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.