It came in the mail earlier today*, this last sacred thing; this most versatile, in its forms and disguises, of Dark Earth's powerful gift.
It arrived from Anchorage, in a padded little envelope with a tidy and pleasant signed note, for which a good review is most certainly in order.
eBay is one of the few places online, I've discovered, where one can purchase a nice-sized and affordable sample of crude oil. Yup . . . I'm that weird woman, who buys things like crude oil online, instead of a DVD or fitness set or kitchen tool (no shame in doing so, though!).
I can't find my bottle of heavy fuel oil from Daddy, labeled "Texas Tea", in all my boxes. But I didn't feel my altar to Aliria-Nafta would be complete without a sample of the real thing, nor my magick work under her guidance fully explored until I could touch oil with my senses by means of a link --- especially since oil is so readily turned into other things, its disguises littering, literally, our daily lives. To touch the source, feel it, smell this darkest and greatest of Mother Earth's potions, this substance of such unfathomable power from which damn near half our society is made, is intensely important for me.
Crude oil samples of various size, price, and locality --- many in "oil memorabilia" souvenir form --- pop up on eBay at intervals. This one seemed a good size for the price, $5! ($9, with shipping), a "Buy it Now" option, and a nice black color. (I have another coming as well, from the Drake Well itself, sent from where else but Oil City, Pennsylvania. How slick is that?)
Tonight I again drew out the capped vial. The feelings kept coming, slow, thick, potent: The same small vial sold as a fundraiser for a children's charity held a fluid made from millions of dead life forms, a fluid that, mishandled once, had caused thousands of animal deaths via the Exxon-Valdez spill. Questions still hung. Would I be able to open the jar, or was it glued shut? To touch the oil was my goal, in however judicious amounts. My friend Kathleen told me the trick of using rubber bands to give you grip on a jar lid, and, carefully, holding the vial precisely upright and keeping fiercely in mind the sneaky nature of oil, I managed to open it.
Then crude oil touched me for the first time: A tiny smeared, dark brown dab was on my fingertip, then in my palms, spreading its thin silky film over my hands, covering them with the scent of diesel. Like the smell of Daddy's engine room, really. I found a small blackened seashell --- a shell, I thought, how appropriate --- and placed most of the residue in it, as a reservoir for future "annointings". In this case, a very, very little dab'll do ya; no more needed.
With the oil still on my hands, I blessed the vial, which I stood next to Aliria-Nafta's statue, and the shell. "I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing," I began. "I am naive, born into this era of intense change. . . ." I offered gratitude for this amazing gift that had done so much for us, and asked for help that we use it with greater wisdom and respect. I asked for Gaia's forgiveness for the lives we had taken or harmed in our idiocy; I asked Naptha to spare adding us to her realm too soon, even though that is eventually where we must end up, with the turning of the great cycle, the wheel of time.
But for this moment, which is all I have, I asked for help in staying connected to my sense of gratitude for the beauty of all before me, for the life in my body and the understanding that evolution gifted my wonderful mind, my soul. I assured the collective Earth Divinity that when I thought of a more specific job I needed help with, since deities apparently like it when you invoke with a specific task for them in mind, I would let them know, if not by voice then by intent. And by the end, I had tears, which I wiped on a dried daisy and burned as an offering.
I felt in my heart that on a given day, this is the best I can do: Magic, like us, isn't always perfect, or glossy, or pre-worded, or spectacular; more often, it is spontaneous, a messy plea in the dark. It's about meeting the Spirit where we're at, again and again, on a daily basis preferably, while dressed in PJ shorts with flames on them and red-painted toenails, with crap on the chair next to us and a job to be at tomorrow. It's trusting the Divine Ones to help us persist: persist in being grateful, in seeing beauty, in exploring with pleasure the Mysteries, and in completing what they're calling us to do, what we were sent here for.
It's time for bed, and I've washed my hands, brushed my teeth; but the scent of ancient rock oil still clings to my palms.
*Technically, the posted date is early morning on the day following the mail arrival
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