Holistic Stewardship: Feral Cats and Kale

Yesterday it was dairy; today it is kale.

I apologize that this witch’s blog has become more about food[1] than anything else, but dang.

A friend was making comment about the unavailability of kale in her town. I suggested that she might benefit from taking a break from kale and allowing her thyroid to rest from the oxalates.[2]

Oh my god. You would think I killed a puppy[3] in the public square.

She deleted my comment and sent me a text asking me not to be offended because she only wanted to be perceived as “super-positive” online. I don’t have a thing against representing oneself on public forums as “super-positive.” Personally, I’d rather be perceived as thoughtful and veracious. Meh. That’s me.

This friend happens to be cowan but I run into this with witches all the time. “I only want positive energy,” “I don’t like to allow room for darkness,” “I’m trying to surround myself with white light only.” That’s all kinds of unbalanced in my opinion, but OK—do whatcha gotta do.[4]

I also don’t have a thing against vegetables–especially kale, which I have fed the kids since they were little.[5] It’s the principle of “it” vegetables.  Foods that gain celebrity status can be, like I mentioned yesterday about other moral food choices, problematic.

Look. Kale is good for you; kale is a wonderful food (when prepared correctly; I have had some badly cooked greens in my day). I’m talking about juicing a pound of kale every morning, including kale in every meal, forcing your plate to, what was it, “revolve around” kale—therein lies the problem.

You see, whenever a new “fad food” comes along,[6] large-scale industrial commercial production shifts farming priorities. This whacks all the farms (and soil and water use and, and, and) out of balance.[7] If you are vegan (as she is), you might be interested to know that it also requires clearing massive amounts of animal habitat and killing those animals which invade the fields of kale “production.” If you are a vegan or NOT, you will want to look into what The Environmental Working Group calls, “The Dirty Dozen”: those crops most likely to be tainted by pesticides and fertilizer.

Oh, the fertilizer. Kale as a crop is very harsh on the environment, water supplies suffer, leaching occurs—it’s hard to grow kale, ladies and gentlemen. Try it sometime. Say, in your own backyard.

I’m serious.

Then eat *that* amount of kale.

It’s not the vegetable I have trouble with, it’s the marketing of it and the obsession with it and the subsequent farming of it that makes me scratch my head and say, “So you’re doing this because you love the environment?” Got it.

Like the people who practice trap-neuter-release (or return) because they feel it’s humane. More on that in a minute. Shortsightedness is the downfall of any ideology.

On the surface it seems like consuming massive amounts of cruciferous vegetables is a grand idea—boy won’t this make me healthy?! And I won’t even have to think about it!! Or chew!!

And then the reality.

Moderate amounts of cruciferous vegetables in balance with a complete diet that take actual thought and  planning (and chewing, sorry 365 juicers[8]) are what’s best for the body.

And, it turns out, the environment.

Likewise, trap-neuter-release (TNR) programs. On the surface this seems like neutering feral cats is the best, most responsible, most humane thing to do. Turns out it’s not actually.

Many veterinarians like the idea. Scientists and ecologists, not so much.

From birdingisfun.com, “The Three Greatest Threats to Our Native Birds”

In short (and without great detail, sorry), the problem is that neutered cats still hunt and kill local wildlife. Cats are collected, neutered, and dumped into an area where they continue to do harm to birds and small mammals, thus disrupting the native ecosystem. House cats are not indigenous to North America and should not be an apex predator—that roll should be reserved for our mountain lions, wolves, and coyotes which we have diminished and de-habitated.[9]

Here’s a thing, when we raise money for TNR programs the only thing it does is make us feel better. Fiduciary misconduct aside, the money would be better spent on human education, in my opinion. When we force local animal shelters to be the ones who euthanize unadoptable cats, we create them as an unfair focus of public disapproval—all while forcing them to deplete the funds we want them to be using to SAVE animals. I find it a bit self-serving.

We don’t want animals to die. Clearly. “Hooray! Euthanasia!” said no one ever. But when we abhor and fear death , we give Death the power to cause us to make irrational decisions. Consider this. We bankrupt the health-care system by preventing death in the elderly and already dying.[10] All in an effort to circumvent death. Often, we only delay it a little at a terrible financial, emotional, and spiritual cost. “Hooray! Death!” said no one ever—but there’s gotta be a value to death.

Ask anyone dedicated to the sacred tasks of The Mór-ríoghain, Kali, Santa Muerte, Hel, Maman Brigitte, or anyone who has served any roll as psychopomp.

Back to cats. America does a better job in most animal shelters now that we have outlawed less humane disposal methods. In fact, we regularly euthanize animals more humanely than we exact Capital Punishment—we still screw that up often. Look at Dennis McGuire of Ohio.

The humane society is just around the corner from my house and I spend some time there. Our kindred makes annual contributions of food, supplies, money, etc. I have former students and friends who work at the shelter and I laud them and the difficult work they do. In a recent conversation, on friend said, “We live in a disposable society. Sadly, too many people apply this to animals.” She went on to tell me that, in my county, we must kill more cats than we can ever hope to have adopted. A vet friend explained that TNR might “help” feral cats in a few locations where there is no threat to wildlife (like large urban areas), but it doesn’t help everywhere and certainly not in rural areas. She says TNR is not a panacea; it does nothing to address current population and homelessness. And wildlife conservationists agree. A student studying native birds was telling me about his research which shows that in areas where scientists “removed”[11] local cats rather than releasing or returning them had an overwhelming return of native wildlife, including several bird species that had been gone for decades.

Here’s another thing—know what? I’ll just let you read the whole article from The Wildlife Society.

It seems to me that the problem with kale, cats, dairy, all of it, is the same problem: holistic stewardship. When we stop favoring one type of life, one being, one culture, one gender, one sex, one race, one economy, one intelligence (and source of intelligence) over another, we will be well on our way to a better form of global stewardship.

Until then? It’s gonna be all feral cats and kale, man.[12]

---

[1] Really arguments about food.

[2] In case you don’t know about kale–it is the new “it” vegetable being downed by juicers and scarfed by chewers alike. (P.S. I love kale. But I’ve always preferred turnip greens. Childhood thing.) However, scientists and doctors warn that too much kale can go hard on the human body. Particularly the thyroid.

[3] Or, what was it? “sliced a kitten open”?

[4] And when there is a disagreement between witches, it’s not always about magic or theology or anything related to witchcraft.

That is to say, sometimes it’s not a “Witch War.” Sometimes there are just fecking arseholes out there who just happen to also be witches.

[5] Over a decade-and-a-half ago. My god, time flies.

[6] Not that kale is a new vegetable, just that its celebrity status popularity is new.

[7] Not that large scale agriculture of any crop is good for the earth.

[8] I juice. Four times a year. It’s awesome. It’s not good for 365 days a year though—that’s what I mean. And yes, people do that.

[9] Is that a word? It is now.

[10] I had a fascinating conversation with a kindred member and initiate last week that has me thinking about this dilemma in great detail. Enough so that it has me thinking about dead cats.

[11] Yes. I mean killed.

Perhaps ironically it was conservationists that euthanized the cats. Goes to show that “conservation” doesn’t mean “everything” and “at all costs.”

[12] Feral cats, kale, and arguing on Facebook about food and animals.

Home Mountains

It’s been a rough week.

A week ago yesterday I made the hard choice to euthanize two of my fur-babies. A few years ago, the oldest dog started showing signs of a spinal injury or neurological damage. We did anti-inflammatories and acupuncture and Reiki and massage, but it only ever helped a little. Last summer the second doggie–the best, prettiest, most loyal dog ever–had an acute onset of something strangely similar. We don’t know if they had the same thing or what. It doesn’t matter. There came a point when we had to realize that we were holding on out of our own desires and that the most humane thing to do was dig a hole and call the vet.[1] So, Sunday night I pulled out an unused cloth painter’s tarp and Sharpies and set up a table in the living room. I told the kids to write their messages and leave farewell items on the table. We would wrap our boys in the shroud and bury them together. I cooked up some hamburger and bought an extra loaf of bread and some bacon-strips and made a dog feast. We sat in the floor and watched Sunday-night TV for the last time together. I wouldn’t trade that.

Monday went as Monday went. It was over before 3:00. The hubby came home from work early to meet the vet in the driveway, the kids were with them until it was over, I assisted the vet as best I could. You see, I’m the one you want in a crisis. In the moment? Yup. That’s me. A few days later, however, I am apt to fall apart over an unmowed lawn or broken tea-kettle. If you’re not paying attention, you might think I was really upset about recycling. But in the thick of it, I’m rock-solid.

Then my momma called. I had expected to mourn my dogs in my idiomatic slow-burn, but the news that we also lost a human family member doused my smoldering sorrow with kerosene.[2]

Having spent the weekend at a family funeral, you’d think I’d be exhausted from grief and travel. But I feel pretty renewed. I don’t mean to make light of the tragedy of having lost a relative (unexpectedly and way too soon), but I know a few things about him that make me think he’d be OK with my saying so. You see, family and laughter were his favorites. Maudlin mulling about? Not so much. And he loved the water.

The view as I stepped out my door.

I’d been hankering for water lately. I kept saying that I needed to get myself near some water. It was a craving I had never experienced so intensely before. I was planning a trip to Daphne to see the pseudo-grand-behbeh[3] but was having a hard time arranging it all. I also wanted to make the semi-regular pilgrimage to the ancestral grounds, cemetery, and cave. I feel best in a cave. But I really don’t like to go to North Alabama. It’s-just-weird. (It might seem contradictory to those of you not from The South. The northern part of the state is a totally different place than the south of the state. Proximity to the mountains is everything.) I wanted to go to the ocean or the Gulf. I wanted to sleep with that particular rush of white noise only an outgoing tide can make. And if I have to go to North Alabama, I’m more inclined to go to Colbert and Franklin Counties in the west, where my parents live.

So, when we found we had to go to the foot of Appalachia, I thought I’d be “making the best of it.” The hubby booked a room at the bend of Lake Guntersville (I still say “Gunnersville“) and soothed the hurt as best he could.[4] Tightly knit-up in the old family range of Marshall and Madison (and almost-Jackson) counties, I felt a levee that had dammed up a year’s worth of stagnant residue give way. Not like a rush of putrid contamination into a pond, but like a scanty blight that is slowly but steadily washed away with the tide.

Last summer I told you that I found my fire on the open sea. This summer I just may have found my earthly footing on a lake just off Sand Mountain. I stood grounded at Pisgah Cemetary[5] and hiked and healed in the belly of the earth. Now, you might read this and think, “That’s an oddly profound reaction to losing a relative you haven’t seen in eight years.”[6] But that’s not it at all. This was just the proverbial straw that made the camel say, “Enough, I cain’t carry n’more.” And for once I see a broken back as liberating. The gravity which pulled all the “trappings” I was carrying around on others’ behalf left me free to raise my arms unburdened.

Among the things I let fall away were concerns about my immediate family’s reaction to my religion. Mom is cool with it, Dad doesn’t ask questions. But I still have siblings. And regarding my closest relatives? I garnered some very empowering insights. You see, it’s like this. My extended family? I get them. I fit in with them. My immediate family? I have always felt alien. And there was always guilt about the incongruity of honoring my ancestors but not really speaking to my siblings. This time around? It felt good to be “unlike.” This time around I understand that it’s they that built the walls between us, I simply respect those boundaries. I realize that, in trying to bridge the differences between us instead of simply recognizing the integral incompatibilities between us, I was creating unnecessary friction. I’m starting to realize it’s OK not to talk to my family of origin if the talking leads only to hurt. As long as I remain accessible for reunion, all I can do is wait for them to be ready. And in the meantime—love them just the same.

And guilt is a useless emotion.

I also let some rigidity about my belief-system fall away. I felt a certain obligation to the path I had chosen. But I forgot that the path I had chosen was one of continuing revelation. Duh. Learn some and evolve, learn some and evolve. This is my mantra.

I let my resistance to North Alabama fall away too. As much as I chanted, “I do not want to live in North Alabama, please gods don’t send me to North Alabama,” I forgot that the universe does not like a vacuum and that it fills those negatives with affirmatives. I might as well have been begging to be drop-shipped to North Alabama. I still prefer to stay put or go south to the water, but I’ve stopped beating that drum.[7]

Overlooking the cove.

And in letting these things go, I’ve made room for new things. Who knows, maybe you can’t teach an old dog new tricks and maybe I’ll fill that newly vacated space with something equally problematic as what I’ve learned to let go. But maybe not. Maybe with help of the spirits of the lake and the cave, I’ll gather some better apples.

As ever, I’ll let you know.

G’night Robert. I’ll see you later.

I always try to imagine what made the first of my kin say, “Here. This is the place. Let’s do this.”

I’ll get back to talking about witchy-er things soon. But now, these are the seemingly mundane places where I am finding the most magic.

Waes thu hael,

~E

---

[1] If it ever comes down to it, I recommend you act in that order.I promise. You do not want to dig a three foot hole while grieving at that level.

[2] I told Momma that I wasn’t sure if I was crying for my dogs or my cousin. Likely both.

[3] And will still go.

[4] We could have driven up and back without staying over, but there was more to do than just attend a funeral.

[5] And learned about “Primitive Baptists.”

[6] And one of you in particular might say that’s “insane” or “egotistical.” But that’s OK. Your words tend to have more to do with you than with me.

[7] Speaking of drums, I found a bodhrán that went missing about a year ago.

PBP Weeks 26-27: M—Midsummer

Here at the hof, we just celebrated Midsummer. For some of you, Litha.

Last year at about this time I was experiencing a great deal of loss. There would be more before there was less. Nestled between losing my chance at a brick-and-mortar store, “Farewell Brother Larry,” a story about losing my childhood pastor, and “The Bad Witch on Getting the Long End of the (Admittedly Gnarly) Stick,” a story about how my–and inevitably my daughter’s–heart was rent indelibly in twain (and not long before “Crossroads“), I wrote “Life and Death and The Bad Witch: aka Litha is Coming,” a post about how my dogs got into my chicken coop and snapped the necks of all my babies but five.

During that period, my husband’s close-cousin/brother lost a teenaged daughter, I lost a twenty-something friend, and an elderly mentor.

In “Litha is Coming,” I said: “I have been trying to write a celebration of fertility and life for this weekend’s Litha celebration. . . . But I think I was concentrating too much on the sun and the light and not enough on why we value the light as we do. Because, in the end–Winter is Coming. Maybe this will be the darkest Litha celebration ever. And maybe it will mean more as a result. Maybe I figured out why we celebrate it after all.”

This year I have enough distance from The Apocalypse of 2012 to see some of what The Divine had in mind. Not that I claim to know the mind of god, I just think I “get it” a little. And, yeah, there are still losses. As a matter of fact, I lost two high-school friends in the past week. With our reunion just around the corner, this double-sucks. But I also realize the importance of being reminded of our limitations and mortality in this age of super-crazy technology. Here are some of the things I’ve learned won’t kill me after all.

• Poneh-loss—Turns out, I can live without horses. And so can my kids. They have made some awesome strides in maturation this year. With the loss of barn-time came awesome new, more stable, friends. Eldest even said that she blocked a lot of “barn drama” on FB. I know some folks pushing 50 who still like to kick-up drama—for an 18 year old to figure it out? I’m going with, “Cool.”
• Pagan Shite—Like the old PSAs about Joe’s liver told us, the liver helps carry away waste so that the rest of the body can remain healthy. I’ve learned that even a Pagan community has to have a liver. Clearing the system of poisons, drugs, and toxins so that the whole body can remain healthy is a gross job, but some organ has to do it. This is why I have learned to appreciate the livers of the world.[1] Sure, there are ugly by-products of a good liver. But I’d prefer to have a good liver around than a body that’s full of shit.
• Family of origin—My momma and daddy love me and I love them. I love my sisters and my brother with all my being. My nieces and nephews are always, always, always going to have a special place in my big-oversized-heart. However, I realize that I cannot spend any time with any of them. This is a fine realization. Kindred is all I need.
• My heart—I’ve always had an effed up bod.[2] Last year I was diagnosed as being in the early stages of heart failure. I thought that was the end of the world. This is primarily why, surrounded by all that death, I decided to jump on a ship and sail to Mexico. It was fun but it didn’t cure anything. I’m not better—don’t get me wrong, all the things the doctors said to watch for are happening right on schedule. But I’m not despondent anymore. My heart may be the reason I die but it’s not going to kill me.
• Being imperfect—I’m Type A, can you tell? My precious cousin (both kith and kindred, super-lucky me) told me something not long ago:

Her: How do you do everything you do?
Me: I do a lot but none of it well.
Her: I don’t think so. Maybe you have a vision of perfection in your head and when it doesn’t translate you are disappointed. However, for those of us who live outside of your head, what you create is a thousand times better than the nothing that was there before.

That may have saved my life a little.

• I’m OK, you’re OK–In attempt to be alright with where I am instead of where I was or where I want to be, I’ve been revisiting my old training—you know, this has been going on for over a year now. Part of that has been “soul-shard-retrieval” (this is the most common term anyway).[3]

Back in the spring I had an epiphany during my “travels.” I soooo don’t want to tell you everything about it (primarily because it defies language) but the crux of the vision was that I needed to be “born again.” This doesn’t mean what it means in a Christian sense; it means 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.

But to get to what this has to do with Midsummer, I have to make this long story even longer.

This Thursday marks the last day of magical teaching for me for a while. I’ve designated July and August as spiritual development months for my own s/Self. Last week’s lesson was on one thing BUT the week before was on Discordianism. My students found Malaclypse the Younger and Kerry Wendell Thornley so entertaining that we designed a pseudo-Chaos-Heathen Midsummer ritual.

Unlike last year when our ritual was geared around the balance of the season, this Midsummer was geared around reclaiming a path to our inner-child so that we might find him/her, heal him/her, and become more fully our true Selves. We played the most outrageous (family-friendly, of course) games, had face-paint, and ate and drank like we were ten-year-olds. We drummed and welcomed some mighty-fine Christian-folk in on the fun. We met a handful of new Pagan folk too and hope that they join us as part of Nine Worlds Kindred.

Because “That’s what it’s all about!”

Waes tu hael,

~E

---

[1] Thanks livers—Thivers.

[2] I was always sick with tonsillitis as a kid and contracted varicella during puberty. In my 30s I was diagnosed with Lupus, a rather fun MVP, and ventricular septal defect.

[3] In the early 1970s, when I was just learning not to stick green peas up my nose, my mentor’s mentor was interested in psychospiritual integration which led her to Depth Psychology and Dr. Ira Progoff through whom she became a consultant, conducting innovative workshops in the U.S., England, Ireland, Scotland, and France. I reap the benefit of this experience. Having learned about “Shamanism” in the late-80s, and having learned to be a psychonaut in a specific tradition, I have a hard time articulating my appreciation for the core-movement. I have it, I just can’t express it very well.

I was taught how to integrate a Self for the purposes of psychopompary. Now I’m relearning to use the same methods—not to help people die better—but to help them live better.

I’m so effing inside-out.

 

This post is part of a year-long project, The Pagan Blog Project, “a way to spend a full year dedicating time each week very specifically to studying, reflecting, and sharing your spiritual and magickal path. . . . Each week there is a specific prompt for you to work with in writing your post, a prompt that will focus on a letter of the alphabet . . . .” (http://paganblogproject/)

Valkyrie

Having just given several pounds of Skittles and Snickers to children dressed as Grim Reapers and angels, I think it’s a good time to reflect on the role of the psychopomp.

I have to admit that it took me a minute (and only a few years ago at that) to realize that the Valkyrie were the Northern manifestation of Hermes. Not just the wings, but as keepers of the liminal spaces: the boundaries, the transitions.

Like all psychopomp, as messengers of the Gods, both Valkyrie and Hermes (Mercury if you prefer) are cunning and are keepers of secret knowledge.

Only with the Valkyrie, there’s boobs. And mead in Valhalla.

It seems that I really don’t have to look for places where my Hermetic training fits in with my current path; the parallels seem to be falling from the sky.

Or is that just The Wild Hunt?

As if the past ten years of study have been a long gestation of everything manifestly bursting forth from my brain and spirit. Now I am positively fecund with the harvest–Jera–of everything planted in a past season.

But even as life comes, death rides along–shotgun.

Mmmmmm, psychopomps.

I love psychopomps and find myself very drawn to them; my first attraction being The Morrígan. And it does not escape me that among the Orisha, there is a a psychopomp trickster “spirit of Chaos” called Eshu.

It also doesn’t escape me that Polyphanes is blogging about Psychopomps this week too. I didn’t intend to be in such close conversation–but, there it is. What’s more, my Netflix queue is playing along with The Pagan Blog Project schedule. I got all nerdy the other night; as my family was leaving to go to a “Haunted Farm,” I saw a Netflix envelope in the daily mail. I don’t know about you, but I get tickled when movies arrive because I always forget what I’ve put in my queue. I squealed out-loud when I saw that it was a production of Wagner’s Ring. I’m not even an opera-fan, but the thought of spending the birth of November with Brünnhilde made me pee my pants a little.

Two of my students made elevations last night. I mention this because A) I’m tickled pink and proud as a peacock B) one of them made her first guided pathwork the other night. I mean, she’d done the work before, but not in a group and not for the purposes of seidr. She has a particular talent for traversing the crossroads, always has.

It takes a particular kind of person to serve as a guide to and from and around and in the afterlife and underworlds. Some of us are excellent conduits between the living and the dead, like my student–she can turn it on like a light, others of us are better guides for those crossing or those who have already crossed beyond but are wandering, some of us are good at both–though not typically.

I did my first body-easing when I was twenty-six or twenty-seven. I had been volunteering in a nursing home and was pressed into service by a daughter whose father was DNR and uncommunicative. Everyone knew I was there as “one of Bertie’s girls.” I had been trained but had never done it–the distance between theory and practice is often a chasm. I performed a few more in those years but never felt as effectual as I do in other practices. But then again, it’s an entirely different kind of flying altogether.[1]

There’s something profoundly different about releasing rather than drawing or manipulating energy. And not just releasing–absolutely releasing. I often felt like I died a little with each, um, — patient? I guess I did, one thing you have to do is bond a little with your subject and then allow them to cross, sometimes show them how to cross. Le petit mort–only not like an orgasm at all. Or–maybe I need to think about that again . . . Maybe it’s time for a conversation with Anaphiel (Haniel).

From pascalblanche on DeviantArt

As I pray under my breath: “Do not call me to do this again, do not call me to do this again, do not call me to do this again . . .”

I did the last body-easing a few years ago for a friend’s grandmother. The friend is devoutly Catholic but often sees the parallels in “what we do.” The grandmother was a Southern Baptist. The fear of death and judgement felt by some members of some religions makes the task that much more difficult. And the thought of spending one’s last moments with a Sorcerer at vigil terrifies some folks. I won’t play that game. This woman was unafraid, was respectful of my duties, and passed quietly in the night. She was ready to go and didn’t really need my help–thank goodness, because I had been grossly out of practice. However, my presence helped my friend. I believe that if the living hand on too tightly, it makes it harder for the dying to do their thing. I’ve often felt that my presence served as a buffer between the grieving child and the passing parent. The difference between, “Let go,” and, “Let them go.”

Dr. Laura Strong has a pretty groovy mostly-secular approach to psychopomp-ery if you are interested in this line of service. She says:

Certain people are born with the ability to help people cross over at the time of death, or assist those souls who need additional guidance after the transition. However, one should remember that psychopomps are not generally mediums. Their primary function is not to reconnect the living with the dead, but to help the spirit or soul of an individual cross over to a safe place after death. Some people are born with an inclination towards this work, while others find that it is a skill that can be learned. Either way, there is a great need in our modern society for those with psychopomp skills.

With that, I wish you a happy New Year–new Jera, indeed. Until Spring, listen for Sleipnir’s hooves, stick to the road, stay off the moors.[2]

Åsgårdsreien (1872) by Peter Nicolai Arbo

[1] Airplane! Dir. Jim Abrahams, David Zucker, Jerry Zucker. Perfs. Robert Hayes, Leslie Neilsen. (1980).

[2] An American Werewolf in London. Dir. John Landis. Perfs. David Naughton, Griffin Dunne, David Schofield. (1981).

Hey, did you know that the guy who played David’s friend–the one he calls “meatloaf”–is Dominique Dunne’s (from Poltergeist) brother? Fun fact.

 

This post is part of a year-long project. Rowan Pendragon’s The Pagan Blog Project; “a way to spend a full year dedicating time each week very specifically to studying, reflecting, and sharing . . . .    The project consists of a single blog post each week posted on prompt that will focus on a letter of the alphabet” (http://paganblogproject/).

Let’s Do Some Living After We Die

I struggled with that little field above. How does one title this?

“Funeral for a Friend”? No.

“Another One Bites the Dust”? Hell no.

. . . Wild Horses . . .

It’s happened again.

It was 1988 and I was sitting in French class. Monsieur Ellis was interrupted by the Spanish teacher. She came in and told him something in whispered tones. Without missing a beat, he pointed to the empty seat next to mine and announced that Gina, the girl who had become one of my dearest high school friends, had died that morning.

Gina was an artist. She loved Pink Floyd. And she had had a bought with pneumonia that she just couldn’t beat. She also had these strange lesions that came and went and eventually came and came and came. She had been an IV drug user. (But, really, who among us in 1988 hadn’t been?) Gina had long blonde hair and the thickest eyelashes I had ever seen. She had a gap between her teeth and she wore a lot of eyeliner and a fringed leather jacket – even in the summer.

Gina was one of the first “heterosexuals” to die in the AIDS outbreak in the 1980s. At least in Illinois.

And Monsieur Ellis pointed at her chair and announced that she had died like he was telling us our test results.

I was devastated.

But I was in French class. How does one mourn in French?

Fast forward through Grandpa Fred’s death, through a boyfriend’s death (car accident), through a number of family leave-takings, and place me squarely in the produce section of Kroger with my phone ringing and my Momma on the other end. Just wantin’ t’let me know that my closest male cousin in life was now on the other side.

As I thumped a melon.

As if it were nothing.

Because how do you mourn in the produce section?

Fast forward to last month when Facebook told me that Brother Preacherman‘s heart gave out before his spirit did.

Finding out about passings is never fun, but in the day of Facebook, we have decided to let social media do the dirty work for us.

I was pulling weeds on Sunday waiting for my beloved niece and her wife of ten years to arrive at my house when The Bad Eldest staggered out to the yard. “Momma. I know you hate to find out on Facebook. You haven’t been on Facebook today, right?”

My heart sank. I saw the tears streaking my baby-girl’s beautiful face. Puffy-eyed. Confused. Looking for a melon to thump.

“Who?” I tossed my handful of weeds aside and sat down hard.

Twenty-three year old, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, soft-spoken, crooked-smiled, pixie-child, funny-laugh, Southern-pride, WDE, turkey-hunting, raised-right, horsie-girl.

Given the appropriateness of age, my baby was closer to her than I was. It crushed me a little; it must have crushed her a lot. Something about watching my daughter’s face over the last two days as she comes to terms with the fact that her first friend has died has made me want to call everyone and remind them that I love them.

I keep giving in to that urge.

We are going to the wake tomorrow. My family and a small entourage of close friends – “We just don’t want to go alone.”

I was planning to write a post about the ritual of funerals and how Pagans perceive death differently from “one-lifers.” But I can’t. Not yet. Let me get through the funeral of this baby-faced beauty and maybe I can find solace in a discussion of ritual.

Until then, for Abby:

Crossroads

Well, damn.

The Bad Witch just opened an email. You know the kind? The kind that makes you unable to answer the phone or work or do anything real for a few hours.

Well, here I sit. A few unproductive hours later with a couple of phone calls to return.

My sometimes protectress, often teacher, and always kick-ass Voodoo-Mama-friend, “Mama Lisa,” crossed over on Saturday at the age of 98.

That’s a good run, I have to say. But it’s also kinda hot on the heals of having lost another spiritual guide, Brother Preacherman.

I’m jes feelin’ a little . . . at the crossroads.

Life and Death and The Bad Witch: aka Litha is Coming

I have had a lot of fodder rolling around in my Bad Brain this past week – Literature and Lore about Lucifer (perfect for an L post), Psychopomps, Triple Diety, The Reclamation of Seiðr, to name a few – and have wanted to share it with y’all.

But alas, life.

Or should I say, death.

I’m not maudlin or anything. Take all of this as vaguely tongue in cheek. I’m a little worn down by the death that seems to surround me at the moment, but I’m not morose about it.

Crazy how The Mother guards the hen from the dog.

When I wrote my “K” post, I told you that I didn’t have any “K” ideas floating in my brain.

I kinda lied.

I’d been thinking about Mother Keridwen in fits and spurts. One day I’ll learn to listen right away so The Powers That Be don’t have to smack so hard upside the head.

Last Sunday, a very important life-figure passed across suddenly. And I thank you, my readers and cyber-companions, for the sympaties you have already expressed. It means a lot to me that you share not only in my foibles and triumphs, but that you are touched by my pain and my losses as well. In many of our cases, we’ve never met, but we are part of each other’s lives. And I am grateful for you.

The wake was in Chicago on Thursday and the Funeral was yesterday in Birmingham. I’ve had a very strange reaction to this death. I haven’t seen him in twenty years and have only had minimal contact with him in the past two years. But I spent most of my childhood under this man’s watchful eye. It makes sense that I would mourn him, but I was entirely devastated for days.

On Monday, I got some medical news that is giving me a serious case of avoidance. And will, therefore, change the subject.

On Thursday, my Bad Children (well, the two oldest) were invited to watch the filming of one of our favorite TV series and, based on their ectomorphic body type, ended up applying for an extras roll. Who would have guessed that having picky eaters would have an upside? The show revolves around death and even has the word “Dead” in the title.

On Friday, insanely tragic events aligned which allowed my hunting dogs to get into my chicken coop and at six of eleven of my chicks. There were three three-month-olds and three nine-week-olds. I watched the younger ones hatch on Easter Sunday and have held them in my hands everyday since. Fortunately, all of my friends know that furbabies and featherbabies are much more than pets around here. I had to bury them because burning them (in my traumatized brain at the time) would smell too – – um, have I mentioned that my kids are already really skinny and hard to feed?

Then my friend suggested that Keridwen was behind my having five chicks spared from the carnage (and it was carnage).

So, slap a Bad Witch with a stubborn stick.

No really.

Quit killing everything and slap me with a stubborn stick; I honestly got the message before those three young students from my school were murdered this morning.

Death is part of life.

I get it.

Ironically, I have been trying to write a celebration of fertility and life for this weekend’s Litha celebration. But now I must accept that maybe I was being too fluffy about the whole thing? (I know, right? The Bad Witch, fluffy? Ha!) But I think I was concentrating too much on the sun and the light and not enough on why we value the light as we do. Because, in the end – Winter is Coming.

Maybe this will be the darkest Litha celebration ever. And maybe it will mean more as a result. Maybe I figured out why we celebrate it after all.

The thing about the Stark words, “Winter is Coming,” is that, no matter how long winter lasts, spring follows after.

As ever, I’ll let you know.

But for now I’m going to catch up some work so I can watch the undead tonight. (Not that I have hopes of excellence, it’s like a train wreck, I can’t look away.)

Love and both Light and Darkness,

TBW

Farewell Brother Larry

Good night to the man who constantly called attention to me in a Church of God prayer line: “I see the call [caul?] of God on you, child. The spirit is all over you!”

I made fun that I always forgot to open my circles.

This morning, Brother Preacherman died while preparing his Sunday sermon. Hope I go like that.

Love you, sir. Always did. Always will.

In the name of the Christ whom you taught me to revere,

TBW

Evocation, Eastern Star, Early Warning

When I say evocation, we can think of Theurgy (which is the first place my Bad Witch mind automatically goes) or embryogenesis (which is the second place my Bad Witch mind automatically goes) or, if you read about what it’s like to play word association games with The Bad Witch, you know that our script might run a little like this:[1]

Evocation : Monday

Evocation : Jambalaya

Evocation : Bathtub

Evocation : Smell

Smell? Yes, smell. When it comes to place memories, we are at the mercy of olfaction. Whenever I smell Band-Aids, I am sixteen and in the hall of a horribly impersonal medical clinic. reminiscences. Certain tastes evoke childhood, certain songs evoke – well, everything.[2] But stronger than anything is our sense of smell.

Corn-bread, subtle as you please, puts me in Phil Campbell, Alabama – in my mommy’s kitchen.[3]

Cigarettes, whisky, and a slight hint of sewage (you’d be surprised how often this combination crops up [4]) is NOLA in winter.

Burning leaves = My family’s 1980s lake home in St. Joseph, Michigan. And snakes.

Pipe smoke.

Grandpa.

Phew, ladies and gentlemen, The Bad Witch might need to bawl a minute.[5]

I told you that I’ve recently learned some interesting factoids about my family. This spurred a bit of rock-turning on The Bad Witch’s part. Bear with me, because this is a winding-road.[6]

Ready?

I have a maid. She is cherished. She has OCD. This is fantastic as maids go. Not so good for someone working in the home of a Witch or a Ceremonial Magician. Twist #2 – I inherited an ancient and ginormous mirror.[7] Cherished and I had to come to an understanding about what can and cannot be dusted. Long story short – she cleaned the son‘a gun and now my house smells like pipe smoke.[8]

Let the road wind a little. Back in April 2011, most of The Bad Witch’s family’s town was whisked off by an F5. My family was spared the brunt of it – by a cat’s whisker. But, damn. I can still smell that too.

As soon as the roads were open, we drove up to lend a hand where needed. But every hand I extended was met with the strangest of handshakes. I asked Momma, “Why are all the men giving me Masonic handshake?”

“They know your kin.” She made a circle around me with her finger, “And they know what you are. Must figure you’re an Eastern Star.”[9]

Fast-forward ten-months and I stumbled on some old family memorabilia. Including an Eastern Star dues card and ritual booklet.

Curious, I start tracking down lodges and learning a little more about my late Grandpa.

OK – Plot here. Let the road wind s’more.

He’s not my biological grandfather. He’s my mother’s older brother. There’s no inbreeding here (that’s elsewhere). He’s a bit older than Momma. When I was born, the hospital wouldn’t allow visitors; he told the staff that he was “The Grandpa!” and they let him visit newly-born and squishy-headed me. From that day to this, he’s been my Grandpa. He has biological grandchildren now. At the last family reunion, I got to see them. Their mother told them, “She may not really be Granddad’s grandbaby, but, to him, she was always special.”

More plot? OK. I’ve always been “bad.” Not really, I am notoriously sweet, compliant, and generous. But somehow, I was always led to believe that I was “bad.”[10] This made it easier for those who wanted to prey on me in adulthood. I’ve always felt the need to make contrition. Ablution. Atonement.

But Grandpa always said I was “good.” I can name a few adults [11] who were threatened by and resentful of his absolute adoration of teenaged me.

Grandpa had a stroke and passed beyond the veil just one week before I discovered I was pregnant with The Youngest.[12]

IK, it wasn't a men's urinal but I'm on a Surrealist kick.

Our family gathered at his house prior to the funeral.  North Alabama swarmed with Macs. My mother and I sat quietly, trying to stay out of the way while the widow’s [13] relatives placed the buffet and received mourners.  The Widow wasn’t there yet. Momma and I had a few glasses of iced tea each while we waited.  My sister and father arrived from the airport with my eldest aunt.  It had been a long flight from St. Petersburg and a long car-ride from Birmingham to Huntsville for the aging matriarch.

She had just lost her baby-brother and she needed to freshen up.[14]  Aunt Flora went directly to the bathroom to change and refresh herself.  She was in there a long time.  I know because I had started to watch the door.

I had had several glasses of tea.

Besides, she was old; I worried.

Finally, she emerged.  Her eyes were swollen with grief and she staggered into the hall asking if there was somewhere where she might lay down for a minute.  As soon as was “seeming,” Momma dashed into the bathroom.  Stunned by my Mother’s speed, my oldest sister sat down in the newly vacated spot next to me and said, “I wish Mom wasn’t so fast, I have been in the car for a long time!”  I wiggled in my seat and watched the time pass on the grandfather clock.

Momma was in there for a thoughtlessly long time.

Sissy and I expressed mutual concern about Aunt Flora’s well-being while we expressed exasperation at Mom’s delay.  When she came out, her eyes were swollen and her face was puffed with signs of weeping.  Her hands, still wet, trembled and she slumped into the nearest chair.  Sissy offered to let me go to the bathroom while she checked on Mom.  I demurred,[15] she had been in a car for hours; my situation was self-inflected.

While we haggled, The Widow, now home, popped in before us.

She was out in no time and it was Sissy’s turn. When Sissy appeared in the bathroom doorway after a surmountable time, she too appeared to have been weeping.  She had tried to compose herself but her lip was still quivering.  She grimaced as I passed her in the hall; she breathed in sterterously and I rushed in, nearly slamming the door closed behind me.  I was sad and at a funeral, yes; but I had to pee.  And I had to pee now.

I tussled with the new black dress I had to buy that morning – mechanically, and thus incongruously, I had packed a black wool suit to wear for a funeral in Alabama in August, therefore, I had to start my day in the mall. Oi. I wrestled my pantyhose down past my knees.  I knew better than to drink that much iced tea, served me right.

Relieved, I looked for some toilet paper remembering how Grandpa used to TP his sisters’ houses whenever he visited.  He was a great prankster. This is, perhaps, an unexpected trait from the recipient of a Bronze Star (+V) and a Purple Heart. Once, during a family reunion, he stole all of the toilet paper out of the women’s johns and put a running video camera in the sink area.  Aunt Lot was outraged when she heard him boast that he had footage of her meandering around the stalls with her drawers at her ankles.

I thought of that and I giggled as I relieved myself.

I peed like Austin-fricking-Powers.

I looked to my left to find the TP and I saw his lodge handbook. I gasped.  So tightly connected with his brethren, Grandpa kept the handbook in the privy. I giggled again.

Then I looked up and saw the towels. The Widow hadn’t been home since Grandpa’s stroke. This morning, no one but we four ladies had been in the bathroom.  I saw the distinctly male rumpling of the monogrammed towels, the beard wax in the terry cloth; they had an impression like Veronica’s veil.  My heart sank.  Struggling to redress myself without audibly wailing, I turned to the sink. And I didn’t giggle.

There.

His toothbrush was in its holder, his razor was on the shelf – his hairs still imbedded between the blades, his hairbrush and mustache comb were in their places and his nail clippers were still open. Then it struck me. Nearly thirty-years-old, I had the most childlike thought: “No one told his toothbrush that he had died.”

I wanted to shout ridiculously at the objects, “He’s is gone! We’re burying him today!  He won’t be back!  I’ve talked to all of my relatives and while he was good for a practical joke, he could never hold the punch line this long.  It’s no joke, you stupid toothbrush!  You’ll never see his smile again! He’s really gone forever; and you, silly razor, will never caress his handsome face again.”

I wanted to shout those things and to throw all of the objects that The Widow hadn’t had the time or mind to pack away – I wanted to heave them all into the tub, still ringed with his last bath.  I wanted to scream at and hurl the inanimate objects. But instead, I grabbed the sides of the sink and wept silently.

See?

And then I smelled his pipe.

Funny how our brains work. I can’t tell you if his essence was there and I smelled him, or if the lingering smoke in the towels registered in my hCG bionic nose, or if merely the memory of Grandpa triggered the synapse which told my brain to “smell pipe.”

It took me a while to compose myself and emerge from the bathroom.  Mom and Sissy sat together.  Sissy took one resigned look at me and said, “You saw his toothbrush too.”

Yeah.

And now, with crappy springs-a-comin’-but-not-before-a-bit-of-bluster-so-keep-The-Weather-Channel-on-weather and a squeaky-clean mirror, I smell his pipe in my house.

And that smell is evoking something from 1989 . . . but just exactly what storm’s a brewin’, I can’t be certain. Yet.

And I’ve had three conversations in ten days where folks have asked “Eastern Star” questions.

I’ll get back to you on that plotline, deal?

 

 

This post part of a year-long project. Rowan Pendragon’s The Pagan Blog Project; “a way to spend a full year dedicating time each week very specifically to studying, reflecting, and sharing . . . .    The project consists of a single blog post each week posted on prompt that will focus on a letter of the alphabet” (http://onewitchsway.com/pbp2012/).

[1] Some of you even know me well enough to understand one or two of those leaps. And for that, I say, “Thanks for loving me all the same.”

[2] Weather like today’s evokes tornadoes and the scariest few hours of my life: April 27, 2011 for the few hours when I couldn’t find The Momma.

[3] Likewise, moth-balls put me in her linen closet!

[4] Think: drinking and smoking in a neighbor’s yard with a bit of dog-shit on your boots.

[5] That’s a kind of evocation all its own. I don’t know about you, but when I get a good cry going, I call forth all sorts of shite.

[6] Recently, a friend said, “Everything with and about you has a plot and a story.” Yup. Aren’t cha glad?

[7] It should be in the headmaster’s office is all I’m saying.

[8] Five of us live here, we all smell it – it ain’t just me.

[9] Momma points at what I assume are auras that way. Very dismissive of her innate abilities, whenever she says prophetic things and I call her on it, she says, “Aw, that’s jes my schizophrenia acting up again.”  Whenever I say prophetic things, she tells me that I have her mother’s “Indian ways.” Therefore, I have chosen to call this phenomenon “Creeksophrenia.” (WODR.)

[10] For instance, I posted a comment on Facebook that I had to buy a prom dress for my 17 year old. I was told, “I always warned you that you’d have a daughter just like you. Payback time. What goes around comes around!” But it occurred to me that my daughter is fairly angelic. Aside from this Episcopal phase she’s going through. Yeah, just like me. Damn straight.

[11] But I won’t.

[12] Thirteen in two weeks.

[13] This was his fifth marriage. This was not a lifelong relationship. Just the last one.

[14] Having lost two children and a husband, grief was a strange friend to Aunt

[15] On account o’ I’M NICE!