Sometimes the best rituals are those we cannot plan, requiring only pine needles and wind, open eyes and a long, slow-sinking sun settling gently into shadows. Sometimes the best magic of all is made with what is exactly right now, bluestem grass and gray feathers, raccoon footsteps between the trees, laughter and joined hands, a faith in the cycles of retreat and renewal. This is what we are here for, days like these.
Here we are in this liminal space in which old chapters close and things are laid aside, set down, put to rest. We exhale into the stillness, into the waiting time between times So, too, we may feel newness and promise coiled and pulsing, sometimes whispering, sometimes shouting, sometimes singing of the new and beautiful, the exciting and inspiring. May we have the courage to sit between these two calls listening. May we allow ourselves to settle for a spell right here between the tight and tender. May we know both brave action and brave stillness as we allow the old and new to steep together in peace and trust inside the crucible of change.
In the early hours of night-morning, I am summoned by the eclipsing moon, waking suddenly with a sense of delight bubbling behind my breastbone. My heart is beating fast and a sense of wild, anticipatory glee fizzes in my bones. My feet are cold on fine sparkles of frost as I gaze upward, hand against my heart at the crescent of full moon. I hear a noise behind me and turn to see the white flashes of two deer in the woods. They move only a few feet away and then stand there, dark and silent watching me. I kiss my hand and lift it to the moon three times. Orion is leaning on the rooftop and the sky is alive with stars. I am a priestess on a spinning Earth in the temple of night, my body an altar beneath a shadowed moon. My breaths are an offering, my heartbeat a song of praise, in this, a rite of resetting. I return to my bed and lie there for a long time, eyes bright, listening to star song, kept awake by poems.
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.
Here we are at the edge of fall, looking at the world and at our lives. May learn from Squirrel and gather up our resources to store for future days. May we learn from Persimmon and allow ourselves to ripen patiently until we recognize the perfect time to let go, savoring the sweetness and delicacy of our own best timing. May we learn from Oak knowing we belong to a great, grand cycle of generativity and renewal, drawing up strength from the earth beneath us, stretching our roots deep, and exhaling as we allow the unneeded to fall lightly away. May we pause at the turning point, this hinge of change and choice, to savor the good work of this year, to celebrate what we have learned and made, to honor what we've loved and labored over. May we open our arms in gratitude and then wrap them around ourselves with compassion. May we turn our faces to the sun, feel the wind curl around us, lay our hands on our hearts and feel the connection we always carry within. May we set our feet to the spiral, as the deep and powerful mystery of being continues to unfurl.
In the evening we prepare for a very simple family Lammas ritual. I don’t feel inspired to do anything elaborate, so we cut our loaf of special bread, prepared earlier by my sister-in-law and delivered warm. We add blackberry jelly to our slices and leave one slice for our offering. We step out together onto the deck and set the bread, a candle, and a garnet-colored meditation goddess onto the center of the deck. We speak aloud of our gratitude for the changes, blessings, and creations of the last few weeks and of the months since Imbolc. Then, we each tear off a piece of bread from the extra piece and speak aloud what we will be sacrificing, what we are willing to change in the new season. a pattern emerges from our words, that of a family-wide wish for a better and healthier schedule, earlier dinner-times and bed-times, more opportunities to play together.
We join hands and close our micro-ritual with our favorite blessing:
"May goddess bless and keep us, may wisdom dwell within us, may we create peace." —Carol P. Christ
I feel warm and satisfied with this tiny ritual, this simple observance of the season, this connection between the elements to those I love best.
Image and words from my new book, Walking with Persephone: a journey of midlife descent and renewal forthcoming from Womancraft Publishing (now available for pre-order with bonuses!) This book is a walk through the changing cycles of the year and nature with me as I learn to let my steps be guided by Persephone.
Erin Lale
Fellow faculty at Harvard Divinity School posted an open letter to Wolpe in response to his article. It's available on this page, below the call for p...
Erin Lale
Here's another response. The Wild Hunt has a roundup of numerous responses on its site, but it carried this one as a separate article. It is an accoun...
Erin Lale
Here's another response. This one is by a scholar of paganism. It's unfortunately a Facebook post so this link goes to Facebook. She posted the text o...
Erin Lale
Here's another link to a pagan response to the Atlantic article. I would have included this one in my story too if I had seen it before I published it...
Janet Boyer
I love the idea of green burials! I first heard of Recompose right before it launched. I wish there were more here on the East Coast; that's how I'd l...