I went into the dark woods today to look for mushrooms. Mycelial threads made visible. Golden chanterelles, lactarias, russulas, waxy caps, corals, spindly fingers burst out of rich moist earth. Not a ghost pipe in sight.
The fungi know who they are and who they are attached to. I feel like a stranger in this land where everyone is related. I feel those connections but cannot name them. This network so mysterious as to be incomprehensible, a living being that stretches across the earth. What branch of fungi evolved here?
In my previous post, The Stories We Tell, I drew out the connecting thread that runs through the different books I was reading, the importance of imagination, and the fact that stories capture and shape our imagination, regardless of whether the stories are factually true or not. We inherit them, disparately, and carry them with us as we engage with one another, for better or for worse. And although they are distinct, they also overlap—all our imaginaries overlap and impact one another.
“Rematriation centers Indigenous Women’s leadership for the restoration and regeneration of land and water. By revitalizing Indigenous knowledge, honoring traditions and renewing annual cycles of life, rematriation directly addresses harms caused by patriarchal extraction and violence.” Bioneers
Bioneers, is a FREE online publication that has been around since 1990. in addition to its weekly programs this organization is now introducing the ‘Leading from the Feminine’ newsletter whose intent is to bridge divides and to celebrate connection invoking the feminine as leaders. This newsletter exists to bridge divides and celebrate connections within the rich tapestry of visionary women and men who are evoking/ invoking the feminine to lead with courage, vulnerability, intuition and empathy.
“The wisdom of our ancestors is clear about this: If we do not take the journey inward to discover who we are, the creative potential within us will implode and we will destroy ourselves and the world”. Betty Kovacs
Jesus said something similar in one of the Gnostic Gospels: If you bring forth what is within you it will save you – if you do not bring forth what is within you, it will destroy you.
I live under a steep craggy mountain that is gushing with the sweetest mineral rich water that pours out of an old spring. On this piece of land feeder brooks stream down the mountain feeding hemlock and cedar before silvery clear water slides into a rushing brook (miraculously) still filled with trout. Sadly, the main artery of my brook comes from another mountain that has been brutally logged, dammed up for someone’s pleasure and is currently running amok. Silt ridden water floods this lowland routinely not only changing the course of the stream now riddled with dying trees, (collapsing trees must have soil to stay upright) but creating unusual vernal pools that are beginning to mature. As a result, this has been the best frog and toad year that I have had since my first magical year spent on this land before all the surrounding areas were chopped into parcels. Once I roamed free up and down this mountain through unbroken forests fields and fens, marshes, seeps, bogs and springs. I have never lost that feeling of belonging to this land not just the area I ‘own’ (oxymoron) but all of her.
It doesn’t surprise me that in most pre -christian traditions the Original Mother of Us All was and still is a mountain! When the other mountains all around me were first being raped by dirty yellow machines someone remarked to me quite sagely, “the bones of the mountains are still here”. And so they are, and so is She.
I buried you today, a fluff of earthly feathers dipped in ebony bronze and gold. He left you on my road innocent already broken Just a tiny bird peeping pitifully in fear and pain cocooned in deep distress.
I scooped you up held you against my heart
Instantly Still I felt you knew…
Wild Mothering kicked in create a loving space for life or death
Above all Be Present for whatever is ahead…
I dug a grave where you were born nestled under pines fragrant roots cradled what was left your bones are made of light
Offering prayers to Her Our Bird Goddess* I bowed my head Ancient and Wise She who Sees She who holds Abusers accountable (as do I) She watches over us all honoring the dead.
Gently nibbling seed a bear bird’s hind legs charcoaled nose glimpsed through shade fogged windows… Imagining… Standing where you just stood matter is frozen light yours a golden circlet emerald star circling above us all a beacon of Cosmic Light I weave a crown of grape leaves round and round crafting Prayers for body soul – Your Protection and mine… Standing in your Shadow One. Still, Earth’s Keening keeps us awake at night.
This morning, hummingbirds, hummingbird moths, honeybees with a thousand eyes, brilliant orange fritillaries are capturing nectar from my wild bee balm, butterfly weed, and milkweed. Bee balm stalks are almost as tall as the five-and-a-half-foot Guardian cedar – the latter only planted four years ago.
Early this morning on my daily walk I noted with pleasure the conversation between Yellowthroat and Indigo Bunting (yes they communicate across species) so absentee birds are once again singing after a week of diminishing song which began the morning after the first night of mindless explosions that split the night into fragmented shards of metal, raining down deadly particulate matter and adding even more pollution leaving our air choking with poisons. This kind of noise pollution damages all human cells. This is but one example of an early ‘celebratory’ 4th of July bombing, machine gun fire, and were there fireworks too? I have no idea. The dogs and I left immediately. I always keep the car ready for instant evacuation for us even if I am at camp. A comfortable puff and pillow offer us a bed and netting stretched across the back of the open car making it comfortable to sleep no matter how hot the night is or wherever we end up.
I won’t walk in this fog bound soup – the air is so toxic it’s literally not breathable – let’s hope this is not a prelude to the rest of the summer like it was last year. The solstice marks a turning of the wheel in ancient cultures – a process (more than an event) that is still celebrated by countryfolk and by those who are attached to the land.
As we move deeper into the first days of summer many (most) wildflowers are seeding up even as the sun’s heat intensifies around the longest, days of the year… As I walk through the woods and around my home, I note the first yellowing leaves dropping from fruit trees, others are shriveling, insect ridden. My beans are spiraling skyward … Overall, a vibrant deep green canopy appears to replace luminous lime, and for a moment luminous fireflies light up the night…gardens are overflowing. Tadpoles are birthing back legs, and within the month a radical transformation will have occurred as miniature froglets begin their adult lives in seeps, brooks. ponds or greenery… a miracle of Becoming. There is a poignancy to this turning for me. The birds are fledging, birdsong is somewhat muted. Summer heat and fierce thunderstorms mark the season ahead…cold clear waters and forests are calling…
My friend Lise sent me some words on the eve of Davey’s birthday (unbeknown to me until the 6th) that reminded me of how often I spoke to him during those months.
“The reason I pray to the dead is I trust their timing. They have all the time in the world, after all, and they also see the big picture and the long story. I pray to the dead because, I admit, how little I know, how little I can understand, and how vast the mystery is of the soul.
Let me circle myself with the living who can hold both, with the dead who can hold it all. We are entangled souls…. We are all praying together, with the flowers, the trees, with all that is.” (I substitute talk for pray because that is what I do)
Feminism and Religion 