Jow (who managed to snake an extra reader some time this week like a sneaky monkey and is now ahead of me again in readership after *I* was ahead for a glamorous two weeks! We have a friendly competition about getting readers, it keeps us blogging) blogged about daily practice, keeping one’s weapons sharp . . .all that stuff.
Daily practice, now there’s a sticky wicket for a dilettante kitchen witch like myself. At best, I can claim japa now as a regular daily practice but . . .that’s a far cry from things involving pillars and . . . other stuff I’m not terribly motivated about.
So what can I claim on my chop wood, carry water occult income tax return without getting into, uh, I cook dinner and other hearth witch slippery slopes?
I think upon reflection, for me, it has way more to do with service. Service generally = sacrifice and in shamanic math, sacrifice = power. But what does service mean? I consider myself a service oriented person. It bleeds over into my sexual being, my spiritual being, my professional being, my social being, etc. I realized somewhat early on among my god junkie peers who liked to get a contact buzz from drawing down, directly speaking with gods, doing magic for everythang, I was not like them. I got that buzzy feeling for being able to pull rabbits out of my hat providing feasts for my magical group. This one time, in druid camp, I managed to get everything on the table before the ritual ended for fifty people in the dark! That was a feeling.
When I’m blowing someone’s nose into my apron and patting their shoulder, I’m happy. When I’m at work as an executive assistant and I get to tell everyone what to do under the guise of service, I’m happy. When there’s social protocol as to what to do in a situation, I’m happy. When I’m making Thanksgiving dinner, I’m happy.
But, just like in every practice, not every day is a high woo day. It can’t be Thanksgiving every day, gentle readers. There’s not always a kitchen to hide in. My control issues/shyness manifest, incidentally, by liking to be the one to throw the event, the party, what have you so whenever I start to get socially anxious I can hit the kitchen and hide there and smoke and drink in peace.
So that leaves me with a daily practice of sacrifice. You want to hear sacrifice? My sister is getting married in two months and is also preggo and just bought a house, a triple word score of all of one’s major adult achievements in less than six months. That is quite the dog and pony show, my friend. I swear to gods I have dreams of shaking her pregnant ass and making her do things in a timely fashion. But she’s preggo and crazy with hormones and scared and nervous so I try to be nice and not a rabid animal. My oldest friend B. is attempting an amazing coupe of being both incredibly hands off (traveling all the damn time, messing around with moving/not moving, etc) while still being a controlling bridezilla with only having asked for us to be bridesmaids in the last six months. But I love her and she did it for me. Jow’s car decided it would be super awesome to try to kill him and then promptly roll over and die, leading me to research everything on the new car and everything that goes with it in a 48 hour period. The list goes on and it sure is endless.
I’ve got this weird personality where I am both social but at the same time (somewhat secretly) cranky and misanthropic and would generally rather be left alone on my couch to watch my shows and spin. Trying to put on my empathetic, sympathetic human being face sometimes is difficult, it’s a sacrifice, it’s a labor of love. I do it because I love and because they love back.
When I go to work when I don’t feel well, it’s a sacrifice for my household or boss depending on the situation. When I clean and don’t want to, when I write and don’t want to, when I cook when I don’t want to, these are the best sacrifices and austerities I have to offer. And it is the sacrifice from my hands and heart that is my daily practice.