Dancing Down the Moon

Seed Post #6: Exile

Before I start, I want to make one thing very clear:  the following is in no way meant to lambaste the Pagan community, criticize Wicca as a religion, or to mock anyone.  I am merely speaking from my own perspective which is biased, yes, but based on fifteen years' experience with Wicca and experiences with a variety of groups, traditions, and people both wonderful and not-so-very.  I'm sure your experience is very different from mine.  If you're happy with your religious practices, that's wonderful, keep it up! 

It doesn't always work out that way.

I've always said that you should take your religion seriously, but never yourself.  That's a great maxim and all, but where do you draw the line?  If your religion is supposed to inform every aspect of your life, is there even a line to draw?

This is how I ended up forcing myself to attend a lot of group rituals over the last decade even though I never, ever felt entirely comfortable there.  I tried a thousand times to get over myself and just go with it, but the fact is, almost every time I've been surrounded by my "people" in full religious regalia complete with tools and Iambic pentameter, the same thought kept forcing its nasty way up through my consciousness:  This is ridiculous.

I was surrounded by people in pseudo-medieval costumery waving sticks and knives around, chanting badly rhymed couplets such as,

"Da dada da dada da dada da fire
da  dada da dada da dada desire!
Da dada da dada da dada da Moon
da dada da dada da dada da boon!"

Who the hell says boon?

There were people around me who claimed to have animal spirits inside their bodies--one guy even tried to sniff me.  Everything seemed to be about sex--in ritual tradition dictated that a penis (a knife) be lowered into a vagina (a cauldron) as symbolic of the Biggest Damn Mystery and Aren't We Lucky it's a Sexy One?

The thought of a penis as a knife, incidentally, is NOT OKAY with me.  They're already used as weapons against women all over the world--why bring that symbolism into a holy temple that's supposed to be woman-loving?  Yes, a knife is a tool as much as a weapon, but thrusting it into something is not what I think of when I think of peaceful uses for a knife.

Pagan traditions from hundreds of years ago demanded that I make dollies out of corn husks to lay in beds so they could be pretend-ravished by their brother-father-lovers later on that night.  Couldn't we just play Dirty Barbie like everyone else? 

I tried, I really did.  And it wasn't a lack of belief that was the problem.  I was perfectly able to go along with the idea that stones held magical energy, and that dancing around in a circle could change the world.  I cast my spells and all of that.  And when I was by myself, able to work quietly and take the time to gently connect to Deity on my own terms, it worked. 

In small intimate groups of friends I'd known for months or years, it worked as well, but there was still a barrier between my experience and the group's.  It worked best if I led the rituals, spoke the guided meditations myself--that way I didn't put so much pressure on myself to "feel something," and was able to experience a priestess's transformation, which is never the same as those in her circle, but just as important.  The only time I truly felt comfortable was when I was in charge.  For a long time I figured that was because I'm bossy and demanding, but I eventually realized it was the best way for me to get something out of the rite, too, and not beat myself up for feeling out of place.

I get it.  I really do.  The idea behind all the silliness is that we disengage the "shoulds" and "should nots" of modern society and return to a more childlike way of looking at the world, where spirits and magic are possible and cynicism gives way to wonder.  It's a more visible manifestation of what Buddhists call "beginner's mind."  Go back to the beginning, to when the world was still enchanted to your eyes, and speak to it as if you'd never been told it was all pretend.  This is a wonderful idea, and a noble aim given how determined the world is to grind us down in stark reality and doom-and-gloom. 

And for those who can manage to do that and also have transformative spiritual experiences while dressed up like cast extras from A Knight's Tale, more power to you. 

In fact I envy you, because I just can't do it. 

Over the past few years as I've moved slowly away from Wicca and into...well, whatever it is  you'd call my thing now...I've investigated various traditions both under the Pagan umbrella and outside, and I have to say that the first thing that turns me off is the You're Joking, Right? factor.  You want me to weave ribbons around a giant phallic object to celebrate...fucking?  You're joking, right?  You want me to drink out of the horn of a dead animal after thirty other people?  You're joking, right?  You want me to give offerings to that hairy skirt-wearing guy in the antlers? 

There are not enough 'shrooms in the world.

Needless to say this attitude has led to a full self-imposed exile from the Pagan community.  I have absolutely zero interest in festivals, Pride Days, drum circles, public Sabbats, or semi-public Esbats.  If it were the right people I might give it a shot, but my tolerance for strangers is even lower than my tolerance for silly.  I love spending time with the women in my wee circle, but my favorite times are when we feast together, dance together, and talk and support each other.  And I still long for community, but I don't think my place is among the Pagani.  I like to think that my writing, or the majority of it, has an appeal for my old people as well as a broader audience around the spiritual web, but as far as my actual practices, well, the divide between myself and my former community seems to keep growing the older I get. 

For a long time I thought I was the problem, but I've come to understand that it's not my fault, or Wicca's fault--it's like any relationship.  You meet, you grow together for a while, and sometimes you part company.  One of you changes and the other doesn't, or you both change, but regardless, your paths may diverge for a while, perhaps for good.  It's sad, yes, but it means you're both free to evolve unfettered by each other's expectations and drama.

So I still call myself a Pagan, but I'm not sure what that means at the moment.  When I finally get around to writing my third nonfiction book it will most definitely not include the word "Wicca" in the title, and though my approach to spirituality is still similar to my first book, the third would be a rather different critter altogether.  There are some things I just don't do anymore; they no longer serve me.  That doesn't mean those things are bad or dumb or pointless.  It just means they're not my way anymore.

And believe me...if I never do another Drawing Down, it'll be too soon.

Seed Post #5: Eclipse, Awesome

When May is rushing over you
with desire
to be part of the miracles you see
in every hour
you'll know it's true
that you
are blessed and lucky
it's true that you
are touched by something
that will grow and bloom
in you

~10,000 Maniacs - "These Are Days"


I've seen two rainbows so far this week, both at about 7pm, both while driving on my way home.  The first was barely a flicker of color, a scrap of ribbon fluttering against the blue-grey evening.  It was there and gone over the course of half a mile.

The second, Tuesday, was magnificent--it arched its back across half the sky, visible from one end to the other, split by a thread-thin bolt of lightning as I stared at it, sitting at a stop light, murmuring like a crazy person:  "Thank you, God.  Thanks, Mama."

I remember a number of years ago, not too long after I moved to Austin, driving westward during a partial solar eclipse that made our exuberant star into a crescent for a few breathless minutes.  I kept looking around at the other people in their cars to see how many of them were gaping at the--and I use this word with its original intent--awesomeness of it all...but nobody was looking.  People were staring straight ahead, talking on their cell phones, rummaging in purses...not one of them was looking up.

It felt, just like this evening, as if the universe had offered me an exclusive and faintly naughty peek at its frilly underthings.  I'd been let in on a secret.  I was sure somewhere in the city other people were feeling the same way, inspired to reckless metaphor by the creativity of a planet that has produced both the Atlantic Ocean and the aardvark.

I wanted to grab the nearest person, wrench his head up from his iPhone, and point him at the rainbow, saying, "What is wrong with you people?  It's a miracle! It's all a freaking miracle, and you're missing it!"

I've slouched through a lot of my life with my head down, too.  The last couple of years have been a continuous, laborious process of wading through the swamp of my issues and trying to make some sense out of an incarnation that seemed, on the surface, to have gone spectacularly awry.  Every time I felt like I was starting to unravel the knot, I uncovered another snarl. 

At least for the moment I have some breathing room, and by breathing, I mean, taking great gasps of life and howling at the Moon...or more likely exhaling noisily like Inappropriate Yoga Guy:



Joy is an eclipse, a rainbow: just because it won't last forever doesn't mean it isn't something to be prized.  Wherever you are, provided you won't drive off the road and cause a fatality, stop and let it wash over you.  The more you let it touch you, the more can sink in and infuse your whole life.

And don't forget to try the fresh goji berries.

Seed Post #4: Change

So far so good
You try to sing along to the radio
but it's not your language not your song
it's from some other time ago

And you're thinking about how someone died that day
the you that was so carefully planned
But then again maybe this life is like a sleeping mountain
waking up to shape the land

~ Vienna Teng, "Shasta (Carrie's Song)"

Sometimes life can turn on a dime.  Turn left instead of right, have one drink too many, say yes when you meant no, pick up the phone call that wipes someone from your world...it takes so little, sometimes.

That's why when I hear people saying "What can one person do to change the world?" I can't help but laugh.  I imagine karma, sometimes, as the convection currents that move the Earth's crust beneath our feet.  It's always moving, always shifting and bending even if we can't feel it--sometimes it takes millions of years to move a few inches, but then, the pressure builds up and all of a sudden the ground is pitching and yawning beneath our feet.  All those tiny shifts are like the actions of individuals, each one pushing with the power of a single life against what seems impossible to move--and then, first with a tremor and then with a mighty shake, the mountain wakes, and the Earth changes shape forever.

As with the Earth, as with society, so with our own evolution.  We can work for years trying to change our lives, making tiny shifts and wondering if they're ever going to amount to anything, when suddenly that one small change, a nudge in the right direction, tips the scale.  It might not even be something obvious, just the one seemingly errant comment or tiny decision that causes all those little changes to crystallize into a massive epiphany or a full life overhaul that's been a decade in coming. 

Or, perhaps, it's not a small thing--it could be a huge event like a birth or death or accomplishment that, once realized, causes realizations to tumble into place one right after another.  Sometimes initiatory experiences slip in like a thief in the night, and sometimes they feel more like undergoing reincarnation without even changing your skin.  There are moments when you look around and it occurs to you that everything is different.  Maybe you can pinpoint the exact moment, the tiny shift that would shake the world, and sometimes it's less an eruption than an erosion.  Mountain building takes millennia or mere minutes. 

Act as though it will always take millennia...but be open to the tumble. 


Related Post:  The Three Catalysts

Seed Post #3: Lascivious

Boy, you guys sure did suggest a lot of sexy words this go round.  Am I fixated, or are you?

Recently I was working on a mix for an Ecstatic Dance for Women session, and while it started out fairly standard as far as my mixes go (several Middle Eastern-inspired tracks and at least one fun song) I noticed it was starting to evolve into something decidedly...steamy. 

Maybe it was the heat.  Maybe it's the cyclical Lambada of estrogen and testosterone in my system.  Maybe a certain Viking is going to get very, very lucky next time I see him.  Maybe the Electric Boyfriend and I need a torrid rendezvous.  Or three.

Once I had the mix done I started looking through my iTunes library and compiling a list of all the songs I have that I consider sexy, either because they turn me on, because they're specifically about sex, or because they're good to shag to.  It's entirely possible some of them are only sexy to me, of course, but still, I thought I'd share.

It's a bit of a long list, so I narrowed it down to fifteen songs.

I'll be in my bunk.

Sylvan's Shagalicious Mix

1. Tori Amos - Raspberry Swirl
2. Concrete Blonde - Bloodletting
3. Dido - Here With Me
4. Fiona Apple - Slow Like Honey
5. Garbage - #1 Crush (the ultimate Scorpio love song, IMO)
6. Lizz Wright - Coming Home
7. Maroon 5 - Shiver (just thinking about this song gives me the low-down tickle)
8. Melissa Etheridge - I'm the Only One
9. Melissa Ferrick - Drive
10. Pink - Fingers
11. Poe - Not a Virgin
12. Sarah McLachlan - Witness
13. Lenny Kravitz - Fly Away
14. Darren Hayes - Insatiable
15. Sophie B. Hawkins - 32 Lines

While I was at it, I started making other lists, because making lists is fun to do.  The rest of the lists stop at 10 tracks, just to spare you the torture.

Sylvan's Favorite Sad Songs (aka Music to Slit Your Wrists By)

1. Evanescence - My Immortal
2. James Blunt - Goodbye My Lover
3. Michelle Branch - Goodbye to You
4. Roxette - It Must Have Been Love
5. Sarah McLachlan - Full of Grace
6. Six Mile Bridge - Dawning's Whisper
7. Concrete Blonde - Tomorrow, Wendy
8. Savage Garden - I Don't Know You Anymore
9. Tori Amos - Me and a Gun
10. Brandi Carlile - Hallelujah (yes, that song, but her cover is heartbreaking)

Sylvan's Favorite Uplifting Songs

1. Natasha Bedingfield - Unwritten
2. Alanis Morissette - Incomplete
3. Sting - After the Rain Has Fallen
4. Sinead O'Connor - The Healing Room
5. Sarah McLachlan - Ordinary Miracle
6. Natalie Merchant - Wonder
7. Indigo Girls - Hammer and a Nail
8. Shawn Colvin - Whole New You
9. Dixie Chicks - Goodbye Earl
10. Seal - Love's Divine

Sylvan's Favorite Slightly Embarrassing Songs

1. Sir Mix-a-Lot - Baby Got Back
2. Britney Spears - Circus
3. Justin Timberlake - Sexyback (yes, that's right, and I'm not ashamed)
4. DiVinyls - I Touch Myself
5. Pretty Much Anything by Weird Al, but especially "Amish Paradise"
6. Enrique Iglesias - Bailamos
7. Digital Underground - The Humpty Dance
8. Pretty Much Any Song from Fraggle Rock
9. Shakira - She Wolf
10. Men at Work - Land Down Under

10 Songs that Get Sylvan Dancing Around the House No Matter What Kind of Crap Mood She Was In

1. The Proclaimers - 500 Miles
2. Pink - U + Ur Hand
3. Katrina & the Waves - Walkin' on Sunshine
4. Ani DiFranco - Little Plastic Castle
5. The B52s - Love Shack
6. Barenaked Ladies - One Week
7. Sawt el Atlas - Ne Me Jugez Pas
8. Annie Lennox - Love is Blind
9. Gipsy Kings - Volare
10. Michael Franti & Spearhead - Say Hey (I Love You)

10 Songs Sylvan Will Sing to Without Even Realizing She's Singing

1. Jason Mraz - I'm Yours
2. Indigo Girls - Closer to Fine
3. Patty Griffin - Rain
4. Dar Williams - The Christians and the Pagans
5. Maroon 5 - Back at Your Door
6. Celtic Woman - The Voice
7. XTC - Green Man
8. Vienna Teng - City Hall
9. Liz Phair - HWC (you'll just have to look that one up...but don't play it at work)
10. Alanis Morissette - On the Tequila

10 Songs Syl Thinks are Just Plain Gorgeous

1. Delerium w/Sarah McLachlan - Silence
2. Sting - Desert Rose
3. Govinda - Nomads
4. Loreena McKennitt - Kecharitomene
5. Seal - Kiss from a Rose
6. Sia - Breathe Me
7. Jason Mraz - A Beautiful Mess
8. Madonna - Isaac
9. Deva Premal - Gayatri Mantra (RajRishi Alternative Mix)
10. Lizz Wright - Song for Mia

What songs would you add to these lists?

Seed Post #2: Gratitude

In the last two years I think I've been sick more often, and worse, than I have my entire life.  I blame my Saturn return, actually, as my Saturn is in Virgo and the issues its return has brought up have surrounded health, stress, daily life, and thorny issues like discipline and routine, the upshot of which is that the horrendous way I've treated my body since my early 20s is coming home to roost.

I won't go through the list of all the things that have gone wrong with me lately, or the steps I'm taking to right them; what's foremost on my mind today is a different sort of list. 

It's amazing what a shift your mind can make if you simply change the language you use when talking to yourself.  I had gotten to the point that I was constantly angry at my body for letting me down (not to mention enraged at myself overall for allowing things to get so far out of alignment when I know better, and have done better), but finally last week the gods said, "All right, if she's going to bitch, let's give her something to really bitch about!"

And lo, I was felled by the mighty axe of gastroenteritis.

(This is simply a fancy schmancy word for stomach flu.  But it was so awful that I decided it deserved its full five-dollar name.)

I missed three days of work and spent most of it either sleeping or sending up wailing prayers to the porcelain god.  Even now that things have returned mostly to normal, I am simply wiped out--I have zero energy, and would love nothing more than to crawl back under my covers and stay there another three days.  I can eat, mostly, but find my appetite wavering between ravenous and apathetic. 

At any rate, somewhere between lying on the bed with a heating pad on my stomach, too weak to even cry; and finally managing to eat normal food on Friday night (which I regretted Saturday, but still), I found myself feeling an unaccustomed sympathy for my poor body and all she's been through lately.  This morning as I tried to convince myself to get out of bed and go to work, I patted my various body parts with my palms, saying soothing words and thanking them for hanging on, and sticking with me even though I've been such a terrible steward of our health. 

Thank you, body, for recovering from this nasty badness.   Thank you for not having anything worse than gastroenteritis and a sprained foot.  Thank you, immune system, for doing your best to get this crud under control.  Thank you, heart, for continuing to beat despite your faulty wiring.  Thank you, right foot, for trying your best to pick up the slack for poor, poor left foot.  She hurts a lot, and you're being a real champ.  Thank you, body, for not giving up on me through every false start and "I'll do better on Monday/Tuesday/next week/Ostara."  Thank you, skin, for being smooth and supple and stretching to accommodate all the extra fat I've piled on you.  Thank you, fat, for doing what fat does, and cushioning and lubricating and protecting all my insides.  I think it's time some of you found another purpose, though, like turning into energy, but we'll talk about that later.  Thank you, hair, for being awesome.  Thank you, eyes, for having great vision.  Thank you, fingers, for staying so nimble.  Thank you, bones, for holding me up despite the strain you're under.  Thank you, lungs, for breathing even when I don't really want to.  Thank you brain, for being the conductor of this soft animal orchestra. 

And so, despite the fact that I continue to feel worn out and puny this Monday morning, mentally I'm in a much better place--and I'm grateful for that too.

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.

Nuts and Seeds!

Have you heard?  It's almost time for the harvest!

*snorts so hard she faints*

Here in Texas it's been over 100 degrees since June.  The heat is relentless and the weather report keeps mocking us with wild tales of the mythical "30% chance of rain."  The summer solstice is past, so technically the days are growing shorter, but summer won't loosen its grip until at least the end of August and probably not until mid-September at this rate. 

Again, the Wheel of the Year is just not the same here as it is in England...or even northern Texas.  The climate of our fair state varies wildly from coast to Panhandle.  A lot of people don't realize that Texas really is bigger than France.  You can drive a full day and not leave the state.  I often wonder what kind of nutcases thought it was a good idea to settle in a land full of poisonous spiders and snakes where the seasons are Heatstroke, Allergies, Flood, and Perdition.

At any rate, this summer has been full of ups and downs for me, and while I'm feeling the urge to blog, I seem to have drawn a blank as to subject matter so yet again, I turn to you, my long-suffering readers.  We've played this game before:  Leave a single word or phrase in comments, and I'll grab a handful and make posts out of them.  The word doesn't have to relate to spirituality or anything else I usually write about.  Any word can be a seed.  

Meanwhile I'll be doing what Texan Pagans do best this time of year:  sipping margaritas and dancing around the air conditioner.

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.

Seed Post #10: Liminal

On November 19, 2007, author and legend in her own mind Dianne Sylvan will celebrate her 30th birthday.  (Actually she'll celebrate it on the 17th, a Saturday, enabling her to get wasted and sleep in, necessary both to honor her birth and to prepare her for Thanksgiving.)

I was always proud of myself for my apparent immunity to the typical American's dread of turning 30.  Marriage and children aren't big priorities for me, so landing a man by that Momentous Birthday never hung over my head with the swinging terror that it does over many women's.  The specters of crow's feet and other signs of aging likewise don't stir me much.  Given my emotional history I always figured I would be lucky to be alive and sane at 30.

I also had the advantage of hearing over and over throughout my young adult life that 30-35 was when my mother finally felt "like life made more sense and things came together."  I met similar sentiments in women all over the place--after the chaos of the 20s, the 30s, while not a walk in the park, at least marked the beginning of true adulthood.  And so, I greatly enjoyed being able to say honestly, "I can't wait to turn 30!"

It's still true, but for slightly different reasons--less because I'm looking forward to the onset of my 30s and more because I want my 20s over with already.

Among Pagans, the Grendel of young adulthood is the much-feared Saturn Return.  Saturn, the icky planet of karmic yuckiness, is supposed to roar into your life like some demonic Santa Claus, leaving you gifts of disaster, meltdown, and existential angst.  Saturn Return is spoken of with the same hushed terror as cancer and tax audits.  But what is it really, and what does it really mean?

Seed Post #9: Dance

I was in high school when I first realized I loved to dance.

Our school district required a certain number of physical education credits, but if you were in the marching band or a sport, you could get out of taking actual P.E.  I found this incredibly unfair--my choice was either join band or run laps?  Neither was at all appealing.

Luckily I discovered another option:  something called "Dance P.E."  All the girls who wanted to be on the drill team took the class, as did pretty much every other non-band, non-sports girl.  Several of my friends were taking it too, and I thought surely it had to be better than being forced to play volleyball with the boys. 

I had a blast.  Everything we did--even square dancing--came naturally and happily to me.  I learned to waltz, I learned what jazz hands are, I learned how to choreograph and choose music for performances.  For a young woman whose success had always been mental, this was earth-shaking and strange. 

I came dangerously close to trying out for drill team, too, but I couldn't overcome the basic truth that I was too fat.  The drill team at our school won awards and was famous for its high kick routines, and while I could learn choreography with remarkable speed for an awkward chubby girl, there was no way they would let me into a group that wore thigh-high skirts and did splits on the football field.  Instead of working harder and trying to get in better shape, I did what would become my pattern throughout life:  I gave up. 

I spent the next three years watching the team perform with bitter jealous longing in my heart.  The girls who made the team had taken dance lessons from childhood, and had perfected their big vacant smiles and big hairdos.  I don't think many of them really had a passion for dance; it was just something they were expected to do, as the white, upper-middle-class popular girls whose parents had dragged them to recitals and classes all their lives.  I didn't want to dance to encourage school spirit, or to show off my long legs.  I didn't care about competitions.  I wanted to dance because, even at fifteen, I knew there was something there.