The Light Returns

We woke to icy rain and slippery outdoor surfaces. By ten o'clock, the sun was breaking through the clouds after days and days of rain. This afternoon, as if in celebration of the returning light, the hellebore was looking lovely and the tiny tips of the daffodils were pushing even higher.

Sunday Trakl Blogging

Helian

In the spirit’s solitary hours
It is lovely to walk in the sun
Along the yellow walls of summer.
Quietly whisper the steps in the grass; yet the son of Pa;
always sleeps in the grey marble.

At eventide on the terrace we got drunk on brown wine.
The red peach glows under the foliage.
Tender sonata, joyous laughter.

Lovely is this silence of the night.
On the dark plains
We gather with shepherds and the white stars.

When autumn rises,
The grove is a sight of sober clarity.
Along the red walls we loiter at ease
And our round eyes follow the flight of birds.
In the evening, pale water gathers in the dregs of burial urns.

Heaven celebrates, sitting in bare branches.
In hallowed hands, the yeoman carries bread and wine.
And fruit ripens in the peace of a sunny chamber.

Oh how stern are the faces of the beloved who have taken their passage.
Yet the soul is comforted in righteous meditation.

Overwhelming is the desolated garden‘s secrecy,
As the young novice has wreathed his brow with brown leaves,
His breath inhales icy gold.

The hands touch the antiquity of blueish water
Or, in a cold night, the sister's white cheeks.

In quiet and harmony we walk along a suite of hospitable rooms
Into solitude and the rustling of maple trees,
Where, perhaps, the thrush still sings.

Beautiful is man and emerging from the dark.
He marvels as he moves his arms and legs,
And his eyes quietly roll in purple cavities.

At suppertime ,a stranger loses himself in November’s black destitution;
Under brittle branches, he follows a wall covered under leprosy.
Once the holy brother went here,
Engrossed in the tender music of his madness.

Oh how lonely settles the evening-wind.
Dying away, a man‘s head droops in the dark of the olive tree.

How shattering is the decline of a family.
This is the hour when the seer’s eyes are filled
With gold as he beholds the stars.

The evening’s descent has muffled the belfry‘s knell in silence;
Among black walls in the public place,
A dead soldier calls for a prayer.

Like a pale angel
The son enters his ancestor’s empty house.

The sisters have traveled far to the pale ancients.
At night, returned from their mournful pilgrimage,
He found them asleep under the columns of the hallway.

Oh hair stained with dung and worms
As his silver feet stepped on it
And on those who died in echoing rooms.

Oh you palms under midnight’s burning rain,
When the servants flogged those tender eyes with nettles,
The hollyhock’s early fruit
Beheld your empty grave in wonder.

Fading moons sail quietly
Over the sheets of the feverish lad,
Into the silence of winter.

At the bank of Kidron a great mind is lost in musing,
Under a tree, the tender cedar,
Stretched out under the father’s blue eyebrows,
Where a shepherd drives his flock to pastures at night.

Or there are screams which escape the sleep;
When an iron angel approaches man in the grove,
The holy man’s flesh melts over burning coals.

Purple wine climbs about the mud-cottage,
Sheaves of faded corn sing;
The buzz of bees; the crane’s flight.
In the evening the souls of the resurrected gather on rocky paths.

Lepers behold their image in dark water;
Or they lift the hemp of their dung soiled attire,
And weep to the soothing wind, as it drifts down from the rosy hill.

Slender maidens grope their way through the narrow lanes of night;
They hope for the gracious shepherd.
Tenderly, songs ring out from the huts on weekend.

Let the song pay homage to the boy,
To his madness to his white eyebrows and to his passage,
To the decaying corpse, who opened his blue eyes.
Oh how sad is this reunion.

The stairs of madness in black apartments –
The matriarch’s shadow emerged under the open door
When Helian’s soul beheld his image in a rosy mirror;
And from his brow bled snow and leprosy.

The walls extinguished the stars
And the white effigies of light.

From the carpet rise skeletons, escaping their graves,
Fallen crosses sit silent on the hill,
The night’s purple wind is sweet with frankincense.

Oh ye broken eyes over black gaping jaws,
When the grandson in the solitude
Of his tender madness muses over a darker ending,
The blue eyelids of the silent god sink upon him.

Yule

It's grey today and there's a chilling cold. My neighbor's black cat is meowing outside my back door and, in the naked, twisty branches of the oak tree, three (of course it's three) of THE largest and blackest crows I have ever seen are making mournful crow song, trying to scare off the cat.

Darkness reigns; I can't imagine anything moodier and more evocative.

May the darkness bless you and fascinate you.

Picture found here.

Friday Cat Blogging

Miss Thing owns the bed.

Sleet On Solstice: Doan Want

The chief problem with Nature Religions is: Nature. I can't remember even once, since I began practicing magic with my wonderful circle of witchy women, when Nature has stopped us from being outside -- either at a wooded lakefront, or in my oak grove backyard, or on Capitol Hill, in the v shadow of power -- and banging drums, blowing whistles, beating pots, and shaking tambourines to wake up the sleepy Sun after the longest night of the year. But this year, when we've some, er, special magic planned for the, er, v powerful, the weather is threatening to keep old witches w broken ankles confined. I'll be spending some time this evening trying to push back the sleet.

Someone, and I apologize for forgetting who, once said that people are fearful of witches because witches aren't afraid of the Dark. I'm not sure if that's true; there are times in my life when the Dark has terrified me, but that's also true for me vis a vis the Light. What I do know about the Dark is that it's mostly comforting to me, these days. A lovely witch once asked me which room in my home was the darkest. Unless I go down into the basement, my guest room, tucked into the oak grove in my back yard and away from the street lights, is the darkest room in my home. If it weren't so much smaller than the master bedroom, I'd have picked that room for my bedroom, for that reason alone. As it is, I walk into the room two or three times an evening and just stand there, absorbing the comforting Dark. Scientists think that sleeping in deep Dark may help to prevent breast cancer; our attempts to light up the Dark have had so many pernicious effects, in addition to making it impossible to see the Milky Way, which, honestly, we were meant to see almost every night. I love the fogs we've been having for the same reason that I love the Dark: comfort. With only a small bit of practice, you can wrap the Dark around you the way that you can wrap fog around you, like a comforting cloak with a magical buckle on the front.

I wrapped up in my blue wool cloak yesterday morning and walked out barefoot in the fog and there were daffodil sprouts coming up out of the deep brown Earth, saying, "We love the Dark, the Dark underneath the ground, the deep Dark of winter. We'll see you soon when the days get long enough to warm the ground." And my hellebore, known as the Advent Rose, would be about to bloom, had Landscape Guy and I not transplanted it this year. It may bloom, yet.

My wonderful circle of magical women -- old, young, sexual, pregnant, menopausal, living with husbands, leaving husbands, leaving jobs, nurturing children, nurturing grandchildren, nurturing news agencies, nurturing federal agencies, nurturing film companies, nurturing non-profits, nurturing aged mothers-in-law, competing internationally in bridge, blogging, learning witchcraft, becoming political, rejuvinating after an annus horribilis, becoming devotees of specific Goddesses, learning to lead ritual -- will gather to celebrate the longest night, to appreciate how long the Dark can last when the Dark sets its mind to lasting. We'll eat, do magic, dance, read tarot, exchange small gifts, dance, tell secrets, dance, tell the truth, dance, sleep, and wake up to drink magically-prepared liqueur from shot glasses made of ice (I know some one's going to ask: Here), do magic to protect women's rights, and go eat brunch. (What? You didn't think witches eat brunch? We invented second breakfast.) And I will know, once again, that I am blessed beyond anything that I ever deserved, blessed to live within this college of priestesses.

And so, on into the growing Light. I think that we can do this. Bhride, wait for me on the other side. Witches are also not too terribly afraid of the Light.

May the Darkness bless you, bless yours, and bring you Her Dark Gifts.

Picture found here.

My New Name For A Blog

What Athenea said.

Surprisingly, no one's mentioning that, in addition to being a disgusting homophobe of the worst, slimiest, most disgusting sort, Warren also sucks the big wazoo on women's rights.

Bite me, Barack Obama.

At The End Of All Desire -- Just Because

Charge of the Goddess

Traditional by Doreen Valiente, as adapted by Starhawk:

Listen to the words of the Great Mother, Who of old was called Artemis, Astarte, Dione, Melusine, Aphrodite, Cerridwen, Diana, Arionrhod, Brigid, and by many other names:

Whenever you have need of anything, once a month, and better it be when the moon is full, you shall assemble in some secret place and adore the spirit of Me Who is Queen of all the Wise.

You shall be free from slavery, and as a sign that you be free you shall be naked in your rites.

Sing, feast, dance, make music and love, all in My Presence, for Mine is the ecstasy of the spirit and Mine also is joy on earth.

For My law is love is unto all beings. Mine is the secret that opens the door of youth, and Mine is the cup of wine of life that is the cauldron of Cerridwen, that is the holy grail of immortality.

I give the knowledge of the spirit eternal, and beyond death I give peace and freedom and reunion with those that have gone before.

Nor do I demand aught of sacrifice, for behold, I am the Mother of all things and My love is poured out upon the earth.

Hear the words of the Star Goddess, the dust of Whose feet are the hosts of Heaven, whose body encircles the universe:

I Who am the beauty of the green earth and the white moon among the stars and the mysteries of the waters,

I call upon your soul to arise and come unto me.

For I am the soul of nature that gives life to the universe.

From Me all things proceed and unto Me they must return.

Let My worship be in the heart that rejoices, for behold, all acts of love and pleasure are My rituals.

Let there be beauty and strength, power and compassion, honor and humility, mirth and reverence within you.

And you who seek to know Me, know that the seeking and yearning will avail you not, unless you know the Mystery: for if that which you seek, you find not within yourself, you will never find it without.

For behold, I have been with you from the beginning, and I am That which is attained at the end of desire.

Picture found here.

An opportunity to consider how public or communal pressures on a writer can dramatically affect the choices he or she makes

Hecate says "Jump!" and Obama says "How high?" Not really. In all honesty, I had almost nothing to do with this, but I am delighted to learn that Obama will, as Democratic presidents have before him, have a poet at his inauguration.

Poetry is important. One of my favorite t-shirts bears a quote from Victor Anderson: "White magic is poetry. Black magic is anything that actually works." To which I always amend: "Poetry does work. Poetry induces ecstacy, which is what poetry is supposed to do and ecstacy IS magic." Great nations need poetry and in extremis -- which, let's face it, pretty well describes our current situation -- they need it most of all.

Obama's chosen Elizabeth Alexander, a professor of African American studies, . . . a Pulitzer Prize finalist in 2005, and winner of the Jackson Poetry Prize last year.

She is the daughter of former secretary of the Army Clifford Alexander, who made appearances on Obama's behalf during the campaign. She grew up on Capitol Hill and attended Sidwell Friends School, which Obama's children will attend. She is also a former neighbor of Obama's in Chicago.

She said she was overjoyed at the inaugural honor.

"I am obviously profoundly honored and thrilled," she said today. "Not only to have a chance to have some small part of this extraordinary moment in American history. . . . This incoming president of ours has shown in every act that words matter, that words carry meaning, that words carry power that words are the medium with which we communicate across difference, and that words have tremendous possibilities and those possibilities are not empty."

Alexander, a v good choice, IMHO, is, perhaps, best known for her poem, Venus Hottentot:

The Venus Hottentot (1825)

1. Cuvier

Science, science, science!
Everything is beautiful

blown up beneath my glass.
Colors dazzle insect wings.

A drop of water swirls
like marble. Ordinary

crumbs become stalactites
set in perfect angles

of geometry I’d thought
impossible. Few will

ever see what I see
through this microscope..

Cranial measurements
crowd my notebook pages,

and I am moving close,
close to how these numbers

signify aspects of
national character.

Her genitalia
will float inside a labeled

pickling jar in the Musee
de l’Homme on a shelf

above Broca’s brain:
“The Venus Hottentot.”

Elegant facts await me.
Small things in this world are mine.

2.

There is unexpected sun today
in London, and the clouds that
most days sift into this cage
where I am working have dispersed.
I am a black cutout against
a captive blue sky, pivoting
nude so the paying audience
can view my naked buttocks.

I am called “Venus Hottentot.”
I left Capetown with a promise
of revenue: half the profits
and my passage home: a boon!
Master’s brother proposed the trip;
the magistrate granted me leave.
I would return to my family
a duchess, with watered-silk

dresses and money to grow food,
rouge and powder in glass pots,
silver scissors, a lorgnette,
voile and tulle instead of flax,
cerulean blue instead
of indigo. My bother would
devour sugar-studded non-
pareils, pale taffy, damask plums.

That was years ago. London’s
circuses are florid and filthy,
swarming with cabbage-smelling
citizens who stare and query,
“Is it muscle? Bone? Or fat?”
My neighbor to the left is
The Sapient Pig, “The Only
Scholar of His Race.” He plays

at cards, tells time and fortunes
by scraping his hooves. Behind
me is Prince Kar-mi, who arches
like a rubber tree and stares back
at the crowd from under the crook
of his knee. A professional
animal trainer shouts my cues.
There are singing mice here.

“The Ball of Duchess DuBarry”:
In the engraving I lurch
towards the belles dames, mad-eyed, and
they swoon. Men in capes and pince-nez
shield them. Tassels dance at my hips.
In this newspaper lithograph
my buttocks are shown swollen
and luminous as a planet.

Monsieur Cuvier investigates
between my legs, poking, prodding,
sure of his hypothesis.
I half expect him to pull silk
scarves from inside me, paper poppies,
then a rabbit! He complains
at my scent and does not think
I comprehend, but I speak

English. I speak Dutch. I speak
a little French as well, and
languages Monsieur Cuvier
will never know have names.
Now I am bitter and now
I am sick. I eat brown bread,
drink rancid brother. I miss good sun,
miss Mother’s sadza. My stomach

is frequently queasy from mutton
chops, pale potatoes, blood sausage.
I was certain that this would be
better than farm life. I am
the family entrepreneur!
But there are hours in every day
to conjure my imaginary
daughters, in banana skirts

and ostrich-feather fans.
Since my own genitals are public
I have made other parts private.
In my silence, I possess
mouth, larynx, brain, in a single
gesture. I rub my hair
with lanolin, and pose in profile
like a painted Nubian

archer, imagining gold leaf
woven through my hair, and diamonds.
Observe the wordless Odalisque.
I have not forgotten my Xhosa
clicks. My flexible tongue
and healthy mouth bewilder
this man with his rotting teeth.
If he were to let me rise up

from this table, I’d spirit
his knives and cut out his black heart,
seal it with science fluid inside
a bell jar, place it on a low
shelf in a white man’s museum
so the whole world could see
it was shriveled and hard,
geometric, deformed, unnatural.

Alexander has explained her theory of poetry:

Ars Poetica #100: I Believe

Poetry, I tell my students,
is idiosyncratic. Poetry

is where we are ourselves,
(though Sterling Brown said

“Every ‘I’ is a dramatic ‘I’”)
digging in the clam flats

for the shell that snaps,
emptying the proverbial pocketbook.

Poetry is what you find
in the dirt in the corner,

overhear on the bus, God
in the details, the only way

to get from here to there.
Poetry (and now my voice is rising)

is not all love, love, love,
and I’m sorry the dog died.

Poetry (here I hear myself loudest)
is the human voice,

and are we not of interest to each other?

Ars Poetica #28: African Leave-Taking Disorder

The talk is good. The two friends linger
at the door. Urban crickets sing with them.

There is no after the supper and talk.
The talk is good. These two friends linger

at the door, half in, half out, ‘til one
decides to walk the other home. And so

they walk, more talk, the new doorstep, the
nightgowned wife who shakes her head and smiles

from the bedroom window as the men talk
in love and the crickets sing along.

The joke would be if the one now home
walked the other one home, where they started,

to keep talking, and so on: “African
Leave-Taking Disorder,” which names her children

everywhere trying to come back together and talk.

Go, Elizabeth!

*Title of the post from an essay by Alexander on Gwendolyn Brooks

Be Honest

I think that people underestimate the power of somebody willing to tell the truth, because in fact very few people are. How will I pay the rent? How will I eat? Where will I publish it? But the universe is more magical than that. People think they have to identify a market, what people want -- even radicals do this -- but that's exactly wrong. What is true? What really inspires me, excites me? What will really help people, really take away their confusion and suffering? Write about those things and to hell with what people are supposed to want. It's sort of a funny, crazy, bloody-minded way, but I think it's the only way to bring water to the Wasteland . . . . When I read something truthful, something real, I breathe a deep sigh and say, "Thank you so much -- I wasn't mad or alone in thinking that after all!" So often we are left to our own devices, struggling in the dark with this whole external framing system and internalized propaganda system, and then for someone to tell us the truth is such a gift. In a world where people are bull-shitting all around us, confusing us -- and confusion is a cause of huge suffering -- it's a great kindness to be honest.

David Edwards, interviewed by Derrick Jensen on Jan. 11, 2000. Reprinted in How Shall I Live My Life by Derrick Jensen

Picture of Diogenes found here

Getting To Know The Ground

If you're going to practice grounding, it helps to be familiar with the ground. Garden, even if you've only got a tiny spot or a few window pots. Pull weeds for a friend or volunteer to do it anyplace with a garden: a hospice, a library, a park, a nursing home. I do a lot of weeding, it's one of THE most oddly calming meditative devices that I know. And when I weed, I spend some time examining the roots of the plants that I'm pulling out of the ground. Different plants have different kinds of roots and I find it helpful to have a visual library of lots of different roots inside my head when it's time for me to sink my roots down into the ground. Over time, I've learned that I usually have two sets of roots. A very energetic set of roots, clear and glassy and filled with blue and gold swirls. (Didn't say it made sense. That's just how they appear to me when I begin sinking them into the ground.) And, a second set that's like some young trees that I've pulled out of the ground. Woody and tough as hell, even if a bit thin, with lots of small "hairy" rootlets shooting off the larger "branches".

Go outside and sit on the ground. At a park, near a river, in the mountains, beside a tree. How does it feel to your ass, to your legs, to your back, to your hands? Stretch out on the ground. How does it feel to your belly? Is it sun-warmed, or still damp and chilly from the last rain? What is it saying to you? What do you want to say to it? If you're going to have a relationship with it, you might want to introduce yourself and become familiar with it. Before you go, you know, invading it with your roots.

When you ground and drop your roots into the Earth, I find that it helps to be aware of how the ground is really feeling these days. It's hard and cold in winter, here where I live. Lately, the top layer is squishy from the wealth of recent rain that we've had. Some mornings, the first few inches are frosty. Come Spring, it will likely be wet, as well, but it will warm gradually. In Summer, the ground here can get parched and, especially in the afternoon, the first half an inch or so can be warm from the sun.

When I ground sitting at my altar, as I sink my roots into the ground, I note the top layer of rich soil, the lower layers of red Virginia clay. I note worms and bugs and moles and the roots of the deep old oaks that surround my home, whose roots form a network of protection around this cottage and its grounds. I sink my roots deeper, noting the bones of my ancestors, becoming one again with the Earth, welcoming my roots, grounding me. I sink my roots lower, past the aquifer, through layers of solid rock that nourish me, down deep enough that the ground begins to warm, lower and deeper -- and spreading out wider and wider all the time -- to the very molten core of Mother Earth, the part of my Mother most full of energy. And then, I begin to draw that warmth and energy up.

With practice, you'll likely find that the ground "feels" different when you ground in different places. My circle of wonderful women often does magic on Capitol Hill and, there, the ground feels more marshy to me, a bit less solid, easier to penetrate and more apt to move around a bit. The ground beneath my office feels even marshyer, and more oppressed, burdened by too many buildings and too much concrete. I have to work harder to get grounded there. When I was in the mountains of Vermont recently, the ground was cold, full of tiny rocks, and it "tasted" mineral-ly, like mineral water with a strong taste.

You can approach grounding as an abstract task, a magical practice that doesn't require you to get your hands, well, dirty. And that may work for some people. But, for me, grounding is about developing a real relationship with the ground, with Mother Earth, the kind of familiarity that allows sudden access when necessary: Let me in old friend, I need this and I need it now.


Picture found here.

Lunaea's Done It Again

If you're going to spend money on gifts, make it count. Damn, she finds the best pictures.

My New Name For A Blog

What Innana Said.


Picture found here.

Podcasting And Shoe Throwing

NTodd is talking and you should be listening.

Sunday Trakl Blogging

Rondel

Flown away is the gold of days,
The evening's brown and blue colors:
The shepherd's soft flutes have died,
The evening's blue and brown colors;
Flown away is the gold of days.

Even If We're Just Dancing In The Dark

Matrifocus just keeps getting better and better. They've got up a great poem by Starhawk, perfect for these times.

Maenad Prophecy
by Starhawk

When kings wage unjust war,
When poison fills the skies,
When the rich prey on the poor,
When hope for justice dies

When a spell lies o’er the land,
Of malice and of lies,
Then a wild and fearless band
Of women shall arise

Crazy saints, yoginis,
Peering through the gloom,
Maenads and dakinis
Witches grab your brooms!

Sweep away the stench
Sweep away the sneers!
Sweep away the clench
Of hunger and of fears

Dance to feel the passion
Dance to wake the wild,
To honor deep compassion,
For the forest and the child,

Dance to keep the Arctic cool,
To keep the jungle green,
Dance for every holy fool,
For every wound unseen.

Dance for justice, dance for peace
Dance for life to thrive,
May beauty, health and joy increase
For every being alive

Dance in love, dance in wrath,
For chains to fall apart,
Dance to choose a better path,
Dance for strength of heart,

All across the nation,
Bankers quail and glower,
Cracked is the foundation
Of the bastions of power

Strong walls crumble,
Kings face their final hour,
An angry earth shall rumble,
Down shall fall the Tower.

And through its stones shall weave the roots
Of a living tree
That offers us its shining fruits
Of truth and liberty

Fruit to fill each empty hand
With sweet gifts of the earth
Dance to heal this bleeding land —
A new world comes to birth.


© 2008 Starhawk. All rights reserved. Starhawk wrote this piece for the Dance for Life and Regime Change, a Ritual Magic Action scheduled for Halloween night in San Francisco, 2008.

Starhawk's poem seems to me to be a partial answer to a question that Anne's asking:

So here’s the dilemma: any serious reading of the day’s financial news—just pick a day, it doesn’t really matter which—can make the average person feel [haunted with worry about the economy, wary of any conversation for fear of more bad news, eager to do something about the problem]. But when I do that, when I lift my gaze and really study the situation, I become practically incapacitated with fear and am no good for anything, least of all working to improve my financial situation.

Staying lucid in this dream—or nightmare, really—for any length of time is beyond my skill level. I can manage it for a little while, calming myself down from the shock of what is happening long enough to write more, and work more. But this is big and getting worse, and it’s only a matter of time before I slip back into shock about what is going on in the world.

Magically speaking, this is a tremendous opportunity to increase our ability to stay present in both worlds simultaneously. When I get seriously off-center, I have a few tried-and-true ways to re-center myself and carry on. What I would love to hear are all the ways the rest of you have for doing this. Because surely there are some great techniques I don’t know about, and this is the sort of time when we can all use as many good suggestions as possible.

Starhawk's suggestion:

Witches grab your brooms!

Sweep away the stench
Sweep away the sneers!
Sweep away the clench
Of hunger and of fears

Dance to feel the passion
Dance to wake the wild,
To honor deep compassion,
For the forest and the child,

Dance to keep the Arctic cool,
To keep the jungle green,
Dance for every holy fool,
For every wound unseen.

Dance for justice, dance for peace
Dance for life to thrive,
May beauty, health and joy increase
For every being alive

Dance in love, dance in wrath,
For chains to fall apart,
Dance to choose a better path,
Dance for strength of heart,

is a good one. We're witches. The times call out for magical action. Take some. Do magic for yourself and do magic for your world. I feel better every time that I do.

At times when we seem, as, Goddess knows, we do now, at an uncertain crossroads, I tend to invoke -- no surprise! -- my patron Goddess, the three-headed Goddess of the crossroads, Hecate. (Here's a really fun site that's, at least nominally, devoted to her.) She reminds me that liminal times carry as much opportunity as danger, and occasionally, she lifts a finger and points down one road or another.

I also follow Wendell Berry's good advice for times such as these:

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

— Wendell Berry

Part of what's terrifying about the present economic situation is the awareness that we can do all the "right" things (pay off debt, build up savings, set aside emergency supplies, work hard at our jobs, network, take care of health issues now while we have insurance, etc., etc., etc. -- and we definitely should be doing those things) and STILL get caught in the tsunami of layoffs, inflation, etc. That's actually true all the time; our illusions of control are just that: illusions. But the current situation makes us face that fact. As Anne notes, that makes it an excellent time to grow magically, to increase our ability to stay present in both worlds simultaneously.

And so -- you knew that I was going to say this -- I ground.

Grounding is, for me, the first step in the process of remaining present in all worlds. When fear is getting in the way of being present (you know what the Bene Gesserit witches say: I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.),I add a step to my grounding. When I've sunk my roots down very deep into Mother Earth, I begin to breathe regularly and with awareness. When I exhale, I send my fear down through my roots into the Mother, where it can be transformed. When I inhale, I pull up peace, stability, clarity. I do that until I can truly say the words of Mary Oliver's wonderful poem:

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear?

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body
is sure to be there.

From West Wind: Poems and Prose Poems, by Mary Oliver. Published by Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston. Copyright 1997 by Mary Oliver.

And when you feel like that, it's a great time to dance the dance that Starhawk calls for. Last night's full moon, was one of the brightest ever. It's power is only beginning to wane this evening. Ground. Do one practical thing to make yourself safer (put some money in savings, pay a debt, exercise, clean up and clear out junk). Ground. Do one practical thing to make our world better (recycle, take old clothes to a homeless shelter, call your Senator about an important cause, read to a child). Ground. Do some magic to insure prosperity for you and those you love. Ground. And, dance.

Dance to feel the passion
Dance to wake the wild,
To honor deep compassion,
For the forest and the child,

Dance to keep the Arctic cool,
To keep the jungle green,
Dance for every holy fool,
For every wound unseen.

Dance for justice, dance for peace
Dance for life to thrive,
May beauty, health and joy increase
For every being alive

Dance in love, dance in wrath,
For chains to fall apart,
Dance to choose a better path,
Dance for strength of heart!

Picture of Hecate found here.

The Ground Of Our Being

We each have her.

She lives inside us, smiles at us upon occasion, goads us on. She's the perfect witch, the one you want to be someday, the one who drew you to the Craft. Yours may be a bit more shamanic than mine. Mine may be a bit fussier about herbs than yours. Your friend's may live more in an estuary and spend more time on watery pursuits, while my favorite author's perfect witch may be more ceremonial than your sister's kitchen witch. Yours may wear more eye make up than mine, while mine may be more goth than your coven's Celtic medieval matron. But we all have her.

And I'm willing to bet that, whoever she is, she grounds. She may be a traveling minstrel, but she brings her home with her wherever she goes. As soon as anyone meets her, they feel safe, they feel that things are under control, they feel that growth is possible.

She may live in a garden apartment or a snug cottage or the back of her car. But it's a welcoming space and she has all her materials to hand.

Too many Pagans, IMHO, fall short of her in part, at least, because they fail to regularly ground. How are your finances? Where are your personal files? What shape is your kitchen in? What shape are you in? How grounded is your life? You got a will? You know how many months you could go w/o an income? You got a back up plan? You got your files backed up? Do you have a plan to pay off your mortgage, student loans, other financial debts? Is your living space conducive to your spiritual practice or does it war against you?

Ground.

Picture found here.

The Original Clap Harder!

Wow. I swear that if Atrios has the stupidest trolls on the internets (and, it's true, he does), then I have the smartest and most creative readers.

In response to my query about the meanings behind the story of Peter Pan and Wendy, Mahud has written a really fascinating post about similar myths. Reading his discussion, I had another of those "duh" moments: crocodile=dragon. Female. Watery. Wants to bite the man's "hand" off. Vaginia dentata.

Ina suggests that, rather than a fantasy about how men can avoid growing up, the story is really about how girls can make life work in a patriarchy. And, reminds me of some S.J. Tucker songs.

First Star on the Left and Straight on Till Morning

So tonight, I was reading Peter Pan to G/Son.

G/Son, who asks "Why" so many times a day that no one, not even a genius w an abacus, can count how many times said:

Nonna, why Peter Pan haz a short sword and Captain Hook haz a long sword?

I threw off a quick, smart-ass answer about Freud and youth and old age and heh, heh, the old man has the long sword but the young man makes better use of his short sword, but I walked away wondering:

What IS that story about? It's more than just the tale of a puer. And Wendy, forced into the role of both madonna and whore, all the while having to mediate between youth and adulthood -- who's SHE in that story?

And the crocodile, who's the hand-devouring, time-sensitive crocodile; who's that? And, most of all, why is the Nana a big dog?

Picture found here.

Sunday Trakl Blogging

Birth

These mountains: blackness, silence, and snow.
The red hunter climbs down from the forest;
Oh the mossy gaze of the wild thing.
The peace of the mother: under black firs
The sleeping hands open by themselves
When the cold moon seems ready to fall.
The birth of man. Each night
Blue water washes over the rockbase of the cliff;
The fallen angel stares at his reflection with sighs,
Something pale wakes up in a suffocating room.
The eyes
Of the stony old woman shine, two moons.
The cry of the woman in labor. The night troubles
The boy’s sleep with black wings,
With snow, which falls with ease out of the purple
clouds.

~Translated by James Wright and Robert Bly

Picture found here.

And It Ends And Begins And Begins And Ends And Begins To End And Ends To Begin. Winter Is Coming

Incense in the snow on the roses for my sister B.

Hold On

I went to sit this afternoon near one of my favorite spots along the beautiful Potomac River, the river that both flows through and brings flow to Washington, D.C. I go to this spot often and was looking forward to going there today, to allowing peace to seep through me while I was seeing the bleached-bone bodies of the beech trees and the grey waters of the wintry river.

And, whoah!

I could only stay for a few minutes and those by force of will. The magic of the place was so loud, the message so demanding, the feeling so strong: Change!

Change is coming to my beautiful city on a swamp.

The only way that I can describe the feeling is to say that the land was flowing much faster than the water, that everything is moving, moving, moving quickly along.

The Quan Yin Sisterhood

NTodd's talking about this new study, that I love, finding that -- duh -- our happiness is connected to the happiness of those around us.

[H]appiness is contagious -- and . . . people pass on their good cheer even to total strangers.

. . . "Whether you're happy depends not just on your own actions and behaviors and thoughts, but on those of people you don't even know."

I was thinking about how much it amuses me to have confirmed by science what mystics and witches have always known: we are one. It's all just god pouring god into god. That fact explains what's been fundamentally mistaken with so much of what what's been going on in America since the days of Ronald Reagan: the odd notion that I can be happy while others are suffering and homeless, the Gordon Gecko, "greed is good," I've got mine, if I'm off in my McMansion or my Esclade I'll be happy no matter what's going on in your life ethos. And, yet, surprisingly, the people in the McMansion with the steam shower and the granite counters and the wine cellar are often -- unhappy. And we wonder why that is, how that could possibly be.

If happiness is "contagious" what do you think misery is? Only connect.

Then this morning I was listening to this podcast by Thorn Coyle and Medusa. It concerns the very human need to grieve when we are confronted with death. The whole podcast is worth listening to, but beginning at about 49:25, Medusa explains an image that she received during the Loma Prieta earthquake, of the Dead being able to use the tears of the grievers as the River Styx upon which their souls must travel. She says it's difficult for us to "hold the grief of a large number of people passing. . . . It does affect all of us. It is a disturbance in the force, Luke, when a lot of people pass at the same time and it is hard for them to be grieved because there are so many of them . . . . It's important that we hold that and we try and help in that process and I don't know exactly what that looks like, but I'm aware of it." Medusa and Thorn describe how grief can crack us open and give us compassion for the whole world.

And I thought immediately of Quan Yin, the Bodhisattva/Goddess who "hears" the cries of the world. (One of the Goddesses who has visited my dreams, Quan Yin came to me as an incredibly hip older woman with a younger lover/adept when my beautiful DiL was carrying G/Son. Quan Yin, in her house built like an indoor garden, assured me that a child of compassion would be born and then I pulled the tarot card that told me he'd come a bit earlier than the doctors predicted. The universe often laughs both at and with me. I return the favor.) Com-passion -- feeling the passions of others in common with them -- doesn't necessarily mean that we "fix" another's problems. It means that we acknowledge that we have a connection with everyone else, with those who are grieving, and with those, even those now "gone," who need to be grieved. It's so important to hear, to listen, to acknowledge the tears of the whole, entire world. (It's overwhelming work, but it's important work.) I cannot be separate from you. You are not separate from me, not even in your grief. Your happiness will ribbon into my life and light it up and your grief will affect me and season the flavor of my days.

A witch's job is to help to turn the wheel. Each of us finds our own way of putting our shoulder to the wheel. Certainly, not everyone is called to the work of Quan Yin, the work that Medusa has not yet envisioned, but is aware needs doing, the grieving for strangers who pass in numbers so large that they do, in fact, cause a disturbance in the force. And yet, it is work that needs to be done.

As our planet goes through Her death throes, that work is going to need doing with increasing strength and increasing frequency. And someone must grieve for the plants, the species, the planet Her Ownself. Where will we find the professional mourners that Thorn discusses? What would their training look like? How will these doulas of the second birth sustain themselves? How must we all change our practices at Sahmein and the Winter Solstice to do this work?

Tonight, I am v happy. And that, in itself, it turns out according to science, is important work.

It's all real. It's all metaphor. There's always more.

And, speaking of disturbances in the force and large groups who need mourning . . . .

Picture found here.

We All Need A Caledonia

Any mountain's Caledonia to me. Not a day goes by that I don't long to be in them.

Happiness Is Catching

No one could have anticipated . . . .

And You Are Grounded

And then there's the grounding that you really (really!) should do before working any serious magic, whether alone or with a group. For me, this is where "big" magic begins. (There's "big" magic: I need a new job, the country needs a new president, my really sick friend needs strength, the river needs healing. And then there's the equally-important, but more frequent, magic you do on the spot w/o much oppt'y to prepare: Don't let me hit that squirrel! This e-mail will be effective. This orgasm will strengthen my rosemary. The judge will be open to my arguments. I'm casting a bit of glamour as I walk into this room.) Rule of thumb: if you made up a rhyme for it, mixed herbs for it, lit a candle for it, danced and drummed for it, did it with a reasonably large group of other people, performed the great rite for it, it was big magic.

I spend a bit more time on this big magic grounding than I do for my morning grounding or my throughout-the-day grounding.

I relax my whole body, that place near my right jaw where I almost always tense, my scalp, the soles of my feet, my belly, my sex, my earlobes. I run my roots down deep into the Earth with attention to the specific location. Gravel? Water? Leaf mold? Clay? (I've almost gotten good at grounding in clay.) Animal bones? Acorn debris? (Not for the next few years. Virginia's oak this year were bereft of acorns. No one knows why.)

I work with a group of women and, by now, I know how their roots feel, whether they're still too tense to have truly grounded or whether their roots are strong, deep, entwined with mine. This only comes, IMHO, from long and regular practice together. Who's still so tense that her monkey mind is keeping her from grounding? What will call her back to the task at hand? Who's the most relaxed tonight, the most aware, the most intense? How can I encourage other roots to entwine with hers?

It can take time to know when you're grounded enough to work magic and the stronger the magic, the more thoroughly you need to ground. If you feel weak after the magic, headachy, seriously in need of carbohydrates, too spacey, out of touch, wrapped in cotton, disoriented -- you didn't ground deeply enough, If you do effective magic and feel tired but good, you were grounded.

And you are grounded.

Photo found here.

Common Ground

Ground.

There are really (at least) two kinds of grounding. There's the grounding that you do every day as a part of your spiritual practice. This is to prepare you for the rest of your spiritual practice, to bring you into touch with Earth, one of the Five Sacred Things, to help you to face your day.

And then there's the grounding that, if your days are like mine, you do a number of times throughout the day in order to help you to cope. Walk out to the car across frosty grass, down a bit of a slope. Worry about slipping on frosty leaves in work shoes. Ground, Drive to work over big bridge, in rush-hour traffic. Ground. Walk into office and confront blinking voice mail light. Ground. Prioritize. Ground. Meet colleagues for lunch at Italian place. Ground. Get call from opposing counsel. Ground. Head home at twilight. Ground. Read tarot for a bunch of strange people. Ground.

Well, you get the idea.

Picture found here.

I have yet to meet the situation which could not be improved by grounding. YMMV

Milk of Human Kindness

Maybe there are things that each of us, dead, might prefer to hear said about us. I don't know what they would be.

I stand here today: a priestess, a Pagan, a woman who loves men, women, and transpeople, a twin-spirit, a nerd, a bibliophile, a polyphile, a dancer, a poet, an activist, someone who feels weak and someone who feels strong... Harvey, my closet doors are so wide open, they are yawning, sometimes. People like you have helped me in my quest for honesty and I'm glad to count you among my ancestors of spirit. We chanted your name during the candlelight AIDS marches in the '80s. We have named LGBT centers after you. You and George were ever in our minds. The party continues, as does the work against hate.

Thorn has more, here about the movie Milk, which is getting excellent reviews.

All acts of love and pleasure are rituals of the Goddess.

(Of course, Milk asserted that all "men" are created equal. Fuck that shit.)

Picture found here.

First Of The Month Bazooms Blogging

Ladies! Listen up! Detecting breast cancer early is the key to surviving it! Breast Self Exams (BSEs) can help you to detect breast cancer in its earlier stages. So, on the first of every month, give yourself a breast self-exam. It's easy to do. Here's how. If you prefer to do your BSE at a particular time in your cycle, calendar it now. But, don't let the perfect be the enemy of the good.

And, once a year, get yourself a mammogram. Mammograms cost between $150 and $300. If you have to take a temp job one weekend a year, if you have to sell something on e-Bay, if you have to go cash in all the change in various jars all over the house, if you have to work the holiday season wrapping gifts at Macy's, for the love of the Goddess, please go get a mammogram once a year.

Or: The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention pays all or some of the cost of breast cancer screening services through its National Breast and Cervical Cancer Early Detection Program. This program provides mammograms and breast exams by a health professional to low-income, underinsured, and underserved women in all 50 states, six U.S. territories, the District of Columbia, and 14 American Indian/Alaska Native organizations. For more information, contact your state health department or call the Cancer Information Service at 1-800-4-CANCER.

Send me an email after you get your mammogram and I will do an annual free tarot reading for you. Just, please, examine your own breasts once a month and get your sweet, round ass to a mammogram once a year.

Merci!

Photo found here.

Sunday Trakl Blogging

Song of The Western Countries

Oh the nighttime beating of the soul’s wings:
Herders of sheep once, we walked along the forests
that were growing dark,
And the red deer, the green flower and the speaking
river followed us
In humility. Oh the old old note of the cricket,
Blood blooming on the altarstone,
And the cry of the lonely bird over the green silence
of the pool.

And you Crusades, and glowing punishment
Of the flesh, purple fruits that fell to earth
In the garden at dusk, where young and holy men
walked,
Enlisted men of war now, waking up out of wounds
and dreams about stars.
Oh the soft cornflowers of the night.

And you long ages of tranquillity and golden
harvests,
When as peaceful monks we pressed out the purple
grapes;
And around us the hill and forest shone strangely.
The hunts for wild beasts, the castles, and at night,
the rest,
When man in his room sat thinking justice,
And in noiseless prayer fought for the living head
of God.

And this bitter hour of defeat,
When we behold a stony face in the black waters.
But radiating light, the lovers lift their silver eyelids:
They are one body. Incense streams from rose-
colored pillows
And the sweet song of those risen from the dead.

~Translated by James Wright and Robert Bly

Photo found here.

Shopping Within Your Watershed

NTodd and I discuss the importance of Buy Nothing Day.


Photo by the author. A lake in Vermont near NTodd's and Ericka's cabin.

Only Ground

At our recent planning meeting, I agreed to put together some information for my wonderful circle of amazing women on grounding. So I've been thinking quite a bit, lately about grounding.

I had some difficult medical tests to get through this week (all turned out v, v well) and, throughout the procedure, I was worried, uncomfortable, angry, scared. What I kept doing, over and over throughout each step of the procedure, was to ground. The first reason was because, that was about as much magic as I could muster under those circumstances and the second reason was because, grounding works. It reminds me, on a cellular level, that I'm going to be OK, no matter what happens. And that, of course, allows me to respond as a witch, to realize that there's room for me to choose how to respond to, handle, create new possibilities within, change consciousness at will in response to whatever the medical procedure entails, discovers, produces. As Mary Oliver said in her lovely poem about corn growing:

let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear?

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body
is sure to be there.

That's what grounding does for me.

The first several hundred times that I grounded, I would say to myself, "I'm not really grounding. I don't really have roots that can grow into the ground and hold me to Mother Earth. I'm just imagining, no, I'm just pretending. This isn't witchcraft. I'm not a real witch. This can't be what they're talking about. I must be doing it wrong. I'm not a good witch; I don't know what I'm doing; this is messed up. I should stop. I should stop doing it wrong and figure out how to do it right, find a good teacher, regroup, stop."

But I would just keep on "acting as if." "Acting as if" is highly magical technique. I didn't know that, then, but I know it now. I would just keep acting as if I really did have roots, they really did grow into the ground and spread out, anchoring me. As if I really did absorb strength from the Earth through my roots, as if I really could breathe out toxins and tensions and troubles through my roots into the Earth where they could be transformed. As if I really did have branches that reached up into the night skies, towards the moon, into the stars, absorbing energy from those sources. As if I really were, really, at the center of the crossroads of all possibilities.

And, wherever you go (and go, and go, and go), there you are.

Only ground.

Picture found here.

Helpless Heart

All I Want For Yule Is . . . .

How on Earth did no one think of this before?

Hat tip: Esoteric Book Review

(You have to click the link for Tarot and then select Transparent Tarot.)


Image found here.

How To Behave In A Crisis

Byron Ballard has a brilliant article up at Witchvox about what to do in extremis:

Go outside and activate the spirits of the land on which you live. This can happen in a backyard, in a woodland temple, on the balcony of your high-rise apartment. Feed them (I give mine milk, corn liquor, cheap bright candy) and honor them and talk to them. And it’s best to do this when you aren’t in a crisis, so that they know you. It is always a good idea to build a relationship before you go asking for favors, don‘t you think? Ask the spirit of that maple tree, or that rock or that hill to be with you in your hour of need. Ask them to guide and inspire you, to support you and to be your friend on the other plane.

Then come inside and clean off your home altar, the primary one. Dust the table, put on a clean cloth, make an effort to set up this beautiful focal point, , this place between the worlds where you will petition the gods. Burn some incense, add some flowers, whatever you do to make it fresh. My advice is to work directly with your own gods, the ones you honor all the time. If you are dedicated to Artemis, ask her to stand with you, to show you what you need to see. You don’t need to go to Brigid for healing if you don’t have a relationship with her. Go first to your matrons, tell them the story, ask for help, ask for blessings.

Next, set up an Ancestor altar and actively engage your Ancestors. Your actual Ancestors--your mom or great-uncle or your older sister who died when you were ten. Feed them, honor them and be very clear about how important they are to you and how much you need their help.

Now look at your life--what do you need? To banish something? To call something to you? Do you need to stand under a full moon and say the most important prayer--“thank you”? If you need to create a ritual of thanksgiving, then do it. Make it pure and simple. Get a babysitter, if you need to. Fling yourself before your altar, if that feels right.

Does your need require a spell? Then do one. Don’t spend days researching the books of spells or Google-ing your request. Just do it. Make it up as you go along. Check the phase of the moon, and out of your need and your love, create a spell and do it. Raise a circle of pure energy and do it.

Do all these things and do them all again, if need be. Clarify your need and request for yourself and for your helpers both seen and unseen. And if nothing changes, consult an astrologer, get a tarot or rune reading, and try to figure out why this is happening to you now. Why again? Is there a lesson you need to be heeding? Are you facing the same challenges again and again? Why? What lesson are you not learning? And why not?

Many books have been written about daily spiritual practice, most of it from the Christian traditions. When tragedy--or merely drama--strikes, they have recourse to heavy-duty praying, just as we do. But if they--and we--have cultivated a clear series of steps to get grounded and feel our connection to the Divines, it can make those scary times a little less stressful..

Start the morning by grounding yourself and finish your day by looking at the moon and saying your prayers. There is comfort there and connection.

It's All Just God Pouring God Into God

One of the things that I do consciously try to do is to help G/Son to appreciate nature. We went to a nearby nature center this weekend and it was nice: a little place in the woods with shells and animal bones and rocks and plants. Outside was a huge banner of the Earth and G/Son surprised me by pointing to it across the meadow and saying, "Look, Nonna! It's the Earth!"

But the most magical thing of all happened when we were leaving, just at dusk when the center closed and we started up the winding walk through the woods to our car. I could hear the rustling in the forest next to the road and stopped to look carefully, reaching for G/Son's hand in case what I heard was a buck about to come angrily out of the woods. But it wasn't. It was a lovely, graceful doe, white-tailed and grave, who came to the edge of her wood to stare at us across the three or four feet of road. I know: we're supposed to consider them pests and tick-carriers and blah blah blah. I love them. I can go years and not see one, but the times in my life when I've really needed reassurance about something important, they show up.

I became completely still and whispered, "Look, G/Son. A deer." We'd just seen pictures of deer inside the nature center and, when he turned, I think that's kind of what he was expecting to see, but he saw her, almost one with the dusk and the forest full of doe-colored leaves. He became completely still, too, expect for his eyes, which grew as wide as saucers. And then he whispered something to the deer that he's heard me whisper to squirrels and birds and butterflies: "I would never hurt you." And it had the same effect upon her that it often has on animals. She remained where she stood and simply watched us.

After a few minutes, we began to walk back up the path, still holding mittened hands and not speaking. She moved across the road, through the meadow on our side, and into the woods that border the meadow. When we got to our car, G/Son said to me, "That was Bambi. For real."

And this morning, he helped Son rake leaves.