Sitting out on my steep backyard slope, with the sun coming in from the West, I see a blade of grass incandescent, ablaze, alive, alight with sunshine. There it is. That is my spiritual practice. That is all of it that there is, to sit on that hill and to see that blade of grass making food out of nothing but that sunlight and the water that has rained down on the Earth. Not elaborate, not sophisticated, not disciplined, not, well, not anything except what I am.
All winter I sit inside at my altar, light candles, burn incense, call the quarters meditate upon tarot cards, breathe the Ha Prayer, go on vision quests. But then, on an afternoon in April, I return to who I am. I observe a blade of grass alive in the late afternoon sunshine.
May it be so for you. May we all burn with that light and to such good effect.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."