Dreams of the Angel at the Gate

He's been seeping into my dreams again over the last couple weeks or so, appearing occasionally in the background, not directly involved in the action. Last night, however, the dream was vivid and our interactions were direct.

The most vivid part of my memory of the dream begins when I am flipping through photographs of landscapes on my iPad — gorgeous pictures that I've taken (in dream, not in real life) of mountains, rolling hills, misty forests, etc. — and, when I come across one I want to share with everyone else, I "flick it" up from the iPad onto a large projector screen (using some sort of bluetooth connection and an app that recognizes the gesture — someone should actually invent this because it was awesome)... At which point, the photo would appear not simply as large as life, but also in 3-D, as if the projector screen were actually a window we were looking through to see into the landscape beyond. I don't remember if the photos were actually video clips that moved — since they were mostly landscapes, there wouldn't have been much movement, but a sense of the swaying of trees or the gentle movement of mist or flowing water or birds taking flight now and then, maybe...

He was standing right beside me. As usual, there was an intense longing to be near him, to have his attention on me, and yet also a sense that this was taboo or forbidden in some way.

Back when I was Christian, I thought of him as the "angel at the gate" — the one who stands with a fiery sword guarding the gates of Eden. (Although technically I think Genesis says God stationed several angels, specifically cherubim, to guard the gate, I've always thought of this angel as Archangel Michael, probably because he, too, is depicted as having a fiery sword.) Years ago when I was little, he was the one who appeared to me in the forest and then dissolved into sunlight — though the feeling then was all affection, as if for an older brother, rather than this kind of attraction/eros. Still, even the eros in recent years has been of an almost innocent, adolescent kind — more ecstatic longing than sexual desire, if that makes any sense. Being near him feels thrilling, almost electric, but it's all in the heart and soul, rather than the body (or rather, it's throughout the body, a bone-deep magnetism rather than a sexual pull). I don't know who this figure is — I find it problematic to continue to think of him as an angel in the Judeo-Christian context — but I wonder if he is some kind of expression of my animus. Sometimes he takes on the appearance in dream of people I know in real life, though I can always recognize it's him, but that often only serves to exacerbate the feelings of taboo or discomfort (for instance, he once appeared in a dream as a college professor I had, which left me feeling deeply embarrassed because I felt completely impersonal and professional towards the actual professor himself, who was anyway kind of old and goofy).

In any case, in this dream, I was showing pictures to a group of people, the usual half-anonymous Crowd of Family and Friends. We were all standing and milling about outside in a park-like area, with the projection screen off to one side, and he was standing quite close to me so that I could feel the warmth of his presence alongside me. Then, the landscape photograph I was displaying seemed to somehow come alive and expand, until we were standing within the landscape looking out across a vast mountain range with beautiful shadowy valleys — mist snagged on the mountain peaks high above and pooled in the low valleys below us. It began to snow, and everyone was so excited at the beauty of it. It was as if we were all kids again, thrilled at the first snowfall. This snow was not exactly ordinary snow, for it didn't feel all that cold and it drifted down in huge, lazy flakes that seemed more like autumn leaves, except that they were white and crystalline in delicate designs, and they melted when they touched bare skin. People began laughing and playing, trying to catch the slowly drifting snowflakes on their tongues or with outstretched hands, some people leaning down to scoop up handfuls from the ground to throw like snowballs, though the snowballs were always soft and feathery, not cold and compact in a way that might hurt if you got hit. There was a lot of happy bumping around and into each other as everybody played in the snow, which jostled me into him a couple times so that I got that warm electric thrill passing through me, but the sense of taboo always made me withdraw and try to play it casually. (I'm not sure if I'm exactly describing this well — it always seems to me that he shares my understanding, both the attraction and the awareness of the taboo, though it doesn't bother him as much, as if neither weighs as heavily on him as they do on me in these dreams. Yet it seems as if the taboo is because of him, some other obligation or duty that holds him back, and not so much because of me or who I am.) In any case, in this dream I thought somehow the snow was his doing, and I joked with him about it or hinted at it, as if the others didn't know who exactly he really was, but he shook his head and said it had been my doing, somehow. While everyone was distracted playing and no one was looking, he briefly placed his hands on either side of my face, drew me close to him and kissed me on the forehead. It was at that point that I woke up.

I can't help but think that this has something to do with my work with the tarot cards. Last night I began work with the Magician/Magus, reading through some of the various books I'm working with and examining the various Magician cards from all my different decks. I wonder if I'm connecting the Magician with the Animus/Angel at the Gate somehow, who has always been a figure of energy, light and warmth, somewhat fiery but also ecstatic and creative in his energies.

I just hopped over to Wikipedia to see if I could find anything on the animus, since I really know next to nothing about it other than that it's supposedly the female's parallel to the male's anima, the archetype manifesting from the collective unconscious the totality of the feminine (or, for the animus, the masculine). I seemed to remember reading that Jung really didn't examine the animus at all, being much more interested in the anima in the male psyche. This is what Wikipedia has to say:

Jung focused more on the male's anima and wrote less about the female's animus. Jung believed that every woman has an analogous animus within her psyche, this being a set of unconscious masculine attributes and potentials. He viewed the animus as being more complex than the anima, postulating that women have a host of animus images while the male anima consists only of one dominant image.

Jung stated that there are four parallel levels of animus development in a female.

The animus "first appears as a personification of mere physical power - for instance as an athletic champion or muscle man, such as 'the fictional jungle hero Tarzan'".

In the next phase, the animus "possesses initiative and the capacity for planned action...the romantic man - the 19th century British poet Shelley; or the man of action - America's Ernest Hemingway, war hero, hunter, etc."

In the third phase "the animus becomes the word, often appearing as a professor or clergyman...the bearer of the word - Lloyd George, the great political orator".

"Finally, in his fourth manifestation, the animus is the incarnation of meaning. On this highest level he becomes (like the anima) a mediator of...spiritual profundity". Jung noted that "in mythology, this aspect of the animus appears as Hermes, messenger of the gods; in dreams he is a helpful guide." Like Sophia this is the highest level of mediation between the unconscious and conscious mind. [emphasis added]

::foreheadsmack:: This seems like a pretty obvious connection between the Magician (symbolized especially in the Thoth tarot but in other decks as well as the figure Hermes, messenger of the gods, with snakes twining around his helmet and wings on his feet)... and the figure who appears to me in dreams.

In Which Ali Rambles About How She Was Never Loved Enough As A Child

I just had a realization, a minor revelation about the source of some of my anxiety about wanting to do so much and feeling like I never have enough time.

I am blessed to know a number of amazing, creative people.

Take Heather, for instance. I've never met her, I'm just a fan of her blog. In another life where our paths could have crossed in person, she seems like the kind of person I would have been friends with (or maybe not — who knows if we might have remained strangers — she often sounds as awkward and introverted as I am, which is another reason I like her writing). Today, Heather shared a post on her blog about committing to writing one poem for each day during the months of August and September, building on her experience in June and July when she created one index card's worth of art for each day.

My first thought was: Awesome! That sounds so inspiring! I want to do that!

My second thought was: How in hell can I make time to sit down and write a poem each day? I spend most of my time feeling tired and half-burnt-out from all the other self-assigned projects I've taken on, and I have more naturalist training coming up, and another season of FF&C starting in a week, and I can barely commit to fifteen minutes of prayer at the altar or thirty minutes of Tai Chi in the morning....

These are my third thoughts. When I realize that, instead of feeling frustrated that there are too many things I want to do, I should stop for a moment and thank the gods that I know so many inspiring people. People who make me say, "Awesome! I want to do that!" People who know how to live their lives with grace and guts, even when shit is hitting the fan and they feel like they can't keep it together, who still manage to be honest and strong and kick-ass.

So some of my desire to do all these awesome things is to show support and appreciation for the work of these other brilliant, strong, creative people. Because I never really got that kind of support. I wanted to be a writer from early on because my first grade teacher made a passing comment about how she liked my stories. I don't remember anyone ever giving me that kind of compliment before, but I remember my parents' pride in hearing it. For a while, I wanted to be a nature writer and study science (I was very specific, the way kids sometimes get, I wanted to be a marine mammalogist) — I kept a naturalist journal where I made detailed sketches and took notes on all the local flora and fauna down at the creek near my house.... until the day when I found a newborn rabbit that had been dug up from its burrow by a neighborhood dog, and I brought it home with me in a shoebox and was ready to stay up and nurse it all night, but my parents said no, they would take care of it... and in the morning, I woke up to find its body cold and stiff curled up in the box where they'd left it on the back porch.

So I wrote poetry. Dark, morose poetry. My freshman year of high school, I wrote a poem every day. I filled notebooks and notebooks with really bad poems. I slouched in the back of geometry class and wrote poems in backwards handwriting, from right to left. My mom bought me a novel written by a girl who was only eighteen — and I thought, this is the expectation, then. I have to be good enough to write a best-selling novel by the time I'm eighteen. I didn't. I write and I write and I write... but my parents never read anything I write anyway. My senior year, I organized a school-wide arts festival, the largest in the school's history, complete with art gallery, fashion show, live music and poetry readings. My mother filmed hours of other people performing.... but the camcorder battery died within the first 30 seconds of when I finally got up to read. I still haven't been able to write a book manuscript. I have a publisher who said he'd love to publish anything I wrote, just send a manuscript his way whenever I'm ready..... and I still haven't been able to write a book.

What's my excuse? I don't know. I want to do everything, but somehow time gets away from me and I waste hours not getting anything done. Every time I see someone doing something amazing and creative, I want to read their work or take the time to really deeply consider what they've said. I've spent three days — three days — taking notes on a book that's only 150 pages long, so that we could do an hour-long FF&C episode on it. Why? Because four years ago I criticized something else this author wrote, and he came back at me asking for a detailed review of exactly what I thought was wrong with the book.... and I never got around to giving it to him. I didn't tell him to fuck off, I didn't point out that a critical review of a book did not obligate me to pick apart his every argument for logical fallacies, I didn't point out that the critical review I did give the book had plenty of specifics in it already.... Instead, I have spent four years feeling like I owe him a detailed critique, promising myself that someday I really am going to go back and read that book a second time and go through it bit by bit..... and now that I'm reviewing another of his books, I'm leaving no stone unturned, no argument left unexplored. Nevermind that, at this rate, we'll never record the episode, and that even if/when we do, he'll probably never listen to it, and even if he did, his response (like those of listeners) will probably be that I went way overboard and "over-analyzed" what was a very short book and my expectations for it were too high and so therefore my review isn't important..... Why do I do it? I don't know. Because I would want someone to give that much thought and put that much effort into a critique of my work. Because I believe if someone puts the time and effort into creating something, they deserve the same attention and effort in return.

And because giving this much thought to it has deepened my understanding of my own ideas. Yes, that too. But ideas that never have a chance to catch their breath or find their own expression because I feel like I'm constantly in a race to find a better way to express them, or constantly trying to weigh them against the ideas of others, to refine them and deepen them. I am a perfectionist, not just of things but of ideas themselves.

I realize that I feel deeply sad about some of this. People are eager to think little of you. My recent blog post about being "deity dumped" received numerous enthusiastic responses from people full of advice — much of it kindly meant. But an even more recent post, exploring an aspect of my practice in crafted, delicate language, a piece I was proud of writing and that I felt was much better from both a technical and an emotional perspective.... received almost no comment. When I admit that I think the work I do is valuable, and that I work hard to be respectful and to listen deeply to others, I'm told I am arrogant and holier-than-thou.

I feel the strong desire to stop. Jeff, and even my parents, have remarked about how different my attitude towards ebooks is now than it was a few years ago. I used to hate them. I used to think that they would ruin the genre and jeopardize serious reading (not to mention libraries and public access to information and the ability to pass down books through the generations as sacred objects of power). Now, I really enjoy the convenience of wanting a book and being able to download it within seconds. What they don't seem to get is that I am thinking like a consumer now, instead of a writer. I gave up. I no longer think that anyone would read the kind of book I would want to write. I no longer believe that, no matter what I did, my parents would be proud of me or ever really hear me.

So I spend a lot of my time trying to really hear others, to really listen. There are so many people doing so many amazing, wonderful things. I could spend all of my time running around amazed and saying "Wow!" and never get anything done. Even now, the podcast is practically little more than that — me sharing the latest crazy-awesome news and thoughts from other people.

But I find myself burnt out and tired. I find myself wondering why I still feel so stressed out and busy all the time, when all of the deadlines are self-imposed and nobody would really notice or care if I dropped offline for good and never posted another update or recorded another podcast episode or wrote another line. I could just stop. I could give up and watch television all day, and no one would think any worse of me. Plenty of people would be downright jealous. Lots of people dream of being able to eek by on their spouse's single income and not have to work for somebody else at a job they hate.

But this ramble has gotten way out of hand. What I wanted to say was, maybe I can find another way to honor the creativity and inspiration I find in other people: to say thank you and celebrate them, without feeling the pressure of needing to pour all of my attention into that and leave no time for my own work. Maybe some kind of simple ritual, similar to the offerings I make in the mornings to my gods, ancestors and spirits of the land. A ritual that will help me to set boundaries while still showing support and gratitude. I want to think about this more....

Saturn Return: Weekly Meditation

Saturn is a planet of limitations and boundaries, placed at the threshold between the inner planets that reflect the energies and influences of everyday reality and the outer planets that reflect the energies and influences of cosmic cycles and forces. Saturn is a planet of authority, the sphere that circumscribes our life and sometimes leave us feeling trapped or hedged in by our limitations - but it is also a planet that helps us discover and understand our limits and, in so doing, become our own truest authority, the author of our own lives.

In my natal chart, Saturn is in Libra, a sign of balance and relationship. When we try to go to extremes in one direction or another, we run up against the flaws and limitations of those extremes, sometimes finding ourselves even worse off than before. But in bringing extremes into balance and harmonious relationship with each other - even if they seem to be opposites - we can find a new resonance that opens us up to whole new possibilities. The lesson of Saturn is not transcendence, but integration, and this is what it is exalted in the sign of Libra, where integrity can take the form of balance and a "middle way" between extremes.

What extremes do I recognize in my life right now?

• Productivity and Passivity - In my career, I feel challenged to "accomplish" something and make something of myself, to do something extraordinary with my life that will change the world. Emphasizing productivity in this way, I often end up focusing on the negative - what's wrong with the world that needs changing, and everything I should be doing to "fix" things. (Or, simpler than that, just neat ideas that "someone ought to do" that I then feel like I should pursue just for the sake of it being done.) But this focus leaves me feeling overwhelmed and even helpless. I get tired out quickly just thinking about everything I want to do or think I should do (or even just wondering what I possibly might do), and so much of the time I swing back towards the opposite extreme of passivity, procrastination and lethargy. I waste time on frivolous things for entertainment and distraction. Because I imagine that any work great enough to change the world must be complicated and difficult, I avoid doing things that seem too simple or clear-cut. (It's difficult for me to even do this exercise, because part of me thinks that it's all very obvious and so must be a waste of time.) But again, avoiding simple tasks gives me an excuse to procrastinate on the bigger tasks, abstracting them into monumental deeds that I never feel up to tackling - and the result of inactivity and complete lack of productivity.
• Socializing and Isolation - In my personal life, I spend a huge amount of time alone, even more than when I was living by myself but still working a waitressing job four days a week. Most of the day I sit at home on the computer while Jeff works downstairs, and we only have a chance to socialize once a week (sometimes less). On the other hand, this alone time isn't the kind of solitude that really nourishes me - it only leaves me feeling isolated and constrained, cut off from everyone else. Sitting at home all day (in a house that never quite felt "homey"), I don't connect to the space in relationship; I also rarely go out on my own to go hillwalking or just walking the neighborhood like I used to. Because Jeff is in the house all day, I look to him for a sense of connection and company instead of trying to cultivate it for myself (but of course, he's working and so can't really provide it). I also turn to the online community to find connection - but again, this is a shallow and false kind of connection that focuses a lot on negativity (people complaining about everything that's wrong) when it's not overtly competitive (the popularity contest of the internet world). So even when I spend most of my time alone, I end up feeling worn out by the "noise" that prevents me from finding real solitude.
• Bingeing and Neglect - Another place where there's been a new "extreme" cropping up is in my relationship with food. I'm not sure exactly what the causes of this might be (other than stress and bad habits), but these days I feel like I'm often fighting off cravings for unhealthy/junk foods but rarely experiencing actual hunger for healthy foods around mealtimes. I'll sleep in too late and more often than not will skip breakfast completely; then later, crave sweets or fatty foods as snacks in between meals or afterwards for dessert. Eating too late (or for the sake of something to do or as a reward from stressful "productivity") means staying up rather later than is good and not feeling very hungry in the morning. And so the cycle begins again. One cause of this might be to self-medicate stress from the pressure I put on myself. Another might be my feeling of disconnection and isolation that leads to frustration, leaving me swinging between neglecting to eat altogether and then stuffing my face to get that calorie rush.

How can I transform these into relationships of balance, in which I recognize my limitations and work in harmony with them instead of fighting against them?

• Creativity and Receptivity - I wrote about this a little bit before: changing the way I think about my work by focusing on creativity rather than productivity. The cards I pulled tonight showed the Ten of Wands and the Eight of Wands. In one, the woman bends over, burdened with the huge weight of a full-grown tree that supports an entire village. In the other, a woman (perhaps the same woman) stands upright and eager on an outcropping of rock, blowing dandelion seeds away from her open palm to be caught in the wind. I think these cards illustrate an important difference between creativity and productivity. Creativity might be represented by the seeds - light as air and holding great potential within them, creativity lets those seeds loose to be carried by the currents of the wind and take root where they may. The person letting the seeds loose doesn't necessarily have any control over or responsibility for where those seeds finally land; she is involved in something much bigger than herself. The woman in the Ten of Wands is involved in something much bigger than herself, too, but in her case she's taken the world upon herself and has made herself essential to it, for better or worse. She has a lot of control, but that control has become a heavy burden for her - she's taken on too much, too concerned for the end product, the full grown tree, rather than the seeds. Moving to a healthier, more harmonious relationship in this case might mean I need to focus on creativity as a way of planting seeds (process, not product), while also being receptive to what the winds will bring and the relationship I have with a larger world that's beyond my control.
• Company and Solitude - I think it would be helpful to reframe this issue as one about company and solitude, rather than "socializing" and isolation. These are no longer mutually exclusive - in true solitude, I have the freedom and space I need to be my own true self and, in that way, connect to the world around me in all its being and particulars. In company, I carry that solitude with me so that I am not overwhelmed or swept up by other people's feelings or opinions, and connecting with society becomes less noisy and frustrating. Accomplishing this might not be easy, as a lot of it depends on bad habits. Maybe some ideas to help: When seeking solitude, I can ask myself if I have a sense of freedom and spaciousness, or if something is constraining me or my actions. I can challenge myself to do things that will nourish me or engage me physically or emotionally even if no one else is around (including Jeff). I can spend some time contemplating the kind of company I would like to keep if I could hang out with anyone in the world, and spend time imagining how I might seek out that company or be that kind of company for others. I can make more attempts to go out and meet other people (no excuses! stop saying, "well, but we have such busy schedules, and we're going to be moving soon anyway so what's the point?"!!). And I can definitely spend less time on "social networking" sites online (already doing this and it's already helping).
• Sacramental Eating and Fasting - This one I'm the least sure about, but I know that I really appreciated the insights in John's latest NUP piece on sacramental eating. One step I can take is to restore mealtimes to sacred rituals - in particular, breakfast (as a time to nourish myself and begin my day), and dinner. Trying to avoid being on the computer or watching television during mealtimes would be helpful. Paying better attention to what I'm eating and making sure there are healthy snacks in the house so that I'm not falling back on junk when I get mid-day cravings. Perhaps every once in a while, spending some time on a deliberate, mindful fast might also help restore my relationship with food. I think in general, I need to give up this notion that Jeff and I can share a diet plan - that kind of controlling attitude towards food sends me back into the cycle of "productivity" and passivity where trying to exercise control becomes too much of a burden and so I start to make excuses to slip up. Instead, treating mealtimes as special family rituals might go some ways in restoring balance without turning eating into one more project that I can potentially fail at. This is perhaps what the final card in my reading, the Ace of Cups, might indicate: going back to the very beginning, where nourishment and replenishment is a gift and a source of life and connection.

These are all my thoughts for now. Hopefully I can work on some of these during the week. Ideally, I'd like to be able to do a simple ritual to represent some of these intentions and help me integrate them into my life. The next full moon is on Thursday, November 10, so it would be nice to have a simple ritual to do by then - I can spend the next two weeks thinking a bit about what I'd like to do.

Reflections on My Uncensored To-Do List

There's an awful lot of taking in compared to putting out on this list. For instance, probably half of the list is made up of various books that I want to read or practices (spiritual or otherwise) that involve listening or receptivity of some kind in order to connect and gain information.

My first reaction is to get down on myself for being too much of a "consumer" instead of a "producer." I should be doing more creative things, I should be producing more writing, more art and/or photography. I should be providing more services to people that they actually want or need. So says the critical voice in my head.

Is that true? When I try to think about it in terms of receptivity versus activity, I can be a little kinder to myself and not tune in as much to the demands of a society that can be very gimme-gimme demanding. Perhaps I am just in a "receptive" phase right now, where learning and listening are key elements and perfectly okay.

I know I'd probably be frustrated if I tried to give up writing altogether, and I definitely have the urge to do creative work (hence the interest in photography that has always lingered). In fact, sometimes my desire to create frustrates my desire to listen and open up to receptivity, so that neither happens and I end up in a stalemate. My fear perhaps is that I can't create until I'm "ready" because otherwise the product of that creativity will be limited, not as well informed as it could be, missing out on something. My best creative work has always come out of my own process of trying to understand, trying to process and integrate what I'm listening to. By thinking of production and consumption as too much at odds, maybe I'm cutting myself off from my source of creativity.

For now anyway, maybe I need to give myself permission to be in a more receptive mode or mood, and to allow whatever writing or creative work I do to grow out of that naturally in whatever way it will. Many of my writing goals are vague and ill-defined - while many of my "receptive" goals are very specific. Maybe I should take this as an indication of where my focus lies at the moment?

Meanwhile, simple rituals of meditation and offerings, as well as regular journaling of some kind, can keep the threshold between receptivity and creative activity open. If I'm not sure what to offer or create, maybe I can start with offering the simplest things.

The purpose of making the uncensored list of things I want to do was to get an idea about what kinds of things might fall into each of the four categories according to the four elements. I'll come back to this list and work at organizing it into four categories (or five, one of the major arcana) in a bit.

Diary - Career Help

Waiting for Jeff and Arthur to get done booking their flights on the computer so we can go to dinner. Meanwhile, I was skimming through Creating a Life Worth Living, ostensibly to see if it might be helpful to Jerilynn just to give her some ideas about how adults learn to grapple with the question of "being able to handle being grown up." But the more I flip through it, the more I think it might be worth while to go back through it and actually do some of the exercises and see where they lead.

My plan is to start a serious routine of creative/spiritual work for November. I'm stuck in a rut where I have very little that I have to do on any given day, but a long list of things I'd like to do.... so I get stuck and wind up sitting in front of the computer half the day perusing social networking websites and feeling guilty and angry and unsupported because I'm not "popular." When did I become someone who cared about being popular? When I started to think that being popular was the only way that you can make a living these days. Need to snap out of that. I'm hoping that this book will help.

Also, with my Saturn Return coming up, I wanted to open up to a bit more meditation time and learn to relax when I'm not working and focus when I am (instead of focusing on procrastination and as a result feeling neither accomplished nor rested, instead of both). I tried using the To Do list tool online that Jeff showed me, but that just ended up turning everything on the list into a burden, the list became something too ignore because I fell too far behind on things, and it wound up encouraging me to procrastinate more instead of less. So I need a new system.

An idea I thought up the other night was to use my Tarot cards - draw a single card each day, and have particular types of activities planned according to the suit of the card. So drawing a Pentacles card (of whatever number) would mean doing some sort of "earth" focused activities, while drawing a Swords card would correspond to "air" activities. Major Arcana cards would be something special.

To do this, I have to come up with some kind of way to organize the various things I want to get done according to the four elements, plus decide what the Major Arcana should stand for. I think the first step, then, is to sit down and make a list of all the various things I want to do, and then see if any patterns emerge. Obviously, Swords will probably correspond to "intellectual" types of activities, like perhaps studying, reading, doing research. I'm not sure writing should go under that element, though, since I want to open up my writing a bit more to creativity and imagination. So either Wands or maybe Cups, depending.

Jeff and Arthur have given up because the website just isn't working. So off to dinner and social time. More on this later.

DOTR Lesson 3: Awen and Creative Work

My work with Lesson 3: Awen is, I think, almost at an end. I haven't spent as much time as I would have liked writing poetry and doing "actual creative work," but there's no doubt that I've been feeling the influx of inspiration lately and, in particular, changing some of the ways I've been thinking about creativity and creative approaches to soul-work and career in particular.

The "creative project" for Lesson 3 will undoubtedly take much longer than a few weeks, so I'm pretty comfortable moving on to the next lesson while continuing that creative work. I had been anticipating being able to spend more time sitting and writing poetry, but what has demanded my attention — practically forcing its way to the forefront this past month — is work on my website and, by extension, what I'm now coming to call my "author platform." A lot of the work that I've been doing on the wedding planning end of things has led me to reevaluate my expectations about what I'm capable of accomplishing. When it came to planning a wedding, I assumed that (a) we didn't have the money to hire a professional wedding planner, (b) tons of people manage to plan a wedding without a professional planner every year, (c) no one else was going to step up and plan my wedding if I didn't (especially not the way Jeff and I wanted it), and (d) I most obviously had the skills to do it right — in fact, to make it fantastic! Yet all this time, I've been looking at folks who present workshops, give lecturers, teach classes and in general rock the professional writer scene and thought to myself, "I could never do that! I'm just an introverted, shy type of writer-recluse who will just have to settle for being amazing yet amazingly obscure." But why? I can't imagine that preparing a talk or presentation is all that much more intimidating that planning and hosting an event for about a hundred people.... And I managed to break the latter down into a manageable goal that I could work up to a bit at a time. So, why not the other?

That's my inherent elitism coming out. I really do think that part of me assumed that I could handle planning a wedding because lots of people do it all the time without any special prep work or qualifications, and I am way more competent than lots of people even without any experience or credentials. But thinking about becoming an "expert" on something, enough for a book I wrote to be taken seriously, to have the authority of Author.... was not something I could imagine for myself. I didn't know how people became "experts" at the very same time that I was still busy thinking that most of the "experts" out there these days weren't nearly as thoughtful or intelligent as I can be. So I was working this neurotic double standard that kept me expectations far higher than perhaps they should have been while secretly harboring snarky suspicions about people who managed to be professionally successful... which just became an excuse for me to stay in the shadows and always be in the process of "working on my book" without ever finishing one.

Now I'm seeing that creative work is not limited to what I put down on the page. It's also about crafting a professional career, and that's a beautiful thing! There's no job out there that's made perfectly just for me, that I get to just step into and start earning a paycheck — precisely because any pre-made job opening couldn't be suited precisely to me and my needs. Instead, I get to engage in the creative process of making my own job, composed of the various tasks and interactions that I'm most interested in pursuing. But if I can bring a sense of professionalism to a job like waitressing, I'll be damned if I can't live up to the "professional" side of being a professional writer.

And what really brought it home for me was how I have, for some people, come to be considered an "extremist," and how out-of-control and unjust my online presence suddenly seemed to have become. Whining about misunderstandings or the limits of the medium seemed silly when I thought back to the craft of poetry when I was first learning it, and forgoing the whining of "readers just don't get me" and instead buckling down to the hard work of making my writing more accessible and clear. My online persona — my "author platform" online and in person — is not who I am at the deepest level, it is a creative work just as much as a piece of writing is, and if I feel that it's not getting through, then I have at least a large part of the responsibility to listen, to attend, to practice and respond and shape my craft so that it does.

So that's my big creative project for this lesson, and one that will continue to play a major role in the months and years to come. The biggest part of that right now is launching a new website, and leaving behind the Meadowsweet & Myrrh space. Ever since upgrading to the new design, trying to tweak and change and incorporate the kinds of features and widgets I wanted, that space has started to feel more cluttered, too messy and small to meet my needs. The more direct control over the layout and design of this new website is already making a world of difference, though I wouldn't be surprised if it needs to be revamped in the future. It will also be more sustainable in terms of the organization of blog updates, giving up the linear model for one that is more expansive, which will relieve the pressure to constantly update with new amazingly mind-blowingly awesome posts — which in turn will free up my energies to devote elsewhere, to other aspects of my writing. The website will be a good home base for my author identity even if I'm not constantly updating it (because, honestly, I don't think my personality is cut out for daily updates... I can't even sustain it in a private forum like this blog).

So I've been kept up at night several times over the last few weeks, with brain-storms roiling and thundering behind my closed eyes as I imagine all the possibilities and find myself getting more and more excited by it. Understanding that I need to narrow down my goals and set some reasonable, reachable ones (and, as one writer I read recently put it, being able to distinguish between "prolific" and "productive" in a way that frees me a bit from the pressures of guilt and perfectionism)... it's all very awesome. I look at how in two years time I was able to quadruple my readers for Meadowsweet just with a fumbling, haphazard approach in the midst of big life changes, and I imagine just what I could accomplish with an organized approach with clearer goals and a deeper insight into who I want to be as an author. Was it less than a year ago that I was thrilled to even be mentioned on The Wild Hunt? And now I've guest posted there, I have regular interactions with Jason (and frankly, because I'm elitist, I find that he's not all the hot shit I thought he was originally and there are actually things about his approach that I disagree with him about), and in general I feel perfectly comfortable considering myself part of that "in crowd." And all the while, my expectations for what I can accomplish always outstrip my current success (the old phenomenon I mentioned to Carl last time we saw him: I might have huge admiration for a publication or publisher.... until they accept and print my work, and then I figure they must not have been all that good or picky after all. Is this elitism or low self-esteem?).

I figure, if my expectations are always based on the next biggest success marker, then that might actually be a good thing — something that challenges me to keep pushing and stretching and growing — as long as I don't use it as an excuse not to try at all or to give up too soon. I recently found out that one of my favorite words — attending, which I love for its triple connotation of presence, focus and service — comes from a Latin root meaning "to stretch towards." This is what I want. I don't want to be hedged in by trolls and nay-sayers, I want to stretch towards that dream-self I can imagine myself as being, and find ways to make her my reality. She doesn't let trolls define her or pull her off track: she has a gift, and she shares it, and she seeks out those who will be receptive and makes a point of reaching out to them. And those who aren't receptive? Love will find its own way out: water through ice, root through rock.

Diary

Days of Note: Full White Waking Moon

Sun: entering into pieces (water/mutable), 7:10am - 5:59pm
Moon: full moon, virgo (earth/mutable)
Earth: a second unusually warm day in the middle of February, bright, warm sunlight, white fluffy clouds in a crystal blue sky, winds shifting the bare tree branches and playing with the wind chimes all up and down the block, the woods was restless with spring's first robins and last winter's dried, dead leaves stirring in miniature cyclones in the breeze; everything is mud and melting ice


The last few days were rough, with some discomfort and pain and general fatigue, but today has been lovely. We've opened up the windows all over the house to allow the rooms to air out with the breeze, and the place feels full of shifting life and wafting curtains again. A warm day like today does not feel very much like spring, exactly, as it's too early and it seems even the land knows tomorrow will be cold and near freezing again. The air is too dry and restless to be full spring air, though everywhere there is mud and muck and melting. Jeff and I had lunch outside in the backyard, watching the clouds pass in front of the sun one by one. He kept insisting it was a day from May, but May is more lush and green than this. Everything is still very dry and stiff, not awake like true spring but restless in its sleep. It will be waking soon.

The last few days of work have been interesting, as a new project had me hopping and worrying a bit about my "boss's boss" approving of what I was doing. Things seemed to have gone well, but to go from so little supervision to that kind of extra oversight makes me worry. I want to be thought of as a competent and hard worker — a tough task to accomplish when you work from home sometimes, I guess.

So my creativity of earlier in the week was on the wane, for a few reasons. Today was a "day off" (with only a few hours of work in the morning), as was yesterday which I spent mostly arguing with trolls online. I should know better, but it's hard to resist sometimes. This time at least I did not let it bother me so much... or, I shouldn't put it that way. "Letting" seems to have very little to do with it — but at least, the trolls remained laughable, and their insults ridiculous, enough for me to easily shrug them off. I spent some time yesterday afternoon working on some creative awen work with the Kowit poetry workbook.... but found none of the prompts for the exercise I was working on to be very helpful. Prompts like "remember a time when you were sad" or "remember a time when you felt humiliated" came up empty-handed — I could remember occasions that seemed a mix of frustrated and restlessness, but nothing much else came to mind. Jeff said I must have just been in a particular mood, and I know that sometimes I do get "blocked" or stuck in a particular emotional state when it becomes difficult for me to remember feeling any other way. That got us on to astrology again, and conversations about my moon being in my twelfth house, so that the source of my emotions were often a mystery to me but also, if I follow them willingly and trustingly, serve as my connection to Mystery and grace.

This, of course, led back to a conversation about how to work with my Saturn return, which is fast approaching. Yesterday, in my restlessness, I asked Jeff just to come up with a simple practice I could do regularly, since trying to be "creative" to come up with some practical exercises seemed too much to deal with at the time and I was coming up dry. He said he'd give it some thought, and in the meantime I will be contemplating it, too. I want to ask Brigid for her aid in this endeavor, but I'm feeling like a neglectful devotee — this past week, I completely got the day wrong for my Flamekeeping shift. Remembering that I would be Keeping during Valentine's Day, I had it in my brain that my shift began at sundown on Valentine's Day itself, but this turned out to be one sundown too late. When I realized the mistake (no thanks to my Google calendar, which has been acting wonky with my holy days sub-calendar for some reason recently), I kept my shift one day off.... but still feel as though I should have done more to make up for the lapse. If my first year of Flamekeeping was characterized by plenty of strange and happy coincidences, with my Keeping shifts falling on important dates almost every month it seemed, this year's Flamekeeping seems more like to be characterized by distraction, forgetfulness and a need on my part to be more careful and disciplined in my devotions.

After dinner yesterday, though, I did return to my computer to work on a poem inspired by the trollish bickering that I'd experienced online that day. Reimagining these accusations of being "idealistic" and naive and living in "white flower power land" (like I said — so absurd as to be laughable, almost endearing in their mischaracterizations of my view), the poem arose as a kind of affirmation that to be open to wonder is also a kind of power, and sometimes one more difficult and more risky than the power of brute force and violence. I shared the poem below, as well as on P+P (where a reader promptly tried to rebut with song lyrics — gods, I love a good old fashion bardic match!). So yesterday, after priming the pump for hours and coming up dry, it turned out I had a poem in me after all.

Today, after working several hours in the morning and lunching with Jeff outside in the sunlight, I decided to go into the woods for some meditation. During my walk, I scouted the next stone I would need to bless and consecrate for my DOTR work. I sang songs to the earth as I walked, which always helps to anchor me and center me in the work, reminding me that this is not just some casual stroll but a journey for a sacred purpose. I made my way to the stone outcropping where I usually sit, looking down over the ravine, and spent some time in meditation there, breathing and chanting the awen and grounding in the stirring bones of the earth. It's obvious that I need to return to regular meditative practice, as my mind wandered quite a bit during this time. But then, I am not a machine, not clockwork, and I do sometimes wonder if a wandering mind just isn't more natural during some times of the month. Chanting the awen, I felt centered and grounded, and when I fell back into silence, it seemed to me that my voice continued to be carried and echoed in the wind and among the trees in the woods surrounding me — just as it had that time in Ohiopyle, near the waterfall last May. I consecrated a small jar of water and, after a sip to honor the Spirit within, poured it out upon the rock as an offering to the local land. I then did the same with a jar of birdseed, as an offering to the spirits and beings of the land. Though my meditative work was perhaps not as fruitful as I might have liked, the rite itself seemed rooted and powerful enough. Anyway, we do not do these rites for ourselves alone or the way they make us feel — we do the work as real work, true action in the world, that shapes and changes the world. A gift is a gift because of intention, even if that intention is worn and frazzled at the edges because of moontides and stress. I hope the land can meet me half-way, as it has so often done before.


Diary Tarot Card:

(b) Song of the World
(d) Song of the Land ............ (c) Song of my Gods
(a) Song Within

(a) Song Within - The Ten of Pentacles is a card of fulfillment and enjoyment in life, rooted and steeped in the beauty of the material world but married to the spiritual meanings and movements, often found most poignantly in art and aesthetics. As Annie Dillard writes, an artist "jammed in the pool of materials," lives also in the mind, home of forms, and in the spirit. This is a card of auspiciousness, prosperity and generosity alike as they are connected and mutually supportive in the physical world of nature and its laws of exchange and engagement. Hard work and diligence comes to fruition in poise, comfort and simple pleasures enjoyed freely, without covetousness or hedonism. A willingness to work within the forms and limits of tradition and deep, ancient wisdom also expresses itself in this card — while this may sometimes bog us down in overly stiff structure, in this card the limits and boundaries of form, tradition and discipline serve a vital purpose in shaping and cultivating liveliness and joy.

(b) Song of the World - Temperance (XIV) brings together in balance, harmony and exchange the swirling, dancing, jousting energies of masculine and feminine, earth and sky, light and dark, phoenix and dragon, yin and yang. Life comes not from the strict purity of extremes, but from this dance of tension and difference, each tempering the other — the fire in the water. This card signifies a time of respite, rest and relief — albeit only a temporary one, perhaps — after a struggle, when we have a chance to refresh ourselves, catch our breath, and ready for the next step in the journey. There is poise and a sense of stillness and quiet in this card, despite the roaring, twining energies that surround the angel of temperance where she perches. Her mind is clear and open, the connections between thought and soul and manifestation in the material world laid bare and beautiful before her soft-gazing eyes.

(c) Song of my Gods - The Seven of Cups is a card of paradox, offering many choices — almost too many to count or consider — but only some of them may lead to deeper connection with both soul and spirit, and the Song of the World. Egotism and fantasy threaten to lead us off our path and we may make wrong choices if we stay too long with our "heads in the clouds," day dreaming of wealth or fame or other such rewards. But with our gaze firmly held to those ways of true value, following wise advice of those who have come before us, we can find the path to deeper, more authentic engagement and wholeness. The siren song of this card is not all deception, but we must be careful in our choices, and allow humility — grounding in the earth — to help us choose which path we take.

(d) Song of the Land - The Chariot (VII) wrestles with the chaotic, restless forces of conflicting desires and intentions, the conscious and the unconscious aspects of ourselves. To master these tensions and ride victorious requires strength of will and receptivity to changing circumstances alike. Psychologically, this card represents the healthy development of our ego selves, that sense of self that governs our actions and navigates a smooth, sure course through sometimes murky waters or conflicting interests. This is a card of composure and confidence amidst confusion and disorder, the first assertion of the ego as a reliable center for the individual self.


Further Interpretation - The cards drawn for the Song of the World (Temperance) and the Song of the Land (The Chariot), both major arcana, also both involve the balance of energies and the dancing, push-pull of conflict and tension between opposites. Appropriate for the time of year, and for the weather and energies of this day in particular, these cards seem to reflect the moods, energies and currents of the greater world — the coming of spring, the restlessness of the wind over the bare, muddy land, the play of water over soil and warm sunlight slicing through sometimes chilly air. Both cards incorporate a kind of paradox of both stillness and chaotic movement, poise and grace as well as mess and conflict.

The Ten of Pentacles in the position of Song Within seems to indicate my recent focus on a more disciplined approach to creative writing, and my willingness to "prime the pump" even on days when I am not feeling particularly creative or inspired. It may also indicate the process of revision and craft involved in pulling together a book manuscript, a project that I have also started recently and hope to finish over the next several months. Since this card came up earlier in a reading in a position that seemed to suggest this was my best approach to the writing life and the work of my soul, I am pleased to see it showing up again here — perhaps this means that I am orienting myself in a helpful and receptive way and utilizing my self-discipline as the necessary tool that it is to help me accomplish my goals.

The card that appears in the position of Song of my Gods (Seven of Cups) is the most confusing of this reading, which is not exactly surprising given the paradoxical nature of the number seven. In previous readings, this card has seemed to warn about making wrong choices, being distracted by temptations to popularity or influence instead of remaining anchored in the work of my writing. The two figures in the card face in different directions, though both to the left (in fact, all the figures in all four cards face to the left, with the exception of a few of the animals in Temperance and The Chariot) — the woman looks up, gesturing, towards the position of the Song of the World (Temperance) card, while the man gazes down at the map he holds, in the direction of the Song Within (Ten of Pentacles) card. In the artist's interpretation, it is the male who is "grounded" and sensible enough to accomplish the couple's goals, while the female is too much distracted by temptation and fantasy. That the woman gestures towards the external "world" position while the man gazes down with steady discipline towards the "internal" position is interesting. Yet at the same time, the card that the woman points to is Temperance, a card with encouraging meaning of its own. The angle of temperance herself seems to be turned inward, deep in contemplation of the forces around her. Meanwhile, the Ten of Pentacles holds not only the prosperous queen, but the old dragon steady, perhaps even stuck, in his ways. So an orientation towards both the external and internal worlds may be necessary — the greater world may hold not only temptations and distractions, but inspiring examples and helpful guides to the navigation of these tensions and vital energies, while the inner world may run the risk of becoming too entrenched in navel-gazing and self-reference and in this way become stuck. A map may be a helpful guide, as in self-discipline, but it must be supplemented. A floating castle may be mere fantasy, but if we see such dreams realized in the world through the lives of others, perhaps we do well to ask ourselves how this is possible, and learn from the questions we ask. It seems to message of this card, then, is both discernment and balance, seeking out what is helpful to guide my choices without discounting either one or the other out of hand. Seems like the kind of advice I often get from my gods, Brigid in particular.

DOTR Lesson 3: Awen and Creative Work

The Killing Blow

Call me the name of peace
as though it were a curse,
and I will bless you, saying,
Yes, and I will lift up
the white flower of cowardice
and trembling, I will lift up that blossom
the color of snow and ocean foam
and moonlight, cloud and empty wind
and bone. I will lift it up with these hands
worn and worried with bickering,
limp with the luxury of blood,
the hands I inherited from my ancestors
whose bones, too, are white beneath the mud.
The goddess of war climbs the mountain's peak,
the hard, pale sunlight like the whites of her eyes.
Wonder, too, is a kind of power.
What curse she lays on the wearied earth, saying,
Yes, and Peace, and other fearful things.
The hills grow soft, will not be rushed
as last year's dead lift up
the small, white blossoms of the spring.

Diary

Days of Note: First Quarter White Waking Moon

Sun: aquarius (air/fixed), 7:19am - 5:50pm
Moon: *first quarter, gemini (air/mutable)
Earth: just below freezing, with gentle winds and gentle sun, but still very much winter despite the first hinting stirrings of spring


Today, my second "day off" of the week, I woke up at 6:30 AM wide awake. Of course, it being still dark and Jeff being pretty much sound asleep, I didn't bother to actually get up. Still, I was full of energy and excitement about the day. Most likely because it was my "day off" and I was eager to get back to what I'd been working on my last "day off," Wedding Wednesday — which I spent, not on wedding stuff as I should have, but on taking the first steps towards designing and setting up my new website. I can become obsessive about these things. It's always been the case that a huge motivating factor for me is the appearance and packaging of a thing. That may sound shallow or superficial, but for me, part of the thrill of a beautiful piece of writing is the aesthetic pleasure of the physical book itself: the heft and weight of it, the scent of book binding glue, the neat, elegant formatting of the fonts, the cover art. And when it comes to online writing, this spills over into websites. A website can be — contrary to so much embarrassing evidence out there — elegant and beautiful and inviting, a worthy showcase of excellent work. I want my website to be like that. And so I thrill at the hours upon hours that I get to spend tweaking code and experimenting with color combinations and layout features.

When all's said and done, though, I want to be able to fill a website with awesome material. So as much as I was excited about having a day off today, I knew that I really couldn't go much further on the website design without facing the music and buckling down to some actual writing. And weirdly enough, I was dreading that. I had a restless frustration, like cabin-and/or-spring fever, that made me worry I wouldn't be able to settle down to do the creative work I wanted to do. I feel like it's been so long since I've done creative writing that really sang my soul-song. And of course, I've been feeling pressure (or, more kindly, leadings) from Brigid that I should be turning back to this work and cultivating it. Even my aspirant work with DOTR this lesson is focused on creative work and our relationship with awen, the Druid concept of inspiration, the fire-in-the-head breath of the gods. So every day I failed to write creatively, it became that much harder to have any confidence that I still had it in me.

This morning, I got in a few hours of work before lunch, and generally wasted time poking around online reading articles and blog feeds and Facebook updates that left me feeling befuddled and muddy headed. I knew I needed to give myself time and space in which to be creative, but that restlessness was keeping me from calming down. That, plus the monthly cravings for pastries and chocolate were at constant war with my commitment to the mostly-raw vegan diet Jeff and I are trying out, and the result was the weird sensation that I was... bored. Which is hard to explain. But boredom as an emotional state, and the tension of cravings for un-filling, bad-for-me food, were hardly distinguishable. So finally, in early afternoon, I decided to compromise: I had one piece of chocolate from the stash my mother sent me in a care package for Valentine's Day, and then I went downstairs and got one of my numerous How To Write Poetry workbooks (I know where they all are now, because Jeff and I have organized our bookshelves, hurrah!). I read through the introduction and the beginning of the first chapter before getting to the first exercise. Then I sat down, and I did it. I've already shared the results.

Or, at least, the product of the process. But there were other results, too. It took me hours to write that poem, hours of weighing and pushing and feeling my way through each line. Even now, I'm not sure if it's any good or not. But the process was so satisfying and restful, and something I had missed so much without even realizing it. It was work, in the best sense of the word. Not busywork to keep me churning and spinning my wheels, not time clocked or overly specific exercises leading step-by-step. It was just the work of digging and sensing and sitting quietly listening to the rhythm of each line, each word, and working my way slowly, gently, towards the poem's end. It was so satisfying, yet calming, that after dinner I felt as though I had plenty of energy and motivation, and I was eager to plunge back in. Jeff had a few hours of work left to do, since he took time out of the middle of the day to run errands before the kids come this weekend. So I buckled down to tackle some revision work I'd been meaning to do for a while.

The plan with the new website is to make it mostly a static site to showcase my writing and publications (and possibly photographs), with a blog feature incorporated to share news and smaller essays. I won't be exporting the old Meadowsweet blog into this new site, but instead I'm going ahead with my original plan to compile the best pieces from the old blog into a book to make available on Lulu (or, possibly, through a publisher, if Graeme's small publishing company will still have me). Once I began the process of selecting and compiling these pieces (which was months ago now), I realized that many of them I wanted to expand and revise, incorporating ideas that developed in the comment threads and just in general touching them up and making them more suitable for the print medium. Because I'm a perfectionist. But the task seemed so daunting, I never really got started on it.

Tonight, I sat down after dinner and began working on an expansion/revision of the first essay. It wasn't just enjoyable, it was downright fun! I felt like I was back to my old self again, revisiting the old me who was a diehard Poet-capital-P. For so long now it seems — though it can't be more than half a year at most — I've felt not so much like a writer as like.... a blogger. And I do mean that in the derogatory sense, no matter how unfair that might be. But "blogging" (as The Doctor uses it) is like chattering gossip and bickering banter about trivia and current events. I think it could be more than that, and I used to be pretty good at staying grounded in that vision of it being more than that, but my involvement with P+P has dragged me down in some ways, I think, and left me disoriented and feeling utterly drained of creative inspiration. It is so hard to take the risk of true creativity when you feel constantly under attack my insulting snipers and overly-critical know-it-alls. It's hard not to get sucked into that world, to become small. But reading back over old posts, and working on them again with this new burst of creative juices, I felt as though I were coming home to myself. I no longer had to berate myself for not doing the work I was supposed to be doing. Even if it takes a while, even if I'm not rushing off to score the instant gratification of immediate publication in a blog medium, I am doing the work, and allowing it to take however long it takes. I may end up with some material worthy of publication in magazines (though my luck there has been less than wonderful lately). Either way, I am doing the creative work I want to be doing and allowing myself to look beyond the borders of our sometimes self-involved little community of Pagans. This, I like.

So it's been a good day, and this diary entry probably reflects that. There is much to catch up on that has been going on in my life, but I'm not going to beat myself up over not doing a better job of chronicling it. That is busywork. This is creative work. I'm also not going to do the first part of the DOTR Aspirant Lesson 3 as it is written. I will not be doing daily note-taking on my plans and goals, nor doing the weird exercise of writing with one hand, then the other for a week. I suspect this last exercise is supposed to put you in touch with your more "artistic" brain, but I have far better ways of doing that on my own. Perhaps I will turn the journaling prompts into poetry-writing exercises instead and experiment with them in that way, but in general I'll be adapting the lesson to suit my needs. I'm hoping this is alright with Bob. Since he and I have known each other in one form or another for several years now, he did invite me to just join outright as a full Druid member, but I agreed to go through the lessons. In part because it's a good refresher, and in part because I wanted to understand the community sense that was developed through the lessons themselves, and in part because I hoped to be able to give Bob some feedback on the lessons themselves and ways they might be improved. We'll see how receptive he is to me blowing off the lesson plans for this month and exploring awen in my own way.



Daily Tarot Card: The King of Wands stands noble and proud, energetic and ready for action and activity. His blood flows bright and quick with passion, enthusiasm for his work, yet as the mature "yang" of the suit, he also understands the necessity of structure and order to reign his power in, harness it and shape it to his purposes. He is a figure defined by his energy and enthusiastic engagement with the world around him and the work he pursues in it. He may sometimes try to do everything at once, and for that reason to shy away from a sense of control or imposed order that might restrict him or rob him of the space his creativity needs to flourish. Yet this tension between passion and calm, creativity and order, are held delicately and deftly under his rule.

DOTR Lesson 3: Awen and Creative Work

Feeding Seagulls

I don't know how they came all that way, following the Susquehanna
into the foothills of the Appalachian mountains of central Pennsylvania,
to the empty field at the end of my street where I took my father
out beneath the high, gray winds of autumn
to show him how I called the birds to me.
It wasn't hard, I told him when he asked
about the teacher's phone call, the wasted lunches, and why
I spent each recess in the field feeding gulls instead of playing with the other
kids. But I knew he couldn't understand unless I showed him.

Again, I plucked a grape and held its slick, dark shape
between two pudgy fingers — arced my arm in one smooth and mighty toss,
shoulder loose and elbow locked, the last flick of wrist sending the fruit soaring
until it disappeared against the blurry sky.
Again and again, I swung with all the longing I could send
out of my awkward, grade school body — the silent call to come, to feast,
to circle in. For a week this had gone on, me alone in the field
throwing grapes and torn bits of white bread smeared with jelly
into the air, as one, then several, then whole flocks of seagulls
gathered wheeling and quarreling around me, each silhouette two sharp
parentheses hinged around a tight, tiny body that moved like a boat
cutting through invisible waters, lazy with its breathless speed.

My father waited. Wedged between empty field and empty sky,
the mute sting of loss was creeping in. It was too late,
or too cold, or too dim in the autumn evening. I begged for him to wait
a little longer, as I tossed higher and higher, wished to god I had brought bread
instead, and dreamed with every second how the wings had sounded
against the air, the tense emptiness of those wild pilgrims
dancing and screaming around the promised offerings as they came.
I don't know how they made it all that way, so far from the shores
where my people, too, had spilled in ragged, starving flocks
against the land and staggered towards the mountains in the west.
My father turned to walk back home. Behind us, one or two gulls,
secreted away behind the clouds, dropped down on the abandoned food.

The ocean was only a story they blamed on one another,
crying over and over how they had lost it.

Brigid Star Fire, An Imbolc Meditation

I began in a field, a green expanse full of flowers and bright sunlight unrolling on all sides. A figure danced in green and gold rippling, barely distinguishable at first from the wind shifting and dancing through the long grasses — yet as she moved closer, I was able to make her out. Eyes that flashed black and full of stars, a glimpse here and there in her turning and spiraling of a darkness, glinting cold and dark, then slipping, spinning back into green and gold. The mantle she wore spun out around her as she turned and danced, the colors of its threads flung out like sparks from a fire, leaping, or like flower petals of purple crocuses and myriad colored wildflowers — some falling to the ground to spring up as blossoms from scattered seeds, while others fluttered, took flight as a thousand butterflies flirting with the warm breeze.

So unlikely a scene, in the midst of this cold and bitterly long winter, that it took me a moment to adjust, to sink more deeply into the sense of place and allow myself to enter, to engage, the awakened land. The candle on my altar — the golden fire-in-the-water afloat among golden flecks of glitter in the blue bowl, the flame of transformation and forge fire that marked the opened center way — hissed and sparked as it consumed the offering of butter. On either side, the red candle of fire, poetry and inspiration and the blue candle of water, healing and integration burned steadily in their holders. But my eyes were closed, as I sunk deeper into trance. The green, gold meadow grew more intense in my mind's eye as I slipped down into my true center.

What is this dancing? I asked her, running to keep up as she laughed and twirled. What do you have to teach me, Brigid? Is spring here already? It seems so cold still. She seemed to ignore my half-frantic questions, challenging me with her movements to stay on my toes. Suddenly, she flopped down in the grass like a small girl, giggling, laying on her stomach propped up on her elbows, running her fingers through the grasses and flower blossoms. Her gold-flamed auburn hair fell around her face in braids, and the soles of her bare feet were slightly darkened with the dirt of the earth. I looked more closely at where her fingers were playing and dancing through the rich flora of the meadow. She plucked a white-fuzzed sphere of a dandelion and sat up, cross-legged, and held it up between us for me to examine. "Funny," she mused, "How the same flower that can be so golden and bright as the sun — turns to white, soft fluff carried on the wind when it goes to seed...." She took a deep breath and blew, closing her eyes for a moment as if making a wish. The we both watched as the seeds one by one let loose and drifted like snow across the wide field — some snagging in the nearby grasses and trembling there, others carried far and high until they were lost to our sight against the bright sky. "How much they look like tiny stars!" Brigid exclaimed, and she was on her feet again, running and dancing among the flowers. The field seemed suddenly full of dandelions, most of them golden yellow and bristling with sunshine. When Brigid found one ready to seed, a crystal fuzz-ball of intricate webbing in white, she'd flick it with her toe as she danced past, sending the seeds scattering to the wind.

But, I called out, what about my work? What work should I be doing? I have been so tired, it's so hard for me to work up the energy to stick to a discipline. You are the Goddess of the Forge, of the steady and unglamorous work of transformation! Don't you have any advice for me? She laughed with that laugh that always seems to mean, "You just don't get it, darling!" She continued dancing through the green, sun-bathed fields, calling out behind her, "The dandelion is not always sunny. Sometimes it must go to seed to survive, sometimes it must put down deep roots! Not every season is the season of discipline and work! Things change! I am not just a goddess of transformation — I am also the goddess of inspiration!" As if in response to these words, on my altar the red candle sparked and hissed, and its flame danced in its holder. "Now it's time for you to indulge in some joy, my darling!" Brigid announced, catching me up with her hands and swinging me around trying to urge me to dance. "Now is a time for the joy of inspiration — do what brings you joy, find again the playfulness in yourself. Now is not a time for work — I am sick of work — now is the time to play! As the spring comes and the days warm, play and be joyful! These are your duties now, to dance the spring in, to welcome it as it deserves!"

Her words kept coming, urging me to seek again the source of my joy, to sing my soul-song in playful notes, and set aside my worries about obligation and progress. Moved by her words, I joined her dancing, and together we spiraled and swirled and skipped through the grasses, singing and laughing beneath a high, bright sky. After a time, I asked her, Should I — I mean, you are my goddess. Should I take an oath to you, a formal vow? She scoffed kindly at my question. But others in our group have done so — and I have no doubt in my heart that I am devoted to you... Her dance slowed beside me so that she could gaze more deeply into my eyes. "For others," she said, "An oath is like the spiderweb that connects and weaves them together in my service — and it is on those strands that the jewels of transformation, devotion and inspiration collect like dew. But you — you are already too full of duties and responsibilities, shouldering too much of the world as an obligation. No, you do not need to make any more promises to me that you have not already made. What you need to learn.... is a little bit of joy and freedom!" And with that, we were spinning again, dancing. The red candle on the altar sparked and danced along.

And as the trance deepened, as I slipped in and out of the rhythm of the spiraling dance across the meadow, it seemed that suddenly she caught me up in an embrace full of passion and joy, kissing me deep on the mouth — her breath becoming my breath, sweet and warm with the scent of flowers and greenery in springtime. I opened my arms to embrace her, and found I was embracing nothing but breeze and sunlight, as my body shivered, transfused with a sudden warmth tingling in every cell. She had entered into my body, or merged, or blended — I found myself to now be wearing the lush green robe and mantle hemmed with golden knotwork ribbon weaving its patterns along each edge, and as I spun, it rippled out around me in long undulating waves that seemed the very expression of joy and creativity rooted deep within the earth. The dandelion seeds drifted white around me, and soon the field was full of them, wafting as thick as snow but warm and soft. I found the meadow had grown dark and the seeds drifted upwards to mingle with the stars against the darkness of the night sky. I seemed to hear her voice from within — yet from a great distance — "What you need to learn, child, is how to plant the seeds of joy in your heart and nurture them as they crave. What grows of these — leave that to me...."

Then slipping quickly back, the trance came to an end and I was sitting before my altar again, watching the three flames burning steady and silent in the still air. Dipping my finger in the butter again, I consecrated a fourth candle, a large white pillar in a red-and-orange stained glass hurricane jar. This was to be my flamekeeping candle for the coming year, lit and tended every twenty days during my shift. What promises you have from me are already enough, Brigid? I pray this is so, and that I may keep them dear....

Meditations on Brigid: Goddess of Transformation

Brigid, Goddess of Transformation,
please reveal an aspect of yourself to me
that I might come to know you better.

Creation: The Hermit (IX): "His star-lantern marks the path..." The Hermit journeys in solitude and seeking, drawn by the guiding star of intimate connection with Spirit, urged on to deepen his personal relationship with the inner worlds of night and Mystery. The journey is one of loneliness and quiet, ever-new, the path that must be walked alone for each individual as they seek the lost melodies of their soul-song. Within solitude is found the spark of inspiration, the flickering flame of the lantern that leads onwards into the dark depths.

Destruction: Five of Wands: Things fall apart, the center cannot hold, and what began in playfulness soon becomes strife, the myriad obstacles and obstructions piling up until they seem overwhelming. We may feel that nothing is stable, nothing stays, all is chaos in a noisy current threatening to carry us away as we struggle against its pull. Our energy and passion run up against the difficulties of medium and matter, the limits of navigating conflicting currents, the challenge of mastering form through skill and intention. Yet still there is playfulness in this conflict, and an awareness that difficulty can transform us as well, that we are shaped by the challenges we face and the obstacles we overcome.

Transformation: Three of Pentacles: An expression of unity and resolution away from the tension and conflict of before, by engaging the physical world of material forms we learn to work with these forms in ways that deepen our involvement in the process of creativity and transformation. The work is only just beginning and already it has changed us. No longer alone, we work in concert with the pool of materials to shape and craft new forms, including new expressions and articulations of ourselves. Through such work, spirit is expressed in and through matter, and we are uplifted by our immersion in and engagement with the physical, natural world that at first seemed to us so full of chaos and conflict.

Goddess of Transformation, you are a Queen of Culture, that ever-changing flux of collective manifestation in the history of humankind. What begins in the solitude of soul-seeking finds its way back into the relationships of the ordinary world through our commitment to that creative spark of inspiration, your star-lantern guiding us on the path, and our willingness to be destroyed and remade through our embrace of the turning currents and churning chaos of your forge.

My praise and gratitude to you, Exalted Brigid, guardian of the solitary, challenger and uniter.

Awen.

Meditations on Brigid: Creatrix, Goddess of Creativity

Brigid, Bright Creatrix,
Goddess of Creativity,
Source of All,
what message do you have for me?

Death: Not creation from nothing, but the creativity of rebirth and renewal is her nature, the cycles of destruction and creation in the wild, passionate dance of grief and joy, sorrow and love, bound together and unfolding in ever-new forms and ways. The creation of transformation, the embrace of fire that both consumes and transforms, the new is a seed within the old, hatched amidst difficulty and, yes, even fear.

The grief of the ancestors in my blood and bones, the land I walk upon, you are the Ancestor of my ancestors, the source in the stars themselves, the ringing clash of metal, hiss of steam in the darkness and star-pierced night of space. Before there was a land, there was fire and water, there was you, the forger of star-stuff, complexity building upon complexity in the furnace at the heart of the countless suns, and the scattering of star-ash across the galaxies. We arise from your burning self-sacrifice and the joy of your passion and song, your voice like harp strings humming and thrumming in tension between life and death, strung between earth and sky, taut in our hearts, our throats, our hand-weavings as we do our work. All creativity is transformation, the willingness to dance as a partner of death, to carve away and reform, re-imagine. The ember of creation is the last remnant of a slow-dying fire, smoldering warmth and with its last light giving the spark to set going a new blaze.

Praise to you, Source and Nothing, Creator and Death alike, embracing the world with a love that sustains and transforms. My gratitude for your presence in my life, Exalted Brigid.

Awen.

Flamekeeping Meditation

Fire and Water in the Earth of my body,
I honor you, Brigid, Bright Goddess of Flame,
I honor you, Lady of Wellspring and Starlight,
And inscribe in my heart your thrice-holy name.

The candle is the center way, open between the worlds. I hold my hands as though in prayer, then slowly bring them apart to rest, palms upturned, on my knees. Above the soft sound of my breath as it rocks back and forth, ebb and flow within my body — the rustle of the wind in tree branches.

I am in a forest, rich and thick with the scent of evergreen. Tall pines stand all about me like the buttresses and columns of a great cathedral, shivering and shifting in a breeze. I feel as though I can sense every thin, green needle spread like whiskers, scenting the wind, turning this way and that. I stand in awe for a moment, unsure where to go or what to do. I place my hand against the rough, red trunk of one of the trees. Sticky sap seeps beneath my fingers, clinging to my skin.

A figure behind me — it is She, the Bright Goddess, this time draped in subtle, shifting green like the pine trees, her hair in radiant, auburn braids plaited thick and draped about her shoulders like a luxuriant fringe. "Taste," she seems to say with a small gesture, "the sap is sweet." Like the amber was once, I find myself thinking as I raise my fingertips to my lips and lick the sap from my hands. "The amber that once flowed through the veins of ancient trees," she agrees. "What is it that makes the sap sweet?" I do not know how to answer her. "It is the connection between earth and sky, the roots seeking deep for water, the limbs reaching, striving towards sunlight." She watches me as my gaze drifts beyond her back to the great trees of the forest. They seem to dwarf both of us, and I'm struck again by how small her form is. "It is the movement between the realms, the connection that flows through living veins, that makes the sap sweet."

I kneel down at her feet as she speaks these words. But she raises me up again with a gesture or a glance, or simply by her refusal to be an object of groveling or subordination. What do I need, what can you give me as guidance and aid? I try to ask her. But she says, almost sharply, "You already have everything you need." The amber sun — "Yes, the drop of liquid fire, the sweet sap of life-blood connecting the three realms. And the spiral shell? She smiles and looks to the new amulet I now where around my neck, the blue goldstone surrounding the glistening spiral forged of silver. "The dark waters of space, the depths of source and creation — do you think this amulet is so different from the spiral shell you were given at the wellspring?" And the sword? The missing piece, the gift I could not yet quite see — is it the sword of starlight? The simple athame? In answer, I find the small knife in my hands, lengthening into a sword glistening, pulsing with a light of its own, starlight or moonlight in the twilight beneath the trees.

I swing the sword, as though to test its sharpness and my strength. It slices through the image of the lady standing before me, slices it in half as though a flimsy veil, and the reality of the woods flap loose like a rip in space itself. Through the tear, a glimpse of dark night scattered brilliant with endless stars. I peer through, and seem to hear her voice coming from that beyond-place, reassuring me that I have not hurt her, only cut down the image of her to a larger reality. I wonder if this is the threshold between my inner landscape and the deep places of the realms beyond, the collective unconscious, the place of Spirit and soul. I remember the card I drew this morning, the image of the wanderer stepping out onto the thin earth-bridge made by the very act of stepping, a bridge created by the journey. I step through the tear and into the gulf of space.

Below my feet, it seems a thin foot bridge solidifies, bearing up my weight. I step again, moving farther out into space, and farther. The bridge, which at first seemed made of earth and brown stone, starts to sweat star-stuff like condensation, drips of night sky gathering like dew along its edges, running down the slope back towards the rip in space that leads back into the pine forest. The droplets of star-fire space sparkle darkly like pieces of tumbled blue goldstone, and I gather a few as amulets and charms, thinking somehow to bring them back for others. The bridge beneath my feet is soon coated completely with the shimmering dark surface, lit from within and glittering with stars, so that the bridge itself seems made of night and starlight instead of earth. All about me, the black abyss of space yawns open, the distance and nothingness sending a brief sense of thrilling vertigo through my body. Still, I keep walking — ahead of me, She is there again, her hair loose and flickering upwards like a flame, her form now draped in dark blue velvet robes that catch what little light there is in this place.

I can go no further, but far in the distance I seem to see the faint flickering of orange forge fire. I ask her if she can take me there, to the place where the stars are forged. She takes both my hands in hers and lifts me gently from the bridge, waltzing me across the distances, our feet trailing rippling mists like the tails of comets. When we reach the forge, it glows warm and pulsing like an ember nestled in a cave-like nook of nighttime. The hiss of steam and the noise of the bellows surround us, the ringing sting of the hammer against the anvil — and I see the forms being created there, tiny round discs of silver with curling rays, like miniature suns. They look quite like my own sun charm, except that their centers are empty. I ask this goddess of the Star Forge where is the amber, why the charms are incomplete. "Don't you see?" she seems to say. "These are only tools and symbols, but the amber is the life-blood, upwelling from the source — it must arise from you, from your life and your work. Only then will the sun become complete."

My mind wanders to the prayer beads I have crafted, and how I might make more to use as a tool for prayer. She laughs at me as though indulging the amusing obsessions of her child, chiding me a little for always wanting so much to make things, instead of allowing my work to be the upwelling of my life to fill in and complete what I have made. As I ponder this thought, I seem to hear the ocean waves in rhythm on the shore. In time with my breathing, they seem to draw me back to my inner landscape, and I find myself wandering down out of the tall pine forest to the pebbly beach, the ocean stretching out deep blue and etched with rising star light as, on the western horizon over the mountain, the sky blazes orange and red with the sunset. I sit for a little while, watching the dusk fade to blues and purples, holding a small memory of that fiery sunset within me as I prepare to keep the flame from this sunset to the next.

Bring my hands together again, I bow my head in gratitude for the wisdom shared. I slip the small flamekeeping pendant over my head, and breathe deeply as I sing my awen and promise to carry Brigid's Fire and Water in the Earth of my body. The meditation has ended, and I speak the words of peace as my breath moves through me like the tides beneath a night sky.

DOTR Lesson 2: Earth

Do not be selfish with your life.
Do not waste your days
inventing ways to change the world
to suit your small ideas.
Do this:
Go out under the open, cloudless sky
and listen to the silence of autumn.
Sit on the rock where once someone carved
a serpent and a star, worn now
by the rain and half-covered
with fallen leaves.
In the sun, your skin is hot
with the pulse of your blood.
In the shade, your skin is cool
with the tides of your breath.
And you are made of this,
flux and form, shifting
in the sunlight of the silent afternoon.
Do this:
Sit on the rock and watch
as the low sun moves
without moving
between the dark
columns of the trees.
Let the fly alight
on your upturned hand
and nuzzle your thumb
where it shimmers, the ridges
of your fingerprints rippling
under its furry, iridescent paws.
An eye studded with diamonds.
Wings translucent, opalescent,
like the cells of your body
woven through with black veins.
There is nothing that moves
in this world but this fly,
who comes and goes despite
the nearness of winter
and thinks nothing
but that the flesh of your body
is soft and sweet-smelling
and sturdy enough, and good.
Do this one thing:
do not be selfish with your life.
Do not imagine that this moment
is somehow less than the dreams
you carry with you, or the silence
into which the fly eventually
wanders, unafraid.
The sun slips behind another tree.
Look up and see, illuminated in
webs of twigs and tree limbs
against the shadowed hills beyond,
the same iridescent pattern
of the fly's wing
in the forest.
Bright twining world,
you do not owe us anything
but this.

Brigid of Amber, Brigid of the Stars

I frequent a forum called The Cauldron, where I belong to a flamekeeping Cill dedicated to the goddess Brigid. I began flamekeeping with them just before Imbolc of last year. (Mine is the third day in the rotation of twenty, and my shift has fallen more than once on days of special personal significance to me — which others have told me often happens during the first year of flamekeeping for a new Cill member.)

Recently, some wonderful and fascinating discussions have been going on in the Celtic Polytheism SIG, "Hazel and Oak," focusing on Brigid of the Forge as a creatrix/star goddess. The conversation has sparked (no pun intended) the suggestion of designing a group ritual. I want to plunge in and get involved in this work, journaling some of my thoughts and potential liturgical ideas on this blog, so I thought I would just mention this as an introduction for future reference.

I'll add to this later, but for now, here is a response I posted to the forum tonight, regarding the possibility brought up by others (and echoed in my own personal ritual experiences over the summer) of amber being a "stone" sacred to Brigid.

Part of the reason I did the three gifts meditation was to prepare for my trip to Northern Ireland (for a spiritual retreat focused on peace activism and social justice), and I was hoping for some images/icons to "carry with me" to meditate on during my time there. When the shadowy, robed figure outlined against the flames of the sacred fire reached into the heart of the fire and handed to me a droplet of amber, I think I actually laughed out loud in the middle of the ritual.

It suddenly seemed so obvious to me: first and foremost, amber as a "stone" of living fire or fire-in-water, the life-blood of the tree borne of the intermingling of the underground waters drawn up from the roots and the sunlight cascading down from the sky, cupped and drunk by the leaves. The prayer I use during my flamekeeping shifts begins: "Fire and water in the earth of my body, I keep your sacred flame." Amber as the sap or resin of ancient trees seemed like the perfect symbol of this idea.

And then, of course, is the fact that amber is especially well-known for containing the preserved remains of ancient insects, some of which contain the blood/DNA of ancient animals. So in another way, amber represented the "preservation and protection of life" and the continuation of ancient traditions and primordial energies or spirits. The fact that I was going to a retreat in the land of my ancestors that was focused on peace activism seemed to align perfectly with this idea.

I have wondered if anyone else made this connection to amber. While I was on the retreat, just after I'd found the amber sun amulet at the farmer's market, I had a discussion with someone at the retreat who was a former Pagan — he pointed out that amber and jet was a common combination for jewelry (especially among Wiccans, I think, if I'm remembering correctly what he said). But he said that amber was mostly associated with the God rather than the Goddess, being more "active/yang" and masculine. This deflated me a bit and so I kept my musings about any possible Brigid-amber connection to myself. So it's been wonderful for me to see others validating that connection and sharing some of their own thoughts!

And in keeping with the themes of fire-on-water and creation, I suddenly see amazing connections to the very first of the Rosary Poems I wrote back in college (of which, at the time, my advisor said, "Some poems just show up whole and perfect the way they are, like a gift"):

Annunciation

The light shines in the darkness,
and the
darkness has not overcome it. JOHN 1:5

Her yes becomes flesh
in flesh, white-winged fire swept
along sweat as if over the agitation
of waves, sharp spine of sunlight
in a slow serpentine across
the waters of her body —
there is no rushing it, no cascade
into the long cry of rising — only
a breath, a word, and the pouring
in of everything, even God.

More thoughts on all of this when I'm a bit more "together" and coherent.