The Rumors of my Demise....

...are only slightly exaggerated, considering the stomach bug I've been afflicted with as of 4:40 am. Got up. Fed the orphaned kittens (four, who I alternately call "the furry drunks" and "the velociraptors"). Felt fine. Went to get in the shower. Intestinal unpleasantess ensued and convinced me to stay home lest I barf in my car on the way to work. Sorry, Co-Worker.

So it's been a year, during which I've heard that blogging is dead, the Husband was elevated, I've managed to mostly stick to a tiny daily practice, I've enjoyed meetings with the Coven, I've gained shit tons of weight due to my sedentary office job, I've taken up kayaking with the Husband (kayaks bought off Craigslist from a 70-something ex-cop survivalist tiny house owning dude who I briefly considered asking if he'd ever considered a nature religion given his love for same), run off to the local botanica to prevent a friend from going to prison (pro tip: when you have a language barrier around herbs, just tell the proprietess, "Look, let me make this easy - I'm trying to stop a friend from going to prison, and I don't have any experience with this, so what would you do?", then pay for your candle cheerfully, say thank you, and then go home and light up), and thanked Santissima Muerte from keeping our house from burning down when the dryer ran for eight hours after we fell asleep and asked her to bring the people whose dogs caused the orphaned kittens to justice (they're on an electric fence, and tend to maim and kill other animals when this "fence" fails).

We also apparently cursed the slumlord; his wife left her purse in the car and it got stolen. Along with his gun, all their credit cards, and everyone's rent money...all cash, except for ours. And then a tree fell through their house. Or it could just be karma. Or us bringing their general misdeediness to the attention of Them Who Are In Charge Of Such Things. It's not like we sat down and hexed fuck out of them, you know?

Anyhow, readers (all four of you who haven't already wandered off), that's a brief summary of Why You Haven't Heard From Me. It's been busy around here. I'm trying desperately to carve out more time for my witchery, my horse, my pets, my husband, and myself. A new job would help, and if anyone's got a hell of a job-finding spell, that'd be awesome. My fallback workings haven't done jackshit, so I'm open to suggestions.

Yes. I am "spell-begging". I am a member of a lineaged trad, a witch for at least 25 years, and saying that what I've been doing isn't working. Why? Because when you can't get a recipe to work, you ask around. Also, the definition of insanity is to keep doing the same thing and expecting different results. Who knows? Why not use a spell from some witch in Russia (apparently someone there reads this, or used to)? I mean -

WARNING: HERESY ALERT

- isn't that part of the fun?

YES. FUN. I SAID FUN.

That's part of why, despite my deep love for and reverance for Our Gods, I cannot stay 100% serious at any time. This is fun, or it should be, at least somewhat. It makes me happy, damnit. It brings me joy. It's why I get silly giggles in circle sometimes - I'm just so damn happy to be with my covenmates and visiting with Them. I burn candles and mix herbs and chant to change my world - when I'm not working too many hours at a terrible job and stressing over the Trailer of Doom and road-raging at people on cell phones doing 50mph on 45 in the middle of rush hour. I am an educated, modern woman who believes her commute is better on the full moon and that tossing salt over her left shoulder in the office helps things suck a little less.

It's funny. It's fun. It's goofy and weird and illogical and it works.

It's why, when we go kayaking and the water line is really low and the Husband hopes he finds a turtle shell and we find one, but it's still occupied by a large but very dead turtle, I think, well, you DID say "a shell", you didn't say anything about the condition. It's why, when Friend We Stopped From Going To Prison seemed inclined to then be a general pain in our asses, my next question was, what's the best way to move him along, not how can we explain that it's time for him to improve his life goals in a loving and non-judgmental manner that affirms his agency and personhood? 

I also still don't know if I want to be Fiona Goode or Misty Day when I grow up. But that's another story.

Cast your herbs onto the fire and laugh with Them often, my dears. May you have many reasons for joy and laughter until I update again.

Bheannaigh Oíche Shamhna.

It is raining AGAIN, thus killing our plans to go to Renfaire for Samhain. We're just not hardcore enough to enjoy being sodden & muddy. Been there. Done that. Was miserable.

It is so wet, here at the Trailer Park of the Dammned, that one of the stray cats was sitting under the neighbors' trailer, insisting I come get him. I did not. "Go between the puddles," I told him, and with a disgusted look and a few big leaps, he did. I praised his bravery and went back down the ramp to get him some kibble, watching for slippery leaves as I went.

What’s that? It looks like a ribbon or - OH HELL SNAKE SNAKE IT'S A SNAKE.

Well, more like "snake", because the poor critter is very small and quite deceased. Either the cats got tired of the Great Frog Genocide of 2015 and have turned to snakes, or it drowned. It is brownish and may be a baby copperhead, hence my cautious use of twigs to pick it up.

What? You didn't think I was just going to leave it there, did you? Heh.

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.

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.

Please Shut Up About BTW.

If you're not a member of a family, you probably don't really know Jack about it.

You could find out a decent amount about my family from my Facebook page, if you're that bored/stalkerish/aspire to become a misanthropic old bastard like yours truly. Where we're from. Who's related to who. What some of us do/are interested in/will eventually be arrested for.

You won't find out the old feuds, the secrets we're ashamed of, the ones drummed out or adopted in or why any of that happened. Because we don't share that shit with outsiders. We don't spread the private family business everywhere.

This doesn't mean my family is better than yours - necessarily. Maybe mine is. Maybe you've got white supremacists and rapists and child molesters and people who send their gay children to deprogrammers in yours. I think that shit is bad, and therefore will consider mine better than yours.

Maybe you think so too, and through time and the magic of non-biological family, become part of mine.

Or maybe you don't. Fine. But don't start spouting crap about "Irish upstate NY families" that has no resemblance to our reality and expect us to stay quiet. And don't then be a chickenshit who says, "who says we're even talking about YOU, you Irish upstate NY families always think we're talking about you and we could be talking about all Irish families blah blah bullshit".

What I find weird, all metaphor aside, is the amount of time people spend talking about traditions that they say aren't for them. Asatru, Thelema, Buddhism, Hinduism, Blue Star, Black Forest, Reclaiming, and a host of other trads/faiths are not for me. Notice I don't spend much time talking about them or responding to their adherents' blogs?

If you can't shut up about BTW (which is a specific thing bearing very little resemblance to a lot of things/people calling themselves and what they do "Wicca"), at least ask yourself why you're spending so much time criticizing us instead of dancing to the drum whose rhythm moves your soul.

Strange Things Afoot At The Trailer Park Of The Dammed.

Driven by Deb's most recent post, Husband's car problems, and the deluge afflicting Texas, I was intent on cleansing the Trailer of Doom tonight.

Was the whole place going to be clean, tidy, and ready for the banish/bless double whammy? No. No, it was not. But given everything going to Heck in a hand basket, I thought doing something was far better than doing nothing. I mean, this is a place where no longer having a kitten under the bathroom sink is a major improvement. We have odd standards here.

Five minutes before we started, I found the very first pentacle I've ever owned. On Husband's desk. Where it has never been before. I am very certain it has never been there before because I have not seen it in years and, frankly, thought it was lost.

Freakishness. The Desk does not appear things. It disappears things.

What to do? Wear it? Put it on the bike? In the car? In the house? What to do?

Why, whip out the pendulum and hold it over the choices above and see where it's supposed to be.

It is now tied to the horseshoe over the door. I suspect we have somehow agreed to MOAR WITCHCRAFT. I suspect Protective Guilt Trip Of the Gods. I suspect "Well, I didn't see that coming".

We'll see.