archery

On Monday, April 30th of this year, I turned 30 years old. 

I wanted to do something important, that I had never done before. I wanted to prove to myself that there were still new experiences for me. I was tired, and jaded, by the growing disagreements between myself and my husband, by the expanding challenge of raising my gifted toddler, by my fulfilling but exhausting full time work as a tarot reader, store manager, and High Priestess. I kept thinking that I wanted to change everything. But really, I just wanted to change my own mind.

To see at distance again. 

My life got so close, I couldn't breathe.

So I gathered a few witch friends and took them to shoot an arrow from a longbow.

We stood outside the strip mall, in the parking lot, and sang a song to Artemis, Lady of the wild wood.  It doesn't get much wilder than the strip mall in Fremont. W got some strange looks from the game hunters who went into the shop as we sang, but we did it anyway.  We went inside, and were surrounded by very pointy, very sharp, very expensive equipment. Undaunted, we stepped to the back of the shop and found the tiny, indoor range. We listened intently to the lesson, and one by one took a chance at shooting.

The bow: all wood, made in pieces and lightweight. The arrow: carbon with a hard yet rounded tip, brightly colored plastic feathers at the end.  It takes strength to hold your arm up. It takes muscle to pull the bow taught. It takes keen eyesight and excellent aim to hit the bullseye. But sisters, I need to tell you something amazing: to shoot well takes work, but to shoot at all simply takes doing it.

Stand with your target on your left side, feet shoulder width apart, and turn your upper body to face the target head on.  Be fully present with the state of your body for a moment, while holding a clear line of sight to your target.  Focus where you want to strike.  Gather your breath, pull back until your thumb touches the corner of your mouth, and let it go. 

Let go of where you think you will strike. Let go of what you look like when you shoot. Let go of doing well or poorly, of being admired or mocked. Let go of any expectation you have. Just let the arrow fly.

I did ok I terms of accuracy, but rather well in terms of grouping. My sisters did well, a few actual bullseyes and several near center shots.  

Most important of all of this, however, is that I had done something new. Had learned something incredible. That when you let go, you can see further, feel stronger and be powerful. May it be so for you.

today i pray

Today I pray

To the goddess

To Artemis

For myself

That I may know my own freedom

That I may know my own power

That I may know my own mind

That I may live with passion

That I may move with joy

Today I pray to Artemis

For my sister

She who bleeds and weeps

She who endures and endures

She who is brave and strong.

I pray that she may know her strength.

Today I pray to Artemis

For my city and it's turmoil

That we may learn courtesy, respect and love

That we may be the people we wish to be

That we may have our own path

That our paths cross peaceably

Today I pray to Artemis,

Keen minded, long sighted, and true.

In all ways true.

Blessed be.

I am pleased and proud to present a guest post written by my beloved teacher and best friend the Lady Yeshe Rabbit. Visit her blog at Way Of the Rabbit.

Artemis Gardens: Sebastopol, CA

I believe that the Great Goddess hears and responds to the needs of the Earth, for the Earth is Her body. She shows Herself to us in many distinct forms. Among these many faces of Goddess, we find Artemis: Protectress of Women in childbirth, Huntress, She of the Land.

Artemis shows Herself to me in the city landscape as a statue of a deer at the mall, with the dogs who prance around my neighborhood accompanied by laughing maidens, in the archery lessons I recently took at a storefront range in Fremont. She finds many ways to make Herself known to me.

Recently, I was in Sebastopol, and I stumbled upon a roadside sign that I just had to follow. It said "Artemis Gardens" with an arrow pointing down a side road. Naturally, when one sees a golden arrows next to the name of a Goddess, one follows. So off we went.

I have to admit that although my rational mind knew to expect a garden shop, I secretly hoped there would be some kind of golden gateway into a rustic glen of luminous beauty where women have created a paradise. But that said, this one-woman shop was a paradise of its own sort.

Check out Artemis Gardens on Facebook, or go visit on a Friday or Saturday between 9-3 at 8934 Bodega Hwy, Sebastopol. There is a beautiful garden there, with beehives, an archery target (though that is for personal use of the owner, so leave your bow at home), and some of the most wonderful, rare, and heirloom plants you could hope to find.

Artemis knows that it is of the utmost importance that we humans preserve biodiversity. The message I got from looking at the catalogue of offerings at Her nursery was that preserving and propagating small, unique lines of diversity in vegetables and fruits are of most significant priority right now.

Consider the varietals: Yellow Onion of Parma, a very rare Italian heirloom. This onion matures late in the season and keeps well over winter. The intelligent interactivity of that onion's life cycle with the realities of winter make this a wonderful, strong variety of onion that served to provide flavor and nutrients long past harvest season.

And how about the May Queen lettuce: a sweet pale yellow/pink-hearted lettuce that is grown from 19th century heirloom seeds. Or its mild-flavored cousin, the Merveille des Quatre Saisons, an all-seasons lettuce that fares well in a high tunnel in winter that was popular well before 1885 in France.

Among the tomatoes, these stately varieties are rare and wonderful, of the heirloom stock: Caspian Pink, purple Russian ("huge yields" says the flyer), these tomatoes are suited to the the cool weather, so we got some for our front yard in Alameda, where it is sunny, but there is always a cool breeze from the Bay.

My beloved Albert transplanted them lovingly into buckets, the way he watched his father do it when he was small. When we get the raised beds in later this Spring, we'll transplant them. This morning, I go out to water them with love and gratitude for the diversity of life on this planet, and to continue to be mindful in my interaction with the Great Mother's body.

Artemis protects women as we walk out in the world, and also in our own homes and gardens. May She continue to bless this small, woman-owned business in Her name, and may She continue to safeguard our biodiversity!

Walk: rainy spring night

It was raining as I walked home tonight. Not very heavy, rather gentle and soft. I had a nice sweatshirt with a deep hood, so I was comfortable. I had asked that the sky be kind to me, and it was. I walk quickly; I'm always cautious at the end of the day, in my dark neighborhood, except with the low clouds reflecting the city's light, the sky was orange. Oakland smelled alternately like lake and fish, like pot and exhaust, and then the clean scent of the rain itself. Coming out of the gardens onto the sidewalk, were small, beautiful, grotesque snails. I love snails. They are a part of this neighborhood, and when it rains in the spring, the sidewalks are full of them. It actually can be difficult to not squash them. The ones that don't make it are really disturbing sights. I don't mean to be morbid, but the reality of death is felt keenly when you look under your shoe and realize you're not sure if you were the first or just the last person to step on that particular creature. Every snail is alive. This isn't a vegetarian ranting about escargot, this is a human being talking about the value of life. I took care not to stomp any shell-baring creatures tonight. They literally covered parts on the walkway, and I was not wearing my glasses, so every rock and piece of bark that lay on the ground were carefully avoided. I knew that by slowing down and paying attention to my steps, I could prevent unnecessary harm. I knew also that I was by myself, alone, at night, carrying some valuables and cash. Beyond both of those points, I knew I was safe. I walked with Artemis, and She wanted me to see the snails; their unique colors and shapes, the relative speed with which they move, the strange and expert way they've found a niche in this urban forest.

#ididnotreport

"Sister, Sister what have they done to you? Sister, Sister where will you go? Sister, Sister come to the temple. Sister, Sister Artemis knows."

-Written by the Lady Yeshe Rabbit

 I feel moved to comment on the Twitter phenomenon of yesterday, at least in my feed. The hash tag "#ididnotreport". This happening, now, is exactly why I started this blog. This is meant to be safe space for these stories. This is a virtual temple. Tell Artemis your troubles.  I cannot fix it, I cannot end your suffering or your change your circumstance. I can function as a messenger, carrying your words to the Goddess and to the larger world, in a safe, anonymous way. I am a priestess, and this is how the Goddess has asked me to serve. The goal of feminism, the way I hope this movement is pointed, is starkly contrasted with the current direction of U.S. political discourse.  Watching yesterday's stream of intensity as other people shared their stories reminded me that I too had a story.  That I, too, had been silenced. Had experienced a lack of support, had been afraid to come forward.

I did not report.  I told friends, and they were visibly uncomfortable. Some wondered aloud "if it was so bad, why didn't you leave him sooner?" I was a 19 year old college freshman/sophomore with a shaved head and a need to prove myself.  I needed to not trouble my parents with my psychosis, because I had already broken my mother's heart reminding her of what happened when I was 6.  I did not report that either. This one was not on her watch. I did not report because I couldn't admit to myself I had screwed up.

 My best friend was a boy I am still close with, and when I told him, he decided to save the guy.  He took him to a catholic retreat, and they bonded over Christian mysticism, alchemy and hermeticism.  After that, my friend worked to continue their friendship, and I had to ask if he would be at the party before I could feel safe.  Even after I changed my schedule, I ran into him all over campus, and now he was a regular at the lunch table. My friend repeatedly told me, "it's not that he's a bad person," and talked about how his faith taught about forgiveness. I did not report because I wasn't believed.

I already had a reputation. I was respected by professors, but among friends I was thought of as wild or even easy. (I am a little of both, but that's my judgment to make. I will not apologize for being an enthusiastic lover of sex, flirting, and romance. These qualities are found charming in men.) Who would be my witnesses? I had finally settled down with one person, we had a ring, we enjoyed sex together often. No one else believed it was wrong. On any given night or morning, I should have had the right to say no, and I didn't. I would face emotional manipulation until I gave in. It was easy, my psychiatrist would report to my boyfriend all the time.  I was taking medication to control my suicidal tendencies. I had hallucinations. I went from wild and easy to perfectly tractable, controllable. I did not report because it's a long story.

My life is good now. I am quite sane, quite happily partnered and joyful most of the time. But I remember what really happened, and I remember that I felt very much alone. It is my hope that you'll read this with a steady eye and a compassionate heart. I am trying to lead by example in creating a safe container for scary truths. It is my hope that reading this will tell you that you are not alone, life can be better, and there are things you can do to feel better, get safe, be happy.

Now you know a bit about me, where I come from, and why I'm here. So, what is the project?

Tell me anything that could prove useful to another woman. Tell me your tragedies, yes, but also your victories.  Tell me how you got help.  Give me phone numbers for agencies that were good to you.  Tell me which bus lines are safe and which ones are trouble in your town. Tell me about what you are doing to help yourself, your families, your communities be safer.   I will witness for you.  I will pray for you at Artemis's altar.  I will publish your information, if I choose and if you allow it. I will keep all identifying information confidential, but also give credit if requested. This is meant to be a collaborative blog, so submit stories, full articles, helpful tips and resources. I am sole editor, and will use and edit these submission as I see fit, although I will not embellish or heavily edit your voice or your content. Don't come here for flaming or trolling; the comments on this blog will be moderated and tightly controlled. I welcome submissions, questions and comments to walkingwithartemis@gmail.com.

Bloodroot Honey Priestess Tribe

My body bleeds.  Pretty regularly. In a mostly predictable pattern.  I
am a cisgendered woman, in what I would call the "mother" phase of
life.

Last month, when the Amazon Priestess Tribe began the Mother of theNew Time project, my blood came a week early.  I woke that next
morning with stains in the bed and a joyful heart.  I was ready to
anoint my stone with my magical life essence! I was pleased that my
body saw fit to take part in the energy my mind was so ready to
embrace.  Once my prayers were said, I went on about my day, leaving
the stone on the altar on a high shelf in my bathroom.

The next morning, I discovered something disturbingly real.  Ants eat blood.

The altar, the stone, the wall leading from the exhaust fan in my
bathroom, were all covered in ants.  Hungry, swarming ants, devouring
the blood I had left so seductively near the fan; inadvertently
broadcasting pheromones like an apple pie on a window sill.

Here was the truth of it: life is messy, gross, and real.  My gorgeous
son is proof enough that life is beautiful and fun and joyful.  But
watching that miraculous substance - the same substance that took one
act of lovemaking and created a whole other being - eaten by ants (the
bane of an apartment dweller's existance) was so shocking, I was moved
to tears.  Life is gross.

Women are, right this minute, being targeted because they are women.
In the United States, the conversation has turned back to equating
birth control with promiscuity and prostitution.  And there is still
no equal pay for equal work. There are places on this planet where
women must remain covered at all times, and places where traditional
coverings are being denied them. And, on a whole other level, in
several parts of the world, more than I wish to think about, rape is
used as a systematic weapon of war.  I believe that the best way for
me to be safe, and therefore follow the genetic and ethical imperative
to be able to take care of my child, is to take care of my own needs.
I need to be safe, in my neighborhood and in my community.  Everyone
deserves this safety.  Everyone.

It is through the sisterhood of the Amazon Priestess Tribe that I have
known safety.  I can see myself reflected in their eyes, these women
who look up to me, and look into me.  These women are made braver by
my presence, and I by theirs.  When I know myself to be one of them, I
know that I am not alone.  Any true need I may have, they will find a
way to meet it.  And I endeavor to show that I hold that same line for
them; while we may not all be best of friends, we are always
advocating for each other, and for all women to have the life of their
choosing.

And so, as the Amazon Priestess Tribe sets down the archetype of the
sacrificial warrior, I go with them into a New Time.  A new reality.
Of Blood, of Root, and of Honey.  The blood that has performed
miracles, both beautiful and grotesque. The root that connects me to
my mother and to her troubled family, the root that I use to make
spells that change my life and the lives of others. And the honey that
sweetens this life, that brings us back into our glorious selves when
nothing else can.  The honey that represents the work of hundreds of
sisters, bound by instinct and communicating only through movement.  I
take this new name with more pride than regret, more hope than fear. I
am joyful.