Exploring the F-word in religion at the intersection of scholarship, activism, and community.
Author: Sara Wright
I am a writer and naturalist who lives in a little log cabin by a brook with my two dogs and a ring necked dove named Lily B. I write a naturalist column for a local paper and also publish essays, poems and prose in a number of other publications.
Gently nibbling seed a bear bird’s hind legs charcoaled nose glimpsed through shade fogged windows… Imagining… Standing where you just stood matter is frozen light yours a golden circlet emerald star circling above us all a beacon of Cosmic Light I weave a crown of grape leaves round and round crafting Prayers for body soul – Your Protection and mine… Standing in your Shadow One. Still, Earth’s Keening keeps us awake at night.
This morning, hummingbirds, hummingbird moths, honeybees with a thousand eyes, brilliant orange fritillaries are capturing nectar from my wild bee balm, butterfly weed, and milkweed. Bee balm stalks are almost as tall as the five-and-a-half-foot Guardian cedar – the latter only planted four years ago.
Early this morning on my daily walk I noted with pleasure the conversation between Yellowthroat and Indigo Bunting (yes they communicate across species) so absentee birds are once again singing after a week of diminishing song which began the morning after the first night of mindless explosions that split the night into fragmented shards of metal, raining down deadly particulate matter and adding even more pollution leaving our air choking with poisons. This kind of noise pollution damages all human cells. This is but one example of an early ‘celebratory’ 4th of July bombing, machine gun fire, and were there fireworks too? I have no idea. The dogs and I left immediately. I always keep the car ready for instant evacuation for us even if I am at camp. A comfortable puff and pillow offer us a bed and netting stretched across the back of the open car making it comfortable to sleep no matter how hot the night is or wherever we end up.
I won’t walk in this fog bound soup – the air is so toxic it’s literally not breathable – let’s hope this is not a prelude to the rest of the summer like it was last year. The solstice marks a turning of the wheel in ancient cultures – a process (more than an event) that is still celebrated by countryfolk and by those who are attached to the land.
As we move deeper into the first days of summer many (most) wildflowers are seeding up even as the sun’s heat intensifies around the longest, days of the year… As I walk through the woods and around my home, I note the first yellowing leaves dropping from fruit trees, others are shriveling, insect ridden. My beans are spiraling skyward … Overall, a vibrant deep green canopy appears to replace luminous lime, and for a moment luminous fireflies light up the night…gardens are overflowing. Tadpoles are birthing back legs, and within the month a radical transformation will have occurred as miniature froglets begin their adult lives in seeps, brooks. ponds or greenery… a miracle of Becoming. There is a poignancy to this turning for me. The birds are fledging, birdsong is somewhat muted. Summer heat and fierce thunderstorms mark the season ahead…cold clear waters and forests are calling…
My friend Lise sent me some words on the eve of Davey’s birthday (unbeknown to me until the 6th) that reminded me of how often I spoke to him during those months.
“The reason I pray to the dead is I trust their timing. They have all the time in the world, after all, and they also see the big picture and the long story. I pray to the dead because, I admit, how little I know, how little I can understand, and how vast the mystery is of the soul.
Let me circle myself with the living who can hold both, with the dead who can hold it all. We are entangled souls…. We are all praying together, with the flowers, the trees, with all that is.” (I substitute talk for pray because that is what I do)
The words came unbidden “go outdoors”. It was dark but I felt my way to the door. I always listen when Nature calls.
Trillime
I had just re -membered that Davey’s birthday was the next day. ‘Happy birthday Beloved’. My little brother would have been 75. I calculated the years with difficulty imagining what it would have been like if he had lived…
Dead at 21 from a self – inflicted gunshot wound, part of me died with my Gemini Twin. I failed him at the end, turning into a parent who was incapable of being emotionally present to listen to a young boy on the verge of adulthood at a time of desperate need. Instead, I parroted my parents’ script, not having developed one of my own…
”You have everything to live for,” I screamed when Davey tried to tell me that he was tired of living.
I no longer blame myself for my inadequacy, but regrets linger on just the same.
It would be eleven years before I was able to begin grieving. Catapulted out of my body at the time of my brother’s death I felt nothing for years as I self- medicated with alcohol and a dreary round of boyfriends while being unable to be emotionally present for my own young children. To feel one must inhabit a body but mine was overflowing with anguish and abandonment. Too dangerous to go there. Isolated and alone, I huddled in my house in silent torment, an absentee mother following the parental script with children of my own.
“Learning entails more than the gathering of information. Learning changes the learner. Like dwarf pines whose form develop with winter’s design, the learner is shaped by what he learns.”
Learning from Nature: A Personal Reflection on Charlie Russell
Naturalist Charlie Russell never went to college. Instead he spent his youth backpacking through the Canadian wilderness with his family. Nature was his mentor and home.
Emerald and lime chartreuse lemon burgundy burnt umber leafy green breath transformer palms and needles raining light magic bean spirals skyward star gazing ferns feather paths pearls at my feet wild lilies woodland valley brook scarlet roots hug weeping fruit trees conversing underground pollinated rose petals nourish moist earth each tear slips away bowed deep gratitude, a grieving moment a thousand bees hum as One. This cycle ends even as another has begun.
I sit under the snowy crabapple as fragile flower petals drift one by one to the ground, covering my hair in white butterflies, soon to become the first mulch of the year. Our Lady is always nourishing new life…
The hum of a thousand bees is deafening – bumblebees – glorious golden rotund bodies swarming from one tree to another with so many relatives – everyone seeking sweet nectar.
The scent is beyond description – intoxicating – a poignant perfume lasting only a few days and keeping me rooted to my bench every single morning to soak in the sweetness under impossible heat. Heavily polluted air is thick and metallic but here I inhale a plethora of fragrances so intense they drown out poisoned air.
Refuge is a place I go to be with other forests. A blessed place…even when I have a dog that is dying. Two free writes from the field where Nature is Queen of May and June…
I am standing on top of a mountain looking over a landscape of unspeakable wild natural beauty that stretches as far as I can see. This is the ‘long view’ the dream -maker tells me. The trees are stretching out their lush green needles to the sky as if in prayer, and they are whole. The forests, clear waters, the animals, birds, insects, and All of Nature has been returned to a State of Grace.
An Old red skinned Indian Man appears. He is a Grandfather. He is on the mountain with me but also stands below (both and). He speaks to me.
“Sit, listen, this is the Song of Life”.
A finely crafted flowing red clay seat appears below (it flows like a wave) although it is situated a few inches above the earth. Almost hovering. I also see a drum made from deerskin and red clay on the ground. There is a four directional equilateral black cross on the skin of the drum. The cross is thick and around the cross an intricate design is etched/inked into its skin also highlighted in black.
Feminism and Religion 