Part 1 was posted last week. You can read it here.
About ten years ago I began to keep a (public) though never advertised blog to help me keep track of my life. Because I am so severely directionally dyslexic this blog helped me to organize my material. Drafts of published and unpublished papers, poetry, opinions, changing seasons, virtually anything that I was experiencing and writing about ended up on that blog. Without conscious awareness/intention I began to include the more esoteric aspects of my experiences, and this is how stories of Lily b, lizards, various extraordinary encounters with birds, bears etc. ended up on this online journal sort of by ‘accident’. I didn’t even realize what was happening. I wasn’t talking about these experiences, but I was starting to write about them publicly, not just privately. People read what I wrote, I realized vaguely. Frankly this didn’t matter much because that wasn’t why I kept an online journal. Its primary purpose was twofold. It helped me organize my writings but more importantly it distanced me from particulars so that patterns emerged. Enter NPR. Anna had apparently been reading my blog for a couple of years and asked me if I would do an interview on Lily b my telepathic bird. I was astonished, but agreed, although with some trepidation because I had so rarely discussed this subject. The old fear of crazy surfaced.
Every year in my course “Feminism and the Environmental Movements,” we take a part of one class session about halfway through the semester and explore what an ecofeminist world should look like. I begin by drawing a large circle on the whiteboard, representing the world and as a class we discuss what belongs in the world. That information goes on the inside of the circle. What we don’t think belongs within an ecofeminist world, I write on the far corners of the board. Then there are those topics about which no consensus can be made. Those I write along the edge of the circle, and we spend considerable class time debating the reasons why those ideas are controversial.
Sometimes I describe my work and writing as “a love song to the Ozarks.” I am deeply embedded, body and soul, in this land that I come from, my bloodland, the place where I belong. Seven generations of my family have called these wooded hillsides and stony ridgetops home. This is my mystery school, where I explore hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the earth.
The Earth is my teacher I shall always want I witness her still meadows She leadeth me to green pastures She restoreth my soul On tree covered hills She reminds me I am home and, yea, I walk in her valleys and I fear no suffering She is with me Her mountains and rolling rivers they comfort me joy bubbles through my veins and enlivens my footsteps my cup runneth over truly I stand in mysterious awareness all the days of my life and She holds me in the palm of her hand forever.
Reflecting on the contradictions of modern life, this essay explores how both wilderness and female embodiment became culturally suspect within Western thought. Drawing on themes of estrangement, relational ontology and kinship, it considers how practices of attention, presence and nature connection may help us return to a deeper sense of belonging.
We wait. We wait for the bus. We wait for the spring to return. We wait for our first cup of coffee (or tea? Do people actually wait for tea?) in the morning. We wait at traffic lights. We wait for test results. We spend a lot of our lives waiting.
We also can’t wait. To be 5 and a half. To be an adult. To start the school year. To spend time with our friends. To go on vacation. To find a (new) (better) job. We wait for a better world. Waiting can be fraught with anything from nervous energy to debilitating anxiety.
This waiting happens for both seemingly insignificant but also profound reasons. However, waiting does not mean inaction. It does not mean that we sit around hoping something will happen for us or to us. Yes, there are some aspects of life we cannot change or hurry the results. Yet, there are many parts of waiting that require our active participation.
the circle repeats tightens with age crushing an aging heart I cannot breathe through these lifetimes of loss instead I relive old pain 4AM lasts an eternity each mourning
I am a plant woman, that is a woman who has an intimate relationship with plants. As an ecofeminist writer I believe that women and plants have a ‘natural’ connection to one another. We see this mythologically as women turn into trees, hold ceremonies under trees, listen to them for wisdom, take comfort from them in distress.
Why do we look to the stars for direction and ignore the urgent messages about interspecies communication that trees and plants convey to us here on earth?
I think this is a very important question to be asking when our planet is facing ecological collapse.
Moderator’s Note: This post was written in early February, 2026
The Big Bear Moon
(Ojibwe and other Northern Tribes)
We know that each full moon exerts a powerful pull on the earth. At the full moon, the Earth, Moon, and Sun align and the tidal bulges on both sides of the earth manifest as extremes (reminds us that extremes are part of all nature).
This full moon, called the Big Bear Moon also ushers in the First Turning of the year. Last night’s luminous round pearl reminds me that every full moon creates a magnetic and gravitational pull that effects every living being on this planet.
Dealing with these natural extremes on a personal level is necessary if sometimes unpleasant work. I have been a regular journal keeper for 50 plus years and notice that each full moon brings on physical symptoms that have increased in severity with age (inability to sleep/headache spikes/ irritability). When I was younger, I experienced the full moon’s pull as a potent ‘high’ that energized me too much. Another curious consistency is that for me the worst human betrayals including self – betrayal have occurred occur around or during the full moons. I have learned not to make personal decisions during this period and to watch out for weird highs/lows and for inexplicable/explosive anger.
Lately I also have been thinking about the forest whose individual trees synchronize to prepare for the magnetic/and gravitational pull of lunar and solar cycles/includes eclipses, etc. that literally suck up water drying trees out, so trees have learned to shut down to protect themselves from water loss. These extremes are particularly dangerous for young trees who have few if any water reserves, so old trees communicate to the seedlings/adolescents what to expect and what to do. Afterwards, trees separate again into individuals, but they also remain connected through their root systems and through the air so interspecies relationship within the forest does not cease. I wonder if during the winter months the trees are less likely to dry out during celestial events because so many are sleeping? Although most tree energy/power descends below to roots and the mycelial networks where life keeps humming, in colder climates natural antifreeze remains in tree trunks and expands during full moons. Sometimes the antifreeze isn’t enough to stop cracking which will damage the tree.
Plants as well as trees respond to the Moon’s gravitational and magnetic pull through leaf movements, altered stem/root growth, and by absorbing more water to compensate for shrinkage. I have noticed all these effects occurring in my houseplants during the months I spend more time inside with plants and the moon.
Winters go on forever and without my beloved bright green houseplants I would be bereft. I have been paying very close attention to my passionflowers this week during the waxing moon which is also occurring at the First Turning of the year.
One beauty needs repotting and until four days ago I planned to do this job in a couple of weeks. While immersed in another project I received an urgent message from that plant: repot me now. (root growth) Her voice was so insistent that I immediately dropped what I was doing to respond (all plants communicate with those who love them). As usual I expected an ordeal for both of us, so I was stunned to see how easily the plant separated from her pot. Although her thick white roots were spiraling out of the bottom, the whole plant let go without my help (this has never happened to me before – usually re-potting is traumatic with the plant giving off a scent that I associate with pain because plants make sounds or scents when hurt) Ah, she knew when the timing was just right and I (thankfully) was listening! Another point worth mentioning is that repotting/cutting creates distress for all plants. This repotted passionflower had no reaction at all and is already showing new stem growth.
I have also been watching my two other passionflowers. The two in the south windows have required daily watering One is a cutting I placed in a dove pot early last summer that has vined herself around the whole southern window and is now attaching tendrils to the ceiling and a piece of string that I attached to the plant to give the tendrils purchase if/ as the vine moves across the room. Instead of turning south the top of this vine seems to be traveling northeast– or was (it might be important to add that I also had a dream that my dog Coalie and I were traveling northeast via the coast earlier this month). In the last two days the tendrils have reversed their trajectory and are climbing back over themselves towards the west! It’s winter, and southern sun is normally what these plants love.
The Big Bear moon was full last night and this morning the passionflower is once again traveling northeast! So, this reversal was temporary, but it demonstrates the powers of the moon (and other celestial bodies) to create effects like reversals on earth, humans included. Intriguing to say the least.
The third passionflower is in a window that faces north/ northeast. I planted cuttings for someone whose brutal betrayal last spring on the full moon and good friday*(2) unhinged me. After crucifixion day this passionflower immediately developed a mass of blooms, eight weeks before the onset of her regular blossoming cycle. A crown of thorns greeted me each day.
The trauma was so severe that I lost two months of my life. When each astonishing blossom scented the air I felt the knife twist like a corkscrew deepening the hole in my gut. After two plus months nature intervened and I was free at last.
But it took months before I was able to separate that one passionflower from the Betrayer. My passionflowers lived outdoors for the summer which allowed me some space. I started new plants. Both prospered under my care. When I was able, I asked the original plant for forgiveness, but it was too late. My lack of love and attention resulted in a passionflower that was no longer thriving.
Today I remain the ‘Old Woman’ in the crucifier’s life. What I will never forget is that he scapegoated me without cause; I do not hate him but I do not wish him well. That crown of thorns is on his head, not mine.
Lately, I have been asking the passionflower that produced vines and flowers for a killer of soul what to do. Yesterday I received a nudge. Take three cuttings and let me go.
Begin again.
The words could have come from a fairy tale.
I followed the first directions. Next, I burned both my homemade solstice balsam wreaths to acknowledge the circle that had been broken.
I am hedging around throwing out the old plant – part of me wonders if I need to wait until she speaks again – or maybe I am just not ready. Plants are wonderfully patient with humans who often need many more than one set of instructions.
This morning the three cuttings are waving their tendrils towards the light – (normally they droop for days). The repotted plant looks as if ki has been in her new home for a while. No indication that she has just been repotted!
Plants are Powerful Teachers and I am in perpetual awe of how little I know, how mysterious the ways of nature remain. But in this process of writing about plants, I have also uncovered my most recent intentions. Nature, no doubt has known all along!!
Postscript: February 5 9AM – this morning I was stunned to see a bud emerge from a new plant just repotted…. this too has never happened before (this plant has not lived long enough to adjust her cycle for blooming to the light the plant receives in the house). How important it is to learn how to observe and to listen!
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(1) February 2nd is when the bear first leaves his den to determine how much longer winter will last – if he doesn’t see the sun, he knows that winter will last much longer. When the colonists arrived, they turned the Indigenous bear story into a groundhog story)
(2) (AI) The passionflower is steeped in16th-century Christian mythology, where Spanish missionaries interpreted its unique structure as symbols of the Passion of Christ. The corona filaments represented the Crown of Thorns, while the three stigmas symbolized the nails, and the five anthers were wounds.
My commentary:.
In pre – christian/christian mythology one sees Osiris, Dionysus, and Jesus all wearing crowns of one sort or another. Both sides of the archetype can be lived out depending upon whichever side of the alignment a person is living through. For example, in myth Dionysus wore a crown to celebrate joy; Jesus wore a crown to die. Osiris wore a crown depicting his rule over the Underworld.
For Indigenous peoples of South America the passionflower is called the Vine of Souls.
Let us trust the cycles
of retreat and renewal
alive in both the land
and in our hearts right now
as the melody of belonging
continues to serenade us
and we follow April’s determination
to create and shape
this world anew.
And, so, April arrives all at once to enliven the land, trailing cool breezes and the first blush of pollen possibility across fields and forests, fence rows and farms. She blankets open spaces with purple clover and violets, with chickweed and dandelion. When we pause to listen, we can hear the laughter of awakening rippling behind her. She brings an invitation into healing, into extending outward and reaching up. She offers wild promise and tender hope and the sweet, fresh breath of change. Let us soften into spring, into this invitation, into restoration and reclamation. It is now that we choose. Let us be content to be here, witnessing the changes, leaning into the wind, and savoring the blooming. Let us trust the cycles of retreat and renewal alive in both the land and in our hearts right now as the melody of belonging continues to serenade us and we follow April’s determination to create and shape this world anew.
When I picked berries in the mountain field that first summer, I could sense wave after wave of feeling rising up – seeping into my feet from the ground below. The sun spread blue heat over the hills, and I bathed in summer’s glow. For the first time in my life I felt visible, witnessed for who I really was and accepted: I was loved –unconditionally loved by a Mother. That She was a mountain field didn’t seem odd at all. I loved her back – fiercely. I marveled. To be in love with my goddess, the one that lived in this field, brook, young forest, the one who inhabited each of these rolling hills and mountains seemed so natural. Remarkably, She celebrated my presence not only by gifting me with a love that ran like a great underground river beneath me but because She created a palpable sense of belonging. I belonged to Her. She loved me just because I was. I couldn’t get over it. My gratitude knew no bounds. All I wanted to do was to serve her…
She was visible in so many ways – in the riot of purple and green jack in the pulpits that sprung out of the sphagnum moss behind the camp in the moist valley that often filled with water, through the solitary pink lady slipper that appeared by the bridge that crossed the brook, the tiny white swamp violets, the blue fringed gentians and pearl-white turtleheads that popped up in the meadow fed by it’s own spring in the center of the field.
I glimpsed her face in the cedar that sprung to life in the rich wooded soil that bordered the brook, she sang to me from the wild apple branches that bowed over rippling water, she blinked through each firefly night, burst into a “high” when thunder and lightening churned up the waters and the brook overflowed – White Fire crackling out of her clouds and slamming into me.
Feminism and Religion 