The Ramblings and Wanderings

Posts Tagged ‘Ritual’

This last Friday myself and Lady N were in charge of leading the Lughnasadh ritual for our Hedge Group. Lady N is newer to the Path (and thus doesn’t have mountains of ritual tools) and I am a terrible pack rat, who also just happened to be in possession of the Hedge’s Ritual Toolbox (or box o’ ritual tools and candles and stuff). Therefore, I found myself spending much of the afternoon beforehand going through the Ritual Toolbox, my own collections of items, making a list and checking it twice.

One item was nearly forgotten. This is the red (probably real, but may not be) velvet altar cloth I’ve had in storage for ages. Having been going through a phase these last couple of years I like to call my “The dirt is a great place for setting up my altar and to practice my rituals on because I am a hardcore Hedgewitch phase” my red (probably real, but may not be) velvet altar cloth has been sitting forlornly in storage for some time. I did remember it right before I left on Friday; as I figured this would be a good contribution to the groups’ Ritual Toolbox. I also felt kind of bad for neglecting the poor thing. So on my way out the door I pulled it, still folded, out of its place of storage and stuck it in the Ritual Toolbox.

After promising Brendan various sexual favours if he helped me get everything to the park without breaking, we arrived well before everyone else at the appointed place. I had planned to be there a good hour before the other members so that I could have everything set up and be all grounded and ready for their arrival. I talked Bren into hauling a large stone into the South to act as a hearthstone for my thurnble (thingy you burn stuff in) and then I decided the best thing to do was pull out the altar cloth and lay everything out on it so I could decide what will go where. This was also necessary as the Ritual Toolbox doubles as a Portable Altar, so you have to have everything carefully removed from the Ritual Toolbox and the lid closed before you can set up the Portable Altar.

So, I gently pried open the wicker top of the Ritual Toolbox that doubles as a Portable Altar and unfurled the red (probably real, but may not be) velvet altar cloth. Which was to my horror, covered in DOG HAIR and LINT!!! Oh, the humanity! This is no doubt due to having spent the last couple of years in storage at my mother’s house where she fosters rescue dogs. I can only blame ADD for the reason why it did not occur to me that a red (probably real, but may not be) velvet altar cloth that had been stored in such a way might be covered in lint and dog hair.

All the contents of my purse and bag were then unceremoniously dumped on to the grass as I flailed about hoping beyond hope that I might just maybe have a lint brush or even some duct tape amongst my belongings. But alas, I did not. I tried rubbing the cloth vigorously to remove the offending grey lint and dog hair but to no avail. I shook it out repeatedly as Bren watched on unsympathetic to my plight.

Alas, nothing was going to remove the copious amounts of lint and dog fur covering the red (probably real, but may not be) velvet altar cloth. Especially the lint, which mocked me most cruelly, it said “Ha ha! Fancy yourself capable of handling a Priestess’s duties do you? You fool! Everyone will see how incompetent you really are now!”

I could have simply not used the altar cloth at this point; I could have given it to Brendan to take home with him. But I refused to be defeated by lint and certainly not to sarcastic, mocking lint! “There’s no use for it” I said to Brendan, “I will have to arrange the tools in such a way as to cover the worst of the lint.”

Brendan is a wise man and kept his mouth shut, though he did raise an eyebrow.

So I cleverly placed the lint covered red (probably real, but may not be) velvet altar cloth upon the Ritual Toolbox that doubles as a Portable Altar in such a way that the least-linty area was positioned on the very top. Then I curled the ends under and tucked them against the Portable Altar to hide them.

After strategically arranging the ritual tools upon the lint covered red (probably real, but may not be) velvet altar cloth I then sprinkled dried herbs and flowers all over the damned thing to fill in the space and hide the offending lint. Luckily, the ritual called for large quantities of dried herbs, leaves and flowers and had I brought extra. Taller ritual tools were placed on the ground around the Portable Altar and leaning against it, which also helped to hide the evil lint of death.

With an amused Bren looking on I waved my fist at the Sun, demanding that it sink quickly so as to help hide the evil lint of death from sight.

Just then, I heard voices! The other members of the Hedge were arriving. Would they notice? Would they laugh at me? Mock my ability as a Priestess? Would they ban me forever from the group for daring to bring a lint covered red (probably real, but may not be) velvet altar cloth to ritual?

No!

My cunning ass-covering worked like a charm. Instead the ladies gathered around and actually admired the beauteous creation that was my altar set up. They said things like “You have raised the bar for all of us with this” and they weren’t making snide, sarcastic fun of me either. They meant it!

One of them was so impressed with how lovely and elegant my altar was she took pictures. If you would like to see these pictures you will have to go to the As Within Blog, make nice comments on said blog, and ask Lis politely to make a blog post with the pictures. If you do just enough ass-kissing maybe she might be swayed to do so.

Of course, the lint covered red (probably real, but may not be) velvet altar cloth wound up back in the Ritual Toolbox that doubles as a Portable Altar, which was then handed over to the next person to Priestess a ritual. I really should have snagged the lint covered red (probably real, but may not be) velvet altar cloth and took it home so no one would be the wiser. I can just see her getting home, planning the ritual, opening up the Ritual Toolbox that doubles as a Portable Altar and saying to herself “Why the fuck is this thing covered in lint and dog hair?!”

Forever hiding the flop sweat,

Juniper

They meet at the appointed place and time

And greet each other warmly with a smile

Up the hill and into the woods they climb

Down winding trails they walk in single file

*

Passing under maple trees, oaks and birches

Entering a hawthorn grove they slowed

Where three paths meet stood three witches

And prepared for a ritual at the crossroad

*

With candles carefully lit they begin the rite

Tentatively they start to drum and chant

Voices raised in celebration well into the night

With gratitude for gifts the gods do grant

*

Then the lights go out and into darkness they gaze

Quietly they call to the spirits and then they lay

The forest turns into a dark and ghostly haze

Witches whisper with delight and watch the fae

*

Prayers are said and magick spoken

But soon its time to pack up and head home

Offerings given as some small token

Three witches always sisters wherever they roam

I use a mixture of stones, bones, sticks and bits gathered over the years to practice divination and to talk to the spirits. Or rather to have them talk to me.

It began in the summer of 2002 when I finally broke down and admitted to myself that I am just not the kind of girl to use other people’s systems.

I worked my ass off with tarot through high school, meditating on each card, writing out their meanings, tried a few decks including an old Rider-Waite. All the stuff you’re supposed to do. I tried my hand at the Elder Futhark and Anglo-Saxon Runes; I gave a good try with Ogham as well.

No, I wasn’t lazy and I didn’t expect to be good at them right off the bat. I can honestly say I tried. None of them just really clicked, and none of them ever really drew me in. I was doing it for the sake of doing it, not out of passion, enjoyment, or a real strong interest or connection with the system. The Runes and Ogham were much better than the tarot, and Ogham perhaps my favourite but they just weren’t the right fit.

The way my brain works is a little odd and often more than a little frustrating. The main issue that has caused me such difficulty with the common divination systems is memorization. I am a person who learns best by doing and building, through creation. Memorization by rote is not amongst my stronger skill sets. With most divination systems you must start with memorization by rote, the names, shape and meanings of each piece plus the various layouts and drawing methods.

The main problem is that the other systems are someone else’s systems. They aren’t made for me, and I am not a one-size-fits-all gal. I am a total misfit, even my brain works differently than most people, and that’s diagnosable. So how can a woman who doesn’t think, learn, articulate and express like most people use a system that’s works for most people?

Basically I needed to make my own system. But of course, everything has been done before, so I had to find a system that someone like me created. Or find a system flexible enough for someone like me.

One of my first teachers had a set of semi-precious gemstones he used for divination, based upon their astrological correspondences. I had admired that set but found the system far too left brained and mathematical for my tastes. It also required too much memorization, the kind you do when learning the multiplication tables or something. I remember thinking at the time that there has to be a way to cast stones that was simpler and more intuitive.

I started with a set of stones and used them based upon colour correspondences and gradually added other correspondences as my knowledge of working with stones and crystals grew. This was satisfactory but not quite right. Also as time goes by I find that I am growing less fond of shiny ritual and magickal tools. Ten years ago I wanted a large and impressive shiny dagger for my ritual blade, now I am happy with a small homemade one with a plain wood handle. Many of the stones in the set were getting to shiny for me, too fluffy if I dare say so. The glittery goldstone was starting to annoy me. I tried replacing some of the stones with plainer versions, found stones, beach stones and discovered that they simply don’t cast as nicely. There are reasons why Tiger’s Eye does special things for Chakras and not some random yellow-ish pebble found on the side of the road.

Bone casting caught my eye a few years back but being a Gemini I couldn’t get rid of ALL my shiny rocks just to replace them with ugly old bones. Bone casting is also rather particular to certain traditions and cultures that I do not belong to nor am trained in. I’m not a big fan of cultural appropriation. But maybe, since I have lived on and off farms and such over the years, if a few bones found their way in amongst the stones that would be acceptable? I and my spirits decided it would be. So a few bones were added and few stones removed.

A few sticks from the old Ogham set found their way in when I decided that the stones and bones didn’t always have all the meanings and interpretations I needed. Later I decided I didn’t want anything in the set to be marked, no carvings or painting depicting what is what. So gradually the Ogham marked sticks were replaced with slightly more nondescript sticks.

Along the way other items have been added as well. The story usually goes like this: I decide I need something in the set that signifies something in particular and then stumble upon an item, or the idea for creating an item, that works. I try it out and see if it fits with the other things in the bag. For example, I needed something that would signify “danger, be cautious, playing with fire, taking risks, getting in over you head” … so why not three wooden matches tied together with bright red string?

The collection is always changing and adjusting itself. A Witch needs to be fluid. Many of the original pieces have been replaced. Items bought at a shop replaced by found items, items deliberately gathered for the purpose as well as gifts and so forth. This helps with the memorization issues, each item is known, loved, has a story, we share a history, and they develop little personalities. By this and through this, my spirits can talk to me.

For a long time I had been keeping many of the shiny and colourful stones in the set. Some of them are placed there for energetic or magickal purposes, protection or charging for example. While others had been kept in there for “flash and sizzle” meaning that when doing a casting for others, especially at a group ritual. I’ve found it’s more impressive to have lots of shiny stones in the set, even if they are not even used in the reading at all and merely there for show. However while talking about this with the gals in the book club a little while ago; I decided it was time to do away with that. If people don’t find my bones and twigs and odd bits and pieces impressive enough, that is their problem.

There were also a few new pieces I wanted to introduce to the set and a couple of pieces that need to be retired. I found I needed something to signify “language, communication, speech” and so forth, so I’ve added a molar from the jaw of an animal (which may be a small bison but probably was just a cow). The snail shell I had in there had gotten so beat up it was nearly disintegrated, so I found something else to symbolize “slow down, choose a good pace” and such a small turtle charm carved out of pale rose quartz, “slow and steady wins the race” and all that!

Now and then over the years the whole set has been rededicated and I figured it was time for that this past month. A few pieces were moving in and out, I’m turning thirty this month and it has simply been a while. I have also been having a hard time adjusting to practising in the city and feel that working with my set more often may be a way to kick my ass in gear.

So the pieces no longer to be used were given to the river with thanks and the new pieces introduced to the others. Wooden items were gently sanded and given fresh coats of linseed oil. Everything was pulled out of the bag and then the bag itself, the casting cloth and the bits all placed under the window of my sunroom starting with the peak of the waxing Moon, through the Dark and New Moons right up until the Full Moon. I placed a lock of my own hair in amongst them during this time, to keep the connection to myself strong and because it felt like the right thing to do. Since I adore my hair cutting a lock of it off (even from the nape of my neck) is a small sacrifice. To symbolize the renewal of the set I placed a bud from a lily with the pieces as well.

I should stop here for a second and tell you about the bag and the casting cloth.

The casting cloth I’ve had for some time now, I made it while living in Houston a few years back, it was made to replace a rather boring black piece of broadcloth I was never impressed by. This casting cloth is made of traditional homespun linen, though it is reasonably smooth as I need that sort of surface to cast upon. No I didn’t spin it myself I’m afraid. I hand sewed the hem around its edge and used fabric dye pens to mark out the four directions and the centre upon it. I had considered embroidery for the marking but figured that might influence the rolling and sliding of the bits during casting. Usually I use it right side up with the directions to help with reading the bits, but sometimes I flip it upside down and use it as a “blank slate”.

The first bag was made of rough reddish raw hide and sinew. It had a very Native American look to it, though that hadn’t been intended in its making. It was a little too small, to plain and sometimes bits got caught in its corners. A while back (a year ago, I did blog about it) I made the new bag. With black goat skin and white deer hide, a skull bead so there’s always a spirit house attached to it and a small thin bone bead as well. Purple ribbon as it is my favourite colour and a colour that I equate with spirituality. Since I was rededicating everything this time around, and this was the first re-dedication of the bag itself, I decided to reinforce the seam around the top with red thread. The bag now has a slight stain on one of the white panels, the result of a few drops of oil splatter that got a little smeared and though I do care for the leather it has never come off. It adds character though, makes it look as used as it is. Ritual and magickal tools should look as old as they are, well loved and cared for, but not new.

Back to the re-dedication … I kicked Bren out of the house for a few hours on the night of the Full Moon. I called the ancestors, my spirits and the gods and set to work. I cut my thumb and mixed my blood with a small amount of water in a bowl (actually part of a small mortar and pestle set). I then blessed and charged each item using my various bodily fluids (two kinds of blood if you know what I mean) as I whispered to each item what its name was, the story of how I got it and what it signifies. Then with a smudge stick of sage, juniper and pine, I blew the smoke from the smudge on each item, blessing and charging them with the smoke and with my breath. I said a few words, gathered everything up, gave them a gentle wiping off to get rid of the icky factor, placed them back in the bag and was done.

I have decided to try to do a casting nearly everyday for the next little while and I will try to blog at least once a week about it. So if you are curious about how I cast, decipher, read and what my spirits have to say to me you’ll have to stay tuned.

I have set up a section on the main website for this subject and about making your own Collection (click here)

A first(ish) draft of the introduction to the chapter on etheogens and hallucinogens in that book I’ll never finish writing.

“Blind as a bat, mad as a hatter, red as a beet, hot as hell, dry as a bone, the bowel and bladder lose their tone, and the heart runs alone.” ~ A teaching mnemonic device about the effects of Datura stramonium

Like many young and inexperienced Witches I had a craving for a deep, mystical and powerful spiritual experience, similar to the tales I had heard the Elders in my community share. I wanted something akin to the tall-tales the other young Witches and Pagans told each other when not within earshot of the Elders. I wanted something special, something that would make me special, some great nugget of lore or wisdom that would impress people. I was envious… and a little bored.

My first attempt at working with flying ointment had been something of a disappointment to me, yet also a temptation. Being careful and cautious as I was advised, I had made a very simple and weak blend. Then I rubbed it on a few pulse points before stretching out on a blanket in my living room and trying out a few different breathing exercises. I had a minor visionary experience but not the mind blowing, enlightening Journey across the Hedge that would allow me to “wink wink” with other practitioners who had. However, it was enough to give me a taste of what might be. I felt like a starving man being offered only a single slice of bread. I wanted more.

As a teenager, I had experimented a great deal with hallucinogens. LSD and mushrooms were easier to get my hands on than alcohol or cigarettes in high school. With that experience, I thought I knew what I was doing.

I made a new batch of flying ointment: stronger, better, faster. It was a combination of lard, a small amount of mugwort  and a large dose of datura. I had done a little cursory researching on the ingredients and the making of ointment. I impatiently waited for the next full Moon, took a few days off work, and prayed for good weather.

I fasted on the day of my planned rite and buzzed around the house and my four acre wooded property with nervous energy, full of anticipation. I choose a spot some twenty yards from my home in a clearing surrounded by birches and spruce. There I laid out my blanket and set up my altar. As the Sun went down I began my ritual, calling upon gods, ancestors and the spirit guides known to me at the time: Owl and Crow. I slathered myself with the stuff, rubbed a dollop upon my tongue, and spread out naked upon my blanket.

I lay scattered in the abyss

Surrounded by a bleak

And terrifying nothingness

The creatures I had trusted

Who naively I had followed

Have torn me apart

And left me in a mess

The shock and horror

Their betrayal

The pain of my dismemberment

Fills my being and all that I am

And then suddenly is forgotten

As I begin to contemplate the blackness

And the fact that though torn asunder

I am still capable of self and thought

I realize that in these pieces

I cannot be more than self and thought

The fear that I will never leave this place

Begins to fill the emptiness around me

I cry out and then I hear myself begging

For release, for a way out of here

A dark figure beyond the black looms

Large and twisting with antlers adorning

He offers me a deal…

A short while later I am slammed back into my body screaming like a newborn babe. I twist and writhe upon my blanket, clutching at it, face down at first but eventually I flounder my way upon my back. My blurred vision clears somewhat and I stare about in gasping horror. The white birches have become finger bones with strips of flesh clinging to them; the spruces loom darkly above menacingly. The Moon and stars in the sky above wheel and spin dizzyingly.

My dogs locked in their run have heard my screaming and now bark and whine, the sound echoing in my ears and my head, making me clutch my ears in pain and fear. They sound as if a pack of coyotes or hyenas are scrabbling at the fence, trying to get through to rend and tear at my flesh, just as my spirits had done to me in That Other Place. Amongst the chaos, noise, and terror, a single thought blooms in my mind and gives me focus: Get this stuff off of me!

Sobbing now I begin to frantically rub the blanket against my skin, trying desperately to remove the offending ointment. The nasty, greasy stuff does not come off easily. It seems to cling to my body, and I weep and whimper at the irrational fear that I would take my skin off with it.

I catch a glimpse of light, streaming from the kitchen window of my home. Somehow I stumble to my feet, but then the ground rushes up at me and slams into my face. Pain explodes through my consciousness. As adrenaline floods my body, I am awarded a moment of clarity and take it, picking myself up and moving as fast I dare towards my home. By the time I reach the front steps I am crawling again, unable to stop the world from shifting beneath me. It seems to take forever to climb the six steps up the front door and my hand passes through the doorknob three times before I can grasp it to open it.

Clinging to counter and walls I shoo my dogs away, which I see as in the house barking and lunging at me, though in fact they were still outside in their run. Somehow I make it into the bathroom and grab at the faucet like a drowning woman reaching for a life preserver. I am afraid to turn on the hot faucet, paranoid I might burn myself so I turn on the cold shower and climb in, coating myself with shampoo and soap as I try to remove the ointment from my body.

I walked with one foot in each world for three days. I did not return to work for nearly two weeks. My life has never been the same since.

Today you can find flying ointment recipes on websites and in forums, even in books written by authors whose works are aimed mostly at teenagers. People call themselves Hedgewitches with no concept of what the word really means. They mistake it for a solitary Wiccan or a domestic Witch messing about with herbs in her kitchen. They look for flying ointment recipes, and tips on how to smoke salvia divinorum, seeking that short cut to a special mystical experience which they think they deserve. In this culture of instant gratification, the masses no longer want to do the work. They do not feel the need to earn their stripes. They want what they want, and they want it now. Meditation and trance inducing techniques are boring and require patience, time and discipline. Would it not be easier to simply drink a tea, slather some ointment or smoke an herb instead?

Many of the folks seek these recipes and tips from complete strangers on the Internet. Paradoxically, many also ask for only “safe” recipes, and don’t want to risk something bad happening to them. Too many people think they can safely dabble with such tools and techniques, based on the advice of an anonymous “friend” on a forum and expect to receive the Mysteries this way.

You don’t take flying ointment, entheogens or hallucinogens hoping that you will have a grand experience and that nothing negative might happen. If you should choose to work with them, then you must be willing to risk a bad experience. There is always a risk of danger and trauma when you work with such substances, no matter how careful you are and how well you do your research you cannot fully eliminate that risk. If you are not willing to accept that risk, then you stand a very good chance of being traumatized, hospitalized, or forced to face something you may not truly be ready for.

If you are not prepared to accept the risk, then do not use these techniques and tools. If you are seeking a shortcut to enlightenment, insight or the Mysteries then you are a fool indeed.

Fireplace Day, the first day the fireplace or woodstove (etc) is lit up for the cold season. A page torn out of the book of my history; Chapter One: Early Childhood Memories.

The first fireplace I recall was a great big thing of white brick and a dark granite hearthstone that stuck far out beyond the reach of the fire itself. As a young child I could lay upon the hearthstone in front of the metal screen that kept the fire contained. Dad was responsible for that fireplace; I would sit on the carpet and watch him build up the fire, my knees tucked into my sweater, stretching it out of shape.

The second one came after the divorce. We moved into a tiny little yellow farmhouse not far from the old house. This place was heated by a small orange woodstove. Mom lacked my father’s skill at fire building, and it would often go out at night. Many mornings my brother and I wrapped ourselves in our quilts and walked down the long, cold hallway to Mom’s room to beg her to get up and light the fire because “We’re freezing!”

Fireplace Day usually comes between back-to-school and the Equinox. Whenever it starts to get cold enough at night you let the dog sleep with you to keep warm. In most places I have lived, this is the end of the Indian Summer and the beginning of a more rainy and crisp Autumn. The fire not only provides warmth  but also helps to keep the damp off.

Fireplace Day when I was a child meant watching Dad, or some uncle or family friend, split wood for my mother. It meant helping to clean the fireplace and spread the last ashes from last year onto the garden before the first frosts came. It was being wrapped up in afghans my mother or grandmother had crocheted and sipping hot chocolate as we watched an adult build the fire.

Now, in my own home, the woodstove is cleaned out, the first wood is split, and as the first fire is lit the first small offerings are burnt in the hearthfire. I watch it burn into the night and then bank it before closing the door to the woodstove. I tuck the blankets around the old dog that lies before the hearth and go to bed.

For three mornings I wake to the smell of wood smoke, the third morning is the peak of the Autumn Solar Tide. The Equinox.

I wake to the smell of wood smoke, fresh morning rain, and wet dog. Then the smell of sulphur and copper rising up from the well water as I brush my teeth, a gentle reminder I live in a land of dormant and extinct volcanoes, a landscape of mountains, valleys and the odd hot and/or mineral spring.

I go about my day as usual following the routine I have fallen into. When dinnertime comes around, as the sun begins to lower itself towards the mountains that surround me, I start the coals going in the BBQ out on the front walk where I am joined by an old cattle dog and a young hound. Confident the coals are heating up nicely, I wander over to the woodpile and select a random small log of cottonwood and tuck it under my arm. I also take up the hatchet I had been using to split wood earlier.

Trailed lazily by my dogs, I cross the still sunlit drive to the small grove of birch, pine and fir. There grows a trio of paper birches. I push some deer droppings aside with the hatchet before setting it down and place the log before the birches. Ivy the scent hound wanders over and sniffs the log. “No” I say firmly and she looks at me calmly for a moment before moving on.

I move on as well, followed by a curios young dog and an old dog that knows this routine well. I meander aimlessly about the property, keeping one eye on the BBQ. The smell of the BBQ and the crisp wind, the sighing of the trees and the song of birds makes it easy to slip into a light trance state as I wander down the side-drive. As we walk we find a few nice looking rocks, including a pockmarked volcanic rock, some leaves that have turned their colors and fallen, and a couple of twigs the dogs choose. A sprig of lavender chooses to be chosen, along with some milk thistle, Russian sage, wild daisy and a few others. We bring each item back to the trio of birches and arrange them around the cottonwood log.

I check the BBQ and spread the coals out and place the grill over them to heat up. Then I head into the house to bring out the steaks for the grill along with a bottle of whisky and a pocket full of bones Ivy and I found while walking not long ago and a few other little things. Before I put the steaks on the grill I steal a single coal from the BBQ and place it on a flat-ish rock and carefully carry it to the growing “altar”. Making sure the coal and its rock are well placed I pick a few dried evergreen needles from the ground and drop them onto the coal. Incense.

Then we head back to check the steaks and keeping an eye on everything burning and cooking, I climb the shed and bring down the bull skull I have up there. Found on the side of the road by my mother, it still has decomposing (and somewhat mummified) brains inside, though the rest of it is pretty sun bleached. My stag skull is packed away along with my raven skull. So slightly icky moo head it is. The skull is placed upon the log and after a few whispered words and the poring of some of the whiskey, its time to flip the steaks.

When the steaks are done the dogs are ushered inside and a piece of steak is also left at the altar, the coal is surrounded by pebbles to keep it in place and dinner is eaten on the deck, where I can see the altar in the side yard.

We go back to it after dinner, Ivy is chased away from the steak as Crash (the old dog) lays down not far away and sighs in a way only elderly dogs can. Words are spoken, offerings are poured, pine needles are burned, and a squash is placed beside the skull. Then we sit for a time and watch the smoke rise and the Sunset. The coal is returned to the safety of the BBQ and we truck inside for dessert.

For three days more the altar stands, slowly losing pieces as the days go by. The skull is placed back upon its roof to keep decomposing, the twigs are taken away by Ivy, the steak eaten by who knows what, the wind scatters the leaves. I scatter the rest.

That third night I trudge out into the dark, beyond the light of the front porch to the eave of the shed. The kindling available is mostly paper birch and little sticks of apple and pear, dead-fall from the orchard to add to the perfume of the fire.

The log pile is between the two sheds, in the deep dark of the night.  I turn the other direction and head for the slowly scattering altar. The well seasoned log of black cottonwood stands where it was left, now without its crowing skull. I move through the shadows in the grove of birch, fir and pine. I have no need of a flashlight, I move in the night with ease now. Stepping carefully I extract the log from its place and whisper “For the fireplace, to keep the puppies warm.” by way of explanation to any who might be looking on.

The woodstove is ready and waiting for this nights fire. For fire starter I have dried old man’s beard and birch bark, I also toss in a branch of dried sagebrush gone to seed. One slender branch of fir has gotten into the mix, its spits at me as it burns declaring its presence, adding a touch of evergreen to the scent of the wood smoke.

Words are spoken, offerings are burnt, and thanks are given. I watch it burn into the night and then bank it before closing the door to the woodstove. I tuck the blankets around the old dog who lies before the hearth and I go to bed.

Juniper,

Fall Tide 2009-09-26

It’s the same old, same old.

I’m sick to death of it!

I have spent the last 15 years inundated with Paganism 101.

The next time I have to do the “Be a Tree” meditation I’ll scream.

I’m going to pull my hair out the next time I have to eat a salad mindfully to connect with Earth.

I am so sick to death of “All Hail Great All/Goddess/God/Spirit/Nothing” pick something already!

If I have to sing yet again the same stupid Wiccan chant I’ll puke.

I spent hundreds of dollars on the OBOD Bardic Grade course to spend the next year studying the Classical Elements? I don’t fucking think so.

What the hell do they think I’ve been doing for the last decade?!

“May you never thirst” makes me want to kick someone.

Would it kill you to serve something other than store bought shortbread cookies for ritual meals and offering once in a while?

I can’t take it anymore!

What the hell is wrong with you people?

Come up with something new!

This isn’t CHURCH

GAHHHH!!!