Priestess

 

Today’s early morning ritual

I am raven

burner

of lavender

reader

of the cards

diviner

of the stars

eater

of cold pizza

(Excerpt from Laphrodite's Guide to Mindful Menopause or the Adventures of a Baby Crone)

Healer's Manifesto

 

The Healer’s Manifesto

Breathe

Hold the Space

Ask Deep, Precise Questions

Listen and Reflect

Keep the Silence

Have Clarity in Your Vision

Have Wisdom in Your Words

See the Success

Breathe

Smile

Repeat

Rag Burning Ritual

 

Thirteen moons had passed since my last period. I contemplated the red bundle in the middle of the woodstove in its nest of kindling. For over a year, it had sat on my altar, a red linen ceremonial cloth from a menstruation ceremony now tied over a plethora of bandannas, glad rags, scraps of paper scribbled with names, dried lavender, and rosemary from the garden. 

It took time for the bundle to catch fire, and much longer for it to burn completely to ash. I let these cool, then scooped them into my little iron cauldron. I walked down to the church located at the center of the circles on the West Side of Santa Cruz and began to walk a labyrinth through the streets and neighborhood. I would stop at trees and sprinkle a pinch of ash and a blessing, slowly, deliberately, intentionally. Spiralling out from that holy ground, blessing my neighbors, my home, the ocean, I felt more and more release until I was as empty as my cauldron.

Now two years have passed, and I contemplate doing this ritual again, with the sweat-soaked rags from the ripped-up cotton sheets that have become my new favorite mopping tool. Simply setting the intention to be able to say, “This too has passed.”

What’s in your bundle? How will you release it? Remember to be mindful, be intentional, and be joyous.

Blessed be.

(Excerpt from Laphrodite's Guide to Mindful Menopause or the Adventures of a Baby Crone}

Just I.C.E or Justice for Renee Nicole Good

 

In honor of Renee Nicole Good

Remember to Remember

 

In memory’s golden basket, drop a pearl for me. - Laura Ingalls Wilder, Little House on the Prairie

You can boost your memory by "remembering" instead of forgetting. Every time we say, "Oh no, I forgot my keys!" We are actually affirming forgetting rather than what actually happened - you remembered (present tense) that you forgot something (past tense). Affirm the present moment, the remembering, and retrain your brain to say, “Wow, I just remembered my keys.”

Notice your memories replacing your eggs in your sacred womb space. There's a reason all these memories are coming up now. Mainly, because you can handle them. Emotionally, spiritually, you have the experience and maturity to review the past, and much like the oyster that coats the irritating grain of sand with the iridescence of the mother, it creates the pearls of wisdom. 

While going through the pause, I often found myself doing just that - pausing. Spacing out, blanking on names and words, forgetting what we were doing - a few more challenges to be sure. Fire up your brain. Practice mental exercises: crossword puzzles, Sudoku, logic games, and memory games. Use your fingers to keep lists for short-term memory. Use your phone for longer or long-term lists. Practice Beginner's Mind, connecting with a sense of wonder and innocence rather than confusion or doubt.

As we walked down to the beach, my daughter said, “Ok, Mom, I’m going to want you to remember something.”  I said, “Ok, honey, I’ll try to inscribe it into my little brain.” “Mom,” she said, a little exasperated, “It’s not your brain that’s little. It’s your bladder.”

Excerpt from Laphrodite's Guide to Mindful Menopause or the Adventures of a Baby Crone

F is for Family

 

F is for Family
Baby Katharine’s Alphabet Adventures

A special ABC to celebrate alternative, extended, blended, and birth families! 

Welcome to the world, Katharine,

How wonderful you will be!

Because you are the blossom,

Of the most amazing family tree!

Christmas in Tunisia

The horse's hooves thundered past me, kicking up ash and sparks from the roaring bonfire. A dozen jet black Arabian steeds, adorned with maroon leather saddles and bright festive pompoms, raced around again, as the audience ululated and drummed under the vast desert sky. Exhilarated, I caught a glimpse of my aunt’s ebony hair and gleaming teeth as she whizzed by, a blur of white thigh and proud black boot firmly in the stirrup.

Aunt Silvana reminds me of Lilith, Adam’s first wife. Since she would not lie down beneath him, Lilith was expelled from the Garden of Eden. First demonized as the untamed woman, Lilith is now known as the goddess of radical self-empowerment, according to astrologer Adama Sessay.

Silvana was the paragon of an independent woman living in Italy in the 60s. She only married once - her husband committed suicide by throwing himself out of a window just a couple of months after the wedding. Now ninety-three, living in a hospice facility outside of Milan, after traveling all over the world by herself, even though partially blind. She combined La Vita Dolce with La Vida Loca, racing her MGM around the dappled hillsides of Pozzol Groppo, drinking dry martinis, eating endless pasta, smoking cigarettes, and popping pills. Like Lilith, she lived fiercely, fully, and always on her own terms.

It had been a long, dusty bus ride from our plush hotel in Tunis to the full moon festival at the oasis. The bus had been crammed with people, packed with their kids, shopping, and other belongings, while muslim prayer music continuously wailed over the constant conversations, adding to the cacaphony.

Once there, we met a snake charmer who pulled a tongue-flicking cobra out of a woven basket. He casually draped the hooded serpent around my twelve-year-old neck, popped his red fez on my head, and laughed at my shocked face as he casually put his hot hand across my chest while tourists nonchalantly clicked their Kodaks. Nearby, women draped in saffron silks crouched by adobe ovens, busily kneading dough, their beaded bracelets jangling. These little loaves of bread were the only thing I’d eat, repulsed by the bowls of what my brother assured me was steaming camel hump meat.

The next day, we wandered around the bazaar, admiring the brass pots and copper trays, piles of oriental rugs, and enjoying the fragrances of cumin, cinnamon, and turmeric in the tangy air. Crowds of people jostled through the stalls, bartering furiously with the merchants, arms raised in the air, making magic gestures to conjure the right bargain. We entered a striped tent filled with an array of sparkling jewelry. I was entranced by a silver filigree ball that had a dangling Hamsa, the Hand of Fatimah. I had always loved jewelry, and the exquisite craftwork sang to me. I turned to ask my Dad if he would buy it for me.

“You like?” said a big bearded man in a cream robe, who pulled me over onto his lap. “How much for your daughter?” He asked my Dad, who just laughed. “I have many camels, many!” he insisted. As he squeezed me closer, I could smell his greasy skin. I pried myself off, somehow escaped the labyrinth of the market, and ran back to the hotel, furious.

“What’s wrong, my little monkey?” Aunt Silvana had found me brooding in the shade by the cool, quiet pool. As I poured out my rage, dismay, and disbelief, she simply held my hands, her dark brown eyes moist as she listened. “I’m glad you got away,” was all she said.

As we departed home to Luxembourg, there at the noisy airport, in a little souvenir kiosk, was the same Hamsa pendant on its fine silver chain. I counted out the last of my dinars, feeling smug and satisfied as I slipped the cool chain around my neck, filigree ball dangling on my chest, healing hand protecting my heart.