A few nights ago, I was invited to attend a gathering by my friend’s dead mother.  For weeks, she has been meeting this hoodoo (?) priestess woman in the middle of the night at a dance/yoga studio.  Two a.m. on a Wednesday – the floor of the studio was aged wood.  It was a hot second floor space in the city; the windows were uncovered, but the night outside was completely black.  I stood with a couple of other newcomers just at the threshold, observing.  The woman opened the ritual by slicing furiously at the floor with both hands clutching an invisible blade, then sprinkling a line of dirt, spitting on it, rubbing it in.  All efforts to open the veil just enough, then seal it before too much came in or went out.  Almost outside of my own volition, I found myself first clapping, then participating in the chant that ended in gradually more frenzied dancing.

Afterwards, leaning against the inner wall of the studio room where a small shelf was inset and dimly lit, the woman spoke quietly to me in a sidelong way, revealing short, powerful details without hesitation or ceremony, then told me my name with a sly smile.

In dazzling daylight, I walked with the small group of key members to their designated space in the woods – a white house on an airy hillside.  I observed but stayed clear of the posturing of two women who were vying for position, showing off their more menacing forms in air and water.  I brought thistles and milk, and a human-like dog greeted me in the yard.  I was told to leave roses behind, before we started up the hill to the initiation place.

Other recent dreams marrying magical tools to each other, meeting ghosts in my kitchen and elsewhere, iron charms, wolves, and a frog emerging from our blueberry bush with an exceptionally communicative gaze.

My cold spell is melting, and I feel again the welcome sting behind my eyes.


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