I am thinking about y’all and thinking about getting back to writing. My last few posts have been about how I’m going to write again. About how I’m getting back to my old self. About how I’m gonna do this and I’m going to do that.
But I haven’t.
Truth is, those posts have (unwittingly) been about me sitting on this very uncomfortable fence. Sitting and sitting and letting time pass and letting moss grow on my soul. I’ve been sitting on this fence so long that my arse has become, well, comfortably numb.
Before I dig through all the shadows of a few years’ betrayals, realizations, stumbles, recoveries, near death experiences, and subsequent hiding, cocooning, healing, and peaking out behind the curtains to see if it’s really time to reemerge or if my wings are still too frail to survive those first few sticky moments in order to start putting words on a screen again, I need to know if you’re really still here.
A few of you contacted me one-on-one to give cyber hugs and I appreciate that more than you can know.
And. yeah, I’m fine. I’m just, you know, comfortable. And (if I’m going to write, I may as well bother to be honest) a little numb. OK. A lot numb.
And it’s maybe-possibly-potentially time to get uncomfortable. And . . . un-numb.
Are you still with me?
I think I might be almost sort of possibly in a safe enough space to articulate a notion that could pass for a vague semblance of rational thought.
If you’re here with me. Letting me be needy. Holding my hand through the scariest parts.
Yep. I was the big brave Bad Witch. I was the toughest Heathen with the biggest vocabulary and slung-est sack. My god-gefrain was sexier than Shakira at the Super Bowl. Yep. That was me.
A whole lotta then.
But I feel like I can be 100% That Bitch again. I mean, I am–way down in my well-tested-DNA. But I need to wear it like a pointy hat again.
And I have caught fleeting glimpses out of the corner of my eye. We all know how this goes: I turn to look but they are gone and I cannot put my finger on them.
(I can hear you singing, btw. –And you have a lovely voice.)
I haven’t forgotten about y’all. I have simply been living my life; finding success in every sofa cushion, jeans pocket, and cup holder; falling in and out of love; traveling; mining new experiences; expanding my business(es); and unraveling some mysteries.
You know I had a crisis of faith and lost motivation to write or study or leave my porch. But, I’m here to tell you–there’s something else. All at once (around Winter Solstice), I had a veil ripped off my eyes. I always knew I was “on to something” in my spiritual practices but “it” always felt just out of reach, right on the tip of my tongue, and a vaguely blurry around the edges. After an extended hiatus from teaching magic, leading a kindred, and practicing any sort of spirituality or divination at all, I have been tossed into an apocalyptic vortex. It’s wonderful. Honestly, I’m figuring out that so much of everything I wrote a decade ago was spot on—but for much more complicated reasons than I understood at the time. Ummm, no. Much simpler reasons.
I plan to go back and revisit all my old ideas and explore them through this new lens. As such, I won’t be writing much here. I thought I was primed for blogging again, but this needs a different medium (no pun intended). I’ll be here, just not in toto.
This post is not going to relay to you all of the details about where my behind has been for the last two years and what I’ve done and who I’ve done it with (and without) and how this or that came to fruition or about the evolution of my relationship to The Ancestors and The Gods or about the answer to life, the universe, and everything.
Except that it is.
This post is not going to explain how, after losing my job and my faith and my in-laws, I lost my home and my spouse and my partner and my dog (dammit). And it’s probably not going to say too much about how I gained a business in a new town, a new love interest, a new house, a new work environment (or two), and a new perspective on life.
Except that it is.
This post certainly isn’t going to pick up right where we left off; because it can’t; because I can’t; because I’m not the same person anymore and I’m sure my voice has changed entirely: the narrative and narrative approach certainly has.
That part is completely true.
This post is going to be about what I did today. Just today. Because now is all that really matters, after all.
And, just let me put this down here and walk away: the universe already contains everything. Including bacon. Especially bacon. I’ll get to the bacon later.
I’ll begin at the beginning as David Copperfield teaches us is best.
I woke up earlier than I have been. My sleeping patterns have become wacked over the last month; not that they were great to begin with. So, waking up early (voluntarily) was pleasant. I have the best jersey sheets in the world (sometimes they invoke a bit of a tussle, but that’s not altogether undesirable) and my room smells earthy—typically of lavender, sex, and herbs. I enjoy having a room to myself, a house to myself. For someone who thrives on companionship, I really like living alone. I’ve become accustomed to waking up alone. I’ve even begun genuinely enjoying it. It allows me the opportunity to wake at my own pace without the need to tiptoe for fear of disturbing another, without the rush of preparing breakfast for whoever is simply going to die without coffee and divine-or-otherwise-bacon. I listen to podcasts connected via Bluetooth that echo through the Turn-of-The-Century Southern architecture that surrounds me. I play Madonna and Flogging Molly and Rammstein and Nina Simone and Hozier and (sometimes) Migos and Nathaniel Ratliff and The Decemberists on my Firestick TV as loud as I like and without fear of judgment. When I’m not at work, I wear knitted knee-high socks and Mukluks and shorts and ratted shirts and hoodies and a ponytail and my ancient glasses. I don’t wear makeup. I cook when I’m hungry. I sleep when I’m tired. I poop with the door open.
This morning it was cold, so leaving my heated room was a little harder than usual. I consumed coffee with CBD and heavy cream and the last chocolate Pop-Tart, relished love on my three needy cats, changed into work clothes, packed some supplies, and headed to the bank and then the store I own in my tiny new town.
While tending my shop, I have long stretches of downtime with busy spurts where atypically joyful people come in and stare in wide-eyed wonder at the interior, the wares, my mischievous hair. The shop smells of coffee, tobacco, and magic. I watch movies—it usually takes me all day to watch one film—listen to more podcasts, surf the web, grade student work (I also have a position as Assistant Professor of English and am teaching Shakespeare and Film), order new merchandise, talk with friends, and read Tarot. Not all at once, of course. Today I wrote this.
Today I have some special projects going on: I’m expanding my business and this involves paint and hammers and Gorilla Glue and a surprising number of curtain rods. Today I took some phone calls from vendors and would-be-vendors. Yesterday, I got two out-of-the-blue calls from old Kindred folk, so today held follow-up messages. Today I started research on my next business venture. Today I did a little house shopping. Today I thought about getting a puppy.
Tomorrow I may look at trucks.
A thought occurred to me over and again: “What a year.”
The store is just shy of its first anniversary and the last year seems to have drifted by so effortlessly. I know it hasn’t. When I think about the chronology, it really hasn’t. At all. Like, not even a little. Like, there wasn’t a week that went by there for a while where I didn’t feel like Life had dumped my purse out on the table in the library during detention. I think about all of the hardship and loss that went into the inception of this business and the world I had to build on my own in the wake of all that hardship and loss; I remember the trauma (emotional and physical) that brought me to a place where rising from the ashes was the only option I had left. I remember it, but I don’t feel it anymore. It all feels so easy now. I even quit smoking. And I only drink rarely—and look forward to drinking even less, because … damn; let’s just take a moment to remember that PTSD and alcohol are not a good mix.
I had my annual March break-up in February, a little early, I know, but not everything can sustain to the full year mark. My heart was shattered. But having survived three MAJOR breakups in three years (one of which was a divorce), I learned some things. The most important thing is that someone else’s feelings are none of my business. Cain’t fix ‘em; cain’t change ‘em, cain’t take ‘em personally, and cain’t let ‘em rule your world. The only reason I mention it was that it may have been just what the proverbial doctor ordered. The metaphorical straw that broke the camel’s back. The idiomatic final drop in the water clock. The not-so-figurative-right-thing-at-the-right-time that made this particular Witch sit on her hands (read this and say, “doctor heal thine own danged self”), drop the oars, button her lip, and all of the other weird phrases we use to say the same thing.
For two-and-a-half years, I couldn’t find divine. I knew it was there, I just couldn’t access it. For two-and-a-half years, I couldn’t find my (writing) muse. I knew it was there, I just couldn’t access it. For two-and-a-half years, I couldn’t find (business/work) inspiration. I knew it was there, I just couldn’t access it. For two-and-a-half years, I couldn’t find prosperity. I knew it was there, I just couldn’t access it. For two-and-a-half years—who are we kidding a decade or forever, I couldn’t find security and confidence. I knew it could be there, I just couldn’t access it.
After two years of digging myself into a quagmire and then six or seven months of climbing my way out, I discovered (remembered) the most valuable, most effective method of approach for life: let it go. Sit on your hands, drop the oars, button your lips, etc. Let it go and watch it turn to glitter.
When you’re so used to fighting and struggling to hang on for dear life, and so used to working and asserting just to be acknowledged as a worthwhile person, and so used to being deprived and struggling to make ends meet and to put out metaphorical fires, and so used to battling for cooperation and assistance, it’s hard to think of “letting go.” My gut reaction was, “If I let go, it will all fall apart.”
There was that one last thing. That thing that made me throw my hands in the air. That thing that forced me to let go for just a minute. I let go and actively decided not to grab hold again. I let go and let everything smash to the ground like the beautiful and terrifying timpani at the open of a symphony.
I let go and, indeed, it all fell apart. And with the shards of my life glinting fractures of light all around me, I could breathe. I didn’t have to hold it all together anymore. I didn’t have to keep track of all the parts. I didn’t have to worry about other people’s feelings that I cain’t fix, cain’t change, cain’t take personally, and cain’t let rule my world anyway. And, this time, in letting go I didn’t have to die. All I had to do was not step on the allegorical glass in my figuratively bare feet as I walked away.
So, yeah. Today didn’t have anything to do with Magic or Witchcraft or Sorcery or healing or food or family or community-building. But it had everything to do with all of those things in every way possible.
It’s good to see y’all again. We’ll touch base soon.
Quarks, Bacon Fat, and All the Love in the World,
P.S. If you want a sneak peek at where this is headed. It’s headed back to where we were oh, so long ago. Back to where we prolly lost track of a lot. Back to where we clearly had some lessons to (re)learn. Back to what feels like an entirely different person’s life. Back to where we hope to be headed from here on in because this feels so much easier and absolutely more fun and entirely more gratifying. Back to the future, as it were. Have a look at The Bad Witch and The Good Egg and you’ll remember, right alongside me, that we ordered divine bacon and room service is bringing us bacon in the morning and all we need to do is go open the door.
 Especially the Stephen King part. Watch 1922before I blog again. It’ll be worth it. Plus Tom Jane.
I’ve spent the last year doing everything except writing.
For the most part, I didn’t write because I spent most of my time reflecting upon things that I could never transcribe without betraying confidence. Lots of confidences, actually. It seems that 2015 was The Year of the Life Lesson. As a minister, friend, mother, lover, teacher, I’ve held my share of hands in 2015. By the end of the year, my refrain had become, “A’right Universe, no more life lessons; I’m all full up on character building at the moment!” Most of these were not *my* life lessons, mind you—I was part of support systems during others’ life lessons—though there was definitely a learning curve for me in this tale. A Cosmic teachable moment, if you will. I’ll get to that.
The intensity of my year, genuine personal crisis among close kindred after genuine personal crisis among close kindred,
Gennady Golovkin vs Curtis Stevens
resulted in a really beautiful summer experience with everyone leaning on each other and taking solace in “not being alone.” And musical theatre. Once fall rolled around, many of the crises had leveled out to manageable; divorces were finalized, custody battles were no longer heated, risky pregnancies were brought to healthy conclusions, abusers were managed by the legal system, and that sort of thing. Two new crises appeared—one cancer diagnosis and one lost job for the family’s sole provider—nothing to sneeze at, but certainly not the power-punch jab-cross-left uppercut-cross combination of spring. Just let me just say, for the record, the last days of September and the first weeks of October sucked. (For a peek at how I approach the cycles of the seasons, have a look at “Deep Winter,” written almost exactly a year ago.) In the vacuum of further crises, however, I saw that patterns of abuse started to appear—some of them wonderfully resolved—others not. That’s where the lesson became mine. At what point do I stop being “support” and start being “crutch”? Here’s what I figured out. Some people come to me because they respect me as a spiritual leader. Once they’ve been ministered to, they are grateful and go back about their lives. Some people come to me and don’t know how to respect the role of service a minister assumes. As spiritual leaders, this is a precarious ledge for us to tread. And entirely our responsibility to regulate.
This is just an interesting side-note and, perhaps, metaphor. My daughter, who works at an assisted-living complex, came home and said, “This lady asked me why we wear gloves when we bus tables. When I told her it was ‘sanitary,’ she said understood why we wore them to serve, but not to bus. I had to tell her, ‘When we serve, we wear gloves to protect you. When we bus, we wear them to protect ourselves.’” Apparently, the lady still didn’t get it. In some circumstances servers are imagined as automatons. But there is a big difference between service and servitude. And sometimes it’s appropriate to put on prophylactic gloves.
The problem with this is that we need to touch and to be touched—physically, metaphorically, you know—and gloves act, by their intended nature, as a barrier. So, when to wear gloves, when not to wear gloves? When do I need to stop directly touching and start protecting myself in this act of service? Yeah.
That’s where I am. Trying to figure out gloves.
In the past three months, though I had decided I was out of the confidential woods enough to write again, I’d not been writing because my life took on some of those elements that required me to learn to lean on someone. It’s odd having the shoe on the other foot. Or glove on the other hand, as it were. Here’s the deal. My kids are grown and my husband and I are looking to relocate—perhaps across the state, perhaps across the country, we haven’t determined that yet. The ambiguity of the situation is naturally riddled with both anticipation and anxiety. Smack dab in the middle of that, we’ve taken in a tenant, a dear friend who has a great opportunity to advance his career but who needs a temporary leg-up to make that happen. Anyone who’s had a long-term house-mate knows there’s a good deal of negotiation involved.
And a good deal of boxing—move this here, that there, put this in storage, etc. In the middle of boxing up a house inhabited for a dozen years, a house in which small children came to adulthood, I needed to relearn to relean on my own support system. Thank the gods I had one. And I made a new discovery along the way; (this is probably the point I want to get to most), I have found a Muse again. It took all the literal and figurative boxing up of the past and all of the precautionary glove-wearing of the present to create room for new things: a safe space.
So, here’s my plan. (If I write it down and post it, I feel more accountable to follow through.) I know I’ve told you a dozen times that I was going to write a book about my nutty experiences in the Pagan arena. Sure, I did all the handbooks and non-fiction religious texts, but not the book idea that was the inspiration for this blog over five years ago. I never could get my hands wrapped around the narrative properly because A) like I said in “Deep Winter,” I didn’t know how the story ended and B) I didn’t have an appropriate Muse to address. Now I have both closure and a Muse. No more excuses. But to keep me in the writing mode, I’m going to hold myself responsible to this blog again too. It’s a good way to keep my spiritual-academic brain in top form. I’ll be writing about the Runes and Heathen lore and practical applications, as usual; but rather than using the English alphabet as many of us did for years a few years ago, I’m going to work my way through the Futhark “alphabet.” (The Elder—not that I won’t wander into the Younger or the Anglo-Saxon Futhorc from time to time.)
With that, I leave you for now. As ever, I’ll tell you how the boxing goes and what I discover about these gloves.
 And add to this list “musical director”! Yay, it’s such an adventure. After my fun with George Bailey, I got to direct Young Frankenstein. On Tuesday, we, The Board of Directors for the local theatre, will vote on the musical for summer 2016. I have the perusal pack for the seemingly unanimous top pick already on my desk. As ever, I’ll let you know. For now, I’ll just say that I may need to build a wooden rabbit.
 Servants exist to be persistently retained, right? Um, no. Let’s not get off on entitlement and the creation of a servant-class and the politics of servitude in The Deep South, because this quasi-Marxist Witch could go off. When a teenager from Texas makes a bad choice and lives are destroyed and his momma’s defense is “affluenza”? Huston, we have a problem.
 Exciting new change: I’m providing Reiki services at a local wellness studio. It’s grand and I feel “in touch” again.
 Who, it just occurred to me as synchronous to this post, “donated” a large box of culinary gloves to our household. Anyone who knows me knows that there is a direct corollary between the Scoville score of a pepper and the likelihood that I will touch a facial membrane after cutting it.
For those of you who have always wanted to take a class with Yours Truly, here’s your chance. I’m teaching a class which aims at differentiating the facts from the fictions of The Salem Witch Trials at Cherry Hill Seminary this summer.
“Love all, trust a few …” (W.S. All’s Well that Ends Well. 1.1.61.)
While I realize that most Pagans in America practice in solitary, there are still a good number of folks that practice in groups: covens, kindred, tribes, groves, councils, etc. When we do this, we make ourselves vulnerable in a lot of ways. For this reason, many groups employ a policy of “vouchsafing.” (I’ll likely address the etymology of it at The Big Bad Words Blog.) This means that someone within the group meets newcomers to assure everyone’s welfare. It helps everyone within the group feel comfortable with the newcomer and it guarantees that the newcomer is familiar with at least one person at the gathering—likely an unfamiliar experience.
This is on my mind because the last few weeks have included several opportunities to vouchsafe new attendees, an energy-packed ritual and gathering—which is our primary motivation for vouchsafing, and a notable increase in “Catfishing”—that which we vouchsafe to prevent.
Firstly, the “Catfishing.” It’s odd how, periodically, we get upsurges of requests from clearly fabricated Facebook profiles. They tend to be brand-spankin’-new profiles with an obviously fictitious name, a photo that reeks of being stolen from some teenager’s Instagram attention-mongering or deviantArt mythical creature over-identification, no friends, no photos, and no other activities. Given the history we’ve experienced with cyber-stalkers and harassment, we are guarded. I like to think that these are truly well-meaning folks who are trying to establish a Pagan profile for networking; but I realize that at least a fraction of these are just silliness. They arrive daily for about two weeks and then cease for a few months, rinse, repeat. No harm is done, I just find it curious how they come in waves.
It was during one of these waves that we received a request to join us physically for Imbolc. It was the next week before we could meet someone who turned out to be what seems to be an absolutely perfect match for our group: academic and looking for solidly founded theology and practice, compassionate, and properly nerdy. It was the best case scenario.
There have been situations where we have met with people requesting invitations to our events and have had to decline. A few times we have invited people and had to discontinue future invitations based on their behavior. Some people are simply unthewful (unethical), frithless (unfriendly), or simply unwilling to contribute to the group welfare in a meaningful way. But mostly, it is those people who act in such a way that makes the existing membership “creeped-out” that causes us to cease invitations. When we gather for “family dinner,” we let our hair down, let our defenses down, and hold nothing back from each other. When we do ritual-work together, we get ourselves into a spiritually vulnerable state; there’s no room for “the willies.” Not to mention nosey-bodies and lookie-loos. That’s never good.
For example, let me tell you about Imbolc in very general terms (to protect anonymity and all). We had three new attendees, two “significant-other” guests, and a non-member-repeat-attendee (that is to say he’s not new but he’s not a formal member—we call these “Friends of The Tribe”), as well as most of our regular members. The three new attendees as well as the significant others were vouchsafed by existing members of the tribe. We took responsibility for their guidance through protocols and ritual. But, the night took several weird turns. Almost right at the onset, we were called upon to do an emergency protection rite for one of our members. Watching a horde of Heathens hammer and hallow away in unison can be skeery to an outsider under any circumstances—when you add the fact that we are a seið-working group? If we had not vouchsafed these individuals and prepared them for what was happening, we could have done some psycho-spiritual damage to them on accident.
Add to that, our resident oracle did her thing and—of course—focused in on a newcomer. (Who had just been completely “opened up” by one of our Reiki Masters—all things work together even if we don’t know we are doing them, no?) Not on purpose, of course—we don’t get to pick and choose what messages come through, right? It was intense, far more intense and specific than usual. A bit of an initiation, you might say. Two other newcomers, a couple, sat in on the drum circle and had the opportunity to feel the energy we raise. Had they not known what they were getting into, this could have been, um, awkward. And, there is, yet another reason to make sure there is a contained and secure environment—you never know when a novice is going to tap into the ambient energy and spontaneously exhibit latent witchy abilities. I won’t go into that part of the evening except to say, I’m still finding glass.
I often felt apprehensive that we might be encouraging insularity or exclusivity with our policy of vouchsafing. But this recent experience has proven to me that all of the reasons for which we put the policy in place are valid.
And I’ve learned a subsidiary lesson. There is a limit to unknown variables that can be prudently merged into an existing spiritual-ecosystem before it becomes destabilized. So—that means that not being able to vouchsafe the “absolutely perfect match for our group” until after Imbolc turned out to be the best case scenario—again.
As ever, I’ll let you know how Ostara goes.
 In our kindred bylaws, we state that, “If a potential attendee has never celebrated with us before, we insist on meeting with him/her in person before including him/her in a ritual event. If that isn’t feasible he/she will need to be vouchsafed (referred by a third party, someone known by the Kindred) before we will extend an invitation to attend a ritual event…. However, once a guest is welcomed they should be offered food and drink as well as all the comforts typically afforded a visitor.”
 Our Facebook page even has an Anti-“Catfishing” policy—here are the basics:
“Given the number of fabricated profiles that appear on social media and given the vulnerability we face on Pagan-related Facebook groups …. in order to keep a peaceful and nurturing atmosphere, free of unnecessary spectacle, we must vouchsafe those who would like to be part of our Facebook presence…. Anyone asking to be added … on Facebook must be a ‘known-person.’ This is to say that we must verify that there is an actual person of good intent behind the profile with which they request membership. While everyone is welcome in our kindred group, anyone who has an unknown or anonymous profile will need to be vouchsafed (referred by a known third party).”
 My estimate is somewhere around 10% of the total attendance. No kidding.
It’s been a big week in The Deep South—and it’s only Wednesday.
Monday, Alabama became the 37th state in the U.S. to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples. It hasn’t been without conundrum, as you might imagine. At the last minute, Chief Justice Roy Moore (infamous for his 2001 Ten Commandments controversy), who was removed from office in 2003 (for defying Federal mandate in said controversy) but reelected in 2012 (way to go, Alabamians), issued a memorandum to our 67 probate judges saying that they were not obliged to follow the Federal order. Most of them didn’t. Some of them did (about 25).
Roy Moore’s “memo.” Click to read the full article about Lee County.
My county probate judge, Bill English of Lee County, was one of the majority who did not comply with the Federal order. On Sunday night he said that he’d observe “the law of the land” as he was sworn to do. Monday morning, he changed his tune. This left couples in my county empty-handed when they went to the courthouse for marriage licenses. All but one.
I showed up on the courthouse steps around 8:30 AM prepared to marry all applicants at no cost. I did this because I had read reports that there were many, many officiants refusing to officiate over same-sex weddings and that probate offices had suspended courthouse marriages for all couples. That made me ashamed for them. So, I pressed my clerical clothes (but I wore jeans and cowboy boots because I thought I’d need to be comfortable for a long haul on a cold and rainy day), printed off a simple secular ceremony, made a binder with a sign that let folks know I’d perform weddings for free. (I was even prepared to marry heterosexual couples if they had the audacity to ask.) After all, same-sex couples have had enough obstacles, I didn’t want them to face any more than they had to. Two of my kindred priests (one ordained with our kindred, a second ordained through another avenue but in the process of becoming ordained with us) went with me. My son brought his guitar and my daughter brought a camera. We were prepared to give these couples what “traditional” couples take for granted: a wedding. I wasn’t preparing to make some grand political statement. I wasn’t preparing to be interviewed by a slew of reporters before the day’s end. I wasn’t preparing for anything other than lending a hand.
It was cold and raining. We were feeling rough, y’all. Click to read the article by the Auburn Plainsman.
By 9:00, we were disappointed to learn that our judge was defying Federal mandate; however, we remained hopeful that he’d come around by day’s end. He did not. But something wonderful happened. Using our mobile devices and social media, we learned that the nearest county complying with the law was fifty-miles away. Two grooms, Justin and Shawn, decided to go to Montgomery County for their license. But they wanted to be married “at home.” So, five hours later, they drove back to Lee County courthouse where they found me, a handful of relentless supporters, and a pack of reporters waiting for them. And then they got married. At home. Right in front of the courthouse that refused to recognize their equal rights to marriage.
In the intervening five hours, reporters from every local news outlet camped out with us—the equal rights to marriage crowd. There was only one vocal detractor all day (from a megachurch locals refer to as “Fort God”). He came early, preached a little, and left. For the most part (aside from the obligatory disgruntled federal employee), everyone was either neutral or lovely. The Sherriff’s Office sent extra protection—which we didn’t need—and she was, looking like a khaki-clad Laura Croft, a wonderful addition to our small crowd. Most of the folks arriving at the courthouse for regular Monday business didn’t even realize what was happening before their eyes. Those who did extended gracious comments and support. It made me wonder who the heck these people voted for. More importantly, who they would vote for in the next election.
In the early-afternoon, I had the great and historic honor to marry the first same-sex couple in Lee County, Alabama. And, let me tell you, they were adorable. And crazy about each other.
The day was full of waiting and anticipation, but when the moment came—ahhh!
It didn’t occur to me that I was involved in a moment that would make history. It didn’t occur to me that this act was political. It didn’t occur to me that the news coverage would be so vast. All I thought was, “Finally! After six-and-a-half-years, this couple can be legally married.”
And, “I wish I hadn’t worn jeans.”
I’m not being disingenuously humble. I’m pointing out how little political thought went into my decisions Sunday and Monday. I was frank with reporters about my rationale for being there, about my religion, about everything. It was only afterward that I realized that some of these “franknesses” were, perhaps, poor choices! For instance, I caught wind that a local radio station was talking about the events and drawing attention to my “pagan-ness.” I didn’t hear it, so cannot comment further. But most of the local news outlets discussed the fact that I am a Pagan minister, used my full name, gave my home town, listed my kindred’s name, etc.
No, no. This wasn’t intimidating at all.
Side note: I’ve just learned from a dear out-of-state friend that the national news (yes, national news—in blue jeans yet) has not given so many of my personal details or details about the couple. Thank goodness.
But this gave me pause. Why is it even worth pointing out that I am a Pagan minister? Is the point to discredit the veracity of the ceremony? Is it a way to make both polytheism and homosexuality part of some “fringe” group dynamic? Is it to assure Christians across Alabama that one of their own did not betray them by doing God’s work in a constitutionally assured c’mon-y’all-we’re-supposed-to-love-one-another-and-lift-each-other-up sort of way? Is it just another sound bite? I let you know as it plays out.
Here are a few thoughts that I’m still mulling over in the wake of far too much attention paid to me for what I considered nothing more than “showing up” and “doing right.”
I’ve had scads of people reach out to me to thank me as members of the LGBT community and as members of the human race. I’ve had loads of “congratulations.” This one puzzles me. I didn’t do anything for which I should be lauded. I can accept gratitude for “sticking up for” a marginalized community, but I didn’t achieve anything. Congratulations belong to the lovely grooms. The attention is just not sitting easy on me is all. I’m being as gracious as I can be, but I still feel bewildered by “congratulations.” And as far as “sticking up for” anyone, I didn’t think of it that way. I was just doing what I do. Ministering.
Last night, I got a call from a 2002 Freshman who saw me on the news in Denver, Colorado. He said that I helped turn him into “a useful member of society.” I guess I’m facing the tremendous responsibility that comes with all that. It makes one examine the minutia of one’s actions in a paranoid sort of way. What if one of the little decisions I make is the wrong one? Monday, I said something like, “I’m largely a huge fuck-up. I just happened to be at the right place at the right time. I didn’t do anything but be there.” Fortunately, the news didn’t use that as their sound bite.
Maybe I’m coming to terms with the fact that “being there” is all that really matters in the first place.
I’m seeing lots of Online comments about officiants on lists of folks willing to perform same-sex marriages. Yet, I was the only one in front of my county courthouse Monday. Maybe that’s why I feel so strangely about “congratulations.” Dude, I just showed up. Yesterday (day 2), a friend of mine, a Priestess in Birmingham, was the only officiant at the courthouse in a county that IS issuing licenses. The only one. She showed-the-feck-up. And she was worn out and could have used a hand. No one else showed up. My point is—it’s about showing up, putting your cowboy-boot-wearin’ feet where your mouth is.
The beautiful Lilith Presson showing up and doing right in Jefferson County. Click to read the article.
This brings me back to the issue of being a pagan officiant. It seems Pagan ministers are a majority of those willing to perform services. Does that make us, ironically, more like Christ—in that we (generally) imagine all humans as having intrinsic value and equal rights—than some Christians? Just to be totally clear–I said “some.” There are always magnificent exceptions like (Baptist) Rev. Ellin Jimmerson of Huntsville. Amen.
This little bit of local attention has spun my head and I need a few days for self-examination. Hopefully, in those few days the justices of Alabama will do some self-examination as well and join the rest of us on the side of The Constitution. When they do—or when the Federal courts do it for them—I’ll have my feet where my mouth is. I’ll be showing up. I’ll also be in something other than blue jeans.
Congratulations to all the newlyweds. Thank you to everyone who showed up.
Proof copies from the publisher just arrived. These are for my kindred to preview before open distribution. I’m a little tickled. OK–a lot tickled. I feel like I’m posting pictures of my newborn.
Also, my magical students now have legit study guides and workbooks. (This is the first of 3-4 sets, btw.) Doesn’t take the place of actual teaching and mentoring, but it sure helps with continuity of tradition as my older students step forward and start teaching.
The ritual book is on its way to finished too. I’m finally ticking off some goals.
We magical folk always tell each other, “Be careful what you wish for.” The kicker is that what we want sometimes turns around and wants us in return. And then—it gets us.
Let’s just say I’ve been got.
I’ve always wanted to write a memoir about some of the particularly nasty experiences I have been in and borne witness to as a witch, surrounded by witches. My justification for never finishing the thing was that I didn’t know the ending. Good writing knows where it’s going. Even if the writer doesn’t know at first, the story itself leaves a trail of breadcrumbs along the way; a good writer can find that trail and follow it home. The breadcrumbs have finally settled and I can begin to digest the trail—but I’m not sure I really even want to follow it back home. Because, ew. Maybe in my old age.
Yes, I realize that birds are a problem in my metaphor.
Around about this time last year, I left off drafting a memoir and started writing A Year With The Dísr, a ritual book of sorts crafted especially for my kindred. I thought, “Well, the seasons are cyclical. I don’t need to know the end.” What I didn’t know was that I was going to have to live the cycle in order to truly write from a place of deliberateness. I drafted that one and it rang as hollow—a set of rote formulae for seasonal rituals like every other rote formula for seasonal ritual. I wanted a stronger sense of gnosis to guide me in uncovering the Mysteries of creation, death, and rebirth.
Be careful what you want; it might just want you in return.
So, about 117 pages in, I put it aside. And not exactly by choice—it seemed something wanted me enough to pull my by the ear and teach me a cosmic lesson.
Two years ago, we changed the name of our kindred and changed the emphasis of our attentions. Immediately after that, we started seeing purposeful growth. But Midsummer of 2013 saw a boom in attendance and participation—a heyday, if you will. As summer turned to autumn, we saw hardship and loss (strikingly manifest at our Lammas celebration)—and we faced it as a family. That Yule, in good Heathen fashion, we did what we had to do and culled out the resources that were most draining and fed that which would bring us most strength. (I’m not talking about people necessarily, rather activities and goals.) We held a celebration the following January and solidified our commitment to each other. Oimelc/Imbolc followed and spring saw an uphill battle—especially for a few of our members. By Midsummer we were, again, firm in frith and expansively joyful. However, as the season waned to Lammas, so did so much else. This time, I had to face much of it without my kindred—not because they abandoned me, mind you; but because two really wicked incidents derailed our Mabon and Yule celebrations, leaving only a Winternights celebration in between.
Around October, things took a turn for some of us. Winter was deep, lemme tell ya. But I kept saying to everyone, maybe in hopes that it was true for me too, that the fire was returning with the spring. The land would renew with the sun. Day would dawn.
This was a genuine test of Faith—capitol F, Faith. If I really believed that as the seasons turned, our lives followed suit, I had to believe that in the crocus there is Hope—capitol H, Hope. Headed for another Oimelc/Imbolc, I can already feel the stirrings of profound optimism.
Don’t get me wrong, on paper it looks like life is shite right now. I’m still seeing clients but basically out of work—my beloved vocation as teacher unfairly torn from me and with that, a large part of my identity. Some dear friends are facing total devastation and, as is my calling, I find myself a rock in a tumultuous sea—this is rewarding but simultaneously draining. You know this, I’m sure. At 15, 18, and 20, my kids are facing their own challenges, but we are facing them together and head-on. One of the blessings of Deep Winter has been that my husband and I are clinging to each other in a way that the previous 25 years only dreamed of. Communication and trust are at an all-time high and anxiety and hostility at an all-time low. Spring brings with it the promise of a full partnership: familial, emotional, physical, and spiritual. Winter was rough but it doesn’t depart without some beautiful recompenses.
Another of those reassurances is the return of my kin. With that comes the return of my inspiration to write, to finish projects left-off in despair. There is renewed inspiration to strengthen old community relationships and build new ones—while steadfastly avoiding toxicity. Inspiration—even leaders need a muse, and I have rediscovered mine in my kin. For a minute, I wasn’t sure we would even reconvene at Oimelc, but I am looking forward to the respite that comes in the arms of people who love me dearly—even when I feck it all up. “Even if the bread isn’t fully baked.”
And, of course, even par-baked bread can leave a crumb-trail to follow home.
Now that I’ve experienced two full years that rise and fall with the seasons, I feel that my wish has been granted. I have seen the death and rebirth of creativity, security, affection, and all those other things that make the world go ‘round in a directly personal way that has edified me. I can apply this cosmic education to the project at hand in a way that makes it more than rote formulae.
And, having taken a few hour hiatus in the composition of this post to talk to a magical student, I have a plan for the next round of perfectly timed priesthood preparation.
Though Deep Winter held its hidden blessings, I’ll be happy to see the fire of spring return. And though it was a rough row to hoe, I’m blessed to have gotten what I wanted.
I did that thing where I exposed my heart and then ended up surprised to see it thoroughly trampled. Silly me.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not maudlin or melodramatically, romantically distraught. My heart’s just broken. It hurts and it’s exhausting.
And I’m not a kid. I’ve had plenty of heartbreak. Ain’t none of it ever measured up to this.
You see–over my six-month hiatus, I had a bit of a life-changing adventure. The beginning of the year saw me defeated by a number of things in my personal life and left me questioning all those things which I imagined as “essential” to my identity.
A good mother
A strong leader
An ethical person
A spiritual person
An effective teacher
Things happened with my kids, my job, my marriage, my tribe, my family of origin, my physical household–all of which left me ready to fling up my hands. Not bad things (mostly–one was pretty damned bad), just irksome thing that didn’t win out on the side of benefit when considering cost. Then Midsummer rolled around and I had something to hang on to. Something easy that was all benefit. Something sparked in me and I had the tenacity to move through the rest of the year. Something saved my effing life–and I didn’t even realize it needed saving. If you read my post from August, you know I had taken a turn for the outright hopeful.
I felt as if everything was divinely ordained. That, for whatever reason, the divine was placing me in a particular position to do something good. Or at least meaningful. Even if only on the personal level. And I needed something good and meaningful on the personal level–so this was a real boon for my ailing spirit. I really listened to spiritual guidance and chose my steps with great care and deliberation. They weren’t all easy, trust me. This road was paved with shards of glass. But it seemed an absolutely worthwhile road–and I was alive.
Yeah. Well. All things end. This one just ended abruptly and in a way that leaves me asking why the gods put me in such a position in the first place.
I’m pretty sure I misstepped and had the cosmic rug pulled out from under me because I was “disobedient.” We don’t really think in terms of “sin” and “damnation” but there is a sense of “obedient” and “punitive.” Plus, the one sort-of (it’s too complicated and personal to write about) triggered the other. It’s hard not to see a connection instead of a mere corollary.
Nearly Winter Solstice and the decline comes with the seasons. Ah, I love a good pathetic fallacy.
When I saw the end approaching, I have to admit, it was damned hard not to whip up the witchyness. It has taken a good deal of willpower to keep myself from tossing magic on top of desire and the fear of loss. There’s a part of me that knew from experience that all I had to do was *that one thing* and I could turn the tide for myself. But, there’s the other part of me that knew from experience that the unintended consequences, “Monkey Paw Style,” of magical intervention can be devastating.
Yesterday was my birthday and in 36 hours I managed to accumulate more loss than in the past year combined. Today I’m struggling against anguish that crushes in waves, leaving me gasping for air as I get pulled under again.
The thing about mourning is that it comes and goes. I know this. Eventually it comes less often and stays gone longer. But when too many losses happen at once, the mourning tends to get confused. The feelings of loss for one thing (that might have been manageable on its own) gets conflated with and compounded by other losses.
Some might say I’m embarking on The Dark Night of the Soul, after which I will find peace and enlightenment. Part of me says, “I hope so.” The rest of me says, “Bah.” I never much bought into Eckhart Tolle anyhow.
But considering this term, “dark night of the soul,” goes back to–at least–Saint John of the Cross, I can consider it in Tolle’s terms without too much chagrin.
It’s a great way to approach the holiday season–I promise that’s irony.
Rather than flinging my pain outward with magic or banal actions that potentially cause more damage, I’m spending some quality time in my head with some awesome poets.
I think Kahlil Gibran captured the experience of The Dark Night of the Soul best in his poem, “Defeat,” from The Madman:
I’ve not come to terms yet with the final line–do I really want to be dangerous? Part of me cringes, the other part says, “Hell yeah.” Someone recently said to me that there was no one more dangerous than the person with nothing left to loose. I argued that a witch with nothing left to lose was more dangerous than anything.
I suppose the trick is to hang on to at least one last shred of something that’s worth losing. It’s a risky business: caring. It’s a sight riskier to stop caring, throw caution to the wind, and cast blindly into the aether for a balm or compensation for loss. Better to just vomit and move on. It’s working for me today.
If you’re in a dark spot, hang on. Morning comes. And I’ll be on the other side of night looking for you.
And because it’s therapeutic, I’ll be writing about “regret” and “remorse” over the weekend using T.V. Tropes and Idioms at The Big Bad Words Blog.
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