Dancing Down the Moon

Seed Post #1: Cartwheel

The grass in my backyard was soft with broad blades, warm on my bare feet and skinned knees.  It smelled like summer and the good dark dirt beneath.

We held each other's hands and spun in circles until I let go, and whatever position you fell in, you had to stay that way as long as you could.  When there were just two of us we timed each other to see who won.  I always won.  You were too fidgety to stand still for long.

"Giggle" sounds like what it is, and we sounded that way every hour, every day, chasing frogs and climbing trees, pretending to be My Little Ponies and Rainbow Brite, me brewing magical potions from bits of weeds with mystical names like Crow Poison; you running, always running, arms thrown wide and hair tangled by the late afternoon wind.  I made up stories to tell you about princesses fighting dragons.  You knew how to tell a cardinal, a bull-bat, a blue jay, a kildeer, all by sound.

We were melted candy bars and jump-rope rhymes, the burn of an elbow hitting the sidewalk, the delighted scream after my brother set off a string of firecrackers in the street.  We were a jar full of fireflies, we were cheese sandwiches on square Tupperware plates.  We were a brand-new Slip-n-Slide and we were a tummy pooch in a ruffled swimsuit whose top would be flat for a few more blessed years. 

Your hair was soft as dandelion fluff and your hand was warm in mine, pulling me down the street to the dewberry patch, where we were scratched up with thorns and sick on berries.  Your lips were stained with juice, and they were soft and tasted like cobbler.

"Kiss" sounds like what it is, too.

We were pinky swears and the song of cicadas.  We were homemade ice cream and Dr Pepper burps and mustang grapes and the smell of rain. 

We were the tumult of a cartwheel falling long-legged and laughing into soft broad-bladed grass.

Still Life With Nun

I'm not sure why I feel the need to tell this story.  It has nothing to do with Wicca, it's not a snappy comeback story, and it's not likely to impress, inspire, or inflame anyone.  There are just those little moments in life that stay with you, and sometimes you need to write them down, so indulge me for a moment.  It's brief.

About ten years ago I was living with a boy and a high school friend, in my first apartment in Austin.  That situation went pretty far south on us all, but in the year that we inhabited that two-story townhouse in the scary Riverside neighborhood, I spent way more time at the Greyhound station than any human should, especially at night.  Said boy's family lived in the Dallas/Fort Worth area and he often took the bus up to visit.

One night, the high school friend and I had dropped him off to catch his bus, when a tiny wizened black woman came up to us and asked for a ride.  She was wearing an odd looking plain blue-grey dress, and had a sweet, almost beatific smile. 

I had not yet learned to be afraid of strangers, and I wasn't alone, so I asked where she was headed--it turned out, not far from our part of town, on the East Side.  I had also not been in Austin long enough to be uneasy driving through the East Side at night, so I agreed to take her.

I don't remember much of our conversation on the way south, but during the course of the trip I found out she was a nun, in town to visit a relative who was dying of cancer. She had a soft voice and positively radiated peace, and carried a rosary that trailed out of her pocket.  When we reached her destination, a dilapidated old house with no lights on, I was a bit concerned about leaving her there but she assured me that she was expected, and Jesus would take care of her in any case.  She pulled out a wrinkled, age-worn five-dollar bill and tried to give it to me in return for the ride, but I wouldn't take her money. 

"Well," she asked, "would you let me say a prayer for you, then?"

Who on earth could say no to such an offer?  She took my hand, bowed her head, and asked her Lord to bless the "sweet precious angels who took care of me tonight," and asked that we be blessed in all our travels, and that Jesus keep watch over us, amen.

Then, she was gone; I watched her walk slowly up the driveway and disappear into the old house before I would drive off.  I looked over at my friend in the back seat.  Neither of us seemed to know what to say.  The whole trip home I kept staring at the hand she'd held, as if I'd been touched by a ghost.

It's an odd experience to feel the need to relate here in a blog.  I don't know why it's stayed with me for so long, wrapped up in the cloth of time and stored away in a box that holds the few genuinely good memories of that part of my life.  For some reason, that sweet old nun has been on my mind a lot lately.  I hope she stayed safe, and that her God took good care of her, and still is if she's still alive.  I don't even remember her name.  The cynic in me keeps insisting that the woman probably wasn't a real nun, or that her story was bogus, but really, who cares?  It was a moment of beauty in my life, and I'm grateful for it.

And if Jesus really is watching over me, I'm grateful for that too, as long as he's not watching me in the shower.

Seed Post #11: Grace

Festival of the Goddess, Central Texas
October 13, 2007

Friday night was wet and cold--the dew fell early, and everything in my tent was damp and freezing.  After spending the evening around the campfire, watching the stars and hanging out with some amazing women, having to crawl into a wet bed woefully unprepared for the cold made for a pretty miserable night. 

Saturday night I was ready for it.  I changed the configuration of my blankets, put on extra socks and leggings, and took two Benadryl to help knock me out.  We ended up going to bed a bit earlier that night; Saturday was a long and busy day, and I was sunburned and exhausted.  I knew that if I was going to strike camp on Sunday and stay after to help with the festival clean-up, I needed sleep.

It is a universal truth that the warmer and more comfortable you are in a tent, the higher the likelihood that you'll have to pee at three a.m.  It is also known that I have a bladder the size of a walnut, so most of my camping experiences involve laying awake trying to convince myself I don't need to get up. 

My eyes popped open, hauling me out of the swirled tumble of dreams that always accompanies falling asleep to the sound of drums.  My brain shifted violently into alert mode:  had I heard something?  Was a critter of some kind after the food?  Was it raining? 

A squeeze in my nethers pointed out the matter at hand.  Ah.  Dammit. 

It was eerily silent outside the tent, so I knew it had to be very late; I groped for my watch and saw it was about five in the morning.  I rolled out of my toasty warm fleece-lined sleeping bag with a sigh, but noticed immediately that I was not particularly cold, and that my bed was not damp.  I nearly jumped for joy.

The sound of a tent flap unzipped echoes horribly across a sleeping campground.  I poked my nose out, looking around; still dark, nobody about.  Good--that meant I wouldn't have to go hide behind a tree to avoid mooning passersby.  I also noticed, as I tried to find my sandals, that the rug outside my tent was totally dry, a small miracle.  Pleased, I stumble-lurched from tent door to makeshift privy.

Upon returning I sat down on the rug to remove my shoes, and now that the pressing business of the moment was dealt with, I finally took the opportunity to look up at the sky.

Friday night had been crystal clear, and the sheer number and brilliance of the stars had been enough to take my breath away.  I could see, stretching across the sky, the great Web, strands of light woven by the Goddess Herself, Her hands guiding the tapestry of the universe.  Constellations had winked down at us; I could finally see all seven sisters, and Andromeda, and eventually Orion as he rose.  Sirius, the Dog Star, who predicted the rise and fall of the Nile; Scorpio, my own sign, huge and sprawling.  The Big Dipper.  It was amazing to watch them all turn slowly overhead, and to see periodic falling stars zip from one end to the other.  Out  in the middle of nowhere, you finally find yourself Somewhere.  I stared up into the arm of the galaxy, a band of hazy light, and felt both insignificant and powerful, tiny and massive. 

Saturday night, clouds rolled in early, and there wasn't much of a skyward vista while everyone was awake.  No rain fell, but I was disappointed that the awesome view of the previous night was shrouded from us. 

Then, at five in the morning, it reappeared.  It felt as if the entire night had realigned just for the sake of one little Witch sitting on a blue rug. 

All weekend the sense of the numinous had evaded me.  I had enjoyed the company and community, but felt myself apart from the spiritual experiences others seemed to be having.  My pre-30 existential crisis was reaching a fever pitch; even as I tried not to worry, and tried to let go, I still felt the pull of fear and uncertainty. 

Sitting there, my eyes full of stars, everything just fell away. 

I felt naked and sublime before the Work of the Gods.  I watched the slow, steady track of a satellite passing through the constellations, and I thought very clearly, "Goddess...please...if everything's going to be okay, if I'm going to find a way to be happy and have a good life...please, send me some kind of sign."

The voice that filled my head was immense, loud as a thunderclap and silent as the grave, as powerful as love but as feather-light as a moth's wings.  It was a little bit wry and a whole lot compassionate, like a giant hug followed by a playful slap on the ass.

"Don't worry, child.  I've got it all under control."

Before the words could even register, a bright flash of blue-white light filled my vision, as a meteorite streaked from one end of the sky to the other, almost in slow motion.  I'd never seen one that bright or that long-lasting; it left a faint trail in the sky as it faded from view.

"Gratitude" is far too small a word for what I felt.  I became, in that moment, the chalice, overflowing with the presence of the Divine.  I felt like I'd swallowed the entire star-lit sky, like the night was my skin, my breath, my blood filled with light.  The universe rushed in, and suddenly everything was both infinitely complex and perfectly, perfectly simple. 

As long as I have known there was a Goddess, I knew She dwelt in the stars.  Perhaps it was the Strands of Starlight series by Gael Baudino that influenced me, or perhaps my childhood habit of staring at the sky and renaming the constellations was Her way of nudging me gently in Her direction.  Isis, Astarte, Inanna, Elthia; Queen of Heaven, Star of the Sea.

As my practice evolved, She gained more symbols:  She was the Bright Weaver, whose eight-legged emissary had a habit of showing up in my life to encourage me not-so-subtly to write and create.  Legend has it that the Spider invented written language; anyone who's read Charlotte's Web is aware of this connection.  The Goddess is Star of Light, Abyss of Darkness; the stars and the spaces between.  Her eyes contain the whole of the galaxy, and its warp and weft pass through Her fingers, each strand a life, each intersection a possibility, a choice.  The combined pattern of every interaction and every living thing forms the Web, which is Her being, woven by each of us acting as Her hands, guided by Her grace.

It had been a long, long time since She had spoken to me.

It was a long, long time before I could go back to sleep that night.

Dendrites

This morning as I sat shivering, waiting for my car to warm up, I happened to glance up at my sunroof and notice that it was etched with tiny ice crystals. My eyes followed their delicate pattern for a moment, then refocused higher in the air on the live oak that stood watch over the parking lot.

There among the branches I realized that the same pattern played out in the tree: snowflakes of blue sky formed by the spaces between the leaves. If I looked at the tree through the ice on my roof, I could fit the ice shapes into the tree, as if one had been made by tracing the other.

I thought of the stone in my pocket, and there it was again: the same pattern in the inclusions of a Sweetwater Agate. The small smoky blue stone comes from Wyoming, where manganese oxide forms lacy snowflake-like dendrites inside the rock. Though Sweetwater Agate isn’t generally listed in crystal-healing type books, I’ve always found it to have such a soothing, gentle energy that I keep it in my pocket on stressful days, seeking it out with my hand for reassurance.

Ice, tree, stone; seeing the same phenomenon in all three struck me practically stupid with awe, my numb fingers and overly thin sweater no longer important in the face of Nature’s perfect wisdom. From the seeming disorder of disparate elements, a pattern emerges. From the chaos, stars are born.

I drove to work feeling ridiculously peaceful for a Monday morning, my mind full of the connections among simple things. I thought about how spirituality is in essence the art of connection: we seek out and nurture our link to the Divine, and through it, find our common ground with others, and with all that is.

It has always been my opinion that all paths have validity, but that the spiritual paths that truly foster growth are those that seek to bring us closer to others, not build walls of "us" and "them." The Divine is what permeates and forms the entirety of entirety. Seeking it, we seek union, not division. The closer we come to the sacred, the fewer walls we are able to build. Religions that encourage their practitioners to find and exploit—or persecute--that which is different are, I feel, missing the whole point.

We can and should celebrate what makes us unique as individuals, but it is our shared humanity, our shared pain, our shared capacity for compassion and love, that religion should bring us home to; for those qualities that connect us—delicate branches in ice and stone, not lines drawn with a sword in the sand--are the essence of God.