Today started with a trigger. I didn’t see it coming, but was suddenly thrust back in time to… well, a difficult situation.
My day was spent recovering, trying to figure how to deal with such a thing, but also how to pull myself back to Myself.
For me, triggers feel like I’m under someone else’s control (again). I’m helpless in the flow of emotion and reaction.
I’ve been – consciously and unconsciously – trying to find My Things for years, after the original incidents that broke me. And while I’m still trying, I’ve a better idea of what they are.
Is this Thing mine, or in my life because I’m obliged? – is how I sum it up. Other people can contribute Things that I take in, but I essentially have to tell myself, in no uncertain terms, that one Thing is not mine and is not welcome. My Things bring me back to Myself.
Favourite books, movies, music… usually story-based creativity in some way. Crafting in colours that soothe the soul. Finding safe space.
Whatever it is, My Things, that are part of Me, help ground me back to Myself from that tidal wave. Those who caused the original incident are gone. I’m still here. And I feel Myself again, thanks to those mnemonic anchors.
It’s taken me all day to get to this point of writing about it, but that’s an improvement on the months it took after it happened. Progress.
I ground back in Myself and breathe. I keep going.
Years ago, when I was starting to explore the Pagan path in earnest, I remember finding a spell that I wanted to perform. I can’t remember what it was, but suspect it was to help me learn more as I stepped forward. To actually Do Some Magic.
I headed into the nearest town with a witchy shop; then found most of the items I needed in cheap homewares stores. I remember lemon candles, which have always had particular associations since (and have become oddly hard to find).
Some herbs, coloured cloth. I also can’t remember where I found the spell list, but know it must have been a book, because the internet wasn’t that big at the time.
(I once looked up ‘witch’ on eBay around the and found five items. Yup.)
I came home on the bus, watching the world pass by. I remember that clearly: from the parks to the busy Saturday streets. The quiet house with only me in it. Setting things up, sitting quietly.
Again, I don’t quite remember much more. I rather wish I’d kept a journal from that time, but it wasn’t entirely clear to me what I should put in one. Was it a diary or a recipe book?
The feeling of what Should was strong. Right ways and wrong ways of doing things. Some of what I was told is laughable when I recall it, but at the time there was no frame of reference.
This year, so much time later, I sit this Saturday morning, again in a quiet house. My husband is sleeping, as are the dogs. I have a cat keeping guard on my lap. And I just listen, feeling what’s in the air.
It’s not about the Stuff any more. I’m at a point in life where I Should be in a good job, earning decent money – but I’m not and I don’t. But that’s not by everyday standards. Normal People standards.
The journey I’m taking with my kind therapist as guide is lifting many stones to see what’s beneath. The veneer of Normalcy is one I’ve always been confused by, as far back as I can remember. The only way I could approach my spirituality back at the start was with rules.
Now… it’s not that I care less. If anything, I care more, a good deal more. It’s that I’ve learned to prioritise, to care about what’s important to me.
Because back then, and until relatively recently, the Shoulds, the priorities… were mostly those of others. It’s been in my mind how much my generation was drilled into how to behave – which has left us confused now as to why we haven’t spoken up before about society’s wrongness. What happened? We learned to be passive. Perhaps.
I progressed by sticking to the path of Should Do. Until I couldn’t any more, until the wrongness was too loud. Until the spirits that had always been there wouldn’t let me settle or stay quiet.
Even now, it’s difficult. Normalcy seems so attractive. Just hunker down, do the 9-5 and get paid, all that stuff. But I can’t (physically and mentally).
So I need to set out on a similar-but-different journey again this Halloween season. Wave farewell to what’s now passed and is no longer needed (or wanted). That innocuous bus journey back in the day was one step of many to finding my truth, what I Should Do for Me.
And the crippling illness that came about from Should-ing for others can be managed as I dig up my determination again and continue to step forward.
I take each moment as gently as I can. Is this right for Me? Yes – move forward. No – let it fall aside.
It feels like Spring-cleaning but in an Autumn way. Let the beautiful leaves fall to the floor, and new life grow beneath them.
The voice of Normal Should tries to squeak loudly, of how I’m getting older, not doing enough, blah blah blah… but I’d rather now listen to those I love, to the deeper voices, who guide and cheer me on. Because my voice has value too.
And I try my best to never tell anyone how they Should.
Beautiful dawn image shared with kind permission from Lisa Butler-Hart ❤️
Time moves on and this country takes another turn… possibly backwards. I feel so tired and helpless, but then I ask myself what I can do.
I can write. I can speak. I can keep doing those things, even if my words get banned (as this blog already is in China).
I can stand. I can put my money where my mouth is, walk the talk, however you wish to phrase it. Or I can sit and refuse to move. I’m quite solid like that.
I can question. Ask why? Demand explanations, accountability. Point out the cruelty of systems that consist only of red tape. Note the encroaching litigation against protest.
I can publicly hug those who may be social pariahs. I will continue to marry those who ask, and push for legalisation of it. Regardless of colour, gender, mobility or what’s in their pants. Yes, love is love.
I have the image of the ‘Watchmen’ doom clock in my head, of 1930s Berlin. Because that awareness is present, I sincerely hope that what we do makes a difference. The warnings are going off, and we cannot hide.
What am I doing? No. What are WE doing. We must stand together.
I write this, holding out my hand and hoping so very hard.
This is a personal one. I’m writing fast, on my phone, before my brain weasels realize what’s going on.
It’s been a hard time recently. Some of you know, but since I got told my diagnosis of CPTSD (which was apparently on file for a while all unknowing), I’ve finally found an excellent therapist and am figuring things out. Healing is happening and it is good.
BUT. The mental health Badness has been shoring up defenses in an effort to fight back, on its mission to tell me what an awful person I am. I know it’s irrational – but it’s also very loud sometimes.
The reason I’ve been doing so little is mostly anxiety. I’ve been afraid to step up, scared to write, worried that I’m simply Not Good Enough. That, combined with the keyword Useless, have been my constant foes. It’s not been fun, and I’ve been skating close to the edge from time to time.
I’m trying to hold on to the ups, however. Ideas have been coming, and I’m noting them down to let the subconscious do its work. I’m reading a lot and supporting many writers and small publishers as best I can (check out all my social media for recommendations as they happen).
I find it easier to stand up for others than for myself. It’s always been that way. But by doing so, I can remind myself what I am capable of – what my voice can do. That’s why I’m writing this today.
I know some people will write me off, and that’s up to them. I am still here. Perhaps in the midst of my ‘Crazy Wandering in the Dark Woods’ phase of my journey, but this means I’ve been able to help others who are themselves calling for solidarity through the trees.
I’m also still wanting to write fiction to get some of this out. Plus exploring previously undiscovered facets of myself, that might be considered even more weird than being Publicly Pagan. We’ll see. It’s helping both me and others, so it can’t be bad.
I’m still performing weddings. I’m pushing back quietly against some of the awfulness in society. Himself and I are considering what we can do in that regard as a household.
I am doing my best. It may feel like a small squeak right now, but I am hopeful that my roar will return.
Meantime, thankyou so much for your patience and encouragement. I can’t tell you how much it means without going wibbly, but it is a LOT.
Still here.
Much love.
(And NOW the brain has caught up and wants to me put profuse Sorrys in before deleting… quick, press Go!)
Twenty years ago, me and some friends bagged a ride to our nearest multiplex to watch a new werewolf movie. We arrived late and had no idea what to expect.
For the rest of that year (and beyond), we were quoting this film constantly. Someone would start whistling the ‘marching’ theme and others would join in. I bought both UK and US copies of the DVD because they have different – absolutely hilarious – commentaries.
Cut to today. Another lady writer with equal (ok, maybe a bit more) enthusiasm had the idea of writing an anniversary tribute to that movie. Here it is.
I was lucky enough to make online friends with Janine and receive an ARC of the book. It’s one of those that you want to devour in a single sitting, and yet take slowly because you don’t want it to end.
This book, make no mistake, is a tribute. It’s an absolute love-letter: to Dog Soldiers and those who brought it to life, as well as to horror and those who carved a path in werewolf movies historically. There’s some big movie names here.
Janine has left no stone unturned in her quest to make this the best retrospective it can be. Full of interviews, quotes, artwork and photos, we learn about the movie from concept to execution, as well as the impact it had on audiences.
The tone is chatty and fun, which is infinitely preferable to a dry film-school dissertation. The shenanigans of the squaddies/actors are contagious, and if you go in with a good sense of humour, you’ll be fine.
People are still discovering the absolute ride that is this movie. I’m glad there’s a book that does it justice, hopefully inspiring new viewers and also aspiring actors, filmmakers, FX creatives and writers to really take the leap to make what they love.
Sit down by the fire. Grab a bowl of Mysterious Stew (and a good spoon). Listen to a friendly voice tell of a crazy tale, of soldiers and big effing werewolves. You’ll love it.
I’m off to dig out one of those DVDs again now, to watch with my own collies by my side.
I stare at my screen. Again. What do I say? It’s been an age, and the words haven’t been coming.
But today, something tells me to write.
Lately, I’ve been listening to the stories of those who normally go unheard. Folks who aren’t white, aren’t heterosexual, aren’t rich. Folk whose voices are silenced despite how hard they try to speak. I remember being in that place once.
I see the world right now, and I wonder how we reached this point. I think back to my school-days. Were we ever taught to think for ourselves? There’s a vague memory of having to write about our skills, but not much more. We were taught what was Right and what was Not. Marked in red pen, passing exams with ticks in the margin and a score.
There was no room for questioning.
I remember asking what the Poll Tax riots were about. Why teachers were striking. Why the electricity went off from time to time. I remember seeing Margaret Thatcher on Saturday morning TV. I saw a bearded Irishman silenced on the news as bombs went off in London.
Later, I discovered comedy and satire. I learned to read between the lines. School taught Shakespeare; Blackadder showed the Bard’s deeper power. Spitting Image showed politicians laughing at the audience, calling them stupid for voting in such idiots.
I still love Shakespeare, despite school (which should definitely NOT be the way it is). He showed all those shades of humanity: the poor, the non-British, the mad. Each had wisdom of their own.
I learned to love the anti-heroes, the rebels, the dispossessed. I saw punks in the High Street and was awed. I wanted to ask, but couldn’t. I learned to stay quiet, but my eyes were open.
I saw bullying by other children and adults. I saw how people were treated. I felt how I was treated, my usefulness determined by how intelligent I was. Book-smart but mocked for it.
I hid in fiction. I loved words and stories. None were more or less valid than any other. But I saw how preference was given to certain demographics over others, so I quietly tried to seek out what was being hidden. I’m grateful to the kind adults who let me into their section of the library.
Years later, as an adult, I found my voice at University, through feeling my anger at being silenced rise and rise until it had to come out. I jumped on a stage (something I’d specifically been told not to do at school, because I’d fail), and I SHOUTED. The room fell silent. People listened. I jumped down, physically shaking… to have friends congratulate me. Why had I not done this before?
Now, as the world opens up again, the empty stage is open to me. I’m being asked what I want to talk about at events. What will my next book be?
I want to tell my stories. I want to hear the tales of others and give them the gift of time and space, so that fighting to be heard is unnecessary. I want to help the shy ones, the afraid, the silenced, the invalid.
I’ve been mocked for ‘always taking in strays.’ I don’t think that’s a fault. I see the world, I see the mistakes made before, and I see the cleverness of those children coming up behind. I want to help them.
I write. I think. I listen. I question. I hope I inspire others to do so as well.
What are WE doing?
I’m trying to listen and find my path again after the world went mad. Because we’re all mad here, as someone once said. All human.
The Devourer Below’ by Josh Reynolds; Evan Dicken; Davide Mana; Georgina Kamsika; Thomas Parrott; David Annandale; Cath Lauria
‘Cult of the Spider Queen‘ by SA Sidor
‘The Deadly Grimoire‘ by Rosemary Jones
I’ve spoken of my enjoyment with Aconyte Books’ Lovecraftian offerings previously, but as they’re now coming in thick and fast, I thought a joint review was in order!
First, ‘Litany of Dreams’. While the early Arkham books stayed firmly in that sinister town, Ari Marmell heads further afield, to explore how the insidious darkness of the Great Old Ones spreads far deeper into the lands around Massachusetts.
We follow Elliot Raslo with what might otherwise be a simple missing persons case: his roommate has vanished. After reading some mysterious writings. And becoming obsessed with a particular chant in an uncomfortably weird language.Yes, this is Arkham after all!
The story unfurls like a true yarn, leading from libraries and museums to the swamps of Hockomock outside the town, with a nod to the ancient lore of the Inuit peoples far to the North.
The tone shifts and changes – fortunately far more comfortably for the reader than for the characters! – so that we see Elliot’s confusion, his new friend Billy’s increasing worry, and the curiosity of librarian Daisy Walker, all combining beautifully as the quest unfolds.
I was reminded of many Lovecraftian movies (notably ‘Reanimator’, with the emphasis on Miskatonic University), but also ‘Evil Dead’ and even ‘The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.’ The escalating fear of the protagonists is tangible, and there were several points where it genuinely seemed like there was no way out for them. I don’t want to say any more for fear of spoilers, but this evil is its own kind of spreading disease, with no way of knowing if there’s any cure. Sound relevant?
‘The Devourer Below’ is the first Arkham anthology from Aconyte, with each story held together by the shared tales of one particular Great Old One, who hasn’t previously experienced a lot of attention in books or movies. As the stories unfolded, I learned more about this particular unpleasant fellow, and how his fearsome reach draws many into his own unique and hungry darkness.
We have sneaky occultists, of course, but also bootleggers, historians, regular people caught up in something far beyond their experience, and so much more. For anyone wishing to play the Arkham Horror roleplaying games, there’s heaps of inspiration for characters here!
Particular standouts for me were Josh Reynolds’ ‘The Hounds Below’, which combined the very real horrors of The Great War with deeper human fears of madness, starvation… and what those may mean when combined together. Also ‘The Darkling Woods’ by Cath Lauria was its own kind of fairytale. I’ve never seen a Lovecraftian story with children as the protagonists, but does this mean they’re able to deal with dark fairytale dangers more effectively than the adults around them?
‘Cult of the Spider Queen’ was always going to be difficult for me, and it took quite a lot to open this one. I’m not a huge fan of spiders, let’s say, and from the start, the creepiness of the story felt like those little (and not so little) legs starting to work their way insidiously down my spine.
This book is absolutely the stuff of Saturday afternoon matinee movies. Leaving civilization behind, the characters travel far into the jungle, looking for a lost group of film-makers who apparently found the fabled Spider Queen. Did they survive? Is the Queen real? What about rival groups of treasure-seekers hot on our heroes’ trail? Will they make it back alive?
Imagine a cub reporter, a beautiful (and apparently wealthy) heroine, a brave tracker and her crew… and then the flickering lights of a black and white silent movie, with not-quite-visible shapes moving in the shadows around an ancient shrines and jungle leaves. This was uncomfortable because of the spiders and the legends, but absolutely gripping in its action-and-excitement atmosphere!
We stay in action movies with ‘The Deadly Grimoire’, a follow-up to ‘Mask of Silver’ (which I’ve previously enjoyed and reviewed). This stands alone if you’ve not read that, though, being its own tale as well as a continuation of those events.
Betsy Baxter is the Flapper Detective, daring stunt-performer and actress, who’s found great success after surviving the previous events in Arkham. However, there’s still loose ends to be tied – so with the help of a female pilot known as ‘The Woman without Fear’ and an antiquarian bookseller seeking the titular Grimoire, Betsy charges straight into an adventure that far surpasses any movie!
Again, this has the vibe of a matinee movie, but also a strong detective story. Where (and what) is the mysterious Grimoire? What do bootleggers and a local crime syndicate have to do with anything, and what are the innovative seaweed-based treatments at the local sanatorium?
Every aspect of Lovecraft is here, bound up with a fun heroine whose thinking is definitely ahead of her time.
I’m glad to say that every single one of these books branches further into the Real World than Lovecraft would ever have been comfortable with – in terms of strong women, native Americans and Inuit, homosexuality and much more. The Ancient Old Ones don’t care about such things, and their tentacles affect everyone, so there’s (happily) no discrimination to be found in any of these pages.
As always, at the end of these books those who survive are forever changed by their encounters with the Great Unknown – as are we, the reader. Part of me wonders what happens next for them, but I know it won’t be necessarily good. It’s just that feeling of wanting to see more of a traditional adventure serial, feeling the jumps and gasps as skilled hands lead us further into the dark.
That instruction is actually a good one, but it’s easier to do when I just let my brain move my fingers without too much inbetween. Let’s see how this goes.
I haven’t written about Druidry for a while. There’s a reason for this.
I’ve often said that labels frustrate me, but that ‘druid’ is the closest to what I actually do, in terms of practice, belief, etc.
That’s kind of still true… but also it’s never been wrong-er (BA English Lit, a passport to ruining the English language with impunity).
I’ve been peeling back layers over recent months, both voluntarily and not. Imagine ripping off multiple plasters. Some of which have been on for a really long time (ow/ick).
Druidry is still What I Do. But it’s by no means the only thing I do.
I tried to visualise some sort of diagram to illustrate my thought process here. Probably something like this, but messier:
(Taken from Miskatonic University Press. Yes, really.)
My work is mostly Druidry. But there’s also shades of Witch, Heathen, Spiritualist, Medium, Seer, Mystic… so many words with subtly-shaded differences.
My physical self has some extras: Wounded Healer. Chronically-ill. Major Depressive. I would probably be a Mad Wife in the Attic if we had an attic.
And then there’s all the other things. Old Goth. Middle-aged. Crazy lady. ‘Writer’ should feature somewhere. Crafter. Yarn-wrangler. Wordsmith. Carer to the lost. Holder of hope. Maker of tea. Aspiring Time Lady.
I’ve not been well lately, not at all. I’m getting regular therapy at last, which is an absolute miracle. But it feels as if I’m working through… something. To bring together those parts that are Me, and jettison those that no longer serve or apply. I’m finding some interesting new ones, too. They were hiding until now.
Part of the thought-process was comparing myself to others, as inevitably happens. I didn’t always like what I saw. Egos and power-trippers, those who spoke lots but did little. Those who didn’t seem to feel or care.
I may have been too judgmental for some. I know I wasn’t always. But the idea that if a specific title was shared by both me and another (very different) person was difficult to resolve.
That’s my ego talking, obviously. I know that titles are broad strokes used to describe something. But this led to the idea of subtle shadings.
I think that we need to remember that a single word cannot define us. Not even a few words. A lifetime cannot – and should not – be reduced in such a way. It’s ignorant, over-simplified and wrong.
We are each many things, and exploring those is part of the fun of getting to know people. I think my Things are changing, some more dramatically than others. I always try to be true, though – to myself and to those I hold close.
I’ll try to keep exploring. My mental illness has been trying to draw a line under things and begin to write ‘The En…’, but I won’t let it. I’m not done yet.
Thankyou so much to those of you who are still here. I love you all, truly.
Oh, and by the way, someone recently commented on my last post. They said I ‘sound like a total victim.’
That’s absolutely NOT a word I’d use for myself. The fact that I’m still here should demonstrate that well enough.
It’s been an age. So long since I wrote anything here.
(Even now, my brain is telling me to click away, not to post this, not to bore everyone. But here we go, pushing on)
The words haven’t been coming. The flow has been blocked. They’re there, in my mind, but they don’t want to get out onto the page.
The preventative song is the same. Not good enough. You’ve done your bit. That was all you could do. You’ve done.
You should stop.
(Feel free to read between the lines)
Every day is another step, though. Small things accomplished. Every piece of happiness held on to and cheered.
I can’t face friends one day; the next, I share laughter and hopeful thoughts with a stranger.
I see shock on the face of a person assigned to help me. But not disgust – sympathy. The shame shrinks before his gentle smile.
Being held, in person or virtually. Reaching out myself, wanting to help others. Tears for sick friends, frustration that I can’t do more – but being there.
Gladness in plans that we’re finally able to make, after a year of limbo.
We live in strange times. I’m not sure where the winding path is leading. I’m trying to listen to the subtle guidance – the ringing strike of truth held in random phrases, words on a page, jokes and shared thoughts.
It feels as if I’m living moment to moment right now. And perhaps… that might be ok.
Because I’m wanting more. And the ideas may be starting to bud a little once again. the truths start to fall from my lips and fingertips.
Love and hope to you all, patient friends. The mantra of last year still: Stay Safe.
There’s so many books out there on ‘how’ to explore your own magic. What made this one stand out to me was the word ‘Intuitive’ – which is pretty much how I’ve worked for many years now!
Natalia speaks honestly and clearly about how to ‘reclaim your voice’. From discovering how your intuition feels, to allowing yourself to be guided by it, she uses anecdotes and advice from her own experience – not telling the reader what to do, but encouraging them in what they may have already been doing! People speak of ‘returning’ to Paganism, and this absolutely reinforces practices that you may have played with as a child – listening to birdsong, carrying a favourite stone, being aware of the turning of the seasons and moon phases.
So much modern-day learning is intellectual that it can be hard to let yourself go and simply trust yourself and your own intuition – but that’s precisely where the magic lies. This is an excellent wee guide to reinforce a burgeoning magical practice, and simply living as a practical Pagan in a magical world.
‘Intuitive Magic Practice’ is available now as paperback or ebook here.
The Catbox 