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.

It’s Time

… for the altar to be set up once more!

I’ve had all my pieces and items in a box since the move, waiting to have the right space in which to use them. I now do so – a large pine trunk set up facing North in my sitting room, empty so all the pieces can be stored away, and perfectly placed for the garden, so I can open the doors and sit behind the altar looking out.

I aim to work tonight, rededicating all my items in the service of the Goddess, and beginning my devotions afresh. Since Beltane, I feel as though I’ve landed; I’m home. Now it’s time to start working again.

Beltane – New Dreams

As I sit here, listening to the rain pattering on the roof of the unit where I work, I cast my mind back across the last twelve months. Rocky roads, rocky times; not time to think or to feel. Things left undone. But here in the burgeoning Spring of 2009, there’s suddenly light and room to move and to breathe.

I have thought I was fighting my way clear of the ties in previous months, but had the wit to realise it’s like climbing a mountain – numerous false horizons and that the key is never to give up hope. Conserve your energy. Keep plugging away. Take breathers. Don’t forget to breathe!

I’ve been out meeting new people, exploring new interests, and simply enjoying my home and my garden. Balancing solitude and the comfort of relaxation and downtime with going out and enjoying myself in company. I’ve been travelling more, seeing new places. Taking small risks, small excitements and relishing them. Working on my physical fitness, and my mental fitness. In essence, echoing the process of fettling and greening that I see going on around me every day.

So here we are at Beltane, beginning of our Summer; the Goddess and the God meet in the birthtime of the buds; so it couldn’t be a more auspicious time for me to reconnect with my path once more. Beltane this year  is also at the time of the First Quarter of the moon, which is perfect for the work I wish to do; building, strengthening, affirming work, consolidating the distance I’ve come so far.

I find the witchcraft path is like this – we allow ourselves to  become distracted by quotidian vicissitudes, separated from our source and the spring of our power; perhaps one day I’ll learn the trick of keeping my hand on the unicorn’s rein! Till then, I come home again, happy in the knowledge that I can rededicate, resubmit, revitalise my work, look at it once more with a new eye, keep the good and prune the no-so-good and shake the dust from the raiment.

I am taking Beltane Day off work, for an extended meditation, reorganisation and prayer session. I am taking time, precious time, to do what is necessary, what is right for me here and now. I like this. It feels like being able to spread my wings for the first time in an age; I will spread them wide.

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.

New Spring, New Hope

Yesterday, I caught myself actually thinking seriously about getting my fingers into the earth again. With everything that’s happened I’ve felt heartsick, totally unconnected to the ground, not even willing to go and look at the garden that was once my be-all. I managed to leave it behind me, ruined and uncared-for, at my old house. It is totally wrecked, a grande-dame once beautiful and now run wild and straggled, effort wasted. But I’ve relinquished it. It was dormant and unworked when I inherited it; we worked together awhile and now it’s gone back to the earth again… asleep and not dead, waiting for someone to love it and rebirth it anew.

My new garden actually has grass, an amazing thing. It’s also only the size of a modest room and has high fences and walls. I have a plan for it. I find myself leaning against the corner of the window of my room, staring down on it like a plan of itself, and whiling away time dreaming of it full of light and colour. In fact, the majority of the flowers will be white, in honour of the Goddess; they will glow in the dusk and fill the air with scent, and I will sit amongst them, and bathe under the Moon, and feel renewed.

A dear friend has given me a hanging basket full of the most beautiful begonias – one of my favourite flowers. They’re not up yet, but I know they’re on their way. Ready to hang outside my door as a constant reminder of the Summer to come and good times…

I know my heart is healing and becoming quieter now that I’m allowing the calm and the green sappy balm of plants to infiltrate and soothe me. Thank the goddess, it’s about time!

Air-Plasma-Flight

This was the first phrase that sprung to my mind. I opened the blind in my mother’s kitchen this morning at the exact moment that millions (must have been) of starlings poured in a liquid torrent over and around the house. Even through the walls I could hear the sussuration of their wings and I could barely breathe as they moulded the flock around the house, each bird a set distance from the others, of one mind, internally connected as a cloud, a super-entity with a million brains all working in tandem.

It was as if they arrived, enveloped the house in pressurised air, and by so doing removed all the vestigial pain and discontent, the lack of equanimity and the suppression of hope that I’d been feeling; dragging it away with their wings and clicking beaks. I felt washed clean.

After they passed, a line of eight lone starlings came over, the rearguard, four passing each side of the window, a salute to me, to show the job had been done, and done well.

Some natural magic, awesome in its power, to greet me and speed my day. Thank you, Goddess.