When asked what anchors me in my writing, I think of Webster’s definitions of anchor, “a heavy object attached to a rope or chain, used to moor a vessel to the sea bottom” and “a person or thing that provides stability or confidence in an otherwise uncertain situation.”
All this happened more or less, but that is the best I can say about anything in these strange times.
Gazing into the fire of my woodstove, I had a surprising vision.
I choose to believe this earthplane existence is a school and that I am a student.
I like to imagine that there are infinite portals that call us to walk through to learn the lessons of life we have been born to learn.
Less than a year after Chris died, I consulted a psychic. She was clear. "You have to write a book about your travels on the road, but don't worry. Spirit will help you."
Strangely, we use the word love for so many contradictory concepts.
I prefer the Rider-Waite deck because it balances masculine and feminine energies.
After reading Braiding Sweetgrass, a remarkable memoir by Robin Wall Kimmerer, an indigenous woman, botanist, and environmental scientist, I decided to plant a Three Sisters garden, a community of corn, squash, and beans.
Once upon a time and far, far away, there was a sacred fire.