sitting here, i realise that my religion is like the view that stretches itself out over the undulating land around me. varicoloured fields stitched together by the fluffy, woollen treelines. wandering strips of silver and brown, wend their watery way in the valleys. brambles clamber over the scrub of land right in front of me. hawthorn stands in stoic compactness. hedgerows full of good medicine, if you know where and how to look.
my religion IS the land itself. nothing special. no temples. no sacred structures. but still, i am rooted. right here. where my ancestors lived. where we once worked with the land, not over it, bending it to our will (for a while). i see the beacon where my grannie took us to hunt for bilberries in late summer. she taught me how to transform them into pie, ever one for the practicalities of magic.
i watch the crows congregate to play in the wind that rushes over the lip of the hill and realise that i would always have made it up to suit me. i would always have let the air blow through my wings and tried to learn how to ride the currents of the deities and the spirits of this land. even though there are ready-made religions hanging on a peg that you can take away and wear straight away, i would’ve wanted to fashion my own personal version. i have taken older and newer ideas, beliefs and deity. i have stitched them into my own patchwork of land and home. my own lopsided quilt where some patches are the same as other people’s, some are hand-me-downs from a long line of ancestors, so worn with age that the threads show and some are almost neon in their new brightness. that’s how i like it, roughly sown in places, patches irregular in shape, but they fit together like dry stone walling. it suits me.