• Tricycle Community 0 comments

    Seeds of Rebirth Paid Member

    Early February marks the midpoint between winter solstice and the vernal equinox. Outside, the thick sap tide of spring is on the rise, swelling plump buds of coastal plum and wild currant. In the ancient Celtic calendar of Old Europe, February 1 was traditionally dedicated to Brigid, the Gaelic goddess of poetry, smithcraft, and healing. On this feast of waxing light, new fire was kindled for fresh inspiration, and the growing year began anew. Predating Groundhog Day by centuries, on the feast of Brigid Irish farmers studied the frozen earth for a sign of serpent or badger emerging from their underground dens to herald the birth of spring. More »
  • Tricycle Community 1 comment

    The Sky River Paid Member

    October wind crosses the world. The last tattered Monarch butterflies of the season sip nectar from ragged vermilion Tithonia flowers at the base of the farm. Practice period began a few weeks ago, the harvest gathered, the fields almost empty. At nightfall, exhausted Monarchs ride the updraft to shelter at the crown of the dark cypress windbreak nearest to the ocean, in trees that mark the edge of raw and cultivated ground. More »
  • Tricycle Community 0 comments

    The Call of the Abyss Paid Member

  • Tricycle Community 0 comments

    Alone & Full Paid Member

    On New Year’s Eve this winter I walked the coastal headlands with my husband to greet 2010 in the pale storm light of a rare blue moon— the second full moon of the month. While more than one hundred dedicated meditators sat zazen in the Green Gulch meditation hall, we climbed Coyote Ridge alone, not saying a word. The moon rode high in the saddle of the night. The ocean boomed in the dark-fingered sea-canyons below, pulled by the perigean high tides of the year. More »
  • Tricycle Community 0 comments

    Groundwork Paid Member

  • Tricycle Community 0 comments

    Maha Magnolia Mind Paid Member

    I am not prey to the swoon of spring. As a seasoned gardener of thirty years, I have learned to mute its siren call, not from fear of seduction as much as dread of another ten-month-long growing season, full of malevolent surprise, unending work, and rampant change. When April comes, “breeding lilacs out of the dead land,” I take perverse delight in telephoning my friends in northern Vermont to be soothed by their reports of bone chilling cold, naked branches, and three inches of fresh snow. In our West Coast garden, spring pounces in early February, coaxing groundhogs out of their winter burrows. Caught in the thick tide of vernal upwelling, I yearn for an anchor in the present moment, to prevent my being swept away by the flood of the seasons. The primeval magnolia is such a mooring plant for me. More »