Samhain Ritual
Imagine the scene. The altar, a round table, is set with a red cloth, and the ritual tools.
Three antique glass bowls, the orange one has cold earth, the blue has salty water, and the green has blessed chocolate two-bite brownies. The small brass cauldron burns Dragons' blood incense and sage, while deep red pomegranate juice sparkles in a large crystal goblet. The quarter candles are set on poles in wind-proof candle holders and knotted glow sticks mark the perimeter of the circle. My Athame and bowls for the apple and pomegranate sit on a small table to the northeast of the circle.
As each of the participants take their turns to recite their parts of the ritual, Kyle stands ready to relight the candles on the altar that are periodically blowing out in the wind in my back yard.
It's about 8 p.m. when Amanda begins to lead us in casting the circle and our energies blend well to forge a good circle. I feel very alive and tingle from head to toe feeling how the group energies blend and build. It is exhilarating to do this with others again after so long alone.
The ritual progresses fairly smoothly, especially considering we are new to working together and it is the first one for some of us. We follow Amanda, Jen and Lyle's cues and improvise a lot. It is fun to watch how well people can fit together and support each other.
When the ritual is finished Cernunos, Cerridwen and the four quarters are thanked and invited to stay if they wish or leave if they wish. The exhilaration on the others' faces is evident in their bright smiles as we all embrace and laugh about our improvisations before scarfing the last of the pomegranates and 'sacred' brownies.
Then I notice that my new neighbours have been moving in while we, the Sault Ste. Marie Pagan Association, have been honouring our beloved dead, learning to embrace the cycle of life & death and marking another turn on the wheel of life.
Friends. The new Good.
It's really nice to be hanging with people who actually seem to like me. For the past two or three years I've been devoting my time, efforts and thoughts to people who are really total snobs. Even to today, the only time they would give me the time of day, let a lone credit or a thank you for work I've done for them is if they want something else from me. Sincere interest, concern or compliments -- NEVER. It has been a humiliating, degrading experience to sit alone in the bars and be ignored after all the support and promotion I've given freely.Last night my friends and I went out to support local original music together. We had a great time and I didn't even care that I was totally ignored by the very people I've spent countless hours to promote and support. Fluffy, Brad, Manda and Kyle were so the best. Fluffy was the best date I've had in two decades. He's funny, vibrant, enthusiastic and very attentive. I am very grateful that he was kind enough to come out with me. After the punishment my self-esteem has taken over the past few years, it was refreshing and rejuvenate to find social sanctuary surrounded by people who actually care about me for who I am.
I had fun being bad tonight
First, I snuck away to my kids' school for a Halloween dance party and turned my phone off I danced the Macarena, the YMCA (yes, I danced to the Village People -- shame on me) and the Monster Mash. I was the only parent NOT sitting in a corner and my kids and their friends were yelling for me to come and dance more. It was very cool.Then I went to some awards ceremony... very ceremonial. Until I started teasing a few of our elected officials and local muckety-mucks mercilessly. But David Oh really does look like a waiter and, can I help it if I want to go Trick or Treating? Geeze, you'd think the Mayor didn't want me over at his place or something. The rest of Council is reserving a special bowl of candy for me and my kids on Halloween night, or so they say, anyway.But now it's time to publish this entry and stop avoiding the last two stories I have to write today so I can get my younger daughter to the dentist tomorrow before buying the last of the groceries for the ritual, finishing up the house and doing what advance prep cooking I can AND making my robes AND writing/memorizing my lines... I need to sleep.Being bad was fun for a little while.
Single and bitter
Those profile questions suck. I mean, what's with the stupid drop down menus? Single, Single and not looking, married, long term relationship... is that it!? What about single and desperate or single and bitter. What about married and looking or long term relationship hell? Don't they get a vote?
Crone
Single, bitter and stupid may be the best category for me. Thinking it would be better to be busy so I have less time to be bitter I volunteered to host the public Samhain ritual for Sault Ste. Marie Pagan Association at my house. I still think it will be cool but now I wish I could find a clone in a hurry. The house needs a lot of attention before the ritual and, as the Crone; I can't just park my butt in a corner and dispense seeds in my usual black poly-cotton threads.
Granted, what ever I wear I am the consummate Crone. Bitter, old hag with a jolly evil cackle to boot. As a group we decided to dedicate the rite to Ceridwin, which would have been more suited to a younger, more hopeful hag Shria. (And for the record my son is NOT ugly.) Left to my own devices I think I'm much more the Morrigan type. I could see myself making an advance on a warrior only to be rejected then pick on his bones after he falls in battle, cackling all the while. Okay, maybe that isn't a very flattering picture of my beloved Patroness but, it gives the correct impression of me -- single and bitter.
Then again, when I think of him I am more the Ereshkigal type. However, he is definitely not a Nergal type. He is responsible (unwillingly) for only my own devastation, not for war, pestilence, and devastation in general. I also can't imagine him breaking a piece of bread to be with me let alone the seven gates of Heaven. It is conceivable that he may have broken a few things to get away from me, though... like my heart.
Ritual
So I get to be the Crone and dispense nuggets of wisdom along with a few Pomegranate seeds. That will be cool. I just hope I can get the place, my robes and my lines in order before then.
I'll just keep looking forward to the Witches Ball afterward. That should be a total blast.
Okay, this is really stupid.
I am obviously depressed and have been for a while. Time to do something about it.
What's wrong?
I am lonely -- how I can be lonely in this busy life of mine, I don't know, but I am. I miss having someone to talk to once in a while, someone who knows and cares about me, about what ever happens to be going on in my life. I miss being touched. I miss resting my head on someone's shoulder and feeling arms around me. I miss intimacy in all its wonderful forms.
What can I do about it?
Uh... suggestions?
Some of my guy friends have told me that, although they think I'm attractive in some way, they are not attracted to me. Most just refuse to talk about that issue all together rather than tell me how repulsive I am. The ones who will talk about it say I am too negative about relationships and can be a little intimidating. I get the negative thing, but me intimidating?! Huh?
The reality is that if you put me in a room full of eager, eligible bachelors and told them I was the last available woman in Northern Ontario the only thing I would walk out with would be a bill for the drinks but they would all feel really good about themselves.
Then there is him. The one I really want to be with. He is indifferent to me so I feel worthless. Even if he hated me or something, at least I could have something to get mad at and feel a little fight left in me. Instead I'm just sinking lower and fading away.
So, I guess the problems are with my self image and my unwillingness to let go of something that was never there.
Again, what can I do about it?
Self-medicating with over-work and chocolate isn't effective. Its just preventing me from losing the weight I need to lose and giving me a perfect excuse not to meet people or pursue a possible relationship with anyone. I see no way to alleviate my loneliness.
I'm getting dizzy from going in circles here.
Looks like I'll have to get used to life alone and find other things to fulfill me in different ways.
Back to work.
I cannot, will not, ever leave the place where I wanted him to be.
Even though he was never there, that is where you will find me until the blessed day of my release from this life.
Either I will be with him or I will be alone. If he can’t love me then there is nothing loveable about me. If he doesn’t love me, then I can only concluded that I am neither deserving nor worthy of love at all.
That is the end of it. I will write no more of it until I can write that I am singing for joy at his touch.
Now my life becomes work, children, family and friends who do not tire me with demands, expectations or temptations that I leave the place I wanted him to be.
Father Higgins is 79 and a half. He has a voice that rings clear and strong as a country church bell calling the faithful to worship early on a cold, crisp, autumn morning. I am not one of the faithful.
At 79 and a half, Father Higgins also seems to have a mind as sharp as ever and a face tattooed deeply by hand of time. The beauty of the lines on his face is hard to look at because it breaks all the rules. It is disturbing to see such beauty and frankness in the face of an old priest from of a faith other than my own. Or so I thought.
Last night I dreamed of a horse. The dappled brown horse had huge staring eyes of the palest grey-green. It gazed unblinking at me through the dream, waiting to see what I will do.
Finally I woke with a start. Those were Father Higgins' eyes.
The disturbance I felt while interviewing him came not from the attraction and fear of the lines on his face but from his eyes. It was the frank assessment, the blank canvass of his eyes that disturbed me.
The man has a way of looking inside you without and asking what ever question needs to be asked an unblinking gaze. He said it isn't him. He said it is the Holy Spirit working through him. He said the Holy Spirit could make a work of art from a rusty nail.
I squirmed. I reasoned. I ran. But his gaze followed me into my dreams.
When you set a dry cloth on one full of water, by morning the dry one will be wet as well. Sometimes knowing is like that too. It seeps across from the one who has it to the one who needs it, irresistibly filling the receiver to saturation.
Then, in the middle of the night through the blank-canvas eyes of a horse, it asks, 'What are you going to do?'
'I am not one of the faithful!' is my answer as I run to the coldness of logic in the yard behind the church.
There is always a wild and overgrown patch of mysterious ground somewhere behind every country church. That is where I go. Every time there is a calling and the faithful go in to worship and be healed, I run to the wilderness to be alone.
I am not worthy of love. I am not deserving of healing or forgiveness. This is my faith. This is my mantra.
An example of the evidence of this is love itself.
About three years ago I was standing in the yard behind the church listening to the faithful sing. I craved their company. I wanted to be one of them. I was ready to walk into the church and try, really try, to believe I was worthy of love. I wanted, more than ever, to be one of the faithful.
While making my faltering way toward the big front door awash in the golden glow of the rising sun I met a man.
His voice was clear and rang like a bell on Sunday morning. His eyes were green and deep like a cool pond. Inviting, curious and open. His hands were sure and sensual at his guitar and he moved with a grace I wanted to bask in. As I drew nearer to him, watching and listening, I fell in love.
Then his wife stepped out of the shadows to stand beside him. He turned from me and I was forgotten. Not even worthy of friendship, let alone the deep intimacy of partner love. My heart followed them a few steps into the church reveling in their joy. 'At least some people can be happy.' I thought as the door closed in my face. The thought comforted me for a little while.
It's about denial. My body is grotesque and my heart is disfigured by the abuse I have suffered and in turn wrought upon myself. All this ugly has seeped to the surface and been etched upon my face. No doubt he was the last one to even glance at me in passing. I must deny my body the food it craves and my heart the company it needs because that is what my withered soul deserves.
That is what I will do as I shiver alone and afraid in the yard behind the church. Deny everything while I wait in wretched hope for the man with the guitar to come out and talk to me a little longer.
Father Higgins with your voice of hope and your eyes of anticipation, you have no idea how much I wish I could be one of the faithful. To have rested in the belief that I was worthy of him, or even of someone like him, would have been all the comfort I needed.
I am cold.
I used to live in Constance Lake First Nation. For just over 10 years I lived, worked and grew in Constance Lake First Nation. It became my home as nothing else can be a home. To have lived in such intensity and over-my-head depth is to have lived in colour. Sault Ste. Marie is a pale canvas compared to the colour saturation of Constance Lake. While there, I saw people born, die, marry and make indelible marks upon each others' very souls through the course of their every-day lives. Everything here is further away and less important, even when I'm in the middle of it.The things that happened to me and around me in that community would take a lifetime to explain and couldn't really be understood by an outsider. To summarize, being an insider has changed me in a way so vital and so deeply that I feel like I will be an outsider everywhere else.Could I go back? Could I be inside again? Not likely. I am outside of there again. Many of the people who brought me inside and made me a member of the community in as many ways as were possible while I lived there are dead or gone away. Many left behind are those who resisted my journey inside. No, I cannot go home. Home is not really there anymore.When I had to leave Constance Lake First Nation, I felt like I was leaving home and the door was closing behind me. After drinking the sweet water of community membership in the deepest sense, I was exiled to the desert.Nearly five years have passed and I still feel more alone than I ever thought possible. The friends and family I've reunited with have no idea that an imposter is living among them. They think that what they see is what they get but I wonder what they see. Do they see an aggressive, goal-oriented reporter? Do they see a self-reliant single mother? Do they see a supportive, helpful friend? Maybe that's what I look like from their point of view but, actually, I am not really here. I am waiting to go back home.I almost made it back here. Maybe if I had found someone to love and to love me, or maybe if I had found a group of friends who really wanted me around... but I did not. When my children are grown enough, I will go look for a new home. Until then, I will smile, nod, be what they expect of me and try to be strong enough to last through this eternity of isolation without losing my mind through the hole in my heart.§
