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Archive for September, 2010

8:19 am Sept 9 2010 – first red tree of Autumn

8:19 am Sept 9 2010 – first red tree of Autumn. It was about this time of year in 1959 that I sat on the curb two blocks from my grammar school and cried. I was sad that morning; I was aware that the morning was quickly fading in to the day then evening and would soon be gone forever. I loved that morning so much that I never wanted to forget it. I made myself a promise that when I got old I’d never forget the beauty of the trees and smell of the cool air that autumn morning. I fear sometimes that I have forgotten that childhood wisdom and missed some of the most important moments of my life by distraction.

This morning driving my husband in to work, I saw it the first red tree of autumn. What you may not know about me is that I love the changing seasons and have a front door that gets a new wreath to reflect and celebrate the season. I rushed to take the vivid summer’s silk flowers down and hang the orange berries of Fall.

In years past I would have written a poem to mark that passing, or a song in honor of the season. But today I filled a promise to my seven year old self. You see I did remember you my thoughtful little self that once sat on the same curb and argued with friends that we would never know wisdom, only knowledge because we could never read all of the books in the library because people were always writing new ones.

I sat on that curb after fighting off my older brother’s prodding to get to class before the bell or be tardy.  My brother, having run on to class before me; I sat there until the bell rang and all the birds of morning had stopped singing. Then I picked up my scotch plaid satchel full of pencils, crayons and a Big Red Indian Chief tablet and walked the two blocks to school. to face the daily abuse of Mrs. Hail. I’d rather leave her out of this memory. I did promise myself I’d remember the beauty of that morning when I got old and carry it with me all my life.

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Prayer Warriors are friends you work with who may or may not even know you who are willing at the drop of a hat to stop what they are doing and pray for and/or for you. Shut their office doors, take a smoke break, find a vacant closet. Any quite place, in a pinch hold your hand and pray with you. Surround you with love and compassion and speak truthfully to you and about you. Cindy, Zina, Vikki, Suzy, and many others. I miss you.

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freaking wiccans or fond memories of the 70’s

Mark Roberts and the woman of his dreams

I had a wonderful dream, it inspired me to pull out my old poetry, search through my layers of old folders, and then it happened I found a photo of Mark Roberts and thought I’d see if the old codger is still around. I did a few internet searches found his website, emailed him then sure as it rains in April in Texas. It lead me to the  white trash wiccan’s that always shows up trying to bilk credibility out of a few fun years in the 70-80’s that they were not around to enjoy.

Mark is a quirky enjoyable guy that I have known since I was 17 or so I’m almost 60 now. He had been married to a member of Gerald Gardner’s New Forest Coven. By default made him a Gardnerean high priest. Mark had also been Abducted by aliens. Not the most stable kind a guy, like most debonair men better at spending other people’s money than keeping track of his own. But always a fun guy to have at parties.

We hung out at Edgar Casey foundation meetings and local psychic fairs, Sheppard’s Bush a community center, and the local spiritualist church. His attachment to England and the psychic phenomenon kept us in contact. Mark founded a group in 1976 called Hyperborea to be a hybred Wicca/Druid group. We took it as seriously as a bunch of Unitarian’s can; to some extent still do. We wrote poetry lots of bad poetry and had some friends who wrote books and made a few bob on the deal.

Mark has an allure that a good high school education should be able to see through. Yet, women fought over him like cats over an empty tuna can. He’s charming, well mannered, hansom as any Midwestern well born son could be. He attracted women who held his flaw, a strong desire to be credible and well known. They all wanted to be high Priestesses and somehow Mark could deliver them a title.

I look back at those women and think, what pathetic cows you all are to believe that an obliviously fringe individual who enjoyed the free love era, and took full advantage of all it had to offer, communicated with aliens could be held to any mainstream standard. Or that the title’s and offices bestowed at the time should be taken any more seriously than  a  Renascence fair persona, that by the way many of them also aspired too.

Don’t get me wrong, there are many good women who developed from those times and ties who now hold advanced degrees and have furthered the cause of Women and modern religion. I can say with much authority that if they did enjoy sex, drugs and bad poetry of the 70’s allure, they did not let those times define their futures or their identities.

I am astounded at the furor that Mark elicited from people, students and people who never even met him.  I could see him, and us for what we were just some folks with big imaginations a love of the planet and lots of time on our hands. If you asked us if we were serious about or religion, we’d say yes but, with perspective.  If you ask me now if our poetic Farie faith celebrations were meaningful. yes, they were, are and will remain so. That’s about it.

In retrospect, I miss hanging out with friends under the stars and telling stories about the ancient albeit modern Joseph Campbellesque gods we dreamed up. Being friends with a secret religion club. They were times of creativity and feelings of acceptance that few geeks could find prior to the internet.

I have included a photo of Mark and the only woman that he probably ever really loved. I say that because of all of his many liaisons, she was the only one he was willing to divorce his exotic Gardnarian High Priestess wife for. I doubt if she ever even knew he was still married or that he had made such a sacrifice for her.

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