddess as mother than I am to feel “mothered” by Her—I feel like she affirms my worth and value in my own maternal role. She gives me strength and inspiration to be a better mother to my children. In this way, I then agree with the hope of spiritual feminists that, “this great mother goddess will have a transformative effect upon the social valuation of motherhood.” (Eller, p. 143)