John Burridge

The other week I was in rituals back-to-back. The “order of service” (to borrow terminology from the UU’s) in the Wicca-lite rituals I do begins with creating a sacred space for the ritual by calling in and imagining a protective circle of blue flame. I wound up speaking the invocation for both rituals.

For the first ritual, a four person New Moon Meditation Ritual, the invocation gelled; the imagery of the circle was clear in my mind and the words flowed; folks said afterward that that part of the ritual was very effective. The second ritual, a twenty person Equinox Ritual for Community, was also effective, but felt more forced. That there were twenty folks involved instead of four might have had something to do with it, but my sense is that I was more focused on recalling what words I had used earlier than on calling the circle.

Over the following days, I played around with words and sounds and came up with the following:

Blue flame, blue flame
Circle of blue flame
Be whirling earth
Be wheeling stars
Be flowing veil
Between the worlds
Make this space sacred space
Make this time sacred time
Negative spirits, begone! (clap)
You have no power here!
Blessed Be

I’ve connected with a writers’ Zoom session to write. I’m writing a blog entry instead of working on a short story because it is easier to write a blog entry. I am supposing that instant gratification is in play—and in any case, writing a blog entry is better than staring at a paragraph and spending an hour researching on the web to polish a single sentence; or going back-and-forth on cutting-and-pasting the opening paragraph of the moment; or, worst of all, staring at a blank screen and not writing anything.

Today is the Winter Solstice. It’s hard to believe that this time last year Mark and I were walking around Las Vegas. The Solstice Spiral Walks that I helped to facilitate with C.N. aren’t happening at the local UU Church any more, so I won’t be drawing chalk spirals as a guide for fir boughs and candles or playing a tone drum in the pouring rain while congregants walk a spiral and contemplate the returning light. On one hand, it’s one less thing to do; on the other hand, I miss holding contemplative ritual space, even if the only folks I really knew at UUCE were C.N., G.M., S.H., and some other acquaintances.

A couple of days ago, I attended a Starhawk-Wiccan Solstice ritual (and potluck) at a pagan friend’s house; they conduct rituals for the greater Eugene pagan community. The ritual reminded me a little of the ritual Sunday services at UUCE: there was a lot of singing and swaying in place. As we stood in a loose circle and sang songs about the Children of the Goddess, the joke “Why can’t Unitarians sing? / Because they’re too busy scanning ahead to see if they agree with the words” came to mind. During a moment of ritual contemplation, I was thankful to be married to Mark. I did not sing “Nobody can hold back the dark,” during a closing chorus, but it was a near thing.

I was going to say that it looks too rainy and grey this Solstice morning to focus the sun’s light onto a candle, but as I looked up from the computer screen, wan sunlight shone onto the kitchen nook. Perhaps, I thought, there will be a break in the clouds later for strong enough sunlight to shine through. —And as I watched, the sunlight strengthened.

Recognizing that there’s no time like the present when it comes to ritual (or astronomy) and the Oregon sky, I leapt up from the keyboard and away from the writers’ Zoom session, scooped up my Anubis matches, the giant magnifying lens, and a beeswax pillar candle in a copper cauldron. (Why, yes; I do have ritual tools readily handy at my house, doesn’t everyone?)

I hurried outside to the deck. There was honest-to-goodness blue sky above. The sun shone above a thick bank of grey clouds and grazed the roofline of our southern neighbors’ house. It’s winter solstice, and shadow of their house stretches across the yard and brushes up against our foundation. The wind gusted.

“Behind you.” Mark was entering and exiting the house to do some yard work.

The deck was relatively dry for a damp, Oregon winter day. I set up the candle on one of the four round outdoor end-tables I originally bought to use for altars and attempted to focus the sunlight onto the match held against the wick. A spotlight circle of sunlight shone on the outside of the candle; the wick was deep in a thin shell of beeswax from previous candle burnings. I broke off most of the wax, turned the candle, and tried to shine focused Solstice sunlight again.

“Behind you,” Mark said.

I stood over the candle looking down on it; a thin wisp of smoke rose from the wick. Then my hair fell forward in a curtain, which made it hard to see what I was doing and risked making Mark’s dire predictions about solstice fire, candles, and really any sort of combustion, come true. I riffled my pockets for a nonexistent hair tie, all the time watching the sun, the clouds, and the shadow of our neighbor’s house.

I pulled my hair behind me, crouched down, and refocused the sunlight. The wind gusted again. The magnifying lens projected an upside-down tree onto the white smoke of the smoldering wick; I moved the patio furniture altar out of the shadow of tree branches.

Mark, who was picking up dog poop from the yard, asked, “The sun’s pretty low. Have you ever done this this early before?”

“No,” I said, watching the cone of sunlight waver as I tried to place its focal point onto the wick. This was technically a ritual, and I hadn’t grounded, invoked a proper circle, or invited the four directions. I hadn’t reflected on the hinge of the year, or the returning light, or numinous and immanent Earth processes. I hadn’t taken a moment to dedicate or rededicate my life to anything in particular.

I quietly sang, “Bring from the center of the sun…” and flame sprang from the match and wick. The wind guttered the candle; I picked it up, held it close, went inside, and brought the candle to the desk—in the writers’ Zoom session, I saw myself, long haired, in red plaid, holding a copper cauldron with a flaming candle in my hands.

I placed the candle next to my keyboard and mouse. Happy Solstice, I thought, and returned to the writers’ session.  The sun dimmed as the grey returned, but I had Solstice Fire on my desk.

The last few months have not been conducive to writing, but there's been a recent shift, and I'm hoping that the mental energy spent on various distractions and stressors will be available for more creative endeavors.  

Last week I went to a public outdoor ritual.  The organizers had done a lovely job putting out a circle of candles; light blazed from more candles set up on a long altar.   I was looking forward to it--even if I might have to use an umbrella--but the longer I stayed the more apparent the COVID masking and vaccination check protocols I thought were going to be followed weren't.

After some mental risk-evaluation gymnastics involving the number of unmasked folks there, their proximity, and the efficacy of my own mask, I thought I'd be able to stand on the far side of the circle from the unmasked.  Then an unmasked woman came up and handed me song lyrics, and someone else started perambulating the circle's boundary with his nose poking out over his mask and I realized I'd spend the entire time A) wondering if I was going to catch the omicron variant and pass it to my folks and, B) judging people instead of celebrating the station of the sun.

So I left.  

During the walk home, I wondered if I might have said something like, "Who do I show my proof of vaccination to?" or "Is this a masked event?"  I might have if I had recognized anyone else other than the ritual's leader.  The whole thing reminded me of a passage in Starhawk's "Truth or Dare," where women self-censor and have a Disney Ritual instead of something possibly deeper.

When I got home, there was a garden stake with a lit candle over one of the small tables I use as an outdoor altar set up in the center of the backyard circle.  It was like coming home to a sanctuary, and I spent a grateful moment enjoying the flickering flame.  

Presently, Mark (and the dog) came out; the setup was an outdoor bistro for his dinner.

I went in, attempted to write, and wound up making some edits on a various works-in-progress.

Monday night was clear enough for me to hold a solitary Full Moon Ritual.  I lit a patchouli incense stick, turned off the lights in the house, and slipped outside.  The moon was in the northeast, but high enough and bright enough that the cherry tree cast shadows onto the back yard circle.  The darkness and overgrown grass made it difficult to see all of the bricks in the circle, but I managed to do conduct a simple 101 ritual.  

I met Mark on a Full Moon; we got married on a Full Moon.  I've harped at lunar eclipses; I've swam naked, the silver light of a desert moon casting its wavy net through the water -- but somehow I went back to the Full Moons of Three Hundred and Sixy-Nine Moons ago and imagined I heard the chanting and laughter of ritual circles of the Carleton College Druids, and fancied I felt the rush of many bodies dancing, hands linked, in a deosil ring.  

Then the moment passed, and it was only me, the circle, and rising grey strands of incense weaving between cherry branches and the Moon.  

It's officially Summer!  Yesterday, to celebrate the Solstice, I got out of the house before 7 AM and drew a spiral path in the intersection near our house.  Mark wondered why I hadn't drawn it somewhere else, like in a dead end, and at the time I didn't think to chime up, "because magic has to be done at a cross road!"  

At solar noon, I focused sunlight onto a candle, and kept the flame going until the evening.  Then I managed to carry the candle in a small copper cauldron through the spiral.  I quietly hummed "Center of the Sun," to myself as I travelled the spiral (I do miss working with a group and singing songs).  There's typically not much traffic on our street--I had just exited the spiral when a car drove up, which I took as a good sign.  

Afterward, I carried the flame around to the back yard circle and proceeded to have a solitary ritual.  It was more a self-guided meditation and journalling session than actual full-blown ritual, and what I got out of it were some insights,  some affirmations, and cognitive triggers to try to use for when I'm feeling stuck creatively.  

Last February was a particularly dark place, and I fret that the Summer Light hasn't restored me to my regular, energetic, creative place -- and that now that the sun has reached its maximum and I no longer have a smothering oppression wrapped around my chest, there's a nagging feeling that I'm going to plunge back into that numb, misty unworld where stories die on scanty word trails that dribble into bogs.  (I am hoping that a regular work schedule and a return to campus next fall will help.)

During ritual, I asked for the strength and endurance to keep going through the dark part of the year (which seems a little premature, as things typically don't get bad until January and February; but start good habits now, I guess.)   I wrote down the strategies and insights that came to me -- mostly along the lines of "when you recognize situation X, take action Y" (instead muttering "let's pretend to be happy" to myself or just wanting to fall asleep forever).

Then I thanked the powers, opened the circle, and enjoyed the candlelight in the starry evening.

It's raining.  Hard.  The back patio is flooded, which probably means water isn't flowing through the French drain as it should.  Neighborhood pines, firs, and oaks sway in the occasional squalls. 

It's also dark.  The morning sun is behind the clouds, and a wan, grey light comes through the back sliding glass door.  It reaches about a third of the way into the front living room, and the only light in this room comes from the steady glow of the colored lights on the Christmas tree, the small lights from a porcelain winter village, and the blue-white glare of a laptop screen.  The front window blind is broken and down -- Mark and I will fix it presently, which should admit more daylight into the room.

Next to me on the couch, the dog dreams:  paws curl and legs flex; her breath like the pull of oars deep into a strong current.  Ears, nose, and jowls twitch.  Barks, faint, seep from the dream realm into the dim room.  

I've agreed to help construct a double-spiral for a meditative walk at the local UU Church.  The last two years, I've facilitated a labyrinth spiral walk and Wicca-flavored ritual.  Inside.  This year, in consideration of COVID, the spiral will be a double-spiral, with an entrance and exit -- which technically makes it not a labyrinth --  and outside.   Without a ritual.  The plan is to have folks walking in and walking out with as little clustering as possible.  There's probably not going to be enough sunlight for Solstice Fire, and in any case, LED candles for outside use have been purchased.  

Yesterday I made a wooden anchor so I can draw circles and arcs with a length of string and some chalk.  I tested it out in the nearby intersection and the process worked surprisingly well.  And then the rains came. You could still see the chalk spiral yesterday evening, but I'm not sure how much of it remains after a night of pouring.   The plan at the UU Church is to lay out greens on top of the chalk spiral, only in the parking lot.  

With any luck, it won't be pouring buckets on us as we lay things out.

The Ides of Spring have come and (Sunday afternoon) I am writing in the backyard circle, underneath the cherry tree--which has lost most of its blooms in yesterday's wild thunderstorm--and next to the last blooming iris of this season.  The lilac tree nearby is still going strong with its blooms and scent.  I'd like to think that I'm writing between the worlds.

Yesterday evening (Saturday) I managed to catch sight of an incandescent, quadruple rainbow.  Banks of scudding clouds turned the sky a study of every shade between blue and grey.  A thunderstorm cell had passed by, heading east, and the sinking sun cast long rays underneath slate clouds.  I thought about photographing it, but decided that I wanted to enjoy the ephemeral nature of it instead--besides, the photos never do the real thing justice.

Earlier this afternoon, I mowed the lawn; the grass has been growing like crazy with the mishmash days of sunshine mixed with rain.  I started in the center of the circle of pavers and mowed the lawn in an ever-expanding deosil spiral.  I figured that doing so would be my urban version of dancing the May Pole, and I saluted the cardinal directions as the mower passed by them.  I suppose as far as rituals go, it was a ritual cleaning or straightening up.

The sod had grown over many of the pavers in the circle.  The North paver was visible because it's been covered by the labyrinth stone, but the other cardinal pavers were mostly overgrown--and the cross-quarter bricks and the ones dividing the circle into sixteenths had disappeared underneath a tangle of grass and roots.  I'm not sure if the pavers have sunk a little into the ground, or if it's the nature of sod to build up (although, looking at a photo from two years ago when the pavers were freshly laid, I'm thinking they've sunken).

I got a straight-edged shovel and scraped the pavers clear.  Which took more work than I thought.  I had to tap the hidden pavers to figure out where I should be scraping.  I wasn't sure what the best way to edge the pavers was, and ended up lifting the sod and grass up as I used the shovel as a lever with the fulcrum at a paver's edge.

Last year, Cicero especially liked to sit on one of the pavers, and would be temporarily named "Black Cat of the East," or "Black Cat of the Solstice," depending on which paver he sat upon.  This year, as I cleared the pavers, Aoife came up and sniffed each unearthed surface---I hope she wasn't eating the uncovered worms or grubs.

My reward for mowing the lawn and clearing the stones was to get out a folding table, some blankets and pillows and set up a writing area.  Of course, as soon as I did so, Aoife plunked down and made herself comfortable.

During all of this,  Mark looked out the window and said, "Whoa! What did you do?  It looks like you're hiding the evidence out there."  I had to admit the rectangular bricks especially looked like tiny open graves.

But what should I expect, writing between the worlds, summoning recollections, looking out of the interstice?

One of the habits I've gotten into is wrapping and unwrapping my wireless keyboard in a lavender, maroon, and navy  tea towel embroidered with geometric letter forms.  If I don't protect the keyboard while it's in my shoulder bag, dust and hair and fluff are more likely to get into the keys, and I can imagine the keys getting damaged by a stray pencil or book or something stuffed into the bag.  I want to make writing a kind of ritual, and unfolding the fabric from the keyboard when I write on my mobile device is supposed to put me into a kind of writing space.  When I'm done, I try to pause and think about how I'm putting the keyboard away as I carefully fold up the fabric around it.    

Today I pumped out a rough collection of words for a monthly prompt swap I'm doing.  At one point, I put on some music (300: Rise of an Empire, by Junkie XL) to help focus, which made the words come out much more dramatic and eye-candyish.  Previously, I'd been writing some settings sketches to use as indicators of the year passing and some character thumbnails.  With the music, things took a turn toward Cirque du Soleil, which gave me the same thrill as I got RollerBlading Halloween night.  I'm at the writing stage, so I don't know how much I'll edit out; but writing (when it works) should feel like good ritual.

This October 31, the forecast for one-hundred-percent rain panned out; instead, it was a clear and dry night, and a half-moon rode the sky toward the west.  This called for RollerBlades.

I went into the garage and got out the bag that holds my old RollerBlades, my fingerless gloves, and my wrist guards.  My gloves have seen better days:  one of them has deteriorated so much the leather palm clings only by a few threads and is held in place because the wrist guards holds it there.  I looked around briefly for some glow-sticks, but I hadn't planned ahead.

I 'Bladed up.  First I clasped my black and purple cloak; the black has grayed.  It's easier to put the cloak on before the wrist guards, and it's easer to get the 'Blades on, too.  Then I navigated the concrete steps of our front porch and launched down the driveway.

When I RollerBlade in the darkness, I have to expand my awareness for cars and for any tricker-or-treaters who may be coming up the street.  I have to feel the pavement underneath my wheels, and be ready to shift my balance away from whatever stick or crack or gravel threatens to spill me.   And my hair trails behind me, and the moon is above me, and the shadows move with me.  Gravity is my dance partner, and there are stars, like an audience in box seats all around.

When trick-or-treaters come by, I like to lean against our dark garage door, a shadow on a shadow in my cloak, and then roll forward silently.  There's usually that moment where they're not sure:  is this a machine or a person?   Unless they're really little kids, in which case I unveil the candy first and kneel down to their level.  This year there were some adults returning from a shopping trip, so I swooped over to them, candy bowl extended, and wished them a happy Halloween.

But there weren't that many visitors, so I was back on the street, rolling between an aisle of trees in darkness, looking up at the moon, wishing that I was at a spiral dance with other cloaked RollerBladers, swooping through the night halfway between the gates of Autumn and Winter.

I can feel that I'm battling a cold.  All I want to do is sleep, and yesterday evening, I got chilled.  Granted, I think the heat had turned off where I was, but still.  Wearing a bunch of layers and having a cup of soup helped.

Last night I had a strange mashup of dreams.

What had started out as a kind of house inspection turned into a party and then a ritual. This involved me standing in a knee-deep circular pool of water and spinning like dervish.

Then.. At one point I was waiting for an elevator. Elevators in my dreams are usually bad things--they pulse up and down between floors after their doors open, which makes them difficult to enter or exit. Or they have difficulties getting to the top floor or the bottom floor; it's as if they have two floors they want to go to, two-and-a-half and nine-and-three-quarters. And there's always the possibility that they'll plunge to the bottom of the shaft at any moment.

This elevator was slightly different. It was more a personal lift. As the doors opened, a recorded female voice chimed, "Mind the gap." I should have been suspicious when the elevator floor, which was a square metal grate, was still inching up a little below the level of the corridor. I hopped in without thinking that this was a dream elevator. The elevator shaft was shiny metal and the metal grate sped up little. There were no buttons I could see on the inside, and square shaft was only about three feet wide.

Then it reached the end of the shaft. This was a kind of iron trap door. I had a second where I thought I might be smooshed between the door and grate, but I got it open. The trap door opened in the middle of a field. And the the platform grate kept going. The shiny metal shaft telescoped out of the ground with me looking out of the top.

I slid down the inside of the shaft before it fell over. I'm going to sidestep the obvious Freudian interpretation and say that this reminds me of the tarot card, "The Tower." Also, this was at the end of the ritual and it felt like some kind of earthy counterpoint to the watery dervish part earlier.