Sacred Ceremony

I was first introduced to sacred ceremony in 1992 at a workshop on feminine spirituality. In my circle it is also referred to as ‘ritual’, but since those unfamiliar with the practice may have only heard the term followed with the word ‘sacrifice’, I prefer the above. Sacred ceremonies you may be familiar with would be a child’s christening or a wedding. If you consider how important these rites of passage are for the child / the couple, and their community, understand that there are many moments in all of our lives that deserve to be marked and celebrated… and that the act of doing so will make the milestone or accomplishment more sacred. At times, there are obstacles to overcome, like a great loss, heartbreak, or regrets that get in the way of our own progress. This is when I find the art of ceremony to be most rewarding, and deeply healing.

We lost a beloved member of our community to leukemia in November. In December a conversation with her widow revealed that she wasn’t sleeping well, and that she was having trouble dealing with emotions of anger and bitterness toward an organization that had mistreated her beloved a few years before her death. The betrayal our dear one suffered led her into a spiral of depression and a crisis of identity from which she never really recovered. I assured my friend that her love left behind all of those worries with her body, and that she carried them no longer… which is what she surely would wish for those who survived her. I offered suggestions for cutting off from that energy and asked her to let me know if she needed support in doing so. At our next check-in she affirmed her desire for help in letting go.

So, we came together at the dark of moon. Lakeside and surrounding a brilliant bowl of fire, we set an altar of our reverence with a photo of our beloved’s beautiful smiling face – radiant with sunshine, along with a few sacred symbols and her guitar, with which she had formerly serenaded us all at campfires past. With the couple who had eagerly introduced our beloved to her wife a quarter century before, and another couple from their shared inner circle, this gathering was not a memorial for we had done that exceptionally well in the fall. This was an intentional ceremony of release for those who remained to face life without the presence of a sacred soul held dear.

These were the words that stated our purpose and intention for this ceremony:
“We gather to reconnect this sacred circle, and to support one another in the process of letting go. As we let go of that which does not belong to us, or that which no longer serves us… we are lighter and liberated for the work of mapping the path forward. We honor the darkness, for it was surely illuminated by the light of love. We have lost a great light in our lives for whom we grieve, but we find that while in the physical world there was rarely enough time to deeply connect… and now… beyond the confines of the body… we are able to commune with her spirit without interruption. Lynn is no longer limited. Our beloved is not gone from us, she is right here in this sacred space, and in our hearts. Her smile is brighter than this flame, and her laughter and her song are lifted upon smoke and breeze. The process of letting go allows us to pull her closer, as walls and barriers crumble and fall away.”

As I led our circle through a guided visualization, we journeyed into an ancient passage tomb where we would become aware of all that we carried from which we would now seek freedom and release. As we emerged into the light and back to our circle, we each took the time to write down every thought and realization discovered. We listed our regrets and our fears, our feelings of bitterness and sorrow, along with any words left unspoken to be carried to the expansive and ever present being of our beloved… no longer in human form. When every last word was written, they were carried to the flames and set alight with our heart’s desire for transformation… each page burning into ash within a small stone basin, then carried to the water’s edge. There, we symbolically cut cords attached to people who no longer would have ownership of our spiritual real estate, as we reached to the essence of water Herself… the Lady of the Lake… asking for Her mercy and Her love to receive our words, cleansed and purified by fire, to be blessed and consecrated then transformed and transmuted as dust became fluid.

We returned to fire circle, and we shared stories and sang songs… after all, this was one of her very favorite things… and then we concluded our work with these words:
“With open hearts and untethered spirits, we cast our nets forth into the wisdom of all that is, anticipating the limitless abundance the Universe delivers with grace and ease, for which we are eternally grateful.” And so, we are.

I know that our ceremony was blessed with great love and that the one that we can no longer see with our eyes remains ever present. She is in the garden with her love, she is at the fireside with dear friends, and she is sitting across from me as I write. Her laughter rises on billows of incense, and the flickering candle is the twinkle in her eye. It is not that we miss her any less than we did when the great void was opened that terrible day in Autumn, it is simply that we have chosen to carry her with us as we carry on. We were so blessed. We ARE so blessed!

(Psyche Weeping by Kinuko Y. Craft)

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WTF Menopause?

Since the day I got my period, when I was twelve years old and in the sixth grade, I have been counting the days until menopause would grace me with its presence. I’ve waited 37 years for this, and now… you are failing me. I have always held the strong belief that fertility should be a choice, something that if you really wanted the burden of childbearing, you would have to take a pill or flip a switch to endure. I know this is not a popular belief, as there are actually some women who have gladly exchanged this inconvenience for the blessing of children, and others who would choose to bleed every day if only they COULD be so blessed. But seriously, why should someone who never wanted children be forced to face month after month of discomfort, inconvenience, mess, and expense? Nearly four decades later, and I am still rather miffed about this evolutionary slap in the face.

You’d think I would feel differently, having discovered the goddess path in my early twenties, but alas… no. I would hear women talk about their ‘moon cycle’ or their ‘red tent’ moments, and try my best to adopt a positive view of what always felt like more of a curse. “The curse has come upon me!, she cried… The Lady of Shalott” (makes me wonder what Tennyson knew about either bleeding or having children forced through a tiny hole in his gut)… now I think I’ll go lie down in the boat and wait to bleed out. Sheesh! I did find it funny to realize that in a certain faith, men and women were expected to give up something each year as a symbol of reverence and commitment to honor the sacrificial king, when women were literally giving up their life’s blood at the drop of a hat, or rather the drop of an egg. Clearly, men should get to do a forced blood letting on a monthly basis in order to keep up with the species that is always giving more than their share.

Perhaps I would feel differently if the religious right felt the seed of man was as ‘holy’ as my own, and regulate and limit ‘his’ right to choose how he would spill his semen upon the earth. But no… pregnancy by rape or by love, though unwanted is demanded to be carried as a stain upon a woman’s soul, while no burden or shame shall ever be placed upon the penis that put it there. If you think I feel bitter and outraged, you are right! I have been free from this bloody curse for an entire year… until the fall of midnight on the morning of June 11. F you, menopause! Now, the glorious countdown to freedom has to start all over again… and I hate math!

I guess I should be relieved that the gut wrenching pain I suffered several days back was not actually my body being empathetic to two friends having abdominal surgery that day, and that my nipples haven’t been aching because I’ve developed some kind of bilateral, fast moving breast cancer. Shew… it’s not cancer, it’s just the f*ing curse of fertility, back to torment me… like Buffy being ripped out of heaven and brought back into the demon dimension of hell on earth. Too soon?

Perhaps I would feel less bitter if I’d not lived most of my life feeling a sense of body betrayal and self-loathing. With a diagnosis of poly cystic ovarian syndrome in my early twenties which blessed me with rapid weight gain and insulin resistance, I put on a hundred pounds in four years without ever consuming enough calories to put weight on the most sloth-like being. Despite a hundred different programs, pills, and even surgery… my body never lets go of her claim on the fat cells she harvested through these lumpy ovaries.

Sigh… but alas… I have spent the last several years cultivating self-love. I have worked hard to reprogram the negative voice that once lived inside my head, constantly reminding me that I am not good enough, that I am not thin enough, that I am not pretty enough, that I am not smart enough, that I am not working hard enough, that I am not sacrificing enough, that I am not worthy of being loved, that no man will love a fat woman, that I don’t deserve the happiness of others whose bodies never betrayed them, that never ending barrage of hateful, unkind, unloving language that would never roll off my tongue to harm another living soul… only mine. That old voice has been silenced, finally.

So here’s how I shall interpret the swelling of my belly and the shedding of dark flesh from inside my womb. I am transforming! I am becoming something new. I am leaving behind that which no longer serves me, and it is being scraped out from the inside… flushing away from this sacred vessel, cleansed by water and transmuted by Mother Earth, into something healed and refreshed. In April, the shedding occurred on the outside, through an angry dermatitis, and now… the work is just being wrapped up, on my behalf. Here you go, dear… let’s just be done with this bit of outdated flesh. It can’t hurt you, if you just send it love!

Okay, then. I’m marking my calendar, and unlike in my youth, when I prayed that my period would come… I’ll say a little prayer that the lining of my uterus and I will never have to meet again. I shall commit it to holding. Not holding the loathing and distaste of old, but of something much healthier. Let her hold onto the light of my love, and the healing red of root and orange of sacral chakra energy, and from there… let her energy bring birth to creativity, with words that flow freely rather than blood, and new projects that bring enlightenment, empowerment, and prosperity for self and community. I will take this life blood and pour it onto the earth as my prayer, as I did at the full moon in May of 2000 in dedication to Artemis, with a promise to “open up and let a piece of myself fall away”. Okay, great lady. I hear you. I am allowing this last remaining bit of false belief and bitterness to fall away from my body, never to be entertained again. I promise.

Beloved vessel of loving expression, I commit to you that all of my words shall come to you with love. Body of the universe, I vow to hold sacred every curve and every curl. Sacred being, I promise to love you, cherish you, hold you close, to always be honest and express my truth, and will never ask you to endure suffering from self or others, for you have done your time, and I am choosing to set you free. With this freedom, I find a release of tension in my belly, and I am finally able to breathe, and perhaps to sleep. The rage has passed, and we have earned a dark chocolate reward. May peace be with me, and also with you. Amen and Blessed be.

(The Lady of Shalott by John William Waterhouse – my favorite non-living artist)

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Second Sunday Sensations

Bliss, joy, happiness, comfort, healing, sighs of relief, deep belly laughter, tears of shared sorrow, and the ultimate level of gratitude for these shared sacred days. Many people get dressed each Sunday and make their way to a house of worship that meets their spiritual needs, and there, if they are really lucky, they find community. I was raised Unitarian, but I’ve never really been a church-goer. To me, the service was never as fulfilling as the community connectedness that would follow. Long ago, I chose to cut out the middle minister. There are still times when I may find solace in having that sacred place in which to connect. On the afternoon of September 11, 2001, for example… I found myself numbly making the drive to our sanctuary, seeking comfort within a room of like minds and warm hearts. Minutes from an executive airport and an international airport, I will never forget the eerie vacancy of the skies that could be seen through horizon windows. I recall very little about what was spoken, but felt a sense of shared shock, fear, heartbreak, uncertainty, and dismay. I do recall my own words… for my sorrow was mingled with joy. On this terrible, horrible, tragic, no-good day, my Tribe sister was in Colorado giving birth to sweet Whimsy. To me, she was a symbol of hope in the darkest of times. In just three months she will be seventeen, and she couldn’t possibly shine more brightly… always our beacon of shining brilliance and great pride.

The last community trauma did not lead me to church, though many did gather there for comfort, for support, for counseling, to find someone – anyone who could help hold a shattered soul together until healing could someday be found. It was two years ago this week… I remember that I had been visiting a friend in North Florida that weekend, and for some reason that Saturday night, I felt restless and chose to drive home rather than to stay another night. I don’t know what was on my mind during that three hour drive, but if my thoughts were troubled or petty they would soon be completely annihilated… along with 49 sacred souls.

For more than a decade, a small group of committed friends within my circle have gathered for Second Sunday Supper. Each month we assemble in someone’s kitchen, and there we cook together and wine flows into glasses, while our hearts are filled and overflow with pure love and adoration for the grace and beauty of our togetherness. I believe that if there was no food present, we would still feel well-nourished at our parting.

Two years ago, we gathered in the home of dear friends who have since moved away. That morning we had all risen with the most tragic news, and though we had a commitment to brunch together, we had to ensure we could still gather – as one of our hosts was a member of the police department. In a different role, and gratefully never in harm’s way, he had not been called in, and we all felt it especially necessary to gather our hearts into one place, a group hug from which we would wish to never emerge. Upon arrival, words were difficult to share through throats swollen from primal screams and flowing tears. Reports were coming in from comrades… 20 confirmed dead… 23 confirmed dead… 30… 35… 42…. breathless and shattered… 49 monumental losses to our beloved community. Tears would dry and fall again. Together we waxed on about shared dreams of a world that celebrates the authentic beauty of every individual, where self-hatred and familial denial of one’s truth could only lead to such a violent atrocity in books of fiction, and the reality of an automatic rifle in the hands of a civilian was as far-fetched as Marvin the Martian’s ray gun, pointed at Bugs Bunny on the surface of Mars… only to be found in a world of cartoon fantasy. A convoy of refrigerated trucks would never be required, for the inadequacy of space in the county morgue.

Gratefully, most of our Second Sundays are free from such horror and sorrow. Music plays, friends gather, food is prepared, wine is poured, bloody marys are built, stories are shared, laughter is raised, and hearts are soothed and refilled with enough love and light to carry us through the next four weeks, until we recreate this glory in another kitchen. These people are the sacred tenders of our communal hearth fire. Embers could never be darkened with their careful commitment.

Today we will gather in my home, and I hope that tradition will serve the quote of a friend who once said: “Walking into Melissa’s house is like walking into a hug.” Each guest will be greeted with more than welcome… with more than nice to see you, but with overwhelming relief as pieces of hearts are reunited and once again made whole. We are a tiny community, madly in love with the souls of one another. Together, we are facing a battle with cancer and ongoing treatment, the continuing grief of a dear friend lost suddenly and way too soon, we will be missing friends whose home now requires a flight or a long day’s drive to reach, we will wait for the arrival of a friend in his 70’s who went back to work to make ends meet, we will provide updates of the health and wellness of our aging parents, as well as our own aging bodies and the surprises that arise in midlife, and possibly share stories about workplace drama – or the lack-of-a-workplace bliss, as the case may be.

But all of this seriousness will be soothed and comforted by the smiles, hugs, laughter, plans for a destination wedding in the fall for two of our beloveds, and the rapt attention of each sacred being who helps to fill this space, my personal house of worship, with the love that we seek, the commitment we sustain, and the light that we share. Oh, yeah… and by the food and wine, too. 🙂

Wishing you a Second Sunday filled with your own personal version of soul-filling, heart lifting, voice raising, complete and utter bliss.

(The First Supper by Jane Evershed)

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The Beauty of Pilgrimage

Ten years ago this summer, I took a trip abroad that was quite life altering and life affirming. I was finishing up my third decade with an epiphany; I am no longer going to wait for someone else to make my dreams come true. I realized that I was missing opportunities to follow my bliss, because I was waiting for a companion to come into my life or for a friend to have the funds and vacation time available to join me for adventure. I decided that year that I would wait no longer. I booked a trip in February to be taken in August. I thought about returning to England or Scotland, places I had been before and loved, but realized that I really needed to go to Ireland. Through an online search I found a few groups that did tours that were geared toward Celtic spirituality. I was not interested in wasting a single day doing something that did not resonate with me. I didn’t want to be in this sacred country of my ancestors, and have to spend a day in the Waterford Crystal factory, when I could be spending that time among ancient sites that predate the pyramids. The company was selected by the travel date that didn’t interfere with a corporate board meeting, and I was set for a solitary adventure. I had nearly 6 months to plan, and I set about learning more about the sites I would see. At the time, I knew very little about the country, beyond my love for their native traveling hit, Riverdance. I was so glad to have the time to know more before landing on sacred ground. I was given an alumni guide to the history of the island, that went back to the actual land formation around the ice age. Here’s a little morsel of wisdom: There were never snakes in Ireland. They did not cross over the land bridge before the ice melted and turned it into an island.

The difference in being a tourist and a pilgrim is profound. A tourist travels with a mission that carries a bit of expectation and stress, while a pilgrim is on a spiritual journey with the intention of experiencing wonder and being open to the magick of synchronicity and ‘allowing’. Rather than scrambling to make things happen, one may simply allow the unfolding of the beauty and mystery that surrounds.

There are so many wonderful and amazing things that I was blessed to experience on that sacred journey, but I woke up this morning thinking of one particular moment that I’d like to share. I call it my Monica moment.

We were about half-way through our two week tour when we made our way down to the Dingle Peninsula in County Kerry. It was on the itinerary that we would see, among other things in this beautiful area, the Gallarus Oratory. In my initial reading, prior to arrival, it was written to be a 12th century church of stone on stone (no mortar) construction that appeared in the shape of an upturned boat. If you look it up online now, it has a few interpretations for its use by different archaeologists over the years. One speculation I admire is that it might have been a shelter for foreigners, or another possibility of being a funerary space for the family that owned the property. I rarely spend much time worrying about the truth of an ancient structure, and tend to simply be grateful that it remains standing for my witness centuries after its construction.

When we arrived at the Oratory, our entire group of 13 entered, and with hands clasped, we could stretch our circle to be touching the walls that encapsulated us. There was no more than a doorway on one side of the structure and a window on the other. This was a spiritual tour, therefore, everyone traveling with us had some level of interest in Celtic history, mythology, or were otherwise energetic healers of some sort. At the time, I was struggling with my identity, and the best I believed I could offer was a passion for singing chants that I had learned over the previous 16 years. So, I was asked to lead the group in a healing chant, and that I did. I closed my eyes, and twelve voices joined mine to sing the first chant I had learned, which moved me enough to choose this path of feminine spirituality for my soul’s enrichment. Raising your voice in an ancient place with fellow pilgrims is a powerful thing. I can’t tell you how many times we moved through those words, but it was possibly five rounds. When I opened my eyes, I looked up and found a face in the window looking in at us. I said, “Oh, look! We’ve attracted an Angel!”, and I snapped her picture.

I lingered inside the small structure for a few minutes, and when I stepped back into the light, I found my anam cara, a new soul-friend that I met on the tour, talking with the woman from the window. I heard her say, “You should talk to Melissa, she’s our chantress!” I walked over and smiled, as the Angel from the window spoke with a foreign accent. “Hello. My name is Monica. I was so moved by your song.” I replied, “Hi there. My name is Melissa. That song really moves me, too. Would you like me to share it with you?” And she nodded her head, and she and I clasped each others hands. We looked into each other’s eyes as I sang: “I am a circle, I am healing you. You are a circle, you are healing me. Unite us, be one. Unite us, be as one.” As I sang to this sweet stranger whose spiritual path had just crossed over my own, tears poured from her eyes. When the chant ended, she thanked me and we hugged. It was quite possibly one of the most powerful moments I have ever experienced. A decade has passed, and it is still crisp in my mind’s eye, that moment of shared magick. I am so grateful that I was mindful enough to snap that photo. Monica still peers through to me from that ancient window whose image is perched in my library. Sitting at my computer now, I wonder if she ever thinks of me… or if she tells a similar story to her friends and family about this amazingly wonderful thing that happened on her way to the Oratory.

When I reflect on that memory, I wonder why it is we rarely have these magickal moments at home or at the grocery store. It seems such a shame to have to travel to a foreign land to allow the open heart and open mind to attract such an interaction with people we don’t know. I think I will set my intention to attract more of this brand of magick wherever I roam, be it ancestral homeland or Trader Joe’s.

If you are blessed with the opportunity to travel beyond your home base, whether it be foreign or domestic, I hope that you will go forth with a pilgrim’s heart. Be open to receive whatever blessings the Universe has in store for you, and if you ever have the chance, I hope you’ll take the hands of a perfect stranger and sing to her with genuine caring and love. It will leave a permanent stamp on your soul that will bring you hope and healing even as it becomes a distant memory. I promise.

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A Spiritual Path Less Traveled

I have been asked on more than one occasion about the sense of comfort and calm that I carry. One co-worker asked me if it was my spirituality that made me such a peaceful and happy soul. I tend to think that my demeanor would be the same regardless of my spiritual path, and yet I surely would not be who I am today without it.

I started my spiritual journey at age 23, at a time when I felt unfocused and unsure of my future direction. I was raised Unitarian Agnostic, so had an openness toward learning about world religion and alternative paths of spirituality. I had gone to church with friends while growing up, and had experienced multiple denominations of Christianity, but was never able to find a connection there.

As a teenager, and an adoring fan of a certain chiffon cloaked songstress, I developed an interest in learning about Wicca. I recall asking my brother one day, “They call her a witch, but her music is uplifting and makes me feel good… so how can she be bad?” His reply was that she wasn’t bad, she was a Witch to Wicca, as a Catholic is to Christianity (providing clarity to a non-religious kid).

In the mid 1980’s, there was little to be found in the library on that topic. I found a brief outline in an encyclopedia that I photocopied, but it didn’t do much to help my understanding. It felt too foreign and strange, and so I dropped my inquiry.

Then, in February of 1992, my Mom signed us both up to attend a workshop at our church, called “Women in Religion – A Walk in Many Worlds”. It was a weekend of experiential learning about Feminine Spirituality, hosted by Margot Adler. I can still vividly recall the Saturday morning ritual that was simple in nature, but powerful. There were 120 women in attendance, and Margot (the late NPR Correspondent, and granddaughter of famed psychiatrist, Alfred Adler) invited any woman who was going through some kind of trauma or sorrow to enter the center of the circle. When I looked around, there were not enough women left in the outer ring to be able to clasp hands. For me, it was a moment of empathic clarity to understand the prolific suffering of others. Prior to this gathering, I had not yet come to understand that what people display ‘on the outside’ does not necessarily reflect how they feel on the inside.

As we joined voices for my first healing chant, there was an unmistakable energy rising. It came up through the soles of my feet and poured forth through the tears in my eyes… there was so much suffering in this circle. I longed to hold every woman in sacred space.

These are the words that we repeatedly chanted: “I am a circle, I am healing you. You are a circle, you are healing me. Unite us, be one. Unite us, be as one.” I still find this chant to be powerful and incredibly moving, whether in a circle of three or three hundred.

At the time of our gathering, I knew one woman in the circle, but when I would later reflect on that moment that changed my life for the better, I would realize that a good number of those present would become my people.

Aside from the healing chant, there is one thing that really stands out in my memory of that weekend. We were all invited to bring an item to place on the altar, and had a chance to explain the symbolism of our offering. Margot spoke of the item she brought, which was a replica of a Neolithic age goddess image known as the Venus of Willendorf. She dates back over 30,000 years, and here’s the thing… she is not a stick figure. Willie is actually rotund by current standards. She is full, and round, and fertile, with hips meant for childbearing. Margot said that when she learned to see this ancient relic through the eyes of those who created her… with a sense of awe and reverence… she could begin to see herself that way. Can you imagine – realizing that someone who looked like you was once considered divine and worthy of worship? There really might be something here for me, after all, I thought.

After the workshop, my mom found an ad in the paper for a six-month class on Wicca. Again, she signed us both up. Mom left the class when she knew I was safe (i.e., not getting involved with a cult), as this path was not for her. I continued my weekly commitment from March through August of that year. We learned about different mythological pantheons, sacred ceremony, herbalism, astrology, divination (such as tarot and runes, etc.), and more.

It’s funny to come from the perspective of skepticism and open mindedness. It takes a really long time to move through disbelief and prove-it mentality to genuine knowing – even when you’ve been witness to real magick and minor miracles. It helps to be a highly committed individual; you can just keep trying, until it clicks. It also helps to have others with whom you feel safe to explore. When the class was over, I was initially not sure I would do anything with what I’d learned. There were parts that resonated, and parts that did not. But, as fate would have it, I was invited to join a small group of classmates to continue this exploration. These people valued my authentic nature, and did not judge my lack of education on the subjects into which we would grow. With their confidence and support, I began to blossom. I was their ‘maiden’, and the tarot card that symbolized my place on the path at age 23 was The Fool… a curious soul at the beginning of an unknown and exciting adventure.

For me, what was most profound in this exploration was the ability to finally find myself in the divine. For on this spiritual path, through Margot Adler’s introduction and the class on Wicca, I met the Goddess. Before this, the only expression of divinity I’d been shown came in male form, and quite frankly, having been betrayed by a male at age 20 to whom I had given my heart, well… I just wasn’t interested. How could I trust Him? And so here, in the proverbial lap of the Goddess, I was ready to make my home.

Over the last 25 years, my personal definition of spirituality has fluctuated. I remain committed to a permanent state of evolution, as I allow life and experience to alter understanding. I am an eternal student gathering insight from many paths, traditions, and religions. I find focus and strength in the archetypal feminine via Jungian psychology. I am grateful to have been raised with an open mind, not tied to a single belief system or dogma.

I love that we all have the freedom to explore and ultimately define what it is that makes us feel safe, supported, transformed, fulfilled.

For me, an earth based, goddess centered path still resonates most clearly… but my understanding of consciousness continues to evolve, and today I define myself as spiritual, but not religious – hesitant to limit my own possibility for growth and expansion.

What I’ve gathered from every single path I’ve studied… is that symbolism is powerful. We can find commonality in the Earth’s path around the sun through the changing seasons, and the cycle of birth, growth, death and rebirth of nature. And just as Mother Nature sheds her leaves each fall, we too can choose to drop what no longer serves us, be it an attitude, a toxic relationship, or a path that no longer meets our needs.

Whichever path you have chosen, and however you define it, dear ones, I hope that your own sacred journey is paved with love and healing light, and that you are surrounded by a community of supportive, loving, compassionate friends who will take your hand when you need guidance through moments of darkness. Knowing that I am never alone, and that I am surrounded by so much love has always been a great blessing to me… and from the center of my being, I wish the same for you.

Thank you for walking this path with me.

The Once and Future Son

At the end of 2015 my soul-sister and childhood friend embarked on a healing journey. She is such a beacon of positivity and light that you would never know the darkness through which she has come. Her heart is so big and so open, you could not imagine that it had once been mishandled, manipulated, abandoned, and betrayed. Her generous heart just keeps shining, giving, expanding.

She is one of my great heroes, and without a doubt, a soul with whom I shall always resonate… together, we create a kind of harmony. She came into my life when we were ten years old, and though there have been separations of time and distance, when we come together, it feels as if no time has passed, because clearly… we are always together… hearts singing to one another over the miles.

Our favorite pastime is what we call ‘couch time’. This is when and where we go deep. The season that her healing began brought us ample couch time, as she was staying with me while working on a project in town. She engaged the support of an intuitive life coach during this visit, and it was from her first session that our assignment was delivered.

I never wanted to have children of my own, though I’ve always been grateful for the faery goddess babies in my life, that are the sacred legacy of dearest friends who have nurtured my presence in the lives of their children. I’ve witnessed the joy, pride and glory of motherhood through many of my girlfriends, and I’ve witnessed the sorrow and heartbreak of some whose longing for such a blessing did not come to fruition. This is where our story begins.

Being separated by distance sometimes does not allow us to be witness to the suffering of loved ones. With 2,000 miles between us, I fear that, at the time, I was aware of my dear one’s miscarriage, but perhaps failed to be present with her at the time of her loss and grief. I was grateful to have the opportunity to make up for my failure, when she shared with me the task before her.

The very first mission of her healing journey was to make peace with the loss of her son. It was suggested that the work would be most powerful and effective at the Winter Solstice. It was early December and she was about to return home, but she asked me to help her with this endeavor, and booked a flight to return for couch time later that month.

My own spiritual path of the last 26 years spirals around the Celtic wheel of the year, and the significance of a ritual to greet her son on the day that the ancients celebrated the rebirth of the Sun was not lost on me. I set forth to create for her a sacred space in which to find celebration and closure.

The following meditation was inspired by my journey to Ireland in 2008. As I walked into the passage tomb known as Newgrange or Bru Na Boinne, it was clear to me that we were walking into the womb of Mother Earth. It can be seen from everywhere in the Boyne Valley, and this is where the people of this region would bring the cremains of their loved ones. There is a window box over the only doorway through which the rising sun enters only once a year… on the Winter Solstice.

It is my strong belief that they were longing for the rebirth of their beloveds, along with the rebirth of the Sun, as this is the time of year (in the northern hemisphere) we see the longest night… from which point the days begin to grow longer. This is the journey that my friend and I shared on the longest night of 2015.

The journey into darkness has been a long and difficult spiral inward. You have come to this place, upon a frosted, moonlit valley, to seek healing, comfort, and to lay down your burdens. In your mind’s eye, you travel over the river… the surface alive with movement – spirals ascend as if to caress the face of the moon.

You journey upward, to that ancient place on the hill… the earthen mound that can be seen from anywhere in the valley… the womb of the Mother. As you approach, following the path that leads to the curb stone that marks the entrance, an Irish Hare pops up from the landscape, and dashes off, into the night. You arrive at the portal stone and run your fingers over the petroglyphs left upon the stone more than 5,000 years ago… clearly symbols of the river that brings bounty to this valley, and the cycle of life, death, and rebirth.

Now, you step forward and walk into the doorway, surrounded, as you move forward, by megalithic stones that form a passage, protective walls, and ceiling. It is dark here, and you step with intention, guided by the feel of the protective granite, but it is safe, and you can breathe with ease, knowing that you are safe in the belly of the Mother. As the wall begins to curve, you know that you have reached the center… slightly up hill from the ground from which you entered. Here, you take a seat… and wait.

On the longest night, you find peace in the darkness. You have come here to reconnect with the one you thought lost, the one who tried his best to come to fruition as the child of your womb… the son of your heart. It is here, in this ancient, sacred place… that you are finally able to give him a name. Here, before you, a shadowy image begins to emerge and take shape in the darkness. Outside, the very edge of the top of the sun is kissing the horizon, and a tiny ray of light has begun to journey toward you, across the cool stone floor. The pale light allows you to see that there is a large stone basin in the center of the chamber, and the small being that is emerging from the darkness is a young boy… who bears a striking resemblance to someone familiar.

As the light continues to gather in the chamber, you are able to see more clearly now, and the boy before you holds out his hands, reaching for you, and as you lean in… you feel the small, dry, warm palms upon each side of your face. As you look deeply into those eyes… YOUR eyes, gazing lovingly back at you… you are finally able to have that conversation that your soul has longed to share. Greet him by name… and take the time you need to speak with one another. Say the words that float from your heart to wrap him in mother’s love… and wait to hear his reply. There is no need to rush, in this sacred place… you are both, for this moment… timeless.

When words have been shared, tears have been shed, and laughter has tickled the tips of your toes… you look again, into those familiar, beautiful eyes that reflect all that is perfect in this world… the one who has never let you down… recognizing YOURSELF as great warrior of your own story, you are able to release the feeling of loss and sorrow, feeling in your heart, that it has been replaced by gratitude and joy.

By now, the bottom of the sun has gently caressed the horizon, and its beams of pure, radiant, healing light are streaming through the window above the doorway to the passage… and the altar stone, upon which your sacred child is seated, is enveloped with a golden light. As you gaze upon his beloved being, you gasp to realize that HE has become the light. Every cell of his body has begun to shimmer, like sparkling gold. He reaches for you again, and you take him into your arms for a final embrace.

When you both have shared the comfort of touch, and are ready to say… farewell, for now… you loosen your grip, and his shimmering being pours through your body with a warming, glow of golden light. He has been released from this world, and his radiance leads you gently out of the ancient mound, and back into the full, warm light of the sun. It is a new day, and you feel refreshed and light. You are ready to emerge from the passage… and for the new opportunities that you shall bring to birth in the days and months ahead.

We are the earth. We are the womb. Come rising sun. Lead us from the tomb.

Beautiful being… welcome to the light!

Through these words, and upon this journey within, my friend found the closure she sought. She made peace with her sorrow and regret, and found a way to have a relationship with a soul that she cannot see, but that surrounds her and moves her, despite the limitations of an earthly body.

If you are aching for the loss of a loved one, whether or not you knew her or him in a form made manifest, know that my soul-sister and I are holding you close. We invite you to take this journey into yourself, and there, we hope you may find comfort and deep peace. Love and brightest blessings shine brightly upon your sacred journey.

solsticesunrise

Sunday Service or Faery Fantasy?

Have you ever had an experience, that when over, you look back and wonder if it really happened? My memory is rather selective. I call it Swiss Cheese Memory, because it seems I may remember pieces of a story, while other bits fall through the holes. But there is this one magickal day, though buried beneath twenty years of mundane history, which offers me remarkable clarity when plucked out to be shared. I keep this memory planted in a tiny pocket behind my heart, and am always grateful to be able to return to that very moment… as if to prove time travel a reality.

In college, I took four semesters of American Sign Language. That’s not to say that I ever had the confidence to do anything with it, but I can still spell out the alphabet and offer you my gratitude, my love, and inform you that I have to pee without speaking a word.

My classmates were far more confident than I, not limited by a false belief of not being good enough, my old wound – now healed. So, when a total immersion opportunity in St. Augustine arose, I joined them for the weekend trip, but did not attend the course. As they headed back to the college for the deaf on Sunday for their final class, I got in my car and drove along the waterfront to find a parking spot. My thought was that I would find a tree beneath which I would read a book before meeting up with the ladies for lunch. On this particular day, the sun was shining, the breeze was beautiful, and there was not a single place to park. So, I kept driving.

Soon I found that I was no longer in familiar territory. I ended up in an old neighborhood, and thought I should probably turn around and go back the way I came, so not to be lost (in an era before GPS and cell phones). When I pulled over to get my bearings, I found myself in front of quite a sight. I pulled out my journal to write about what I saw, scribbling imagined emotions to go with the vision before me.

Surrounded by a chain link fence, was a small cinder block structure that was covered in small white crosses, some atop blue hearts. There was no roof, floor, windows or doors on this house, and with all of the crosses, I imagined a whole family having died there (morbid, I know), as it resembled many roadside memorials I’ve seen.

When I looked up from my writing, I noticed a car to my left was inching slowly past, with two women eyeing me with suspicion. As they parked in front of me, and got out of the car, I rolled down my window and they approached, each dressed to the nines, pillbox hats, and all. I told them that I was intrigued by this house and had to stop, and asked them if this was a place of pain for them. One woman replied: “Oh, no honey. This is our church!”

The next thing I knew, I had been invited to worship with two elderly black women somewhere off the beaten path of historic downtown St. Augustine.

Of course I accepted their offer, and I helped them carry items from the car into the curious structure that was sacred to them. Together, we transported a canvas bag with a few hymnals, a battery powered keyboard, and a Christian bible. As we passed through the gate to enter the property, one of my hostesses placed a halfway deflated balloon at the gate, and turned a sign around to show anyone arriving late that church was now “In Service”.

We entered the ‘sanctuary’ through the unhindered doorway that faced the road, stepping onto beautiful green grass. There were randomly placed cinder blocks and a few planks of wood that leaned against the wall. By their guidance, I helped rearrange these items to become a pew and a keyboard stand. Next, I was guided through a side-doorway, and found that there was a small wooden closet with a lock, from which was pulled a small wooden lectern. It looked more like a plant shelf that had been painted blue with a white wooden cross added as a symbol of its importance… to cradle the holy book for reading. There was a porcelain heart-shaped box that sat on the shelf, behind the cross. With this final placement, in the front of the room, facing the single pew, and to the left of the ‘choir’ section, we were ready to begin the service.

One woman took her place at the keyboard, and the other behind the lectern. I took my place with hymnal in hand, respectfully, upon the pew of block and wood. The service proceeded in the usual fashion… a bit of music, followed by words of scripture. At each phase of the service, I was informed of their traditions. “This is where we do the meet and greet.” And the three of us stood, and I introduced myself to Vondelin and Petronella, two sisters, both in their seventies. They called each other Von and Pet, for short. Their mother had taught at the local school for the deaf, and it was a fire in the nearby historic district that sent embers aloft to burn down their family church.

We returned to our assigned places to continue the service. I was invited to read something from the ‘Good Book’, and not having a Christian background, I asked Von to select a piece for me. As she took my previous place on the pew, I looked out over my congregation, and delighted in the sight. When I finished my reading and returned to my seat, Pet asked if there was a song I’d like to sing. I told her that I was not familiar with this hymnal, and the only song I could think of that might be appropriate was one performed in the church scene from the movie, Corrina, Corrina with Whoopie Goldberg.

And so, the three of us moved to the music of the keyboard and we let our little lights shine! Next, it was time to do the offering. Von pulled the heart-shaped box from the lectern shelf and informed me of this part of the service. When I told her that I had left my purse in the car and offered to run out, she handed me two dimes, and said: “No, no, honey… too much money just invites thieves.” And so I placed the two dimes she gave me into the box, and Petronella did the same, then Vondelin returned the box to the safe place beneath the bible.

Again, we all returned to our designated roles, and I listened to the completion of our service. As I sat there, in this simple structure with my feet in the grass, looking up at blue sky and lush green treetops, and then looked back at these two, lovely, authentic, open-hearted women… my heart experienced such bliss. When the service ended, I helped them return the space to the state it was in upon arrival. We locked the lectern and porcelain box in the closet outside the side door, and removed the planks of wood from the cinder blocks and leaned them against the wall. I helped them carry the keyboard and hymnals out to their car, and thanked them for sharing their Sunday Service with me.

As they drove away, I sat in my car, as I had done just an hour before… looking over at this curious structure, and wondering to myself… Did that really happen? I eventually drove away to find my friends, whose voices had been liberated over lunch before our drive back to Orlando.

At work on Monday, still affected by the wonder of it all, I shared my experience with co-workers. One who often prayed for me and my Unitarian-pagan soul, said: “See! I knew you would find your way to the one true path.” And I looked at her and said: “Oh, no! Don’t you see? As much as I was in their church… they were in mine! With words of worship and song, we had our feet upon the earth, and the sun upon our skin, the breeze danced through the trees to caress our faces, and we were all one.”

When I later shared this magickal tale with my Tribe, we all wondered if I had slipped into some kind of faery realm. But it was all confirmed when, several months later, my friends went to St. Augustine to celebrate their wedding anniversary, and they followed my vague instructions to finding my magickal church.

Not only was the structure still there, but it had new windows in the front. They attended the service with my not so faery friends, and learned that they had been raising money to refurbish the church, and were doing so, literally one window at a time. That made me a little sad… that they were working to remove nature from their sanctuary.

Several years passed before I made my way back north to St. Augustine. When I made that drive around the waterfront and into the old neighborhood, I did not find the church. I don’t know if it was torn down or rebuilt to be unrecognizable to me… or if it finally passed through the veil into the faery realm, after all. I do know that I will forever be grateful, for my curiosity to stop, and for the kindness of two sisters to invite me in.

I hope that if you ever find yourself at the doorway of a magickal threshold, that you will accept the invitation… and enter.