Twillight

Some people talk or write about magic as if.... As if it was a fantasy world. As if the twilight weren't the Realm of All
Things Possible.

Or maybe they know it's real... I'm not sure.. I proudly display my "Blending in With You Muggles" bumper sticker and wonder who knows that I'm serious. I live in the world of magic for 24 hours (whether awake or asleep) and it's freaky on most days, beautiful on some and downright scary on others.

You try on taking a school board, possibly all the way to the ACLU, to defend your right to present a fiction book you've written, that has been denied just because you've written books on being a witch. The crazy thing is that I've written that book for those very kids whose world is so restricted they've been forced to forget they have the power. And I pledged I would fight for them.

To introduce empowerment to the mainstream world, I must first present myself. And it's odd for me to be the mundane world. Honestly. It's really wierd. I've been an artist for 12 years. I've not hard to deal with the fear that seems to consume most of America. I'm not exposed to incessant gossip of People Magazine, etc. when I shop, because I'm getting my goods at Trader Joe's or the local farmer's market or the local health food store. I was raised Christian Science and so never acquired the taste for Western medicine. I make my own healing remedies or see an auryvedic doctor when necessary. I feel confident in my ability to heal myself and I'm not distracted by reading the latest distastrous report on childhood illnesses by Newsweek when I'm waiting for my sons to see the pediatrician. And yet I have compassion for others who are sensitive to this fear - or at least I'm working on it. Om.

As of late, I took on my first job in 12 years and now I have to attend a preventative discrimination/harassment workshop (that's on Dec. 4 and I swear I'm wearing a Pent and seeing what "they" really have to say about it). That seems so odd to me that I have to attend a 3 hour workshop on how to deal with discrimination: I've been smelling the scent of my burning hair and flesh since I first wrote The Wicca Cookbook, and particularly since I printed it, and harrassment - at the core of most of my writings I've trying to understand what it means to be sexually damaged. What are they going to teach me? I hope something amazing. I wonder.
I have had years of experiential experience. Very soon after The Wicca Cookbook was published I moved with my friend and kids to a neighborhood that turned out to be KKK infested. It was like trying to rid a playground of rats. Oh wait, that's exactly what it was like.

So I did crazy stuff. I had a crescent moon carved into my side gate. I told every teen in sight that I was the local witch (Mexican to boot) and if those punks wanted to violate my children's playground, that they were going to have to deal with me. Then I made batch after batch of chocolate chip cookies, plum jam, and lavender lemonade. Yum. I painted my walls with giant goddesses and a far-reaching sun. I held siances and tamale rolling parties. I carved out a sprial in my backyard and planted California wildflowers in the spiraling ditch then I set an Goddess of Compassion altar at the center. I held my most fave ritual explaining to teen boys what their magic animal totem was. I poured my menses blood on herbs that I used to cook pasta dishes, I brought home a crow carcass that disapeared into the corner where I had buried the coyote medicine. I cared for hawks, rabbits, opposom, cats, orange trees, lemon trees, peach trees, plum trees. I saved the trunk of the Yule tree to be the Beltane May Pole.

True story. Life is intense when you are a witch. Life is one pertual twillight - when all things are possible.

But when it comes right down to it... I can't deny, I love being a witch and I'm tired of being scared about what you think of it.

The Season of the Witch

Followers of the ancient earth practices are used to dealing with prejudice. The frequency of how often we’re misunderstood and judged makes you familiar with the blows and the smell of burning hair, but it’s never comfortable. You get used someone deciding they know all about you and your religion when they’ve never cracked open a book on the subject or been to a solstice ritual. They might see a band of witches hugging trees, picking up trash, tending a community garden, weeding in a nature preserve and never realize that what we’re doing is sacred and part of our spiritual practice. For some it’s just that a spiritual practice and not even a religion per se. There can be Catholic witches, Buddhist witches, even Christian witches. And yet despite the fact that Wicca is a government-protected religion, we still run the risk of losing jobs and being ostracized. Someone told me yesterday, “It’s not an issue of religious persecution or discrimination to them, but an issue of morality.” When did taking care of nature become immoral? Just because we aspire to the Sun God doesn't mean we should ignore Mother Earth.

Let me give it to your straight.

Witches Heal. Witches Love. Witches are often the most kind-hearted, patient, courageous, responsible, accountable, accepting, open-minded, consciously aware people you’ll find. Bang. That’s the truth.

We work with nature as the most obvious connection to God and the loving spirit that lives and breathes in each one of us. Our most powerful potions are herbal remedies for healing the physical body, sometimes the emotional and spiritual body as well. But if we’ve been hurt and come out to protect ourselves against discrimination that prohibits employment or obstructs our ability to be with our children, we will only confirm the horrific, demonic vision they have of witches. Like “Savage Indians.” Only now, we understand how peaceful native people are – so much in fact that scores of white people sit at the knees of indigenous elders to learn their wisdom. But we witches must be patient. Our time has not come – yet. It’s like Orson Wells’ radio broadcast War of the Worlds and everybody believes the propaganda. We know that if we threw balls of fury we will only confirm their fears – even if we gathered those fire balls from the stake where they set us on fire.

I must say that I tire of pandering to their fears and ignorance. I wonder that if I keep at this public forum of education and take the hits, am I really helping anyone? When the local school district says I can’t come to the school and talk to students about being a writer (not a Wiccan but a writer) because I’m a witch and I’ve written books on Wicca and that would be too controversial, I can’t help but get exhausted from standing firm while the obtuse but powerful Goliath tries to knock me down. Before they even met me, they know me. And I don’t get to be an example of success, power, self-confidence or light to the kids who love to write, who yearn for a life that follows their dreams, who would relate to my story of self-esteem or belonging, or even the ostracized young witches hiding in their midst. Do I continue to stand because I can? Or can I retreat into the darkness of winter? Is it not smarter to leave a popcorn trail for the curious and trust they’ll find me when they have the courage to fight the tide of the prejudice moral right? Perhaps. To be a witch is to know and respect your limits.

We witches know when it’s time to go inside. And that time is now. It’s winter. Hallows is here. Witches know to tap into the reservoir of strength and endurance of Mother Earth. By our example we cannot help but teach, if only because we hold the secrets of healing and the connection to Mother Earth that we all need. It is our love for Her and Her love for us, that sustains us. It is those midnight dances with like-minded friends, the celebrations of harvest, the sharing tales of serendipity as evidence of magick that nourish and support us. We ride the seasons and as long as we spend more time enjoying the ride than focusing on others’ fear of our power and ability to trust nature, we will feel the bliss of connection to All That Is.

To be a witch in the season of Hallows – a very sacred time of year – is to feel the electricity in the air. It is the twilight of the year, a time when the vibrant, growing season of summer and light gives way to quiet of winter dark and rest. It is a time of transition, a time of intense energy and illimitable possibilities. It is the time of year when spirits visit to show us the realm of deep magick that points to a profound relationship with all things, people and situations, while drawing out the purest, best, and biggest in you. It is the time of year to be quiet and enjoy your own company. It is a time of year to face your fears, to dance with them, to invite them into tea, hear them speak, then firmly release them like compost in the garden, to become something new and more life-giving next spring.

To be in tuned with the season of the dark times, means you ask for help and find the answers within. It means you know we have come to the time of year to shed old habits and face fears, to dance with them, to invite them into tea, hear them speak, then firmly release them like compost in the garden, so they can become something new and more life-giving next spring. It means to not be afraid of other powerful or peaceful people but to see your sisters and brothers in their eyes and embrace them. It means you know how powerful you are and don’t care who sees it.

Asleep on a Bicycle

A long time ago I made the wish that many of my friends would be artists - in some capacity they would live by and for the muse that moves through them. I hoped that the friends that made up this artist tribe would be diverse in their expression of art - some painters, some crafts(wo)men, some actors, some writers, some musicians. I felt certain that we would have emotionally intelligent conversations about the creation process - about being a vessel that allows parts of ourselves and our stories to be used for the art and also about the release of ego that allows for the understanding that we are only the messagers of the muse that is moving through us. I felt that only people who lived this cyclical life of release and ownership would understand the roller coaster ride. And I really wanted a tribe that understood why I would choose such a life of highs and lows - how there really is no option for me to work that 9-5er in a cubicle. I used to think it was because we could bond over the elation of being creative, but it's more that we understand the dedication (and perhaps its the Virgo in me, but the servitude) to art, to expression and creation.

FaerieCon was one opportunity to bond with other creative souls. It was the beginning of the realization that I had manifested a desire. Another experience of this dream come true, was in watching my friend Gina Garrison star in the play Asleep on a Bicycle in LA last night. Chosen as an LA Times Critics Pick, this is the most amazing and evocative play out of a tiny little theater on the corner of Vine and Santa Monica Blvd. It was absolutely awe-inspiring to watch a friend live out her dream and be sooo good at it. I know what this mother of two has given up to drive from OC to LA for rehearsals. And was it worth it? Yes! She was brilliant. I laughed and cried all the way through the play. I was so proud of her. I suppose its what my friends think when they watch me at a book signing. And to think that I never let their happiness for me sink in. I know I haven't because I know I've never felt that elation from others, even though they have spoken words similar to the words I used to praise Gina.

Now I know that I have my tribe of artists and we "get" each other. I also have support - the ones who love to see me be that spark in the world. And together we make art, we make beauty and we shine.

A Tribe of Faeries

FaerieCon is a convention of fantasy, folklore, myth, magic, and of course, faeries. It’s held in downtown Philadelphia – the heart of America’s genesis as a free nation – amongst the tall, intricately carved buildings guarded by gargoyles and images of founding fathers. Having raised the power of magick and light in our homes and festivals across the country, we descend upon the concrete jungle with glitter and faerie dust to send waves of magick, possibility, mysticism and fae energy to emanate from this epicenter. Usually faeries are associated with nature and not often considered to be at home in an urban setting. But what better place to bring the sensuality of toes in the dirt, the caress of soft breezes or a trickling stream than to the birthplace of one of the world’s modern powers? Surrounded by the Liberty Bell, Betsy Ross’ Home, Ben Franklin’s gravesite, the courage and independence to find freedom is exactly what the fae folk need to help us connect more deeply with Mother Nature, each other, and ourselves.

The costumes are amazing, the creativity inspiring and the camaraderie most inviting. While at the Good and Bad Faerie Balls, I hung out with my long time fae sister, Lisa Steinke, and met new fae friends such as Giovanna Adams, Susan Schroeder, Kelly Miller Lopez and Jessica Galbreth, as well as Sarah and Jane, whose last names elude me. Faery festivals can zap the mind while invoking playful ire into every corner.

You must be willing to let go of all expectations when you go to a faerie festival, convention or gathering. This has traditionally been difficult for me. I’m a writer after all with an overactive imagination who plans out everything in minute and perfect detail. But despite all my careful visualization work, the law is that you never know what kind of energy you’ll get, whether playful and light-hearted or deep and soul-searching. The blessing is that with each faerie event, I grow less and less attached to my expectations. Perhaps I’m learning that even though it may not be what I planned, when producers Kelly, Emilio and Robert invoke the faeries, magick arises that is quite healing and profound.

Being around so many people who believe in magick and fantasy is so comforting. To be surrounded by your tribe empowers and emblazons you to stand in your light and shine all your unique and most beautiful power. This conference and its sister FaerieWorlds in Eugene, Oregon enfolds you around others who seek profound connection with the elements, the spirit of Mother Earth and the healing that comes with deep, reverent relation with nature and each other.

So are you gonna come play with me or what?

Playful Magic

Today at Pagan Pride in Los Angeles I spoke about the role of play in magic and ritual. It seems to me we've come to a place where we've taken magic and made it be something confined with rules on how you can do something right or wrong. Magic doesn't only happen when you follow proper ritual rules. The intention of all magic is to create and manifest desires. So when did that become something uptight? How can the spirit enter through a closed mind?

I live a free-spirited life, no matter how I may try to fly under the radar, I can't manage to extricate myself from my gypsy sense - the wanderlust butterfly. Though I've tried to be serious and hold firm to rules, primarily to not feel separate from the rest of the world, most societal laws get tossed aside so that I can truly let the Muse, Light, God, Goddess, Spirit breathe through me and fuel my unique expression. And what I've found is this freedom is what inspires myself and others - and actually underlines my belonging.

Somebody commented today that it was wonderful to hear a speaker talk about their personal experiences. Honestly, I know no other way to relate to others than to share my stories - the goofier the better I say. One of the things I shared about today was how immediately after I signed the contract to write Rogelia's House of Magic I got in a car accident. (Unfortunately in my life I have found car disasters an excellent way of managing my life.) As I was walking to the bus stop I found a monarch butterfly that had just died. I carefully tucked away this little totem. The magic was already tingling in my toes because not only is Butterfly part of my spiritual name, the medicine of this winged creature was also used for a major lesson in the novel. Several months later, the cover art for Rogelia's House of Magic arrived on my doorstep. I was struck by the similarity of shape of the butterfly art with the butterfly now on my altar.

I scooped the butterfly and carefully placed the fragile wings over the cover. It was a perfect match. See for yourself (picture above - compare it to the image of the cover in the right column of this blog). This is magic to me - laughter, connection, feeling power surge in me and lift my spirits high.

You are the magic. Every ritual you do, every candle you light or chant you speak is all an elaborate form of playing with the divinity already with you. These symbols are merely there to help you get into the mood or vibration of what you want to attract. The magic is in you. The four elements live in you - earth-body, water-blood, air-breath, fire-energy - not just outside of you. One of my teachers said if you were on a deserted island, could you do magic? As long as you believe. As long as you listen to nature and listen to yourself, the answer will always be yes!

My Grandpy & Hispanic Heritage Month

Hispanic Heritage Month is celebrated Sept. 15-Oct. 15. To commemorate the period, The Orange County Register asked readers to tell their family stories of the Latino experience in Orange County.

The following story was written by my aunt, Elaine Cali, about my grandfather and Daddy figure, Joe Martinez.

My father, Joe Martinez, was born in 1924 in Orange, He was a first-generation Mexican American and the youngest of nine children.
His parents immigrated to the U.S. during the Mexican Revolution seeking a better life. Growing up poor in the humble barrio area on Cypress Street, he never enjoyed the luxury of being spoiled, but rather took his place in the family and helped out where he could.

He was a happy child living amongst the sights and sounds of laughing children, the tempting aroma of Mexican dishes, and dusty roads filling the air of this close-knit neighborhood.

In the 1920's and 30's segregation was a part of life in America, and in Orange it took the form of a separate (but not equal) elementary school for Mexican children only, and special days for them to swim in the Orange plunge at Hart Park (the day before the pool was cleaned).

A sense of honor seemed to carry him through his life, as he volunteered for the Army Air Corp upon graduating from Orange High School when he was just 18 years old and World War II was raging.
He wanted to contribute to the war effort and his dream was to become a pilot. His dream came true and he became a B-17 pilot (one of very few Mexican American pilots) and rose through the ranks captain of his squadron. During his military career he flew more than 30 successful missions over enemy territory in Europe.

After the war he wanted to become a commercial pilot, and applied to many major air carriers but was denied. One can only speculate as to why someone with his tremendous credentials and stellar war record was passed over.

Only Mexicana Airlines accepted him — on the condition that he relinquish his U.S. citizenship. He told them, "I didn't spend the last three years of my life fighting for America to give up my citizenship." and turned them down.

He went to work instead at the Sunkist Packing House down the street from where he grew up. It was there that he met Della Ruiz, a beautiful young woman and sixth-generation descendant of the Yorba clan. They quickly fell in love and married. She had a son from a previous marriage, David, that my dad raised and loved as his own son.

He eventually left the packing house for a janitorial job at Knox Hardware in Santa Ana. It was a long way from the highflying life of a pilot. Yet he was a bright man and a hard worker, and this dedication paid off over the years, as he was promoted to salesman, purchasing agent and eventually vice president of Knox Industrial Supplies. He spent 44 years of his life at this job.

I remember going into work with him on the weekends. I would just roam the aisles looking at hardware and asking him endless questions about how all the tools and gadgets worked. He was always very patient with me and seemed happy to satisfy my curiosity. To this day, walking into a hardware store seems sort of familiar and comforting to me.

Joe and Della settled in Santa Ana and had two other children, Cathi, in 1948 and Elaine in 1954. He was a devoted family man and a very kind and loving father.

As a child, I eagerly waited for him to come home from work, I'd run down the driveway to greet him and he'd pick me up (sometimes putting me on his shoulders) and carry me into the house. I loved his strong arms, laughter and comforting smile. He was the "rock" of our family and seemed to never falter.

I only remember seeing him vulnerable once, when my mother died in 1967. She had suffered a long illness for three years prior to her death, and when she died he was devastated. But in true "Joe Martinez fashion" he rallied to be both mother and father to our family for many years to come.

He soon became a grandfather and relished that role as well. He loved babies and would enjoy a "dance" with them, holding out his hand until their small fingers joined his for a spin around the room.

He met and married a long-time friend and golf partner Chris in 1981 and they moved to Orange Park Acres. This large house with a lot of land became the focal point of fun family gatherings and a place they could "raise" horses and dogs and enjoy their life and retirement together.

I will remember my dad, Joe Martinez in many ways…
By his example he instilled in his family the importance of hard work, honesty, dedication and loyalty. He didn't have the easiest life, but he learned to work through it.

He was a religious man and committed to Mass every Sunday and daily prayers. Although he certainly liked to have fun, have an "Early Times" now and again and enjoy his friends.

He didn't gossip, but rather lead by example and hoped you would follow his lead.

If he disapproved of your action, he would sort of "growl" and either reprimand or give his advice calmly.

He always told us how much he loved us and still checked in with family members weekly to make sure we were OK…or just leave a phone message saying that he loved us very much. He was generous with his unconditional love and wanted our lives to be a bit easier than his had been.

He gave us both roots and wings, and that is the best you can ask for in your life. He had a special song, "Have I Told You Lately That I Love You." That to us embodied his loving spirit.

We decided that this was so much a part of him that we had this song title etched into his headstone. He passed away on Dec. 6, 2007, however, we will never forget him, his love for us, and our Orange County story.

Article posted in the Orange County Register, Monday, Sept. 29 http://www.ocregister.com/articles/life-family-years-2161140-orange-loved

Tatshenshini River and Sarah Palin

When I first asked myself what I wanted my writing to accomplish or affect, the answer was twofold: empower children/teens and protect the environment. My loftiest goal was to have an article published in Highlights Magazine and maybe someday, if I was really lucky, freelance for National Geographic. I didn’t have the faintest clue that my writing would become a career of publishing books that began with a religion so persecuted and misunderstood and yet so loving and embracing. I thought I’d write for the magazine in the dentist office or the one that grandparents collected for 50 years.

After graduating college and trying out an office job for a year, I went back to waitressing and took courses through the Institute for Children’s Literature and sought out environmental causes that I could utilize my skills as a writer. I discovered that the Tatshenshini River, a wide, beautiful, abundant river that flows between Alaska and British Columbia was in danger of being mined for copper. This would have endangered grizzly and rare glacier bears, Dall sheep, the largest subspecies of moose, wolves, mountain goats, wolverine, the most important eagle sanctuary in the world, peregrine falcon, gyrafalcons, trumpeter swans, and five species of Pacific salmon.

So on May 11, 1993, I wrote a letter to Canada’s Prime Minister and President Clinton. At the time I lived on the Balboa Peninsula in Newport Beach, California. We had many, many visitors, either on their way to the beach, to the bars, or home again, in need of a bathroom, a glass of water, or a place to crash. Before they walked through my sliding glass door, they had to sign my petition. I collected fifty signatures and sent the petition off with my fingers crossed and prayer in my heart. Approximately a year and a half later, a copy of National Geographic just so happened to cross my path that featured an article about the Tatshenshini-Alsek Wilderness Park stating that “Final link in the world’s largest international preserve, the park has halted plans for an open-pit copper mine that many feared would pollute the rivers’ glacier-fed waters.” The park was saved when “an outcry went up from the conversationalists.” Beautiful pictures of the pristine Tatshenshini River and surrounding wilderness accompanied the article. I made copies of the article and sent it off to everyone who signed the petition (I had them write in their addresses), telling them they had “help save 2.4 million acres of precious land… Your voice was heard.”

So there it was - a funky twist of fate and I found myself having an effect on a National Geographic article and most importantly I had done something that protected the environment, or as I’ve come to call Mother Earth. Shortly after this, I began my search for more connection to the earth through spirituality, something that has always been very important to me. I loved going to Christian Science church as a kid, but I had outgrown its abhorrence and avoidance of the shadow, the “error,” the material. I began by trying to connect with Native Americans, but Run With the Wolves had just come out and everyone I spoke with seemed to think I was trying to jump on the band wagon in some superficial kind of way. Then I found a woman celebrating the Celtic sabbats and within months, I gained the opportunity to write The Wicca Cookbook.
I realized only semantics (and a whole lot of propaganda) separates this religion, this way of life from the mainstream. You don’t have to be a Wiccan to know how deeply we are connected to the rivers, the falcons, the moose. It has never, ever been about proselytizing or promoting a religion, but about loving the land and protecting the wild and open spaces – on earth and within us.

The moose puts me in mind of Sarah Palin up in a helicopter with her big ass rifle and super high tech scope, gunning down precious creatures. I’ve heard a lot about people calling her the “Anti-Christ” and I find that very unfortunate. My mother recently told me about the blessing that Sarah Palin received to protect her from witchcraft. I got the image of a religious man with a chainsaw slicing Sarah’s umbilical cord to the power and strength and serenity of womanhood. I find the whole sentiment about Sarah to be like some kind of wacky Twillight Zone. Particularly the one in which the beautiful woman keeps getting plastic surgery so she can look like the pig-faced doctors.

The more time we spend on thinking and feeding energy to her ugliness, the less opportunity she has to connect to her beauty. From an eagle’s perspective, it’s like some kind of horrific sci-fi show in which a woman left the tribe to lead the people – the first woman in ages - and along the way she turned against the people she said she would represent. She began shooting the moose with the men. She began to believe that she belonged outside of nature, bending and twisting nature to meet her needs.

But are they really Her needs?

She had forgotten her connection to the whole.

What if that were just a story, something you were watching on t.v. with amazing special effects that made it look so, so real. And what if there was another woman, the one in you, who bonded with other women and called forth the power of Mother Earth so strong that the reverberation woke everyone from their slumber that they needed surgery to fix what is already beautiful?

What if we made another story? What if we empowered and gave strength to what we wanted.

What if we instead concentrated on the wild and open spaces within and without and did everything we could to uplift rather than tear down?

There is still every chance to believe our voice will be heard.