The New Normal?

I'm not quite ready to call it a firm tradition, but it does seem that lately the holy days are being spent in very literal ways. There was the Winter Solstice that I spent helping a dear friend give birth. Now there's the Samhain that I spent planning my husband's grandmother's funeral. She passed from this world on the 28th, and the funeral had to be delayed for several reasons. Early on the morning of the 31st, I woke to a phone call from a crematorium in Tennessee saying that my mother's father (the man discussed here) had died at 4:40am and could I please send money for his cremation? And so the day was spent sorting out those details, and most of my plans had to be cancelled. The first, second, and third days of November were spent in vigil over my husband's grandmother until she found her way to the beyond. And the so the plans for those days were altered too. Still, it seems that the holy days were spent as they were meant to be.

Delve

It is easy to fold one's self
into primness and proper decorum, but
Delve
deeper than you'd imagine
She would ask you to go.
Find in Her those things that go hidden
Within
every woman of our time.
Shift with the animals
then go back to your home and
guard it with the ferocity of the lioness.
Sit at Her feet and
Know
that there is so much you can see, so
you must strain against the fetters.

by OhioWitch
Copyright 2012

When She Comes

There is something incredibly fulfilling about waking before the sun, confused and wondering what it could be that has pulled one from sleep so much earlier than usual, to look out the window and behold those first fat, fresh flakes swirling in the moonlight. She doesn't always wake me when She comes, so those times when I am called send a tingle down my spine and fill my heart with gratitude for the opportunity. I grab my black wool coat, my head scarf, boots, and a libation. The kids are sleeping. The dog is sleeping. It is an enormous rarity for me to be alone. The steps outside my back door are treacherously icy, so I must navigate carefully. I am not known for my grace.

The puff of my breath comes long and slow as I re-gather Her kindling, strewn about by a particularly naughty German shepherd, into a neat pyramid. It is always painful to me to disturb the pristine whiteness that covers the ground. It seems sacreligious, though I know I must do it, so I step carefully, deliberately. I pour the spirits on the ground and take a swig myself, grimacing at the fire that clutches my throat. My cheeks flush, even with just this minimal consumption. I've always been a lightweight. I whisper words reserved only for Her and settle myself beside the birdfeeder, after filling it, to listen to Her response. The snow nearly always stops for at least a brief bit after our exchange. She may come back later, She may not.

Back up the icy steps, into the warm interior of my home, and now I can shake the melting snow from my garments and hang them over the heater vent. The liquor is put away, high above my head and out of reach of curious little hands. I won't be able to sleep now that the brisk early morning air has invaded my brain. I press my hot cheek to a frosty window and watch the splendour resume.

Baptism

I was just cleaning out the attic and ran across the certificate I was given after I was baptised.

Did I ever tell y'all the story of my baptism? Hmmm...

I left my pagan beginnings for awhile during my teen years, for a variety of reasons, and decided to join a church at 16. I had a deeply moving spiritual experience in that church. Maybe I'll share that some other time, but today is about my baptism.

The church I'd joined was quite small, not more than 100 people in the congregation at any given time. The building reflected that, with no room for a baptismal, and so baptisms were done in the local YMCA pool. Yes indeed. Though my mother was adamantly against my new-found faith (she didn't care if I dabbled in witchcraft, but please for the love of god do not join that Christian cult), but she agreed to come to my baptism and bring her video camera.

I was very body conscious as a teen, so the church tried to accomodate my fear of bathing suits by allowing me to dress in a choir robe. In pictures of that day, I looked like a fucking advertisement for purity: long blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin glowing, choir robe disguising any shape to my thin, developing body.

Eventually it was my turn to be dunked. I hardly remember what was said in those moments because I was completely overcome with Spirit. I know there were words said, questions asked and answered. I saw the red light of the camcorder as my mother prepared to capture the memory. A hand pressed against my forehead, another holding steady at the small of my back as the pastor bent me backwards to cleanse me. Everyone was quiet, reverant. Just before I hit the water, I heard my mother's voice cry out, "SHIT!"

Her video camera had run out of batteries. I've never again heard such a deafening echo.

It was all downhill from there.

The Worst has Passed, but the World is Ending...

Thanks to those of you who have been thinking of my family. I think the worst has passed (knock on wood), but I've been wrong before. Today marks the first of 40 or so treatments in an approximately 10-month-long process. It's going to be a long year.

Have you seen this? So fun. Even as a very small girl, I hoped that I would live to see the end of the world. It's a difficult urge to explain, and I think it has a lot to do with seeing things through. This was particularly troubling for my Grandmother-the-Prophet who had visions of the demise of the Earth, just as any good prophet would. She would tsk at me and say, "you don't know a thing at all. You're too very, very small."

January 3, 2012

I haven't been blogging.

I haven't been sleeping.

I haven't been eating.

This post is not going to be related to witchcraft, so feel free to stop reading now. I also won't be going into detail because the crux of the issue involves one of my children, and I won't put their private life on public display, even on a tiny blog like this.

2011 ended on a very bad note for my family--a very real, life-and-death type of bad note. For now, everyone is fine, with all their appendages in their proper places. I hope that is where it will end, but we're all feeling scared and lost and unsure of what the future holds. Don't worry, help is soon to come (I hope).

This situation has the potential to bind us all closer together or blow our entire family apart. Because it is one of my children that hangs in the balance, I'm feeling particularly vulnerable and, well, a bit like the worst mother in the world. There is a permanent lump in my throat and the weight of a cannonball resting firmly in the pit of my stomach, but I'll be damned if we're going to go down without a fight. I will not be the parent who doesn't see it coming. I won't be the parent who ignores warning signs or pushes it all under the rug because I'm too afraid to face the worst case scenario. It's balls to the wall here, folks.

All that said, do you think it's a bad omen that my own dog bit me on New Year's Eve (my fault, of course)? On New Year's Day I woke up to dog vomit. I went to the grocery store and was halfway through checking out when I realized that I hadn't brought any money. The clerk was very gracious about the whole thing and held my order while I drove home and back. As I was loading the groceries into the trunk, the wind blew the trunk lid shut... on my head. Because of the delay with the groceries and my bleeding head, I ended up driving through an ice storm that stopped the moment I reached my house.

I'm chalking it up to a preoccupied mind. Barring that, I'm hoping that I'm getting all the damnable bad luck out of the way early in 2012. In light of the trouble we face, even my particularly shitty New Year is laughable.

Pray for us, readers. Pray very hard.

Occupy

For those of you who support the Occupy Wall Street movement but cannot be on the front lines of the protests, here is a quick, easily implementable suggestion for how you can help from the comfort of your own home. The best part is that it hit the banks where it counts--the bottom line! Please help and show your support if you can.



Also, there have been some really brilliant herbalists and healers putting together information for those who would like to help the protestors at the Occupy Herbalism facebook page.

I am the 99%!

I Am...

Pondering:

"...Long before man appeared on earth he existed as a dream of prophecy in the animal soul..." ~Edwin Muir

Dreaming:

A series of dreams in which I flip light switches on only to have the darkness grow blacker.

Crafting:

Clay evil eye talismans to hang over my door and the doors of friends.

Learning:

That the breadcrumbs leading me this primal/paleo diet (and, more and more, lifestyle) were sprinkled in places I never consciously looked for them before.

Needing:

A serious house cleansing/blessing/uncrossing... and money.

Letting go of:

The fact that our roof--for which we signed a contract in MAY--will not actually even be started until, well, probably next May.

A Missed Opportunity for Corrupting the Youth and How the Gods Reward Such

Our dear, beloved, ever so obedient pup (almost 7 months old now!) chewed through some of the wiring to our exterior A/C unit (thank goodness we haven't used it in some weeks now). The repairman came today to lecture me for an hour about getting a fence erected (tee-hee!) around the unit and to give me an estimate for the repairs ($164, FYI). While I was trying to reach my husband at work to make sure that we had the budget to go ahead with the repairs, the kids came outside to tell me that there were more men at the door. I opened the door to...

Two rosy-cheeked, clean-shaven youths in matching white button-down shirts and black pants, nametags labeling them "Brother ______". I could be wrong, but I think most people (Christians, pagans, etc. included) have a standard response for this sort of thing, a line that you whip out to make the encounter as quick and painless as possible. Mine is: "I really respect the work that you're doing to spread the word of your god, but I'm a pagan. Thanks, but no thanks."

I swear they stopped breathing. They were dead still for about five seconds. I've used this at least a dozen times on Jehovah's Witnesses, and they usually just avert their eyes and go on their merry way. These Mormon boys, however, were a different story. One of them, in his sweet, southern drawl, said (and I quote): "Oh really? What do you believe in? I've never met a real, live pagan before!" That's when the A/C repairman started calling for me to help him. Damn. Opportunity missed. The boy was so excited that he actually asked if he could wait on my porch until the repairs were over so that we could talk. It nearly broke my heart to tell him no.

The upshot was that the repairman decided not to charge me anything but the $69 fee to have someone come out in the first place. Shhhh! Don't tell his boss. I'm pretty sure that I've lost my pretty, young girl appeal, so what else could it be except a gift from my gods? ;)

A Year of Babies

I was only half serious when I said before that babies and young (and insects) seem to be my niche. It's remained a pattern this summer though. Last week my youngest daughter was stung by a honey bee who had expired quite some time before my daugher (aptly nicknamed "Bee") ever touched her. But that's a story for another time. Today I performed the funerary rites and burial service of a sweet little baby boy squirrel who I'd found in my path on our morning pilgrimage/nature walk. I didn't see him on the way to our destination, but there he was, plain as day, on our way back. We sent him on his way with thirteen black walnuts, water, and a lullabye-- "Rock-a-bye Baby". He had curled all ouroboros-style in the ochre red terracotta dish that held his body during the rites. The girls picked some flowers from the waning garden to mark his grave where it rests among the web of roots that spreads beneath Mother Maple.

And lest you think my silence on this blog has meant an idle summer for me and mine, I'll leave you with this:



Yes, that's my poor, broken garden trowel.

Epiphyte or Parasite?

It grows in the crotch of another species of tree, conifer cradled in deciduous. Both live and seem no worse for wear as of yet. More remarkable yet is that conifers of any sort are scarce around here in a landscape dominated by maples and beech. It seems to me that the most likely scenario is that a bird or squirrel or other beastie carried this seed from the cemetery not so far away. Perhaps it is wishful thinking on my part. Does it make this sapling any less magical?

Animal Herbalists

This is only part one. Watch them all.

The Making of a Goddess

(Disclaimer: I am not disclosing the name of the subject of this post in order to protect my own identity. I hope you'll understand. For anyone who would like more information, you may e-mail me at intotheheartofthebeast(at)hotmail(dot)com.)

What do the locals do in your area when they really, really want something to happen (or not happen, as the case may be)?

In my specific corner of the world, most people bow their heads and pray to Jesus. But there is someone else inching in on the lamentations of the suffering and destitute, and she is... not a deity. Yet. In fact, she was a living, breathing, flesh-covered mortal just a little over a century ago. She had (has) a name--a couple of them--as well as an occupation and a fair share of scandal.

Now, however, it is not uncommon to hear someone--even someone of an otherwise Abrahamic faith--petitioning this revered dead for aid. Young women whose love is unrequited and women about to give birth are the most common contributors. They place pennies atop the gravestone at this revered dead's feet and drape strings of beads over the arms of the cross at her head, for she can certainly empathize with their plight. In life, the story goes that she was abandoned by her lover upon his discovery of her pregnancy. The baby of this illicit affair was stillborn, and his mother did not live through his birth.

I realize that this is not an entirely unique situation. Visitors to the tomb of Marie Laveau, for example, will draw a triple "X" sign there in the hopes of being granted a wish by the ensconced Voodoo priestess. The difference--and a significant one, I think--is that Ms. Laveau was attributed with certain occult powers while still living. The jump to asking her to continue her work beyond the grave is not such a stretch. Our local lady, however, does not carry this distinction. At most, those she associated with in life may have been of an ethnic group that is sometimes said to have mystical powers. She, however, did not share their ethnicity. It is somewhat of a mystery how this young woman came to have such a claim to fame. What was it about her that warranted such attention? What is it about her that still calls to us even now?

Sometimes I wonder about the future of this revered dead. I wonder if, a hundred years from now, women will still be gifting her their coins and baubles in return for her blessing. Perhaps a thousand years from now she will have reached a status similar to the Cailleach, whom I feel very deeply walked in the flesh many, many years ago. Will the popularity of the internet and the ease with which we can now gain access to historical information prevent this deification? I pay careful attention to the various threads of our lady's legend and how they have evolved and grown since her death, and I wonder if and how her myth will continue to change over time.

New Soul

There was a freshly turned plot in one of my cemeteries this past weekend. I added my offerings of welcome among the festooned pots laying on their sides over the clods of dirt. The next day, when I went to check on the new dead (I've no idea who it is because it is too early for a headstone, but I feel it is someone young) there was a woman sobbing at the grave. Not wanting to disturb her, I kept my head down and pulled Tracker close since he is still prone to wanting to jump on and play with every human he meets. As my eyes turned towards the pavement, I saw a single wing from a Monarch butterfly, shredded and covered by a muddy footprint.

Fledgling

Outside my back door, there is a fledgling starling resting at the bottom of a pot, the thick roots of a newly potted Althea spread above him. Babies and young seem to be my niche. His soft, warm, expired body was my greeting this morning the moment I stepped out from my front door. Literally, right in the middle of the walkway from my house to the sidewalk (just like the carpenter bee found on one of our morning walks; I guess insects are a niche too.). With me, in regards to the dead that come my way, the Universe is very rarely subtle. Smack dab in the middle of my path is the trend. When my husband called from work, I asked him if he'd seen the bird on his way to his car this morning because I was thinking that maybe he'd been blown out by high winds last night. No, he hadn't been there when the husband had left. His ill-fated first flight couldn't have been long before I walked out the front door.

All of the children were in attendance (including one stark naked 2-year-old) for the funerary rites. They sang with me and helped scoop compost into the pot. My son chose the marshmallow to plant in the pot.

Brazen Bunny

Let me tell you, this is one rabbit that had better be fucking magical because the only other option in a yard with four curious children and an equally curious German shepherd pup is to end up someone's indelicate plaything.

I first saw him (or her) yesterday when I was cutting the grass. (Don't worry, no noisome, fossil fuel guzzling lawnmowers here. The old push mower is equally deadly to small wildlife though.) He darted out from behind the mulberry Cunt Tree, along the fenceline, and into my very overgrown and weedy herb garden near the house. Immediately I had flashbacks to my teen years when I'd failed miserably to save any of the many baby bunnies my dogs had proffered as quickly expiring acts of devotion. They ended up instead contributing to the education of my budding naturalist self, usually being dissected and hauled out to The Swamp for the scavengers.

I thought that was the end of the story, but Cunt Tree Bunny resurfaced again today--when all four kids AND the dog were outside with me making their normal hellish racket. He sat there, as bold as day on the brick path, munching violet leaves. I crated the dog, made the kids back off, and snapped a picture. He was unconcerned as far as I could tell.

I don't think it's a coincidence that today is one of the days I woke with a foot in each of two worlds. Tonight I will sit beneath the Cunt Tree and let myself slide down the rabbit hole.

Summer Solstice

Wonder of wonders! Could the solstice already be here? The first hurrah as we slide slowly into darkness...

As always, our morning began with our soujourn to the geese, and look what we found:



A palm-sized tuft of fur (squirrel? rabbit?) and some honeycomb. And the longest day has just begun.

Dream

A Latino man in his 30's has come to teach me how to fish. We are in the basement of my house, but of course it is nothing like my real basement. There are toys strewn about, and the man's son is having a sleepover with my children. They've laid down sleeping bags on the concrete floor. I go upstairs for something, and the man's son follows me. "Do you have any of those little vibrators?" he asks. "Um, no. I don't think so" is my response.

The man calls me back to the basement. "You need to change the energy in this place. You need vibrators." I explain to him that I don't know what he is talking about. A bit frustrated with my lack of knowledge, he fetches a bamboo steamer and the tiniest fly agarics I've ever seen. One of them is brown rather than red. He attaches these mushrooms to the inside perimeter of the steamer with twist ties and puts on the lid.

This dream made me giggle when I woke up because all I could think of was Ms. Graveyard Dirt's Phallic Agaric".

Carpenter Bee

Rain or shine, we sojourn each morning to commune with the geese. On this particular morning a carpenter bee met us, splayed directly in the middle of the rain-soaked sidewalk. She's a little bedraggled after her ordeal, but I'm sure you'll all forgive her appearance.

Dream

Last night I dreamed that I was working in a bookstore, and a customer came in looking for a book called How to Find Mugwort. Subtle title, yes? There was a large, wooden circular display in front of my register where I went to look for the book, but all the copies of that title had been sold. Still available, however, was How to Harvest Mugwort. I tried to sell the customer on this, but I woke before he made his decision. The cover illustration on the mugwort book was a wood etching done in dark blue on cream-colored paper and showed a man with a broad-brimmed hat wielding a sickle. A tiny spider darted diagonally across the cover as I lifted the book to show the customer, a man of inderterminate features. I woke with Fiona Apple's "The First Taste" in my head, a song I had played during my Anthesteria celebration to provoke Dionysos (he didn't bite).

Today, with The Husband still home over the long weekend, I'm off to my favorite haunt to woo mugwort. Will she let me find her?

P.S.--Mugwort was one of the plants that came up in my Winter Solstice divination.