Change is eminent, change is eternal
Chaos can’t touch some of us
Love / freedom / happiness / everything you want can be found in chaos
Keep your eyes on what you want, pursue joy,
When the song changes when you’re dancing, you don’t just stop, you move to another rhythm.
When weren’t people dying.
To roll with the punches, to find safe ways to be free.
Following own paths, own intuition, not society’s motives, be smart, be safe, but live your life. Try not to die as a prisoner in your home.
The city was built for one song and one song only. But the earth was never built for that song.
When we’re stepping along a well-trodden path, we know what’s before us. We can expect what comes next. But when uncertainty is so prominent, when the structure is splintering, when we trip and we fall, we’re afraid
We tell the story of the world through words. By speaking this story, we paint a unique picture that does not truly line up or match the world perfectly, but represents it in a new way that forms our understanding of the world.
Once upon a time, a long time ago, witches lived upon the fringe, the hedge lands, the edges and the spaces between civilization and the wild.
(Once upon a time, a long time before that, we were all witches. But that’s a story for another time).
It was in this in-between space that one could find clarity from the messy mishaps of mass societal limpings, and trippings. It was there in the edge world that one could see clearly the patterns and ways of the world, the ebbing and flowing of the tides, the messy and painful and temporary transitions that unveil, at the end, so much beauty. Like winter receding into Spring, there are many things that
We are marching into a war that should never have
In our world, we could pretend, we could suppose it to be made of three varieties of people: the Good Subject, the Bad Subject, and the Non Subject.
They reject and negate the systemic cruelty, inequalities, and the problems of the civ-world.
How do we know which one to listen to? How do we know which one to believe?
How can we discern what to trust and what to question?
Maybe the answer to this question can be found in who it is who is telling the story.
Sometimes the answer is very simple. It might be that…
When we are telling ourselves stories, sometimes we recognize that we are lying to ourselves to make ourselves feel better, and sometimes we lie to ourselves to make ourselves feel worse in order to make ourselves take action.
When our friends tell stories to us, sometimes they might exaggerate a story for the thrill of dramatic effect, to inspire, to entertain.
When people that we don’t know tell a story, what do we do?
What would we do well to learn? What would we do well to learn from?
On the self, on the home, on the nurturing.
We do not linger out of doors. There is danger outside.
When it is night-dark, the windows of a lit house are like mirrors inside, superimposing the inside of the house onto the black outside. When you are inside your lit house at night, do you feel protected and safe? When the threat of the dark and the hidden is gone in your bathing yellow light, when you are inside? But if you are outside looking into the lighted house, the interior is well seen, now enormously visible.
House is a sterile box, a manmade container. It keeps you inside protected from an organic world beyond the walls. Do you feel safe when you’re inside? Do you feel that your walls protect you?
It is an unnatural artifice, a separation between the natural and the unnatural. We see ourselves within it as separate. But we can remember our origins, and know we are from nature. Its influences are unto us still.
There is another home we can always come back to. Our mind and our body is the home to our spirit. If these places are tidy and clear we can bring this peace wherever we go.
False security, false stability in the home.
In so doing we have distanced ourselves so much from nature we believe deeply in that distance.
, somehow beyond it ooutside of it.
, and we are all in this together.
The days are getting shorter, the nights are getting longer, the weather is growing cold.
In the warm summer months, after a period of lockdown and phases of adjustment, we had a brief, bright chance to cautiously proceed out of doors, to tentatively stretch our legs, to squint blinkingly in the sun, and to explore outside.
But as the days grow dark and cold, we may find ourselves becoming reacquainted with our homes with new vigor.
Autumn is well upon us and with it, a new way of being homebound.
As we are made to re-familiarize ourselves with our dwellings, if we are lucky enough to have one, we are called upon to remember the nature of the home.
What is a home?
Walls, doors, windows, (whether they are made of wood, rock, clay or reeds, skin or tarp, bricks or snow) they are all are made to keep ourselves in and the rest out.
Houses and dwellings are built in ways that separate us and protect us from the rest of the World. They are built for ease, and for comfort, and for distance.
But this distance between the domestic and the rest of the World is not just those few inches of wall. It is a psychic distance, wherein we begin to believe that we have transcended nature and aren’t bound to natural processes. Of the World, we think we are separate.
What else is a home?
More than probably anything else in the world, our homes are like ourselves. House façade will most likely resemble other houses in one way or another, just as we (in one way or another) resemble each other.
House is often composed of walls, doors, roofs, windows as we are often composed of eyes, arms, legs, and head.
But inside, house is littered with the unique life of you; on walls are decorations of memorized paintings, memories in photographs, or drawings, or collections, or souvenirs, or words. In rooms are books to inspire the mind, maybe the television flickering distractions like little vacant stream-of-conscious thoughts. Papers and writings, scribblings and drawings that are strewn about on desks, in drawers, on the floor, on the wall, are the lyrics of the mind mastering itself. Bathrooms, kitchens, beds are reminders of the instinctual—eat, sleep, fuck, shit, piss, wash.
Our dwellings are reflections of ourselves, similar, but wholly distinct from others.
Of others, we think we are different.
In the same way we believe we are separated from the World within our bubble homes, we also believe we are separate from each other, and each other’s influences. But this is the illusion. The external always finds a way to push into the internal. In one way or another, we are influenced by the outside, and it oozes out of us like sweat, clings to us like our shadow.
We are not separate from the World, we are a part of the World. We are not separate from each other; we influence, inspire, and infect one another.
The cold months have always been a time of deep retreat within, a time of soul-searching, of internal seeking.
As you attend to the self and the home, in spite of forced openings. I invite you to remember this psychic separation as illusion, and to ask yourself: Who is influencing you, and how? What is seeping in, despite closed doors? What behavior, what beliefs, what patterns do you play out, and who has taught you these trends?
As you attend to your mind-house and lock the door, as you shut the windows, and twitch the curtains close, against the cold and against the dark, I invite you to try to call up your own self, and listen to what your own self has to say.
On walls there are maybe decorations of memorized paintings, or pictures, or posters. There are our memories tucked away in photographs, or in souvenirs. In rooms are books to inspire the mind, maybe the television flickering distractions like little vacant stream-of-conscious thoughts. Papers and writings, scribblings and drawings that are strewn about on desks, in drawers, on the floor, on the wall, are the lyrics of the mind mastering itself.
Imagine: you’re gearing up to cast a charm. You want it to be more tangible than a spell or incantation, so there’s got to be a physical token that will represent the spell.
not literally, but figuratively.
The token is not the spell/wish/prayer in a literal way, but in a figurative way. The spell becomes the token as the token becomes the spell.
This is a form of linguistic alchemy that is and has been used across time and across space.
Charms are really nothing more than a sleight of linguistic alchemy.
that you let loose from your child-mind