Sara Wright – Page 3 – Feminism and Religion

The Elder Berry Woman, part 2 by Sara Wright

Moderator’s Note: FAR will be on hiatus for the month of January. We wish you all a very Happy New Year.

Before we head into our hiatus we will post a four part serialized story from our long-time contributor Sara Wright. It is her personal wisdom story. Today is part 2 of 4. Enjoy!

“I want to trust you Berry Woman, but I can’t let go of my fear.” I feel ashamed admitting the truth.

“You endured the legacy of abandonment, and this has given you great strength, but you have also been cut away from your ability to trust, and the safety of being Earthed. You are like a tree without a taproot, vulnerable to collapse in heavy winds and storms. If you can lean into me just for a moment you will feel a difference. Shut your eyes. Try it.”

I close my eyes. I breathe deeply, sudden images of hearts thrumming, soft skin next to mine… then I feel the warmth of my two little dogs. I am totally relaxed; I trust my dogs implicitly.

“That’s right, start with who you do trust – you are well aware that your dogs have been your most powerful teachers since childhood.”

I get it.

Start with what I have, not with what I don’t. I think about Nature whose benign presence is palpable in all but my most despairing moments. Isn’t this how the Berry Woman came to me? A big part of me must already trust her.

“Let’s leave the trust issue for now and move on to the second problem. You have no faith in your ability to persevere. You are strong but you must say no to the negative voices that undermine you, and to do that you must be able to listen to what they are telling you.”

The Elder Berry Woman, part 1 by Sara Wright

Moderator’s Note: FAR will be on hiatus for the month of January. We wish you all a very Happy New Year.

Before we head into our hiatus we are trying something a little different from what we usually do. For the next four days we will post a four-part serialized story from our long-time contributor Sara Wright. It is her personal wisdom story. Enjoy!

Preface:

I began this story 10 years ago, put it away unfinished, completed it 5 years ago just before Covid struck, and lost it. When did it suddenly surface? On the Eve of All Hallows. Three days ago.

Because the story is autobiographical it deals with my personal issues. However, there are universal elements that people may identify with… this tale attempts to deal with some of the questions and the problems associated with aging, fear of death, and dying. I would greatly appreciate feedback.

The Elder Berry Woman

I turned 70 a month ago, crossing an invisible threshold. With this birthday I reluctantly entered the first year of my ‘elder’ years. “Red Birds” awakened me at dawn. The two cardinals spent the morning hours chirping and hopping around the grapevines outside my bedroom window. I felt deep gratitude for these feathered presences that seemed to understand that this birthday was charged with a heaviness I couldn’t diffuse. My intimate relationship with these birds has been predicated on grief. These cardinals were reaffirming that Nature responds to the longings of the hungry heart.

I have reached the conclusion that aging is a subject that no one wants to touch in case it’s catching. We sprout platitudes. We pretend that age won’t rob us of our abilities or our autonomy. We “forge on” with military precision until we discover that even raking leaves can pull muscles, creating new inroads for pain like I did just last week. Others “soldier on” hiking or scaling mountains when feet, ankles, knees, and hips are starting to complain. Forced snow – shoveling strains back muscles sometimes to the breaking point, as does heavy garden work. In our culture this bull –like ego driven behavior is lauded while bodies weep. “Keep busy” pancaked women chime with false Barbie faces cracking under the strain of deadly smiles. “You’re only as old as you think.”

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

Thanksgiving For Turkeys by Sara Wright

Where are they, my feathered iridescent turkey friends one of which is usually at my doorstep by dawn (I call them in as I write these words – an hour later only four show up – something has gone amiss). Wild turkeys live in this small sanctuary all year long, coming and going with the seasons. I normally feed them during the winter months, but this year has been thin, so I have been supplementing their diet.

Yesterday I watched them trudge up the hill, twittering and chirping, their feet sinking into eleven inches of snow. It’s only December 2^nd and with the drought seeds and insects have been scarce. Snow makes ground feeding inaccessible.

I have learned so much about how to live in genuine community from years spent observing and interacting with turkeys. I have three groups in all, and this time of the year males and females come separately.

Mostly I just love these wild birds who have befriended me to the point where I can work outdoors while they are sunning themselves on the hill or pecking leaves and detritus after seeding. They respond to my greetings with friendly little chirps, twitters, and a number of other sounds I can’t describe, but conversation between us is ongoing.

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.

A Goose Tale by Sara Wright

It’s the last day of November and small groups Canadian geese are still drifting around on patches of open water. I saw two small groups on North Pond. Although many skeins have flown south along the Atlantic flyway – they can migrate south as far as Mexico and South America -some geese spend the winter along coastal areas in Maine if food resources are available. It’s hard to know whether these groups are migrators from Canada who have stopped over to rest or a few that winter over nearby on the Kennebec or elsewhere along the southern coast of Maine. With warming temperatures Canadian Geese migratory patterns are changing.

Soon after their arrival the female disappears to lay 8 – 10 eggs in her nest that is securely hidden in the reeds while her mate stands watch. When the goslings are born both parents escort them through the water, one parent in front, the other behind. If threatened the male becomes aggressive, a totally appropriate behavior from my point of view. When the little ones are big enough these birds join other families for the rest of the summer and some will probably migrate together. These are such community oriented birds. They make it a habit to get along. Geese are omnivores that will eat almost anything and they mate for life, returning to their designated ‘home’ places to breed year after year. Even before the chicks arrive geese are drawn to some of the 400 million lawns in this country (especially those that are close to water) much to the dismay of some.

Requiem? by Sara Wright

A requiem for the seasons is an act of living remembrance for what is vanishing, be that long-cherished seasonal moments, forms of celebration that once tied us to nature’s cycles, and to more than human species – some that are going extinct.

Cheeping twittering birds awakened me at dawn. The first snow of the season cast a spell over the landscape last night and this generous dusting brought in the wild turkeys… I wished all good morning as I scattered seed under the crabapple. A couple of very friendly individuals followed me back to the door. My little dog Coalie is spellbound. She loves these birds.

I noted turkey hieroglyphics on the doormat as I came in but otherwise took no pleasure from the white shrouded landscape. I used to love snow but because each of the seasons is warming, we are getting mixed precipitation on a regular basis beginning in mid – November. The first snow opens an icy door to winters that are dominated by continuous freeze thaws. Last year I considered myself fortunate to have been able to snowshoe as long as I did.

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.