INVOCATION
for the full moon on January 3, 2026
One evening I slipped out of the house and silently settled myself on the black grass in the garden. My heart was too heavy to admire the night’s stars or the whispering oak or to hear the insects gently singing. All I wanted was an end to my grief. As I knelt on the ground I lit a match and touched it to a thick stack of folded pages. I dropped the flaming paper into a bowl and watched as my handwriting became ash. The flames pulsed quietly at the edges of my letter, as if breathing, and then the last of my beseeching message was gone.
I fervently hoped that this simple act, filled with fire and smoke, would somehow bring solace. At the time I was moving through a difficult emotional landscape where such invocations seemed to be one way I could navigate my sadness. No matter if it was foolish or futile — to me in that moment it was something that could shift and release my feelings. Even if it accomplished nothing, at least I could feel changed by the transforming powers of fire and wind, and be held by the solid earth and spreading sky. Watching my message disappear into rising smoke was a silent relief.
It is within our deepest nature to invoke both visible and invisible forces — calling upon something outside of ourselves for assistance, guidance, release or inspiration. How many flames have been kindled, infused with bright intentions? How many coins have been flung into water, with a hopeful wish pressed into their metallic bodies? How many desires have been given to the untamable wind, or regrets been buried in the dark earth?
The prayers we send out, in our multitude of ways, weave us into the greater mystery we live within. Fire, water, wind, earth — all of these have been companions in humans’ instinctual attempts at transforming their current circumstances. The elements are potent not only physically, but also on our psyches, symbolically helping us to imagine and initiate change.
Perhaps we sense that within everything that exists, there is the seed of what is not yet here. Each moment is mother to the next. Perhaps that is why we are drawn to invoking an unborn future from our present threshold. When daunted, overwhelmed or brokenhearted, we call out to the wider world, hopeful for a possibility that has not yet arrived.
What is most astonishing to realize is that the world — in all its beauty and all its suffering — has its own invocations for us, too. The world gives us experiences to deepen and transform us, calling to us in its own elemental language. It burns us as if we were walking through fire; it sinks us into watery depths. We may feel suffocated under heavy soil or buffeted by winds that knock us down.
Such is the world’s call to us, coaxing us to deepen through difficulty and transform through uncertainty. Its invocation asks us to be fully here. To answer these summons, one must possess a combination of sensitivity and courage, vulnerability and fortitude. We must be willing to not know, to get lost, to start again.
We eventually come to realize that we are not only invoking, we are also being invoked by something beyond us. We are not the only ones calling out — we, too, are being called into the unfolding world.
