Fresh Air Anger

angry art Medicine

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I remember a time, not all that long ago, when I could open a window or step outside and smell fresh air, as in - you know - air.

Call me crazy (many people do), but our fossil fuel addictions have moved beyond ludicrous.

Do y'all think that fragrance shit actually smells good? Are you aware of the endocrine disrupting, immune disrupting (etc.) actions of these fragrant poisons? Do you imagine their creation, from people displacement, to extraction, to manufacturing, to packaging, shipping, use that expels its essence into the air, water, earth... your skin, et al... to the waste disposal of it all?

I don't hug most people anymore. Sure, I'm still COVID (and otherwise) cautious, but that's not the main reason. These days, if I hug folx, their Petrochemical stink gets on me and lingers... and lingers... and fucking lingers (making me - and all of us sick) until I can air out ‘n’ wash the contact ick off my clothing.

And supermarkets spray that ick on food. Not just packaged food, on exposed food. WTAF?

I fucking hate it on a personal level, on a earth level (I apologize every GDMF day to our once-beloved Gaia), and on a future level. And then some.

In short: Don't you miss fresh air?

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🕊️justice

Fullness

 

It has been a full week. Full, as in overflowing. Full, as in so much of the Work culminating with mystery, validation, and clarity. I see the peaks and valleys of the Work I’ve been doing for decades, the more recent Work that I’m doing with the support of my Moonshine coven, and I see the Work that lies before me… and the portal I prepare to step through to work the Work.

The coming days will be focused on alert 'n' conscious chewing and digesting of all The Things that have culminated over (and under and around) these past several days. Absorbing and assimilating will follow, for sure. And elimination too, eventually.

The digestion metaphor is really working for me right now. While journaling this morning I cracked myself up when the term “Portal Potty” manifested. Crude, perhaps. Funny, for sure. And, in this moment in time, fully fitting.

Yesterday, during a superlative reading - a reading that stands up ‘n’ out among decades of readings that I’ve received - I expressed out loud how grateful I am for my sense of humor. It holds me, comforts me, carries me, and it accompanies me to the deep, dark spaces that offer the hard Medicine, the shadow Medicine, the Medicine that heals like no other.

So, today I’m feeling full. I have Work to do, and preparation for passage through the portal that awaits me. But today, I relax with the fullness, the focus, the chewing, the humor, and deep gratitude for the privilege to have such opportunity.

Peace. 🕊

Siamo Uno

Today, March 13, marks a long time of loving anniversary.

I first laid eyes on my spouse in 1976, during college orientation. It wasn’t a romantic moment, as I may well be the least romantic person you’ll ever encounter, so romance has never really been a thing for me. It was a moment, though. I saw this mop-headed guy sitting at a table looking as if he was trying to fold himself into himself. Know what I mean? I probably thought something like, “What a sad sack.” And maybe I added something like, “Cute, though.” Well, maybe not.

1977 came along and we moved in together. Ten years after that, on Friday, March 13, we were married in our living room by some justice of the peace (what an obtuse title), the ceremony witnessed by two beloved friends. I was dressed in black. There’s backstory to all that, and maybe I’ll revisit it at some point in written form, but today is about honoring our own personal storm of love. And, sweet gods, I do love storms.

Today I smile as I consider the number 47. It adds to 11, and that adds to 2. And that feels about right. Balance, harmony, a union of two ones. Siamo uno.

I can’t imagine sharing these 47 years with anyone else. We were chatting about this long time over our early morning coffee. He said he’s glad I still love him. And I do. He said he’s glad we’re still friends. And we are. He said he’s glad I’m happy. I responded, “Who says I'm happy?” And we laughed. We’re blessed to have a lot of laughter in our life together. Siamo uno.

So, yeah, today we observe our 47 years together. I’ll celebrate by pulling together our tax kit, and other stuff. He’ll celebrate by working on the chick brooder he’s making, and other stuff. The forecast is looking unseasonably pleasant, so we’ll likely make time ‘n’ space to sit on the deck, as we so often do, and raise a bottle of ale to us, as we often do. Just another day. Another day shared. Siamo uno.

Peace. 🕊

A Liminal Ramble from the Full Moon Hedge

 

This past full Lughnasadh moon, the first of two full moons this August, has expressed a pronounced yet gentle verve to me.

One of my habitual moon rituals is, at the full moon, to assess all that's in my moon cauldron and to engage the days of waning moon to empty these holy bits so that by the new moon the cauldron is void, empty of holy bits, so that I may choose what to add to explore during the waxing phase. 

So now, as we move beyond this brilliant full moon, it would be time for me to start emptying my moon cauldron in preparation for the upcoming new moon. Make sense? I sometimes wonder if it does. ::nods:: But that's beside the point. You see, this full moon handed me a word, and that word in Linger.

Linger.

I don't know what it means, but I do know that when Luna offers a gift, I accept it. I'll embrace it until such time I'm able - and willing - to acknowledge and honor what I discover as I unwrap and explore the contents of this gift.

Even in my befuddlement I feel how this word, this gift - Linger - resonates within and around me. It feels moored to another word that has been holding my conscious awareness, and driving my recent work - Liminality. This recent work, and the word itself, is inspired by the book Living Resistance, by Kaitlin B. Curtice (a read I most definitely recommend). This work with liminality has been going on for a while, and is anchored somewhere in early 2022, before I read the book, and when I returned to Hedge work, as I call it... working in and with those spaces between spaces. 

Linger. Liminality. Hedge.

So here I am, pondering the intersection of these web threads that are holding me, pronounced yet gentle. Swaying in their embrace as I prepare to pass through the gate of 65/11/2 in October. There's nuance here, yet I can feel the tug to leave that unexpressed for now, and let it linger.

So here I rest - for today - swaying with the swing, pronounced yet gentle, as I Linger.

Linger.

Peace. 🕊

Room for Forgiveness

two people in my life

unforgiven

one can change that

by coming clean

being honest with himself

with others

the other can not

her actions

vile

can not be undone

forgiven

her cruelty is fixed

Peace. 🕊