The Ramblings and Wanderings

Posts Tagged ‘About Juniper’

I am a bad feminist, downright lousy in fact. I might even be viewed as a traitor to my own sex (if you’re militant enough to see it that way)

I’ll tell you why.

I like men more than women. I prefer the company of men over the company of people of my own sex. I trust men more than women.

Can you imagine that? I know, I know, how terrible is that?

There are many reasons, feelings and experiences that cause me to be a lousy feminist. Please allow me to explain in my own rambling way.

I suppose the main reason is that unlike most of other women I’ve met, I have been neglected, mistreated and abused much more by other women than by men. Even when I have been neglected, abused and mistreated by men, often there was a woman involved.

Punch for punch, insult for insult, hair pull for hair pull women take up a significantly higher amount of the pain brought upon me by others than men.

As a child and teen I was mercilessly bullied by the other girls at school. Both physically and verbally, as well as just emotionally jerked around. I’ll spare you the details, (why rehash all that?) but suffice to say that every day at school was a nightmare of humiliation and abuse at the hands of my peers. I was ugly, stupid, scattered brained, had thrift store clothes, poor parents, frizzy hair, pimples, spoke funny, big glasses, either too skinny or too fat, a bitch, a whore, a prude … you name it. I can count on one hand the number of girls who I could call friends during the whole of my school years. And many of them abandoned me in an attempt to gain more popularity.

The boys on the other hand couldn’t care less about such things. Even long before boys start to get interested in you in “that way” my friends were always boys. I spent much of my childhood climbing trees or sitting on the playground equipment, practicing my spitting and swearing techniques.

The boys didn’t call me names, they didn’t push me into the mud, they didn’t throw things at me, they didn’t pull my hair, they didn’t pretend to like me one day and hate me the next, they didn’t spread lies about me. They didn’t try to flip up my skirt either.

In fact, they treated me like an equal; I was just one of the boys. Even in high school, when I wished more of them would see me in a different light, I was juts one of guys. They encouraged me to climb higher, spit further, hit harder and run faster. They taught me how to hit a bully in the nose and make her cry and cheered when I did it.

With two brothers, many uncles, and more than one Dad (step-fathers) I grew up in boy-culture. I went to the tomboy academy of learning. I can confidently change the radiator hose in a pick up truck, but can’t tell the difference between pillow cases and pillow shams, even when they are placed under my nose by an annoyed and frustrated woman. I can take a hard fall off my mountain bike and keep on trucking but can’t interpret the message behind another woman’s hair flip and eye roll.

I flatly refused to wear a skirt or dress until I was 14 years old. I had no desire to identify myself with my abusers. I liked being a girl, I just FUCKING HATED other girls and I rejected the expectations put on me by other females to be “properly female”. The men and boys in my life rarely ever told me that I should do or not do something because I was female, they did however try to teach me the proper way to toss a football. They also forgave me for never perfecting the technique.

Now don’t think for a second that I have unrealistic romantic notions about the males of the species.

Amongst my earliest memories is the image of my 6 foot tall father hitting my petite mother so hard that he broke her glasses and sent them flying across the room to land at my 4.5 year old feet. He then stormed down to the basement. My Mom grabbed her purse, my bay brother and I and we snuck out of the house. We hid at a local car dealership waiting for my grandmother to come and get us, watching my Dad’s car drive up and down the hi-way looking for us.

I learned before I could write a complete sentence what a violent man can do to a woman.

I also remember how Mom went back to him, bringing us with her, for a few months more anyways.

Mom’s second husband (common-law anyway) used to smack me now and then, he also was bipolar (undiagnosed until he made a suicide attempt when I was twelve) and his behaviour was strange and erratic. He would stand over my bed at night and watch me as I pretended to sleep. He was a substitute teacher and would force me to stay up late, often all night, re-doing my homework again and again. I grew to hate the nightmare that was school even more as a result.

Mom had her own issues and while I understand many of the reasons why she stayed with this man, and why she often took her own hurts and fear out on me, I will not excuse them either.

The day he finally laid a hand on my brother (the favoured son who always got straight “A”s) she finally threw him out. But the verbal abuse and the hair pulling from her did not stop until I grew larger than she was.

The women in my family failed to protect me, they were even amongst my abusers. The other girls at school were my tormenters, while the female teachers looked the other way or were at a loss as what they should do about it.

In adulthood I have struggled to make and keep female friends. I often do not have the same interests, goals and lifestyle. I don’t socialize “properly”. I miss the crucial subtle social cues that are such an integral part of female communication. I am too blunt, straight forward and open. Women are complicated, they are emotional, they are demanding, they are judgmental and impossible to please. I rarely receive their approval, let alone their acceptance.

I like men more than women. I prefer the company of men over the company of people of my own sex. I trust men more than women.

I know where I stand with men. With other women I feel like I am walking into a potential trap.

Men are like big dogs, they raise their hackles, they give you a warning growl, and they might nip once before they bite (usually). Women are like little dogs, the attack comes from behind, unexpectedly (usually). A big dog might be able to bite harder but the pain of a little dogs’ bite is much sharper and the wariness you learn from it lasts longer.

I don’t turn my back to little dogs.

As such, I am a lousy feminist.

I know how to not tolerate mistreatment from men; I learned it from the men in my life. The ones who taught me to fight, to climb trees, to spit and swear, to fall down and get back up again, to walk for miles on a sprained ankle, to not cry at the sight of blood.

I watch other women struggle to stand up to a man and I struggle to wrap my head around it. Perhaps because I have yet to fully forgive my mother for staying with and going back to men who hurt us.

I don’t need feminism, the goddess, or other women to tell me I am equal to men. It was men who taught me that as a child.

It’s the women in my life who have never treated me like an equal, not the men.

I have gone to women’s rituals and been pulled aside, given heck for showing up in a motorcycle jacket and combat boots. How dare I show up with such masculine energy?

I have gone to women’s circles in a floral print dress and make up, and been told that in order to a respected, a woman much not be pretty, thin, attractive and wear bras or make up.

I have seen feminists who venerate the Mother Goddess turn around and attack another woman for choosing to be a housewife and stay-at-home-mother.

I have seen Dianic Wiccans call themselves warrior women, and then be grossed out when I rub dust into my hands so I can better grip the handle of a fighting stick.

I have seen women get into arguments over whether or not it’s properly feminist to wear a mini skirt.

I have seen women treat each other poorly over something as stupid as whether or not other women’s towels hanging on the rack in the bathroom match each other.

I have been looked at like there is something wrong with me for having a patron god, rather than a matron goddess.

Men describe my personality as strong; they call me things like “an unstoppable force” and say so with respect. Women call me arrogant, a bitch and intimidating for the same traits, they pick on me for it.

I am not a very good feminist because I can’t figure out what the hell other women want from me?

I’m starting to wonder if feminists know what it is they want and if they know how to achieve it?

I am a bad feminist, downright lousy in fact. I don’t mean to be, that’s just what they call me.

I’d love to have more female friends, to gain that acceptance and love.

I’d love to show other women, those who are more timid and such, how to strap steel on their spine and face the world with head held high.

I’d love to see women focus less on bringing each other down, focus less on how all men are horrible evil abusing pigs, and work on learning how to get along.

(Note this is the first part of a series, I promise to get more positive towards my fellow women as I go!)

Wear socks that don’t match

Especially on Tuesday and Friday

And always with shorts

Wear a wrinkled pink blouse

With a bright red skirt

Red and pink are in the same family

Aren’t they?

*

Don’t get subtle hints

Be confused by mixed messages

And laugh at inappropriate jokes

Always say what you mean

And mean what you say

Because no one else does it that way

*

Take everyone at face value

Be open and honest

In everything you do

Having no hidden meaning behind your words

No hidden agenda behind your actions

Is sure to frighten and confuse

*

Be loud and boisterous in public

Quiet and reserved at home

Have moods that are affected by the weather

Remember to be daring and bold

Always act as if you’ll never grow old

*

Wave with both hands

Bounce into rooms

Offer everyone a hug

And feel bad when they refuse

Dance when you are happy

And wilt when you are sad

*

When there is a job to do

Be the first to volunteer

Once people start to gossip

That you’re trying to take charge

Don’t volunteer the next time

And they will complain about that too

*

Be friendly to everyone

Regardless of this or that

Refuse to take sides in disputes

At least, most of the time

See both sides of a debate

Try to get other people to do that too

It helps if you’re cute

*

Be more comfortable around pets than kids

Wear pyjamas all day

Don’t go to bed until 2

Read lots of books

Watch too much Star Trek

Be sure to listen to Punk Rock too

*

Walk widdershins in a Wiccan Circle

Forget which way is East

Write whole Invocations

And don’t remember a word of them

When asked to bring a broom

Show up with a robotic vacuum

*

Speak your mind all the time

And as for peer pressure

Never give in

No matter they may say

Or how they treat you

Always love yourself first

And promise you’ll never change you!

In order to have plants in my sunroom I need:

Plants. Plants that will happily grow in my eastern exposure sunroom, don’t require at lot of nit picking and who like loads of sunlight.

But wait! First I need money to buy plants. I could beg for cuttings from friends. Or steal plants from neighbour’s gardens and porches while they sleep! Eh, maybe I can put my pennies together to buy a packet of seeds from the dollar store and rescue a few forlorn plants from the clearance rack.

But first, I have no pots to put them in! Hmmm maybe I can recycle an old teapot and a pair of boots? A coffee tin and yogurt containers? Make folded paper pots out of flyers? Use cardboard boxes lined with shopping bags?

But wait! I have no soil to put in my pots! And no money to buy soil. The dollar store soil is terrible and seems to kill things. Perhaps I could steal soil from construction sites? Pester neighbours with back yards for compost? Put kitchen waste and grass in a box in the sun and make my own?

But wait! I have no shelves to put the pots on! The poor plants (that I don’t have, who have no pots or soil) will have to go on the floor.

But wait! The floor is covered in boxes and bags of stuff I can’t put away because I have no shelves.

Huh

Maybe this year I’ll just draw pictures of plants, print out a few photos of yards and gardens I used to have, and tape them to the windows and walls of my sunroom.

But wait! I have no tape to put the pictures up with.

Maybe I’ll just go for a walk in the woods instead, hug a tree or two and listen to the birds sing.

But wait! I live in the city!

Huh

Well then … never mind.

And so here I sit

An upturned bucket

For a seat

At long last the wind has died down

And my flower sales pick up for a bit

The cellophane rustles in the breeze

I gaze up at the pigeons

Perching above me

And wonder

How long will it take

For cellophane

To become dirt again?

The wind tears flower petals free

To flutter away in the current

Above me six pigeons roost

Upon a telephone wire

They act as audience

To my sales of Easter bouquets

I wonder what the pigeons might think

Of selling flowers for a holiday

I don’t celebrate?

I check my watch yet again

To see if it is time to quit

Then sit back down upon

My upturned bucket

To watch and wait

In the company of pigeons

Got some great pics from my Mom of the critters at the family farm Misty Acres, including shots of my horse Morgan and my boy-dog Tristan (who are happier at the farm with Mom than in the city with me right now). Click on the images for full size.

Prayer/meditation shawls are worn in many faiths, you may have heard of Christian women making them for people who are down on their luck, or seen Jews wearing them while in mourning. Buddhists and Hindus wear them as well. You find something similar to these all over the world and in history.

I’ve wanted to make one for myself for years now. The idea was to make something I could wrap myself in during ritual, mediation, spell work and most importantly, shamanic work.

Cloaks and robes are fun and all. I like them, I like the feeling of wearing them, the idea of dressing like the ancestors I honour. I like having ritual or magickal garb. But still, they feel something like playing dress up to me. I like to wear them at a ritual with others, I find they encourage me to get up and dance and clap and chant. Depending on which ones I wear they can help me feel more light hearted or elegant or sorcererous.

However, robes and cloaks don’t help me enter into trance states, they don’t whisper of the otherside to me. They don’t make me feel like a shaman or Hedgewitch. They are also not very practical. It’s silly to throw on a ritual robe to make incense.

I find most Pagan-y ritual garb to not be very comfortable to tromp through the woods in, climb a tree, and sit in it all night in trance. I have a cloak that is soft, warm and light, like a blanket. But it is also volumous and long and deep hooded. This is great in full-on pagan ritual, snuggling before the fire at fest and such. Yet it just doesn’t quite work when I’m tromping around an alpine meadow digging up St. John’s wort.

One thing that has found its way into my spiritual wardrobe is head coverings, such as scarves and hats and headbands. They make me feel more priestess-like. They also act as an important reminder for me. You see, my hair is perhaps my best feature, my greatest source of beauty and physical pride. It’s soft, curly, long and usually dyed some shade of red, bright red. My hair is very attractive and also does a damned good job of making limp haired women jealous. Covering it in rituals, rite, and workings reminds me that the Craft and Spirituality I practice is not about my ego, nor is it about impressing other people.

Shamanic practitioners often have costumes, something they wear only when doing specific practices. Such as otherworld work, healings, or calling on specific spirits and energies. I decided a couple of years ago that what I wanted as a major part of my shamanic costume was something I could wrap around myself, a prayer shawl. Combined with my favourite head covering that hides most of my hair and part of my face, I feel this is (a pretty good start) for a (journeywoman?) Hedgewitch.

As I said, this is something I’ve been wanting for years. Yet, I have been putting it off. I wasn’t ready to embrace what I wanted my prayer shawl to be, wasn’t ready to make it and wear it in front of people. I knew in my heart what I wanted, but it took time to come to terms with it.

I’m sure many of you when thinking “shamanic prayer shawl” are picturing something very natural, organic. Something made of homespun cotton, linen or even leather. After all do we not teach that natural fibres are best? Of course we do, because they are! Being a very Nature-based practitioner, someone who has a bit of a reputation as a Witch who prefers to live hermit-like out in the woods somewhere, you’d think any prayer shawl I made would be %100 organic, all natural and brown … maybe green. Probably fibres made from wool I got off a sheep I raised myself, right?

Wrong.

I tried to want something all natural and beige. I even spent part of last summer making friends with a fibre artist and Quaker lady who lived near me. I tried very hard to want my shawl to be natural fibres and hairs, hand dyed, home spun, with leather and bone embellishments. I just couldn’t. So I kept putting it off and putting it off.

Let me get back to my ritual robes for a moment. I have two. One is made of pale green linen strips woven together, complete with frayed ends. It looks very “Witch who lives in a hut in the woods”-ish. It’s loose and comfortable and witch-y.

The other is altogether different, that’s my “temple robe”. The bottom layer is of expensive, midnight black princess satin, the top layer of high quality black cotton eyelet material. The bloody thing cost me over a hundred dollars to make. Yup, that’s right. Oh, and did I mention the neck-line that plunges almost to my belly button? It’s sexy, sultry, magickal, dangerous, ceremonial and dark, dark, dark. For the kind of woman who spends most of her time in whatever is good for the garden and bought at a thrift store, it is a very special treat. I am not the kind of woman who gets taken out to the opera, if you know what I mean. This robe is not about showing of my cleavage but creating a frame of mind totally different from the nature-y and green robe.

My cloaks tell a similar story, one is a light and soft green plaid flannel, the other is purple velvet.

Nature Witch vs Temple Witch, if you will. Summer and Winter.

I didn’t want my prayer shawl to be either, not homespun linen nor slippery satin. Not meant to help me enter into a different facet of my personality or slip into a certain kind of Witch-y or Pagan-y archetype. No, this shawl is meant to be ME. Just me. It will speak to the people who see it and they can make their own judgements, they will. But I find when I slip through the Hedge and walk the roads less travelled I am in some fundamental way laid bare. Stripped of masks and trappings and totally myself. It is not safe to hold onto illusions of who you are when dealing with the unseen and otherworldly.

It takes courage to go against the grain. To break stereotypes and to do not as what will be accepted by others but to do what is best for you, then to wear it on your back for all to see. I`ve been teased, mocked and downright insulted before for not doing it “right`in the eyes of my fellow Pagans and Witches. It might seem that going against the grain is easy for me, but its not. It can be quite painful in fact. It’s not easy being a misfit Witch, an outsider even among outsiders. Some days I grow weary of it, heart achingly weary, and oh so terribly lonely.

Part of me wanted to make the expected shawl. Something I could show to people and they would nod their heads and say “Yup, that’s a nice shamanic costume you’ve got there”.

However, I’m committed to making it the way that suits me best.

My shawl will be made of 60% wool and 40% acrylic inexpensive slightly fuzzy yarn. It will be ratty looking and full of holes. Haphazardly crocheted like an oversized, insane doily. It will have fringe and tassels and random threads hanging off of it. Beads, bells and gods know what else will dangle from it, making me jingle. It will be roughly rectangular but not perfectly so. It will be in a riot of colours, many of which will clash. Already it is shades of blue, green, purple and orange.

And it sparkles, that’s right, sparkly and shiny.

And it will be mine, and I will wear it with pride.