My ancestors rode across the steppes rode beneath the rolling thunder. Between them and the land their mother there was no divide but the trampling of hooves. The dancing of shamans rumbled the earth below and shook the skies above. Fire carried the departed back to the stars and archers on horseback led an age of gold and valor. And now I sit and languish, riding only a rusty beast in an age of entropy, of the artificial mourning the past, fearing the future.
As the trees go bare and the winds chill, we hear ancestors whisper in dreams and in stones, we hear a summons rising on the steam and trailing through our bones. We set forth seeking mystery, craving understanding, determined that we will listen, we will change, we will keep our promises. We descend and we remember. We find the cauldron full-bellied and black. We gather by the fire. We peer inside the depths. We have been steeping in the broth of our own liberation, brewing dreams and stirring in as much hope as we can find. Finally, we pause, patient with all that is undone, unknown, and unfinishable. We recognize that we may never arrive and yet, we are here anyway. Slowly, we begin to consume the stuff of our own renewal, the sustenance we crave. Quietly, we savor the taste of what we've made of our lives. With gratitude, we realize: it is good.
So happy to announce the release of my newest book of poems: In the Temple of the Ordinary, vol. 2! It is available right now via Amazon and Barnes and Noble and also open for pre-order on Kindle.
One truth of being human on this small and glorious earth is that we carry whole worlds within us, inner realms of infinite breadth and depth. We also hold the capacity to bring some parts of this invisible world from the pool of the infinite into physical form. We are makers and knowers, world benders and magic speakers. The power is within us all the time. We carry life's original fire, the great flaring forth, inside us at this very moment. I am awestruck at this magic.
I'm preparing for a "Sacred She" ceremony with my local circle on Saturday. I'm finding it more challenging than I would have anticipated to ease back into working with a larger circle. I've been holding tiny circles for the last two years, but I haven't done much larger circle work since pre-pandemic.
The turning of the seasonal wheel is a feast for the senses, sometimes it seems all I've done is sit on the same swing in the same place while the wheel turns around me, the tapestry of birds and leaves, flowers and berries, budding, blooming, peaking, and dropping as I sit and see, bare branches spinning into tips of green catching the sun, spreading into great green umbrellas and then fading to yellow. White flowers blushed with pink becoming tight knots of green berry deepening to black and then gone again rusty red canes crowned with thorns and patience. Gray juncos to orange orioles, to swift hummingbirds to black capped chickadees and back to gray juncos again, a swirl of feathers, and color and song. Watch carefully. Remember to laugh. Sit in the center as often as possible. Feel how it all spins.
Here's a little something I wrote in honor of the Ancestors:
Step into the light Wearing your ancestors Like a cloak Like a crown Bearing their power Into the future Generations of love Stand behind you Upholding you Hear their voices Urging you on Feel their wisdom Guiding your thoughts Their hands Holding yours Never fear You are not alone
In the early hours of night-morning, I am summoned by the eclipsing moon, waking suddenly with a sense of delight bubbling behind my breastbone. My heart is beating fast and a sense of wild, anticipatory glee fizzes in my bones. My feet are cold on fine sparkles of frost as I gaze upward, hand against my heart at the crescent of full moon. I hear a noise behind me and turn to see the white flashes of two deer in the woods. They move only a few feet away and then stand there, dark and silent watching me. I kiss my hand and lift it to the moon three times. Orion is leaning on the rooftop and the sky is alive with stars. I am a priestess on a spinning Earth in the temple of night, my body an altar beneath a shadowed moon. My breaths are an offering, my heartbeat a song of praise, in this, a rite of resetting. I return to my bed and lie there for a long time, eyes bright, listening to star song, kept awake by poems.
Thesseli
You should post on Substack too, where you won't have to worry about being deplatformed or kicked off the site for your views. (Also, I've archived th...
David Dashifen Kees
I feel it necessary to state, unequivocally, that anti-trans points of view are not an essential part of Paganism. As a trans Pagan myself who helps ...
Beautiful!
Thank you, Archer! Ha, appropriate name!
