The Star XVII

Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.
- Charles Dickens

Home for Christmas

Alone.  That's how I'm spending my first Christmas in my new home.  It's not deliberate, it just worked out that way.  I don't know anyone in my new town yet, and the few relatives I have are doing their own thing so far away I can't get there from here.  So in lieu of family and friends, I have only myself as company.  It seems strange, and perhaps a bit lonely.  But I'm okay with that.
I've made a huge change at a late stage in my life.  For many years now I've been longing for a home where I can live independently and by myself, with as little compromise as possible.  And I've found it.  Or perhaps it's more accurate to say it found me.  (see previous post)

When I tell people I meet that I'm brand new in town, they're all so warm and welcoming it reaffirms my belief that I have indeed come home.  But it's not to "retire."  Folks keep asking me if that's why I moved out of a big city to a small town.  The answer is a big, fat no.  Retire from what?  My long non-career as an actor?  That's not retirement.  Or do I plan to stop writing?  Hardly.  Sure, I quit working at the bookstore where I was employed for many years.  But it wasn't my calling or chosen profession.  It was never more than a job between gigs so that I could pay the rent.  And every once in while I did get a gig.
I'd like to think I'm blooming.  I've planted many seeds over the years, and now that I'm living in fertile, new circumstances, I have the freedom to grow into the fullest version of myself.  If I've already bloomed, I don't know when it was.  But I know what I'm doing now.  The present is my time.  And my new home is the place. 
In my book The World of Fairies, I was the model for the Latvian spirit of the hearth called Ugunsmate.  (pronounced ugoons mawt)  While I was writing the book I knew I wanted to pose as one of the fairies, and for a long while I couldn't find one that was suitable.  At the time I was firmly established in middle age, which meant the fairy I modelled for had to be a mature, maternal figure, and not a youthful nymph.  My searching eventually led me to my own Latvian heritage.  It turns out most Latvian female spirits tend to be mature women rather than adolescent girls.  That was a happy bit of synchronicity and another it's a sign moment.
As spirit of the hearth, Ugunsmate symbolises Home.  The hearth was traditionally the centre of family life in rural homes, providing light, heat and a place to cook food.  At the end of a day it was a place for the family to gather and tell stories.  Little wonder the hearth became the focal point of the home.  (N.B. focus is the Latin word for "hearth.")
Home has long been one of the most important themes in my life.  I've written about it a number of times on this little web of mine.  It's been two decades since I first learned about Ugunsmate and the attributes of comfort and security that are found in her company - the things I seek in a home. 
Christmas is a time to be with family and friends.  It's also a time to enjoy the comforts of home.  And though I'm not spending Christmas with my family, I am spending it at home.  I'm safe and sound in my own, true home at last.  It's the best Christmas present I've ever received.
Ugunsmate is certainly one of my most significant tutelary spirits, especially because she represents my Pagan heritage.  The Latvian word for Christmas is Ziemassvētkus, which literally translates as Winter Holidays, revealing the pre-Christian roots of the solstice festivities.  I guess Latvians never bothered to change the greeting after Christianity pre-empted their pagan revelries.  And I love it.  It's the kind of greeting I can share with anyone, no matter what their religious background, because winter happens to everyone.  It's inclusive and non-denominational.
So my dear readers, allow me to wish you a happy* winterfest in the language of my forebears - Priecīgus* Ziemassvētkus. 
Welcome the return of the light.  May it warm your heart and your home.
- g.p.

The Sun XIX

A miracle is not defined by an event.

A miracle is defined by gratitude.
- Kate Baestrup

The following missive may seem to be one of those letters that gets written but is never sent.  However, I'm posting it on my little web, so it's obviously being "sent" somewhere.  It's just that the recipient, my mother, died long ago.  But I wanted to tell this story, and writing it as a thank you  letter is my way to formally express my gratitude.

Dear Ma,

I write this to thank you for the miracle.  I’ve been waiting for it ever since you died twenty years ago on a blue moon – a moon that portends miracles for those of us who believe in such things.  In all those years I never forgot the promise that the magical timing of your death foretold.  And I never told a soul that I’ve clung to the hope that one day it would happen. 

A few years later, when I could see how my life was unfolding, I felt as if only a miracle could save me from ending my days as a homeless bag lady.  I longed for a place where I could afford to live alone and in peace; a place I could call home. 

That’s when Elizabeth, my Polish colleague and a gifted psychic at the bookstore where I worked, pulled me aside to speak to me.

“I heard a voice last night when I was in bed.  It was a woman’s voice.  She spoke English.  I dream in Polish, so I knew it wasn’t a dream.  The voice said The miracle will happen.  That’s all she said.  The miracle will happen.  I know the message isn’t meant for me.  I think it’s meant for you, Silvia.  And I have the feeling it will be a while before it comes to pass.” 

Hearing Elizabeth relay your words reaffirmed my belief in magic and miracles.  Since then I’ve never paid attention to magically challenged people who dismiss me as a flake and a magical thinker.

Elizabeth was right about having to wait a while, though.  I confess that while waiting for the miracle my faith and patience were sorely tested.  Sometimes I thought I’d be struggling forever, and never have the means to live in peace and solitude.  But every once in a while you’d send me a sign to keep my hopes aloft.

The first time was a couple of years after Elizabeth spoke to me.  It was Mother’s Day, and a full moon, so you were on my mind more than usual.  I felt certain you would speak to me that day.  I was working at the bookstore and found a tiny piece of paper lying on the floor.  It came out of a Chinese fortune cookie and bore the message “You will live a comfortable old age.” 

That timely message became a mantra of mine, especially when I was low on funds and hope.  Despite all my efforts to stay afloat materially and spiritually, I wasn’t able to find peace and stability where I lived.  Conflict and confusion were a daily occurrence, and I just couldn’t afford to move out on my own.  I felt trapped.

Finally, almost four months ago, and fifteen years after I found the Chinese fortune, I found another one on the sidewalk, mere steps from where I lived.  It said “You are going to have a very comfortable retirement.” 

My intuition told me that after so many years and so many unmistakable signs from you, the miracle was finally about to happen.  And I was right.  Two weeks later I was offered a charming, affordable studio unit in a lovely, lively town I could only dream about before.  Skeptics would say I was lucky to have jumped to the front of a long waiting list.  It wasn’t luck, of course - it was a miracle.  And I have proof of that in black and white.  The date the housing application was originally drawn up was the same date as your death.

So thanks, Ma.  Thanks for giving me the gift of magic, and finding me a home.  I look forward to living in it peacefully, and comfortably, for the rest of my life.

Love, your daughter                                                                                                                                                      

Death XIII

Two Years Gone

Gentle autumn rain marks the day you died.
Zen grey clouds show me how to weep,
soft and mild,
just like you.
The way you were,
the way you are,
in the sad, sweet moments of fall.

The Priestess II

 
Greta the Great

  
Activist

Hero
Girl
Woman
Angel
Saint

🌳 

The Moon XVIII

Imagining the Worst

"Born into misery, gruesomely injured, and violently killed."
A Subject in the inbox assaults my morning eyes.
I open the message and find an empty page.
No pictures or words tell the story of a wretched life.
No petition to sign.
No link for donations.
Just a fill-in-the-blank screen. 
I'm glad for the glitch,
but sorry for the picture painted in my mind.   

-g.p.

The Tower XVI

Riding the Night Mare

Someone help me put out the fire!
Flames shoot across the furtive reaches of my mind,
       landing in a forest of forgetting.
Bugs in the brain erupt on my skin.

Darkness enfolds me,
        save for rapid bursts of crooked light.
Lightning strikes once, twice,
        then many times more,
                        on the very same spot.
Another myth shattered.

Somewhere inside & out there, an inferno rages.
       The price of a lie.
                      The cost of delusion.

Words spill onto the page, 
       then crackle and pop on screen.
                      Enter "Save."
    
The mind smolders, but my body is safe.
Until the next time.

- g.p.

Blue is Beautiful

Sadness and depression aren't the same thing.  Ever since I came back from Peru where I had my demons of depression purged, I've still had moments of real sadness.  But it's okay, because sadness and grief, as painful as they may be, aren't bad.  Depression is.  I learned that distinction in the Amazon rainforest drinking ayahuasca.
I've never been much of a news hound, although I like to stay relatively informed.  But since my return home, I'm deliberately more out of touch than ever.  Now that I'm back in my home and native land, I pay less attention to the news because it's so bloody depressing.  I do my best to avoid distressing pictures and stories, but the Internet is in my face and every day I'll see something that saddens me.

I get requests and exhortations for signatures and money from various agencies because I donate regularly to animal rights and environmental groups, so my name and email are "out there."  One morning last week my mood took a nosedive when I checked my email. I was assaulted with a horrific picture of a dead elephant with its trunk and half its face cut off.  This abomination was done in order to "harvest" its ivory tusks.  So I did the right thing and signed the petition to stop the slaughter, but it didn't make me feel any better.
I felt true grief for what we are doing to these magnificent animals in the name of greed.  But as genuine as my concern and sadness is, it's still not bad.  In fact, it's good that I feel that way.  Even deep grief for the loss of a loved one isn't bad.  It's painfully hard, but it's right and it's necessary. 
When I  railed against the hardship of drinking ayahuasca at the retreat in Peru, the ayahuascera told me not to judge an extremely difficult experience as "bad." 
Healing is difficult.  The more severe the injury or illness is, the longer and more painful the healing process will be.  Realising the difference between something that's bad, which implies judgement, and something that's arduous, which is a descriptive term, was a revelation for me. 

I am saddened by "bad" things, such as animal abuse and environmental destruction.  In fact, they may even depress me.  But they don't make me feel worthless and ashamed.  They aren't a reflection of who I am.  The things I deem "bad" reflect what I believe is right and wrong.  When I'm saddened or even horrified by what humanity is capable of doing, it means I care, and that's a good thing.  Rock bottom depression means the sufferer is beyond caring.  Depression renders a person self-absorbed. 
Nowadays, if I shed tears for the suffering of others, and that includes all living beings, it's because I'm no longer trapped in a morass of self-centred gloom.  I've been liberated from the prison of self-pity so that I can feel genuine sorrow for someone or something else, and perhaps do something about it, even if it's just showing some compassion.
Although grief and sadness usually happen because of a significant loss, love is at the very core of these  undesirable but necessary emotions.  Depression, however, is a result of a lack of love, whether it's for the self or another.  Andrew Solomon, author of The Noonday Demon, a brilliant, biographical tome about his depression, says that the opposite of depression isn't happiness, but vitality.  And William Faulkner famously said that "given the choice between the experience of pain and nothing, I would choose pain."  Depression immobilises and atrophies the soul.  Grief and sadness, however, move the spirit, even though it may hurt like hell.  There's a stirring in the soul that allows for emotional clearance and eventual healing.
Although genuine sorrow makes the heart and soul vulnerable to more of the same, it also exposes the goodness and beauty that lie within.  It's a sign that life and love still matter.  And that's a good thing.
- g.p.

It's the Little Things

I recently saved the life of a butterfly.  I was leaving the local liquor emporium with my purchase when I noticed a red admiral butterfly stuck inside the store.  It was desperately  fluttering up and down the picture windows trying to find a way to escape. I knew there was no way the butterfly could survive in a sterile, indoor environment, so I took it upon myself to release it outdoors.
Normally I would have had two free hands to capture the butterfly, because I rarely leave the house without my knapsack to carry my goods.  But not this time.  Since I was holding a bottle of wine, I was forced to perform the capture and release operation with only one hand.  I suppose I could have put the bottle down on the floor, but I didn't think that was good idea with all the people walking around.
After a couple of failed attempts to cup the panicky little creature in my free hand, I finally managed to scoop it off the window. Two hands would have made it much easier to catch and then enclose the butterfly between my palms, so capturing it with only one hand was a very delicate procedure.  I'm glad that my slow, careful movements proved to be successful. 
Fortunately, I was very close to the sliding doors, which made it possible for me to make a quick exit.  As I burst out the doors holding a bottle in a paper bag in one hand (I know how that sounds - but too bad) and a butterfly cupped in the other, I nervously announced to a couple of customers entering the store to make way for a woman on a butterfly rescue mission.  They seemed rather amused as they politely complied with my request.  As soon as I was outside, I opened my hand and watched the butterfly take off.  I'd been able to contain it without damaging its wings at all. 
I was very grateful for a happy ending to a sweet little bit of drama.  Helping that butterfly made my day.  And I bet the butterfly was glad, too.
- g.p.

Distant Waves

A picture is a secret about a secret.  The more it tells you, the less you know.

- Diane Arbus

I have an old photograph of a young girl and her mother, their temples pressed lightly against each other as they face the camera, artfully posing for the picture.  The photograph was taken by my grandfather, and my mother and grandmother are the models.  Grandma is all smiles, clearly enjoying the moment.  My mother, however, is not as enthusiastic.  She looks sad and world weary far beyond her five years.  Her eyes have a distant look, and the corners of her mouth are turned down.  The first time I saw this photograph I was a young girl myself, just a few years older than my mother was when she posed for the picture.

Ma had hundreds of photographs depicting her life growing up in Latvia.  Most of them were taken by Grandpa, who was a gifted amateur photographer.  Many years later my mother expertly pasted some of them into albums, either thematically or chronologically. The rest were kept in large, shallow boxes.
I loved riffling through the pictures and looking at the childhood and adolescent versions of my mother’s side of the family.  In the two decades before the Second World War photography wasn’t the digital point-and-press hobby it is now. The photos Grandpa took were almost always carefully set up, so that everyone had lots of time to smile and look camera-ready before the shutter finally clicked and whirred.  My aunt and uncle, who were my mother’s younger siblings, and my drama queen grandmother invariably seemed fine with having their picture taken.  My mother - not so much.  Even when she was all dolled up especially for the occasion, she didn’t smile.  She usually bore the look of someone who couldn’t smile on demand because she didn’t smile much at all.
I spent a lot of time trying to find pictures of my mother with a smile on her face; even the Latvian equivalent of a “say cheese” grin would have done.  There were a few of her as an adolescent that looked as if she was making an attempt at it.  I guess by then she’d noticed that people tend to look better when they look happy.  She eventually improved at smiling for the camera as an adult, perhaps because she was a beautiful woman and knew how to work it to her advantage in pictures. 

It may be true that the camera never lies, but it also hints at untold stories and secrets.  I intuitively knew that as I searched to understand my mother’s reluctance to put on a happy face.  I wanted to unearth the story beneath the photograph’s glossy surface.  Those photographs taught me how to make connections between the past and the present, the seen and the unseen.  What I felt in my bones fascinated me far more than anything I could plainly comprehend with my ordinary senses.  Pictures may show what happened, and even how something happened, but they seldom reveal why.
Over the years I eventually realized that the photograph of my mother and grandmother was the proverbial picture that’s worth a thousand words.  Although that significant picture isn’t typically defined as synchronicity, it was a sign that pointed to a future my mother would one day share with me.
That photo speaks to me now more than ever.  It’s a constant reminder that I can’t change the past, and if I want some control over what happens in the future, I must pay attention to the present.  That’s strong advice from an old photograph that whispers secrets I’ll never know.  But I'm still listening. 
-g.p.

Jungle Love

Grandmother Ayahuasca has taught me well.  She continues to do so - and shall do forever, I hope.  Three weeks ago I returned from a powerful, difficult, devastating, uplifting, transformative, and healing retreat in the Amazon rainforest of Peru.  But for all the excruciatingly difficult hours I've spent under Grandmother's spell, I've come to know her as a healer and teacher, and above all - a loving spirit.  This grand lady of the Amazon plant world showed me how to love, and that's a tall order for someone as misanthropic as I've been.

My purpose for going there was to heal myself of the tenacious bouts of depression that have plagued me for much of my adult life.  I did so at  Grandmother's bidding, which I've written about a couple  of times in recent posts.  She called me to finish the healing process which began over seven years ago, when I first went to Peru to have her tea.  Since then I've visited her twice more at her jungle retreat, aptly named Parign Hak, which means "Grandmother's Home" in Harakbut, one of the languages of the many native peoples of the Amazon.
If I'd known then how long and hard the process would be, I'm not sure I would have begun.  But I was naïve and curious, so I unwittingly began a healing journey I didn't know I needed to take.  I'm not able to describe all that happened spending time with Grandmother, both in and out of ceremony, in a single post on this web of mine.  That's a book-length story for another time. 
As for my recent visit to the jungle retreat, the deepest and most abiding lesson began as soon as I arrived there, although I didn't realise it at the time.  My first time at the retreat was a year and half ago, when I met the lovely extended family who own and operate the retreat, under the leadership of married couple Victoria and Alberto, as well as Jessica, the resident ayahuascera.  I was really  looking forward to seeing them all again because everyone had been so generous and kind to me my first time there.  And it seems they were looking forward to seeing me as well, because I was received with so much love and joy I momentarily thought they must have mistaken me for someone else.  My reception was an embarrassment of emotional riches filled with all kinds of aw shucks moments.  
I was overwhelmed with an outflowing of love from open, trusting, and trustworthy people, who made me feel completely safe and at home in a strange and exotic place.  Indeed, it was all that love and support that gave me the strength to drink Grandmother's jungle juice when I did.  That's what love does.  It gives you courage to do things you otherwise wouldn't be able to do. 
I spent a week on Grandmother's turf with people who were unobtrusively attentive to my needs.  Little by little I was learning Grandmother's deepest lesson in the daily interactions and activities at the retreat, completely outside of ceremony.  Of course Grandma saved the really tough stuff for tea time, when she was purging me of my demons.  It was only after those bad guys were expelled as the retreat was nearing an end that I was fully and finally able to recognise that the big lesson I was learning was indeed about love, especially love for myself.
So it wasn't random at all that I developed a very large, ugly cold sore on my lower lip, that ended up crawling a third of the way down my chin.  In the past I've gotten cold sores after experiencing a radical change in climate.  But I've been to Peru before, as well as other tropical countries, and not had any problems in that regard.  But this time was  different.  My first lesson in self-love was literally in my face.  Learning self-acceptance while feeling like a leper isn't easy.  Fortunately, all the good people at the retreat, custodial family and fellow participants alike, were sweet and sympathetic, and clearly didn't seem to mind the eyesore on my mouth and chin as much as I did.   
I didn't let anyone take close up pictures of me, and I sure  wasn't taking any selfies.  To make matters even harder for my beleaguered self-esteem, my retreat mates - two women and two men - weren't just thoughtful and kind, they also happened to be really good looking.  Those fine people  proved to me that true beauty is more than skin deep, and they had it both inside and out.  (Please know that good looks weren't a prerequisite for being on the retreat.)
My time in the jungle also proved to me that everyone is a teacher.  We all teach by example, whether we're aware of it or not, and I had some of the best teachers ever.  I've never been much of a hugger, but I eventually got the knack of it because it would have been rude and ungrateful of me to not return all the hugs I received as soon I arrived, and then again when I was leaving.  All that hugging coming at me from all directions finally broke this hug-resistant person down.
As ancient and formidable as Grandmother is, she's always availed herself of teaching assistants when I've visited her in Peru, usually in the shape of animals.  She knows I trust them more than humans, so she's used their services in the past to help teach me about life and love.  This time, however, her helper was Luciana, a little girl of about five years old.  Just like animals, small children are basically innocent and don't censor the way they feel. 

Luciana and I never spoke to each other because we didn't speak each other's language.  Our communication, if that's the right word for it, was wordless, just like my previous connections with Grandmother's animal assistants.  A few times through the week  I noticed Luciana just staring at me with childlike curiosity.  At first I vainly worried that it might be the ugly sore on my lip that fascinated her, but I soon realised she was looking deeper than that.  I felt as if she regarded me with a knowing far beyond her years.  Like the elderly, kids have a way of seeing beyond mere appearance.  Besides, they usually don't care much about how people look, and believe me, I was very grateful for that.  So whenever I caught Luciana gazing my way, I simply gave her a smile and a little wave, and then went on about my business.
It wasn't until the end of the retreat, however, when we were preparing for the long journey back to Cusco that I realised that Luciana had been Grandmother's designated teaching assistant.  I was standing quietly aside while the van was being loaded with our luggage, when I noticed Luciana walking towards me with great purpose.  She came right up to me, grabbed me around my waist and gave me a huge, heartfelt hug.  I was more than a little surprised and deeply moved.  I didn't know what I had done to deserve such spontaneous and ingenuous affection, but I quickly pulled myself together, knelt down and returned her sweet gesture.  It was my favourite hug the whole week.  So if I revert to my usual "air hugs" now that I'm back home, I'll just find myself a little kid to practise on and work my way back up to hugging big people.

Luciana's surprising and unselfconscious expression of love reminded me of another incident many years ago when another little girl took a shining to me for no apparent reason, and then expressed it aloud.  (See From the Mouths of Babes, 11/1/18)  Luciana's hug communicated the very same thing, and for what seemed like similar, undefined reasons.
It's no accident (nothing that happens in Grandmother's realm is) that Luciana's name means "light."  I feel honoured that she chose to shine her light on me.  It allowed me to see myself through a child's unspoiled young eyes.   
It's unrealistic to think that love can cure all bodily ills, but even a little love can help to heal a wounded soul.  I'm lucky - I got more than my fair share for a week in the jungle.  And I shall be forever grateful to all those beautiful people from whom I learned the greatest love of all - love for myself. 
So mote it be.
- g.p.

Saving Grace

I wanted to practise yoga on the morning of first new moon after the vernal equinox.  It seemed like an auspicious way to begin the lunar month.  I couldn't help feeling there was something very special in the air as I began the half hour walk to my yoga studio. 
I was about half way there when I noticed a woman crouching on the driveway beside a house, fiddling  with her cell phone.  Two men stood a few feet away on the sidewalk.  Everyone's attention was on something at the edge of the small, front lawn.  As I got closer I could see a large bird, a raptor of some kind.  It was a red tailed hawk, one of the most common type of hawk that populate the tree-bound neighbourhood where I live.  I assumed it was injured, because it sat perfectly still on the low curb between the driveway and the lawn, not attempting to get away from the humans who hovered nearby.
The woman on her cell phone informed me that she'd seen the hawk fly into one of the side windows of the house as she was walking her dog.  She was calling the local wildlife rescue centre to find help for the injured bird.  I thought one or both of its wings must have been injured, because it wasn't trying to fly away. However, there was an injury that was plainly visible.  The hawk was favouring its right leg by extending it forward and out of the way, while keeping most of its weight on the other  limb.  It also looked as if the poor bird couldn't use the claw on the hurt leg.  I knew right then and there I wouldn't make it to my yoga class.  I had no intention of leaving until somebody came to rescue the hawk. 
The bird was so beautiful that I longed to get close enough to touch her.  ("Petting" a formidable raptor doesn't sound quite right.)  I approached ever so slowly until she was within an arm's length.   When I sat down on the curb next to her, she shuffled a bit, but otherwise didn't move, perhaps because she wasn't able to.   As I reached my hand out to touch her, she eyed me warily but still didn't move.  Then I very tenderly lay my hand upon her back and began to stroke her feathers.  It was like feeling fine velvet.
"I'd put gloves on if I were you," the other woman warned.

I understood what she meant.  A hawk's beak can tear flesh apart in an instant.  But the gorgeous, feathered creature beside me didn't seem to mind my attention.  After all, she'd already allowed the kind lady with the cellphone to pull her out of the bushes beneath the window where she'd fallen after crashing.  She was probably too stunned to resist.  Whatever the reason for her preternatural calm, she remained perfectly still as I continued to stroke her back, her wings, and then her breast.
"How does it feel?" asked one of the men.
"Soft, very soft," I replied.  My heart melted as I stayed by her side.  After quietly sitting with her for a  few more minutes, I leaned over to stroke her one last time when she suddenly flapped her wings and took flight, landing on one of the uppermost branches of a nearby tree.  Everyone gasped and then cheered.  Maybe she didn't need rescuing after all. 
After making sure she was safely ensconced in the tree, the small band of humans that had gathered around her dispersed.  One of the men commented before leaving that he felt privileged for having  been part of something so special.  I felt the same way, and was deeply grateful that the hawk had trusted me enough to let me "pet" her without raising a fuss. 

That beautiful bird has been happily on my mind ever since.  I've named her Grace, because I felt graced  to have been in her presence. Indigenous Peoples regard red tailed hawks as spirit guides who represent vision and foresight, due to their keen eyesight.  They are associated with the root chakra,  which is located at the base of the spine where the tail bone is situated.  And red, it should be noted, isn't just the colour of the bird's tail feathers, it's also the colour of the root chakra.  It isn't as odd as it seems that a high flying  bird should be symbolic of the root chakra.  Being rooted denotes balance, meaning that red tailed hawks teach us how to fly to great heights while keeping our feet firmly planted on the ground.
The last time I was in Peru (see Grandma and the Night Visitors, 3/15/19) a little lame chick taught me the same lesson, although I still haven't mastered her teachings.  Finding balance is a tough one for me. So Grace must have showed up to drive the point home.  Gotta love those raptors. 
Anyway, both birds had lame limbs, and reminded me of the bouts I have with the "wobblies," my euphemism for depressive episodes that cripple me sometimes.  And if that weren't enough to connect two seemingly disparate spirit guides, red tailed hawks have been mistakenly referred to as "chicken hawks," a misnomer resulting from the false belief that chickens are one of their animals of prey. 
So how can I not believe in magic?
Timing is also a factor in receiving and understanding magical messages.  According to Native lore, the times of  greatest power for the red tailed hawk are equinoxes and new moons.  Well, wouldn't you know, Grace crossed my path on the first new moon after a power-charged vernal equinox.  (See previous post.) 
Hey.  I can't make this stuff up.
I wrote about waiting for a "red bird" to rise out of the ashes of my most recent, and thankfully  fading-into-the-past crash and burn.  At the time I didn't know why I chose "red bird" as the harbinger of better times.  I deliberately avoided using the ever-popular, mythological Phoenix to describe my hopes.  Although the Phoenix is a fine metaphor for resurrection, it seemed cliché at the time, so I settled for "red bird" instead.  It felt right, and now I know why. 
I once wrote that signs heal me, including the more ominous ones that warn of hard times ahead.   Since my red bird appeared to me a few days ago, I feel lighter than I have in a long while.  My intuition is being fine-tuned and my connection to everything grows stronger with every new sign I see.
I shall always cherish the memory of Grace allowing me to touch her.  But it's how Grace has  touched me that matters most.  I felt strangely at peace while I sat in her presence, even though I feared she might be badly hurt.  The only way I could sit beside her and revel in her beauty was to be quiet and still.  For a few brief moments I knew what it was to feel equanimity in a  potentially stressful  situation. 

writing later the same day...

I had almost finished writing this story shortly before I had to leave for yoga practice.  (This time I managed to get there.)  I just needed to write an appropriate closing sentence or two before posting it. As fate would have it, I serendipitously found the perfect ending at the yoga studio. 
There's a open deck of blessing cards in the studio boutique, which is available to anyone who wants a quick fix of cartomancy.  I pulled a card, as I am wont to do every time I'm there, just to see what blessing the Cosmos had in store for me.  Well lo and behold, here's what it said...
May you know Grace. 
I wish you the same.
- g.p. 

Cosmic Spring

Today is a very special Vernal Equinox, because this year it falls on a full moon.  That's a double dose of natural magic to lighten my spirits.  I could really use a break from "real" life.  That's not to say that vernal equinoxes and full moons aren't a part of real life, but they're integral to living a magical life as well. 
Although I've had more than my fair share of magic recently, not all of it's been good.  I've had a few experiences lately that were in-my-face bummers.  (See previous post.)  But the confluence of two celestial events is a very powerful, positive distraction from the mind-stuff that's been dragging me down.  Planet Earth and the Universe trump the petty concerns of a solitary human being any day of the millennium.  Sometimes it feels great to be so small.  
I don't want to insult my vast readership's intelligence with explanations of why spring equinoxes and full moons are festive occasions for those of us who are magically inclined, but please forgive me for citing a few reasons anyway...  The two aforementioned events, especially when they happen together, represent beginnings, growth, fertility, abundance, maturity, activity and opportunity. 

So today I'm celebrating natural magic and cosmic connection.  That's another way of saying I celebrate science.*  (*from Latin scientia, meaning "knowledge.")  Let the materialist scientists scoff.  They're missing out on the poetry of the connections and patterns woven into the Universe.  It's more than simply an "interesting coincidence" to me.  Although I can explain how these events happen on a purely  physical level, I'm also able to see the magic of it all.  And if that makes me some sort of misguided flake, then so be it.  At least it lifts me out of morbid self-absorption.  It's a relatively benign way to self-medicate.
I don't identify with any organised religion, and prefer not to express overt nationalist feelings.  I like to think of myself as a citizen of the Cosmos, which makes me Cosmopolitan* in the truest sense of the word.  (*from the Greek cosmos, for "order, beauty." )  Today I cheerfully ponder the beauty and poetry inherent in all of Creation. 
Ancient peoples were adept at reading the patterns and movements of the earth and the sky.  They learned how to live in harmony with Nature, and flow with the cycle of the seasons.  It was a reciprocal relationship.  As long as they obeyed her laws, she agreed to do their bidding.  This knowledge (science) has been long forgotten and humankind is now paying a heavy price.

I feel fortunate and privileged to be a bearer of this knowledge.  Such is my faith.  I revere the Universe and care for Nature as best I can.  Spring is my favourite season and I'm grateful that it's finally and officially here.  This time of year, more than any other, gives me hope that warmer, brighter, better days are coming.  That's science.  The healing effects of sun and burgeoning life can't be overstated.  That's science, too.  I can hardly wait to sit outside and feel the healing rays of the sun shine upon my upturned face.  Nature is the best healer of all.
It's been a very long, hard winter.  I've never been more ready for the miracle of new life to begin.  That's why I welcome and honour this first day of Spring and the full moon that presides.  It doesn't matter if you're a follower of the Old Ways or not, it's a cosmic coincidence that bodes well for us all. 
So mote it be.
- g.p.

Grandma and the Night Visitors

I found a small, green, plastic frog smack in middle of the sidewalk as I was leaving work a while ago.  Although I had no use for a child's plaything, I picked it up anyway, because something about it called out to me.  In other words, I felt I was supposed to find it because it had a message meant especially for me.  No surprise there.  I'm always seeing signs in the most mundane of circumstances.  But that, of course, is what signs are all about - no one but the person they're intended for understands their significance.

Although I felt drawn to the toy frog, it was a while before I knew why.  In the meantime I left it lying around my bedroom, occasionally moving it from one place to another, all the while talking to it as if it were a living, breathing creature - just like a beloved pet.  I knew I was being ridiculous for speaking sweetly to a piece of plastic, but I couldn't help myself.  The baby talk just kept coming out of my mouth.  This went on for about a week until I finally stashed it out of sight to prevent any more flaky behaviour.
I couldn't forget its effect on me, however.  I already knew that frogs  are spirit guides that represent cleansing, transformation, renewal and rebirth; attributes they've earned because they live in and around water, and change from tadpole to full grown frog during their life cycle.  I found the little guy just a few days before I quit my long-time job at a large format bookstore, so I thought perhaps my sudden unemployed status was the renewal and transformation symbolised by the frog.
I didn't know I'd be quitting my job as abruptly as I did.  I was miserable at work, so I gave my two weeks notice, as any responsible employee should.  But I just couldn't stick it out, and ended up leaving before the two weeks were up.  Maybe accepting defeat as I did was the "cleansing" that froggy signified.
But the little green guy's message was deeper than that.  While I was grappling with suddenly being unemployed and talking to a toy, I couldn't let go of the thought that Grandmother Ayahuasca had something to do with the fake frog that had crossed my path.
I've written about Grandmother and her profound influence on my life a number of times, and how she speaks to me through signs and synchronicities.  It's been many months since I've visited her in the Amazon rainforest, but occasionally she still talks to me in her magical way.  And lately it seems, it happens more than ever.  One of the clearest ways she communicates with me is through animal helpers.  I think of them as her teaching assistants.
Seven years ago in Peru, after my very first nauseating, vomit-inducing ceremony, a large, black German shepherd "spoke" to me about my experience.  While I was sitting on a swing the morning after the ceremony, musing on the night before, he loped right up to me, looked me squarely in the eye, and then vomited on the grass.  He then trotted all away round the swing I sat on, stopped in front of me again, and spewed some more before taking his leave.  That was his way of telling me that tea time with Grandma wasn't about my naive hopes that I'd commune with plants and animals of the rainforest, or receive mystical insights into the Cosmos.  The ayahuasca ceremony is first and foremost about healing, and always has been.  In my case it was about healing my long history of depression. 
I recognised that large, black German Shepherd as a symbol for depression. Winston Churchill famously referred to his bouts with the mental illness as visits from the "black dog."  (Stories of Churchill's depression have been recently refuted by historian Andrew Roberts.  However, I learned of Churchill's black dog several decades ago, so I'm sticking with that metaphor.  It works for me.)

The last time I had tea with Grandma was on my second visit to Peru 16 months ago. By then I had no more illusions about what to expect, even though you're not supposed to expect anything.  I was there for more healing and to establish a solid foundation for myself.  While there I bonded with a six week old chicken and called her my Little Lame Chick, because she hobbled due to a deformed foot.  I wanted balance and stability, and my little lame chick reminded me of it every time I saw her endearing, lopsided gait. 
The significance of her limp wasn't lost on me, but it's only been in the last few weeks that I've remembered something else that somehow escaped my notice until now. 
One of the funniest, most memorable cartoons I've ever read, and which I've included here, is from The Far Side, by Gary Larson.  He has a twisted sense of humour that has always appealed to me, and many of his hilarious observations are deep lessons in life.  Many years ago it made me laugh at a time when I hadn't laughed or felt joy for a long while, because I was experiencing another depressive episode.  (It's okay if you roll your eyes.  I'm tired of it, too.)  Anyway, it was so spot-on funny that a number of years later I sent it to my Goddess Mother, Gita Tante, to pass unto her daughter/my cousin, Laura, who was in the throes of deep, bipolar depression.  Not only is it hilarious and poignant, but as I look at it now, I wonder why it took me so long to make the connection between that meaningful cartoon and my little lame chick. 

Once again, Grandma had an animal teaching assistant remind me that drinking her tea is meant for healing.  In fact, the last time I drank her tea I didn't receive the highly welcome euphoria that comes after the effects have worn off.  After reeling for hours from nausea, instead of the usual post-ceremonial bliss,  I plunged into despair and wept aloud.  And boy, was I pissed about that.  I couldn't understand what had gone wrong, especially because I'd prayed at the beginning of the ceremony for Grandma to show me the ways of the Wise Woman. 
It wasn't until I saw my little lame chick the next morning that I realised my journey through  depression was the path I must take to achieve wisdom.  But what I didn't understand was that the unhappy ending to the ceremony also meant that I still had more healing to do. 
Wisdom denotes being able to maintain equanimity in good times and bad.  It took me 16 months of a lot of up-and-downing to finally figure that out.  As I look back on Grandma's lesson now, it seems so obvious.  But hindsight is 20-20.  And that brings me back to my toy frog... 
I needed to know why I kept thinking of Grandmother when I looked at that silly, green thing.  So after some googling I discovered that there's a tree frog secretion called kambo that a few indigenous cultures in the Amazon use to treat chronic pain and drug dependence.  And - drum roll, please - it's sometimes used in conjunction with Grandmother's jungle juice, ayahuasca!  Although the frog isn't hurt while the poison is extracted, and is released supposedly unharmed afterwards, the hapless creature must endure what looks like a cruel and demeaning procedure.  That's not my cup of tea, and Grandma knows it. 
I'm sure she doesn't expect me to avail myself of the frog's powerful and potentially lethal substance.  She just needed to catch my attention by dropping a facsimile of an Amazonian tree frog on a northern city sidewalk in the winter.  So there it was.  The fake frog I found was surely a sign from Grandma. 
When I first gave notice that I'd be going on sick leave, I devised a plan I thought would make things easier for me until I officially left the job.  I decided to take just a few days off and fly far, far away where I didn't know anyone, and no one knew me.  And it had to be some place I'd never been before. 
So I picked Amsterdam, known to be a tourist-friendly, very walkable city.  It may have been a financially ill-advised decision, but I figured my mental health was worth the expense.  I booked it a scant three weeks before I was to leave, with only two weeks of employment left after I got back.  I wanted something to look forward to and take my mind off anything that aggravated me at work.  I find that much of the pleasure of travel is anticipating the forthcoming adventure.  I reasoned that when something threw me off balance while on the job, and that happened daily, I'd just think about my mini-vacation in Amsterdam and I'd be able to get through the day. 
By now you know that plan didn't work.  I just up and quit before my scheduled trip.  Since I didn't want to lose any money for late travel cancellation, I went anyway. 
The city of Amsterdam itself didn't disappoint - lots of  museums, art, architecture, canals, cafes (both the coffee and cannabis kind), friendly people who all speak English, and all the other stuff that beautiful, European cities are known to offer.  Although I'd gone to Amsterdam to escape my spiritual malaise, I quickly learned that the woes I was hoping to flee followed me there. Or perhaps it's more accurate to say that my troubles had emissaries waiting  to greet me upon my arrival.
I landed in Amsterdam in a perfectly fine frame of mind.  I felt certain I would have three fun-filled,  care-free days to myself.  But that was not to be.  After my first night in a lovely, reasonably priced hotel, which included a scrumptious breakfast, I woke up to find several large, red, angry bites on my right knee.  I recognised them right away as the work of bed bugs.  And need I say, that in order to have recognised them for what they were, I've encountered those creepy critters before? 
Yes, it's true.  It doesn't make me proud to admit that my life experience now includes not one, not two, but five - count 'em - five separate incidents with those blasted buggers.  So when I saw those wretched bites on my knee after one night in a city where I was hoping to escape the nightmares that assailed me at home, I went into denial - big time.   A frantic voice in my head kept screaming no no no no no!  It's not bed bugs!  It's spiders! It's allergies!  Anything but bed bugs!  Aargh!!!
I spent the next two days doing what a typical spinster/writer who travels alone does.  I walked, took lots of pictures, and frequented cafes where I nursed wine as I wrote copious notes in my journal, all the while ignoring the fact that my hotel room was infested with b.b.s.  And yet - surprise! surprise! - each morning I awoke with more bites.  Those creepy crawlers hit pay dirt with me because I couldn't, or wouldn't, believe they'd found me again.  It didn't seem fair.  Was I just plain unlucky?  Or was the Universe telling me I shouldn't travel? 
I know a lot of people who've travelled much more than I have, and they've never had the slightest problem with insect infestation.  So instead of going into why me mode, I pretended like hell there was nothing wrong.  And believe me, every time I've had extended run-ins with b.b.s, I have to do a lot of pretending.  Even though they constantly prey on my mind and various parts of my body, it's  something I just can't mention in polite company, lest I be regarded as some kind of latter day Typhoid Mary.
On my last morning before the airport shuttle came to pick me up, I very discreetly informed the lovely hotel receptionist of the situation.  She emailed me a few days later to tell me that the hotel had professional exterminators come in to check it out, and they confirmed that my room did, in fact, have bed bugs.  No kidding.  I guess I should have mentioned I had expertise in bed bug infestation myself. 
Two out of the five times I've encountered those friggin' pests has been overseas in perfectly nice hotels.  The first time was in Venice, also known for its canals.  (And what the f*#k do cities with canals and b.b.s. have to do with each other?)  Anyway, thrice more (sorry - I just love an excuse to use a word like "thrice"), I've had to cope with six-legged vermin setting up camp in my home-sweet- home.  I know for sure that neither of the incidents abroad were the reason the buggers showed up in my bed and on my body at home.  When they were on my turf they'd arrived through domestic channels.  Yeah.  Like that makes it better.   
Being an autodidact in b.b. infestation, I was fairly certain I hadn't brought them back from Amsterdam.  But to make sure no bugs had hitched a ride back with me, I took all the necessary precautions and procedures before I left Amsterdam, and especially when I got home.  I sure as hell didn't want to end up dealing with all the onerous work, expense, and conflict to exterminate the creepy critters. 
The good news is there weren't any b.b.s.  The bad news is that the numerous bites I bore took more than a week to fade from sight, reminding me of the  creepy welcoming committee I encountered in Amsterdam.  They were there to tell me I can't run away from the crap I keep in my head. 
That being said, let's make it perfectly clear that bed bugs are not spirit guides.  Just try to find them described as spirit animals anywhere on the web.  You'll find all kinds of insects mentioned as animal guides, but not so b.b.s.  Gee.  I wonder why.

It's a sad irony, however, that I'm actually rather fond of bugs.  Many of those six-legged creatures add grace and beauty to gardens and forests, and play an important role in maintaining the delicate balance of nature.  On my last visit to Peru I found a very large, jungle-size  grasshopper in the hut where I slept.  She was a beautiful, vivid green colour, and missing a hind leg.  When I mentioned the gorgeous creature to Jessica, the ayahuascera at the retreat, she informed me that grasshoppers are  manifestations of Grandmother Ayahuasca.  Oh wow!  It made perfect sense, especially because she was crippled, just like my little lame chick.  When it comes to receiving messages from the spirit world, I'll take a large, lame grasshopper over a bed bug anytime.
But I'm pretty sure Grandmother didn't have anything to do with the b.b.s in Amsterdam.  Sure, they were the perfect trope for what I was going through, but that's not Grandmother's style when it comes to sending me signs.  She can be tough, but she's not cruel.  Those bugs turning up as they did was my doing, and I take full responsibility for it.  The negative energy I'd been sending out for weeks happened as a result of frequent nightmares and sleeplessness.  I was hoping all that would just magically disappear for a few nights if I flew far away.  I should have known better. 
Although b.b.s  aren't spirit animals, and for good reason, they've come to have very deep, personal significance to me.  When my fears and doubts are on the wane and I'm finally enjoying some genuine slumber (and yes, there are moments), b.b.s and rats - that's right, rats - decide to show up.  And so another cycle of fitful, sleepless nights begins.  I defy anyone to get a decent night's sleep with rats partying down an arm's length from your bed with only a thin wall to separate you, or bed bugs chowing down on your flesh in the few moments you finally get some sleep.

I suppose all this makes it sound as if I live in some grotty hell-hole in a tough, seedy neighbourhood.  But that's just not the case.  I live in a lovely, leafy part of the city, and my personal space in the house I call home is reasonably clean and orderly.  I make sure of that.
So how can I not conclude that there's more going on than random misfortune?  Of course there is.  That's the universe I live in.  It's the one I've created - what with my love of signs and magical messages.  So yeah, my unwelcome expertise with pestilence serves a larger purpose.  It proves to me that magical happenstance isn't always rainbows and unicorns.  There's some pretty heavy mojo to contend with out there.
My history with rats isn't a happy story, either. Of course a lot of folks might think there's no way a rat story could possibly be happy. Fair enough, but rats have ambivalent symbolism as power animals throughout various cultures and traditions.  They have some good points, too.  But it was the sad and sorry tales of my life in rat-land that Grandma called upon the last time I participated in a ceremony.  On that occasion I hadn't drunk any tea, so I fell asleep sooner than I normally would have.
The ceremonial hut had a fairly large gap between the top of the walls and the roof.  The gap allows breezes to blow through and supply much needed ventilation.  That's where the rat appeared, skittering across the top ledge of the wall directly above me while I slept.  He could have turned up anywhere on that ledge, but of course he chose to do his little dance right over me.  Since I'd slept through the incident, I didn't find out about his visit until the next morning at breakfast, when a retreat mate made a joke about it.  Although I prefer to be fully present when synchronicity shows up, I'm glad to have heard about that one second-hand.  Still, it figures - even when I don't drink her tea, Grandmother knows how to play with my head.
It hasn't been easy since I came back from Amsterdam, which is an understatement if there ever was one. Instead of being plagued with  household vermin, I'm bothered by the bugs in my brain, which are a lot more difficult to eradicate.  Unfortunately, my inner "stuff" recently busted out of me in a most unseemly manner.  I felt as if I'd been struck by lighting and then crumbled into a heap of ash.  I like to think that there's a redbird  somewhere in the rubble that's left behind, waiting to rise up and fly free of all the psychic crap in my head.  Good riddance to bad rubbish and all that.  That redbird hasn't shown up yet, but in my stronger moments I have faith she will.  Otherwise, what would be the point of such an ignominious fall? 
As for Grandmother, I'm going back to the Amazon rainforest to have tea with her soon.  The hard lesson she taught me 16 months ago has finally sunk in, thanks to a tiny toy frog she put on my path.  Finding that frog has sent me on a journey to the jungle to continue my transformation and healing.  And I know it won't be easy. 
But I'm ready.
Or not. 
Anyway, Grandma - here I come...
- g.p.