I am Grateful for the Journey. And Thanks, Dr. G.

I like talking about myself. Sorry if this bores you.

This week, I had my first ever acupuncture session. It was amazing. I felt so good afterwards. I felt like I was doing exactly the right thing for my body. And then my doctor called.

Doctor G. My hematologist. He called me from his cell phone. Not his nurse - she didn't call. Not his receptionist. Not from an office phone. From his cell phone, my hematologist himself called me. No nonsense-like he told me my platelet count is down.

I know what that means. It means do something quick or end up in the hospital as a Fall Risk. Which means I'm not supposed to walk from my bed to the bathroom without accompaniment. Because if I fall, I could hemorrhage. Death could ensue. Or a big mess. Either way, no fun.

I may have mentioned in the past that I have an autoimmune condition. ITP. Idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura. Kind of rolls right off the tongue, doesn't it? It is also known as Immune thrombocytopenic purpura. I like Idiopathic best. It suggests how little doctors know about this condition.  One thing that is a given, it dramatically decreases one's platelet count thus increasing one's risk of internal hemorrhage or bleeding out. Neither of which sounds particularly attractive to me.

Auto immune conditions are complicated. Their symptoms can be triggered by stress or by another illness. Such as a bad cold. If you leave a trace of your snotty nose on a countertop and I am unfortunate enough to make contact with this snot and develop a full-fledged cold, I will undoubtedly experience a drop in my platelet count. So I try really hard not to get sick.

Unfortunately for me, I have been experiencing a severe eczema attack (also an auto immune condition) for the past several months. My body is so tired of working to get rid of the eczema that my platelet count has dropped. And this is the big fat double whammy thank-you very much.

Doctor G is great. I had an annual check-up with him this week and he saw the rash on my hand and on my chest and was greatly concerned. He ordered blood work. He contacted me immediately upon getting the results. He says to me, "you're not gonna like this," because he knows me well. "You're not gonna like this, but I'm gonna put you on steroids. 60 mg. It should clear up the rash and jump start your platelet count. We'll check your blood in a week. But till then, don't climb any ladders or swing from any chandeliers." I said, "Well there goes my fun this weekend." "Yeah, I figured," he says.

Dr. G is going to retire next year on April Fool's Day. That's the kind of doctor he is. He dresses up on Halloween in a hospital gown with a big fake ass poking out the back. He plays banjo. Never misses Merlefest. When I asked him if he celebrated St. Patrick's Day, he said, "Oh yeah. Any ethnic group that likes to party, I celebrate."

So, I'm going to miss Dr. G. Because he is smart, funny, compassionate...all the things a good caregiver should be. But for now, I'm glad I'm still in his care.

My acupuncturist says it would be best to wait till after I stop taking steroids to have another treatment. I respect that. Eastern and Western medicine often don't blend well. And my whole ITP career has been one of walking a tightrope between treatment options and self care. It's been quite the journey. And while in the past I hated my body for it, today, I actually love my body for it. Because through the ITP experience I have learned so many important lessons about loving myself no matter what and respecting my body and its process. No matter what.

I like talking about myself. A lot. But I do so in the hope that it might brighten someone's day somehow. That I might somehow convey a tiny bit of meaning. That I might offer solidarity to another person experiencing bizarre bodily trials.

I am grateful for the journey. And thanks, Dr. G.

Money

In keeping with recent self-indulgent posts, it is time for my semi-annual 'I need an attitude adjustment regarding making money' post. 
Fact: When I had my first job (working in the Kernersville Library) I loved making money. It provided a degree of independence from my parents that I really enjoyed. At some point, my attitude shifted. Maybe it was around the time my dad told me that I couldn't do art for a living. I'd have to find a career with which I could support myself and do my art as a hobby. A hobby. The thing I cared most about in the world was to be little more than a way to pass my Sunday afternoons. I don't know if that's when my attitude about money changed. Or if it was when I was forced to go to college when I really wanted to move to NYC and become a writer. For the New Yorker. Yes, I've always been a dreamer.
I dropped out of school at the urging of my boyfriend. I moved in with my boyfriend. Making money made sense then because it was a way to keep the two of us together. I married my boyfriend and had children with him. I stayed at home with the children. And eventually, I went back to work. Over the course of the years with the husband, money grew tight. We had arguments. He grew violent. I left. I went back to school. And I never ever picked a career. Why? Because my heart says to make stuff. And I feel like if I can't make stuff for a living (as per my dad) I will invest as little time and energy into making money as possible so that I can make stuff. But I find myself constantly chasing the dollar bill and not making stuff. I have lived below the poverty level most of my adult life. This has been a choice, to some degree as I have never chosen a "career."
People often compliment me. I understand these compliments to mean I have something of value to offer the world. But I cannot for the life of me figure out how to translate my value into money.
I don't need a lot of money. I've made do with less than $20,000 for the past ten years. But things are shifting in me. I find myself wanting to travel. Wanting to buy a pair of blue jeans. Wanting to go to the dentist.
I went to the bank yesterday. My checking account balance was a little over $100. I am comfortable with a little over $100. But once it gets below that, I feel uneasy. Because my account has gone down to one or two dollars way too often, causing me to worry about how I was going to eat. This just sucks. And I don't want to be like this anymore.
I hate having to rely on money. But I need to accept it as a fact of life. At age 56 I am saying this! I would like to have that feeling of self-sufficiency that I had when I worked for the Kernersville Library. Do I need to get an actual job? Stop doing the My Girl Everyday thing? I've been getting regular gigs and am extremely grateful that I've had this period of personal freedom from the job world. I am extremely grateful to all the people who have hired me. But I am still basically living hand to mouth. And this needs to change.
A friend of mine recently gave me a book titled "Money: A Love Story." This book is supposed to help me heal my relationship with money. I keep trying to read it, but whenever the author talks about her immense credit card debt as being the toughest financial crisis she's endured, I feel disgust. I had to keep my children warm when the gas was cut off. I had to cook rice and beans and onions and garlic enough different ways to keep them interesting. I've had to ransack the house looking for pennies to buy a gallon of gas so that I could get to work. I had to push my car down a hill every day to jump start it because I couldn't afford to have it fixed. It's hard to take this author seriously.
Still, throughout my entire journey, I've never been truly hungry. I've never been without shelter or clothing. I've never been without love. I am grateful to have made it this far having all that I have. A pickup truck. An ally. A roof over my head. Food. Health. Two little dogs. A wealth of love from family and friends.
I once said to a friend, "I don't want making money to control my life." He responded, "Lack of money controls you just as much as making money controls you." As much as I hate this, it is true.

The Daughter of a Child

While I do not consider myself a hippie per se, I feel comfortable in their company. I grew up at a time when the original hippie movement began and flourished. I cannot help but feel there is a hippie element in my psyche: a being who rejects the status quo, who seeks peace and social justice for all, who is concerned about the well being of our Earth Mother, a person who embraces creativity and wants to live life in a celebratory manner. At least that's my definition of hippiedom.

Floydfest is full of hippies. It is a four day-long music festival in the mountains of Virginia. The musical styles represented range from bluegrass to funk, creole to boogie-woogie, often crossing over to jam band territory. It is a children friendly event which programs a variety of activities and performances specifically for them. There are wide open fields in which people toss Frisbees or juggling sticks, bang on various drums, scale a climbing wall or relax in hammocks. There are dream catchers as tall as a building to which one fastens a scrap of fabric with a message of Love that they've written on it.

I arrived at Floydfest on a Friday afternoon after a terrible emotional meltdown the night before which prevented me from getting much sleep. I nearly talked myself out of going. But I knew that once I got on the road, everything would be better. I would experience a degree of freedom from the thoughts which plague me, thoughts which hold my growth in check, thoughts of self loathing and fear. And indeed, as I drove away from Greensboro and into the country listening to music that lifted my spirits, I began to feel in sync with my Self.

This was to be my first year participating in Floydfest as a living statue and Floydfest's first year accepting buskers. No one knew what to expect. I went into it hoping to make up the costs accrued going there but attempting to have no expectations whatsoever.

Upon my arrival at the festival grounds, I began to feel that knot of uncertainty in my gut. I showed the gatekeepers my credentials and was directed to the staff parking and camping area. The plan was to pitch a tent on Friday and then hook up with my Ally on Saturday. He would be driving his phenomenal 1973 GMC RV to a campground nearby in which I would sleep comfortably. I parked on a crazy steep hillside which only an all terrain vehicle could traverse. It hurt my thighs to climb this hill. It hurt my thighs to go down this hill.

I wandered over to the staff camping area surrounding a small pond. Tents were pitched tightly against one another around the entire perimeter. Space was available on a steep hill. This did not seem appealing to me. I abandoned my search for a campsite and decided to explore the festival grounds to get a sense of the layout and the vibe.

Let me here emphasize how hilly Floydfest's grounds are. From the staff parking lot to the festival entrance, I walked a gradual incline which sharply increased, leveled out again right outside of the entrance, sharply increased again just past the entrance, then decreased to another gradual incline before leveling out to become somewhat flat. I estimate the distance from parking to flatland to be half a mile. But I'm no judge of distance. Particularly when walking up hills.

I was immediately overwhelmed by the volume of people and sound and the intensity of smells. Yes, patchouli. Of course. But also sandalwood, spicy foods, wood smoke and woods. I walked the entire breadth of the festival and felt overloaded with sights and sounds. The air seemed thick and hot and hard to breathe. So I made my way back across to the entrance and from there proceeded to my car. I felt dizzy, literally feeling as if I was losing my footing with each step. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe it was a flatlander trying to adjust to hills. But when I reached my car I had to sit still, drink water, eat an apple to recover and once again feel somewhat grounded.

I needed to pitch my tent before dark so I decided to do so in the parking area itself. I found a space that was enclosed by cars which no one would be able to access with their vehicle. I am not the camping sort. This was the first time in my life I'd ever set up a tent by myself. I had to call my Ally for direction once. But eventually I had erected a structure that looked like it would protect me from the elements. Sort of.

It began to rain. Rather than test the tent, I sat in my car, ate a little food and readied myself for another excursion to the festival grounds. Nahko and Medicine for the People were going to play later and I wanted to catch their set. I decided not to try and busk, rather to acclimate myself fully to the festival.

It was getting dark by this time and the crowd was growing in size and rambunctiousness. I noticed a vendor who sold stainless steel mugs that you could refill as many times as you like with sodas that had no caffeine and were made with cane sugar. I purchased one and filled it with root beer. The cold, sweet frothiness was like manna from Heaven to me. It fueled me. It empowered me to go forth and stand among the masses waiting to see Nahko.

I walked to the opposite end of the festival grounds to the stage where Nahko would play. The vast number of people present was astonishing. They were listening to the band playing prior to Nahko and when it ended, the gigantic horde flowed from the stage area towards me. People were walking directly towards me. That is to say, no one had any sense that I was present. I had to avoid bumping into virtually everyone. I have never experienced this phenomenon. It was as if all sense of personal space had vanished. I marveled at this while dodging bodies. As soon as I was in an open area, I could breathe freely.

I moved to what I thought was a comfortable distance from the stage with a handful of others to wait. The band set up and ran sound check.  Gradually, more people packed themselves in around me. My comfort capacity had been reached. Yet the crowd continued to grow. Before long, I was packed in the middle of a sea of bodies, all exuberant with expectation. Different smoke-able substances were lit around me. I stood still, trying to figure out what to do with my arms, which suddenly seemed to be in the way. I tried to maintain balance, which became hard once the band began to play. Everyone around me was jumping, dipping, swaying, pumping their fists. It was too much movement for an unbalanced equilibrium to endure. I remained in my position for the duration of two songs before deciding I needed to somehow negotiate my way out of the crowd.

Let me again say that all the bodies were tightly packed together. In order for me to make room for my body to pass between others, I had to slowly step forward and say, "I'm sorry. Pardon me. Excuse me please. I'm trying to get out." As I edged my way through the people, each person, I kid you not, each person rubbed my back or lightly scratched it with the tips of their fingernails, scratched my head, tickled my neck. This informal intimacy took me aback and internally I bucked and brayed against the Love being offered by these lovely people. I felt embarrassed for no fathomable reason. But I had to admit, the kind touches felt good.

Once I broke free from the crowd I slowly walked to the back of it, savoring Nahko's message of Love and Indigenous Empowerment. I watched children dance with abandon on a small stage illuminated by two torches. It became a tribal ceremony of sorts. I was entranced for a while but grew too tired to remain. So I hiked back to the staff parking, to my tent.

A bit of rain had seeped into the entrance. I flung my sleeping bag across an inflatable mattress that was only partially inflated. I cared less about blowing it up than I did about laying down on it. I flipped the dampest side of my pillow over and slid into the sleeping bag. It was then that I noticed how great an incline I was on. My sleeping bag started sliding down the tent, towards my feet. I laughed to myself at the silliness of this predicament. I experimented with different positions in order to limit my sliding. I managed to become slightly still, at which point the obstacle to my sleep became the sounds from the festival. The music was broadcast away from the festival grounds and to my ears on loud speakers. In this way, I was able to take in the last of Nahko's set. But before his set ended, another band began on another stage, the two musics co-mingling.

The cacophonous roar, the not quite inflated mattress, the sleeping bag sliding every time I moved, and the monumentally bright spot light that lit up the parking lot for late travelers - all kept me awake until around midnight. At last, sweet sleep enveloped me. Like a cool rain quenching a parched earth, I felt relief. Until the fireworks started.

I woke to an explosion directly overhead. And then another. And another. It took a moment to realize that these noises could be attributed to a fireworks display. Which was, again, directly overhead. How do I know this? Because the debris from the explosions fell onto my tent. So there I was, awake again at 1:30 a.m, wondering whether my tent would melt. I swore a bunch of swear words. And even though I was exhausted beyond description and my nerves were on edge, I knew in the back of my brain that this would be a funny story eventually.

When the fireworks stopped, I tried to make myself comfortable again. But the music seemed much louder and much more agitating. I wasn't sure what band was playing but I found their sound to be grating on my last nerves. And the constant shifting of body positions from agitation just caused the sleeping bag to slide uncontrollably. I was completely fed up at this point and got in my car where I could at least muffle the sound a little. Unfortunately, the monumentally bright spot light now shone directly into my eyes. I blocked my windows with whatever items I had handy in the car: a towel, a t-shirt and so on. I reclined my seat and tossed and turned the rest of the night away.

At 4:30 a.m. I very nearly packed up and drove home. I was wide awake and miserable. I had to pee and didn't want to climb down the steep hill to the port-o-potty. I lay there marveling at the level of commitment festival attendees had for partying, wondering where and how I could pee, wondering if I should just leave, realizing I had to stay otherwise I would hate myself. Eventually I got out of my car and peed, though I will not tell you where and how. I climbed back in with a renewed commitment to stay and eventually dozed off a few times.

The sun came up and I packed up the tent and prepared for my day ahead. A man who was clearly strung out on something approached me and started a conversation. At first, I was resistant and tried to brush him off. This mean part of my being wanted to be judgmental. But I relaxed and allowed the conversation to go where it would. This man was harmless. The exchange was fine.

I slowly negotiated the hills and bumps and holes and rocks to the festival grounds in search of coffee. I found it. With a long line of people waiting for it. I sighed and proceeded to the back of the line. I engaged in conversation with the woman immediately in front of me, which made the wait time seem minuscule. I bought a coffee and migrated over to a small group of musicians playing Neil Young's "Helpless." The woman who had conversed with me in line told me that they do this every year at the festival: get together in the mornings and play. Their rendition was sweet, gentle, comforting. I sat on the ground soaking it up.

It was one of those beautiful days that one can only experience in the mountains where the sky seems more vibrantly blue. And closer. The air cool, the sun hot. I savored the moment with gratitude. I conversed with yet another person and marveled at how easy it was to talk with people up there. Effortless. No games. No agendas. No gossip. No negativity. Just relating to each other as people.

This. Yes. I had endured the night for this.

I strolled around to see what was happening and how many people were around after such a late night of revelry. Again, the level of commitment these folks have for partying is impressive. It was not quite noon and already people were merry-making.

I left to meet my Ally at the campground where I would stay that night. It was fabulously quiet: surrounded by trees and rolling hills covered with Queen Anne's lace. The thought of sleeping there after a day of busking delighted me to no end. We both returned to the festival and I suited up to begin my day of busking.

For those of you who do not know me, I perform as a living statue for tips. I paint myself gold from head to toe, don a pair of paper wings and hold a small bowl of glitter. I stand perfectly still on a "pedestal" and wait for tips. When people deposit something (preferably cash) into my bucket, I merely look into their eyes and sprinkle glitter on their heads. Then I resume my statue form of stillness.

It surprises me at times that people do not notice me. They walk right past me as if I am actually a statue. When I move, they are shocked. This makes the acquisition of monies a bit more challenging. At Floydfest, more people than usual did not notice me - a person dressed up as a statue, being still on a box, awaiting their interaction. At times like this, I simply start indiscriminately slinging glitter. And this generates the desire in many people to come up to me and "get glittered." "Glitter me!" they'll say. "Oh! Give me some, too!" I play along with this. I look at it as passing out free samples of my work in the hopes that someone will eventually pay me. And this tends to happen.

I became the Glitter Goddess of Floydfest. I became an attraction. I had repeat visitors. I had a man who was slightly enamored with me.  At one point he approached me and said, "Now I know you aren't supposed to talk, but don't you sometimes have the urge to converse with someone?" I just shrugged my shoulders, shook my head "no," and sprinkled him with glitter. He laughed heartily and told me I was wonderful.

For the first time in my busking career, a little boy acted as if he would steal my money. It was an odd occurrence, this kid peering into my tip bucket, looking up at me, reaching his hand into the bucket, pulling it out and looking up at me again. The money, not my presence, was of more value to him. This created a weird sensation in my psyche. A momentary sadness.

I had a lot of requests for healing.  A lot of requests for prayers. Several requests for hugs. A lot of people told me I was awesome. A lot of people said, "I love you."

Can you imagine? In no other job have I received this sort of praise, admiration and sheer love!

When I took my dinner breaks, I removed my make-up, wings and wig but left my costume on. It's awkward usually for me to reveal my statue's identity. But here, it was less so. People cocked their heads as they looked at me, trying to connect this pink face with the golden one. One little girl, who had been scared of my statue, looked at me, and I said, "See? I'm just a person!" She cracked an uncertain smile. One woman approached me and said, "My son loves you! He talked about you all last night." A teenager looked at me stunned and said, "I thought you were a real statue! Man! You're good!"

The best gift of all, the very best one, came from a little girl whose face was painted to be a rainbow tiger face. She wore a long tie-dyed dress and two braids in her brown hair. As I was packing up at the end of my busking on Sunday, still wearing my wings and make-up, the little girl's mother came up to me while the girl stood several steps back. The mother told me how much I had touched her heart. She said, "My daughter, my little girl, she told me you are her daughter." The woman now had tears in her eyes. "My little girl said that. You are her daughter."

These words triggered the memory of a girl's voice that I heard while standing on my box: "Look, Mommy! There's my daughter! Yes! She is! She is my daughter!" These words were dismissed along with the flood of other words that entered my hearing sphere during the day. I looked at the little girl, realizing it had been her. Talking about me. I broke the rule of all living statues everywhere and spoke.

"Are you my mother?!" I asked. The little girl nodded her head confidently. I went over to her, knelt down and hugged her. "Thank-you, Mother!" I said. The girl smiled and gave her mother an I-told-you-so look. Not a sassy, disrespectful I-told-you-so look. Rather, a See-mom?-Magic-is-real! I-told-you-so-look. The mother thanked me and we hugged. I waved good-bye to my Mother. And I packed up my box.

A heavy rain descended, soaking me through and through. My wings, still attached, drooped down. They will need to be re-made. I threw my gear into the car, changed clothes out in the open, and walked around the festival grounds one last time with my Ally.

Floydfest's lights at night are so pretty. There are so many colors, shapes and textures. One truly feels as if magic abides. I absorbed as much of this happy magic as I possibly could before leaving. Upon leaving, I felt satisfied. As if I had done what I'd come to do. Make money, sure. But it was something else. I needed to regenerate Love in my heart. I needed a break from internetland and all the negativity emitted via social media. I needed nature. I needed immediate contact with people. I needed to put Love out into the world, one person at a time, one handful of glitter at a time. I needed to feel as if I had contributed one tiny bit of healing to our collective psyche. And remarkably, with one silly costume and a bunch of glitter, I feel I was able to do this.

It is an odd measure of success, this feeling of walking in step with myself, spreading whatever Love and Light I can muster. In the material world, I have no position of authority, nor any esteemed title with a powerful organization. I make enough money to live the life I care to live. My measure of success is not linked to money. And since money is so important to a lot of people, I used to beat myself up about my skewed nature. But now, I understand. I know the source of this misplaced definition of accomplishment: I am the daughter of a child. A rainbow tiger-faced girl.

I am grateful.

The Craft of Witchery

When I was your age, I started making potions. Witch's brews. No one taught this craft to me. It was a knowledge which seemed to have been imprinted in my DNA.

Remember that song you sang in Kindergarten? Stirring and stirring and stirring my brew, OOOOOoooooo! I sang that song, too. And it meant something to me. It stirred a longing deep in my chest. And then I heard - from who knows where - a Shakespearean couplet: “Double, double toil and trouble: fire burn and cauldron bubble.” I knew that sensation – that fire burn and cauldron bubble sensation. Innately, I knew it.

I would go to a secluded part of the woods and set up next to a creek. I dug my fingers into the rich black dirt creating a hole big enough to accommodate a standard mixing bowl from my mother's kitchen - one which I had taken for this purpose. The bowl was placed into the earthen pit. And then I gathered my ingredients.

I collected creek water in a cup, ceremoniously walking down the bank to the edge of the water, filling my cup, walking back up the bank and emptying the cup into my “cauldron.” I repeated this process until there was enough water with which to create my base. I added soil, which I stirred in sweeping circular motions with a stick. Stirring with a stick was elemental in the process. Sometimes the brew was thick, sometimes not.

I gathered ingredients as they spoke to me: the prickly sweet gum balls, which looked like futuristic modular housing for alien beings. These would invoke a higher knowledge, one with which this world is not acquainted. The seeds of maple trees resembling tiny fairy wings would, so I believed, imbue my potion with a bit of fairy magic: part mischief, part delight. The flower petals from the tulip poplar tree - sometimes whole blossoms - would be included. Bits of moss. Oak catkins, which when intact, resembled stringy green caterpillars. But I crushed the stamens releasing the granular bits of pollen and stirred them into my brew.

When I had been jolted out of a synergy, whenever I felt displaced or disconnected from everyone around me - but most importantly, from myself – I would make a potion. It wasn't even a conscious decision. I just found myself going to the creek bank and setting everything up. The potion's purpose, which was not known to me at the time, was simply to bring myself back to my core, back to my heart and spirit. It was to reunite me with magic and hence, with life.

Considering circumstances that arose when I was six, it makes sense to me that I would embark upon this practice of making witch's brews. I was deeply injured by someone I trusted. I was violated in a way only a woman can understand. I sought justice from my parents on this occasion but it was to no avail. Some things are better swept under a rug when you are a working parent, exhausted from long hours of a thankless job. It takes less effort to stifle a child and pretend nothing happened than to confront a wrong and stand up against it. I completely understand their perspective now. But at the time, I retreated to my own world of making something new from preexisting crap in an attempt to order my world, to make sense of it all.

Soon after that, I began to make potions. I cast spells of wellness out into the world. Spells of justice, of making things right. As I meticulously selected my ingredients, I felt a personal sense of well-being. I felt right with my world. As I combined my ingredients into the basin I'd planted in the earth, I felt my sense of wellness being projected out into the universe. I felt a powerful force field growing larger around me. I was creating a charm of protection, of self love, and of well-being. I see this now. Back then, I acted on impulse.

As I grew older, I fell out of the practice of casting spells. I followed in the footsteps of those who had come before me. I found employment in order to make money. I married a man. I gave birth to two children. The wildness within me was tamed. I stayed in a small box of acceptable behavior. And this box grew tighter and tighter, compressing me, stifling me.

My daughter began making potions around her sixth year. She gathered rainwater and rich black dirt from the woods. She too stirred her potions in a sweeping, circular motion with a stick. She selected tree bark and acorns, pine needles, leaves and rocks to go into her brew. One day, she found a dead bat in her brew. This was both alarming and mysterious. But we are taught by our Native Ancestors that bat medicine signifies a rebirth – the end of one way of life and the beginning of another. We were getting ready to move to a different state, away from the only home my daughter had known. And so it seemed that the bat had found it's way into the brew for a reason. I cried the day my daughter found the bat and I did not understand why.

In time, I reached a point in which I could no longer breathe. I could not speak. I felt a heaviness in my heart. It became necessary to break out of my small box and to set my heart free. I planted seeds and pulled up weeds. I caressed earth worms and carried water to my plants. I again experienced the sense of well-being that I had known as a child. I grew wild again.

We have a wild streak that should never be tamed, you and I. You will notice when people try to tame you. They will tell you that you can't do something that you want to do. They will tell you that you do not have the wisdom to make choices for yourself. They will tell you how to behave, how to dress, how to manipulate your face and hair to fit their definition of acceptable beauty. They will not see the beauty of your heart. They will not see the beauty of your wildness. It will be hard for you to keep your wild heart alive. But this is necessary to your survival.

When we lose our connection to nature and our urge to create, we lose our life force. We begin to feel sad and lonely, or strangely empty inside. This is because we are neglecting our wild and magical nature: that which creates a desire to dwell among forests, mountains, oceans and rivers, to interact with all living creatures and to make things.

This is why magic is necessary for you to practice. This is why you must make your own potions. It will help you to put order to a world which makes no sense. It is necessary to invoke the help of our Mother Earth because her strength cannot be conquered. Through Mother Earth, we experience the mysteries and wonders of nature. Through her, our urge to create grows strong.

The knowledge of crafting witch's brews can take many forms. Sometimes it is in the form of paint on paper. Sometimes it is in the form of a mask one paints on one's face. Sometimes, it takes the form of words on a page. It could be a cake you bake. Or a song you sing. You must find your own means of crafting a witch's brew. And you must hone your craft well. Do this for your own protection. Do this for your own sense of well-being. It is up to you to carry on the tradition of magic-making.  

Once in Love

I saw the ex-husband guy last night. No matter how much time passes, seeing him is awkward. Maybe the awkwardness arises from the realization that love doesn't die. No matter how much you wish it would. Or possibly it arises from the embarrassment of the memory of a certain time in which I lost control.

This morning, I am filled with a vague sadness. I long for a sense of peace or resolution that I believe will never come.

A wise woman once told me that we are born with a very particular need for a very particular kind of love. No one knows how to give us that love. Not our parents. Not our partners. Not our friends. The only person who knows how to give us the exact kind of love we need is ourselves.

In keeping with that notion, maybe certain relationships arise out of the need to manifest a very particular expression of love. Steve and I definitely created our own world. And for a time, it was a lovely world. Two truly beautiful and amazing beings came onto the planet as a result of that world: our daughter and our son. And this is an accomplishment. No matter what became of the relationship.

Still, it surprises me that there is a lingering grief. When will the grief die? All that I know to say is that Steve and I made a life together. And we created a forum in which to express a very particular kind of love. That expression was unique. It will never have another forum. Because Steve and I together were unique. And even though we cannot be together - because we just can't logically figure out how - the heartstrings are still entwined. And unfortunately, always will be.

I say unfortunately because in this moment, I feel a huge regret for losing the ability to manifest love with Steve. It seems there should be a lesson here. Probably it is so blatantly simple I just can't see it.

Another wise woman told me recently that no matter what your spiritual beliefs, the reality is this: we must move towards Love, towards acting from a place of Love. The opposite of Love is fear. So whenever we experience fear, remember that we want to operate from a place of Love. Choose Love over fear. Love is all you need.

One might say I chose fear over love in my relationship with Steve. But maybe a greater Love was calling me in its direction. By abandoning that relationship, I was forced to walk alone for a while. Over the years, a love and compassion for my self have unfolded. I think it was necessary to be alone to do this. And I think that through striving to know and love my self better, I found an important teacher: Danny Bayer, whose absolute love for, acceptance of and patience with me have helped me grow in ways unimaginable.

I believe it is still possible to summon Love from the ashes in which I attempt to smother it. I'll uncover it a little, dust it off, and see what I can see.