Our solstice fire from last summer. Photo by madgiddy.

May light dominate your life in these coming days.
May the moments of darkness be far outnumbered by the presence of light.

When you next gather around the table in your homes may you remember light, and love, and the sun.

May these moments of holy time help us all to remember that the world spins, and the tide turns and the nights grow shorter – and regardless of our will or our work, the gift of Light Returning happens over and over and over again.

May the blessing of light be upon you –
Light without and light within.
May the blessed sunlight shine on you like a great fire,
So that stranger and friend may come and warm themselves at it.

-a traditional Celtic blessing

The front porch of our Seattle home.

a small sketch from my travel journal

It’s the night of Summer solstice. At home in Seattle the sun is at its highest right now, and hopefully the skies are clear to give the locals some much-onged for warmth during this cold Summer on this, their most treasured day. Here in Copenhagen–which is not yet home—the sun is starting to set, though the light has barely ebbed. Well after ten o’clock I can still read easily in the twilight glow that’s stretching over our high city balcony.

John Mayer is in town, the poet whose blues have sustained me through these strange and wrenching times. I searched for tickets—begged, borrowed and threatened to steal in two languages—but alas, none were to be found. Instead I’m sneaking smokes and playing all the live songs I could download one after another too loudly through the open windows of the living room. Message in Bottle (which I once heard Sting perform on an awkward date in an enormous arena). My Stupid Mouth (The Blogger’s Lament.) 83 (whimsical. nostalgic.) And finally, Gravity, my touchstone, my anchor.

I have been dreading this day, alone and away from my community on one of our most holy days. Paul is at a work party. One which has a reputation for being a bit of an orgy. One to which spouses are not invited. The girls are asleep after what for me was an exhausting night of homemade pizza, sing-a-long movies, and reading aloud extraordinary long chapters of Harry Potter. The grand finale for mom was one of those long, drawn out bedtimes only clever children can create, and enough dishes to make a restaurateur cry. But now that I’m here, alone with the dog, listening to John and watching the swallows dart after invisible insects; I find that I am actually okay in with this solitude, watching the sun slip into sleep, being grateful for the light.

At Stonehenge this morning the sun crested over softly arching hills, struck the blue-hued Heelstone, and drove its light between the arches of the great trilithon. Hundreds were there in dreadlocks and druid robes, smelling of travel and patchouli, trying to name something unnamable, making it up as they go along. Isn’t that what we all do? Cobble something together from shards of history and intuitive pull? Look for the meeting point between what we know and what we hope to be true?

I was at Stonehenge not long ago, fresh from the opulence of Europe’s finest cathedrals, ready to be unimpressed by a ring of stones surrounded by security fencing. I was surprised to find such holiness there, walking in a round where people have paced for thousands of years; waiting for the shard of light to crack the sky; hoping for a life continued. I followed the tour and when I reached the Heelstone, paused to touch its side. As I felt the warmth of the sarsen stone under my hand, I noticed a young woman walking counter clockwise to the organized tour, her shoes in her hand, her feet on holy ground. Seeing her example, I wanted suddenly to sink to my knees. It was all I could to do still my voice, to not incant ‘Holy, Holy, Holy.’ But I was unaccustomed of being a stranger in a strange land for so many long months, worn down from always sticking out, from always being obvious. I did not have the confidence to kneel in front of so many tourists in windbreakers and cameras. (Who knew the bending of the knee could be an act requiring so much strength?) Iinstead I stayed my hand on the stone, leaned my weight into my palm, and let my soul pour out thanks. Gratitude for the light. Gratitude for continuance. Gratitude for all that we need to go on.

It was not, and this is not, the Solstice I have come to remember. It is not the riotous and ridiculous parade; the familiar and homespun pageant built with our own hands; the silly, colorful crowd of thousands. Instead it is a new lesson in holy moments—stumbled upon alone (yet with casts of thousands now past); a mishmash of vices and virtues, of new songs and old stones. I feel as though I am soaking somehow in this history, in this present, and in the sun—always our promise of a future. I am melted. I am melded, somehow, me in this chair alone. And I think—held in this mystery of solitude amidst the companionship of souls—I think as the sun now fades, “Dayenu, it is enough.”

We’ve had various kinds of celebrations for Spring over the years. But I have always hoped to have a gathering for May Day—or what the Celts call Beltane—in celebration of the good earth. In my dreamy gathering we could stand on some patch of soft ground and use our bodies to say ‘thank you’ to Mama and to give her some honor.

So far, this hasn’t come to pass. I tried once, and my children totally derailed me, moving the evening from a night of Om-ing barefoot in the grass, to a night of painting toenails for the upcoming sandal season. Apparently, when you are 4 and 6 it’s way more fun to welcome the Spring with flip-flops and pink polish than to follow your breath while holding a backbend.

Now that I’m here in Denmark and far away from all my friends of the feminine divine, this little dream isn’t likely to come to past anytime soon. But this morning while I was hanging out in Shavasana, it came into my monkey mind that I could get one step closer to this dream by writing the series down. (You know, instead of just holding it in my head and hoping someone will invite me to teach yoga.)

An hour later when I sat down to write my BlogHer editorial about Earth Day, I realized that if I posted said yoga series perhaps, in some small way, we might all be connected just by doing the same practice—even if it is in different times and different places. We are all standing on this same round earth, this big blue marble, right? We might as well call it a party.

So here is my short series of Yoga Poses for Mama, from me, the wannabe priestess, to you my sister friends. May they connect your spirit to the creative, nurturing energy of sand and soil, sea and sky, meadow and mountain. Namaste! Read the rest of this entry »

Eden, then five, sits pretty and pensive at our passover table.

This is the first time in eight years that we won’t be celebrating Pesach (Passover) with our community. Our dishes and haggadah (prayer books) have arrived, but we’ve yet to gather the kind of friends that would want to take part in a 4 hours meal with this electic goy girl. I’m treating my Passover jones by writing about how I got started celebrating with a Seder. You can find that story over in my weekly post at BlogHer. And here’s some pretty pictures, taken by my friend Emily Button, from our first Passover with Monkfish Abbey, back in 2004.

Anointing everyone at the table before going in to dinner.

On Passover, we eat reclining on a pillow to show that we are free. (Slaves weren’t allowed to eat reclining.)

A full glass is sign of joy. Here we diminish the wine in our glass to signify solidarity with those who suffer.

Paul serves up matzo ball soup to Catie. (3 yrs)

is it enough
this story,
this ideal,
this wistful thing—

the teacher speaking soft in the garden,
mouthing my name,
warm-blooded and real.

when I grow tired of picking,
sorting fact from fiction,
lies like stones among the lentils,
truths as yellow bulbs among the rocks,

when I tire of this painstaking plucking

i hold instead,
one smooth egg
one round stone
one child, with chocolate on her mouth and songs on her tongue.

he is wisen, comes the lisp
he is wisen indeed!

tell me true things, i whisper,
my face held close,
warm against her neck.

she sings to me
an edict, a lullaby,
ubi caritas, maman,
ubi caritas et amor
ubi caritas, deus ibi est.

where there is charity, there is love
where there is love
there god is.

enough, i think,
to hold this egg
this stone
this child
enough, to say ‘amen.’

One year in college, a couple decades ago, my girlfriends and I decided to wear black on Valentines’ Day. We were all boyfriendless at the time, and Spring had hit early so couples were coming out the dorms like moths from a wardrobe.

Then, many years later, a professor of mine asked me my story. I told her all the basics: where I grew up, what my undergraduate degree was in, when I got married. When she asked me how old I was when I got married, and the age “23″ came out of my mouth, this wise woman nodded her head and said, “Oh, so you’ve never been single.”

No, I have never been single. I went straight from a small Methodist college, where (almost) everyone was not so much single as just not-married-yet; on to graduation; and then straight to “Here Comes the Bride.” I never lived a day in the life as a single gal.

But she had, my 50-something thesis advisor, and many of my girlfriends have as well–either as women who have not married, or who have married and are single again. And aside from marriage, there’s also the reality of girlfriends who have had long-term partners and common law unions, and then found themselves by choice or by circumstance on the single side of the chart once again.

These women do not live lives of bereavement. They are not bereft. And whether they are single by choice or by circumstance, all of them have built lives that are as full and rich as any woman with a ring on her left hand and someone else’s clothes in her closet.

So every year, on Valentine’s Day, I remember that year in protest black, and that a-ha moment with my professor, and it prompts me to post this blessing. I wrote it out of love for St. Lucy, for my single friends, and for the passionate heart of St. Valentine. If you are single, I hope it is a gift to you today. Thank you for living lives of admiration, and for putting up with all of us who go all gooey under the influence of paper hearts.

With Love and Respect,

Rachelle

A big ‘thank you’ to everyone who commented or emailed me about the Budding Feminist reviews.

Writing about those two books got me to thinking about just how much those authors have influenced me. Reading them opened a flood gate, and new ideas and rituals came to me by the fistful. To honor that experience, and to express gratitude, here’s a list of posts from my first blog that are representative of what came out of my spiritual feminine awakening…

__________________

A Guided Meditation on the Feminine Divine.

A Healing Rite with Hot Stones

Opening Blessing for the Powerhouse (communal art studio) at the Summer Solstice

Saying Goodbye to the White Guys

Little Altars Everywhere: Up in Smoke

Little Altars Everywhere: Recovering She

The Womb of Life and the concept of We

There’s probably more filed under rites and rituals. If I can, I’ll hunt down the good ones for you.

Thanks for being with me on the journey!

-Rachelle

One of the realities that captures me most at Christmas is the meaning of Emmanuel - “God with us.” I love thinking of God as an infant, God as a fellow traveler, God as our sibling and friend. It’s one of the unique traits of Yahweh — this willingness, even eagerness, to be near to us. In reality, or as a truth-bearing myth, this concept brings me peace.

Our modern mystic, Brennan Manning, captures God-with-us quite wonderfully in one of his Advent pieces. Here it is for you now, a little present from me to you.

Watch for the Light: Readings for Advent and Christmas
Orbis Books, 2001

“Shipwrecked at the Stable”

Do you think you could contain Niagra Falls in a teacup?

We all know how difficult it is to receive anything from someone who has all the answers, who is completely cool, utterly unafraid, needing nothing and in control of every situation. We feel unnecessary, unrelated to this paragon. So God comes as a newborn baby, giving us a chance to love him, making us feel that we have something to give him.

P.s. I also recommend listening to Bruce Cockburn’s tune Big Circumstance, which references this piece, and Cry of a Tiny Babe, which is one of my favorites. Peace to you this Christmas day.

A Prayer for Lighting of the Advent Wreath

Tonight, our nights grow shorter and our days grow long!

We look once more on these earthy symbols–firelight and evergreens–
and remember God’s promise to our world:
That our Light and our Hope, will come.

The Words of the Prophet

What came into existence was Life,
And the Life was Light to live by.

The Life-Light blazed out of the darkness;
And the darkness could not put it out.

The people who lived in darkness have seen a great light, and we have beheld its glory, glory that only comes from God:

generous from the inside out,
true from start to finish,
full of grace, full of truth.

And the people who walked in darkness beheld a great light….a light came into the darkness and the darkness could not overcome it…and we beheld its glory…glory as only begotten of the Creator…full of grace and truth….

Happy Solstice! Tonight time turns and our long nights grow shorter! Hurrah! Sing Praises!

We adore the Fremont Art Council’s Feast of the Winter Solstice. But packing and moving duties kept us away this year. Still, I remember the impact this event had on me, back when I was a feast virgin in ‘04. Everything I wrote then holds true for me still. So here friends, on this happy solstice night, is a picture from last year, and some thoughts from my first time. Blessed be the Light!

Rebecca, me, and Ammelia at the Feast of the Winter Solstice, ‘06.

I’m really a better pagan than I am a Christian. All of the things I do to express my faith are rather pagan-y. It’s popular right now in Christian circles to call these kinds of practices Celtic. But really, they are just pagan. Advent wreaths, evergreens, the holly and the ivy…we’ve copped it all from the pagans.

Me, I love building altars out of rocks. I think priestesses are beautiful. As far as I’m concerned lighting a candle with a real match is a thing of beauty. (Please leave those butane candle-lighting thingies at home. Ritual people, rit-tyoo-ahl!) Oh, and there’s nothing I like better than a good celebration of a seasonal change-over. (I call as a witness the 40 some odd people jammed into my house for chili-fest on the Fall Equinox.) So, you can imagine my delight when I walked into the Winter Solstice Feast on Monday night. Oh holies of holies, I’ve come home!

The Winter Solstice Feast is held in an old Safeway building in the Ballard Neighborhood of Seattle. You know you are close when you see people in glow-in-the dark turbans… and/or wings…and/or fur trimmed renaissance gowns…and/or togas…you get the idea. The feast is held on the longest night of the year and it’s primarily a time to celebrate the return of the light.

For the light came into the darkness and the darkness could not overcome it…and we beheld its glory….

This particular solstice feast, thrown by the Fremont Arts Council, is especially stunning in that it hosts hundreds of people for a sit-down dinner, and it’s done entirely by volunteers! Can you imagine? This would never ever happen in any of the churches I’ve attended. We’d rely on the clergy. That’s what we pay them for isn’t it…to take care of things? Anyhow, I’m telling you this shin-dig was insane! I mean, prior to Monday night we had gone to a headdress making workshop and decorated the space with some evergreens…but I had no real idea of the scope of this event!

We walked into the building through a gorgeous metalwork arch which read “Try Another World.” (Seen here at its original site…Burning Man 2004. Artist: Rodman Miller) Greeters helped us choose headdresses (handmade party favors crafted from recycled beads, ribbons, and tochkes.) There was a bucket for donations, and everyone brought a dish to share, a mug to toast with, and a bottle of wine. Inside, the main part of the room was ringed-in with screens made of salvaged tree branches. There were rows and rows of green-lined tables. From the ceilings hung rough-wrought chandeliers made of scrap lumber covered with evergreens and rimmed in hand dipped pillar candles. (Candle making was one of the in-advance volunteering options at the warehouse/art studio called the Powerhouse.) Labyrinths and mandalas were painted on the cement floor (no elevated stages here…everyone, even the “entertainers,” were on an even playing field.) At the end of the main aisle was a huge disk of ice, rimmed by metal arms, dripping into a glass bowl etched with gold runes– an hourglass of sorts, counting down to the return of the light. (Yeah for Peter Toms who rigs up an ice sculpture of one kind or another every year.)

Eventually, someone made an announcement and hundreds of people gathered round a loaf of bread. A woman’s voice started a low humming which soon crested into a sort-of roar. The loaf was passed and everyone took a piece. The message here was definitely “Tonight, we belong together. Tonight, there is enough.” Then the feast began and people ringed the buffet tables. We would pour red wine! We would eat roast beef with our fingers! We would scrape pomegranates with our teeth! (And, unfortunately, we would eat a tofu-based vegan brownie.) The opening feast was my favorite time of the night…watching hundreds of people create a communal meal. I kept thinking. “The church doesn’t know how to do this.” Lindell pointed out that the church would largely screw something like this up, because they would just extract one aspect of it and use it out of context in an effort to be cool. He said, “We would take the girl in the fur bikini over there and decided that our worship bands should be dressed like that. Then we would just keep playing tunes from the Vineyard Music Group.” He’s such a cynic…but you know what? He’s probably right. But this crew, they had something here….Have you ever been to the wedding of a pal who was broke…one of those events where everyone just pitches in and it turns out just wonderfully? Well imagine that…only with ten time the guests. The kingdom is a colorful party, come on in.

After supper we wandered through the cavernous space. Can you imagine doing something like this in a big grocery store? It’s like throwing a party in an airplane hangar. But the designers had carved out rooms and hallways so that the event was on a human scale. My favorite section was set-off by an arch made of two dyads or angel-like figures, their twisted wooden arms reaching up to suspend a star overhead. Through this arch you entered a mysterious, restful world, moving under gnarled root-like structures to find a heart-shaped pond made of grey and blue stones, glowing orange lights like eerie dinosaur eggs, fabric draped cushions in candlelit coves. Peace and wonder in the midst of so much excitement…

Another place frequented for long periods of time by my daughters (ages 4 and 6) was the white-draped walls of the belly-dancing “temple” The girls lounged with Tonya and I on Turkish rugs and rolled pillows, while dancer moved on and off the stage. As one woman danced her controlled undulations on the stage, four other shadows danced along the walls, silhouettes from a secret world beyond the screens. I was still glad the girls had a chance to see women moving with such confidence and beauty. (Side note: This is a world where women “minister” more easily than men. Christian men, a large percentage of whom are s*xually addicted or at least mildly plagued by internet p*rn obsessions, can’t move very freely in this artful, pagan, seeking realm. There’s just WAY too much skin. Here’s the new frontier of the woman pastor! But I digress…)

The best zone was Cameron’s beautiful silk-strewn peace corner. Three columns of hand-died silk set this space apart. Each turned like a prayer wheel when you walked through them. Past a sign requesting silence, you walked into circular hallways of blue silk walls – an abbreviated labyrinth. Beneath you lay cedar and eucalyptus branches so that each step on the footpath released their scent. The final turn brought you to a pool of light within the curving walls. In the center of this circular space a column of white silk, lit from within, stretched to the ceiling. At its base small shelves held a piece of coral, stones with water-bored holes, a conical shell, a glass orb. White sand covered the floor and people sat cross legged, dragging cedar stems across it to make wavelike patterns, drawing pictures in the sand, or writing and erasing private words. The children were there too, playing and chatting quietly. My Eden sat next to Cameron’s Eden and compared dresses. (“I am and Indian princess!” said the not-my Eden.) Cate sat next to a “nun” and made indentations in the sand with the corral. “Guess what my sentence said?” Eden demanded, having erased all trace of her new-found spelling skill. “It has three words and it’s not about a holiday!” The nun laughed and all the possibilities that could include. On my way out, as I ran my hands along the rippling silk walls, someone else’s palm touched mine in passing…another wanderer on her journey in.

And the people who dwelled in darkness saw a great light…and we beheld its glory…

Now, to be utterly fair, there was plenty of cheesiness too: a tunnel to walk through in order to “activate” your unused DNA; a play consisting primarily of women spinning with colorful scarves; a room full of sofas and cushions filled with horny nineteen year olds. Mostly we, the recovering evangelicals, we laughed at ourselves. Look! A DNA tunnel…or a “Ring of Fire” prayer circle? A street play about pagan beliefs…or a YWAM performance? Some ritual with bread that we can’t make heads or tails of…or Communion? Club hoping youth staging a love-in….or the youth group on a retreat weekend? We laughed at ourselves, and our newfound pagan friends, and at the mostly-imagined distance between us. It comforted us a little to know that every religion is capable of incredible feats of cheesiness. It redoubled our efforts to want to do good art.
In the end, I think the Fremont Arts Council really found their way to what the handmade (handmade!) invitations called people to do:

You are warmly invited to attend
the Feast of the Winter Solstice…

Come prepared to renew your spirit
as we welcome the return of the light.