let it shine

My horoscope for this week according to Rob Brezny says I should throw parties in 2007, that I am to be the zodiac's premier networker, getting people to play harder and take themselves less seriously. He also says this may very well save the world. Perfect. Last night I was hostess to a night long vigil for the solstice sun’s rebirth. I’d been preparing for this for days, cleaning the house, shopping for food, making menu plans, arranging altars, and gathering materials for the various spellwork that’s done thru the night. If I’m to be the zodiac’s premier networker this next year, it’s no big surprise or stretch. I’ve been in training for this for years. And I didn’t learn this in any Reclaiming class or witchcamp. My house has been my guide and mentor.

I’ve stood in the center of more cast circles than I can count, raising my arms and invoking this that or the other thing, or leading those gathered round in a trance journey between the worlds. I know very well how to be a self-important Reclaiming priestess. At our Cirque de Samhain I've lead over a thousand people to the Isle of Apples to meet their beloved dead and do the spiral dance. It’s my trance journey to that isle that’s in The Pagan Book of Living and Dying. I teach magic and have been going to witchcamps for years, aspecting everyone from the Feri Queen to Hades. In the Craft, Reclaiming is the tradition that has big tent priestessing down, and I’m one of the most seasoned of those priestesses.

And yet, I’m pretty sure a good party is as transformative and sacred as any cast circle. The Charge of the Goddess states, “all acts of love and pleasure are my rituals”. A good party is one in which there is both pleasure and love, new bonds are made and old ones strengthened. Last night was a good party. For many years I went to the Black Cat House, which has been home to several of the biggest of the big tent priestesses thru the years, and did vigil on Solstice night and Very Important Magic. Twelve years ago I moved into my own home, a house which demanded to be occupied on Solstice night, and opulently decorated. Circles are still being cast over at the Black Cat, and Important Magic done thru the night. I’m glad about that, but I’m happier at my house, which fills with good food, my beloved friends and family, and enough new people to keep things interesting. I take pride that my house is where the children want to be, and last night was no exception. Gingerbread houses were made, too much sugar eaten, and the teenagers talked past dawn, bringing in the new light and the promise of a future.

There was also an 3.5 earthquake and Marion leaned too near the altar and her hair caught on fire. It was put out quickly by my girlfriend, the quintessential butch, and a general prayer went out that these were both portents that the return of the sun would bring small dramas causing no real harm or damage.

I don’t know if there’s any use to the whole thoughtform of “saving the world”, my years in Reclaiming have made me weary of that kind of grandiousity. I do know that I want to keep imagining a world where conflicts are solved without killing, and one way to do that is to keep on creating a culture of beauty, balance and delight, one party at a time. I think Reclaiming might be better served by less attention to Very Important Magic that has the intent of saving the world, and more attention given to the art of throwing good parties and the hostess skill of making others feel welcomed and comfortable. I take on your challenge, Rob Brezny! Let the solstice sun bring out the hostess/networker in me and let it shine! Is there any better kind of magic to be doing?

the horrible stuff

“I’ve had a great life. I’m not afraid to die. It’s just the horrible stuff that comes before it that’s got me down.”

That’s what my mother said to me last night on the phone. She’s scheduled for a radical mastectomy next week, and then radiation, maybe chemo. Today, that statement keeps reverberating in mind. The horrible stuff that comes before it, yep, that is the real drag.

Maybe she will die of cancer, maybe she won’t, but she’s somewhere past seventy living in a senior residential community and all too aware of the various horrible stuff that can precede death. She’s considered not doing anything, until she realized that choosing that course could be even more hideous. Even if you don’t go into battle with cancer, it for the most part refuses to claim a quick victory, and you certainly turn on the rack of pain plenty before you expire.

Opening Jason’s blog, The Wild Hunt, I discover that yesterday was International Aids Day. I’ve been thinking a lot recently about those I’ve known who have battled either Aids and cancer, some who’ve lost the battle, some who continue to be in active struggle and some who are in a blessed interlude of peace. Some of my pagan and activist friends like to bandy about the word “warrior”, liking to define themselves as such, although they are for the most part devoted to non-violence. I’ve never liked the term, wanting to distance myself from anything with war embedded in it. But, in thinking of those with cancer or Aids, I’m thinking today that they should be called warriors, as opposed to “patients”. This, I can get behind.

There’s a death I’ve imagined for myself, one that’s come to me in dreams and visions. It’s a quick death, and the broken glass and bright red blood of my possible last moments has infused my art, coming to be quite beautiful to me, and not at all horrible. May it be so…and may it be a long way off.

I'm having a hard time imagining the horrible stuff today. For anybody.

the same story

I can feel the dark descending, each day getting shorter, and the cold streaming in thru all the many cracks and crannies in this old Victorian house. Coming back to my beloved San Francisco, one of the first things I heard about is how some of my friends have been struggling to get an accurate telling of our experience in Seattle challenging the WTO. There’s a movie being made, The Battle In Seattle, which comes complete with real Hollywood stars like Charlize Theron and Woody Harrelson. For years, hanging out at the Black Cat, reminiscing about various actions and uprisings we’d fermented, we’d imagine movies being made about us, and who would play us. Finally, this day has come. Characters will be amalgams, mixtures of many of us, but at least one comrade will play herself, facilitating a spokescouncil meeting, I think. It helps that she’s stunningly attractive, but heck, it is a Hollywood production.

As fate would have it, last night I saw Bobby, the movie just out centering on Bobby Kennedy’s assassination, and the cultural climate of the time. The characters, other than Bobby, like the ones in the Seattle movie, are fictionalized, each reflecting a facet of that particular moment in time, a time not unlike now. It was a troubled time, a time of war and fear for the future, a time where anything or anybody who inspires hope becomes a beacon. The movie was an ensemble piece, with no one person playing the hero, where reality is woven out of a mixture of stories. I love Aquarian films like these.

I’m fearful that this will not be the case with this Seattle film. A real paradox, because although Bobby centers on an heroic figure, it’s strength as a film is that it is ensemble, made up of many stories. What happened in Seattle was totally an ensemble piece, with no one hero emerging, but many stories. As my friend Patrick says, “It’s not the story of the battle, but the battle for the story”. Some of those I organized with before Seattle and was eventually arrested with have been battling for this film to reflect our stories, and visions. I’m hoping that something we value shines thru, and at the very least, the heroic nature of non-violent civil disobedience is showcased. My guess is the role of witches both inside and outside the jail will not be mentioned, but hopefully there might be a glimpse of a sign that says "Wake Up, Muggles, Banish Corporate Rule and Conjure Justice!" I still smile to think of the little blimp we had and the many signs, ponchos, and bumper stickers with these words enscribed.

Solstice approaches. It is the dark of the year, that time when many humans do rituals of hope for the return of the light, for peace on earth, celebrating that which gets us thru hard times, rejoicing in bonds of community, showing gratitude by giving back to those who we feel gifted by knowing.

It’s been seven years, pretty much to the day, that the tumult in Seattle happened. It’s been thirty-six years since that terrible summer of 1968, that year which marked many of us indelibly. The cells in my body have changed once over from Seattle, many times over since 1968. But what really has changed?

Today I’m thinking about violence, about the power of stories, about my love of ensemble reality, and about light returning. For every hope dashed, others spring up. Damn, I really am one fierce optimist.

Global Orgasm

Our first night in New York, my girlfriend made a beeline with me in tow to Katz’s Deli, where she introduced me to half sour pickles, and I did my best to finish a pastrami sandwich of gargantuan proportions. Then we hit the streets again. New York is a city for walking, and walk we did.

We found ourselves soon at Toys in Babeland, a much better feeling place than Good Vibrations. There’s something to be said for a sex-toy store that is completely woman owned and run. It was a perfect place to spread the word about GlobalOrgasm.org. The store clerks there got quite exited and swore that they would be spreading the word. I’m glad, as this is a magical endeavor of proportions bigger than the sandwich I was busy digesting.

It could be argued that all magic IS sex magic, as all magic involves the life force, which is inherently sexual. Given that, magic that literally uses sex packs a powerful punch, and tends to be effective. A call to action to have people around the globe orgasm on the same day while invoking peace is a call I have to answer. This really could work. This call enlists a snappy little video, a smart website, scientists measuring the impact, and even its own melodious instrumental. Heck, this call to action is one classy call.

But then, it’s a call put out by the same folks who started Baring Witness, which has people all over the world spelling out invocations of peace in both word and symbol. Buck Naked. Naked people on beaches and in parks, coming together, taking their clothes off and becoming part of a potent spell. Who hasn’t by now run across a poster, card, or calendar with the brilliant photographs of Baring Witness? Each time it’s happened, it’s gotten more media coverage than most peace marches, and according to my friends who’ve participated, its loads more fun. Baring Witness is great magic, getting bunches of folks sky-clad and spelling out a spell of peace, one which then inspires with it’s photographic images.

Walking back to Aurora’s (our friendship a gift of Spiral Heart witchcamp) co-op apartment, I thought about how some of the best magical acts are done by those who don’t define themselves as witches or magicians. J and I laughed and laughed about taking GlobalOrgasm to Babes in Toyland. We felt so thankful to be in New York, a city which truly never sleeps, which is always awake and alive with human possibility. My hope and prayer is that on Friday, December 22^nd, we all participate in raising the most ancient and natural cone of power, and we raise it for peace. Come, all ye faithful, come. Peace on Earth might just depend on it.

as within, so without

This week brought the first rains of winter. I thought of my friend Reya, and the way she writes about the weather defining her. Witches have the saying “As above, so below”, a sentiment which is echoed in our belief that what happens between the worlds, affects all the worlds. The relentless grey skies of this week and my interior landscape have been perfect mirrors to each other this week. This week has been a case study of “as within, so without”. The grey hasn’t lifted yet, in all the realms.

Early this week, the rain came down in a torrent soon after the phone call where I learned that my mother has breast cancer. My mother has been dying ever since I can remember. The diseases and maladies have been more phantom than real, and the last time I was worried that she was being operated on for cancer it turned out that she was actually having a face lift. This time, however, it appears she has The Real Thing. It looks like she will have a double mastectomy. As a witch, I’ve marveled for years that she hasn’t been sicker, there’s been so many invocations of serious illnesses. Haven’t we all used the excuse of illness to get out of something only to find that soon our throat is itchy and a cold or worse is coming on? Something worse is here big time now for my mother.

After I found out and had talked to my mom, I started to clean house. For me, more than anything, my house defines me. Given what I had just heard, it was time to empty trash and do laundry. Down at the washing machine I met up with Sarah, partner of Ani, who lives in our studio apartment. Sarah had tears streaming down her face due to the salsa Ani was making. She dared me to try to enter the kitchen. I could only take one step in before the heat of the peppers chased me out. Ani is a Mexican American activist who is a real force here in the Mission, working at the Cultural Center and Galleria de la Raza. Being able to cook up this hot salsa unfazed just underscores how tough this Chicana is. Standing back out under the landing, with rain pouring all about, we laughed about the power of both the peppers and of Ani. When the laughter died down, I told them about my mother and had the strong sense that those burning peppers were doing their part to help me prepare for what comes.

The rain of that day made clear that there are leaks in the house that need to be repaired, including a leak we spent a great deal of money on fixing last winter that has mysteriously reappeared. The roof is holding, it’s the sides that need attention. Going into this winter requires some real work to be done, work I thought was no longer needed.

As without, so within. This has been one grey week. Saturday I fly off to New York with my girlfriend. When I come back I have a lot to deal with. Much of it stuff I thought I’d worked out a long time ago. Gosh, things circle back, don’t they?

san francisco values

Several days before the tide-turning election, The San Francisco Chronicle ran a story about the newest slur sound bite from the Republicans. Even the most arrogant of them could feel a shift in the wind, the distinct possibility that this election couldn’t be stolen, and that not only could the speaker of the house be from the west, but that speaker could be a woman. The slur that started being slung was “San Francisco values”. As soon as I read that term I broke into a grin. I knew that change was coming and that magic was once again at work.

“San Francisco Values”. I know that this term is meant to invoke fear of gays, wierdos, hippies, beatniks, and radical stances of infinite variety. And I’m sure it does. But what else does it invoke? Beauty, more than anything. New York is full of intensity, New Orleans full of debauchery , and San Francisco, well, San Francisco is full of beauty. It invites poetry, and anything that takes away your breath also makes you slow down and breathe, makes you remember how fabulous it is to be alive on this knockout beautiful green planet.

Each time that term was used, “San Francisco Values”, not only was radicalism invoked, but images of stunning beauty. There’s poverty here, no doubt. But images of the homeless is not what that term calls up. Cable cars, the span of the Golden Gate bridge over the bay, sailboats, gentle hills, outdoor cafes, North Beach, art, and music, that’s what San Francisco invokes. San Francisco is a delight for the senses. It calls out to the fetch, the younger self, the wide eyed child in all of us. The talking self may be against the "values" of San Francisco, but what child doesn't yearn for such beauty? Only the most hardened of hearts can resist it. It’s a sought out place for conventions of all kinds, and it shows visitors, of all parties, a damn good time.

When the war started in Iraq, I started doing a piece of magic involving the TransAmerican Pyramid that dominates our skyline. Downtown, that day, I noticed how the corners were lined up. One corner faced directly down Columbus Avenue, that street of dreams with it’s ghosts of beatniks and poets. A small grove of redwoods is nestled next to another corner, trees that remember what came before the towering buildings. Another corner faces towards Union Square and the energy of downtown. I, with some other witches, started imagining the pyramid actually transmitting San Francisco values to the rest of the country. Several times we went down to the pyramid and all took our place on the corners, sending love, peace, poetry, beauty, joy, and justice up and out of the concrete structure. Crystals and special rocks have been planted all over and in that building. Without us, it still serves as a transmitter, but bringing our consciousness to it has brought a smile to this face many a gray day. On my deck, looking downtown, whenever I’ve seen that pyramid, I’ve seen the beauty and magic of this city being transmitted, being beamed across the miles of this continent.

My housemate came home after the election, battered and bruised energetically by her frontlines job at MoveOn.org. They’ve been all working hard, putting their shoulder to the wheel in turning the direction of this lumbering beast of a so-called democracy. The direction turned the other day. So many of us have played a part in this turn. I’m grateful to all. And I really do believe in magic.

But then, I actually do have San Francisco Values.

sweetness of life

I’ve been up to my neck in sugar skulls for the past week. The Great Studio Cleaning began as a hunt for my molds, which were never found. After several attempts with rigging my own out of cheap plastic skulls from Walgreens, I finally gave in and bought the expensive clear molds I’ve had such contempt for. Finally, in my travels to the cake decorating store for icing fixings, I found the molds that I had originally had, molds straight from Mexico, made from heavy duty plastic and much more traditional looking than the clear versions. It seems the dead this year want a variety of different kinds of sugar skulls, and it’s my job to create them.

As I left the house this morning, I left behind a sticky stove and gritty floor. As usual, the magic is much more in the process than the product. By Samhain, my altar will hold beautifully decorated skulls of sugar, with names of the dead written carefully on them with brightly colored icing. However, up until that point the magic is in the making. Why do some skulls come out perfectly, while others crumble to pieces while being taken out of the mold? This year, with so many different molds, the truth of the randomness of creation and destruction is even more evident. The broken skulls have left their mark on my home and myself, bits of sugar and meringue adhering themselves with seemingly willful arbitrariness to a variety of surfaces.

In the car, on the way to Stanford Medical Center, I found myself more than once flicking off grains of sugar from my clothes. Despite my best efforts, even today the sugar was sticking to me. I was accompanying someone dear to me to her six month check up at Stanford’s Cancer Center. She has asymptomatic lymphoma, meaning she has cancer, but it’s not growing and she has no symptoms. For twenty percent of these cases, the lymphoma goes away on its own, for the rest it’s termed “watch and wait”. This check up was part of the watching, and hopefully, then a long period of waiting before the axe drops. Isn’t that what all of us are doing anyway? Like the sugar skulls, there’s really no science as to when we start to crumble. Life is sweet, and best not to worry too much about death. It will come when it comes.

Driving down, I felt at ease being supporting and distracting. That ease faded fast as soon as I saw the big sign “CANCER CENTER”. Despite the valet parking, the chair massages being freely offered, and the large plasma screens with soothing videos of natural beauty being broadcast from almost every wall, the Cancer Center was rife with anxiety, mine included. Death catches up with all of us eventually, but in this building, you can’t help but wonder whose shoulder She’s about to tap. I became acutely aware of the possibility of Death standing close to every person in street clothes who walked by, and to all who sat and waited in the beautifully appointed rooms. Only a small minority showed the visible signs of battling cancer, but Death loomed large in this spacious and elegant medical temple. As tests were drawn and we waited to be seen, I became acutely aware of the distinct possibility we would walk back out thru the doors of the Cancer Center with Death riding a little closer on the drive back. Sitting waiting, I had ample time to rid myself of every grain of sugar still remaining.

There was some stickiness to my fingers by the time the results came back and as they were read I clutched my cup of coffee for dear life. We were ensconced in the belly of the temple in the doctor’s office, known as the Big Kahuna of Cancer, Sandra Horning. All was well, the blood showed no change. In six months there will be another battery of testing, with some big full body scan that is rather unpleasant. But if that comes up clean, the chance increases that this woman who is dear to me will be one those lucky twenty per cent. We felt blessed by Luck as the valet ushered us back into the car and we sailed north thru the gorgeous fall day towards the city.

When I came home tonight I did what is in this season a daily ritual. I took the skulls I’d formed this morning out of their molds. Of my three big molds, two skulls made it, one didn’t. Death is all around this season, and my house is creaky with spirits. But Life still is trumping, coming out ahead, as evidenced by my day and the sugar skulls. Even when Death looms large, the sweetness of Life can not be denied. Two sugar skulls created and one destroyed. It felt exactly right.

What mysteries will be revealed when I start to do the frosting this weekend?

things straighten out

It’s been well over a month since I broke my elbow. Since then, equinox has come and gone. Samhain approaches, with each day the air thickening with incoming dead. I continue to mull on the meaning of the break, it being the third in my household in the past year (my son and housemate both were on crutches in the early spring) and the third time I’ve had an elbow break in the last fourteen years. Was it a lucky break or a break-through? The crack in the elbow facilitated a break from writing, the longest one since I began writing this blog. A break was taken, due to the break. Being a witch, I can’t help but try and divine the significance in every little thing. My broken elbow was a rather middling to big thing, so you can imagine the sifting of significance this has engendered!

Six years ago (November 11^th to be exact) I found myself out on the street with my young son in the middle of the night, clothed in only the top of my flannel pajamas. My house was on fire, and the flames danced out of the living room windows. We watched as the fire trucks screamed up, with firemen pouring out and up into the blaze, saving our home from complete ruin. Later, with blankets wrapped around us provided by kindly neighbors, a fireman questioned us and the downstairs neighbors (also witches and close friends) as to what we thought had caused the fire. I said I thought it was connected to my husband recently moving out. My son said the dead didn’t like George Bush winning the election. Karl and Patti disputed whether the invocation of the Fey Patti and I had done at the Spiral Dance could have been to blame. I remember the fireman tipping his head, a strange look on his face, saying; “No, I mean, were there any candles left burning or do you think it was electrical?” The fire turned out to have been started by one of those black and turquoise halogen standing lamps sold at Costco and Home Depot, lamps which are now known inanimate arsonists. Nevertheless, all our original answers are still strongly held as possibilities of true causation.

Later, as checks were arriving almost daily from the insurance company, I ruefully realized that I’d been repeating an incantation for weeks which asked for money to come out of the dark, and incantation I’d learned from Luisah Teish years back. Money was pouring in, money which indeed helped me buy out my husband and eased my financial worries. However, those worries were replaced by other anxieties, and it was well over six months before my son and I were back in our home. It was this cautionary tale of spellwork which led me to do less meddling and more paying attention, and to be much more general in my magical practices. I know that lamp started the fire, but I also hold true that my spellwork sparked the lamp. The more I believe in magic, the more sparingly I do spellwork of that kind.

So, here it is, a month and half since this elbow was broken. So much has happened. This break from writing has been productive in that I turned my attention to my home. There’s been a great clearing, a mighty re-aligning. This past weekend I hired two guys to take away a truckload of boxes and bags, all full of things that no longer served, of debris that I needed to let go of. My ritual room is free from all the old spells that were cluttering up the energy, and my art studio is immaculate, organized for fresh bouts of creativity. My home is my own, cleaned and cleared of all that doesn’t belong here anymore. My arm is sore from the exertion, but it is healing, and the tendons needed to be stretched. I’m appreciating the mindfulness that can be a gift of pain. I’m grateful for the full use again of my right hand, my right arm. Now that I have it back, I realize I would not give my right arm away for anything.

It’s great to be writing again.

a break

My ex-husband is director of a San Francisco non-profit which plants trees all around town. One of the banes of his existence is the fact that many won’t plant a tree in front of their home or business due to the small chance that someone will trip and fall, and sue. This is so much on his mind that his first words to me when I called him on Tuesday night to tell him I’d broken my elbow were, “Can you sue anybody?” Given that I’d tripped on one of his trees in a freak accident, I’m choosing to hold fate responsible, and you can’t sue fate. We both ended up laughing heartily and he’s now forced to believe that people actually sometimes fall due to the dip between concrete and dirt, while I’m still shaking my head that one of those people turned out to be me. Those Fates sure have a wicked sense of humor!

Every seven years for the past 14 years, I’ve broken an elbow. This is the third time, hopefully a charm, something I won't have to do again. I’m thinking on the significance of breaks, and know that obviously there is something the universe is trying to tell me. Where's that decoder ring when you need it? Given this is my right elbow, and I am right handed, I am having to approach the world from a different angle, even learning to write left-handed. Another part of my brain and being is in use, and I’m slowing way down….and not just due to the pain pills. I can’t type, so even this blog comes courtesy of asking for help, something that has not been my forte. Elbows are supposedly about changing directions and accepting new experiences. Every time I broke my elbow before it was right before or after a major life change. Mmmmmmmmm.......but that seems to be so ongoing! Maybe one thing I could do is schedule a real slow down and retreat for myself every seven years. Are you hearing that, Fates?

Blogs might be few and far between, but had to get this out today because I may be broken, but I AM A WINNER! I am the first-prize winner of the first annual Spicy Cauldron Award for my blog on Drawing Down The Elvis. When I am less addled by pain and pain meds, I’ll even figure out how to post my trophy on my blog. As Elvis would say, Thank you, Thank you very much! Winning this was one lucky break, and as I sit here with my cracked elbow...also known as the funny bone, I'm wondering on the wierdness of it all and invoking gentle and easy breakthroughs.

shamanic times

I subscribe to the Weekly World News. It provides no end of amusement, and I tend to agree with Tommy Lee Jones’s character in Men In Black that it’s the most reliable newspaper in the world. With it’s in depth articles on such things as the stairway to heaven collapsing, and its steady coverage on Elvis sightings, it keeps me well updated on the common bizarreness of planet earth. I consider it a kind of “Shamanic Times”. This week, with the demotion of Pluto as a planet, the news can’t be much weirder. I’m waiting to see what the Weekly World News will make of it.

Pluto is the God of the Underworld, of all that lies below the surface. All the qualities of the god have also been ascribed to the now demoted planet. In Astrology, the energies of Pluto are transforming, as Pluto is the energy of the subconscious, which is the dirt and ground our actions take root in. Pluto is also associated with renewal and rebirth. It represents endings and new beginnings, as well as spiritual growth and rebirth. The shadow side of Pluto is an obsessive desire for power and control and general destructiveness. Pluto packs a punch, depending where it lies in your astrological chart. My friend Reya, a creative astrologer, shook up some of my old patterns by fiddling with the placement of Pluto in my chart. Does what she did still hold now that Pluto is no longer a planet?

What can it possibly mean that Pluto is getting the boot as a planet? What will this do to our astrological view of the world, a view which runs deep and feeds our mytho-poetic souls? How will this affect our destiny? Several months back the Catholic Church decided that Limbo was closed. More and more people had become uncomfortable with the idea/fact that in Catholic reality if a baby dies and is unbaptized, it goes to Limbo. So, instead of negotiating with God (maybe something us pagans are more comfortable with?) to relax the rules and let all the babies in Limbo out, the guys in charge of the Catholic Church pronounced that Limbo no longer exists. It’s just gone. This boggles this witch’s mind. I'm no Catholic, but since I first heard about this, I've been keenly aware of just how many times I and others invoke Limbo. The first week it was gone, at least three clients talked about being or feeling in Limbo. They were startled when I informed them Limbo was gone. Can both Pluto and Limbo really be erased from the collective consciousness? What does this do to our everyday reality? There’s now no Limbo and Pluto is not a planet. What’s next? Enquiring minds want to know.

tools and traits

Years back, one of my dearest friends remarked that what made me an excellent therapist was a challenge for me relationship wise. I believe in redemption, that things can change. I hone my eye on what’s healthy, breathing into that as opposed to focusing on what’s not. I don’t give up easily. As a therapist, these traits have been a great blessing, and they have infused my work. In relationship to anything else, they are a mixed bag. I have tended to stay in things longer than is good for me, and have had a high tolerance for dynamics that others quickly walk away from, focusing instead on the bits and pieces of possibilities for change. If I love something or someone, I hang on tight.

Recently, as discussions about Reclaiming have swirled, and I move from dating into a more committed relationship, I’ve been thinking on what my friend told me years ago, and about those most difficult (for me) questions; At what moment is it most appropriate to not tenaciously hold on but to ease the grip? How best to determine the moment when the best thing to do in service of life is to cut a cord? When do you give it your all as opposed to throwing in the towel? I’m mulling these questions as I once again open my heart to someone and as I continue to reflect on my long standing affair with Reclaiming, one that helped forge me into the priestess I am today, but, like so many affairs, has also caused heartache and pain.

A year or so ago I let go of my connection to the local Reclaiming “community” I’ve been part of for over twenty years. The wisdom of this was underscored by the almost studious lack of notice or concern my departure evoked. I certainly am not alone in this experience, being one of many seasoned and integral priestesses of the tradition who drop away due to a variety of frustrations. For many of us who have pulled back or left, the pain of letting go is exacerbated by the refusal of the few remaining founders to view our departures as any real loss.

The Bay Area, where Reclaiming was founded, is almost a showcase of the shadow side of Reclaiming, marked by the insidious and powerful unspoken rule that our conflicts not be discussed openly, and that departures need to remain unacknowledged and unimportant. Given that we’ve been around for so long, there’s strikingly few “elders” remaining, and the elephant in the living room is named and noted about everywhere but in the actual living room. Ironically, the very views and vision that have caused me to be so reviled locally have engendered respect in the wider community, where there is a growing comfort level with talking about conflicts openly, and where certain elephants take up far less space. Situational narcissism and the bullying that follows is a problem in any spiritual community. A spiritual community like Reclaiming that is still in its first generation has no tools to deal with this, and barely the language. It’s clear the tools and language will not be developed here in the Bay Area, the place most beleaguered by the problem, but in greater Reclaiming I think there at the very least is some consciousness that there is a problem.

On my last trip to England I bought a new athame. An athame is the double-bladed Wiccan tool of the east, and it symbolizes the ability to create boundaries. My new one has a cast silver feather as a handle. Charging it up with my life force, I imagined the midnight sky on one side of the blade, the blazing noon sun on the other, on one side yes, the other no, on one side life, the other death, on one side the inhale, the other the exhale, on one side hello, the other good-bye. My blade symbolizes the importance of the place between things, and the ability to discern when and how to move from one state to another. In purchasing a new athame, I knew that I was invoking a new perspective on boundaries and the place between things. I wasn’t looking to buy this new tool, but when it appeared, I knew that it was choosing me as much I it.

Today I looked at my athame and it struck me; that feather has helped me lighten up in regards to boundary setting. This doesn’t mean I’m not setting boundaries. On the contrary, I’m saying no more often, and more easily to things which involve me giving in a way that is not reciprocated in kind. I’m saying yes more easily too, and paying attention to what brings me joy and delight.

Teaching this year at Spiral Heart, an east coast Reclaiming witchcamp, I found myself enjoying myself immensely, being able to take in the best Reclaiming has to offer, and giving the best I could offer as well. What I gave and what I received was in balance, something that hasn’t been true locally for years. Being treated respectfully and kindly goes far and I found it pathetic to realize how accustomed I had become to being treated otherwise, especially in what is supposed to be a spiritual community. The work that was done was in accordance with Reclaiming’s principles of unity, and I realized how rarely this has been my experience for the last decade in San Francisco.

I’ve been thinking on the fact that as therapist, I give my full attention to clients, and I am rewarded in kind with a good living. At this time period of my life, I’m no longer interested in being part of any community or in any relationship where output isn’t met by equal input, where simple kindness and respect is not a guiding principle. Since I’ve been paying more attention to this, my friendships have become more fulfilling, my relationship to spiritual community has been redefined, and my love life more joyful.

My new athame is perfectly balanced, and I’ve charged it up mindfully with this intent. Like my breath, I want to move thru the world balancing what I take in with what I let go of, holding both as sacred…and sacred too that space between the inhale and exhale, that place between the breaths. I’m thinking that those questions I’ve viewed as so difficult just may get easier and easier, and maybe, just maybe, the more I get comfortable with letting go, the more that will come flowing in. Tonight I’ll be meeting my girlfriend for dinner with the friends I’ve made in the past year, and I know there will be lightness, love, and laughter between us. All of this is new, all has come in as a result of letting go of other things. I’m hoping this new relationship will be a long one, but I have a growing confidence that I will be able to let go when and if it ever causes more pain than pleasure. I haven’t given up on Reclaiming as a whole, I’ll be engaging in it when and if I am treated as a person of some value, worthy of the same respect due any other community member. Thank goddess for my new athame. It is a tool worth having. With its help, I've lightened up.

Drawing Down the Elvis

Soon after Lammas, the largest pagan gathering in the United States occurs in Memphis, Tennessee. The gathering is called “Dead Week” and every year it swells in attendance. At this point, well over 50, 000 devotees make the pilgrimage to honor the death of America’s own Sun King, Elvis Aron Presley. Elvis is the newest indigenous pagan god to be worshipped on these shores since the European ancestors landed here and began their assault on the local deities and their worshippers.

Elvis the historical figure died over twenty years ago, but the mythical Elvis is gaining an ever increasing number of followers. Reclaiming witches have the saying, “What is remembered lives.” If there’s a germ of truth to that, then Elvis is alive and thriving. Look around and you will see that as Mojo Nixon says, Elvis is everywhere. More than any other of our cultural icons, he remains alive in our popular consciousness.

It is becoming increasingly acknowledged that the Elvis phenomenon can only be categorized as the birth of a religious movement. Elvis’s home, Graceland, is one of the most visited and cherished spots in the country. Some visit out of curiosity, but many go as holy pilgrims, to honor and worship the divine spirit of Elvis. Bits of clothes, even single strands of hair (verified by Priscilla) are sold as sacred relics. There have been countless sightings of Elvis after death and many tales abound of miracles attributed to him.

Unfortunately and inaccurately, most Elvisologists have equated the Elvis religion with Christianity, seeing Elvis as Christ-like figure and Elvis worshippers as similar to early Christians. This is dead wrong. Elvis is clearly a Pagan phenomenon!

In the landscape of popular culture, Elvis is the top cat pagan deity, embodying many aspects of our gods and standing for pagan virtues over Judeo-Christian ones. The Christians have a long history of stealing and absorbing the best of pagan traditions. They took our Yule tree and the eggs of Eostar. We can’t let them get away with taking Elvis! The King of Rock and Roll belongs to us. To that purpose, we need to claim him as ours and give him a place in our pantheons and on our altars.

Like the Sun King he is, Elvis was born soon after Winter Solstice in Tupelo, Mississipi. His (divine) identical twin, Jesse, died during childbirth. Jesse would continue to be a presence for Elvis throughout his life, serving as what we witches call a companion self. His parents, Gladys and Vernon, were the last in a long line of sharecroppers, the poorest of the poor white southerners. He was raised as a Pentecostal, where the focus is not on liturgy, but on direct contact with the Holy Spirit. Unlike Jesus, whose primary loyalty was to his father, Elvis’s focus and guiding light was his love for his mother. Many have cast aspirations on their close relationship, but in Wiccan theology, the god is both consort and son of the goddess. For Elvis the person, being so dependent and close to his mother may not have been emotionally healthy, but as Elvis the mythic figure affecting mass consciousness, this relationship helps restore and ancient pagan paradigm. Like we witches, Elvis had not problem publicly worshipping his mother. His love and respect for Gladys are a key part of the Elvis myth and were indeed a way he stands out from other famous figures of his time.

Elvis and his parents moved from Tupelo into Memphis, living in a housing project while Elvis attended high school. Elvis then drove a truck for Crown Electric until Sam Phillips heard a record that Elvis paid to have cut as a present for Gladys. After hearing Elvis’s distinct sound, Sam knew that history had chance of being shaken, rattled and rolled.

This was smack dab in the middle of the 1950’s, an extremely uptight time. Black and white America lived n two different worlds. Gender roles were strongly proscribed and adhered to. Music itself was segregated. If you were anything but a Christian, you were suspect. Elvis the trickster had a genius for mixing things up and looking perfectly innocent while he did it. He crossed gender, race and class lines and made it all look and sound appealing. Although not the inventor of rock and roll, he was the best white embodiment of it at the time. As John Lennon said; “Before Elvis, there was nothing”. In the beginning, white stations would not play him because he sounded black, and black stations would not play him because he was white. When he finally got airtime he became an instant sensation.

Elvis, the trickster god, began a cultural revolution by crossing the racial line and playing music that until that point had been primarily a black musical tradition. In crossing the line, he also reminds us that the line exists, and if not for racism, Little Richard or Chuck Berry might be known as The King. As trickster, Elvis paradoxically symbolized both racial lines being dissolved and the power of racism and culturally appropriation.

Elvis, the “hillbilly cat” wore hair pomade worn by black men slick back his dyed black hair. He bought his bright pink shirts and flashy pants at Lansky’s, a store frequented primarily by black musicians and hipsters. At a time when most white males were wearing crewcuts and dressing drably, Elvis was a stunning Peacock God, fanning and strutting around the stage. He shirts of satin and velvet, and when he got enough money, had a suit made from gold lame. Whether as the epitome of cool or later, in his white jumpsuit years, the epitome of tacky, Elvis never wore anything boring. As pagan Peacock God, Elvis would always jump gender lines with ease. He admired that other white gender bender of the 1950’s, Liberace, and could inhabit the same gaudy outfits with a sexuality that defied categorization.

Young God Elvis was Peacock God, the Horned One, the Trickster, and Dionysus, all rolled into one, continually giving all due to his mother. The guy was hot. In less than fifteen minutes of televised air time, Elvis cracked the wall of 4,000 years of Judeo-Christian uptightness about se and opened the sex chakra of white America. The day after he gyrated and burlesqued and boogied out “Hound Dog” on national television, he was roundly denounced, his music called “the devil’s music”. You betcha. The Horned God was back, and Christianity would never have quite the same grip on us. Elvis wed his experience of Pentecostal possession of the Holy Spirit with the beat of rock and roll. Popular culture was blasted with the Wiccan value of sexuality and spirit being connected. Elvis helped create the climate in which the Craft would come to flourish. Praise the Elvis!

At the height of his fame, Elvis was drafted in the army. Soon after, Gladys died. Elvis was devastated. Most celebrities have the slimmest of chances of a comeback after their stardom dims. Elvis in his aspect of God of the Grain rose and fell several times in his career. The boy, who rose from poverty to stardom, rose again to fame after his hiatus in the military. Then, chained like Sisyphus to a series of horrible movies by his carny huckster manager, Col. Parker, he faded in the light of the brilliant revolution he had been instrumental in creating. It’s hard to find a rock star of the 1960’s who doesn’t pay homage to Elvis, but while the youth of that generation were finding religion in sex, drugs, and rock and roll, Elvis was starring in films like “Clambake”.

In 1968, Elvis shook off his chains and did what is now called “The Comeback Special”. Most of America tuned in and watched, and once again, The King was on top. After years out of the limelight, Elvis prowled the stage in black leather, casting a huge glamour. He might not have been a part of the Woodstock Nation, but he was still the King of Rock and Roll.

After this, he made no more bad movies, choosing instead to remain on stage in front of live and loving audiences. He chose to focus on performing in the one spot that gave him a cold reception in his hottest years: Las Vegas. This time around he was received with adoration. Wiccans have a practice of “drawing down the moon” in which we aspect the Goddess, let her move in us. Many in our tradition have aspected all sorts of manner of deities. With the number of Elvis impersonators constantly growing, “Las Vegas Elvis” is the most aspected deity on this planet, and most who do so, are true devotees of the god.

The pot-gutted, white jumpsuited, bejeweled Elvis embodies the pagan view of the deity as fallible. The Great God of the Celts, the Dagda, can be glimpsed in this aspect of Elvis.

The Dagda was fat, with a tremendous appetite. His ass hung out of his pants, and he was jolly at being the butt of jokes, presiding over a cauldron of plenty, being known for his generosity. Las Vegas Elvis split his pants more than once, and would frequently make jokes and allusions to it. Elvis was always able to laugh at himself. The Charge of the Goddess requires us to find mirth and reverence within ourselves. Followers of Elvis are experts at this. Those who revere Elvis can also laugh at him, without finding any contradiction in the two states. Like the Dagda, Elvis was legendary for his generosity. He gave away Cadillacs and guns like party favors, and had a constant supply of gold jewelry at hand to give away. Throughout his rises and falls, Elvis remained rooted in Memphis, where he supported a small army of poor relations.

Elvis remained staunchy true to his class roots, refusing to act “high class”. He has been ridiculed for this, but many of us from poor or working class backgrounds find it refreshing and downright radical. He could have lived on champagne and caviar over Central Park, but instead stayed at Graceland with his peanut butter and banana sandwiches and Nutty Buddies.

Las Vegas Elvis embodies the god of rot and decay. Like any Sun King, he casts a long shadow. Incarcerated in the jailhouse of fame, he went increasingly stir crazy. His chronic insomnia led to the use of an ever increasing amount of uppers and downers. Elvis’s abuse of prescription drugs would eventually result in his mortal fall from the throne of his bathroom toilet at the age of 42.

Elvis died on August 16^th 1977. He was reading an occult tract at the time. Elvis was drawn to spiritualist and occult writings. He believed in numerology and would practice moving clouds with focused will. Elvis was interested in magic. As pagans and witches, it behooves us to embrace Elvis as one of ours. He is. Like the Goddess, Elvis is everywhere. Look around, you’ll find him.

interesting times

Supposedly the phrase “may you live in interesting times” is a Chinese curse. As a witch, experienced with the power of paradox, I’m pretty clear that a curse can be a blessing as well, and vice a versa. These are interesting times. Sometimes I feel blessed by that, and this week, well, it’s felt more like a curse. Everything feels in spin, everything in flux, and as usual, the inner mirrors the outer, the outer mirrors the inner. What’s going to happen? Just wondering about that is exhausting. Best to just keep breathing and attempt to think about other things.

As I breathe, one of the things my mind continues to chew on is the bone of Reclaiming, the spiritual tradition I’ve been part of creating. At the witchcamp I just taught at, my friend Rook and I taught a path on Reclaiming and Feri. I am a Reclaiming and Feri initiate, Rook is neither, and has been turned off to the glamour of Feri as he’s seen in shimmer thru his community. We didn’t so much as “teach” as we did facilitate, and it was quite a discussion we facilitated! One shocking and somewhat inconvenient truth that was revealed is that there is no general consensus or agreement on what Reclaiming theology consists of. Everyone acknowledged the principles of unity, although someone said that even these are up for review after BIRCH, and some want the word “witch” taken out. As far as I can tell, there is no real agreement on what it means to be a Reclaiming witch other than we are our own spiritual authority, heck, some consider themselves part of Reclaiming and don’t even consider themselves witches!

So what does this mean, being our own spiritual authority? Anne Hill in a recent blog compared Reclaiming to Wiki-pedia, and coined the great term “wiki-spirituality”, noting that Reclaiming is a tradition that people can add to or edit at will. What is taught in any given “core class” can vary widely and does. For some, the idea of the Goddess is central, for others, the idea of the Goddess is not stressed, or it’s stressed that Goddess and God always need to be invoked equally, or some are dropping gender and using instead the concept of "mysterious ones". What one Reclaiming witch considers central to their theology may mean nothing to another. Teaching our path, Rook and I were aware of how much some people long for “the answer”, how much authority we as teachers/facilitators are given, and how much work it is to actually teach/facilitate people coming to their own conclusions. Does the term “spiritual authority” encourage us to keep asking questions, or does it set up a situation where we are striving to have the answer? I've been noticing a heck of a lot of "answers" being put forth, with very little critical thinking applied to what's actually being said.

I'm thinking that an example of this is the relatively new phenomenon of “sacred sexuality” being taught widely in Reclaiming. My guess is that each and every person who teaches this has their own view and take on what sacred sexuality is and how to get there….and paradoxically, it’s being presented as Reclaiming paths/classes/workshops, as if there actually is something we all agree on as a tradition wide way to approach sexuality. What does this mean in a developing theology? It’s here that my guess that our wiki-spirituality might show itself most blatently. For some, a sacred sexuality class might be about coming to your senses and working with the tools to know your own boundaries, run your energy mindfully, and so forth…with no sexual contact or orgasms being part of the path. For others (like in Madrone’s workshops of years ago) the work might involve sexual contact with others and culminate in everyone masturbating together while doing a specific breathing technique. The values and ideas on what constitutes "sacred sexuality" probably vary widely in Reclaiming, and my guess if we somehow could do a review of what is being presented, it might totally contradict.

So, this is the bone I’m chewing on. What does this all mean? What is the baby in the bathwater of Reclaiming? Is it different for every one of us? Can we even agree it IS a baby? What the heck have we been creating? As usual, more questions than answers. But, that’s probably the only way to survive in interesting times, to stay open and questioning. If I turn it over to the Goddess, am I still my own spiritual authority? Today, I'm asking for guidance, and now....I think I'll try to just breathe, and stop thinking and put down the bone.

what goes up, must come down

We just passed Lammas, the cross –quarter holiday between Summer Solstice and Equinox. I’ve marked this sabbat for well over twenty years, and have planned and attended countless public rituals celebrating it. Lammas is also known as Lughnasadh, in honor of the Celtic sun god, Lugh, who began his descent after the solstice. It’s said to be both his wake and his wedding day, depending on which resource you go to. Lammas was a time in which the beginning of the harvest season was celebrated, and grain and bread were especially honored. In Reclaiming, we’ve usually focused on the sacrifice and death of the god of the grain, relating this also to Lugh, the Sun God, and how both die, only to be reborn, again and again.

This year Lammas found me trying to get my feet back on the ground after the intoxicating high of both falling in love and being at witchcamp. I came back from witchcamp and not only had a full week of work to focus on, but the return of my son from his adventures in New Mexico. Happily, he weathered the fundamentalist Christian camp quite well. My son is no martyr. They lost him when they played Romans and Christians, and expected him to admit he was a Christian before being thrown to the lions. When asked if he was a Christian, he replied “Hell, no!” It reminded me of when he was five and I talked to his kindergarten. At that time, he was proud to be a witch and wanted me there talking about it. However, after I’d quizzed the kids and got them to say all their negative images of what a witch is, I said I was a witch and then turned to Casey and asked him if he was too. “Not today!” he replied. My son’s nature is to deny his faith if it means lions or the stake. As a mother, I can’t say I’m against this.

I’ve always loved the title of Jack Kornfield’s book “After the Ecstasy, the Laundry”. This Lammas was all about the laundry, of cleaning up after the ecstasy of the last month or so. It’s meant attending to my son, who I haven’t seen in a month and is angry with me, of returning the more than twenty calls a day left on my voice mail, many due to my dropping balls that were in spin while immersing myself in a luscious love affair and then flying to the east coast to be between the worlds. I started in on the monumental stack of laundry over two days ago. It’s still not all done.

When the sun was at its zenith, everything seemed so possible, everything was so expansive. This Lammas, I’m tuning in to the reality that everything does have its price, of the limitations of life and of love, to the truth that intoxication often leads to a hangover. Maybe by equinox I will have a better handle on things, will have established a balance between the laundry and the ecstasy. Maybe someday I’ll be more prepared when what went up, comes down. Tonight I ate a tomato that just ripened from my garden on the deck. I’m celebrating the harvest and pondering on the rise and fall of all things, and somehow, before I go back down and bring up yet another load of things to put away, trying to have faith that what goes down, will really truly go right back up. It’s the way of all things, isn’t it?

what happened in the beginning

I'm back from witchcamp. There was no internet there, but I was planning to write each day. Those plans were dropped by the third day. After a rest, I'll write about the upshot, but in short...it was fabulous! The last ritual ended up being priestessed by the Crone affinity camp, unplanned and spontaneously, but it worked...but more of that later. here's the beginning report:

Day One

Yesterday we arrived at Claymont, a 360 acre retreat center in West Virgina, near Harper’s Ferry. The energy of the Shenandoah and Potomac Rivers can be felt here, and I’m wishing I knew more about this land’s history, as I’m starting to feel it. There are two big buildings to house us, The Barn and The Mansion. The Barn is actually a renovated school, with two big wings of bedrooms. I feel blessed that I have a room to myself, with four beds. Three have all my witchy ritual wear laid out on them, so the room has become quite festive. My Elvis tapestry is also up. I haven’t made it to the Mansion, build by a grandnephew of George Washington, but I’ve heard it really is a mansion, replete with a ballroom. The whole place has a nice feel, clearly being run by citizens of Freak nation who have befriended the various nature spirits.

It’s been dreadfully hot and sticky, and I’m not acclimated yet. I’ve wanted to explore the grounds, but each time I’ve walked out of the air-conditioning, I’ve wilted quickly. As some witch friend at some time pointed out; the problem with being a nature religion is the nature. It’s green and lush out there, but damn hot and, of course, there are bugs.. Being here reminds me just how temperate my city by the sea is. Rarely do we break a sweat in San Francisco, and hats and mittens are not a part of the typical winter wardrobe. No wonder Northern Californians have such a reputation as mellow wimps….we are!

Being on the east coast, where the climate has extremes, makes me aware of just how much a difference a few degrees of temperature makes. In the last few weeks I’ve noticed just how often people are bringing up climate change. It’s no longer an argument or debate; everyone seems to have settled into the awareness that the weather is changing. A few degrees higher and lower can truly make some places uninhabitable, and being in this climate, I can’t help but think about it. I’m also thinking of how incredible it is that people wage war in heat. I haven’t read the news for several days, but a part of my awareness is praying for coolness in the Middle East, and being here on this land makes me think about how miserable it had to be to fight in the Revolutionary and Civil War. Those wars still haunt this land. Another thing about my city, it’s never been under siege, never torn by war.

War and the changing climate are haunting me here... I’ve been thinking about the Yeat’s poem, and how I have lost my passionate intensity of years back, my sureness of what our magic and actions will bring about. Now, I have many more questions than answers. So, here I am, preparing for a week of magic, unsure of what the heck it will yield, dedicated to making it as open to possibility as possible. How will this land receive us?

Day Two

Last night we did our opening night ritual, and I’m feeling hopeful for the week. It helps that so far, the food is incredible, much of it grown on the property. The team is buoyant, I think hugely because of the fact we are all being paid the same. It is such a simple thing, doing an act that literally reflects the belief that everyone on the team is of equal value, but it is such a profound thing. My politics demand it, but thankfully, it truly feels this way, and I’m amused by everyone I’m working with, the best way to feel, in my book. Having a sense of the arc of the week’s rituals has also steadied our nerves. This story is so darn hard! We are doing the Southwestern story of La Llorrona, a cautionary ghost tale in which a spoiled woman ends up drowning her children and then herself. She is a ghost of the Southwest, heard in the arroyos and along rivers, still crying for her children. We could turn this into a week of caterwauling and despair, and thankfully, we all are determined to do otherwise.

She’s not deity, she’s a ghost, so this story is being worked as a story…one which we will witness but not inhabit. Last night I did a trance to the heart to the chamber where all the stories are held, the library of myths and legends. We set the stage for approaching the story as a mirror to look at our own personal stories and the community stories that haunt us. We hope to learn from each other’s cautionary tales, and to bring personal and community shadows into the light. The grooves of old Reclaiming rituals are deep, and I’m also determined to not create rituals in which we transform all our pain and change the world with one cone of power. I truly do believe that what happens between the worlds does change the world, but I’ve noticed the smallest and most mindful steps sometimes take us on the wisest journey. I’m thinking of cranial sacral work…those small movements that shift everything.

Reclaiming witchcamps have a tradition of “affinity groups” which meet daily. Most times there is randomness to this “affinity”, the only real affinity being in that all are participants at witchcamp. At Spiralheart there is power in the large affinity group of crones, of women past childbearing age. They played a central role in last night’s ritual, and it was potent, all of them looking into a fire, feeling and sensing the portents of the upcoming story, of where it might lead.

I’m feeling more and more between the worlds, with all the time bending that happens at witchcamp and the opening of chakras. The fireflies transport me, and the lushness of the land is settling into my bones. The internet isn’t working here, but calling home I found out today that the bay area is having a heat wave, so even in my temperate city, I would have been thinking about the changing weather. Things are heating up.

early rising

Georgia and I woke up at 5:15 this morning. Why couldn’t we sleep? I’m jet-lagged, but time at home would be 2:15, so that doesn’t quite explain it. Maybe we’re excited about camp. We’re leaving shortly, and we’re now all packed and ready to go. Georgia’s worried about bugs, and I have to say, hearing about the abundance of chiggers and ticks has me feeling like I should wrap myself in saran wrap. What would a camp be without bugs or poison ivy or oak?

I’m teaching with my good friend Rook and we’ve bitten off a lot, doing a path on which utilizes the iron and pearl pentacle in examining the intersection of the Reclaiming and Feri tradition. Georgia’s been planning her path for months, and has a big binder with the path all typed up and laid out. Rook and I are winging it. There’s not a goddamn thing on paper yet, and I’m trusting that our many conversations on the topic will yield something. Co-creation in action. Which I think really means not planning much.

It’s only been one day so far, but it feels like so much more. But in a good way. I like everyone on the team, and the hospitality of the Spiralheart community is really touching. Joe has fed us well, and everyone is being housed comfortably. As usual, being out of the Bay Area makes me realize just how darn traumatized I’ve been by my experience of being the Cassandra of that community. It’s so great to be able to speak freely and openly and to be appreciated for my views! Last night before I went to bed one of the teachers I’d just met said “Oak, you really work well with others.” So nice to hear, especially since I’ve been accused of running with scissors.

Hearing yesterday of the big changes with California camp was wonderful. The scissors I’ve been accused of running with are my perceptions that the way California camp has been structured isn’t in accordance with our principles of unity. These perceptions have become more widely shared, but up until very recently, there was a strong prohibition about dealing with it openly. Apparently, it’s now all out in the open, and a new pattern has been cut. . Between this, and the newness of this longing for my new girlfriend, I’m kind of in shock.

As I write this, the house is becoming abuzz and alive. Soon we will be leaving. Being with a bunch of witches is always interesting. Who knows what this week will be like? So far, so good.

we go to camp

I’m in Maryland, where I’ve been meeting all day with the Spiralheart witch camp teaching team. It’s been an amazing day, with our planning going smoothly. Besides easily coming up with a great arc of rituals for the week, we’ve also shocked ourselves by our quick agreement to shift a major paradigm in witch camp culture. We not only decided that we all should get paid the same, we decided that really meant ALL of us, including the student teachers. The battle to let go of the pay scales has been a mighty one and a ridiculous one as well. I was the first voice raised to question why a bunch of anarchist witches who supposedly value non-hierarchical structures would want to create different levels of pay for teaching teams. That questioning has made teaching at my local witch camp untenable, but not surprisingly has taken up supporters throughout the wider Reclaiming community. It’s less money for those of us with long years teaching, but for me, it feels so much better. I’m a big believer in energy following intent. If we intend for it to be a team, and we put our money where our beliefs are, a team is created. And that feels good.

Today, that good feeling intensified with this surprising move to pay the student teachers. For years the idea of student teacher has been almost meaningless, as by the time someone usually gets picked to teach, they are seasoned priestesses. For over five years or so I’ve never been able keep in my head who is or isn’t a “real” teacher versus a student teacher, and in true Reclaiming style, sometimes it’s the “students” who are more accountable and in service to the camps then the full teachers.

So, here I am, planning a witch camp and reveling in the shifting paradigm of camp culture (learning today that my local camp is FINALLY becoming consensus based) while meanwhile, my fourteen year old son is at a fundamentalist Christian camp in the Southwest. How bizarre is that? My son spends several weeks out of every summer with my sister’s family in New Mexico. Her son is the same age as mine and living out in the country, they have a completely different lifestyle than ours. This year my sister suggested they go to a camp for the week, one which her kids went to last year. My nephew loved the food, the cook being also the chef at the Doubletree Inn, and the selling point was that it’s only $60 a week. I had big doubts about sending my son, given it being Christian camp, and the fact they had to take a bible and can’t wear swimsuits. Also, being asked whether I gave my permission to have my kid baptized really set my teeth on edge. My son told me I had a closed mind and was a big hypocrite, only being open to things if they went along with my beliefs. So I sent him. Let him see for himself why I wasn't so open hearted.

I couldn’t get to sleep last night, wondering and worrying about him at camp. Maybe he’s getting lots of attention by testifying about his life in the sinful city of San Francisco and maybe he was baptized today in the river. Maybe he’s not saying a thing, and just taking it all in. The bible study classes have got to be somewhat interesting for him, given that he has no familiarity with theses stories at all. Maybe he’ll come back saved, and his teenage rebellion will take the form of quoting scripture as opposed to piercings and strange haircuts. Whatever the case, I can’t wait to hear about it, and even as I write this, I know that he’s not going to gratify me with telling me much about it all. Especially because he knows I'll be dying to hear. He's going to act like it was no big deal, and there will be some eye-rolling as I try to talk to him. He's a teenager. He can't help it.

Tomorrow we all pack up and head out to our camp, located somewhere in West Virgina. The river at camp will be in the story we are doing, and clothing will of course be optional. Bible scripture won’t be quoted, but there will be plenty of pagan chanting and drumming. My guess is that there won't be the chicken fried steak my nephew is looking forward to, but there will be plenty of healthy vegetables and coffee in the morning.

Who can ever imagine what can happen in a lifetime?

reading the news, it sure looks bad, they won't give peace a chance, that was just a dream some of us had...

THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

the price is right

Spending the weekend at my new lover’s house, I thought about how I fled to a hotel last year, craving respite from the chaos of my own home. This weekend was also respite, but respite infused with pleasure. J. has no kids, no pets, no housemates, no neighbors coming in the back door, and no plants. I was heartened to be pleased with her aesthetic, and discovered that when someone says their décor is “mid-century” they mean that it’s from the 1950’s. With both of us born smack dab in the middle of that decade, I found myself quickly feeling at home, every lamp and piece of furniture reminding me of something from early childhood.

With phones turned off, our attention remained solely on the slow discovery and unfolding of what it means to be together. Therapists have a name for that very particular and specific psychic space that gets created between two people. They call it the “intersubjective field”, something that is as individual as a snowflake. For those of us with a magical background, the word “alchemy” resonates, the magic that gets created when two base metals come together and create something precious. Can anything be better than the beginning of a love affair, especially one that is profoundly mutual? The field is so charged, the blend of energies so intoxicating, it’s the most potent magic we humans possess.

I wasn’t surprised that not only my iPod battery burned out, but the hard drive on my laptop did not survive the weekend. My problems with running life force current and its effect on appliances is long standing. I’ve never been able to wear a watch, and when things get intense, all my various gizmos tend to go on the fritz. Why I never remember this continues to confound me. There must be some way to avert these problems. Isn’t there? Thankfully, J. simply dropped off my computer with someone she’s worked with before, and in less than 24 hours I had it back. It was dropped off at a hole in the wall shop and picked up at the chinese restaurant next door. No wonder I’m in love.

Over the weekend, J. would occasionally bring out a photo, record album, or other relic of her life, and my sense of her would expand. Seeing her early school pictures, a baby butch with short hair and a boy’s shirt, made my heart melt. Looking at pictures of her in her 20’s and 30’s, on an album cover and photo shoots for her band, my attraction to her began to include having the hots for this younger self. Falling in love in your fifties is a strange thing….the time when we are in the flush and bloom of youth is long gone, but seeing the photos, I found the young J. in the turn of her smile and the twinkle of her eye. There’s a lot of catching up to do when you start to be lovers in middle age, and it’s amazing how that catching up can happen in a blink of an eye when you take in old photographs.

According to J., I’m the first witch she’s been with. In the short time we’ve been lovers, as she’s told people about me, she’s discovered she’s surrounded by us. Her administrative assistant and another co-worker are witches, and as I’ve met her friends, the broom closet has flown wide open. The funniest moment was on Sunday, when we went to meet a group of friends she’s described as “the family”. J.’s warned me about the kinkiness of some of her friends, as the line between the butch/femme community and the BDSM one is thin. She hasn’t noticed any dog collars on any of my friends and family, and was a little concerned I might find some of her friends a little wild. Being warned, I walked into the restaurant to be greeted by “Aren’t you Oak?” from a sister Feri initiate who I respect mightily. The “out there” friends of J.’s are part of my tribe. We are family as well.

When worlds collide, when energies mix, new universes, fresh galaxies get created. Something is happening here and although it’s taken out my gadgets, (and now my office phone seems to be disconnected) I’m thinking it just may all be worth it. Could somebody please let me know if there’s a way to keep my gizmos safe?

illumination

Two years ago I spent summer solstice sobbing my eyes out, cursing the long days and short sleepless nights. At the height of the sun’s power, all that was illuminated was the pain of an unexpected break-up. The pie chart of my brain and being was primarily devoted to obsessive thought about my loss, my heart chakra was blown wide open, and I was tender and raw. I was completely miserable.

This summer solstice I once again found myself distracted, preoccupied, and unable to sleep, deep in obsessive thoughts, raw, tender and heart wide open. This solstice, however, I’m happy. Ecstatic, really. Such is the power of love.

And such is the risk of love. My current state can lead directly to the former state. In the last two weeks I’ve devised countless strategies to “slow it down”, trying to keep some cool remove and clinical detachment. I’m a therapist and know too much about both the chemistry of love and the way we can fall for someone to learn yet another hideous lesson about not going for someone who replicates and triggers all of your childhood hurts. Plus, I’ve had my heart broken before. I know the power that good sex has. Good sex opens the heart chakra, each orgasm releasing oxytocin, a chemical which promotes bonding. Good sex makes you feel connected and incredible sex with somebody who makes you laugh, well, damn, that makes you feel like you are falling in love. And what exactly is the difference between the feeling and the fact? Isn’t the fact of falling in love pure feeling?

Looking around my house, every room contains spells and invocations of the very thing I’m trying (quite weakly, I admit) to ward off. The house altar is covered in rose petals; a huge Mexican heart shaped mirror sits above the mantel in the living room. Every piece of art I’ve made is in some way an invocation of love. My bedroom I’ve consciously made an invitation to love and sex , from what is above the doorway to the red lava lamp which is decorated with roses and pearls. My journal with all the wishes I’ve made on the new moon sits near my bed, documenting the movement from wishes for a healed heart to wishes for an open and full one.

So, the night of summer solstice I hardly slept, instead making love with someone who makes me laugh, makes me think, and makes me….you know. She’s as big a personality as I am, with as many friends and as devoted to them as I am to mine. This year, what the solstice sun has illuminated has me wondering once again at the power of magic and the power of love. Can the world really be this bright and wonderful? Can I really risk feeling this way? Can I really risk not feeling this way?

Like the fool card in the tarot, I’m jumping off the cliff and free falling. It’s terrifying, it’s exhilarating, and in many ways, it feels like I have no other choice. I asked for this. And amazingly, miraculously, I seem to have gotten it. Can this really be true?