Red Tent

I am on hold

And there is blood everywhere

I am calling

I do not know what to do

There is no circle

there is not even one elder

to tell me what to do

to do with all of this blood

like Carrie

I wonder

if I am dying

Red tent

where is my red tent

where are the women, holding

showing me the way

when there is blood everywhere

and I do not know what to do

Speeding

I am speeding

back to the place that used to make me feel safe

there is an overworked woman receiving

the payment machines do not work

I try to pee into a cup but

only large globs of me expel

I do my best to mop up the mess

I put it in the bag

I am waiting

in a bright white room

two women enter, speaking kindly

sharing stories, sharing concern

helpful words

my pulse eases

this is a woman’s walk

here is my red tent

I am resting

back resting on the Earth

overhead ravens circling

my hands feel into grainy sand

my fear held by rooting

drops of witches purse on tongue

she is here

she holds me

here is my red tent

I am walking

tiny bunnies at my feet

she is sharing

of late night terrors

and blood and confusion and care

she is sharing of what finally saved her

we are talking

about blood as the ducks squawk

and the cherries bloom

here is my red tent

I am visioning, a journey

red rivers in mazes

Strophalos, Hecate’s wheel

tunnels of crimson surround me

a black Crone’s cloak placed over my brow

I am sharing

with my sisters

pearlescent seashells

Also doused in life’s liquid

laughing we chant

here is my red tent

I am passing

and they are here

I am on hold again

there is blood everywhere

I am calling

I do not know what to do

But I know I am here

with my witch’s purse

with my red earth

with my sisters

I am passing

i am dissolving

I am in the red tent

here, at the Crossroads

I am making my offering, terrified

To the Crone

Emanations

From the Zero

All pervasive, fullness, emptiness

Electric whizzings throughout the whole

Comes the One

Centration

The definition of Self

Some say this Self is unique

Never having existed before

A state-of-the-art singular embodiment

Of the Universe

This One, then

Becomes attracted to another

Be it in flesh or mind,

This One becomes the Two

Setting its focus, day and night

Something grows, resulting

Between the One and its focus of

Desire

This Two begets the Three

This Three

Formed by the uniqueness of the One

Formed by the desire and passion of the attraction

Begins to grow, stabilize

All is well

The garden flourishes,

Bright blossoms reveal

The Sun shines

Suddenly great tremors cross the land

Violent shooting crevices slicing

The petals, the careful tended formation

Torn to shreds

The Four becomes the Five

It always comes

This necessary destruction

Devastated, the One stares down

At the mess of the garden

That focus, that desire, that beauty

Gone, gone, gone

And has two choices

To wish for the Four, to pine

For what once was

Or to leap into the terrifying unknown

To trust, to release, to open

To what wants to now become

With risk of the next severity

To take on, and into the Six

Granted the abyss is crossed

(These choices do not always move forward)

Here the One lands in a shimmering light

Where all filaments connecting, felt, seen, heard

Beating, beaming, filling with gold

The Five has become the Six, overflowing

With the Great Fool’s knowing

That this too shall pass

Surely, as if by mode of prediction

The Six feels the illusory beams dissolving

The center standing strong

But all else, everywhere, flounders

Here again, a question

Dissolve into past’s bitterness

The inevitable victimhood of the Five

Or make another leap

Choose the vision quest

Dream a new dream to reach for,

Rack the mind for meaning

Turn inward, reflection

Reframing initiation

Again?

This then, is the choice of the Seven

Holding onto these reins

Staying centered, open, alive

Feeling the great void, the risks

All that has been

In the Silence, in the Seven

The One begins

To receive

Codes, new language, receiving

A symbolization of The Journey

It takes root, the One becomes scribe

Pages and pages of the tale

Begin to gather

In the Eight, the One somehow knows

The task will be to bring all of this into view

To give it life, to walk it out into the world

But first, the One also somehow conceives

That time in the Nine is necessary before the birth

The Nine of absorption, of preparation

Of sinking into subconscious terrors

That may protest

In the Nine, this One tends

To all that was forgotten

And, again as if prediction

The One arrives into the Ten

Feeling, knowing

It is time to bring their understandings forward

To serve, to deliver, to shine

This great brilliance they have maintained, bellowed

On their path of unfolding

Here, at the Ten

The One walks daily, humbly beaming

And knowing, that soon

Into the Zero

They will become again

If then,

This whole structure is truth

We can see that to

Know Thyself

We can see that to

Follow true desire, true passion

Is what turns this whole Wheel

So if it fits, if these words somehow spark alive

Tend to that unique flame within you

Follow its yearnings, imaginings

Even if it is so very dark

Believe and trust it is there, with all of your will

And that you too, have a great and burning orb within you

Keeping all of your planets alive

Follow it, let it lead you through the night

And may the journey of Emanation hold you

On this wild, devastating, brilliant and unbelievably

Beautiful ride

Reaching Back

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Suddenly, somehow

There is a Request

One domino leads to another and

I am reaching back

Into the files, credits, teachings

Into the litany of practitioners

Into the words of Hetfield, my brother

Into the dreams, showing that night I couldn’t remember

Into the accomplishments I left behind

Into the white halls,

The numbed heart,

The locked doors

Suddenly, somehow

I am reaching back

I am remembering

The pain is so bad it is coming out of my eyeballs

I try to put on my mask, plug up the outflow

But around its edges, through its cracks

Spurts vicious rivers, uncontrollable

Coming, it just keeps coming

Pummeling through my waking days

Startling from deep in dream

Demanding, demanding

That I reach back

Somehow, suddenly

I find myself breathing

Breathing with a rock close to my heart

Breathing her pain in, deep deep into my center

Holding it, transforming it, sending it back

To her as Love

To her as peace

To her, hoping that at some point

She will be free from suffering

Free from pain

Somehow, suddenly

The crashing, sloshing waves

They keep coming

And I am on the phone

Getting evaluated

Answering the questions

Reaching back

Suddenly, somehow

I wonder

I keep wondering

With this rock by my heart

Breathing

Breathing from her, into her

I wonder if this pain

And all this wetness

Is her

Reaching out to me

Incapacitating me

Limiting me, all my lofty flight plans

And distractive mental menageries

Ripping me, from all my avoidance cords

Spiraling me, back into

Her

Is this all her?

Calling me back home?

Calling me to review?

Calling me to pay attention to the only thing that matters

This soul

Finding me, her begging me to find

That which will help her, me, smile, feel safe

And free and real again?

Suddenly, somehow

There is a Request

One domino leads to another

And I am reaching back

I am remembering

Soggy and writhing

Hoping, hoping, praying

That this isn’t just a meaningless chamber I will have to endure

Hoping, hoping, praying

It is her

Her

It is her

In this throbbing torment

Calling me home

The Cage, Rage

*A previous post/poem about The Cage focused on a sun-shiny view of suffering. This version is a bit more real.

From galactic extensions of nebular beingness

That expansive pulsing once merged with all

Creating and destroying simultaneously

Everywhere everything all at once

To this something, condensed

Here in flesh-form

Likewise pulsing, but contained in this one

From this star-stretched awesomeness

Into the bloody walls of placenta

Receiving there, smoke-infused emaciated platelets

Receiving there, visceral waves of despair

Her chanting, chanting for death

And then at times, a momentary mad and brilliant hope

This was, the first Cage

Then, the shut door

Then, the stained stucco plaster

Then, the squeaky bed, and book

And windows to gaze into fantasy gardens

Her, outside

Rage and steam hurling

Her, pounding on locked steel

Although now free from that visceral womb

I could still hear Her, chanting death

These childhood walls confining, and protecting

This, was the second Cage

Slowly my mind

And body began to falter

Introjection of Her chanting

The Death, it took over

Days darkened, a veil of forgetfulness

Depression became the third Cage

From here it was rituals

Measuring, weighing, restricting

Lifeforce and will dwindling

Beating on Her doors I could not control

Pleading, pleading

To just live a life again

Free

Watching myself dying by my own hand

Operated by Her puppetry

Eating Disorder was the fourth Cage

A temporary, illusory freedom

Came with blue and white pills

And ironically, the beige walls of a sanitarium

Safe from Her, safe from my own suicide

Suddenly it felt like I could do anything

Sun brighter, wings stretching

I thought I was flying

Flying, flying, living, living

Joy and sex and art and Love

The pills, those diagnostic walls

Were my fifth Cage

At some point I realized

The fakeness of my existence

And once again I began banging

On these bars,

These twisted pharmaceutical stories

And thought, once away from it all

Freedom would come

Freedom!

But to my dismay

Slowly it came creeping

This body

This room

This Mind

This Cage

Her screaming

Her death chants

All came rushing

Back into view

Suffocating

The Pen

I found the Pen

In one of those mad rays

And for a short period thought it, too

Would free me

Together we expressed and the bars seemed to fade

I thought, the Pen

Was my key out of this dungeon

But then, one stormy January evening

A flash of lightning entered my body

Flat on the floor, terror seizing

The Pen was swallowed

By the howling, hell-building beasts

Once more

This, enter, my —-th Cage

The one I am currently struggling

Inside

This pain

It has created double-reinforced

Steel around every and all things of joy

I cannot see anything but the way they

Glisten, taunting

I try

With the decades of experience in

Knowing how to suffer

To bring myself present

To accept, to surrender

To see what the gift is

To see why I have found myself here, again

But

I cannot

I cannot do this anymore

I find myself bawling

I find myself praying, spit-slobbered

I find myself opening to the light of the universe

For some miraculous healing

I call upon the angels I’ve never believed in

I call upon it all

I wait, and the same bars stare

Glistening, taunting

Glistening

Taunting

So much builds up inside of me

That I begin to pound

Like She pounded on my childhood door

I pound to get out, like She pounded to get in

I scream, like She screamed

I chant death

Like She chanted death

Anger

Rage

Will this

Be the key?

Will this

Be the key?

From galactic extensions of nebular beingness

That expansive pulsing once merged with all

Creating and destroying simultaneously

Everywhere everything all at once

To this something, condensed

Here in flesh-form

Likewise pulsing, but contained in this one

Who called me here?

Did I agree to this madness?

Was I forced into this body

Sent to suffer, and wander and

Sludge blind and meaningless throughout this world?

I do not know

I hope someday to see

The way out

The way in

The reason why

I have created, or found myself in

This fucking

Keyless

Glistening

Taunting

Cage

~Images from Tarot of The Spirit by Joyce and Pamela Eakins, and from Pinterest

Grimoire: Sacred Space

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What if

The deep hunger for emptiness

The torturous aims to achieve

Were the only ways she knew

To create space for herself, within herself

The only way

To approximate a clearing of the maelstrom

Energies

Voices

Visions

Ancestral beggings

Unaligned cords and commitments

His energy

Swirling like a tangle of poison

A burden, forced to carry

In her pit

What if

This was the only way she knew

To feel clear?

What if

Releasing cellular matter

Kilo by kilo

Actually felt like releasing

Old imprinted matter

That no longer serves?

Matter she had no choice to receive

Mother, her energy

Her energy

What if

She could create

An equally powerful tool

To clear, to clean, to build

Space

Without destruction

To create

Space

Without suffering

To create

Space

For her full, joyous being

Kicking those freeloaders out of the window

To let in the light

To take up root and grow

Large

She only knew

The tool of going without

She only knew

The feeling of nothing

Hovering in her stomach

As a sort of power

To claim her space

But ironically

This tool, precisely applied

Only destroyed her

What if, instead

She poured her obsessive, meticulous

Attention

On magick

On psychic realm protections

On creating shimmering boundary

Crafting space

Space

For the altars–

The Dark Goddess Altar

The Inner Child Altar

The Altar of the Shadowy realms, exalted

Occupying her hands

And her minutes

And her mind

With teachings

And community

And reminders

That her body is not broken

And that she is not confused

And that this roiling mass within her

Does not belong,

And that she has the power to clear it

To claim her own space

To tend her own altars

To make room for the brilliance of life

Urging to live through her in Beauty

What if, instead

Of arranging every single molecule

Every single gram, second, kilo

To somehow engender the feeling

Of the deep, deep certain emptiness of hunger

What if, instead

She occupied magician’s mind

Throwing down pathwork

Fighting valiantly for

The creation of true space

Sacred space

Defending

An incomparable

Uniqueness

A remarkable

Glistening starlight

A temple, lined with offerings

Her sacred space

Her

Sacred

Space

Of Skin

Grimoire: Bone Magic

Something a little different this week, my friends! Here is an excerpt from the semi-fictional grimoire in my upcoming novel, The Kitchen Witch. Enjoy!

BONE MAGIC: HONORING THE LOVE OF BONES

There is a particular fondness for bones amongst many with eating difficulties, mostly in seeing them jut out from oneself as proof of ultimate thinness. While glorifying thin bodies is obviously a twisted carryover from our fashion worlds, I also feel it has more sacred roots.

In many cultures around the world, there is what is known as the Crone figure. This has often been portrayed as the ugly, wicked old woman in the forest in our contemporary times. However, in other cultures this archetype held great power and respect rather than disgust. The Crone symbolized facing death, destruction and the dying of the old to make room for the new. Many stories described her, sitting by a fire, throwing sticks and stones for divination, her countenance adorned with various feathers and skeletal pieces from animals. She was also often skeletal looking, not for fashion’s sake, but to depict one on the edge of life and death, working with those mysteries.

The Crone worked with death, strove to understand it. Her bones, both protruding from her body and adorning her body, represented this connection, this acceptance of this great Mystery of our experience as humans.

The Crone honored the bones. I’d like to propose that one struggling with a restrictive eating disorder, who spends so much effort in looking for, searching for her bones, is a Crone in hiding. I propose she is not looking for thinness for the sake of being thin, but that she is searching for this Crone within her, to see its evidence within her and the collective psyche. She does not know it, but if she survives the initiation, she will become the Crone.

So, in honor of the Crone, in honor of our searching, starving, scratching, and seeking her to reveal herself through our skin, I present this chapter. It outlines some ways to take this love of bones, and this yearning for Crone, and to embrace it, create with it, learn from it in life-giving ways. That instead of twisting this deep yearning into a practice that is literally killing off the potential to honor the Crone’s wisdom, instead we will embrace it.

Grimoire: Honor The Need

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Honor the need

A need to feel clean

A need to create safe containers

A need to clear toxic energy

A need to be involved in ritual

A need to be near the line

Of life and death

A need to see the bones

A need for a way

For a simple, primal constitution

To deal with choice overwhelm

In a world with too much everything

A need for clarity

A need for an altered state

A need to not feel so fucking lost and confused

A need to find a way, any way

To say NO

These needs

Once funneled into decimating compulsions

Found a way to be transferred

These needs

Honored for their message

Somehow transformed

Into wild and witchy practices

Done naked in the moonlight

The need to clean, cleanse, clear

Found other ways to release

Found other ways to abstain

Found other ways to create space

For vision, and safety and the

Ability to scream no

Found other ways

Instead of this flesh-theater

The daily behaviors, and the stage on which it

Struggled, desperately, to communicate

I sit at my altar

Cleansing smoke swirling in the air

Measuring my ingredients down to the gram

Chemical reactions will not occur

Without the precision I’ve honed

This is necessary

For alchemy

Humming, chanting

I use sharp knives

To slice through invisible cords

That attempt to suck my lifeforce

From all directions

I cut them, I clear them, I burn them

Have found another way

Ritual

I write out my fears

Cleansing

Measuring

Simplifying those words

Putting containers around them

Saying it all, as intensely as I starved it

Creating a safe space

A container for the raw truths

To finally find your eyes

Ritual

I press record

Blink, blink red on the microphone

I transform dark emotions

Screaming

Screaming out

What I used to use withering to express

Ritual

I hunt down carcasses

I watch the skin peel off bone

Bubbling in brine

I hold the festering mass

And finally, the clean remnants

I wear upon my chest

These are only a few of the ways

Honoring the need

And transforming them

A need to feel clean

A need to create safe containers

A need to clear toxic energy

A need to be involved

In Ritual

A need to be near the line

Of life and death

A need to see the bones

A need for this simple, primal constitution

A need for clarity

A need for an altered state

A need to not feel so fucking lost and confused

A need to find a way, any way

To say NO

I’ve found it

I keep finding it

I’ll probably always be at work

In this candle-lit laboratory of the imperfect realms of healing

But first

And always

And forever

I remember I must

Honor

The need

Quickening

Blessed be the Quickening

Blessed be the life force rising

Blessed be the cold and sacred darkness

That gives pause and time

For the grief

For the pain

For the disbelief,

The hopelessness,

The fear

And then…

In the deep, deep place

Where nothing seems like it will ever grow again

Blessed be the Quickening

Blessed be the life force rising

Blessed be

As it always has been

The Return

Merry Imbolc

Blessed Year of The Snake

Holy Candlemass

Grimoire: Start Where You Are

“But what about the food?”

The young girl asked

The old, wise eyes gazing back upon her

“All of these philosophical waxings

All of this spiritual idealism

But what

About

The

Food??

I’ve talked too long

And thought too much

And tried my best

To daydream of better days

Beyond the constant need to measure

Beyond the fear of eating different foods

Beyond the rituals, the timings, the incessant hopelessness

That I’ll never be free

But I can’t see

I can’t see beyond

This cage

What

About

That?!?”

The old woman smiled through the bars

Deep compassion and a wry spice, wrinkling

She took a breath, and said

“Start where you are, dearie

That’s howcome you can’t see out

You must

Start inside

“Start inside, blessing all the furniture

That makes up this sacred mind-home

Although it is a cage

It has, after all

Kept you very safe.”

Peppered braid moved across shoulder

As she looked out to field

“If you measure, bless those cups

If you weigh, bless that scale

If you time-tick, give offerings to the sacredness of Chronos

If you eat the same thing

Every single day

Scour the grimoires

For the enchanting qualities of these foods

See where they are speaking magic

To you

Stir clockwise

Prayers for freedom, release

Into the liquids you can consume

Carve spells for change, vision

Across the same, hard bar

You consume over and over again

Like the slaves in deep dark territory

Rolling cigars with dirt and leaves for Legba

Start…

Where you are.”

The girl looked at the woman

Who stared out to the field

Girl-mouth agape

And devouring

The words she never knew

She needed to hear

Those blasphemous and wild

Life-giving, not enabling

Trickster words

“Start

Where you are”

And so,

She retreated from the small opening

That looked out to the woman

And her eyes, and her smile, and her

Spice

She turned and looked around

At the blank and dismal walls

Of her tiny, tiny world

She lit a candle

Holding it up to it all

And start

She did

2025=Year Of The Hermit

~image from *Tarot of The Spirit* by Joyce and Pamela Eakins

2025
2+0+2+5=9
9=IX=The Hermit

2025=The Year of The Hermit

The Hermit retreats to look within
They know that the microcosm
Dances with the macrocosm
They know that when trouble is brewing
It is time to look within

As within, so without
Personal problems
Collective problems
Like the monster in the dream
They venture in
To face them

These seismic, mycelial ripplings
They call The Hermit inside
The Hermit believes
This work, in caverns of deep
Can affect the whole

They go within
Scouring values, cosmologies,
Traumas
What and how
They are absorbing
They learn to wield
The Force

Microcosm, macrocosm
As within, so without
With the cloak of the Great Mother
With the powers of The Moon
The Hermit
That Dweller Among The Ruins
They go
Inside

~image from Tarot of The Spirit by Joyce and Pamela Eakins