please and thank you

There should be a name for that moment right before you get news that could change your life. Don’t we all know that moment, know that feeling? The phone rings in the middle of the night, and before we pick it up, we have it. We hold the envelope in our hands and it comes on strong. It is fear, but also something else, particular unto itself. Many times that moment is actually hours, if not days. We wait for the results of the biopsy, for the results on the big test we took, we wait to hear if loved ones survived when disasters hit. We wait for friends to come out of a coma, we wait to see if a surgery is successful, we wait to hear something and we hope that it is good, that it won’t involve loss or suffering.

That moment, whether an actual minute or a stretch into days, is the place where no matter the faith, no matter the religion, we all tend to enter the same psychic space. Whether anxious, shut down, self-medicating, or stoic, most of us are emitting a mighty PLEASE.

I think even atheists emit this PLEASE, this strong psychic request that the outcome be good. Whether our beliefs or not, it’s part of our humanity to experience and enter this moment when we know life is held in the balance, where we wait to hear or see which way it falls, and we hope and can’t help but emit the psychic request for a good outcome. An atheist might say that it’s moments like these that humans invented a God for. And, they’re probably right. Because, in these moments, I do think we all are asking like crazy, something, somebody, make this turn out right. And, it’s much more comforting to believe something, somebody, is listening. I believe an atheist can be in foxhole and not believe in God. However, I think atheists and the devout alike enter a similar state of please. The devout just have a name to attach it to. And the devout Pagan, well, we have names of countless Gods, Goddesses, and all the elements to say please to.

I’ve been in this moment now since Thursday. A huge fire is raging in the hills above Santa Cruz. My sister’s family and animals had to flee, and they now are being housed amongst friends. They are safe, and that of course, is what is most important. But, the house is beloved, having been designed and built by them off the grid, with a garden that took twenty years to get to where it is. If it gets burned, they all will be devastated. Plus, it’s under-insured.

There have been moments when things have looked pretty bad, like when leaving they could see the fire approaching their hill. There have been times it’s looked good, like now, when we just heard the house is still standing and that the firefighters have created a fire break right before it. But, the fire is still raging, and the fire fighters told them there are hot spots all around that could still erupt. It’s not yet a sure thing that the house will survive the fire.

Besides my sister and her family, I know and care deeply for another family who has been evacuated. I know they are safe, but I don't know about their home. The moment that I am writing about most often occurs when we are aware that things are in the balance for ourselves or those we love. But, occasionally we feel it more globally. Cyclones in Burma, earthquakes in China, towers hit in New York, hurricanes in New Orleans; for most of us there are times we come to attention and enter that moment for others we don't know or personally love.

Annie Lamott says there are two basic prayers, help me, help me, and thank you, thank you. I think she’s half right. I think there are two basic prayers and thank you is definitely one of them. But the other is not help me so much as PLEASE!!! Isn’t it funny that good manners really are the language of spirit? My allies demand them, don't yours?

I sent out word on Thursday to many of my Pagan friends and family to send their Pagan prayers. A friend devoted to Brigid assured me she’s on the case. Another friend put rainwater on her altar and asked for rain. Others are working with air for the winds to become still. Everthing and everybody seem to be cooperating, as the winds died down on Friday morning and drizzle and fog covered the mountains.

Moments like these you become acutely aware of the precariousness of life and circumstance. There is gratitude, fear, tenderness and strength all mixed up together. There is deep yearning for things to turn out right, and for the Fates and the universe to work in our favor. This is the moment we want to believe in magic and know that it will work. We all know this moment, and yet there is no name for it. Or is there? Maybe this moment is really a concentrate of what is actually always happening, what is always going on in and around us. Maybe this moment is simply life.

Please let this fire be contained and no more homes burned. Please let my sister’s home be safe and standing. Please let me get to the place where the thank yous take over. Please? Thanks!

i feel pretty oh so pretty!

My new life style involves lots of walking. Walking involves lots of seeing. Yesterday in Noe Valley I ended up walking closely behind two men. I followed them around a corner I didn’t need to turn on, and continued on for a block or so purely because I was intrigued by their conversation. Actually, that’s not true. I was intrigued by their energy.

The two men were a large white guy in saffron robes and a much smaller Asian guy in jeans and a tee shirt. Both were American. The visuals were striking, and kind of funny. But, again, more striking and to me, amusing, was the energy. The smaller guy was looking up to the other, and not just physically. He was asking questions. The big guy was giving ANSWERS. He used the word attachment several times, explaining how unproductive it is in a spiritual life. And, he was clearly attached to giving answers and being looked up to. Everything about him radiated narcissism, and not the healthy kind.

I’m so glad I observed this. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about narcissism and how my spiritual traditions seem to exacerbate and sometimes even create it. Reclaiming is a fertile ground for extroverted narcissistic tendencies to blossom, what with easy access to being in the center of the circle, a focus on empowerment within a climate of no accountability, and the persistent thought form that our magic is the only thing that can really change the world. Feri is fertile ground for narcissistic introverts, with its ooga booga, secrecy, and persistent thought form that those who receive “the current” are special. The hexing that is so glorified in some Feri circles suits narcissists nicely. Somebody pisses you off? Well, gather your energy and do a spell to annihilate them! In Reclaiming, the spellwork is not encouraged, but character assassination and female style bullying are rampant.

How to deal with narcissism is one of the things I think a lot about as I endeavor to integrate and make sense of my two traditions. Is it possible to create spiritual community where healthy narcissism is encouraged, but not the disorder? In the over-culture ruthless self interest is encouraged above all else, and those who are narcissistic tend to be successful in business. Is it really that different in spiritual communities? Following the man in the saffron robes and his acolyte, I was provided the visual aid that we are not alone. Spiritual narcissism happens in all traditions. Heck, it even happens among the Gods!

Yahweh is a classic narcissist. Charming and with lots of charisma, he turns on a dime and smotes those who don’t look up to him or have the audacity to disagree with him. Zeus, too, is a classic case. Narcissus himself, well, he is the cautionary tale that those who focus solely on the love of their own beautiful reflection literally starve. As with us humans, the male’s narcissism is more overt, and the female’s not so easy to point at. There certainly are Goddesses who are raging narcissists, but I’m not naming names.

The literature on narcissism says that the majority of narcissists are men. I think that’s wrong. Or maybe those who’ve researched it have never been in feminist, activist or magical circles. The new research on situational narcissism has a lot to offer those of us from these communities. Fame can create pathological narcissism. So can continued teaching of witchcamp. The energy between the men I followed down the street was familiar to me. It went beyond the student/teacher dynamic. There is danger in being looked up to. Especially spiritually. We can start to expect this and see it as the natural order of things, creating grandiosity that is fed by adoration and that grows hungrier and hungrier instead of becoming satiated.

There’s so much I could write on this topic. And maybe I will. Knowing about narcissism and how it operates is useful for everyone who lives in human community. Being able to name it, even better. I’m grateful for my little turn around a corner I wasn’t expecting. I know we witches are not alone. I’ve seen it, with my own eyes. I’ve felt it, with my own sixth sense. And now, its time for another walk.

a lot can change

“Any intelligent woman who reads the marriage contract, and then goes into it, deserves all the consequences.”

Isadora Duncan

A lot can happen in one lifetime! I just got off the phone with my girlfriend and I am stunned. The California Supreme Court has just overturned a gay marriage ban in a ruling that will make our nation's largest state the second one to allow gay and lesbian weddings. We live in this state. So, she proposed to me. Again.

In my early twenties, when I was riding high on the second wave of feminism, I had to be bought off to attend my sister’s wedding. I was against marriage and loved to quote Isadora Duncan on the subject. In fact, I quoted her immediately to my sister when she called to ask me to be her bridesmaid. My father followed this call up with one of his own, and in this call, he exasperatedly said that given that he wouldn’t have to pay for a wedding for me, he’d buy me a car if I would be a bridesmaid. Another condition for this deal was that I shave my legs and armpits. The ’72 Pinto that I received for selling out lasted far longer than my sister’s marriage.

A lot can happen in one lifetime. I got married in the eighties. I blame it on being a witch. Ritual and ceremony had become meaningful, and we decided that making it legal would help our families (his, staunch Irish-Catholics, including a nun) recognize our witch wedding as valid and legitimate. Starhawk and Rose May Dance priestessed the handfasting, and it was quite a spectacle. It is my strong belief that we never bothered to turn in the papers and that the marriage never was truly “legal”. We never possessed or received in the mail a marriage license. It is typical of us both to not follow through on paperwork, which came up again in getting our very legal divorce, which took over six years to complete. At no time did we ever get asked to provide legal proof of the marriage, which was good, as we had none.

A lot can happen in one lifetime. I am now no longer married to a man but living with a woman. She asked me to marry her and gave me an engagement ring soon after we started seeing each other, but somehow, it all has seemed kind of like a sweet joke. I accepted, as I love her and felt like this relationship could really work. Plus, I really liked the ring. We took our time moving in together, and we’ve been taking our time in regards to doing any big ceremony. I priestessed a handfasting of a lesbian couple last year and as soon as it was over, she whispered to me “I want THAT”. We like to talk about the great party we eventually will have and all our diverse friends and family coming together. We’ve been way more interested in this than getting domestic partnership.

And now, it appears we actually can get married. Unlike me, she’s the type to follow through on paperwork. Could it really be that I might get legally married in this lifetime to a woman?

I’m stunned. And somehow, I can’t help thinking of the cartoon in the New Yorker portraying a straight couple in which one of them is reading the paper and the caption has her saying - “Gay Marriage – haven’t they suffered enough?”

It’s a big day. A lot has changed in one lifetime, and a lot changed today. Tonight I will join my girlfriend in the Castro to celebrate. This is a major victory. Isn’t it?

amazing grace

It was almost exactly a week ago that I landed back in my beloved city. This afternoon I finally feel fully at home. There’s a barley risotto simmering on the stove and the smell of rosemary, sage, and fresh spring garlic is wafting through the house. Barley is very low on the glycemic index, something that is important if you have diabetes. Using herbs from my garden, it is on its way to becoming just as tasty as the arborio rice risottos I cooked in the past. If you are managing diabetes with diet and exercise, rice, for the most part, is out. This Beltane is a time of change, the barley being one of many.

I spent a lot of time today on my rooftop garden, weeding, watering, and cutting the herbs that would go into tonight’s meal. Amidst the plants and with the lovely gnome Chomsky presiding, I mused on all the Beltane energies at play. At Samhain and again at Beltane, the veil is thin between the worlds. At Samhain, the veil is thin between the living and the dead, but at Beltane, the veil is thin between humans and the spirits of the wild and green. Seventeen years back I saw a giant toad in my back yard amongst the foxglove and made a wish for happiness. That day I conceived my son. Is it any wonder I believe in magic?

On Saturday I danced the maypole at my friend Anne’s, staying well past when most folks had left. My son and his best friend had come with me, their condition for coming being we would leave when they were ready. I never imagined they wouldn’t want to leave. Anne’s daughter is a year younger than my son, and after years of ignoring each other, they suddenly are back to being friends. The Beltane grin on his face when he turned to tell me it would be just a little bit longer, and then walked off to the beach with a hair tossing passel of teenage girls is now firmly implanted in my memory bank. This is a memory that will always have the power to make me smile.

It was good to be at Anne’s, amidst those we have come to call “Remaining”. Cora Anderson had died early Beltane morning, her timing being nothing but impeccable. Years back, I had visited the Andersons several times with my Feri coven, of which Anne and Thorn were a part of. I can’t remember much of what Victor specifically talked about, but I remember clearly Cora talking about making soup. I learned from her that the energy put into making a meal is just as important as the ingredients. Cora was a gardener and a cook, and practical magic was her specialty.

This morning at her memorial, many talked about Cora’s pragmatic magical practice. Looking around, I noticed that the only people from Reclaiming that were in attendance were those of us who are Remaining, the very same people who I’d visited with at Anne’s on Saturday. Anne, Thorn, Medusa, and Macha were all there to pay their respects. Cora had become real family to Thorn, but for me, this was a simple matter of honoring an esteemed elder. Robin and Rocky were there too, a couple who were instrumental in the development of early Reclaiming, but, like the bulk of other seasoned priest/esses of Reclaiming's past, they no longer count among the small group of us Remaining.

It struck me that this was also pretty much the same group that showed up for Susan North’s memorial service in January. For all the talk in Bay Area Reclaiming about community, it is striking how unimportant it seems to be to honor the history of individuals who have contributed to and made up the "community". Feri is one of the strong strands out of which Reclaiming is woven. Without Feri, without Cora, Reclaiming would look entirely different. This seems to be another form of practical and pragmatic magic, this putting energy into showing up for memorials and funerals, ritualizing the fact that people’s individual lives have mattered. As time goes on, it becomes clearer to me that potent magic doesn't just happen in cast circles, but in kitchens and the small kindness of good manners.

The service for Cora ended with her son leading us all in reciting together her recipe for coleslaw which was printed at the back of the program. Then, pie was served.

Anne drove me back to the city and I spent the afternoon in my rooftop garden. I thought about Beltane, about my son, and about Cora. And then, I started to make dinner. Magic is simple. It is everywhere, and it is in everything. Barley takes the place of rice, herbs are thrown in, and I stir in a good helping of health and well being. I know who will be showing up for dinner, and I count my blessings that I have people in my life who show up.

Thank you, Cora, for what you added to this world. Thank you, spirits of green and of the wild, for what you have added to my life.

This morning, a bag piper played Cora’s favorite song, “Amazing Grace” after everyone had spoken. I can’t have pie, but the sweetness is still everywhere. And, it’s amazing.

coming home

“Sitting in a park in Paris, France,

Reading the news, it sure looks bad.

They won’t give peace a chance,

That was just a dream some of us had.

Still a lot of lands to see,

But I wouldn’t want to stay here.

It’s too old and cold and settled in its ways here.

California, I’m coming home.

I’m going to see the folks I dig…..

California I’m coming home.”

Joni Mitchell

When I was fifteen, way back in 1970, I came to Europe for the summer. I was forced to come, actually. Shipped off with my twelve year old sister, a list of phone numbers of people my parents knew who were living here (mostly who were working for IBM) , a jar of valium (for jet lag, my mother said), all my life savings, and Joni’s new album (for comfort) in hand. The last thing I wanted to do in the summer of 1970 was be in Europe.

Janis was still alive and my best friend’s older brother was always willing to drive us to the city to go to the Fillmore West or Winterland. It was my own money I had to use, money I had been saving for years for my longed-for escape from my family. Plus, I knew that the last thing my parent’s “friends” would appreciate would be a teenager and young adolescent descending on them. Nevertheless, we were taken in, and we traversed ourselves from England to Belgium to Germany to Switzerland to France and back home again. Every stop, I would set up my suitcase in altar like fashion with Joni’s Blue album tucked into the opened top.

This story has made even seasoned therapists blanch, although it’s one that is best told in detail with my sister telling her own version. She felt she was on a marvelous adventure. My memories are all colored with Joni’s longing to be back in California.

I’m now waiting in the airport in Paris. Tomorrow, we will be home. It’s been a wonderful trip, a truly marvelous adventure. I added my lipsticked kiss to the thousands covering Oscar Wilde’s tomb. I walked out of a romantic and delicious meal in a jewel box of a restaurant and looked up to the Eiffel Tower just coming alive with light. And yet, once again, the soundtrack in my head is all from the Blue album. Unfortunately, the part about the bad news still rings true, peace still is just a dream. But, I’m still ready to come home. I want to see the folks I dig….

California, I’m coming home.

stories from Paris

Our second day in Paris started with a visit to the Clignancourt flea market. It’s the biggest in Paris, and we spent hours there, but only managed to traverse a small portion of the whole. After blocks of vendors hawking cheap clothing and souvenirs, we turned a corner onto a street that led to a maze of antique dealers. Dusty old dolls, ancient stuffed lions, and mirrors darkened with age surrounded us. Despite thousands of other weird and beautiful old things, we came away with only one purchase, an old Limoges souvenir plate of Paris. The dollar is so low, even the flea market prices seem exorbitant.

Then a bus to Montmartre and a walk around the bustling streets filled with other tourists trying to capture the spirit of the place. The artists were priced out almost a century back, and what is left is an aggressive contingent of guys who will sketch a caricature of you for far too much money. And beauty everywhere; with a breath taking view of Paris from the cathedral and old bistros, cafes, and cabarets lining the streets. There was a store selling absinthe in bottles shaped like the Eiffel Tower, so perfectly ridiculous I almost bought one. But, again, the dollar is so low here that there is no such thing as a small purchase.

We rode the funicular down the hill and caught another bus across the city and the river to the Jardin du Luxembourg. I could better imagine Gertrude striding across this timeless park with Alice in tow than Toulouse drinking absinthe in the tourist ant hill which is now Montmartre. While children played with rented small wooden boats in the big fountain, statues of deities dear to me watched with ancient stone eyes. We rested up on one of the many benches before starting to stroll tiredly towards the river.

The sky was darkening up when we arrived at Shakespeare and Company, the famous bookstore that expatriate poets and writers frequented. They still are, apparently, because inside a poetry reading was going on. It was too crowded to enter, so we sat outside and watched while George Whitman, the eccentric nonagenarian proprietor, agitatedly tried to move the reading outside. Everyone else was too afraid of rain, so it continued where it was. I perused books from the shelf outside and was surprised when I looked at the price of the one that seemed particularly interesting and found it to be free. Were all the books outside free? No, the one I was holding appeared to be the only one. “FREE!” was written in the inside cover, with the following below it:

(FREE)

(GRATUIT)

(GRATIS)

wonderful!

beautiful stories!

Several pleasing ink drawings are interspersed thru the book, but carefully, so they don’t interfere with the printed words. “The Hakawati” is the book, by Rabih Alameddine, a writer who lives in San Francisco and Beirut. A hakawati is a storyteller, and this book is all about the transformative power of stories. Sitting outside Shakespeare and Company, a newly translated poem of Rimbaud’s being read inside, I sank contently into reading my free book. Who can understand how these exquisite and precious moments get constructed?

The dollar is low, but we have a metro pass for the week, which is good for every bus and train as well. That, along with our feet, is turning out to buy us a darn good time.

Muriel Rukeyser wrote, “The world is not made of atoms, but of stories”. I know she spent time in Barcelona. I wonder if she ever came to Paris?

unfettered and alive

We are now in Paris and its April and there are cherry- or are they chestnut? - trees in bloom everywhere and there is intermittent rain, but not in a cold way, just enough to give it that classic Parisian atmosphere and not enough to keep us indoors.

My girlfriend has shown a knack for renting perfect apartments in just the right place. In Barcelona we were in the old gothic quarter, on a narrow alley in the midst of a maze of streets only open to foot traffic. Here in Paris, we are up three – or is it four? – flights of ancient stairs in a sweet apartment above the Rue des Rivoli, a few blocks from the Seine.

Our apartment overlooks an old courtyard, and couldn’t be lovelier except for the fact that it’s about half the price of any “moderate” hotel. Thank the Goddess for Craigslist and a savvy girlfriend. Oh, and by the way, the dollar is at an all time low. There will be no shopping sprees on this trip. The treasures we will be bringing home will be the memories.

We are in the Marais, the old Jewish district. It was here that many Parisian Jews were rounded up and sent off to Auschwitz. The Jewish delicatessens and synagogues are back, amidst the high class boutiques. Although most delis were closed for Passover, Finkelsztajns was open. At our small table on Rue de Rosiers, amidst throngs of shoppers, we celebrated freedom from slavery and honored the turning of history with some gefilte fish, chopped liver and matzo. The Marais is now not only the Jewish district, but queer as well. Orthodox men in black hats walk in peace amongst men in the latest fashion holding hands. And us, too, of course! We toasted with our glasses of water and gave thanks that being a queer Pagan and a Jew, we feel and are so free.

lessons

It’s now a little over two months since I was released from the ring of hell which is commonly known as a hospital. The florescent light, the comings and going at all hours of the night to poke and prick, plus the silent noisiness of the dead, the entire experience has me bound and determined to do everything I can to stay on this side of the ring for the rest of this life.

I’m doing well, incredibly so. I am managing the diabetes without medication of any kind. This means being acutely aware of what I am eating and how much I am moving my body. I now am an expert on the glycemic index of almost any food, of knowing just how quickly anything I eat turns to sugar. I have managed to stay well within the normal range for the two months I’ve been out, despite some difficult challenges.

For years, especially in witchcamp settings, I had a humorous contempt for all of those with special food needs. Why do lesbians seem to be more lactose intolerant, allergic to gluten, and all around picky around food than the rest of the human race? This was a question I would ask frequently and with some irritation. Wouldn’t you know that now I find myself in these ranks and then some? When you choose to embrace the shamanic lifestyle, you can’t get away with anything. If you find yourself making fun of something, soon enough you become the butt of the joke yourself.

The priestesses of the hearth path were bending over backward to meet my needs, and over and over I found myself shaking my head and saying “no, I can’t eat that”. Who am I and what happened to that self I use to be? Gluten free pasta, rice, potatoes, turnips, carrots, beets, and whole wheat pizza dough are all off the list of what I eat. A vegetarian diet is next to impossible, as beans and rice just don’t cut it for a diabetic and most carriers of cheese involve carbohydrates. At camp, despite some tromping in the wet woods, I was not getting the same level of exercise that I now consider essential to keeping my blood sugar low. I found myself in the bizarre situation of needing food other than that which was being prepared so lovingly for the rest of the camp.

I was not truly alone, as Donald Engstrom had similar issues to mine. We found ourselves being the only ones eating chicken bought on a run to town at the table with others with plates full of vegetarian fare, or alternatively, going off to the pub across the street so we could have a lamb shank or bowl of mussels. Donald kept reminding me that our needs weren’t “special”, that what we needed was normal and regular, but in the context of witchcamp, it felt vulnerable and strange to not be able to adjust for a few days to a vegetarian diet. Especially one that was so integral to the magic being made.

The Sunday after camp I found myself crying in frustration after expending the whole day doing an initiation and then going to a feast for the initiate where all that I could eat was some salad and two pieces of salmon picked off of some sushi. The days of taking it for granted that I can eat whatever is served and that nourishment will be found at any table I sit at are over.

This is harder than I could ever have expected.

Now I am in Barcelona, a city full of dishes I can eat, where tapas of every kind of fresh seafood are readily available and huge platters of spinach, arugula, and asparagus abound. I am walking well over 10,000 steps a day, and my blood sugar is easily staying in the low range of normal. One day, it was so low I braved a cup of hot chocolate and shared some bites of a raspberry tart at the exquisite patisserie Escriba. Now a days, a dessert is truly a treat, something to be had only occasionally. Blessedly, maybe because of all the walking, I stayed within normal range.

There’s no shortage of lessons to be learned in one lifetime.

Thanks to my little glucometer and my handy pedometer, I’m staying an alert and willing student.

close quarters

Witchcamp is spellwork. It’s also a week of teaching and training others in the art/craft of making magic. But how can you teach or train others in this art without it being unleashed as well? By casting a circle and working in sacred space for a series of days, a spell is inevitably cast. Also it needs to be factored in that as the years have rolled by, less people come to camp to learn magic, but to practice it in a community setting. Seasoned witches abound now at most witchcamps, and even the newbies have read more books than I had on my shelves for the first decade or so of being a witch. From the moment we all join hands in circle, a major magical working begins.

Most camps clearly state the intent for the working in the beginning, but sometimes, even with a set intent, the magic takes another turn and something entirely different is brewed. I find this unfolding immensely interesting and I try to pay close attention to what is being mixed in the cauldron of our blended energies.

Avalon Spring had a lovely intent, but once we traveled to the new venue, a youth hostel in Epping Forest, it was clear that there definitely was going to be a parallel and quite powerful other working happening as well.. Six of us had planned in teams of two to teach morning “paths” covering a variety of theological and experiential material. We’d hoped to be meeting in the forest, amidst spring blossoms and warm sunshine. Four others had formed a “hearth path’, which besides doing all the shopping and planning for our meals, was prepared to lead the camp in the experience of cooking and eating food with sacred intent.

However, the “spring” was hard coming, with snow covering the ground the day before camp started and hail pelting us the day of. The forest was beautiful, but muddy and going outside entailed a kind of bundling up that invoked brisk walking, not laying around doing trance work.

There was somewhere between 30 and 40 of us, from a variety of countries. Walking in to the hostel, I kept looking for rooms other than the enamel yellow one which held a small kitchen in the corner and was the size of my living and dining rooms put together. The only other spaces to be found were the ones off the small hallway to the side, which all were small and cramped with bunk beds. Could several dozens of us really co-exist in this space and create something particular and precious?

We could. And did.

Our separate paths became one path, and occasionally huddling around a portable fire bowl on the small patio outside, we spent the days and nights together in good humor and with spirits buoyant. We traveled between the worlds, took stock of what stories we chose to tell in this lifetime, and spoke to the allies and ancestors who love us beyond all reason.

All the while, vegetables were being chopped, dishes being cleaned, and people being fed. One morning I found myself blissfully scrubbing dishes as Anne-Marie and Susan Farley were leading a trance on becoming different states of water. Did I say that everything happened in one small big room? It was no metaphor that we were all in the magic together, cooks, cleaners, and trance priestesses. We were.

The magic in Avalon Spring was about working together in close quarters, negotiating space and needs and doing it with grace and good will. The spell that was spun was about this rippling out in to the world and into the future. As the days went by, I kept hearing the Rolling Stone’s refrain that I sang to my son when he was small and prone to whining. “You can’t always get what you want. But if you try, sometimes, you get what you need.”

This was not a glamorous camp. There were no glorious and glittering outfits, no dramatic aspecting of Gods, no raucous and bawdy talent shows. Yet, the sense of the sacred shimmered in all that we did. At Avalon Spring, there was no division between the mundane and magic. I believe we were better for it.

We human beings are such a mix of shadow and light, of the cranky and the affably adaptable. That mix was potent and palpable at Avalon Spring.

And it was Divine.

I'm at the kitchen table at Anne-Marie's, using Dawn's laptop. Dawn and I are teaching a "path" at witchcamp on air. We will be working on getting across the idea that our thoughts and words matter, in fact they tend to be part of what creates the matter of our lives, being a large part of directing it.

Outside, it's snowing. Like REALLY snowing. I'm a California girl, and not the Tahoe type.  For me, snow has NOTHING to do with spring. We are heading off to camp in a few hours, a camp optimistically entitled "Avalon Spring".

So, it's snowing. Oh, and the car broke down yesterday.  So, we are not quite clear now how we will be getting to camp.  My phone didn't work for a few hours right after the car broke down. Every number I called was met by the same response - number not in use. After an offering to the fey, the phone started working again.  That didn't fix the car, but I'm hoping just maybe there will be some good news now on my computer.

So,  we are listening. And laughing a lot. Who knows why things go awry when the best plans are made? Who knows what it is we are suppose to learn from this. We have THEORIES.  There's nothing more amusing and rather psychotic sounding than a bunch of witches using their psychic decoder rings to interpret a series of events.  Offerings and honorings to a variety of folks of course need to be made. 

But mostly, we are slowing down. Trying to listen. And marveling in just how alive and communicative this world of matter and spirits are. E-mails would be so much simpler....but then, of course, your internet has to be working.

between the worlds

I'm sitting at a table writing this amidst a household of chattering witches. We've just finished planning the second night's ritual of Avalon Spring witchcamp. I'm seizing this moment to write a quick blog, as it may be weeks before I have access to another on-line computer.

I brought my computer to England, but yesterday it lost it's wireless capacity. Maybe I'm meant to be fully here, and to let go of my connection to cyberspace. We'll see...right now it's in the hands of fate, and more specifically in the hands of the computer technician in the village of Chesham where I left it this morning.

Tomorrow we all head off to Epping Forest and Monday witchcamp begins. The following Monday I will head off to Barcelona, then to Paris and then home by Beltane.

Will I be blogging about this journey? You who are reading this, imagine the blue wireless button on my HP laptop lighting up. Otherwise, it will be catch as catch can, and there may not be blog here until the tail end of April.

cauldron of plenty

It’s such a mystery, the natural ability that some of us have for certain things. Some of us are great at getting parking spots; others always seem to be able to intuit which long line will move the fastest. I seem to have a knack at drawing money to ventures I am involved in.

Throughout the years, I’d never describe myself as a competent fund raiser. I’m not well organized enough for that title and since balancing my own check-book remains challenging, I’d never volunteer to raise, manage or direct funds outside my own. Plus, I am deficient in the shmooze factor which allows some people to easily hit up other people for money for causes they believe in.

Yet, it is clear I have a talent for throwing parties that successfully benefit things that I support. The Dinner With the Dead that I’ve been part of at Samhain always bring in just enough to fund whatever project is being benefited. Last year we were able to give a nice amount towards the care of Cora Anderson while also having enough left over to send me as a spoke to the Witchcamp Council. Years back, we raised a stunning amount which well funded our magical actions at the WTO in Seattle. The party I threw to raise money for my friend Jeremy’s cancer treatments exceeded expectations for such a simple affair. The amount of money raised at all of these events seems magical. And that’s because it is.

Sunday I hosted a “Divine Day of Divination” to benefit and seed the fall equinox restorative retreat I am part of creating - “The Fool’s Journey”. My partner and I cleaned the house thoroughly and created four “stations” where psychic readings, tarot and astrological charts could be read. We asked for a donation of $1 -2 a minute, and cash and checks were deposited in my money cauldron. As guests arrived, the house became a kind of psychic brothel, with folks mingling amongst us until they picked the reader they felt drawn to. Several had a go with more than one of us, and a great day was had by all. The cauldron was full, and we have a sturdy sum with which to fund our endeavor.

The trick, I think, is the money cauldron. I’ve mindfully charged it up to not only draw money, but to send it back. Anyone who throws money can expect to have it returned three-fold. It is not only a container for donations, it is an interactive spell. As the event goes on, people can see the money grow and there becomes a kind of group investment in the pot teeming. So far, the pot has always stirred up a surprise upon the counting of the money. My money cauldron works magic, of that I am sure.

It also helps to have generous and loving friends.

Of that, I certainly have a great knack.

the times that try our souls

"These are the times that try men's souls: The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman." – Thomas Paine, published 12/23/1776

Two nights ago there was a vigil in downtown San Francisco organized by the Veterans for Peace to mark the U.S. death count in Iraq reaching 4000. Last week was the fifth anniversary of the war. As this war progresses, there will be a growing number of those in the military who turn against it and realize that they can not in good conscience keep fighting.

In times where war is waged for unjust reasons, there are always those who do not shrink from speaking out and resisting. During the Vietnam War, once that resistance came from within the military itself, the war drew closer to its end. In a brilliant twist on Thomas Paine's term "summer soldier" those veterans who did not shrink from speaking out against the war termed themselves "winter soldiers". The first Winter Soldier gathering occurred in 1971. At seventeen, my friends and I listened to the chilling testimony coming over the radio of atrocities both committed and witnessed. It was a powerful act of magic, a powerful act of changing consciousness at will. How could we not give love and thanks for the courage it took for these soldiers to speak out about what they had seen and done? How could we not see them as true patriots?

My friend Michael McCusker was a Winter Soldier. I respect him more than I can put into words. A veteran of Vietnam who turned against war, he committed the rest of his life to peacefully challenging tyranny. War changes people. How can it not? As much damage as it does, it also can bring about spiritual awakenings and a deep commitment to non-violence.

Once again, these trying times find us needing to give love and thanks to soldiers who speak out. This time, it’s a different war, but the stories stay the same. This time, it was soldiers who have served in Iraq and Afghanistan. They too call themselves Winter Soldiers. Like last time, it was an event not covered by the major networks or television stations. Those who listen to KPFA or other Pacifica radio stations knew of it, but otherwise, it was under the radar of most Americans. That does not mean it is not potent and powerful. It is magic. Speaking out, these soldiers practiced the art of changing consciousness at will. I am choosing to believe that the Winter Soldiers will lead many more to examine their consciences and whole heartily object to this war.

Pagans fought long and hard for the basic right of a Pagan soldier to have a pentacle put on his tombstone. Soon we may be supporting the right of Pagan soldiers to claim conscientious objector status and be released from fighting.

There are many Pagans who do not consider themselves pacifists, who are not committed to non-violence. And, there are many that are. One of the things I hold dear about my spirituality is that within Paganism, there are many paths and many temples. Integral to being a practicing Pagan is respecting that there are many God/desses, and many ways of seeing the world. To me, I see no contradiction in a soldier in battle wearing a pentacle for protection and other Pagan soldiers asking to be released from battle because of their spiritual convictions. I honor both, but my spiritual affinity is with those who seek deferment.

I’ve a love/hate relationship with Reclaiming, but I am ever so grateful that this tradition I’ve been part of creating has the following within its Principles of Unity:

“Our tradition honors the wild, and calls for service to the earth and the community. We value peace and practice non-violence, in keeping with the Rede, “Harm none, and do what you will.”

I consciously and conscientiously object to war. I know that there are plenty of Pagans outside my tradition who feel the same. In the trying times ahead, some of them may be soldiers who have seen enough, whose stomachs, hearts, and minds turn against war and killing. There is also the possibility that the draft could be reinstated and conscientious objector status will once again be sought by the many who have never even considered being a soldier. If this happens, my son may be among them.

Thank you, Winter Soldiers. You have my love and my thanks. Your magic was in speaking out. May all of us Pagans who abhor war and practice nonviolence invoke the same magic and speak out.

I am a conscientious objector.

Are you?

full moon

I've just come back from driving my son and his best friend to South San Francisco to go to a party. All the way there the full moon held our attention, big and brilliant in the sky. We all longed to capture the moment, all wishing we had a camera. For teenagers, they were suitably awed and amazed. It's a spectacular moon on a spectacular night.

It's exactly one moon cycle since I came home from the hospital. I am settling into acceptance of the diagnosis of diabetes. There has been grief for my old self and my old ways. I miss potatoes. I miss margaritas. There also has been gratitude for the healthy changes the diagnosis has wrought. Would I ever have changed my eating habits in such a dramatic way or stepped up the exercise to such a degree? Probably not. I am proud that I am managing the disease without medication and that my blood sugar is now on the low side of the completely normal range. Eating a low glycemic diet - which means eating only foods which slowly turn to sugar - and exercising daily is keeping me healthy with the added side effect of weight being lost. I have a disease, but my goodness, I feel good!

The moon is full and night and day are in almost perfect balance. In the past, I struggled with the equinoxes. Balance seemed so darn unnatural, coming as it does only twice a year. This year, with the moon so big, bright and full, it seems light is shining on all that is out of whack and also what has come into harmony and balance.

Two days ago it was the fifth year anniversary of the war in Iraq. Nothing to celebrate, but plenty to grieve. That evening I was invited to a dinner at a friend's house aimed at getting second and third wave feminists talking. I learned about the Third Wave Foundation and listened to younger feminists describe what being a feminist means to them. We older feminists told some of our stories and managed to not completely monopolize the conversation. In fact, balance came easily. I'm still processing how much has changed and too, how little has changed. It was so strange to be telling stories of trying to stop the Vietnam war on the anniversary of this war. We talked late into the night, and the conversation, like the dinner, was rich and filling.

So, the moon is overhead, and I'm thinking about balance, feminism, war, diabetes, teenagers, and the beauty of a moon filled sky. Time to stop writing, and go out and stand in the moonbeams. And put in my Pagan prayer for peace. Again.

a new window

A week ago I received a phone call from a friend of a client. She had found my card in his wallet and she remembered him talking about his “shrink”. She called to let me know he had died of a sudden heart attack.

I had seen J. once a week like clockwork for well over seven years. He turned fifty a few months back, and we had spent some time reviewing all the events of his forties that had been so difficult, both of us imagining that the fifties would be better. He had worked hard in therapy, and for the last two years he’d been sober. J. was a big man who tried to move thru the world taking up as little space as possible. He was quiet, shy, and uncomfortable being the focus of attention. The very fact that he could tolerate therapy at all was a miracle. Early on, I learned to draw out and encourage his dark sense of humor. He could come across as dour, but laughing, he became a different being.

J. had come from the kind of twisted Christian home where almost anything enjoyable was considered sinful. Pride was something to be shot down, and the body itself was considered to be evil. How perfect that he would end up with a Pagan priestess as a therapist! I don’t think he ever knew that I identified as Pagan, but he certainly learned over the years my world view. Somewhere in the first year I picked up the Mary Oliver anthology that sits near my chair and read him the poem “Wild Geese”. It was a poem I would read to him many times, and we would refer to it again and again. Last night, I read it at his memorial.

I’ve been crying on and off now for days. It seems so unfair and tragic that he would die just as he was coming fully alive. I’ve been feeling how strange the relationship between client and therapist is, how intimate and yet, how removed. In some ways, I was the closest person to J. In the past seven years there is no one he saw or talked to as regularly as myself. Our relationship existed between the worlds, outside of regular life, contained in fifty minutes once a week. What happened in that place between the worlds was meant to change the world for J., and in many respects, it did.

Talking to one of my colleagues about him, I said “I just wish he had died loved”. “He did, Deborah, he did. You loved him”, she said. And, this is true. I did. I’ve been thinking of all those moments when he would dive deep into pain and I would sit and bear witness, holding the belief that he would survive the feelings and become stronger. I also remember the moments his smile would come out like the sun from behind clouds and I would beam back at him with my own light.

Psychotherapists aren’t trained to use the word “love”. Love is so, well, unprofessional. But it is love that guides the best of our work, which is the curative force in that magical fifty minute hour. I did love him, and this past week I've allowed myself to feel just how much delight I take in each and every client I work with. I've always said that I love my work. This week, I let myself feel just how much I love my clients.

A month or so ago, J. got a new job. As part of the condition of taking the job, he asked that a window be put in the windowless office he would be occupying. Our last session we talked about the new window, and all that the asking and receiving symbolized.

His death has put a new window into my work, opening me to a deeper understanding and a mindful tenderness for this strangest of relationships. As much as therapists work to help clients change their lives, every single one we work with transforms and changes our lives. I will miss J., and oh, how grateful I am to have known him.

Bitch slapped by the Goddess

Two weeks ago there was a notable eclipse. I won’t be forgetting it, as that was the day I came home and began a new phase of life. I had spent four days and three nights in the underworld of institutionalized western medicine, a shamanic immersion if there ever was one. I'd walked into the emergency room with what I thought was a small matter that would be taken care of with antibiotics. I walked out several days later with the diagnosis of type 2 diabetes, armed with insulin, syringes, a glucometer, and yes, antibiotics too.

In between the going in and coming out, I was treated for diabetic ketoacidosis, as well as the virulent and resistant MRSA staph that is plaguing this city. Thankfully, the staph culture eventually came back negative. Ketoacidosis has a high enough mortality rate as it is. Teamed with staph, my chances of survival would have been uncomfortably dicey.

Interpreting the dream of those few days was rather easy. I started out worried about a skin eruption that was located right next to my belly button. Something smack dab in the center of me was definitely off kilter. My intuition to have my blood sugar checked turned out to be eerily on target. Without my insistence on a blood sugar test, I could have been sent home with massive amounts of antibiotics that wouldn't have touched the raging ketoacidosis. Always follow the intuition; it has its own science. Regular medical check-ups couldn't hurt as well.

I had many hours in the creepy isolation room in the ER to wake up to the fact that something was seriously wrong with me, and that my partner, one of the most neurotically germ-phobic characters around, is as stalwart a soul as you can find. Then, after a Kafkaesque interchange with a doctor who started out asking "When did you start using IV drugs?”, it became clear that my chart contained the misinformation that I was both an IV drug user AND a smoker. Apparently, a medical chart IS your permanent record, and once something is on there, nobody is willing to take it off. And guess what? Nobody believes an IV drug user is telling the truth. The irony of me having to mount a campaign to have this taken off my chart is not lost on me.

Being an IV drug user and a smoker communicates that you are a person who engages in risky and life-threatening behavior and that you are much more concerned with momentary pleasure as opposed to long term health. I continue to fight to have this information removed, while also facing that, although diabetes does run in my family, my steadily increasing weight over the last ten years has contributed heavily (yes, pun intended) to invoking this disease. Losing even 10% of my body weight could put this disease into remission. Exercise is the key to lowering the blood sugar and the truth of the matter is that with more exercise, I would weigh less.

Last year after Pantheacon, I had a dream of Margot Adler telling me something important that I couldn't remember upon waking. Margot caused a stir last year at Pantheacon by challenging Pagans to take better care of our health, of making exercise part of our lives. Like many others in the community, I have heartily embraced the philosophy of “eat, drink, and be merry”. For real health and well being, that should best be followed by a good walk. Many of us prefer a good book. I had applauded Margot’s challenge last year, but I hadn’t truly listened to it.

For the past two weeks I've exercised everyday and I am no longer eating anything in the white family – flour/sugar/potatoes/rice/. I also am not drinking alcohol. My glucometer provides instant gratification after exercising. If my blood sugar is raised, all it takes is 20 minutes of moving to bring it down substantially. So, I'm keeping my body moving. My pedometer is showing between three to five miles walked a day, and I am committed to keeping it this way. I've upped my swimming to more than three times a week. Today, miraculously, I didn't inject insulin and my blood has remained at completely normal levels. It's looking like that I will be able to manage the diabetes with simple changes in diet and with steady exercise. This changing consciousness at will just may be the biggest piece of magic I perform in this lifetime.

It couldn’t have come without a fast and furious bitch slap from the Goddess. Four days and three nights in a hospital have turned me around. I am grateful and, most importantly, I am alive.

embracing paradox

Embracing paradox is a large part of any mystical love affair with the world. Pantheacon, the huge annual pagan conference in San Jose, is a garden of paradox set within the walls of a huge corporate hotel.

Chatting with the cocktail waitress in the lobby’s bar, she tells me that the Doubletree takes “all the conferences that other hotels won’t take”. Laughing, she describes serving drinks to the participants of the last conference held here. Dressed in their big fur suits, with heads sitting on laps or on the table, Furries had congregated in the bar after and before workshops. I laugh with her, smug in my assurance that we Pagans are on the other side of the dividing line between truly weird and not. My girlfriend comments that we seem so much less outrageous this year. And then a huge group of Discordians parade around the lobby, many in their underwear.

In so many ways, my spirituality seems so commonsensical. What could be more grounded than an earth-based religion? Indeed, at Pantheacon, I meet and go to workshops and panels with a wide variety of folks who are pebbles rippling out Pagan common sense into the wider cultural pond. There’s a growing acceptance and respect for us in the wider world, and listening to people like Margot Adler, Patrick McCollum and Mary Greer, it’s clear why. And amidst this, there’s also the high whack factor of modern Paganism. This paradox both drives me crazy and delights me (well, except for this growing trend of bringing pets, I hate that, but then I was too close to a dog fight in the marketplace). This new-time religion is chock full of diversity, that is for sure. The official theme of Pantheacon this year was activism, but the magic seemed to be in it's respectful diversity.

The one panel I was on, Ethics and Feri, was a case in point. It was great to sit with the others feeling both the potency of our differing views and the potency of our respect. I was the lone Feri saying I don’t relate to being a warrior (amongst many other things), but our differing opinions didn’t engender anything but some laughter and gentle ribbing. Throughout the conference, the absence of cliquishness was striking. We are a diverse bunch, but we seemed to be positively enjoying each other.

For me, this Pantheacon ended in a healing crisis, one of those distinct times in a life where you clearly know you are at a crossroads and you have to consciously choose your next step, knowing full well the import of it. But, I’ll be writing more on that, later.

In keeping with my pledge to Brigid, I’m grateful to have gone to Pantheacon and grateful to Glenn Turner for her wild idea to have an actual conference, complete with hospitality rooms and bad hotel food, for Pagans. Pantheacon is one of the most paradoxical experiences I have had. There were some years I stayed away, but more and more, I am learning to embrace it. What else can a 21st century mystic do?

ecstacy of spirit amidst paper doilies

Sing, feast, dance, make music and love, all in My Presence,

for Mine is the ecstasy of the spirit

and Mine also is joy on earth.

For My law is love is unto all beings.

from The Charge of the Goddess


I've always liked Valentine's Day. As a child, I associated the blooming of the red and pink in stores and on shelves with the coming of my birthday. For many years my birthday cake was a cake shaped like a heart that a local bakery only did during early February. I love Valentine's Day because I actually do connect it to the feeling of being loved.

So, today, I relish the feeling of being loved and of loving. May all beings feel love and may all beings love. Is there any better law than love?

The world today is my valentine. Happy Valentine's Day, and may it bring ecstasy of the spirit and joy on earth.

an attitude of gratitude, it's not just a platitude

My pledge to Brigid is already showing signs of working on me. Decades back, when we were creating what has become the Reclaiming Tradition, we started making pledges in front of a big tub of water (Brigid’s well) which held a cauldron of fire (Brigid’s flame).

This was done in a public ritual where one by one people would pledge with the community bearing witness. Over the years, I’ve made pledges that have shifted my life, and witnessed plenty that I knew would bring change. I haven’t been to a public ritual in several years, but this year I followed the call and found myself back in front of the well and the flame.

My pledge this year was and is to embrace gratitude as an organizing principle and to treasure my son, my partner, and my beloved friends. My birthday was on Saturday and the whole day my pledge kept resonating. I am so blessed! My partner and I started the day with a trip to the farmer's market. If there ever was an urban pagan place of worship, it's got to be the farmer's market. The Goddess appeared in the the baby lettuce and the chantrelle mushrooms on Saturday. That afternoon I had a massage and then in the evening friends came over. I’d asked that everyone bring a poem to share, and poetry was scattered throughout hours of feasting and feting.

My friend Naomi’s father had been dying of cancer and he crossed over before sunset. She got her ticket to fly out to Florida the next day and came to my party. Part of the magic of the evening was becoming acutely aware that birth and death are the same door. My birthday, his deathday. Both sacred, both potent.

There was much that still worked for me at the public ritual, but one thing I am completely done with. For too many years there’s been a narrative in Reclaiming that “these are dark times” and the magic at hand is turning the tide and bringing us back to better times. Several priestesses at the ritual used the term "these are dark times". Are they? Really? Like Dickens said about his time, “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times”. I question the magical effectiveness of continuing to invoke and name these times as only dark. Seems like it would be good for Reclaiming as a whole to review and reflect on the past thirty years and work on changing some of our old narrative.

When was it really a better time? Most times are both, light and dark, good and bad, full of horror and full of joy. I hate that my country is waging wars and yes, global capitalism continues to be a damn menace. And…..there are changes to be honored everywhere.

An African American man and a woman are strong candidates for president. That’s kind of flabbergasting in itself.

Maybe it’s the preview of spring that San Francisco is enjoying, maybe it’s the pledge, and maybe it’s the view now from fifty-three years on this green planet, but I don’t feel like I am living in a dark time. It’s a time of possibility, a time of great paradox, and I, for one, am in deep gratitude. For everything. Especially my pledge!

Voting for the big picture...

Poetry has been the backbeat of the last few days, and I am still following strands to new poems on this mighty web of poetry that has been spun. That, along with the hints of spring that I see in the emerging buds on the fruit trees, has uplifted spirit and soul.

And, there’s that other thing. The election is today. Many of my friends are for Obama. Macha is wearing a giant