This essay appears in Eternal Haunted Summer magazine, where it was originally published. It's part of my memoir about shamanic experience.
One-Eyed Cat: Heathenry / Slavic Paganism
Exploring the wider Eurasian influences on central and northern European religion, including Norse, Slavic, Celtic, Baltic, Siberian, Mediterranean and ancient Indo-European beliefs and applying them to contemporary practice.
She teaches workshops on Norse spirituality and seidhr, and works as a professional shaman and oracle in Albuquerque, New Mexico, consulting the Gods at staffandcup.com.
This blog post also appears in print with more photos in Sacred Hoop Issue #85.
Central Albuquerque, New Mexico USA. Seen from the sky. Courtesy of Wikipedia.
"Look wide, and look far. Look upon your city. This is your community. These are your people, all of them. The people you know and the people you will never meet. Even the ones you don't like. Good or bad, rich or poor, status and class and family don't matter. Politics don't matter. They're still all your people....
Did you know there's an excellent quarterly pagan literary magazine? It's edited by PaganSquare's BookMusings blogger, Rebecca Buchanan.
Head on over to Eternal Haunted Summer for the Spring Equinox issue. It's packed with excellent short stories, poems, essays, interviews and reviews of pagan books and media drawn from world mythology, with a polytheist viewpoint, written by both pagans and non-pagan authors.
This poetic essay originally appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer Magazine 2011
The restaurant — hole-in-the-wall with age-darkened brick wallpaper, old-lady peony-pink damask table cloths, the color my Chicago adopted grandmother used to like in homemade church blouses, eyelet white lace curtains festooned with paper ribbons in the ceiling, entwined with silk flower vines, glitter easter-eggs, feather butterflies in “old-lady chic” the guidebook calls it, ribbons hanging from the trophy animals, dusty green-red pheasant I can’t see his tail, two deer heads with gold mardi gras beads wrapped ’round dead necks and antlers, soft orange carrot salad a feast of hunter’s stew between potato pancakes plump meat chunks tucked in a surprise the old man with Andy Warhol hair arguing cheerfully with the middle-aged waiter reading a conservative fantasy novel, this food is better than your mother’s he says with a straight face, expecting the rejoinder as my husband checks out, tart herbaceous currant juice, the color of crushed berries — it tastes like secrets –...
A past December:
It's the season of mistletoe and holly, when bells are ring-jing-jing-a-ling and the year-round Northern outdoor signs that say, "Beware of Falling Ice" finally have meaning. The night is hushed in a way it only gets when there is a blanket of snow, on the eve before a holiday, when everything is closed. Snuggled in a hotel room in upstate New York, red and blue-foil snowflakes covering presents gleam out of the corner of my eye, while real ones slowly fall, dancing over the parking lot.
It's almost midnight. Drowsy with hot cider, lying on my husband's chest and listening to his heartbeat, there's nowhere else I'd rather be…...