As the last week of August turns into the first week of September, many folk where I live in the Northern Hemisphere shift their work and family activities - be gentle with yourself in this shift, this living into what may be new schedules, new kinds of work, new schools, new negotiations with loved ones around time and work. May The Divine hold you as things shift and change and settle into new rhythms. May Time be gracious and spacious. May the anxiety surrounding the new be just enough to keep you alert and excited but not so much it paralyzes and overwhelms. And for those whose lives do not change this time of year, blessings in the flow of sameness.
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I stand on the wooden bridge on the way to the ritual circle where I can already hear the drums calling me to join. I am once again with 120 Reclaiming Tradition witches of all genders at California Witchcamp. I hear the water ripple and flow beneath me. The creek is stronger this year, after four years of drought the land has found reprieve with a wetter Spring here amidst the redwoods. It is the last week of June and the extra water also brings extra mosquitos. My physiology is such that they rarely bite me, and when they do I hardly welt or itch, so when one lands on my forearm, I simply watch as it feeds off me. It turns into a small glowing ruby before flying off to become food for the bats and other beings. I can afford to leave a little blood offering here in the woods for the continuing cycle of life. I am after all in magical space, between the worlds. The first night of camp we put up a strong Circle to hold the work of our community of witches all week. The final words of Circle casting are, “We are now between the worlds, and what happens between the worlds, changes all the worlds.” May a little bit of my blood freely given to the food chain here between the worlds, help end the cycle of blood being violently spilled in the feeding frenzy of fear and hate in the world in which I usually live. Before I stepped onto the bridge to listen to the creek, I stopped to kneel at an altar set up to remember our Queer dead. Camp came only two weeks after the mass shooting in Orlando. I grieve for the forty-nine killed while they were dancing in joy, and the one killed while shooting in hate, their blood violently taken - they have all been on my mind and heart. I thanked my Queer ancestor of spirit, Harvey Milk, along with a cloud of ancestors who I believe were there to help guide and receive those beloved dancing dead. After personal struggle I also hope that the fear and hatred of the shooter can be transformed in death so as not to live on, and that he too is received by loving ancestors. The drums pull me forward off the bridge. It is twilight, the sun setting as I pad barefoot along the path. The ritual begins, we ground and cast a Circle within our larger week’s Circle to contain this night’s magical work. We are a few days into the camp week and ready to do some hard magic. “The circle is cast and we are between the world, what happens between the worlds, changes all the worlds.” Our work that night is to begin to unravel the web of lies that hold our lives, communities, and world in bondage. In a collective trance we see the dangling threads of those lies and begin to pull them apart casting them into the fire. I watch strands of “the rape was your fault,” “Queerness is a sin,” “black lives don’t matter,” “manifest destiny,” “climate change has nothing to do with humans,” unravelled and burned. More and more threads of lies are pulled out of the web, lies we’ve been told, lies we’ve told ourselves. It is wild and difficult work. After camp I was asked by several witches who were not there this year, what we did on that particular night because they felt something shimmer and shake and begin to come undone where they were. “What happens between the worlds, changes all the worlds.” The next day is our day of repose, a day to sleep in, spend the afternoon in a gentle community ritual of personal healing, and then the evening laughing, singing, feeding each other chocolate dipped strawberries. Doing those acts of intimate gentleness and love in this magical space between the worlds, sends that energy and care out into all the worlds, including to where it waits for us in our individual lives outside of camp. “What happens between the worlds, changes all the worlds.” Our last few days and nights in camp are spent weaving a new web, one not made up of lies, but of personal truth, of love, of strengthened community, of hope for healing of all the worlds. We dream together in trance, in workshops, in conversations over meals of what that might be, how that might become manifest particularly in the world to which we will soon be returning. We share wisdom and concrete tools of activism, organizing, and ways to regenerate and support ourselves and each other in this new weaving. Two weeks after camp I watch as the web of lies continues to unravel in our world. I watch strands of “you can’t both support blue lives and black lives” unravel as thousands mourn and denounce the killing of brave Dallas police who were protecting peaceful protesters who were themselves denouncing new killings and calling for changes to the way my country, The United States, trains and does policing, particularly in relation to black men. “What happens between the worlds, changes all the worlds.” Now after camp I see the work we did between the worlds manifesting changes in this world, both as the unravelling of the web of lies and the beginning of a new weave of strong and clear truth and kindness. And you, what do you see in this world? What threads in the web of lies are you becoming aware of? What must you untangle and cast into the fire? What new weave, new threads of tenderness, and community, and hope for healing will you spin to replace them? Blessings on those who have seen the threads of lies for years and tirelessly pulled on what has been such a strong weave for generations. Blessings on those who are just seeing those threads and are horrified at it’s magnitude. Blessings even on those who can’t yet see the web is lies, and are simply terrified that the weave of their way of life is unravelling. But mostly, blessings on those who are changing all the worlds, weaving a new web, woven with threads of tenderness, justice, inclusive community, healing, a new web that holds as sacred and holy all peoples and beings in all the worlds. The Circle is cast, and we are between the worlds, what happens between the worlds, changes all the worlds. So mote it be. I take a wide stance with my bare feet firmly on the ground and my arms outstretched emulating this five point star. I am in a warm upper room with several other witches of all genders for a weekend intensive. We are deepening our spiritual practice of running the energy of The Iron Pentacle, a powerful tool used by my Reclaiming Witch tradition, a tool we learned and use with gratitude from the Feri Tradition. Sex, Pride, Self, Power, Passion… The five points of my body: head, hands, and feet, mark the path of the Iron energy as it flows from point to point through me. I smile as the teaching witch calls the points, because I learned long ago that I run left to right not right to left (so Pride is my left foot not right, Self my right hand not left, opposite the points they call). Knowing I run different than most, is simply part of the process of claiming my own understanding and experience of developing a healthy relationship with sex, pride, self, power, and passion. Sex, Pride, Self, Power, Passion… As I work the point and energy of Sex I notice that in the past few years I have put most of my sexual energy into my art and creativity, my music and writing. I delight in the foreplay, orgasm, and afterglow of creation as I weave words and compose melodies. I remember the other ways I manifest the energy of Sex so gloriously embodied when I taste ripe blackberries picked off their thorny vines, or press my nose deep into the open blossoms of my yellow roses and inhale their fragrance, or stand transfixed by the sound of the crows who have taken up residence in my neighborhood, or sing at the sight of The Moon waxing and waning across the sky each month, or glory in the caress of the The Earth on my bare feet as I walk and dance. As I work the point and energy of Sex I remember how blessed I have been to have had lovers of all genders with whom I shared the amazing creative divine energy of Sex, and how blessed I have been to share the amazing creative energy of Sex alone, lying simply in the embrace of The Divine. Sex, Pride, Self, Power, Passion… Working the point and energy of Pride has shifted for me since standing in that upper room with members of my witch family. The day we left the weekend intensive was the day I became aware of the shooting in Orlando Florida in the gay dance club, Pulse, on Latin night. The massacre cuts deeply through my Queer community in the midst of Gay Pride month in the United States. I hear and read how the massacre cuts deeply through the Latinx community as they continue to claim cultural Pride through a political season awash in racist rhetoric and a long history of violence against brown and black bodies. I generally do well in balancing my personal work around claiming Pride, but right now must seat that in the larger work of our society as those individuals and whole communities who have been devalued and shamed, claim our/their Pride. Sex, Pride, Self, Power, Passion… I reflect on the moment in our weekend intensive when running the point of Self I realized just how much my relationship with Self has changed in my life. In my teens, 20s and 30s I imagined my “self” was what I did, especially my school, work, relationships, and the image(s) I projected to others. Each major shift in those things threw me into a temporary depression as I lost my “self” before constructing a new “self.” In my 40s all those things radically shifted at once as my health crashed. My loss of what I had thought was “self” compounded my health crisis as I sank into a lengthy and deep depression. Now at almost 57 I am very clear that my Self is not what I do, or who I am with in relationship, or the image(s) I project into the world in various settings. Now I am clear that my Self is most simply what I am, and what I am has intrinsic value - my essential Self can not be lost. Sex, Pride, Self, Power, Passion… When we began running the point of Power I laughed to myself. I am an Eight on the Enneagram and a Scorpio, and seem to embody the trait of easily claiming Power. My personal work is to stay in the place of “Power with” as opposed to “power over” or in a righteous rage “power for,” both of which I can slip into far too easily. We had been asked to bring a symbol of Power to place on the altar. The symbol I brought was an issue of “Yes!” magazine. “Yes!” takes a clear look at many of the intersecting places where power is abused in our world, and offers stories of real people who are changing that by working in collaboration. For me Power must always be in collaboration. Even in my work as an activist for justice, one of my personal challenges is to be careful not to abuse my societal privilege and personal power to take charge. Rather, my challenge is to be a listening and collaborative ally as I leverage my personal Power and privilege for a wider justice in concert with others. Sex, Pride, Self, Power, Passion… Near the end of our work with the point of Passion I came to a startling realization: rarely in my life do my abundant passions stay in healthy balance. In the work of the Iron Pentacle we are taught that each point can be deflated (Rusted) or inflated (Gilded) instead of being right sized or balanced. A Rusted Passion is apathy, a Gilded Passion is obsession. My startling realization was that my passions almost always inflated into a Gilded Obsession. My Passion for work in my 20s became a frenzied obsession in my 30s and the energy and pace with which I lived literally fried my adrenals and put me in bed a good deal of my 40s. My current book project, based on my great-grandma Josie’s life, has “freight trained” in the same direction as I lose whole nights of sleep following exciting bits of research, and hardly notice the glazed looks of friends as I talk of nothing but my beloved dead. My passion for politics becomes an obsession with news and polls and reading Facebook posts. A simple crush spins into a Glittering Gilded world bearing little resemblance to the kind of easy friendship that might lead to a healthy relationship. Of all the points on the Iron Pentacle, Passion is the one where I have done the least personal reflection and work and need the most help to balance. Realizations like these are why in my Reclaiming Tradition it’s important we do Iron Pentacle work throughout our lifetime. Sex, Pride, Self, Power, Passion… Blessings to you as you reflect and work on your own healthy balance of these points of The Iron Pentacle. ************* To learn more go to www.reclaiming.org to find list of regional Reclaiming groups that offer a schedule of core classes near you (the core class “Elements of Magic” is a prerequisite to taking an “Iron Pentacle” class) I also recommend the work “Magic of the Iron Pentacle” by Jane Meredith and Gede Parma, and books or online podcasts or video by T. Thorn Coyle on the subject. In the cycle of our Earth, today is the Solstice (Summer where I am in the Northern Hemisphere and Winter in the Southern). It is also the Full Moon. Here in the Northern it has indeed been a time of full light, full light shining long and bright on so many broken systems that need to be fixed/healed: political systems, systems that reinforce inequitable dominate culture privilege, economic systems designed to keep wealth in the hands of the 1 percent, systems of greed that are killing the planet, the list goes on. May these longest days, may this time of brightest, harshest light, may this time of illumination even in the night, help us to see clearly what is broken. Then, as the light begins to soften, as the blinding light recedes into more manageable levels, may we take what we have learned and continue the work of healing, of mending, of dismantling, of building new systems that benefit a wider good. Blessings to my Northern Hemisphere family in this time of brightest holy light. Blessings to my Southern Hemisphere family in your time of deepest sacred dark. Identity, such an elusive concept/construct. Who are you? Who am I? Are we our bodies? Our family background? Our personality quirks? Are we who we love? Who we hate?Are we what we do? Or simply who we are? Are we who we see ourselves as? Or as others see us? In the past three years as I have worked as the campus pastor at Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley, California, I’ve thought a lot about identity/identities as I came in contact with students, staff, and faculty from a diverse intersection of race, gender identity, spiritual practice, faith tradition, sexual orientation, temperament, geographical origin, relational/family configuration, physicality…the list goes on. It has been a rich and powerful experience having my own perceptions of who each person is expanded as I worked with them in community and one on one. Frequently, one person’s perception of who another person is/was based on one aspect of their identity, made for challenging, even painful, conversations or situations. Other times the unexpected revelation of an aspect of identity created a moment of delight, deeper understanding, personal bonds. Who are you? Who am I? Recently on Facebook I asked my wide range of friends if any of them backed Donald Trump in the US Presidential election. I asked if they would be willing to share why, not to convince me, but to help me understand. A high school friend living in a very economically depressed conservative area said, “He’s a business man who can fix our economy.” A hard core Anarchist friend said, “This country needs to be completely destroyed and he’s so arrogant, incompetent, and divisive he will inadvertently do that.” Neither of my friends have personal experiences of Mr. Trump, but to their minds have a clear, if not completely convergent, sense of his identity. Who are you? Who am I? In their brilliant piece “Who Am I Where? Quien Soy Donde? A map of contingent identities and circumstantial memories” from “Infinite City A San Francisco Atlas” writers Rebecca Solnit and Guillermo Gomez-Pena explore who they are, based on where they are. Here’s an excerpt: She writes, “In the Japanese Tea Garden I am always six years old.” “In the Excelsior, I am some chick from the Mission.” “In Pacific Heights, I am the granddaughter of Trotsky’s flag boy.” He writes, “In the Castro I am an older gay gentleman.” “At Sixteenth and Mission I am an Indian “pinto” a local loco, and I fuckin’ love it.” “In the Kaiser Medical Center at Divisadero, I am a regular asthma patient whose tattoos perplex the doctors and the nurses.” Who are you? Who am I? I love Solnit and Gomez-Pena’s concept of contingent identities. Here are some of my own: In my backyard I am a barefoot dancer. When I lived in the Fillmore District in San Francisco in the 80s I was that white girl catching the 24 Divisadero bus every morning. At the Sebastopol Farmers’ Market I’m just another old Earth Mother. On Facebook I am a Christian Witch who writes compassionately about how my heart sees the world. In middle-school I was someone my friend’s mother didn’t want her associating with because I had “wild red hair.” The hair - always I am the hair. Who are you? Who am I? Who is the person we are or aren’t voting for? Who is the person next to us on the street? Blessings on all of us in our contingent identities. ***** blog image mixed media by Reena Burton There is a way that the desert breaks me down to my essential Self a way the desert wind tears away that which is no longer necessary and the desert sun melts old patterns no longer helpful There is a way the vastness of the desert swallows up that which is petty or trivial and desert shadows call into question long held beliefs There is a way the cycle of the Moon in the desert sky sings of the inevitability of change and the desert rocks witness to that which is ancient and enduring there is a way the desert holds my gaze and makes sure that I know the full cycle of life... includes death and that beauty is to be celebrated... but not clutched The desert reminds me that light and dark are lovers and that what I may experience as a frightening storm, brings new perspectives There is a way the desert breaks me down to my essential Self and for that I am deeply grateful. **** all photos from my April 2016 three week pilgrimage to Death Valley and The Trona Pinnacles, and the last morning of the trip camping at Lake Isabella and watching the Full Moon set in the West right before sunrise March blog post on the SageWoman Channel at PaganSquare “I was born a wild girl… cradled tight in mountain arms… snow melt swaddling my skin… bare feet kissing moss and rocks… Blessed Be the Crones exclaimed, ‘That child’s a witch!’ I seem to have been born that way. It is in my DNA, apparently from all lines. It comes from my maternal grandmother and her journey into and back from death as a young woman, and her precognitive dreams. It comes from my maternal grandfather and his line populated with names in Colonial American witch trials and early American politicians advocating freedom of speech and worship, and the rights of the individual rather than the divine right of kings.* It comes from my paternal grandmother and her wild cackle and remedies. It comes from my father’s father’s line, folk who knew the Earth and Her ecosystems and spirits, intimately as friends and allies. Like most children I experienced the living sentient being of all things around me: Clear Creek who flowed through town, the Moon in all Her magical phases, the Oak Tree who shaded my grandparent’s shack, the lizards who came and went heralding regeneration, the Earth Herself. I was blessed that no adults ever tried to dissuade me from the understanding that these beings were as living and sentient as I was, and that we lived in familial intradependence. I was a voracious reader, fond of ancient folk and fairy tales with scary but powerful old women who lived in the woods, and drawn to more contemporary stories ranging from the cartoon Wendy “the good little witch,” to Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who and Mrs. Which in Madeleine L’Engle’s “A Wrinkle In Time.” By the time I was a middle schooler I had sympathy for The Wicked Witch of The West (long before “Wicked”) and raised my eyebrows at her sister-witch Glinda’s assertion that good witches are beautiful and bad witches are ugly. On some core level I knew being a witch was more nuanced than that. I went to college in San Francisco in the confluence of the Goddess movement, rising Queer culture, and Nuclear Freeze activism. The Christian Campus Ministry where I hung out and worked sponsored women’s retreats with folk like Vicki Nobel, one of the creators of the Motherpeace Tarot, and Carol P. Christ, a founding mother in the study of women and religion. While I was in seminary preparing to be a United Church of Christ minister, one of my most formative classes was “Creating Ritual” taught by Starhawk, a visiting adjunct faculty and prominent Witch in the Reclaiming Tradition. Her book, “The Spiral Dance,” was a text for the class. By the end of seminary I had began to understand that I may have been born a Witch, but that there were many different kinds of Witches, and I was most comfortable calling myself a Reclaiming Tradition Witch. One way (and most certainly not the only way) to describe Reclaiming Tradition Witchcraft is that it draws from Science, Jungian Psychology, Feminism, the Goddess movement, Social Justice and Eco Activism, Feri Tradition (an ecstatic form of Witchcraft), and Anarchist theory and practice, among other things. Reclaiming Witches are folk of all genders. The first paragraph of the Reclaiming “Principles of Unity” reads: “The values of the Reclaiming tradition stem from our understanding that the earth is alive and all of life is sacred and interconnected. We see the Goddess as immanent in the earth's cycles of birth, growth, death, decay and regeneration. Our practice arises from a deep, spiritual commitment to the earth, to healing and to the linking of magic with political action.” (read the entire text at http://reclaiming.org/about/directions/unity.html) Back in September my dear friend Gwion Raven, another Reclaiming Tradition Witch, wrote a beautiful column for Patheos entitled “Witch? - Yes I Am A Witch” in which he says: “There’s a great deal of history and made up history and baggage surrounding the word “witch”. One notion I particularly like is that of the empowered wise person living on the outskirts of the village. Folks didn’t want to know much about the work the witch did, but they certainly appreciated the knowledge the witch had, especially when they were in need of the witch’s services.” He continues: “As we journey around the world, through time and through culture, we find witches practically everywhere. The names might change and so may the circumstances of how one enters into the work, but the basic functions are present. Witches are healers. Witches are attuned to the forces of nature. Witches weave together the strands of the past, the present and the potential of the futures. Witches travel to unseen places. Witches work with allies, human and otherwise. In subtle and not so subtle ways, witches facilitate change.” (read his entire post at http://www.patheos.com/blogs/thewitchesnextdoor/2015/09/witch-yes-i-am-a-witch/) I am a Witch. “I was born a wild girl… cradled tight in mountain arms… snow melt swaddling my skin… bare feet kissing moss and rocks… Blessed Be the Crones exclaimed, ‘That child’s a witch!’” I seem to have been born a Witch. It is in my DNA, apparently from all lines. But I am also a Reclaiming Tradition Witch by choice and practice. I am a Witch. ******** * My ancestors Mary Lovett Tyler and her daughter, Hannah, were eventually released from prison after being accused of witchcraft. My ancestor, Samuel Adams, and his cousin, John Quincy Adams, were both associated with the "Dragon" cult, at least according to Andrew E. Rothovius in "The Adams Family and the Grail Tradition: The Untold Story of the Dragon Persecution" and "The Dragon Tradition in the New World." 2016 Palm Sunday
This year the calendars of both my spiritual traditions have intersected on this day. As a Reclaiming Tradition Witch I celebrate Ostara, the Spring Equinox here in the Northern Hemisphere (Mabon blessings to my friends in the Southern Hemisphere celebrating the Autumn Equinox). As a Christian in the United Church of Christ I celebrate Palm Sunday the beginning of Holy Week. Both celebrations involve singing and dancing, processions with colorful joy. Both are affirmations of hope and life, both herald change and growth, and for those willing to step into the procession, may wonders and delight await you, even through the unavoidable pain of change and growth. 2016 Maundy Thursday In my Western Christian tradition tonight is Maundy Thursday. This night and its stories have always called to a deep place in my soul. I find myself rereading the four different accounts of the human Jesus sitting at the Passover meal with his friends, breaking bread, drinking wine, and in one version of the story washing his friends' feet. He goes through the evening knowing that he has stepped over the line and threatened both religious and political authorities so much they will likely arrest and kill him. Some of his friends understand that, but others are pretty oblivious to the consequences of his teaching and healing, of his loving and seeing worth in so many individuals who were generally shunned in that society. I don't know why this particular part of the Christian story is so meaningful to me, it is poignant and painful, raw and human, full of the misunderstanding and betrayal of intimates. I would not want it to be the whole story, but the whole story would not be as powerful to me without this part. So for those of you in my Christian family, blessings to you this painful and messy night in our story. And for everyone in my human family whatever your spiritual tradition, blessings in all the painful and messy parts of our individual and collective stories. 2016 Good Friday In my Western Christian tradition today is the day we tell the story of the death of the human Jesus. It is a horrible story, full of pain and suffering, human injustice and political expediency. Two thousand years later Christians interpret the meaning of the story in many different ways, there is no one monolithic Christian understanding of Jesus' death. Some Christians believe in substitutionary atonement theology and find comfort in believing that somehow it was all part of a larger Divine plan. Other Christians (I'm in this stream) are not proponents of that interpretation and see Jesus' death in the same way we see the tragic injustice done by and to any being (and most certainly not divinely necessary). In any case, it is a day to mourn and wail, weep and lament all suffering and injustice. Blessings on all those who weep and mourn. May we as a species come to a place where we do not inflict that kind of injustice and cruelty one onto another. May we as a species hold our governments accountable so that they do not inflict that kind of injustice and cruelty on those within, or outside, their borders. 2016 Holy Saturday In my Western Christian tradition today is Holy Saturday. The day after the brutal execution of Jesus. The day after his friends laid him in a tomb. There are no stories in the sacred text of my tradition about his family’s grief, about the pain of his intimates Mary Magdalene or John (the disciple whom Jesus loved), no stories about his friends’ despair or his followers’ shock. The text is silent. But any of us who have lost a beloved, particularly to violent and tragic death, need no stories. We know what they felt. Blessings and comfort this Holy Saturday to anyone who has who has ever woken up the day after the death of such a beloved. 2016 Easter In my Western Christian Tradition today is Easter (my Orthodox Christian family uses a different calendar so will be celebrating next month). From the very first Easter, the events and meanings of the stories have been experienced and understood in many different ways. For me it is the day I reflect on the mystery of my beloved Jesus transforming through the process of death into the Spirit of the Risen Christ, the Cosmic Christ Consciousness that fills my heart and every molecule of my being with compassion and love for all the beings swirling and dancing in this Universe. It is the reminder that energy can not be destroyed, and that what dense energy, i.e. matter, experiences in its various forms and configurations, is added to the wisdom of The Whole, often through the miracle of death. To my Christian family, however you personally experience Easter, blessings and joy! And to all beings in this Universe, may wild compassion and love sweep us all up in blessings and joy as we swirl and dance! February blog post on the SageWoman Channel at PaganSquare “Return again, return again, return to the Land of Your Soul.” This morning I woke to geese singing their honking song as they flew over me returning North. What is it that compels them to make this migratory journey of returning, North to South, South to North? My mother says that when she married my father he also had a compelling need to migrate from French Gulch (the small, Northern California mountain town where they both grew up), to the city of San Francisco which lay to the South. It was very out of character. My father was born in the woods, high in the Trinity Mountains, raised in the mountains, and spent most of his life living and working in those Northern California mountains. But for a brief time, after he married my young mother, they flew South, to San Francisco where they nested in an apartment on Geary Street near Van Ness. They only lived there long enough for her to get pregnant and have me at Children’s Hospital in San Francisco. By the time I was six months old we had migrated North, back up into the mountains, returning to the land of his soul. “Return again, return again, return to The Land of Your Soul.” Going to college was not part of my family culture. But from a fairly young age I felt this drive, this need, this compulsion to fly myself South to San Francisco to go to college. I didn’t even know what colleges were there, I just knew I needed to get there. So at the very same age my mother had been when she gave me birth seventeen years before, I migrated South to San Francisco State University. It was the late 1970s and part of my college experience was playing designated herded (we didn’t drive) for my eclectic group of friends. With our fake IDs we danced to driving disco at a Queer bar called The Stud, which at the time was on Folsom Street, South of Market. “Return again, return again, return to The Land of Your Soul.” My father still lived in that small Northern California mountain town called French Gulch in October of 2012 when he died, two weeks before my October birthday. I was with him as he breathed his last breath. After his death I began to feel a compelling need to find out more about the early years of his mother, my grandma Winnie who had lived most of her long life up North in the Trinity Mountains, but was not from there. She had migrated there as a young bride, her husband, my grandpa Russell, brought her North to those Trinity Mountains where he had been born and raised. But I knew she had originally come from San Francisco, born just a couple of years before the great Earthquake and Fire of 1906. What I later learned was that her family lived in the part of the city known at “South of the Slot,” only a couple blocks from where I, as a young college student, danced to driving disco in the late 1970s. As I continued my search for her story I found that the orphanage where my grandma Winnie lived after her mother died in October of 1907, was less than a block from the apartment on Geary Street where my young father felt compelled to live at the time I was born, in October of 1959. “Return again, return again, return to The Land of Your Soul.” A few days ago I sat at my computer continuing my work to discover and tell the story of my Grandma Winnie’s family, the family whose story had been lost in the trauma of Earthquake and Fire, death and orphanages. My grandma’s mother, Josie Romero Lindsey Smith, died on October 22, 1907 in Hahnemann Hospital, which had been located on California street in San Francisco. I suddenly felt a strong compulsion to look at my birth certificate and tore through my files to find that Children's Hospital, where I was born on October 23, 1959, was also on California Street in San Francisco. The two hospitals had merged somewhere between my great-grandma Josie’s death in 1907 and my birth in 1959, fifty two years later almost to the day. “Return again, return again, return to The Land of Your Soul.” This morning I woke to geese singing their honking song as they flew over me returning North. What is it that compels them to make this migratory journey of returning, North to South, South to North? What was it that compelled my father to migrate South to San Francisco just long enough for me to be born where my great-grandma, whose name he didn’t even know, had died? All I know is that I am grateful to him for flying South, so that San Francisco would be the land of my soul, the place for me to return again, and this story could be told. What’s remembered, lives. And you? Where are you compelled to fly? Where do you return again? Where is The Land of Your Soul? *************** The line, “Return again, return again, return to the Land of Your Soul” is from a chant I learned as a college student at women’s retreats in San Francisco in the late 1970s. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zk6SblXESI8 Music and Lyrics by Schlomo Carlebach - sung by Shaina Noll - and I just noticed that this particular video was posted on YouTube on August 22, 2015 which would have been my father’s 79th birthday… In the calendar of my Christian tradition today is Ash Wednesday the beginning of our liturgical season of Lent. Not all Christian traditions mark Ash Wednesday, but today millions of Christians of many varieties will find the time to have ashes gently smeared onto our foreheads. Yet, even for those of us who do the ritual, it may mean different things. For some it is a reminder of mortality. For others a sign of mourning. For others an honoring of the stardust of which we are all made. For others an acknowledgment of personal failing. For others a indictment of systemic and institutional injustice and our part in that. For others a sign of being in a community willing to face all manner of pain and suffering, and strive to address it. There is no one meaning or understanding of that smudge of ash. Over the past decades I have found the ashes on my own forehead taking on most of those meanings. Blessings on those in my Christian family this day who take on ashes, blessings on you and whatever meaning it holds.
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