Those of us who are actual bears – catch a scent like you wouldn’t believe. This time – it’s the stench of drama.
Labels. Pointless, if you ask me.
In the Otherworlds, it doesn’t matter if you consider yourself one of five titles (Celtic Druid Witch Shaman Magician, for example), you are you. You actually will get farther by honest politeness and honest naming – than anything else.
Hi, I’m Anne. I’m a blacksmith and leather-worker. I tend to think too much.
Many spirits have perked their ears with this. Just sayin’.
I don’t think a title does anyone justice. You are who you are – and for me, the more honest you are about this – the more I’ll like you in the end. So many people want that mask, that illusion around them when they fail to see their own mysteries of just being who they are.
Meaning – we could have something in common- for fuck’s sake we’re human. We’re bound to have something in common. I sort of hate the idea of individualism – it’s a trend where no matter how hipster, how different, how unique you think yourself to be – you’ll have something in common with someone else. But I love the idea of individualism as well – that unique chemistry, or components – that is what makes you – well… YOU.
I don’t attach myself to labels – because they rarely work in the end for me. I am a spirit worker – yes, it’s lower-case. It’s a description, not a title. I am a blacksmith – again, same thing. I am a leather-worker. I am an asshole. Nope, I don’t hide it.
I’m rough around the edges and I’m a rough person in general, and I have many deep battle scars. At work, the word ‘Pagan‘ works due to the ease of a Google search which leads to further understanding after lengthy explanation of my own practice. My writing is raw, but honest. Very honest.
I think the idea is nonsense – it isn’t helping, and Sannion’s ‘empty air,’ comment really does work for it. You can growl all you want to into an empty jar and claim it yours – but it’s about as much claim as the other fellow who also growled into it. In the end, it’s still an empty jar. Now, it smells of salted pork and bacon. Kudos… Maybe to that?
Truthfully, I see it as that old card game, I forget the title – but where you stick the cards to your forehead and guess what card you hold. It’s too difficult to see from the inside out, and it’s all too easy to see from the outside in – so in the end it could work out, or it could be disastrous. You are what you are. Sometimes, that Seven of Clubs trumps the Ace of Diamonds.
Labels are the same as cards to me. You can stick five or a dozen to your forehead – and in the end, you’re still you to me. I don’t hold any to my forehead and I’m still kickin’ ’round in the Otherworld. Sure, in the game of popularity I will always lose – but I leave with a smile, and an assured route home. Needless to say, I don’t complain much.
In truth, if you need that crutch – have it. I limp with a knee that’s rotten from arthritis, but I need no crutch. I am a limping smithy, that wounded warrior. I have seen, done, and touched realities that would make your skin crawl – but I still find humor in life.
Go ahead, have your ‘titles,’ if that’s what helps you to sleep at night. I don’t have any, and after many stiff drinks I sleep pretty soundly in actuality. I work with the spirits, my own Gods, and my Ancestors. I’m alright in the long run. Sure, the Gods who picked me are obscure – but again, I just shrug and go on. They’ve kept my stubborn unyielding ass alive after all the things I’ve lived through, so who am I to judge another?
In the end, I with more certainty than anything else won’t judge you – I… May ask a billion questions – but if you’re in the house of the Bear, you’ll be welcome to warm yourself, and to some food- and a thousand curious questions.
So… You want to claim such a lengthy title – I hope you’re willing to tell that inevitably long story that goes with it? I have my rum my friend…. But maybe you should bring some honey whiskey too.