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On Entering Lightly into That Which is Serious
Some time ago, I was contacted by a god in a dream. Research confirmed that this contact was indeed from something outside myself and I felt at the time that I had been "chosen" in some way and should dedicate myself to this particular god. I read up on him, contacted him in ritual settings, built a walking staff dedicated to him, and generally threw my lot in with him. I imagined that he would be able to help me sort out some issues that were worrying me and that this blossoming relationship was the next step in my development. I also imagined, like a fool, that the demands and requirements that I KNEW this god would make of me were easily gotten around. I imagined I could substitute something else for the blood of my body. I imagined that if I did not become a priest of this god but only a follower, the frenzied castration attributed to his followers on his auspicious days would not be an issue. Perhaps red wine instead of blood. Maybe salty snacks. Perhaps there were deals to be made that would leave my manhood intact. Silly monk.
The first, most intense ritual took place under a full moon in my backyard. We have a path that leads from our patio to the base of three insanely tall slash pines arranged in an equilateral triangle. In the midst of the triangle is a circular growth of aloe and directly between the last stone of the path and the aloe is a bird bath. It was a simple matter to replace the bird bath with my altar and set up the necessaries for the ritual. I knew going in to this performance that blood sacrifice would be required (just this once!) and intended to cut my index finger with my athame. However, when it came time for the cutting, I found that the athame was either too dull or that I lacked the will to apply enough pressure to make a cut. The meager energies I had swirling around seemed ready to dissipate, and I looked around for any other option. Looking to my left, I noticed that there was a loooong bougainvillea branch sprouting off the bush along the north fenceline and right into my sacred space. Its thorns were fresh, solid, and perfect. I broke off a one-foot piece and whipped it back and forth in the air a couple times. Exactly what I needed. I readied myself, opened my right hand and turned the palm up. I brought the branch down on the flesh pad near my thumb at full speed, burying a thorn about halfway into my hand. Once the thorn was out, the blood flowed freely and gushed if I made a fist. Held the bleeding palm over the circle of aloe, arm extended over the altar and squeezed. The weak energies I was feeling strengthened and I felt full. I hummed. I vibrated. I had made contact and the god was pleased. When I felt I had given enough, I broke an end of aloe off and applied it to the wound. I asked for what I needed, said my thanks, closed the space, and cleaned up. Fell in bed exhausted.
I had done pretty well with my ritual and was pleased to find, over the next couple of weeks, that there was definitely a new presence in my life. Little lessons came my way almost constantly. Internalization of these and the will to do better were rewards of their own. Failure to learn or to recognize these messages gifted me with little slaps. Offerings were given, but I got the sense that this red wine faux-blood business wasn't cutting it, so to speak. But I shied from more bloodletting. More wine, sir? And then another stumble. Somewhere along the way, I let my practice trail off. "I'll get to it later", though I never did. Then everything started to go to hell. There are lots of ways to bleed, and an infinite amount of options available for losing one's manhood. I found out the hard way that these don't necessarily have to be physical. Bank accounts can bleed. Emotion can bleed out. Marriages can be in desperate need of transfusions. Happiness can scab over, and picking at it only produces a scar. Every definition of "man" can be sliced off and tossed away, until a "man" wonders just what "he" ever thought "he" was. Every duty a man has grown up believing is his can be gouged out. And then dryness. And sexlessness. And horror at the dickless, bloodless creature in the mirror. (Some of you got a very real taste of this from me in my contribution to the 'Sad and Depressed' thread.) "You're tearing me apart," I told the god one day. "I'm breaking. I'm dying. Can we stop this please? I know I've been a real shit to you. I've failed you. Please. Let me go. Tell me what to do and I'll do it." And he told me. And he continued to break me down until he was finished.
Thankfully, destruction can be useful. And sometimes the things or ideas one has held onto never did them any good in the first place. Better to cut them out (or have them cut out) and give something else room to grow. In place of all that had been taken away, I was given a mustard seed in return. I gave it choice soil to grow in, watered it, made sure it had adequate sun, talked to it, and cared for the tiny shoots that sprang up. Over time I found that despite my laziness and lack of dedication, I had been given what I'd asked for. Perhaps the road would not have been as hard to walk if I'd been better about maintaining the relationship. Perhaps not. Frankly, I just feel really fucking lucky to have made it out of what I danced into so lightly. I was an idiot, and I've probably gotten off way easier than I deserved. Of course, I'm still paying.
The bougainvillea bush that had come in so handy during the ritual was blown over in one of the hurricanes we suffered through last year. That bush was part of a network of five or six bushes that stretched across half the length of our northern fenceline. Say 20 or 30 feet. When I finally had the will, the tools, and the time to fix the bushes, they'd grown monstrous and woven in and out of one another, as well as into neighboring trees and the wooden fencing that had fallen on top of them. It was a total mess, burying a portion of our yard and encroaching on the slash pines. There was nothing for it but to cut them all down to the ground and let them regrow. This process has proved to be a gauntlet run and a living metaphor for all that I have had cut out of me. It has tested my patience, the limits of my physical fitness, and my tolerance for pain. Pruning a bougainvillea will usually earn the pruner a puncture or two. Going at a bougainvillea with the knucklebusters, saw and hedgetrimmer, I've found, ensures cuts on every exposed piece of skin. My wife has insisted time and again that I wear long sleeves and pants while I do this work. I have steadfastly refused on the grounds that it would be much too hot, which is true enough. My real reason, and what I cannot tell her, is that this pain and bleeding is penance and I cannot take the easy way around it. It must be done. I always promise to be careful and wear gloves, but every session ends with arms and legs ventilated and leaking. Thankfully, I'm almost finished now. Two, maybe three more Saturday mornings of this and I'll be done with blood. Then, finally, I can destroy the walking staff I dedicated and be done with this whole business.
I'm hoping that by sharing this I can give pause to someone else somewhere. I hope they'll see and understand the mistakes I made and pull back before they get into something they're not ready for. I'm honestly grateful for what's been given to me, and am happier and more sure of myself now than I was before this whole mess began. Still, I wouldn't wish this on anyone. This is a serious, serious arena and we play at our peril. |
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