Monday at the Movies

I’m hearing good things about this one. I admit I’m not a big fan of superhero movies (when you’ve seen one special effects fight, you’ve seen them all, in my opinion), but this could be different. With the new COVID variant, I’m not going to be sitting in a theatre any time soon, but I might watch at home.

Have you seen it? What did you think?

May the Goddess Guard Her. May She Find Her Way to the Summerlands. May Her Friends and Family Know Peace.

Feminist writer and thealogian Carol P. Christ has slipped through the veils. The Girl God blog has a lovely obituary for her.

It’s a little difficult to express now what Christ’s works meant to so many women back in the “early days” of the modern Pagan renaissance. Her discussions of Goddesses and Goddess worship were integral to my own growth as a Witch. Part of my daily prayer — “The breath of my body will bless and the cells of my being will sing in gratitude and reawakening” — comes from her writing.

If you’ve never read any of her books, Rebirth of the Goddess is a good place to start.

We stand on the shoulders of giants, my sisters. We stand on the shoulders of giants.

Picture found here.

Take The Credit

Just yesterday, lots of parents across the US woke up to some great news: up to $300 a month PER KID showing up in their bank accounts, courtesy of the Biden/Harris agenda and the Democratic party. This money is “fully refundable,” which means even if you don’t owe any federal taxes normally, you’ll still get it.

It is the most significant anti-poverty program since the New Deal. It will cut the child poverty rate in HALF.

Some truly historic things have happened in the past almost six months since Joe Biden and Kamala Harris were inaugurated:

  • 336 million vaccine shots administered
  • 160 million Americans fully vaccinated
  • $1400 stimulus checks in 160 million pockets
  • Adding $7.2 billion to the Paycheck Protection Plan, with a focus on assisting small businesses
  • 15 of 19 federal judiciary appointments are WOMEN (11 of them women of color), a historic ratio
  • Rejoining the UN Human Rights Council, the World Health Organization, and the Paris Climate Accord
  • Revoking the global gag rule
  • FINALLY ending the forever war in Afghanistan

And we are [this] close to a $3 trillion investment in critical infrastructure improvements and repairs (it is FINALLY Infrastructure Week, y’all!) and a $3.5 trillion investment in social safety net and climate change programs. There’s a LOT more, too.

Dems, MAKE SURE YOU TAKE THE CREDIT. We are, historically, very very bad at this. I blame the fact that the base of the party is women, who are also bad at taking credit and bragging on ourselves.

And then we get to election season, assuming voters will calmly and rationally do their research and examine the candidates’ and parties’ records, and Republican jackasses claim credit for stuff they voted against, and nobody calls them on it, and they get re-elected, and we all scratch our heads in puzzlement.

NOT THIS FUCKING TIME.

They’re Biden Bucks. They’re Momala Baby Bucks. Dems saved democracy and the economy and thousands of lives ENTIRELY on their own, while the Republicans were busy vying for spots on Fox “News” to whine about phony culture war bullshit or spew anti-vaxxer insanity and claiming that the January 6 thugs were just “normal tourists” visiting their Members of Congress.

And we need to SHOUT IT FROM THE GODDAMN ROOFTOPS.

Image from GQ Grandpa Joe Biden’s White House.

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Throwback Thursday

When you’ve been blogging as long as I have, you forget some of the things you wrote. This short story, which I published in three parts, popped up in my WordPress statistics. Someone must have found it on Google. It was inspired by news stories about a little girl who fed crows and was, in return, gifted with shiny bits of this and that. I hope you enjoy it — for either the first or second time.

Picture found here.

How Willa Became a Witch

Chapter 1

It was an old, moss-covered stone, deep in the woods. They almost didn’t see it, covered, as it was, by mushrooms, lichens, and early Autumn leaves. But, once the archeologists saw it and cleared it off, there it was. A flat piece of marble with Gothic lettering:

The world has called me by many names: Lilith, Succubus, Cunning Woman, Hecate’s Child, Heretic, Whore. But they do not see my truth; they cannot guess the essence of who I am. I am a woman beneath the Moon, robed in magic, a practitioner of the Old Ways. I am a Witch.

“I wonder how it started?” the young woman with the camera asked. 

The Spirits who had gathered round laughed, although the students and their professor were far too scientific to hear them. The Spirits laughed, glanced with love into each other’s eyes, and nodded with remembrance. 

“I remember,” great, great, great grandma Cordellia said. 

“No you don’t,” great, great, great grandpa Soren said. “You were mostly senile by then. I was dead, but when they brought her to you in the nursing home, you’d been watching birds outside your window. So you called her the “Bird Whisperer,” but that was just you being silly.” 

“No,” said Cordellia, “I wasn’t being silly. You see now how I predicted the future.”

If you’d have asked her mother, though, it didn’t really start in the nursing home with great, great, many times great, grandma Cordellia, although they’d always been proud of themselves for braving the bad smell of the nursing home and bringing baby Willa to meet her almost ancient ancestress. Willa’s mother would have said that it began one afternoon at a Starbucks. 

They had lots of Starbucks, back in those days, before it became too expensive to import coffee from South to North America, and suburban mothers would meet at Starbucks in the afternoon for adult conversation. It was on a sunny Wednesday in early March, her mother would later remember, that Willa, tucked under a crocheted blanket, sitting happy in her stroller, and basking in a small patch of sun on the patio, first watched a bird (her mother remembered it as a pigeon) peck at the crumbs scattered under the outdoor tables. Willa’s mother and her friend were sitting outside, sipping coffee, and picking at a shared scone. Her mother handed Willa a bit of scone and Willa gladly gummed it, dropping as many crumbs on the ground as she managed to place inside her mouth. And it was the crumbs, really — those random, unpredictable crumbs — that, in the poet’s words, “made all the difference.”

It was those dropped crumbs, Willa’s mother remembered, that drew the pigeons. They gathered around Willa’s stroller and, as they pecked up the bits of scone, made Willa babble with delight. From that moment on, you couldn’t feed the child anything outside but that she would break bits off and see if she could bring the birds. Birds seemed, her mother would say, to flock to Willa like fish to flies, like dogs to bones, like humans to humor.

But it was really at the bus stop, Willa’s brother, Wesley, would recall, that Willa first began to become a Witch.

Chapter 2

Wesley remembered how they’d stand at the bus stop, holding their bagged lunches and watching the crows gather on the power lines alongside old woman Rian’s house. All birds loved Willa, but crows, especially, seemed to show up wherever she was.

“Look,” Willa said, “I bet I can get them to come down from there.”

She’d reached into her lunch bag and pulled out some crackers to throw to the crows. Within minutes, Wesley remembered, they were surrounded by dozens of shiny black birds. He’d opened his own bag, as well, excited by the birds, and thrown Cheetos out for the crows. That afternoon at lunch, Wesley was still hungry, but Willa was just busy drawing crows.

It was that evening that Willa came home to find a red glass bead on the windowsill outside her bedroom. She showed it to Wesley and then slipped it into her pocket. The next morning, there were more crows at the bus stop and Willa gave them her crackers and her peanut butter sandwich. Wesley remembered being hungry, and he looked away, and then got interested in Paul’s discussion of fantasy baseball. That afternoon, there were two pennies and a shiny bit of gum wrapper on Willa’s windowsill. Willa took a shoe box of out her closet and labeled it “Gifts from Crows.” Wesley went on line and looked up ways to select players for fantasy baseball games. It drew a lot of expensive electricity off the grid and his dad yelled at him for it, but Willa gave him one of her pennies and told him not to cry. 

Things were never the same again, really.

Willa’s mother encouraged it all, at first. “Maybe she’ll be an ornithologist and work at the university or a zoo,” she said. “She might be a scientist or write books about birds.” Willa did like to read books about birds. She’d read every single one in the local library, but she seemed more interested in just watching and drawing them than in categorizing or dissecting them. 

When the winters became increasingly bitter, Willa and her brother shoveled walks and ran errands for homebound neighbors. Willa saved all of her money to spend on food for the crows. Even her mother began to find it a little bit weird: the way Willa wanted to care for the crows and the way the crows kept leaving gifts for her. 

When her mom lost the bracelet she’d gotten from her old college friend, Willa “talked to the crows,” and they brought it back to Willa’s windowsill the next day. “I think Willa took it and then said the crows returned it,” Wesley said. That afternoon, the crows took Wesley’s locker key. He never got it back.

People mostly couldn’t get to work in the ever-snowier winters. Some people, the ones who worked on computers, were able to keep working for a few years; they could “telecommute.” But the ice and the winter winds began taking down towers and wires on a more regular basis and almost no one got paid in the winter anymore. Offices and stores closed down; you couldn’t run a business when your workers and customers were homebound five months out of the year.

Everyone was scared; when all the religious men got together and said that the bad weather was due to too much science and not enough religion, well, people were willing to listen. They wanted their winter paychecks back, their cable TVs, their grocery stores with strawberries in February, the years when flu didn’t kill their children, their vacations to Disney World. Giving up science seemed a small price to pay.

And so Willa never did get many real science classes and she never did become an ornithologist, or work at the university, or have a job at a zoo. The school board kept the science requirements in place, but the books now said that evolution was a lie, that “man” was destined to dominate the Earth, that animals had no feelings and no souls, and that it would put people out of jobs to say that animals had “intelligence.” The chapter on birds discussed the dove who brought a branch back to Noah. Willa decided it was all “crow crap,” and sat sullenly in the back of the classroom, drawing pictures of crows in the edges of the textbooks.

Willa dropped out in 10th grade when they cut the art classes for lack of funds. All of the good, Christian art had already been made, they said. No one wanted sketches of crows. The other kids called Willa “Bird Girl,” laughed, and threw crumbs at her to make themselves feel safe as they chaffed their arms and scratched their chilblains. Willa just crossed to the other side of the street and it was never long before crows showed up to eat the crumbs. 

Willa dressed all in black, wore too much eye make-up, and paid an old man in the back alley to tattoo a crow on her shoulder. It got infected, but Willa rubbed it with some leaves that the crows brought her and it cleared right up. 

Willa took a job at the local pot store. One business that continued to thrive was pot — now that it was legal, everyone seemed to want some. As long as you bought a supply by around late October, you’d have enough to get you through a long, cabin-fevered winter. What else was there to do, now that the tv towers no longer worked and the religious men had burned the library books? When the store owners decided to move to Mexico, Willa offered to buy them out and they were glad to sell. Willa saved her money and bought a tiny house on the outskirts of town. It had a fenced yard, lots of trees, and a solar-powered bird bath so that the crows could drink water all winter long. 

It got to be known that you could visit Willa in her tiny house — she wouldn’t talk to you at the store — and ask her to help you find something you’d lost. If you’d lost it outside, Willa could often return it to you, in return for some vegetables, some bird food, some wool. Whatever was returned, Willa would say that the crows brought it to her. People began to whisper that Willa was not just weird; Willa was a Witch.

For an even more serious payment, Willa could sometimes find out things that were meant to be secret. She told Hope Rollins that her husband was having an affair with the minister’s wife. She watched the skies for a week and then told Starren Beriaman that he would, indeed, soon die of the lump he felt in his balls. She gently told old woman Rian that all of the money had been siphoned off by her darling son. It got to be known that you should only ask Willa questions that you honestly wanted answered. 

Willa did fall in love, once. He had red hair, and strong arms, and a voice that gave Willa goosebumps. He grew pot for her store, but he could grow anything that you wanted, even in the short summers, and he had learned a lot from his old grandfather, who taught high school science “back before it got sanctified.” He was a farmer and he wanted Willa to move out of her tiny house and onto his farm. But Willa couldn’t live with a man who put scarecrows in his field, who shot at birds to keep them out of the corn, who went to church every Sunday and prayed that God would reinstate “man’s” dominion over nature. 

And, so, as the years slipped by — one long, long, longer winter after another — Willa spent less and less time with people and more and more time with her crows. One old crow adopted her and there came a time when no local child had ever seen Willa without that crow on her left shoulder. Willa still opened her shop every morning and closed it every afternoon. And she still opened the door of her tiny house to those who had lost something and wanted it found; Willa had never turned anyone away, it was said. Well, anyone but Rian’s son, and even the crows would have been hard-pressed to find his squandered fortune.

Chapter 3

But it wasn’t until her red-headed farmer married a village girl — Hannah, the preacher’s daughter, although she looked a good deal more like Mr. Rollins than she looked like the preacher — that Willa, herself, realized that she was a Witch. Willa’d been glad to hear of his marriage; she’d left the farmer a long time ago and they’d remained friends. He still supplied her with some of the best pot around and she knew that he needed a wife on the farm. 

The wedding was a village affair; Willa wasn’t invited, but, then, she hadn’t expected to be. The bride insisted that people throw rice, although rice was scarce as coffee in those days; transporting it up from the south was almost prohibitively expensive, especially as “the south” (as in, a place warm enough to grow rice), kept moving farther and farther away. And the minister objected that fertility came from praying to God, not from throwing food, but Hannah would have it and her mother insisted that the minister pay for it. He reluctantly agreed: Hannah had never been his favorite child, but appearances mattered and he told the acolytes to sweep it up after the procession and to be sure to keep the birds away. If nothing else, he could rent it to future couples for their weddings. 

Things hadn’t gone well. An historic murder of crows showed up as soon as the first grain of rice hit the ground and the birds immediately pecked up every single bit. The happy couple was off to the parish hall, but the minister watched a small fortune in rice disappear into the crows’ stomachs and he turned crimson with anger. There wouldn’t even be so many crows around if it weren’t for that woman who ran the pot store. She was an unbeliever and it was her kind that drew God’s wrath in the form of bitter winters, expensive rice, and wives who had affairs.

The very next morning he and Hannah appeared at the door of the pot store. Willa was surprised. Hannah usually slipped in just before closing to buy her pot, slyly suggesting that Willa not mention that she’d been there, and Willa assumed that, now, Hannah would have all the pot she wanted. And the minister had never come to her store. 

“Can I help you?” Willa asked, petting the crow on her shoulder who was suddenly agitated.

“You can pay for my rice,” the minister said. “Go on, tell her, girl!” 

Hannah squared her shoulders and said, “I know you’re jealous. I married the only man you’ve ever loved. You sent your crows to eat all the rice at my wedding. You don’t want me to have his children, do you? Your birds ate up all my fertility!” 

Willa was, for once in her life, speechless. She didn’t even think to say “crow crap,” although, later, she wished that she had.

“You’ll have to pay for the rice,” the minister insisted. “I’ll have your shop shut down. I’ll take your house on the edge of the village. I’ll have every bird in this entire town shot.”

Willa shrugged. “The crows ate your rice. Go ask them for it. I won’t pay you a penny and you’ll never have a grandchild to dandle at your knee. Not that this girl’s children would have been your heirs, at any rate.”

“Witch!” the minister yelled, pointing at Willa and shaking with anger.

“Witch!” Hannah yelled, knowing at last that all the whispered stories were true.

“Yes,” said Willa. “I am. I am a Witch. I am beloved of the crows. I am a woman beneath the Moon, robed in magic, a practitioner of the Old Ways. I am a Witch. And now you need to leave my store.” 

Her crow spread its wings.

They left.

It was a many years later that the winters became so bad that the birds had to abandon the town. They could fly south, but Willa was old, and arthritic, and couldn’t leave. Her familiar stayed on her shoulder until the very last crow had gone. Then that ancient bird went out and found Willa a brown, shiny seed, gave a heartbroken caw, and flew away. Willa called her brother, Wesley, who had become a mason. 

And it was Wesley who carved the stone and Wesley who came and found Willa after she’d eaten the seed. It was Wesley who buried her in the forest, beneath the stone she’d wanted, and it was Wesley who placed a red glass bead, an old penny, and a bit of shiny gum wrapper on her breast for the archeologists to find all those years later. 

That oddly-early Spring, when his granddaughter was born, Wesley said, “I think that you should name her Corneille.”

Corneille had a daughter, who had a daughter, who had a daughter, who had a daughter who grew up to take pictures on archeological digs. She had shiny black hair, as dark as crow’s wings, and she could always seem to find things when they went missing.

Words for Wednesday

Arran

~ Irish, author unknown, twelfth century

Arran of the plentiful stag, where the sea

splashes its shoulder;

island where warriors are fed;

ridge where blue spears are reddened.

Clear water courses the streams;

nuts abundant upon brown oaks.

And all the heath in autumn

is mellow with blueberry.

In spring, lichen on rocks is purple;

fawns gambol, trout leap,

stags drift unwary,

like unmoored boats

amongst the dark blackthorn.

This is a tale you must trust:

the swine are fat in that land;

around its white cliffs

seagulls angle and croon,

Arran of the plentiful stag.

From Cinderbiter: Celtic Poems by Martin Shaw & Tony Hoagland

Picture found here.

An Ergonomic Daily Practice

Gwendolyn Reece has put together an excellent set of video modules (Module 1 is posted above) that serves as one of the best introductions to the modern Craft. The videos are designed for a class she’s teaching, but they’d be useful for anyone seeking to understand Witchcraft.

In Module 7 she discusses daily practice. I love her notion of creating an ergonomic daily practice. Oxford Languages defines “ergonomic” as: “relating to or designed for efficiency and comfort in the working environment.” So an ergonomic daily practice is a daily practice that is designed for efficiency in your work as a Witch. And, let’s face it: few of us have the luxury of time to spend long hours every day on complex spiritual practices. Most of us are working our daily practice in with a job, a family, some exercise, food preparation, some volunteer work, sleep, the laundry, . . . .

Gwendolyn discusses the four “daily essentials” of daily practice. These are the components of daily practice that almost anyone should be able to do, almost anywhere, under almost any conditions. These essentials are:

*Some form of purification/cleaning. This can include purifying/cleaning your environment and yourself.

*Protection. Generally, this will involve some form of shielding.

*Attention to the immortal aspects of self. Gwendolyn poetically refers to this as “calling yourself back to yourself.” It can be any practice that helps you to remember who you really are and why you are really here.

*Attention to any of the specific Great Ones or spirits with whom you have a personal relationship. (I’d include your personal relationship with your landbase.)

A few minutes spent on each of the above is better than some long, protracted program that you never get to do (or to finish) because it’s really too complicated to fit into your life. Gwendolyn has a good discussion about not making the perfect the enemy of the good.

What would these four basics look like in a practice that’s ergonomic for you?

(Belated) Monday at the Movies

This is a fun spin on detective shows. And I tell myself that it lets me practice my French.

Breathe

Self-Care Redux

Life in the US is slowly resuming more typical contours (although the Delta variant is worrying, particularly for communities that are refusing to be vaccinated, aka, mostly Trumpers who live in red states), which means a lot of us are starting to re-fill our schedules.

Last weekend, we gathered with our pod for a day of beer brewing and barbecue on Saturday. On Sunday, we walked in our neighborhood July 4th parade with our Ward Democratic party organization, then hosted a friend for an afternoon of grilling and gin tasting (she’s a bit of an expert and was able to supply some real gems).

Two of the local Democratic groups have resumed in person meetings, although they were both indoors with groups of unknown size, so I’ve skipped them both. (Our Ward organization is still meeting on Zoom.) One of my other key volunteer commitments held their annual volunteer appreciation event in person at a beer garten, so I did go (although it was a MILLION degrees that night, so I probably sweated out more liquid than I consumed).

Tonight, we’re having our third restaurant meal since V-day (vaccination, that is), outdoors and with friends, and then going with them to our first theater show in 17 months, also outdoors (please hold off, rain).

Tomorrow, we’re due to have dinner with friends at their house, and then Sunday, we’re gathering with a small group (fewer than ten people) to celebrate a friend’s milestone birthday.

The week after, we take our first trip that requires a plane ride in 18 months.

And all that feels – mostly – OK, although again, Delta has me concerned. And I did go to my first large gathering – an outdoor political rally – since the Before Times about two weeks ago, and, to be honest, it completely freaked me out.

It does have me thinking, though.

During the pandemic, many of us were fortunate to be able to slow down and remove a lot of commitments from our schedules. And a lot of folks made a lot of noise about being more intentional about how we use our time coming out of the pandemic.

Was that you? (It was me.)

How are you doing?

Self-care is more than consumerist “treat yourself” purchases (although those can be great).

Self-care is more than self-pampering, like a bubble bath or an afternoon reading a great novel (although those are lovely).

Self-care is more than the “change your HVAC filter, schedule your mammogram, file your receipts for your taxes” Hecate is fond of reminding us to do (although those are important adulting things).

Self-care is also about how you and I choose to invest our time and energy, both of which are limited resources. And there are no right answers.

If I choose to “forest bathe” at the nearby arboretum, I can’t also choose to invest that afternoon in postcarding for the upcoming Virginia state elections. And both of those things are totally valid and good things to do with my afternoon.

If I choose to resume piano lessons, I can’t also choose to take the yoga class that meets at the same time. Both of those things are totally valid and good things to do with my time.

If I choose to volunteer weekly with the local early literacy intervention nonprofit, I may not have the time to volunteer in the community garden at the local food bank, where we teach people how to grow their own food. Both of those things are totally valid and good things to do with my time.

Choosing one thing means not being able to choose something else. I have to remind myself of that a lot, and I’m guessing I may not be the only one.

Photo by alexey turenkov on Unsplash

Like what you read? Follow me on Twitter @MrsWhatsit1.

Words for Wednesday

Spring Coronal

BY HYEJUNG KOOK

Again this year I’ve failed the peonies that came to us
when we bought our house in summer, not knowing what
pink and white glory grew in the northwest. After the first May,

still childless, seeing how a single bloom could overflow
the cup of my hands, the stems bowing to the ground
under their weight, I bought cages to circle the red shoots

after they crowned but only used them once. Arrow-like
as they emerge from the earth, the just unfurling leaves
look like fingers, reminiscent of intestinal villi and sea anemones,

moving with unexpected purpose. It is the force that through
the green fuse drives the flower, drives me to try and fail
again to conceive, which turns the leaves green, my eyes green,

everything greening and growing before my scaffolding
is in place. Again this year I’ve failed, but I haven’t been outside
in eight weeks without precautions against “the sickness”

as we’ve come to call it in our house, long days spent only
with my children, four and six, and my husband. A surly demand,
a dropped dish, misplaced keys, and I find myself wearing a crown

of overtowering rage, like the sun’s corona flaring,
the outermost layers of atmosphere flung violently into space,
invisible to most instruments except during a total solar eclipse,

as in 1869, when scientists detected a spectral green line,
possible indication of a new element they called coronium,
but in 1943, that grassy green was identified as iron

in a forbidden transition, half its electrons stripped away
by heat exceeding a million degrees. The world is burning
while I drift in a bubble of comfort but seized by anger

day after day until one evening I step out to find the peonies
that have managed to stay upright now reach my hips,
the pinks already perfuming the air, the whites still closed

tighter than a fist. The next morning I wake
with my grandmother’s voice in my ears, something
about mislaid glasses, and for long moments, I can’t recall

if she’s dead or alive. When I remember she’s gone,
I sob, unable to control my shudders, waking my daughter
who uncurls from my side and asks, “Why are you crying?”

How to explain the weight of loss pressing down
after a brief reprieve. The weight of a knee on a neck.
Children in detention while pandemic spreads. I don’t.

Instead I say, “I miss my grandmother who died.”
She gently pats my cheeks, then presses her forehead
against mine, so close all I see is the dark Cyclopean

blur of her eyes. Maybe it’s better to be unmoored
by rage and grief, to burn away that which binds us,
enriching the earth, making space for new growth.

Maybe my inability to cage a living thing isn’t
a failing at all. Better to let the green drive us
in a wild unfettered tangle, blooming or not,

to feel the comfort of my daughter’s touch, the renewal
of pain a small price for my grandmother alive again
in my mind while the peonies dive headfirst into the dirt.

Picture found here.