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Book Chapters- The Moon to My Sun

Moon to My Sun

chollasoledad

 This practice of devotion is a strange path. South has always seemed a bit unnerving to me, and I go about my day feeling watched. He has also taken to shoving me. I’m just beginning to work with him, and we’re trying to find ways to communicate. It takes time. This time around, it feels so different. I can feel his presence in a way I have never felt before. There is something about holy longing that sings to him. He no longer waits for me to call, he meets me upon waking. My life has become profoundly magical, snuggling with numinous beings and leaning into ecstasy.

Sometimes that means that he grabs me. Today I was rolling by my desk, on my way to my bed, and I got snatched. It felt like talons had closed on my shoulders. I reflexively pulled them tight around my ears. I sat in my chair as I said, “Ok, ok, I’m not going to fight. I won’t. I’m going to stop fighting any minute now…” I felt my chair turn and I was facing my desk. A voice that was not my own said, “pen, paper, write.” I picked up my pen and paper and the talons released, the voice became melodious, sensual, nearly a purr. I suddenly felt held, like something precious. And then I wrote down his love poem:

               

 

Will you be the moon to my sun?

Will you be my love?

You are as perfect as any other creation

As any nebula I have ever made.

Though you weep at your corruption

The pain that the body endures, the resonance of suffering

You are more alive than your purity of spirit ever was.

You are precious and mortal, and so painfully beautiful and dense.

 

Will you be the moon to my sun?

Will you write me a song?

Sing it to me, over and over

So when you pass I can weave it into the stars under my hand

I sang to you when you were young, I called your name.

And you answered me and claimed it as your own

A secret between us, an intimacy waiting to be revealed

Pain stole your voice, and the world is less without it

Write me a song, I promise I will remember all the words

 

Will you be the moon to my sun?

Will you be my sword?

You listened when I told you that you sang the pattern

A holy architect, an instrument of Hir will

I feel how you hate your mind on fire

And crave it all the same.

Do you understand that only mortals create for beauty?

Only they create art.

Without your eyes and ears the stars are lonely and silent.

 

Will you be the moon to my sun?

Will you be my voice?

You can look at my face and not be blinded

And in your face, I am reflected into the world

Don’t you remember when you were a child, how we sang together?

The secret that we kept, that my kind worship yours as you worshipped us.

If only you feared life as little as you feared death

Now your voice is silent and I cannot hear myself

I can wait forever but you cannot

 

Will you be the moon to my sun?

Will you be my love?

The way you flow as I move across your skin is beautiful to me.

I have no culture, no judgment, no critique

Only wonder at the miracle of you at all

Can you suspend your belief in your brokenness for the space of a breath

And lean against me, open your mouth, make a sound, any sound?

Write me a song, let me inspire you

I promise, I will remember all the words

 

 

Shiiiiiiiiiit. This is actually happening. This is not in my head. Ok, Sewa, this is the real shit. You know what your answer is. You gave it 25 years ago. Ah, fuck. I guess this is a thing. This is an adventure. 59 year olds in wheelchairs can still get into all kinds of trouble.

And also, this is him? This is the one who wooed me as a child, who sang with me in the backyard at night until my mom made me come inside and stop singing to the stars? This is the one who grabbed me outside the forest and told me my name? It’s been him all along. Well, damn.

Que suave, tambien.

Book Chapters- The Moon to My Sun

Journal Entry 8/6/19

chollasoledad

Therapy day. Made even more exciting by my current state of pollution, weird dreams about Kees, and a classic Freudian slip. I always want to get my mileage out of a therapy session. I began with crying and railing about feeling polluted, corrupted in some way. My body fluids were exploding out of me, or being mechanically sucked out of me. Not feeling so sexy right now. I feel like something is happening to me, like some sort of forced purge, an effort to expel all the disgusting parts of me. Like a body when it rejects an organ, I feel like mine is trying to expel my soul. I am screaming in here as I am leaking blood and piss and shit and snot and tears and ichor.

“Ichor?” she queries, interrupting me. “Like the blood or gods or demons?”

I blink. “I meant lymph.”

“Well, I suppose that is correct in an archaic sense, but ichor?” She shifts in her seat. “Do you feel there is something inhuman about you? I ask because you usually find identifying as a monster empowering. This seems like a departure.”

I hold up the clear tube that holds the bubbles of fluid being sucked out of my wound by the wound vac. It makes me cry, quietly. “It’s not healing,” I say. Even I can hear the despair in my voice. “I feel like my body is disintegrating.”

And yes, she did say, “How does that make you feel?” She said something more like, “How do you feel about that?” Something to that effect. I said something that surprised even me. “I am corrupt and I must be destroyed.” We both stared at each other for a long while, and the she said simply, “tell me about your corruption.” And I sang a song that I didn’t think that I could, one full of grief, of how those who loved me always eventually try to destroy me. That they cannot abide me any longer at some point. There surely must be some evil in me that this happens over and over. I talk about my mother and  her mother. I get quiet.

“What about Kees?” she says.

I look up at her with my tear stained face. “Kees was mad.”

“Kees decided to love you. He wasn’t afraid of you. You can’t make him an exception. Kees was able to love you without demands and you brought him joy,” she said, her hands open in a reassuring gesture.

“This all happened so long ago, and I haven’t felt like this in years. So many years. Can I still have survivor’s guilt inside? Have I still not purged the grief and shame?” I slouched, defeated, with my story in tatters at my feet.

She tells me about trauma and the way the body deals with it. She knows I have spontaneous bruising, that I even now still deal with a neurology shaped by violence. There is a certain compassion in the Mighty B. She does not assume that because I have CPTSD that it means that I’m weak. I have to answer to the memory of Kees. No matter how awful my life has been at any given time, I have always had someone to love me. It is a blessing, and a privilege, because for most people, there really is no one to save them. But for some reason, I have always had love, even if others have sought to destroy me. And love is not enough, but it is better than any other survival tool I know.

Book Chapters- The Moon to My Sun

Journal Entry 8/3/19

chollasoledad

Well, I haven’t posted here in a really long time. I have been very ill. I’m exhausted most of the time. Nothing interesting to write because I’ve mostly been sleeping.

I have been bleeding for weeks and weeks. Now it seems like that is a very small complaint, but when you are in a wheelchair, things get complicated. I cannot stand up long enough to use a tampon. And sitting all the time has its own complications when wearing anything else. I’m getting anemic, which makes me weak, making transferring dangerous. At this stage in my life, this isn’t supposed to be happening. Why am I bleeding at all? It worries me. I am really longing for menopause at this point.

Then I got sick, the sickest I have been in a really long time. I picked up a norovirus from somewhere and I spiked a fever. I was delusional from fever. My roommates would come in or out of the room to bring me water or tea and I would try to talk to them. The fever made it hard to know what was real and what wasn’t. I thought a cherry tree was growing through my window, but in my dream the cherries were too sour. I kept trying to tell Ruby, “don’t eat those cherries,” and she would just nod. It seemed like she was responding to me. Actually, I was just pointing and mumbling. I also had a dog, which I do not, and I kept trying to get them to read my book to me. She was a very devoted Shiba Inu. She would take out her little reading glasses and put them on, and read the book, but they would not read out loud. It was quite frustrating.

I had a dream that I had a zombie husband. I was dismayed about this because I did not remember getting married, not that he was a zombie. He was an ok guy, he didn’t try to eat my brain or anything. People were really mean to him, because he was a zombie, so they would kick his legs out from under him. I, of course, would get mad about this and yell at these people, and try to find whatever body parts may have gotten scattered. Ruby has declared that she does not approve of the zombie husband. When I, or anyone else, defend zombie husband, Ruby just replies, “Aim higher!” She does have a point. Also, the fact that I am the only person who is defending him is something typical of abusive situations. I keep trying to remind people that it was just a hallucination, but my friends have taken my hallucinations and run with them. It actually amuses me now that I’m up and starting to get around a little more. I do still want a Shiba Inu, but I won’t expect them to read to me.  However, the zombie husband is a complete pass.

A good amount of my time, however, was spent cowering on the toilet, with the trash can on my lap, being a fount of bodily fluids. In addition, I have a wound vac that is constantly sucking on the wound on my hip, which has grown to the size of a silver dollar. It looks like someone or something took a bite out of me. And I cry and scream while I do this, feeling my body trying to somehow cleanse itself of every last molecule of whatever it has deemed evil. I don’t understand, and I am not sure how much more of this I can take.

Book Chapters- The Moon to My Sun, The Book of Fire

On Pride

chollasoledad

When you close your eyes and let yourself enter the realm of fire, all guides will take you to a cave. If you enter the cave, it takes you to the heart of the everything, a river red as blood that flows hot and steaming under the world. The River of Fate. Fate is not nearly as rigid as we dream it is. It is simply the pattern of all things, the natural law that moves stars and oceans and cycles of the moon. It is the song that vibrates the lines of the world. The River is the heart of the pattern and its twists and turns are not known to us. But if you find yourself standing on its banks, you will know you have come to the place of surrender. We want to fight the idea of fate, to say that we must disprove it in order to be free, as if freedom is chaos. It is not.

Pride is the feeling one has when one stands on that bank of the River of Fate. It is the knowledge that you stand at the center of the pattern, and that makes one feel great and small all at once. Fate is potential. It is the law that bends the lines of the world. You, my love, are part of that law, subject to it and the creator of it all at once.

Witches are the blades of the Goddxs, the forces that carry holy will into the world. So if you find yourself there, know that you are being called to imagine what has not become yet, and to jump into that river. There are rapids, but you won’t know where they are. There are falls and torrents, around the next bend. There are long slow stretches and sandy beaches, and secret pools and gentle eddies. The witch understands that to jump into the river is to surrender to desire and to allow fate to take its course. You do not get to decide how to get there. We are tools of outcome only. We know where we belong. We know we are entitled to this. The River of Fate is our birthright, the freedom to surrender.

This sounds so poetic, but it is not always easy, especially for those of us who have not known freedom from the time we were small. For so many, we were told that we were not entitled to our own wills and desires. We were born to serve. What happens when the descendants of slaves stand on the banks of the River of Fate? They scream. They rage. They fight every chain, literal and metaphorical, that has ever been placed on them or their ancestors. They writhe and struggle and curse. I have watched my students do this, confounded by the feeling. “What is this feeling?” they scream. And I carefully place my hand on their shoulders and say, “Entitlement, my love. That feeling is entitlement. The knowledge of your birthright.” And they scream some more. Freedom is painful at first. I remember standing there, too, with a white woman as a guide. She brought me here, to the River of Fate and was mystified by my screaming. I remember when I got my acceptance to graduate school. My grandfather said to me, with tears in his eyes, that he was born on a hacienda, with a name that was not his. And now this famous university was going to pay his granddaughter to get her PhD. He looked at me as his destiny. That sometimes your actions set the future in motion. Our people have always played the long game. It’s why any of us are even still alive. He stood there, eyes shining, with all the pride of a possession that was a possession no more, looking at the glory of his own decisions. My grandmother just rolled her eyes. I think she always knew about Fate, and it was no more mysterious to her than the action of yeast rising, or scrubbing the tile. As if to say, we knew this one was going to do this. Stop being weepy, old man.

I am not mystified. I understand that all those times that I have been told no have built a tether that prevents me from jumping in. But being Wo’I, a coyote through and through, I chewed my way through that tether. I am a child of Father Sun and I am going to jump into the goddamn mother fucking River of Fate. It’s a fight. It’s why Fire is a sword. This is the moment that I pick up the knife that my Grandmother gave me and carve a place for myself in the world.

We often look at fate as something already written, predetermined. But that only works in the Western way of things. If you are part of the world, made of the same stuff, then you are an active participant in fate. Unlike that idea of predetermination, fate is pattern. Pattern is the face of God. Fractal geometry, Fibonacci sequences, the paths of the stars in the sky. All of these are expression of a deeper law that dances underneath. The difference for Witches is that we know where the River of Fate lies. And we know that every time we close our eyes and surrender to it that we set a path in motion that is guided by higher patterns that we cannot see. But as Witches, we also know that something called us there. Something that needed to be born. And so we surrender to the labor pains that birth new things into the world. We are the bridge between the worlds.

This is often where white witches ask, “but how do I know?” Oh, babies, let me tell you something. You are not like them. You had to chew through the tether. You had to break through the chain. You fucking know. And as you stand there, finally, in possession of your birthright, panting from the effort with sweat dripping in your eyes and a maniacal smile on your face, you will know. No one gave you your sword, you had to forge your own. This wasn’t just some guided visualization exercise. You are here and you are fucking ready. At some point, you will say it. You will give in to South holding you and stroking you and asking what you want. You will turn in his arms and yell in his beautiful face the name of your desire. In that moment you will deserve it. In that moment you understand what Western witches do not know. He will laugh and shove you into the River of Fate. And you will burn down the world. Every one of you will burn it down. It’s why I have dedicated myself to dragging as many of your beaten down sorry asses here as I can. Because at some point, you will give in to his embrace and make a new world.

This is the secret that is held in fire. That fate is woven not by some force above us issuing decrees. Fate is the collected desires of those who enter the River. And interdependent souls are weaving a world not just for themselves, but for the whole. We know how it feels. When one of us fucks up, it reflects on all of us. White people are individuals, and endlessly tell you this, especially when you call them out on being white. But we know that we are never individuals. And where that may be against us with stereotyping, it is in the end our strength. We never jump into that River alone, but accompanied by every ancestor, every child, and every family spirit that our blood remembers. Every baby born to labor until death and every granddaughter who rose up out of the suffering and sheer cussedness of those who came before her. We understand that our actions affect all, even the dead. Our will is holy will. We know.

El Canto Hondo, the deep song, sounds in the River of Fate that flows beneath all things. We are awash in it. This is the song of mountains and hummingbirds. Of the rivers that flow in those tiny veins and arteries that power the tiny wings you cannot see but can only hear. The desire to be born. The desire to become. It drives the ever-shifting Self toward creation. We never change without shifting the pattern. It is our obligation and duty to make a world for all.

And when you get out, my love, dripping and exhausted, you have arrived. You have changed the world. Now you fall and weep, because your labor is done. The pattern is made. Now he lifts you, beloved South, and kisses your lips. Well done, he whispers. He told me once, when I was afraid, “there is nothing in this world that is not born of desire. Everything is a creation of love. If you can dare to speak it, mountains will fall at your feet.” I have no need for mountains to fall at my feet. But I understand what he is saying. Dream bigger. Create more. Take up your sword and meet your destiny. After all, you crafted both sword and destiny. Be the pattern and accept Fate. Not in resignation, but as a faithful companion. It is what you were born to do, Nephilim, it is what you were born to do.

Book Chapters- The Moon to My Sun

The Book of Fire

chollasoledad

Pentacle points:

Fire on the Iron Pentacle is Pride. On the Pearl, it is Law. The two are connected by knowing one’s value and place in the world. You were meant to be here. In fact, many of us were brought here at great expense and effort. You are part of what makes this world, the blades of the Goddxs. Law is written in the lines of the world, it is there for you to read. It is the course of the stars, and the striations of minerals. Pride is the knowledge that every witch must have that they are here with purpose and resolve, to enact the law they know. The secret of this is that the will of the witch is holy will. It is simply the work of distinguishing the will of the ego from the will of the soul. And even though that is simple work, it is never-ending and difficult.

Color associations:

Red, like the color of blood

 

Direction:

South

 

Tool:

The Blade. Athame or sword, it is the physical embodiment of flame, shaped like it, born of it. The blade directs the use of energy, allows us to focus it in a specific direction. We charge the blade with ambient magic, we activate it with breath until it rings like a bell. Then we let it rip. Witches make their own lines of the world. This is how.

 

Guardian:

South (AKA Suavecito) is the muse, the source of inspiration. He is the seductive voice that whispers in your ear, “What do you want? You can have it.” That question has always terrified me. He reminds me at those times that the Fae are lawyers, but that magic is not. Fire is all about being willing to dare to create something else, something bigger, something wonderful. He challenges us to dream bigger. He wraps you in his many arms and sets you ablaze to create. His is the dance of the stars. Also, well, he doesn’t get the nickname Suavecito for nothing.

 

Gate between:

The Santa Clarita Mountains outside of Desert Hot Springs, CA. But in specific, there is a valley, up a wash in Anza Borrego park. It is guarded by cacti and rattlesnakes. The cactus spirit stands between two stones, but if you can get past, there is a flame that burns, about 6 feet off the ground. Sing to it at night and it will celebrate with you. The first time I went to Anza Borrego, I did just that. We built a small fire and sang all night. But the time I really understood was the first time I went back for Semana Santa. I hadn’t been to Easter at San Ignacio in so long, since I was a child. About 20 years. But when I did, driving along I-10, I could hear the mountains singing like sirens, singing “Welcome home!” I can’t imagine living there, but people do. It is a place like no other, an opening into a world of butterflies and white sheep on the cliffs, and desert flowers like fire and stars that bloom like doves, nestled in spines.

 

Gate within:

The gate for fire is the belly, the cauldron. Opening this place allows for one to connect to true desire and will. It also is the home of courage. Inside each of us is a piece of the unstoppable force, of holy will, that forges forward toward the liberation of our own soul. It often comes out as our voice when we don’t know why we are saying something hard, or a decision that feels like it is already decided when it arises. There is no going back. We feel that in our center, in our belly, the opening of a gate. It feels like fate, because it is. It simply is.

Book Chapters- The Moon to My Sun

Journal Entry 7/1/19

chollasoledad

Morning. I peek out of the covers. The top half of the room is full of presence. See, I started listening to this song from some Disney film I never saw to describe this moment. It has happened since I started this work with the Guardians. East likes to fill the entire top half of the room and then fall on me. If being crushed between two steel plates felt really good, that’s what it would be like, just in case you wondered. Which is why when the song with that name ended up randomly in my You Tube list, I listened to it. It kind of captured this relationship. I feel like crying today, though, for some reason. I fling back the covers and make the sigils and throw open my arms and yell, “Get over here, Angel.”

He obliges.

But what he has to say is strangely hard to hear. He is happy. He is proud. And he’s handing me off. What the absolute fuck? I just kick out the floor I was standing on and he’s going to leave me here? Ah, the song isn’t so random, is it? It’s my consolation prize, my year’s supply of Eskimo Pies. I feel held. And I also feel strange to look back to the beginning of this month and this new kind of relationship with this familiar being. We’ve known each other a long time. I’ve been pledged to him and his kind for over 20 years. Ok, so in the relative order of things, that isn’t very long. But I’m mortal. Indulge me. At least I know where I’m going next and who I will be working with.

“This is all a bit Dickensian, isn’t it? I mean ghosts of Christmas past and all that.”

He laughs. It’s hard to tell what they know or don’t know of culture. They mostly mine what we are familiar with or focused on. I come to depend on not knowing when dealing with them, honestly. It’s a lot safer. I guess the goal was not to establish some new Self, but to dislodge the one that had become fixed and safe. Except it wasn’t safe at all. The one that was no longer appropriate. It is time to be unmade. Ok then. I’m ready. Hold my beer. Team guardrail to the end.

Book Chapters- The Moon to My Sun

Journal Entry 6/30/19

chollasoledad

I’ve been putting out my writing in different places. This is making me terrified. I am terrified because I am saying things that could possibly bring some blow back. Yet that isn’t happening. I’m saying to white people, “Nah, this is what is happening,” and they are replying with, “Wow, I never thought about it that way. Thanks.” Folks, this just never happens. Ever. I’m feeling like I might survive someone not liking what I have to offer. I also have this strange feeling that I am doing my job.

In the middle of all this, my student Luka decided to give me a tarot reading. With how uneasy I feel about not returning to work, I thought this would be the perfect time to take him up on this. So, let me tell you a little about Luka. He feels like a found precious object. I met him when he came skidding into our suite during a pagan conference. He seems quiet and competent and attentive. He is all of those things. He is also a bitch and I adore him for it. They say Cancers fight by yelling, “I will end you!” but Scorpios just quietly walk behind those folks and slit their throat. That is my Luka. He is also Indigenous. There is something I am deeply appreciating about this. He makes me feel less lonely.

He also has ridiculous skills. So here I am sitting at this table with Luka as he is reading me to filth with these cards. I am so nervous about the future at this point. And he picks up a card with a picture of a man carrying sticks in a bundle on his back. Luka hesitates. “I think you are going to pick up your sticks and go home,” he says. And just like that, the bottom falls out of my world.

I am a professor. It’s what I do for a living. I love teaching and working with students, and at the school I am at, I am encouraged to think of it as a spiritual calling. But for the last couple years, I can’t pretend to not see the bullshit anymore. It’s bad there. Really bad. Every day. I love my colleagues, who wisely love me back. Working in academia means that you are pretty much stuck with them for the rest of your life, so I’m happy that I like the folks I work with. I love my students, for the most part. I could do without the white guys who seem to think I’m their maid. But most of my white male students think I’m cool and want to talk about my tattoos all the time. Even so, that is a very small part of the inconvenience. And I can usually redirect the difficult ones with a talk during office hours.

It’s the world outside my department that is the problem. Mostly because I am a monster. Now my students spend time with me three times a week. They have come to accept me, even with all my stigmas. My colleagues have known me for over 20 years and see me as just another colleague. Sometimes I have to remind them that I am fat, or Indigenous, or disabled. That has its own pros and cons. But when I go to any function where there are people who are not used to seeing me, I am a monster, and they treat me as such. They stare, and do not respond when I say hello. They watch me eat, if I can even get to any food, because no event is ever set up to be accessible to my wheelchair. My opinion is worth nothing, even in the area in which I have expertise. I never get anything on the first try. Not promotions. Not sabbaticals. The only outside person who immediately gave me credit was a guy  with a noble savage fetish. No, I don’t know all your Plains connections. I’m from the Southwest. And worse, watching what happens to Black women in this institution. Seeing 20 years of men of color taken down by accusations of sexual impropriety. Always that thing. Always by a young blonde woman. Maybe some of them did something wrong. But not all of them. It defies statistics, and we live by statistics. I listen to friends talk about the targets on their backs. I watch it play out. And folks with skin privilege like myself, we get kept but messed with. I am the only faculty member who is Native American.

So, of course, I burst into tears hearing this. I get myself together and look at Luka, who is patting my arm sympathetically.

“But I fought so hard to get here,” I said, staring at the card. I know the truth when I see it.

“You can’t work for free for these people. They will take and take. They will drain you dry.”

Luka knows. He’s been watching me set up contracts and do other work for the department while I’m on disability. He knows when I’m getting jerked around. And I think he also knows he is delivering a message that I am not entirely ready to hear.

“I love my job,” I say, unconvincingly.

I loved my job. I don’t know that I have loved it in a long time. I am tired of committees and microaggressions and macroaggressions and just the sheer meanness that seems to pervade every space in academe. But this is who I am. This is who I am. This is who I am! Thirty years of Buddhist practice make one aware of attachment and how that leads to suffering. It also leads to feeling foolish when I catch yourself doing it.

I’m glad he’s here, because the room is doing that weird twisty thing again. “You could write,” he says, in that sweet but slightly infuriating way. Over his head is a strange shimmering that is nodding its head. Or what seems to be a head at the moment. I feel surrounded by love, but the floor just slipped out from under my feet. Fucking Saturn return.

When I bring this up with the Mighty B, she is overjoyed. She thinks this is brilliant. Yes, it’s time to start the transition out of this career that is eating me alive. I’m left to stare at her blankly. She’s been encouraging me to think about these things forever. I have been ignoring her. But now that this moment is here, and Guardians are involved, and my student’s cards are calling me out, and I’m on disability and don’t know when I can return to work, she is staring me down with her black eyes. I take a deep breath and sigh. This is why I keep coming back to therapy. Because I love myself and all my freaking parts.

“Ok, let’s do this.”

“Ok. So, tell me what feels scary about leaving your position at the college.”

Book Chapters- The Moon to My Sun

The Wand: Direction, Delineation, Shaping the Lines of the World

chollasoledad

The tool of air is the wand. In most traditions, it is the sword or blade. I’m not exactly sure why this tradition decided to mix it up, but there it is. We have lots of lore keepers in this tradition, and I strongly recommend that you strike up a friendship with some of them, because if you are in  my line, there is a strong chance that you are a mystic, and not a keeper of knowledge. Knowing who you are is important, because it allows you to know what you do not know. That means you can be more aware when you are listening to others who do.

The wand is a tool of direction, and all directions come from the center, which is you. Yeah, remember that “and by the center, which is the circumference of all” thing? Yes, that’s you. And in the center of your world, there is a pole. This is the pole from which hangs your home, your idea of yourself (although this tends to flap in the wind a bit) and the authority with which you enact the magic that you are assigned. Every witch has a weapon. It is part of understanding how you move through the world, tethered to that center pole. The wand is the physical manifestation of that center pole in your world, the symbol and tool with which you create the magic you are here to enact.

Now I say “enact” because magic is something we do. It is not us itself. You do not want to use your own lifeforce to do magic. You have to summon it. In order to summon the magic, you have to make a basket. You lay down the warp and weft that creates the permeable container which calls that magic to you. So, in some ways, the wand is like a great crochet hook that allows you to work with the lines of the world, the lines that make up the structure and fiber of reality. Once we do that, magic naturally flows into that space. It can’t wait to do that. Like when you are the first person into the pool, and the water is smooth and unbroken like a mirror. Or when your feet are the first to make prints in a snowbank. Magic’s whole purpose is to flow through the holes in the basket and take up residence. This is how we call magic into the world, and how we call magic that is already in the world into the form that we can use for specific magical acts.

Think of your wand as a conductor’s baton. Each of the instruments and voices at your direction is the result of craftmanship and practice, dedication and talent. Each person playing or singing is an expert in their craft. Then you pick up your baton, and you are playing a giant instrument of such power it is sometimes difficult to keep it all together. But your movements, the way you feel the piece, the dance you do that plucks the strings, and blows the horns is not something you made happen. At the same time, every performer’s attention is glued to you, rapt, watching your movements and facial expressions, trembling with the desire to see the look of ecstasy on your face. This is the way of magic as well. The wand is how we conduct the orchestra or choir, it is how we tell the magic what we want done. The more you work together, the more the orchestra or choir forms a Self that is connected. So the more you can connect and play with the magic, the more it will be there for you when you need it.

If we think about the way that we use the wand in circle, it is mostly used for invocation. I like to think of this as directing with a soloist. We are using the wand to get the attention of the lines of the world, then we shape them into what we need to happen. In the Tradition, the way we call the Guardians of the Elements involves a series of movements and words that give the signals that lets them know what we want. We use the wand to shape a pentacle. All pentacles are doorways. Then we open that doorway. We hold up the wand as we welcome this vast immortal into the center of the space, by acknowledging the pole at the heart of our world. We hold the wand between our hands, in front of our heart, delineating a pathway for them to follow. We reach forward with holy longing, and invitation to those beings. We draw them in close to our heart by crossing our arms as if in an embrace. We bow before the Hoops of Heaven with love and humility and wonder. And we stand, spread our arms in welcome, holding the wand as if to say, “Oh! You made it! I love and adore you and I’m so happy you are here!” So we conduct love to make a doorway so that our Beloveds can come be with us.

Because honestly, you can’t actually keep Guardians out of a space, right? They are the very thing that we make wards out of. They are the force that cleaves energy and matter. And as they are fond of saying, they are always there. There would not be a place here, at the center of our world, without them. But it’s still nice to get an invitation. We do this with our wand to invite them to the very center of our reality.

Other ways to use the wand magically is to use it to pick things up and put things down. Sometimes I just have too much anxiety and distraction in my mind when I’m trying to pay attention to a working. I have a wand that has a stone tip. I use the tip of the wand to slowly pull out a particular thought that can then be placed in a container (or when I’m lazy, I will flip it outside of the circle). They always find their ways back out and into my mind later, so it is not a permanent solution (nor would I want it to be), but it can gain me some clarity for the moment while I am trying to work magically. This can also be used to get a moment of relief from pain. As you can imagine, pain is incredibly distracting. My body has been in pain my whole life, so much so that I sometimes think that my pain is part of me. I have learned over the years that even just the space of a breath with no pain can remind the body that pain itself, like all things, is impermanent, and that can sometimes give me a few seconds to exhale and relax. There are times when that is enough to allow me to continue, with the realization that pain is more like emotion. I am not made of my emotions, they are not part of me. Emotion is something I experience, it arises and passes away and arises again in new forms. Pain, likewise.

Perhaps one of the most important things we can direct with our conductor’s baton is our own attention. That is how we make that gateway, after all. It is not the wand itself that makes the gateway, but our own intention and desire to do so. It is not just that, but that this is the center pole of our place in the world. So, having an identity of “witch” helps us to accomplish the task as well. Our attention to all of these things helps the magic to flow in that direction. It’s not like conducting an orchestra in some ways. It would be as if the conductor was watching their own baton and communicating its motions somehow to the rest of the orchestra.

Another way that I like to use my wand is as a handle to a whip. I pick up a line and snap it. This is most easily done with Current magic. That sends out magic as an extension of my own arm, as a signal. It must be done with a sense of desire. When I was first learning to use a single tail whip, I kept trying to just destroy my target. My aim was terrible. Embarrassingly so. I got an opportunity to have a teaching session with someone who knew a lot about using a whip. When they watched me, they said, “Ok, two things. Try throwing the whip like an East Coaster, from the side.” Who knew there were regionalisms in whip techniques? “Secondly, this isn’t about destroying the target. The target is a person, ideally. You want to reach out and kiss this person at a distance. Yes, it hurts, but it is intimacy in the end.” This changed everything for me. It’s not about accuracy or force. It’s about flow. The energy flows from my heart through my arm down the whip and out into the other person. It’s mortifyingly intimate. It also changed how I use my wand. Every tool of magic is a way to engage with the world around me. I can reach out and snap energy at someone to get their attention, or send them healing or strength. Or simply just to touch someone or something in a way that says, “I know you. I remember you.” There is license in this, and that must be given. Like consent. It requires a connection in order for them to receive it. It is about that intimacy, the sharing of Selves. The first time you land a good strike on another person, they look over their shoulder at you (if they are allowed). There is something truly awe inspiring in that moment, an understanding. Their eyes somehow sparkling and dark at the same time. It changes both of you, and you know something about each other that you didn’t know before. Air is the direction of self and knowledge, after all. It makes sense that this use of the wand would depend on that.

If the self is not a constant thing, stable and continuous, then this central pole must also be the same way. Each time we hold the wand aloft, we are never entirely sure of what we will find, of who will be the one holding it up. But we learn that, over and over, each time we pick it up to do magic. The more we do so, the more we learn of the self. It isn’t a solid thing, but more like a mosaic made of all the moments of self we experience. The more tesserae we have, the more detailed the picture. But even if it feels solid and coherent, we can never forget that it is made of tiny particles, all different. In the Tradition, an elder who has contributed years of Selves to its formation, is called a Black Wand. The idea is that this person has used their wand so much, and has experienced their center pole so many times, and experienced so many Selves, that the wand itself has blackened from use and the oils of their hand. It has become an extension of that hand, and all the hands that hand has been over the years. When they pass, and they pass on their wand, it becomes an artifact, a talisman. It literally is impregnated with the magic that flowed through that elder. It contains, in essence, their love. The elders who we call Black Wand are few and treasured. Both the ones who hold that title at the time are beloved and have imbued the tradition with their wildness and love. They continue to grow. They will grow until they return to the spirit lands, to howl across the Earth, once again free and diffuse. Very likely also snapping us on the ass as they go.

Book Chapters- The Moon to My Sun

Journal Entry 6-27-19

chollasoledad

Doing a deep dive. Spent today trying to unravel losses I couldn’t even touch before. I’m going to be having the same surgery in the same hospital as a friend who deeply hurt and betrayed me. I don’t use that word lightly. Mighty B is encouraging me to try it on for size, and to remember that I’m having the same surgery in the same hospital and with the same doctor as my beloved friend Leonorewho was the real (and surprising) jewel I got out of being part of that group of people. Harri was an old lefty fat dyke activist. She and her partner were once besties with me and my girlfriend at the time. I loved Harri’s sparkling eyes, which always meant she was up to no good. She might even have been one of the smartest people I know. And that is saying something. But after the surgery, I never really saw Harri again. The person who was there in her place was not Harri. Or maybe it was the Harri that was never allowed to be out. As we tried to find friends who could help provide home care for Harri, it became clear that there was a long history of abuse in this circle of friends. Harri did her fair share of it, too. I ended up filling in the gaps in her care, a lot. We always talked as if we were family. But when I left my girlfriend, it was a mess. Public, awful, I lost this whole group of friends. Harri never forgave me for leaving my girlfriend. I was expected to just put up with bad treatment because that was what was expected of me for the sake of harmony. So, even though I had been friends with Harri for 17 years, she decided to pick my ex-girlfriend over me. She was my best friend when she went into the hospital. My best friend. When she got an infection in the knee, she blamed it on the stress from having to watch my breakup. And she picked my ex-girlfriend because she was a damsel in distress. I never really fit into their Butch/Femme crowd. I’ve always been a monster, and my gender is part of that. I just don’t give a fuck about it. I did give a fuck about Harri. And Harri was mean and dismissive. I could not stay. And even though people knew how bad things were, I was still expected to have contact with an ex who was exceedingly cruel. I know that I still carry grief in my body for the loss of Harri. I called her out for leaving me one time. She was so mad. But even at her death, she was trying to find a way to make it all about me. Somehow, I must let her go.  She’s been dead a year now. Oh, yes, didn’t I say? She died from the complications from her surgery. I admit that I am terrified that the same will happen to me. Oh, Harri, I really loved you. I am still angry at losing you, to drugs and pain and all the cognitive changes you went through. The sparkle that left your eyes. Harri, I am not sorry I left you. Even if I loved you. You betrayed me. I let that roll around on my tongue like wine. Betrayed. You left me with no choice. It’s time to cut cords, uncross and reverse, and drain this out of me. I will not share my old friend’s fate. I have built a stronger and more blessed family. And I have a lot of work to do before I go. I have a “star” on my palm that connects my fate line and my lifeline. I have a destiny to fulfill. But for now, I mostly have work to do.

Instead, I am going to see myself as more like Leonore. We didn’t get along at first, but Leonore has proved herself to be very loyal. And strangely enough, the only friend from that group of people that I kept in my life. Leonore brought me to her doctor, and she did fabulously. Her knees are much better. So, I must embrace her story, not Harri’s. I need to believe that I will survive. And thrive.

I have been cleared for all the wounds that kept me from getting surgery during the first part of the year, but now a new mysterious wound has opened on my hip. It’s not from pressure or from an injury. It just came up and looks like someone took a big circle out of my hip with a cookie cutter. Like something bit me and took a chunk of me with it. The surgery is now postponed until this wound on my hip gets better. I’m so angry at it. And I know that somehow, I must find kindness for this wound. But it is so hard.

Dealing with the depression of all these things is a challenge. Having a devotional practice helps. Meditating helps. Remembering to eat helps. But I admit that there are days when it all catches up to me, when I realize that I won’t be going back to work in the fall. I’m also feeling a bit terrified by the work of dealing with all this old grief when it rises to the top. Is this grief itself giving me wounds now? That hardly seems fair. And yet, if it means that I can move past the grief around Harri, maybe it is there to help me survive this.

Book Chapters- The Moon to My Sun

Journal Entry 6/25/19

chollasoledad

Ha ha ha ha. I had a dream. It was clearly a message and made me feel like I was getting shaken. Sometimes dreams just stay with me all day, and this particular Guardian will talk to me in dreams a fair amount.

I was sitting at a desk in an empty room. Suddenly, Roger Daltry is sitting in front of me wearing an angel costume. Not even a good angel costume, one of those cheap ones you can get at the party story with a tinsel halo and wire and paper wings. I laughed. He said, in his British accent, “Enough of that, it is time to get down to business. You need to write the book.”

Now, a few months ago, I had been at a pagan conference and some friends of mine had said that I need to write a book on cursing. So, first, I am not an expert at cursing. What I’m good at doing is knowing if a god is tapping me for doing some kind of task in the world. So yes, that is most of what I know. I do know how I think or feel about the issue, especially when I continually must answer for writing a curse that made its way around the internet about 20 years ago. I really did not want to write a book, and yet I just kept getting told that was what I was supposed to do.

Now I’m sitting across from Roger Daltry and his bad fashion judgement call hearing the same thing. I said, “I don’t know what to write about.”

He hissed, “It doesn’t matter, just write the book. You can write about anything at all.”

I was about to make some other excuse, and he banged his fist on the table. He pulled out this big black book that I had purchased some time ago with the idea that I would write a book of shadows. My book of shadows. He tsked at me as he opened the book and held it out to me. On the page was a glyph. It was my name. Not my given name, not my taken name, not my nickname. It was the name that called me from the void the first time I emerged into the world. A name that I have never told to another living soul. My true name. As I was about to object, he slammed the book shut with a snap in front of my face. He looked very kind in that moment. He said, “No one looks at the sun. It will burn their eyes. They look at the moon. Only the moon looks at the sun. You are the moon, the moon to my sun. Write. The. Damn. Book.”

In the days after that, it became clear that East wanted me to write, as a reflection of what they had to say. One of the things I was instructed to write was my book of shadows. So, a book of shadows is supposed to be the collected knowledge of a witch. In many cases, in traditional witchcraft, the book of shadows of the founder of a tradition is used in a somewhat canonical way. As far as traditions go, mine is not very canonical about anything. Serpent and Star is an oral tradition. There is no Book of Shadows. There are collections of different initiates’ books of shadows, so that you can see what things we have in common, which isn’t a lot. The thing that binds us is less a group of coherent ideas or practices and something more energetic. We call it the Current. Basically, it is a ropy kind of energy that feels like love and smells like ozone a bit. It is the hallmark of every Serpent and Star witch. We can smell it on people who want to study and become part of the tradition. If they smell right, and we feel called, we can help them through the path.

I used to say that my students were my book of shadows. They were the living embodiment of what I was hoping to teach them. But that isn’t fair. They are their book of shadows, not mine. And as I spend more time with East, he reminds me that this is my way of loving them. Writing this book is my love for them, the thing I leave them when Sewa no longer walks the earth with them. That it contains keys to call me back to them as an ancestor. That it contains keys to call the Guardians, my beloveds, who are the living breath of this tradition and welcome this dearest of souls into it. It contains spells and stories and invocations for gods and ancestors. East sometimes guides my hands on the keys, so I can say what is in my heart, so I can tell them how I do my magic. They will do their own magic their way, but this is reference material. This is what they can come back to.

I’m feeling overwhelmed a bit by this task. I understand this request to be an offering, something I do in honor and in celebration of East and what we are doing together. If I am going to be the moon to his sun, then I must shine for him. I have always thought about making my book, but I get lazy and busy and distracted. In the end, I just admit that I’m not going to do it. The difference is that this time I have someone to do it for, my students. Soon to be initiates. And their initiates. One morning East said that this is my love letter to my downline. That the way I do this work is different than others in the Tradition. I weave the basket, and that can only be done by someone like me. My voice needs to be heard, especially because of being an indigenous witch. My lens lets me see magic in different ways. Creation happens when there is someone to create for.

Besides, I’m at home on disability. When am I going to ever have this chance again?