Today's Document
Cosimo Galluzzi
cherry valley forever
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
YOU ARE THE REASON
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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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Show & Tell
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@peppermintandsmoke
The Folk
It seems that so many have an opinion about authenticity. In particular, they have opinions about other people’s authenticity. Which is a weird thing to be able to quantify, and even if we could, a strange thing to think we have the ability to do. In spiritual circles we do a lot of exactly that, quantifying other people’s authenticity. Usually it just turns into a large and muddled pissing…
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The Small Gods of Place
The Small Gods of Place
Up the mountain, over a bridge and on a path up to the waterfall are two pinyon pine trees. Straight, strong and sturdy. They smell crisp and fresh, the sharp scent of resin and the sweet smell of wet bark. Every time we hike up we run our fingers across the perfect trunk. On our way down, I press my face into the bark, nestling my nose into the cracks and inhale. My exhale is always in gratitude…
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Trusting Kids with Death
July was a heavy month, dense with lessons and blessings and sorrows. For my son especially. Within the course of two weeks my son got a crash course on the end of life cycle, saying goodbye to two pets and losing a small bunny he was trying desperately to nurse back to health.
The first pet was really the beloved dog of a family friend, and my kiddo loved him, and would sometimes say we were…
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Midsummer Dreams
The namesake for this blog was inspired entirely by the Midsummer celebration I was a part of in 2018. I have the great honor of being one of the Sacred Fire Keepers within my group. This means that whether it’s lighting a candle or building a bonfire for a celebration, myself and another are responsible for inviting Grandfather Fire in, feeding and giving prayers. Last summer we were blessed…
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From the past by desomnis on Flickr.
Soft Hands, Strong Heart
Soft Hands, Strong Heart
My grandparents had gnarled, arthritic hands. The kind of hands that looked more like twisted branches reaching towards the sky than the smooth, straight fingers that grace my hands. My Papa’s were large, made larger by the callouses that had built up over a life hard at work. Harder work than I will ever know. Work that he survived, but never really saw the benefits of, he died young and without…
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I reblog this every time I see it, because it’s one of life’s hardest lessons.
“Do or do not, there is no try” is the worst damn advice I was ever been given as a child. Fuck telling kids that their mistakes are the result of deliberate choice; let them know that they can fail for reasons totally beyond their control, and let them know that it’s just important that they earnestly try.
I can’t believe Captain Picard learned everything he knows from Beyoncé.
Always reblog Picard and Beyoncé
Saw an op-ed that was on the surface a complaint about kids not wanting to take on family heirlooms but read like an elegy to dying traditions. The hardest part was the anxiety without recognizing that they didn’t pave the way for the decisions they assumed their kids would make.
(This is written entirely within the dominant white/western culture - about traditions that have neglectful stewardship rather than those actively suppressed)
The anxiety makes sense. You’re seeing, too late to do anything about it, that there’s no foundation - no space - for the traditions you expected to pass on. Your kids _can’t_ take your mom’s fine china. So now instead of enjoying what you have you worry about its future.
I see a pattern in these op-eds though - a pattern in what’s left unsaid. There were responsibilities tied to these traditions. You collectively assumed they _would_ be passed along. So collectively, what did you do to ensure those traditions _could_ be passed along?
Op-eds never speak for everyone, but it’s worth acknowledging the pattern in what speech is deemed worth sharing widely. And in this particular pattern, there’s an answer: that answer looks like “nothing.”
You want the china passed down but your kids have no room in their rentals. You want grandkids but your kids don’t have the financial stability. You want that cross-country RV neverending road trip but you’ve had decades of wanting lower taxes more than you wanted infrastructure.
The bleak outlook for traditions is a direct result of the unmaintained foundations for them. The second best time is always now - if it’s important enough to op-ed about, what are you willing to change to get it back? What will you give up or re-prioritize?
I kinda think that world-defining assumptions are always gonna break without maintenance. So rather than getting mad at whoever’s next for not carrying on the norms we didn’t do upkeep on, when it’s my turn, I hope I’m introspective enough to help instead of externalize & blame.
This.
The bleak outlook for traditions is a direct result of the unmaintained foundations for them. The second best time is always now - if it’s important enough to op-ed about, what are you willing to change to get it back? What will you give up or re-prioritize?
I follow a Facebook group of “Memories of …” for my hometown - a rustbelt community that has gone from a thriving hub of industry to a much-less-thriving place.
The group is a collective lament. Decades-old pictures of well-kept churches. Aerial shots of the main intersection downtown, lined with big cars. Scanned advertisemetns from local stores featuring pictures of their interiors. These alternate with the drumbeat of news: the Catholic diocese is closing churches. Selling them. Tearing them down. STores downtown are closing. The traffic light has been replaced with a four-way-stop.
“That’s the church my parents were married in!” “How could they tear down that beautiful building. Such memories!” “All the businesses are closing. It must be the taxes.” ”They’ve sold the old lodge downtown.” “They’re not opening the skating rink this year. We always used to go.”
And sometimes I chime in.
“Do you attend that church? Do you give? Or do you just want the building to look pretty for you? “ “Do you volunteer at that park? Why not?” “Did you vote for that recreation bond issue?” “Are you a member of that Lodge? Why not?” “Do you shop downtown? Or did you start shopping at Walmart and Amazon to save a few bucks?”
If you feel something is worth preserving, why do you not participate in its preservation?
Community is not a spectator sport.
Community is not a spectator sport
Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.
— (Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It)
let bi women dating men and bi men dating women into pride you cowards
bisexuals in m/f relationships should be allowed to celebrate their identity during pride because, they are, get this- still bisexual
All queer and non-conforming people allowed AND CELEBRATED at Pride!
Under the Roses
When I first fell headlong into witchcraft, something like seventeen years ago, it had to be kept secret. Everything had to be hidden away, in various places, scattered under the bed, the dresser, behind cabinets, in drawers, and as completely innocuous as possible and all of it behind a bedroom door that stayed locked more often than not.
It’s not like that now, and while I don’t disassemble my altars or hide my books away from disapproving family, I still keep things very secretive.
The term I use for it is sub rosa, meaning “under the rose”. Basically, it seems to originate from Eros giving a rose to Harpocrates to make sure that Aphrodite’s indiscretions would be kept secret. I’m generalizing (poorly) and using the Wikipedia summary, forgive me. The roses came first, the why always seemed less important.
Historically, the concept of sub rosa continued, used in the Middle Ages and onward. You can see roses carved onto confessional boxes for privacy, and sometimes roses were integrated onto the ceilings in people’s homes to signify that whatever was discussed would be kept secret, or under the rose.
I’ve also seen this similar sort of concept woven into pop-culture, in a few books but most recently in Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. Lady Pole’s inability to speak because she was bound by a rose at the mouth.
Dried roses hang in clusters about my room where all of my work is done. I don’t even remember when I started doing it, I just knew that I should. Now the air moves through them and in the quiet, I can hear the dried rustle of the petals scraping against one another - whispering. They’ve become an important symbol for me, a reminder every time I look at them, though the meaning has changed over the years.
They are both a spell and a promise. And every December, I’ve replaced them with fresh ones and renewed the vow. It’s an unspoken agreement: I keep their secrets and they keep mine.
A spell woven to protect this part of me that I keep hidden, to keep it safe from prying eyes and wandering hands. A fascination, a distraction to keep them from looking too long, from asking questions.
A promise to the gods and ungods that I will keep the secrets they gift me with. That whatever I am shown or told will be kept quiet. This is a promise I hold sacred.
So far, it holds true and has taken on a life of it’s own. The spirits hold me accountable and tell me when to keep silent. There have been many times I’ve wanted to speak; I’ve even wanted to post things on this blog and find that I simply cannot. I am stopped every time, my promise won’t let me - and for good reason, they are experiences that are not really meant to be shared.
So be mindful of the promises you make to the roses, especially when you think no one is listening.
ELIZABETH RAAB PHOTOGRAPHY
Guerriere series
www.elizabethraab.com
I know it’s a photo, but my heart says it’s a Renaissance painting.
I’m honestly tearing up rn. I’ve never seen someone who looked like me in modern art shown in a positive light like this. Thank you so much
The End of Things
The End of Things
Last year I had the great privilege of attending a pagan, witchcraft weekend intensive called the Witches Sabbat and Raven’s Knoll in Canada. I was not able to make it this year, which sadly, was it’s last year. I’ve been watching the folks who were there as leaders and as participants give their final words and thanks out. It’s a weird sense of sadness to see something so briefly cherished…
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The Motherhood Mandala
There are jokes abound online about the amount of work mother’s do, and how quickly it is undone. When I meet with my mom friends, it’s often a point we sigh and complain about, each of us knowing really there’s not much to be done. The dishes need washed, dinner needs cooking, the laundry needs folding. Provide, nurture, repeat. I try to reflect on this cycle. It’s frustrating, exhausting and…
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Eve from my on going serie “Uncanny Love”.
Available as a postcard on my shop ! You can ave access to early and exclusive post on my Patreon for 1$.
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Tuca & Bertie is my new favorite
