Holding space for words potent and true. Words of sweetened wisdom, the healing stories which spark imagination, sing the words of our healed ancestors, and bring us on adventures into mythos and cultural lore.
The air itself feels bruised. The wind carries stories we did not consent to experience again, ghostly thrashings against a temporal skin. As the collective field roils, heaving like the tidal sea drudging up rust, bones and tangled brackish effigies of wounds reopened by headlines- courtrooms, and the ritual theater of politics debate as though these felt harms
The Cailleach is an ancient Celtic goddess of winter, storms, and the shaping of the land. She embodies the season of stillness and renewal, guarding the earth as it rests and prepares for new life. Her story invites us to honor the rhythms of nature death, transformation, and rebirth.
I extend my love to you in this Autumnal Equinox. I wish it were a heart filled with lightness, but I cannot bring myself to bypass the times we collectively find ourselves experiencing.
I want to be writing this from the future, a moss-soft place where peace has already come, where tyrants have crumbled into compost and children play along the promenade where the tanks rolled out unceremoniously to celebrate a would be king.
This is the entropy of empire: Not a sudden fall, but a long disintegration, noisy and cruel. The old spells of domination are breaking apart and with them, the illusion of control.
Disinformation thrives on urgency and spectacle, on the frantic impulse to react. Soft rebellion slows down. It moves at the pace of trust, at the pace of deep listening.
To rewild democracy through ritual is to summon the wild forces to compost power, subdue greed, and return equanimity to the land—because true power is not owned, it is shared.
To rewild democracy through ritual is to summon the wild forces to compost power, subdue greed, and return equanimity to the land—because true power is not owned, it is shared.
Authoritarian regimes expect rebellion to have a center, a name, a face. It craves an enemy it can indict, a movement it can infiltrate, a leader it can make into a martyr or a warning. It does not know what to do with the mycelial, the rhizomatic, the soft and spreading.
The machine lurches forward, a relentless tide of speed and consumption, grinding the world into fragments beneath its ceaseless gears. But I step out of its current. I pause. I let stillness root me like an ancient tree, a quiet act of defiance against the churn of capitalism. In these moments of deep listening, rebellion takes root—not in haste, but in the slow, steady pulse of a world refusing to be devoured.
In capturing the countless expressions of Disobedient Joy, I am delighted to share that there is an abundance of moments, both past and present, to offer you.
Let this be a balm.
But a sanctuary is more than a house for an altar, its table dressed in sacred objects. It is a threshold, a breathing membrane between worlds—a force of resistance, a mycelial uprising against the enclosures of empire.
