hello friends,
I’m going to stop apologizing for my gaps and lapses here. I am learning that things just take the time they take. Today I’m writing for magic. For every little bit of enchantment that is finding its way to me in this world that can be so harsh and terrifying. I’m writing it for the way yellow is nature’s herald, showing us into Spring with forsythia, winding down Fall with goldenrod. For the raven who flew overhead my whole walk to the airport last week, perching on lampposts to tilt its head at me, intelligent eyes calm and curious, glinting blue-black in the sun. For the mushrooms creating impossible shapes in the yard. For the first Spring that I have seen the magnolia tree bloom. I am writing because writing has felt like a long lost part of me this last year, something crucial but just out of reach.
on beltane
Today is Beltane, a point in the year that speaks to lust and pleasure and implies future abundance. Sacred to Brigid from whom my mother derived half of her given name, it’s a moment of the year that honors and celebrates the fertility of the Earth. In Norse belief, it belongs to the Vanir, to Freya and Frey, earth gods and liminal beings with power so crucial and impossible to ignore, that they survived the shift to sky god worship.
I spent the morning with my rainboot-clad feet in the liquid cold of the creek, feeling myself teetering on the edge of who I’ve been over the abyss of who I am becoming. I reach down to still a jar of water for my altar, then make my way over slippery rocks and violets to my door. I stand in the morning dimness and mix herbs for healing and as offerings. It is a quiet ritual, but it is mine. A way to weave threads of magic into the oppressive structures of a work week, to remember a bit of myself amidst routine and obligation.
As my grief shifts, I find that I’m thinking deeply about what I do and do not want my life to be. There is a cynic in me that is dangerous. She has gained strength in this moment when cynicism is often the easiest response. Hers is a slow smothering, masquerading as protection. I cannot be who I am when she is at the helm and I don’t want to live my life within the narrow container she has created. She is terrified of many things but, she is most scared of making a fool of herself. She is ashamed of what I love, and she keeps me from trusting myself.
She cannot see the magic, fault lines of it running over and under the ground, spirals of it curling through the air, bursting from every bubble of the creek. But when I look closely, I can.
I am learning that doing the things that call to you in life cannot be superfluous. That in an internet culture that demands we perform the shifting waves of narrow goodness at all times, our desires can feel frivolous, whims that should be cut, when they are usually the very things that help us show up as our full selves, able to contribute to the world in meaningful ways.
And listen, at 36, it turns out I am a kooky bitch. I want to build a temple in the woods. I want to plant a garden just for the beauty of it, and fill my pockets with flowers and rocks. I want to bring no chill to the party (if I show up, which I probably won’t). I want to touch back into things that are ancient, whispering through time and tugging at the edges of my attention. I want to be brave enough to do what I love, even if it is silly.
I can feel this change, the inevitability of it whispering in my blood, and the cynic in me is afraid. But on this day that reminds me to reach towards pleasure, I can see that fear for the blockage that it is. I can see what that fear is robbing me of, and it is connection to the past and the most whimsical parts of me. The parts of me that can dream new futures rather than just expecting the worst.
Grief brings its own magic and its own messages. In the night I dream that my mother thinks she is still alive and I must somehow tell her she is dead. In this recurring dream she is different than she was when she was on this earth. Her eyes follow me like the eyes of the raven, full of things I do not know yet. She is my mother but she is also a challenge, daring me to say what is true, asking that I not avoid the conversations to be had. Asking that I not avoid myself.
The dreams never last long enough and they’re always jarring, but I am grateful for them. I am grateful to her for whatever effort it takes to reach me there, to tell me what I need to know. She calls me towards the honesty and the pleasure she never was able to seek in this life, where she was fierce for everyone but herself.
I am descended from the people of the North through my maternal lineage. When a herbal recipe pops into my brain fully formed and containing juniper, I know it is not mine to claim but a gift from my ancestors, an act of rediscovery and excavation. When I close my eyes as a plane takes off, it is Freya of the feathered cloak who I ask for safe passage through the skies. And today, on Beltane, it is Freya, goddess of love and pleasure who I make offerings to. She who was burned thrice as the witch Gullveig, only to rise again. Freya the uncrossable, who follows her own pleasure as a rule and bows to no one.
Freya demands that we be fierce in what we love, unafraid of judgement, and incapable of shame. She asks that we be every part of who we are to create the fertile soil of what comes next. Hers is the power of seidr, of plants and trance, of divination and connection with our dead. And today, a day that reminds us that the world is an abundant place, even in its darkest moments, I welcome the change that comes, with courage and hope for what’s next.
What I’ve been getting into lately:
Wise Women: myths and stories for midlife and beyond by Sharon Blackie (Audiobook available for free with premium spotify): I know. I am about the last person to find my way to audiobooks, I think because I needed a break from my podcast queue right now. This book is read in such an animated way (I’m sure it’s a great read too but recommend the audio on this one), telling myths and stories from Western Europe of goddesses and guardians and witches and crones. It’s truly a delight to listen to whatever your age. Highly recommend.
Careless People: A Cautionary Tale of Power, Greed, and Lost Idealism by Sarah Wynn-Williams (Also available for as a free audiobook on spotify): The thing is, if Mark Zuckerburg tries to get a book banned I’m gonna read it. About an early, idealistic Facebook employee trying to make the tech a force for good amidst capitalism. Also contains an unexpected shark attack?
The Taste of Things (film): One of the most beautiful films I’ve ever seen, will make you want to go cook with and for the people you love, and start referring to your friends as your suite. Juliette Binoche is…well, Juliette Binoche, one of our greatest living actors. She’s the center of the film, as she’s the center of everything for Dodin. I don’t know much about film techniques but the way they used light here was mind-blowing.
Queer (film): Have always been a fan of Rachel Weisz and Daniel Craig’s bi-for-bi vibes and Luca Guadignano is my favorite director, so this was always on the docket for me. I am not a huge Burroughs fan, and those elements of the source material made it feel very different from Luca’s other films (until I remember he directed Suspiria). The acting is beautiful and the film is strange and devastating and passionate, and deeply cringe in some moments (Which Craig plays with perfect chuffed sheepishness). It wasn’t my favorite but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all the same.
in love and grief,
lisa