Dead, Mad, or a Poet

I've spent a lot of time in front of a computer this past week. And when I say 'a lot of time', I mean  it. I'm talking a 'cluster-migraines-I-don't-remember-the-last-time-I-went-for-a-walk' amount of time. It got so bad I actually started to wear my glasses again. But it wasn't nearly as bad as it can  get with writing. There's one thing no one ever tells you about writing when you first get into it, and that's that it will break you if you're not careful. Stories will grab and ride you, and characters will take up residence in your head. You'll force yourself to write the things you don't want, and then force yourself to write the things you want to but are avoiding for completely different reasons. You'll become this strange shadow of a person, possessed by emotions and voices not entirely your own. A caffeine-fueled, sleep-deprived, temporarily crazy person fighting-migraines and wearing those sexy new eye-sty accessor

Today I'd like to introduce you to a demon of mine. The first time I saw him he was made of ice, all sharp yet brittle in his jagged edges. He was living in my arms, but his whispers and ice made it to my heart and mind all the same. "You can't do that!" he'd say, and pull my arms back from reaching out. "You can't dream that!" he'd command, then darken all the dreams from my mind. It's easy to hate a demon who traps you in this way. But hate will never make a person free. I may have introduced the demon, but he is gone now. Because as it turns out, he'd only ever wanted to keep me safe. When he took root in my arms, I had needed that wall of ice. But as even the most stubborn among us will come to learn should the president get his way, a wall can just as easily imprison as it can protect. All it ever takes to shift from one to the other is the slightest shift in the tides of fate. When I sat with my demon and felt his fear,

Would you like to hear a secret about magic? Well I mean, it's not really a secret because I've kind of mentioned this before. But just to reiterate: magic is about story, and stories are sometimes the most powerful acts of magic out there. As a culture, we do not have nearly enough respect for stories and the powerful magic they bring. Nor do we really respect the role of story in the magic we create. Some people stick to the tried and true pre-generated stories of grimoire rituals. Other people make their own magic and lean into teleology, or "the explanation of phenomena in terms of the purpose they serve rather than of the cause by which they arise". In short, we create correspondence lists and talk about how "this does that" and never the *why*. We create long explanations about how materia magica exists on various levels and the rays of energy they have rather than considering the possibility that they too at some point had origins storie

The winds blow hard here. So hard that if you forget your hat your ears will hurt. She once had a dream about that, saw herself as both older and younger in clothes she’s never worn.  Walking across the bare-bone back of the open moor to the burial mound in the distance. She'd seen feathers in her hair, matted and wild, and heard the rattle of bones at her belt. Both younger and older versions were each the mirror of the other - only the younger carried the gear (as all good apprentices should). They’d sat on the mound and used the white noise of wind to enter trance. But that only ever hurt the sensitive skin of her ears when she tried it awake. In a pinch there are those little cottony whips of white that grow in the moorland grass. You can stuff in your ears and they can help with the soreness. But they do nothing for the whipping of hair and loss of warmth from the head. This isn’t Ilkley Moor, but you could certainly catch your death of cold up here, and the wo

I've been reading a book on animism recently. Well, it isn't actually about animism, but the author gets it in that kind of 'bone-deep' kind of way that very few European-descended Pagans do. The book is Silence by the Vietnamese Zen Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh, and it has proven to be one of the best books I have ever read on animism in my life. I've seen a lot of modern (mostly European-descended) Pagans and Witches claim to be animist over the past couple of years, but for the most part their animism feels like an affectation to me. If anything, animism is something that seems to have become trendy. Thich Nhat Hanh probably doesn't see himself as an animist, and yet it shines through in his musings on how the trees on the banks of a river would feel if the sound of the river were to suddenly stop. It's there in the way he talks about acquiring a bell for practice - it is not simply a thing that is bought, but invited to come home with you. It'

I was in my late teens when I went to my first meditation classes. I'd been meditating at home for years before I first stepped through the doors of the town's community center where the classes were held. But life had gotten hard, and the mind monkey was no longer just restive but actively screaming rebellion. So I'd gone to the local classes. You see similar classes advertised all over England - usually with roadside signs saying 'Meditate now!' and a phone number. I'd seen these classes in the local newspaper, but the number told me they were the same as the ones on the signs plastered around town. Knowing what I do now about the group that puts on those classes, I wouldn't have gone. Some entanglements (no matter how benign they initially seem) are simply not worth the trouble down the line. But that's not the point of this post today, and so I return to that community center room with its wooden floors and chairs pulled from a waiting room.

I’m a fiery person - wrathful some might say. But that’s not entirely true. Passionate? Possessed of strong opinions? I don’t know. But if I have one saving grace, it’s that my anger is generally reserved for those who I feel are cruel and mean. That’s not to say that I don’t sometimes have mean thoughts or express mean opinions about the people who inspire that ire though. Sadly, I most assuredly do. But it’s something I’m working on - something I feel is important to work on. I’m a witch, and a wielder of words. I write to hopefully inspire and ensnare, to pull my readers along with me to places I want them to see or wish they’d go. At my best, I write to create fertile grounds of human hearts and plant seeds of compassion, wonder, and knowledge. I write, because I know that words have power, and that story can shape destiny and change the world. Almost two weeks ago saw the passing of Rutger Hauer during the same year as the year in which his character

Almost a decade ago now, I had something happen that hurt me deeply. Don't worry, it wasn't an assault of any kind - the world holds far more potential for woe than what other human beings can bring. But it was hurtful all the same. In those long, sleepless nights after it all happened, I took refuge in loud, pounding music, turned up as high as I could. I was trying to escape. But healing never comes when you run away. Instead, the things that plague you simply grow and become worse. At some point though, I realized that I had to face what had hurt me and come to some kind of peace again if life were ever to become good again. Luckily, my husband had to go away for the week for work, and I had no work of my own as all my students were on vacation. I had a whole week free, and so I made good use of it to go into silent retreat. A lot of people find silence daunting. It's like the aural version of being in a dark room, and that makes it a somewhat atavistic fear. M

There's an old saying that people like to say, "you are what you eat". Der Mensch ist was er isst . Fat people are cake and fried goods, and thin people are virtuous, fully paid-up members of the church of clean-eating. Or at least that's how most people tend to use that saying (regardless of how often that stereotype proves untrue). There are fat people who eat like a renunciate nun, and thin people who absolutely slay at eating contests, with skills that would make a pelican jealous. Scholars still argue about what Feuerbach originally meant when he first coined the phrase. But that's not important here, because reading is an interactive process that is just as dependent on the biases and perceptions of the reader as it is the intentions of the writer. Both are reality-creating forces, and the artful writer ensnares the reader in spite of their biases and perceptions in order to create a desired outcome. Regardless of what Feuerbach intended, he failed

She arrives dressed in all black and still clutching the one-way ticket in a small white hand.The bus is already a half kilometer down the road from where it dropped her off in the parking lot  The driver had left quickly, casting nervous glances at the trees as she'd disembarked and burning her with a look of sorrow. He'd known why she'd come of course, but that's only to be expected. This was Aokigahara after all. This was the infamous  Sea of Trees,  the place declared by the suicide manuals to be the  perfect place to die. There was an allure to this place (if one could be lured by death), and it had always been that way. Some say it started with the grandmothers who were left to die of exposure after their families judged them to be a burden. Others say it was more about famines and somehow less cruel. Nowadays though, it was where people came who were slowly being crushed. But whether that crushing came from societal pressure or from the shame of being unable to

Let one cloak drop Pick another from the depths A meal of blood and raven’s flesh Lingers on my lips A land of barren bones Blooms colorful and bright And a tree of many fruits Ripens in the light Hands grasp at furs The grey-hued pelt The face of a mother Voice cracked with spells From this pleasant land Indescribably pure and true I must flee lest I find comfort here Take the root out and through A shift, a step, and I’m home again Without returns to within All it takes is a trick to come back The story shapes the key

Yesterday I watched a video by the Welsh scholar Dr Gwilym Morus-Baird about the concept of ‘awen’. Unsurprisingly, it’s a far deeper concept than how it is typically taken by most English-speakers who encounter the term. This is no surprise - it’s very difficult to understand words and concepts when those things are divorced from their cultural and linguistic contexts. So to have an in-depth examination by a native speaker who is also a scholar in the field, is invaluable. Especially when your own Welsh doesn’t stretch much beyond greetings, asking how someone is, basic introductions, and staying you like certain foods. According to Dr Morus-Baird, the modern Welsh 'awen' is typically used to refer to 'poetic genius'. However, in the past, 'awen' also carried supernatural or magical connotations. Poetic genius was associated with spiritual enlightenment or wisdom. There was also a correspondence with a kind of "supernatural" wind or "divine br

“History is written by the victors” they say. But I say that it’s the stories that endure that define what is. Take the story of old Br â n the Blessed, for example. Oh, you haven’t heard of him? He was a mighty king once; so mighty he could wade across the sea to Ireland to rescue his sister. But he was also unlucky too, because for all the men he took with him, “ except seven, none rose up ”. Sound familiar? Even Br â n himself (mighty as he was) fell there. “Cut off my head” he’d said as he lay dying (or words to that effect). “Bring me back and feast with my head. Get Rhiannon to send some of those birds to sing to us and we’ll have a grand old time - it’ll be great! Head Br â n will be just as fun as full Br â n, and I won’t even rot as long as you keep that there door closed!” And so they’d taken Br â n’s head and returned home to Harlech. The seven feasted and the head spoke, laughed, told stories and jokes. The birds sang the sweetest of melodies ever heard, and for

A song for Gwyn ap Nudd Who on Calan Mai must depart Gwythyr’s blade I break and blood I staunch Heal the scars on Creiddylad’s heart Not murdered but gone The bull takes his queens And in Annwn they are renewed Yet doors open wide between the two sides And the old ways trickle through I mourn his loss though I know he’ll be back His heart beats ever still Gwythyr’s blade is gone and there’s no blood to staunch Creiddylad’s heart is renewed So ‘til Calan Gaeaf she’ll stay In Gwythyr’s arms she'll lay ‘Til the Huntsman collects her again For wild delights on darkened days

Don’t think I don’t see you, because I do. I see you, I’ve *always* seen you, sharply dressed and “respectable” though you claim to be. You’re really no different from the “good” men in my day. “Host bodies” you say. I know this as well. I too was only seen as a container for what I carried (though in my case it was my blood). But a curse upon you, and those of your kind. We’ll grind your kind into the dirt. Watch your names fall from memory. Chant the truth behind your stories, and shine a light upon your evil hearts. “Good”, what is that now? And why does it almost always seem to involve hurting someone else? Taking from someone else. Reducing someone else to being lesser. Inhuman. Not worth the consideration. (I only ever wanted to be left alone.) He too claimed the banner of life and light. He too claimed to travel the bright path of “good” – the path of his damned god. And all the idiots (then, as now), took my blackness for evil and judged me against his l

The landscape is barren. Perhaps it has always been so? A wind-ravaged space where sun-bleached rocks lay strewn like bones across the grass-hair back of a sleeping giant. Mists come often here, pulling across the sky like curtains. Strangely heavy yet weightless, like the tickle of cobwebs across the face. It will smother you if you don’t remember to breathe. A person could go mad here. There was a time when her bones lay as the rocks on the moor. Picked clean by carrion - her memory and shade almost lost. Her killer had come looking for a “wonder”, and had slaughtered her with as much thought as he gave to a swine before a feast. She’d been a thing to him, a mere container for that wonder, and he’d taken everything that had not soaked into the earth when he sliced her in twain. But the joke was on him in the end - what kind of fool mistakes a trophy for a wonder? In any case, his name rose and fell and passed into legend. He went from “once and future king”,