This year my coven has decided to quietly embark on a couple of intermediate lessons for ourselves. It’s been a long time since we’ve been able to do more than just teach the class, and it feels really good to get into new things. Daystar is making salves for the wheel of the year; Cynnamon is teaching some of the live classes . . . and I’m heading up a series of lessons on each of the seven major chakras.
(I almost can’t write this, I still feel intense shame.)
There were two times in my my life when I was poor enough to feel actual physical hunger. The first was when my parents first separated and I was living with my mother in a commune in Berkeley (CA).* I’d been wrested from a typical middle-class (white) suburban lifestyle full of meat and bread in unlimited quantities and thrust willy-nilly into a hippie commune. No sugar. Homemade bread. No meat, except when we killed a chicken or rabbit. Nothing processed.
I hated it.
Seven ago today I began a process of deliberately poisoning my body; in the medical profession this is called chemotherapy.
It was the toughest thing I have ever done in my life. Partly because it wasn’t a one time even, but a whole series of sessions. And it got worse as time went on.
On Dec 23 I was crossing the street on my way home and was hit by a car.
Said like that: how terrifying and scary!
I eat a lot of eggs for breakfast, pretty much every day in fact. During the week that usually means I’ve created some kind of ‘bake’ — veggies, maybe meat, probably some cheese, covered in an egg/milk combination and then baked until the eggs are set.
Creating a kind of mission statement.
1. My mind, body and soul are very important to me. I promise to take care of them by…
Treating my body with respect for the hard work it does so elegantly. Cherishing its strength and helping it achieve its best level of health. Feeding my brain art, literature, music, and puzzles to keep it sharp and active. Filling my soul with art and music, and beauty so that I might maintain my divine connection with the Lord and Lady.
In June I challenged myself to do yoga every day. Knowing that I probably wouldn’t be able to do it every single day, I gave myself a bit of an out: my challenge was to get to the mat, if only metaphorically. If I could show up, that would count. So, how did I do?
The oysters of my youth were huge things, briny and thick — I hated them and couldn’t see why people made such a fuss over them.
(To be revisited in six months, around my birthday.)
Peri-menopause is proving to be more difficult than I expected, although why I thought it would be another else, I’m not sure. Having spent two years attempting to get in better shape I find myself at the same place, nearly, that I was post-chemo. This (literally) depressing. (A mental state I wrestle with far too often to be healthy.)
More than anything, I feel healthy when I get enough sleep. That amount has varied over the years, but it’s getting to be a larger number. I get up early, most days, so managing an evening social life has become more difficult as a result. But if I don’t get 7.5 hours of sleep, I really notice it. I can get by on 6 hours for a few days, but the ‘fog’ is perceptible, and coffee required . . . which can lead to restless sleep and not getting enough sleep, needing caffeine to function . . . BAM! vicious circle enacted. No bueno. Some weekends I sleep in and get 9 hours, and that feels great. I do that on vacations as well, I notice.