day by day india: fashion forward blessings

The traffic patterns in Bangalore mesmerize me. The amalgamation of vehicles is like the Palio, the running of the bulls, i motorini of Rome and the taxis of New York all rolled into one.  The people walking in between the cars and rickshaws, the dogs--so many strays--taking on human mannerisms as they too weave their way through the mayhem. I felt braver today and it was a little less stressful crossing the streets as I made my way down Primrose to Magrath to Brigade (the main shopping area) to Church street, taking photos along the route. There is so much color and life in every nook and cranny of every street. As I strolled down Church street one of the local drivers fell into step beside me and aggressively attempted to sell me a (1) hour tour for 30 rps ($.50)--even direct No's and No Thank You's didn't deter him. Later on in the morning I turned the street corner and there he was again smiling, as if karma had brought us together for that rickshaw tour. I crossed the street.

*~*~*~

Two days in the jet lag still lingers. I took an ambien before bed last night assuming I would get at least an 8 - 10 hour respite of zzz's but I woke up at 6am raring to go. I crashed after my morning walk and had the craziest dreams. I attribute that to the heat, which is very different than what I'm used to. Every time you are outside walking it's as if your body goes through a detoxification, you don't realize of course until you return to your residence soaked from the sweat.

*~*~*~

Addu picks Venus and I up at 3pm for a shopping expedition to FabIndia and then Commerical street.  We each pick up blouses, saree accessories, chuppas and I begin an ardent search for the dhotti harem pants. Molly my yoga instructor wears them to class and they look so comfortable, in prep for the trip I searched the selections on Etsy, where a pair ran anywhere from $6 - $50 depending on the style and color. At the local shop on Commercial street they sell for 175 rps, or the equivalent of $3 each. Looks like everyone may get a pair as a souvenir.

Next stop Muniswarmy Tailors at 75 Dispensary Road, just off Commercial street where we've hired a local tailor to peephole stitch our saree hems and make blouses--mustard for me; light blue for Venus.

*~*~*~
While we're out I'm assigned a roommate, Tanvi is a friend of the bride's. They met at college and she is from Delhi. I ask if she'll be attending the blessing ceremony but she opts out to rest from all her travels. I shower and dress before meeting Venus and Addu in the lobby.

We arrive at the Grand Magrath hotel, and are introduced to Addu and Dinky's family members, as well as those of the bridegroom. The ceremony takes place in large room of a reception hall, a slightly elevated stage stands front and center. Divyanka is wearing a red/pink and gold saree and sits in the center of the stage. The groom's family brings out a large silver tray, placing a variety of offerings upon it: an urn of sandalwood paste, censers filled with rosewater and coconut oil, bowls of fruit and sweet meat and garlands of jasmine. Next the married female members of both sides take turns administering each of the elements onto Dinky's person. The sandalwood paste on her face, censers douse her head and body, they each feed her fruit and/or the sweetmeat and then offer flowers for her hair and hands.

After the ceremony there is a buffet dinner of Mangalorean and Bangalorean cuisine and dancing until midnight.
*~*~*~

day by day india: bangalore

I leave the hotel turning left onto Brunton Road walk west toward MG (which stands go Mahautma Gandhi) Road and follow that to the intersection roundabout near Commissariat Road and soak in the scenery.  First off let me start by saying that walking Bangalore requires one to be extremely mindful of their surroundings.  The sidewalks have been through a war with who knows what, concrete slabs are broken in two and in some cases multiple pieces, revealing a trough one feet deep filled with garbage and stale water. If you are a fast walker with tendencies for accidents take heed unless of course you're the adventurous type and hell bent on cracking a bone and visiting the ER.

Crossing the street is a whole other matter, jaywalking similar to other cities is prohibited.  Traffic lights are few and crosswalks even less, once you find a momentum of courage there is no other way to cross the street than at your own risk. And the risk involves collision with cars, busses, trucks, bicycles, stray dogs, motorized rickshaws, motorcycles and mopeds, some of which carry a whole family (father, mother, baby, child), and groups of pedestrians.

Somehow I made it safely to and from, taking photos of the traffic and surrounding scenery which included the wide wing span of kites (a breed of hawk famous for scavenging) circling the air space above the buildings and butterflies (the size of hummingbirds) flitting through the leaves of "fire of the forest" trees lining Brunton Road.

~*~*~*

Karron, Addu's friend picks Venus and I up from the hotel. We are bound for Malleswaram Street to purchase saree accessories--an under blouse and petticoat--for the week's festivities. One part open air market, one part fashion district the street is pure mayhem with people shopping and haggling.  Women in colorful sarees criss cross the streets from store to store. Others sit on the sidewalk selling fresh peanuts and stringing jasmine garlands by hand.

Afterwards Ramani and Advaitha take us together with Karron and Parvathi, Addu's auntie to BGC, the Bangalore Golf Club for cocktails and dinner al fresco.

~*~*~*

One full day in Bangalore is complete (2 hours shy for those readers who are sticklers).  Somewhere on Brunton Road someone is watching an Indian novella on TV, another is listening to the news, still another the crooning of a singer. There are trucks on the road nearby and the air is still, carrying cigarette smoke from somewhere. The moths take up residence near the overhead and I can feel the mosquitoes biting.  A whoosh on the wind sounds more like a spoken hush, and I catch my breath as I close the door. My tired mind hearing things in the stillness reminds me that it is time to sleep.

day by day india: settling in

Chai tea and english biscuits, it is 3AM and  Addu and Ramani, her mother, and I sit at the dining table. I am awake and aware but nowhere near coherent, my mind cannot compute how I am here (in India) when once I was there (in New York). Dinky, the lady in wait is asleep in an adjacent room, a sash on the door marking her as the "bride-to-be." The family dogs, Devon, a german shepherd and Chennai, a golden retriever doze at our feet. Chitchat gives way to yawns and soon we make our way to bed.  It feels amazing to lie flat with enough room to stretch arms, legs, hips, back. I fall asleep to the stirring of a city about to wake.

Morning reemerges and there are introductions, first with Divyanka then with Rehka and a mini stream of other family, friends and staff who make their visitation during mid-morning. Freshly made hot chocolate follows with breakfast dosas. First the savory Indian crepes are served with coconut chutney, pickled tomato and gunpowder (a spicy remoulade of spices and oil). Then they are followed with the sweeter version served with granulated sugar and a selection of marmalades and jam. The meal is accompanied by sweetened coffee steeped in milk (not water) and served in metal demitasse cups.

Another friend of Addu's arrives from New York, and after breakfast we are transferred to Brunton Heights (with the British Indian intonation sounds a bit like Downton Abbey), a hospitality hotel where we will be lodging for the week. The hotel suite is lovely and has a balcony overlooking the frangipani tree in the garden.  Once unpacked and settled,  I shower (loving the rainwater faucet set up), change, grab my camera and go.

day by day india: first impressions

Addu in describing Bangalore, India in general spoke about amora and its arresting invasion of the senses. Senses that is how you experience a foreign land, through sight and sound, touch and taste.  The first thing I notice is that Bengalaru airport is silent, meditatively quiet. Yes, I know it is just past three in the morning but there is something calming about seeing people through glass but hearing the sound of birds fluttering above the hangars,  catching glimpses of fireflies dancing in the flood lights, the scent of curry and a dozen spices I cannot identify permeating the air.

Exhausted, I am parched in dire need of water walking past Shiva gods placed (strategically?) near entryways and exits, there is no kiosk or boutique selling food in sight. I make my way to the carousel and find by bag quickly and immediately queue up to customs, where the crowd is a brown ombre wave. We all fall in, standing behind the yellow lines with cursive writing warning us to "Stop. Stay here to wait your turn." The agents ahead stoically great each tourist and resident, processing their papers. When I realize I am in line #13 I feel a peaceful presence, mom is with me today on this journey. It hits me like a tidal wave, remembering all those 13 years lost, all the time we could have spent on adventures like this. The irony that it is Mother's Day does not escape me, though it does remind me that today is also my Dad's 88th birthday and I find comfort in having left him a card and a gift just before leaving.

Past customs there is yet another security checkpoint, this one to screen your hand baggage lest you have something dangerous hidden in the bag all these hours while in flight. I see one lone metal knife on the floor camouflaged in the rug, a stolen souvenir from an Emirates flight. Out in baggage claim I locate my trusty navy LL Bean suitcase with brown piping, recognizable by the cursive "Lucy" stitched on the front cover and a snowflake pompom tied to its handle. While waiting I see a sign for a bridal jewelry store I see a reference to "seven vows" and contemplate what that could mean.  A woman in her mid-30s is also waiting for luggage and she is wearing a modern embroidered fashion set and nude platform stilettos. My feet ache looking at her. Despite all the people around the area is silent, and save the whirr of the carousel itself and the beep from the strobe lights it is eerily quiet.

Entering the main greeting area there is a swarm of people flush against the gate, some searching my face others waving a sign in hoping I am the name on it. I hear Addu before I see her, it is an emotional reunion. Whether it is exhaustion or emotional fatigue I cannot tell you but it as if we have not seen each other in years, not weeks. Some friendships are like that where the depth of care and the absence of time, truly reiterate the solidity of the relationship. Advaitha, Claudia, Lisa. It's these female friendships that give us strength.

day by day India: in flight

The trouble with arriving early for any flight is the chance it may be delayed. As was my long haul flight to Doha, Qatar, every 1/2 hour adds to the 10+ soon to be in the air. Terminal gates 16 and 17 are packed, a small city congregating in anticipation of flights to Doha UAE & São Paulo Brazil. My only wish is that all the children crying out loud will sleep sleep sleep once they are on the plane. The crowd is mixed a cross-section of races and nationalities, mostly male and almost everyone is connected to one device or another: smartphone, cell phone, laptop, tablet. 

~*~*~

Daybreak in the afternoon. Eight hours in on the long haul journey to India. my body aches, my mind fuzzy. Not knowing what to expect with meals and bathroom breaks, water replenishment, I opted to not take the ambien, it seemed less important to take one if I was already sleepy. I am most grateful for having the foresight to take a hatha yoga class earlier today, the stretching certainly helped with the scrunched up wear and tear. 

Seated on an aisle in a center three-seater row my seat companion, Kanish, and I are lucky to share the absent middle seat which offers more stowage and a little more leg room (although on an angle). We have 3 hours left before landing on the Qatar peninsula, at Doha International Airport. All that planning and research on the latest movie releases is lost, and instead I crack open 1 of the 4 books (plus my Kindle) that I brought with me: The Yard (Alex Grecian). Ambitious challenge I realize but two weeks is a lot of time for the brain to still itself, I must feed it a little as well. 

When I first boarded the plane I had passed the luxe seating in first and business class, one of which had Jetson like pods to sleep in. I wonder if those passengers feel as uncomfortable as I do? The worst part is my backside, airplane seating does little to support the lower back, sacrum and rear--when seated for extended hours the pressure can result in the absence of feeling, a numb sleeping body. I have high hopes that I will have enough time in Doha to stretch. Breakfast is served with a side of turbulence, as we begin our descent.  

~*~*~

We arrive at dusk into a waking dream of midnight skies and starlight. It is Saturday evening of the quickest weekend ever.  I step outside onto the portable staircase and my mind races back to the first time I visited Siracusa as an adult: the balmy weather, the easy transfer from tarmac to terminal, the simplicity of moving from runway to walkway. The terminal is a pristine structure of white marble, granite and glass. The duty free shopping area lies just outside the security checkpoint, it is the size of a small mall--I catch a glimpse before dashing off to gate 17 and my transfer to Bangalore. Another full flight, again a lot of men, some in traditional dress others in modern wear. There is a woman in full burqua and perjida (sp?) with just a slit for her eyes, even her hands are covered in black gloves. She is with a gentleman in white robes straight out of a history book.

For this route I am on the aisle of a two seater, next to a young woman returning home to Bangalore. There is time for a movie (The Great & Powerful Oz) and more reading, and a nap or two or three before we make our great way into Bengalaru.

Star Struck: Isabella Rossellini

Elevator rides are normally drab; you get in ride up, ride down, and get off. Sometimes you see someone you know, most times it’s just you and a bunch of strangers quietly thinking, ear buds activated to favorite music or a podcast. That’s how it usually is for me day in, day out. Until yesterday afternoon when my normal lunch time elevator jaunt had a bit of a lift.

An older woman with short dark cropped hair, wearing a raincoat accented by a red and whitea floral scarf stood across from me, an animated twenty-something talking about the traffic and the weather stood nearby. The woman looked familiar and my brain and I couldn’t place her on first sight. Kaleidoscopically whirling about the inner archive in my mind, pulling out a snapshot from Casablanca and a magazine ad from the early ‘80s, and then it came to me. Isabella Rossellini, daughter of Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rossellini, famous Lancôme model, and animal activist.  She was stunningly beautiful, with kind eyes and a settled poise about her. I am not normally star struck but I found myself gleeful at this chance encounter and couldn’t help but make eye contact and express my admiration for her work. 

When I returned to my desk I shared my experience with a few co-workers, one had no idea who Isabella Rossellini was and when I used Bogie & Bergman as a cultural reference I only received a blank stare. I rang another colleague who like me knew her and her work and together we reveled in my chance encounter. Ms. Rossellin who is in New York on a press tour for her new project Mammas, a series produced for the Sundance Channel. She was at our offices to promote the project on HuffPost Live, you can view it here if you like.  

Let go: India

in this hour, fourteen days from now I will be settling in for a transatlantic flight of grand proportion spanning two continents and multiple time zones en route to India. India the land of contrasts, of color, of spiritual lightness of being. i can't remember when I lit upon this idea of traveling this far east, of adding this country to my travel list. my earliest  recollection is caught in a haze of literature, Bollywood films and basement bhangra. I remember  when i penguini would get together and talk about travel Kristin and I would project our future on the streets of Mumbai, taking trains cross-country to Goa, swimming in the Arabian sea.  

Every moment in our lives informs and guides us toward our future. Who would have known that a friendship forged on the dance floor at a holiday party would result in my visiting India just a few years later? It all begins with  Addu. If she were a color, I wouldn't be able to choose just one and instead envision a prism of lights, a rainbow spectrum. Smart, carefree, focused, trusting and doggishly determined in her accomplishments, just last year she competed in a triathlon here in NYC--biking, running, swimming the East River. Her vibrancy, bearing witness to its vividity has offered perspective on how I might live life differently. It was she, along with Claire-bear, who encouraged me to participate in our company talent show. And it is through her friendship that life has taken on a different sheen, has been enriched in ways I cannot even articulate and some of which are still percolating. 

After meeting her mom this past summer, it all became clear. A strong soul is born out of necessity and sometimes gifted by blood. If nurtured correctly, it thrives a boundless spirit. I could see after spending time with the Arunkumar's that goodness was inherent in the family lineage. I was honored and charmed when Addu extended the invitation attend her younger sister's wedding. It was like a dream awakened, and these last few months I have seen a metamorphosis of self evolving in anticipation of this voyage. 

In mentioning my plans to friends and strangers, the responses have run the gamut from wonder and glee to disgust and outrage. I've been told on more than one occasion that it will be a life altering experience--almost always with the question mark lingering, as if I didn't realize what I was getting myself into. Of course it will be a life-changing experience, I am counting on it being a positive and rewarding one. No one travels halfway across the world to a place so utterly foreign with the unabashed notion that they won't be affected by the journey. Or maybe they do? I don't know, maybe they do. I have no expectations other than the excitement of being immersed in Indian life during a celebration for Addu's sister.  I've taken the necessary medical precautions, including vaccinations and preventative care (typhoid, polio, malaria, hep-a, cipro, ambien). I've coordinated my visa, health and travel insurance.  I've decided to release the reins on my life, grab a suitcase half-filled with clothes and my camera and let go. 

#13 stands for change

(c) onelovephotography

According to numerology, the number 13 is a karmic number that represents change, upheaval, where it allows for new ground to be broken. In some instances the fear of change has resulted in an irrational belief that the number itself is a symbol of evil. Research will bring up data that cites both sides good and bad, one particular citation, notes that 13 has great power, and that going with its flow, adapting gracefully to its change will only bring about strength. I personally have always leaned toward the positive side of its meaning. 

Thirteen was Mom's favorite and lucky number. For her there was nothing more glorious and self-defining as the number thirteen. She often wore a gold-plated #13 charm she found just outside our house. An omen or homage of sorts. For awhile she wore it with the medal honoring St. Lucia, her namesake. 

2013. Change. Yes I can feel it coming. Lately I have found myself feeling tremors, and maybe one might call it subtle seismic shift. Its an unsettling with equal parts nervousness, fear and excitement. And during these days I really wish I had someone to talk to, someone who really gets me. Someone who understands my head and will not think twice about calling me out on my shit, forcing me to answer to myself. You know who I mean, we all have (or have had) that person in our lives. I feel like I am that person for many but no one has been that person for me, not in a long while. 

It makes it difficult to quiet the crazy-talk, and easier to slip beneath the murkiness of indecision. It would be nice to have a champion to guide me towards the next phase of my life. I don't mean lead me, I know I have to get there on my own but in those moments of doubt to help me to remember everything that I've accomplished, all who I've come to be. When I pause to think of who I want that person to be, I feel a sharp pang and I have to catch my breath. It's a bevel that cuts through my psyche, awakens the siren and the beast. I won't deny that at this point in my life I thought I would have a partner to lean on, someone to comfort me when the dull ache of  life temporarily blindsides you and leads you sideways into a spiral of emotions over what comes next. Inevitably in these moments I conjure my mom when her absence is felt the greatest. I can go months without realizing she is not here, and in one instant am painfully cognizant that I am missing something, someone, that I am an island. 

 

catch my vision

Last night, I was in a migraine fugue, this one brought on by the chill of an artist’s loft where the borders of Brooklyn and Queens blur.  There were seven of us one male and six femme gathered to create our own vision board for this new year.  For those who don’t know, a vision board is meant to guide the mind towards clarity around a specific life goal. One tunes out the logic of the left-brain and allows the creative expression of the right brain to discover and identify through visually mapping out dreams and aspirations.

The session was held at Fleeting Dream Art Collective, a raw art space in the industrial bowels where East Williamsburg and Bushwick intersect. The surrounding neighborhood is a mishmash of brick and mortar, circa 1950s. The only sign of modernism, written on the warehouse signs half in English half Chinese advertising for cell phone supplies. The entrance is at the top of a long alley way, part driveway, part parking lot, the type of place one would steer away from in the dead of night.

Kate and I ring the doorbell and Andrea Kirk the location facilitator meets us outside and leads us up a back staircase and down a short hall to their space. They’ve just moved in, so the space is unorganized with workshop and art materials juxtaposed to bookcases and a beautiful wood and tapestry shoji screen. It’s a corner space with casement windows on two walls, a utility wall painted with creature art, in yellows and blues. There is a heater is suspended from the ceiling, at the entrance of the loft, counterproductive in the repurposed use of the space as the heat rises and stays above, rather than heating the humans below. 

Sara Nowlin the lead facilitator is seated on a furry turquoise pillow, she is wearing a scarf and hat. There are four others: Ben, Christina, Teresa, Patricia.  Once introductions are complete, we settle onto our own pillows, an array covered in furry pinks and blues, neon orange that conjures Alice in Wonderland’s caterpillar genie and the Cheshire cat. I choose the least colorful, a taupe floral floor pillow with fringes. Ready to take flight on this journey, surely a magic pillow would be just as adventurous as a carpet?

Sara walks us through how the afternoon activities will proceed, starting with a cast-off meditation where we shed all that prevents us from accessing our creative selves—the frustration, the inner critic, the martyr, the unknown into the center of the circle and light it on fire (figuratively of course). Andrea and Sara then fill the center of the with a small mountain of magazines, and for the next hour we’re guided to select a magazine, flip through and rip out (or cut) the images and words that resonate with or touch us most.  

I find myself pulling images of light and fire, women in pensive poses, looking outward some more direct than others. The colors are muted in neutral shades of orange, gold and gray. As I go through the pile, I find myself whittling away the words and the images of predictability, leaning toward the bolder representations of who I am, who I want to be. The mapping is cathartic, therapeutic; as the possibilities of what this year could bring become clearer in my eyes as my vision board takes shape.

By the close of the workshop it is nearly done, perhaps 60% complete, with a river of white space flowing around the images and words. There is still work to be done and I find myself thinking of books and magazines that are in the house, ones that I’ll have to buy to fill the blank spots. For the time being I am satisfied, and feel that it is in a good place.

Pausing. 

Catching my breath. It’s a thing that I do sometimes. I find myself in the midst of a creative project and then I find myself in limbo. This happens (or is that I allow it to happen) often: I begin in full force, luminously charged by the energy coming from the work, from my heart and then, I not so much as stop but halt, pause. Sometimes it is in the timing, as I often get a creative surge in the late evening (which is most detrimental when one works a traditional 9-5). At times there may be a concern for my well-being, i.e., sleep deprivation, in a zone where I forget to eat or the worse of it is the onset of a headache (which for most people is simply cured by aspirin and a caffeine pill)--for me it is almost often a catalyst to something far worse; where a simple headache explodes into a full-blown migraine.

Yesterday afternoon I felt the pulse on the back of my head, and took an aspirin, a drink of water, a bite of a granola bar. It was snowing outside, and I remember thinking to myself that I should take a picture. The snow was iridescent in the sunless gray light. I was trimming a sunburst gold and pearl pin, an image from a copy of W magazine for the vision board. Something about it triggered a memory, the Field of Dreams—an early Kevin Costner movie about building a baseball diamond in the middle of a corn field. The spirit of his father telling him “if you build it they will come” – the ghosts of baseball past. It makes me wonder how much of what we vision comes from the past, the remembrances of who we wanted to be when we were younger?

I can’t shake the chill and excuse myself to use the restroom. It is at the end of a winding hallway of white walls and steel gray doors, the numbers written in black Sharpie. The cold snaps at my heel as I dash through the corridor. In the dark silence of the ladies, I rest my forehead on the cold tile to soothe the pulsations; I try a meditation to control my breath to control the flow of blood with my mind. It sounds almost mystical as I recant the memory but it’s pure hell, the minute by minute torturous. If anything has taught me about patience, about leading oneself back to the calm center, it is this.

###

Resources:

Sara Nowlin, Life Coach  

http://saranowlin.wordpress.com/

@saranowlin

Fleeting Dreams Art Collective

www.fleetingdream.org

water magick: rituals

Somehow or another in the haste of leaving work tonight, I flipped the numbers on the address to the Observatory Room, an art and events space in the Gowanus. The Observatory is part of the Proteus Gowanus, an art complex, which hosts a variety of works-in-progress many of which are influenced by the turn of the 18^th century machinations and themes. For instance, their most recent art exhibition presented in the Morbid Anatomical Reading Room was themed around the Resurrection.  The events schedule offers an eclectic selection of classes and lectures, including Channeling Elvis, Classic Mouse Taxidermy 101 and The Victorian Art of Hand Jewelry. 

This would be my first visit to the facility and uncertain of what to expect by way of location and building, my misdirected address led me to the South Brooklyn Casket Company. I must admit I was slightly startled but not the least bit surprised, and even the sign on the door instructing visitors to stand front center so the VTC could identify entrants, seemed to make sense. Until a passerby who I can only assume noticed my startled expression, asked if I was looking for The Observatory at #534 (when I of course realized my mistake) and correctly directed me to an entrance on the corner of Union Street and Nevins Street (something to remember for future attendance). I was greeted by Pam Grossman, Magickal Practitioner, historian and leader of this evening’s session on Water Magick Rituals.

Class was held in the Morbid Anatomical Gallery, and after a brief introduction about what we would learn (the history of water as a magickal element, the goddesses and spirits most prevalent in water, how its powers are related to the spring season, recipe and ingredients for creating ritual bath salts), the fifteen of us (14 women, 1 man) formed a circle and celebrated our intentions for the evening.

At registration we were instructed to bring a mixing bowl, cushion and altar objects or totems, offerings for the goddess to be charged with magickal energy. I wasn’t sure what to bring but my intentions for 2013 are clear and so I brought items that reflected their fulfillment: health (hematite disk), a love relationship (my mother’s wedding ring), calm and patience (a tortoise sculpture), channeling creativity (a 3 wishes runes) and adventure (a sea turtle charm from Puerto Rico). We place our totems on the altar and then Pam asks us to stand. She begins to cast the circle, guiding us through prayers where we embrace each corner of the earth South, West, North, East; including the Above and Below and harnessing the circle with the Center, that lives within each of us, instructing us to recite “blessed be” after each.  We sit down and close our eyes to embrace the presence of energy in the room. Pam lights lavender and smudges each of us with its smoke as she chants and sings around the room. Once the casting is complete, the session begins.

Pam welcomes us to the space and introduces herself, shares her history with Wicca. “I’m a fan of people who empower other people” and she explains that her mentor Robin Rose Bennett, opened the doors to that feeling through her teachings, to the beauty of shadow and memory, the luxury of ritual and mysticism.  She segues into describing the altar and introduces us to a few of the water deities, some of whom are represented by the statues, telling us their stories. These include Yemaya, the ocean water goddess, mother of the children of the fish linked to fertility and protection, and Artemis Ephesus, the goddess of the wilderness, guardian of young children and patron of women in childbirth.  (I later find out that Artemis Ephesus was born on the island of Ortygia--a place that is very much a part of my personal history.)   

Magick is defined as a symbolic action of intent and Pam believes that “everyone can do magick” that we’ve “all been practicing since birth.” Every time we channel our gut, our intuition, follow our instinct, listen to our heart—we are working magick. Centered on the interexchange of ideas and thought, the sharing of knowledge Pam explains that spells are meant to illuminate and bring clarity, relinquish negativity and replenish positive energy. (Honestly I could listen to her descriptions all day, the selection of words is so beautiful and I find them casting a spell over my mind, leading me on a peaceful meditation.)

We learn next that 2013 has been coined the Year of the Witch, and Pam explains that it goes beyond the symbolism of the #13 and delves deeper into the mysticism of feminine magic. One of the most notable symbols aligned to the female witch, she continues, is the snake, and as we all know this lunar year honors the snake (the black water snake to be exact). The snake is sometimes seen as fire in water, and this duality of elements represents the possibility of creativity, of lighting it from within.

Soon it is time for us to prepare our own spell, and she walks us through the three types of water spells:

• The Blessing transforms water through words and intention;
• An Infusion charges the water with an herb or crystal, and depending on the steep or soak can be consumed as tea or a medicinal; and
• Purification introduces salt into the formula, a combination of blessing and infusion, it holds a powerful energy.

Pam then explains that we will be creating a recipe of our own from the ingredients she has brought, for a purification bath. The selection of offerings includes a variety of salts (grey Celtic sea salt, pink Himalayan, dead sea salt, black diamond and Epsom); herbs (roses, chamomile, lavender, calendula, blue violet leaf, hawthorn, mugwort, linden leaf); and oils (comfrey, motherwort, lavender, rose geranium).

We spend the next half-hour mixing ingredients for our own bath salts, using spoons and our fingertips to mix them into our bowls. Once the first stage is complete we nestle back down into a seated position and meditate on the bath mixture. The room is silent, layered in scents: one part air, one part fire, one part earth, one part water. Pam instructs us to re-initiate our intention through mental meditation, I've written my intentions down on paper, and recite them, breathing in healing salt, breathing out mantra. 

We each then add a pinch of our salt to the center bowl in an offering to the water goddess. Forty-five bell chimes, three for each of us solidifies our intent. We then pass the bowl, dipping a finger to bless the third eye of our neighbor to the right, with a voiced blessing. I received courage, and gave conviction. 

A final blessing is offered as each of us adds another hope for the group. And then Pam sends wishes and prayers in reverse to the spirits at Center, Below and Above; East, North, West, South, to close our sacred space and end the circle. 

###

Recommended Reading: 
The Cosmic Serpent: DNA & the Origins of Knowledge by Jeremy Narby, Goodreads
DIY Magic by Anthony Alvarado, Goodreads
Grimoires: A History Book of Magic Books by Owen Davies, Goodreads
Healing Magic: A Green Witch Guidebook by Robin Rose Bennett, Goodreads
Psychomagic: The Transformative Power of Shamanic Psychotherapy  by Alejando Jodorowsky, Goodreads

Resources: 
Pam Grossman, Magickal Practitioner and Historian
www.phantasmaphile.com

Observatory Room
http://.observatoryroom.org

Proteus Gowanus 
http://proteusgowanus.org/blog