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I was swept away by the healing ritual, chanting with a hundred others as we worked with the energy of Isis. My friend from the other side of Paganism, however, was aghast. 

“You invoke the gods and then do nothing for them. You’re not even properly grateful.” For her the gods existed externally and needed to be honoured and thanked, not used as props in a psychodrama. I just knew that the ritual had worked. I felt alive and uplifted.

As I fumbled to explain, she asked in exasperation, “I mean, what exactly do you believe?”

Well, I don’t. Believe that is. 

I’m stuck. Living in the Toronto Covid “hot spot” is in no way as exciting as it sounds. I’m 24/7 with someone I love dearly, but who perversely insists on being the exact same person day after day. We walk the same streets day after day (masked) and go over the same topics, day after day.

In other areas, I’m plagued by a sense of uselessness and impatience. My group endeavours require slow-moving consensus, all over the eyeball-dessicating Zoom. Every now and then there’s some drama that drags even this virtual action to a standstill.

I want something to happen! 

Magic and wonder have been important to me spiritually for my entire life. As a child, I learned basic magical skills — like energy protection, artistic magic, relaxation, and healing meditation — from my family. We were all very connected with nature, and the sacredness of the outdoors.

I began having out of body experiences when I was a teenager. When I met my familiar spirit, it was an angel who protected me when I was very sick. My familiar helped me to become a stronger and braver girl.

An Open Letter to Jane Kenyon

Jane, please-
It is possible to pick a flower and
not trip over the husk,
to squat in pure rejoicing
without looking forward
to the demise of the coffee cup
or the shards of your lover, broken on the floor.
Eat a sandwich.
Walk your dog.
Live your life.

Potential Energy

The seeds (sealed in a pocket
squashed in a small pot
with spongy, thirsty dirt
and simple instructions for planting,
a gesture, an idea of green)
surprise themselves and sprout.

I wrote both of those poems last year, during a shifting and fruitful time of my life. The first, "An Open Letter to Jane Kenyon," was written as I was reading Jane Kenyon:  Collected Poems. I remember very clearly being overtaken by both the beauty of her imagery and the depth of her depression. Jane Kenyon did suffer from depression, and to be clear, I do not mean to make light of that. Dealing with depression myself, I know that it does not allow the luxury of a choice of perspective. Thus, the poem has always felt awkward to me in that "What do you mean, writing to a depressed poet, telling her to stop being depressed? That's really insensitive!" kind of way...and still, something was there that I knew had truth.