A Witch and Her Garden.

The garden has been neglected for weeks. I admire the rose, the hibiscus with blooms as big as my outstretched hand, the Oregano That Ate The World, the little balloon flowers. But I haven't weeded or pruned or tended in far too long.

Husband didn't work today, due  to the ridiculous storms this morning, so the chores aren't all on me today. I do need to get a few dinner things. I do need to find out where the hell all my work-appropriate t-shirts have gone.

But.

I need to go outside, stick my hands on soil, get dirty. Remind myself that this job and the lousy commute and living in the Trailer Park of the Dammned won't last forever.

Outside, witch.

Equinox.

Equinox; equal night. Maybe this is my personal equinox - the light and dark balanced.

Last night, after love, I anointed my own forehead and asked for guidance in dreams, for Sight. And I dreamed. But all I remembered when I woke was telling a bunch of people, "They say I'm dying. But I feel fine. Besides, shouldn't I look sick?" I wasn't scared, just sure that whoever had told me this was wrong.

Somehow, I doubt this has much to do with the Waking World and a lot more to do with the Unseen. I imagine I'll find out soon enough.

Krampus Is Only Funny When He Happens To Someone Else.

Last night's Solstice journey work was...interesting. In a "JESUS H. TAP-DANCING CHRIST WHY CAN'T I JUST SEE HAPPY SHIT WHY IS IT ALMOST NEVER BRIGID OR THE DAGDA OR YEMAYA OR SOMEBODY LIKE THAT" kinda way.

See, what I saw was this one-eyed man, dragging a dead reindeer through the snow by its antlers. And I thought, "Oh, right, so that's why the suit is red, because it's covered in blood and WAIT WHAT THE FRESH HELL".

I attribute years of Weird Shit Experiences to my ability to not flee the circle while screaming like a troop of violated Girl Scouts and turning Trothwy's pool into the Biggest Cleansing Bath Evar. I mean, ONE EYE. Ravens on his shoulders. A deer that didn't look like it had been hunted so much as savaged. I am pretty sure I know Who this is, and I do not like it. I do not like it in a car, I do not want to be Asatruar. I do not like dead deer or ham, I do not like them, "Old Squinty" You Am.

The Husband didn't fare much better. Without blogging things he might not want me to blog, I'll say that some of his ancestors got up to unpleasant hijinks, to put it mildly, and he got to see a lot of it in full Technicolor detail. While he was disturbed by this, he was also interested and pleased to have felt something profound and new, magically speaking (that's my little ray of sunshine!).

And then, just to balance things out, there was the sex. Which led to me having, at a - cough- climactic moment, a revelation. It struck me as so profound that I could not keep it to myself until a more appropriate time, and I cannot blame the Husband for being confused for a few seconds:

ME: Holy fucking shit. Damn. So that's why he comes down the chimney. 
HUSBAND: What?
ME: Santa. Comes down the chimney. Because it's a birth canal. I mean, why else would you come into a house balls-first into a fire?
HUSBAND: Oh. I suppose that makes sense.

Since he isn't awake yet, I don't know how he slept, but I was treated to a nightmare in which Evn and I were trying to either blow up someone's apartment or make ammonia/bleach gas in it. While I can see us lobbing chickens over fences, I cannot imagine us indulging in chemical warfare. And while it sounds funny by light of day, monitor, and the influence of coffee, it was not funny at 3am or so. There were other nightmares, but I don't remember them. I am just fine with this.

THE OCELOT'S REVISED TO-DO LIST
Feed dogs & cat.
Feed horse.
Come home, eat, drink coffee, blog.
Go get a tree and some lights for it.
Get groceries.
Feed horse again.
Clean Area of Puppy Devastation so as to have somewhere to put up tree.
Put hyssop soap to good use (thank you, H.). Do same with Florida Water. Salt all the things.
Put horseshoe up over door.
Talk to all of Them about how I do not need That One-Eyed Guy in my life, so could they perhaps let him know that I am already well-spoken for, plz?
Feed other pets. Rush puppy out before she can piddle indoors.
Pack for tomorrow.
Fall over while thinking how peaceful it would be to be Episcopalian.*


*This is what my brain settles on when there has been a little too much Woo. It is not meant to imply in any way that I think Episcopals are spiritually shallow or lazy or anything of that sort. I just think that they probably don't see things out of the corners of their eyes for three weeks before Halloween, get dark visions about the true meaning of Christmas, etc.

**I am sincerely hoping we do not see any Santas today. I don't think I'm ready.

The After-Samhain Report.

Samhain was, almost literally, a wash. The morning brought a terrifying storm that took out the power to and ripped the roof off half the barn where my horse lives (all the horses are ok, just a bit baffled). I discovered that it is harder to see trees lying across the road when there is A. heavy rain and B. no light. Luckily, both the Ocelotmobile and I managed to drive away from said tree unscathed.

Samhain evening was actually pretty nice, but only one child came for the Ritual Sacrifice. Bummer. What to do with all the chocolate that we didn't give to Pregnant Neighbor? Take it to friends tonight, of course.

There are pumpkins, sitting uncarved (due to our erratic schedules, friends suddenly dropping by last night, etc.) in the kitchen. On the one hand, it seems silly to carve them now. On the other, who says we have to make a light so the Ancestors know which house to come visit? Maybe this year, they're for attracting other things. A better job. A roof that does not spring new leaks as fast as the landlord fixes the old ones. Maybe instead of putting a candle in them, they need to be filled with...other things. The stuff of life, perhaps. The kind of things that got Ms. Dirty a great big "EEEEEEW" from the more delicately-sensibilitied in the pagan blogoverse.

If I keep this up, no-one will ever eat my kick-ass vegan pumpkin bread again.

One thing's for sure - Samhain isn't quite over yet.

Wherein The Ocelot Accomplishes A Bunch Of Stuff.

Work done: 8 hours.

Horse fed twice.

Dinner made, if somewhat disappointing.

Laundry done: two loads, including folding.

Sigil making explained to the Husband.

A divinatory spread and personal symbols made and explained: one.

Maybe the immediate, almost spontaneous creation of the last is due to the owls I heard this morning while out with the dog. They are not barred owls. I am hoping they stick around and that I can see them, but hearing them is still good. I've missed owls.

And now, to a well-earned rest while "The Wicker Man" plays in the background.

The Wren.

I got home tonight around four, grabbed the dog and went outside, only to find a dead wren on the patio. It's near a window, so I'm sure the poor bird took a fatal header into it, as they are sometimes wont to do.

The dog was very interested in this. He was very disappointed that I did not allow him to snack on our departed friend. The wren stayed where it was while I pondered this (a dead wren on the porch, not letting the dog eat it. Ew.).

The Husband came home, we came outside, and I showed him the poor little bird, already being eaten by ants. "We'll have to put him in the woods," he said. "Um..." I said. The Husband, knowing me rather well by this point, knew where this was going.

"You want to keep the bones, don't you." Notice there is no question mark there.

"I was thinking of sticking the wren on an anthill," I said, and we went inside to gather my things for tonight's riding lesson.

I came back. The wren was still there. I did a few things around the house, got in bed with the Husband for a bit, and then...came out here to put the wren in an opportune place next to the garden.

What really happened looks like some kind of Hogwarts math class:

If a witch (W) wants, after sex with her Husband (Sex and Death, anyone?), to don a bathrobe and head out to the dead wren (DW)with the intent of putting it on an anthill (A) without attracting attention from her housemates (H1,2), which means no flashlight (F), but also doesn't want to get bitten by the ants already consuming DW, how does she do it?

Quickly. And carefully.

W is unbitten, H1 & 2 seem none the wiser, and DW is now in the garden. I talked to it, apologizing for the windows and wishing it a nice sojourn in the Summerlands/a good next incarnation, and explaining what I'd like to do with its bones once they're clean.

So help me, if I see that single row of teethmarks in it tomorrow, I am having a ton of salt delivered to this place. Because it does occur to me that while I've seen bluebirds, woodpeckers, hawks, crows, cardinals, mockingbirds, and sparrows aplenty, I haven't seen or heard a single wren since we moved in.

...And The Thunder Sounded, And The Lightning Flashed.

This is going to be a lot more poetic and a lot less linear than usual (to say nothing of NR 17 graphic). Make of it what you will.

Tonight, in bed with the Husband. Something more than just sex, my Beloved, and I hope you won't mind me letting the whole world into our Sacred Chamber, the Bridal Bed. The incense and "Wake Wood" and the strain and the sweat and the joy. The thunder sounded with us, the lightning flashed when I opened my eyes.

I christened us both, after. And brought you water. And came out here, in the sudden cool and the damp, knowing. Knowing this was one of the instructions I'd left myself as to how to come back. It was just really good sex, some would say. I'm uncomfortable with reading this, others are thinking. That doesn't matter. What matters is that I've started to dig myself out of the grave, started to climb the cold stone stairs out of Ereshkigal's abattoir. And if I leave glowing footsteps painted in love, so much the better.

A friend of mine left a comment on that last entry, about how things now made sense that hadn't before. And I heard April, at least eight years ago, telling me things I didn't want to hear about Things I'm Supposed To Be Doing. The Gods help me and you, my friends and readers, because now I see. I've long joked about not being a good example, but a cautionary tale, but I think the time for that bit of levity has passed.

I have heard The Voice. I have spoken with The Dead. I have risen from my own ashes, blessed in love. It isn't egotism when I say that I know, now, that there are people waiting to hear what I have to say, that what I have to say is meaningful in ways I can't even begin to imagine. I have no idea what words of mine reach someone, what instructions were left with me for someone else to hear.

These are only the first steps; I don't kid myself by thinking that now everything will be ecstasy and moonlight. But I am reborn, resurrected, returned. And I will whisper to you in the dark until you're off your own hook and climb the last of those stairs to meet me in the light again, the two of us blinking in the light of the Divine.

Prompt - Relax, Don't Do it.

I gave some thought to Dropout Dilettante's Prompt about not getting our energies mixed up in the hey-I-made-it-three-days-time-to-go-back-to-SSDD stuff that'll be floating around. This is proving helpful in a weird way. WARNING: possibly TMI Girl Stuff Ahead.

I had my annual well-woman visit today, and after talking with my Gyn, decided to give up on the Depo that's been making my life hell for the past year. I mean, two months with no horrifying (yes, my periods are justly described as horrifying) periods is great. A month of bleeding so much that I can't leave the house is not. So I did what the Good Doc suggested in the first place last year, and got a bunch of samples of a Pill geared towards women my age. I just gave up on the Depo. I quit.

I feel oddly liberated, though at the same time so frustrated by this ridiculous fertility thing that I can't think straight. I am 40, have not wanted children since I was 20 or so (and even then, when I'd think about being home with one all day, I'd shudder - a good indicator that I Should Not Breed, EVAR), and should not have to think about this. When the Good Doc told me that it's "not your uterus's fault" the Depo isn't working for me, I wanted to scream, "OH YES IT IS I'VE HAD THIS SINCE I WAS TEN AND ENOUGH IS ENOUGH".

But I refrained, despite reading Hunter S. Thompson while waiting for the Good Doc.

I was also rather taken aback by the news that I'll have to return to condoms for a month while the pills kick in, since his nurse, when she gave me some to stop the Depo bleeding in July, DIDN'T BOTHER TO MENTION THAT PILLS IN COMBINATION WITH DEPO COULD MAKE ME OVULATE.

Yeah. Let that sink in a minute. This woman didn't bother to tell a 40-year-old woman who's obviously avoiding pregnancy like the plague that this could get her knocked up. A NURSE. I need to have a chat about this with the Good Doc sometime soon, because I was so busy swallowing my own tongue with outrage that I couldn't manage it today.

And that was the other way I gave myself something nice, as DD suggested - I didn't do the necessary-and-effective-but-tiring thing of being the agent of a proper and deserved ass-reaming. You can thank me later, Incompetent Nurse. Because I went to the barn and tended my horse and then came home for a margarita instead of getting you in well-deserved trouble.

How does this have to do with anything magical, you ask? It doesn't, I suppose, except maybe as an example of knowing when to Relax, Don't Do It. Despite my Goal of tossing magic at situations, I know better than to try it here, because whether I like it or not, this is a natural process that needs to run its course with as little interference as possible - trying to blast my own womb, hate it though I do, cannot end up anywhere good. Call me a hypocrite if you will, since I belong to a fertility religion yet will take the Pill and Depo, but I'm not ready to make it stop through Any Means Necessary just yet.

The next gift I'm giving myself is Not Getting Shit Done for the rest of the day. Pbbbt, world.

Sex and Death.

On Samhain, an old friend called. He needed me to do what I'd promised a few months back - come to Mississippi and help him pack so he could get back West to be with his mom, who was diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer just two months ago. Second Husband came with me, and we stopped off at the Voodoo Spiritual Temple on the way back to Texas. The altar room seemed like a good place to shake off some of the death vibe, because when we got back, I'd be officiating at First Husband and now Co-Wife's handfasting.

The handfasting was a lot easier than what felt like psychopomping for my friend - preparing him and his things for a trip to the realm of the dead. At first I thought maybe I was overreacting, feeling like this, but apparently his mom's worse off than he thought. He doesn't think she'll see this Thanksgiving. And from what he's telling me, it would be a mercy. There's nothing short of divine intervention that could make this poor lady well.

I'm glad the handfasting came after my grim little errand; the sex is easier than the death, at least in this case, and it makes me feel like those energies are balanced (even if it also makes me think of the Eddie Izzard "Cake or Death" skit and me saying, "Sex AND Death, please" and him giving me that "WTF" look).

It's raining, which means I have to take time off to sit here, blog, and not try to do anything useful, which is good because I am a thoroughly wrung-out witch who'd go stand out in the downpour if she didn't hate cold water so much.