Snake Medicine by Lexie Wolf
On this warm and damp morning, the woods were alive with frog song. I woke earlier than usual—before five—and took my morning ritual out onto the screen porch in the darkness. Facing east.
I lit a small candle, cleared the space and myself with a bit of sage smoke. A short breathwork practice to shake the cobwebs from my mind, then twenty or so minutes of meditation. At the close of meditation, I chant the Gayatri mantra six times.
As with so much in Sanskrit, there are countless translations. But the essence of Gayatri tends to be illumination, clarity, awakening. Energy aligning with the sacred. Gratitude and reverence—the very marrow of yoga - and all spiritual practices, really.
When I opened my eyes, the sun had risen. I stood and turned to the four directions—east, north, south, west—and back to east again. A gesture of remembrance and honor: east for light and new beginnings, north for inner wisdom and teachers, south for abundance, west for the great cycle of impermanence: all comes, all goes.
And there, coiled quietly near my bare feet, was a little copperhead.
Somehow, I’d moved through my practice with this quiet visitor resting nearby. When I finally noticed, I didn’t startle. No jolt of fear, just a calm awareness. Thankfully. I stepped carefully back inside, making sure the dogs were secure.
I felt—still feel—grateful. Honored, even. That I was visited so gently. A snakebite would have certainly shouted at me: Wake up! But this medicine came softly. Gracefully. Still, it carried insistence. A close call.
Wake up, child, the copperhead whispered insistently. It’s ok to let go.
There’s something ancient about the snake. Its symbolism winds through so many traditions. And isn’t it fascinating that snakes shed their skin but remain fundamentally the same? They don’t transform like the butterflies on our sweet studio mural—no complete reinvention. Just a sloughing off. A return to self, newly revealed. A new version.
That feels like it might be the medicine for me right now.
I’ve been feeling stuck. A little stale. Do you know that feeling?
I don’t need a reinvention. I don’t want to become someone else. But I do long to inhabit my form with new grace. With gratitude. With purpose and more resilience and less attachment. A fresh skin.
As it happens, Bill and I had already set this day aside for “renewal.” We spent the day visioning into the future of the studio. Like all gardens, Yoga Garden is alive, ever in motion. Things bloom. Things die back. There are seasons, cycles. We grow. We shed. We begin again.
That’s how nature designed it. That’s how we were meant to be.
Thank you, little copperhead, for the blessing.
