Camping
Went to Whispering Pines with the girls.
Stayed in the big cabin.
Swam naked in the lake in October.
Played with clay.
Celebrated Autumn and the harvest and gave thanks.
Built a nice fire.
Played games.
Ate lots of food.
Said bon voyage to a friend. Crash was there too.
Now I have to … Zzzzzzzzz …
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
The Dawn Chorus
We slip into the night, my dog and I.
The city is quiet, the neighbourhood is sleeping. Gone are the city sounds of traffic and blaring TVs. I can hear the crickets chirp and the wind in the trees. I can hear the river as it passes over scoured stone.
The street is lit by street lights, garden lights and the waning moonlight. I can see the stars tonight.
Our street is cooled by the night breeze and a rain storm that passed by hours before.
Surrounded by people, we are alone.
Crash takes off for her favourite corner, where the big rose bush blooms and the weedy mustard whispers of wilder places. I gently stroke the pink roses and a few petals are given up to me. I murmur my thanks. Crash gives her water to the shrubbery and weeds.
We turn and head for the river. As we get closer, the old dog’s ears prick. She wiggles with excitement. She loves the river. She races ahead, through the green park, under maple trees and to the promenade. The poor old thing is too short to see over the concrete banister that blocks her… Continue reading
Post Cards from Misty Acres
Now that the snow has melted (and the streams and rivers rising!) Mom has sent me some nice photos from back at the farm.
To Be Alone and Useless
One of the biggest parts of my Path and practice has been that of a solitary. By that I don’t mean not being a member of a coven. I mean isolation and loneliness. Feeling cut off or different from everyone else. Not having someone with shared and similar experiences to talk to, let alone practice with.
I do have a few friends here in Ottawa (and other places) who have done some Hedgecrossing. But they have only begun to walk those roads, or have crossed only a handful of times. I have yet to meet another spirit worker, ancestor worshipper, Hedgewalker … like me. I know that they are out there. I see them on documentaries about shamans, I read their books, I read their blogs, and I listen to their podcasts. But face to face conversation, no.
Certainly I’ve met plenty of people who seem to think they know what they are doing. Or who do Hedgecrossing and spirit work. But their Path is still very different. No Tricksters, no dealing with the Dead. Their version of the Stag God is one of grapes and fun and sex. Not raw rutting danger, running blood and rotting flesh.… Continue reading
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