a world made of eyes

oh grandmother,

first of all, a thank you, for the rains have come again,

small green shoots finding their way back to the light through softened earth.

Are those some of your tears at our insanity that softened the dry ground enough for life to come jumping up again? Some days that’s the only way to make sense of what is going on around us. Most days there’s no way to make sense of it at all—not if that depends upon human’s adhering to sensible ways.

How did it get to this point?

How did we get so lost, so far from a simple sensible way of being?

My mind seethes in circles with no where to land, no clear place to rest in a knowing of how to be, what to feel, where to begin again.

Just this strange spinning, seething, aching—afraid even to hope.

Hope doesn’t feel safe anymore.

What feels safe is crossed arms and an unwillingness to trust anyone—and of course that doesn’t really feel safe either, just a little less vulnerable and so so sad.

I don’t know where my words have gone—sucked up into a vacuum of my own fleeing.

I come and go, I do my best to answer your call, to follow your instructions, to craft my life into a response to your generous riddles.

But I am lost in these woods too, these days.

Turning birdsong and patterns of growth and decay into some sort of guidance,e some sort of map.

The territory refuses mapping these days.

Again and again I am washed in the mystery, I am on my knees searching for clues in the dirt until I realize it’s all clues, nothing but clues…

and so I stay on my knees and douse those clues with the only salty water I have, in some hope they might begin sprouting into a story whose curves I can rest in, for a moment, and find my way.

Of course, i hear, no way is mine.

None belong to me.

The hope, if i dare because i must, somehow, still, hope, is that a way might arise that I could belong to, that could hold me like a home built long ago by those who dreamt of my face.

And the dirt tells me that to belong to a story, I must begin telling it myself, carefully, while simultaneously listening to it being told to me, from somewhere else, inside the trees.

In order to belong to a story, I must learn to sing in a tongue older than forgetting, older than the place where my name became a sin.

I taste ash in my mouth and want so much to hide—somewhere, anywhere…

but the forest just laughs at me—

And where child would you propose to hide in a world made of eyes?

In a world built from your hiding?

If you want to belong to a story you must remain in the last place that speaks to you and begin a telling.

And so I stay on my knees

and begin—

        “once upon a time, there was a girl

            who was not a girl…

        trying to remember

            in a world made of forgetting…”

Solstice Transmission

This transmission came through during a Solstice Ritual using traditional oracular rites. I was blindfolded, anointed with blue lotus oil, and guided into a deep state of recall while sacred resins burned. What follows is an exact transcription of my oral transmission:


This time, this time is the time of no time, this time is the time of all time.

This time is the time to examine your relationship to time. Notice how you assume time passes and notice how time actually passes. Notice that time moves in everything but lines. Notice that time is sentient and needs food. You can feed time and be fed.This time this time is the time of all time this time is the time of no time.

Pay attention. 
Pay attention to the details that would escape what you have been conditioned to believe to be significant. What is small and goes unnoticed is the key to the transformation. 
Allow yourself to question. Insist that you question. Do not accept everything you are told. Do not accept blindly anything that you are told. Ask questions and have the fortitude and the curiosity and the love to follow those questions thru to where they would lead you. Allow your questions to be your greatest teachers. The world in all its vast and intricate details is the answer. Pay attention.

Learn all that you can about the world around you. Learn the names and the stories and the ways that the teachers travel. The rooted teachers, the four legged teachers, the winged teachers, the tall tall slow moving teachers, learn their names, learn their stories, learn their medicine, learn what they have to feed you and learn what you have to feed them.

Do not ignore the subtle nuances of the hesitations and the doubts that live inside you, those also are your teachers and must be fed and honored in order to be moved thru. 
Moving slower and accomplishing more. 
Do not be afraid to admit your shortcomings in order to feed them, in order to feed them into something that is beautiful and full.

The vulnerability is the strength, follow the paradox into its own becoming.

We are children of the plants, we are children of the animals, we are children of the stars, we are children of each other's imaginations. 
Be its fierce protector. Be wild and free in the motions of your mind, be wild and free in the motions of your heart. Do not accept conditioning. You are stronger than conditioning. You are stronger than anything that they would tell you, that they would feed you about what you are not capable of, about what is not practical, about what does not work. We, together, are shining brighter than that shadowy vague knot-tied-up-tangled-up reality, we are so much stronger than that. And it is the free wild expression of our imaginations from a place of love and service where we will truly truly come together and rise above that conditioning and create something so much stronger and so much more beautiful.

The masters and the mentors of the imagination are the children. Allow them to teach you. Allow them to lead the way. They know. Fiercely protect their imaginations. 
Give them space to imagine the world that will save us from ourselves.

Look into the lines of your hands, look into the lines of your blood, learn the songs of your blood, learn the languages of your blood, learn the secret mysterious stories and riddles of where you come from. Learn to feed those places. Learn to sing those songs. Look deep inside and learn to love where you come from. Learn to honor where you come from. Let it guide you. Let it lead you. We are not trying to recreate old ways, we are simply trying to honor what has come before, those who knew more then ourselves. And to jump back alive into a time when we lived from a place of being madly in love with the earth.

Let yourself love. Allow the warmth of the returning sun to melt any resistance that you have to letting yourself love. Let the warmth of the sun as it returns melt any hurt, any wounds, any trauma, that would surround your heart, anything that gets in the way of you shining and moving and acting from a place of pure unconditional love for life and all that makes life live.

Let it be so.

Reclaim the Witch


The following was co-written by me and Bianca Casady about her collaborative book project that I was honored to participate in called Girls Against God.

Father-Time is no longer ticking. The stories of the blue-eyed-god are fading like my jeans, though let us not overlook the deep hold these miss-told stories have had on the formation of our (un)consciousness. We, women, no longer fit into the universal "he"man way of describing the universe. We are destroying the chronological clocks of father time and uncovering the cyclical book-burnt wisdoms of our foresisters. Reclaim the witch! In researching and celebrating the witch we are reconnected with our own healing instincts, both psycho-spiritually and medicinally in sympathetic relation to the earth. 

    Looking out across the landscape of this space time moment, we see the ash piles and toxic hoards of the uninitiated masculine running roughshod across Her body, and we see this reflected in the mirrors of our own over-commodified, under-valued forms. Alive inside a female body, initiation is unavoidable -- coming thru us carried upon a red tide of lunacy, and so together we dive deep into that fertile miasma that has been scalpel-scarred, perfume-masked and undermined. Following the blood vein maps hidden beneath whatever can be stolen or mocked, this vitality waits, dreaming of this day, when we once again approach the edges of Her starry robe with a reverence borne within our own wild blood and winding up at the place where She still sits, spinning a tale almost forgotten yet alive and pulsing with song.

    Spinsters, gather the dewy and the dizzy tales, which have been ripped from the sacred loom. Our inner weaving rooms, dismantled and re-adorned with the bloody sacrifice of our mothers and her daughters and sons, crosses dripping with the posse-crazed venom of hungry souls. The pope, the scholar, the cop, the doctor, the mayor, the soldier, these are not our protectors nor our teachers. The ongoing witchcraze of female hate has mutated into seemingly milder forms of spiritual maiming, sexual abuse and disqualification . We musn't look to father-thought for forgiveness nor for guidance, we mustn't look to broken mothers who stand weary on mutilated feet. Re-membering ourselves as rooted in the earth, re-membering our shattered wombs, re-membering our ancient songs, re-member. 

    Her limbs torn asunder, Her open pit mine womb, the privatized passages into Her organs, all could still be re-membered and are, as Spinsters by choice, we gather and begin to weave our tales from the detritus of a dying world. We dance barefoot and bloody by the funeral pyre and let no man attempt to make us its fuel. Our time is now. And this now never ends. This now unfolds in every direction, casting spiral pathways upon right-angled roads, turning clocks into cauldrons and crosses into a sacred grove, where each tree is a rune letter in an organic inscription that holds a possible answer to each of your questions. 


To purchase a copy of Girls Against God, visit www.becapricious.com