Chains…broken…

Bear with, please. This may be another meandering sort of post.

The chain I wear the Wheel on Broke last Sunday.

Granted, it had extra weight from the Hand (“Healing” according to the Tlingit artist…) but still…

I saw the chain dangling on my belly as I tried to tuck my shirt in after pissing in the bathroom…

I found both of them again….but…the Wheel…she…eluded me for a bit. And…the one named “Life” actually…maybe…understood how much it meant to me…because she tried to find it too..

The Wheel of Brigid.

Heh…

Brigid is the Triple Goddess of Celtic Mythology…The Goddess of Poetry, Healing, and Smithcraft…See…and this is where I start to make people look at me like “Ooooookay…you’re a whacko…”

I was brought up with a Triple God. The Father, The Son, and The Holy..Ghost…Spirit…holy shit whatever.

I…have read….probably more things than is healthy for me…on certain topics. Which…makes me seem…odd…or a freak if I actually bring this up in conversation….so…I don’t….

But…

I wear the Wheel …(and now the Hand) because…

Because…I believe there is a Feminine Divinity beyond what I have been taught…because when I was younger and reading like a goddamn bookworm I learned about Brigid before the Catholic Saint and felt…holy…really? Wait…wait…something isn’t right…

And that’s when I began to question. Everything. Much to my chagrin and peril…

When you’re nine years old and starting to question your beliefs in a religious school setting…it doesn’t work out well. Also please trust when I say the chagrin and peril have been in amounts that would make a normal human puke their guts up until they have no more.

So…I keep my mouth shut about most of my beliefs now.

I believe that we are all inter-connected, whether we want to be or not.

I believe that we have lost sight of certain things.

I did.

Balance, for starters. (Although historically gravity and I don’t get along very well, I DO believe in Balance.)

It’s remarkably easy to be angry. And hurt. And hurtful. And it doesn’t matter who you lash out to…in the end…the only one you’re hurting is yourself.  People will turn away as easy as a snap of the fingers because Hey…I don’t have time for your “inadequacies.”. And you sit and you stew and you turtle and inside, all the time….you hurt and you bleed a little more of your life out and say “I DON’T WANT TO BE HURT”!!!!!!!

My pain? Epic, sometimes.

No one wants to be hurt. Ever. Not even the most masochistic person. Because they STILL have a safe word. Now…whether they ever choose to say it…? *shrug*

We believe what…we learn. What lessons we take from our elders we make our own. It’s easier that way, right?

No.

See…that way just leads to…death. Not necessarily of life. But your spirit dies.

I know this because I’ve lived this, and in some ways I’m still living this. And in another corner of my world…I’m watching a gentle soul I’ve known for….30 years now…?…he’s still dying.

I don’t know at what point the trigger clicks and you say “Enough”. Honestly. I’ve said that before and still I’m now knee deep in the mire…

Maybe it’s more of “Enough…” and then you reach out to grasp and fail and turtle and grasp and fail and turtle and turtle and turtle…until one day for no good reason at all except that you happen (for once) to be at the right place at the right time …you come across someone enough like you but different enough that you can say…even after a lot of fuckupidry on your own part…hold out your hand..chagrined and chastened…but your hand remains out…”Hi. So we’re both kinda fucked up. Now what?”

And…somehow…in my head anyway, this leads me to…this.

I am much more like my Grandmother. Mom…Mom was right in this much.

Granma didn’t give up easily.

Neither do I.

Goddess help me.

 

It helps that I have the same warped sense of humor…

It gets…got…us…through a lot.

And I DO think she would’ve spit her “Four Roses” out laughing at this…

Blasphemy

And so, and thus.

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