Yarrow for the Heartache

Walter has insisted that I work at my desk this morning, so here I am. I'm catching up on messages and emails, writing a review, and staring at my journals and my pile of unused journals like maybe I recognize them, but I'm just not sure. You know, like when you see that person in the store or on the train or at the show, and you are wondering if you went to school with them or maybe met them at a business meeting or they might have sat at the table next to you at that restaurant you went to two months ago when we still believed it was safe to dine out.
I have been woefully neglectful of my daily writing practice, and I realized yesterday that it is because I am avoiding writing about COVID-19 and what it is doing to the world. I don't know. Maybe it is triggering the Anne Frank nightmares of my childhood or something. Maybe it is just one too many traumas; one more level down the abyss that this country's current political environment dragged us into. One more monster in the Upside Down.
I am saturating my social media content with garden stuff because that's where the hope grows for me. That is where the distraction lies as well. I'm soaking up all the art and music and nature that other people are sharing because my spirit needs those balms. Who knew that Penguins touring zoos and aquariums could actually warm the human heart?
There are times that I am overwhelmed by everything that is happening, and it usually hits me from out of the blue. I will be sitting on the couch or out in the garden or talking with Rhodes, and all of a sudden I find myself crying. All of a sudden I am aware of the fear and concern I have for the people I love, for my friends, and for my community, both local and world-wide.
My daughter works in a health care practice that is essential. Their office cannot close, and they are affiliated with the local hospital. My mind does not allow me to acknowledge this in every minute of every day but I am all too aware of the number of health care workers who have died from COVID-19 and I am terrified for my child. I keep that fear locked away in a box inside my head because if I didn't I wouldn't be able to function.
I am worried about other people in my family, some as much for the psychological strain caused by unemployment and uncertainty as for the disease itself. My 82 year old father in law lives with us and we have just now managed to convince him to stop going to the grocery store. We have everything we need in this house right now; there is no point in risking his life or our lives for things we might want.
I worry that I can't do enough to help other people at a time when I *should* be helping as much as possible. And then I remind myself, or my husband reminds me, that we are doing the best we can to help those we can help, in all the ways that we can help, and that is all anyone can do.
So, I am silencing my muse because I am afraid of what she has to say. She rebels in my head, gets wild and loud and crazy, and sometimes bursts through the seams so that I hear little bits of what she has to say. But while I am silencing her, I am tuned in with perfection to the Divine all around me, and I have a sneaking suspicion they are passing notes.
A few weeks ago before things went completely topsy turvy, I acquired some plants for the altar we keep for our Beth. I've never grown yarrow, but I've seen it and admired it, and I saw some at the nursery and I just had a sudden knowing. "Get the yarrow," the quiet voice said. "See how beautiful it is? Beth would love this." Then an even quieter voice said "Yarrow for the Heartache. You could write about that."
I got the yarrow, and later that night when I sat down to do some research, I'm fairly certain I heard the quieter voice giggle when I found a dozen articles about the uses of yarrow to comfort the heart.
I'm still musing about how to write about the Yarrow, but here's some free verse that's flowing through my head like water over the rocks in a small creek, catching here, stopping there, turning, skipping along.
Peace out, peeps.

When this is all said and done Will you remember when a stranger bumping into you In the market was an annoyance and not a death threat?

Will you remember the privileged horror
Of the finally undeniable truth that children in your
Neighborhoods go hungry every day?

Will you remember that Margie next door
Baked homemade cornbread for the neighbor girl
Who brought buttermilk home for her?

Or that Kim shared beagle pictures to make us smile
And Star shared recipes and let her cats work the stove
And Karen's cat learned to use the Ipad to watch videos?

Edie who kept her grandbaby and crossed generations to care for those she loves.
Chris who has to love her mother from a distance, and
Others who cannot touch or hug or see their children and grandchildren or friends.

Will you remember those who shared wisdom and
Those who shared words intended to comfort and
Those who reached through the screen to send love?

Those who stood up against injustice and
Those who muddied the waters and
Those who fought for all of us and meant it?

Yo Yo Ma is giving us Songs of Comfort and
So are Garth and Tricia, Paul Simon, Jimmy Fallon,
Gail Gidot, and people who can't carry a tune in a bucket
And my ears are drinking it up.

Sidewalk chalk art is as inspiring and beautiful as the
Free tours of the Met and the Getty and the Tate and
Dear Goddess, please let me keep believing that I will
Tour them for real in the Great Regathering someday.

I am crying for strangers and grieving for families and whole nations
And thinking of the exquisite bouquets my friend Wrex creates
And the love and hope that she effortlessly and magically imbues them with

And I suddenly feel hopeful again, thinking wry thoughts
About how to show love in this Time of Chaos,
And offering Yarrow for the Heartache we are all feeling. 

The False Narrative: The Need for Forgiveness in Order to Heal

The False Narrative: The Need for Forgiveness in Order to Heal

The path to healing from trauma and grief is deeply personal and can be fraught with contradictions and confusion.

I have carried a great deal of anger surrounding the circumstances of my youngest daughter’s life challenges and death. Her mental illnesses and addiction issues took her into terrible circumstances and into contact with some horrible people. Over the years she shared details of some soul shattering experiences with me, and after she died I received confirmation about the worst betrayal of them all.

It has been my experience that many people do not have any idea how truly bad life can be right here in America. I don’t want to share those horrible stories here or anywhere else, but I will say that the cringe-worthy, frightening, nauseating kind of things you see in movies or read in novels or social media posts really do happen to people you know and to people who live in your community. Making that statement isn’t a quest for drama, nor is it an exaggeration. There are monsters in this world, and most of them are human.

There are many victims of those events and those monsters; the individuals who experience them, their families and friends, the communities that absorb the impact, the EMTs, the police officers, the social workers, the emergency room personnel, the detectives who work countless hours to build a case. The list goes on and on, moving out in endless ripples that create small waves for some and tsunamis for others.

In the midst of all that overwhelming motion, victims are often told that they should forgive the person who caused the harm. They are told that forgiveness is the only path to peace, that in order to heal, to move on, to become whole, they must forgive the offender. And if the offender has found religion, found Jesus or Odin or the Divine in any form, the victim especially must forgive them and welcome their presence in community.

I had been hearing that call for forgiveness for 50 years, and after Beth’s death I wanted to believe it because I wanted to finally move away from the pain her years of suffering had caused. I was willing to grab hold of whatever seemed like a viable means to do that. Three years after her death, three years of feeling and processing and thinking, I have come to a point where I call bullshit on the topic of forgiveness as a means to healing.

There are times when forgiving someone may be a healthy thing to do, as when persons in a healthy, balanced relationship have a serious conflict or disagreement and then come to a resolution of the matter. There are times when an individual’s faith allows forgiveness to bring peace. But there are times when forgiveness is a toxic tool, the use of which is driven by misperception, laziness, selfishness, and power imbalances present in outdated patriarchal religious, legal, and community systems.

Who benefits from forgiveness, overall? What falsehoods are behind that mask? Sometimes victims are urged to forgive an offender because it makes it easier for everyone else to move on with their lives, and because the existence of their pain and trauma is an inconvenience to others. Harm caused creates an imbalance that is felt as an energetic negative. Individuals and communities, consciously or subconsciously, perceive that imbalance as a debt that must be paid to restore wholeness to the individual and to the collective. The presence of that debt is, consciously or subconsciously, discomforting and disturbing, and so the whole presses for balance to be restored to itself above the needs of the individual victim. Salving the conscience of the people who cause harm or those who are made uncomfortable by anger and grief should never be made the burden of the person who has been wronged or injured.

The act of forgiveness implies that a debt has been settled or released, and the suggestion that the victim must release the offender from that debt creates an unnecessary burden on the one who has been wronged. It creates a false narrative that forces the victim to give yet another thing to someone who has already stolen things of immeasurable value, and creates a disturbing cosmic sense of the balance of debts owed and paid. Furthermore, there are circumstances in which any debt owed by an offender is owed at a level beyond human constructs; when the injury caused is so grievous a matter that the debt created is held by the Divine, and so the matter of forgiveness becomes a matter between the offender and their own Divine.

Contained within the grief of losing someone are multiple boxes. One box holds anger and all the other negative feelings directed towards the external factors that influenced a loved one’s death. Another box holds all the questions that can never be answered, all the regrets and unspoken or unaccepted apologies, and all the misunderstandings and miscommunications that were never quite sorted out. But there is also a box that holds the love, the happy memories, and the hopeful dream of one more sunset, one more conversation, one more smile somewhere on the other side.

Comes a time, and it is different for each person, when one realizes that the weight of what is held within that negative box is overwhelming, that its presence causes weariness, that one cannot rise against its pull. With that realization comes the choice to be made: which box makes life better? Which one is worth carrying? Which one is it time to put down?

It is possible to experience compassion without forgiveness. It is possible to have an understanding of circumstances without forgiveness. It is possible and healthy to focus on healing one’s self without carrying the responsibility of healing others, and forgiveness is not a necessary step on that path.

Peaceful, Easy Feeling

This weekend didn't go quite as I'd planned, but I'm not complaining. Rhodes and I have been running hard for the past few weeks, and without setting an intention to do so, we spent this weekend in a state of semi-hibernation. We caught up on some much needed sleep, ate good, healthy, home cooked food, and stayed up ridiculously late at night talking, reading, and watching some thought provoking television. We also spent a few morning hours lazing in bed together, watching the birds through the big bedroom window that I still love so much.

The feathered extravaganza in the backyard never ceases to amaze me: our avian neighbors include Blue Jays, Cardinals, a pair of Eastern Towhees, Carolina Chickadees, Titmice, Song Sparrows, Carolina Wrens, Downy Woodpecker, Hairy Woodpecker, Red-bellied Woodpecker, White-Breasted Nuthatch, Mourning Doves (I am sure they are the same babies that I watched mature in our front yard last spring), Cowbirds, Phoebes, Brown Nuthatch, Robins, Red Winged Blackbirds, and Black-Capped Chickadees. They move in and out of the yard in a casually choreographed way, their flight patterns as they come and go weaving a spell into the fabric of the Cottage's being.

The weather and temperature were so perfect today that we were lured outside to do some projects. We finished construction on the raised bed garden for the North Wing, and I can't wait to see how it will look later when it is full of beautiful, vibrant plants. Here are some before, during, and after shots of the project:

We also marked out the space for planting blueberry bushes along the north fence line, and sat on that hill (yes, it will become known as Blueberry Hill!) for a while, soaking up the sun and talking. Plans were made for hammock, witch hazel, and hazel nut tree placement, and plans were finalized for placing the habitat fence along the existing fenceline. Although we've had a compost pile since last spring, today we built the first of three compost bins, using pallets we've acquired with rock and materials deliveries; another of the ways in which we are slowly sorting out how we fit into this beautiful space we now call home.

North yard sitting and then wandering as we talked turned up some gifts from the bird neighbors: a scattered collection of Blue Jay feathers. I hope I can find a way to save them that will preserve the colors.

And now the kitchen is calling, and I must go. I'm going to carry this peaceful, easy feeling with me for as long as I am able. "I've got a peaceful, easy feeling, and I know you won't let me down, cuz I'm already standing on the ground."

https://youtu.be/n-0lRkuNyj0

Topsail Island Sand and Prayers

A little more than seven years ago my new lover and I took a trip to the coast of North Carolina; for different reasons we both wanted to touch the waters of the Great Mother. We arrived sometime after 4 a.m. and went straight to Herself. I walked across the moonlit sand feeling a mixture of joy and reverence in the duality of Her presence there, slipping my shoes off as I went, already talking softly to Her, eager to get my feet in the water.

My lover, a veteran of the U.S. Coast Guard, ran past me. Two seconds after I said "Hello, Goddess," I heard him shout "Hello you bitch, I'm back!" Then he laughed like a maniac as he strode into the water to meet Her. I learned over time that their relationship was often a tempestuous and challenging one, but he loves Her, unfailingly, in Her form as Ocean. I married him a few years later - best decision I ever made. 

On that trip I gathered shells and sand and ocean water from the various beaches we visited. I'm a Witch; that's how we do. I've kept them all in carefully labeled mason jars for all this time, just like I keep herbs and flowers and horsehair. One never knows what one is going to need to make a correspondence or connection.

I've been doing the musing side of working on a ritual for the safety of someone I love very much. Like many others he is in danger because of the dire lack of statesmanship and intelligence that exists in this world.  I've been trying to piece together the hows of sending energy around the world. Things like this can be so very simple, and so very complicated. 

Then tonight I was reading a passionately beautiful and righteously angry post by Corky Edwards of Australia, who while writing in response to how some folks are trying to help with the fires devouring that country reminded us that "Every grain of sand and dirt and stone touches that which is next to it, from one grain to the next, covering the entire globe. You can send your energy everywhere and anywhere if you focus."

The little light bulb in the closet in my mind went off, and I made my way to the closet in the study where I keep my Craft supplies. I searched through dozens of mason jars until I found the one I was looking for. Then I found just the right candle and some other supplies, set my altar for a specific purpose, and essentially asked my Topsail Island sand to convey the message to that sandy land so very far away.

I am tired,and a little sick, and a little sick and tired, so I'm going to acknowledge that I don't have the energy to write this to completion tonight. I'm not always as good as I want to be.

Goddess, please bless all the people caught up in this unholy storm. Shelter those who can be sheltered, protect those who can be protected, heal those who will need healing, and be gentle with those beyond such need. 

Safely home, kid; you and all your brothers and sisters. Safe in body, and as safe in mind and spirit as you can possibly be.

Solstice Day

I woke in the darkness this morning, and before my eyes were even all the way open I could feel the shifting energy of the approaching Solstice. This is the shortest day of the year before the return of the Light and there is a thread of expectent delight weaving itself through everything I move through today. 

I sat in the darkness of the living room for a couple of hours; I did some meditation, my morning prayers, an internal inventory, and then I just listened to Rhodes breathing down the hall, and to the Cottage breathing all around me. 

Although it is cloudy here today, I longed to be out of doors, so I lured my adventure partner out of our warm bed and down the road, seeking. We had a brilliant adventure, sharing views, conversation, music, and a thermos mug of hot mint tea. The Sun, Himself, made a few appearances through thinning cloud cover; bright and brilliant and confident as ever in His ability to shine. 

When Rhodes and I finally wound our way back down the road and home we went for a walk around the Cottage grounds, checking the plants and trees and our plans for the future. I was amused to learn that we have the same plan to build a rock seating wall around the Eastern Red Cedar in the North yard sometime down the road. 

This afternoon I am kitchen witching in the sweetest way, filling the house with memories and love of my Mom, my Grandmother, and the Great Gramma Lewis I don't remember at all. It is her sugar cookie recipe that made one of the most magical parts of the Christmas holiday happen in my Mother's kitchen and at the dining room table.

I don't think it is a secret that my mother was not a very good cook. Whether she was locked into simplicity by the demands of feeding seven children, or had no interest in culinary exploration, family legend says (and my mother herself confirmed this) that when she and my father first married she actually burned a pan when trying to boil water. I don't recall things improving much over the course of my childhood.

But Christmas cookies? Oh, man, that was her shining time of year. I have no recollection of how many batches of cookies she made, but during my early years the list was always the same: mincemeat cookies, pumpkin cookies, oatmeal cookies, peanut butter cookies (always pressed so prettily with a fork to make a cross-hatch!), chocolate chip cookies, and sugar cookies (rolled and cut with cookie cutters into stockings, stars, trees, angels, and santas).

She made so many cookies at one time that she mixed the cookie dough in her biggest cooking pot, and I can remember the first time I was allowed to help. I had to sit on our wooden high chair with no tray on it at the kitchen counter because I couldn't reach. She taught me how to use a spoon to cream the sugar into the shortening, and let me find out on my own just exactly how nasty vanilla extract tastes right out of the bottle. My favorite part of the making was using the flour sifter. She helped me to carefully measure the flour into the sifter, and then had to help me turn the little crank handle because I couldn't get it started myself. I was fascinated by that process, and when she said we had to do that two more times I was excited.

I don't know how she had the patience, or even the time, to teach me to set the sifter into another bowl, and carefully scoop the once sifted flour back into it; then repeating the process again with the other dry ingredients added. "Go slow. Go slow, or it will fly all over the place." And she laughed at me the first time that it did.

I don't remember actually doing so, but I know we were allowed to help decorate the sugar cookies. If we all participated, that would have been 7 kids turned loose with colored frosting and sprinkles and cinnamon red hots (I do remember that I loved to press those into warm sugar cookies, they looked so pretty) and some years those really pretty little silver balls.

I'm setting the stage for that magic today, baking Gramma Lewis' sugar cookies to decorate with Katie, Justin, and Emily tomorrow. I'll make the icing in the morning, and the bottles of sprinkles will be all lined up and ready to go. 

If you find yourself in need of a real sugar cookie this holiday season, come on by. I'm happy to share the magic!

Solstice blessings to you, my family and friends! May the returning Sun warm your body as it warms the body of the earth, and may the returning light fill your heart and spirit with joy and hope. Blessed be!

The Road Home

Have you ever been on a long journey and then found that the road home leads you back to some place new? Some of the old familiar and certain things are there, but they are different in ways it will take a while to determine.

I just stepped outside to say goodnight to the Moon. The sky is covered with fast moving clouds tonight and I did not think I would see Her. The moment I moved to the top of the steps,hands on the porch posts, head and eyes raised to the sky, the clouds shifted; Her shimmering nightrobe parted and I caught a glimpse of her silver golden self, still nearly full and gorgeous and luscious. Still familiar and certain, yet somehow different. She and I have both been traveling, and getting reacquainted is a dear, sweet process.

Something about the quality of light reminded me of my last December in New York, and an afternoon and evening when I wandered for hours through the snow. I visited many childhood haunts and many childhood memories. These lions were a last stop on that adventure. I hope I find them in my dreams tonight; a last stop on this day's adventures.

What childhood magics do you carry with you, talismans of safety as you journey through life?

Sweet Journey

I have been writing tonight, revisiting the concept of smooring. Such a lovely Scottish word, and such a lovely action whether it be a hearth fire or a candle to be smoored.
I am grateful for all the wise and powerful Witches and women who have shared knowledge with me over the years. It can be a tricky thing to be a mostly solitary practitioner but still build ties to community. I have been blessed.
Are you growing weary of these dark days? Hold fast, my friends. Solstice draws nigh.
Good night, peeps. May your dreams be soft tonight, and your sleep a sweet journey to morning.

Not Your Mother's Table

THIS IS NOT YOUR MOTHER'S TABLE

I bet you all thought I was going to forget to remind you of this, this year.
Wrong! Some parts of me are with it and balanced.

So, without further ado: Holiday guilt-free pass.

I have a dear friend who suffers from debilitating anxiety. She posted a meme that asks people to understand how difficult the holidays can be for people who have anxiety, and described some of the ways in which they struggle.

I add to that this request: please be kind and understanding about the schedules of your family and friends, especially when it comes to your adult children. More than kind and understanding, please also be generous enough to be the person who gives them the gift of a guilt-free pass.

Balancing the holiday demands of multiple families can be a nightmare, especially if those families all insist on sharing a meal or even time together on the same day. Rushing from one gathering to the next makes for an exhausting day filled with stressful expectations.

Guilt-free pass: "Hey, I know the holidays can be crazy. Don't worry about Thanksgiving Day here (or Yule, or Christmas, or Hanukkah). Let's plan something around your schedule. And by the way - this is a GUILT FREE PASS. I love you."

Saturday afternoon dinner or dessert, or Sunday brunch or Wednesday night sandwiches and chips, when everyone is relaxed and happy, can be every bit the holiday you make it in your head and heart, especially if it is all about the love and being thankful.

Morning Routine

I am out of bed early these days, whether or not I have slept. I am re-learning the power of being true to my body's natural rhythms; for me that includes being up and productive before sunrise. My creative energy flows best in the early hours, and I love the inherent promises imbedded in the arrival of each new day.

I've just been outside to greet the rising Sun. Today He is dressed in long gray robes that flow down from the sky to drape the mountains that surround me. The rain that is falling is cold on my skin; the jellycoat I love to wear for warmth is not exactly water repellent but I have never minded the rain.

There is enough of a breeze to blow the rain onto our narrow front porch and to cause the rain chains to sway in a little morning dance, and I find myself moving with them in the soft ages-old dance of every woman who has ever held a child on her hip. I love the plink-plink-plink sound of water flowing down the chains, through the lotus cups, and down the chains again. I settle into one of the front porch chairs, my hands and fingers kept warm by my favorite mug holding my currently favorite tea.

It would be easy in this time of year to forget about the land that holds the Cottage and focus on indoor projects only. Days are often cold and wet; going outside often requires bundling up and putting on my wellies. Most green things are tucked away for the cold and dark days, held safe in the body of the Mother where she will either consume or nourish them, so it seems like there wouldn't be much to see. But the getting acquainted with my land and the land spirits who dwell here doesn't stop with the turning of the seasons; neither does growing a relationship nor educating myself about the terra, flora, and fauna for which I have accepted stewardship. Rising before dawn, the first cup of tea, going outside to walk the land or breath fresh air, to check in with the land as I start my day - these things are part of the routine that are necessary to my healing journey.

On this soft gray morning I watch the way the water runs down our driveway. I see where it cuts across the stones into the Cottage Garden and note that I will have to consult my Chief Engineer about doing something to re-route it there. I carry my mug to the end of the porch and stand leaning against the railing, watching to see how the water moves around the lavender bed and I am content with the dispersed flow through the river rocks piled there. The statue of three little bears makes me smile, as it always does. I affirm our plan to put a rain barrel in under the downspout on the corner of the North Wing, and make a note to check out the South and back yards for rain barrel placement as well. Creating plans for the future helps me to feel grounded in the Here and Now.

I move back to the other end of the porch to sit for a while longer, and am pleased to hear the morning bird chorus start its song. First one, then another, then another joins in. They call back and forth to each other as they work to sing the Sun into the sky. From where I sit, the plink-plink sounds of the rain chain provide an under-rhythm to the combined sounds of falling rain and bird song. In this moment, everything feels right. I carry the fluid grace and soft energy of this day into the house with me, back to my desk, and into my healing process.

Peace out, people.

The Winter of My Soul

Funny how long it takes to settle things in a home. In the moving-in process it was necessary to dump all of my stuff - writing materials, books, paintings and paint supplies, craft materials and materia magicae (sorry, Mr. Gray! 37 years out of Latin classes with you and I just don't remember as well as I should!) - onto the surface of the repurposed kitchen table which is now my desk, and envision it all perfect in just a week or two. In reality, although it has been functional for a while now, it took five months to get everything in just the right place.

Earlier this week I was doing the final sorting out, prompted by the need to create an easily accessible morning altar space. This process included going through an impressive stack of notebooks and journals and, because I have lost the ability to stay on task, I found myself reading through each one of them. At the bottom of the stack I found the journal I started when I realized I was in the Winter of My Soul.

Nearly two years ago, close to the end of the first year of life without my youngest daughter in this world, I wrote about wishing I could take a sabbatical for six months or a year. Mostly, I said, I wanted to get away and rest and renew my spirit. I wrote these words:

     "I have alternately felt as though I am lost, drowning, overwhelmed, cannot breathe, cannot slow          down, cannot move fast enough..."

I tried for a while to turn inward with the season. I tried to tend to my own needs, my own healing. I was successful for a short time, but then I let life get in the way. I allowed the expectations and distraction of other people and society to turn me away from dealing with the grief that threatened to consume me. In doing so I shut down all awareness that it was wearing away at me from the inside out.

Events in my life in the past year stripped away all those distractions, and those of you who know me best probably know that I severed the ties of expectations and obligation. While those life changes were immensely liberating and have opened doors of opportunity, they have left me standing face-to-face with the grief that is still raw in wounds that are wide open. This has not been an easy journey, and it is nowhere near complete. I have once again alternately felt as though I am lost, drowning, overwhelmed, cannot breathe, cannot slow down, cannot move fast enough.

A couple of weeks ago I made the decision to follow the seasons in the Turning of the Wheel of the Year, and to turn more deeply inward than I have ever done. To the marrow of my bones I know that it is the right thing for me to do.

When I found that journal yesterday I rediscovered a writing that woke a truth within me the first time I read it, and I read it out loud again as a prayer:

     "When winter comes to a woman's soul, she withdraws into her inner self, her deepest spaces. She refuses all connection, refutes all arguments that she should engage in the world. She may say she is resting, but she is more than resting: She is creating a new universe within herself, examining and breaking old patterns, destroying what should not be revived, feeding in secret what needs to thrive." ~ Patricia Monaghan, Season of the Witch

It is time for me to embrace that truth, and to live in each moment of this season. Self-aware, self-exploring, healing, learning, and turned as deeply inward as I can possibly go. I do not fear the darkness anymore than I fear the light.

I am living The Winter of My Soul.