Poetry for the Esbat: Mad, Mad, Mad Moon. (November, 2016)

"Infernal Apparition" by Paul Lormier, 1848

Lilith. (and the lilītu?)

Dark Moon, She is (they are). But I shall explain...

"The energy of the evening was lacking & what little there had been died away in an unceremonious manner. At an unusually early hour, the other women -- now more than vaguely disaffected -- meandered home, leaving just the two of us & the Night. She stood, I sat. I looked up at her & realized how much & in how many ways I will miss her. She has always struck me as unusually carefree & a touch New-Agegy, but not tonight. This was supposed to be our parting, but she was mad, mad, mad. There was room now to speak of taboos -- that which has left us all reeling inside but was left unsaid. Instead of exchanging pleasantries, we shared our chagrin. Raising her rich, full, singer's voice in disgust, she shrieked, 'Why the fuck do we train for this shit if we do not use it for anything?!? The time is over! No more messing around -- if you know how to do Magick, do it people!'" 

Who said this? Was it the dark, luscious woman before me, or was it... Her?

As far as I can tell, the Earth has split open & one large, festering pustule of human loathing has been loosed from its containment. (Not that it is the only one.)

So be it. 

(as long as those of us with any wit do not remain idly grazing in the pastures)

***

The Works. So many, so little time.

I began an ambitious project a year or so ago (one of many, believe me) -- a shrine to Lilith. 

It is not for me, it is for Her.

It has waited patiently for me to complete it, but the time for patience is over. Her rage & despair are mine. They are ours.

May Her fire be unleashed & may Her steely, self-assured grit carry us through the unwanted Darkness (there is a difference). I will do my part to facilitate this. 

Rupi Kaur, artist, poet, woman.

Segovia Amil, artist, poet, woman.

Use your Magicks*, Women. 

And remember this: The moon lives in the lining of your skin.

***

Like the feline, She sleeps ever so lightly.
The Moon/La Luna, from Patrick Valenza's 
Trionfi Della Luna & Trionfi Della Luna Paradoxical limited ed. sets.

The Esbat... not something I would normally associate with Lilith, a Dark Moon sort of creature. I am not one for Dark Moons (or Lilith really) until now & that stems purely from an elephantine indignation shared with so many of my kind. 
Women: 
We are magnificent. 
Thus, it is in a kind of tangled web of Moon forces, womanhood & sheer exasperation that I present the poetry for this Esbat. 


Ode to Naked Beauty, by Pablo Neruda

With a chaste heart 
With pure eyes I celebrate your beauty
Holding the leash of blood
So that it might leap out and trace your outline 
Where you lie down in my Ode 
As in a land of forests or in surf
In aromatic loam, or in sea music

Beautiful nude
Equally beautiful your feet
Arched by primeval tap of wind or sound
Your ears, small shells
Of the splendid American sea
Your breasts of level plentitude
Fulfilled by living light
Your flying eyelids of wheat
Revealing or enclosing
The two deep countries of your eyes

The line your shoulders have divided into pale regions
Loses itself and blends into the compact halves of an apple 
Continues separating your beauty down into two columns of
Burnished gold
Fine alabaster
To sink into the two grapes of your feet
Where your twin symmetrical tree burns again and rises
Flowering fire
Open chandelier
A swelling fruit 
Over the pact of sea and earth 

From what materials
Agate?
Quartz?
Wheat?
Did your body come together?
Swelling like baking bread to signal silvered hills 
The cleavage of one petal 
Sweet fruits of a deep velvet 
Until alone remained
Astonished 
The fine and firm feminine form 

It is not only light that falls over the world spreading inside your body
Yet suffocate itself
So much is clarity 
Taking its leave of you
As if you were on fire within 

The moon lives in the lining of your skin.



Extra Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends. You may need them. 


*We all have them. What is yours? 
(If you have no answer to this question, find it.)

Wandering: Desperate Circus

Twilight over the Cook Inlet.

With some trepidation I escorted my complicated companion to revisit the Place where Herne has made Himself recognized.

This was very much like a clown show or an early (or late) Trick or Treat: one behemoth of a Norseman "Pirate," one black hooded "Witch" & what might best be characterized as Professor Snape from the Harry Potter series.

Carrying three bottles of mead, a shillelagh, a very large Oath Ring (from a tug boat line) & a drinking horn, I confess that I felt a bit sheepish in the daylight as hikers & tourists looked upon us with complete confusion. As they should.

This was not the time for Herne-hunting. I knew this well enough, but sometimes people are so desperate for connection that you just hold their hand & do your best at the art of damage control.

Along the arduously disorganized & delayed trek, many trees were loved & libated. Many words exchanged that would soon be forgotten. Don Quixote himself may have been channeled.

This was a messy excursion by anyone's standards. 

As I squatted along the edge of the trail & listened to the one-eyed bear of a man extracting my slender, aching friend from the disappointingly vacant darkness of the forest, I could only say to myself, "This is not the Way..."

But what isn't one person's Best Night might be another's. Later, I found myself alone in the still silence, facing Twilight, admiring the expanse of Sea & Sky divided by the horizon, unsure which side was the real side. Really, it didn't matter.

And when I crept back through the dimming light to rejoin my party, I found them seated at the edge of the bluff, framed by sinewy trees & silhouetted against the golden horizon. From their deepest hearts & bellies they sang "Helvegen" in bittersweet harmony. I was enchanted -- it was just... breathtakingly beautiful. (Had it not been completely inappropriate, I would have secreted out my phone & filmed it.)  

I sat witness to this poignant scene until my legs cramped & my nose ran from the cold. I was finally relieved to see the Heathen's bulky shape rise & turn to me. Now would be the time to complete my own Work.

Down to the water we went, leaving the saddest member to wait on the bluff. He could never have managed the descent. The large man who followed me down the familiar trail was nothing graceful himself, sliding on the ice & crashing through the naked undergrowth. I could have managed very well alone, but we are trained as women in this society to distrust the condition of alone-in-the-dark (even when realistically, it might be the safer -- for everyone). 

The tide was high & the Ice ran right up to the water, dropping off abruptly. It made for awkward gyrations, but I did my cleansing & offerings as though atop an ice float at the edge of the smoothest Ocean surface imaginable. My dips made arcs which replicated across the water ad infinitum, playing the shadow against the last of the light. Nyx's starry cloak was surprisingly clear, in spite of the yellowing Anchorage glow. Perfect.

I was expedient, but not unceremonious. In general, I Work from the hip & this instance was no different.

In short time we returned to the bench on the bluff, only to find that our companion had disappeared, leaving the horn crushed, a bottle shattered & the Oath Ring cast aside. He was to have his own adventures, or misadventures, to which we (mercifully) would not be witness.

There is a very fine line between opening up & forcing the doors. Most of us have managed to err on the side of boorish & unproductive from time to time. Yet I find that the gods will still give us chances.

The trick is to learn from, not repeat, these mistakes & never to presume that we can force a "mystical experience." 

***

Today, idling in the chill winds of an incoming storm, I stood alone with my brooding friend in a different forest. In the aftermath, I recalled to him the events of the evening which had been hopelessly lost to him. As I mentioned his entreaty to Herne -- how he stopped at precisely the right place, poured his mead & entered his own lonely chaos -- he nudged me & said, "Do you see the moose?" Looking up, I spotted a long legged beauty, making her way around the Alder only a short distance from us. She watched us calmly, intently & we remained silent as she unhurriedly wandered around & away.

I looked up at him & said, "See, you just mention Herne & there you go."

The (sometimes desperate) path
of so many secrets.

Living Animism: Setting Limits

Black widow spider (Latrodectus spp.)

Who are the persons in your neighborhood?

I had a brief but meaty telephone conversation with fellow animist Ms. Awen in which we both concurred that animism just isn't particularly Buddhist. Actually, the conversation wasn't quite that simple, but I will sum up that point of the discussion by stating that animism, being about relationships, sometimes also means dealing with survival & death & all those not so fluffy-bunny, feel-good aspects of living on this planet. It means sometimes other folks must labour or die or suffer so that you might continue living in the manner to which you are accustomed. It also sometimes means making conscious decisions & accepting responsibility for who might be adversely affected by your life way. 

The past month & a half I have been grappling quite a bit with setting limits. Setting limits is necessary in relationships. It is also necessary for healthy survival. I sometimes struggle with this in human-human relationships, though I have become much better at it with age. Setting limits with the other-than-human world is actually more difficult for me because of that sticky emotion(?): guilt. 

Look who I found among the kochia!

I feel guilty pulling up the kochia (Kochia scoparia) forests in my yard. It feels like I am deforesting a micro universe. I do it in small stages, allowing all the weedy denizens ample time to flee. It took me nearly the entire duration of my stay here in the high desert to complete the project doing it this way. I hope my extra care & caution helped a few wee folks, but I am sure it also took its toll in the small world. However, it has to be done because I have my own standard of living & that is something for which I must accept responsibility. It comforts me to know that other animism inclined humans have this same weed-pulling ambivalence, as I learned in a different telephone conversation with yet another far away, yet kindred human.  

I am recognizing that there are also points where I can draw the line with an assassin's pen. There is a certain ease & clarity at the point of zero tolerance. If you carry neurotoxins about in your fangs & you are ready to share them with members of my household, you must die. No relocation for you. No mercy except a swift & hopefully unexpected execution. The Black widows (Latrodectus spp.) receive no exemptions. Sometimes, when I feel badly, I remind myself that I would not tolerate a meth lab in my house, or a bear. Unfortunately, we have plagues of these venom wielders -- this gives me ample opportunity to work out those feelings of guilt.

The grey areas are actually more difficult. Take the Wind Scorpion (Solifugae spp.), for instance. Years ago, I had a friend living in this house. She said she ran upon one, literally face-to-face, in the early morning once, but I had never seen one. The idea lived on in my memory like a legend, like a tale of a mythological beast. Like Nessie, the Chupacabra or the Skunk Ape. The Wind Scorpion appeared in the kitchen & oh! Oh! OH! What to do? What to DO?!? These are the fastest creatures I have ever witnessed. The mind reels... really. I knew I would not sleep knowing that there was one of these creatures in the house. With great pandemonium, we caught it & set it loose upon the yard. After the circus of Wind Scorpion wrangling, I read that they are formidable predators who hunt black widows & I wished that I had the backbone to room comfortably with them. But I really don't know that I could get used to them.

Wind Scorpion in a grocery bag. (Solifugae)

Another grey area involves the White Footeds. That's what we call them, the Peromyscus crew that have made themselves cozy in our people house. The first White Footed I met when we returned was a particularly handsome mouse who had a problem with getting trapped in the bathtub. After several rounds of bathtub wrangling & setting the critter outside (only to have it return), it seemed that that White Footed might be done with human interaction. Oh, no. After the hospital, we returned to find the bathtub liberally smeared with White Footed feces. Again with the outside. Then, no more bathtub dance. A week or so later, I found a rotting White Footed corpse at the bottom of an outdoor garbage can. It had gotten trapped in the can & died. Was that our bathtub pal? *sigh*

A White Footed dragging pillow stuffing across the floor.

But that is only one among an uncertain number of White Footeds haunting this homestead. There is also the pillow thief & the tinfoil snackmaster. The pillow thief gets in our bed at night & steals stuffing out of the pillows. Really. No joke. I have fluff, photos & poop on the bedspread to prove it. The foil muncher has forced me to place a ban on reusing tinfoil because all our washed & rinsed foil sheets have become confetti & the process of making this orally manufactured confetti keeps me awake at night. 

The sad fact however is that the White Footeds, charming as they can be, could also become a serious problem for our life way, our beloved home & quite possibly, our health. I can forgive them for eating all the Ichiban & raiding the powdered sugar & even for storing birdseed in my sweaters. But eating the children's crayons, making nests in the puppets... Hubby says poison looms on the horizon. I say, Gah.


Where do we draw the line?

The pillow thief. Peromyscus spp.

When You Have No Choice, Mobilize the Spirit of Courage

While getting proper border-crossing identifications readied for this stress-filled & squirrely migration which presents itself in complete opposition to our usual seasonal patterns, this little fortune cookie paper fell from my wallet. 

"When You Have No Choice, Mobilize the Spirit of Courage"

I don't know where or when the wise little fortune teller came to reside in my purse of many mysteries, but... yes & thank you.

Tree Huggers & Temple People or... How Does Space Feed the Spirit?

Rustic pulpit, March 16th, 1879, from the Robert N. Dennis collection of stereoscopic views @ Wikicommons.
Quite possibly the only churchy-indoor-space that might compel me to darken its doorstep.

We have been moving, again. I do believe we have reached a frequency of moving that qualifies as absurd. Or completely mad. Or something. This time, the distance is short & very hopefully permanent -- as far as Alaska goes. Please knock on a tree, table, pressboard, masonite now, please.

There was much damage control to be done in the new unit & much demolition & rebuilding & remodeling has happened. We retire every evening exhausted & tense, but with increasing hope that this has a conclusion which is nearing ever closer with each strenuous day. Now that the grunt work has significantly abated, our efforts have turned to squeezing as much swank into each square foot as humanly possible. This is the part of the process that has gotten me thinking -- thinking about space...

When I talk to other pagan folk about "sacred" spaces & places, it always seems that they fall into one or the other side of the indoor/outdoor dichotomy. This is one of those subjects where people seem to have strong feelings. The Druids ("Oh, those Druids...") pretty universally go outside. Alaskan Druids don't seem to care if its so cold outside that it hurts to breathe. Out they go. In corresponding with other animists, it sure seems like we also have that tendency, often struggling with issues over being house-bound. On the other hand, my Thelemite cohorts prefer to be indoors, or so it seems for the most of them. Then again, Thelema has all those specifications & rules for worship which seem to require a dedicated indoor space. Wiccans, ("Oh, those Wiccans...") seem to be the most plastic about space, but perhaps this is because their "sacred space" is created by circle-casting. As individuals however, they do seem to have strong personal tendencies, for example, the High Priest; he prefers indoors, period. But, we all know the hedgewitch-types who prefer the outdoors. 

This brings me to my quandary: How does space feed the spirit? More specifically, as I look ahead to the coming months of intensive indoor dwelling, I wonder how can we design/create indoor space that inspires & nourishes the soul (in particular, of the outdoors-oriented worshipper), a place where I won't spend quite so much time gazing longingly out the window at the Darkness?

I have been trying to remember the time before the altar-altering mushroom incident when I worked to create "sacred spaces" indoors, trying to remember the thoughts in an old book I have stored away in the desert house entitled, A Home for the Soul, trying to remember what it was about certain small Mexican churches my mother & I visited in Albuquerque, trying to grasp what gives the niches & meditation spaces on temple grounds of the Rosicruscian Order, AMORC their set apart, otherworldly, "sacred" feeling.  What is it that transforms a people-space & imbues it with a sense of spiritual significance?

I am thinking it is, to a large extent, art.

But not entirely because the range of human "sacred spaces" stretches from the the most baroque, rococo cathedrals, to the "rustic pulpit" pictured above, to the streamlined simplicity of a reflecting pool. Art is part of this, but not the all of it. So, what is it? What are the cues that tell us a people-place is hallowed, "spiritual" or "sacred"? What is it that whispers to our subconscious, "This place is special, pause a moment & feed your soul..."? This, I would like to understand.

Animism: Not a Comfort "Religion"

It really isn't, either. Nor is it either one.

Mama & baby occupy the path, August 9, 2012. 

In reference to a disturbing, ironic twist of fate & weird Wyrd-ness, a friend wrote, "you can build shrines... & write poems... (but) Nature is so impersonal... Animism is not a comforting 'religion.'” And it's true, having that sense of being cared for & attended to as an individual creature-being -- a "self" -- is often absent from my practice. Usually, I am ok with that.

When unexpected & difficult situations arise, I sometimes feel betrayed. Intellectually, I know this is a wasted emotion. For if I truly seek immersion in the other-than-human world, I must accept the risks; the risks of disappointment, dissatisfaction, danger, fear, indifference, repudiation, loneliness. If I need comfort, I cannot not seek it from the dispassionate elder gods; the primal forces that drive this world's engine. I must always remember that no one is special.

Instead, I must endeavour to seek reassurance elsewhere in the Web. I often find I look to the constancy, consistency, rhythms & regularity of Their work. I get my Ease & Hope in knowing that in any given circumstance, some of us will be spared, some things can always be relied upon & every now & again, someone, or something throws us a bone. I also try to remember to always cherish my gifts-in-hand.

I find comfort in the big (& relatively permanent) consistencies:

Seeds: Hope incarnate.

The Sun rises & sets. Source stability always.

Lady Moon waxes & wanes. Rhythm incarnate.

The Wheel turns with relentless constancy. Winter withers, Spring sprouts.

Stuff is imagined, built, destroyed, decayed. Life begins anew & Life ends anew. You can bet on it.

All the layers of everything -- the depths to the shallows -- are spinning, whirling, cycling, re-cycling.

'Round & round we go. Ride on.



I find comfort in small dependabilities & gifts-in-hand:

Blissful bluff: New territory.

The cat will crap on the bathroom floor every night. In the morning I will curse him & amid my irritation, remember my love for him. An old gift-in-hand.

Moose will inevitably obstruct the path, especially at this time of year. Forced to explore alternate routes, we will wander into new & blissful territory. A new gift-in-hand.

My family will insure that I have no privacy, no time to myself & never, ever a decent night's sleep. I will have no regrets -- I am their flamekeeper & they walk with my heart in their hands. The most precious gift of all.


Some might call it Pollyanna. I call it survival. Let the chips fall where they may & may we find them to be in our favour. For now I can find comfort in knowing that things will go on until they don't & I will remain thankful for my precious gifts-in-hand. You know who you are.

Mama & baby occupy the same path, October 21, 2012
& together we celebrated the familiarity.

Rain, Death, Love. (Insights from Lady Moon's Poet.)

Yesterday, another bout of melancholia swept through my being.
Rain again. (What is with this place, this summer?) 
Pain again. (Just enough to make me un-forget what I wish to wish away.) 
Then, via the casual internet: the man who walks past our desert house every evening, the man of one thousand warm smiles, has died. Presumably, by his own hand.

Detached & afar, my immediate reaction was to begin planning, requesting & assembling offerings to the psychopomp(s). Fire? No, water. Piles of Alaskan wildflowers & fungi set afloat on the sea…

Then, I had to ask myself, 'Is this about gratitude for the Guides, or is this about me?' At day's end, no pomp for the psychopomps (or myself). I went to sleep still asking the question.

This morning, rain again. 
Rain & rain & rain, but this day, no pain.
Then, stumbling casually across the internet: in the most unexpected of places, I fell in love. This new love evoked, renewed, rekindled all my loves. It whispered, love them now.

Now is the time to say, "I love you." Now is the time, because today they are walking past your house, passing you the coffee, pocket-dialing your cell, talking while you are not listening. Tomorrow, you may recognize your neglect & start planning your recompenses.

Don't wait for the psychopomp.

Image from
www.johnsiddique.co.uk

About my newest love: Among many other projects, poet John Siddique has been creating a series of thirteen animated films based on a series from his book, Recital -- An Almanac. "The poems are based on the Full Moons of the year and the Celtic mythology which names each moon after a letter in the ancient tree alphabet." (Quote found here.)

I am not prone to dedications. Except for now. Today, this rainy day. This is for all my loves, each & every one of you, kith & kin, old & new... the many of you, the plenty of you (& if you are reading this, it is most likely you are among them).


The Hawthorne Moon, by John Siddique "Isn't It Time We…"

Finally, this shamanic poem is for the psychopomps & the Spirit who walked past our house & kept walking. May he find Freedom & Love at the end of that journey. 


Elder Moon, by John Siddique "Freedom or comfort which would you choose?"

The Little Book of BIG MAGIC (Comfort For the Files)

I waited many days for some news. Today it came.

It turned out to be kind of bad -- none of it was good, or quite what I expected.

Once again, no one is special.

So, before I drag out my Anatomical Supply Catalogue & start working out some medical magick, I am going to fret, grapple, wring my hands, ask existential questions (with much futility) & feel sorry for myself. 

Then I will lay back & read The Little Book of BIG MAGIC (vol. 2) by Luke. In all likelihood, I will read it several times tonight.

Hand-written, illustrated & yellow thread-bound sometime in the 1990's by my beloved friend (Of Yore) Luke, this endearing text has survived residency in a minimum of five homes & three states. Sometimes I forget I have it, but I always seem to remember it when I need it. This is one of those times. 

I only wish I had vol. 1. (Or maybe I just wish I had Luke.) But I suspect it is out there in the hands of a friend, also serving its purpose as a source of smiles, happiness & MAGIC.

The Little Book of BIG MAGIC # 2, by Luke (cover).

The Little Book of BIG MAGIC # 2, by Luke (dedication & page 1).

The Little Book of BIG MAGIC # 2, by Luke (page 2).

The Little Book of BIG MAGIC # 2, by Luke (page 3).

The Little Book of BIG MAGIC # 2, by Luke (page 4).

The Little Book of BIG MAGIC # 2, by Luke (page 5).

The Little Book of BIG MAGIC # 2, by Luke (page 6).

The Little Book of BIG MAGIC # 2, by Luke (page 7).

Altars & Mushrooms & Other Revelations (Nomad Week I)

When I wrote the "In-Betweens" post (Sciento-Paganism, Entry 2: In Between), I made liberal use of other people's words to illustrate the experience of being a spiritual "In Between." One of the quotes I used was from the author Dianne Sylvan:

"Spirituality is an ever-evolving thing, and while some folk can do that within the structure of one religion... some of us always have a weather eye on the horizon.  We learn a bit here, and a bit there, and gather tools and souvenirs from every tradition we visit, but ultimately we prefer to keep on walking and do our own thing...  I found that, when I could no longer reasonably call myself Wiccan, I was sort of floating in the Sea of Muddled Eclecticism, and I had to tread water for quite a while." -- from Becoming a Spiritual Nomad

I took this quote from her "Becoming A Spiritual Nomad" E-Course summary. Having once called myself "Wiccan" (also later finding the term lacking), her statement strongly resonated with my own experiences & my spiritual progression out of "formal" (if one could ever call it that) tradition & into the open wilderness of spiritual meanderings.  After much consideration, deliberation & procrastination, I decided that taking her course would be an appropriate first step in following through with Goal # 4 of my spiritual "Will Do" list. 

The baby ate my homework.

The first week's exercises contain two parts, both of which have been very revealing in very different ways. One part involves taking an inventory of your personal history. I have not liked this exercise. I delayed beginning the project & when I finally carried it out, I did it in a sloppy, haphazard way. Then, I watched The Changeling eat it. When my aghast Hubby pointed out that the baby had mangled & disappeared part of the assignment, I said, "Yep." I think that says something.

The other part of this week's exercises involves altars. This assignment suggested that folks with altars disassemble them (those without altars were one step ahead) & in their place, establish a simple, streamlined altar. Finally, we were instructed to complete a regular meditation before the revamped altar-of-simplicity. 

Crow Bells with Freya's seeds.

Already, I was hung up on the altar. Some of the time we keep a family altar -- or perhaps more accurately, shrine  -- to mark the passing of the seasons together. On occasion, we have purpose-specific "altars," (like the Crow-Bell "altar" filled with bells for signaling crows when we toss bread & treats for them) or impromptu, spontaneous, "organic" shrines (say, in the yard, unintentionally on a shelf, or left on a wandering). Our family's seasonal altar/shrine involves collecting objects from outdoors, special occasions, etc. & arranging, rearranging & ultimately removing them. This altar is open to everyone in the family. It morphs with the seasons & passing of events, ever-changing, endlessly recycling. It is a place where sometimes workings are done, but it is not a place where I personally connect with divinity. 

I talked about this assignment with Hubby. He suggested I use the Crow-Bell altar. I felt that the kitchen was the last place I wanted to meditate on the divine, unless I was cooking. Cooking is a great time to meditate, but sitting on the floor in the kitchen facing a shelf is not. 

I considered the woodstove, recalling a really lovely post about the magick of fire written by a blogger friend. Our woodstove is our primary heat source & is in many ways, the heart of our home. Yet when I envisioned sitting or lying before the fire in an attempt to get deep with the universe, it conjured images of the rest of the family around the corner; ever-busy, ever-noisy, ever-interrupting & the cats... oh, the cats... sauntering in to disturb the peace with scritchy-scratch destruction. 

Besides, I was still hung up on the whole idea of sitting in front of an altar at all. So I asked myself why.

This was helpful & ultimately brought forth a memory which in retrospect, marked a significant turning point on my spiritual journey (although at the time I didn't recognize it as such). 

For starters, I have never been to church. Ever. Well, I think I went once with a friend after a sleepover, but that's it. The entire idea of getting high on "God" indoors is pretty foreign to me. However, put me on the edge of a cliff overlooking a ravine or the ocean, throw me into a thunderstorm or into the bowels of a cave & my head will swim with transcendental reverb.

As I considered this more deeply, I recalled an event which probably forever killed the indoor altar experience for me. It turns out this was also my first lesson from my mycological muses. (Who knew? I sure didn't.) 

Fiddlehead ferns, courtesy WikiCommons.

Way back in my "baby-Pagan" days, I went on a Psilocybe-guided adventure to the creek just beyond the potato field behind my townhouse. There, I sat by the water & discovered that I had (temporarily, alas) learned the language of plants. With great joy, I prattled on for hours with the fiddleheads whose jovial, light-hearted conversation I found preferable to that of the more stoic & reserved trees. I stayed there until the Sun began to sink below the horizon, forcing me indoors for warmth, light & safe harbor from the mosquitos. 

I had had such a wonderful, mystical experience outside in the shelter of the trees, listening to the plants, that I went to my altar in an effort to prolong the communion. What I found there was a bunch of stuff -- voiceless, spiritless stuff. I was profoundly disturbed & painfully disappointed. I gazed across a landscape of carefully selected, painstakingly organized "sacred" items & could see nothing but mute, impotent objects. It was terrible.

All those special, symbolic things -- the things I tended to so carefully, so lovingly arranged atop the hard-sided suitcase that my Grandmama once carried -- were suddenly just stuff. Worse still, when I woke the following morning, headache-stricken & miserable (but sober), it was all still just stuff. Weeks passed & my altar never reclaimed the sacred quality it once had. Without the heart to remove it, I let it collect dust. It was permanently, irrevocably, stuff.

I have never attempted spiritual communion before an altar since.

So, given the exercise, what could I do?

Snow-dusted cliffs of Breakfast Canyon.

I looked to my regular Solar & Lunar "devotionals" for the answer & realized that at least when we are in our desert home, the "altar" is unarguably to the East. It is our beloved "Breakfast Canyon" & no special ornamentation, embellishments or improvements are needed. It is the rockbed from which our Sun & Moon rise & its cliffs are the last faces they shine upon as they slip away from view. As a dedicant of Nature, I cannot imagine a better place of communion than outside, before this canyon.

I began my meditations on the night of the full Moon. My altar was perfect & the experience sublime. (I wrote about it in (Snow) Moonrise Over Mother & Child.) Each night has been different. Each one a lesson, a gift, although not always perfect or sublime. I hope to write more about these experiences & also some of the questions posed in the assignments, but now, I must sleep. 

DianneSylvan.com

Sciento-Magick: Re-thinking Correspondences I

"Huathe" from the Celtic Tree Oracle.

My mind is on fire with thought & ideas, but life does not always cooperate with one's creative urges. For me, this is a period of life in non-cooperation with plans & visions. Even The Changeling is colluding against me, slowly weaning himself & taking my precious, uninterrupted writing time with him.

I have a big thought. (Actually, I have many.) It will require much discussion & mental sifting. Given my circumstances, I will have to piece it together, a wee bit at a time, until it has been fully sculpted into words.

This line of thinking originated long ago & has reiterated itself many times since. It always begins like this: I look through my books (or more recently, the internet) for a set of correspondences or symbolic meanings for a given herb, tree, bird, stone, etc. & I find myself asking, "Where the Hellvella did they get that!? Who came up with these things anyway?" I am sure I cannot be alone in this because let's be honest, some "correspondences" are superficial &/or nonsensical, if not absurd.

Generally I just get disgruntled, or ignore it & move on.

"Fearn" from the Celtic Tree Oracle.

The point at which my distaste for certain traditional "meanings" became acute (& very personal) was less than a year ago. At the time I was quite pregnant & confined to bedrest. During those short weeks, the Little Lad would sit beside me & pore over the astrological tables & Celtic tree charts in the back of one of my calendars. (Why this four-year-old preferred this over other activities is beyond me.) One day, whilst studying the tree chart, he turned to me & said, "I think we should name the baby _____." I smiled, nodded & replied with some encouraging but noncommittal words. The name he offered was not one I would choose, but our Little Lad would not relent. Ultimately, Hubby & I decided to grant him license to the baby's middle name.

Then everything was upended.

When The Changeling was born, we were informed that we had a month to formally file a name. Undecided & overwhelmed, we took that option. However, once he was transferred to the NICU, they wanted some kind of moniker -- not a formal commitment, just a name by which to call him, talk about him, to put on his door, to add to the scrapbook pages the nursing staff created for the babies. Hubby had followed the helicopter to the NICU & upon his arrival, he offered an abbreviated version of Little Lad's selection, as a sort of temporary 'NICU nickname.'

"NgEtal" from the Celtic Tree Oracle.

Weeks went by, as they do in the NICU. We found ourselves faced with the task of filing for a name & we could not shake the one chosen by Little Lad. In my agonizing, I researched its "meanings," lore & symbolism. This only made the decision-making process worse. Being nearly 200 miles from home, I did not have access to my library. The internet was my only information source. Every site was a convoluted, plagiarized list of incongruent associations. I collected a laundry list of chaotic symbolism; healing, hope, illness & death, protection, good luck, bad luck... & a list of magickal uses that span the gammut of (random & often contradictory) subjects, among them: marriage, fertility, chastity, craftsmanship, healthy cattle, protection for children, protection from lightning...

I had a hard time swallowing the lore when it simultaneously argued protective qualities & the foreboding of illness & death. Besides, I didn't want to accept that I was well on my way to giving my child a name that might hold negative connotations. 

But in the end, the name prevailed. 

"Nuin" from the Celtic Tree Oracle.

It took me awhile to be comfortable with The Changeling's name, especially since my mind was muddled with ambivalent feelings -- feelings tied to conflicting correspondences. This process of un-muddling prompted me to think carefully about correspondences... & to question them. Where do they come from? From whom do the originate? Why do people take them for granted, hitting their local bookstore, picking up the first book they find & taking the information within as symbolic-gospel? 

Most of our Western lore (mythologies too) was documented by 'outsider males' (my terminology). For me, this leaves a great deal to be questioned. These outsider males may or may not have been benevolent in their efforts, but I am convinced that every one of them had some kind of agenda. In addition, they often had language & cultural barriers, prejudices, assumptions & other roadblocks to clear, accurate information. I have a difficult time believing that the early practitioners of whatever art (midwifery, healing, magick, etc.) were wildly forthcoming with their secrets in the presence of strangers. Feel free to call me a skeptic. 

"Straif" from the Celtic Tree Oracle.

I think we can do better. Authenticity of the present lore, symbolism & correspondences aside, I have been developing a different approach. This is not a throw-the-baby-out-with-the-bathwater approach -- I do not advocate tossing all the established correspondences out the window. Rather, it is an integrative, holistic process based on personal relationship, intuition, research & reflection. I have been attempting to uncover the correspondences, meanings, symbolism of things (for lack of a better term -- when I say "thing" this could mean a stone, lizard, tree, etc.) by using a multi-faceted, multi-disciplinary approach. First & foremost, I feel it is important to develop a personal relationship with the thing. Everyone must do this in their own way. Then, by combining the discoveries from personal connection to the thing with knowledge of its role in mythologies, its occurrence/importance throughout history & (here we get Sciento) the knowledge (as applicable) we have of its biology, physiology, chemistry, etc. combined with its role within ecological systems, we can develop a comprehensive set of associations that truly reflect a thing's rich, complex nature. 

Whew.

Well, this is what I think anyway. I have been practicing with assorted sticks... with promising results. Results that will have to wait for a later post.

Grappling with Nature: No One is Special

We traveled 180 miles across the desert to learn that The Changeling's right kidney has gone missing. 

No one is special.

I am out of sorts & empty, aching for my baby's missing pieces. I have pictures to prove they were once there... Where did they go?

The grappling began as soon as 'George' with the ultrasound wand said, "It's just not where it's supposed to be..." My mind reeled... "What?!?"

I find myself grappling with a world filled with gods, spirits, entities who sometimes just don't care, who sometimes are at cross-purposes with my interests, wants, needs or welfare. I find myself grappling with the belief that these beings just don't regard my wee one, my beloved Changeling, as special. I am grappling with the nature of Nature & no one... no one is special.

I was raised in a staunchly scientific home, so I ask myself, "Which is more difficult, more painful, more frightening to believe -- that there is nothing but the mechanistic workings of a spiritless universe or that divinity has the capacity for indifference?" The answer is hard to swallow. Why did I give up the comfort of disbelief & invite Them into my life, my heart, my psyche?

Today I have been thinking about a painting by the insightful & talented Molly Roberts over at HerSpeak. I think it says it all right about now.

She Doesn't Care If You're Special, by Molly Roberts. See her gallery here.