Living a monk-like hermitage has afforded me not only rest, time, reflection, but the freedom to contemplate and focus on the mysteries my former life wasn’t allowing.
In my new job, placing a practical application to the societal mysteries has been illuminating. It would seem that folks put up an illusion around themselves, and become so swarmed with it many cannot see even their own partner, spouse, or the person standing next to them. Noise, or interruption of their illusions make so many angry (including myself) because being part of the world is a ritual act in and of itself. It is the illusion of isolation that was created – and it is damn hard to break.
Took me most of this year to get out of that habit, and I’ve noticed the grandmother sitting with her granddaughter feeding the ducks at the park, the cat who was foiled again by the neighbor’s squirrel, a teenager severely hurt by being single for the upcoming dance, and the grumpy old man sitting on the bench being bitter. All this by standing at the crosswalk.
On a foggy morning, catching the glint of the wandering deer, returning home watching the wasps building a low nest (sign of a harsh winter ahead):
“If hornets build low,
Winter storms and snow;
If hornets build high,
Winter mild and dry.”
With the changing weather, I can almost hear the Ancestors in the leaves as they rustle down the street, there is definite movement in the air. This weekend I am carving several plants into lanterns to set on my windowsills, and I have been prepping for my Ancestral Feast.
I have tried in vain to make sugar skulls, and I have failed. I have my limitations. However, instead of giving up on the entire idea, I went to the store to purchase a popular decoration: a skull. How many of those do we see these days? (And not to mention other holiday stuff already!)
I painted them, and affixed a candle atop them.
Spent many nights in my bearskin and melding with her anew. No rituals, no trance-work, just communing with the skin into my own. Just letting my mind wander, collecting and listening. Hearing the birds outside, the creaks in my floorboards, the cold on my skin; letting myself simply be still with Her.
Bought a new set of buffalo horns, which the buffalo, auroch, as well as other cattle, livestock, and the pastoral rituals as associated with The Ploughman, which I will be honoring as the Midnight Bull on the eve of November. In February, I will be honoring the Daughter of the Bear.
I will continue to wander, and contemplate. As much as I would love to move away from here, the spirits I work with, and the Antlered Weaver aren’t allowing for that. Sometimes roots grow on their own and you don’t realize it until you try to uproot. So, I will continue to delve into local botany, local culture (yes, even the towns in the boonies have unique customs, folklore, and history) and see what I can learn. I agree with the other bloggers: There should be more regional practitioners. There shouldn’t be a one-size type, but local variety that gave the historical practitioners such color and vibrancy.
Don’t worry, I’ll blog again. As my mind begins to word the mysteries in a coherent order, I will post them here. So tonight, I’ll go over my notes and try to put them into words.
*Note: My store is closing, and I will be placing my inventory on local consignment. There have been numerous local requests for my knives and metalwork, and it will be taking my attention. However, commissions online are still available – just ask.