(it’s actually for brains, as in, I don’t have any this week so I’m going for easy.)

We’re all pagan here, right? (unless you aren’t and then that’s okay, too). We like home work. Why follow what’s out there already established for us when we can blaze our own trails? For a lot of folks, this means studying, and studying means books. I like books. I actually rather love them, not just for the knowledge they contain but for the history in them, too, and the freedom and exchange they represent. Books are amazing.

Books are also a big part of why I wound up pagan – or, maybe, they’re a big part of how I discovered that there were other people like me and labels that applied to them. I’ve always been an animist, which seems common enough with pagan and pagan-friendly people. I’m not sure how I grew up an animist, but I blame my grandparents and PBS and later cable TV. And the squirrels and birds and cats and talking trees, and the hours and hours spent with my grandmother and grandfather just . . . watching.

I write. I’ve always written. I’ve always read. Fiction led me to Wicca, but it wasn’t Mists of Avalon as it was for so many people. Neither was it American Gods, which came much later. No. It was actually L.J Smith’s Secret Circle series, in a round about way. (I joke some times that I’m pagan because of Damon) (and for the curious I’m in staunch denial of the continuation of the Vampire Diaries. It’s sorta like the last ST:TNG movie – it never happened) (I’ve digressed). Reading that series and then deciding I was going to write a series like it, only better, and with witches and a werewolf and a vampire (oh, if only I hadn’t been ahead of my time at that point! It could have been great! Alas) made me go research the topic, which in when I discovered Scott Cunningham. From there I gobbled up others before I developed discerning reading skills.

Yes, Wicca (n-esque) was my gateway drug. ;o) I read a lot, I read from a variety of paths and traditions. I still do. And, books are amazing.(I weep when I think of the Library of Alexandria and its loss. Can you imagine? I mean, can you imagine?). I’ve delved into the mysteries of the Eastern religions, I’ve studied the Sagas, I’ve visited the Celtic lands, I’ve hung around the ancient Mediterranean, I’ve gotten acquainted with Western mysticism. My reading taste is, like many, incredibly eclectic, and a lot of the books that nourish my path as a pagan are fiction. Currently, C.E. Murphy is my favorite “pagan-friendly” safety read. I’ve talked a lot about her Walker Papers over on my writing blog, but I’ll say it here too – her treatment of the gods in her world is extremely believably polytheistic. It seems a no brainer, but the popular trend (which is done well and done not so well but done a lot and I like variety) is to decide gods are archetypes or all Northern European gods are fairies and all Native America spirits are spirits and a distinction must be made (and really, how much of that distinction is hair-splitting for we-who-love-labels-and-boxes? At some point it really just means “bigger and stronger and more powerful than me,” and ceases to be useful beyond that point). I also rather love Mark Chadbourn’s Age of Misrule series. He does make all the gods just the Celtic gods only under different guises with different cultural trappings (which I don’t like so much because it’s too close to saying “all paths go to the same source,” which I don’t agree with) but in his story telling it makes sense, so I can deal with it. Charles De Lint’s work always does wonders to nourish me, and I don’t hate Richelle Meade’s Dark Swan series. Patricia Briggs goes without saying, just sayin’.

And, of course, there’s still a warm fondness for Adam and Cassie and Diana and Faye and their opening me up to this world. Even if their town was totally transplanted into the sea and left a gaping whole in the middle of Massachusetts. . .

What books brought you here? What books were fundamental to your progress on your path? Which books did you think would move you and didn’t? What books surprise you?

(read more about the pagan blog project here. And then, go read more pagan blogs!

Of the various non-mainstream paths I was exposed to early on (and only in America, it seems, could such a widely followed path be considered non-mainstream, but I grew up in Massachusetts and it’s all about Protestantism, even if you aren’t religious. The mindset is impossible to get away from and hard for other things to infiltrate. But I digress) Buddhism was one that had a fair reaching influence on my path. I was initially introduced to the subject by a coworker when I was 16. Long time readers, and certainly loved ones, will know that this is about time when I learned how to claw my way out of the apathy that had thus far served me quite well. I didn’t get into studying Buddhism then — it would be years before I learned of the political history, the various splinters and paths within, that Buddhism is almost as non-descriptive as the term Pagan can be. Even now, knowing these things, I don’t belong to this path or that path, I don’t actually consider myself Buddhist; I’m not. And yet, I can’t imagine having gotten out of that dark place without having discovered the Four Noble Truths and, more importantly to my own path and pratice, the EightFold Path.

When I first became involved with Poseidon, and later Odin, They stressed Awareness (Poseidon) and Mindfulness (Odin) as important things for me to cultivate. They seem like they’re the same thing, right? Awareness and Mindfulness. But, in practice, for me, awareness is a passive state — just being aware, and yes, stretching that awareness to far beyond me — whereas mindfulness is more active. It’s awareness put in motion.

The Eightfold Path, more than the Four Noble Virtues, gave me the tools I needed to put that awareness into motion. For those not in the know, the Eightfold Path is roughly: Right view; Right Intention; Right speech; Right action; Right livelihood; Right effort, Right Mindfulness; Right Concentration.

I’m already dithering on this topic, in my head. Does it truly count as a pagan topic, if Buddhists aren’t actually Pagan? And then the straw splitting begins, because I know Buddhists that are not theists, I know Buddhists that are softer polytheist, I know other hard polytheists with strong Buddhist leanings. If I’m not Buddhist (and I’m not), why would I be concerned with the Four Noble Virtues and the Eightfold Path?

Later on in life, I would come to rely on the stressing of non-attachment as a tool to help me cope with depression and anxiety and general melancholia. In the beginning, I just knew that it helped. How do these different paths break down in practice in my life, and what do they have to do with my worship of and devotion to both Poseidon and Odin?

Right view: My understanding for ‘right view’ is, looking at how things actually are. I don’t know that it’s possible to take all of our baggage out of the equation, but as a mystic with a strong contemplative bent, it’s my duty to try my best. It means challenging myself to look beyond my own experiences and prejudices. This actually comes up for me a lot more at my day job than in dealing with my ‘real life’. Generally, people annoy me — nothing big, just the small social daily interactions that our society deems necessary and acceptable. Small talk. Idle chitchat. Stupid nothings that fill up the silence. It tries my patience, these things, and I slip into deciding that I’m superior because I don’t need them to feel good with the world, and then I lose my detachment to how one is, and I limp back to the challenge and start over. Finding comfort in these small nothings does not make one inferior, and we all have our own lives and experiences behind us. Right view challenges me to keep focused on how the world is — or rather, the worlds are. Interconnected, interdependent, pretty darn amazing, but also not at all permanent. This is a fundamental step in my process of being able to Deal With Shit that typically overwhelms me — our treatment of our planet, our resources, our whole unsustainable system that we are strapped to until it all implodes. This was the first lesson Poseidon taught me: we aren’t going to kill the planet. We’re going to kill ourselves, and take a lot of others with us, and yes, that sucks, but life will come back. Work on it now, sure, but certainly don’t let it render you incapable of functioning.

Right Intention: I see this as being Right view in motion. It’s being open to the task of challenging your preconceived ideas, being flexible enough in mind and heart to examine and re-examine your ego, your place in the world, your baggage . . . and then to do it again, and again, and again, to be willing to (and then doing) constantly dig deeper and deeper and deeper.

Right Speech: Mind your words. Seems simple enough, yes? Except, it’s more than an Eastern variant to “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” There’s also a connotation of being aware of when to speak or not speak, even if what you are saying is true and causes no harm. Weigh your words, know your environment, speak what is proper to say, when it is proper to speak. There is a season, turn, turn, turn . . .

Right Action or Right Conduct: knowing how to behave in a “morally upright” way. For me, the task is to go about my day, my life, my interactions with people with compassionately. Sounds like not much, right? I’ve talked before about not being a speciestist, but I am folks, I am. If there’s one species I think we’re better off without, it’s us. I’m honestly and unabashedly tribal in my worldview — my family and loved ones, then my friends, and then acquaintances, and then people with whom there is mutual give-and-take, and then the world. That’s my hierarchy, and because I don’t have that divider line between other creatures and humans, yes, I have cats and dogs that rank higher in my hierarchy than acquaintances. Which, yes, means in the, “If you could save acquaintance B or coworker X, or the dog from being hit by a car,” questions, my dog lives, without question.

I’ve worked hard, with sweat and tears and angst and lots and lots of dragging of my feet, at Poseidon’s insistence, to cultivate a sense of compassion for my fellow humans. Not just the ones I like, but also the ones I wish would take a long walk off a short pier. With cement shoes. Chained. Them, too. Not for any altruistic motives, but because it allows me to stay open wider, cleaner, more completely, more healthily. People apparently are worthy of it. We just lose sight of that when we lose sight of the individual and see people en masse. So, for me, compassion is my Right Conduct, my Right Action, or one of the main threads. It’s harder than you’d think. And it does not make me superior when I succeed. It just means I’m doing what I need to do, according to my conscience and my gods.

Compassion does not equal door mat. More on that in two weeks

Right Livelihood: This one is one I have a lot of trouble with. “This means that practitioners ought not to engage in trades or occupations which, either directly or indirectly, result in harm for other living beings.” In the interest of full disclosure, I’m not even vegetarian. I do strive for being an ethical omnivore, but I allow for the fact that shit happens. I can’t always be 100% aware of where my everything comes from and who is exploited so that I may have it — but I do strive (and strive hard) to by locally, sustainably, responsibly. I admit that my ability to do so is dependent upon things like expendable income. It shouldn’t be, it’s terrible that our society is set up that way, but it still is. Less so for us in places like Eugene or Portland or Seattle than in places like Philadelphia — improvements are being made, though, and it’s a process, and we do what we can. The fact that my place of employment (hard enough to come by in this economy) that allows me to live my ideals produces a lot of waste products and is not even a little bit ‘green’ isn’t lost on me. Part of the detachment is not placing value judgments upon myself for supposed failure to attain my goals. It’s a process, it never stops.

Right Effort: One wants to make an effort to abandon all harmful, wrong, improper thoughts and deeds and words, and strive to bring into their life that which is good and proper and correct, in thoughts and deeds and words. Let go of the unwholesome, cultivate the wholesome.

Right Mindfulness: Paying attention! With anxiety or depression or migraines or anxiety, it’s easy for me to dismiss others, become mindless of other peoples concerns and issues and needs, to forget and not pay attention. When interacting with people, the distraction of my body or mental health can at times make me careless and uncompassionate. This isn’t good for me or them, and I’m never proud of myself when it happens.

Right Concentration: This applies, it seems, mostly to a detached meditation practice, concentrating upon the subject until one attains complete understanding . . . this really isn’t how I operate. I dig at something, hit a new level of understanding, and seem to cycle through it all over again, going deeper. It works for me and I’m good with that.

The last three, Right Effort, Right Mindfulness, Right Concentration, sort of all smoosh into the same, for me. They blend and meld and flow into one another. Keep striving, keep that awareness open, focus on the right things that bring you further into yourself. I’m not looking for Nirvana, I’m not looking to end the suffering of all creatures, not interested in getting of the Karmic wheel and attaining enlightenment — see? I’m not Buddhist. I am looking for bringing more of the world into the world, I’m looking for sharing my gods with the world, I’m looking to keep that shiny sparkly wonderment at life and the universe and all it contains alive and thriving inside of me, and, that means compassion and awareness and mindfulness. You can maybe see why these tools the Buddhists provided work so well for me as well as for other people. It’s a model that’s been around for some time; it’s gotta have something good going for it, right?

To further my case of being a lemming, I should likely state that, hey, I’m writing one. For whom? Oh, you know, I don’t know. I thought about it long and hard before I decided maybe I can write one for Poseidon . . .

Okay, not long or hard at all. It’s rather a no-brainer.

I still (and will likely forever) feel far under qualified to write such a thing. I’m doing it anyway, because it needs to be done.

My goal is to have it published by spring of 2013.

The plan is to have the book divided into three handy-dandy sections: Historical cult evidence; myths; modern worship. The emphasis will be on the modern worship, because that’s what’s most important. I’ll drudge up some of his lesser known myths, and I’ll poke around his various cult places, but really, I want to talk about Poseidon now, and so that’s what I’ll be doing.

And, once the snow melts (read: I give it an hour) I may get around to having my first Poseidon festival of the year. Since it’s to honor new growth, I really ought to wait until I can see said new growth.

Or: look, I can be a lemming!

Hey, I’m all about using the tools available to you, and with my mind focused on the new fiction project and the new non-fiction project, coming up with blog topics to ramble about all on my own isn’t all that easy. Yes, some days I do miss the assigned writing projects from school, okay?

What is The Pagan Blog Project? (The Short Answer)
This project is a way to spend a full year dedicating time each week very specifically to studying, reflecting, and sharing your spiritual and magickal path. The project consists of a single blog post each week posted on your blog each Friday for the year of 2012 that will involve a topic that relates to Paganism, Witchcraft, magick, spirituality, and so on. You can use your posts to share your views on a topic, to talk about your own personal experiences, or to act as a catalyst to research a subject that you may not know much about and then share what you learn and how you feel about that. Each week there is a specific prompt for you to work with in writing your post, a prompt that will focus on a letter of the alphabet each week providing you a framework for your writing as well as a common thread for all participants to share in. To read more about the project, go here.

Really, this isn’t all that different than what I already do here. Only, it’s more structured, with deadlines, and prompts. I like prompts.

Tonight: I fiddle with Kindle edition of my newest book. Tomorrow, I start navel-gazing out loud. I may try to “catch up” on the weeks I’ve already missed, but likely I won’t. Friday, there will be a post.

And no, I’m not writing it. But, better, Beth is! (which means it’s going to rock, and most importantly to me, I don’t have to do the work! Hee!)

She’s been plotting this for some time now, off and on, and she’s excited about it, and it’s awesome for me to see her excited about writing, and I can’t wait to see what she does! She is asking folks to let her know what they’d like to see in such a book, so if you’ve got questions, do send them her way.

(Is now the time to mention that devotionals seem to be a theme in our house currently and that I’m finally, finally no longer terrified of the idea of doing one for Poseidon? Maybe not. More on that later.)

Here’s a great example of how bits of my spiritual life do not fit into nice, self-contained little boxes. By now you may be tired of my harping on this; it’s likely even common that most peoples’ spiritual life does not, in actual practice, fit into nice, self-contained little boxes. This is baggage, I know it is, and I’m working on it.

Some of the baggage goes back to about when I gave Poseidon the marriage vows — because, a change in the relationship changes things, right? Obviously, it would mean something more, something different? I’m a tad bit ashamed that I fell into that way of thinking. I don’t have the excuse that some might have: a new relationship? No, because ours was already established by that point. A confusion between spirit-worker and/or shaman and spouse? Not really, because at the time I gave him those oaths, the only other people I knew of wed to gods were less than half a dozen and there wasn’t yet the sense of ‘it’s a job’ that seems to be out there. Still, I was caught up on the idea of there being an impending change, and that since I was now a wife of his I should be Doing Something Great for him. Right? I mean, what’s the point, otherwise?

It’s taken me a long time to come back to the knowledge that writing is a huge part of my spiritual practice. Some dark years, some not-so-dark years, and nothing I regret. And, it’s not as though I stopped writing in that time. Last year, though, something shifted, for the better, something slid back into place.

How does writing take center stage as an act of devotion? I mean, ultimately, my writing isn’t about Poseidon (or Odin, or any of the Others in my life) except for when the writing is specifically about them. Treasures From the Deep is obvious. The various stories and essays I’ve written about and inspired by Odin are obvious. But what about Fairy Queen? What about my fantasy stories that have no obvious connections to my spiritual life, my religious practice, or the gods and spirits that I count among kith and kin? What about when I’m sitting for hours on end working on a piece, without interacting with more than just those involved in the story? Am I not just trying to make there be a connection, since I’m something of a mystic and maybe want to make my writing path seem more special or more important than it ought to be? Surely, mystics should be out mediating in the woods? Surely, my healing practice ought to take center stage, not my writing practice?

I can’t say that I lost myself, because that’s not accurate. I can say that, I’ve spent time the last few years or so, in contact with people who identify as spirit workers, both in person and online, and they focus on things like journeying and trancework and oracular practices and various services to their spirits and gods. In this time, I’d lost sight of the fact that not everyone approaches their spiritual life the same. Even while insisting that I knew this to be true, I would experience angst over the fact that I didn’t want to just drop everything and live a life split equally between my devotional practice and what I termed my Work — specifically my healing Work (which, I can go into more depth about later, but is mostly not centered around humans. Working on that — I can say I’m not a speciesist, except, when it comes to humans I definitely am, and not favorably so). I’ve known, all along, that writing is my strongest, surest tool for keeping myself open to my gods and the worlds. I can’t go very long without writing before I start to get super-skincrawly and feeling trapped. Writing allows the wonderment wash over me, makes me feel connected. But I got this tangled up with my favorite enemy, Should Be. Should Be says that if writing is a valid spiritual path, I should be writing about my gods and my spirits, not about these ‘fictional stories’ that have no bearing on my life once they are told and released. Should Be says that my time should be going into my Work and my devotional activities, and that the time should be shared equally. Should Be says that these things Should Be enough, and I should be reading important writings and not so much with the fiction of other people.

Writing takes away my fear. The deeper I delve into having an intimate relationship with gods and spirits, the more I’d worry about losing the ability to pass as sane. The fear comes back now and again . . . but when I’m considering stories that come to me, sometimes whole hog, sometimes in impressions that I get to expand upon, sometimes in nothing more than one sentence, I have no problem walking down the street, talking to the beings that come with these stories, and to hell with what it looks like.

Because, the stories come with spirits. I have stopped worrying about their exact nature. Those who bring their stories to me, for me to share with the world, are real. They’re not with me to stay, but they are as real as any other spirit I happen to interact with. How can I be me and have the world view that I have, and deny that? The stories I relate (and I do feel like I’m mostly a conduit and a translator and transcriber and not so much a creator) are not gospel, are not to be taken as “this happened exactly like this somewhere at some point,” but they are still, somehow, somewhere, real.

It’s part of how I serve, and it’s good to remember this.

Or: A Belated Year-in-Review

We’re a week into the 2012 and I’m only beginning to think about the plans for the coming year. That right there sums up the last few months pretty well. Beth’s daughter was out visiting for a few weeks, and while I’d still prefer to be company-less during the height of Yule, I’m not sure it would have mattered all that much last year. It was an oddly, deceptively difficult year. We went into it pleased with how 2010 had gone (possibly we were asking for trouble right then and there) only to discover almost immediately that we’d have to move. Moving required finding new homes for two of our beloved cats, and while ultimately it was better for them – they were two of our more, uh, well-adjusted kitties, and were both pleased as punch to be only kitties in their new homes – it was heart rending for us. There was some other less-than-lovely stuff that coincided with the tearing apart of our family that was upsetting enough to encourage me to withdraw quite a bit into myself, my family, my work, this life of semi-solitude that I so treasure. (and yet hardly upsetting at all in the face of losing part of the family). Perhaps I’m a horrible person, but discovering a week ago that the house that ‘had to go on the market right away and would be sold fast, but could you stay and rent from us until we’re ready to have you move, and never mind about saving up for your next place, we only care that you work with us, we don’t care if you wind up homeless’ is still on the market made me quite pleased. And moving has been wonderful, despite moving meaning that I wouldn’t make it back to New England to visit family there. While our location is closer to the industrial parts of town, there are some lovely green spaces, and the people here are more like what we’re used to – that is, not in your business and with a respect for personal space bubble. The dog is happier away from the “wildlife” (though we still have Bear Raccoons, and a gang of turkeys) and enjoys the busier streets. When we first moved here, he positively strutted on his walks. We have a gated yard, the freedom to garden the whole of the front lawn, and most importantly, the house is in great condition, everything works, it’s way easier to clean, and the cats like it better. Oh, right, and we’re no longer living hand to mouth to pay for our rent.

That alone made this year better, and explained our initial down time. Freedom from constant financial crisis. It’s good. It requires relaxation.

Almost immediately upon arrival, I twisted my ankle. A month of rest, an inadequate brace, and a re-injury later, I was laid up for closer to three months (and missed some work, though not as much as I likely should have) over it. Which brings us into July, which is when the dog was injured and takes care of the rest of the summer. The bright side here is he didn’t die, we fell in love with our vet, he received doctor recommended veggies and fruit and pops, we discovered how much he enjoyed being read to and started reading aloud and listening to audiobooks, and anyway, it was too hot to do much tromping around outside. Being hyper-alert to further signs of problems, including paralysis, made his official release date the start of our crashing. Emotional stress wipes me out like nothing else. And then Luna was sick. And then Sassy succumbed to kidney failure (though she lasted a month longer than we thought she would, before she told us it was time) and then? Then we were thoroughly done with the year (although her obvious continuing presence helped, when it didn’t make it harder) and it could take a long walk off a short peer as far as we were concerned. Except, then Luna was ill again. We suspect Luna will just be ill during the winter months, it’s never serious, just a perpetual cold that comes and goes. And, uh, an unseemly condition that we do not speak of.

There were other ups. Black Sheep Gathering was fun, getting to know Janice and the other folks at Eugene Textile Center rocked. Seeing Beth find people with arts and passions in common, who were secure enough in what they do to not feel threatened by someone else being interested in the same thing was pretty exciting, even for me. I’ll never be as into the spinning as she is. Starting to spin made me return to knitting and explore that, so I appreciate all fiber crafts, but I don’t want to spin, typically (though I have great affection for our two wheels). I want to knit and crochet and learn rug hooking and weaving, but not so much spin. I’m glad that she knows people who are excited about spinning, who can be excited with her, who can talk shop with her. Getting the spinning wheels were a high, even for me. (I’m tight with our Ashford Traditional, for all that I don’t spin; I was the mechanic while Beth was gaining confidence in her spinning). Working on getting The Fairy Queen of Spencer’s Butte and Other Tales out (though I still need to get a Kindle version released) was pretty awesome, getting the writing blog started was nice, getting slammed with ideas for future novels, including some that are only waiting for me to sit down and write, them didn’t suck either.

Religiously, life has been quiet. Not absent, not empty, just quiet. After a few years of focusing a lot on the outward and trying to synch up to other peoples calendars (not because I was expected to, simply because having people in ones life with festivals in common when said festivals are pretty uncommon makes one want to celebrate with others, when one can) this year was largely about letting that all drop. Not solely because of people falling out of my life – Beth and I barely did any festivals together, and ours are pretty easy to synch up. In the past this might have upset me; last year was what it was, and while we weren’t exactly observant (though, we were, a little, with some festivals, and, a lot like with Samhain) this year was, for both of us, deeply significant for re-focusing on what matters the most to us: embracing our paths as we are guided to, not by other people, not even by our own egos, but rather by that deeper part of ourselves that coincides so perfectly with the path our gods want us on.

Yule was very, very low-key, here. Beth’s daughter was out, as I said above, I don’t think it would have made a difference, if she hadn’t been. Work was draining, and by the second week of December, coherent sentences were impossible. It was just as well to sit and visit and veg out in front of movies she wanted to watch and knit and sleep. I come into this year not all that upset over our lack of observations, last year, but also eager to start marking the days with honoring more gods than just our immediate family.

Beth talks in her blog about how it’s been a year of wordlessness, of silence, for her. For me, it was coming back to what I’ve always known, what I keep knowing, what I keep deciding isn’t valid: I’m a writer. Healing work is very interesting to me, and there are a ton of healing modalities out there. I do energy work, I’m a Reiki practitioner, I know how to use the runes in healing work, I know about journeying, both inward and outward, to affect healing in myself. These are interesting, these are good, these help me not be rooted just here, in this world. Writing is what heals me, stories are what touch my deepest places. Writing is what keeps the doors between all the worlds flung open so I can travel them as I can – and, that ever present fear that I have, that I’ll lose the ability to function in this world, eventually, if I don’t keep a clear eye on the boundaries of the worlds? It never exists when I’ve got my “writer/conduit” hat on. Which pretty much doesn’t ever need to come off, and hasn’t, all year.

Writing Fairy Queen and getting that out (it’s been a few years of work, there) has been great for me. It was an offering to the spirits of this place, and the spirits of this place have provided riches beyond count, and I am humbled and grateful.

And still, so happy to see 2011 go. Working today on getting my religious calendar for 2012 firmed up — the Poseidon festivals, at least, will be easy to place, thanks to having a history there, already.

This December is all about “shoulds” for me. Shoulds. It should be a holy time, right? On the heathen side of things, we get all the good and fun trappings that were usurped by the Christians — trees, feasting, the whole of Yuletide, honoring our gods, etc. For us at the Nunnery, Yule is a whole season stretching from Samhain (hey, I never said we weren’t also usurpers. Vikings, hello?) to Twelfth Night. Here, it’s about the Hunt, about Odin, about our Beloved Dead and our Ancestors, about pulling in for the dark of the year and taking stock and being introspective. On the Hellenic side, we’ve got a whole bleeping month named for a festival of Poseidon, which is the whole reason I’ve adopted the Athenian calender in the first place. Inside of this month there is the 8th of the month that’s set aside for Poseidon anyway, the sixth which is St. Nicholas’s day, and which I’ve taken for another Poseidon day since, in Greece, St. Nick has more in common with Poseidon than, you know, with Odin. Odd, that. And then there’s the headache inducing, mind-reeling collision of worlds and UPG and private worship, wherein Poseidon shows an interest in Odin’s Hunt, and then my brain melts and I stop trying to think because I cannot, cannot be any sort of a bridge like that I mean I’m just me! (Except, we humans involved with gods, especially gods and spirits of different places and peoples are, by necessity, exactly that sort of bridge).

Except, I work retail. And Beth works customer service, too. And so December comes up and it should be this high holy time, and it typically is, but this year we’re just both exhausted. This year has been great! And, at times, awful. The awful has been wretched, the great has been gentle and unassuming, so at least it’s not crazy high to crazy low, but it’s still hard. Difficult to counter wretched with gentle, calm, unassuming good. I’ve put a book out, I’ve got a few stories out, I handmade all my holiday gifts, I’m exploring a new craft, and, currently, my brain cells do not wish to function. December has been a lot of easy knitting and easy listening and oodles of vegging out. I sort of really resent how my job has taken the holy out of this month for me. Made worse by listening to folks bitch about how they’re discriminated against because the holiday is commercialized and secularized. While they shop in a store that’s taken oven by *their* holiday for two months to buy mass produced crap that’ll be forgotten in a week. Uh. Kinda supporting that whole secularization, people. Just saying.

At the same time? I’m so very divorced from that cultural mindset, and grateful for it. My stresses of this season are all pretty much work related, so at least I get paid for them. This weekend will be intense, but that’s because of the vending we’re doing and not because it’s December. Then, the girl-child will be out for three weeks and it will hopefully be relaxed and good and nice. So, yay!

Her being here always does weird things to my outward devotion, just because of space constraints. It’ll be more so now, in our much smaller place. But, it’s temporary, and it’s not a big deal, and we miss her, so it works.

Still, I can’t wait for January.

This almost doesn’t seem like the appropriate place to talk about my latest release of fiction stories, except, it also does. Aside from the fact that writing taps into the spiritual for me, while these stories are fiction, they could also arguably be a collection of local landwight tales, and they are certainly in honor of the local wights of this place. There have been some ups and downs regarding our relocation from the east coast to Eugene, OR, but the ups far, far outweigh the downs, and I can honestly say that I have not a single regret in our moving out here. I speak of seclusion, of a life withdrawn, pulled in, a contemplative approach to being, and on the one hand it’s true, but on the other hand, oh my goodness, my world is chock full of beings pressing in on my awareness. I’ve lived in places where the landspirits have been indifferent, where they’ve been outright hostile, and in places where there have been pockets of such joy and holiness. I’ve never lived anywhere quite like this place, and I’m not sure anywhere else would feel so homelike.

The Fairy Queen of Spencer’s Butte and Other Tales is my way of saying thank you to spirits of this place. I only hope its able to catch a bit of the wonder and magic that living here instills within me.

Feel free to check out my writing blog for more details about the book and an excerpt.

Thanksgiving is always an interesting holiday. On the one hand, in some circles, it’s not politically correct to celebrate the holidays origins and I do have amble opportunities throughout the year to utilize other, less-mainstream holy days to offer thanks for what I’m grateful for in my life. On the other hand, it’s nice when we can tap into such a widely celebrated holiday, something that is rare for we pagans, especially those of us whose yearly cycle does not strictly match up with the popular Wheel of the Year. Also, I’m practical and honest: yes, what was done to the natives of this land was terrible and relatively recent in the scheme of things, and I think it’s that recentness and the ongoing ramifications that makes it terrible, but at the same time, it is also not anything new in the history of human civilizations. No, that doesn’t make it okay, and no, it doesn’t change the wide-scale impact of it, but . . . it’s not new. America is not the first place whole nations were pushed out and stamped down by an incoming invading group, and if I get caught up in feeling awful about that, then the weight of how we treat each other as a species comes crashing down on me and leaves me in a useless place, so mostly I focus on what I’m thankful for instead.

Aside from all that fun, Thanksgiving and Christmas (which gets transposed onto Yule because of its close proximity) are very anxiety-conjuring holidays. Shouldn’t be, right? After Thanksgiving I avoid all stores that aren’t strictly necessary; I make my own gifts (and I’m DONE most of them. HA!), and while my job is in retail, it’s a drugstore, so it’s not as insane as other retail places. (Still not not-insane, though). Take Thanksgiving: starting the previous Saturday when we did the bulk of our grocery shopping, the rest of the week my task was to Schlep Stuff Home. I work near our preferred grocery stores, near one of our liquor stores (hot buttered rum anyone?) and we get most of our wine at my workplace. The (sustainably raised and humanely slaughtered) turkey was slated to arrive Wednesday, so that left Monday and Tuesday to get the other heavy stuff (drinks!!). After everything was schlepped, I only had to make the mashed potatoes (gold, red, purple, butter, cream, cream cheese) and then wait to devour the feast. Come Wednesday night, and most of the cooking had to get done still, and I was beside myself, literally up against one wall wringing my hands, freaking out because there was still so much to dooooo! Except, all I had to do at that time was decide if I would rather work on my knitting or work on my editing project that night. (Or just collapse, and we decided that collapsing would serve me better, so I did.)

It’s conditioned, and I know this. I mean, having Big Tasks (cooking a turkey is a Big Task when one has never before been involved in the cooking a big bird process) before me tend to be stressful, even if I know they are not actually *my* tasks to complete. More than that, however, it’s childhood conditioning, and I hate it. The night before the day is filled with running around and panicking. People are coming over, gotta get the house somewhat presentable, and you have to do this around the drunk man who may or may not sober up for the next day, but everyone is going to smile and pretend that it’s normal. We’ll all smile and on the inside we’ll be wrapped up tight, wondering what horrible thing he’ll do or say that will be impossible to ignore and destroy our carefully woven pretense even though everyone knows. Except, I’ve had more years now without having to deal with that situation than I ever had to deal with it — it seems like it went on for forever, but it didn’t; he was out of the house by the time I was, what, 15? 16? And he was dead by the time I was 18. But so much becomes ingrained during those years (what, the formative years? Who would have thought!) and it’s this quagmire that then has to be navigated again and again. And, our holiday was low-key. I miss the ease of popping over to spend some time with the rest of my family, but my immediate family is here. This year, Thanksgiving was all about being thankful for my immediate family, for Beth and Corbie, and the cats that are with us both living and not living, and my gods, and most especially this year, my Husband. Wednesday going into Thursday Poseidon gifted me with one of those not-unheard-of but somewhat rare dreams that was Real, and he soothed my anxiety and panic and wrapped me in his love and presence and held me. The history of our relationship and our interactions soothed me, his presence calmed me, and I woke up mellow and cocooned and certain.

It’s unfortunate that I can’t drag him off to ‘the in-laws’ and make him deal with my extended family, that our marriage is one that will forever miss out on that time-honored tradition of dealing with one another’s siblings and parents and aunts and uncles and cousins, but I had likely the first Thanksgiving where I was content to stay at home, with my Husband, and have the holiday with him (and the rest of my immediate family, including the dog, who was put into a food induced coma, naturally).

Of course, it didn’t hurt that this meant neither of us ever got dressed, but that’s not the point, honest.