I season my life with experience, and not all of it has been sweet. In fact, I appear to favor the savor or rather un-savory aspects of a messy life lived out loud. I love too deeply and cry easily, and now and again, I push my Dumb Button, usually in front of an audience. What I crave is something quiet, and those witching late-night hours when the house is sleeping and no one but the ghosts and me are awake. I creep to the kitchen and turn on the kettle. The moon outside is waning, near dark, and her hiding face provides a cover for me and my haunting companions. I drink an infusion of mugwort and jasmine blossoms. The night is quiet, peaceful, and I breathe it in.
A light mist blows up from the ocean, tiny kisses of saltwater dew. Soon my lips taste of brine, and the sea is in my hair. I am a mermaid on dry land, thinking of sea and the easy flow of it. I slip in the space between dream and reality, not certain which life I’m living. A lit candle ensures a way home for my astral body, lest I be wandering lost through dark clouds and twinkling sky. Earlier in the evening, I had sent an email to my sister. “Miss you so much, Lo,” is what it said, but what I didn’t say was how desperately sad I am.I have always prided myself with the ability to adapt, but maybe the skill was more of a necessity, like learning to balance a checkbook when the money is thin. I take another sip of tea.
Mugwort to glimpse the future from a dream state. Jasmine for love and money, and to strengthen intuition. I decide to add honey to sweeten my chances and trick my taste buds. The perfumed taste is that of sweetgrass, better to burn or smudge. The mosquitoes are thick outside, but no one besides me is bitten. The winged beasties leave my quiet companions in peace. Ghost blood must not be tasty, I reason.Where would I go if I could run away? And would I be lost there upon arrival? What are the talismans that will keep me present in this life I have manifested? I feel that perhaps a compass would be handy to find my way to a true north of being. Sprigs of rosemary for a sharp memory so that I can continue to tell my stories. My spirit friends suggest a sea shell to invoke the element of water from the Western watchtower, and I agree. My journal, of course, to record this trip, the light fantastic. And I must not forget the honey. Honey for a sweet journey home—back to myself, to earth and ocean and stardust.