The Girl With Hearts On Her Pockets

Last night's dream was an unsettling one. Not a nightmare really, but unnerving somehow. I am still unsure what it means.

A winter storm was coming, a blizzard the likes of which we'd never seen. It hadn't arrived yet, but everyone was warned to be prepared. I was at home, alone. Where everyone else had gone I've no idea - it didn't seem to matter. You know how it is in dreams.

I looked around - the house was dark, and not warm, but the walls were sturdy and I figured I'd be all right if I chose to stay. At the same time, I'd had an offer - who knows how it came - from a group pf hippies who had set up a tent site on the edge of town. They were nice tents - more like yurts, really, specially insulated and heated - in which to ride out the storm.  There were 200 tents, the hippies said, and they had one for me if I wanted it.

I was doubtful at first. I didn't even know these people, and maybe it was best to keep to myself, but the hippies convinced me it was better not to be alone, especially in a storm like this.

The tents were set up in a field below mission hill, all of them bright white. All the people were dressed in white as well, although there was no obvious reason for this. It occurred to me that when the snow came we'd all be camouflaged, invisible to any predatory eye, though whether this was intentional or not, there is no way to know.

I was shown to my tent, which was indeed very nice, and put on my warm white clothes. I then went out to wander among the people in the field. All of them were strangers, and as usual I was feeling shy. Starting conversations has never been my strong point.

After making a few nodding acquaintances, I was surprised to be introduced to someone I already knew, a woman named Lori.

Stop. Wait a moment. You'll have to bear with me because here I must digress. It's not enough to just say Lori. There is a whole tale behind Lori. Well, for me, there is a tale behind Lori. For her, I do not figure into her story much, if at all.

It's the curse of being the one who remembers.

I met Lori in second grade. Probably I don't even have to describe her, because there is a Lori in every school, every class, most likely. Think back to your own schoolroom, or your children's schoolroom, and you'll see.

These days they call such girls "natural leaders" or somesuch, but to me at age 7, it was an ineffable power, a mysterious ability to control the social order simply by existing. Well, being the prettiest girl with the best grades and the nicest clothes helped, but even if I could see some of the mechanism, I couldn't see all of it. Whatever quality it was she had, I didn't have it, and I knew it.

This fascinated me.

I don't recall envying her so fiercely at first, but soon it was gnawing at my very soul. The searing pain of comparing oneself to others and coming up short.

Our characters were very different, Lori and I, but being a child I tended to see this in simple material terms. The school took a dim view of classism, but not so my family. 'Her parents are rich," my brother said, bluntly. "You can never be like her."

The type of things Lori owned that I could never have - her snoopy watch, satin jacket, spotless Keds and ribbon barrettes among them - took on even greater significance after that. And then there was the thing that I envied most of all, the point around which all my envy had begun to coalesce...her Luv It jeans.

Luv Its were the skinny, straight-legged jeans worn by the popular girls in school. Usually they had puffy satin appliques on the pockets, in all sorts of designs: hearts, stars, peaches, lipstick, ice cream sundaes like the ad above. Sometimes the less popular girls would wear cheap knock-offs but you could always tell. That little Luv It tag (with the red heart with a bite out of it) conferred great social capital in that time and place.

Having spent spent many hours sitting at my desk behind Lori's, staring at the row of satin hearts on her pocket, it was clear to me that I needed whatever power those jeans could manifest. If there was no way to swap myself out and live another person's life, it seemed the jeans might be the next best thing.

My mother nearly did a spit-take when I told her how much they cost. "24 dollars!" she shouted, appalled. "you must be crazy." It was the same conversation many unpopular girls were having that year.

I did eventually get a pair of Luv Its, though I'd have to wait until the Christmas I was 9. They had 4 stars on each pocket, like so:

I adored them, don't get me wrong, but the moment I put them on, I understood that I would only ever be an impostor. The jeans did not confer Lori-ness. I was still just a nobody wearing Lori's jeans.

...

After changing schools, I didn't see Lori again until we took driver's ed together the year we were 15. By then, Lori was busy doing the sort of things that upper-middle class girls do to prepare for the future. Rainbow Girls, Junior League, twirling lessons - you know the drill. By that time, I was modelling for a punk rock hair salon, so it was obvious to anyone with eyes that we were on different life paths. Lori would chair committees and be president of the PTA, and I would be...god only knew.

But still. I remember standing outside the temp trailer, listening to her talk about Days Of Our Lives when a sort of shudder went through me. All that potential, all of that golden light, channeled into being perfectly, sensibly and competently dull.

Perhaps that's too harsh. I'm sure people who do such things get something out of it, that there must be some worthy achievement there. It's just that I've never understood it. Garden clubs, museum boards and the like always seem to be filled with well-dressed ladies with manicured, venomous claws. But then, since that elementary school experience, social maneuvering has always left me cold.

Anyway, it does seem Lori's life has turned out just as she planned. I haven't seen her in years, but one hears things, you know. Married with 2.5 children and dog. A lovely home in a tony suburb. President of the parish council and indeed, the PTA.

So you can imagine she was the last person I'd expect to turn up among a bunch of hippies in my dream. Dream? Oh, yes, that dream I was telling you about....

I shook the now grown-up Lori's hand and said "I don't know if you remember me." She said, "oh, of course I do" and I replied "well, we have known each other since the age of 7."

Just then, though, my hand began to bleed, ghastly red dripping all over our clean white clothes. I apologized, although I couldn't quite explain it. "It's no problem" Lori was saying, but by then I had noticed that the blood had run into the lines of my palm - the left palm, the lines that mark the potential with which you were born.

That's when I woke up.

...

I still don't know what it means, though the blood in my fate lines is a probably a clue. But it seems awfully late in the day to mourn something that I never was. I've long ago given up the poisonous  envy that marred my childhood, if that was the point.Then again, perhaps I'd suddenly become stigmatic, which would mean something else entirely. And just what was Lori doing there, anyway? Unless the dream was saying that the storm we were waiting for would come for us all, junior leaguers and hippies alike.

It remains to be seen. I'm keeping my eyes open.

*It would be disingenuous to say I never had any of the things in the link above. I did manage to accumulate many of those kinds of things but it was later, after my teachers started saying I looked like Brooke Shields and suddenly out of nowhere I had some value.

Black Witch Moth

The black witch moth likes to lurk in dark doorways at night. In Mexico, its appearance is seen as an omen of death, but in the United States, it's more often a sign that money is coming. In Jamaica. it is called the duppy bat, and is the embodiment of a lost or restless soul. 

Whatever meaning you might give it, if you should startle one on your way home in the dark, it can give you quite a fright. 

Legend of the Easter Fires

The Easter Fires of Fredericksburg, Texas are said to originate in local history, but any pagan can see shades of the Beltane tradition of old.

Some People Say...

...a little tiny whirlwind of dust on the ground is a sign of a ghost's passing.

~Maria Leach, The Thing at the Foot of the Bed

Crow Moon Rising

On the night of the crow moon, I came out after sunset. It was later than expected and there were eerie, red-rimmed clouds in the west.

As I stepped onto the lawn, a small dark shape streaked past, low to the ground. Cat, rabbit, fox? It seemed the wrong size to be any of these. I looked back only to see it dissolve into nothing. Strange.

My teenage son comes up the path and says, mother, there's some odd stuff happening out here. Like what, I ask. He says, well there's owls hooting in the trees, and weird creaking sounds, and a rock just came out of nowhere and hit me on the shoulder.

He showed me the rock. It was light, but big as the palm of his hand. I said, well, squirrels will pelt people with objects, maybe owls do, too. I didn't mention the dissolving dark shape - no reason to add to any flights of fancy.

I sat down near the oleanders to watch the rising moon. On the road I saw someone walking, though in the blue dusk I could see little more than a man-shape. I peered into the road, wondering if it was someone I knew, but as I looked it also dissolved into nothing.

Two dissolving shadows, I noted privately. Uh-huh. You should never trust your eyes at twilight, it's notorious for playing tricks. The eerie sky and night noises might be causing our imaginations to play up. Of course. But when you're a born witch (or a viewer of Twin Peaks) you know that owls, or anything else for that matter, may not be what they seem.

I didn't feel anything was too awry, though, nothing I couldn't handle, so I went back to watching the moon.

Teen son sat down beside me to watch, too. The crow moon rose, in a lovely silvery light.

We sat and talked about cheerful things to dispel any unease. I took some photos. It really was a nice night, breezy and warm. Suddenly, son jumped up. He said, mother, come in the house with me now, please.  I asked, what's wrong. and son says, mother, come in the house with me now.

Indoors, he said he'd felt something cold touch the back of his neck and a female voice had spoken right into his ear, "Go back inside."

He was really spooked, but I told him there's no reason to worry, no reason to assume it was anything nasty. Maybe it was just nerves, maybe it was his intuition that he happened to perceive as a voice. Of course, if your gut - one way or another - is telling you to get the heck out of Dodge, then it's generally the wise thing to do.

And anyway if something sees fit to pelt you with rocks, whether it's squirrels or Sasquatch or vengeful revenants, it's always best to move along.

I felt a bit bad, though. I should have been more alert. My mistake was in thinking I could dispel anything by distracting with cheerful talk. All I did was distract myself.

Later that night, when there were no more sinister shadows or a sense of unease, what my dad always called a buttermilk sky appeared.

We went out and lay on the ground to look up at it while the cats studied us, wondering what the silly humans were up to. All was at peace now. The luminous sky had become a shelter, and all was well as the crow moon shone through the clouds.

Not Afraid Of You

I always did love those hidden picture puzzles a child.

Will O' Wisp

A will o' wisp dancing over a field.

More information about will o' wisps here and here.

In the Evening

Evening was coming on when I waked down the road to look at the mountain laurels. The blossoms have finally arrived in full force. 

The proper name of the tree is actually Texas mountain laurel, 

Dermatophyllum secundiflorum, otherwise known as Texas mescalbean, frijolito or frijolillo.

There must be a dozen trees growing wild on this street alone. Their grape soda scent hangs heavy in the air.  The effect seems slightly surreal to me, and indeed, it's said that Native Americans used their seeds as a hallucinogen.

As a child I was intrigued by the red seeds that littered the rocky ground and took a lick of one. It made  me feel very strange. Mind you, I wouldn't do that today. Apparently all parts of the plant are quite toxic.

The color is lovely, though. Shades of twilight in a flower.

Lost In The Aisle Of Mirrors

Well, not so much "lost" as distracted while shopping for paintbrushes. Even the most ordinary shops may contain a portal to Wonderland.

Saints

Thank you, Saint Expedite

For nearly two weeks, we'd been in need of car. We'd gone to a used car lot to look around, but immediately I knew this wasn't right. I knew what we must/should/would have instead. It would be a former rental car, not too old, of a certain make, model and color, low mileage, low price. I'm not a car person, I know nothing, basically, but I knew this in my bones.

It was a tall order though, a very good, very specific car for cheap when student loans have decimated your credit. My husband didn't hold out much hope, but I urged him to start calling the rental companies anyway.

It was during this period that I had the mysterious experience with Stella Maris. I'd asked for help with this problem, and was given a sign, which I gratefully received.

Later that day, the rental company approved our loan, and what do you know, they had the car. The exact car, the one I knew we'd have. The manager said "it's so strange you asked for this, it just showed up out of nowhere a couple of days ago. We almost never get cars of this type."

Well, Goddesses work in mysterious ways.

We bought the car and went to Freddy's to celebrate, but it would be a couple of days before the car would be ready for pick-up. In the meantime, we'd have to take back the vehicle we'd been renting. There was only so much strain our budget could take. Still it wouldn't be long. We'd manage.

Alas, there were delays, and the delays were not just frustrating, but a hardship. That's the way it is when you live in the country and it's miles and miles to town. Getting to work and school was a real problem. It might be another day or two at least. What to do?

Well, one saint had already come through for me, perhaps another would, too.

I'd heard about Saint Expedite before; he's the one who resolves a problem with speed. I'd never consulted him, but maybe now was the time. I humbly (but with determination) asked him for help. Bingo bango, the car was ready in an hour.

Now the thing about Saint Expedite, they say, you have to promise him something, and you have to reward him with a flower and a piece of cake. And you had better do it too, or else.

We have our car. It's lovely. My husband said "what should we name it?" The answer was obvious - Stella Maris. It may not  be a ship, but it still needs a guiding star. And Saint Expedite, I promised him I'd write about what he'd done for us, so others might know too.

I'm going out now to give him his flower and cake. It's nice to know you have friends on the other side.

Stella Maris

In last night's dream, I asked the aether for the name of a goddess. An answer came back: Stella Maris.

I'm sure I must have heard this name before, outside of the Einstürzende Neubauten song, but could not remember. After waking, I immediately looked it up. It's Latin for Mary, Star of The Sea.

While most Christians would object to describing any variation of Mary as a goddess, it's clear to me that Mary fulfills this role in her aspects of both maiden and mother. She's the divine feminine in spirit, and in this case, a guiding star.

I was pondering this while driving the morning rounds. Having pressing issues in my life, I decided the name must have come to me for a reason.

"O Stella Maris", I said "I'm not a sailor, but I could use your guidance."

No sooner had I said it than the sound of a boatswain's call pierced the air, what they call "piping the side," when a dignitary comes aboard.

No, I wasn't hallucinating; There was a story about sailors on the radio, but the volume had been too low to hear. The boatswain's call, however, was so loud and shrill it couldn't be missed.

Rational explanation, sure. but...when you call upon a Deity and they answer, you would be a fool to dismiss it. And, frankly, I'm tired of being a fool.

Welcome aboard, Stella Maris.