I’d like a potion for flu, please

Garr ,when I feel ill, I feel ILL, and no mistake.

I spent the whole of Tuesday sleeping, getting up for five minutes and staring blearily at my partner before being hustled off back to bed again, and falling asleep immediately. It was like someone had removed most of my higher brain. Useless for anything except breathing in and out. Tea appeared, piping hot and strong, at regular intervals; as did nurofen and glasses of water. Pillow plumping and shaking out of the duvet, soothing of brow and gentle bossing about to stop me doing stuff I shouldn’t. I got caught watering the geraniums in the sitting room, received a quiet ticking-off and was sent back to bed once more.

It’s lovely to be able to rely so much on another person. I don’t find this sort of thing easy to do at all. Apparently I give the impression of being generally invulnerable. Not when I’m ill, I’ll promise you.

Samhain 2009

It’s all change for TGW! New home, and a new happiness. I have all but moved out of The Little House and have taken up residence at Three Chimneys, the home of my wonderful partner M. Perhaps most wonderfully of all, he sussed my paganism from the start – in fact from our first date – acknowledges its importance but crucially isn’t the least bit interested in hearing about it. There’s none of the prurience, pretend understanding, cliche-ridded heavy-handed ‘humour’ or other badinage or railery that I’ve become so weary of over the years. Stepping out of the broom closet to important others in your life is a trial sometimes; thankfully this time it wasn’t.

This Samhain I have so much to give thanks for, so much to feel blessed about, so much to cherish and so much to remember. It truly seems to be the most fruitful Autumn I can remember.

Where to begin? I could tell you about the wonderful walks we’ve been on, gathering conkers by the river with R as the leaves fall in shimmering files and drifts; I could tell you about watching the swan family on the river as they serenely brought up 7 chicks to near-adulthood. Or how about the baking of cakes and pies and bread that fill the kitchen at Three Chimneys with fragrance and comfort every weekend? Or the aromatic, piney fires we build and bask in front of on windy, rainy nights? So much to tell.

Casseroles, wine, fellow-hail, comfort, safety and warmth. Mellow light on old stone. Burnished copper reflecting candles, reflecting golden flames seen through the clear glasses in the front of the log-burner. Deep rugs, soft chairs and warm throws to cuddle your feet into. Hot tea on tap. Whiskey and ice, to round out the evenings together. Books, everywhere books. Combined possessions of two people with similar interests, tastes and pursuits. Love, care, understanding. A welcome without and a welcome within. At last, a safe mooring and a home for me and for R.

The house is a work in progress, and it is progressing apace; only this week we’ve finished restoring the panelling in the drawing room, commissioned three more radiators, replastered the landing and the master bedroom, cleared out a skip-load of junk preparatory to my furniture arriving and mended the floorboards in the hall. I’ve planted the urns outside the front door; we’re planning a large Yuletide party to warm the threshold and everyone’s really excited, not least us!

There are carved pumpkins in all the windows, made by R and myself; one happy, one sad and one ‘grumpy’  which came out slightly wrong and actually looks like the poor fruit has indigestion. We’re due at the local Fire Festival on Saturday night – procession of giants, wicker man, fireworks, huge bonfire and all the hot-dogs R can stuff down his maw during the evening. Mulled wine, boeuf carbonnade and mashed potatoes before we go out, to ensure centrally heated bodies as we process through the darkness to the festival site, to the transformative magic of fire, lights and brilliance in the sky, cheer, wassail and the beginning of the New Year for me and for mine.

The moon will be waxing full tomorrow night, the best of all times for me to wish ahead and work for the future.

Blessed Samhain, to all my dearest friends.

Back from the Isle of Winds

Ibiza again; and the magic and majesty of the island refreshed and amazed me anew. I have posted pictures which might tell you all you need to know about this amazing place.

Ten days in the sun and breezes, walking in the campo, looking at the flora and fauna, smelling the juniper scrub and the pines, listening to the sea and the trees, eating the generous, hearty food so customary on the island. Feeling the weight of the history, the invaders who came, were seduced by the softness and the welcome of the red land and stayed. Imagining the unbelievable relief of making land on the Isle of Pines; salt-struck and half-blind from the sun, to find a place where water runs, fruit trees bloom and the ground bears crops unstintingly.

And over all, Tanit, goddess of the Moon and of the flesh. Beating Her path over Tagomago to the inland waters and the shore.

Divergence and Laziness

There’s a very great deal to be said about the power of the urge to do nothing. It’s closely allied to the conviction that there’s no time to do x, whatever x happens to be. In some people, this could be characterised as a conscious decision. In me, I’ve seen it as simply laziness and inattention.

I was looking round my rooms the other day, and saw all the books lining the walls for the first time in a long time. In many respects, books, moveable press, are a form of interior decoration to me. Not, as I saw once, a way to add colour to a room – when I asked the owner of the house if she’d read any of the books in question she gave me an extremely funny look and said no, of course not; she’d bought two tonnes of green-spined books from a wholesaler and was using them as decoration. No, my definition of decorative goes more toward Rennie Mackintosh – both beautiful and useful.

I’ve got books in every room and some of them are unread, the bindings uncracked. Most of the books in this category are regarding pagan studies. I realised concurrently with my musing over the number of books unread that I haven’t done a really meaty book review (read: hatchet job) on anyone’s work for a good long while. And as I am going to be absent from the Ludlow Symposium this year, and therefore unable to provide a digest of the day, I should get reading and noting.

One of the downsides that we all acknowlege about practising solitary witchcraft (if we do; you might not!) is that sometimes, and sometimes for extended periods of time, life supervenes or you lose your way or your thread or your enthusiasm, even, and everything stops. I’ve had six months or more of this, feeling like there’s no energy or will in the pot for anything other than dragging myself out of bed, getting Rowan ready for nursery, keeping the house straight and trying (and mainly failing) to keep up with my friendship commitments.

One of the things I always do in this situation is believe that the false dawn of returning energy is the end of the problem. I forget every single time that it’s just a burst, a sprint for the tape, a momentary second wind. I become part of the problem, by forcing myself back into the fray. This tendency has an unfortunate side-effect – it seems to make other people doubt me when I say I’m fine (or maybe it’s the edge of hysteria on my voice. ‘I’m fine. No, I’m fine. FINE!’

I don’t think I’m fooling anyone, though; least of all me. I’m getting too old to be constantly hauling myself up right and soldiering on if I’m down. And I am down; why do women like me never give themselves credit? I’ve left and divorced my husband in less than a year, moved house, become a single parent, dealt with crises at home and at work, held down a full-time job, done a good job as a parent and haven’t actually gone insane or become emotionally incontinent in the process. That’s quite good going.

So to get irritated at myself for not continuing my observances, work, writings, visits, pilgrimages and dedications seems specious to me. None of these things are dispensible in my life, but neither is my son, earning a living or having peace of mind and heart. So, not indispensible; but slightly more dispensible than the things I kept up with.

I’m here, Goddess, I still hear You. I worship You. I think the life you’ve given me should be lived well; and so I dedicate all my efforts to You. By doing my best I give my best to You.

Noisy, Sacred, Profane and Cheerful

To Seshat’s house last night – or should I say Seshat’s ex-house! – to assist her in packing up her valuables and moving them across to 55. Her old place seems less and less like the right place for her to be, and in so many ways. She strikes me as a butterfly, breaking loose from her chrysalis, emerging to the air and sunshine and spreading her wings to dry.

Once she’s out of that confining, womb-like and dark space, there can be no going back. Happily, there is no wish to go back, not even the smallest one. I have watched Seshat grow into a new, strong, loving, able, capable and beautiful woman in the time that I have been privileged to know her. She has met her gods, she has advanced and refined her magic, she has chosen her path and laid her hand to the staff of her life. Her planets revolve around her now, not the other way about. She walks tall and free.

When we are together, we spend a large amount of the time laughing. We did so last night. That laughing was too big for the flat, echoing and rebounding from the walls as if it would try to push the walls back and away. It only sounded right when we were hyaena-ing our way up the street, trying to balance boxes on our wheelbarrow and drawing looks – and beeps! – from passing cars. Nothing dented our bonhomie, though. It’s times like these that allow the spirit to fully fill the frame; we know we can say whatever we like, discuss whatever we like, laugh, sing, dance…. and we will have a partner.

New Boundaries

I’m beginning to realise what a total blessing it is to have decided to move on from my old life, and to have redrawn the boundaries much more firmly.

There’s a new clarity to my thought process. Before, when someone I cared about said or promised something, I would extemporise; I’d hear what they said, and immediately bolster it or pad it out with all the things I’d wished they’d say. I made the half promise, the lukewarm thanks,  the semi-devoted utterance do, because I thought I would get no better.

Well, that’s one way to live, and many do it every day; stretching threadbare, perfunctory regard from their other to try to cover widening cracks in their own self-esteem and mental health. I’ve done it. I hated it – and resolved with the Goddess’s strength never to do it again.

Nobody is worth that sort of abasement. Nobody loves you, if they love you so little that you’re at the bottom of the pile when their time is being apportioned.

One of the most valuable things we can give our friends and our lovers is our time. Unstintingly, generously, without running the clock. I needed help last night. My friends were there for me. I texted my friend, and immediately got a call. Another friend left messages for me overnight to ask if I was all right. This is what I do for my friends; this is what my true friends do for me.

So if people tell me they love me now, I listen precisely to what they say, and to nothing else. I measure their worth by their actions and I do not indulge myself in wishful thinking. Everyone has the responsibility to be excellent to their friends, to make the message of love they carry for them easily read and unmistakably strong. There is no room in this scenario for ‘perhaps….’. It should be a yes. A YES!

Airing the Wound, Healing the Hurt

When I was young, the best cure I was offered for cuts and abrasions was to wash the wound, let it dry and expose it to the air and sunshine. In our climate, this method works wonders. It allows the cut to dry, to cut itself off from the lifeblood and to cover itself in armour, ready to grow new skin and protection underneath the congealed blood.

This weekend, I’ve been offered the chance of the equivalent, writ large; my sister and I are starting again in our relationship and our friendship, and it feels good.

We met for the first time 10 years ago. At the time we liked each other, I think. Various untoward happenings meant that we didn’t and couldn’t remain friends. Not to say we’ve ever been at loggerheads openly – we just haven’t ever kept up with each other. Her children have grown up as strangers to me. I’ve missed her talents and her humour and her strength. I think she may have missed mine equally. This weekend, we offered each other the chance to build the bridge anew.

The wound has healed – best of all, it seems we’ve forgotten why we were not friends, or if not, it has ceased to matter. We hugged and kissed each other and were perfectly at ease all weekend, and our children adored each other at first sight and became fast friends.

More room to manoeuvre, more opportunity for compromise, more space for friendship, more depth for love and respect. Good. This is what I want in my life – making, not breaking.

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Do visit my sister’s site, Mackface. She’s an incredibly talented artist and bodypainter, and is available for festivals, and commissions are taken – in fact, she’s doing one for me at the moment!!

Warriors or Wimps?

Some interesting developments in a friend’s situation have had me thinking today about the despatch with which we run our lives as witches. How much are we required to turn the other cheek? Before I start sounding needlessly Christian about this, let’s look at the theory behind the platitude. In all these clichés there’s a smidgen of truth.

Wisdom is sometimes made manifest by the ability to know and to keep silent. We understand this as witches and as mature women and men who have, sometimes, railed out loud against our fates and the fates of those we love, giving tongue to the impotent feeling of unfairness that sometimes accompanies happenstance. In any event, this ranting makes no difference. I would say it can even dissipate the power we might otherwise use to do something practical about the problem. A profligate waste of energy in meaningless movement and noise.

But where do we get the superhuman patience required for not being angry, not being jealous, not being sure life is dealing us a scunner for no reason? We don’t deserve this, it’s not fairrrr….

Turning the other cheek can have many forms; passive acceptance, numb submission, masochistic pleasure in being dumped on again; or actually a refusal to either acknowledge or accept the wrong done to us. I like the last. To accept service of and to give weight to a damaging blow lends it power; power it shouldn’t be allowed to have.

Turning the other cheek can have interesting implications for direction, also. We turn away from the path we have followed and look to a new point of the compass, feel a new wind on our cheek, a new light in our eyes. A new perspective. So being turned forcibly away from our previous path by the unkind action of another can benefit us while it hurts us. We can choose to see the positive and to embrace it.

So is it wimpy not to immediately retaliate, to give like for like, to seek proportionate revenge? No. Of course not. Revenge itself can be cowardly, and worse; it can bring you down to the level of the aggressor. It is only natural to want to see the other hurting as much as we are, but it takes a special strength to refuse to play the game. So to my Warrior, I tell the truth – you’re the strong one. You are in charge. And you’re winning.

Ludlow

Seshat, Cymraes and I met up for lunch, gossip and shopping on Saturday and it was wonderful. A real meeting of the minds! I was amazed by the amount of attention we seemed to draw – three powerful women wearing black and pentacles sitting giggling in a cafe eating our lunch, toasting each other with coffee and glasses of water!

Cymraes brought us bottles of St Oswalds Well water which will be wonderful incorporated into work. We went to tha parish church, the Cathedral of the Marches, and had a good look at the carved misericords which were utterly beautiful.

I hope we can all meet up again soon – the Ludlow Conference looms and we’ll all be there!!

A Pagan In Somerset

Andy’s back with us!! Hooray!!