Hello, Hello! I know it’s been a while since you’ve heard from me, but I wanted to share something very special with you today! Don’t worry, it’s not a course or anything like that! Cue the relieved sighs.
A very, very special lady that is near and dear to my heart is sharing a Pagan children’s book she’s written, and I wanted to tell you about it. It’s pretty difficult to find specifically Pagan kids books so, with a little witchling myself, I was pretty interested in her book, Stardust.
It’s based on a song we sing on Wednesday nights during our Circle, Enchantica (every Wednesday night at 6pm CST on FB) and is a beautiful and wonderful creation story. The illustrations are cute and cartoony, perfect for kids, and were created by rising artist, John Lollar!
As Ginger has written herself: “This is the enchanting story of Creation as the Little Goddess sits in the Time Before Time, in the Dark Before Dark. She holds out her hand and there is only one tiny, sparkling mote of Stardust! With illustrations that are completely enchanting, generations of children will cherish this book and the timeless story it tells! Perfect for parents to read at bedtime – and great for kids to read on their own, too!”
I hope you enjoy Stardust as much as we are going to! I can’t wait to add it to our bookshelf and our rotation of bedtime stories! 🙂
People watch as a convoy of truckers and other vehicles travel in front of the former Kamloops Indian Residential School in support of the Tk’emlups te Secwepemc people after the remains of 215 children were discovered buried near the facility, in Kamloops, Canada, on June 5, 2021. – Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau on June 4 urged the Catholic Church to “take responsibility” and release records on indigenous residential schools under its direction, after the discovery of remains of 215 children in unmarked graves. (Photo by Cole Burston / AFP) (Photo by COLE BURSTON/AFP via Getty Images)
For more information on The Eastland and the tragedy that befell it’s crew and passengers, please visit The Eastland Disaster Historical Society and share it’s story so that the loss that occurred on the Chicago River may never be forgotten.
This poem was inspired by Caitlin Doughty and her coverage of The Eastland at her Youtube channel here, at Ask A Mortician. Please enjoy her other content as well! She is a treasure and a real leader in the death positivity moment, a group aiming to change the way we view, explore, and experience death as a culture and society.
Asar, Lord of the Duat, take him into your shining fields.
Anpu, Protector of the Dead, guide him through the winding dark paths and places.
Setekh, Warrior of the Way, protect him as his spirit finds its way.
Nebet-Het, Mother of Mourners, be with us as we grieve.
Aset, Lady of Life, give his spirit breath again into his next life.
Hewet-Her, Comforter of Comforters, hold him fast as he travels into the lands of the West.
Tehuti, Writer of All Wisdom, give me the knowledge and strength to comfort and give guidance to my family in this time of loss.
Today, after a painful battle with a rare form of cancer, we buried my grandfather. I ended up at home alone after the wake and found myself with a terrible problem. No matter what I did or tried, no matter how much I wanted it, I could not make my brain focus on anything. I wasn’t overcome with sadness, nor were constantly shifting thoughts stealing my attention. There was no depression and all I thought about the wake itself was that I hated to leave my grandmother Ruby to go home alone. I didn’t want her to have to go back to an empty house that would never feel like a home again.
National Novel Writing Month was in full swing but the words wouldn’t come. What was wrong with me? Maybe it was the headache that was working itself out. Maybe it was fatigue. Grief? All I had in me was busy just processing the day, trying to let go of all of the hundred conversations and people. The casket, the coffee. The bowl of mints, the director’s nametag and my mother’s tears.
I found myself writing out, instead of my poor NaNo novel, just an unpunctuated, long single stream of thought with no rhyme or reason. Then, my hopes and prayers for my granddaddy as his spirit passes on. It gave me a sense of…peace. Something like happiness but less than joy. Like he was standing there watching the proceedings and seeing how there wasn’t just tears but there were smiles and humor too. Seeing how the family shored together despite differences and even, in some cases, not even knowing one another. There’s support there and there’s love. I could see him there. He’d probably be wearing navy and looking kind of sheepish with his hands in the pockets of his slacks, his watch on and his chin scruff and he’d be smiling because I think he’d be happy with what he saw.
Afterwards, I still felt like I’d been hit by a truck but on the inside, it felt like finding peace.
My grandaddy, Lehman Franks. I will see you again someday. When we walk the Field of Reeds together, our family will be whole once again.
The silence muffled my world as surely as the blanket I curled in so snuggly. It had been silent here for some time and often, I often wondered if it wasn’t actually muted but I had simply lost my hearing. Perhaps I had gone deaf at some juncture. Surely nothing natural could be so soundless. Maybe it wasn’t always dark and my sight had failed me as well. How was I to ever know? I knew that I had a self. I existed because there was awareness to be had. I was conscious of thought and the lack of sight and sound. So I existed. Now where exactly was I? Was I anywhere? Was it possible to be aware of yourself but not be anywhere, in a defined space?
I supposed, logically, I had to be somewhere. Maybe a cave since it was so dark and quiet. Even caves had some sound, though, didn’t they? Droplets falling from the ceiling and the low, nearly imperceptible hum of air moving through large shafts and caverns in the ground. All that my sluggish memory could draw up was…the sense of falling. A splash of water, cold and unforgiving. The well. That was right. Seth had pushed me into the well, that stinkbrain! Mrs. Herring was going to be so mad when I told her what he’d done! Maybe this was the hospital, then. There was a sharp stab of vicious satisfaction at he image of the bully getting what was coming to him at last. My greatest regret was that there would be no way for me to witness his punishment if I was both blind and deaf. Was this going to last forever? I stretched out my remaining senses one by one, trying to identify my surroundings and find any trace of familiarity around me.
I could smell…wood and lime, the kind that Miss Marta used around the trash bins in the summer when the heat got unbearable, cooking and swelling the garbage until we couldn’t even play outside for the smell. There was a sweet smell beneath it too, something that I didn’t care for at all but could not rightly identify. I had a blanket and I was laying on a hard surface. I got the sense that it was once rather uncomfortable but I suppose I had grown accustomed to it, my nerves dulling to the discomfort. I was curled up in the fabric snugly but the softness I once was so fond of was now somewhat scratchy and faded. It would always be my favorite though, no matter how much I wore it out. Beneath me, the blanket was moist and scratchy, as if I had had an accident and it had dried to a tacky substance. The feel of something crinkly was beneath that still. There was something new now that was piercing my world. Something so unusual that I barely recognized what it was at first. Sound.
The creaking of footsteps on old wood and low talking. Well, at least I knew I still had my hearing. It also ruled out a hospital since they were always the sound of beeping and linoleum. The voices were male, two of them from what I could tell and they were approaching me. I couldn’t see them. My world was still black in my blindness, but I could make out a few words here and there.
“…Creepy old place…lots of cool stuff here…”
“Check this out.”
And suddenly there was a rusty creeeeeaaakkkkkk, followed by a light so bright and vivid that I couldn’t make out anything else for some time. I heard the boys startle back and one of them threw up in the corner of the room.
“Oh shit…Oh shit, man.”
“What-?! What is that thing?!”
“I think-” A low whimper, “I think it’s a kid…”
When the light cleared, I wish I could have thrown up too. The light filtered in from a window through a thick sheet of plastic surrounding me. I was wrapped up in my blanket as if I had just laid down to bed. Around it, thick sheets of plastic that had been over the furniture in our playroom where Mr. Herring had been painting. The wetness I was lying in hadn’t been an accident. It hadn’t been a spill.
It had been what was left of me, seeping into the bottom of a large wooden chest that Seth had once told me the boogeyman lived in. The smell of lime was overpowering but they hadn’t used enough. Not nearly enough.
‘Child’s Body Found In Attic of Abandoned Children’s Home’
‘Yesterday, the body of an unidentified child was found in a wooden chest in an Amarillo attic in. Officials on the case say that the building had been abandoned for quite some time but had once functioned as a children’s home for displaced orphans. Amarillo police have determined that the girl, wrapped in a blanket, appears to have been between the ages of seven and ten and had been dead for quite some years. Coroners have yet to determine the cause of death or exactly how long the girl had been there, but officials are asking the public for any help they can in finding any information on the young Jane Doe or the location of the previous matron, Mr. or Mrs. Herring.’
Spooky! I’ve had this piece hanging around for a few years now and, after digging it up for an anthology submission contest, I decided to share it with all of you! I hope you enjoyed it and let me know if you like these little shorts and if you’d like more!
Banging my head against the bricks.
Setting up houses made of sticks.
Quaking in quarantine, so very queer,
Fighting off anxiety and fear.
Letting in the early days of Lent.
Seeing the sun in days I've spent,
Wandering within my enclosed world,
Turning and burning as I whirled
Doing the things I should have done,
Waiting to see if the virus has won.
Hating that I have to stay at home,
Lighting up life within the loam,
Pots and seeds of fennel and pansies,
Testing out freedom in gardening tansies.
Pumpkins, grains, peppers and peas,
How will you find your inside peace?
As tiniest leaves begin to appear,
I find inside a quiet,
So clear.
No meat, no beans
Not a single cheese shred.
It’s quarantine delivery,
Too late to flag red.
With a sigh I dig in,
Disappointment is strong.
Even during COVID,
My Taco Bell order’s still wrong.
His dates, Her greats.
Create,
Blank slate.
We are all
Whirring, whirling,
Whoring, twirling.
In space and time,
Between these lines,
That brought me here to you.
Little Journeys Everywhere 