Today it's all about tenderness. And it's not just because I'm eating what amounts to baby food.
It's a rough-and-tumble world, and lots of other folks seem to be feeling delicate too. Blame it on planets, politics, dental procedures. We're all a little sore and sensitive in lots of places we didn't know we had. Or we just have new places to feel it. Big raw sockets, left after an Ostara purge of what no longer serves us.
I've kept to myself after finally getting my wisdom teeth out. It's a time to sit quietly and do what you thought you always wanted to do: eat too much ice cream and watch too many movies.
Even then, there will be detractors. Some will say you're not relaxing right, you're not eating the right kind of baby food. You're not being the right kind of baby. You know you will manage just fine and they are wrong, but it still hurts.
And then you go in for more suffering because you were scared of it, you waited too long. You open your mouth and get 15-20 years of yellow concrete chiseled out with what you can only assume is a tiny jackhammer.
You feel very clean and a little bit queasy. But mostly you lust after the crunchy things you know will just hurt you more.
But you treat yourself gently. You know that even if you're not getting it perfect, you're getting it.
If you had to please everyone, you'd eat things that are only raw, paleo, gluten-free, casein-free, macrobiotic, low-carb, and vegan: in other words, very little. Instead, you eat absolutely anything mushy that will sit well and make you feel stronger. You reassure a friend that it's not so bad to eat cake after chemo because, hey, you just had chemo.
Most importantly, you try to deflect the crunch of the world and return only tenderness, because you remember what it was like so long ago when you felt like a missionary and just knew that whatever your mission was, it was A Matter of Life and Death Literally. What a burden it was. You remember the heaviness and the pain. Your heart aches for the person who is preaching at you now about one cause or another. And it makes you answer more softly, more gently, even if you want to scream.
And then, you scream.
You are not Jesus, Kwan Yin, or St. Anything. You have your limits. There are moments for sacrifice, just not every moment. You love yourself, breath, body, and blood. The world is littered with sad, broken people who gave more than you did, with the dearest of intentions. You are not required to be like them. You are required to be you. And anyway, you know that quite a few of the gods appreciate it when you possess a spine. It's good and good for you.
To be one face of the Divine is not just a responsibility but also a right. And if being you means being imperfect--and it does--then do so. You are your lopsided smile, your ridiculous inside jokes, your scars, your opulent dreamtimes, your highs and lows, even your blahs. You are not just one color, not just one dimension, but the whole shebang.
You step back again, regretting passing on any hurt. You'll probably do it again, but you will also try to fix it up again, because that preacher is a part of you too, and you feel it when you hurt him.
You continue to send tenderness whenever you can, even if he never sees things your way, even if he does not maintain a steady slope toward the ideals you hope he will achieve.
And maybe, just maybe, he does the same for you, because he too is a face of the Divine.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
The Feast of Almost
I love to hear the many stories about Brighid, although I am not particularly drawn to her. I almost could be, maybe if I were a polytheist, maybe if I had more than a few drops of Scots or Irish in me. Almost.
She is all about transformation, renewal. She is the fire that bakes your bread and burns you as you warm your chilled bones. She is art that shatters you and puts you back together in a different shape. She is Woody Guthrie's guitar. This machine kills Fascists.
I almost get it.
What I am closer to understanding is Imbolc. Call it any number of names from any part of the world. With or without the name of Brighid, the idea is the same. Winter is leaving. Spring is almost here. Can't you feel it frozen in the snow? (Much later, the writer of that song heard Peter, Paul, and Mary perform it; they told him those first seemingly tragic flowers of spring were perennials.)
In any case, even in a land without snow I can feel the expectation. Today my Pagan sisters and brothers think about pregnant ewes (Imbolg 'in the belly') and their milk (Oimelc) that is just about to come in.
We are all expecting. And like the sheep, we don't know exactly what we are going to get, but we have the general idea. We are pregnant with potential.
And that is what is most heartbreaking. Will it, could it, ever be born?
Imbolc says yes.
I cried when my parents bought me a musical keyboard a few years ago, partly out of happiness, partly because I remembered my mother often musing over my spidery fingers when I was a child. These are the fingers, she said, of an artist or a musician. Even then I knew my skills hadn't kept up with my potential.
I also cry sometimes when I hear songs like The Wall (by Kansas, not Pink Floyd!) and Sing, Sing a Song. The promised land is waiting like a maiden that is soon to be a bride. Don't worry that it's not good enough for anyone else to hear.
Silliness helps. Karaoke, the ukulele. Blogging instead of doing 'real' writing. And what is real anyway?
Someday, the freeze comes to an end, slowly, interspersed with more bitter weather. Yet it always comes to an end. That is the message. We're halfway there. Even winter has its hump day.
I'm frozen now, but I won't be frozen long.
She is all about transformation, renewal. She is the fire that bakes your bread and burns you as you warm your chilled bones. She is art that shatters you and puts you back together in a different shape. She is Woody Guthrie's guitar. This machine kills Fascists.
I almost get it.
What I am closer to understanding is Imbolc. Call it any number of names from any part of the world. With or without the name of Brighid, the idea is the same. Winter is leaving. Spring is almost here. Can't you feel it frozen in the snow? (Much later, the writer of that song heard Peter, Paul, and Mary perform it; they told him those first seemingly tragic flowers of spring were perennials.)
In any case, even in a land without snow I can feel the expectation. Today my Pagan sisters and brothers think about pregnant ewes (Imbolg 'in the belly') and their milk (Oimelc) that is just about to come in.
We are all expecting. And like the sheep, we don't know exactly what we are going to get, but we have the general idea. We are pregnant with potential.
And that is what is most heartbreaking. Will it, could it, ever be born?
Imbolc says yes.
I cried when my parents bought me a musical keyboard a few years ago, partly out of happiness, partly because I remembered my mother often musing over my spidery fingers when I was a child. These are the fingers, she said, of an artist or a musician. Even then I knew my skills hadn't kept up with my potential.
I also cry sometimes when I hear songs like The Wall (by Kansas, not Pink Floyd!) and Sing, Sing a Song. The promised land is waiting like a maiden that is soon to be a bride. Don't worry that it's not good enough for anyone else to hear.
Silliness helps. Karaoke, the ukulele. Blogging instead of doing 'real' writing. And what is real anyway?
Someday, the freeze comes to an end, slowly, interspersed with more bitter weather. Yet it always comes to an end. That is the message. We're halfway there. Even winter has its hump day.
I'm frozen now, but I won't be frozen long.
Monday, January 16, 2012
I Have a Dream ... And a Ukulele
I believe in living actively, not reactively. That especially applies to my spiritual path. The hardest time to do this is during conflict, which is all the more reason for me to ground, deepen my roots, and grow. The time to shield, I am learning after all these years, is before you need it. And hey, even when something's eating you a bit, it really can make you grow stronger.
Now, none of this is a reference to my personal life at the moment, which is stable and peaceful. I'm referring to the nature of my spiritual community. There are fewer of us Pagans than there are Christians, by a long shot, I'm sure, yet over the years I've found one faith minority or another doing their thing only to have someone oppress them in the name of Jesus and then cry persecution.
Those in the majority culture blurt out things from the crowd that they would never say as one individual to the other. They even make threats. They forget their own Beatitudes, for that moment, let alone the Golden Rule, and they forget that Pagans and other faith minorities are their own family, their coworkers, maybe even their friends.
This subject is not purely an intellectual exercise for me. I have attended ritual in a park (with a permit) and had angry neighbors come out and harass us to make us stop our practice; the police had to intervene. I wouldn't dream of doing something like that to my friends and family in their churches, nor would any Pagan I know.
I have known a Pagan child in my own community who was harassed by an entire public school. The harassment and the threats did not, surprisingly, make her want to conform; in fact, she began home schooling shortly afterward. She is a brilliant and articulate adult now and every bit as Pagan these days, possibly more so. Unfortunately, over ten years later, folks still haven't learned any lessons in that neck of the woods.
I have recently come to realize that Christians will not often come to the defense of the outsider (although I am happy and grateful when they do). More often, they resort to the 'No True Scotsman' defense and leave it at that. It is up to us, the minority (and who and what we believe in), to make our own lives better.
While I'll refrain from putting words in Martin Luther King's mouth, consider a few of his own and think on this: 'We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.'
As for me, I intend to do what I should have done years ago: learn some more Pagan music.
That's not a tangent. Here's why: we are not the opposite of anything. We are not a void. We have our own music. A friend was recently kind enough to post a huge list of modern Pagan musicians, and ancient choices are also available online (to be linked later). What's more, I have a new ukulele.
This matters because my little friend in Asheville, those many years ago, might have had an easier time if she'd been able to present more Pagan musical choices. It's a small thing but not so small. It is something we do, part of our religious heritage, whether the songs were written 10,000 years ago or last week. We do our thing. We keep on truckin'. We are strongest when we simply do what we do.
That is my answer. That is how I deepen my roots and continue to grow.
Now, none of this is a reference to my personal life at the moment, which is stable and peaceful. I'm referring to the nature of my spiritual community. There are fewer of us Pagans than there are Christians, by a long shot, I'm sure, yet over the years I've found one faith minority or another doing their thing only to have someone oppress them in the name of Jesus and then cry persecution.
Those in the majority culture blurt out things from the crowd that they would never say as one individual to the other. They even make threats. They forget their own Beatitudes, for that moment, let alone the Golden Rule, and they forget that Pagans and other faith minorities are their own family, their coworkers, maybe even their friends.
This subject is not purely an intellectual exercise for me. I have attended ritual in a park (with a permit) and had angry neighbors come out and harass us to make us stop our practice; the police had to intervene. I wouldn't dream of doing something like that to my friends and family in their churches, nor would any Pagan I know.
I have known a Pagan child in my own community who was harassed by an entire public school. The harassment and the threats did not, surprisingly, make her want to conform; in fact, she began home schooling shortly afterward. She is a brilliant and articulate adult now and every bit as Pagan these days, possibly more so. Unfortunately, over ten years later, folks still haven't learned any lessons in that neck of the woods.
I have recently come to realize that Christians will not often come to the defense of the outsider (although I am happy and grateful when they do). More often, they resort to the 'No True Scotsman' defense and leave it at that. It is up to us, the minority (and who and what we believe in), to make our own lives better.
While I'll refrain from putting words in Martin Luther King's mouth, consider a few of his own and think on this: 'We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.'
As for me, I intend to do what I should have done years ago: learn some more Pagan music.
That's not a tangent. Here's why: we are not the opposite of anything. We are not a void. We have our own music. A friend was recently kind enough to post a huge list of modern Pagan musicians, and ancient choices are also available online (to be linked later). What's more, I have a new ukulele.
This matters because my little friend in Asheville, those many years ago, might have had an easier time if she'd been able to present more Pagan musical choices. It's a small thing but not so small. It is something we do, part of our religious heritage, whether the songs were written 10,000 years ago or last week. We do our thing. We keep on truckin'. We are strongest when we simply do what we do.
That is my answer. That is how I deepen my roots and continue to grow.
Monday, December 5, 2011
The Thing with Feathers
I want to be angry. I just don't know where to direct it. Angry isn't like sad. With anger, you feel that you could do something.
Should I rage at the chemical companies, the hormone companies, the polluters, for possibly harming my friend? Is it the doctors, the medical industry, for failing to find out what was wrong? Should I be angry at her family for giving her some sketchy DNA? I just don't know. All I know is she's under 30 and facing some scary odds. I didn't know how scary until I looked it up today.
Can I justify what's happening to her? Not really. I could say that Kali just loves her that much or Cerridwen is transforming her in her enchanted cauldron. While it may be true, it doesn't show the mercy of a friend. And my religion is more about kindness to my kindred than the grand plans of some wiser being; what is wiser than love?
At least my faith doesn't require me to look happy all the time. At this point in my life, that would be too much to bear. Still, I can't scowl this away. Complaints--and money thrown along with them--may improve the longevity of future cancer patients, but I'm more concerned about this one, right here, right now.
If I can't complain it away, I also can't ribbon it away. If I were the guy from the movie Jeffrey who wore a jacket covered with awareness ribbons of every color in the rainbow, I could make all of them teal and it wouldn't bring my friend one more day of health.
Can I help her get better? Maybe by surprise. That sounds better than no.
When I do energetic work on someone with cancer, I get a distinct sensation. It's like pouring water into a bucket with a big hole. No filling up. No sticking to the sides. Any other time, I'd feel someone brimming over or perhaps bouncing back like bread dough after kneading. Some sort of signal that you're done, at least for now. I don't get that feeling here. (I'll still work the work, of course.)
It's strange not to even be able to know for sure of something I can do to make a difference.
And for this one situation, for this one friend, it's not enough to say 'I don't know' and be calm about it.
Now, it's true that every moment we are alive is a gift, a miracle, possibly a fluke but a wondrous one. The fact that it happens for any length of time is startling. Who is to say how long any one of us has?
It is beyond my control.
Where is hope, that 'thing with feathers that perches in the soul'?
I think of Adah, the genius wounded healer in The Poisonwood Bible, who found she could finally reach that thing with feathers with her one good hand, but only after it had fallen.
Yet I reach out, beyond my grasp, so that my friend may stand.
Should I rage at the chemical companies, the hormone companies, the polluters, for possibly harming my friend? Is it the doctors, the medical industry, for failing to find out what was wrong? Should I be angry at her family for giving her some sketchy DNA? I just don't know. All I know is she's under 30 and facing some scary odds. I didn't know how scary until I looked it up today.
Can I justify what's happening to her? Not really. I could say that Kali just loves her that much or Cerridwen is transforming her in her enchanted cauldron. While it may be true, it doesn't show the mercy of a friend. And my religion is more about kindness to my kindred than the grand plans of some wiser being; what is wiser than love?
At least my faith doesn't require me to look happy all the time. At this point in my life, that would be too much to bear. Still, I can't scowl this away. Complaints--and money thrown along with them--may improve the longevity of future cancer patients, but I'm more concerned about this one, right here, right now.
If I can't complain it away, I also can't ribbon it away. If I were the guy from the movie Jeffrey who wore a jacket covered with awareness ribbons of every color in the rainbow, I could make all of them teal and it wouldn't bring my friend one more day of health.
Can I help her get better? Maybe by surprise. That sounds better than no.
When I do energetic work on someone with cancer, I get a distinct sensation. It's like pouring water into a bucket with a big hole. No filling up. No sticking to the sides. Any other time, I'd feel someone brimming over or perhaps bouncing back like bread dough after kneading. Some sort of signal that you're done, at least for now. I don't get that feeling here. (I'll still work the work, of course.)
It's strange not to even be able to know for sure of something I can do to make a difference.
And for this one situation, for this one friend, it's not enough to say 'I don't know' and be calm about it.
Now, it's true that every moment we are alive is a gift, a miracle, possibly a fluke but a wondrous one. The fact that it happens for any length of time is startling. Who is to say how long any one of us has?
It is beyond my control.
Where is hope, that 'thing with feathers that perches in the soul'?
I think of Adah, the genius wounded healer in The Poisonwood Bible, who found she could finally reach that thing with feathers with her one good hand, but only after it had fallen.
Yet I reach out, beyond my grasp, so that my friend may stand.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Healing One Another (I Think)
I got back from Florida Pagan Gathering earlier this month, but it seems like forever ago.
The theme of my experience this time was healing. Oh, sure, I got to work on other people--with better results than I expected--but I needed to let them help me, too. When one little point breaks off a wisdom tooth, it makes your whole mouth hurt. So when my camping mate inserted three tiny needles into my hand, it made all the difference. So did the nice people who drove out to town and got some specialized goop to shield my poor tooth.
Another highlight of that week was my first time in an Inipi (sweat) lodge. For anyone who may be wondering, the clothing-optional aspect here was anything but sexual. Believe me, when you are scraping for a place to sit inside a little dome with 20-odd other people, breathing steam, every pore crying out from the heat, it's hardly time for an orgy.
So, what is it time for? Prayer, that's what. You pray for someone different on every round. On the last round, you focus on an animal spirit and its message to you.
I had to ask Spider why she had spun a web across the front of my tent.
A peace sign? Really?
Well, Spider is my friend. So I tend to give her the benefit of the doubt, even when her web made me think of an old Far Side comic where two of her kind built their home across the bottom of a playground slide: 'If we pull this off, we'll eat like kings.'
The theme of my experience this time was healing. Oh, sure, I got to work on other people--with better results than I expected--but I needed to let them help me, too. When one little point breaks off a wisdom tooth, it makes your whole mouth hurt. So when my camping mate inserted three tiny needles into my hand, it made all the difference. So did the nice people who drove out to town and got some specialized goop to shield my poor tooth.
Another highlight of that week was my first time in an Inipi (sweat) lodge. For anyone who may be wondering, the clothing-optional aspect here was anything but sexual. Believe me, when you are scraping for a place to sit inside a little dome with 20-odd other people, breathing steam, every pore crying out from the heat, it's hardly time for an orgy.
So, what is it time for? Prayer, that's what. You pray for someone different on every round. On the last round, you focus on an animal spirit and its message to you.
I had to ask Spider why she had spun a web across the front of my tent.
A peace sign? Really?
Well, Spider is my friend. So I tend to give her the benefit of the doubt, even when her web made me think of an old Far Side comic where two of her kind built their home across the bottom of a playground slide: 'If we pull this off, we'll eat like kings.'
Monday, October 24, 2011
Family Reunion, Without a DeLorean
Ah, Samhain...the time to remember your departed loved ones, and maybe hang out with them.
I must admit it still feels a little presumptuous, even after all these years, to ask them to join us here. I'll be polite about it, of course, but I can't help feeling a little shy.
You see, there was only about one time it felt like I was being kind to them instead of just the other way around. That was two years ago (could it have been that long?) when a friend passed away, too young and rather by surprise. He was born sick and didn't even reach drinking age when the swine flu got him.
I thought he might need some reassurance, some encouragement, to get where he's going and know it was all right to go there. I planned on helping him on Samhain night, when the veil between our worlds is the thinnest. Apparently he got the message before I got there. He thoughtfully left me some brochures in the dreamtime 'waiting room' to let all of his friends and family know he was all right and not to be sad.
Even there, he was doing ME a kindness.
I am considering what to do this year. Most of the people I've lost were family. I'll ponder the relatives who will give me an earful, relatives I am afraid to dredge up, and relatives who never knew me--and those are just the living ones. When I think of my dead ancestors, I realize how little I know of them, and them of me, despite in some cases spending years together in life. (Again, the same can be said of the living.)
It's fun to muse over what Grandma would say about my hair or whether my great aunt would have enjoyed skydiving (I bet she would). I won't ask them about these things, since I'm pretty sure they don't mean much outside the physical realm. Instead, I may simply invite them and enjoy their presence, if they desire, without asking anything else of them.
I must admit it still feels a little presumptuous, even after all these years, to ask them to join us here. I'll be polite about it, of course, but I can't help feeling a little shy.
You see, there was only about one time it felt like I was being kind to them instead of just the other way around. That was two years ago (could it have been that long?) when a friend passed away, too young and rather by surprise. He was born sick and didn't even reach drinking age when the swine flu got him.
I thought he might need some reassurance, some encouragement, to get where he's going and know it was all right to go there. I planned on helping him on Samhain night, when the veil between our worlds is the thinnest. Apparently he got the message before I got there. He thoughtfully left me some brochures in the dreamtime 'waiting room' to let all of his friends and family know he was all right and not to be sad.
Even there, he was doing ME a kindness.
I am considering what to do this year. Most of the people I've lost were family. I'll ponder the relatives who will give me an earful, relatives I am afraid to dredge up, and relatives who never knew me--and those are just the living ones. When I think of my dead ancestors, I realize how little I know of them, and them of me, despite in some cases spending years together in life. (Again, the same can be said of the living.)
It's fun to muse over what Grandma would say about my hair or whether my great aunt would have enjoyed skydiving (I bet she would). I won't ask them about these things, since I'm pretty sure they don't mean much outside the physical realm. Instead, I may simply invite them and enjoy their presence, if they desire, without asking anything else of them.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Kung Fu Pagan?!
I finally found the words for what I've been trying to describe: wu wei. It's hardly indigenous to Pagan thought; in fact, it's a Taoist concept. Yet I believe it fits in perfectly with my beautiful patchwork faith.
Wu wei literally means no action. As I understand it, it's about acting instead of reacting.
Aesop described a field of reeds bending in the wind instead of falling like the unyielding oak. Yet what I'm talking about is more than plain old resiliency. It's being so here, so grounded in who and what you are and where you belong in the universe, that nothing outside of yourself can make you become something else. It is a paradox, like the words 'act natural.' It is acting natural, without acting.
What does it mean to me? It means I sing the songs that reflect my own beliefs, instead of trying to filk the heck out of someone else's. It means my attitude is not anti-something, so much as it is pro-something. And when I raise energy with a purpose, well, I was raising it anyway, so let's put it to good use while we're at it.
The corollary: if I am to be spiritually agile, ready to flow like a kung fu master, if I am to be centered and flexible enough to act on what I act on, I can't very well put my faith in a dusty old box with the holiday decorations, rummage around for it when I need it, and look at it once a year. It must live every day, the Divine moving within me, as me.
And it does.
I'm not perfect, but I'm here. It is good.
Wu wei literally means no action. As I understand it, it's about acting instead of reacting.
Aesop described a field of reeds bending in the wind instead of falling like the unyielding oak. Yet what I'm talking about is more than plain old resiliency. It's being so here, so grounded in who and what you are and where you belong in the universe, that nothing outside of yourself can make you become something else. It is a paradox, like the words 'act natural.' It is acting natural, without acting.
What does it mean to me? It means I sing the songs that reflect my own beliefs, instead of trying to filk the heck out of someone else's. It means my attitude is not anti-something, so much as it is pro-something. And when I raise energy with a purpose, well, I was raising it anyway, so let's put it to good use while we're at it.
The corollary: if I am to be spiritually agile, ready to flow like a kung fu master, if I am to be centered and flexible enough to act on what I act on, I can't very well put my faith in a dusty old box with the holiday decorations, rummage around for it when I need it, and look at it once a year. It must live every day, the Divine moving within me, as me.
And it does.
I'm not perfect, but I'm here. It is good.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
1001 Uses for Chicken Feet
You could buy some chicken feet and if anyone asks, you're making soup. It could be true. People eat these things, even though they look almost like human hands. Here's a recipe if you need it.
Don't worry. You don't have to eat it if you don't want to. You could just play with it.
A friend of mine grew up poor in the South and says one year, he and his brothers each got a chicken foot for Christmas. It was all they could afford. It was sort of fun pulling on the tendons and making the foot move. Make the best of what you've got, right?
Of course, these uses are not the real focus here. Consider the context. You're thinking magic, perhaps spelled in some funky way to distinguish it from pulling a rabbit out of a hat.
So, what do you do?
Anything you want. That's the short, literal answer, not the real answer.
The longer answer, not to mention the real one: think of fire. Fire can be used to create a delicious meal or destroy someone's whole world.
Chicken feet are like that. So is anything you use in magic.
I don't believe that what you send out to the universe comes back seven times, or even three times. I do believe it comes back. It's a good idea to consider this before performing an action, magical or otherwise, which could bounce back on you. What are you willing and eager to have come back to you? Think on that, and do that.
Do you want someone to lose the mask they wear and start being honest with people? Consider whether you can take what you're dishing out.
Do you want someone to fall helplessly in love with you? How helpless would YOU choose to be?
Even a reflection can bounce back against a reflection, seemingly into infinity.
So before you choose whether to use that chicken foot for a good luck charm, a psychic weapon to scratch your enemies, or the base of a hot spicy soup, ask yourself, 'What do I REALLY want?'
Face it, y'all. It's too hot for soup. I'm sure you can think of 1001 other uses.
Don't worry. You don't have to eat it if you don't want to. You could just play with it.
A friend of mine grew up poor in the South and says one year, he and his brothers each got a chicken foot for Christmas. It was all they could afford. It was sort of fun pulling on the tendons and making the foot move. Make the best of what you've got, right?
Of course, these uses are not the real focus here. Consider the context. You're thinking magic, perhaps spelled in some funky way to distinguish it from pulling a rabbit out of a hat.
So, what do you do?
Anything you want. That's the short, literal answer, not the real answer.
The longer answer, not to mention the real one: think of fire. Fire can be used to create a delicious meal or destroy someone's whole world.
Chicken feet are like that. So is anything you use in magic.
I don't believe that what you send out to the universe comes back seven times, or even three times. I do believe it comes back. It's a good idea to consider this before performing an action, magical or otherwise, which could bounce back on you. What are you willing and eager to have come back to you? Think on that, and do that.
Do you want someone to lose the mask they wear and start being honest with people? Consider whether you can take what you're dishing out.
Do you want someone to fall helplessly in love with you? How helpless would YOU choose to be?
Even a reflection can bounce back against a reflection, seemingly into infinity.
So before you choose whether to use that chicken foot for a good luck charm, a psychic weapon to scratch your enemies, or the base of a hot spicy soup, ask yourself, 'What do I REALLY want?'
Face it, y'all. It's too hot for soup. I'm sure you can think of 1001 other uses.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Phooey on Unicorns
Despite appearances, I never meant for my blog to fart sunshine and poop rainbows. I do not consider myself New Age or a lightworker. While white light is an integral part of my healing practice, that's mostly because it is a blend of all colors.
I do not like unicorns. I do not like angels. Even if I thought archangels were out there bringing us messages, I'm certain they would not always convey their prophecies to rich white housewives in their 50s. If they do, they're jerks. I could never be New Age with an attitude like this.
I tried to get into Dances of Universal Peace. They filled me with raw oozing rage. The very first dance wanted me to 'live welcoming to all.' Sorry, that's a good way to get kicked in the teeth. I respect the force who lives in me and believe I was given a drive for self-preservation for a reason, just like any critter in the forest or the sea. It is good to want to take care of yourself. It is holy.
Just the same, I do feel the need to look out for my fellow human beings. There's got to be a balance, and that is what I was going for.
My intention here is twofold:
1. To explain my faith and practice in a clear, positive, and soothing way; this needs to be a good place for someone who is emotionally or spiritually spent and needs reminders of the balanced life.
2. To present Pagan spirituality in a way that is active, not reactive: in other words, the opposite of my first days as a Pagan. Sometimes I need my own reminders about balance.
When I began this path in a meaningful and open-hearted way, it was out of great need and had quite the reactive flavor to it. I was depressed and despairing. Hundreds of miles from home, I wandered the woodland trails, just me and the moon and the trees. I had never moved from my bedroom in my house before, let alone away to college with no one I knew. I was hungry, angry, lonely, tired: all the things the shrinks tell you never to be all at once or you'll lose it.
I lost it.
'It' could be defined in many different ways, but eventually I got 'it' back. This took years and much seeking and struggling and crying, and dancing and loving and communing. Getting 'it' back happened through the Goddess. She shone through Nature itself and through the faces and hearts of many people I knew and some I have never met in person.
This began with the moon. Call me crazy. I don't care. I reached out, and she heard me.
And then she laughed like a little girl.
It was a good start. It was exactly what I needed. And why not? Life has so much to be happy about.
I do not like unicorns. I do not like angels. Even if I thought archangels were out there bringing us messages, I'm certain they would not always convey their prophecies to rich white housewives in their 50s. If they do, they're jerks. I could never be New Age with an attitude like this.
I tried to get into Dances of Universal Peace. They filled me with raw oozing rage. The very first dance wanted me to 'live welcoming to all.' Sorry, that's a good way to get kicked in the teeth. I respect the force who lives in me and believe I was given a drive for self-preservation for a reason, just like any critter in the forest or the sea. It is good to want to take care of yourself. It is holy.
Just the same, I do feel the need to look out for my fellow human beings. There's got to be a balance, and that is what I was going for.
My intention here is twofold:
1. To explain my faith and practice in a clear, positive, and soothing way; this needs to be a good place for someone who is emotionally or spiritually spent and needs reminders of the balanced life.
2. To present Pagan spirituality in a way that is active, not reactive: in other words, the opposite of my first days as a Pagan. Sometimes I need my own reminders about balance.
When I began this path in a meaningful and open-hearted way, it was out of great need and had quite the reactive flavor to it. I was depressed and despairing. Hundreds of miles from home, I wandered the woodland trails, just me and the moon and the trees. I had never moved from my bedroom in my house before, let alone away to college with no one I knew. I was hungry, angry, lonely, tired: all the things the shrinks tell you never to be all at once or you'll lose it.
I lost it.
'It' could be defined in many different ways, but eventually I got 'it' back. This took years and much seeking and struggling and crying, and dancing and loving and communing. Getting 'it' back happened through the Goddess. She shone through Nature itself and through the faces and hearts of many people I knew and some I have never met in person.
This began with the moon. Call me crazy. I don't care. I reached out, and she heard me.
And then she laughed like a little girl.
It was a good start. It was exactly what I needed. And why not? Life has so much to be happy about.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Waking the Dragon
No, I'm not referring to the legendary temper of a character in A Game of Thrones. I'm referring to one half of an ongoing battle between...two forces. Not good and evil per se. Mercy and justice.
I associate so many names and faces with the Divine, frequently having many facets, as we all do. Folks in India dearly love Kali as Mother, yet we in the West are more familiar with her destructive aspect. Other Divine faces concern themselves with the not-too-different matters of both love and war: Inanna, Freya, Brigid. Even Kuan Yin, possibly the ultimate face of compassion, is often pictured riding a dragon.
It makes one want to say, 'What would Sybil do?'
It does seem odd sometimes that I experience the Divine this way. And yet, given how complicated even we humans can be, doesn't it make sense that we came from something or someone even more sophisticated? There is too much to fit into just one thought in just one brain, one feeling in one heart.
She is a mosaic to me. That doesn't bother me anymore. However, it does leave me wondering: if love is the law (and it is), why are there so many different and opposing ways to love?
Even if you remove sex and romantic love from the equation, it's still so easy to be cruel and kind at the same time. I don't know anyone who hasn't hurt someone else, and deeply, myself included. I remember this when one friend is accused of hurting another. How do I show love to both of them?
When does an unacceptable word or act become excusable? Does your position change if someone was drunk, off their medication, or simply had low blood sugar? What if there was a death in the family or some equally epic event? What tips the scales that far? What doesn't?
I just don't know. And I feel that I have to be all right with that. Yet life goes on, and so do the lives of those I care about. In a perfect world--no, a tame world--we would all be in a Hug o' War and no one would feel like a victim, a villain, an outcast. But we are wild and we are willed. We dance the dance of life, and in our passion, we stomp on one another's toes.
To continue the metaphor to its limits, some of us started the dance wearing cleats.
I don't like confrontation, but sometimes it's appropriate. The question is, when? When do you wake the dragon?
I still don't know.
I associate so many names and faces with the Divine, frequently having many facets, as we all do. Folks in India dearly love Kali as Mother, yet we in the West are more familiar with her destructive aspect. Other Divine faces concern themselves with the not-too-different matters of both love and war: Inanna, Freya, Brigid. Even Kuan Yin, possibly the ultimate face of compassion, is often pictured riding a dragon.
It makes one want to say, 'What would Sybil do?'
It does seem odd sometimes that I experience the Divine this way. And yet, given how complicated even we humans can be, doesn't it make sense that we came from something or someone even more sophisticated? There is too much to fit into just one thought in just one brain, one feeling in one heart.
She is a mosaic to me. That doesn't bother me anymore. However, it does leave me wondering: if love is the law (and it is), why are there so many different and opposing ways to love?
Even if you remove sex and romantic love from the equation, it's still so easy to be cruel and kind at the same time. I don't know anyone who hasn't hurt someone else, and deeply, myself included. I remember this when one friend is accused of hurting another. How do I show love to both of them?
When does an unacceptable word or act become excusable? Does your position change if someone was drunk, off their medication, or simply had low blood sugar? What if there was a death in the family or some equally epic event? What tips the scales that far? What doesn't?
I just don't know. And I feel that I have to be all right with that. Yet life goes on, and so do the lives of those I care about. In a perfect world--no, a tame world--we would all be in a Hug o' War and no one would feel like a victim, a villain, an outcast. But we are wild and we are willed. We dance the dance of life, and in our passion, we stomp on one another's toes.
To continue the metaphor to its limits, some of us started the dance wearing cleats.
I don't like confrontation, but sometimes it's appropriate. The question is, when? When do you wake the dragon?
I still don't know.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Like Moontime, But Not
We just had a full moon and a lunar eclipse. In a few days, we reach summer solstice. The days are long and bright. The veil is thin. There is so much to notice, it is difficult to concentrate on any one thing. Usually when I feel like this, it is because my body is defragging, at more or less the same time each month. This time, I have the same strange vivid unfocusedness, but without the pain and the fog. Might the cosmos be defragging? It's possible.
The energy is building up like the finale in a fireworks show, burst overlapping burst.
Over here on one side, I am recalling my lovely dream in which I embraced a young cleric, from Africa I think, and told him namaste and meant it. Such mutual sweetness, transcending everything we held that was both different and dear to us.
Over there on the other side of the sky, another great burst of sparks! The word samaritan. I always loosely translated it as 'none of the above', the way the Samaritans seem in the Bible. In other words, Pagan. I even saw a cartoon once where the Good Samaritan looked like a Hell's Angel. Yet Christians use the word for themselves in Samaritan's Purse and Good Samaritan Church of Wherever. This concept has long annoyed me, so I looked into it further to see if I was right. (OK, OK, I checked Wikipedia.)
Well, it turns out we were both off the mark. It wasn't so much Pharisees vs. Heathens as it was Hatfields vs. McCoys or Spy vs. Spy. Samaritans are and were on the Abrahamic spectrum. I sit corrected.
Above those sparkly thoughts, another one booms: my loved ones and the things they need: health, reassurance, relief from years of whatever has been tormenting them. I remember. I look for ways to be helpful. But mostly I remind myself that the sun will come up every day without my assistance. What is in me, who is in me, is in everything that lives. She loves me, loves when I live life earnestly and fully, because she is life; she does not, however, involve me in every last decision she makes.
There is much more exploding in my brain in far more than 'the' four directions. Infinite directions, that's more like it, but you'd never get done with the beginning of your ritual.
The energy is building up like the finale in a fireworks show, burst overlapping burst.
Over here on one side, I am recalling my lovely dream in which I embraced a young cleric, from Africa I think, and told him namaste and meant it. Such mutual sweetness, transcending everything we held that was both different and dear to us.
Over there on the other side of the sky, another great burst of sparks! The word samaritan. I always loosely translated it as 'none of the above', the way the Samaritans seem in the Bible. In other words, Pagan. I even saw a cartoon once where the Good Samaritan looked like a Hell's Angel. Yet Christians use the word for themselves in Samaritan's Purse and Good Samaritan Church of Wherever. This concept has long annoyed me, so I looked into it further to see if I was right. (OK, OK, I checked Wikipedia.)
Well, it turns out we were both off the mark. It wasn't so much Pharisees vs. Heathens as it was Hatfields vs. McCoys or Spy vs. Spy. Samaritans are and were on the Abrahamic spectrum. I sit corrected.
Above those sparkly thoughts, another one booms: my loved ones and the things they need: health, reassurance, relief from years of whatever has been tormenting them. I remember. I look for ways to be helpful. But mostly I remind myself that the sun will come up every day without my assistance. What is in me, who is in me, is in everything that lives. She loves me, loves when I live life earnestly and fully, because she is life; she does not, however, involve me in every last decision she makes.
There is much more exploding in my brain in far more than 'the' four directions. Infinite directions, that's more like it, but you'd never get done with the beginning of your ritual.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Third Time's a Charm
It has been weeks since I came away from my third Florida Pagan Gathering, cleansed and nurtured inside (the outside desperately needing a shower and a long sleep). When I finally snapped my paper bracelet off, I felt a force far greater than the physical pull. The circle was open.
Yet the magic continues, in a quieter way than it did before. I find myself listening for it more. And there is so much to hear.
It doesn't come in words, most of the time. I wish it did, because words belong to me.
Instead, the magic makes me do the work of paying attention, without emotion, without fanfare. It points me to people in need of healing, in need of affection, of the quietness that is not quiet at all. It reminds me how much I already know, when I didn't think I knew at all. It has a lot to tell me these days.
It makes me want to try planting those purple pole beans a third time. As a friend pointed out, the spring larvae would have grown up by now. Maybe now the leaves and tendrils can flourish.
Yet the magic continues, in a quieter way than it did before. I find myself listening for it more. And there is so much to hear.
It doesn't come in words, most of the time. I wish it did, because words belong to me.
Instead, the magic makes me do the work of paying attention, without emotion, without fanfare. It points me to people in need of healing, in need of affection, of the quietness that is not quiet at all. It reminds me how much I already know, when I didn't think I knew at all. It has a lot to tell me these days.
It makes me want to try planting those purple pole beans a third time. As a friend pointed out, the spring larvae would have grown up by now. Maybe now the leaves and tendrils can flourish.
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