Emilia

Emilia

The last few days have been challenging. Yet surround by love and warmth, friendship and faith it has made me appreciate things all the more.

Last night (after snuggling with my TK and E all day) I got a lovely message from a pale witch called Emilia.

It read

"Hello,

I have featured your beautiful item on my BLOG for witcheries of Etsy! The blog has over 11,800 followers by now. I hope you like the blog and that the feature drives new traffic your way!We'd be very grateful if you wanted to give our shop a shoutout back somewhere on social media!

The blog is here: etsycult.tumblr.com
I also pinned the item here: pinterest.com/heliumraven/witchy-etsy

Our shop is here: gorimbaud.etsy.com
And we're @gorimbauddesigns on instagram!

Happy sales!
Emilia"

As you can see, it is quite lovely!
In the spirit of sharing and putting positivity out there in the witchy community I thought I would share it here too.

Bright Blessings xxx
Our Pintrest is here https://www.pinterest.com/lomalleylocal/lucy-drake-co/

Dear Mother

Dear Mother,

                    that person, woman, abuser who carried me in her womb and gave me such deep and grave lessons is at deaths door. Her other child, the favourate one has been calling and texting. It is the first time I have spoken to her since she put me in hospital. Actually what was suspected I had, but thankful didn't was exactly what befell my "mother". It happen on Samhain our most holy of holies. I could not go to her. Nor was I sure I wanted to. She is unconscious with a bleed on her brain. She has had two operations and is not breathing on her own.
If I could get there (that is a big IF) I would just sit and meditate. Maybe take her a small figure of Buddha. Place some lotus oil on her brow. However, doing all these things would be "wrong". So to is not doing all these things. At least to my "sister". All she wanted was for me to be her punching bag. I politely refused. I could hear in her voice how she is hurting but I am not a punching bag. I don't need spite or nastiness. My calmness was read as indifference. My resistance to her drama was me being "difficult".
It has been a year and a bit since I grieved the loss, the hope for a parent, the desire for that bond, that unconditional warmth. I grieved deeply and made peace with much of it. I feel sad. Not a deep pain in my heart and soul more a cool sadness of a life unlived. Of a lack of connection and love.That a human is suffering.
I gained much from her. She taught me deep soul lesson (yes many were of agony and pain) but the were important. Even if she makes it through, she will not be herself.
I pity "my sister". Yet she fills me with rage and anxiety. I have yet to unpick that ball of pain in my heart. TK said something last night. That she was jealous of the attention I got when the abuse investigation happened. That she never forgave me for "stealing her thunder". That I had never wanted that attention, that it was hurtful and harming was not the point. People looked at me. Sidelong and whispering, but they all looked.
Oh my mother, my mother. is this your will? You gave to them what they tried to do to me? Is it the fey? Fate? Something else? Is it just life? The consequences of smoking and holding in to all that...everything? I have not prayed one way or the other but left her, as she left me in your hands. I let her go. I scatter her bones and see if you unmake her or re-make her.
Thank you for my sisters. My true ones. I was blessed with a helpful distraction this weekend. A way to try and make everything fun (even though I struggled). There were games and costumes and childlike wonder.
You always give me the medicine I need.

Thank my dearest Goddess, my mother.


If you have a toxic relationship with your "mother" try reading this. I have too many on this list.
I hope it helps. You do not have to accept these people in your life. You can not change them and they will not love you in a healthy way, regardless of how much you want them to.

Naked in your Rites

Naked in your Rites

 Last night night we as a family did our Samhain rites. The night before though we set up the altar and ate a traditional Irish meal only I sat in the dark drumming and singing, charging my crystals and tarot cards under the full moon.

 I had no plan just a space of reverence. 

This little bell is one of my most precious objects. I have almost nothing from my family and this was my beloved grandmother's. I would have loved one of her tea cups too. So delicate and beautiful. However this is all I have. It is a small brass Welshlady in traditional dress.

This a piece of raw coal carved into a miners helmet. It was a gift from us to Pop's a few years ago. When he past we kept it. TK's line are miners. Like at least 4 generations, probably more. From my side, my great grandfather was a colliery fireman at one of the worst disasters in history. I was going to add the antique miners lamps we have be we can't light them and seeing them "dark" would have been sad.

Last night the altar still had the crystals but I put away the cards. We had a list of names in Memorandum. The saddest thing for me was the glut of names over the last few years. We started by playing funeral music/ favourate songs of loved ones.
This is where the naked comes in. You see having no clothes on is not the same as naked. In most cases I hadn't heard the music since the funeral/dead. This lead to some very real and deeply snotty crying. Then it lifted again, shifted to something more jovial, again with the music. Then it was the usual, cast the circle, call the corners and evoke the Lady and Lord. Then TK said a few words about the parted. Then I guided a meditation to connect with spirit. It was uplifting.
As it was getting late we thanked everyone and released the circle. TK went outside and placed the offerings.
I slept better last night than I have done for a while. I think I really needed to "touch base".

Bright Blessings xxx
We left a very "working class" plate of potato and rum on the altar too.

Autumn Makes

Autumn Makes

I have been writing a bit more but my health has been sucky the last few months and I have been doing real world things like set up a Home Ed gaming group where I live. Pretty cool and awesome! (or nerdy as hell)

I have been attempting to write and research Adventures in Pagan Baking, and it is patchy at best. This was a date and nut yeast bread. It was good.

Then I found this in a shop and fell in love with everything about it!

Which lead me to this.

Me and E (aka was mini-witch but is nearly as tall as me) made the leaf and toadstool decorations and pimped the felt leaf garland we bought!

Well then we had a big make for a secret project (known as Critmas) including a load of new makes and designs like this. It was a cool make and I enjoyed it a lot. (if you like thid sort of thing check out the shop).

Then came the papermache pumpkins (lots of glitter) the third one is "still in progress" and E wants to design a "proper scary face". 

I have made incense, writing huge stories, designed two towns and loads of goodies for people in America.

My writing and blogging has suffered BUT everything is an education right?

Bright Blessings xxx

Oh no! Witches!

Witches!

I know it is the season and all that but Goddess almighty PLEASE, please just stop!

I am not unused to bad representation in the media but it has really just got under my skin. I enjoyed Pennydreadful's first season a lot. The complex level of good and evil, the nature of people to be corrupted but to hope. The acting was awesome.

And then came the witches, inhuman, in league with the devil, all bad, then came the baby murder and butchery.

Witches can be good and bad, mostly in the middle, same as most people. However we are human. We are people. Murdering babies for spell components? Nope.

Witches of all faiths heal more than they harm. Protect and deal with dark and vampiric forces. This anxiety of powerful women, of their freedom and choices seems to be playing out on big screen and small. If a woman does not bow down before God and also man, she must be sleeping with the devil!

The devil is, a Christian concept. A "get out of jail free" card for a religion with no personal responsibility for the "bad" things that happen. This scapegoating, blame and shame concepts became more and more complicated as Christianity developed. (Early Christianity was kind of awesome, with freedom for both genders, peace, gay marriage, non-violence and kindness being the core message.) Once the masculine Patriarchy rebelled this aspect was not only suppressed but they denied it ever happened at all!

The Jewish devil became a different beast, collecting names and traits from old Gods, popular ones at that. From Bacchus and Bes, Pan and Herne. The Horned Gods, old Jewish Gods and anything wild, untamed and free became fair game. Andy Hamilton's Search for Satan is a great historical and funny program exploring this.

Witches in general (there are Satanic witches, but they seem to worship Lucifer, the angelic, not the demonic);  however most witches don't believe in the devil, much less worship "him".

Their Gods tend to be older than the devil by a couple of thousand years if they worship a God at all.

I am tired of news articles leading with Witch murders, when it is Christians murdering those they fear and hate could be witches instead. 

From the early witch trails to the hunts for Satanic cults in the 80's, to the mass murder of women in Africa and India, today it is the witch that is in more in danger than dangerous.

This "excuse" is killing women, who aren't witches at all. Violent and sadist crimes against women have for centuries be sanctioned by the "witch" excuse. Any disobedience was meet with this threat. Conform, behave or we will destroy you and your family, one thumb screw at a time. 

The demonizing of women must stop. The twisting of headlines, the murder of innocent women is given purchase in these ideas.

This is what witches look like.

Human, beautiful and divine.

We wear wellies, suits, sportswear, dancing shoes, in fact we look just like everyone else...mostly.

We are teachers, and nurses. We are writers and artist, musicians, therapists, train drivers, and stay-at-home mums and dads. 

Even if we don't like people, hurting the innocent is a line too far.

We are those who help and heal, stand in the darkness bringing light, shelter and safety.

Bright Blessings xxx  

Where are my Deities?

Where are my Deities?

I overheard this question to another teacher and it was funny (because she misread it as dentures) and was sad because it implies this person is behaving like a child up late at night waiting for Father Christmas (Santa Claus) demanding presents.

Every time I have had a connection to the Deity level of energy, the frequency if you like, I notice many things. One there is a LOT of energy and power there. Secondly they are often shouting and trying to communicate to those who don't bother to listen.

It sort of reminds me of that old joke where the Jewish guy praying and praying to win the lottery and eventually God manifest and yells "Buy a damn ticket!"

Our Gods must be met half way. You must allow that energy into your life. You have to open up (something we in the West are pretty bad at) and allow something much much bigger than the self into your whole being.

It takes time and practice, faith and trust. They are also under no obligation to be as you wish them to be. You can not decide to make something sweet, cooler, or more "acceptable". Deities can be wrathful, as well as tender. They might not think you are doing enough. They might not like how you are doing it. Or with whom.

It is inside ourselves, in the quiet where we open up and listen. To listen we must stop talking, even within our minds. After that it is sincerity and time.

"For behold! I have been with you since the beginning and I am that which is attained at the end of all desire. And to know me is to cease looking. For if you never find me within, you will never find me without."

It can be as simple as accepting the good you are given. Letting go of the fear and anxiety. Accepting the opportunities even if it doesn't look perfect. You have to do half the work!

If I ask for something or think about it too strongly (whatever that may be) it manifest. I have to be careful, mindful with myself and others.

I work on accepting things for myself, as well as for others. To be worthy of the Divine within and around me.

It is not a perfect process, but when I let that energy into my life wonderful things happen.

Bright Blessings xxx

In Poetry

In Poetry

As a poet, artist, creative person...I really do wish I had a bad-ass title, I have certain poets that are dear to me. I became a published poet at aged 11 and the bug has never really left me. My (Welsh) culture is infused with poetry in a way that England is not. Poetry and the love of words is not something for “rich toffs” as it is seen here, but a web of words and being woven into the lives of ordinary people. I first wrote poems to explain the vivid images and feelings I experienced. Snippets of other people’s lives, deep memories from centuries ago, the heart-achingly beautiful nature all around me, to capture them in some form.

At the time I would have loved to paint but my co-ordination and execution were not good enough for me and in this frustration I created pictures with words. I remember writing a poem in the style of Samuel Peeps about the fire of London, I must have been about 8. The next one I remember was about a Second World War pilot for the competition at 11. It was published in a little book and I remember the poem on the other side of the page to mine more than my own. (It was about having an amazing older sister, I was enthralled and mystified.) I received an award from Brian Pattern at a theatre in Mold. There are no photos of me gaining it or anything. No framed poems at my parents houses.

I received Gargling with Jelly, a children’s book of poetry, which allowed me to be able to see that poetry could be funny and foamy, as well as deep and full of raw emotion. The next poet I found were singers, from jazz classics like Love for Sale to Kim Wild’s heart felt and angry words. I don’t exactly remember when I found Dylan Thomas. At school competitive poetry performance was a big deal and I feel like I heard him long before I read him. Cargoes by John Masefield and Bed in Summer by Robert Lewis Stevenson were two I performed with and won with. Both full of character and rich with imagery my next poet and I had a long affair. Billy Waggle-Dagger or William Shakespeare was something like discovering a whole culture of exotic and spicy food. It was the richness, the sumptuousness and that it was not a bite, but a feast. Shakespeare, like Thomas, have this utter joy and delight in words to be spoken. It is storytelling, and so much more. Henry V has one of my favourites, not that I could pick easily. It is easy for me to believe an actor wrote these plays, because of how the words feel in the mouth.

You might have noticed something, none of these voices were women. Until university I had not experienced female “poets”. University was terrible for me. It was brutal and invasive. Cruel and pointless. Having been writing so long it was jarring to be told my “voice was wrong”. More disturbing to me was the news that once I handed in my word it could be published without my knowledge or consent. This actually happened to one of my peers, he didn’t even get a decent mark for it! One of my “lecturers” I won’t call her a teacher read one of my experimental pieces and called it “nice”. Nice it was not. Dark, disturbing, full of trauma and pain, but not nice. In desperation for some actual feed back I gave to a lecturer who was a writing tutor but took me for Contextual Studies workshop/group. She did two things. The first was properly go through it and ask questions like “Does this need to be here?” or “Could you expand this idea” and so on. The next thing she did actually saved my life. She said “read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath”.

Sylvia

I feel a sorrow Hard to see.

I didn't save Sylvia

When she saved me.

Though she was already

A long time dead

Before the conversations

Within my head

She gave me a fragile

Needle of hope

A strange togetherness

That helped me cope.

For when Sylvia was there I was not alone.

She felt what I felt Mind, Spirit and Bone.

For her prison was a prison for me

Her understandings

Set me free.

I feel a sorrow

Hard to see.

I didn't save Sylvia

When she 

Saved Me. 

I happened to re-read just a short line of her work last night and it all came flooding back. Maybe because she was my first, or because she was good. Of course I have read and enjoyed many other poets male and female since but Sylvia will always be special to me.

Bright Blessings xx