Earth Day – The Rainbow is a Promise

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.

Double Rainbow over Field and Forest CC0

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.

Friendship, Help, Hands (Pixabay)

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.

Ripples of Color by Scott Cresswell CC2.0 

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.

Earth Day Poster by Clon 

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.

by Clon 

Try this

Gather with friends or acquaintances and reflect together on the following questions:

1. 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?

2. 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?

3. 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.

Blessed be.

Beloved, you are whole, holy, and worthy,

Rev. Amy

Metta Meditation: Holding the Infant

I'd like to invite you into a Metta practice. Traditionally metta is a Buddhist practice of offering loving kindness. In this practice we will offer loving kindness to someone we love, ourselves, and eventually to someone we are having trouble finding love for. 

I invite you on this loving journey.

CC0

Let's Begin

Find a comfortable seat. Let your spine rise gently, your shoulders soften, and your breath flow naturally. Notice your heartbeat.

Now, bring your arms into a cradling position, as if holding a newborn baby. You might let your hands cup one another, or rest in your lap in a soft curve. Let your body remember what it’s like to hold something small and precious.

Feel the weight of the baby in your arms. Imagine the gentle warmth of their body against yours. Maybe there’s a soft scent—milk, skin, warmth. Their breath, slow and even. Their face, small and trusting.

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1. Someone You Love

Now picture someone you love or care for deeply. Let their image arise naturally.

Imagine them now… as a newborn. A tiny, sleeping infant, resting in your arms.

Look at their little face. Imagine their fingers curling. Maybe they squirm a little, make a sound. Notice how lovable they are.

Breathe in, and offer them lovingkindness:

• May you be safe.

• May you be happy.

• May you be healthy.

• May you live with ease.

Feel the sincerity of the offering. Feel your arms around this beloved one, so small, so worthy of care.

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2. Yourself

Now imagine the infant in your arms becomes you.

You, as a newborn. Soft cheeks. Tiny hands. Fragile. Complete.

Take a moment to look at your own face—your infant face. This is you. You too were once this new, this open to love.

Feel the weight of your infant self in your arms. Your breath mingling. Your warmth surrounding them.

Offer yourself lovingkindness:

• May I be safe.

• May I be happy.

• May I be healthy.

• May I live with ease.

Let it be okay if that feels tender. Or unfamiliar. Notice that you keep breathing, your heart keeps beating.

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3. A Stranger

Now the baby in your arms shifts again. This time, you are holding a stranger—someone you don’t know personally.

Maybe someone you passed on the street. Someone from the news. Someone you barely noticed.

Now see them as a newborn. Their eyes closed. Their body curled up in your arms.

Feel the weight of them. The softness. The warmth. The shared humanity.

Even if you know nothing about them, you know this:
They were once a baby. And they are lovable.

Offer them lovingkindness:

• May you be safe.

• May you be happy.

• May you be healthy.

• May you live with ease.

Let yourself feel the connection, simple and real.

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4. Someone You Struggle With

Now imagine someone you struggle to appreciate. Someone who has hurt you. Or someone who brings up frustration, sadness, or anger.

And now, imagine them as an infant in your arms.

This might feel strange. That’s okay. Just see if it’s possible.

They are very small. They haven’t yet learned what life will teach them. They haven’t yet done what they will do.
They are just a baby, breathing in your arms.

You feel their weight. Their fragility. Their humanness.

And if you are able, gently, offer them lovingkindness:

• May you be safe.

• May you be happy.

• May you be healthy.

• May you live with ease.

You’re not excusing anything. You’re just witnessing their early humanity, their potential, their vulnerability.

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Closing

Now, let all of these infants rest in your awareness—your beloved, yourself, the stranger, and the difficult person.

All once newborns. All lovable. All worthy of care.

Let your cradle arms release gently now. Place your hands over your heart, or let them rest naturally.

Feel yourself expand into heart space. Feel the warmth you’ve cultivated. Notice if there is a shift in your body tension or felt sense of your completeness.

And as you move through the rest of your day, may this tenderness stay close.
A reminder that lovingkindness begins in the arms of compassion—and that we all began this way.

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Beloved, you are whole, holy, and worthy,

Rev. Amy

Holding the Light: Peak Experiences

Peak, Flow, Plateau: Holding the Light

Many years ago, I traveled to the island of Vieques, Puerto Rico, and had an experience I will never forget. A small group of us sat quietly as our boat slipped into the lagoon on a dark night, heading toward the bioluminescent bay.

Then—oh! A flash of blue-white light beneath the water—a fish passing by. Far from the lights of houses and the military base, the boat stopped, and we slid into the water. We were giggling like children, giddy, ecstatic. The water glowed with every movement. Fingers trailed through it like golden ribbons. Droplets gleamed like tiny stars as they fell from our hair.

We were weightless. Time stopped. And I knew—beyond thought or reason—that I was a part of those microscopic, glowing water-creatures, and they were a part of me. We were flowing with the ocean, and the dance lived in us.

To this day, the memory of that place fills me with joy.

" Bioluminescence while kayaking at night " by Marco Verch 👨‍🍳 via ccnull.de , CC-BY 2.0

The Challenge of Returning

Moments like this—what psychologist Abraham Maslow called peak experiences—can transform us. He described them as "rare, exhilarating, deeply moving experiences that reveal a more expansive reality." Some call them mystical. Some call them magic.

Peak experiences are closely related to the psychological state of flow, where you are fully immersed in what you are doing, a sense of effortlessness and rightness carrying you forward. Unlike peak experiences, which are often sudden and intense, flow can be sustained—an ongoing sense of being in harmony with life. Plateau experiences are quieter still—moments of deep peace and wholeness that arise from living in alignment with your values. Each of these—peak, flow, and plateau—can nourish us in different ways.

A central quality of these experiences is at-one-ness—a deep sense of interconnectedness with all that is. Hindu philosophy speaks of Atman, the formless being into which we are all absorbed, like drops of water merging into the ocean. The Buddhist metaphor of Indra's Jeweled Net describes a vast web where each jewel reflects all others, illustrating our interdependence. Science, too, reminds us that our actions send unseen ripples into the world. This profound awareness of unity can sustain us and give us courage, just as it did for Gandhi.

Bringing the Experience Home

So how do we integrate a peak, flow, or plateau experience instead of chasing after it or letting it slip away?

1. Honor It. Speak of it, write about it, let it live in you. These moments are real, even if they can’t be fully explained. (See also this post on Stories in spiritual direction.)
2. Find Small Anchors. A song, a scent, a symbol—something that helps you return, in spirit, to what you felt. For me, hearing Ode to Joy brings me back to a moment when music cracked my heart wide open.
3. Allow It to Change You. You don't have to force life-altering decisions, but notice what the experience is asking of you. More openness? More presence? More awe?
4. Share It with the Right People. Not everyone will understand, and that’s okay. But finding a community, or spiritual compaion, that does can help the experience take root.
5. Accept the Ordinary. Life is made of both the mystical and the mundane. Learning to carry the peak experience within daily life allows it to become a source of ongoing nourishment rather than a lost high.
6. Trust the Unfolding. A peak experience is like a stone dropped into water; its ripples continue to shape your journey long after the moment itself has passed.

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Meaning and Action

Mahatma Gandhi’s courage to change the world was founded in his deep belief that he was part of the whole. These beliefs arose from his peak experiences, giving him both the motivation and the power to act.

Our own peak, flow, and plateau experiences can support us in becoming more wholehearted—deeply engaged with life without being broken by the pain in the world. They remind us of what is possible. They root us in what is real. They sustain us when we need to keep going.

Living in the Glow

Not every moment will be luminous. But you have been lit up before, and that light doesn’t leave you.

You don’t have to cling to the past or chase the next high. The experience lives in you. Like bioluminescence that glows with each motion, like a song that echoes through memory, it moves with you.

So I invite you to reflect:

• What moments have illuminated your life?
• How do they continue to shape you?
• What joyful or meaningful thing is giving you life as you slog through the overwhelm and pain of the world?

Your journey unfolds, and you are whole, holy, and worthy.

Rev. Amy

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A Guided Meditation for Integrating a Powerful Spiritual Experience

Let's begin by finding a comfortable position, whether seated or lying down. Gently close your eyes, or soften your gaze. Allow your body to settle, releasing any tension you might be holding.

Simply notice your breath. Feel the gentle rise and fall of your chest or belly. With each breath, invite a sense of calm to wash over you.

Now, bring your awareness to your the lowest part of your body. Feel the connection between your body and the ground beneath you. Imagine roots extending down, reaching deep into the earth. Feel the stability and support of this connection. Allow these roots to anchor you, grounding you in the present moment.

Next, bring your awareness back to your breath. Simply notice the gentle rhythm of your inhale and exhale. Notice how each breath connects you to the flow of life, a constant, gentle current that moves through you.

Now, let's bring to mind a moment of profound connection. It might be a time when you felt deeply at peace, a moment of intense joy, a sense of being completely in the present, or a feeling of unity with something greater than yourself. It might be a time when you were in a state of flow, completely absorbed in an activity. It might be an experience, where you felt completely at one with the world.

Allow this memory to surface gently. You don't need to analyze it or understand it fully. Simply let the feeling of that moment wash over you. Notice the sensations in your body. Perhaps a warmth, a lightness, or a sense of expansion.

Feel the connection between this memory and the present moment. Know that this feeling of connection, of flow, of at-one-ness is always available to you, within you. It is a part of your being, a natural state.

Now, bring your attention back to your breath. Simply notice the gentle rise and fall of your chest or belly. Feel your roots grounding you to the earth.

When you're ready, gently begin wiggling or contracting muscles to become aware of various parts of your body. Slowly open your eyes, and come back to awareness of this place and this time.

Blessed Be