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!

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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.

Blood and Bones

Photo by lil artsy on Pexels.com

The things I’m not supposed to talk about

Like how I covet collecting blood and bones

Like how my gaze is transfixed

By the slow descent of crimson matter

Dripping down glass

Blood that takes no injury to procure

Blood that causes life, not death, in losing

Blood that returns, over and over

To remind me I am real

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I am not supposed to share about

Collections

And paintings

Watching the red transform

Upon surfaces

Well beyond toilet water

And mass-produced cotton shame inducing

Hiding devices

I’m not supposed to talk about it

But the blood

Is all that makes me re-member

So I love it

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The things I’m not supposed to talk about

Like how I’ve been waiting

Months, weeks, many moons

Watching the torrential waters

Wash over its sacred, but ignored, body

Wondering if one day it might vanish

That stinky, striped carcass

A life once vibrant, now rotting

But upon each circling

I’ve found her

Slowly dissolving away

Staying

In my Dream

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Her thick, black quills

Floating to the creek below

Batch by batch

And recently

The innards of tail

The sharp ridge of scapula

Washed clean from storm

Appeared

I’m not supposed to talk about it

How I’ve been waiting to be chosen by bones

How excited I am to see them

Wondering if they’ve been holding

As if cleansing

For my capture

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I’m not supposed to feel

Such excitement as I crouch down, finally

Lay my gloved hand on its beauty

Whisper grateful blessings

And transfer this evidence of life and death

And the micro-macro cycle of everything

Into my blessed receptacle

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A neighbor, leashed wildness by his side

Stops, childlike, to ask what I’ve found

A skunk, I say

Looking up to him

Staring from face laden

With invisible echoes

Of recent blood ceremony

It’s been here a long time, I say

Hoping for a moment he’ll join me

But his gaze immediately shifts

And there is no response

And still

Like many things I’m not supposed to Do

Like many things I’m not supposed to Say

Like many things I’m not supposed to Feel

I allow myself to honor

These strange desires

These drops of vital plasma

These candle-lit applications

These dirty sacred road blessings

These bones

This blood

I allow myself to honor

And let the human, thinking

Walk on

Bones

~image of National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration property in Pacific Grove, CA

The bones of my grandmother

The bones of my grandfather

The bones of the Esselen

The bones of the Ohlone Costanoan

The bones of the Rumsen

Land

This land tilled, taken

Our ancestors still lie, together

Coastal, beauty

Country club laughter

Ignorance

Of what lies beneath

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Hundreds of years ago

Spanish grants

Relocating the rooted

Tortured and “cultured”

In sandy walls deemed holy

Still I remember the echoing bells

And fascination of child eyes

Strolling

Through the mission

On Sunday afternoons

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Now

Called back here

By tribe, ally

To these same sandy dunes

Hundreds of years later

The bones are in danger

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Standing on

Contested land

Broken treaties, how does this still go on?

I lean in

Across lichen laced barriers

Spirits of Hummingbird, Yarrow

Speaking

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Don’t act

Just listen

Don’t act

Just listen

Don’t act

Just listen

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Whose voice?

My grandmother

My grandfather

Ancient peoples?

My Self?

Who calls me?

Who speaks to me?

Can I ever really know?

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Ancestors

Well and healed ancestors

Why am I called back to this land

Where I look to the right

Under manicured lawn

European privileged kin

And to the left

Through chainlinks

The untouched dunes in danger

With your bones

With their bones

With our bones

How do my bones

Holding me tall

Tend

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The waves crash

And I pray

And silence is all there is

As I stand here

On top of bones

Original bones

Beneath Cypress-studded vastness

Ancient grounds

That may not last

Much longer

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Do I really

Just

Listen?

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This poem was inspired by the recent contested sale of the NOAA building in Pacific Grove, CA. For more information on this issue you can go here: https://www.change.org/p/jimmy-panetta-rededicate-the-noaa-building-in-pacific-grove-for-the-public-benefit/u/30678313