Crow Lesson

Crows are my favorite bird. I admire their intelligence and cunning. Recently they taught me a lesson in respect.

As a bio-regional animist, I profess to live as part of a family that embraces all creatures of nature including stones and plants as well as animals, and humans of all races and creeds. I honor the ties that bind us all. I am pledged to respect each one's role in the play of Life, and honor their right to live and create in their own ways. This is not as easy as it sounds, nor is it always beautiful and bright. Part of this is also acknowledging that there is darkness as well as light, sadness as well as joy, and danger as well as comfort.

A pair of house finches chose to build their nest on the eaves of my porch in the springtime this year. I felt blessed by their presence, especially since this was the first Spring in my new home. First they came scouting out the site. Both of them surveyed one corner of the porch and seemed to discuss it daily, deciding exactly where the nest should go. I was glad they didn't pick the space right in the corner because I knew the drainpipe and gutter dripped there. Wisely, they finally settled on a spot a little off from the corner, hidden behind the top of one of the metal support posts. Every morning I enjoyed watching the nest take shape as the pair busily gathered stuff and put it neatly into place. Home sweet home!

Then the mother bird sat. I knew eggs would be coming soon. Both birds were spending more time in the nest. Then one morning I heard the tiny peeps of hatchlings. There were at least two, maybe three. I didn't want to disturb them by peeking too closely.

The hatchlings were well-fed by their parents over the next several weeks. One morning I was thrilled to see one of the babies flapping their wings, practicing to fly. It wouldn't be long before they would leave the nest. This was a little sad, of course, because I would miss watching them each day, but I was happy to see this wonderful avian rite of passage taking place right before my eyes. It was a joyous, hopeful experience.

I mentioned crows at the beginning of this bit of writing. I think you know what comes next. The same day I saw the baby bird flapping its wings, I went out to walk my dog later and noticed a crow on the porch roof. There are lots of crows around here, but they prefer to stay in the woods across the street or roost in the line of old pine trees behind my house. This crow was watching, listening, and putting together a plan. I could almost hear the wheels turning inside that sleek black head. I clapped my hands and yelled to chase it away. It cawed back at me and flew only as far as a nearby tree, where it remained on surveillance.

It was a gift to be able to watch the finches make a home on my porch and raise a family. This daily story I'd been witnessing ended abruptly when I saw the crow squeeze itself into that small, presumably safe place in the rafters and tear into the nest, taking away one baby bird, then quickly returning for the other. The mother and father did their best to ward off the crow but they were too small to be intimidating.

After the babies were gone, the pair flew away and didn't return for about an hour. Then suddenly they were back - with an entire clan of their fellow house finches! This group of birds swarmed all around the vicinity of the nest, fluttering and twittering loudly, for a good ten minutes. It was like a wake. Then, as suddenly as they appeared, they all flew off at once.

It was heartbreaking, yet I couldn't hate the crows for being crows. I still love them. Now I have a slightly different kind of respect for them.

There's still a happy ending. I thought the house finches had abandoned the nest after the crow-raid. There was no activity for a few weeks. Then one morning I saw what I assumed was the same pair return and take up housekeeping again. Or it could have been a different pair. It doesn't matter. Soon there were eggs, hatchlings, and this time they survived without any threat from crows. Two healthy young house finches left the nest with their parents a few weeks ago.

The song of life goes on, finding its own harmony on the wing.

I am submitting this blog entry to the Eco-Animism Blog Carnival whose theme for August is "BIRDS".

Connexions and Relations

I learned recently that the braids of Native Americans symbolize connections to the Earth Mother and All Our Relations. Wearing one's hair loosely is supposed to connect one's Spiritual Essence with the Wind Spirits. I never knew the significance of the braids and I don't even know how true it is.  Not everything we read on the internet is true! When my hair was longer, I would sometimes braid it, mostly just to get it out of my way, but being a child of the Woodstock generation, naturally I preferred to wear it loosely flowing. Now its too short to be braided but still long enough to flow blissfully.

Do we need to have braids to connect us with our Earth Mother and All Our Relations? No, but to some it may serve as a symbol of that link.

As an animist who professes to live as a part of a family that embraces stones and plants, all creatures of nature, humans of all races and creeds, and honors the ties that bind it all, I am pledged to respect each one's role in the play of Life, and honor their right to live and create in their own ways. This is not as easy as it sounds, nor is it always bright and beautiful. I find it very liberating, though, in many ways.

I grew up with racial prejudice and ethnic jokes as the norm. My mother was born and raised in South Carolina. She had a black "mammy". Need I say more? My dad is probably the most prejudiced person I know. He hates anyone who is not exactly like him. He is constantly drawing lines between Us and Them. I think most of it comes from fear, although neither of them would never admit that. Every door in their house has not one, not two, not three, but four locks which are locked at all times, as if at any moment one of Them will burst in and beat them up and rob my parents, just because they are Them. By the way, they live in one of the lowest crime neighborhoods in the tri-state area. How different things would be if my parents suddenly realized we are all the same, or even opened slightly to that concept.

Less fear in my life is one huge benefit of being an animist. My sister instantly locks her car doors if she is caught at a red light and there happens to be a black man walking nearby.  Recently while I was walking my dog in the park, I encountered what appeared to be a homeless man, walking the other way, mumbling to himself. When I mentioned it to her, she insisted that I call the police if I saw him again. Why? He wasn't doing any harm. I just avoided him, stepping a little to the side and giving him his own space. He had as much right to be in the park as I did. Why should I make more trouble for him than he already had, which was obviously quite a bit? More than once in my life I've been homeless too.

Not that I deny there is danger in life. Respecting and honoring the truth and reality of each part of creation includes recognizing the reality of potential dangers. Sure, any man could be a rapist, no matter what color their skin. And any storm could strike you dead with its lightening. I recognize these truths but I don't let them get in my way. I try to be careful but I don't let fear keep me from enjoying the day. Life flows much more easily when energy isn't wasted on fear and pointless hate.

The wind in my hair that I enjoy as an animist makes me feel so free sometimes that I start to feeling superior, especially when I think about people like my parents and sister. Feeling superior isn't right. I should feel humble instead. I suppose their fears and loathings have a place in the world too but am I supposed to respect that? It's hard to respect and honor everything and everyone sometimes.

Take crows, for instance, a bird I admire for their intelligence and cunning. Recently I witnessed a crow take a baby house finch from the nest I'd watched its parents build on the eaves of my porch. Every day I watched the nest take shape, then the eggs came, and just the day before the crow came, I saw one of the nestlings flap its wings for the first time and it was such a hopeful, happy sight. The crow, after several days of surveillance, studied the situation as crows do and figured out a way to get to them. It was heartbreaking to see the tiny baby bird carried off while its parents did their best to fight off the crow, to no avail. Afterwards a very strange thing occurred. From out of nowhere, an entire clan of house finches suddenly appeared and gathered around my porch, singing and flapping around and generally acting as if they were at a wake. No crows attended. I can't hate the crows for being crows. I still love them, but with a slightly different kind of respect.

Being an animist often makes me feel quite ecstatic, almost high or stoned on feeling "the connexion". It's a big rush to open your heart this way. Yet there are always challenges, like the crow incident, that make me pause and sigh. The ecstasy I feel doesn't make me feel superior, just very much alive. I wonder if that's one of the purposes of religion/life-views, though, to make us feel superior (rightly or wrongly). It doesn't feel right, especially when animism is supposed to be based on respect for everyone's and everything's place in life, no one person or thing more precious, important, beloved, or better than another. I shouldn't put myself above any other person, let alone a pebble or a strand of grass.

I believe my path is beautifully summed up in the Thelemic "Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law. Love is the Law, Love under Will." It is not permission to do whatever you want. It bestows the obligation to find your true role in life and pursue it with all you've got, while respecting (loving) all others' places and roles, trusting that there is a plan to the universe and a holy order where everyone and everything is a star in its own orbit - even, to an animist, the rocks and trees, the wind and the rain. The challenge is to not only recognize these connexions and relations, but to find ways to live in harmony with them without putting yourself above anything. Maybe this is not meant to be over-analyzed or worked at too hard. It might be just enough to enjoy the rush of those freedom winds in your hair and keep your heart open while letting the path take you where it will.

Writing off the page

One of my favorite writing exercises is "Writing Off the Page".  I can't remember where I learned this. Probably in one of those "How to Write Good!" books. You take a poetry book or use whatever book is within reach, or a favorite one, or pick a random one off the shelf. I've found this works best with a poetry book because it's easy to find a line of appropriate intensity and length. Open the book to any page, take a line from the page, copy it into your notebook or type it into your notepad, and take it from there. If you get stuck writing off the page, just rewrite the first line and start again, continuing your writing, or going off in an entirely new direction. I do  this exercise often, sometimes with good results, sometimes not.

This morning I picked a random poem from "A Year with Rilke". It was this one, from his "Book of Hours" set.

"The Beauty of You"

In deep nights I dig for you like treasure.
For all I have seen
that clutters the surface of my world
is a poor, paltry substitute
for the beauty of you
that has not happened yet...

I felt cheated by what felt like an unfinished poem. It felt like just a sketch, a doodle on a napkin. I loved the first line but it fizzled from there, to the last line dropping off into ...

So, being the slightly arrogant poet that I am (all poets should have a healthy degree of arrogance!) I decided to write off the page from the beautiful first line and this is what I wrote.


"The Beauty of You"

In the depths of the dark I dig for you
Like a miner hunting diamonds
Grasping for the glimmer of your heart
Listening for that dancing footfall
With ears attuned to that chance.
By candlelight I scry into shadows
And sigh for a twinkle of eye-shine
Hoarding those emerald memories
Like winter trees hold the gems of Spring.

Then, to take arrogance on step more, I invented a new writing exercise. I took my own poem and reflected it backwards.

Like gems of Spring held by winter's trees,
Memories like emeralds are still green,
Preserved by sighs and twinkles of hope
On a shrine of candlelight and crystals.
Tuned to the music of a chance of a dance,
Dreaming of steps that rhyme in time,
An empty grasp seeks to span the distance,
Digging up diamonds in the dark.

Maybe it isn't the greatest of poetry but it was certainly a lot of fun writing off the page today.

I should have listened to my intuition

I never liked dining at place which I will, for the purposes of this blog, call That Little Italian Goldmine.  It was, and probably still is, my parents' favorite restaurant.  It has an excellent reputation and has been in business for ages.  They serve traditional "Tuscan" food.  As a vegan, I could only order two different dishes there and even then drastically altered to leave off the meat, cheese or other possible dairy products. I still had to drain the oil from sauce with a fork before eating. It was never that great, in my humble opinion. The whole place felt claustrophobic to me, the waitresses all seemed like they shared an inside joke, and it was freezing cold in all seasons of the year. And it always just seemed like way too much to eat. But that's Italian, right?

Currently I am recovering from a horrible week-long bout with what the MedExpress doctor called a "type of botulism that results from food not being stored at the proper temperature". He wanted me to go into a hospital overnight for IV hydration but I argued that no one could take care of my pets, (and besides, I have no health insurance!)  so he released me with the solemn promise that I would do nothing but rest, constantly have a glass of water or other clear liquid beside me to drink, and nibble on bland foods like toast or crackers until I felt better, which should be in just a few more days if I followed the plan.

Without going into the extremely disgusting details, I will simply say that never in my life have I been so sick. All because of the marinara sauce I substituted for cream sauce on the pasta primavera, thinking it was a healthier choice. My dad, who also had marinara, was violently ill for a day or so but quickly recovered. Plainly, it was the sauce that did us both in. My mother ordered chicken salad croissant without eating the croissant, as usual (I think she just likes to say "Croissant"), and my sister got some sort of cheese drenched monstrosity. They escaped unscathed.

Was my intuition trying to warn me, all the times that I felt those creepy sensations when I walked into the, um, Little Italian Goldmine? Or was it just my turn to be poisoned? And why did my dad, a rather feeble old man in his mid 80's, bounce back like a champ while his daughter, healthy as a horse, almost landed in the hospital? At any rate, I'm never going back there again.

Today I feel almost human again for the first time since Saturday night. Being a philosophical person, I keep asking "What is there to learn from this?" There must be something, since it was such an intense experience. Or was it merely the fickle finger of fate giving me the bird? No matter how wisely you think you are eating, you can still get sick as a dog (sorry, Johnny! I wouldn't wish this on any canine or other living creature) from someone's carelessness at a restaurant.

I promise that my next blog entry will be better, as my digestive tract returns to normal. Right now, though, I am in the mood to grumble, which proves my health must be improving.

Aquarius Blue (re-posting)

The last of three re-postings from a previous blog.

AQUARIUS BLUE Feb 4 2013

If I am lucky enough to glimpse the bare, unclouded sky at this time of the year, I always think it is "Aquarius Blue".  It goes with the first secret signs of Spring that show around Imbolc or Candlemas (or Groundhog Day, depending on your orientation). A few days ago I was delighted to see teeny tiny buds on some trees during my park-walk with Johnny. When the Sun returns to these degrees of Aquarius, there are many hopeful omens for those who have the eyes to see!

Today is my grandmother's birthday. Her eyes were crystal blue, like sparkling star-sapphires, Aquarius blue. She's long gone from this world, yet I still celebrate her birthday. I try to do something I think she would enjoy, which is usually baking something fruity and sweet. Today I made a blueberry pie-cake, baked in the big brown ceramic pie pan that was once hers. I didn't get much passed on to me when she died, since my sister immediately took over her house and everything in it, and we were not on good terms at the time. Now we've both gotten over it, whatever it was, and we're as close as sisters should be. Last Fall she gave me this pie pan. I've been using it constantly ever since. It's like having Nana at the table with us again.

She was a strong and gentle woman who was like a mother to me until I was about 12. We lived with her and my grandfather until my mother suddenly decided that she wanted her own house, and we moved. Just as suddenly, my mother also decided to play the part of a mother for a change. It didn't work out very well, which was no surprise. I'll always think of Nana in the role of a mother because she was there first, last and always. She tolerated and stood beside me during  my teenage rebellion stage when my actual mother simply retreated in fear and disgust. She forgave my young-adult transgressions against the family and stayed close to me when my parents refused to have anything to do with me. She always had something kind to say to me, something pleasant to share, and if all else failed there was something good to eat waiting for me whenever I got home to her house.

Her tolerance, strength and gentleness, I think, must have come from raising her younger brother and running their household, a duty that fell on her when she was barely into her mid-teens and her mother passed away. Her father was a hard drinking immigrant coal miner who apparently spoke better Czech and German than English. All I can remember about him is playing with his pocket watch and chain while I sat on his lap. The early photos of my grandmother show a stocky, tall woman with wire rimmed glasses, wavy blonde hair and a rather wistful, wishful little smile dimpling her pale face.

No wonder she charmed my Irish grandfather and they married as soon as he got back from WWI and secured a good job with the railroad.  He was ten years her senior and worldly-wise, having come over from Belfast as a child with his parents, four younger brothers and three sisters. Soon his parents were gone and he had to support the family however he could, odd labor jobs and farm work around the rural edges of Pittsburgh. By the time they were all grown up, he went off to serve in WWI. He toured Europe as a soldier, eventually put in charge of black smithing and tending the horses, which were an essential part of the armed forces in those days. When the war ended he came back alive, unlike two of his brothers, and he celebrated by marrying his beloved Gertrude. He went to live with her, her father, and her brother in the house where my sister lives now, just around the corner from my current home.

It was anything but domestic bliss. The old man hated "the Irishman" and fistfights were not uncommon. My grandmother patiently cleaned up after them. Her brother, Ernest, escaped by getting married and moving as far away as he could, which turned out to be Pasadena, where he lived to a ripe old age. Things calmed down a little after my dad was born. Eventually the old man drank himself to death in the early 1950s. One more thing I remember about him. I went toddling around the funeral home, whispering and shushing people, telling them Papa was sleeping. I really thought he was, and that's probably what they told me, since I was too little to understand.

Everybody loved my grandmother. She was universally cherished. She was a kind person without being overly religious. Yes, she went to church and was active in the Presbyterian congregation but I always had the feeling that it was just another way for her to find good things to do for others. Her kindness seemed to overflow into everything around her. She especially loved going to candlelight services on Christmas Eve and I can still see her carrying her candle home, beaming with childlike joy as she walked briskly up the hill shielding the little flame with her gloved hand. Then when she got home,  there would be candles lit from it. It was the only time she allowed candles burning in the house. By magical candlelight, plates of cookies and kolaches would appear, and soon the aunts (my grandfather's sisters) would come over to make a big fuss over my sister and I to fill in the time until we went to bed and they could decorate the tree and lay out the presents.

I still miss her at Christmastime. I used to think, with her white hair and twinkling blue eyes, that she might be Mrs. Santa Claus in secret, even though I knew my grandfather certainly was too grumpy to be Santa himself.

The day before she died, as she laid in her hospital bed, I brushed out that white hair and pinned it neatly away from her face just the way she liked it, using little combs to fix it in place, old-country style. Her eyes were sparkling blue as ever and I marveled at how beautiful she looked for a woman of 83.

Happy Birthday, Nana! What would you think of the world today? I like to think that your Aquarian nature would somehow adapt and find a niche here, no matter what.

You live on in my heart.

Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da (re-posting)

The second of three re-postings from blog entries earlier this year.

Jan 22 2013  ob la di, ob la da!

No, that's not some kind of magical incantation. Or is it?


Life goes on, that's all.


Here's a haiku to say where I've been and what I've been doing since last time I wrote.


The old wooden flute
Buried under papers
Hollow reed - my life.

The holidays were good times, for a change. Usually I dread them. Before the Christmas onslaught, I celebrated the first Winter Solstice in my new home, just a quiet evening by myself, candles burning, and listening, listening, listening, as I always do on the darkest night. I used to listen for Santa's reindeer bells, so I've had years of practice! Now I still listen,with all my heart, for tiny bells or distant carols or voices on the wind, audible omens for those with ears to hear. Secrets are told and mysteries unfold if you listen closely on the longest night. I am so thankful for my snug, warm, safe place. I will never forget what it felt like not to even have a roof over my head. Ample gratitudes were issued to the Powers That Blessed Be on Solstice Night.

Then Christmas. It was actually fun with my parents, as my sister and I donned silly reindeer antlers for the dinner and gift exchange, and there was a lot of laughter, smiles and even warm affection, rare for my family. I am finally, belatedly, understanding the dynamics of all this and seeing how it can work. A little sad, though, because there's probably not much time left, but this might have been our best Christmas yet.

Right after Christmas, as my parents' doctor said, "the bottom fell out." I saw it coming, didn't know it would happen so quickly though. It started when my dad fell. Then he fell again. My mother's dementia took a leap into oblivion. It's time for them to give up their house and move into an "independent living" village. This is by the order of their doctor. I think it's way past time.

Hence the haiku.

Been trying to be a hollow reed and let the breath of love be my voice. Sometimes it works, and other times no one hears or wants to hear. I keep trying because it's all I feel I can really do.

One bond that always stayed strong between me and my dad was music. When we couldn't find anything else to share or talk about, there was always music. Now he's almost deaf and his voice is only a whisper, due to an episode with cancer of the larynx years ago. Still, for Christmas I got him a collection of Tchaikovsky's symphonies on CD. He can hear them if he turns it up really loud, and if it's really loud he can't hear my mother screaming at him anymore. Just the music.

I used to have an old wooden flute, three tin whistles, pan pipes, a native American flute and a number of funny little ocarinas that I would play at odd moments, odd little tunes. I never played very well but I loved to play. Sometimes I miss it. I have a piano now, which was my first instrument, and although I love to plink and plunk and pound, according to mood, there's nothing like a hollow reed that takes your breath away.

My dad's voice sounds like an old wooden flute sometimes. He's had a stroke and sometimes hits a sour note or can't remember the tune, yet I can still hear the love breathing through his raspy pipes.

Midwinter ramblings.......

Time Travel (re-posting)

This is the first of a series of transposed posts from a previous blog, which I lost and found again, re-posted here for continuity's sake - apologies to those who may have already read these. Will continue with new posts after these three old ones!

 "Time Travel" written December 1, 2012

 It's been a time of many transformations for me over the past year or so. Some of these have been progressive changes and others have been a kind of backtracking.

Pop psychology likes to make big issues out of what I think they call co-dependent relationships. Relationships that usually involve one or both partners having addictions. When my husband passed away on the last day of July 2011, I was set free from this kind of relationship. His addiction was drugs, the hardest of all drugs. I didn't share that particular addiction with him but living with it every day for more years than I'd like to admit made me take up some addictions of my own in order to cope (if you can call it that...maybe a more appropriate word would be "survive") with these circumstances.

My addictions seemed harmless compared to his, although they were probably just as damaging in different ways. They did not involve the physical debilitation that comes from drug abuse. On the contrary, I became addicted to exactly the opposite path. I became a fanatic about health and diet, as well as adopting other habits to escape my everyday world. Not really healthy, although it appeared so on the surface. For me it was dietary practices (I went from a loosely practicing vegetarian to a hard core vegan), plus what might be called an addiction to fantasy in the form of online roleplay writing and to a lesser extent online games. Perhaps strangely enough, the roleplaying was not of a sexual nature, as so many people get caught up in, but it was historical. It was time travel, mostly back to the first few centuries of Ireland, intricately researched and imagined in all possible depth and detail. These habits and practices took me out of the space and time that I hated so badly and put me into a world where I was in control. He used to call it, with a touch of sarcasm, my "happy space." I lived on one floor of the house, he lived on another. I refused to let him drive me out of the home I loved, the house I dreamed of before we bought it, the place I felt I was meant to be, regardless of - to use more cliches of addiction - the big purple elephant in the room that no one mentions.

So, it could be said that I "enabled" (in the psychospeak language of these situations) his drug addiction by my silence and non-presence. However, I wasn't entirely silent and invisible. I tried so many times to get him to seek help in so many different ways. I tried everything I knew to heal him. You can't heal someone who doesn't want to be healed. Finally, I guess I just gave up. There didn't seem to be anything I could do to stop this.

When he passed on, I fell into a manic whirlpool of mixed emotions. I was sad and I mourned. I was happy to be free. I was angry that he left my granddaughter and me practically nothing, having cleaned out the bank accounts during the last few months of his life. I was thankful that I could now cleanse my house of all the sick, hoarded clutter and make it into the home I always thought it could be. I spent months cleaning and throwing things away. Months of constant, compulsive cleansing. There was an unbelievable amount of garbage. One of the big things I wanted to do was have a new furnace and central a.c. installed. It would be expensive but I was terrified of our old, ancient furnace and refused to spend another winter worrying if the house was going to blow up.

Well, to make a long story short, it basically did. There was one last night in that house, the coziest, warmest night I ever had there, October 27, 2011, with the new furnace working beautifully and heating the whole place like the old furnace never could. The next day as the contractor was finishing up, using a welding torch in the basement, a spark went up the wall and set the house on fire. It was a total loss.

My granddaughter and I lived at the Red Roof Inn, courtesy of the Red Cross, for 3 days. We were lucky enough to find an apartment right next door to our old house and moved right in. It was there that we started putting our lives back together. Eventually I bought this house where we are now, after months of visualizing and dreaming and hoping.

This is where the "time travel" comes in. My new home is in the neighborhood where I was born and raised. My sister lives almost within shouting distance, two streets away. We moved from this neighborhood with our parents in 1962. Before then, we'd been living with my dad's parents. My mother wanted her own house.  It was traumatic for me. My grandmother was always there. She was more like my mother than my real mother. Suddenly I had to change mother-figures and switch from my grandmother to my mom who had very little in the way of maternal skills. I had to make all new friends and go to a different school. I hated the new house. My reaction was to rebel in as many ways as I could find, from seventh grade onward. Within a few years, I was going by a different name, shedding the name my parents gave me for a nickname which stuck. I was developing a whole new personality to go with it. Not unusual for adolescents, but in my case it was likely a little more extreme.

Skip the next fifty years or so.

Now I'm back where I left off in 1962. My sister and I are friends again. We started hating each other after we moved and as adults we went separate ways and didn't speak to each other for years. I've gone back to using my old name, sort of by default at first, because that's what I was called when I lived here as a child. I'm comfortable with it now. I'm in touch with my cousin again, who was one of my best friends for my entire childhood, and its like only a few days have gone by since we were in fifth grade. We marvel at how much the same we still are.

 It's very mind-boggling the way all this has worked out. It feels so good. I'm more relaxed than I've been for decades, after all that has transpired since the end of July 2011. I'm home again.

 Through all the transmutations of all those years, I've returned to the original "me" again. Don't get me wrong. I know its 2012, not 1962, but I am picking up whatever I let go, lost, half-forgot or otherwise buried, and making it work again while somehow weaving into it all the fine things I learned or took up along the way. Too much blogging. Yet I have so much more to say, on so many levels. Stay tuned.

The wonder of the circle of life

No, this is not about the Lion King movie. Well, on second thought....




My deceased husband was a hoarder. He was a garbage picker. He would bring home all sorts of weird finds and put them around the house. One day I found a broken picture frame, empty of whatever picture it once held, by the chair on the porch where I liked to sit in the mornings and write in my journal. It had Simba from the Lion King in one corner of it and across the bottom it said "Remember Who You Are". I never commented about it. Maybe he was leaving me a message. Maybe it was just one of his odd, random gifts. I left it there. After the house burned down, it was still on the porch.

Anyway, it was actually good advice. At the time I was doing my best to forget who I was. It was enough to just sleepwalk through the day and live in dreams at night.

Now I am really remembering who I am and it's all good. The circle of life is closing around me in a lot of ways. I like to think of it as a spiral, not really a circle. Sometimes, though, the loops close in a loving embrace around us before the spiral flows out into another round of the dance.

There is role reversal going on with my sister and I, with our parents. We must now become the caretakers, the teachers, the watchers, the advisors, and they have become the wide-eyed innocents, sometimes as careless as little children, sometimes as defiant as rebellious teens. We have to make sure their zippers are up and their shoes are tied. Yesterday my sister had the heartbreaking duty of taking the car keys from Dad. He responded like an angry sixteen year old deprived of his driving privileges. Worst of all, we often have to remind them of who they are.

In reminding them of who they are, we are at the same time forced to remember in much more detail then ever who WE are. We pretend to listen intently as my dad tells the same stories we've heard a thousand times, not cutting him off because we are happy he still has breath in his body to speak with us about anything. Stories about our great-grandfather, lately embellished, as if they've ripened with age. Stories about when he was a kid or when he was in the Air Force. He is living in those times more than in the present day. He's reminding us of who we are, in his own way, consciously or not.

And more clearly than ever I am seeing my roots, as I've returned to the neighborhood where I spent the first dozen years of my life. I realize, as I look back, how upsetting it was to be uprooted when I was 12, away from my grandparents' home into a completely new environment where I never really felt like I belonged. My parents' bought their own place, a house I always hated. It felt cold and sterile (yes, plastic covers on the couch and those plastic mats on the floor!) and alien to me. I still went "home" every weekend to stay with my grandparents. Finally I left my parents' house five years later for good, coming back to live with my grandmother from time to time until she passed away. My sister lives in her house now, around the corner and one street down from here.

I paid off my mortgage at the end of March. This place is all mine. I'm really home again. Another circle closes.

Which leads to the point of this blog entry. Lately through the World Wide Web I've discovered the sphere of "bio-regional animism" which seems to have taken hold on the West Coast and is moving eastward. I guess it's a response to how the internet has effectively gutted what we once called "the Craft" as folks are looking for new titles for the old religion, and don't want to be known as Wiccans anymore. I like the bio-regional animist's outlook. It's where I've been all along, and I'm happy to remember who I was, am, and shall be!

What does the bio-regional animist do? Make a map of your area marking out a five or six mile radius. Learn local flora and fauna. Geology too, because animists honor the life in stones and rocks as well. Do research and find the oldest trees. Be outside every day and bond with the birds and other wild things. Observe the cycles of nature and seasons. Take on the role of steward of the land within that radius. Keep it clean and healthy. Celebrate nature.

This is more or less what I did when I was a kid. I had tea parties with the fairies on the big stump in the wild backyard. I sang to the sky and especially the moon and stars, and they sang back. I watched the trees bloom leaves, lose them, go to sleep and wake up again. If I didn't know the names of trees, birds, animals or rocks, I made some up or they told me who they were. Bio-regional animism is as good a label as any. Or "witch".

I am so happy to be home again, back to the beginning of a circle. In many ways, I carried a lot of things with me in my heart and soul while I was elsewhere, and now I can bring them out again, like little gems unearthed from the spot where I left them years ago, and let them shine in the April sun.

Elegy for a Hare

As winter began
I saw a hare,
Caught as she ran,
In a fence's snare.
Her eye was bright,
Though glazed with frost
And without sight.

Her life was lost.

As I passed by,
Day after day,
My sad heart cried
For her decay.
One crisp bright morn
A blanket I spread,
Dry leaves to adorn
Her, tail to head.

A little prayer
I muttered, "Peace,"
And blessed the hare
For sweet release.
Was she fleeing,
Panic, prey?
Or simply being
Hare at play?

Four moons away,
Her sisters dance
Under the sway
Of lunar trance.