Earth Day 2025
It’s been a wet, and weirdly cold winter where I live in southern Portugal. I’m delighted the reservoirs are filling back up—there were a few scary years where we’ve been carefully conserving water—but the unrelenting dreariness outside has matched the depressing news from the United States, the UK, and Italy.
Early this month, though, I was heading to the grocery store when the sun broke through. The clouds hadn’t even cleared yet, but right there—arching across the valley—was a full double rainbow, one end seeming to bend all the way down to the road I was on.
Glorious.
I pulled over and just basked, joy warming my heart.
I’ve been thinking about rainbows
They show up in so many stories—myth and memory alike—as signs of hope. Promises. Not the kind of promise that insists everything will be okay—but something deeper, something that breathes into the ache of the world and says: you’re not alone in this.
In the Hebrew story, the rainbow is a sign from the Divine—a bow hung up in the sky as the rains stopped, no longer aimed at Earth. A ceasefire. A sacred pause. A promise that devastation won’t have the final word.
In Norse tradition, Bifröst is the rainbow bridge between Midgard and the realm of spirit—a connection between the everyday and the sacred, the mortal and the divine. It reminds us that we're never truly cut off from the unseen, the holy.
In other Pagan traditions, rainbows mark transformation—moments of change, of beauty, of magic breaking through when it’s least expected.
No Rainbow without a Storm
But here’s the thing: rainbows only appear after the storm.
They don’t come before. They’re not a preventative. They don’t erase what just happened.
They arrive because the light and the water meet—and in that sacred meeting, something breathtaking is born.
That rainbow I saw wasn’t pretending the storms didn’t come. It didn’t tidy up the wreckage. It simply was—a luminous arc, holding both light and water, saying: even now, there is beauty.
And friends, in a time like this—when oceans are rising, forests are burning, species are vanishing—I’m not interested in cheap hope. You won’t hear me say “everything’s fine.” Because it’s not. And I won’t say “all shall be well” for everyone. Because it won’t be.
We know that.
We feel it in our bones.
An Invitation
I keep thinking of stories of people who showed up in the past. I love the story about A.J. Muste, a pacifist and activist who protested the Vietnam War by standing outside the White House, night after night, holding a candle. One night, a reporter asked him why he continued to hold vigil when it seemed so clear he was not changing the world. His answer was this:
"I don't do this to change the world. I do this so the world doesn't change me."
That’s the kind of invitation I want to offer today. Not Pollyanna optimism. Not numbing. Not pretending.
But fierce, grounded, love-rooted commitment—the kind that holds grief in one hand and possibility in the other.
The kind that doesn’t ask, “Will we survive?” but instead asks, “How will we live—while we’re still here?”
I’m here to tell you this: the rainbow is still true.
Not in a sentimental way. Not as a promise that no one will suffer. Many are already suffering. But as an invitation. A whisper from the more-than-human world that says:
- Even now, you are part of the living web.
- Even now, your grief matters.
- Even now, your love and your actions ripple outward.
The Rainbow Speaks
When we see a rainbow, we are reminded that we belong. We are reminded that beauty is not gone from this world. And we are reminded that we have choices to make—every day, in every storm.
We can choose to despair—and sometimes we need to feel despair. We can choose to numb out—and gods know that’s tempting some days. (I walk by the TV and clap my hands over my ears “la la la la, I can’t hear you!”)
But we can also choose—when we’re ready—to keep showing up. To tend what’s wounded. To build bridges. To speak truth. To sing beauty back into the world.
The rainbow doesn’t ask us to pretend the storm didn’t happen. It asks us to keep going anyway.
It says: This world is not finished. You are not finished.
It says: Choose love. Choose beauty. Choose Earth.
And that’s the invitation of Earth Day, isn’t it?
Earth Day isn’t about celebrating a perfect planet. It’s about remembering our bond with a wounded one.
It’s about reclaiming our place as part of the Earth, not separate from it—not above, not outside.
It’s about touching soil with our bare hands. About making compost from what’s dying. About planting seeds anyway.
It’s about bearing witness. About grief that is holy. About love that insists on rising, even in the rubble. Even here.
It’s about rooting ourselves in the ancient knowing that the sacred is not gone. Even now.
It’s right here—in the rain and the rainbow. In the soil and the seed. In our imperfect, yearning hearts.
The rainbow, for me, is a vow.
It says:
I will not give up on the Earth.
I will not give up on love.
I will not give up on my beloveds.
And I invite you to join me in that vow—not because it’s easy. But because it’s worthy.
Because storms will come. But after the storm, comes the light.
And sometimes, that light meets water—and becomes a promise.
A promise that beauty still matters.
That connection still matters. That we’re still here.
So light your candle.Touch the ground. Speak a vow aloud or in silence:
Let the rainbow be my vow.
Let my life be a bridge between the storm and the healing.
Let my heart be a shelter for the sacred.
Let my hands and voice be ready to plant, to tend, to build, to bless.
We need each other. And we need reminders. We need rainbow bridges, and we need protest candles. We need compost and community and courage.
I will not give up on the Earth.
I will not give up on love.
I will not give up on my beloveds.
Let’s be that for one another.
Try this
Gather with friends or acquaintances and reflect together on the following questions:
Reflect on times when you’ve experienced personal "storms" — how did you find or create moments of hope or healing after those challenges? How does the rainbow’s promise resonate in those moments?
How do our choices, individually or collectively, contribute to the health of the world? What are ways we can personally shift into our power to make a difference so that we, and all beings, survive?
What are some practices or rituals that help you stay connected to commitment, joy, and love even when the world feels overwhelming?
Let’s be the ones who say: even now, I choose to love this world.
Let’s be the ones who remember that we are made of Earth and rain and starlight—and that we are not separate from the future we long for.
The rainbow may be ephemeral. But its promise endures. Blessed Earth Day.
