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Thanksgiving, Gratitude and Whatever

Thanksgiving, gratitude

Whatever

This week

I sit and remember

The litany of what I have and hold

That so many will never see

The warmth

The shelter

The creamy bittersweet reishi-infused liquids cascading over tongue

The lack of pain

Or extreme imprisonment

The solitude

The health

The vehicle to transport me into varied realities of my choosing

The consciousness

To transform pain to blessing

Almost instantaneously

The wise, deep, cackling crone

Deep within, everpresent

The guides

The teachers

The plentiful food on my plate

The laughter

The sunrise

The immediate access to webbings of knowledge

The freedom to say

“I want a relationship

Where we’re aware and committed to

Working on our shit together”

And the self-love to not care

If the listener runs screaming haha

.

The voice

The sound

The art that now can come through unobstructed

Through this vessel

The witnesses, holding deeply

The love, the carved out

Empty full compassion pulsing

.

But

Whatever

What lies beneath

On this day of great trespassing

Aware of that too

Not gratefully bypassing

The millions of original beings

Paved over, passed over

Starved, forgotten, shackled

Extinguished, tricked, lied to

Forced to psychically submit

Gutted and soul starved

.

Healing the Soul Wound

Healing the Soul Wound

Healing the Soul Wound

Do we now see it?

Can this day be of gratitude

That we might just be seeing it

Grateful that the festering wounds

Repressed rage, bigotry

Unspoken for centuries

Are being released

Sometimes uncouth, often offensive

But released

Like Wednesday Addams, smiling

Match in hand

Thankful we can burn that old shit to the ground?

.

Thankful

We may be seeing the People

The human and non-human People

These beings, given Voice

Rising up

Transforming?

.

But

Whatever

Giblet laden gravies

Shimmering, reverberating

From distant relative argument

Over recent propositions

And how Sally should have never bought that car

And did you hear the price of gas

And how hard it is to build anything anymore

Without those codes gauging you

Lalala dancing words on aching surfaces

While Sally vomits in the bathroom

While Uncle Jim hides in the car

Taking another hit

To make it through

.

Whatever

Both eyes open

To my extreme Wealth

In contrast to many

As well as the bowed down

Hoping, praying, singing

To our seeing

To our healing

To our waking

.

Grateful

Thankful

Whatever

The Soul Wound

The Soul Wound

The Soul Wound

Featured

The Dance

There is a part

That wants to lay it all out before him

In fresh bloomings

Blow by blow

Intensity of the path she’s led

Situation after situation

Violation after violation

Allowance after allowance

Twisted shreds and fallouts

Visceral evidence of the place she stands

.

There is a wild, unbridled force

That wants to see his eyes

To feel his heart

To know his Truth

In the face of the litany

In the face of the pain

To see if he turns

To see if he shudders

To see if he

Stays

.

Hanging by slippery threads

On this fire escape ladder

It’s a long way down

If she surrenders to the fall

.

Scrambling

Anxious

Terror

Old, tattered parts come forward

Protect or die!

Protect or die!

Get it all over with, now

Show the portal he’ll enter

See his choice

With no delay

See if he’ll stay

Hoping he’ll go

To calm these demons

To calm these demons

.

This, of course, is such a metal way

Teeth dripping saliva

And balls to the wall

Go hard or go home

This part wants to live it

Speak it

Shove it

These rumblings have been waiting

These rumblings designed

To push away

.

And yet

Hidden, ephemeral

There is this other, more gentle force

Gentle, but not weakened

Gentle, but not naive

Gentle, and Knowing

Who appreciates

The Dance

.

She wants to unpeel, slowly

Revealing layer by layer

Watching his eyes

Feeling his breath

Tuning into the particles

As the skins gradually fall away

Microcosmic realities

Dancing, dreaming

Mysteries touching

At eonic speed

.

She is an old part

She is a deep part

The one who wants to witness his music

Deep bass resonance on golden crisscross strings

Who wants to hold the gentle fierce line

Of looking for hours into

Trailing light tendrils

Along shivering surface

Stepping back from this Mystery

Allowing space

A roaring, intimate silence

To hold the shimmering portals

Of beauty

And pain

Yet to become

.

She is an old part

She is a wise part

She is a deep part

This smiling-eyed Dakini

Will She have voice in the great trembling?

Will She stand, in her Love, gleaming?

Will She cradle the demons

While making room for the Other?

This time

The wildness

The fierceness

Channeled not to push away

But to slowly

Gently

Fiercely

Pull them into

The Dance

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Pain Body

There was one thing you said

(It actually pissed me off at the time)

That I now see is true

“There’s such an intense pain-body around you”

.

I dismissed it

As your rationalization, jab

For why I didn’t want to be involved

A unicorn dancing once more

In a loveless matrimonial tie

.

While perhaps that’s correct

While perhaps a wise woman sensing

The statement you hoisted

That statement is true:

I

Like so many

Have an enormous, unexplainable field

An invisible armor, always at the ready

To attack

Anything that comes in too close

And reminds of unconscious catastrophy

Its hairs bristle, teeth expose

Protecting, protecting

.

Unable to manage, primal

Mind goes murky, tongue ties

Frustration sets in

As I feel the rage of eons

Simmering, thrashing in my field

.

She roars, silent

Recounting unintelligible

Trauma chants

Pushing like the crown

Too large to exit the canal

Nowhere to go

Wailing

(External trained and unrevealing)

Against her ancestral cage

.

To hold and dismantle these plates

Requires more

And to this point

I’ve found nothing

I don’t want to be your mistress

Your fill-in, rebound lay

This same repeating pattern

Pulling me into its spiral

To learn over and over again

.

I bump against it, attempting

And am taken down repeatedly

I back away

I slither

Away from this gigantic roaring hoarde

Ignoring, avoiding

Ignoring, avoiding

In my temple

Of ritual and aloneness

.

Pretty good

At controlling

This pain body activation

Only marginally triggered by passersby

But when You come in close

When you completely step over Her line

(Most just avoid Her quills)

Here I am

Aware of Her pulsing, raging, fiery breath

Dominating and confusing reality

Taking over

Emanating miasmic sludge

My power lost, understanding decimated

Head hung low

Cup clanking on prison steel

Each time

She’s here waiting for me

For You

.

This pain body, hovering, enmeshed

Ironically

I’ve attended others’ for so long

But Her? Rarely do I hold Her, fully

Explore Her, listen to Her

How could I?

Like the Void, She’s massive and yet elusive

Nothing’s prepared me for this task

I stay safe, in patterns and routines

Of nun-monkhood

While She waits, simmering

Simmering

.

This Pain Body

When You come in close

When You completely step over Her line

(Most just avoid Her quills)

Here I am

Aware of Her pulsing, raging, fiery breath

Dominating and confusing reality

Taking over

.

It’s true

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A Ritual Of Death

Oh Great Ones

Well and healed lineages from Beyond

Help me, help me

To bring Death

.

Death to the old way

Death to the outworn patterns

Carving catabolic caverns in my heart

To the demons, circling

Ripping quivering potential

To shreds

.

O Great Ones

Well and healed lineages from Beyond

Help me craft, by candle

A ritual of their Death

.

A ritual of honor

Of the many ways they’ve served

Of the protection, shielding

I’ve needed for so long

The Old Ones, shrouding

I require you no more

It is time

.

Help me

Craft ritual of their sacred slaying

Psychopomps, I call you

To guide them Home

Beyond this body

Standing now, in safety

.

Oh Great Ones

Well and healed lineages from Beyond

Help me line the altar with silver blessings

To spread the path with dark kisses and heart

Sword gleaming, turning

Sending, parting

Across and through the veils

.

Help me

Help me let them

Help me let them

Help me let them die

Help me, release, return, unemcumber

These loyal soldiers

Give them honorable Death

So that I

May Live

.

Oh Great Ones

Well and healed lineages from Beyond

I am ready

I am willing

Like a great tree,

Sad to see its cloaking

Release

Sail

Fall

Die

Transform

Sad to see

This turning

Of such loyal, long time protectors

But knowing

Knowing

The time has come

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Death Lodge

How shall we begin?

We begin

At the end

The end of all which needs to die

The end

Of the beginning

.

She doesn’t stare straight at me

But I know, I know

She’s calling

Pay attention, She says

It is time

To die

.

Now I’ve heard this before

She’s no stranger in these parts

But as always, when She speaks

I listen

.

Such an odd concept

To have to die

To live

To have to let go of it all

In order to truly embody

.

Listening, I’m listening

But I

Am confused

So many layers already shed

What more do I have to release?

The traditional path

Identity, belongings, desires

Already decomposing miles back

On this Wanderer’s road

.

So I ask Her, humbly

As I accept my place in the Death Lodge

What else is there to lose?

And of course

I know, I know

There is always another layer

Hiding

.

What then, is this layer

I cannot drum it up from my mind

I look around me blankly

And the only thing I can do

Is ask

The only think I can do

Is listen

The only thing I can do

Here in this Death Lodge

Is open to the Way

The Way hiding

The tendrils grasping

The deep and precious rootlets

That don’t want to be seen.

Way beneath, in this colonized earth

Lurks these questions

Lurks these answers

Lurks these ancestral memories

Traumas

Waiting

.

Here in the Death Lodge

Cailleach laughing

She tells me not to worry

She tells me, simply

To ask

To listen

And to begin

.

~Image https://www.elitarotstrickingly.com/blog/the-tarot-of-eli-the-druid-craft-tarot-key-13-death-and-the-thoth-tarot-atu depicting “Death” from The Druid Craft Tarot by Philip Carr-Gomm.

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~Questing~

Vision

Vision, Quest

Vision Questing for a Vision

.

Crying

Crying, Quest

Crying Questing for a Vision

.

Fasting

Fasting, Quest

Fasting Questing for a Vision

.

Fasting

Fasting?

Does this shadow hold the keys?

Full participation

In village witness

Ceremonial holding

Mythological re-weaving

Does this shadow hold the keys?

.

Far off in dusty deserts

This rite beckons

But not now, not yet

For now, it is receiving

.

Receiving

Receiving, Quest

Receiving as Questing for a Vision

Fullness

Fullness, Quest

Fullness Questing for a Vision

Sitting with waves of terror

Receiving, not fasting, cracking open

Feeding, ceremony

On wild lands, hawk and vulture witness

Sitting out, sitting in

Circle, Utiseta

.

Utiseta, faring forth

Journeying, singing ancient emblems

Into Winds

With fullness, receiving

With pleasure, receiving

With sacred witness, receiving

Midnight forests holding me

.

Sitting out

Taking in

Singing out

Receiving

Fullness

Receiving

Whispers

Receiving

Lightning

Vision

Vision

.

Questing

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Freedom

She rises, arms outstretched

A bright beam penetrates the pane

Lap warming

A moment, with feline vibrations

Soft fur, gliding beneath palm

Transitioning, transitioning

Breath

Dream to waking

.

A vision emerges, the image nation beckoning

A purpose, a plan, a grand plot for the day

It fills her with Fire, an excitement for living

To do this one thing, this one thing

In the minutes of the sun

.

Hand gliding

Across feline vibrations

All mindforms redirect to this creation

And a deep sigh comforts for what is beyond

She pauses, she opens, she forms

.

Without deliberation, she’s now in the kitchen

Feeling into what deliciousness can be received, as fuel

Her senses guide her, plump peaches gleam

The cool, smoothness of vanilla to greet them

She feels, with her mind

A dancing across her tongue

.

Instantaneous

Without deliberation

She’s pulling them close, plopping and slicing

Swirling admiration of how chunk and silk and silver

Arrange in vessel

.

Together, inside her, without deliberation

A deep sigh comforts for what is entering

Fuel for the larger, the beyond, that which keeps beckoning

The vision, beyond, this sense explosion

Calls to her

.

Satiation guides, and she rises

Now letting the cool water trickle over

Clearing, clarifying the weighty brown ceramic

The spoon

Gleaming, gleaming in her wet hands

.

And pulsing, now, stronger

The visions, grand purpose

Call her, undeniable strength

Away from the kitchen

She knows not when she’ll return

She trusts it

And full belly moves into

Manifesting the dream

.

The sensation explosion

Controlling, plotting, leading into, moving out of

No longer is all that matters

The visions, grand purpose

Calls her, undeniable strength

Away from the kitchen

She knows not when she’ll return

The feline, vibration, reminds her

She trusts it

And full belly moves into

Manifesting the dream

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~Messenger~

Somedays I feel you

So close

Soft, ancient feathers inside thighs

We’re soaring, lightning

From Mystery to Manifest

Vibrations, great warbles

Shudder through my casing

My fingers, gripping

Ever fearing the end

.

Riding, this fire

Mouth open

I remember aliveness

I remember purpose, initiatic

I remember voice, cawing

I remember…alive, clear

.

This

So unlike the Darkness

The stillness

Etheric goo of Void

More often than not

My thighs feel Nothing

Aside from the air

Hovering, directionless

.

There, more often than not

Is vast, open, empty space

Potential, and

Mystery

With no function

In such embodied worlds

.

Hovering, this potential

Yearns for your feathers

Pressing between me, inside

To ride, to become

To carry this Mystery, on lightning

Skilled

To its place in the world

Reception, form, purpose, home

.

Ten stations, looming

And dull eggtooth

Pecking

Thickness overwhelming

And aching

To ride you

Sounding Mystery

Sounding Message

Riding, lightning

Messenger

Messenger

Messenger

Come

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Returning

Returning, returning

Always keep returning

To the scene of the crime

Struggling

Scraping

Thrashing

Pressing

Wailing

Against these walls

.

For a moment or two

The box becomes bigger

And ahhhh, sigh…..

.

But returning

Returning

At some point always

Returning

To the scene of the crime

.

Commonly, to push through

Ensures probable long-term

Shifting

Perseverance, toughness

Not letting walls win

.

Unsuccessful, upon pressure

Over and over

Returning

Returning

Always returning

Unsuccessful,

Lurching in abysmal hopelessness

.

Returning, another round

Broken, open

Tools, spent

The question starts forming

Why

Does this body

Want to go back?

Spirals, spiraling

Years of pursuit and defeat

And now

The question

Is there wisdom in the

Returning

Is there wisdom in the

Struggle

Is there wisdom, hidden

In the symptom of return?

Turning towards

Instead of pushing forward

The question, holding

The question, exploring

The question, honoring

The question

Asking

Why do you keep returning?

Why do I keep returning?

Is there a who, urging returning?

Same numbers

Same boxes

Same terror

Hovering ’round

The scene

Of the crime

.

Returning, returning

Spiral, spiraling

Wisdom, not pushing

Wisdom, turning into

Wisdom, asking

Wisdom?

Asking

Asking

Returning

Returning

Returning

“Recovery” Oatmeal and the Witchy Nutritionist

Photo by Sora Shimazaki on Pexels.com

Fears

Of too much

And not enough

On the one hand

I see just how far I’ve come

Yet on the other

The same old structures

Circle round and round

.

Recovery?

Re-cover

Me?

Un-cover

Dis-cover

Alchemy?


Silky oat water

Slurping

An unfamiliar lacing

Coconut oil, savory

And a thickness

The watery gruel

More substantial


What will this recipe

Cause in my stomach

For years eating different

Will this set of measurements

Bring pain?


As the chirping

Of the dark morning

And swaying periodic chime

Surrounds me

I risk, I open

To this momentous

Yet sorry challenge

(while

the

world

goes

hungry)


And when it’s over

There’s no pain at all

Dark Goddess

She whispers in my ear

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This week, my self-assigned re-enactment was of a memory of eating oatmeal.

But not just any oatmeal–this oatmeal was what I deemed at the time as “Recovery” oatmeal. Far from the low-calorie, Quaker Oats package with only water to swim in. This oatmeal was laced with silky almond butter, coconut oil and a hefty serving of chewy flattened groats.

The recipe for this oatmeal was provided to me decades ago whilst under the care and guidance of an eating disorder nutritionist. I’d hired her to get me out of the underworld once again. But she was no ordinary nutritionist…she was a witch.

She called herself a Kitchen Witch. She encouraged me to sit with the pain of eating more, kneeling at a Dark Goddess altar she’d had me create to give the lessons of Anorexia a home. She encouraged me to track the moon, to honor the time when I would be menstruating but wasn’t, to create a ritual to hold space for it to come.

She grew and crafted Vitex and Skullcap tincture to help my hormones, to soothe my anxiety. She encouraged me to honor the pain.

It was this deep experience I was attempting to re-create, eating this recipe and sitting with the pain once more, honoring it, listening to it.

Yet as I was preparing the meal, I was amazed at the amounts she’d listed in her original recipe. Today, these seemed like measly amounts. I remembered writhing in pain after eating said recipe…how could this be true?

I recalled how I teetered on the brink in those days, and how lucky I felt to have met this witchy woman at a women’s herbal conference, she coming upon my sobbing mess while ladies of all shapes and sizes frolicked merrily around me. I remembered the depth in which she looked at me, I remember feeling held.

I remembered feeling courage to do anything to face this seeming demon inside of me once again. I remember her holding me–and it–with such fierce care it astounded and changed my perspective forever.

And so it was with that heart that I made this meal that day so many years ago, and braced myself for the pain. And pain there was–for hours and hours. I was somehow able to hear her voice, this nutritionist witch, and maybe the Dark Goddess too.

I was able to hear them guiding me to sit with the pain, to honor it, rather than the usual running, starving, anything I had done to make it go away. I remember being with that pain so deeply, deeper than I’d ever been. Understanding it as not just “too much food” but as an intense, unconscious trauma reaction.

For some reason, fullness was avoided at all costs, and I had not at this point taken a conscious look at the this reason. I just remained confused at why if I wasn’t worried about my weight, why the fullness terrified me so much. Why I needed a treatment center, or hospital, to help me face it and not run. This woman, and perhaps the Wise Darkness, spoke to me that day, through my sitting with the gurgling mass of oats in my abdomen. That day I learned something profound and new, even though I could not put it into words.

This time, while preparing the recipe that triggered such intensity, I was nervous. I was perplexed. What would this meal bring, even though it didn’t seem to be such a challenge volume wise anymore? I found myself wondering if I might constellate discomfort regardless because I was expecting it, exploring it in this exercise.

Yet slurping and chewing the oilier, thickened mass, I found myself listening to my body, listening for it to tell me to stop, listening for the pain. But it didn’t, and the pain wasn’t there. My body was…still hungry.

And I knew what the lesson was. The lesson from the re-enactment was to show me how far I’ve come, even though I still measure my food. The lesson was to help me remember the deep teachers that have met me along the way and what insanity my body has gone through with me.

I spent the time after the meal thinking about all of this, grateful, yet still perplexed at not really knowing how to describe just what has happened between then and now (aside from some obvious metabolic rehab), but that a lot has. “Recovery” isn’t quite the term I’d use, but something momentous has alchemized within me.

So there I sat in the early morning hours, darkness still hanging heavy in the sky, and thought of Her. In all Her forms, that has come to guide me through this storm. At one moment, posing as the enemy, and at another a helping hand. How She has always been with me, teaching.

And then, I got up to eat some more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*Thanks for reading. Please join me next week as I re-create the food memory, “Tuna Wrap.”

**If you’d like to learn more about the Food Memories book I am referencing for these posts, you can support a small bookstore by purchasing it here: 

https://www.ebookwoman.com/book/9781689839075

or by searching for Food Memories by Reagan Lakins on any major book selling website.