This blog is brought to you by an old home that used to house a farm and the people who tended it; now a loving home for a family and their wayward witches. For nights filled with a warm fire, whisky, divination and reminiscing about teenage witchcraft.
This blog is brought to you by small doughnut shops the morning after with vegan food and good coffee. All while you write about how lucky you are to just be where you are, when you are. For a shop painted a shade of blue that can only be described like the car you used to own, and love. Really, really love. Last night was lovingly spent rolling glitter blunts and holding the ashes of a voodoo priestess. Needless to say, it was a night of some much needed energy work after a tumultuous February, marking a month and a day since everything hit the fan. Subsequently sending physical and spiritual shit everywhere, pieces of me that I am left with to decide if they are even worth picking up again. If you have been keeping up, not unlike your favorite trashy reality show, then you know that a lot has been happening that I need to emotionally work through. This time I managed to bring some of my loved ones with me while I put things back together. Apparently, friends, it’s not just houses that are haunted, it’s people, too. Back in January we all experienced the ‘Super Blood Wolf Moon.’ A night written about on my other blog 286, and a night where I decided to yell at the moon about the things I wanted to let go of. Yes, before you say anything, I am fully aware of how dangerous it is to yell at the moon and demand anything from her. This act was done in complete disregard, and completely fulfilled in some seemingly volatile ways in the following weeks. You live and learn, sometimes you learn while being reminded how undeniably lucky you are to be alive, but you learn nonetheless. One bitter, blustery, and brumal night is all I needed to remind me not to count my seeds before they bloom. Asking for my space, demanding it, while knowing when I need to ask for help has been a huge piece of my healing process these last few weeks. Understanding that there is no price to be paid in return for my privacy, and there is no debt to be owed in desiring it. I am ready to refocus my practice the way I had intended prior to last months events, yet now I have the correct intentions and ideas of where I need to take it. This brings us back to the glitter blunts and voodoo ashes, you thought I was kidding? I spent four hours last night with Dominica as we talked, drank and practiced together. We also gossip during these nights, because while we are spiritual creatures we are witches who are human beings with mildly petty streaks running through us. It’s all about the balance. So, Dominica taught me last night about witch balls*, an object I filled with glitter, snake skin, ashes and a rusty nail. Shook and mixed together to create a creative protective cocktail; protection from what you asked? Well, we discussed in January the shadow people* lurking in my house. They make their appearances during sleep paralysis, the corners of my house and in my peripheral vision. Blood Moon night both Allison and Dominica told me to take care of them, I didn’t. This brings us back to why we don’t yell at the moon while not dealing with our demons, internal and otherwise. I say this because shadow people are not people as much as they are entities. In my own opinion, it is not my house that is haunted, it’s me. Therefore, before going to bed the witch ball was strung from my ceiling fan, as if having to move the voodoo doll on my nightstand to get to anything was not enough for me anymore. This morning I opened one window in every room of the house, an easy feat since I am currently residing in an apartment. Washed the front door followed by placing black salt above the frame, which I hope I remember to remove when I move, and washed the floor. Once some chamomile* was sprinkled on my ancestors candles, I lit them and then lit a cauldron of sage. It was pretty lit bro... no? Not funny? Anyway, once it was said and done I pulled a tarot card, from a deck I love and borrowed from Dominica, simply asking for whatever I need to know today. I understand better now then I have in the past what it is that I want. Now it is time to understand what I need to know on this day to remain in the present and less tense about what tomorrow brings. Witch Balls: “Witch Balls have been very popular since the 18th century. First in England, then in New England, but their actual origin is considered to be much older. For well over 3 centuries hollow glass spheres have been hung in windows to ward off witch's spells, evil spirits and ill fortune. Hanging these decorative glass balls in the window or on the porch is thought to tantalize mischievous spirits which may be threatening a home's tranquillity.” From, https://www.witchballs.com/witch-ball-folklore/ Mine is filled with glitter, to attract the shadow people. Shed snake skin, to symbolize getting rid of something you don't need anymore. The ashes from a voodoo priestess to ask for her protection, and to symbolize calling on those of the other side for help. Salt and a hand drawn sigil, again to trap and protect. Lastly a rusty nail, to anchor it all in the glass sphere (which may or may not be a clear glass christmas ornament from Michaels.) Shadow people: A humanoid, spiritual entity. I’ve seen them my whole life, and in recent years in my sleep. Learning that they haunt and feed off people, they feed of your spiritual disconnection. I am taking charge and fighting it, let’s see how this goes.
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There’s a new direction my life is taking, a road the universe has driven me personally to by stealing the wheel from my bare hands. She, they, it nearly took me off the road and straight into my feelings. Which is naked, I feel naked all the time, honestly. That’s it. I feel like I’ve bared my soul in a therapy session only to be left there unclothed and unraveled. Stereotypically, I am decorated with simple makeup, complimented by a bold lip and long acrylic nails. The kind that casts such a strong image that I receive messages of varying kinds from friends being reminded of me upon seeing them elsewhere. They bring me joy that way, to be thought of, but I don't know how to tell them that I no longer feel like that girl anymore. Physically, lately the makeup has barely been happening. Let alone the lipstick and do not get me started on my acrylic nails, they're gone too. Don't ask me how I typed with those, it’s harder without them!
If you were around for 2006, it would have been hard for you not to have been exposed to the film Marie Antoinette. Due to writing about the exposure I feel, the nakedness of my feelings, complicated by the change my life is going through I thinking about that film now. Reminded of seeing Antoinette transition from Austria to France, whether she wanted to not, stripped of her clothes and all else to move on with her new life has me relating. Hard. I suppose the word I am looking for is vulnerable. For the first time in many years I feel vulnerable and I cannot protect myself from the way it has crept into my heart. Protection from such a state will not come, not from my appearance, not from the car I drive or from myself. Like a young aristocrat moving to France I am, in many ways, starting over too. Not the first person to go through changes, history does not repeat itself but it has patterns. I am no future queen, but for a time I kinda felt like I ruled my own world. It sounds so materialistic, yes, but trust me when I say there is deep emotional ruin tied to all this unrest. Many of my accomplishments, milestones and memories come from the things I have been able to afford for myself. As the only child in my house growing up, never wanting for much and rarely going without, it has all been a great privilege. My family was there for me, especially financially, as a safety net when I needed them and it’s to my immense displeasure that I am potentially calling upon that again. Some of my so called “accomplishments” have been taken away from me, by fate, by chance and by total accidents beyond my control. They are gone, nonetheless, and I don't know how to feel about myself without them anymore. That may be my insecurities talking, that my materialism is manifesting in a way to overcompensate for the parts of my life I am insecure about. I’ve been asking the witches for help more than usual these last few weeks and I have not been told much that really already knew. Taking time for myself, meditating and focusing on my emotional healing. All things that rarely get accomplished, and have rarely occurred especially during this time. I was also carefully reminded that magic is not a replacement for sleep, water, and knowing when I am getting my period, I tend to mood drop the week before. However it snowed today, which brightens my mood a bit, I will say. I love not having, and not being able, to go anywhere. That sounded more sarcastic than I intended to, but I am being honest, I swear. So I wrote my spell, analyzed my intention and just decided to go with it all. If being stripped away and being left with the remains then so be it. If I am being buried then I will grow where I am planted. If I need to start over then so mote it be. I am revisiting using prompts again. Considering all my creative energy combined with my overall brain fog, it helps me focus my thoughts and find my center. February has been... challenging, so to say, while there is a strong refusal inside me to refer to my circumstances as bad. Change has been the word dubbed with 2019, so embracing these occurrences is my only option. If you followed my blogging in January through my 286 series than you understand all the lines I've sent into the universe. It feels like fishing in a way, casting lines unsure of what I might catch. Imagining the solitude of a lake or the seas brings me peace. Seeing myself alone in my search, because, through it all these last few weeks, I have become anti-social during the healing process. With my only wish being to sit in complete silence, and if we must sit together then please, sit quietly with me. Let me assure you, I do not want to talk about it.
Now that it has been said to not only you but nearly all of my loved ones maybe I can begin to move on. Yes, yes that is not how this works yet the primary reason for this is that I am not ready and I just do not want to. You should have seen my reaction over breakfast with Jon, six days after the incident, when it came to my attention that someone found out, and not from me. Scouts honor when I say I damn near lost it halfway through a bite of avocado toast. What was lost was about what little of my mind remained, a losing the battle with my emotions. No kidding, leaving the house later that day almost didn't even happen that is how badly I wanted to burrow from the world. We were less than a week from the accident so these intense reactions from me are to be expected, I guess. My friends just care about me and I am learning to not be so hard on them. It is a conscious choice of mine to not be vulnerable in front of them, yet who am I protecting? Them or me? Crying has not occurred as much as you might think; it has been much more like a Florida rain storm. Out of nowhere the clouds come over, the skies open up and here comes the rain in its glory ready to flood you. Chasing you, drowning you, and taking you out in such a way that you don't know when it will end. Yet 5 mins later it’s gone as fast as it came, and here you are ready to continue on. In some ways, maybe the storm would be easier to bare if I was a bit more emotional on the outside through all of this. For my friends, I mean, in their attempts to console me about it all because that is what they are supposed to do. Friends hold you when you cry then threaten to hurt anyone who would dare hurt you, and, somehow, help you continue on in the end. Friends somehow don't react poorly when you send angry texts over avocado toast in the name of anger and privacy. Moms, on that note, react as well as they can when you suddenly burst into tears before you sit down for dinner. It’s funny, kinda, how you realize you turned into the stereotypical trope of a person who doesn’t want to need people. Maybe it’s a cultural thing, or a personal thing. Maybe it’s hereditary, because when I reflect on my father’s mother dying I know I never saw him cry once. Not to us, or publicly. Perhaps it’s just that February has felt like the first drop of a roller coaster because it scared me. It kinda hurt, and I am not sure I could go through it again. My heart just dropping like that. Sinking to the bottom of that sea I am searching through. Lately, there’s not much I seem to have to show for myself or to be proud of but through all of this, I am grateful. I am alive, I am well, I am awake with the new day and I am breathing. Maybe not as emotionally well as we would like, but I certainly have my health. Writing and utilizing whatever metaphors needs to understand myself in this situation, in this moment. Today I left my bed, after crying myself to sleep last night, made myself some coffee while listening to music and I am proud to say I am simply continuing on. I am moving on, slowly. How did a witch get her hands on a pentacle necklace when none were sold near her? Plus, if she ordered anything her mom definitely would have seen it, and her mom didn’t know yet. Well, these were the days before she came out and, let me tell you, she has some pretty amazing friends, one by the name of Jordyn. Who got married last year and her wedding, held only after she eloped, was a high school reunion of sorts. Girls I haven't seen since her bachelorette party; before that, girls I hadn't seen since high school altogether. I have to remind myself that my friends are no longer the people asking me to sound like their moms on the phone so other moms think they have permission to be places they shouldn't be. Good times, man. Sometimes I miss being 16, sometimes. It was nice that we, mostly me they all kinda kept together, could go our own ways and still come back together for the important things.
It was a little thing, y’know? This was back in the day, I was texting Jordyn while she was on vacation in Hawaii with her family. Just so you know, she’s always been the traveler as long as I have known her, which has been since the eighth grade. For instance, this past weekend she was just in Washington state vacationing with the high school crew. Anyway, I don’t remember when this happened, I believe it was during our junior year of high school. We’re messaging each other when I told her I wish I could order a pentacle necklace, but I wasn't ready for my mom to find out. She understood where I was coming from and that seemed like the end of that, seemed like it. You can imagine my shock when she came back to school from her trip, that I am still jealous of, and handed me a small box with tiny pentacle. Jordyn says, “The stone in it is amethyst, it said it was for the powerful, that’s why I picked it for you.” Take a moment with me to just fully understand how amazing and powerful that is for someone to do for you. She was pretty proud seeing me wear that around school, stating to our friends “Yeah, I bought that for her,” and I just smiled. How could I not? My friends just embraced me, and I embraced that generous act with them. Cut to our friend Kim getting her license first. Which was to no one’s surprise considering she nearly graduated high school early with how much work she got done. I believe it was Jordyn’s idea to have Kim drive us out to the neighboring county, Frederick, to take me a metaphysical store. I find this funny now because I didn't particularly care for Frederick, but now all my witch friends live there and I am dying to move there this year. So they both rolled up to my condo building, picked me up when Jordyn goes, “Wow, a Christian, an atheist and a witch are traveling a witchy store.” she paused “I love having diverse friends!” Me too, my friend, me too. I didn't say much on that trip. To be honest, I was in a shock that this was happening to me at all. I now realize that this must have occurred after I took my SAT, the second time. Saying so because I distinctly remember Jordyn buying a pink candle to place and light in her sisters room. Pink candles are associated with emotional healing, caring and love; you see, her sister had already passed away by this point. Only a handful of candles left with me that day, considering not much money was in my bank account and overwhelmed doesn't begin to cover how I felt to be in that store. I did, however, leave with a small ounce of hope that a little pink candle might somehow bring healing to my friend. It’s a growing up moment, one day I take my SAT and everything is fine. By the second time I am taking it, it’s while figuring out how fast I can get to the funeral service when I am done. You see, it was the three of us; me, Jordyn and Kim. Somehow I was allowed to go to Red Robin and grab food with them the night before my SAT. My logic was probably that a relaxing night is necessary, my mother believed it and there I went. We were just sitting there, at our table and I swear to you I didn’t know. News like that shouldn’t miss you, and it did, it went right by me in the halls of school. Passed by me like notes or texts during class. I never got the message, not until that night and it’s still makes me nervous to think how a question like that, leaving my lips, must have felt to Jordyn upon hearing it. I see her take her phone out, its a photo of her and her sister in the hospital together, and I am reminded to say ,“How is she feeling?” It’s never good, but good to ask. That’s what you are supposed to do. right? Well, Jordyn’s shock is clear enough but she never looks up at me. Her eyes are glued to her phone as she shuts it and shoves it back in her bag barely auditing, “My sister, she died.” Which is barely heard over the people, the music and the intense ringing in my ears. I remember glaring at Kim who looked horrified and mouthed silently that she thought I knew. A sight I know will never forget between the two of them, but I honestly don't remember much after learning the funeral was the next day. After my, seemed to be cursed, SAT. I know I was home later, crying probably to my mom who was concerned now if I would make it to that damned test at all. She tried to help me come up with something we could send last minute; I wasn't a fan of food or flowers. However, my mom said something brilliant my aunt does through the Arbor Day Foundation. Yes, the foundation and holiday that encourages you to plant trees. I didn't know then that you can have trees planted in people’s memories in protected lands so they will live forever. This is now my regular go to, and I can’t imagine my grieving process without it. So there I was nearly running out of whatever school it was, into my moms car, dressed up more than I should have been to take a standardized exam. I won't go into more detail about the services, except Jordyn’s surprised expression over seeing me amongst everyone, her elation upon opening the envelope dictating the trees we planted, and her soft voice when she said “It’s perfect.” Late last April I got another text from Jordyn, roughly two weeks after her wedding ceremony. It seems like a lot of good things happen between us over text. She explained to me that her mom was happy I was going to the affair. Jordyn was rightfully confused by that, considering I never interacted with her parents as they were usually busy with family and her sister. At the time It had been a little over 7 years since Rhiann died, just as many years as she was alive when Jordyn told me her mom said, “Maria planted the trees in Rhiann’s honor, and that means a lot to me.” Yes, I promptly bursted into tears upon reading that, it is one of the greatest honors that I carry. Maybe it is just the witch in me, maybe it’s just the human being, just maybe we are everything we are because of our ancestors. We are nothing without them, we are nothing except what we leave for them when we are gone, and we are nothing when we do not continue to speak their names. I do not have biological siblings, I do not know what the bond feels like through blood but I know I witnessed something really beautiful between Jordyn and her baby sister, Rhiann. I feel it when she says her name. I feel it when she looks at the color pink or purple. I feel it when she talks about her video games. When the veil thins through the harvest season, I feel her then, too. Reminded that maybe Jordyn doesn’t need me like she did on that trip out to Frederick, maybe it wasn't as much for me as it was for her. That she does need to see me every day like back in high school, but reminding me to check in because that’s what friends do. It’s the sisterhood of it. Nothing brought me greater joy as a teenager than listening to “I’m Not Okay” by My Chemical Romance. A band I started listening to by accident one night at a sleeper over when I was 12. I believed my life had peaked already and that I wouldn't live to see 16, so there I was at a friends house for probably the 100th night that year. I was dramatic, depressed, and more importantly, I was wrong.
To this day I could walk to her house blind folded and up the stairs to her pink walled bedroom lined with teddy bears. A dishonest reflection of my dark and moody friend, a place i haven't been to in 10 years. It was a late hour, I was exhausted and in a weird mood, as a joke to lighten the atmosphere she showed me the music video for “Welcome to The Black Parade.” She assumed it would be funny because I was girly, bubbly and wickedly naive. I’d never heard of the band My Chemical Romance, and I’d probably hate it. I loved it. Being a bubbly person is a bit of a happy prison, I had a difficult time being believed for how down I was feeling. A difficult thing to communicate when you're 13, when middle school is a nightmare enough and you can't tell people Hey I would rather die than go to english class, but its cool, i’ll just sit here why you wonder why I never do my homework. So instead of talking, I did some listening. Very loudly, in my headphones, in my room and in my head. During a time when I didn't understand what mental illness was, when I didn't know what spirituality was, and when I didn't know who I was. It was comforting to know other people were not okay either. So in the sprit of not lying to myself anymore, and knowing who I am now as a healthy adult I have to say I finally came clean to my coworkers about who I am. To be fair, my boss apparently has known for years that I practiced witchcraft and made the responsible choice than to decide it wasn't her business to discuss it at work, and behind my back. On the downside, it also explains the way my last store manager treated me but hindsight is always 20/20. It’s a weight lifted off me when I go to work now, I knew I was holding my breath for years and decided it was just better to drown. The less people know about you, the less they can hold against you. Yet, when someone who has known you through 3+ retail holiday seasons, still likes you and says genuinely “you aren’t telling us something, and for whatever reason you don't trust anyone to know,” then reassures you that you are cared for... I mean, at some point I need to breathe. Look at that, no drowning. Funny how that happens. Sure, people have questions but I have answers, insight, stories. My other coworker read my blog, came to work and said, “at work your MJ... but on there your Maria. You are like a whole other person.” That kinda says it all, huh? If I could go back and tell myself anything I think it would be it’s okay to be vulnerable, its ok to be honest and its ok to ask questions. Nothing, and I mean nothing brings me great joy than listening to “I’m Not Okay,” by My Chemical Romance now and knowing that I am, okay. “For a girl who didn't want to be Irish, you sure have embraced it,” my mother says and it is an honest reminder that yes, I very much felt that way.
I honor my ancestors because I still remember the moment I disappointed them most. I was on vacation with all my friends and we went to Toronto, Canada. While sharing a lovely Airbnb with an amazing view, to which I woke up to every morning next to Jon, and one morning to an email confirming that my Ancestry DNA results were in. I was never more disappointed. I was, indeed, a little more than half irish, a bit English, and a bit Italian. I was 100% annoyed because if you have ever looked at me you'd know I am certainly not the spitting image of what you may think an Irish girl looks like. Nonetheless, as my friends and I gathered in the living to start our day, I started a pot of coffee. My usual routine every morning; something I also noticed I do when I am feeling anxious. So, with a mug in one hand, and my phone in the other I rattled off my results. “I’m not surprised.” I say, “I was hoping to find something I didn’t know I had.” What I meant to say was, “I was hoping for something from a region of darker skinned people, not ivory beauties.” What my friend said was, “I didn’t know you were so Irish, you never mentioned it before.” Taking a good look at her I can tell she’s happy but confused. You’ve never mentioned it but you aren't surprised either, so which is it? What are you hiding? I look at her again. She’s Vietnamese, vocal about her Viet-American culture, and speaks her language. I am mixed, I look mixed, I have never known the feeling of connecting with single culture and its practices. It is an excuse but it is years of hearing the phrase “Black Irish” and it is years of feeling like I do not look the way I should. It is years of wanting blonde hair, lighter skin, hating the hair on my arms and wanting green eyes like my mom. Now to be fair, Black Irish is a term largely used in the U.S. and with the Irish being one of the largest immigrant groups to this country, a lot of phrases got thrown around to identify the culture. I still remember as a teenager my best friend playfully joking that she’d call me and then boyfriend ‘Mick’ (Maria + Nick). She didn't know that term was derogatory and he didn't take it super well. Black Irish overall is not intentional hurtful, but I intentionally chose to be hurt by it. Returning from Canada, I tried to be excited. Yet, I found myself falling back into my usual silence over my ancestry. While listening to me complain, my mother studied the look of sadness on my face. So she moved next to me on the couch, took another look at my DNA results, and said, “Look at what you practice, look at what you say called to you, and this was before you knew exactly what you were.” I mentally took a step back. “Look a the symbolism the raven and the crow have in your life, look at its ties the the Celtic pantheon.” I knew this, and yet... I never thought about it. My lullaby was Black Bird by the Beatles, I learned my native American zodiac sign is the raven/crow, and discovered a few years ago who The Morrigan is. Who, by the way, as Celtic goddesses may take the form of a raven depending on the source material. I didn't know who I was lying to more, me... or you? It’s November now, the leaves changed late this year and this year November feels different. I think it]s because of how I started it, as I discussed previously, the Dumb Supper was remarkable. Not unusually, I am neglecting to take down the Halloween decorations. The glow of October is over, and this witch is turning her wheel towards the winter holiday. Yes, this “witch.” I say this because a) I am one and b) it never occurred to me to specifically address the specifics of what I am or do. Recently I have been asked if I am a witch or if I am Wiccan, as well as if I consider ‘witch’ to be offensive, or if ‘Wiccan’ is offensive either. I don't speak on every witches behalf but let me, to the best of my ability, explain. I began with Wicca, it was straight forward and easy to follow. Which is necessary when you're young and trying to find your way. I don’t find it offensive at all to be called such, but I would have to agree with a phrase I heard a while ago calling Wicca “witchcraft light.” It was a great starting point, and when I was ready I jumped into other practices that dug deeper into what I was looking for. You may hear people call me Wiccan and chances are they knew me when I first converted out of Catholicism. I also thought I made it clear I am indeed a witch. However, I realize from years of using ‘Pagan*’ to describe myself to people I wasn't out to as a witch made it confusing once I was. So yes to all, I am pagan and the witchcraft I practice falls underneath that umbrella. I am a witch through and through. Through the last few years I have not followed a particular culture or its traditions. I have at times been called to serve different gods of different cultures. That happens, it was fulfilling, but it was not the long term service I was looking for. Until now. Learning my magic comes through my great grandmother’s line was an eye opener. Also, being told to study Celtic witchcraft because of such has been the answer I have been looking for. So, for a girl like me who never wanted to be an olive skinned Irish girl sure has learned to embrace it. Through DNA, intervention from mothers and ancestors alike, I am here now and have a ways to go. Love and Light, MJ Pagan: To hold beliefs outside the main world religions. To refer to people who worship the earth and follow cultural traditions predating christianity. I am unable To remember, what it is About November. Not as lovely, As October’s dying leaves, Not as lively. Dimmer than Summer, September is a bright gold, November is cold. The sky, it’s grey It doesn't shine or shimmer, Maybe now is better. Looking up right now, Have the leaves always been this? I just noticed, now. On the eve of this, November 1st, I wonder Is it time to know. If August is the Sunday of Summer than November, to me, is a Tuesday. Not the middle of the week, not as horrible as Monday, but in-between what was and what is to be. This year I attended a *Dumb Supper, or rather a dinner with your ancestors. November 1st, for the first time, felt like a Friday night rather than a Tuesday morning.
This night was a culmination of events I had attended throughout October. I want to say this night had been a great ending to this season of harvest, remembrance and worship. Yet it didn't feel that way at all, not one bit. Us, the witches, we gathered again in the dark, in company of our ancestors and in the light of the candles we lit for them. Both the back door and front open, as a cool autumn breeze came through. We could only hear the wind, the trees and the wind chimes (as well as a few stray neighbors but that doesn't sound as poetic). I am not saying this night was perfect, it is not a strong enough word. I have been waiting for a purpose, a message of sorts. I have been waiting for an ancestor to step forward, guide me. While my friends seem to have practical concerns around weddings and life at large. I am beginning a spiritual journey. Ah, millennial worries. I felt inspired to write to a letter to a specific ancestor. One that I addressed previously as someone I’d like just one more moment with, one more dinner, one more weekend. I guess last night I got my wish, without realizing it at all. That ancestor was my great grandmother, *Clara Estelle Detorie (nee. Chase). It was funny in a way, the way you laugh after you cry. That kind of silly disbelief, that feeling of relief. It felt like that. It was dinner in reverse, dessert, then supper and then divination. My great grandmother came through second; I suppose in her polite sensibilities it would have been rude to come through first. I mean, this was my first Dumb Supper after all, we take turns. However, when those *dowsing rods turned promptly towards me when the first ancestor allowed mine to step forward there was a firm self assuredness about it. One felt by every intuitive women at the table. I could only laugh, you know. In the way when you know you were right, and it is such a relief. I could only cry when I asked if she knew me in her old age, her sickness and before her death. Really, knew me. Yes, to all; to me and to being well now. I laughed when the others said she doesn't just say “yes” she says “fine” because it’s hilarious, and true. I never told them that, but it’s true. “She’s in control,” with her hands on everything, nothing has changed. A firm and measured “yes” again, when I asked if my magic comes through her line. The Celtic line, if that is a path I should be following. “Yes.” Steady as a heartbeat. While the rods may sway swiftly, or slowly with anyone’s communications, my grandmother’s was precise and even. A temperament I am familiar with before, but more so after, she died. My grandma, my grammy’s daughter, told me as a child that, “We never say ‘she’ or ‘her’ you refer to people by their names.” we learned that from “my mother.” I commented recently to my grandma that I tell people it’s because of her that I have good posture. She tells me I could have had it worse, her mother would hit her between the shoulder blades. My eyes went wide, but hey, “it worked.” It’s true, all of it. Also true, were instructions I received. It’s hard to say now, not because I don't know what they are, but the appropriateness of mentioning it on this forum. I know what grammy wants me to do, it’s between me, her and the witches at the table. What surprises me most, is shockingly not the conversation between me and my great grandmother. It was the sentence I wrote for the piece I published on Samhain morning. I didn’t realize I wanted another moment with Clara when I suddenly wrote it. I know now for all the times I asked for a guide, for a sign, for a purpose... I know now why I didn't get them, not yet. I wasn't ready. I wanted to be but I wasn't. The time now is good, I can feel it. Age 23 I was in a wheel, I was turning, I was moving, but in what direction? Age 24 I wanted stories, I felt it deeply that what is life if you don't live it. Now, at 25, I feel like I grew up a bit, in a really good way, for the first time I feel more complete than before. I completed myself more than I have before. I’ve asked and I have not always received. I have asked and I have received but then been regretful about my ungratefulness. So I have since consistently counted my gratitudes, even on the days I didn't want to. I went back in my memories, even on the days I didn't want to. I miss them always, I don't always want to. I asked, unexpectedly, for one more dinner. I recognized how lucky I am to have known any of my great grandparents let alone three. I didn't know until the night before that I was attending the supper, let alone in the four days before I published my last piece. I waited, I worked, and I received. Did I get what I wanted? Was it worth it? “Yes,” I say, confidently. Love and Light, MJ Dowsing Rods: A divination tool, two metal rods held loosely in each hand as to allow each to move accordingly. In this case, to allow us to ask questions and receive answers from our dearly departed. Dumb Supper: A dinner with the dead held on, or in this case the day after, Samhain. Allowing us to celebrate, honor and communicate with our ancestors at the time of the year we believe it is most important, and easiest. Clara ‘Clay’ Estelle Detorie (nee. Chase): A tough, proper, Irish/English woman. A wife, a mother, a daughter. With two daughters of her own, who had two granddaughters, and one great granddaughter. Who married into an italian family and made sure her voice was heard, who looked me in the eye in her old age and made sure I knew it and felt it. I did, I still do. I love you. I decided this piece was to be named Wish You Were Here before I finished the last one I wrote. As I usually do, its named after a song.
How I decide on the title usually comes from whatever album or playlist I am currently listening to, its not too deep nor too complicated. Right now, I am listening to my playlist Coffee and Chill on Spotify, a set of songs carefully put together so I have a soundtrack to work to. Initially, this playlist began as something to listen to with Jon while we occasionally cooked together. The title, taken from a deep song, would accurately name a piece that would dig a bit deeper into my practice. About six feet deeper, if you will. I hit pause briefly on my music to eavesdrop on a woman seemingly have a breakdown over the trash can in Starbucks right next to me. Apparently 10:45 on a Thursday morning is the time to dig out the contents of your purse and mail while aggressively mumbling to yourself. I take my notes, peruse my playlist for an appropriate title name, and choose the classic Pink Floyd song. Smiling softly I remember watching friends perform this song in a coffee shop one town over back in high school, Charlie sang this exceptionally well. Back in May, my mom and I discussed who we believed our spiritual DJ was. (You can read about this in Entry Six: Wildflowers.) I brought this up again recently telling her my, “(great) Grandma Feeney was mine, I knew she communicated with me when I shuffled songs on my iPod.” I could tell based on the song title or the artist. This fact is based on Grandma Feeney’s undying love for Frank Sinatra, and her undying dislike of his last wife (a less relevant fact but I still find it hilarious). I have told people that your loved ones will communicate with you in ways you will best understand. I was 14 when she died, I was never without my music and my headphones were nearly glued to my ears, Needless to say, I never spoke about that out loud before. Some of my friends didn't know their grandparents, let alone their great grandparents. How do you talk about that pain, as well as you thinking your dead ancestors shuffle music to let you know they are there? About a year or two ago, I thought creating an altar to my great grandparents would be a good tool to channel some of that connection I still seemed to have. I tried to keep ignoring it, as teenagers often do, but you can only receive so many messages from dead people when you're asleep before you know something needs to be done. Im not kidding. I even went to a friend, who has been practicing witchcraft much longer than me, to ask for advice. She simply said, “Well, when they know you can hear them, they tend to keep coming.” Maybe my doorbell should just ring, “They’re heeeeere.” I can only describe it as a knocking honestly, some strike their knuckles harder than others. Some communicate very clearly, usually along the lines of someone is sick or someone is upset. I can sincerely tell you, I knew neither of these people were sick, or upset. Neither occurrence prepared me for the week before my cousin Alex’s funeral. Whom I had never met, and yet I was consumed by what I needed to wear to the service. Ask Jon, I was going on behalf of my side of the family and I was worked up with my attire. I wanted new crystals, a new black hat, a new anything because I was so certain I wouldn't look right. Now remember, this cousin is the Roman Catholic side of my family. My italian relatives, who are loving and loud. A contradiction to my side where we don't delve deep into emotion and I am routinely instructed to be careful to not discuss family gossip going back several decades. We are... the Irish Catholic side. At the time, my grandmother bought me a necklace from an irish jewelry catalog. It’s a cat with a celtic knot with an amethyst crystal inside, the timing is remarkable. I don’t, usually, make a habit of showing up to Catholic masses looking like a member of American Horror Story: Coven but I did that day. I spent the day with relatives I rarely see, but just the year before for another funeral. I spent the day reminiscing, and before I left I was stopped by Alex’s sister. She walks me to the door and says, “He would have loved this.,” Gestures to my outfit, “He studied Wicca in college, he was Catholic ,but loved what you’re clearly all about.” I was stunned, my week of searching was made so clear. It was Alex trying to communicate with me in the best way I would understand, through my self expression, through my clothes. She adds, “He even named his dog Isis, for the goddess.” The month before, I was meditating. Some messages, like I said are less clear. That time I had a vision of Isis lifting me up and protecting me. At the time this was unclear because I did not worship Isis. Correct, I don’t worship Isis. With these things in mind, with this piece still unwritten I hit play again. Wish You Were Here surprisingly starts, I'm about 20 mins into a five hour long playlist. My Grandma Feeney died in late October, I spend late summer every year wishing she was here. Maybe she wishes I was there too. I used to think she didn't send messages anymore, “Maybe,” I thought, “I don’t need them like I used to.” Message received. Love and Light, MJ Just a few Halloweens ago, a few Samhains ago I should say, I felt alone.
As any good story in my life starts, it was October. My own godmother’s birthday is on the 31st, she’s the motherly older sister type. Passionate, wise from years of first hand experiences and I do not consider it a coincidence of circumstances that she, my mother’s sister, is my guardian. The year was 2015. My mom and I, just came back from a long weekend in Salem, Massachusetts and I decided it was time to re-dedicate myself to my practice. It sounds odd, I know. A witch goes to Salem, the witch trial capital of America, and throws herself back into witchcraft. Yet, when I saw so many other people in the throws of their craft I felt like Ariel in The Little Mermaid, “I wanna be where the people are.” As I discussed in a previous post, I found myself for a time disheartened and disconnected from myself, my beliefs too. This takes place somewhere between then and now. I remember standing in my living room, a year later in 2016. Looking out the window it was a bright, grey autumn sky as the trees were bending softly to the wind, their colors changing. I had been working slowly on feeling connected again, I knew what was meant for me was beyond my comfort zone, beyond what I was used to. The energy was in the air, a mixture of destiny, a mixture of your ancestors, and a mixture of a moment you know is coming. I received a message, a physical message not a spiritual one, from an old friend. A witch with whom I had a falling out with but recently made amends. We don’t talk much, but it was a great burden lifted to no longer be fighting. She invited me to a Samhain (sow-en) ritual, at a local Unitarian Church where many pagan people and witches gather together. I had nothing to lose. Samhain is the highest holiday in Pagan and witch culture. We believe the veil between us and our ancestors thins up to October 31st, where it is thinnest. I feel about Samhain the way many people may feel about New Year’s Eve; the harvest is over, the celebrating is done, the earth is dying, and it is time to start over again. The last two years I have spent the first of August through September, the harvest season, practicing my daily gratitudes. It is a ritual that has brought me great insight into my life, and prepared for the season of drawing my ancestors closer to me. Remembering who I am, where I am, and how I am in this moments allows me to be grateful for the thousands of people who allowed this moment to happen through their love. I’ve spoken about my relationship with death in some other posts, but it may be worth repeating. I lost my great grandmother 11 years ago today. It’s October 27th, I’m drinking my coffee and listening to Frank Sinatra. I ask my mom over lunch, “Who would you bring back, have a drink with, or to just talk to one more time?” I ask myself this a lot; if I knew I had one more day, one more weekend or one more meal. What would I say, what would I do? She says my great-grandfather on her mother’s side. I said his wife, who I arguably had the least amount of time with due to illness in her later years. Whose presence I feel whenever I feel stubborn or passionate about something, whose presence I feel when I imagine the layout of their home. I routinely think about what it looked like, I list in my head the furniture and where it went. Where the clock was on the wall, where the knick knacks laid on the mantel, the small bible on the simple wooden bookcase at the top of the stairs. I don't know what I would say, but I know that. I know that it’s Saturday, October 27th. I am home this evening getting ready for a party at a house where I was just 4 nights earlier. Where I stood in a kitchen of a new friends home, getting ready to practice a combination of a full moon and Samhain ritual where we walk beneath the full moon carrying our ancestors with us. I am in awe, where just a few years earlier I was alone, unsure of where my path was taking me. I now walk with many together in unison. Alone, 3 years earlier, I took a chance and traveled to an inclusive community for a a pagan Halloween ritual in the middle of a rural community down a dark, barely lit highway. Halls pitch black, lit with tea light candles and cloaked figures I didn't know, it was just what you may be imagining. As shocking as it was for a solitary practitioner to show up to an event like this, it was everything I could have ever needed. It healed a part of me I didn't know was broken. It’s 2017 now, I am having dinner with a girl I met through said community. We’re the same age, we’re both witches, we are both into books and queer issues. We don't talk after this for another year due to the shock of having someone just like ourselves and not knowing how to embrace said blessing. Neither of us had ever had someone like ourselves before. Today, she’s now my best friend who has appointed herself as my future maid of honor (no, I a not engaged but she won't allow me to not have a bridal party.) Now, I am surrounded by many more witches than I can count, but many I can count on. We celebrate together, we party and joke together. Now, I feel more myself that I have ever felt before. Now, Samhain is tonight, and I thank the ancestors for this moment, for it is already gone as are they. Never from my heart or memory. Love and Light, MJ PS: A special thanks to Michelle, Ashley, and Dominica. A special thanks to Jon. and, a very special thanks to my Aunts, Sister Winifred and Sister Virginia. Who taught me and showed me what true discipline and dedication is. What is means to love yourself, love your faith and love your god(s). I could not have gone through this without any of you. My freshman year in high school, the Philadelphia Phillies won the World Series. That same year, in just a couple weeks, President Obama was elected into office. Being 15 then that was all I knew; you wait, and your baseball team finally wins the World Series, again. You wait, you vote, and the first black president is elected into office. You wait, and you finally begin high school. Everything in your life and academic career was building to that year, did you know it yet?
I knew, kinda. Being born the night the Phillies won the pennant on October 13th, 1993. A fact I enjoyed telling people as a kid, because anyone can be a fan, but did you give birth to your only child the night your team would go to the World Series? Besides the date of my birth, I found it interesting what a nurse told my mother that night, Stating, “You should name her Destiny, because she was obviously meant to be here.” I don’t believe she was referring to baseball, but life all together. I remember as a child, the night before they tore Veterans Stadium down was spent with me camping out in front of my TV and sleeping on the floor to ensure I wouldn't miss it. I overslept, but thats why they rerun the coverage. Let me add that the new stadium is, not exactly new anymore but will always be new to me, gorgeous and totally necessary. Does anyone, besides me, remember Flag Man? I have known a lot of things in my life. Has it been my destiny? It wouldn't be presumptuous of me to say yes, and it would be ignorant of my practice to say no. Over time, it has been things I can’t explain, and things I can. My boyfriend is used to it by now, receiving texts from me stating, “I can’t exactly explain this but just go with it.” I am right, almost all of the the time. My mother and I recently went to a Phillies game, we don't get up to Philly together much anymore. This time it was absolutely necessary. They were honoring the 2008 World Series team, bringing back the 1980 team and remembering Roy Halladay. Side note, as I approach 25 this was a reminder that I started high school 10 years ago. “I didn't know,” I say to my mom “I didn't know how lucky I was to witness this team, all the players who I grew up watching. How they got to be my childhood team.” The reminiscing is hard at this point. I remember walking into my mom’s room just in time for her to scream “YES” to Jim Thome’s 400th home run, the summer before I was in the fourth grade. I remember sitting in the stands behind left field in middle school, watching Pat Burrell, even recalling what advertisements hung above us (it was Bud Light, in case anyone was curious). I remember, the season after the World Series win, taking the elevator to the Hall of Fame club seats, realizing sadly, that Harry Kalas would not be there to wave to the crowd of Phans anymore. Yet through it all, Jimmy Rollins was always there in short stop. On screen, a camera pans to the crowd showing a young girl, about 9 or 10 years old. She’s cute, decked out in her Phillies gear on a hot, humid, summer day. Her parents hold her up as she reaches her home made sign in the air, it says “Born on Parade Day, 2008!” I laugh, I feel as if we are a very small exclusive club. My mom smiles, at my comments about the team. She says, “The stars just align to make something like that happen.” It’s like destiny. |