flower moon spell

the petals:

how many witches must cast a spell before it can protect our families, our bodies, our land? the sacred ritual of birth? the innocence in each of us?

how much abundance is needed to satisfy the hunger of cancer? the grasp of loneliness, the ache of desire, the pulse of greed calling?

how many prayers must cross in the sky, at odds, to confuse the gods into hiding? (for isn’t it true that the idea of god corrupts us, tricks us into diminishing our divinity until we forget how to be answers?)

how many children must be warriors for their future, and how do we forget war for the sake of a future?

how many nights will the moon pull the tide of this blood river, until the trauma settles, and even the memory of the trauma, and even the anger and forgetting and getting lost in the shape of the trauma? how many nights until it flows clear in us?

how much dirt must we grip into with our roots before we can trust ourselves to grow all the way out into the light?

flower moon spell:

moon help us shine into the impossible places, and then shed the pain, carrying the lessons into the dark, new, and fertile night. teach us the spells of this time.

gift us abundance without attachment.

let us pray by loving each other without conditions.

let us play, singing blurred words and dancing alone, surrounded by love and the possibility of love.

over and over, take what we can’t carry, with ashes, with water and whispers. and then let the nightbirds sing us to sleep.

humble us, remind us that the dirt is home, the dirt, the mess, is us…the petals fall away.

questions while watching Wild, Wild Country


does this mean i need to reassess my entire tarot practice, since i began with Osho?*

what do these people believe in?

why is sexual satisfaction so scary to people who are officially committed to procreation?

can a small town be racist and also have a point (no flood-of-people-dressed-in-one-color feels like it would just be chill)?

is sheela my hero, and the most competent secretary in history?

is sheela evil??

could sheela exist without bhagwan?

did sheela & bhagwan just put capitalism behind all the things we believe in?

is capitalism what killed this experiment? or is it worshipfulness? or…?

wait, he’s bill clintoning her?

wait, there’s a price on Assata’s head but this pleasant Australian killer lady just out here?**

oooh is this a tale of a bad breakup?

he came out of silence to beef? #sacredpettiness! #pettyguru!

how do we resist/avoid the conditions that create bhagwan? wait, for real where did he begin?***

how do we cultivate loyalty to each other and ideas without the groupthink follower energy of a cult?

is sheela the rib of bhagwan? the root? the container? enabler? mirror? the cold heart? or…?

ok…but is it still possible to have a diverse sexy stylish wild free love back to the earth commune? or is it like fundamentally a jurassic park level dangerous idea no matter what?

* that deck is fire though
** brought to my attention by Janine
*** i need a prequel

storms come

it’s been raining for days. today the sun came out briefly and i noticed that all the colors seemed to be vibrant impressions of themselves.

the rain has not come alone, and it has not gone anywhere but into the dirt. the soil is damp and soft, swallowing temporary steps.

the thunder comes from a long way and then the lightning is exploding just overhead and i can hear the patter of rain against the window and the outer wall. this amazes me, knowing how small raindrops are, that i can hear them at scale. i can hear them through all the layers of my home, over the music, behind the noises from the television. i can hear the rumbling even as i write this, rumbling is a promise of something spectacular coming, but i cannot wait for it tonight, i must sleep. this beginning of the storm will do for now.

it’s as humbling and awe inspiring as anything else, to live in this world of rain that pours in sheets from the sky for days, tiny boisterous rain, cleaning the earth below the topsoil, rivulets carrying away the impossible silencing weight of winter.

it is spring, daunting squall-full spring. let’s see what all this death has made.


storm to do list:

bluster about;

donate to Mia’s breast cancer support fund;

listen to new Andre 3000 tribute to his late parents and cry for days;

read pema chodron classic When Things Fall Apart and center;

dream about a detroit screening of Pleasure Activism contributor Alana Devich Cyril’s new documentary about her battle with stage four cancer and finding pleasure in each day;

fall from great heights into the river that finds itself underground.

“mantra: i die a thousand deaths, and am reborn one thousand and one times.” – #shewolfetarot by @serpentfire

the pace of a lightning storm

I can’t rush
I can’t shrink
I am light but only of darkness
I am the sound of darkness
I am the thick and heavy crash
I look soft I look slow
I am tons I am bigger than ever
praise arcs the sky
gasp, gasp in wonder
you thought you were above.
surrender to going under:

there is a lightning storm out tonight, it is loud and massive and midwest and bright and spectacular. it’s been raining for days, the land is swollen, the river is fast. here is a lesson of lightning: you can’t rush or shrink who you truly are.
and if you have a brief life, let it be bright.
and let the sound be a sign of intimacy.
close enough to quake within, close can be so frightening. show all the way up.
I tried to capture the lightning but you could only see it by being present.

we will not cancel us

We will not cancel us.

We hurt people.

Of course we did, we are human. We were traumatized/socialized away from interdependence. We learned to hide everything real, everything messy, weak, complex. We learned that fake shit hurts, but it’s acceptable.

Our swallowed pain made us a piece of shit, or depressed, or untrustworthy, or paranoid, or impotent, or an egomaniac. We moved with the herd, or became isolationist and contrary, perhaps even controversial. We disappointed each other, at the level of race, gender, species…in a vast way we longed for more from us.

But we will not cancel us.

Canceling is punishment, and punishment doesn’t stop the cycle of harm, not long term. Cancellation may even be counter-abolitionist…instead of prison bars we place each other in an overflowing box of untouchables – often with no trial – and strip us of past and future, of the complexity of being gifted and troubled, brilliant and broken. We will set down this punitive measure and pick each other up, leaving no traumatized person behind.

We will not cancel us. But we must earn our place on this earth.

We will tell each other we hurt people, and who. We will tell each other why, and who hurt us and how. We will tell each other what we will do to heal ourselves, and heal the wounds in our wake. We will be accountable, rigorous in our accountability, all of us unlearning, all of us crawling towards dignity. We will learn to set and hold boundaries, communicate without manipulation, give and receive consent, ask for help, love our shadows without letting them rule our relationships, and remember we are of earth, of miracle, of a whole, of a massive river – love, life, life, love.

We all have work to do. Our work is in the light. We have no perfect moral ground to stand on, shaped as we are by this toxic complex time. We may not have time, or emotional capacity, to walk each path together. We are all flailing in the unknown at the moment, terrified, stretched beyond ourselves, ashamed, realizing the future is in our hands. We must all do our work. Be accountable and go heal, simultaneously, continuously. It’s never too late.

We will not cancel us. If we give up this strategy, we will learn together the other strategies that will ultimately help us break these cycles, liberate future generations from the burden of our shared and private pain, leaving nothing unspeakable in our bones, no shame in our dirt.

Each of us is precious. We, together, must break every cycle that makes us forget this.