High Vibes

Tarot with Tirrell / Sigils on a Stick / Fire Ceremony

We all gathered wood for the fire. Each of us found and imprinted a special stick with an intention for release and an intention for calling in. We used watercolors, charcoal, lipstick, and ballpoint pens to mark these intentions with sigils on opposite ends of our particular pieces of wood. Each one was different and beautiful.

After dinner we sang the chorus of The Mermaid over and over, ramshackle and piecemeal as we clamored down the sandy stairs to the beach, sigiled sticks in hand. Gonzalo and Juan built the fire out of driftwood and set benches around it so that we all faced the ocean and the fire at once, cliffs on either side and the Casa behind us. The full moon glowed silver above and the fire burned gold below. The ocean was black and inky and felt like the sum of all things. 

Everyone stood and cast their sigils into the fire, some silent, some shouting, all grateful, all beautiful. Gonzalo went last, riding his piece of driftwood like a broomstick and shouting ABRACADABRA as he threw it into the flames.

The driftwood burned hot and fast and sparks and sand danced around us as we sang songs from childhood in rounds, the wind carrying our voices out to sea.

As goodbyes were said, the little clay pots that we got in town were produced one by one and filled with the white sandy ashes settling around the edges of the dying embers - our intentions alchemized, released and transformed, to be carried forth into the world and used in the ignition of future fires. 

Well the ocean waves may roll
And the stormy winds may blow
We poor sailors go skipping o'er the top
While the landlubbers lie down below below below
While the landlubbers lie down below

Leaving North Carolina

 

June 17, 2013

There were storms in Charlotte. I watched her watching me in the mirror, smiling, knowing, not wanting to look at herself. I couldn't stop my tears, so I walked with Dad around the grounds. When I came back in I said goodbye. A hug and a kiss. A promise to be back in July with the dog. A big smile. Tears and numbness. Dirty jokes in the car, the familiar feeling of a headache and the smell of the highway, the rubber steering wheel, the sound of the engine and the cars passing by. Exhaust and greyness. 

At the airport I drank an expensive beer and tried to write. Detroit by way of Charlotte. Storms in Charlotte, all planes to Charlotte are being held. There is a woman in a sash and a tiara at the gate. Ms. North Carolina. 4 inch heels, smooth tan skin, and she won't stop talking. She demands to know what is going on. Will she miss her connection? She has to get to - Colorado I think? There is a pageant. She represents several charities. She is a decorated marine. She tells a story about bumping her head on a stealth aircraft, such a space cadet! It didn't even really hurt, she wouldn't have known it happened at all if it weren't for all the blood. 

We shiver together on the plane - the AC is cranked and little icicles are forming around the vents. The man on the aisle offers her his jacket. She whispers to me that the babyfaced boy in fatigues one row up is a moron for wearing his uniform on the plane. Sure way to tell its his first time out she says. 

Hours pass. Passengers scatter. Ms. North Carolina gets a direct flight to Denver and clicks off down the concourse. I read the July issues of Garden & Gun and Martha Stewart Living cover to cover.

Finally the storm breaks and we make the 20 minute flight to Charlotte. Steam rises off the city and light streams through the heavy clouds, glowing like the gates of Heaven. I think about my mother and her childhood, and my grandparents and how I imagined them in Heaven when they died. The deep aloneness I feel with my mother's voice hidden away somewhere inside of her expands and contracts. 

I drink more expensive beer in the Charlotte airport and wait. The flight to Detroit is dark and quiet. I feel the cool grainy plastic on my face pressed against the curve of the window. I listen to a stranger's voice dipped in honey singing songs of childhood in the south, and I clutch my gin and tonic and cry.

32

 

June 1, 2013

We drove out Damascus Church road, south of town, and hung a left down around Poythress Way. The church was all sunfaded and quiet, sparkling in the afternoon light. We could see the organ through the cracks and smell the must of the years it has sat, untouched in that backroom. There are bluegrass jams here sometimes - someone always knows someone who has the key and the Ramblers come out here to play on special occasions, or when the fancy strikes. 

We went to Crooks for dinner and I felt the amalgamation of years past filtering the air with the thwump of the ceiling fans and the wine-tinged chatter of the coiffed matrons and the easy drawls of the big silver haired men in pink shirts and linen jackets, sipping bourbon and laughing. 

I can smell her hair and hear my mother's laugh, her indecision at the menu, her pursed lips and the movement of the air around her hands as she rustles through her purse and places her napkin in her lap. 

we dance in the shadows / we walk in the light / we learn from our laughter / we love like we fight / to be free / to be free / to be free

Barcelona, Spain
Thanksgiving 2010