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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.

We set forth seeking chanterelles,
past the barriers of thorn and bug
and into the quiet slopes and mosses
of an August wood.
We did not find many mushrooms,
but we did find:
A queen of hearts playing card
and a few steps later,
the jack.
A lower jawbone, worn and smooth,
incisors and molars
still in their places.
A turtle, once wounded,
now healed,
v-shaped crack in its shell
framing its patient
yellow-spotted face.
A copperhead snake,
perfectly patched
for patterns made by sunshine
filtered through oak leaves.
One crow feather,
a bit ragged,
and a gray feather too.
Three white-tailed deer,
startled into flight,
quick hooves clattering away
across the stones.
More spiderwebs than we can count.
The tiniest of tiny ticks,
spilling from seed head
into our shoes
and hastening our steps.  
Moss with sun on it
and tufted titmice
squabbling in the hackberry trees.
A spiral shell fossil,
sparkled with dusting of quartz,
its small curve pre-dating
every moment of the entirety
of human history,
and yet here today
with us now,
reminding us that we walk across
what was once the bottom of a sea.
The sweet sensation of aliveness,
that comes with loving something enough
to give up a bit of blood and body
just to have a taste.

The mulberries are now bare
while the oaks are still cloaked
in shades of yellow, orange,
and brown,
maples and dogwoods
still clad in scraps of red.
Puffs of woodsmoke
catch the morning light
and hang like mist
in the cedars,
my breath too,
a fine cloud
trailing away into the trees.
There is something in the air
that speaks of satisfaction,
of change,
of cycles complete and renewing.
There is an invitation
to pause and witness
and to mindfully choose
next steps and new directions.
Our lives can hold
what we want them to hold.
Be present,
stay open,
attend to what is.
Be in the world,
in your life.
Return to center
again and again.

Sometimes you may feel dull

and worn,

I carried lemon balm
and sweet almond oil with me
into the woods
and sat on a stone.
I saw three vultures rising and falling
wheeling and whirling
gracefully above the valley
and a single black crow zip busily
along the horizon
as its kin called raucously
from unseen trees.
A neat triangle of nine geese
passed above my head,
close enough for a change
to hear the rhythmic sounds
of their wings moving the air
as they passed me by.
I encircled myself with lemon balm,
scattering it loosely
on the leaves around my rock.
I anointed my body with sweet drops
of scented oil
and whispered some wishes to the wind.
These, my own spontaneous
and solitary
rites of spring.
Suddenly, the slowly coasting vultures
changed course
and angled across the blue sky above me.
I felt the shadows of their long wings
gently cross me
as I sat silent in my circle
and felt tears rise into my eyes
and laughter rise to my lips
at the exact same moment
as I recognized the feeling
of Persephone’s return. 

Note: originally published at Feminism and Religion.

This morning,
I walked around the field
and discovered
three soft white breast feathers
of an unknown bird,
two earthstar mushrooms,
sinking quietly back into the soil,
one tiny snail shell,
curled in spiral perfection,
and the fire of my own spirit
burning in my belly,
rekindled by elemental magic
of the everyday kind,
the small and precious gifts
of an ordinary day.