I didn't grow up in a church community, though I had a brief love affair with the ritual I found in an Episcopal church in Oregon in my twenties. My legitimate quest to create a spiritual practice was birthed in middle age by borrowing from the Buddhist practice of mindfulness, and the strong connection I felt for the worship of the Earth as taught us by our first nations. In Native American cultures The Great Spirit is a deity intertwined with the fabric of the Universe and the web of the life on Earth. It wasn't until recent years I discovered my Wiccan roots and the pre-Christian possibility that my ancestors were Earth worshippers. When I started this journey I worried because I didn’t know how to pray. Turns out we all know how to pray through our love of and gratitude for the gifts of life. This vault is for those who, like me, hunger for a spiritual practice and are learning to braid their own.

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

To be open

As I lay in the tent, my husband ready to sleep in the mummy bag alongside, I ran the tapes of our first day back on the desert. Our shaman led us in a bit of review, and nostalgia. We came this time hoping to connect more deeply with Pachamama and Original Wisdom. For me an intention to be open. When I chuckled my sweetie asked why. "I want to be open," I said . . .  "if I only knew what that means," I laughed out loud. He chuckled at first and then joined me in the belly laugh that encircled our rain fly and evaporated upward into the starry desert sky.



Trying to Open
beyond the reach of the brain

Finger’s taste of Woolly Bear
without insistence on a name . . .
more than fuzz, less than bristle,
delicate costumed ball.

Nostrils filled with basil or sage,
annexed as if by magic
to a distant time and place.

Taste buds depolarized by dusty rock, 
as if saliva is the only remedy 
for such indulgence.

Ears lulled in the moment
where soundlessness 
meets the crashing chorus of crows.

Eyes struck by the glowing edge of a
v-shaped gaggle of geese
synchronized with the appearance of the sun.

A knowing the compost is tired of onions,
longs for peaches and pears.

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