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Wednesday, November 19, 2014

I Am Not a Lot of Things

I am not an intellectual. I don't know why it's automatically assumed if someone likes to write that they are going to be incredibly intellectual and knowledgeable on all the hot topics of the politically correct present day.

I hate politics, of any kind. I'm the most non-political person that you're ever going to come across. I know, I know. I can already here the sighs and the wagging pointy fingers declaring that this is something I should be up on, something I should pay attention to, something I should be at least minimally involved in. (But I'm not.) It is the driest, most boring topic in the world, and I believe that the whole political system is akin to the public school system and parents: they want you to think that you have a say and some influence on a subject, but really-- you don't.

I love my spirituality and my magickal path, but I am not an expert on all the ancient and infinitely numerous pantheons, practices, or theologies. I'm not into the enthusiasm of people who want to historically dissect some tradition and then try to reconstruct it letter by letter, moment by moment, archaic rule by archaic rule, outdated practice by outdated practice. This is just too much detail for my weary little brain; and besides, this is not ancient times, and there will be better, more modern, more practical ways to practice an ancient path in the present day, a way that will build and expand spirituality and enhance our lives in the modern world.

I am not detail oriented. I hate reading long boring historical tomes on witchcraft, or the tarot, or anything actually. It makes me cringe when I turn to a page in any tarot book (including my 1st one) and read “...the tarot was used in Egypt 5000 years ago.” First, I'm not so sure that this is true, probably because I don't take the time to read all the numerous dry history books on the subject, the ones that probably contain a few facts and a multitude of theories. And honestly, this sounds awful, but I just don’t care. (I can hear a barely audible gasp.) Is this so awful? No, not really. Using one of my husband's favorite quotes: “It need not pertain.”...and it doesn't pertain, to me at least.

I've had a few rare occasions on a radio program where I was asked some incredibly detailed intellectual type question on a topic. I know that I have given them more than a few seconds of dead air time as I pause, thinking in blind panic-- Do they expect me to know this off the top of my head? Do they really expect me to carry on a long dialogue on this very complicated detailed intellectual academic topic? Are they kidding? Head's up peoples-- this is what Research Books are for.

(Apparently, I'm a Big Picture kinda' girl.)

I am not necessarily a good housekeeper. I was at one time. I use to think that housekeeping was an “Art”...and then I had 7 kids. Housework quickly became something I was too tired to do, something that had to be put on the back burner, behind laundry, and baby bathing, and story book reading, and grocery shopping, and breast feeding, and home schooling. And then later in life, after the kids were grown up, I discovered that there was a whole bunch of Important Things that I needed to be doing, like writing books, and other cool stuff, so then housework got pushed even further down the line. Do not get me wrong. I repeat, don't misunderstand me. I'm a Libra. I love my surroundings to be clean and beautiful and totally Zen. It's just that now-a-days, sometimes they are and sometimes they aren't. And when they aren't, I know that they will be eventually.

I am not a seamstress.

I'm not necessarily a good cook, though my kids would tell you I am because they don't know any better.

I am not business oriented. Finances confuse me, and reading a tax document is like reading a foreign language.

I am not mechanical...hooking up the DVD machine is enough of a challenge for me, and there's only three options, all color coded-- red to red, white to white, yellow to yellow.

I am not always a good judge of character, and I'm empathic, you'd think I would be. I tend to be naive and trusting. I wouldn't lie and steal, or exaggerate; so I automatically assume no one else will either.

I'm not a good wife, at least I don't think I am. I'm like some crusty old bachelor who's set in his ways and gets all scowly if someone rearranges the pantry. I like my space, and I don't want someone else's fingerprints all over it.

I am not good at remembering things-- Lots of things! Some people might think I'm rude when I forget to answer their messages, but I have a good reason...I just forgot that you sent me one! I make lists all the time: notes to myself about things to do for the day, notes about writing projects, notes about phone calls, notes about Very-Important-Business-Emails that can't be ignored; notes about what to do the next day...ad infinitum.

I am not a party girl. (Libra likes peace and quiet.)

I am not a team player. (Think tarot card: The Hermit)

I am not a good gardener...I grow fond of all growing things, and some of the growing things in my garden I grow fond of turn out to be weeds, and I haven't got the heart to pull them out, or cut them down. Houseplants-- forget it. I have a black thumb with houseplants, and the smart ones commit suicide before I ever get them home to re-pot.

As you can see, I'm not a lot of things.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

Divine Intervention, Synchronicity, Coincidence?

At the end of this road, to the left, is a stop sign that leads onto the
highway, only a block from where the events in this blog took place.

I was ready to go to the library this afternoon, to use the wi-fi, check my emails, and work on some projects. I was changed and ready; Sara and Emma were ready. But I really, really, really didn't feel like going. I actually didn't feel good, but I didn’t want to disappoint the girls, because they were ready to go, and they enjoy an afternoon at the library.

We bundled up, gathered up all our stuff, and piled into the Yukon. I put the key in the ignition and turned it...nothing. Tried again, nothing. Tried again, nothing. Tried again, nothing. Six or seven times. I thought, for Pete's Sake!-- We've had enough trouble with the Suburban. What on earth could be wrong with the Yukon?!

We bail out and head back into the house. Joe was going to be working on the Suburban in the driveway, but he hadn't gotten outside yet. I told him that the Yukon wouldn't start. He took my key and headed outside to check it out.

A few minutes later he came back in. I said, “What's the matter with it?”. He said, “Nothing.” I said, “What!?” He said, “It started just fine.” (On the first turn of the key.)

We had brought my laptop and bags back in the house, and I decided to settle down at the kitchen table, which I did for for about ten minutes. I could hear Joe revving up the Suburban engine, working on it in the driveway. Feeling guilty, I bundled back up to go out and see how he was doing. He promptly sat me behind the wheel to keep my foot on the gas peddle so the engine wouldn't die, and he could do what he was going to do.

About five minutes later, the neighbor drives down the street and pulls into his driveway. He gets out and comes across the lawn to me and Joe. He had come home on Broad St. (Highway 77), the road we always take into town. On the overpass above the railroad tracks, only a few blocks from our home, there had been an accident. It's a four lane highway. A full-sized brown pickup had been rear-ended by a speeding motorist in a white van and lost control, crossing the meridian and hitting a small blue pickup head on. It looked like two were dead, a grisly bloody scene.

I've lived here 20 years, and this is the first accident I can recall on the overpass. If the girls and I would have left for the library at the time that we had intended to; if I had really felt like going and not felt sick; if the Yukon would have started...We could have been at that spot when the driver in the speeding van passed through.

So many “if's”.

I don't know whether it was coincidence or providence or synchronicity (and maybe it doesn't even matter which), but that morning, when I was choosing a necklace to wear for the day, I had the inclination to choose a protective talisman. I chose a talisman created to honor and invoke the energy of the goddess Hecate. And that morning, before I put this necklace on, I stood in the center of my living-room, and holding the necklace aloft, I turned to each of the four elemental quarters (earth, to the north; air, to the east; fire, to the south; and water, to the west) and said, “I invoke, Thee, Hecate, for healing, prosperity, protection.”

Hecate's Pendent.


Friday, November 7, 2014

Pussy-Kat Profiles

I was going to call this blog post "The Pussy Profiles", but upon proof reading it, I suspected this title might have been misunderstood, and many a happy reader might have avoided this post, not knowing exactly what they would find. (But I suppose there could be a fair share who might have had their curiosity twerked...er, twittered...er, tweaked, you know what I mean.)

Anyway, here's an update on our Kitty-Cats...It's Pussy Galore at our house. :)

Three owls and a pussycat,
or was it three pussycats and an owl?
Bast: Transitioned from Bitch to a post-menopausal Scary Calm State. She use to slap your face with extended claws if you picked her up and looked her in the eye. Now she's all purry and snuggly, can't get enough touching and attention. We think she's possessed.

(Duchess, aka Baby)
This cat fell off the roof of this treehouse. She was rolling around
being silly-- then, kerplunk! Don't worry, she was purrfectly okay.
Duchess (aka Baby): The Spook. She plays with things that no one can see, getting ruffled by them sometimes so that her hair stands on end and she jumps straight in the air to elude the Invisible Ones. She also sleeps on the grave of our beloved Mistress Pixie Paws, so we can only surmise that they are still in contact.

Basil: Use to be jock, now just Old Man. He's mellowed (like his mother, Bast). He use to snarl if you glanced at him, now he tolerates gentle head touching and very light scratching. We think his testosterone has toned down and he's discovered his feminine side.

This was before he was injured; he's a
little funkier looking now, but just as sweet.
Fox: He was born of a feral mother, but there isn't a feral bone in his body. He was born to be a housecat. Last year he was injured and he walks with a limp now, which is worse in cold weather. We're still working on House Cat Manners. He loves to pee in unusual places on un-peeable things.
The morning after.
Pyewacket: He's a gentle head-bumper with a spacey I've-Just-Been-Smoking-a-Joint attitude about him. If he were a man, he'd be a laid back 1960s peace, love, hippie. He has allergies, so at certain times of the year, he's a little funky looking. He also tends to be a coward-- he's a lover, not a fighter.

My special boy!
He's like Cary Grant in a suit.
Salem: My boy! He can't get enough of me. He not only tolerates but encourages lots of squeezing and hugging, face rubbing, and belly scratching. He's also a coward, scared to death of the dog, so he stays downstairs. Visitors won't see him; he's a one-woman cat. My kinda' guy.

Looking more Hung-Over than Super Model.
Catnip is legal, I swear.
Dolly: She's beautiful. She's an adornment. We think she knows this. If she were a woman, she'd be a Super Model, but the kind that is philanthropic. She is also a Downstairs-Cat and is Queen of her own domain. She's got pizzazz. She's a stronger more dominant version of Pyewacket-- Dolly got the balls.

Bear: (Fox's brother), born of a feral mother, he's a Semi-Wild-Maybe-Just-On-The-Weekend cat. He grudgingly admits affection for humans, but he's kind of like a parole on the run. He doesn't want to be confined, or think that his only path to escape may be blocked, and he's always looking over his shoulder. The dog makes him nervous.

The Bat
Marbles: We think she's a reincarnation of the Egyptian Queen Nephertiti. She's elusive, and slightly spooky looking, like she's from another realm or something. She is Emma's cat, and Emma's room is her Royal Headquarters. She gives some of us the heebie-jeebies with her uncanny resemblance to a bat. She is the only female not spayed and PMS's regularly.

Monday, November 3, 2014

My Hal'ween Babee

My gorgeous Sara turned 17 on Halloween (aka Samhain) this year.  We celebrated, as we do every year, with our traditional chili and hot apple cider-- amongst all the other goodies brought by siblings and friends.  Sara's birthday is so equated with this holiday and its celebration-- from the moment she was born and the nurses tied little "Trick or Treat" bags to the bassinets!
I want to wish Sara a bright and shiny year ahead, much love and joy, fun and adventures. 
I love you, Sweetie!!
(Just Mum)
ps-- her makeup is from a video character in "The Incredibly Slow Murder with the Extremely Insufficient Weapon"