A Very Feminist and Animist Poem About Hiking

 How does hiking make me feel;

My thick thighs trembling

with

each

step

My calves rock hard, tense

   crashing against each other

Sweat starting, pricking my scalp

Down the back of my neck

My back

Glowing on my rounded shoulders, glinting on collarbones

Long hair like a veil sweeping it away

I like my own smell

My own odeur 

The primal scent

Mixing with the sunscreen that is sliding off, never enough

Until I am nut brown,

Freckled 

On my shoulders

My forearms bronze

Saying hello to every

Rock

Tree

Mushroom

Bird

Animal

Like they are old friends

     (they are,  my inner animist says)

You have known them before you were born and you will know them after you die and you will know them 

forever.

When I menstruate during a hike

I feel

Female with a capital F

Part of a cosmic womanhood

Embraced and swallowed by the 

Earth

Small

Insignificant

Strong

But

Easily crushed

Like the insects I swat away

Little drops of blood swelling, given to the Earth

I am She and She is Me and we are together intertwined in the woods

Feeling Small

This weekend, I climbed two mountains (three, if you get technical about it, since it was an out-and-back trail) which resulted in a new highest peak for me at just under 2600 feet. As I sat on the top of the second mountain (which was the highest), overlooking a wind farm, I felt small. 

Insignificant.

And I liked it.

There is something so comforting to me about feeling small in this world. Looking at the overwhelming size of the wind turbines, the height of the mountains, the sheer distance we could see from the top, and there I was, 5'3" of nothing that matters in the grand scheme of things. I know it sounds nihilistic to say but it's true. When I am in nature, I am in my spirituality. Being in nature in and of itself is spiritual practice, so when I say I feel small and insignificant and that it's comforting, it truly is. I am a speck of dust on the Mother's body, which has existed long before me and will continue on after I rejoin her soil in death. Feeling small and being in awe of this world that created me is both humbling and comforting. It's the only way I can think of to express it. 

 

What Hiking 100 miles in 108 Days Taught Me

Looking at the Bigelow range from Flagstaff Lake

Since all travel was restricted this year due to COVID-19, I decided in May that I was going to hike 100 miles this year, and I even took vacation time to go hike in order to beat the crowds. I didn't set a time limit for completion, and didn't disqualify duplicate hikes (you can see I visited some trails a couple times). If it was a mountain or a forest trail, the miles were counted and it went in the journal. I bought a state park pass (and used it all of two times, ha) so that I could take advantage of some of Maine's state parks. As a result of this goal, I hiked more mountains than ever before-- a total of 7, although I didn't summit all of them-- and even did some with my sister (we just won't discuss how every time I hike with her I fall). I really challenged myself to do harder, longer hikes, and as a result I beat last year's highest peak twice: first with Rumford Whitecap (which was also my sister's new highest) and then Mt. Zircon at 2,240 feet, which doesn't sound very high to experienced hikers and mountain climbers, but it was 452 feet higher than my last year's highest. So what did all this hiking teach me, if anything?

From the overlook on Borestone

• I will whine the entire way up a mountain, especially when it's steep, but I love the way my legs feel. I love the feeling of used muscles, and how they're a little tired after a rest.
• I really belong in nature. I feel most alive when I'm out in the woods
• I also really prefer being alone. I do enjoy hiking with my sister, but sometimes I just want it to be me and the forest. I get annoyed when I can hear other people on the trail.
• Hiking on day 1 or 2 of my period is fucking amazing for cramps. Honestly. I'm on my period now and wish I could've skipped out on work to go hike because I've been having miserable cramps.
• I am capable of doing more than I give myself or my ability credit for
• I can and will take a fun goal and have destructive, obsessive thoughts about it
• I'd like to upgrade my backpack to one that has a waist/hip strap for better support
• Water is heavy and bottles are hard to arrange in a backpack so that they are comfortable, and I want to eventually upgrade to a bladder
• I really can't trust any dog, especially a loose one, that I see on the trail (I got bitten)
• I feel real and true joy and gratitude for nature, which I have expressed before

Just because I've reached my 100 mile goal, I'm not done hiking. I plan on hiking until it gets too miserable out to continue, but I don't plan on winter hikes. No thank you. Plus, I don't want to invest in winter gear. What I will need to invest in is some blaze orange if I'm going to hike this fall, since some public lands allow hunting, and I don't want to be mistaken for a deer. Will I set goals for next year? Probably. I don't know if I will increase the mile count, but one thing I'd like to do is learn to camp so I can do some multi-day hikes, perhaps along sections of the Appalacian Trail or the Maine Huts and Trails network. I also want to try more challenging mountains and take advantage more of the state parks (and Acadia, which I've never been to, in my whole life of being a Mainer). One thing I do know is that I want to spend as much time out in the woods as I can for as long as I can, and that hiking is going to be a permanent lifestyle choice going forward.

Thornback Woman

I am 40 years old.
My tits sag.
Losing weight gets harder each year.
I have grey hairs.
I am unmarried, and childfree.
I have gone beyond "spinster" to "thornback" and while this term used to be derogatory, I think reclaiming it and owning it gives me power.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with my body. I think most women do, since we are indoctrinated and brainwashed at an early age to live up to an ideal, that our bodies are dirty, that we must be thin/pretty/feminine/delicate perfect enough for society to deem us worthy, and even then, we aren't. I've been overweight probably since puberty. I had C-cup breasts at 14 and was fully in a D-cup by the time I was 18. Even now I wear a DD, but it's hard to tell what my actual size is due to recent weight loss. They sag, anyway, and this is one of the recent body image crises I've endured.

Why is loving an accepting your body seen as a sign of radical feminism? Shouldn't it just be... the norm? Shouldn't we just love our saggy bits, jiggly bits, and wrinkly greying bits alongside our smooth and firm bits, muscular bits, and sleek bits? When I hit 40 I thought I just wouldn't care any more, but I honestly do care-- I care that my partner finds me attractive, I care that the world finds me attractive, I care that my body can do things, I care about how my clothes look. It's infinitesimally harder to not care than to care. So what if caring wasn't so bad, and not caring shouldn't be the end goal? Like, my tits may sag but they're healthy, my hair may be greying but it's long and shiny, weight comes off slowly but I have curves and a soft belly that reminds me of ancient artworks. I'm 40 and unmarried but I still go out and do what I want to do.

People worry a lot about me hiking solo but as an animist, I never feel like I am alone. These hikes give me time to reconnect with my spirituality, and reconnect with myself. I often spend my hikes in awe of what my body can accomplish, reveling in the tired muscles that seem to bounce back after a rest to eat and drink to carry me onward. Today, I went on a hike and, for the first time in my entire 40 years of existence, peed outside. I was terribly worried I would get it all over myself, but you know, I didn't. I actually watched the stream of urine and marveled that our bodies are made to do this. We're so disconnected from some of the functions of our bodies by modern convenience-- toilets hide our waste process, sanitary products disconnect us from our menstrual cycle. These things are unclean and not to be marveled at. But, despite being voluntarily sterilized 5 years ago and generally being uncomfortable every 22 days, it is a beautiful, holy process that was once revered for the sacred event it was. I may grumble about my cramps and weight gain each month, but deep down, my menstrual blood makes me feel powerful.

It has been a struggle to love these things about me-- sagging breasts, menstruation, grey hairs-- but more and more as I get older, I do love them, even if the relationship with my body is still difficult, my body is strong and amazing. Women get more powerful as they get older. I am a thornback woman, and I can't wait until I can call myself a crone.

Hiking as Animist

As you may have noticed over the last few posts, my mental health has been up and down and I desperately needed a break, so I used Memorial weekend to give myself a vacation. I took the Friday prior, and then the Tuesday and Wednesday (today) following off, with my main goal of getting the hell out of town and into the woods as much as possible. My mood was immediately lifted as I drove through northern Somerset county to one of my favorite short hikes: Moxie Falls. But even on a Friday morning, it was too peoplely. I wanted someplace remote and to myself. I took a chance and a 67 mile detour (which was a lovely drive, as all of Maine is) to the Maine Huts and Trails trailhead at Flagstaff lake (see photo above, with the view of Bigelow Mountain). It was completely empty. There was one other vehicle in the parking lot, but not a person to be seen or heard. No children. No dogs. Just me, the forest, and the lake.

I am in my spirituality 100% of the time, especially in the forest. I feel an overwhelming gratitude and joy when I am in nature. My phone is filled with pictures of rocks, mushrooms (so many mushrooms!), flowers, trees, water... pictures I take for myself, pictures I can't help taking because I love each and every thing I take a picture of. I apologize to moss when I step on it, I thank the wind for cooling me, ask the trees for support and grounding, ask the rocks to help me ascend or descend. As an animist, these are all beings with spirits, and they are friends. I found myself thanking the water for nurturing the plants and trees, but most of all, I found myself thanking the Mother for all of it. The earth. The progenitor of all life.

Sometimes I share the pictures I take, but to most, they're pretty nature pictures, or weird pictures of rocks and mushrooms. It's hard to truly show someone the world as I view it, because it's a feeling, deep down, of being part of it, of respecting it and treating trees and stones like old friends. The inexplicable pull toward running fresh water. The smell of trees. The smell of sunlight. A photo can't really capture all of that, but when I look back at them, I can remember it, and feel that joy again. It's like looking at pictures of old friends, because they really are old friends to me. Every hike in a new place is an opportunity to meet new friends, and I find myself stopping often to take their pictures and talk to them. I take the opportunity also to be in awe, to feel small in the world, to understand that in the end, I am insignificant, that I am but part of a cycle of life, death, and rebirth, and when I die, my body will feed trees and plants, which will feed animals and insects, and my spirit will go wherever our ancestors go. There is no permanence in death when you're an animist. There is just a cycle.

When I shared a picture of a waterfall on my Instagram yesterday, I wrote "There's something about waterfalls, that makes me want to open up and be swallowed by them, devoured by the powerful water until I don't know where I begin or end, only that I'm part of something unfettered and more ancient than I am" and that is a thought that runs through my mind often. Running water draws me, and I don't have complete thoughts on it yet to write more on. Maybe later when I meditate on it.

Sunday Bread

Every Saturday morning for the past month, I get up, have some sort of breakfast, and put together a no-knead bread dough to set aside. On Sunday morning, I bake. Bread was never a regular part of my diet, but having good bread, that I made by my own hand, has been a comfort. Toast fried in olive oil and rubbed with garlic, topped with fried eggs has been my dinner a few nights. Not all of my loaves have been successful; my first loaf was dense and didn't rise well. My loaf from last week was sloppy, sticky, dense, and also didn't rise well. It was tasty and chewy, but I didn't reach for it. But like all things, success and failure are learning tools. 

A lot of the articles about the recent boom in bread making during quarantine (note: you're not under quarantine) talk about the soothing nature of baking, how it's calming and helps de-stress. For me, it's helping to abate my need to hoard food. If you've been following this blog for any amount of time, or have read back, you know I've struggled with food insecurity in the past, but I have persevered with the skills I've learned from my mother to make a nutritious, filling meal from little more than bones. 

My depression has been bad lately. I want to travel and I can't. I want to see my partner, take care of him, make sure he has nutritious meals and I can't. Feeling powerless isn't something I deal well with, so I've been trying to funnel those feelings into other avenues. I still dream of a house in the woods. I bought a foraging guide and a mushroom identification guide. I've planned some time off so that I can run off to the mountains and hike for a while. When I picture myself living in the woods, I am still making Sunday Bread. It's an infinitely comforting thought, even if my life takes me in a different direction and I never have the house in the woods. Barring travel, there will be Sunday Bread every week, into perpetuity. 

2019 Retrospecticus

Last year, I set out on the new year with some goals (not resolutions) in mind, mostly around exploring the world around me. And I did a lot of that. I actively started trying to lose weight in February because one of the things I really wanted to do in Iceland was ride the Icelandic horse, so I started walking, even when it was cold or I was grumpy, I went out and walked, and even a mile was so hard and my legs were so sore at first. But I kept at it, and changed the way I ate from less Western diet to more flexitarian and whole food based. When the local hospital's class booklet came out and I saw one of my old coworkers was leading a Couch to 5k class over a 12 w

eek period starting in April, I signed up, and it was hard at first, but as I lost weight and gained muscle and endurance, I found that I really, really like running; it's great stress relief. I still can't run a solid 5k but I have kept up with running, even now in the depths of winter on a treadmill. As of this writing I've lost about 52 pounds.

One of the goals I had written in my failed bullet journal (I need to stop doing those, I'm too lazy to keep up with it) was to explore more trails in Maine. I started small and local. I was already running on the Rail Trail in Augusta, and with the help of Pokemon Go (yes, really), Maine TrailFinder (PLEASE make an app!), and Alltrails, I had the incentive and opportunity to visit new places. There was nothing more liberating than researching a trail, putting on my gear, and hopping in my car for a new adventure in the woods. This was also monumentally helpful not only for my mental health, but my spiritual health. While my bullet journal page only lists the trails in Maine I hiked, I did several more outside of the state, including a 9.5 mile loop in Illinois where I got to meet so many beautiful burr oaks, and Þingellir National Park in Iceland.

 

Y'all.

I climbed three mountains this summer, including a 1,700 foot mountain I had always gazed at from the car as a child. I also hiked the rim of a volcanic crater. This has only fueled my desire to hike more and challenging peaks.

Travel was really the big goal I had this year, and I managed to visit two countries and visit a state I had never been to. My dream vacation of Iceland was finally a reality, and as you can see in the (terrible, horrible) picture of me, I did get to ride the Icelandic horse, as uncooperative as he was sometimes during the ride. My sister and I did the typical tourist trip: Golden Circle, Reynisfjara Beach and Vik, and so many waterfalls. We only had a week but we fell completely in love with the country and we're tentatively planning the next, longer trip for 2023. Before the adventures in Iceland, however, I embarked on my first solo international travel to Quebec, which, in my entire 39 years living in Maine, had never visited. I blogged about that trip after I returned, because I came back filled with emotions. You can read about that trip here. My final travel of the year, which was a little bit last-minute, was a trip to Illinois not only to visit my heart, but to go to finally see my favorite band in concert: motherfucking Tool. I'd waited over 20 years to see them live and it was worth the ticket and airfare. Illinois was quite lovely and I want very badly to go back, for multiple reasons.

I've worked really hard to improve myself. I'm proud of my weight loss, I'm proud of myself for traveling solo, for learning to be okay by myself. I've worked hard on being less negative (it's still difficult, sometimes, when I have a bad bipolar day) and am continuing on working on being a better person (my jealousy was rightfully called out). I took the leap and applied for a post-graduate certificate program, and am working toward paying down debt so that I can plan for the future.

In 2020 I will turn 40. It's never too late to do the thing, to challenge yourself, to make changes. I welcome all that comes in the coming year.

A Love Letter to a Lake

Today I hiked a mountain I had only ever seen from the road, driving by every weekend in the summer for over 30 years, its sheer cliff face the vision of danger. But I did it, I hiked Mt. Kineo, and it wasn't bad. I'll be sore tomorrow, but sore with the knowledge that I reached an elevation of over 1,700 feet and did the entire hike in 2 hours.

I couldn't go to Kineo with the knowledge that I was only 15 minutes away from my favorite place in the world, more beloved than Caratunk, more beloved than West Forks, more beloved even, than Iceland. Growing up, I spent almost every weekend and at least one week every summer at my family's camp on a small man-made lake (man-made by virtue of flooding from a dam) called Brassua. A lake I haven't been to in several years since my parents sold our camp. When they told me they were selling, I reacted badly. I was upset and heartbroken, and like a bad breakup, I couldn't bear to look at my lake again, knowing I no longer had a place there to go.

I went back today for the first time in years, stopped at the scenic overlook to snap a picture I've taken hundreds of time growing up. But, I wanted to touch the water, so the only place I could think to go was the boat landing, which was blissfully empty.

I spread her healing waters over my blistered shoulders and cried.

My Brassua, my beautiful haven, the place I, as a baby Pagan explored animism before I even knew what animism was, where I would spring along over the rocks barefoot, swim in the water that most people would call too cold, explore the growing-in clear cuts and old boat landing where the ravens nested, losing myself in my thoughts and listening to the loons at night. My dear, beloved Brassua, I am so sorry I left you for so long. I have many Mothers in this life, my human mother, who brought me to camp, the Kennebec river, who I've always lived near, and Brassua, who held me in her cool waters and soothed my soul. At the heart and soul of my animism, is this lake, this living, beautiful lake that taught me that everything has a spirit, and mine in inextricably entwined with it. When I cried at the shore, it was because I was home and she welcomed me back as if I'd never run away from my feelings.

I promise you, I will make the effort to come back, even if I have to go to the boat landing to access your healing waters again.

That Same Old Dead Feeling

I hate my mental illness. I really do. No matter what I say about learning and growing from it, learning about myself and what triggers me, sometimes it just creeps up on me and I hate it. Lately I have been feeling dead inside again. I have no logical reason to-- I landed an excellent job in less than a month since losing my old position due to lack of funding. I found a job before the state unemployment got figured out (and still hasn't). But all I want to do is crawl out of my skin, find a green place and escape. I want a house set back in the woods where I can be alone and be left alone. Left alone with my cats and some gardens and trees. I want to be on the edge of the wild. My heart longs for it. I feel so empty, my heart feels empty, and I need the forest, I need the solitude, and those things aren't within reach right now. All I can do is sit around and let this emptiness consume me as I prepare for my first day of work tomorrow. The soul-crushing thing is that with my current student loan and car loan debt, I couldn't dream of being able to afford land and a house to put on it. I'll be stuck in an apartment, surrounded by neighbors and noise forever. I hope this spiral into a pit of nothingness passes soon.

ungandiR

Photo credit to this person

In the last several months, I have been really feeling more in tune with my spiritual nature than I have in a long time, to the point that, when I say the word "shaman" in the context of myself, I don't feel weird or Pagan-hokey. Heathenry is an intellectual curiosity, but way too prescriptive for my nature. But listening to Nordic-inspired/proto-Nordic-inspired music stirs my soul, and makes me realize that my spiritual nature needs to be fed, yet I feel like I have no outlet.

I need an altar.

I feel like such a creeper when I ask my hunter friends for bones and skulls, but I desperately want a deer skull to the the focal point of the altar. I feel so closely tied to the forest, and to honor that, the bones of the lord of the forest are needed. I would ask his spirit for his blessing, and surround him with objects honoring the forest and the earth.

I need space for my altar.

I need easy access to the forest to feed my soul. I need a place where I can build a fire and dance around it to the beat of a frame drum.

More and more, I want a house, set away from people, on lots of forested land. I want to be that shaman in the woods. I want to have gardens full of herbs and mumble wise things, like observing the leaves showing their backs and knowing it'll rain.

As much as I hate the winter in Maine, I feel so connected to it. I'll always be a child of springtime, but this winter has given me a lot of time to reflect on my shamanic tendencies. It makes me think I'll live a very lonely, solitary existence.


ungandiR roughly translated means "I (am) the priest, I (am) invulnerable to sorcery" is from the Nordhuglo rune stone in Norway.

Norse/Scandinavian folk I've been listening to:

Wardruna (will be seeing them in concert in February)
Heilung  (watch their amazing concert Lifa on Youtube. Serious shaman headdress envy)
Kaunan (very folksy)
Danheim (only recently discovered yesterday, already love them)

You Heathen!

Icelandic stave Veldismagn

As mentioned in a recent, ranty, "get off my lawn you kids" sort of post, I have a habit of sitting down and reevaluating my spirituality every decade or so (and woe to be old enough to measure these reevaluations in decades!) and generally realign my spirituality. I will never be one of those people who is comfortable practicing any sort of spirituality in a group setting, but I still seek virtual groups out not for camaraderie, but to quietly learn and slip away with the knowledge I was seeking out. Recently, I've been feeling that the word "shaman" fits my spirituality the best (although I'm not hung up on labels) so over the last few weeks I have been looking into modern shamanism (oh boy, so much fluff and woo) and dissatisfied with that search, started researching the Icelandic runic staves.

It's interesting, the rabbit holes you can fall into with a Google search. From Icelandic staves I went to Norse runes (the Elder Futhark) and somewhere along the way I stumbled upon Heathenry. A first, knee-jerk reaction was that Heathenry appealed to me very much. A second, knee-jerk reaction was "wow, there are a lot of racists who use a religion to justify racism." Apparently, it's a widespread problem, as several groups I've found online have, as rule number 1, "take your white supremacy and racism elsewhere." After looking into Heathenry on a superficial level, there is a theistic side to it, which doesn't quite work for me, but I'll continue to research and read, because knowledge is always valuable.

In the mean time, I'll continue to collect crow feathers and any clean bones/antlers and other magical items I can find/afford and spend time in nature. I'm too shamany for anything organized. Hopefully next summer I can make it to Iceland for a spiritual journey and to have Veldismagn tattooed on my chest (because believe it or not, 2 of my 3 current tattoos are spiritual for me, being my animal guide, the crow). Right now I'm looking for something way more primal and less organized, and I've realized that's a path I have to forge for myself.

Photographing Cemeteries

St. Francis Catholic Cemetery, Waterville ME

 I have had this blog for a long time, and I could have sworn I had written about my cemetery photography hobby before, but it's only vaguely mentioned in a post from 2015 where I talked about getting my creative spark back.

I've been visiting cemeteries in a non-funerary function for as long as I can remember. As a child, I used to help my parents as they helped fill Memorial Day orders at the family greenhouse for the local cemeteries, which included delivering arrangements and planting at the grave sites. Because visiting cemeteries was never associated with anything "scary" or "sad" for me (and indeed, the only "graveside" service I can remember attending is from adulthood) I have always found them a place of calm serenity. Oftentimes, if I need a quiet place to sit with my thoughts, I'll go to a cemetery. While some people do use them as walkable greenspaces (as they truly are), I typically have the place to myself for the most part, with the exception of the people who come to tend the graves of their loved ones. It's quiet, peaceful, and filled with art.

St. Francis Catholic Cemetery, Waterville ME

I started photographing cemeteries when I was in high school. I think the first time I put any effort into photographing something at a cemetery was at St. Francis Catholic Cemetery in Waterville, Maine, when I went with my mother as she tended to the graves of families. There are the most spectacular bronze angel statues guarding the gates of the cemetery (the Catholic side, because there is a secular side), one with a cross raised up to the sky, and another blowing a trumpet. It was natural, when I started photographing cemeteries again, that I recreate some of my first photos (the above is one of the recent photos). St. Francis is one I have traveled the width and breadth of because it is not only massive and convenient to get to, but it is filled with some of the most beautiful monuments. There are angels galore, many in varying state of decay due to age and the inevitable lichens that feed on the stone they are made from. There are virgin statues (see right), incredibly old grave markers that are barely legible, and new, shiny, modern marble and granite head stones with likenesses of the deceased etched into them with laser precision.

Maplewood Cemetery, Fairfield, ME

I have a set of personal rules or standards I hold myself to when I'm visiting the cemetery to photograph monuments. I try to remain as respectful as possible, and treat it like you would a national park: what goes in comes out with me. I try not to tread on the flat markers if I can help it (some have sunken into the ground and become overgrown over the years), and while I haven't encountered a fresh grave yet, I wouldn't tread on the dirt or otherwise disturb someone recently interred. I give anyone else in the cemetery a wide berth because I realize that some people find it weird and morbid and possibly inappropriate that I'm photographing grave markers and monuments. I also don't photograph (with one exception, because I hadn't seen one like it before) the names and birth/death dates if I can help it. If I can't, usually editing can help make them illegible. To me, photographing the personal information of the dead feels invasive. I do not sit on or lean on grave markers, ever. While a cemetery is a public greenspace, it is still a place where people are interred and their loved ones visit. It's not a park, or a playground, and I get upset when I see people walking their dogs through a cemetery or riding a horse through one (I have seen this). Cemeteries are sacred places to me, and they-- and their residents-- deserve respect.

Cavalry Cemetery, Skowhegan, ME

Photographing cemeteries is a sort of self-soothing act for me at times. It allows me to completely disconnect from the outside world for a while and do something creative. I often edit the photos on the spot and upload them to my Instagram account (you can find more there, but my page isn't all cemeteries), and I will walk through the more historic areas with their old, leaning marble stones to learn about the history of the area (anyone with an interest in epidemiology should visit an old cemetery or one with an old section, there's a lot to see and learn). Sometimes, though, I get sad, because I see graves with plastic or silk flowers on them, tattered and faded, and to me, that says "this is an obligation" or "I don't really care" and I would hate for my final resting place to be treated that way by the people I've left behind to care for it.

A friend recently asked permission to print some of my photos to decorate her office with and asked why I don't sell prints. Honestly, I don't photograph cemeteries for money or fame. They are available on my public Instagram page to view, and I would hope people would ask before reproducing them. I do this for myself. These cemeteries and the photos I take in them make me happy. I enjoy exploring different angles, getting close, and editing on my phone (because I take them ALL with my phone). I enjoy the time outside, walking, seeing the varying types of monuments, and learning the history of the area. I'd like to visit more than just the local cemeteries, but there is a lot here I'm sure I haven't seen. Cemeteries are a happy place for me.

If you're interested in death, cemeteries, mortuary science, and anything to do with death rituals, I highly recommend looking up Caitlyn Doughty either on Youtube or on her website. She's informative, funny, and a mortician that specializes in green burials.

All photos in this post are mine. If you want to see more, use the link above to visit my Instagram. Please don't steal them, I don't want to start using watermarks.

My Spirituality isn't Your Tumblr Aesthetic

I've talked about my spirituality before, but very very long ago, so it bears a refresher before I get into this rant. I discovered Wicca when I was 15 as I prepared to put my beloved dog to sleep and realized that the Catholic faith of my mother (which which I had loosely associated myself) had no room in heaven for dogs. It appealed to my love of nature and my affinity for fantasy (I was particularly interested in herbal healing) and it provided solace to my broken heart as I worked through the grief of my dog dying. I read books, visited the local occult shop when I could, and when I had regular access to the Internet, joined a Wicca message board (and made and maintained friendships with some of those people, even though we have all taken differing spiritual paths over the years). But, as I entered my 20's, something about Wicca felt... off to me. I didn't believe in the Wiccan Rede, I hated how, although it was based on early nature-based religions, it was terribly one-sided in favor of the Divine Female, the Goddess, with little attention paid to the actual duality of nature or the recognition of a God within the structure. I hated the fluffy, feel-good, be nice to everyone and harm NOTHING vibe. I loathed the little girls who thought it was the movie The Craft (which is an awesome movie, don't get me wrong, but it's entertainment, not fact) and used it to rebel against their parents.

At around 23 years old, I reevaluated my spirituality, and decided to drop Wicca as a personal identifier. My spirituality is much more grounded in the world I live in, existing in nature, celebrating the primal energy that surrounds us. I have an animal guide (ravens and crows, which I have tattooed all over me). My own personality is much too grey-area to stick with something so love-and-light as Wicca (which is a modern religion, don't let anyone tell you it's ancient) so I prefer to refer to myself as an extremely solitary, shaman-ish dirt-worshipping tree hugger, because I don't particularly like the term "Pagan," even. Given all this, maybe my rant is going to sound a little salty-old-Pagan, but so be it.

Sooo ~aesthetic~

There is a trend currently of girls appropriating certain aspects of various Pagan religions and declaring themselves "Wiccan" or "witches," when really, they're in it for the aesthetic. It's all over Tumblr and Instagram: aesthetically arranged crystals and candles, all put through a millennial pink or cool, blue-toned filter, alongside pictures of mermaid/unicorn hair (as an aside, I am so over unicorn and mermaid fucking everything) and maybe some witchy-sounding text. As someone who actually worships nature and has spent a long time pondering and evolving her own spirituality, I am actually so offended by these Tumblr witches. Insta witches. Facebook witches.

Owning some pretty crystals and spouting bullshit about your chakras (I guess Wicca is East Asian now?) doesn't make you Wiccan. It doesn't make you Pagan. It certainly doesn't make you a witch. ~Faerie majik~ is bullshit. I'm all for people having religion if it helps them (although I do believe wholeheartedly that organized religion holds us back as a species) or some form of structured spirituality, but come on. My spirituality isn't a trend. My spirituality is primal. I, on occasion, cast curses, because nature is not kind and sweet. Other times, I commune with the world around me and talk to animals (I have always had an affinity for animals). I read the weather in the leaves on the trees, in the clouds, and behavior of animals. I feel the world around me with every fiber of my being. I am happiest near trees and with crows nearby. It is not enough to have some shiny rocks that you've "charged" in the moonlight to be any form of Pagan. It's a belief set. It's a faith. If you want to take aesthetically-pleasing pictures of crystals and candles, by all means, do so, but don't pretend to belong to an established religion or faith when you don't know a damn thing beyond what pop culture throws at you, and you don't actually believe in what it says. Religion and spirituality are personal things, and Tumblr witches discredit those of us who have taken the time to examine our faith and refine our practices.

I'm not the only one that gripes about this. I'm friends with all sorts of flavor of Pagan, and we collectively roll our eyes at newly-minted batches of pastel-haired "Wiccans" who fill their feeds with pictures of crystals and sparkles and faeries because it's so aesthetic. Yes, there are some pretty tools in the more modern practices, and some gorgeous things crafted by talented artists that can be used for rituals and such, but pretty things shouldn't be the basis for choosing a religious path.

Maybe I am a cranky, salty old witch. Lately, as I've been craving being primal raising up some energy (it really has been a while), I've been stewing on the topic. I've been stewing on it for a while but maybe it's the upcoming new moon, maybe it's some amazing ancient Northern European inspired music I've been listening to, but I've felt my spirituality particularly acutely these past few days and seeing fake Pagans makes me salty. Maybe I'll go send out energy for their Instagram accounts to be hacked. ;)

Running Away

This weekend was... not good. Anyone that knows me knows that I run away from my problems, and I felt like I had nowhere to run to this weekend. One of the signs that I have an amazing and supportive boyfriend is that he recognizes my need to run away, so we got in the car and he just started to drive. We'd gotten about an hour away when he asked if I wanted to go back. I wasn't ready. So we just kept going, riding in silence while I stewed and processed and vacillated (and at times nodded off) until we found ourselves in northern New Hampshire. We stopped at a shitty Irish pub for dinner and made our way through the White Mountains National Forest on our way home. It was exactly what I needed, to be surrounded by mountains and trees and silence. By the time we reached somewhere around North Conway (and we still had a couple hours ahead of us) I was ready to talk.

We came in on Rt2, went through Gorham, Berlin, Lancaster, then down 302 and got back into Maine via Freyburg. Had we just kept going west for 10 miles, we would have made it to Vermont.

So, Why the Crows?

The subject of my latest tattoo

I get it all the time: "So what's the deal with all the crows?" I guess it's a reasonable question. My tattoos are all crow-themed, I dressed as a crow this Halloween, I keep a crow feather on my fridge, and I have lots of crow stuff at home and in my office. There's even a crow as the background of my phone. So why do I love them? Well, corvids (crows, ravens, magpies, etc.) are incredibly intelligent and have been known to use tools and complex forms of communication. They can also be taught to talk (Julian the raven is the most adorable thing, ever).

I've always had a connection to crows and ravens, and in fact in my youth when I would potentially be late for school due to oversleeping, the crows would start outside my window and wake me. Naturally, I identified with the birds and eventually recognized them as my animal/spirit guide. I couldn't live in a place where there was no crows, it would just feel wrong. Seeing them makes me happy, and listening to them calms me.They are truly amazing creatures with an unfair reputation built by centuries of fear and lack of understanding.

The tattoo version of the above picture

Whales and Unicorns

I was sitting on my bed, eating pumpkin ice cream and listening to Enigma when I heard whale song. It was something they commonly sampled into their music, and quite effectively. But at that moment, mixed into the ethereal music, I thought of unicorns, a green forest dappled with sunlight. In the 1985 movie Legend, the sound of whales was used for the unicorns, and I have associated them ever since.  When that song played, it was like I was Lili kneeling before the mare in the stream. I even saw the scene in my mind.  In fact, sometimes when I am in the forest, I am almost expecting to hear, amidst the bird song, a peal of whale song, as it has become to seem so natural, thanks to the wonders of music and media in general.

I'm going to put the song in this post. Listen to it. Imagine yourself in a verdant, virgin forest of dappled green light, fresh air, life. I'll bet you see unicorns.

Season of Death

Sandy River photo by Ben

It's Fall, and I don't have the excitement that so many people have for the season. It makes me cranky. Sure, apples are ripe and ready to pick and every coffee shop and bakery is putting pumpkin into their stuff, but I'm still miserable. For me, Fall is the season of death. It's not just my Paganish leanings  that make me feel this (the Fall and Winter are traditionally the domain of the Horned God, lord of the hunt, a god of death) but it's all around. The beautiful green deciduous forests of Spring and Summer that I love so much turn quickly and briefly to brilliant scarlets, vermillions, and oranges. But those colors don't last and with the wind and rain of October, the leaves fall away and rot on the ground. The flowers have died back, frost has killed the tomato and squash vines. The last of my already blight-rotten tomatoes are putrefying in their buckets in the yard.

I don't suffer from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) in the traditional sense, because I don't give a damn if the sun is there or not. What bothers me is that the birds are silent. My only comfort is the massive flock of non-migratory crows that covers the town; last year they did not leave until nearly Spring. But with the crows gone and no birdsong to ease my mind, I start to get depressed. It took me a while to figure this out, and this is  what makes me crave leaving the state in the winter. It's why Florida this past March helped me so much in my road to understanding my mental illness. I was hearing birds, I was seeing green growing things again, smelling flowers. I wasn't near deciduous forest (I love palm trees though, I have no idea why I am so fascinated with them) but there were still trees. If I could afford to be a snow bunny, I would.

This is what March 3, 2012 looked like for me

Shaman Shaman

I take Halloween pretty seriously. It's a Pagan holiday, and while I haven't been much on ceremony, as I have discussed before, the process of costuming for Halloween is a Big Deal. As it becomes a more mature holiday for me, so my costumes reflect a little more of my spirituality. This year I'm going to take advantage of a very generous gift John gave me at Christmas-- a Venetian mask he got while in Italy-- and dress as a plague doctor, because, well, it's awesome. But next year?

I always loved the shaman costume from Adventures in the Sin Trade from season 4 of Xena. But how to make it? I looked at buying loose antlers and pieces of antlers, but they were heavy and then I was faced with the problem of affixing them to a hood so that they didn't flop over. So for years, I've wanted this shaman costume, and could never make it. Then the other night, it came to me. I couldn't believe I had never thought of it before: papier mache. I could make a seat for the antlers and base for the fabric, and the antlers, instead of being real, could be made with a wire armature to support. It would be lightweight and the faux leather and fur could be hot glued on. What little stitching needed to be done, I can easily do by hand. I got very excited and wanted to start immediately, but first, I need materials. Materials will be cheap, yes, but even with their relative cheapness, I'm still pretty poor. I am so excited though! I can finally have Xena's shaman hood without having to kill and skin an elk, like she did in the episode! Oh, and if anyone loves me, season 4 is my absolute favorite and I don't own it...

So with that in mind, the other night when I was reading, an image popped in my head, as they do, when you're artistic. And it was a mask. One that will be infinitesimally more difficult and will require some sketching first to even figure out how to set up the armature. Can you guess what it will be?

Caw!

A Reclaiming

I walked to a clear cut I know, long abandoned but never replanted with hardwoods like they're supposed to do. It is a wound in an otherwise healthy deciduous forest.

I wondered why, since this had been here for at least a decade or more, the forest had not reclaimed this unassuming field. I remembered the old boat landing, how, once abandoned had been reclaimed quickly, and from one year to the next the road to the water had become impassable, even by foot. Now, when you go by it, unless you knew it was there to begin with, you would never know man had intruded on the forest.

I set out along the tracks of what may have been at one time a logging road, at times rocky and inhospitable to bare feet, at times mossy and cooling. I hear the szzt szzt of grasshoppers and the hop and fly away from my feet like a veritable biblical plague. Dry leafy wild strawberry vines were in abundance, their fruit long gone bye. Then I spotted the first signs of reclamation: tiny fir trees in their infancy, growing in the median.

I journeyed on. I had never been so deep in the clear cut, usually staying within sight of the road. There was a thrill of the unknown. Would I see a deer? A moose with calf? Even a black bear? And unfamiliar sound in the underbrush startled me and I realized I had been too silent, padding on bare feet. I coughed, talked to myself. Got thoroughly grossed out when I walked into multiple spider webs. The plants were getting thicker, lush with wild raspberries. I did not pick them; they were not for me, they were for the robins and juncos and thrushes and sparrows and jays.

The light was changing, that sort of green forest light. I sensed I was near to my goal. I had the prickle of sweat on my scalp; I was far enough in that the wind did not reach me. There it is! In front of me was the point of reclamation, where new forest was unfurling into the grasses, invasive and proud. The forest was healing from the inside out, like a deep puncture wound. I turned to leave. The wound did not need a lingering foreign presence.

Making my way out, I was careful to push the stems of goldenrod and other plants aside, careful not to crush the living. I wanted to make sure everything was exactly as I left it. Closer to the road I heard the detestable sound of a circular saw, cars driving too fast. I did a surreptitious check for ticks. I'm not so concerned with Lyme. I'll check on this healing wound, as time goes, but Nature has shown, she knows very well what she's doing.

Night Swimming

There is something undeniably sensual about swimming at night; I'm not talking about swimming at twilight when there is still plenty of light and safety and sameness, no, I'm talking about swimming in a full-bore night when the world is blanketed in an inky blackness that devolves into interesting splotches of dark and light ink when you look into it without glasses. Tonight I walked out into the darkness, the loathsome spotlight guiding my way down the path. I didn't want it on but knew I needed some way to make my way down other than by feel. It's raining, and while I normally abhor the feeling of water falling on me the soft drops of rain feel nice against skin made sticky by humidity. The water is low and a slow mist hovers over deeper waters. Glasses off, I make my way over the gravel, into the warm shallows and deeper. The rocks don't feel right, and I suspect my parents of trying to dig them up again. That is treacherous for me, who has learned this lake, memorized its bottom by feel with sensitive soles. Sharp rocks that most people can't bear to walk on I learned to walk on. I stumble and fall in, annoyed; I don't like to be so disgraceful, I don't like to be loud.

The water is cool, too cold for most people but I can't stand to swim in warm lakes. The water slides up over my shoulders like caressing hands and I dip back to wet all of my hair, savoring that cool, refreshing sigh of water over my scalp that no shower could ever duplicate. I squint  distrustfully out into the mist, at the lights of the dam, before making my slow way back to the dock for the bottle of biodegradable shampoo. My mother has come out, and annoyed, I try and fall miserably to throw the bottle back.

I lean back and let the water take me, rinsing the suds. I can feel the sides of my slightly too small tankini start to ride up and the secret crows on my ribcage threaten escape. Water fills my ears and there is silence, just the gentle plashing of my feet, the silent raindrops on my face; their clouds obscure the stars. I look at my hair, long and dark, slithering and shining next to me like a mystery; in daylight swimming it looks like mermaid hair.

The rippling water as I paddle and kick gently feels good, almost like massaging fingers caressing me on their way by me to places unknown. I always marvel at the buoyancy as the water supports me, yet feeling that tremendous resistance as I move my arms and legs. I'm not a strong swimmer, by any means, but I don't fight the water.

The air is clean, so clean. I take in deep breaths but in the still air and out on the water I can't smell my beloved trees. The chill of the air and the chill of the water are enrobing me and I know it's time to get out of the water, to return to real life, artificial light, noise, people.
Tonight was sacred time. Tonight was worship in the holy temple of Nature. It has been far, far too long.