Invitation
Living Wild Creativity Practice
Invitation Oh do you have time to linger for just a little while out of your busy and very important day for the goldfinches that have gathered in a field of thistles for a musical battle, to see who can sing the highest note, or the lowest, or the most expressive of mirth, or the most tender? Their strong, blunt beaks drink the air as they strive melodiously not for your sake and not for mine and not for the sake of winning but for sheer delight and gratitude— believe us, they say, it is a serious thing just to be alive on this fresh morning in the broken world. I beg of you, do not walk by without pausing to attend to this rather ridiculous performance. It could mean something. It could mean everything. . . ---Mary Oliver, from A Thousand Mornings, 2012
Hello Lovelies—
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Each weekly meditation of A Woman’s Place is in the Wild is an offering, an evocation of the world around me. You will rarely find me writing about climbing to the top of a mountain or counting the miles I’ve walked as if collecting notches on a belt.
Instead, I want to adventure in.
This is the kind of nature writing needed now, narratives of place—localities, with its root in the Latin, locus, for place—the kind that rise over time out of relationship, that allow us to understand that we are place, too. As the Scottish writer, Nan Shepherd says, “The first law of ecology is that everything is connected to everything else.”
This week I marks both the new Pink or Clearing moon and also the Spring Equinox so I am offering free access to Living Wild Creativity Prompt normally for paid subscribers at the end of this post, which includes a ritual and some nature practices meant to deepen your your relationship with the natural world.
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18 March, Huhtikuu, New Pink or Clearing Moon
Spring approaches, wild and chaotic. I hear her tromping across the land, heavy-footed and furious, her skirts carrying the mud of a new growing season, the seeds of what is to be planted. On her shoulders, migrating birds.
This week she swung not a pendulum but an battle axe splitting the landscape with near hurricane-force winds and then a thick and lingering snow.
Battered by 80mph winds, we lose power for a few days. The roar is so loud it drowns out even the sound of neighbor’s obnoxious gas-powered generator. Gusts reach 114mph. Trees snap, leaving sharp spikes poking up in the forest. In some places whole groupings of trees are scrambled and tossed.
I hunker down at home, read books. I work on my computer to its last percentage of power. For dinner, I make pizzas on the grill outside and Greg and I watch a movie spooled on the dvd player hooked to our old television plunked down on the living room coffee table. We’ve saved the power in the rechargeable generator bought after the last big wind in December for just this purpose. Yuki, confused by this change in routine, paces at first, then settles, disgruntled, in the bedroom. Later, we light battery-operated candles and sit in bed and read a bit more.
We are in a boat tossed on enormous, unfurling waves on an angry sea. The roar and crash, our constant companion. That night I sleep with a pillow over my head to drown out the sound.
On the third night, snow replaces wind. It falls heavily, mercifully, filling up the landscape. I walk out to let it fall on my head and face, a benediction. More than 8 inches rains down in just a few hours, adding to the foot from last week that has mostly melted. The storm circles into the next day, splashing out to the plains and coming back like a tide, when suddenly the sun breaks out and mud blooms in the road.
This is the season of whiplash. One day brings snow and clouds, another opens wide and warm, temping crocus and daffodils from their winter beds.
But this year feels different.
Spring is furious.
And why not?
Why shouldn’t there be stomping and cacophony?
Nature wants our attention. Are we listening?
Earth speaks not just in the language of hurricanes and floods, of earthquakes and drying up aquifers, of shock and catastrophe—these the language of climate crisis— she also speaks in the emergence of catkins which freeze and thaw, freeze and thaw on aspens; in the butterfly I saw flying ahead of the snow storm and the caterpillars who, my cousin wrote to me, are spinning themselves into cocoons on his balcony; in the first robin on the mountain—always a sign of hope for me; in the way the trees in our yard seem, as Greg observed “to hold on to each other” in the wind; and in Mary Oliver’s goldfinches with their “expressive. . .mirth.”
Earth speaks in songs and melodies, in signs and semaphore: in the coyote who crossed the yard during the snow;the raven whose silent presence I feel from the ponderosa off the deck or the foxes curl, waiting for first light in the yard; in the green world rising from the cavern of winter despite everything; in the chrysalis of stars at night.
Hers is the language of hope, the language of presence.
I am reminded of Chickasaw writer Linda Hogan’s poem, “Bamboo” which tells us about the plants:
They have lived too long in the world of men.
They are hollow inside.
Lord, are you listening to this?
Plants are climbing to heaven
To talk to you.
The whole world is speaking to us every second of every day. There are hundreds of stories of renewal and rebirth right outside the door. All we have to do is offer the reciprocity of our attention.
When the wind rises, I’ll confess my first instinct is to turn away. I find not just the sound, but the explosion of ions in the air, unmooring.
But what if wind, too, is an invitation. What if I simply breathed and listened?
It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.
---Mary OliverThis week, in honor of the New Pink Moon and kevätpäiväntasaus, the Spring Equinox, I offer some immersive practices that help you honor your unique relationship with Earth in this week’s Living Wild Creativity Practice. Here you can explore listening to the Earth in writing and through ritual. You can revisit some of the Earth Practices from this recent Living Wild Creativity Prompt or keep reading.
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Hold onto beauty, friends, and to each other. Carry hope. And practice being human, practice loving the earth and each other, each day.
Thank you for reading. Please click heart if you appreciate this post and feel free to share or restack.
Big love,
Karen
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Living Wild Creativity Practice - Invitation
Give the Gift of You Attention
Go to your favorite outdoor spot. It doesn’t have to be far. You can simply sit outside. Pledge 5 or 10 or 20 minutes each day to simply being with this place. Allow yourself to simply be still. Soften your gaze. Open your senses, gather sensation. Let it wash over you. Let it enter through your body not your brain. Experience.
This is earth listening.
I promise you your not just your life, but your world will be richer for it.
When you are complete, feel gratitude rise up in you.
What Does the Nature Say?
Write a poem in which some part of Nature speaks. How? Listen to sound and movement, listen to smell and touch. Write in an embodied way.
New Moon Clearing, a Ritual
In the honor of the new moon and spring, clear some space in your life of clutter. Dust, clean a closet, wash the items that don’t often get cleaned—the cushion covers on the couch, the baseboards and heat registers.
Write a word or two that represents what you are really ready to be done with. Then burn the paper.
Do what you need to clear and make ready for the new season.
Ritual for the Equinox, a Ritual
Here I am reposting instructions for making a Love Charm. Not for yourself but for the World, for the healing that only love can bring.
You’ll need a pack of seeds—your favorite flower—a square of red cloth, and silver thread. You will also need a candle, a bit of water, incense and a tiny bit of kosher salt for the blessing.
Sit. Gather your circle around you. Call your ancestors or guides. Or simply draw a circle on the floor or ground by tracing your finger. Imagine you are safe and protected. Or light candles to the four directions.
Close your eyes and breathe.
Imagine your roots in the earth, holding earth. Imagine the energy of the dark entering your roots to become light. Feel this reciprocity.
Pour the seeds into your hand. Breathe into them. Fill them with your fierce love and joy. Imagine them blossoming in the world, making it more beautiful and harmonious. Charge these seeds with your inspiration and deep love. Vision the world you want to see not for yourself but for All Beings.
When you feel complete, place the seed inside the square of cloth and gather the sides up to make a small pouch. Wrap the neck of the pouch with the silver thread three times, then tie the thread with three knots.
Hold your charm and fill it again with your energy and love.
Charge your Love Charm by Earth Air Fire Water.
Touch it to the earth you have gathered in a bowl.
Pass it through the smoke of incense.
Pass it over a candle flame.
Sprinkle it with water.
Say a blessing for your charm.
Release the energy. Ground. Drink a glass of water.
Place your charm outside as a gift to the earth.
Embody a Storm
Sit outside in a storm—wind or snow or rain—and let your senses open. Touch on sound and smell, taste and touch. Then touch sight. Write or dance or sing your experience as it is happening. Do not simply recount it. Embody it.
Make an Earth Gift
Make a gift for the earth as it emerges in this season of quickening. You can place a precious object, write a poem and tie it to a tree, place an icon in a special place as a gift, as recognition of the earth.
Many Blessings, my friends.