Sara Wright

Vigil by Sara Wright

The third day
dawns under a cloud.
Mourning doves
spread their wings
across leaden skies.
I am walking on air.
Two restless
nights – a huge
truck in the yard –
Blocked,
my stomach lurches.
I read Tributes
in a daze.
Fierce Little Flower
Warrior Woman
fights
a torrent of waves.
She is bridging
raging waters
forging a New Story.

“Weaving the Visions.”
Oh, now I remember
where it all
began.

She hugged a tree.
I plant a seed.
Listening to rounds of
“light and darkness”
I let my body lead.

A serpentine path
guides me
back to
Her Garden.
Cradled by Ancestors
Rooted in Body
I shed another
patriarchal skin.

Earth Rises Again by Sara Wright

A horizon
belching sooty smoke
pollutes
once pure air
pressing invisible
particles, ozone
into granite –
lichen covered mountains –
plant/animal lungs
are coated in filth
just as ours are.
Death hangs over
a leaden sky,
the sweet scent
of moisture
is absent.
Tomorrow’s
bitter orange sunrise
signals what many
still refuse to believe:
The Earth is on Fire.
Those of us capable of Love –
Animals, plants,
Humans, who suffer,
those who fought for justice
continue to grieve
in a Silence
impossible to break.
Change,
if it comes at all
will come too late.
Humans have had 40 years
to prepare…
The age of the
Anthropocene
will not survive
a species gone insane.

Legacy by Sara Wright

When I planted my cedar
in the garden
it seemed like an odd place –
Why bury her amongst
a plethora of summer flowers
unless I feared she’d disappear?
I was afraid to name her –
Guardian.
When delicate fronds
dulled, turned brown
I despaired.

Weeks passed.
I considered pulling
her up by the roots.
‘Replace her’,
an unpleasant voice nagged.
But another chimed in.
‘Give her time; be patient.
Wait and see.’

I listened to the
Voice of Patience
knowing how much
I needed to learn.

All winter I walked by
brushing ice crystals
from frozen lacy fingers.
When April came
the absence of rain
unraveled the spring.

Women, Birds, and Feminism by Sara Wright

When I was about forty years old I discovered a clay deposit on a beach that I visited frequently. Intrigued, I sat down and began working with the river’s gift. I remember my astonishment when a beaked bird – woman emerged out of the clump of damp earth. I could feel a surge of fire pulsing through my body so I took the figure home and placed it on my bedside table, hoping to discern its message.

Shortly thereafter I discovered the work of Marija Gimbutas in the book The Language of the Goddess. There were a number of beaked goddesses pictured in this volume, some uncannily similar to mine. Had I tapped into the world of the ancient bird goddesses? I believed so. Although I had no idea what this might mean these images of Marija’s captured my imagination and kept me questioning. It wasn’t long before I also dreamed other bird goddess images and rendered each of them in clay…

Patriarchy – For Love of Predators by Sara Wright

I live just down the road from one of our many lakes and ponds here in western Maine. Almost every morning I hear the haunting call of the loons as they fly over the house. Although I cherish the symphony I have never figured out why some of these birds making this early morning flight from one lake to another. I have never seen any research that supports my experience – but obviously, for unknown reasons some loons move routinely from pond to pond. Why remains a mystery.

I used to have a woodsman friend who once commented that he didn’t understand why everyone loved loons so much because they were fierce predators who speared their hapless fish, duck, or goslings to death before devouring them. At the time I found Don’s statement ironic (and irritating!) because this man was an excellent brook trout fisherman and deer hunter. In his defense I must add that I had to acknowledge that he also loved all animals; after deer hunting season ended he fed his deer all winter.

Rainy day Reflection by Sara Wright

Although the rain is tapering off we have had a temporary reprieve from the drought that has followed us through last year into spring and summer. Although the brook is flowing too quietly even after three days of showers the air is sweet and the trees and plants have turned their leaves to the sky to let the Cloud People bless them with the moisture they so desperately need. Tree lichens are a brilliant green, mosses are emerald sponges and every fern hovers over the small oasis of wet ground that s/he covers. This behavior will protect portions of earth from the sun and wind that will return too soon to dry out the soil.

Amazingly in my perennial flower garden the rain actually coaxed summer lilies into bloom along with delphinium and scarlet bee balm. Salmon poppies continue to pop and the hybrid lemon lilies will soon follow. Blossoming in the rain is a flower phenomenon I have not experienced before, but this development may not be surprising. Nature learns and adapts; perhaps bringing plants into flower in the rain is a new strategy s/he has developed for plant survival? Sadly, I have not been able to water my perennial garden all spring/early summer because of pernicious drought.

Midsummer Births a Goddess: In Honor of Carol Christ by Sara Wright

This year, more than ever before, I note a very subtle shift that is occurring as we approach the middle of July. Lots of humidity – and I confess – I love the sweet summer scent as long as it isn’t hot. The days are losing a minute or two of light. Instead of slamming out of bed in the pre-dawn hour I find myself sleeping until 6AM and my dogs want to sleep in until 9 on gray foggy mornings like today. The birds are quieter, their songs less intense although my feeder is visited by hoards of youngsters, many of which are still being fed by their parents.

The Wood thrush has moved deeper into the forest, so it is the Mourning doves who begin my day with song. Most of all, I notice the richness, the vibrancy of deep summer green. Even though my flower garden is on fire with primary colors, I can’t seem to soak in enough greening to satisfy my hungry heart..

Subtle changes like this probably go unnoticed by most but for me they are signs of the goddess coming into her own…I am curious if anyone else senses this shift of energy.

__________________________________________________________________

I wrote the prose and poem this morning July 14^th for Carol’s blog not knowing at that time that this most compassionate woman, feminist scholar, mentor, friend had died shortly after midnight. When I saw the notice on the Internet I was stunned. It seemed so impersonal to receive such heartbreaking news in this manner. When I came back to read this piece I realized that indeed, Midsummer had given birth to a Goddess and her name was Carol Christ.

Perilous Passages by Sara Wright

Old Woman cackled on the wing
a pterodactyl with claws
crimson black and white
a great wind
was howling
and she was too.
Passages she screeched.
Her wrath undid me.

The Way was Narrow.
Cushions of moss
calmed wet cavern walls,
steep stones threatened
uncertain footsteps,
echoing my descent.
At the bottom
of the well
Silence rang out
like a bell.

Meditation in July – Weekend of July 4th by Sara Wright

I offered up morning prayers at dawn this July morning to the song of cardinals, rose breasted grosbeaks, and just barely rippling waters. The air was sweetened by water. Peace filtered through the green – seedlings, lichens, mosses, grasses, ferns, trees, clear mountain waters. Silence, except for the birds’ benediction.

I honored my body with a poem. I also repeated my hope that my house will get the necessary structural help she needs, that the work will be completed. At the brook I experienced my body rooting into forested soil… I am loved here; I belong here – at least for now.

The drought drones on, although today at least we have light rain falling, for which I am profoundly grateful, especially because the dreaded 4^th of July weekend is ahead – if only the rain will continue the deafening explosions might be tempered. In case this does not happen the dogs and I are going to retreat to the silence and peace of the woodlands to spend our nights in the car, the back of which has been turned into a comfortable bed.

Fourth of July: A Time to Mourn by Sara Wright

I awakened to dove gray skies and the sweet scent of falling rain. Soaking in the greening of a fully leafed out forest and the stillness of early dawn felt like a gift because these quiet moments are precious and precarious on the weekend Americans celebrate ‘Independence Day’.

As a person with mixed heritage (Passamaquoddy) I am not one of those people. Indigenous peoples of the Americas have nothing to embrace on this weekend. We are still invisible; we are still discriminated against. We are still outsiders.

Along with the emphasis on Black Lives Matter I often wonder why Red people are not included in the current cultural outrage. These are the people who were deliberately poisoned with smallpox, and also murdered and herded onto reservations by the colonists who took over this once wild and untrammeled country, systematically destroying its beauty by slaughtering the trees and animals that once grew into stately giants or roamed free. Why would Indigenous peoples or any other minority celebrate an Independence Day that occurred at their expense?