This is how I roll....

I am a mostly barefoot person. I have two exceptions: one is working with the horses or in their pens (which can be dangerous for bare feet. Ladies who ride or do groundwork: always have the proper gear!) which requires boots. Not just for safety reasons, either – there’s nothing quite like sticking your toes in a fresh pile of steaming shit.

The other exception is at work in the group home. It’s a policy thing that we must wear shoes. I tried getting around that for religious reasons, but my boss was having None Of That.

The rest of the time I like my feet to be naked. It’s not just a question of “airing my feet out” (although to hear some family members talk I ought to be doing more of this) but it also feels earthy, pagan-y, if you will, to me. I feel really quite connected/witchy when I’m barefoot (unless I’ve just done something stupid like standing on a pointy rock or something).

This past couple of months have been… confusing. I started a secondary new job, intending it to be a) Really Awesome Stuff and b) a chance to Make My Mark on the world while Earning Oodles Of Money. The idea was to work at a community museum which is undergoing a major renovation & revamping. So this would be the perfect time to go from being “just another community museum” to “really freaking cool and engaging”, no? Apparently not – from day 1 I’ve been at loggerheads with the current Director, who doesn’t see the need for multimedia, or for innovation, or for accurate, critical research, or a website….

What’s the point of renovating if you intend to keep on with the same old, same old?

Work at my regular job is equally annoying, from coworkers flaking majorly on the job to potentially organization-changing decisions with no leader around to make them. Decisions which could make or break an individuals life/sanity. Which now must wait for at least a month, until the Big Man can get back from vacation. What’s the point of having a vacation if you don’t leave any instructions for the rest of us?

I guess between one thing and another I’ve found myself more and more outside lately. It’s the only thing that makes a bit of sense to me now, anyway…. I am definitely holding onto the archetype of Mama Nature as being nurturing, peaceful, and healing. I lie down in the shady grass under the trees, with the scent of bedstraw in my nose, and just want to close my eyes and go to sleep.

steps out the door

into fresh barnyard light

and with the hound baying behind her

she goes past

all the crooked little cages

with their tired patient horses

waiting with dark brown eyes

begging for more

food, water, shelter, love

but the wells are dry

and the grass turned into dust

that she kicks up under her feet.

sorry, sorry, sorry

she thinks as she flees into the forest

if i could set you the same, i would

instead,

escape.

Really, though, the weather has been anything BUT fine. Across Alberta there is a high chance of drought. There was drought last year, but that’s nothing new:

You can see in the table that my area (Edson) had a substantial differential from the historic “normal” in 2003. So drought was a recurring theme in my childhood. Drought, disease, hay crisis – it’s a miracle (or a combination of blind luck/idiocy) that we’ve survived as long as we have. This year, though, things looks really bad. Or, to put it visually:

This is what it looks like now (precipitation-ally speaking). Yellowhead County (my area) is is red. To compare:

And that’s what it’s supposed to look like. Nice and lush and green. But it’s not.

In other words… drought. It’s the new normal. And what does my government do? Well, they’re concerned, but that’s about it. In the meantime, it looks as if we’re going to have to resort to FITFIR (first in time, first in right – basically, water access is developed on an I-was-here-first basis). Which could leave many metro areas kind of thirsty.

Perhaps this will change how we plan things. Or maybe not. But I do know it’s not a good time to be a farmer. So pray, pray, pray for rain.

and follow the trail

through darkness

there is a hole

in the universe that

you can’t escape from

so wander,

wonder,

forever

I think the time has now come for a look at the way we regard pagans and, particularly, teachers and “Elders” of our community. This man, as the article states, was not part of any established group – but, as the author points out, neither are many of us. And what you might call an “established” group might have only been around for about five years, or so – in which case, you’re fooling yourself about the established thing.

It’s kind of like when I get pen letters from other witches out there. “Oh, I’ve been in the Craft for seven years, I know what I’m doing” one lady wrote to me. Hell. I’ve been in since 1996, thanks to The Craft, and all I know is how little I do know about the ways and means of living on this earth as a pagan spiritual person.

I believe that ethics are good, and I encourage all pagans to sign up to this projkect. I’ve been following it, and one poster in particular struck me with what they said:

“We have our laws as Wiccans.It is not that people have never heard of the Rede, or the other laws of behavior that we have.”

And I believe that’s true – most people who are pagans of some sort or another have heard of the Rede. However, how many of us who are Pagan are also Wiccan? I can think of many who say “Oh, I’m not Wiccan, I don’t believe in the Rede” – particularly when the hex vs bind debate comes up. Or you have people who follow the Rede only when it suits them. Which makes sense, again, as Paganism as a whole is a religion of people who watch themselves. Which is fine, as long as you’re the type of person who can hold up to your ethics even when people aren’t looking. If you’re only able to Be Good when you have an audience, then are you really that good a person?

And it’s well and good that we are working to develop an ethical guideline for the broader community, but who will agree to it? If you care about such things, you will. Abusers won’t. They won’t need to – in the pagan community, you can shed and hide your identity (particularly easy to do online) in the blink of an eye. And I think it’s sad.

It’s sad when a high-profile case forces us to draft a statement of ethics that may or may not be read by the majority of the community, and certainly won’t be adhered to by the very people who seem to need it. There’s no accountability, which is a large problem in the pagan community as a whole.

You know, my Mom is thinking about starting up a business as a riding coach for individuals with disabilities. She claims to have been inspired by my work – which is totally awesome, and I’m behind her 100%. I’ve been doing some research, and the process to becoming a riding coach is amazingly complicated. I mean, I’ve outlined the entire process:

1. Since we’re in Alberta, we should obtain a Alberta Equestrian Federation membership. ($35.00)
2. We also have to obtain a Equine Canada Gold Sport License. ($125.00)
3. And we should have a current First Aid certificate ($140.00)
4. Complete the Equine Specific NCCP Course ($210.00, plus travel to Ontario, which means flight, plus accommodation for two days, plus food).
5. Complete the online Make Ethical Decisions Evaluation
   http://nccpeval.coach.ca/production/med/e/default.asp, which, thank goodness, is covered under the NCCP workshop.
6. Purchase the Learn to Ride Western Manual, then Complete the
   Western Rider 1-4 certificates and General Component certificate. (at least $85.00 per exam. Add manual price – unknown, likely <$100.00, add coaching fees (by the hour) and travel expenses).
7. Obtain 20 hours of teaching experience under a certified coach. (Fee dependent on coach, but could be anywhere from $80.00 – $150.00, plus traveling and food expenses).
8. Have the Mentor Coach complete a Mentor Reference form and send
   it to the AEF office.
9. Purchase and study the Western Coach 1 Manual and the Stable
   Management in Canada Manual (these can be ordered from Alberta
   Equestrian Federation) (Again, prices vary but are likely over the hundred dollar range)
10. Have a Criminal Record Search completed including Vulnerable
    Sectors (free, since we live in the rural countryside).

All of these ten steps? They fall under a broad basic certificate called “Level 1). Then she takes the Level 2. Then a Therapeutic Certificate. Then we can look at other certifications from there. But my point is that the path to becoming a therapeutic rider is long. And, in my estimation, is also going to set us back by at least $1800, not including additional expenses such as travel, food, tack, equipment, work attire, helmet, etc and so on and so forth. It’s expensive, but once she has it, she’ll be (at least in part) professionally liscenced.

Now, anybody can become a riding coach (particularly in the Western discipline, which retains several unprofessional elements). Heck, one of my mother’s favourite bitchin’ topics is the lack of standard in the profession. Well, this is a standard.

And where is our pagan standard? Cherry Hill Seminary is attempting to become professionally recognized and accredited. The WCC is trying to do the same, I think – but again, who are these people? Who vets the vetters? It’s all well and good to say “I’m a 3rd Degree priestess”, but what does that actually mean? If our certifications are as meaningless as the wind, then who are we do police others?

Let it be said that I am the Queen of Freaking Out, which I attribute to what Deborah Lipp calls my “Water of Fire” personality. If you haven’t read her book The Way of Four then I heartily recommend it.  At any rate, stress is second nature for me what with juggling three jobs and trying to diet, I mean, “life plan” in the meantime.

Specifically, though, there are those days when you’ve just Had It and need to take a break. I’m a big believer in taking the mental health day, which is nice if you can schedule your shifts as needed (like, say, me – one thing I love about my jobs is how flexible they are – I love being able to set my schedule, although planning everything at least a month in advance can be annoying in and of itself), but if you can’t then take an evening. If you can’t do that, take and hour, and if you can’t do that, then take five minutes to look at your dang schedule to see what’s so darned important you can’t fit in an hour for yourself? You’re useless, burnt out.

Okay, where was I? Alrighty. When I’m taking a full day I usually unplug the alarm clock and the phone the night before. Of course, I’ve already made sure people are aware of my do-not-call policy (as in, do-not-call-me-unless-there’s-a-fire/break/hospital visit/death in the works). Of course, it’s always nicest when you can call in or swap off a shift at the last minute, because it adds that extra thrill of “great! don’t have to go in!” thrill to the whole thing. But I really do advocate you respect the rest of your team by arranging this beforehand (which is entirely due to the numerous times I’ve been called in on an emergency basis because someone called in sick 30 minutes before their shift started. Guys! I live 30 minutes away! And I usually relax on the whole “get dressed & dolled up” thing when I’m not supposed to be working. So advanced warning is always nice.

(By the by, if you don’t have the balls to call in sick yourself, then I advise you to get a boyfriend/friend/girlfriend/parent/sibling/computer. That’s what they’re there for – amongst other things, of course.)

After you’ve called in sick, spend the day doing what you want. Put your feet up. Take a long, hot bath – preferably with a nice bath bomb from LUSH (or whatever ecologically responsible bath stuff you want), I like this one here. Read books, draw, garden, or just lie about in the sun with your cat all day. Eat good food, not that crap you normally eat in between running everywhere. Heck, play video games and paint your nails. Play air guitar. Whatever you need to do to feel good, then do it!

breaks

into thousands of stars

and when the

moon

splits away

with

her glistening milk skin

shuddering into the

darker void

that is how

i know that i love you

i sew a thread

to the hole in the universe

where

my heart hides

and close it tightly

there will be

no more stars

for you

And while you’re reading this, go check out the Fleet Foxes. They are beyond awesome.

So coming up: Heartland fic. Set just after “Broken Arrow”.

The Wind that Breaks the Heart

A Heartland Fic by Kuruni

The wind whips across the tarmac and forces its way into you. Soothing, ice-cold, a balm to the wound that burns within. An ache caused by the man who, even now, watches you surreptitiously from the office.

Three words, a sentence, and your world has been changed. Words jumble around in your brain, a confusing mix of images and patterns. We’ve. Lost. Contact.

Stumble back to the truck. Drop the keys. Find them. Unlock the door, get in, shut it behind you. Firm, a sound that divides the world outside and the world within. The pain sears in your chest, and you block it out. Don’t think about it.

Buckle up. Start the engine. Close your eyes and take a deep breath. You can do this.

The drive home slows to a crawl, the trees whizzing past you slowly. You notice details you’ve never noticed before. The world is almost colorless, and so, so bright. You turn the corner and see the lights of home waiting for you.

The horse stands at the top of the hill underneath the tree. As you inch by he kicks up his heels, as if he senses the truth, and runs away from you. He flies in the wind, and you slow to watch the ripple of muscle under his glossy coat. Your breath hitches as he finally stops, at the furthest corner of the field, his escape barred by the fence you built. You wish now that there were no fences to stop him. You wish you could run away, too.

There is no outrunning this.

There is no escaping it.

They have to know.

Park the truck and stop it, let the dust settle. Slide your hands off the wheel and unbuckle your seat belt. Sit quietly. Wait for someone to come and rescue you. A hoarse breathing fills the truck’s cabin, and you realize that you’re starting to hyperventilate, but you don’t care, because nothing is the same anymore.

You see him step outside, a hand cupping his cell to his ear. It’s probably a work call, and you wonder if he would be offended if you took the phone and shoved it down his throat. Poor guy, you think. One minute everything’s hunky-dory, and the next minute it blows apart.

He sees you sitting there, and studies you for a moment as he talks. Whatever the urgent problem is, he finishes it soon enough, and slips the phone into his pocket. He looks back towards the house before stepping off the porch.

No. You think wildly at him, the heart beating so loudly you can hear it. I don’t want it to be you.

He isn’t family. He doesn’t know you well enough. He isn’t here for you.

He’s Lou’s. And he’s still here.

The slow walk off the porch turns into a trot which turns into a run, until he jogs up to your window and yanks the door open. You ignore him, staring dully ahead, while you try to figure out how to speak the words for the unspeakable thing. Is it better to break things slowly?

Or would a flood of words be better? What is the easiest way to break someone’s heart?

“Amy?” He sounds so concerned, so far away. He is very careful, you notice, not to touch you. “Amy…. are you… okay? You look pretty terrible.”

Of course you look terrible. Your jaw tightens, you swallow. The words stick in your throat.

A swift shake of your head, birdlike. Your lips tingle.

“Do you want me to get Lou?”

You close your eyes. When you open them, you see he’s already dialing. You hear the house phone ringing in the distance. You hear it connect.

“Peter? Why are you calling? You could just come back inside.” Lou sounds so tiny, amused, intimate. You’re not used to hearing her sound like that.

You hear him say, “Lou, I need you to come outside. I need your help with something.” Unlike Lou, Peter is firm. Businesslike. Cold.

You see her head appear in the window. Then there is a click, and the empty dial tone tickles your ears before he folds his phone back up. The door bursts open, and she runs out, her hair flying. He moves out of the way so she can approach you.

“Amy?” Holds her hands up, like you’re a wild animal that needs to be calmed. “Amy.” Her voice is so, so careful that it forces you to turn your head to look at her. She is pale, worry written in every crease and line of her face. “Amy. What happened?”

You move your lips but you can’t speak the words. There are no words. There is that breathing noise again, like a dying animal, and Lou’s hand fists before you realize that it’s you.

They’re gone. He’s gone. They’re lost. The plane is lost. The words reverberate in the silence of the air. A gasp catches your attention, Lou’s hand flying to cover her mouth. Then you realize that you have said what can not be said. Your hands make grasping motions, and you realize you need to hold him. You need to hold something, so you pitch yourself out the truck and hand, hard, on your knees on the ground. Lou kneels and grabs you, pulling you into a suffocating embrace. Someone is making a keening noise.

Vaguely you hear Peter saying something about shock and doctors but there’s no reason to phone for help because no help can come. Nothing to be done.

You push against her, and she lets you go. “Where is he?” You ask the question, grief burning a hole into the world. “Where is he?”

There is no answer, and in your heart, you know there won’t ever be.

snorting at flurries falling again.

How little our chances for feeling ourselves.

They vanished so quickly—one flick of a tail.

Where do their mountains and moments begin?

I stood a long time in sharpening wind.

~ from the poem “Horses in Snow” by Roberta Hill Whiteman ~