It Was Like a Monday . . .

The Child That Grandma Loved

Well.  Slap my face and call me drama, I missed something about as big as a hay-baler in the middle of town square.  Those who know me well know that I am fond of saying “it was like a Tuesday” when it comes to those moments that happen commonly, often and with a regularity that most of us older folks pine after.  For instance, “some witch” makes up a public ancestry that couldn’t be farther from the truth of what she/he told you over ten years of fires–it was like a Tuesday.  Or, the tires go bald at the same time as yor’ tags are due, the herd of domesticated yard-yappers need their shots and the dryer goes pffft.  It was like a Tuesday. 

And I never understood Monday.

Recently, I have been on a Tuesday/Thursday schedule at the local university, allowing my-southern-ass to recoup lost time for tribe business, book-writing business and other catch-up kinds of hullaballoo.  I’ve jumped on the Pagan Blog Project (thanks again, Rowan!) and am in negotiations for Boondock Witch, all whilst homeschooling the Southern Fried Teen (when I’m not threatening him with my wooden spoon for daily teenage tomfoolery) and holding down a sustainable marriage and small farm.  And Monday has been the same ol’ bitch she has always been . . . shoved all careless-like up against sweet Sunday and shaking her taxable finger at my witchy nose.  Until today.

It was like . . . a Monday.  The likes of which I have never witnessed.  Now, I’ve heard tell that when someone casts bad juju at you, you get rewards from the universe . . . but I understand magic a bit more pragmatically than that.  That is, until I thought it out.  As crafters, we all know that when we believe in something, hard and fierce, it comes into being in the most delightful, sinewy ways.  Sokay. Then, does it follow that: when someone casts against you (in jealousy, revenge, or just plain meanness) that iffin they believe the aforementioned premise, it will befall the victim?  Hmmmm.  Seems to be.  In all my born days, I have only had one actual enemy take the stage of my life, and it certainly did not escape my witchy radar that some black astral goo had been shot in my direction.  I tried to take the high road (well, I have friends in this town that date back sixteen years) or even placate my wounded pride (it’s not X’s fault, she cannot help herself) or even defense (and that one works right smart, y’all, as long as you have your ethics lined up first), but without fail:  I was struggling through the murk and mire of someone else’s hate and resentment.  I could feel it like a borrowed coat, you know the kind, all lumpy and uncomfortable  . . .  too tight or too big and in that color you associate with hospitals.  With briars in the pockets.

Yupper.  That damnable coat kept showing up on my little frame ‘ary damn day, whether it was cold out or not.  And so.  I did what I was taught:  I turned to Big Momma, prone and distraught, a slobbery mess of “I tried to handle it on my own” and half outa’ my head from the onslaught of “aggressive casting” that had been hurled my way.  And that’s when I remembered.

For almost forty-three years, my Grandma loved me special.  Whether or not that fact drove the rest of my family to distraction doesn’t matter anymore, but I have felt quite the orphan since her death on account of the loss of that “specialness” in someone’s heart.   That unadulterated, thick, sweet love that she held for me incited rivalry, resentment and even ostracization . . . but it saved my butt over and over as I traversed a significantly scarred life.  Consider this:  I am an Aries, born on April 4th.  Not a whole lot going on in my chemical/psychic makeup that would allow me to wallow in victimhood, or ask for help, or simply reach out for a little stabilization when the winds get to whippin’ up and the dogs start to howl.  Somewhere in all of that was Grandma: you are strong.  You are so, so smart baby girl.  You are special.  There’s a heaven touch on you, baby.  You are loved.  And still.  It didn’t occur to me until last night to ask for intervention.

But I did.  I knelt hard by my new pear tree when ‘ary one else was sleeping, looked up and remembered who I was, am, and will always be:  I am Her Granddaughter.  I am not a whipping post for a desperately overblown ego, I am not a “mark” for an angry, lonely witch, I am not just another subject in the Party Pagan World.  Without her, I had forgotten to love myself in that rooted, organic way in which I had been rocked from the cradle.  I had forgotten my “heaven touch,” that blessed, sacred mark upon my soul that thickened my bones against hungry dogs and steadied my blood against black magic infection.  I had laid to waste the nourishment of ancestral protection (Cherokee, Celt, Apache) and allowed a mongrel to steal away with my Divine Inheritance.  And then . . . I got pissed.

I have said before and I will say belligerently again: iffin’ you dance around in manure, it will stick to your heels.

When she was still living on this plane, my sweet Grandma told me of this the caster: leave her be.  She is not of our kind.  Stay focused on your kin and your heart and do not wallow in her well.  I suppose it was my nature, as a previously abused wife, to assume that I could change my enemy.  Make her kinder.  Make her consider “real” ethics, rather than those that she had charged as her demons.  And still, I forgot the first premise of curses:  we hold an active role in accepting them.  Sometimes, the hardest moment is letting go, y’all.  Have you ever watched crabs in a bucket?  The Southern Fried Husband is fond of telling this one: when one brave soul attempts to pull himself out to freedom, the others will grasp him and pull him back down to a fate of a boiling pot and a little Creole seasoning.  My goofy ass had started to understand this moment as being like a Tuesday, as in “normative” behavior that I should accept and slop down with a biscuit in my daily world.

Bullspit.

Does that sound like the kind of mantra my Grandma would have pumped into my developing Alabama soul?  Ah.  But I had become accustomed to giving too much, accepting emotional abuse, emotional manipulation and general asshattery.  I suppose it’s a Southern thing, to that extent: we want to be polite.  We endeavor to do the right thing, syrup yor’ pain and variously work ourselves cross-eyed towards funding yor’ dreams.  We grab our shotguns when you holler “WOLF!” and run after the apparitions you deem threatening to home and hearth.  We bleed for yor’ babies, talk down your Mommas and stand beside you even when we know that there ain’t nothing in that word you spewing but ugly.  Laws, we are the carriers of original sin, the cross and anything else your heart is too egotistical or lazy to haul across the unexamined life.  And when we finally kneel, under a tree on Southern dirt, to face the nature of our existence?  We remember.

Dying for yor’ sins is redundant and unoriginal.  And it sure shouldn’t be done every Tuesday.

And so, today?  I woke up after dreaming of my Grandma all night. It was a rainy Monday. For the first time since we moved to the country, the lamp I inherited from Gran (the only thing I was allowed to inherit) suddenly started working again.

My only beloved material inheritance.

The chickens laid double the eggs they had been spittin’ onto the hay, two new donations came through for our family church, I read through the fine print of the letter denoting my new raise at work and one fragrant gardenia flowered by the porch.  In October.

Hi, Grandma.  I remember.  I am strong.  I am so, so smart.  I am special.  There’s a heaven touch on me.  I am loved.  And I chopped those crab claws right off whilst jumping outa’ that bucket.

Guess what’s for dinner, y’all?

It was like . . . a Monday.

Blessed Be,

Seba

18 Comments on “It Was Like a Monday . . .

  1. Sitting here… light-headed & dizzy after reading. So happy for you!! Amazing work you’re doing – and I am in awe as I watch the journey.

    Also… welcome to the party! A solid few of us out here never forgot how special you are. Ever. Not for a moment. Glad to have you join us. 😀

    Love you. xoxo
    Aho!

  2. I love those moments when the inner “concrete elephant” (to steal a phrase from a ‘Blackadder’ episode) wakes up inside us all, along with the changes it speeds into our lives and the lives of those we love around us. 🙂 And there’s nothing like a Grandmother’s love. It’s like one step more butt-kicking than Mother’s love at times, I’ve discovered by way of my husband’s late Nana.

    I like the description of it being “like a Tuesday”, even though I live in Australia I think it might work well, do you mind if I adopt it?

    PS: Your Grandmother’s lamp is GORGEOUS!

    • I would be HONORED if you adopted it! Y’all have very similar weather to us. And I may have to borrow “concrete elephant,” lol!

      P.S.: thank you. It really is all I have of her, and I obsessed over it as a child. It now looks over my bed. 🙂

  3. aho!! seba i so look forward to your writings and this one just tickled my monday to death!!! **biggrin** off to do some of my own chopping!!!! ♥♥♥ <*)

  4. Thank you for the reminder that people who are so controlling, manipulative and abusive should and will not be able to do their worst on us…we will fight it and survive it wonderfully because we are not here for their enjoyment…We are strong …

    I’ve been feeling so sad recently due to an awful situation with my daughter-in-law…I still feel for the Grandkids, but at this point there is nothing I can do for them, but I can survive to help them deal with it when they are old enough to get away from her…

    • Oh, Judy, I am so sorry to here this–but your intent to be strong and ready for those babies is a damn fine one! You hold up: we are children of the Universe. xo

  5. Miz Seba,
    Got chills readin’ this one. Why is it when I respond to one of your blogs I go all Southern even though technically I’m not, yet technically I am (born in West Virginia, grew up on the Maryland then Viriginia side of the DC Beltway) and start talkin’/writin’ like I’m all Southern through and through. I may not be versed in true south, but it doesn’t mean I can’t relate (being a native Viriginian ’til I was 18 and ran away from home.) It’s because once again I recognize our common threads and the resulting coincidences in our oddly, interestingly parallel lives. My Grandma was an Irish Catholic angel (who raised her 9 brothers and sisters, then raised a brood of her own (12 who came into this life, 1 who left by the age of 2) ) and to whom very few could compare. When she crossed over, the world lost an awesome human being, yet she’s seen fit over the years to check in on me and watch out for me consistently, even when I didn’t realize it. I suddenly feel like a glass of ice tea (unsweet for me, I like it as close to the natural leaf as possible.”
    I tip my glass to you witchy soul sister,
    Erin

    • My sister, I have always believed (as the Irish settled the Deep South and married into the Cherokee/Creek/Muskogee) that what we understand as Southern may just be Irish sensibilities! Being Southern is a state of mind, and you’ve got it. I adore you. Love Seba

  6. I just wanted to say hi. I’ve been reading your blog for a few months now, and your writing style is gorgeous and I always feel happy after reading your posts. Thank you for sharing with the world.

  7. Isn’t it strange how sometimes the kick we need in the proverbial pants sounthern or not comes from the most unlikely sources? I love that your grandma came though shining like her light. I feel sorry for the witch that tried to do a whammy on you. She has no idea of the medicine you carry, esp. from your grandma. Well, the 3x3x3 karma will surel come back to bite her on “tuesday” ass ; )

    • Thanks, Wendy! I feel sorry for her, too . . . but not enough to allow any more damage in my life! (and, lol: “tuesday” ass! Using that one in the future! 🙂

  8. So happy for you! Thank you for spreading the love and the lesson. BB.

  9. Thank you for all the beautiful writings. There is always a lesson for us and makes us stop and think. I, like others, I’m sure look forward to reading “The Southern Fried Witch”.

  10. You gett’n all growed up and using them smarts you full of sister. This old Wizard is proud of you.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: