Monday, February 25, 2013
Sunday, December 30, 2012
We saw each other,
The Muse and I,
Each with a sideways glance,
Each arrested in her dance.
Water streamed across her skin,
My feet sank in mud
At the edge of the spring.
In harmony glowed.
And I heard the Song --
In the heartbeat of the clouds;
In the light of the bird calls,
Nothing existed, but the Song.
I turned to embrace her,
But she was gone.
Shoulder jutted from stone
Under water running;
Face, a pattern in
Then I felt Her
Filling me --
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
A strong wind blew the other day, gusting up to 40 mph.
That is not, of itself, an unusual thing.
But this was not a common wind.
It was a wind of Power. A wind of changing.
That wind heralded not only a change in the weather, but a change of seasons.
|Wind sculpted clouds.|
The wind came a blowing, scouring summer from all the nooks and crannies. Cleaning, cleansing, sweeping away the debris of summer to make way for Winter’s reign. According to the calendar, summer ended six weeks ago. But She Who Orders the Seasons does not care what the calendar says. The season changes on Her command.
Wind is a powerful magical tool. The wind carries wishes and messages, it cleanses and moves things. Set your magic spell upon the wind, like a kite, and see what happens. Stand in the wind and let it cleanse you, change you. Set magic tools and objects in the wind for cleansing. Open the windows on a windy day and let the wind cleanse the energies (not the material, as it will surely bring in dust) and move the energies.
But some winds, such as this one that blew the other day, carry more power. They are the changing winds. There is no outward indication that one wind is different than another. You just Know it. Something fundamental changes when the wind blows through. Summer has been rooted out. The land is now Winter’s domain. Yes, we may see warm days after this, but they will be warm winter days. Summer is gone.
Too often I let these winds of power blow by without taking advantage. Not the other day.
I grabbed a length of red ribbon and tied it loosely on my wrist; a small wind chime; a sarong tied about my waist to flap in the wind.
Then I went outside and walked the labyrinth pattern. Standing at the center, I faced the wind and spread my arms.
The ribbon fluttered. The chime tinkled in my ear. The wind tugged at the sarong and tangled my hair.
I breathed… and asked the wind to cleanse me, to cleanse the world of hatred, bigotry, all the obstacles to peace and understanding.
I asked the wind to cleanse me, to blow away the cobwebs and grimes, to blow away patterns drawn with sand that obscures the true bedrock, the foundation.
I asked the wind to fill me with the power of change, to use as I need. I asked the wind to change me. I was a vessel for the wind to fill.
And it opened me. Filled me. I no longer asked the wind, but it gave to me.
There is no degree of separation. The entrance of the labyrinth is but a step from the center. I am but a step from my center, the star at the center of the labyrinth, the star at the center of me. The I.
No degree of separation between me and you. No us. Only “I.” The I of the Universe.
Then I hung the chime from a tree in the garden, using the red ribbon. I unknotted the sarong and, holding a corner in each hand, held it up behind me. A sail. Wings to carry me upon the wind. And I walked. Back through the cedars. Behind the north garden, past the compost heap. To the edge of the east woods. Behind the wood stack. Around the far side of the sauna. Past the swings and to the far woods.
|The Far Woods.|
I stood at the edge of the woods, looking into it, seeing it… Seeing the woods. The wind clashed the branches together, speaking to me. I listened. My forebrain has no idea what the messages were, but something in me heard and will get on that right away.
I heard the wind speaking. I felt the River flowing beneath all things. The Milky Way flowed right through the center of my soul.
Open yourself to the wind.
No degree of separation between me and you.
Friday, October 19, 2012
But in the Dance.
Will be emptied
It's Blessings flowing
Over the world
In a flood
As they always have.
I am grateful,
We will always
In the Dance.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
I claimed that title a couple of weeks ago during a crone's rite of passage at the beginning of Gaea Goddess Gathering.
What does it mean, to be a Crone?
One of the facilitators of the ritual defined crone as a
That description flies in the face of what most people think about getting old. Old people don't learn new stuff or try new things. Old fuddy duddy.
We are sexy. We are strong. We are experienced and knowledgeable and wise. We smile. We laugh. Out loud. Whenever. We teach. We learn
We wear what we want, no matter who says it is "inappropriate for our age." At 55 (seems young to me) I'll wear short skirts and a skinny tank tops... or bright green pants with big, black polka dots, which I saw on one skinny old crone in the grocery store parking lot today. Bravo.
Being a Crone is what you want it to be.
Being a Crone means stepping into your power.
At the rite of passage, I said that being a crone meant setting aside my fear and stepping through it. That is Power.
And "Crones Don't Whine." A delightful little book by Jean Shinoda Bolen. According to Bolen, Crones are juicy, trust what we know in our bones, are fierce about what matters, speak truth with compassion... and more.
Maybe Crones kvetch... but we don't whine. If we don't like where we are, we don't whine, we change it. If we can't change it, we don't whine, we accept it and do with it what we can, like change our attitude.
I toyed with the idea of claiming the title of Crone for several years. I was past 50. I had hit menopause. I am a grandmother. I have had gray hairs for the past 15 years. And I have a pair of reading glasses in every room.
But I had to get past the idea that a Crone is old. Old ladies are not necessarily crones. If you are just an old lady, you are just old. That is not to say that there are not plenty of sweet, frail-looking, incredibly fierce little old lady crones. One must know the difference.
During the rite of passage, each of the half dozen or so of the new crones had a friend, daughter, etc. speak about her. I was honored to have two friends speak for me. A friend of somewhere between 15 and 20 years and a newer friend whom I have known for little more than a year, or two -- maybe my whole life. Fierce women they are, who deserve the title of crone themselves. They braved a damp and chilly night in the woods to be with me (no whining). True friends. They set a standard for me that I hope I will live up to when they want someone to stand up for them.
I find it difficult to believe half of the beautiful things they said about me. But being a crone also means recognizing your own value, without letting it increase your hat size. So, I will accept what they said as true. Without vanity. They also gave me exquisite gifts, for which I thank them greatly. I am trying to accept that I am worthy of these gifts. The gifts of their presence and their friendship seemed enough, to me.
I am Crone. I am not old. I am vital and juicy.
I am wise. I am silly. I am looking for new experience... beyond the boundaries of what I would have dared before. I am gentle and caring, but I will knock you upside the head if you need it --- with compassion, of course.
A Crone understands the Power and Necessity of darkness, of snakes and spiders, caves and compost, of fading and dying. We're not afraid of blood, or tears. We Live until we die.
I am Crone. And proud to be.
I am Crone...
And I Dance...
Spinning into the cosmos...
Saturday, August 25, 2012
I carried the bucket of water toward the special spot where I would offer it to King Sun and ask for rain -- again.
The earth was cracked and dusty. Large cracks loomed. What lives in them? I've always wondered, when the sun opens the earth so.
|Anyone down there?|
"Make the clouds heavy, heavy, heavy, so that rain may fall upon us," I entreated.
"Quench the thirst of the earth. Make the earth swell, filling the cracks," I beseeched.
I walked widdershins, three times, around the circle, saying out loud that I heard rain falling, pounding the dust into mud.
Then I walked back along the mown path through the cedars, looking at the gray sky. When you do a spell, you are supposed to walk away from it, secure in the knowledge that what you asked for has already happened.
But I walked through the trees, looking anxiously at the sky, wondering if it really was going to rain. Sixty percent chance and nothing but the lightest shower so far. I went through the day trying to relax, to not be attached to the rain. Yet a small knot persisted. Nature had promised rain before. The meteorologists had promised rain before. And nothing came of it. Why should I expect something different this time?
|The Hot Cocoa roses opened wider, as if to catch as much of the rain on|
their faces as possible.
I'm not the only one calling rain, these days.
Part of doing magic is making a change within yourself. Whatever you seek, something within you must change. As I've done this ritual several times now, I realize that it is not just about calling rain. As I offer the bucket of water to King Sun, I recognize the sun as a power, an ally, not the enemy -- even though he has baked giant cracks into the ground. King Sun gives life, as well as destroys it.
The ritual also reminds me of the science behind the myth. The sun evaporates water from the surface of the earth -- "drinking" it, so to speak -- and the moisture collects in the sky until it becomes heavy enough to fall back to earth. The water that rises from the earth at this spot likely will fall someplace other than here. On the other hand, water that falls here was drunk by the sun somewhere else -- who knows where.
|Raindrop reflecting the world upside down.|
Today it rained. Not a drought-ending rain, but... rain. Yes, rain. Enough to make the world greener. Brighter. Happier. I went to the offering place, where raindrops were suspended from the ends of branches and the leaves of the redcedar trees. It beaded on the deep green skin of the watermelons and collected in the hollows on our altar stone.
Where the water that fell from the sky came from is anyone's guess. Thank you, wherever that is. Thank you, King Sun.
When the clouds clear, I will do the ritual again. For the cracks remain in the earth. Her thirst is great and it will take much more to quench it. So I will again beseech King Sun.
"Drink your fill, and let it rain.
For the benefit of all living things."
|Raindrops make rings in the water puddling on the altar stone.|
Friday, August 10, 2012
Each morning I would retrieve the bucket and empty whatever water was left on some thirsty plant (initially, the lily of the valley I had recently planted there), refill it and return it.
On just the second day of this, it rained. A small storm developed almost on top of us and dropped 0.62 of an inch -- more rain than the last two rain events combined. Then the highs began to settle into more reasonable levels, giving us all (plants, humans and what-have-you) relief.
The grass actually looks green today.
A bucket of water each day until the drought is broken...
And other offerings, just because.
I will pick no more elderberries, even though bushes are still loaded with black gems. I leave them for the birds. (They'd better not let them go to waste.)
I don't mind the rabbits and/or squirrels eating a few tomatoes -- just eat the whole thing, for crying out loud.
And other offerings, as they come to mind. Or happen. Just because...
I am grateful to have what I have.