Spellbound, there was someone calling

It’s taken me a while to remember that the rules are different. I’m used to waiting for shamanic allies to reach out when I’m turning a problem over in my hands, for them to tell me they have a solution and are ready to share it. But my ancestors aren’t allies in that sense, especially not in the way I’m engaging with them, which is much more Vodou than shamanism. If I don’t ask them to intervene, they won’t. So I told them that I needed their help with recovering the soul fragments that have scattered, to complete my healing. I dreamed that night, a kind of halfway point between how they work and how I did for so long.

I find myself sitting by the firth where I go to walk. A Samoan man of considerable but unguessable age and carrying a drawstring bag of tapa cloth comes and sits beside me. He looks enough like my adoptive family that I know I’ve come face-to-face with one of my non-blood ancestors. He smiles and says he’s been waiting for me to get off my tail and seek his help; he went out collecting every day for a week, and then I didn’t ask.

He opens the bag and takes out a canning jar. It looks like it’s full of fireflies, but when I look closer, I see it’s actually full of soul fragments. I tell him I’ve never done it this way before, so I’m not sure how to take them back to me. He says to close my eyes and wait.

I hear the lid of the jar being taken off, then feel something like raindrops in my hair. The fragments settle into me, into the spaces finding my strength has opened up. They’re welcomed now, not stuffed away somewhere dark to be ignored any longer.

I thank him for his help. He thanks me for finally asking so he could offer it, then smiles and gets up and walks off along the shore.

So that’s it; some time and some reiki to make sure the returned fragments are seated, and I’m all put back together after 30 years of work on it. Just in time to wonder why I bothered, but that’s how it goes.

I have my cats; that makes me happiest of all. They’re so used to moving that they’ve settled right in, staked out their favorite windows, and act like they’ve been here for years. Tycho’s my fat orange shadow, but he always has been; he’s a third velcro, and another third reikicat, so he’s delighted I’ve started that work again. (The other third is snore, if you wondered. He could knock satellites out of orbit.)

I have healing of my own to do, on the physical for a change. I finally gave in and went to see my new doctor about the shoulder pain I’ve been having since before I left New Orleans. At some point I strained my rotator cuff; I have a pretty good idea how, too. She sent me to a physical therapist, and I’m seeing him once a week so he can torture me back to health. Okay, it actually isn’t that bad; it isn’t painful, but it’s constantly appalling and amazing to me how weak that arm is and how quickly it’s exhausted and I’m unable to lift a 1/2 kg weight any more. He’s a nice kid. I get to call him that; he can’t be more than 25. He’s also genuinely curious about my reiki additions to my therapy. Curiosity combined with my being his first appointment in the morning means we’ve been talking over a breakfast smoothie after our sessions. Yeah, I really am a terrible hermit. But it gives me a reason to look forward to Wednesday morning misery. And the misery gives me a use for my reawakened reiki.

Maybe that’s what this is all for — just me now. The expanded chart Mari’s friend did for me underscores how important it is for my home to be my sanctuary. Most of my healing skills are also tools I can use to make it that. Maybe I don’t need to worry about some big What Else for the time being. I’m turning 49 this week, and this is the first time I’ve really felt my age. Maybe that’s the point: Time to slow down a little. Or a lot.

The new chart also has a lot to say about the kind of person I am where relationships are concerned. I need my own space so much that even someone I love being in it permanently is an unbearable intrusion. After five paragraphs of letting me know what a dumpster fire I am as a wife or a live-in girlfriend, the summing up:

Put together all these influences, and the best possible relationship for you might well be a long-term ‘friends with benefits’ one — someone you genuinely like and enjoy being around, who’s good in bed, but doesn’t have any kind of domestic arrangement with you. This way, the sanctuary of your home isn’t breached; the distance you need even in an intimate relationship is maintained; you’re not around each other enough for you to get bored; and as long as you keep your expectations realistic (which, granted, you may have to work at), you don’t end up being used, disappointed or betrayed. You will maintain your independence and individuality; and by having certain boundaries automatically set by the arrangement itself, you’ll be protected from being sapped dry by constant demands on your energy and time. It might also be the only way to manage to simultaneously have the two most conflicting things in your relationship matrix, both of which you crave — a long-term relationship, and a partner as strong, unusual, and freedom-demanding as you are. As unlikely as it sounds, the ideal partner for you will probably have as many problematic Uranus aspects as you do, and likely many of the same ones.

That seems so not possible for so many reasons. All I can do is leave the impossible in the hands of the spirits. I do know this: I’ve been having dreams again — a man I catch only glimpses of, but I’m drawn, almost unbearably. Vision, or galloping horniness? Time will tell, I guess.

(photo: Wikipedia)

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