Grimoire: Coven

Wandering for decades

Through the murky bogs of normality

Yearning, keening, comparing

Kicking, screaming, wailing

Reducing, rebelling

To find my place in it all

Somehow I’ve arrived

At the Order of The Zig Zag Path

Wolf-like, growling

Strange wings, cawing

Occasional hands

Have dared touch my flesh

Steering, holding, guiding

The realness of them, shocking

They lift me

Then

They are gone

Loosely, we are networked

By a fine, gossamer thread

A webbing, worldwide

A simple tug (I have to ask)

Will bring these hands

To mine in times of need

Many years I’ve travelled

And lines of insanity I’ve toed

Wandering far from this web

Withering, dissolving, slobbering

Blade in hand, at the ready

When always, they are there

It’s taken half a century

To see

That without this web

That without this

Coven

I would never have made it

As odd birds cannot fly to safety

Alone

There is always a wind

There is always a strange rising that guides them

There is always

Another

Without this,

Chilling winters

Turn beating hearts to stone

We need bodies

We need circling

We need

Support

Especially those called

To walk the edges

To take study in risky hedges

To turn the different Way

We need

Coven

Coven may sound

Like some fantastical irrational

Dreaming

And in part, we are

But this webbing also includes

The real rays of diagnostic

The trained elders guiding mind

The white walls of safe places

When blood may come

From our own hands

These too

Are Coven

For those who have been called to

(Most likely kicking and screaming)

The Order of The Zig Zag Path

Cannot do this

Alone

We have both rational, hard structure

And spirit guided deep wildness

To weave as we navigate the road

Where nothing is normal

Where pain cannot be dissected and removed

Where reoccurring trials of the flesh

Are seen as lessons, and gods, and great

Rootlets winding through ancient futures

This

Without Coven

The mind, in the stew of normality

Will be torn, reduced, tamed

Confused, anesthetized

Until our wild eyes and hearts

That know The Way

Expire in the freezing snow

Odd birds cannot fly to safety

Alone

There is always a wind

There is always a strange rising that guides them

There is always

Another

Without this,

This Coven

Mass hysterical illusions

Those chilling winters

Will

Turn our beating hearts

To stone

Find the webbing, dear one

Tug it

Let yourself

Be held

And diagnosed

And nurtured

And guided

And re-membered

And dissolved

By the straight numbers and the tests

Keeping your shining organs alive

And by the very, very strange ones

The ones you know

Let yourself land here

In Coven

Not

Alone

Grimoire: Holy Roots

This is not a glorification

But an exploration

Questioning

What lies beneath

The veneer of psychiatric diagnosis

The attempt to box in

The wideness, the vastness, the depth

Of what a soul is truly living

In this lifetime

Across centuries

In their own bodies

And perhaps

The traumas and wisdoms inherited

How can this be lassoed into a code

This is not a glorification

But an exploration

Questioning

For instance,

Of the roots

To the incredible and terrifying

Pull towards starving the self,

Of what urges move a person

To come so close to the brink of death

Beyond the need for prideful appreciation

Of external appearances

Of what lies beneath

This seemingly macabre practice

Although such actions appear crazy

And pills are at the ready to

Bring the sufferer back to “normal”

Why are no efforts made

Why no attention paid

To the history of fasting

As ritual, as rite of passage

Why not

At the same time as necessary treating, feeding

An exploring of the need to honor, and update the ancestral lineage

Not just shame and re-cover

This precious pulling

Why no contemplation

On the possibilities

Of the drastic behaviors leading to institutions

As being an unconscious need for dismemberment, separation

From enmeshed family systems, from unwell tribe?

Why no efforts made

At looking to the archetypes

The Ascetic

The Monk

The Nun

The self-immolating

Witch

Who has taken the external inquisition of yore

Upon herself to display?

Why no questioning

Of possible cellular memories, unearthing

Waking up in a lifetime, reeling

With no tools, no guide

And certainly no place

In a high school?

Yes, science, I know

Yes, double blind studies, I know

Yes, things we can see and touch and monitor

I know

But

What may they be trying to teach

These ones, struggling with unreasonable urges of death

Isolation, and unshakeable need

To practice cruel, strict regimen

That strips them to core

Why no attention paid to

The fact they may be

Canaries in the coal mine

Harbingers reflecting the morass

Of twisted expectations we face daily

Screaming at us with bones jutting

Mirroring what we are doing to ourselves

Just how starved the soul of our species might be?

I wish there were

Past life explorations

And contemplations

Of political protesters

Of Gandhi and Cesar Chavez

Of Siddhas alchemizing world pain

Of Ramadan

Of the Seventeenth of Tamuz

Of Vrata

Of Sallekhana

Of Nigredo, Albedo

Of Lent and all the age-old practices

That may be arising in their bones

I wish there were

Talks of an empath nature

Simply explaining that for some

Things feel like too much

And of course

Reducing, measuring, clearing feel good

They are the only tools at hand

In this cultural waste land

Why no validation of this possible fact

While also finding ways to give new methods

Finding ways to match mentors, elders

Finding ways

To guide

Are these the holy roots?

The holy roots of what is deemed disorder?

These diagnostic delineations cloaking

What is really

Sacred?

What lies beneath

The veneer of psychiatric diagnosis

The attempt to box in

The wideness, the vastness, the depth

Of what a soul is truly living?

Holy Roots?

Are there

Holy Roots?

This is not a glorification

But an exploration

A call for treatment and

An honoring of the possibility

Of the pull towards the ancient sacred

Within

*Thank you for reading! This is a very complex idea I am trying to bring into form clearly, it is a work in progress. Comments welcome :}}

Tattoo

This skin, it’s pale and clean

And until now

I’ve never felt the passionate urge

To claim its innocence

To mark its vast and sacred territory

With a flag to show the world

I’ve never felt the need

To mark some found missing piece

To encapsulate

A symbol for how this hero transformed, changed

To now be able to slay the dragon

To its very end

Likewise

My skin has never really understood

The concept of endings

Of finality,

Or the clarity that yearns for ever-lasting documentation

Amidst epithelial cells

I always admired those whose dark markings told

How their hero was reborn

How the reward landed in their grasp

How their strength was nurtured

To skillfully be able to pierce through the thick reptilian layers

Where before they could not triumph

I asked for stories

Of why here, why this picture

Of how the hero had grown

Of who the villain was and what it took

To truly defeat them

I asked, why this marking

And was treated with confident discourse

Of the new ability they were given

To have the strength to pierce the layers

To make the dragon

Disappear

Forever

My skin, at the same time

Was always asking for a different way

Always questioning whether the point

Was even to slay the dragon

My skin

Always wanted to know the dragon

To understand its workings

To feel its sensual scales against it

To gaze into that grand being

And know the force of its fire

As you can imagine

This skin has been burned many times

In its relentless curiosity to know the beast

To feel the beast

The mind doubted its desire

Many times over

Choosing instead to

See beast as body

Itself the thing to destroy

To the point, somewhere near death

Yet one day, after the latest dissolution

I woke, familiar with the oozing nature of the congeal

But this time, the dragon was next to me

And we were gazing

And I felt its scales, warm and heaving

Resting against this skin

Waking

From that tiresome dream

Repeated over and over

I had found a sense of steadfast trust

In this skin’s strange desire

And with it

A strange, strange compassion

I found myself

Separate from others

From the beast

And yet like them, and it, all the same

I found this sense

Of compassion

Now, resting next to this giant, scaly creature

Feeling its breath rising and falling

Against this pale, dewy casing

I think I see it wink at me

As if its fierceness had all been an illusion

And I realize

That this passion, my skin’s simple and persistent desire

Brought me through the trials

To come to the real reward

Compassion for self

And for others

No matter what success or failure

Befalls

The real boon

The ability to set boundaries

To love

And fight

But from a deep place

Of knowing the other within

After all

There will constantly be more dragons

And not all of them will be able to be struck down

And, perhaps, some of them are to be learned from

So is it not, the true reward

Of finding and holding center

Of being with

No matter what

Through it all?

My skin, and soul

We finally understand

This hunger for such rituals

To mark the threshold crossing

To mark the transformation that forever changed us

To mark the end, and the beginning

My flag

On this already sacred territory

On the fathomless plains

Of this wanting, roving,

Gurgling, aching,

Needing and sensual beast:

A dragon

Forever

And its name

Will be

Compassion

Sun Still

Though the forest be wrapped in chill

Though the winds of ice they blow

Though the rain falls hard and deep

I trust

The Cycle

This too shall soon be past

For now

I honor this darkness

I sit

In the silence

I release burdens to the waters

I plant dreams in the earth

I leave gifts and sing songs to the trees

I ask the well ones to guide me

I give thanks for the simple things

I honor this darkness

I sit in the silence

I sit with the silence

I sit in the silence

I give thanks

I trust

The Cycle

Blessed Solstice my fellow beings

Nellie

Nellie

It is the week of your birthday

And I am wondering about you

I feel your pulsing

Or at least my colonized fascination

It leads me down the paths

I start with my own box

And I travel up the red line

I keep taking right turns

Past mothers, grandmothers

And then

I take the blue

Left turn, left turn

Past the bookkeeper

Past the Garland ward

I land on the carpenter and wheelwright

He, next to you

Nellie

Of Faringtofta, I never knew you

You who boarded that ship from Liverpool

Seeking your mission…or was it his?

From Sweden to Omaha

Did you walk onto that vessel in joy

Soon you would lose your love on those stormy seas

Sludging through grief and the weight of three youth

You carried on

Through mud-stuck wheel

Of John Murdoch Church Wagons

And across blizzard filled plains

To find

The home

But whose home was it, Nellie?

Your beloved, buried deep in the sea

These children his reminder

Who and what was there for you after it all?

A seamstress, you wove

Into the fabrics of Young’s privilege

You made a way

Payson, Utah

Rebaptized into the United Order

Far, far from home

You made a way

What moved you so strongly

What were you running from

Was it only on the coattails of the man who died on you

Or was the mission also, deep in your heart

Hard to know

If you found love within

His Civil War uniform may’ve charmed

You found another heart, again

Yet true to Adventist form

You shared it with another Swedish sister

One hundred and fifty one years later

Through the air I came

Following your trail

I stood in abandoned fields

There in Faringtofta

Looking for you

Wondering who you were

Wondering about your mission, or his

Wondering about

Those weaving, ice-beat hands

How they found their way

Pulsing, into my blood

And now

Remembering my own lost love

Struck down by the sea

Wondering if I, like you,

Have spent my whole life, heart-heavy

Following my mission

Or his

The pattern, repeating

Remembering you

On this dark day in December

Eating pickled herring on mustard toasts

Wishing I knew you

And what you really yearned for

Nellie

My blood

Opaque

Help me see through this pain

Everything is blank

All I can do is breathe

Help this darkness

Become gossamer gown

Delicate, webbings of beauty

Sparkling with meaning of fresh tears

Translucent, a reality

In which this body

Can dance

And write

And dream, once more

Help me see through this pain

Everything is blank

All I can do is breathe

All I can do

Is breathe

Flight Yearning

Dreaming of places, far off

Holding my purpose, beyond this

Waking

Another day of the same

Around me,

Elements of abundance

Material glimmerings, soft saccharine safety

But everything’s grey

Dreaming of places, far off

Holding my purpose, beyond this

This dream, I wake from this dream

In the dream I am flying

Flying

I keep landing

On islands of beauty

I keep learning

From elders of heart

I keep circling, circling

I keep knowing, knowing

But then I’m back here

Looking at you in the mirror

Same face, same place

Wings

Waking

Waking back into this nightmare

Of serving tortured minds

From tiny boxes

My hands and tongue, tied

Hearing wisdom from these rebel mouths

I am forced to label

As disorder

I can’t stand it

After seeing such possibility

Visions

Vista

Elders

Circling

We meet them all with circling

I want to fly again

I want to bring them with me

I want us

To go home

Dreaming of places, far off

Holding my purpose, beyond this

Waking

Another day of the same

Around me,

Elements of abundance

Material glimmerings, soft saccharine safety

But everything’s grey

Where are our elders

Where is our vista

How can I help you

Grounded and clipped

Programmed to obey

How can I help you, circle

Where

Are our wings?

~These are beginnings of lyrics to a song–trying to encompass the feelings I had years ago working in the mental health field before I decided to leave and study animism (and mySelf) in a deep way. Thanks for reading :}

Acorns

Well here we are again

You texting

Me declining

Questioning

Am I avoiding

Or centering

That this keeps repeating…

You texting

Me declining

It makes me wonder

Should I face my fear, or perhaps

Distaste

Of being trapped in a room full of strangers

Navigating possible conversational landmines

Opening my mouth

To let in

All sorts of unfamiliar creations

All sorts of terrifying potential

Poisoning and torturous illness

Lurking in the uncleanliness of your home and mind

Is this opportunity

To meet you face to face

To stand my ground instead of turning tail

To challenge a whole host of patterns and phobias

To come away, regardless of your unconscious taunting

And colonist mind

Saying yes, breaking bread

Will I come away

…Strong?

I don’t know

Certainly, am tired of running

I yearn for a table to feel safe at

Besides my own

Do I hold the key through my facing?

Don’t know

I roll myself in tangles just thinking about it

Do I go against this great resistance

Or trust it, as wisdom, pointing me somewhere else?

Don’t know

But once more, not this year

I’ll meet you again here next time

And instead

I will gather acorns

And hand needy strangers warm bags

And think of bloodshed and disrespect

As my feet shuffle through

Sandy shoreline sunsets

Grateful, and grieving

You texting

Me declining…

Centered, or avoiding?

Maybe me and the cracking shells

Will let you know…

Next year

Pen Power

A letter

A letter

I light a candle

I whisper to the ancient ones

I let go of the I statements

And all the knowing heart I have

I let myself

Feel

I take out the fresh parchment

I grasp the smooth coolness

And I begin

I put your name at the beginning

And then I let it rip

All the things

I wish you never were

All the things

I hate about you

All the things

Your evil wrongdoing has brought into my life

All the things

I let myself feel

All the rage and roilings

The ways you could be better

The terror I’m afraid you’ll unleash

I feel it shooting from mind to matter

Furious scribblings scratching across the bumpy table

Through my limb

I stop

I feel my heart beating

I feel the blood pulsing, heat shimmering

At the edges of my skin

I feel so goddamned much

I try to write it all down

Addressed to you

About you

Because

Of you

Then

There is silence

I know it is time

I breathe in again

I scoot the chair out

And rise

I let the cool water run over

My palms in the wash basin

I splash its wetness

Against my face

I look

In the mirror

I breathe

I feel my feet on the ground

I shake it off

I turn back around

I sit down

Here, now, again

I watch the candle flame flickering

I grasp the smooth cool instrument

And I begin once more

Only this time

I strike

I strike out

Every instance of your name

In my letter

Slashing every which way

There’s so much of you here

I slash you out

And then

I write my name

Everywhere you have been

Every line

Every arrow

Every single place I seethed your title

I write

My name

Fast

Furious

So I can’t give in to the temptation to stop

I write

My name

I breathe

I look back to the candle

I talk to the ancient ones

I know what I must do

And then

I read

I read all the ways

All the things

I read

Self to self

Self to Spirit

All the ways

All the parts

Warring

I read

Taking it in

Sometimes I cry

Sometimes I deny

Sometimes I rage

At this act of accusation

But mostly, these days

I laugh

I laugh, I laugh, I laugh

I know you are real

And I must find ways to keep what I love alive

I must continue to set boundaries

I must continue to fight

But you

Are also me

And somehow that gives me a strange, strange strength

Somehow that leads me into

Center

I put down the pen

I stare at its power

I gaze at the flickering flame

I feel my feet on the ground

I feel

At ease

A letter

A letter

I blow out the candle

And walk into my life

Listen

Here, at the Crossroads

I take time

To ask questions

I take time

To listen

I listen to the tall, ancient trees

I listen to the cool, trickling waters

I listen to the wind, swirling

I listen to the dreams

I listen to the old ones, the wise ones

The ones nestled for eons in my cells

I take time to ask questions

Even questions that may have no answers

I take time to listen

To the old ones, the wise ones

Who have been through it all

I listen to the cawing of the feathered

I listen to the scurrying fall foragers

I listen to the way the acorn drops on concrete

I listen to the sprout, growing in fall

I even

Listen

The

Humans

I take time

To ask questions

Even questions that may have no answers

I wait for the whispers

Oozing from the quiet

As I sit with this body, our body,

These eons in our bones

Sometimes I scream, sometimes I weep

Sometimes I build altars

And

After the release, after the honoring

I take time to listen

To the old ones, the wise ones

Inside and out

Who have been

Through it all

Here, at the Crossroads

Here, staring

Into the great and always uncertain Mystery

Here

I take time

To listen