Seasons – Feminism and Religion

Samhain Slowing by Molly M Remer

Today,
I sat and let both my breath
and my thoughts be soft,
extending my hands
and feeling my life and mind unclench
if only for these moments.
On Samhain morning,
we saw a buck
in the road,
trees still clad in autumn color
lit gold behind him
as he stood at the crossroads
before leaping away
between the trees.
On Samhain evening
we saw five bucks in the road,
young males teamed up
for this season of seeking and claiming.
On the drive home
an orange moon was on the rise
cresting dark trees
and peeking between hills
like something out of mystery.
I lifted my hand and blew it a kiss
this, my own solitary rite of Samhain.
On the first of November,
I sat with my memories,
naming off my most recent ancestors,
each face briefly coming to mind
as I felt grateful
for the oldest child privilege
of knowing each of them
in the flesh
and carrying the memory
deep inside me
of how my birth was celebrated
by so many loving people now lost.
We’ve had two frosts,
the hydrangea leaves
wilted to black,
the mulberry trees bare
and so we seek
the pines once more,
watching the sinking sun
illuminate the needles
and listening to the wind whisper
in the way it does
only through tall pines.
I feel my inner cauldron bubbling,
new ideas popping up
and beginning to rise.
But,
I stop and listen.
Now is not the time for production.
It is time for pine whispers
and slow mornings.
Time for tea and quiet reflection.
Time to be curious
about what might yet arise,
and yet,
patient
as it steeps.

Autumn Lessons, by Molly M. Remer

Keep it simple and sacred
whisper the trees,
let go with grace
and trust the turning,
watch how the leaf
rides the air
all the way to the ground.
Let life astonish you,
mess and magic all entwined.
Be patient with yourself.
Feel the mask slip away
as the mist rises
and mystery
invites you
in.

I have now been writing for Feminism and Religion for 14 years. Last summer, I compiled a post with 13 summer lessons from 13 years of posts here at FAR. I bookended that post with a Winter Lessons post as well. And, then a Spring Lessons post. Now, finally, I am rounding out the series with thirteen lessons from Autumn:

Notes from the Cauldron of Change, by Molly Remer

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.

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.

On Active Waiting, Counting the Omer, and Our Connection to Nature.

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.

From the Archives: “The Czech Tradition of Čarodějnice (Witches).”

Author’s Note: This blog first published on May 14, 2023. Čarodějnice will take place this year on Thursday, April 30, 2026.

This post is a follow-up, in a way, to the post I published here on September 11, 2016, entitled “Continuing Pre-Christian Traditions in the Czech Republic,” and will be a combination photo essay* and elaboration on one of the rituals mentioned in that first post. On April 30th, I was in the small village where my partner’s family has their summer house. Yes, that same village that has inspired posts like this. There, we celebrated Čarodějnice, or Witches. This holiday seems to be related to what is called May Day or Beltane in other countries. What is unique about this tradition isn’t necessarily the májka (May Pole) although it is different than other places May Pole, but the burning of the witch.

Throughout the day, everything is gendered. The women and girls have certain tasks; the men and boys have too. The women and girls create and decorate. First, they create a witch to be burned on a large bonfire; the construction and shape of both can vary. After creating the witch, the women and girls (although it should be virgins – but no one really follows that tradition) decorate the top of a cut-down, very tall pine tree with strips of brightly colored fabric and crepe paper, tying them on to create what will become vertical streamers blowing in the wind, thus creating what is called a májka.

Spring Lessons, by Molly M. Remer

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.

I have been writing for Feminism and Religion for 13 years. This past summer, I compiled a post with 13 summer lessons from 13 years of posts here at FAR. I bookended that post with a Winter Lessons post as well. Now, here are thirteen lessons to share from past spring posts:

In the Belly of Winter: Tending the Sacred Flame by Molly M. Remer

It is February, the belly of winter. We stand in the doorway between worlds, a thin, pale light ahead of us, just beginning to gather itself at the horizon. While life may feel still and inspiration frozen, something in us is listening for the first faint whispers of spring. In earth-centered, neopagan spiritual traditions drawing inspiration from old Celtic holidays, the holiday of Imbolc is on February 1-2. Imbolc is based on an old Irish word that means “in the belly.” One of my favorite reminders to myself at any time of year, not just February, is to cradle myself in the belly of the moment.* To be in the belly reminds us that we need not be focused on arriving or figuring it all out, instead we incubate, we gestate, we draw nourishment from deep within. We do not have to be ready. We are becoming. We are in the belly of winter, and the work of the belly is to hold, to warm, to nourish what is not yet visible.

In the middle of winter as well as in the middle of national crises, international conflict, and climate disaster, the world can feel grim and gray, and like hope and optimism are misplaced or even extinguished. We may feel burned out, used up, or simply too tired to offer anything of value.

A Prayer for Winter Solstice, by Molly M. Remer

A Prayer for Solstice
Winter’s Crone,
cave tender,
cauldron keeper,
mother of time,
guide us into stillness,
into a time of deep rest and reflection.
Unwind our knots
and soothe our scurrying,
remind us how to listen,
how to be still,
how to turn inward and know.
Remind us not to fear darkness
for it is a time of necessary patience and growth.
Help us to celebrate
the cycles of change
through which we move,
honoring the fallow times
and the flourishing times
as equally essential
for life.
Bone woman,
great mother of us all,
quiet our wondering
and our worries,
gentle our grief,
and soften our sorrow.
Restore our weary hearts
and renew our spirits
that we might turn
towards the light we carry within
and warm ourselves
by this,
life’s eternal and powerful flame,
knowing that we belong
to this great grand web of incarnation
and all it holds.

Winter Lessons, by Molly M. Remer

Yes, it is December
already and again.
Let yourself notice the milkweed pods,
how they have split their sides
and are sending silky white seed fluffs
into the waiting air.
Witness the trees,
bare and gray and patient.
Watch the squirrels,
tails puffed against the chill,
stored nuts in their cheeks.
Listen to the wind
how it whispers and rattles
through the empty branches.
Watch the clouds,
slow-moving white billows
in a pale blue sky.
Be patient with yourself.
Grant yourself grace.
Remember the three invitations
of the solstice season:
to listen,
to wonder,
to be content.
Remember your promise
to keep company with joy.
Remember your vow
to be in devotion
to your own life.
Think about everything
there is to do.
Open your hands.
Feel that thin, whispering
winter wind
skim over your palms.
Take a deep breath.
Allow yourself to marvel
at all this year
has held.
Bless it.
Thank it.
Cup your hands
around your own face.
Say: thank you.
Here you are in the center
of your own life’s unfolding.
There is nowhere else to be.
Be gentle with yourself.
Invite the winter crone to tea.
Look into her eyes.
See yourself reflected there,
your own winter eyes open
to the possibility
of both clarity and delight.

I have been writing for Feminism and Religion for 13 years. In the summer, I compiled a post with 13 summer lessons from 13 years of posts here at FAR. I decided to bookend that post with a Winter Lessons post as well. Here are thirteen lessons to share from past winter posts:

Threshold Time, by Molly M. Remer

Step by step,
we make our way.
Breath by breath,
we choose.
Day by day,
we see where we are.
Let us remember
that we do not really finish anything,
we tumble with the turning
which is right where we belong.

It is now
in this liminal space
between the cauldron
and the cave,
as obligation struggles
to come roaring back
into center,
that we sense what we truly need
whispering beneath the surface
of all that clamors to co-opt our time
and all that howls
to claim our attention.
Stand steady.
Inhabit your own wholeness.
Cast a one word
spell of power: return.
Step into the sacred
right where you are.
Re-collect yourself.
Reclaim your right
to your own life.
Defend your edges.
Give clarity space
to crystallize
and your own knowing
space to emerge.
It is vital,
this work of reclamation.
Hold it holy.
Let the knots unravel.
Set yourself free.