Month: December 2021

In April I was blessed to visit a spiritual home of mine, the forest that was my sanctuary in childhood. I had the appropriated privilege of being stewarded by this land before it was released back into the illusion of private ownership.In the exchange a spell was broken for me, and my relationship toward this earth has been steadily deepening.

Last Spring, Jen and I returned out of devotion, and I was overjoyed to be menstruating and to be able to offer my blood in thanks.Cloven prints in the snow lead us to this alter, where Jen and I used to sit open-mouthed beneath rain drops falling from the cave wall.It’s where I had my first real spa treatment, with masks made of cold mud and the laughter of little girls. Masks that challenged the very idea that we were two and not one.

I might have offered my blood to the same soil if I hadn’t been summoned by an owl feather perched there. The ask was clearly for help revealing a work of art, which arose from the cliff face at the slightest sweep of feather and blood.I was so comforted by the image. It was profound to be witnessed by my familiars, including the other little girl who became my beloved.I reflected on the experience for months, until happily finding myself back in the arms of my sanctuary with Jen earlier this month.

I was curious if rain had washed away our guardian angel, but I laughed when I saw the painting still alive in broad daylight.Not faded in the slightest.It was the sun who mused with my willing form this time, and how profound was the poetry that revealed itself in this ongoing ritual of devotion to earth/self.Interactive art!Shadow or reflection, sprit has everything and nothing to do with me.Take away: don’t let my craving for meaning-making (death work) eclipse the nonsense that begs to co-create art with me (life’s work).

September 22nd, Two Year Anniversary

It brought so much to fruition.Results of patterns waiting to erupt, Old reconciliations.

The coyotes had a rave.I worried about the dome blowing away.Thunder rang throughout the valley, an unusual delight.Our cannabis turned ripe overnight.

Rarer still, Jen and I are bleeding together on the equinox and our second anniversary.As soon as Jen told me she was bleeding I asked to have some, so I could mix it with mine. I’ve been collecting my blood in a honey jar with amber crystals still clinging. It smells divine.

But upon my request she hesitated, popping a hip like she does when she disagrees. Finally she told me she might share a cup with me, maybe.

I had expected her enthusiastic consent, what an entitlement! In her hesitation I was instantly humbled, and suddenly an elusive part of me was under the spotlight.

I suppose it is rather tasty to nibble on another’s power.

My eager maiden has reveled in moonblood magic for years; this soul has waited eons to play with it again. I’ve mixed it with others, have bathed in it, anointed favorite treasures and cast many impulsive spells. Such unabashed playfulness can be healing.It is new, however, to consider whether this intimate intertwining truly serves me and my relations.

Something about asking Jen to surrender her power to me, even a cupful, is a ritualistic intertwining that I don’t jive with. When it came time to douse our cauldron I didn’t want any of Jen’s blood at all. It was more profound to witness her holding it throughout our ritual, clasped tenderly in her favorite jar.

In hindsight I see I never wanted anything from Jen but to be witnessed by her. I wanted to invite her to share the smell of warm honeyblood with me as it boiled with the embers of our fire.How often that is the case.

Bubbles simmered in a codex of burnt hair and flower petals. The ashes of willowbark, rosemary, and juniper danced in the air. The soot of many relics collected over the past year, traces from old alters, dried herbs, two stellar feathers, all transformed into smoke. A clump of soft fur donated by Nugget the cat, pulled out with a bur, sizzled and sparked.

The shame encrusting figurative moonjars of my grandmothers begins to crumble with Jen’s boundaries. Nobody is entitled to anyone’s magic.Not only is Jen unashamed of her menstrual blood, but she dares to covet it. Well done.

One great honor in my marriage, and there are many, is to be witnessed in my unfolding without interference. Surrendering to my fate alongside another’s separate self-realization is not easy, but Jen teaches me to hear the voices that guide us toward a braver coexistence. Thank you.

August 11, 2021

Who am I to say the birds don’t know the forecast, too?

Today a pair of finches are tending their nest in the oak tree. They feed their young as vigilantly as they’ve ever fed themselves, if not more so.

From a swaying nest four tiny heads pop out in tolls of hunger. The parents aren’t far away. The larger of them condescends the other from a high branch as the little one forages on the ground. Then he buzzes up to the nest with a bounty of bug vomit to share. The realest elixir of life.

I’m pretty sure they know how hot it’s going to get, but this is a different kind of knowing than I have. They aren’t suffering yet, and I doubt either parent lost any sleep.That’s not to say they don’t worry, but this is a different kind of worry than I have. We can all learn to dance with death, they tell me. With duty and gentleness and gratitude.

They tell me it’s high time to cultivate a practice of surrender, so fancy. Right now my practice looks kinda like a Shakespearean tragedy, or some other cathartic performance art. It’s okay. I don’t have to be as graceful as the birds are, even though I have considerably less at stake.

Just chill human, they say. I can let go of the idea that I should save the earth, in fact it’s important. She’s not asking for that. I can water my flowers if it makes me feel better, but I know all of their blossoms will fall later today.I’ll water my flowers either to give them a fighting chance or to add dramatic flair to their demise, both respectable choices.

The petals will go, and I get to collect them. An honor and a privilege. I wont interfere with the earth’s own collection of petals, and all of the fledglings that will drop from their nests into her arms this week. I get to witness the unfolding.