There's so much I want to tell you — but how?
I am writing you
the way a gazelle
must grow ever sleeker
the indelicate jaws
of the lion.
Why is everything I try to do coming out stilted and slow today? I blame you. The general, faceless you. The you who keeps telling me I need to be smaller, wittier, brief.
Move. Between justice and mercy, between nakedness and warfare, between all that you would not do and all you have done, unknowing...
Writing in a group setting is different, much more like praying together. Or sitting together in meditation. Being present to each other in-process, witness to the very act of discovery and composition, soul-deep in the chaotic waters of creativity. This is writing as a spiritual practice — a kind of sacred deep listening, what Karen Hering calls in her book Writing to Wake the Soul, "contemplative correspondence."
That's how sick we all are of this bullshit nonsense. You're sick of it, too, I know. You're sick of the internet outrage machine. You're sick of controversy and condemnation. You reshare links to things you hate just to tell people you hate them, and somewhere inside, you hate yourself for doing it, because you know it's useless. You're sick of the noise and the fury, signifying nothing. You're sick of a society that asks you to hold onto everything so tightly, with so much certainty and righteous indignation, that your fingers are curled into fists and you can't remember the last time you gently traced the scars on another person's skin as if they were something beautiful.
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.
It takes a long time to understand why she left.
She'd arrived one day with a burst of rain, a glint of sunlight on wilting ice. She'd come with mud and wind and trampled dogwood petals pressed into the cracks of the sidewalk, with quickened breath and light, with the smell of cheap wax candles burning well past midnight... And then one day, just as quickly, she was gone again.
It's been two weeks since my piece "Gods Like Mountains, Gods Like Mists" set off a fascinating and wide-ranging discussion about anthropocentrism in polytheist ritual and theology. In case you were wondering — yes, I've been busy reading, thinking, digesting and working on a follow-up post (or six!) of my own that I'll be sharing here soon. In the meantime, I wanted to point out some amazing writing elsewhere in the blogosphere.
Featuring posts by Sara Amis, Joanna van der Hoeven, Heather Mingo and more!
Every month, the Animist Blog Carnival (organized by the devoted Heather Awen) gathers together essays and blog posts on a particular theme from writers all over the world who are exploring animism as an aspect of their spiritual lives. If you consider yourself an animist, you can join in! It's super-easy: just share your reflections, thoughts and experiences on the month's chosen theme on your own blog or website, and then email a link to your post to Heather (or that month's ABC host).
And now's a great time to get involved. The theme for this month's ABC is Animism and Religion, and Heather shares a list of thought-provoking prompts over on her blog to get you started. Deadline: November 28, 2013