There’s No Such Thing as A Muggle

There is no such thing as a Muggle. It’s a plot device created by a woman who wanted to create an us/them dynamic in her book to make one group seem more special than another.

But it’s a lie. There is no such thing as a Muggle.

We are all so magic.
It is in our blood, this ancient blood that has been passed from womb to womb for thousands of years. There is no muggle, only gorgeous, magical people unfolding to various degrees all around us, all in their own good time.

To be around a rose brings the emanation of rose into our beings.
To be around a moonflower…. around a pixie…. a saint… a lover…a passionate craftsperson.
We are affected by the forces around us and not all of us are living in uplifting environments.

We all have passion whether flowing freely or locked within. We all have love.
We all have the power to make things happen in the world around us.

There is no such thing as a muggle and the word being used in the way I have heard is used is not any better to me than other names people have been called over the centuries in this country. Names that most of us would not stand to hear our friends use.

May we all learn to see the brilliant, beautiful souls of others. May it become it easy to hold others with love and light. To see the barriers, the fear, the anger and not take it on, but rather soften the air around those who are lost in stress…. and beam a little.

I love it when people can do that for me on the days that I need it.

There is no such thing as a Muggle.

by Tasara

What Goddess Would I Invoke?

goddessWhat goddess shall I invoke to heighten the goddess in me?
Will I pick a temptress or fine lady like Persephone?
Will I call on a mother to keep me safe and strong?
Will it be the Great Isis who’s led my path for so long?

What if I sing to the water nymphs who love to laugh and play
just like I do when I am in the river for the whole day?
Or the wild tree one with the smile of fun, whose glimpse has become so rare
that no one knows her story or how she came to be at the fair.

No, I think I’ll call on the one I know that has been here since I was born
I’ll call on the Goddess of Me with my silver horn.
She is no aspect of anything, she’s the whole package for sure.
From dark to light, fair to blight, the one that will always endure.

She was born from a human named Judith, who rode horses across the plain
and a Pa named David who could think of nothing but flying his next airplane.
She came from the woods of the great northeast and traveled across to the sea
where the mountains are high, the ravens do fly and there she threw out her TV.

That’s who I will call, it’s nothing at all and bigger than I could expect.
To honor myself, (not a book on the shelf), a mystery too deep to inspect.

by Tasara

The Spider Story

There once was a little spider. She liked to spin little webs in the grass. She didn’t care if animals walking by destroyed her webs. She just made another one. Her webs were always different and she liked to make them so much. In the morning they glistened with the dew and at night they shone under the star light.

When she got bigger, the spider climbed up into the trees. There she made her webs between the branches and she got to listen to the gossip of the monkeys. She also found that she could make webs that connected the trees. She liked this connecting part of her webs very much. It was like she could be in two places at once. She could also get to places and explore and she went to many places.

One day the spider decided that she would throw her web high in the air and see what where it would land next. Well, her web landed right on a star. The spider was so surprised she was not sure what to do but you know, curiosity is quite overwhelming so what do you think she did? Well of course she had to climb up the web to see what it would be like to be on a star. When she got there she turned around and ohhh wow, she said! She had no idea that the earth looked like a beautiful blue marble.

What else, she noticed that she could see over all the earth. In her life, she had been to many places, spinning and crawling from one web to another. But when she looked down, she could see two places that she loved at once. She thought, well, let me try something. And she cast a web down to an old place where the big cats liked to roam and then also she cast a web down to her favorite place with the monkeys in the trees.

After she did that, she felt wonderful. She had connected these two places that she loved and knew that they were connected in some beautiful way through her. She loved to love the earth and decided to stay up there on the star.

The spider has been up in the stars for so long that nobody really remembers when she first climbed up there. Her web has grown to reach places all over the earth and after being under the moonlight for so long, it has grown silver and strong enough to walk upon. She has been up there for so long that over time, she learned to turn into a lady whenever she wants to. That is why she is called Spiderwoman. She loves to cast her web down to people she loves and she knows that she can connect these people that she loves in this way. So if you ever feel like your life has shifted in unexpected and mysterious ways, bumping you into marvelous and miraculous people, maybe the Spiderlady did it.

by Tasara

Sample chapter

[[This is a sample chapter from a much longer piece. It reflects where I was in my 20’s. Does it resonate with you?]]

The Winds From Behind

If I may be allowed to write
in this box
made of pyrite, mine.
My views
on my world
from my foot prints,
the ones I’m standing on
that you haven’t seen yet.

If I may be given the room to hear my own breath, permission to speak for myself, in this little box, for this little period of time. I know who I am and I have tested my perceptions of the outer world. I know the people I have known, I am not thick and my reality must have some sort of stamp on it to make me pass through to the place where we are all happy, all of the time. My little box is black with light tight corners. It will draw a spark if you run a match across it’s surface. It holds a podium made for me to speak about my views. I stand on my podium and scream, not to be bigger than everyone else, but to be heard. I don’t see anyone in the corners (of course not, there is no light) but I don’t think there would be much room for anyone but me. I think I am alone, but I know someone must be listening. I couldn’t possibly be alone. It has to be dark so I don’t forget what I would say. It has to be vice tight, or the monsters may come in and confuse my thoughts. They will tell me I’m stupid and I will forget that I’m not.

Sometimes I feel my power rush out to growl and spit like the warriorress that I am. I am Isis from Egypt. I am ready, hardened, cut-throat, righteous, shining. I have things to say. I am called to be the Defender-the battles make me spice. When I am setting things right, I am the Hindu Kali in her Destroyer form, come up from the underworld, my anger and quick wit flashing down lightning to strike the earth where the liars lie. I do not think or choose, I channel, and the Goddess speaks through me. I feel her hot scorch, and scowls run through my body.

I must not be alone. I must not be unusual, in facing against the world’s desire to follow rules of greed instead of love. This is not a dead concept. I move, claim my ground, bare my wrath, but when I come to, there is the black box, where I beg permission to speak-or if not, to sleep. There are forces out there that don’t get represented on those big screens. I know it. I don’t hear about them through the wreck of clashing network amplitudes. I must shout or no one may hear me. I am alone! I can’t be alone! I must not be! I must not be!

I am an East-Coaster, from the North American, the post-baby-boomer generation. That means after the institution of the traditional marriage began to breakdown, after sexual taboos were broken, illegal drugs became commonplace and women were given the validation to breathe as unique, intelligent individuals. People in my generation (and younger) are extremely sophisticated compared to our parents at the same age. We have traveled more, lived in more places, move often and with light speed. We started having sex at a younger age, have tried more drugs and have permanently lost our innocence. Unlike any generation before us, we developed our personalities to the backdrop of an incessant seductive barrage of the mass media. We are more independently minded than our parents, as a principal, yet our minds are twisted up in wires. We always have an ear for environmental corporate discharge.

My heritage is one of brokenness. Broken English, broken culture, broken hearts and most profoundly, broken families. The baby boomers like to think of us as slackers. They sit in their living rooms over their gin and tonics and call us spoiled, unmotivated, money-driven and of having no unique generational identity, They wonder why there is no easy stamp to identify us with. I find this banal sort of decision-making from people who are supposed to be older and wiser than us insulting. Nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand people I have met who are near my age come from parents that split up or are so terribly married, they should have split up years ago. Many of us carry inside ourselves the most intimate affect of the revolution of the sixties, the kitchen wars. We remember dinner table skirmishes that resulted because of words like freethinker, chauvinist pig and equal rights. Unlike the centuries of sitting room hostilities before us, what we lived through was signaling the end to the most fundamental system known to humanity, the family. With the loss of family came a disintegration of commonplace honesty, earnestness, trusting the stranger, the warmth of community. Truth worked like a knife, and still does inside of those of us who struggle to not repeat the past. We are skilled at finding flaws in other people’s relationships and easy to fall into emotional landmines of our own. Many of us have disassociated from our families, unable to maintain bonds with what our current society has taught us is dysfunctional. We want better and we’ve been told we can get it. Actually, we’ve been told that if we’re smart enough, work hard enough, we can get anything we want.

The societal level of denial around who we are because of these experiences, angers me. We desire to have the kind of loving, power-sharing relationships the self-help books say is possible, but we have no role models or context in which to frame it. When we try, we run into the patterns of our parents’, pulling us into an undertow of conflict, covered with a thick impermeable atmosphere of denial. Some of us have given up, choosing to be alone rather than risk regression. Some of us have made it, shored up an island with a friend or lover. Some of us have “settled”, deciding that the jagged comfort of almost being there is more than enough to ask for.

I am shouting. This is what is in me. I love these explosions of aftermath, these scars which allowed women to vote, put a name on alcoholism, brought the therapeutic relationship into social acceptability, started affirmative action, sent my parents in their separate directions. Our generation has been gifted with the collective dream of peace at home, where things are spoken out loud and listening to the souls of the ones we love-including ourselves-is a skill learned from birth. This dream, which can shine in warmth and guidance or beat down with oppressive idealism has become my life. I am thankful for it because it is so much more than what my folks had when they had their lives before them, but I am still shouting. We are the children of the repercussions of the sixties. The broken cradle that was thrown out was ours. As our parent’s children, a weight is put upon us to do better. We want to do better. They look to us with this dream and wish it upon us, but we don’t even know who we are.

by Tasara

Bees imagine

**Bee Imagine**

Imagine you are a bee.

You buzz in airy ocean
of the most delicious smells,
waves and ribbons of them
some pungent and full,
some like narrow streams of gladness.

In low places there is found lace, heaven.
Further on, grace.
Along the fences is rosy rose,
burst of rose,
sweet rose,
cool rose.

But there is one scent,
a ravenously dizzy scent
that calls soft through airy jungle
as you madly fly its trail

all high and too hither.

by Tasara

Mask Making

The Blessings of AlgizWe do molds on our faces for mask making. This is how we do it. We lie, 4 of us, heads together, feet facing the 4 directions. Close our eyes and our partners lays plaster/clothe strips over our faces until there is nothing uncovered but nostril holes to breathe out of.

There is sage. There is chiming, a didj played around our bodies. There is a guided meditation, down to wooded places,..and high to forests above the sky.

The message we are told is beautiful, that we are offering ourselves up to create a template of our own faces. This template to be used to sculpt masks of the archetypes that we are called upon to – and that we choose to accept the call of – to craft a mask for. An archetype will be presented through our own faces. A mirror of ourselves, the sacred, our relationship to it and whatever the perceiver perceives. I am cold and I have to pee. Really bad.

Finally we arrive to the place where we are to meet ones willing to come be made…this place is dry for me. Spiderwoman has taken her seat weeks ago. So this is a little boring. But why? Aren’t there ANY others? But see…there is a little black spider crawling on the edges…

We are called back. There is drumming and singing. I am thinking ok…whatever… and then HE appears.

I’ve seen him before, glimpses of him. I don’t know where, perhaps in dreams, behind the layers in my shamanic journeys, definitely in the folds of magic at the festivals. It is “Myth Maker”. It is HE. He stands before me. I am once again, awestruck that he would come to me. Me. Me. He is wearing a leather mask with curves cut into it the remind me of the “Place where Myths are Made” under the tree in the deep deep lower world. This place I was taken to a month ago to be told that I too can partake in this energy. It is not only for “others”. I can come any time I like.

HE is full of the darkness of mystery. He radiates power of stalking, of love in a hidden way, of an awesome and formidable charge to make stories and bring them forth to the light. (this charge I do not fully realize until the next day). He touches me. For a moment he is inside me and then he is before me again. And then he disappears.

My body is shaking with emotion and a surge of energy.

It is time to come back. Remove the masks. We have been lying on the empty stage for about an hour so I wrinkle my face until the hardening plaster pulls off my face. I want to weep for no reason. I sit, mask in hand, eyes closed still and cry. A bit.

So. There are tears in the inside of my mask.

I am repelled away from the intensity into the clearing, remembering it being referred to as a sacred grove during meditation. I look up at the sky, the towering trees. I am pulled to a white block of granite and magnetized there for what seems an endless amount of time, as waves of energy rush and rush and rush through my body. Oh goodness, this was unexpected..not the sort of thing that happens in one, simple guided meditation.

I cannot move. I am entranced. I’ve been here too long. I cannot think of any place left to go, away from chatting…the stage has become a sacred space and no one is trying to talk to me so I can be there, while Hjeron finishes the last person, lying on it’s sacred floor, face down until I am so cold I am shivering.

I am at the fire pit, blanket wrapped around me while I stare and stare and stare and stare. This energy is not leaving me. I am into it and it is into me in similar patterns of sacred mushrooms and I do not want to let it go. It is not subsiding. So I sit and sit and stare. I am not sure what, how or when the patterns faded.

I know as I write this I could tap right back into it again. I don’t know how long this will be in me. I feel such terror. Terror that this dream, this charge, this making that I longed for so long to be a part of will not accept me when I open myself to it. I gently tell myself to take my own time, that a gift given such as this will not go away.

by Tasara

Puddle of Joy

I let go
and all construct and reason flew above me,
useless as I fell.
I felt warm.
Warm darkness, warm earth, warm love, warm embrace.

I waited for the crash of the fall.
And it did not happen.
Huge laughter welled out,
my world changed,
my heart opened
like the smell of good cooking wafting from the kitchen.

I am fine.

I looked around see a tribe of jewels,
each glittering differently, each dark night mysterious,
each as soft as the morning sun on the dew before the festival begins.

And in my kitchen there is the salt of the earth
my friends huddled in the booth,
giggling over tea,
what we make, what we share spread throughout the land
for what we love cannot fit into one hundred rooms
and there are a hundred rooms ready for such giggling.

We spin, we weave, the spider in the stars has a grin.
We dance, we play, we paint our faces and goof around.

The creatures from the other side, the sacred ones
creep into our skins and gleam at one another through our eyes.

There is so much more to us than us,
we, sacred portals, to bow to one another
to hold out our hands, to get up and live
to be brave, to fall down, to take the roll and then

to laugh.

by Tasara

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