For over a year now, I have been engaged in Soul Craft, which is a body of work that comprises specific nature tasks, or exercises performed engaging in the wild, created by Bill Plotkin. Google him.

Plotkin created this work, in part, because he realized that western society is in dire trouble because of how far we have come from a deep and spiritual connection with Nature. He cites this lack of conscious interconnectedness at the root of what we find going so desperately wrong in our world. Essentially, we in the west have never matured as a collective. Our behavior is adolescent.

Soul Craft is amazing, magnificent and necessary work if one wants to grow up. Soul Craft is not for sissies or the faint of heart. It is deep and difficult work because in order to get to our core, we must release our ego identities that might keep us safe, yet often keep us stuck. And immature. And it will take you right to the heart of what is unhealed within, allowing nature to become an ally for growth, maturity, and your mental and spiritual health.

Let me know how that part goes for you.

Because for me? It’s been one battle after the next as my familiar way of life continues to unravel, as all I thought I was certain of comes up for re-evaluation, as I recognize the enormity of what is inside crying out for attention. And I am not kidding when I say ‘crying’. It strikes me as ironic that on the path to maturity, my inner child seems to be at the helm. She has not been a happy camper. This unraveling has not been pretty.

I am working with a mentor doing this work and if you plan to engage in Soul Craft, I recommend you do, too. The terrain is too unfamiliar and you cannot read the map yourself. You are going to need someone else to be your eyes, your witness, your guide.

I meet with her about once a moon. We spend some time talking about how I’ve done with my homework since last we met, how the journey has been for me, and then she always asks what my ‘edge’ is at the time which informs the work of my next step. She then gives me a soul task and sends me out into the forest to do it. An hour or so later, we meet up and process the task, and I scribble as fast as I can to preserve every pearl that comes out of her mouth so I can savor it again and again in between our sessions.

Just recently, after a particularly tumultuous emotional time of things, I got a chest cold that turned into pneumonia which took me down for the count. It’s over a month since I recovered enough to return to the tasks of everyday living and I still don’t feel I have regained my former energy level. When I say ‘down for the count’ I mean just that. I couldn't even read I was so woozy. I spent over two weeks unable to do anything but lay on the couch and watch television. That to me, is really sick. In more ways than one.

If you want to shed the last shred of your ego identity- who you think you are based on what you do- get really sick and watch how it slips away. And then watch how you try desperately to hang onto it-standing dizzy at the stove waiting for the soup to heat up until you finally surrender, barely making it back to the couch without falling over after a coughing fit so deep and painful, you literally see stars spinning in your peripheral vision. But don’t doze once you get there. Because the next thing you know the fire alarm awakens and deafens you all at the same time because the soup is burning at the bottom of the pot, smoke is billowing everywhere ( which is great for your fragile lungs) and you end up too exhausted from getting it all under control that you just skip it anyway. And the pot sits in the sink for close to three days because you don’t have the strength to scrub the cooked on blackness.

Guess what?? Dirty dishes don’t matter.

I have amazing friends, who knew I was alone for this ordeal and brought me food and those drinks that have a lot of electrolytes. All of them called to check on me and asked if I needed anything and I told them all, no, no, I’m fine!

Listen up, Peeps! If someone you know is sick enough to miss work for over a week, much less closer to three, they are not fine. They tell you that because they want to convince themselves it is true by speaking those works out loud so they can hear them. But they are not fine. Visit anyway. Bring food anyway. Plan to sit with them for a while. Tell them how brave they are. Hold their hand. Thankfully, my friends didn’t listen to my cheerful but out and out lies, and came with help anyway.

Where was I? Right, Soul Craft. When I next met with my mentor it was not long after this bout with pneumonia. It was a typical cold and rainy, northwest day in early June and I was reluctant to be out in it for fear of relapse, but there was no way I was going to miss our session.

I tell her how I need to take it slow and so we walk up the gentle slope instead of the steep switchbacks to the top where we usually begin our time together. She leads me to a shelter on the land so we can stay dry while remaining in the natural setting. We sit on one of the benches and I begin telling her about my recent illness and the insights it has yeilded for me, when I look out at the tree standing maybe 30 feet from us and gasp! “Is that real?!?", I exclaim. Because it looks like one of those fake owls people buy at nurseries to put on their roofline or in their garden. As soon as I ask this question and as if to answer, the owl swivels its head and looks right at me. I am seen!

I have never been this close to an owl that was not in captivity and, of course, I cannot tear my eyes away. My mentor asks if Owl has any special significance to me and giddily, I tell her that Owl is my Power Animal in the upper world when I do Shamanic healing work for others. She asks me what Owl brings to me and I reply that she lifts me up to see the bigger picture, where I can often spot unhealthy patterns from the lofty perspective.

There are no accidents and everything we encounter in nature during Soul Craft informs the work. So today my task is to write a letter to myself about my recent dance, albeit a prone one, with pneumonia and all the preceding events that led me to that dance floor. To have a conversation with Owl about the patterns in my own life. The reason for this letter is to have a record of the intensity of my recent experiences. Time can dull them as we recover and life normalizes again. It’s so easy to forget how we have been changed because we go back to a life that has not changed, a life that expects us to return as we were.

I begin my letter with this, “I am afraid to tear my eyes away from you and look at the words I am writing on the page for fear you will fly away!” I didn’t want to miss seeing its wing span or in which direction it would fly if it took off. I continue to write a few words at a time, constantly looking up at it, until I finally decide to stop and allow myself to just feast my eyes on this enchanting bird. I do as I know to do; begin a conversation by asking a question. I mentally ask Owl, “How are you, Beautiful One? Is there anything you want to tell me, anything I should know?”

I have read accounts on interactions with Power Animals and unless and until you experience them yourself, they all sound hokey and contrived. I expect this account might sound the same but I swear to you it is true. As soon as I asked my question, Owl looked directly at me and we locked eyes. Soon that kind of 3D thing began to happen where the owl seemed to loom closer in sharp contrast to the lush green that softly fuzzed into the background. I don’t remember anything but taking in the detail; its feathers of brown and white stripes, the blackish eyebrows that seemed to frame its dark gold eyes. The Barred Owl, also known as a Hoot Owl, is about 20 inches tall. A magnificent creature!

I wish I could say I received a clear and conscious transmission of esoteric information, but I didn’t. All I remember was finally looking down at the page and writing these words: “All the mistakes I have made don’t matter. What matters is right now. “ And when I looked up from the page, Owl was gone!

Gone! I jumped up and ran out into the rain to see if I could catch sight of it in flight. No luck. Damn! I looked beneath the tree. Maybe it left a feather for me. No luck. Damn! Disappointed, I came back under the shelter. I picked up my journal, read what I had written and realized my question had been answered. Don’t dwell on past mistakes. Just be here now.

Walking back to my car after the session, my heart leapt when I spied it again, sitting in another tree nearby. I stood there looking up hoping it would look back. But it didn’t. It was no longer my Power Animal, it was just an owl in the woods I was lucky enough to spy during daylight. Good thing I had written myself that letter, although I doubt I will ever forget this encounter.

The Scent of Happiness

I would be hard pressed to choose a favorite flower. I like them all. Lilac has always been up there as preferred petals to poke my nose into. There is something about the singular turban headed tulip that has always delighted me, and I like their scent too. In the last several years, poppies have sprouted in my heart and sprinted to the head of the line. (I can remember the exact moment it happened. Last spring, when the first huge, bright and fiery red poppy opened, I ran outside to get a better look. Her petals has just burst forth from it's casing, but had not fully opened. The blossom looked just like an eye, the petals her eyelid, what would later become the poppy head was now her iris. I had the otherworldly and mystical sense that she was actually looking into my soul. We stood there looking at one another for the longest time!)

But today I am reminded of my all time favorite flower. Really and truly. The Apple Blossom! I can stand sniffing the flowers on my apple trees for hours. Like a junky. More, more, more. Their scent just makes me happy. No matter what frame of mind I am in, no matter that everything has gone awry, no matter that the best laid plans have fallen through, no matter what is going on around me, one inhale of apple blossom and all is right in my world.

I grew up in a home about an hour northwest of New York City on what had been an apple orchard before it was developed into suburban sprawl. Three Delicious apple trees remained in my back yard, and I remember many happy days spent up in one particular tree with Lisa, my childhood friend. We climbed our tree in every season; in Summer the leaves hid us, in Autumn, we stripped the branches of apples, even in Winter, we pretended to blow smoke rings with our frosty breath as the cold branches froze our little butts. But the tree was most magnificent come late Spring when she bloomed delicate pink, and it was intoxicating to sit in her branches, enveloped in her light, sweet perfume. We'd shake her limbs and watch the petals fall like a flurry of snow.

The house I live in now is very small, but the property is pretty big which was the biggest selling point. They don't zone them like this anymore. The old, dark purple lilac in the front and the Transparent apple tree in the back were bonuses. I planted two more apple trees, and until I sat here writing this, I hadn't realized that, once again, I have three apple trees at my home. Today is one of those sunny days in Seattle that almost makes you forget about the rain. I just went outside to catch some rays and walk around my yard to see how my newly planted garden is doing.

But really, who am I kidding? Going outside to check on anything is just an excuse to make myself happy and sniff the Apple blossoms. Delicious!

And The Wall Comes A Tumbling Down!

My garden wall is crumbling like a middle eastern government, like my resolve to post at least one blog per moon, like feta onto a candied walnut salad.

It started when I came home from a weekend away six years ago and walked into my back yard to find that the new neighbors had taken down the ornamental cherries that provided the privacy between us just above the retaining wall that separated our properties. She assured me that the new trees they planted were fast growers and we’d have our privacy back within a season. She was right. They grew fast. But so did their strong roots. Three years ago I noticed the crack in the corner wall, but only because of the huge spider who ran into it when I disturbed her with my garden trowel. Last year, the crack had widened about an inch and this spring rocks and concrete are falling onto my emerging echinacea, astragulus and monarda. It’s only a matter of time before we all fall down. Home ownership is an interesting adventure. Upkeep never ends and as soon as one repair job is complete, another surfaces seeking attention.

I am not looking forward to the huge job of replacing this wall! Just like the crumbling of a middle eastern government, it will be messy, expensive, time consuming and a bit dangerous. It will require the dismantling of the existing structure, the removal of the existing garden, finding places to move the perennials, clearing away the debris. Most likely it will mean a growing season sacrificed in that part of my garden. It will require selecting the new material, the building of a new retaining wall and then the creation of a new, raised garden bed. I am looking forward to that very last part, but not what must happen to get there. The control freak in me does not care for chaos and mess.

This is where my metaphoric thinking really serves me. Like when the frozen pipes burst the very first winter here and it took fifteen months until the restoration was complete. The floor had to be replaced several times before they got it right, and I couldn't help observe that the foundation of my life was changing completely. The thinking goes like this: The wall is crumbling and it must come down. What have I been holding back that is so strong it has been trying to break through and must now be freed? The perennials need to be moved. What is important enough to relocate and maintain? The debris needs to be cleared. What no longer has value? New materials need to be selected. What will serve who I am now? A replacement wall needs to be erected. What new structures do I need to put in place? Create a new raised garden bed. Won't that reward for having endured the ordeal be fun!

The whole thing is a lesson in impermanence. Nothing last forever. I get that. I am sure that whoever built that wall orignally, thought that concrete was forever. And although I wish the money I'll spend on this job was going toward my long desired pilgrimage to Eygpt instead, I find a secret delight in knowing that tree roots are just that strong.

Super Moon

Cosmic context:

The Moon, like most celestial bodies, has an elliptical orbit. When it is closest to the Earth it is said to be at it's perigee. When it is farthest, it is at it's apogee. The gravitational pull of the Moon is powerful and we all know that she rules the ocean tides. The last perigee of the Moon was almost 18 years ago. There is no doubt in my mind that when the Moon is full and at its perigee, her gravitational pull increases. This is why it's called a Super Moon. And it happens on my 52nd birthday this year, March 19th, at 11:10 a.m. Pacific time. (Actually, my time of birth is 11:50 a.m. but close enough for Jazz.)

Uranus, the planet of sudden and revolutionary change, moved from dreamy Pisces to fiery Aires on Friday March 11th, and we know the rest: a 9.0 earthquake causing a devastating tsunami causing a nuclear fright causing unthinkable tragedy.

You say you want a revolution? Well, you know, we'd all like to see the plan.

Spiritual Context:

In Gaia's Temple last weekend I told the Vernal Equinox story of the brave Maiden Goddess Persephone who returns from the Underworld bringing with her the regenerative power of new growth in Spring. (When I tell the story, Persephone chooses to throw her crown of poppies- her crown of innocence- into the fires of Autumn to descend into the land of shadow with Hades when she recognizes him as her beloved. She and Hades adore one another. No abduction. No rape. No coersion. No bargains. Just love.)

During her time in the Underworld she learns the mysteries of love with Hades. She learns the mysteries of death as Grandmother Hecate teaches her how to welcome and orient the souls of the newly dead. And she learns that these mysteries are one and the same.

While she is gone, Demeter, the Great Grain Mother, is bereft without her daughter. She refuses to let anything grow, and Winter freezes the land.

Six moons wax full and wane away until one day shortly thereafter, Persephone awakens with the impulse to return to the surface of the planet. Hecate is there to show her the portal back, and when she steps through she immediately feels the cold, moist slap of Earth on her skin. Or was it her skin? It felt stiffer than skin, like a shell of some kind, as if she was encased. She tries to move but the Earth all around her resists her every attempt. The impulse to return is strong and she tries again. This time she feels something shift and slowly, bit by bit, like a babe making it's way through the birth canal, Persephone works her way through the soil.

Now she feels growth beneath her, and what was once her feet and legs are long roots that branch out. She realizes with a start that she is starving and she hungrily gobbles up nutrients from the soil. As she does, fragments of teachings from the Underworld flood through her-memories of experiences touch her soul, flavors of wisdom nourish her growth; a hint of comforting the newly dead, a touch of karmic completion, riding the crest of an ecstatic wave, the taste of pomegranates. Suddenly, she knew that her experiences in the Underworld were the rich nutrients feeding her new life, and with that knowing, she breaks through!

Suddenly, Persephone is standing on the Earth, a Maiden again looking down at a tender green shoot that had just broken through its seed casing. She suspects she had been that very seed and knows one thing for certain. Death is not the end. As she looks up, Demeter is there to greet her and Mother and Daughter embrace in a fierce hug of reunion and renewal. Everywhere on the Earth, life blossoms once more.

The end.
Until the cycle continues.
Because there is no end.

Emotional Context:

We are living in those predicted interesting times. There is even more revolutionary trouble in the middle east, and Earth changes are bringing tragedy just on the other side of the Pacific, and the release of nuclear radiation has us all panicked,and right here at home our unions are threatened, and we are still trying to clean up the oil spill in the Gulf, and our families are still dysfunctional, and our relationships are challenging and the economy is still shakey, and on and on and on. So we put armor around our hearts to make us feel safe because we believe our hearts are too fragile and we won’t be able to take it. But that armor does more than just protect the heart, it imprisons it.

My sister likes to send me cartoons from the New Yorker magazine and my favorite is a picture of a King in an ermine robe and crown lying on the psychiatrists couch. The King has a rather stunned looked on his face, and his doctor is sitting beside him, holding his pad and pen. The caption reads, "Enemies, yes. But doesn’t your moat also keep out love?"

It is the attempt to avoid or deny our feelings, block our compassion for the suffering of others and ourselves, that has brought us to this state of the world; apathy and disconnection and the demise of civility.

When we swim our own moats to look into our hearts, we need to be able to find it behind its armor. A loving heart is strong! Love strengthens our hearts. And here’s a secret no one likes to believe: so does heartbreak! Heartbreak strengthens our hearts. Because it is natural for us to love. And even after heartbreak, we can’t help but love again. This return to love makes us resilient, which strengthens our hearts. It is our resilience that makes us strong, not our impenetrability.

It makes sense that we want to protect our sensitive hearts. But the armor we put around our hearts can be likened to the seed casing in Spring. It has protected us through the cold of winter, but now, unless we break free of it there will be no new growth. And what will that mean for our future harvest?

So. Let yourself weep for the suffering of Gaia. And our sisters and brothers in Japan. And the Congo. And Afghanistan. And Wisconsin. And the wildlife and water in the Gulf. And the homeless. Let our tears cleanse our sensitive hearts, over and over again if need be, and see how much stronger we actually feel. Let the Super Moon pull and tug our heartstrings, and Uranus revolutionize our ability to empathize.

And when I blow out my birthday candles, I'll make a Super Moon wish for us all.

Bridging the Seasons

Each year, I play a little game I like to call “How Long Throughout The Winter Can I Stretch My Fresh Home Grown Food?” I am acutely aware of my privilege that this can be a game and not, as my Ancestors knew, a dire need to keep myself alive. Blessed be the ease with which we feed ourselves!

A few years ago I had a plethora of tomatoes. I let a few of the plants continue to flower through the summer so by late autumn I was able to harvest many green ones still on the vine. They slowly ripened in the waning sun on my windowsill, and I ceremoniously consumed the last one mid January. But that was an unusual year.

Make sure to grow root vegetables for this reason, as well as for how delicious they are. They keep. I had a good crop of beets and carrots last year. I pulled the carrots as needed from late Summer through Autumn and in early December-after the first frost which they say makes them sweeter- I harvested the last of them and smugly placed them in the crisper. Game on!

It is late February as I write this and recently I ate the last of the beets. Small, beautiful, earthy and sweet, they stained my cutting board and then graced my plate. I never tire of how wonderful it feels to eat the food I have grown myself. I've been thinking how I will add one carrot at a time to my salads, strategically saving them until early spring brings forth the first spear of asparagus in my garden. And then I will win my internal game that no one knows about because I will have bridged the seasons with my garden’s bounty. Silly I know. One last carrot will not sustain my body, but it sure sustains my soul. It keeps me ever mindful and grateful for the food I am about to receive.

Last weekend I opened the fridge and reached into the crisper in preparation for salad making, carrots in mind. I spied the bag of bright orange; five small ones left. But when I picked them up, I could feel through the plastic that they had turned to mush! My stalwart carrots had failed me! And it was still too early for the asparagus. Game over. Oh well. Good thing it’s just a game.


This morning, as I wiped the kitchen counter, my eyes rested on the fruit bowl I keep there. Focused only on my root crops, I had forgotten about the volunteer pumpkin and four delicata squash I had harvested from the soil spread out of the compost pile the year before! There they were among the apples and pears- cheerful and bright and orange, hardy and ready to be cooked. Guess I am going to win my little game this year after all.

I know it seems witless to write about something that many would consider so insignificant. But I am an urban woman who longs for a deeper connection to the earth that sustains her. I am an urban woman whose ambitious garden is the thing that keeps her sane, whose little food stretching game keeps her reverent, whose delight and disappointment in something as simple as a carrot reminds her of what it means to be human.

Today, the northwest rain keeps shape shifting to and from snow. The brave sprouted bulbs in my garden shiver intrepidly but manage to stay green in the cold. Early crocus and primrose splash color on the landscape. Tonight? Baked squash! I'm going to save the pumpkin and see if it lasts through March.

Seed Lust

I’d put my garden beds to bed mid November last; planting bulbs for the Spring, mulching the mountains of marvelous maple leaves from my neighbors overhanging tree, using them as blankets, tucking everything in nicely with a prayer and a song of farewell. Then, in all the indoor focus on the holidays, I watched through my windows as Winter took up my garden in Her cold hands. She squeezed the color from the landscape like it was Her dishrag. She shriveled plants till they became skeletons. She stole the green scent of nature like a thirsty thief. This is Winter’s wisdom, Her purpose.

Knowing that cycles are continual makes it easier to embrace Winter's stark beauty, to live the few months of abstinence from my garden. Easier, but not easy. I would willingly jump off that Winter wagon with just no provocation at all.

Then, two weeks past Winter Solstice, the first modern sign of Spring arrived. Why, the very next mail day after Christmas it came! I entered my office and immediately spotted it, splayed out for all to see, its wanton pages gaping wide open on the floor beneath the mail slot. I could have felt marketed to. My first thought could have been ‘Well, they don’t waste any time, do they?’ Instead, I was instantly seduced and my lust for All Things Garden surged through me with a geyser's gush!

My breath quickened as I lifted the Hallowed Seed Catalogue. My pupils dilated as I brought it to the table. There, I slowly and lovingly turned the first page. “Hello Gardeners!” I read, like it was a love letter. Promises of even better seed than ever I have grown allured me further, deeper, savoring each lick of my finger to turn yet another page. I ogled photos of juicy red tomato, seductive orange marigold, bold yellow sunflower, thick green cucumber, flirty blue borage, mysterious purple eggplant; here was the promise of the future before my lusting eyes! All of a sudden I am transported, and the warm sun is on my legs, my knees are dirty, dirty, dirty, sweat trickles down my neck and between my breasts and my hands gently probe and caress the fertile soil to make room for my seed. I mean the seed!

The catalogue does exactly what it is intended to do. It works me. I sneak peeks again and again as the days pass, marking pages, bargaining with myself- I can buy this if I forfeit that. I can't get enough and dreaming about this year's garden becomes the thread that weaves all other activities together in the fabric of my life.

When the day to put away the holidays arrives, I happily remember that I was gifted with a pretty, reindeer embossed, tin table centerpiece at Yule. Delighted to find that among the dried cedar and spruce, two small winterberry plants, still in their little black plastic holders from their nursery, are thriving. My minds travels to the new planter I bought late last year that sits waiting for me in the garden shed, open, ready, willing.

I can see my breath and feel the frozen ground crunch beneath my feet as I walk across my yard. My garden desk is exactly as I left it, like a loyal lover. The potting soil excites my hungry hands, the smell of it intoxicates. Tenderly, I plant the winterberries in their temporary home, promising them a spot in the Earth come Spring. They sigh as their roots spread out and I feel momentarily satisfied.

Back inside, I stand admiring them in the afterglow. The deep red berries are eye candy on my windowsill, but they don’t begin to slake my lust...for seed!

The First Year Without Him

It had been raining for days. Slick, cold, stay indoors kind of rain. Not the gentle mist-like rain of the northwest that caresses as you go from place to place, but the heavy rainfall of the northeast that soaks you unmercifully, making you run for shelter. It was truly the April showers that bring May flowers, and I was visiting my family in New York. It was six months after my father died. Just eleven days before Samhain last year, it felt like the veil between the worlds had just begun to part and my father seized the opening to venture through to the other side. My widowed mother, my two older sisters and I had plans to honor Dad's wishes by spreading his ashes in the Atlantic Ocean.

At first we thought it should be off Coney Island, where he had spent time as a youth, where he and my Mother lived together in their one room apartment when they first got married. But logistically, that proved difficult. I had learned along the way of performing ministerial services that most state laws require this kind of thing be done at least two miles off shore for reasons of public health. Most folks think they can just go to the water’s edge, toss the ashes in and be done with it. But that is not true and not good citizenship. So we decided to rent a boat to take us out into Long Island Sound, not far from my sisters home, to release Dad’s ashes. Since the water of the Sound runs into the Atlantic, we figured it was close enough. The Atlantic in April is too rough and we are not practiced seafarers. Besides, the rituals for death are done for the living. This was a workable plan for us. Except for now with this relentless rain.

My eldest sister had wisely reserved the boat and Captain for either Wednesday or Thursday, depending on how other plans and the weather played out. We grew a bit nervous imagining a soggy boat ride if the rain continued, but then Thursday dawned clear, sunny and warm. We set out to the docks that morning feeling sure that Dad had orchestrated this beautiful day for us from the other side.

The Captain was a lovely man and it was a good sized motor boat with room to seat about ten comfortably, but there was only the four of us and a ten pound box of ashes, my father's cremains. We settled in the back of the boat beyond the canopy, sitting close, with the bright, morning sun on our faces as the Captain slowly brought us out toward the Sound. Once we cleared all the docks, the motor kicked up a deafening sound as we took up speed, heading north, the wind whipping our hair, my mother holding him on her lap.

Before long, the boat slowed and the Captain cut the engines. We floated in the center of the Sound, now the deafening silence broken only by birdsong. Due to the storm of emotions rising within, we were grateful that the water was calm. I was glad to notice that the port side was facing west, the portal to the Summerland. I knew this mattered solely to me, the only Pagan.

I opened the box and cut the plastic clasp on the bag of grey ashes inside. All that was physically left of the imposing man who had loved my mother till his dying day, all that was physically left of the lion-like man who had sired his now grown cubs, my sisters and I. One of us held the box as I lifted the bag out and placed it in my mothers hands. We sat two to a side facing one another on the benches, our hands found each others, all of us holding the man whose big presence in our world had imprinted us forever. The tears came but gently. We made eye contact in the most intimate moment I have ever spent with my family.

I brought a piece from my ceremonial repertoire and we listened as my father's first born softly read it aloud:

"As we look upon Daddy’s ashes, we know that his soul is now free and we are grateful that he is no longer suffering in physical form. We give our blessing to these remains. From water all life arises. As a stream flows into a river, as a river flows into the sea, may Daddy’s Spirit flow into the healing realms of the afterlife, and may his soul find rest. Amen."

Amen. And then we leaned over the side of the boat, tipped the bag and watched the ashes fall. They spread out on the surface, grey blotting out sea green for a moment, before they began to sink into the depths. We threw flower petals as we whispered good-bye.



At breakfast not long after, my mother said something that made all our forks drop as we stared at her. "I'm so relieved!", she said. We all nodded, thinking that she meant it was a relief that the deed was done. "You know how claustrophobic your father was." She continued, "The thought of him trapped in that box unable to breathe all this time was driving me crazy. Now he's free, you know?"

He has been free for a year now and that year has gone by incredibly quickly. I awoke weepy on the first anniversary of his death this past Wednesday, sadder than when he first died. At that time, I felt shock. I felt relief. I felt sad for my mother, alone after over sixty years of loving him. Then I moved into my Priestess role for his memorial in service to my family. Then I came back from the east coast and delved into the details and preoccupation of my life again, including a powerful Samhain ritual in which my father's photo took it's surreal place among the Ancestors for the first time.

But it's taken a whole year for me to truly arrive at my sorrow over his death. So, like a good Pagan, I did a ritual to commemorate the first year without my Dad on the planet: I planted Spring bulbs, burying some of my long held grievances about him, in the nourishing soil of the Mother as the syrupy, golden sunlight of deepening Autumn embraced me just eleven days before Samhain.