Boxing. Gloves.

creative_writingI’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,[1] 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

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.[2] 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[3] and to be touched—physically, metaphorically, you know—and gloves 309038act, 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.

And boxing.

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,[4] 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.

moving-boxes-labeled

 

[1] 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.

[2] 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.

[3] Exciting new change: I’m providing Reiki services at a local wellness studio. It’s grand and I feel “in touch” again.

[4] 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.

Vouchsafing

“Love all, trust a few …” (W.S. All’s Well that Ends Well. 1.1.61.)

Article Photo for SAFE

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.[1] 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.[2]

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.

safeThere 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.

seidrFor 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.[3] 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.spindle2

 

[1] 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.”

[2] 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).”

[3] My estimate is somewhere around 10% of the total attendance. No kidding.

February 9, 2015

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.

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.

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!

1978717_10102747384052201_5075152812003103420_nIt 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.

10987740_10102744441933231_1598155804593667504_n

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 doing the right thing. Click to read the article.

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.

Then there’s this idiocy. Yesterday, Chief Moore said that same sex marriage would lead to plural marriage and parental-incest. He wasn’t talking about cousins, y’all. He said fathers and daughters and mothers and sons.

A) That’s as senseless a slippery slope as the one about bestiality. One my Freshman English class could identify a mile away.

B) Would legalized plural marriage be that bad? I mean, it is closer to the Biblical model than enforced monogamy.

C) Have you seen a daddy-daughter dance?

That’s about as close to a wedding as anything else I’ve ever seen. White dresses, pledges about sexual conduct, exchanging of rings. Tell me I’m wrong. But first, have a look at last June’s Jezebel article, “Creepy Yet Gorgeous Portraits of Purity-Pledging Daughters and Dads.” 

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.

Love is the law, love under will.

War Damn Equality.

Waes thu hael.

Dark Night of the Soul 2.0

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 220px-JohnCrossof 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 is a term used to describe what one could call a collapse of a perceived meaning in life…an eruption into your life of a deep sense of meaninglessness. … Nothing makes sense anymore, there’s no purpose to anything.  Sometimes it’s triggered by some external event, some disaster perhaps, on an external level.  The death of someone close to you could trigger it, especially premature death, for example if your child dies.  Or you had built up your life, and given it meaning – and the meaning that you had given your life, your activities, your achievements, where you are going, what is considered important, and the meaning that you had given your life for some reason collapses.

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:

defeat

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.

Strange and Change

This is really odd.

I’ve seen an overwhelming spike in traffic on my web-presences in the last few months without doing anything. Literally—without even posting a single status. If you read this blog regularly (or even if you’re one of my new acquaintances and just take a peek at the posting dates), you know that I have been comparitively silent for about six months. Life has been a roller-coaster and I’ve been holding on, white-knuckled, during the loopty-loops.

I admit, it does make me a little paranoid to see that I have 403 new views in any given week. And it’s not just here—it’s on my Academia.com profile, my LinkedIn profile, Facebook—both witchy pages and homesteading pages. Like I said, it’s odd.

So, for anyone stalking me, investigating me, or simply interested in me and my daily totterings about, here’s what’s what over by here.

  • I’ve (almost completely) decided to leave the academy permanently and am looking at re-entering the corporate world. The pay is—no exaggeration—300% better, the people suck less, and there are tons of perks (like potentially working from home). So, having spent the last six months filling out teaching applications for jobs starting in August 2015, I’ve started looking at jobs that will make way for a “real” summer vacation. In Italy.
  • Speaking of applications, it’s college application deadline season and I’m pulling teeth to get transcripts and test scores together for my son, the professional procrastinator. But one perk is a foreseeable campus visit to Savannah.
  • I received encouraging legal information and it looks like I’m about to dive in to get some sort of settlement on the past year’s BS.
  • My love-life has been tumultuous but rewarding. My social-life has taken a profound shift for the better. My interior-life is—well, sort of in limbo if I’m being entirely honest. But as soon as the weather breaks, I look forward to getting out of my own head, redecorating a few rooms, and changing things visibly for the better. Other than that, the chickens are chickens, the bees are bees, the dogs are dogs, and the cats are cats.
  • But my artistic life—even if it’s not publicly evident —is blossoming. I’ve been writing poetry again and am submitting poems for publication. I’m painting again—mostly experimental techniques, so it’s hit or miss.
  • And I’m taking an extended break in teaching and tribal leadership to finish all of the writing projects I’ve started over the past two years.
  • Aaaand—I cut off all my hair again. I do this from time to time—seems to coincide with the urge to redecorate. Anyone of you who’s been here knows what this is all about.
  • Another thing that’s about to be revampped is my writing habits. I’ve taken a very necessary hiatus from blogging and am now ready to start putting my thoughts into words again. A great many things have substantially changed for me over the past six months, so you can expect to hear a change in my theological perspective as well as the rest of my worldview. Along with the loss of ten inches of hair and nearly three stone of body, I’m a different person than I was six months ago. Trauma will do that. Ironically, these changes are because I have reclaimed the person I was before all the trauma. I’m sure I’ll explore that in writing soon enough.

With that, I leave you for the porch and a girlfriend who brings me Diet Coke, cigarettes, and smoked bacon because it’s Tuesday.

And I leave you with the quote that has gotten me through the last leg of this wild ride:

HairBeingPulled

 

 

Samhain and Winternights

Looks like I’ve been at this Community Building thing for six years and this blogging thing for four. I’m always amazed when I go back and read posts from years past. Enjoy.

Witchcraft From Scratch

Samhain-Altar-2007-small

I found the article I referenced in my last post and was reminded that it was for the newsletter for The United Pagan Federation (October 2012). If you are interested, here it is:

Most Pagans recognize the term Samhain (pronounced: sow-an), meaning “summer’s end,” as the “Celtic” origins of Halloween. There are plenty of mythologies surrounding that particular night (or nights), but we aren’t exactly sure what the pre-Christian Celts, Gaels (Picts), and Manx did to celebrate—if the celebrated at all—because their custom was to pass knowledge down in secret, without writing much down at all. But we do know that Samhain was relatde to the nights that separated the warm seasons from the cold seasons (either the beginning or the end of summer). Unlike the equinox, when the light half of the day could be measured against the dark half of the day with great accuracy, many scholars believe that Samhain…

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Songs Of A Year Past

That feeling of a year has come and gone.

Its place was carved from my memory with an athame, cold and deep.

I feel the empty space that grew bigger after you ran through me . . .

You saw the child inside, looking for love in all the wrong places, bruised knees, bare feet, and my heart on my sleeve. You took this little bird under your wing; you said, “Little bird, fly higher than me. Little bird, be all that you can be.”

Little bird wanted to see the forest in its entirety; she left the nest in search of clarity.

The little girl is further away and the young woman is showing more with each day. Her wings are growing stronger and one day she will fly, higher than she ever dreamed.

She remembers the patience, care, and love you showed her and will not forget it. It was a cherished time in the girls’ life and she was looking for someone to fill the void that tarnished her soul. She wanted to feel whole and cared about as anyone does. She thought she had found it, everything felt so right; how could it have been so wrong? She doesn’t waste time stirring the cauldron on this one; she knows it’s better to take it for what it was and move on.

She wouldn’t change the past for anything.

The Little bird has built a new nest now and has plans of her own. She greets the morning sun each day with a delightful song, she stretches her wings and prepares for flight, yet in the back of her mind she knows she’s not ready for the sky.

She listens to Grandfather Wind just the same as she always did, she hugs Grandmother Oak even tighter, and she knows all that she knows from experiencing it in full force. She talks to those that don’t speak and she listens because she knows they do. Her intuition is getting stronger and stronger and she feels as though she’s actually opening doors inside herself that she never knew where there.

The stars still dance and shine just as bright as ever; the world still spins beneath her bare feet. She still dances to those same old songs and still makes up her own beats.

Her energy harmonizes with the rhythm of the Universe and she can see behind sight, she can hear without sound, she can feel without tangible touch, and she knows things grander than this tiny earth are all around.

She still doesn’t care if people want to stare; chances are so does she. She is open and free and can finally see everything for what it really is or is trying to be. Her truest feelings she keeps locked deep inside, if you want to know you must pay a price.

Big Brother is watching, the eyes never sleep; they are keeping tabs so we have to watch what we speak. Freedom of Press is so 1893, in 2013 nothing is free. She knows this all too well; she can’t assure you it hasn’t already been said.

With the clay in her hands, she sculpts her future. She lays down the past and walks away. “Lessons learned,” is what she’d say.

The sun is brighter tomorrow the moon is farther away. The grass is greener where you water it, don’t forget that and think it’s better in another place.

She has dwelt on things in the past way too long. It’s The End of The World record, skipping in the background. You make do with what you have, you sacrifice for what you want, and you shouldn’t change for anyone but you; that’s how regrets are made, that leave you feeling blue.

Those feelings drive you to abuse the things you shouldn’t and take for granted the ones that really care. The rest of the world doesn’t get it and other people make me feel weird.

There’s much on this Little Birds list of things to do. She cannot sit still and watch everyone else fall apart and melt into one big pile of goo. She wants to help in a game she can’t win. You see the game has no rules so she’s always on the losing end.

The intentions are becoming ever so clear the Little Bird is joyful and queer.

She can’t change what has happened and will not defend it anymore, no matter the side; she stopped keeping score.

There is a community around her that can use her energy more; she sees where she is needed and leaves when she is needed no more. The feeling of this past year has left scars on her bones. She’s changed in more ways than she’ll ever know.

She is quite lucky so don’t feel sad, she found what she was looking for on the outside and is slowly letting go of everyone and everything that makes her mad.

She has walked off the yellow brick road and has decided to see where the red one leads. She knows better this time around, she won’t be caught gazing at the stars with her guard down. Time will tell all and all will be known, there are greater mysteries I’d rather spend my time on.

If you care to come along you know how to find me; until then, my readers’ das Leben.