I find it’s easy to fall into being so caught up in the rush of daily life that I miss opportunities for small devotions. I’ve been working on slowing down (no, really, I have—there’s nothing like a set of week-old abdominal incisions from surgery to make one discover the benefits of moving at a stately pace), which has allowed me to think about what I’m doing, and how a blessing or prayer might fit with the action, no matter how minor.

I’ve actually had time to read two entire books in the last ten days! Which led me to think about ways to take the opportunity for a blessing and gratitude.

Before starting to read, I recite:

Hail, Saga! Source of all stories, and keeper of histories!
As I read these words, help me to take the time to savor and imbibe them,
Giving them due consideration and contemplation,
That their meaning and their lessons are clear and useful.

This covers a wide range of topics, both fiction and non-fiction, and is usable for pretty much any book.

You could also invoke Bragi for fiction or drama; Odin for magic and myth; Loki for psychology, technology, and communications; or any other deity you feel is a match for the book. For example, my next volume is a book on grief and mourning, so I think Hel (as the Goddess of Death) and Sigyn (as the Mourning Mother) would be fitting choices. Reading a book on gardening, plant life, or similar? Idunna would be a good fit. A book on historical women in government? Frigg, as Allmother and Sovereign, is a clear choice.

You can alter the invocation as well—if you’re about to read a novel of comic misadventure, you could mention appreciating the entertainment and the release from care for the time you read reading.

When I’m done reading, I recite:

Thank you, Saga, for this story.
May the examples and lessons stay firm in my mind,
Guiding me as I journey through my life,
Helping me to live more fully and wholly,
As the characters’ experience informs my experience.

Again, you can customize the thanks to suit the book’s subject and the deity. You can start with these examples, and let your intuition and imagination run free!

[Image description: An open book sits between two glass candle jars. Stacks of books are arranged on the surface behind it.]

My People
—Langston Hughes

Dream-singers,
Story-tellers,
Dancers,
Loud laughers in the hands of Fate—
My People.
Dish-washers,
Elevator-boys,
Ladies’ maids,
Crap-shooters,
Cooks,
Waiters,
Jazzers,
Nurses of babies,
Loaders of ships,
Porters,
Hairdressers,
Comedians in vaudeville
And band-men in circuses—
Dream-singers all,
Story-tellers all.
Dancers—
God! What dancers!
Singers—
God! What singers!
Singers and dancers,
Dancers and laughers.
Laughers?
Yes, laughers….laughers…..laughers—
Loud-mouthed laughers in the hands of Fate.

Choreographer Alonzo King did an interview with George McCalman of the San Francisco Chronicle recently. Even if dance isn’t a particular interest for you, I recommend taking the time to read the interview. King is passionate about dance, about life, and about humanity, and his words apply to everyone, dancer or otherwise.

[Image description: A shaded line drawing of Alonzo King, wearing a hat, and adjusting his glasses. The caption reads, “Alonzo King, founder of Alonzo King Lines Ballet. Photo: George McCalman / Special to the Chronicle”.]

My favorite bits:

“The other reason I talk, bluntly, is because we have to realize that everyone who is serious about their life is some kind of artist. We’ve gotta get away from this “artist” and “ordinary person.” Even the term “ordinary person” is ridiculous.”

“What are human beings? We are brilliant, radiant, luminescent souls. We’re souls, and we’re playing roles. And so if you can see behind the role, and if you can see behind the appearance, that means it’s time to intuit and listen to vibration, and so that the listening has to become clearer.”

“The common mindset is that I will be happy when these requirements are met. It’s all nonsense. It’s about now. Regardless of circumstances, jump into joy now. Regardless of conditions, jump into your happiness now. Jump into the direction you want to go in now. Don’t play later; the later game doesn’t work.”

“I think there are things that you know, and with time you plumb them and know them better. .  . . With time and age and experience, I see where I could do more, where I could be better, where this can be more.”

The Weekly Insight from the Oracles for January 18, 2021 is live on my Patreon!

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[Image description: A teaser screenshot of this week’s Insight from the Oracles, with just a hint of the cards and runes showing.]

The Burning
—Liz Berry

It was the hard winter she came,
frozen larks plummeting through the gloam like falling stars,
each pail in the yard a slattern’s looking glass.

Each dusk, the house cobwebbed by creeping frost,
my husband slipped like a knife from an oyster,
my sons nestled like dormice in their cots,
I stood at my black window and oh
the cold it pressed upon me like a lover,
held its hands to my throat, my knees.

She came first through the trees:
a small glint amongst the poplars,
hoarfrost dripping from the velvet nubs of their antlers,
leaping fast to a shuddering pillar of flame,
her pelvis a cradle of jeweled tinder,
her ribs white kindling. A holy thing—
such furious unblossoming—and something profane.

I pressed my eye to the glass, the crackling dark,
saw her heart catch light,
blackbirds flap frantic from the forks of trees—
—woke shivering, sweat between my breasts,
my tongue in my teeth.

Every night then she came
in the stolen hours between caring and dream,
the children vanished, the drudging chaos of day
put to sleep.
I have no words to tell of the shapes she scorched,
the frozen lock, the copper key,
but that heat licked me raw as a wild love,
cracked the ice on my ribs and tossed in a flare.

All my life I have been a good woman,
compliant, neat, my children’s snow boots polished,
each snowflake of ash swept clean from my step.
I’ve worn obedience like a uniform,
the hoof of the iron cooling in my grate.
Yet I riled in the witching hour, tongue glittering.
My darling, I whispered to my own dry bones,
for what do you burn?

Three moons she has been absent,
though I wait at my window, the chill persisting, presaging snow,
and my longing rises hopeless as the carp in the pool.
I don’t know where she is living
or if she lives at all—
with women nursing in fevered sheets
or scrubbing floors until their knuckles ignite?

But by dark, when my sons sail the black cut
of sleep, and frost lays its terrible lace
upon the grass, when I am alone with my fretting,
with my dreams like black pearls in the clam of my mouth,
I press my fists to that tenderest wound—my soul—
and Christ how I burn.