Earthy Mabon Rites

This weekend was Mabon, which officially and spiritually greets Autumn in through the gate on the Wheel of the Year.

Many of us witches totally look forward to that first delicious shift in the air that signals the turning of the season, although this year I lamented a bit too, having only just begun transforming into a tanned Sun goddess still running hot with the fire of Leo, of Sekhmet and my own Aliria. Also, this year Fall not so much glided in on a gentle afternoon breeze as fell upon us like an emptied swimming pool with the first rain.

There was a Fall Equinox or Mabon festival out in Ffynnon, where SunFest had been held, but the theme was the rather patriarchal play The Bacchae, and I admitted to myself upfront that I wasn't feeling it or Dionysus in general --- no matter that he makes a good god of the harvest. Besides, I longed for some very rare time absolutely to myself in the house, time away from squawking mom or chatting kids. Time in which to explore and honor my budding work with my own Dark Goddess of the turning wheel, Aliria-Naphtha, whose call has not once fully ceased since my ears became sharp enough to discern it, and whom I long to know better.

An amazing shirt with mushrooms, denizens of Autumn

But it didn't mean I wasn't game for a group Witch/Pagan event of some sort. So I bussed north, to Spiral Grove's Mabon celebration near the junction of Lombard and Peninsular, bringing with me in a bag an apple-pear crumble I had baked that morning.

At the junction I spotted signs in a window. All Spanish, so a Latino-run store, obviously. One caught my attention: "Botanica." I knew what that meant: A place that sells herbs, powders (polvos), oils (aceites), candles, and other magical paraphernalia used in the Santeria, Latino and hoodoo communities, where old deities are often disguised as saints. While low on cash, I had enough to buy a black candle, sheepishly using a few Spanish words with the dour-looking fellow at the counter. (Gringa senora no entre muy frequentamente, ¿si?) I do love the little bottles of oil, be they super herbal or legit or not, so I'm glad to have another place to find them! I realized something funny: Naphtha is, in her sciency and more blatantly Earth-related sort of way, a bit like my personal Santa Muerte!

The Spiral Grove event was sweet. My witchy coven-mate Amie and her kids came, so we could shoot the breeze and scheme a bit. We all did a lovely meditation on harvest and release, in which we encountered Dionysus, Hekate, Persephone and Demeter, in that order, in a route that took us through an enchanted garden and arbor, into a dark tunnel of the Underworld, and out into the moonlit garden again. So I ended up with my Dionysus this year anyway!

Lately, an opportunity has come up about which I'm nervous but very excited --- a group trip to Hawai'i, courtesy of an older Portland man known as a facilitator and altruist. The price is insanely reasonable . . . and I recently found my work has this thing called Paid Time Off, which I've never taken. It's time, that small voice in me whispers, none too gently now. Seize this gift and don't regret it --- not for the high carbon price of flight, not for anything! You can make it up later.

How lucky, then, that I sat next to Linda, a new woman who'd never been to a Spiral Grove event, and who worked with Pele. Because if I go to Hawai'i, there's one thing I want to do, and that is make proper offerings to the notoriously powerful goddess of that land! We discussed Pele a bit, and I also showed her photos of the statue I made, of my goddess who is her own brand of fiery. Linda told me: "I think she's beautiful."

Among other things, Linda recommended a book, "Place names of Hawai'i", in which native names were explained and various deities woven into story. We talked of Dark Goddesses and she mentioned a character in the fictional American Gods (which I've never seen), whom Aliria-Naphtha reminded her of, some kind of primitive African love goddess who devoured men with her vagina, and I laughed --- yep, that sounds a bit like other goddesses I'm running across lately! These archetypes are rising, collectively in our Earth-based faith, as women the world over are struggling to shake the toxic mantle of patriarchy once and for all.

Afterward, naturally, we all feasted on the best kind of witchy potluck: vegan salads and homemade kale chips, meatloaf and crumble, berry pie and cake, topped off with wine. I was getting nervous by then, because I had another place to be, clear on the other damn side of town. Friends were coming, old friends indeed, whom I hadn't seen in at least fifteen years, to play a concert. I wanted to ritualize, but I wanted also to try and see them.

Even on the speediest public transit route, I had to walk at least twenty-five blocks, and tried not to let frustration get to me. It took awhile to even find the tiny venue, a houseboat on the riverside in Sellwood. I'd never been down on the docks, and it was a beautiful night. Then I couldn't figure out how to get in, for the gate of Unit No. 1 was closed! But I grew up around docks, so. . . . I crept down the adjoining dock, till I saw Andres' face through a window. Score! Now, to step very carefully. . . . The docks at their closest point were a meter apart. My bags heavy and clanking with two bottles of wine, me knowing very well I might not be found right away in case of an accident or a dunking, I calculated my leap and took it. Still sweaty from my rapid hike, I finally came to rest next to a couple on the houseboat's outer veranda, looking in through the sliding-doors at my old friends Andres and Navino making music. Daddy had wanted to come, but financial bills prevented him, so by being here I represented him, too.

They looked the same as ever, and their music was sweet as ever, reminding me of the sacredness of life and how many things for which I am grateful. Apparently it was just a little low-key, small-venue concert by donation at the home of their friend, the film maker who did the El Camino pilgrimage film. I got a few songs on record, and we caught up a bit. In those years, I had gone from a teenager to a full-grown woman! The bridge was beautiful in the night, there was wine and snacks, and hugs; and afterward, I helped portage out their array of instruments. One of their other friends was kind enough to give me a lift all the way home, saving me much time.

The hour was late, nearing midnight, but I was determined to hold private ritual space for my goddess and myself while I could, knowing the family returned tomorrow. (How taxing it can get, like breathing bad air to where you forget how much it wears on you, having no personal space!) So I had a glass of wine, moved the table, gathered select items, and began dressing an altar: My first altar dedicated to Dark Earth, to Aliria-Naphtha, alone; for it was she I wanted to get to know, she whom so few folks choose to approach in spirit, and she who I hoped I could work with for cleansing and creative power as the Northern hemisphere turned toward its season of darkness.

The whole nine yards, bitches! I put out a circle of tealights to form a kind of cocoon of fire, and a soft cloth to sit (and wallow) on. Everything I might need lay on the altar table, on my new cloth from Pagan Pride. When there was no more prep or reason to delay, I began, still nervous. I'm still new to this, this work with certain types of divinity, with techniques like trance . . . and why does my practice lag behind my desire? For too long I've maligned myself as lazy, or incapable as a full shaman or witch, lacking the "gift" --- but in truth, how much of that is due to a sheer lack of safe-feeling space in which to explore, to ritualize? So when space is mine to enjoy and exploit, I feel rusty, awkward. By now, I was more than that: In an attempt to rouse my courage, I was drunk, to the point of invoking tiredness. It had been a long day already.

Aliria knew it, too. "Bitch," she seemed to say to me, "I ain't gonna fully ride you, or even touch you with a fingertip --- you are way too far gone, drunk off yo' ass and tired now to boot, and that is no way to handle the goddess of power!" Still, I tried. I wrote an intention paper of release, and inscribed a candle. I empowered the Cleansing Fire oil I made, added thirteen drops of one of my sacred crudes, then annointed myself all over, a symbolic act of burning purification, of turning into fuel for my future all the outmoded energies and things that held me back.

And so I fulfilled my goal of rolling on the floor all oiled up, offering my sexual ecstasy to Aliria. I tried to go into a communing meditation with each of my oils as well, but gave up on that, realizing I had neither the alertness nor the spirit-journeying skill for that at the time. I did do a bone reading, so bleary-eyed I had trouble focusing in the dim light. Because, try as you might, sometimes you simply cannot do it all in one night!

By then, the circle of tealights was flickering low; a couple had gone out. Two a.m. had slid away until nearly six, and the faintest hint of morning touched the sky. I wasn't done yet. I took my oil-annointed paper out to the backyard fire-basin, set the sawdust I'd put in alight with alcohol, and burned the paper. After pressing it out, I came back in and closed circle. I'd hoped to hold more ritual with the fire setting --- my plan was an all-night personal ritual spirit trip --- but again, I'd started too late, and gotten too tanked, and by then all I could do was my best.

In such a case, you tell yourself that this work is ongoing. The most important thing I may have done was to take that first step. It may be the most important thing any of us can do. I showed up; I tried; I began. And if I'm honest with myself, I wouldn't expect an entity like this goddess or spirit to appear first time anyway. Who is she, after all? This, the goddess of petroleum, works her magic deep in the rocks of Earth and hides her energies there. She's used to people seeking her, all right, but why? To snatch her sacred power, her hidden potions, and sell them; to possess her gifts, at any cost, even that of animal and fellow human lives. She may have issued the call, but I wouldn't put it past her to test me, to see where my true motives lie, to test the strength of my devotion and commitment. Any jerk with a rig can drill for her potions, the blood of the Earth --- but the gift of her spirit, her real wisdom? After what we've done, I wouldn't blame Aliria if she withheld that from us til, as they say, Kingdom Come. During my time in the circle, I did try communion with her via the pendulum; that seems the sort of thing to be both helpful and consistent. How often, I asked, should I meditate or hold ritual space in order to know her better, to open that gate of sacred bonding and wisdom? Weekly?
No, she responded. Daily.

It is a tall order. One for days to come, for by then, I was too tired to hold even my body upright, and crawled into grateful sleep. But oh, how beautiful and powerful her image looked tonight!

It was a perfect, in an ironic way, to do the work I wanted to do this weekend, because Friday was the Youth Climate Strike march, Portland's branch of a global event whose impetus was first sparked by the actions of Greta Thunberg a year ago. I got out of the house earlier than usual, making a point to get down to that rally and across the bridge, and finally to Oregon Museum of Science and Industry.

So it's down in the trenches again! Surrounded by ranking and ronking on all sides, voices crying out in strident urgency, and waving placards. (I considered making a sign or placard but opted out due to lack of suitable material in chance of rain.) And, most unusually and importantly, youth. Kids and teens, lots of them.

Save our future! Don't be a fossil fool! Yo' Mama's so hot her ice caps are melting! Why send us to school when you won't listen to the educated? If you did your jobs, we would be in school!
Looking at all the homemade placards is one of my favorite parts.

By not having my own placard, my hands were freer to snap images, which is all about timing. This one girl's fabulous hair, for example, complimented the colors of a placard held by another kid.

One placard, made out of a ventilator box, incorporates the brand packaging labels into the sign's message. People use literally everything they have to get creative.

"I'm with her. . . .", and also with him:

Friday was truly an uplifting day, as similar marches took place in hundreds of cities around the globe, never mind small towns, including my own, where 150 people marched on Lopez Island.

A total of at least four million humans (and, if pictures tell truth, quite a few hundred dogs) marched. The message is the same: Without this planet we're standing on, we, and all our hobbies and jobs, dreams and aspirations, do not exist, period. There is no Planet B.

But later the next night, I persisted in allowing a different, but related --- and for now, much quieter --- revolution to take place: One that began even before last spring, when I dared to listen and take it seriously when Earth's underworld aspect demanded I recognize Her as sacred, as well. One that requires an absolute, radically ground-shaking shift in thought and perception, in how we see. I am one who sees how many of those kids' clothes and accessories are petroleum-based, gifts of Aliria. I'm one who not only knows (if but in part) about the wasteful excesses of the US military and agricultural industries, the largest users of oil and CO2 emitters, but who sees the petroleum-based markers on many placards, and parts of the technology that gave the ardent speakers the power of amplified sound.

Revolution can take form as a stampede, but it can also begin at home. In this home, where an altar to a dangerous goddess speaks of a need for balance, the dangers of not being properly grateful, and of a fierce love and appreciation --- not for a gentle or innocent spirit, but for the raging dark one, the one we demand everything from, only to turn around and blame her gift and work as dirty. Love not for merely a virgin unspoiled Earth, but for her shadow self, industry's unwilling whore, Oil. If you love Earth, love all of her, both her forests and white mountains and her festering peat bogs and tar pits. Whether we want to vacation there or not, it all deserves respect.

If I have learned anything in my work with Goddess, it's that She is both. She is always both. In everyone who lives Eve, lives Lilith; in who lives Shakti, lives Kali! And it is Lilith and Kali who will demand we wake up and be accountable, who will rage beyond our fragile illusion of control when we try to place ourselves apart and above the rest of Creation. In kind, it is Burning Earth, fossil earth, whose spirit will rise up more insidiously against us than any hurricane until she, in my own mother's words, "slaps us children bald-headed".

The best part? Since I couldn't get it all done in a night, and have a friendly nudge-slash-mandate to commune more frequently than I expected, I have a lot to look forward to!

She is watching.

  Beautiful Aliria, dark and powerful Aliria, deadly Aliria-Naftha, who makes her potions beneath the rocks, who moves in Earth as her bile and memory, who will claim our unclaimed bones and remains:
  I am grateful for this time with you. Grateful for everything we have from you. Help me work more closely with you, with utmost respect, if it helps even one other member of my species heal our relationship with our planet home.