Mama Poma

Here is a seasonally timely excerpt from a larger project I am working on--an autobiographical account of a girl raised by fruit trees and kindly strangers. Enjoy :-)

As a little girl I admired her out my bedroom window. She sat closest to the house. Sometimes I thought she might be watching me. Other times she would put on a show of her own. First, the vibrant coral red blossoms, thick armor with frilly yellow crowns make their explosive appearance. They weather and swell through the late summer to make the early pale fruits, then we watch… and wait until the skin darkened… then reddened like an old blood stain, turning black at the seams. The best were the ones that had just split open—maybe a nip or two of blessing from a quick fruit bird. I would make a round of the tree each afternoon in the Hallows season.

Mom had planted the pomagranate tree in the early seventies with the citrus and apricot. My earliest memories were of her ‘peeling’ fruit after fruit and storing the juicy bits in tupperware for me to eat with a spoon. When she wasn’t looking I would run my hands through the faceted, deep red tart nibbles… nature’s gems. I was ever the pirate, arghh! As kids we were forbidden to pull the fruit and peel it ourselves. Of course, we did this from time to time; always betrayed by the magenta flecks on our clothes. After Mom left, the tree grew wild for a few years, producing declining harvest each year.

Somewhere in my adolescence I felt it was a good use of my time to tame and revivify the thorny bitch of a tree-bush-goblin. Perhaps I thought she would grow in through my bedroom window when I wasn’t watching. Throughout my teenage years and afterward I kept up with the tree’s needs and the harvest grew yearly in flavor and quantity. Every other year or so, she’d show that big ugly side—an overgrown thorny long-armed goblin stabbing at clothes and hair as people walk by. After a few bloodlettings, I would tackle the thorny mayhem. My clothes were no match for the wicked branches. One reach, a little too carelessly, punctuated by a mini bayonet poke, then two, three, many more as I try to extract my arm; my battle displayed by blood-flecked clothes. Over the years, I acquired leather gloves and long-armed pruning sheers—still, a certain amount of carnage was inevitable. My wicked goblin and I parted ways when I moved out to the east coast.

I returned to the west a few years later; I was thoroughly heartbroken and in a disillusioned, frustrated professional lull. The overgrown thorny old hag was producing a meager harvest, mostly suffering from neglect and drought. I was too weak to lift a hand towards it and reluctant to spill my precious blood and sweat. I quickly moved on to San Francisco where there was a chance for me to tame and revivify my own thorny bitch of a self. Yearly at Hallows and Candlemas, I returned south. I always made a point to visit my old haggard friend. One year, I returned to find her spindly eight-foot magnificence had been hacked up to a few bare branches four-foot high. I gasped and grieved in my heart for my friend. I asked my father, the kindly butcher, what had happened.

“It got big and wild, poking me—for god’s sake, it was drawing my blood!”, he ranted angrily. I can’t begrudge him, but I am sad and he sees it.

Throughout my years up north, I’d visit Mama Poma, as I grew to call her. With time, and a little water from dad, a strong tree with young supple branches grew back from the array of sticks he had left. Meanwhile, I had sprouted somewhere within myself those same vibrant coral red blossoms… thick armor with frilly yellow crowns shining like the sun.

Excited to someday bear my sweet tart crimson fruit, I returned to rejoice with Mama Poma. She was gone—a bare place amongst piles of construction material for a recent remodel. My father explained apologetically, she had taken too many people’s blood this time and the work crew took her out. Unceremoniously as that, it was her time to go. She had been a good Mama to me; disciplined me, taught me to give love and care, but most importantly she showed me when and how I needed to keep that love for myself.

The Second Spring

I find that I really enjoy this time of year here in the valley. It is like a second spring before the year slips into a multi-month marathon of dismal wetness. Rose blooms that withered and paled in the August heat--recuperated through September for the last gasp of vibrance here in mid October. The first flower stalks begin to poke out around the bases of all my orchids... sensing the familiar disparity between daytime warmth and nighttime chill. They will take months to mature and bless us through to Imbolc with exotic beauty. Our first real rain is on the way and most of the summer fruit and seed is harvested from the fields. All that remains is the pomegranate harvest that will crack open for the birds at Hallows. I reach for the blanket indoors and the sweater outdoors. Still, the sunny days are more than the grey.

This last gasp of life so well timed before Samhain--it pulls me through and onwards from the swallowing inertia of a dying year. A year of deaths... of the flesh... of the heart.

Deaths are not bad in and of themselves. Worse than any death is the dream that never lived. I have lost much this year, but I have also gained. My heart is full.

Narcotics and Gingerale—mid-Ramadan update

My Ramadan was interrupted by surgery. Sure it was a scheduled surgery, but an interruption just the same. I’m not back to fasting yet. At this point it looks like I will swing the first week and last week of fasting with weeks off in the middle for surgery and menstruation respectively. If I were an observant Muslim, I’d have to make up those days of fasting before next Ramadan, I suppose. We’ll see about that and how it plays into the founding of this new hybrid observance. The good news is that amidst this freeform, perioperative Witch Ramadan, I am achieving the clarity I was seeking. Time alone and quiet (after the narcotic haze had cleared) has been invaluable. What a luxury is a simple life!

I am healing from surgery as I do... quite vigorously and well. The doc says I'm good to go and I'm off and running again!

A Witch's Ramadan

This has been a hell of a year. I'm finally settling into my new locale. It's been a little over a year living here and my first harvest is one of great abundance and meaning. Facing all the new people and activities that are just about to settle into my life along side of me, I am seized by a need to reflect upon and sort things a bit. This month there was a solar and a lunar eclipse (there are 4 per year) and my being is turned to clearing and resetting the table, as it were. I had considered some kind of fast in the time between the equinox and Samhain. So, along comes the timely holiday of Ramadan--September 23-October 24.

I shared Iftar with the Muslim community of Davis last year. It was really special. Much of the night I shared a table with Jordanian immigrants. They were all very friendly... some new to the area like myself. First only women and children, then later progressive younger people who mixed genders at one table. I was polite and respectful and the younger people were eager to share their experiences and impressions of Ramadan and fasting. For total strangers, we had such interesting and warm discussions. The people of the Muslim community took it to heart--that they welcome everyone in town to dinner and share a holy day with them. I had fasted for the day (well, maybe 7 hours), but I remembered thinking that it would have been interesting to fast for a month as everyone else had. There was a sense of something shared--religious, yes--but more importantly... Human. Now, here we are this year and a Muslim co-worker mentions that Ramadan is coming. In fact it begins just after the equinox... isn't that special!

Equinox was grand!! We had a lovely circle of people present--my coven mates and at least as many guests. The food was great and the ritual was special and spontaneous in many respects. I got to break out my new Pakistani frame drum--a ritual virgin that has been played only solitary or set in it's case since I acquired last summer.

So here I am, two days into my Witch's Ramadan. Very interesting indeed. In the interest of my health and well-being, I could not give up water throughout the day--so that is my one allowance so far. I have to slow myself down and pay a particular attention to everything... as well as redirecting my mind throughout the day. It pretty much takes all my attention to function sometimes. Three trips back and forth from the greenhouse to the lab before I actually got my work done. I 'lost' my keys two or three times... often on my person. I think I'm getting used to this, but it's not easy. Though going without is challenging--moderating myself in the evening hours is a significant battle. It's also challenging to have patience with people and situations... or to write well.

San Diego Pagan Pride Day

Another year and this events gets bigger and better!

It was hard to find a time to step away and get a clear picture of what we had set up and the little camp that formed behind the banner. We had consistent traffic to the table throughout the day. I had hoped to catch some good drumming and dance a bit, but the day flew by. Patrick pulled his table over with ours and William showed up with harps and musicians. We enjoyed yummy eats, great conversations, beautiful music and harp lessons for lots of curious children and adults. Thanks William and Mozarab and Yvonne and all the other nice folks who turned out!!!

The event began with an opening ritual which I facilitated. It was simple and spontaneous and pleasant--I showed up and found 4 other volunteers (3 of which I'd never met or worked with before) . The theme was--your community as the harvest that endures and carries one through the dark times to come. We had ourselves a cool little ritual. People did simple circle dances and singing and I became the conch blower for the day (I had called folks to ritual with a conch blowing processional). The mid-day main circle was a drum circle and dance jam session. I was socializing or at the table for that. The final ritual of the day was facilitated by Chalice Well Circle, a local eclectic group which sprung from a small collective of folks working for open rituals in San Diego. They offer open rituals in Balboa Park, the central public park in San Diego. Another community group has public rituals in the North San Diego beaches. It's nice to see Witches out in the open and welcoming to newcomers who are seeking fellowship at moons and Sabbats. The highlight of the closing ritual was a boisterous spiral dance.

According to the organizers, over 400 people passed through. There were many talks and workshops... Wicca 101, transformative breath, belly dance, along with guest speakers such as Tony Mierzwicki, Patrick McColllum and Raven Grimassi. Patrick got rave reviews and sold just about all his books out!

The garden

Paraphrased from a teacher I know and love...
I tried all that stuff this religion and that. Now, everything I need to know--I learn from my garden.

In these late days of summer mantids have moved in. We are happy to have the visitors.

My Ministry

Simply put, my ministry is my life. It is a call, an answering and *knowing* the divine spark in all being and each being. I feel that we, as ministers, have taken up a charge to lead—not as shepherds with their flocks, but as a vanguard force in human and universal evolution towards a more sustainable, productive and peaceful reality and an end to suffering. This is what I see common to all ministers—regardless of faith, level of training, or cultural background.

I have a ‘day job’ and I love it. Just the same, I’ve known what it is to travel hundreds of miles on a few hours notice to be there for someone in dire need. I’ve also made those long trips to share joyous occasions and facilitate life passages. I have found a happy medium in scaling back life to live simply and cheaply, which allows me to live off of a fairly modest government salary. I don’t look for a way to make a living from my ministry—rather I’ve found a way to make every aspect of my living, a ministry. It’s not for everyone, but it suits me.

My ministry is my day job—where I serve the public trust as a federal employee working on agricultural problems. My ministry is my volunteer work—4-H, youth outreach/education in sciences/environmentalism, and religious community development (intra-faith as well as interfaith). My ministry is my work as a priestess in a coven, my work with those outside my faith, my work with the trees I research, my interaction with the bus driver on public transit, the person who sits next to me at the airport… often, the work finds you, I’ve told people. My ministry is being present to the beauty and power of Life and Truth (Maat—Reality), as well as holding up a mirror to others so they can find and enjoy that capacity in themselves. Everyday in every way—what I can, where I can.

The Blue Birds of Beltane

This Beltane, the lesson for me was: Never underestimate the power of a small blue bird. The very last storm of the colder season here in the valley was a windy one. Little did we know the havoc it brought about in the lives of a family of jays that frequented our yard. The day after the storm it was beautiful and sunny. I had let the cats out to play—they were stir-crazy and had been housebound late into the spring due to excessive rains and unseasonably cold whether. I went about my business but quickly heard a shrieking jay outside our kitchen door. The jay had backed our large tom cat into a corner. I opened the door and broke up the standoff; the cat gratefully skulked in the door. Hours later, I let the cat out again. This time I watch to see how this bird is bullying my dear tom. So, the cat prowls around and begins eating some grass. The jay arrives instantly shrieking and swooping at my cat. The cat is up for the sport and begins leaping at the bird, which I have no doubt he’ll catch given enough tries. The bird is up to more than sport and is endangering its life behaving like this. I scoop the cat up and go inside. This goes on for a few days—we let the cats out and the jay chases them. This little blue bird is now a world-class terrorist and the cats are jumpy 24/7, indoors and out.

Now, I go out into the yard and the jay starts swooping on me. Shrieking and squawking. As I duck and curse, my eye catches the faintest blue-grey movement on the ground. Two chicks. Two baby jay chicks, fluffy and bouncy, hop along the fence line awkwardly. They cannot fly or escape any predator. They cannot get back up to whatever safe place they fell from, so they hop the ground while mom and dad announce and promptly attack any visitors to the yard. There are usually 3-5 eggs per pair of jays, so we wonder what became of the others. We see one young bird flying around in the treetops… a sibling. Meanwhile the fluffier slower chick on the ground is found dead one morning by the fence. I sadly scoop up the bird and take him out to the trash can in front of the house—a shrieking jay following me the whole way out of the yard and down the driveway. The remaining bird on the ground gets stronger and sleeker daily… loosing his fluffy useless chick feathers which serve not much purpose outside his nest. Mom and dad continue to come down and feed junior groundling; picking up grubs from the lawn and running them over to the screeching baby with his little red mouth drawn wide and his winglets a-flapping.

We recognize the noise now and come to the window to watch feeding times. After repeated removals of predatory cats from the backyard (upon the sounding of the jay ‘alarm’, of course), the parents have become accustomed to our presence in the yard and our role as protectors for their remaining chick We now do yard work as the baby chick hops around and tests its wings. We’ve even grown impatient at times—hoping that the chick could move along faster in gaining the control and strength in its wings. We are expecting a dozen people in our yard next week for a ritual and party. Each morning we look outside now. Has our little chick flown to the fencetop yet? Has he met a predator in the night? Each morning we watch ‘breakfast’ as mom collects grubs from the lawn just as the sun first warms the earth. We have no idea how much longer our backyard will serve as a big Jay nest, but we know that we will miss our friend when it finds its way over the fence and out into the world.

To be party to these events everyday in curiosity and anticipation—to have all our Springtime plans and work come to a halt around them… the loud cries and urgency of a bird open-mouthed and squawking for food… fierce parents swooping down at relatively gargantuan human beings or into the paws of feline predators with their hatchlings being the one all-encompassing obsession—is to know the tenacity of life and what we call to each Beltane when we honor fertility and the drive to perpetuate itself that is inherent to all life.

Heart blessing

Journal entry: January 7, 2006

Life in a flurry passes along... lately it seems as if it is a void that follows a huge burst of light. The back end of a shockwave, as it were. I have experiences that shake my being and stand outside of anything the mind can touch. It is a language of the heart that is opening up in me... intermittently choking me to tears over the acts and sufferings of humanity. To explore what this language is to me, to my life, is my purpose and joy--cultivating the necessary manner of indifference is my challenge. Each experience each remembrance or echo of the experience--it shakes another brick loose in the tower of my religious tradition... of most every religious tradition. No institution or church adequately expresses what the heart knows--only an individual can do that.


Postscript:

Less than one week later, I helped a woman who was dear to me take her last breath.


Life and Love continued on.

Orchidae

Orchidae

Thriving outside in Encinitas
(a.k.a Paradise)

Sheltered in our kitchen through a Northern California winter

Cattleya aurantiaca

UCD Botanical garden,
Davis (2005)

Cymbidium

Quail Botanical Gardens,
Encinitas, CA (2002)
Med plant. Sturdy sprays of crimson red flowers, long lived flowers like to hang below pot level, blooms freely in winter (5cm)

Cymbidium

Quail Botanical gardens,
Encinitas, CA (2002)
Med plant green blossoms, like to hang below pot level, spikes are fragile and blooms relatively short lived (5cm)

Epidendrum


Joy Doherty, Leucadia, CA (2003)
Ever-blooming full size plant yellow flowers (2cm)





Epidendrum (no picture yet)
Joy Doherty, Leucadia, CA (2003)
Everblooming miniature plant magenta flowers

Liparis caespitosa

UCD Botanical garden,
Davis, CA (2005)
Stalks of microflowers (2mm)


Miltassia (Miltonia x Brassia)

San Diego Orchid Society Show (2002)
Charles M Fitch x Izumi
Mild floral fragrance, long lived blooms (10cm)

Miltassia (Miltonia x Brassia)

Trader Joes (2002)
Shelob Tolkien, Long-lived sprays of blooms

Oncidium

Nursery, Leucadia, CA (2003)
Similar to Shary Baby, many sprays of small crimson-magenta flowers strong chocolate scent (3.5cm)

Oncidium

Trader Joes (2003)
Sprays of white flowers with tiny yellow centers, strong vanilla orange fragrance (1cm)

Paphiopedilum

Trader Joes (2000)
Lost, but not forgotten.









Paphiopedilum
Trader Joes (2003)
Supersuk Eureka X Laser “red fire”
Long lived dramatic blooms

Phalaenopsis

Trader Joes (2006)
Taisuco Eros X Equestris alba









Pleurothallis restrepoides

UCD Botanical garden, Davis (2005)
“Dragonstone”
Still waiting for flowers... other interesting organs seem to have sprung up, though.

Zygopetalum

San Diego Orchid Society Show (2002)
Blue Banks cross.
Beautiful floral scent--my favorite orchid.
A fragrant beauty lost to disease; I hope to enjoy another someday.

Motor Cycle Kat’sina

Motor Cycle Kat’sina

Lusty leather thighs—they look to be just my size...
just my sighs...
Out the door.
Where do you go motorcycle lover—undercover?
The world awaits
Tempt the fates
It is yours laid upon the platter
Does it matter
How much
A touch for free... see.
It slips or slides... glides
Guides the pieces to engage the mage
Wisdom for the free...
Your gods
to thee
are kind.

swim strokes

I've decided to share some of my oddball writings here--enjoy...

Swim Strokes

Freestyle/Crawl—I am a log.
As the proverbial baby, one must crawl…
And revert to crawl whenever basic speed and ease are required.

The Breaststroke—I am a tadpole.
Swirling hands and spastic feet… not another mouthful if water!
Am I moving backwards, now?

The Backstroke—Where am I?
Windmill hands with the belly up… why is my head sinking? Ack! My sinuses. Ow! My swim cap does little to cushion my head against cement I cannot see.

Backstroke Revisited—I am home!
Here in the ocean all is good--soaking my head in foamy maternal saline.
No more scary visions of the ocean floor, just sunny skies and ocean spray.

The Butterfly—I am power and action, gliding across the water.
Push into the water with a strong snake belly and dolphin’s tail.
Powerful arms rise out of the water as an emerging bird with a catch.

Breaststroke revisited—I am a frog
Loaded legs, shoot forward in the long smooth glide
Swirling webbed hands like eddies in a river on either side

Backstroke with clouds on top—I am succeeding!
Let the body right itself and guide by the clouds
The breath raises the body and the arm will bring it down