Meditation: June 13th, 2025

If you read anything Jonesy, read this one, really.

"The earth does not hold grudges against the storm that batters her surface, for she knows that even the fiercest winds carry seeds of renewal in their wake."

Physical Setting & Preparation

resentment and apology

Find yourself in a space where you can feel the pulse of summer's early breath—perhaps beside a flowing stream or beneath the dappled shade of oak leaves. If indoors, place your hands upon raw earth in a clay pot, or hold a stone worn smooth by countless seasons. The air should carry the green scent of growth, the humidity of life unfolding. Feel the weight of your body settling into the earth's embrace, your spine a living tree trunk connecting sky to soil.

Opening Invocation | Fosgladh

Thig a-steach, a Mhàthair na Talmhainn Come forward, Mother of the Earth

Tha mi a' tighinn thugaibh le cridhe trom I come to you with a heavy heart

Seall dhomh mar a ghabhail mathanas Show me how to seek forgiveness

Breathe deeply, three times, feeling the earth's ancient rhythm matching your own heartbeat. In this moment of mid-June, when the sun reaches its longest arc across the sky, we acknowledge the season of abundance and the shadows it casts. Today we carry two burdens: the bitter taste of resentment that has taken root in our chest like thorns, and the weight of words unspoken—apologies that hover like morning mist, waiting to be released.

Body of the Working | Corp

Tha'n t-samhradh a' tighinn gu làn Summer is coming to fullness

See yourself standing in a meadow where wildflowers push through soil that was once frozen. The earth remembers every harsh winter, every drought, every flood—yet still she opens her arms to new growth. This is the season of forgiveness, when light conquers darkness not through force, but through patient, persistent presence.

Your resentment sits in your chest like a stone heated by anger's fire. Feel its weight, its sharp edges cutting into your ribs with each breath. But notice too how the earth beneath your feet has transformed countless stones into fertile soil through the slow alchemy of time and weather.

Tha'n fhearg mar chlach teth Anger is like a heated stone

The Mother of the Earth speaks without words: "Child, I have held the rage of volcanoes and the sorrow of floods. I have been broken by earthquakes and scorched by drought, yet I do not withhold my gifts from those who have wounded me. The rain that once brought flood now nourishes the roots. The fire that once destroyed now enriches the soil."

The Deep Working | An Obair Dhomhain

Leig às do'n fhearg Release the anger

Leig às do'n bròn Release the sorrow

Place your hands upon your heart and feel the resentment pulsing there—hot, sharp, alive with its own terrible energy. Now imagine roots growing from your palms, extending down through your chest, through your belly, through the earth itself. These roots do not carry your anger deeper; instead, they transform it, as the earth transforms everything she touches.

See the person who has wronged you, or whom you have wronged, standing in this same meadow. They too are rooted to the earth, their own pain feeding the same soil that feeds your sorrow. The Mother's voice whispers: "There is no injury that cannot become compost for new growth, no wound that cannot become the seedbed for wisdom."

Tha mathanas mar uisge Forgiveness is like water

Feel forgiveness beginning to flow—not as weakness, but as the irresistible power of water that shapes stone. It flows from the earth up through your roots, washing the heated stone of resentment with cool, patient persistence. Some of the anger dissolves immediately; some remains, and that is natural. Even mountains take millennia to bow to water's touch.

Now form the words of apology in your mouth, tasting them like spring water. Whether they are meant for another or for yourself, feel how they want to be spoken—not from a place of diminishment, but from the strength of one who has learned to tend the garden of relationship with the same care the earth tends her seasons.

Tha mi duilich I am sorry

Tha mi a' gabail mathanas I offer forgiveness

Afterthought | Smuain Dheiridh

Take a moment to contemplate:

How does the earth's infinite capacity for renewal challenge your understanding of both holding grudges and offering forgiveness? What would it mean to tend your relationships with the same patient wisdom that transforms autumn's death into spring's resurrection?

Closing Blessing | Beannachd Dheiridh

Beannachd na Talmhainn ort The blessing of the Earth upon you

Beannachd nan craobh ort The blessing of the trees upon you

Beannachd nan uisgeachan ort The blessing of the waters upon you

Tha thu air do shlànachadh You are healed

Tha thu air do shaoradh You are freed

Tha thu air do ghrādhachadh You are loved

May you walk forward carrying both the strength to forgive and the wisdom to remember that healing, like the changing of seasons, happens in its own time. The earth holds space for all of it—the anger and the mercy, the wound and the balm, the ending and the beginning.

Slàinte mhath Good health