Impossible Things
Back in September, when we had our first bit of cold weather, I had to make a decision: will I practice cold water immersion […]
Into a Labyrinth of Resonances
Human attention is a curious, precious thing. I am thinking of my own experience with attention. How, when gathered and
Threshold to the Otherworld
We think of language as a hallmark of our species. Something we have, that other animals do not. A repertoire
The Improbable Moon
If you gaze deep enough into the Cosmos, you will find the Cosmos dwelling within you. Or, as the case may be, if you gaze deep enough at the Moon, you will find the Grandmother gazing deep into you…
Night Swim With the New Moon
We went for a night swim in the river, with only a candle tucked in our pockets. The path was
The Golden Path
The mountains are woven with trails, and many of them are secret. Some of them go to secret places, and you
Thank You For Not Breaking
pastel on paper, 8.4 x 11″
This morning I dropped a cute decorative measuring cup. It has little red dots on the outside and a scalloped edge––just a little ceramic thing. And it didn’t break. I dashed to pick it up, and without thinking said, “Thank you for not breaking.”
Which is to say, the world is alive in ways I don’t see or understand. Obviously, my little ceramic bowl doesn’t have a heartbeat, or possess any reproductive capacities–but it is made of atoms, inexplicable packets of energy whirling through emptiness. Those atoms are organized into bowl. And it was made in the mind of someone, too. It carries a story.
Asters: Lamps for the Dark Queen
The asters are the heralds for the Queen of the Night. Blooming near the equinox, until frost, they hail her forth from the caves and shadows and deep water pools where she has slept, waiting for her time to return to the land.
She is an Otherworld Queen. Her feet step soft upon the earth, and all the roots of things begin to dream their healing. Even in ourselves. But we must be still, and quiet, and feel for her presence with our skin.
Thick Fog Morning
It’s the last day of August. One of those thick fog mornings. It feels like the lull at high tide, just before the ocean pulls back on itself. A stretched breath. A slow turn at the arc of the seasons. Usually by this time of the year I am ready for fall. For the air to turn crisp. For the architecture of the forest to reveal itself once again. For the tobacco-sweet smell of the earth on our wooded paths. But on this morning, at least, I am not ready.