|(Fritz, Pine Cone Rescue League)|
In the seven years following my daughter Skye’s death*, I suffered from a deep and debilitating case of writer’s block. She was my corporeal muse. I wrote for her and to her. For me, she was the future Pagan generation. Skye was my skin in the game.
I’m done then, I thought. I guess that I’m retired now. Over the years with The Witches’ Voice, I had acted as my Gods directed and as the many glorious Pagans/Wiccans/Heathens/Witches who I met along the way inspired. Now it was time for me to move aside. I accepted that.
I don’t really understand why the toggle now suddenly switched to ‘on’ again. Interesting.
I write what I know. Just that. I am not an academic, barely a writer. I draw from personal experience, spiritual insight and life lessons. Simple. That’s my gig. Always was.
So I wasn’t sure that I should even start this blog. Times have changed. I don’t know if what I write will resonant with anyone anymore. But these darn words had to go somewhere, so I thought, okay then, let’s see how it goes. And, well…
Yesterday, Fritz called me on his way home from a cycling jaunt with his wheel buddy, Jim. “I have a present for you”, he said. “I found something on the trail.”
After assuring him that, yes, there indeed would be garlic barbeque chicken wings, I went back to chopping and garlicing. I’d fill him in over dinner that I spent those hours he was gone writing about magic, those evil creepy metal stairs and resilient pine trees. Ten minutes later, the door opened and he popped his head in, then his hand…
It was a pinecone. A big, big, big pinecone. Very Jungian.
I guess I’m back.
|* Skye (1971-1995). I love you forever.|