Tag: love

Contemplation Over Coffee

Four full days left of my 40s. I have made some positive changes, there are plans swirling around my head- but for the most part, that is where things are, my head. I feel like I have been sitting on my hands, so many reasons and excuses why I haven’t yet……… Letting modern life distract me. Phones, media, shiny things, telling myself that I will, and I can, then continuing to scroll.

My last post was contemplating how I am to ring in 50, glib statements on cliched expectations. I blame exhaustion. What has me exhausted? Life, the weight of my own expectations and inaction. Fear of what’s stirring inside me won’t be understood or appreciated. I can not house and honour my spirit if I let the temple crumble. And honestly I have been treating this temple the way a slumlord of the finest order would treat a low income apartment. A little paint here, cut rate fixes there and a poster over the holes on the wall.

I know there is much inside, and I am not sure how to access it, how to cultivate the Crone I am with still being able to manage the life that needs to be. I want to be creating, there are thoughts of magical things that are bursting like fireworks with in me. Spring Equinox/Ostara is upon us. The next few days will be an Altar change, baking and celebrating the emergence of life. I am a spring baby, born just the other side of the equinox. Perhaps that is why my heart and soul thrive at the thought of growth and change. Yet there are things that hold me back. Laundry, vacuuming, job responsibilities… the endless mundane drain that can fill a day and before you know it, the sun is down, it is time to sleep so you can manage it all again tomorrow.

Maybe something has changed? It wasn’t until I had passed the age my mother had lived to, that I started adorning my temple with magical symbols, the first were representing the lines from where I come, wards to hold the mental demons at bay, representations of the weapons I carry in my heart. This last round included a command/ reminder/spell to remind me that ‘I must write to empty my head or I go mad’ and ‘I create therefor I live’. It’s now a sign on the temple that must be observed.

For the first time, in a seriously long time, last night I took a crack at a little fiction story that has been wobbling around my head, the start was slow, 100s of words started, then discarded… A few little outside prompts and I was able to get well over 1700 words before my heavy eyes needed to call it a night. It was a fearful relief. Cracking open that vault is scary, as I don’t know yet how to tame the voices there to let each story flow the way it needs to be told. That goes for the stories that are true as well.

A few years back I had tried to disseminate the words that had piled up, I am proud of the stories that begun then, but there was a kind of madness that took over and it started to feel like I had to choose, staying in that creative space or being in ‘life’ and managing all the responsibilities that entailed. Do I feel better prepared on this precipice of 50, to wrangle the tangle of creatures and words that need to be told? I want to believe I am, I want to believe that there has been something in me that has gotten stronger and wiser (isn’t that what comes with age?).

But what of the temple? It is time to be serious about repairs, honouring the strength I will need to move forward, no longer allowing the things that defeat me to be a reason… hyper discipline and denial? No, not that road again. No punishing exercise, no ‘bad’ foods, no false positives. It is time to follow what I have been telling others for a long time. Meet yourself with love and compassion. What will keep the temple foundations strong? What is the fuel needed to keep the fires of creation and love stoked? What will keep the philosophies and ideas in the inner sanctum safe from the monsters that come to knock? What do I need to be of service but not empty? The big puzzle is how the fuck do I fit this into a day and still be a mother, wife, friend, run my business, teach and be a badass Witch?

It has been written in permanent ink on my body, the words I have long carried in my soul. If I can not live the embodiment of all that I have experienced until now, what is the point? I know that I do not have all the wisdom I need, but I have enough to know that I can not strive for perfection as that will keep me immobile, I must strive to feel and be immersed in every drop I have left to touch, taste, feel, listen, connect, share, create and love.

Rage ( Pt2, the Kicker)

The kicker

I’ve worked so hard from where this knocked me to the last time I was finding ‘self’.

I built hope

Hope that there was misinformation and miscommunication that could be healed

But I was so far down, buried in shame

Things I held true disintegrated like my hard fought ability to trust

But I resolved to build, trusting the vision I had would come, it feels like it is meant to be. The feelings of love in my heart would build a better foundation

Every baby step I make, a look or breath of a word can knock me down.

I resolve to lead by an example.

I resolve to lead without shame

I resolve to stay open to love and trust

I resolve to stop letting myself down and treasure the very humanness I am told is what shines ( not shame as the whispers say)

Rage -venting the feelings (pt 1)

Rage

Don’t pay me lip service

If you ask me what I need

That is not enough – not without action

If I ask you to come to my playground because I’m always at yours

Don’t decline because it ‘doesn’t suit you’

Raging about my gender will upset me

Raging with out room for learning and compassion will shut me down

Making it know that parts of me, things I care for and hold dear are ‘not your cup of tea’ so

you ignore them completely, shows me you do not accept me for who I am

Your rage breaks me apart. My shame can bury me. This time my rage will help me rise

Here we are again

You only listen when you like what I have to say

you only look when it suits you

you will talk and talk and talk and talk

and it doesn’t seem to matter

the parts of me that make you uncomfortable

the parts of me that frustrate you

the parts of me that are trying to grow and express

Are time and time again

told

too much

too much

too much

there are times I can carry this

use it to fuel me to keep growing

there are times when it guts me

and leaves me bleeding on the floor

unseen unheard unalive

Quiet quitting isn’t just for work

Do you know what the true quiet quitting is?

When you want the time, attention, effort and energy you put out to be appreciated and in some form returned and you come to the realization it is not.

When you yearn so much to be validated, seen, and heard, and when you recognize it doesn’t materialize and you just give up.

Quietly of course, your opinions get quieter and smaller, you begin to ask less, you begin to do less and you feel the shrinking taking place.

It happens in small ways at first, and not in every place in your life at the same time. It’s barely even noticeable because nothing was noticeable to begin with in that space.

Until finally the space that you took up is all but folded it on itself and winked out like a little fairy light.

That my friends is a quiet quitting,

everyone trying so hard to be heard and very few taking the time to listen. We eventually stop putting in the extra time and attention in the places we feel undervalued.

This happens in every place we inhibit, work, school, friend relationships, family relationships- our daily lives.

Nothing is ever truly balanced, that is one of life’s hard truths. Another, is that no one ( not even ourselves) can live up to the expectations we create. Compassion and understanding are needed for moments of unbalance, but should not have to be the space you always operate from.

Perhaps this is the truest form of self love? To often this disconnect is unnoticed, or blame shifted to the person receding. A reaction of fear that the person/place being receded from may need to be accountable.

What are/have you quietly quit? What was the outcome? Who has quietly quit from a work or personal relationship with you? Do you understand, will you admit your role in the dissolution? Have you ever noticed the places you quietly quit on yourself?

Motherless Grief and Wound Healing

Today would have been your 81st birthday. 37 years since you were on this side of the veil. In years past I often would feel a sadness or longing on this day.

But this year feels different. There has been much mental health and trauma work done this year. Uncovering some wounds that had scarred over, the scars had created a choking trap, I’ve finally found the courage to start undoing, breaking patterns, healing.

This year feels different. Longing and sadness are marred by hurt and frustration. I still miss you, I will always love you and I’m trying to find some compassion and grace for the choices you made. The choices that had consequences for so many.

A moment of quiet, a breath, remembrance, questioning and love. Happy Birthday Mom.

Mamas

I want to acknowledge those of us who work so hard to be good moms, to be present moms, to be loving moms, to be firm moms.

I want to acknowledge all those women out there who don’t have a great relationship with their own mothers, the ones who are trying to learn to be better, the ones who need to heal from the damage inflicted upon them, the ones who struggle with the heartbreak and the disconnect of not having a mother present in their lives.

I want to acknowledge all the mamas out there who have hard relationships with their children, who love them, who’ve tried their best, who hold love and hope in their aching hearts.

I want to acknowledge all the mamas of all the rainbow children and of all the children resting in heavenly arms, the ache that you feel for a child you’ve always wanted to hold and perhaps could not.

I want to acknowledge the mamas who made hard decisions to allow someone else to raise their children because they knew it would be best for them and it was done with the utmost love, I see you too.

I want to acknowledge the women who have, whether by choice or by fate, found that motherhood isn’t for them, but who offer unconditional love and support to all the children and other mamas in their lives. I see you too.

I also want to shine a light on all the grandma‘s out there who’ve been present for their daughters and for their daughter’s children to carry on the strength of maternal love and bonding, you’re appreciated and loved to.

I want to acknowledge those of us who’s mothers are not present in our lives, those of us who have parented ourselves, we may feel a hole at this time. Healing is hard, and you too are loved.

My 40s in Symbols

I didn’t get my first tattoo until I was beginning my 40s. In a few days, I’ll be 49. Today I just got my 9th tattoo.

Each tattoo is a symbol for something. This past decade I have been through some very dark moments, and have shed many things of myself.

This was the first. I had just surpassed my Mother’s age of death. This is my blood, my Celt roots, my Nan, my Mom, my son and my daughter. This was my mark to celebrate the gift of life.
My Ouroboros and Pentacle. My rebirth into my spiritual practice. Something in me felt a deep pull to learn and reconnect to the things that speak to me. This would be more important than I would have ever guessed.
‘Witch Know Thyself’
This sigil is a reminder I am stronger than my demons. At this point in my life I had made a kind of peace that anxiety and CPTSD may always be a part of me, but they would not defeat me
Next in Moon Glyphs I choose to keep another version of the elements with me. The Pentacle being the other. The two on the top represent balance and life. It was a reminder that I will strive for harmony with in myself and my environment

Things started to get a little shaky for me. Mental health wise I shut down. A mix of burnout and elevation of anxiety and old trauma surfacing. Being compounded by upheaval and high tension around me.

A symbol to honour the Goddess Morrigan. I had connected with her to help guide me as I found my self in a very dark, anxious place. This was a reminder I was not alone in this pitch, she would prop me up when I fumbled.
There can be a point when it feels like all your pieces have blown apart. A raw exposed nerve. I felt so ugly, shamed, worthless. This piece ( The Enzo) represents finding beauty in unfinished imperfection. Even though I did not feel beautiful, I could identify with not yet being finished.
A very tumultuous time preceded a much needed break and reconnecting trip with my husband to my spiritual home – New Orleans
This was at the end of the first year of Covid, I knew my mental health was taking a hit. I was struggling under the weight of old trauma patterns I wanted to break. The uncertainty of the world, and a deep disconnected feeling. The arrow was to remind me know matter how far back I feel I’ve gone, my trajectory is forward. AKF has been an important part of sustaining me. It’s a wonderful online support ( Always Keep Fighting)

I have been doing intense work over the last year. Working on releasing trauma patterning, learning about myself, the light and dark. At times the realizations have been hard. The pain uncovered, the isolation. Things I want to repair but am unsure how, setting firm boundaries. Again I’ve called to the Morrigan to remind me that I’m am strong, a worthy warrior.

Which bought me to this, as I’m days away from my 49th. A reminder of the armoury I am building. I have defences that are not toxic, but are strong. It is within hands reach.

I do not know what this last year of my 40s will bring, what I do know is, that this past decade has had incredible highs and lows. I’ve gained and lost so much. I am hoping my 50s will be more learning but less drops. I know it will be recorded, the pictures on my skin a reminder to myself of my journey, my growth and my power.

Awkward Tales from the Shadow Side: Reflections Underneath

I stand in front of the mirror

Armour on

Battle worn, cracked and brittle

Some areas thick and rigid with hasty repair

Is this the way you love me?

Lifting the helmet, what can’t be seen, as they reside so deep, are the howling banshees who live inside. Burrowed in, born of survival, fear and pain. Revealed, tired, wanting eyes.

The cuirass goes next, throat exposed

Words have died here

Breath extinguished

Fine network of scars unseen but felt

Pauldron lifted, the weight had held my arms in place to brace against the blows. Shoulders curled forward with the phantom weight of all that was, without the bindings now threatening to disengage

Plackart next, twisted scars over where the heart resides

Thick, thorny vines at once piercing and protecting the beating centre

Jagged lumps of torn tissue across the upper back holding my arms in place

Faulds removed, one by one, exposing my sex. Sometimes taken, sometimes gifted

Mistaken often for the sole root of power – it is but one area I can hold sacred

The cuisse loosened to fall away, revealing legs with nearly invisible trails of scars, some inflicted through war, some used as a release to quiet the banshees on their terror.

Here I stand, the mirror reflecting all that was hidden beneath the armour

The ugly truth of the damage. The damage that created the need for the armour.

Can you love me this way?

Can I love me this way?