Once upon a path

"The land knows you, even when you are lost." — Robin Wall Kimmerer

A curving path — one that I cannot see the end of — is irresistible to me. 

Have you ever noticed how a pathway feels alive? The turns and twists, rise and fall, seem a kind of drawing, a calling-on speech. 

Follow, follow, the path whispers, setting the rhythm. And follow I must. One questing step after the other, a bewitched child in a fairytale.

With our wandering spirits we sense that a pathway is a liminal space...a space of transition from one place to another. A threshold between here and there. 

We walk on, in a state of not-knowing. How far will the path will go? Where will it will take us? When we turn to look back, what will we see?

Again and again, I make images of paths, roads, ways. Why do they call to me, I wonder, what are they asking? I've not considered before the reason why this motif holds power. But what feels true is that they speak to us as messengers, from the imaginal realm, the unconscious — in the wordless soul language of archetype and symbolism. 

A path reminds us that we are both physical and spiritual Travelers, Explorers and Wayfarers on this journey through life; that we are passing through, transient upon this earth. 

Who can delimit the metaphorical path they are following in life? Or whether it will take them where they imagine they want to go? 

Only in looking back can we begin to have even a hope of tracing the larger trajectory of our winding journey. 

I keep thinking of The Fool tarot card. We set out into the unknown, to learn those lessons we need to learn.  

For imprecise navigators such as I, there is something comforting about a clear and unambiguous path laid out before us. How can you go astray, as long as you keep to the path?

But on a deeper level, isn't that clarity an illusion? The reason we want to follow the path in the first place is because the mystery beckons to us...precisely because we do not know where it is heading. Nor is any path you step onto ever clear. Because any worthwhile path changes you, as you walk it. 

We are like rivers, never carrying the same water (or self) twice. 

The path is a spiral. We revisit the same places, emotions, challenges again and again — but changed. On each turn of the spiral, we bring with us subtle or profound shifts in our perceptions, our understanding, our experience. 

We are in changing relationship to this path, and the relationship goes both ways...we also alter the path through our walking of it, in ways we cannot fully know. All is alive.

If I let my intuition speak to me of pathways, she says: "The path knows it is being walked, and it wishes for you to walk it."

The path recognizes you. It invites you on a journey through the inner and outer landscape. This path, this ground that your feet love walking upon, loves you back. 

Walking, I look into the land around me like a mirror, like a book, like a map to myself. Who to be, how to be, where to walk next?

The land knows who you are, writes Robin Wall Kimmerer. Then perhaps also the path creates who we are? Will I recognize myself anew in its voice?

I offer a blessing for the path, and for those who walk it — The Travelers, Wayfinders, Seekers and Wanderers:

May you be lost ... and may you be found. 

Into the cauldron

Down, into the cavern, the psyche, the Underworld; so Samhain, and the dark half of the year, spins us down to our essential selves. 

Asks of us, how will you serve what sleeps now, and will rise again in spring?

Like our plant relatives, like the landscape, like everything that ages, we wither. A part of us sinks down and in, revealing the bones that have lain beneath the long seasons of growing, flowering, fruiting. 

If we have nurtured our gardens, the seeds of another harvest lie scattered over the ground, shaken by the North winds. Waiting in the last, fading light before darkness falls; to be held by the sheltering earth through the long months of ice, snow, killing cold.

Remember this night: There are witches, and there are witches. 

Beware, sisters, which paths you choose to walk. 

Will it be muttered curses, crabbed thoughts, and casting a metaphorical evil eye? 

Humanity can be so very disappointing, after all, and we may be so frustrated with unfolding realities, that this seductive, thorny path may seem to be the one where we hold more power. I speak from experience.

Rather, instead of casting maledictions, will we ask ourselves some version of the questions: How can I serve the Earth? How can I serve life? Using the gifts I have been given, what can I do to heal and help, and imagine the world the way it could be? 

How can I make more of what I love, and less of what I do not?

We all have the other kind within. (A proper cackler, I mean.) Yes, a Crone is meant to be fierce. But, fierce in service of something important, something life-giving, something that matters.

Wisdom whispers, perhaps we want to call up our most fierce powers to serve that which we love most, and to change that which ruins, harms and destroys. ???

Here, let me remind you about the Cailleach — the divine Crone who reigns over winter, beginning as I write, at Samhain. Who shapes mountains with her hammer. A creator and a destroyer, like every crone goddess. A fierce carlin who bestows sovereignty, and, with a fine sense of justice, punishes those who take too many lives of the wild creatures sacred to her.

Know you that a Crone's eye pierces any disguise or intent. 

She sees clearly, judges sternly but fairly, and — like most old women, and winter itself — does not suffer fools gladly. 

The Crone guides the young. Protects the defenseless. Rights the balance. 

Ever, the Crone serves life (as death also serves life) — which is as it must be, as all of us must do, in order for all of life to flourish once again on this Earth. 

Isn't that what we all long for? For life to flourish once again? Inside ourselves, in our spirits, and flowing outward to heal every inch of this planet?

Perhaps this is why witching myself feels like beginning to rewild myself. A profound gift as we head into winter, a seed I can hold in my heart, in the darkness. 

We are nurtured by seeking out wild ways of knowing. Feeling into Earth ways, with their vast power to mend our wounded selves and our wounded planet. 

The way I somehow eased into a softness toward my gardens this year, trusting the plants to find their own way, reseed where they will. Giving the plants time and space to do what they know far more than I how to do: express their intelligence, their ways of being. 

This is an Earth way. 

Because our beloved Earth is the opposite of a minimalist. You must scatter millions of seeds, not only one. You must plant endless forests of trees, continents of prairies, a world of oceans. She is brilliantly, magnificently, endlessly, fecund and creative. 

Let us recognize her always in ourselves...and ourselves, always in her. 

So, on Samhain, there are witches...and there are witches. As we sink down into the mysteries of the Crone's dark womb, here is my spell and blessing...

May we rest deeply in this cauldron of darkness. 

May we dream of possibilities, as seeds do. 

May we trust in what is rich and strange in ourselves and others. 

May we let the wild reclaim even the smallest inch of our fallow ground ... and slowly, slowly, awaken it to flower again. 

 

Of murder and magic

All day long I stirred pebbles with my toe, looking for signs of life. 

I turned over every little stone. Memory. Poetry and song. Borrowed wisdom. Small caretakings of home and comfort. 

I watched this glorious time-lapse film of the sky, filled with tempests of clouds and thunderstorms. 

But still, no inspiration crept up from this dark moon ground. 

(The dark moon is the banishing time. Not the time to plant seeds, or grow, or harvest. 

But I did not think of that until later.)

Dissatisfied, I sent a bucket down into the well, seeking evidence that all was not empty. 

When I drew it up, all I found was the merest trickle of water, too little to drink. 

Just enough to remind me of the river, the sea that was not flowing through me—just enough to remind me of my thirst.

I didn't know what to do, but felt I must do something. So I moved my desk in front of the windows. 

For a while, I watched the northwest wind razor the new snow from the roof, flinging it in stinging white sheets against the frigid air.

Cold dark earth, surely this ground is not completely barren? Am I just quiet now, or have I nothing to say? And isn't that all right, if so. It doesn't feel all right.

Perhaps my "shoulds" have been silencing my "coulds"? 

That happens sometimes. 

Long I sat, feeling downcast, no whisper stirring from within or without. 

After a while, I became aware of a silent river of crows. 

Their dark shapes were flowing past the windows my desk now faces, winging to the northeast in beautiful, undulating motion. 

They flew in unknowable formations, in fronts and dozens, each following the other yet making his own path upon the sky. 

Blessing this woman's eyes with their grace. Bearing myth on their wings, magic in each darkling feather, kin stories millennias long in their shining black eyes. 

As the sun westered from mid-afternoon to dusk they streamed past, off and on, as if my house were an island in their sky-river. Juni (perched on the desk) and I watched in wonder. My own eyes began to shine; thrilled, delighted, enchanted. 

Maybe the crows, known as the mega murder, were flying to a roost along the Mississippi where they gather in thousands in winter?

It is a lovely discovery, to find my new home is in the middle of a Great Crow Flyway.

This magic belongs to this place and this day. Called to me or not, I am taking it as a message from the sky and the crows, that magic is there. Even when you can't see or feel it, it is there—right on the other side of your barriers, walls, shoulds. 

It is there, and it shows itself to you, wanting you to see it, calling you to see it. 

Long shadows

What do you look toward, when you are fearful, sad or anxious?

On days when you have to make yourself do too many tedious things that you do not want to do, but since you are an adult, you are expected to do them anyway?

On days when you fear your life is going to waste, or your path has disappeared, or that this is all there is and it is not enough?

The only thing I can think of to do right now is to look outside of myself and into the garden.

Nokomis Naturescape, Minneapolis

That's it. My one answer. I feel a little dose of joy each day when I see the first butterflies and bees of the day nourishing themselves on flowers I planted there, for the express purpose of feeding them.

In my very mundane life, that feels like a gift and a wonder to me. To look up and catch a glimpse of an orange-winged treasure flashing in the golden light, gliding down from that vast summer sky to circle, climb, circle again to finally land on the perfect flower from which to drink, on this infinitesimally small bit of planet earth.

All the more precious since their population is threatened by humans, as everything on this earth is threatened by humans, except for the very occasional things that are helped by humans.

Like the butterflies who visit my tiny waystation, and I hope many many other waystations as they make their way to Mexico.

So heartfelt thanks to the butterflies for bringing a smile to my lips and un-furrowing my furrowed brow for a moment each day during the many weeks of summer. They feel like companions to me.

Gratitude to the goldfinches, who now hide in the tall serviceberry next to the house and make speedy garden forays, gripping with their feet the seedheads of hyssop, coneflowers and bergamot as they eat one tiny, pointed seed at a time.


[no photo, but they are a darting bright yellow and olive yellow, with handsome black and white stripes]


Oh bringing love love love to drive off despair and violence of every sort, disrespect and destruction, leaf blowers and the weeping of the world. I am far too small to feel all that love...but the right size for the timely presence of a butterfly to still fill me with joy.

And there are lakes, and clouds, and wind-blown blue days that smell like the wildness of creation.

Earthly gifts are the ones that have weight and substance. That feel real. That feed us, the people.

(Not humans—the people. Humans are biological constructs, the people are body-and-spirit. This is what I've just decided.)

Earthly gifts are sacred gifts, and oh how this world needs more protectors of the sacred.

What if I pared away all the parts of my life that feel like junk food.

That deplete rather than replenish life and health. Would it help?

What would be left?

I don't know. Where is the center? What holds it all together?

I read about Hope Bourne, a wild soul of a writer who moved to Exmoor at the age of 52 to live off the land in an old caravan. She wrote:

“For money, you sell the hours and the days of your life, which are the only true wealth you have. You sell the sunshine, the dawn and the dusk, the moon and the stars, the wind and the rain, the green fields and the flowers, the rivers and the sweet fresh air. You sell health and joy and freedom.” 

Everything in me responds to this. It is what I most fear! My heart nearly breaks just to see it put into words, the commodification of our lives and the great loss of our birthright: the light of day, freedom to move, to experience the life of the planet.

But I almost feel crazy sometimes, because I do not know anyone else who feels this way, and our society does not support feeling this way either—far, far from it.

What this society supports is work and work and work, and feel grateful that you have a job, don't expect more than work, and you are of no value and irrelevant as an individual unless you are working.

And even THAT doesn't make you of value, unless you are rich. Because those are the people a money society values.

I feel the grief of this so keenly at this moment. Our lives are commodities that only we can value at their true worth. But once we know their true value, how do we live as if we honor that?

How do we get our lives back?

What—or who—do we have to leave behind in order to do it?

The steward of small things

THE LOVELY, WILD SCENT OF RAIN is wafting in the window on a south wind.

Rain. Lots of it. The rainiest year on record. Mosquitoes attack in wispy swarms. Even in full sun! I'm marked with welts, even a couple of kid-like scabs on my ankles (bony spots are usually itchiest).

Scratching insect bites: An ancient summer ritual.

(Just now, a tiny red spider crawls in wavering circles across my screen, searching for a smell, a texture, an object she recognizes. I lose her for a second when I look away but eventually find her on the table. She is escorted to a leaf outside.)

In April, I brought home two native chokecherries, knowing they're beloved by birds. Then I learned that chokecherry's leaves, stems, bark and seeds—every part but its fruit—contain cyanide. Poison to mammals, like my little cat, who is allowed in the back yard. So the seedlings stayed in their containers on my back porch as I fostered them, pondering where their true home should be.

In a wild field not far away, in the sun in an open spot amid the flowering clovers, trefoil, daisies and fleabane, I planted them today. 

I cleared the stones from around their roots, but they're on their own now. My wish is that they send their roots deep into that long-ago prairie soil and thrive, growing fruit for hungry feathered creatures to feast upon, making their home again on lands where they once grew.

Full summer snuck up on me. It was a surprise, like rounding a curve the other day and catching sight of a doe lit by morning sunlight, grazing in grasses high as her back, in the place above the river where the wild turkeys like to strut.

Driving to work. Rounding a curve. Ordinary. But then: heart-singing beauty. 

Like that. 

This moment was shaped like a bowl, as a bowl is shaped like a lake and a lake reflects the sky, and in its it hollow it held a handful of exquisitely ripe raspberries, with raspberry ice cream. Juicy with all that rain, sugared by rare days of hot sun, throbbing with life and summer. 

A body-shivering deliciousness: this is living. 

An overpowering feeling: this is a gift. 

Earth our home, let me thank you for the care you take of me. With such generosity and love you feed us, sustain us, delight us and fill us with joy. 

In reciprocity, I make this offering into your rich, dark, life-giving hands: Two small chokecherries. 

I commend these green spirits to you and place them in your care. 

Make them to flourish upon your breast, let them be part of the unending tale of wonder you tell. 

Of how you provide for all, for free. 

Of how each creature and each growing thing depends on your generosity. 

Of how there is a difference between taking what has been offered and taking what has not. And that the difference begins with gratitude.

With this offering, I give thanks. 

An abundance of gifts come your way.

Towers of bright clouds piled high in a blue sky. 

The glowing red of ripe raspberries, halfway between crimson and rose petal.  

The flashing flight of a blackbird past your window. 

Five bronze bells ringing noon from high on the hill every day—until one day, the chords suddenly cast soft white petals over your heart. 

Midsummer.

It's like this: So many things that matter can't be planned or scheduled. Can't be corralled or orchestrated, dissected or predicted or codified. 

You may just look up, or listen, or sniff the wind, and there it is. 

Freely given.

Please recognize and accept these gifts.

Yes, they're intentional.

They were made for you. 

13 wishes

your love mirrored

your curiosity followed

your dreams pursued

your compassion found

your intuition awakened

your kindness valued

your brokenness released

your shadow embraced

your joy renewed

your hunger fed

your sorrow transmuted

your silence understood

your power unleashed

Wish-blessings inspired by R. Brezsny. Photos from the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew. 

Wishing on a dandelion

your courage stoked

your fears dissolved

your imagination fed

your debts canceled

your wounds healed

your apologies accepted

your generosity expanded

your love educated

your desires clarified

your untold stories heard

your insight heightened

your load lightened

your wildness rejuvenated

your leaks plugged

Homeopathic Medicine Spells by Rob Brezsny.