branches up, roots down

“The Universe is made of stories, not of atoms.” Muriel Rukeyser The Universe is made of stories and each story is made of words. And each word itself has a story.   To name a thing is powerful, in itself a story invocation.   And, as in most invocations, we rarely are in control of what comes in and what magic it will work and what story will unfold. Taking a new name as part of following a spiritual path is nothing new. I would guess it is a cross-cultural experience, an innately human part of trying to give voice and name the experience of expanding consciousness, being reborn, and/or committing to a particular path. The name I was given at birth, Deborah, I seized back after years of being Debbie. It was in itself a story changer, moving me into adulthood and away from childhood. Only one person remains in my life who calls me “Debbie”, the very person who named me Deborah; my mother. Can you sense the story behind that? There have been three ...

Today is officially Samhain, but who can tell the difference! The veil has been sliver thin all week. Heck, for way more than a week! Last week the Chronicle photographer came over to photograph my house for the usual little article on real Witches and Halloween. I knew the dead were really here when my sister from Santa Cruz "just happpened" (like there's such a thing as coincidence!) to drop by. She ended up holding the martini glass that goes on the altar for my father. We laughed heartily, agreeing he really wanted to get his picture in the paper this year. And, usually the martini goes on Samhain night. This year, he wanted that drink ahead of time. Who can blame him! The little article turned out to be a BIG article , with plenty of my dead being clearly featured. The martini got plenty of play as well. Good magic, as my plea this year was that they put their shoulder to the wheel of positive change. My father was a Republican who wrote JFK and apologized for vo...

It's Beltane, and I am in the West Village in New York City. The air is thrumming with life and everywhere there are tulips, hyacinths, and blooming dogwoods. Soon I will be priestessing a ritual for a friend who has for many years tended the dead and the dying. She was chaplain on the burn unit in the hospital closest to ground zero on that day that still reverberates throughout this city. She had one initiation years back into the Craft that focused on death and rebirth but was long on death, short on rebirth. For too long she's had one hand thru the veil, helping others pass. It has taken a toll. Today, the focus is on life, on that green fuse that runs thru the flower, that runs thru everything. Today, I've asked her to put her hand on the pole and feel the power as the ribbons wind, that vibration of the joy of connection, the current in the colorful tangle and pattern of life. Here in New York City, the earth is alive. Death is a current that can be felt, and ever...

I love this world! Who could have guessed that this trip to Portland would end with my son and I sitting here for so long at Gate 13? Oakland Airport has no Gate 13, or at least it didn’t on Friday the 13 th . Reality has been so malleable that I wouldn’t be surprised if now a Gate 13 has appeared. Or, maybe here in Portland , bastion of so many earth worshipers, the number 13 is held in good repute. Whatever the case, I’m getting a kick out of the fact that here we sit, waiting for our flight which is delayed, right under a big sign for Gate 13. The trip has been a good one. I met Archer, the six week old son of my friends Lilith and Scott. Lilith and Scott are the kind of people who whatever they engage in, they do it well. Thank goddess their extreme competence is leavened with a great sense of humor. Going out to dim sum with them along with my friend Dawn’s and my teenage son, I found myself savoring the feeling of the movement of time, of new and upcoming generatio...