Robin Wall Kimmerer – Feminism and Religion

A Little Story about Intimacy by Sara Wright

Usually when humans hear the word intimacy they think of human loved ones. When I use the word intimacy it is because I belong to the land and by extension to all of nature beginning with my dogs who have accompanied me throughout my life and remain my most intimate companions.

Recently, after eight months of hospicing my two dying girls – we spend the last thirteen years as one unit – I wondered how long it would be before my grief would allow me to bring in another companion. My two beloved dead dogs orchestrated Coalie’s coming although I didn’t know it at the time, and now that we are together, I can walk with my grief and loss and experience joy even as I am once again initiated into interspecies intimacy that defies explanation.

I still find myself in a state of awe. How is it possible that a 2 lb. dog could become so much a part of me so seamlessly? From the moment I saw her on a machine I knew she was mine. When she arrived, we were already connected on a level beneath words…

Emergence – Miracle Birth by Sara Wright

When my ‘good neighbor’ sent me the photo yesterday morning I could see the outlines of the butterfly, so my little dog Coal and I walked up to see for ourselves. It was hot – very hot though only around 9:30 AM. The capsule was already twisted and turning though not even the lightest breeze was in evidence. The outlines of the monarch were clearly etched through the now blackened but still translucent chrysalis.

Standing under the porch overhang that the caterpillar had chosen for transforming, a miracle was in progress. Before our eyes the capsule split as the butterfly emerged head-first, feelers extended and waving from the bottom of a rapidly shrinking chrysalis that had so recently been lime green tipped in gold. The wings were still quite small, but the butterfly was already pumping fluid into them readying for first flight. As the wings expanded before our eyes I cried out like a child exclaiming in my joy and excitement – “oh a miracle, a miracle”, and of course it was, the birthing of new life.

Honeysuckle Jewels and Women with Wings by Sara Wright

Initially I wrote this article for publication at a plant site but was forcibly struck by the reality that what we are doing to plants is exactly the same thing we are doing to humans, women in particular. Separating, Othering, Judging, Dismissing, Eradicating. I could go on here. When you read this article about invasives think about how we are being treated as women. It alarms me that no matter I turn I see the same story played out with humans (women and children suffer most overall), trees, plants, and the animals we are so busy annihilating if not physically then in some other monstrous way. Fill in the blank with your own story. Then imagine yourself as a bird with wings who carries the seeds of new life into unexpected places.

When I first moved to this area many years ago, I used to spend most of the time in the forests that surrounded my house except in the spring. Then I walked along what used to be a country road to see the wild trilliums, arbutus, lady slippers, bunch berry, violets and columbine that peppered the road edges.

All the trees and flowers were so plentiful and so beautiful that it took me a few years to pay closer attention to the bushes like the various pussy willows and wild cherries, beaked hazelnut, witch hazel and hobblebush that I also came to love.

Mountain Song on May Day by Sara Wright

I moved to the mountains to move mountains, to find peace in the hidden crevices of an endangered planet.
We pull out her hair, clumps at a time, self-harming her* in a myriad of new ways.
Wildfires burn up our forests, floods destroy precious lowlands. Loggers strip the possibility of new life from the soil. Our childhood stories become our adult lives: The Giving Tree who gave it all. . . .
The land doesn’t break; just dips and hides in private caves.
I moved to the mountains so that the predators of my past wouldn’t find me.
Their spirits crawl out from unvisited graves.

[Excerpted from the poem, Mountain Life by Rebecca Rogerson.

They slip past the disappearing forests of canopied evergreens that once shaded and protected Ki’s children. [Ki is short for Kin – more on what this word means in Part 3.]

A Creation Narrative Leads to a Surprising Equinox Encounter, part 1 by Sara Wright

Walk lightly
pay keen attention…
practice gratitude
but not at the expense
of truth
take sparingly
share

an Underground Web
writes the Story
my roots
belong to Earth

‘Listen to
feathered voices,
seek mushroom clouds
keep breathing deep
into the forest floor
feel that luminous Light
rooted beneath my feet’

(my fall equinox prayer)

During these days of mindless violence and fearful political upheaval, I feel driven to enter the woods on a daily basis. Lately, I haven’t even left my property. As I cross the bridge over the brook, I brush by the first lacy hemlocks and lovingly touch a branch of witch hazel whose lemony fingered flowers reach for mine. I am on the trail of mushrooms, but not as a forager.

I am drawn to these fungal fruiting bodies because I am trying to learn more about the complex relationships between certain fungi that emerge as mushrooms and their relationship to the trees around them. Some fungi that are in a symbiotic (or mycorrhizal) relationship with one tree or many, do fruit above ground but there are only about 20,000 mushrooms in all. The rest (which is most of the fungal world) fruit underground.

Deep Time, Big Dream by Sara Wright

I am standing on top of a mountain looking over a landscape of unspeakable wild natural beauty that stretches as far as I can see. This is the ‘long view’ the dream -maker tells me. The trees are stretching out their lush green needles to the sky as if in prayer, and they are whole. The forests, clear waters, the animals, birds, insects, and All of Nature has been returned to a State of Grace.

An Old red skinned Indian Man appears. He is a Grandfather. He is on the mountain with me but also stands below (both and). He speaks to me.

“Sit, listen, this is the Song of Life”.

A finely crafted flowing red clay seat appears below (it flows like a wave) although it is situated a few inches above the earth. Almost hovering. I also see a drum made from deerskin and red clay on the ground. There is a four directional equilateral black cross on the skin of the drum. The cross is thick and around the cross an intricate design is etched/inked into its skin also highlighted in black.

Mountain Mother: Earth, Woman, Goddess (Part 2) by Jeanne F. Neath

Part 1 was posted yesterday.

In Part 2 we’ll complete our travels into Mountain Mother’s realms, as we explore female-centered economics and spiritualities as a means toward creating earth- and female-centered communities and small-scale societies.

Imagine living on Turtle Island prior to 1492. At that time Indigenous peoples had been living in respectful relationship to nature, tending her for thousands of years. European invaders and colonists were amazed by the abundance, but assumed they were seeing wild nature. These were subsistence societies! People’s needs were met by the Earth, her plants, animals, waters, and human efforts. No one charged a fee. Everything was a gift.

To See Ourselves In Others: Part One by Beth Bartlett

I have felt both a responsibility and a reluctance to write about the escalating conflict in the Middle East. The situation is so complex and such an unspeakable tragedy – acts of such terror and violence on the part of Hamas toward civilian populations met with even greater violence and repressive measures on the part of Israel toward the people of Gaza. It is a perplexity of the human condition that a people with such a deep history of being displaced and oppressed rather than refusing to oppress in turn, instead engage in the displacement and oppression of others that then erupts into more violence. Both are traumatized peoples acting out of deep pain and woundedness. Thousands have died, more are wounded and displaced, all will carry more trauma into generations to come. The very earth bears the scars of war. In the face of such unspeakable suffering, any kind of analysis feels distancing at a time when what we most need is to let the suffering move us to our depths.

Moon Worshippers by Beth Bartlett

You’d have thought it was the 4^th of July the way people were gathering on the shore of the great lake, Gitchee Gumee – some with coolers and lawn chairs, kids and dogs in tow, each claiming their spot — waiting for the viewing as if waiting for the fireworks. But what we awaited was far more spectacular – the “once in a very blue moon,”[i] the second full moon in a calendar month, but also a “super moon” – so named because at this time when it is closest to the earth in its orbit it appears larger than usual. Super moons happen a few times a year and blue moons happen every two to three years, but super blue moons are rare. This one was probably the last in my lifetime since the next one will occur fourteen years from now in 2037.

My husband, dog, and our son’s dog, aptly named Luna, made our way to the lake, finding our spot on the ancient rocks, joining the other moon gazers. A feeling of community celebration arose with the moon as we strangers to each other together watched the first light of rising moon with shared anticipation and appreciation. The “blue moon” in fact appeared red as it came up through the hazy atmosphere, but as it rose higher in the sky, just as in the lyrics to the song, “Blue Moon,” the moon turned to gold, casting its golden glow across the waters. As it rose, it seemed to grow even larger, rounder, brighter.

Earth Stories by Sara Wright

Every day I send a FB post into what feels like a Great Void including nature photos that I took around the house or in the woods that morning or the day before. There is always Something. Coalescing early morning thoughts with recent images helps me orient myself to the day to come, reminding me to be Present to Now.

Now is my only Refuge.

In these posts I also hope to capture an audience through image if not through words, introducing or reinforcing people’s positive relationship to nature before it’s too late. My intention is twofold. Help others to see nature in all her wonder, and to encourage folks who read the text to think creatively, to question, to challenge what has been normalized.