I hope you all had a fabulous Lammas weekend. Mine was…well, interesting.

Not in a bad way. But not in a good way. When I say ‘interesting’ what I really mean to say is…well…other than spending time with a couple of women I have a special bond with, the weekend was…well, strangely needed.

I know, spit it out, right? Why do we do that beating around the bush nonsense? Why can’t we just say what we feel? Why can’t we say what we mean and mean what we say?

Mostly because we don’t want to look like an asshole. Mostly because we don’t want to hurt people’s feelings. Sometimes we’re afraid people will see us as being too direct. Bitchy. Complaining. Whining. Ungrateful. Petulant. Mean. And sometimes we just don’t know what to say, or how to express ourselves and don’t want to be misunderstood.

But I’m going to lay it on the line. I’ve been dissatisfied with the local pagan community at large for quite some time. There’s a reason I worked as a solitary for 12 of the past 17 years since choosing this path. I’ve searched for something, a group I could be comfortable with. I didn’t like covens because there was too much ego. Mixed gender gatherings always ended up like a really bad experience with trolls of all sorts. I wasn’t looking to hook up, that was not the reason I was there. So I ventured onward. I thought I’d go a different route and tried Spiral Scouts with my children but ended up feeling like an outsider because of all the dreaded cliques. I’ve attended New Age groups from time to time but I really didn’t feel comfortable with people talking so close to my face (I have an issue with people invading my personal space) or being a little too far out there even for me. The local Hermetic group came close to fulfilling my needs, but it was unbearably cerebral at times. I dreaded being caught up in a group of polite listeners as a couple of guys in robes droned on and on about their philosophical views on The Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus. Then of course there are the Goddess temples that are popping up all over, willing to charge a ridiculous amount of money to give you a ‘title’. No thanks.

I know nothing is perfect, but it has never stopped me from trying to find my ‘tribe’. The women’s non-profit organization I currently volunteer for is rewarding in many ways, but it also is lacking something for me. I’ve never been quite sure what that something was, but I knew it wasn’t complete.

This most recent experience within the pagan community was a real eye opener; a true wake-up call that I wasn’t happy with the way things were progressing (or in my case were not progressing) for myself and my place within the pagan world. This last weekend was shared with a group of women I have done rituals and magickal workings with for many years and a few new women I met while there. I spent many months working on putting this Lammas ritual together to benefit the greater women’s pagan community. I not only donated a lot of time (away from my family) but a lot of effort (even through tough pain days) and out of pocket money to gather all the resources needed (volunteering for a non-profit group can bleed you dry) to pull off this weekend-long event.

We were blessed with being allowed to stay on sacred land, specifically designated for women, by women and I really appreciate that. There are rules that are enforced to protect the integrity of the land. You are frowned upon if you aren’t vegan. I’m not vegan or a vegetarian, and I’m o.k. with that, but thankfully I thought ahead and brought a giant veggie and pasta salad because there were a lot of soy nuts and hummus. Not surprising, my salad was the only thing that was gone within 15 minutes. I swear it looked like someone licked the bowl. Hungry folks.That’s all I’m going to say.

There is a strong feminine energy at this beautiful place, a force to be reckoned with for sure. No man is allowed on the land. No male energy is allowed to be invoked. Ever. Male children are ok until aged 7. Okay, it’s private land and we were a group of women, and I respected the owner’s wishes and tailored the ritual to honor the energy of the land as well as to suit our needs as a group.

Recently however, (just two weeks prior to the weekend Lammas event) I was to host a get-together at my house with some of the women who are a part of the collective group involved with this woman’s land. There are very few whom, like me, are happily married with families of their own. Several days before the event I was contacted by the co-owner of the land. She wanted to make sure that there weren’t going to be any males in my house during the gathering, and that it was smudged thoroughly before anyone arrived.

This made me feel uncomfortable. I was already planning on having the kids stay with their grandparents and my husband was going to be away coaching football. It was the fact that I needed to clear my house of any male energy, which of course wasn’t going to happen, because males live in my house. I responded that there would be no males at my house (except I failed to mention our male cat, knowing full well that male animals of the non-human kind are completely acceptable) and that, like all magickal workings, the space would be smudged and clear before anything began.

After our conversation I found myself starting to worry about even the simplest of things. I began looking around my house for stuff that could possibly be offensive to those sensitive to (fill in the blank). I noticed there being a football helmet in view, then saw my teen-aged son’s male-oriented video game case left out next to the computer, and then to my horror, discovered the missing head to my daughter’s Barbie peeking out from under the couch. What else was I not seeing? What would they think of me? I cannot express the relief I felt when I ended up not hosting the get-together.

Since I have spent time on this women’s land before, I knew it could be a quiet place of solitude and reflection. There was a caretaker who lived there, but other than that, we always had complete freedom with a real sense of Sisterhood. I would be a guest on their land and I was really looking forward to a weekend away.

This time there were seven women living here and there, in cabins dotted along the property and a new recruit arrived while we were there. They ranged in age as well as in their exhibitionist behavior (youth not being a prerequisite). There was some nudity, mostly topless, and I’m okay with that. We were on women’s land after all, and it was hot. Whether or not I wandered around outside without a top on is beside the point. I usually respect and honor other’s decisions in these matters, but please don’t lean on the kitchen table naked with one leg up on the chair next to me, trying to keep me engaged in conversation when I’m simply trying to eat a piece of toast (like I said, I have issues in regards to my personal space being invaded).

I am not a lesbian nor am I bisexual, but most of the women in my women’s spirituality group are lesbians and I deeply care about them. I do not see them as straight or gay, but as women with a common goal; to raise awareness for global change, social justice, religious tolerance, environmental and equality issues, and using ritual for positive change are just a few examples. I respect other’s personal decisions and listen attentively to them, but when I (and the few others who are married or in a relationship with a man) mentioned men or husbands, there was an awkward silence. Except of course the crickets; there are a lot of crickets.

By the first night I was homesick. Very homesick. I missed my husband. I missed my kids.

All weekend I cleaned up after myself, washed out the zip-lock baggies that held my fruit salad and hung them to dry in the kitchen with all the other ones that had been washed. I didn’t flush the toilet paper, I threw it in the garbage just like I was supposed to. I didn’t bring meat but I screwed up and didn’t bring organic yogurt. Oh well. I took my shoes off while in the house (even though it made the bottom of my feet filthy). I followed all of the rules even down to all aspects of the ritual.

On the day of the ritual it was nearly 100 degrees outside. I was so very tempted to walk down the windy gravel road to my car and go for a long drive, to get some space, crank up the air conditioner, and emit some serious car emissions because I felt like being rebellious. I didn’t do this of course. I waited until Sunday for that.

Instead I prepared everyone for the ritual. We applied body paint to each other, then we drummed, we sang, and we prepared food. Finally, in the shade of the late summer afternoon we began to create sacred space.

The ritual itself was going along fine and it wasn’t until we began raising energy that something totally unexpected happened. There was a sudden feeling of extreme imbalance within me as the whole world seemed to tilt and I instantly became clammy and woozy. I tried to stand completely still by planting my feet firmly to the earth as I felt a warm gush of menstrual blood flow from me.

I know that probably doesn’t sound very strange, and raising energy within ritual can be a very powerful event, but I just don’t have periods. Let me explain; I have been on medication for years to prevent this monthly occurrence because of dangerous hemorrhaging issues ever since my youngest was born. I have on average one menstrual flow every year, and it is planned and carefully monitored. This is a current medical plan to stave off a hysterectomy and it has worked brilliantly so far. But this flow happened as it was obviously intended to happen, but it came on with a vengeance! Like Kali herself was making her presence known to me. As the High Priestess, I couldn’t just disappear from the ritual. There was energy that needed to be grounded, and a Circle that needed to be safely closed. Though the women surrounding me showed great concern about how suddenly pale I had become, they had no clue as to what was actually happening until I began to need assistance back to the main house.

I showered and changed into comfortable clothes and remained in the main house for the rest of the night. I chatted quietly with close friends while sipping on a glass of wine before I carefully stood and graciously retired to the guest room for the evening. I missed out on the bonfire and additional magickal workings planned later for that evening. I felt like I was letting others down, because I had planned these things and then was unable to attend.

I moved as little as possible, willing my body to slow down, trying to regulate the pulse of blood flowing from my body by taking deep breaths, and quieting my Self.

I didn’t know it at the time but this became a much needed spiritual experience to have on my own. Since there was no ‘special lodge’ out back for women in my condition, and without phone service, I spent a long time writing in my journal. I meditated. I did a little unexpected soul-searching while listening to the increasingly loud festivities out around the fire circle until I eventually found myself perfectly content where I was. As the guilt began to be lifted, the noise from outside faded and I soon drifted off to sleep.

I awoke sometime in the wee hours of the morning finding myself ruminating and processing my thoughts and emotions, some of which I couldn’t put words to. I did this until finally coming to the realization that no matter how much I wanted it to be, this weekend wasn’t satisfying and it had nothing to do with what happened/didn’t happen. With this new found clarity I finally was able to honestly admit that I had completely worn myself out trying to find my place within the pagan community; even the Women’s Goddess community.

Here I was, at The place to be! You see, not just anyone is invited here; you have to know people or have the right connections. It’s just as susceptible to many of the same pitfalls and bullshit of other ‘exclusive’ groups, secret clubs, or popularity contests. And here I was, spending another weekend of unfulfilled expectations. This wasn’t me and I knew it wasn’t ever going to be me, so why was I fighting for something I really didn’t want? Was I being ungrateful? What exactly did I want anyway? Would I ever know?

We all try so hard to find our place; in search of our tribe. Deep down we know what we are looking for and we truly want. I know what I want; balance and acceptance. Not extreme exclusion of people and definitely not feeling uncomfortable about who I am or who I choose to love.

The following day things had slowed down for me, and with the friendly help of another woman who lived on the property, I was able to pack up quickly. I didn’t feel great and was still very pale but I was much better. In fact, right after the wee-morning rumination, the flow stopped just as quickly as it started.

It became clear to me while writing this that my Spirit knew what it was I wanted but it couldn’t get through to my head, so the Goddess intervened; giving me a reason to pause. To think. To reflect. These are some of the most natural things to do during the dark part of the female cycle. It didn’t matter that it was the Full Moon, or that I was with a group of non-menstruating women. It didn’t matter if I came prepared or not. It was time for me to reevaluate everything I thought I wanted and everything I already had.

When I finally arrived home I was greeted with excitement and love. It felt good to feel my husband’s big strong arms around me, his hands squeezing me in all the right places. I was home. I was free. Free in what being ‘free’ means to me.

I smelled my children’s hair and let the dog lick my face. I had been looking and searching, searching and looking. My opportunity to reevaluate was the spiritual event of the weekend for me. Taking a deep, hard look at what I thought I was missing made me see more than ever before that I was already fulfilled. I realized that I had close friends and ties that have been neglected because of other obligations I made for finding my ‘truth’. The pause allowed me to place the pieces of what I felt was a fragmented existence into the empty picture frame meant to hold a snapshot of my life. Each relationship, each hobby, each line I choose to write or not write, all fits perfectly together. And just as a holographic image, it changes with perspective. There weren’t any missing gaps because my tribe had been with me all it all along. It is called Home, Family, Partnership. It is Spiritually Fulfilling, but only if I allow it to be. It is filled with Acceptance and Appreciation. It is made up of Love, Life, Strength, and Hope. May you too find your tribe.

Many Blessings on your Journey )O(

The Call of the Maenad

I ask you,

Are you willing to let your hair down and run barefoot in the wild?

To take pleasure in the feeling of your bare skin in the sun?

Are you willing to free yourself to soar like the falcon

as you rise higher and higher above the clouds?

I ask you,

Are you willing to crawl across the earth on your belly like a snake?

To feel the heat of passion as the wild rises from within?

Are you willing to touch the sensual flame of desire

as you face the wild beating of your heart?

I ask you,

Are you willing to swim fearlessly into the dark waters like a shark?

To venture far away from the shore and deep into the abyss?

Are you willing to return to the surface as a nymph

as you ride the tides of powerful ecstasy?

I ask you,

Are you willing to move freely in the trees and howl into the night?

To stalk your prey with hunger as you leap from rock to rock?

Are you willing to let your tongue taste the fruits of the wild

as you accept the guilty pleasures offered to you?

The Goddess of the Wild beckons 

do you answer her call?

The Number One reason I dislike camping (and there are many reasons) is because there’s really no way of knowing what type of nasty spider will hitch a ride back to my house. Like the one who introduced itself to me this morning

After returning home from our most recent camping adventure, I began to clean up some of the campfire cookware. While washing out the dishpan and daydreaming about a luxurious bubble bath later, I see the nasty beast crawling across my hand among the soap bubbles. I didn’t have time to be jealous of the fact that it was getting a bubble bath before me because I instantly flung my hand causing the sudsy creature to plop onto the floor before I ran screaming to the bathroom, jumped up on the counter and planted my feet on the opposite wall (so they weren’t dangling where something else might get to me). I’m nearly hyperventilating while at the same time couldn’t help but be quite impressed with how fast I could move. That would come in handy in the event of a zombie apocalypse.

My children come running from all corners of the house to see me in a wild panic. My 9 year-old daughter took one look at me and nodded her head sagely, confirming ‘it was a spider, huh?’ She’s smart, that one. My youngest said he thought I had chopped my finger off. Finding out it was nothing but a spider, he quickly became uninterested and wandered off. My oldest son sighed and went to smash it with his giant Romeo work boot.

After a while, I slid off the counter and went in search of my son; the hero for the day. I asked him for all the gory details. Was it a clean kill, or were there spider bits still in the sink? If so, would he wipe it clean with a disinfectant wipe?  I wanted to know what he did with it. Was it in the garbage? If so, was the garbage full enough that I could possibly see its crumpled body when I scraped the dishes later? Or did he have the nerve to use one of my good tupperware containers to catch the thing only to toss it at me later while I’m in bed winding down with a good book? (I know this from experience, which seems to be quite amusing to everyone but me)

Hi, my name is Luna and I am an Arachnophobe.

There, I’ve said it.

This insanity has got to stop. This fear has gotten progressively worse over the past few years, and quite frankly I’m tired of it, and as entertaining as my family finds it, I’m sure they’re tired of it too. We live in the Pacific Northwest, a temperate rainforest, we are going to have lots of spiders. In fact, they are pretty much everywhere on this planet, so unless I plan on moving to Antarctica, I’d better get a grip.

But how can I get a grip when I don’t even have a handle? Just recently I dropped a can of spider spray in the grocery aisle because I saw the legs from the picture on the label peeking out from behind my hand.

I didn’t buy the spider spray.

So why my irrational fear?  How did it get like this? What’s the deal? When did I lose control? Why just spiders? Hell, I don’t mind snakes, in fact I think they’re pretty cool and I even say hi to them when I come upon them while gardening. My husband has hissing cockroaches as pets in his classroom and I get a kick out of them with no problem. Lizards and salamanders? Bring ‘em on. Really, I can tolerate a lot of little scurrying things that give other people the creeps.

Just. Not. Spiders.

However, I’m not heartless. I’ll admit I have issues while reading Charlotte’s Web to my children, but I always end up bawling like a big baby at the very end.

Maybe we carry the same funny bone around with us through all of our lifetimes, and when we hit that certain nerve, sparks go awry and things get funny, but not in a good or beneficial way. Meaning, there’s a link to the madness, a certain trigger to karmically deal with or a life lesson to overcome.

The initial onset of my phobia occurred simultaneously with my twentieth birthday, so perhaps that’s the age when one of my previous lives came to a horrifying end as I was found guilty of something insane, tortured, bound, and buried alive in a coffin full of spiders.

The concept of transmutation between species never quite gelled with me, but maybe lifetimes ago I was a cute little ladybug happily munching away on aphids when I snagged the silk tripwire.

Some researchers say that the fear of spiders is genetic. Spiders of long ago were highly more venomous and could easily kill or render a person so sick they became helpless and more susceptible to other dangers. Still others claim it’s social conditioning. Neither of my parents suffer from arachnophobia, but plenty of people do. Thankfully my children show no signs of it.

I think it may be a variable combination of these things that can cause slight dislike to downright incapacitating fear of things that can potentially harm us. I don’t really know my spider story, but I am slowly finding myself slightly intrigued. Sort of.

The interesting thing is that the more I write this post, the more I’m understanding that my issue with spiders may be because they are things that I cannot control. The creature in my kitchen sink this morning is a shining example, what nerve! He has (well, had) a mind of his own. His own agenda. Spiders are insidious little critters that lie in wait for their prey (okay, snakes do that too…) So even though I have entertained the idea that my fear of spiders may be connected to a past life trauma, it may actually be caused by my fear of not being able to control my surprise encounters with them, their bites, and the nasty fact that they crawl into our mouths and noses while we sleep. (shudder) I understand that like other living things, spiders merely do what needs to be done in order to survive. But I feel encroached upon. They invade my personal space. Every once in a while one will crawl across my arm, or hide in my shoe, or bite my leg while I’m getting out of the shower.

My phobia is not out of the norm. It’s very common just as acrophobia and claustrophobia are, to name a few (there are are hundreds upon hundreds of known phobias out there) These are phobias that I can totally understand, but heights and small spaces don’t send me off the deep end like spiders do. To me these are manageable fears because I have control over whether or not I take the stairs or elevator, and I consciously choose not to skydive or go and stand near a cliff’s edge to get a “better view.” Heights and small spaces can at times make me uncomfortable, but do not incite panic attacks. I think about how much I love to scuba dive, but I can see how some who are claustrophobic wouldn’t be able to tolerate the combination of the mask and mouthpiece very well.  But don’t ever put me in a submarine because I don’t know how to operate one, therefore I give up control, more than likely triggering a sense of panic being trapped in a sinking saltwater blimp. Throw a spider in there and my heart would immediately stop.

There’s really only one thing about spiders I can control, and that’s my reaction to them.

Easier said than done, my friend; easier said than done.

Today was the first time I thought seriously about finally getting over this phobia, or at least how to alleviate my fears. Interestingly, I was recently given a glazed clay spider pendant from one of my pagan spirit sisters. She joked about using it as the start of my immersion therapy. I laughed it off, brought it home and gingerly set it on my altar without actually looking closely at the design. It’s a very beautiful blue color and the spider itself is a subtle imprint design, and by placing it on my altar, I can control my level of interaction with it. Changing the way I think about spiders will be a long, arduous task, but I’m willing to try it if it means only a little improvement here and there. I think I’ll begin by taking the spider pendant from my altar  every morning and holding it, for just a few minutes. A week later maybe I’ll be running my fingers over the spider imprint, picturing it in my mind’s eye, seeing the joints in the legs, feeling the shape of its body. I’m looking forward to it like dental work, but as such, it’s gotta be done. Then, eventually an acceptance ritual.

So Arachne, please be nice to me when I invoke you. Let’s smoothe things over. We can start fresh. You know, clean the slate or clear the cobwebs. (too much?) If not, can we at least co-exist on relatively good terms?

Many Blessings on Your Journey )O(

Just merrily bobbing along with the current, like a glass float near the shore.

Nothing new here. No new tale to tell.

And I like it that way.

Everyone’s life is an evolving story, full of chapters designed by us, and it’s our job to turn the pages, to get to the next chapter and to hopefully, with any success, finish the book.

It’s a suspense novel, unpredictable, full of nice, and sometimes not very nice characters (who without these unsavory characters there would be no point to the story, now would there?) There’s really no fun in long term predictability either. Predictable people, places, or things can be rather boring. But boring is a very welcome thing for me at the moment.

After a particularly long month with a lot of traveling, my patience had worn thin. I became grumpy, and depressed. I felt overwhelmed by the weight of something (not just the accumulated laundry pile) that I just couldn’t seem to put my finger on.

I fall into the category of those people who spiritually believe that we decide on our life’s lessons before we incarnate. We, as stupid, ethereal souls cook up these grand ideas-adventures-learning experiences-which really means piles of shit to deal with,

But, I am at the beach with my husband, sitting on the bed in the hotel room listening to the waves crash and someone’s children playing on the sand below. It’s an absolutely beautiful, warm sunny day, and to be perfectly honest, I’m quite comfortable and content with where I am at this moment.

Like one of those Japanese glass fishing floats, buoyant, just going along with the ebb and flow, nowhere we have to be, nothing in particular we have to do. We just are.

No, I’m not out wandering along the shore, letting my toes sink into the soft wet sand. I’m not fighting off seagulls or wondering when the next high tide is. I’m not walking into the wind nor am I walking away from it. And I’m not squinting at the sun.

Instead I choose to sit here on the cushy hotel bed propped up with a nest of pillows all around me. Of course we’ve been down to the beach several times and have wandered around for a few hours between yesterday and today, but the best part for me is sitting in this hotel room listening to the surf and wondering when we’re going to break into that strawberry cheesecake we had bought at the store on our way out of town.

We brought a couple of movies with us to watch at our leisure and after an afternoon of wonderful romps (and a favorable romp last night) we are completely content in staying inside-sliding door open of course, but both of us in companionable silence. And there’s a true beauty in the simplicity of it.

There’s no need to wear ourselves out taking long drives along highway 101 to discover a hidden cave or an untouched private beach. We did that sort of thing more than a decade ago and let me tell you, there’s nowhere that is as totally private as we would wish it would be…

No sanctuary like the one we have found in our hotel room. Our own little glass float.

So here I am, perfectly content to waste away the weekend shacked up with my husband, looking forward to another walk on the beach at sunset, dinner of lobster macaroni and cheese, and then later, a fluffy movie (Pillow Talk with Doris Day) in bed while sharing a pack of peanut m & m’s. Laughter. Teasing. Relaxing. And horribly unhealthy junk food. Then maybe another romp.