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Welcome to Dakotawitch Speaks (or The Dakotawitch Doctrine). Sit back and listen to a little SR-71 for your standard disclaimer...

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LJ Idol: No Comment

I've spent a lot of time thinking about what I would say if I ever saw you again. If I ever turned a corner and came face to face with you. If I walked up to order my latte and you were the barista behind the counter. If I slipped into a train or bus seat, my eyes concentrated on my phone, only to look up and see that you were in the seat across from me. If I was sitting in any of our old places, drinking a coffee or a whiskey and ginger or a longneck beer, and saw you come strolling in. If I were in a distant city, on vacation or business, and saw you across a crowded hotel lobby, a dark restaurant, improbably dropped back into my life. I've played the scene out a million times in my mind, all the ways that our paths could cross, in places both familiar and strange. Sometimes I see you first. Sometimes you see me first. Sometimes you say something to me. Sometimes the silence stretches for miles.

At first, when my heart was still raw and bleeding, when the pain was too much for me to draw a deep breath, I imagined I'd say something heartfelt. Something out of a country song (not a good country song, but a country song, the kind with the whiny slide guitar and the cane-syrup-sweet lryics), something about how I'd never stopped loving you. And you'd put your arms around me and pull me close and the world would spin and everything would be good again.

Then, after some time had passed, and I'd allowed myself to get angry at you -- and make no mistake, I was angry at you, with a burning passion that sometimes frightened even me -- I thought that I'd probably just growl out a "Fuck you" and walk away. Or maybe I'd play it cold and distant -- "I'm sorry, do I know you?" Sometimes it was you speaking first, begging me to take you back, and I'd respond with something cutting and pithy before turning on the pointy heel of my boot and striding away from you, leaving you crushed and broken.

Then I started to think that I'd play it out like a scene out of a John Hughes movie. I'd stride up to you, Molly-Ringwald cool, and stand in front of you, forcing you to look at me. I'd look you straight in the face and say, "I just wanted you to know that you didn't break me." And then I'd walk away. I wouldn't even look back to see how you reacted.

These days? After all this time?

I don't think I'd say a thing. Oh, I wouldn't hide from you or hope that you didn't see me. I'd make damn sure you saw me. I'd fill up your field of vision with everything I've become over the last decade, I'd pull myself up to my full height and throw my shoulders back and meet your gaze. But I'd make no comment.

And that silence would tell everything you need to know -- that I didn't just survive you, I fucking thrived without you.



LJ Idol: Where I'm From

But way back, where I come from,
We never mean to bother
We don't like to make our passions other people's concern
So we walk in a world
Of safe people
And at night we walk into
Our houses
And burn

      -- Dar Williams, "Iowa"

I come from a place where most people prefer 18 inches of personal space -- 24 if we can get it -- which is a bit at odds with the 10-12 inches preferred by most Americans, at least according to my fellow professional anthropologists.

Midwesterners are well known for being "nice" (although if you actually know anything about the infamous "Minnesota Nice" phenomenon, it's actually less nice that it seems). We're the kind of people who show up at your door with a snow shovel, a basket of zucchini from the garden, a set of jumper cables, or a tater tot casserole when you need it. We're the kind of folks who wave at other people in traffic, including those with our state license plates when we're driving out of state. We're the type of folks who take forever at a four way stop because we're too achingly polite to be the first to go if we're not sure we actually did get to the intersection first.

I'm from a place where people have long, long conversations with short, short words that include long, long vowels. I'm from a place where "youbetchya" can mean anything from "Sure, I'll pick up a gallon of milk while I'm in town" to "Yeah, I'll be at the pancake supper next Sunday" to "It was no problem at all to make 300 egg salad sandwiches for your mother's wake." (If it comes to that, I'm from a place where egg salad sandwiches are considered appropriate food for a wake, which, incidentally, we refer to as "the visitation.")

I come from a place where we don't let people too close to us -- not physically, and not emotionally, either. We're sometimes described as being distant or reserved, and that's probably true, at least on a basic level. We're not so big on the physical touch -- it would mean allowing someone inside that 18-to-24-inch bubble of personal space. Even family members and close friends refrain from hugging on all but the most emotionally charged occasions, and only for an alotted 7-10 second count. That hug is likely to be finished off with a firm pat or pound on the back, just to reinforce that the huggee is still solid and strong.

I come from a place where we keep a lot inside, and so people think we don't feel much. Stoic is a favorite word to describe us. Buttoned up is another. (But for real, it's -45F out there. You'd be buttoned up too.)

And yet I come from a place where the sky reaches to the horizon, and where there are still more coyotes than people. I come from a place where, on a clear day, it's like you can see all the way to Heaven and back, and if you just stand still for a moment you can hear the prairies breathing.

I come from a place where sweat and dedication are still valued, and where an honest day's work in the soil is as respectable as one spent in an office.

I come from a place where there is so much to feel that it can overwhelm you. A place where you end up using those short, short words with those long, long vowels and those even longer silences because there's no way to adequately describe in human language everything you feel, hear, sense, know.

Where I come from, you learn early that there's no use trying to describe it, because those who know, know. And those who don't know, well, you'll never be able to make them understand.

But those that do get it? Those that do understand everything that's packed into a single "whatchyagonnado" or "...yup...."? Those are your people. They burn inside the same way you do. They'll never tell you. They'll never let it show. But they'll pour you a cup of coffee and give you a slice of rhubarb pie, and that says everything that needs to be said.


LJ Idol: Heel Turn

When it's time, you'll know.

I know that sounds cliche, but you will.

There's no magick line in the sand, no definitive sign that it's time. It's different for everyone. But everyone hits their point of enough, and you'll know when you've hit yours. You'll know in the pit of your belly, in the darkest and most secret corners of your heart, with every fiber of your being down to your finger and toe nails. Every piece of you will know that it's time, and you won't even stop to question it.

It will surprise you. I know it did me. You will be shocked at the absolute clarity the today's the day. It will shock you with its simplicity. It might not even be something that, objectively, is that big of a deal. In the days and weeks to come, you might find yourself wondering what that, of all things, is what did it. Why, after everything else you'd endured, is that what finally caused something inside you to break?

Afer all, you'd steeled yourself against countless blows (not always physical). You'd been called nasty names and everything but a child of God so often that you wondered if it'd be best to start answering to them, to give up your own name as you'd given up so many other parts of yourself in an effort to stay safe, stay off the radar, to accommodate. You'd been told you were crazy, or overreacting, or exaggerating so many times that your own sanity was always in question -- maybe it was all in your imagination, after all? You'd shrunk so far into yourself, trying to hold on to one tiny part of yourself that was real, that was true. You'd learned how to survive.

So if you had survived all that, could survive all that, why will it be such a seemingly minor thing that cracks the world open?

Or maybe it will be like it was for me, a moment so stark and so terrifying that I couldn't keep lying to myself. A moment in which he did something so fucked up that even I could see it, beyond all the gaslight fog.

I'm just saying that, you'll know.

And in that moment, you'll do a heel turn. You'll turn your back and walk away, and you'll do it without looking back. All those things that held you there for so long, they won't matter anymore. You will pull yourself deep into yourself, you will take a deep breath, and you will turn. And you will walk. And you will keep on walking.

When it's time, you'll know.


LJ Idol: Fear is the Heart of Love

I fear I have nothing to give
I have so much to lose here in this lonely place..

When Inanna approaches the Second Gate in her journey through the Sumerian Underworld, she is asked to give up her fears. In order to walk forward, to continue the journey that will bring her the ultimate wisdom, she must be willing to discard her fears like a suit of outworn clothing. She cannot carry her fears and also complete this journey. The paradox, of course, is that she has undertaken to walk into a world from whence no human has ever returned, can ever return. She knows that when she passes through the final gate, she will confront Eriskegal, her dark sister, Queen of the Dead. The object of this journey is the embodiment of Fear Itself. And yet, she must lay aside everything she fears in order to confront that which she fears most of all.

And that which she loves most of all, because Eriskegal isn't just her dark sister, but the shadow side of herself. And while some look at this story as the story of a final showdown between Life and Death, between Lightness and Darkness, I tend to see it as Inanna's quest to reconcile the shadow side of her being with the face she shows the world. She seeks to reconcile the deep, cthonic power of her being with the earthly power she's been granted as Queen. And in the end she can only reconcile this by embracing Erishkegal -- not by slaying her, or meeting her in fair combat, or by trickery, but by embracing her and loving her, in spite of (or perhaps because of) the terrifying, horrifying face she presents.

At the hearf ot Inanna's fear of the unknown, of her journey to the last gate, is her love for her sister, even if she doesn't know it. And at the heart of that love is the fear. And they cannot exist without one another.

Indeed, I don't know that we can know profound love without a tinge of fear. And I'm not talking about the fear we feel of displeasing an abusive partner and becoming the target of their wrath. I'm not talking about the fear we feel that we will lose ourselves completely within a relationship, our being subsumed by the identity we take on as a unit. Those are gut-twisting, heartwrenching, avoid-anhilliation-at-all-costs fears. They are the fears that we experience as physical pain, as pounding heart and swirling brain, as sleepless nights. We experience them in the way we experience a real physical threat, and our only concern -- even if it lies in the subconscious and is manifested only through the body -- is to get away, to get to safety, to save ourselves. Those are fears that tell us that something is out of balance, that something is wrong, and we should pay attention to those signals.

No, the fear the heart of love is different. It's the fear we feel when we take a big risk, when we go over that first drop of a rollercoaster, when we feel our stomach drop into our shoes as the playground swing arcs ever higher. The fear at the heart of love is that this amazing feeling might end. It is the fear that we might, after having tasted love, have to then go through the rest of our lives without ever knowing its sweet honeyed notes again. It is the fear that comes with the vulnerability of giving our whole self to another person, the fear that they might somehow betray that trust, even when we know in the same instant (or at least hope) that they never will. It's the fear that perhaps our lives have been incomplete until this moment, and know that we've known that completeness, the idea of going back to our prior state fills us with dread. Our culture likes to tell us that it is the other person (or people) who complete us, but in fact it is the experience of love itself -- it opens us up, takes us to a place beyond our fears and into a new state of being that, once known, can never be unknown.

And that's scary.

The fear at the heart of love sometimes manifests in feelings that we are not who our beloved(s) think we are. That we are somehow not enough, that we have nothing to give that can measure up to what we've been given. It is the fear that somehow we will be unmasked, and that all the ugliest parts of ourselves, our inner Erishkegals, will be exposed. And that exposure will lead to the withdrawal of love.

But the fear at the heart of love also means that we are willing to not only face our own inner Erishkegals, but to love them and embrace them. And we are willing to help those we love face their Erishkegals, too. And we are willing to love the darkest and most hidden parts of those we love. Not to the detriment of self, no never -- because love that asks us to sacrifice ourselves is no love at all. But we are willing to go into the dark with our loved ones, to be their Ninshibur at the gate, ready to go and retrieve them when they go too deep. And we trust them to be the same for us, to be the one who will send the rescue squad in when we have been gone too long and risk getting lost in our own darkness.

We are willing, to borrow a phrase, to follow and be followed into the dark.

LJ Idol: That One Friend.

We all have That One Friend.

You know, the one that you tell everything to. The one that you can not see for months or years, and the moment you see or talk to each other again, it's like you just spent time together yesterday. That one person that you know, in your deepest of souls, that you have travelled through many lifetimes with. The person that you want to talk to when you have good news. The person you want to talk to when your heart is broken. The person you'd donate a kidney to without a second thought. The person you'd bail out of jail in a city hours away, at 3 in the morning. The person who will tell you the hard truths, and to whom you will actually listen when they tell you that your ass is showing. The person who would do all those same things for you. The one person in the world who you know is always proud of you, always has your back, who loves you unconditionally. You know the one I'm talking about.

We all have The One Friend.

You know, the one you probably shouldn't be left unsupervised with. The one you get into trouble with.  The one who helped you put on the black eyeliner they'd hidden in their backpack in the school bathroom. The one who let you drive their car without a license, and drive it way too fast. The one you shared your first drink, your first smoke, your first joint with. The one who helped you sneak out of the house when you were grounded, or sneak back into the house when you were out past your curfew. The one who let you tell your parents you were sleeping at their house on prom night, when you were actually in a hotel room with a boy (or a girl) -- and whose parents thought they were sleeping at your house, for the same reason. The one you skipped school with. The one who forged your mom's signature on an excuse note so that you could skip school. The one who hooked you up with your first fake ID, your first pack of cigarettes, your first too-old boyfriend. You know the one I'm talking about.

We all have That One Friend.

You know, the one that you were always secretly in love with. The one you dreamed about, the one you day-dreamed about. Maybe you still do. The one who you would swear is your soulmate, if only they could see it. The one you felt so close to, the one you were always finding excuses to touch, finding reasons to sit close to. The one you couldn't ever tell. Because they weren't the "right" gender. Because they were out of your league. Because they were with someone else. Because you were scared they would reject you, and you'd lose your friend as well as having your heart broken. The one you talked through endless crushes and hook-ups and relationships and break-ups. The one who did the same for you. The one you wanted to shake and say, "Why can't you see that it should be ME?" The one who you wanted to have a moment with, a moment straight out of an 80s movie, but never did. The one that you always, may be still, compared potential dates and partners to, always unfavorably. The one you would drop your life and run to if they just said the word. You know the one I'm talking about.

We all have That One Friend.

You know, the one who let you sit on their couch and drink yourself into oblivion when you knew that your longest relationship was over. The one who told you that you were strong, and you were powerful, even if you didn't believe it right now. The one who just sat in the silence with you while you cried yourself out of tears. The one who told you it was OK to leave your marriage, because love shouldn't hurt like that. The one who showed up with a U-Haul the day you had to get your stuff and you were too scared to go alone. The one who casually assures you that they have a knife at the ready if shit goes sideways. The one who helps you move everything you own into a 10x10 storage unit on a day when it's 105 degrees. The one you go and eat nachos and drink beer with after, and who somehow makes you feel like this is the greatest day or your life instead of one of the worst. You know the one I'm talking about.

We all have That One Friend.

You know the one I'm talking about.
For as long as I've been reading Tarot -- more than 25 years at this point -- my card has been the Queen of Swords. No matter what deck I read off of, or have someone do a reading for me with, the Queen of Swords always pops up when I need to be shown myself.

There's debate about whether the suit of Swords should be associated with Air or Fire -- that's a whole 'nother piece of occult history that is its own fascinating late-night discussion -- but regardless of which Element you consider her to rule over, the Queen of Swords is my sovereign. If you place her in Air, she is the ruler of all things intellectual, rational, logical -- the scholar, the writer, the researcher, the debater. If you place her in Fire, she presides over passion, creativity, those things which cause us to burn with all the emotions which can both warm us and scorch us. She is both cooly rational and calculating, and at the same time passionate and fierce. She is a Warrior with her mind and with her heart, with her words and with her actions, with her ability to plan carefully and her willingness to rush in and do battle when she feels the call.

The Queen of Swords is my card.

A Tarot reader I trust very much once told me, when the Queen of Swords showed herself in a reading at a particularly difficult time in my life, "You know, everything doesn't have to be a battle all the time. Sometimes it seems like you're looking for something to fight, something to war with. Maybe it doesn't have to be like that. Maybe there are times when you can put the sword down and rest."

He's right, of course, that there are times when as the Queen of Swords I can be looking for the next enemy, hypervigilant, ready to charge down the hill with banners flying and weapon raised. I can sometimes see an epic battle where perhaps a quiet negotiation would also serve. And while the Queen of Swords can be a skilled negotiator, there are times when the clash of steel and the sweat of combat come more easily to me than the chess-match of words, when honest combat between foes is more pleasing and comes more naturally than the work of hammering out an imperfect peace through compromise and concession.

During my two decades' walk with the Queen of Swords, I've had time to make peace will all the parts of her -- the parts of myself -- of which I might not necessarily be proud. Even as we've been companions and comrades for my entire adult life, I know that I'm not the same girl who turned up that card for the first time. I know that I've grown, and changed, and picked different battles, and --yes -- even walked away from a few without drawing a blade or a drop of blood. I also know that as I've seen more of the world, seen more of injustice and oppression and pain, the Queen has been besides me, urging me to action. I may not be willing to war at the drop of a hat on my own behalf these days, certainly not the way I was at 17 or 19. But in the end, when faced with a fight worth fighting or an enemy worth slaying, I am still ready and willing to marshall my forces and battle, with whatever weapons are necessary.

The Queen of Swords is my card.

I think about that reading so long ago, and the gentle suggestion that perhaps the world doesn't need to be a battle. And then I think about the world, especially the world we may be facing come January 2017, and I cannot in good conscience lay down my sword and beat it into a ploughshare. And I simultaenously realize I would not want to, even if I had it in me to do so.

I need the struggle to stay alive. The belief that there is a better world out there -- that I can, to borrow from Arundhati Roy, on a quiet day hear that better world breathing -- is what fires me, what keeps me going, what gives me strength in the face of so much injustice. I need this struggle, I need this fight. I need it to keep me walking forward on the darkest of days. I need this struggle because the alternative is unimaginable.

The Queen of Swords is my card.


Oh, why not?

Surprise Season 10 of LJ Idol? Sure, I'll play along.


My work this moon...

...has been intense. Building on my work with Pink, Purple asked me to identify my deepest spiritual wounds. I'm not ready to write about that just yet, but I will say it has been the hardest and most rewarding work I have ever done. And it happened in ways that were completely surprising, and revealed wounds that I thought were long healed or that I didn't consider "spiritual." It's been a moon of really needing to be still, to honor myself and my pain and my process.

One thing that was huge was getting professional photos done as part of my burlesque class. I have some big issues around being photographed, and the shoot has been by far the hardest part of the process -- harder than taking my bra off in front of a room of people LOL. I am in love with the photos. Here's just one. Take a look and see if you can guess which Colors are at work, and which ones I'll be working with next.

Last Chance Idol

Oh, why not?


Sigur Ros Me

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