Saturday, July 4, 2015

The Ocelot's Final Word On Gardnerian Practice.

Don't tell me my trad doesn't have moments of wild communion with our Gods.

We were keeping the full moon, tonight, and so graced with the Presence of the divine that Husband is now dead asleep in the bedroom.

Cats under the altar. Rednecks outside with fireworks. Frankincense and myrrh competing with the smell of dog. But here, in this most humble of temples, this most profane of holy places, we knew our Gods. Ecstatically, totally, joyfully. We got some major gnosis.

There's a reason for orthopraxy, babies. A set form means They can come through like water; when you don't have to think about how, you get the full killer heaven rush of why.

And now, time for bed.

When A Witch Can't Garden....

Husband is off at band practice, so I am left to my own vices (a slidy-typing error so awesome I must let it stand).

When a witch tries to make a tool and is dissatisfied with the result, and cannot do any gardening due to her allergic reaction to the stupid biting ants which always seem to find her hands, what does she do?

There's laundry. The kitchen. How boring. Now, turning a cheese plate into a tool? HELLS YEAH.

So off said witch goes, Dremel in hand, and makes said tool again. Huzzah! What did our Gard ancestors do without the Dremel? Or the convenience of wood stain? Or latex gloves?

Not that I remembered to wear them. Oops.

Time to go see if the stain is dry. Is there anything better than making your own tools? There's just something so satisfying about the finished product.