Nancy Hendrickson – Feminism and Religion

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.