Friday Five: Q&A with poet and priestess Molly Remer

‘Our lives are our poems. You’re already living yours right now, you just need to write it down.’

Thoreau had his Walden — that wilderness refuge where he sought inspiration and “to live deliberately.” Today’s National Poetry Month featured author, Molly Remer, also took to the woods for creative and spiritual inspiration, and with fruitful results. Unlike Thoreau and his transcendentalist brethren, however, Molly pursues the practice of “inscendance,” which she describes more in the Q&A below.

Molly Remer
Molly Remer with a copy of her book The Sacred Flame

A prolific poet whose works are deeply rooted in goddess spirituality, nature, and the sacredness of everyday life, Molly is also a priestess and mystic. Living not far from me here in rural south-central Missouri, Molly holds Master of Social Work and Doctor of Ministry degrees and has authored 15 books, including Walking with Persephone, Whole and Holy, and 365 Days of Goddess. You can find her books and other works on her Etsy page.

Molly and her husband Mark also co-create Story Goddesses at Brigid’s Grove, producing original goddess sculptures and ceremony kits. She is the founder of the devotional experience #30DaysofGoddess. Her passion for celebrating small magic and everyday enchantment in life comes through in her poetry, which blends thealogy, nature, and practical priestessing, reflecting her deep connection to the divine feminine.

Read on to learn more about Molly Remer’s poetry, what inspires her, her thoughts on nature, mysticism, and inscendence, and the importance to writers of finding their “power spot.” Read on to the end to discover a poem from Molly that is quite relevant to the state of the world today.

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Failing to flourish

All around me, life is flourishing. But my writing life feels like it is dying on the vine.

Here we are in the middle of April, and all around me in this part of the world I see dogwoods are in full bloom, the brilliant purple flowers of redbuds giving way to the new, tender sprouts of leaves, and the dreary, dirty browns of winter erased by lush greenery, from lawns to trees to fertile undergrowth. My unevenly green yard is bursting with the yellow flowers of dandelions, which contrast with the canvas of lawn like the radiant stars of Vincent Van Gogh’s The Starry Night.

All around me, life is flourishing, as it should be in mid-April. But my writing life feels like it is dying on the vine.

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