earth based spirituality – Feminism and Religion

Born Again by Sara Wright

“Let me sing to you about how people turn into other things.” (Ovid)

Years ago I placed my brother’s ashes in a shallow depression that I had dug near a granite fern and moss covered boulder. The brook flowed just a few feet away and at the last minute I scattered a few filaments over the shallow waters, returning them to the sea. A week later I planted a hazel nut tree nearby. A fossilized spiral ammonite marks my brother’s grave.

Thanks to the underground highway created out of millions of tree/plant roots, the extensive net of fungal hyphae and this communal system’s miraculous ability to exchange nutrients/minerals/sugar, my brother lives on as part of this forest…The gracefully spreading hazel and all the other trees (spruce, maple, balsam, hemlock, ash) that are scattered around this hallowed woodland grove have been nourished by the bones of one I loved.

Yet only recently have I been possessed by revelation.

Dove Tales, part 2 by Sara Wright

Part 1 was posted last Tuesday. You can read it here.

That first winter after my father’s death I became obsessed with doves and finally gave in and decided to buy one. When I went to pick the dove up at the very last minute, I was drawn not to a white dove but to an African collared dove. Lily b came to live with me as a free flying house dove whose intelligence and uncanny ability to read my mind forced me to concede that something was happening that was beyond my understanding. In retrospect Lily b introduced me to interspecies communications on a concrete level which validated my life experiences with all animals wild and tame. My beloved dogs had been life-time companions, so I already knew we spoke the same language in different ways.

Lily b became a spirit/soul guide and remains one some thirty some years later*. The first sculpture I created at the edge of the sea had the head of a dove. At that time, I still separated spirit from body as most colonized people still do. Now I believe from personal experience that the two are ONE.

Dove Tales, part 1 by Sara Wright

Hundreds (it felt like thousands) of wings descended around the stone table I was sitting on at dawn. Transfixed by this sight that seemed to be occurring within as well as without I could barely comprehend the thousands of soft coos that floated through the air. Celestial music filled my ears. Was this really happening I wondered even as the birds clustered round my feet? I’d loved doves as a child, had drawn thousands of them. In Medieval paintings white doves descended upon Mary as Grace. The child believed. Doves were like no other birds the child was sure…

The buildings and churches of Assisi all had doves cooing from rooftops distracting me from outdoor lectures. I was attending a Jungian conference in Assisi Italy and every morning found me wandering the narrow streets or climbing Saint Francis’s mountain to pick wildflowers and sweet herbs. I had no idea until approaching Assisi that the golden sunflowers that stretched across the horizon almost blinding me that I would spend one week of my life in two worlds. One as a member of a professional conference, the other submerged in experiences that lifted me out of ordinary reality. The time with the doves was just one of many experiences of Mary, Saint Francis and Old Women (who approached me in the streets) that lifted me out of the life I knew.

What I felt and sensed was stronger than any rational thought, so experiential reality held me fast and even at the time these experiences were occurring I hoped this reality would never let me go.

White Pine Wonder by Sara Wright

Yesterday was mild (mid 40’s in January) so Coalie and I went to our favorite forest to walk. The roads were icy, but the seeps were brimming and ringed with footprints. Over one of my favorites (because declining wood frogs still lay eggs there in the spring), an elderberry bush arced over rippling water like some sort of plant protectoress.

Seeps fascinate me because they defy freezing weather bubbling up through deep in the earth. Water seeps in the forest are small wetland areas where groundwater naturally emerges at the surface, often at the bases of slopes. They create moist spots with lush plants in season (like elderberries) and serve as important habitats for wildlife by providing clean water sources all year-round. They form from underground layers of rock that force water to flow horizontally until it surfaces. Seeps care for their animal and bird neighbors by providing clear waters at any time of year. There were so many fox and partridge tracks leading to and from these pools that I was surprised we didn’t startle one of the latter. (At home I have a pair that are feasting on the last of the crabapple berries). A couple of chickadees were chirping from nearby maples probably annoyed because we were taking our time. Coalie was nosing every blade of grass in the area.

Omen by Sara Wright

I was driving down the road when I noticed a dead owl. Sun glare blinded me, but I stopped to identify the bird.

It has been many years since I picked up dead owls on the road – thirty five years in all. I began this practice of bringing home the bodies of these creatures when I first moved to the mountains. Finding so many dead owls in a brief span of five years was frightening, but someone in me knew that I needed to honor these Harbingers of Night. Yet the last thing I wanted was to be identified or aligned with an owl, so my behavior rose out a body that never lies. Visions of my mother’s love of owls clouded my mind. Within months of this mountain move a Navajo Medicine woman informed me that I had Owl as a Familiar. Horrified, I resisted mightily. Yet despite what seemed like a curse, I was still compelled to sculpt owl pots out of clay for five years. The losses I endured during this time changed the course of my life.

I taught myself how to dismember owls. I burned owl remains in my woodstove as a symbol of deep respect and out of fear. I always kept feathers and wings in honor of these mysterious night beings not understanding why.

Fire and Ice – wintersolstice25 by Sara Wright

(written during and after the solstice passed)

I walked down
to rippling waters
listening….
Frozen mosses
trees and me
old snow
overflowing
anguish
gathered in a
Chalice of Light
my prayer
for us
my dog
and me
to flow under
fire and ice
or tolerate
soul murder
numbness,
soul murder
I cannot weep

The Littlest Balsam by Sara Wright

Five years ago
I dug a seedling
in protest
ki’s deep green
needles
slender trunk
and roots
yielded
to sweet
spring earth
with prayers.

I believed.

One winter night
I will celebrate
your life
the lives of
thousands
with a
candlelit
spiral
of tiny white lights.

Tonight
white flames
adorn you
old longings
and heartbreak
we share the same
root
stilled by
simple beauty
a single
reflection
of Love.

The Return of Little Deer by Sara Wright

“From out of the mountain he comes
Like the Spirit of Light he comes…”
Cherokee Myth

Having just spent almost three hours on Zoom with an interviewer from NPR during which we spoke about the normalcy of interspecies communication for some like me, Little Deer appeared at my window, lifted his head and stared right through me.

I haven’t had a young buck roaming around the house for a while but this kind of conversation between humans who believe we are all part of one fabric brings in the animals.

I recognized him Immediately.

The Cherokee myth states that a mysterious deer materializes from out of the mountain on behalf of the animals in times of trouble. They call him the Justic Maker.

As Justice Maker, he protects creatures from harm and redresses grave imbalances between humans and the rest of Nature .

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised at his return.

The Echo Makers 25 by Sara Wright

When I first heard the ‘trumpeting’ and ‘brrring’ it was less than an hour before dawn, but one aggregation was already on the wing headed west, away from the fields. Because their direction led away from the fields, I feared we would not see the Sandhills at all. It was All Saints Day, a time to give thanks to those creatures and people who have helped us along the way. (Sandhills have been been a beacon of Light in my own life). A bloody red sky turned deep rose as the sun shattered the charcoal outline of distant mountains, turning them carmen red. The wind was fierce as I walked up and down the sides of the open agricultural fields listening intently. Gunshots rang out and I wondered where these might be coming from. In Maine it is illegal to shoot migrating cranes. The sunrise was spectacular. Clouds spun themselves out of ruby, slate, and violet hues. Indescribable.

Although snow buntings, red winged blackbirds and two harriers were scrying the skies around the fields after dawn I only had eyes for sandhill sightings!

Witch Hazel, a Tree that Belongs to Women! part 2 by Sara Wright

Part 1 was posted last Tuesday. You can read it here.

Like all flowering plants, witch hazel must be pollinated to produce fruit and seeds, and for this, it relies on insects. These include late-flying gnats and flies as well as forest-dwelling owlet moths, all drawn to the scented flowers and sweet nectar. On warm days like the few we have had this week while surrounded by an annoying cloud, I hoped these flying gnats were also busy pollinating lemony witch hazel ribbons.

The owlet moth is a nocturnal pollinator. These moths remain active after most other pollinators have died or are missing in action. Biologist and naturalist Bernd Heinrich first documented the relationship between witch hazel and owlet moths in 1987 in an article published in Scientific American.