Tomorrow is 8/8/08, the eight day of the eight month of the eight year of this benighted century. I'm not a big student of numerology; I'd say that numbers and I have a difficult relationship, but there must first be some relationship for it to be difficult. My left-brained self, she has a v difficult time w numbers.
But somehow, w/in Tarot, numbers make more sense to me. The Eights are interesting. Eight is twice four. In Tarots, the fours are where things get so stable as to become, perhaps, stuck. In the Gaian Tarot, "Eights illustrate the test of taking action out in the world to make your dreams a reality, in their respective elemental suits."
For a long time in my life, almost every reading that I did for myself resulted in the 8 of Wands showing up somewhere. That's good. Movement. Going places. Heading towards goals. The Eight of Cups is v similar. Something's missing! Let's go find it!
The other evening, as we sat down to eat following our Lughnasadah ritual, my iPhone went off. One of the other witches in my circle said, "It's your son calling; his picture came up. And, whoa, that's a good song for him." Here's the ringtone for Son on my iPhone:
111 - year - old reptile finally becoming a father E
WELLINGTON, New Zealand (AP) -- Officials say an indigenous New Zealand reptile regarded as one of the last living remnants of the dinosaurs will become a father for the first time in decades at the age of 111.
Henry the tuatara and his younger mate Mildred produced a dozen eggs last month after mating at the Southland Museum on New Zealand's South Island in March.
Tuatara curator Lindsay Hazley said Wednesday Henry has lived at the museum's special enclosure for Tuatara since 1970 and had shown no interest in sex until he recently had a cancerous growth removed from his genitals. He was now enjoying the company of three females and might breed again next March
Been thinking a bit about the connection/overlap between mystics of all religions and Wiccans.
Poem by St Theresa
All the earth with snow is covered, Everywhere the white frosts reign; Winter and his gloomy courtiers Hold their court on earth again. But for you has bloomed the Flower Of the fields, Who comes to earth From the fatherland of heaven, Where eternal spring has birth. Near the Rose of Christmas, Sister! In the lowly grasses hide, And be like the humble flowerets, -- Of heaven’s King the lowly bride!
What I don't understand about physics would fill libraries, but one thing that I have been able to grock is that the simple act of paying attention changes the object/situation/person/phenemonon to which attention is paid. I get that because that's the basic teaching of Wicca.
And so, perhaps it's because I'm paying attention (aka, perhaps it's "all in my head," as if that meant it's "not real"), but suddenly yesterday, the day after Lughnasadah, it all began to change. I went out yesterday afternoon to dance in the pounding August rain and there, just as I was about to go ahead and dance all the way into the stream, was a chilling breeze that made my bones cold and sent me inside for hot tea and a warm shower.
And there, this morning, as I finished the one task that I'd planned to do by Lughnasadah but hadn't gotten done -- cleaning out the garden shed -- was the change in light, the breeze in the leaves, the different "feel" that signals the lovely, slow arc of the year, from Autumn to Winter. I wanted to be at the Ren Faire w/ G/Son, I was thinking of a pumpkin-carving party, I was remembering my favorite recipes for soup.
It's only a glimmer. Here in the swamp over which they built our nation's capital, we're still likely in for six or eight weeks of heat. Son, DiL, and G/Son are at the beach. Congress is adjourned. The farmers' markets are still full of corn, tomatoes, zucchini, basil, and peaches. And yet, and yet, and yet, if you're engaged in that most magical act of all -- the act of paying attention -- you can hear the distant flutes of a changing season, the shifting of the leaves from green to gold, the birds feeding up and getting ready for the long flight South, the chill in the rainy air, a different quality of light in the morning mist.
A witch's job is to turn the wheel. And round and round the wheel must turn.
One of America's most brilliant bloggers, Molly Ivors says that: all women's romance novels are based on either Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, or Pride and Prejudice. Molly reminds me of the sexist mistake behind the famous notion that there are only two stories in all of literature: A Young Man Goes on a Journey and A Stranger Comes to Town.
Me, I was always falling madly in love with the Heathcliffs.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."