Reflection – Clan Witch & Word Refinery

Change in the House of…

Life is constantly changing, as it should. I’m of the mind that if things stay them same, we may as well cease to exist. Right now, the changes outweigh anything settled. It’s profoundly unsettling physically and emotionally.

The connections we make, the connections we miss, and those that break are in constant motion. Sometimes we need to go back to move forward.

We learn, grow, change, evolve.

I’m thankful for every person I’m crossed and blended paths with so far in this mad life. Even the horrors I would not change. There are pathways forming through the fog.

Birthday

I hate my birthday. I’ve never understood the point. For as long as I can remember, I’ve never enjoyed it. Ill mental health plays a part—yes, even as a very young child. Perhaps growing up with little and seeing how overstretched gift-givers could become and materialistic and spoiled behaviour from receivers and givers alike added to this discomfort with such anniversaries. I’ve never really desired ‘things’.

As a child, I felt like a burden. They were so young, and my grandfather’s death fast followed my birth. And I feel for that. ‘One in and one out’ is what they say, and something unwanted took the place of my mother’s father. Me. To celebrate my birthday? An obligation instead of a celebration is what I felt. So, I’ve never liked my birthday.

I’m a mother. And birth merits celebration. Life merits gratitude. Existence is miraculous. The coming together and multiplying of cells to form new life? It’s astounding. Wanted or not. Accidental or with the desired purpose.

Without mine, my children would not exist. I acknowledge my birth for them. Life is the gift.

Anyway, this year, I hung out with Paul and the smalls in a park, reading quietly and feeding crackers to crows while the kids played. And we enjoyed ice cream and The Little Mermaid together—a magical summer release.

Appreciate the little moments. They are the big things. That’s what makes up this chaotic life. The seemingly small is where the magick resides.

Cheers to surviving another day. )O(

The Making of Delevan House #12

Going Rogue #BeBrazen The earliest use of the term is regarding elephants. There are “elephants” in any room, group, gathering, or social structure. …
The Making of Delevan House #12

December 2021

I started writing this post at the beginning of December. Then it got parked because, you know, December hit!

The last two years have been an uncomfortable and strange kind of chaos for so many the world over. Few things have felt light. My three daughters’ birthdays all fall within nine days during the last month. December also marks my grandmother’s birthday and death. The latter happened when I was juggling having my youngest in NICU and protecting my still vulnerable toddler from the stark risks of RSV season. I couldn’t see her before she died. December always feels heavy with gratitude, pain, trauma, distress, anger, conflict; it’s all a dizzying soul ache and more love than I can handle. I don’t want to get stuck when I glance at the clock at certain times through those days, marking deaths and births; the past is reflected in the clockface. But I inevitably, subconsciously glance — it’s always one of those times. Words ring through my mind, with alarms, rushing and deathly silent moments, sensations my body still feels. Muscle memories of energies change everything.

My daughters had such great birthdays this year, even with this shitshow of humanity and how we deal with pandemics. That’s given rise to so much I thought was in the past. There are too many egos putting lives at risk — for arrogance, superiority complexes of conspiracy theorists who think they are somehow in the know, and governments’ superiority complexes; projections of elitism. I have little tolerance for many such things these days. It’s all egocentric. Ego, I wonder what the picture would be like without its existence.

Anyway, I had writing to tie up this month, before the year’s close — a few short stories at the very least. My focus is off-kilter still, and the hours are so very full. The final hours are closing in, and I’ve barely caught a breath.

Solstice has now marked the rebirth of light on this hemisphere, and I’ve been marking out intentions in blood and ink for the moons ahead. This week I will release the ashes of the year behind, putting light into the seeds that can only grow.

Reflect but keep on moving; the wheel turns.

People Pleasing Massacre

A poem

From this tomb
I look at the massacre
I’ve made of myself
Taking in every ripple of depression
The marches of its succession
Binging and fasting like waves sloshing
Overwhelming loose skin
Drinking in the scars
Grooves deeper than can be seen
Slashes from the blade
Tracks worn into this sick façade
Embedded in the tomb
For me, there’s no room
Depression’s refusal to be released
Sagging waves of torment
Dropping into the scalding water
Reddening surface and silver deep
Lie back
Just lie back let it sink in
Conquer the concave slave
Drench black-eyed face under
Revell in the nearing thunder
I can see through my corpse to the decomposition
My life’s mission
Taking in their rot
I’m rotting alive
No need to be a giver
They keep taking
Clawing at the veins
Sucking my blood with straws
Lie back further
Steer across the landscape
It ain’t too horrifying from this angle
The sags tighten
Silver streaks lighten
Red fades to blush
Embrace the incoming hush
I’ll lie here
Lie to myself for a while
Let the silver lining twinkle
A perspective shift
A momentary lift.

No Good Grief

Gnashing and gnawing at my innards
Viscera shredded; trauma tombs embedded
Stitch in bells, weigh down the nauseating flapping
Jangle a euphonious jingle
Steady placement of chinked shield
Conceal agonies.
  
U-bend blocked
There my guilt brims
Shame for wishing away rapid cell division
Liquor and voluntary scalding
Natures way away
Life folding poured out
Out of Order; terror of disorder
  
For two, a freshly dug hole
The morning after
Mourning follows
Nipping at heals with the snow
A hollow in another garden
There, a piece of my heart lays
A depression for my first’s succession
  
She wants to see my torment on display
To harvest in morbid grief games
Pretend she’s just the same
Catfish loss-mother
Conspiring tiring 
Yearning to reap from the suffering leaks of my soul
Observe my lamentations trapped in a fishbowl
To don a cape, be in control
Prodding my wounds, infecting
  
Imitation empath storing stories
Catalogued, indexed, held hostage
Latching of grief vampires
Sucking ephemeral life’s marrow
Chipping stones off my bones
  
An archaeologist scraping the shovel
No delicate brushing of bristles
Attention desperation
Desecrating my pain 
Self-appointed steward on my cradle’s grave.

Concoction: A mini anthology of shorts

Extract from ‘Shadows in the Garden’ by G G Flavell as featured in ‘Concoction’

Out now on eBook and Paperback from Amazon worldwide.

eBook link