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A Ritual for Thanksgiving:

Take a walk.
Find a pretty rock.
Don’t take it.
Go home.
Keep your promise.

This is an excerpt from my essay forthcoming this week at Feminism and Religion, reflections on colonization, war, and who invented jelly.

I will be taking a break from posting here for a couple of weeks to focus on finishing things up in the shop as we prepare for our winter holiday break. December's free practice update for #30DaysofGoddess will be ready for you this weekend--a new video + printable sampler pack of prayercards and resources.

May you know the warmth of connection and the hearth of community. May you breathe in great breaths of gratitude and breathe out great breaths of peace.

This morning I sat
with the black cat on my lap
and breathed the first breaths
of October.
The sky is gray-white and sunless,
filled with crowcall
and the sharp cries of hawk.
If I squint,
I can almost see steam lifting
from a cauldron in the forest
and smell change drifting
through the air.
I am looking at the shards
of the year,
some new-broken,
some re-collected,
some shining with possibility,
and I feel the call,
the urge,
the promise,
to tip them all into that bubbling vat
and see what She will
steep me into next.
We are invited each day
into newness,
into breathing the very breath
of the World Spirit herself.
We are invited into presence,
into the commonplace magic
that keeps the world turning
and our hearts beating.
Here we are in the temple
of the ordinary,
watching the sky.
May we settle into our bones
and feel our pulse in our wrists.
May we accept the invitation
to sit with joy
and create our lives.

May we breathe deep
and allow a blush of gratitude
to suffuse us,
soft and persimmon orange
as it permeates our bodies.
May we breathe deep
and allow compassion to illuminate us,
lighting our hearts with a golden glow,
softening our shoulders
and gentling our minds.
May we breathe deep
and allow a fire of creativity
to kindle in our bellies,
flaring bright and powerful
filling our bones with purpose
and lighting our way
May we pause,
allowing the warmth
of the moment to nourish
and inspire us,
and then set forth
hands open
and hearts ablaze.

New class upcoming for October: October Magic.

The turning of the seasonal wheel
is a feast for the senses,
sometimes it seems
all I've done
is sit on the same swing
in the same place
while the wheel turns around me,
the tapestry of birds and leaves,
flowers and berries,
budding,
blooming,
peaking,
and dropping
as I sit and see,
bare branches spinning
into tips of green catching the sun,
spreading into great green umbrellas
and then fading to yellow.
White flowers blushed with pink
becoming tight knots of green berry
deepening to black
and then gone again
rusty red canes crowned
with thorns and patience.
Gray juncos to orange orioles,
to swift hummingbirds
to black capped chickadees
and back to gray juncos again,
a swirl of feathers,
and color
and song.
Watch carefully.
Remember to laugh.
Sit in the center as often as possible.
Feel how it all spins.

On our morning walk,

two hawks,

Here you are,
in-dependence
with all things.
The land is threaded
with rivers
that connect your body and blood
to the sea.
There is salt both on your skin
and in the distant waves,
and there is lightning
slicing from rain-thick clouds
behind the vultures coasting over the mesa.
The wind
against your face,
the same air that carries the
monarch butterfly
to desert milkweed,
that lifts the ravens’ wings
over the ruins of
the Hohokam,
that has kissed
the cheek of a thousand
generations.
The earth is made
of days
beyond count
and roots beyond question.
The fire in your belly
is that which whirls worlds into being.
There is iron in your blood,
iron at the planet’s core,
iron in the stars,
iron in beak of hawk
and eye of crow,
and iron in the red rocks
beneath your feet.
This air you breathe is
river woven,
lightning laced,
tear salted,
iron eyed,
earth kissed,
raven winged.
Wait,
let this breath expand
your chest
and know:
here you are,
today,
in-dependence
with all things.

Happy In-Dependence Day! May we each remember that our well-being is interwoven with the well-being of every strand in the web.

I wrote this poem on the 4th of July last year while traveling in the desert. A video reading version of it is available here.

It is now that the hydrangeas 

are in bloom,