Working It: Antidepressant Talisman (A Wee Bit 'O Sciento-Magick)

Antidepressant Talisman: greenhouse waxing work.

I have been jotting notes about why I prefer to just "make it up" & have amassed a very long list of reasons which perhaps someday, I will find a moment to put to print. In the meantime:

"Sciento-magick" is part of making-it-up & I realized that I have not mentioned it in my writing for a very long time. This waxing Moon "Antidepressant Talisman," typifies my "magickal style" (if there is such a thing). It perfectly exemplifies the layers upon which I like to base my spellwork. In this particular case, a nod to the "hard sciences" is offered up by the presence of the neurotransmitters (serotonin, dopamine & norepinephrine), the softer sciences are represented by the cognitive action of affirmation & personally meaningful symbolism. Locating the behemoth in the greenhouse is like placing it in an amplifier -- besides, it's a great place to "cultivate" more serotonin. Identity symbology -- sigils & personal talismans -- plus some concise & memorable verbiage fall into the more "traditional" magickal operating procedures... & of course, we all know is so much better if it is all contained in a circle & written in Latin. Or something.

Keep the tools & whatnot simple & intuitive, I say. Those homegrown magick workers in the Ozarks or Haiti don't spent gobs of money paying someone on the internet for "expertly charged magickal chalks" or anything else, for that matter. (Although, those that buy such things might find themselves expertly charged for them!) Especially if the work is for you, or a household member, work with what you have, what is in your home & of your home. The children's sidewalk chalk? Helvella yes! Those children give me the greatest joy! (They also give me juicy oxytocin doses.) Their chalk for this talisman makes the utmost sense. 

I also find that efficacy is increased in large degree by a knowledgeable advisor...

An oxytocin advisor: among the very best.

Cultivating Moon, In Pictures. (For the files.)

Cultivating Moon 2013.

Time has very much gotten away from me. As I have made a commitment to keep record of at the very least, our main traditions & activities here in this journal, I shall strive to continue doing so, in between... 

the childrearing,

& the party-throwing,

& the relationship-having,

& the magick-working,

& the greenhouse tending,

& the library maintaining,

& the art making,

& the community gathering,

& the mood mending,

& the dreamworking,

& the (finally!) being OUTSIDE...

Many days after the fact, I attempt to record our Cultivating Moon Esbat, relying heavily on my images for the record. This one is for the files.

In the waxing week preceding the Full Moon, we planted & quickly -- very quickly -- seeds sprouted...

Cultivating Moon sigil, greenhouse talisman
& tomato seedlings in the greenhouse.

I had created a talisman for the greenhouse which I had planned to consecrate with the some Witchy cohorts, but I found didn't want to... I just don't work that way & no matter how much I enjoy the company, certain things I just need to do my own way. Or Her way. Just me, my family & Moon.

Greenhouse talisman, 2013.
The first of many to come -- each year a new design
& another rafter adorned.

For the offering? A sweet coconut sticky rice Moon with mango stars, dressed with coconut palm sugar syrup. Relish it with homemade lychee vodka... perfection.

Sticky Moon. Offerings on the ice. 

This Esbat also marked the culmination of a very lengthy process: "flying ointment" complete. But more on that later, perhaps.

Oil of Amanita.

This snapping of Spring has brought with it a marked window of busy-ness. Let us hope all of this buzzing leads to successful cultivation, but more importantly, let us hope it brings us continued personal growth & happiness. 

Cultivating Moon 2013.

What She Said. (About Love.) (An Animist's Epiphany -- Maybe Gospel -- of Sorts.)

 "Love sees like a child sees." Love Ignites.
Lighting Love Lanterns on a January evening, -17°F.

Lately, there has been something about the return drive home from Little Lad's school which makes me prone to strange moments of clarity, sometimes even epiphany. (Maybe because it is one of my few windows of quiet anymore.) This past week I had one such moment. Readying myself for a turn onto Spenard, I was flustered because the borderline muzak station I play in the mornings (muzak is magick: it quells chaos magnificently) was missing from the dial. Up & down the known call zone I searched. I never found it. Instead, I was stopped by a very familiar range of uncommon notes, then a voice for which there is no comparison. It was Joni Mitchell.

In my younger years, that enigmatic voice filled our home. As a child, I always knew that Mitchell sang about important, mysterious, grown-up things -- things that adults understood, but children didn't. (Some of this may have been because one of the more popular albums at the time was Heijra, an album about solitude & spiritual journey.) When I was in college, I was reintroduced to Mitchell's music in the form of her Night Ride Home album, which shocked, awed & moved me in both uplifting & uncomfortable ways. It was then that I could see why I didn't understand Mitchell's songs as a child. As a young woman, coming into my own, Mitchell's music suddenly made perfect sense.

"As a child I spoke as a child

I thought and I understood as a child

But when I became a woman

I put away childish things

And began to see through a glass darkly" -- Joni Mitchell

As I was driving, the words to a song I had never heard before, couched in such a familiar voice, rang in my head like an epiphany. I marveled at how, in this world ruled by commercial radio, this song even came to be aired on the radio & I made sure to recall the lines so that I might find it again later. I knew it was important, I knew it might even be gospel.

Yes. 

An Animist's Gospel According to Mitchell. If you subscribe to the idea that animism stems from the childlike love for the living world (& it's all living), then this song speaks miles & mountains. It is also -- as can be expected from this songstress -- quite beautiful & thick with her characteristic melancholy hope. But for me, the most salient point was that it sounded like animism & it drew me to a sharp focus, a most salient point: ultimately, animism is not so much about reverence, honour or respect as it is about Love. If there is Love, all the rest follows.

"Children are closer to the Source" -- my husband's words -- they Love without qualification. This is why they so naturally "get it," while we rational adults flounder about trying to get out of our heads so that we might be with, reclaim & love Love again. 

"Where as a child I saw it face to face
Now I only know it in part..." -- Joni Mitchell

I could dismantle the verse, analyze it, line by line, explaining all the layers upon layers of meaning it offers to us. Or, I can do as a child would do: enjoy it, share it, love it & trust that it will make perfect sense to the people who choose to hear it.

Love on the rise.

Love, by Joni Mitchell


Although I speak in tongues
Of men and angels
I'm just sounding brass
And tinkling cymbals without love

Love suffers long
Love is kind!
Enduring all things
Love has no evil in mind

If I had the gift of prophecy
And all the knowledge
And the faith to move the mountains
Even if I understood all of the mysteries
If I didn't have love
I'd be nothing

Love never looks for love
Love's not puffed up
Or envious
Or touchy
Because it rejoices in the truth
Not in iniquity
Love sees like a child sees

As a child I spoke as a child
I thought and I understood as a child
But when I became a woman
I put away childish things
And began to see through a glass darkly

Where as a child I saw it face to face
Now I only know it in part
Fractions in me
Of faith and hope and love
And of these great three
Love's the greatest beauty
Love
Love
Love

Animist Blog Carnival: Place Magic

GSENM. Been thinking a great deal
about the magic of this place lately.
Photo from the Little Lad's camera.

The Animist Blog Carnival (ABC) is moving & shaking once again & this month it is really chock full of global goodies! 

On this side of the planet, Moma has been up to her armpits in book submission writing, magickal workings, group ceremony-ing, Esbat offerings, flying ointment blessings, seed planting, talisman making, Dr. Seuss reading, snow cursing, snark exchanging, garbage picking, greenhouse prepping, belly dancing, sigil drawing, mental health-fixing, potty training... 

SO... Moma took the short bus to the carnival this month & my recycled submission can be visited here: The Magic is Here & Now.

Our gracious hostess for this month is none other than Ringleader Heather Awen -- visit her post below & peruse the diversity of animist voices in this month's ABC magazine:

Adventures in Animism: Animist Blog Carnival: Place Magic

Magic is a passage. It lies within & beyond.
Photo from the Little Lad's camera.

Poetry for the Esbat: She Is (Cultivating) Moon

"Die Sentimentale" ca. 1846-47, by Johann Peter Hasenclever.
Image courtesy WikiCommons.

Was there poetry this Esbat? Yes. Yes there was. Was it Windy? Why, yes. Yes, it was uncharacteristically windy here... But you see, I have been struggling -- so much so that I have made a slightly desperate & very conscious shift towards cultivation. Hence, this Moon's moniker.

cultivate |ˈkəltəˌvāt|verb [ trans. ]1 prepare and use (land) for crops or gardening.• break up (soil) in preparation for sowing or planting.• raise or grow (plants), esp. on a large scale for commercial purposes.• Biology grow or maintain (living cells or tissue) in culture.2 try to acquire or develop (a quality, sentiment, or skill) : he cultivated an air of indifference.• try to win the friendship or favor of (someone) : it helps if you go out of your way tocultivate the local people.• [usu. as adj. ] ( cultivated) apply oneself to improving or developing (one's mind or manners) : he was a remarkably cultivated and educated man.ORIGIN mid 17th cent.: from medieval Latin cultivat- ‘prepared for crops,’ from the verb cultivare, from cultiva (terra) ‘arable (land),’ from colere ‘cultivate, inhabit.’ -- Apple Dictionary
There are layers upon layers to which this applies. Bioregionally speaking (since I do so love to "think locally" about the Moons), it has been the waxing Moon window for planting in the house for transfer to the greenhouse -- a task I have dutifully accomplished, much to the neglect of other things, like writing. Seeds are now in soil, crowded on a tabletop in the living room, while a temperature data logger keeps watch for signs of Spring in the greenhouse. Let it be soon, please.This cultivation of flora segues seamlessly into another bioregional theme: SADD. It's a bioregional plague. I am officially SADD incarnate. Some of my friends are too; they say things like, "It took everything I had to get out of bed today..." This climate is not for the faint of heart. On Earth Day, the Changeling & I were planting in the sunny greenhouse which reached a sweaty 80° F by late afternoon. The following day it snowed, so I cried. The next day, staring balefully at another rainy, cold day, I cried. About two or three weeks ago my body declared it was done with Alaska & informed me that the neurotransmitters were spent. Those of us who have a hereditary predisposition for the drying up of dopamine & sequestration of serotonin develop a knack for catching the cues quickly. So, with all this waxing, I went to work on cultivating mental health, planting precursors (which, strangely enough, relates to dreamwork & more specifically, lucid dreaming, but maybe more on that later).I have also been cultivating something much less determinable. There is no explaining this, you will either understand, or you won't. It's like a mystery prize in a cereal box (do they still have them?) -- it is a given that it will be something special & completely worth the effort, but you have to dig deep & you still cannot know exactly what it will be until you get to the bottom...And that segues seamlessly into the poetry for this Esbat. Yes, just like there was the Moon, there was poetry. Yet another priceless piece by a brilliant alumna of my alma mater.* Oh, to cultivate talent, skill & purpose like this: "Fluent in several languages and dialects—including Tibetan, Hindi, and Nepali—Dhompa writes in English. Through innovative structures and schemas, her poetry articulates the nostalgia of displaced Tibetans, recording the memories of elders in Tibetan communities." (Read more of her work at the Poetry Foundation.)  

She Is

BY TSERING WANGMO DHOMPA

Her voice is a roundness. On full moon days, she talks about
renouncing meat but the butcher has his routine. And blood.

M’s wisdom. Still reliable.

There are sounds we cannot hear but understand in motion.
Slicing of air with hips. Crushing grass, saying these are my feet.
I want my feet in my shadow. Suffice to meet desires halfway.

Quiet. We say her chakras are in place.

When the thermos shatters, she knows the direction of its spill.
She knows how to lead and follow. Know her from this.

Sounds we cannot hear. The wind blows and we say it is cool.

Night slips under the door. We are tucked into bed and kissed
a fleeting one. Through the curtains, her voice loosens like thread
from an old blanket, row upon row. We watch her teeth in the
dark and read her words. She speaks in perfect order, facing where
the breeze can tug it towards canals stretching for sound.

Her faith abides by the cycle of the moon. See how perfect she is.



Belated blessings to this Esbat, my friends.

*(Wow, how weird -- I just now realize in creating links that I used the Cabrera (also a UMass alumni) poem this very same Moon last year.)

Wandering: The Sudden Return of the Sun (A Very Strange Light)

Someone's Late Winter Wand.
Oh, how this strange light & snow draw the eye to places unnoticed. 

10:45 pm, April 18. I am sorting images in bed. I find myself astonished at how light it is outside. When did this Sun-thing happen? The all-knowing, data-oozing, cyborg-phone tells me that the sunset was at 9:30, but had I been insane enough to sit in the cold, I could have easily read a book out of doors for an hour beyond that time. 

Assorted cues are telling me that Spring may actually be in the process of springing, although here I think it snaps. I don't know this Place in this season, so I cannot be certain. Abdicating my snowbird status & enduring this Winter from its early beginning to its painfully late end, I believe I am allowed to exchange my "Cheechako" badge for some kind of "Sourdough" status. As I do not care much for labels, I will be satisfied with direct Sunlight on my face every day & retiring my pillbox hat, thank you. 

So here is this Sun, returning with a vengeance. Rising before 6:30 am, it will set fifteen hours later. Already. But the snow persists, enough so that when I make the (admittedly repeated) mistake of straying from the security of the groomed trail surface I will sink to to above my knees, often to my crotch. It is moments like these, clumsily flopping & wading about, hoisting myself back upon the the trail, when I am reminded why the Moose have such long legs. If I had their legs, I would have some amazing photographs. But, I digress. The Sun, combined with the lingering snow creates this weird light & hypnotic shadows. Try as I might, I cannot effectively capture the atmosphere with the camera.

Strange light, strange lines I cannot capture.

This strange dance of light & shadow is particularly mesmerizing in the Ice. I am certain, were I to remain for more than a long moment, that these places would share visions -- spontaneous scrying surfaces of Place.

Late Winter lines & shadows, trees & Ice.

Late Winter scrying surfaces: what do the shadows reveal?

And although in my tending to small persons, I neglect the opportunity to stop for visions in this world of light & shadow, I do find that so many things gone unnoticed are suddenly revealed. The strange contrasts bring them to the forefront.

Frosty meanderings of critters rarely seen in the green months:

Small mammal tracks.
Did they make them in the Moonlight?

The steadfast snow-resistance of certain plants -- usually obscured in the dense summer foliage -- offers them a showcase:

Light & Shadow draw the eye...

"Weedy" charms of the undergrowth rise to prominence.

It all makes me regret not purchasing that book about Winter grass & weedy plant identification...

Cast it away, regret is a wasteful emotion. Besides, I have survived... & none too soon. In these last few weeks I have felt the Dogs of Depression nipping at my heels, raising both my bitch-factor & my aptitude for snark by several degrees. It is with hope & gratitude that I welcome back this strange & increasingly persistent Light. Seek, hunt, soar in pure freedom, in the warmth of this great Light -- that was the reminder offered by a bald eagle circling the house yesterday. "Turn your face to the Sun & the Shadows fall behind you." I have always loved that saying, despite its obfuscated origins (is it Maori, Chinese, Whitman, Whitton, or otherwise?), so this is what I shall do. Turn my face to this strange & emergent Light. I have nothing against the shadows, but enough is indisputably enough, thank you. 

Winter Wanes: Turning my face to a strange Light.
(Rose coloured glasses help too.) 

Time to make updates to the (Alaskan) Wheel of the Year.

For the Files: "Feral Hermeticism"

Dream notes to self, for the files:

Despite the absence of any dreamwork effort on my part, the dreams seem to be demanding more of my attention. Last night, I was introduced to a term, "Feral Hermeticism." It appeared in several conversations, across multiple dreams. I was instructed to remember it into the waking hour & I was given the impression it is of import somehow, yet I do not know what it means. 

For the Files: Finding Refuge in the Nightmare?

Dream notes to self, for the files:

I woke from what seemed to be a very long, strangely significant dream in the early a.m. April 12. Being a great lover of dreaming & sleep, I rarely take the time to write down dreams because I would rather resume the program. Occasionally however, the dreams seem to demand otherwise. This dream haunted me as awakened. It haunted me as I attempted to return to sleep. It felt like I had received an important message. It contained several people I know in this life, which is unusual. It contained symbolic references to some matters at hand in my community, but more importantly, it also seems to have some bearing on my relationship to Morpheus -- a relationship for which I maintain a blend of gratitude & ambivalence. I could not find my notebooks in the dark, so notes ended up scrawled in coloured pencil in my child's sketchbook. This is what I wrote, for the files:

Night (only fragments of memory remaining)

• The High Priest is here.
• I am outside a greenhouse-like tent aglow in the dark. It is filled with people in celebration of some kind... a wedding? a festive dinner party? 
• No. It is a church revival, a jubilee. 
• The H.P. tells me to stay outside, safe in the dark. He will go inside & take care of what needs to be done.
• We all (who else?) stay in this area overnight, awaiting Sunrise in some kind of dormitory. (I stay in dormitories more often than not in my dreams.)

Morning

• The High Priest & High Priestess are here.
• Where is my family?!? Where is my husband, where are my children?
• There is no response via cell phone. 
• Cold, cold, so cold with fear. Something is wrong (my husband is never without his phone).
• I must, we must find them. 
• Maybe they went to NoHo (an abbreviation for Northampton, Massachusetts).
• In NoHo, we watch people, families go by, searching for mine.
• People keep trying to help, offering me children who are passing by. "No, no, no, they are not mine," I say.
• I recall thinking that NoHo is really nice & that we should visit here as a family, bring the kids here someday...

In the Bank (the transition from NoHo, if there was one, was lost)

• I am alone.
• I am in line to conduct important business.
• The three bank tellers keep switching stations. Lines continually form & re-form, following their seemingly random repositioning. I keep losing my place.
• I am in a hurry, desperate to finish business & find my family. 
• I am very aware that this is a foreign town -- aware of being an outsider & I sense a mild antagonism, or suspicion towards me, especially each time the lines re-form & positions change.
• People in line become increasingly hostile in general & I try to remain unobtrusive. 
• The security guard locks the doors & dims the lights, signaling that the bank will be closing soon for lunch break. I ask if that means we will be served & I am told yes, they are completing transactions for people inside but are not taking any more customers until after lunch.
• The woman in front of me & to the left, a portly brunette in a short ponytail & plaid shirt turns around & gets in my face about people who drive big trucks & SUVs, insinuating that I am one of them. I tell her that I drive a station wagon. She diffuses into a thin, mature woman reminiscent of Nancy Reagan, wearing a madras dress with an oversized collar. She gives me a big hug. I find this unsettling, but do not betray my feelings.
• The lines re-form a final time, leaving me second in the far right line. 
• I notice that there are more people waiting in the bank than there were when the doors were locked. People are crowding in the line, they are crowding around me. They seem to have taken note of the shuffling of positions & I feel like some of them want my spot.
• All of the people are in black & white except for the two closest to me. One is a man in a green felt hat -- a tall, rounded gnome-style hat -- with a very full, rich brown beard & moustache & piercing brown eyes. The other is the woman in the madras dress.
• The woman in the madras dress has a smile that seems to be painted on her face (not literally) & she keeps hugging me. I was able to ignore it earlier, but now I feel like a cornered animal & her hugs feel vaguely violating. I say to her loudly --enough for others to hear -- but with control, "It is very sweet of you to want to hug me, but you know it is not normal to be putting your arms around strangers in a public place, don't you?" She seems to fade a bit & become less relevant. 
• The man brown & green man tells me, "I really like how you drop off the ladies at the bookstore every day." His words are carried in a lascivious tone & he is leering without actually leering. The implications are clear enough to me. Everyone is staring, listening, waiting for my reply. Once again, I feel cornered. I am angered by him, but I remain controlled. "I'm sorry, but you have the wrong person. I do not live here. I am from the North, from lizard country."
• I see a map. The North country is dappled with places & land features named after lizards, their reptilian kin & their prehistoric ancestors. Looking at the map, I notice that its shape & borders are reminiscent of the state of Wyoming. I know that this place is very familiar, but it is not my own. For the sake of protection, I am lying.
• Phobetor. (It comes to my mind clearly & with force.)
• I tell the brown & green man (or, at least I think to tell him) that I am from Phobetor, or the kingdom thereof. I know that this man will recognize this place. He will also not be of it. I know that it will carry implications which will keep me safe. I know this word, but I cannot remember what it means. I know it is important, very important. I struggle to remember, but I cannot grasp the meaning. It does not matter now, as long as I am safe.

Something wakes me -- my baby, my bladder, something. I hear "Phobetor" echoing in my ears. Disoriented & confused, I get out of bed & use the restroom. I check the time. It is 2:22. I attempt to return to sleep, but the dream & it's symbols do not allow for it. I blunder about the house in search of a notepad which I will not find because I suddenly feel a powerful need to return to the bedroom. This dream has left me afraid of the dark.

On Phobetor: Phobetor is one of the Oneiroi, the dark-winged daimones or spirits of dreams. Ovid states that the gods call him I'celos, but men call him Phobetor: "...here below the tribe of mortals call him Phobetor." (Metamorphoses 11. 585) Phobetor means "to be feared" & he is the shaper of dreams which come to man, hence his name. He is brother to Morpheus, but unlike his brother who assumes the shapes of men, Phobetor "...forms the beasts and birds and the long sliding snakes." (Metamorphoses 11. 585)

"Phobetor," by Italian artist, Beatrice Riva.
Discovering this piece chilled my blood by a few degrees --
here is the face of the brown & green man in my dream.

Days 2 & 3: Hadit & Ra-Hoor-Khuit (For the Files)

Day 2: Hadit

Rising at the wee hour of dawn or so to read Chapter Two of Liber AL vel Legis in attunement with the misfits, or, as we call ourselves, the Scarlets. On this noteworthy day, at this daybreak hour, I am struck by these lines in particular:

30. If Will stops and cries Why, invoking Because, then Will stops & does nought.

-- Chapter 1, Liber AL vel Legis, sub figura CCXX      

This struck me as very relevant to my recent rants about armchairs & community progress & the conflicts that arise therefrom. I held the words in my cheek pouch until evening & spat them out before the members of the O.T.O. after the reading. Ah ha! (It was one of those moments.) Bodies stir in their chairs. Heavily made up green eyes, thick with kohl light up from across the table. Garnished by her robust Serbian voice, the emphatic response sparkles (much like her eyes) in the air, "Yes! I love that too!" Being just as I am, of course, I cannot help myself & I ask "Why?" What great reception! What remarkable variability of thought! Every response unique & independent, yet entirely compatible with the others... & isn't that just as it should be? This is why, despite all the arguments I can summon to justify doing so, I simply cannot turn up my nose at Crowley.

"Nuit & Hadit" by unknown binaries of DeviantART.

Day 3: Ra-Hoor-Khuit

Rising at the wee hour of dawn or so to read Chapter Three of Liber AL vel Legis in attunement with the misfits, or, as we call ourselves, the Scarlets. On this noteworthy day, at this daybreak hour, I recognize that I am still not ready to be fully receptive to this chapter. I suppose, this is the sort of thing that causes me to forever be an "in-between."

Day 1: Nuit (For the files)

Rising at the wee hour of dawn or so to read Chapter One of Liber AL vel Legis in attunement with the misfits, or, as we call ourselves, the Scarlets. On this noteworthy day, at this daybreak hour, I am struck by these lines in particular:

27. Then the priest answered & said unto the Queen of Space, kissing her lovely brows, and the dew of her light bathing his whole body in a sweet-smelling perfume of sweat: O Nuit, continuous one of Heaven, let it be ever thus; that men speak not of Thee as One but as None; and let them speak not of thee at all, since thou art continuous! 

28. None, breathed the light, faint & faery, of the stars, and two. 

29. For I am divided for love's sake, for the chance of union. 

30. This is the creation of the world, that the pain of division is as nothing, and the joy of dissolution all.   

-- Chapter 1, Liber AL vel Legis, sub figura CCXX     

Kisses of the Stars - REVISED

by horrificus of DeviantART.

Community Library: I Need Your List.

Cricket finds a satisfying perch in the
bedroom's bookstack forest.
In this stack: The Roebuck in the Thicket,
In the Drip of an Eave, Mycophilia,
The Wildwood Tarot, Witchcraft Today
& Hans Holzer's The New Pagans.

I have a not so secret book fetish. It's a bit like my love of fungi, the difference being that I bring books home in droves & if I did that with fungi the stink would be unbearable. I cannot leave a used bookstore empty handed. I have hundreds of books, yet most of them remain unread by yours truly because I am too busy chasing children & my other love, fungi. Books are for reading (oh, & for clutching, stacking, sniffing, patting, collecting & leafing...), so how do I help these books fulfill their purpose while I am neglecting them?

About that library I mentioned earlier: 

"We have established a Pagan & esoteric lending library in our "Agora" community space which allows me to give in back in a variety of ways."

This project brings me such happiness. It gives me even more excuses to adopt & bring home books. It gives me more excuses to fritter away my free time mouth breathing in the "Body/Mind/Spirit" aisle, grunting, eye-rolling & making snarky comments to myself about the content that gets published. Better than that, it offers me opportunities to find those incredible gems that get misplaced or miscategorized on the shelves... Like last week when I found Thorsson's Blue Runa, Green Runa & Thompson's Paradox Games all together in the Tarot section. My blood ran cold when I saw them. Crouching on the floor, I grabbed them all & held them fast. I probably looked like a housecat with a chicken wing; wild-eyed & possessed by the possession. For this stack-creeper, books are like drugs. (If you hadn't already gleaned that.) Give. Me. More.

BUT. I need to begin modifying my search pattern a wee bit to incorporate the interests & needs of other people when I comb the shelves. I need a hit list of some of the very best &/or most essential reading for a Pagan & esoteric community lending library. I need the three people who are actually Pagan &/or esoterically inclined who read this blog to give me their recommends. In fact, if you are "spiritually inclined" in any fashion, give me your recommends. On second thought, it doesn't matter what you are, just give me your list.

You want to do this. I know some things about humans. Here are two of them: 1) Humans love lists. 2) Even more than lists, humans love their opinions & they love to share them with other humans. So do it. There's a box down there, begging for your book list.

Moma's Winter-Spring reading bookstack.

When it comes to shopping for this library, I am discriminately indescriminate. I realize that some, probably many, people do "Dances with Bunnies" or all those books written by "Lady Smouldering-Amber SalamanderFyreShine." I do not. However, I will not be responsible for censoring another reader's bliss. If sparkly bunny bliss or ten-minute-transcendentalism is what someone seeks, so be it. Good books, bad books, it is not my place to say. I just need a list.

Looking ahead: The Summer-Fall reading bookstack.

So humans, what say you? What books (& other media -- yes, yes, we have films, audio lectures, instructional videos, etc.) would you suggest? We currently have just over 200 books & other media. It's a bit heavy on the Wicca, but I would say that is par for the course. What do you think is a must-have, a standard, an essential? What titles have influenced you personally the most? Which qualify among your most "needful things"? If you're shy, make up a name, post anonymously, or email me. It doesn't matter.There is no limit here & there are no rules. Two or twenty. Fierce or fluffy. Weird, wicked, wonderful, I'll take them all. 

Goodness, I seem to have forgotten my manners. Please. And thank you.

Animist Blog Carnival: On Community & Invasion: Formulating a Sensitive, Sensible Banishing Ceremony

Community: We all play well together. Except when we don't.

There are so many layers of community. I could easily wax poetic about fungal dreamworlds, avian acrobat teams or meetings of the Horned Ones under the boreal canopy. To be honest, I would rather be outside making merry among the trees & winds than be inside writing this piece, or inside at all. But it feels as though everyone outside, if they are not completely covered in snow-topped ice, is huddled away somewhere keeping warm, maybe sleeping it off. 

I am pretty tired of it. I try to keep my chin up, but this overwintering in Alaska is making me itch for the high desert (or really anywhere not frozen) something fierce.

Part of my wintertime adaptive strategy in this particularly forbidding bioregion is to invest more heavily in my human (Pagan) community. Having wee ones has always limited my ability to assist in the planning of grand festivals & brouhahas, but local circumstances have evolved. Now, thanks to the Hight Priest, I find small community gatherings just downstairs. I have also have my ragtag band of misfits to ponder & pontificate amongst. To save my sanity, I have been driven to cultivate other community happenings as well. My Friend Druid & I received permission from Dianne Sylvan to run a local, in-house "Spiritual Nomads" study group over the winter & I host bimonthly Egyptian Cabaret belly dance instruction in my living room. We have established a Pagan & esoteric lending library in our "Agora" community space which allows me to give in back in a variety of ways. I am not patting myself on the back here, but illustrating my survival effort: giving back begets getting back which in turn promotes further investment. Acting locally: overall, it has been very beneficial, even if I can count all the self-identified "animists" here on one finger. 

Formulation: The "Animist's Bellwether."
Sketching out community ceremony -- it's a process.

I often ponder ways to share animism with my fellow Pagans & I have written briefly in the past about my ideas for bringing animist ceremony to my northern tribe. In general, we all try very hard to play well together -- this too, given our small numbers is about survival. We collaborate -- Druids, Wiccans, Thelemites, a variety of polytheistic & new-agey folks -- all the time. It seems to me that there is always just enough overlap amongst us to make it work. Except when there is not.

Invasive & Noxious:
Goatsheads (Tribulus terrestris).

Sometimes someone comes into the fold whose behaviour &/or agenda is noxious &/or invasive. My experience has been that Pagans in general tend to be a permissive & odd lot. Our Alaskan community is no exception -- we certainly have our share of chaos muppets to wrangle. However, when I speak of an "invasive," I am not referring to the benevolent but slightly disorderly goofballs (we all know them), but rather the highly disrputive, potentially destructive folks which most communities work swiftly & concertedly to expel before too much damage is done. Whether their intention is to advance an agenda, a product, or perhaps to acquire power, sex or all of the above, their actions & shameless self-promotion can quickly damage a delicate human web like ours. We might wish in all kindness for these persons to learn & grow, to find their bliss, but we cannot tolerate this at the expense of the whole. We get rid of them as quickly & mercifully as possible.

❧❦❧

Other-than-human communities have this same vulnerability to invasion & when I think about concrete ways in which our human community can invest in & contribute to our broader local bioregion, I am always drawn to the issue of invasive species: 

Invasive Species: "any species, including its seeds, eggs, spores, or other biological material capable of propagating that species, that is not native to that ecosystem; and whose introduction does or is likely to cause economic or environmental harm or harm to human health." -- Invasive.org: Center for Invasive Species and Ecosystem Health

Invasive but so pretty it's hard to call "noxious":
Common Toadflax (Linaria vulgaris)

Sometimes I hear people argue that invasive species needn't be addressed because they are just part of the natural progress of things -- that we humans, being part of the ecosystem, are simply introducing a new player into the game. In a sort of Darwinian fashion, they suggest, "let the strongest beastie win." I cannot help but be contrary to this line of thinking, as it makes me believe that by extension, this argument implies that we needn't worry ourselves over climate change either because we humans, doing our human thing & being part of the global environment are just making our own natural adjustments to the atmosphere. So I shall clarify my position, because invasion occurs primarily as a result of uniquely human activities: Invasion is not synonymous with succession:

Ecological succession: "a fundamental concept in ecology, refers to more-or-less predictable and orderly changes in the composition or structure of an ecological community." -- "Science Reference: Ecological Succession," ScienceDaily

Many of my family members & "chosen family" members are very actively involved in watershed & grassland research & restoration projects in the high desert regions of Southcentral Utah. Over a short course of years, the difference in the landscape & species diversity in rehabilitation areas is remarkable. Watching these changes, the revitalization of overgrazed pasture, the recovery of tamarisk (Tamarix spp.) & russian olive (Elaeagnus angustifolia L.) tangled waterways gives me a sense of promise, a sense that there is still much that can be done to help protect our neighborhoods & communities from noxious intruders. It makes a visible, quantifiable & healthy diffference when we see them out the door.

"We get rid of them as quickly & mercifully as possible." 

This brings me to my ceremonial quandary which I propose to the community-ala-ether for feedback. Here is my story:

Invasive & "noxious" (sniff):
Orange Hawkweed (Hieracium aurantiacum)

When I first began summering in Alaska, I fell in love with some lively, vivd red flowers. They are unique up here because the large precentage of Alaskan wildflowers are pastel; purple, pink, blue or sometimes white. These blossoms, firey red & orange, occasionally flaunting a bright yellow centre, reminded me of my native desert, of fire & of Autumn leaves. They sport fine black "hairs" along their slender stems which evokes thoughts of poppies. In numbers, they create dense, cheerful patches which beg to be painted. I dubbed them my "favourite Alaskan flower." At first, I would pick a few to take with me, but I learned quickly that they shrivel & wilt almost instantly. I took this as a sign that I should only enjoy them from afar or through my camera lens. I would seek them out doggedly. I learned that they bloom for a realtively short window & this made them all the more precious -- my late summer beauties.

While fungi hunting a couple of years ago, I came across a large, permanent, full colour sign erected beside one of the greenbelt trails. The headline read something like "Noxious Invasive: Have You Seen Me?" Who do you think I saw pictured there, bigger than life, in all their crimson glory? My beloved "favourite Alaskan flowers": Orange hawkweed (Hieracium aurantiacum L.), aka. "Devil’s paintbrush" or "King-devil." The sign basically said if you find them, pull them up & report them to the authorities (that is, the Committee for Noxious and Invasive Plants Management in Alaska (CNIPM)). Oh! Those rich beauties, so striking en masse... to discover they are the poster child for "plant perps"! 

AISC Poster Child:
Orange Hawkweed (Hieracium aurantiacum)

Since this devastating discovery, I have looked upon the Hawkweed with reticence. I have also discovered several thriving colonies -- big, bright, beautiful patches which expand their breadth significantly each season. They are quite plainly & aggressively creating their own monoculture on these sites. I have yet to report them to the authorities, mostly because I haven't pulled over the car to take photographs (yes, excuses)... 

I have been considering a way to integrate ceremony into an invasive plant removal effort. I was particularly inspired by the planting ceremony described by Glen Gordon (see "Bioregional Animist Ceremony at Work"). I see this as an opportunity for our local human community to invest in the larger local community, to enrich relationships within the bioregion in a tangible way. Of course, coordinating with the native plant specialists to teach us about the local flora & the exotic species that threaten the balance is one of several added benefits for human participants. It would also get everyone outside, together & I can't really imagine anything better than that.

I mentioned this idea to a friend recently & she responded that she thought the idea would "appeal to a very narrow audience." I was nonplussed by the comment. Here, we have a community which waves it's "Earth-friendly" status around like a pennant. I realize that plenty of Pagans do not identify as spiritually "Earth-based," but most of them still maintain a basic sense of responsibility for the environment. I also know that while there are no other animists-proper among us, there are plenty of folk who talk to trees, or squirrels & who would be delighted to take part in a project to support our local community & environment.

So, how can we develop a sensible, sensitive ceremony to build around removing the Hawkweed (or another invasive -- honestly, that might be easier for me) while recognizing that these plants too are living beings, worthy of respect, but unwanted in our community? How do we "get rid of them as quickly & mercifully as possible"? If you were to develop such a ceremony, what would it look like? What sort of mood, or tone would it evoke? Celebration? Mourning? Both? What might you say? Need anything be said at all? Would you need "stuff," symbols, tools? How would you engage participants in the ceremony-ing? What kind of closing would be best? And disposal of the offending plants, is there a ritual there? I look forward to any ideas folks have to share. If you are shy about comments, email me. I appreciate it.

At home in the UK: "Fox & Cubs"
Caption reads: A spread of Pilosella (Hieracium) aurantiaca on a terrace beneath 491877, beside School Lane, Seavington St Michael. The plant is also known as Grim the Collier and appears to be a troublesome weed in parts of the USA. -- Wikimedia Commons

* This post is a part of the Animist Blog Carnival of April 2013. To read other animist perspectives on community & ceremony, follow this link: The Animist Blog Carnival for April 2013 is here!

To read works from previous Animist Blog Carnival, visit headquarters here: LINK.