Greetings, All.

I know I’m not alone in the emotional exhaustion that has been plaguing me in the last week. With the descent into darkness after the time change, outlooks for the future appear dim. The coming Thanksgiving holiday, tricky as it may be from a political standpoint, prompted some much-needed time for reflection. I wanted to take a moment to share my thoughts. Hopefully, they will help all of us feel less alone.

I’ve been asked several times how I would have handled this if I was elected. Truth be told, so much has happened since then that I’m not sure there’s a clean answer to that. I really liked John Michael Greer’s suggestion that ADF transform Isaac’s birthday into a day for advocating for consent culture and community service to help victims of sexual abuse and misconduct. I am actually taking this to my grove to implement on a local level. Isaac wasn’t perfect, he said so himself, and as many of our Elders who knew him mention, he was a product of his time. He was prone to lecherous behavior, sometimes needing more convincing than we’d like to accept, “no,” as an answer, and we cannot change or excuse this behavior. AND it will do more harm than good to attempt to suppress his foundational role in the history of our organization. As Rev. William brought to us from his religious studies degree: it’s about rupture and repair. We all make mistakes, some that hurt people. Rupture is a natural part of our humanness. It is the repair efforts, it is what we do in the face of it, that defines our character.

The Mother Grove is pursuing an external consultant to help provide us with direction, which I fully endorse, for both the Mother Grove and the Clergy Council. It is my hope that these entities will be engaged in their entirety to solve their internal issues. I’d also like to see a focus group created composed of a cross-section of our organization to work on a full redesign of our structure. One that increases the power of local groups, streamlines the subgroups in ADF International, and balances power in such a way that the goings-on of the overarching organization are not part of a hierarchy but part of a community.

I’ve been reading all the emails and as much of Facebook as I can to take in everyone’s concerns and suggestions. There is a lot of hurt, anger, and pain in your words, and I feel that. There is also a lot of love, hope, and commitment, and I feel that, too. If it didn’t hurt, it would mean we don’t care. Since we clearly care, I am hopeful. I look forward to working with the external consultant and continuing to work toward implementing changes where they are necessary. Change is upon us, whether we like it or not. We can adhere to the way things have always been in the name of tradition and let change happen to us, or we can embrace the fact that change is inevitable and direct it for the good of the membership and our local communities.

May we all find healing and a growing ability to embrace change.

Blessings,

Rev. Melissa S Ashton, MNM
Mountain Ancestors Grove, ADF

Finding my Runes - a peek into the right-relationship practices of Jane Webster, MAGpie Secretary

I recently relocated to Guam, but in the months before I did, I had the opportunity to spend a few months visiting my childhood home in Connecticut.  This gave me a wonderful opportunity to reconnect, not only with my family, but with the land that was both the backdrop and steady companion of my childhood. 

Personal relationship with the land can take many forms. Some people build a relationship with their land through frequent outdoor activities that put them in close contact with nature. Others plant flowers or crops, working with the land to cultivate life. Still others seek relationship with land through a broader lens, focusing on their role in the larger pictures of sustainable living and climate justice.

But for children, relationship with the land is sometimes as simple as play. 

As a child, I treated the land as a multi-layered space. On the surface, my backyard was just that: a backyard. It had property lines and telephone poles and all the things it needed in a mundane world of real property rights. But there were other meanings that could overlay the mundane, other worlds that could co-exist in that space. This is not uncommon for children; Jesse and Leslie had their Terabithia, and I had…well, I need not share all my secrets with you, Dear Reader.  Still, know that I spent a lot of time in the spaces that overlaid those Connecticut forests, and they were incredibly formative and meaningful for me (see my Hero’s Journey entry for Night 10: The Road Back).  

The forests in Connecticut are so different from those in Colorado. They move differently in the wind. The aspens in Colorado twinkle as each leaf flashes in the light like a spinning coin, twisting and fluttering, and that sparkle of movement tracks the wind across their canopies. They are dynamic, vibrant, even ecstatic in their interconnected dance. “Like a flock of birds,” as Dr. Grant would say, they move together. A choreographed response to the wind, even as each leaf flashes its own light. 

But the trees in Connecticut, those oaks and maples, move differently. They stand tall and stark, frayed at the top, and the stillness of their deep layers upon layers of narrow trunks are almost imposing. Then the wind moves through their multitudes, and they roar to life. You can see the wind coming, not through the canopies like you can with aspens, but through the body of the forest, barreling through the trees like a wave, each trunk bending nearly in half. I remember standing among them and watching them swing about wildly, then dip low in the wind as if leaning in to inspect their small, fragile visitor more closely.

These were the trees of my childhood, and perhaps, any one of them could have been appropriate for my project. Any one of them could have provided the connection to home that I wanted to carry with me to Guam. But if I was serious about my project, about tapping back into the sacrality of this land that I recognized when I lived here, then I needed to do this right. 

I had to go home. I had to visit my tree. 

So, I did. It was trespassing. I know. But I’ve always been more of a Chaotic Good alignment, and I have no shame or regrets about the decision.

Snaking my way between fences and tree lines, I made my way to the narrow strip of woodlands from my childhood. The trees had not started to bud yet, and I was struck by how close the river at the edge of the woods really was when the foliage is missing. But the distance is deceptive—these are not woods you can safely cross in a straight line. These woods were wetlands, and it takes familiarity with the firm paths lacing among the invisible muddy pitfalls to navigate without getting stuck. The complexity of the land, the length of the twisting paths it contains, made the space feel more expansive than it was. In the summer, the low branches and skunk cabbage create green corridors through the woods, and we would clear a maze of trails through the knee-high skunk cabbage to make it easier to avoid the mud. But in the winter, I had to rely on my memory of those trails. I am proud to say, I emerged clean and dry.

Because of the type of forest this was, riddled with deep pools and mud hiding under the leaves, right-relationship with this land had always required a walking stick to test the ground ahead of your feet.  We each had our own, carefully selected walking stick. When we invited new friends to the house, part of the ceremony of introducing them to our back yard was helping them choose their own stick for the woods. They were all stored together, leaned carefully against the same tree between our quests and excursions. They may have looked like just a pile of sticks, but not to us. Everyone knew their own waking stick. Some we recognized by their unique knots and whorls, and others by the initials or symbols we carved in their handles with the broken tiles we found in the woods.  Like Gandalf trekking through Middle Earth, we carried our walking sticks through all our adventures.  

I always liked finding a new walking stick. There is a very particular shape I looked for in walking sticks: about an inch in diameter at the handle, maybe less; tapering at the bottom, but not so narrow as to wobble; as straight as possible from its handle to its tip so it can prod the muddy leaves without bending; and smooth from shoulder to elbow height so it would be comfortable in your hands. It was not a particularly rare shape in these forests, but not so common that it didn’t take patience and discernment to find.

So imagine my joy at finding such a perfect walking stick waiting for me, there at the bottom of my tree. 

This tree is the World Tree in my nemeton. This tree has heard my secrets, witnessed my growth, and played an honored role in all the psychodramas of my youthful imagination. It has received offerings from me since before I had the words to name what I was doing. 

And when I came seeking support on my next adventure across unfamiliar, uncertain terrain, it gave me a staff to guide my steps. 

Reciprocity. With full honor and thanks, I accepted.

I’ve never had a rune set with personal significance, and I wonder if it is why I have always struggled with the divination portion of the COoR at home.  Still, I felt that if I was working with a tool that was a familiar guide, something that I could trust in and find meaning in from its mundane materials, even absent the symbols of the runes themselves, maybe they could have the significance I was seeking.  Now, I hoped that maybe the numinous quality of that staff, representing the walking sticks that guided me through those labyrinthian paths in the woods, could import those same feelings to my runes. That way, even if the runes themselves failed to reach me, I would always know that I still had that guiding piece of history, that link to the worlds and experiences that had meant to much to me as a child.

So I started my project.

* * * 

I started by sawing off 25 rounds from the walking stick. I choose to work from the section of the stick that I would have held if I were using it as a staff, navigating the woods: the smooth section from shoulder to elbow height. I liked knowing that the runes would be taken from the portion of the staff I would have held, like a guiding hand. I kept the rounds in order as I sawed them off, then lightly traced the rune on each one in the sequence they were cut from the staff.

Those of you who know the runes will notice I have one extra. Before I knew how common a practice this is, and how hotly debated this issue is, I decided I wanted a blank rune. I know that the blank rune is…not canonical.  I also know that many people find them duplicative, since Perthro can already represent the unknown. But I wanted a rune to represent silence. I wanted the runes to have the chance to decline to speak, without the connotations that Perthro already carries. 

I even considered adding more. As I sawed the blank rune, I was considering sawing off a few more rounds to add symbols for some entities I work with personally: the Nomad, the Midwife, the Scribe. As I was imagining what symbol would best represent each entity, I kid you not…the saw blade broke loose from the handle. I decided I had been given a pretty definitive answer: no more runes. I reattached the blade and finished sawing off the blank rune. I still wonder whether I should interpret that as a comment on the blank rune as well, or just on the thoughts running through my head as I was sawing. For now, the blank rune is still included in my set.

I processed the rest of the staff down into pieces. Some are long flat surfaces that could be inscribed. Others are just offering-sized chunks. I also kept a few longer pieces in case I feel called to erect one as a new World Tree at my altar. In the end, minus the sawdust (left as offering), I was able to bring the whole staff with me to Guam.

After some light sanding to take off the rough patches, I started to inscribe the runes. I used a piece of writing, stating my hopes and intentions in this work, as my movable workspace. It felt appropriate to use a surface of written words to make sacred the space for this type of work.  

​This was a multi-day process with hours of focused work, but I’m glad I did it in this way. Had I just painted on each rune, I would not have felt the same connection to the symbols. However, when you have to carefully, deeply etch each rune into the wood with a cheap soldering iron that periodically turns itself off without warning, meditating on the meaning of each symbol as you also avoid burning your fingers, you come away from the process with a transformed understanding of these symbols. When you then return to the runes to measure and cut thin gold wire to inlay into each deeply burned groove, delicately placing each gold thread into the rune and patiently setting it with superglue, your relationship with these shapes changes again.  And when you return again after the glue dries to sand off the excess glue with a rotary sander, smoothing each rune face until the wire and glue are flush with the surface of the wood and the wire gleams through against the blackened wood, your mind has been altered by the work just as the wood has been shaped. 

After sanding the glue, I oiled them with multiple coats of flaxseed oil, and they started to shine. 

I also made a basic natural wood stain with steel wool and apple cider vinegar to darken the back of each rune.  The contract of dark backs and light fronts has made it easier to quickly differentiate the backs and fronts of each rune when I cast them.

They may need some gloss eventually, or perhaps a wax coat, but the faces are smooth and even. I can run my fingers across the surface of each one without being able to differentiate the different runes. I can’t even tell the backs from the fronts with my eyes closed.

I have been warned that the color will begin to darken naturally with time and use.  Already, the color of the oiled faces seems to be deepening a shade. 

The following blog entry is a collection of journal entries in response to the Mountain Ancestors Grove’s 2018 Twelve Nights of Solstice program exploring the Hero’s Journey. These short presentations and guided meditations will each be made available for replay at any time. 

TWELVE STAGES OF THE HERO’S JOURNEY: ONE MAGPIE’S TRAVELOGUE
by J. Webster, Inaugural Chief-of-the-Folk

More so than parts 1 and 2, these entries rely heavily on the context of the guided meditations provided on theMountain Ancestors Grove Facebook page. The writer strongly encourages you to watch or read these meditations before reading these entries.

PART 4: NIGHTS 10-12​

NIGHT 10: THE ROAD BACK

In late high school, when I was writing daily and fanatically, I remember telling a good friend about a story idea I had, one that, like most of my favorites, involved a very literal “Special World.” This friend frowned a little, and said she had a very important question for me, one she hoped I wouldn’t take personally: “Do you actually believe in alternate realities?” 

I believe she meant well, but it was an uncomfortable moment. She didn’t quite hit the nail on the head, but she had brushed against a… maybe not a belief, but a value system? A perspective? And when she did, something in her tone made me feel like she had caught on to some shameful secret I didn’t even know I had.  I denied it immediately, brushing it off by explaining that it was just an easy story to tell. But the question stuck with me: Why did these stories about alternate realities, about what Campbell would call “special worlds,” so resonate with me? And why hadn’t I grown out of it yet, and I was clearly expected to do?

In adolescence, my favorite stories were always those that tied my own mundane world to another world in very literal ways: The Neverending Story, the Narnia books, K. .A. Applegate’s Everworld series, Gaiman’s Neverwhere, etc.  I was utterly captivated by the idea that my life could be connected with some vast secret, some setting where life was utterly different, and where important battles or explorations could play out in a way that might actually affect my own life. Like many children, I imagined myself in these worlds, playing out scenarios and daydreaming about the roles I could play in these stories. If felt good to imagine myself as the hero in these worlds, but it also felt…meaningful. It almost felt like practice, as if I could somehow hone my own character by vividly picturing who I wanted to be in these scenarios and deciding how I would react when faced with difficult decisions. Could I be the person with the integrity to stand up against “evil?” The person brave enough for self-sacrifice? The person smart enough to know what to do? These seemed like important questions, and stories that allowed me to imagine myself literally entering the plot felt like the right stories to test these questions.

The special world in the story I wanted to write, the idea that so concerned my friend, was one build of all the dreams, fantasies, and narratives of the characters who would be drawn into that world. I liked the idea of a set of characters having to find their way through the labyrinth of their collective psyches. Like all of the other examples of “Special Worlds” I had read, I liked to imagine how I would handle it myself. 

And this is why this little about of Young Jane is relevant today: At the time, I truly believed that, given the chance to experience such a world, I would choose not to return to the Ordinary World. What would that Special World be like if my mind were the only one shaping it, and what in the real world, I wondered, could compete with the richness, the meaning, and the liberty offered by the chance to explore a world like that? I knew, with the certainty that only a teenager can muster, that given the opportunity to abandon my mundane life to live in that “Special World,” I would never go home. I promised myself I would never go home.

Yet here I am… going home. In a number of ways. Not only during this internal “hero’s journey,” but in my external life. And that’s ok. A lot of growth and transformation can happen in the special spaces that are in some way separate from our ordinary lives, but the longer you stay, and particularly if you stay after that space has changed you in all the ways it can…then maybe any place can become an Ordinary World. The colors will drain, the facets of wonder will crumble, and all of its mysteries reveal themselves as mundane.  I have learned the importance of letting go of these special spaces when they lose the newness that made them special, of letting the memories of my experiences remain, but still moving on. 

I have also learned, at last, to love my Ordinary World. On closer examination, my Ordinary World has all the richness and meaning I always wanted, all the opportunities to practice Integrity and Courage, to solve complex problems, and to hone my character that I could want. I even have my very own paladin with whom I share my life.  I have, at last, a life that I would want to return to from a “Special World.”

I know, I know, “attachment is the root of all suffering” and all that.  Still…what a beautiful thing it is to have a life I would not lightly choose to trade for a fairytale.  

NIGHT 11: RESURRECTION

This chapter of our journey brought me face-to-face with a very specific memory, a memory of a time when someone made me believe that what I thought were pearls were only pebbles. A time I was told “No, this treasure that you think you have is neither treasure nor yours. Throw it away.” I thought this person was someone to learn from, someone to emulate. Maybe even a “mentor.” I respected them, and wanted to be worthy of their respect. So I believed them, and that belief changed me. Diminished me. Robbed me. 

It was not their fault. They meant well. Their values were just different from mine, and that’s ok. Multiplicity of truth and all that—they were permitted their own values, and those values were as legitimate and valid as my own. But their values were not my values, and even though I knew what I wanted and needed in my life better that they did, I tried to follow someone else’s values, someone else’s truth. 

I know that I am being vague and melodramatic, but it’s the only way I know how to communicate to you, Dear Reader, what I experienced in this meditation without revealing more than I’d like. I want you to have context when I tell you that this false “mentor,” this person who wanted me to abandon the treasure I am trying to bring back into my life… this is the figure who appeared to me as my Threshold Guardian. Theirs was the face that told me, in so many ways, that I could not leave the Special World with my reward: because it was worthless, because it was dangerous, because it was too heavy for me to carry. Reason after reason for me to drop it, leave it, crush it under my heel on the way out. 

Their eyes glinted with the dragon’s fire, and I understood that, just like the dragon, they did not act with malice. They were only acting in accordance with their nature, in accordance with their values. And my values are different. My values are all my own. And my values are reason enough to stand before this obstacle, and say “No.”

I was glad our meditation did not guide us to fight this beast. There would have been no winning against my Threshold Guardian, only clashing wills and mutual wounds. No…it was a far better choice to leave them to their fuming objections and judgment, leave them to their impotent flames, and to merely leave with my prize.  

I have a beautiful home, a beautiful life, and a token to bring home from my adventure.  Why would I waste any more time or energy fighting an unwinnable battle I walked away from a long time ago? Time to move on…

NIGHT 12: RETURN WITH ELIXIR 

Our last meditation had us, like Samwise, returning to our “garden.” This image resonated deeply with me, since I like using a garden as a metaphor for the life I have built.  

Life is a journey, and I remember many obstacle that I have crossed on my path:  the craggy mountains that tore the soles of my feet, the raging rivers whose chill I sometimes still feel in my marrow.  After my travels and obstacles, I feel as though I finally found a place to clear a patch in the wilderness, to build a home and plant a garden.  The walls started as a crooked frame, and the plants began as only fragile tendrils, but I did not give up. I worked. I repaired.  I tended. And as my home grew sturdy and my garden vibrant and alive, so did I.

Sometimes I feel small, tired, and scared. The prospect of starting again, at times, overwhelms me. But I have strong roots, well-practiced in surviving dark winters and wind-swept, stone-faced slopes. My roots have found rich soil and thrived, and thick and strong, they can press through vast weights of earth, crushing stone and seeking deep waters. I am no ornamental potted-pet, no struggling weed, no stunted brittle thing that must hide its flowing sap and soft buds from the elements. I can do this. I can accept and grow from what comes next in my life. 

Sometimes you have to build a house to have a home. I have done that work. I can do it again.