Saturday, February 25, 2006

archive - good dish

This column caused more of a stir/controversy than all of my others....people are still gossiping about it.

START MAKING SCENTS

GOOD DISH
By Oak

The best meals I've ever had have been feasts for the senses. The food tastes wonderful, the smells are exquisite, everything looks beautiful, there is at least one thing I lay my hands on to eat, and there's something delicious to hear and converse about. The conversation can range from world events to the torrid affair a mutual friend is having, but one thing is for sure; good dish, or gossip, is as necessary at a memorable feast as the main entrée. As witches, we bless our ritual feasts and say "may you never hunger, may you never thirst" to those near. To this could be added a wish for an abundance of good gossip.

As a long time member of the Reclaiming, I have become accustomed to the occasional tirade against gossip by someone in our community. Gossip can be delicious, satisfying, entertaining, loving and fun. Gossip can also be ugly, distasteful, and lethal. Like the goddess herself, gossip can be both constructive and destructive. I have seen gossip used in all its aspects in my time in Reclaiming. At its best, it builds community and forces changes that need to be made. At its worst, it is used as part of an ongoing campaign of misinformation to discredit those we disagree with or don't like. Whatever the case, giving a negative connotation to gossip is misguided, as access to gossip is one building block of our community, as sacred as the food we share at ritual. I am for gossip. I am against spreading lies and misinformation about community members. There is a difference.

Given that gossip has been generally perceived as a female endeavor, it is important for feminists to explore and reclaim this word and practice. Researchers in the fields of evolutionary psychology, biology, communications, linguistics, and anthropology are currently doing the same. Maligning the practice of gossip is a relatively new phenomenon. The word "gossip" came from the Middle English "godsib" or "godsipp," meaning a godparent or sponsor. It referred to a kinship circle. Gossip at that time was seen as an important way of bonding with others in the community. Modern researchers assert that gossip is far more than just a trivial pastime; it is in fact essential for our psychological, social, and physical well-being.


As our culture has become more fragmented and alienating, gossip has become not only more maligned, but more needed. Creating alternative culture is important in that we can rely on ourselves for gossip, and we don’t have to consume it for a price. Given that so many people do not have communities from which they can trade gossip, more and more become reliant on gossip about celebrities. Celebrity gossip puts us all in the same global village. If we don’t have friends or co-workers in common, we can discourse about Martha Stewart’s troubles. One benefit of being part of a community such as Reclaiming is that it provides us with a plethora of stories which we can gossip about.

Evolutionary psychologists, such as researcher Robin Dunbar, assert that we gossip because we are genetically programmed to do so; it is in our evolutionary hard-wiring. Dunbar has made a persuasive argument that language itself evolved in order to allow us to gossip. The human equivalent of our primate cousin's 'social grooming' is gossip. Dunbar and others assert that language evolved because it allows us to more efficiently use the limited time we have available for social interaction. By talking about others and what they are up to, we keep in touch and feel bonded with a wide social network. Gossip is a sort of 'vocal grooming'. Chimpanzees spend hours practicing social grooming in order to connect and bond with each other. We pick up the phone and tell our coven sister all about who was doing what with whom at witchcamp. Thus the web of connection is spun.

Recent research reveals that about two-thirds of our conversation time is devoted to gossip. By gossip I mean; talking about who is doing what with whom; discussions of personal relationships and experiences; who is 'in' and who is 'out' and why; how to deal with difficult social situations; and the behavior and relationships of family, friends, and celebrities. When we gossip we talk about others who are not present and what they are up to. We also theorize and guess their motivations, trying to figure out what makes them tick. Negative gossip, actively criticizing others not present, takes up about 5 percent of our conversation time. Women and men gossip about the same amount among groups of the same sex. However, there are some interesting gender differences. Women tend to talk about those who are closer in; while men talk more about those they are not so intimate with. Men tend to refer to themselves more while gossiping. Women are much more animated in the telling of gossip; women's facial expressions and voice inflections have a wider range, thus they make gossip more entertaining. In mixed gender groups, women gossip at about the same rate, but men up their discussion of more lofty topics by fifteen to twenty percent.

Gossip serves to inform us as to the unspoken, informal, or implicit rules of groups, as opposed to the formal explicit ones. In Reclaiming, we say in our principles of unity that we are non-hierarchal. Anyone who participates in the community for over a year and a day will eventually learn from gossip how the unspoken hierarchies operate. Gossip also serves as challenges to these hierarchies and can enforce and bring about ethical standards. Recently, a prominent figure in the environmental activist community told friends he was hiring a sex worker for another prominent activist's bachelor party. This was to be kept a secret from the bride. Gossip spread, and eventually enough people knew and he was confronted as to the destructive sexual politics this action embodied and the terrible position he was putting the other men who would be present at the party. Gossip served to hold him accountable and stop an action that would have been damaging to the community at large. 

It is my experience that in our own community when there is an outcry against gossip this usually signifies something important needs to be brought to light in the community. Accusations that gossiping is an attack on leadership has usually meant that there are abuses of power and issues of accountability and ethics that need to be brought to the surface. Gossip serves as a way to build pressure for all of us to deal with issues that those wielding power and influence want to suppress or go away.

Of course, gossip can also be used to discredit those who are challenging power structures. In the past few years I have been in conflict with other prominent members of the community over issues of how we structure ourselves. I have to expect that I will be gossiped about. I not only have conflicting views with prominent members of our community, I am a prominent member myself. Who more than myself can expect to be gossiped about? To step into our power in the community means that every wart and wrinkle in our personality and misstep in our personal lives will be part of public discourse. To challenge power in the community means the same. This is aggravating, often humiliating, but completely inevitable. It in fact, serves to build and create community.

It is part of our hard-wiring to gossip about those we see as powerful and prominent in our community. By doing so, we figure out what constitutes social prominence, and we also begin to challenge it. Researchers have noted that negative gossip increases when we discuss those we perceive as more powerful. This is a way we integrate the fact that those in the light also have a shadow, thus painting a truer picture of what it means to be human. Gossip functions in human community to humanize us all, to mitigate our tendency to idealize our leaders. Gossip also serves to keep the social order, thus it makes sense that it is utilized in dismissing those who challenge the status quo. The paradox of creating an anarchistic Pagan community is that we are embarked on an endeavor in which we are constantly creating, challenging , and defending the status quo. A lot of this is done through the practice of gossip.

Gossip can be the language of power-with, but it also can be a tool of power-over. Research on childhood bullying finds that a fundamental aspect of female bullying is spreading lies and mistruths about those who are the target of the bullying. In just about every women’s community I have been a part of, this kind of behavior occasionally has been employed. When we hear gossip in our community, the first question we must ask ourselves is, is this true? It is important to be wary of being told something hideous about another community member and being asked to keep it confidential. This may be a clue that what you are being told is untrue, and you are only being told this information to discredit the other member of your community. If you are in a meeting and Treestump invokes confidentiality and then tells the group that Rainwater, another priestess who she has had trouble with, has been saying that Tofutti, a senior witchcamp teacher, is a CIA plant, well, this is confidentiality that you don’t want to keep. As a therapist, I am well-versed in keeping confidentiality. Therapists break confidentiality when clients threaten harm to themselves or others, or talk about abusing a child or elder. As a community member, I refuse to keep un-founded rumours confidential. I would do my best to check out if Rainwater actually had done the above, and I would let Treestump know I would be checking this out. To do otherwise would be harmful to the community.

As Reclaiming has gotten bigger, gossip has become more important as a means of swaying public opinion. Given that we have few venues for public debate and discussion of our internal issues, gossip is the primary means that these issues are played out. My guess is that gossip will eventually pressure us to create ways in which to hold each other accountable and for dirty laundry be aired in a public way.
Another benefit of gossip is that it allows us to examine and explore stories that can be tested against one’s own life experience without incurring the cost and risk of acquiring the actual experience. This is especially important and intriguing in a magical community. Gossip provides us with plenty of cautionary tales and lessons about practicing magic. When we hear that Flytrap has a new lover after her incredible invocation of the goddess at Beltane, we smile and remember that we will encourage our single friend to get out there in the circle next May. When we hear that Mustard lost her job and has some mysterious illness after she invited others to hex someone she was fighting with, we take note that this might not be a good course of action.

Next time you sit down to feast in a circle of witches, honor the dish that comes to the table, the gossip that inevitable will occur. Notice whether it is delicious or sits badly on the palate.

Honor it for what it is, the social yarn that knits us all together. And when you hear gossip being derided by others in the community, ask yourself, ‘Is there something we all should be talking about more openly?’

archive- fierce optimism

This was the last column I wrote for the Reclaiming Quarterly, written a month before the start of the war in Iraq. It was not printed as the Quarterly had had enough of me and fired me as a columnist. I found it ironic given the subject of this column.... a challenge itself to my fierce optimism!


Start Making Scents
A Fierce Optimism
By Oak

Once again; in the dark of the year, my thoughts turn to what is needed to bring back the light in these terrible times. For once, I do not feel like Cassandra issuing dire warnings to a country that sees me as crazy. I think that no matter the political agenda or view, there is mass consensus that (pardon my English) things are fucked. One identifying characteristic of witches is that we are metaphysical meddlers. Most of us have gotten busy trying to change the situation at hand, whether by overt political action or simply by burning candles devoted to peace. I have heard much talk about binding, and although I won't focus on that here, binding is something I am theologically against, believing contracting things is the last thing we need to be focused on right now. Some are opening portals, but while not against portal openings, the whole idea feels like something from Star Trek to me, and I can't imagine it without a giggle. My work seems to be simply envisioning hope and mindfully charging things up with this hope, both in my own home and on the streets.

Twenty-five years ago, a week before winter solstice, my father climbed the tree in front of our home. He carried with him a long metal pole, which he then touched to a nearby high-tension wire. My father had been battling depression for several years, and that day he surrendered to it. In his depression it was a common occurrence to see him in his armchair, gazing out at the tree he would eventually climb, a drink in hand, repeatedly listening to his beloved Frank Sinatra singing "I Did It My Way". That gray day in December, he did indeed do it his way, creative to the bitter end.

My father's suicide, followed by two other family deaths within six months, gave birth to my identity as a witch. For my sisters and I, it also was the strange fire that forged our dark humor and fierce optimism. As the days shorten and the anniversary of our father's death approaches, the magical act of charging, of putting our energy and belief in hope and redemption into our world and the gifts we are making, takes precedence over everything. Over the solstice holidays my sisters and I become embroiled in massive projects, putting our heart and soul into the making of presents and the decorating of our homes. Each gift we make is a message, a spell, and an affirmation of life. Each soap, canned good, bath bomb, sprizer, and candle murmurs; "Let's come to our senses, life is good, please know that I love you". Our homes become lively altars devoted to making it through dark times, full of light, symbols of rebirth, and good smells. We did not grow up with parents who made anything by hand for presents. Our children, on the other hand, expect their homes to somewhat resemble Santa's workshops from mid-November through the winter holidays, each room having it's own mess devoted to creation. Given current events, this year calls for a grand gesture.

In past years I have needed to get on the phone and be reminded by one sister or another that life will go on, even if I don't have enough time to make my own wrapping paper. I have taught my sisters the concept of "charging" things up. They readily recognized that this is exactly what we are all up to. William Bloom, in his excellent book, "Psychic Protection", has a chapter entitled "Blessing". This chapter is devoted to what we witches alternately call "charging", and is a detailed exploration of this all-important magical skill. His definition of blessing is; "any transfer of energy which helps life to fulfill its potential. To bless someone or something is to move energy through your own aura and then into the person, object or space so that it has a good and helpful effect. The basic energy with which we work in blessing is unconditional love." My sisters and I loved someone who lost hope in life fulfilling its potential. We are determined not to. At the darkest of times, we strive to create homes that radiate good cheer. We know that this is not just determined by the amount of ornaments on the Yule tree and packages under it, but by the energy emanating from said objects. New physics reveal that it turns out that the thought that goes into things really does count. I know in my bones that my work over this time is to feed hope, to think, feel, and believe that light will follow dark. As the men in charge of this country court death and destruction by preparing for war, my thoughts relentlessly focus on the power of love, and our ability to charge the world with this healing force.

Several years back my coven had the good fortune to work with Victor and Cora Anderson, founders of the Feri tradition, from which Reclaiming has sprung. Victor was the consummate shaman. Many times my coven, when comparing notes on what had transpired in that strangely mundane San Leandro tract home, would find that we all had heard him say quite different and even contradictory things. A master magician, I am still un-peeling layers of what I learned from him. Cora, on the other hand, was and is a pragmatic witch, skilled at practical magic. She told us about how she was known amongst friends and neighbors for her profoundly healing soup. She made it clear that the ingredients of the soup changed, according to what was in her kitchen. The two things that remained the same were; she put healing energy into the making of the soup, and the soup healed.

As an aromancer, I am well accustomed to the healing properties of the essential oils I work with. One thing I know for sure is; the bath salts I make you might be chock full of relaxing oils, but will not be as effective if made when I am stressed out or frantic. The healing properties increase if charged up with my good intention and love. As the nights grow longer, I work on staying grounded and calm amidst my chaotic household of spells in process. In order to charge things up, to imbue them with our good will and intention, we need to feel connected and plugged into the energy of the earth. Otherwise, the energy we put into things will not be as strong and we will soon find ourselves depleted and exhausted. Over the years, I have become more adept at the magic inherent in surviving each solstice and have recognized how staying grounded in a good humor is key to the work at hand. The same can be said for surviving countless demonstrations and marches.

My sister Stacy, who is approaching the age of my father at his death, is prone to exclaiming "Dad thought HE had it bad! He never could have survived all this, even with Prozac!" My two sisters and I have had more than our fair share of turbulence in our private lives, while also living in a maelstrom of a time. We are well accustomed to various physicians and therapists carefully asking us if we know that we are at higher risk of committing suicide ourselves, given our family history. We know when asked such a question that we are in the presence of someone who surely won't get our gallows humor on the subject, or understand how, as with childhood abuse, such an experience can map a ferocious commitment to this not being a road we go down. We understand quite well the power of despair and have worked hard to do the paradoxical work of not being in denial about how bad things are, yet staying optimistic. There simply is no other viable option.

Recent studies on optimism have shown that one quality all optimists share is the tendency to compare their situation with those worse off. In other words, optimists know that things, although bad, can truly be worse than they are. As a child, I would often say to my sisters, "At least we aren't with the Donner Party". (For those who aren't familiar with California History, they were a group of pioneers who made it across the whole country in covered wagons. They got stuck in a blizzard in the Sierras not far from their destination and were forced to eat those who died off) The Donner Party continues to be a code phrase for us, one that bugs our children no end. Comrades of mine, who have spent time with me in holding cells, are also familiar with my invocations of the Donner Party.

As we approach this solstice, we approach the very real possibility of war, as well as an economic depression. I find myself at times contemplating a tree of my own to climb, or seeing the positive side of the instant relief of a sniper's bullet. Then that feisty optimist rears up in me, and my commitment deepens to enjoying this brief ride on the only green planet I happen to know of. Along with my sisters, I am once again challenged to find that conduit to the regenerative qualities of this living earth, and to mindfully put faith and hope into the creation of my solstice presents. This upcoming time will find me charging them as well as the water bottle I share on the streets with those who resist the cry of war, who fight for life over certain suicide.

As witches, our art of charging and blessing things is one of the greatest gifts we can give to not only family and friends, but to social and global change. Grounding ourselves and tapping into the power of this planet, staying optimistic and staving off despair, is daily practice for many of us at this time. Then from a grounded place, connected to the beauty of this spinning orb of life, we can radiate out our faith in the life force, sending it through our hands into what we are working with and through our breath into the world at large. By doing this we assist the natural forces of what Reclaiming priest Donald Engstrom calls " beauty, balance, and delight". May we get through these hard times, may peace prevail on this magnificent planet, may over and over we invoke: Joy to the World! So mote it be!

Joy to the World Blend

1part orange essential oil - this provides zest and a feeling of optimism
1 part frankincense essential oil - one of the oldest sacred oils, for endurance, reduces stress and tension
½ part myrrh essential oil - this is also one of the oldest, having been used by humans for over 4,000 years. Imagine people using it 4,000 years into the future. Feel your connection to all, past and present.
½ part ginger essential oil - for energy and stamina, for the sun!
1 drop rose essential oil - just a drop of liquid love and open heartedness

This blend can be put in carrier oil such as almond or jojoba for a personal scent or charging oil. It also can be put into bath salts, spritzers, or bath bombs. The main thing is to charge it as you are making it. Feel your connection to the miracle of life on this planet. Mindfully inhaling and exhaling, feel the power of our constant giving and receiving. Imagine this power flowing into the oils as you work with them.
I have not put quantities of drops, as this will depend on how much you are making. Adjust it to the strength you like, and use your divine intuition on changing proportions to suit your taste(well, smell).

Sunday, February 19, 2006

a hard week

On Valentine’s Day, an enormous cold front rolled into town. Here on Sunday, five days later, it still hasn’t left. It feels like the whole city is in shock, like the cold drink of winter was splashed back in our face, just as we were getting use to intoxication of spring.

It’s been a hard week. I spent the evening of Valentine’s Day seeing a slew of couples. I’d tried to convince them last week that it might not be the healthiest thing to go to couples therapy on Valentine’s Day, but none of them were having it, several calling it a “Hallmark Holiday”. In my book, it’s the one holiday not associated with a religion, or war, or a famous dude, but one purely focused on celebrating love. After a friend pointed out that so many of my past pledges to Brigid in some way or shape involved relationships with others, I made my pledge this year to fully embark on a romance/love affair with myself. My birthday week was a great start, but I should have not seen those couples on Tuesday. It certainly made me not miss being in a couple, but I should have taken the night off and done something I loved.

Luis Keminzter, one of the people I’ve known the longest from the intersection of the anarchist/Reclaiming communities died this week. He died the morning of the day I’d planned to visit him at the hospital. This is still sinking in.

And then I put my two cents into a discussion on the international Reclaiming e-mail list, called Spider. Jeesh. As I’m writing this I’m shaking my head. Even from the midst of the chaos of cleaning up New Orleans, Starhawk had time to write a missive directed at me. This time, it for some reason really made me laugh. I’ve always liked that about her, that she’s feisty and funny. She’s got the Emma Goldman in her, that’s for sure. I wonder what comrade of Emma’s had the ability to piss her off royally? I take this coven stuff pretty seriously, believing I’ve spent lifetimes with all those I’ve covened with, that we are bound by karma. Have Star and I been fighting for centuries? Did we have one lifetime where we just fully enjoyed each other? This lifetime we’ve seemed to do both equally, but this fighting just may be starting to outweigh the enjoyment. No more covens this time round, that’s for sure. Between Matrix, the Wind Hags, and Triskits, my dance card is full.

I’ve been working on rewriting my old article about Elvis that I did for the Reclaiming Quarterly. Last night I dreamt about it and saw my articles from the Quarterly on my blog. I’m going to go thru them and see if any make sense anymore and perhaps archive them in the blogosphere. Or maybe that’s just indigestion from the Spider spat working itself out in my dreams.

What a week! I’m glad I’m not at Pantheacon, the big pagan conference in San Jose this weekend. That would just be too damn much. Friends from England, Peter and Alex, have been visiting out here and are now down there. Peter is a historian interested in writing the history of Reclaiming. Macha’s already given him an earful, and he’s looking to talk to Thorn and Anne down at PCon. Tonight they will be involved in a big Feri ritual at the same time a bunch of other Reclaiming folk are involved in a Brigid ritual. I’m happy to be home, bundled up against the cold. This was a hard week.

Monday, February 13, 2006

pulling strings

It’s been a glorious past few days here in San Francisco. The trees are in full blossom, everything is greening, and the city is giddy with spring. I’ve had an incredible birthday week, culminating in this weekend, which then ended in today….which just happens to be the birthday of one of my dearest friends…Reya Mellicker, blog queen of Washington, D.C. The fates decided that the majority of women I’ve loved in my life would make an appearance center stage this week, and today I woke up mindful and heartfull that this was the anniversary of my dear friend's entrance into being.

Last Sunday’s table full of women friends appears to have worked as some sort of great invocation, calling in all women friends, bringing them strongly into focus. Strings were pulled taut and women I’ve been corded to showed up out of the blue, out of the past and out of our last conversation.

My friendship with Naomi was one of the gifts from my birthday last year. This year I spent the evening with her and a slew of other beautiful women at Mecca, new and old friends among them, eating oysters and basking in the changes of the past year. Friday night I had dinner with one of my oldest friends, my friend Katie, a long feast of both delicious food and conversation, both of us delighting in the length and breadth of our friendship.

Saturday morning I found myself at a brunch reunited with two women I haven’t seen in over 15 years. They were best friends who started a feminist mental health clinic where I interned, both incredible role models to me, strong women with not only good politics, but oh! such good hearts. My friend Angie, had a crush on one of them, and I on the other. What a crush it was! I can remember my breath catch the first time I saw her, tall, dark and beautifully handsome, describing the program. Sometimes when I saw her for supervision I would blank out for minutes at a time, lost in crushdom. I was not alone. She had most of the straight women in the program questioning their sexuality. Barbara, Angie and I spent hours as young interns discussing our “transference” feelings towards one or the other of them, and here, some 20 years later, Barbara picked this moment to invite us all to brunch. At sixty-two, my crush is still knock out gorgeous, can still hold the room spellbound by the combo of the sensuous lilt of her voiced (spiced by the Bronx), and her elegant hands accenting her words. My breath still catches looking at her, but this time round, we’re both grown up, and having the feeling devoid of the unsteadiness of youth is something to relish.

Last night, in my kitchen, I put my arms around the two women I was both friends and lovers with in my early twenties and had a little moment (you know, where the heart chakra opens and you get all weepy…). Janet I see a lot these days, but my other friend lives four hours away, and between our lives and children, we don’t see each other often. Life conspired to bring her up here this weekend, and then more strings were pulled and we all ended up in the same place at the same time.

Today I woke up and thought about the fact that Reya had been born on this day, five decades and some years back in time. I thought about all the ways our friendship has enhanced my life, and flavored the way I see the world. Happy Birthday, Reya! What a blessing it is to me that you were born. What a blessing to have such incredible woman friends. I'm having a moment....a moment that's been lasting for days.

Friday, February 10, 2006

rose's poem goes into blogosphere

One of the unexpected gifts of my birthday was Rose sending me this poem, saying she'd heard about the Brigid magic and doesn't do blogs, but here was a poem. So here it is...cast out into blogosphere, reminding me so much of the goings on at the Black Cat House, home to her and Starhawk and where I met weekly for so many years when I was in coven with them. I know all the cast of characters except Jose. Their struggles with Frances have gone on for years now. I haven't stepped foot in the Black Cat for at least two years and maybe never will again, I don't know. I'm savoring this moment of affection. Poetry has the power to heal.



The white blossoms
on France's plum tree
twisting me in figure eight
reverie
the other egg on the eight
my white and curly
soft and fluffy
utterly squishy pup
But now Frances
more and more insane
has had her man Jose
butcher the tree,
chop all the top away
it looks like hell.
Star told here
(thank goddess)
leave the part
that rises over our fence
there.
And that's the law.
This bit still blooms
that's good
and still of course
there is the dog.

- rmd
brigidtime 06

Monday, February 06, 2006

one surprised carrot!

In the past year I’ve been combing thru the teachings of both Feri and Reclaiming, questioning what still works for me and what needs refinement, if not downright jettisoning. In the last few days I’ve been thinking about what Victor Anderson, the founder of Feri, had to say about birthdays. Victor stated that our birthday is the most important pagan holiday. The day of our birth, and the birthdays of those we love, is certainly worth holding in high spiritual regard. It’s a miracle, this gift of birth, this gift of life. It makes sense that we honor and celebrate it, remembering that our own personal journey thru the lifecycle reverberates with the stories of the god/desses, is in fact the story of one divinity within a pantheon of other divine beings.

However, I don’t believe that the day of our birth is the most important holiday; I think it’s here that Victor’s weakness for the grand pronouncement shows, and the “I” ness of Feri reveals itself. Holding the celebration of our birth above celebrating the sacredness of the turning of the wheel, creates a linear model of reality, as opposed to embracing the interconnectivity of all things. What’s more important, the soup or the carrot? I’m for worshipping both, and scoffing at the concept that underlies that question. However, I’m grateful for Victor pointing out the importance of birthdays. Placing the date of our birth on the calendar of sacred celebrations is an important addition to pagan theology, one that places our divinity within the seasonal celebrations of the turning of the wheel, and one that helps restore immanence of the sacred to the human experience. In celebrating the seasons of the year, we celebrate and honor the soup of life. Honoring our birthday, we celebrate the sacredness of the particular spice and flavor that we add to it. (thank you, Magda, for your soup and carrot analogy!)

Last year, on Febuary 9th, I turned fifty. That weekend I had a huge party. It turned out to be a party at which almost every one of my friends and family participated in….even if they couldn’t make it. A huge extravagant bouquet of flowers, with a raven in the mix, was hand-delivered at midnight from my friends in D.C. People went all out. That party strengthened my belief that some of the most powerful rituals we have as human beings is a good party. Connections are made, bonds strengthened, and energy raised, with the intent of the party shaping the magic. My birthday party was a real act of magic, events of that night rippled out in the following months in all sorts of unexpected ways, and I started my 50’s feeling loved, rich in friends, a goddess among many.

I’ve had my years feeling the shadow side of birthdays, feeling disappointed or let down. During my marriage, more than twice my husband walked out of expensive restaurants, leaving me to pay the tab. Celebrating your own divinity and specialness is challenging, but it can also be challenging for those close to you as well. Like all the other holidays, birthdays bring up “issues”. An ex-lover of mine had major issues with the fact that she shared the same birthday with my son. Sharing birthdays, it’s just not good. My housemates share theirs, and it’s challenging, to say the least. Celebrating the specialness of the carrot in the soup gets messed up when the onion is celebrated at the same time.

Given the blowout of last year, I’d decided against any house celebration, and made a date to go out for drinks and dinner on Thursday, the day of my birth . Birthday week started this past Friday, when the shadow hit hard in the form of my feelings getting hurt by someone I love who’d taken a powder during my birthday last year. I went into the weekend with old demons flying around my head, feeling the loss of my hopes for both that relationship, and loss of connection or meaning in regards to the public rituals of local Reclaiming.

Sunday morning, my housemates were taking me to brunch. We’d planned this weeks in advance, given we all have busy lives, and mindful that I didn’t want celebrations at the house this year. On Saturday I had a blowout argument with one of them over white lies. I felt triggered for some reason about being lied to, and I accused her of being way too facile with white lying. An hour later, I blamed menopause.

By Sunday morning, our argument was repaired, and I got in the car with the two of them. I quickly felt my blood pressure rising, as our reservation was at a restaurant that is popular and won’t hold on to tables for long, and we had to retrieve a wallet left at another restaurant, and then the other housemate wanted to go in to use the bathroom, and parking was a bitch. Grumpily, my birthday demons flying around (not loved, not special, nobody really trying to get us to the restaurant on time) I followed them into the restaurant.

Then….paradigm shift, moment of revelation. There it was, a huge set table, surrounded by twenty some beautiful women friends, all beaming their love at me. I was surprised. Completely. My housemate had been telling all sorts of white lies, but they had been about this. Sometimes being psychic is just not enough. I’d been glimpsing things thru the glasses of the birthday demons, the ones that say we are doomed and fucked, unloved, and unlovable, alone and unappreciated in the cold soup of life. Those glasses I’m hoping are permanently retired, replaced by the clear vision of what I’ve made of this life, what a fabulous mixture I’m integral to. I’m surprised. Really, I am. I realized I’d never in my life had a surprise party, and I now understand the power of this, the potency. That party shocked me, it was a direct plunge from the forge into Brigid’s well. Victor was certainly right that birthdays matter, that they demand celebration. Tempered by the importance and sacredness of the turning wheel of the seasons, this is quite a tasty dish, this life!

Saturday, February 04, 2006

losing the anvil

Last night was the Reclaiming Brigid ritual, one in the past I have loved, but I had no desire to go this year, feeling deeply estranged from the local energy body of Reclaiming. I heard the anvil has gone missing, and a new one had to be purchased. I wonder what that augurs, what that signifies in the magical realms.


For me, the most incredible piece of magic done this Brigid has got to be the poetry that Reya elicited in blogdom. I will be savoring it for months to come, I’m sure. Between the worlds, the beauty of it continues to emanate.


My two goddess daughters dropped by my house with some friends, one who has taken magic classes from me since her freshman year in high school. They were off to the Reclaiming ritual, and were just in time to have my friend Nancy hand off to them water she had just brought back from New Orleans. Nancy is brilliant at figuring out ways to raise money that go towards things that make a difference. She was in New Orleans figuring out what that difference could be for that city. Full of ideas, fighting a cold, and overwhelmed with what she saw, she gave the girls the water and went home.


I’d had a very rough day, I’d had a painful conversation with a fading friend, and now my heart was tender with what I saw in and heard from Nancy about New Orleans. I read the Brigid poetry until tears streamed down my face. Thank you, Reya.


Then, an old comrade from both the magical and activist circles came over and we read more poetry, talked about mistakes made, and took our time coming up with our pledges to Brigid. I went to bed, praying that those at the Reclaiming ritual had the good sense to keep the waters of the world flowing this year, instead of collecting it and letting it stagnate, and praying that this be a year I stick close to the well and away from taking a beating on the forge.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

an offering to Brigid

Over twenty some years ago I was part of planning a Reclaiming public ritual for Brigid, Goddess of Poetry, Smithcraft, and Healing. It was Imbolc, or Candlemas, what most Americans know of as Groundhog day, that place on the wheel where you tune in to the first signs of spring. As part of the ritual, we decided to have each member of the community make a pledge for the coming year. Little did I know at the time that this would become a steadfast annual tradition, that these pledges would mold and shape my experience within the spiral of the persistent seasons.

This past year was shaped by my pledge to learn the difference between what was dead and what was alive, and to give my energy and heart to what was living. Oh! What a pledge that has turned out to be! After sharing a dinner and a movie together last night, I kissed goodnight the lover who I was so earnestly trying to accept was dead to me a year ago, savoring the constant hellos and goodbyes of living things, and the shifts that can happen in one short long year. I hoped to wake up this morning to a new pledge, but one has not come yet. It will, I'm sure of that.


There's been so many poems I've wanted to post today. I've had a pot of bulbs growing in my living room. Waking up this morning, and looking at the brilliant red tulips that have just bloomed, I realized it had to be this one, one which hasn't even been in the running, perhaps because it has been such a constant for me, and I've already read it or sent it out to all those close to me, jeez, I've probably even posted it before on this blog. Nevertheless, the red tulips demand that it claim it's place here today, the cry of a mystic grounded in love and desire of this world. So, sweet Brigid, I offer you up this poem...with much thanks to one of the great loves of my lifetime, Reya, for yet another of her brilliant ideas, an idea that I know is already a tradtion that will mark the coming years, enriching this wild ride thru the seasons...thank you goldpoppy.blogspot.com.....this is magic.

For Desire

Give me the strongest cheese, the one that stinks best;
and I want the good wine, the swirl in crystal
surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries,
or cherries, the rich spurt in the back
of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing.
Give me the love who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I'm drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I'm nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it. I want to go
staggering and flailing my way
through the bars and back rooms,
through the gleaming hotels and weedy
lots of abandoned sunflowers and the parks
where dogs are left off their leashes
in spite of the signs, where they sniff each
other and roll together in the grass, I want to
lie down somewhere and suffer for love until
it nearly kills me, and then I want to get up again
and put on that little black dress and wait
for you, yes you, to come over here
and get down on your knees and tell me
just how fucking good I look

Kim Addonizio