A sense of wonder so indestructible

Happy birthday to me! I'm 39 today and thrilled to be incarnated. Still, I called my mother this morning and apologized for that whole labor thing.

A quotation I want to remember for Lucian's Wiccaning/baby blessing ceremony:

"If I had influence over the good fairy who is supposed to preside over the christening of all children I should ask that her gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life." (Rachel Carson)

Ritual, health, and changing self-stories

(Image: "Self-no Self" by Sandra Sunnyo Lee)

Fiacharrey at the Cypress Nemeton noted my recent post on the uses of life-narrative in changing the self, and my comment that ritual could be a powerful tool for retelling our life stories and reworking our sense of self. Fiacharrey discusses the idea of using ritual in these ways; s/he focuses on the role that externalizing a difficult problem can play in psychological health. According to the original NYT article, those who score highly on assessments of well-being describe their problems as something outside themselves, "villains to be defeated," rather than as persistent character traits. So, for example, someone who describes a period of depression as coming out of nowhere and external to the herself (e.g., referring to it as "the black dog"), scores higher on a well-being assessment that someone who describes herself as a "depressive." The study discussed in the article seems to suggest that it's healthier to externalize one's problems in this way. The way to externalize the problem is to tell a story about it, and presumably an individual has some measure of control over the kind of story she tells. So perhaps we can retell our way to a measure of psychological health.

Fiacharrey gives some practical tips on designing rituals that can help us retell our stories:

1. “Externalize” the problem you are dealing with. Make it real and separate. Represent it with some tangible object that you can work with.
2. Word spells in terms of overcoming obstacles. Word them with the problem first, then the resolution. Negative, then positive ending.
3. Use third person instead of first person as much as possible.

And while Fiacharrey says s/he is "leery of reducing magic to simply a mind-trick we play on ourselves," I don't think that's what rituals of this sort actually do. If we accept Dion Fortune's oft-quoted definition of magic as "the art of bringing about change in consciousness in conformity with will," then taking intentional action to change the contents of our awareness and our underlying beliefs is magic.

But as Witches and other practitioners of magic (ought to) know, we can't think of the will in a common way. The idea of "willpower" - that I can make something happen by trying hard enough - is misleading. The will isn't about wishing something were so, or trying really, really hard; and it's not about forcing something to change. Indeed, it's an open question whether the will is terribly responsive to conscious, rational argument at all.

I'm not convinced that change happens best when we try to make it happen. While there can be a conscious decision to start telling one's life stories differently, after that decision is made, one may need to employ other means in the retelling. And that's where ritual can come in. Ritual is a form of communication with the unconscious, with the child-self, with Younger Self. The Feri tradition teaches that the only way to reach the Higher Self is by going through the Younger Self; that's why Wiccan rituals are often designed with Younger Self in mind - the pretty colors, the yummy smells, candles, nighttime, poetry, drumming, chant! We alter our everyday consciousness in order to reach something deeper. Ritual isn't about convincing the rational, everyday mind - the Talking Self - that something is so. Rather, ritual courts the child in us, and thereby connects us to the Divine.

To take it back to storytelling and psychological health: it's not enough to tell yourself a different story. You have to convince yourself of the new story. You have to learn to embody the new story. You take it into your cells, your bones. The new myth becomes alive for you. It's not a dramatic epiphany - at least, not usually. It's piecemeal. It's process. And it has to happen throughout your being, at every level, not just in the conscious mind. As is said: the mind is a wonderful servant, but a terrible master.

So many birthdays; and, ritual protocol

What a splendid, busy weekend I had. Adonis celebrates his birthday tomorrow, and in our family, since we’re Pagan, we live in alignment with a natural force called “happy birthday, it’s my birthday!” As one’s birthday draws nigh, one can express any whim and one’s partner must happily comply. Proximity to the birthday increases the force. For example, last Wednesday evening Adonis asked for something - I forget what - and said, “happy birthday, it’s my birthday?” Though I felt the pull of the birthday, it was still a week away, and the force wasn’t yet strong enough. I didn’t comply with his wish to see Spiderman 3, or eat fried food, or rub his feet, or whatever it was. (Generally, however, I’m more than happy to comply with the latter two requests, birthday or no.)

But on Friday, during an email exchange about which movies to see over the weekend, the force of the birthday had clearly grown, and I could no longer resist. Luckily for me, the movie he wanted to see on Friday was “Waitress,” which we both enjoyed. (Captain Malcolm Reynolds was adorable.) But on Sunday, the movie was “Pirates.” Adonis loves summer blockbusters, no matter how awful; I don’t. Still, it’s surprising how much you can enjoy a movie when you go willingly and for your beloved. That, combined with the mercy of low expectations and Johnny Depp, made for another happy movie outing.

We also spent lots of time with Lugh, slept in, went to the farmers' market, managed some house cleaning, read, blogged, and attended social events Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. Finally, and to my relief, I finished a piece of art I’ve been working on for my nephew, in time for his first birthday this week. (We travel for his birthday party this weekend.)

Sunday’s social event was a birthday party for a friend, a Witch, and there was a somewhat impromptu ritual in her honor. She has a much higher tolerance for fluffernutters than I do; I sat in ritual going slightly mad (silently chanting “try to keep an open mind, try to keep an open mind”). The woman priestessing did a fine job. She’s an acquaintance and someone I see only on occasion. While relatively new to the Craft – within the last five years or so - she’s had excellent training at Diana’s Grove, and has become by all appearances a happy, grounded, and skillful Witch.

But despite her suggestion, as the circle began, that those who call the directions do so in the spirit of acknowledgment ("the elements are always present") rather than invitation or invocation ("welcome, spirits of the East," etc.), some of the volunteers used the same old potted language. It wasn’t quite “all hail the guardians of the watchtower of the East,” but it was close enough. Uninspired, in other words.

Then there was the guy who was all “merry meet and merry part,” but who put his plastic cup of wine of the hostess’s altar, and when gently informed that he’d done so, decided he’d wanted the wine to be blessed – all without the hostess’s permission! I have a hard time being in circle with people who won’t meet my gaze, or people who talk while the priestess is talking. But the main issue, really, is that I felt powerless to do anything but sit there and seethe. I’d love to hear from you about more empowered ways to deal with this kind of situation; I’m sure most of you have been there!

The wisdom of old mermaids

Kim is writing a novel about the Church of the Old Mermaids, and she's started a blog sanctuary to introduce us to their stories. She's also encouraging people to create or find old mermaid sanctuaries in their communities and let her know about them, even send her photos.

I would like to see Old Mermaid Sanctuaries everywhere. They already exist in some places. In other places, we need to rearrange things a bit so they can come into existence—or so they can truly be seen, like wiping film off of an old window. Old Mermaid Sanctuaries are places where we care for ourselves and each other. Old Mermaid Sanctuaries are places where the sun comes up and the sun goes down. Old Mermaid Sanctuaries are places where the heart opens and love flows in and out. Old Mermaid Sanctuaries are places where cynicism does not exist. Old Mermaid Sanctuaries are places where compassion is a verb. Old Mermaid Sanctuaries are places where you and I live. (Read the whole thing here.)

(Art by Joanna Powell Colbert)

Planning a Samhain ritual

I suspect I'm not the only one home tonight planning a Samhain ritual. Tomorrow night I'm holding a small ritual in my home for friends. None of them are Pagans or Wiccans; indeed, I have few Pagan friends. Fortunately, I believe I have a gift for offering the beauty of our path, in ritual, to those who don't usually follow it.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table with stacks of books, my working grimoire (in a fabulous Circa notebook), and a cup of tea. Adonis is in charge of grounding and centering, and cakes and ale. I've written parts, so everyone can participate, for the more structured bits of the ritual: the circle casting, invocations and thanks, and explanations of the holiday. For invoking the elementals, this year I'm inspired by the feeling of the elements in our bodies. (Inspiration: Starhawk, The Earth Path.) To wit:

Feel the solid earth under your body. Feel the weight of your body on the earth. Feel the energy of your first chakra, at the root of your spine, connected to the energy of the earth. Feel the red glow.

Spirits of the north, we welcome you to our circle. Bless us with good health, good food, good sex, strong bodies, right livelihood, and the fulfillment of our material needs. Help us experience our connection to the earth, our home.

Most of the ritual is spent in telling stories of our beloved dead. When the stories die down, we'll sing "Breaths" (inspiration: the Druid ritual at Starwood this past summer).

Listen more often to things than to beings.
Listen more often to things than to beings.
'Tis the ancestors' breath when the fire's voice is heard,
'Tis the ancestors' breath in the voice of the waters.

Those who have died have never, never left.
The dead are not under the earth;
They are in the rustling trees
They are in the groaning woods
They are in the crying grass
They are in the moaning rocks....

We'll do tarot card divination and have cakes and ale. Last year I served pumpkin bread and cider. This year it's up to Adonis, and he's muttering something about corn cakes, which has me worried - but it's not up to me.

Now I'm back to planning and polishing.

The red tent

Yesterday and today I struggled through my work day with headache, cramps, spaciness, and a general mild malaise. The moon is dark, and I'm bleeding. I came home from work and went to bed, dreaming of my own red tent - a place where women could go during their moontime. I imagine it as a room in the Goddess temple I'm planning in my mind and journal, a dream for the future, perhaps. In the temple there would be a moon room.

Enter the temple. It is quiet, and the air smells lightly of incense. Go to the kitchen and find a cupboard with jars of herbs for tea. Put on the kettle; mix red raspberry leaf, oatstraw, lavender, and red clover. While the herbs steep, get out the clay mug, the raw milk and raw honey. Prepare a hot water bottle for yourself. If your bleeding has caught you by surprise, go to the linen closet and take out a new clean cloth to bleed on. Take your tea and hot water bottle, and enter the moon room. The floor is covered in soft rugs. Choose a day bed covered in a grandmother's quilt. Or take a bolster to practice restorative yoga. Light candles. If you like, you can choose an essential oil - geranium, perhaps - to place in the diffuser. The room is quiet, and the light is low. There are windows you can open or close, blinds you can draw or not. There is an altar in honor of women's wise blood.

Lie on the daybed and dream. Let your mind wander. Breathe. Sip tea. Sleep under the quilt on fresh flannel sheets. There are cut flowers and green plants around you. Perhaps a fountain plays. Or a cat curls at your feet. On a small table next to your bed, find a deck of cards for divination. A journal and pen if you want to write your dreams. A piece of chocolate. Someone can come to rub your hands, shoulders, feet, or to give you Reiki. You can be by yourself or with other quiet, dreamy, bleeding women. Turn inward. Let go. You were able to leave work when you needed to, and there is nowhere you have to be.

What would you have in your moon room, your own red tent?

Guarding the mysteries

I once circled with a witch who, with a fierce, quiet power, explained how important it was for her to be a guardian of the mysteries - not in the sense of keeping secrets from people, but in the sense of practicing, sustaining, and defending her faith.

The mysteries aren't mysteries because they're secrets; they're mysteries because they can't be grasped only with the intellect, which means they can't be merely reported. They have to be experienced, and the experience defies clinical description. You won't get it from someone telling you what happened. Really, you had to be there.

And so it was this past weekend, when hosting the graduation and ordination of the third- and fourth-year classes became an initiation for me and my class. Something deep within and around me has shifted and changed. I know that later words will come, words that can do some justice to the change. The shift will be integrated into the narrative of my life; I'll be able to tell the story. But it won't be the whole story. The whole story can only be inscribed in and by my life, my body, my actions, my ecology.