Postcard #16: Medicine Cabinet

The nicest thing about being sick, is to be at home and not have to worry about being anywhere else. I can reach into my own medicine cabinet and pull out just enough for what I need. But I do not have just any old cabinet filled with prescription drugs and cosmetics, I have a whole bathroom full of odds and ends, mostly odds.

This week I have been drained of poetry, my stomach has been tied up in an endless knot of pain from some kind of flu, and the only means of relief seems to be rest and fluids.  The last couple of days I have kept close to bed and stayed offline.  I hand wrote essays and concentrated on my painting.  A little bit of sewing seemed to help me keep my mind off the ache in my belly.

I always have a few roots, herbs, and oils to count on for any kind of little emergency. Plus I am an aromatherapy nut. My sense of smell is very strong and I connect some smells with different moods. Perfume oils and waters are essential parts of my nightly rituals. When I feel most distressed and ill, I will use everything in my power to take care of myself.  I just spray a little homemade perfume in the air or on my pillows and the scent sets me off into another state of mind.  I even make my own “potions” and tinctures to rid myself of bothersome things, especially the kind of things that distract me from achieving my goals the most: nausea, anxiety, and depression.  But what bothers me the most is little flu bugs that rot my gut, and allergies, aches and pains, those stupid things I cannot avoid that hold me back from doing what I need and want to do.

Besides taking my usual medications and vitamins, I dab my pulse points with a little lavender, lemon, and peppermint oil. I carry with me a tiny bag of five-finger grass and other small charms for good measure.  I say prayers, recite tiny mantras, and repeat rituals that, if you were to ask my doctors, keep me quite sane.  These are just a few small things some people would not understand and consider superstitious behavior.  Oh, but who cares?  This is my house. My rules.  My thing.  And, you know what?  It makes me happy.

I do not have to explain anything.  Never explain away the things that give you  hope and power.  Sometimes not revealing the mystery keeps things powerful. When it all becomes common, the spells get watered down, useless. It is like my father says, “Once you give away your secrets to just anyone, they will lose their power.”

So. When you come home to my place and dare to sneak a peek into my medicine cabinet, well…  First you will notice my extremely large collection of nail lacquer. But two shelves are especially reserved for my potions. You can tell a lot about people from looking into their medicine cabinets. I believe mine says I am a woman who loves her glamour and magic organized side-by-side.

I am feeling better now. This postcard is late. I have not taken very many walks outside, my photography is lacking fresh material. My strength is coming back, yet a lack of energy still pulls me under my blankets.  The sunlight has been teasing me, asking me to come out!  I have stayed in my nightgown and robe because every attempt I made to move around got me dizzy and sick.  As I revive, I hope to have a little adventure soon, but for now I am content to keep my adventures in my dreams.

Goddess Portrait: The Cailleach!

I have a personal relationship with my Gods. Sometimes they surprise me in my dreams. Sometimes they give me “permission” to draw and paint their portraits. This time one of them wanted me to paint Her as a self-portrait of myself. I was mystified and challenged by this.  Would I get it right?  Dare I do this?  I let my fears go and invited my passions to take over.

This is The Cailleach…

Who is She?  She’s known by many names:  Cailleach Bheur or Carlin in Scotland; Cally Berry in northern Ireland; Cailleach ny Groamch on the Isle of Man; Black Annis in Britian; the Hag of Beare or Digne in Ireland.  Unlike how I have depicted her in my painting, she has been described as having one eye in the middle of a blue-black face, red teeth, and matted white hair.  She wore grey clothing, a kerchief, and a faded plaid shawl.

In my vision, I saw her reflected back at me in my bathroom mirror.  A ghostly image of myself that is not myself — the goddess looking at me with my own eyes — but just for a second.  I drew the face with eyes of snow, the skin as translucent and slightly blue like ice, her breast and cheeks like hills covered by snow, and her forehead creased like jagged rocks and boulders.  She would be dressed in dark grey, the color of old snow melting into mud.  Her hair like the whirling drifts of snow that make snake-like patterns in the air and over the ground when the wind blows the coldest.

I can’t describe Her better than how Sorita d’Este does in her book Visions of the Cailleach. In fact, I did not know much about the Cailleach (pronounced COY-lck or CALL-y’ach but I sometimes call her COY LUCK) until a year ago when I just heard her name spoken, read a very brief description of her as a crone goddess, and in my haste to come up with a simple Winter Solstice rite that would not take all night to perform, I evoked her.

She taught me a very powerful lesson: be careful what Goddess you decide to summon because she may end up really liking you and will decide to stick around for a long while! Also, do your research, please. Calling upon specific Gods come with consequences and will change your life in ways you may not expect.  How could I forget that?

The simple Winter Solstice rite included a performance where I dressed up in a black veil, called myself the Cailleach, and proclaimed I was the personification of winter. A student of mine’s daughter played the part of the snow maiden, a personification of the new year. I took off my veil and gave it to her as a representation of the passing of the old year, also symbolic of the crone giving her power over to the maiden. Two special things happened right after this: I stopped menstruating for three months and my student’s daughter started her menses.  Last year began with me going through all sorts of weird changes, possibly signs of early menopause (I had only just turned 40) including erratic mood swings, full body sweats, heat flashes, the works. That’s when I began to study more about the Cailleach, as well as more about what to expect in the years before menopause.  Cailleach began to speak to me as I endured the emotional and physical eruptions occurring within me, warning me of the next stage of life to come. Was I ready? Well, she’d make me ready.

As I learned to honor Her properly, and as I learned to relax into my age, I began to really appreciate and recognize the beauty of becoming older.  Becoming older does not mean I will become weaker or uglier.  I am not really going to “dry up” and lose all of my desire.  I told the Cailleach, “Okay, I understand it now, it is going to be great becoming a sexy old woman!” And then she showed me another vision of Herself…

This was a vision of the Cailleach I did not expect to see.  I have read stories of how she can renew her youth, where she is not always so old, or cold.  She is known to have many handsome lovers whom she often out-lives.  I saw her as having very fine white hair, her skin a warm milk-white, and her face a little plump, showing a fertile fullness.  She seems to be like a happy peasant girl ready for a roll-in-the-hay, but her eyes are other-worldly, her body glowing with an aura of enchantment.  I think she seems more frightening in this youthful aspect than as her older self.

In one brief legend I read in The New Book of Goddesses & Heroines by Patricia Monaghan, one in which I will retell here in my own words, she hires young men to help her repair her house. She promises them that, if they can keep up with her, she will pay them ten-fold after a period of six months. The men look at her. They see she is this old, bent, wild-haired, feeble-seeming lady. They estimate that it wouldn’t take long for her to lose her breath or hurt her back. They take her offer and celebrate at the pub because they think they’ve got it made. Oh, but they got it all wrong. The little old lady is fast and clever and strong. Soon the men get so caught up in their work they do not notice that this old woman is no longer so old. She has grown young as they grow tired. By the time some of them see this beautiful younger woman with the softest hair and smoothest milky skin, a few have fallen in love with her. She takes them as lovers, but they cannot keep up with her in love-making and soon expire. One by one, each man succumbs to her charms, but not before her house is completely repaired. By summer, she has nothing to worry about, and by winter she’ll have only need to gather wood for her fire.

So what young Cailleach says to me is I need is a few good men to rejuvenate me, eh?  *laughs*

Finding this goddess has been a treat.  I have learned so much more about her now.  I will reveal more gods with my paint brush.  Perhaps they don’t just speak to me.  Perhaps they will have something to say to you, too.

What did the Cailleach say to you when you saw her in my portraits?

Postcard #15: Goddess in the Woods

February at home has now begun to act more like February again. As I write, I am in blankets, hooded in a robe, huddled in front of my computer screen like a monk concentrated in prayer before an icon lit by candle flames. Words fail me right now. My thoughts run blank. I am not in awe. I wish only to speak in pictures. I must find a recent photograph that captures how it feels here right now. All I want to do is crawl in bed to draw and sleep. Outside is a world of ice and blue-black cold and hard snow pain. Next to the electric heat, my skin feels the dry sting. I can hear the song of the Winter Queen sing over the trees — a sound unlike the way the trees sway when in summer or spring — the wood groans, leafless branches squeak in the grip of the cold.

And then, as I page through the growing collection of photographs I have taken this winter, I finally notice her face… Why didn’t I see it before? Just a few days ago, I was compelled to take a photograph of the trees behind my apartment. I heard the wind howl and was just about to run back inside. Stung by cold, it is easy to decide to get lazy, and I was looking forward to just sitting around in my blankets. But the wind in the trees demanded my notice. I wondered if one of them was about to fall over. I stood for a moment to see which one was “speaking” yet then another swoosh of wind blew and more trees made that very sound. The evergreen branches shook off a fine layer of dry snow and I aimed my camera lens, taking several shots of what, as I later viewed on my computer, seemed to just be an image of several trees leaning over from the wind behind my home.

But in my boredom and chill tonight, my thoughts blanking out into ones later focused on magic and wonder, my eyes refresh and I see with dream-sight. She is there, that Goddess face, calm as a Buddha, pure as bliss, looking back at me, at you, at everyone… Just look a little closer. The wind moved the branches just right into the shape of her face. It may take a little while for you to puzzle it out right. Here is another shot, cropped as close as possible to the edges of the face, and framed just right.

Okay, so you may not see it. Yet some of you may. Let it be a gift. Be it from me or from the Goddess, a creation from my imagination, or a true manifestation in nature, or just a little coincidence — take, make, and nurture the magic when and where ever you find it!

Overcoming Whispered Bullying

I awoke at 4am today, tummy grumbling, heart heavy, and a mind full of dreams where I was fending off beautiful and dangerous butterfly winged insects from biting me. Those dreams are classic symbols of suffering from minor stress — pesky little things bothering me, yet I managed to keep them from biting me, which I take to mean I will bounce back from these distractions. There is no greater killer of passion than worries over money, health, and food. Anytime I am unsure I will be able to make it through one week, I lose motivation to do anything. Well, let’s just say I am great at starting things, yet then as the pressure from going without these mundane things I depend on to survive builds, the steam putters out, I don’t move around as much, and my desire is lost. How did I lose it this week? Well, it wasn’t just over being broke ass, oh, no, not at first. My pesky insects of a problem first came at me in the form of a group of young women laughing at me because I am a belly dancing fat woman.

For over a month I had been soaring confidently on this joyful high over belly dancing.  I have been doing well, too.  Building up my repertoire of moves, doing my best to follow my dance troupe’s choreography, and really happy to be making new friends, yet something had to set me back a little to test my strength.  Only a little something.  I know I will bounce back from it, but for now I have to bend in order for it not to break me like it has done me in my past.  All the ladies in the troupe have been very supportive.  The practice dance hall had become like a second home to me, a safe place for me to be myself, to move as I pleased, and not be embarrassed of making mistakes.  Mistakes are meant to be made in the process of learning the dance.  Being corrected and given criticism is essential to perfecting performance.  I enjoy the way my body has become more graceful and elegant.  Even while still at an ample size, I can hold myself with dignity, poise, and class, as if my fat were really made of fluff, and my belly nothing but a pillow.

When I dance, I forget I am fat.  As I move, I feel as if I have already lost my weight.  I do not lose my breath.  My heart beats faster, I smile more, and feel as if I have fallen in love with myself.  I watch how I move in the mirror, becoming more conscious of each step and each move I make.  I become oblivious to anyone else in the room.  Unlike being in a public gym, I am at peace in the little university practice room where I meet with my fellow dancers every Wednesday night.

Eventually some young women who use that room more regularly had to take notice that I was fat and they could not get over it.  They did not point at me and call me names, nor did they follow me around and harass me for being different.  They did something that irks and hurts me more than the obvious kind of bullying:  they whispered harshly about me with their attitude, their eyes mocked me, they were bursting with  laughter whenever I turned my back, they kept staring at me and then turning away when I looked back at them, their body language was all school-girl-giggles and pointing fingers.  But, on top of it all, was their false politeness, the way they pursed their lips to hold back how amused they were as they looked at me and addressed me, pretending to be respectful.  I gave them only one excuse — they did not know me — and that was all.  I did not show them any emotional weakness, but as soon as I left the practice room early to let them do their exercise routines, the peels and squeals of ridicule were finally released.

I did not cry about it for days.  I continued to practice at home, but my energy drained.  I did not want to step outside or go anywhere public.  I did a series of nude drawings of myself, trying to really confront my body head-on and not hide from my big belly.  But I could not block out what one of those college cheerleader girls said on my way out the door: “She looks like she’s pregnant!”  It made me feel like destroying something.  Well, I didn’t destroy anything.  However the defeated feeling I was left with drained me of joy and I hid in my home, suspending even the writing I had planned to do on this blog.

I can be brave at times, intimidating sometimes, but I’m an old softy at heart.  A man can reject me, but when I am put down by other women, it tends to hurt my confidence more.  I think this is because I tend to feel safer when I am with other women.  Regardless of age, and even though my friendships with women are not without drama, most women and girls warm up to me.  I also can easily make friends with men, but do not trust them as easily when they become affectionate.  With women I know that when they hug me and tell me that they love me, I can believe that they mean it, but men?  I need more time to believe that they are sincere.  I want to believe there are good men out there, yet I do not feel as safe emotionally with men.  I have had a lot of bad experiences with men.  I have been sexually assaulted, hit, cheated on, betrayed.  It is easier for me to expect men to ridicule me, and they usually do so, especially if I step inside a bar, or any social place, if I go alone.  So when women make fun of me and bully me, it feels more unexpected.  It just takes the wind out of me.  I expect women to like me more.  I should not be so sexist in regards to this matter, because there are no exceptions, all people have it within their nature to ridicule those who are different, or worse still like to put down other people who have it bad to make themselves feel more superior.

It would be different, I believe, if I could challenge such idiots to a duel of some sort to defend my honor, but, despite the ridiculous romantic side of me who wants to avenge herself in some slap-happy swashbuckling way, that would be just as idiotic of me.  Why should I have to prove anything to those girls too ignorant to see how beautiful I have become while dancing free and joyfully?  I have not felt so good in months!  And why should I let them spoil my good time?

During the days I took to mope about this, I missed out on a few public belly dancing events in town.  I became more frustrated with my weight loss process.  I cannot seem to manage to get past losing 20 pounds.  I feel like I am not trying hard enough.  Perhaps I need to stop giving myself such a hard time and let go of what those girls said.  In the end, it is not important.  It did not tarnish my honor or ruin my grace.  Months from now I will be fully decked out in silver coins and dancing with a wicked-looking scimitar sword.  I will be more awesome than they ever will be!

It is now after 5am and sleep is starting to pull me under my blankets again.  I am beginning to cheer myself up once more.  There is so much I want to do, so much I have to live for, and so much joy I want to share with you, yet this once I had to vent about this stupid, bothersome thing that has temporarily held me back from enjoying something I love.

Til then, I have to keep my mind on the prize, treat my body well, go back to eating healthy, and remind myself there are more important people — people who really love me and want to see me happy — who are on my side, cheering for me.

I just wish they were here right now.  I will think of them while I get back to sleep…  Let’s get back to dreams not filled with bugs, shall we?

Postcard #14: Puddled

What shall I share with you tonight?  Well, all the ice is melting as if every thing is weeping. The heavy snow has now all soaked the ground, full of pond-making, making me wish to fill it all with frogs. The roof is dripping and it all sounds like rain without the raining. Outside my door there are little rivers and lakes big enough for ducks to wade in, just enough for toddlers to drown in, and it is too warm to avoid stepping in them.  I wish I had Wellingtons.

February’s first week 2012 in northern Wisconsin has become something of an early spring, yet there is no green. It’s a soppy kind of warm.  It makes me feel muddy-cloudy as the puddles, or as muddy-puddled as the small, puffy clouds that cannot escape the teasing sunshine.  I do not mind the break from the cold, yet after the cards I pulled, and the visions I received on Imbolc (I have been meaning to write more on my predictions and magic, yet I am taking my time), I cannot help but sense a warning to not get too comfortable.

Yesterday I felt happy, now I am puddled.  Totally puddled.  That’s my new word for that feeling of in between happy and troubled, not enough troubled to be depressed, just a little doubt to hang a cloud over the happy.  I have gone from a confident solid to a mushy-melted self-consciousness.  What if everything I am doing still isn’t good enough?  What if everything I have accomplished will be as if nothing tomorrow?  What if I will never see you again?  What if you are not proud of me?  What if no one is proud of me?  What if everyone is laughing at me?  What if I have no genius, or Juno?  Did you know that the correct term for a women’s “genius” is “Juno” but it has been suppressed for ages?  Will that be the case for you, or me?  Never to be fully remembered, always to be this tiny mark, or no mark at all, an obscure figure barely celebrated (or not celebrated) like our Gods?

What if we forget each other?  What if every memory, every moment, every cherished thing we hold in our minds is just another castle of ice meant to melt and disappear in the sun?  What if we are supposed to be forgotten?  Like a ritual sand painting, a thing of concentrated beauty, created to be destroyed!

There is no forever.  This fact makes me hide.  It makes me feel as if I have already died.  Why stay alive?  Why do anything of importance?

But I do not care if there is no forever.

Puddles be damned!  The ice is water.  When it melts it does not end, it only changes back to its original form.  When we die, we go back to spirit, disembodied, electrical, like a bolt of lightning or a star, glowing at its brightest especially after it is dead.  Puddles will freeze back into the ice I’ll have to carefully walk over again.  February is not over.  Nothing is about to be over.  I am not lying to myself over this.  I will not lie to you.

Everything is about change.

Postcard #13: Snow Daze

I like the way the wind seems to take form as it lifts the snow and howls through the trees. There is no way to escape the dance-in-the-face snow-snake-spirits that weave and wave off the roof edges. I barely feel the cold as I stand in the snow, ignoring how it spills into my boots as I sink into its bank. If I let the awe of watching the snow fall get to me too long, before long I will be washed with snow and shivering. That is how this week began, with the snow, a clean blanket of it, a proper snow, but not as deep as those in my fondest memory.

My favorite snow days are the ones when the snow is new, right when it has just stopped falling, and has turned the city into a wasteland. No one is outside, no businesses are open, the air is still relatively warm, and snow drifts have been molded into lovely curved mini-landscapes by the wind. It is during those times I feel like the only person left alive in the world. I bundle up and look forward to being the first human to make her prints in the snow.

My least favorite snow days are the ones when the snow has become crusty and hard, when snow is more like hunks of ice tossed into a glass to keep a cocktail chilled, and we’re set afloat in the drink, getting colder, and colder, and colder…  The coldest ice covering everything, slowing things down, giving us months of below-zero torture, with breezes to chap every cheek and turn skin to chalk.  That is the February snow, the time when the Cailleach will tell us how long she will want to stay with us. Never mind that groundhog. This Goddess will be riding a wolf when she storms. If the sun shines she will be out gathering wood for her fire. And, if the sky is full of cloud, she’ll stay inside to cook a stew, perhaps take a nap or two. Even when the Spring Equinox signals her exit, she can stay as long as May if she so wishes. I have learned to respect her.

As I stay awake late, I feel the cold breath of the winter beyond my window, just a few planes of glass separate me from the chill. For the moments I took to write this, my heart flashes with enough heat to melt the snow outside. Even if you are not appreciating the cold like I am, I throw this warmth at you like a snowball, hit you so soft that it won’t hurt when it hits, it will just dissolve, maybe turn to vapor, light as a whisper by the time it reaches you, yet leaving you touched by the most gossamer of fairy-wing.

That is a wish I wished come true for you, from me at home, to you out there, and everywhere, beyond the snow, or in it, where ever you will be.

Catch you in another daze.

I know who No One is

No One likes, leaves comments, darts through the pages of friends I once saw back when No One was someone I knew. She shows up, the shadow in my tea-cup, that little bit of froth at the edge on the surface, the burn on tongue-tip when I dare take that first sip. No One is the steam rising, threatening, the boiling, the tea kettle scream, the sudden silence after. No One and I were those groggy mornings after long nights of talk. No One and I were sisters of the keyboard, brush, ink, and paint. No One was as fine as white lace, like snow flake crystals magnified, hard and soft, cold and melty, made of linen but the lace could itch at the collar when it got hot.  If we had met as children, we would have been the girls who stayed after school in the art room, our hands and cheeks dotted with our fingerprints of tempera. If we had met in the 19th century, we would have been the Soiled Doves in the Old West shuffling about under paper-thin parasols, giggling as if innocent, making the cowboys blush.  But instead we met, as many do now, on this spaceship internet, sharing a relationship built upon text and digital photograph, we had each other all stuffed in a box, like dolls we were, enticing each other to come out to play. And we did, we did!  It was grand, as any saga is, and our’s was like no other.

Gone now the times with No One. As if she had only existed like someone I had made up. I talked to her like a real person, thought she would stay, she even promised “friends forever” just like we would have, had we been age 9. Yet. The traces of photographs, the evidence that we lived before we murdered each other, can be found all along the roads we took to our secret places. We were the ghosts’ paparazzi, but she with the more ‘excited’ camera and matching tri-pod.  I never suspected that No One would someday be one with them in my dreams, roaming all the abandoned buildings, her thin lips a red grapefruit sweet-sour line of pursed persnicketiness. I held on to No One for as long as I could cradle her. The problem was, she forced me to go, and left in a fury.

Instead of making-right, she did the saying-nothing, her talking fingers brutally scratching at me as if I were violating her, as if every effort I made to abandon a fight were an invitation to begin another duel. I could not win a battle she told everyone she had already won, and since No One was the only one there, who would say she was wrong, or that I was right? My every apology was misinterpreted, read as cryptic code to mean something opposite, and all the blame fit perfectly on my shoulders all because I could not be there in person to soothe her temper.  My someone became No One the day she no longer saw me as someone.  It is how things end that you can’t help but let end.  Calling for her just gave me answers of silence.  She left me to my scribblings, and even though I no longer gave her a name, I wrote for anyone to see what sorrowed me.  And my public sorrows angered her the more.  The pain continued the way our joy did, online and in Hell, just as it was in Heaven, undead and breathing.

At war’s end, our poison tongues lashed and strangled each other.

The words we used to bring us together was now the means of our death.

Long after I buried No One in her unmarked, empty grave, I saw No One’s reflection once in the ice… I got stuck on her when I attempted to wipe away the icicles, and as the icicles wept, I gave her a kiss to make her feel better, but my lips told me she was still too cold, that she could no longer be here, and that what I had kissed could only be drunk, and what was drunk was only hard water barely frozen over with a mist on stone, tasting of clay and stone, the gravestone that did not mark her grave, the stone without her name.  I dare not speak her name, let alone carve it into stone. Even today she would rage at the thought I am writing of her so, yet how can she damage me more over this? Even as I write her in poetry I can hear her critique me with a hard stare through the metaphors.  Yet the grave symbolism would surely make her smile in the way I remember she used to when we were not busy disagreeing over the little things.

No One’s lasting impression does not leave me twitching with hate.  Affection remains like snowflakes, like dust, like sprinkles, like lipstick marks, like the aftertaste of black coffee at a rest stop on a late night drive to nowhere just to be somewhere.  Whenever I journey now to unknown places, I still feel as if she accompanies me, wishing she was accompanying me, and that all our fighting was just a bad storm that blew away the house that was our home.  The damage had made us go our separate ways, but the disaster forced us to rebuild our lives, and when we are all done hammering, digging, redecorating, re-roofing… we’ll come home again for some tea.

I do not linger dreamily over other souls online like I once did with her.  I am no longer all anxious to travel and get out to meet people, and write on them all my expectations. Anticipation is exhausting! Rarely do I take invitations to meet-up seriously, only now suspiciously, careful not to work my fractured heart apart again. I only just got this thing glued back together, you know. Too much passion makes me shake, even joy could tear me apart. But somehow that kind of heart-shake seems to liven up my blood, the fire inside penetrates the anxiety, burns straight through any panic, and this passion frees me to dance so hard, it starts to shape my belly from pannicular to somewhat svelte, if only in my mind as I lift myself higher.

No One is still out there watching, living, doing. I feel her eyes on my words once a while and then gone away again, blinking me in and out of her consciousness, sometimes not even sparing me a single meaningful thought. I have made my sorries and forgives, but she has her grudges to nurse, and more important things to invest her anger in. As I spill these words, I can sense she must talk that way about me as well, or not talk at all, yeah, perhaps I am the subject of disregard, even when I still hold her in good regard. It is a wonder how we make our past best friends into next-door-neighbor villains, the stuff of legendary coffee table talk. Oh, the stupid tall tales I could tell you about No One!

I know I am her No One.

Yes, I know who No One is.

Do you know No One, too?

Who is your No One?

Postcard #12: Dolphin Wood & Smiling Pods

I find meaning in the small things. All the little stuff people pass by, ignore, or just plain don’t notice at all. Even when I pointed out the smiling dolphin in this log of fallen tree, the men who were doing the chain-sawing paid it no mind. It was as if it were invisible to them. Or they were just too busy being, well, busy.  How unfortunate. I think you would have appreciated it, so here I can share it, freeze it in time before it was fodder for the fire.

I could not decide what would give me more joy to share with you this week, so I chose to present two photographs that display the hidden wonders I have discovered this winter. It has been too cold to do much exploring outdoors, so most of the time I have been creating indoor entertainment for myself, much of it a temporary fix for real fun.

But when I look and find smiles in the most surprising of places, in the most oddest of things, I keep it stocked in my photo album and keep rejoicing in it when the days are too dark. Like when the dead milk pods continue to stand despite the hardest winter wind, their gaping mouths parted as if to tell hello. Even a bit of tenderest silk seeds, long dead and lost, stick out like a frail white hanky signaling surrender. The snow covers them, but not completely, and they appear warm to me, like I could fit right in there and store some poems inside… or a secret message for some fairy lover to find.  Come rescue me from ordinary, I’d scribble-cry.

I read into these things as if they were pages in books. I was trained to take note and study these omens, record them, draw them, be aware of what else is going on around me when I notice the signs. What were the birds doing that day? How were people reacting? What was the weather like? What did the clouds say?  Yet I also keep in mind they may not be omens at all.  The messages may just be ones I am making up.  I am using what I am seeing to send myself signals…  I automatically read them, it is within my nature, yet my imagination has a logic to it, I just need a good interpreter.

So what do I see?

The Dolphin in the wood is smiling and is accompanied by a bird with an open beak and a plumed head.  The body of the bird looks like that of a tropical parrot, a macaw, perhaps?  The dolphin reminds me of the innocence of my youth, when I still believed in heroes and legends and chased fairies in the woods.  The bird with the open beak seems to herald a waking-up to a new morning or a revival of spirit.  The dolphin resembles my first “spirit guide” when I was a baby witch going through my year and a day initiation period before my dedication.  I still have the dream journal from those days, and most of my dreams were of that smiling, pink dolphin spirit who could transform into other kinds of animals and people.  The wood was from a healthy ash tree that fell victim to a wind storm that knocked many trees down.  The Ash tree is very special — the leaves and wood are used to cure loneliness, wands made out of ash are best used to help connect us to the Gods, and as the songs go “ash new or ash old, Is fit for a queen with a crown of gold!”

One teacher of mine, one who passed away years ago, used to walk around with a staff of ash wood.  When he aged, he lost his sense of balance and reality, truly a pity, but he leaned on the ash, a staff he once used solely for magic, yet in the end it was his cane.  They buried him with his staff.  It was as long as he was tall.  I know, I know, it is a pagan stereotype, can’t avoid it, some people are just that way.  I consider it quaint and comfy, just so.

The ‘smiling‘ milk pods were the last of their kind to remain this winter and they are still there outside my door.  I like to think they are there to remind me that even through the intense below-zero nights and snow falls, there they are with their frozen smiles a gape.  Months from now the milk pods will come to life again, grow green, and sprout pink and white blossoms, smile open with the fall and spew out seeds til cold freezes them to death, all in that happy way.

Happy omens are creeping up all around me.  The woodland spirits are not fully asleep this winter.  They are peeking around each corner, teasing me, chasing after my cat, blowing indoors with the gusts of wind, crackling in the static that electrifies my hair!

I think of the dolphin in the wood and regret not picking it up and taking it home.  Yet it is serving a purpose right now.  It will keep someone warm this month.  At least I captured the smile… and felt the joy and passed it on.  Even the smiling milk pods will continue to smile long after their death now, preserved here for your viewing pleasure.  All because I could not escape noticing them, and maybe that is what they were meant to do all along, to stay behind and be a smiling symbol of joy in the midst of lonely cold.

No.  It is all about hope.  Yes.  I feel it.  The hope.

What do you see when you look at what I see?

Personal Tarot Readings for 2012

I do several readings for myself at a year’s beginning. I just posted the one card that will represent myself this year, now I will get to several much shorter readings that deal with more private concerns in my life. What I love about Tarot is that there are endless possibilities to be interpreted with each shuffle of the cards. Doing a reading for myself can be challenging because it is hard to look outside of my own personal experience for information.  It is doubly hard to keep myself from being overly cynical!  After reviewing the following questions and answers, I realize that I have expressed a lot of insecurities this year, more so than ever.  How interesting.  To keep track of my impressions, I keep a handwritten journal to record them at my bedside.  I like to do readings at night in the comfort of my own bed.  Perhaps later this year I will have more positive questions and answers to share.

Questions: Is it too late for me to regain my health? What about recapturing my sexy side? Am I doomed to age ugly?

I asked these questions because I have been going through the first years of my body upgrading for menopause. Not only is it wrecking havoc with my emotions, but giving me a complex about my sexuality and looks. I feel more insecure than ever about my body as gravity takes a hold on several parts of my body. The Empress, however, indicates that I need to shut up about all that! She is all about fertility, creativity, sensuality, and is the queen of all queens, THE woman of all women. Her answer is it is NOT too late and that my questions are pretty much ridiculous, no matter how much I fear drying up. The Empress gives me a sign that the best is yet to come. I will be fully embracing my sensuality and exhibiting my feminine side. It is not gone.

Question: Will I be able to control my emotions better this year?

I always ask this question because I struggle with my emotions all the time and worry that it will impede my efforts to get to know people and keep friends. Strength is all about taming the wild beast. The woman riding the back of the lion is a maiden (virgin) and with the littlest of effort she is able to get him to be calm. This image is not that hard to interpret. My answer is a ‘yes’ — a clear indication that my training is going to really pay off this year. I will still be over emotional as always, but will not panic or get as upset as I have in the past. The lion becomes a pussy cat here. I see this as the way new and old friends will treat me. People genuinely miss me. I have nothing to fear or be embarrassed about.  I have faced the worst.  Strength indicates that I can handle anything now that is thrown at me.  I’ve earned this strength.  I will endure because I already have.  Good.

Questions: Will I achieve awesomeness this year? Will I meet my belly dance/sword dance goal this year? Will this achievement bring me the reward, friendships, and love I desire?

Past: The Hanged Man
I had to give up or I gave up on a dream. I put the desire aside because I didn’t believe I could do it. I thought other people were better at it and I would not amount to much. I thought I was too fat.  The Hanged Man sometimes puts himself in that awkward position to gain a different perspective. I had to separate myself in order to get control. More going on than just the surface meaning.
Present: The Queen of Swords
As the Swords Queen, I see past illusion, but with the butterfly crown and throne, I am nervous, on a knife’s edge. Holding a sword is symbolic of holding onto one’s thoughts like a weapon or tool. Or it could be the very obvious thing: I am longing for a sword! I want to dance with a sword. I want to use it as a thing of beauty, something to symbolize the balance I am working to achieve. My current practice of meditation and new form of therapy is engaging my thoughts and emotions in ways where they fit together. I like it. Just works for me. I am proud of it, but there are still stirrings of anger and restlessness within. I want to act more, become more involved, get less isolated, so I am carefully planning an escape from the ordinary…
Future: Judgement
As an outcome, Judgement means a resurrection, a rising up from the dead. I will shed my skin, answer a wake-up call, revive, make a bold decision, follow through, do it for me, and, by golly, impress myself. I believe that is who I am working to please more. If I can impress myself, then I will shine with confidence. I have been too long living in the dark.

Update on this outcome:  This week I made a connection with a local dance troupe and will be joining the group next Wednesday.  They are excited to meet me.  I found out that they even have one guy member, too.  Yay!  I love guys who belly dance.  I will write more later as things develop.

One last question (the one everyone asks, of course): What kind of love life will I have, if any, this year?

Well, what do you know? I drew the High Priestess AGAIN. In fact, she has been showing up in a lot in my nightly readings, something of an ongoing theme as of late. When I get a re-occurring card like this, I start to pay a bit more attention, especially when I have used several different decks. This time I used the Love Tarot, a deck of just the 22 Major Arcana, focusing only on romance interpretations of the cards. The imagery is mixed-media collage of details from historic paintings. The image of the High Priestess in this deck reminds me of the quaintness of early 19th century ladies — the purity of virginity and the customs of engagement, the long years of waiting, traditions of correspondence, family negotiations over arranged marriage, and how unfair it was for young women who did not have a say in who was chosen for them to marry. The High Priestess is often a virgin, a woman who is married to the Gods, whose life-long duty is to serve as a keeper of mysteries. Men do not come to her for sexual favors, nor do they consider her a romantic option. She is holy, respected, revered, to be left alone. Kisses given to her are placed upon her hand or foot, not on the lips. Men seek her for advice and spiritual comfort, they rarely take notice of her as a sexual being.

I believe my answer here is ‘no love life this year’ at least not one that is earthly. Love will come from a divine source. Or perhaps I am blind. The High Priestess can also be a cosmic lover. She may appear cold and pure, but inside she is hot. Yet who will dare discover her passions? Who knows? Maybe this High Priestess just simply is in love with the Gods? Ha! That could very well be, my friends.  Perhaps I am being too jaded here.  I will give it a rest.  My reality right now is no one is interested in me, as far as I know, so it makes me very aloof.  This card could reflect how I feel about love in general, like it is not meant for me, so I choose a life like a nun.

Later next week I will post Tarot predictions about the rest of the world. Tomorrow look forward to a new Postcard from Home. Time for me to catch some dreams… *sighs* looking forward to that.

High Priestess: Personal Tarot for 2012

Each year I pick at random one Tarot card to represent myself for that year. For the year 2011 I chose Justice, for this year it is The High Priestess. The card I choose each year will tell me what challenges and blessings I can expect in the new year.  The card I pick will portend the role I will play in the lives of others, will predict in what direction events in my life will take, and what lesson I will learn this year.  Basically, it is like determining which way the wind will be blowing psychically.  If there was one special talent I have as a witch, it lies in divination.  Mixing potions and remedies gets a little too messy for me.  I find visions come to me naturally and that I find symbolism endlessly fascinating.  I spend a lot of my time studying dreams, crafting my own symbolic codes, and creating my own forms of cartomancy.  One card deck project in particular, one that I have been working on since 2006, I hope can be used to help bring joy to the sick and dying.  Someday soon I wish to write more about that, but for now I shall concentrate on just Tarot reading.

Justice: 2011 Year in Review
Last year, Justice taught me the importance of balance and morality, namely how to know when is the right time to act on my sense of rightness, knowing when I am acting out of a sense of selfishness and when out of a true sense of ethics, and how to pick my fights wisely — the lesson learnt was be careful not to get into any unnecessary battles.  I also learned that I cannot fight for every cause all at once, that sometimes I have to hold back and let those better suited and trained to fight to do their job (like letting the police investigate and apprehend a group of arsonists).  Justice is also about adjustment — I successfully met my health goal last year — I balanced my blood glucose!  I am continuing to make progress beating my diabetes.  Awesome, yes?  The transition from Justice to High Priestess means I am given the invitation to take steps beyond what I have so far accomplished.  She is a good omen card to have following Justice because it is good to start from a balanced foundation before one takes the next steps to manifest any kind of change.  Without that balanced, stable foundation, we would have a faulty, pipe-dream kind of foundation that will collapse the moment we build something solid on it.

My Annual Tarot Ritual
I am writing about my Personal Tarot for Year 2012 a bit late. I celebrate the new year on Samhain, which occurs on October 31st during the previous year, and the most suitable time to perform divination ritual. Besides being the Irish new year, it is celebrated as the Witches’ new year as well, a sort of respectful nod to our Irish cousins who have gifted us with their wisdom and ritual. My annual Tarot ritual may seem complicated, but it is not to me. I use one of my oldest, most worn and trusted Tarot decks, laying out only the Major Arcana (the 22 trump cards, not the minor pip cards that our playing card deck is based on). I use only the Major Arcana for the annual prediction because they represent the main events and themes in life. I go into trance, using the image on the Tarot card as a focus, and free-write the images and feelings I experience during the trance. Again, it seems more complicated or weird than it actually is. There is no secret trick to it, just some spiritual cooperation and, as some would say, creative visualization. Here is what was written during my trance last Samhain…

The Vision the High Priestess gave me…

Center spirals, openings opening up like never evers before — a freeing up from obstacles — a door opening that was once locked to me — an invitation. Revelation revealed revealing ritual repeating so it can be repeated and passed on and on. Between women, between friends, hands opening and closing over other hands, holding. The people will show you that they can be trusted, that there is time to trust, and let there be caution first, and slow ease in the dance as you learn to open to trust. The closer you are to the Quiet Things the more They will feel secure enough to whisper Their sweetness into You and the more They want it to be shared through you unto others and beyond, beyond and boldly flow outward into the world. But. There are some things left hidden beyond the curtain, left to imagination, left behind for others to discover and you must let them find it on their own, you must hold back your joy and not give it away too much, and wait on the other side to celebrate. Grace cannot be learned, or taught, it can, however, be experienced, cannot be owned, but lived with, allowed to flow, and you will learn to move with it. Moving with it alters you and becomes part of your behavior. Grace owns you. She is the series of spells that draw you further into the woman you are, the woman who wears the moon on her head, the woman with the lunar moth’s wings for hair, who cries tears of silver, the woman who stands between two halves of herself — one ugly, the other beauty — holding the book-map-key. Her words are curved, twisted, centering, spiraling, curling and uncurling circles. Do you know who you are at the gateway? Do you feel where you are at the curtain breathing? Is the window open? Can you hold the wind? Detect the draft? Do not invite mystery to kidnap you, “You will never be prepared,” She says, “because you still have living to do in this world. I am here to show you the dream of being what may become.” Let the mystery wait. And then the whispers floods and the words I write here cease to come. Her one voice is lost. My vision is disappearing and I run out of poetry to describe the sensation as I return from the trance.

The Interpretation
First, the traditional symbolism is thus revealed:
The two pillars, one black with the letter B for BOAZ, the other white with the letter J for JACHIN, represent the destructive and blissful sides of creation.
The scroll in the hands of the priestess with the word TORA means divine law.
The solar cross, with arms of equal length, on her breast is a symbol of elemental balance.
The Veil, or curtain, behind her is decorated with pomegranates to represent the vagina, and palms to represent the phallus — together both plants are the regenerative forces in nature = fertility.
The Crescent moon at her feet and her gown trailing on the floor is the stream of consciousness.

The High Priestess is the link between worlds, or different states of consciousness, she is a conduit, spokesperson for the Gods, yet also a keeper of mysteries. She can reveal secrets, but only to those who can be trusted to keep secrets safe. She can represent higher education, revealing to you information that wasn’t available to you before, letting you into a world or business or direction you weren’t able to earlier, yet it is still up to you to act within that realm. She is just the invitation and, sometimes guide. She is an especially awesome omen for women who value the arts and mysticism because she connects us with people of a like mind.

What it means for me this year…
Based on both the traditional symbolism and the vision I received, I am to take a more active spiritual role this year. I have for too long put aside the Witch to concentrate more on Valentina the ordinary person working on her health problems. Ever since my mother died I have sacrificed my way of worship and spiritual practice to make the people around me more comfortable. I felt an obligation to my conservative Christian mother to carry out her dying wishes, but now I feel that her spirit has given me the “okay” to be free and happy to worship God/dess in the beautiful and meaningful ways that bring me joy and comfort.

During my own bouts with illness, my religion has been a great and powerful force of comfort and motivation. I long to be with people like me again. I have kept myself too isolated, afraid that it has gotten too late for me to rejoin the dance. But you know what? It is NEVER too late. The High Priestess is telling me that my talents are not dormant, nor are the lessons I learned and the secrets I’ve kept wasted. All of the struggles I got over the last seven years were necessary to go through, and now the time is ripe (and right) for me to emerge again into the larger world. Even though I still have my doubts about how people will respond to me, especially when they learn I have battled and still cope with a mental illness, the High Priestess tells me that I’m not here to be perfect. She volunteers respect from others, she doesn’t demand it. My struggles are part of my story, and let that be a testament for you, too. Let your struggles not be your downfall, let them be the steps you took to victory.

There is much more I could write about the High Priestess, and there will be more to write about other personal predictions I have made for this year, but that will be another blog post for another time later.

Why do I use Tarot cards as a tool to foretell my own future? Why not just meditate without the cards and come up with a vision on my own? The answer is simple: I like Tarot cards. No. I love Tarot. It has been a primary interest of mine since I was a kid. The art and symbolism have always intrigued me. I never felt that they were evil or wrong or even mysterious, just pretty. I learned the cards fairly quickly, too. I have always been a natural reader. This is the way I like to do it.