Blog o’ Gnosis

One of my early memories is of being six years old, getting ready to go to school early one morning. My mother had turned on our small black and white TV, and on it I saw a long, solemn procession moving slowly down a street, with many people bearing a raised casket in the middle [...]

I ran across an interesting little article in the latest New Yorker this evening, about a Canadian woman named Sheila Heti who became interested in what people were dreaming about the presidential frontrunners. She has created a website, The Metaphysical Poll, explaining her Hillary in pineapplesproject and linking to archives of the dreams she has collected so far. From her website:

The question we’re asking here is: what role do Barack and Hillary and John play in the collective unconscious? What can that tell us about where they might lead us — and which one does more coke when we sleep?

Well there I was, cordoned off from polite society for a week, chained to my desk in order to meet a ridiculous self-imposed writing deadline. In such circumstances, the mind is incredibly adept at finding amusements to pass the time in lieu of working on one’s appointed task. Mine certainly rose to the occasion, as [...]

One thing I know about cities is that you can really read their vital signs by reading the posters stapled to telephone poles. Looking for where the reggae fans hang out? Search for the neighborhood with the largest number of reggae show posters on the phone poles. Want to hook up with the jazz and poetry crowd? Check out the poles outside a random sampling of coffee houses, and you’re sure to find the spot where most of the cool cats meet.

The same is true for churches—or, if you prefer, darshans and Buddhist retreats. Find the area in the city that sports the most posters advertising a certain faith, and you are almost assured of meeting like-minded folks there. You can tell a lot about the spiritual make-up of a city by the diversity on its phone poles. Which is why I am so enamoured by the recent development going on in Portland, OR.

I am still hoping to write something about my experience at PantheaCon two weeks ago, and I am still struggling with issues of perspective. I could give a jaded insider’s view of the con, complete with snarky gossip-y non-information that some people would think was hilarious but many more would think was self-indulgent and boring. So no, that’s not the blog post I want to write (though it is tempting).

I could give a lengthy, informative run-down of the sessions I attended, the interesting conversations I had, and what I think the state of Pagan-dom is based on all of the above. Yet writing that post does not interest me. I am tired of thinking of the state of Pagan-dom, tired of the responsibility of knowing so much history and holding so many confidences, tired ultimately of being looked to for words of wisdom.

I may hate myself later for doing this; in fact, maybe I already do. But I seem to have lost the struggle against my better judgment, so will say a little bit today about the Democratic presidential primaries.
I have been trying to view the candidates by two criteria: the content of the policies they are [...]

I have heard from several friends in other states and countries since the tiger mauling at the San Francisco Zoo happened last December, killing one young man and injuring two others. Aside from inquiring whether the victims were anyone I knew, there was a decided strain of “what the hell is wrong with you people?” in my friends’ voices.

Another year of losses, of big questions that elbow their way into the room and refuse to leave. A young man who grew up down the street and went to school with my kids was stabbed to death at a party this weekend. Two young men charged with his murder had a brother killed in Iraq at the beginning of the war.

What happens to kids? What makes one succumb while another one thrives? I don’t understand it, and all my pat answers, fears and suspicions merely mask the fact that I simply don’t know. I can’t keep my kids safe now that they’re grown, and the more beautifully they blossom the more I am aware of how fragile our hold is on this life we cherish.

I’ve always liked the phrase “Winter break” even though I long ago realized that it is simply a kindly old euphemism for “not really a break at all, plus it’s cold outside.” Winter break always includes some great time with my kids and family, my daughter’s birthday, Solstice, Christmas, delicious food, and maybe a day or two of rest if I’m clever about it. But it also means squeezing in as much work time as possible around the edges of all those holy days and holidays.

This year I have a very big task on the work table, one that looks daunting from the outside but will no doubt become manageable once I dive in. I’ll be getting ready to teach my first class as a faculty member at Cherry Hill Seminary.

When I was in college back in Santa Cruz in the 1980s, there was a women’s poetry collective known as Moonjuice that held poetry readings and self-published their own poetry anthologies. That is how I became acquainted with the wonderful Maude Meehan, whose book of poems Chipping Bone I loved. When I was looking for Ellen Bass’s poem Then Call It Swimming to post here last year, I found it in one of the Moonjuice anthologies still on my shelves.

A couple years later, the Kensington Ladies’ Erotica Society came out with their first book of erotic short stories. Around that same time, the Women’s Songbook Project in Berkeley published the anthology Out Loud: A Collection of New Songs By Women. If I tried to recall all the grassroots women’s publishing projects I have come across from that era to this, I could go on for pages. In fact, just a couple weeks ago a friend sent me an announcement for a new anthology of women writers she’d been published in.