Tag Archives: writer

Lunar Eclipse

24 April 2013

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This article was posted by my dear Sister Moon on Facebook. It’s a good starting place for more exploration of the powerful Lunar Eclipse tomorrow.

The Lunar eclipse April 25 2013 is at 5º Scorpio on fixed star Gacrux in the Crucifix. The Lunar eclipse forms the backbone of a heavenly Kite aspect pattern and trines both Ceres & Neptune. Constellation Crux “ is said to give perseverance, but many burdens, trials and responsibilities, together with much suffering and many hardships.” It was called the Southern Cross long before it was associated with Christianity. The constellation signifies guidance in general and it’s stars are often found in occultists and astrologers. It is the cross of matter, signifying the four directions in the horoscope, the Ascendant/Descendant axis crossing the Midheaven/IC axis. This is an important eclipse because this small, but potent constellation will be reactivated on November 1 when we get the final hit of Uranus square Pluto and soon after with the Solar Eclipse of November 3.

The lunar eclipse usually brings endings and/or a culmination of a matter. This is so a new beginning can occur. Both lunar and solar eclipses are threshold points, birth and deaths. To me the lunar eclipse emphasises what you have to leave behind, so there is some melancholia about them. With solar eclipses you are so excited about your new start, you don’t even think about the old life that is ending. The crossroad point is even more acute with this lunar eclipse because of the influence of Gacrux. But that’s not all. The Lunar Eclipse is crossed by Ceres trine Neptune. Neptune is the self-sacrificing saviour Jesus. The victim/saviour who died on the cross. Of course the cross is connected with constellation Centaurus, which is Chiron and repeats the theme of sacrifice. Ceres trine Neptune unites the wisdom of the earth with the wisdom of the heavens. Moon conjunct Saturn materialises that which is spiritual, so this lunar eclipse is ultimately about making heaven work on earth.

 

Gratitude Friday

1 February 2013

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Magic happens to me all the time. Sometimes I give it a little encouragement, and sometimes I’m in the right place at the right time; flowing with the river, living in the groove, letting go of expectations and just being joyful in the moment. However it happens, I live in gratitude of the playful nature of the Universe.

I did a tarot reading for a woman a few years ago. There was nothing spectacular that came up for her, good or bad. Just a few odd things that made me question if I was really listening that day. One of the messages I received for her was that she would be coming to a fork in the road; my interpretation was that she was coming to a crossroads in her life. But there was no emotion tied to it, just a “flat, even place”, was what I told her.laugh

Afterwards we had coffee and chatted a bit. As she left to get into her van that was parked in front of my house I saw her bend over to peer at something on the street. A moment later I heard her howl with laughter. She came running up to me on the porch–with a flattened dinner fork in her hand. Someone had dropped their fork, and someone else had run over it!

Now if that isn’t a playful Universe, I don’t know what is! I am grateful for laughter!

What magical moments have you laughed at?

Moving Toward Spring

29 January 2013

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In January and February, I yearn for the days of my youth, when magick was a lighthearted affair. It was always a serious subject matter, but it carried a shale like-quality, a crust that I carefully chipped away at to uncover the layers of beauty beneath. Born under the auspices of certain planets, stars and the Sun, my Moon was a river of emotion beneath, a powerful flow of intuition and vision that seeped into my learned understanding of my parents’ Diety. This was a god that I couldn’t understand in my naiveté. My own natural world was suppressed by the words in the Great Book of that God, interpreted by men to shun the talents and abilities of women. My father knew I was a wytch; he told me so. He knew I carried strong magick and in his own world I needed to be saved from it—on a daily basis. So I hid that Light under the bushel of oppression, spending hours and days alone in the woods behind our house. There was my Temple, my true place of worship. There was the place I first learned the ways of magick.

I gave my Sundays to their brick and mortar buildings, their Bride of God, the church. Within it I was allowed the expression of music, those glorious hymns that I still remember and catch myself humming to this day. Captured within the melodies is a connection to divinity that reaches deeper, stretches farther than the words of their, or any, religion. Music is non-denominational–once stripped of our own attachments. Its magick runs deep and crosses worlds, if only we listen with the heart, and sing from the soul. That was a gift that I lifted from the ashes of my bitter childhood. Taking the music into my Temple, I sang to the spirit of the land, my offering of thanks for the nurturing embrace of leafy bowers that protected a young girl from the harshness that surrounded her.

The leafy bowers are metaphorical this time of year, and in this part of the US, and I miss them. Someone said that Winter is the only season that shows the human condition. Barren and cold, the landscape reminds me of my mortality and is reflected in the silver in my hair. My inner world is active, but it becomes tiresome without the balance of connections to the warm breezes and green spirit, and I become restless. During the next seven days, I will be preparing for the celebration of the waxing light. I will transform that restless energy into magick as I sweep, polish and wash. And I will stand beneath the bare bones of the trees in the woods and sing to the spirit of the land as I light a brand new candle, and call forth the magick of my youth that still runs within my veins. Older and wiser, the passage of time brings me full circle, back to the Light.

Imbolc/Candlemas

27 January 2013

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“Upon the earth, the ice and snow remained, and the people suffered through the frozen night, but now a change had come, for when they looked upon the Sun, each day was longer than the last. No longer did the darkness rule, and within their hearts, they began to know hope. There was rejoicing throughout the land as at last the long Winter approached its end.”

Once upon a time, before calendars and timepieces ruled our lives, people lived according to the moon, the sun and the seasons. During Spring, the Great Mother is young and fresh, blossoming with hope and the dimness of Winter becomes a memory. The days grow longer and crops begin to grow with the increasing light. The peak of summer, the Longest Day is celebrated with joy. Harvest time follows and as the days begin to grow shorter, they gathered the bounty, beginning to prepare for the coming cold. When once the chill winds begin to blow, they gathered together before the hearth fire and shared their summer memories. The larders were full, and the time of resting was upon them once again.

Today we fill the pantry and refrigerator from the grocery store all year long. Many people supplement their groceries with the harvest of their own gardens, but we are no longer dependent on the cycle of the seasons, the weather conditions and a myriad of other factors for our immediate source of sustenance. During the hot summer, or the coldest winter, we have the opportunity to run to the market and get fresh meat and vegetables. And even though we grow sick and tired of winter, it no longer threatens our lives in the same way.

What used to be a physical necessity, at least for most people in industrialized nations, is now focused on the emotional and spiritual. People of all religions still pray for prosperity, bountiful harvest, and the return of the Light. We are dependent on the ebb and flow of the Moon and Sun to regulate and balance the physical. And Light and Dark, summer and winter, play an important role in our spiritual lives as well.

Summer is a time of external expression. Barbecues with family, planting and keeping the garden, or joining together in synagogue or circle to share in the celebration of life. When it is winter dark and winter cold, it is a time of resting and going within. And as much as we know from technology that spring will follow winter, the cellular fear of the dark inhabits us all, that it might just be winter forever. So we once again gather together to work with the gods to usher in the changing of the seasons.

Lupercalia to the Romans, Imbolc to the Celts, and Candlemas to the Christians, February 2 marks the time of the Young Mother, the Goddess who has given birth to the Sun/Son. “It is the Feast of the Waxing Light. What was born at Winter Solstice begins to manifest, and we who were midwives to the infant year; now see the child Sun grow strong as the days grow longer. This is the time of individuality, beginnings, inspiration, the growing year, returning light, a festival of purification, chastity, the magick of a new fire and life force, the return from the Underworld, the Sun child nurses at the mother’s breast, the Crone retreats from Her reign, a time of creativity, healing, inward strength, potentiality, awakenings, meditation, and contemplations.”

It is a time of hope.

At this time of year, my first thoughts go to my garden. It is a reflection of the changing cycles of the year. During the time of growth, I sense the energy ebbing and flowing inside the plants. The Dark Moon draws the life force into the roots, nurturing and feeding the foundation in the darkness beneath the soil. The Full Moon draws that same Earth/Mother energy into the tops of the plants to produce flowers and then seeds, which are offered to us as the promise for the future.

Even though the days are getting longer, we are still within the Dark of the Year, and those promises, dropped as seeds into the soil in the fall, are still gestating beneath the scant winter snows that remain. It is a time of purification and cleansing, preparing for the coming Light for all of Nature.

As I notice that I begin thinking more and more about my small garden plot, I recognize that the nights have grown shorter, and the Southern Sun is just a little higher in the sky. If I pay attention to the hints from beyond the Hedge, I can almost smell the coming spring on the breezes that are still very chilly. And usually very near the date on the calendar that marks this Sabbat, I hear the young Goddess whisper in the early morning hours, “It’s time.” So I step into my grubby boots and with winter coat and gloves I gather my garden tools and begin cleaning the remains of winter from my wytches’ garden. Thoughtfully and very carefully, I clean the debris, piling sticks into the large fire ring that waits behind the old pine. The remaining lavender stems and mugwort rest on the top. Occasionally, depending on the temperatures, I catch a glimpse of the tiny crocus that are reaching for the sun and leave a tender covering of leaves to protect them.

Having cleaned out closets, drawers and my own personal debris during the previous week or so, I gather these things together and take them to the local goodwill. Purification and cleansing, remember? After returning home, I work on the final cleansing of my home. I wash my sheets with a touch of lavender oil. Sweeping the floors with intent, I banish the outworn to make way for new life. Wiping away the dust, I purify my personal space in honor of the Goddess.

The last of the vegetable soup that was canned the previous fall goes on the stove to simmer. Returning to the bonfire, I light the remnants of winter’s destruction, and as I gaze into the fire and smell the lavender scent, I offer my thanks, watching them float on the smoke to the heavens and pray that the Goddess will renew and recycle the leftovers and turn the destruction into hope.

After a final cleanse, a long luxurious bath, I pull out my Tarot, and sit down to the delicious aroma of the Fall Stew that fills the kitchen.

“From Mountain and Stream, from forest and field,
From the fertile Earth’s nourishing yield
I now partake of Divine Energy.
May it nourish and fulfill me that I may nourish and fulfill my world.”

Pulling the Star card from the Tarot deck, I ponder the meaning and symbology. The Star card is a card of hope for the future. Linked with the sign of Aquarius, it’s a watery card and the beautiful maiden that pours water from her pitcher into a stream and onto the Land is preparing for the future, watering seeds to grow in the spring, and refilling the stream so that those who are thirst may drink. She tells me that although we are still in the last throes of winter, spring will come.

I have prepared for the coming Light and made way for the blessings to come. Looking forward to longer days and warmer lights, I am grateful for making it through yet another winter.

©Selena Wolff

 

 

 

Sunday Stillness

21 October 2012

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My mother passed away recently and I’ve been in the grieving process. Everyone goes through it differently, and I’m not the type to be too public about it. I had a few years to grieve my mother’s departure; she didn’t know anyone the last two years of her life, so I have a head start on some of it. But there is still a empty space in my heart that echoes when I think of her.

On Tuesday, we will be burying my mother’s ashes in a family plot that no one realized was available until recently. She will be buried next to her mother and father, and I know that would make her very happy. So. This Sunday Stillness is dedicated to Mom. Autumn was her favorite time of year and as we head toward the Final Harvest on October 31, I will set a place at my table for my dear friends and family that have moved across the Sunless Sea toward a happier place this season. I love you, Mom.

Georgie

5 October 2012

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And so the season begins to roll faster and faster, spooky, scary skeletons, goblins and wytches ;) , scary movies and dark and stormy nights. I’ve had one Hel of a kick ass couple of months, with three major deaths, the final one my mother, and lest the spirits drag me down to the Pits and throw me into the Bog of Depression, I’m dragging out Georgie to share again this year. Enjoy!

 

Georgie

I watched the shadows scroll by, each a grotesque representation of the demons that inhabited my mind. I cowered beneath the giant pine tree that grew from the side of the old stone wall, waiting for my older brother to rescue me, shivering in the cold of All Hallows Eve. He promised me he would come, and even though Georgie was a prankster, he had never failed me. I put Georgie’s face before me, willing him to appear, my hero with the deep black cape that he loved to swirl around him, his plastic pointed teeth hanging loosely in his mouth.

Watching him paint the shadows under his eyes earlier in the day, I giggled as he practiced his speech. “I vant to suck your blood!” he kept saying, rolling his tongue with each syllable. His amazing blue eyes slid sideways, looking at me in the mirror, and I laughed till tears rolled down my cheeks, their tracks leaving the black smudges of my own makeup on my rosy cheeks. I was his victim tonight, the night of the living dead, trick or treating with beastly delight. His cape billowed as he whirled toward me, a whole head taller and convincingly evil. Squealing in mock terror, I turned to run into my bedroom, “Count Georgula! Please spare me!” Dramatic to the end, I crossed my brow with my hand and fell onto my own small bed in the poorly lit room.

Georgie moved swiftly and silently to where I lay, and reached toward my throat with his funny white plastic teeth. His hand suddenly went to my sides, and he began tickling me intensely. I begged him to stop, threatening him with a call to mum and dad. No, he had whispered, no! I’ll stop! Dear old mummy and dad would surely put an end to our little excursion out this evening. It’ll only bring trouble, they had said, when asked if we could participate in the holiday. It’s a dangerous game, and you will both stay indoors tonight.

            Georgie had jumped quietly back, grabbed my hand and pulled me up. Smiling secretly, loving my brother, we both snuck down the dark stairs, listening carefully for sounds from the back of the house where our parents were cooking something in the kitchen. I caught the scent of cooking meat, and knew that they would be occupied for quite some time, so we carefully tip toed out the front door, Georgie closing it quietly behind him. I smoothed my own dress, the piles of crinoline fluffing the dark skirt up into a billowing cloud around my legs. Gorgeous my big brother said through his teeth, and we went flying down the cobblestone sidewalk toward the street.

The cold autumn winds blew through the night, chilling the air. It was invigorating and as it whipped the dead leaves up in the air, I felt the thrill of the hunt. Our own trick or treat bags in hand, we set off toward the darker side of town, away from the lights and into the gloom. Seeing the children dressed in their costumes, running through the streets and howling with laughter gave me goose bumps. They were just lovely, and having such a time on this night of the living dead. Small, tender fairy girls, and plump cowboys covered in chocolate peered into their bags after each stop checking their bounty. Parents walked along behind them, chatting with each other about the Parade, or the latest news.

Soon the streets grew darker, and Georgie began pulling me along faster. The leagues of children had thinned, and the neglected pavement buckled with despair. We went further into the darkness and as the houses thinned, holding shabby empty lots between them, until I could see the old stone wall that rested at the end of the sidewalk. There are always some there, he whispered conspiratorially, pointing to the old iron gate with his pale finger. My heart fluttered with excitement, and just a hint of fear. What if there aren’t, Georgie? Wild and brave Georgie, taking his kid sister for her first trick or treat. Of course there are, he smiled, his mouth watering.

We slowed and stopped before the gate. Massive and rusted, the iron gate was hanging partially open, hinting at a previous entry. Georgie used both hands to push it open a little further, the noise of the ancient hinges screaming with pain. He stepped through the gate; I followed close behind, not wanting to get left alone in this spooky place.

Through the mist and fog that had gathered within the old stone fence I saw ghostly pale markers lined up like soldiers on either side of the path that lay before us. Momma moon was partially obscured by clouds that flew swiftly by her, her eerie light casting deep shadows behind them. Georgie took my hand and led me forward.

Ahead I began to hear low voices, the sound of laughter, someone else shushing them. The scents of the night, cold and dark, changed and I caught a whiff of something sweet drifting through the air around us. Georgie stopped suddenly, lifting his nose like a dog catching the smell of something delicious. I saw him smiling a little and he turned to me. I told you, he said quietly.

I shivered and held tighter to his hand, feeling his excitement grow. Now, he said. Be very quiet and follow me. We walked silently toward the voices and the source of the odor that was quickly becoming more pungent. Ahead on the right, I saw the light of a candle hidden behind a large stone pillar that had names and dates inscribed on it. Around the candle four teenagers were seated closely together for warmth. Inhaling smoke from a small white stick, they passed it back and forth between them, choking and laughing when they were done.

I felt a strange sensation in my mouth. It began to water, and my teeth started to ache. I pulled on Georgie’s hand. He turned to look at me questioningly, and when he saw the look on my face, he nodded wisely. It’s ok, he seemed to say with his expression. He reached to my face, feeling my eye teeth through my skin. I sent my tongue searching, and found that they had suddenly grown longer, with sharp points on the ends. I felt a low growl in my throat, and Georgie held his forefinger to his lips, telling me to be quiet! I continue to feel my new teeth in my mouth as we moved on toward the children.

We were almost to the light of the candle, when one of the boys heard a twig snap beneath my feet. He jumped up, a look of belligerent surprise on his face. The other teens sat very still, looking at me and Georgie. Suddenly Georgie dropped my hand and leaned forward, his arms seeming to lengthen and grow thinner. His face was much paler, and his diamond blue eyes squinted at the boy, watching to see what his next move would be. I was beside Georgie, and I could see that his own teeth had grown, and he was shimmering in the moonlight. When the boy saw Georgie, with his little sister beside him in the foggy moonlight, he looked back over his shoulder at his companions, they all began to laugh uproariously.

Georgie jumped at the boy, aiming for his neck. It was only a spit second, but the boy had bounded away from him and landed behind the other three children, by now standing. The four of them started shaking with laughter, their bodies dancing a contorted jig, legs bending backward, hands gnarling into club like feet. I watched in horror as I heard the cracking and popping of bones and saw tufts of hair sprouting from their hands and faces. One by one, each of the teens dropped onto all fours, their clothes lay in tatters around them and before us stood four mammoth wolves, still laughing; now I could see the jagged teeth, long tongues handing out. Georgie turned to me, fear turning his eyes white. Run, Evie! he cried. Hide!

I felt my body automatically crouching, as I had seen my brother do, and following instinct, leapt high in the air, landing on the bony branch of a nearby tree. The wolves, and Georgie, looked at me in surprise, taken off guard by my actions. Not completely understanding myself, I listened to the wind, and the wind told me what to do. Like a bird I once again took a leap, and glided through the air, swooping toward the menace that threatened my Georgie. One of the females howled in frustration and tried to reach up to snap at my legs. Georgie took off running, the wolves following him, his flying sister forgotten in the excitement of running prey.

I landed on the ground, feet first, and went to hide behind the great pine tree by the fence.

That was the last time I saw Georgie. Before dawn, I crept home, watching nervously for any sign of the wolves. Knowing that I would have to confront my parents about what had happened, I finally reached our black granite home, three stories high and tucked away behind the mandrake willows and the creeping thistle. Mummy and Daddy were waiting for me behind the old black doors, standing in the shadows, their eyes piercing and angry.

Most people avoided BlackRaven Manor. They would unconsciously cross to the other side rather than walk by it. That morning, the mailman was whistling to stave off the creeps and heard a yowling coming from behind the front door. He looked quickly, and took off running towards town.

Dear Mom

27 September 2012

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Dear Mom,

I learned more about you today than I ever have before. There were distant relatives that came out of nowhere to share pictures of your beautiful youth, and a large photo of grandpa’s church congregation with you and your brothers standing proudly beside your father.

Raised in a religious home, you were taught morals and ethics that were challenged during your marriage. And despite that, you managed to raise your three daughters the same way.  I just want you to know that you did a good job. You taught us patience and understanding, albeit the hard way, and we learned about hope when there was none.

I can remember that during leanest of years you managed to make sure we were fed and clothed, and I still  recall that little stuffed turtle that came on Christmas morning. It meant more than you ever realized. And the bad memories? Faded by forgiveness, tucked away to remind me that I am a strong woman; regardless.

Thanks, Mom. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I am happy for you. The sadness and grief I feel is just for me.

I miss you.

Naomi Grace Steffy
1934 – September, 2012

 

 

Witch, Please

15 September 2012

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A dear friend sent me this and I really wanted to share it. It’s from Dancing Down the Moon, Dianne Sylvans’ Blog…

Witch, Please

Here are the things I don’t care about:

I don’t care what the name of your religion is.
I don’t care what the names of your gods are.
I don’t care how old your religion is.
I don’t care if your great-great-whatever grandmother passed down your famtrad Book of Shadows under the watchful eye of the Inquisition.
I don’t care if an entire civilization worshipped your Goddess for ten thousand years.
I don’t care if you made Her up based on manga or Tolkien or a dream you had.
I don’t care where you place your altar.
I don’t care which direction you call Earth.
I don’t care how psychic you are.
I don’t care if you’re smarter than me.
I don’t care why you eat meat, or don’t.
I don’t care how many shields you think you need.
I don’t care how your childhood trauma made you a powerful magickian.
I don’t care if you spell “magic” with a k.
I don’t care if you were an Atlantean Magus in your last life.
I don’t care if you’re brand-spanking new.
I don’t care how much you hate Christians.
I don’t care how many degrees you have.
I don’t care if people call you “Lady” or “Lord.”
I don’t care if you’re King of all Londinium and wear a shiny hat.
I don’t care if you can read minds or light candles with your breath.
I don’t care how the world owes you a living.
I don’t care if you’ve been studying the Craft for thirty years or thirty minutes.
I don’t care what your totem animal is, especially if it’s a wolf, raven, or unicorn.
I don’t care if you can trace your lineage back to Gardner.
I don’t care if you think I’m a moron, fraud, or basket case.
I don’t care how many books you’ve read.
I don’t care how much or how little money you have.

What do I care about?

I care that your religion has made you a kinder, more compassionate person.
I care that you can hold down a job.
I care that you’re growing past whatever happened to you as a child or last year.
I care that your gods help you become stronger without coddling you.
I care that you are willing and able to adapt and change as your life does.
I care that you care about the Earth.
I care that you care about someone and something outside yourself.
I care that you practice your religion with devotion and reverence.
I care that you respect others’ paths.
I care that you never stop learning.
I care that you can conduct adult relationships with respect and understanding.
I care that you get how hilarious life is.
I care that you know when to ask for help.
I care that you realize that someone will always be smarter, more powerful, and more together than you.
I care that you realize it doesn’t matter, because tomorrow you’ll be smarter, more powerful, and more together than you were yesterday.
I care that you have reasons for everything you do, even if those reasons are purely intuitive.
I care that you can admit when you’re wrong.
I care that you know you’re both a tiny speck in a vast universe and a rare, precious jewel in the darkened sky.
I care that you’re making a difference.
I care that you know when to speak and when to shut the hell up.
I care that you are seeking a relationship with Deity and with Nature.
I care that you are healthy.
I care that you’re contributing to your family and community.
I care that your capacity for love and joy increase with every passing year.
I care that you believe in yourself.
I care that you’re doing the best you can.

Jan 15, 2008 8:58:44 AM