A culture transmits its virtues with its myths.
Mythic heroes aren't necessarily gods, but they can be. Always, they are expressions of values and ideals specific to a culture. Sometimes they are subtle, more often they are exaggerations of desirable qualities and the dreams a culture holds dear.
For the last 100 years, American Myths have been created and promulgated by Hollywood. We have exported our myths and they have returned to us.
Myths are always changed by the people who come into contact with them. The reasons American Myths are, like everything else American, a mixture and a hodgepodge. Often conflicted and self contradictory.
Virtue, according to the Wikipedia, is defined as moral excellence. A virtue is a positive trait or quality deemed to be morally good and thus is valued as a foundation of principle and good moral being. Personal virtues are characteristicsvalued as promoting collective and individual greatness.
In today's world, the concept of Virtue seems rather quaint. Childish even. So our myths which keep the Virtues alive are pitched to children. However, a group of humans without an overarching code of conduct, a stated or implicit set of Virtues is not a community in any sense of the word. The agreed upon Virtues are not necessarily something we expect everyone to have, but they are ideals to strive for. In a community, a person with enough Virtues is considered respectable, a person who does not is an outsider.
Each community self defines Virtue and from this our ethics and values are formed. Within the various American subcultures, certain Virtues are valued more than others, but I do believe there is a unique set of Virtues that pretty much most North Americans can agree on.
Social pressure is stronger than laws for controlling the behavior of community members.
I feel strongly that it's long past time to claim our Myths and our Virtues.
I really enjoy comics and I watched The Avengers again. A classic bit of myth from Marvel Comics and Paramount. I enjoyed it, partly because I love comic books as a genre, but more, Avengers is a wonderful example of US American Myth.
For those who haven't seen the movie, and are not comic book people, The Avengers are a team of super heroes. Their leader is a mysterious figure that answers to an equally mysterious, quite literally faceless, Council.
The Femme Fatale is a Russian immigrant by the name of Natasha Romanov AKA Black Widow. The first time we see her, she is tied to a chair, apparently awaiting painful interrogation. By the end of the scene, she has beaten up the bad guys with said chair and picked up her high heels to go find another assignment.
There are two Smart Guys on the team. One is Tony Stark, AKA Iron Man. Genius, billioniare, playboy, philanthropist. Sort of Bill Gates with super powers. He also plays the Handsome Rogue.
The other Smart Guy is Bruce Banner. He is sweet, kind and tormented. With "astounding anger management issues". He's got a Jekyl and Hyde thing going on, turning into the Hulk when he gets pissed.
The By-the-Book Soldier is Captain America. He was trapped in ice from WWII and is a man of his time. He is the military man who is accustomed to fighting wars without moral amibguity.
Rounding out the team is a demigod by the name of Thor. They're properly ambiguous as to whether Thor is really a God god or just some really impressive superhero.
So, a list of some of the Virtues portrayed in this film, in no particular order:
Teamwork
There is an absolutely stunning moment in the film, when our team is surrounded on all sides by hostiles and they prepare to fight and die back to back. This is powerful in our myths, that the power of a team
Justice
In the film, the war they fight is a clear cut, just war. No messy moral ambiguities. Unlike most of the United States' wars. The Bad Guys are clearly marked.
That is one of the primary American Virtues; to fight in defense of Home and Hearth. We dislike thinking of ourselves as an Empire. We like to talk about "just" wars. Most powerfully we use the concept of the "just" war to salve our conscience over the crimes committed in our names.
Interestingly, Captain America, who is a man of his time, is the conscience of the group. Originally a soldier from World War II, he reminds the other team members that although a soldier should follow orders, "Just following orders" is never an excuse.
Cool
By this I mean the "Nothing upsets me, I always think with a clear head and I am rational" sense of the word. This is one of the most highly prized of the North American Virtues. I think that (like all the other Virtues) this one is easily misunderstood. Many people I know think "cool" is a sort of callous cynicism. That hipster I'm-so-cool-the-world-bores-me attitude of studious nonchalance.
People who've been in scary situations know that true "cool" is the person who takes a deep breath and thinks about what needs to be done. Cool is Shackleton in the Antarctic. Cool is the crew of Apollo 13. Cool is the pilot who landed a commercial jet on the Hudson.
Every character in this movie is deeply, deeply cool.
Fairness
This is related to, but not the same as Justice. An unjust law that applies to everyone equally is fair but still unjust.
Courage
The courage of the superheroes is never in question--they're superheroes, but there is a lovely (although predictable moment where an elderly man refuses to kneel before the villain, "I will never kneel before men like you." he says.
The villain replies with, "There are no men like me."
The old man sighs, seeming to resign himself to his fate, "There are always men like you."
The villain raises a weapon to destroy the elderly man and Captain America appears from nowhere to defend the old man.
Most symbolic because it is Captain America. The conscience of the group fighting a just war to defend an ordinary but courageous man from evil.
Competence
Oh, and there's another guy. Phil Coleson. At first glance he is merely a support character. A special agent, he is the teams handler and go-fer. A little lacking in the social skills dept, but extremely affable, very good at his job, and very, very ordinary.
Or he is on the surface. He has ordinary strength, speed and agility for any athletic human, but this looks unimpressive next to the showy superheroes. What he lacks in special powers he more than makes up for in competence.
You see, Phil makes competence into a superpower. Phil is the guy we could be, if we were really, really good at our jobs.
He is a special agent, so he is a marksman. He's really, really good with his gun. He's got normal hand to hand skills, but he's really, really good at it. He specializes in logistics, so people always have everything they need.
Most powerfully, he understand what makes people tick. He's really, really good at managing them.
There are other Virtues I could unpack, but those are the ones that leap out at me. Mythic heroes are reflections of what we could be. Arguably what we should be. Sadly, Virtues in North America appear to have been relegated to the realm of fairy tales.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Size-ism, Able-ism, Disgust and Compassion or If I'm a Pagan, how come I meet Christ so often?
In my first post in this blog, I mentioned that one of the Gods of my house is Christ in his guise as homeless dude.
I've met Christ several times in my life--Not literally (I don't think, but perhaps I'm wrong), but in the "I greet the divinity within you" sort of way.
Last week I met him in the form of a possibly drug addled, traumatized, toothless, middle aged white man.
The thing is, whenever I've met Christ, He's always in the form of someone who would normally inspire both fear and disgust. It is my obligation, my intention, my wyrd to overcome both, in order to see Him.
There was a bit of a kerfuffle just before we got there, about accepting a women to the shelter because she had higher medical needs than we could cope with. The medical supervisor called around to the various shelters that handled nursing home level of medical needs. For hours she did this. None of them would take her.
The problem was not her medical issues: She walked with a cane and needed help getting in and out of bed. She communicated just fine, albeit slowly. Had control over her bodily functions. She was on numerous medications, had a bunch of chronic problems. This would doubtless why she was receiving the level of care she was getting.
The problem then? Her weight.
In what I can only think of as rampant size-ism, these places complained that they couldn't find a bariatric (specially made for fat people) cot (we had one, we could have sent one). They complained that they didn't have equipment. They complained they didn't have staff.
In other words, she was too fat to be sheltered. At less than five foot, she probably weighed 400lbs. She had a lot of the issues that one would see in a person of that size. So, they would turn her away because of it.
The woman was kept hanging like this until Mister Toothless White Guy says to the shelter manager and medical supervisor, "You know what? I live in the same building as her. She's fine. We'll (the other shelter residents) help her out. She should stay here."
And as it turned out, people did help. People made sure she got three meals a day, they talked to her, they helped her to the bathroom and the shower. Perhaps there was some comments about her size, but I never heard them.
One of my night shifts, one of the other night staff came to tell me that this woman needed help getting to the bathroom. There was a look on his face that I really couldn't place. The nursing supervisor was catching a nap and I was really reluctant to wake her. On the other hand, the worker seemed to be implying that this was a major undertaking. I decided to see what I could do without waking the supervisor. I figured I could always call her if I needed to.
I went down to the dorm and found the female police officer and the male shelter manager trying to help her up. They both were clearly uncomfortable, but mostly because this involved helping someone rather intimately.
I was concerned that, the way everyone was acting, that we had to carry her to the restroom.
Really, it was surprisingly easy. She had some of the typical motor control issues that you see in stroke patient but she was able to swing her legs out of bed with only a little help. She was practiced at using her cane to pull herself up. From there, I walked beside her to the restroom. Really, I was only there to make sure she didn't lose her balance.
I asked her if she needed help in the rest room and she said, "No, thank you." and I just waited outside. When she was done, she walked her own self back to her bed, with only a very little bit of help. She needed help getting into her bed, as again, the motor control on her legs was not good.
That done, I left, wondering what all the fuss was about.
In retrospect, I realize the male shelter workers expression was disgust, that great killer of compassion.
I'd heard that before. I know that Kali is all about overcoming disgust, but I'd never had it brought home to me what a huge deal it was.
Our fat woman had some problems that inspired disgust in this normally (I'm pretty sure that people who don't have compassion don't work for the Red Cross) pretty compassionate man.
First, and most obviously was her size. Second was the fact that she was a little whiffy--she'd been wearing the same clothes for days because she'd lost literally everything and (big surprise) we didn't have any clothes that would fit her. She also had trouble bathing, because (another big surprise) she really couldn't do it herself.
The man muttered darkly about her but I didn't catch it (ok, I was mentally going "lalalalalala I can't hear you!"). It seemed to be a weight thing, as though her weight issues were causing the other things. Actually, given the neurological issues, I doubt she could have done those things anyway.
This was when Toothless White Guy entered the scene. He very politely asked if he could have a word. I really though he was going to complain about her. Instead, he asked me if I could make sure to write a report for her case manager, outlining her needs. He spent a long time with me. There was no condescension in his manner, no sense of anything but pure concern.
Toothless White Guy had nothing in the world but the clothes on his back.
I mentioned how sweet I found our lady. He agreed that she was very sweet, but then very seriously told me, "And even if she were an asshole, she'd still deserve the care."
He smiled toothlessly at me,and I realized I had, for perhaps the third time in my life, met Christ.
As I said, not literally, but I cannot think of anything quite so Christ-like--going out of his way to care for a woman who frankly is suffering from a type of modern day leprosy (the social stigma, not the actual disease). No one would have blamed him if he had just ignored the whole thing, it wasn't his problem. But his actions inspired the compassion of others. I noticed how many people helped this woman, before I left. All people who didn't have to. She never lacked for company or help.
I found myself thinking about a friend of mine, wishing I could offer more concrete help. But she lives three hours away from me has Mulitple Chemical Sensitivity and I don't kid myself that I am anything but toxic (I don't do scents, or cosmetics, air fresheners, but we have a wood stove and I use cheap ass shampoo and Arm and Hammer detergent on my clothes so they don't smell) to her. I worry about her and have done what I can. She's another one suffering from metaphoric leprosy, only hers is of the "Middle-aged-woman with weird health care issues" variety. This makes her a bad patient. She is the bad poor person because she won't shut up. She doesn't "know her place".
Another friend who is fleeing a bad marriage suffers from it too. All those people she thought would support her have evaporated. Again, I can only offer my sympathetic ears
Having met Christ, I think a prayer to him and hope he can help the all the people who need it navigate the Byzantine maze of so-called aid organizations. Perhaps Christ is the patron God of those who seek compassion?
A little note about my use of the term "fat": "Fat" is a descriptor, not a value judgment. It is an adjetive like "Short" or "Tall" and is preferred by many size positive people.
I've met Christ several times in my life--Not literally (I don't think, but perhaps I'm wrong), but in the "I greet the divinity within you" sort of way.
Last week I met him in the form of a possibly drug addled, traumatized, toothless, middle aged white man.
The thing is, whenever I've met Christ, He's always in the form of someone who would normally inspire both fear and disgust. It is my obligation, my intention, my wyrd to overcome both, in order to see Him.
There was a bit of a kerfuffle just before we got there, about accepting a women to the shelter because she had higher medical needs than we could cope with. The medical supervisor called around to the various shelters that handled nursing home level of medical needs. For hours she did this. None of them would take her.
The problem was not her medical issues: She walked with a cane and needed help getting in and out of bed. She communicated just fine, albeit slowly. Had control over her bodily functions. She was on numerous medications, had a bunch of chronic problems. This would doubtless why she was receiving the level of care she was getting.
The problem then? Her weight.
In what I can only think of as rampant size-ism, these places complained that they couldn't find a bariatric (specially made for fat people) cot (we had one, we could have sent one). They complained that they didn't have equipment. They complained they didn't have staff.
In other words, she was too fat to be sheltered. At less than five foot, she probably weighed 400lbs. She had a lot of the issues that one would see in a person of that size. So, they would turn her away because of it.
The woman was kept hanging like this until Mister Toothless White Guy says to the shelter manager and medical supervisor, "You know what? I live in the same building as her. She's fine. We'll (the other shelter residents) help her out. She should stay here."
And as it turned out, people did help. People made sure she got three meals a day, they talked to her, they helped her to the bathroom and the shower. Perhaps there was some comments about her size, but I never heard them.
One of my night shifts, one of the other night staff came to tell me that this woman needed help getting to the bathroom. There was a look on his face that I really couldn't place. The nursing supervisor was catching a nap and I was really reluctant to wake her. On the other hand, the worker seemed to be implying that this was a major undertaking. I decided to see what I could do without waking the supervisor. I figured I could always call her if I needed to.
I went down to the dorm and found the female police officer and the male shelter manager trying to help her up. They both were clearly uncomfortable, but mostly because this involved helping someone rather intimately.
I was concerned that, the way everyone was acting, that we had to carry her to the restroom.
Really, it was surprisingly easy. She had some of the typical motor control issues that you see in stroke patient but she was able to swing her legs out of bed with only a little help. She was practiced at using her cane to pull herself up. From there, I walked beside her to the restroom. Really, I was only there to make sure she didn't lose her balance.
I asked her if she needed help in the rest room and she said, "No, thank you." and I just waited outside. When she was done, she walked her own self back to her bed, with only a very little bit of help. She needed help getting into her bed, as again, the motor control on her legs was not good.
That done, I left, wondering what all the fuss was about.
In retrospect, I realize the male shelter workers expression was disgust, that great killer of compassion.
I'd heard that before. I know that Kali is all about overcoming disgust, but I'd never had it brought home to me what a huge deal it was.
Our fat woman had some problems that inspired disgust in this normally (I'm pretty sure that people who don't have compassion don't work for the Red Cross) pretty compassionate man.
First, and most obviously was her size. Second was the fact that she was a little whiffy--she'd been wearing the same clothes for days because she'd lost literally everything and (big surprise) we didn't have any clothes that would fit her. She also had trouble bathing, because (another big surprise) she really couldn't do it herself.
The man muttered darkly about her but I didn't catch it (ok, I was mentally going "lalalalalala I can't hear you!"). It seemed to be a weight thing, as though her weight issues were causing the other things. Actually, given the neurological issues, I doubt she could have done those things anyway.
This was when Toothless White Guy entered the scene. He very politely asked if he could have a word. I really though he was going to complain about her. Instead, he asked me if I could make sure to write a report for her case manager, outlining her needs. He spent a long time with me. There was no condescension in his manner, no sense of anything but pure concern.
Toothless White Guy had nothing in the world but the clothes on his back.
I mentioned how sweet I found our lady. He agreed that she was very sweet, but then very seriously told me, "And even if she were an asshole, she'd still deserve the care."
He smiled toothlessly at me,and I realized I had, for perhaps the third time in my life, met Christ.
As I said, not literally, but I cannot think of anything quite so Christ-like--going out of his way to care for a woman who frankly is suffering from a type of modern day leprosy (the social stigma, not the actual disease). No one would have blamed him if he had just ignored the whole thing, it wasn't his problem. But his actions inspired the compassion of others. I noticed how many people helped this woman, before I left. All people who didn't have to. She never lacked for company or help.
I found myself thinking about a friend of mine, wishing I could offer more concrete help. But she lives three hours away from me has Mulitple Chemical Sensitivity and I don't kid myself that I am anything but toxic (I don't do scents, or cosmetics, air fresheners, but we have a wood stove and I use cheap ass shampoo and Arm and Hammer detergent on my clothes so they don't smell) to her. I worry about her and have done what I can. She's another one suffering from metaphoric leprosy, only hers is of the "Middle-aged-woman with weird health care issues" variety. This makes her a bad patient. She is the bad poor person because she won't shut up. She doesn't "know her place".
Another friend who is fleeing a bad marriage suffers from it too. All those people she thought would support her have evaporated. Again, I can only offer my sympathetic ears
Having met Christ, I think a prayer to him and hope he can help the all the people who need it navigate the Byzantine maze of so-called aid organizations. Perhaps Christ is the patron God of those who seek compassion?
A little note about my use of the term "fat": "Fat" is a descriptor, not a value judgment. It is an adjetive like "Short" or "Tall" and is preferred by many size positive people.
All The Creatures
So here's where I've been sleeping. It's the weight room in the athletic building that the Red Cross is using as a shelter. I brought my backpack and hiking gear, which seems like a good decision. They are currently short of housing for shelter volunteers and since I'm so short term, I'm happy to stay at the shelter and sleep on a cot.
The shelter I am working in is one of those that can accommodate animals. They have a heated trailer out back staffed by volunteers. We went outside for some kitteh and puppy therapy.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Shelter in the storm
We arrived at 10:00 this morning at Red Cross headquarters. They sent us to an orientation class. After we identified ourselves as health care workers, we were "fast tracked" in regards to assignments.
It took two hours to get us an assignment--the Red Cross headquarters were less than organized chaos. The nor'easter was spooking everyone. The Weather Channel is calling this storm Athena:
We're now expecting six inches, if this is to be believed.
Five minutes after we left the headquarters, the Red Cross issued a travel ban, but we were already on the road, and honestly it wasn't bad yet.
The shelter Tanya and I arrived at had on nurse who'd been on for at least 24 hours. She'd been promised an EMT the night before who never arrived.
So, it seems that Tanya and I are going to be here through tomorrow evening. I'm working 12:00 to 8:00. Tanya worked 4:00PM-8:00PM and will work 8:00AM-8:00PM. In all likelyhood I will work tomorrow from 8PM to 8AM.
We took our supplies to the Occupy drop point because they seem to be the ones who are doing the best job distributing things. Here's what was bought:
Gas lines were back again today and many stations said "No gas".
So here's us in our vests:
Tanya is better at taking pictures than I am.
It may be that we will see an influx of residents tonight or tomorrow. Or perhaps not. We'll see.
Things are really difficult down here. Everyone seems to be waiting for the locusts and pestilence along with the governor.
One thing that we're expecting is that people who can no longer afford to stay in hotels will have to come to the shelters, as perhaps, people who've already been ten days without heat.
We're seeing utility companies from all over, but its tough to work in this stuff.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Arrived!
We have arrived safely in NJ. So far, except that we keep seeing people with lots of stuff in the backs of their cars and on trailers, you wouldn't know that much is wrong here.
However, under the surface you can hear the anxiety. Lots of people talking about this or that persons house gone, people still without power.
We waited for gas in Ramapo for twenty minutes. That was nothing, compared to some of the lines.
Once inside NJ proper, about half the gas stations were closed and some stores didn't have power.
We dropped off our donations at the Lyndhurst Police station, where Occupy is gathering them. Everyone seems to agree that Occupy is doing the best job of distributing things.
Going to head into the Red Cross in the morning.
However, under the surface you can hear the anxiety. Lots of people talking about this or that persons house gone, people still without power.
We waited for gas in Ramapo for twenty minutes. That was nothing, compared to some of the lines.
Once inside NJ proper, about half the gas stations were closed and some stores didn't have power.
We dropped off our donations at the Lyndhurst Police station, where Occupy is gathering them. Everyone seems to agree that Occupy is doing the best job of distributing things.
Going to head into the Red Cross in the morning.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Paganaidd becomes Pagan Aid!
I'm heading down to volunteer with the Red Cross in New Jersey day after tomorrow. Praying to the God of the Roads to keep me safe while I do so.
If anyone wants to contribute monetarily, I've got a microgiving account opened
Prayers and good thoughts are also appreciated!
If anyone wants to contribute monetarily, I've got a microgiving account opened
Prayers and good thoughts are also appreciated!
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Omens
A bird in the house. Red and white flowers with no other flowers in the arrangement. A red blanket on a white bed.
These were the worst of omens when I was growing up.
Along with new shoes on the table, blood on the doorstep, salt spilled on the table.
But my family wasn't superstitious.
If a bird gets in the house, there's going to be a death.
Red and white, an accident. In the UK hospitals where my great Aunt used to be a nurse, if someone sent a red and white flower arrangement, it was a sign that someone on the ward would die.
New shoes on the table, bad news.
Blood on the doorstep, very bad news.
Salt spilled, the Devil's in the house.
Any of these sound familiar to anyone else? I've seen them in books about the Appalachians and heard them from New Englanders and Southerners. Westerners?
Animism can stand beside any other brand of religion, I think. Even Monotheists want to propitiate the local spirits.
Once upon a time it was hex signs and witch's bottles. Now it's affirmations and "The Secret."
I think its very important to think about these beliefs; it is through this unconscious Animism that I first came to an understanding of my own beliefs in the sentience of everything.
Not every bird is an omen, but when one starts to persistently insist on being in your house, that's something to think about.
Blood on the doorstep doesn't mean much when its accompanied by the body of the mouse your kitty dropped off for you. It's different when it's red drops against white snow and you don't have any animals to either cut their feet or bring you presents.
It's the weird thing that grabs our attention.
I've wondered before what the purpose of omens are. They don't tend to be helpful in forearming people for hard times. They're so darn vague that, generally, one never has any idea what they're about.
But, like so much about the way we view the world, that's a rather human-centric idea, that the omens would be good for us.
What if omens were just a result of interacting with the world?
There's this idea that time as a linear thing only seems that way because of human perception. I won't go into that, because it starts to hurt my head to think about it too much. Suffice to say that, to quote Dr Who, "It's all wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey...stuff." The perception of time can, perhaps, be bent and and perceived in advance.
According to a Cornell researcher, our lymbic systems (where many of our emotions arise from and what can just shut down our higher cognitive functions in a pinch), can perceive events before they happen, especially those events that are emotionally charged.
So, perhaps our interaction with the natural world, combined with these perceptions, produce the omens, dreams or precognitive moments that happen so frequently to people.
Most of the time, a raven is a raven and we don't see it or think about it. Every so often, when some powerful event is about to happen, we get that weird peek through time. Our mind must give it context, so one gets a deep chill from the raven that is cawing on the branch in the yard.
In other words, we are merely noticing these meaningful symbols in reaction to these moments of perceptual breakthrough.
So, omens are not necessarily helpful. They just are.
As an Animist, I can accept that those being that I have forged alliances with, might be trying to communicate in their own alien (in the sense that they are non human intelligences) way.
Some years ago, I had a week where I kept seeing foxes everywhere. Pictures of foxes ended up being sent to me by email. I say foxes in stores, on bumper stickers, all kinds of places. One day I looked outside to see a fox standing in the middle of the yard, looking at me. I was invited to a talk a psychic was giving and she, in the middle of the Q & A session looked at me and asked, "Did you know you have a fox totem?"
So I go and look up foxes--Here's what I find:
A week later, I found myself in the situation where all of these things were true. So, for whatever reason, Fox had taken an interest in me because I needed her (the fox I saw was a vixen with kits). Why? I couldn't tell you, but Fox is one of the spirits that chose me I guess.
As far as omens in general go, it doesn't do to get too hung up on them, unless they are clear enough that they supply you with a way to change your future. Most of the time, a raven is just a raven.
These were the worst of omens when I was growing up.
Along with new shoes on the table, blood on the doorstep, salt spilled on the table.
But my family wasn't superstitious.
If a bird gets in the house, there's going to be a death.
Red and white, an accident. In the UK hospitals where my great Aunt used to be a nurse, if someone sent a red and white flower arrangement, it was a sign that someone on the ward would die.
New shoes on the table, bad news.
Blood on the doorstep, very bad news.
Salt spilled, the Devil's in the house.
Any of these sound familiar to anyone else? I've seen them in books about the Appalachians and heard them from New Englanders and Southerners. Westerners?
Animism can stand beside any other brand of religion, I think. Even Monotheists want to propitiate the local spirits.
Once upon a time it was hex signs and witch's bottles. Now it's affirmations and "The Secret."
I think its very important to think about these beliefs; it is through this unconscious Animism that I first came to an understanding of my own beliefs in the sentience of everything.
Not every bird is an omen, but when one starts to persistently insist on being in your house, that's something to think about.
Blood on the doorstep doesn't mean much when its accompanied by the body of the mouse your kitty dropped off for you. It's different when it's red drops against white snow and you don't have any animals to either cut their feet or bring you presents.
It's the weird thing that grabs our attention.
I've wondered before what the purpose of omens are. They don't tend to be helpful in forearming people for hard times. They're so darn vague that, generally, one never has any idea what they're about.
But, like so much about the way we view the world, that's a rather human-centric idea, that the omens would be good for us.
What if omens were just a result of interacting with the world?
There's this idea that time as a linear thing only seems that way because of human perception. I won't go into that, because it starts to hurt my head to think about it too much. Suffice to say that, to quote Dr Who, "It's all wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey...stuff." The perception of time can, perhaps, be bent and and perceived in advance.
According to a Cornell researcher, our lymbic systems (where many of our emotions arise from and what can just shut down our higher cognitive functions in a pinch), can perceive events before they happen, especially those events that are emotionally charged.
So, perhaps our interaction with the natural world, combined with these perceptions, produce the omens, dreams or precognitive moments that happen so frequently to people.
Most of the time, a raven is a raven and we don't see it or think about it. Every so often, when some powerful event is about to happen, we get that weird peek through time. Our mind must give it context, so one gets a deep chill from the raven that is cawing on the branch in the yard.
So, omens are not necessarily helpful. They just are.
As an Animist, I can accept that those being that I have forged alliances with, might be trying to communicate in their own alien (in the sense that they are non human intelligences) way.
Some years ago, I had a week where I kept seeing foxes everywhere. Pictures of foxes ended up being sent to me by email. I say foxes in stores, on bumper stickers, all kinds of places. One day I looked outside to see a fox standing in the middle of the yard, looking at me. I was invited to a talk a psychic was giving and she, in the middle of the Q & A session looked at me and asked, "Did you know you have a fox totem?"
So I go and look up foxes--Here's what I find:
The fox encourages us to think outside of the box and use our intelligence in different, creative ways. The fox also brings us a message to try to approach our circumstances differently that we normally would. Be aware of some of our habits, and try a different angle of action.
The fox also a reminder that we must utilize all of our resources (seen and unseen) in order to accomplish our goals. Sometimes this means calling upon some unorthodox methods.
Furthermore, the fox is a sign to be mindful of our surroundings.
Phenomenally effective shapeshifters and incredibly adaptable, the fox beckons us to not make too many waves but rather, adapt to our surroundings, blend into it, and use our surroundings (and circumstances) to our advantage.
As far as omens in general go, it doesn't do to get too hung up on them, unless they are clear enough that they supply you with a way to change your future. Most of the time, a raven is just a raven.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Heather needs help
My friend Heather over at Adventures in Animism is in serious need. She can no longer live in her apartment due to Multiple Chemical Sensitivity. I've set up a microfunding site for her.
She needs a safe place to live. If you are one of her followers and you can spare anything, you would have my deepest gratitude.
She needs a safe place to live. If you are one of her followers and you can spare anything, you would have my deepest gratitude.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Juneteenth
I'm not a summer solstice celebrator. I tried, I really did, when I was younger and attempting to do the Celtic Recon thing, but it just never really spoke to me.
What does speak to me is Juneteenth. This is the 19th of June: The annual National Day of Reconciliation and Healing from the Legacy of Enslavement (This year the official celebration was on the 15th, but the original holiday was June the 19th).
That is something to be celebrated.
Here's what Wikipedia has to say about it's origins:
What does speak to me is Juneteenth. This is the 19th of June: The annual National Day of Reconciliation and Healing from the Legacy of Enslavement (This year the official celebration was on the 15th, but the original holiday was June the 19th).
That is something to be celebrated.
Here's what Wikipedia has to say about it's origins:
Though Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation on September 22, 1862, with an effective date of January 1, 1863, it had minimal immediate effect on most slaves’ day-to-day lives, particularly in the Confederate States of America. Texas, as a part of the Confederacy, was resistant to the Emancipation Proclamation, and though slavery was very prevalent in East Texas, it was not as common in the Western areas of Texas, particularly the Hill Country, where most German-Americans were opposed to the practice. Juneteenth commemorates June 18 and 19, 1865. June 18 is the day Union General Gordon Granger and 2,000 federal troops arrived inGalveston, Texas, to take possession of the state and enforce the emancipation of its slaves. On June 19, 1865, legend has it while standing on the balcony of Galveston’s Ashton Villa, Granger read the contents of “General Order No. 3”:
"The people of Texas are informed that, in accordance with a proclamation from the Executive of the United States, all slaves are free. This involves an absolute equality of personal rights and rights of property between former masters and slaves, and the connection heretofore existing between them becomes that between employer and hired labor. The freedmen are advised to remain quietly at their present homes and work for wages. They are informed that they will not be allowed to collect at military posts and that they will not be supported in idleness either there or elsewhere."
That day has since become known as Juneteenth, a name coming from a portmanteau of the words June and teenth like nineteenth and other numbers ending with -teenth.
The holiday went into decline around the Depression, but has seen a resurgence in its observance since 1994.
I lived in Louisiana in the late nineties, and that was where I first heard of it. A day of healing and reconciliation. Not a solemn holiday, but a celebratory one. To celebrate the first steps this country took into actually making real the promise of "All men are created equal".
I found a rather pleasing piece of history the other day. Many African American surnames are Welsh; Evans, Davis, Jones, Morgan and Floyd (from the Welsh Lloyd which is pronounced with an odd aspirant that doesn't exist in English--the word means "Brown"). There were not many Welsh slave owners, so these names didn't come from owners. Turns out, there were many Welsh Quakers in the Underground Railroad. Moreover, these Welsh Churches welcomed freed men and women into their midsts. The newly freed people often took common surnames of others at their church.
Being Welsh, these are ancestors I can feel good about. The Welsh of this land. Celtic spirits I can honor and respect.
So, Happy Juneteenth everyone!
I found a rather pleasing piece of history the other day. Many African American surnames are Welsh; Evans, Davis, Jones, Morgan and Floyd (from the Welsh Lloyd which is pronounced with an odd aspirant that doesn't exist in English--the word means "Brown"). There were not many Welsh slave owners, so these names didn't come from owners. Turns out, there were many Welsh Quakers in the Underground Railroad. Moreover, these Welsh Churches welcomed freed men and women into their midsts. The newly freed people often took common surnames of others at their church.
Being Welsh, these are ancestors I can feel good about. The Welsh of this land. Celtic spirits I can honor and respect.
So, Happy Juneteenth everyone!
Monday, May 28, 2012
Memorial Day
The second Holiday in the Americana Animist wheel of the year.
Memorial Day is the official start of Summer to most Americans. Sure, most of the kids have two or three more weeks of school, but this is the first long weekend of the summer. Parties and barbeques abound.
Strange that a solemn feast should be celebrated that way, but solemnity is tough for us, I think. There will be ceremonies at monuments and cemeteries, laying wreaths and and hearing speeches, but after that beer and hamburgers.
Memorial Day never fails to make me sad.
There is only a part of this country fighting a war. They have been fighting a war for years. We see it on the news, but it hardly touches most of us.
This photo has been floating around the web for years, and it is true. Most of the people who go into the military, go in because there is very little opportunity for them elsewhere.
Recruiters are commonly accused of selling the military life to people to whom higher education is nearly impossible due to economic constraints and these are kids who desperately want to improve their circumstances.
They come home with injuries that go deeper than skin and bone. For the second year running, we lost more troops to suicide than to combat.
We're losing these children to failures of leadership. They go, they do what they're told to do. What the leaders tell them is right to do. And then, they come home to a country that doesn't care about them (Don't even make me start about what a nightmare it is to get treated at the VA), to houses in forclosure, and not a job in sight. Is it any wonder the domestic violence statistics for the military are ridiculously high?
Count the significant others of the military veterans who are victims of this war too, and the human cost is astronomical.
While we're on the subject, sexual assault in the military is endemic. Women in the military now have more chance of being sexually assaulted than being injured in the course of their duties.
I'm one of those people who've occasionally bought a serviceman their lunch anonymously. I don't go to memorials or parades. I don't like crowds and the memorials are too sad. I really dislike the rhetoric of "honoring the troops". How about we just stop sending them to wars we don't need to fight and treat the injuries they come home with?
When my family goes to Washington DC, we visit the different monuments. I like the Korean War Monument--life size statues of soldiers, all with thousand yard stares. They remind you
When I worked in the homeless shelter, twenty years ago, we had lots of vets. Its a cliche, isn't it? The veteran who ends up a homeless junkie or a drunk?
One of the first descriptions of PTSD appears in Norse mythology. It's where we get the term "berserk".
Jonathan Shay, MD, a psychiatrist and researcher in this field, makes a connection between the berserker rage of soldiers and the hyperarousal of post-traumatic stress disorder. In Achilles in Vietnam he writes:
Another war word from Old English is fæge (pronounced fa-yah), existing in modern English as "fey". It means "doomed to die". More correctly, I suppose it means someone who thinks they are going to die in the next battle. If they don't actually die, they were said to have their soul already halfway to the next world.
How many of our service people are coming home both fey and berserk?
On this weekend, if you're the type to go to memorials, remember the living as well as the dead.
Memorial Day is the official start of Summer to most Americans. Sure, most of the kids have two or three more weeks of school, but this is the first long weekend of the summer. Parties and barbeques abound.
Strange that a solemn feast should be celebrated that way, but solemnity is tough for us, I think. There will be ceremonies at monuments and cemeteries, laying wreaths and and hearing speeches, but after that beer and hamburgers.
Memorial Day never fails to make me sad.
There is only a part of this country fighting a war. They have been fighting a war for years. We see it on the news, but it hardly touches most of us.
Recruiters are commonly accused of selling the military life to people to whom higher education is nearly impossible due to economic constraints and these are kids who desperately want to improve their circumstances.
They come home with injuries that go deeper than skin and bone. For the second year running, we lost more troops to suicide than to combat.
We're losing these children to failures of leadership. They go, they do what they're told to do. What the leaders tell them is right to do. And then, they come home to a country that doesn't care about them (Don't even make me start about what a nightmare it is to get treated at the VA), to houses in forclosure, and not a job in sight. Is it any wonder the domestic violence statistics for the military are ridiculously high?
Count the significant others of the military veterans who are victims of this war too, and the human cost is astronomical.
While we're on the subject, sexual assault in the military is endemic. Women in the military now have more chance of being sexually assaulted than being injured in the course of their duties.
I'm one of those people who've occasionally bought a serviceman their lunch anonymously. I don't go to memorials or parades. I don't like crowds and the memorials are too sad. I really dislike the rhetoric of "honoring the troops". How about we just stop sending them to wars we don't need to fight and treat the injuries they come home with?
When my family goes to Washington DC, we visit the different monuments. I like the Korean War Monument--life size statues of soldiers, all with thousand yard stares. They remind you
One of the first descriptions of PTSD appears in Norse mythology. It's where we get the term "berserk".
Jonathan Shay, MD, a psychiatrist and researcher in this field, makes a connection between the berserker rage of soldiers and the hyperarousal of post-traumatic stress disorder. In Achilles in Vietnam he writes:
If a soldier survives the berserk state, it imparts emotional deadness and vulnerability to explosive rage to his psychology and permanent hyperarousal to his physiology — hallmarks of post-traumatic stress disorder in combat veterans. My clinical experience with Vietnam combat veterans prompts me to place the berserk state at the heart of their most severe psychological and psychophysiological injuries.[12]
Another war word from Old English is fæge (pronounced fa-yah), existing in modern English as "fey". It means "doomed to die". More correctly, I suppose it means someone who thinks they are going to die in the next battle. If they don't actually die, they were said to have their soul already halfway to the next world.
How many of our service people are coming home both fey and berserk?
On this weekend, if you're the type to go to memorials, remember the living as well as the dead.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
The Witch of November, One Spirit of The Great Lakes
Although it is May, not November, I've had this on my mind to write for a while. I wanted to talk a little about weather phenomena and one of my favorite songs.
I spent most of my childhood on the Great Lakes. Mostly in Southeastern Michigan, but we visited all the Lakes at one time or another.
I have always had this idea that the Great Lakes like their human inhabitants. The cities on their shores inspire fierce loyalty in their people. Ask any true Detroiter or Chicagoan about their city, even in these days of urban collapse and decay, and you'll hear stories of beauty and renewal.
If you have never been to the Lakes, you have to remember that they are not really lakes. They are freshwater inland seas. In other words, they are huge. When cousins from the UK used to visit, they were always waiting for the tide to come in or go out. They couldn't wrap their heads around a lake that one couldn't see the other side of.
Years ago, there was an effort by Vermont to include Lake Champlain into the Great Lakes system. Sorry, Vermont. I love you, and Lake Champlain is a pretty darn good lake, but the Great Lakes are things unto themselves.
The Great Lakes are big enough to form their own weather systems. The most common one is "lake effect snow", familiar to anyone who lives to the east of one of the Lakes.
The other common weather phenomenon is both more sinister and more romantic sounding; The November Witch, as made famous by the song "The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald" by Gordon Lightfoot.
If you don't remember the Gordon Lightfoot song, here is an awesome cover that includes the radio chatter from that night. Here is the transcription of the radio transmissions that can be heard in the recording.
I find radio recordings, such as these, especially moving tributes. They seem to open the doors between the worlds, like nothing else does. This particular cover makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
The Witch is not something Lightfoot made up, but the name of a particular type of November gale. She's been known to be deadly since we've had records of sailing on the Lakes.
Weather is a mindless force and the analytic part of our brain understands it that way. On another level, however, our intuition forces us to deal with these mindless forces as if they had intelligence. Apparently, it must work well for our species, because we have been able to live in every climate on the planet--never mind that we are a tropical species.
So, we feel the weather as a living thing. It's not even spiritual, but visceral. Otherwise, why would we give hurricanes names? Why do we call a November gale "The Witch"?
As I said, I have always felt that the Lakes are quite content to have people living on their shores. They have always been very generous. So much of this country's wealth in the 20th Century was concentrated right there. I know that now, it's considered "flyover country", but consider that, from about 1950 to about 1975 that was where our wealth was. Those same Lakes supply water to millions of people, and continue to be a major waterway for trade.
There's this idea that sailors are superstitious. The ones I have known were not. Mostly they were just very knowledgable about their craft. In the absence NOAA and radar (and even with them) sailors have to read the weather and water. Their lives depend on the water. They love it and they fear it.
Love and fear are perhaps the best description the Animist's attitude for approaching the natural world. Not panic or phobic fear, but that sharp little spike of adrenaline that keeps you awake and alert. The fear that prevents a bad case of stupid.
I spent most of my childhood on the Great Lakes. Mostly in Southeastern Michigan, but we visited all the Lakes at one time or another.
I have always had this idea that the Great Lakes like their human inhabitants. The cities on their shores inspire fierce loyalty in their people. Ask any true Detroiter or Chicagoan about their city, even in these days of urban collapse and decay, and you'll hear stories of beauty and renewal.
If you have never been to the Lakes, you have to remember that they are not really lakes. They are freshwater inland seas. In other words, they are huge. When cousins from the UK used to visit, they were always waiting for the tide to come in or go out. They couldn't wrap their heads around a lake that one couldn't see the other side of.
Years ago, there was an effort by Vermont to include Lake Champlain into the Great Lakes system. Sorry, Vermont. I love you, and Lake Champlain is a pretty darn good lake, but the Great Lakes are things unto themselves.
The Great Lakes are big enough to form their own weather systems. The most common one is "lake effect snow", familiar to anyone who lives to the east of one of the Lakes.
The other common weather phenomenon is both more sinister and more romantic sounding; The November Witch, as made famous by the song "The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald" by Gordon Lightfoot.
If you don't remember the Gordon Lightfoot song, here is an awesome cover that includes the radio chatter from that night. Here is the transcription of the radio transmissions that can be heard in the recording.
I find radio recordings, such as these, especially moving tributes. They seem to open the doors between the worlds, like nothing else does. This particular cover makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
The Witch is not something Lightfoot made up, but the name of a particular type of November gale. She's been known to be deadly since we've had records of sailing on the Lakes.
Weather is a mindless force and the analytic part of our brain understands it that way. On another level, however, our intuition forces us to deal with these mindless forces as if they had intelligence. Apparently, it must work well for our species, because we have been able to live in every climate on the planet--never mind that we are a tropical species.
So, we feel the weather as a living thing. It's not even spiritual, but visceral. Otherwise, why would we give hurricanes names? Why do we call a November gale "The Witch"?
As I said, I have always felt that the Lakes are quite content to have people living on their shores. They have always been very generous. So much of this country's wealth in the 20th Century was concentrated right there. I know that now, it's considered "flyover country", but consider that, from about 1950 to about 1975 that was where our wealth was. Those same Lakes supply water to millions of people, and continue to be a major waterway for trade.
There's this idea that sailors are superstitious. The ones I have known were not. Mostly they were just very knowledgable about their craft. In the absence NOAA and radar (and even with them) sailors have to read the weather and water. Their lives depend on the water. They love it and they fear it.
Love and fear are perhaps the best description the Animist's attitude for approaching the natural world. Not panic or phobic fear, but that sharp little spike of adrenaline that keeps you awake and alert. The fear that prevents a bad case of stupid.
Friday, May 11, 2012
The Imposition of Meaning
Although I have not been a Catholic for many years, the Catholic church does have one custom that I like. When one is suffering, one "offers up" one's suffering to God as a type of sacrifice or holy work. The sad, the suffering, and the afflicted then are to be seen as holy warriors rather than as victims. Or worse, as people whom God was angry with.
When my mother first developed Rhuematoid Arthritis, in her 40's, she used to say "I better offer up this pain to the Blessed Virgin."
I was never sure what she was offering the pain up for, until after my daughter was born. She said she always offered up her pain to the Blessed Virgin, that her children should be protected. She said it must have been accepted, because I and my sister-in-law had given her three granddaughters (and later a grandson) without complications.My mother saw her disease as a holy work. A long, intricate spell that was woven through her life.
She never believed that God sent her the pain, mind you. Pain and suffering were just things that happened. A big part of her religion was always to impose meaning on her own suffering.
If there is to be meaning to suffering, it must be imposed by the person suffering. Somehow, for her, "offering up" her pain somehow made it more bearable.
When people have a close call, such as surviving a plane crash or a car wreck, they say, "God was with me."
When my mother first developed Rhuematoid Arthritis, in her 40's, she used to say "I better offer up this pain to the Blessed Virgin."
I was never sure what she was offering the pain up for, until after my daughter was born. She said she always offered up her pain to the Blessed Virgin, that her children should be protected. She said it must have been accepted, because I and my sister-in-law had given her three granddaughters (and later a grandson) without complications.My mother saw her disease as a holy work. A long, intricate spell that was woven through her life.
She never believed that God sent her the pain, mind you. Pain and suffering were just things that happened. A big part of her religion was always to impose meaning on her own suffering.
If there is to be meaning to suffering, it must be imposed by the person suffering. Somehow, for her, "offering up" her pain somehow made it more bearable.
When people have a close call, such as surviving a plane crash or a car wreck, they say, "God was with me."
Really? What about the other 80 people on your flight. What about the people in the other car?
Does being a cripple or dead mean that God doesn't like you?
Megadoom, over at his blog, Dust In The Wind, has an excellent essay on this subject.
Gravity works for everyone. If your car spins out on a bit of black ice, the physical forces of velocity, inertia, mass, etc. are all in play. If you don't have your seat belt on, you're a marble in a box. No matter how devout or good a person you are. Conversely, when bad stuff happens, it is never some kind of punishment.
You can't overrule the laws of physics.
I've heard of miracle cures, but they're always the merely improbable, never the truly impossible. I've also had my share of close calls.
How does this coincide with Animism?
The Animist does not see the world as a celestial ATM, nor yet is it a place of punishment. It is a complex system that is interlocking, interdependent and dynamic. Even the chaos the Anthropocene has wreaked upon the planet is part of the whole. Even if we were to cause a mass extinction event, life on this planet would continue to trip merrily on.
Since we are (as far as we know) the only fully self aware animal on the planet, it is only ourselves who try to find meaning.
The New Age and the popularity of positive thinking takes this so far as to say that one calls one's misfortunes to oneself. That one "chooses" these "lessons", or that karma is coming to get you, or that you had too many negative thoughts.
A really lovely discussion and debunking of this appears in Barbara Erenreich's Brightsided.
Suffering can be reduced by finding meaning in suffering.In 21st Century, North America there is a presumptuous, and sometimes cruel, urge to try to impose meaning on other people's suffering. I'm sure that this comes partly from our Calvinist leanings. That idea that misfortune happens because God doesn't like you.
Truly, bad things happen because bad things happen. At this place and time, many people feel they should be exceptions, because for years we have been told that we *are* exceptional.
No, on the macrocosmic scale, we are just one small piece. If there is meaning, one must impose one's own within the microcosm of one's own life.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Spirits of Weather and Land
When I was growing up, I was told never to approach an animal that was behaving strangely. A night animal in the day light, a day animal at night. My dad grew up on a farm. One of the few useful things he taught me was that animals acting strange meant they were sick. They'd probably bite you.
This extended to the weather. If the weather started acting strange and you had a bad feeling, get inside. That greenish hue to the sky? Yeah, get inside, that's a tornado. That bad feeling you get from the wind? That's a blizzard.
When Europeans came to the Americas, the "savages" would try to tell the white people what this omen or that omen meant. They laughed at the Indian's "superstitions" until a few too many of them starved.
The French Trappers caught on pretty quickly, but everyone knew the trappers were half savage to start with. They went native sometimes and learned to read the weather spirits, in the days before the Weather Channel.
When Hurricane Irene was doing her thing in the Caribbean last August, I was in Virginia. I kept looking at Irene's storm track. I just kept having this overwhelming feeling that I had to get home to Vermont.
I have a pretty good relationship with the land I live on. I couldn't help but think that the land was bracing for a big storm, and calling us back.
My husband and I packed up and came home five days before we were supposed to. Good thing too, otherwise we wouldn't have made it back for three weeks.
When I lived in the South, I could never feel comfortable. The land just didn't like me. I always felt like I was intruding. That whole area had always had problems, way back to when whites started settling there. In fact the Caddo Indians never actually live in the particular place where we lived.
Hmmm, wonder if there was a reason for that? If yellow fever, malaria and typhus weren't enough to drive people off, you'd think a perpetually depressed economy would.
There are places that like people better than others. There are places that like particular people more than others. Where I live, it takes about a winter before the place either decides it likes you or not. If not, you can't get out fast enough.
I've never really felt settled for good, in one place, but, where I am now is the closest I've ever felt to it. The land likes me and vice versa. It liked me well enough to call me home for Irene.
It's too easy to think of ourselves as separate from the spirits of places. Urban dwellers especially, however, no one can deny that cities have spirits. Reams and reams of poetry are written about it. It's difficult to tell where the metaphorical begins and the literal ends.
For me, going back to Detroit is like visiting one of my parents when they were ill. Visiting the UK is like visiting a biological relative that I've never lived with. Where I live now is like my chosen family.
This is not metaphorical. This is how I feel. After Irene I was sick, not just from the human cost (which was huge) but the land itself mourned.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Animism In Every Day Life
So, what, exactly, is this blog about?
This is coming out of about three years of long discussions with many friends, both Pagan and not, regarding spirituality and how it is expressed in North America (I'm including Canada here) in the early 21st Century.
I want to talk about things I have been dissatisfied with in my own spiritual practice, and things I have liked.
I have tended to be Solitary because my practices have been so out of step with other Pagans. Oddly, I have been drifting towards my blue collar roots more and more in recent years, although I can't deny that I am a member of the white collar class.
My parents were Welsh. My father came from a long line of farmers, miners and steelworkers from Ebbw Vale (Pretend the "w" is an "oo" sound and it's easy to pronounce). My mother's family was somewhere between working class and middle class from Cardiff. This is important, because it effects my spirituality in profound ways, much more so than I had ever thought, when I first became a Pagan some twenty odd years ago.
I have noticed that the more one works with their hands, the more Animist one is. Never mind if one goes to a church or temple on another day of the week, if your livelyhood comes from the land, the water, the mill, or the mine, those things become alive to you. They feed you and your family. They must be treated with respect because, although they do feed you and your family, they can turn on you.
Heather, over at Adventures in Animism calls these the "Moreworld People"; the non-human intelligences that we coexist with. I like that, because I'm not sure what else to call it.
The spirits are always around us. Some are our friends or allies. Some aren't friendly at all. Some don't care.
So, I intend this blog to be a discussion of that. But also, I want to talk about what is unique to our time and place. I keep running into this thing of Pagans wanting to claim a "tradition". I don't have a tradition...I'm just making it up as I go along. I have to, because there's too many things happening that my ancestors never had to deal with.
This is coming out of about three years of long discussions with many friends, both Pagan and not, regarding spirituality and how it is expressed in North America (I'm including Canada here) in the early 21st Century.
I want to talk about things I have been dissatisfied with in my own spiritual practice, and things I have liked.
I have tended to be Solitary because my practices have been so out of step with other Pagans. Oddly, I have been drifting towards my blue collar roots more and more in recent years, although I can't deny that I am a member of the white collar class.
My parents were Welsh. My father came from a long line of farmers, miners and steelworkers from Ebbw Vale (Pretend the "w" is an "oo" sound and it's easy to pronounce). My mother's family was somewhere between working class and middle class from Cardiff. This is important, because it effects my spirituality in profound ways, much more so than I had ever thought, when I first became a Pagan some twenty odd years ago.
I have noticed that the more one works with their hands, the more Animist one is. Never mind if one goes to a church or temple on another day of the week, if your livelyhood comes from the land, the water, the mill, or the mine, those things become alive to you. They feed you and your family. They must be treated with respect because, although they do feed you and your family, they can turn on you.
Heather, over at Adventures in Animism calls these the "Moreworld People"; the non-human intelligences that we coexist with. I like that, because I'm not sure what else to call it.
The spirits are always around us. Some are our friends or allies. Some aren't friendly at all. Some don't care.
So, I intend this blog to be a discussion of that. But also, I want to talk about what is unique to our time and place. I keep running into this thing of Pagans wanting to claim a "tradition". I don't have a tradition...I'm just making it up as I go along. I have to, because there's too many things happening that my ancestors never had to deal with.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
May Day: Workers Rights Day
I used to try to celebrate Beltane, but it just felt sort of strange to me. When we lived in the Midwest, or the South, I was so completely in the wrong latitude that it was just...wrong. Now, living close to 45 degrees latitude, and being a hobby farmer, it makes much more sense. However, I don't have any animals that are due to give birth, at the moment, and my first planting was a week ago.
I thought I'd share with any readers the first spoke in my own idiosyncratic holiday wheel.
Happy Workers Rights Day!
The Occupy people have a bunch of things planned for today. I wish them much luck in their endeavors. I won't be going to any of their rallies this year, maybe another time. At the moment I'm much more interested in celebrating the ancestors of the movement.
In recent years, Unions have gotten a bad reputation in many places. But, let us remember that they were the people who brought us the weekend.
The WEEKEND! That most sacred of all American institutions. Before the Workers Rights Movement, the workday was much longer. Sunday was for church, if your were lucky.
If you are over 30, you grew up with the idea that Saturday was a day when you got to watch cartoons for half the morning, then spend your time goofing off. If you have a job that makes you work Saturdays, its considered kind of sucky. And, usually you get some kind of brownie points for working a Saturday. Sometimes even get paid extra.
That's all thanks to the International Labor Movement!
Those OSHA signs you see everywhere in the workplace? The ones that tell you about health and safety rules? Those are also thanks to the Labor Movement. Lots of people complain about the "Nanny State" without seeing the results of an unregulated workplace...They're called sweatshops.
Those shiny "Exit" signs? Over fire escapes that actually open? Bathrooms that actually work? Lunch breaks?
Woo Hoo! I am very excited about those things. So, I'll light a candle and listen to a few Union songs.
I thought I'd share with any readers the first spoke in my own idiosyncratic holiday wheel.
Happy Workers Rights Day!
The Occupy people have a bunch of things planned for today. I wish them much luck in their endeavors. I won't be going to any of their rallies this year, maybe another time. At the moment I'm much more interested in celebrating the ancestors of the movement.
In recent years, Unions have gotten a bad reputation in many places. But, let us remember that they were the people who brought us the weekend.
The WEEKEND! That most sacred of all American institutions. Before the Workers Rights Movement, the workday was much longer. Sunday was for church, if your were lucky.
If you are over 30, you grew up with the idea that Saturday was a day when you got to watch cartoons for half the morning, then spend your time goofing off. If you have a job that makes you work Saturdays, its considered kind of sucky. And, usually you get some kind of brownie points for working a Saturday. Sometimes even get paid extra.
That's all thanks to the International Labor Movement!
Those OSHA signs you see everywhere in the workplace? The ones that tell you about health and safety rules? Those are also thanks to the Labor Movement. Lots of people complain about the "Nanny State" without seeing the results of an unregulated workplace...They're called sweatshops.
Those shiny "Exit" signs? Over fire escapes that actually open? Bathrooms that actually work? Lunch breaks?
Woo Hoo! I am very excited about those things. So, I'll light a candle and listen to a few Union songs.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Goddesses of Healing and Health
The Goddess of Healing and the Goddess of Health are not the same.
It's important to know that. They are often confused. Too many people ask for Healing, when what they want is Health.
The Health Goddess in my Pantheon is Venus Cloacina, also know as Venus of the Sewers. She is the Goddess of the healthy compost heap, that makes even the most barren soil fertile. She's the Goddess of the midden, the cesspool, and the pit latrine. Those places where we dump our shit so we don't infect the whole village with cholera or typhoid.
She had a shrine right in the middle of Rome, and it was believed that the health of the Empire rested in Her hands.
They were right. Anyone who has ever been somewhere that didn't have a good way to deal with human waste will tell you how quickly people become sick.
We had to replace our septic system last year, so I learned a lot about septic systems. A healthy septic system is actually a whole ecosystem of its own. It was not cheap and it was a rather tortuous multistage process.
When it was done, I erected a shrine to the Goddess Cloacina. Her symbols are Flowers and
Hummingbirds, so I planted a wildflower and bulb garden to attract pollinators and stuck a birdbath, with a statue in the middle.
The bulbs have begun to come up and it is very pretty to look at.
The Goddess of Health is a Maiden Goddess or a Mother Goddess. Spring, Summer or Fall. Health is a state of exuberance and action. Health is a cherubic fat cheeked infant or a careless teenager. Health is the old guy who runs marathons or the old lady who power walks up and down your street every morning
Health is all about balance and plenty. Turning manure, kitchen waste and grass clippings into healthy soil, growing food in that healthy soil, feeding our children and ourselves.
Healing is very different.
My Goddess of Healing is the Old Woman. She That Opens the Doors Between The Worlds. Kali Ma. Crooked Woman. Midwife. Psychopomp.
She is the one who attends birthing, healing and dying. More on birthing and dying in another post; here I wish to talk about healing.
Healing is painful. Always.
Healing is a surgeon's knife. Healing is chemotherapy. Healing is looking inwards and fighting your demons.
If you don't hurt, you are not healing.
One of the truisms in EMS is that we love screaming patients. Screaming patients have an airway. Screaming patients can still feel the parts of themselves they've hurt. Screaming patients have the energy to scream. Screaming patients can probably be fixed.
The quiet ones? The ones who look at you, with eyes falsely calm from shock, and say, "I think it might be bad." Yeah, they're likely to go really sour, really fast.
The same with mental healing. Grief heals. Fear heals. Anger heals. Guilt heals. Shame heals.We, as organisms living on this planet, are gifted with all these ways to know when we aren't being treated right. All these mechanisms to help us fix our circumstances. The trouble is we spend a lot of time trying to pretend that we can change reality without going through the healing process. We pretend we can just stop feeling these uncomfortable things. We don't use them to solve problems, we just randomly strike out. We've been told that these feelings are somehow bad or weak. That only the positive emotions are allowable.
Like scalpels, the dark emotions are capable of destroying, of course. However, I have never seen anyone who truly experienced healing without feeling all of these. Consider that diseases that destroy the ability to feel pain are some of the most feared in human history. Without the ability to feel pain, one is vulnerable to injury and infection.
I have heard people say things like, "Oh, I don't want to be angry. I want to heal. Anger just makes you bitter."
Anger stops you from getting into another bad situation. Maybe you need to be angry for a while, to protect yourself.
I have heard people say, "I don't want to be afraid anymore. I want to heal."
Yes, of course, no one wants to be afraid all the time. Maybe it's time to learn what is truly dangerous.
Healing's season is Winter. Like Birth and Death, it happens best in the dark and the quiet, with trusted loved ones close by. The sick room is the domain of the Old Woman. One way or another, it is she who ushers you from one state to another. She is unruffled by body fluids and is not concerned with your dignity or hers. Weep, moan, scream, or rage. It's all one to her.
Sometimes the end product of our time spent with her is Health. Sometimes Birth. Sometimes Death. We can deny her, when she comes to help us, but it would be unwise to do so.
To ask for "Healing" can be a bit like asking for "Spiritual Growth". Be specific, because She tends to give you precisely what you ask for.
It's important to know that. They are often confused. Too many people ask for Healing, when what they want is Health.
The Health Goddess in my Pantheon is Venus Cloacina, also know as Venus of the Sewers. She is the Goddess of the healthy compost heap, that makes even the most barren soil fertile. She's the Goddess of the midden, the cesspool, and the pit latrine. Those places where we dump our shit so we don't infect the whole village with cholera or typhoid.
She had a shrine right in the middle of Rome, and it was believed that the health of the Empire rested in Her hands.
They were right. Anyone who has ever been somewhere that didn't have a good way to deal with human waste will tell you how quickly people become sick.
We had to replace our septic system last year, so I learned a lot about septic systems. A healthy septic system is actually a whole ecosystem of its own. It was not cheap and it was a rather tortuous multistage process.
When it was done, I erected a shrine to the Goddess Cloacina. Her symbols are Flowers and
The bulbs have begun to come up and it is very pretty to look at.
The Goddess of Health is a Maiden Goddess or a Mother Goddess. Spring, Summer or Fall. Health is a state of exuberance and action. Health is a cherubic fat cheeked infant or a careless teenager. Health is the old guy who runs marathons or the old lady who power walks up and down your street every morning
Health is all about balance and plenty. Turning manure, kitchen waste and grass clippings into healthy soil, growing food in that healthy soil, feeding our children and ourselves.
Healing is very different.
My Goddess of Healing is the Old Woman. She That Opens the Doors Between The Worlds. Kali Ma. Crooked Woman. Midwife. Psychopomp.
She is the one who attends birthing, healing and dying. More on birthing and dying in another post; here I wish to talk about healing.
Healing is painful. Always.
Healing is a surgeon's knife. Healing is chemotherapy. Healing is looking inwards and fighting your demons.
If you don't hurt, you are not healing.
One of the truisms in EMS is that we love screaming patients. Screaming patients have an airway. Screaming patients can still feel the parts of themselves they've hurt. Screaming patients have the energy to scream. Screaming patients can probably be fixed.
The quiet ones? The ones who look at you, with eyes falsely calm from shock, and say, "I think it might be bad." Yeah, they're likely to go really sour, really fast.
The same with mental healing. Grief heals. Fear heals. Anger heals. Guilt heals. Shame heals.We, as organisms living on this planet, are gifted with all these ways to know when we aren't being treated right. All these mechanisms to help us fix our circumstances. The trouble is we spend a lot of time trying to pretend that we can change reality without going through the healing process. We pretend we can just stop feeling these uncomfortable things. We don't use them to solve problems, we just randomly strike out. We've been told that these feelings are somehow bad or weak. That only the positive emotions are allowable.
Like scalpels, the dark emotions are capable of destroying, of course. However, I have never seen anyone who truly experienced healing without feeling all of these. Consider that diseases that destroy the ability to feel pain are some of the most feared in human history. Without the ability to feel pain, one is vulnerable to injury and infection.
I have heard people say things like, "Oh, I don't want to be angry. I want to heal. Anger just makes you bitter."
Anger stops you from getting into another bad situation. Maybe you need to be angry for a while, to protect yourself.
I have heard people say, "I don't want to be afraid anymore. I want to heal."
Yes, of course, no one wants to be afraid all the time. Maybe it's time to learn what is truly dangerous.
Healing's season is Winter. Like Birth and Death, it happens best in the dark and the quiet, with trusted loved ones close by. The sick room is the domain of the Old Woman. One way or another, it is she who ushers you from one state to another. She is unruffled by body fluids and is not concerned with your dignity or hers. Weep, moan, scream, or rage. It's all one to her.
Sometimes the end product of our time spent with her is Health. Sometimes Birth. Sometimes Death. We can deny her, when she comes to help us, but it would be unwise to do so.
To ask for "Healing" can be a bit like asking for "Spiritual Growth". Be specific, because She tends to give you precisely what you ask for.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
On The Road With The Wild Hunstman
This was originally posted here on Heather's Adventures in Animism blog as a guest post.
The Wild Huntsman that I know doesn’t ride a horse or wield a sword. Of course, my teenage imagination wanted him to. I wanted to believe that somewhere there were druids and standing stones and everything as perfect once upon a time and we lived in a fallen world and we merely needed to be led back to the garden...
Wait...I’ve heard that story, somewhere. But I digress...
The Wild Huntsman that I know drives a fine piece of Detroit steel, probably a Mustang or a Thunderbird, model circa 1969. An unlawfully loud, gas-guzzling, fume-spouting, dragon of a car.
When I first started driving, I started to feel Him on the roads. On image came into my mind, fueled half by stories I read, half by my own experiences and visions. I could imagine him clearly, on the streets that I knew. His steed either red or black, depending on the night. When it rained or snowed, it was black. The paint gleamed with lambent unnatural silver under the streetlights. Cruising down Woodward, or Jefferson, you swore the damned thing glowed...but no, it was a trick of the fog. If you were on the freeway, all you saw were its red tail lights and you were just thankful He wasn’t interested in taking you with Him.
On clear nights it was red, and even the cops let Him slide, “Didja see that guy?” the younger cop would ask, as it flew by, clocking 98.
“Didn’t see nothin’” said the older guy, “Drink yer coffee.”
I always knew the nights He was on the road. I’d make it from Southfield to Ann Arbor in half the time it should have taken. On I-75 between Downtown Detroit and the Ohio border a pack of cars might find themselves caught up in the Hunstman’s chase. In the morning they’d wonder how the hell they made Toledo in forty minutes and Dayton in two hours, but at least tonight, the Hunter wasn’t up for a wreck
Maybe the Wild Huntsman as phantom automobile is just a figment of my mad imagination, but what else would the Huntsman ride, now?.
The automobile is the teenage spirit of sex and death in modern America. The names themselves are totems: Mustang, Lynx, Thunderbird, Impala. The list is endless.
An automobile moves with the power of fire. We invest it with a bit of our own spirit. When we drive, we refer to the car as “Me” and “I”. One might say, “I wish that guy would get off my butt.” meaning the vehicle behind is being driven too closely. Is it any wonder we anthropomorphise them? Give them their own houses? Take care of them as if they were our children? It would be a little mad not to. We lose our virginity in them. We construct our identity around them. We die in them. Stealing a car is treated much more seriously than rape or perhaps even murder. The Archetypical American story is the Road Story; whether it’s some dirt track somewhere, Route 66 or any part of Eisenhower Interstate System.
Every road has a spirit. That’s why crossroads are so powerful. It’s where the ley lines meet, if you will. But we’ve made a huge system of roads that have no crossroads. They are merely lines of force and power. They join as rivers join and branch off, nothing to stop it.
We’re enticed with the idea of “the Freedom of the Road”, even if we never take the road farther than our job. It’s just knowing that we could.
Sometimes we do make those road trips. When I was a child, I made many with my parents, and then as a teenager and young adult. The only way to properly see parts of this country is from the road. Specifically following those paths that are limited to vehicles with combustion engines.
Buried in the Interstate system is the knowledge that, like Roman roads, like Gothic castles, they were built for warfare; to move troops and weaponry. More, they carry our food, our goods, the stuff of our lives. Everything in the room with you, right now, has a 99.9% chance of having had to be shipped in a container truck across some interstate. More than anything, the Interstate is what binds our Early 21st Century lives together.
They are very serious about their mission, but like soldiers off duty, they want to play. With the sun shining, on a clear day, when traffic is light, you can feel the Hunter in his guise as Young Lover. Think James Dean, think Easy Rider, think a thousand other road movies. If you want to see the God as Lover, you have only to look beside you, at the red light. He’s there, in that boy’s eyes as he drops his foot on the accelerator and disappears in a cloud of testosterone
Where’s the Goddess in all this? These roads are not exclusively male, by any means. Perhaps they were built so, in the early days, but no longer. Look at that road again. There she is...Venus turns to give a you a slow wink before she floors her sweet pink roadster, making you feel young again. Look to the medians. A hundred wildflowers and grasses spring up, where by rights, nothing should be able to survive the constant car exhausts, but the land struggles on. The Goddess laughing at our foolishness, because one day we will be gone and the roads will be all that is left of us. She knows. She’s seen it. The old Roman roads still endure here and there, after all. In the mean time, Hera’s driving a peacock green mini-van with a few kids in back, watching out for all the soccer moms. Persephone’s sitting beside Demeter, tooling around in a yellow Viper with the top down.
I have felt the Goddess ride beside me when the music was just perfect and I was on I-94, headed to Chicago, just for a pizza. I have felt Her, watching from the woods, on a bitter cold January night when I pulled off to the side of the road, fifty miles from any light pollution and saw the Milky Way the way the ancients saw it. I have heard her voice when she’s said “Slow down hard. NOW.” just before someone pulls an asshole move and cuts me off.
These roads have powerful magic. They were built by people, to serve people. But every creation has a dark side.
If the Wild Huntsman calls you, He calls you to get lost on these roads. He may call you to die on these roads. Drive in the middle of the night and you can feel Him. Look at the thousands of roadside shrines for your proof of the human sacrifices He demands.
Six million accidents every year.
Not all of them fatal. Most of them just fender benders, not even worth mentioning. But more die in wrecks than are killed by drugs or disease or any other single cause.
Remember how young you were the first time you knew someone who died in a car wreck? For me it was fifteen, maybe.
I’m an EMT, so I go to these wrecks, and help who I can. When it’s bad, its very, very bad. And it’s human error or hubris that cause most wrecks. The Spirits of the Road are unforgiving and The Huntsman is not known for mercy.
As you drive by those roadside shrines, spare a thought to the power of that gesture. A cross, a marker. Many cultures believed that if one died on the road, one had to be guided home. Great power is evoked at places of death. Our roads are haunted places.
When someone dies on scene, at a wreck, there is a protocol. Next time you’re stopped on a freeway for hours, consider that an accident might have been a death and they’re waiting for someone with the proper authority to come to move the body.
The gods and goddesses of death are there too. If they’re lucky, an accident victim dies instantly, their shade standing, staring at the wreck. “What happened?” they always ask.
If they’re not lucky, a broken body is pulled from twisted metal, lasting just long enough to die on the way.
When you pass one of those shrines, spare a prayer that that shade has been guided safely home.
We do not honor the Spirits of the Roads at our peril.
Remember what Bilbo used to say: It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.
--JRR TolkienThe Wild Huntsman that I know doesn’t ride a horse or wield a sword. Of course, my teenage imagination wanted him to. I wanted to believe that somewhere there were druids and standing stones and everything as perfect once upon a time and we lived in a fallen world and we merely needed to be led back to the garden...
Wait...I’ve heard that story, somewhere. But I digress...
The Wild Huntsman that I know drives a fine piece of Detroit steel, probably a Mustang or a Thunderbird, model circa 1969. An unlawfully loud, gas-guzzling, fume-spouting, dragon of a car.
When I first started driving, I started to feel Him on the roads. On image came into my mind, fueled half by stories I read, half by my own experiences and visions. I could imagine him clearly, on the streets that I knew. His steed either red or black, depending on the night. When it rained or snowed, it was black. The paint gleamed with lambent unnatural silver under the streetlights. Cruising down Woodward, or Jefferson, you swore the damned thing glowed...but no, it was a trick of the fog. If you were on the freeway, all you saw were its red tail lights and you were just thankful He wasn’t interested in taking you with Him.
On clear nights it was red, and even the cops let Him slide, “Didja see that guy?” the younger cop would ask, as it flew by, clocking 98.
“Didn’t see nothin’” said the older guy, “Drink yer coffee.”
I always knew the nights He was on the road. I’d make it from Southfield to Ann Arbor in half the time it should have taken. On I-75 between Downtown Detroit and the Ohio border a pack of cars might find themselves caught up in the Hunstman’s chase. In the morning they’d wonder how the hell they made Toledo in forty minutes and Dayton in two hours, but at least tonight, the Hunter wasn’t up for a wreck
Maybe the Wild Huntsman as phantom automobile is just a figment of my mad imagination, but what else would the Huntsman ride, now?.
The automobile is the teenage spirit of sex and death in modern America. The names themselves are totems: Mustang, Lynx, Thunderbird, Impala. The list is endless.
An automobile moves with the power of fire. We invest it with a bit of our own spirit. When we drive, we refer to the car as “Me” and “I”. One might say, “I wish that guy would get off my butt.” meaning the vehicle behind is being driven too closely. Is it any wonder we anthropomorphise them? Give them their own houses? Take care of them as if they were our children? It would be a little mad not to. We lose our virginity in them. We construct our identity around them. We die in them. Stealing a car is treated much more seriously than rape or perhaps even murder. The Archetypical American story is the Road Story; whether it’s some dirt track somewhere, Route 66 or any part of Eisenhower Interstate System.
Every road has a spirit. That’s why crossroads are so powerful. It’s where the ley lines meet, if you will. But we’ve made a huge system of roads that have no crossroads. They are merely lines of force and power. They join as rivers join and branch off, nothing to stop it.
We’re enticed with the idea of “the Freedom of the Road”, even if we never take the road farther than our job. It’s just knowing that we could.
Sometimes we do make those road trips. When I was a child, I made many with my parents, and then as a teenager and young adult. The only way to properly see parts of this country is from the road. Specifically following those paths that are limited to vehicles with combustion engines.
Buried in the Interstate system is the knowledge that, like Roman roads, like Gothic castles, they were built for warfare; to move troops and weaponry. More, they carry our food, our goods, the stuff of our lives. Everything in the room with you, right now, has a 99.9% chance of having had to be shipped in a container truck across some interstate. More than anything, the Interstate is what binds our Early 21st Century lives together.
They are very serious about their mission, but like soldiers off duty, they want to play. With the sun shining, on a clear day, when traffic is light, you can feel the Hunter in his guise as Young Lover. Think James Dean, think Easy Rider, think a thousand other road movies. If you want to see the God as Lover, you have only to look beside you, at the red light. He’s there, in that boy’s eyes as he drops his foot on the accelerator and disappears in a cloud of testosterone
Where’s the Goddess in all this? These roads are not exclusively male, by any means. Perhaps they were built so, in the early days, but no longer. Look at that road again. There she is...Venus turns to give a you a slow wink before she floors her sweet pink roadster, making you feel young again. Look to the medians. A hundred wildflowers and grasses spring up, where by rights, nothing should be able to survive the constant car exhausts, but the land struggles on. The Goddess laughing at our foolishness, because one day we will be gone and the roads will be all that is left of us. She knows. She’s seen it. The old Roman roads still endure here and there, after all. In the mean time, Hera’s driving a peacock green mini-van with a few kids in back, watching out for all the soccer moms. Persephone’s sitting beside Demeter, tooling around in a yellow Viper with the top down.
I have felt the Goddess ride beside me when the music was just perfect and I was on I-94, headed to Chicago, just for a pizza. I have felt Her, watching from the woods, on a bitter cold January night when I pulled off to the side of the road, fifty miles from any light pollution and saw the Milky Way the way the ancients saw it. I have heard her voice when she’s said “Slow down hard. NOW.” just before someone pulls an asshole move and cuts me off.
These roads have powerful magic. They were built by people, to serve people. But every creation has a dark side.
If the Wild Huntsman calls you, He calls you to get lost on these roads. He may call you to die on these roads. Drive in the middle of the night and you can feel Him. Look at the thousands of roadside shrines for your proof of the human sacrifices He demands.
Six million accidents every year.
Not all of them fatal. Most of them just fender benders, not even worth mentioning. But more die in wrecks than are killed by drugs or disease or any other single cause.
Remember how young you were the first time you knew someone who died in a car wreck? For me it was fifteen, maybe.
I’m an EMT, so I go to these wrecks, and help who I can. When it’s bad, its very, very bad. And it’s human error or hubris that cause most wrecks. The Spirits of the Road are unforgiving and The Huntsman is not known for mercy.
As you drive by those roadside shrines, spare a thought to the power of that gesture. A cross, a marker. Many cultures believed that if one died on the road, one had to be guided home. Great power is evoked at places of death. Our roads are haunted places.
When someone dies on scene, at a wreck, there is a protocol. Next time you’re stopped on a freeway for hours, consider that an accident might have been a death and they’re waiting for someone with the proper authority to come to move the body.
The gods and goddesses of death are there too. If they’re lucky, an accident victim dies instantly, their shade standing, staring at the wreck. “What happened?” they always ask.
If they’re not lucky, a broken body is pulled from twisted metal, lasting just long enough to die on the way.
When you pass one of those shrines, spare a prayer that that shade has been guided safely home.
We do not honor the Spirits of the Roads at our peril.
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