Quoth the Fungi: "Evermore." (We Own You.)

Oh, so much never said about our last trespass in the Hight Desert, thanks in large part, to recollections on a ceremony in the Boreal Forest.

Ah, well. Sometimes the dreaded Detail is an imperative.


But now a brief reflection on experiences recently past among the spirits of arid places...

Earthstar Fungus (Geaster spp.)

I wanted to take the children up to the family getaway & rangeland restoration project area for a second visit since the Place is so supremely beautiful -- from micro to macro.

 Peeking through the Indian Ricegrass (Oryzopsis hymenoides). What do we see?

The prettiest, most tenacious things around.

Cactaceae spp.

Cactaceae spp.

Gambel Oak (Quercus gambelii) with a Cynipid wasp gall?

Red Harvester Ant (Pogonomyrmex barbatus) mound.

Indian Paintbrush (Castilleja scabrida).

Salvia, Artemesia spp.?

Ponderosa Pine (Pinus ponderosa).

In the distance, The Aquarius Plateau.

So we packed the tent & a dinner destined for the engine block with the hopes of drinking in the rich Darkness of Night, the starry spill of the Milky Way & the haunting cries of the coyote. Dawn would bring a list a GPS coordinates to follow -- a Red Harvester Ant (Pogonomyrmex barbatus) scavenger hunt, without the scavenging.

But the Desert (or was it the Sky?) had other plans & after the splendor of the setting Sun,

Sun setting behind the Aquarius Plateau.

The Clouds began with their games.

Building pillared temples in the Sky,

And playing the trickster by pouring down uncharacteristically languid, Earth-soaking showers, blotting out the Night sky.

So much rain, that in the early hours of the morning, my father came to fetch us from our waterlogged shelter beneath a copse of Pinyon Pines...

The clay road would soon become impassable.

Wet gear flying into the bed of the truck, hot water on the stove to cut the chill. The eldest child shouts, "Moma, an EARTHSTAR!" 

Ah, I get it now. You own me. You own us.

Wherever we go, you will be there.

And sometimes you will call us home, from one home to another -- when it it time for us to revel in your season.

I depart with a deep, aching sadness, but I recognize full in my marrow, the Hunt is on.

Super Buck Moon: Just Me & My Boys.

Preparing for the Buck Super Moon.
Drying goose eggs. Just the usual weirdness.

We spent much of the afternoon preparing for this Super Buck Moon to rise. Drying eggs, polishing elm branches (Ulmus pumila), shaving manzanita tips (Arctostaphylos patula), trimming black locust thorns (Robinia pseudoacacia)...

It's all part of the weird-work we do.

When Her Time was Right, She rose up, over the rocky crest, into the clouds...

Buck Moon Offerings.

Offerings this time seemed to demand volumes of liquid-fire -- a bowl of vodka with a splash of Chambord. (What is it about Spirits & spirits?) Italian hazelnut chocolates & four sticks of that strange Chinese incense. Not the usual protocols... make it all strong. Very strong. (Like Her namesake?)

Buck Moon Reading.

The children & I paused on the steps under the Moony cloud cover to draw cards by candlelight. No supplemental light would have been necessary had that sky cooperated with Ms. Moon. But clouds are fickle creatures, particularly in the High Desert.

One card each, right out of the satin & velvet bag, no spreads -- just keep it simple. Auspicious messages all around. I read them each a short interpretation in the heady mantle of incense which hovered about us -- where went the Wind?

Finally, to the tent, to spend our second Night under the great gaze of the Moon & the starry cloak of beauteous Nyx. 

In the thick of the night, when silence falls over everyone, even the crickets, sometimes the Coyotes (Canis latrans) "howl." If you have ever heard this, you know that "howl" is an inadequate word because their voices do not resemble dogs or wolves in the slightest. They shriek & cry like ghosts. Every time I hear their haunting songs I have a moment of confusion -- what IS that? This night I wake to the deafening silence, only a single errant cricket can be heard. What is wrong with him? Then, from the North, an otherworldly shriek. A rejoinder comes from the South, then another from the East. They are playing at call & response across this corner of the Valley, here at the mouth of the canyon. I feel both blessed & haunted.

We wake early, ensconced in our tent-turned-roaster, baking in the Morning Sun, unzip the tent to greet Breakfast Canyon, the Bovini & a new Day.  

Moon watching from our tent.

What He Said. (About Me.) (& the Maybe Blood Moon.)

"Mom, you talk to the Moon too much." -- The Changeling

I beg to differ... 
& were I predisposed to arguing, I might...
But I won't.

Never Fear, The Animist Blog Carnival Will Be Here! (October 2013 Edition)

The best of company: My husband & a handful of Amanita muscaria.

Many inquiries & messages have arrived regarding the October 2013 edition of the ABC/Animist Blog Carnival. If you are beginning to wonder, I have indeed received them (the same goes for comments to this blog), but have yet to reply because, because, because...

I am knee deep in one of the mainstays of my animist's Craft: foraging for wild foods. For me, foraging is about being in relationship & continually enriching my understanding of relationship. It is about understanding the relationships of others; my neighbors, strangers, new friends, perhaps adversaries. It is about understanding my relationship with my body, with my instincts, with my children & partner. When I can begin to look at a patch of ground & predict who will be living there & with whom they will cohabit, I know I am beginning to understand something about relationships. When my child points to a patch of trees & can tell me what we will find there, I know I have taught him a small piece of the Craft. 

Dizzying moments of mastery drive me now -- I know I am working with precision when I locate food by scent, intuition or a deep sense of knowing. 

I feel most like the human animal that I really am when I am foraging & when I am dancing. Both are skills which require the merging of intellect, instinct, intuition & sensory awareness. Unlike dance, foraging has a critical window of opportunity -- so I must move now -- carpe diem. We have already had our first frosts & the Termination Dust is settled in on the mountains. Time is almost up. I can dance through the winter, but the time for knowing the forests is now. 

What possessed me to offer to host at this time of year is beyond me. But nevertheless, the Animist Blog Carnival for October, 2013 will be hosted here. The theme for October's edition is Death. Please feel free to email me with enquiries &/or links to your submissions at: momafauna (at) gmail (dot) com. 

Living Animism: They Grow Up So Very Fast...

A Western Kingbird (Tyrannus verticalis) & devoted parent.

Who are the persons in your neighborhood?


I woke some time around 2 a.m. While struggling to return to some semblance of sleep, I kept being disturbed by some sort of peculiarity with the laptop which keeps causing it to illuminate its screen despite the fact that I turned the screen brightness all they way down to off. Perhaps it is the nudge of a muse. Or a plaintive cry for attention from the abandoned. Or something.

So I shall take a short moment out of this night hour & return to the anecdotes I threatened but have yet to produce. But first, I must have a very-brief-rant. Very brief. Promise.

/run rant 

Late last night I sought out some small bit of minutiae which has no particular relevance here except that in the process of seeking this generally unimportant information, I stumbled across a piece of writing relevant to animism. Or was it "animism"? Regardless, the content, nay, the premise has been chapping my hide ever since.

The website author had a special tabbed section devoted to said "animism" wherein they described how they practice said "animism." In short, animism, or animistic practice, in that individual's worldview, consisted of sitting in their bedroom in the dark, drumming themselves into a trance state & waiting for visions of cliché animal spirits. With some groovy rhythms & healthy visualization, the usual sexy predator types that are so easy to anthropomorphize & airbrush on the sides of vans or silkscreen on t-shirts will come visiting that practitioner's psyche to verify & validate all that stuff they read about the human symbolism of said creatures. 

Velvet Ant. Self reliant.

What chaps my hide is this: No one EVER says, "Yeah man, I got into this super deep trance state & was visited by this velvet ant spirit who who taught me all about self reliance..."

And if animism is about relationship... it begs the question: when you want to be in relationship with your partner, children, friends, co-workers, team mates... do you go shut yourself in your room & drum them into your mind's eye?

I will call what the author described a highly modern/western-ized permutation of quasi-shamanic practices, but I won't call it animism. Unless they really went out & spent some quality time with those sexy predators & then went inside later & did the trance work to dial them in from home. Trance work is like long distance calling -- it's alright, but you need some face time too. Unfortunately, I don't really think that's how it happened. 

I could say more, but...

/end rant

Feeding younglings, June 19th.

The anecdote for this wee hour of the night/morning relates to the Western Kingbirds (Tyrannus verticalis) who raised their younglings in our carport this June. When we arrived, we quickly discovered their nest & found that we were something of a disruption to their already established routine. So, being the latecomers, we deferred to them, modifying our activities to keep clear of their household. That meant changing the door we used, walking around the house instead of through the carport, parking & re-parking the car several times a day to keep it out of the sun & sweltering heat, etc. 

But what a joy to watch those two devoted parents! What a delight to perch on the edge of the bathtub & peek through the bathroom window to see the babies grow & grow & grow! 

Unfortunately, our rhythm was interrupted by a sudden emergency & upon returning from yet another unexpected hospital stay, I was disappointed to discover that the babies had left the nest in the short time we were away...

But therein lies the simple, gentle lesson from the Kingbirds: They grow up fast. So very fast. Give them your best & cherish them. Every single moment you get.

Kingbird babe, June 23rd. They grow up so very fast...

Super (Moon) Love: Why I Married Him

Super Moon 2013, as seen in the high desert sky.
 

It took me a long time & many years of waiting to find the right partner. This made for a late marriage & ultimately qualified me for the unflattering title of "mature" mother. But I wouldn't have it any other way. He's a keeper.

Life & ways have been complicated & challenging in recent weeks. Here, at the high desert homestead in Utah, our Lady Moon was received in the simple, familiar way we might receive a close friend: a glass of red wine & good company. Little Lad asked me early in the evening if he & I might step outside together after the baby was asleep to sit in the Moon's light. He worked diligently to remain awake & make it so -- I actually didn't think he would have the stamina, but his will prevailed. 

The Empress, from
 The Baroque Bohemian Cats' Tarot
by Alex Ukolov & Karen Mahony
of Baba Studio.

When we arrived on the easterly steps, at about eleven, he said, "Moma, I love you. Do you know why I asked if we could come out here tonight?" "No, why did you ask to come out here tonight?" I replied. " "Because I wanted some time to be still & sit in the silence with you Moma, just you & me. And to look at the Moon together." He is a keeper too.

I had brought two decks of tarot cards outside with us. Bathing, high-altitude, desert-style, in the bright light of the swollen Super Moon, we each drew a card, asking the Moon what She might have to tell us that night. Little Lad drew the Empress. The mother. 

I drew the Four of Swords. But that is another story, for another time. Perhaps when the demands are fewer & the internet is more reliable.

In the Far North, my husband was loyally keeping to tradition. Freshly returned from the Alaska community Summer Solstice brew-haha (pun intended) he picked up the observances where I could not. This is the message he sent to me last night: 

"I love you. I made Spruce Tip Shortbread as an offering, paired with the (Pagan Brewer's) Guild's Orange Hibiscus Maple Mead. That combo felt right. I miss you and will be searching the sky for our link, Miss Luna."

Super Moon offerings, 2013.
Spruce tip shortbread & hibiscus maple mead.

Thank you. There are no words, just Love.

Wishing my people & non-people the very best for this great season, during the greatest Moon of the year & remember: always keep your "keepers" close to your heart.

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

Spring: Not.

"Spawn 'til you die." Classic Alaskana.

Moma began this sacred & pivotal day at Sunrise with high hopes; intent on mindfulness & focused on gratitude.

Moma ended this day wanting to warn the world of the hazards of Springlike behaviour & successful spawning.

Spring it is not. (In Alaska.)

Spawning? Reconsider.

PICU: What a Visit Taught Me About Polytheism, Prayer & Pragmatism

PICU: looks like a party, but it's not.

PICU: A pediatric intensive care unit (also paediatric), usually abbreviated to PICU (pron.: /ˈpɪkjuː/), is an area within a hospital specializing in the care of critically ill infants, children, and teenagers. A PICU is typically directed by one or more pediatric intensivists or PICU consultants^[1] and staffed by doctors, nurses, and respiratory therapists who are specially trained and experienced in pediatric intensive care. -- Wikipedia

Just over a week ago today we were unaware that we would be admitting the Changeling to the PICU for treatment of what would much later be diagnosed as "staphylococcal scalded skin syndrome" (SSSS). When you have SSSS, your skin splits open & sloughs off at the slightest graze of a fingernail or the tug of a band-aid. Rashes bloom, blacken & fall from your body. The entire surface of your being is red, enraged, blistering, on fire, like that of an overeager prom-goer who took too much time at the tanning salon. 

Staphylococcus aureus (in stain): looks pretty, but it's not.
Image courtesy Wikipedia.

All this thanks to a little critter called S. aureus who, if introduced deeply enough into the body, will release exotoxins which cause detachment within the epidermal layer. This skin-sloughing bacteria is a relatively rare breed in the staph family. But still, it is staph & staph is everywhere in this beautifully complex & dangerous world of ours. Once again, no one is special.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, we have already had a very lengthy round with the NICU environment, so we have acquired a solid battery of ICU coping skills. This was not new territory. In fact, the familiarity of it might have been the most immediately traumatizing aspect of our visit. Awash in fluorescent lighting, the smells & sounds of the PICU brought back that little bit of PTSD that I carefully packed away with the hopes of never revisiting. I had to grab my swooning, crumpling, tear-welling self by the horns & say: "Do or die. This is survival time, sister. You know this place. Make-it-work." Less than an ounce of grief, followed by days of make-it-work. 

Setting our Selves aside. Making it work. We do these things because we must. We do these things for Love.

What struck me very clearly the first night while gingerly curled around the Changeling in his bubble-bed was that my personal gods & collaborative spirits aren't so befitting to the crisis situation. I have actually run upon this before, but perhaps I was never lucid enough to see it for what it is. I also think this is where I have always had a wee bit of ambivalence with the whole "prayer" concept. (Yes, I am aware of the irony of this blog's title.) 

Unpopular as it is, I consider myself a polytheist of the more Parmesan variety (as opposed to say, Ricotta). In practice, there have been many times when I would have qualified as henotheistic or perhaps more accurately, kathenotheistic, except that I am never a complete purist or ever entirely exclusive & animism muddles things, so I suppose even in this, I qualify as an In-Between (once again). Lunar & Solar devotions are my most concrete, consistent & ritualized practice, but the Moon & Sun -- as I recognize Them -- are not "gods" per se, but venerable, life-weaving & live-giving beings with corporeal forms. That's animism, as I see it. The gods proper are (generally) incorporeal spiritual entities who carry with Them their own set of skills, interests, personality & agendas. That's polytheism, as I see it. Of course, it's complicated.

"Morpheus" by alexmartinez of deviantART

The pitfall of polytheism within my ICU-prone world is that the small handful of deities with whom I have a regular (or oftentimes irregular) relationship (but generally over many, many years) don't fall into the dulcet, pray-to, caretaker model. There are also no interventionists on my call list. Most of Them came to me in some strange, unexpected & abrupt fashion, while couple of Them I petitioned, stalked, flagged down or otherwise pursued myself. Regardless of how we came into relationship, none of Them are particularly apposite, at least in a conventional way, in an ICU. Oh, & I don't just go barking at gods I don't know when I suddenly need Them. So, how do we make-it-work?

Apparently I know by instinct. Once the situation settled, like an automaton I contacted the outside world asking for 'petitions, prayers, energy, good vibes, hoodoo, magick, whatever works...' I did this knowing that we would end up on my popular Christian-mystery author aunt's twitter prayer chain. I did this knowing that we would end up in multiple LDS prayer pools. I did this knowing that Wiccans would work us into their workings. I knew my mom would be exercising her Will (Thelemite? Must be something about psychiatrists). I knew that the Catholic, Druid, Jewish, Buddhist, Methodist, Atheist, Born-Again, Humanist folks & all those "Others" that comprise our friend & family network would be giving it their best go, in whatever fashion suits them. And really, if those people have a rapport with an interventionist sky-god like Adonai or JC or a mother-goddess like Toci or Brighid & they want to pray on our behalf, why should I object? Just make-it-work.

Even the 8:00 am prayer over the hospital PA system each morning was making-it-work. Never having stayed in a Catholic hospital before, the first day I awoke to the prayer, dazed & baffled. The priest's deep baritone & thick Spanish accent filtered through the isolation doors in a mostly unintelligible blur of voice, but I took it... & maybe even looked forward to it... a little bit. It came from Love. Make-it-work. 

/begin digression: This amuses me. When I was young & "fundamentalist" I would have balked at the idea -- I always found it offensive when someone else was praying or petitioning for my wellbeing because I interpreted their actions as a surreptitious attempt to impose their belief system upon me... somehow. I believe that inflexible, resistant, exclusive attitude stemmed from a defensive insecurity. Nowadays, I don't find discomfort in the well-intentioned spiritual efforts of others. As long as it comes from Love, I take it. I must be more secure, or getting older, or maybe I am just indiscriminate or something... /end digression

"Female Satyr with House, Child and a Putto" by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo.
My mind's eye vision of Fauna (& quite possibly my ideal body image too).
Image from the Norton Simon Museum.

But enough of other people's gods. After sending out the "Pragmatic Pagan's" smoke signals, I scrunched up, helpless & despondent in that tiny bed -- all the while remaining ever vigilant not to break any more skin on my little baby -- & I talked to my gods. Well, some of Them anyway.

I talked to Morpheus & I asked Him to use His pull with His Oneiroi brothers to give our tiny morphine-filled creature the peaceful, reparative sleep he needed in order to mend his devastated body. I talked to Fauna & Faunus & I said, something like, "I know You are not creatures of these hospital-places. You are creatures of the forests & wild places... We are too. My children are Your children & I want to make sure I can take them back into the bogs & the woodlands & the high deserts & teach them the secrets hidden there. Please, if You find any joy in the beauty of a babe reveling in Your sylvan secrets, if You have any strings to pull, please, please pull them. For him, for us." Then, maybe I asked Thoth (Tahuti, if you prefer) to give the still struggling-to-definitively-diagnose medical staff a leg up as I passed out from exhaustion, but honestly I cannot remember...

Oh, & I talked to the Moon of course. That Lady, our measured guide, the Gradual One. She Who Makes Change by Degrees. I thanked her. Because by then, Her work was already done.

Please do not mistake my words as dismissive of Those that I carry close to my heart, Those I whisper to in the greenwoods & in the Darkness. Theirs are among the greatest of gifts, but so much of that world is left unshared. Mostly, that world is about me. Absolutely none of this situation could be about me. It needed to be 100% about making-it-work.


Setting our Selves aside. Making it work. We do these things because we must. We do these things for Love.

Sometimes this means pragmatism over purism. The Who & the How is irrelevant. When it comes down to it, all that matters to me as a mother, lover, partner is that it works & that Love, something so Good & so big is allowed to triumph over the selfish smalls; like bacteria... & egos. 

Going home.
We made it work.
All of us, together.

Children Are Naturals (His Own Moon Tribute)

I have mentioned before that children are naturals. However, their ingenuity never fails to take me by surprise. 

One afternoon in December, while preparing for guests, I placed a decorative ceramic tray holding three electric (tacky, yes, but better than cats, carpet, upholstery & toddler on fire) candles on the fireplace mantle. Later, while I was preoccupied in the kitchen, the Lad -- who had been decorating with his own handmade paper snowflakes -- walked in & asked me if he could add one of his paper creations to "the offering table." I didn't understand him & because I was facing crunchtime, I just gave him carte blanche, figuring I could do damage control later, if necessary.

No corrections needed.

A Child's Moon Shrine.

He had rearranged the candles, adding another to make four & he had taped his "snowflake" above them, centered quite precisely. Lovely, but what was the story with the paper Moon? Hubby informed me that days earlier, during his flake-making, he said he was "making a Moon for Moma." Who knew it was to become such a striking altarpiece?

Four perfectly balanced lights beneath an orb of his own conception & creation. 
Children are naturals.

What the Lizard Lounge Palm Reader Told Me, or Reclaiming Animism, Moma's Way

Mining the most fleeting of crystals.

Several weeks ago, (actually, more like months now as it has taken since October to find the time for this post) a girlfriend & I headed out, child-free & sans spouses, in search of anything remotely resembling a lizard lounge in Anchorage. This city has a proclivity for bars, but "the seedier, the better" seems to be the motto here (or, shall we call it "rustic"?). Of course, I must remember I am living in a city also dubbed "worst dressed" in the nation... Anyway, all we wanted was a dim, warm, womb-like space with overstuffed upholstery so we could curl up like the two cats we really are & purr over big, round, aromatic glasses brimming with the dark, leggy blessings of Bacchus. 

Knowing our desires, Hubby had proposed that we try the lounge in a relatively upscale restaurant not too far from home. He said, "Go in the backdoor." When I looked at him quizzically, he encouraged, "No, really." What we found there was blissful, satisfying nearly every requirement for ideal & had it been a shy bit quieter, it would have been rubbing elbows with perfection... 

But, enough gushing over lounges dubiously residing in the backsides of fancy eateries.

Through a peculiar series of coincidences (?), we were introduced to a woman named "Mary" who (apparently) makes the rounds in this establishment quite regularly. Mary is a palm reader & I was told much later in the evening, also a well-traveled, "good Catholic girl" who is somehow tied up spiritually with Mary Magdelene. Mary has peculiar grace & subtlety to both her demeanor & appearance. Warm & unassuming, she asked for me to choose a hand which surprised me because she had been sent to read my friend's palm, not mine. I began to correct her, but she stopped me & said, "No, I would like to read yours first." Dubious (& with a certain restrained arrogance), I handed over my vitals-etched-in-flesh.

Eyes closed, she did not read the lines in my palm. She read something intangible, invisible. I capitulated & listened to the words of this lounge-wading clairvoyant (what was this woman doing there?) because her woo-woo was undeniable. I could feel it as she pressed her hand into mine. Woo... From whence do these gifts arise? I will forever find the truly gifted utterly baffling. 

Mary spoke of many things, but mostly of art. This was strange & confusing to me. It still is. She also said, "You want to continue your education, but right now you must stay with your children. They have something more important to teach you. They have very important things to teach you that you can find nowhere else... but you know this, right?" 

Yes, Mary. I do.

-----------------------------------

Creatures of Earth.

The children.

Somehow, while writing my personal statement on animism, I overlooked the children:

"Some methods for reclaiming animism are fairly simple, others present complex logistical challenges. They all basically require some kind of active disengagement from our Western cultural & social status quo -- those systems that perpetuate rational thought... Among the many viable approaches to reclamation are: solitude, leisure, unstructured time, direct contact with nature, disinhibition & altered states of consciousness."

This is astounding because when I think about animism, I think about children. Children first. My children, your children, all the children. I find comfort in knowing that most children are out there, still connected, still engaging the Web in their special way. I think of the children dancing the Web as they do a Maypole. I lament those who become jaded, having their ribbons snatched from them prematurely. I celebrate that most are still grasping their colourful connections to the Whole, laughing, singing, creating patterns & chaos, communing as many & as one.

Children are innate freethinkers. If you take the care to listen & absorb their youthful wisdom they will provide you insights available nowhere else. The lessons are -- much like the children themselves -- fresh, spontaneous & inexhaustible. Children are the most willing of teachers; all they want in this world is for someone to hear them. Listening to children is an exchanging of gifts.

My children are always teaching me (& not just about how to be a better animist). They teach me about patience, compassion & the merits of simplicity. Their natural sense of aesthetic is so entirely wrapped up in their own internal symbology, I forget sometimes that what they create is purity, not profundity (& I tend to prefer the former). Almost daily, they illustrate to me the need for a life of authenticity. With boundless willingness, they just know how to relish life. Carpe diem, absolutely. Without books, crutches, mentors, or rules, they weave spells, find secrets & talk to the other than human world -- they intuit the all of it, all day, every day. When (& why!) do we unlearn all of this?

One of the many reasons that I am so in love with animism is that it is among the few spiritual traditions  which does not need to be neutered or simplified to be inclusive of children. In fact, it is quite the opposite. We are all born thinking as animists, but over the course of our socialization -- that is, those of us in "rational" cultures -- we have the animist's innate senses, skills & understanding worked out of us. (Presumably, so that we might be successful in modern society... What a sad an unnecessary sacrifice.) Children, on the other hand, are experts. They hold the ribbons. Regarding children & the spirit world, Hubby always says, "They are closer to the Source." Yes. Being younglings, they retain a grasp on their connate animism. They are naturals & there is nothing quite like discovering & sharing the magic of this world with a child.

Sometimes I feel ensnared by motherhood; tethered day after day to wee ones, limited in my endeavours as an individual, shelving my projects, suspending my freedom indefinitely. I forget that they are my in-house spiritual guides. Sometimes I need a reminder about priorities, values & the bigger picture. I have to stop & examine the gains, the blessings & beauty of this road I travel. Roll down the window, Moma & rejoice in a faceful of fresh air. At times of great frustration, I try think about something restated in abundance by that unlikely women's guru: "The greatest freedom is found once you make & embrace your commitments, fully." (I'm paraphrasing, it was a long time ago.) My commitments bind me to small humans who have a 24 hour life line to the great Web. I am their student, as they are mine. The bonus: I love these small humans more than anything on this Earth & they love me with the same fervor. We are bound by a sacred reciprocity. Love & Spirit, together, onward we grow.

"They have very important things to teach you that you can find nowhere else... but you know this, right?"  

Thanks for the reminder, Mary.

Cherish, trust, listen, wonder, share, explore, connect, respect, divine, unravel, discover, know. SO MOTE IT BE.