What He Said. (About Imagination.)

"In all forms of magick, the imagination or image-making faculty is the most important factor." 

-- Kenneth Grant, Cults of the Shadow, Ch. 10: The Cult of the Black Snake -- II

Lunar Offerings February 2016

Poetry for the Esbat: Bliss Moon, 2016

Lunar Devotional.
A Resh K'eljesh member.
Masterfully captured by my friend/charge/muse Z.

Moon!

Lady, slow down!

It is January... so many plans, so much to do on my Huge-Ass-List.
But it is a sprawling splatter of creativity & that pleases me. 
It is the Bliss of the Create-Thing. 
It is a Winter Thing.

If it is possible to suffer from excessive inspiration, this may be my affliction.


As I return to my journal Word-Place here in the ether, I see that I have missed many messages from my people. For this I am very sorry. I seem not to have received any notifications. Can we just blame it on Mercury Retrograde? 


In this current create-phase, I find myself a little without words. So maybe just pictures this time:

Luna, my ever-muse.

Sophia, #89. A recent muse.

Charging a project.

A finished project. Sort of.

Project detail.

An old friend who assists with many projects.

Creatrix.
Curiously marked by the Moon.

Project in progress. Many layers, years to come.

Create-space.

Learning, feeding, growing from tenuous dynamics.

Project in progress.

Needful things for tricky business.

Project-vision born from necessity.

And of course, the POETRY.

This Esbat, I take a piece published in Poetry Magazine in December, 1992. Written by poet May Sarton, I think it says it all: 

"Bliss" by May Sarton as published in the
December 1992 edition of Poetry Magazine.

Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends.

Smiteful Elementals. Or, We're On Fire Up Here. No, Really. Or, Magick Sucks Sometimes.

Elementals. Impersonal, unruly.
I have mentioned it before, but obviously, the scale was quite different. 

This place is on fire.

AICC Active fire map, June 17 2015.
Currently there are 52 active wildfires burning in the state of Alaska.

And while I say impersonal, it feels personal in an I-cannot-quite-put-my finger-on-it sort of way. 
And I am sure it feels very personal to all the mushers out there who have lost "everything."

Every. 
Thing. 

I am reminded here that while the fires have lain waste to "everything," they have caused few injuries or casualties thus far, at least for humans & their closest companions. But my heart aches for the sled dogs who perished & their people who lost them to the Sockeye fire.

And no, I have not forgotten the wildlife. But that is a hopeless rabbit hole of despair I choose to avoid.

And this fire -- the Sockeye in particular -- it is most ironic. (Iconic too, but the media has that point covered.) And, regrettably personal.

Let us look more closely. The main fire map looks like this:

Detailed Map of Sockeye Fire #282
from Alaska Wildfire Information

But let us examine section A, milepost 77, the starting point for the fire:

Map of Sockeye Fire #282, Section A
from Alaska Wildfire Information.

The fire was named "Sockeye" for the road on which the ignition point is located (see map). But notice that Sockeye Road gives access to a road called Landlocked... This road (ironically) named Landlocked is the address of our community retreat center... The home of the annual Summer Solstice festival.

Entrance sign for the PCC-AK.
Image courtesy PCC-AK website. 

And, ironically or not, our Fire Tribe (a fire magick & safety crew) was making final preparations at the PCC-AK, also called "The Land," when the fire began (likely the result of neighbors with fireworks). Our folks made the second call to report the fire. They were also very fortunate to escape, because as the name of the road implies, they were "Landlocked" behind the ignition point. 

And so, while last Solstice looked like this:

Dancing around the fire, Solstice 2014.
Note the red suspenders, a designation of Fire Tribe,
safety on active duty.

This year, it likely will look more like this:

Sockeye Fire. Image credit: Marc Lester/ADN

And I cannot help but wonder at all the energy behind this. Energy on many, many levels. So many levels -- from global fossil fuel energy, to the relentless heat of this Midsummer Sun, to the fever of recent interpersonal tensions. 

And this leaves me at this text I received after the fire erupted from a shrewd friend of very like mind:

"Magick sucks sometimes."

Indeed, brother.
Ignition was imminent.

For the Files: Beware the Stick Figures

Stick Figures: Ridiculous.
Ridiculously potent.

I have mentioned Stick Figure Manifesting before. This serves as a reminder to myself (& to anyone else who may also experience this phenomenon): Beware the stick figures! Like sigils, they manifest (a little too effectively perhaps). They may not be at all sexy like a full blown ceremonial magick-style sigil meticulously created using an appropriate astronomical kamea & embellished with biblical &/or other obscure & ancient words of wisdom to then be obsessively scribed or etched onto some rare metal, parchment or other critter skin & finally, laboriously consecrated with a gloriously elaborate circle-shaped ceremony... but they work. 
Oh, my, how they work...

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Greet the Sun — Morning Movement & Offering 

Join Resh Keljesh and yoga instructor Kathryn for a collective expression of gratitude to and celebration of the Solar Source. Awaken, energize and connect with your community mates through guided group movement. Share in thankfulness and reverence while the Resh K’eljesh devotional dance troupe makes offerings to the Sun through rhythmic gestures and dance. Feel the light stir within and without as we rise, rejoice and build a conduit to facilitate warmth and harmony together.  — Hosted by Resh K’eljesh

Manifesting with Movement: Whole Body Symbol & Sigil Magick with Moma Fauna 

Both workshops described below are condensed previews of a multi-week, intensive series to be offered at a future time. 

Part 1: This preparatory workshop establishes a general framework for the “movement manifesting” concepts in Part 2 by exploring a variety of magickal principles, attitudes and approaches employed in symbol-focused magick. Among the many concepts covered in Part 1 will be definitions and implementation of amulets, talismans and sigils throughout history and cross culturally, a comparison of theories and strategies for executing sigil/symbols in manifesting operations and practical devices for creation of magickal analogies.  

Part 2: During this second workshop, we will begin to transfer and apply the principles from Part 1 to three dimensional space and somatic movement. We will explore concepts of visualization, geometry, dimensional orientation, personal creativity, style and repertoire, harnessing muscle memory for “organic belief” or a “magickal forgetfulness.” We will also take time to consider and discuss the implications of embodiment as magickal operation for both individuals and groups.

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And I swore I would keep it simple at this Summer Solstice festival.

Beware the stick figures!

Wandering: Magickal Tools.

The only tool I ever really need.

Mushroom hunter's knife, consecrated with sigil
(& accompanied by a familiar). 

The irony of course being that it was the fungi who told me to give up all the tools...

For the Files: Stick Figure Manifesting

This one is for the files.

Stick Figure Manifesting circa mid '90's.

All that discussion about magick & manifesting with stick figures provoked some reflection on my part & I realized that I have practiced that technique -- relatively unconsciously -- with some regularity over the years. It reminded me of the drawing above which was pinned on the wall in my cubicle for many Moons until the desire was made manifest.

I have always been auto-shy & living for so many years in a place where public transportation was free didn't encourage me to pony up & get my driver's license. It wasn't until I was 25 years old & found myself relocating to Vermont when I recognized that I could no longer drag my heels. Like a good little do-it-backwards human, I went car shopping long before I obtained my license...

And I fell in love.

With a car.

Sounds like a midlife crisis, I know.

A boxy, black Volvo 850 Sedan. She sang to me her sweet, dark siren's song & it was over -- she had me hook, line & sinker. She was a used rental vehicle driven for a couple of years by a pharmaceutical representative & smelled a bit like his cigarettes, but more like her leather. She was so shiny & square & black... I had to have that car in my life.  

And so I drew that picture of myself with a face-splitting grin beside my Volvo.

This picture didn't manifest instantaneously. I had to take driver's education, find a down payment, pass the driver's exam, apply for a loan... I became pretty good friends with the guys at the Volvo shop by the time I actually acquired the car, taking rides in their nitrous-equipped race cars & joining them for beer at the pubs. I told them I was naming her Pandora. The reply, "Pandora, that's a good name for a black box."

Pandora is sitting under a protective cover in the carport as I write. She can still purr with the best of them, but she's a part-timer now. She & I have perpetrated many feats of bad driving & crossed the country together. People have suggested I replace her with another 850, one with less elemental wear, but that's just not reasonable. That's just not this animist's way.


When you don't have the words, draw it.

Even if it looks ridiculous.

You just might get what you need.

Public Animas Ceremony Part 3: Communicating & Manifesting The Vision (Even Without the Written Word)

More lessons from the Public Animas Ceremony.

Resh K'eljesh in Stick Figures:
A Bad Sketch to communicate a Splendid Vision
by Moma Fauna

When you don't have the words, draw it.

Even if it looks ridiculous.

Because some things desperately need to be communicated and the people who need to know will understand.

And if The Vision is true, your magick will be true & The Vision will be made manifest.

Resh K'eljesh in the flesh.
Photo credit HPS CC.

Perhaps with some subtle differences...

Animas Ceremony Officiants in Stick Figures:
A Bad Sketch to communicate a Splendid Vision
by Moma Fauna

Animas Ceremony Officiants in the flesh.
Photo credit Papa Faunus.

And if you draw a great many pictures...

 

Here and above, Animas Ceremony Officiant's
gestures # 1-17.

...you cannot help but manifest. 

Oh, how I adore magick.

Animas Ceremony Officiants: Gesture #18 --
just one of those subtle differences.
Note the rainbow -- also a subtle & very welcome difference.
Photo Credit: PCC-AK FB.

Wandering: Waiting on Ice.

Waiting on the Ice.

Twilight. March 13, 2013. 

I am waiting on Ice. Braced against the bitter winds by the grace of a White Spruce (Picea glauca), I am waiting for the Comet to present its glitter beneath the Moon. Some people find waiting easier using the steep, icy sheets of Earth as their personal noctilucent luge course. I do not.

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Until now, I entirely missed the gravity of the message, the omen presented to us when we returned the offering platter to the kitchen. The Waiting Moon left Her mark, as if to say, "Oh, yes. You will wait." Her sigil, a slow chemical reaction of elements, ingredients & sentiments, now resides above the stove: a constant reminder that we are waiting.

And I am beginning to think that all this waiting is not so much about the end result, the goal or destiny, but rather the process of waiting itself. What do we learn from this?

Sigil of the Waiting Moon, revisited.

There is something about this waiting that makes me feel a little bit of insanity, a Berzerker agitation, like a steer in the chute or a racehorse at the gate. I want to run -- charging into the Sunlight, shedding the layers upon layers of clothing. Snow bibs off. Down parka off. Pillbox hat off. Smartwool socks off. 

I want don my faithful, ten-year-old sandals & dive into loamy duff, filling my nostrils with its rich earthy aroma. I want to see Bluebells (Mertensia paniculata var. alaskana) erupting from their sepals -- a signal, a sign that now we may doggedly hunt for the elusive Black Morels (Morchella elata). When we find them, I want to rejoice with my tribe, the trees, the Spirits of the Land, anyone, everyone who cares to join us.

Instead, I imagine the shimmery High Desert heat rising off the rocks -- stacks upon stacks of hot rocks, lizard tenements. I imagine a tiny sliver of black sand beach in Dominica -- oh, to return there now. I imagine the Sun high above, warming deck chairs on an ocean liner filled with quiet, slow-moving passengers -- just like the ship that ushered me into what is now my present.

Instead, in the tension of the here & now, I borrow the High Priest's sanctuary & desperately, frantically spin, raising energy so I might release it. Dance practice & exercise: I find that they are no longer enough. Panting, sweaty, legs curled under, arms prostrate, forehead pressed to the cool, smooth bamboo floor, I cast it to the Earth -- please, please take it. For the love of Mabel, take it. I do this so I do not kill anyone in the waiting. From this act of reckless magick, I gain temporary relief. But it also makes me feel a bit... well, mad. As in Hatter.

Bohemian Waxwings 
(B. garrulus) waiting.

Yet, I only need to look out the windows to see that I am in good company. Those Bohemian Waxwings (Bombycilla garrulus) are also waiting. As they feverishly flit & flock by the hundreds, it seems to me that they are equally as restless. They shift en masse from tree to tree & back again. 'Round & 'round they go, sometimes all day, as if in search of something just around the corner. Perhaps they are looking for signposts to a new season. Perhaps they are waiting for some of the very same things as me. Like Spring.

But, I find I am also waiting peevishly for any single ounce of time to write. My heart tells me I must. My life says, "Wait."

I am waiting to master, or even minor, a dance I just met. I want it to feel natural, today. My body & mind say, "No. Practice... & wait."

I am waiting to learn & know all these Alaskan birds which, obscured by thick foliage, can never be seen in the green months. I want to recognize them now, while I can, but the daily obligations say, "Wait."

The same principle applies to Aurora Borealis stalking & the pile of books at the bedside, the emails & letters (which will likely never be written), the community lending library I spearheaded (Gah, what was I thinking?), the painting that begs to be completed throughout the house, the flying ointment, reorganizing the kitchen, the Bovini celebratory project I began months ago, the backing up of data, the "Winter Queen's Necklace" I began stringing, hanging all those mirrors (good grief! so many! narcissism?), the mobile Moon Shrine... 

I am also waiting for the-cat-who-was-left-behind to gain back some of the four pounds she has lost. Which brings me to the lesson of all this waiting. Or at least one lesson.

Sleeping Lady, ever waiting.
Some are infinitely patient. Others, not so much.

If we spend all our time waiting, wanting, yearning, braced for something which is not now, but down the road a little ways, or possibly a long ways, what do we overlook in the present? There is that adage, something akin to, "Don't squander your time living in the past..." But how about the future? Do we squander our present by living for future expectations? Waiting for vacation. Waiting until we think we have the money. Waiting for better weather, better circumstances, better odds. Waiting until the house is clean, or the laundry is done (which by nature, can never, ever be done). Waiting for a convenient time. Waiting for a new day. 

I recognize that I must love, relish, cherish what I have, right now. I cannot live in the Land of Expectations. Love the demanding kids. Now. Love the gentle partner. Now. Love the skeleton-cat. Now. Love this frozen Place. Now. Love this precious & beautiful Life. Now. There is a feast in the waiting. Wait. Pause. Be. 

It is ok to wait, but be-present.

Be in the waiting. There is a feast!

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In the waiting for the comet, I am joined by a very special friend, a meow-friend. Sun-tanned & radiant, she tells me about her wedding. On a beach. In the Sunshine. In Love. It is good to hear her story & to feel all the warmth she brought back with her. 

Later, we climb two flights of clanging, frozen, steel stairs to join our boys on the wide, wind-swept rooftop of the park building. We gaze over the ocean & wait for the comet alongside a professional photographer wielding a camera as large as a cannon. He tells us about being a landscape photographer in Alaska. He talks about all the waiting, waiting for expectations which frequently never materialize. Luscious waiting. The comet never presents itself, but the frosty, sled-crazed children are so happy. We are all so happy & what the Universe offered us in all that waiting was much, much more than what I was waiting for.

The feast of waiting.

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.

The Trouble with Dreamwork (or, My Broken Magick… & Ego)

This post has been decidedly uncomfortable for me to write & has taken several weeks, but if you have ever wondered what happened to the "Spiritual Warfare" cleanup campaign…

Sometimes we get stuck.

Last Autumn I was participating in a series of pathworking meditations which had a profound impact on my ability to effectively use the dream incubation technique in my "Hatred Remediation" project. At the time, however, I did not realize this. When I look back on my posts in October & November of last year, I can see that I was on fire. Or something. 

When I migrated South, I found my dreamwork abilities waning, waning, waning... I thought at that time that this had something to do with the season -- it was winter after all & the mycelia, like many other life forms are at rest, in stasis, sleeping. So I gave myself a little bit of slack & figured I would pick it up again when the weather was more accommodating...

When I found the fungi popping up early Spring, high-desert-style, I thought this heralded a change on the horizon… no.

When I returned to Alaska & found fungi the very first time we hit he trails I thought, "Let the dreamwork begin!" … no.

Utterly broken Coprinus(?)

Somewhere around Summer Solstice I came to terms with my broken magick. Broken, broken, utterly. Intuitively, I reached into my bag of tricks & pulled out the sympathetic magic. I declared to Hubby, "This is how I am going to do it from now on. I can't do the dreamwork anymore. Besides, it's more creative & fun this way, right?" Right?

I went ahead & completed two more of my remediation projects using some original sympathetic techniques. I even received assistance from a few other people. But somewhere in the back of my mind I was mulling over & lamenting the loss of what I shall call my "subscription" to that "channel" that felt lost to me. I liken it to having rabbit ears on a television. You swivel that contraption round & round, antennae akimbo until you finally capture that special signal. Ah! Then you will do everything in your power to keep that position locked into place; duct tape, stacks of books, strategically placed houseplants. But inevitably, the cat decides a new perch is in order & poof! Bye bye special signal, auf wiedersehen sacred programming, ciao my precious channel.

I can't really blame it on the cats this time. The children, maybe.

I still have yet to write about those two workings -- now nearly three months completed -- despite the fact that they really were quite clever. This is probably because I have been feeling deflated. Or not on fire anymore. Just kind of soggy. (Which one might think would be good for a mycophile…) 

I have not bothered to pursue any further mushroomy-workings. 

Instead, I performed a 180 & appealed (much to my ego's chagrin) to the Wiccan High Priest who had been sharing his late High Priestess's meditations with the community. The short story is that I have now attended a group class, some private meetings & a circle thus far. I also have a daily 'anointing ritual' which is specifically intended to liberate my intuition. It is all somewhat humbling & awkward & the decision has surprised more than a few people who know me. It is also remarkably comfortable. Like putting on an old pair of jeans. I know that system -- I have lived it. Even if I cannot abide by the label any longer, Wicca is as familiar as my native tongue. It only makes sense to return to it, even feral & changed as I am, to recalibrate my antenna, to remember how to listen.

Miniature poppy in the greenhouse.

I also decided to appeal to Morpheus. I generally keep my relationship with deity very private -- I believe such relationships should not be discussed casually, publicly, idly. My reason for mentioning this here is because the results have been important to my dreamwork recovery. I had to initiate this connection from scratch because there is no information regarding how Morpheus was formally worshipped (though of course the assumption is that he was because of the presence of dream temples). So, I determined that I would just begin with visions of Him -- the way I would incubate a dream, at night just before falling asleep, entreating his help, offering to return His favour with favour, etc... 

Poppies on the porch.

I have some things I must do now involving shrines & poppy gardening & while my rational self balks, I cannot deny that I have begun to remember my dreams again.

So I continue to lick my wounded self-image & nurture the flame that resides within. I don't like asking for help, but sometimes, it becomes an imperative. We'll fix it together. The whole motley lot of us; my gaggle of fungi, a very generous High Priest, beloved Morpheus & me. Now that's the stuff of dreams. Or something.

  

Getting un-stuck: Gathering poppy pods throughout Alaska.