Musings for Empowerment

Can I still be a blogger after a two month absence?

2009-06-05T00:09:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile. I know.

Mercury went retrograde and is finally moving in a direct fashion, but of course, we're in that pesky shadow phase. But what a moon cycle this has been. Time was slow like syrup and yet I was faster than a jack rabbit (you have to go to writer's school to come up with those clever little pithy lines - j/k). So finally last week I got the cosmic 2 x 4 and it didn't matter how many herbal teas or infusions or tinctures I drank, I was going to be sick until I learned to sit my ass down and rest. Still have one of those really pretty sounding coughs...

I moved into my first-ever pad. Yeah! I actually really love my alone time. It's so precious. I still don't have pictures because I dropped my camera in the River Dulce in Guatemala while kayaking and looking out for howler monkeys. And I like that story so much that apparantly retelling is more important than capturing life's images. So I have no new home pics to share, but let me just say.. my new digs are AWESOME!!! Diana, the manager of these quaint bungalows, liquidates estates so I have been scoring on some really cool and funky-with-history furniture. The boys can actually walk to school. Life is rad.

I turned in my #8 book - The Faerie's Guide to Green Magick in the Garden. It should be out in August 2010. I had a lot of fun planting new herbs and trying out new recipes. I still need to go back and make those Lavender Dark Chocolate Truffles, Hawthorne May Wine and Damiana Freya Liquour. I planted Motherwort and Vervain and have a Chocolate Mint to plant once we finish the French Drain, which looks more like the Cocycus River and the nymph that Mint was named after. You have to read the book for that story!!

I'm no longer employed. Join the club you say? I say it's Tabla Rasa Time! A fresh new slate and time to reinvent myself. I'm going to be a teacher - college, my own school, guest lecturer, keynote speaker, who knows!? It's a bright new future and I'm soo looking forward to the ride. Catch ya later friends!!

The Darkest Hour

2009-03-19T23:31:00.000-07:00

They say the Darkest Hour is right before dawn. And since the dawn of the New Year, according to native traditions, is heralded by the Spring Equinox and happens tomorrow, I'd say we've been in Pluto's territory fer sure!!

Pluto or Hades, depending on your Roman or Greek affiliations, is the god of the Underworld. He rules the dead and his wife Persephone helps the dying cross. Pluto is also the planet (or large rock or energy mass if you must be scientific) that controls transformation.

Many of my friends, perhaps you included, have been experiencing a series of deaths, either loved ones to the other side or ideas or belief systems or relationships. All must die to keep life going.

Beginning in 2008 until 2023, Pluto has come to visit Capricorn, ruled by the work horse of a God, Saturn. (I say this with all due respect to my ruling planet). Pluto has a way of minning to the bottom of a situation to find power. Capricorn has a way of utilizing power and making you live your integrity. I'm sure you have all born witness to all that Pluto has been unearthing to help us actualize to the best of our abilities. A veritible tabla rasa, or sweeping of the decks. And yet, soul family, if we're to complete the work of transforming the world, we must first commit ourselves to a deep relationship to our souls.

That's all the Dark Night is teaching us. However, with a sigh of relief, I say welcome Spring! Welcome Kore! I could use a breather.

If I were to Blog Tonight...

2009-02-24T23:36:00.000-08:00

If I were to blog tonight, I'd write about my dad going into ICU on Sunday. I'd talk about the decision to not drive out to Palm Desert because my mom seemed too panicky when they called Code Blue (which I didn't understand due to the fact that I was raised Christian Science and I don't watch TV). I'd talk about how my sister Julia was going to take her girls out there to say goodbye to Papa forever and I couldn't even reach my sister Megan because she was so freaked out. Instead I spoke with Garth, the nurse, who was tending to Dad because everyone else seemed so dramatic. I'd get the objective opinion. I would stay in my bubble holding the healing energy by concentrating on my dad's wholeness rather than his sickness. Then since dad would be there awhile, I'd go up the next day.

I'd talk about taking my boys to the beach so I could be near the negative ions and fill my heart with love over fear and how I walked through soft sand for an hour to process, process, process. I would talk about the fact that what I was processing also involved the realization that Kevin, my friend of 18 years, doesn't want to be my friend anymore because I want a divorce. And how I thought my shear will or shamanic powers or the million and one classes I took to be a better person could some how convince or coerce or draw him to acceptance and One Love. I'd talk about finding out he has a girlfriend and how I'm not supposed to know because he told my dad who told my mom who told me at dinner after we'd visited my dad in ICU.

I'd talk about how my mom stalled her husband's surgery by asking the nice surgeon to find her the remote control so she could watch the Oscars. Of course, she didn't realize he was the surgeon. She thought he was just a nice plump black orderly. When she told me this story, I told her I was going to blog about that, she asked me to change her name. So let's say her name is Betsy.

I'd write about how my dad smiled and squeezed my hand when he saw me. I'd say how proud I was that my mom called me the family's comic relief. I'd tell Kevin that's a gift from him but I don't think he'd hear me. And some breaths are worth saving.

I'd talk about the arguement my parents got over miscommunication. Dad wanted to understand what was happening to him in "laymen's terms" after the nurse explained what they hoped would they expected for the next few days. He mispelled laymen (you can't talk with a new trach in your Adam's apple) and even though I understood what he wanted and needed via eye contact, my mom told the nurse in a demeaning tone that "we weren't sure of what he really meant because she couldn't read his writing." I'd write about how that upset me.

I'd write about my dad learning he'd be there for awhile and wanted to call his first client in six months to tell her her had an emergency trach and was hooked up to a ventilator and be back by the 18th. Meanwhile today is the 23rd. So not sure what that meant there.

I'd mention the trek to Best Buy to get the phone cord and plugging in the phone at the restaurant to get the juice, dinner with my mom and the secrets that were discussed. I'd write about near fights and the tears and the uncontrollable laughter.

I'd write about talking to my dad's client and how he tried to hide the phone after I explained what she said, even though he shouldn't have the phone in ICU. How my mom wanted me to fetch the phone that was wedged between dad's hospital gown and his buttcheck. Ew.

I'd talk about asking the kind nurse to explain to my dad how the phone messed with the machines. How sad and hopeless we all felt when dad got angry with mom and me for taking away the phone. That his blood pressure skyrocketed while he wheezed out his protests and angrily gesticulated with his hands that were strapped to the bed so he couldn't pull out his trach. How mom said "We need to sedate him," loud enough for dad to hear and when I got mad at her for that. she whispered the same sentence like that was somehow better.

I'd talk about the ride home from the hospital last night and how my mom wanted to scream out the window and I asked her if she'd prefer the moonroof and how we howled our anguish together under the dark star-strewn moonless sky. It's a Dark Moon right now.

I'd talk about explaining to my boys that Papa was going to be okay. Yes, he was at death's door. No, I didn't realize it was that bad, but yes he's getting better. It's like he's at the bottom of a well and he's climbing out. But he's still a long way down.

I'd say all that... if I was going to blog tonight.

Before Blogs

2009-01-12T23:50:00.000-08:00

Before blogs I was happy to write in my journal and pour all my feelings into it. My first journal was a cute little yellow diary with a lock and I always wrote Dear Diary at the top, because I felt I was addressing a friend and it would be rude to not at least say hello before you got really personal about all the things you were thinking and feeling. I mean the diary was listening and so it was my respect thing, my way of being kind before monopolozing the conversation.

Now I have this impulsive thing to post on a public forum those same kind of journal entries. This kind of open and raw writing was my process for creating the first two books, The Wicca Cookbook and The Teen Spell Book, and it worked really well. I felt good and pregnant in the first book and I healed years of pain with the second book. They are still the best selling at most festivals and fairs out of the seven I've written.

But now I'm scared to be that honest. Now I'm entrenched in a story, sometimes he said, she said. Sometimes it's about fear and money. Sometimes it’s about belonging. Sometimes it's about worthiness.

And I'm resisting the impulse to talk about it all so viscerally. I'm labeling it as narcissistic. I'm calling it pandering. I'm saying it's some kind of sacrificing Lady Godiva thing. Like I have to be naked to be a true artist. I'm putting it in boxes and I said I was going to stop doing that.

I gotta let go and trust I know how to fly.

A Really Cool Poem

2009-01-06T20:07:00.000-08:00

My friend recently shared this poem with me and I liked it so much I wanted to share it with you.

Sweet Darkness

When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.
When your vision has gone
no part of the world can find you.
Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyesto recognize its own.
There you can be sure
you are not beyond love.
The dark will be your womb tonight.
The night will give you a horizon
further than you can see.
You must learn one thing,
The world was made to be free in.
Give up all the other worlds
except the one to which you belong.
Sometimes it takes darkness and
the sweet confinement of
your aloneness to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive

is too small for you.

by David WhyteFrom "The House of Belonging"
In "Risking Everything",eidted by Roger Housden

Release the Butterfly

2009-01-02T07:10:00.000-08:00

Thanks for joining us for another Chica Lit blog tour. For the next ten days, you'll be treated to short stories from savvy Latina writers. And you could win a prize simply from reading the story and answering a question! How fun is that?

The winner from Misa Ramirez' excerpt from her upcoming novel, Living the Vida Lola, is Mrs. V.

Below is an excerpt from my novel, The Making off a Xicana Goddess. Answer the question at the end of the post and you’ll be entered into a drawing to win an autographed copy of any of my seven books. Your choice!

Follow the tour by clicking on the next chica in the lineup [at the end of the story]. Next you'll go to Julia Amante at http://juliaamante.blogspot.com/

Release the Butterfly

On the first weekend she didn't have custody of her son Keegan, Abby Moreno-Smith had no idea what to do with herself. Should she watch a movie? Go out to dinner? Sleep? Clean the house? Call her best friend Eva? Be alone? Work on her pottery? There were some postcards she could stick labels on to let people know about the next show. Maybe she should do that. She could put away the Christmas decorations or make a collage for the New Year.

Abby walked into her bedroom and smiled. She had only been in the Rock House, as an artist-in-residence, for a couple of days, but already she loved her new room. She loved that the color theme was warm terracotta to pumpkin to wine to coral. It was no wonder with all that first and second chakra work going on - a.k.a. security, sexuality and creativity. Still it's another thing for Abby to see it everywhere she looked.

The phone rang. Abby picked it up. "Hello?"

"I've decided for you," Eva says.

"What have you decided for me?" Abby asked plopping herself into a rocking chair covered with an orange tapestry with a large butterfly on it.

"You're not going to stay in tonight. We're going out."

"Have I told you how much I love my room? I burn incense every night without having to open the window so someone won't be offended by the smell. I feel strong here. It's like my little cocoon.

"You can't hibernate forever. Come on. It's a new year, a new start."

"I should go out. But I don't know. I'm scared with some wind beneath my wings, I might fly so far away that like my dad, I'll lose my way back to my kid."

"You'd never leave Keegan," Eva said reassuredly.

"I never thought I'd leave Scott," Abby said reflectively.

"You're not your dad. Aye dios, you haven't even seen him in years. And Scott hasn't been there for you for a long time. You said so yourself. Now, come on, close up shop on the pity party and get your groove on. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Abby hung up the phone and walked to her closet to debate her ensemble. When she went out with Eva it was easy to feel like "frump girl." Going out with friends, being true to herself, including dressing sexy if she wanted, was exactly the kind of freedom she had hoped to gain by moving into the Rock House. It wasn't officially separating, but it to Abby it was a bid for freedom and yet she still wrestled with the guilt and trepidation that comes with breaking up a family. The only way Abby ever knew how to shift gears was to fight fire with fire, so she pulled on her knee high black suede boots and a cute mini skirt.

In fifteen minutes they were walking in downtown Santa Cruz. Twinkle lights still adorned the fronts of quaint mom and pop shops. As they passed under a sign announcing "60th Annual International Street Fair." Eva said, "I thought we could got to the fair. I think the first time my mom let me out of her sight was here when I was 14." Banners representing countries from around the globe flapped in the evening breeze. Ethnic music played off each street. The crowds were bundled in sweaters and scarves to ward off the ocean chill.

"We came here a few times, 'member? Right after the Undie Run," Abby said wistfully thinking back to their college days and the night when everyone met at Memorial Hall just before dawn, stripped to their bras and underwear and ran to the center of town then back to school. The scattered clothes were later gathered up then donated to homeless children in Africa. Abby had fallen on the way back to campus and Ian had scooped her up before the crowds trampled her. She didn't know him, but he picked her up and helped her onto his shoulders. He was so big, more of a jungle gym than a college kid. And unfortunately, their start, with her first true love serving as the knight in shining armor hung around him like a permanent aura for their three years of dating. There was little he could do wrong until he decided he wanted to start seeing other people.

"Oh my God, the Undie Run! That was a blast!" Eva said. "Hey, this street fair was your first date with Ian, right?" Eva asked.

"Second date. We went to dinner first and that's when he told me about the family business."

"Sausages?"

"Corned beef and cabbage. He's Irish."

Oh yeah," Eva looked up to the banner to see the German sign with a dancing couple wearing green lederhosen. She scanned the signs for the orange and green Irish banner.

"He had earned enough money to buy a house at 22 years. I was just so damn impressed that I agreed to work with his family in a sweaty booth for two solid days. Ever since we broke up, I haven't been back. It's kind of his territory."

"Then he dumped you for his bank teller, right?" Eva asked.

"I thought he was the one," Abby shook her head thoughtfully. "I really did."

"Rat bastard. But you started dating Scott right after Ian, so what did it matter?" Eva spotted a red-haired man wearing a Guinness t-shirt and figured she could follow him to the Irish street. She casually grabbed Abby's hand and began tailing the redhead.

Abby aimlessly followed Eva, lost in her memories. "I cried buckets of tears for Ian. Scott was going to be my rebound guy." Her expression darkened. "We never had the chemistry that Ian and I had. I thought I'd date Scott for just a couple of weeks and get over my heartache. But Scott turned out to be safe and comfortable. We were a good team once." Abby sighed. "I figured Ian would see through me and realize I still loved him. I felt so transparent around him."

Eva stopped cold and looked at Abby seriously, "You don't still love Ian do you?"

Abby brushed away the idea with a wave of her hand. "No. I loved him for the first six months or so of dating Scott. But I got over it when realized I could never be anything much more than a housewife with Ian. I wouldn't have reached my potential. Not as an artist or a woman. He was the kind of guy that likes to take care of everything and there was always this underlying subservience he required."

"Oh good," Eva sighed in relief. "'Cuz guess where we are?" Eva pointed to the banner above them, ablaze in orange and green and white.

Abby looked up and her mouth fell open. "Oh, shit."

"Let's see if Ian is here," Eva said with a mischievous smile.

"No, I don't think it's a good idea," Abby shook her head. But her feet seemed to be glued to the ground. Passerbys needed to walk around them.

"Why not?" Eva asked incredulously. "You've got nothing to lose and you're looking hot." Eva glanced down at Abby's long legs.

Abby tried to protest, but no words came out. Instead she felt a dormant wild streak rise inside her. There was really nothing the matter with just seeing if he was here. Problem was, the likeliness of that fact took the impulse out of the risk. Ian and his brothers were as reliable as dirt turning to mud after rain, and almost that boring.

Except in the bedroom. That's when the manly man Ian allowed Abby's imagination to take over. Her favorite game was naked Twister with a bottle of baby oil and hot candle wax. Her innovation created sexual magic that was never in her relationship with Scott. Abby giggled at the idea and glanced wickedly at Eva who returned a devilish grin.

"Let's get a beer first," Abby said bee-lining for the beer stand. She whipped her leg up, rested her foot against a pylon next to the counter and dug into her boot for her money. Her miniskirt rose up, revealing a toned thigh. The man behind the counter almost fell over himself.

"Do you have any idea what you are doing to this poor man?" Eva asked. "Damn, you can turn it on when you want to."

"What?" Abby flipped her dark hair back and looked around bewildered and innocent. Her leg still propped up, showing the hard work of morning walks on the sand.

"Oh, just stop," Eva laughed, knocking Abby's boot off the pylon. "Just for that, you're buying."

"Two Stellas, please," Abby said to the main behind the counter. She gave him her best smile and had to stop herself from batting her eyelashes. She felt like she was coming to life. Abby paid for the beers and handed one to Eva. "Just shut up and drink with me." Abby took a long swig of her beer. She drank the rest of her beer and threw the cup into the trash. She walked around the beer counter and peered through the booths.

"Hold on. Let's get you some lipstick," Eva said handing Abby her beer so that she could look in her purse.

"Oh yeah," Abby agreed taking a sip of Eva's beer.

"I got it," Eva pulled the lipstick out and handed it to Abby. "Hey, give me that."

Abby stole another sip before exchanging the beer for the lipstick. "Just a little liquid courage." Abby applied the lipstick without a mirror then pinched her cheeks for color. Abby's eyes glinting with trouble. "It's been ten years since I've seen him."

"You look better now then you did then," Eva said.

"Okay, let's go," Abby walked cautiously toward the food tents. She spotted a man with bright green eyes, brown wavy hair and broad shoulders talking to an older couple where the rope created the boundaries under the pop up tents. That was Greg, Ian's older brother. Abby looked to the grill where she spotted Ian, diligently tending to the meat. He looked the same. Fucking gorgeous. His blond hair spilled out from underneath a Giants baseball cap. "He's there."

"Which one? Is he cute?" Eva asked.

"All the brothers were cute. Eva, don't you remember?" Abby asked.

"Did I ever date one?" Eva asked hopefully.

"No," Abby said. She stared at Ian's large barrel chest, recalling how she used to run her fingers through the hair across it. But Ian refused to look up. She looked over to Greg.

"Well, did I uh, ever go home with one?" Eva asked.

“No,” Abby said testily, losing her cool. Abby sidled closer to the booth, waiting for the moment she could interrupt Greg. She had about a nanosecond after the conversation ended and Greg turned to help his brothers. "Greg!" Abby called out, rushing forward. Greg turned to look at Abby but only stared blankly at her. "It's Abby."

"Oh yeah," he said. "You dated Ian."

"Yeah, um," Abby said. "I'd like to say hi to him," Abby replied as lightly as possible.

Greg gave Abby a once over, lingering just a second on her boots. He seemed to be fighting with himself. Almost like he didn't think it would be a good idea to call Ian's attention to Abby. As if she were a temptation he didn't need. Then finally he turned and yelled, "Ian!"

Ian looked up. His bright green eyes grew wide with joy. Without taking his eyes off Abby, he left the grill, thrust the tongs at Greg and strode quickly toward her. Greg watched Ian with definite trepidation.

As Ian neared, time moved in slow motion. Abby observed his thick chest and flat stomach to the muscular arms and graceful gait of an athlete. She had forgotten how beautiful his eyes were and hadn't remembered his grin being so boyish and adorable. And yet for all this magnetism that had her so enthralled ten years ago, once she looked into his eyes at close range, she realized something had changed. Something was missing.

As Ian loped closer to her, Abby was amazed to realize this man who held her heart no longer had the ability to make her a veritable puddle on the ground. In fact, his eager smile bolstered her confidence to an exorbitant height, a place she had not been in so very long. Mired as she had been in the quicksand of a failing marriage, it had been eons since someone had looked at her like this. Ian stared at Abby like he was drinking her in - a bit of incredulity, appreciation and fascination.

The blood pulsed hot and fast through Abby's veins. Her breath came in deep and slow like a predator cat waiting to pounce. She lowered her head and looked up at Ian through her eyelashes, feeling like an incarnation of the Goddess Venus, all aglow in her half shell.

Ian stopped in front of Abby, quite close, almost has if he was going to embrace her then suddenly stopped. For a very long moment, neither of them said anything. Ian continued to stare at Abby as if she were the most beautiful creature ever to walk the earth. Abby leisurely lifted her chin and looked directly, boldly into Ian's beautiful green eyes and let a slow, sensuous smile play across her lips.

Ian stepped back as if Abby had just sent a wave of fire at him. He looked Abby up and down and with nothing more to hide or protect herself from this man, Abby allowed her shoulders to spread backward and opened her heart to him, which also served the double purpose of causing her breasts to rise and make her ample cleavage just a bit more visible.

"Abby," Ian said slowly. He laughed nervously. "You look amazing."

"Thanks," Abby said in a velvety voice she didn't even recognize. She hadn't flirted with this much control since… never.

"How are you?" Ian asked.

"I'm good," Abby said. "I came here with my friend, Eva." Abby turned around but Eva was flirting with a couple of guys about ten feet away. "But, I guess she's busy." Abby turned back around again to find Ian still staring at her in that mesmerized kind of way.

"What?" she laughed.

"Nothing," Ian said, shaking his head as if to clear away the stardust from his eyes. "It's just really good to see you."

"Well, it's nice to see you too," Abby said resolutely.

"I read about your showing at the Artisans Gallery in the paper," Ian said impressed. "It said you should have your ceramics on display in France or something like that."

"You heard about it and didn't you come?" Abby gently pushed his arm. "Why not?"

"I don't know," Ian looked over Abby's head to the crowds behind her. After a long pause, he returned his attention to her. His expression was a bit pained, particularly his eyes which seemed to be filled with angst and loneliness, then as he studied Abby's face, his expression flickered to longing to be understood. "I just couldn't."

Abby waited for more of an explanation. He smiled and looked away again. Abby softened her approach. "I hear you got married. Do you have any kids?"

"Two. A boy and a girl: Trevor is 3 and Remy is 1," Ian said.

"I thought you'd been married for awhile - like eight years or something. Did you travel first?"

"No," Ian blushed. "It took awhile to get Danielle pregnant. I guess I have slow swimmers." He smiled sheepishly.

"Oh, that must have been hard on you," Abby said.

"Yeah," Ian said. "Marriage is tough you know."

"Oh yeah," Abby said. "But you can't allow it to keep you down."

"How about you?" Ian's mood brightened as the attention moved off of him. "You got any kids?"

"Keegan is eight," Abby dug out her phone from her boot and showed Ian a picture of Keegan. "He's the love of my life." Abby stared at the picture.

"Not your husband?" Ian asked.

"No," Abby said and closed her phone, setting it absent-mindedly on the table. "I moved into the Rock House for awhile as an artist-in-residence. I had to do it for me. I was dying in that relationship." It was remarkable that even though she didn't feel the sexual tension, merely fond affection, she still felt this level of intimacy with Ian where she could speak so frankly. Perhaps because there was nothing to lose. Or because of their shared history.

"You're so strong. I always admired that in you," Ian smiled at Abby.

Abby's mouth fell open, but nothing came out. She had never thought of him admiring her. In her mind, it had always been her who was deepest in the relationship.

"How's your family? I always like Grandma Adelia. She made the best tamales I ever had."

"The first tamales you ever had," Abby corrected.

"Yeah, but I've bought other tamales over the years and they just were never as good."

"You bought tamales? Where?" Abby asked astounded.

"I get around," Ian said with a defensive laugh. "Plus, once you have a good thing…"

"Abby," Eva joined them, linking her arm around Abby's elbow. "I'm ready for another beer. You ready to go yet?"

"Eva this is Ian," Abby said.

Ian and Eva shook hands. "You hungry? Here, let me get you some food." Ian grabbed two plates of corned beef from the counter and offered them.

"I'm a vegetarian," Abby said with her hands up.

"I'm not," Eva said taking a plate. "Thanks."

"I guess it's time for us to go," Abby said.

"Yeah, I should get back to work." Ian said regretfully. "It was really good to see you."

"It was good to see you, too." Abby waved and turned to leave.

"He was cute," Eva said. "Maybe he's the one you should hop back on the pony with? I know you haven't done it with Scott since October. I would have exploded by now."

"You know, he's married." Abby said.

"So?" Eva said.

"Ugh. It felt so good to be appreciated," Abby said longingly.

"Appreciated?! He was practically drooling all over himself," Eva turned back to look over her shoulder. "He's still watching you. Don't look. Keep him guessing."

"I don't know," Abby said. "It seems like his marriage is on the rocks. But it would be like going back into dirty bath water. And I don't know if I'm ready. But on the other hand, it really felt good to have someone drool over me." Abby smiled, then her face froze. "Shit, I left my phone." Abby turned and ran back to Ian's booth.

Ian was looking out for her and when he spotted Abby he walked over to where they had been talking and handed her the phone. "I put my number in," he said.

"Oh?" Abby asked incredulously.

"Call me," Ian said. "I'd like to stay in your life. In whatever way you want. I think you're amazing."

Where did Ian and Abby first meet?? Winner to be announced on Julia Amante's blog tomorrow

THE CHICA LIT BLOG LINEUP:
Julia Amante
Berta Platas
Mary Castillo
Alisa Valdes Rodriguez
Margo Candela
Caridad Ferrer
Gabriella Hewitt
LM Gonzalez
Tracy Montoya

Bringing Yule & Christmas Together

2008-12-24T13:29:00.000-08:00

This year my sons are 9 and 11 and while they believe in the Spirit of the Season, their views of Santa Claus are more along the lines of a fond memory. So it comes to me to bring the spirit of faith and magic and mystery back to the season, however I can. And also whenever I can, blend the pagan with the mainstream. Thankfully, my mentor Lunaea Weatherstone presented me with the perfect material: the glorious, generous and joyful Holly King who represents peace and the Consort or Companion of the Goddess in his Green Man guise.

I described to my boys the image of the Holly King: barrel chested, wearing a cloak of red or green lined in white fur, barefooted with a crown of holly and icicles, and how he is depicted as the Ghost of Christmas Present in Charles Dickens' Christmas Carol: "Its dark brown curls were long and free; free as its genial face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanour, and its joyful air. Girded round its middle was an antique scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust."

I told them the story ancient peoples have shared with their children for hundreds of years: The Holly King rules during the months of the waning sun, lending his protection and jolly spirit as the days grow cold. At Yule the Holly King gives up his rule to the Oak King, who will reign during the days of growing Light. The Holly King gives up his post and his empty scabbard is akin to the Horn of Cornucopia, representing the abundance and generosity of Santa Claus.

I wrapped up my sharing by reading the 1897 original editorial letter in response to Virgina O'Hanolan's question, "Is there a Santa Claus?" Here is a wonderful excerpt.

"He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy... there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding."

Protecting the Rights of the Creator

2007-11-13T13:06:00.000-08:00

When my first child turned six months old, I realized I could no longer take him into the literary agency where I worked as an assistant. My boss, agent Julie Castiglia, adored Skyler, but he cried a lot. I found it difficult to accomplish even mindless work such as entering submissions into the computer while endlessly tapping my foot on the edge of his bouncy seat to calm my fussy baby. When my work required actual thinking, i.e., sending letters to authors about royalties or editors pitching a new book, it was damn near impossible to concentrate. As I only made $2 an hour more than the babysitter, I had no other apparent option but to go home to raise my son.
Insistent upon making some cash, I brought home the slush pile of submissions to read and assess. But after awhile, the cut-throat nature of the business became intolerable. I could tell how much passion these writers had, even when they didn’t have talent, and it broke my heart. I wanted to be a published author as well, so their pain was too close for comfort. I often wrote notes of encouragement on the rejection cards. The small effort didn’t take much time, but it took energy and soon enough, I knew I had to quit the job completely.
Being a stubbornly independent cuss, this part of my process was extremely difficult; trust is also not exactly my forte. I had effectively cut off my income source and I was scared, albeit hopeful. In deep meditative prayer (with a candle), I asked for an income that would feed my creative spirit and enable me to stay home with my son.
Within a week, Julie called me with a proposal. An editor from Carol Publishing had called her looking for an author to write The Wicca Cookbook. Julie wanted to know if I thought I could write the book. At the time I had little formal training in Wicca, but I had been to some rituals and had already delved into several mysteries: my nana had been a psychic, my mother a Catholic, my father a Christian Scientist, and my aunt a tree hugger. I could do it.
The next week I found out I was pregnant. While my first son took naps and my second son grew inside me, I created my third “child,” the sister named The Wicca Cookbook. I turned in the completed manuscript a couple of months prior to my son’s due date. I remember asking the editor to be kind with rewrites and edits since I would either be on the brink of giving birth or postnatal (and possibly depressed as it had happened the first time, but I didn’t really tell them that. Brooke Shields hadn’t made her declaration, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything.) Publisher’s Weekly announced the book with the cover Carol Publishing had chosen in their July 26, 1999 issue.

Soon after we turned in final edits, Carol Publishing declared bankruptcy.

All book deals and books were considered assets of the bankruptcy, including my baby. This book represented my future ability to make money and remain at home to care for my children. Post partum depression had settled in and my husband was drinking like a fish. This book was my ticket to self-sufficiency and it was slipping through my fingers like water. I consulted four lawyers and after months and months of negotiations we seemed to be edging towards the ability to get my rights back to my book. My agent sent out the proposal to different editors, including a publisher known as Ten Speed Press/ Celestial Arts. I liked the name of the publisher and they had published one of my favorite authors: SARK. Ten Speed agreed to buy the book, pending a letter from Carol Publisher relinquishing the rights. But, weeks passed and still Carol Publishing wouldn’t send a letter. It seemed that Kensington Publishing would acquire their book deals and they didn’t want to lose any lucrative assets. But we didn’t know whether or not the new publisher would ever publish my book, as they had eighteen months to decide once the takeover was complete. The roadblock appeared impassable.
Despite this, on faith, Ten Speed announced The Wicca Cookbook in their fall 2000 catalog. More time passed and the situation was indeed bleak. The editor in chief, Kirstie Melville, loved the book but was preparing to rescind her offer soon unless we solved the legalities. A deadline was set. The deal was off unless a letter appeared by February 29, 2000. Frustration, fear, and anxiety set in. I wrote affirmations all over the file folder that contained the record of this lengthy legal trail.
Julie suggested I join the Author’s Guild and request their assistance. Immediately to my great relief and amazement, the lawyer from Author’s Guild found a loophole in that Carol Publishing had only paid me half of the advance. If I would return payment ($2,500), I would have the rights to my book. There was a light at the end of the tunnel. I scraped together money already spent and sent it back to the publisher. The Author’s Guild came to my rescue and did what four lawyers could not do. With less than twenty-four hours before the deal with Ten Speed was null, I got the rights back to The Wicca Cookbook. Ten Speed knew what to do with this book, and it sold out of its first printing in three months.
The Author’s Guild resuscitated my career as an author and gave me the footing and support I needed in a desperate time. The guilds that protect our ability to make money from our creative efforts are irreplaceable. They support the heart of every story, the core of every theory. There are people, the storytellers, the scientists, the teachers, and other creators who want nothing more than to make a living from writing: words are their best friends, the way they communicate with the world and with their divine self. At this point in my career, I cannot afford to close my laptop and walk the picket line with the Writer’s Guild. However, this musing is my symbolic gesture of support. I’m not currently writing for a hit TV show or a screenplay for Warner Brothers, not yet at least. But someday, their battle for rights could be my battle – you never know.

To the Artists in the House

2007-12-05T17:49:00.000-08:00

I think the two different ways of gaining success as a creative person are very interesting. You can either rise to the top of your profession and/or art through word of mouth based on your talent. Or you can gain notoriety because of a slick marketing campaign. If you rely solely on word of mouth, you are bound to be eating top ramen for a long time, but there is the benefit of knowing you have autonomy. If you go the other route, you may have a broader ripple effect - connecting with more people - thereby making more money, in less time. The irony is if you do well because of a grassroots efforts, then you are a "true" artist, and the flip side is that diving into deep pockets for advertising, big publishing companies, or big record labels, etc. and you're called a sellout because your art was bought based on a Pavlovian response created by advertising gurus and media, rather than quality.

I have heard of artists who won't sell their work to someone who doesn't "get them." And I've heard artists saying they'll do whatever it takes, just to be able to write, make jewelry, or sing, etc. It's rather obvious that the combination of the grassroots and advertising is really the best option, but for me the trick lie in figuring out where to put my energy - 40% here and 60% there. How many blogs can you write? How many festivals can you attend hustling your books? Should you carry the books in your car, place them title side up at your favorite coffee shop so people ask about you, push the publisher to do more? How much do you push and how much do you trust the process and quality of your work to prove itself?

Personally, I think I lost my trust in marketing when I studied public relations in college. First there was Orson Wells' radio broadcast called The War of World in which people freaked out because they thought Martians really had landed on Earth. Wow, radio sells ideas, radio convinces people. Then there was the Nixon/Kennedy debate when Nixon refused to wear makeup and sweat like a pig under those harsh lights, whereas John F. looked calm, collected and ever so handsome. Oh, so looks sell, too they realized. Of course, the irony is that I'm very intuitive pr gal/professional, who happens to love creating symbiotic relationships with people, organizations, and businesses. That is the quandary - the artist or pr gal? I know I don't have to chose, but where is the balance?

In six months, on June 10, 2008, my first novel, Rogelia's House of Magic, will be available. It's my first book with an actual release date. All other books had release months. It's my first time with a big publisher. What they will do for me, remains to be seen? It's mine to ask from the universe. What will I choose? I will continue to reach out to my community and hopefully find the trust and balance in marketing for a piece of art that is very dear to my heart.

So what would you chose? Marketing or grass roots? Or both?

A Tribute to Joe M. Martinez

2007-12-17T22:09:00.001-08:00

My grandfather, my mother’s father, showered me with unconditional love from the day I was born. His wife, my grandmother, had died one month prior to my birth, and I suppose I was in part, a rebirth, a resurgence in life, for him. When my biological father left, we moved in with Grandpy. That’s when I began to call him Daddy. He kept toys for us at his house even after we moved out and my mom remarried. He made me try habanera chilies, saying I wasn’t his granddaughter if I didn’t at least take a bite. That was unacceptable, so I of course I ate the chili. I did draw the line at rabbit and menuedo – he didn’t start me early enough on tripe soup. Grandpy made the best hamburgers, though. Throughout my childhood Grandpy lived in the best houses for hide and seek. He wore white short-sleeved button-down shirts, slicked his opulent black hair with Brilliantine, and smelled like Old Spice and Wrigley’s doublemint gum.

His feet glided across the floor without actually touching ground when he danced. I never knew that many of the times I danced with Grandpy he was letting me lead. He called just to say I love you. He never forgot a birthday. When I was a teenager and fighting with my mother tooth and nails, Grandpy always had my back. If she started name calling or threatening to hit me, I ran to my room, barricaded my door, scrambled under my bed, and called Grandpy crying. He’d calm me down and then after we hung up, I could hear my mother’s phone ring. And she would say, “Dad, all I said was…” Nothing is ever so sweet as the sound of your mother getting busted after she broke your heart.

But I was no angel. And still, he never withdrew his love, which is especially significant to me during my most demanding and frightening years. When I was nineteen I moved in with Grandpy and his relatively new wife Chris. I felt his unconditional love always. Even when I crashed and totaled three cars within a year and a half. Even when I stayed out all night. Even when I called him to drive down to Newport Beach because I had dropped my keys in the sand, stumbling from one bar to the next. Even when I wore his WWII Bomber Jacket to the bar, because I thought I looked hot in my “wife-beater” tank top, black tight jeans, and that leathered brown jacket. Never mind that he had worn that jacket as a bomber pilot during the 33 missions he captained. A regular Mexican Memphis Belle, my Grandpy. He growled at you rather than yelled when he was disappointed. It was the worst thing in the world to disappoint Grandpy.

When I lived with Grandpy and Chris they were my safety net. They read their Louie L’mour books next to a crackling fire, drank Early Times and water, played with their dogs, fed the chickens and collected their eggs, tended the horses, and grew random tomato plants, which they fed to the chickens. Late at night Grandpy would swallow a teaspoon of baking soda to settle his stomach and every morning he stretched for fifteen minutes. He was the constant in my life of turmoil. Grandpy’s love kept me alive and after two years, I finally straightened out.

After his passing on December 6, 2007, I dreamed of him at this age. I knew his death was coming, even though at eighty-three, he was still fourteen years younger than his father when he had died. In November 2005, an article appeared in the OC Register about my Wicca books. There were a few mentions about the word “witch.” Grandpy didn’t speak to me that Thanksgiving. Wouldn’t even look at me. I can’t describe how painful that was. It is the one incident of prejudice that I have directly encountered regarding my spirituality. That Christmas he growled at me, so we were on better terms, but never quite back on track. Several months later, he said he was mad and regretted that he hadn’t raised me in Catholic religion. I tried to explain that nature is my religion. Chris got me, but Grandpy didn’t. Last month I went to visit him and mentioned that there was a book I would like to give him. He said with contempt that he didn’t read anymore. The month prior, he fell down while dancing at my sister’s wedding. There were always deep bruises just under his skin because of his blood pressure, or something like that. He lost track of conversations in the end.

However, the Grandpy I remember most is the one who has instilled in me a great love and appreciation for myself. This unconditional love that he carried for me, now lives in me. I cannot imagine living a life less grand than anything he would want for me. What a gift. To have been loved so deeply that you can feel the love living in you even after the one who gave it to you has passed on.

At his very Catholic vigil and rosary, I placed in his casket a Goddess necklace my mother bought for me years ago. I love this necklace. I’m not sure what this symbolic gesture means, only something related to the fact that I am merging and incorporating his beliefs and loves into my own, and hoping this can be a symbiotic act. That we can let go of the obstacles that bar the bridge to each other’s hearts.

I love you Grandpy.

The 12 Days of Chica Lit - Ride the Wild Pony by Jamie Martinez Wood

2007-12-20T03:42:00.000-08:00

Hola! Welcome to Day 10 of the Chica Lit Blog Tour!! The winner of yesterday's story, Winter, Fire, and Snow, is KCE1976. Please go to www.tracymontoya.com to claim your prize.

There will be a question at the end of my story here. Your prize will be one autographed book which you can choose from any of my six books: The Latino Writers & Journalist Book, The Enchanted Diary, The Wicca Herbal, The Teen Spell Book, The Hispanic Baby Name Book or, The Wicca Cookbook.

For the next fun and exciting story go to http://blog.misaramirez.com/

Now, mis amigas y amigos buckle your seatbelts and get ready for a bumpy ride!

Aurora Ramirez drove her black BMW up to the curb in front of her parents’ old Victorian home. She turned off the car engine and glanced over at the twinkling Christmas lights that trimmed the covered porch and wrapped around the birch trees. Two flamingos on the front lawn donned Santa’s hats. Aurora looked through the gingerbread type windows, and saw the silhouette of her mama stirring the chile con carne at the 1930’s red antique stove. Papa came over and gave Mama a peck on the cheek.

Aurora sighed, then quickly shook her head to keep from heading into relationship territory. Aurora Ramirez didn’t allow herself think about the kind of companionship that her parents shared. Some people got that kind of love, and others, like her, didn’t. Frankly, she told herself, she couldn’t imagine settling down with one person. And why should she? She had a parade of men in her life that had caused her to alphabetize her BlackBerry by first name instead of surnames. Who needs to know the last name anyway? She kept her focus strictly on her career as Vice President of Public Relations at Westinghouse Public Relations firm.

Thinking about work reminded Aurora that she really couldn’t afford to spend more than a couple of hours making tamales tonight. She had a few press releases to edit before sending them off to the client. She never, ever missed a deadline, preferring instead to accomplish the impossible, like sending out press materials one week ahead of schedule and during holiday season.

Aurora pulled down the sun-visor and checked her reflection in the small mirror. She toyed with her dark hair that fell in waves just passed her shoulder. She had an angular, beautiful face with a beauty mark just above her mouth. Hmmm. She needed more lipstick. She dug through her Dolce & Gabbana clutch purse for her signature Chinese red lipstick. While she applied her touchup makeup, a small red mark on her neck caught Aurora’s horrified attention.

Holy shit, was that a hickie? Aurora turned her head to gain a better look. Yep, a small reddish bruise shone like Rudolph’s nose.

Images of the hot young intern whom she had cornered in the copy room at last night’s company Christmas party came in sharp focus in her mind’s eye. She had never before endangered her career by allowing anyone at work to know about her late night rendezvous. It would ruin her reputation as a ball-busting businesswoman who would stop at nothing to rise in her the top. She easily gained the most sought-after clients because they wanted to ride her coattails – like the tail of a heaven-bound comet.

But she just couldn’t resist that intern’s soft brown eyes or the cute dimple in his chin. What was his name? He had the softest lips. Recently Aurora had discovered the beauty and endurance of the twenty-something generation. At thirty-nine, they would call her a cougar. And she earned that nick name in more ways than one.

Suddenly light streamed from the house to spill down the porch, over the steps, and onto the walkway. Silvana, Aurora’s sister, had yanked open the front door. “Aurora! Get your ass in here!” she called. Mateo, Silvana’s five-year-old son, clung to her leg, like a koala bear hugs a eucalyptus tree.

Aurora rolled down the window. “Just a sec,” she said.
“She’s driving me crazy!” Silvana whispered fiercely. “Hurry up.” Silvana slammed the door shut.

Aurora burrowed through her makeup bag for her MAC pressed powder. She caked on the makeup, but the reddish bruise refused to be concealed. She popped open her glove compartment and rummaged inside. She pushed aside a mini sewing kit, bank deposit envelopes, a small flashlight, mints, a package of Trojan condoms, and a few maps. She found her slinky gold lamiae scarf and wrapped it around her neck, tying a fashionable knot on the side.

Aurora grabbed her purse, got out of the car, and headed down the walkway, which glowed slightly from the luminaries placed next to the two-foot tall plastic candy canes.
She pushed open the front door and was immediately surrounded by the scent of chile con carne and sounds of recorded Christmas carols. As she walked down the hall, pictures of Aurora and her siblings: Silvana, Esmeralda, and Theodore as kids sitting with Santa smiled out at her. Every year their mother dragged out these sentimental favorites and plastered the walls with them. In each picture, the four of them wore perfectly matched clothing because Aurora, not their mother, had insisted on it. She made sure they looked good, even if she had to use her own money to buy the matching ribbons or black patent leather shoes.

Aurora’s heels clicked against the tile floor as she entered the kitchen. “Feliz Navidad.”
“Feliz Navidad,” sang out Silvana and Mama in chorus.

Esmeralda, dressed in a bright pink pant outfit and dripping with gold and pearls, turned and gave Aurora the once over. “You look like you’re going to a funeral. Don’t you wear any other color than black?”

“I need to go back to the office,” Aurora said kissing her mother on the cheek.
“It’s Christmas eve!” Esmeralda said. “If you didn’t work so hard, you’d be able to find a man. Like me.”

“Esmeralda has a new boyfriend,” Silvana said as she swooped up Bobby, her youngest son, and plunked him in the high chair their mother had purchased when Aurora graduated college, in hopes of grandkids. Instead, Aurora had enrolled in the masters program at UCLA in addition to her forty-hour a week job. She and her mother had always argued over their different versions of success.

“There’s a really important deal.” Aurora picked up a black apron from inside a kitchen cupboard and wrapped it around her thin waist.

“Tom, my boyfriend, loves the bright colors I wear,” Esmeralda said.

Aurora looked imperialistically down at her shorter sister. She pursed her lips. “I like black. It impresses.”

“Stop picking on her,” Theo interrupted as he sauntered into the kitchen sporting a red and white Chapman College sweatshirt. “Hey, sis, I got all A’s this semester.”

“Excellent,” Aurora commented.

Papa smiled as he followed behind his son. “How’s my girl?” He held out his arms and Aurora quickly crossed the room and melted into them. “You okay, baby?”

“Yeah,” Aurora said breathing in his scent of mint due to the leaves he was forever chewing.
Papa nodded towards the collection of hard liquor on the wooden sideboard.

“Good idea.” Aurora smiled and released herself from her papa’s embrace. She lifted the heavy bottle of Early Times and poured herself a glass of whiskey. Ahh, a bit of the hair of the dog. All day, she had tried drinking water, Gatorade, and even a Sausage McMuffin loaded with grease, to get rid of the queasy stomach and taste of stale alcohol. Nothing ever worked as good as a stiff drink. As she filled her glass again, Aurora had a momentary flashback that involved licking Cristal champagne off of a young man’s neck. It gave her the shivers, both from delight and fear that she had played it way too close to her own backyard.

Aurora sat her purse next to the chair in front of the large rectangular pan in which several dozen corn husks were soaking. The husks’ pale yellow opaque coloring was fading fast into a translucent, flesh-tone.

“You’re not going to wrap again?” Esmeralda said.

“You know the tamales I wrap never leak,” Aurora said pompously.

“It’s true,” Silvana offered. “Aurora’s tamales never ooze chili sauce, like yours. I should know. I had to clean the pot last year.”

“Whatever,” Esmeralda said, placing a few plates on to the table for the wrapped tamales to rest before they were arranged in the huge silver pots.

“Enough, girls,” Papa said as he put on his apron that read “I’m not aging I’m marinating.” He set down several spoons for scooping the chili con carne onto their kitchen table that had once been a door from a Cathedral in Guadalajara, Mexico. When the city decided to build a more modern church in its stead, the old church was crumbling and had become a hazard, he went berserk. He insisted he needed that door and had sucked the family savings dry to obtain it. He said it would bring peace to his rowdy family. Papa rubbed his hand wistfully over the large crack in the door.

“What has Esmeralda in such a twist?” Aurora whispered in Silvana’s ear as she walked to the stove to ladle the chile con carne into a bowl.

Silvana shrugged. “Dunno, but she’s been at it since she got here.” She whispered back. “Maybe since the new boyfriend is meeting you.”

“Why would that bother her? No, wait.” Aurora held her finger up and carried the bowl to the table. She returned and edged up next to Silvana.

“She’s always measuring herself against you and even though she would deny it if you brought it up, she still wants the approval of her big sister.” Silvana took out a new roll of paper towels to clean up the inevitable mess of tamale making.

Aurora peeked into the bowl of masa streaked with chile sauce that hadn’t been quite stirred in properly. “Why doesn’t she do that with you? You’re older than her, too.” Aurora grabbed a large wooden spoon and pushed it through the masa.

“It’s different with you,” Silvana whispered. “We all want your approval, Aurora.” At that moment, Bobby cried out, and Silvana rushed to soothe her baby.

Aurora looked around suspiciously at her siblings as she put the bowl of masa on the table. She had never noticed any desire for her praise.

“I bet Tom will be a natural at this,” Esmeralda crooned, while ripping thin strips of corn husks to tie the tamales.

“He’s coming?” Aurora asked, rearranging the bowls of masa and chili to a position she thought more organized.

“We’re breaking tradition,” Mama broke in.

“And he’s white,” Steve, Silvana’s husband, piped in. “Now I won’t be the only gringo in the crowd.”

“You’re an honorary Latino,” Silvana said with a kiss on top of his blond head. She smiled contentedly as she opened a can of olives and poured them into a green bowl.

“Now, I only want one olive per tamale,” Mama said, holding up one finger.

“So what if he’s white?” Esmeralda said. “I just know he’s the one.” She actually looked towards the heaven.

Aurora almost gagged but forced to herself to ask politely, “How long have you been dating?” Mateo pushed the olives onto his chubby fingertips and sucked them off one at a time. He reached into the bowl for more olives.

“Six months.” Esmeralda pulled Mateo’s hand out from the bowl of olives. “There won’t be any left,” she scolded.

“I bought two extra cans,” Silvana said exasperated.

“And I’ve never met him?” Aurora said bewildered.

“I met him.” Mateo said brightly. “He’s nice.”

Aurora gave her nephew a quizzical look.

“I invited Tom to Mateo’s fifth birthday,” Esmeralda said. “Remember you were working late and never made it, even though you promised to come.”

Silvana bit her lip and looked away. They had never discussed that.

“Oh,” Aurora said defeated. Just in time, her BlackBerry buzzed she had a text message. “It’s probably work,” she said, grateful for the interruption. Esmeralda groaned. Aurora picked up her purse and put it on her lap. She pulled out her BlackBerry, looked down, and read the message: How’s the hickie?

Shit. Did she give him her number? Aurora couldn’t remember. She stuffed the BlackBerry back into purse. “It’s nothing.” She said to no one in particular.

Mateo slapped down a chuck of masa on a corn husk and began to spread the masa with the back of the spoon.

“Don’t spread the masa too thick” Mama said prudently.

“Not yet, we’re waiting for Tom.” Esmeralda protested. “Did I tell you that Tom just got a new job? I can’t wait to hear all the details.”

Aurora’s BlackBerry buzzed again. Aurora fished out the electronic device and glanced down to read: I miss you. She would just ignore it. Pure sap was in love.

“You know, honey, you might be working too hard,” Papa said. “Uncle Hank’s biodynamic winery is going great in Sebastopol. He’s added on to their ranch, so there’s a guest house now. It would be good for you to get away, Aurora. Get off this wild ride you call a life and take a break.”

“We all know how much Aurora likes to drink,” Esmeralda said.

Aurora scowled at her and took a drink of her Early Times to be spiteful.

“They have horses,” Papa continued. “You could ride like you used to when you were a little girl.”

“No,” Aurora shook her head. She had never taken a real vacation since she started with Westinghouse five years ago. Her BlackBerry buzzed again. Aurora grabbed the BlackBerry, fumbled it and finally grasped it. She peeked into her purse to avoid pulling it out where anyone could see the message that read: Maybe you’d like to forget me, but I’ve been thinking that you could put in a good word for me at the office.

She dropped the BlackBerry as if it were toxic. Before she could put the purse down, the BlackBerry buzzed again. She couldn’t resist reading the message: Aren’t you going to answer me?

“You should probably answer it.” Silvana said.

“Work can wait,” Aurora said.

Silvana looked at her puzzled and Theo gaped at her. Aurora had never said anything like that before.

“I’ll just turn it off,” Aurora said, but before she could silence the BlackBerry it buzzed again. I know you don’t want Mr. Westinghouse to know you’ve been banging the new kid on the block.
“I’m going to take this.” Aurora got up and walked to the bathroom. Stop bothering me, Aurora typed in, punching the letters hard as both fear and rage pulsed through her veins in equal measure.

Sorry babe, gotta go, why don’t you just think about what I’ve said.

Aurora stared at the last words. She could feel steam rising under her Fendi silk blouse, only to be trapped by the scarf. She straightened up and headed back to the kitchen. She smiled falsely at her family and sat back down. “It’s all worked out,” she said in a tremulous voice.

The doorbell rang. Esmeralda jumped up, knocking the chair over. She ran down the hall and pulled open the door. “Hey there,” she breathed. “Come in.”

“Hope I’m not too late,” a male’s voice said.

Chills raced up Aurora’s arms. Where had she heard that voice before?

“We’ve waited for you,” Esmeralda tittered. A moment later she and Tom walked into the kitchen, their arms linked together. Esmeralda was beaming. Tom smiled at the Ramirezes sitting around the table.

It was the same soft brown eyes, same pouting lips, same damn dimple in his chin that had so enthralled Aurora last night. The same virile sexuality that had caused her to break all her rules. The hair stood on end at the back of Aurora’s neck. Her toes turned to blocks of ice. “Meet my big sister Aurora,” Esmeralda said with pride in her voice. “I think she’s the only one here you haven’t met.”

Aurora stood up and automatically shook Tom’s hand. She could feel the entire family’s attention on the two of them. But all she could do was stare at Tom’s cleft chin. Dimple in the chin, devil within, she thought dryly.

Tom smiled gleefully at Aurora. “Nice to meet you.”

Aurora forced a plastic smile on her face. “Mucho gusto.”

“Okay, let’s get this started,” Esmeralda said cheerfully. “I don’t want it to go on all night, like last year.” She smiled lovingly at Tom. “You can sit between me and Aurora.”

Aurora groped for her chair and sat down. She leaned closer to her Papa. “Papa, do you have Hank’s number? I think I will take that vacation after all.”

TAMALES DE LOS MARTINEZ
From The Wicca Cookbook: Recipes, Ritual, and Lore, by Jamie (Martinez) Wood and Tara Seefeldt

10 lbs (4.5 k) of pork roast, cut into medium-sized chunks
4 onions
3 garlic cloves, whole
1 to 2 dried chili pods
1 large cup chili powder (Gerbharts is the best)
Salt and pepper to taste
2 3/4 cups (680 ml) all-purpose flour
1/2 cup (125 ml) lard or canola oil
2 28-ounce (840 g) of Las Palmas chili sauce
2 8-ounce (225 g) bags dried corn husks
10 lbs (4.5 k) of masa, pre-made
5 6-ounce (170 g) cans of olives, black, pitted and whole

To prepare the chili con carne, fill a large pot with 1” (2.5 cm) of water. Add meat, onions, garlic, chili pods and 1 tablespoon of chili powder. Salt and pepper to taste. Cook on low heat for 2 1/2 hours. Drain the ingredients. Shred the pork and cut out any fat.

In a medium saucepan and over low heat, mix together the oil and flour. Brown flour, stirring continually until dark beige. Turn off the heat. Slowly stir in 1 cup (250 ml) chili powder. Mix together until you reach an even consistency. Add the Las Palmas chili sauce and 1 can of water, use the 28-ounce (840 ml) can. Turn the heat to high and bring to a boil. Use the back of a spatula to mash until the gravy mixture thickens. Mix in the pork. Reduce to heat and simmer for 1 hour.

Bring water to boil. Put corn husks in a large casserole, cake or lasagna pan. Pour the boiling water over the corn husks. Cover with a wet cloth or other light towel. Soak for 20 minutes, or until pliable.

Pour the pre-made masa into a large bowl, leaving the center open. Add 3/4 cup (180 ml) of the sauce, no meat, from the chili con carne. Mix together with your hands until fluffy.

Lay a corn husk flat with the pointy end away from you. The bottom or longest width of the husk should be approximately 6 to 7” (15-18 cm) wide. You can combine two smaller husks, making sure they overlap. Scoop 2 heaping tablespoons of the masa. Beginning about 1 1/2-inches (3.75 cm) from the pointy end, spread the masa evenly on the corn husk. The masa should extend to the bottom and be thick enough so that none of the husk shows through. Place 2 tablespoons of chili con carne in the center of the husk in an oval shape. Put 1 to 2 olives in the tamale. Roll the tamale lengthwise. Pinch the bottom close. Fold the pointy end back over the tamale on top of the seam made from rolling the tamale. Seal closed with excess masa.

Put 2 inches (5 cm) of water in a steamer pot. Stack tamales, seam down, in the steamer pot in a circle pressed against the side. Leave the center free. Stack the tamales anywhere from 2 to 4-inches (5-10 cm) from the top, depending on the size pot you use. Place a wet cheesecloth on top of the tamales to keep them from moving. Cover. Cook over medium heat. Cooking time varies depending on the pot your use. If you are using: a 2 to 3 gallon pot, cook for 45 minutes to 1 hour, a 4 to 5 gallon pot, cook for 1 to 1/2 hours, a 6 to 7 gallon pot, cook for 1 1/2 to 2 hours.

When the tamales are done, the masa will fall freely from the corn husk.

Note: Some tamale steamer pots are long and rectangular instead of being circular and tall. If you use the rectangular version, you will need to stack your tamales standing up against the side. Again leave the center open. Makes 6 dozen tamales.

Question for Ride the Wild Pony. What is the common thread between Aurora, Silvana, and Esmeralda's names? Answer here and win a free autographed book.

Moving right along on this Chica Lit Blog Tour. For the next story, go to www.blog.misaramirez.com

How I got from There to HERE

2008-01-02T18:59:00.000-08:00

I’ve been a tree hugger since before I entered Ms. Aster’s Kindergarten classroom. I used to play tag with a palm tree in our front lawn on Occidental Street during the powerful and warm Santa Ana Winds. I got sap stuck to my cheeks when I embraced the pines next to our cabin in the mountains of Idyllwild. In Eisenhower Park, I sat on pepper tree branches high above the ground, pretending to be Kelly Garret (Jaclyn Smith) from Charlie’s Angels or climbed my favorite sycamore, crying desperate tears when they cut it down – just like in Shel Silverstein’s book The Giving Tree. I attempted to reach my fingertips around massive oak trees and stared up at the elephant blue sky through leafy willow trees of Irvine Park. I breathed the eucalyptus trees scent in Santiago Park. I knew beyond a doubt that a BEING lived in every tree I have ever loved. And yet I figured it was something only a child could relate to.
You can imagine my joy when I watched the tree spirits come to life in Shirley Temple’s movie Blue Bird. Soon afterwards I read C.S. Lewis. He knew and loved the dryads as much as I did. Since an adult or two confirmed what I believed to be true – nature possesses a consciousness – I decided that I would find others of like mind. I spent many years looking for a tribe of tree huggers. Everywhere I looked I ran into dead ends. I must admit thought, I wasn’t without guidance. My stepfather raised us in the Christian Science faith. I learned from an early age that I had the power to create my future. I was told that by focusing on what I want, the wholeness and inherent goodness of me, that I could manifest my wildest dreams. I applied this to school, athletics, jobs. And it worked, with a strong faith, it almost always worked. Additionally my stepdad’s mother (by the way he is just dad, but I’m just being clear here), was a psychic, and so very early I learned how to trust my intuition and be sensitive to changes in energy. And I had my family.
I am half a bean - my mother is Mexican and my dad is Anglo. That first dad split when I was three so really I only got one heritage, Latina. I was born on a rainy day two days before Christmas in Santa Ana, California amongst a sea of brown faces. My maternal grandmother, I'm told I would have called her Nana, died one month before I was born leaving the faint scent of old photographs to piece together her legacy. When we lived in S.A. ("essaaay" with a pronounced accent), I wasn't brown enough. I tried to gather Latin pride but my grandfather had preached assimilation years before. It made sense in the 40s. Hell, he flew more missions than the Memphis Belle and couldn't get a job anywhere after the war 'cept as a janitor. But in the 70s, I just didn't understand. We moved to Orange, Ca, to a sea of white faces. I wore my Latina-ness like a chip on my shoulder - willing to fight anyone who put my people down. I was a regular Helen Reddy meets Pancho Villa poster child.
"You are the good kind of Mexican - not the kind that walked over - the kind that came on a boat," announced my new blond haired, blue-eyed friend. I was insulted beyond words. But the funny thing was, at least for part of my lineage, she was right. A week later I stood on the balcony of a large hacienda overlooking hundreds of people at my great grandfather's 94th birthday. There I learned our family had once owned 72,000 acres, equivalent to 7 cities, the largest and first land grant given in Orange County. But the lawyers stole it during the "Greaser Act" of 1848. First I'm not brown enough, and then I'm too brown. Now I'm a Spanish land heiress cheated out of her legacy? Who makes up these rules anyway?
I grabbed at wisps trying to be Mexican. It was the only culture I wanted to want me. I ate Mexican bread, but couldn't choke down chorizo, much less menudo. I ate the habanero chilis and fried my own tacos and taquitos - no premade shells please. And yet, I didn't learn the language. Maybe I was embarrassed that for all my Chicana pride I still had to learn it in school with the rest of the gringos. Maybe I was rebelling against "them" for not teaching me what I so desperately wanted to know. The scent of the old photograph wafts passed and I feel I must press on.
When I was eleven years old, my parents put my sister and I on a train to Vista to stay with our aunt and uncle for two weeks. And there was barefoot Aunt Sadie, practicing yoga, eating only fruit, skinny dipping in her black-bottom pool, feeding her roosters and chickens on a hugely overgrown two acre garden, getting high with her friends, and drinking red wine. She had a humongous closet full of scarves and colorful, free flowing clothes that I could wear whenever I liked. My Goddess, I was in heaven.
Sadie came from Scotland when she was nine years old. Her family history came via Ireland. She told me stories of seeing and talking with faeries. She was the epitome of a Sagittarian gypsy, and finally I had an example I could emulate. Being with Sadie made me want to be Celtic, particularly Scottish, even though I still told everyone (regardless of whether or not they asked) that I was Mexican.
Years later, a new friend named Jeanette invited me to her house for a Spring Equinox ritual. I attended these Celtic rituals and found great contentment. Soon after I gained the opportunity to write The Wicca Cookbook. I wrote much of this book at Tea & Sympathy – an English tea shoppe in Costa Mesa, California. They had a traveling store that sold Celtic wares at Celtic faires/festivals and Scottish Highland Games and thus hosted me for my first ever booksigning. And so with this combination of intrinsic tree hugging, metaphysical teachings, and Latino ritual, my career was launched through Wicca even though I had this love of my Latina heritage.
Four books later, I wrote The Latino Writers & Journalists book and discovered that magic (magical realism) is an integral part of my culture. It’s so a part of it, I didn’t see it properly upon my searches for metaphysical connections.
Most recently I wrote Rogelia’s House of Magic (released June 10, 2008). The book that finally brings it all together – magic, Latina, and my family land of over 200 years - Orange County, California. I wanted to include a Scottish or Irish girl, named Sadie, but she got cut. Hopefully there will be a sequel and I can bring her in. Almost like a sign though, the cover designer put a claudaugh symbol on an anklet. I tend to over interpret, but I like to see this as a good omen. What do you think?

Free Imbolc/Candlemas Ideas

2008-01-30T11:49:00.001-08:00

Celebrated on February 2, Imbolc, known also as Candlemas or Brigid’s Day, is a time to acknowledge our individual gifts and feed our talents with supportive action. Brigid is the Goddess of fire, inspiration and sacred wells. She also represents the triple aspects of poetry, smithcraft and healing.Imbolc is connected to the powerful new life awakening in the depths of the earth and thus also represents the rebirth and upsurge in personal power. Here we sit with energy building and yet no form. The dark night of the soul is a safe place to be, as it purifies and stills the monkey mind. This is a necessary process before great expressions can manifest. Now we plant seeds of inspiration, acknowledge first light, invoke patience, find virtue in perseverance, and inspire others.
This year me and the boys are going to roll red and white bees wax candles with essential oils dripped inside for a specific intent or wish. When we light these candles thinking about our desire, the oils will give our intention additional power!
Other traditions that you can do to celebrate this sabbat include sweeping out the old, making grain dollies, candle wheels or sun wheels, collecting stone for magical purposes and sharing creative work. Now is the time to visualize life flourishing with abundance, creativity and renewed strength.
Symbols of the holiday are seeds, wells, and fire. Herbs for this sabbat include angelica, basil, bay, cinnamon, frankincense, myrrh, orris root, saffron, red nettle, rosemary, rowan, saffron. Imbolc reminds me of the darkest time before great light. Focus ont eh growing light, the seeds you are bringing forth that will blossom in perfect time, with great abundance and joy.

A Box of Valentines

2008-02-12T00:03:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Day 3 of the Chica Lit Valentine's Blog Tour. Cynthia Reeg is the winner from yesterday's story: "The Painting” by Mayra Calvani, http://www.thedarkphantom.wordpress.com/. Congratulations, Cynthia! Okay, everyone, I hope you're enjoying these good reads! I know I am. On we go...

Abby Moreno-Smith sat cross-legged on the Berber carpet of her new home, a one bedroom cottage made entirely of miniature-sized boulders nestled in the middle of the redwood forest. The locals of Santa Cruz, California, affectionately called it “The Rock House” and it was the coveted home of many artists. For the last seventy years an artist or author was selected to live a one year in-residence in the Rock House. The artist left a piece of original art or an autographed book and signed the guestbook that would put them in the company of Robert Frost and Georgia O’Keefe. Abby told anybody who asked that she was the first Latino in residence since bohemian artist José Ramón Lerma. But of course, it wasn’t an easy road.

“Would you bring me that box over there, mi’jito?” Abby pointed to a cardboard box marked “office.” She took a swig from a dark green bottle of ayurvedic tea. It tasted like dirt but calmed her over anxious vata tendencies.

“Can I have the box after you empty it?” Six-year-old Keegan asked as he shoved the box toward his mother. “I want to add a lookout that I can stand in.” Keegan pushed the long dark blond bangs out of his eyes and nodded toward the line of empty boxes on the other side of the living room.

“I’m leaving most everything in here,” Abby pulled open the box lid. “I just need some paperwork,” she rummaged through the box, pushing aside a mish mash of photos, documents, pens, and random items like a bottle of lotion or a seashell. It had been the last box to pack and by the time she reached this one, she hadn’t really been thinking clearly.

“Oh, a picture of me,” Keegan said reaching for a silver frame with moons and stars. In the picture, Keegan was a rotund little baby sitting happily on a blanket.

Abby glanced down at the picture. She smiled. “We used to call you our little Buddha.”

“We?” Keegan asked, as he cocked his head to the side.

“Daddy and me,” she said tentatively, wondering how he would take the mention of his father. She returned to digging through the paperwork and thankfully pulled out the file she was looking for. It had all the notes she needed for building a cob house. In addition to making exquisite ceramics that sold for buckets of money, Abby had decided to build a cob house for her and Keegan to live in next year.

“When do I see Daddy again?” Keegan asked looking up at his mother with concern creasing a worried brow.

“Thursday,” Abby said with a direct look into her son’s eyes. She had promised herself that she would make certain her child saw his father, no matter what problems she may have had with the man.

“Every Thursday?” Keegan asked.

“Every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday,” Abby tapped Keegan’s freckled nose. “And sometimes on Sunday.” Particularly when I’m working a deadline, Abby thought to herself. Worry crept up her spine and she wondered for the hundredth time if she could keep up her creativity with the pressures of being a single mom. Well, she’d have to jump off that bridge when she got to it.

“Pinky-swear.” Abby locked pinkies with her son and shook.

Keegan squinted his eyes at his mother. “Hey, that reminds me, you promised after Christmas you’d teach me to read.”

“Yeah, I did,” Abby agreed. She looked around absently for the homeschooling box. “I think the flashcards are in there.”

While Keegan shuffled over to the box Abby had indicated, she thought about how incredibly fast January had whizzed past and now it was almost Valentine’s Day and she had no sweetheart. There had been a flurry of fights with James, tears, desperation over what to do next, and then the miraculous move into this infamous house. It had seriously been the best and scariest day of her life when she got the letter of acceptance.

“Who’s this?” Keegan brought a square picture with a white border to Abby.

It was the last thing Abby needed right now. “I don’t think that was the right box,” Abby took a deep sigh. Keegan waited for an answer to his question. “It’s my father.”

“Have I ever met him?” Keegan asked looking at the picture again.

“No,” Abby said in a deadpan voice.

“Do I look anything like him?” Keegan asked eagerly holding out the photo.

Abby wanted to say that she didn’t know. She wanted to say that she had only seen her father a handful of times in her life, so how could she possibly remember what he truly looked like. But her son was looking at her with his puppy-dog, brown eyes, and she knew how upset she would sound if she spoke her truth on the subject. She refused to lay such a heavy burden on him. She studied the picture a moment. “You have the same eyes. See how they crinkle when they smile? Yours do the same thing.”

At that moment the door swung open and Hillary Kerivan, Abby’s best friend since sixth grade,

swept into the room. Her long trim legs looked fantastic in a white tennis skirt. She had a visor pulled over her short cropped blond hair and big baby blue eyes. “Hey guys!”

“Auntie Hillary!” Keegan jumped up and ran to give her a hug.

“How’s my number one man?” Hillary picked up Keegan and gave him a bear hug.

“Great!” Keegan said enthusiastically.

“Keegan, why don’t you go play in your tunnel?” Abby scooped up a handful of markers and held them out to her son. “You can use these to draw on it.”

“Mom, it’s a fort,” Keegan said releasing Hillary and taking the markers from his mother.

“Sorry, I forgot. There’s some other decorating crafts in one of those boxes.” Abby got to her feet and stretched her arms toward the ceiling.

Hillary walked over and gave her friend a hug. “So you gonna put me to work? I just creamed them in singles today and I’m fired up.” She practically bounced on her toes.

“Whoa there, who do you think you are Maria Sharapova?” Abby smiled. She loved her friend’s happy-go-lucky attitude. Hill’s lightness was just what she needed.

“I could take her,” Hillary said with a big smile.

“Let’s work on the kitchen. I’ll pour the wine. I could use a glass.” Abby led the way into the open kitchen. A large window overlooked the redwood trees surrounding the cottage. She was aching to take a walk and check out the mushrooms in this part of the forest. She loved to collect them and often made either soup from the edible ones or medicinal creams from the healing plants.

Abby pulled open a drawer and held up the wine opener. “First thing I unpacked.”

“Good girl,” Hillary laughed. “I like this kitchen.” She ran a finger along the vintage wooden cabinetry with glass windows and knobs.

Abby opened a bottle of Wild Horse Pinot sitting on the granite counter, poured the red wine into two glasses, and handed one to Hillary. “Everything about this place is cool.”

“How’s Keegan doing?” Hillary drank some wine.

“Alright. Better than I expected, really.” Abby leaned around the partition that separated the kitchen from the living room, and snuck a peek at her son. Keegan was busily drawing windows on his fort.

“I told you he is stronger than you give him credit for,” Hillary said.
Abby stared at the light reflecting through the ruby red wine. She didn’t answer at first. The tightness in her chest made breathing difficult. She felt the tears getting ready to fall. “Hill, do you think I’ll ever get over this ‘I’ve broken up the family’ feeling?”

Hillary put her glass of wine on the counter and looked at her friend with a tender expression.

“Of course you will.”

Abby shook her head, sending her brunette ponytail flopping from side to side. “I never wanted this. I wanted to create the family I never had. I wanted a whole family – not a broken family. Why did it have to be this way? Is there something more I could have done? Something I missed?”

“I don’t know.” Hillary took her friend’s hand and squeezed it.

Abby let herself be consoled for a moment before pulling away. She gulped some wine, pulled a box closer to her, and yanked it open. “Keegan found a picture of my dad.”

“Does he even know about Keegan?” Hillary pulled up a stool and sat down to watch Abby work.

“No, I haven’t talked to my dad in ten years.” Abby peeled the newspaper away from a juice glass and placed it upright in the cabinet. She liked the significance of her cups in the position of receiving – as a symbol of her willingness to accept abundance. Like a horseshoe, except for the fact, that Abby had about a hundred of these various symbols through the house. Hillary called her superstitious. Abby preferred to call it “being in-tune.”

“Have you ever tried calling him? Maybe you should give him a call,” Hillary suggested.

Abby shrugged. Throughout her childhood, she only saw her father at intermittent times. She had always believed that the bulk of responsibility for the relationship rested firmly on the shoulders of the parent. Now that she was an adult, her stance hadn’t changed one bit.

“When’s the last time you saw him?” Hillary picked up a fish of blown glass and inspected it.

“At my wedding. Ten years ago.” Abby avoided eye contact with Hillary. She didn’t like addressing the fact that she had no contact with her father. It made her sound like a charity case.

“That’s right. Did I meet him?”

“I didn’t exactly introduce him around,” Abby said sarcastically. She hadn’t a father-daughter dance or taken pictures with him either. She gave him the invitation out of a last ditch effort to open communication with him. The rest was up to him to create something more. She wanted him to make an effort that showed he cared. “He gave me a boom box as a present.” She snorted in a disgusted way.

“Well, that’s nice,” Hillary said brightly.

“You don’t give your daughter a boom box for a wedding present.” Abby retorted. “Hey get to work.” She threw a crumpled up ball of newspaper at Hillary.

“Maybe he didn’t get the script.” Hillary said getting up.

“You know I hate it when you say that.” Abby turned her back on Hillary to put away a crystal vase under the sink.

“Well, I love you girl, but you’ve got such a firm idea of how things should be in your head. I just ignore you when you get uptight like that, and eventually you give up. You’re not as tenacious as you think you are.”

Abby pulled out a picture of her, James, and Keegan and placed it on the window sill. What could she say to that? She had always considered herself a person of strong convictions, now she felt so wishy washy.

“You’re going to put that picture up?” Hillary asked.

“I’m not going to demonize James. Just because he wasn’t a good husband, doesn’t mean he isn’t a good dad.” This was her one resolute point.

“That’s really mature of you,” Hillary said as she placed the juicer on the counter.

“My mom was always trashing my dad and he was so charming and loving when he visited. It just confused me. When she talked that way, I felt like half-asshole, since I got half my genes from him. But you know, I’m beginning to sympathize with him.”

“Your dad? How so?”

“Well, Mom told me once that he used to say he felt like a caged tiger. It was the same with me and James. I had to get out. I was suffocating in that relationship. I felt like the life force was draining from me. What if he felt the same way?”

“Yeah, but he never hung around. Never even sent child support if I remember correctly.”

“He took me to Disneyland once.” Abby opened a cabinet to find it full of plates.

“Seriously, they have a name for that. It’s called Disney Dad.”

“He bought me a pink princess cap from Sleeping Beauty Castle.” Abby said wistfully looking out the windows.

“Ohmigod, I love you honey, but that’s pathetic.”

“I think I still have it. In one of those boxes in the living room. Whenever he visited me he made me feel like I was the most important person in the world.” The damn tears started to well in her eyes.

“Until he returned flew back to the other side of the country and stopped calling.”

“I didn’t want him to prove my mom right, but when he didn’t call, the hurt was so deep.” Abby wrapped her arms around herself.

“Then each time, you’d get woo’d back with a princess cap.”

“Something like that. I wanted to be Daddy’s Little Girl. But after awhile I didn’t know who to trust.” Abby looked apologetically at her friend. “It was always my mom I bashed in therapy sessions, and he never… and now the divorce… I’m just so confused.”

“Let’s settle this. I’m going to Google your dad,” Hillary whipped out her Blackberry. “What’s his name? Where does he live?” Her fingers poised over the keypad. “It’s time you stopped living out of the past.”

“I don’t remember where he lives. Somewhere in Florida last I heard. I think my mom has the number. But I don’t think I should call.” Abby dug into another box.

“What? Do you need a sign or something? You gotta move on,” Hillary said.

“Mom, what’s this?” Keegan walked into the kitchen carrying a shoebox covered with doilies, hearts cut out from pink and red construction paper, globs of glitter, and ancient-looking Sweetheart candies.

Abby looked from Hillary to Keegan. She bit her lip. “It’s a box of Valentines from my dad. For about five years he sent me a Valentines card. I kept them all in that box.”

Hillary clapped her hands together. “Road trip. I’ll drive to your mothers.”

“But then after my dad divorced his second wife, the Valentines stopped coming. She was probably the one who sent them.” Abby said softly, like she didn’t want to admit it.

“So why did you keep them?” Hillary put her hands on her hips.

“Just in case they were from him,” Abby tugged on her ponytail.

Hillary crouched down to be at eye level with Keegan. “Why don’t you grab your jacket? We’re going to Abuelita’s.”

“Okay,” Keegan ran into the living room.

“I’m not ready to call him. What if he doesn’t want to talk with me?”

“Then you’ll know. But it seems to me, you really want a relationship with him. Look at all the stuff you keep from him. You’re hanging on to him. Hanging onto an idea of him and how he’s supposed to show up. Like the boom box. You can’t have any hurdles for him to jump. If he gives you a pencil for Christmas, you just accept it. My dad does stupid stuff all the time. He can be a down right ass. But he’s still my dad. You can’t script people into character roles that fit your every need.”

“Do you think that’s what I did with James?’ Abby asked, torn between shock, revulsion, and uncertainty. Could her unresolved baggage with her dad have anything to do with her marriage falling apart?

“I don’t know Abby. But clearing this with your dad could be the first step to clearing a lot of junk out of that mixed up brain of yours.” Hillary poked her head gently.

Keegan entered the kitchen. “I’m ready.”

“I’ll bring you some snacks, Keegan.” Abby grabbed a bag of seaweed and filled an aluminum bottle with water.

“I can’t believe he eats that stuff,” Hillary said scooping up her purse and pushing Abby out the front door.

“Hush!” Abby admonished her friend. “Don’t you listen to her Keegan. She has fake teeth.”

“They’re not fake underneath the caps,” Hillary said defensively.

On the drive to her mothers, Abby wondered if she should borrow Hillary’s phone. That way her dad would not see her name on the caller ID. She ran her fingers along a doily on the box of Valentines. She tried to settle herself with deep breaths. She was going to call her father for the first time in ten years. What would she say?

Question: Who was the famous Latino artist?

To win a one pound bag of Totally Toffee, comment here with your answer or email jamie@jamiewood.com. I'll choose the winner at random.

Next: Visit http://www.margocandela.blogspot.com/ to read “Missed Connections” by Margo Candela

Book Trailer for Rogelia's House of Magic

2008-02-29T22:22:00.001-08:00

We began filming today for the book trailer to Rogelia's House of Magic. It is really fun to watch something you have created and lived with in your head come to life. We will film more over the weekend. I've put together wardrobe, set design, storyboard, locations. I'm seriously loving this. I'll be posting the trailer in less than two weeks. YEAH!

Day Two of Filming

2008-03-01T17:50:00.000-08:00

I can now add a few more titles to my resume while in the making of the book trailer for Rogelia's House of Magic: casting, co-director, craft services, animal corraler, still photographer taker (there's a more professional name for this, but I forgot), and hair and makeup artist. Also, not sure if this counts. but I was also Set Mama. How much fun is this???? Let me tell you, I'm loving every minute of it.

Now this may sound absolutely silly to some of you and totally respectiful to others, and of course, somewhere in between for most of you. (I'm finally getting the hang of the idea that life does not have to be either black or white.) I believe strongly in supporting IMAGINATION: the ability to visualize an image in your head. I also believe that visual media can sometimes, oftentimes, provides images, lasting, permanent images, while literary works encourage imagination, images that are fleeting, changeable, more vapor and yet strong in feeling. So even though I am totally intrigued by the idea of seeing the 3D image of my story come to life, I want to preserve the right of the reader to imagine their own version of Fern, Marina, Xochitl, and Rogelia. That said, I think we did a pretty good job of casting. Our cast is beautiful, professional, and hard-working.

Four Crows: A Spiritual Center

2008-03-01T18:10:00.000-08:00

Today, my friends, Nila and Daryl, allowed us to film for several hours at their store, Four Crows: A Spiritual Center. We took over the store with lights, kids, food, clothes, etc. They were such amazing good sports about it. I'm so grateful to have such good friends.

Please go visit their store or website. You abolsutely need to check out their amazing Spirit Jewelry. Daryl, a Sundancer and Pipe Carrier for the Lakota, creates the jewelry with the spirit of animals that coincide with birth months - like astrological jewlery, but this is really cool because he makes each unique piece on site and the jewelry is more like a totem of the animal that is already protecting and guiding you. So far, he has created a badger, wolf, bear necklaces. Or receive a one of kind, knock you between the eyballs kind of spiritual readings from Nila. A few years ago, Nila and I took ten women on a Goddess Retreat to Kadavu, Fiji. She's a very powerful woman who will help you find the power to create a life of great happiness. http://www.fourcrowscenter.com/

The woman you see in the pink, behind the girls, is Lori Stoll. My new best friend : ) - at least she's the person I talk most to everyday. She's directing this book trailer for me. We're working on her forthcoming book, The Jew and The Inuit Girl. It's her memoir, detailing the story of a celebrity photographer who adopts an Inuit teenager. It will blow your socks off. Really.

We are taking off Sunday, but will shoot again Monday. More pics to come. Rogelia's House of Magic is definitely coming to life.

What is Magic? A Return to Oneness

2008-04-16T22:40:00.001-07:00

People ask me about magic - a lot. What is magic? They expect it to be about something spooky, creepy, or dark. They expect it to be about manipulation. For me, magic is only about being connected to yourself, your environment, and people. This includes 1) a meaningful relationship with nature, 2) trusting serendipity, coincidence, and your intuition, 3) believing and empowering your ability to attract a joyful life, and 4) connecting with the spirit world, particularly those loved ones who have died.

By now, you may have come to realize, I write mainly autobiographical work. It is how I stay open, loving, and whole. So here is my example of the best kind of magic there is. This January, I was looking forward to doing family constellation work, a healing practice, around my issues with my absentee father. While I waited for my schedule to match the practitioner's schedule, I journaled about my feelings and talked it over with friends who had fathers who were not around much during their childhood. I did a Broken Agreement workshop with my friend, Victoria. I wrote a story about looking for a missing father for a Valentine's Day Chica Lit Blog Tour called A Box of Valentines (see below) I tried to find my father through whatever means I had available to me. I hadn't seen him in 14 years and had no information as to where he could be.

I didn't know it at the time, but as I worked through my decision to make peace with him, my father had begun his transition and return to Oneness. In his last days, I believe he was reaching out to me. I believe I heard him calling, and accepted his love and began this relationship of forgiveness and acceptance with him, even though I didn't know what or why I was doing what I was doing.

My father made his transition on Good Friday, March 21. I found out on April 1 - All Fool's Day. I spoke with long lost aunts and uncles - 30 years had passed since I saw or spoke with them. It has been a mixed pleasure, being reunited with my father through his brothers and sisters. They have provided answers as to why he was gone for so long and showed me things about my dad I never knew. He made a really cool pukashell, hematite and crystal necklace I got to keep. He loved nature, especially the ocean, and had practiced Buddhism and yoga. However the most important thing I discovered was that he had always loved me. He regretted leaving when I was young and had never forgiven himself enough to ask my forgiveness. But he loved me.

The day I found about him is not just a mere coincidence, unrelated to anything. All Fool's Day is Pan's Day. My father was an ultimate Peter Pan - The Fool who makes you learn to trust life because he teaches you how to land on your feet. His playthings are the elements. For him, the world is pure joy. This is my father’s message to me.

But honestly, at the same time, not being able to make that connection on the physical plane has been difficult. For as much as we say we can still have that relationship with our loved ones when they’ve crossed over, you miss the hug – particularly the one you rarely got. And since being away from the intensity of hearing that my father loved me and the joyful tears of my relatives, I’ve moved a bit into uncertainty. I began to doubt if my father had cared at all. Perhaps this relationship with him isn’t real? Am I just making it up because it feels good?

So today, in an interview about Rogelia’s House of Magic, the interviewer, asked me lots of wonderful “off the record” questions about people in her life, especially her abuelita, whom she loved dearly and had passed two years ago. She sometimes feels abuelita nearby or dreams about her, but wasn’t sure if it was really her beloved abuelita or not. She could ask for a sign I suggested, however as she told me about all the ways her grandmother made her presence known (the feeling of a hand on her shoulder, a word of comfort during a difficult moment) it became very obvious to me that of course her abuelita was nearby. I was convinced of this truth. You must trust in the unseen, like you trust in love, I said adamantly. You must believe in this joy that you have from her spirit. Then I heard the echo of my words and they seemed as much for me as for her.

You know how it is, that we end up giving the advice we need most?

Paying attention to the signs, feeling that connection, following your instinct, living a serendipitous life in great joy and expectation of the next wonderful “coincidence” is all magic will ever be to me. And you know what? I can't even twitch my nose if I wanted to. I don't need to. The magic swirls around me everyday.

California Comadrazo

2008-04-27T20:19:00.001-07:00

We had a most amazing time at the California Comadrazo!

I met up with Nora Comstock, Josefina Lopez, Ligiah Villalobos, Mary Castiilo, Nancy Marmolejo, Helena Pasquarelli, so many amazing women. We had such a great time.

In addition to premiering my book trailer for Rogelia's House of Magic. My good buddy, Melinda Rodriquez and I performed our Goddess Drumming & Inspirational Spoken Word Presentation

Let me tell you about it! Our presentation began with a four directions invocation in Cherokee, Spanish, and English languages. I performed my poem Phoenix Rising from The Enchanted Diary to the accompaniment of Melinda's passionate drumming. The powerful wrap up included a motivational audience-interactive drum and chant that left everyone feeling their immense inner strength and joy. It was awesome!!!

Hope to see you all at the next gig

Life's Twisty Turns

2008-05-06T22:18:00.000-07:00

Recently I accepted my first j-o-b outside of the home and hearth in twelve years. It was not an easy decision. Part of me (the hard-driving Capricorn part) felt like a failure: my writing had failed to sustain me as I had hoped it would from the moment I believed I could actually make it as an author. Afterall, The Wicca Cookbook sold out of it's first printing in three months and soon afterwards Hollywood called and I was off starring in a cooking pilot called The Cauldron for the SCI-Fi station. Then came a string of books - seven in all, with contributions in three others.

What with my debut novel, Rogelia's House of Magic, being released very soon, I wanted to hold on a bit longer. But I have chosen the road of private school for my boys - a place that has a nasty knack for raising tuition every year - and it was time for this faery put her feet on the ground - if only for a moment.

I was scared that the flourescent walls would suck away my life force. That the people at work would be so mundane to turn my brain to mush. I have come to discover that the resistance was actually more draining than the actual job. I not only found a job where I can write about interesting things, I have found a boss whom I knew the last time I walked into an office. She has crystals in her jewelry and on her shelves. She has bought many of my books and is proud of my accomplishments rather than jealous.

Interestingly, the very institution for which I now work, Chapman University, has a guiding spirit who also embraces the very things upon which I find most dear. As put forth by President Jim Doti: '“Truth” also refers to values such as honesty, integrity and courage that form the core of one’s moral development, and to what our university’s guiding spirit, Dr. Albert Schweitzer, called “reverence for life.”'

A reverence for life is the foundation of my work no matter whether four walls or four directions surround and sustain me. I am grateful for trusting and taking this latest leap of faith. Hopefully I will remember this latest fall into grace when I question the Universe and it's twisty turns.

Phoenix Rising

2008-05-21T21:30:00.000-07:00

The last of her ego had gone out in a dancing fire of spectacular flames
Grey smoke emitted from a large smoldering pile of blacken ash

In the silence she did not mind her nonexistence
In fact it was comforting to be sill
Like mist rising off a quiet morning lake
Her exhalation sent another swirling of smoke into
Into the bright blue sky

She watched fascinated as the smoke took form
The ashen pile rustled and shifted
She became aware of herself
It was a strange comforting feeling
to be in a body no longer weighed down by pain or fear

Wings quivered on her back
Nodding and shifting her head from side to side
She blinked with child-like amazement
At the crystal sun washed day
Was the sky always this blue?
She pushed against the ashen waste
Rising above the ground

In that instant she saw others bound to the earth
Unwilling to release their own pain or fears
Sadden she froze

A bird sang out
Sunlight shone clear
A rainbow from a drop of dew
On a spider’s web
The rain is over
“It is not your fate to be small
Nor do you serve or honor others by doing so.”
Whispered the voice of Spirit.

She closed her eyes
Her heart spoke the truth
Pumping her powerful wings
She pushed skyward
Like a bird she flew

The Phoenix Reborn
Honoring my joy honors me
Honoring my truth honors Spirit
Honoring my joy honors me
Honoring my truth honors Spirit

Excerpt from The Enchanted Diary: A Teen's Guide to Magick and Life by Jamie Wood

Women, Wisdom & Words

2008-05-24T06:59:00.000-07:00

Welcome to another day of Women, Wisdom, and Words, a Blog Tour. I do hope you enjoy my story/excerpt titled Moonlight Midwifery. The experience below has served as inspiration for my next novel, The Making of a Xicana Goddess, a woman's fiction that follows Eva Ramirez, an overachieving corporate executive, Abigail Moreno-Smith, a neurotic artist-mother, and Moonstone O’Grady, their Crone mentor, who uses women’s magic to reveal and heal the childhood traumas that prevent Eva and Abby from obtaining the one thing they truly want: contentment and self-acceptance.

At the bottom of Moonlight Midwifery is a question. Please post your answers here. The winner receives a signed copy of my debut novel. Rogelia’s House of Magic (released June 10), a coming of age story about three very-different 15-year-old girls who learn about friendship and magic under the guidance of a curandera (spiritual healer/wise woman). The winner will be announced on http://bertaplatas.blogspot.com/

Moonlight Midwifery

I came out of my reverie when I heard that we had detoured into Boonville. Seriously, Boonville. We, my cousin Elise and Aunt Judyth, stopped at the Henny Penny for directions and a cup of coffee. We stayed for two pieces of homemade blackberry pie ala mode with a side of whipped cream and a fistful of giggles brought on by those quintessential diner waitresses with the loud laugh and friendly manner that would make anyone feel welcome. I grabbed a couple of creamers for my coffee during our camping trip at the Northern California Women’s Herbal Symposium – it would be my one decadence and only piece of trash I would create, save for the Vitamin water bottle and broken plate, over the next four days.

Back on track and a few hours later, we drove off Highway 101 onto a bumpy dusty road, over the bridge and the bubbling river tumbling over rocks and moss, bordered by a variety of trees, grasses, and plants and visited by dragonflies, looking suspiciously like faeries. A jack rabbit with his long ears watched us drive by, unperturbed by our presence.

We found a parking spot next to the shuttle stop where we could dump our gear and strong beautiful women would load it into a white pickup truck and haul it into the Black Oak campgrounds. We had arrived. I immediately stripped off my bra – an unnecessary obstruction – the reminder that I should strap up, hold back my femininity, so as to not offend the patriarchy and it’s constituents with my lusty, ill-mannered breasts.

I was joining the sisterhood in a grotto, a meadow, a gathering of women and children. Our freedom, our precociousness, our beauty is revered on these sacred grounds.

The smell of bay fills my nostrils as I register and receive the time of the class that I will be teaching: Elemental Magic and Faeries to young women, ages 11-19. The organizers generously offer me a gift, as they did for all to the teachers, a shirt or bookbag featuring an exquisite lily mysteriously opening to a star-strewn Yoni-verse.

“What do you want to sign up for, Mom?” Elise asks Judyth. Everyone must participate – give back to the community here. I think they chose kitchen duty, I was busy deciding between the tank top and v-neck bamboo cotton t-shirt.

As we walked by, a mama sat in the river with her baby, showing him the water. We passed the Crone’s Corner, silk sarongs painted with images of beautiful, multi-racial, varied aged women wave in the breeze. Next are the Bodywork Area and the Wellness Center with its twinkle lights and the gentle warm hands of our caregivers. Dapple light shined through clumps of birch trees. Dark green moss grew on taller, thicker trees, and on other trees a light sage green moss hung from branches like streamers at a birthday party.

We arrived at a circle of ten or so sixty-foot tall tepees surrounding a grass and dirt circular area with a fire pit in its center. Our friends had secured a wonderful tepee in the shade. I found my chair and sat down for a bit. I've been to this symposium before, but there's always a moment when the chaos of your normal life has a bit of trouble slowing down to the calm of camping with women - no testerone to distract or annoy you - no children or husband - no phone ringing. Just a moment to be yourself.

After dinner and filling my coffee mug with an herbal tea called "Love Your LIfe," I joined the others at the firering, where we had our opening circle. “We are all teachers,” intoned our fearless leaders, Terri and Karen, the organizers of the symposium. “Each one of us has something to offer.”

I looked around me and saw women of every shape and size emanating confidence, whether sitting or walking, almost like a runway model who exhibits self-assurance based on the world’s feedback that she is gorgeous (and rail thin) and so should be admired, put on a pedestal in fact.

These women glowed from a beauty that radiated from their core of self-love, self-acceptance, and a deep connection to the earth and her sisters, with little care or awareness of what others may think of her. This is what I came to learn and perhaps to teach. Drumming and singing followed. The bonding of so many women, some friends for years, some recently introduced, was beginning, as it had over the past eighteen years at this gathering of women.

Later I snuggled into my flannel pajamas, slid into my Ugg boots, wrapped myself in a heavy velvet coat that I had purchased at the last conference from a retired belly dancer, and headed down to the meadow for stargazing. The bright moon made my flashlight obsolete as I meandered the footpath through the woods toward the fields. I passed tents covered with Goddess scarves and prayer flags, listening to the sounds of mamas reading to their children, and friends laughing and sharing stories. The field glowed with a piercing light blue light. My moon shadow fell on tall grasses behind me as I made my way to the group gathered in the center of the meadow.

“The astrological sign of Virgo is represented by the Virgin, as many know,” reported our stargazer teacher. “The word virgin originally meant a woman who was not owned by another. How interesting that we would turn Virgos into a neurotic, anal retentive personality, when it just meant a woman who could take care of herself.” She pointed to a bright star with a laser green flashlight. “There’s my favorite star, Arcturus, the harbinger of the seasons. And here is the Milky Way. Notice how it intersects with the path of the planets at the point of Sagittarius’ arrow. In some cultures the Sagittarius constellation is a teapot. And see how the Milky Way bubbles out of the spout like steam. Now come over here, I’ve set up the telescope to show you Saturn.”

And in spite of that glowing, near-full moon, I could see the rings of Saturn. The following night we would be treated to a view of Jupiter and four of its moons.

The next morning, I put on my triple moon Goddess headband of abalone, and met a group of young women by the fire ring whom I led into the woods for a little privacy for our class. Using a chalkboard propped against a great oak tree and colored chalk I showed them how the four directions relate to the four elements, colors, animals, magical creatures, seasons of nature, seasons of life, and a particular energy. I held eye contact with each girl, telling them how magical they are – how powerfully poised they are as the Enchantress in the south, ruled by fire, orange, red, dragon and horse, salamanders, summer, and the embodiment of will, courage, independence, individuality, and creativity. I taught them that magic is emotion, focus, relationships, serendipity, and intuition – connected, woven together as one.

At the marketplace, mothers came to me, expressing their gratitude for teaching their daughters the truth of their power. Most of my students bought both my teen books (The Teen Spell Book and The Enchanted Diary) and I got the chance to talk to them on a more personal level, which I just reveled in. I traded the remainder of my books for amazing handmade creations, such as raw silk bloomers, knitted gloves, a kiln-fired glass plate, a feathered barrette, a CD of woman/life/love-empowering campfire songs, and more. I loved teh bloomers because the hugely pregnant, dreadlocked lady who sold them to me informed me that when bloomers were introduced it gave women freedoms they never had: like the ability to ride horses or bicycles.

After marketplace, Terri approached me and asked if I would participate in the sacred ceremony that inducts the young women who had recently begun to their menses into the sacred circle of womenhood. I was overcome with joy. Chills raced up my arms, my heart felt lighter than air and the tears glistened in my eyes. Of course, I was willing. My deepest desire is to help young women feel supported and loved. It's my way of being part of what I never got as a young woman.

The drumming begins, a throbbing heartbeat, calling the women to prepare for the parade and ceremony. I dressed in a beautiful purple dress with a black velvet moon and stars on my chest, bell sleeves (think Stevie Nicks), and handkerchief skirt. I brushed my hair and placed the crown headband of abalone moons on my forehead.

At the front of the parade several women wave flags of vibrant colors. Behind them is a twenty foot paper mache Maiden puppet held up by one person standing in the puppet itself and two others on her flanks hoisting poles that move the puppet’s arms. Behind her is the Mother, then the Crone puppet. Beside the puppets are the musicians, shaking rattles, banging drums and singing. The crones, the wise women in our group, shake their bells and brooms they made in a special circle with the High Crone Jill.

We circled around the camp to the far end, passing the line of maidens who had recently started their moon. Many of the young women were dressed in red to symbolize their blood. They look nervous but excited. It just breaks your heart wide open to see them standing proud, waiting for their moment to enter the circle of womanhood, chins held high, eyes straight ahead.
Elise and I break rank from the revelers as we pass the fire ring to get our water bottles. It’s hot and sweaty out, even as the sun begins to set. We join up again just as the last of the group walks into the meadow and forms a large circle of two rows. We find our friends’ daughters and hold hands with them until their mothers reunite with us. We are all related now.

The drummers begin to pound again, solitary rhythmic beats and the chant begins.

Holy Maiden Huntress
Artemis! Artemis!
Maidens… Come to Us…

As we chant, the maidens slowly, slowly walk toward us. We reach out to the woman or child who stands across from us and form an arch by holding hands high in the air. When the High Priestess and the maidens reach the beginning of the tunnel, the entire group of four hundred women and children begin singing.

“We are here to tell you that you’re wonderful and beautiful, we are here to tell you that you’re always whole, we are here to notice that your loving is a miracle, how deeply you’re connected to my soul.”*

Led by the High Priestess, the girls walk through the tunnel (hunched a bit, particularly when trying to pass under the arms of two small children). After the girls pass through, those at the end of the tunnel drop hands and walk under the tunnel. As you catch people’s eyes some women are crying, some look shy, others in awe, others bask in the glory of all this love. And still, we repeat this song over and over again. At the end of the tunnel the crones look at you with such grandmotherly love and gentleness that if you didn’t feel like crying at first you do now.
And they’ll hug you or hold you, telling you with their song and the love in their eyes, its okay. I cried myself to near hysterics my first time through the tunnel.

But this time, I had a duty, a responsibility to take in the love and not withdraw from it. It was time to know my worth, my value. I was more than ready. When I reached the end of the crones, the High Crone Jill grabs my hand and held me. “You stay with me,” she said.

The maidens form a small circle in the middle of our ever widening circle. Lastly the women holding the flags walk through the tunnel. The crones break into four groups and walk to the four cardinal points. Many of them are dressed in the colors that symbolize the directions. The entire group turns to face each direction as the crones welcome the energy, the power, and guides of four directions of east, south, west, and north.

I pick up a tray covered in a red scarf, laden with a white transparent silk, small scissors, a dish of rose water, a rose quartz crystal, ten red ceramic crescent moon necklaces and a red crayon and follow the High Crone Jill out to the circle where her daughter, the High Priestess, stands with the maidens. I enter the inner circle holding the tray out.

The High Priestess addresses the first maiden, “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” is her resounding answer.

The High Priestess covers the maiden’s head with the white silk. The girl looks like a cross between Mother Mary and a young bride. The High Priestess considers the maiden for a moment then in a booming voice declares, “You come to us a maiden,” she pulls off the white cloth. She takes a deeply red velvet cape from the High Crone Jill and wraps it around the maiden’s shoulders. “You will leave us, as a woman. But first you must give up your maidenhood, your childhood. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” says the first maiden happily.

The High Priestess takes the scissors from the tray and finds a thin braid plaited near the maiden’s ear. With a loud snip, she cuts the braid and holds it over her head for everyone to see.
The crowd of women burst into jubilant, primal cheering, howling, wolf whistles, drumming, rattling, clapping fills the air. The very ground seems to tremble with the joyful noise. The young woman only has eyes for that small braid, the symbol of her release and entry into womanhood.

The High Priestess tucks the braid into the young woman’s hand and whispers, “Give this to your Mother, or Mother Earth.” Her first choice as a woman – whether to leave the braid in nature or preserve it with her mother.

The High Priestess then dips her hand into the rose water, “I anoint you in the waters of womanhood.” She dips the crayon into the water and uses it to draw a red circle on the young woman’s forehead. “May you always feel the power, strength, wisdom, and creativity that comes from your blood.” She takes the red moon necklace and holds it up to the young woman’s eye level, “May you always remember WHO is your council,” she says as she puts the necklace on the young woman. She steps aside as High Crone Jill steps forward and takes the cloak off the young woman and gives her a kiss.

Then it is my turn to step forward. This is no longer a girl who stands before me, but a woman. You can see it in her eyes, in the way she holds herself. Most of these young women came to my class and bought my book, meaning I had a connection with them. I kissed her on the cheek and whisper a heartfelt “Congratulations, Welcome.”

And so it went, until each maiden had been inducted into the circle of womanhood. At the end of this ceremony, their mothers were asked to join them and out they rushed from all parts of the circle to hug and kiss their daughters. Some gave an extra present. Most were crying or laughing or just plain beaming with joy and pride.

At this point my friend leans over to her ten-year-old daughter and whispers, “Isn’t it great that Jamie got to be in the ceremony?”

The child turns to her mother with a bemused smile, “We’re all part of the ceremony,” she says.

The young women joined the outer circle and then the crones are asked to form the inner circle. I brought forth a black chair. A Crone of Honor was chosen among them to sit in the chair and bestow a bit of wisdom through her tears of gratitude for the love. The crones were presented with a bowl of cordial, which they passed around. Before taking a draft, each woman pronounced with enthusiasm, “I AM CRONE.”

We broke into dancing, leaving the meadows and filtered toward the fire ring where twenty women drummers pounded out songs to which we danced and danced for hours, while the full moon crossed the starry sky.

Question: Who is the maidens’ council?

Post your answers here. Any answer, I want to see what you come up with!! The winner receives a signed copy of my debut novel. Rogelia’s House of Magic. The winner will be announced on http://bertaplatas.blogspot.com/

*Adapted by Carol Horwitz

Winners on Blog Tour

2008-05-25T10:24:00.000-07:00

The winner from Friday's story is Carol G. Please contact Caridad for your prize.

The answer for my question from the Moonlight Midwifery story is actually the Moon. The moon in this story represents the maiden's council because it is her power, widsom, and source of creativity. However, if you dig deeper, then I believe you have to consider that the moon or her blood is really a symbol, a manifestation of her. So in this case, Amanda is the winner. Please email me at jamie@jamiewood.com so I can get your address and send you an autographed copy of Rogelia's House of Magic on June 10.

Happy Reading!!

Also, just as an FYI, The Northern California Women's Herbal Syposium is a a real event that happens three times a year, twice in May, once in Late August, early September. Check it out. You'll love it. http://www.womensherbalsymposium.org/

Blending in with Muggles

2008-05-28T21:38:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I get nervous at booksignings when the locations involves a mainstream kind of place. At one of my very first Barnes & Noble booksigings, a woman walked by, looked at me and my first book, The Wicca Cookbook, and said, "Oh goody, how to cook witches."

Ugh. Eight years later and I've yet to release the charge I get from that memory. But I've been gearing up for the those naysayers because mostly they need to be educated, aware of their myopic thinking, preferably before their ignorance hurts another. And this is what happened at the Costa Mesa Scottish Highland Games (where you get a marvelous mix of Catholics and pagans).

A older woman scooted in her wheelchair towards the shortbread pans next to my piles of books and demands to know where the tartan information can be found. While the shop owner scurries off to find her the right book, I smiled serenely at her from where I sat behind the display of my books. A man in his early forties reaches over and begins flipping through The Teen Spell Book. He had just walked by with a teenage girl, so I'm assuming he's glancing through the book to check it out for her. The woman in the wheelchair glances down at my book titles, scowls, and whispers loudly in the direction of her husband. "Wicca, that's Witches." She looks up at me and says "Demonic."

"Oh really?" I reply calmly. "And what have you studied of Wicca? What experience do you have with Wicca and what can you tell me is demonic about it?"

She fidgets in her chair a bit then answers confidantly. "There are good witches and ... the other kind.. bad witches."

To which, I respond, "There are good Christians and bad Christians."

Then without skipping a beat, the man thumbing through the teen book says, "And there are Christians who are in the KKK." He smiles at me. "And some rapists are men, but not all men are rapists."

"You just can't judge a witch by her broom," I replied.

I then smiled at everyone and walked away to float on my little cloud for a spell, so happy to have stood up for myself and magic, to not have shied away or crumbled or fought back with mean words. But to be proud of the mystical, magical faery Wiccan that I am.

Artwork by Jessica Galbreth

Award Winning Latina Author

2008-05-30T23:33:00.000-07:00

I'm so very happy to announce that the two years of hard work of writing a reference book, interviewing 75 authors and journalists, and spending more time in libraries than at home, has paid off big time!!

Last night I received the 2008 International Latino Book Awards for Best Reference Book for the Latino Writers & Journalists book. I got a beautiful glass bookend with my name and book title engraved on it. I'm an award winning author now!!!

Just in time too, because now when Rogelia's House of Magic comes out on June 10, this will show how ever so diverse I am. This is better than the Enjoli commercial.

Woo hoo!!