No cards for Bill. . .

People are very quick to comment on events. I have had to take the time to absorb my own reactions and process them. It’s hard to see that lights are on in the middle of the day. Not enough contrast. You have to wait for dusk to sink in and show you what the bright of day has hidden from you.

Cosby has been found guilty. There have been tweets wishing him good-bye ( probably not in the kindest manner. . . and rightfully so, I guess. ) I know he was not my attacker, but there were very strong emotional responses that pulled at my own wounds. I was completely expecting to hear the verdict as not guilty. I expected him to walk with a gloating smirk on his face thinking he was still America’s favorite Dad.

I remember holding my breath as I walked into the break room where the news was breaking. I even paused to watch as they were announcing there was going to be a verdict. I had my cigarette and tried to erase faces from my mind with inane smoke pad talk. . . trust me, inane conversation littered with laughter is very therapeutic. I walked back into the break room ten minutes later to see in bold print: “Cosby guilty on three counts.” I don’t know what I expected to feel. What I did feel was an overwhelming sense of relief. Finally, a man in power has been held accountable for his disgusting behavior. Finally, someone has told this man that he doesn’t get to get away with his crimes, yes crimes, and leave a trail of trauma, injury, and insult without payment for those deeds. Yes, this is just one of them. There are many. Many of whose survivors remain silent due to fear of reprisal, insult, and potentially physical harm or death.

I can guess why society blames the survivor. It’s so much easier to think the person who is reporting a heinous deed is lying, crazy, vengeful, mentally unstable etc. rather than think that the person being reported is a monster. No one wants to think that someone the person they care about and trust is a monster hiding in human skin. No one want to think that their judgement is faulty to an extreme.

Well here’s the thing: the deception of other people is not your fault or a reflection, in any way, on you. Yes, most people who commit these sorts of crimes are counting on their public face and appearance to mislead you and to soak in their words as gospel truth. They can indeed be very manipulative as to create a narrative and privately prod their target into public behavior that seems to validate their narrative. What you don’t see is why you don’t get it and at some point society is just going to have to admit to itself that it is not all-seeing or knowing. That maybe, just maybe, there is more there than what meets the eye and that maybe, what meets the eye is all an illusion.

This is why I like the cards. They don’t lie, they don’t beat around bushes, they don’t try to pretty things up, or create ” spin.” They just paint the picture and let you decide what to do about what they say. My cards don’t let me down. I on occasion have thought I had misinterpreted the cards or thought that it couldn’t possible be as bad as all that, but that wasn’t the cards’ doing. It was mine.  So, when people tell me ‘things,’ I listen and let the cards tell me what direction the wind is blowing. I am more likely to hear the truth there than any grapevine investigation.

OK, you’re right, cards are not admissible in court. Don’t care. I don’t work with courts. Hello . . . ? Witch. As you have probably guessed. . . nope. No cards for Bill’s verdict. I sure a HEXES checked out whether he did it or not though.

I understand the reaction of Cosby’s survivors. They have been traumatized repeatedly, first by Bill and then again by public jury and law enforcement circuses, then again through the actual court process. It’s not over for them. There will always be so much more running around in their minds. That sort of thing just never completely goes away. I am glad that there is a sense of closure and vindication for them. It gives me hope that maybe there is finally a glimmering of understanding in the minds of the people who are trying such cases and maybe. . . just maybe the witches can take a break and breathe for a moment.

     I said a moment. . .



From across the river. . .

It feels so far away, but it really is not too long ago, when I began to piece things together that lead me to believe that you need to be just as careful with your blessings as you are with your curses. I don’t know how or why I was reminded of this lesson, but for one reason or another I feel it at least an interesting one to present. The other lesson that goes hand in hand with this one is that if your gut is telling you something, you should listen. If it feels wrong, it probably is. You may not be able to out right prove it, but that does not mean you are wrong.

One of the instances that illustrates this thought: I made a yule deer blessing for my ex’s “friend” who by his words had problematic relationships with other women (his word, and supposedly hers as well.) I decided maybe she could benefit with a show of generosity and kindness with a blessing placed into a reindeer. After all, reindeer embody the spirit of nourishment and steadfastness. The reindeer herders use their milk for sustenance, their antlers for tools, they are befriended and ridden, and their strength borrowed to move about the land. After I gave it to her, things started to go awry for her and everyone around her. Things spiraled into a very ugly situation. ( I am being extremely generous here.) I later found out exactly what she had done, the kind of person she was, and exactly her intent toward me. I began to realize the bit of blessing magic I gave her had turned into something of a nasty curse and she destroyed everything in her path.

I had made plenty of other blessing objects that did just that for other people, but there was a select few for whom the magic skipped sideways and became straight up hexes. I didn’t get it, at first, and decided maybe I had done something wrong. Turns out that those people who were gifted blessings and had them not go as intended, were all people who did not have my best interest at heart, in fact, a couple of them had very dark intentions designed for me and wished me ill. A person within my tradition I had befriended had even warned me before this happened that I had hidden enemies. Granted, they had help coming to those thoughts and designs by specific persons, but it does not relieve them from their own choices and actions.

Remember, magic is neither good nor evil. . . it is, and if the wrong hands touch it, it is easily corrupted. Fairy tales illustrated this all the time with a magic object that can mean happily ever after or infinite sadness and certain doom. In Vasilissa the Brave the blessing of a fire for her Stepmother’s hearth given her by Baba Yaga, turns into an all-consuming  fire that destroys the hearth, her Stepmother, and vile step sisters.

Vasilissa went out of a sense of duty and responsibility to fetch that fire. She did all bade her by Baba Yaga and won the fire to warm hearth and home. Vasilissa did not intend to set flame to all in her path when she came home that day. Most of us feel no pity for the ones who were engulfed, but to be sure it is not a thing that most would deliberately set upon another. Even if those engulfed people are cruel and conniving.

If, by chance, it is your intent to ignore your gut when it tells you that a person is about to receive a blessing object from you and it may set fire to their world, you may want to pause and remember that flames like that can spread out of hand and set fire to things that are precious to you. Or at the very least, set clear protections around yourself and what you hold dear.  And with those thoughts in mind, it could also be an excellent means of revealing hidden enemies. Just be certain to watch the flames from across the river. A very wide one.

That Which is Remembered Lives


The cat is licking my computer again. . . It’s been a long time since I have posted here, but still the tradition of the cat having to have her say continues, much like leaving an offering for my ancestors before I speak of them.

I have lain fallow and silent for a long time. On purpose. Everything in me has been drained out like a tainted well, I have let myself completely drain out and dry out to purge the poison. Things have been rather magically silent and like being put in a witches cradle all I have had to hear is the sound of my own heart and creaking bones. Then things shifted. Night mares faded and dreams slipped in with figures of my own ancestry speaking languages that I know and recognize but the actual words escape me. Russian, Romanian, Gaelic. . . words I should not know have been seared into my mind with equally haunting themes and images. Reindeer and knives, crows and branches and owls have all made themselves prominent figures. But most of all there are several figures speaking through my dreams: my grandparents both of Slavic descent and one figure I have no genetic relation to but another inheritance entirely. It’s like time in a bottle has been uncorked and spilled out all over my life.

I have been asked, poked and prodded from all corners of the universe to wake up, to get up, to pick up. . . it wont stop , I suspect, until I do. I don’t know where this is leading me or even what I supposed to be accomplishing anymore.

Our ancestors are always with us, they live in our very veins, the beat of our hearts, the heat in our tears. . .They wait for us to speak to them directly. They are hungry and wait for our offerings of bread and wine. They stare out at us in photos. . . waiting to be allowed room in our lives. To mysteriously move something to aid our path and they will not budge to do so until we ask. As pagans most of us set up an altar of our ancestors just for the season and take it down as the season wraps up. I have one set up all year round. Every holiday something is left for them. Every celebration they are honored. I cry before their altar when begging for help, I share the day or night’s vexing dream. I leave random offerings of flowers, sweets and something boozy. To me, my ancestors are very real creatures and after being buried like a seed for so long and remaining silent, their pokes and prods have become very potent. They scream: WAKE CHILD, WAKE!!!!

Our most potent and our closest magical assistants are our beloved dead. An entire magical lineage is available to us in a drop of blood. Who you are magically does not depend on knowing whether you are Irish, Scot, Slavic, or Hispanic. It doesn’t matter if you can recite your litany or not. It is the relationship you had with your Mother who has passed or the Grandmother who doted on you. It is the memory of candied oranges on your Grandmother’s counter and the questions asked of the questions you asked your Grandfather. It is the memory of suits and ties worn while mowing the lawn and the goofy grin after seeing a whale off shore for the first time. It is the heat of an argument and tears of reconcilliation, It’s the stories told of narrow escapes and fool hardy errands,  it is the passage of time you shared and continue to share with your ancestors that creates your magical lineage. It is the drop of blood you shed to call them forth and truth you offer them when you speak to their shade. Make the call. . . they are waiting for you to ask. That which is remembered lives.

Now if I can only get the cat to stop licking the screen. . . that would be great.