Meditation does not come easy for me. I enjoy meditation journeys to be sure: I have an active imagination and it loves meander and discover along a guided path. Sitting still in silence is another thing completely. Yet, for the past several months, without fail, I have been diligently sitting for five minutes of “being still”. Then seven minutes. It is a daily struggle. So this week, I decided to flip my morning routine on its head. Explore a different way of approaching my morning routine: meditation, my three mile walk, my set of morning prayers, and the little rituals of devotion.
Act 1
I walked first. Put aside the exercise tracker and simply walked for the joy, the pleasure of being in fresh air, seeing and listening, being a part of the dawn breaking. It was the same number of steps as before, but this time it was looped in as a visceral part of my meditation practice vs something I’m doing to keep myself from weighing over 200#.
On the final mile of my walk, I gathered random flowers, magnolia pods, acorns, leaves, a funny little plastic skeleton hand the size of your inner palm that had somehow landed on of curb and made me laugh. I chuckled and chattered back and forth with a squirrel as I passed under his pine tree, tried to imitate the mockingbird who followed me a ways, perhaps she was curious to see what I was carrying. Perhaps I stole her breakfast? Sky shifted from deep navy blue with the silvered, creamy crescent moon to pale grey, to pink, to metallic lemon gold which portended warmer weather later that day. Sunlight scattered a myriad of diamonds on the small inlet of pewtered water. I was able to rescue a few earthworms who had strayed too far onto the asphalt (why do earthworms do that?). It was a peaceful lighthearted walk, till suddenly it wasn’t. There was the squirrel, dead on the edge of the road, his eye bashed in. His little paws posed like he had dropped an acorn and not realized it. Perfectly cupped with sharp little black nails.
I bent low and studied him, checking to see if he was possibly breathing. Maybe he was just knocked out and would now be blind in one eye, like a scrappy pirate. The fur on his tail ruffled lightly in the breeze. He was so newly dead I could feel the heat rising off of him… like he was surprised to find himself dead and his little spirit Squirrel self was studying his now dead corporeal self with vivid curiosity. Years ago, I would have carried his carcass home to show my children, so they might examine and touch a squirrel up close without fear of being bitten. (yes, I very much have done that very thing in the past… much to my kid’s embarrassment and chagrin… that I would walk down the neighborhood street carrying a dead squirrel by the tail to show them) Today, however; my heart was merely shocked and saddened. Hadn’t the two of us creatures just shared a silly conversation? The same type of jolly conversation we have been sharing for months each morning as I walk under his tree? Now he’s dead. What was I supposed to do? I lifted the miniature red roses from my pile of gathered treasures and laid them gently between his delicate paws and cute oversized nose. Perhaps he could still smell for a moment? Perhaps, his little spirit self could smell… or at least know that a fellow creature had shown him honor as he rested there? Perhaps his little surprised spirit self could now move on and do whatever it is that spirit squirrels do.
This story is not going to be a morality tale on mortality. Act 1 thus ended.
Act 2
Quietly it began with this now small bundle of gathered things and me crafting a mandala of gratitude. Usually, I save making ritual plate offerings for special occasions, not just a random Tuesday morning walk. Besides, who was I making the offering for? What deity, saint, spirit, or element was I trying to connect with? The squirrel? No. I was simply creating a work of beauty from nature for Nature. To spin with my hands and imagination a pattern of loveliness where before had just been the broken or retrieved bits of randomness. I put a small bowl in the center of the now decorated plate and to it added a fingered dollop of butter, a spoonful of honey, and a splash of milk. Nestling a tea light on the squishy butter, I peeled added some fresh segments of clementine around the gap between the candle and the rim of the bowl, licking my fingers, nibbling on the extra pieces of fruit: sharing in the offering. I was feeding it and it in turn was feeding me. Mutual blessing. Match struck as I lit the small wick and incense. Stare at the finished piece admiringly, wafting the fragrance in and around the plate. I didn’t say any words. Didn’t think any profound thoughts. Simply stood there quietly for a few moments watching candle flame, smoke, the intricate texture of leaves, flowers, and small skeleton fingers.
After a few moments, I moved the ritual plate to my main altar and did my usual ritual tending that I do, none of which is elaborate. All of it; however is tied into my personal, daily acts of devotion and focus. I will “attend”. Stand watch. Remember. Call to mind with each flame; each pour; each softly spoken word. Not to gain favor. Not to curry a “you owe me now” balance sheet. Understand: I am vain, proud, and quite stubborn. These small actions remind me that there are a lot of things out there “greater than” myself. That I can hold the duality of being a sacred sovereign self under the golden vast infinity of powers, forces, and energies beyond me in breadth, scope, and depth. It’s refreshing to hold complete personal agency with and for myself while simultaneously acknowledging and honoring my place within the cosmos.
Act 2: there is merit in a creative, contemplative task done in silence.
Act 3
Some folks don’t like the use of the word prayer. I get it. Use another word. Maybe it’s mantras, incantations, affirmations, or readings. Whatever one chooses, coolio. For me, it’s a set of three small “prayers/invocations” that I play to a set piece of instrumental music (Skyrim’s “Past to Present”). Act 3 involves full body movement, memorized words, timing, and attention to both cadence and flow. It is (for me) a form of dance. A dance in both the physical and the astral realms. A dance requiring keen listening focus. A dance that gets sweeter and more effortless in its motions with repetition. It grows, evolves, adjusts itself to the day at hand. It becomes a sublime act of grace. Shimmering and luminous.
Act 3: my devotion is a living flame expressed through music, words, and motion
Act 4: Finale
Finally, finally we get to the actual “meditation” part of the morning. Here at the end of it all and yet, it is the beginning of all the rest that is to come that day. Recently, a close friend was encouraging me to practice deep breathing more seriously… as a true mindful intention. “However you must: change your position, throw yourself over a chair, ground on the floor, breathe deep. Make it a part of you. As often as you can throughout each day. Learn how to truly breathe deeply so that you may find calm and reset at any time. At any moment.” This wise person so full of grace and healing benevolence. I pay heed. I breathe deeply and slowly. Earbuds in. Green noise on, pushing out all other sounds. My skull a resonant cave. These days, part of my meditation is also a breathing and humming meditation set to another, newly discovered song (Cradle/“Midnight Hum”). It is breath and hum and improvisation. Mesmerizing. Engaging. Beckoning. Six immersive minutes where there is nothing but the mutual breath and harmonic hum. Abandoned and lost in the fullness of it. Tears stream silently down my face. I am not sad. Not delirious. Not on some emotional high. I am deeply calm, anchored to the core. It is rather, connecting to the joyspring well that is found within my innermost, vibrant self. That often quiet, still, deep joy, filled to overflowing. So full my eyes leak. My personal life still feels like a bit of a shitshow right now. More grief than anything. Grief, Grief, when, O when will you finish your intense coursing through me? Shall I bear grief and sorrow forever? I don’t know. If grief is in one hand, joy is in the other. In this space of deep wounds, past trauma, cleaving pain, loss, of grinding, piercing, wrecking transformation that I am navigating, there is an undercurrent of the deepest joy. Unshakable. Refusing to be extinguished, even when diminished. Despite, or maybe made more so, joy seeps and grows through the cracks of everything when other parts of my being are scorned, mocked, berated, ignored, mind-fucked, gaslit. This present journey that at times feels like I am once more treading the myriad levels of hell… and back again. Like Persephone, Joy reminds me. There is juxtaposed within hell itself: joy. Not fleeting happiness. Joy. Found within the deepest hidden spring softly glowing with the energetic, loving current of Universe: eternal Source itself.
When I give myself the gift of time each morning, room is made for me to see more clearly. To notice and acknowledge that unbounded, untamed eternal joy from which mine is sprung. Joy in so many things. The simplest of things: a beloved’s smile seen in my mind’s eye, the tiny hidden flower nestled in the grass, genuine connection with complete strangers, the savory goodness of a good meal: be it ordinary or a “feast de verte”. So much joy, Sweet Ones, waiting to be seen, smelled, tasted, explored, discovered. Acknowledged as the counterweight to sorrow.
The Final Act: deep magick is in giving ourselves over to everyday, found joy.
Blessed Be.
Erica Sittler is a Witch practicing her craft in Mississippi where she is a local, active member of the Temple of Witchcraft. Her magick is in the mundane and in bringing honor and attention to those small things that build a sustainable and adventurous life. She is a Temple Mystery School student under the instruction of High Priestess Sellena Dear.