Dead, Mad, or a Poet

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...

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