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.
For five days this March, I gifted myself with a stay at the Meher Baba Center in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. I often plan short getaways to help me find my center and decompress from everyday life. The contrast between “worlds” is very great when you’re staying in a pristine nature preserve with the overwhelming commercialism of Myrtle Beach right outside the gates. I knew that this retreat was helping me to deal with a similar conflict I felt in my body, from the pain and stress of living in this moment in time. Poems flowed easily, and I’m grateful for that.
Lagoon Bridge
Retreat in Myrtle Beach
A preserve of five hundred acres, here on the South Carolina coast, where fresh-water lagoons teem with waterbirds just across the forested dunes from the breaking ocean waves. Turtles sun in the grass, deer leap and raise generations. A preserve! and out beyond the gates, over the protecting wall, is Myrtle Beach, another type of Mecca. Come out the gate, and it’s “Hooters!” then, “Tsunami Beach Souvenir Shop!” (everything on sale!) then, “Maui Beach Miniature Golf,” with an exploding volcano! and of course, “the MAGA Megastore,” who’ll sell you anything you could want or need. This morning I awoke in my sweet-smelling cabin, little propane heater in the old fireplace keeping me warm. And here is the teaching: Plant your feet on the Earth. Love this greenness, these creatures, love Yourself, because the entire off-kilter, out-of-balance, koyaanisqatsi (*) world out there is depending on You: feet planted, head in the stars.
Those of us on the paths of the Divine Feminine can go to great lengths to approach Her. We might read and study hard-to-find books, invest time and money to visit temples and museums, and seek out Goddesses-related power spots around the world. We might acquire ceremonial jewelry and devotional artworks, attend conferences, track down Goddesses-inspired music, and apprentice with teachers from spiritual traditions that may be far removed from our own heritage. We might invest in supplies and training to craft devotional music, art, sculpture, and apparel, and create or attend performances, healings, and rituals honoring the Feminine Sacred.
Yet there is one important ritual activity that we routinely forget and ignore, one that we know was key to Goddess worship whenever we have written prayers, from Demeter to Inanna, Isis to Freyja, Hekate to Sarasvati. This time-honored practice is simple to learn, costs nothing to use, and quickly, safely, and legally creates an altered state of mind that brilliantly and efficiently connects us with our spirits, the natural world, the Divine Feminine, and each other. And furthermore, this ancient sacred craft is not limited to indigenous or ancient cultures but is already part of the familiar heritage of anyone who speaks English, so there is no danger of cultural appropriation in using it.
My god bleeds with me Her feet right beside mine for morning gratitudes Soles to soils, we touch skin to skin She’s vast like me And I love her
My god grieves when I do My sorrows meet Hers at the ocean shore Vial for vial, our tears make our medicine She can transmute anything, just like me And I love Her
She courts me leaves me love notes in the shapes of flower petals winks at me in amber sunsets morning serenades and juicy fruits She loves me! She lifes me! And I love and I life Her too
I write to find out who I am becoming and when I implored Sedna to take me back to the sea I came to know my roots to Place were broken by age by betrayal by loneliness by advocating for a planet animals, trees by people who do not listen by people who will not see
like Mother Pine moaning outside my door I too moan Unforgiving Ice and Wind Treachery on every path Trees encased in White
At the Bottom of the Well Water Murmured accept this Break
Underground Mycorrhizal threads remain your Guides
Sedna rises meets you on dry land for the second time in one year
This is not Augustine’s confessions. This is not an essay on what love should mean. This is a poetic evocation of recognizing the beauty of friendship, the beauty of companionship. The blessing of breaking bread together and sharing in conversation that is the heart of who and how we are. Who and how we are forever becoming. Even when the Muse abandons us. My dear friend, Ann, and I shared a wonderful lunch, talking, tears, supreme laughter, exquisite food. During that conversation, it became clear to me that the poetry of life is love that is situated where kindness and kinship and commitment highlight our meaning, our meaning for being and doing, which is intimately linked, for many of us, with our pens to the page. Fingers to the keyboard. Twinned and intertwined with lushness of choice. A choice to have boundaries, whereby though the heart and the flesh can feel moved by what may present itself to be love, stepping back and feeling with the intellect of the heart and the intellect of the mind what is not being said, what is not being expressed warrants keen attention. A life-changing recognition of the possibility to wash away miasma and mist and pretence. And to stare directly into the depth and clarity that is: Wisdom. She Who Is. Sophia Speaking.
Author’s Note: I wrote these two poems back to back and didn’t realize until afterwards that they belong together.
Storm Sky Invasion
I stand at the window peering through haze gray on gray or is it white a tangle of bare branches obscure powdered hemlocks lining a frozen brook ki winding her way under ICE to the sea where marble eyed Seal stands watch on a stone centering a lake whose boundaries remain obscure Guardian of Flowing Waters freed from constraints freezing just one her sleek coat I stand at the window peering through haze gray on gray or is it white a tangle of bare branches obscure powdered hemlocks lining a frozen brook ki winding her way under ICE to the sea where marble eyed Seal stands watch on a stone centering a lake whose boundaries remain obscure Guardian of Flowing Waters freed from constraints freezing just one her sleek coat a dream shining through descent each step takes us deeper. I thought I saw a fish? One silver dagger Twins with swords puncture frigid air one falls to ground water petrified by an unearthly chill ever darkening skies blur the force of an oncoming storm ICE a threat black and white crocheted extremes hidden behind masks of the dead
Oh yes, I’m grateful for the Portland frog—that blow up adult sized character with the pink scarf blowing back in the wind facing down a squad of ICE “officers.”
I’m so grateful for all the blow-up adult size characters who showed up at the largest protest for anything, single day protest in the U.S. to shout NO KINGS!! And more—the blow-up Tiger with the sign “Fascists get scratches!” My wife inside a blow-up bear, the California bear! With a sign that said, “Yes on 50!”
And so grateful we won: yes, on 50!
Grateful, grateful, for Indivisible! Spreading like Morning Glory. Glory! Glory! Across all 50 states and feeding people, feeding children, passing out whistles – alerting communities when ICE is nearby, stopping ICE in their tracks when they are places, especially in front of schools… I mean, why are they there? (As Gertude says, “There is no there there.”)
But this is a grateful poem. A rant.
I’m grateful for the blow-up unicorn with the sign, “Honk if you are not on the Epstein list.” Dancing on the curb with the rest of us. I’m grateful for all the cars honking as they went by us and all the food donated to give to people in need—some of those in hiding since last spring when this b.s. started – this f*** bullshit– but this is a grateful poem. A rant.
Feminism and Religion 