Tuesday Evening Miracle Enough Poetry Blogging

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TO LIVE IS MIRACLE ENOUGH

~ Mervyn Peake

To live at all is miracle enough.
The doom of nations is another thing.
Here in my hammering blood-pulse is my proof.

Let every painter paint and poet sing
And all the sons of music ply their trade;
Machines are weaker than a beetle’s wing.

Swung out of sunlight into cosmic shade,
Come what come may the imagination’s heart
Is constellation high and can’t be weighed.

Nor greed nor fear can tear our faith apart
When every heart-beat hammers out the proof
That life itself is miracle enough.

Picture found here.

Really? Really?

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OK, I’m going to blog it soon but, honestly, do I really even need to write this???? Do I need, here in the Twenty-First Century, to explain that when a white man shows up spewing bullets and talking about how the “others,” aka African Americans, want to rape “our” women and take over “our country,” Patriarchy is at work? Women are objectified? Women and the landbase are both “owned” and trespasses upon either are “rapes” that cannot be allowed — well, at least not when committed by the “others”?

Do I still have to do this? Aggression is almost always justified by the trumped-up notion that the aggressor is “protecting” “his” women. We’re really tired of being your lame excuse.

I’ll write this post, simply because I live in a culture that, apparently, still requires it. But I sure did think we’d be done with this bullshit by now.

Dudes, get over it. There’s no such thing as “your” women. You cannot own the land and you cannot lay claim to the bodies of women.

We are not your landscape. We do not provide the justification for your hatred, your murder, your exploitation.

I am just saying. And I’ll keep saying it until it’s no longer necessary, but that doesn’t mean that this bullshit isn’t getting really, really, really old.

Sacrament of the Soil

Yesterday was the Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year — Litha, as we modern Pagans will have it. In the deep of Winter, I wake up early, smack in the middle of the Great Dark, and do my daily practice longing and longing for Summer: long days to work outside in the yard, sit on the porch with friends, and pick flower, after flower, after flower.

Litha is one of the eight high holy days of my year (or as Lark Rise to Candleford called them, “high days, and holy days, and bonfire nights.”) And as is far too often the case, I worked at the office all day on my religious holiday. I love my job and it is a big part of my spiritual practice, but lately . . . .

And, so, when I came home in the late afternoon, I did not go inside and do laundry, unpack the week-old suitcase sitting on the guest room bed, nor go to the grocery store. I did not gather my travel receipts to submit, record my hours for billing, nor catch up on emails. No, on my high holy day, on the longest day of the year, on the Summer Solstice, on Litha, I went out to my way-too-weedy herb bed and pulled weeds. This was my ritual, my celebration, my Sacrament of the Soil. I put my hands into the dirt, felt around until I knew that my fingers were underneath and between the roots of the grasses that have taken up lodging in my herb bed, and I pulled them out, shook the fine dirt back into the herb bed, and discarded the grasses. Sacrifice and solemnity — weeds for empty space, more root room for the herbs, more sunlight for the poor bok choy, and fish peppers, and angelica, and black hollyhocks.

This is, although it appears not to be, High Magic. This is what hedge witches do and have always done. This no Ceremonial Magic, but it is the deepest, deeper, and most deep magic that there is: this union of sun, and rain, and woman, and living plant, and soil. This ritual of declaring “This, not that,” of selecting some plants over others, of putting sacred hands into sacred soil to remove sacred weeds and leave sacred herbs.

Others no doubt celebrated this high holy day with bonfires, elaborate rituals, costumes, incense, and great magics. I danced my now long-practiced dance around the bramble bush, came home and weeded, went out back, and hugged my magnolia tree which, in deep shade, has produced one perfect, lemon-vanilla bloom this year.

I shan’t be gone long, you come, too.

Sunday Ballet Blogging

I think that this almost, but not quite, works. More precise coordination would help, but there’s also a way in which this never really achieves dance so much as it engages in good acrobatics. What do you think?

Thursday Night Odd Bedfellows Blogging

I’ve been traveling this week and thought that, finally home, I’d put up a “real” post this evening. But it turns out that Delta Rae says everything that I might have said today and does it to music.

I’ll just add that I’m not one of those Wiccans who likes to “make nice” with the Christians. There are Pagans who do that work and, Goddess bless them, I’m grateful that they do. But raised Catholic and harmed by Patriarchy, I’m not, in the words of the Dixie Chicks, ready to make nice. But today I donated some money to the Christian church in Charleston that was attacked yesterday by a terrorist.

Why?

Well, I’m a woman whose work has resulted in a checkbook with a balance. I’m a woman who hates racism, but can only do small, incremental things to fix it. I’m a woman who hates gun violence and believes, lawyer that I am, that nothing that happened last night in Charleston involved a “well-regulated militia,” no matter what SCOTUS has said, but who can’t do much to stop gun violence. And I’m a woman appalled at the right’s immediate attempt to spin this tragedy as an “attack on Christians,” rather than what it was: an attack on African Americans. (Go right wing; you got me to add an extra zero to my check. You sicken me.) I wish that I could do more, but, as the Beatles said, “We’re all doing what we can.

The church’s homepage lists ways to donate. I’m going to write a letter explaining that my donation comes from a Pagan.

Surely They’d Call It No Little Sin, for England Shall Bide by Oak and Ash and Thorn Blogging

For we’ve been out in the woods all night a’ conjuring Summer in.

Monday Economics, By the Grace of Endorphins, Blogging