Category Archives: Uncategorized

Magic Works in Mysterious Ways

So this is meant to be funny, but you’d be hard-pressed, I think, to find a Witch who hasn’t seen magic work in this round-about way.

~ hat tip: Veles

It’s As If the Goddess Were Everywhere

Just back from a short swing up to Pennsylvania to see Frank Lloyd Wright’s Falling Water. It was spectacular and if you ever get a chance to go: GO. Here’s the iconic view of Falling Water:

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Picture found (and available for sale) here.

And it really is that gorgeous. But I broke off from the tour and found the Goddess at Falling Water. Here’s my picture of her:

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(Picture by the blogger; if you copy, please link back).

I sat on a nearby boulder, put my hands on ancient stone, gulped the incense of a benificent pine, slipped into a light trance, and had a wonderful time with Her and the spirits of that place.

May it be so for you.

Monday at the Movies

This documentary of the life of American ballerina Tanaquil Le Clercq has some wonderful ballet footage, but you don’t have to be a ballet fan to enjoy the movie or to appreciate the inspiration of a woman who managed to create a life for herself after illness robbed her of her ability to dance. It’s not maudlin; it’s a very dry martini, kind of like Tanny’s dancing.

Sunday Ballet Blogging

Changes

BlackDrgaon

So I bought a new car today and I’m searching for a good name for her.

Stella, my eleven-year-old Honda Civic Hybrid, finally gave up the ghost. She’s been a good old girl, but she’d begun to need increasingly expensive repairs. (My practice with cars is to pay cash for a new car, maintain it well, and drive it until it becomes unreliable and/or the repair costs begin to approximate a good chunk of what a new car would cost. Then, I pay cash for a new one. YMMV.)

Do you name your cars? I need a good name for my new one — a purpley, black, silvery Honda Civic Hybrid with all kinds of almost scarey navigation/phone/”infotainment” technology. She feels a little bit like she wants to be named for a dragon, but I haven’t found a good one yet.

Tomorrow morning, she’ll get her protection spell, her grounding, and her name.

Any suggestions gratefully accepted.

Picture found here.

Friday Night Poetry Blogging

Handwriting letters

A Letter from Home

~ Mary Oliver

She sends me news of blue jays, frost,
Of stars and now the harvest moon
That rides above the stricken hills.
Lightly, she speaks of cold, of pain,
And lists what is already lost.
Here where my life seems hard and slow,
I read of glowing melons piled
Beside the door, and baskets filled
With fennel, rosemary and dill,
While all she could not gather in
Or hid in leaves, grow black and falls.
Here where my life seems hard and strange,
I read her wild excitement when
Stars climb, frost comes, and blue jays sing.
The broken year will make no change
Upon her wise and whirling heart; -
She knows how people always plan
To live their lives, and never do.
She will not tell me if she cries.

I touch the crosses by her name;
I fold the pages as I rise,
And tip the envelope, from which
Drift scraps of borage, woodbine, rue.

Picture found here.

You can buy Mary Oliver’s poems at Poetry and Prose.

What Byron Said

Byron Ballard keeps trying to tell people that we are now living in Tower Times — as in the Tarot card. For a few years, it’s felt to me as if the veils between the worlds are growing increasingly, thin, worn, I don’t know . . . tattered, maybe. The way a curtain gets when it’s been whipped back and forth and forth and back so often by the wind that the curtain begins to thin, to frey, to become transparent. The veils never seem to really close up again after Samhein and each time there’s a bigger gap left.

I don’t know if that’s good or bad. Maybe our ancestors know they’re going to need more ready access to us as we charge, willy-nilly (will-we-or-nil-we) into the Holocene extinction. Or maybe the land wights are ripping the veils open to get the Hel out of Dodge while there’s still time.

What I do know is that we need to ground. We need to know ourselves in all our parts. We need to be in relationship with our landbase, watershed, foodshed, local community. We need to get ourselves as healthy and fit as we can. We need to learn survival skills, all the way from how to organize an angry group, to how to sew up clean wounds, to how to save seeds, to how to write poetry and dance, to how to program, to how to unvravel old sweaters and knit blankets out of the threads, to how to make solar panels and windmills, to how to do soul retrieval. We need to learn how to hex and how to heal.

We are, each of us, the modern-day result of generations, and generations, and generations untold of survivors. We can call on that.

Each of us is here because we come from an ancient line of survivors, our DNA stretching all the way back to Africa. We come from ancestors who survived Ice Ages, who survived slavery, who survived retreating glaciers, who survived Rome, who survived the Dark Ages and the cutting down of Europe’s forests and acorn parks, who survived the Burning Times, who survived the Long Passage, who survived indenture, who survived famine, who survived smallpox-infested blankets, who survived childbed fever, who survived the trip out West in Conestoga wagons, who survived the African diaspora, who survived driving railroad stakes day in and day out, who survived World War I and mustard gas, who survived the Depression and the dustbowl, who survived World War II and Fat Boy, who survived Selma, who survived Kent State, who survived . . . .

And, as the song says, I refuse to be hopeless because to be hopeless would dishonor those who’ve gone before us.

So lift me up, to the light of change, to the Tower Times, to this difficult time to be alive.

I won’t be gone long; you come, too.