I knew someone in college whose first step to cleaning her room was always to take the pictures down from the wall. She worked her way down from there. I never considered that step to be necessary, but I understand the mentality behind it.
When you are manifesting new things, you can't always build on what you've got. Sometimes you have to set aside everything that is not necessary. Sometimes you even have to specify what that is--as quickly as reasonably possible, of course, so that you can move on to creating rather than destroying.
Recently my brother has been remodeling parts of the house that were damaged by water. The previous residents had just slapped wood over the particleboard the floor was originally made of (okay, it's a mobile home and an old one at that) and called it a day. This didn't solve the problem of essentially shoddy construction but only covered it up. When we opened up the floor and the wall, they were filled with nests of big red ants. When I think of what I was sleeping right next to, it still makes me shudder. It had to come out, and fast. (For any that didn't get out of my house on their own, I wish them lemon-fresh bliss in the ant afterlife. Go in peace.)
So there's been some rebuilding going on there. In my spiritual life, I'm still in the process of removing the rotten stuff and whatever feeds on it. I need to be clear about what is not welcome in my sacred space in addition to what is.
And in some cases, I just need to take the pictures off the wall and get down to the bare essentials.
I don't need any glamour when I get together with my spiritual community. I declare that stuff busted. Now.
I don't need a Pagan version of Disney World. The real world, inside and out, is breathtaking in and of itself.
I don't need to frak a Pagan to have a good time (not every time we gather, anyway). That's missing the whole point.
I don't need to support anyone who doesn't recognize the Goddess in me. She is there, even when it's inconvenient or disturbing the status quo or just not 'nice'. Goddess is in all of us, to be respected and cherished, and that means there's no place for hierarchy upon hierarchy or ego games. Go in peace, if that's your bag, but just go. (There's no bug spray for humans, as far as I'm concerned. You gotta stay alive wherever you're going.) I'm keeping the friends I love, along with their naturally beautiful souls and generous work ethic, and tossing the rotten situations that surrounded our meeting. (Once uncovered, some of these can be rebuilt better than ever.) And of course, I'm keeping my Divine nature and theirs.
Since there are healthier and safer settings where we can manifest wholeness and truth and community, let's do this. It doesn't have to be fancy, backbreaking, or expensive. It doesn't have to look good in pictures. It just has to be real.
Let's wake up and make it real.
*snaps fingers*
Now.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Sunday, February 17, 2013
From Pink Frills to the Red Tent
From the beginning, I have never felt sentimental about 'blossoming into womanhood' as it is delicately put. While I was a bit curious about the strange diagrams on the boxes of even stranger products, that was as far as the mystery went at the time. I could not understand why Anne Frank was so awed by the process. It was presented to me as an overly pink and frilly thing to use and to be, and I wanted no part of it.
Now I am 40 and have had years of experience with this event, this altered state we call moontime. My opinion has not changed so much as it has evolved; it has gone from pink to red. This comes, as you might imagine, along with awareness of Goddess: not all at once, never all at once, but one facet, one cycle, at a time. I believe this point of view deserves to be fleshed out, shared, and explained.
I once had a lover who taught me to understand. Far from being squeamish about those days in the month, she adored them and adored me. She introduced me to blood-red flannel pads and showed me how her plants enjoyed the rich, dark soaking water. This flow was anything but domestic. It was wild and free. We were brimming with vitality, no matter what else was happening. It was our connection to the great Mother, the Source of all life. The power behind this flow, this force, would someday bring her a child against all hope, she knew (and it did happen, years later). It was a treasure, not a mess. I never felt ashamed of it when I was with her. I felt only beauty. The earth fed us, and we fed the earth.
My male companions, overall, didn't get it. One couldn't stop telling me about a Very Scientific Article he'd read. Doctors were saying women didn't need to bleed ever. It wasn't logical. It wasn't sensible. (I could almost read it in Henry Higgins' voice.) I should mention this was a long distance relationship and he had never had to be around me when I was a few days late, when I felt as if something couldn't be contained within me anymore and absolutely had to burst out.
You see, when I call my moontime an altered state, I mean it. I've come to realize it's not just that I'm feeling fuzzy from over-the-counter pain relievers. It's a whole different plane of existence. My perception is something that goes beyond the five senses, beyond even six. It's on the edge of what I imagine psychedelics to be. I don't see or hear things per se, but I notice them in a way I cannot explain in words.
Have you ever heard a song or read an old picture book from your childhood and just barely remembered the innumerable multiple sensations it spun in your tiny head? Taste and color and texture and emotion rolled together, seamlessly and wordlessly.
It's not a high. It's simply a different point of view, a lucid dream that is more real than reality. All senses are heightened to almost painful levels, demanding a retreat from the world at large. It makes me appreciate the Red Tent from the book by that name, as well as the modern ones set up at some Pagan festivals.
Sometimes this moontime state helps me write better. Sometimes it makes me win at yelling. No matter what it is, it's more than a physical phenomenon.
And I do understand why the previous generation of Pagan feminists would like to keep the club exclusive, limiting women's mysteries to those who have experienced those very real blood mysteries. I disagree with them, but I understand. I would open the clubhouse to women who know their womanhood inside, really anyone who lives as a woman. That includes my friends who were born without lady parts, or those who were born with lady parts that never woke up for various reasons. They must belong too, as they are still women inside, just as women who had hysterectomies are still women inside.
This came to mind recently when I joked about drop-kicking my uterus over a goalpost. (Yes, I even used a stereotypically male metaphor--sometimes my cycle really brings out the butch side.) I do complain about my body sometimes. Not everything it does is easy to live with. I had to clear up the misunderstanding when one particularly blunt friend asked if I'd gotten myself neutered.
The answer is no. I have not gotten myself neutered. I certainly don't fault those who need to or even want to remove the original parts. There are plenty of good reasons out there to do it, and it doesn't make you any less of a woman. But as for myself and my own body, if I am able to keep my womanly bits wild and free for a few more years, that's just what I intend to do.
Now I am 40 and have had years of experience with this event, this altered state we call moontime. My opinion has not changed so much as it has evolved; it has gone from pink to red. This comes, as you might imagine, along with awareness of Goddess: not all at once, never all at once, but one facet, one cycle, at a time. I believe this point of view deserves to be fleshed out, shared, and explained.
I once had a lover who taught me to understand. Far from being squeamish about those days in the month, she adored them and adored me. She introduced me to blood-red flannel pads and showed me how her plants enjoyed the rich, dark soaking water. This flow was anything but domestic. It was wild and free. We were brimming with vitality, no matter what else was happening. It was our connection to the great Mother, the Source of all life. The power behind this flow, this force, would someday bring her a child against all hope, she knew (and it did happen, years later). It was a treasure, not a mess. I never felt ashamed of it when I was with her. I felt only beauty. The earth fed us, and we fed the earth.
My male companions, overall, didn't get it. One couldn't stop telling me about a Very Scientific Article he'd read. Doctors were saying women didn't need to bleed ever. It wasn't logical. It wasn't sensible. (I could almost read it in Henry Higgins' voice.) I should mention this was a long distance relationship and he had never had to be around me when I was a few days late, when I felt as if something couldn't be contained within me anymore and absolutely had to burst out.
You see, when I call my moontime an altered state, I mean it. I've come to realize it's not just that I'm feeling fuzzy from over-the-counter pain relievers. It's a whole different plane of existence. My perception is something that goes beyond the five senses, beyond even six. It's on the edge of what I imagine psychedelics to be. I don't see or hear things per se, but I notice them in a way I cannot explain in words.
Have you ever heard a song or read an old picture book from your childhood and just barely remembered the innumerable multiple sensations it spun in your tiny head? Taste and color and texture and emotion rolled together, seamlessly and wordlessly.
It's not a high. It's simply a different point of view, a lucid dream that is more real than reality. All senses are heightened to almost painful levels, demanding a retreat from the world at large. It makes me appreciate the Red Tent from the book by that name, as well as the modern ones set up at some Pagan festivals.
Sometimes this moontime state helps me write better. Sometimes it makes me win at yelling. No matter what it is, it's more than a physical phenomenon.
And I do understand why the previous generation of Pagan feminists would like to keep the club exclusive, limiting women's mysteries to those who have experienced those very real blood mysteries. I disagree with them, but I understand. I would open the clubhouse to women who know their womanhood inside, really anyone who lives as a woman. That includes my friends who were born without lady parts, or those who were born with lady parts that never woke up for various reasons. They must belong too, as they are still women inside, just as women who had hysterectomies are still women inside.
This came to mind recently when I joked about drop-kicking my uterus over a goalpost. (Yes, I even used a stereotypically male metaphor--sometimes my cycle really brings out the butch side.) I do complain about my body sometimes. Not everything it does is easy to live with. I had to clear up the misunderstanding when one particularly blunt friend asked if I'd gotten myself neutered.
The answer is no. I have not gotten myself neutered. I certainly don't fault those who need to or even want to remove the original parts. There are plenty of good reasons out there to do it, and it doesn't make you any less of a woman. But as for myself and my own body, if I am able to keep my womanly bits wild and free for a few more years, that's just what I intend to do.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
The Dancing Crone
Ever remember to be awesome and forget to be happy?
On Imbolc, of all times?
(OK, I don't make too much of a big deal about Imbolc beyond feeling the general idea in my heart and observing the change in the seasons. Granted, there is a limit to how much I can devote myself to a specific deity like Brigid, since I am not a polytheist like most of my Pagan friends. I believe the different names and forms are parts of the same force--yes, even the ones who seem incompatible with each other. It would be much easier for me as a Pagan if I didn't have this view, but I do.)
The day began appropriately enough. Instead of the first robin of spring, which isn't really a milestone in the Southern USA, I heard the unidentified first songbird of Imbolc. The cat heralded this occasion with some excited chattering at the window, basically cat language for 'Yum.'
I made a mental note to myself that this was sort of an Imbolc thing and ought to be mentioned to someone later. Eventually I got out of bed. I was still just kind of there. Meh.
I decided it was finally time to check out the Saturday morning farmer's market I'd been hearing about for years. It didn't just have produce or soap or orchids or farm-raised alligator meat. It was crowded with people and with innumerable local, beautiful items for sale. I probably could have bought something at all 50 or so booths. I smelled and tasted the most wonderful things I never even knew existed.
But I had an agenda, practically a checklist. Forget 'the gay agenda'--the nominally bi agenda for this event was to buy some veggies and talk to someone about the hula hoop classes. Serious business, that. (Oh yeah, and avoid the booth with the very recent ex-in-laws, at least for now.)
On the way to the hula hoop booth, I saw a grinning, snowy-headed woman in a long skirt and sneakers, dancing in front of the live band. I considered stopping there to dance too. It might please the old woman.
Now, my usual approach is to mosey on into a situation, do something cool for a few seconds, then mosey back into the crowd. It involves walking briskly, half lost in my thoughts, and not going too deeply into any experience for long.
I do not recommend that approach.
This time I danced for more than a few seconds. The happy old woman danced with me. She had pink lipstick on her dentures, but she didn't care.
I stayed and danced through the guitar solo, the bass solo. It was long enough to allow this woman's happiness to rub off on me. I forgot myself and realized I was smiling.
She looked at me from under her big hat and asked for my name, listening intently. She said hers was June.
Joy and June. Earlier, that would have been another mental note, another impressively poetic idea to share. At this point, it didn't even compare to the moment itself.
When the song was over we waved goodbye and I headed for the hula hoops, but now I felt different. I was smiling, with a smidgen of a good kind of cry behind my eyes somewhere. Moments are a little overwhelming when you're not used to them.
I intend to have more moments. I intend to make time for them and show up fully for them. I am already alive and do not need to hurry to the end. The Crone knows this, and it makes her happy. I intend to remember the same and let it make me happy every day.
So mote it be!
On Imbolc, of all times?
(OK, I don't make too much of a big deal about Imbolc beyond feeling the general idea in my heart and observing the change in the seasons. Granted, there is a limit to how much I can devote myself to a specific deity like Brigid, since I am not a polytheist like most of my Pagan friends. I believe the different names and forms are parts of the same force--yes, even the ones who seem incompatible with each other. It would be much easier for me as a Pagan if I didn't have this view, but I do.)
The day began appropriately enough. Instead of the first robin of spring, which isn't really a milestone in the Southern USA, I heard the unidentified first songbird of Imbolc. The cat heralded this occasion with some excited chattering at the window, basically cat language for 'Yum.'
I made a mental note to myself that this was sort of an Imbolc thing and ought to be mentioned to someone later. Eventually I got out of bed. I was still just kind of there. Meh.
I decided it was finally time to check out the Saturday morning farmer's market I'd been hearing about for years. It didn't just have produce or soap or orchids or farm-raised alligator meat. It was crowded with people and with innumerable local, beautiful items for sale. I probably could have bought something at all 50 or so booths. I smelled and tasted the most wonderful things I never even knew existed.
But I had an agenda, practically a checklist. Forget 'the gay agenda'--the nominally bi agenda for this event was to buy some veggies and talk to someone about the hula hoop classes. Serious business, that. (Oh yeah, and avoid the booth with the very recent ex-in-laws, at least for now.)
On the way to the hula hoop booth, I saw a grinning, snowy-headed woman in a long skirt and sneakers, dancing in front of the live band. I considered stopping there to dance too. It might please the old woman.
Now, my usual approach is to mosey on into a situation, do something cool for a few seconds, then mosey back into the crowd. It involves walking briskly, half lost in my thoughts, and not going too deeply into any experience for long.
I do not recommend that approach.
This time I danced for more than a few seconds. The happy old woman danced with me. She had pink lipstick on her dentures, but she didn't care.
I stayed and danced through the guitar solo, the bass solo. It was long enough to allow this woman's happiness to rub off on me. I forgot myself and realized I was smiling.
She looked at me from under her big hat and asked for my name, listening intently. She said hers was June.
Joy and June. Earlier, that would have been another mental note, another impressively poetic idea to share. At this point, it didn't even compare to the moment itself.
When the song was over we waved goodbye and I headed for the hula hoops, but now I felt different. I was smiling, with a smidgen of a good kind of cry behind my eyes somewhere. Moments are a little overwhelming when you're not used to them.
I intend to have more moments. I intend to make time for them and show up fully for them. I am already alive and do not need to hurry to the end. The Crone knows this, and it makes her happy. I intend to remember the same and let it make me happy every day.
So mote it be!
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Honey? I'm Home!
Bees and honey became important very early in my life. My brother and I grew up right next to a citrus grove where someone kept bees. We knew honey because old men sold it next to the grove, in a dark little house that smelled like beeswax. We sweetened our breakfast cereal with honey and poured it on our waffles; syrup and sugar were more for Dad. We homed in close to the beehives at the heart of the grove, as close as we could get. Run and you got stung. Walk away slowly or freeze and you were fine; there would be other occasions where stings were unavoidable.
One year I wrote a school essay about the place. We were reading Thoreau, and I waxed philosophical about the furry bees and the rainbow colored lantana blossoms. As far as I was concerned at the time, going in there was going back to nature. (What an awakening I had much later, backpacking in a national forest.)
When I grew up, I went away to college in another state. I never got used to their sourwood honey; highly prized and highly priced, it was still not enough flavor for me. I stayed in 'Other' for twelve years. While I enjoyed it and needed to be in my own world there, it never felt like home. I bundled up and felt cold. My skin was hungry for sunshine and warm breezes.
A few years ago, I moved back near my childhood home. The grove is a park now and has just a few healthy citrus trees left in the mix around the walking trail, but the honey house remains and so do the beehives.
And let me tell you, I have been fairly lusting over that honey. Week after week, month after month, I tried to locate whoever was keeping the bees and kept missing them entirely. It's not the type of honey or the quality; it's just that it would be home to me.
My dear brother finally tracked down a lady who came to check on her bees. She didn't get much honey out of this particular location, but she happened to have one little jar of it. He told her all about our childhood and the old man we knew who once owned the grove, and she tried to give my brother the jar for free. No way, lady. I would have paid practically anything for it. To me, this was like taking home a bit of Brighid's sacred flame, or some water from Merlin's own spring in Glastonbury.
We tasted it and found more mystery. I immediately thought of tea tree; he thought he detected Brazilian pepper. Pest plants or not, I am savoring the sweetness right down to my soul.
It takes so little, and yet so much, to make a ritual. When I was alone (and yet not alone) I held up the little jar of honey to the morning sun and looked at the light through that honey-colored filter. I thought of the flames burning up there for billions of years. I thought of my own life-flame within me, and all the little sparks and flames from all the generations before me, living on through me and my family now and whoever comes after us, and all of the names of our ancestors and the names of the Divine flame.
I said thank you to the flame within us all.
May I always know I have a home. And may it be worth it all, to all of us, to have come this far.
Then I poured some on my oatmeal, just like I did as a kid, and it became part of me again.
One year I wrote a school essay about the place. We were reading Thoreau, and I waxed philosophical about the furry bees and the rainbow colored lantana blossoms. As far as I was concerned at the time, going in there was going back to nature. (What an awakening I had much later, backpacking in a national forest.)
When I grew up, I went away to college in another state. I never got used to their sourwood honey; highly prized and highly priced, it was still not enough flavor for me. I stayed in 'Other' for twelve years. While I enjoyed it and needed to be in my own world there, it never felt like home. I bundled up and felt cold. My skin was hungry for sunshine and warm breezes.
A few years ago, I moved back near my childhood home. The grove is a park now and has just a few healthy citrus trees left in the mix around the walking trail, but the honey house remains and so do the beehives.
And let me tell you, I have been fairly lusting over that honey. Week after week, month after month, I tried to locate whoever was keeping the bees and kept missing them entirely. It's not the type of honey or the quality; it's just that it would be home to me.
My dear brother finally tracked down a lady who came to check on her bees. She didn't get much honey out of this particular location, but she happened to have one little jar of it. He told her all about our childhood and the old man we knew who once owned the grove, and she tried to give my brother the jar for free. No way, lady. I would have paid practically anything for it. To me, this was like taking home a bit of Brighid's sacred flame, or some water from Merlin's own spring in Glastonbury.
We tasted it and found more mystery. I immediately thought of tea tree; he thought he detected Brazilian pepper. Pest plants or not, I am savoring the sweetness right down to my soul.
It takes so little, and yet so much, to make a ritual. When I was alone (and yet not alone) I held up the little jar of honey to the morning sun and looked at the light through that honey-colored filter. I thought of the flames burning up there for billions of years. I thought of my own life-flame within me, and all the little sparks and flames from all the generations before me, living on through me and my family now and whoever comes after us, and all of the names of our ancestors and the names of the Divine flame.
I said thank you to the flame within us all.
May I always know I have a home. And may it be worth it all, to all of us, to have come this far.
Then I poured some on my oatmeal, just like I did as a kid, and it became part of me again.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Elderberry Tincture
First I must say I'm a firm believer in the spiritual and mental value of the occasional rare cold or flu. Like a woman's monthly cycle, this state of being changes your focus, brings you back to the essentials, and makes you appreciate small things (like breathing, or not being in pain).
However, maybe you would like to keep your colds and flus rare. I know I would. At the first sign of sickness, I try to get extra sleep--no going out on the town until 3--and I take some of my homemade elderberry tincture.
It's ridiculously easy to make. Finding the ingredients is harder than making it. There are just two ingredients: elderberries and vodka. (There is also a way to make it with glycerin instead of vodka for those who don't drink, but I haven't tried that.)
Fresh berries are best, I'm told, but so far I have only been able to get dried. They work fine. Your local witchy store probably carries these.
The vodka doesn't have to be anything fancy. You can actually go very, very cheap with this ingredient. I suggest doing so, in the interest of making large amounts of tincture.
Take at least one part berries to four parts vodka. Put the berries in a jar and pour the vodka over them. Close the jar and put it somewhere dark. Leave it alone for at least six weeks. You can take it out and shake it once in a while, but you don't really have to.
If you need it before six weeks, you can make do with similar storebought remedies called Sambucol or Sambucus. They do cost a lot.
Once your tincture is ready, you can drink a shot of it (if you can stand the taste) or slip it into food or drinks. You may want to sweeten it when you do this. Try it in oatmeal, smoothies, tea, and sodas. Use at least one measured teaspoon. A large medicine dropper is most convenient.
Leave the berries in the jar if you like so the tincture can get even stronger. Just don't be tempted to use the same berries for two different batches. Use new berries every time for the best results.
Enjoy being healthy!
However, maybe you would like to keep your colds and flus rare. I know I would. At the first sign of sickness, I try to get extra sleep--no going out on the town until 3--and I take some of my homemade elderberry tincture.
It's ridiculously easy to make. Finding the ingredients is harder than making it. There are just two ingredients: elderberries and vodka. (There is also a way to make it with glycerin instead of vodka for those who don't drink, but I haven't tried that.)
Fresh berries are best, I'm told, but so far I have only been able to get dried. They work fine. Your local witchy store probably carries these.
The vodka doesn't have to be anything fancy. You can actually go very, very cheap with this ingredient. I suggest doing so, in the interest of making large amounts of tincture.
Take at least one part berries to four parts vodka. Put the berries in a jar and pour the vodka over them. Close the jar and put it somewhere dark. Leave it alone for at least six weeks. You can take it out and shake it once in a while, but you don't really have to.
If you need it before six weeks, you can make do with similar storebought remedies called Sambucol or Sambucus. They do cost a lot.
Once your tincture is ready, you can drink a shot of it (if you can stand the taste) or slip it into food or drinks. You may want to sweeten it when you do this. Try it in oatmeal, smoothies, tea, and sodas. Use at least one measured teaspoon. A large medicine dropper is most convenient.
Leave the berries in the jar if you like so the tincture can get even stronger. Just don't be tempted to use the same berries for two different batches. Use new berries every time for the best results.
Enjoy being healthy!
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Pushing Off and Other Metaphors
Pick a New Year's, any New Year's. It could be Samhain in October or the secular holiday on January 1. I don't know how much you believe the all-knowing Google, but some Pagans apparently consider Imbolc, Yule, and Beltane to be the beginning of new years as well.
I don't get it. I don't have to. The important thing is that we take time to be still and be thoughtful and think over what is to be. And hey, if it takes a hangover to get into that frame of mind, that works. At least you got there, and it is a reminder to sit calmly and live gently, ever so gently, if only for a day.
It was time to break through the agony and fury of the latest full moon. I don't usually feel them that much, but this one just knocked the wind out of me, psychically speaking. There was nothing I could do to feel it less. There was nothing I could do but feel. And feel I did.
There is only so much you can attribute to everyday stress from work, the holidays, the minor necessary busy-ness of life. This was a greater force. This was the difference between standing outside on a cold night and actually jumping into an icy lake.
It may or may not change your life, but it certainly makes you take notice, whether you think about it or not. All you can do is gasp and know that you are alive.
Then you take another breath and another and another. And you realize that even though it's not always comfortable and you're not always as focused or motivated or perfect or anything else as you could be, you are here and you have the now.
And it does make a difference when a full moon shakes you up and a new year hits your reset button. My everyday travel blessing feels less ostentatious these days but somehow stronger for all its repetitions. My smiles are more real now than they were in my ancient yearbook pictures. I have pushed my boat off from the shore and I am coasting freely through the wide open water.
I am free.
And what's more, I'm learning to steer.
I don't get it. I don't have to. The important thing is that we take time to be still and be thoughtful and think over what is to be. And hey, if it takes a hangover to get into that frame of mind, that works. At least you got there, and it is a reminder to sit calmly and live gently, ever so gently, if only for a day.
It was time to break through the agony and fury of the latest full moon. I don't usually feel them that much, but this one just knocked the wind out of me, psychically speaking. There was nothing I could do to feel it less. There was nothing I could do but feel. And feel I did.
There is only so much you can attribute to everyday stress from work, the holidays, the minor necessary busy-ness of life. This was a greater force. This was the difference between standing outside on a cold night and actually jumping into an icy lake.
It may or may not change your life, but it certainly makes you take notice, whether you think about it or not. All you can do is gasp and know that you are alive.
Then you take another breath and another and another. And you realize that even though it's not always comfortable and you're not always as focused or motivated or perfect or anything else as you could be, you are here and you have the now.
And it does make a difference when a full moon shakes you up and a new year hits your reset button. My everyday travel blessing feels less ostentatious these days but somehow stronger for all its repetitions. My smiles are more real now than they were in my ancient yearbook pictures. I have pushed my boat off from the shore and I am coasting freely through the wide open water.
I am free.
And what's more, I'm learning to steer.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Warmth in the Phoenix Flames
I was really tempted to make this blog entry all ZOMG NEKKID FIRESPINNING!!!1! Technically, it's true--that spectacular display was just one beautiful surprise I encountered at Phoenix Phamily's Autumn Meet--but there's more to this festival than entertainment. You can go anywhere to party. For me, this weekend was more about finding community: sharing our gifts with friends, learning from Pagan elders, and above all, listening. I did a lot of listening.
While the rum and dirty limericks flowed freely, so too did the original songs, the art, the music. Everyone had something to share. People learned to make mead, play Native American flute, do Reiki, and breathe fire. We danced, drummed, exchanged homemade crafts. I discovered a whole family of precious people of all ages and walks of life.
You see, although the hands-on activities certainly held my attention and made my world a little sweeter, I spent much more time just sitting and talking. All ages mingled throughout the day, children included, but mostly I spent time with elders. I got to know Omi, a sort of Pagan pioneer of our time who doesn't seem to realize what a big deal she is or at least hasn't let it go to her head. I also got to meet Ardy, a kind old woman with a sharp wit and a sharp tongue; she welcomed me on the very first day and I only later found out that she hosted the very first Phoenix festival in her backyard.
The conversations went deep, both in and out of the workshops. What is the historical basis for our spiritual practices today? How do we interpret the words 'harm none' or other moral codes held by Pagans? When is force justified, in physical and magical context?
And yet--it wasn't all scholarly. A big highlight of the weekend was a daytime ritual involving children and adults, weaving the web of community. The young and not-so-young each told one another a portion of a happy story. Everyone tossed different colored balls of yarn over a structure that would become a gigantic rainbow web around a lovely old oak tree. The little ones were completely absorbed in the moment and surrounded by loving family of all kinds. Together, we did weave community.
That was also the intention of main ritual. While there were some glitches and unintended humor, the goal was achieved. I pointed out afterward that we already had what we were looking for, before the circle was even cast. What we were looking for was there all the time.
That brings me to what some would call the tiniest footnote ever, but I find it strangely symbolic. I'd bought a solar lantern months ago, looking forward to a lovely flickering candle 'flame' to light my way back to my tent. It never worked before this weekend. This is because--and I swear I looked there before--this is because I just had to pull out a tab inside to let the lantern draw power from the sun and illuminate my path in the darkness. It had this ability a long time ago; I just had to take a very small but important step to let it do what it was able to do anyway.
Despite the waning of the sun this time of year, my flame is burning as brightly as it ever has. My heart is full of old and new kindred. I feel safe and welcome at this hearth. Nothing comes between us: not our egos, not our differences. We are family.
This, I tell you, is community. This is what I was hungering for, what so many of us are hungering for.
It's worth braving the porta-potties.
While the rum and dirty limericks flowed freely, so too did the original songs, the art, the music. Everyone had something to share. People learned to make mead, play Native American flute, do Reiki, and breathe fire. We danced, drummed, exchanged homemade crafts. I discovered a whole family of precious people of all ages and walks of life.
You see, although the hands-on activities certainly held my attention and made my world a little sweeter, I spent much more time just sitting and talking. All ages mingled throughout the day, children included, but mostly I spent time with elders. I got to know Omi, a sort of Pagan pioneer of our time who doesn't seem to realize what a big deal she is or at least hasn't let it go to her head. I also got to meet Ardy, a kind old woman with a sharp wit and a sharp tongue; she welcomed me on the very first day and I only later found out that she hosted the very first Phoenix festival in her backyard.
The conversations went deep, both in and out of the workshops. What is the historical basis for our spiritual practices today? How do we interpret the words 'harm none' or other moral codes held by Pagans? When is force justified, in physical and magical context?
And yet--it wasn't all scholarly. A big highlight of the weekend was a daytime ritual involving children and adults, weaving the web of community. The young and not-so-young each told one another a portion of a happy story. Everyone tossed different colored balls of yarn over a structure that would become a gigantic rainbow web around a lovely old oak tree. The little ones were completely absorbed in the moment and surrounded by loving family of all kinds. Together, we did weave community.
That was also the intention of main ritual. While there were some glitches and unintended humor, the goal was achieved. I pointed out afterward that we already had what we were looking for, before the circle was even cast. What we were looking for was there all the time.
That brings me to what some would call the tiniest footnote ever, but I find it strangely symbolic. I'd bought a solar lantern months ago, looking forward to a lovely flickering candle 'flame' to light my way back to my tent. It never worked before this weekend. This is because--and I swear I looked there before--this is because I just had to pull out a tab inside to let the lantern draw power from the sun and illuminate my path in the darkness. It had this ability a long time ago; I just had to take a very small but important step to let it do what it was able to do anyway.
Despite the waning of the sun this time of year, my flame is burning as brightly as it ever has. My heart is full of old and new kindred. I feel safe and welcome at this hearth. Nothing comes between us: not our egos, not our differences. We are family.
This, I tell you, is community. This is what I was hungering for, what so many of us are hungering for.
It's worth braving the porta-potties.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Do ALL the things?
I am toddling curiously toward the dying of the year, still feeling young and flowerish inside. I am holding onto summer, green leaves, the mystery of swimming. I never want it to end or even change. I may trade out frozen drinks for pumpkin beers, but they're still cold so I tell myself that doesn't count.
You see, this time of year I catch myself thinking Phineas and Ferb had the right idea. I feel like doing it all. Summer is like that. Even after you're done with your formal education, summer is packed with things you don't have to do but NEED to do. I haven't quite figured out my version of climbing the Eiffel Tower, creating nanobots, or finding a dodo bird, but here in the sunny South, it feels like there's still time. I know the kids went back to school already and we just had a Mabon ritual, but in my heart (and my armpits) it's still summer.
Oh, the seasons change here, but you have to be very observant to notice. The sandspurs don't grow so feverishly anymore. The leaves are still alive and clinging to the trees for a little longer. Their colors will change soon, but they will be muted pastel yellows and oranges. Autumn here is as gentle and subtle as the summer was not.
Just the same, I'd like it to stay summer all the time, and it just doesn't. I want all of the flow and none of that ebb that makes us appreciate it more.
I don't want to slow the pace, but I need to. I need to be reminded that we will not all be living this present life forever. I will not always have my parents here on this plane with me, for instance, nor will I always be here. Sometimes I forget this.
Even my own nature demands a change. My body's cycles tell me when it is time to slow down and look inward. This is that time. There is so much birthing and dying going on at once, right this second every second, that I sometimes want to go someplace where the earth doesn't keep turning so fast. There is so much that I wonder how any of us can take it even for a day, let alone a lifetime.
So for a day or even a few days, I will slow down when I can manage it. I'm pretty sure the meaning of life is not Do ALL The Things! or even Save or Feed or Heal All The Things. I thought it was when I was younger and scoffed at those non-religious or not-my-kind-of-religious types who did good things just because, well, it was good. I feel different now.
And if I discover that the meaning is BE all the things? That's a matter for another lifetime. Or more.
You see, this time of year I catch myself thinking Phineas and Ferb had the right idea. I feel like doing it all. Summer is like that. Even after you're done with your formal education, summer is packed with things you don't have to do but NEED to do. I haven't quite figured out my version of climbing the Eiffel Tower, creating nanobots, or finding a dodo bird, but here in the sunny South, it feels like there's still time. I know the kids went back to school already and we just had a Mabon ritual, but in my heart (and my armpits) it's still summer.
Oh, the seasons change here, but you have to be very observant to notice. The sandspurs don't grow so feverishly anymore. The leaves are still alive and clinging to the trees for a little longer. Their colors will change soon, but they will be muted pastel yellows and oranges. Autumn here is as gentle and subtle as the summer was not.
Just the same, I'd like it to stay summer all the time, and it just doesn't. I want all of the flow and none of that ebb that makes us appreciate it more.
I don't want to slow the pace, but I need to. I need to be reminded that we will not all be living this present life forever. I will not always have my parents here on this plane with me, for instance, nor will I always be here. Sometimes I forget this.
Even my own nature demands a change. My body's cycles tell me when it is time to slow down and look inward. This is that time. There is so much birthing and dying going on at once, right this second every second, that I sometimes want to go someplace where the earth doesn't keep turning so fast. There is so much that I wonder how any of us can take it even for a day, let alone a lifetime.
So for a day or even a few days, I will slow down when I can manage it. I'm pretty sure the meaning of life is not Do ALL The Things! or even Save or Feed or Heal All The Things. I thought it was when I was younger and scoffed at those non-religious or not-my-kind-of-religious types who did good things just because, well, it was good. I feel different now.
And if I discover that the meaning is BE all the things? That's a matter for another lifetime. Or more.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Advice to a New Pagan
First, see what is. Feel it, notice it, observe it in your mind's eye. Know what is true, whether or not you understand it. You will observe many things without understanding them, or before understanding them. Know them anyway.
Some in this world will call you a liar for daring to declare that two and two make four. Maybe they were raised to believe otherwise. Maybe they never thought about it before, or someone they love insists the answer is five. Pity them, recognize whether your feelings are hurt, but go on knowing what is. They may hold the keys to lock you out, but they are only locking themselves in.
Trust your gut. Do not confuse it with another area just below. This mistake is common but avoidable.
If you have a problem, see whether it can be solved on a physical, non-magical level first. It's usually the easiest and most convenient way by far. Magic works, but it could be a Rube Goldberg machine when a Phillips head screwdriver was all you needed.
Your magic has the potential to be as good as anyone else's, in or out of any book, published or handwritten. Learn from others when appropriate, in person or in print, but create something original. In time, you will learn what to create and how to create it. For now, just be specific. Make sure it's something you want, exactly what you want. Don't include a meaningless extra in your spell just because it rhymes or the cat wants to participate. Go for the essentials.
Remember your morals, whatever they are. If you do magic, you believe that your actions have results. If you believe 'Do what thou wilt' and interpret it to mean 'Do whatever,' you won't be very powerful in any sense, spiritual or otherwise. Focus. Care.
Your kitchen might look like you're quite the cook if you have food splattered all over the pots. Really, it just means you did a lot of cooking and made a mess. The proof is in the results, not in the resemblance to some sappy 'art' about a cook's kitchen. The same goes for your magical workings. You don't have to put on a big show (unless you want to). Clean up your mess, or don't make one in the first place. It's not about the splatters.
You are probably not a fluffy bunny, so don't worry about it. Just learn stuff and get stuff done.
And whatever else you may do, keep knowing.
Some in this world will call you a liar for daring to declare that two and two make four. Maybe they were raised to believe otherwise. Maybe they never thought about it before, or someone they love insists the answer is five. Pity them, recognize whether your feelings are hurt, but go on knowing what is. They may hold the keys to lock you out, but they are only locking themselves in.
Trust your gut. Do not confuse it with another area just below. This mistake is common but avoidable.
If you have a problem, see whether it can be solved on a physical, non-magical level first. It's usually the easiest and most convenient way by far. Magic works, but it could be a Rube Goldberg machine when a Phillips head screwdriver was all you needed.
Your magic has the potential to be as good as anyone else's, in or out of any book, published or handwritten. Learn from others when appropriate, in person or in print, but create something original. In time, you will learn what to create and how to create it. For now, just be specific. Make sure it's something you want, exactly what you want. Don't include a meaningless extra in your spell just because it rhymes or the cat wants to participate. Go for the essentials.
Remember your morals, whatever they are. If you do magic, you believe that your actions have results. If you believe 'Do what thou wilt' and interpret it to mean 'Do whatever,' you won't be very powerful in any sense, spiritual or otherwise. Focus. Care.
Your kitchen might look like you're quite the cook if you have food splattered all over the pots. Really, it just means you did a lot of cooking and made a mess. The proof is in the results, not in the resemblance to some sappy 'art' about a cook's kitchen. The same goes for your magical workings. You don't have to put on a big show (unless you want to). Clean up your mess, or don't make one in the first place. It's not about the splatters.
You are probably not a fluffy bunny, so don't worry about it. Just learn stuff and get stuff done.
And whatever else you may do, keep knowing.
Friday, August 17, 2012
What's In Your Sandwich?
If I could give just one bit of advice to the world, it would be this: look carefully at your sandwich before you eat it.
Let me begin by saying I love sandwiches. Peanut butter and banana, roast beef and cheese, cranberry Tofurkey. I don't care. They're great.
And then there's the bread. The texture and maltiness of a pretzel roll. Some nice crunchy multigrain on a tangy tomato sandwich. Even plain old squeezy white bread will do in a pinch. But my latest favorite, thanks to local culture, is the crusty Cuban bread on a hot pressed Cuban sandwich. Preferably eaten on the beach and guarded carefully from seagulls.
And before anyone asks, I'm not even talking about the kind of 'sandwiches' discussed on How I Met Your Mother. I mean the kind you EAT (although of course I will be speaking metaphorically as well).
My point is, I have had so many wonderful sandwiches over the years that I have come to expect that every sandwich will be good. So it's tempting not to bother investigating a little and just assume.
Assuming is what I did one day years ago, when I had an appointment I was very enthusiastic to make on time. I had just my own strong legs to carry me from the bus to the building and very little time. I stopped into a gas station and bought a croissant sandwich with ham in it, or some kind of related meat. Actually, to this day I am not sure what was in it, and therein lies the problem.
I paid for it and started munching briskly as I walked just as briskly down the road to my destination. It wasn't the best sandwich I'd ever had. I wondered if they just used cheap meat or something. Whatever. I was hungry, and it was food--right?
By the time I'd eaten half of the sandwich, I looked at it closely in the sun and saw something that does not belong in any variety of sandwich. The croissant was shot full of blue streaks of mold.
Naturally, I stopped right then. The mold did not end up making me sick in the slightest, and I got to my event on time. And yet: I ate mold!
Now, you could theoretically say that it's not so bad. Perhaps I should be grateful for the hands who prepared the sandwich and sold it to me. Perhaps I should remember that under certain controlled circumstances, penicillin can save your life.
I don't buy it. I draw the line here.
There is a difference between seeing the best in a situation and seeing little bits of goodness left in the middle of corruption. I have heard the latter called silver mining. I don't believe in silver mining. I believe in looking at life in the sunshine instead of the dim fluorescent lights of the store and seeing what I can see. If it is good, great! If not, I don't have to eat it.
What a freeing thought: you don't have to eat it. As a charter member of the Clean Plate Club, I am amazed at what this revelation has done for my life. I don't have to stay with abusive 'friends' like I did when I was a kid. I don't have to participate in activities that do nothing for me just because they're popular. I don't have to date someone who does me wrong just because some of what the person does is right. That sandwich I don't want is not the only sandwich in the world.
Where's the Pagan connection? It's right there in your tarot deck.
My friend Byron, who has probably been reading tarot since she was in diapers, says we are living in Tower Time. In other words, what has been previously taken for granted as The Way Things Are is coming down, sooner than later. However, it's not time to panic. It's time to see what you can see and do what you need to do. Her neverending refrain is to ground, center, and shield. Good advice.
When someone points out to you that the Tower you live in is crumbling--or when you discover this for yourself--don't take it personally and don't be afraid. It's the alarm going off, and it's there for a purpose.
It's okay to get out, whether this is a drill or not.
It's okay to put down the sandwich.
Let me begin by saying I love sandwiches. Peanut butter and banana, roast beef and cheese, cranberry Tofurkey. I don't care. They're great.
And then there's the bread. The texture and maltiness of a pretzel roll. Some nice crunchy multigrain on a tangy tomato sandwich. Even plain old squeezy white bread will do in a pinch. But my latest favorite, thanks to local culture, is the crusty Cuban bread on a hot pressed Cuban sandwich. Preferably eaten on the beach and guarded carefully from seagulls.
And before anyone asks, I'm not even talking about the kind of 'sandwiches' discussed on How I Met Your Mother. I mean the kind you EAT (although of course I will be speaking metaphorically as well).
My point is, I have had so many wonderful sandwiches over the years that I have come to expect that every sandwich will be good. So it's tempting not to bother investigating a little and just assume.
Assuming is what I did one day years ago, when I had an appointment I was very enthusiastic to make on time. I had just my own strong legs to carry me from the bus to the building and very little time. I stopped into a gas station and bought a croissant sandwich with ham in it, or some kind of related meat. Actually, to this day I am not sure what was in it, and therein lies the problem.
I paid for it and started munching briskly as I walked just as briskly down the road to my destination. It wasn't the best sandwich I'd ever had. I wondered if they just used cheap meat or something. Whatever. I was hungry, and it was food--right?
By the time I'd eaten half of the sandwich, I looked at it closely in the sun and saw something that does not belong in any variety of sandwich. The croissant was shot full of blue streaks of mold.
Naturally, I stopped right then. The mold did not end up making me sick in the slightest, and I got to my event on time. And yet: I ate mold!
Now, you could theoretically say that it's not so bad. Perhaps I should be grateful for the hands who prepared the sandwich and sold it to me. Perhaps I should remember that under certain controlled circumstances, penicillin can save your life.
I don't buy it. I draw the line here.
There is a difference between seeing the best in a situation and seeing little bits of goodness left in the middle of corruption. I have heard the latter called silver mining. I don't believe in silver mining. I believe in looking at life in the sunshine instead of the dim fluorescent lights of the store and seeing what I can see. If it is good, great! If not, I don't have to eat it.
What a freeing thought: you don't have to eat it. As a charter member of the Clean Plate Club, I am amazed at what this revelation has done for my life. I don't have to stay with abusive 'friends' like I did when I was a kid. I don't have to participate in activities that do nothing for me just because they're popular. I don't have to date someone who does me wrong just because some of what the person does is right. That sandwich I don't want is not the only sandwich in the world.
Where's the Pagan connection? It's right there in your tarot deck.
My friend Byron, who has probably been reading tarot since she was in diapers, says we are living in Tower Time. In other words, what has been previously taken for granted as The Way Things Are is coming down, sooner than later. However, it's not time to panic. It's time to see what you can see and do what you need to do. Her neverending refrain is to ground, center, and shield. Good advice.
When someone points out to you that the Tower you live in is crumbling--or when you discover this for yourself--don't take it personally and don't be afraid. It's the alarm going off, and it's there for a purpose.
It's okay to get out, whether this is a drill or not.
It's okay to put down the sandwich.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Hurrying to the Harvest
First harvest? This time of year in zone 10, only a few things can still grow. If you have something to harvest, you'd best grab it while you can, before the overwhelming rays of the sun scorch it.
So it's a good time to reap what you've sown. Yes, justice is on my mind once again.
A little over a year ago, I was shining the light on an outrageous situation and letting someone in power know it was not acceptable to ignore what was going on. Despite the person's best efforts to do just that, it didn't stay ignored--it came right back out with a vengeance and finally sealed the man's fate.
That was in the Pagan community. Now I've become aware of something or someone even more outrageous in the Christian community. It's too graphic to go into here, but let's just say the world is now safe from him and his puppets. (Go look if you want. I'm not even going to link it here.) I am relieved that whatever he did, it can't happen again.
Days after his personal day of reckoning, the television network that made him semi-famous had nothing to say and was still broadcasting the reruns, perhaps hoping it would all go away. I had to tell them it wouldn't.
Throughout the heartfelt and heated exchange, I thought of childhood memories, the kind that wouldn't interest the news. Being a child of 8 or 9, I was so excited to be on the set of a real TV show. The deputy badge was the best thing I ever got in the mail.
The actors--some of them, anyway--remained in my life well into my teens, when we performed skits and such locally. The 'sheriff' host was a sweet old man, just full of sunshine. I'm sure they're all mortified that this show they worked on for years, however long it's been out of production, is now associated with crimes.
I cried and felt very close to my sometime stage buddies, if only for a moment. I suppose it could be called an interfaith effort with some stretch of the imagination, but right now it's more about being inter-human. It's about doing what we need to do to feel grounded, purified, safe, more like ourselves.
We all do this differently, but we all have ways of making ourselves safe. Sometimes we need to come together to do this.
So let us harvest what we have sown: compassion, community, and come-uppance. Let's get together and bring in the harvest. There's so much left to gather, we need to help each other.
So it's a good time to reap what you've sown. Yes, justice is on my mind once again.
A little over a year ago, I was shining the light on an outrageous situation and letting someone in power know it was not acceptable to ignore what was going on. Despite the person's best efforts to do just that, it didn't stay ignored--it came right back out with a vengeance and finally sealed the man's fate.
That was in the Pagan community. Now I've become aware of something or someone even more outrageous in the Christian community. It's too graphic to go into here, but let's just say the world is now safe from him and his puppets. (Go look if you want. I'm not even going to link it here.) I am relieved that whatever he did, it can't happen again.
Days after his personal day of reckoning, the television network that made him semi-famous had nothing to say and was still broadcasting the reruns, perhaps hoping it would all go away. I had to tell them it wouldn't.
Throughout the heartfelt and heated exchange, I thought of childhood memories, the kind that wouldn't interest the news. Being a child of 8 or 9, I was so excited to be on the set of a real TV show. The deputy badge was the best thing I ever got in the mail.
The actors--some of them, anyway--remained in my life well into my teens, when we performed skits and such locally. The 'sheriff' host was a sweet old man, just full of sunshine. I'm sure they're all mortified that this show they worked on for years, however long it's been out of production, is now associated with crimes.
I cried and felt very close to my sometime stage buddies, if only for a moment. I suppose it could be called an interfaith effort with some stretch of the imagination, but right now it's more about being inter-human. It's about doing what we need to do to feel grounded, purified, safe, more like ourselves.
We all do this differently, but we all have ways of making ourselves safe. Sometimes we need to come together to do this.
So let us harvest what we have sown: compassion, community, and come-uppance. Let's get together and bring in the harvest. There's so much left to gather, we need to help each other.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Ripples, Wunderbar!
Full disclosure: my ancestors tended toward the Plain people in that area (Brethren, Dunkers, perhaps Mennonites), not the Fancy ones who made hex signs. However, I gather the difference there is one of belief, not of bloodlines.
It's hard to say, because despite my reading everything about it I can get my hands on, I am just beginning to learn. Anyone can make something up and put it on the internet. As with anything else I read or otherwise try to learn about, I accept the meaning that makes sense to me and let the remaining chaff (as I see it) blow away in the wind.
Case in point: those pretty little scallops around the edge of a lot of hex signs. Smooth sailing in life? Really?
I found one or two sources which didn't look like the same old copypasta and which mentioned a meaning that seems, well, far more meaningful.
Ripples.
Someone else called them 'water wheels', which seems to reinforce the theme of motion and flow. I like that.
A few of my earliest workings, last millennium, involved sending energy out in every direction at once. I still do that--not every time, but for some intentions it's just the thing. If you want to branch out and aren't sure where the branches should be, you could simply radiate.
Lately I've been wanting to radiate. Make some new friends, keep some old friends. Make my world bigger. I'm meeting lots of local Pagans I never knew were out there. We're beautifying the green earth. We're raising funds to help women escape violent relationships and move toward stronger, more peaceful lives.
We're looking outside of ourselves and our own little boxes. We're creating the world we want to live in, instead of waiting for permission to do it. More than anything else, we are (at least *I* am) realizing that that world was there all the time.
It's a good start.
But hey, one more boost helps.
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