*Life has been kicking my ass. Work has been kicking my ass. My spiritual practice has been kicking my ass. The garden has been kicking my ass. This full Moon has been kicking my ass. I have not been getting enough (any) sleep. My conference call yesterday ended around 3:00 pm and I was in my bed, asleep, by 4:00 pm. At about 4:00 am, I began with the v lucid dreaming that often comes with deep sleep after a few all-nighters. In my dream, I am in a taxi that's both a car and a sleek motorboat. We're speeding past a bridge that is, but is not, the Gov. Thomas Johnson Bridge off of Solomon's Island. Off to the East, are some people in rowboats near some reeds and sedges. They've (not the people to the East, but, you know, "they") taken the road spans from the bridge down for Autumn (of course, this doesn't happen "in reality.") But I'm happy about it and eager for Autumn to come on. My cab driver is a middle-aged African American man from Southern Maryland and he and I begin the best conversation that I've ever had about mystical experience, about the gnosis that Earth and Life and Photosynthesis and The World are wonderful and perfect and true sources of bliss. We really understand each other. We sing a little song together and I think that I quote him some poetry. He drives off of the water, onto land, pulls up into The City to let me off. He says that I owe him $5, and I pull out $10 and give it to him. He kisses me on my left cheek and I wander off into the City.
When I wake up, I feel pretty sure that he was some deity visiting me in my dream, but I can't think which one. What comes to mind is the Tarot card of The Fool, but he was not The Fool. He was more like the boatman in the Six of Swords, but that's not it, either. He wasn't a character from Tarot; he was deity and, you know, it's not as if male deity visits me all that often. I hope that he was not Charon, but, you know, if he was Charon, well, I'm going to really enjoy the conversation on that taxi ride. Who do you think he was?
* Emma Restall Orr and others argue that honor is among the most important of Pagan values. I've had occasion recently to be reminded of how much honor and integrity matter to me. There's an old Wiccan saying (anyone know the source?) that if your word is no good on "this" plane, you can hardly expect it to be binding between the worlds. When you say, "This is my will, so mote it be," how good is your word? Fairy tales, epic poems, and sagas are full of stories about what happens to those who can't control themselves but hope to direct energy, control the forces of the Universe, master magic. Cautionary tales are there for a reason.
*March is so much, for me, the month of Air. We get our windiest weather in March. I woke up this morning to giant oak branches, newly-leafed, swaying in the strong, early-morning wind. I drove home this evening to cherry blossoms and the snow-white blossoms of Bradford Pears, blowing in the wind like some kind of snowy, pink-white confetti. On Saturday, I drove past the National Mall on Kite Day. Oh, my. Dozens and dozens of the loveliest kites, ever, swooping and floating and flying in Air. Dragons and pinwheels and box kites and long, thin banners. My favorite was a pitch black butterfly, swooping over and over past the Washington Monument. DC has kite day on the National Mall because it used to be, for some odd reason, illegal to fly a kite on the Mall. Air is so often about the flouting of rules and the bringing of fresh approaches.
*Recently, Son was teasing me about how often I blog about grounding. (Son: "Know what you should do then, Mom?" Me: "No, what?" Son: "You should ground." Me: "Thanks, I ground pretty regularly." Son: "Know what you should do then?" Me: "Ground?" Son: "Ground." Me: "OK." Son: "And then? Mom? You should ground and blog about grounding." He's a smart ass; he gets it from his father, I'm sure.) Today, I went out to the herb bed to plant the new tarragon seedlings that I ordered, back this winter when I was sure that the snow had killed off all of my tarragon. To my surprise, a number of the tarragon plants that had appeared completely dead were sending up enough new shoots to beat the band. I was reminded of one of my favorite concepts: As below, so above. If what is below ground is strong, what is above ground will be ok. If you are firmly rooted, you'll do alright, even when the winter is The Worst Winter Ever. You can even take some razzing from your Son.
I'm going to sleep early tonight, too. Watch for bazooms blogging tomorrow!
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 . . . ."