Going Home

I seek a treasure long buried
Beneath the Mattaponi mud.
Sediment clings to long fingers,
Burrowing under untrimmed nails.
It is soft yet firm, gripping on its own.
It wants to take my arm for itself,
Just as it took this treasure.

Not all of time rests in grains of sand.
Some time flows like mud:
Swollen, grasping, sucking in,
But only whistling out.
Crab bubbles float to a surface
That swallowed something far greater.
Nothing escapes the dark glue with ease.

Here I learned where I didn’t belong.
Many stayed placid, but I was the current.
I ran till I emptied out into the sea
And floated to terra incognita.
I found tides as strong as me
And haven’t been home since.
But I need something I left behind . . . .

My hand closes around the lost treasure,
Freeing it from the vacuum of mud
That clouds the water beneath the surface.
The treasure breaches, glue sloughing from tissue,
The chambers pumping in my hand
As the remains of freshwater escape
From long clogged and clotted veins.

The Mattaponi carries away the time I lost
Trying to stay in place with those lingering.
I turn the treasure over and smile
As blood floats downstream in preparation.
Feeling it warm in the light of the sun,
The gentle rhythm of life beats in my hand.
“Come my heart,” I say. “Home awaits.”

Black Lives Matter

Yes. All lives matter. That means black lives matter just as much. Their lives are the ones being repeatedly threatened. When a house is on fire, is it right to say that all houses matter and we should be spraying all houses and not just the one? The answer is obvious.

I have cops, soldiers, and firemen as ancestors. Their sacrifices are not meaningless because I’ve decided to stand with the long neglected POC and say that enough is enough. In fact, my history makes it doubly important for me to choose where I stand. A statue is not a human life. A building is not a human life. I would rather see everything burn than lose another human life to systematic racism and cruelty. Our country was built on the backs of POC, and they’ve had to fight for every breath they’ve taken because apparently breath is not free in this free country.

The worth of a society is determined by how its least privileged are treated. If we’re the wealthiest and freest country, this bar should not be so difficult to cross. However, it is and I and millions of others are severely disappointed.

If you want info on how to help, here’s an article suggesting how: https://nymag.com/strategist/article/where-to-donate-for-black-lives-matter.html

Racial justice funds: https://t.co/YxNBnazQXl
Protestor bail funds: https://t.co/h8E3ycxzU2
NYmag places to donate list: https://t.co/2QTLpTEJoD

Here’s an Instagram post by lifebyesther on creators to follow: https://www.instagram.com/p/CBGdfFIgVdC/?igshid=1rftawueltang

Get more personal. Buy the book Open Season by Ben Crump. He details the racial injustices and systematic violence of our own system and is representing George Floyd’s family. Watch and read Just Mercy, and The Hate U Give. Read books like Monday’s Not Coming. The black experience isn’t limited to the history books. POC have a past, but they also have a present. They have a future, and we need to recognize that.

Do yourself a favor and go follow BowtiesandBooks on Twitter, YouTube, and Instagram. They’re a wonderful person and a wonderful source of love and openness and pride during these times.

It wouldn’t be pride month if we didn’t have a fucking riot demanding our basic human rights, now would it? With that in mind, here’s another link to the Marsha P. Johnson Institute: https://marshap.org/

Without black trans women, we would not even have pride month. So for my last note, I say fuck J.K. Rowling and her TERF ways. Goodnight and good luck.


Silence is a trigger for me. I’ve tried to stop using the word trigger because it’s become such a joke in modern-day, but that’s what it is. When people don’t talk to me and I have no context for why, I tend to think I’ve done something wrong and I’m being punished. This mostly comes from bad relationships with peers and partners. My family never punished people with silence. If someone had fucked up, my family made sure they knew. But peers and partners have ghosted me, given me the silent treatment, avoided me until they decided it was time to blow up. Therefore, I require a lot of reassurance that I’m okay when things go quiet.

Silence has been coming up a lot lately. I have a partner who, when they fall into a serious depression, they shut down and don’t talk. When they first did this, I thought it was because I’d told them off and they were punishing me for being honest about my feelings. I have friends who, in an effort to deal with their own deteriorating health, have logged off the internet. I talk to people less and less each day and it scares me. I retreat into myself and I don’t even feel comfortable in my worlds at the moment. I have been struggling to write in these plague times.

Trying to find comfort in fantasy has always been a way of handling triggers for me, but the sheer volume of what I’ve been dealing with has made it hard. It’s like everything I’ve been dealing with, from bills to animal deaths to work struggles and relationship struggles, refuses to be ignored. And I have to acknowledge it in silence.

Newsletter Replacement

I believe that these posts I try to make each week should replace my newsletters. I used to send out newsletters quarterly, but the read rate was so low for the work I put into them that weekly blog posts just seem more efficient for me.

Newsletters were mostly to inform you readers of my latest projects and animal ambitions. With the loss of so many of my critters in such a short amount of time, it’s actually kind of painful to report the losses. I’m down to just my seven ferrets, ten rats, my horse, five cats, three dogs, and four lizards. That’s still a lot, but it’s nowhere near as many as I had a year ago. Rats come and go so quickly, but between rehoming and losing and burying so many in 2019, I need to just love who I have and let them go as their time comes naturally.

I’ve been just posting new playlists I make to twitter as they come, and drawings I’ve made to instagram. It’s just easier for me to designate information to the different sites. Here, I feel I can be as personal as I wanted to be in my newsletter.

Please utilize my contact box if you have questions or topic suggestions. I’d be more than happy to share whatever I’m able to. Thank you ❤

Being a Druid

I grew up Southern Baptist, but the church wasn’t always welcoming to me. I believe in God, but not the God of their Bible. I believe in a genderless entity, a creator and a destroyer who can make and unmake our world, whose gift of free will has made people misrepresent them. I have pieces of my Christian upbringing with me always, but for as long as I can remember the church has been a forest or a field or a river for me. Never a building.

For as long as I could remember, the Sundays I loved were the Sundays spent on the back of my horse. My mom and I are both highly sensitive people, and animals and nature ground us. In recent years, I’ve turned to the one practice that makes sense to me: druidry.

I thrive in routine and practicality. What I deem practical doesn’t necessarily mean Diana agrees. She’s still very much Catholic, but it seems like a divine plan to have her be the one to encourage and help me find my way on my druidic path. I practice all three branches of druidry: bard, ovate, and druid tradition. I write, sing, and craft, as well as practice husbandry and healing. I’m trying to be a better part of my community. My fear of people slows me down in that respect.

I’ve built my altar and am halfway through my first Book of Awen, a grimoire of sorts. My next desire is to make a staff. It has been a blessing to realize what gifts I’ve been blessed with my whole life, and difficult to reconcile that I still have much to learn about them. But in times like these, I know that being able to read and tend to the land and its inhabitants is of utmost importance. My practice goes hand in hand with becoming the prepper I’ve always wanted to be.

Magic isn’t a matter of fiction for me. I hold the belief that science is just magic explained. One day, we’ll know all the answers, but until then why deny energy. Energy, empathy, premonition, divination are all as real to me as my gardens and creatures. There may not be a direct explanation for me right now, but I’m sure one exists. Learning divination and how many ways things can be interpreted has been an adventure for me, especially when I’m still relatively skeptical. But my writing has power because I make it so. Why can’t scrying be similar?

I have loved my druidic journey and I hope to continue learning. If I practice nothing else, I at least hope to always practice kindness, understanding, and the very witchy threefold rule.