
Gentle wind, rough wind, our wind, no wind– Many are the winds that help us. One by one we sing a hymn to you, singing: Help us appreciate our home. Gentle wind, you massage the tree leaves, Lead the rope…
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See? Even here and now, in the cracks of this suburban sidewalk, you spring up, green hands open to catch the rain.
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Shortly after my father died, my sisters and I received letters that he had written, tobacco stained fingers punching keyboard, weeks earlier. My atheist, politically conservative father wrote…..
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It’s easy to be pagan in the wild. It’s easy to find the heart of a nature-based pagan path when you’re immersed in a quiet forest or secluded desert highway. Connecting with the divine is a simpler act when your breath catches at the sight of a graceful doe or soaring raptor. But what about deep within cities, with graffiti-tinged cement and stinking hot asphalt under the burning summer sun? Where is the sacred in a clearcut, or a landfill, or a mountaintop mine?
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