Apparitions

As the veil thins over these October weeks, thoughts of Holidays, family, and the coming cold nights wander through my head. This is a magical time of year with many blessings of abundance and reminders that our time on this earth is but a blink. There are the tell tale reminders of those who have passed before us, those we miss and those we never knew. I find that the mix of happiness and sadness at this time parallels life as a whole. I choose to honor the dead in these days. To remember those I've loved and lost with the passing of the warmer days. Acknowledging their presence as it grows stronger in the shadow of Samhain, of the coming winter, of the coming slumber of the earth itself. It comforts me to know that the opportunity to speak once more with those now gone from this reality is upon us once again. So to my friends and family living and beyond I send my Brightest Blessings, honor your lives and contributions and am happy to know we will see each other again some day.



Apparitions

Can you hear them out there?

Shuffling, crackling leaves, flying on the wind.

Fleeting images dancing in the moonlight.

Can you hear them out there?

Shadows in the corner

Voices in an empty room

Apparitions everywhere

Can you hear them out there?

They hear you.

My Path to Paganism

                                                         

            When someone I meet learns that I am a Pagan and a Witch, it’s funny the questions they ask. Usually they are earnest questions from a person who really wants to learn, know or understand a topic which is new or mystifying to them. It’s human curiosity of course. They are usually quite surprised by my responses. Especially when they include the fact that I have been studying, living and practicing since I was a young child. They typically expect the story to center around some twenty something search for self after years of Catholic or Christian religious oppression. Actually this isn’t the case for me. I came upon my path fairly naturally and without much resistance from the people I love. My path to spirituality had nothing much to do with religion. For me, the two are not necessarily mutual.

            Yes, I was raised in the Roman Catholic faith. My mother brought us to church every Sunday and I was baptized, made penance, communion and confirmation in the Catholic religion. The thing was it never felt forced on me, I did what my family did, but I also wasn’t told I couldn’t explore other things. Obviously I did not agree with a lot of the doctrine I was taught and began to question it all. In fact, I was raised to ask questions. I was expected to read, question and search out answers on any subject on my own all the time. When I was five years old, my parents had me go to synagogue with a friend who was Jewish when I started questioning why she was taught different information in her religion. I was encouraged to learn as much as I could about things so I could understand and make up my own mind about what I believed, what had meaning in my life, and so I would know that there is really not only one way to live a good life.

            As a child I spent my free time outside, playing and exploring.  I developed an affinity for being in nature. When we lived in the Bronx my favorite places were the local park and the Bronx Zoo, where the trees and animals lived. In summer I had the opportunity to spend a week or so in the “country” in New Jersey at my Aunt’s house and marveled that I could hear birds singing outside the window in the morning. Eventually, we moved to Long Island, when I was eight, and I had a special love for the Weeping Willow tree in our back yard. It was a beautiful tree that when in full bloom created a place to hide and commune, just her and I. Cradled in her branches, safe and warm. Later, every Labor Day weekend at my Father’s Union picnic located in upstate NY, I would be allowed to wander off alone into the woods. There I would play with the sprites and spirits of that place. They welcomed me back each year. Between them and the other children, rides and games that were present I would come home exhausted, happy and blackened with dirt from head to toe. It was glorious! So when at the age of ten I started to explore, and read books about witchcraft, Wicca, other occult topics, and other religions it really didn’t alarm anyone. I was told to read as much as I could. Get lots of information and do what I felt was right with it. My Mother said she always knew I was a little witch anyway.  

            I read. I began with Wicca and Native American spirituality. I read Marion Weinstein’s “Earth Magic: A Dianic Book of Shadows”, Starhawk’s “Spiral Dance”, Margot Adler’s “Drawing Down the Moon”, Z. Budapest and of course, Scott Cunningham along with others. In my freshman year of college I began my own solitary practice. At the age of nineteen I formally dedicated myself as a solitary to the Goddess and God. I spent my twenties raising babies and bumbling down my solitary path with a few awesome mentors via post and phone calls along the way. At twenty-five I became acquainted with the Goddess Hecate and she taught me, supported me, and showed me my own strength for many years afterward.

In 2009 I was in a bad car accident. I was literally hit by a bus. Up until that point I was floundering spiritually. I knew I was going through the motions that year and I couldn’t figure out which way I was being pulled. I was spinning my wheels in the mundane world and ignoring my own physical and spiritual needs. Well, that just wouldn’t do, so to send me a serious message I was hit quite hard with a Holy 2 x 4, only in the form of a bus. That’s when the Morrigan stepped into my life. It took me a little while (several years actually) and a lot of research to realize that she was the Morrigan. When I did figure it out, started listening (you really have no choice with her, it’s listen up or you’re in for a world of hurt until you do) and connected to her, my life took a total 180 degree change.

            To me my spirituality, my relationship with the Gods/Goddesses, my daily practice and connection with the divine is more than just a religion. It is my way of life. It centers me, gives me balance in a chaotic world and grounds me in what is real, what is worthwhile in this life. My practice is eclectic. I take what resonates with me and use it. Some other Pagans frown upon this, but I haven’t had any Gods complain to me yet that “I’m doing it wrong”. To me religion is a name for a set of rules and doctrine that someone else tells you how to follow and interpret. Spirituality is following my heart, opening my mind to infinite possibilities and doing what I feel is right. It’s accepting the bad things, exploring the darkness of life and myself, while being grateful for the good and the moments of light. In my opinion, being a Pagan is more than just worshipping a bunch of different Gods at the same time. It’s more than just following what another person has interpreted the stories to mean or how one should practice. It is finding that place within yourself where the divine resides, connecting with the Gods/ Goddesses, listening and looking. Most of all acting upon what you find. The Gods suffer no fools. Sitting at home lighting candles and meditating on something alone for hours on end isn’t going to get things moving by itself.  Like everything else, spirituality and a relationship with the divine whether Pagan or otherwise, requires one to act upon those beliefs. You have to put the work into it and get the energy moving forward to see the results.

            So when I get those earnest and sometimes amusing questions about how I became a Pagan, I smile. I really didn’t “become” a Pagan through any horrible incidence or oppressive religious backlash. Truthfully, in my heart I know I was always spiritual, always a little witchy. I was just born this way and with a little love and guidance I was lucky enough to figure it out early in life.

           

           

No Reason

There is no reason

There is no why

All I want is to curl up in a ball and cry

There is light

There is hope

Yet I keep sliding, spiraling down

I choke it back, swallow it hard

The voice in my head screaming “NO! No! No!”

The light hurts my eyes

My smile lies

The voice keeps screaming

Today I will rise, will put on that smile, will look out of dry eyes

All the time knowing

Feeling the numbness growing

From deep down inside

Without any reason, no discernable why

Tonight when I lay my head down

In the darkness, the quiet, alone with the silence

I will curl up in a ball and smother the cry

                                                          Time for Healing

As I drove down the road on this cold, rainy February day it suddenly occurred to me what had happened. I realized what month this was, and that the anniversary had come and gone over a week ago without my even noticing this time. It was the first time in exactly twenty years that the week of February 13^th had passed without me shuttered away in a depressive heap in my room remembering the anniversary of losing my third child. Time had passed without tears or incident and thinking on it at that moment in my car, I was not upset or saddened by the realization. I was okay. Not thrilled mind you, but I would be okay.

The winter of 1996 started out rough to say the least. My husband at the time was laid off of work. We had a house, and two small children, the youngest was just sixteen months old and I was expecting our third child. The fact that we were having a third was a bone of contention between us as well and had caused some arguments between us in the beginning. But we would deal and I knew somehow it would all work out eventually. So the holidays had passed and as I had made it through my first trimester well, we had told the rest of our family about the baby at the Christmas Holidays. I was sure I was having another girl and my husband and I settled upon a name for her; Saffron, Saffie for short. Just after the New Year I went in for my monthly check up and was excited to hear the baby’s heartbeat for the first time at this appointment. Everything went fine during the exam until it came time for listening to the heartbeat. The doctor was having difficulty finding one. Not to worry, this sometimes happens depending on the baby’s position I was told, so let’s do an ultrasound and see where the little one was hiding. Out comes the ultrasound machine, disgustingly cold jelly yuck on my belly. No good. We’ll have to do an internal ultrasound. Yes, if you have never had one done, that is exactly what it sounds like and not comfortable in the least.

Have you ever walked into a room and it suddenly goes quiet. Quiet, silent, not a sound from either the doctor or the nurse as they stared at that ultrasound screen. Even the simplest person in the world knows silence is not a good sign. After what felt like an eternity but was most likely a few minutes I finally asked, “What’s wrong?’ Well, I’m not exactly sure, could be nothing was the response I got. There is a heartbeat. I sighed in relief. “Ok, then what?” There is something else that I am not sure about and we’ll have to send you for a more in-depth test to find out. It looks like an Oomphalocile. I knew what that meant, but for those who don’t, it is basically an area on the fetus that has not formed skin to cover the vital organs, nerves, blood vessels etc. and almost appears as if it is a bubble of fluid and internal parts bulging from the body. It is most common with the condition Spina Bifida where it appears over the spinal column. It is not something you want to hear in your 20^th week of pregnancy.

I went home and told my husband what had happened and that I needed to go for more tests. My son overheard us talking and said something about the baby dying and I completely lost my shit at that point. The next few weeks are a blur as I made my appointment for a level four ultrasound and waited for the date of the appointment to come. Time was ticking. My baby was still moving.

The day of the test finally arrived and my husband and I went together. Of course no one said anything to either of us during the actual test. Afterwards we waited to speak to the genetic and fetal specialist doctor who was reading our results. The news was not good obviously. We were told that the baby did not have an Oomphalocile. It also did not have a lower half of its body at all. Apparently, the umbilical cord had not attached correctly and my child was developed only up to the point of the cord. The heart was beating, buds for arms, head all there. Lower extremities and abdominal organs were not forming. I asked about fetal surgery. No, not in this case, there simply wasn’t anything medically they could do to correct the situation. I was given my choices, as if there really was any choice. Firstly, the doctors were amazed that I had not miscarried before this time as so much was wrong, but, since that had not happened I could either wait and would most likely miscarry in the next few weeks. Or, if that did not happen, and I chose to wait the baby would most likely die in utero and I would have to deliver a stillborn birth which also put me at risk of dying from infection or complications. If the baby by some miracle survived to term and was delivered (which could also put my life in danger) it would most likely die an excruciating death moments after birth. My last choice was to terminate the pregnancy. Since I was already at 22 weeks by then, it made it a late term abortion. Like I said, no choice at all. The children I had already given birth to needed me here, alive and healthy. I made the appointment with the doctor right then and went home to cry.

The day of the procedure my mother came with us to the hospital.  She is my Mom, my supporter no matter what, my friend, my strength when I can’t find it in myself. I needed my Mom. Also though, she understood. My mother had given birth to a baby girl before my birth, a girl born stillborn who was only partially formed she was told afterward. My mother never got to see that baby. At that time, they didn’t do that, she was told to go home, forget it and try to have another child. So my Mom was there for me, she knew. I think she was more of a wreck on the inside then I was that day. I was prepped, stuck by some young nurse in the wrong damn place in my wrist for a line, she actually struck bone. Did I mention this was a teaching hospital? Then taken to the O.R. where for the next 20 minutes some young apprentice anesthesiologist poked my spine with a needle trying to find the right spot to insert the spinal block I needed for this procedure. I took as much as I could until I cracked. I jumped off the table crying and shaking and shouted I was done, I changed my mind, I’m not doing this, get me out of here and get this idiot away from me! The female head of anesthesiology came in, calmed me down and inserted the spinal block herself, simply, easily, I never felt a thing. The rest is fuzzy until the recovery room. I stayed there until I could feel my legs again and a few hours later I was released and sent home. A bit of advice here, one should never be sent home the same day you get a spinal! You are supposed to rest for 24 hours after something like that. I was told I might have a headache. UNDERSTATEMENT of the century!

I went home. I cried. I slept. I could not lift my head physically from the pillow literally for the next 3 days. Have you ever tried to explain to a sixteen month old why Mommy can’t pick her up, why Mommy can’t move? Not fun. I spent the next month recuperating physically. I experienced for the first time in my life a real migraine headache. I called my doctor who said it was normal to have headaches. Really, a migraine that lasts for days when I’ve never had one ever before? Please forgive me anyone reading this who is a doctor, but doctors can be real assholes! I am not some number on a chart, or some hysterical over exaggerator of symptoms. I can take pain but this was something else and they should have listened and warned me properly ahead of time. Anyway, I was able to go back to work and my life in a way in a few weeks after. A few weeks after that I received a letter in the mail with the laboratory results of the genetic testing that had been done on my baby. It was a girl, with no discernable chromosomal abnormalities. No known cause of malformation. The official diagnosis was Limb, Body, Stalk Anomaly and occurred in 1 out of 250,000 pregnancies. Basically, they couldn’t find any medical reason known for what had happened.

  The migraines persisted for the next three years regularly. Then tapered off to about six a year for the next few years, then down to fewer after that. I still get them now. What I didn’t expect at all was the emotional recovery being so difficult. I cried every day for the next two years. This event was also one more nail in the coffin of my marriage and the biggest wedge between us until our last trigger and the end a year and a half later. I cried all the time, silently, privately, and my only sanity was the support of my mother and a few close friends who let me talk about it with them as much as I needed. That was a gift. Letting me talk allowed me to grieve, to deal as best I could. When I couldn’t talk to anyone, I would shut down emotionally and just go through the daily motions just to get by and function. I did this for years. At some point it became just around the anniversary that I would fall apart, privately and get melancholy. Thinking about my baby hurt every time.

The last few years I have spent working on myself, healing my wounds, accepting myself, pushing myself to create the life I want for me. Doing this work has been very transformational and I noticed last year at the anniversary I wasn’t as sad. I acknowledged the day, and lit my candle for my girl, and went about my business. This year, was different. I didn’t acknowledge it consciously at all. It came and went and my day and week since were happy and uneventful. As I realized this in the car driving in the rain, I felt peace. I thought about my girl, I imagined her now, as an almost 20 year old woman. What she would have looked like, probably very much like her big sister. I smiled to myself. Though she never took a breath in this world, Saffie made a profound difference in my life. Her short life changed me, changed my life, and was a huge catalyst for many changes to come from conception to death. She changed things for my other children as well. Because of her, the knowledge of a potential genetic issue in our family is known where before it might have been overlooked as a fluke thing that would never happen again. One anomaly pregnancy in a family line is chance, two raises questions, and three; as I later found out of another family member who had a similar occurrence with their pregnancy and birth, well that’s just something that needs to be known and checked into for future generations. So now the conversation with my now grown older daughter will include the topic of getting genetic testing when she is ready to have kids of her own and my son should as well. If anything maybe my experience will provide my daughter with enough information so she won’t have to go through anything like it herself.

So, today I was driving through the rain, noticing the grey, cloudy sky and thinking about the twenty year anniversary of the death of my youngest daughter, and I didn’t cry. The healing continues.

Floating

Floating

In a world of bubbles

A world of warmth and quiet

Created by love

As the light of early morning shimmers in the sky

The chill of late night leaves us

Far off in the distance can be heard…the cry of a newborn child.

A gift from the stars.

Into The Woods

While this post is not specifically about women's spirituality it is something that recently came up and I felt compelled to write about. I hope you find it informative and that it sparks some intelligent discussion. Blessed Be.                                      

Recently, a conversation came up between myself and a close friend about the misconceptions or rather, a possible lack of understanding of the difference between a Retreat and a Pagan Festival. It came about after several Facebook postings that clearly demonstrated that some of the posters really had no idea what a Retreat was supposed to be about. Miriam-Webster defines Retreat as follows:

Full Definition of retreat:

1 a (1):   an act or process of withdrawing especially from what is difficult, dangerous, or disagreeable (2):   the process of receding from a position or state attained <the retreat of a glacier>

B (1):   the usually forced withdrawal of troops from an enemy or from an advanced position (2):   a signal for retreating

C (1):   a signal given by bugle at the beginning of a military flag-lowering ceremony (2):   a military flag-lowering ceremony

2:   a place of privacy or safety:   refuge

3:   a period of group withdrawal for prayer, meditation, study, or instruction under a director

Retreat in the sense we are talking about is a time of group withdrawal, in privacy and safety, for the purposes of prayer, meditation, study and ritual all under the instruction of a director, or leader/Priestess. A festival on the other and is more of a gathering of a larger group of people and is more focused on celebration. It is defined by Miriam-Webster as: noun | fes·ti·val |

 Simple Definition of festival

1 :  a special time or event when people gather to celebrate something

2 :  an organized series of performances

Full Definition of festival

1a :   a time of celebration marked by special observances

b :   feast

2 :   an often periodic celebration or program of events or entertainment having a specified focus <a daffodil festival> <a Greek festival>

3:   gaiety, conviviality

While there are certainly spiritual aspects to any pagan festival, there are also other events and the focus is not usually on connecting with the divine in an intimate way for the whole festival. Whereas, a Retreat is solely focused on the connection to the divine in one form or another depending on the theme chosen by the group hosting the event.  So in an attempt to further illustrate the difference I decided to share my experiences at the Morrigan’s Call Retreats in the hopes that it will adequately demonstrate to those interested in attending a retreat what they can expect from one.

In June 2014 I was stressed out, knee deep in massage school, buried in bills and seriously depressed.  I had spent the previous year dealing with the emotional turmoil that was my ex-husband as he faced death and dying. Truthfully, I had spent the last 30 years of my life dealing with him as both his wife and ex-wife. It was draining to say the least. So, this is the state I was in when the opportunity to go to the first Morrigan’s Call retreat was presented to me. I should say that before this, I had been a practicing solitary for pretty much my whole life. I had mentors with whom I had corresponded with over the years, a small coven that came and went in the span of a year, and had recently begun networking online with the Morrigu’s Daughter’s. Having only known some of the people in this online group through the internet, I was contemplating going to the retreat which would be within driving distance for me. I hemmed and hawed over going for weeks. It was a terrifying thought to go off somewhere I didn’t know with a group of people I didn’t know. I felt in my gut I should do it but my head had plenty of excuses. I made the final decision to go and let my intuition lead me only two days before the retreat. I informed my children where I was going and that cell service would probably be nonexistent there (we would be on a mountain in Massachusetts) and that they should call for help if I didn’t return by Monday. This was my state of mind as I set off for Temenos in Massachusetts for the first Morrigan’s Call retreat. I was going out into the woods to spend my weekend with 30 something strangers I had never met before in my life. It turned out to be the best decision I made in my life.

For those who have never been to a retreat before let me explain, I really had no idea what to expect except that it would be for me, a weekend of communing with nature, gaining a closer relationship with the Goddess the Morrigan and some introspection. Little did I know how much introspection!  Nor was I prepared for the depth and impact of the rituals planned for that weekend. I knew it would be a test for me in many ways. I had no idea how much of a test. To begin with the area we were lodging at is a camping grounds up on a mountain in Massachusetts. No cell service, no electricity, no toilets and spring water for showering. I chose to tent not realizing; 1) it would be cold as hell in June at night, and 2) Bears. Others had wisely chosen to rent the cabins that were available or to get a cot in the main lodge house. This weekend was a test physically as well as spiritually. It began with hauling all our stuff from our cars up to the camping areas. Then the park ranger gave a rousing pep talk about the safety rules on the mountain and what one should do if you thought you were being hunted by a bear. Yes, I said “hunted”. Afterward our leader, Stephanie Woodfield, gathered everyone up and we set out through the woods to the temple. There prayers, dedications and offerings to the Morrigan in her different aspects were given and to the Dagda as well. This for me was pivotal. It was in this moment that I felt it, that sudden realization that I was indeed in the right place at the right time. Over the course of the rest of the weekend one thing built upon the next, each individual ritual was more profound than the one before it, all culminating on the last day to the overwhelming feeling of belonging. I had for the first time in many years found kindred souls. I had found my center, my own spiritual spark was reignited. In the woods, on a mountain in Massachusetts with 30 some odd strangers I had found my tribe.

That weekend was an ending and a beginning for me. In taking that trip, making that leap out of my comfort zone I had taken the first step on a new path. I was making the conscious decision to leave my old life behind and try something new. It was exactly what a retreat is meant to be, a time to reflect, look inward and find yourself. I just happened to find a whole new community along with myself. This weekend was the catalyst for a myriad of changes in the coming year. I can honestly say that one year had made my life completely different. As I sat in workshops for the second Morrigan’s Call retreat this past June I was in awe of just how much had changed. Of course the Goddess isn’t finished with me yet, and this year is yet another test for me personally on many other levels. Each of these retreats has opened up for me another aspect of spirituality I had not thought possible before. Maybe it’s me, maybe it’s the leaders and Priestesses leading our rituals, maybe it’s the community itself, as this particular Goddess has picked quite an interesting and dedicated group of people from so many different walks of life. What I do know is that going to a spiritual retreat and immersing yourself in your beliefs and practices whatever they may be is an experience like no other. Not better or worse, but an experience unto itself. If taken with the intent of connecting with the divine and without expectations, it can be life altering as I can attest to now. Without that first retreat I would not be who I am today. Without it I am a depressed, overweight, shy, quiet, introverted middle aged woman who’s been broken and beaten down by life’s experiences. Still searching for my center, my spark, my Tribe.  As I prepare for the next Morrigan’s Call retreat in June 2016, I struggle at the moment to integrate the gifts I have received spiritually from this last retreat and utilize them in my life and in the way the Goddess intends for me, while at the same time I am excited for the prospect of who I will become.

This in my opinion, is everything a retreat should be and I encourage anyone with inclination to really connect with deity, to consider attending one. Festivals are awesome. I love and plan to continue to attend many pagan festivals in the years to come. But, a retreat is something different, something that can be life altering if you go with a completely open mind. I highly recommend it.

Dragonfly