Feeling Better

The cold porcelain experiment was not a total waste. I learned that you can color it quite nicely by scraping watercolor paint into it and mushing it in. Nice marbling effect! Also watercolor paint is the bane of my artistic existence, so it's a good way to get rid of it. And even better, I made handles for the most used of my crochet hooks. Some of them cracked a bit, because obviously I have trouble getting all the bubbles out, but most look pretty good. Just got to let them dry completely and seal them.

And like a good little student of divination, I've been practicing with my lovely Lenormand deck (another blog post on that to come in the near future). The readings have been consistently good. I swear I'm not looking for the best possible interpretation. I go into it neutral and am wary of anything too extreme in either direction. But my first Grand Tableau did show the Gentleman very near the Lady, and after randomly pulling a card last week with no real expectations for anything, I got the Ring. If you aren't familiar with the traditional card readings, use your imagination.

So are things shifting, finally? Trust me, I'm not going to make any split-second decisions, and I will not be assuming that life is suddenly shifting into a meadow of daisies and cupcakes or whatever. I've got the Return of Saturn to look forward to in the next few years, and Mercury is going retrograde next month. Learned the hard way that that's nothing to fuck around with. Cautious optimism, I think, is the way to proceed... but like 49% cautious, 51% optimism. We'll see.

Anyway, wish me luck. Burn a candle for me. Love you all.

Fuck Cold Porcelain

Sometimes I forget just how fucked up my body is, even when I'm doing something with the goal of making things easier for my poor, pitiful asshole of a body.

I've seen Pinterest fails like the rest of you, but cold porcelain, a DIY polymer clay, looked promising. The only reason I was looking at polymer clay is because I need cheap handles for my crochet books. Why? Because maybe if I can grip the damn things, it won't hurt so much to use them. So I gathered my ingredients...

...and now I'm sitting on the couch crying because my stupid fucking hands hurt. I don't like the texture. I only mixed the shit up because I figured it was cheap enough to warrant the work of mixing it up. How absurd it is: I get hurt trying to save money because I hurt too much to hold down a job.

I'm sure some of you are wondering why I didn't just do a quick money spell. Obviously I'm wondering it too now. It's demoralizing, though, to feel like I can't even mix up a simple craft item, and I still don't think of myself as disabled. My brain is a thousand miles ahead of my body.

And now I'm seeing something on the news about a family friend whose body has been missing since spring. There is not enough sage in this fucking world to make me feel less negative.

Shoutout to /r/Witchcraft

Confession time: because I am a bored computer-literate human being, I spend a lot of time on Reddit. 

(That's not a confession, really. I need something juicier. Alright, actual confession: when I raid my grandfather's candy bowl, I leave the Hershey's and go for the Lindt.)

And because I have spent all this time exploring subreddits--and praying that I don't stumble across anything too fucked up--I have found a few oases of calm in the otherwise turbulent seas of teh Interwebz. My favorite is /r/Witchcraft. 

The night before last, I shared a link to my previous post in /r/Witchcraft. I dithered about it for a while. Was it interesting to anyone but me? Would I look desperate for attention? (Which is silly, because I don't think that when someone else posts. But I am not always very nice to myself. Sorry, patronesses.) After a bit of back-and-forth, I said "fuck it" and hit the submit button. 

And BOOM. Awesome shit happened.

The comments were overwhelming. Everyone was so kind and supportive. Other disabled practitioners responded. I've been able to converse with people from around the world (and surprisingly close to me). 

So thank you, /r/Witchcraft, for making me see that I'm not alone in this. You guys are a trove of wisdom and inspiration. You are my tribe. Bless you all.

Ableism, Mundane and Magical

Sometimes I feel like every man I've been interested in either doesn't feel the same way, and the few with whom there's mutual attraction have no idea how to start or continue a conversation. Needless to say, this is frustrating as fuck.

Look, I know I'm not the easiest person to be involved with. I'm opinionated and moody. I have health problems on top of that. Believe me, I did not plan on being disabled at 23, but I also did not expect that I'd be single at 26. (That happens when you're raised thinking that being married is the ultimate goal of your life.) I know my imperfections intimately because I'm a perfectionist and I obsess over them. But I'm a good person. I'm loyal to a fault, loving, and intelligent. I make a mean focaccia, too. 

It's hard not to get down on myself when someone who seemed like a nice guy just stopped talking to me when I said I was disabled. I understand immediately cutting off a conversation, but only for situations where someone's being creepy or offensive. If I had said something like, "I have a crippling addiction to heroin" or "I only get off to crushing testicles underfoot," I would understand him disappearing into the cyber-ether. But being honest about disability and the unemployment it entails? If he had said, "That's a dealbreaker" I would be disappointed, but it's so much worse to think that he doesn't even think I deserve a response, all because of chronic illnesses I can't control.

So yes, I'm hurt. I'm used to having people treat me like my illnesses are a character flaw or hypochondria. It sucks when it's strangers. It's worse when it's family. And sometimes--and this may be the worst--ableist logic even permeates witchcraft. 

Yes, magic takes energy. But to imply that a sick witch can't cast a spell without fucking up is ridiculous. I am sick every day of my life. I live in a constant fog of pain, but if I bind a spell properly, it works. To say that I am incapable of magic is just another form of discrimination. 

If you are chronically ill, it's okay to feel upset when you read some bullshit about not practicing when you're sick. Get mad and use that power, if you must. Sometimes you can't control what happens to your body, but your mind and spirit and all the energies at work in this world are yours to command. Your illness is sacred. It teaches you compassion. Never let someone else's prejudice impede your practice.

Feel your feelings, my friends, but do not give in to the lie that you are anything less than a powerful, beautiful spirit capable of creating magic.

Witches Get Stitches

Arianrhod is probably my favorite goddess. I've always had an affinity for the moon, and I have a soft spot for anyone who's been screwed by patriarchy. But you know what else makes me so fond of her? She spins and weaves the threads of fate. Grandmother Spider, another weaver, also has a place of honor in my personal pantheon. I worship the deities of my ancestors unless another one specifically comes to me. Athena is in that category.

These three are just a few of the goddesses who weave and spin. Consider the ancient Greeks' Moirae (Fates), Egypt's Neith, Hinduism's Maya... I could go on, but my hands hurt so I'm keeping this brief. All these cultures throughout history have goddesses who excel in textile arts. Hell, even Tolkien's Varda (also called Elbereth) sewed the night sky. Why is this archetype so firmly embedded in our consciousness?

Perhaps one reason is the importance of fabric. It's safe to say that without textiles, human civilization would not exist. For one thing, we don't have fur. In colder climates, clothes are necessary for survival. In hotter climates, they protect against the sun. Even if you never wear a stitch of clothing in your lifetime, you're probably going to need a blanket or a tent or a bag. After a certain point in our evolution, textiles became an absolute necessity. I'm not knocking naturalism (nudism) by any means--though I'm too much of a fashionista to go naked--but imagine a life without any type of fabric except animal furs or leather. It worked for our ancestors once they came out of the trees and started losing hair, but now? No way.

But there's magic in the mundane, and even something as practical as fabric can be mystical. So many connections are made between threads or tapestries and fate in mythology. Fiber arts allow for ultimate control over the finished product. I have dabbled in most of them. I spin yarn from newspaper and plastic bags. I sew by machine and by hand. I crochet (badly). And if I ever get a loom, I will weave, because I loved it when I tried it in school. The best part is knowing that I can make something I have imagined come into being. That is the art of creation. It connects me to all of these goddesses. And isn't the whole point of magic to create your own fate, to make your own world?

Working with fabric can be an extremely powerful form of magic. Each stitch holds intention. Each thread ties you closer to the divine. The next time you need to connect to any of the aforementioned goddesses, try a little sewing project. It can be as simple as sewing on a button or making an Ojo de Dios, or as elaborate as taking up point lace just to make an altar cloth (which I may or may not have attempted). All that matters is that you know that you can manipulate the threads of Fate.

Painting Your Hermit Crab Shell When Your Claws Hurt

On both of the last two sabbats, I have felt too bad to do any sort of proper ritual. With chronic illness(es), it's a given that you're going to miss out on things. But religious observances? The fun ones, especially? It blows.

I have crippling impostor syndrome about everything. I guess that's to be expected; I spent a decade being gaslighted on a daily basis and didn't really learn to recognize it until years later, so I'm used to doubting everything about myself and my experience. Being diagnosed with my various ailments has only made it worse. It's pretty obvious based on my blood tests and my own physical symptoms that I'm really sick, but for some reason the first thing people say when they find out is that I'd be less sick if I was more positive about it. I have one disease that will shorten my lifespan and almost certainly be the cause of my death, barring accidents, and another that is usually not fatal but could just as easily kill me tomorrow. That's not being negative. It's being aware that I need to spend however much time I have as wisely as possible.

It's my body. It's my life. So why, why do healthy dickheads' comments about how I need to cope with my health make me feel like I'm the crazy one? It awakens that slumbering beast of self-doubt, which I have never been able to kill entirely. And when I convince myself that I am just crazy and try to function like a normal person my age, I end up hurting myself really badly.

My goddesses don't like it when that happens. I've been getting a lot of directives to take as much care of myself as possible, and that includes resting when I'm tired and avoiding activities that cause me to feel worse. At least one, and I'm 90% sure I know who though She hasn't explicitly introduced Herself, really pushes pampering. I think that by encouraging me to treat myself to little things like DIY masks and a spritz of good perfume on not-so-special occasions, She is training me to view my body as sacred, and bless Her, I was so far behind that She had to start with the basics.

The self-doubt feeds a really vicious cycle of perfectionism, which too often ends in total paralysis. Going easy on myself is another of my directives. When I get frustrated over my imperfect body or an incomplete to-do list, I feel a serene presence beside me. I hear a soft voice in my head, not my own, whispering that it's okay. I am not my body or my to-do list. I am not chronic illness. I am an embodied spirit and a bright mind. I may live in a shell that grows more cumbersome and cramped over time, but this shell is a part of the natural world, and I should respect it as much as I would a tree or a river. And because my hermit crab soul will grow too big and have to move to another shell someday, I should love this one while it houses me.

I have decided, at least temporarily, that I will observe the sabbats not as a single day, but as a period of time: the section of wheel rather than the spoke itself. Until Mabon, I'll be celebrating Lammas every day, even if it's just taking a moment in my heart to thank the Earth for the first harvest. Maybe this will be a way to more fully experience the Wheel of the Year, to actively participate in each moment of the natural world rather than stopping eight days a year to fixate on it. (Not that that's what everyone else does. Most folks have fuller schedules than I do, though.)

Well, the shell needs a shower. Friends, don't let the ignorance of others cause you to hurt yourselves. Listen to yourself and your deities of choice.