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Friday, March 15, 2024

Fullness

 

It has been a full week. Full, as in overflowing. Full, as in so much of the Work culminating with mystery, validation, and clarity. I see the peaks and valleys of the Work I’ve been doing for decades, the more recent Work that I’m doing with the support of my Moonshine coven, and I see the Work that lies before me… and the portal I prepare to step through to work the Work.

The coming days will be focused on alert 'n' conscious chewing and digesting of all The Things that have culminated over (and under and around) these past several days. Absorbing and assimilating will follow, for sure. And elimination too, eventually.

The digestion metaphor is really working for me right now. While journaling this morning I cracked myself up when the term “Portal Potty” manifested. Crude, perhaps. Funny, for sure. And, in this moment in time, fully fitting.

Yesterday, during a superlative reading - a reading that stands up ‘n’ out among decades of readings that I’ve received - I expressed out loud how grateful I am for my sense of humor. It holds me, comforts me, carries me, and it accompanies me to the deep, dark spaces that offer the hard Medicine, the shadow Medicine, the Medicine that heals like no other.

So, today I’m feeling full. I have Work to do, and preparation for passage through the portal that awaits me. But today, I relax with the fullness, the focus, the chewing, the humor, and deep gratitude for the privilege to have such opportunity.

Peace. 🕊

Wednesday, March 13, 2024

Siamo Uno


Today, March 13, marks a long time of loving anniversary.

I first laid eyes on my spouse in 1976, during college orientation. It wasn’t a romantic moment, as I may well be the least romantic person you’ll ever encounter, so romance has never really been a thing for me. It was a moment, though. I saw this mop-headed guy sitting at a table looking as if he was trying to fold himself into himself. Know what I mean? I probably thought something like, “What a sad sack.” And maybe I added something like, “Cute, though.” Well, maybe not.

1977 came along and we moved in together. Ten years after that, on Friday, March 13, we were married in our living room by some justice of the peace (what an obtuse title), the ceremony witnessed by two beloved friends. I was dressed in black. There’s backstory to all that, and maybe I’ll revisit it at some point in written form, but today is about honoring our own personal storm of love. And, sweet gods, I do love storms.

Today I smile as I consider the number 47. It adds to 11, and that adds to 2. And that feels about right. Balance, harmony, a union of two ones. Siamo uno.

I can’t imagine sharing these 47 years with anyone else. We were chatting about this long time over our early morning coffee. He said he’s glad I still love him. And I do. He said he’s glad we’re still friends. And we are. He said he’s glad I’m happy. I responded, “Who says I'm happy?” And we laughed. We’re blessed to have a lot of laughter in our life together. Siamo uno.

So, yeah, today we observe our 47 years together. I’ll celebrate by pulling together our tax kit, and other stuff. He’ll celebrate by working on the chick brooder he’s making, and other stuff. The forecast is looking unseasonably pleasant, so we’ll likely make time ‘n’ space to sit on the deck, as we so often do, and raise a bottle of ale to us, as we often do. Just another day. Another day shared. Siamo uno.

Peace. 🕊

Thursday, March 7, 2024

The Mighty Pause Button

I sit in the early hours of the day with that single page note in my mind and in my heart, knowing I'll reread the physical thing at some point, but in the meantime, I need to trust my memory, my feels, my intuitive knowing. As I sit with the memory and consider the words that were written, as I recall them, I settle on just a few, with one word - admittedly - difficult to decipher, but I’m confident of my decoding. I'm hit with a realization that those words were offered not as a request for communication as was implied, but rather, as the saying goes, with ill will.

Of this I feel a mighty certainty. Why? Because I already knew it.

When I place space between myself and others I do it either with their blessing, or I do it silently. When I do it silently, and others read their own trappings into that silence, the space, that has nothing to do with me. Know what I mean? When they choose to take their own trappings and turn them against the silence, the space, that's not my plight. It's theirs. They're conjuring their own... silence, their own space, their own stuff, not mine.

And I see how personal they’ve taken my silence, the space I chose to create when my mom passed. And it’s space. It’s malleable. I mean, I communicate with others within this space. But I digress. It’s a talent.

To not take things personal is a challenge, for sure. Yet it is a worthy cause, and one that can offer mighty Medicine. My mom and I had some lively discussions on this topic, as she pretty much took most everything personal. It seems a deeply rooted familial quirk. I still struggle with it. After all. I grew up in a very take-things-personal environment. Yet do my best, thanks to decades of the Work, to press my pause button when I feel those familiar jolts. I pause so I may digest, discern, possibly evolve ‘n’ heal, and - in the interpersonal realm - avoid reacting. From here I may respond from a place of solicitude, or stand mute. 

For now, this is where I rest, where I sit, where the Work will do what it does... what we do together.

Peace. 🕊


Thursday, February 29, 2024

Foul Language & Good Medicine


Yesterday was a good day - for me - until it wasn’t. In the grand scheme of this world we share, doing the personal, healing Work that I do sometimes feels petty to me. Yet that Work is mighty Medicine, and it does support me in what I might deem the more important work of justice in which I participate. Anyhoo…

So, there I was, moon void of course, embracing High Priestess verve, feeling some deep internal harmony that I’d not felt in a long while. And it felt so rich and nourishing. I had taken action that morning on something that felt good, and right, and ripe. I was feeling poised, comforted by my choices and actions. It was - for me - a sweet day. And then the mail arrived.

An envelope with the point of origin obvious seemed to glare at me, challenging the good Medicine of the day that had blessed me. I might have set it aside, as I’ve done with similar correspondence in the past, to open and examine some other day, but some internal impulse tore one side of the envelope and pulled out the contents. There was a second sealed envelope that I set aside, and I unfolded the single sheet of paper and read the words. My palms began to sweat, a heavy, coiled lump of a feeling settled between my solar plexus and my heart. As I type these words in this moment those visceral responses return as I wonder if the tormentor, the tormentor I just wrote of the day before, has an ally?

I engaged my grounding heart breath between each read, as I steadied myself to understand the short message, and not make assumptions. Yet each read knocked me off my center. I felt pissed, I felt frustrated, I felt a familiar intrusion… and then I felt wonder.

Wonder and curiosity are things I understand, and hold great honor for, as they have guided me well through so many aspects of my life, and the Work. Yet the curiosity perceived in the words I read and re-read are born - I am confident - of the shared fabrications of the tormentor. Serendipity. Fucking serendipity. I thought, “this fucking Work, it’s fucking magick, and it’s fucking Medicine. Will fucking wonders never fucking cease?”

I continued to engage my heart breath, and settled in that place of wonder… wondering how it is that there are folx in the world that have so little interest, meaning and value in their own lives that they’re compelled to poke around in the lives of others. How it is that there are folx that are unable to tend to their own business, their own lives? How it is that there are folx so empty that they reach into the personal matters of others to fill their void? And do so with nebulosity.

From that place of wonder I settled into the sadness of it. Theirs, and mine.

Today I wonder if I’ll respond to that correspondence… tomorrow, next week, next month, ever?

So, now, on this gift of a leap year day, I sit with it… and await the Work that will guide me on this healing journey. And wouldn’t ya know… it arrives in my email with March’s Moonshine guidance. Serendipity. Fucking serendipity. Fucking magick. Fucking Medicine. And I feel the gratitude. The fucking gratitude.

Peace. 🕊

Tuesday, February 27, 2024

mia madre... random musings for her day of birth...

My mother would have been 105 years old today. I think of her every day, like today. She was tough as fuck, with a heart more loyal and tender than I ever knew during her life. We shared a rough relationship. We shared a hard love with roots sunk deep into infinity. I used to say, “she’s so hard to love.” And at times, sweet goddess help me, she was. Now I say, “I’m so hard to love.” And, at times, I am. Assuredly so. There were some 4o years between us. This June will mark 11 years since her passing into the Big Mystery. I never (a word I rarely use) imagined that I would miss her as much as I do.

She could drive me to utter distraction. She knew my buttons and would press them relentlessly. And it didn’t bring out the best in me. And where I might have once blamed her for this, I now own it. But that’s another story for another day. I used to quip that we were like fine olive oil ‘n’ good wine vinegar: Hard to blend, but when we did, we were delicious.

She would likely have benefited from therapy ‘n’ medication. And the Work. As we aged together, we did some of the Work together… and it softened some of the edges, and enabled us to emulsify the best in both of us. And I’m so grateful for that.

I understand, now, that most - if not all - of her mental ‘n’ emotional peculiarities were born of her past, her herstory, the familial trauma born of the “meanness” that my uncle Chuck, her beloved baby brother, mentioned in ol’ school, typed correspondence to her. I recognize, too, that she had a singular tormentor throughout her adult life. A tormentor I knew, and still do - from a distance. A tormentor I recognized some 45 years ago when I placed distance between us. As much distance as I was able. It was a purely intuitive choice at that time, a decision born without conscious awareness. Conscious awareness I now claim. And I’m so grateful for that. And that’s yet another story for yet another day.

My mother, little Rita, as I called her in her later years, was a loyal keeper of a sacred contract. A covenant taken with her into that Big Mystery. And I love her more now for knowing that. Her tormentor is now my tormentor. Or so it seems. This tormentor is not a loyal keeper of anything sacred.

My mother could be so challenging to me that I would often say, “All I can do is love her.” And I did. I still do. And sadly, I now echo those words toward the tormentor; hers and mine. I don’t need to like the tormentor. I don’t need to forgive the tormentor. I don’t need to be around the tormentor. And I will not enable the tormentor. All I can do… is love her. From where I am. Reluctantly so.

My mother had an easy life. And a hard life. That’s often life. I’m grateful, in this moment, that she came to be mia madre, a loyal keeper of a sacred contract. A sacred contract that is my story. Was my story. Will be my story again. A sacred contract embezzled by the tormentor. A sacred story shattered to bits by the tormentor. A sacred agreement that I, with the support of the spirit of little Rita, will reclaim, repair, and make whole and holy once again.

Buon compleanno, mia madre. Ti voglio bene.


When I first started blogging back in 2004, the writing was for me, myself and I. I may need to reclaim some of that.


Peace. 🕊


Monday, February 26, 2024

A New Knit Medicine Project


One of the activities from which I receive solace in these times in which we live is a new project, especially one that requires rigid concentration 'n' practice before starting the actual project.

So today I'm starting a test piece of the "City Kid" shawl; the pattern, the yarn, and the marker being the first installment of Indie Untangled's 2024 Where We Knit yarn club. Such, such fun. And the concentration it takes me to do this offers fab focus on a creative process I love 💕, and distraction from the rage 'n' sadness of the world. Such distractions are very good Medicine for me. ::nods::

I'll practice 'til I understand the patterns - written 'n' charted - and the process begins to feel innate. Then the hank of yarn for this shawl (in the upper left of the photo) will be wound into a ball so that I may begin the actual project.

Such, such fun. Such, such good Medicine.


Peace. 🕊

Sunday, February 18, 2024

"Hey Corvid!"


Some magick ya just gotta share...

I stepped outside to do one of my recently renewed rituals. A ritual I've dedicated to Fetch. As I stepped onto the deck, one of our neighborhood crows (allies to our hens) swooped into a nearby tree. I greeted them as I routinely do with a, "Hey Corvid!" Before I could begin my honor to the directions, Corvid offered three calls. I responded in kind. Then two more calls of three, creating three threes of call and response. This was then followed by two threes of call and response. Magick.

I continued my ritual of honoring the directions as Corvid perched in quiet. I stepped up to my door, turned and called out love and gratitude to this feathered friend. I stepped inside. They flew off. Magick.

Magick and validation. From Fetch.

🌞 
🐦‍⬛
 🌞 
🐦‍⬛
 🌞 
🐦‍⬛
 


Sun's day blessings to y'all. Make some magick, by any name.

Peace. 🕊


Thursday, February 1, 2024

Hibernation Continues

February arrives, and I find myself in the days of Imbolc, the Indo-European name for this sacred liminal space between winter solstice and vernal equinox. These days invite me to recall that winter's worst may still lie ahead, externally - sure, and also internally. I often refer to February as the longest month of the year... because, for me, the pattern is that it is. 


This year I embrace this liminal space - this time between times - by reviewing the list of My Wants, and I see things I have absolutely no recall of writing, and take delight in them, especially those that are made and making manifest in my world. I see other things that I realize do not belong to me, and I gladly cross them off the list. I see Work and work that needs to be done in the days and months ahead, and I honor the planning, plotting and doing that carries this magic. 


I draw a tarot card, as is my habit as each calendar month presents, and this morning I chuckled as I drew The Hermit, and offered hand-to-heart honor to the introspective, solitary realm in which I feel most comforted, most challenged and... most safe; a realm in which I may stay rooted for this calendar phase. And I am grateful. So in these days of Imbolc's liminal space I shall tend the roots of this verve so that my seeking may continue as I plan, plot and gently do The Things in my own way, at my own pace, for this world that I love so much. 


As I consider these ruminations, I step outside into the damp chill to offer Gaia gratitude for the abundance she graces to all life, even to the ignorant 'n' dismissive. I ask for gentleness, internal and external, as I tread through this long, long month of February, alone-n-accompanied by all life.



[ As my hibernation continues I offer mammoth gratitude for my Moonshine community. ::nods:: ]


Peace. 🕊