Dreaming in the real

Our first order of business for October will be fudging just a wee bit by posting this video snippet from the very end of September, as I watched the butterflies migrate down union street in the late afternoon.

The next order of business is to virtually drift through other lands with faraway friends, putting my own spin on dreaming in the real.  

Haunted Echoes/ Secret of the light, by the Mothwing Collective

Unheard music, Mothwing style

Bright pause at the monastery gates, inspired by seeing my compatriot's Zettelkasten entry on my metaphysical maunderings regarding my time living near a Poor Clare Monastery

If you are looking for a sign, here it is. 

When Venus whispers into the ear of the sun.

The lovely thing about art is that it can be like dreaming out loud. 

Let Me tell You Something About Magic...

This may be the only lesson I will ever give, so listen close.

Magic is like water. If you put your hand in it,  it will disturb the flow. If you have a light touch, you can guide it. if you are too forceful, it will splash and go where you don't want it.

That's the thing that no one bothers to tell you about magic.

15 Degrees Of Scorpio

Thursday, November 7, the exact midpoint between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice. 

I was drawn outside in spite of the damp and found the landscape full of secrets. Roaming stags and swirling leaves. The susurration of the wind in the trees. I walked until I was numb with cold, but it hardly mattered. Vast, shadowy birds swooped through the low clouds and vanished. Messengers from the other world, it seemed.

Photos and video are only thin copies of a place, never capturing the spirit itself, though I suppose it's one of the few ways we can take something from nature without stealing. All the same, I'm glad I have this, the memory of the grove on a chill November morning. 

At the threshold of the darkest part of the year. 

Before Sunrise

One thing that's been a little different this summer is my morning ritual. In the quiet time just before daybreak  - most days, anyway - I make a small fire in a certain place, out of juniper and whatever other herbs that might seem to fit the needs of the day. It clarifies things. It brings focus. 

This summer has been one of successful witchery - so successful that I find myself confronted with that nervousness that comes so often in artwork, when your project goes from being nothing into  becoming something...a moment where you either press on or crumble in the face of fear.

I suppose it's good, to have that feeling - it means that whatever I make of this is up to me.

Season Of The Witch

It's high summer and magic is in the air. It's also overflowing my file folders, so it's time once again to share with you a collection of witchy gifs.  Enjoy.

Hagstones

A common item in the witch's box of charms, hagstones - stones with naturally occurring holes in them - are said to cure a myriad of conditions and protect the bearer from evil. The small ones can be strung like beads on a length of twine or just kept in your pocket. Larger ones can take a place of significance in or around your home.

This one lives in the rock garden out front. It serves its purpose well, I think.

Charms

A while back, I finally got around to tidying up my old apothecary chest. Though it might be hard to tell. 

There were certainly some interesting remnants at the bottom. A sort of witchy confetti. 

At the year draws to a close, it's always good to have your house in order.

Altar And Spring

 Life among these old stones

Midsummer's Eve

Tomorrow is the solstice, so I spent the evening making flower garlands. Magic lives in the edges of things, and here is the margin between light and dark.

Witchy Weather

Recently, I went out to the cemetery where my ancestors are buried, to leave an offering and ask their advice. I'd been seeing such a falling apart of things, a rapid decay of the world around us, that surely they would have something to say about it.

If the world is falling apart, the cemetery was no exception. While the place had changed little in the 150 years previous, it had taken a sudden turn for the worse. Sinkholes had appeared, gravestones toppled by their own weight, statues and vases broken beyond repair. Even many of the enamel portraits marking the graves as seen here had fallen apart completely. It did not look like the work of vandals, but a sudden, unexplained deterioration.

After leaving my offerings, I walked around while awaiting an answer or a sign. I tidied up the best I could, replacing broken tiles and angel's wings. In the west corner, a sandpiper ran down the mounds of dirt, fluting wildly. We are far from the shore, so this was a surprise. I thought it must have a nest there it was trying to protect, but when I tried to investigate, the bird began to make such a noise and flail around so that I gave in and followed. Afterward, I remembered how my husband had once dragged me away from that same corner many years ago, having been overcome by the feeling he must get me away from there immediately

When the sign came, it was a little hard to understand. It was definitely the sign, but what did it mean? I took a couple of days for it to click.Then I understood, much more than I ever realized.

Today I went out to work the spell, in the bright and sunny afternoon. It was a simple spell, of course, because that is the way my ancestors worked. It was so hot and dry that I watered the plants first, and wetted down the area I was working. The ground was as dry as a bone and beginning to crack. Such is the way of things at the edge of the desert.

I was just finishing when the storm blew up, with a black sky and howling wind, so fast I barely had time to gather my things and get the laundry in before it was soaked. I rushed in to check the weather report, but I already knew what it was. There'd only been a 10% chance of rain. You might think a storm coming up during a spell might be a bad omen, but I know my ancestors and I know me. No, it was a roar of approval, a sign that it had worked just the way it should.

The map bore out my theory. According to the time-lapse radar, the storm had developed suddenly, just about the time I'd started, just over the south side of the county line. Right over the cemetery where my witchy forebears reside.

Just a few minutes later, the sky was sunny again, and ground was no doubt thankful for its brief drenching. As for me, I was delighted. It's always nice when the old folks come to call.

Walpurgisnacht

It's the 30th of April, Walpurgisnacht, witches eve, and my husband's birthday.

Even though Saint Walpurga offers protection from witchcraft, we don't feel the need. It's not witches that worry us, it's regular old misfortune and malfeasance that keep us up at night. So grabbing on to the energy of the evening and the thinness of the veil, we walked the boundaries of the land and asked for protection for ourselves and our loved ones in the coming season. As we did, a cool fresh wind kicked up and the katydids began to sing.

It seemed as good a sign as any.

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.

Divination By Cake

For our New Year's feast, inspired by this post over at Patheos, we made these delicious rune cakes. Soul cakes, really, with runes etched on.

We all chose one without looking, with the understanding that if we didn't like our choice, we could try again. As it happened though, we all picked a lucky rune first time around.

Tyr came out a little burnt, but since that's a bit war-like for my taste, it wasn't too much of a problem. Happily, I ended up with Wunjo instead.

Tree In Silver

Just to make this a trio of trees, a lovely talisman I found last Summer. It has a most lucky feel to it.

The Mysteries Of Fate (And Other Publications)

While coming to the uneasy realization that I did not fit in with my peers and was indeed the proverbial square peg in a round hole, it made sense that I would draw closer to my cousins. We at least understood each other, and visits with them were always an adventure

It was in March of the year I was 11 that my sea-side cousin came up to Grandmother's house for Spring Break, toting a bagful of old Fate magazines. Her friends' hippie parents, she said, had stacks of them, and had given her these to keep. These were digest-sized magazines, printed on newsprint stock, full of (as stated on the cover) True Reports Of The Strange And Unknown.

These true reports might never live up to skeptical scrutiny, full of anecdotal evidence and personal accounts  as they were, but that was not a worry to me. As far as I was concerned, this was news from from the world of strange phenomena by people who'd wandered the territory, either by accident or design. The sense of wonderment that ran through the articles was very appealing as something that seemed - as near as I could observe - to be missing from the ordinary world.

Which isn't to say I was too credulous. Even today I only believe 50% of what I read, and which 50% is always liable to change. It didn't matter so much if it was objectively true, since perception is a funny thing. It was more that someone believed it to be true, and was willing to share their thoughts with the rest of us. The reader could decide for themselves. Also, the columns on Cryptozoology, UFOs and parapsychology provided a more detached view of things.

That said, one of the best parts of Fate were the ads.

 

Many proclaimed secret knowledge or hidden truths, to see into your future or past, or to bring good fortune. Many seemed to communicate with the (endlessly fascinating) language of signs and symbols.

This was satisfying to an unconscious mind devoid of spoken language but hungry for meaning. It made sense, too, because the invisible world was in so many ways beyond description. Words just end up in a tangle. A symbol gets right to the heart of the matter, the thing you know without being able to say how you know.

It seemed to us (while we sprawled on grandmother's floor among the pile of magazines) that the part of you without language was the part of you that perceived the Unseen. The part of you that just knew. That's what they called it in Grandmother's family, "knowing". It was no more complicated than that, really. To try describe it in words just confused matters.

Despite the appealing nature of these ads, I never had the urge to order anything. I was a do-it-yourselfer by nature. Learning about a subject was all well and good, but where was the fun in having it all done for you? I was content to ponder such subjects, but several of my cousins independently decided to take it to the next level.

There was an ad that had appeared, not in Fate, but in the back of  many other publications. It was for The Magic Power of Witchcraft, by Gavin and Yvonne Frost.

My recent Catholic schooling, with its emphasis on the dangers of the spiritual world, had made actually buying a book on witchcraft a bridge too far for me. Besides, I couldn't imagine how I'd explain such a thing to my mother when it arrived in the mail. The promises made in the ad didn't necessarily appeal to me, anyway -  spying on people's antics behind closed doors and the power to crush my enemies weren't my sort of bag. My cousins, however, had no such compunctions, and ordered away. The book even came with an amulet - that was pretty cool.

This state of affairs probably leads to a couple of questions, such as - why would buying a book on witchcraft be so much worse than the fortune telling, second sight and casual spell casting that already existed in the family? I suppose it was the ritual content, for one thing. These family quirks could be seen as "natural" or even "god-given" gifts that needed very little training to achieve - most of it was a matter of intent and grabbing the right signal from the ether, or whatever it was. No need to invoke any spirits, or anything like that. 

I don't necessarily feel this way today, mind you - I don't have any problems with such books or rituals when used wisely (though I do believe some of the books are booby-trapped - not necessarily the one mentioned above, but some of them are). Even so, I'm still not a big ritual person. For me, it's the simpler, the better in most cases. 

Secondly -  the question might be asked, does witchcraft work? Short answer: hell, yes, it does. If things were already weird before the actual practice of ritual magic came into it, things became really, really weird afterwards. Incredibly, flagrantly weird. There were reports of ghost lights and apparitions. Tales of levitation at inopportune times. Visions of the future appearing in bowls of ink. The night hag of sleep paralysis began to visit, and we experienced shared dreams. Some of us had to cover our mirrors, as things that shouldn't be seen there had begun to turn up. This is to say nothing of the mysterious aura (for lack of a better word) that began to develop around one of the cousins and her entire house. We had become weirdness incarnate. 

I suppose the moral of this story is that it's never a good idea to let a group of untrained pubescents practice ritual magic. It probably opened some doors to things we were not ready to handle. But it worked, all right. It still works, for good or ill. In the aftermath, some of us tried to put these things aside, or sought other forms of spirituality or faith, but it was not easy, or even very successful. It's like trying to disown your eye color, or the talent you inherited from your old auntie.

Today, so many in the family  - whether we consider ourselves practicing "witches" or are affiliated with a religion or not - can still feel the crackle of magic in the air if there's a working going down, or feel a spell or hex that's been thrown at us like sticky glue.We know how to listen to the invisible world with one certain part of our attention while keeping the rest occupied. We also know that we shouldn't think about it too hard, or want it too much, because otherwise it will run. These are things we know in our bones.

We can hide it (some of us better than others) under a guise of normality, because we know these things have no place in in the ordinary world. But underneath we know. We've had to embrace our inner weirdness.

I've come to think that the title of the magazine was accurate. Some things are fated. Ultimately, there really is no escaping your true nature.

Those Who Take Their Presence With Them, Those Who Leave It Behind

photo by Francesca Woodman

My friend and I were talking the other day about a girl we'd once known and loved. As a child, she'd seemed touched by magic, everyone around her felt touched by magic. I'd feel so bereft when she'd go away. Since we didn't see each other very often, it was my fate to be left behind.

The essence of this is distilled in dreams about her: we talk frenetically, tell half-understood stories, play confusing, yet fascinating games. The clock ticks in the background. There are months of things we want to tell, but there is never enough time. Her mother's voice calls from the distance, saying they have to go. Her real life is somewhere else, far away from mine. As always, I'm left with a vague notion of color and shadow, a memory where her presence once was. Nothing even as substantial as a ghost. Only an undefined longing fills the vacuum.

Childhood friendships can be mysterious, and I've long wondered about this ancient grief of mine. To this day, I'm not certain what I expected. I'm quite sure I was more attached to her than she ever was to me. Perhaps this was the source of the longing - underneath our apparent closeness in those days, I really knew who was loved the least. 

My friend considered this view, but ultimately disagreed.

He said, "It's just that she takes her presence with her when she goes. When she's gone, she's gone. Those kinds of people, there is an emptiness where they used to be.

'You, on the other hand, leave your presence behind."

It was immediately clear what he meant, though I'd never heard it put into words before. It was an intriguing idea. We thought through all the people we've known, whether their presence went with them or lingered. Despite the intangibility of a quality such as "presence", we were able to agree in every case as to who was which. We wondered at first if it was the type or strength of personality that made the difference, but no...there were similar types who fell into different categories, and exceedingly different ones who were the same. Nor did spirituality matter much - one very spiritual roommate left nary a trace of his living there, another had such a strong presence, even the years couldn't diminish it.

It's a nebulous, but distinctive phenomenon. Your beloved is not with you, you are totally alone.

Your beloved is not with you, yet some sense of  them remains. 

I wondered if missing someone more acutely contributed to the perception of absence. Again, my friend disagreed. To him, feeling the absent person's presence made missing them more difficult, a constant reminder that they really were gone. Plus, he pointed out, there are some people who drastically improve the mood in a room just by leaving it. Well, I certainly can't disagree with that.

To me, though, the absolute feeling of absence seems utterly lonely, haunted by longing. As if I might recapture something important if only I could find a trace of that person, somewhere, around some far corner. A sign or signal drifting on the breeze.

This last is how it seemed to me with the girl we'd once known and loved. Years later, when we were grown and living in the same town, I would catch hints of her presence. On the sidewalk, through a shop window, in the echoes of a stairway where she had just been and gone. Not much had changed, really...the ticking clock had been set in motion long ago. The mysteries of our friendship were never to be solved; ultimately, there is little point in loving someone who must always leave you. Instead, I learned to love the traces of her presence for the brief moments they remained, like little whirlwinds, so many vaporous wisps, so many childhood  ghosts.