I am beginning to think that Blamires and I really disagree about things or I don’t understand or resonate with his point of view. I trust Morgen, which is why I continue to fall back to her given words of resonance for the Ogham. I keep finding in my daily application, that her words resonate more with my day than a lot of the description of meanings I keep finding.
Reading about the Gorse today, I find that key ideas do pop up consistently: Protection – because the gorse has thorns; Fertility – because the gorse blooms at Beltane; Work – the real physical labor of a thing.
The Order of Bards, Ovates, & Druids site says:
As one of the first spring flowering plants, the furze provides a plentiful supply of pollen for bees when they first come out of hibernation. The product of the bees labour, honey, is the Celtic symbol of wisdom, achieved through hard work and dedication. The furze tells us that if we apply ourselves and keep faith in the future, we will be rewarded. However bleak things may appear, there is always the possibility of periods of fertility, creativity and well-being; whilst its thorns remind us that there is protection from unwanted ideas or influences.
I have been doing a lot of work, writing lately. My writing is often what I think or feel passionately wrapped up in my own issues. I am always working my issues. I have PTSD and sometimes it feels like there are these long periods where the person who was raped and beaten and belittled and violated was someone else completely – not me really. Then some new trigger in my life reveals itself and I find, suddenly and vividly, that it was me after all.
This is the “bleak things” the Gorse indicates. Last night I woke up screaming, “son of a bitch.” Tony woke, held me and I fell back asleep with him whispering, “You are safe. You are safe,” in my ears.
This morning I remember my dream vividly. I was holding a nine millimeter straight arm out in front of me as all of those I know and love were being shoved behind me with my other arm. Before me was my bio father his arm pointing at me.
“I am going to kill them all and you,” he said.
“Go ahead and try,” I said back, “You son of a bitch!”
What I remember about this dream was my complete and utter calmness about shooting and killing him.
I also know, I have to stop reading and watching Donald Trump. I had identified him as a trigger last week and now it seems pretty clear he is more than a minor one. His mannerism and not talk and belittling of people are so reminiscent of my bio father that I just KNOW my bio father is voting for him. I watch the zeal people have supporting him and wonder why no one else sees the monster? Of course, no one saw my bio father as a monster either.
Then there was the thread #BulletsfortheMorrigan. (ANTI thread – PRO thread – Don’t Want to really weigh in thread – ). There was some pagan dust up over an author writing about giving bullets to the Morrigan as offering. I read an entire blog about how we seem to have no problem dedicating swords and athames to warrior gods and goddesses but freak out when we introduce modern weaponry into the mix. Given that pointy things have been around longer and probably resulted in more deaths than guns, it is a bit amusing to think about. As if there is some honor in blade defense because it perceived as up close and personal.
Death by guns is most often up close and very personal. I should know. My bio father once pointed a nine millimeter at my head and threatened to kill me. I very calmly replied, “Please do and end my torture.”
He then put the loaded weapon to his head and said, “Fine! I’ll kill myself.”
“Even better,” I calmly replied, “Then we would all be free of you, not just me.”
He started to scream while bringing the gun back to my own head. I can remember turning to give him my temple. I can remember the deafening sounds of bullets being fired again and again. I can remember how hot the shell casings were as they hit my arms and bounced to the ground. I can remember sitting still and thinking, “Well, damn, son of a bitch missed.”
“Why can’t I kill you?” I hear him whisper to me. I turn to see him looking at the gun as if it had somehow betrayed him. “I keep bringing myself to do it and then somehow you are still alive.” He turned on his heals and walked out of the room.
I was seventeen.
I sat still for a long time before I bent over and picked up the shell casings and hid them in my room. It was proof that this upstanding citizen was a mad man. Proof that he had, yet again, tried to kill me. The first time he used a kitchen knife. Proof that I wasn’t insane or crazy.
Then I went to find my bio mother who was calmly making four huge pots of mashed potatoes. She had pealed every potato in the house which was two 10 lb bags while the drama in my room had unfolded.
“Next time,” I said calmly, “Remind him that I am a much better shot and he better never fucking miss again. I will gladly serve time for killing him.”
“He didn’t mean it,” my mother said, stirring those damn potatoes, “He was just trying to scare you, not kill you.”
I laughed, “Keep telling yourself that. I am not kidding. I will wait until he is asleep and I will blow his brains out and never lose a moment of rest my natural life if he points a gun at my head and pulls the trigger again. He better not fucking miss.”
A year later I would enter into a three day fugue state. I won’t remember what happened other than my mother wasn’t at home and none of my siblings. I remember washing windows and being dragged away from the chore by my hair and then waking up in a battered women’s shelter three days later. The shelter my depute sheriff father had told me the location of.
I am forty-three and still haunted. Still living periods of time where I think I see him on the street and wonder if he is going to recognize me and attack. Periods of time when I worry that he will see something about me on the Internet and come find me. Periods of time when I have to choose to write anyway because I would rather be dead with the truth of my life spread like a virus on the Internet and in book form, than dead another silent victim of domestic violence, rape, torture, incest.
If I die by his hands, I will be a martyr to the cause of ending abuse and violence not cowering as a victim. And facing him one on one with the end near would be preferable to this kind of haunting limbo I am forced to live.
You learn early on as you recover and deal with PTSD that you can’t call someone, or even the police, every time you think your abuser is near you. Mostly because, he isn’t really there. Your mind has dredge him up from the abyss and is trying to convince you that who you are seeing is him. I haven’t seen him in nearly ten years. I can’t even be sure I would recognize him. Even if I did, what do you tell the police? A long time ago he did terrible things to me and suddenly we are in the same store or medical facility or driving down the same road?
So you learn to really look at the person and rationalize that it isn’t them. You sometimes are brave enough to meet them in the eye and know it isn’t them because there is no recognition there. Or, sometimes, you duck down in your car seat and hope he didn’t see you even though you know it wasn’t him. It really probably wasn’t him.
I did that yesterday. Then you spend the rest of your day angry at everyone and everything around you. That pisses you off even more because I am forty-fucking-three. Shouldn’t I, don’t I deserve to not be haunted anymore?
This morning started with me meditating and trying to get my brain and body back on “normal for me.” I broke down and texted Stone and asked him to come upstairs. He did and asked about my dream. I said that I had already called my therapist to start a round of therapy again next week and I didn’t want to talk about it. So he said we should do something bad, like go to the movies. He spent the next twenty minutes filling my mind with silliness, playing with the dogs and in general trying to redirect my focus. Finally, we got up and started our days and I came down to pull and post my ogham.
And Gorse reminded me that in real work there are periods that seem bleak and fruitless and pointless and hard. In real work, PTSD will rear it’s ugly head and you have to deal with it and move on. Thanks to Morgen, I also know that work attracts energy. So PTSD is an energy that is created by the mind and draws to it more energy that will resonate with it. Going to the movies, then is a good thing to do with my day. It is a way to shake up the energy flow in my life, disrupt it and then come back to the world with a different energy vibration that hopefully is disconnected from some of these issues.
I may be very very sorry that Trump is going to be a fixture in our political sphere for a long time to come.
I am not sorry; however, that #BulletsfortheMorrigan is a thing. I used to take my shell casings out a hold them to reconnect with the reality that despite the fact that my biological family will tell you I am crazy and delusional, it had all really happened to me. A long time ago, a counselor talked me into giving them to him, a way to let go of some of the pain.
However, in my own personal altar in my own private spiritual space in the etheric realms, I realize now, those casings are sitting on The Morrigians’s altar. A silent tribute to a warrior who has seen battle, lived, recovered, and continues to fight. A recognition that I now worship a goddess who doesn’t just want the love and light parts of me – she is willing to take my shell casings or even actual bullets as momentous of the battles I fight every day. She isn’t a goddess of pretty dresses and victory alone. She is the goddess of mud, death, oozing wounds, battle scars, and battle readiness that is gritty and dirty and uncomfortable to read and look at. I worship a goddess who takes my dreams where the abuser always had the gun, transmuting that dream so that I have the gun. I can use the gun. I am willing to use the gun if I have to. Now he is the one without the power. I have the power and bullets on my altar to her represents my ownership of that power and responsibility.
All Praise The Morrigan! Goddess of the Battle! Goddess of the Warrior! Goddess of the weapons of war! Goddess, Keeper of Shell Casings and bearer of the inner trauma warriors are left with long after the field of battle has been abandoned! Thank the gods and goddesses, the Lord, the Lady, the spirits and etheric beings of this world and beyond, there is a Goddess who will take all of us, these wounded warriors, on. All Hail The Morrigan! All Praise The Morrigan!
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This discussion isn’t about gun culture in America or gun control. I have strong opinions about both of these things. I will say this. As long as I have a home that is also a temple to the community, where children and teenagers and people come and go, my guns, all like 23 of them, and their bullets, will remain in the fireproof safe and removed for recreational purposes only – which means target shooting practice at a certified gun range. However, if I am on my death bed, an old crone woman, don’t judge me if you find shell casings and bullets on my altar. Paganism is quickly becoming this EITHER ~ OR micro society. Many of us left some pretty stringent dogma to only come to this micro society and start trying to force our ideas, beliefs, opinions and DOGMA on everyone we find. I often think in paganism the real issue is how unable we are to deal with people who don’t agree with us. Even I struggle with this.
Maybe paganism, Wicca, The Craft needs more “that isn’t for me” and a little less “your an idiot” “stop deluding yourself” or the general suggestion that one of us has it all figured out. Just something to think about.