Beltane Planting Moon
This Woolly Mammoth group sounds silly. I mean, Woolly Mammoth? After all are we not men?
Then 26 years of meeting twice a month and an annual retreat. Not so silly. Now like the Velveteen Mammoth, rubbed so often that it’s become real. We have grown old together and that seems like the prize in the Cracker Jacks box, one we didn’t even know was there.
Companions. Friends. A place to be who we are, even when it hurts. And now a place to follow that last ancientrail together, with witnesses.
Warren the fly-fisherman. Charlie the poet. Stefan the painter and poet. Mark the artist. Bill the connector. Tom the child waiting to go outside and play. Scott the musician. Frank the shaman. Paul the woodsman. And myself, the gardener.
We are no longer our professions or our jobs, rather we are defined by our passions and our mutual affection. Woolly Mammoths. The herd moves along the trail, picking buttercups.
