There are many, many advantages to living and working at home alone but one drawback is that, if you cook as frequently as I do, you also have to be your own housekeeper–a role that gets lost in the shuffle of busier weeks (my not-so-subtle acknowledgment that I’ve been quiet so far this November). I’m running to a screening right now but am already feeling disappointed that Mary Poppins or Bewitched’s Samantha won’t be swooping in during my absence to tend to my dirty laundry, dishes (mind). Just once I would like to be able to swing open the door to my apartment and holler: WHO’S RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS MESS? (Grace cannot be trained to do anything except look cute and meow a very vague approximation of “noooo.”)
It’s Samhain–the Pagan new year, Halloween to nonwitches–and there’s a new moon in Scorpio, the sign of death and rebirth. The veil is lifted and the dark goddesses are all around us, Lilith in full effect. For nearly a week I’ve been haunted by my highest spirit, in addition to everyone else’s. I’d complain except I know this is the universe’s not-so-subtle way of nudging me forward since I’ve been resisting all gentler hints for the last six, twelve, oh, thirty-six months. A friend reminded me this morning of the words of Chickasaw poet Linda Hogan: “Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.” Tonight I feel that.
It was a quiet day–most of my Mondays are quiet, by design and default–and when I finished work I went to get my nails done. My manicurist’s name is Lisa too, and we’re the same age. She lives with no green card, three kids, and an “only half good” husband in a one-bedroom apartment. Still I see pity in her eyes as she cleans up the raw hamburger of my cuticles. “You’re strong,” she says. “You need someone nice.” She’s not wrong, though I’ve only recently admitted this. More than that, I can feel my great grandmother behind her eyes as she speaks–my grandfather, too. They’ve given up the idea of continuing their ancestral line but are still invested in healing it. Continue Reading →
On the heels of Wednesday’s Carrie carnage, this morning I shuffled into the kitchen and a painting of Mother Mary (Mother Freaking Mary!) flew off the wall, shattering three wine glasses on its way down as well as a rooster-shaped candy dish that I love so much I actually wrote an essay about it. You know it’s serious when gentle, loving Mary, the very essence of the divine feminine, expresses wrath–via a rooster, no less. Am I being haunted by my higher self, Samhain style? Doth my unconscious runneth over? Is today’s new moon in Scorpio breaking everything down to enforce a bruja breakthrough? Whatever, man. I am aware that nothing is more throw-down than messing with a Capricorn’s things. So, universe: I accept your challenge. But what exactly is it?
There are many, many advantages to living and working at home alone but one drawback is that, if you cook as frequently as I do, you also have to be your own housekeeper–a role that gets lost in the shuffle of busier weeks (my not-so-subtle acknowledgment that I’ve been quiet so far this November). I’m running to a screening right now but am already feeling disappointed that Mary Poppins or Bewitched’s Samantha won’t be swooping in during my absence to tend to my dirty laundry, dishes (mind). Just once I would like to be able to swing open the door to my apartment and holler: WHO’S RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS MESS? (Grace cannot be trained to do anything except look cute and meow a very vague approximation of “noooo.”)
It’s Samhain–the Pagan new year, Halloween to nonwitches–and there’s a new moon in Scorpio, the sign of death and rebirth. The veil is lifted and the dark goddesses are all around us, Lilith in full effect. For nearly a week I’ve been haunted by my highest spirit, in addition to everyone else’s. I’d complain except I know this is the universe’s not-so-subtle way of nudging me forward since I’ve been resisting all gentler hints for the last six, twelve, oh, thirty-six months. A friend reminded me this morning of the words of Chickasaw poet Linda Hogan: “Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.” Tonight I feel that.
On the heels of Wednesday’s Carrie carnage, this morning I shuffled into the kitchen and a painting of Mother Mary (Mother Freaking Mary!) flew off the wall, shattering three wine glasses on its way down as well as a rooster-shaped candy dish that I love so much I actually wrote an essay about it. You know it’s serious when gentle, loving Mary, the very essence of the divine feminine, expresses wrath–via a rooster, no less. Am I being haunted by my higher self, Samhain style? Doth my unconscious runneth over? Is today’s new moon in Scorpio breaking everything down to enforce a bruja breakthrough? Whatever, man. I am aware that nothing is more throw-down than messing with a Capricorn’s things. So, universe: I accept your challenge. But what exactly is it?