It’s All Rather a lot of Bother
(okay, I’ve been working on this one for a while now. But it wasn’t ready yet. Now it is)
When folks come over and inquire about the macaroni in the offering dishes upon my house shrine I act like it’s no big deal. I just made too much and so I gave it to my spirits. It gets a little more complicated to explain that I am expected by my spirits to make too much and give them their fair share. That I keep their offering bowls small because they expect them to be filled.
It’s all rather a lot of bother.
Spirit work and devotional practice that is. A bother. That’s why it’s called work and practice I suppose.
Years ago, I was researching medicine bags and crane bags and the like. I came across something talking about Native American shamans and their relationship with their medicine bags, and with the spirits within their medicine bags. For some, they had to sing a specific song for each item/spirit in the bag before opening it. Over the years the bag would acquire more and more items. When they died, they might pass their bag onto someone… Continue reading
To Tread Lightly
I wash myself in the river.
As I do so I murmur quietly. I have learned the power of words. I give it voice. Using my breath. Vibration.
I wash myself in the river. The cool water runs down my legs and arms and neck. Though the hem of my skirt is tucked up into my waistband it still gets wet. My hair is the color of clotted blood when it is damp and under a night sky, it drips river water down my back. It is not dirt that I remove with the water … but it is swept away by the current nonetheless.
Crash paddles to me, returning from her attempts to follow the offering tossed in the river as they floated away. She gives me a look that says “Why the hell are you throwing sticks and bits of plants into the river if I’m not to chase them?”
I laugh and beckon her to follow me unto the shore. My sandals make squelching sounds as I work my way up the river bank.
I come to a tunnel of vegetation that runs parallel to the river. One side is the weeded… Continue reading
To Fly By Night
Hoofprints in the Wildwood
Recent Comments