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Wk 4- Feb. 23- Any writing for the letters C or – I am keeping this familiar format on week 4 for those who have joined me from the Pagan Blog Project.

C: Calling

I attended Winter Witchcamp this year. It is held on a magical isle on a frozen lake in Wisconsin. I am not a fan of winter, but this place was beautiful.

One night for ritual we called a bind rune into being. Actually called it, rune piece by rune piece, with intent, purpose, and ecstatic voices. We called across the camp, 3 layers, 3 runes, over and over and over again, until its magic was formed, its energy as clear and bold as the brisk night air.

The ritual started in 3 separate places: on the frozen lake, on the deck of the ritual hall with a fire blazing, and inside the ritual room. It was so cold that evening and my back ached with the frigid temperatures, but the frozen lake siren-sang my name so I bundled and wrapped and layered, and chose it it as much as it chose me to start the ritual.

I arrived at the lake, walking on its icy hardness, to a straight line of coloured faerie lights stuck deep into the ice. Our group split on either side of this rainbow rendition of Isa in the ice, raised our voices, and began. “Eeeesaah” we chanted, just slowly enough to feel the vowels fully in our throats before we took a breath. The deck group immediately followed with “Naaauuthiiiz”, and right after we could the faint whisper through the air of “Laaayguuz”.

Over and over, timed and methodical like music, emotion-filled and full-bodied like prayer. Eeeesaah …….Naaauthiiz …….Laaayguuz. Over and over, then faster and faster, our frost nipped faces turned upwards to a brilliantly clear starry heaven, chant-calling our bind rune into existence.

Once the island was swollen with our conviction we fell silent.

The three groups gathered in the ritual room and we completed the working.

Isa/Nauthiz/Laguz; the energy bound that evening is carried within all of us who were there, stretching out in our world as we move forward with this Work.



First published at Lean in to Joy.

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A New Year Poem



As I posted elsewhere, my mum always said that whatever you do on New Year Day you do for the rest of the year. This year I tried to plan more for desires than do-not-wants (such as laundry, which she cautioned against every year). My list for yesterday was reading, writing, art, divination, Netflix, nap, Tai Chi, and tasty food for dinner. I got in all except the nap. Perhaps I won’t need them in 2015!

Anyway, I wrote two poems, one for New Year and one is a morning prayer (to be sung) using words from “The Flower Prayer” and adding others. I’m sharing the New Year one here:

It’s a new year
marked by a new day,
people cheer and make promises
they never really intend to keep;
which seems like a lie, but really,
it is an unveiling of truth.

Everyone knows there is nothing new

about the…

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Pagans in Solidarity

We at Bone and Briar stand in solidarity with our brothers and sisters of colour during this time of horrid behaviour by people in authority. We grieve with Mike Brown’s family and the family of Eric Garner. We grieve with the family of Tamir Rice. Mostly we grieve our nation falling short again and again when it comes to equality.

We are white and we know the privilege we possess because of that. We work to mitigate the effects of that privilege in our daily lives. We also speak up and speak out – in our families, in our neighborhoods, and in our community. We show up and we ask all of our Reclaiming/Feri kith and kin to do the same. Pagans of Colour have a difficult struggle in our own communities, when in the company of their co-religionists, which is the last place that they should struggle so. Out in the world they face the same racism and the same fears of harm and death experienced by all people of colour for the crime of Walking While Not being White.

We at Bone and Briar ask all of our Pagan communities to stand with Pagans and non-Pagans of colour in support of their voices. We ask that you use your voice to post to your communities. We ask that you attend the protests occurring across our nation, carry signs, get the word out to your neighbors, and take your place at the edges of the protest if you are white. We ask that you stand in silent solidarity at these protests except when asked to join in chants. We ask when you are in community with PoC to allow their voices to be heard. Let’s face it, our white voices are heard all over this country every single day. If a news crew steps up to you for an interview, step out of the way and let your black and brown sisters and brothers speak. It’s been their turn to speak for a long time now.

We will be supporting this cause here in Pittsburgh. We call on you to join us in your home communities.

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For Gwion, Cerridwen, and the Cauldron

Amoret BriarRose

Blossoming Bones Mystery School has launched its first class, The Cauldron of Cerridwen. I’m incredibly excited about this.

And so, I have written a poem from Gwion’s perspective.

The Help

by Amoret BriarRose

Then she began to boil the cauldron, which from the beginning of its boiling might not cease to boil for a year and a day, until three blessed drops were obtained of the grace of Inspiration. And she put Gwion Bach the son of Gwreang of Llanfair in Caereinion, in Powys, to stir the cauldron, and a blind man named Morda to kindle the fire beneath it, and she charged them that they should not suffer it to cease boiling for the space of a year and a day. And she herself, according to the books of the astronomers, and in planetary hours, gathered every day of all charm-bearing herbs. ~ Taliesin, from The Mabinogion by Lady…

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Unsolicited Advice

One of my coveners is really interested in Snow White, and in contemplating the tale, this poem arrived.

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Grendel’s Sister

The writing prompt for this poem was the idea of “halcyon days” – the poem came out darker and more authentic than I anticipated.


The Flip Side of Samhain

An Unlikely Trio

Stir the soil and wet the ground to await the root,
stir the cauldron and scrape the sides to await the brew,
stir the hairs and part the knees to
await the seed.

Beltane flickers, white side of the veil to Samhain’s black,
Amid the grays of the in-between
The Ancients mix my blood, wash my marrow, and mend my flesh;
In pewter folds of silk spun with gossamer thread
The pulsing howls of orgasm echo the first wails of the newborn.

Through Life comes Death comes Life again.

Anubis to the left and Isis to the right,
masks and breath and scales and wings;
Embalming fluid in Cerridwen’s cauldron,
preserving not my body
that grows then sags and disintegrates like old paper;
but preserving my Self,
that glows then sings, folds and unfolds;

Origami of my Soul.

The damp scented air releases names
not quite spoken and barely heard,
mute and blind
the blade queries,
Truth revealed in mirrors and glitter bombs.

© Pamela V Jones, Beltane 2012

Reblogged from Lean in to Joy.


Thoughts on Leadership

Amoret BriarRose

A leader goes first where they want you to go…and at the same time, a leader stands behind you. It is in holding this duality that shit gets done. It is in holding this duality that a leader disappears into the fabric of the moment.

A leader trusts that you will bring your excellence to the table, holds you up while you stretch past your comfort zone, and believes that you will touch the golden core that’s at the heart of you.

“A leader is best When people barely know he exists, When his work is done, his aim fulfilled, They will say: We did it ourselves.” ~Lao-Tzu

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The initiation process, in a nutshell

Amoret BriarRose

“Love sometimes wants to do us a great favor: hold us upside down and shake all the nonsense out.”  ~Hafiz, translated by Daniel Ladinsky

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Moving into Her House

This poem is an attempt to capture the first moment I knew that a past love relationship was doomed.

Amoret BriarRose

waterhouse222 Miranda, 1916, J.W. Waterhouse

Moving into Her House

by Amoret BriarRose

I remember the hard line of your brow,
a storm that would never break,
the unwavering correctness, how you never
flinched as you pulled back saying
enough, that’s enough, I don’t want anymore.

The lines of your hip were islands breaching the night water
pushing up through sheets pooled and dark
like blood. I’d lie on my back
staring, sailing, haunted by her cold ghost blue and bruised
in a shared bed, close enough to touch
cautioning silence, shhh, he’s sleeping. Reflect.

The harbor was not forever.
My reflection, settled as silt,
reformed as ripples receded to stillness,
my hip bones flat, wide skipping stones
made to sink where they’d been thrown.

But from the shoreline, I saw the storm coming.

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