Invoking Air.

Video clips at Ustream
How does this change us? How does it change the eagles? How does it change the very element of Air, itself?

I know that I will never invoke it in exactly the same way, ever again.

I sent the link to G/Son via email.

Mercury may be retrograde, but this is v cool.

Newness

For the last few days, we've had very strong winds, making our below-normal, cold temps feel even colder. Wind, for me, is all about the Powers of the East, Air, Dawn, New Beginnings, Swords. At our Solstice celebration, I was talking with one of my Sisters about a painting that hangs in my home, showing a woman walking into a strong wind. I have always loved the idea of walking into the wind, of letting fresh new air blow over me and all my ideas. I live a lot -- no, really, a lot -- in my head. THE big challenge for me, in this incarnation, is to integrate my oversized Talking Self with my physical body, my Younger Self, my Sacred Dove. And I've still got a long way to go. But, give me words and ideas and sentences, heck, give me footnotes and case holdings and conflicting interpretations, and I'm off to the races, riding air drafts, soaring on wind gusts, riding, like an eagle, on Boreas, Chinook, Etsian, the Mistral, Typhoons, and, well, and the Wind.

Conversely, I take such a hugely sensual pleasure in being inside, wearing a soft cotton nightgown, on my sturdy bed and firm mattress, weighted down by cotton blankets, and comforters, and woven bedspreads, balanced upon ice-cold soft pillows, newly-turned from the wall-side, and listening to the wind whistle and howl around my snug little cottage. And there's hardly been a night for the last few weeks when I haven't been awakened at some point and given the chance to snuggle down even deeper under the covers and listen to the wind sough through the branches of my ancient oaks.

May it be so for you.

Picture found here.

Calling the Elements

I've been thinking a lot lately (well, it's sad; you get old, your mind wanders down strange pathways, but at least I've been thinking about this in between v practical issues for a rather demanding appellate brief; my job does do wonderful things for me) about the role that Calling the Elements really plays in Wiccan ritual. Coming, generally, at the beginning of the ritual, I think that Calling the Elements serves a role greater than the sum of its parts.

By that, I mean that Calling the Elements (Earth, Air, Fire and Water! Come be with me; I'm your daughter. Air, Fire, Water, Earth! To my better self now give birth. Fire, Water, Earth, and Air! Bring me now the power to dare. Water, Earth, Air, and Fire! I call you now with all my desire.) is one of the parts of ritual that speaks most clearly to Younger Child and, as a result, can, when well-done, lead us quickly into that space between the worlds where magic is, indeed, possible. And when done perfunctorily, or as an afterthought, or as an Oh-Shit-I-Volunteered-to-Call-Water-and-then-Forgot-about-It-Well-Let-Me-Start-Babbling-About-Flow-and-Drops-Coming-Together-and-Hope-this-Works (I've been totally guilty of this), it can put a damper on the entire ritual, can make it that much more difficult for the magic to happen.

Younger Child, at least as I conceive of Her, is that part of us that responds to poetic language, to symbol, to things just below the level of language and conscious thought. It's funny (well, funny-strange, not funny-ha-ha, except in the sense that the Universe and I have, for almost 55 years, been having grand jokes on each other and then, of course, it's also funny-ha-ha) that, for many years after reading and understanding (intellectually) the concept of Younger Child, what I said to myself was: "But I'm deficient in this area. I'm too left-brained to have much of a Younger Child. If I see a sigil, I translate it into words and turn that task over to Talking Self, so, really, I don't have much of a Younger Child."

And, then, somehow, I remembered the first time that, as a child, I somehow wound up in a v nice section of a v nice restaurant. My memory is foggy about how this happened: I was the oldest of five kids in a working-class family and we didn't spend much time in any restaurant, much less one that wasn't (a special treat) a McDonald's. But I have this vague sensory impression of being in such a place, of reveling in the way that sounds were muffled there and that empty space provided room for one's being to expand. Once I made the association between that impression and the way that it made me feel as if maybe I could be who I'd always meant to be (this is shallow, I know; so is Younger Child), dozens of similar impressions came flooding back to me.

The way that great architecture has always made me feel. The way that fountains instantly make joy bubble up within me. The way that wearing elegant, well-fitting clothes has always changed the way that I move, the things that I say, the way that I feel towards others. The feelings of both groundedness and airiness that the scent of lilacs can induce in me. Copeland's Fanfare for the Common Man. The way that a man's cologne can make me weak in the knees. Poetry.

So, I'm a slow learner; it took me a long time to get in touch with my own Younger Self; the one who didn't get much validation from my writer-father or my left-brained, Vatican II Catholic education. And, yet, once I did, I quit worrying about whether or not a sigil or rune induced anything within me and began to focus on the many ways that my Younger Self could be induced to feel comfortable, expand, do magic, invoke what I needed.

And, so. Here's Margaret Roach, in A Way to Garden, discussing the element of Air:

Where I live, I’d have to count wind—not cold, despite my Zone 5-ish climate—as the most destructive force in the garden, bringing down or splitting apart woody plants when it roars, and desiccating evergreens in winter. Particularly when it combines with or follows drought, as it is this year, it’s a force to be reckoned with.

For now, all that means is a few stray sycamore leaves (Platanus occidentalis). We’ll see what . . . other tricks it has in mind this winter. Batten down the hatches, won’t you?

Can you invoke Air more powerfully for your next ritual? I'd love to see it in comments.

Picture found here.

Air

Art, especially sculpture, has always spoken so deeply to my Younger Self. And I've long been a huge fan of Andrew Goldsworthy's work. Lately, I've been getting a lot of inspiration for things in my own life from two artists whose works contain echoes of Goldsworthy. One is Patrick Dougherty. Here's a short video about how he creates interesting spaces from tree branches.



Dougherty has an exhibit at the Brooklyn Botanical Garden that I'm itching to go see; like most sculpture, his work doesn't translate all the way into two dimensions.

The sculpture at BBG is woven from nonnative woody material that was collected from Ocean Breeze Park on Staten Island. The harvesting site was chosen by BBG's director of Science because of its proximity to the Garden and its large population of nonnative willow (Salix atrocinerea), which is designated an invasive species in New York State. Removal of saplings of this species helped protect the site's excellent assemblage of herbaceous plants. The park is owned by the City of New York and is targeted for restoration under the City's PlaNYC sustainability initiative.

. . .

When asked about some of the words that came to mind as he contemplated what he wanted to build in Brooklyn, Dougherty smiled and said "lairs; a place for feral children and wayward adults."

Maybe I can borrow G/Son and we can go one weekend this Spring.

The second is Sally J. Smith who blogs here. I especially like how Smith's work honors the changing seasons. Here's a short video showing some of her works for this time of year:



And here's another, with ice sculptures for the coming Winter. I love the way that Smith intentionally incorporates the Sun and Moon (yes, the real ones! and she's not alone) into her work.



What inspires you right now?

Picture found here.

Elements: Air

Sunday Dance Blogging

Smörgåsbord

*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!

Picture found here.

Fare Thee Well, Aughts!

What a decade. It was Sandra Day's fault, but it was my fault, too, and yours, for not rioting in the streets. Well, done is done and, thank the Goddess, the Aughts are done.

Come with me. Strip. Shed your past as cleanly and as decisively as the snake sheds her skin. Leave all the old markers behind. Stand naked on the high hill. Ground. Take a huge lungfull of the icy cold air, the clarity; right now, this is all about the element of Air. Then, leap. Open your heart and let go of everything. Leap into the energy of the enormous Blue Moon that will end this decade and begin the next, spread the wings you didn't know that you had, and soar into the Teens with me.

This song always reminds me of the poem by Mary Oliver:

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

But, we can do so much more than "just" save our lives. We can, with prodigal abandon, begin to spend our lives. Which, of course, reminds me of the Rumi poem:

I would love to kiss you.
The price of kissing is your life.
Now my loving is running toward my life shouting,
"What a bargain, let's buy it!"

May this be the decade when energy becomes green, civilization becomes sustainable, the noosphere comes into its own, women assume half the power in the world, witches are honored instead of murdered, art matters more than war, and your life becomes an amazing collaboration with your very own landbase, watershed, biosphere, higher self/sacred dove/Goddess-self.

Make one wish for yourself on December 31, 2019. Go write it down here. Then, do what witches do: you begin by casting a circle.

Blessed new decade to you.

Maybe In Any Language

Summer afternoon - Summer afternoon... the two most beautiful words in the English language.~Henry James


I came out onto the screen porch several hours ago to do some work. But there's a breeze from the SouthWest that keeps making love to the leaves -- and their lovemaking makes the shadows on the lawn dance. There are cardinals and bluejays and mourning doves and mocking birds and sparrows and squirrels at the feeder and dappled shade in the woodland garden and -- well, I have done none of the briefing that I meant to do today. But I have done something else that I do -- that we all do -- far too seldom. I have been really present in my body; I have appreciated; I have replenished the almost-empty cistern of my soul. I've gotten better acquainted with this bit of land, the spirits of this place, Summer.

May it be so for you.

East

Samhein is the beginning of the new year for me and I make resolutions, just as many other Americans do on January 1st. One of my resolutions this year was to work through a structured plan for spiritual growth, rather than to just commit, as I did last year, to simply spend time at my altar. In order to achieve that goal, I'm working through the final 8 chapters of Evolutionary Witchcraft by T. Thorn Coyle. That means that I'm beginning with Air. Thorn associates the wand with air and, good though her reasons are for doing so, I'm not going to undo 17 years of living as a witch; for me, the sword (or athame) is the tool of air, followed by the finger. I simply transpose what she says about tools. I'm old and I've built up a long magical practice in which Air=East=Athame.

Thorn says: A serious practitioner can develop emotional connections w/ her Gods [sic], intellectual rigor and honesty, and physical and psychic discipline, with no one thing cancelling out another. She quotes Doreen Valiente, who said, By developing their powers, the magician and the witch develop themselves. They aid their own evolution, their growth as a human being, and in so far as they truly do this, they aid the evolution of the human race. It reminds me of what I loved about the Bene Gesserits, who searched, and searched, and searched, confused as their search became.

It's a good reason to begin with Air, in the East, athame in hand.

Additional Air & Life Is Good Pictures

Air