a cat by any other name...

After the break-up of my twenty year marriage, my friend Fern moved in with my son and I. We live in a large Victorian, full of spirits and odd happenings. Fern will be moving out in July, but for the past five years, she has added her own special something to the potent mix on York Street. Fern has a fascination with offbeat methods of healing, and is a real sucker for self-help systems. When she moved in, Byron Katie’s four questions were relentlessly invoked. (The four questions are; Is it true? Can you absolutely know that it's true? How do you react when you believe that thought? Who would you be without the thought?) One of the things I like the best about Reclaiming's principles of unity is the invocation of the questioning attitude, but damn, did my attitude suck in regards to those blasted questions! I was deeply relieved when this gave way to some method of tapping yourself when you have upsetting thoughts. Given she was going thru a bad break-up, Fern ended up tapping herself black and blue, and this gave way to something else.

Given that I see life as a dream, ripe with metaphor and meaning and spell work as just a way of working with the dream, we’ve been pretty good companions. My witchery doesn’t involve casting circles as much as cleaning the house or cooking dinner with intent. So, coming home to corn meal on the front stoop I might not exactly understand, but I trust is in the spirit of moving things along in a positive way. The self-help stuff always has made my eyes roll, but Fern is also a kick ass professional astrologer, and what house can’t use one of those? She’s also dispensed advice on what flower essence would be best for just about any feeling under the sun, and I took her advice on painting a drain pipe gold in the money corner of the house when she was going thru a Feng shui phase. Her strong belief that a light bulb embedded in a chunk of salt would change the energy of the house ended up with my ex and I ordering one on Ebay. It turned out to be bigger than my head, and reminds me of the salt licks we put out for the sheep and cattle when I was a kid.

Fern has been plagued by chronic pain from endrometritus, and it must be said that she certainly has tried everything…and I mean everything, to heal it. She’s eaten something called “kitcheree” now for months, and has been on every kind of healing diet you can imagine. Tragically, none involve anything fun or tasty, like chocolate, wine, or caffeine. At one point, I had to put my foot down and demand that the house be a free zone from discussing the merits of colonics. Some shit should literally not be talked about. I've been waiting for the day I find a jar of leeches in the kitchen and we have to argue over the merit of them healing wise. Fern enthusiastically engages in healing others as well, including the pets. Gus, the narcissistic hound dog, has seen psychics and gone for cranial sacral treatments. Every healer has had the same basic information. Gus is basically fine, but he would like her to wear more fuzzy sweaters.

While I was in Britain, she turned her attention to my son’s cat. Casey got him as kitten at the same time as our family was breaking up. He named him “Saturn”. Saturn has been a skittish, very anxious, skinny little cat, almost autistic in regards to relating. Our other cat, who Casey named “Tickles”, is just like his name, a big, easy-going, clown of a cat. Fern, being an astrologer, felt that my son was reacting to the Saturnian changes in his life, Saturn being a planet that symbolizes difficulty and constriction. Casey had unconsciously named his experience in the naming of his pet. Being given such a name, the little kitten had taken on some of the pain and anxiety due to the break-up. Of course he was a nervous wreck! She decided to experiment by calling him a name associated with expansiveness and joy. While I was gone, she began calling him Jupiter, and slipped him some flower essences. I suspect there might have been some Reiki aimed in his direction as well.

On my return, the cat formerly known as Saturn, had fattened up. He honestly had put on more weight! Besides the weight gain, his coat looked shinier, and most amazingly of all, he now will jump into various laps and actually cuddle up and relax. I’ve taken to call him “Joop Joop” and he does seem to like it. So funny, after all these years of various treatments and healing regimes, the one instantly effective came down to changing a name. Is it true? Do I absolutely know it’s true? And most important question of all; Is it funny? Yes, indeed! Even if it wasn't true, it should be, just for the sheer delight of it. There’s power in names. They are indeed, a kind of magic. Who knew it could really be this simple?

days of glamour

Was it only a week ago that I came back from Britain? It’s so hard to believe, because I’ve been going full tilt ever since. My trip was great, I feel blessed by my connections to my friends on that isle. Andy, Brigid’s British Bard, even gifted me with a poem on his blog! It kind of makes me blush, but I'm breathing into it, trying to stretch the heart to take in the love I've been given. What a gift that I can now picture so many of my friends in their own homes, and have met their partners, children, and pets! My trip was great, but whew!, my life at home is the real whirlwind!

The last few days have been the days of glamour. The only thing missing is some paparazzi lurking about taking pictures. Come to think about it, that actually happened as well, there was picture taking! On Saturday night I went to the big NCLR gala, which some call the lesbian prom, and others refer to as the lesbian Oscars. Three thousand women dining and dancing and celebrating common heroes. It was estrogen overload! Last night I went to the Goldman awards, which essentially are the Oscars for environmental activism. And then, of course there were the pre-parties, the after parties, and the after-after parties! I’ve danced my ass off, cried in response to the beauty and bravery of those receiving awards, and met more people in the last few days than I can count. These award ceremonies are important. They are inspiring. And, damn, they are fun!

There’s no doubt about it, human communities need these kinds of rituals. Not only is it important to honor those who serve the community, it’s important for the community to all come together to celebrate, party down, and rejoice. A big part of it is looking around at everyone in their finery, and saying “damn, we look good!” Doing the work is important, but it’s in the celebration and the partying that the soul of the fetch gets fed. The fetch or younger self/soul, is a concept from Feri tradition. The fetch is the part of the soul that deals wordlessly with the worlds through pure sensations, emotions, and images. It’s the part of us that is moved by symbols and play. My fetch is downright overstuffed with richness of the meals it has been served in the past few days! This is one fed fetch!

I’m having a new appreciation for the Oscar’s, and more understanding of what it serves for the culture at large. In honoring the stories/dreams of our culture, and the roles in the storymaking/dreammaking, something sacred is happening, something which operates beyond the verbal. All the hubbub about the outfits actually serves something. We need ritual displays of fabulousness! Celebrity culture is not to be encouraged, but there’s something else afoot during those Oscars, something that sings to our need and love of ritual and ceremony. If I hadn’t been in such a whirlwind these last couple of days…I’m sure I could be more articulate about this. Darn. This glamorous life is exhausting, and the fetch has never been that great in getting it's point across with words. I've a lot to digest. I've had a full plate and then some!

am I nuts?

I’m in a writing group, presumably to work towards writing a book. That’s why we formed the group, but so far what I’ve gotten out of it is the startling realization that I just may be against being an author, although I love to write. Back before my nasty expulsion from the garden of Bay Area Reclaiming, I loved the exercise of coming up with a quarterly column for the magazine. I sorely missed that, until the creation of this blog. How incredible to be able to write without censor, without being asked to toe a party line…a party line which is taboo to even acknowledge! Reya’s blog Declaimed touched a nerve, one that’s still tender. But I digress…

Why don’t I want to write a book? Friends have questioned if it has to do with self esteem issues, with not seeing myself as capable of producing something of value. I’ve questioned this too, and it may have been true at some time, but doesn’t seem to be the issue presently. Do I have something to say? Oh, yes! There’s a shelf of possible tomes, some with titles that tickle and amuse, which is why some of my friends cheer on the idea of pulling at least one out of the ether.

During a long past darkening moon our group wrote about what obstacles we have to writing that we’d like to see wane. I surprised myself by writing a long piece about my fear of having my words “set in stone”, of having to stand by words I no longer believe in. Something about books don’t let things move on, they freeze the author to a particular time and state of mind. This is what I love about blogging. Not only do blogs move thru time and space, you can even go back and change or delete entries. Blogging is fluid, and close to ethereal. And entire blog can be erased with the punch of a few buttons. I love that. A published book can’t be taken back. Somehow, that gives me the jitters.

I had a breakdown/breakthrough as a teenager after reading Colin Turnbull’s books on the Mbuti pygmies. I questioned the whole point of “progress” and western civilization, being struck by how the pygmy culture had endured for years, living in harmony with the forest around them. Sitting down by the creek behind my house, listening to the frogs suddenly felt much more important than my school work. My year imagining myself as a pygmy certainly is part of what led to my being a witch, and I’m sensing that somehow that faux pygmy self is tied up in my resistance to producing a book. Ironic, that the very reading of a book may be the genesis to my resistance to writing one.

I continue to be ambivalent towards monumental culture, that which is obsessed with leaving behind structures/objects which memorialize both the society and self. What does the drive to leave something behind really serve, much less the drive for fame and public recognition? Isn’t the landscape cluttered enough at this point with more stuff than we can ever really use and books we can read and hasn’t “celebrity culture”(which monumental culture birthed) done nothing but produce a sea of narcissists and jerks? And yet, I’m the first to go out and buy the newest Mary Oliver book and last night I found myself wishing I was with my housemate at a swanky party rubbing shoulders with George Clooney. I learned in high school that my western mind could not be put aside. I’m a product of monumental culture who longs to understand how it would feel to be a child of an oral culture, one where there is no drive to leave behind any footprints but stories. Perhaps this is one of the reasons being a therapist suits me so, as nothing ever changes in my room all day but the stories. I love that!

I struggle on in my writing group, and even have produced a pretty good outline on a book about the use of the elements in psychotherapy, which at the very least is a good exercise in clarifying my thoughts on how I work, even if I never publish it. Wow. Even as I write these words, I feel the power of my resistance. I’ve been in covens with two writers who have popular published primers on the Craft. I think given what I’ve seen, I'm not as concerned about failure as I am wary of success. That might really do in my faux pygmy self for once and for all. Maybe it’s time it goes, but I’m just not sure if it’s worth it. Thank goddess for blogging! Who knew the creation of cyberspace would open up a jungle for a faux pygmy to flourish in?!

the grass is greener

I always love returning to San Francisco. This is one of the great reasons for traveling, because no matter how green the field or stunning the city, when I come home, I fall in love all over again. The entire time I was gone, all news from home included a sense of dismay over the constant rainfall. I landed on Monday to a city awash in sunshine, the first in weeks. The last few days have been glorious. Am I being grandiose to feel my city is welcoming me back? Believing there is no coincidence, I can only deduce that I truly live in exactly the right place.

A week ago today I was in a little antique shop in a small village in Wales. I pulled out an old book on West Wales just as a song starting playing about San Francisco…that hippie favorite about wearing a flower in your hair when you come here. Susan, who loves living in West Wales, bought the book, it having information on local holy wells and sacred sites that she hadn’t seen elsewhere. There’s no coincidence that she’d be buying an old book about the place she loves just as I’m enjoying a song which exalts my beloved city

That moment turned out to be the beginning of a shamanic shopping day, with magic abounding in our finds.. Within the hour, I’d found the magical tool I’ve been calling out for months for; my sweet cup. For years, my tool of the west has been a beautiful handcrafted brown glass goblet with etched oak leaves on it. Recently I had the realization that this cup I’ve used ritually to hold the bitter cup of death, which I sip from every Samhain. A shock to realize that I hadn’t been balancing this by drinking a sweet cup at Beltane! We witches do have a bad habit of giving a bit of a stronger nod to the dark and bitter. So funny, I’ve questioned for years the meaning of Bay Area Reclaiming having a big hoodoo event for Samhain which has never found it’s balance in the Beltane celebration, and here I’ve been doing the same thing by not balancing the bitter with the sweet!

Tonight, my beautiful blue sweet cup sits on my altar, a cup made in Wales, a land whose green fields are soaked in magic, and where beauty abounds. I had an incredible time; it was an affair to remember. But I’m home, to my beloved, who just happens to have the greenest grass on her hills that you can imagine, and who appears more beautiful then when I left her. I know it’s because of the rain, but I’m so delighted and amazed that the grass is actually greener. There is no coincidence.

I love that!

a revolution disguised

On my last evening in Wales, two other friends I met thru witchcamp came over to dinner at Susan’s. Isobel has been both heart and backbone of a collective organic farm community for many years, and she bought along her youngest of three children, a babe in arms who radiated calm good will, bearing a Welsh name that’s slid right off my memory bank. Sid, once a journalist, tried living at the farm, but the moistness and mildew brought on a near death experience of pneumonia, and he now runs a record shop in the nearby town. The evening was delightful, and much of the talk, as it can do in these times, ran down the course of what preparations need to be made for oil running out. Armageddon/Apocalypse or The Great Turning, the two ideas seem almost interchangeable in conversations I’ve recently been part or privy to. I’m noticing a shift slightly towards The Great Turning, a time of tumultuous change, which results in a more sustainable way of living….and I find myself breathing into this vision/version, and noticing just how many people I meet are feasibly part of bringing this into being.

Perhaps it’s something about Wales, or perhaps it’s something to do with those who’ve moved out of metropolitan areas, who live closer to their food and sustenance, but I was struck by my friend’s balanced blend of practicality and mysticism. Sturdy, pragmatic visionaries, all of them! If I come here again, I will surely visit the farm and the record shop, both vividly described by Isobel and Sid. Isobel’s farm is a magnet for idealistic folks, and we laughed heartily at the stories of how much of the time it is the rigid idealists who can’t hack the complexities and contradictions of the daily life of farming and the vexing nature of people living in community. Sid’s stories of the record store had me completely entranced, as it sounds as much a vortex of magic as anything else, where musicians jam together, the art and craft of friends are displayed, and where he furthers the work of the environmental group he is part of. In making enough to live on, Sid does so much more, creating a space which fosters community and goodwill.

Sid told a story of traveling to London, deeply inspired by the arrest of some people in Parliament Square who were simply reading off the names of those killed in Iraq. He went, hell bent on getting arrested himself by making a public statement about his opposition to the war. He read names of the dead and was ignored, tried to talk to the man who’s been camped out there for over a year and was roundly verbally abused, and Sid came away somewhat stunned by his complete inability to get either arrested or acknowledged. As he told the story, I found myself smiling broadly, tickled completely at the wisdom of the fates that led Sid right back to his record shop. Isobel calls it “a revolution disguised as a record shop”, and how right she is! These are the kinds of revolutions that I love seeing tended and fermented. Although they don’t make the headline news, they are slowly and deliberately creating a great turning, one which just may, if we are lucky, create a future worth living in.

Today I left Wales, and already I miss the persistant and pervasive image of the red dragon. From now on, when I see it, it will symbolize pragmatic visions, the magic of the mundane, as well as the mystery of the red blood of life, an association which those in the Reclaiming community have worked with for years. Long live the Red Dragon!

the spot and the X

It’s been over a week that I’ve been in Britain, first in England, and now in Wales. Tonight I’m in what is considered the spiritual heart of Wales, St. David’s. I can see why. This afternoon I sat on a cliff above the sea, paying homage to the beauty all around me. Behind me were the ruins of an ancient chapel, with its accompanying holy well. And as with most sacred Christian sites in this land, it happens to be surrounded by the remains of a stone circle. St. David’s is a small village, remarkable for its ancient cathedral that would be better suited for a major city. It’s sacred site a-go-go around here! Sitting on the cliff, with the myriad light jewels sparkling in the water below, I felt the thrum of life humming in everything.

Tonight is the first time I’ve been alone in a long, long time. At home, it’s unusual to have a night alone. Since landing in Britain, I’ve spent every evening in the company of friends. After the week of build-up to doing two initiations, and the celebrating that came afterward, I needed some downtime. I’ve been staying at Susan’s farm house near Carmarthan, the supposed birthplace of Merlin. Susan was one of the priestess’s initiated, and she drove me here today. The cell phone I brought which was supposed to work has not, and there is no internet available here. So the aloneness is palpable. I’m enjoying it immensely.

In this most mythic of settings, it’s been a mythic week. Without forethought, these initiations were scheduled close to the year anniversary of my Feri coven sister’s ritual of commitment to Lucifer. This was a move which all the rest of us were solidly against, and which have rendered the fabric between us all, but has also provided the unique gift of making me carefully shine a light on what of Feri and Reclaiming I value, and jettisoning what smacks of sorcery. So strange, the disparate paths the members of the coven Triskel/Triskets have taken!! I find myself here on this wild coast, thinking about my own path, and thinking about this human quest for power and our compulsion to make monuments to the sacred…creating structures that sing “power abides here!”, creating the X that marks the spot.

Gazing down at the swirling water this afternoon, wildflowers all around, I could feel the power of the elements in this place, the uniquely stunning mix they make here that causes all but the most sensory blocked human to be in awe of the beauty of this planet. Years ago, when I was teaching magic to activists, one asked me about “creating” sacred space. She asked “Isn’t every spot on earth sacred?” Today I thought a lot about that, how, yes, this whole planet is sacred…and every moment also. “Creating” sacred space is really a sort of remembering that we stand in sacred space, and places like this are not anymore sacred than others, but something about their beauty and particular energy helps us remember to breathe deeplyand cherish the moment. Sitting on the edge of the cliff, I didn’t need a stone circle or mighty cathedral to worship the fierce intricacy of Gaia, or to give thanks for the gift of being alive.

Could there be a connection between the urge of humans to create monuments and our urge to create rituals? With both, it seems it’s important to not lose sight that they are only a means of remembering, the spot remains, whether marked with an X or not. I felt clearly this round of initiations that I don’t pass power at all, but something about the ritual reminds or wakes up the initiate to the power that has been in them all along, the simple current of life force that sings thru all of us, just as these rocks, ruins, and mighty cathedral serve as signposts to what is actually already here. What could be better?

daffodils in England

One of the first things I noticed after I landed at Heathrow was the daffodils. Alongside the roads, bordering homes and sidewalks, and streaking across fields, the brilliance of their yellow pronounced the arrival of spring. Back in San Francisco, the spirits of seasons seemed to be in a battle, one day winter holding sway with gales of cold rain, the next the spring sun shining triumphantly. The tension between the two, along with the intensity of the eclipse, the construction below my home still in limbo, and my being the only non-disabled person in my household, made this a perfect time to dodge out of my beloved city. Hurling my body across the time and space tends to be tough on me, but as soon as I saw those daffodils, I knew that it would all be worth it, that I was in the right place.

The last few days I’ve stayed with a friend I’ve met thru teaching at witchcamp. She lives in Chesham, a small town/village in Buckinghamshire, which is literally the last tube stop out of London. I have an ongoing ambivalence towards the institution of witchcamp, but one thing I’m totally clear on is that I’ve met the most incredible people thru doing it. Everyone I’ll be visiting in these next two weeks I’ve met as a result of teaching camp, and every one of them is a gem. I’ve come to England to initiate two of them, to participate in rituals in which they will commit themselves to the Craft and claim the name of both priestess and witch. I’m ambivalent about the two traditions that became blended in me, Reclaiming and Feri, but I’m pleased that I’ve remained sure of doing these initiations.

Yesterday I stood in front of a beautiful statue at one of the museums in London that I visited. The statue was from Tibet and it was described as “a reassuring Buddha”. The incredible thing is, it really was. Before I even looked at the placard below it, I felt this strong sense of everything being just as it should be, a deep sense of calm in the midst of jet lagged over stimulation. Being in a different time zone, in a different country and culture, during an age of miracles (e-mails/cellphones/movies on the backs of airplane seats) is something this particular primate finds daunting to the nervous system. But something about that Buddha and the ever present daffodils I find profoundly reassuring. I’m glad I’m here.