Pride comes before....

I’m coming down from a mighty cone o’ power. All around the city you can feel the effects of the magical hangover which is the Monday after Gay Pride Weekend. I’m sure that for many, the magical hangover is more complicated. Dionysus loves this crowd, and the Queer Gods grace this party with their perpetual indulgences. It’s a great rite, with a constant gathering crowd, starting with a Tranny March on Friday, the Dyke March on Saturday (which ends up in the Castro where the Sisters of, yes, Perpetual Indulgence preside over a huge street party), and then the humongous Pride March on Sunday. All the while, a huge pink triangle graces the city from the heights of Twin Peaks.

My girlfriend is one of the eight women who put on the Dyke March, which is feat of magic in itself. The Dyke March is actually an afternoon concert, a political action, a huge picnic party, and a march, all rolled into one. Oh, and it’s also transformative ritual.

Somehow they do this all without any corporate sponsorship. The only advertising is on the Porta-Potties, where small businesses and individuals can donate to have a sign put up.

This year, I had my name on a toilet with my name and the admonishment, “Deal With Your Shit!” followed by the more gentle “Psychotherapy with a Sense of Humor”. Who knows if I’ll get any clients out of it, but if I do, they promise to be interesting.

Saturday I picnicked for hours with friends listening to great music. I’d brought grilled vegetables, foccacia, and summer fruits. My wry friend Chez brought the makings for fish tacos. Could anything be more perfect for a Dyke March? My girlfriend cruised the park with her headset, making sure everything was running smoothly. Like any good magic, it was harmonious chaos. We ended up dancing in a flatbed truck which followed the Dykes on Bikes in heading up the march, marveling at the blocks of marchers who streamed behind us. All the while, well wishers hung out of windows and lined the streets, many with signs of support for dykes, lesbians, and queer culture.

Sunday morning, as the parade winded its way towards Civic Center, we gathered at Zuni Café, the best restaurant the world, for brunch. There were seven of us at a table next to the window. At some point, we realized there were seven or more women mirroring us outside our window at a table on the street. These women were a group of lesbian politicians and big time philanthropists and fundraisers, including Roberta Achtenberg. I laughed heartily realizing that the window was the only thing separating the two sides of power...or polarities of politics. Like a tree, every strong movement has a part that operates above and below ground, both equal in importance and power. Our table literally had women who had spent time underground in the 1970’s, and we ourselves represented a wide swath of radical politics, I think every one of us having been arrested at some point or another. We talked to the other table thru the window, and this in itself felt like a spell.

Sunday evening, I shucked oysters and made dinner for several friends who came over, all of us winding down from the weekend. Out of my front window, we could see the triangle slowly being dismantled. Pride Weekend is over, but once again, its magic has soaked into every cell of the landscape. San Francisco is one of the queerest cities on this green planet. Can there be any better place to live?

some things are illuminated

The sun is going down and the clouds are pouring over Twin Peaks, the sun glowing thru with a silver luminescence particular to this magical city. Tomorrow morning the sun will rise and reign over the sky. It will be summer solstice, the longest day of the year. If we are lucky, the sun will triumph and the day will be bright. In San Francisco, summer is unpredictable. I’m rooting for the sun, but with every moment, the fog thickens.

At the beach rituals I participated in for so many years, often planning and priestessing as well, we would build a wicker man and burn him. To the odd assortment of baskets and branches rigged up to create an effigy of a man, we would attach old spells, charms, letters, and other things we were ready to let go of. As the days have gotten longer I’ve been thinking about what has been illuminated in the last turn of the wheel. This of course, has led me to looking at what I am ready to let go of.

For many years, my practice as a witch focused primarily on creating and executing the big public rituals, and I couldn’t imagine a time when they would not be central to my experience of practicing the Craft. I’m thankful for the decades of adherence to these rituals, they all still sing in me. I can’t imagine witches not being out at the beach solstice eve. However, I no longer feel the pull to the big public ritual, but find my daily experience and awareness of the cycling of the seasons to be the stuff of my spirituality.

Today at my office, I cleared out my drawers and files. Last week I cleaned out my bedroom closet. I’ve been letting go of things gradually, and for some things too painful to mention, I’ve been grieving. All the while, I've been breathing into the increasing light, delighting in the summer fruits, and acknowledging the beauty in my life. The love affair of last summer solstice has deepened into partnership. My home is full of laughter and full of teenagers, including my goddess daughter - "home" for the summer. So much has been revealed, and although there are pockets of hurt and disappointment, light triumphs.

As I’ve been writing this, the sun has gone down, and the city lights glow in the dark. I am so glad for my years being a witch, for the attention spent on the gradations of the turn of the wheel, to the noticing of the push and pull of sun and moon, for the deep understanding of the sacredness of both light and dark. Maybe in a few years, I will long for the big public rituals, maybe I will need them once again. Right now, I’m fine with what it is. That is just one of the many things this solstice has illuminated. I am so grateful.

Queen of Hearts

As solstice approaches, the light seems to intensify life. I'm being tested on keeping my hearts in alignment....something I recently wrote about for the British Reclaiming Newsletter. Many in that community identify as Reclaiming Feri, and work intensely with my concept of the three hearts. It hasn't stopped conflict from occurring, and sadly a recent conflict was a factor in Avalon camp being canceled for this year. It has, however, assisted in many in that community behaving with integrity and coming from a place of compassion, even while speaking hard truths. A level of nastiness that sometimes occurs in pagan community has not been allowed to gather strength. I believe Avalon will come back stronger for it. Below is an re-edited version of the article on the three hearts....

Thirteen years ago Coven Triskets, of which I was a member, met several times with Victor and Cora Anderson, the founders of the Feri tradition. We were all Reclaiming witches working towards what we came to know as a Feri initiation. Reclaiming is a tradition spun of many threads, a strong one of which is Feri. Many concepts core to Feri are also core to Reclaiming, like the iron and pearl pentacles and the concept of us having three separate yet interdependent souls. It was after our meetings with Victor and Cora that Reclaiming witches began to work with the concept of the Black Heart of Innocence. The Black Heart is the soul in its natural state, unfettered by the restrictions of society. It is the child in the story "The Emperor's New Clothes" who speaks the truth. The Black Heart is primal, sexual, and innocent.

All of us were teaching Witchcamps at the time, and our excitement about the Black Heart soon infused the wider Reclaiming community. It was a time many of us were coming into our own power, and the Black Heart was a potent symbol of speaking truth and speaking up. Looking back, I cringe at the many mistakes that were made. Frankly, I and my covenmates were damn obnoxious. Even so, or perhaps true to a certain Reclaiming style, our arrogance had a glamour. The Black Heart caught on, and now many consider it core to the Reclaiming tradition.

A year or so ago I began working with the concept of the Green Heart of Connection and the Pink Heart of Compassion. Some Feri practitioners say that that the Black Heart is the state of being we speak from when the points of the Iron and Pearl pentacles are in balance. I have rarely seen this in action, but instead have seen the Black Heart operating as the heart of the fetch, of the primal younger self. For many people, reclaiming the beat of this heart is difficult, and requires diligent work. It means letting go of what other people think and feel, and speaking truth with a wide-open heart. It is one of the strengths of Feri, but I have also come to view it as one of its weaknesses.

To speak from only one soul, one part of our psychic structure, is to be off balance. Feri has been said to be an amoral tradition. This has never been appealing to me, and never been my experience of my souls being in alignment. The Black Heart is amoral, just as the fetch is. Neither are concerned with structures of morality or ethics, but beat to the drumbeat of individual and independent primal desire. As I have worked in the past couple of years to integrate the traditions of Reclaiming and Feri, the beat of the Black Heart called out to be met by other beats.

Reclaiming is a tradition that in theory has a clear moral compass, as expressed in the Principles of Unity. As a witch who is a blend of both Reclaiming and Feri, I felt a need for more than the beat of the primal Black Heart. For more than a year now, I have been working with the Black Heart of Innocence belonging to the Fetch, The Green Heart of Connection belonging to Talking Self, and the Pink Heart of Compassion which resides in the Divine Self.

How did this come about? One day, in the midst of an on-line debate on a Feri initiates list about power, I saw and felt these hearts clearly. Imagining them beat as one has become a core piece of my personal practice. The debate was about something Victor had supposedly said, about those with great power having a black aura similar to the untrained eye as auras of psychopaths and sociopaths. This was repulsive to me, and an example of why a Black Heart not balanced by the beat of connection and compassion can lead to a misunderstanding and even a perversion of spiritual power. There is power in working solely from the Black Heart, but not beauty. I could not, and still can not fathom why anyone would strive to appear to the untrained eye as a dangerous psychopath or sociopath. This strikes me as a glamorization of amoral power, or power for its own sake. Those who really walk a spiritual path are not amoral. Far from it. Those who walk the path of spirit have their souls in alignment, and each soul has a heart that dazzles. With all hearts beating in rhythm, the aura shimmers with the golden light of all spiritually attuned beings. There may be Feri practitioners with black auras, but my strong advice is to give these practitioners a wide berth. Somewhere in arguing my point, the hearts showed themselves to me.

The Green Heart of Connection is the heart of talking self, of the part of us who makes connections, uses words, and wants to communicate. This heart beats with concern for what effect its words and deeds will have on the world, and community. It beats with a deep understanding that everything we do has a consequence and that for every action there is a reaction. This heart is aware of being just one of many who live on this earth, and seeks to co-exist and co-operate with others. This heart understands and is concerned with context, with looking at how one thing relates to another. Unlike the Black Heart, it understands timing and diplomacy. This heart holds itself accountable for its actions.

The Pink Heart of Compassion is the heart of the divine self, the part of us who is tapped into our God/dess self, who is organized around what is for the good of all, and not concerned with self interest. This self and heart has the wide vision of the Goddess, beyond time itself. Love emanates from this heart and is the center of this soul.

Part of aligning my three souls is imagining and envisioning these three hearts, seeing them clearly in my minds eye, and feeling the beat of my own heart and feeling it as all three of these beating as one. When I am in conflict with others, or have something difficult to say, I try and do this with all hearts beating as one. I ask myself if what I am saying is true, necessary, and kind. The Black Heart beats out truth. Listening to the Green Heart, I imagine the effect of my words and ask myself if these words are needed. Is this a time I need to speak up? If it is, I breathe into my Pink Heart, and strive for each word to be kind, and stemming from love.

To be Reclaiming Feri is to embrace all our selves/souls, and to strive for these souls/selves to work in alignment. Over the years, I've had some hard and difficult things to say, things my Black Heart demanded to be said. In the past, I’ve been someone who has named the elephant in the room, and I’ve paid a mighty price for it. I still do so, and still occasionally pay a price, but I have learned to temper my fierce black heart with the beat of the green and pink. My Green Heart has made me accountable and responsible for the effect of my words and my Pink Heart has made me ground my words in love. Over and over again, I ask if what I am about to do or say is true, necessary and kind. I check in and see if one of the hearts has a louder beat. In my striving to be kind, am I not telling the truth? Am I feeling something needs to be said, and am rushing to do so before it has circulated a few times through the beat of the Pink Heart? Am I saying something that is true, but completely out of context? Am I willing to be accountable for my words? Asking these questions, and waiting for the hearts to beat as one, I’ve gotten better at knowing when to keep silent, and feel less and less regret for when I do speak up.

To work in any community, in any group of human beings, is challenging. To work in a group of witches is even more so, as we are tuning into not only what is said, but the energies behind it. My belief is that a community that beats solely to the rhythm of the Black Heart is not one that will be tolerable for long. Truth, like power, needs to be mitigated by compassion, and by our understanding that we all are connected and interdependent with the earth, and with each other. The concept of the three hearts grounds the power of truth in compassion and connection, allowing beauty to shine through.

Women In Art

She has many names. Some have been forgotten. Some still remain. Look around. She is everywhere.

Every one is ours

I was teaching at witchcamp in England almost two years ago when calling home I learned that. my housemate was going to Crawford, Texas to help publicize that a mother of a son killed in Iraq had started a peace encampment outside the president’s home. By the time I got home, Cindy Sheehan was a name that everyone knew, as well as the name of her son, Casey.

On Memorial Day, Cindy Sheehan once again made news, this time by publicly withdrawing and putting up for sale “Camp Casey”, a place than several of my friends have traveled to. I’d been thinking some about Cindy Sheehan the week before and about all the other mothers who have lost children in war. In that week, I’d been feeling how difficult it is to let go of children and also about how the direct effects and cost of the war had crept just a tad closer to my life.

I have a fifteen year old son who also has the name Casey. Our life here in San Francisco can sometimes be at a far remove from the rest of the country. A few years back Casey asked me, “Do we know any Republicans?” For all my talk about diversity, I had to ruefully admit that I couldn't think of anyone, and furthermore didn’t know anyone who supported or supports the war. Marla Ruzicka was the first and only death of someone I know personally, and she was in Iraq as a peacemaker, not a soldier. In the past weeks I’ve realized that I now know of five people connected to those I love who are serving the military in Iraq. The effects of their service are impacting my friends and family, reminding me that death is not the only casualty in war.

Meanwhile, my son is fifteen. This is the age closest in spirit to the terrible twos, when the human animal goes thru the throes of individuation, one moment clinging to the mother, the next craving separation, independence, and the flexing of the will. And of course, there are the tantrums. The last two weeks have been full of the same kind of pushing boundaries and testing limits that happened thirteen years ago. But this time, he’s bigger, smarter, and knows more bad words. Talking to my friend Thorn, she pointed out that teenagers acting badly is one way we can bear the pain of letting them leave in the coming years.

The acting out is horrible, but imagining him leaving is still a stretch. My son and his friends have adopted the close cropped hair that is the fashion these days, hair that resembles the standard army buzz. As they strut around the house, posturing with their newly developing man bodies, I occasionally feel a cold stabbing fear. One of them will go to war. Maybe all. Sometimes they are so full of hormones I've found myself saying “Boys, is there a bison or something you can hunt down and kill?” They need something to push against, a quest of some kind. What if we don’t get out of this war in Iraq? What if the draft is reinstated? What if enlisting feels like the quest for manhood they need to make? What if my Casey goes to war?

This is unimaginable. Even more so is the thought that my own son Casey could die in a war, especially in one as immoral as this one. I understand how Cindy Sheehan could leave her marriage and camp out across from the president’s house for several years. I hate to think what I would do in my grief and given that, I thank her for being so constructive, for showing the nation the face of a grieving mother who demands that no other mother lose a child for something so damn wrong. I also understand her getting tired and needing to go home, and her disappointment and disgust in Democrats who continue to okay funding for the continuance of this war. Since Cindy Sheehan camped out across from George Bush’s home, the numbers of dead sons and daughters have steadily climbed. How can you witness that and not despair? Especially when you acutely know the pain of losing a child?

My son is safely sleeping now, and this weekend he was as sweet as a fifteen year old can be. Besides the difficulty of his age, he's dealing with his father and young stepmother having just had a new baby. He’s a great kid, brought up in a remarkable community of activists and those who work for peace. Friends constantly reassure me that he won’t end up being a soldier, that I won’t lose him to war. Since his very age, since fifteen, I’ve done what I can to put an end to war. Perhaps I started out protesting to bug my parents, but they too in the end turned against the Vietnam war. I’ve marched, blockaded weapons, been to jail, signed countless petitions, wrote politicians, prayed, and done spell after spell to bring peace. And here we are, mired in a war as atrocious as that war of my childhood. In that war, it took us knowing that no son was immune to turn it around. My stomach lurches at this thought.

I’m sad that Cindy Sheehan feels so let down. But, damn, I understand it. What will it take for us to turn things around? How many sons and daughters have to die? Please Goddess, I beg you. Not mine. Not mine.