Free Writing Project

I am offering free writing services through my consulting business Awakened Solutions. There are so many things in our culture that are centered on writing, but not everyone has skills in writing. If you have a need that can only be fulfilled through a writing project, I want to help. Go to the Free Writing Project.

 

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Carry Wood, Pour Water

Bow to the wood pile
Flesh of this great earth,
Home to many:
you have carried water in your cells,
your breath allowing me to breathe
now your body offers me warmth
Gratitude to you for this offering.

Bow to the wood pile
I carry your bones in my arms
One, two, a bundle cradled
hand supporting the edge against my breast.

Bow to the fire
wood, hollow against stone,
chiming this altar to life

Bone to flesh
flesh to spark
spark to flame
of this one brightness.

Water hisses, rising from flesh
as smoke, greets the space

Is it returning to its source?
I step beyond these walls
Smoke escapes, the night
pervading, still

Rising toward the stars
I pour,
water into the darkness.

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Gratitude

A portion of this was originally published on my blog The Forks Poems.

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Photo taken from Undi Bypass Road, Forks, WA

It’s true that the dark days can make us appreciate the bright ones more. When the clouds clear and the sun makes a sudden, stunning appearance painting the sky in an impossible play of colors, the gratitude I feel is overwhelmingly blissful.

Gratitude changes everything.

But I have gratitude, too for the dark days. The days when a different set of eyes allows me to see the play as the clouds pass over the sky, in as many shades of grey as there are colors in a bright sunset. Oh there is beauty and magic in that play too.

I read this excerpt from Wild Comfort: the Solace of Nature by Kathleen Dean Moore (one of my favorite authors) the evening after I took this photo:

…[H]ere is the work of patience: to be ready for the world to slit us, the full length of us, opening our hearts with the pellucid attention that is the watchfulness of the heron in the cove at the end of the day, when wood smoke slides onto the rising tide and slanting rain pocks the water. This patience is the birth of gratitude. pg 109

I found this to resonate with such truth. The US has just celebrated Thanksgiving (which I abstain from, as I do not celebrate the colonialist and genocidal roots of the day) and expressions of gratitude have filled our tables and our media. But what is this gratitude that comes around once per year, expressed when so many people are sitting around incredible bounty that, for the most part, they are disconnected from?

Gratitude is relational; it’s opening is found through our connection with others, be they human, plant, animal, or spirit. In our willingness to open ourselves to the experience of being in relation with the world and all of its joy and sorrow, we open ourselves to the experience of deep gratitude. It requires steadfastness, attention, and patience as the world goes by, not to be swept away by its tidal pulls. Gratitude is not appreciation as someone spoons another helping onto our plate. Though it is a building block of gratitude, appreciation so often begins in entitlement and passes as quickly as the spoon to our mouths.

The day that I took this photo, I realized that I had gone over a week without talking to or seeing a (incarnate) human being, but I was very much ok with that. I had spent the week settling into my new home, getting to know the Place and patiently watching the storm clouds roll in and pass away. I was missing the Place that I had come from (by which I mean the plants and spirits) but feeling very joyful to get to know new ones. My heart was opening into deep gratitude.

In that space, I put my very excited dog into the car and went to check out the State Park down the road. I quickly realized it was primarily a campground and there didn’t appear to be much hiking but decided to wander around, noticing the trees and variety of mosses in a small area. As I wandered I ran into the campground host who was also out for a walk with her dog. The pups made quick friends and she warmly invited me to join her on their walk. She took me to a trail I never would have found on my own and we talked about mosses and how many ferns can grow on a tree and how creeks each have their own individual sound. Giving me more tips on hiking in the area, she invited me to her church and to come back to hike with her anytime. In accepting this offering of connection from her, I left full of gratitude.

From there I drove up the hill over a gravel road through logging land, and as I rounded a curve the trees sparkled as the sun dipped beneath the clouds and the sky started to clear. I gasped with surprise and delight and my heart burst open. The joy I felt in this moment, after days of patience and the offering of my attention to the world, was indescribable. Then it clicked: it was my gratitude, the gratitude that I have held on to through all of the trials I have endured, that was the key. It was the key to my grief and sorrow and my bliss and joy.

If we open to it gratitude has the power to slit us from stern to bow, to show us the power of connection and relation – even in our sorrow.

 

New Life on the Olympic Peninsula

It has been a little over a week since I moved out to the Olympic Peninsula, to the town of Forks. Yes – the Forks of Twilight fame, though I am doing my best to avoid vampires of all sorts at this point in my life. 🙂

This is a fresh start for me, a place to get settled and find some stability; even though it is temporary, it is safe and will allow space for any number of possibilities to open.

I love it here so far, and being 20 minutes from the coast and 20 minutes from the Olympic rainforest is a dream come true. But yes: it rains a lot. It is very rural. Winter will be a test of endurance for sure. It is also a quirky, friendly place. It will be the perfect place to focus on writing and doing my work.

So I’ve created a new blog just for the poems and stories of life on the Rainforest Coast (does anyone else call it that?). I’ll try to cross-post here, but please do follow The Forks Poems if you’re interested in reading about this place. It will be another way for me to fan the flames of the writing spirit, and I hope to have some fun with it.

Soul of the World

A prayer I wrote to Hekate in 2009, which has popped up again through social media so I am sharing it with you here.

My relationship with Hekate has shifted in recent years, as relationships tend to do. She was my first – the first deity that I felt a true kinship with, the first deity that I made a dedication to. I joke that we are old friends, content in our relationship, sometimes not speaking for lengths of time but knowing the other is always present.

This is partially a result of growth in my practice, as contradictory as some people may find that. As my polytheism grows in complexity and nuance, and as my work in Tantra and my relationship with Kali Maa deepens, duality starts to blur and the lines between “hard” and “soft” no longer seem as fixed.

Hekate Soteira, the World Soul, is the one who truly started me down the path I am on, or perhaps She is the one I first recognized as calling to me in recognition of my path. As such our connection will never be taken for granted. Io Hekate!

Soul of the World
Ancient One,
You who were created from darkness,
born from the womb of nothingness
Hekate, Mostly Lovely One,
to You I pray.

Guardian of Crossroads
You who sees what came before, what is, and what lies ahead
Propolos, guide me on my path.

Keeper of the Keys
Protectress of the ancient wisdom
I pray to thee, as your daughter
Most Magnificent Goddess
Phosporous One, bare your torch for me.

Through you, I face my fears
Guiding me into ever greater depths,
until you stand with me at the final mystery.

Hekate Soteira
Goddess, Savior
It is in honor of you that I pray.

written by Syren Nagakyrie
Please do not share or reproduce without credit
Samhaintide 2009

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Hekate Altar by Syren circa 2015

In the Grove

It is my intention to bring you more stories of my interactions with nature. This is one of those, of a very strange day a couple of days ago.

I pulled a shirt from the closet – black, with an embroidered owl – and set it out with my clothes for the day. When I returned after my shower, the only shirt there was a different one – grey and covered in tiny skulls. Freaking out a bit, but deciding to go with it, I put it on. Then I got ready, put my dog in the car, and went off for our hike at the McLane Creek Nature Trail.

This was a trail I had not been to yet, chosen because the guidebooks said it was a good place to see Salmon. I felt torn about going; knowing it would be beautiful, but also that the land was state owned and was active timber country, and that it was likely there would not be many salmon in the waters, and so that sense of loss would permeate my hike.

I had just crossed the threshold from parking lot to trail when I began to hear sweet, soulful notes through the forest. It took me only a moment to make sense of the sound: someone was playing a wooden flute on the other side of the lake.

I chose my path around the loop trail – left, this time – and the undergrowth and small deciduous trees of recently timbered forest slowly shifted into decaying stumps larger than I could stretch my arms around and towering Red Cedar, deep and rich in color with roots like thick stilts rising from the nurse stumps.

The sun was just barely piercing the cloud cover and the tree canopy as I came to a fork in the trail: one way continuing on the loop, another leading out to a deck overlooking the creek that bordered the other side. A perfect triangle, and in the center of it a grove of Red cedar in the richest red, other trees as skeletons covered in bright green moss and soft grey lichen.

Just then, as I walked slowly into the grove, still listening to the flute, captivated by beauty but also something more, the sun illuminated this burnt piece of Red Cedar. As it did, mist began to rise from it’s surface like smoke. It seemed to sway in the air before slowly drifting away. I looked up and all around me as the sun began to bathe this shadowy grove in light and it seemed as if every growing thing began to stretch and then smokey mist began to rise all around me.

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It felt like a miracle, like divine play all around me. I sat for a time in meditation doing japa, and then went to the creek. Indeed, I could hear only a couple of salmon, slapping in the only section deep enough in the creek; the rest of it exposed gravel bed.

I continued on my hike, marveling at the trees and fungi and the life and death all around me. Eventually I came across the person playing the flute, an elderly man sitting along the beaver pond; at this point he had been playing for well more than an hour. I thanked him for the sweet notes through the forest. And then I thanked the forest, too.

Prayers to the Olympic Coast

I made my first trip up to the Olympic Coast recently. It was only for a day, to acquaint myself with the area energetically, spiritually, and physically, and I only made it to Kalaloch beaches and the rainforest around Lake Quinault. I was completely overcome by those places.

20170724_141027As I was driving north on Highway 101 in Kalaloch, I knew to keep an eye out for the beach access trails. I passed by a couple that looked busy and too steep for me to safely get down, and then came up to a pull out and what looked like a trail leading down the bluff. I got the immediate nudge to stop, and as I approached the trail the ocean came into view, foam rolling at the beach as the wind whipped at my face. And lo! the trail was short, and gentle, with a couple of easy steps – just what my body needed that day.

It was foggy as usual on the coast, but as I arrived the fog started blowing in thicker, until I was completely surrounded with but 20 feet of visibility. I love experiencing the beach in this way; the ‘darker’ side of the ocean, completely shrouded from everything around me, alone with myself and sea. I wrote this in a moment of divine bliss:

Shrouded Bliss
A beach, deserted
The fog blows in, obscuring everything
beyond this moment
The ocean hums the great sound of becoming
Waves beckoning, blessing
I would dive into the bliss of it, and never surface for air

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On my drive back to Olympia, I decided to stop at Quinault Lake even though it was getting late in the day. I’m so glad I did. As I was driving along the North Shore Rd, I started to wonder if I should just turn back, and I stopped to look at my position on the map. Only a third of the way around the loop. Ok, I said to myself, let’s go just a bit further until I find a place to turn around.

Then just ahead, there was a pull off big enough to park in fully, without having to worry about turning around on the tiny dirt road. I pulled in and opening up before me was the most iconic of Olympic mountain views: jagged, forested mountain peaks with snow still sugar-coating the peaks, the river winding through the valley, trees framing the entire view. It was breathtakingly beautiful and there was no one else around.

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A land spirit peeked out and I caught them just out of the corner of my eye before they scurried off again. Then I smelled that unmistakable musk that tells you you are not actually alone in the forest and heard some rustling in the woods. I decided that was my cue to leave, because as romantic as encountering wild animals in the woods sounds, the reality is much different.
20170724_171551On my return I stopped at the rainforest nature trail, thinking it would be a short easy walk to get to know the place a bit. I was not disappointed – so much raw, powerful beauty in a half mile stroll. Every where I looked, I was completely taken aback by the grandeur and awe of it.

I wrote this poem the following day, in honor of the forest and the beings that came out to welcome me.20170724_150633

Here Be Giants
Once there were giants
Not creatures of myth
– though they too are for another story –

But beings of earth and water and sky
They stood, gathered sentinels
Roots reaching as deep into the earth
As their trunks rose to the sky

They were the center of everything
entire ecosystems existing on every square inch

They helped make us, protected us
Their breath our breath
Reminding us of our role here:
Stay grounded, reach for the stars
Form communities, shelter each other
Be the union between earth and sky

But we forgot how to listen
Ignored the whispers in their branches
We felled the giants
Severed them from the earth
Severed ourselves from connection

The giants fell
And so then shall we

I will definitely have to plan a trip back, hopefully to go on retreat. I’m so grateful to the Place for welcoming me, and to the People of the Quinault whose ancestral lands these are.