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The Dark Mare will not be denied;
Insistent gallop through my dreams.
The murder, flown in hallowed dust,
Alight on high with plots and schemes.

From lofty perch in canopy,
Cascade their cryptic words
Unbidden to my restless ear.
What say you, kindred birds?

I listen, rapt, to hear naught save
Veiled augury of passion.
Perchance, to mutter arcane prose
Akin to mine own fashion?

Yet still, o ruffled fiends, you mock,
Allude to destiny unknown.
Pray not forget your coal black sister
Bears stout burden of her own!

In frenzied past, I plucked the down,
Cast out the proffered feather.
Enlightened thus, now gather, sew
Plumed cloak to brook all weather.

As trembling needle binds the parts,
Beloved jesters, testify!
Your proclamations I do seek.
Reveal! Divinity draws nigh?

Assured or not, with onyx fringe
And hopeful sigh I fall to knee
At altar set with baited breath
Beneath the Black Queen’s teeming tree.

Continue reading »]]> *WARNING: Non-identifying, tear-jerking, and somewhat graphically-described scenarios are present in this post. Read, or not, as you will.*

For those who don’t know, I’ve been a Registered Nurse for almost 19 years, with 15 years being mostly spent in Surgical ICU (along with some ER and Labor & Delivery), and the last 4 years spent in forced “retirement” due to a pretty devastating hip injury that required surgery, rehab, Worker’s Comp, lawyers, pain and suffering, and ultimately meant the demise of my hard-earned career AND I snagged myself a walking cane in the process. Needless to say, I have really mixed feelings about nursing as a career! While it afforded me the flexible time and financial ability needed to care for my children, it has also taken a toll on my mental and physical health that can’t aptly be described in one blog post. While I do miss the income, the comraderie of staff, the good deeds done, the patients helped and saved – I must admit that my brain’s “mental anguish” tank is completely full to the point of spilling over, and I am not sorry that I can no longer work as an RN. Since beginning to walk a newer path on my life’s journey through the Craft, my overbearing emotions toward my RN experiences have become a significant part of a private and continuous daily practice which includes the letting go of things that do not serve me. However, I was recently shaken up quite voraciously, to the point that I now wonder if I am really letting go of anything at all.

My youngest daughter came to me a few days ago and confided that she was thinking of changing her major to nursing. My stomach dropped and I actually became nauseated, and I really didn’t know what to say to her, other than, “It’s good money and your schedule will be flexible.” Ugh, do I suck or what? I want to be supportive, I do. I really do. But I want to be a good mom too, and being such requires that I make sure she knows what she’s in for, doesn’t it? But how do I say the words that need to be said to accomplish that task? How do I share the memories that I’ve kept to myself for so long that my insides feel half-rotted sometimes? How do I tell her that this thing she’s reaching for, this thing that will bring financial stability to her and her children, is also the thing that changed me to the point that I no longer recognize myself sometimes?

How do I convey how it felt to listen to a mother pray and scream outside of an ER door while her pregnant daughter was getting CPR and an emergency c-section? To walk past that woman just a little while later, with eyes averted and mouth closed while she begged for info, because it had to be the doctor that tells her that her daughter and grandson are both dead? How do I talk about what it’s like to have access to all the pain medication in the world yet be unable to administer it to a writhing in agony, begging for mercy, dying patient because the doctor is a moron and the proper dosage wasn’t ordered, and then do I say that if I gave that medication anyway so that the patient could die in relative comfort, it could also technically mean that I murdered someone and I could go to jail? Do I share the rage of that particular juxtapose? How do I share how much it hurt my heart to watch a young father push his 10 month old daughter up and down the hall in her stroller while he talked to a funeral home to make arrangements for his brain-dead young wife who keeled over from an aneurysm while they were on vacation? How do I share my bone-shaking outrage at the family who purposely extended the life of a suffering man for months so that they could continue to get his Social Security check? The beaten-to-death wife? The raped toddlers? The crack moms and their crack babies? The beautiful and reckless teenagers with devastated mothers begging God for a miracle? How do I adequately explain the sights, the smells, the purulent body fluids, the bone-revealing bedsores, the fucked up administration who insisted that the nurses could handle an overload of patients and do housekeeping at the same time? How do I share the fury I felt at being slapped, spit upon, stabbed with needles, poked, shoved, pushed, punched, tits and ass pinched, held up against a wall while rough fingers attempted to rip through the crotch of my pants? How do I talk about the hundreds of men who thought it was okay to unnecessarily show me their penis or who asked me to wash their balls because it was my “job” to do so, and who threatened to report me if I didn’t? How do I talk about the post-partum women with bleeding vaginas who would toss their pads onto the bathroom floor and expect that I would pick them up because it was my “job” to do so, and who threatened to report me if I didn’t? Do I force her to sit for hours while I go on and on and on with hundreds of other memories that never go away, that haunt my dreams, that crop up out of the blue and cause tears to fall, and that sometimes – often – make me afraid to live fully?

Then, after that, do I also say that one feels closest to God/dess when assisting a slick babe’s descent into our world?  Do I speak of the heart’s flutter at that first intake of breath, the first cry, the mother’s joy? Do I say that one can see the smoky outline of welcome Death as the last breaths are taken into a worn old body? Do I try to describe the energy in the room as heat leaves skin, eyes glaze, soul departs hand in hand with those who wait? Do I share the pride felt at another life saved, another broken person comforted, a coworker supported, a job well done? How do I explain that those are the beautiful threads that keep me bound up and prevent me from cracking wide open and walking into the abyss of rage and insanity? Do I tell her that I think I need to snip and unbind, crack open, and walk right in so that maybe I can be whole? Do I tell her how much that scares the fuck out of me?

OR, do I say nothing at all and let her live her own life and experience it all as she’s meant to do?

For someone who loves to talk as much as I do, it’s hard to verbalize these memories without sounding jaded and bitter, to say it so that it doesn’t squash her dream to do something that requires large amounts of intelligence, compassion, and a skin so thick that a sword can’t cut through. I don’t know how to put supportive voice to heartbroken, soul-shattered, joyous word – or if I even should say anything at all – but what I do know is that my shining girl absolutely has what it takes to do a job that is so wrought with danger that I am scared for her. Is is wrong of me to want her to choose something else? I don’t know, and because she’s my baby, I don’t care. If she does choose it, however, then i will smile and support and I will pray to the Sweet Goddess that she will cope with it all in a much better manner than her mother.

Continue reading »]]> (This is an old blog entry from several years ago that I’ve moved here for safe keeping. Enjoy!)

Simply stated, walking down Carrollton Avenue in New Orleans is a breathtaking experience. The clanging of the streetcar as it rocks and sways by, carrying natives and tourists to home, work, and play, is a sweet sound that has no rival. The majestic drape of the oaks provides a canopy of color and coolness in the heat of day. Night brings an air of mystery. Grand mansions fuel fantasies of their occupants’ privileged existences. Lively restaurants are filled with a rainbow of people and personality. I love Carrollton Avenue! It’s what first comes to mind when I think of home and when I go there today, the sense of nostalgia is almost overwhelming.

My earliest recollection of childhood involves walking down Carrollton Avenue at night. It’s a brief but vivid memory, filled with a myriad of colors, feelings, and sounds. I had on my favorite shoes: a pair of bright red, patent leather Mary Janes. My mother was 20 years old and probably feeling the freedom that comes with being young, beautiful, and recently unshackled from an alcoholic, abusive husband. Long, thick, black hair hung to her waist. She was tall and thin in her hip hugger jeans and blue halter. Shaggy, her friend, was similarly dressed, but she was short and round and she paled in my mother’s goddess shadow. They were both barefoot, and I felt very superior in my red shoes. Who walked barefoot when there were red shoes to be worn?

For those who don’t know, walking down any Big Easy street at night is an adventure unto itself, and Carrollton Avenue is no exception. Even in 1970, navigating the cracked, root-raised, sometimes cavernous sidewalks of New Orleans was tricky for nimble feet, but when presented to a clumsy, barrel-bellied three year old in red Mary Janes, the task was daunting. My mother had to hold tightly onto my hand to keep me from falling when I slipped, which I was doing frequently. She and Shaggy were walking very fast, talking and giggling loudly. I was pulled along beside them, alternately slipping and running to keep up.

As was the case through much of my childhood, I wanted to be at my grandmother’s. Mabel lived in the upstairs of a house on the corner of Spruce and Dublin. The smell of candle wax from never-ending novenas and a slight hint of old cigarette smoke permeated the air, mixing with the scent of fresh laundry and a light perfume. In the mornings she would cook grits with salt and butter, and would add some of her dark roast coffee to my warm milk and sugar. Lunch time brought hot ham on crispy French bread, or potato salad and fried chicken. In the mid-afternoon, strangers came with money to offer for a card reading that Mabel gave at the kitchen table. In the evenings she would bathe me in her big clawfoot tub, and I’d secretly spray her Jean Nate’ on my arms and legs. I was then wrapped in a warm robe and fed roast and rice as I watched her little TV. It was a place of comfort and happiness in my baby mind.

On that dark night, however, I was with my mother but I wasn’t entirely unhappy as she walked, and I ran, along. The streetcar rolled by and I thought about riding it and how I could let my feet and legs stick out into the aisle so everyone could see my beautiful red shoes. I peered into a big yellow house, wondered out loud who lived there and asked my mother, “Do they have any little girls for me to play with?” I kept looking up at the big white moon through the trees, but the oaks were heavy with leaves and I could only get glimpses of her bright beauty. I imagined the oaks could touch her, and I wanted to climb to the top of one so I could touch her too. As I ran and slipped, I felt that the moon knew me. She knew I was running and slipping as I gazed up at her, and she knew I wanted to be in the warm water of my grandmother’s bathtub. She saw my red shoes and agreed that they were beautiful. The moon loved me, and I loved her back.

Suddenly the reverie and wonder of my stroll was shattered. My mother and Shaggy began screaming and jumping, then began to run. In the confusion, my mother released my hand and as I tried to follow, I slipped to the ground. By the light of the bright white moon I could see the source of their terror: dozens of cockroaches crawled and flew everywhere, and my legs – my red shoes! – were covered in large black bugs! An intense fear overtook me and I began to scream and scream…

… and my memory of that night ends there.

Thinking back, I recall that I had several dreams of cockroaches after that night. One especially memorable one had a human-sized, furry cockroach sitting on the steps of our apartment with me, and it kept putting my fingers in its mouth. It spoke to me in words that I couldn’t understand, and I was unable to say anything in response because I was convinced that if I said even one word, it would bite my fingers off.

Shortly thereafter, life took another turn as it is inclined to do and I went to live with my father in Maryland. When I returned 4 years later at the age of 7, I lived with Mabel for a while in her Spruce and Dublin house. She and I took many more walks under those historic oaks. I have other memories of childhood on that avenue as well – some good, some bad – but none as horrifically terrifying and mystically beautiful as the first. I do remain absurdly frightened of cockroaches; that early memory is never far away when I see one. In spite of it, however, I am still in love with red shoes and the moon… and Carrollton Avenue.

Continue reading »]]> (This is an old blog entry from 2008 that I’ve moved here for “safe keeping.” Enjoy this blast from the past!)

I worry about the weather like old people worry about taking a shit. I am not scared of any specific kind of weather, because it ALL has potential, you know? Thunder makes me a little jumpy, lightning is frightening but beautiful as long as I’m safely ensconced in a home or vehicle, and pouring rains mean that I don’t have to water my plants for a day or two. At the mere whiff of falling water, however, I will rush to my laptop and immediately log in to The Weather Channel, checking to see if there’s a tornado looming, or perhaps there could be localized street flooding high enough to ruin my car. Sunny days are just as bad. I enjoy the warmth of the sun on my skin, and my dogs bask in the heat with great pleasure. BUT, record high temps might cause black-outs and then I’ll have to worry about which hotel Kirk will have to check me into so I don’t sweat my way through a restless night in the heat. My plants may not be able to take the leaf-crisping rays of the Mighty Sun beating down on them. Bitty Bobb could have a heat-induced stroke while sunning on the front steps. A beautiful day is no safer than any other.

Hurricane season brings a new kind of misery for me. In addition to hawking over local weather patterns, come June 1st, I am also warily watching Atlantic waves, satellite loops, African dust patterns, and Gulf water temps like a fat boy watches cake. I am an avid reader of all things Jeff Masters, and I can spout off weather-related lingo and slang like a semi-pro. I can plot a storm track like nobody’s business and can picture coordinates in my head without referring to a map. I belong to several weather forums, not to participate, but to read and get a general feel for how the old-timers and other weather junkies are viewing an active storm.

My mawmaw weather-meter rises and falls in conjunction with the intensity of their posting, and I am, to them, what is known as a “Wobble Watcher.”

When a tropical system is churning along over the ocean, small changes in direction can signal a new track that might significantly affect where the storm makes landfall. This is why the cone widens as the storm’s future track is plotted – it allows for changes in direction based on the weather conditions surrounding the storm as it moves through the water. The weather pros will tell us that a slight jog, or wobble, in a storm’s track isn’t something that they really worry over. The atmospheric highs and lows, as well as other things like wind shear, will dictate which general direction the storm is headed. They always sound so damned confident. Their resolute reassurances don’t soothe me one bit. I still track every teeny wobble and look at the potential ways that a storm could veer off the projected path and ultimately head straight for my house.

It’s a must for me, during hurricane season, to know precisely to what location Jim Cantore from The Weather Channel is headed. I love Jim. He so bravely stalks storms, getting whipped by the gale as he shouts into the camera. I get all the weather action without actually have to be there, thanks to Jim. I talk about his location so much during hurricane season that, during my second marriage, the ExHole actually accused me of plotting to have an affair with Jim because I always knew where he was. Whatever. There’s no way I could ever have an affair with the man because wherever HE is, I am NOT.

Currently, Hurricane Bertha is churning her way across the Atlantic Ocean. She is a Category 3 storm and is supposedly going to make a northwest turn and head to Bermuda by Saturday. With years of weather-watching under my belt, I take this prediction with little more than a grain of salt. I know that tracks change direction frequently and the storm is still too far out for anyone to be making solid predictions about landfall. Meteorologists around the country are watching and plotting, ready to tell us all to run for our lives. You can all rest assured that I will be avoiding Jim Cantore’s location like the plague, and I will be watching and plotting too – every single wobble.

Continue reading »]]> I found this pic of me a few days ago on an old camera. It’s from January 2005 – seven years ago, almost to this day – and I was waiting to pick up my youngest daughter from school.  I was just a few months out from my divorcing of the ExHole. Hurricane Katrina was still 8 months away, and there were still a few weeks left before Kirk and I officially got back together. Kristyn and I were living in a beautiful condo right on the Gulf of Mexico in Long Beach, Mississippi, right next door to my bestie Christine, with whom I was spending lots of girl time and having a blast. I was dating, working hard and making good money, and enjoying the hell out of life. I had really come into my own in regard to my witchcraft. I felt good. I was 37 years old and very happy with the direction in which things were going for me, and I had the world by the tail. It was a really, really positive time in my life.

Over the last few months I’ve been doing a lot of looking in the mirror, sometimes because I’m doing some spiritual work and I’m looking but not looking, other times it’s because I’m doing the day-to-day grooming thing, but lately I’ve also been looking at me – really looking – and have been examining myself, my skin, and my hair, and noticing the wondrous and frightening signs of getting older. It’s been kind of clinical, this assessment. I’ve got blotches, and laugh lines, and big pores, and crows’ feet. My skin is a bit more crepe-y and not as taut. I’ve got a shit-ton of gray hair which is really noticeable since my decision not to color it any more, and right now I look like a stripe-y cat while my hair goes through the growing out transition from processed to natural. Despite that, I didn’t really think that I’d changed all that much, but sitting here right now, looking at the me I was in 2005 and thinking about the past seven years, I have to say that one of the things that really strikes me about this picture is the difference in my appearance between then and now. In the pic, I am wearing no make-up. There’s no hair color involved – that’s 100% mine and I recall there being just a strand or ten of gray. The photo’s not been photoshopped in any way and there aren’t any wrinkles or blotches that I can see. HOLY SHIT I look so young! WTF happened over the last seven years to age me so much? Or is this just the way it goes when one stretches from their 30′s into their 40′s? I think, for me, it’s a combo of both.

Since January 2005, life’s been really stressful. After my and Kirk’s reconciliation in March 2005, we were happily living and loving life, looking forward to the future, doing quite well financially, and then… in August 2005 that fucking bitch Katrina devastated our lives. We lost our home, most of our possessions, and endured a move to the Tenth Level of Hell (Ponchatoula) afterward that severely tested my nerves. Our finances were wrecked and our souls were crushed, but we made the best of it and kept going. Once we got settled back in NOLA in Janaury 2006, we bought a house, renovated it, and began our financial and mental healing process. THEN, I had to have a very seriously intricate surgery on my neck that left me missing two major salivary glands in my mouth and basically mucked up the collagen and fat distribution, leaving me looking like a turkey with a wattle… and THEN I had an on-the-job-injury that resulted in a year of hobbling around with a walker, a failed hip repair surgery, loss of income and career, two years of legal battles, and that left me 50 pounds heavier and very depressed. Toss in several health care scares with my mother and my sister, my daughter’s very medically complicated pregnancies that had me wondering at one point if she might die, and the other usual stressors of life on top of that, and it’s been a really frightening seven years.

All that being said, since January 2005, life’s also been really good. Kirk and I thankfully realized that we needed for he and me to be US again, and so we got back together, bought a house, got remarried on our front porch surrounded by good friends and family. It was beyond joyous! We watched our oldest daughter graduate from college and transition into an independent and successful young woman. We watched our youngest daughter go through two very difficult pregnancies to give birth twice and watched some more as she became an amazing mother to our beautiful grandsons. Compared to many, we have had relative financial security, despite our difficulties. We have good friends with whom we have fun. We love our city and we take advantage of her offerings whenever we are able. I am in love with a man who is so grounded, and so very good down to the core of his being that it staggers me, and I am so fortunate that he loves me right back. We are very balanced, we mesh well, we understand each other and we are very happy with each other and our lives together. After my injury and my surgeries, I rallied up from the depths of a deep depression and some severe mobility limitations to begin a very successful company, and got to experience the joys of being a French Quarter shop owner, which had been a long-held dream. I founded and coordinated a celebratory event for witches that was an undisputed and overwhelming success in 2011 – the New Orleans Witches’ Ball – and it is one that will continue for many years to come. After ages and ages of searching and growing, I am finally walking a spiritual path that is right for me, guided by an amazing creature whose souls so brightly shine and for whom I have the utmost respect and love, and with whom I feel a connection and bond that crosses time and space in a very real way. Through this path I have also met some new friends that are filling my life with much goodness. I have direction, I have a sense of self. I have an amazing life! I look at that picture, at the person I was in 2005, and the intervening years filled with everyday living and real challenges, and I feel a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction and sheer happiness that it”s also been a very delightful seven years!

I must admit that finding this picture and seeing the physical changes in me, from seven years ago to this day, momentarily induced a bit of longing for my 2005 skin and hair and youth. It can be difficult at times to be a woman in today’s world, with its focus on youth and beauty and its dismissive attitude toward older people as something of little value. I am not the ‘ideal” beauty, according to the mysterious “them.” I’m a past-prime 44, almost 45, year-old granny, I’m a fattie (don’t give me shit, I’ve owned the word and I’m fine with it), and I’ve gotten so much flack over not coloring my hair that it’s ridiculous and at one point actually had me questioning whether or not I would be less worthy if I didn’t cover the signs of my aging… but you know what? Fuck that noise. *I* know that I AM beautiful in ways that truly matter because I am a divine and light-filled being who is fortunate to reside inside of a unique and perfectly-imperfect physical body that has earned every wrinkle, crow’s foot, laugh line, saggy skin cell, and every single strand of gray by living a life of REAL-ness. I appreciate how those (im)perfections tell the rest of the world that I’ve been through the wringer, that I’ve made mistakes with some of the choices I’ve made. *I* know that I walk in awareness and BE-ing. I have a foot in this world and I have a foot elsewhere and I am connected to that which truly matters. I live a life of love and power and ecstasy. My face and body, through wrinkle and line, have been marked by Crow, who speaks loudly from the tree in my back yard and reminds me daily to walk my talk. Am I perfect? No, I am not… nor will I ever be. It’s very difficult for me sometimes to be balanced and clean, to view the world and other people and myself as bright and shiny jewels, to greet the Goddess in all that I see around me. My own particular characteristics are a part of what makes me wondrous and whole, and they come from me walking my path and experiencing my life in fullness and joy, and they come from me being a fallible human that doesn’t always get it right and that’s okay too. They are the worst of me and the best of me. They are my life story, they are my perfection.

And so, I will carry on with the growing out of my graying hair, and as time passes my wrinkles will become more pronounced, and I will sag and bag, and I’ll probably feel a bit sad about it every now and then, but I will also continue to be a work in progress, trying to achieve balance in body, mind, and soul, and I will work hard to make good choices and accept the fact that I’m going to fuck up again somehow, but that it will be okay and I will still be a good person who loves and is loved. I am hopeful that seven years from now, when I happen to look upon a picture of me as I am today and then turn to look into the nearest mirror, that I will have dealt with the fright and I will have cherished the delight that are forthcoming over the next seven years – those times and places and people and things that will mold the current me into that me of the future.

So mote it be.

Continue reading »]]> Hello, and welcome! As is evident by the mess around here, I’ve decided to do a little reconstruction. When I started up Witchy Living in 2007, I pretty much shut down my personal website and concentrated heavily on the business site. My personal writing, when I had time to write at all, then got shuffled into the Witchy Living website blog. This worked when I talked about witchcraft and the shop, but it left me feeling weird when I wanted to post more personal things. More often than not, because I didn’t want to link my personal writing – grandkids, dogs, husband, etc – and my sometimes profanity-laced rants with the shop, I often elected not to write at all. That was rather stifling, to be honest. Writing is cathartic for me, it lets loose a lot of crap that otherwise would stay stuffed inside, and I’ve been unhappy with this set-up pretty much since I initiated it.

Well, no more. While the shop remains an important part of my life, the main reason I closed the brick and mortar and returned to online status is so that I could have more time with family, and with myself, and a big part of that is getting myself extricated from my identity as Miss Witchy Living. Don’t get me wrong, I still love Witchy Living and always will, but I love me – Cairelle Perilloux – even more. This evening my very geeky beloved reopened my personal name domain and moved the Witchy Living blog here. I’ve torn down the old look, and I’m creating a new one. Over the next few days I’ll be importing various pieces of writing from several old blogs to here, keeping some of what is already here, and moving other bits (shop posts, mainly) into an archive on the Witchy Living site, then deleting them from here.

Please bear with me as I pull myself together here, pardon the dust of my reconstruction, and check back soon to see what I’ve done with the place!

Continue reading »]]> Wow, doesn’t that look so peaceful and quiet? Close your eyes, step into the picture, feel the soft breeze and hear the rustling silence that is the forest. The dappled sunlight, lush green trees and grass, and the smooth cool dirt of the path beckon to you. The Goddess whispers “Come… walk slowly with bare feet, open every part of yourself, breathe in, connect, and just BE.”

Yes. That.

And so, after weeks of dealing with all the stress and crap that went with closing up the shutters at Witchy Living on Decatur Street, I am once again walking that wondrous path of BE-ing. There are still some final things to be done: taxes, rebuilding the web store, figuring out where the hell to put all the product that’s left over, but already I find that I am happier, I am calmer, I sleep better, and I am starting to truly reconnect again with my family, with myself!, and with the energy and magick that is in my home and garden. I can’t believe how disconnected I’d become from the parts of my world that are most important to me, and I didn’t even realize!

I knew back in November, and I know even more now, that it was SO the right thing to do when I decided that I needed to close, but despite me shouting from the rooftops that I had come to the decision to close because it is what was best for my life, so many people have said, and are still saying, how sorry they were that I was closing, like it was something I had to do because I failed somehow to keep the business going. Please, people – STOP APOLOGIZING. To the contrary, I did not fail, business was not bad, but rather was overwhelmingly successful! I took a dream, manifested a spark, built it into a roaring fire, and brought that dream to fruition. I am smiling at this moment, thinking about how wonderful I felt when I opened the door to the shop on the first day and people streamed in. I worked hard and my shop gained the reputation of being real, solid, and open to all. I was the #3 shopping destination in New Orleans on Trip Advisor. People felt good when they walked through my door. I started and then profitably ran an occult boutique for two years in a shitty economy. That is success!

That being said, the life of a shop owner is not all it’s cracked up to be. The hours are long, the work is hard, and there is never, ever a true “day off.” You eat, live, and breathe your business. I was actually okay with all of that, but then I suddenly realized that my personal feelings of unhappiness at the disconnect from those things I most cherish – my family and myself – were overwhelming. For that alone, I am not sorry at all for closing, nor do I feel guilty that I am not sorry at all for closing, and I have contentedly put the Witchy Living chapter of my life to rest.

At any rate, I originally set this blog up to be focused on the shop (and then neglected it terribly), but now I plan to use it as a personal space for reflection, craft talk, bitching, whatever. I don’t feel inclined to change the name because witchy living is something I do every day anyway, and I do live witchy in the Crescent City, so it all still applies, IMO. In other words, this blog is now going to be all about me, me, ME and whatever I feel inclined to say.

Right now I say that I am happy at a job well done. I say that I am satisfied that I recognized a need in myself and then fulfilled it by taking the difficult but necessary steps to turn the lights off and close the shutters for good. I say that I will miss my great customers – y’all know who you are – but I can say too that I will not miss the shitty ones, not one bit. I say thank you – to God/dess, to myself, to family, to friends – thank you so much.

Life is good.

Continue reading »]]> Yep, that’s been me over the last few weeks – at the crossroads, studying the signs intensely while trying to figure out which direction to go – and I’ve gone nearly mad as a result. I’ve thought and pondered and questioned, talked to all the pieces and parts of that which makes me “me.” I’ve written list after list, worked at my altar and asked for guidance, worked in the garden to gain wisdom from the Earth, and I’m pretty sure that my family and close friends with whom I’ve discussed my choices ad nauseum now cringe at the sight of me, LOL! Making life-changing decisions is rarely easy, yet it has to be done in order for us to grow into ourselves and to live as joy-filled and powerful beings. This process, for me, moves somewhat slowly… but finally… a decision has been made.

I have decided to close down my brick-and-mortar Witchy Living shop.

I started and restarted this post several times, mainly because I still don’t quite know which words are best to explain all that I need to say about why I’ve made this decision but also because when I’m done with typing this, I’m going to hit that send button and then my news will be officially official, and once it’s officially official, there’s really no going back, is there? I know that I will not want to go back, but I must admit to there being a peace of sorts to sitting in this limbo between decision made and decision announced!

I’ve gotten a lot of the question “Why?” from the people with whom I’ve shared this already, and I want to be very clear about something, lest the rumor mill get grinding too quickly with incorrect info:

I do not HAVE to close the shop. It is as financially solvent as any two year old shop can be in a shitty economy, and I have been fortunate that it has paid its own bills since day one. My new location on Decatur Street has been profitable and my customer base has exploded. Witchy Living is currently the #3 shopping destination in New Orleans on Trip Advisor. I’m proud of my little shop and I’m busier than ever. So why close? There are two main reasons:

#1. To be perfectly blunt, I am unhappy. Running a shop like Witchy Living takes 100% dedication and commitment to excellence. Those of you who know me also know that I don’t half-ass anything. I have a great shop with quality product and I can do no less because I care about my customers, some of whom I now count as friends, and I am committed to ensuring that they have the best I can offer. However, this dedication and commitment also comes at a price and means time away from family, home and garden. It means extremely little time off. It means little to no weekend traipsing around NOLA with hubby, only the rarest of afternoon lunches with friends. It means people complaining that I close early on Halloween because I want to trick-or-treat with my grandsons. It means talking with doctors by phone while my mom’s in the ICU after a heart procedure instead of being there in person.  It means that those things in my life that should come first – family, home, and SELF – have been second, third, LAST, for two-plus years now. Honestly, I’m just drained to the point of exhaustion.

(Yes, I COULD hire someone. I’ve considered it several times. Thankfully my Mom and my husband and daughters and close friends have been so supportive in helping me with everything from grinding herbs to moving furniture, and also Camille’s been able to fill in on the most important days that I had to be gone… but to actually hire someone to be there while I do my ‘happy things’ takes away the whole point of being a shopkeeper for me. Witchy Living was born out of a dream – MY dream. Leaving the shop in someone else’s hands as frequently as I’d need to leave it in order to have the quality of life outside of it that I desire makes zero sense to me.)

#2. I have a two-fold opportunity that allows me to work from home on my own schedule. The first one has been there all along and graciously stepped aside when I opened the first brick-and-mortar Witchy Living – my online shop! My dream began its journey to fruition as an online shop and it was quite successful. It allowed me to focus on my own handmade items, it allowed me to have intense one-on-one with customers via phone and email, it allowed me to run my discussion forum and podcast, and it allowed me to be fully present in my own life. In order for me to live as I desire, I will be taking advantage once again of my poor beleaguered online Witchy Living shop.

The second is a surprise because I never expected things to unfold this way, but working from home will also give me the opportunity to focus heavily on the New Orleans Witches’ Ball. What started out as my desire for a simple but elegant Witch-oriented, Witch-organized Samhain gathering has turned into something much larger. The 2011 event, our first, was an amazing success! We Witches deserve something like the NOWB and I want to make sure that continues to happen. I have big plans for the NOWB and I am so excited about it all!

So… there you have it. I must admit to being a tiny bit sad because I love my beautiful little shop and I will miss it… but I’m more excited about the fact that I am following my heart and jumping back into my life again, and I’m super-excited too about the opportunities that have presented, and re-presented, themselves to me. At the beginning of 2011, I made a promise to myself that I would live fully in joy and passion and love and power, and so this is a necessary step for me to do just that.

In closing, I want to give big-huge-tremendous thanks to every person that has supported me over the last two years. Each one of you contributed in your own way to making my dream come true. I am so fortunate and appreciative that I got to live it, but it wouldn’t have happened without you, my customers, my friends. THANK YOU!

And now… onward !

Continue reading »]]> For those that don’t know – I lived with my grandmother for many of my childhood years. Her home and traditions provided much comfort for me and gave meaning to my life. I walk my crooked path because of her influences. She was fiery and unique and passionate, and she lived her life to the fullest. She had a lot of challenges, but she gave of herself with an open heart to family, friends, and clients from around the world. Many people mourned her passing, especially me.

She would have been 92 years old today – and while I’m sure she’s doing quite well where she is, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want her back here with me. It would be amazing to see her playing with my grandsons.

Grand-mère, I miss you so much, and I wish you were still here physically so that we could sit at your kitchen table together – drinking Community coffee, eating brioche from McKenzie’s, and reading cards. I will never forget.

Joyeux Anniversaire!

Avec amour, votre petite-fille…

Continue reading »]]> “Self-love isn’t selfish; it’s healthy self-esteem. The egotist, the braggart, the ‘self-promoter’, the ‘diva’, and the ‘salesman’ – those who come across as self-loving in order to ‘sell themselves’ or ‘their products’ – are often insecure at heart. True self-love doesn’t need to be broadcast or publicly displayed. It is an inner state, a feeling, a strength, a happiness; it is security. Self-love is the basis for love of others. It is where real charity begins. When you love yourself, it will spill over; when you don’t love yourself, your energy will consciously or unconsciously be focused on finding it, and you won’t have time for anybody else.” – Brian Weiss, MD

I read this quote a few days ago on Facebook and funnily enough, it was accompanied by a picture of a huge gray cat doing leg lifts. Now I don’t know how I feel about equating fat exercising cats with self-love (although the picture was quite amusing) but I do know that this quote has been roaming around in my head, speaking rather insistently that there is a message here for me. I’ve been doing a fair amount of self-examination lately and this very topic has been at the core of my musings. What is the exact definition of self-love? Where is the line that separates it from selfishness and shameless self-promotion? How do I love myself truly and fully without feeling like, or being, a self-aggrandizing asshole? What’s healthy, what’s not? Where does my ego fit in with all of this? Does self-love truly radiate without some sort of verbal expression of its existence? Most importantly, why do I care if anyone else knows that I love myself?

As the result of the spiritual path I’ve chosen to walk, a lot of my time over the last few months has been spent working on the basics of being spiritually aligned and clean. This sounds super easy but believe me when I say that it has its difficulties, one of which is the inevitable self-reflection that comes along with alignment and the changing of negative energy into positive. (I am probably the slowest-moving student my teacher’s ever had, LOL!) Of course this is part of the process, and I won’t bore you with the minutia of my recollection of trials and tribs that have occurred over my lifetime thus far, but a very good friend of 20+ years wrapped part of me up in a neat package when he told me (after I waxed on ad nauseum about my penchant for all things fire and the ‘safety’ I got from it – ha!) that I also spent “a lot of time burning things down to the ground.”

Touche’.

The nice thing about fire is that when it’s used properly it can get rid of lots of trash and other useless debris. Think of a forest fire, and how the dead tangled undergrowth gets all burned up. The trees do get charred and black for a bit, but seasons pass and the new growth is thick and lush and beautiful. The trick is learning how and when to use that inner fire. I don’t have to burn everything down but surely I certainly can utilize this base part of myself in a manner that is supportive to my well-being? Perhaps I am mistaken, but I am continuing to explore the option of the ‘controlled burn’ and will certainly pick the brains of those who are wiser and more experienced. I do believe that I should be using each aspect of myself in a balanced manner, but it seems the getting there is a long and winding process for me.

Now, speaking of spending time, I live a substantial part of my life online – reading news and blogs and other tidbits, checking in on my groups, ordering merchandise for my shop, emailing (lots and lots of emailing), working on my websites – and of course, Facebook. I have two accounts (one for family and one for witch friends) and four fan pages (Witchy Living, New Orleans Witches’ Ball, Bitty Bobb the Witchihuahua, and Heidi Feist). My networking proclivity has afforded me thousands of online ‘friends’ and a seemingly never-ending stream of invites, gaming apps, viruses, messages requesting everything from bitching at me for not being around enough, to money, to how to get (or lose) a man, and lots of misspelling and misinformation. Included in that roiling mass are many excellent proprietors with shops, both brick-and-mortar and online, who peddle themselves and their wares on Facebook, and with whom I’ve managed to forge more than a passing acquaintance. In addition, there are lots of spiritual folk with wise words, gardening sorts with great advice, many people with a clue who get it, and many more who don’t and don’t (including myself at times, I’m sure). Then there are the wordsmiths who are putting to cyber-paper the things that I can’t seem to express. (I am jealous because I have so many thoughts swirling around in my head and I’d love to get them out but they seem to be stuck in my gray matter with nary a plan to appear anywhere but behind my eyes.)

It is my belief that, in a roundabout way, I have allowed all of this online activity, in conjunction with the myriad of online activities in which I myself participate, to saturate my mind as I seek a path to my innermost self (and ultimately to my own divinity), therefore leaving no room for what I need to be doing, which is focusing on myself and my spiritual work. Lest anyone misunderstand what I am saying, I need to clarify that no one has done anything against me and I’m not blaming anyone else for what I’m feeling and thinking. I completely own those and their responsibility is 100% mine. Rather, what has happened is that I have allowed the chaos of the online world, with all its noise and drama, to intrude into my space in a way that is unhealthy. What used to be a source of entertainment and motivation has turned into so much clutter and, combined with all the other weighty crap I’m carrying around from real life stuff, contributes heavily to the fact that despite my best efforts my mind remains out-of-focus and my sense of self and who I am is still unclear.

So now what? Well, I don’t know. I am looking up at the flower, asking who and what, and I really do want to know myself in all my parts and I admit to being a bit fearful about that – but - I am moving forward anyway. I am asking myself hard questions and trying to focus on who I want me to be – whole, balanced, open, powerful, expressive, creative, clean, and able to see the Goddess in everything around me – and I will do what is necessary to get there, even if it pinches me a bit in the process.

In regard to self-love, I feel sure that all of this work will ultimately lead to me reaching a point where I am sipping regularly from a big ol’ cup of self-it. My definition of self-love may not subscribe 100% to that of Dr. Weiss’s – or maybe it will once I’ve moved further along  - but right now I am of the mind that whatever love my cup holds will be the result of me living a life in which I am as balanced as I can be in all aspects of myself.

Bottoms up!