Notes from the Cauldron of Change, by Molly Remer

As summer’s heat presses in
and the clamor of growth and change
rises to a peak of abundance and urgency,
we may begin to hear a summons
from deep within.
The cauldron call begins,
at first a whisper
and then an irresistible song
that leads us away from the to-do list
and into a mystical realm
in which dreams and desire meet
and begin to bubble into possibility.
May we grant ourselves space
for descent,
even in the middle of all that
is hot and bright and beautiful.
May we listen to the yearning we feel
to explore the depths,
stepping out of the light
and into the cool shadows
that beckons us to steep.
Right here,
right now,
in the middle of all that swirls,
is when we are invited to stop,
to put our ears back down
to our souls
and listen hard.
It is now that we are invited
to step into the cauldron of change,
to sink down
and in
and let everything we are carrying
soften and melt away
while we remember how it feels
to simmer in everything
we have made,
all that we love to taste
and serve.

For years now, August has been my “Cauldron Month,” a dedicated time in which I take my life into the metaphorical cauldron of being, to reflect, to re-collect, to reconnect, to consider what I’m “simmering” in, what is bubbling and brewing in my days, and what needs to be scooped out of the pot. It is time in which I review the year to date and consider where I’m going, what I’m savoring, and what I’m dishing up to serve.

This year, in our community wheel of the year, I also included four cauldrons–the Cauldron of Creation, the Cauldron of Change, the Cauldron of the Crossroads, and the Cauldron of the Cave–as rest and contemplation points through the year as we move through the eight pagan holidays. The Cauldron of Change was in July and each week we met virtually to explore these themes. From these gatherings, I collected some notes from the Cauldron to share with the rest of you.

Tend to Your Soul Garden

At the risk of mixing too many metaphors, in the Cauldron of Change, we considered our own inner gardens, asking: How is your inner garden doing?

What’s thriving without much tending? What is withering? Where have the weeds taken over? What is thirsty? What wants to be planted? What is flourishing and full of life?

Mirabai Starr writes that to be a mystic is to “harvest the bounty of your own soul garden,” a place that is “both wild and tended,” sometimes lush and sometimes arid. She reminds us:

“When the conditions of your soul seem to dry up, explore the hidden life beneath the surface and be patient. The rains will come again.”

(Mirabai Starr, Ordinary Mysticism)

In the heat of summer–not just in the weather itself, but also in life–a season where everything might feel hot and urgent and overgrown, the inner garden can quickly become weedy and wild. Our days fill with logistics and obligations and the things that feed and nourish our spirits become negotiable, optional, and only “if there’s time.” It is worth considering that your inner garden is not a luxury project, but the ground your whole life stands on. It needs weeding. It needs water.

Let Summer Be Summer

What if the summer season is not asking us to be better?

What if summer is asking us to:

• Put some of our tasks and to-do’s onto the compost heap and let them transform into something else.
• Make a space in the calendar “so large you could drive through it.”*
• Let summer be summer.*
• And in so doing, let ourselves be ourselves.

“Love the one you’re with,” the song says, but a twist for this summer of practice becomes: “If you can’t be the self you thought you’d be by now, love the self you actually are.*”

What is this season asking for from you? Can you allow summer to be summer and you to be yourself?

*First quote is from Alix Klingenberg and second is from Lily Williams and the third is inspired by Maia Toll. All drawn from our July community practice lives.

Sacred Yet and Holy Now

For years I’ve talked about sacred yes and the holy no—the art of choosing, of saying yes to what feeds your soul and no to what drains it.

But this year, an unexpected typo gifted me a new pair of phrases: sacred yet and holy now.

I accidentally typed those words into our July handbook and didn’t even notice the mistake until after printing and binding my own copy. At first I was embarrassed by the typo, but then I actually started to fall in love with the new pairing.

Sacred yet:
the waiting place, the not-yet, the unfinished project, the dream that hasn’t had enough time or space to fully unfurl.

Holy now:
this exact moment—the messy kitchen, the disoriented summer, the tired body, the scattered focus—still, somehow, holy.

We live most of our lives in the overlap between sacred yet and holy now.

We are always becoming, and we are always already here.

How are you feeling “sacred yet” and “holy now” at work in your summer days?

Stepping Into the Cauldron (Right Where You Are)

Taking some time in the cauldron does not mean abandoning your life or your responsibilities, but to step more fully into it. It is an invitation to, as Anne Sexton wrote, put your ear back down to your soul and listen hard.

You are allowed to be fully here.
You are allowed to let summer be summer.
You are allowed to belong to this moment, just as you are.

Your life—this very one you are actually living, with work and travel and the laundry and climate change and political upheaval and global crisis and tired eyes and tiny, luminous encounters you didn’t expect, but happened to notice—IS the cauldron.

You are already in it.

The work is not to get somewhere else. The work is to stay, to pay attention, and to trust that your longing, your tiredness, your joy, and your everyday magic are all ingredients in an ongoing spell of presence and becoming.

I believe one irrefutable promise: when you show up for your own life, the sacred shows up too. Over and over again, I see that when we keep the door cracked open, the holy slips in to sit beside us, right in the heart of our own lives.

I step into the cauldron of change
and I simmer here,
in the depths of my own life.
I call back the months behind me,
the bright days and the heavy ones,
the almost-finished things,
the forgotten dreams,
the seeds that never sprouted,
and the ones still growing underground.
I tumble with the turning.
I allow myself to choose and to change.
I place into the cauldron
all that is too bright and too buzzy,
every demand to be endlessly productive,
every should and every not‑enough.
May what is ready to be released,
soften and melt away.
May what is ready to steep,
brew into a deeper wisdom.
May what is sweet and true,
rise to the surface to be savored.
Thank you.