Blog o' Gnosis

Due to a plumbing emergency this week, I found myself out in my front yard two mornings in a row. My neighbor Joe was doing the fixing part under the house, and I was there helping by periodically handing him a tool or a rag when he yelled for one. The rest of the time, [...]

Next weekend I will be headed, along with a thousand or two other Pagans, to PantheaCon. I have been there every single year it’s been held – with my booth in the marketplace, my kids, notes for workshops and rituals I’m doing, and every scrap of shiny, colorful clothing I own.

Among the many things I am doing this week to prepare for PantheaCon is ironing those scraps of clothing, some of them still wrinkled in the closet from last year’s post-con washing. A clothes horse I am not, but after my first foray to witchcamp in 1994 where I realized that the only colorful thing I’d packed was a red sweatshirt, I took the challenge to upgrade my wardrobe. Since then I have slowly gathered a respectable amount of ritual clothing, most of which meets my prime criterion for dressy clothes: they must feel as close to wearing pajamas as possible. Comfort trumps fashion to me, which admittedly sets me at odds with most of my Pagan brethren here in the Bay Area.

The air feels like liquid here, in blue skies or cloud. Sure, there’s a high moisture content because of the coast, but there’s more to it than that. The air is vast, like an ocean itself. Land and sea are all on a flat plane with not much visibility downward, but the air alone is three dimensional. We can see up through it but never to the end of it.

Today I got the news that the only son of an old friend of mine is dead, a suicide at age 18. I have been sitting with this unbearable loss all day, wondering how it is that we pick ourselves up and go on with our lives after such a tragedy. He had had a turbulent youth and was beginning to exhibit signs of a mental instability that runs in his family. I don’t know all the details but I know very well the effort involved in trying to protect and shepherd an unstable youth into adulthood before he causes irrevocable harm to himself or others. It is exhausting, thankless, relentless. We do as much as we can, and being human there is always a moment we let down our guard, our constant vigilance. It is called rest, sleep.

Yesterday I sacrificed a half-day’s work to go meet my father for lunch in San Rafael. We do this occasionally, meeting more or less halfway between our homes: he in Oakland, me on the Sonoma coast. Actually, it’s a longer drive for me than for him, but I don’t begrudge an old man his 10 minute handicap. I say I sacrificed half a day, but that’s only part of what it feels like to see my dad. After his heart attack 10 years ago, and especially last year’s carotid artery dredging operation, I feel lucky for all the time I get to spend with him.

I was just writing a note to a few friends and needed to lookup someone’s email address in my email program address book. Scrolling down the list, I was brought up short by noticing one I needed to delete. It belongs, or belonged, to my friend Luis Kemnitzer who died two weeks ago.

I have been able to spend some time this holiday season with my sister Sarah, her husband Jon, and their adorable little dumpling Elena. Elena is 9 months old now, and even though I don’t have any recent photos of her on the web, suffice it to say that she’s about as cute as you can get without a prescription around here. And I don’t think it was just because I got to be there when she was born (on International Women’s Day, I might add). Trust me, I’ve seen my fill of babies, and Elena outweighs most of them both in looks and in stature.

A week ago, Jojo was telling me the story of 2 eighth grade girls in her school who had gotten into a fight, according to her over which of two gangs was the best. We talked a little about what kids their age living in Sebastopol might or might not know about gang life, whether gangs were perceived as fashionable just like different brands of jeans. I took the opportunity to tell her a little about Stanley “Tookie” Williams, the co-founder of the Crips gang then awaiting execution on California’s Death Row.

I am now not only by choice but by necessity nested in my lovely house by the bay. October has passed by in a blur of strong emotions punctuated by late-night drives, my car full of belongings, on the winding road to the coast.

I’m on a campaign of late, to surround myself with beauty and to write more. Happily, this two-pronged plan has a singular solution, which is to spend more time by the ocean at a property we own in Bodega Bay. There, in a half-finished house overlooking the bay, I can watch the fog roll in over Bodega Head, or sit out back on the porch swing and watch the moon rise over the eastern hills. It is as close to serenity as I can get and still be firmly on the planet, and the solitude (no internet! no TV!) makes it possible for me to write.