Due out spring 2026

My creative non-fiction essay / memoir, "Lessons from Neither Here nor There" is included in this anthology.

 

The 30 Journeys Anthology

    Except for one intensive magazine article for Spirituality & Health, I haven't written much this spring. Sent out a lot. The rejections may all be back. I don't keep track of them or even read them. That's the way this writer copes. I'd promised to write an essay for a collection by women nomads but since it isn't paid, I forgot about it until the last minute. I knocked out a 3-part story in a couple days and sent it off. So it was a nice surprise to get this feedback from the editor:

"We are thrilled to let you know that your story, Lessons from Neither Here nor There, has been officially accepted for inclusion in The 30 Journeys anthology. We greatly enjoyed reading it.Your story stood out for its wry wisdom, vivid character portraits, and the emotional truth of a life lived on the road. You’ve created something layered, resonant, and quietly powerful—and we are honored to share it with the world."

The author and her "vardo" home, a handmade truck camper, at the 

  Women's Rubber Tramp Rendezvous. Jan. 2024, Quartzsite, Arizona.

The next little big project...

Maybe making a rough cover for my next collection will get me going on the re-writes? Sometimes you just have to put stuff in a drawer (ie, a computer file) for a year. 8-Sided Drum is hybrid and intended as a chapbook. I've limited it to eight pieces and keep changing my mind about what fits and what doesn't. Since anything goes with hybrid, the choices and order are a challenge. The title came about as I worked on repairing my octagonal drum, which was coming apart at the frame. Everything's a metaphor.

#chapbook #hybridwriting #bibliophile

Recipe for a New Year's Ritual

This ceremony was enacted for the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship in Alamosa, Colorado and the article appeared on the blog, "Postcards from Shamans", January 2019.

    The word “ceremony” in its original Latin form is “awe”. Repeated behaviors related to reverence and awe, with a sense of connecting to powers greater than us – this is Ritual. 

In its true form, ritual is one of the most meaningful channels for our awe and sense of worship. A ritual can be defined as a symbolic behavior consciously performed. It is a physical act that affirms the practitioner's intention and represents a change in inner attitude.

    Robert Johnson, a Jungian therapist, writes about working with Active Imagination in Inner Work. He tells us that to cement our intention, the body, feelings, and intellect must be simultaneously involved. In other words, to manifest, our thoughts must enter into the emotions, muscles, and cells of the body. To bring our thoughts into material form we can start with the metaphor of ritual.

    Rituals and ceremonies, in general, are ways of using small symbolic acts to set up a connection between the conscious mind and the unconscious. They provide us a way of taking principles from the unconscious and impressing them vividly on the conscious mind. But rituals also have an effect on the unconscious. A meaningful ritual sends a powerful message back to the unconscious, causing changes to take place at that deeper level where our attitudes and values originate.

                            Here is a step-by-step recipe for a New Year's ritual:

1. Place candles on the floor in a circle. Colored candles mark the cardinal points and the elements (use a compass if necessary) north/earth/white; east/air/yellow or green; south/fire/red; west/water/ blue or black. 

2. Place a black bucket, vase, or cauldron filled with water in the center of the circle.

 

3. Pass around small stones to everyone in the group. If there is a child or children in the group, give them this role. Each person takes two stones. 

 

4. The facilitator then points out the basic archetypal elements of earth-based ritual: In the group, there may be people who symbolize the dualities of male and female, young and old, so we act as priests and priestesses. We have the cardinal directions. We have a circle of power. We have the elements: water, fire (candles), earth (stones), and air (our breath). 

5. One stone is held in the left hand, one in the right. To change the idea of the left always symbolizing negative, dark, and feminine, the right as being right, bright, and male, think of placing the stone of the past in your least dominant hand, the stone of the future in your dominant hand.

6. Think, not in the abstract, but with words you can hear in your head, or pictures you can see, the things of the past year that you want to let go of, realizing that to make space for the new, you are letting some things go. You should focus on one thing, that way your INTENT will be stronger. If you feel comfortable whispering or saying it out loud please do, because the closer we get from a thought to a physical action, the more powerful the act. 

7.When you are ready, blow those things, whether a habit, toxic relationships, belongings taking up space, or whatever you want to release from your life...into the stone you hold in your least dominant hand: the stone of the Past. 

8. Then toss the stone into the caldron of black water. It's ok to make a little splash. Watch the stone and your negative things disappear into the darkness.

9. Say aloud as a group chant: “It is done. It is done. It is done.” Three times is fine. 

10. With the stone of the Future, think of, or say, what you want to manifest in this new year. It doesn't have to be logically connected in any way to what you're leaving behind, because all things are intrinsically connected. Psychic space has been made for the new to enter. Blow that thing into the stone.

11. Chant: “It has come. It is come. It is come.” 

12. Put the stone in your pocket and handle it often. This will remind you that the next step is an actual manifestation through your own small actions toward those goals. Feeling the stone will also remind you to give gratitude for the future manifestation and have faith that it will be accomplished.

Hugs all around and wish each other a "Happy New Year!"

~ Blessed Be ~

Photo Credit: Rajesh Ram, Unsplash

Silencio

Poems and stories can arise from the oddest prompts. This one came by way of a call from a women's publication (The Ethel) for an essay on "My Favorite Thing".  Immediately picturing a scene from "The Sound of Music", I knew I couldn't produce anything so corny, but I did start thinking about one of my favorite things: Silence. I performed it at the Mesa Verde Writers Conference last summer.    

                                                                 Silencio

Silencio. Seduction whispered in Spanish

Silencio. The seconds separating lightning from thunder 

Oh-dark-hundred in the pre-dawn desert 

Streets muffled with snow

Sand dunes mute in starlight

A cenote’s cerulean depth

The sun eclipsed.

Silencio. After the baby finally falls asleep

Silencio. Between a flutist’s inhale and the note

The breath you hold as your daughter raises the flute to her lips

The theater’s hollow hush when rehearsal ends

Smoke from the last cigarette 

Spilled wine, blood-bright, seeping into a linen tablecloth

A brush about to touch canvas, the painting titled, “Still Life with Stopped Clock.”

Silencio. A legend about insanity should you linger in the quietest room ever built 

Silencio. The E.R. with no patients at 3 a.m. 

Old cemeteries; empty cathedrals; sitting Zazen 

Your dying mother opening her eyes and smiling 

Night so deadened you hear your own heartbeat 

Yet, Silence is impossible to know… 

The inner ear’s white noise a song that will never abandon you

Photo credit: Michael Frye Photography

 We all remember our first love. It's been decades since mine left me behind. But three months ago, he showed up in a dream so intense, I had to respond. Hence this poem. I just heard he's recently passed on...

                                                  You Are Still Seventeen

                You are still seventeen

                When you slide into the pool of my dream

                Bare-chested, smooth-faced

                Dark hair slicked to one side

                You reach across the water

                I am still fifteen

                When you lace long fingers through mine

                A surgeon’s hands, I say

                You read my palm

                An artist’s hands, you say

                You would be seventy-five today

                Why have you swum out to visit me at 3am

                The last morning of September?

                To say you’re sorry? To say goodbye?

                I will always love you

                    photo credit: Darran Shen, Unsplash

 This is Haibun, a form created by the famous Haiku poet, Basho. It consists of 1-3 paragraphs of prose poem in first person and ends with a haiku that sums up or relates to the narrative prose. Themes are travel, time, and place. American Haibun is less rigid in its requirements, but I liked the challenge of the traditional form. I recently had to opportunity to stay at a retreat center in Colorado and this poem arose from the experience. If you're curious about Chod, here's a link to my article: 

https://www.spiritualityhealth.com/feeding-your-demons

                        

Upon Encountering a Ghost at Red Jewel Mountain Monastery

My winter solstice sanctuary is a one-room guest house behind the Buddhist temple where raveling prayer flags beseech the wind. I hobble the stoney path between here and there, to meet the nuns. We practice Chöd, feeding our demons in an ancient Tibetan ritual of drums, bells, chants, and visions. 

I’ve spoken only once to the wine-robed women this week, so perhaps that’s the reason an old young lover visits in a morning dream. He folds his slender white body over mine like a blanket; he curls against my spine as if it were possible to warm himself. Why do I apologize to him, after all these years, when it should be the other way around?

Peaceful and Wrathful

Deities stare down from the walls

All of them are me

photo credit: Sylwia Bartyzel, Unsplash 

Northwind Writing Award

The top ten winners of the Northwind Writing Award are featured in this anthology. "She Who Hears" has been published again. If you've read it before, it's in good company here, so I hope you can read the entire collection. Thank you to tara and Candice of Raw Earth Ink for organizing the competition, publishing and supporting our work.

 

The 2024 Northwind Treasury is now available

Here are the links:

 Lulu

Amazon (US)

 Kindle

 Make sure to leave us a review at Goodreads

                ART FOR

TRANSFORMATION

Curious about shamanic art? WINTER ROSS dives into a practice to explore your own mind.

Three articles for Spirituality & Health magazine:

"Throwing the Bones: Finding Your Future"

https://www.spiritualityhealth.com/articles/2021/02/05/throwing-the-bones

"The Hoodo Blues"

https://www.spiritualityhealth.com/articles/2021/02/23/the-hoodoo-blues

"The Talking Tree: Science, Myth and Healing"

May, June 2021 print issue: Spirituality & Health magazine

Clip: Resistance to Oil and Gas in the Sacred San Luis Valley

 

Freelance Writing

 

Public reading at Elsewhere Studios, Paonia, Colorado, during my artist residency in 2018

Additional portfolios and workshop offerings: 

https://wintersweb.journoportfolio.com/

https://www.facebook.com/ceremonialvisions

What the Covid Lockdown Taught a Loner

by Winter Ross

published in Medium.com

I have read article after article on how devastating pandemic isolation is. The agony of being alone! All the “undiscovered” ways people have found to cope with this problem. Never has extroversion been so debilitating! And personally, I am puzzled; sympathetic, but puzzled. I know there are untold numbers of us introverts, agoraphobics, hemits, HSPs (Highly Sensitive People) and misanthropes whose lives haven’t changed much in these so-called unprecedented times — or even whose lives have become more comfortable in the silence and peace of their places.

It’s a subject for another essay, but I use the term “places” because plenty of people don’t have homes. Every reporter seems to assume that staying “home” is a basic inconvenience rather than a privilege. As a retired woman “Traveller” (British spelling), I get by as a house sitter/pet sitter/artist-in-residence, camping in between gigs. I became a Traveller briefly in my twenties before jobs and kids slowed me down. I picked up the lifestyle again when rent became more than my social security check. Although I live alone, the name fits a lifestyle I refuse to apologize for. The road keeps me sane. There’s something about the neither-here-nor-there escape from stress that keeps me going. But I lack community. I’m often in places where I don’t know anyone. Once, I spent five winter months caring for a house and two cats, binge-watching Netflix because I couldn’t let the wood stove go out in one of the coldest towns in the country. I was glad when spring arrived but it was no big deal. I hadn’t had a television in years so I caught up on this strange culture while I worked on a sci-fi novel. It was a lonely but ok winter, when I look back on it

I must have inherited my loner temperament (please don’t call it a condition) from the grandfather I barely knew. Within 10 minutes of my family’s yearly visit, he’d have escaped upstairs to his study where high-pitched childish voices were muted. He was always kind: teaching me to play checkers on a rainy afternoon, quietly putting together a few pieces of a puzzle with me in the evening. But I saw little of him. Like Grampa, I seem to wear my nervous system on the outside of my skin. Overwhelm has always defined my life. A book he sent me for my thirteenth birthday on alien abduction seemed to explain it. Most of my teenage summer nights were spent writing anguished poetry, looking up at the stars and trying to call in the Mother Ship to please come take me home.

I personally locked down on March 6, in a friend’s second home, two weeks before the state mandated it. The plan had been to assist my friend when she came through, to take care of her dogs when she traveled. But I found myself there alone actually glorying in the opportunity to simply Be somewhere.

At the beginning, the next door neighbor would stop in with two of his toddlers to chat, escaping briefly the new baby, the constant cartoon network noise and the boredom of no work. His kids drove me crazy. I spent the short time of their visits snatching small antique objects from their hands and locking doors before they could reach the handles. I finally came up with an excuse to end the visits by announcing that there were pins and needles all over the floor from my sewing projects and the place was a child hazard. It was a relief when the neighbor got the hint.

The town never did close down completely, I think. I’m not sure: I only left the house for the early elder-hour grocery shopping and stocked up for weeks, when I did. I made a game of eaking out the leftovers and cutting down to one meal a day if possible. Anything to keep from opening that front door. I realized my introversion was blooming into full-fledged agoraphobia. I made myself go on daily walks on back roads bordering cattle pastures; sewed masks and modeling one myself, forced myself to drive to the Post Office and mail them to far-flung friends on the Navajo Nation. I dragged a ladder out of the garage and painted the trim on my camper red and gold. I’ve spent much of the time fascinated by the news and learning to freelance. Indeed, the neighbor has hired me to write copy for the disinfecting business he’s starting.

Now, eight weeks later, it’s obvious that the sweet confinement in a house to myself, is coming to an end. The dogs have been dropped off here now, so I have company — annoying company that wants me to play with it all the time, smears its wet noses on my freshly showered skin, literally dogs me from room to room and sheds all over the area where I used to do morning yoga. That I can be irritated by a couple obedient, sweet labradors surprises even me. I have become keenly aware of how much humans bother me, too. When walking the dogs, I speed away from lonely people out for a bit of sun, who ask to pet them. I feel guilty, but the call of sanctuary is stronger

I’ve been as influenced as everyone else to indulge in the opportunity for self study and inner awareness that the covid lockdown has provided. But the motivational videos promising to help me change me or help me be me, have finally become tedious. That crap was for my youth when I really cared about why I wasn’t the Pollyanna-Barbie my parents and partners always wanted and a career demanded.

I don’t know what will happen next. Who does? But soon, I’m going to have to pack up, open the front door and drive off in my gypsy camper into the scary world again. I tell myself it will be interesting. Because I’ve made it all the way to old age and I’ve learned to cope with who I truly am. That Mother Ship is probably never going to show up. And I’m ok with that, too.

Winter Ross is probably not the only writer with a listing on Housecarers.com. She gets mail in Colorado, taught writing in New Mexico and after working at a retreat center in Hawai’i, is spending lockdown in Nevada. She is a National Association of Press Women award-winning short story writer and Darkhouse Books author. 

Walking the Edge of Cultural Appropriation

Published in the March 2020 online journal of the Society of  Shamanic Practitioners

The young man was goth-like, pale and pimply, dressed in a long black coat and lecturing to a circle of listeners at an Earth First! gathering in the western wilderness. The subject of his talk was the cultural appropriation of earth-based spiritual traditions. He had embraced his Wiccan ancestral roots, he raged, and anyone white who strayed into indigenous spirituality was simply politically incorrect, if not morally indefensible. 

With the arrogance of youth and the disrespect to elders that the predominate culture is known for, he had no patience for any of us who had walked the Good Red Road for decades without having checked our “23 and Me”. We were the worst example, he informed us, of oppression, colonialism, appropriation, etc. Guilt descended upon us as he rained the lexicon of radical philosophy down on our heads.

Certainly the lecture started me thinking about why and how, after long spiritual seeking, I had found Great Mystery and the Goddess while sitting on dusty blankets in a dark sweat lodge or peyote meeting. I came up with some answers that he had no interest in hearing, so I turned to another elder for some pleasantly surprising confirmation of my thoughts.

Genetically, as far as I know, I'm mostly Scottish. My last name, from the Viking word for horse, is common among both the Sioux and Cherokee. Because I'm female, there's no way of knowing if I'm related to John Ross, the first elected Cherokee chief after the Trail of Tears, although I did grow up in his Appalachian neighborhood. The English side of my family probably killed the Scottish side as well as the Massachusetts tribes they encountered after sailing into Plymouth. Who knows? We've been here awhile. All I know is that I love the desert, my theory being that my ancestors suffered too long in rain-drenched kilts. I cringe at the sound of bagpipes. I crave the smell of sage. Sometimes I think about past lives: Wise Women of The Burning Times; the scorned Gypsy fortune teller; the prophecy of Indian souls returning in bodies of The Rainbow Warriors.

To me, “earth-based spirituality” means the actual earth that's been in my teeth and up my nose for most of my adult life even if my ancestor's bones aren't ground into it. It's the land I live on that speaks its spirit to me. And who better to learn the language of that spirit from than those humans who have lived with it for thousands of years? I am grateful, humbled and blessed that the Lakota have been generous with their teaching and invited so many of us Wasichu into the Inipi.

And I am careful, especially in these days of renewed racial hatred and backlash, to stay near the back of any gathering and keep my mouth shut. Yet when I joined the pipe ceremony, unwrapping my own Sundance pipe one dawn at Standing Rock, nobody glared, lectured or gave any indication that I hadn't earned the sacred instrument in my hands. 

A Native American artist I know is so passionate about non-Indian artists making a profit from depicting cultural items in their work, a pot here, a rattle there, the ubiquitous dream catcher sold in every western gas station convenience store, that he got himself kicked out of a gallery for his confrontational complaints. Artists and their romantic attraction to all things Indian is a horse that left the barn a couple hundred years ago. If he was going to be such a purist, I reminded him, then he should stop wearing jeans (invented by a Jew named Levi during the gold rush), stop wearing cowboy boots invented by a white cobbler to fit stirrups on the saddles of horses brought in by the Spanish, not to mention his (the metalwork also a Spanish import) silver Navajo jewelry. French trader's glass beads replaced quill work in the Plains Indian's clothing, jingle dresses wouldn't be the same without tin can lids to curl into jingles, the Pacific Northwest button capes would look pretty different, the Pendleton blanket, the Morning Star quilt, called Star of Bethlehem and Texas Star by it's original colonizing seamstresses. And how could there be Seminole patchwork without sewing machines and cotton cloth? The forged iron pipe tomahawk prized by warriors who had no knowledge of metalworking...I think I wore him down by proving that the creativity of Indian culture incorporated a wonderful ability to appropriate from the oppressor!

Once I tried hard to suss out, to really connect with my ancestral spirituality. I went to Glastonbury (the Sedona of England, I discovered). Although awesome, Stonehenge, Avebury, the Burrows and Tor felt like archeological sites. I shivered with the ambiance of the White Spring but discovered it to be touted as “a tourist attraction in a Victorian pump house.” I can only describe the energy as an amputated limb, cut off long ago by the Church. Despite the attempt at to resuscitate paganism, that's what it felt like: a non-breathing beautiful corpse. Nothing has transfixed me quite like the breath of wind shimmering the leaves of the Sundance Tree.

In my work as a shamanic counselor trained in the very universalist philosophy of the Foundation of Shamanic Studies, I try to avoid using living Native American rituals I've participated in. I'd never consider “pouring a lodge” for instance, or singing spiritual songs outside the ceremonies for which they were meant. But little things creep in: tobacco ties wreath a client for protection; on my altar lies the eagle feather given when I joined the Native American Church; a rattle from Peru; lava from the throat of Pele; clap sticks from Australia,;a small Maori drum; a copy of an Alaskan Yupik spirit catcher...Ancestral tools appear too: candles, a pendulum with Celtic designs, a rune stone. Sometimes “Aho” and “Blessed Be” slip from my lips one after the other during prayer.

As Casteneda's Yaqui sorcerer, Don Juan, told us “All paths are the same: they lead nowhere...Does this path have a heart? If it does, the path is good.” I'm not going to apologize for my politically incorrect spirituality. When it comes down to it, it's just the “stuff” of religion and dogma – a structure we've invented to try to figure out what we're doing here on Earth, with Life. Our beliefs and rituals are merely an expression of homo sapien's “god gene”. Celebrating diversity, striving for sovereignty are important, but sharing the beauty of our paradigms with each other is more important. That's Aloha, Namaste, Love. Which we all need a lot more of in these shifting days. 

Published by Darkhouse Books

In bookstores soon: What We Talk About When We Talk About It: Variations on the theme of Love. "She Who Hears the Cries of the World", a short story by Winter Ross, appears in this anthology from Dark House Books.

Beating the Beast of Block!

     Winter offers creative coaching for both visual artists and writers. Her next workshop, “Beating the Beast of Block” will be at SOMOS in Taos. Need to nudge the muse? Join us; contact Winter (CeremonialVisions.com) for your event; or schedule a personal session. Her approach is unique,  incorporating the shamanic paradigm as a pathway to successful creative action.

     

     

     Winter Ross's short stories, essays, and articles have been published in various art, environmental and literary journals. 4 Warnings: Shamanic Journeys, a chapbook of visionary prose, is her first book. Her work has appeared in: Pilgrimage: Story, Place, Spirit,Witness; Messages From Hidden Lake; EarthFirst! Journal; ArtWorks: a publication of the West Virginia Division of Arts and Humanities; Selki, an Alaskan feminist zine; The Gentle Traveler; EPIC Magazine; Messages From the Hidden Lake and the anthology What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, from Darkhouse Press. She was awarded first place in 2015 by both the New Mexico Press Women's Association, and the National Federation of Press Women for the short story Orienting Heaven. 4Warnings: Shamanic Journeys, her first book, is a prose chapbook illustrated with original etchings and may be found on Amazon or her website: www.CeremonialVisions.com. Bruce Nygren, President Emeritis of the Center for Nondual Awareness says: "Through her visionary stories Ms. Ross leads us on a journey encompassing the spiritual and physical realms which lie hidden within our psyches, to truths we know but don't know we know and sometimes wish we didn't.”