Hatch Chilies, Solitary and Musings

Ok, as some of you know, I live in Albuquerque, NM. Right now we're in the midst of Hatch Chili season, and I've been working my tail off since the end of June preparing for all of this.

Never any rest for the wicked you know.

Those beautiful strands of chilies that are icons of southwestern life, well those things are a pain in my ass. I've seen nothing but strands upon strands of them. People are buying them in droves. So, I'm seeing red almost all day. LOL.

I've been up to my ears in listening to other people's drama too. Seriously. I now remember why I stay a solitary and don't practice with others.

I was brought up,magickally speaking, in a very strict coven. We couldn't talk about coven outside of coven meetings and rituals, we were not allowed to go to other rituals or festivals until after we'd completed our third degree, and, if something as mundane as a drum circle started delving into a discussion of magickal practice, we had to leave. Immediately.

Punishment for breaking these rules was swift and immediate. You were thrown out of the coven, without even so much as a by-your-leave. Done.

However, I really do appreciate that sort of old school mentality that I see returning to so many covens. With these rules comes a true bonding of the coven structure. You learn rituals the way your HP and HPS want you to, based in the traditions of your coven. You bond with that coven and are ingrained in its traditions and practices without coming in from an open circle saying, "Well at XYZ coven's ritual WE didn't call the quarters like THAT!" or being ballsy enough to tell your HP or HPS, "Well, I saw TYQ coven doing xyz and I think YOU'RE WRONG!"

Hang on. Hang on. OMG, pull your broomstick OUT OF YOUR ASS. Let me explain.

I believe that if ANYONE feels uncomfortable in coven, they should be able to say, "I don't like this, I don't feel comfortable."

I also believe that they should be able to offer a solution to something they don't feel comfortable with. And it is up to the SOLE DISCRETION of coven leadership whether or not to act upon it.

For example. The coven I learned in had a scourging ritual for initiates. It involved being struck across the back with a cat of nine tails. One covener was ADAMANT that to be struck like that would trigger some PTSD type issues. Our HP and HPS worked with the ENTIRE COVEN to figure out a solution for this one person (and prospective people who might have the same affliction). A solution was hit upon. They were to be SCOURED with big, raw, just peeled loofah's. I mean, taken dried, off of the vine and peeled that day. No water, no softening. Still a scourging effect, and for her, not as traumatic.

HOWEVER when another covener a few months later, came into coven, hands on hips proclaiming, "Well that's not what we did at the Grove this past weekend!" (referring to a festival they'd been to), then I remember very clearly my HPS walking up to said person, cutting their cords off of them and ordering them out of circle and off of property.

Harsh? Yep. You better believe it. However my home coven has managed to keep it's traditions alive, and unaltered (mostly) for over 50 years. When those of us who have hived off go back to the home covenstead, we are quickly reminded that on her land, it is her rules. We rarely forget that.

However, because of the behaviors of our HP and HPS we've actually been told that she's really a cult leader. Having been a child of a cult, (we'll go into that another time duckies) I know all too well that these rules, this behavior is not cultish. These rules are in place for a reason. That reason being the cohesive working of magick, and keeping a magickal tradition in it's purest form.

I agree with that 110%.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm done with my coffee and there will be tourists coming any moment to throw money at me for chilies.

Festivals, playing nice, and the pagan community at large.

In the interest of NOT feeding the trolls and giving them something else to hashtag incorrectly, I've decided to blog about something I've seen go on in not necessarily my community, but the pagan community at large lately. 

A friend of mine from Kansas City was simply all a-twitter that there were going to be TWO festivals on Memorial Day weekend in 2015 and that it was a witchwar of epic proportions.

You see, this "upstart" group, Gathering of Pagan Souls has decided that Memorial Day weekend is a grand time for a festival. Their registration is open, and mirable dictu, it WORKS, plus their website promises acts like Wendy Rule and Raven and Stephanie Grimassi. Upon looking over the whole website, for a brand new festival, they have an AMAZING line up of well known speakers and bands. Much more so than I've seen ANYWHERE at any festival for a long, long time. 

Plus they're bringing in new talent. THAT is exciting in itself.

The first assertion I've seen that is faulty is “we don't have a big enough community to support both events.”

Back that truck up Hugo. I beg to differ with you. The pagan community across the US is not big enough to attend two events over Memorial Day Weekend?! Say it ain't so! Quick, all pagans of any path, across the US is less than 2000? I think not. 

Can you imagine? Someone thinks the US can't support two pagan festivals on one weekend. Can you imagine a thousand people, at a single pagan festival? That would be exciting! And I know the pagans didn't all convert to becoming member of the Westboro Baptist Church, or something equally as asinine. In fact, I can assure you that the pagan community across the country is even larger than it was 5 years ago.  More people than ever are seeking resources about alternative spirituality. Theoretically, people should be travelling in droves to pagan festivals. What a way to learn about spirituality other than yours? Make new friends? Discover a community outside of Tuscaloosa Alabama? Outside of Brazil Indiana? How about listening to speakers talk about pagan subjects? How about grooving to music written and performed by pagans? What a concept!

Why aren't people attending festivals? You'd have to ask them. However the misguided assumption  that the "pagan community isn't big enough' is pretty obviously not the reason. Whether it's about money or about practicality or about something more general, they aren't showing up. If what they seek is a more affordable alternative, this second festival, with its much lower and more reasonable costs, will fill that need. 

I read the GPS website. I read the HSA website. So far no one is slinging mud, unless it's been on Facebook, where I've had the pleasure of someone sending me screenshots of a couple of HSA members who seem to have their panties in a bunch. I won't post their diatribe here. It's merely ugliness on their part. However, there are a couple of HSA members who seem truly supportive of GPS and therefore show me that indeed, some of their members can be class acts. 

We are not to be each other's enemy. In fact I reached out to one of the coordinators of GPS (Angela) and asked her about the choice of both date and place of the festival she is helping to coordinate, and this was her response: "It is a practical time for our event, both for the land as well as for people to come out for a festival. Historically, for many, it's a 3 day weekend, school is out and people will generally take a long vacation about that time. People will choose whatever festival speaks to their heart, and no matter what, I believe, that there IS indeed the community out there to support both festivals. Heartland will continue, just as Gathering of Pagan Souls will continue." 

Pretty non angst-y, non argumentative, non confrontational and very non witch war-ish, if you ask me. Sounds like someone just wants to put on their idea of a festival that just doesn't mesh up with what someone else's idea of a festival is like. Plus, I've perved her Facebook page, and she seems like a pretty sweet person. Then I perved the KC Metaphysical page and their coordinators page, and they seem like pretty cool people too. They've not said anything negative or otherwise about HSA or HPF. Not one of the three of them. 

I've tried to contact HSA, but the emails keep bouncing back to me from the website. 

Whatever will be, will be, you know? However, I think I'm personally going to go to the new festival, Gathering of Pagan Souls. Seriously going to pack my bags, load up the Prius and road trip from Albuquerque to Leavenworth, Kansas.  Check out their website. www.gatheringofpagansouls.com

*Disclaimer* I am not affiliated with Gathering Of Pagan Souls or Heartland Spiritual Alliance. 

Surprise Surprise Surprise

Sometimes things go to shit in order to get you where you need to go.

It takes you to strange places, even scary places, and it forces you to face your past. People and situations arise that can only force you to stop for a second and have a good head scratching. You find happiness where you weren't even looking.

Over the last month I have had to reevaluate the value of the people in my life. Some for the worse and some for better than I could have hoped. Some don't care about the damage they're doing, some don't even try anything, and some come in from the cold and make you feel like it's all worth it.

People surprise you.

I'm finally seeing things clearly for the first time in months, and years. Many years.

This past year, well it's been a ride for sure, and I'm still not convinced that the Wild Mouse isn't going to fly off the tracks. As a matter of fact, I feel a bit like I'm stuck on the ride. I want to run away for a weekend and be free of the demands of people who seem to want to kill each other one moment and are perfectly fine the next. I'm sick of being in the middle of people who can't seem to even try and play nice.

Remember how long I looked for a job, before I found this one? How it was nothing short of a miracle? It happens to be with three people I love working with, (the rest, well, meh) and I enjoy the variety of duties. Too bad it's owner thinks giving me a cut in hours is a punishment. It's an escape...and I don't know about you, but it seems a bit dysfunctional to want to go to work in order to get some peace. Especially when you're dealing with taxes and accounting stuff. Two things I hate with a plu perfect passion.

I have a lot planned this year and the next few months will be a test of wills, and I have no idea how it will pan out. I have choices before me that are so appealing, and choices that will inevitably alter the direction of my life. I like the promise of that.

I always try to listen to my heart. If my head took over all the time, well then, I'd be in some serious shit.

We can try to do the things that are "right", but sometimes it takes a tale-spin to knock you on your ass and help you figure out that comfortably numb is not the way to go. Why do we choose to be unhappy? Is it easier to go on hoping things will change for the better? When does a bump in the road become a sinkhole?

The last two weeks have given me a glimpse into a future that is uncertain but positive. Many people are going to suffer and fight...but the one thing I am sure of right now is, I'm done hurting. I'm done playing Ms. Passive-Aggressive in order to appease people who ultimately don't seem to care.

I'm sick of false promises.

It's time for proof.

The Barbecue Fiasco.......

Oh my darlings, I am so terribly sorry that I've left you 5 whole days without any snark. But the real world has been rather a douche nozzle to yours truly. And here's what you need to know about that:

I belong to a rather large organization, that every year donates millions of dollars to children's charities, medical research, etc. It's a benevolent organization with many chapters across the US. Of course, every year we are asked to do so many fundraisers. One for this charity, one for that charity, you get the general feel for it.

Our chapter has an average membership age of 65 and an average household income of $25,000 per member per year. We have alot of elderly, retired and disabled people in our membership.

The young people coming in are outranked by the older generations. Their ideas are pooh pooed, they never get taken seriously and never get elected to office.

Several times people have been called at the last minute to ask if they can help pay a bill to keep the chapter's doors open. It's generally the younger set who step up to the plate. Despite all of the crap they take, they still care.

Well this past weekend, there was a barbecue contest. It's a big fundraiser, (Raising nearly $1,000! Woo Hoo! Let the miracles happen!) and people were there all day cooking and competing. The cans were flying, knives were chopping, minions were cleaning, and the smells throughout the place were really driving us all to distraction.

Finally, we'll call the team, Randy's Rangers, a young team full of experienced cooks and large benefactors to the chapter was waiting on the judging. Their area was flawless, their meat was by all accounts of all of the other teams around them (lots of sampling the competition mind you) the undisputed winner. The general public came in, and within minutes the Rangers had completely sold out of their barbecue.

The judges had long since taken their samples and everyone's sitting around waiting for the judges to come out, when the chapter presidents wife came out to announce the winners. 3rd place....given to a chapter officer, 2nd place.....given to a wealthy retired new member......

Then the chapter president's wife calls out, " I swear this wasn't rigged, but the winner is "Dirty Don's Old Socks Barbecue"! (that team compromising solely her husband).

The look of shock and the incredulous gasp from the crowd said it all. Don still had a pan of meat left. No one was eating it. However, people were gathered and pictures commenced to being taken right in front of the Randy's Rangers table. Several extremely pissed off cooks were admonished by their leader to "smile. just suck it up and smile." As it was announced that all of the winners were donating their winnings back to the chosen charity.

The leader of the Rangers showed immense class when congratulating all of the winners and smiling in the face of the president's wife. Their area was immediately cleaned, vacated and they went to sit with their friends, their supporters, who were almost half of the people in attendance.

Here's what that chapter doesn't know. Randy's Rangers, that are members, may continue as returning members to the lodge. But only to rent the facility cheaply. As far as sponsoring the 3 large yearly events, well, that's all revenue lost to the chapter.

And one final thing, that all or Randy's Rangers don't know. The chapter president's wife, well she kept going on and on about how it touched her heart that the winners would donate their hard earned prize money back to the charity. The leader of the Rangers, smiled, agreed with her and said, "Well, that was our intention too, in fact whatever prize money we won, we were going to contribute back to the chapter with a matching donation."

The look on that woman's face was priceless.

I just wanted all of Randy's Rangers to know that......they know who they are.

Housewife Porn, disguised as fiction.

After finding myself reading housewife porn the other day, disguised as a mystery (mystery author and everything!) I decided that there must be a trip to Half Price Books….. soon, because I must have been getting desperate for reading material. In the meantime, I need to get something off of my chest!

Why is it that in fiction all boy/girl parts anatomy must be regarded as "her sexuality" or "his pulsing member". You know that vagina and penis are just not words that turn anyone on. I mean, really, do people hump? No, they don't. But, I guarantee you that any couple, who has children, when given a precious night alone, doesn’t spend hours and hours, “languidly stroking every inch of her body, until, at last she cried out and he entered her, completing their union of souls and bodies.” I guarantee you it’s more like, “Yeah?” “Yeah!” followed by a ridiculous sprint to the bedroom and 15 or 20 minutes of furious noogie before you both decide it’s time for a shower and then go catch up on Downton Abbey.

Characters names must be outlandish things like River Stone, Paradiesie, Dimitri, or Whitney McAllister IV. No one has names like Matt Smith, Carrie Parker, and Winnie Douglas…..nothing simple. I have you know that Matt Smith, at least the one I know is a fabulously complicated character. And a total hottie.

And the past! Do go on and on and on about them...in a manner that makes the reader wonder if they missed the beginning of a series, or if they should continue reading to find out why the hell it's trudging on through the minefield of life. This is a fine line though, and must be handled carefully; otherwise your reader may get distracted by their gray hairs and toddle off to dye it pink...or something like that.

Don't forget that the person in charge is always an ass who somehow represses and antagonizes the main character. In reality, the behavior of Dr. House or Michael from The Office, would spell "lawsuit". However, it is considered acceptable in fiction. If you're confused as to what I'm talking about, please Netflix either show.

Bonus points for mentioning anything from 9/11. Because nobody is sick of hearing about that shit yet. Least of all me. Don’t start with me. I’ll get up on a soapbox so fast it will make your head spin. Just. Don’t.

It's acceptable to write book after book containing similar scenarios and/or similar characters. Even if they're not actually a recurring character in a series. No one will notice. Trust me. And your themes of great and tragic loss followed by a finding of oneself and a gaining of inner peace, well, you’ve been working that angle for 40 years. Don’t get me wrong, you’re a best seller. But I quit reading you a long time ago. I picked up this book, hoping for something new.

No one expects you to venture away from what you know, so feel free to have every single book you write take place in the same geographical setting. Southern California, Maine, or La-La land for example. And please, keep the same supporting characters throughout all of your novels. You know what I mean, the overly bubbly man who pumps your gas and maintains your car, the surly teenager at the drive thru, the hipster barista….I swear, it’s GOLD….too bad snarky doesn’t translate.

And never, ever, ever consult a thesaurus. Feel free to use the same words repetitively like sluice or bougainvillea. Oh, while you’re at it, throw that dictionary away too. Forget how to use spell check while you’re at it.

Pregnant characters must always go into labor at the most inopportune times, because fight or flight instincts don't exist. And labor and delivery must be swift! So swift that no one really has time to prepare and little Alexander Christian Bonaparte McMillian is wrapped in the work jacket of a local tow truck driver who just happened to be in the area.

When characters find themselves in a foreign country they must be masters of the local language. Having your character flipping through their English to Japanese dictionary muttering "What the fuck are they saying!?" just doesn't come across the same. True, it would be realistic, but not entertaining. Real life situations are never entertaining.

Women will never start their periods in the middle of the jungle. It just doesn't happen, so don't even think about writing it. Oh wait! Women in novels don’t have periods! Don’t write about the messy bits of life….ever…so droll.

It doesn't matter if your character is smack dab in the middle of the African jungle or Disney World, they must always have the darnedest luck and run into the bad guys.

Even if the bad guys are armed with automatic weapons, bazookas, tanks, or Atomic bombs...they will miss hitting the good guys, because they took all of their target training with Stormtroopers. Alternately, the good guys can take out fifteen bad guys with a BB shot from a frazzled straw found in a dumpster. I mean kill them dead. Seriously, earlier today when I was held up in a Quick Trip I fashioned a restraint system from a toilet roll and a trash can. The cops were amazed at my ability to thwart a criminal.

No one ever utters "There is no way you’re paying me nearly enough to take this shit."

After reading the housewife porn disguised as a mystery book I wondered how any self respecting author could look at themselves in the mirror after writing some of the nonsense that I read. I developed an appreciation for paragraph long PG rated sex scenarios. They had sex....and now we're moving on. Maybe it's the perpetual 12 year old in me, but I couldn't help laughing at some of the crap that I read. I was embarrassed for them.

I will never get that time back. Ever.

Now, as a writer myself, I know writers who commit all of the above errors. Trust me, when I’m in the heat of the moment, spell check, dictionaries and thesauruses are NOT at all what I have on my mind. I’m trying to get characters in and out of sticky situations, arranging horrible fights with family and friends or writing a sex scene that won’t get me stuck in the “Adult Fiction” (aka Housewife Porn) section. Fleeing, fighting and fucking my friends. It’s what makes stories for me. 

Then there’s that obsession I have with Love

21 years ago, I felt that I believed in love more than anything else in the world. Love mattered more than anything, and I was a person willing to fight for it, earn it, hold it, nurture it and protect it. I needed love so badly that I was willing to do anything for it. And unlike the Meatloaf song, I’d even have done “that”.

21 years ago a wonderful movie arrived in theaters, and it was like it was tailor-made for this wide eyed wanderer. Because it put love on a pedestal and for 105 minutes the audience got to find love, pursue love, fall in love with love, adore love, and worship love, and above all else, love. Above all things, love. No matter about distance, no matter about a broken heart, no matter about anything, LOVE won out, big time in the end.

21 years ago, this person—let’s call this person “Hildy” for the sake of brevity and clarity—knew what love was. Hildy knew all the facts about love, how it worked, how it was supposed to go. The more impatient among you may be tempted to suggest that Hildy was an idiot, and that would be fair, but the more generous and tolerant may be thinking that maaaaybe this Hildy person just had a lot to learn. A lot. A LOT to learn. Maybe. (Hint: YES. OMFG. A LOT.)

And as time passed, Hildy did, in fact, learn. A lot. Fucked up. A lot. Loved a lot. Lost a lot. Lost more.

But never once lost faith in love.

 Until.

There’s always an “until” in these stories.

Until.

I watched Sleepless in Seattle that night for the first time in…I don’t know. I don’t know how long it had been. And I found myself mourning that person with the enduring, unshakable faith in love and all it had to offer. And I don’t mean any kind of gentle, “awww, what the hell happened to my younger idealistic idiot self” mourning. I mean tears-running-down-my-face-wtf-happened-to-that-essential-core-belief-in-love kind of mourning.

In the last few years, during the course of some rather unpleasant relationship issues, I let that Hildy finally and completely slip away, and I never went looking. I let that wide eyed wanderer and her eternal belief in love drown just as surely as if she had been Jack hanging on to that door on the Titanic.

Tonight I pinpointed that moment when I let it happen. That moment when love—my faith in it, my belief in it—stopped being a factor. The moment when that part of me just…separated and went its own way.

And I…I just let it happen. I didn’t fight it; I didn’t scream and rail against the injustice of it all. I just let it happen. I became complacent, or was it defeated? Anyway it was very much unlike the same wide eyed Hildy that walked out of that theater 21 years ago.

21 years ago I stepped out of a movie theater, and skipped hand in hand with love down to the waterfront in Seattle. I felt vindicated, like someone else out there actually got what love was. I was pretty sure that getting in my car and driving home was just going to be fucking impossible, so I went dancing on the pier and wandering through downtown Seattle with someone I loved.

21 years ago I had a lot of necessary and painful lessons and experiences ahead of me. But losing that essential part of me, that love of love, should never have been one of them.

I never went looking.

I’m looking, now.

(In my best Scarlett O’Hara accent, clutching at my heart) “As God is my witness, as God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never lose my love of love again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill. As God is my witness, I'll never lose my love of love again.”

Compassion pisses me off.

When it comes to compassion, people are the ultimate testers, and the closer they are in your circle to you, they more they will test it and make you want to rip out chunks of your hair and toss compassion out the window!  I don’t’ know how that happens and I’m not asking now ( DO YOU HEAR ME UNIVERSE!!??! ATTENTION! I AM OFFICIALLY NOT ASKING "WHY?"!) For me, it's easier to have compassion for the harried carhop at Sonic that I see every morning (*waves* Hi Brandi!)  than it is for me to have compassion for the co-worker making snarky remarks about co-workers. It's much easier to have compassion for people who aren’t in your immediate circle than it is to have compassion for people you talk to on a daily basis. Although my husband shows great compassion for me when I overload the dishwasher. ("And leave lights on. And don’t do your laundry. And...." he compassionately added.)

Anyway...Fairy of Great Compassion arrived at my apartment door recently, along with the Bad Nasty Entitlement Fairy. Both of those Fairies make tough guests. I love them for existing. I hate them when I'm dealing with them--much like dieting and litter boxes.

A few weeks ago, I sat down and had a conversation with someone in my community who had sent me a snarky, hate filled message on Facebook. They were angry that no one had reached out to them to check on them and they'd been going through a rough time--yet no one knew the extent of it. I pointed out that many had been very kind and supportive of them in the instances of when they'd reached out via email or social media. Yet, this person felt that they shouldn't have to reach out and let us know they were suffering--it should simply be something that the community did on its own accord: seek, discover, absolve the nasty business going on. More importantly, it was something that I as a High Priestess of the community, should have had on my radar to do: a.) Notice that t person hadn't been on social media for a few days and check up on them. b.) Reach out when seeing that the person was having a bad time--by phone, or in person. A comment on Facebook, no matter how supportive, did not cut it. They were not in my close social circle. I wasn't aware that they expected this of me. Even if I were aware, I'm not sure I would do it--with 300 to 500 people in my general community, I'm not in a position to notice if one disappears from the internet for a few days. I am also not a therapist or a social worker. I work hard at a job I hate and might like to work on my own projects once in awhile. I simply can't do it all, but I do the best that I can. 

With that, we talked about Entitlement.

"How dare you call me entitled???" They fired back. "After all I've been through! You sit there in a comfortable home with money to spare and you call ME ENTITLED?”

And I realized I’d given one of the nastiest insults one can to someone born after Generation X--a mistake from which there is no return, only blog posts to hopefully better explain it to other people.

Entitlement: the word people in the generation above mine throw at the generation after mine, calling them entitled for "thinking things should be handed to them," whereas Millennials respond, "We're more thinking we shouldn't have this much debt at this age." I'm stuck in a weird place as a Gen X and before the Millennials, so I don't feel like anyone was talking to me.

And, in this person, I was faced with a manifestation of myself from just a few  years ago—when my grandfather died.

When news reached my social circles (2006, so Facebook wasn’t my main form of communication), outpourings of love and support came at me from every angle. Long-lost friends texted and people I hadn’t seen in years showed up at his funeral. My world had just ended.

But a couple of weeks later, I was back in college and it was like it never existed.

I was a poster-child for Toby Keith’s song, “I wanna talk about me!”

A summary of messages/calls from people in the aftermath: 
"Just take it easy. Go for a walk or something." "I lost my dog Bingo...so; I know EXACTLY what you're going through." "What in the world could still be the matter? It’s time to move on; he’s in a better place."

Me: Well...he was my hero.
I can’t focus to study.
I want to talk to him so bad and I hurt so bad and there's not a friggin' thing I can do about any of it.
I have to go to work and school and be a mom because no one cares about my emotional state.
I'm not trained to cope with this sh*t and here I am coping with this sh*t...

EVERYTHING'S NOT FINE. 

I got mad. How dare the world move on and think about things like elections, their own jobs, their own problems, or anything other than what I was going through? How dare people minimize what I was dealing with? How people talk about the loss of my grandfather without ever having known him? I had a lot to say. Why didn't anyone ask me? Had those people who checked in on me obsessively or posted about their "Friend Angela has suffered a terrible loss" only been in it for some kind of sensational drama in the moment? Strange how "into my well-being" they were when the action was going on....odd how they seemed to have forgotten it was something they cared about, only a few days later.

I got madder, and then I got bitter, and then resentful.

Maybe because I just got tired of being angry. Maybe because when trying to counsel others through the same thing, one has to take a step ahead and fix thyself first before going around and helping others fix thy own selves. But the final nail came when I was told I'd done wrong by another person by not fulfilling the role they thought I should. I finally accepted that I really wasn't owed the attention I thought I deserved back then, either.

Had the multitudes of casual online acquaintances ever promised they would come running to check on me? How many times had I given a public, fleeting glance at serious things that were happening in other places--maybe even tossed a few Sabbat collections one way or another--but then went on about my business again? Lots and lots.

I counted my blessings. I had my mom and grandmother. I had my husband and children. I deepened friendships with people currently in my world. And I took a look, a long hard look at my own entitlement.

We tend to treat the word "entitled" like an insult or a character flaw. It shouldn't be the former and it isn't the latter. It's an ailment on the soul. When we think we are owed something that we are actually not, we suffer and we cause others to suffer. When we assume others will act in accordance to how we think they should act, we are often let down and we suffer. Groups, Covens, friends, partners--there is an agreement, generally spoken but sometimes not--that support will be shared when it is required. That one's needs will be met without there being an ask. Yet, we can't apply this to everyone we meet and we certainly can't apply it to "the general population." Once we can get out from under the vise-grip of baseless "I deserved...it should be...they should have...it should be..." and focus on what we truly received, we can soar just a little higher on our spiritual broomsticks.

In the mirror of me embodied in this angry, hurt person then sitting before me, I found a glimpse of my own Entitlement leech. I also found compassion because we both knew what that leech's bite felt like. I found compassion for the people I thought ignored me. They hadn't--they were just living their lives and they didn't owe me anything. I dug just a little deeper into my own Well of Compassion again and this time, found even a little more freedom from spiritual slavery, just like the Goddess promised. 

I am thankful for this lesson.

But what I wonder about, are the other people around me, who drag around their own sense of entitlement. Who are invited to parties that clearly state on the invitation “bring a munchies to share and your own alcohol of choice”, and who show up with nothing in hand, yet expecting to partake fully of everyone else’s contributions.

I wonder about the people around me who refuse to get a job, any job, but whine and cry that their “art” isn’t completely supporting them. There are thousands of talented people out there that can’t support themselves solely on their art, yet they have jobs to support themselves and support their purchase of art supplies, ever mindful that they need to be continually plugging away at their bliss.

Then there are those people who I don’t wonder about. The leeches. The ones who find out that you’re in charge of the annual Fundraiser, and not only do they expect free tickets for entry, but complimentary drink tickets too! These are the same people who sneak alcohol into the same fundraiser because they don’t want to pay the “outrageous prices” at the bar. Never mind that it could cost the venue their liquor license. Those people, are just leeches.

I’ve found that the more entitled the person feels, the less true compassion they have, for anyone.  

What I’ve learned since my grandfather’s passing is that I really do try to take ownership of my shit. If I can’t afford to go out, I don’t. If a friend of mine takes me out for dinner or drinks, then I try to reciprocate as much as possible. If I know people who are involved in fundraising events that I want to attend, then I offer to help in any way possible. If they don’t need my help, I try to go anyway, because I enjoy supporting worthy causes.  If I want to go off chasing windmills, then I’ll finance it myself.

I don’t think I’m ever going to meditate on entitlement and compassion again. It pisses me off.

But I think my next meditation will be on the Mysteries of Chocolate and Wine.