It's an almost impossibly perfect day here on the banks of the overfull Potomac River. I'm doing work that I'm good at and that I love. My garden is taking off. My dreams keep telling me interesting things. G/Son is thriving and I'm having dinner w/ Son tomorrow at a new French place in D.C. And while the world goes to hell in a handbasket and Obama (who got elected because that evil woman voted for the war) is now sending drones into Libya, I'm still filled with gratitude for the chance to help re-weave the web every morning that the Goddess wakes me up to do this interesting thing all over again. One of these times, I'm bound to get it right. I live in a city that gives me a chance almost every day to quickly ground, center, throw a web of intent across a motorcade or helicopter or government official and raise energy from the Earth to guide those involved to open to goodness, mercy, compassion. No matter what else, I can go to bed every night in my little cottage and be grateful for that.
I'm off now to sit at my altar, to which I'm bringing the first gardenia bloom of the season as on offering. They say that the Summerlands smell of apples. That will be nice, but I hope that they have gardenias there, too, because I may love that smell better than almost anything else -- well, except for the smell of Son's head when he was a baby -- ever. What's your favorite smell?
There's some great writing out there on the internets (as W used to say).
And, on Twitter, Cary Rocklandasks a question that's had me thinking all afternoon. What "success rituals" do you use to achieve peak performance? I keep wondering if I even have any? Best I've come up with is: lean protein at breakfast and remembering my "why," but I feel as if this is a question I need to work on a lot more. How would you answer it?
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 . . . ."