1.How would you explain your path to someone else with no knowledge of it? (please include the name of your path or paths)
Animism? Shamanism? I don't really have a name for my path. Among other people I have always referred to my path as "Free Agent of the Universe"--that is, I am on a path, I do recognize universal power, but how I relate to it is always subject to change and evolve. Then if there are any questions, I'll carefully get into details. I dedicate some time each day to wandering in nature with my dog. Speaking of dogs, I volunteer at an animal shelter, as I feel this is an essential part of me. I also tutor in a variety of areas, from the Pagan Way to history--passing on knowledge.
2.How is your path expressed in practice?
While I don't make a big outward show of my faith, I am aware that I am a walking ambassador not only for my faith but for the beliefs of so many good people out of the mainstream. I try to be a kind, compassionate, warm emissary in my daily life.
3.How do you know if your practice is successful?
I feel calm, at peace, and quietly happy.
4.Why have you chosen the particular path you are following?
I don't think I consciously chose it. I also don't believe I'm following anything so much as blazing a new path.
5.What is your experience of otherworld beings? (e.g. gods, wights, or other entities) Could you give some examples.
I have experienced otherworld beings, but I also realize that my experience is mine and may not bear any similarity to the experiences of others. I feel a constant presence, an energy that guides me and helps me make choices.
6.How do you see your relationship with them?
If I leave myself open and welcoming to them—knowing rather than believing—they will be here for me when I need them. I give them trust and they give me guidance.
7.How does your path relate to other areas of your life?
My path is a part of my life as a whole. It’s so thoroughly a part of who I am that it pervades my life and keeps me full of love and hope.
8.How do you see the relationship of life and death?
Life and death are two man-made words to describe an eternal continuum. Life and death aren’t polar opposites, for in death there is also life. Death is only the release from the fleshy shell.
9.How do you see time?
"Time" is a human yardstick. I don’t believe in one timeline. I do envision time as a spiral rather than as an arrow pointing in one direction.
10.How do you handle ideas of good and evil?
Good and evil are relative terms and should be defined on an individual basis. I don’t have concrete definitions as what is called good eventually turns evil and evil becomes good. They’re also changing concepts. What is evil today might be good next year.
11.How do you view different spaces and objects in your practice or experience? (e.g. circles, hearths, groves; wands, mead-horn, cup, plastic, wood, metal, clothing)
Certain places and items have resonated as being especially suited to me and my faith, but for me nothing is fixed. I look to my otherworld guides for a feeling of what is right at any given moment.
12.How do you feel about other religions?
Everyone has the right believe what they want so long as it doesn’t infringe on the rights of others. In other words, stay out of my face and I’ll stay out of yours.
13.How do you feel about science?
I agree with the Dalai Lama in that science and spirituality are essentially the same thing with two different methods.
14.How do you feel modern Paganisms relate to ancient paganisms?
Personally I don’t try to reach back to the practices of my ancestors. If I am following a certain path now, that path as it may have existed in the past exists in that moment. But I do enjoy researching ancient ways.
FREE AND GRATUITOUS HEX! WOMEN IN HATS! GODDESSES! BEING IN TOTAL CONTROL, HONEY! THERE'S LOTS OF EVERYTHING AND NO NOTHING! ARE YOU A POINTY HAT LADY? WHY NOT?
Sunday, October 23, 2016
Damsel In Distress? Like Hell!
This has mystified me since I reached an age where chivalry and bravado and coming to the rescue as a romantic gesture began to make a little sense. For some reason beyond my ken, I inspire feelings of protectiveness and downright knightly behavior on the part of the men who come into my life. The women, too, but I'm not getting into that right now.
Now come on. I've always been able to stand up for myself whatever the circumstances. I'm no shy, fearful, retiring little flower in need of masculine (or feminine) brawn to shelter me from the icy rain pellets of a big bad world. Shit happens, wise people have said. The art of life is not to avoid shit happening, but rather to navigate through said shit and come out the other side stronger and wiser for the experience. Let me add one more step--AND THEN MOVE ON!
Look, I grieve like most other human beings. I get hurt, and I need time to get over and past the hurt. But my driving philosophy is to move on, whatever the circumstances. At this point in my life (I'll be 39 this year) I've been through enough heartbreak, sickness, and bereavement to know for a fact that life continues on the other side. Through experience I've learned to let go of pain. I hold on to what was good in any situation, bear no grudges, and take the whole as a new building block for the pyramid that is life.
So I've even had guys online coming to my defense, or something to that effect. And you know, I'm grateful to have instilled such love and loyalty in said people. But relax! Things are good for me. I'm not dwelling on what's finished and I don't regret anything I've done. Don't feel the need to rescue this damsel in distress. Why not climb up the tower so we can all celebrate what is basically an exciting and amazing life?
Now come on. I've always been able to stand up for myself whatever the circumstances. I'm no shy, fearful, retiring little flower in need of masculine (or feminine) brawn to shelter me from the icy rain pellets of a big bad world. Shit happens, wise people have said. The art of life is not to avoid shit happening, but rather to navigate through said shit and come out the other side stronger and wiser for the experience. Let me add one more step--AND THEN MOVE ON!
Look, I grieve like most other human beings. I get hurt, and I need time to get over and past the hurt. But my driving philosophy is to move on, whatever the circumstances. At this point in my life (I'll be 39 this year) I've been through enough heartbreak, sickness, and bereavement to know for a fact that life continues on the other side. Through experience I've learned to let go of pain. I hold on to what was good in any situation, bear no grudges, and take the whole as a new building block for the pyramid that is life.
So I've even had guys online coming to my defense, or something to that effect. And you know, I'm grateful to have instilled such love and loyalty in said people. But relax! Things are good for me. I'm not dwelling on what's finished and I don't regret anything I've done. Don't feel the need to rescue this damsel in distress. Why not climb up the tower so we can all celebrate what is basically an exciting and amazing life?
Witchery Way
Pick up the skin of the wolf and feel yourself pouring in to fill its sleek contours.
The fires in the distance dance with abandon, teasing the swift winds that sail through the air.
Fire and air and sand and animal are all one at this place, this time, this hour.
Tip just a bit of that powder of gila monster and cactus pear into the tea.
Do the stars cling to you, clothing you as if by some mystical fabric?
Reach out and embrace. Fear none.
Throw yourself from the cliffs of the known and certain into the bliss gravity of the free fall.
Let the wind lift you and guide you.
Lose yourself to the celestial moment.
It is done.
Hera Unveiled
You've probably met Hera (known to the Romans as Juno) before, perhaps on your own or in a high school classical mythology unit. You probably know her as the nagging, shrewish wife of Zeus (Jupiter), the king of the gods and great lord of Olympus. But did you know that back in the mists of the ancient world, Hera was a Great Mother figure of the eastern Mediterranean region, a sky goddess beloved by millions in her own right as Queen of the Heavens? The jump from sovereign female to screeching grudge-holder takes some imagination to visualize, but over a few centuries Hera was so demoted. How, why, and what of the Hera that came before the arrival of Zeus?
Restoring Hera to her rightful place as a Great Mother Goddess is not a work of feminist revisionist history. Clues from the ancient world reveal the true Hera. The ruins of Hera's temple at Olympia remain beautiful and elegant, reflecting a love for a magnificent and inspirational goddess. The signs of Hera as she is portrayed in literature are lacking. Where is the ruthless and envious character that gives Zeus nothing but grief in Hellenic lore?
Maybe you have heard about Io, the beautiful woman in Hellenic lore that Zeus happened to notice as he was searching the world for a new romantic conquest. In return for the great honor of Zeus' lust, Io stood helpless as Zeus changed her into a heifer. This way, so Zeus believed, the king of the Olympians could deny the charge of infidelity leveled at him by his spiteful and jealous wife, Hera. As wise as she was angry, Hera demanded that Zeus give her the heifer as a token of his affections. Zeus could do nothing to protect the animal that had been the woman who had been his lover. At first Hera kept the heifer tied up in her own sanctuary. Later, Hera sent the notorious gadfly to continuously bite and irritate Io.
This tale isn't favorable for the innocent Io, but it is even more damaging to the character of Hera. She is best known as the wife of Zeus (or Juno to the Roman Jupiter), but when Hera is unveiled she becomes a great and ancient mother goddess, much beloved by her people.
The story of Io is a good example of how the tribes dedicated to the Sky Father grafted their own lore onto the pre-existing religious structures that existed wherever they invaded. On the Island of Argos the people worshipped Hera. "Hera" is not a name but a title, meaning "Our Lady." The Argives saw Hera as "cow-eyed," which culturally indicated her close association with the moon and making rain. Io was an Argive priestess-princess who led the people in public dances intended to ask for rain.
But this is not the version that has survived to modern times. Because the indigenous devotion to Hera remained strong, the tribes of Zeus joined the two deities in a marriage of convenience. The result was the jealous and wrathful Hera of the Hellenic age.
Hera never wanted anything to do with Zeus. She certainly never wanted to marry him. However, Zeus desired the majestic sky goddess with all that he was. He knew that Hera had a special fondness for a certain bird, the cuckoo, and he knew he could count on her compassionate nature. With this in mind, Zeus transformed himself into a disheveled cuckoo and flew into Hera's lap for sympathy. The kind Hera took pity on the bird. Her shock knew no boundaries when she suddenly found herself being raped by Zeus. Humiliated, Hera needed to restore her honor by marrying Zeus. This tale is likely a metaphor for the way in which Hera's people were conquered by the tribes of Zeus. Hera's later angry behavior towards her husband indicates the indignation of her people.
Let's look at Hera as she originally was, a beneficent sky mother holding her own among celestial powers. As mentioned before, "Hera" was a title and not a proper name. What Hera's original name was is lost to history. Hera reigned in beauty as queen of the earth and the heavens and human beings. She was kind to all, but favored women and female sexuality.
Hera began as a triple goddess. In her maiden form she was Pais, childless and free from responsibilities. She symbolized blossoming youth. Her middle form was called Teleia and presented her as a mother in the prime of life. In her third form she grew into Chera, the crone who has passed through motherhood to return to herself.
We might think the original Olympics were ancient. But the Heraea was an old festival that predated the Olympic games. These were athletics for women held in Hera's honor. Women of Argos would gather to compete in foot races. The competitors were divided into three age groups to mirror Hera's triple nature. Winners were given the great honor of leaving statuettes of themselves in Hera's main shrine.
This is almost the converse of the Olympic games. At Olympia, not only were women forbidden from competing, women could not even be spectators. In fact, any woman who tried to transgress these hard rules would be slaughtered. It can be deduced that the importance of the divine feminine had been greatly diminished by the time of the arrival of the ancient Olympics.
Another celebration observed Hera as the sovereign over death and rebirth. A statue of Hera would be carried down to the water to be cleansed in a symbolic renewal. Hera was both autumn and spring, death and life, and to worship her was to continue the eternal cycle.
Hera was by no means the only goddess so demoted. This trend can be found in Europe as well as on other continents. In many cases, such as the instances of Lilith and Tiamat, the goddess was simply demonized. She who was not demonized might have been turned into a monster like the Gorgon. In the Celtic world goddesses were assimilated into Christianity as new saints.
Restoring Hera to her rightful place as a Great Mother Goddess is not a work of feminist revisionist history. Clues from the ancient world reveal the true Hera. The ruins of Hera's temple at Olympia remain beautiful and elegant, reflecting a love for a magnificent and inspirational goddess. The signs of Hera as she is portrayed in literature are lacking. Where is the ruthless and envious character that gives Zeus nothing but grief in Hellenic lore?
Maybe you have heard about Io, the beautiful woman in Hellenic lore that Zeus happened to notice as he was searching the world for a new romantic conquest. In return for the great honor of Zeus' lust, Io stood helpless as Zeus changed her into a heifer. This way, so Zeus believed, the king of the Olympians could deny the charge of infidelity leveled at him by his spiteful and jealous wife, Hera. As wise as she was angry, Hera demanded that Zeus give her the heifer as a token of his affections. Zeus could do nothing to protect the animal that had been the woman who had been his lover. At first Hera kept the heifer tied up in her own sanctuary. Later, Hera sent the notorious gadfly to continuously bite and irritate Io.
This tale isn't favorable for the innocent Io, but it is even more damaging to the character of Hera. She is best known as the wife of Zeus (or Juno to the Roman Jupiter), but when Hera is unveiled she becomes a great and ancient mother goddess, much beloved by her people.
The story of Io is a good example of how the tribes dedicated to the Sky Father grafted their own lore onto the pre-existing religious structures that existed wherever they invaded. On the Island of Argos the people worshipped Hera. "Hera" is not a name but a title, meaning "Our Lady." The Argives saw Hera as "cow-eyed," which culturally indicated her close association with the moon and making rain. Io was an Argive priestess-princess who led the people in public dances intended to ask for rain.
But this is not the version that has survived to modern times. Because the indigenous devotion to Hera remained strong, the tribes of Zeus joined the two deities in a marriage of convenience. The result was the jealous and wrathful Hera of the Hellenic age.
Hera never wanted anything to do with Zeus. She certainly never wanted to marry him. However, Zeus desired the majestic sky goddess with all that he was. He knew that Hera had a special fondness for a certain bird, the cuckoo, and he knew he could count on her compassionate nature. With this in mind, Zeus transformed himself into a disheveled cuckoo and flew into Hera's lap for sympathy. The kind Hera took pity on the bird. Her shock knew no boundaries when she suddenly found herself being raped by Zeus. Humiliated, Hera needed to restore her honor by marrying Zeus. This tale is likely a metaphor for the way in which Hera's people were conquered by the tribes of Zeus. Hera's later angry behavior towards her husband indicates the indignation of her people.
Let's look at Hera as she originally was, a beneficent sky mother holding her own among celestial powers. As mentioned before, "Hera" was a title and not a proper name. What Hera's original name was is lost to history. Hera reigned in beauty as queen of the earth and the heavens and human beings. She was kind to all, but favored women and female sexuality.
Hera began as a triple goddess. In her maiden form she was Pais, childless and free from responsibilities. She symbolized blossoming youth. Her middle form was called Teleia and presented her as a mother in the prime of life. In her third form she grew into Chera, the crone who has passed through motherhood to return to herself.
We might think the original Olympics were ancient. But the Heraea was an old festival that predated the Olympic games. These were athletics for women held in Hera's honor. Women of Argos would gather to compete in foot races. The competitors were divided into three age groups to mirror Hera's triple nature. Winners were given the great honor of leaving statuettes of themselves in Hera's main shrine.
This is almost the converse of the Olympic games. At Olympia, not only were women forbidden from competing, women could not even be spectators. In fact, any woman who tried to transgress these hard rules would be slaughtered. It can be deduced that the importance of the divine feminine had been greatly diminished by the time of the arrival of the ancient Olympics.
Another celebration observed Hera as the sovereign over death and rebirth. A statue of Hera would be carried down to the water to be cleansed in a symbolic renewal. Hera was both autumn and spring, death and life, and to worship her was to continue the eternal cycle.
Hera was by no means the only goddess so demoted. This trend can be found in Europe as well as on other continents. In many cases, such as the instances of Lilith and Tiamat, the goddess was simply demonized. She who was not demonized might have been turned into a monster like the Gorgon. In the Celtic world goddesses were assimilated into Christianity as new saints.
The Sanctity of Laughter
A funny thing happened at my high school reunion.
With great Pagan panache, I appeared in a purple gown cut along the lines of a classical Greek robe. I wore what I call my Pagan bling bling, a pentagram about the diameter of a Big Gulp cup sprinkled with amethyst chips. After all, I had no reason to disguise what I was under a cloak of the mundane. These were people who had known me back when I was a caterpillar. Now I was a caterpillar with wings.
Anyway, I got a drink of Generic Punch X and went to join a cluster of people. It took twenty seconds for the question to hit. "When did you convert?"
Once I figured out he was talking to me, I tried making the most vacuous face I possibly could. "Convert?"
"Yeah. To Judaism." Politely he motioned to my above-mentioned bling bling. "That's a pretty Star of David you've got."
This wasn't the first time. I mean I understand how a star is a star unless you know that there's a vital difference. Maybe other Pagans would take this opportunity to expound upon the ancient history of the pentagram, continuing long after any interest has waned. I didn't. "It's a symbol of natural religion," I said by way of clarification. That seemed to be enough. The evening went on and I discovered that all of the ritual work in the world would never make me a dancer.
A few mornings later I was relating this story to a Wiccan friend on the subway. To my surprise, she covered her mouth with a silver-decked hand and gasped. "You must have been so offended!"
Offended? Well actually, I wasn't. How could I be? My reunion chums were familiar with the Star of David but not with the pentagram. As none of them are Pagan, I wouldn't have expected them to recognize the pentagram. Regardless, I'd gotten a good laugh out of the event. I couldn't quite understand why my aforementioned friend found more offense than humor.
"He who laughs last didn't get the joke."
In recent months I've encountered a growing number of Pagans who seem to have misplaced their senses of humor. It's my hope that I'm just running into killjoys and not a representative population. We're not really in a humor crisis, are we? One of the things I like about Pagan paths is the sense of humor and the idea that spirituality should be fun. I like being able to laugh at myself. There's nothing so serious that an injection of good humor won't improve it. That being said, is it any wonder that I just have to shrug at Pagans full of their own importance, Pagans who won't deign to have a good laugh?
Laughter is a gift from the divine. It is the divine expressing joy and elation through us. Every laugh is a thank-you to the Powers That Be for life and the ability to enjoy life. Through laughter, not only is the divine served, but we serve ourselves as well. We've all heard the adage about laughter being the best medicine. Humor is good for us. A good chuckle reduces stress and raises the level of endorphins in the body, leaving us to feel especially good. Perhaps best of all, humor helps to keep the episodes of life in good perspective.
When I was learning the Wiccan path I had the benefit of a close-knit group and circle elders who understood the sanctity of humor. The woman who was both priestess and mentor always reminded us to laugh at ourselves. If I forgot the words to my Full Moon oration, I learned to have a good "D'oh!" and then go back to dip into the endless cauldron of inspiration. Ritual may be sacred, but it is also a circus begging for messes to occur. People are going to spill the libation and knock over candles. Rain can soak the most devoted of celebrants, turning a grand outdoor observance into an ad libbed indoor rite. Maybe the person baking the esbat cakes used the driest recipe possible.
This is all part of what makes the celebration dynamic and personal. There are a lot of opportunities for things to go wrong, in that the Powers That Be have given us built-in openings for humor and laughter. To err may be human, but to be able to get up and laugh at one's self is a gift.
All right then, so somebody explain to me why someone - anyone - would abandon the gift of humor. You can be serious about your path without taking yourself too seriously. Are people choosing to give up humor in exchange for dry observation and almost mechanical experience? I cannot tell if people are not getting subtle humor or if they are refusing to roll in the mud of laughter and silliness. Recently, I've come to wonder if this isn't the price all of us as a community must pay after decades of endless challenges from more orthodox religious traditions. Has all the fighting knocked the laughter out of us? I don't believe it.
Everybody, listen up! We're not like the traditions that focus more on the negative aspects of being human. The spiritual world touches us all, and engaging with the spiritual world is fun! Celebrate with laughter the hours of the day and the seasons of the year. Giggle at what strikes you funny. Take a good look at yourself and ask if you might be taking yourself too seriously. Does a question from a newcomer inspire you to a relaxed explanation or to indignant frustration?
Somewhere you have your own Pagan bling bling. You have your own story to tell of a path-related incident that made you laugh. This is the Powers That Be touching you and letting you know of their love. Embrace that sense of humor and laugh out loud to the stars. Laugh until you don't have the power to laugh anymore. This is message sent and received. This is the appreciation of the cosmic gift.
With great Pagan panache, I appeared in a purple gown cut along the lines of a classical Greek robe. I wore what I call my Pagan bling bling, a pentagram about the diameter of a Big Gulp cup sprinkled with amethyst chips. After all, I had no reason to disguise what I was under a cloak of the mundane. These were people who had known me back when I was a caterpillar. Now I was a caterpillar with wings.
Anyway, I got a drink of Generic Punch X and went to join a cluster of people. It took twenty seconds for the question to hit. "When did you convert?"
Once I figured out he was talking to me, I tried making the most vacuous face I possibly could. "Convert?"
"Yeah. To Judaism." Politely he motioned to my above-mentioned bling bling. "That's a pretty Star of David you've got."
This wasn't the first time. I mean I understand how a star is a star unless you know that there's a vital difference. Maybe other Pagans would take this opportunity to expound upon the ancient history of the pentagram, continuing long after any interest has waned. I didn't. "It's a symbol of natural religion," I said by way of clarification. That seemed to be enough. The evening went on and I discovered that all of the ritual work in the world would never make me a dancer.
A few mornings later I was relating this story to a Wiccan friend on the subway. To my surprise, she covered her mouth with a silver-decked hand and gasped. "You must have been so offended!"
Offended? Well actually, I wasn't. How could I be? My reunion chums were familiar with the Star of David but not with the pentagram. As none of them are Pagan, I wouldn't have expected them to recognize the pentagram. Regardless, I'd gotten a good laugh out of the event. I couldn't quite understand why my aforementioned friend found more offense than humor.
"He who laughs last didn't get the joke."
In recent months I've encountered a growing number of Pagans who seem to have misplaced their senses of humor. It's my hope that I'm just running into killjoys and not a representative population. We're not really in a humor crisis, are we? One of the things I like about Pagan paths is the sense of humor and the idea that spirituality should be fun. I like being able to laugh at myself. There's nothing so serious that an injection of good humor won't improve it. That being said, is it any wonder that I just have to shrug at Pagans full of their own importance, Pagans who won't deign to have a good laugh?
Laughter is a gift from the divine. It is the divine expressing joy and elation through us. Every laugh is a thank-you to the Powers That Be for life and the ability to enjoy life. Through laughter, not only is the divine served, but we serve ourselves as well. We've all heard the adage about laughter being the best medicine. Humor is good for us. A good chuckle reduces stress and raises the level of endorphins in the body, leaving us to feel especially good. Perhaps best of all, humor helps to keep the episodes of life in good perspective.
When I was learning the Wiccan path I had the benefit of a close-knit group and circle elders who understood the sanctity of humor. The woman who was both priestess and mentor always reminded us to laugh at ourselves. If I forgot the words to my Full Moon oration, I learned to have a good "D'oh!" and then go back to dip into the endless cauldron of inspiration. Ritual may be sacred, but it is also a circus begging for messes to occur. People are going to spill the libation and knock over candles. Rain can soak the most devoted of celebrants, turning a grand outdoor observance into an ad libbed indoor rite. Maybe the person baking the esbat cakes used the driest recipe possible.
This is all part of what makes the celebration dynamic and personal. There are a lot of opportunities for things to go wrong, in that the Powers That Be have given us built-in openings for humor and laughter. To err may be human, but to be able to get up and laugh at one's self is a gift.
All right then, so somebody explain to me why someone - anyone - would abandon the gift of humor. You can be serious about your path without taking yourself too seriously. Are people choosing to give up humor in exchange for dry observation and almost mechanical experience? I cannot tell if people are not getting subtle humor or if they are refusing to roll in the mud of laughter and silliness. Recently, I've come to wonder if this isn't the price all of us as a community must pay after decades of endless challenges from more orthodox religious traditions. Has all the fighting knocked the laughter out of us? I don't believe it.
Everybody, listen up! We're not like the traditions that focus more on the negative aspects of being human. The spiritual world touches us all, and engaging with the spiritual world is fun! Celebrate with laughter the hours of the day and the seasons of the year. Giggle at what strikes you funny. Take a good look at yourself and ask if you might be taking yourself too seriously. Does a question from a newcomer inspire you to a relaxed explanation or to indignant frustration?
Somewhere you have your own Pagan bling bling. You have your own story to tell of a path-related incident that made you laugh. This is the Powers That Be touching you and letting you know of their love. Embrace that sense of humor and laugh out loud to the stars. Laugh until you don't have the power to laugh anymore. This is message sent and received. This is the appreciation of the cosmic gift.
Don't Shirk--Blunt Works!
Sometimes it's necessary to couch things in soft terms. We often need to be discreet and politic so as to not upset or anger whoever has our attention at that moment.
Then again, there are times when it's necessary to be absolutely blunt. I get called "blunt as a spoon" a lot. Maybe it's even accurate. I prefer to go for the verbal visceral punch instead of tap dancing around an important matter.
Here are two examples of what I mean--success stories in which I take great pride. Before the Pennsylvania Primary on April 22, 2008, my grandmother and her Greatest Generation Gang were sitting around, resigned to not voting. This wasn't important, they said. No one interested them, they said. Many hadn't voted at all for over 20 years--ostensibly to avoid jury duty.
Now if these people could survive 80+ years on the planet, they could handle me. And so I started. The vote is your voice, I told them. What do you think your friends in all of these wars have died for--so you can sit on your bottoms and reliquish your right to vote? What about your children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren?
This was getting through, but I decided to go for the kicker. "If you don't vote on Tuesday," I said, "you'll be giving up your right to complain for the duration of the election process."
The Yankee Doodle spiel had softened them, but the thought of having to refrain from opining for all of these months finished the job. Every single one of them voted in the primary (and I did what I could to make sure they got to their polling places).
Lately my mother made an appointment for her first colonoscopy. She was cool with it until last week, when she started pulling excuses to call it off from her...er...nose. Who would take care of her mother? What about the bathroom situation? What if this list of 53 improbable things happen?
So I came at it from a different point of view. "We're talking about your life here," I said. "If you don't have this done and there is in fact something wrong, it will go undetected and be that much harder to treat. You owe it to us--the family that loves you--to take this step to secure that we have a future together. You're so worried about Grandma and all of that, but what good will it do anyone if you die because you talked yourself out of this?"
Within the span of a day my mother made a complete turn around. With the knowledge that she could bail out at any time, she went about the prep process, with my sister and me for company and moral support. Suddenly she found a new strength and she surged ahead, determined to get this thing over with. I am happy to say she had it done this morning, everything went well, and I am so proud of her for overcoming her hesitations in order to take care of herself.
Anyhow, my point is sometimes the greatest kindness is to use a little bluntness in your speech. You need to look for the one thing that will turn the discussion. And don't worry about hurt feelings. More often than not people will thank you for being straight with them.
Here are two examples of what I mean--success stories in which I take great pride. Before the Pennsylvania Primary on April 22, 2008, my grandmother and her Greatest Generation Gang were sitting around, resigned to not voting. This wasn't important, they said. No one interested them, they said. Many hadn't voted at all for over 20 years--ostensibly to avoid jury duty.
Now if these people could survive 80+ years on the planet, they could handle me. And so I started. The vote is your voice, I told them. What do you think your friends in all of these wars have died for--so you can sit on your bottoms and reliquish your right to vote? What about your children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren?
This was getting through, but I decided to go for the kicker. "If you don't vote on Tuesday," I said, "you'll be giving up your right to complain for the duration of the election process."
The Yankee Doodle spiel had softened them, but the thought of having to refrain from opining for all of these months finished the job. Every single one of them voted in the primary (and I did what I could to make sure they got to their polling places).
Lately my mother made an appointment for her first colonoscopy. She was cool with it until last week, when she started pulling excuses to call it off from her...er...nose. Who would take care of her mother? What about the bathroom situation? What if this list of 53 improbable things happen?
So I came at it from a different point of view. "We're talking about your life here," I said. "If you don't have this done and there is in fact something wrong, it will go undetected and be that much harder to treat. You owe it to us--the family that loves you--to take this step to secure that we have a future together. You're so worried about Grandma and all of that, but what good will it do anyone if you die because you talked yourself out of this?"
Within the span of a day my mother made a complete turn around. With the knowledge that she could bail out at any time, she went about the prep process, with my sister and me for company and moral support. Suddenly she found a new strength and she surged ahead, determined to get this thing over with. I am happy to say she had it done this morning, everything went well, and I am so proud of her for overcoming her hesitations in order to take care of herself.
Anyhow, my point is sometimes the greatest kindness is to use a little bluntness in your speech. You need to look for the one thing that will turn the discussion. And don't worry about hurt feelings. More often than not people will thank you for being straight with them.
My Punk Valentine
Sid Vicious and Nancy were Bogey and Bacall compared to my punk valentine. Here it goes.
I was a college bound senior in high school and I fell like a dope in love. He was one of those anarchist punk types that roamed the halls of the school, a dream in steel toed Doc Martens and Japanime-wild hair. My mother screamed, my father tried to talk me out of it, but no use. Have you ever tried talking to a seventeen year old girl about how the boyfriend she loves more than weekends and snow days combined isn’t the best for her?
We found ourselves in February. Naturally, I began looking forward to Valentine’s Day. I couldn’t wait for that traditional time when two young lovers could be together and celebrate their glorious relationship. Apparently nothing about my boyfriend’s stance or interests suggested to me that maybe February 14 was a date skipped on his calendar. Wow, was I naïve.
I stopped at a florist for a dozen red roses on my way to school that morning. I’d put on my PG-13 skin-tight bright red mini dress. Believe me, I was Valentines Incarnate. Or maybe I was Lust Incarnate. In high school, what’s the difference? All I knew was that I wanted to give the guy I loved the best Valentine’s Day of his life.
Now you might be thinking that I didn’t know this guy as well as I thought I did. That may be true. But I prefer to think I was a victim of relentless optimism
Anyway, I met my boyfriend at this locker and presented him with the roses. In turn, he glared at the roses and then glared at me. “What the hell is this for?”
I tried to think of what Mae West would have done at that moment. I batted my eyelashes at him. “They’re for Valentine’s Day,” I said. “After all, you are my sweetheart.”
He laughed so hard that reverberations from his mirth echoed up and down the crowded hallway. “Come off it,” he said as he fought to catch his breath. “This Valentine’s Day is an arbitrary holiday where card companies can make a fortune and droves of losers fall deeper into depression. I don’t pay it any attention. Why should you?” With that, he thrust the orphan roses back at me. “You’re smarter than this.”
Guess who I didn’t take to the prom?
I was a college bound senior in high school and I fell like a dope in love. He was one of those anarchist punk types that roamed the halls of the school, a dream in steel toed Doc Martens and Japanime-wild hair. My mother screamed, my father tried to talk me out of it, but no use. Have you ever tried talking to a seventeen year old girl about how the boyfriend she loves more than weekends and snow days combined isn’t the best for her?
We found ourselves in February. Naturally, I began looking forward to Valentine’s Day. I couldn’t wait for that traditional time when two young lovers could be together and celebrate their glorious relationship. Apparently nothing about my boyfriend’s stance or interests suggested to me that maybe February 14 was a date skipped on his calendar. Wow, was I naïve.
I stopped at a florist for a dozen red roses on my way to school that morning. I’d put on my PG-13 skin-tight bright red mini dress. Believe me, I was Valentines Incarnate. Or maybe I was Lust Incarnate. In high school, what’s the difference? All I knew was that I wanted to give the guy I loved the best Valentine’s Day of his life.
Now you might be thinking that I didn’t know this guy as well as I thought I did. That may be true. But I prefer to think I was a victim of relentless optimism
Anyway, I met my boyfriend at this locker and presented him with the roses. In turn, he glared at the roses and then glared at me. “What the hell is this for?”
I tried to think of what Mae West would have done at that moment. I batted my eyelashes at him. “They’re for Valentine’s Day,” I said. “After all, you are my sweetheart.”
He laughed so hard that reverberations from his mirth echoed up and down the crowded hallway. “Come off it,” he said as he fought to catch his breath. “This Valentine’s Day is an arbitrary holiday where card companies can make a fortune and droves of losers fall deeper into depression. I don’t pay it any attention. Why should you?” With that, he thrust the orphan roses back at me. “You’re smarter than this.”
Guess who I didn’t take to the prom?
Mother's Day Blues
I'm not keen on Mother's Day. Don't get me wrong--my own mother and I have a great relationship. Yet for anyone who is actively engaged in American society in early May, Mother's Day is tough to ignore. Sometimes I think that if I could ignore it, I wouldn't feel this hollow grief inside me. On the other hand, maybe I need to own that grief.
I don't think I've written about this here before. Actually, I don't think I've been able to deal with this well enough to write about it. But then I realize that everything happened in another time and another life, and that I was another woman. Nothing's the same. So I'm down to dealing and moving on or being haunted for the rest of my life.
People know me as a textbook success story. What few people know is how I have failed in an area where most women (or so it seems to me) succeed without even trying. I am looking at 39 and I have never given birth, nor will I ever. That's the hand I've been dealt.
Once upon a time, I was married. We got married in 1993 and split up in 2001, so for this day and age we didn't do too badly. Between 1998 and 2000, I had five miscarriages. I'll get back to that in a moment, but you can imagine the stress that put on the marriage. After the last miscarriage my doctor told me to stop trying or risk my own life. I think that's when my husband gave up on me. What good was a wife who couldn't help him preserve his genes in a child?
Anyway, I went through five miscarriages. The first one happened at about ten weeks, and the second after twelve weeks. Both times my attending doctors thought I was healthy enough to carry a child to term and encouraged me to keep trying. I did. The next two pregnancies were indeed longer, but both ended in the beginning of the second trimester.
The fifth miscarriage nearly killed me from blood loss. I'd made it five months and had been so hopeful that finally I'd be a mother. Instead I was torn and destroyed, depending on an IV to survive, and dealing not only with the physical pain but the pain of knowing I could never produce my own flesh and blood. My husband was nowhere around me. I don't know where he wandered off to in those days, but he wasn't interested in comforting me.
When I finally got home I crawled into bed and didn't emerge for weeks. Of course I was depressed, but I remember still feeling relieved when the bleeding finally stopped, when I could eat solid food again, when I could actually walk from one end of my apartment to the other. I wouldn't be able to bring new life into the world, but I would live, and as I regained my strength, that didn't seem so bad.
As I said at the beginning, all of this happened a long time ago. I haven't even spoken to my ex-husband since the divorce was finalized. Besides, there are plenty of people who are perfectly all right with me the way I am. There's always adoption, and there's always a child who needs to be adopted.
And I'm not ready for all that anyway. I'm still a work in progress. 10 years from now I might be ready to parent, but not today. Maybe that's the cosmic purpose behind my disastrous childbearing--if I'd had a child, I wouldn't be who I am today.
Kudos and due respect to all mothers. I'm not so worried about joining your ranks anymore. I don't have kids, but I do have people depending on me and a purpose in my care. Looks to me like I'm mothering pretty well, after all.
I don't think I've written about this here before. Actually, I don't think I've been able to deal with this well enough to write about it. But then I realize that everything happened in another time and another life, and that I was another woman. Nothing's the same. So I'm down to dealing and moving on or being haunted for the rest of my life.
People know me as a textbook success story. What few people know is how I have failed in an area where most women (or so it seems to me) succeed without even trying. I am looking at 39 and I have never given birth, nor will I ever. That's the hand I've been dealt.
Once upon a time, I was married. We got married in 1993 and split up in 2001, so for this day and age we didn't do too badly. Between 1998 and 2000, I had five miscarriages. I'll get back to that in a moment, but you can imagine the stress that put on the marriage. After the last miscarriage my doctor told me to stop trying or risk my own life. I think that's when my husband gave up on me. What good was a wife who couldn't help him preserve his genes in a child?
Anyway, I went through five miscarriages. The first one happened at about ten weeks, and the second after twelve weeks. Both times my attending doctors thought I was healthy enough to carry a child to term and encouraged me to keep trying. I did. The next two pregnancies were indeed longer, but both ended in the beginning of the second trimester.
The fifth miscarriage nearly killed me from blood loss. I'd made it five months and had been so hopeful that finally I'd be a mother. Instead I was torn and destroyed, depending on an IV to survive, and dealing not only with the physical pain but the pain of knowing I could never produce my own flesh and blood. My husband was nowhere around me. I don't know where he wandered off to in those days, but he wasn't interested in comforting me.
When I finally got home I crawled into bed and didn't emerge for weeks. Of course I was depressed, but I remember still feeling relieved when the bleeding finally stopped, when I could eat solid food again, when I could actually walk from one end of my apartment to the other. I wouldn't be able to bring new life into the world, but I would live, and as I regained my strength, that didn't seem so bad.
As I said at the beginning, all of this happened a long time ago. I haven't even spoken to my ex-husband since the divorce was finalized. Besides, there are plenty of people who are perfectly all right with me the way I am. There's always adoption, and there's always a child who needs to be adopted.
And I'm not ready for all that anyway. I'm still a work in progress. 10 years from now I might be ready to parent, but not today. Maybe that's the cosmic purpose behind my disastrous childbearing--if I'd had a child, I wouldn't be who I am today.
Kudos and due respect to all mothers. I'm not so worried about joining your ranks anymore. I don't have kids, but I do have people depending on me and a purpose in my care. Looks to me like I'm mothering pretty well, after all.
Pay It Forward
Let's face it. When we embark on romantic relationships, we're leaving ourselves open to receiving a lot of junk. At the time it might have sentimental value--like X is trying to share their passionate interests with Y. In the flush of love, we go along with the flow.
But when the passion has fizzled and the relationship has gone by way of the dodo, that accumulated junk can just get annoying. You know. It's sitting around your place, but you have no real use for any of it in your current life. Not that it reminds you of affection gone sour--more like it's just plain taking up space, or is otherwise irritating.
But when the passion has fizzled and the relationship has gone by way of the dodo, that accumulated junk can just get annoying. You know. It's sitting around your place, but you have no real use for any of it in your current life. Not that it reminds you of affection gone sour--more like it's just plain taking up space, or is otherwise irritating.
So do what I'm doing. Pay it forward.
Look, in these economic circumstances, none of us can afford to ignore any source of gifts for the people we love. What better use for a pile of ex-gifts than to regift them to people who can genuinely use them?
Of course, I mean after you have given your ex every chance possible to reclaim their things. It's only decent, and it's the difference between giving the stuff away free and clear and still having some overhanging dirt smudging it up. Hey, I gave my ex (the ex before the ex that came before my current beau) months to retrieve his things. No games, no gimmicks, just his stuff returned. Well, he's never shown any interest in doing this, so I decided to pay it forward.
He left a guitar in excellent condition and fairly valuable as such things go, but didn't want it back. All right. So I've given it to my boyfriend, who needed a better quality guitar and actually is professionally involved in the music industry.
He left a sack full of comic books of various vintage and topics. I let my boyfriend's nieces and nephews have at them, except for the editions of the illustrated Bram Stoker's Dracula, which I passed on to my friend Marilys.
He gave me a pile of Led Zeppelin CDs. Great, but I'm more of a punk girl myself. I gave them all to a good friend who's going through some tough times and really appreciated the escape. I gave her the DVD he'd gotten me as well.
He left the first season of the old Twilight Zone, which I gave to my sister's boyfriend.
Justice League went to my neighbor. Return to the Batcave went to a friend in my boyfriend's band. The Tick ended up with a friend of a friend of a friend.
He left some Simpsons books too, which my father has promptly seized.
Look at all the people I managed to make happy out of my own mess! Above all, I feel great about it. I mean, if my ex couldn't be bothered to reclaim this stuff, why shouldn't other people get pleasure from it?
The Other Widow
What is the term to describe a woman who has divorced her husband if in the intervening years he remarried, but tragically died?
I wasn't his wife at the time of his demise, but I had been his wife, and I felt great sorrow that such a brilliant mind and driven spirit had gone so soon. We were still connected bu the greater bonds of humanity. But I had no comfortable role to assume. I wasn't a widow, even if I felt like a widow.
The news that my former husband had died worked quickly through the grapevine of friends and friends of friends and relatives. He had mourners on both coasts, the East where he had come from and the West where he had been living. I expected us to gather in groups for comfort and support. I had not expected a phone call from his widow--the actual widow.
I wasn't his wife at the time of his demise, but I had been his wife, and I felt great sorrow that such a brilliant mind and driven spirit had gone so soon. We were still connected bu the greater bonds of humanity. But I had no comfortable role to assume. I wasn't a widow, even if I felt like a widow.
The news that my former husband had died worked quickly through the grapevine of friends and friends of friends and relatives. He had mourners on both coasts, the East where he had come from and the West where he had been living. I expected us to gather in groups for comfort and support. I had not expected a phone call from his widow--the actual widow.
I had to admire the courage she mustered to call me, although I had no bad feelings towards either of them. The bottom line was that my former husband had left some very specific intructions for his final rites, and for some reason these included me. He wanted cremation, and then to have his cremains split between the two coasts. The first half was scattered in a beachside ceremony near Santa Monica, California. And then his instructions got tricky.
Because of a rift that had never been healed and of understanding that was never attained, my former husband was completely alienated from his family, with the exception of an aunt and some cousins. To his parents, he'd already been dead for years. Essentially, whatever would be done in Pennsylvania would be up to the friends he had here.
More to the point, my former husband had appointed ME to orchestrate his final rites and officiate at the scattering. I told his wife I didn't understand why he'd wanted me and not her. But her pressing concern was whether I would be willing to take on the burden.
I'm only going to get one first husband. Of course I agreed.
His wife arrived at Philadelphia International Airport with a simple white urn in tow. Maybe that moment of meeting would have been difficult for other people, but we fell into each other's arms like long parted sisters. Then she began to meet his Pennsylvania friends, doing all they could to help her and give her comfort. She wasn't in what she knew as home, but she was home with us all the same.
I read over some of his documents. Specifically, he wanted his cremains scattered to the four winds at Wind Gap, a natural deciduous paradise where he had spent much time cycling and pondering. I organized to get everybody I could up to Wind Gap on that Sunday.
I read over some of his documents. Specifically, he wanted his cremains scattered to the four winds at Wind Gap, a natural deciduous paradise where he had spent much time cycling and pondering. I organized to get everybody I could up to Wind Gap on that Sunday.
A written script would not have pleased him, so my eulogy was a collection of stories that brough out the humor, the love for life, the brilliance that were all his. We shared our anecdotes, laughing and crying and remembering. I asked that everyone (if the wanted) would take a handful of cremains and throw them into the valley in front of us. There would be no marker, no tombstone. The memory would live on in all of us.
"You're as much a widow as I am," his wife said, sniffling. "You were in his heart longer, and you are with him in death."
"But he is in your heart for as long as you keep him there," I said. "Death politely gives way for love on occasion."
So, did I get a title out of this experience? Old Widow? Former Marriage Widow? Co-widow?
No. I got a more important designation--friend. We're two women bound by our care for the same man. We've both lost him, and a light has gone out in the world. Now neither of us are any kind of wifely relation to him, and so we can begin again.
The Irritating Heartbreak
"I was an idiot."
This has been my mantra in the past months, ever since I saw my ex for the very last time. People around me trample me with contradictions. I'm too hard on myself, I'm told. There was nothing idiotic in going for love, I'm told. How could I have known that this individual would flake out on me so completely, I'm told.
This has been my mantra in the past months, ever since I saw my ex for the very last time. People around me trample me with contradictions. I'm too hard on myself, I'm told. There was nothing idiotic in going for love, I'm told. How could I have known that this individual would flake out on me so completely, I'm told.
So all right, maybe "idiot" is too strong. But no one put me into that relationship. I walked into it of my own free will. I was a full accomplice. For so long I had been careful not to get tangled up in the webs of romance, because I knew the spider that dwells among those webs intimately, and I knew it was no friend of mine.
Honestly, I'm not entirely clear on why we split in the first place. There was a crisis, there was an excuse, there was my initial acceptance that was followed after a half hour of heavy thought, there was my hard realization that he was trapped in an endless playback loop that I didn't want or need in my life. I never really got to talk out my feelings, however, because he quickly did the brave thing and hung up on me. And so it's been. He cut me from all of his online networking and won't even read my e-mail. About three weeks later I tried calling, mostly because I was concerned for him. He hung up on me then too.
In other words, deal with the problem by not dealing with the problem, me being that problem.
I'm even less clear on why he hates me now. As I recall one night we were deeply in love, and 24 hours later, he'd abandoned me, our relationship, everything we had so carefully forged. What did I do? What went wrong? Or wasn't it me at all, but him?
This is the part when my mended broken heart leads me to a mystery that is both irritating and annoying. Everything creeps back into my mind, and I realize I'm yearning for closure on a primal level. I don't want the relationship back--it's important to know when a time has passed. I do think I have a right to know what the hell happened from his point of view. I don't run from conflict, I work to resolve it. What kind of closure? I'll know when it happens. How is it that I'm on great terms with every other guy from every other relationship, but this guy isn't willing to settle with me peacefully?
I realize that the chances of attaining closure with his active participation is extremely unlikely. He hasn't even been willing to deal with me long enough so that I can return my pile of boyfriend stuff to him. It looks like I'm going to have to create a closure on my own. And that is both irritating and annoying.
I realize that the chances of attaining closure with his active participation is extremely unlikely. He hasn't even been willing to deal with me long enough so that I can return my pile of boyfriend stuff to him. It looks like I'm going to have to create a closure on my own. And that is both irritating and annoying.
How to Break Up Without Falling Apart
Why do we do this to ourselves?
Over and over again, we lose our hearts (and our minds) to another human being. We're giddy each second we're rewarded with their company. Thoughts of the beloved wander unbidden into our minds when we're buying toilet paper or wrangling lunch from a street vendor. Before we know it, we begin to wonder, is this it? Is this the one we've been waiting for? We may even discover that our beloved is wondering the same wonderful things about us. The future seems cast in a pastel glow like a July sunset.
Don't hate your ex. Easier said than done, I know. Negative feelings--hate, anger, resentment, and so on--won't hurt your ex anywhere nearly as much as they can hurt you. Hate is an emotional cancer. It can twist and grow within you. You have been challenged to instead try and remember what was good about your ex and to try and nurture positive feelings. Well, all right, neutral feelings are also fine. The point is to not let yourself fall into the mire of hate. Raise your feelings and you can lift your outlook on the whole situation.
Whatever hell you may have been through in the past with other people, those people are not your current significant other. Don't put whatever blame issues you may have onto their shoulders. This is not fair to them and will only keep you locked in a dark past.
Words and promises really are like the wind until there is action to back them up--or prove them false.
It's easy to promise to change, but much harder to actually follow through with it. In a desperate situation, your significant other may swear up and down that they will alter their behavior if you would only give them one more chance. You probably already know how likely that change is. Don't fall for it.
You can never change another person, so don't think you can fix your partner.
They must find the strength to change inside themselves. You can offer support and love, but otherwise it's up to that other person. If change is necessary and your partner lacks the will, maybe it's time to leave.
No relationship is ever a waste a time.
Over and over again, we lose our hearts (and our minds) to another human being. We're giddy each second we're rewarded with their company. Thoughts of the beloved wander unbidden into our minds when we're buying toilet paper or wrangling lunch from a street vendor. Before we know it, we begin to wonder, is this it? Is this the one we've been waiting for? We may even discover that our beloved is wondering the same wonderful things about us. The future seems cast in a pastel glow like a July sunset.
And then, before we know it and seemingly out of nowhere, it all comes to a horrifying applying-the-brakes-at-Indy unbelievable end.
"Why" doesn't really matter, even if it's the nagging question that haunts our minds. Maybe figuring out the why can help us in the recovery, but it's not terribly likely. Why will only sprout more questions and self-doubt. What does why matter, anyway? It's not going to change the present--only living in the present can do that. In the end, we all have to cope. We all have to deal. And then we need to move on with our lives.
If there's a worse feeling to being human than to have loved and lost (beat it, Shakespeare--I respectfully disagree) I don't want any free samples. Then I think about this worst of feelings and wonder why we bother in the first place. No one who swears off love seems to stick to that oath.
Yet we keep at it. Over and over again we go looking for something we might not be able to describe, knowing full well the agony that could be the result. Well, so long as we're going to keep at this crazy game of tag, we might as well learn something along the way.
Yet we keep at it. Over and over again we go looking for something we might not be able to describe, knowing full well the agony that could be the result. Well, so long as we're going to keep at this crazy game of tag, we might as well learn something along the way.
Allow me to share a little of what I've learned on my own twisted path, which has included a divorce among other split relationships. The end of love hurts. There's no dissembling about it. Parting from your significant other can take you to depths of emotional pain like you've never imagined. But the end of a relationship isn't the end of you. You will go on. Your choice is whether to go on positively or go on negatively.
There is such a thing as a good break up.
Ideally this would mean a mutual decision to part ways, but you don't need the cooperation of the other person to have a better experience. It is entirely up to you and your reserve of inner strength. Are you resolved to handle the end of your relationship as well as you possibly can? Read these tips, study them, and apply them in your own life.
The end of love is a terrible thing, but don't compound the tragedy by harboring hatred.
Don't hate your ex. Easier said than done, I know. Negative feelings--hate, anger, resentment, and so on--won't hurt your ex anywhere nearly as much as they can hurt you. Hate is an emotional cancer. It can twist and grow within you. You have been challenged to instead try and remember what was good about your ex and to try and nurture positive feelings. Well, all right, neutral feelings are also fine. The point is to not let yourself fall into the mire of hate. Raise your feelings and you can lift your outlook on the whole situation.
Honesty should be rule number one, no matter what.
Even when you're standing on the precipice of a failing relationship, don't start spouting lies in a desperate attempt at reconciliation. If you feel the need to lie, you're lying to yourself that the relationship can be saved. If you're angry and hurting, don't shut it away. Tell the other person exactly how you feel.
Always try talking through any problems.
Always try talking through any problems.
If you can reconcile your differences, you've achieved a triumph. If you can't, perhaps it's time to be moving along. Either way, don't let a communications breakdown blur the truth.
Never take the sum total of previous bad experiences and project them onto your current partner.
Whatever hell you may have been through in the past with other people, those people are not your current significant other. Don't put whatever blame issues you may have onto their shoulders. This is not fair to them and will only keep you locked in a dark past.
Words and promises really are like the wind until there is action to back them up--or prove them false.
It's easy to promise to change, but much harder to actually follow through with it. In a desperate situation, your significant other may swear up and down that they will alter their behavior if you would only give them one more chance. You probably already know how likely that change is. Don't fall for it.
You can never change another person, so don't think you can fix your partner.
They must find the strength to change inside themselves. You can offer support and love, but otherwise it's up to that other person. If change is necessary and your partner lacks the will, maybe it's time to leave.
No relationship is ever a waste a time.
It's true. Even the horrible ones teach us something--about ourselves, about other people, about life and living.
Relationships are work, and are worth every bit of effort.
Relationships are work, and are worth every bit of effort.
Love is not easy. No one ever said it was supposed to be. But it is another example of we get out of love what we put into love. Sure, we may get into fights and hurt sensitive feelings. But the challenge of love is not to avoid conflicts, but rather to resolve them in the best possible way.
Whatever the outcome, no relationship is ever a failure.
Relationships are like obstacle courses. We're meant to meet the challenges and keep moving forward, no matter how long it takes us or how awkward we might be. However your relationship ends, you still have that experience to enrich your life.
Keep something else in mind too. No relationship ever really ends. Everyone we encounter in life will stay with us, somehow and in some way. Remember the good things!
The Ladies of Avalon Live On
"You got that right sister!" Fortune said, and then laughed. Raven and Bast joined in with her.
The night of the love spell we passed through the mists of the mundane world. Daneb, Jane, Catherine, and Brandie fell away as the witches Lupa, Raven, Bast, and Fortune rose from those mortal shells.
I wore my dark red silk robe, designed to entice and to lure, as I would wear it for you, my love. My sisters were equally splendid with Raven forgoing her usual black for deep purple, Bast in a midnight blue robe that matched her shining eyes, and Fortune in the green of a gardenia leaf.
I had planned on holding the ritual in the room we call Raven's Sanctuary. Few of us have ever been inside, and even then no one would dare enter without Raven's protection. For this place is the workroom and meditation chamber of the most potent woman of the Craft we've ever known although she herself would never make such a claim. It is in this room that Raven communes with Azrael, the benevolent Angel of Death, and His presence lingers everywhere as an unearthly amethyst glow.
"Dunno Lupa," Raven says as she leads me into the sanctuary. "I don't mind us having the rite in here but the ambiance might not be so great for your intent."
So right. I stepped through the doorway and immediately noticed the air was at least fifteen degrees colder than in the rest of the house something that cannot be accomplished through air conditioning trickery. The air was thick, heavy, making it difficult for me to breathe it was air laden with spirits and high magic. Still, there was something erotic, the smell of jasmine and earth and a rampant breeze with a cold touch upon my skin. Raven did not seem to be affected in the least.
Then I noticed the exquisite amethyst pyramid upon an altar, a pyramid we all believe to have been a gift from Azrael. The center of the gem glowed purple, as did some tracks on the floor. "Has He been here?"
Raven looked over her shoulder. "Yes, just today. I see you've been able to detect Him."
"Hard to miss."
"You'd be surprised." She turned fully to me, folding her arms over her chest. "Maybe now you understand why I'm hesitant to hold your love spell in here. I'm not sure my relationship with Azrael is exactly the influence you and Rob need."
I blinked. "You mean you and Azrael are lovers?"
"No!" Raven began to laugh. "No, not at all. He is my friend, my guardian, and my teacher. And I do love Him; I doubt anyone can know Him as I do and not love Him. What I meant is that our business together is not of a nature conducive to mortal love. I would hate to have the remains of our communing ruin your spell."
She had a point. I was getting creeped out. "Then what about the patio?"
"Much better idea."
That was an idea that turned out better than we'd hoped. A huge electrical storm chased itself around the sky. Fortune looked out at the striking bolts and nodded. "You lucked out," she said to me. "This is really some extra power going here. I hope you love this guy, because this spell is going to take. I can feel it."
"Don't worry," I said. "I love him enough for a billion people and an eternity of lifetimes. I have never been more sure of anything."
Fortune said nothing, but her approving smile said all. Raven and Bast came out onto the patio then, carrying what was needed for the spell, a spell of my own devising.
But I had left the creation of the anointing oil up to Raven and Bast. I do not know what they included, and it's taboo in the Craft to ask. There was a scent of roses, that was certain, and maybe lavender and ylang ylang flower too. Ah, well. Perfect love and perfect trust, as we say. My sisters would not let me down.
Grinning, Bast handed me two thick pillar candles, one red and one pink, the colors of love and friendship and all kinds of wonderful things. "When you anoint the candles," Bast told me, "be sure to imagine you're handling his penis."
Even I'd never heard this one before. "Are you serious?"
Bast nodded with all the self-assurance of the witchborn. "It's imagery and projection, Lupa. You put your energies into the candle, the intent of the spell, as if you were handling him. Didn't notice the candle was phallic?"
Actually I hadn't, but my sisters of the New Avalon had not overlooked any detail. So I took the red candle into my hand and thought of you thought of you until I broke into a fine sweat and felt the core of my sex throbbing. With light, teasing strokes, I rubbed the oil into the candle, all the time thinking of how much I love you and how much I would want to dedicate the same time and effort into worshipping your manhood. By the time I'd finished with the red candle and the pink, I was wet, my heart pounded in my chest, and I was euphoric with thoughts of you.
I'd made an incense of roses and frankincense, which would smolder in an abalone shell censer on the makeshift altar. There, too, was Raven's great black cauldron, passed down through her family longer than I have any record of mine. Tonight, Fortune kindled a fire of scented wood within the cauldron. The fire would be at my use at the climax of the spell, when my act of love for you would seal my devotion.
So there we were, the ladies of New Avalon. Fortune had put an Anuna CD on low in the background, and the skies continued to crash around us. I stood in the South, in my element of Fire, of energy, courage, daring, sexuality, passion and love. The altar was set up in my quadrant, as it was my spell. Raven stood opposite me in the North, abandoning her customary place at the center of our normal rites to be my Air, representative of intellect, communication, knowledge and wisdom. In the East, Fortune would be my Earth with her attributes of growth, abundance, bounty, and mystery. Finally, Bast stood to the West as Water, my perfect emissary of intuition, emotion, sympathy, empathy, and reflection. I doubt I could have arranged for a more perfect alignment.
Was I nervous? Believe it or not, yes. I think there's always an element of nervousness when one is serious about what they're doing. Mind you, that nervousness does not mean lack of self- esteem. There is no doubt in the Craft. I must know that what I strive to bring forth will be as I would have it.
As Raven has taught me, there are three rules in the Craft.
1) To will
2) To know
3) To dare.
Sure, there are books and groups who make these simple concepts complex, but Raven's right to present it straight and unadorned. There are enough other complexities.
I'd written the rite to begin with summoning the Watchtowers, also called calling the Cross-Quarters, leaving the exact wording of the invocation up to their imaginations.
Raven disliked calling the Cross-Quarters to open a rite and never did so with Star Mother Grove, but she was willing to play her part for me all the same. "From the North come I, by sword and by virtue. I call the powers of Air to protect me and mine and give strength to this rite of love."
We thought she was finished, but she surprised us.
"Boxty on the griddle
Boxty in the pan
If you don't eat your boxty
You won't keep yer man."
This was a new one. "Raven, where on earth did that come from?"
Grinning impishly, she shrugged. "My Nan used to sing it. Just popped into my head."
"And it's supposed to help us how?"
"By Macha, Lupa, there's more to love than rolling around in sweat and whatnot. Call it a hearth blessing." Accordingly, she touched the broadside of her sword to my shoulders.
All right, then, who am I to argue?
As Raven had come forward bearing her sword, Fortune approached with a wreath of roses from our own garden. "Hey, powers of the East! Powers of Earth! On your guard, for we need you! Look favorably upon us as we seek to help our sister bind her love for her man of the Isle. Fill us with your vibrant energy that this spell we make shall bring joy to the lovers" She then placed the wreath, a beautiful creation of flowers and greens and ribbons, upon my head
Normally I would have invoked my quarter next, but as I was the focus of the spell, I would go last and lead the rite from that point. So Bast came to me from the West, carrying a bottle of our tradition's "holy water" (rosewater, sea salt, and spring water). Bast too defied convention. "Rocked in the cradle of the deep I lay me down in peace to sleep. Secure I rest upon the wave, for thou O Water of the West hast power to save. Not my original work, not totally, but I thought it was right for the occasion." That said, Bast sprinkled the water all about the ritual area and took care in anointing my forehead, throat, and wrists.
I began to wonder if my mental catalog of ritual proceedings needed updating, but the moment, the love, and the focus were upon me. What could I say better that I hadn't already said to you before?
The night of the love spell we passed through the mists of the mundane world. Daneb, Jane, Catherine, and Brandie fell away as the witches Lupa, Raven, Bast, and Fortune rose from those mortal shells.
I wore my dark red silk robe, designed to entice and to lure, as I would wear it for you, my love. My sisters were equally splendid with Raven forgoing her usual black for deep purple, Bast in a midnight blue robe that matched her shining eyes, and Fortune in the green of a gardenia leaf.
I had planned on holding the ritual in the room we call Raven's Sanctuary. Few of us have ever been inside, and even then no one would dare enter without Raven's protection. For this place is the workroom and meditation chamber of the most potent woman of the Craft we've ever known although she herself would never make such a claim. It is in this room that Raven communes with Azrael, the benevolent Angel of Death, and His presence lingers everywhere as an unearthly amethyst glow.
"Dunno Lupa," Raven says as she leads me into the sanctuary. "I don't mind us having the rite in here but the ambiance might not be so great for your intent."
So right. I stepped through the doorway and immediately noticed the air was at least fifteen degrees colder than in the rest of the house something that cannot be accomplished through air conditioning trickery. The air was thick, heavy, making it difficult for me to breathe it was air laden with spirits and high magic. Still, there was something erotic, the smell of jasmine and earth and a rampant breeze with a cold touch upon my skin. Raven did not seem to be affected in the least.
Then I noticed the exquisite amethyst pyramid upon an altar, a pyramid we all believe to have been a gift from Azrael. The center of the gem glowed purple, as did some tracks on the floor. "Has He been here?"
Raven looked over her shoulder. "Yes, just today. I see you've been able to detect Him."
"Hard to miss."
"You'd be surprised." She turned fully to me, folding her arms over her chest. "Maybe now you understand why I'm hesitant to hold your love spell in here. I'm not sure my relationship with Azrael is exactly the influence you and Rob need."
I blinked. "You mean you and Azrael are lovers?"
"No!" Raven began to laugh. "No, not at all. He is my friend, my guardian, and my teacher. And I do love Him; I doubt anyone can know Him as I do and not love Him. What I meant is that our business together is not of a nature conducive to mortal love. I would hate to have the remains of our communing ruin your spell."
She had a point. I was getting creeped out. "Then what about the patio?"
"Much better idea."
That was an idea that turned out better than we'd hoped. A huge electrical storm chased itself around the sky. Fortune looked out at the striking bolts and nodded. "You lucked out," she said to me. "This is really some extra power going here. I hope you love this guy, because this spell is going to take. I can feel it."
"Don't worry," I said. "I love him enough for a billion people and an eternity of lifetimes. I have never been more sure of anything."
Fortune said nothing, but her approving smile said all. Raven and Bast came out onto the patio then, carrying what was needed for the spell, a spell of my own devising.
But I had left the creation of the anointing oil up to Raven and Bast. I do not know what they included, and it's taboo in the Craft to ask. There was a scent of roses, that was certain, and maybe lavender and ylang ylang flower too. Ah, well. Perfect love and perfect trust, as we say. My sisters would not let me down.
Grinning, Bast handed me two thick pillar candles, one red and one pink, the colors of love and friendship and all kinds of wonderful things. "When you anoint the candles," Bast told me, "be sure to imagine you're handling his penis."
Even I'd never heard this one before. "Are you serious?"
Bast nodded with all the self-assurance of the witchborn. "It's imagery and projection, Lupa. You put your energies into the candle, the intent of the spell, as if you were handling him. Didn't notice the candle was phallic?"
Actually I hadn't, but my sisters of the New Avalon had not overlooked any detail. So I took the red candle into my hand and thought of you thought of you until I broke into a fine sweat and felt the core of my sex throbbing. With light, teasing strokes, I rubbed the oil into the candle, all the time thinking of how much I love you and how much I would want to dedicate the same time and effort into worshipping your manhood. By the time I'd finished with the red candle and the pink, I was wet, my heart pounded in my chest, and I was euphoric with thoughts of you.
I'd made an incense of roses and frankincense, which would smolder in an abalone shell censer on the makeshift altar. There, too, was Raven's great black cauldron, passed down through her family longer than I have any record of mine. Tonight, Fortune kindled a fire of scented wood within the cauldron. The fire would be at my use at the climax of the spell, when my act of love for you would seal my devotion.
So there we were, the ladies of New Avalon. Fortune had put an Anuna CD on low in the background, and the skies continued to crash around us. I stood in the South, in my element of Fire, of energy, courage, daring, sexuality, passion and love. The altar was set up in my quadrant, as it was my spell. Raven stood opposite me in the North, abandoning her customary place at the center of our normal rites to be my Air, representative of intellect, communication, knowledge and wisdom. In the East, Fortune would be my Earth with her attributes of growth, abundance, bounty, and mystery. Finally, Bast stood to the West as Water, my perfect emissary of intuition, emotion, sympathy, empathy, and reflection. I doubt I could have arranged for a more perfect alignment.
Was I nervous? Believe it or not, yes. I think there's always an element of nervousness when one is serious about what they're doing. Mind you, that nervousness does not mean lack of self- esteem. There is no doubt in the Craft. I must know that what I strive to bring forth will be as I would have it.
As Raven has taught me, there are three rules in the Craft.
1) To will
2) To know
3) To dare.
Sure, there are books and groups who make these simple concepts complex, but Raven's right to present it straight and unadorned. There are enough other complexities.
I'd written the rite to begin with summoning the Watchtowers, also called calling the Cross-Quarters, leaving the exact wording of the invocation up to their imaginations.
Raven disliked calling the Cross-Quarters to open a rite and never did so with Star Mother Grove, but she was willing to play her part for me all the same. "From the North come I, by sword and by virtue. I call the powers of Air to protect me and mine and give strength to this rite of love."
We thought she was finished, but she surprised us.
"Boxty on the griddle
Boxty in the pan
If you don't eat your boxty
You won't keep yer man."
This was a new one. "Raven, where on earth did that come from?"
Grinning impishly, she shrugged. "My Nan used to sing it. Just popped into my head."
"And it's supposed to help us how?"
"By Macha, Lupa, there's more to love than rolling around in sweat and whatnot. Call it a hearth blessing." Accordingly, she touched the broadside of her sword to my shoulders.
All right, then, who am I to argue?
As Raven had come forward bearing her sword, Fortune approached with a wreath of roses from our own garden. "Hey, powers of the East! Powers of Earth! On your guard, for we need you! Look favorably upon us as we seek to help our sister bind her love for her man of the Isle. Fill us with your vibrant energy that this spell we make shall bring joy to the lovers" She then placed the wreath, a beautiful creation of flowers and greens and ribbons, upon my head
Normally I would have invoked my quarter next, but as I was the focus of the spell, I would go last and lead the rite from that point. So Bast came to me from the West, carrying a bottle of our tradition's "holy water" (rosewater, sea salt, and spring water). Bast too defied convention. "Rocked in the cradle of the deep I lay me down in peace to sleep. Secure I rest upon the wave, for thou O Water of the West hast power to save. Not my original work, not totally, but I thought it was right for the occasion." That said, Bast sprinkled the water all about the ritual area and took care in anointing my forehead, throat, and wrists.
I began to wonder if my mental catalog of ritual proceedings needed updating, but the moment, the love, and the focus were upon me. What could I say better that I hadn't already said to you before?
Out of the House of Ma'at
Chamber with the scales
Of heart and truth
I see all and hear mine own name
For one and five thousand years
I have been called
“Sacred Lady of Justice and Order
Be with me when I am judged”
Azure ostrich plumes
Fall from my eyes
The blessed tears of Ma’at
Oh children
Why do you invoke me?
You do not understand
You do not serve
In truth I say
Be wary of that bearing
My sacred name of Ma’at
As the green flow of life
Conquers the sand
So will justice prevail over corruption
In calling my name
So you too balance your heart
Against the feather of my integrity
Beware that you summon Me wisely
I am Ma’at who sees within
Friday, August 6, 2010
High Priestess Is Not A Dress Up Game!
One of the great privileges I have had as a Pagan writer is meeting interesting people who are shaping the community. Eridanah Crow is a Wiccan activist. She has spoken her mind and given her perspective with what is sometimes a brutal honesty. Whatever might be said about Eridanah, she will not back off from her convictions.
Her work is a call to action, a challenge to all Wiccans to take up the responsibility for the future of the path. According to Eridanah, the reaction has been tremendous. Many people are outraged by her candor, but a good many more applauded her new voice.
In the middle of my research for a book on Nehallenic Wicca, I was fortunate enough to spend an afternoon with Eridanah. We took some time to talk about the issues raised in her essay.
Daneb Rose: How did you first come into Wicca?
Eridanah Crow: I think by the easiest possible way. My parents were and are Wiccan and my siblings and I were all raised with a thorough understanding of the Wiccan path. We were exposed to all of the world's faiths, really. While Wicca was in the house, my parents wanted us to eventually choose the right path for each of us, whether it was Wicca or not. Well, two of us took to Wicca. We attended circles and gatherings with our parents. The rest of the time my parents taught us the essence of Wicca in the world around us. I was seventeen when I first made a formal dedication to a coven, which is the same coven my parents had been in and is the same coven I'm in today.
Rose: You began a formal training at a young age. Do you think this affects you in your later attitudes towards young people in Wicca?
Crow: Most definitely. I remember that the people in the coven were ready to respect me and treat me like an intelligent individual. We had the belief that reincarnation renders chronological age obsolete. I still feel that way. I want to give the respect I was given to young Wiccans. One other thing about this is that the young are Wicca's future. It's up to us to nurture that future.
Rose: I've been reading about the great interest in Wicca among teenagers. Is this a new challenge in Wicca?
Crow: I see it this way. Information about Wicca is more readily available today than ever. But that also means the potential for confusion is greater. If Source X says one thing but Source Y says something else, how is the student of Wicca to determine which is correct for themselves? This is one of the reasons I believe that experienced Wiccans like myself have a real obligation to help young people out, help them in their decisions and understand the reason why behind those decisions.
Rose: What is the solution?
Crow: The solution is for Wiccans to realize their charge to share the treasure of their knowledge. Why criticize someone for a lack of knowledge when giving an explanation is so much more productive for everyone involved?
Rose: Do you find yourself meeting with much opposition?
Crow: Honestly yes. I've had many people tell me that I should stop trying to dictate what Wiccans should do; that Wicca doesn't have a Pope or whatever. That's not how I see what I'm doing at all. I believe I'm trying to bring to the forefront a spirit of sharing knowledge that - at least in my experience - is a central part of Wicca in the first place.
Rose: I have to say that doesn't make much sense to me. Why do you think people would oppose you?
Crow: Greed and ego? Is it more fun to keep the information shut away and secret and make seekers beg for a glimpse? Maybe people aren't secure enough in their own knowledge. Maybe people just don't want to be bothered.
Rose: What is the one thing that you wish everyone understood about Wicca?
Crow: I wish people understood that even though we have an umbrella term like "Wicca," each of us is really walking their own path. No one can walk a path that isn't theirs. No one can walk another's path.
Rose: What are your plans for the immediate future, say late summer into fall?
Crow: Well, I'm still teaching several introductory classes. Not online - that doesn't seem to work out. Our current effort in my group to write a book about our tradition, the Nehallenic, is moving ahead at a good pace. For the most part I'm trying to stick myself in and spread the notion of sharing knowledge to as many people as I can.
Rose: You have mentioned that you went through several years of training experience.
Crow: Right. My Dedication year, First Degree, Second Degree, and Third Degree.
Rose: But do you think people would be willing to devote four years of their lives to training?
Crow: No, and what's more, I don't think I'm any more a Wiccan than someone who suddenly draws the moon into herself on a random night. The structured education was right for me personally, but I know it isn't for everyone. Wicca, however, should not simply be reserved for those who can train. That's a human way of thinking. As it has been said, there is only one Initiator.
One of the great privileges I have had as a Pagan writer is meeting interesting people who are shaping the community. Eridanah Crow is a Wiccan activist. She has spoken her mind and given her perspective with what is sometimes a brutal honesty. Whatever might be said about Eridanah, she will not back off from her convictions.
Her work is a call to action, a challenge to all Wiccans to take up the responsibility for the future of the path. According to Eridanah, the reaction has been tremendous. Many people are outraged by her candor, but a good many more applauded her new voice.
In the middle of my research for a book on Nehallenic Wicca, I was fortunate enough to spend an afternoon with Eridanah. We took some time to talk about the issues raised in her essay.
Daneb Rose: How did you first come into Wicca?
Eridanah Crow: I think by the easiest possible way. My parents were and are Wiccan and my siblings and I were all raised with a thorough understanding of the Wiccan path. We were exposed to all of the world's faiths, really. While Wicca was in the house, my parents wanted us to eventually choose the right path for each of us, whether it was Wicca or not. Well, two of us took to Wicca. We attended circles and gatherings with our parents. The rest of the time my parents taught us the essence of Wicca in the world around us. I was seventeen when I first made a formal dedication to a coven, which is the same coven my parents had been in and is the same coven I'm in today.
Rose: You began a formal training at a young age. Do you think this affects you in your later attitudes towards young people in Wicca?
Crow: Most definitely. I remember that the people in the coven were ready to respect me and treat me like an intelligent individual. We had the belief that reincarnation renders chronological age obsolete. I still feel that way. I want to give the respect I was given to young Wiccans. One other thing about this is that the young are Wicca's future. It's up to us to nurture that future.
Rose: I've been reading about the great interest in Wicca among teenagers. Is this a new challenge in Wicca?
Crow: I see it this way. Information about Wicca is more readily available today than ever. But that also means the potential for confusion is greater. If Source X says one thing but Source Y says something else, how is the student of Wicca to determine which is correct for themselves? This is one of the reasons I believe that experienced Wiccans like myself have a real obligation to help young people out, help them in their decisions and understand the reason why behind those decisions.
Rose: What is the solution?
Crow: The solution is for Wiccans to realize their charge to share the treasure of their knowledge. Why criticize someone for a lack of knowledge when giving an explanation is so much more productive for everyone involved?
Rose: Do you find yourself meeting with much opposition?
Crow: Honestly yes. I've had many people tell me that I should stop trying to dictate what Wiccans should do; that Wicca doesn't have a Pope or whatever. That's not how I see what I'm doing at all. I believe I'm trying to bring to the forefront a spirit of sharing knowledge that - at least in my experience - is a central part of Wicca in the first place.
Rose: I have to say that doesn't make much sense to me. Why do you think people would oppose you?
Crow: Greed and ego? Is it more fun to keep the information shut away and secret and make seekers beg for a glimpse? Maybe people aren't secure enough in their own knowledge. Maybe people just don't want to be bothered.
Rose: What is the one thing that you wish everyone understood about Wicca?
Crow: I wish people understood that even though we have an umbrella term like "Wicca," each of us is really walking their own path. No one can walk a path that isn't theirs. No one can walk another's path.
Rose: What are your plans for the immediate future, say late summer into fall?
Crow: Well, I'm still teaching several introductory classes. Not online - that doesn't seem to work out. Our current effort in my group to write a book about our tradition, the Nehallenic, is moving ahead at a good pace. For the most part I'm trying to stick myself in and spread the notion of sharing knowledge to as many people as I can.
Rose: You have mentioned that you went through several years of training experience.
Crow: Right. My Dedication year, First Degree, Second Degree, and Third Degree.
Rose: But do you think people would be willing to devote four years of their lives to training?
Crow: No, and what's more, I don't think I'm any more a Wiccan than someone who suddenly draws the moon into herself on a random night. The structured education was right for me personally, but I know it isn't for everyone. Wicca, however, should not simply be reserved for those who can train. That's a human way of thinking. As it has been said, there is only one Initiator.
Friday, August 6, 2010
What Is Brujeria?
Like so much else in the brujo world, I have had not one "name" but several. At one time you would have found me going by Mayahuel, after an Aztec (Méxica) goddess whom I will introduce you to shortly.
In mixed company I'm sometimes just referred to as La Bruja. My friends in Mexico have called me Coyote, the slang term for, oh, someone who gets people and things back and forth across the border after dark, so to speak. This has expanded into Cihuacoyotl, or Coyote Woman in Nahuatl.
But today, in my home temple, mostly I am called Juana Bruja, which is both joking and serious. The "Juana" part is the Spanish version of one of my given birth names. The two together are intended to give an impression such as that as "Jane Doe".
One gem, many facets. That is Brujeria, at least as I know it.
To learn first-hand for yourself about Brujeria, you may want to see if there are any shops called "botanicas" in your area. The next step is to actually go there and start talking with the people running the shop. I'm part owner of a small neighborhood botanica, and the botanica is a great starting point, one that I know actually exists in many areas.
There are few books available on Brujeria. I don't mean bad Spanish translations that immediately convert "Wicca" or "Witchcraft" into "Brujeria"; I know those exist and may be dismally misleading. In the beginning I learned one of the guiding principles of Brujeria was its secrecy, was the fact that it is passed from brujo to brujo. Well, this would explain the lack of material on the subject, but I kept looking anyway.
If you manage to come across a book in Spanish and you have a fairly decent comprehension of written Spanish, the number of books on Brujeria expands. You may also find some good and helpful information too. All right, enough talk about books!
Let's dispense with the silliness right from the start, shall we? No, I'm not obsessed with Carlos Casteneda's works, nor am I something out of Vampire The Masquerade (besides, the Brujah Clan--note that's Brujah and not bruja--doesn't seem to have much to do with Mesoamerican mysticism).
I'm not a fortune teller, either, even if I'm well-known for reading tea leaves. It seems to me that self-proclaimed psychics are a nickel a dozen, and besides, anybody who wants to know their future is, in my opinion, a great fool.
Brujeria is a broad path embracing virtually hundreds of traditions of the Americas--there is no right or wrong way, but many ways.
Brujeria is NOT Wicca and a brujo/bruja is not a Wiccan. We are not Druids or Thelemites or Streghe or the Golden Dawn or (insert your favorite group here). We are what we are, even if what we are is complex.
So what is a brujo/bruja? With the help of Felipe, who is the spots on my jaguar from Sonora,Mexico (but now living rather close by), I think I've finally hit upon an explanation most people can understand.
That explanation begins, of all places, in Siberiawith the Russian/Tungus word saman. The saman was an individual using magic to cure the sick, divine the hidden, and control events. This practice, usually referred to in American English as Shamanism, is worldwide.
Taking a step back from Brujeria to examine the two practices brought me to conclude that they are essentially the same thing, with a few differences according to culture. If that's the case, when I say I am a bruja, I am also saying I am a shaman. But remember that Shamanism is as varied as the world itself, so if you don't agree with my conclusions, please investigate the shaman on your own and see what you discover.
How I got here is not as important as the fact that I am here. There are no levels or hierarchy in Brujeria as I have learned it. A person is either a born brujo or not. Brujeria is a vocation in the true sense of the word--a calling, a summons. Don't get me wrong--I don't mean to make it sound exclusive, because it isn't. But without the calling, there is no Brujeria, and therefore no brujo. That's how it is.
Many people ask me what Brujeria is, what is a brujo/bruja. This is a difficult question to answer. Technically, the word "brujeria" is Spanish for witchcraft, sorcery, and magical doings. A lot of this carries over into the practice of Brujeria, but Brujeria is more. In brief, I see Brujeria as an ongoing dance with the vital spirit of theAmericas and my role as a bruja as a conduit for the living energy of the universe.
Arguably, today's Brujeria is the continuing magical spiritual path of Mesoamerica (Mexico) which dates back 12,000 years. Brujeria is not a revival of ancient traditions, for those traditions never died out in the first place.
That is to say, to be a bruja is to answer the calling of the Great Mother of the New World.
As you have probably guessed, Spanish is the lingua franca of Brujeria. Many brujos speak nothing else; many brujos speak no Spanish but "brujo/a" and "Brujeria". In my case, I'm using various Mexican dialects (and if you know anything about Mexican Spanish, you know how many variations there are) while learning Nahuatl, the language of the Nahua who are the modern descendants of the Aztecs.
In all truth, it doesn't matter what language you use--the energy is the same. However, Brujeria is also a community, and that community tends to speak Spanish of one streak or another. But I have noticed that more and more English speakers are joining the dance either through friends or the influence of lovers.
My own band of brujos, the Temple of the Jaguar, has come up with a list of guidelines which we simply call the Code (El Código Brujo). Here I offer a translation from the original Spanish into English. You will need to draw your own conclusions, because if it isn't said it's probably not intended to be public knowledge.
1) The universe is a living thing (which is an idea brought into modern Brujeria from Aztec cosmology), and Brujeria is a method of interacting with the living energy of the universe.
2) A brujo/bruja practices what could be termed magic by attuning himself/herself to this living energy.
This living energy can seize a brujo/bruja at any time, or through the concentrated work of an impromptu and inspired ritual.
3) An individual enters Brujeria through a personal encounter with the living energy.
4) Once a brujo, always a brujo. It is something that cannot be shaken off, something like genetic makeup.
5) Brujos/brujas are born and cannot be made, even if they do not come to realize their place in Brujeria until much later in life.
(From this point, I will be using the masculine brujo/brujos when referring to practioners of Brujeria of either sex.)
6) A brujo has no ethical laws or limits to restrict his magic. However, he must also assume complete responsibility for his actions and be willing to submit to the consequences.
7) "A dead brujo is more powerful and more dangerous than a living brujo." What exactly this means is up for interpretation.
8) As Mexican Presidente Beinito Juarez said, "Respect for the rights of others is peace."
9) Brujos are free to use their abilities for non-brujos. Example situations are healing, spiritual counselling, and the creation of hechizos ("spellwork").
10) Brujeria is a community bound together by the living energy of the universe, and all brujos are brothers and sisters. A brujo is pledged to assist a fellow brujo wherever and whenever needed.
11) Some of what makes Brujeria can be revealed to non-brujos but most of Brujeria must remain between brujos alone.
12) Brujeria is learned from brujo to brujo, and through interaction with the living energy.
13) Techincally speaking, Brujeria is a Pagan path, although the brujos seem to have little to do with what has become the better-known "Pagan Community" (or said community doesn't wish to embrace the brujos).
Based upon my own experiences, I contend that this split exists because of Brujeria's apparent lax ethical values (which is just a misunderstanding of taking responsibility for one's own actions), Brujeria's acceptance of the whole magical spectrum as opposed to being good/"White Light"/positive only, or most likely both. In other words, nobody's bothered to look into us much, hence we seem to be as frightening to the "Pagan Community" as they (appear to) seem to want to placate more mainstream religious groups. And once again I ask how these people can scream and rant to be tolerated by the non-Pagan world and yet be intolerant of a kindred Pagan path such as Brujeria. Be tolerated but not be tolerant in return? There's certainly a real lack of harmony there.
This is what I can tell you. No, I won't be cursed for revealing secrets or anything like that. Brujeria remains an oral path, communicated from brujo to brujo through speech, touch, taste, sensation, and experience. Our "spellwork" (if you insist on calling it such) is spontaneous and intuitive. Brujeria really is a living path, one that cannot be captured by the written word.
Like so much else in the brujo world, I have had not one "name" but several. At one time you would have found me going by Mayahuel, after an Aztec (Méxica) goddess whom I will introduce you to shortly.
In mixed company I'm sometimes just referred to as La Bruja. My friends in Mexico have called me Coyote, the slang term for, oh, someone who gets people and things back and forth across the border after dark, so to speak. This has expanded into Cihuacoyotl, or Coyote Woman in Nahuatl.
But today, in my home temple, mostly I am called Juana Bruja, which is both joking and serious. The "Juana" part is the Spanish version of one of my given birth names. The two together are intended to give an impression such as that as "Jane Doe".
One gem, many facets. That is Brujeria, at least as I know it.
To learn first-hand for yourself about Brujeria, you may want to see if there are any shops called "botanicas" in your area. The next step is to actually go there and start talking with the people running the shop. I'm part owner of a small neighborhood botanica, and the botanica is a great starting point, one that I know actually exists in many areas.
There are few books available on Brujeria. I don't mean bad Spanish translations that immediately convert "Wicca" or "Witchcraft" into "Brujeria"; I know those exist and may be dismally misleading. In the beginning I learned one of the guiding principles of Brujeria was its secrecy, was the fact that it is passed from brujo to brujo. Well, this would explain the lack of material on the subject, but I kept looking anyway.
If you manage to come across a book in Spanish and you have a fairly decent comprehension of written Spanish, the number of books on Brujeria expands. You may also find some good and helpful information too. All right, enough talk about books!
Let's dispense with the silliness right from the start, shall we? No, I'm not obsessed with Carlos Casteneda's works, nor am I something out of Vampire The Masquerade (besides, the Brujah Clan--note that's Brujah and not bruja--doesn't seem to have much to do with Mesoamerican mysticism).
I'm not a fortune teller, either, even if I'm well-known for reading tea leaves. It seems to me that self-proclaimed psychics are a nickel a dozen, and besides, anybody who wants to know their future is, in my opinion, a great fool.
Brujeria is a broad path embracing virtually hundreds of traditions of the Americas--there is no right or wrong way, but many ways.
Brujeria is NOT Wicca and a brujo/bruja is not a Wiccan. We are not Druids or Thelemites or Streghe or the Golden Dawn or (insert your favorite group here). We are what we are, even if what we are is complex.
So what is a brujo/bruja? With the help of Felipe, who is the spots on my jaguar from Sonora,Mexico (but now living rather close by), I think I've finally hit upon an explanation most people can understand.
That explanation begins, of all places, in Siberiawith the Russian/Tungus word saman. The saman was an individual using magic to cure the sick, divine the hidden, and control events. This practice, usually referred to in American English as Shamanism, is worldwide.
Taking a step back from Brujeria to examine the two practices brought me to conclude that they are essentially the same thing, with a few differences according to culture. If that's the case, when I say I am a bruja, I am also saying I am a shaman. But remember that Shamanism is as varied as the world itself, so if you don't agree with my conclusions, please investigate the shaman on your own and see what you discover.
How I got here is not as important as the fact that I am here. There are no levels or hierarchy in Brujeria as I have learned it. A person is either a born brujo or not. Brujeria is a vocation in the true sense of the word--a calling, a summons. Don't get me wrong--I don't mean to make it sound exclusive, because it isn't. But without the calling, there is no Brujeria, and therefore no brujo. That's how it is.
Many people ask me what Brujeria is, what is a brujo/bruja. This is a difficult question to answer. Technically, the word "brujeria" is Spanish for witchcraft, sorcery, and magical doings. A lot of this carries over into the practice of Brujeria, but Brujeria is more. In brief, I see Brujeria as an ongoing dance with the vital spirit of theAmericas and my role as a bruja as a conduit for the living energy of the universe.
Arguably, today's Brujeria is the continuing magical spiritual path of Mesoamerica (Mexico) which dates back 12,000 years. Brujeria is not a revival of ancient traditions, for those traditions never died out in the first place.
That is to say, to be a bruja is to answer the calling of the Great Mother of the New World.
As you have probably guessed, Spanish is the lingua franca of Brujeria. Many brujos speak nothing else; many brujos speak no Spanish but "brujo/a" and "Brujeria". In my case, I'm using various Mexican dialects (and if you know anything about Mexican Spanish, you know how many variations there are) while learning Nahuatl, the language of the Nahua who are the modern descendants of the Aztecs.
In all truth, it doesn't matter what language you use--the energy is the same. However, Brujeria is also a community, and that community tends to speak Spanish of one streak or another. But I have noticed that more and more English speakers are joining the dance either through friends or the influence of lovers.
My own band of brujos, the Temple of the Jaguar, has come up with a list of guidelines which we simply call the Code (El Código Brujo). Here I offer a translation from the original Spanish into English. You will need to draw your own conclusions, because if it isn't said it's probably not intended to be public knowledge.
1) The universe is a living thing (which is an idea brought into modern Brujeria from Aztec cosmology), and Brujeria is a method of interacting with the living energy of the universe.
2) A brujo/bruja practices what could be termed magic by attuning himself/herself to this living energy.
This living energy can seize a brujo/bruja at any time, or through the concentrated work of an impromptu and inspired ritual.
3) An individual enters Brujeria through a personal encounter with the living energy.
4) Once a brujo, always a brujo. It is something that cannot be shaken off, something like genetic makeup.
5) Brujos/brujas are born and cannot be made, even if they do not come to realize their place in Brujeria until much later in life.
(From this point, I will be using the masculine brujo/brujos when referring to practioners of Brujeria of either sex.)
6) A brujo has no ethical laws or limits to restrict his magic. However, he must also assume complete responsibility for his actions and be willing to submit to the consequences.
7) "A dead brujo is more powerful and more dangerous than a living brujo." What exactly this means is up for interpretation.
8) As Mexican Presidente Beinito Juarez said, "Respect for the rights of others is peace."
9) Brujos are free to use their abilities for non-brujos. Example situations are healing, spiritual counselling, and the creation of hechizos ("spellwork").
10) Brujeria is a community bound together by the living energy of the universe, and all brujos are brothers and sisters. A brujo is pledged to assist a fellow brujo wherever and whenever needed.
11) Some of what makes Brujeria can be revealed to non-brujos but most of Brujeria must remain between brujos alone.
12) Brujeria is learned from brujo to brujo, and through interaction with the living energy.
13) Techincally speaking, Brujeria is a Pagan path, although the brujos seem to have little to do with what has become the better-known "Pagan Community" (or said community doesn't wish to embrace the brujos).
Based upon my own experiences, I contend that this split exists because of Brujeria's apparent lax ethical values (which is just a misunderstanding of taking responsibility for one's own actions), Brujeria's acceptance of the whole magical spectrum as opposed to being good/"White Light"/positive only, or most likely both. In other words, nobody's bothered to look into us much, hence we seem to be as frightening to the "Pagan Community" as they (appear to) seem to want to placate more mainstream religious groups. And once again I ask how these people can scream and rant to be tolerated by the non-Pagan world and yet be intolerant of a kindred Pagan path such as Brujeria. Be tolerated but not be tolerant in return? There's certainly a real lack of harmony there.
This is what I can tell you. No, I won't be cursed for revealing secrets or anything like that. Brujeria remains an oral path, communicated from brujo to brujo through speech, touch, taste, sensation, and experience. Our "spellwork" (if you insist on calling it such) is spontaneous and intuitive. Brujeria really is a living path, one that cannot be captured by the written word.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Pagan Author Issac Bonewits Passes...
Isaac Bonewits, a well-respected leader in the Neo-Pagan community passed at about 8:00 am, this morning (August 12, 2010) in his sleep, with family and friends by his side, after a lengthy battle with cancer.
Philip Emmons Isaac Bonewits was born on October 1, 1949 in Royal Oak Michigan, and had three sisters and one brother.
In college (University of California at Berkeley), Isaac was introduced to Druidry by his roommate, Robert Larson who was a member of the Reformed Druids of North America. Isaac was initiated as a priest in 1969. He was the first and only individual to graduate from that institution with a degree in magic. This work led to his first book, Real Magic, which was published in 1971.
In 1983, while married to Sally Eaton, he moved to New York where he met Shenain Bell. Together they formed the fellowship Ár nDraíocht Féin (Gaelic for Our Own Druidism) with Bonewits as Archdruid and Bell as Vice Archdruid.
In 1987, Isaac married Deborah Lipp. Their son Arthur Lipp-Bonewits was born at their Dumont, New Jersey home. This marriage ended after a health crisis that severely strained the relationship.
In 2007, Arthur married Phaedra Heymann, a Wiccan Priestess who was with him at his passing.
Isaac was currently working on three new books. One of these was tentatively titled Cancer is a pain in the Butt.
Isaac's full biography can be found at www.neopagan.net.
From the Manchester Pagan Examiner
Isaac Bonewits, a well-respected leader in the Neo-Pagan community passed at about 8:00 am, this morning (August 12, 2010) in his sleep, with family and friends by his side, after a lengthy battle with cancer.
Philip Emmons Isaac Bonewits was born on October 1, 1949 in Royal Oak Michigan, and had three sisters and one brother.
In college (University of California at Berkeley), Isaac was introduced to Druidry by his roommate, Robert Larson who was a member of the Reformed Druids of North America. Isaac was initiated as a priest in 1969. He was the first and only individual to graduate from that institution with a degree in magic. This work led to his first book, Real Magic, which was published in 1971.
In 1983, while married to Sally Eaton, he moved to New York where he met Shenain Bell. Together they formed the fellowship Ár nDraíocht Féin (Gaelic for Our Own Druidism) with Bonewits as Archdruid and Bell as Vice Archdruid.
In 1987, Isaac married Deborah Lipp. Their son Arthur Lipp-Bonewits was born at their Dumont, New Jersey home. This marriage ended after a health crisis that severely strained the relationship.
In 2007, Arthur married Phaedra Heymann, a Wiccan Priestess who was with him at his passing.
Isaac was currently working on three new books. One of these was tentatively titled Cancer is a pain in the Butt.
Isaac's full biography can be found at www.neopagan.net.
From the Manchester Pagan Examiner
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