In the wheel of the Celtic year where I live in the Northern Hemisphere, it is Imbolc, the first inkling of Spring, half way between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox. During this time in my Reclaiming Witch tradition we work with, and honor the Goddess Brigid who was adopted as the Irish St. Brigid in the Catholic tradition. The stories of Brigid as both Goddess and Saint are many, but Her aspect as healer, flowing from Her holy and sacred well, are powerful. In the early 1980s the Reclaiming community (which is built on activism, particularly Earth activism) felt a call to address the issue of water rights and world wide water contamination, and began to incorporate a ritual of healing the waters of the world as part of our Imbolc/Brigid rituals and celebrations. So as my witch community, and the Christian Catholic community, honors Brigid, I hold in healing the Marilao River and all the beings in its watersheds, the Yellow River and all the beings in its watersheds, The Flint River and all the beings in its watersheds, indeed all the waters of the world and the beings who depend on them for life. May we as a species change our relationship with our waters so that they may once again run free and clean for the health of our whole Earth.
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January blog post on the SageWoman Channel at PaganSquare Hot flashes. Somehow we got on the subject, standing there at the Farmers’ Market. She had recently had her first one, and until she figured out what it was, thought she was coming down with the flu. Her mother, she said, had died relatively young, so she had no one to check in with about it, about what to expect. I shared that each body was different, but that I had found the experience of going through menopause fascinating and amazing as my body changed. My flashes started in my late forties - peri-menopausal. I figured out pretty quick that they were triggered by hot caffeine and wine, giving me the excuse I needed to finally stop pretending I liked wine. That was an inkling of what was to come, a burning away of many things my younger self thought I needed to do or be. My flashes seemed to gather deep inside my body and burst out the back of my neck, my throat chakra, demanding voice. So I wrote poetry about this wild new experience. The Sacred Element of Fire was dancing inside me in a new way, flowing through my cells and transforming them, burning away that which was no longer necessary or served me: the eggs in my ovaries, the expectations of my youth. I cackled more at myself and situations around me. It was a crackling laugh, the sound of fire transforming experiences and interactions that I might have stumbled over when younger, but now simply released as heat and even delight. Then came the shift in my ability to use words. They say that teenage boys going through puberty have an average of seven testosterone spikes a day, inhibiting the language center of their brain. Something similar happens to menopausal women as the estrogen levels drop. Suddenly we have word shaped holes in our brain, sometimes the exact shape of our best friend’s name, or that thing you sit in at the table, that thing with a seat and a back and legs… In some ways I had already experienced this when I had a major health crash early in my forties and my cognition changed radically. But this was definitely hormonal. I felt the Sacred Element of Air now moving more freely back and forth between the right and left hemispheres of my brain, moving more freely between the careful construct of my cognition/intellect and rest of my cellular structure. I may not have been able to think my way through things as clearly as I had before, but knowledge seemed to blow through me in new ways: images, shapes, colors, and music all communicating directly from the whirling of the ancient atoms that made up my being. Then as I moved into my fifties the hydrologic cycle of my body, which I had lived with since puberty, began to change. My periods became irregular. First there were shorter cycles, then longer, and longer, three months, then six months, then finally at thirteen dark moons I knew that particular rich red flow of blood would never happen again. My skin also began to change, the smoothness of it began to develop intricate crepe patterns, a lovely draping at my wrists and knees and elbows. The backs of my hands intrigued me with new landscapes. Creases around my eyes and mouth accentuated and magnified each smile and laugh. As The Sacred Element of Water stopped flowing from my womb and hydrating my skin, it began to flow more readily from my eyes as particular moments of grace in my intricate web of relationships seemed to slow down. Past memories floated in gentler streams, making them sweeter and more easy to simply cherish. Then my waist began to thicken. I wrote a poem about that as well, it contained this line: “Like the storied trunk of every beautiful tree on earth we are in good company as we thicken with age.” I now feel more acutely The Sacred Element of Earth that is my whole body, simultaneously so strong and yet so fragile. I feel my skeletal structure as I dance barefoot on the dirt, aware of how tender I want to be with my bones and muscles and flesh, even as I move with abandon and joy. I feel more grounded. As a witch I have always been aware of the aliveness, the sentience of all things, but now I seem to be more aware of how I am part of the Whole Earth, One Body. In my Reclaiming Witch Tradition we honor the Four Sacred Elements: Air, Fire, Water, Earth and the Fifth Sacred Thing, Center/Spirit. This process of Menopause for me is a Center experience, a mysterious movement of Spirit. About half of our human species go through this mysterious process, each one with their own unique variation depending on genetics, cultural expectations, diet, environmental factors, life experience, and other aspects we don’t even know. So to my friend at the Farmers’ Market, blessings on your body as you go through this process, know you are not alone in it, that you have circles of support. Blessings on all touched by this powerful Spirit process of menopause, whether it’s far in your future, or happening now, or already done, or you are simply someone who loves someone who has/will experience menopause. May those of us who have, be a resource and a blessings to all. I have been thinking a lot about tonight's Full Moon (I am a witch after all) - My colonial American ancestors called the January Full Moon, The Wolf Moon, taking the name from the Wampanoag people whose land and lives they also tragically took (either through force or by taking advantage of the indigenous people's exposure to European diseases). My illegitimate Irish-American grandmother was fostered by a Native American woman, possibly of the Apsaaloke tribe in present day Sheridan Wyoming. Did her foster mother teach her to call The Moon, Bilítaachiia? My Spainish-American great-garndmother lived in Chumash territory (present day Santa Barbara) as a child, did she know the people whose land they took called The Moon 'Awa'y? I have been thinking a lot about tonight's Full Moon and the names my ancestors spoke when they looked up into the night sky: Luna, Mond, Gealah, Máni. I have been thinking a lot about the history of this continent on which I live, and how many peoples who have lived here have looked up into the night sky and honored The Moon with many names. May this January Full Moon inspire the descendants of all peoples who lived here, to learn from the complicated pain of the past, and work toward justice and wisdom in the present. I have been musing on the way transphobia, racism, xenophobia, and misogyny became so very apparent in 2015 that even those who were not the daily targets of those particular destructive fears and institutionalized systems began to be more aware of the issues...as my wise mother, Sandy Rosen, often says, "You can't clean out the septic tank without taking off the lid." Now that the lid is off those particular cess pools, time for those of us who have not already waded into the toxic clean up to roll up our sleeves and get to work. Gratitude for those who blasted off the lid. Blessings, strength, and courage for us all in 2016!
It is the last week of the year in the Gregorian calendar. There is something about this particular week that has always felt like time out of time to me or a conflation of all time. I have in past years made a practice of diving into the flow of my own time stream. I try to notice what little pieces of me I may have unintentionally left behind without tending and healing; notice what unhealthy patterns I am perpetuating in my life and the wider world that need to be addressed; notice what I can let go of with gratitude and compassion; notice what needs to be invited into my life. It is a magical working that collapses past and present and reminds me of my life's vast web of relationships. This year I find myself keeping company with memories of old lovers and even some people who pulled me toward parts of myself better examined through the projection of a wild crush. There was one particular crush that found me dancing on the perimeter, walking the outmost edge, hovering close enough to feel their gravitational pull of charismatic vulnerability, but far enough away to maintain the illusion of safety – of autonomy, of not being sucked into the swirl of their emotional vortex. There were plenty of others to do that. It was 1978 and I was in college in San Francisco. I watched them and their entourage sweep through the dining hall at dinner every night. By some strange coincidence they often ended up two tables over from where I sat with my friends. It must have been then that I honed my uncanny knack for eavesdropping while appearing fully present to those in my company. Their name was Vic and they were as beautifully androgynous as a Renaissance angel. They had a mass of loose brown curls that fell around their neck – the natural kind, the kind beauticians promise but can never quite deliver. They had hands that moved through the air as they talked like Buddhist prayer flags. I knew that they played piano with those hands, knew they wrote songs and dreamed of becoming famous someday. I knew, mostly from eavesdropping, that they fell in and out of love almost weekly. That they were fickle and Tuesday’s passion was Friday’s drama and by Sunday it was someone else. I knew their friends fed off the drama, like emotional junkies using their wild energy to get a fix. Two tables over I was probably getting a contact high myself. They fascinated and scared me at the same time. And so I stayed as far away as possible without completely breaking free of the pull. One night, in the dark of Winter, I was alone in the stairwell with my guitar. I loved playing in there with the sound echoing up and down several stories – like singing in the shower without getting wet. I was dreaming of Vic. The lilt of my voice and roll of the guitar strings bounced around me. My eyes were closed and I strummed and played with different word combinations to a chord progression I liked, it sounded haunting and lulled me into a mystical place where the words began forming themselves… I stopped and wrote down the words, excited by the process – a refrain followed, no words – just na na na – I wanted words but they wouldn’t come so I moved on to the next verse…I was very excited now, deep into the process… I played the two verses and refrain over and over like a musical mantra – I began to let go of needing words for the refrain, the na na na’s were enough. One more verse emerged… I sang it over and over until I knew it by heart. I started it for about the 30th time – filled with the ecstasy of creation – when I realized someone was singing harmony on the refrain – it was Vic – it was Vic without their entourage – alone – in the stairwell with me – it was probably 4am. It seemed so surreal I wasn’t even startled – somehow we were outside of reality. We kept singing. Eventually sunlight snuck in from the outside. We looked at each other still half-entranced. They suddenly looked tired and worn. More tired and worn than one should be at age 19. And they looked sad. The music had stopped. They leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. “It wouldn’t work,” they said. “It wouldn’t last. It never does.” And they were gone. I sat alone for a while before packing up and going back to my dorm room to sleep through my morning classes. We never talked about it. Years later whenever I sing the song – the na na song – I can still feel the echo of that night, and rest into the wisdom of knowing some relationships really are better left in the world of dreams. Blessings on this week of conflated time - may the rushing end of one year into the next give you time to remember and honor your life’s vast web of relationships. And Vic, wherever/whenever you are, thanks for the song. ******** listen to “The Na Na Song” on YouTube “The Na Na Song” is on my “On The Alluvial Fan” CD found at CD Baby, on iTunes and on Amazon. In my Christian tradition, today is Christmas, the celebration of the birth of Jesus of Nazareth. That tiny human, born over 2,000 years ago, and the religion built around Him, has come to symbolize many things to many people: liberating and comforting for some, oppressive for others. But for me the baby, Jesus, is the reminder that all that is vulnerable in our world is holy and precious, and that the Whole of the Universe is present and immanent in each tiny part. And so this day, Christmas Day, I kneel and wonder at the miracle of birth, of hope, of love, of peace, of joy. To my human family who celebrate this day (in whatever manner you do), Merry Christmas! And to all, may hope, love, peace, and joy be continually born in your lives.
Blessed Solstice! Here, where I live in the Northern Hemisphere, this day will be a tiny bit longer than yesterday, this night will be a tiny bit shorter than last night. For those of you in the Southern Hemisphere it will be just the opposite. I am glad it is a gradual shift, I am glad I still have more long sacred and dark nights of quiet introspection and regeneration before the lengthening days become obvious, although I can already feel the shift in my body. But, I am glad that Winter is not yet over, just as those of you in the South may be glad Summer is still with you for a while more. This dance The Earth does, turning each half of Her body toward the Sun then away, reminds me that all things have their seasons, all seasons have their gifts. So to my friends in the Southern Hemisphere, blessings to you in the return of the sacred dark as it slowly lengthens toward Winter's rest and cozy cheer. To my friends here in the North, blessings on us in the return of the blessed light as it slowly lengthens toward Summer's wild work and abundance. In my Christian tradition today is the beginning of Advent, four weeks of reflecting on and honoring the sacred and blessed dark out of which emerges new life. Four weeks of cozy-ing in, nuzzling with our own deepest hopes and dreams for all the possibilities of justice and joy, peace and abundance. In my Christian tradition those possibilities are humanized, personified, by a child in the womb of a 1st century Middle Eastern woman named Miriam (Mary) - it is the promise of all that is Holy and Sacred knit into the bones and flesh of her baby, Jesus, and every baby, and every bit of energy that incarnates into matter. Blessed are the mothers carrying the possibilities of our deepest hopes and dreams in their wombs. Blessed are the Divine possibilities that will emerge as Divine realities. Blessed are those who wait, who prepare for all that is possible to emerge from this time of sacred and blessed darkness. Blessed is the Darkness of Advent. November post on the SageWoman channel at PaganSquare Even though I was born at the end of the baby boom, one of the ways I know I am an American boomer is that I remember the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. The shock and grief of it is etched in my bones and still quivers in the sacred cells of my body. I was barely four years old on that November day in 1963. I was with my mother, who was attending a tupperware party at a friend’s trailer near where we lived in the mountains of Northern California. While the women learned about saving leftovers, my father and my mother’s friend’s husband went out back for some target practice. I can’t remember how the news arrived - but I do remember the deep shock and grief of the adults, and since I’d been hearing gun shots so close, in my four year old brain, I thought I’d heard the shot that killed him. Grief and shock have a way of doing that, etching collective pain into our bones and jarring the very sacred cells of our bodies. My country (and many around the world) continued in that state of grief and shock as we, as Americans, gathered with family and friends the following Thursday for my nation’s Thanksgiving. I don’t remember that Thanksgiving in particular. At that point in my life, and for many years thereafter, my family gathered at my Grandma Peggy and Grandpa Ed’s house every year. We also always had extra folk who were far from their families, either in actual geography, or in the landscape of personal relationships. I don’t remember that particular Thanksgiving because what I remember is all the Thanksgivings at Grandma Peggy and Grandpa Ed’s house. I remember the smell of turkey, sage, and thyme, and Grandpa Ed’s pipe smoke. I remember the soft color of Grandma Peggy’s Desert Rose dish pattern, and her pink and black apron. I remember the voices of joy-filled welcome that each person received as they walked through the front door. I remember the cinnamon, clove, ginger, and nutmeg on my tongue with each bite of pumpkin pie. All of it swirls as olfactory memory, flashbacks of vibrant color, echoes of sound and lingering taste, a deep warmth and joy etched into my bones and cradling each sacred cell of my body. Years later my family and friends gathered again for Thanksgiving. It was 1978 and the center of hospitality had moved from my grandparent’s house to my mother’s. Again, I don’t remember that particular Thanksgiving. I just remember the joy etched into my bones and cradling my cellular structure, of all the Thanksgivings at the various homes where my mother lived and hosted our extended family. I just remember the cacophony of voices echoing between the kitchen where magic was happening and the living room, where a variety of opinions were being expressed and wonderful stories were being told. I just remember the shade of my mother’s lipstick and the sweep of her hair. I just remember the smell of garlic and onions, and Grandma Peggy’s White Shoulders perfume. I just remember the hugs from family of blood, and family of choice, and family for a day. I just remember the taste and feel of whipped cream squirting into my mouth, and hoping my brother and I left enough, after doing that several times, to actually have some on our pie. The following Monday, on November 27, 1978 I took the Greyhound Bus back to college in San Francisco. My roommate, Diane, and some friends picked me up at the station. As we were driving down Market Street news came over the radio that City Supervisor Dan White had walked into Mayor George Moscone’s office and assassinated him, then went down the hall and shot and killed Supervisor Harvey Milk, one of the first and brightest heroes of our Queer community. My roommate had worked on Harvey Milk’s campaign. I and everyone in the car reeled in deep shock and grief. In those first moments the disembodied voice on the radio bounced through the car etching that shock and grief into our bones, jarring the very sacred cells of our bodies. Over the next few days we poured into the streets with candles and chants, marching from The Castro down to City Hall. The whole San Francisco Bay Area Queer community gathered in communal shock and grief. Queer folk and our allies in the whole country, feeling that shock and grief. It is 2015. November again brings shock and grief. Around the world shock and grief again etches into bones, cellular structures are again jarred as refugees continue to flee war ravaged Syria. Bones again etched with grief as boys (some barely old enough to grow facial hair) blow up themselves and others in terrorist acts in Beirut, Paris, Bagdad, Cameroon, Nigeria…The global community reeling with shock and grief as we pass images and information one to another through the instant and ever present network of social media making us remember exactly where we were when we heard the news. And it is again Thanksgiving week here in my country the United States. On Thursday my family of blood and choice, and some just family for the day, will gather at my house as they have now the last decade. I have inherited the hosting from my mother who inherited it from her mother. This Thanksgiving I will again smell turkey and sage and thyme, garlic and onions. This Thanksgiving I will again hear stories being told, and folks being greeted at the door, and opinions being expressed. This Thanksgiving I will again see the soft colors of my Grandma Peggy’s Desert Rose dishes and the shade of my mother’s lipstick. This Thanksgiving I will again taste the spice of pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream. This Thanksgiving I will again hold close people I love. In a few years I may not remember this particular Thanksgiving, but I will feel the deep warmth and joy etched into my bones and cradling each sacred cell of my body. The warmth and joy can’t erase the shock and grief, but it can help us know Thanksgiving in the midst of it. Blessings on what is etched into your bones, what lives in and around the sacred cells of your body. Blessings on who and what you grieve for, and may you be blessed with thanksgiving. Most of you know I am one of the Campus Pastor's at Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley. Our chapel service this week was in honor of Worldwide Trans Day of Remembrance (officially Nov. 20th). Statistically Trans folk (most specifically Trans Women of Color) are more likely to be victims of violence than almost any other single group worldwide. Trans Day of Remembrance seeks to lift their names and stories into the consciousness of the wider world. Yesterday's chapel service most certainly did that, and went far beyond that, holding space for a vision of actively changing that story ending, and lifting up the vibrant lives and work of trans folk in our world. We have a substantial cohort of trans women and men, and gender queer folk at PSR (most likely the largest of any seminary) who led us all in a chapel service entitled "Who do you say I am: Living Stories Unsilenced" echoing Jesus words before Pilate. It was a service about remembering, honoring, thriving, and transforming. Below is this stunningly beautiful graphic by one of our students, Rae Strozzo (in collaboration with a friend in Tucson). Blessings on all Trans women and men and gender queer folk - may your lives be strong and vibrant and may you be defined by your own stories of who you are! Blessings on those of us who are more (it's a spectrum) cis gender, may we come to understand your blessings and gifts.
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