Unfinished Business (II).

I mentioned in my last post how this one was going to go down. I’ve had thirty-six hours to ponder, rage, rant, cry, hurt, bemoan, angst, and just generally fall through the full array of emotions this experience has caused. However, yesterday, as much as all I wanted to do was sit at home all day and whine about things, I had to go to work. And I took the tedious boring moments in between phone calls to figure out what the next step was. I could be a complete bitch and say everything that I’ve wanted to say about certain [personal] issues between me and this friend of mine. It would have been… ugly, suffice to say. Or, I could think of a way to just side-step all of this and move on with my life. As many tears as I’ve shed over the fact that my childhood best friend seems to think of me as an evil, curse-wielding embarrassment, I figure it’s time to go for the high road in this. And like Dr. Sheldon Cooper, I certainly do like the sound of being the Bigger Man.

I will admit that this is difficult for me. One of the things that both Devo and Helms have tried to get into my head is the “two response rule.” This is a way to conserve “spoons.” In effect, it means that expending your precious energy on things such as Internet fights and real-life fights may not be in your best interest. You’re sending all of this into the universe, even if it is over the Internet, and you will never get that wasted energy back. No three-fold law here or karma here; it comes down to wasting your time, energy, thoughts, and heka on events that you probably cannot or will not change. I’m no orator here, people. I’m not Martin Luther King, Jr who can inspire with pizzazz and moving oratory. I can’t change people’s opinions. I can only offer what I see, what I feel, what I think and be done with it. And if I can’t do that within two responses, well.

And I’ve done more than have two responses here, both what is apparent from my last post, as well as mini-snipes via Facebook messages.

My first step in taking the High Road was to delete the message conversation we had been having. I didn’t even read most of what was placed after the first message that I commented on in my last post. I saw snippets. And while those snippets are still very much drilled into my mind, and will be fodder for future blog entries, they weren’t worth the time to respond to. As much as I wanted to say X, Y, and Z to her about support and the whole enchilada, I just couldn’t bring myself to go there. Where I was heading was that dark place. I tend to associate it with the place that the Reverend Mothers from Dune and its subsequent books cannot look. It is a place that only a man can go in the books. In all reality, I can definitely go there. It’s not a place for just men or just women; anyone can go there. But it was a dangerous, dark, angry place that would have only been me lashing out in an effort to make her cry as much as I’ve been doing. So, the safest and first step was to merely delete the messages without further responses.

I’ll admit that I dithered back and forth on this particular course of action. I thought that maybe I could save them somewhere and go back later, but I think no matter what, I would always get angry enough to last out at her in a very painful and vile manner. Even if it’s years down the road, I know things and have felt things and she knows things and has felt things that makes it easiest for the two of us to hurt each other, to the quick, with no foreplay. It’s not in anyone’s best interest in this situation to do that, so I deleted the messages and will just hope that I’m making the right steps here.

The next step was to think over what this all means. I guess you could say that I’m big on signs and symbols. I tend to view major events in my life – of which this is a big one – and try to figure out where this is all going. I think that’s a pretty human trait, in all honesty. I think it’s something that every human being tries to do: connect the dots to see what the fuck this whole shebang is doing and why the fuck it is doing it. I’m nearly positive there are lessons here.

Let’s talk about those lessons.

1. This is more of a personal lesson and it aggravates me. This whole argument and some of the things she’s said to me have made me realize that people still think I’m the asshole-bitch-cunt from high school. Since our discussions have been limited to online or piss-poor telephone conversations, neither she nor anyone else seems to realize that I’m not the person who will make a Lumber Jack cry anymore. Sure, I can do it and I will go to that place if my friends need me. However, I’m not the person that she thinks I am. She still sees me in the “gives no fucks” attitude that I had in high school. Let’s be honest, though. A lot of people had that attitude in high school and the subsequent years because of the hell and horror they went through during those formative years. Yes, I have my moments where I put on my “gives no fucks” slicker, galoshes, and gloves and go trompin’ around, busily not giving a fuck.

Nope. Not a one.

Nope. Not a one.

But, I’m not that person anymore. I do give a fuck – a series of fucks even – about things. People tend to see how I reacted and behaved in high school and think that the intervening years haven’t made a single change to who I am. That’s really not how it works. Lessons have been learned and things have changed. Just because I can cut someone out of my life for the preservation of myself doesn’t mean that I don’t care. It doesn’t mean that I can’t hurt because of this. I’ve had moments where I have cried myself stupid for some of the things I used to do and I have had moments where I’ve cried myself stupid over some of the things I’ve felt the need to do to save who I am, my soul, my life, my everything. Just because someone can doesn’t mean that they do it easily. Unfortunately, she won’t see it as that. She’ll see it as me being a bitch and the same asshole-bitch-cunt I want in high school.

2. There were a lot of misconceptions and misunderstandings in her commentary about what I practice. At first, I just figured, “Well, she’s not actually paying attention to what the fuck I’m writing.” However, in league with this post by Zenith, I’m beginning to think that it’s not just her fault she doesn’t understand what I do. I’ve been thinking that I need to write more in my On-Going Path Project stub up there. It’s out-of-date and you know, it doesn’t really say anything. But this is one of those things that is supremely difficult for me. I’ll get into why in a different post, all its own, but I think it’s about time I set up a clear explanation of what I do so that there can be no more miscommunications, innuendos, or misunderstandings.

3. This has made me realize how much faith I’ve built into my practice. I talk about faith a lot here and having it. And this has made me realize that I really fucking do have it, even if I’m on a doubt trip. While losing a best friend twenty-years strong is a different matter all together, I also realize that I am okay with it. Not because I won’t miss her. Not because I won’t cry. Not because this doesn’t hurt like a fucking bitch. All of those things are true. However, as time has gone by and I’ve felt and learned and seen, I realize that I truly do believe that my friend and I have lived so many lives together. I told her once that I believe when one of us dies, the other soul waits around in wherever-land to plot out the next life together. While all of this hurts in the here and now, it doesn’t hurt nearly as badly as I thought it would – tears be damned – because I know that there is always the next life to get whatever we fucked up in this one right. I’m not overly worried that we messed up here because there’s always the time after that and the time after that and the time after that.

This is actually one of those moments where I’m surprised at myself, actually. I’ve always talked about how I have “a lot of faith” or how I am a “very religious person.” This, to me, feels like a kind of vindication or proof positive that this is the case. Just because I say something or write about it doesn’t necessarily mean I believe it at the time. But… I guess I do.

4. I do believe that interfaith relations are a very important thing. Too often, I see things lambasting pagans and pagan practitioners for things that are half-truths or out-and-out lies. But, I think I’m also beginning to realize that it may not always be possible. I’ve always been of the mind that acceptance between the faiths is possible. But, I don’t think it is anymore. If a twenty-year friendship isn’t enough to keep the two of us from fighting like cats and dogs, then what else could possibly ease the process? I don’t really think there is anything. She was too afraid to say what she was thinking and feeling because of a fear of losing me. And I was too worried about embarrassing her in front of her Christian friends to actually say anything big and meaningful in some of her darker, more painful, lacking-faith posts on Facebook. If fear and anxiety can get in the way of our friendship, then maybe it doesn’t really matter how much we loved each other once. Maybe none of that matters.

Maybe it just isn’t possible to keep up friendly relations with people of other faiths.

And I think that’s one of the larger lessons I’m having here. I try very hard to maintain an open-ended conversation and policy when it comes to other people’s religions. However, too often, people will take their religion to a very negative, angry place and they will use that backlash to shame and victimize people who don’t practice the same thing. I see it all the time just in the pagan community. At large, I tend to ignore what the Christian community is doing to us, but I know it’s out there. Occasionally, I stumble on an article that makes me angry and upset that I have a religion that isn’t popular and so, therefore, no one but myself will or can speak up for me if I feel like I’m being shamed and victimized by someone from a popular religious practice.

I think, too, that this is a precursor of what I can expect. Christmas, after all, is just around the corner… and my mother’s hardcore Catholic family are all friends with me on Facebook. So, I think this is a kind of preparation of sorts for a possible show-down between myself and the matriarch of the family. I think it’s possible that this happened now so that I can better prepare myself. I’m not really sure how I can prepare myself if it’s necessary, but I think that’s part of this whole shebang right now. That I have to be prepared that I may have to take the high road again and again and again, if only to prove that I’m not the asshole everyone seems to think I am.

5. Above all, this entire drama diorama has made me realize how very important my religion is to me. It goes hand-in-hand with lesson number three, but it also merits its own place. I have faith in what I believe, so I think that gives me a solid and firm foundation. But I also realize how very religious I have… become in the last year or so. I’ve been worrying a lot lately that by going back to work, I’d become the same materialistic jerkface that I was when I worked for my last job. But, I think I’ve come to the realization that my religion has become so much an integral part to who I am that, no matter what job I’m working, it will always be there.

And it’s more important to maintain its integrity and the Djed pillar it is in my life than to keep hiding myself behind the fear and anxiety I get whenever I debate trying to talk with my friend. My religious is part and parcel to who I am. It’s helped me deal with a lot of the traumas that I’ve been through over the years. It has given me a place to belong. It has given me the strength to stand up and say, “This is who I am and you either take it or you leave it.” It has given me a wonderful online community of support and friendship. My religion has sewn me up, Frankenstein-style, so that I am a mostly whole, functional adult.

And I won’t sacrifice that.

For anyone.

Unfinished Business (I).

I got into a fight with my Christian best friend after my last post. It’s not lost on me that she took offense to what I was saying and that the people who replied and liked were all of a pagan background in some form or another. The thing is that when I talked with my mother about the instance of our argument later, she said to me, “I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.” And that’s when I began to wonder just how completely incompatible our lives have become. It isn’t so much just because of the distance and the fact that we are no longer the Giggle Girls from our teenage era, but also because of the religious stances we both have, of which are completely different. Initially, I was going to write this post and be angry – and you can expect that there will be some very snarky, snotty, swearing comments – but now I think it’s going to be a mixture of various volatile emotions.

Just to figure things out, I started doing research about her church. I decided not to leave a link to the church in question because, really, that’s an asshole move and it doesn’t really explain much. I will point out that the basic tenet of the church appears to be the fulfillment of Acts 1:8. “But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” (New International Version.)

I was thinking that maybe there was something more than just the Baptist veneer here, but I’m not really seeing anything except perhaps a more vocal need for evangelism. Then, I realized that in my haste to hope that this was just a miscommunication thing that I clicked the wrong link. I was looking for general Baptist associations with her church. What I wanted her to be affiliated with was the Baptist World Alliance. But if I’m reading everything on the website that her particular church is affiliated with, the church she belongs to is part of the Southern Baptists of Texas Convention,, which is related to the Southern Baptist Convention. After learning all of these very fun and alarming facts, I’ve come to the conclusion that our disagreement isn’t a miscommunication in as much as a complete and utter break down in opposing religious identities.

Well.

Fuck.

Here is what started all of this.

Reference your thoughts on prayers blog post:
What makes you think that just because I posted a comment on Facebook about praying about getting my car paid that I don’t pray to God all day everyday about things in my life both good and bad? And why is it that you can’t seem to talk about your gods with out demeaning someone else’s God or beliefs, or the way they pray, or anything else that isn’t whatever you want it to be? You pick and choose what you want to believe in this life, and when something about your gods or your religion doesn’t suit you, you just change it to whatever does. I’m sorry that your so angry with God over your fathers death. But it does grieve Him when we are hurting, and our problems no matter how big or small are important to Him. It doesn’t matter how far you go from Him he’ll always be there. Forgive me if I’m confused but you say you don’t care what other people believe, as long as they have faith, and you talk about tolerance and all these things that sound so great, but then cry about everyone who is “doing it wrong” and complain about how stupid kids on tumblr are, and post blog after blog demeaning everything, every God and every person who isn’t or doesn’t think like you. No one does it right in this world that’s why God gave His son, so that through Him we can reconcile with God. Jesus wasn’t merely human either, He was also fully devine. I’m just saying. I don’t understand how you can believe the things you do, but not believe in God. I don’t understand why you are always attacking Christianity. Yes people have done horrible things and started wars in His name but those people were wrong. Just as every person that walks on this Earth makes mistakes, bad choices, sin, whatever you want to call it. I’m no different, neither are you. I love you to death and never say anything for fear of losing your friendship, but why? Why should I continue to fear losing your friendship? You voice your opinions and rants all over the Internet and don’t care. You want all these people to follow you and hang on every word you say and if they don’t you just cut them off. So if I’m going to be cut off, then it is what it is. Probably happen eventually anyway so I might as well just say what I think. Believe in whatever you want, but stop demeaning others who do believe in God. Stop demeaning those who don’t believe what you do or practice religion the way you do, because we are all the same.

So, to be completely frank, I was pretty excited when I read, What makes you think that just because I posted a comment on Facebook about praying about getting my car paid that I don’t pray to God all day everyday about things in my life both good and bad? I thought that we could have an adult conversation about perceptions being 9/10s of Internet law. I thought that we could have a rollicking good time. Then, I saw the length of her commentary and was just like, “Well, there goes that idea.” I thought, “We can talk about things!” And I could explain to her that since she doesn’t make mention of the fact that she told her god about her fantastically fucking awesome cookies, I can only assume that she goes the negative way. And that since a lot of her posts recently on Facebook have been about doubt and loss and fear and being a bad Christian all the time, I had to assume that things were just, you know, bad and that her prayers were, you know, to effect change on those bad situations. But, as anyone who has read her snippet can tell me, yeah. That conversation didn’t happen.

Unfortunately when she went on to say, And why is it that you can’t seem to talk about your gods with out demeaning someone else’s God or beliefs, or the way they pray, or anything else that isn’t whatever you want it to be? I realized that she only actually read the entries in which I explained why I had issues with Christianity. I should have already been given that little factoid anyway. In looking back, any comments she has made regarding my religious blog, this blog, has been about how she’s sorry that my experiences with the Christian deity seem so negative and angry. That’s fine. Just to be sure I wasn’t completely off my rocker here, I’ve found that she has commented thirteen times. Not all of the posts she’s commented on were remarks upon my experiences with the Christian god. But, thirteen… and I have 390 published posts. So she has made comments on point-zero-three percent of the posts… so I have to assume that she skims, if she reads at all, and so therefore doesn’t actually take away any of the content I discuss.

You pick and choose what you want to believe in this life, and when something about your gods or your religion doesn’t suit you, you just change it to whatever does. While she started to make sense here, it stopped when she got to the point where there were changes to my religious stances when things “don’t suit.” The only changes I’ve made have been in regards to what the soul is, by ancient Egyptian standards, and in working with the lwa and having to figure out exactly what Bondye is in my practice and where it belongs. Accusing me of something about my theology that is based on a completely incorrect assumption? Also a pretty good indicator that she doesn’t read my blog posts.

I’m sorry that your so angry with God over your fathers death. But it does grieve Him when we are hurting, and our problems no matter how big or small are important to Him. It doesn’t matter how far you go from Him he’ll always be there. Again, yet another indication that she doesn’t read my posts. I never once said that I was currently angry with the Christian deity for my father’s death. On this blog and in my personal one, I have commented that I am angry WITH MY FATHER for dying. I don’t blame it on anyone but my father’s poor choice making skills. I said in my previous post that after praying, as a kid, to have my dad given a Phoenix Down by the Christian deity, and that not happening, I gave up on praying because I didn’t want anything else. PERIOD.

Forgive me if I’m confused but you say you don’t care what other people believe, as long as they have faith, and you talk about tolerance and all these things that sound so great, yes. I do. I have repeatedly. I have even said I’m not great at it, but I’ve said, you know, whatever floats your religious boat. but then cry about everyone who is “doing it wrong” I believe this is actually a direct reference to the statement I made, “That’s just not how this works, as far as I am concerned.” That was from my last post, direct quote there. That wasn’t me telling anybody, “You’re doing it wrong,” but explaining that whiling away your time, praying about how you want good shit to replace the bad shit, seems wrong to me. The words, “as far as I am concerned,” refer to how I work, how I practice, and how this just doesn’t seem like it’s right. It’s funny how people who write blog posts utilize the information they’ve gathered from their experiences. In no way did I ever say, “MOTHER FUCKER, STOP FUCKING WHINING AND TALK ABOUT HOW YOU KNITTED A SCARF TO YOUR GOD.” I’ll suggest you do that; I’ll tell you that I do shit like that and that it works out well, in my experience. But, I don’t order people in what they believe.

And to the next part of that massively run-on sentence, complain about how stupid kids on tumblr are, and post blog after blog demeaning everything. That’s actually conflating two separate blogs together. I have a personal blog, in which I only go there to vent and get out my angst. I have had that blog since August of last year and I have posted a sum total of 150 times. And yes, most to all of it is me being very negative. Why is that? I have to let it out somehow, right? Otherwise it just kind of eats at you or some shit? Yeah; amazing that.

No one does it right in this world that’s why God gave His son, so that through Him we can reconcile with God. Jesus wasn’t merely human either, He was also fully devine. I’m just saying. I don’t understand how you can believe the things you do, but not believe in God. Okay. That’s your opinion. I’m glad you have one about that kind of stuff. I don’t, like, at all. Your divinity doesn’t have anything to do with me except that we worked together, once, when I was a kid. I don’t really understand what my beliefs have to do with it. In fact, it feels to me that you don’t really know what my beliefs are. I suggest checking out a basic ancient Egyptian religion book and getting your reading on. You may finally get it.

I don’t understand why you are always attacking Christianity. Yes people have done horrible things and started wars in His name but those people were wrong. Just as every person that walks on this Earth makes mistakes, bad choices, sin, whatever you want to call it. I went back through my post. I never attacked Christianity. I never said, “Hey, you shouldn’t be a Christian because that’s just wrong.” I never said anything except discussed how it was FOR ME when I was a Christian. It didn’t fucking work out; what’s the big deal? How many relationships were you in before you got married? Just because you find a religion doesn’t necessarily mean you have to keep it, just like all those ex-boyfriends.

I love you to death and never say anything for fear of losing your friendship, but why? Why should I continue to fear losing your friendship? I don’t see a damn word about how I feel about you being a southern fucking Baptist with conservative-fundamentalist backgrounds. But, you know, it’s not for fear of losing your friendship. I know we’ll meet again in the next life and learn the lesson we probably didn’t learn in this one. Will it hurt? Yeah. Does it suck that you have drawn a line? Yep. But, I can live with that. My religion is my life, kid. I eat it, breathe it, sleep it, dream it, live it. And I bet you feel the same about yours. *shrug* Oh, well. A twenty-year friendship is an impressive thing but not enough to sacrifice my ideals or for you to think that I demand the same of you.

You voice your opinions and rants all over the Internet and don’t care. Actually, I do care. This is another indication that you just don’t read what the fuck I write. I have said repeatedly, “This is what I think, I could change my mind later; inform me of your thoughts.” I’ve made major revisions to personal beliefs and liturgy at the behest of numerous comments about something I’ve posted. I’ve cried and bled for this religious path. I’ve cried and bled because of this blog. I do fucking care. I care all over the fucking place and you’re accusing me otherwise? Why not just pour lemon juice on that paper cut you just created across my fucking face?

You want all these people to follow you and hang on every word you say and if they don’t you just cut them off. You got that right! I’m a fucking Leo! I want everyone to stroke my damn ego and enjoy what the fuck I write. The thing is that, you know, it’s not just that I want them to hang off of my every word. I want to teach; I want to explain; I want to be someone that someone turns to if they have a question. While part of that is because, you know, ego… it’s also because it feels fucking good to help others. I’m sorry if you think me so selfish, but I’m really fucking not. Also, aside from no longer following blogs due to a blow out that happened in May of this year, I have never once cut off a person. I really don’t think you know me, at all. Just because I can stop talking to a person doesn’t mean that I do it lightly.

Believe in whatever you want, but stop demeaning others who do believe in God. Stop demeaning those who don’t believe what you do or practice religion the way you do, because we are all the same. If you found my experiences with your god demeaning, then I’m sorry for your perception. But again, we come back to that being 9/10s of Internet law. You obviously don’t understand what the fuck I’m talking about because you have a great relationship with your god. FANTASTIC FOR YOU. BULLY FOR YOU. GET A COOKIE OUT OF THE JAR. It’s not that way with everyone. And yeah, some of us have had really fucked up experiences with the fucking Christian deity.

Guess what, honey? PEOPLE EMOTE AND DISCUSS THEIR EXPERIENCES WITHOUT DEMEANING EVERYONE.

With this whole fucking commentary, I’ll admit, readers, that I suddenly became acutely fucking aware that it is possible for a cisgender, white girl to fucking experience what PoC and LGBTQ people call “privilege.” Because by discussing my fucking experiences, that meant that I was demeaning her and her god. WAY TO GO ON MAKING HEADWAY WITH INTER-FAITH RELATIONS.

(Stay tuned for part two where you see the initial comments I made to this message and the response I received back!)

All Our Times Have Come…

Note: The song I chose for this particular entry is in my head and on my playlist frequently. It has little to do with the person in question as I consider this song belonging to my son and I. But, I felt the lyrics were really appropriate.

I woke up this morning with the telltale fatigue I’ve come to associate with working in the astral. I get this feeling about two to three times a week right now. I don’t question whatever it is my soul aspects are about in the astral, although I occasionally do wonder what it must be like over there as well as what kind of work I am doing. I will admit that I would prefer to remember things, but I’m not about to mess up the status quo. It seems to be working out well for me without the memory of the adventures therein, except for what it is granted into my memory (such as the night Papa Legba and I went dancing). It doesn’t matter what is going on; I know whatever it is happens to be working.

All our times have come
Here, but now there, gone
Seasons don’t fear the reaper
Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain
We can be like they are

When my eyes flickered open, I began remembering a dream I had last night. I was sitting at a completely unremarkable kitchen table. It was the standard rectangular table and it was by a window. It was a light-colored wood and the sunlight was dancing patterns in it. The sunlight was the slowly weakening hue of an autumnal sun. There were red leaves waving at us from outside. All I had to do was turn my head and I could see the ornate gardens that lay beyond wherever I happened to be. Those gardens had a hint of my mother-in-law’s garden, but were infinitely wilder. This is a background that I tend to associate with the astral. There’s always a kind of wildness to what we would try to put into orderly rows. The astral, however, works under its own laws and limitations; not ours.

The room was filled with a sweet scent. There were aspects of this moment that reminded me of days I spent in a yellow kitchen, still bedecked with the gods-awful flower border across the top of that kitchen. The walls were spattered with dust and grease in that long-ago kitchen. The difference here was that my mental construct with a hint of astral was more in tune with the kitchen I associate with my mother-in-law. While the color scheme was similar, there were differences. I believe this was done to make me feel safe and able to break the connection at any time.

I think it was done on purpose, but not by me

Across from me at this nondescript table was the very countenance of my ex-husband. He was as always remember him. He had his hair buzzed short and his fangs were surreptitiously peeking out from his pink lips as he spoke carefully to me. We were staring at each other earnestly as we spoke. We knew that one second, one wrong inflection, could cause an ending to whatever peace talks were being held. And neither one of us was interested in the long, dark road that would surround a break down in our peace talks. His eyes were wide, limpid pools of earnestness. He was as he always is, to me. Charismatic and full of commentary.

For once, I listened with alacrity.

Come on baby… don’t fear the reaper
Baby take my hand… don’t fear the reaper
We’ll be able to fly… don’t fear the reaper
Baby I’m your man…

You see, by the time I woke up, we were on to more mundane things than discussing what had happened in our relationship. We had come through that phase and were working on other parts. Y’see, I was asking him for advice about current life situations. It wasn’t religious oriented, but mundane really. And I woke up remembering how he used to be when we were just friends or casual lovers. I could go to him with a problem and he would have very intent, very good advice about any given subject. As long as you didn’t inflame any of his passions, he could be a good friend. And it was that outside, honest perspective I was seeking. He paid me back in kind by asking me what I thought about his mundane problems at the moment. Really, it just went to show that we were both just very much better off as friends once.

I know I confided in him.

I remember telling him that I felt as though I were a failure. Often now, I sit back and think to a time when things weren’t a struggle as they are now. I was more financially stable with the ex-husband, obviously. I often wonder how things could have gotten so bad, so quickly. And how things would have been if I had tried to stick around and fix things back then. I doubt anything would have come of it, but I know that I told that man that I have my days where I look back and think about how much I seem to be struggling and how I often blame the ending of our relationship. I remember, in that dream, he laughed. Anyone who knows him knows what his honest laughter is; this was honest laughter. Maybe he was laughing because he agreed with me or because he found my pinpointing for “when it all went wrong” amusing.

I don’t know.

I don’t remember.

Love of two is one
Here but now they’re gone
Came the last night of sadness
And it was clear she couldn’t go on

I wish I had more fertile remembrance of what our peace talks began as. The reality of what they began as doesn’t matter, though. They happened.

As I was driving to work today, I was thinking back on the dream and the utter peace it instilled within me. I felt like a part of me that had been working backwards, perhaps a bad cog or fear, was no longer working against all the infinitesimal parts of myself. Frowning, I looked down to my heart and did an inner search. I found that I wasn’t really all that far off with those thoughts. I went looking for my rage, then, and I didn’t find it. The entire bundle of ex-husband rage that I have been carrying alive within me for more than five years now seemed to have completely dissipated. I am completely unsure if this is something that only occurred today or if it was only today that I was allowed to realize it. It doesn’t matter. I began probing and probing and the bits of me that were rage were filled in, patched over, or just working the way they should be.

I recall now a moment when I was still in that coven of three. And I remember when the EM told me that I had so much rage that I could destroy so much and that was why there was so much fear of me working with Sekhmet. (How young and foolish we all were then.) I remember her telling me that I had to get the heat and the rage out. I had to work on the things that were fueling it and of course, we all knew that it was my ex-husband that was feeding that rage the most. The pain, the hate, and the anger that he instilled within me, I felt, was something that I would always carry around within my breast. But, as I searched for the telltale burn to the right of my heart, it was missing.

It was gone.

Then the door was open and the wind appeared
The candles blew then disappeared
The curtains flew then he appeared… saying don’t be afraid
Come on baby… and she had no fear
And she ran to him… then they started to fly

After realizing that my rage was gone, I felt pretty upset with myself for not realizing that this was happening. I’ve had signs and dreams of it. The thing is that I was really just sad that the rage was gone. I think that maybe confused or weird to some people. I’ll try to explain it.

The thing is that the rage has been with me for the better part of five years now. In the removal of that rage, I’ve actually opened a lot of scars up to being hit and touched. I let the rage I felt towards my ex-husband mold itself and hold fast to rages that I’ve been carrying around for a very long time. Parts of my rages against the ex-boyfriend from high school (who will be getting a post all his own) as well as parts of my rages against my father for abandoning me. There are other, smaller, rages that were a part of the rage ball I had built for myself around the angst with my ex-husband. In the removal of the large ball of rage I had towards him, I’ve opened myself to smoothing out other rages. Some of them have already been worked out, I just haven’t gotten around to posting about them. But some of them are still there.

I can feel them sliding around in my chest, trying to take a hold. I hope they don’t.

I don’t want to have to work as diligently as I have with the ex-husband thing with other parts of my life. The only one who could even remotely get anything from me now, I think, would be my dad. He deserves that rage and I have to realize that it is a just rage before I can work further with it. It doesn’t matter. Even though I had this ball of rage that filled me up and had taken over large aspects of who I was, I hope that I don’t let something new or something old fester in that now open spot.

They looked backward and said goodby… she had become like they are
She had taken his hand… she had become like they are
Come on baby… don’t fear the reaper

I find myself very tired now, as though I had been exercising for too much time and overdid it. In a way, I think that’s a fitting analogy. When you start to work on aspects of yourself, retrieving bits of yourself and your soul from others’ hands, you don’t realize how much work you will be putting into the project to hand. You think a few moments of light meditation and you will complete the project. This is far from the truth. The astral, the soul, and everything in between are all portions that require hard, hard work and a strong, stubborn countenance more often than not.

And a lot, a lot of tears.

Look Not Mournfully Into the Past…

I’ve seriously debated about posting this entry. I don’t normally have to debate with myself about hitting the “publish” button once I get the idea into my head to make a post about something. I’ve mentioned before how much I don’t really care if what I say offends someone or if I’m wrong or if I’m coming off as a jackass. It comes down to my blog, my place, and I’ll write about what I want and how I want. However, it should tell you just the level of personal that this entry has been in trying to write. It should also tell you how very personal it is by the fact that I’ve actually debated not mentioning it, but I have no problem discussing the dissolution of my marriage or any of my other past traumas.

Thing is that I’ve debated about doing this as a private entry, as password protected, and not at all. But, as much as I don’t want to write it, I know that’s because I don’t want to face what I’m having to look to. I also don’t feel ready, but evidently, my head is saying otherwise. What it comes down to is that just because I’m actively fixing and manipulating and working on various past traumas, it doesn’t mean the rest are all on the back burner, just waiting around.

Sometimes, they smack you in the face with how important they really are.

On Saturday, October 13th, it was the twenty-second anniversary of my father’s death. Now, I haven’t quite come out and said how old I am in a while, so I’ll reiterate it here. I’m twenty-nine years old and for twenty-two of those years, the only father figure I have had has been a made up reconstruction in my mind’s eye of what I think my daddy would be like now. I’ve always envisioned him in a white-and-black plaid, long-sleeved button down with a black mustache and thinning black hair. This is because the sole picture that I keep of him from my youth is of him and me, and guess what he looks like? The man was thin – cadaverous on occasion – and tall. He wasn’t the epitome of a “big, strong man” but in my father figure-head image, he is. My mom used to tell me that he would say he would sit on the front porch with a shotgun when I got to dating age and that always stayed with me. I mean, a lot of things have stayed with me, obviously since he’s my dad, but I think that commentary clicked his “superman” persona in my head. He would protect me from the people who could hurt me.

Only he wasn’t there to do so.

My dad died of AIDS in 1990. This was back when it was still the “gay disease” but they were making headway with that. He was not gay. He was not an intravenous drug user. He did not get into a car accident and get a tainted batch of blood. This should all tell you without my having to spell it out how he contracted the disease. This should all tell you without my having to spell it out that his death has been very hard on me, my mother, and my little brother. While I’m still not sure if my little brother has figured out how my dad contracted the disease, I know that knowing how he got it for me has been hard. It’s probably a thousand times worse on my mom, but for me, it’s hard. It rips away my “superman” image and destroys it with it having barely begun.

My daddy was a man who I have always loved and I have always missed.

So, I went to the cemetery with good intentions. I’ve worked with my father, a bit, since his death. I’ve utilized my Tarot of the Dead to communicate with him, even though he is not very fond of it. He threw out my mom’s Tarot cards when they got together (and a lot of other things I would have been interested in knowing and seeing, besides). My aunt once told me that he used to be scared of things like the Boogy man under the bed and that he had a thing for the supernatural. Considering what he did to my mom’s “supernatural” things, I have to wonder when that changed. I think, and I know I’m rambling but I’ll get to things when I get to them, something happened to him at one point that made him change his mind about all that stuff. It makes you wonder what it was, but I’ll never know. He’s not around to talk to about it anymore. And he’s curiously reticent about speaking to me through my Tarot or in my dreams. I kind of get the feeling that he watches and watches, but isn’t interested in talking. If my memories of my dad are any indicator, this is just him being him.

When I first got to the cemetery, I was fine. I had a plan. I would leave offerings, do some inner chatter, and get some graveyard dirt. I’ve been wanting to grab graveyard dirt from his grave for a while, but it never felt appropriate. There was something in the air, though, and I knew that it was time. The time was right so I brought a jar to hold it in along with a pen and tape so I would know when it was collected and whose grave it belonged to. But, the second I showed up to his grave, I got upset. I got angry when I saw how careless it was. It was overgrown. There were leaves covering his name. It looked like I was the last one to visit… in August. And I was so upset and angry.

It was like, why? Why? I feel like I’m the only person who does this. I feel like I am the only person, in the entire family, who goes out and tends to him and visits and just is while near him. His entire family is up here. My mother and my little brother are over three thousand miles away, but that’s a convenient and obvious excuse. The rest of the family is nearby, all around, and in some cases right down the street, so why was I the first one to visit him on his anniversary? Why had no one else come down to clear back the grass or to push back the detritus from the tree up above? And I felt like I had always felt in my childhood after his death: alone, lost, looking for a place to call home and never, ever finding it. I’ve mentioned it in another place, but the thing is that after my daddy’s death, I never felt comfortable with the family unless we were with my [now dead] grandmother. It felt like we were shunted to the side as family members because the blood relation was dead. And though my brother is still blood related, my mother and I weren’t and we were outsiders.

But the detritus made me so angry because it felt like I was the only one left who cared. And I could think of comments and tears and murmured apologies from family members who have made me feel unwanted, undesired, and uncomfortable. They were all words about how they would miss my father and yet… if you missed him so much, wouldn’t you just pop in and say hi at the cemetery once in a while? I really just felt like the only one who cared.

I cleared away the mind trash. It wasn’t important. I went about my business.

I cut out a hole in the grass and collected my dirt. I pushed the leaves away. I cut back the grass that was threatening to cover up his stone reminder. I washed it down with water and cleared away the mud. I brushed away the bugs and the goose poop and I took it all away. It wasn’t useful. The only thing that was useful and warranted was what I was leaving: flowers, bread, water, incense, and an apple. All delicious portions to feed his soul from here until eternity.

And then I began to discourse. I began to talk. I told him about the things here. I told him about the thing there. I told him about mom and my little brother and I told him about me. I told him about how things were hard and difficult and how things weren’t going right. And then, my track shifted. Sometimes, it can do that when you’re on a tangent about something – it all just changes. It’s like you go in with a certain intention in mind, but reality steps in and blocks the synapses that you had mapped out in the beginning. And then, I got angry again. I got so angry, I had fists and I had tears and I couldn’t shout like I wanted to because there were people only a few graves away. Oh, I was so mad and I was so angry and my inner rant just took off.

And this is stupid because you should be here. You should be here. I shouldn’t be sitting on a fucking grave and having to talk to you in my head and feed you from offerings and hope that you get this. This is stupid, so fucking ridiculous stupid. And I hate this. Why did you have to be such a selfish fucking ass and die? Why couldn’t you keep your dick in your pants long enough to not contract a deadly fucking disease that no one knew two fucking shits about and why did you do this to us? Didn’t we figure into anything? Didn’t you care? Didn’t you love me and [name redacted] or any of us? Why didn’t we get even a slight thought before you fucked yourself and us ten ways to Sunday? And it’s because of you that I have no self-esteem because you went and fucking died on me without even a fucking thought because I didn’t merit even a second thought, a second glance at what you were doing because you were a hedonistic, narcissistic asshole and that hurts more than anything else.

You didn’t love us enough to keep it in your pants and not die.

There’s the rub.

I’ve thought of this before, either at his grave or in other times. It doesn’t matter, but whenever I used to think in this way, I would cut it off because the pain was oh, so much. Sometimes, people talk about how you have so much pain inside of you that you don’t know how to deal with it so they blank it out. It was like that. There would be tears, but they were a drop in the bucket to letting it out. It was grief, really.

I’ve never grieved – how can you when you’re seven and you don’t quite fully understand all that was going on? You knew that your dad was sick with a disease that people mistook and misunderstood and were scared of at five or six and then, he was dead after hearing your mom tell him it was okay to die and then screaming and crying, I take it back; you can’t go yet, until sleep overtook you. And then, the next day, your whole life was irrevocably changed when you came out of your room and saw your mom’s best friend sleeping on the floor in the living room and your mom was nowhere to be found and neither was your dad. How do you grieve then?

So, I grieve now. I cry and I cry and I cry in my heart for a man who, I feel, didn’t love me or my little brother or my mom enough to not sleep with a person infected with the disease and contracted it and died. He died because he was a selfish dickwheel and I have to deal with that every day of my life.

I’m reminded right now of a certain set of lyrics that have been in my head since I heard the song on the recap of Supernatural this morning. I’m hoping that one day, I can sing them, and know what it’s supposed to feel like.

Carry on my wayward son
There’ll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don’t you cry no more
Carry On Wayward Son by Kansas

Recon Ranting Ahead!

Today, I started having a very interesting topic of conversation with two other recon-oriented Kemetics that I commune with on a daily basis. The topic began when WB asked Devo about a specific book regarding Wesir. The book in question is not important, the subsequent discussion was. What came about was a moment in time that Devo wanted more information on Wesir, and not just the standard “Sutekh killed him and he was the god of the dead and he fathered Heru because Aset was super awesome with her magix” shit that most Kemetics here on an almost daily basis. She wanted information about the cult and the history and all of that fun and exciting stuff that we’re not going to pick up because we’ve read the mythos a thousand and ten times. She wanted to peel back the layers of the god that we see today – an oversimplified example being that he hates Sutekh because his brother slaughtered him – and see him as he was prior to this.

And someone actually replied to her that she should look to Plutarch.

Now, as any good Kemetic knows, you need to take Plutarch with a grain of sand or not at all. In my practice, Plutarch has absolutely no bearing whatsoever. I have a few reasons and I’ll list them. First of all, I tend to find him as a Greek propagandist. If I wanted the Greek version of everything, I would be Graeco-Egyptian in my practice and not a full-fledged Kemetic. Secondly, his stuff is fucking boring as hell. If I refuse to read Shakespeare and Shelley and Tolkien because I find them boring, why in the world would I make an exception just because someone wrote their boring drivel years and years before those people? And lastly, I am not going to buy a book that was written in the Roman era of ancient Egypt. Again, if I wanted that kind of watered down mythos, I would be a Romanic Egyptian in practice instead of a Kemetic.

There’s something that most people who pretend to be recon and actually aren’t don’t seem to understand: those of us who are recon-oriented in our practice tend to choose from a specific time frame and work our paths from that. I know, I know. That’s probably pretty crazy, right? Why take something from a time frame when all of the information is available in later time periods as well? And maybe those time periods have more information than some of the older ones that we may choose to work from. The thing is that the later time periods’ information is probably pretty watered down. Let’s go with an example from Kemetic practices.

Sutekh. He is the biggest and best example a Kemetic can show in all of the changes to mythology. At first, we have Sutekh as a necessary and loved god. He had a cult center; he had people who went to him. He had an entire kingdom all to himself before the unification of Upper and Lower Egypt happened. After that, he gets a little shunted to the side. No big deal; he’s still pretty important. He makes sure Re can get past Ap*p every night. Then, we go through changes in socio-political, specifically the changing of various religious and politic capitals in ancient Egyptian history, and Sutekh gets shunted some more. But it’s still not a huge deal… until the Second Intermediate Period when the Hyksos came down, overtook the entire country, forcing the kings to pay them homage as supreme awesome bitch-slappers, and start worshiping Sutekh as the greatest god ever. After that, when we hit the 18th Dynasty, we start seeing more and more that Sutekh is considered an “evil” god. This probably had more to do with the fact that foreigners had come in and ruled the country while worshiping this god of chaos and the desert. (Any Kemetic worth their salt knows just how much the ancient Egyptians hated foreigners.) And things kind of just went downhill from there for Sutekh until we have how evil he is in what he did to his brother and his nephew and no one should ever give him lettuce as an offering and we should all be careful in working with him because, HE IS THE EGYPTIAN DEVIL.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: gods have facets. They change; they grow; they learn; they repent; they forgive. If we only look to this super selective aspect to a god, such as Sekhmet’s blood lusting and war faring capabilities, then we are doing her other portions a complete injustice. She is also the goddess of healing. She is also the goddess of protecting the pharaohs. These are all aspects, or facets, of who she is that other people forget when they see her as a “wrathful goddess.” And the same can be said of Sutekh and Wesir, Hetharu and Heru, Re and Amun, Wepwawet and Djehuti. All of these gods have specific arenas that they are well-known for, but they have other portions as well. And people forget that. And I honestly believe that part of the reason that people forget this kind of thing because they only take the most watered down and newest versions of the cult centers and the myths, things written by the likes of Plutarch for example, and forget that ancient Egyptian history spans three thousand years.

Three. Thousand. Years. Of. Information. And people just want to take the newest portions they can?

This is me, shaking my finger and shaking my head.