Exploring the F-word in religion at the intersection of scholarship, activism, and community.
Four hands
are spiraling
around a circle
breaking time
into increments.
Resonate bells
call up dark nights,
independently
ushering in a season
without need
to harmonize.
Percussive voices
soothe an aching
heart overflowing
with grief.
Chimes intoning
the inside out.
Recently I gave myself an expensive gift. I had my two beloved clocks cleaned and oiled, and now both are ticking and chiming again.
Today they circle time.
Continue reading “My Grandmother’s Clocks”
“I wake up under a tropical dome that has been with us most of August. The thick air feels like it is smothering me, and with emphysema that may not be my imagination. I can no longer walk or hike in this weather. Migraines and other peculiar headaches come and go – dizziness too – the former probably due to changes in pressure; As yet I have no diagnosis for the latter. I am feeling old because I am getting old. I move into my 77th year trying to adjust to increasing physical limitations.”
On the first harvest moon that occurs in August, (according to ancient teaching by Northern Indigenous peoples) I harvested elderberries under a burning sun, sloshing through mud, thorny bushes and cattails to reach the clusters of ruby beads that would soon become a tincture that I knew would help me resist colds flu and perhaps also the Covid variants. The world health organization in Europe is presently researching elderberry because studies have indicated that it apparently block viruses from entering cells (it does with H1N1 virus), but I have been using this remedy for years and know that it mitigates the effects of colds and prevents flu, at least for me. While removing the berries from their tree – like stems my fingers were stained the most beautiful purple, reminding me of a story I had written when I turned 70 about becoming an old woman… In this tale, I imagined that an Elderberry woman came to guide me into the future.
Continue reading “Moving towards the Dark… “Elder”berry Musings…by Sara Wright”I have been re-reading Rebirth of the Goddess reflecting upon my own journey over these past 40 years, remembering how her image appeared to me as a bird goddess the day I first worked with river clay… When I discovered that some of the images I sculpted of bird goddesses mirrored those in Marijia Gimbutas’s The Language of the Goddess I entered an unknown realm. All I understood at the time was that I was being called by some unknown force. I had no idea that this power existed not only without, but within, and that someday I would be able to name both Nature and my Body as the source of that power. And come to understand that they are One.
Continue reading “Who is the Goddess? by Sara Wright”
The third day
dawns under a cloud.
Mourning doves
spread their wings
across leaden skies.
I am walking on air.
Two restless
nights – a huge
truck in the yard –
Blocked,
my stomach lurches.
I read Tributes
in a daze.
Fierce Little Flower
Warrior Woman
fights
a torrent of waves.
She is bridging
raging waters
forging a New Story.
“Weaving the Visions.”
Oh, now I remember
where it all
began.
She hugged a tree.
I plant a seed.
Listening to rounds of
“light and darkness”
I let my body lead.
A serpentine path
guides me
back to
Her Garden.
Cradled by Ancestors
Rooted in Body
I shed another
patriarchal skin.
A horizon
belching sooty smoke
pollutes
once pure air
pressing invisible
particles, ozone
into granite –
lichen covered mountains –
plant/animal lungs
are coated in filth
just as ours are.
Death hangs over
a leaden sky,
the sweet scent
of moisture
is absent.
Tomorrow’s
bitter orange sunrise
signals what many
still refuse to believe:
The Earth is on Fire.
Those of us capable of Love –
Animals, plants,
Humans, who suffer,
those who fought for justice
continue to grieve
in a Silence
impossible to break.
Change,
if it comes at all
will come too late.
Humans have had 40 years
to prepare…
The age of the
Anthropocene
will not survive
a species gone insane.
When I planted my cedar
in the garden
it seemed like an odd place –
Why bury her amongst
a plethora of summer flowers
unless I feared she’d disappear?
I was afraid to name her –
Guardian.
When delicate fronds
dulled, turned brown
I despaired.
Weeks passed.
I considered pulling
her up by the roots.
‘Replace her’,
an unpleasant voice nagged.
But another chimed in.
‘Give her time; be patient.
Wait and see.’
I listened to the
Voice of Patience
knowing how much
I needed to learn.
All winter I walked by
brushing ice crystals
from frozen lacy fingers.
When April came
the absence of rain
unraveled the spring.
When I was about forty years old I discovered a clay deposit on a beach that I visited frequently. Intrigued, I sat down and began working with the river’s gift. I remember my astonishment when a beaked bird – woman emerged out of the clump of damp earth. I could feel a surge of fire pulsing through my body so I took the figure home and placed it on my bedside table, hoping to discern its message.
Shortly thereafter I discovered the work of Marija Gimbutas in the book The Language of the Goddess. There were a number of beaked goddesses pictured in this volume, some uncannily similar to mine. Had I tapped into the world of the ancient bird goddesses? I believed so. Although I had no idea what this might mean these images of Marija’s captured my imagination and kept me questioning. It wasn’t long before I also dreamed other bird goddess images and rendered each of them in clay…
Continue reading “Women, Birds, and Feminism by Sara Wright”
I live just down the road from one of our many lakes and ponds here in western Maine. Almost every morning I hear the haunting call of the loons as they fly over the house. Although I cherish the symphony I have never figured out why some of these birds making this early morning flight from one lake to another. I have never seen any research that supports my experience – but obviously, for unknown reasons some loons move routinely from pond to pond. Why remains a mystery.
I used to have a woodsman friend who once commented that he didn’t understand why everyone loved loons so much because they were fierce predators who speared their hapless fish, duck, or goslings to death before devouring them. At the time I found Don’s statement ironic (and irritating!) because this man was an excellent brook trout fisherman and deer hunter. In his defense I must add that I had to acknowledge that he also loved all animals; after deer hunting season ended he fed his deer all winter.
Continue reading “Patriarchy – For Love of Predators by Sara Wright”This year, more than ever before, I note a very subtle shift that is occurring as we approach the middle of July. Lots of humidity – and I confess – I love the sweet summer scent as long as it isn’t hot. The days are losing a minute or two of light. Instead of slamming out of bed in the pre-dawn hour I find myself sleeping until 6AM and my dogs want to sleep in until 9 on gray foggy mornings like today. The birds are quieter, their songs less intense although my feeder is visited by hoards of youngsters, many of which are still being fed by their parents.
The Wood thrush has moved deeper into the forest, so it is the Mourning doves who begin my day with song. Most of all, I notice the richness, the vibrancy of deep summer green. Even though my flower garden is on fire with primary colors, I can’t seem to soak in enough greening to satisfy my hungry heart..
Subtle changes like this probably go unnoticed by most but for me they are signs of the goddess coming into her own…I am curious if anyone else senses this shift of energy.
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I wrote the prose and poem this morning July 14th for Carol’s blog not knowing at that time that this most compassionate woman, feminist scholar, mentor, friend had died shortly after midnight. When I saw the notice on the Internet I was stunned. It seemed so impersonal to receive such heartbreaking news in this manner. When I came back to read this piece I realized that indeed, Midsummer had given birth to a Goddess and her name was Carol Christ.
Continue reading “Midsummer Births a Goddess: In Honor of Carol Christ by Sara Wright”
Old Woman cackled on the wing
a pterodactyl with claws
crimson black and white
a great wind
was howling
and she was too.
Passages she screeched.
Her wrath undid me.
The Way was Narrow.
Cushions of moss
calmed wet cavern walls,
steep stones threatened
uncertain footsteps,
echoing my descent.
At the bottom
of the well
Silence rang out
like a bell.
Feminism and Religion 