05/21/2017 by syrbal-labrys
I’ve not been doing HecateDemeter’s “Magical Battle of America” rites on Saturdays — not for just over a month now. I stopped the day I read of her call to summon magical “wildfire.” I read that call, in mid-April with an immediate sense of horror and shock. I don’t think Easterners know what wildfire is, or does in the Western USA. The rest of the day unfolded, even without my participation, as if some horror had been loosed in our lives. Death and grief fell upon us. The repercussions left half the family suffering reactivated rigors of PTSD.
I have a personal rule against magical acts when something is screwed up in my own head. So the rest of April passed without me lifting a magical finger. But this month, as April’s heavy showers indeed led to May flowers — I walked out into my gardens to be greeted by lilacs dripping scent upon me as snowy white wisteria blossoms drooped over my kitchen window. I felt better, nightmares and weeping fits began to abate. Therefore, in the last two weeks, I took to my overgrown weed infested gardens with violent purpose. You might call what I did UNsympathetic magic? You might consider it merely a psychological exercise?
I looked at some lovely things in my yard – lovely surplus things taking over other things. I re-named them for similar things in America’s political life: things like the 2nd Amendment taking precedence over the 1st Amendment. And I gleefully ripped them out of my soil. I looked at moisture sucking weeds and re-named them for people sucking the life and truth out of American public discourse. Then I meticulously eradicated every example of them that I could find in my garden. Or, alternatively, I flamed them with a propane torch. I did this over and over, maintaining connection and purpose for hours on end. Each day of such activity took a toll. I was exhausted and aching and almost too tired to refuel with food.
Approximately one third of my half acre lot has been reclaimed in about five days work. One third of my lot stays more or less wild at all times. (But I am considering the creeping “blackcap vines” there something worthy of re-naming and weed-whacking to oblivion.) The other third will be retaken, with similar magical focus and intent before June has advanced too far. I replace the things I rip or burn out with other things. I plant wild flowers to feed bees. I groom my ancient lavender plants and water them to provide color, scent, and beauty. My roses will bloom soon, the first iris opened today. I hold to the beauty of the gardens and the glories of which America is capable.
I will work on the Labyrinth soon — where deep blue flowers already hum with bumblebees. I will talk to the bees and to the dead whose names I’ve read there for over 14 years now. I began my magical battle for America walking inwards there and calling at the heart to the more than 8300 American and Coalition men and women who have died in ill-conceived wars that have emptied American treasuries and hearts — and chairs at tables, pillows in beds. I walked back out, inviting any who wished to battle for America to follow me out into that place where the invisible might yet be shaped. There are not many weeds there, a bit of grass still springs here and there, at most, these days.
My wrists are sore. My back aches. But my heart grows strong again, my purpose returns. A certain journeying head-of-state thinks he knows how to dance with a sword. That’s not what I call dancing….I’ve danced with my sword. And used one to cut back unruly rose canes….just saying. Bushido gardening, my son calls it. Bushido isn’t a movie theme, you see? It is a code of ethics. Ethics is something that needs infused into American political life just now; I must see what can be pruned and what can be planted, don’t you think?