Migration and Housekeeping

If you’ve been reading with me long enough, you know that I have/had another blog called The Bad Witch Files. I’m in the process of migrating those posts here.



I don’t plan to delete TBW Files, so old links will still work. I just ask that you pardon the toodling that is bound to happen over the next week or so.

Goodness and Rebirth

The Forest of Rebirth by Narandel on DiviantArt

The Forest of Rebirth by Narandel on DiviantArt

I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you’re allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. — Charles Bukowski

I have always had a strong affinity to the Phoenix. I have an uncanny knack for rising up out of my own ashes.

I also kinda like Bukowski. Some people read him as “dark” and “cynical” and even “misanthropic.” But I see in his poetry (more than in his prose, I admit) an insatiable longing for goodness. A knowing that goodness is out there and a death-drive to fecking find it. To find it and straddle it and slide next to it and kiss it full on the mouth with the greedy expectation of being enveloped by its swarming, blood-thick reality. I’m not talking about altruism, philanthropy, political-correctness, or politeness. I’m talking about goodness. And goodness–honest goodness–is often heavy, sticky, and oppressive with wonder and insight.

Maybe that’s not what you get from Bukowski. I can see that.

But let me tell you a short story. I introduced Bukowski to someone who was grasping at spider’s webs, trying to hang on to a reason to live. Words, man. “This,” she said, “this I can feel.” She had been pushing away every constructed regurgitation of others’ emotions because they struck her as “false,” so she refused them and started believing that there were no “true” feelings to be had. “This. This I can feel.” Sounds pretty damn hopeful to me. Sure, she was reading “The Crunch,” not a very uplifting piece; but his refrain that “people are not good to each other,” implies that we can be. There can be goodness. Heart-breakingly beautiful goodness. Goodness that, with its nasty weight, most people reject for “love and light.”

I’ve been stumbling all over that kind of goodness lately. I’ve been finding it stuck to my shoes and matted in my hair and running down my legs in thick rivulets of dumbfounding honesty. I’m a little overcome by it but I also have the breathtaking desire to find more of it–now that I know it’s out there.

Rather, in here. Amazingly, but not surprisingly, it’s been in me all along. Goodness, I mean. I had just forgotten it, or had devalued it, or had disguised it as something else.

Let me put all of this verbal meandering in some context. It’s been exactly a year since my husband hired a lawyer to pursue a defamation case on my behalf. It’s been a helluva year. Since then I have been in court (for myself and for others being similarly harassed) more than I ever wanted to be[1] and, as a proximate result, have lost my teaching job at the university.[2] Somewhere in that year, I lost a sense of who I am. I turned over the kindred leadership to my priest and his wife (also a blood-relative), put occult teaching on the back-burner, sent a child off to college, had a couple of traumatic personal “lashing-out” adventures, and watched my husband obsess over another woman (even if it is hatred-fueled, it’s a real thing to watch). All that, and the result is that now I don’t have the job that I sacrificed so much for. I don’t mean I sacrificed because I wanted it–but because my family needed me to stay put, I passed up other (tenured) positions in places that are not Alabama.[3]

So I feel like Bukowski on this. I honestly feel like the last 12 months have been equitable to binge drinking. Once this hangover clears, I think I’ll be allowed to resurrect my slaughtered self.

You see, just a few weeks before The Husband hired The Lawyer–Midsummer 2013–I wrote about an epiphany I’d had the previous spring (and put it in context of the year prior to that) in the aptly named “Midsummer.” I said:

… the crux of the vision was that I needed to …. reclaim a part of mySelf that had been lost and reintegrate it into my whole being. A week later I went to a celebration with a nearby coven. At their ritual, they performed a “rebirthing” ceremony. I thought, “Ah-ha! This is just what I need.” Nope. I had to bear that weight a little longer.

Little did I know how much gestation time I was in for.[4] And how much giving birth to oneself hurts.

I figured if I gave you Bukowski, I should give you Giger--just for giggles.

I figured if I gave you Bukowski, I should give you Giger–just for giggles.

In that year of breaking myself into uncompletable shards, I found that there were hidden treasures. Hidden goodness. Under all my own “false” emotions—the ones worn to pacify others’ needs for stability and appearances—I found “true” emotions. The sticky-thick unnerving kind. And I needed to be unnerved. I was dying under the weight of niceness[5] devoid of any anchor in goodness.

What happened was this. I became more intentional in my devotions[6] and I prayed. A lot. And you know what happens when witches pray. Shite gets real.

Suddenly, I had this fantastic aetherial partnership that went far and beyond anything I had experienced with KCHGA. The only way I can describe it is “entirely specific.” And this is a really good thing—else-wise I’d believe I was losing my ever-loving mind. But because I have seen evidence that this is not “all in my cracked head,” I know it’s real.

Then. Then I started obeying—executing instructions. And I’m a little blown away by the specificity of it all. There is nothing ambiguous about instructions, consequences for not following instructions, rewards for following instructions, grace-periods, etc.[7] It really got to the point where I started writing things down so that I could highlight them, check them off, cross them out as they happened.

A friend and I have a joke about life being a “Choose Your Own Adventure” book. This is almost like reading ahead and knowing what’s on each page before choosing!

  • My first test was in January and an unexpected “adventure.” The experience itself was pleasurable but left a little aftershock, if not outright trauma. Maybe just in that it actually happened the way it was supposed to. Or at all.
  • Then there was Imbolc and our land-warden-planting and a visit to a very high energy location and yet another adventure—where I may have left someone else vaguely traumatized!
  • Then Ostara and no adventures aside from a rebirthing ritual of our own. That, I think, was just after I figured out the “rules” of this new relationship.
  • Walpurgisnacht was fascinating (and landed me sick for a month) and a complete reversal of Walpurgisnact 2013 which I spent intentionally with only female priestesses—this (liberating) ritual took place with just myself and three male[8]
  • Between the spokes in the year, there was a series of unfortunate events—floods and infestations—that, in turn, caused some of the other items to get ticked off my list.
  • Finally, just before Midsummer, some paradigm shift caused the whole convoluted picture to come into focus. By mid-June, I saw what was coming but I didn’t know the finer details.
This was from June 30. It's just ... so much.

This was from June 30. It’s just … so much.

Now, on the other side of the harvest, Lammas, things are starting to converge. And I’m terrified that I’m getting exactly what I bargained for. Exactly—but with fun surprises at the bottom of the box.[9] And a lot of hidden treasure among the shards of my broken soul. And all that goodness—true goodness—I thought I had irretrievably lost. I don’t think I’ve found rebirth or resurrection yet—I think these are the labor pains.

There is a bout with forgiveness that I’m going to have to fight. Actually, more than one. And if fighting *with* forgiveness doesn’t sound paradoxical to you? Welcome to the conundrum. I feel ya. And I think I’m up for the fight. Hope you are too. If not, drop me a line and we’ll hash it out together.

There’s a “struggle of the wills” that I’ll have to take part in. I think I know where this one is going to come from. My goal is to remain compassionate yet not a carpet to be walked on: balancing geburah and chesed.

In my secular life, mid-November is significant. It’s when the timeline for the EEOA investigation of my termination runs out and I will have an answer. And I’ll turn to that page in my adventure book. Until then, I plan to stay the course.

I hope to be able to keep the regular promise of letting you know how it turns out. But I simply can’t say what’s on that page just yet. Either way, waes thu hael.



[1] Except when I was courting law school.

[2] You see, my supervisor has a relationship to the defendant and let me go in retaliation. Needless to say, I have another year of another suit–this time an EEOA violation.

[3] I did get what I needed out of that suit though–the truth has (mostly) come to the surface, maybe not the details but certainly the reality of the situation; I’m unharassed; and I know who my friends are and who I can trust better than ever. Plus, I’ve an even stronger sense of devotion and have reaped the harvest of such devotions. That can’t be all bad.

[4] Like whale and rhino long.

[5] Motivated solely by the determination not to be “bad.”

[6] There is still plenty of room for improvement.

[7] The only thing I am struggling with is the time line. I’m fecking impatient and may end up shooting myself in the foot with that shortcoming.

[8] We have two Walpurgisnacht rituals: the main one and a more private, chthonic one.

[9] Sometimes it’s just the spiritual equivalent of a press-on tattoo—but that’s better than nothing. Lagniappe is always welcome.

Hunter Gatherer: A Mabon Reflection (aka: I’m Getting Too Old For This)

Ehsha Apple (A. Farmer):

I’m rounding out a tome on ritual and have taken to searching my old blogs for words of wisdom. Oh, so much has changed since this Mabon post, but with Midsummer (Litha) just around the wheel, I thought I’d reshare it with you.

Originally posted on The Bad Witch Files:

Autumn is upon us. I can feel it in the air, the season is changing. The songs of the birds have changed, the bugly activity in the yard has a different hum about it. The crops are in their final throes, ripening more quickly than I can gather them. Daily, something new has taken on a different hue. The deep green lushness of two weeks ago has mellowed into softer shades of chartreuse and yellow; soon there will be orange and red. The air is lighter and moves more readily. Everything is a little more insistent: change.

Change insists itself in the Autumn because without it, we would be overrun. (See “The Bad Witch at the Watering Hole”.) We need a little of the death of winter to make way for the birth of spring. Makes sense in my head.

My body feels it differently. This insistence often feels like a push toward death…

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Toxicodendron Radicans (Poison Ivy) and Magic

Ehsha Apple (A. Farmer):

It was just after writing this post that I realized the plant I had been pulling during the opening story in question was poison ivy herself. With my bare hands. When I didn’t flame up, I also realized I was one of the very few who are not affected by her. Nonetheless, I remain diligent and respectful. Just because she’s spared me in the past doesn’t mean I’ve earned a lifelong pass–right?!

Originally posted on Witchcraft From Scratch:

As I write this blog, I notice that it winds around like a vine, wrapping itself around whatever it grabs hold of, climbing into crevices where I couldn’t have foreseen it would grow. There should be a joke about irritation here—but I’ll leave it to you to make.

The Wild Hunt by Peter Nicholai Arbo

As we were clearing land for the kindred hof and ve, my husband got into some poison ivy[1] and spent a week learning about cortisol while he was in Scandinavia. As we piled wood for the fire, we had to check to make sure we weren’t sending toxins airborne. Plus, a thing about poison ivy is that the toxin is carried in a non-water-soluble oil, so if you try washing the affected area with water, you will just spread the irritant further.

What’s this got to do with magic?” you ask?


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Another DIY Thing

Breast cancer is nothing to sniff at.

My sister has recovered from two bouts with cancer: breast and skin. My aunts have as well. Well, some of them. I have had a benign tumor removed and that’s skeery enough for me.

I have always known that there was a link between antiperspirant and cancer–particularly breast cancer. (I know, I know, the medical jury is “out” on the exact science–as they tend to be.) But, I never stopped using mass-produced products. I used “all-natural” and aluminum-free products, but never liked them so went back to the chunks of white antiperspirant: “cancer sticks”–maybe.

I stopped using shampoo and conditioner on a regular basis around 2008 and stopped all-together since I stopped hanging around with horses. A few years back, I started making my own soap and face cleanser, toner, moisturizer, etc. Why in the world was I still using store-bought antiperspirant.

Oh–wait–yeah. Deodorant and antiperspirant are not the same thing.

But still.

Here’s some TMI for this DIY post. When I get sweaty and then encounter strangers, they tell me I smell good. No kidding. Folks stop me to ask me why I “smell so good.” I’d like to say that it’s because I have a good diet and that I use (almost) all-natural body-products.

But it happened back when I was younger and not as careful about what I put in and on my bod. I’d leave dance-practice and get actively “sniffed” on the bus. I’d go to work and–after a few hours of moving around under hot lights–have coworkers ask me, “What are you wearing?”

And I guess I smell different to different people. Some folks say I smell like tree bark, some say grass, some say incense, some say other earthy things. You’d think I’d smell like whatever magical concoction I was working on most recently–but nope. No one ever tells me I smell like Abramelin or mugwort. I’d love to tell folks that “I just smell like a witch,” but that would be misleading.

One of my son’s theater friends insists, “pine needles.”

My younger daughter says “bug spray.”

I can only conclude it is a pH thing.

Anyway. I was at this local writer’s shindig and started talking to a grad student about no-poo-shampoo and witch-hazel toner and olive oil soap and honey+egg conditioner. She told me her basic recipe for DIY deodorant. I knew it was a thing but had never talked to anyone I trusted about the results.

Given the dance my genes do with breast cancer, I committed to trying it.

After a week of resisting the urge to Google/Pinterest/WikiHow a zillion recipes, thereby confusing myself into an unworkable tizzy, I decided to research body stank. I knew it was about moisture and warm spots and bacteria, so there were no real surprises.

Then I moved to asking, “What makes DIY deodorant fail?” The top three complaints were:

  • Itchy or drying
  • Reddening or irritating
  • Low melting point
  • Crumbly
  • Less sweat but still stinky

So I put my brain to work and  started looking at the contents of my cabinets.

Basically, I was told to mix coconut oil and baking soda. That was the start.

  • To combat the itchy dryness, I added raw shea butter and vitamin E oil.
  • To address the irritation, I cut back the baking soda and added arrowroot and bentonite (facial clay) for absorption.
  • I figured the bentonite would also help with the low melting point–especially here in the Bamas.
  • And I added beeswax to help it hold together without crumbling or melting.
  • I added pharmaceutical grade tea tree oil as an antiseptic.
  • Here’s where I think I got brilliant: stank. Stinky pits are caused from bacteria growing, right? What’s the best way to naturally combat nasty bacteria? Yup, I cracked open a probiotic capsule and tossed it in the mix.
  • I also added a couple of essential oils that I thought might compliment my already naturally woodsy aroma. I won’t add lemon grass next time. On account o’ it’s just–well–it’s–I don’t like it.

The melted ingredients. I put them in a mason jar in a pot on the stove. less cleanup, I figure.


The powered ingredients. Less clay next time, I think.


Baby-poop green. At least it’s just armpits. This is before it cools and hardens, btw.

I’m not going to put the measurements here because I’m still working it out. As ever, I’ll let you know when I get there. My first batch was a little softer than I’d like and–well–it’s an ugly green from the clay. Personally, I like the feeling of tea tree oil–but I want to make a new batch and be more sparing with that ingredient for those who are less amenable to the sensation.

I didn’t have an empty deodorant container, so first I poured the melted goo into a silicone cupcake tray thinking I’d make deodorant cakes, but they melted at body temperature and made my hands ooie. So I remelted those and poured it into paper “dixie” cups and figure I can peal away the paper as I need to.

My hubby wants a batch. And that’s a big deal. He usually waits until I get everything “almost just right” before becoming a guinea pig. And a few friends have asked for some. I’m excited.

So–you give it a whirl. Especially those of you already in the practice of making yummy skin things (ehem, Amy — here’s a shameless plug for my friend’s shop: plantcraftbyamy.com). Let me know what proportions work in what climate. Let me know if you come up with better ingredients or combinations.

And, as ever, I’ll let you know.

Waes thu hael and sweet smelling.

Crumblin’ Down

I wrote this back in February, but so much of it still applies that I just edited it up a bit. Back then I was still in the decision phase, now I am in the “action” phase.


Phew. I don’t know about you but the last time Mercury was in Retrograde (whether you buy into it or not), it kicked my ever-lovein’ arse.

I love this little advice bit on how to keep from get “retrograded.”

After thinking about it for a minute, I’m putting off a necessary action until after the retrograde goes straight. I was going to move forward–and then I remembered.

This decision is one where waiting has been a little nerve-wracking and has felt counter-intuitive. The decision itself wheedled at me and built to a head for about a year. After I made the decision, it’s just been a matter  of  timing. Every time I’ve waited? I’ve been, um, rewarded–we’ll go with “rewarded.” So I’m  going to wait a bit to take action on that decision. I mean, given the number of communication snafus I’ve seen around me during Merc’s Retro–even if it’s not a reliable explanation, I figure it’s better to wait than to tempt wyrd by jumping the gun.

Seriously, the last Retrograde was strange. Sure, a number of communication breakdowns is par for the course in any busy life, but the kinds of things I saw over a two months period would turn your hair white–and I think I have a few more grays to cover as a result of the funtimes known as Late Winter 2014.

Not only that, but my nicely compartmentalized life–work over here, kindred over here, family like so, personal relationships like this, and sacral life and devotions go like that–imploded.

Every boundary I thought I needed in order to keep my psyche functioning at normal capacity disintegrated. I had people form my business-life visit me in the workplace, I had workplace collide with kindred, I’ve always had kindred in the family and family in the–well, you get the picture. There was definitely peanut butter in my chocolate and chocolate in my peanut butter. It was enough to have a girl singing Mellencamp.

Well, that and “Small Town.”

Only, I can’t “breathe here in this here small town” without exhaling on someone tangled up in something.

Crumblin’ walls, man.

As Mercury Retrograde approaches again, I’ve decided to learn from my experience about crumblin’ walls earlier this year–perhaps I have reached a place where I can no longer segregate my life from my life. Nothing “bad” happened from them tumbling walls, but I was left feeling a little nekid.

It’s a good thing I learned long ago not to do things in one part of my life that would embarrass me in another part of my life.

I mean, I’m no saint, but . . .

I’ve known people who have to scurry about day and night just to keep the left hand from finding out what the right hand has been up to. People who can’t leave certain friends and acquaintances in the same room alone for too long, lest some fabricated barrier be rent in twain. Yup, Being forthright and wearing my life on my sleeve is a little boring, but at least I don’t have any lies to keep track of. Those who have to keep their walls up are usually trying to
manipulate people by triangulating them with or isolating them from others.triangulation

My walls aren’t those kinds of walls. My walls are like the differences between “Mom-life” and “Work-life” like I mentioned briefly in my post about Ostara. I think everyone has these. And I could see that mine were all about to disintegrate. All I could do was have faith that this would be a good thing.

Guess what? It was.

Know how we say that the CIA, NSA, FBI, etc. have to keep a legal “wall” between intelligence and law enforcement–but at the same time, we wish they could share information more openly? (We’ve gotten better at the balance in the last decade, I think.)

It’s like that–my metaphorical CIA metaphorically ran into my metaphorical NSA while my metaphorical FBI was in the metaphorical room and they all got to talking. Now I have  solid, um, “intelligence” that I wouldn’t have had if those walls hadn’t come down.

Now, the domino effect assures that some other peoples’ walls are coming down along with mine. They might not be so comfortable with the exposure they are about to get. But it can’t be helped. Once they get going, tumblin’ walls gonna tumble.

That’s why it’s best to live with good gefrain–never do anything in one part of your life that you wouldn’t want shared in another part of your life. Walls are not reality and they have a tendency to come crumblin’ down.

It’s like the old saying about wearing clean underpants just in case you are in an accident.

Hunker down. July 1 is just around the corner.

Waes thu hael!

Of Mice and Meh: A Heathen’s Reversal of Fortune

It’s been a weird month or so. And a really fecking hard week.

Of course, as you know, I lost my teaching position at the university. My take on it is that this was done in retaliation for my having reported a coworker (who was thus terminated by higher-up in the food chain) for religious-based harassment. This has meant more lawyers. And other banal yet demoralizing experiences.

We’ve had an odd mouse thing in the chicken coop and in the house—and ew. Every day the mouse adventures get weirder and weirder.[1] The end result is that we removed the drop-ceiling in our basement so the vermin have no way to run from room to room.



We had two rooms flood from different sources (thus the contents of those rooms are all precariously arranged in inappropriate places).



Basements are fun.

imageAnd I have a child experiencing a crisis which has caused our medical bills to explode. Also—it’s made me have to cancel all of my summer plans so that I can supervise her care. Her safety is well worth it—trust me, this is a no brainer.


Don’t think I haven’t already considered how this fits into the Wyrd I have weaved, how my Luck is functioning in relation to my god-gefrain, and how my faith is being tested. I have thought it out. I think it out every dang day these days.

The truth is that I’ve been entirely at my wits end. In the end, I had no choice but to, if I my paraphrase, “Let go and let my gods.”

It was a moment of, “Now, I don’t mean to get up in your face, but I kinda ran out of steam a while back. I’ve been going on pure inertia here. I might could use a push or some sort of gravity-related assistance.”

My gods like locomotive metaphors. Well, any metaphors really—as long as they hold together.

Two nights ago I didn’t sleep.

I stayed up until midnight-thirty washing dishes and whatnot and was awoken at 3:30 in such a way that left me unable to go back to sleep. As a result, I overslept a bit this morning. If you consider waking up at 7:30 instead of 6:15 sleeping in, I “slept in.” One hour makes a huge difference in morning chores, however. And the domino effect of that hour was amazing.

Before I get going—I have to remind you about the floods and preemptively answer: “No. I can’t use an irrigation timer. I have a really nice one—but cannot use it this year. I. Just. No.”

Let me start from the beginning. Normally, I stumble outside at 6:20 or so—in my PJs, set the sprinkler going on the part of the garden that gets the earliest sun (before said sun hits past the shadows of the high pines), then head back in for coffee and cat/dog feeding. This is followed by changing the irrigation system to the back yard where I do my chicken and bee rounds before heading in for a second cup of coffee and presentable clothes. It’s usually 8:30 or 9:00 when everything has been watered, everyone has been fed (including the humans), and I’m ready to hit my office where I work out various publication issues, toodle on The Faces Book, answer emails, read the day’s whatnots, etc. That is—if it’s an office day. Sometimes it’s an “appointments” day or an “errands” day or a “clean the refrigerators” (yes, plural) day. You know—you have an abode—it takes some doing to keep a joint hopping. And this joint is damned big and aging and it takes a lot of doing to keep it on its feet, let alone hopping.

But today, I slept in. A reversal of (fortune) sleep patterns.

I staggered out of my room around 7:45 and looked at the sun shining brightly on the first half of the garden and said, “Feck it. I have to water by hand anyway, I’m making coffee first.” The cats were pleased at this situation because it meant that they got food first. Caffeinated, I decided that I needed “real” clothes before watering the garden.

This was the best call of the day.

I got the water going at about 8:30, watering just the soil so the leaves of the plants wouldn’t burn in the Southern sun. I didn’t quite make it to the second third of the garden before my First Neighbor came by walking her dog. She’s a preacher’s wife who homeschools—we don’t have a lot in common but I really adore her conversation. She’s level-headed and as thoughtful as she can be. (I also just learned that her oldest son, a National Guardsman, is now in Afghanistan; so let’s remember them when we light our candles this week. Will you do that with me?) We don’t talk much since she does her thing and I do mine and—apparently—they intersect geographically about an hour and a half apart.

While in conversation with First Neighbor, Second Neighbor drove past while taking her son to Summer Sport Activity. On her way back, she parked and came up my walk where I had moved on to cleaning paintbrushes (let’s just say that earlier this week there were canvases, there was paint, there were teenagers, all this resulted in art-therapy and turpentine).


Second Neighbor is an old friend. Her daughter and my youngest were besties once upon a time—she and I are/were coworkers. (I never know how to phrase this—I mean, I still have a summer gig. I kinda still have the job. Kinda.) We had a lot to catch up on since we hadn’t talked more than just in passing at work or at our kids’ school events for a few months.
I gave her the house tour called: “This Leak is Why There Are 312 Books in My Foyer; This Leak is Why All of the Guest Bedding is in My Office; and This is Our Solution to the Great Mouse Invasion of 2014 (and Why I Had to Clean Mouse Brains Out of My Keyboard).” This was accompanied by the “Chicken, Huckleberry, and Bee Tour”—which is, by nature, much more fun. We got to spend a solid hour catching up.

Just as she left, I returned a day-old call from An Important Support System. That conversation was—I—just—wow. If you’ve ever had one of those experiences where you thought no one on earth could understand the full implications of your situation and then you talk to someone—someone TOTALLY SANE—who not only understands your issue from A-Z and all the letters in between, but also makes the most apropos jokes and then offers to get your back, then you know exactly what happened to me sitting on my wee (cluttered) porch this morning.

Then I breathed.

For the first time in about five weeks. I didn’t even have to ask and help was already on its way.
imageAs I was exhaling, my Charming Lady Neighbor came by with egg cartons and a bouquet of fresh lavender tied with the sweetest pink bow I’ve ever seen. (The effect it had on my psyche rivaled the unexpected and humongous bouquet of oregano my dear girlfriends brought me from their bourgeoning garden this past weekend.) She didn’t even want eggs. She still had a few from the dozen I gave her on Friday; Charming Little Lady Neighbor had collected the cartons from her other Charming Lady Friends and brought them to me.

I literally give away about $20-$30 worth of eggs a month,[2] I barter with the rest. Hardly anyone remembers to return the cartons.[3] This one was a big deal to me.


I guess this post is my way of saying thanks to my gods in an openly visible sort of way—I think I just got my push, my reversal of fortune.

And that’s how I see it all relating to the Wyrd I have weaved and how my Luck ifunctions in relation to my gefrain. Yes, my faith is being tested. And I am letting go.

After all, I already have a potential teaching job in the Fall that will allow me to teach Pagans about Pagan things.

I’ve also already been offered a really great opportunity that I would never be able to accept if I was working full time. As ever, I’ll let you know how that goes.

I have a kick-arse garden this year, so ain’t nobody gonna starve.

Because of the mice and the flooding, I already have a new floor (and a new window is on the way). And I have been forced to purge a storage room that just never would have happened. It just wouldn’t have. And I really wanted to use that room for living space—now I can.

The Kid is doing fine. The doctors are good and we are optimistic. And Second Friend? That visit may prove to rekindle our daughters’ friendship, which is always nice.

The Kid has lots of friends, but this experience is helping her weed out the supportive ones from the toxic ones. A skill I didn’t learn until I was an adult. As a matter of fact, I had to stop proofreading this post twice. Once to play a card game with The Kid and Her Friends[4]; once to drive The Kid and Other Friend to a temporarily—but necessarily—relinquished activity. It’s good to be getting back to normal.

I still don’t know where I’m going to get the money for theatre camp—a favorite and highly therapeutic activity that I simply cannot make her forego[5]. But, it will happen. *Somehow.* I’m just gonna let it go. And breathe.

And today. Today has been a relief.

I’ve had the chance to see some neighbors that I’ve missed by being outside only in the early-morning.

And I find that I have some quality pro bono legal assistance. All I need is a couple more weeks and I’ll have the filing fee, and away we’ll go.[6]

My life is nowhere near serene at the moment. Everyday finds a new reversal of fortune. But if you, like me, have run out of steam—and then run out of inertia—know that help is generally right there. All I had to do was “let go and let the gods.” Maybe you could try it too?

And, hell—letting go is one of the hardest things to do.

That may be why it grants the greatest compensations.

I wish you well and hope you weather whatever storm you are currently negotiating. And if you are having smooth sailing? I hope you continue to find your Luck.

Wæs þu hæl!


[1] I know that there is a problem with killing mice. We tried more humane removal. But you have to understand, this is a dangerous infestation that has caused respiratory illnesses and has become downright gross. The mice have got to go. We are down to “bearable” but--do you know how many fertility charms have backfired over here!?

[2] Don’t get on me about this. There are a few families in my neck of the woods that have fallen on hard times. The measly $2 I charge for a dozen eggs means less to me than knowing the little ones have food on their tables at breakfast.

[3] It seems that every once in a while I get a carton windfall. If you have ever been one of my polystyrene benefactors, know that this is always a big deal to me.

[4] I’m always weirded out when The Teens want to play with The Mom.

[5] Especially since Theater Lady is moving and this is her last year in our town.

[6] It’s too bad we couldn’t have reached a more civil-like arrangement when I tried. Now everything will be public record—and the ugly has exploded. Though I’m clearly in the legal (ethical, spiritual) right, this adventure won’t be fun for anyone, so keep me in your thoughts on this count too.

Meh. The gods work things out the way they will have it, not the way we will have it.