A letter to Osijek

Today, I received a message from one of my former students in the Black Moon Grove Tradition. Though not one of our teachers, he still walks our Path and lives his way in it. While traveling his spiritual pilgrimage through the South this week, he encountered a call for help.

The call came from far away, from Osijek, Croatia to be exact. If you know about our Tradition, then you know that this is not unusual for us to receive messages from every place or person. It is part of our Call, and Human Trafficking is on our list of what we address. We are a “Hunting” Grove.

Matt., as I will call him here, was alerted to the plight of this young man via the interwebs. As best he could, he attempted to assist him, and reached out for resources in doing so. This is his way. While this, he found out something horrible but true not just there, but everywhere.

Matt. found out that trafficking is not escaped easily, nor is it even believed by most authorities. It is the phone call in the dark that goes unchecked. The shadowy worlds that whisk from place to place are almost untraceable to law enforcement. Victims and survivors reach out to what turns out to be empty air, for within the blink of an eye the aid that was promised can miss them by moments.

The young man in question has been to the authorities. He was not believed. He is in fear of his life. He is not believed. All we can do is send him to the Croatian Red Cross Osijek (GDCK Osijek), a local branch of Croatian Red Cross. We have no international hotline to have him call.
We hope that someone in Osijek will see this. The branch offers protection and shelter for human trafficking victims. It is highly unlikely he will see it, though. But we can try. Matt. is going to be able to send this link, and because it is in a Pagan news site, it will seem like this person is just surfing the web. Although I do not have any idea what their access is to the web, or how often.

We know you are trying to get to Hungary. So that should tell you we are speaking to you. Please take this information and screen save it.

Here is your information.
Contact person: Tijana Salaj

E-mail: tijana.salaj@gmail.com

Phone:+38531205488

Mobile:+385992443599

E-mail: tijanasalaj@crvenikrizosijek.hr

Website: http://www.crvenikrizosijek.hr

This is a lousy substitute for actual assistance. It is horrid. It is inadequate and makes us all shamed that there is nothing else we can do as citizens of the world. Why is there no outrage at the sexual slavery that exists side by side by the continued chattel slavery of the world in every continent?

Thanks to the Polaris Project, we at last have the Global Human Trafficking Hotline Network. Visit the site here at http://www.globalmodernslavery.org/.

Readers, here in Michigan, we have the Michigan Abolitionist Project, among others, if you want to get involved.  Boots on the ground time, step up. We cannot keep ignoring this.

To report a tip, connect with anti-trafficking services in your area, or request information, call The National Human Trafficking Resource Center at: 1-888-373-7888, or send a text to BeFree (233733).

A memorial of DeAnna Gray, a safe friend for a solitary Pagan child

I awoke this morning like any other day. The hurried chaos of rousing a household into motion and the scurrying to get breakfast ready. The air was cold, so I put on the oven to heat the kitchen. In Michigan, we wait til the last of fall to turn on the furnaces. The altar boxes seemed like shadows were unusually soft around them, his and mine, but I paid no special heed to what that might mean.

In truth, I had paid no heed to my dreams this weekend, even though they were messengers, since I was going to analyze them later….always later. This October has been full of dreams, as is customary with the season of the last of the death harvests. Those who have passed away are nearer to us, and seek to reach out to let us know they are there. It is also is a time of goodbyes.

DeAnna Gray, gofundme photo

Then, on the drive into work, it came. That inevitable “it” that comes in these sort of stories. In this case, “it” was a message request from an unknown person on Facebook. Now, this is not so unusual. I write a lot of things that can cause some interesting reactions from strangers. But for some reason, today I accepted.
In my inbox, there was the image of my friend. Not a friend I see everyday, mind you. In fact, we probably have not directly spoken to each other in over 10 years. We just had not run in the same circles, especially after I moved away from the city proper. But there was her photograph in my electronic mailbox, the image of DeAnna Gray.
DeAnna Gray, the name itself is so small on the page, but evokes so much. She was so much more than those collections of syllables and letters. She was the very first person who accepted me as I am. Accepted me as someone different, and said it was okay.
DeAnna Gray and I met in first grade, after having been tested and placed in classes together. All through school, we were in advanced studies and music and even shared time in the “package lunch room” at Elizabeth Courville Elementary School in Detroit. She was one of the girls who would crochet with the crafty girls with the fuzzy yarn and the fuzzy ribbon in her hair. She was also the one who dried my tears when the boys put a lizard tail on my cornet case because I said I was a witch.
DeAnna was the one in Mr. Peterson’s class who would help me with my art. Our teacher was a hippy with a VW bus, and we had great fun together. She was there the day I tried to draw my first witchy painting and simultaneously look at the scandalizing pictures of Prince in a black G-string behind the clay buckets.

She said that it was okay to be different. She said it was okay. She knew what it was like to be different because she was tall. And boys did not like tall girls, so it was the same. She stood there in corduroy pants and a sweater with little characters marching across in horizontal lines and said it was okay. And she held my hand.

DeAnna Gray’s signature on her folder with the happy little apple face on her name card on a string is in my mind now. She was so neat and her desk was never messy like mine. She wrote well, and we sometimes would smile at each other. She was not a cool kid, but she was in the respectable groups. I was always an outcast, but that was to be expected. In social studies we even had a project together where we laughed as we shut down the boys, especially Steven Walker, when he asked if I could turn him into a frog. She had her cross and I had one too, but mine was enchanted with something other. And that was okay.

In the playgrounds of middle school, DeAnna had taken to being more to herself. We all experimented with makeup in the classroom of the only African-American Catholic woman I had ever seen. Lolita Curtis gave me my first book on magick, and I was outed again. The class bully tried to come at me, and quiet DeAnna stood up, all tall and straight, and stood with me as I stood my ground. We did not fight that day, words are better than animals. Dogs use tooth and claw, and we were ladies. And when Mrs. Linton and the lunch ladies encircled me to exorcise me and pray at me because they said I was full of demons for my beliefs, she gave me her mystery meat and a cookie afterwards (vanilla crème).

We were not best friends. We were friends, though. In high school, she and I had classes together again. In Detroit Public Schools, back then at least, you stayed with you pack. Honors kids with honors kids, vocational students with vocational students, etc. I grew up watching her refine that “D” in her signature from a large letter block print to an eloquent signature. A presence that seemed to always be around with a shoulder, a smile, or even the answer to where I dropped my cornet valve oil – again.

On days nearing the end of our high school year, I got used to seeing her in the neighborhood on 7 Mile Rd. We would sometimes see each other, usually when I was walking home by her mother’s work, M&M Shrimp Shack. Her mom was really nice as well. Her mother knew about the little foster girl with the belief in magick. She was a Christian, but she always treated me sweetly. Blood will tell, and though her mom could sometimes be a bit hard, she never treated me with unkindness in the way that many others did in this city of churches. Especially since I lived right on church row, that meant a lot to me.

Many days, she saw me and would be one of the only ones  nice to me, DeAnna had a great big heart. In the winter, she would sometimes offer me a glove or burgundy mitten. Of course I would not take it, but it was good of her. She would get annoyed by me wearing my band gloves as hand protection. I would joke that I was just really committed and she would shake her head and smile in that lip gloss way she had. But I remember her kindness as she stood in the slush and rain those days.

Her eyes were the kindest eyes I have ever seen. That is not to say she never got mad. Oh boy, could she ever. But they were always the sweetest I have ever seen. They are not gray, but I will be adding a gray candle in memory of them to my altar this week, my ancestral one. Because she is precious to me and I seek to honor the understanding that she had. The understanding was that everyone does not have to believe the same thing to be right.  She touched my life in shades that were not lies of black and white, but full of kind grays … like DeAnna Gray.





GoFundMe Information for her Burial.

Unfortunately, on Oct 21st my siblings and I lost our beloved mother Deanna Gray. She was a very loving person with such a giving spirit. To know my mother is to have loved her. Her selfless acts of kindness was enough to win over the hearts of any and everyone who came in contact with her. We are now asking for your help to give back to someone who gave so much.
With your help we would like to give her the home going she deserves. Please help us send our angel home properly. My family and I would like to thank everyone in advance for the well wishes and support. God bless you all, thank you.
Help spread the word!

I do not do gofundme stories as a general rule. This is my exception. Because I loved her, and still do. I do this because she me my world safer and kept me sane and strong when others would have torn me down. So I share this here, and if you are so moved, please help her family to send her off as befitting one of such kindness.
The campaign is

Burial for Deanna Gray

I ask that if you are moved by the memory of Deanna, and it is in your practice, that you light a gray candle with some pink roses on your altar this weekend. Let us send her family some loving energy. Let us send some love to DeAnna as she takes her journey home.

Hail the Beloved Dead.

This story is also published at my column on http://pbnnewsnetwork.com/2016/10/25/a-memorial-of-deanna-gray-a-safe-friend-in-for-a-solitary-pagan-child/

On the encountering of a witch who thinks they have a racial pass

There is no racial pass. There is no racial pass. There is no racial pass. One more time, there is no racial pass. There is no racial pass given to magickal practitioners who move in the the spaces of the urban magician to form their lips to say the word "nigg--" or "nigga". Whether you put any prefix in front of it, it does not negate the filth that follows. There is no racial pass.

There is no racial pass. No amount of branding or fictive kinship exists to endow the right of any person to take license to use that word as part of their identity. It does not matter that another of diasporic identity may use it casually, like a fool, to describe themselves or their comrades. There is no magickal reality to the  existence of a racial pass being given to anyone to use a racially insulting, derogatory, bigoted, or degrading terminology. There is no racial pass.

There is no racial pass that anyone with any emotional intelligence or cultural awareness of the history of this hemisphere may use to excuse the use of that nasty and horrid verbal lash. There are no "cool point" levels to attain that lead to a super sacred status that allows it. There is no person of any worth to themselves, or to the diaspora, that deserves to not be checked about its use.There is no racial pass.

There is no racial pass given to celebrity or fame or rank. There is no racial pass. There is no racial pass that exists that would excuse me betraying my conscience and staying silent on this matter. There is nothing that would wipe the stain of it from the reflection I see, no solvent that would clean my confession.

 By Frerieke from The Hague, The Netherlands

There is no bond of friendship, peerage, or membership in the modern wave of urban folk spirituality practitioners that would override my honor in this matter. It is out of love that I write this. The only way for there to be no gap in our grasps of each others hands is that we remove the feel of the filth between them that this word and its derivatives pour over everything like slime from the spiritual charnel pits it created. There is no racial pass.


There is no racial pass that says that if a single person, or group of persons, tells you that the usage of a slur is acceptable by them that has any validity. There is no universal pass that states because segments of a historically murdered, persecuted, oppressed, and hated group use a vile term in conversation to refer to themselves of others that exempts ANYONE from recognizing that its usage is wicked and evil.

There is no racial pass. There is in reality, no "card", black or otherwise, that is a license to use it for anything - especially as a brand. The pain and suffering and deaths of my ancestors, parents, grandparents, and descendants is not a charm bracelet sparkle that one can put on their hashtag wrists. My familial historical outrage is not for sale, it is not a fashion statement. There is no racial pass.

There is no racial pass. The need to be raw, edgy, to refer to your street authenticity is what you say is truth, but it should taste a lie. There is no equivalent linguistic contortionist's justification for any other people's magick being so casually linked to the language of those that would destroy them. There is no correlation to the synaptic reactions experienced in the terms for other Traditions of magick and folk lore that feel the same. Granny magic, Hex magic, Celtic magick, do not fire the same responses. Calling yourself a "witchnigga" is not the damned same. There is no racial pass.

There is no racial pass. Creativity is not an excuse for outrage for outrage's sake. There is no room for misunderstanding on matters of this gravity. There is no corner shadowed enough for me to hide in that would hide my villainy for not writing on this.This is about more than a hashtag and your right to craft it.

I do not believe in censorship. Artistic freedom is essential in a democracy. There would be no Eugene O'Neill, Laurie Anderson or Tupac Shakur if we had censorship. But I do believe artists have a responsibility for what they say and do. - Dr. Cornel West

There is no racial pass. There is no racial pass that states that because you put a "ga" on the end of the word nigg-- instead of an "er" that is somehow transforms into a wondrous term of universally acceptable colloquial speech. There is no excuse or rationalization for proliferating that term as anything other than a hate-filled, malicious weapon. That word is a servitor of the basest rank that has risen to the heights of murder and even attempted genocide in this nation. The LIE of semantic inversion being applied to it means NOTHING. It is NEVER acceptable. There is no racial pass.

There is no racial pass. It does not matter that I think you are otherwise a good person. When you refuse to see anything wrong when someone plainly explains what is very wrong, then you have chosen to cling to wickedness. Willful defiance in the face of reality in this case is not insanity, it is the practice of the privilege of the so-called "racial pass holder", and it is odious and offensive to everyone. There is no justification. There is no racial pass.

There is no racial pass. The fact that this term lives in a place of power, in a set of society of witchcraft and magick. The fact that the term "hood" is loose enough to use, but you took it to another step and publicly put that word "nigga" your brand. I do not care how many times that word has been used around, about, or to you, it is not ok. It is not the next logical step in cutting edge urban identity as a witch. It is not the tongue in cheek, it is the fist in face. There is no racial pass.

There is no racial pass. By using the "ga" you seek to take it to a different place. That word is a weapon. There is no place to take it that leads to anything good and upright. Words have power, and that word is a weapon. As far as taking it to a different place in the conversation of urban practice, a quote from a writer comes to mind.

The rule is that if they have a weapon and want to take you someplace else, it is so they can kill you slower" - Laurell K. Hamilton, The Harlequin

That is what is happening to the diasporic peoples with the powers in their hands. That is what is happening to the witches and conjurers and others who are entrusted with these traditions as the people who are visitors in these spaces have begun to mine them. They who would destroy us use these terms. If you are not among them, then why use their weapons. WE are not your magickal Patrice Lumumba's, and we will not stand by while our collective traditions are belittled and assassinated by those words. There is no racial pass.

There is no racial pass. To the self hating proliferating people who continue to push forth the notion that this word is ever good in any sense, I say to you the same. There is no racial pass. To use this term on our friend, or enemy, is to align with the strap, the lash, the blade, and the club used to bash our people. You are no different than the slave who would turn in their fellow as he escaped. You are the other half of the tumor that grows in this practice. You will not be forgotten, and if you are lucky, you one day will abhor that which you do now. If not, we shall cut you from us like a rotten wound's tissue and leave you on the bloody floor of our past. For you, too, there is no racial pass.


There is no racial pass. No one has the ability to grant clemency or privilege to use that word to any other person, especially any person who is not of the lineage of those who have inherited the legacy and continued reality of all that it means. It is decidedly one of the most vulgar abuses of privilege I may have witnessed by anyone in my movements through the local magickal societies, and I am shocked. There is no racial pass.

There is no racial pass.

That pesky first amendment and why it matters right now

So many of the issues in this election year of 2016 CE are hot buttons of emotion that one of the major rights that we have as a people being ignored is a travesty. It seems that the requisite action of any organized corporate or governmental organization engaged in controversial situations is to gag, deter, and arrest (usually unlawfully) the press. The citizenry’s rights to freedom of the press are in the United States Constitution. This is the truth, despite the odious creep and overreach of the forces that are hellbent on destroying that right with spurious interpretations under the color of law that seek to suppress the reporting that gives us the truth, without bias, from the front lines.
The journalist, the reporter, the press in its many forms, not the entertainers, are the “fourth estate”. They are the watchmen at the gate, the ear in the chamber, the eye on the arena, and the flow of information to the people. The press keep us honest, they find truth, they give facts, and yes sometimes they give opinions. Some of those opinions challenge what many would wish to hear, especially those in power, those in scandal, and those engaged in illegal, unethical, or egregious behavior. Money talks, and it buys the strong arms and stoic silence of those in the places of power who bear the duty of protecting the reporters.
With  the major news organizations being owned by very few entities, the flow of information finds itself colored, curtailed, and forced to find independent media sources that offer multiple outlets. Alex Jones, a media personality with a provocative brand that endears him to some, and outrages others, coined the term “dinosaur media” when referring to the traditional large name print and network media. In some ways, the hierarchy of the pay-your-dues brand of journalism has become the very crushing walls that are destroying many of the generational divided future news writers. In others, it is that very system that produces quality journalism relied upon to serve.

Image: Hector Martinez

However, the medium and the messages have expanded, and those on the front lines are under fire at all levels. Unless they become the talking head of delivering prepackaged news copy for our digestion from channels branded now as entertainment, it is more difficult to find the courageous photojournalists and writers who embed themselves in the news sites that matter physically. The threat, and implementation, of coercive and legally questionable tactics create a climate of fear and apprehension that has direct influence on what stories and facts you, the public, get to see.

One example is the situation at the Standing Rock Sioux and the DAPL parties. Smoky rooms and smoke and mirrors are at full steam in this situation, intimidating, arresting, and barring the free press from doing their constitutionally protected coverage of this event. From the groundbreaking small media company Unicorn Riot, to the esteemed Democracy Now, reporters are under politically motivated attack. Readers, there is something very  wrong going on here, when our government is using these tactics to hide what they are doing, and we should watch them closely because  What we are seeing is the encroaching death of the right to a free press.

To give some history on the events referred to here, let us first look at what befell the reporters from Unicorn Riot while covering a news stories. So far, four journalists were arrested while providing coverage of stories related to this news event. Two were arrested on September 13th, and two on October 7th, all clearly displaying press badges and self identifying.

During a September 13th direct action at a DAPL construction site, two Unicorn Riot journalists were targeted and arrested while reporting during a live broadcast. Our reporters were both wearing their press passes and stating “I’m press” at the time of their arrests…..
On October 7th, in Lee County, Iowa, after live streaming an action (from a tree perch outside DAPL property) during which two women locked themselves to a horizontal directional drill, another Unicorn Riot journalist was arrested and taken into custody. They have been charged with criminal trespass…  the same day as court was happening for one Unicorn Riot journalist, another was getting arrested by a Lee County Sheriff’s deputy for once again, allegedly trespassing while documenting a non-violent direct action that stopped pipeline construction. – “Four Unicorn Riot Journalists Face Charges for Covering #NoDAPL”, Unicorn Riot

Next, the story of Amy Goodman, world respected and known journalist. She, too, dared to commit the crime of press coverage at the site of the contested pipeline, and the actions of the authorities and gathered water protectors. She took photographs, and broadcast live on social media, the uncensored events that took place there with the mantle of the reporter on her shoulders. The now infamous footage of the dog attacks at the site did not sit well with the silent and tacit agreement to not cover this story by major media outlets.


This footage led to an arrest warrant being issued for criminal trespass, which has been changed to charges for participating in a riot. This fictive narrative by the powers that be seeks to now levy charges that could, if convicted, place this writer behind bars for up to 45 years. A transcript of her report can be found here at Democracy Now.

This morning, she broadcasted live regarding this case. Find the video at Democracy Now by following this link.

http://www.democracynow.org/2016/10/17/amy_goodman_broadcasts_from_north_dakota

Citizen journalists, investigative journalists,  and documentary filmmakers face difficult decisions and potential consequences for their work. They are on the front line. The protections afforded to big name media are not always recognized in their cases and anti SLAPP laws are not universal throughout the nation.  When the constitution was framed, it protected even the pamphlet maker. Now it would come into question whether live streams of content are equivalent in their protection.

Near v. Minnesota, ratified the Blackstonian proposition that a prior restraint — a legal prohibition on the press’s ability to publish information in its possession — will almost always violate the First Amendment. Near is a landmark, not just because it was the Court’s first decision to invoke the press clause, but because it established a fundamental precept of constitutional law — that once the press has gotten its hands on information that it deems to be newsworthy, the government can seldom, if ever, prevent that information from being published. –

On October 11, Deia Schlosberg, documentary filmmaker, arrested  in Walhalla, North Dakota, covered a story on a climate change protest which shut down four states where pipelines were carrying tar-sands oil from Alberta, Canada, into the United States. The film, “How to Let Go of the World and Love All the Things Climate Can’t Change” was to include the direct actions of these activists. However the film footage was confiscated, she was held for two days without access to counsel, and she three felony counts of conspiracy have been charged against her for covering this story.
We need more investigative journalists, and we need to defend them. We need more news, not less. We need more stories and those to write them. Locally, here in Michigan, there is an opportunity to learn more about this on Sunday, October 30th at the “2016 Detroit Watchdog Workshop” by Investigative Reporters and Editors. Hosted by Wayne State’s Dept of Communication.  The irony of this is not lost on this writer, as this same institution has gone to certain lengths to silence award-winning columnist Steve Neavling’s Motor City Muckraker site’s ongoing reporting regarding the institution.
Suppression, intimidation, and the color of law are all being used to cut our press to minimalist writers fed their information after approved by the very persons that might stand the most to lose. This wave of censorship and stonewalling will only lead to the further erosion of our First Amendment right to have a free press. If you are not afraid of that this will mean yet, you haven’t been paying attention.

Damn Right there is something in the water: a personal salon

The air is brisk, and the sun is shining against an artic blue sky on an autumn day here in Michigan. The corn is in the kitchen hanging on racks to dry as I open my finish setting my table for a salon. There is plenty of room for you at the table. I have made elderberry muffins and lemon fantasy tea. It is my own blend of lemongrass, orange mint, lemon balm, and lemon verbena. Things may get a bit tart today.

Image: Shruthi Gowda

The placemats are cerulean blue and there is a beautiful arrangement of rosemary, cedar, lavender, flowers, and hyssop sprigs in the centerpiece. The tea is hot and the scent of orange thyme is filling the room.

*sits at table with pot in her lap to shell beans. This is an informal affair*

Right now, there are unprecedented milestones and miracles happening at Standing Rock and in Michigan. The stories that come from these times will be whispered and retold for many generations. We are the new ancestors, you know. What we do during these times will help to nurture the coming ones who will learn.

Being from Michigan, the water and I have a deep relationship. I can no more breathe the scent of the lakes as a non-spiritual experience than I could not openly laugh when someone tells me that all conjure comes from Ireland and Chicago. That relationship has fed my soul, aided my  works, and healed my spirit. Water is life. It has been my life, and will always sustain my life.

It is for that cause that I feel compelled to host this little salon today on the fifth of October. This is the day before the birthday of my deceased Dad, and I believe that the tears that fall as I type this are just as connected to the “over-spirits” of all Waters as the most expensive Evian, or the cheapest bottle from the dollar store down the street. All of it has me buoyed up in my emotions, and all of it can heal and sustain.

*shells a speckled butterbean pod, and drops three in the pot*

Mistress Belladonna

Right now, the forces of destruction in this world are intensifying their assaults against humanity by poisoning and imperiling one of the most intimate connections we have to the soul of creation.

Water.

Image Kenya Coviak, all rights reserved

In Flint, Michigan, a sort of evil epic saga of greed, corruption, and vicious opportunism led to the destruction of the systems that conveyed life giving waters to the people of this state. In another area, under our lakes, there is a great pipeline that sleeps like a beast waiting to strike. It’s ancient stays and bonds awaiting release and failure so that it can lay waste and destruction to the life above and below those freshwater waves unchecked. Wells of radioactive waste lie in wells inland, and on shoreline of our freshwater seas, catastrophes ticking away like bombs of devastation. In the the lands of the Standing Rock Sioux, a monster of a pipeline is threatening to transport possible death through sacred soils and under water bodies that have sustained them for generations.

What do each of these things have in common? They are all outrages against us as humans, and against every plant, animal, and spirit in the areas in which they take place. They threaten not only the physical landscapes, but the psychic energy and systems of the spiritual essences that these flows and bodies contain and share with us. In other words, they are violent attacks against the very souls of creation that we live in harmony (we wish) with as we survive and pray to our respective systems of belief.

*Teapot sends up a bubble from nowhere*

I think often of my daughter and her future these days. Will she live in a world that has the first generation of young adults that cannot trust the seeds they plant or the water that grows them? Exactly how long of a timetable does she have before every drop is privatized. Will there be a world in which her gathering water in a bowl for her aloe plant will lead to a knock on the door by police for illegal collection of rainwater? Will she have to pay for the safe water not contaminated by heavy metals to water her seedlings? Hell, will there even BE seedlings to plant? Will there still be Michigan Okra?

Image:  Kenya Coviak, all rights reserved

I look at the sky, and know that somewhere, right now, there are Water Protectors fighting for my future. I look at the sky and know that here in Michigan, there are brave folks who are petitioning, holding rallies, and are on the front line to remedy Flint and keep it from happening again. I see the sun and feel the wind on my face and smell the rain and the scent of poplar and know that no matter what they do, they will face opposition in the name of greed and ambition.

Image: Kenya Coviak, all rights reserved

People have many relationships with water that we take for granted as always being there. The rite of baptism, ritual washing, and purification. All these rely on water. What happens when all the water is defiled? What happens when it is not a living thing anymore?

When we sing water songs, or when certain cultures sing Water Songs, almost universally there is an awareness of the majesty of it. The mysteries of the deep and the faint babbling of the brooks seem to sing to us of faraway places and the times when we were not so distant from our beginnings. We recharge in those places. We tell myths and creation stories about it in many cultures. And some of us have familial stories about our animal that we are related to that lives in the water and the land. (I am not allowed to further into this publicly)

*Looks at photo of Dad and remembers he needs a cup of McDonald’s coffee by his picture. Pours you another cup of tea and offers you a peach tart now that your muffin is gone*

I mean, really. This has gotten way out of the land of basic business chicanery and ventured into the obscene. It is an absurd drama to watch, as politicians bargain with corporations as they both condemn the pools, rivers, and lakes to destruction. Fracking, drilling, subsidized theft by large conglomerates that obtain water rights of small communities over the residents, the list of infractions is endless. What do they think is going to happen here?

*Teapot has now cracked, sending one long tear of golden fluid down the side*

What exactly do they propose we do when all the waters are dead and dying in the future?

When it comes time to wash the babies in the waters to bless them, what shall we use? Shall we use Gatorade? Shall we use some sort of lotion? Will we have to call the “Culligan Man” to bring over a special delivery?

When the Dead have their sacred rites performed, what then? Will we try to consecrate hand sanitizer? Or will we use frack polluted waters for purification? When there are water initiations by the other faiths in their waters, what shall they do, put on wet suits?

There is no magic purifier pill. There is no magic additive that will restore the fish and the frogs and the shellfish to their ancient states once they have been poisoned. It takes generations for them to recover, if they do. GENERATIONS.

Which begs the question.

How many generations do we have left to restore what has already been lost?

*throws bean husks in compost plate to put into garden. Gives you a small paper bag of pecan/lavender cookies to go, and puts a small bottle of Potawatomi beans in your hand*

Thank you for coming today. It is not often that I open my salon for just you and me. So I hope you enjoyed it. Do come again. Be sure remember to scatter those seeds. You never know where they will take root.