For those among our smallest siblings,
for the insects and arachnids
that creep, crawl, and fly,
we choose to give thanks.

For their place in the ecosystem—
burrowing in the dirt,
feeding the song birds,
pollinating the plants—
we give thanks.

For their varied symphonies—
cicada, cricket, katydid, grasshopper—
which accompany our seasons
and bring us delight,
we give thanks.

For their weavings of beauty in the landscape—
dew crystaled web 
or glowing field of fireflies—
we give thanks.

For their miraculous intricacies, 
even when they alarm us,
for the aerodynamics of flight,
and articulated joints,
and the many-legged millipede,
we give thanks.

Even in those moments
when we are afraid or repulsed,
we seek to look through Your loving eyes,
Creator of all,
and bless the bugs
that creep and crawl
and sting and bite,
knowing they are yours
and are essential members of our planet home
for the flourishing of us all.

reflection

The house centipedes have been out in full force this month. They are an insect that has the power to frighten me in a way that spiders, bees, ants, or other creepy-crawlies never do. It’s something about the way they scuttle. Even still, when I find myself reacting in fear or disgust, I try to remember that these, too, are God’s creatures, worthy of life simply because they belong to God. I grit my teeth to catch and release them, knowing that, even if they could harm me, that doesn’t mean they deserve to die outside of the regular circle of life.

The mosquitos and biting flies have also been enjoying my company this month, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I will kill them when they land on me. The mosquitos in particular have been shown to carry diseases here, and I don’t want myself or anyone else to get sick. It’s a fine balance, this movement between life and death, protection of others and protection of self, the honoring of another being’s sacredness. I don’t pretend to have the ultimate answers on how every person should treat every insect, but I strive to be mindful of these fellow creatures, aware that I share a home with them. They aren’t cute like the backyard bunnies or majestic like the neighborhood owl, but I feel called to approach them with gratitude for their existence all the same. They are God’s, just as I am. Any revulsion I feel does not lessen the miracle of their place on this planet, sustaining the web of life, and if I can feel glimpses of that miracle from time to time, all the better.

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poem

a rose by any other name
would be hard to find at the garden store
and I guess sometimes names are less like labels
and more like holding hands
a way 
to grasp the one you love
with tenderness
and familiarity
to know and
be known
Found

reflection

Have you ever thought about what name you would like to have if you didn’t have your own?

When I was a teenager, I thought the name “Melissa” was one I could imagine having. It wasn’t my favorite name by any means, but it felt like it fit me. I revealed this to my friends in a sugar-fueled late-night sleepover, and they delighted in nicknaming me Melissa after that.

I went exclusively by Cassie until I was 6 years old, to the point where, around age 3 or 4, I was convinced Cassie was my real name. My mom asked me before kindergarten what name I wanted to put on the registration form and thus be called in a school context, Cassie or Cassidhe. I chose the second. And Cassie has since remained a family nickname only.

I’m the only Cassidhe I’ve ever met, at least with this spelling. If you look me up on the internet, I’m the only Cassidhe to be found. My parents always told me that this was the Irish/Gaelic spelling from the baby name book they had, and I don’t doubt them. For many years, every time someone commented on the spelling of my name—and it happened a lot—I gave them this explanation. My name was my walking conversation piece and a testament to my Irish heritage.

However.

The baby name book was wrong.

The surname Cassidy in Irish (and it was originally a family name, not a given name) does mean curly-headed and ingenious, just like my parents always told me—just like the baby name book had told them. However, Cassidhe is not the accurate way to spell any name in Irish. Casaide is the proper Irish/Gaeilge spelling, and Cassidhe would be pronounced “cas-shee” or “cas-shi-vey” in the Irish alphabet.

Well.

It seems like a small thing, but after finding this out, it shook me up for a while. My name felt unmoored from culture, story, and history, and I felt unmoored from my name itself. Who was Cassidhe if she wasn’t someone with an Irish-spelled name? Did my name make me a fraud? What did the random “h” even mean anymore if it wasn’t from another language? What did any of it mean?

In between my recent Ireland visits, I studied a bit of the Irish language, mostly so that I would be able to read and pronounce signs, even if I couldn’t understand them. During that process, I made two interesting discoveries. The first is that the second part of my name, sidhe, is the Irish word for fairy or fairy folk, pronounced “shee” and generally part of the Irish phrase aos sidhe. Depending on the legend, the sidhe are said to be fallen angels or connected to the powerful, legendary Tuatha Dé Danann, who elf- or god-like folk. This was interesting, I thought, so I decided to look up what the remainder of my name—Cas—meant in Irish. The answer left me breathless.

Cas, it turns out, can mean spinning, winding, twisting, (perhaps that’s where the “curly-headed” name meaning comes from) turning, or returning, or even singing or inflection of voice. So, my full name, with it’s very unique spelling, would mean in Irish, “the spinning-turning-singing fairy.”

Well. (Again.)

How’s that for a plot twist?

I thought I’d lost my name’s meaning only to find it holds another meaning that speaks to me as well, perhaps even more deeply than the one before. The meaning of my name returned to me, spun into something new.

In folklore, legend, and religious stories, names have immense power. Their meanings predict the path of a person’s life or describe one of their most critical attributes. The name of a newborn might be a plot prediction, and a person in a story might change their name, or have it changed, at a pivotal moment.

In real life, however, our names don’t carry quite the same weight. No one in my family suggested I change my name after my hair stopped being curly, and if I had changed my name to Melissa as a teenager, no one would have thought this meant I was destined to be a beekeeper, as the name’s Greek root might suggest. But names still matter. Your name is how you are differentiated, socially and legally. Your name sounds a particular way on a loved one’s tongue. You turn your head when you hear similar sounds, in case someone is calling you. Your name becomes the shortest, succinctest poem that simply means you.

Author L.M. Montgomery says it this way in her Anne of Green Gables sequel, as best friends Anne and Diana are discussing a lovely woman they just met:

“I think her parents gave her the only right and fitting name that could possibly be given her,” said Anne. “If they had been so blind as to name her Elizabeth or Nellie or Muriel she must have been called Lavendar just the same, I think. It’s so suggestive of sweetness and old-fashioned graces and ‘silk attire.’ Now my name just smacks of bread and butter, patchwork and chores.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Diana. “Anne seems to me real stately and like a queen. But I’d like Kerrenhappuch if it happened to be your name. I think people make their names nice or ugly just by what they are themselves. I can’t bear Josie or Gertie for names now but before I knew the Pye girls I thought them real pretty.”

“That’s a lovely idea, Diana,” said Anne enthusiastically. “Living so that you beautify your name, even if it wasn’t beautiful to begin with . . . making it stand in people’s thoughts for something lovely and pleasant that they never think of it by itself. Thank you, Diana.”

~ Anne of Avonlea, by Lucy Maude Montgomery

My newfound name meaning still wouldn’t hold much resonance if not for the person I am—a lover of fairies and folklore and art and making things—and how I act—someone who enjoys and engages in research, learning, languages, and cultural exchange. In this way, I forged my name’s new meaning, no matter what the words do or don’t represent in Irish. As Anne and Diana say, this is something we all have access to; we all craft a meaning for our names through our existence, and we get to keep crafting and re-crafting as long as we live.

So whether your name has changed, or your knowledge about it has, or it feels stuck in sameness, or you don’t really think about your name all that much . . . you are the meaning maker of your name, your life, your being.

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the early leaf

a large, perfect
pale yellow leaf 
fell from the cottonwood just now
floated in sunny brilliance
from the overcast sky on a wet and rainy
August afternoon

The tree is dying
has been for some time
we were even going to cut it last year but held off 
for just one more journey around the sun

Now it breaks my heart to see it
branches mostly bare
a tenacious tangle of leaves fluttering 
in one small pocket
so many already yellow
so many already falling
like the tree will itself 
any day now
any day

-------

The seasons think about changing

When the raindrops cling
to the window screens
like soft jewels
and a lonely morning insect buzzes gently
and the thick soup air
hangs heavy on a night dark blackberry
Then you know
that summer is getting sleepy
and soon will lay her head
on a pillow of leaves
which are only now
starting to crinkle at their edges 
like yellowed photographs
memories falling into amber haze

reflection

I wrote both these poems in the last week, each a response to a glance out my kitchen window. The seasons shift more often than just the four days we mark in the English-speaking world. In Celtic culture, August 1 marked Lughnasa, a cross-quarter day between the solstice and equinox that begins Autumn. In Japanese culture, there are 72 microseasons throughout the year, with names like “evening cicadas sing” and “rice ripens.” When we pause and give our attention, we can see how much the world shifts every day.

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self-portrait of a Ladye

waiting
twisting my hair
into friendship bracelets
no one can wear
no one can hear
the words that won't come out

then:
father
mother
brother
we hug
we play
camera snaps
and I smile
until
time to go
but only them
I want to go home
I have no words
but brother knows them
he tells them for me
and then there are enough tears 
for everyone
waving goodbye
why 
why
why

waiting 
twisting my hands
in my skirt

father
mother
brother
we hug
time to go
all of it
again
why
why
why

waiting

father 
mother 
this time no brother
my wanting has no words again
only waving 
goodbye
bye
why
why
why

reflection

I’d vaguely heard the word “Olmstead” in reference to lawmaking before, but until this summer, I couldn’t have told you anything about it. As an able-bodied person with able-bodied family members, it hasn’t affected me directly, and it’s easy to overlook the wider community ramifications. Olmstead v. LC is a 1999 supreme court decision that supports the rights of disabled individuals to receive care at home rather than being forced into institutions. In June of this year, the Department of Justice released a memo that questions the effectiveness and enforcability of Olmstead and paves they way for allowing state-forced institutionalization to resume.

Several months ago, I wrote about my own family’s history with institutionalization. My grandfather’s younger sister Ladye Edythe had epilepsy and other severe disabilities that were beyond my great-grandparents’ capacity to support; she was non-verbal and had little control over her body. They took her to an institution called New Castle at age six, where she lived for twelve years until she died on the cusp of adulthood from an epileptic stroke.

What if she had gotten to spend those twelve years with her family instead? What if she’d gotten to stay with her brother, who knew how to communicate with her even though she was nonverbal? What if her parents, who clearly cherished her, got to make memories with her in their own home, day after day, instead of making painful occasional visits, visits that were so hard and disruptive for my grandfather that he eventually had to stop making them? What if she’d died after twelves years of being hugged every day, of being well-nourished by home-cooked food, of being prayed for and supported by her family’s church, of spending holidays with loved ones? What if she’d been able to offer her presence to her community and connect to the wider world? None of that would erase the tragedy of her death, but it would change the tragedy of her life.

This memo is not law and it does not erase Olmstead, supreme court precedent, or other disability rights laws. What it does do, however, is begin to shift the guidance on how laws are interpreted and how people’s rights are protected. Which means, as this article from The Arc states, “This isn’t the end of Olmstead. It’s the start of a new fight to protect it.”

practice

There is something you can do, and I’m inviting all my subscribers to this practice. Go to this 5 Calls page to learn more about the issue and call your representatives with your opinions and demands. Do it for the children and adults like Ladye Edythe who deserve the right and the support to live integrated within their own communities.

when time loops back around
and I stand again
beneath the ripened beechnuts
feel them crack beneath my soles,
I wonder why
I still keep two perfect, smooth, spikey seed pods
in my desk drawer
as if I can't
walk down the street again next year,
gather them in,
as if these beechnuts,
these shells
contain the universe

reflection

Twenty or so years ago, I decided August didn’t have enough going for it. It didn’t have any major holidays—nor even any minor ones. The calendar is always a big, white, blank page. So that year, my youngest sister and I filled in the blank on August 4 with a holiday we called “Fairytide.”

Fairytide is a celebration of all things fairies, particularly in the vein of Cicely Mary Barker’s lore and illustrations, which heavily influenced my imagination as a young person.

On Fairytide, we dressed in fairy-like costumes, made flower crowns, crafted silk-flower fairies (and gave them names and personalities), choreographed a fairy dance, and set up a fairy scene with walnut shell boats on a mirror pond. Though our observance has varied, we’ve sought to mark Fairytide ever August 4 since then.

In 2020, during the throes of pandemic lockdown, many of my usual holiday traditions were upended. People, places, activities, food, etc., that had marked celebrations in the past had to be reimagined or skipped altogether. In that process, I discovered that there were traditions that I didn’t resonate with anymore; I’d been engaging in them because I always had rather than because I had genuine interest. So I found I didn’t miss them, and I didn’t want to add them back in.

However, I didn’t necessarily replace those traditions; I cut back the overgrown ivy in the garden of my yearly observance but didn’t plant anything else.

One recent December 31, and my youngest sister/current housemate remarked suddenly, “Oh, right! It’s New Year’s Eve!” We felt profoundly disinterested in that fact—we’d both realized we’d never much liked typical New Year’s observances (nor those for Independence Day, nor Thanksgiving, nor Valentines Day…). Without them, the day felt like any other day. While there is nothing wrong with that, the blank sameness that stretched out from our lack of holiday observance left us feeling a little desolate. We didn’t have as much to look forward to. Fewer things broke up our daily routine.

That New Year’s Eve, Delaney remarked that she could see why people stuck with various traditions, even if they weren’t particularly meaningful or beloved or thought-through; the tradition marks the passage of time itself as something meaningful.

Since that evening, I’ve been thinking more about the question: how do I want to mark time? We don’t have to do the same things our parents did. We don’t have to do anything. However, research shows that novelty and occasionally breaking up our regular rhythm stretches our experience of the passage of time and helps us feel greater appreciation and fulfillment. As a journalist explained in her article about the early days of covid-19, doing the same things in the same place for days on end feels intractable at the time and like a blip of time in retrospect. New experiences—even something as simple as walking home a different way—have the opposite effect.

Humans have been ritualizing the passage of time for as long as we have historical evidence. One of the places we visited on my trip to Ireland was the Grange Stone Circle, a 4000-year-old structure that historians speculate functioned as a ritual site as well an astronomical calendar. The archeological record is replete with structures that served similar purposes, at least as far as we can determine.

There is something about the circle of the year that pulls us humans into both rhythm and disruption. When we follow the invitation move between what is familiar and what is novel, we encounter observance in its most basic sense: we observe, we pay attention. And what once seemed like an white expanse of sameness shines through the prism of our attention and breaks into a rainbow of waiting delight.

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“The Red Days are here again,” 
she whispers before I leave the breakfast table. 
Smoke flung from fires fuming 
blows all the way to the air above our house, colors the sky like milk, burnishes the sun.
At the margins of the day, the light is rust.

Grandma tells me it wasn’t always this way. Once, the Red Days
were golden,
like a length of new-blossomed goldenrod stretched against a lazy summer sky. 
Once, she says, folks threw open their windows 
to welcome the June perfume and July’s thundering storms. 
I can imagine it if I squeeze shut my eyes and pinch my nose: 
no smoke, 
just clear, clear blue,
and daisies
and determined milkweed 
reaching up to brush the softly singing cicadas. 

Every morning during the Red Days,
Grandma tells me she’s sorry. 
She wraps me up in her leathery arms, 
wets my hair with tears, and says sorry one more time. 
It’s kind of awkward. 
But I let her do it 
because I think she needs to. 
“It didn’t have to be this way, my love.
We could have stopped the burning.”

But I don’t mind the Red Days. 
This is just how summer is,
and I like the way the smokey light paints the daisies orange,
even if I have to wear a mask when I go outside. 

I tell Grandma this,
and I think for a moment I’ve said something terribly wrong. 
She presses her fingers to her lips, and I can see them trembling. 
And then I see it is just her normal sadness, multiplied times ten. 
So it is my turn to wrap my arms around hers, 
but I don’t cry
because Grandma is doing enough of that for both of us. 
“What was my disaster,” she says,
“is just another page in your almanac.”

I don’t know what almanac means,
but I know about disaster,
and I hold my Grandma’s wet face in my hands. 
I tell her she didn’t save the golden days,
she couldn’t put out enough fires to keep The Red Days away,
but outside is the goldenrod 
and the milkweed
and some cicadas
and the daisies I can see through the window,
bright asters in dimmed light.
I tell her the world hasn’t gone anywhere. 
And we are here, in it. 
I tell her I love the daisies. 

She kisses me on the head, like always, raining tears in my hair, 
tears too small to quench a forest fire
but strong enough to join a stream
and a river 
and a salty tear-waved ocean.
And even though it’s kind of awkward,
I’m glad she’s let her tears travel beyond herself
out to the world
to the daisies
to soak the ground
and to save something from the burning
for me to hold in my hands on this summer day. 

reflection

I originally wrote this piece for my local library’s online literary magazine, 10th Ward Lit, in 2021. Only two years after we started getting significant wildfire smoke from the north and the west, I began imagining what it would be like to exist in a future where this had become normal. In my artist statement, I said, “though the first drafts of the poem began and ended in fear, something shifted when the poem took on the voice of a future Evanstonian child. Suddenly, I found a call to hope and resilience.”

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a blessing for beginnings

it's tender
this seed
this spark
that's emerging from your womb of ideas
into the noise and rush
of the world outside

the discomfort
does not mean the entrance was a mistake
it simply means you are stretching
to hold all the made-flesh realness 
of the possibility that already dreamt inside you

give yourself time
like th…

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prayer for wildfire smoke

For the plants, people, and animals the live where the fires burn: 
Lord, have mercy.
For the people with illnesses and chronic conditions made worse by this smoke:
Lord, have mercy.
For the unhoused and for others with no safe place to get clean air: 
Lord, have mercy.
For those fighting the fires at the source and risking life and wellbeing: 
Lord, have mercy.
For the scientists and activists who are overwhelmed and discouraged: 
Lord, have mercy.
For the fear and anxiety about the climate that claws it's way into our consciousness at moments like these: 
Lord, have mercy.
For our leaders, that they might be convicted to take mitigating action: 
Lord, have mercy.
For our communities, that they might have zeal, courage, and imagination to build new, earth-honoring systems:
Lord, have mercy.
For our tired bodies, weary souls, and groaning planet, we pray: 
Lord, have mercy.

Once we were home,
and though we now are strangers,
we never left.

Our God, 
the One who is always growing and never changing,
we wander in the wilderness we ourselves have made,
and we are afraid.
Christ have mercy.

What rhythms do we remember,
from childhood, from a few years ago?
What are the patterns we’ve seen replaced?

silence shared
words shared

We lift up these certain cycles 
that now exist primarily in memory.
We hold them before You in guilt and grief.
Christ have mercy.

What shifts do we see
in seasons and landscapes?
What surprises us in the present?
 
silence shared
words shared

We lift up these liminal moments
that unravel our expectations.
We hold them before You in overwhelm and confusion.
Christ have mercy.

What futures do we foresee
that veer so sharply from what we’ve known?
What hopes feel too heavy to hold?

silence shared
words shared

We lift up these possibilities 
that frighten us and compel us.
We hold them before You in despair and anxiety.
Christ have mercy.

Our God, 
the One who is always growing and never changing:
on the journey to the promised land,
through the prophets’ wilderness retreats,
in Jesus’ desert sojourn,
You walked beside your people.
Walk with us now.
As we move through uncertainty, 
ground us
in Your mercy
that never leaves us.
Amen.

reflection

Last week I invited you to reflect on your own personal experiences of climate change, and this individual connection is critical to the work of grief, healing, action, and interaction. But it is not effective on its own. As social creatures, we also need communal practices of grief that help us to know within our bodies that we are not alone in our experience. When we move outside a perspective of solipsism, we move into a realm of possibility.

This liturgy is offered for you to use in whatever contexts are helpful—small groups, worship services, household gatherings, etc. Being able to name in community the profound rifts in the world—rifts we so often seek to hide or avoid—can have powerful effects on our capacity to interact with our changing world and the uncertainty we feel.

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And once again
the Lindens bloomed
a whole month early
and a couple years ago
when the milkweed peaked too soon
the monarchs were hungry and scarce

The wheel of the year
is no longer round
the turning now uneven
and the spokes all out of joint

The heat settles and smothers 
places known for their coolness
and cold snaps its jaws
where they don't even have heaters

The weather limps across the planet
and I am weeping
weeping
for its wounds

reflection and practice

For many decades, climate change’s advance was noticeable primarily by those in deep, frequent contact with the land: subsistence farmers, climate scientists, naturalists and biologists, gardeners, and those of us who simply love being outside. However, in the last five years or so, there’s been a shift, and even those who don’t usually pay attention to the subtleties of the seasons are aware that things are out of balance. The recent extreme heatwaves in Europe and the Indian subcontinent are one example.

Where do you notice things limping out of joint, or a wheel turning in unexpected ways? How do you see the impact of climate change on the natural world? It may take you a few moments to think of something, but push through any initial resistance that may come up. For myself, I know that thinking about climate change is incredibly distressing, and I can subconsciously ignore experiences that make me thing about it. Take a moment to peer over any walls of avoidance you may have erected and sit with the fear and pain that emerges. What is something in the natural world that isn’t working as it normally does?

Take some time to describe, either in your mind or on paper, what that natural process would be like without climate change. How do you remember it? What do/did you love about this aspect of the natural world? Then consider how it’s different now. What are the effects you see this change having on other natural phenomena? What are feelings or images that emerge for you as you consider this change?

Try writing your own poem. You might try starting with the line “the wheel of the year is no longer round” or “the weather limps across the planet” and see what emerges for you out of your time of reflection. Feel free to share that poem here.

When you’ve finished, make sure you take some time to re-ground yourself. Focus on three long deep breaths. Or imagine roots spreading out from your feet and connecting to the earth around you, in both its grief and its joy. Or take a walk outside. Let these emotions and responses move through you.

Everyone is getting an opportunity to join in this week’s practice! If you’re interested in changing to a paid subscription to be able to access a practice every week as well as all the archives, click the button below!

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This mini-retreat is centered around my word for the year: rooted. For me, this word has been about tapping into a radical sense of connection and groundedness. I’ve focused more on noticing how I am already rooted rather than crafting new practices; som…

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One: God of the deep, strengthen our roots.

Many: Strengthen our roots.

One: Coax us into vibrant soil, where community flourishes and feeds one another, where diversity is protection against harm, where nothing is wasted and everyone has enough.

Many: Strengthen our roots.

One: Teach us the courageous act of compost, of letting go of what is no longer needed and transforming death into new life.

Many: Strengthen our roots.

One: Twine us together with our neighbors so that our connection is powerful enough to weather storms and droughts and everything in between.

Many: Strengthen our roots.

One: Nourish us with the grace of seasons—rain and sun, abundance and rest—and grow our trust in your faithful provision.

Many: Strengthen our roots.

One: God of the deep, when we are caught up in concerns about how far out we can reach or are weary of the work of growing fruit, recall us to the hidden sources of life. Free us from a topsoil vision and open us to the joy of slowness. God of the deep,

Many: Strengthen our roots.

All: Amen.

reflection

Each year, I discern a word that will serve as a theme and guide for this particular period of life. The year 2026 has been the year of “rooted,” and I’ve been thinking recently about the interconnected nature of roots, how much our rootedness depends on our willingness to reach out to others.

From the moment I discerned this word, a song by Lisa Hubbell we’ve sung occasionally in worship at Reba Place Church popped into my head and refused to leave. The words are:

Can you imagine God’s understanding and grace as miles and miles of teeming mycelium, weaving through all our intertwined roots with nourishment and messages of wellbeing? I love the way this image expands our thinking from a high and sky-bound God. God is in the heights, yes, and in the mountaintop places. And just as much, God is the God of the deep.

Paid subscribers will be receiving another post today with resources for a self-guided mini-retreat on the theme of “rooted.” If you’re interested in receiving them too, a reminder that yearly subscriptions are 25% off until July 20th!

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He made me promise
I'd come down past the tide pools
where the shore dissolves 
and we'd watch the celebration from there:
rockets of fire reflecting
hot colors spewing like dandelion seed.

I waited the whole hour,
stepping over sponges and seaweed,
collecting coral remnants
for grandmother's mantlepiece.
He never came,
but anyway,
I liked the explosions of color better
beneath my feet.

reflection

I was in Ireland during the feast of Saint Brenden, and while one of my celebration goals was the climb Cnoc Bréanainn, I also happened upon a schedule of events planned in and around Brenden’s birthplace of Fenit. One of these events was a poetry workshop focused on themes of navigation, exile, and return. So I drove from Cloghane on the Dingle peninsula around to Fenit on the other side of the bay and joined a small group of Irish poets for reading, reflection, and writing.

One exercise was the write a poem based on six random words the leader had pre-written on a card. Mine were shore, promise, rocket, hot, sponge, and coral. The images that immediately came to mind had little to do with my own lived experience, but they weren’t just static—they were also narrative images; a story took shape.

Sometimes I fall prey to the assumption that lyrical art like poetry or songwriting must be autobiographical in some way, or if it’s not, the piece must be clearly labeled as a ballad or narrative poem. But no one expects a novelist or a filmmaker only to lift material from real moments. Poetry doesn’t have to be an exception. This was an idea I’ve been trying to embrace more when I received these six words in the poetry workshop.

So I wrote the poem above and could almost taste the salt on my tongue as I did so. When I shared the poem, the others gave a lot of affirmation. Interestingly, the leader afterward explained that, when she’d initially included the word “rocket,” she’d been thinking of the name of a common Irish wildflower. I didn’t know about this flower’s existence, however; so while the poem didn’t emerge from a particular real life experience, it certainly would have been different if some other person’s life had informed it. What is real and lived and what is fiction is, perhaps, a spectrum or like a woven cloth, an invitation to dialogue. On the long drive back to Cloghane that evening, I decided to start a collection short fiction poems as my next poetry project titled “Poems that never happened.” I’m excited to see where it goes!

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Every day
the religion of Empire
seeks to baptize me
in data center water,
to offer me a chalice 
of brown children's blood,
to anoint me with crude oil
and commission me
as acolyte to billionaires and bank statements.
And every day
there's a whispered invitation
to a different kind of sacrament:
a blessing of roots
pulsing with sap and silence,
a communion cup
shared with the poor and pressed down,
a daily baptism 
of tears
for the poisoned water
and the children's blood— 
an ocean of grief
that calls me to the shores
of some other faith.

reflection

June 15 was the 29th anniversary of my baptism, and I’ve been thinking a lot about baptism in the context of Empire. The first Christians baptized each other into a counter-cultural community where they showed their allegiance to God, rather than an Emperor, through taking care of one another, rather than sacrificing their goods or their bodies to the machine of conquest. My adopted faith tradition of the Mennonites were first called Anabaptists, a word which means re-baptized. During the time of the radical reformation, baptism was not seen as simply a religious commitment but instead was an initiation into the project of the State. Through baptism, you were registered for taxes and for military draft. The Anabaptists renounced this baptism and sought a new way.

Whether or not your history or practice includes baptism, both the machinations of Empire and the silenced but persistent path of wholeness call you to a particular commitment or allegiance. There are ways that participation in Empire feels inevitable and outside our individual control, particularly for those of us who live and pay taxes in the United States. However, there is always another call, an opportunity for re-baptism every day, that makes us traitors to the nationalistic cult and re-aligns us with the way of life.

The poems I initially wrote for this post weren’t quite the direction I was looking for, but I still find them intriguing. So I’m sharing them with paid subscribers at the end of this post.

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O Lord, our Lord,
How majestic is your name in all the Earth!
You have designed a world that queers our expectations,
and we stand in wonder.
For the male seahorses who give birth,
we offer our wonder and our gratitude. 
For the mussels who change their sex, 
again and again,
to meet the ecosystem's needs,
we offer our wonder and our gratitude. 
For female snakes who can reproduce entirely on their own,
we offer our wonder and our gratitude. 
For the mushroom species that have tens of thousands of genetic sexes,
we offer our wonder and our gratitude. 
For the lions who live in a pride together 
and collectively raise their young,
we offer our wonder and our gratitude. 
For the caterpillars who completely dissolve,
transform their bodies, and emerge as something entirely new,
we offer our wonder and our gratitude. 
For the cottonwood trees with both male and feel parts,
we offer our wonder and our gratitude. 
For the majority of bees we call female 
who do not take part in any kind of reproduction,
we offer our wonder and our gratitude. 
For a world that defies our attempts to contain and categorize,
we offer our wonder and our gratitude. 
Forgive us when we assume reality fits into our own understanding.
Forgive us.
Forgive us when we seek to limit the experiences of your beloved children.
Forgive us.
Grow in us an expansive sense of celebration,
and empower all creation
to magnify your name in all the Earth.

reflection

June is Pride Month, and large parts of the Christian tradition have a harmful history and current practice when it comes to engaging with queerness. Some people have the energy and calling to debate those parts of Christianity. Right now, I feel called simply to offer another—and from my perspective more faithful—way of looking at the tradition. This litany is one such offering.

Our human categories cannot contain our God’s creativity. It would be arrogant of us to assume that our understanding of the world—which is always growing and changing; don’t forget how recently we didn’t know about germs—can describe the fullness of the Divine vision for the world. Psalm 8 wonders at the grandeur of God displayed in the starry sky and at how humans are precious to God in the midst in this vast expanse. In the same way, we can look out at the sheer, fecund variety of the living world and marvel at how we could think our classifications are the prescription for what’s real rather than how we try to simply describe the overwhelming experience of life on Earth.

Our attempts to limit God’s love and power always reveal instead God’s profligate expansiveness. Our very bodies echo the divine imagination, and we are very good creatures in God’s boundary-defying world.

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Visiting my
grandmother land
a step or two
or three or eight
removed from me
Can I belong to a land
that's so far back?
But can I belong to a land
my ancestors stole? 
Where is my motherland?
Is she suspended on a ship
between lands
on the water
What will be born from this passage?

reflection

I’ve returned from my three weeks in Ireland (plus five days in London), and I wrote this poem toward the beginning of my trip while meeting with colleagues from Abbey of the Arts. Visiting an ancestral land was not my primary reason for this Ireland trip, but my heritage was never far from my mind. My DNA test (because, yes, I’m a white European mutt who decided to get a DNA test …) suggests that nearly a quarter of my DNA comes from the Emerald Isle, but this large percentage is not because of a recent Irish ancestor. Rather, it is the sum of many ancestors from many generations ago. Out of my 32 third-great-grandparents, all but one of them was born in North America, and out of my 64 fourth-great-grandparents, all but five of them were born in North America. That’s seven generations of pretty solid North American residency.

However, as I’ve said before, the passage of time doesn’t stop a land from being stolen, and my ancestors came primarily not as immigrants but as conquerors and settlers. Some were slave holders and land colonizers—on both sides of the Atlantic. A very few were indigenous North Americans. Most of them participated in the project of subjugating—rather than being in conversation with—the native peoples and cultures. They sought to make North American into a New Europe; they did not learn to be indigenous here.

So where is my motherland? Is it a place like Ireland, where scores of eighth- and ninth-great-grandparents came from but where I have no connection to ancestors in living memory? Is it the land I live on now, America’s Middle West, stolen and conquered and warped far beyond its original ecology? Is it somewhere or something else entirely? What could it mean to give birth to your own motherland?

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two days after my uncle had died
I sat on the front porch swing
a bundle of dried lavender 
cradled in my apron
my fingers sliding
the purple 
fragrant 
buds 
from the
brittle stems
into a silver bowl
my friend sat beside me
listening with compassionate
humming and sympathetic eyes
Years later it hurt when I steeped the

last 
cup of 
lavender tea.

reflection

If you’re like me, you might imbue certain objects with meaning beyond themselves, attachments to specific people or memories or feelings. I remember doing this with two quarters as a teenager, given to me by the boy I harbored romantic feelings for. I kept a shriveled walnut for a long time because I’d found it with my cousin. When I got down to the dregs of this particular batch of lavender that I had processed after my uncle died, I was slow to finish the last of it off. There was something about its existence that made my uncle still feel close somehow.

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This prayer could be said/read by an individual who consistently works in difficult/crisis situations or by two or more people after a difficult encounter.  

Risen Christ, you enter a room and say,
“Peace be with you.”
Here in this space, 
we feel the residue of conflict,  
and we long for your peace.  
Give us willingness to wait 
in the creative tension of human relationship.
Grow in us the courage to speak truth. 
Bring your reconciliation and healing. 
May your peace be with us. 

In our coming and going: peace.
In our solitude and company: peace.
In the ground and air of this space: peace.
In our thoughts and in our planning: peace. 
In our words and in our actions: peace. 

May we see Christ in one another.
May we be Christ’s body,
wounded
and risen,
entering this room
and offering blessing. 

reflection

I wrote this prayer at least a decade ago in seminary, but I used it for the first time this past October when we held a vigil for the man kidnapped by ICE in our neighborhood. Spaces can operate like smells for me, holding memories and helping me re-experience them whether I want to or not. Maybe you’re the same way. Regardless, this prayer can help to metaphorically and perhaps even literally clear the air in a space where there has been conflict, tension, or any other activating experience.

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Grandmother oak
presides over the prairie: 
gold-burnished leaves brush the sky
and branches stretch to shelter
every shade-seeking creature that passes.
But her roots, they reach,
twining with all that grows below,
a tangled echo of the world above.
And so, she knows when the nearby saplings—
grown from the grandmother's own acorns—
struggle to find the nourishment they need.
She knows, and she feeds them, 
sending strength through the network underground, 
love notes written in sugar molecules, 
a lullaby of energy exchange.
The daughter oaks listen, learn,
receive with joy;
they join the hidden song.
And when their trunks are thick
with ring-years of their own,
they sing nourishment back
to the grandmother's reaching arms.

reflection

I wrote this poem as a Mother’s Day gift for my mom.

So many recent biological “discoveries” (in many cases indigenous teachers already knew!) reject the notion that the natural world is one of endless competition. The support trees give to each other through the mycelium network is one such reality, and I think it opens us up to truer understandings of strength, resilience, and survival.

Happy Mother’s Day to everyone who has contributed to the life of the world!

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for journeys 

May your heart, mind, and body travel in sync, companions to your becoming. 

May you encounter foreign landscapes - both inner and outer - with joyful curiosity. 

May you feel the freedom to take the journey at your own pace and to allow your attention to settle slowly. 

May you feel at home within yourself no matter your surroundings. 

May you hold your plans with nimble hands, ready to shift your focus and expand your expectations. 

May you return transformed by gratitude, more deeply alive to the Earth’s dream of your flourishing. 

May you always find a toilet when you need one. 

reflection

From May 2 to May 26, I’m traveling in Ireland (with a few-day stopover in London at the end). It’s something of a self-designed pilgrimage. The first five days I’m spending with other leaders of The Abbey of the Arts. We’ll be celebrating 20 years of the Abbey, many of us meeting each other in person for the first time, visiting holy sites, and discerning future directions together.

Afterward, I’ll be driving and camping around the southwest of the country. In particular, I’ll revisit the Dingle Peninsula, an area I’ve been to for one day only each time I’ve gone to Ireland. One of my main goals is climbing Cnoc Bréanainn again, this time with my asthma better under control so that I can enjoy the incomparable beauty without feeling like I’m dying. As I’ve been training and preparing for this climb, I’ve been companioned by a tiny wooly sheep stuffy I bought for myself in Killarney last year. I christened him Bréanainn, and he will continue to accompany me on my mountain climbing as well as the rest of my journey. I’ll be making mini posts/notes here on Substack charting my course with Bréanainn, so feel free to follow along.

I’ve scheduled articles for each Tuesday I’m gone, so it won’t been until I’ve returned that my longer posts will reflect my travels.

I ask for prayers for energy, discernment, patience, and joy. I’m so grateful for this opportunity!

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