prayer, tide of the dead, for the loss of an elder witch

It is October again & right at the end

The magic in this.  All I can think.  the million different days i’ve sat right here, right at season’s end.  Every bit of every magic I’ve ever meant falling as clean as a pocketful of what I harvested into summer solstice sea salt, such is my home to me.  and a mermaid tear tossed in.

should you know what that EVEN IS.  the voice of a million middle schoolers in my head thinking of how many i’ve known as i write those words, as singysongy as a million of them, too. how many of them have i known, how many i currently do know, i think of jotto, who taught me the language of treasures from an outatlantic back gem chest.

she taught me the charm.

I keep traditions.  A pagan one and the opposite of it a Catholic one walks the ways and tides of the Saints certain they move bc the heart can be Marian led.  Which is Sophia for those who keeping score.  Saints who are gods other than the one God that, have no doubts, you idoLize. I know about the up downs of Nature, and the Church.  Both.  I know about the middle line

I believe in the changing Tide

Catholics have a male god and my paganism all women, Catholic is of sky and underground and the other earthbound, with room for All Views

I think of Maggie, who was ALL for beach city.  for the pirate trade hahahahhaah, fuck i laugh to myself as i write this, i think of a million different laughs w mag glossy as a outback clearwater green patch path, full of miracle gemstones and a million different kids.

I want to tell him,

and the other one, and the one after that, and a whole ladder of them, male rage it is male rage at the heart of patriarchal blame. of the old world matter. of which our story wrote.  it is the male heart, NOT THE Heart of the Feminine, that is broke

Do your work, feel your feelings, fix yourself, feel your rage, let them heal, let them fix, let them talk.  I wipe eyes.  Laugh and show people how close the two type tears.  I talk to Papa on a long drive north, the couple times for me of him come back: those long ass drives out west w him and those full resuscitations,

That one bug stomping the up north grower how after that under that white peak moon up at playground on top of hill–by then that was the second or third time already  (you have to think, i was living on the road then, had just crashed my car and had thankfully for the little commune and my cosmic murk fam been brought back to life more than one time by all of them being homeless and having to take my bags, and just go)  Papa and I learned to honor the giving each other back to breath. How to help give breath when and where in some places my own fuckn own bones don’t even have any meat left

Papa is good and listens and, now having a practice behind him, tells me of gold and breath work, and how men heal.  He is good for me to talk to about you.

Who I want to take to Oregon, to Seattle.  To back porch places make me smile. To back alley corner places and the naked spots w hippies in the woods.  To my first homes when first i left the south

I know a good fuckn few

oh and also  HA! ( if only it were southern they stuck us w Mason-Dixon instead, a crossroads place, a tradewinds w i nnnn d)

At work I tend what that has taught me the good earth medicine of in-between…when someone else finally gets what I get by this, and does magic from it, this is how I know I am home.  There is too much to arrive to and much to much to tend.  I drive in the Jersey woods a long time through Delaware too to meet Kate we sing beans and also, make an apple-hearted blend.  The results shake out violence, when I look at my own self through the shocked socked eye of my own best friend, i am way past having started throwing punches again.  I am embarrassed of myself for her and remind myself, that’s why I’m to therapy again.

Don’t let any therapist tell you they’re any good if they ain’t at some point seen their own!

Anyway.

~

On my alter sits a typewriter from the hills of MD, emerald gold
it is on the other side and catches all the Catskill song!

and i have stood in ditches there, pants ratted to my knees, and listened to the creek who sings graffiti writ underbridge

it was always this way,

since i was Kid. & the message, always the same.  b u r r r n this into your brain she tells me,

and on the her Alter, the Pirate sings…

…Her who is the second true crone i ever met, (first prayer to the heart of the crone ellie orr who saved me and the other, false-i crone molly who was maiden, gave pure milk)

(i revere women/ fuck who don’t)

second to mags, second for whom i sing
straight to your heart
it is day of the dead
& whoda ever thought you’d leave me so
quick as you did.  nothing could kill me like last yr
tho, so.  i am grateful for karen who claimed you
& equally for don who you (like gretchn) help me see

i hope i am clear with this when i give my thanks.

everything else is just song & dust, right? when you’re tickets up, it is~

maggies soul card

soul card made by mags, on some well past day of the dead

~

thanks Mag, for this 😉

I wish i coulda known you in your best of days in the S U N

 

 

The gushy line of beach mud

Enjoy it out there he says to me as he’s slipping on his shoes after our session.  Last day of Indian Summer he continues, voice trailing head moving his eyes already towards the door where we both can see that smacking blue sky clarity-light.  His enthusiastic Santa Claus jolliness sits on the air between us.  I am proud of him.  We’ve been sitting together for 18 months now in spiritual and recovery mentorship.  Our weekly conversations edge from the practical always into the introspective.  Yes, I think.  He’s right.  Last year this week I was on the beach sweating in 80 degree heat, then that Nor’easter came through and the rain broke the temperature and it was never hot like that again in 2018.

Tomorrow it will rain, and the heat will wash away.  He and I say our goodbyes and this message from him sinks into my body.  Instead of leaving my office and taking my computer business to the coffee shop, I head into town and loose my shoes in my car, walking side streets then the boards on my bare feet til I hit the beach. Then the gushy line of beach mud from 4th street to the Pier.  It is not a long walk, but the low tide sand bars are there and have made current pools of crystal teal changing into and from opaque blues and sea foam.  My spirit gives that breathy sigh that only the ocean can ever provide.

I think about the first short story I ever wrote.  I was away on scholarship at the fancy writing school, where (and when, how) my Destiny and Delmarva collided.  It was 21 years ago, half my life.  Probably right now 21 years ago:  I remember feeling dancy and angsty, October all through my soul.  It was the first time I ever fell in love with a river and dusk.  That story was called Pier One and it was about Beach City.  I wasn’t clean yet–in fact, for all I knew in October 1998 wine drunk each night and thinking about once more the harmlessness of maybe smoking weed again–I had no idea any of that would ever come.  Pier One looked in to the future though and predicted all of the deaths, including Kev, that in two short years would begin.

There was a shimmer of gold I sawfelt running into me from the aqua to blue to foam pools today.  I didn’t walk all the way to underneath the pier, just opened my spirit and let the coast roll flow.

I hope I can remember that, come the rain.