#and then shows you his sacred magic the gathering cards

[shamanofthewilds]

This accidental attachment is going to get out of hand and Gerudag has NO idea what the Father is still!! It’s making the weirdest conversations...become extremely enjoyable (to an embarrassing degree). Note to self: Get battleship costume.

--

More silly jokes playing on the idea of how sayaad demons fall for their masters. But the demon is unbound and turned on by  the weird nonsense this oblivious warlock goes on about. Gonna need to pray on this...

Inspired by ProZD’s tiktok pov : we’re on a date together

[medusapelagia]

Seeds of Dreams, Seeds of Truth 6\11

Rating: Mature Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Tags: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Magic, Regent Prince/King Steve Harrington, Knight Eddie Munson, Prison, Sick Steve Harrington, Vomiting, Attempted Murder, Poisoning, Double povs, Panic Attacks, Magic,

Read it here or on AO3

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, (Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11)

WC: 994

“Who the hell are you talking about!” Gareth yells, tired to be left out of the conversation.

“Our enemy is not the king.” Robin announces, playing with her crystals. “It’s Vecna.”

Time seems to freeze.

Vecna is a name they all know. It’s the name of the monster in every bedtime story: the one that comes at night and takes you away if you have been naughty. And now it seems that even if the stories were just stories, the monster is real.

And has come to their kingdom.

“Are you sure?” Gareth asks, “I mean… I thought it was just a way to keep the kids out of trouble…”

“It is… and it isn’t. Every story contains a kernel of truth.” Robin says, grabbing a bottle of wine and pouring some, “He was a mage, a very powerful one; some say that he was the most powerful mage ever existed. But it wasn't enough for him. He was greedy, he wanted even more power. So he found a powerful spirit and took his powers.” Robin sips some wine, her eyes staring at the flames like she is seeing things that they can only imagine. “But magic always has a price.”

That doesn’t sound like good news. 

Jeff is the one who dares to ask, “How… how is he going to pay this debt?”

The icy blue stare of the mage turns toward the boy, studying him, “What does the story say?” 

“And if you're naughty or you're bad, he'll be the last nightmare you've ever had.” Jeff replies, remembering an old nursery rhyme.

“Exactly.” The woman agrees “The spirit he robbed feeds himself with nightmares, so to stay alive Vecna is forced to enter his victims’ minds and swallow their life energy. He shows his victims their most secret fears and lets the monstrous part of himself feed on their terror until the victim dies in their sleep with a dreadful expression.” She sips more wine. “But that wasn’t the only price he paid. He became a threat to the entire kingdom, so the king gathered together all his forces and started a witch hunt.”

“The purge.” Eddie murmurs and the two women nod.

“Mages and healers from everywhere were killed or imprisoned in the king’s dungeons. Just a few of us survived, and as time went by people forgot about us and we were finally able to live our lives in peace. But if he is back we are all in danger.” Robin says, staring at Chrissy.

Chrissy sits at Robin's feet, putting her head on her lap while the other woman cards her fingers through her hair.

“If we defeat him once we can defeat him again!” Jeff declares proudly, beating with his palm on his armor, but the mage chuckles.

“Defeated, you say? If your people defeated him, why is he still here? Banging on your doors? Huh?”

The royal guards stare at each other: they are just a handful of people and even if they could manage to get the castle back how are they supposed to fight with a powerful dark mage?

“What can we do to protect our people?” Eddie asks, keeping his eyes on the map in front of him: there are thousands of people living in the kingdom whose lives are at risk at every moment.

“Everyone who is staying at the castle is already doomed.”

Eddie’s eyes go to the girl who is resting at the mage’s feet. “What about you? He will come for you too, won’t he?”

The mage chuckles. “Oh, he will try, probably, but he won’t get to us. This place is sacred and it’s protected by more enchantment than I can even recall; Vecna will not risk injuring himself when he can have many other people who are so defenseless.” She sips more wine and when she smiles her teeth are tainted red.

“Why now? After all these years?”

The woman frowns. “My guess is as good as yours.”

Eddie turns toward his companions wondering how that happened, and then he looks at the map on the table, frowning. “The war at the northern border was a trap.”

“Maybe not a trap, but I’m pretty sure that Vecna was already feeding in that realm and took the chance to move here with the army like the parasite he is.”

“So it was he who poisoned my king?” Eddie asks, his hands on the hilt of his sword as if he could cut the person who brought death and destruction to their lands that very moment.

“I can’t know for sure.”

“But you can guess.”

The mage nods.

“Fuck!” Gareth yells, slamming his fist on the table that trembles under his rage. “If it’s like that we are screwed! How can we fight a monster and an evil spirit? We are condemned! Everyone is condemned! We must run away as fast as we can!” he proposes and more than one guard nods in agreement.

“He will find you, Gareth. And if not you, your sons, or the sons of your sons. The only way to stop Vecna is to kill him.” The mage says, still stroking Chrissy’s hair. “The only problem is that he is too powerful to be killed.”

“You are a powerful mage! You could help us! Please! Come with us!” Jeff begs.

The mage smirks, playing with her crystals. “My magic is strong but it’s not the right kind of magic. I can heal, I can read the flames, but I can’t fight nightmares.”

Gareth glares at the woman, ready to unsheathe the sword, but Eddie stops him, grabbing him by his wrist before he does something stupid.

He tries to think faster.

“Who might have the kind of power we are searching for?”

“Magic is like a seed, it can bloom in the wild or it can be grown in a vase, but there are no vases anymore. Your only hope is to find a wildflower.”

tag list: @katyawriteswhump

[sophygurl]

Blessed Solstice and Happy start of Yule to all who celebrate either one. 

Most of this post hinges on my living in the northern hemisphere, so for you southern hemisphere folks - uh, save it and read it in six months?? Time and space are weird.

Anyway, I love how so many cultures, countries, religions, and practices there are at this year with similar themes and rituals. It's such a human thing for us all to need certain stories and narratives and ways of relating to one another and just all independently coming up similar stuff but with different specific meanings and mythologies attached. 

As a mystic agnostic who was raised a liberal Christian and has adopted various earth-centered traditions into my mishmash of spirituality, I acknowledge and celebrate a few different traditions this time of year. I won't speak to the holidays and festivals that don't relate to me, except to occasionally and briefly note some of the thematic and ritual similarities.

But when it comes to advent/Christmas (including both the spiritual and more commercial aspects of Christmas), and solstice/Yule, and even a bit of New Year's, there is so much common ground along themes of:

* waiting: waiting for something magical, waiting for a miracle (I hear you Mirabel), waiting for new life, waiting for the thing that will spark hope during a hopeless time, waiting for the right time to overcome oppression, waiting for the light to return, waiting for the sun to return, waiting for the warmth to return, waiting for the opportunity to make things better, for a fresh start, waiting in watching wonderment as the earth (or the sun) seems to stand still and knowing and hoping and praying that it will continue the journey, kids waiting for Santa, advent calendars, advent wreathe candles, counting down the days until the holiday, counting down the hours and minutes and seconds until the new year

* sharing: sharing what light we have with one another, sharing our warmth, sharing with our loved ones and our communities, sharing with the stranger - the traveler from out of town or the neighbor who needs our help, sharing our love and our gifts (whether you're rich enough to share sacred oils or talented enough to share your music or kind enough to share a smile - it all counts), sharing food to keep us healthy and warmed, sharing shelter as we gather with loved ones or house the refugees in our midst, sharing greetings via ritualized words in passing or cards in the mail, sharing our magic and our hope and our love

* the possible: the magic, the miracle, the wonder - all of the things that seem impossible suddenly feeling possible, whether it's a jolly elf who brings toys to the world's children or the child of a divine being coming to live amongst us to teach us how to love one another better or the fact of communities gathering to chant back the sun together or noticing how nature always provides even during the loneliest times by showing us how to rest in dormancy or fallowness or hibernation or just by sharing resources or tucking away extra nourishment to get us through, maybe it's the oil in the lamp lasting longer than expected or the miracle of humans remembering to share their light with others, maybe it's three men following a star to greet the baby they know will create great change on the earth or maybe it's three ghosts coming to scare a miserly capitalist into sharing his wealth, whatever it is - it feels more possible this time of year

* light, light light light, the light of the world, the light of life, the yule log, the advent candles, the menorah, the returning of the sun, the Diwali lights, the new year's fireworks, the burning of the Galve goat, fireplaces, candles, Christmas lights, candlelight Christmas Eve services, sharing our light, bringing back the light, resting - just for now - in the dark

These are by no means all of the associations between these different holidays and holy days at this time of year, but it's enough to give me food for thought.

I love the sense of magic that comes this time of year, the sense that anything and everything can change for the better, that pregnant sense of waiting and wondering what will come, the cozy feeling involved in sharing what we have with others so that all may feel warm when it's cold and all may have light when it's dark and all may have nourishment when the harvest is over and less food is available for the taking. 

Winter is hard for me. It's hard on my chronic pain, it's hard on my depression and trauma, it's just a slog to get through - especially up here in Wisconsin. I don't like the cold. I don't like the sun spending less time with us. I don't like the extra isolation that these bring. And I don't like settling down with the peace of my own mind and facing the difficulties in my own spirit and in the world at large.

I often overly focus to the point of obsession on the aspects about bringing back the light and sharing with others. It makes me feel less lonely, it makes the cold feel a little cozier and the quiet less oppressive.

But I've been trying, this year, to focus more on the other side of things, too. On finding quiet moments to appreciate the dormancy of spirit that comes naturally at this time of year. 

On remembering that many good things come from the waiting, as much as from the arrival; from the resting, as much as from the activity; from the solitude as much as from the company of others. From the balance of all things, even access to the sun - that majestic giver of life. 

To be more like the evergreen tree that is hardy enough to thrive in the snow, and whose greenery we intentionally bring inside at this time of year to remind us that we, too, can survive the long lonely nights of winter. 

Blessed Solstice, and happy all-the-holidays, friends and family.

[curioushistorian]

Contemporary art reflective blog

My name is Helen, I am a mature first year undergraduate History of Art and Museum Studies student. For the contemporary art module, we have been asked to create a blog on how we understand and connect to contemporary art. This is where I have to confess that out of all the modules that we have studied this is the one that I feel I connected to the least.

I am hoping by the end of this blog and through my own research to have deepened my understanding and gained a better insight into contemporary art.

I have grown up in and around Renaissance art having spent a quite a bit of time in Florence with the family I have there, the time spent in art galleries like The Uffizi, The Accademia and the Pitti Palace deepened my love of all things ‘old’ so the modern contemporary art I just do not feel like I understand quite so well.

 Medusa with the Head of Perseus

'Medusa with the Head of Perseus', by artist Luciano Garbati. COURTESY OF MWTH PROJECT AND THE ARTIST

 Luciano Garbati is an Argentine-Italian artist who grew up in a little village just outside Florence. In the Piazza della Signoria sits the famous Cellini sculpture for all to see. In this sculpture Perseus stands naked atop of Medusa’s corpse, holding her head aloft in victory over the crowds that gather in the square, every child in Florence knows the story.

As Garbati told Quartz’s Annaliese Griffin in 2018, seeing the work as a child led him to imagine a reversal of its dynamic.

“There are lots of depictions of Medusa, and they are always describing the myth at its worst,” the artist said. “… What would it look like, her victory, not his? How should that sculpture look?”

Medusa was a handmaiden of Athena’s sacred temple and one day Poseidon tried to seduce her, she rebuffed his advances as it would jeopardise her position in the temple, not taking no for an answer Poseidon raped Medusa. When Athena found out she, in a fit of rage for defiling her temple, turned Medusa into a Gorgon with deadly snakes for hair and a gaze that would turn anyone she looked at into stone, she banished Medusa from the temple.

A number of years later Perseus was sent on a seemingly imposible task to kill Medusa and cut off her head as a gift. Not being able to look directly at Medusa Perseus used the reflection in his shield to complete the job and take her head.

In Garbati’s sculpture things are a little different, Medusa’s lithe body is naked, she still has the snakes for hair and she is still a beautiful maiden, but in one hand she clutches a sword and in the other the severed head of Perseus (modelled on the artist) but its her gaze that catches the attention of the viewer, head tilted slightly downward, there isn’t a glee to her victory just a quiet resolution that she got the job done and woe betide anyone else who tries to take her life from her, inviting the narrative that she as a rape survivor, she will rise and that victim shaming is both wrong and immoral. This has been highly publicised recently in the media with the #metoo movement.

Photograph Jeenah Moon for the New York Times

Although Garbati created Medusa with the Head of Perseus in 2008 the sculpture was chosen to be erected in 2019 directly opposite the New York County Criminal Court, where Harvey Weinstein stood trial prompting a mixed reaction from the #metoo movement. Medusa has been reinterpreted as being symbolic of the victim-blaming suffered by rape survivors. “How can a triumph be possible if you are defeating a victim,” Garbati said in a statement.

On his Instagram page, Garbati wrote, “The place chosen is not accidental, since there they judge cases for crimes related to violence against women. We are already in the final stage working on the last details of this sculpture that became a symbol of justice for many women.”

Photograph Jeenah Moon for the New York Times

Some women were outraged that a male artist was chosen to represent their voice saying that Medusa’s body was too perfect and Poseidon’s or Athena’s head ought to be at Medusa’s side, not Perseus’s as they were the initial perpetrators.

Regarding Medusa’s model-esque figure, Mr. Garbati suggests that critics consider the literature from a recent exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art that chronicles how artistic depictions of Medusa morphed from beastly to beautiful starting in the fifth century B.C. You can find that information here https://issuu.com/metmuseum/docs/dangerous_beauty_winter_2018_bullet

The feminist activist Wagatwe Wanjuki, who has written extensively on violence against women, wrote on Twitter, “#Metoo was started by a Black woman, but a sculpture of a European character by a dude is the commentary that gets centered? Sigh.”

But what if we have the story wrong, what if it’s been interpreted incorrectly all this time? What if Athena was in a fit of rage because her maiden had been raped? What if she was so angry that she turned the beautiful Medusa into a Gorgon to protect her from being a powerless victim? What if she sent her away to safe place where no one would find her? What if, what if, what if….

You can find Luciano Garbati’s web page here https://www.lucianogarbati.com/

  Faith Ringgold

 I first came across Faith Ringgolds work in a lecture we had about the Harlem Renaissance and the impact of the Windrush generation on art at that time, how black artists were using art, music, dance and other mediums to comment on the political status of the era and the black community’s social standing.

What first caught my eye was the riot of beautiful colour Ringgold uses, also that she uses the traditionally ‘gentle’ medium of quilting to depict such abject horrors such as racism, segregation, riots and street violence.

This led me to find out more about her life as an artist and civil rights activist, she is a mesmerising character and I watched many interviews with her, this one was particularly interesting as she was accompanied by her black feminist author and cultural critic daughter Michelle Faith Wallace. Watch it here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GK6G-S33V6w

 Faith Ringgold was born in Harlem New York in 1930 at the tail end of the Harlem Renaissance.

Harlem welcomed thousands of African Americans from the southern states of America, they moved to escape the prejudice and persecution that was going on at this time. Many famous people settled in Harlem such as Duke Ellington and Ella Fitzgerald also authors, artists, musicians and athletes flocked to this area. It was an exciting time in Harlem and the Harlem Renaissance was born.

Faith Ringgold attended City Collage New York where she studied art from the European Masters such as Da Vici, Van Goch and Titian. Although she learned from them, she thought “I am black, I am a woman and I am of African descent” so she started to look at African art that was brought to Harlem by her relatives, she started to make quilts with her own twist on the designs, this led her to making her quilt stories, a series of quilts depicting the plight of African Americans in Harlem at this time, dedicating her career to activism, fighting gender and racial equality and highlighting the horrors of the race riots.

Echoes of Harlem 1980 is the first quilt of the series. This was a collaboration with her mother (who she called Willy) and was made the year before Willy died, this was the only one they collaborated on together. It features all the faces of her neighbours and friends in Harlem and takes the traditional tanka for inspiration. The fabric was quilted on to wadding and then the images were painted directly on to the fabric. This meant she could roll them up and easily transport them to various galleries as she found her paintings too heavy to lift and did not want to wait for her husband to arrive home from work to help her lift her canvases.

Echoes of Harlem 1980 photo Artsynet

Street Story 1985 This a quilt that features her house in Harlem, 222 West 146th Street. It also shows the burned-out houses of her neighbours after the civil rights rioting took place.

Street Story 1985, photo metmuseum.org

 Sonny’s Quilt 1986 This quilt depicts her legendary neighbour saxophonist Sonny Rollins who would practice playing his tenor saxophone on the Brooklyn bridge to get away from complaining residents.

Sonny’s Quilt 1986, photo Artsynet

 Tar Beach 1988 This quilt depicts the hot summers of Faith Ringgold’s childhood, no one had air conditioning and the families of Harlem could not afford holidays so instead they would use the roofs of the apartment blocks to get away from the stifling heat of the city. This was as a place to spend recreational time. They called it Tar Beach. Families would gather with friends and neighbour’s, children would fall asleep under the stars as the adults played card games, listened to music and told stories passed down for generations. This quilt captures the magic she felt on the roof top, the George Washington bridge in the background, the stars above their heads.

 Tar beach1988, photo Artsynet

 When Faith was a child, she was sick much of the time with asthma so consequently spent a great deal of her time absent from school, the roof top was where her fashion designer mother Willy taught her to sew. On the days that she was well enough her mother would take her to the theatre to watch Jazz performances, these are portrayed in later story quilts.

Harlem reflects heavily in Ringgold’s work, from the connection and love she felt with friends and family to the outpouring of rage, despair and inequality felt by the Black community at the time. She used her work to depict the political tensions on the streets of New York.

To find out more about Faith Ringgold’s extraordinary life and works of art including paintings, books, and many more quilts please start by taking a look here www.faithringgold.com  

   Tracey Emin, Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963–1995

Photograph Wordpress

 Tracey Emin is a British artist most associated with the art movement of the late 1980’s early 1990’s in London called the Young British Artists or YBA’s, with most of the artists graduating from Goldsmiths or the Royal Collage of Art.

Emin hand stitched and appliqued over 100 names of everyone she had ever slept with up until this point on a tent. The tent filled her small living room floor for six months whilst she worked on it, having to put her television inside it to fit it in the room.

I find this piece fascinating for a number of reasons, firstly the way the media reacted to it. The Tent as it is sometimes known, got such bad press as I think it was just too much information about Emin’s sexuality and private life for most of the general public, jumping to the hasty conclusion that all the names in and on the tent were sexual partners when in fact the literal meaning of the word ‘slept’ in the title was including all the people she had ever fallen asleep in the same place as, names included her Grandmother who she used to fall asleep besides listening to the radio, her teddy bear, two unnamed aborted foetuses and school friends. Of course, Emin had the names of past and present lovers and one-night stands in there also, but the deliberately provocative title of the piece meant that people jumped to their own conclusions without considering that there may be names of people in there with innocent connotations.

Photograph Wordpress

 The second reason I like this installation is because it reminds me of Duchamp’s ‘Readymades’. Emin has taken a mass-produced boring plain two-man tent and added something to make it extraordinary, and thought provoking. So, I find myself thinking would it be as striking and controversial if it wasn’t for Tracey Emins brash, eccentric, feisty and at times unpredictable personality? After all it is just a tent with some names sewn on.

The Tent was first shown at Minky Manky at the South London Gallery and the brainchild of Carl Freedman (who Emin was in a relationship with at the time) He was a friend and collaborator of Damien Hirst who also exhibited in the gallery along with YBA’s such as Sarah Lucas and Gilbert and George. This gave Emins work a much-needed boost as she was not as well-known at this point.

Emin tells Widewalls ‘At that time Sarah (Lucas) was quite famous, but I wasn't at all. Carl said to me that I should make some big work as he thought the small-scale stuff I was doing at the time wouldn't stand up well. I was furious. Making that work was my way at getting back at him. One review was really funny, the journalist had written something like 'She's slept with everyone – even the curator'!

Charles Saatchi the well-known art collector, Gallery owner and wealthy patron of Hirst and many of the YBA’s wanted to buy The Tent but Emin wouldn’t sell it to him due to his advertising work for Thatcher administration. Saatchi eventually bought it on the secondary market from another dealer and put it into his storage facility at the East London Momart warehouse where it was destroyed by fire along with many other valuable pieces of art.

In 2008 during her Edinburgh retrospective show, Emin claimed that she was offered £1 million by the Saatchi Gallery to rebuilt The Tent, but that she cannot do it since it was very personally despite the fact she recreated few smaller pieces for that show. (Widewalls 2020)

To find more about Tracey Emin’s tent watch this short clip https://www.widewalls.ch/magazine/tracey-emin-everyone-i-have-ever-slept-with

 Eve Provost Chartrand

In mid-February we had a guest lecture by the Canadian artist Eve Chartrand, I found her work quite disturbing to look at at first, her organic matter looking creations that incorporate teeth, wax, fabric and living fungi can look like something out of a horror film. But then listening to what motivated her to produce her works really resonated with me.

Chartrand has been observing in her art how ‘she experienced first-hand how disabled and “disgraceful” bodies trigger unease, contempt, and/or indifference, even violence. Living in a culture that equates old age with disease and decline (Calasanti 2005) compelled me to find ways to resist and transgress such discriminative gazes’.

As a woman of 44 I can tell you that I am treated differently now to how I was treated in my 20’s. It is like you become invisible or perhaps treated as a slight inconvenience, like your opinion does not count as you are not young. How the adverts on television are reminding you that you must not age, to stay thin and retain the appearance of a perpetual twenty something with long thick lustrous pigmented hair, wrinkle free and with the perfect figure. And the cruel reality is as you start to feel the most comfortable with yourself that’s when your body starts to age and diminish the youthful lustre it once held. When did it become the norm for the media to tell us that the aging process is not acceptable, beautiful or inevitable? Is the media the new male gaze?

Chartrand’s work challenges the viewer to see beauty in ageing, unconventional bodies, frailty and diversity.

 Chartrand’s work entitled ‘Is there anybody home?’ was inspired by losing elderly relatives, witnessing the aging process and using childhood memories to create sculptures that conveyed the smells, tastes, vibrations of previous experiences. This body of work particularly stuck a chord with me as I have elderly parents and recently lost a most beloved Aunt, Chartrands work made me think about what I hold dear and after my loved ones have gone what would I have to remember them by.

Is There Any Body Home? Specimen #5: A Hair Brush. 2018 Eve Provost Chartrand

 Chartrand explained in her lecture that she made this after rummaging through a box of mementos and keepsakes of her Grandmother who she was afraid of when she was a child. The poetry is typed on velum to mimic the fragility of aging skin mirroring it with a slightly translucent quality.

The bacteria grown in the petri dish was taken from a swab of Chartrand’s Grandmothers 80 year old hair brush. The idea that you can resurrect a living organism (all be it bacteria) from a relative or loved one’s belongings I find fascinating and macabre at the same time. The thought is comforting to me that even when someone is long gone a part of that person still remain and can bloom into life once more.

Is There Any Body Home? Specimen #2: Dentures. 2018 Eve Provost Chartrand

 Find more of Chartrands work here https://www.eveprovostchartrand.com/

  Andy Goldsworthy

Andy Goldsworthy is a site-specific artist who works outdoors with natural found materials such as leaves, twigs, rocks, ice and water. He uses these materials to compliment the landscape and documents the breakdown or decay of the installations by photographing them at different stages. His work is none permanent and open to elements which give them a fleeting beauty.

“It's not about art,” It's just about life and the need to understand that a lot of things in life do not last.” He told the Guardian

Photograph by Artsynet  

 Instead of using canvas, paints, clay, tools and other traditional artist materials Goldsworthy instead opts for what nature provides him. Choosing not to paint landscapes but rather paint on them, in them or around them, incorporating the seasons, the weather and the tides. Nothing he creates is permanent and every component as natural, even down to the thorns he uses to fix leaves in place.

Photograph Artsynet

 I think Goldsworthy’s art is particularly poignant at this current time. The global pandemic rendering travel out of the question so people have been able to explore the countryside around them, many of them for the first time. Busy lives, jobs, and schooling have us all on the giant treadmill of life, it has taken a catastrophic advent for all to slow down and enjoy walking in the countryside, local parks, gardens and shorelines of Britain, watching seasons come and go, watching nature in her great cycle realising that to take care of our earth provides a wonder for us all and our future generations.

Goldsworthy states in his book Passage ‘An artist makes things that become a focus for feelings and emotions - some personal, some public, some intended, some not. At best a work of art releases energy that is a shock to both the artist and the viewer – I do not mean shock in the conventional sense but an emotional tremor that articulates a feeling that has been in search of form’ (page 69)

The transience of Goldsworthy’s art can also be likened to the way that contemporary art is fleeting, what is considered to be contemporary at this present moment in time will undoubtedly be not what we would consider it to be in 10, 20 or 50-years’ time. Art that is created today is considered contemporary but all art was created ‘today’ that day and then we will have to find another name to call it, another category to fit it in to.

I have learned in the duration of completing this blog that I very much enjoy some contemporary art, I may need to do some research into the piece that I am looking at to understand the artists meaning behind their work, or that I may have to understand the actual artist and their background before I can fully appreciate what they are communicating, I know now that I will be slowing down in the contemporary art room in the Walker Art Gallery the next time I visit instead of rushing through, I will take time to read the information the galleries provide and continue to learn, who knows, maybe I will find a new passion I did not think possible.

[lady-divine-writes]

Trust (Rated NC17)

Summary: After close to a decade of not seeing one another, a box shows up at Aziraphale's bookshop, its contents a reminder of emotional wounds ...

... and a cry for help. (4931 words)

Notes: So yeah, apparently I lied when I said I was finished writing au's based off of @whiteleyfoster's 'Prince of Omens'. This idea hit me quite out of the blue, that by creating the Prince of Omens au, it sort of altered the timeline of the original story, which then led me to imagine filling in the gaps of history with stories starring this version of the characters. This takes place, I would say, sometime between the Blitz and the 60s, which may have fed into some of the decisions taken place by the characters between that time. Plus, I thought it was a very romantic, touching, and hot moment for the two of them, being sniffed out by Hell. Anyway, let me know what you all think <3

Read on AO3.

Please say you trust me.

Those are the only words written on the gold card tucked inside the box that shows up at Aziraphale’s bookshop on Thursday afternoon, packed alongside a few other choice items: a white blindfold, a pair of golden handcuffs, and a hotel room key. There’s no return address on the box, no name on the card, only the initials AJC.

But Aziraphale didn’t need those.

He knew.

Before he opened the box and saw its contents, he knew who’d sent it.

He could sense Crowley’s magical signature all over it.

Aziraphale examines the contents for a long while, his heart pounding in his chest. They’re not a random collection of offerings. Aside from how Crowley means them, each one is symbolic.

The white blindfold harks back to the ribbon that has become so sacred to Crowley - the one Aziraphale tied around the plant he gave the demon back in Egypt.

The meaning behind the cuffs comes from around that same time.

Standing on the banks of the Red Sea, watching Moses tend to his flock of the faithful as they readied themselves for the journey on, Crowley had gazed across the water in the direction they’d come, the bitterest, sweetest expression of sorrow on his handsome face.

“What is it, my dear?” Aziraphale had asked. “Why do you seem so melancholy? All’s well that ends well, don’t you think?”

“How is it,” he’d said, staring at the water, unable to look Aziraphale in the eye, “that I can continue to be such a tremendous failure?”

“How can you say that!? None of these people would have been able to escape Pharaoh if not for you! You’re a hero!”

“But just as many lost their lives because of me! Because I was too arrogant to be specific with my instructions! But that’s just who I am … what I do …”

“No, my dear …” Aziraphale put a hand on his arm “… that’s not true at all. Stop saying that … please …”

Crowley turned to Aziraphale but with eyes shut, unable to take his kindness, accept his sympathy.

“It’s humbling. They showered me with riches, built me a temple. I’d planted myself as a God among them so I could stir up a little mischief, but they tempted me. And like an idiot, I fell for it.” Crowley shook his head. “To be brought to my knees, have that torn away … it makes me realize what I really am. What I’ve been all along.”

“Lesson learned then,” Aziraphale said. Crowley’s eyes snapped open, heartbreak dulling their shimmering gold depths. “Because you are what you should be. And that’s free.”

Crowley’s brow furrowed. “W-what do you mean?”

“The temple, those clothes, the gold - they had strings attached. They kept you beholden to Pharaoh. Turned you into a slave.” Aziraphale shifted Crowley’s gaze away from the water and aimed it towards the land, to the people gathered there. “By doing what you did, helping these people, enduring, suffering … you’re not a slave anymore. Not to Pharaoh. You’re free.”

Aziraphale recalls those words, the smile they’d brought to Crowley’s face, the embrace that followed, the dozen kisses and more … and he frowns.

Because where it’s true that Crowley freed himself from Egypt, he’s still a servant.

As is Aziraphale.

They’re both in the same boat - conscripted to a higher power that commands their moves, often using them as pawns.

Or worse.

As toys.

And they play with them the way spoiled children do.

Roughly.

If they break, Heaven and Hell will consign them to the bottom of the toy box and find new angels and demons to replace them.

Aziraphale has a sinking suspicion that’s part of what’s going on now - Hell commanding its servant, holding his feet to the fire. But to do what, Aziraphale hasn’t a clue.

The words written on the card are a linchpin.

Please say you trust me.

Aziraphale had said something similar to Crowley when they’d made love in his temple and he’d used his precious white ribbon on him as a blindfold.

Crowley repeated the sentiment back to him when God sent Death to reap the first born. Death would have reaped Crowley, too, if not for Aziraphale. Crowley promised he would try to save the innocent but that Aziraphale needed to have faith in him.

Aziraphale said - “Always, my dear.”

Faith.

Trust.

Aziraphale and Crowley had known one another for 2500 years by the time they met up in Egypt, but it was during that time that Aziraphale truly learned to trust Crowley. Crowley had been gifted Aziraphale’s trust during the years they spent watching over Moses. He lost it, but earned it back in spades. Since then, he’s run to Aziraphale’s rescue time and time again, saving him from beheadings, bombings …

… re-assignment.

And despite this cloak-and-dagger, Aziraphale trusts Crowley now.  

Aziraphale didn’t know Crowley was in town. They hadn’t seen one another in close to a decade. Aziraphale knew Crowley would turn up one of these days, but not like this.

He holds out hope the objects in the box are for pleasure, but he’s sure they’re for business. Trust or no, that makes him nervous. He doesn’t like not knowing what’s in store for him. The real torture will be in waiting, guessing.

But, luckily, not too long.

Aziraphale finds out the following night.

He had no idea when Crowley would call for him. He’d hoped Crowley would come for him himself - show up on his doorstep in a smart black suit, all seductive secrets and sly smiles.

A car comes for him instead, driven by a human chauffeur.

A block away from the hotel, he senses them.

Demons.

Lots of them.

Lurking around corners, hiding in the shadows, ducking out of sight.

Watching him arrive.

Even on this main thoroughfare bustling with people, there are more demons around than he’s ever felt in a single place.

His body goes cold.

“Long night?” Aziraphale asks the driver, making small talk to keep his mind off of whatever’s waiting for him ahead. It feels like a trap, every molecule of his celestial form screaming at him to get out of the car and run, that he’s been betrayed. But he can’t think like that. Crowley wouldn’t put him in harm’s way.

He has to believe heart and soul he wouldn’t.

Especially not after that note.

Please say you trust me.

“You could say that.”

“Where are you headed after this, my dear?”

“I’ve been hired on for the night by the blokes who hired me to get you,” the man says, peeking at Aziraphale through the rear view. “Good thing, too. Heaven knows I need the money.”

“Hard times, hmm?”

“It’s my daughter Liza,” the man says with a lump in his throat. “She’s come down sick. The doctors here don’t know what to do for her. We’re hoping to take her to the states. We’ve heard there are doctors there that can help her.”

“I see.” Aziraphale scans the streets around them. Something doesn’t feel right (on top of everything else that already doesn’t feel right). Evil clings to this man, though, in his heart, he is good.

It’s not him, Aziraphale discovers as he reaches out with his angelic senses. It’s the company he keeps. He’s been hired by demons. Not Crowley but others. They’ve promised him a great deal of money to be their errand boy - escort prostitutes around the city and deliver some dangerous packages to some powerful people.

But they have no intention of paying him.

Because he will not survive the night.

He’s disposable. A nobody in the grand scheme. That’s why they hired him. That’s what the demons are counting on - cruel since demons can masquerade as humans and do their own dirty work.

But it’s loads more fun to trick some unsuspecting mortal to do it for them.

In the end, after he’s taken part in some shady deals (unbeknownst to him) they’ll have his soul for Hell. It’s a demonic loophole. (They have enough lawyers to ensure them it’s sound.) And even though Aziraphale wants to maintain a low profile, he can’t let this happen.

The chauffeur pulls up to the curb in front of The Savoy and puts his car into park.

“Here we are,” he says, looking over his shoulder at Aziraphale. “Do you need help up to your room or …?”

“Not at all, young man.” Aziraphale reaches into his pocket and pulls out a rolled-up wad of notes bound together by a rubber band. The driver waits patiently for Aziraphale to count out his tip. His eyes blow wide when Aziraphale hands him the entire thing.

“I … are you serious, sir?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says with a smile. “For a job well done. Best ride I’ve had in ages.”

“I … I can’t accept this!” the man says, an expression of pain passing over his face as a voice in his head - probably his wife’s - screams, ‘Yes, you can, you idiot! Don’t argue!’ “I only drove you twelve city blocks!”

“You can accept it, and you will.” Aziraphale snaps his fingers, using a little angelic magic to cease any more arguing. “And now you’re going to drive straight home, pack your family up, and head to the airport. Get on board TWA flight 530 to Los Angeles, and get your daughter well.”

A second snap of his fingers sees to that. Liza will greet her father at the door to their humble flat completely cancer free. But Aziraphale needs to get him and his family out of town. He knows what will happen when the demons discover this man has skipped out on his duties.

Needless to say, they won’t be happy.

“Thank you, sir! I … I don’t know how I could ever re-pay you!”

“I do. Forget you ever saw me. And forget the men who hired you.” Aziraphale snaps one last time, gets out of the car, and heads for the front door. He pauses when he hears the car pull away from the curb, watching it drive off into the night. If a demon ever does manage to catch up with him, they should be able to tell that his mind has been wiped by an angel. That and the fact that he’s blessed should keep them off his back.

Aziraphale shows his key to the doorman, who directs him to the room he needs. He declines any more offers of help and continues on alone.

For a Friday night, it’s pretty mellow at The Savoy. Most everyone is out on the town, living it up. Which means no one notices the middle-aged man in the cream-colored coat slip down the hallway and take the elevator to the top floor.

No one will notice if he disappears.

He starts out with shoulders squared and head held high, carrying the box Crowley sent him tucked under one arm. But as he walks down the quiet hall, the demonic smell growing stronger and more pungent with every step, the box creeps out from underneath his arm to his chest where he hugs it close.

He stops in front of the door and fits the key in the lock, his hands shaking as he does. He breathes out slowly, counts to three. He hasn’t even unlocked the door but he feels him on the other side.

Crowley.

In this room.

Waiting for him.

Crowley summoned him here and now Aziraphale is about to turn himself over to him.

Him and about a dozen other demons.

His heart double-thumps with excitement.

His head swims with fear.

He unlocks the door, pushes it open.

It opens unto darkness.

“Hello?” he calls inside, reluctant to take a step in but he knows he must.

Please say you trust me.

Those words ring in his ears. They aren’t simple words, not easy. They have weight to them, a history.

They’re a plea.

It’s not until he closes the door behind him that he notices Crowley’s silhouette standing beside the foot of a large bed over by the window.

The door locks behind him without him touching it.

It’s more than a bit unsettling.

Aziraphale walks over to the bed and sets the box down .

“Crowley?” he says, waiting for the demon to acknowledge his arrival in any way. Aziraphale wants to rush into his arms, kiss him on the mouth, whisper words of love against his skin.

But a voice in his mind tells him this isn’t the time for that.

It’s ridiculous. He knows he’s in very real danger of being discorporated but he can’t help noticing … Crowley looks stunning. He’s been growing his hair out. It’s not long yet, but it’s not short either. It’s just long enough for Aziraphale to run his fingers through, wind the strands around and pull him close. He’s dressed for bed - barefoot, black pajama pants, and shirtless, the planes of his chest and his flat stomach on enticing display. Even his scar - that horrible scar from Aziraphale’s flaming sword - looks delicious in this low light.

Positively kissable.

And he’s not wearing his glasses. Not hiding his eyes.

Though he’s never had to hide his eyes from Aziraphale.

Crowley doesn’t look at Aziraphale as the angel inches closer, eyes searching his face for an explanation. Aziraphale gets within touching distance, but Crowley takes a step away.

“Take off your clothes,” he commands.

“Wh-what?”

“What’s wrong, principality? Did I stutter?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, fighting to maintain a composure that’s a feather’s touch away from shattering like a plate glass window, “you didn’t. But I …”

“Then be a good little angel and obey. Maybe you haven’t noticed but you’re not the one in control. You have no power here.”

Snickers travel around the room and from the strangest of locations: in a closet, under the bed, on the ceiling. Aziraphale doesn’t look up to check. If there is a demon hanging from the chandelier above him, he’d rather not see it with his own eyes.

Stunned into silence like Crowley slapped him in the face, Aziraphale slips off his coat and lays it on the bed, then reaches for his shirt. With every button he undoes, his mind reels, searching for a solution. From the smell of this place, there are demons everywhere - in the room, in the hallway, on the street outside. So running is not an option. He could miracle his way out, but that would cause a paper trail he’d have to explain to Gabriel, which would lead to three possible outcomes: one - Gabriel reprimands Aziraphale for the use of a frivolous miracle (because, apparently, saving himself is considered frivolous); two - this incident starts a battle with Hell, which may not end well for Earth as a whole; or three - Gabriel presses Hell for answers and Hell offers up Crowley as a sacrifice.

Aziraphale can’t risk hurting Crowley any more than he could risk hurting Earth. Plus, that would leave Crowley at the mercy of Hell since his mission would have failed.

Aziraphale has no choice but to play along and hope that an explanation comes to light.

He’ll keep you safe. He won’t hurt you. He’ll explain this to you. Trust him.

“Everything,” Crowley says when Aziraphale stops at his pants, his voice undeniably softer when he says, “I want to see everything.”

That softness, more than anything, encourages Aziraphale on.

When Aziraphale has completely undressed, Crowley approaches. His eyes - a serpent’s eyes from rim to rim where they’d normally appear a bit more human - are uncharacteristically unforgiving, but Aziraphale doesn’t miss the subtle once over Crowley gives him, how it causes him to miss a step.

Crowley reaches out a hand. Aziraphale thinks he’s reaching for him, his body starving for his touch. For a second, Crowley seems to consider it. But he grabs the box instead. He opens it, exposing its contents. He reaches inside and pulls out the golden handcuffs. He grabs Aziraphale’s wrists, locking them in front of him.

“C-Crowley? What’s going on?” Aziraphale asks, starting to get nervous, the other demons in the room an ominous presence even though he doesn’t see them. “You’re going a bit fast for me.”

Crowley leads Aziraphale to the bed, maneuvers him like a dog on a leash by the chain of those handcuffs, has him climb up on it and kneel on the mattress. Then he takes Aziraphale by the chin and stares deep into his eyes. “Pay attention, principality, because I won’t tell you again.” Crowley starts to speak, posturing on about how Aziraphale is his prisoner, how he’s there to serve him, please him, bend to his whims. Aziraphale hears him, his words playing in the corner of his mind like a scratchy record on an ancient gramophone, warped and skipping, out of tune.

But what he hears louder than that are the words Crowley projects to the forefront of his brain.

Words that tremble, steeped in fear.

‘I need your help, angel. Please? Do what I say? They’re watching.’

Aziraphale sees Crowley gulp, feels his own throat ache with the bob of his Adam’s apple.

Crowley’s power is fueled by his imagination. That’s one of the things that makes him unique among demons. Aziraphale and Crowley had discovered long ago that he can make Aziraphale hear whatever he wants him to hear, even over long distances.

He’s using that power now to communicate with him.

‘I know you feel them. I can’t explain but I promise, I won’t let them hurt you. I swear it.’

Crowley takes the blindfold out of the box and starts tying it over Aziraphale’s eyes.

‘I … I don’t understand, Crowley,’ Aziraphale thinks, knowing Crowley will hear.

‘I’ll explain later but please … please say you trust me.’

Aziraphale nods. ‘Always, my dear.’

‘And no matter what I say … know that I love you.’

‘I do.’

Crowley knots the blindfold twice - once to secure it, a second time to stall, giving him a moment to gather the courage he needs to say what’s coming next.

‘I need to compel your wings. They want to see them. They want to see me … force you to reveal them.’

Aziraphale shudders, memories of having his wings ripped into existence by other demons flooding his thoughts.

Crowley sees. His hands ball into fists.

Having one’s wings compelled can be an uncomfortable, even painful business.

It’s also the ultimate humiliation.

But for Crowley, Aziraphale would do practically anything.

‘Of course. Just … be careful.’

‘I will,” Crowley promises, his voice thick with curses and a deep hatred of himself that Aziraphale can’t help but feel. He wishes he could put a comforting hand on his shoulder and give him strength.

With any luck, there will be time for that later.

Aziraphale breathes in deep, trying to relax when he sees Crowley raise a hand. Aziraphale closes his eyes, surrenders control of his wings to Crowley, telling himself it will be okay.

He’s with Crowley. His Crowley. The Crowley he’s known and loved for thousands of years. They’ll get past this hurdle, attack the next.

They’ll get through this together.

The pinch in his shoulder blades feels all too familiar and almost sends him into a panic. He recedes deeper into himself, reminds himself of better times he’s had with Crowley in bed. The room goes silent, the demons observing on the edge of their seats, captivated by the events unfolding in front of them. In the midst of that silence, Aziraphale can hear his own heartbeat.

Immediately following, he hears Crowley’s.

Then their breathing mixed together, the mingling of it bringing a wash of calm to Aziraphale’s mind. A blue glow builds beneath his skin, filling the room, casting eerie shadows of the hiding demons across the floor.

Then his wings begin to appear.

With his eyes closed behind the blindfold, Aziraphale doesn’t see the glow, can’t notice the demons. He feels the heat of Crowley’s power sink into his skin, spiral through his body, coaxing his wings out of hiding with the caress of hands born of fire.

Aziraphale gasps when his wings break free and unfurl, a completion in its own right.

An intensely intimate, highly erotic experience.

Aziraphale stretches his wings when Crowley relinquishes control of them. It is part of the dress code for angels on Earth to keep them hidden, but he feels comforted by them. They soothe him, give him a sense of security.

‘Aziraphale …’

Crowley’s voice pierces its way through Aziraphale’s calm. It’s both welcome and a harsh reminder that this isn’t the end of their ordeal. There’s more to come.

‘Yes?’

‘I need to … umm …’

‘Just tell me, my dear. I’ll do whatever it takes to get us out of this.’

Crowley hems and haws, but he can’t find the strength to say. ‘They’ll want it to look like I’m forcing you.’

‘Do what you must.’

Aziraphale could very well choose to see through the blindfold but he decides not to. He stays in the moment with Crowley, let’s the suspense of his next move well up within him, give the demons in the dark the smell of his anticipation to feast on while they mistake it for fear.

He hears a rustle of fabric, feels Crowley’s hand on his head, a whimper rising from the demon’s throat.

He doesn’t want to do this. Aziraphale knows he doesn’t want to do this.

Crowley pushes down, dragging Aziraphale’s head to his crotch. Aziraphale pretends to struggle. But when he feels the head of Crowley’s cock nudge his lips, he forgets to protest, forgets that they’re in anything even close to danger.

Because he loves Crowley. Crowley loves him.

And it’s been too long since they’ve had one another.

Aziraphale opens his mouth and slowly, ever so slowly, slides down over him, licking along the way, the way he knows Crowley likes, doing his part to remind him that they’re in this together, that he’s with him whatever it takes.

Crowley threads trembling fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, bites his tongue to keep from moaning Aziraphale’s name. He thrusts up with his hips, pushes down lightly, his body begging with every twitch for Aziraphale to go faster.

For him to get this over with, put him out of his misery.

Because Crowley has dreamt of this - just this - since the last time they saw one another.

It’s cruel that he should get it now in front of prying eyes.

He rises to his knees, putting his hands on Aziraphale’s head and taking over, assaulting his mouth shallowly, trying to make it appear to the eyes around him that he’s fucking his mouth, violating him, hurting him. He doesn’t do this to his angel. He’s never done this to him. He wouldn’t.

But it’d be too easy.

It feels too good.

Not just the physical sensation of Aziraphale’s mouth around him, but the pushing him.

The forcing him.

The demon inside him rises up with each thrust, whispers in his ears to snap his hips harder, push in farther, hold Aziraphale’s head flush against him till tears leak from his eyes with the strain of his corporal form holding its breath.

But he can’t do that, he repeats to himself. He won’t do that. He won’t give in.

He won’t become like the owners of those coal black eyes watching them.

“Stop,” Crowley mumbles, mostly to himself, slipping out of Aziraphale’s mouth, regretting it the moment the cool air touches his skin. “That’s not how I want to finish. Hands and knees. Now, angel!”

‘Tell me to stop,’ he projects, ‘then beg me not to. Really sell it.’

“You … you can’t do this!” Aziraphale scrambles to obey, rolling onto his hands and knees. And even though this is fake, his nerves scatter, wondering about the origin of the edge in Crowley’s voice.

The fiery yellow simmer in his eyes, the one he’d glimpsed before the blindfold.

“Please, Crowley! I … I’m begging you! Don’t …”

“Sorry, angel. I want this too much. I need this too much.”

Crowley doesn’t give Aziraphale time to get comfortable. He grabs him, shoves his face to the sheets, spreads his cheeks apart, lines his cock with the angel’s entrance, and pushes in. Pushes hard.

It doesn’t hurt, but Aziraphale cries out.

Crowley curls black painted nails into the soft skin of Aziraphale’s hips, leaving bruises that rival the scars on his back. But even through this facade of violence, Aziraphale feels Crowley’s love. He still tries to make this good for Aziraphale. Crowley leans forward, presses the odd kiss against his skin, plays with speed and angles, searching out new spots that will make Aziraphale’s eyes roll, his back arch and his toes curl, make him moan louder despite himself. The thought that others are watching should make Aziraphale burn with embarrassment but he doesn’t care.

It’s been so long.

And he’s missed Crowley so much.

“No …” Aziraphale whispers, the fight fading from his voice. “Don’t … stop … d-don’t stop …”

“I claim you, angel,” Crowley growls. “Soon you’ll feel my fire inside of you. From this day forward, you can never escape me. I’ll be able to find you from here to the ends of the Earth. You’re mine. You belong to me.”

“Oh …” Aziraphale squeaks. Crowley’s words sound rehearsed but they feel real.

Like a vow.

“Yes,” Aziraphale moans beyond improvisation. “Yes, I … I belong to you. Claim me, demon …” he continues, his voice dissolving into gasps. “Claim me … I’m yours …”

Crowley shudders at those words.

‘Oh, Aziraphale.’

‘Crowley …’

‘I love you …’

‘I love you, too.’

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighs. “Oh Go---”

Crowley grabs a handful of Aziraphale’s hair, pulls his head back and crashes their mouths together before he can finish. “She’s not here right now,” he says, his voice heavy with anger and regret. “Your words belong to me, angel. Your moans, your whimpers, they’re mine. Say it!”

“They’re … they’re yours. All yours. I …”

Crowley cuts him off with a kiss, his body shaking as he comes inside his angel. Aziraphale follows, his knees giving out, sliding out from under him. He lands on his belly with Crowley on top of him.

His favorite position to be in, all things considered.

Through his orgasmic haze and the utter joy of coming in Crowley’s arms, he hears a mass of uncomfortable whispering, some sinister laughter, and one derisive snort.

Aziraphale feels the demons retreat, slide into the shadows, evaporating into the black.

“They’re … they’re satisfied,” Crowley pants, the relief in his voice seeping through Aziraphale’s skin and winding around his heart. “They’re going back to Hell. Hastur isn’t happy about it but they … they won’t hurt us.”

Hastur.

Aziraphale’s breath hitches.

Hastur was there.

A Duke of Hell.

Aziraphale had convinced himself that the demons in the room were minions. Underlings. He had no reason to believe that, really. No proof. It’s simply something he assumed.

But Hastur?

Who else had been there? Who else had watched?

Beelzebub maybe?

Will they report to Satan?

To the Archangels!?

Aziraphale knows that some of the higher demons do.

Will Michael find out? Uriel?

Will Gabriel?

Too soon, the warm glow of satiation, of being wrapped in Crowley’s arms again, his cock buried inside his body, siphons into the chill around them.

“I … I don’t want to stay here,” Aziraphale says, starting to shiver.

“Neither do I.” Crowley unfurls his own wings. He curls them around Aziraphale, wrapping them both up tight. Then, with a snap of his fingers, angel and demon disappear.

***

“It was a test,” Crowley explains, lying side by side with his angel in a different bed, a different room, grooming Aziraphale’s wings with careful fingers. “I wasn’t performing up to par for Hastur. I failed my performance review.” He chuckles. “First time in history. So I had to come up with something big. Something that would get them off my back for a few centuries.” From behind, arms wrapped around him, his chest pressed to Aziraphale’s back, Aziraphale feels Crowley swallow hard. “Hastur was adamant it was your fault. My associations with you, no matter how few and far between, were making me soft. They were planning on coming after you to get to me. I had to do something to get us both off their radar. Corrupting an angel …” Another hard swallow “… was the worst thing I could think of.”

Aziraphale smirks. “Little do they know I corrupted you a long time ago, my dear.”

“It was selfish, a-and it was wrong,” Crowley stumbles. “And I’m …”

Aziraphale tilts his head back, kisses Crowley gently on the lips. “I didn’t despise it, my love. I quite like role-playing with you. Maybe, someday, we could do it again. When it’s just you and me.”

“I didn’t want to turn you into a spectacle,” Crowley says, refusing to let Aziraphale absolve him so easily. “That wasn’t my intention. I didn’t want to humiliate you. I just … I didn’t know what else to do. I …”

Aziraphale kisses Crowley again when he feels tears roll down his cheeks that aren’t his own.

“You kept me safe,” Aziraphale whispers. “The way you promised. And I’m not going to lose you. We won’t lose each other. It was worth it.”

[srnokedmirrors]

* . day to night , dark to light     fall the  s a n d s  o f  t i m e .

                         { ross lynch, twenty-one, trans male, he/him } Have you seen ZELD CYELN “CIEL” NOHANSEN walking around?  Little do they know, they’re the child of LINK & PRINCESS ZELDA from THE LEGEND OF ZELDA, and they HAVE TWO SIBLINGS ( one older, one younger ) .  I guess that explains why they’re so CHARMING & ARTISTIC and GUARDED & INSECURE.  They are a STREAMER. — penned by eve.

FIRST THINGS FIRST.

Hello hello again , folks !! It’s EVE and if you thought I went completely feral about Resident Evil earlier you are . . . sorely mistaken because now we are in Zelda territory and Zelda encompasses literally every fiber of my being. This OC is my most beloved ( despite the fact he’s an absolute prick ) and I have been itching to write him as a next-gen of Zelink , so VOILA , but just a few things !!

I love The Legend of Zelda . . . a lot. That’s the first thing. And my friends call me the Zelda lorekeeper since I know pretty much everything about the games like that back of my hand.

Another - as it’s always been a fact about his character , Ciel here is diagnosed with Type II Bipolar. Now , I want to clarify that I also am the same , and he was originally written as a comfort character to sorta see myself in a character I wrote ( and he became his own dude over the years. ) It’s not something that’ll pop up often , but I just wanted to let y’all know since I’m not gonna erase my own rep , I write from experience since I’m the same. 

TWS AHEAD : Manipulation , mental illness

I. THE PAST - DO YOU REMEMBER ??

The second of The Hero & The Princess - Prince Zeld Cyeln Nohansen , carrying on the traditional naming conventions to keep the name Zelda in the family with obvious corruptions. Your older brother could not - and AS WELL , you are the only child in the family that possesses the holy powers of the royal bloodline that your mother carries , as shown by the brand of the Triforce on the back of your right hand. And immediately , expectations are thrust upon your shoulders before you can even walk.

It’s because of your power that you , instead of the eldest , are to succeed the throne as the next king of Hyrule once you become of age , and although your mother vows to not treat you the same as your father treat her , she often reminds you that the beautiful , sunlight-bathed kingdom will be yours. 

So you grow. You grow & you adapt to the life of royalty , the CROWN PRINCE , and your relationship with your parents is better than most. While you’re significantly closer to your mother than your father , spending your days in the library with her & learning how to paint her visage , you also follow your father out to scope the kingdom on horseback. You grow up kind & gentle , the intelligence of your mother but the softness of your father , and it is well-known throughout the kingdom that you are DESTINED for good things.

It’s when you’re fourteen years old that you meet a boy.

A boy your age , a boy who smiles at you and you get fairies fluttering in your stomach. A boy who tells you that you’re pretty and by Nayru are you getting your first crush ?? 

Hm.

But you can’t see through the lies - that even though you’re young , manipulation knows no age and you are heartbroken to find that this boy leads you to a group of bandits that go on the attack and aim to STEAL the raw power you carry. After you’re tricked into bringing magical artifacts to their clutches , that is , that your family has gathered over the years - the goddess harp , the ocarina of time , and the cursed , wicked Majora’s Mask.

Your father sweeps into rescue you , and although you feel guilty , you aren’t berated for your mistakes. He only wants to know what happened , and if you’re alright , and you’re a sobbing mess but you tell your parents everything and they recognize that the evil forces that plagued them are NOW targeting their offspring. 

You are only fourteen. But the betrayal turns you cold , and you close yourself off , now hesitant to trust. And you learn that there are DANGEROUS forces out there who want to hurt & use you in the same way , hence why you use your mother’s old study connected to her old bedroom ( now currently yours ) and you begin to research , research , research. You look back on the legends of old , and start practicing the magic of not only your bloodline , but the taboo power of shadow - such as that of the TWILI , a project aiming to recreate the mirror. You also use the mask , hoping to tap into the wicked power it carries to turn it around. You train with the Sheikah , as Sheikah blood runs in your veins as well , to master the art of using the shadows & the unseen to your advantage. You become a teenager devoted to your work - a mad scientist & magician , and the whispers of a ‘ mad alchemist prince ’ sweep throughout the kingdom due to the rumors you can stay awake for DAYS working on one thing , before crashing and moving onto the next. 

But there is still pain - a loneliness & a hurt which you try to bury deep down , but it’ll still consume you to the point where you don’t know how to think clearly. You try and mask yourself best you can , but there is still a little boy , deep down , who only wishes to be loved and cared for and cherished by people his own age. Your work is your comfort but you are also learning to sink yourself in it to the point where it’s becoming a hindrance. 

One day , maybe , you’ll get what you want - and everything will be okay. But the world is currently at your throat , so . . . how long will that be ??

Your sixteenth year changes everything. The Crown Prince goes missing , and he is lost without the comfort of his parents.

And he awakens in another day , as a new being , with only his wit & his charm to carry on.

II. PRESENT - WHO ARE YOU , YOURSELF ??

Okay so IN A NUTSHELL Ciel is the crown prince of Hyrule due to the fact he’s essentially the ‘Zelda’ of his generation - the only child that carries the sacred power of the goddess Hylia , and this kid is incredibly smart and artistic but due to being manipulated by dark forces when he was young , he’s EXTREMELY insecure and lacks trust , instead trying to become as powerful as possible by any means possible so he isn’t hurt again since now he’s a target like his parents were.

HIS CHARACTER . . . is incredibly complex. It doesn’t change much with or without memories because even though he hasn’t experienced that same shit , those trust issues & insecurities are still well-embedded into him. The main difference is that he’s still smart , but not because of excessive research on Hyrulean magic & history & technology.

ON THE SURFACE , Ciel appears to be honestly very exuberant , quick-talking , and , to some , annoying. He’s a bit of a loudmouth , he seems harmless in the aspect that he isn’t downright mean or anything , he’s just . . . a nuisance. Charming in the aspect that he knows how to talk his way out of any situation since he has a MOUTH on him , but he knows how to use it. He overshares , it seems , but in turn , he’s actually not revealing anything about himself of any importance. He’s just keeping his cards to his chest but he doesn’t anyone to see so , so he places counterfeit cards on the table.

Ciel is always one step ahead , and the best way to be is to convince everyone else that you’re far behind. 

NOW ON THE INSIDE . . . Ciel is extremely caring & gentle. He cares a lot about the people he loves , but he’s hesitant to open up or trust other people given the fact he doesn’t want to be hurt , and he doesn’t want to make mistakes. He’s very observant & again , incredibly intelligent , knowing well how to read the atmosphere and pick out things that most don’t notice. He is insecure in the fact that he constantly thinks horribly of himself , and although he’s great at hiding it , it’s easy to get his feelings hurt. He hates that he has to keep on a mask since it makes him easily unlikable , but he thinks it’s the only way to stave off the most damage. But he’s a good kid & has a heart of gold , it’s just that . . . his heart has a few booboos on it. He CRAVES love & validation & affection but he’s afraid to ask for it or to take it since he’s gone down worse roads before by opening up to the wrong people.

He’s an artist - very talented in drawing & painting !! His apartment is littered with sketches & drawings and supplies and he would’ve gone to art school but money is tight and he doesn’t know he’s a prince in his actual reality so . . . yeah.

But his day job is that he’s a VERY popular video game streamer named Alchemyst , mainly doing let’s plays of adventure games & stuff with friends to get a good laugh. He also has a tendency to go on hilarious rants in a lot of his videos , resulting in MANY fanmade compilations & memes. He’s got a dedicated fanbase that he openly adores , and streaming also sorta helps him since he is a bit afraid of going into the outside world slightly. 

It’s funny , because as a streamer , he isn’t at all obnoxious or annoying - it’s the closest he gets to acting like himself , even if he has to act a little more EXTROVERTED than he actually is. 

THAT’S THE BASIS again , much more of a show than tell character but . . . Love him. I love him.

I DON’T have much ideas for wanted connections at this point aside from like . . . friends , exes , crushes , enemies , fans of his stream , etc. When I get more of a braincell I’ll put specific stuff down , but if it HELPS his fake life is shrouded in mystery bc Ciel doesn’t like talking about it ( aka , his fake past was p bad so he just prefers to act like he came out of fucking nowhere. )

But that’s it !! I’ll b responding to starters & calls soooon ~ ! I am ALL for plotting if u guys want , so just hit me up on here or Discord n I’ll respond as soon as I can !!

[braincoins]

(( @aerinmelina over here really making me work for it. ^_~ But honestly, the challenge is good for me. [thumbs up]))

“Princess, is something wrong?” he asked.

She’d stormed onto the bridge. Well, to someone who didn’t know her as well as they did, it’d looked like she’d just walked in, but there was quite definitely a storm inside her that she was holding in check.

“Nothing at all,” she replied as she drew her screens up in front of her. 

Shiro considered this. Allura was usually pretty open about her feelings; she only held things in when she was being diplomatic - for the sake of other people - or when she was upset about something personal. So pressing her on it here, in front of everyone, wouldn’t do. He shared a look with the rest of the team. Each of them nodded in turn. Shiro went back to his work station.

The first thing he got was a copy of the princess’s schedule from Hunk. She was meticulous about it when they were in between missions, intent on keeping herself busy - not that that was hard. The schedule said she’d been in her father’s old lab. 

Ah. She was practicing magic and alchemy again. Ever since she’d faced Haggar in the komar, she’d been learning as much as she could about what it was to be a Sacred Altean, studying her father’s notes. Shiro couldn’t always tell the difference between “magic” and “alchemy” - to him, they seemed much the same. Coran and Allura insisted they were different, at least a little. 

The next thing to come in was from Keith: a warning had briefly gone off in her father’s lab and was then immediately canceled. Something had definitely gone wrong in there, and Allura had canceled the alert so no one would know. 

Lance sent him a requisitions request, from the lab to the Castle’s supply bots. Whenever they landed somewhere, the supply bots quietly deployed to gather natural resources - carefully, sustainably, following protocols - that the Castle and its manufactory might need. Crystals - not Balmeran ones, simple crystal prisms - certain herbs. A quick inquiry showed these to be necessary reagents for an ancient alchemic focus - one which would enhance Allura’s abilities tenfold.

She was trying to find a way to boost her powers in case she ever has to face Haggar again. And, apparently, it didn’t go well.

Pidge sent him video from the lab; she almost certainly had to sneak through and past several levels of security to get this. He made extra sure the video wouldn’t show up on the main screen, set it to mute, and played it on his work station. 

Allura with her eyes closed, hands out over crystals arranged just so in a pattern drawn by some sort of powder on the table. The crystals glowed, the powder began to smoke, then a flash of fire, blinding magenta light, and choking smoke. The alarm went off, Allura canceled it quickly as she fanned smoke away from her face. And there on the table, where the crystals and powder had been, was... a vase.

At least, that’s what it looked like to him. Allura frowned at it and collapsed onto a nearby stool, staring at the vase as if it had personally disappointed her. He saw tears well up in her eyes for a moment, before she wiped them away, stood, and walked out. According to the timestamp, that was a few minutes before she came onto the bridge.

He considered this, then sent messages out to the team. They had work to do.

She was trying not to dwell on her failure earlier in the lab, but she’d wound up with a completely useless trinket instead of something needed, something valuable to their fight. She couldn’t help seeing it as a rebuke of herself, as if she were nothing more than a useless trinket herself.

I’ll get it. I just need more practice. But it didn’t help her feel better now. 

She walked into her room, intending to just try to go to sleep and forget about it. She knew thoughts of her failure would haunt her though. It was hard to sleep when she...

Something caught her eye, over on her vanity. Her brow furrowed and she walked over to it.

There was the proof of her failure... but inside it...

Green-coated wires were twined together to make the stem. Sheer fabric in that exquisitely-unique shade for petals. Gold-colored clay for the carpel. A homemade juniberry, and, around her failure was tied a purple ribbon, which held a card.

She tugged the card free so she could read it. 

“Cheer up, Princess. You’ll get it. And, in the meantime, enjoy what you’ve created!” All the paladins and Coran had signed it.

She heard the door open behind her. She didn’t turn around, not right away. 

“Allura?” The door closed behind him.

She turned and threw herself at Shiro. She knocked him backwards and the door opened automatically, so they wound up on the floor, half in and half out of her bedroom. 

“I hope that means you liked it,” he said.

She pushed herself up to look down at him. “It means you’re all sneaks and spies and I love it.” She gave him a fierce but brief kiss. 

He pushed some of her hair back behind her ear and smiled when his lips were his own again. “I’m glad. I know it wasn’t what you were expecting, but that doesn’t make it - or you - worthless.”

She sniffled happily. “Thank you, Shiro.” She got to her feet and extended her hand to help him up.

He took it, and she pulled him back to his feet. “You’re very welcome, Allura. Get some rest.” He kissed her cheek. 

“Stay with me?” she asked instead.

He blinked, blushing. “That’s... a little sudden. We’ve only been together for...”

“N-not like that,” she said, feeling her own face heat. “Just stay a bit longer. I want to hear about how you all managed to make me a juniberry. It will make a nice bedtime story.”

He smiled. “As you wish, Princess.”

[donveinot]

Journeys in Paganistan (Part 2)

Photo by Dan Farrell on Unsplash Editor’s Note: As Carl pointed out last week in Journeys in Paganistan (Part 1), Occult themes abound in children’s literature, on television shows, and in the movies. The entertainment industry has made a handsome profit in selling the supernatural.  In part 2, Carl Teichrib further exposes the reality beyond books and TV screens – a spiritual worldview that honors creation over the Creator and the dawning of a new Pagan age dawning. He begins with Satanism: Satanism 101: Previously, the neo-Pagan community had distanced itself from modern Satanism, a fact acknowledged in this workshop. However, an increasing acceptance of what is known as the Left Hand Path is now perceptible. To help Pagans better understand the movement and its implications, this session – led by the Satanist who hosted the Blasphemy workshop – broadly outlined philosophies, branches, and influences. Distinctions between Satanism and Luciferianism were explained. Both elevate the Self or “I” as the Self-god, but the first is more attuned to carnality and individual license, while the second pursues enlightenment through knowledge. Both are grounded in rebellion as an act of transformation. What troubled me was what I heard in the minutes before the start of the workshop. As the room was filling up, a few Witches and Satanists were freely talking about Christian reactions; how insults and hurtful words had been hurled at them, and in one case, a proclaimed Christian had picked up a bag of garbage from a nearby trash-can and dumped it on the person. Now, I have no way of verifying the legitimacy of the perpetrator’s faith – whether they were Christian in name only, or otherwise – but it made my blood boil. We as Christian believers are commanded to “love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind,” and to “love your neighbor as yourself” (Matthew 22:37,39). Thankfully, I do know Christians who purposely reach out to the Pagan community with grace and truth, showing love and compassion, without fear or compromise – recognizing that humanity has intrinsic value because of our special creation in the image of God (Genesis 1:26). Doc Murphy’s Plenary Practice: Of the workshops and lectures attended, I was especially interested in hearing Murphy Pizza, a cultural anthropologist who specializes in Paganistan as a religious community. Pizza had been tasked with delivering a plenary talk to the Upper Midwest Section of the American Academy of Religion/Society of Biblical Literature, and so this was an opportunity to test and flesh-out her presentation. Pizza, an academic and Pagan graced with a witty style, offered insights into changes and challenges; the contemporary social acceptance of Paganism, the struggle over who represents the community, and how a diversity of practices and beliefs are building on each other. Paganism, she noted, was no longer in the shadows. As a matter of fact, one of the reasons for its phenomenal growth is that the movement has stepped out of the broom-closet, so to speak. In the not too distant past, the neo-Pagan community guarded itself with secrecy and veils of mystery. But times have changed, boundaries have blurred, and there is openness for others to enter – and they are. Marriage of Heaven and Hell: Paganicon was more than just workshops and discussion groups. Over thirty vendors were selling books, crystals, magic wands, ceremonial knives, Tarot cards and other divination tools. A long table near the hotel’s front desk offered free literature for everyone; brochures from Druid orders, a flyer from a coven seeking new members, and postcards announcing likeminded events – the upcoming Pagan Spirit Gathering in Ohio, a Sacred Fire Circle in Wisconsin, North Dakota’s Grand Sabbat, and the Midwest Witches Conference in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Two rooms were set-aside as art galleries. A meditation space was available for those who found themselves overwhelmed, and another room offered six stations for Tarot and Bone readers, psychics, and Reiki energy healers. Saturday evening a colorful labyrinth was set up for mystical encounters. And on the second floor, past the main ritual room, was an area for children with Pagan-appropriate activities. By the way, most children born into Pagan households stay in the community. Hospitality suites were open for specific tribes, covens, and occult orders. Llewellyn Worldwide, the largest independent Pagan/Occult publisher, facilitated meetings for writers. Throughout the hotel people were connecting and networking. At one point, a middle-aged gentleman approached me in conversation. He was involved in the New Thought movement, and was attending to better understand Witchcraft as his workplace – a health care facility – had Wiccans as staff members. I was upfront about my Christianity, and for two hours we had a deep and respectful discussion comparing the Biblical and Pagan worldviews, beginning with God as other than creation. I’m glad to have attended for this reason alone. Friday evening featuring the notable Druid, Damh the Bard, singing songs and telling stories from the old country. An Equinox Ball was held on Saturday night, a colorful celebration with vibrant costumes and a lively concert. At one point, some impromptu performances popped up in an area adjacent to the hotel lobby. Yes, the Pagan community has its own musical spread. Rituals were also part of the daily agenda, often happening concurrently with the scheduled workshops. Some were participatory in that attendees were incorporated into the movement, other times a workshop started with a small ritual – such as a libation before a lecture on animal sacrifices – and a few were demonstration rituals open for observation. All were serious in intent and action. On Saturday I witnessed the Marriage of Heaven and Hell, described as “a unique double-ritual, led by two practicing ritual magicians, in which the celestial and infernal conjoin.” In the ritual room were two magic circles on the floor, one ringed with the names of angelic hosts, and the other dedicated to the dark powers. Commanding the first was a “Christian magician” wearing Templar-style robes, equipped with a sword. His ritual followed a medieval-period, heretical text of ceremonial magic, then used by dissident Catholic priests and later by Protestant mystics. In this text, the names of God are used as a force for summoning spirits, thus “Alpha-Omega” was inscribed in the encirclement. To be clear, this was not Christian in any Biblical sense, and the participant was a Pagan practitioner versed in occult lore. In the second circle, wearing only black pants and boots, was a Satanist with ritual body modifications. His movement was a modern adaptation of another text of ceremonial magic, though of a later period and with a darker emphasis. Within his space were goblets, a knife, a goat skull, and other ceremonial tools. Bloodletting and blood drinking were part of the process, as was a verbalized and written pact with the “demon king of endarkened light, power of the Black Sun.” Both occultists – the Satanist and Christian mystic – performed within an interlocking expression, going back-and-forth to create a unified ritual. And that was the point. What appeared to be paradoxical and divergent was mysteriously bound together; two paths in one accord. But this actually makes sense. The Christian mystic was using God’s name as a universal force, a tool of cosmic power. In fact, after the ritual was over, he described his circle-center with its Alpha-Omega as the cosmic source of all things. Thus, when stepping in, he was “taking the position of God… so I command as God.” The Satanist also described his experience in a cosmic fashion; it was an act of self-directed salvation, using the demonic as a force for personal transformation. Both embody the spirit of Romans 1:25 – worshiping the creature rather than the Creator. For myself, the summation of Paganicon and the religious movement it reflects was observed late Sunday afternoon. The last workshop was over, and I had a few minutes to wander before the closing ceremony commenced. Walking into what had been the ballroom the night before, I could see ten Witches in a tight circle, repeating a simple song of theological potency. Any Christian who knows Scripture would recognize the words: “Oh oh oh… I AM that I AM.” “I’m not afraid of Witches” As a researcher, going to events like Paganicon provides important insights into our rapidly changing culture. The observations, pages of notes, and materials gleaned will be used in my presentations and teaching opportunities, informing the Christian community as to the growth and worldview of Paganism. But it doesn’t end there. Christian reactions betray an underlying condition that needs to be addressed. Upon hearing I’ve attended events like this, the response from many Christians is: “I could never go there.” Generally speaking, I agree. This type of research is not for everyone, and to go means you understand the calling and reason. However, something else is usually going on, as the statement is often followed by a question: “Weren’t you afraid?” “Are you afraid of Pagans?” I’ve asked back, and in most cases the person affirms that there is, indeed, a measure of fear. Why? Pagans are people, and odds are you interact with them without realizing it; they can be found in almost every occupation – schoolteachers, lawyers, store clerks, business owners, and students. Nor are they geographically limited. Are our fears reasonable? Or have we succumbed to stereotypes and media images, scaring ourselves? Please understand, I am not detracting from the seriousness of the spiritual reality, but if you had lived in Rome or Athens or Ephesus during the time of Christ, your Pagan setting would be far more real and raw. Yet, it was in this spiritual context that the Early Church flourished, brining the light of the Gospel forward. Moreover, the Apostle Paul even presents us with models on how to engage, pointing to the God who is creator over creation (Acts 14:11-18, 17:16-34). One week after my return from Paganicon, I had the privilege of talking with a young friend at Millar College of the Bible. She was interested in hearing about my trip, but as I explained what transpired, including the rituals, it was evident this was troubling to her. I stopped, briefly outlining the core differences between the God of the Bible and the Pagan worldview – that the God of Scripture is not compared to nature, or human wisdom, nor the strength of nations (Isaiah 40:12-18). She knew this, but it was important to re-focus on whom it is we follow. I told her something else, a fact that came to my mind when observing the Marriage of Heaven and Hell, for there was a point in which I was uncomfortable. In that place where demonic entities were being summoned, I, too, was strongly reminded of an incredible promise, “…that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, of those in heaven, and of those on earth, and of those under the earth, and that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father” (Philippians 2:10-11). We either bow in love and thanksgiving now, or judgment later. But every knee will bow – every human, every spirit. So why are we afraid? Why do we allow fear of the Pagan world to impede us? Two months later my friend excitedly emailed me. She was a cabin leader in a Bible camp, and a 12-year old had approached her: “I’m a Witch, but you don’t have to be afraid of me.” My friend told the camper that no, she wasn’t afraid of her. The next day the conversation repeated. Looking into her eyes, my friend responded with confidence, “I’m not afraid of Witches.” And with that, a floodgate of questions opened – and a Christian camp leader, a Wiccan, and a group of young ladies spent time seriously considering the God who is above all things, “For by Him all things were created that are in heaven and that are on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or principalities or powers. All things were created through Him and for Him” (Colossians 1:16). As our culture increasingly accepts a Pagan worldview, the question hangs over us as believers in Jesus Christ: Why are we afraid?Ω

Carl Teichrib is a researcher, writer, and lecturer focusing on the paradigm shift sweeping the Western world, including the challenges and opportunities faced by Christians. Over the years he has attended a range of internationally significant political, religious, and social events in his quest to understand the historical and contemporary forces of transformation – including the Parliament of the Worlds Religions, Burning Man, and the United Nations Millennium Forum. Since the mid-1990s, Carl’s research has been utilized by numerous authors, media hosts and documentary producers, pastors, professors and students, and interested lay people. From 2007 until the end of 2015, he edited a monthly web-based magazine, Forcing Change, documenting and detailing the worldview revolution underway – points of pressure, forces of change.

Available Online He frequently speaks to church groups, in conference settings, and occasionally teaches a modular course on Secular/Pagan Trends at Millar College of the Bible. Carl’s book, Game of Gods: The Temple of Man in the Age of Re-Enchantment, was released in October 2018. You can find him online at: Game of Gods: The Temple of Man in the Age of Re-Enchantment © 2020, Midwest Christian Outreach, Inc All rights reserved. Excerpts and links may be used if full and clear credit is given with specific direction to the original content. Read the full article

[grimoiresontape]

Circling Ways in Geomancy

In the relatively early days of my magical practice, I gathered and used a lot of things I found in the course of going on walks - bits of interestingly-shaped sticks, torn pages of books and newspapers, playing cards, scraps of fabric, that sort of thing. This seems a common enough phase for many magicians, learning to navigate their landscape and sense the subtle tides and shifts around them in those interactions. Walks around my neighbourhood, building my relationship with the spirits of place, or drifting through unfamiliar parts of town on extended augury expeditions; these rambles would lead me to find objects that seemed significant and magically useful. There was something so satisfying about finding meaning and use in things picked up off the ground; those discarded omens and overlooked materials of inner-city sorcery. For years I kept a stray white cue ball which I had found when on an extended Lunary wandering. Chalk-marked ivory globe uncannily out of place, plucked from the gutter of night, a delicate egg of veiled promise. One of my most used magical tools found in this manner was a simple set of brown seed beads strung as a necklace. I came across it while ambling along meditating on geomancy, the earth, and delineations of sacred space. Mulling over old pantheism-and/or-animism distinctions and where divining with spirits in space fit in, I found the beads lying on the floor: they were spread like a square. This demarcation of space, this establishment of a matrix of divinatory coherence, this cauldron from which new answers could be cooked up, made a lot of sense. The shape of the idea itself looped me in. I began using the strung seeds as a field upon which to throw my coins, dice, or whatever other means I was using to generate my geomantic figures. This is not to suggest I invented anything - this is simply how something was shown to me. As we shall see shortly, such a technique is far from unique to my practice. In the years since, that found cord has had a lot of play. A lot. Enough that, a month or so ago, I pulled it from its bag and saw it was - in exactly the way time’s shadow sneaks up on you - suddenly looking all too raggedy. I resolved to build some new gear. In fact I had already made short beaded “loops” - too short to be considered necklaces - dedicated to particular senior spirits in my practice, and generally adorning their statuary and icons. I would occasionally employ these to charge the divining space with their authority, especially at auspicious hours and days at which the power of these Chiefly spirits waxed crowned. I would set them out, squaring the circle - forming the four sides of the natural ‘elementated’ world from the celestial circle. These beaded circlets empowered the clarity and focus of my readings. I even found them useful for cohering the virtues of the figures I set for more sorcerous ends; combining the natural potencies of their gemstones with the operative spellcraft of displaying a figure inside them, as in the manner of image magic employing, say, Tarot cards. Rough chips of sanguine coral, the very blood of Medusa, as soldiers of scarlets and incarnadines surrounding a marked Puer in the eighth hour of Tuesday.

More broadly, this kind of altar-top circling has long been part of my practice, casting an orbit of materia magica around foci of influence and effect. The sprinkled rosemary around the purifying candle spell, the chalk around the spirit’s seal to trap or stabilise. Such circlets belt up firm foundation, spin loops to run perpetually, wind and bind. New cord and even knot magic utilities continue to reveal themselves. Even a rosary is but a garland of the threaded blooms of Love and Mystery, stirring in turns and spirals. Considering the Puck’s girdle about the world, however, I am especially interested in how spiritwork permeates these kinds of tools and techniques. So it was I decided to construct seven circlets, dedicated to the seven planetary Rulers so important to geomantic sorcery. 

In more modern geomancies, diviners are often encouraged or instructed to invoke the Spirit of the planet most suitable for the question - matters of romance and sensuality on Friday, the day of Venus, for example - as part of the formal protocol of divining. Along with directing practitioners to begin their geomancy by tracing an Invoking Pentagram of Earth, Israel Regardie’s A Practical Guide to Geomantic Divination suggests the following:

‘To every planetary force in geomancy, there is attributed a Genius presiding over all matters covered by the definitions of that force… [Each genius has a] sigil, a traditional word that merely means a signature. This sigil should be very deliberately and carefully drawn in the centre of the Pentagram which has been traced. It should be visualized as clearly as possible, while vibrating his [sic] name several times, either vocally or mentally. This places the whole divinatory process under divine guidance, and opens up specific pathways to the Unconscious area which can act to provide an answer to the question.’ [Regardie, 45.]

It seems an uncontroversial consensus these days that the formal shaping of pentagrams and spirit seals of the Golden Dawn’s protocols for geomancy can be traced to John Heydon and his Theomagia. In this Temple of Wisdom (as it is not-so-humbly subtitled), when he is not quoting Agrippa whole-sale, Heydon expounds of his self-identified “Rosiecrucian way” that operators ‘first used holy Deprications, Incantations with other Rites and observations provoking and alluring Idea’s of this nature hereunto...’  [Heydon, Theomagia (London, 1668), 2-3] Here are hints of geomancy’s “high ceremonial” dimensions. Crucially however we should also note that Owen Davies has remarked that early modern village cunning-folk and local wizards, traditionally represented as the magic-users least interested in complex Neoplatonic orders and arrangements of angels, ‘would certainly appreciate the detailed practical guide to astromantic and geomantic divination, and the diagrams showing the various signs and characters of the planets and their angels’. [Davies, Popular Magic (), 124] 

The senior planetary Spirits of geomancy, contrasted by Agrippa with the more angelic planetary Intelligences, are referred to by Heydon et al as the ‘seven Rulers of the Earth’. Without diving too deep into Heydon’s idiosyncratic cosmology, it is worth reiterating that Heydon hardly ever refers to the straight astrological grammar of geomancy, preferring to use the names of the spirits of those astrological principles: he does not talk about Saturn, but rather Zazel; he speaks of Malchidael not Aries. It is in his lists of correspondences attributed to these Rulers that we come across colour schemes for these spirits:

Zazel, Spirit of Saturn: ‘He ruleth over the Lead, the Load-stone, the dross of all Mettals, as also the Dust and Rubbish of every thing... He Ruleth the Saphire stone, Lapis Lazul, all black ugly sheet stones, not polishable and of a sad ashy or black colour…’

Hismael, Spirit of Jupiter: ‘that which is most pleasant and delightful without extream Colours; he signifyeth Seagreen or blew, purple, Ash colours’

Barzabel, Spirit of Mars: ‘He delighteth in Red colour, or yellow, fiery and shining like Saffron…'

Sorath, Spirit of the Sun: ‘he ruleth the Yellow, the colour of Gold, the Scarlet or the clear Red, and all reddish colours’

Kedemel, Spirit of Venus: ‘she signifieth white, or milky colour, mixed with brown or a little green’

Taphthartharath, Spirit of Mercury: ‘Mixed and new colours, the gray mixed with Sky colour, such as is on the neck of the Dove, and Pidgeon, Stock-Dove, and such fine Colours; also Lincy-Wooly colours, or… of many colours, mixed…’

Chasmodai, Spirit of the Moon: ‘Of Colours, the White, or pale Yellow, White, pale Green, or a little of the Silver colour’

Rather than simply tracing the sigils of these Spirits to centre and focus my readings, I was inspired to bead my own circlets in versions of these dedicated corresponding colours, including in the designs gemstones with virtues relevant to their planetary governances. Specifically, four stones for squaring that circle, for bringing to bear the four classical forces of the ‘elementated’ natural world with which geomancy so deeply engages. These would be a tool for further drawing on the strength, force and authority of the Rulers to provide accurate information in my readings and precise affect in my rituals. 

It was in speaking about these plans to my dear friend and Tatá Quimbanda that I discovered this was in fact not a novel approach! Practitioners of Candomble and of Quimbanda have both long utilized the beaded necklaces of their traditions - ritual objects with deep significances - to mark a space for divining with shells. Elekes of Candomble, like those of Regla de Ocha and the guia de contas of Umbanda, represent a holy bond between devotee and the Orisha. Washed in sacred omiero, these beads are a sign of blessing as well as a mantle of commitment. The beads are normally worn around the throat, either diagonally or pendulously, and must encompass the heart and ideally down to the navel. This necklace connects the speaking voice and the core at the heart of us. A connection between what is ordinarily worn now on a table creates a necessary link between the Orisha’s mouths (the cowries) and your own. To divine is after all to give voice to the divine from the heart.

Similarly, the guias of Quimbanda de Raiz are washed in sorcerous amaçi and worn to foreground pacts and commitments made and to offer protection. Along with beads worn in devotion, they are also used to ensure Orisha and Exu and Pomba Gira can communicate efficiently. The guia imperial of Quimbanda is in fact required for reading shells when reading away from one’s assentamentos. My godfather describes this in terms of how it keeps the link to the spirits one has seated and works with: a temporary field of settlement allowing all Kingdoms to come through. A further innovation of these Afro-Diasporic techniques of demarcating ritual space for divination with sacred beads includes not only various different necklaces for different gods or spirits, but of constructing one large loop containing sections for each power, force, Orisha or Kingdom, such as the guia imperial pictured below. 

Candomble and Umbanda-influenced practices also hold important lessons to bear in mind when comparing such so-called New World practices with the specifically planetary aspects of geomantic divination and sorcery. Earlier African significances of sevenfold divisions and heptarchies - for seven is a potent crossroads number - were later glossed through Theosophic lenses as chiefly concerning the seven classical planets. As highlighted by articles such as this, on the ‘Fundamentos de Jogo de Búzios’, this gloss can be seen in the approach to things like days of the week in such practices.

I am far from the first geomancer to cast into a corded or even beaded circlet. It is a shared technological response to the operation of geomancy, a co-impulse of many different craftsfolk of the divinatory art. Such living full-blooded traditional practices are unique instantiations of resonant approaches to patterning the geomantic crafts of ritual and truth-telling. Noting the use of circlets in this manner should not be taken as any attempt to flatline different traditions and cultures but celebrate their songs and harmonies in sharper context.

Conducting geomantic divination using these talismans dedicated to the Seven Rulers of the Earth, emblazoned in their heraldic colours and bearing stones of empowering virtue, has already focused my readings, has brought planetary virtues of both stability and dynamism to bear. They have begun to assist my understanding of the unique natures of these Spirits as more than cookie-cutter planetary entities. These geomantic circlets have also certainly improved the scope and precision of various operations of geomantic sorcery. I share these thoughts, accounts, and experiences at a somewhat nascent stage of working the tools: I am excited to share them and their techniques to encourage and compare experiments and extrapolations. 

Working these planetary talismans of the Seven Rulers has certainly furthered my interest in exploring use of circling ways beyond the classic 9-ft magic circles of protection and conjuration. It has also given me valuable perspectives on broader historical instances of circling in the European grimoire traditions of magic. Evidence from one of the earliest manuscripts of the Grimorium Verum grimoire-family, the Clavicula Salomonis De Secretis, details several sorcerous operations involving encircling tools of magical operation: ‘Ut Pluat' (To Make It Rain) one must place a glass of sea water and a heliotrope stone in a circle inscribed; ‘Ut Fulguret’ (To Make Lightning) a lamp is placed at the centre of a specially scribed circle; and an operation to ‘Concubitu Potiendum’ (‘For Love Making/Coupling’) features a diagram of the circle, to be inscribed in a red ochre chalk, on top of an altar.

Another operation of the Grimorium Verum with strong circling implications, To Open Anything that is Shut or Locked, demonstrates some pertinent squaring dimensions as well as avenues for potential spiritwork. The experiment instructs the operator to make a circle around a lodestone then ‘within the circle make a square and at all the angles put the sigil of Sergutha’. If we take this to be Surgat, recent developments in joined-up thinking about grimoire devils inform us that this spirit is also identified with Annobath… who just happens to ‘teacheth the knowledge of necromancy, geomancy, and chiromancy’, amongst other things. We come full squared circle. 

The use of a bloodstone to mark the earth in the Grand Grimoire offers inspiration for experimenting with lapidary lore for our geomantic tools, both in terms of beading or these more direct gemstone styli. Nor should we be hidebound to strict repetition: bloodstone is a powerful ally, but it is not our only poison. When constructing the geomantic circlet for work with Hismael and Jupiterian currents, virtues and spirits (and, thus, for Thursdays especially), for instance, I divined that the inclusion of four amethyst beads for the circlet’s “corners” would inform and galvanise my work with the grand Spirit of the Greater Benefic. 

I have already signaled from social media accounts the availability of these planetary talismans for purchase. Feel free to email me at consultantsorcerer@gmail.com if you are interested in working with these tools; I am happy to work with clients to tailor bespoke consecratory treatments. They are currently priced at $44 apiece, or $231 for the full set of seven. I am currently experimenting with various forms of additional consecration - involving homebrew planetary oils, asperging waters and fumigation blends - so that price may climb as I develop these talismans further and the process of construction and empowerment becomes more complex and potent.

Inquiries, commissions and any other questions or comments can be directed to consultantsorcerer@gmail.com

[noplanwithavan]

THE AGE OF INDEPENDENCE

Our time in Greece has come to an end. We’re in Albania now, and it’s quite clearly not Greece. We realised we didn’t know anything about this country, nor anyone who had been. Now I know why. The only bonus so far has been the cherries. You pay the same per kilo (£1.50) as you’d get for 100g back home. We are probably 10 years too late in coming here. Fresh from the grip of communism, the “Albanian Riviera” along the western coastline was undoubtedly something to behold. Aside from the odd bunker, I imagine it’s was virgin land, unspoiled, undeveloped. Now it is a homage to concrete. And no in an interesting way either - not the communist brutalist architecture Marcus was hoping to see. If there isn’t an uninspired high-rise hotel already, they’re sure planning to put one there. The entire place feels like a building site. You can’t escape the ceaseless scraping sound of diggers building their way towards progress, or some hellish vision of it. The beaches are largely inaccessible unless you are staying at a resort. Unable to camp as we’d like, we’ve given in and booked into a hotel. At £40 a night, at least luxury comes cheap here. It makes me realise just how special Greece was, a country full of surprises, because:

1. I hadn’t expected it to be so much fun, immersing ourselves in the cradle of civilisation. But I’ve always had a theatrical bent, and walking in the footsteps of the heroic age proved irresistible. All those stories, it’s hard not to get carried away! 2. Who knew Dill was so delicious? Back home, this green feathery friend is rarely used except as a light delicate herb to compliment fish. But here, it’s ubiquitous. You find it in salads, grilled vegetables, on just about everything. And it’s REALLY good, bringing such a fresh tasting light zing. We should use it more. 3. I hadn’t realised it was so mountainous. Greece is marketed to the UK as a place to go for island hopping and lounging by a pebble-dashed turquoise sea. But there’s so much more. Ancient cities, alongside fantastic rivers, gorges and mountains. Many are unspoiled, and relatively undiscovered on the tourist trail. 4. It feels as if we’ve passed a maturity milestone. What I hadn’t been paying attention to as we travelled back in time, way-marked by the signature Doric, Ionian and Corinthian pillars, was the mini epoch my own family was entering. Maybe it’s the developmental leaps between 5 and 6 years of age. Yet suddenly the girls seem so grown up. Within weeks of each other, the baby front teeth have all come tumbling down, the old succumbing to the promise of the new. With ragged ruinous smiles, the Age of Independence has crept up on us.

This last month has seen all our birthdays now completed. In April we spent mine in Kardamili. A magical spot where you can bathe in the sea and stare down the long lens of the Viros Gorge at snow-covered Mount Taygetos. I told the girls for my birthday I really wanted to go trekking up into the Gorge. I’m not sure they actually like trekking that much, but they like everything associated with it. Elsie can be persuaded to do just about anything if it involves a backpack into which she can cram snacks. And Lulu is highly motivated by the prospect of cooking on a trangia. So, we packed some food to nibble and more to cook and set off along the ancient kaldermini (cobbled footpath) that led ever upward, decked by wildflowers and statuesque cypress trees. It’s not an exaggeration to say there’s a story under every rock in Greece. Passing the tombs of the Dioscuri (the Gemini Twins), stories about Castor and Pollux somehow gave way into tales of ancient Sparta, and before we knew it we’d arrived at Agia Sofia, a promontory overlooking the gorge, with fantastic views down to the tie-died turquoise waters below.

Clocking that the girls now have some serious walking credits under their belt, we decide to push it a little further. That mountain we spied at the end of the gorge, Mount Taygetos, was a sacred spiritual place to the ancient Greeks. A church now stands at its peak, 2,400 m high. Marcus is itching to climb it. While scanning a noticeboard for a route to the peak, he spots a mountain refuge halfway up. The kernel of an idea begins to take root, supplanting his original intention to march off on his own for 5 hours of uninterrupted peace and quiet. Perhaps he can take us all halfway, and then set out for the final ascent alone. He doesn’t have crampons, and is warned by the few hikers we meet he won’t make it up without these.

After seeking and receiving firm assurances from Elsie and Lulu, we email “Kanel Trekking” and book in for a night in the refuge. No going back now. This will be the hike of their lives - 8km up a mountain. Lulu’s happy as long as the trangia comes along to fry up haloumi en route, and Elsie’s determined not to pass up the opportunity to sally forth with a suitably equipped backpack. The day’s lesson is orienteering, getting the girls to look out for the way-markers and decide which direction to go at any junction. It’s a steep but lovely climb, through pine forests sprinkled with crocuses, and snatched glimpses of the last snow clinging to a triangular peak. But any dreams of mountain solitude  are soon drowned out. For our companions talk incessantly, a continuous rattle, moving jaggedly from one question to another while the first has barely formed in the air. We’ve run out of children’s books to read them now, moving onto adult fiction instead. They love a detective story about a policeman in India who’s trying to solve a murder case while simultaneously bringing about the downfall of a notorious crime boss. Fascinated by the intricacies of the plot, we spend several kilometres predicting what will happen next and why certain characters behave as they do. It’s hard going towards the end, plenty of stumbles and trips, but out of sheer bloody-mindedness Elsie astounds all expectations by keeping her backpack on the entire day. It’s only after we arrive towards nightfall at our mountain cabin, that she lets me inspect its contents. Inside are a scarf, 2 books and a torch. Surprisingly the last item is actually useful, as our cabin is so perfectly rustic and wild there’s no electricity. It’s exactly the kind of place where you could imagine finding Heidi. Even down to our host - an old man called George, who could easily pass for Heidi’s kindly grandfather. He was fantastic with the kids. Hailing every effort with a hearty “Bravo!’, he recruited them to gather kindling, light the fire and the oil lamps, before setting about mending Lulu’s shoe, which had disintegrated under the pressure of the hike. She was smitten, following George everywhere, sneaking into the kitchen to help him prepare food, even trying to whistle along the same way he did. That night he played us his Bouzouki (a Greek Lute) as they danced by the fireside. The culmination of it all - to be somewhere so magical, so different, and to feel so proud of the girls for climbing what would have been unimaginable just 6 months ago - made it one of our most memorable experiences so far. The next morning we wave goodbye to Daddy, warning him not to put himself at risk for the sake of glory. I’m expecting he’ll be gone for hours, but by mid-afternoon he’s back.

“Didn’t need crampons in the end,” he says confidently, showing us a video he took of himself at the peak. It clearly places him completely alone, picking his way over a snow-covered ridge with a steep drop either side.

There followed a culture clash - as I landed straight from our mountain retreat back to London for another whistle-stop UK tour. 2017 must be an auspicious year for love. The wedding bells were ringing again. This time my old university pal, Hannah Hewetson, was getting married and wanted me to deliver a speech with my partner in crime Natalie Hill. It was a day to revel, and one to catch up with many familiar faces. Everyone asked about our travels, and wanted to know how we did it, what it was like. Did the school mind? How do you teach them? Some were quite shocked to discover that Elsie and Lulu hardly have any toys to play with. I can see how to some this may feel like a form of child neglect or even cruelty. But the truth is, that is honestly one of the things they have never complained about. With the Spring temperature in the mid to late 20’s everyday, we are outside most of the time. And everywhere becomes a playground. When you strip back entertainment on tap, you really see their imaginations working hard. Elsie is a big fan of hauling everything out of the van and creating “sets” for her shows. A tree stump can be Rappunzel’s tower and keep her entertained for hours as she hauls things up and down on rope. They paint faces on pebbles to take part as extra “characters” in their performances. I’ve seen them loading the Calpol dispensing syringes up from a stream to use as water pistols, and plastic bags billowing out behind them are “parachutes”. They have become masters at the card game UNO. When my sunglasses broke and I had to buy more, Elsie said,

“Can I just check i can see a reflection in them?” “Why?” I asked. “Because otherwise I won’t be able to see your cards when we’re playing Bingo!” (for some reason she refuses to call it UNO).

Lulu loves to help cook, especially if it involves knives or foraging (the latest being elderflowers to make into cordial). The knife-obsession sounds a bit worrying, but she really has a flair for chopping and dicing. And she practices whenever she can, whittling away on any bit of wood she can find. We bought her a pen knife just to stop her going through our kitchen drawers. But perhaps the best example came one night when they each picked up a rock and studied it. Elsie declared her half broken brick was an “ant ferry”, Lulu said hers was a helicopter. To be honest neither had a particular resemblance, so it was already quite a stretch of the imagination. After a few minutes Lulu dropped her rock and it smashed. She began to protest, but on bending down to pick it up she held it’s new jagged outline to the moonlight, a slow smile transforming her frown. “Now it’s a wolf face, look!” she said. “And if I turn it around, it’s a foxy!”

From the Peloponnese we move on to the fortified town of Nafplio, then on a cultural tour de force. Taking in the ancient city of Mycennae, with its links to the Trojan War, Perseus, and the pursuits of super-strength Hercules. For a city that once ruled the Hellenic world, and inspired countless legends, it’s amazing how small it is. I guess there just weren’t that many people 3,000 years ago. The girls love the tragic tale of King Agamemnon’s betrayal, but it is the tombs which leave the greatest mark. Below the city a giant, underground cavern shaped like a beehive inspires them to test out the strength of their echoes, and they begin giving impromptu oratories which Marcus captures on video. Next comes Epidavros, with it’s incredible amphitheatre - an awe-inspiring testament to human endeavour. We take it turns standing on the central stone circle and calling out to see if you can hear all the way from the cheap seats at the back (you can). The acoustics make your voice resound, and it’s an incredible feeling. Overcoming inhibitions before strangers I proclaim and project like a true thespian. Well, if not here, then where better?

A stop in Delphi is a must - given it’s the name of our niece. It’s setting is as beautiful as the 8 year-old girl herself. Built on the hill-side of the mountains of Parnassos, you ascend through a series of terraces - once avenues decked with monuments, votive offerings and statues to commemorate Ancient Greek city states. People came to hear the prophecies of the Oracle, but in so coming brought with them information about the state of affairs back at home. Gradually Delphi rose to become a microcosm of information - about who had what, who needed what, who was up, who was down. A kind of ancient Google. Far easier for an Oracle to make predictions when armed with such knowledge.

When you see the plinths and traces of writing, you get a sense of what a showcase it once would have been. Still to some, ruin-fatigue can settle in. We overheard one couple arguing. The man was enraptured, pointing out every minute detail. His face crumpling with disappointment at the  realisation his information had failed to hit the mark with his companion. Some accusations followed, then I heard the woman say,

“I didn’t say I DIDN’T want to see it. I just don’t want to look at any more walls.”

We judged the girls had probably had enough culture by this point too. In truth they were more interested in the variety of bugs and the tortoises you spot at frequent intervals, rather than the Temple of Apollo. It was time for action. All those stadiums attest to the fact the Greeks understood about the importance of physical exercise, and so did we.

If there are two places I would recommend visiting in Greece for sheer natural beauty and a place to run free, it is in the North where we next headed. First to the Springs of Acheron River. An idyllic spot where the rocks are bone-white and the water crystal clean. By night the place lit up with pinpricks of green and yellow light - intermittent fairy lights pulsing in the bushes. Fireflies! The girls are in their element, dashing about trying to catch the tiny moving targets. Elsie swipes 3 and holds out her hand, saying, ”I’ve caught a disco!”

The water was cold so we donned our wetsuits and went tramping up stream, through a canyon where you half-waded, half-swam in parts. We would fill up our water bottles each day from a spot up-river, and watch the few listless guides, hanging around with no tourists yet to offer their outdoor adventures. Bored, they gave the girls a free ride on a zip wire just for the sheer need to see someone using it. We repaid their kindness by agreeing to go horse-riding. Marcus demurred, so it was just me and the girls. Our guide was a bit short on English, but after a few minutes pulled me aside and said,

“I think you are experienced. After I take you off on my own.” I think he was just mistaken but I didn’t have the heart to admit it.

It felt a bit remiss, dropping the girls off and telling them to wait for their dad who’d gone walkabout, while I rode off into the blue yonder with a man on horseback. He started showboating, riding with just one hand and urging the horses on into a canter then gallop. It’s the most I can do to cling on for dear life, grit my teeth and hope it ends soon. Horse-riding, like Motor bike riding, is an activity Greeks don’t consider requires much in the way of health and safety. At first I thought the very many strange little church-like houses dotted along the roadside were mail boxes. Turns out they are shrines to someone who’s either died or had a near miss in a roadside collision. Despite this very tangible and visible reminder to the contrary, nobody seems to think motorbikes or horses are best ridden with a helmet. By now, woefully out of control, I put this point to my guide.

“No, helmets are not necessary if you are a good rider,” he tells me.

“I do have them though - you know, just for the tourists.” What the hell does he think I am? Some weird hybrid free-loading campervanning nomad who doesn’t fulfil this criteria?

Still intact we crept closer to Albanian border via the Vikos Gorge in the Zagori region. At 1km from top to bottom it’s said to be the deepest in the world. Photos do not do it justice, you just can’t gauge the scale. Stopping at a viewing point in Oxia, Marcus gets twitchy, his fear of heights kicking in as you stare down into an abyss. The girls spend days making elaborate cards for Marcus’s birthday, and we decide to treat ourselves by checking in to the Primoula Guesthouse, a luxury hotel. Elsie’s beside herself, jabbering away, clowning around. They enjoy the large movie selection on offer, while we rate the outdoor spa complete with hot-tub and mountain view. It’s amazing how much you appreciate a soak in the bath when you haven’t had one for 8 months. Exploring the area, we make the most of what’s on offer, hiking through the gorge and taking the girls for their first taste of white water rafting. I love seeing their faces when we do these things, beside themselves with excitement, unsure of whether the instructor is joking or not when he tells them to push any crocodiles they see away with their paddles.

I’m having to hold on to these signs of gullibility, for they seem to be fading fast. Lulu caught me out one day when she quizzed me about how many syllables were in the word “pistol”.

“Two, I said.” “What’s the first one?” she asked. “Pis”, I answered to gales of laughter. “Ha!ha! I made you say the rude word for wee!”

Yet interspersed with the clear evidence of change - the gradual improvement at taking responsibility for themselves, helping with the chores - there are still plenty of gaps. Most days they still forget to put their pants on. And when Elsie enters one of her hyper moods, LuLu rolls her eyes and says, “Oh no. I think she’s got fur ball diaorrhoea again.” That’s one phrase I’m in no hurry to correct.

[maikawethiel]

Working with my more sensual deck, Tarot of Sexual Magic, I've found myself almost starting from scratch to make the connections between traditional meanings and sensual. To grow my practice with this deck, I've determined to start with the basics and do daily pulls to acquaint myself with each card. I've also been doing research online about erotic connections to tarot. So far, information has been quite sparse, and I have decided to share my insights here as I work with the cards in no particular order. The MagicianCourtship — Magic IntentionDesire is the drive behind a new story; willingness and passion guarantee success. The magician is a card of manifesting your desires through skill and practice. He is a master of the elements, and should he dream it, he will realize it seemingly with little effort — as if by magic.However, the beautiful thing about the magician (my favorite card btw), is that none of it is magic. He has studied. He has put in the time, and he has made himself a master. The pentagon in the center of the table fits perfectly within a circle showing that his will and drive alone is what has manifested meaning in his life.Eros & the MagicianSome keywords I found associated with eros & the magician are:reading or writing about sexwritten communication with a lover, phone sexsextingbisexualitypublishing a book on sexuality or pornographyThe Magician's connection to the erotic is intellectual and masterful. His mercurial aspect allows him to quickly switch directions (no pun intended) and master anything he puts his mind to. The emphasis on communication shows the ties and importance of intellect to sex. Sensuality is a mental exercise as much as a physical one, and without mental stimulation the physical may become dull.Sexual Intention & the MagicianThe Magician understands the work that goes behind the magic. He understands the deep study required to create a result that appears effortless to the outside observer. It is not the nature of the magician to wait for the universe to deliver to him his lot, he takes the time and decides.The lesson from this is to determine what you want, and do the work to manifest it. Don't distract yourself with piddly happenings here and there that keep you from your desires. For me, I have been relying too heavily on the universe to manifest the relationship I desire into my world. I've allowed myself to entertain distractions. The circle around the pentagon also functions as a boundary. The pentagon itself is the magician's area of intended manifestation. It's important to maintain focus on realizing your personal desires while drawing a line between yourself and things which may thwart your hard work.For myself, I want to realize a relationship into my life which stimulates me physically, mentally, and emotionally. The lesson I have taken from the magician is to study, learn, and become intimately familiar with myself and my options. There is a place for conscious decision making in love and sex, and it can only improve your results!Courtship is an act of studying your potential partner and of learning them intimately to understand the ways you can (or cannot) connect. It's an act of alignment and ensuring you are both of similar focus to achieve the same results. If a partner is not aligned with your intentions, it's necessary to make the hard but logic driven decision to focus your energies elsewhere.Recently, I realized I have not been acting as a magician should act. And so, I put aside some time for self study of my own desires to create a list to keep in mind each time I meet a potential partner. It gives me focus on how and what to study about them to determine if we are aligned. It's easy to get distracted by physical chemistry, but there is more to courtship and strong, lasting connections!SourcesFor more information on the Magician, I recommend these sources where I gathered information for this post:Sacred Geometry: Spiritual Meaning of the Pentagon and PentagramTarot and Sexuality

http://www.messagesfromlore.com/2020/08/tarot-of-sexual-magic-magician.html

[amyddaniels]

3 Life-Changing Strategies for Processing Grief

We learned unforgettable lessons at a yoga retreat designed to help you work through profound loss.

Over coffee one afternoon, a friend asked if I’d read Mirabi Starr’s latest book Wild Mercy: Living the Fierce and Tender Wisdom of the Women Mystics. Starr’s first book, a new translation of Dark Night of the Soul, came out the day her fourteen-year-old daughter was killed in a car accident. Today, Starr speaks globally on contemplative practice and the transformational power of grief and loss. A certified bereavement counselor, she helps mourners harness the transformational power of loss. No, I had not read Wild Mercy, but the title immediately grabbed me. It seemed to me that with so many of us facing struggles in this era—loss of loved ones, betrayal, abandonment, family estrangement—we could all use some Wild Mercy and not a moment too soon. Myself included.

In the past five years, I have suffered all of the above, as well as the loss of a beloved uncle, named Jan. He had contacted me a year or two before his death and though we had little contact the decades prior, we found we were kindred, and not just by blood. He was a gifted poet and we shared a spiritual affinity. We were both misfits, misunderstood in our families. We were both recovering alcoholics, sobering up within a year of each other, our respective recoveries unknown to each other until the short time we were able to share before he died. Once reconnected, he called me every week. He listened to my poems, read my writings, talked spirit with me. My uncle’s death and multiple other recent losses had brought a lifetime of trauma and complicated grief to my door. I knew there was no easy fix.

The synchronicity in my life is often reflected in the magical relationship I have with Facebook. As I was reading Wild Mercy, I put the book down to check in on a Facebook group I’m part of. What I saw made my heart thrum. Mirabai Starr, a recent post read, had a last-minute opening in her annual Fall Equinox retreat: Deepening Your Story of Loss and Transformation. And it was at Ghost Ranch, a place in New Mexico I had been longing to spend time at.

I quickly shot off an email to see if the spot was still available. The answer came quickly: “Yes.”

I was going to answer the unmistakable call of the desert. Wild Mercy was an invitation. In the introduction, Starr writes, “We are making a flying carpet here to carry us through our lives as contemporary mystics masquerading as ordinary people—people who hear the call to turn inward and to step up, to cultivate a contemplative life, and to offer the fruits in service.”

The First Night of the Retreat

As we gathered that first night in the living room of our temporary new home, the beautiful Casa del Sol, Starr’s assistants held out a deck of Medicine cards for us to choose from. The Medicine cards, whose teachings vary from tribe to tribe, were developed by Jamie Sams, an artist and writer of Cherokee, Seneca, and French descent. The card I pulled was the turtle.

I'm a runner, a sprinter, a mover. Closer to a hare than a turtle, so I was perplexed. But then Starr suggested that the Medicine animal card we each had drawn might give us insight into our writing process, as well as offer other teachings. I had to laugh. When it comes to my writing process, I am definitely a turtle! Though I write a lot, it is agonizingly slow. As the beautiful New Mexico light faded, the procession felt sacred and my arms prickled with intimations of what was to come.

3 Strategies for Transforming Grief

Here, three things I learned from Starr, and the turtle, during my five-night stay.

1. Rely on community and honor your own process.

Each morning we met and opened with a song and the reading of poetry followed by meditation. The music and poetry were carefully curated. I started to realize that these sessions were creating a bond or container among the retreat participants that was capable of holding the depth of grief our community carried.

Some of the participants had lost children to suicide, overdose, and sudden accidents. Some had lost spouses, brothers, sisters, parents. Some were estranged from family—four most agonizingly from their adult children (and beloved grandchildren) who had shut them out of their lives.

The author with two newfound friends at Mirabi Starr's retreat.

The medicine card I’d drawn became another thing, beyond community, that helped me feel supported, and would ultimately help me honor my own grieving process. In some Southwestern Native American tribes, the turtle is an ancient symbol for Mother Earth from which our lives, creativity, protection, and longevity evolve. To the Southwest Native American peoples (Navajo, Zuni, Hope, Santo Domingo, Pueblo and others), the turtle represents water. In addition to the turtle’s role in Native American traditions, the turtle takes also takes a seat at the door of most Hindu temples. In Hinduism, the turtle carries the world on her back and is one of 10 avatars of the Hindu god Vishnu. The turtle represents the feminine and serves as a bridge between external and internal world, a reminder of how to withdraw from the senses and go within—a practice known as pratyahara.

As the retreat unfolded, turtle led me within, where real healing happens. And although I might have gone to the deepest and darkest places inside me, I did not go alone. I had the turtle's medicine, a cadre of angels beside me (my fellow retreaters), and a wise woman who knew the way (Starr). I was able to drop my guard—along with the heavy burden of grief. I wasn’t escaping my loss, but truly honoring myself in the midst of it.

2. Write it out and acknowledge pain.

In Wild Mercy, Starr writes, “It is by showing up for the full encounter with reality that we discover our hidden wholeness, which was, of course, present all along." This process starts with acknowledging pain.

It is in the ground of our pain and nowhere else, where we heal. But first, we line up our support system, we find community. And then we write. After daily morning meditation and readings, we were given a writing prompt and assigned to groups of four so we could share our writings. Then we read our writings in turn, listening carefully. We didn’t respond to one another with suggestions or praise, but rather, we sat in silence and let it sink in. "None of us is broken," Starr said. Therefore, we weren't to offer tissues (they stop the tears) or to try to fix or console each other. "We aren't therapists." Everyone was allowed to be exactly where they were; it was safe to touch the ground of our pain, to write about it, and to share. We were given an opportunity to engage in fierce and radical acts of truth-telling, to take the losses that had brought us there and offer them up for alchemical transformation. "In the pain that will arise with your writing," Starr advised, "will come the gold." By the end of the five days and after, I discovered I had softened around the pain. With allowance, rather than the usual contraction, not only did the pain have room to dissipate, but I now had a helpful process going forward.

3. Take your time.

Loss is a portal to spiritual transformation. In the mystery of grieving, lies the alchemy and space for healing and awakening. One day on the retreat, we were guided on a hike up to Chimney Rock and a spectacular view of the Piedra Lumbre basin. I found myself struggling to keep up and fell back. Several of the retreat participants hung back with me, though they easily could have sprinted ahead. Embarrassed, I urged them to go ahead and insisted that it was the heat that was bothering me. As I took a break inside the scant shade of a small bush, my companions encouraged me to slow down, saying “It’s not that hot. You’re just moving too fast.” But I couldn’t seem to process that and after each break, sprinted ahead again.

Finally, one of them said, “Kelly, wasn’t the medicine card you drew the turtle?” And it was then that it hit me. The turtle’s message was telling me it was okay to slow down, to take my time, and to allow community to hold me, like a turtle’s shell. This brought tears, because I am a survivor and the way I survived a lifetime of adversity was to power through, to push myself, to keep going no matter what.

Laying down the burden, breaking open, community and belonging, listening, and allowing uncertainty, had brought me to this lesson on the climb: No matter the depth of loss or adversity life brings, I am supported and held. I can rest on the turtle’s back at last and let go of struggle. I didn’t have to push through anymore. I could, like a turtle, stick my neck out, and still remain protected, safe within my shell. 

[krisiunicornio]

We learned unforgettable lessons at a yoga retreat designed to help you work through profound loss.

Over coffee one afternoon, a friend asked if I’d read Mirabi Starr’s latest book Wild Mercy: Living the Fierce and Tender Wisdom of the Women Mystics. Starr’s first book, a new translation of Dark Night of the Soul, came out the day her fourteen-year-old daughter was killed in a car accident. Today, Starr speaks globally on contemplative practice and the transformational power of grief and loss. A certified bereavement counselor, she helps mourners harness the transformational power of loss. No, I had not read Wild Mercy, but the title immediately grabbed me. It seemed to me that with so many of us facing struggles in this era—loss of loved ones, betrayal, abandonment, family estrangement—we could all use some Wild Mercy and not a moment too soon. Myself included.

In the past five years, I have suffered all of the above, as well as the loss of a beloved uncle, named Jan. He had contacted me a year or two before his death and though we had little contact the decades prior, we found we were kindred, and not just by blood. He was a gifted poet and we shared a spiritual affinity. We were both misfits, misunderstood in our families. We were both recovering alcoholics, sobering up within a year of each other, our respective recoveries unknown to each other until the short time we were able to share before he died. Once reconnected, he called me every week. He listened to my poems, read my writings, talked spirit with me. My uncle’s death and multiple other recent losses had brought a lifetime of trauma and complicated grief to my door. I knew there was no easy fix.

The synchronicity in my life is often reflected in the magical relationship I have with Facebook. As I was reading Wild Mercy, I put the book down to check in on a Facebook group I’m part of. What I saw made my heart thrum. Mirabai Starr, a recent post read, had a last-minute opening in her annual Fall Equinox retreat: Deepening Your Story of Loss and Transformation. And it was at Ghost Ranch, a place in New Mexico I had been longing to spend time at.

I quickly shot off an email to see if the spot was still available. The answer came quickly: “Yes.”

I was going to answer the unmistakable call of the desert. Wild Mercy was an invitation. In the introduction, Starr writes, “We are making a flying carpet here to carry us through our lives as contemporary mystics masquerading as ordinary people—people who hear the call to turn inward and to step up, to cultivate a contemplative life, and to offer the fruits in service.”

The First Night of the Retreat

As we gathered that first night in the living room of our temporary new home, the beautiful Casa del Sol, Starr’s assistants held out a deck of Medicine cards for us to choose from. The Medicine cards, whose teachings vary from tribe to tribe, were developed by Jamie Sams, an artist and writer of Cherokee, Seneca, and French descent. The card I pulled was the turtle.

I'm a runner, a sprinter, a mover. Closer to a hare than a turtle, so I was perplexed. But then Starr suggested that the Medicine animal card we each had drawn might give us insight into our writing process, as well as offer other teachings. I had to laugh. When it comes to my writing process, I am definitely a turtle! Though I write a lot, it is agonizingly slow. As the beautiful New Mexico light faded, the procession felt sacred and my arms prickled with intimations of what was to come.

3 Strategies for Transforming Grief

Here, three things I learned from Starr, and the turtle, during my five-night stay.

1. Rely on community and honor your own process.

Each morning we met and opened with a song and the reading of poetry followed by meditation. The music and poetry were carefully curated. I started to realize that these sessions were creating a bond or container among the retreat participants that was capable of holding the depth of grief our community carried.

Some of the participants had lost children to suicide, overdose, and sudden accidents. Some had lost spouses, brothers, sisters, parents. Some were estranged from family—four most agonizingly from their adult children (and beloved grandchildren) who had shut them out of their lives.

The author with two newfound friends at Mirabi Starr's retreat.

The medicine card I’d drawn became another thing, beyond community, that helped me feel supported, and would ultimately help me honor my own grieving process. In some Southwestern Native American tribes, the turtle is an ancient symbol for Mother Earth from which our lives, creativity, protection, and longevity evolve. To the Southwest Native American peoples (Navajo, Zuni, Hope, Santo Domingo, Pueblo and others), the turtle represents water. In addition to the turtle’s role in Native American traditions, the turtle takes also takes a seat at the door of most Hindu temples. In Hinduism, the turtle carries the world on her back and is one of 10 avatars of the Hindu god Vishnu. The turtle represents the feminine and serves as a bridge between external and internal world, a reminder of how to withdraw from the senses and go within—a practice known as pratyahara.

As the retreat unfolded, turtle led me within, where real healing happens. And although I might have gone to the deepest and darkest places inside me, I did not go alone. I had the turtle's medicine, a cadre of angels beside me (my fellow retreaters), and a wise woman who knew the way (Starr). I was able to drop my guard—along with the heavy burden of grief. I wasn’t escaping my loss, but truly honoring myself in the midst of it.

2. Write it out and acknowledge pain.

In Wild Mercy, Starr writes, “It is by showing up for the full encounter with reality that we discover our hidden wholeness, which was, of course, present all along." This process starts with acknowledging pain.

It is in the ground of our pain and nowhere else, where we heal. But first, we line up our support system, we find community. And then we write. After daily morning meditation and readings, we were given a writing prompt and assigned to groups of four so we could share our writings. Then we read our writings in turn, listening carefully. We didn’t respond to one another with suggestions or praise, but rather, we sat in silence and let it sink in. "None of us is broken," Starr said. Therefore, we weren't to offer tissues (they stop the tears) or to try to fix or console each other. "We aren't therapists." Everyone was allowed to be exactly where they were; it was safe to touch the ground of our pain, to write about it, and to share. We were given an opportunity to engage in fierce and radical acts of truth-telling, to take the losses that had brought us there and offer them up for alchemical transformation. "In the pain that will arise with your writing," Starr advised, "will come the gold." By the end of the five days and after, I discovered I had softened around the pain. With allowance, rather than the usual contraction, not only did the pain have room to dissipate, but I now had a helpful process going forward.

3. Take your time.

Loss is a portal to spiritual transformation. In the mystery of grieving, lies the alchemy and space for healing and awakening. One day on the retreat, we were guided on a hike up to Chimney Rock and a spectacular view of the Piedra Lumbre basin. I found myself struggling to keep up and fell back. Several of the retreat participants hung back with me, though they easily could have sprinted ahead. Embarrassed, I urged them to go ahead and insisted that it was the heat that was bothering me. As I took a break inside the scant shade of a small bush, my companions encouraged me to slow down, saying “It’s not that hot. You’re just moving too fast.” But I couldn’t seem to process that and after each break, sprinted ahead again.

Finally, one of them said, “Kelly, wasn’t the medicine card you drew the turtle?” And it was then that it hit me. The turtle’s message was telling me it was okay to slow down, to take my time, and to allow community to hold me, like a turtle’s shell. This brought tears, because I am a survivor and the way I survived a lifetime of adversity was to power through, to push myself, to keep going no matter what.

Laying down the burden, breaking open, community and belonging, listening, and allowing uncertainty, had brought me to this lesson on the climb: No matter the depth of loss or adversity life brings, I am supported and held. I can rest on the turtle’s back at last and let go of struggle. I didn’t have to push through anymore. I could, like a turtle, stick my neck out, and still remain protected, safe within my shell. 

[cedarrrun]

We learned unforgettable lessons at a yoga retreat designed to help you work through profound loss.

Over coffee one afternoon, a friend asked if I’d read Mirabi Starr’s latest book Wild Mercy: Living the Fierce and Tender Wisdom of the Women Mystics. Starr’s first book, a new translation of Dark Night of the Soul, came out the day her fourteen-year-old daughter was killed in a car accident. Today, Starr speaks globally on contemplative practice and the transformational power of grief and loss. A certified bereavement counselor, she helps mourners harness the transformational power of loss. No, I had not read Wild Mercy, but the title immediately grabbed me. It seemed to me that with so many of us facing struggles in this era—loss of loved ones, betrayal, abandonment, family estrangement—we could all use some Wild Mercy and not a moment too soon. Myself included.

In the past five years, I have suffered all of the above, as well as the loss of a beloved uncle, named Jan. He had contacted me a year or two before his death and though we had little contact the decades prior, we found we were kindred, and not just by blood. He was a gifted poet and we shared a spiritual affinity. We were both misfits, misunderstood in our families. We were both recovering alcoholics, sobering up within a year of each other, our respective recoveries unknown to each other until the short time we were able to share before he died. Once reconnected, he called me every week. He listened to my poems, read my writings, talked spirit with me. My uncle’s death and multiple other recent losses had brought a lifetime of trauma and complicated grief to my door. I knew there was no easy fix.

The synchronicity in my life is often reflected in the magical relationship I have with Facebook. As I was reading Wild Mercy, I put the book down to check in on a Facebook group I’m part of. What I saw made my heart thrum. Mirabai Starr, a recent post read, had a last-minute opening in her annual Fall Equinox retreat: Deepening Your Story of Loss and Transformation. And it was at Ghost Ranch, a place in New Mexico I had been longing to spend time at.

I quickly shot off an email to see if the spot was still available. The answer came quickly: “Yes.”

I was going to answer the unmistakable call of the desert. Wild Mercy was an invitation. In the introduction, Starr writes, “We are making a flying carpet here to carry us through our lives as contemporary mystics masquerading as ordinary people—people who hear the call to turn inward and to step up, to cultivate a contemplative life, and to offer the fruits in service.”

The First Night of the Retreat

As we gathered that first night in the living room of our temporary new home, the beautiful Casa del Sol, Starr’s assistants held out a deck of Medicine cards for us to choose from. The Medicine cards, whose teachings vary from tribe to tribe, were developed by Jamie Sams, an artist and writer of Cherokee, Seneca, and French descent. The card I pulled was the turtle.

I'm a runner, a sprinter, a mover. Closer to a hare than a turtle, so I was perplexed. But then Starr suggested that the Medicine animal card we each had drawn might give us insight into our writing process, as well as offer other teachings. I had to laugh. When it comes to my writing process, I am definitely a turtle! Though I write a lot, it is agonizingly slow. As the beautiful New Mexico light faded, the procession felt sacred and my arms prickled with intimations of what was to come.

3 Strategies for Transforming Grief

Here, three things I learned from Starr, and the turtle, during my five-night stay.

1. Rely on community and honor your own process.

Each morning we met and opened with a song and the reading of poetry followed by meditation. The music and poetry were carefully curated. I started to realize that these sessions were creating a bond or container among the retreat participants that was capable of holding the depth of grief our community carried.

Some of the participants had lost children to suicide, overdose, and sudden accidents. Some had lost spouses, brothers, sisters, parents. Some were estranged from family—four most agonizingly from their adult children (and beloved grandchildren) who had shut them out of their lives.

The author with two newfound friends at Mirabi Starr's retreat.

The medicine card I’d drawn became another thing, beyond community, that helped me feel supported, and would ultimately help me honor my own grieving process. In some Southwestern Native American tribes, the turtle is an ancient symbol for Mother Earth from which our lives, creativity, protection, and longevity evolve. To the Southwest Native American peoples (Navajo, Zuni, Hope, Santo Domingo, Pueblo and others), the turtle represents water. In addition to the turtle’s role in Native American traditions, the turtle takes also takes a seat at the door of most Hindu temples. In Hinduism, the turtle carries the world on her back and is one of 10 avatars of the Hindu god Vishnu. The turtle represents the feminine and serves as a bridge between external and internal world, a reminder of how to withdraw from the senses and go within—a practice known as pratyahara.

As the retreat unfolded, turtle led me within, where real healing happens. And although I might have gone to the deepest and darkest places inside me, I did not go alone. I had the turtle's medicine, a cadre of angels beside me (my fellow retreaters), and a wise woman who knew the way (Starr). I was able to drop my guard—along with the heavy burden of grief. I wasn’t escaping my loss, but truly honoring myself in the midst of it.

2. Write it out and acknowledge pain.

In Wild Mercy, Starr writes, “It is by showing up for the full encounter with reality that we discover our hidden wholeness, which was, of course, present all along." This process starts with acknowledging pain.

It is in the ground of our pain and nowhere else, where we heal. But first, we line up our support system, we find community. And then we write. After daily morning meditation and readings, we were given a writing prompt and assigned to groups of four so we could share our writings. Then we read our writings in turn, listening carefully. We didn’t respond to one another with suggestions or praise, but rather, we sat in silence and let it sink in. "None of us is broken," Starr said. Therefore, we weren't to offer tissues (they stop the tears) or to try to fix or console each other. "We aren't therapists." Everyone was allowed to be exactly where they were; it was safe to touch the ground of our pain, to write about it, and to share. We were given an opportunity to engage in fierce and radical acts of truth-telling, to take the losses that had brought us there and offer them up for alchemical transformation. "In the pain that will arise with your writing," Starr advised, "will come the gold." By the end of the five days and after, I discovered I had softened around the pain. With allowance, rather than the usual contraction, not only did the pain have room to dissipate, but I now had a helpful process going forward.

3. Take your time.

Loss is a portal to spiritual transformation. In the mystery of grieving, lies the alchemy and space for healing and awakening. One day on the retreat, we were guided on a hike up to Chimney Rock and a spectacular view of the Piedra Lumbre basin. I found myself struggling to keep up and fell back. Several of the retreat participants hung back with me, though they easily could have sprinted ahead. Embarrassed, I urged them to go ahead and insisted that it was the heat that was bothering me. As I took a break inside the scant shade of a small bush, my companions encouraged me to slow down, saying “It’s not that hot. You’re just moving too fast.” But I couldn’t seem to process that and after each break, sprinted ahead again.

Finally, one of them said, “Kelly, wasn’t the medicine card you drew the turtle?” And it was then that it hit me. The turtle’s message was telling me it was okay to slow down, to take my time, and to allow community to hold me, like a turtle’s shell. This brought tears, because I am a survivor and the way I survived a lifetime of adversity was to power through, to push myself, to keep going no matter what.

Laying down the burden, breaking open, community and belonging, listening, and allowing uncertainty, had brought me to this lesson on the climb: No matter the depth of loss or adversity life brings, I am supported and held. I can rest on the turtle’s back at last and let go of struggle. I didn’t have to push through anymore. I could, like a turtle, stick my neck out, and still remain protected, safe within my shell. 

[punkscowardschampions]

Jimmy & Janis

Jimmy: 💕 Janis: feeling the love 'cos corporate making ya, hey? Janis: how many holiday drinks you made today Jimmy: feels like billions Jimmy: not the kinda wrist action to be #buzzing about Janis: here's hoping you working commission lad Janis: is any? 🤔 #hotdatewithjane Jimmy: Tam's been in and out all day earning you those kicks you desire Jimmy: #notsosecretadmirer Jimmy: can't stay away on this special day Janis: Christ, you'd think she wouldn't wanna be seen DEAD outside her house, single, on this most sacred day Janis: gotta be stringing her along with lingering just a little too long when handing over the caffeine, good job babe 👏 Janis: think Grace is lowkey in hiding Janis: too late to even frantically swipe right on tinder now ladies Jimmy: Tell her Bobby'll be round Jimmy: He would if date night wasn't past his bedtime like Janis: 😂 bless Janis: all got our cross to bear, kid Janis: can't get my date out without a leash and promises of treats 🤷 Jimmy: Speaking of bitches, I seen Mia's timed her latest for the stockholm syndrome to kick in right on time Janis: look, i know you're bitter 'cos i've chucked you for better but don't bad mouth the bae, ok? Janis: forreal tho, they have schedules, like clockwork Janis: a new man for every occasion, this one won't last 'til her bday Jimmy: Keeping my hands where Tams can't see or cuff 'em Janis: 😏 tmi Janis: and unhygienic to boot, you serve lattes with those hands Jimmy: filthy 🧠 Jimmy: it's the company you keep Jimmy: Twix's gone from trying to shit in my dad's shoes to humping 'em Janis: whoa now, i didn't teach her that Janis: but think about it, from a scatological foot fetish to just a bit of vanilla pre-teen humping of inanimate objects Janis: it IS a step in the right direction Jimmy: But you are about treating 'em mean to keep 'em keen Janis: Your kicks are safe, dun' worry Janis: if she's taught me anything, not the way into the good books 😇 Jimmy: If you wanna aim for my work shoes I won't complain Jimmy: A day off is a day off Jimmy: Warn me first though, unless you're into those kind of surprises Janis: Best not to be seen with each other today Janis: don't wanna give everyone the wrong idea Janis: but nice try, you'll have to stick to burning yaself and the like if you wanna bunk Jimmy: Tammy's bound to help me with that Jimmy: #likeagiraffeonice Janis: She's beauty, she's graces Janis: wants you to cum all over her face Jimmy: fingers crossed she'll melt mine off first Jimmy: Better with that Janis: fair Janis: no way you've got the reach Jimmy: 💕 #whenbaebelievesinyou Janis: what, you want me to offer help with target practice? Janis: nice try dickhead 😜 Jimmy: Romance isn't dead there's the proof Jimmy: What are you doing today, aside from belly rubs for the bae Janis: gotta do something, don't I? feel bad like Janis: slayed the gift game and I really phoned it in so obvs gotta give out those sexual favours Janis: nowt though, trying to avoid seeing all the lovey-dovey couples making me wanna vom Janis: letting Tam work her magic in peace 😘 welcome like Jimmy: 💔🐶🎻 Jimmy: Making drinks with my eyes closed 'cause same Jimmy: Crack on Tam #tallgirlsneedlovetoo Janis: any barista will do 🎶 Janis: wanna hang when the madness is over Jimmy: The way this queue is going there isn't gonna be goodies left to bring you Jimmy: But I'm sweet enough😎 Jimmy: So yeah Janis: Bummer Janis: guess I can't kick you outta bed for that alone Janis: let you tot up negatives throughout the day, standard Jimmy: Got a pen behind my ear Jimmy: Come at me Janis: never could resist a challenge Janis: 🙄 walked into that one Janis: can we do something not shit Janis: don't need to see you slurping down spaghetti lady and the tramp stylee Jimmy: 💔 I'll shoo away all the strays I've gathered Jimmy: Only one dog for you like Jimmy: But of course that's how we stay goals Jimmy: any old shit won't do 💪🏆 Janis: 🎻 Janis: okay good Janis: play your cards right and get it right Janis: i'll spring for the motel 😉 Jimmy: Challenge accepted Janis: for once i'll be rooting for you Janis: my parents are unbearable at the best of times Janis: 🤢 Janis: actually cannot deal Jimmy: My dad and his girlfriend are still early days enough that they can bear to be in the same room Jimmy: I won't fail Janis: oh the honeymoon period Janis: disgusting Janis: thank god we got that out of the way with a fake relationship so you know my true feelings 😏 Jimmy: yeah thanks mate Jimmy: 👍 Janis: welcome, buddy o' pal o' mine Jimmy: Done Jimmy: I've worked it out Janis: taking a particularly difficult shit? Janis: again, don't need these intimate updates honey Janis: not #goals Jimmy: 😂 Jimmy: No, what's goals is what we're gonna do, babe 😏 Jimmy: Keeping you outta the house 'til there's no cringe factor left Janis: Ahh Janis: colour me intrigued Jimothy Janis: what's the dress code? Jimmy: 🤔 Jimmy: Nothing Tam would be seen dead in Janis: Alright, no body con that shows all my worst bits, gotcha Janis: do I get ANY clues? Curious 🙀 right here Jimmy: You might just make yourself a new bae Jimmy: But pace yourself mate Janis: 😳 Janis: i don't own any PVC clothing, you know that, yeah? Jimmy: I do now 🎻 Janis: 😂 can literally hear Gracie in my head asking me what i'm like rn Janis: letting ya man down on vday Janis: honestly Jimmy: when one twin's a giver and the other's a taker 😂 Janis: tbf, we BOTH told you you'd got the wrong one but Janis: cloth ears you Jimmy: Down for the challenge Jimmy: Too late to not be a stubborn dickhead, me Janis: looks like we're both stuck then, lad Jimmy: there's that #realtalk mate Janis: can't say we didn't both give it a fair go Janis: #longdistanceloveinskerries #teenagerunaway Jimmy: You'll always have Twix 💕 Janis: gotta have someone to rely on init Jimmy: #tea Janis: #scaldedagain #jobhazard Jimmy: [Sends a selfie of an actual burn/on the job hazard] Jimmy: Stuff of fantasies that Janis: Poor baby! Has Tam not offered to 💋 it better? Janis: #slacking Jimmy: She's got her 👀 a bit lower down Jimmy: I'm just a piece of 🍖 Jimmy: The real hazard Janis: start a # about it Janis: 'cos can't blame her Janis: part of the problem, truly Jimmy: Will do Janis: being all distracting there with your apron and that Janis: asking for it Jimmy: I thought it was the shoes Jimmy: Sexy from head to toe like Jimmy: 🐶💗 Janis: 😋 something certainly got tongues n tails wagging Jimmy: 😎 Jimmy: The company I keep, I think 😉 Janis: valid, the bitches love me 😍 Jimmy: Alright, save it for the 'gram Jimmy: #humblebrag Janis: Twix is a busy lady, only got you scheduled in so far Janis: guess the fans will have to make do with your mug 😜 Jimmy: unlucky lads and lasses Janis: they love it Janis: 'til some other cunt is unlucky enough to be enrolled in our school, you're gonna stay flavour of the month 🍦 Jimmy: 💪🥇 Janis: meanwhile, i gotta wait 'til the next fam scandal 'til I'm relevant again Janis: such is life Janis: not that its ever THAT long 🙄 Jimmy: Whip up some fake drama for you to hide in if you want Jimmy: Crack 'em out with the lattes Janis: I don't doubt you're capable Janis: just getting over sinkgate 😏 Mr. Lucas never will 😉 Jimmy: 😂 Jimmy: He's one of the only dickheads who hasn't been in today Jimmy: Still time 🤞 Janis: think a milky earl grey is his shout Janis: get it ready, really impress him Janis: more than you did, obvs Jimmy: The coffee breath and forehead vein says espresso though 🤔 Jimmy: Man o mystery Janis: 🤤 Janis: so hot Jimmy: More competition is it? Jimmy: 💔🎻 Janis: Using you as a ploy to get him hot under that starched collar all along Janis: soz babes 😘 Jimmy: I should've known your real goal was to get under that lumpy jumper Janis: 😂 Janis: know he's got the goods under it Jimmy: Can't fight the feeling Janis: s'a real shame the hottest female teacher we've got is that TA with the wonky fringe and clompy shoes Janis: who you got your sights set on next? Jimmy: always been about a wonky fringe meself Jimmy: Clompy shoes are a massive bonus when Twix is being a mad bitch underfoot too like Janis: draw the line there pal Janis: gotta get the dog in the divorce like Janis: not letting that hipster bitch anywhere near Jimmy: 🥊 Jimmy: going down swinging Janis: if she doesn't scream cat lady as is, she's defs into weird pets like fucking Janis: stick insects Janis: hope you're soooo happy together like 🖕 not even mad Jimmy: 😂 Jimmy: nice to have your blessing, mate Jimmy: be my best man on the day Janis: literally fuck off Janis: only just got rid of the lesbian rumours and you wanna put me in a suit WHILST friendzoning me Janis: nah 😤 Jimmy: spoilsport Jimmy: found a challenge she won't accept Janis: only way i'm showing up is if you invite all your exes and put us on a table so we can chat mad shit on you Janis: be a man about it, boy Jimmy: card table at the back, couple of chairs so you can place your bets 👍 Janis: more like it Janis: hook up with your actual best man Janis: pure spite and alcohol fuelling me Jimmy: It'd probs be Cass so best not Jimmy: no good for the rep Janis: 😡 Janis: same tho, if i ever got hitched (ignoring the unlikeliness of that) i'd have to hit up the sibs for those bridesmaids and ting Janis: least my fam is good for numbers if not company like Jimmy: Grace has used her twin senses and is moodboarding somewhere rn Jimmy: Unlucky Janis: 🤢 don't Janis: vietnam flashbacks rn Janis: you know how many fake weddings of hers i've attended Jimmy: I can imagine Jimmy: And am Jimmy: Cute 😂 Janis: Fuck off Janis: shame your dad don't wanna be bffs Janis: can't hit him up for embarrassing pics and stories to use against you Jimmy: Another win to my name Janis: 🖕 Janis: sincerely hope you get a beverage thrown in ur face Jimmy: 💕 Janis: Wish you'da got me some earplugs Jimmy: Come on over mate, I've got loads Jimmy: #whenyourdadisdating Janis: literally Janis: at least you know its the same woman to avoid when she runs to the bog to clean herself up Janis: Pablo already on 2nd of the day Janis: Need a way to let 'em know Jimmy: Gotta have a sleepover with your real bae Jimmy: Twix'll sort 'em Jimmy: Sticking her nose in, literally like Janis: Oh that sweet curious girl Janis: some things she never need see 🙈 Jimmy: #nosybitchproblems Janis: getting dirt on enemy #1 anyway she can Janis: those bribe bones coming her way Jimmy: Happy v-day to her Janis: Maybe you and wonky fringe can have a fuck-off Janis: bet she's a right goer when you get the hair down and glasses off like Jimmy: Invite you and Mr Lucas for the post shag debrief Jimmy: Give you a /10 Janis: Naturally Janis: so curious to know how I rank 😒 Jimmy: Always a 10 with Twix Janis: 🙌 Janis: that'll help with the rep Jimmy: Me and Killer'll take the heat off with our new relationship shine Janis: yeah it loves you Janis: daft fucking dog Jimmy: Pity I can't turn the 💕 into 💰 Jimmy: Loads of lattes no will to keep slinging 'em Janis: Looking for a career change? Janis: fame getting too real? Jimmy: Got me looking like a deer in the headlights Jimmy: Tammy's livid Jimmy: There can only be one Janis: 'bout to be a bloodbath in CG Jimmy: Place your bets, mate Janis: hmm Janis: Tams got the reach like but reckon she's mostly talk n neck Janis: nan's not been in has she? 😉 Jimmy: She's serving me that 💔 while I crane my own neck looking out for her all day long Jimmy: no sign yet Janis: Gutted Janis: even she's feeling the lurve today Janis: literally no place to go Janis: so tragic Jimmy: About to eat my feelings like a proper flat white squad member Jimmy: Speaking of feeling that l.u.r.v.e did you hear how many cards Cass got sent? Jimmy: 7 Janis: WHAT Janis: get it gurl but also fuck off lads she's too lil Jimmy: walking about like its nowt Jimmy: 😎 Janis: thank god Janis: no one needs that ego boost Janis: fuming tbh Jimmy: Bobs made one at school Jimmy: guess who for Janis: Aww, bless him Janis: she does need that boost Janis: he gonna hand-deliver? Jimmy: He's insisting Jimmy: So be about Jimmy: You got one too Jimmy: moving in on my lass Janis: we in, have to kick the empty ice cream cartons out the way like but find us in front of bridget jones or similar Janis: i'm honoured like 😊 Jimmy: Yours is bigger but hers has more glitter Jimmy: Can't call a winner Janis: size matters Janis: #facts Janis: soz Gracie, gotta fight you or you'll get too comfy Jimmy: Just don't let her vlog it Jimmy: Don't need porno style #s going viral Janis: MY TWIN ATTACKED ME!?!?!?! (NOT CLICKBAIT) Jimmy: Haters, on this sacred day Jimmy: #savage Janis: Glad to keep her in #content Janis: who's the real ⭐ baby Jimmy: 🤩 Jimmy: Better than 💝 chocs Janis: the calories! 😱 Jimmy: who needs food when you can exist on ☕ and even hotter goss 💋 Janis: diet of champions that 🙄 Janis: mia be bullshitting them that she doesn't run on sheer cuntiness Jimmy: Mia? A bullshitter? 😲 Jimmy: Nope Janis: awks 😕 Janis: did you think you was forever? Jimmy: she was my fucking cinnamon apple Janis: 😂 Janis: at least i've got an excuse to fight her again Janis: try not to get in the way this time Jimmy: Will do Jimmy: 2nd rule of fight club, get out the way dickhead Janis: brad pitt in that film Janis: mwah 💋👌 Jimmy: Alright Jimmy: I got no retort because Helena, not the one like Janis: crazy bitch not your type, eh? Janis: think the masses would have to disagree 😏 Jimmy: Start a # or I'm not listening, sorry everyone Janis: he's a modern man Jimmy: 💪😎 Janis: wonder if anyone will get pregnant tonight Janis: wanna make a bet? Jimmy: yeah Jimmy: I'll put today's wage on it Jimmy: No tips Jimmy: Need them for our big 💕 plans Janis: alright, you're on Janis: here's hoping its only the tip for all the other lads like Jimmy: 😂 Jimmy: Walked into that one Janis: 💁 Janis: shame we're not a hardcore catholic school #upthebuttforjesus Jimmy: I'd have to pray meself if I'd made a bet under them conditions Janis: what can i say? just like me, showing faith in our peers Janis: ur so negative, babe Janis: like dem tests 🤞 Jimmy: don't need to be an optimist to wait for those positives Janis: we'll see Jimmy: what to I get when I win this one Jimmy: quite a streak now babe 😏 Janis: 😣 Janis: on the off chance you manage to scrape a win Janis: what do you want? Jimmy: 🤔 Jimmy: Escape route for longer than a night for starters Jimmy: Lovebirds doing my head in Jimmy: I'm thinking a weekend break that isn't #cursed like Janis: Always down for running Janis: up for it not being away from you this time 😉 Janis: bringing the kiddos or? Jimmy: Depends if they kick off Jimmy: Got time to work on bribes Jimmy: Dad's Valerie might wanna play happy families 😒 Janis: 😬 Janis: that'll be fun Janis: can't have you dealing with that Janis: at least their tales of woe whilst you were gone will be packed with that #scandal and #drama Jimmy: might be easier to take 'em amount of SOS's we'd get Jimmy: Cass blowing up both our phones before we're out the door Jimmy: fuck knows Janis: Eithers cool Janis: just leave the hardcore whips n chains at home like Jimmy: Damn Jimmy: Alright done Jimmy: If we stick 'em on their own does that make us the mccanns Janis: not if we don't drug 'em Janis: stick to sweets and other such bribes and we'll be alright Jimmy: Gonna be enough of a plan getting there without adding a murder cover up Janis: honestly Janis: not on the agenda Janis: not a nice pretty white doctor like, never getting away with it Jimmy: not the 💕 american films'd have you believe either I reckon Jimmy: Surrounded by a cloud of smoke already cheers don't need a hail of bullets Janis: yeah if #blacklivesmatter taught us anything Janis: not the ideal way to spend a weekend Janis: also, still creasing at her name Janis: such middle aged hot piece of ass vibes Jimmy: 😂 Jimmy: definitely can't promise you any of that Jimmy: but if you win, I'll 🚭 and hopefully run like less of a middle aged dickhead with a dad bod Jimmy: less of an evidence trail an' all Jimmy: win win Janis: whoa, that's awful big talk from the resident chimney Janis: you are sure you're gonna win 😉 Janis: but i accept the full Ts and Cs Janis: you should train with me Janis: not just an excuse to 👀 the dad bod Jimmy: Deal done then Jimmy: Trying to see me in my short shorts Jimmy: You'll have to catch me first like Janis: wouldn't even be fair to make it a competition like Jimmy: If you're too shit scared, mate Janis: just curious why you wanna lose so bad Janis: thinking you might love what punishment i have in mind? Jimmy: Wondering what it feels like 'cause it never happens Jimmy: You seem to be about it with all your repeats Janis: I'm going to enjoy making you suffer Jimmy: 😏 Jimmy: Gonna start a club with Mr Lucas? Janis: any time i get to spend with him like Janis: not like I wanna think up new cruel and unusual ways to get you but Janis: needs must Jimmy: 💕 cute Jimmy: I'd tell him to get his 🎻 out but we know what those hands are busy doing Janis: eurgh 😂 too far Janis: my 'rents reckon he's an actual predator, like, there are stories Janis: do not wanna commit so hard to this bit that I become his next victim forreal Jimmy: Not gonna happen babe 💪😎🐶 Jimmy: Squad got you covered Janis: My heroes 😍 Jimmy: If Twix isn't up to it my bae'll come through Jimmy: Named for it literally Janis: Reckon that was the idea Janis: or they were being ironic with it Janis: #sojokes Jimmy: either way I'll knock him out before its a drama Jimmy: as long as you don't get in my way naturally Janis: don't worry, got the sense I was born with 😜 Janis: dickhead Jimmy: Lucky you were born with it Jimmy: Some of us have neither Janis: 🎻 Janis: so what part of pretty woman you looking to recreate this time Janis: what's your artistic vision? 😏 Jimmy: I haven't seen it Jimmy: Bound to be an aesthetic montage though, isn't there? Janis: don't let my sister hear you Janis: roped into GIRLS NIGHT! before you know it Jimmy: Get the popcorn in Gracie, mine's salted Jimmy: Shout you a diet something if you keep the noise down, hun Janis: #romanticvdaynightplans Janis: i get why she got confused, you have #boundaryissues mate 😂 Jimmy: Living up to that dating a twin stereotype Jimmy: The people in my comment section DEMAND it, alright? Jimmy: #gottagiveemwhattheywant Janis: Nah, bitch, you can only play that if we're identical Janis: its not like whoops thought it was u Janis: on ANY level 😤 Jimmy: 😂 Jimmy: Oh shit the boss is the embodiment of that emoji Jimmy: Yours not mine Jimmy: Gonna have to get a room Jimmy: Ban him, that's not how I'm earning employee of the month perks, sorry lad Janis: Convenient 😒 Janis: lemme catch u in her inbox boi 🥊 Janis: jk, get to work slacker, catch you in a mo Jimmy: 🐊 Jimmy: In a bit 💕 Janis: 🖤

[jameybennett-blog]

Tell Them Who I Really Am

A Eulogy for John Locurto

Today we grieve the loss of a great man. He was one of my best friends. His name was John, but it might as well have been Samson. Because he was a tough man, he was a strong man, a little rough around the edges, but he was a man of God. Just like Samson.

John and I were unlikely friends. He was born around the same time as my biological father, a man who passed on when I was a toddler, and never had the privilege of knowing. My father was 37 when he passed, as I am myself now 37. This has left me thinking about mortality a lot, a subject John and I discussed many times. My father would be 72 now, and John was 73.

We met because a speaker from Tennessee came to church to share his story. A courageous man stood up at Calvary Chapel Boca, and spoke about his journey through isolation, through solitary loneliness, through struggles and sins and into true freedom in Christ, realized through authentic relationships with other men.

I got an email from John one day. I hadn’t met him before. But he was there that night, at Calvary Boca, and some things the speaker said resonated with him. He had contacted the speaker by email and said that he wanted that same freedom; he wanted to know true friendship with other men that went beyond surface matters. The speaker, a friend of mine, told him he knew just the guy to put him in touch with.

John and I got lunch the following Saturday. He told me much of his life story, and I told him mine. We talked about the good bits, but we talked about the hard stuff, too.  He was an open book from the start, and over time, he trusted me with things he’d never told any one else. And despite our differences in life and age, when I heard his stories, I could see myself in them too. That first day, we became friends the second that we said to each other, “Me, too. Me, too.”

Little did I know that I would walk through life with John daily for nearly three years following. And little did I know what a difference he would make in my life.

That solitary lunch turned into a weekly meeting in the upstairs of a church behind closed doors with several other friends, sharing our hearts and our lives with each other, in a judgment-free zone. Our ages ranged from 18 to 73, but we were all friends and fellow-compatriots. John had perfect attendance; he was the only one who was there without fail. After meetings, we’d go out for a Boston Lager and some fries. That’s where the real magic happened. That’s where we all became true friends, where we spoke into each other’s lives and became more than just the “meeting buddies.” Over beers we became brothers.

That Saturday lunch also morphed into a quarterly meal for John and me. Sometimes lunch, sometimes dinner, but always a vigorous conversation and a pint of beer. Sometimes our “Quarterly” was fun, and we had a lot of laughs. Sometimes it was sad, and we shared our broken hearts. One time, it was angry. Not at me, but I was the one set to hear that anger, and help a good man properly process it.

John was a little bit of a father figure to me—and sometimes he had to show me some tough love and give me hard words of advice. He was quite a bit of a close friend—I could trust him with my most painful stories, and count on him to hold them in confidence. No judgment, just simple understanding and compassion.

But more than any of that, John was like a big brother to me, sharing his wisdom and experience, sharing his own weaknesses, but lending me his strength and a shoulder. Sometimes literally.

I walked with John when he went through his divorce. He walked with me when I went through my divorce. 

He helped me stand strong when my heart was broken, and he helped me find meaning and truth in my pain and confusion as I sorted out how to relate to my stepfather and my deceased father.

If anything, John was more there for me than I was for him. Sometimes he didn’t want to “burden” me with his trials, knowing I was walking through difficulties as well. I tried to tell him that helping him with his burden helped me with mine. But John was far too thoughtful and selfless to heed that, and so he would listen to my pain, and shelve his own.

But it wasn’t all heavy stuff. After his divorce, I introduced John to several dating apps. One night, about four or five of us registered on an app that we were “going out” on the town together, and we were looking for a group of girls to mingle with. It was John and a few guys in our thirties and early forties. We made up a story about John being our dad and taking his boys out on the town to meet girls.

Nobody accepted our date proposal that night. But we sure had fun planning it.

We played cards. We drank whiskey. We smoked cigars. We cussed. We told an occasional dirty joke. I got a friend to buy him pot to help relieve his anxiety—and when I offered to get him more, he declined so he could face the pain “like a man”—without medication. He lectured me about taking care of my dogs properly. He gave me frozen fish that was far too frozen to even be edible. He let me do my laundry at his house. We watched hockey together, and I didn’t really even know what was going on.

More importantly though, we shared the Gospel with each other. All the time. We reminded each other that Christ is King; that God is our loving Father; and that nobody can separate us from God’s love.

About a year ago, John asked several of us to make him a promise. He asked that we would be his pallbearers and to say some words to whomever would be in attendance at his funeral. “Tell them who I really am,” he said. We all teared up at the sacred task he asked us to accomplish. And then we laughed, and we teased him that we had decades to go before we would have to write such a speech, decades before we would have to walk with our brother one last time, this time to his rest.

The last time I spoke to John while he was conscious, we held hands and prayed the Lord’s Prayer together, he lying in bed and me standing beside him. We prayed as brothers, to Our Father. The next time I saw him, he was not awake, and he could not open his eyes. But I spoke to him as if he understood everything. He grunted and groaned a few times, at all the right places, as if he knew. And then two friends and I gathered around his bed, and once again prayed, “Our Father...”

We prayed this every week when we met upstairs at Calvary Chapel, but I will always treasure those precious moments praying with him at his bedside. While John couldn’t utter those words at that time, I think he prayed with us in his spirit.

My last gift to John was two icons—religious images depicting holy people. One was an icon of St. John the Evangelist, the writer of the Gospel bearing his name. The other was an icon of Christ, bursting from the tomb and pulling Adam and Eve, and thereby all humanity, out of the graves and into the resurrection. I culled these from my personal collection of icons, and handed them over to John, hoping to bring him some comfort in his trying battle for health in the hospital.

When I sat down with John on that first Saturday for lunch, I had no idea that I’d just met one of my life’s best friends. I don’t think he realized it either. After seven decades walking the earth, why would he bother with some thirty-something guy in flip-flops? But here we are.

I am saying goodbye to a dear friend, and will miss his place in that space where we sat every Monday opening ourselves up a little more to each other, trusting each other with our hopes, our fears, and the secret places of our hearts. We became trustworthy traveling companions in this life. And though our paths diverge at this point, John will remain in my heart, and I hope I remain in his prayers before God.

I am grieved, but I am also grateful. I am grateful for having known a true friend, and being able to walk with him through the last couple of years of his life. No one should experience life without experiencing the kind of friend that John was to me. If you don’t have a friend like that, I pray that you will meet one, and soon.

No doubt, John was a strong man. But he also drew strength from his community. His sister, Marcy, is a tireless and selfless individual, and their familial love for one another was strong, and it remains stronger than death.

I am grateful that I got to witness that, and that I was able to be a small part of a band of brothers to laugh and cry with John in his last few years of this earthly sojourn.

John, I love you, my friend. May you rest in peace and rise with Christ in glory. Please pray for me, brother.