The malendium

Michele Leigh Martin (1972-2005)

2012-01-28T00:47:00.000-08:00

Michele with one L.

She introduced her self to me,

Tall, like a willow, lilting soft and supple

Like none I’d ever known.

Short brown hair and pug nose;

Honest to the point of rudeness.

I remember her fondly.

She loved Abyssinians because

Hers played fetch with her.

We shared a house, a kitchen, a bathroom

And the yard sometimes, though rarely.

She loved to come to my room

And have me read her cards.

When we were no longer

Houesmates,

She would storm my house angrily

If I was slow

In returning

Her calls.

Outdoors

seemed like a trip to the mall to her

But it was where I lived and thrived.

So, she introduced me to her cousin.

He was a woodsman of West Virginia highlands

Who suited us up in Army backpacks.

We walked in the smoke of his Cuban cigars

To repel the Appalachian mosquitoes.

I learned to build a shelter

From ropes,

Rocks, and tarps on that trip.

Michele napped.

Her people were born of West Virginia

With bad genes it seemed,

And distorted relations of many sorts.

We each had our

Own bitter family ties.

We partied together.

A lot.

She was the last person I ever did acid with.

She stepped up

To nurse me through

An emotionally painful

And disgusting abortion.

We drifted apart for long periods of time.

Sometimes.

She tried to killed herself

At least one time I know of.

She once woke up next to her

Dead boyfriend.

Overdosed.

She ran away to spend a happy time

Being nanny to rich kids in coastal So Cal

I visited her there

Poolside bikinied and

Dazzling in the sunshine;

She was so happy.

A new person from before.

The last I saw of her.

Last I heard from her

Extradited to Maryland

For a court hearing.

We each had our demons

We were trying to outrun,

But she was coming from somewhere

I couldn’t quite understand.

A dark place

Where love was alien

And life had no value.

She taunted life and

Hazard as if it were a joke.

I took my time and the work was hard

But I faced my demons and saved my life.

Much to my surprise

I lived past forty,

But she did not make it through.

My dear West Virginia girlfriend

I may never know more

But I know the world and this life,

Was just too much for her somehow.

April

2010-04-05T01:02:00.000-07:00

My route parallels the broad Sacramento River delta flowing out to the San Francisco bay. Each time I make this trip I am reminded of my ancestors who once settled in this region more than one hundred years ago; I wonder if they were struck by any of the same sights and sounds as the year moved along. I think of the river at this time of year wide cold and swollen with rain, the sierra snow on the peaks across the valley has not begun to melt. It flows alongside the interstate silent huge and unseen until a bridge crossing just before I reach the opening to the bay. As I leave the valley, I can read the orchards like my favorite calendar. Almond flowers are long gone in the deepest part of the valley, leaving only confetti of petals to convey the spring time party that took place. I see westbound trucks transporting bees in neatly stacked white boxes to coastal valleys that are still rich with blooms. Beyond the almond orchards are walnut trees just waking up. The native black walnuts that line the country roads have been bursting leaves since early March and have already begun to let down catkins while the English hybrids in the orchards are just emerging from winter sleep with leaf bunches still packed like hands in prayer pushing out from the tips of each branch and bud. The biggest oaks are just beginning to awaken as well. Green grass grows high in the orchard rows and covers the hillsides all around, but the ground is still too muddy for mowers or cows in some areas. California poppies sprinkle the side of the road in that familiar orange, reminding me of the blooming nasturtiums at home that I will soon be stuffing with goat cheese to share with my beloved. A few last storms are passing through every other week or so to wash the pollen down the street in yellow tides. The blue jays that were so busy feeding themselves and fattening up throughout March are now seeking more nesting materials than food. I am charmed, excited and grateful for the renewal and fertility that I live with and within. It is April.

three n one

2010-03-11T23:31:00.000-08:00

What dare we allow to enter and pass through?

Life and Love—be either, or

Breath and Light.

Through the deepest of darkness, One reaches and peers

To distant starlight, numerous and luminous;

Alive and Clear.

Beside us, inside us, resides the strange and cosmic;

Equivalent depth extends within the individual

Being and Consciousness.

We enter through love or light.

Deepest One peers starlight—luminous clear.

Inside, the cosmic extends individual consciousness.

Through light, peers clear cosmic consciousness.

Water Lilies

2009-09-18T18:23:00.000-07:00

I couldn’t help myself today as tears came to my eyes in a Chicago art museum. I was captivated by the lilies and flowers floating in the light and water of Monet’s mind. I sat on the bench across the room to regain my composure, but wished I had the courage or craziness to just let it all break loose and flood my eyes blind and blurry. I reapproached the painting and read the information posted on the wall beside it. This painting was one of a series of more than eighty. The commentary goes on to explain that at this point in his work, paintings constructed from remembrances were indistinguishable from those painted outdoors in the garden. In capturing the light and color of a lily pond, everything becomes a remembrance in a very short time. I wondered to myself about the importance of such a distinction and what it was I saw in that pond. I sat back down on the bench to lull in the sweet reverie of a painter, a pond of lilies and his imaginings of the garden on that day. My heart softened and opened; the tears came again. I choked them a bit in my throat and searched my heart for the what and why of life that had led me here—a weepy middle-aged lady in a city of strangers surrounded by the visions and creations of Rodin, Degas and Monet. When we let the present moments pass unnoticed, there is nothing to life but remembrance. When we exist in the present, we are offered a chance to live and love deeply. The world is revealed to us as never before, changing and passing like swirling currents above deep water. Remembrance does not enter, but informs as it should from a distance.

A Priestess of Hecate Passes--In Memory of Tara (Meg) Webster

2008-10-19T12:29:00.000-07:00

“There are some who bring a light so great to the world that even after they have gone, the light remains.” A borrowed sentiment from a condolence card, but so fitting for this priestess of Hecate, the torch-bearer. Her light was so pure and great that I had been touched and changed in sharing parts of life in which we by chance had crossed paths and found ourselves working together. I was not sure if I should go to her memorial, for I was a mere acquaintance through mutual friends and I had felt so remiss and pathetic in my failure to somehow form a deeper bond with her. I had always hoped that I could someday tell her how she had unknowingly touched my life… in all those little moments in waiting for dance instructions or for rituals to start… or smiles across a line of dancers encouraging me on… or a knowing look in context of a ritual… a way she had of being present and so genuine that one felt recognized for themselves—all parts inclusive and accepted. Over and over our lives crossed and re-crossed. I knew just a facet of a complex woman. I knew from covenmates and friends, and friends of friends, so many more facets of her. In retrospect I realize that I needed to know who she was and that I was not alone in my sadness and loss. She was no more and I didn’t know what to do with that information which I had set aside since the recent news of her passing.

I was a half-hour late for a four and a half hour memorial. I followed familiar smells of incense up to the third floor library of an Oakland Masonic hall. I had changed my clothes a few times and laid out a few more sets of clothes before I settled on my outfit that day. I was caught in a frustrated Barbie loop for some time, it seemed. It was so uncharacteristic of me to fuss or dress as I had chosen to that day. I wore a very stylish designer black pantsuit usually reserved for academic conferences and formal graduations. I knew more than half of the crowd would be Pagans. I feared I would look like a weirdo relative, a minister, a realtor or facility staff. Still, it seemed imperative to dress according to certain standards of presentation regardless of the distinctly foreign feel and motivation of such an act. When I arrived, I was relieved to see quite a few others in the room dressed in suits and ties or quite elegantly… others who don’t normally dress like that. Then there were bikers in leathers, business casual coworkers from Kaiser, dancers in elegantly comfortable sparkly dresses, Pagans in rich and colorful outfits, and a sizable portion of people dressed in no particular fashion… as if they had walked in off the street and were waiting in a doctor’s waiting room.

The first few hours of the memorial service was story sharing. The room was open for anyone to share their story of Tara. We sat in a big circle. Many of us shared the gift that Tara had left with us—how she changed our life and our being. Some shared songs and poems. Joi, her primary death midwife, led us in a Grateful Dead tune—Ripple. Not so many people knew Tara had been a Deadhead… or that her given name was Mary Margaret. In the final difficult months while Joi stayed with Tara, she described her discovery of the woman she knew as Tara; answering phone calls from people calling to talk to Mary and Meg and Tara, helping Tara to prepare for the various visitors, unable to convince her that pajamas and comfy clothes were acceptable on all occasion for those dying of brain cancer when Tara insisted that standards of attire must be maintained, and Tara’s last outdoor experience of transcendent glee belted into a swing seat with her big brother pushing her. There we all were. People mourning the passing of Mary and Meg and Tara and the duo of Tara and Sam—her husband. Those things are no more as we have known them. After sharing, part of the ceremony was the dissolution of Sam and Tara’s earthly bond of marriage. At this point, a man whom Sam and Tara had joined in marriage to his wife began to wail inconsolably. We had all lost so much. Not just a person, but a place—a hole in the web of life was torn.

I was so happy to learn more of Tara—to see all facets illuminated in one room—us all standing there, sharing, singing, laughing, crying and stunned. One of the biggest surprises was so many people who came and spoke of the same things I did; how they hadn’t made it to her bedside to see her before she died, how they had not gotten as far as they had dreamed in developing a friendship with her, and how she had so profoundly touched their lives. I no longer had any doubt that I belonged there. As it had been with Tara in life--I had a sense of belonging and acceptance. I learned that her presence, her being full of acceptance for others, was a conscious choice, a path of hers in life—that it was her work. She loved being a psychotherapist and she gave and gave and gave of herself generously, spontaneously and genuinely. I learned that she was the consummate girly-girl loving makeup and fine clothes. I no longer was confused or concerned for what I had chose to wear or why. Obviously this is what Tara would have liked to have seen me in and felt to be fitting. I no longer felt angry or sad that she had died so young when I heard of her distaste and alarm for the physical signs of aging. She died young and beautiful. As mourners shared, “She stepped out like a dancer,” “She left a beautiful corpse,” and they talked of how they lovingly bathed and oiled her body and how she lie in state donning her tiara.

The ritual was really brought together by the act of a close friend, a Unitarian minister—one of the first Pagan identified UU seminary students whom Tara had encouraged and worked with. She stood up and read us a poem which reiterated and wove together all the stories; we all felt heard and as one in our experience at that point. The culmination of the ritual for me was the final chant to Hecate. We all drew in and chanted two woven songs—only one of which I chose to stay with… "Hekate, Keeper of the Crossroads. Hekate, Holder of the Flame. Hekate, Wisdom of the Darkness. Guide our way. Guide our way." In this chant, all of what had been added to our ritual ‘stew’ of energy was cooked up and offered to Tara in the best way we knew how. She was truly everywhere in all of us and nowhere anymore. We used song and dance and heart to meet her spirit; to both let it go and welcome it into ourselves and our lives wherever it chooses to enter.

We all were instructed to take something of hers—many of her possessions had been laid out on altars throughout the room. After the ceremony, I had to rush off to make sure a friend got to work on time. I had forgotten to take something. I was sad about that. I recalled looking at a garish bright green frog marionett-like figure with a goofy painted-on floral bikini and long lizard like toe-nails painted sparkly red. My attention would return to the frog over an over… that is the freakiest thing, why can’t I get my attention off of it? I bet that is important to someone. I bet someone wants that frog and will need to have it as a memento of Tara. I wanted the frog, but I had an unexplained ambivalence to actually taking anything of hers from the tables. It seemed too much like a swapmeet to me and I could not bring myself to join in despite the stern command of Joi, the officiant. I feared for negotiations or depriving someone of their most prized sentimental memento of Tara. Upon leaving, we realized all the clocks in the Masonic hall had been incorrect—some slow, some fast. We had a chance to stop for a Chinese meal; neither one of was quite functioning well and we had both missed a meal to come to the memorial. We fed ourselves and I got him home in time for work that night. Before I departed from my friend’s house, he pulled something from his backpack and set it upon an altar in his living room. The bikini-clad frog dangled its segmented wooden legs over the edge displaying those surreal and bizarre toenails. I laughed aloud and told him of my fixation on that frog. He offered it to me, but I declined. Maybe someday, but for now I’m content to visit the frog at his house. I’m charmed enough that it followed me out of the hall.

Thank you Tara—once again—for the gift of your attention and presence. Your life was well-lived and fruitful. Priestess of the torch-bearer, guide to the thresholds, may you walk in beauty as you rejoin the infinite and may your light dance in our hearts always.

Hecate

2008-10-12T05:09:00.000-07:00

Cousin of Artemis, standing at the crossroads.

Your black dog howls and my hair stands on end.

I find myself lost and scared and I need a guide in you. A guide through the dark, through the death, through myself... what stands between me and who I want to become.

A night owl in flight.

What is me and what can I cast off?

A wild mare in fright.

What is love and what is dross?

In nature there is no loss.

Walk with me, beside me, in front of me, behind me, over me, under me, walk within me as protectress and guide. Your virgin sister stands scared and faltering on a path. Meet me in the dark. Meet me in my heart. Your titaness strength and resolve as my own.

Addiction

2008-08-31T18:01:00.000-07:00

Addiction is a perpetual shell game that runs day and night in my life. Just outside the back stage door, a carnie of indeterminate age and gender swirls walnut shells in mesmerizing patterns on a cardboard box podium. Each time the motion stops I lift another shell thinking I will find it there. No. Addiction appears and reappears where one least wants to look… where it will be hardest to root out… where it will always seem to cost so dearly to walk away from. The longer I don't see and the more I nurture and appease the unconscious in preference to objective reality, the deeper the roots will grow for a seed planted in fertile ground. Withdrawal, at times, seems the very sickness one seeks to escape.

Letter to Archbishop Desmond Tutu

2008-05-22T11:04:00.000-07:00

Dear Archbishop Tutu,

I am a volunteer Chaplain in California, U.S.A. I am writing because I read your book, No Future Without Justice, and I want to express my deepest gratitude for what you have shared of yourself and your experience.

I work with people in our state’s prison system. As you may know, the U.S. correctional system imprisons more of its citizens than any other on this planet. My state, California, has one of the largest, per capita, correctional populations and worst prison systems. With our extremely high recidivism rate, our correctional system is clearly not ‘correcting’ anything, or anyone. In fact, it is the primary contributor to a systemic de-humanization of large segments of our population.

I am not Christian, so I do not have the support or equivalent consideration within correctional institutions—in fact, clergy representatives and inmates of many non-Christian religions and beliefs routinely have their most basic personal, civil and constitutional rights violated as a matter of course and in keeping with both published and unspoken state correctional department policies. Myself and others persist because one’s personal spiritual practice is often the only refuge and peace in the face of such hopelessness as prison. I am human and those I work with in prison are humans as well. Each person has a heart where there resides Divine Love and connection to all creation. This I know and this I work from. This Love is the property of no single religion or belief, but the foundation of all.

On good days I am thankful that our country has some semblance of freedom of expression and activism… that I have not been jailed, tortured, or killed for my work and my beliefs. On bad days, I see the bare offensive truths for those stuck in the system, as well as the misguided forces that administer it… foster kids tossed from home to home until they join their mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers in prison… our state’s flawed and corrupted correctional system… a complete and inhumane failure to address serious drug addiction and mental health issues that continue to feed the system. On bad days, I feel hopeless against a large profitable enterprise at work and I worry for my safety—not at the hands of prison inmates, but with prison staff and correctional officers. It is God, Goddess, Love, Truth—the recognition of one’s essential humanity and worth—that keeps me determined and consistently at work in any positive way I can realize. The pain of the work is at times emotionally intolerable, but not doing something about this growing American population is too frightening of a prospect for me to be at peace with.

Your book gave me hope, strength and useful tools to go forth in my work. I don’t imagine someone such as yourself has the time to read these letters and continue to hear the stories of each and every person world-wide. Nonetheless, I absolutely know you have the heart to extend to each person out there working for restorative justice and recovery of humanity in the world, for you have done so in your writing and sharing of your life. I extend my heart to you and your work in gratitude and purpose. Thank you.

Sincerely,

Malendia Maccree

Before

2008-01-21T05:46:00.000-08:00

It used to be different back before all my friends got famous or impossible… or both. There were many whom I shared journeys with. Our paths departed first in the woods and again and again in community politics and affiliations. The paths parted and split and parted and split until I was out here alone, but together within myself. Even those of us alone, must learn and reflect in humanity so I go into the world to learn what I can. My teachers and guides commend me and shower recognition upon me—setting me to a most powerful and trusted position over and over again. From that place, reflection and light are too bent to serve. I am no longer in the world. The world of beauty and disappointment. The world where most all is relative and transient. The world where I am. It is great to do a big thing and tell no one. I am happiest to know the truth within my heart and live from there. That which we do—the action and energy that we influence in the universe is Truth. It speaks for itself.

Born of the Earth

2007-12-26T15:30:00.000-08:00

This year I took on an incredible task--to forge my own magical blade. I was presented with a once in a lifetime opportunity and I was all too happy to seize it. One of my dearest friends teachers and Witches led a small group in the herbalism and metalworking skills we needed to craft an athame in the traditional way which he had learned as a young Witch. Little did I know that signing up to create my own magical blade was to have changed my very being in such a profound way before it was all over. I came right up against the limit of what I thought I could achieve... and I went beyond what my imagination could create. What began in late May with a hike in the woods and a few hard days with a hammer and files, has come complete with a quick sanding of the blade and refashioning of the handle on this winter's day.

To recount the story is a task for me to bite off a little at a time... for now, I will describe the physical attributes and work back from there. The blade is mostly made from iron and carbon. The iron began as half-inch rod. The carbon came from sacred willow charcoal which filled the forge. I had a troublesome knack for placing my metal in the hottest part of the forge. I also went about flattening the bar all wrong. I lost the tip of my blade and had to start all over again with a new iron rod. Once the blade was roughly shaped, additional meteoric iron was forged into the tip of the blade. This meteor brought with it minute amounts of silica. The blade was tempered with magical herbs in spring water. A copper hilt and a walnut handle was attached. The handle split when we were trying to attach the blade. This part of the creation was a sadness for me. I had deferred to my teacher for his expertise, turning over my piece to him. He broke my handle with brutish force. I knew better and I let him do it... believing that he saw (and knew) better than I. Was I too guilty and angry to heed the lesson in this? Perhaps nothing is more satisfying than when we get to break our own stuff? It left me not feeling right about things, but willing to go along and see what would become of my athame.

At Samhain, I consecrated the blade and covered in a special oil consisting of botanical resins, animal essences and herbs. I then hiked out into a Sierra Nevada watershed and found some friendly trees. I buried my blade at the east side of an oak tree until Midwinter (Yule). I returned on a beautiful Winter's day to retrieve my blade. It had seen freezing temperatures, light snow and much much rain. Water had scoured along the edge of the tree, but my blade handle was still tucked in the leaf debris. I found it corroded at the leading edges, but mostly as I had left it. I was very thankful, excited and distracted--I had to remind myself make a proper offering and pay due respect. All was well, but the handle had failed; it was not looking good nor holding the blade any longer. I returned home and sat with this task for a bit.

Do I put more work to save a compromised handle? Am I still angry and disappointed with myself for not having enough confidence to cease control of my work at the right time? I decided that I had to toss the handle and try again. It was odd to struggle as I did with the decision--feeling attached to what I had started and intended for this piece. So far, that has been the lesson of this work. I have a place in the outcome--the final piece--but I do not get to decide how it will be or get attached to any one idea until it is complete. I am a partner to something greater than me (or any other human) in making this tool.

Once I resolved to remake the handle, the energy shifted and I realized that this piece was finally very close to completion. I went out into the garage, found a small saw and proceeded to cut up my old walnut besom--which had failed in March after a boisterous parade and rally with the Besom Brigade. I found a good part of the handle that would accept the blade well and I went to work with my saw and some files. It came together in a few hours... so easy and fast that I didn't have time to even question it all. The handle took up the blade just as I wanted it to and I kept the quartz tip-which was original from the besom.

Blessed Be

What is a warrior?

2007-09-10T20:27:00.000-07:00

My inner warrior self—that’s what our dance teacher was asking me to get in touch with. She was right—it was essential to the dance that we each go there, that we find our warrior self and express that in our dance. The first choreography I had learned with this loose group of women was a cheerful dance with big skirts that we waved about. I am admittedly a more masculine woman than most, but it was still pretty innate—the twirl in your pretty dress thing. I loved it on a superficial girly level, but also because I was rejoicing and thriving in a healing and fortifying community with dancing women.

I’m not a shy warrior and at the outset I was very excited and interested in a warrior dance. I had been part of a martial arts dojo and recognized some of our dance sequences from Kata martial arts exercises… front kick, side kick, back kick. I thought this was no problem until we had to do the entire dance with sticks in our hands. My big pretty skirt was a much more forgiving prop than this 3 foot bamboo stick. The stick was no prop, it was a weapon. It’s considerably harder to put someone’s eye out with your skirt. I was at a loss to handle this damned pole and even more confounded about ‘dancing with weaponry’. How could I get over the violence of thrusting a stick right in my partner's face and the fear of all these sticks flying around like this? How was this a dance? Why was I even hung up on this? That stick became my foe for some time… a warrior at battle with her weaponry. I must be special. That stick betrayed every pause and insecurity—damn that stick! Dances with sticks—this thing was worse than a cane dance. I kept getting hung up on the violence. To add to the challenge I had come into this dance with an injured hand and could not allow the stick to put pressure on a certain part of my palm.

So all the while, as suggested by our teacher and director, I’m wondering what it is that I can direct my warrior energy towards. No doubt such a dance and exercise would develop capacities in me and raise energy in its performance and receipt. Where was I to focus my warrior energy? Whose ass needed kicking? It was pretty much a 'no brainer'—the California Department of Corrections needs an enema. I settled on that colossal foe, since it has become our state’s default plan for mental health and drug addition treatment for select portions of our population. I couldn’t take it down maybe, but I could wound them and get their attention perhaps… me and my bamboo stick out there on that stage. I would fight the fight of fierce compassion—the fight of Tara, Kuan Yin and Mother Mary. But where in all that does it tell me... what do I do with this damned stick!?!

Over the 6 weeks that we learned and practiced our warrior dance, many people in my life got a taste of that warrior energy… mostly my husband. I’m already outspoken and obnoxious, so this just made me overpowering and intent in my manner about some things which meant a great deal to me. Nothing bad happened, but I was ‘different’ and I have been ever since. The pace was very fast for me considering I spent the first half of the classes getting over my stick. I struggled the whole way. I just barely got the choreography by the night of the second and last performance. Only afterward can I laugh at the whole thing—mostly my absurd attitude to begin with. I set out with a lot of arrogance and readied to meet my foe as warrior woman. What I found was that I had to work so hard and stretch so far out to what I wasn’t even sure I could accomplish—the focus or foe in the whole mental construct began to loose prominence. My goal then became to survive the experience and to somehow be stronger for it. I learned where to focus the force and will of my warrior self, but more importantly for me--how much needs be directed out and how much is best kept for myself as a fortress to meet the unknown and the difficult personal limitations, circumstances and entities I may encounter. It was a struggle. No one ever got hurt with a stick throughout all of this, but we had our moments collectively and individually. Getting the steps correct is a different experience than being changed by those steps and bringing that into one’s movement and expression. This dance--this awakening and refining of my warrior self--was a transformative experience that I will long benefit and grow from.

I still relish the finale of that dance as I came at the audience fiercely kicking and charging forward blocking any blows with my pole firmly and confidently braced in my palms. Fierce warrior cries came up from the depths of my being…

“Look you all!!! I learned this dance!!!”

“You see! My body, mind and will are stronger now!”

“You cannot get in the way of what I will accomplish!”

“Look out! Here I come!”

Thanks Pam

It's been a while...

2007-07-26T02:01:00.000-07:00

It's hard to imagine that it was last October when I last posted here. So much has happened since then. I write a lot, but not here.
I've just returned from a long road trip--1600 miles to go see family in the Northwest. I didn't get the peace I had hoped for in the woods, but the interstate serves like a dynamic moving mandala for my meditation.

Mama Poma

2006-10-26T19:18:00.001-07:00

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

2006-10-11T01:17:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-08T07:41:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-25T20:07:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-22T21:05:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-22T20:54:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-12T13:37:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-30T15:47:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-24T00:26:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-07T22:10:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-01T14:40:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-01T14:36:00.000-08:00

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

Autumn sunshine

2005-10-23T14:47:00.000-07:00

Some photos from the Kitchen.

Harvest 2005
The orchid currently blooming on the kitchen table along with recently adopted local pumpkin (Thanks to UCD Plant Sciences) and a local heirloom tomato.
In the Kitchen window, all the houseplants are blooming.
A family photo: The whole gang, newly repositioned for the lowering autumn sun. Most of then have flower spikes at this point--stay tuned.

On beauty

2005-06-06T19:26:00.000-07:00

To the women and men who glare and react—that I have walked on the scene, a total unknown, and nabbed the finest man in the room. To the men who moon at me and tell me I’m beautiful even when I have dog shit in my hands. To my mother, who equates the failure to shave one’s legs and properly apply make-up with a bout of major depression. To all the men and women who harassed me and belittled me for being a frightened overweight teenager or manipulated me as a dumpy co-ed.

Let me set the record straight here.

Had I not survived some very unattractive school years and strutted the stage as a fabulous showgirl in the same lifetime, I might have never known what it is. What makes one truly attractive—the light that one holds up above age, beauty and all reason to tell the world, "I am my own and it is good". I am still the big-legged, squinty-eyed runtish girl that has no table manners, curses like a sailor, and drinks too much from time to time. It is me and me is beautiful or not depending on whom you ask and when and where. What is ‘Me’ will change tomorrow and will be beautiful or not beautiful as well. Despite what they sell us… beauty is not where it’s at. The pursuit of beauty is a wicked farce—a venomous ghost of a demon out to fuck us all the wrong way. Women mutilating their bodies and painting this and that in hopes of rising a notch on the fantasy bedpost. Men who scramble at fast cars and hair transplants in their 40’s with the vain hopes of ‘trading up’. Lured in by the image of beauty, a mere phantom—a dream at best, over and over… only to be judged and continually rejected when the elusive ideal slips through ones hands or is re-defined once in their very grasp!

Joy, birth, death, orgasm, peace, love, lust, anger… anything can be beautiful when it is whole and of itself. But what is beauty for the sake of itself? A garment to place over something special? A figment to hold up to the light? A breed standard for symmetry and proper shading that is yet unseen in the living mammal, perhaps? Like attracts like; joy begets joy and one pain will usually find it’s increase in another. To be brave enough to be oneself and to love that self unconditionally—that speaks to the heart of others and draws the same from them. That is how to draw the finest people in life to oneself—beauty has nothing to do with it. Reality has everything to do with it.

The last days of corporate science

2005-06-06T12:49:00.000-07:00

Hopefully for me, these are the last days of corporate science. This Friday is my last day here. I have learned much about myself, science, and scientists during this grand experiment, so I thought I'd share some of my insights.

Since leaving college in the early 90's I have mainly worked in government labs focused on Agricultural research. After a brief negative experience on the east coast, I landed a great job in CA and I was pretty content. Ah, who am I kidding, I loved it! I worked on Potatoes and my job afforded me great opportunity for development and learning in my career. The only thing my wonderful job was lacking was competitive pay.

A few years back we had the bright idea of moving down to Southern California--to my home town, San Diego. There was no government research and very little non-profit agricultural research, so it was apparent I would have to shift my career a bit. I landed a job with a company which makes tools for laboratory scientists. Right off, I was making 10K more a year and raking in several thousand more in stocks and bonuses each year. Gee, I thought to myself, this is cool. I bought a car, some new clothes, and I ate out and traveled a lot... all the luxuries I had been lacking as a government scientist.

During my first year at the company, the CEO and founder left. In came executives and engineers from a subdivision of a well-known corporate giant to run things. What became of the company is too hideous to recount here and I fear I'd be facing lawyers if I was as honest as I'd like to be about the whole mess. Basically, the employees are unhappy and leaving in droves, manufacturing is foundering and products are often on back order. Meanwhile the company continues to acquire smaller companies, the stock prices goes up and up; thus, the exes consider themselves greatly successful and continue to get salary increases and huge bonuses. I'm just happy to be leaving and my co-workers are all cheering for me. Since the big change-over, most everyone I've worked with has left. Those that stay are the ones that haven't found a better opportunity or are simply stuck financially or geographically. This was a different company when I hired in, but I should have seen the handwriting on the wall and known it couldn't last.

Here I go back to government science--in fact, right back to my former position and pay grade.

What have I learned in all of this?
1. Waking up in the morning and feeling good about going to work is priceless to me... and necessary for my well-being and continued employment.
2. I want to do research that discovers truth, makes the world a better place, and is not for profit.
3. For-profit science is driven by product development, marketing, and stockholders.
4. Product development, marketing, and stockholders do not serve truth or scientific discovery, only money.
5. Corporations are less likely than government labs to provide for training and development of their employees or to be concerned for employee morale and local community interaction.
6. Corporations are more likely than government to tolerate (and sometimes encourage) executive and managerial bullying, religious proselytizing, sexual harassment, and zero-sum (exclusive and competitive) awards and advancement.

What I have found here in corporate science is that I am obliged to accept money in lieu of career development, personal job satisfaction, and my scientific ethics. There are those who can say they are happy here... maybe they are the same people who are content with shiny new cars and million dollar homes. Had I not worked so long in 'real' science, I never would have known what I was missing here in corporate hell. I despair for new graduates who don't know the difference and fall into this money pit.

Throughout my time in government labs I continually bore the brunt of all the assumptions about government scientists being kooks and lacky's. Now I know the truth. Granted, the security of government work can make a lazy, dull scientist. However, that same security also yields scientists who stick to their principles and research vision and boldly explore the unknown without fear of losing their livelihood. Government scientists may be the lacky's of science, but corporate scientists are the whores.

mmm

Malendia

2005-05-27T18:56:00.000-07:00

It's a start

2005-05-27T11:51:00.000-07:00

Hello out there!
I've got too much to say and friends are tired of those long emails. Of course, the same folks miss them when I let up on the writing, so here I am a'blogging.
Stay tuned for more!
Blessings,
malendia