2008 02 05: Favorite Photo
Ξ February 5th, 2008 | → 2 Comments | ∇ General |
Dark Side, by Sunneschii
My favorite photo at the moment.
alone
Ξ February 5th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ General, Philosophy |
I live a rather privileged life. I’m never sure what that means, or what to make of it. I share a gorgeous apartment with people I love dearly. And yet there are times when I come, sit in my bedroom, and begin to cry.
The moon is dark tonight, 4% at the moment. Last night everything was full of hope and celebration. There was a unity of our spirit, a joyful moving of energy from person to person. Today I feel alone. I’ve felt alone all day. Perhaps it is some form of depression resulting from coming down from that unity. It makes sense that there would be a sense of loss.
Imagine the profoundity of sharing the best of yourself with those around you. Of feeling it shared back, and of celebrating the joy of the best of them. What does it feel like when that experience is over. Is there sorrow? Are there tears? Would your lips grow salty and your heart beat angrily in your chest?
Might you feel, in some moments, that something had been taken from you? Might you feel that the profound connection was illusion, that it had never existed at all? Would thinking it a dream ease the pain, or make it all the more powerful?
What strange paths do we walk when we go into ourselves? Why does my heart ache tonight? Is it only that I feel alone, still? Alone, even though I am surrounded by the love and support of my friends and family? Alone, because I have some unexplainable sense of being different? Other?
There have been times in my life when I’ve fallen in love. I don’t fall so often, and never in traditional ways. But I fall hard. I fall into love, through love, and into near-obsession. I have to fight my way out of obsession to remain in love. Being in love forces your heart open. It forces you to open and connect, and share the gifts that you have to offer with unreserved freedom. Being in love, as so many people have said, opens you to hurt.
I think that I hurt myself. Maybe it is the masochist in me, but this is a hurt that I do not enjoy. This is the hurt that wounds deeply, that makes me cry tears that don’t make me smile. I fall in love with someone who will never love me back the way I love them. And I tell myself that I am not worthy of their love. I give to them everything I can, and then I feel poorly that I can not give them more.
I run from the possibility that there might be more than this unrequited love. I dodge it at every opportunity. I connect with people, but shy away from truly touching, from truly being touched, even though that’s what I want more than anything.
I’m rambling. It is late, and I am tired, and my tears are done now. Let the dreams begin.
Imbolg at Ceann Uide
Ξ February 4th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Communal Living, Culture, Friends, General, Philosophy, Writing |
Our household is non-traditional in a lot of ways. But we are extremely traditional in some other ways. In our home, holidays are meant to be spent together, doing the things that are meaningful to us. So we spent Sunday together, a whole slew of our family. By the end of the evening there were eight of us present.
I can’t speak to the experiences of my family while I wasn’t around, but I can speak to my experience. Saturday the 2nd was technically Imbolg. But I had Mystery School, and everyone else had things to do. John and Elizabeth went to a ritual sponsored by Earth Spirituality Chicago held at the Occult bookstore. They said the guided meditation portion of it was amazing.
I had Mystery School all day. Eleven and a Half hours of Mystery School. Granted there was a communal dinner break in there, but that’s a lot of Mystery School. Have I mentioned that I’m a masochist? I love my mentors and fellow students, and I love experiencing and exploring the mysteries of our vocations together. There is little on this plane (perhaps kink) that I enjoy more. Then again, we have oft discussed the mysteries of our vocations in relation to, and inside the world of, kink. So maybe there isn’t anything I enjoy more.
I got home just before midnight on Saturday. The apartment was lit with candles that made the walls and floor glow. The hearth altar had new candles, beautiful pillars almost three feet high. Mark, in his generosity, bought them at Ikea earlier in the day, along with who knows how many other candles.
Mark, George, John, Shivian, and Elizabeth were all piled into pillows on the floor, waiting for their food to arrive and chatting. I was exhausted but felt renewed by the love that filled our home at that late hour. I, admittedly feeling a bit detached and unfocused, joined them and we communed for an unknown period of time. Then there was food, and I stole a piece of pizza, which was yummy.
John and I stayed up together in the living room talking philosophy as Lizzie slumbered and the rest of the boys watched “Into the Woods.” When we finally fell into bed around 4:30 I was pleasantly warmed and looking forward to the day ahead.
I got out of bed around 11 the next morning, feeling refreshed and aware. There was frost on the windows, and cool winter-light coming through the windows. We puttered around for a little. I cleaned and swept, and George made scones for breakfast.
This all seems rather dull, but if you’ve ever had the experience of sitting on the counter of the kitchen, laughing and and smiling, you understand why I mention it. Around two in the afternoon the cooking began. George wanted a feast. To the sound of Josh Groban, S.J. Tucker, Wicked, and Mika we danced and sang. John and I began to cut the beards of wheat off the stalks so we could make Brig’s crosses later that night. Lizzie had some adventures zesting fresh oranges with a cheese grater. George laughed maniacally as he poured half a bottle of cabernet sauvignon over the Seitan. We were awed when the corn/wheat/white-bread braided loaf came out of the oven, smelling rich and hearty.
We have a huge kitchen. It’s a dream. George complained that there wasn’t enough room. Again. We did a lot dishes throughout the day. All in all we managed to keep the kitchen relatively clean, even by the end of the night.
Josiah came home from Kelly’s, where he hadn’t slept well and napped for a couple hours. I was *this* close to waking him up with a snowball, but I didn’t want to get hexed. Mark and Shivian arrived around 6:00, and we began to prepare everything for the evening. We lit the living room/ritual room with candles, the Hearth altar glowed with a fire all its own.
We feasted, serving each other, pouring water for each other. We laughed and smiled more. Then we cleaned, moving seamlessly, and we sat and conversed until Frank arrived. Fresh from work, excited to be with us, to celebrate. We were eight now, and we cleared the room, moving into a circle as is habit.
We laughed at each other as we made our crosses of wheat, the moist stalks trying not to fold properly. We made offerings to the flames, and ground herbs together, sharing our intent for joy and happiness in the coming seasons. We made up chants, writing melodies and harmonies under the sounds of each others voices. The room grew warm, and the Goddess walked among us.
Brig came up through George, her words warm and sharp, like the fires of the spring and summer. But they wrapped around us, sharing her warmth and love, her blessings. She touched us with humor, with anticipation for the future, with the strength of our love and our community. When she left there was a moment of genuine sorrow that came through all of us. Then we let our love move around the room again.
We kissed and hugged. We shared our love and placed our gifts in their places. We separated and let ourselves move to our beds, sleeping. The sun was returning, and we slept in peace.
Crossing (story)
Ξ February 4th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ General, Writing |
It begins with fear. I am walking down an empty street. The light of the sun is harsh and foreign upon my skin. The buildings tower around me, reaching to the bowl of her womb, man-made erections attempting to pierce her majesty. The shine of silver and glass is blinding in this canyon of man.
I know the journey is not over yet, I am too alone for it to be done. I reach out with my gift and I can sense the presence of spirits all around me. They move angrily, hurrying around with no seeming purpose. Everything about them seems blurred, unlike most of the spirits who visit us from time to time, whose minds are clear and precise, who never give away their true purpose.
These spirits are weak shadows by comparison, but their numbers! There are far more than I can count, and I can’t hold one in my mind for more than a moment before it has moved on. I can feel them growing closer to me, pressing in around me as the veil grows thinner and thinner. I run, terrified that my mind will be crushed by their weight. I turn between two of the buildings and move down the pathway there. There are iron boxes there and I hide behind one, finally getting inside one, thinking perhaps that it would shield me.
There are far fewer spirits in this pathway, and the iron box begins to smell. The crossing truly growing near. I wrap myself in the thin cloak Tia had given me before the war and huddle in the box, waiting for the crossing to be complete. There is a lengthening of time, then a slowing. I can feel the world stretching around me and my body begins to tremor.
There is no light in the box, but I shut my eyes, trying to keep back the visions that begin to arise, to no avail. Tia, her round face upturned to the glowing light of the moon, streaks of auburn glowing firey red by the silver sparkles. Then her features twisted, becoming some sort of unnatural beast. Her body catching fire and charring as it convulses around itself until she has become a demon. She lunges at me and I turn, striking at her with the sword from my back. The wrought silver blade moves through her as though she wasn’t there, and she cries in terror.
Tia’s eyes look out at me from the grotesque visage before me, and its forelimbs curl towards me, claws sliding from their sheaths. It lunges again, and my body twists as it was trained. The sword comes neatly around and severs her head. It rolls upon the grass at my feet, amber skin basked in the moonlight. Her hair pooled at my feet. The blackened visage gone, as if it had never existed.
Now I am screaming, I know because I can hear nothing but my own voice, vibrating horribly in the metal box as the world loses it’s sense of reality. I am thrust into memory, and my fathers anger at my actions. His eyes turning cold as he look sat me, tears for Tia frozen in place upon his cheek as he banishes me to the wilderness.
“Father, my liege, no! The demons are coming, they are here! Tia became one, I swear to you!” My voice was hoarse from crying, and my own eyes dark and angry from grief and terror, their leaf-green hue almost black now. He shakes his head and the maiden of the way, my elder sister, looks at me with pity as she moves towards me.
“You no longer have a place in this realm prince. Your way has been barred. Leave now and you may find solace at the hearth of your kin. Her talent wraps around me, and I feel the way to this place pulled from my consciousness, the symbols torn from me. I rise to my feet, already feeling the court beginning to fade from my sight. I look at the maiden of the way, whose hands begin to move again, preparing to send me far from this place. Her eyes betray her glee, their purple starburst glittering with silver and gold.
I shake my head once and shatter her weaving before it has encompassed me. “I will make my own way dear sister.” She raises herself to her full height and I sense her reaching for the power of the court to carry out her duty. I smile and step sideways before she has done more than touch that power, and I am gone. I feel echos of her anger as I move, turning again and again until I come to a place in the wild, where the soft sun caresses my skin and fills my hair with it’s light.
I lay down on the shores of the great river, and let myself sink into the earth to rest, but there was no rest to be found. The river carried to me memories of the demons. It brought visions of what they would do to my people, what they were capable of. The river gave me new warning and bid me follow its course and I did. At her mouth the delta of land was dark and sickly. Nothing grew in the rich soil, and I could feel the power of the demons there. I rose upon wings and gazed down upon it, and could see the point of terror, the piercing of our world that let their horror spill forth. And as I watched they parted from the delta. Shadows slid across the earth, undaunted by the light of the sun.
I laid back into the river, to watch the motion of the shadows. Time was meaningless to me, and they spread through the land, bearing their poison to the far-thrown corners of my world. I experienced each feeling of hopelessness and despair again and again. Finally, when the war began I tried to fight the demons, but they were too many and too strong. I rose from the river, and saw the destruction so many realms had endured, and I knew only that I must do something.
I am as’thar, and my magic has grown stronger since I first earned that title. I called spirits to me, the spirits of the other world beyond the veil, and they called me to them. There was something in their thoughts, something they could not express or truly understand. But I saw in their magic the echoes of my own. More importantly, I saw the echoes of the evil that was pushing through my realm so quickly. Surely they must have some way of combating it that I could not know.
And so I began the crossing. I walked under the sun and moon, beneath the firmament for days on end, until from that far away delta I began to travel along a line of power, one as yet untouched by the plague. I cast the power up from the land, sending my sorrow to the keepers of the place that I could not be more gentle. I called upon Her majesty, upon the blooming life of the sun and the way opened before me. I walked towards the lake, I could smell it far away, and when I first saw it, gazing upon it from a hill I knew that I was near where my home would be, if the way were not closed to me. In the air above the lake were shadows of a city, buildings towering before me.
I walked too them and they grew slowly more distinct, until I walked into one and it’s wall had substance. I followed the black roadways towards the lake, drawn ever forward by the power I had summoned, until the world collapsed upon me, folding over and over in this box, hidden away from the world I was trying to enter.
I lived my life a hundred times in the space of that fold, and then there was nothing but blackness, and the cold wintry air of the city. Then the bustling noise of the spirits moving around, and the hollow thud of the box I sat in. I listened for the sun and shivered. Waiting patiently for the darkness to settle before venturing out into this strange new world.
The Passing of an Elder
Ξ February 3rd, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ General |
I couldn’t cry for you
or for myself.
Nor could I cry for those
who lost you.
But there is loss;
a place where you used to be,
that nobody can fill.
And nobody should try.
You knew, somehow,
That nobody can replace you.
But this world does not
Need a replacement.
You knew that too.
It needs the joy of discovery;
The experience that made you who you are
can’t occur so long as you are here to guide us.
So there is grief in your passing,
Perhaps there are lessons we could have learned,
that you didn’t have time to teach.
But you’ve given us tomorrow,
And that’s more than we could ask for.
A Lesson Karen Taught Me
Ξ February 2nd, 2008 | → 1 Comments | ∇ General |
One of the elders of the Chicago Pagan community left us recently. I didn’t know Karen Jackson as well as I would have liked. In truth, I had shared only a few precious moments with her. Conversations and smiles at gatherings of the community, those were what we had shared.
I attended her memorial service in January of 2008. And as I listened to the stories, recollections, and adventures of her life, I realized that she had given me one of the most precious gifts she could, and I had no way to thank her for it. I didn’t know the wisdom of her life. I didn’t take her class, or join the temple that she founded with her students. And yet, I found that I had a memory of her that spoke to each memory that those who were in her life for years shared. Remembering that humbled me greatly.
I would do a poor job attempting to recount the experiences of her life, or listing the contributions she made to the lives of the people she touched, and to the pagan community, so I won’t try. But her presence was certainly felt. Her influence made known. While I was growing up, learning my philosophy and what it meant to be a witch, she was beginning to teach. When I was a sophomore in high-school she was founding the Temple of the Four Winds.
And yet, one of the first things she ever said to me was “Thank you.” I introduced myself to her, and let her know I was one of Amatheons students, that I was a member of the Brotherhood of the Phoenix. A brief conversation followed, where I revealed that I was currently president of the order. That I had plans to become a clergyman, and that supporting the pagan community was important to me. I rather think I may have been talking at her more than conversing with her.
I don’t remember the whole conversation. It could not have been more than five minutes. But I distinctly remember her saying “Thank you.” She thanked me for the work I was doing, for supporting her temple and its community. She thanked me for stepping up and getting involved. I was touched, but people had been thanking me for that work for months. I was grateful to have been able to meet her. We were cordial, and though I can not in honesty professes a deep respect or love of her, I was grateful for what she’d done in the pagan community.
As I sat through her memorial service, I experienced some moments of profundity thinking about that conversation. Here was a woman, with the vast life experience that had been placed before me now; a woman who had committed to changing things for the better time after time, and worked to do it; and she had thanked me. I’m 27. I’m an upstart who has only been active in the community for a few years now. I began to write that my humility stems from the graciousness she had. From her devotion to the community that caused her to value the work I was doing. I began to write that her reasoning for why I deserved to be thanked is beyond me, but this is not so.
She knew something that I tend to forget. A person’s work deserves recognition. Karen, whether she was conscious of it or not, recognized that I had committed myself to the work before me. And her smile made it clear that that commitment made her happy. And in thanking me, she helped to cement that commitment, by reminding me that leaders are not just people who start temples. Leaders are not just people who create events, or organize groups. Leaders are people who do things, and who know sincere gratitude for the things that other people have done.
And here I am, thrust into the role of a leader in this community whether I like it or not. Because I insist on getting things done. Because ‘Good Enough’ is not an option for me. And Karen, whispering from wherever she is, has humbled me. She has reminded me that my work will never come to fruit without the work of others as well. A community changes through the efforts of the community.
On the way home…
Ξ February 2nd, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ General |
There is a quietness in the air tonight. The snow of the past couple days has parted, and there is now a hazy gray coating the sky, and a crisp white upon the ground. The streets are piled with slush, endlessly churned by the wheels and feet of the city tromping through it.
Imbolg is tomorrow. The sun will be reborn, the spiritual beginning of spring. It is this time, when I find myself beginning things anew. There is birth, fertilized by the death of the winter. There is sadness in the passing of those who have left us, or moved on to other relationships, but the snow is fresh and clean, and it washes my heart of it’s injuries.
I’m on the train as I write this. The red line is very useful. I can sit here on the train with my laptop and type away, letting my words flow through my fingers and into green text on the background. And there are people all around me, some of whom wonder what it is I’m doing, who stare ate me. Who are engrossed in their own activities, or only want to get to wherever they’re going.
I’m always interested in the passengers on the el. Most of them are different every day. It’s rare to see the same person two days in a row. Perhaps it’s just that my schedule is not dependable (rather, I rarely come or go at the same time). But there is always a variety of people on the train, people who fascinate and interest me as much as I’m sure I interest them.
I often wonder, what would they say if they knew that there was a witch sitting across from them? A faggot? Okay, neither is really that uncommon in this city, but I’m always wondering about the secrets that we keep from each other. Our lives are so personal, so private, and I wonder why it’s so.
There is a cute guy who just got off the train, replaced by a very not-so-cute guy. I hate it when that happens. This was Belmont, only 7 more stops to go, then I’m home. The really pretty boy down the aisle from me puts on his backpack and gets ready to leave at Addison. He’s got pretty wire-rim glasses and a collegiate appearance. He’s carrying a 3″ white 3-ring binder. Stats intern perhaps.
The sky has grown darker in the last 5 minutes, it’s clear that the sun has finally set. Addison approaches and the cold air from the street below rushes up into the train car. I’m done I think, there is nothing pressing to say, only the cop out that I don’t really know why it is that we can’t be more open with each other, why we try to protect our ’selves’ from being known. I have some theories, but they’ll keep for another day.