A Long Overdue Obsessions

Currently (re)obsessed with travelogues… Now, I will not lie- I have always been compulsively compelled to follow other traveller's adventures.  Whether through blogs or proper books, or even over email, I adore reading about going.  Right now I am devouring Anatolian Days and Nights.  It is categorically NOT helping to assuage my wanderlust.  Not to mention that sitting on my bookshelf, looking equally as delicious, is a perfectly titled Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette.

I feel a reading trend happening.

I cannot WAIT to see this!

Ellie Goulding is no Florence Welch.  And we all know how I feel about Florence.  But Ms. Goulding can belt it out like whoa, I will not deny her that.  I am digging on her album Halycon, the deluxe edition.  Mostly because it includes Burn.  And forget about this.

Yes, I do have a guilty pleasure in pop music.  Yes I do.

This man is Beautiful.

But so it this one.  And he's coming back in Sherlock wicked soon.  Which brings me to another obsession. Perhaps this qualifies as two- as it is an amazing series and produced by the BBC.

Okay, I know that I am late to the game on this one (a million apologies for the pun).  I have no idea how I missed the boat: Words With Friends.  It is evil and addictive and everything a good obsession should be, especially considering how much I adore Scrabble and Bananagrams and other word games of the genre.

Yum, obsessions.

I know it's a short list this time around.  But at least it's a list, eh?

'Till we next meet.

Self-Esteem, Hypocrisy, and the Canadian.

It is a cold, clear, crisp Friday night.  The ground has frost already enclosed around what little grass is left dying in it and what detritus lays atop it.  It is beautiful.

And yet, instead of being out and about like the other single twenty-somethings in my proposed socio-economic category, schmoozing and flirting and freezing my tail feathers off, I am at home.

I am in bed at 10:45, sipping tea and feeling judged by a Canadian financial blogger.  Yes, I am materialistic, hypocritical, and vain.  I like expensive shoes and I drive a gas-guzzling car.  I got a dog even though I have school debts.  I am this dude's worst nightmare.

And I'm a witch to boot.

I spend too much money on clothing, way too much money on travel and way way too much money on books.  I could probably have paid off my debt by now if it were not for the books.

I live irresponsibly and irrationally and with little regard to practicalities.  And I do a damned good enough job on my own making myself feel badly, guilty, and worthless.

So…

Suck it, Canadian dude.

New Year's Resolution

I resolve:

To snuggle my silly little dog to pieces.

To tell everyone I love that I LOVE him or her.

To make every moment that I have left a celebration.

To, most certainly, not hate myself in every way for every day.

To not care how many resolutions I make, but instead to care about KEEPING them.

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As a rule, I have always made fun of and sort of disliked New Years- many of you know that I usually spend it with dogs.  Not even kidding.  My poor opinion of the holiday has a lot to do with it's arbitrary nature.  What is the Gregorian Calendar to dictate the newness of years to us??  For witches, the New Year begins at Samhain- so how does one, how do I, reconcile all of this??  What is one day, any day out of the year?

All days are important, aren't they?  And shouldn't they all be equally important?  See above, but shouldn't everyday be a celebration?

Every day should be a celebration.

Every day should bring new-found resolve and grace.  I am not even close to being the one who can talk, I know how hypocritical I am (see basically any other blog post for more on that).  But here I am, alone with the dogs on another New Years Eve; sitting in front of the first wood fire I built solely by myself (yes, I recognize the sadness of that factoid); thinking about all of the people I love and all of the days I have to love them, all of the ways I have to love them.

So I guess this eve of the new year is a little different for me- or maybe this new (Gregorian) year will be a little different for me.

Happy New Year, all.

I love you.  I love you all.

Songs- A Christmas Link-fest

There are songs that always get to me.  All the time.

And every year at Christmas, I am reminded of a number of them.  These are the songs that break my heart; the songs that make me grateful for who and what I have around me but desperately sad for the eventual loss of those same people and things.

Any, absolutely ANY version of this song makes me cry.  I don't care if it's Coldplay's haunting piano, Judy Garland's wobbling vocals, or Kelly Clarkson's holiday pop… the song makes me cry.  Forget about Cat Power's version for Apple… HYAMLC forcefully reminds me of every single person who has lost.  It reminds me of just how very lucky I truly am.

Ave Maria.

Let me explain.  It has been an almost unbelievably long time since I have bought into any major organized religion, including the Catholicism in which I was raised.  But Chris Cornell's rendition of this seasonal masterpiece brutalizes my soul in an equally erotic and religious way.  Whenever I hear that song, I am reminded of a quote from Jeff Buckley his, describing his version of Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah' as 'the Hallelujah of Orgasm.'

If that is sacrilege, so be it.

Speaking of which, it's not even remotely related to Christmas but it does get to me.  It's the sigh at the beginning.  Listen carefully.

Silent Night makes me simultaneously happy and sad.  Happy because it reminds me always of my childhood and good Holidays and wonderful, perfect Christmas'.  Sad because it also reminds me always of what I have lost by growing up.  Good bye, Santa.  Good bye, faith.  For now I have doubt- a gift for which I am profoundly grateful, but occasionally over which I am still somewhat jaded.

Few people have heard this classic from Emerson, Lake, and Palmer.  But during the two Christmases I spent in China- and every lukewarm, mild, rainy, dreary Christmas before or since- this song essentially set the tone.  Holidays are exactly what we make of them.

Hallelujah, Noel- be it Heaven or Hell- the Christmas we get we deserve.

xoxo, and Until Next Time.

The Shortest Day, Saddest Day

I have written a lot, over the years, about my witchcraft.

Stags, Kings, other Beautiful Things.

Belief in nature, how the natural world believes in me.

So today is a particularly bittersweet day in the world of witches.  It is Yule; the Winter Solstice; the shortest day of sunlight this year, the longest time for the night.

It is the second day during which the Oak and Holly Kings do battle.  And on this solstice, the Oak King will win, thus ushering in the lighter half of the year.  It does not always make sense- that Oak is associated with winter months instead of Holly, a traditionally winter plant.  But consider this- the winter months signal the longer days- the growth of light and with it the growing seasons, seasons of plenty.

It is only natural that my beloved Holly King dies today, relinquishing his throne.  I have always gravitated toward Holly because of his connection to the fall, the quiet months of introspection and intuition.  But now he bows to the light so that there may be that growth of the light months.  His grace in death allows for legacy, tradition, and continuation.  The world can be because he dies.

So tonight we both mourn and celebrate.  Tonight we pay our respects to the dying King and welcome with respect the newly reborn King.

Tonight is the night for fires and planning.  Tonight is the night for mischief and witchery.

Tonight is the night for night.

Happy Yule.

Ceviche

Believe it or not, today I took my first foray into Mexico.  I know, I know...  You are thinking that with all of this travel, all of this history of movement under my belt... and the fact that it's Mexico and not so far away in the grand scheme of things... How could this be her first time?!?  Especially considering the lengths I regularly go to in order to escape and go Go GO!

But it's true.  This gal can finally claim having been to Central America.

Granted, after hearing stories about drug-filled cadavers; gang shootings and rapes; jail, jail, jail,... it almost did not happen.  In fact a sense of doom had plum settled on me by the time we got in the car this morning.  Death! Destruction! White Slavery! Montezuma's Revenge! Who knows what fate awaits me, I thought, but it cannot be a good one!  My mantra on the way south went a little like this:

"Get out alive.  Get out.  Get out alive. Get out."  I hoped that all would go well and we would not wind up in jail.  Or otherwise mis-occupied.

Several Christmas gifts, a decent amount of stress and photos, and some tequila later, I am happy to report that Puerto Nuevo, Mexico, is amazing, silly, touristy, nonsensical- filled with people trying to make a living in a cheerfully capitalistic fashion.  It is bright and bold and spilling over with colors and music and life and livelihood.

I can also report that Marisco's restaurant in PN serves a damned fine ceviche. 

I can also report that if you, for whatever reason, find yourself in an 'authorized vehicles only' lane at the border crossing (back into the States), you should probably find a way out of it.  Otherwise you will, in fact, be detained.  And sent to secondary inspection.

So much love, Muchachos.

Thanksgiving Part Two… It's a Family Affair.

And one helluva photo op….

The day, of course, begins with an examination of the back deck ceiling.  Which is dad and Uncle Tom's specialty.

It's also a brilliant way to get out of the kitchen and out of the way of the women in said kitchen while they bake turkey, stuffing, potatoes, pies, etc… etc… etc.

Holy Bananas, food.

Holy Bananas, avoidance of responsibility and masculine duty (until of course, the 24 pound turkey needs to be pulled out of the oven, then man-power is a necessary evil.).

Which brings me to another point- WTF- I'm totally capable of handling a bird of that girth… how come nobody asked me?!?!

 Meanwhile- Dad samples Pepe Nero (a rather fetching and absolutely delicious pepper brew from the Goose Island Brewery)- in yet another attempt to avoid the kitchen.  The Bob is a wise, wise man.

And so the day goes on… with such an epic degree of familial love and debauchery.  Mom decides she's a pirate (or reprobate as Uncle Tom put it)… Aunt Dee decides she's a movies star of old Hollywood proportions…

Several thousand pounds of food, drink, and merriment later, it was the end of the holiday-day.

Thank the powers-out-there because I was plum tuckered out by 6:30, curled up on the outside couch, snoozing in the happy mellowness of tryptophan.

And literally have no memory of the rest of the evening.

Happy Thanksgiving.

And then today rolled around- which means the post-Thanksgiving Day picnic.

Much like the Pre-Thanksgiving Day Pub Crawl, the picnic involves goodness, great conversation, too much food, and just enough of the white man's fire water.

There is something so special and so charming about family time.

And at the same time… so absurdly and so deliciously nonsensical.

Especially this family… And this time.

So Much Love to You All.

Thanksgiving Part One- or- The Pre-Thanksgiving Family Pub Crawl

Yeah…

It really happened.  How it happened..? Who knows- but a new tradition of nonsense and debauchery has officially begun in for the Cleerdin/Seyfried Clans.

Let me begin at the beginning...

One never knows where one may find oneself in the days leading up to Thanksgiving- even when knows where one is, errrr, physically.

Hence the day before Thanksgiving I found myself wandering around Vero Beach, Florida, with my parents, aunt, and uncle…. and we were drinking.  Heavily.

Sitting ocean-side on the Atlantic coast, watching a dog bound in and out of the water, we began the evening at Waldo's- apparently the Last of the Great American Hangouts.  This, having been to Chilkoot Charlie's in Anchorage, Alaska, is a debatable claim.  Perhaps the last of the great Floridian hangouts.

As we sat and shot the … ahem… shit, raising a glass to my grandfather (whose memorial may or may not be part three of these Thanksgiving blogs), the Bob pondered the merits of Waldo Sexton and his inability to tell the same story twice (see below).

Everything changes all the time.  Details weave themselves in different patterns.

Next up was a spot called Mulligans for some truly terrible wine and, much to my diet's dismay, truly delicious sweet potato fries (if you are ever in the Vero area- check out the cinnamon-honey dip served with the fries.  Two words: Holy bananas.)

Needless to say a fire was going to happen at some point yesterday evening.  Because, perhaps in a cosmic nod to my desperate desire for chill weather on a fall holiday, it actually dropped to 40 or so degrees.  Sitting on the back porch, flame gently crackling in the fire pit (which is another blog for another time because pit implies something sunken in the ground and this contraption most definitely sits above-ground) we polished off more wine, beer, and conversation.

There is a certain merit to being an adult in your own family.  You gain rights- rights to talk, fight, and engage in other most wonderful activities which you lacked before the rise in aged stature.

Not that my 'adulthood' within the family implies any respect from the family at all.

No indeed: I'm still pretty much the black sheep.  But this sheep can officially say that she found Waldo.  And that good times abound when you let them.

Until Thanksgiving Part Two, Or, A Whole Lot More Family Time…

Happy Thanksgiving.

Presence

I assume that it comes as a surprise to absolutely no one that I love words.  I love spoken and written language.  I love communication- both explicit and implicit.

I love WORDS.

And I love being a wordsmith.

I wrote a yoga class today which revolved around the idea of (and word) "presence."  In terms of the yogic practice presence means being totally into and with your practice, your moment.  In terms of the big world, the big yoga, presence is something intangible and tangible- real and surreal.  It is a physical, emotional, and temporal word.  It reaches beyond Websters and into the spirit of every person who is capable of experiencing it.  Presence.

Presence.

What a beautiful idea- that one is so completely and utterly here, for both themselves and for others.  It is alarmingly perfect.  To be present is to be aware, engaged.  To be aware and engaged is to be utterly given unto the universe.  Your spirit graces the wider world; it communicates on a basic, base level with everything and everyone else.

I reiterate that when you are present, you are aware.  I refuse to use the term 'alive' because it is cliche and boring.  Awareness is so much more significant, anyway.  Awareness implies a sense of consciousness that is true, honest, and magnificently powerful- because when you are aware, when you are present, when you are here- you let go.  You can let go because you realize the profundity of your surroundings.  And those who accompany you in those surroundings.

Life is present.  Be present.

Until next time…

What is, After it All, Love?

Last night I was exposed, for the first time first-hand, to "love" gone wrong; gone mean; gone putridly bad and sour.

Let me explain.  I feel heartbreak, heartache, and heartsickness.  I have experienced all of them intimately and not necessarily romantically.  I know the pain of love lost and love never again to be had.  I know how lonely lovelessness is and how wonderful the warmth of love is when it wraps around you like a blanket.  I have trounced on hearts and had my own heart trounced upon in return.  I get it.

But never have I known the pain, shame, and brutality of someone claiming to love you and then twisting that love into an excuse.  I was used as an excuse for someone to hurt himself.  My feelings were used as an excuse for someone to hurt me, to wound my spirit, soul, and trust.  Badly, and with vigor, confidence and ultimatums.

What kind of love is that?

How can love be defined with 'Either…Or'?

Until next time…