Why Do I Study His/Herstory

Today in an interview with Powerful Latinas, I was asked the question, why do I study history and use so much of it in my books. Interesting. I hadn't been asked that before. I said something along the lines of "knowing the history of my family tree helps me understand the branch I am a little better. Of course this doesn't mean I'm stuck repeating family patterns, but it helps me recognize them. This is particularly important to me because I live on the land that my family once owned in 1806. A large land grant, 72,000 acres that makes up about 7 cities. Sometimes I feel my ancestors. Deepak Chopra once said if we can pass eye color, preference for peanut butter sandwiches, and curly hair through our DNA, why can't we pass on memory through our gene pool. (I'm paraphrasing; I don't remember which examples he gave). Sometimes if I'm out in nature and meditating a bit I can remember what Orange County looked like 200 years ago. And sometimes I seem to have memories of great, great grandmothers. How amazing would it be, if I could heal unresolved issues just by the power of noticing."


I said this while staring out at an Australian bottle brush tree with hummingbirds zipping in and out of it. It's not a native tree, but it’s been in Orange County for awhile. Of course, before this tree were the citrus trees: orange and lemon trees. Last week I visited the Villa Park/Sunkist Packing House, built in 1918, where my grandparents met sometime after WWII but before 1948 when my mother was born. My grandmother died before I was born and my grandfather died last year, right before Christmas. But here, at the last Packing House in Orange County, they were young and fell in love. There used to be over a hundred of these houses all throughout Orange County. Now they pack mainly avocados. Back in the 1930s and 1940s, it was lemons, oranges and almonds.


I walked around, marveling at the long, wide, conveyor belts, the original hardwood floors (which I was told were polished once a year and celebrated with a huge company picnics), the north facing windows cut high into the ceiling to let in light, but not heat. No longer did they have the traditional wooden crates with packing labels, promising to bring California Sunshine to the world. They had biodegradable crates that are of course great for Mama Earth, but not as cool-looking as those crates. The doors to the coolers were tiny, maybe six feet, with steel hinges and locks two feet long and painted green. After the war, they stopped using so much steel for hinges. Makes sense, but let me tell you those were some tough looking hinges. The coolers were insulated with black cork that was peeling away in places, revealing the red brick of the building. The long hallways led to double wide doors that opened to railroad tracks, where the packed fruit could be loaded onto the train and hauled off to their final destination. Now they are delivered in semi trucks. It was all so nostalgic.


As I looked around, I wondered where or if my grandparents might have scuttled off to for secret kisses. I asked the owner if the Packing House was haunted. He said there were some rumors of a couple people who had died a long time ago and that he didn't want to find out if it was haunted so when he worked late at night, he blasted his music. I liked the idea of the Packing House being haunted. I liked the idea of their spirit, their laughter, maybe even the sounds of their sweet whispers echoing through the vast building.

My guide pointed out where the school was built for the workers' children - long time ago the Mexican children had to go to segregated schools. The groundskeeper lived across the street. Everyone lived nearby. The local people had built the Packing House he said. It was one tight-knit community.

My history, my herstory tells me where I've come from. It gives me a foundation to come home to after I've wandered around, tried some new things, maybe gotten hurt, maybe gotten scared. A place to come home to share my successes and joys. It's my rock, my security. No matter where I go, no matter how far I've traveled, my his/herstory will always be there. And the really cool thing is that each time I come back, my perspective changes it just a bit and that history or herstory opens up to tell another story.

For more on the Packing House, check out http://www.cityoforange.org/localhistory/citrus/citrus-03.htm

From the Land of Reviews

I once wished for reviews from bigtime reviewers - getting rave comments from little remote pagan newsletters only boosted my fragile writer's ego and need for stability so far. Then my baby, Rogelia's House of Magic, got blasted by Kliatt and I decided that as an artist and an author I needed to stop putting so much stock in reviews, book sales, how long my books stayed in print or at the top of Amazon ratings. What was most important is how I felt about my writing and how others were affected by my words. I stayed pretty zen until this awesome review for Rogelia's House of Magic came in from School Library Journal. Now on this high, the first thing I wanted to do was share my good news with you!!

Gr 7-10–Set in Southern California , this novel is about three teens who find a common bond and grow in their relationships as they learn the healing arts from a curandera (folk healer). Marina , from a newly wealthy Hispanic family, struggles with her mother’s insistence that she forget her Mexican heritage and barrio roots. Fern, whose Colombian family still lives in the old neighborhood, is a free spirit who has trouble trusting a potential boyfriend. When Rogelia Garcia, a wise curandera from Mexico , becomes the maid at Marina ’s house, the girls befriend her granddaughter, Xochitl, who grieves for the twin sister she recently lost in a tragic accident. Rogelia takes the girls on as apprentices and helps them to understand and control their innate magical powers ( Marina hears voices from the beyond, Fern sees auras, and Xochitl has the ability to disappear) while teaching them that by caring for and healing others, they can help and heal themselves. The narrative is well written and descriptive, incorporating Spanish phrases that are easy to understand in context and add flavor to the telling. The characters and their relationships with others are solidly developed. The novel will appeal to readers interested in magic and astrology, and several spells are appended (charging a crystal wand, a confidence incantation, etc.).– Lorraine B. Wiener, Inglewood High School , CA, School Library Journal

YEAH!! om. YEAH!! om.

More thoughts raining down

People can hold beliefs in their minds, stories they tell themselves. But connecting to the essence of Life is what it's all about. The reality is, we are eternal. If you experience that, then you handle your own personal losses. Sometimes, no matter how much we set intention or pray, things don't go our way. What we're left with is to accept things they way they are. It's the only place of power. You realize you have an illimitable "time," with all the experiences available to you in this ever-expanding, never-ending experiences of Life.

And this...

In this story Lord Krisna invites the milkmaids to dance with him in the forest. The night is dark, the fire in their midst roars and crackles, the beat of the music gets ever faster - the girls dance and dance with their sweet lord who has made himself available and so abundant as to be in the arms of each and every girl. But the moment the girls become possessive, the moment each one imagines that Krishna is her partner alone, he vanishes.

Musings of FairieWorlds

Fairie Worlds is an amazing festival held annually in Eugene, Oregon. My aura is still filled with pixie dust and my feet have not touched the ground. Transition is difficult, but writing helps...

A very large part of me wants to escape into the trees, to live in the woods among other wonderful hippie, free-spirited fae folk and submerse myself in that space until all the sad or angry thoughts I've ever had just leave - fade to nothingness so that I can live in the muggle world and be free, impervious of pain and the weight of this world. I want to always feel, vibrantly alive in me, the world of light when and where there are no cares, no worries, only music, friends, acceptance and play. I want to be in the space of intense connections that you are able to fall into - to completely lose yourself to the moment - to be the juice of the apple, as well as the apple and the one eating the apple - no separation - no fear of the juice running out - no ownership. Only letting go - going in deep - deep into the wild – deep into the dark – deep into the mystery with trust and power, love and respect for myself and others. I want to move in spaces as open energy, following the music until I become the song. I want to dance to the sun until I become the light. I want to connect with others and never, not for one moment, think or concern myself with their opinion of me. I don't want to lose myself in them – to consider that their appreciation or disapproval of me can or will change one step in my Dance of Life, Love and Spirit. I do want to connect in the sharing of magic. I do want to see the light in my brothers' and sisters' eyes and rejoice with Spirit most high and always available to us all. I want to feel the synergy of our bodies and energy intertwining, dancing together, like the colors of the rainbow. I want to share my thoughts, my poems, my words so that I can see my Light – hear the ring of beauty and wonder in my observations. I want to be the deep waters and I want to be light as a feather. I want to be free from condemnation, whether from my own imaginings or from people who don't understand or fear me. Words and energy cannot reach me if I am not reflecting or sending out a similar vibration. I want my vibration to be of a carefree nature that reaches into the deepest caverns of emotion and experience. I want to trust the Universe – knowing that I am like any native plant or tree – in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. I want to be in the flow of my life, like driftwood on the river. I want to bear witness to the wonder and beauty all around me and I want the courage, the freedom and the willingness to surrender myself to the Gifts of Life. I want to be in constant appreciation. I want to hug without fear. I want to love without fear. I want to kiss without fear. I want to speak my truth without fear. I want to feel the ever-omnipresence of God/Goddess constantly with me, living through me, as me, in harmony and joy with Life. I want to be the juice of life, constantly swirling, swinging, changing in flight, consistent in trust and swelling heart center, emanating pure white light and darkest mystery of night.

Rogelia's House of Magic as a Play

Last semester, Gail Brower-Nedler, the drama teacher at Newport Harbor High School in Newport Beach, CA, asked me if her class could workshop Rogelia's House of Magic into a play. I've always wanted to watch my characters come to life, to see them interact and witness the enfoldment of the story I created. I was excited for what would be the World Premier of Rogelia's House of Magic. The first thing we did was establish a common language with the students and a sense of familiarity with the world of magic that is second nature to me. Ms. Brower-Nedler invited the vice-principal to watch me do the ritual in case the prejudice and fear people have about magic rose its ugly head.

By the way, it can be easy for me to get frustrated or even offended by close-minded, unconscious people who think I could be “sucking the souls out of kids.” Particularly when my goal is to empower them. But then again, I’ve noticed that I haven’t stepped down or walked away in the eight years as a public Wiccan author. And I’ve realized that I like being on the cutting edge, educating and watching people wake up to the beauty and potentiality of the magic within.

On the day of the ritual, I signed in the office as usual, but this time I carried a large basket of items that symbolized the four directions and elements, like a candle, a shell, a crystal, and a feather. With these sacred items, I created an altar. Many of the kids were fascinated by the altar and came to touch and feel all the goodies. A few kids volunteered to stand with me and welcome each of the Four Directions. I knew I was in good company, when TK dropped to his knees like a true knight when we reached the north direction. I avoided trigger words like God or Goddess and still raised the energy and vibration in that classroom. The air buzzed with magic and I knew I had shown quite a few people about what magic can really be.
We decided to make this a "black box" production, meaning very little props. Hilary stepped up to be the student director. She cast the other kids and wrote a prologue of sorts that included the four directions that would introduce themselves, their corresponding element (air, fire, water, earth) and colors, and what qualities they share with humankind.

Over the next several weeks, I would visit the class and watch their progress with the play. The adaptation from book into script took longer than I thought and still we all stuck in there. The actors and Hilary did a great job reworking the language from the page to the stage. It was interesting to see where the dialog dragged when acted out and were it really popped and appeared so very real. Emily, the actress, who performed Fern’s role did an exceptional job of getting into character. It was really fun to watch her play out my hippie wild child self. I think once I almost cried. But that’s just me.

We also realized that we didn’t have enough time to rehearse the entire story and create costumes and set designs. June was upon us, as was the desire for summer and lazy days. So Hilary and I decided to create what would be Act One, approximately eight chapters, ending after the first meeting with Rogelia.

In the actual play, one of my favorite parts was the four students who dressed in the colors that coincided with each direction. One girl, who at first didn’t really seem to be into the play at all, insisted she was standing in the wrong direction. She was right and so we made sure everyone moved into their proper positions. That let me know that they really intended on drawing up the energy of those directions. Yeah! First Jeffrey stood up, draped in a yellow sheet holding flowers and spoke of the powers of the east that represent beginnings, the season of Spring, and new ideas. Then Samantha stood and called in the fire and the south, wearing a beautiful red velvet cloak with red feathers in her hair. Rebecca in the West wore a blue broom skirt like a shawl and with her blue hat and scarf called in Winter aspects of this direction. Anna in the North knew how to call on the ancestors and I felt the earth elements respond to her welcoming chant.

Other actors included Carla (Marina), TJ (Xochitl), Jessica (Rogelia) Sean (Tristan,) Allyson (Mrs. Peralta), Milena (Graciela), TK (Pedro, who was Pilar in the book), Matt and Danny played random boys created to add more boys characters, and Otto (Mr. Garcia). Becky was our Spanish language consultant. Filming was done by Sergio and TK with some assistance from John and Alex. During the filming, there were some starts and stops to get the scenes just right. Some confusion, some frustration, a lot of amazing talent and wonderful acting. Overall, I’m excited to see how the video comes out when it’s been edited. Look for it on YouTube coming soon! I’m looking forward to workshopping Act Two and Three and someday seeing the entire play from start to finish. I couldn’t have got a better start by working with Gail, Hilary, Emily, TK and the rest!!

Automatic Writing

Most of my writing is automatic writing. To me that’s what journaling is about. Even when I’m writing for a book (with the exception of the Latino Writers and Journalist book, which wrung out my brain like a wet broom skirt), I write without thinking too much. I set a goal then I write under that topic. I was recently told that it would be good for me to write out all the things that are frustrating and annoying me. I was not to check for punctuation or spelling. Fine. I could handle that - don’t really care for grammar and I’m usually a good speller. I was not to edit. Even better, not fond of critiques lately. I would then destroy the paper, tear it, burn it.

Been then done that, have the t-shirt. I can’t count how many bowl burnings I’ve done under the full moon, new moon, eclipsed moon, whatever. I didn’t really see how this was going to help some of the anxiety I was feeling. This process hadn’t ever done me that much good before. Though I heard it would, which is why I have tried it many times and even suggest it to others. It had usually served the purpose of making clear what I was irritated about, but beyond that, I only felt the slimmest change in attitude, sometimes I’d be angrier than before. Then my friend Dana pointed out that I was also not to reread what I wrote.

Huh? I always reread my angry letters (the ones that I write to people but don’t send out) or diary entries in which I explicitly review all the reasons I’m right and they’re wrong or how I’ve been treated unfairly by life or another person. “No,” she said. “When you reread the letter, it’s like you’re taking all that information back in to your body, mind, and soul.” I got the image of eating vomit, because pretty much that’s what it’s like. Oh. Well, maybe I’ll try that. Not reading that is.

Later that night my boys wanted to light a fire and sit by it and read. After they went to bed, the fire refused to go out, even after I turned down the gas. Then I remembered I was supposed to do my automatic writing. I turned off the lights, which made it seem more magical and wrote by the light of the fire. It was weird not reading what I wrote. I usually want to make sure I got those feelings down just right. I realized that whereas I might not be critiquing the grammar I had, in the past, critiqued the content.

At first I tried to make sure I was writing within the lines of my paper. Then the fire dimmed and I could no longer see the lines or the words. I wasn’t supposed to read it at all - to not even be tempted. I kept writing, over what I had written, under it, in the margins, diagonally, it didn’t matter. I repeated sentences that had a lot of power and set off all kinds of buttons and reactions within me. I wrote until I was empty. Then I crumpled up the piece of paper and threw it into the fire. As I watched the paper burn and shrivel, I very firmly said, “What will be no more.”

I can’t remember most of what I wrote, except for one powerful sentence; the rest is lost to oblivion. It is no longer part of me. I can’t regurgitate what I released. Later I’ll take those ashes and give them to my rose bushes. I like to see something ugly turn into something beautiful.

One of my favorite sayings comes from The Course in Miracles, "The holiest of all spots on earth is where an ancient hatred has become a present love."

Natural Spellwork

"I believe in God only I spell it Nature"
- Frank Lloyd Wright (1867-1959) architect, author, educator

The word "spell" has it's roots in the meaning to "speak" and "to signify." Spells in magick are the same. You are speaking of the things you want. We use rhyme to get out of our logical mind that says "it can't be done." Those of us who are deeply connected to the magic in nature, often find ourselves drawn to faeries, to the funky creatures living in forests, trees, streams, or underground. Hugging trees, believing with all my might that I was hugging the spirit that lived inside, is how I began my start in magick.

In summer, faeries are very active. Just look at the abundance and life buzzing around gardens and flowers and you'll see what I mean. Now, I want to get something straight here. There is no right way to "see the faeries." People connect with faeries differently. Some people see balls of light. Other people see the winged creature before them plain as day. Others see movement out of the corner of their eyes, but when they turn, the faeries vanish. Some people see the faery or sprite more clearly if they close their eyes. Some people see fuzzy wavy lines or something. And I'm sure there are a dozen other ways. Here are two interactions with faeries that I have had. My hope is that you will comes to understand the ways faeries have been trying to talk with you.

A long time ago I had these really cool bell chime that I used to ring and call out "Calling all Faeries! Calling All Faeries!" Then I would run around my lawn or visit with the flowers and tell them how pretty I thought they were or just sit peacefully and imagine the faeries all around me. I'm the kind that sees faeries out of the corner of my eye and I was impatient to see a solid faery. So, after awhile when nothing exciting happened I stopped visiting as often. Then one night, I was helping pretty bad about neglecting my little friends so I went out to ring the bells and call the faeries. "Please give me a sign to show me you aren't mad at me," I called out into the night. Right then the phone rang, so I went to answer it. A friend of mine was in distress. She had hired someone to play the Birthday Faery for her daughter's third birthday and the girl had cancelled and would I please, please come be the Birthday Faery. I asked her to hold on a second. I ran outside and yelled THANK YOU!! to my faery friends then went back inside to agree to be a faery.

Last year we were camping in the Sequoia National Park, a forest of the tallest and widest trees in the world. At night I try to use the moonlight as my guide instead of a flashlight. It makes me feel more connected with nature. After it had gotten dark, I start walking to the bathroom, only there isn't a lot of light. All of the sudden I hear this horrible screaming in my head. It's so loud I stop instantly. I put my hand in front of me and mere inches away is a pretty big tree. It's not the biggest tree in the forest, otherwise I would have felt the roots, but big enough to have hurt very badly had I smashed into it. Of course, I hugged the tree and walked a little slower after that. Next morning I brought a little water to the tree that had kept me from getting hurt. I noticed then that that tree was one of many that stood in a circle that felt very magickal indeed.