Play as Devotion

The soft murmur of leaves rustling in the gentle breeze, the play of sunlight creating fleeting patterns on the ground, invokes a sense of playful longing that defies rigid structure. It's an invitation to explore not with an agenda, but with curiosity. I've been thinking about play. Not the kind that comes with rules or points, the kind you schedule in between work and chores. I mean the kind Rachel Pollack was pointing to when she said, “To learn to play seriously is one of the great secrets of spiritual exploration.”

Years ago, I made that shift. When I first began my solitary practice, it was regimented—the same chants, the same gestures, the same incense and candles. But when I let go of control, one night under a moonlit sky, I allowed myself to be drawn by the sound of rustling leaves and an unplanned dance with the wind. This change was quiet at first, almost imperceptible, but it expanded everything. My rituals deepened, my magick felt alive in ways it never had before, and my practices took on a richness I hadn’t imagined possible.

Play became a serious practice. It was about paying attention, listening, noticing where the energy of a symbol or a story might lead me, and trusting it. It required patience and presence. I remember one evening, sitting quietly as the shadows lengthened, when time seemed to dissolve, leaving only the rhythmic drum of my heart and the soft caress of a cool breeze against my skin. In that suspended moment, the world around me faded, and I was entirely consumed by the sound of leaves whispering secrets. There were times when I felt vulnerable or uncertain, but that vulnerability was precisely what made the work feel alive. The sacred stopped being a set of rules or a destination and became a living conversation.

Since then, I have come to see that play is not a distraction from devotion. It is devotion. Showing up with curiosity, letting imagination guide the work, allowing the unexpected to enter, that is what opens a spiritual path. There was a time, however, when I doubted if this lightness could truly hold depth. I remember sitting one night by the flickering candlelight, wondering if I was being too whimsical, perhaps even naive. That doubt shadowed my practice until I embraced it as a part of the process. By acknowledging the uncertainty, I found that leaning into it strengthened my devotion, turning hesitations into opportunities for deeper engagement. This approach made my rituals, my magick, my writing, my life richer and fuller.

Rachel’s words remind me that the heart of spiritual work is not always solemnity. It is attention, engagement, and willingness to be changed. To play seriously is to invite the sacred into everything we do, not as a distant goal, but as something immediate and alive. To encourage your own exploration, try lighting a candle and following the first image or thought that delights you. Let this be an exercise in serious play, a step towards integrating playful curiosity into your spiritual practice.

Why Myth and Folklore Matter

 Why Myth and Folklore Matter

Imagine a cracked vessel, its pieces barely holding together, threatening to scatter with the slightest touch. There are moments in life when ordinary language fails us. Catastrophe, cruelty, collective trauma, and personal rupture arrive with such force that familiar frameworks collapse. The mind searches for coherence and finds none. The body holds fear without explanation. The heart knows that life has changed shape, even if it cannot yet describe how.

In these moments, myth and folklore offer a form of intelligence older than analysis and deeper than reassurance. They do not erase pain or provide neat resolutions. Instead, they create a symbolic container large enough to hold experiences that feel alien, overwhelming, or morally incomprehensible. Myth steps in where linear explanation falls short, offering a profound understanding that embraces ambiguity and complexity, aligning with the human need for stories that connect us to the mysterious and the unknown.

Across cultures and centuries, myth and folklore have served as tools for navigating realities that defy reason, whether those realities take the form of war, exile, illness, grief, betrayal, or sudden loss. Embedded within these narratives is the timeless question: How do we stand within chaos? These stories exist because human beings have always encountered forces that threaten their sense of order and identity. Myth does not deny chaos. It teaches us how to stand within it without being erased.

Myth as a Language for the Unspeakable 

One of the primary functions of myth is translation. When an experience feels too vast, too frightening, or too unfamiliar to name directly, myth gives it shape. It transforms terror into narrative, turning raw sensation into symbolic meaning. Consider the story of Anna, a survivor of a natural disaster who found herself in complete disarray after losing her home to a hurricane. In the aftermath, she stumbled upon the myth of the Phoenix, the bird that rises from its ashes. This myth offered her hope and renewal, helping her see beyond the immediate devastation. For Anna, the myth translated her overwhelming fear and loss into a narrative of resilience and rebirth, allowing her to navigate her changed reality with newfound strength.

Consider the ancient flood myths that appear across cultures, from the Epic of Gilgamesh to the story of Noah, from Hindu cosmology to Indigenous oral traditions. These stories did not arise solely from abstract theology. They reflect collective encounters with devastation, environmental collapse, and the terrifying sense that the world itself had turned hostile. Through myth, the flood becomes more than a disaster. It becomes a passage, a cleansing, a rupture that demands ethical reckoning and renewal. Similarly, contemporary narratives about climate change echo these ancient myths. Rising tides, hurricanes, and polar ice melt are part of a modern flood myth that signifies an urgent call for humanity to recognize its impact on the planet and the necessity for transformation and adaptation.

Similarly, myths of descent into the underworld speak to psychological states that feel annihilating from the inside. The Greek story of Persephone, taken into the realm of the dead, gives form to experiences of loss, depression, and enforced transformation. Persephone does not choose descent, and she does not return unchanged. Her myth acknowledges a truth many modern narratives avoid: some experiences alter us permanently, and survival does not mean restoration to a former self. Consider the words of Maya, a trauma survivor, who expressed, 'I emerged from the depths not as the person who went in, but as someone forever changed, carrying the shadows as part of who I have become.' This testimony echoes Persephone’s lesson, tethering the myth to the lived psychology of irreversible transformation.

By framing these experiences within a larger mythic cycle, folklore offers a way to understand suffering without reducing it to pathology or failure.

Folklore as a Map Through Moral Rupture

Myth and folklore also help us navigate situations that feel morally destabilizing, especially encounters with cruelty, betrayal, or systemic violence. When human behavior becomes vile or incomprehensible, myth provides archetypal language for naming what has occurred.

Fairy tales, often dismissed as simple or childish, are particularly adept at this work. Stories like Bluebeard confront the reality of intimate violence and the dangers of willful ignorance. The tale does not soften its warning. Curiosity is framed as survival. Silence is shown as lethal. The monster is not abstract. He lives inside the home. In recent years, true-crime stories reflecting the Bluebeard narrative have surfaced in headlines, reminding us of the ongoing dangers of intimate violence. Such modern accounts underscore the tale's ongoing urgency, serving as a bridge between age-old stories and present-day vigilance.

Trickster figures across cultures also serve an essential function in times of upheaval. Characters like Loki, Coyote, Anansi, or Hermes appear when rules fracture and certainty dissolves. They embody instability itself. Tricksters disrupt, deceive, and expose hypocrisy. In catastrophic conditions, these figures remind us that rigid systems often collapse first, and adaptability becomes a form of wisdom. Yet, the trickster's deceit is paradoxically both destructive and creative. They dismantle existing order but also inspire innovation and change, inviting us to sit with the tension of destruction, paving the way for creation. This duality challenges us to appreciate adaptive ethics, where the interplay between chaos and order leads to growth and transformation.

Through such stories, folklore gives us ethical clarity without simplistic morality. It acknowledges that survival sometimes requires cunning, vigilance, and the ability to read danger before it announces itself.

Myth and the Experience of Radical Otherness

Trauma often produces a sense of estrangement from one's own life. Survivors describe feeling as though they have crossed into an unfamiliar country where old customs no longer apply. Myth understands this territory intimately. Reflect on this: when have you felt exiled from your own life? Such moments of personal inquiry invite us into the emotional landscape that myths have long navigated.

Stories of exile, transformation, and monstrous metamorphosis speak directly to this sense of radical otherness. In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, characters are turned into trees, animals, or stars, often following acts of violence or loss. These transformations are not presented solely as metaphors. They reflect the lived reality of people whose identities have been forcibly reshaped by experience.

In folklore, becoming other is neither moral failure nor personal weakness. It is a consequence of contact with overwhelming forces. Myth reassures us that disorientation is a valid response to rupture, and that meaning can still be forged within altered conditions.

Collective Memory and Cultural Survival

Beyond individual psychology, myth and folklore preserve collective memory. They carry the emotional knowledge of communities that endured famine, colonization, genocide, and displacement. Long after historical records fade, stories retain the emotional truth of what occurred. In current movements for historical justice, such as those seeking recognition for indigenous rights or reparations for colonial injustices, myths provide a vital framework. They connect past struggles to present-day struggles, offering a narrative that empowers communities to seek redress and transformation. Through storytelling, myths illuminate paths for activism, showing how present-day justice can be informed by lessons embedded in ancestral experiences.

Indigenous myths, in particular, often encode survival strategies, environmental knowledge, and spiritual resilience. These stories are not escapist fantasies. They are repositories of lived wisdom, shaped by centuries of adaptation under pressure. To engage with them respectfully is to recognize myth as a form of cultural endurance. As Thomas King, an Indigenous writer and scholar, notes, these narratives carry the weight of history and serve as a roadmap for future generations. By acknowledging and citing Indigenous voices, we honor the rich tradition and continue in the spirit of cultural recognition and respect.

In times of widespread crisis, whether ecological, political, or social, myth reconnects individuals to a larger human lineage. It reminds us that disruption is part of the human record, and that endurance has many forms.

Why Myth Still Matters Now

Modern culture often privileges speed, certainty, and solutions. It thrives on rapid scrolling news cycles, instant communication, and quick fixes, shaping a society that desires immediate gratification and resolution. Myth, on the other hand, operates on different principles. It moves slowly. It tolerates ambiguity. It allows contradiction. These qualities make it uniquely suited for navigating catastrophic or morally complex realities.

Myth does not demand optimism. It does not promise closure. It offers recognition. It says, this has happened before in different forms, to different people, under different names. You are not alone in this terrain. What story or myth offers you solace in uncertain times? Can you recall or seek a narrative that steadies you and imparts wisdom? Inviting ourselves to remember such stories can turn recognition into a practice that enriches our daily lives.

In a world increasingly shaped by rupture, myth and folklore remain essential companions. They do not rescue us from suffering. They teach us how to live with depth, awareness, and meaning when life refuses to behave as expected.

When ordinary language breaks, myth reminds us how to speak.

The Body as Oracle

 

The Body as Oracle

The body often registers what is happening before the mind has words for it. Long before a decision feels conscious, the body has already responded: energy shifts, attention narrows or opens, muscles tense or release. We are rarely encouraged to treat these responses as meaningful. Instead, we learn to explain them away, to override them in the name of efficiency or reason, and to keep moving until discomfort becomes impossible to ignore. In doing so, we miss a steady source of information that is available to us all the time.

Fatigue is one of the clearest signals the body offers, though it is frequently misunderstood. Not all tiredness is a problem; some fatigue is simply the result of effort or care. What matters is the quality of it. There is a particular kind of exhaustion that appears out of proportion to the task at hand, or that shows up reliably in certain situations. When fatigue gathers around specific commitments, conversations, or environments, it is often pointing to an ongoing imbalance. Something is being asked that costs more than it returns.

Paying attention does not mean abandoning responsibility or withdrawing from life. It means noticing patterns rather than pushing past them. Often, what needs to change is not the work itself, but the conditions under which it is being done, or the version of yourself that feels required to carry it.

Excitement, by contrast, tends to be subtle and steady. It is not always loud or urgent, and it does not depend on external validation. This kind of excitement shows itself in what continues to interest you after rest, what you return to without pressure, and what feels nourishing even when it is challenging. It does not guarantee success or ease, but it often indicates a form of alignment between the task and your own temperament.

Resistance is the signal we are most likely to pathologize. It is easy to name it fear or avoidance and try to push through. Sometimes that assessment is accurate. Just as often, resistance arises when timing is wrong, when consent is incomplete, or when the scope of what is being asked exceeds what feels sustainable. The body resists what it cannot safely absorb.

When resistance is approached with curiosity rather than force, it becomes more precise. It may soften if the task becomes smaller or less absolute, suggesting the need for adjustment rather than refusal. When it remains firm despite those changes, it may be marking a genuine boundary. Learning to tell the difference takes time and attention, not discipline.

Treating the body as a source of guidance is not about treating sensation as command. Bodies carry habit, history, and memory. The practice is cumulative. You begin to notice what reliably drains you, what restores you without effort, and what only becomes difficult when the stakes or expectations shift. Over time, these observations form a pattern that is hard to dismiss.

This is a grounded form of divination, one rooted in observation rather than symbolism. The body does not speak in declarations or answers. It communicates through timing, sensation, and repetition. When taken seriously, and without judgment, it offers information that is practical, consistent, and already woven into daily life.

Alignment in Action

 I was recently invited to join a regular virtual writers’ group. I’d always seen myself as a lone-wolf writer, so I was open to the idea but a bit skeptical. From the first session, though, those doubts disappeared. Rather than feeling distracted or limited, I actually thrived in the group’s energy.

Our group works in a way that feels simple and special. Sometimes we write quietly, other times we talk. We share ideas and discuss word choices, direction, plot, and dialogue. These conversations don’t interrupt the work. For me, they make it richer. I admire and trust these creative people, and that changes everything.

What surprised me most was how the group’s energy stayed with me even after our meetings. On days when I write alone, I still feel lifted by that shared momentum. My solo writing has started to grow in new ways. I didn’t expect that. It made me realize that some ways of working naturally support the life I want to create.

Alignment is my word for the year, and the Temperance card shows me how to get there. This year is about making small changes, blending things on purpose, and trusting that the right mix will show up if I pay attention. Alignment means choosing what fits and adjusting what doesn’t. It’s about letting my inner truth and my actions work together. Temperance in tarot represents this process.

The angel on the card never keeps the cups still. The water moves back and forth, always testing and adjusting. Alignment works like that too. It’s not about staying the same, but about responding to what’s needed. Things feel easier when I notice what’s off and gently adjust until it feels right again.

Temperance is about bringing things together, not giving something up. Fire and water meet without canceling each other out. In life and work, that’s a powerful balance. Intellect and intuition. Discipline and letting go. Learning and mystery. Nothing important has to be lost, just combined with care.

Patience is also at the heart of this. Temperance moves at the pace that feels right, not at the pace of urgency. When things are aligned, momentum happens naturally. Everything starts to fit together on its own. The steady progress I feel in my writing now feels like alignment in action—less struggle, fewer false starts.

I didn’t plan to find a new way of working this year. It found me. In that unexpected change, I realized I’d started a work practice that fits the word I’ve chosen for 2026: alignment. It’s not a goal to chase or a rule to follow, but a feeling of balanced ease. Harmony. The Temperance card reminds me of this.