It was mist this morning that lured me away, straight out of bed and into the trees to see the glow lifting from the valley and sliding through the rising sun, particles of water vapor drifting sideways through the air so that it looks like the woods are breathing. I almost think I hear the fairies of the land whispering as the rays of sunshine lay down enchanted paths between tree trunks, unmapped lines of discovery that are only revealed with the light is just so and a crow zips silently by carrying something mysterious in its beak. I see why we are warned about the mist, pathways that are shrouded and uncertain. After all, if you step into the mist how will you know what to buy or what to feel bad about. How can anyone capture and sell your attention if you’ve reclaimed it and let it settle into the mist instead of into a screen. If you are focused instead of fractured, if you are no longer listening to how it has to be, or what to think, or where to look, or what to buy, perhaps it is you who becomes dangerous, free as you now are to slip away into the mist, into the real and pulsing world, breath from cedar trunks rising up to meet you where you are.
I carried lemon balm and sweet almond oil with me into the woods and sat on a stone. I saw three vultures rising and falling wheeling and whirling gracefully above the valley and a single black crow zip busily along the horizon as its kin called raucously from unseen trees. A neat triangle of nine geese passed above my head, close enough for a change to hear the rhythmic sounds of their wings moving the air as they passed me by. I encircled myself with lemon balm, scattering it loosely on the leaves around my rock. I anointed my body with sweet drops of scented oil and whispered some wishes to the wind. These, my own spontaneous and solitary rites of spring. Suddenly, the slowly coasting vultures changed course and angled across the blue sky above me. I felt the shadows of their long wings gently cross me as I sat silent in my circle and felt tears rise into my eyes and laughter rise to my lips at the exact same moment as I recognized the feeling of Persephone’s return.
If I were naming the moons, August would be the Mushroom Moon, honoring the things that wait below the surface for the right moment to emerge, the invisible magic beneath our feet, the wisdom of hidden places, the quiet mists that rise from cool water into steamy evenings beneath thunderous skies and cicada song. It speaks of the deepening and the steeping, the shy and the creeping, the unexpected lessons of loam and longing, the vast and stubborn network of all that is unseen, the sky that sings and hopes with wings, and wide, round mysteries on the rise.
In my dream, the Summer Queen is wrapped in summer’s fire, garbed in gowns of gold and brown, and blazing with desire, the grass and grains are winding down, leaning in ebbing spires. She feels the heat beneath her feet, her stride is wide, her lips are sweet, her arms lift up to lightning streaks. She twirls around on thirsty ground raising the passions higher. With hips and hopes expanding wide her heart alight with joy and pride her song is strong, her howls are long, her many prayers are hot and bold and then her plans find ease at last remembering the wheel spins fast it’s nearly time to share the floor, as Autumn’s Queen peeks round the door.
In August, I feel held in a space between summer’s fire and summer’s fatigue. There has been a blooming and a ripening, and now a harvesting and a fading begin as the time comes to turn the page.
There are cracks where inspiration dwells and hope still wanders, places where wonder seeps back onto parched terrain and breathes a promise of joy to come. There are droplets of courage sprinkled across buds of faith and tender shoots taking root in hidden spaces where they will twine into possibilities, seeking and extending tentative petals to the sky, keeping the pact they made before being, to bloom when they can.
At this point in the year I feel held suspended in a space between summer's fire and summer's fatigue. The air is thick and stifling, the flowers are wilting, the ground is parched, and I feel a sensation in the air of the approaching time to "turn the page."
Rescue tadpoles from the evaporating puddle in the driveway. Look for pink roses in the field. Look for wild strawberries along the road. Listen to the crows in the compost pile and try to identify them by their different voices. Plant basil and calendula and a few more rows of lettuce. Examine the buds beginning on the elderberries and check blackberry canes to see if the berries have set. Watch the yellow swallowtail butterflies dance. Wonder about action and apathy and what bridges gaps. Refuse to surrender belief in joy. Listen for faint echoes of hope. Feel the tender beat of humanity pulsing in the world. Feel the sun on your face and water seeping into your jeans. Remember that even if you have to move one tadpole at a time, change is always possible.
Erin Lale
Fellow faculty at Harvard Divinity School posted an open letter to Wolpe in response to his article. It's available on this page, below the call for p...
Erin Lale
Here's another response. The Wild Hunt has a roundup of numerous responses on its site, but it carried this one as a separate article. It is an accoun...
Erin Lale
Here's another response. This one is by a scholar of paganism. It's unfortunately a Facebook post so this link goes to Facebook. She posted the text o...
Erin Lale
Here's another link to a pagan response to the Atlantic article. I would have included this one in my story too if I had seen it before I published it...
Janet Boyer
I love the idea of green burials! I first heard of Recompose right before it launched. I wish there were more here on the East Coast; that's how I'd l...