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Today, I gathered five candles,
some sea salt
in a small dark cauldron,
a lighter in a starry brass holder,
a rattle made of gourd,
a singing bowl,
a crow's feather,
and my determination.
I watched the candles flare
and called in inspiration,
for the faith to keep on going
in a world that too often
feels crumpled with despair.
I planted my feet,
reached out my hands,
and lifted my voice,
believing with everything
I have left
that no matter how many stories
have been told to us
about brokenness,
we're here anyway
still whole.

This past weekend I held a small summer solstice retreat with six friends. It was supposed to be larger, but people kept cancelling. It was supposed to be at the river, but risky heat indexes put us inside. It was supposed to be cooler inside, but the AC went out and we were relegated to the basement. And, it was perfect. It was just what I (and we) needed. Something that I remembered after the retreat was over was of the importance of paying attention to how you feel after something is over. Let those moments teach you.

I've been thinking and writing recently about reorienting our lives by joy and steering away from obligation. How we feel after something is over can tell us a lot about whether we are steering our lives by joy or obligation.

It is now that the hydrangeas 

are in bloom, 

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.

I carried lemon balm

and sweet almond oil with me

Here we are in this liminal space
in which old chapters close
and things are laid aside,
set down,
put to rest.
We exhale into the stillness,
into the waiting time
between times
So, too, we may feel
newness and promise
coiled and pulsing,
sometimes whispering,
sometimes shouting,
sometimes singing
of the new and beautiful,
the exciting and inspiring.
May we have the courage
to sit between these two calls
listening.
May we allow ourselves
to settle for a spell
right here
between the tight and tender.
May we know both brave action
and brave stillness
as we allow the old and new
to steep together
in peace and trust
inside the crucible of change. 

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.