Beneath the crust of earth, seeds and bulbs lay in store.

Beneath the snow, life is bursting, preparing for the next season.

A movement meditation for all ages

Like the sun moving toward the shortest day, each moment arises—and is gone before we know it.

The strength of water takes on many, many forms—just as each of you has a unique and necessary strength that you bring to our community and to the work of love. Take a moment now to drop down into the deep wellspring of your own spirit and bathe yourself in the strength that is the groundwater of...

We gather here to remember this is our home, but not just ours....

On my worst days, it is gravity I am most grateful for: the way the earth pulls at me from her core, yearns for me, keeps me pressed tightly against her surface. When my own core is hollowed out, when I have no more mass than a leaf dead on the branch, still this is enough for the earth to find me.

I invite you now into a time of meditation. You may wish to adjust your position: your feet flat on the ground, your body resting easily against the back of the chair, your hands gently open, palms up, resting on your thighs, your eyelids relaxed and half-closed, your breathing soft and easy.

I invite you now into a time of meditation. You may wish to adjust your position: your feet flat on the ground, your body resting easily against the back of the chair, your hands gently open, palms up, resting on your thighs, your eyelids relaxed and half-closed, your breathing soft and easy.

For the setting sun from an airplane window; for the rising sun from a train window after riding all night; for the rising sun and setting sun in directions that feel foreign; for the sunlight even when we are lost. For the times the heart has longed to be alone. For the times the heart has ached...

The winter solstice is a time to look back upon our ancestors, gather our family and friends close, and rejoice in the return of the sun. It is a time of renewed hope and a time of resurrection – for just as Arianrhod’s Wheel turns and the Oak King resumes his rightful place, so must we go on.

A glass of tea sweats a circle of droplets on an old table Drying, they pull dirt and stain from the wood, leaving a ring Water makes its mark Deep in the earth, in a cave, a drop falls each minute Where it lands, a great pillar of white rock has grown up Water makes its mark On the surface above...

No hot house flowers, these, bred for perfection, dyed and trimmed, and arranged to order, clothed in ribbons and bows. Not these. No, these are hardy, raw and wild. Grown under the sky, they’ve weathered the wind and the rain and the heat. These drew nutrients from the neighborhood soil and...

EARTH, clay from which we are made and to which we will return. Soil, rich and aromatic, crumbling in my fingers, dark under my nails. This, cleansing dirt, the natural filter for aquifers, holds life....

Early in the morning, before the children are awake and while the grass is still dewy, I like to walk in my garden. It’s “my” garden only because it shares the same small plot of land my family and I inhabit. The garden does not really belong to me; I belong to it—at least for the short time...

Once, many grey autumns ago, I came upon a tree. The tree, a poplar, had dropped all of its leaves but for one, just one. Exactly one leaf remained near the topmost part of the tree, fluttering in the breeze like a little reddish-brown flag....

In the pagan tradition, which is grounded in a respect and reverence for the natural world, calling upon the four directions is the usual way to begin any ceremony. Each direction is associated with an element of the natural world, and represents some part of our human nature as well....

As we begin to settle to a deeper more inward place; to be fully present right now in this place made for head and heart together; we might begin to feel how our own bodies are not only flesh and blood — but skeleton bones as well. No matter how old we are, no matter how we move from place to...

For the sound of bow on string, Of breath over reed, Of touch on keyboard; For slants of sunlight through windows, For shimmering shadows on snow, For the whisper of wind on my face; For the smooth skin of an apple, For the caress of a collar on my neck; For the prickling of my skin when I am dee...

I am frequently astonished by monarch butterflies. Delicate beyond belief, they fly thousands of miles each year from all parts of the continent to settle in the forests of South America. To my delight, their migratory route takes them along a bridge near my home. A few days ago, I was driving on...