Can Clowns Save Our Souls?

Can Clowns Save Our Souls?

We might try to follow where the clown leads, but we cannot hope to pin him down. It is only when we stop insisting that the clown be just one thing that he is free to become the multiplicity of being that he really is.

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Memorial Day, Motherland and Blood Sacrifice

Memorial Day, Motherland and Blood Sacrifice

When it comes to questions of how to respond to the cultural demand to “honor the soldiers who died for you,” I find that the problem is not so much that I do not want to comply, but that I literally do not know how. Assuming, of course, that our honor and memory should take a form other than silent complicity in the continuing violence and militarism of our government — what should my honor look like?

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The Welcoming Wild: Community for Introverts and Animists

The Welcoming Wild: Community for Introverts and Animists

An animist is never alone, not really. But if the world is so full of people, then where does that leave me, your friendly neighborhood introvert? There are days when the more I hang out with people, the lonelier I feel. What is it that the natural world offers that I cannot get from my fellow human beings?

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The Killing Blow: A Poem

The Killing Blow: A Poem

In times of grief and sorrow, when even a hundred thousand words will not do, I turn to the aching brevity of poetry…. This poem was originally published February 17, 2011, and though it may be unseasonable for the time of year, there are days even in the dreary depths of autumn when we need to remember the coming spring.

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Further Reflections on Death & Fire

Further Reflections on Death & Fire

I’m usually somewhat solemn around this time of year, sitting quietly at my desk listening to the quiet rain and even quieter fog outside my window, enjoying the damp quiet day in my own little way as my not-at-all-damp-thank-you cat quietly looks on….

But not this year. This year, something’s gotten into me. A bit of trickster spirit, maybe. A bit of fire. Since March, which is when Sir Terry Pratchett died, a part of me has become really, really angry. Another part of me can’t stop praying.

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