Happy New Years To All

First off, I want to introduce myself a little bit so that y’all feel more comfortable listening to me ramble on. Then, I’ll  talk in brief about what my year has been like, how that has affected things, and what resolutions I plan to make for this new year!

I’m so thankful to be here writing for all you readers out there; if you will, sit with me and let me share my stories and adventures. I have much to write and lots more still to come, journeys lie ahead that I haven’t even seen coming. If you caught the last post then you’ll know by now this is Hazey and I’m officially The *new* Bad Witch, only here to serve and report on the ‘real bad witches’ I encounter. I think it’s the perfect way to start off a new year and wish all the best New Years Blessings to anyone reading this!

My name comes from my Great-Grandmother’s name mixed with my personality. Hazey. Charming, Eccentric, Out-Spoken, Kind, Challenging, and Loyal. Trusting to a fault sometimes. Unique, young, talented, optimistic and strong willed.

I was born in a small town made of nothin’ but dirt roads and power lines. I moved to the lovely city of Auburn when I was four and have been here since. I went to the local high school and, no, I’m not in college. I am a trained and certified Tattoo Artist and Body Piercer for a living. I have a loving family and the best friends in the world. I have identified as pagan since I was about fifteen. I have always known that I was different than 90% of the kids I grew up around and once I got older, I realized that having conversations with plants and animals was in fact *not strange* and that there are others out there with similar stories and like minds.

This time last year I had been on the search for a teacher. What I found, the person, or being, or whatever you wish to name it, was not exactly what I had been searching for but I didn’t know that yet. I was enchanted and charmed by a Rattle Snake, one you’ll come to hear plenty about in my future writing.

I was planning my wedding, head over heels in love with my soul-mate. The same teacher I found married us in the summer. We spent three beautiful months being married and, at the same time, being turned against each other by people that called us “family.”

Things didn’t work out for the two of us, the stress, the mess, the drama. It was all too much and like a cheap toy, broke under pressure. I was out of a home, a job, and a spouse.

Needless to say, I had to make some pretty big choices and things did a 180. I was feeling down and making my way around town, needing a hand to help me off my knees. Needing someone to shake me, so I would be able to really see. So, I shook myself pretty darn hard, fell face first in what I thought and was told was a huge steaming pile of shite. I think it was just Black Work, getting out the impurities isn’t an easy process but it is a sacred one.

Again, as if I hadn’t gone through enough, my life jumped tracks. Call it what you will, I call it Divine Energy at work. By October, I landed my little arse on the “opponent’s” field and padded up for a hell of a game. I would soon come to see a sadly detailed web of lies a *little* spider had worked so hard to spin for me. In time, all of this will come to the surface. I wept for this spider and wished that it wasn’t so, but nonetheless it was something that was far out of my control.

Now here I am, writing my first blog via my cell phone, headed back to Auburn after my first attempt to get an RV. It didn’t go as planned but I have a strong feeling we can still make it happen. Good vibes and energy appreciated! A year has come and gone and things are finally starting to go the way I would like. We can only wait and see.

I usually never keep my New Years Resolutions I make but this year I vow to put forth my best effort and stay strong to my word.
1. Write more, at least two blogs a week. That’s at the least.
2. Paint more, practice always improves skill.
3. Save money, which means for me trying to resist over-indulging.
4. Be more open minded to others, just because you heard something doesn’t make it true and you’ll never know until you find out for yourself.
5. Putting my trust in the right places for the right reasons. Blind faith is dangerous.
6. Lastly, consume more knowledge and practices of things that interest me and help me on my spiritual path.

I want to thank all of you who are reading this and hope to have a new blog for you soon. I also want to give great thanks to my mentor, Ehsha, who has helped me more than she’ll ever know. I am truly thankful to have such wonderful relationship with you and look forward to all that you can teach me.

Until next time,
Blessed Be and Happy New Year
Xoxo Hazey.

Who Are You?: Mountains, DNA, Credentials, and Other Odds and Ends

I had a great time this past weekend in Delta, Alabama on the lovely Cheaha mountain–a foothill of Appalachia–with some fabulous Alabama Pagans from the Freedom of Religion Group Grove (A Church of the Spiral Tree Grove). After having so many bad experiences with bad Pagans full of bad information here in the Deep South, it was good to be surrounded by real love and real knowledge. It was such a relief to be around folks who knew the difference between shite and Shinola. The gathering on the mountain provided a lee against the recent harsh winds for my spirit.

One of the most profound experiences was when a group of folks recognized me all at once. We were only acquainted via Facebook and WordPress and town gossip; at some point I referred to myself as the “Völvakona formerly known as The Bad Witch” which was met with choruses of : “Oh, that’s you?!” and then mutters of, “Oh, OK. I see how it is. I get it now.” For once, I was not called on to defend myself. I know who I am and what I stand for, it was nice to be around people who didn’t try pigeon-holing me in order to hide their own malefactions. I was able to just breathe in and breathe out and be myself. My actions spoke for themselves; my knowledge, my presence, and my spirit spoke for itself. As it should be.

Like I always tell my magical students: “Let success be your proof.”

Taking a break between workshops.

Speaking of which–one of my newest students came along with me and expressed a similar sentiment; she’d had more fun and learned much more at this event than in previous events. I was so pleased to have been a part of the event itself–but I was even more gratified to be able to show a new protégé that there are good and loving Pagans out there, a prospect that she had recently started to doubt in a soul-numbing sort of way. Though I didn’t know it until we were half-way to our destination, the girl was born and raised on Mount Cheaha–learned to drive on its perilous brinks. Talk about a homecoming!

The coordinator, a dear friend of mine (with the kindest, most genuine woman for a wife–ugh, like Bannock for a heart hungry for sincerity), invited me to give a presentation about all things Völvakona. I had never given a workshop of this sort publicly and was a bit of a wreck; but everyone was so open and accepting that all went smoothly. I’ll post the video of the presentation a little later this week or next, depending on how all else goes. Because right now, “all else” is getting kinda high.

Which brings me to the next topic. On the 31st, we gathered at the Hof and Harrow to honor our ancestors. It was a lovely ritual. I had needed to give an impromptu “emergency magic lesson” beforehand, so the energy was already whirling when we began. I asked one of my intermediate students if she wanted to journey to Hel for us and she conceded, so I guided her on the path-working to great result. This student has a natural knack for oracular work, so she’s been easy to guide. But on this night, something particularly amazing happened as she sat in the seat, wrapped in a cloak, giving voice to our familial dead. It was wonderful. The next day she commented on how “focused” everything was. It’s incredibly gratifying to experience results on my own–the gratification is compounded seven-fold when I see my students experiencing such precise results.

One message that was given to me, in my (paternal) Granny Bewa’s deep Appalachian accent (our oracle is from California, btw) and precisely in her idiomatic turn-of-phrase: “Getcher stilts on, chile. It’s gone’get deep.” I knew she was right at the time–I’m glad I listened. Now that I see just how right she was–I’m thankful to our oracle for bringing the message. I’ve needed those stilts this past week. If I didn’t have them, I’d be wading waist-high in, well, not Shinola. As it stands, I’m fairly well above the fray. Thank you, Granny-Ma’me.

Another message from that night was a prophesy of “woe” unto anyone who desecrated the ancestors. It was pretty chilling. And bad-ass. And explicit. And, “Hell, yeah.” Especially given that our oracle had no way of knowing that this had happened–I mean, I just learned it a few nights before:

It seems that I dropped my family crest pin in a real bad witch’s yard. It seems there was a bit of hocus-pocus aimed at taking my very life. Witch-killing indeed. But here’s the thing: one does not evoke another’s ancestral clan and then make an attempt at “magically slaying” the very one who honors those ancestors. ‘Coz, duh. Not only do I know my ancestors names, they know mine.

Besides, ever piss off a Scotsman? Ever piss off an entire clan?

I mean, we fought against The Bruce and won.

Fun note? The legend is that The Bruce was grabbed by my clansman and only survived because he ripped off his cloak–the brooch from which is in a clan museum  It gets better–to hide and recover from battle, The Bruce hid in a cave in Rathlin. Caves. Yummy.

Another fun note? Buidah no bas, my clan’s motto, means “victory or death.” When choosing “tea-and-cake” or “death,” I choose “victory,” thanks all the same. Like I keep saying: the proof of anyone’s abilities is in the results. And just look–through a very unlikely set of events, that brooch ended up back in *my* hands (where it will be restored this weekend) before I even realized it was missing.

Another fun note? The family “animal” is a raven–hello again psychopomps.

Speaking of ancestors–which I seem to do all the time these days–I received my DNA test-kit today. I know what it will show, but it’s still fun to see “who I am” on paper.

Which leads me to my next conversation: credentials. Having proof of one’s identity on paper doesn’t make them any more or less who they are, but–as a culture–we sure do appreciate third-party references and attestations of authority. I mean, anyone can come to town calling themselves High Priestess after having watched an Andrew Flemming film. I read someone recently argue that asking to see credentials is somehow corrodes one’s soul. I don’t see it. When I apply for a job, I send a whole dossier of stuff to prove that I have a legitimate Ph.D. from an accredited university, that I have legitimate scholarly publications, that I have legitimate teaching experience, and that I have an expertise in the field to which I am applying. Hell, when I get pulled over, I don’t tell the police officer that I’m offended by his request to see my driver’s licence. Can you imagine? “Don’t rust me, man!”

I’m still protective of a few identities.

This past weekend, I cleaned out my temple.[1] I found all sorts of stuff I didn’t know I had. I found my Reiki certificates, photos from my elevations, a letter of commendation from my old mentor, a dragony-elemental talisman I made when I was just a wee-lass, a decade-long overdue library book, and my diplomas and awards. The academic degrees (except my Ph.D.) are all nicely framed, but the other papers were in their original envelopes and sleeves. I went out yesterday and bought frames for those too.

Image: The certificate attending an academic award (that came with a nice stipend!), one of my two ordination certificates, my undergraduate certificate in Pastoral Ministries from 1998–the same year I earned my MA, and my graduation “honor” cord. 

Having (or not having) the red and black honor cord doesn’t create the fact that I graduated (double major: English and Philosophy) summa cum laude while having and raising babies, but it does represent a third-party recognition of my accomplishment. I had a Fellowship in the Fantastical Land of Teaching and Learning Excellence–the man who ran the program would say, “I like being reviewed. It gives me an opportunity to show off my excellence.” He was a bit Six Sigma about the whole thing, but he was right. Credential review is only a threat if you don’t have a solid foundation. If your cred is impeccable, you have nothing to hide.

Likewise with my magical training. That I am able to verify–with documentation and photographic evidence and records kept somewhere in Chicago–that I underwent intense training and that I was a top-notch student of the magical arts doesn’t create my knowledge and ability; it simply shows that there is an authoritative body that recognizes me and my work. It certainly doesn’t oxidize my spirit. That’s ridiculous. I guess I’d feel defensive about providing “proof” that didn’t exist.

Let me take this conversation back to Delta for a minute–another way to show credentials is a public display. Sure, you get opened up to criticism, but if you can’t advocate for what you are saying in the face of someone else’s opinion, then you have no business in the field. Go back–learn–get your foundation under you–then come back and do your thang, whatever it is. Like I said, this was the first time I was discussing Volvakona publicly, I was opening myself up to a landslide of terrors. But, I knew what I was doing. I have 25 years of experience (not in Volvakona, but in seership, Magic, and occult craft) from which to draw. My cred was, in this case, located directly in the impeccability of my word. A very Heathen value, don’t you think? All the proof of a pudding is in the eating, as they say.

Likewise with my ancestry–and I’ll be glad to post my DNA report when it comes back–I’m thrilled to know where I come from. I know that not very many folks can name beyond their great-grands. I can name most of mine back to the Mayflower and Medieval Europe (those that came from elsewhere–ironically, the hardest lines to trace are the indigenous ones).[2] I’m happy to be able to point you to websites about my ancestors, glad to know that I’m directly descended from Hans and Rachel–a German man and his (would-be) wife who guided him and his party through the North Carolina nation where they stayed and migrated and intermarried as the tribe moved south to Marshall County, AL. I’m glad to be able to tell you stories about Ruben who hid his wife in the mountains of Cobbs Mill during the removal. The family  history books say, He is, “buried near a tree stump on his own land.” I mean, damn–you can’t get much better than that.

A GGrandfather who bought slaves in order to set them free.
A GGrandfather who fought and died on the first day of The Battle of Shiloh–smack-dab in the hornet’s nest. No wonder I broke down sobbing when I visited there as a kid.[3]
A Scottish GGrandmother who was said to be the finest ale-wife “with the finest ale-wand” in Argyleshire.

I love being descended from the completely “Google-able” likes of Elizabeth Soule, who was not only the daughter of Mayflower Compacteer, George Soule, but who was also arrested in 1662 for–get this–fornication; the best part of this story is that five years later, Elizabeth was in court again for the same “crime.” (Apparently this time she was sentenced to a whuppin’.) I also love that I am descended from Wikipedia-worthy folks like Lady Alicia Beconsawe and Sir John Lisle, both executed for crimes against the crown–the closest my kin get to royalty.

Well, almost.

It seems that my 18th GGrandfather was Piers DeGaveston (1284 – 1312). Go on, look him up; I’ll wait.

And not all of my family stories are the nice kind of colorful; I have a GGrandfather who ran a professional lynch-mob. But, alas, he’s mine. I have another who was a known town-drunk. He’s mine too. Most of them were just poor-folk trying to get by and weren’t especially colorful at all. Every last one of these is mine. We have to be realistic about our families. That’s part of doing them honor.

And it’s the only way to perceive our oorlog correctly. If we try swishing around in the well and disguising our Wyrd or claiming a false Verða, we can bet on a pretty shitty Skulle. I’m just saying. It’s always best to “Know thyself;” and, while I usually think Polonius is full of hot air, “To thine own self be true.” If this means showing your mountains, your DNA, your credentials, your other odds and ends–do it proudly, so long as you do it honestly.

Wæs þu hail!
Ehsha

[1] Lovingly called “The Kill Room” by those who Dexterize me. I don’t mind. I live by Harry’s Law: only when they’re guilty.

[2] This weekend I was retelling a funny conversation I’d had with my mom when I was a teenager:
Me: “I want to change my name to M** because that’s your name.”
Momma: “Well then, why not use my mother’s maiden name.”
Me: “Or her mother’s”
Momma: “Don’t be silly. They didn’t have last names.”

Indeed, before the removal and enforced censuses, no one needed last names.

[3] I wrote this when I was 13; I found it when I cleaned out an old box of papers in my temple. It’s not good. I must have been reading Robert Lowell that week.

Shiloh

The church was burned in April
and the churchyard conceded to
the graveyard.

One hundred thirty-one years later,
standing at a map,
I could hear the river canyon’s endless echo:
cannons placed in a row
to destroy the hornet’s nest.

The mounds of blood red earth sink
and swell and roll–a sacrilegious squirrel
taps a nut on the headstone
of Illinois Lieutenant #976.
“No metal detectors allowed.”

In the little theater at the end of the tour,
there is a movie that portrays
the boys that killed the boys
that are buried in a heap along the
tour route, in case you didn’t know
about that weekend in Shiloh.

Most monumented war –
deep in the South, where are the marble
tombs for your genteel soldiers?  Are
these boys less men? Show me, where is
their relief? The sun was too hot for
a Christian burial so they lay where they died–together.

11-15-84

The Undreaded Dread Pirate Roberts

Sometimes all The Bad Witch needs is a wheelbarrow and a holocaust cloak.

Et voila, they are provided.

A little while ago I informed you that I wanted to retire from being The Bad Witch. Tired of carrying the mantle of some other witch’s badness, I was ready to move on. Some of you grumbled but acquiesced, most of you said: “Wither thou goest, I will follow,” and around 1500 of you have hopped over to Ehsha.

For those of you who want a few more files about bad witchery, and for me–who wants to retire and move to Patagonia, there is a holocaust cloak big enough for us all.

Just like the Dread Pirate Roberts, I have found one to whom I can pass the title The Bad Witch. Rather, she found me.

Well, damn; I reckon we found each other.

You may remember her as LadyLucyChaos whose post about my blog raised a few eyebrows. (When you read “I’ll Call That Hand,” don’t miss the comments section, that’s the best part–and don’t get re-riled up; it’s all cool between TBW and LLC. Can I get a “Hell yeah”?) She now blogs the newest part of her Pagan journey at Beyond The Dreads. (I recommend you begin with “Changing Inside, Showing It On The Outside” and “Real Eyes, Realize, Real Lies.” And then click “follow.” You’re not gonna wanna miss watching this bird take flight. Let me connect a two more dots for you–this is the bird I intended at the end of my post about “The Dance” at Ehsha.)

Bringin’ back the Dread(s): Hazey and Ehsha at the Unity Celebration at Hazey’s old stomping grounds.

Recently Undreaded (as in–she had the most amazing dreadlocks and got talked into cutting them off), Hazey (whose name also honors her grandmother) has been through the same-damned crucible that left me reeling a few years back. Like me, she’s charred but the fire burned the impurities out. That’s what crucibles do. She showed up on my front porch and we realized in an instant that she was the new scapegoat offered up to assure cultural continuity (go read “This is Not A Test,” we’ll wait), she was the new member of the blacklist, the new member of a not-so-exclusive “club,” she–gasp–was The (New) Bad Witch.

So, like Cummerbund, Ryan, and Westley, I am taking on a new crew and plan on calling Hazey “The Bad Witch” from here on out. It is a bit like being immortal when you have someone to pass your spiritual baton, i’n’t it? besides, she has so many stories to tell you about, so many potholes to avoid–and (honestly?) more guts to tell you about them than I ever did.

After all, who’s going to tell you these things?

Now, be good to The (New) Bad Witch. (After all, we’ve just gotten past the point where I was telling her, “Sleep well, at most I will kill you in the morning.” LOL. Not really.) Her wounds are much fresher than mine were two years ago–though I suspect her skin is a good deal thicker than mine was twenty-two years ago. Let her get her sea-legs. I’ll be on the sidelines watching and reading and moderating and swabbing the deck a drinking a beer and quoting Walt Whitman: “O, Captain, my Captain.”

Oh, and finishing off The Pagan Blog Project–unless, of course, The New Bad Witch has a good “W” word or two she’d like to share. 🙂

To paraphrase Gretchen Wilson: So here’s to all my brothers and sisters out there keeping Paganism ethical. Let me get a big ‘Hell yeah’ from The Bad Witches like me.

Hell yeah,

Ehsha

P.S. I realize that after writing “Vardlokkur: I do not think it means what you think it means” I may have worn my The Princess Bride references thin.

The Bad Witch Gives the Old “One/Two”

I know I gave you my PBP post for the week but there are so many things I need to tell you before the weekend.

One

The Bad Witch is saying “Good-bye.” I will complete my PBP obligations for 2012, but barring unseen changes, I will not be blogging here anymore.

Now, don’t get lather’d. I have a new blog set up and when it’s ready to go, I’ll link it to you. I don’t expect all 3200+ of you will follow me over there, and that’s OK. I know that what I’m doing is more valuable than my stats.[1]

Here’s why.

I made a cosmic vow to stop referring to myself in the third-person as “The Bad Witch.”

For a few reasons.

The most striking of which is, “That’s not the name we gave you.”

Also because, as I have repeatedly explained (and it has fallen on sets of giant deaf ears), I was keeping a “File” on the bad behaviors of some Witches around me. Then, I thought that was in bad taste. I found that after writing for a while I had better things to do than explore their, um, asshatery. For that reason, I never really got around to telling y’all much of nothin’ about them. Plus, they’ve said plenty themselves about themselves.

I promise to go back and clean up all the unsaid stories and hinted at “I’ll tell ya laters” before I go. But that’s it. By Yule, I’ll be gone from this joint.

Secondly, because I see a bit of an egregore growing and it’s better unfed. I mean, there is a populous who will keep feeding it, but I refuse to knowingly provide fodder for their pantries.[2] All the lies poured into the creation of that egregore? Feck. Imma separate myself from that bull-oney as fast as I can.

Thirdly, I’ve grown out of it. I’m not the person I was two years ago, or even four months ago. Having shed the remnants of an illusion (and twelve pounds to boot), I see that those with whom I thought I could forge a magical way do not fit into the grand scheme of things. As ever[3] I wish much for them. Our paths simply diverge too much for us to walk side-by-side.

Two

I planned to tell you this in two weeks, but it’s become time.

Having turned-out twenty or so students since creating Open Path Training, I see that there is a pronounced need for quality Pagan education. Emphasis on quality. The number of requests I get on a regular basis has grown exponentially. I can’t keep it up with just these two hands.

You’ll note that I have “frozen” much of the OPT content; this is to give me an opportunity to revamp it.

“Revamp it for what?” you ask? Well, the first answer is to the first call: to initiate an ecclesiastical Pagan seminary through which Pagan ministers can get an actual education rather than simply “purchasing” their ordination. It’s also a way for folks to get a Pagan-based religious degree (which is different than an academic degree, mind you). You can earn degrees from associate to doctorate.[4] I have a diverse group of teachers lined up and about fifty to sixty students who have already indicated an intent to enroll. I’m looking for two or three more teachers and, of course, more students. If you are interested, drop me a line as I think I have forgotten to upload the application. *Adds to list of things to fix.*

So, yes. I have founded a Pagan seminary. Go look.

This is the link to the Seminary.
This is the school now. If I sent you a preview link—this is entirely different. I took your advice and separated it into its own site.

The second call to answer is this: I am also embarking on a new ministry that plays to my strengths. I will be posting at length about Ulfarnir, the new Seiðr group I have started (we have five (or six—we’ll see about the last one) members, I need four to seven for it to work—so it’s already a firm go). I’m going to toss a few lines out there and see if anyone else (local) is interested before the scheduled initiation. I’d love to see some more drummers, a few musicians, a third “sensitive,” and someone who likes to be the center of attention.

If you think you are interested in setting up something like this in your locale—let me get my feet good and wet and I’ll invite you to wade out too. Maybe summer?

This is the site for the church, seidr group, etc.

Above, you can also find a link to the the grove (which, um, I named—thanks for keeping that straight–In Jan 2013, we renamed the grove, Nine Worlds Kindred, to further separate from that old nastiness).

So, this is the beginning of the end, y’all. Get ready to bookmark some new stuffs.

Wæs þu hail!

Ehsha

---

[1] I’ve never been one to panic when my Facebook friends list shifts downward and I’ve always been able to find my sense of self-worth outside of my “page likes.” And I’ve never referred to anyone as my “follower,” because—um, gross.

[2] I became aware of it when I was working with a woman in a similar situation—except that she had created the monster of another woman’s person. Just after I wrote “Clean-up in Aisle Three,” it struck me like a ton of bricks that the samedamned thing was happening here.

[3] . . . even though they often bind-together (in a way that proves all of René Girard’s points about scapegoating) to smack-talk, ill-blog about, and wish nuisances on me. . .

[4] Doctor of ministry—not philosophy. It’s attractive, but not the same—don’t be confused. It’s like dentist school or chiropractor school, these folks are “Doctors” but not MD. With a ThD, you are “Doctor” and/or “Reverend,” but not PhD. It doesn’t mean a hill of beans outside of a religious framework. But inside a religious framework, it’s as good as you can get!