In Turn Sacred

A writer's moment, after midnight and several episodes of Babylon 5.

The cold dark of winter has come. Stark white glows beneath the starless sky, covering the earth like a gray ghost. I walk between the ancient trees caught in icy slumber. I envy them their ability to turn inward, away from the cold. I find a space cleared of bark and brush, a circle of white untouched by the surrounding forest. I walk to its center and suddenly notice that my feet make no sound. I look back. No footprints.

“This is a sacred place. All those who venture here are in turn sacred. All others simply never find it.” The voice surrounded me, as if the air itself spoke.

“What is this place?”

“Not what nor where nor when. Only why.”

“Who are you?”

“I am as you are. Why do you need to know more than that?”

“I seek understanding.”

“Fact and truth are not mutually exclusive. Which do you seek?”

“Neither and both.”

“Then you are ready.”

Wanderlust

I've gotten restless recently. I'm getting bored easily, opting for idle time-wasting as opposed to productive or creative pursuits. I managed to finish the first chapter of one project, a gift to its muse, and now...nothing. I'm not terribly motivated, which hasn't ever really stopped me before. I try to keep busy, keep moving, but I feel like I'm running in circles, not really looking forward to anything but still managing to get tired in the process.

My completely unacceptable physique got me working out again. bike riding is hit and miss considering summer decided to give way to fall after two freaking weeks, so I'm opting for indoor cardio. It's short and intense (shock), which works for me, but I still get antsy at night when I'm up and alone and wondering about the reasons for it all.

It took seven years to get established, and I haven't even been on my own a year yet. I have to wonder how much is loneliness, how much is boredom masked in exhaustion, and how much is truly a Calling, something somewhere beckoning my feet to the road.

And yet, every now and then, a literary gem still pops up to be heard:

"I have walked the streets of Faerie at night, knowing well their leafy lane, their log wood bridges. I have climbed the stepping stones to the house of my kin, and sat at their table, welcomed home."

So passeth a man worthy.

It seems death is making a list not unlike Santa's this year. The good ones are getting checked off, and the latest was one we really couldn't afford to lose just yet. His work is left undone, and so it passes to all of us who thought well of him to carry on in his stead.

Edward "Ted" Kennedy had a way of ruffling feathers. He was much like Harvey Keitel in that you either loved him or hated him. But like so many, he knew where he stood, and he stood on the side of equality, of justice, and he had the guts to speak up even when every other voice on his side was silent. Would that we could all have such strength in the trying times ahead. Compelling and engaging, it took a brain tumor to slow him down, much like it took my own grandfather. I don't think of Ted in that way, but I do know what it's like to watch a good, strong man wither away into a mere shell before my eyes. My heart is with his family now as they grieve, much as I did two years ago.

So passeth a man worthy. Rest well, Ted. You've earned it. Your work will continue.

You can tell Fall is coming when...

Hoodies and flip-flops suddenly become commonplace.

The cool wind catches the climbing ivy in waves like a vertical sea.

You can smell it.

It caught me again this morning as I awoke with the windows open to romping kittens and crisp air filling my senses with a need to burrow. I feel the sleep of the land creeping around the edges, my own want of hibernation just stirring.

The cycle continues. Feel it turn...

Reflections in the tides

I’ve been unusually sensitive recently. It started in the midst of my journey in the Pacific Northwest, but instead of being dulled or simply lessened by the return to mundania, this sensitivity has become sharper, more acute. It extends to all points and valleys of my existence. The very breeze vibrates through me like an echo. I feel like the crow perched within a willow seated next to a river, sunlight and moonlight reflecting from their sources but also reflected in the moving waters below me, further perspective, secondary impression.

And yet the time has come for such reflection. Though the leaves have not yet begun their color symphony, the wheel is turning, the time is coming, and the seeds are coming to their various points of harvest. Yet with eyes so forward and ears so perked to all that is so far out, could I lose sight of what’s in my hands? The barrage has been known to blind me, to clench my hands in shock and wonder, only to crack the fragile joys already within my grasp. To say nothing of the rather impressive backlog of things that I’ve been meaning to complete for years now. Delicate balance.

So many sign posts, so many wants, so many things left undone. A curious reflect.

Faerie Worlds Apart

Flying always kills me. I’m still sleep deprived after my second night home. Pacific time set in on my system just in time for Central to kick me back over like a can on the street.

But worth it. So very, very worth it.

The heat was reminisce of the desert, not the Pacific Northwest. It was 106 on the ground. Walking out of the airport was like walking into truck backwash. I could practically drink the air, and it burned. Oh, how it burned. The drive down was filled with laughter and song and “Thirteen” (http://www.vixyandtony.com/music.html) and “Mythcreants” (http://www.trickypixie.com/merch.php), along with new friend, Foxy. Considering I went by Crowe for almost the whole fest, it felt good that others like me knew their names and used them as I did.

We got to Portland just in time for hair dying and SLEEP. Sleep with big cats and really awesome attics and bumblebees. We awoke in the Hive to happy belly goodness of bagels with lox and cream cheese. Then we hung out, packing cars and making lists, checking as many times as it took to hit the road running. After grabbing all we needed, we set out upon our journey to Eugene and everything after.

Camp held new faces and kindred spirits alike. Fire kindled, altars set against the greet evergreens around us, walking the circle of our tribe to ensure its protection and sanctity. And in the great conifers within our fortress of love, my laughing brother birds fluttered and sang, waking me the next morning to the sunlight, the waning starlight, and the readying for our trip to FW.

Surrounded was I at once by color and light and sound, pan flutes playing on the winds, Fae of every shape and size and manner prancing about and dancing, wings floating on the breeze. Blessed breeze. It’s the only thing that kept us all from falling over in the sunlight. There is no sun in Faerie, not really...but I disgress.

I fluttered about, a Gaselli at play, coin belt jingling my presence into the ethers. It was a day of watering can blessings and fanciful creations given life and light. Wood nymphs danced as much as stood still, children running and playing with the inner children of those grown tall. Stilt walkers and sprites sang out their joy, pirates and steampunk minions mingling with Jerith and Froudlings.

My only downward moment was under the shade tent in the late day, pulling my skirt wide to shield a friend from the harsh sun’s rays as he ate and tried to recover from overheating. He is well, thank the stars, but we were all quite concerned. He did get better, drinking plenty and resting much, his voice ringing out in laughter again soon enough.

And so the sun rose and set upon the first day at Faerie Worlds.

The next day was much the same, though Bad Faerie’s day was one of mischief. Instead of bad Faerie I just went with Baddass. I think it worked well…

But the day proved too much for me, so coyote and I headed back to camp for shade, cold drinks, and talk. Talk we did in fact, of socks and shipmates and storytelling, cabbage heads and kingdoms. We were joined by other of the camp, also seeking refuge form the sun, and bearing whisky and watermelon. The night rang out with our laughter as we shared the cool night. And so the sun rose and the sun set on the second day of Faerie worlds.

The next morning held a sigh for me. I was headed off toward the airport come sunset, but not before packing and making merriment with my new tribemates one last time. And so we did, Monochromatic Faeries, we!

We frolicked and played one last time to the winding ways of Gaia Consort, and then the brick hit me in the face. I got the message that lit the fire beneath my feet and set the tears to my eyes. Chaldean was dying. I had to get home. I talked with Thistle as best I could, not looking at my emotions until the phone was shut in my hands, crumbling onto the dried grass in the arms of my Coyote brother. I will never be able to thank him enough for that moment, that solace, that shelter. But he let me purge and set me on my way, fast feet carrying me home.

Home too late, but goodbyes still said. I’m so thankful for that much. Got home to the kittens, who were VERY happy to see me1 So happy they haven’t left me alone yet, but I’m not complaining.

Such an experience. I’m definitely going next year to ensure the transition is a good one. Selling out the old venue and changing locations a month before the event was not the BEST choice, but it happens. I’m willing to give it a second try to see if they can get their act together complete with applicable SHADE….

His Journey Onward

the message was the first I'd heard in three days. My phone had been off due to low battery, and when I turned it on, Thistle's voice came to me in a tone I'd never heard before. "Chaldean is dying. Get here now." I called her back within seconds, keeping it together as best I could as she told me the what's and how's and why's. a dear friend, a coyote, stood by me as I listened, cracking with every word until I hung up, and held me as I crumbled. My precious fellow trickster. Will you ever know how much you meant to me just then?

And so I was on my way, 7 hours north to Seattle to catch a flight the next morning, the first one I could manage. The minutes flowed by like white water, rushing me forward, propelling me through airport, and train station and city street to the door of my friend and teacher. I called upstairs to be let in, but too late.

Chaldean, my dear friend and teacher, had died before my plane hit the runway and I hadn't gotten the message until I was at his door.

I first met his at Temple of the Four Winds. He was a lone figure of calm among so much bustle. He struck me as different, but I couldn't say why.

I met him again at Earth Day three years ago when we were in ritual together. I was among four dancers of the elements, and he was the embodiment of the animals world, the Green Man, the animal spirit given voice. Though deep and almost monotone, he called up a howl in me that echoed across the Circle. I knew then a moment of his power.

We met again and again over the years, moments here and there, each teaching, laughing, moving across each others' paths. He called me Faerie. He called me Sister. He called me sweet. I wasn't sweet, I was lucky. Lucky to have been in a place to have known such a man. And to that man I have this to say:

Dearest Chaldean, my teacher, my friend, thank you. Two little words that make up so much of what you mean to me. I will never forget all that you taught me, and all the laughter we've shared. I'm so grateful to have known you, and to have shared my journey with you even for such a short time. Rest in peace, and journey on, knowing you are loved.