We each inhabit an intricate ecological web, one that weaves together humans and the more-than-human world.

In our increasingly transhumanist society, much of what unfolds in our surroundings often goes unnoticed. We may meditate daily in our homes, yet we overlook the beauty and heartbreak outside our windows and doorways—both in the wild and in our relationships with those closest to us.

The following poem is an offering to the place I call home. It delves into the complexity of this land and the diverse people who inhabit it. On one hand, this city is steeped in the military-industrial complex, serves as an Evangelical mecca, and houses four military bases. On the other hand, a strong Wiccan influence thrives here, particularly in Manitou Springs, nestled against the mountains west of Colorado Springs.

Many individuals within the new-age spiritual community grapple with relational trauma. Despite practicing earth-based wisdom or holistic practices of spirituality, they have not necessarily dealt with their human-to-human relational wounds. Evangelicals who express their devotion to God often show a troubling disregard for the incarnational reality of our Earth, the protection of wild spaces, and the well-being of the more-than-human world. Not only this, they, too, suffer from relational trauma.

As a therapist, this poem explores the complex traumas intertwined with fundamentalist religions and new-age spiritualities. It also addresses grief—how few elders we have who prioritize the sustenance and protection of our human hearts and the places we inhabit.

We live in a time filled with paradox and deep darkness. Perhaps the only path forward is in the heart of love—extending our hands to one another in care and speaking to the realities of our lives. Rather than pretending there is not as much pain as there is, we may need to voice each heartbreak in its particularity, while also embracing the beautiful.

I walked barefoot on the stumpy trail.

The dawn of light poured its gold upon my face!

A black-winged butterfly,

opened, closed, fluttered, twirled.

The yellow heart of the purple fleabane

blossomed, smiling bright

and I gasped—I saw a bear.

I found myself naked by the creek,

dipped into the silky water, only to feel the oil

of gasoline, seeping into my skin.

What does it mean to live among poison?

Not western water hemlock, but the synthetic

manufactured, spun, and churned

by unfeeling men.

How deep does the undigested grief here in this Canyon go?

I have a witch friend who claims to be a fairy; perhaps he is. His hands pick up every piece of glass along the dirt and in the creek,

and yet he threw his girlfriend’s clothes off his balcony just last week.

Sanity is a gift.

Who has it?

Down the street, the songs of the evangelical sing.

Praise God, praise everything—yet only

in the afterlife.

What about now?

Why are there no elders wading in the waters

near the dams filled with trash in lament?

There is an old raccoon lying softly on the road,

as every car zooms by; it’s time to make money

to live with eyes glued to the screen, to go to Church

to do anything but carry the dead to the soil of earth and cry.

I’ve got oceans of sorrow for you.

I hate to say they are filled with plastic.

Hold your heart close to mine,

I will walk with you until we’ve shed every forgotten tear.

Wrestle with me toward the dark of love; perhaps then, we will know how to tend to all this trash and synthetic poison like the dandelion along the cement road.

~