holding a grudge. But even if he is, it's still no excuse. He knows I've been under a tremendous 113
H3
amount of stress lately--even if he does believe it's posttraumatic. So,why can't he just put grudges aside and call me like any other good friend would?
After two phone calls to his room with no luck, I end up giving him until exactly 9:15 before I decide to go out. At 9:19,1 stuff the crystal cluster rock into my pocket, fill my backpack with a handful of spell ingredients, and make my way out into the night. I think what I really need right now is a little bit of energy cleansing and some definite answers, and I can't think of a better place to find both than outside, under the frost moon--especially since the thought of going down to my altar in the boiler room is so far from appealing right now.
Since the entire campus is surrounded by acres of forest, it isn't difficult to find the ideal space.
Despite what happened last year, I still love the forest, especially at night, under the moon and a spattering of stars. The whole atmosphere helps center me, helps me reconnect with the natural spirit and put things into perspective.
Using my small flashlight as a guide, I end up walking around the side of our dorm, across the lawn, and entering the forest by the path that everyone uses when they want to go drinking. I turn to the left and find myself a peaceful spot on the edge--just deep enough to be concealed but not too deep that I can't see the waxing gibbous moon right above me. It's absolutely perfect, just a day from fullness-- so amazing that I almost can't believe I spent so long cooped up in my room.
I sit on a patch of grass and do my best to breathe the moon's energy in, to swallow it up and allow the light to
114
ii4
soak into my skin. After a few peaceful minutes, I take the crystal from my pocket and place it on the ground in front of me. It can't be a mere coincidence that someone dropped it right outside my study-room door. I know that someone left it for me. I just need to figure out who that someone is before it's too late.
I prop my flashlight up against a rock and begin emptying the spell ingredients from my bag.
With a pair of scissors, I start with my hair. I grab one of the longer layers at the side, trim off about four full inches, and then knot the shorn tress at the top to avoid unnecessary frayage. The lock of hair looks weird in my hand, almost surreal, like it isn't really mine. I deposit it into the metal mixing bowl I sometimes use for away-from-home spells and then pour a few droplets of clove oil on top--the normally pale orange liquid now a deep walnut color in such darkness. I move on to my fingernails next. Using a pair of regular nail clippers, I cut them down to the nubs over the bowl, making sure the individual shards drop inside. Then I pour in a few more droplets of the oil, the heavy scent filling the air around me.
I touch the side of my hair where I cut. Despite my careful attempt, I can feel where the chunk is missing, just below my ear. Hopefully the remaining strand is long enough to tie back. If not, I'll just have to do my best at blending. I glance down at my nails, all stubby now; a couple have even started to bleed. I stuff them into my mouth to clot the blood and then plunge them into the mixing bowl. Using my fingers, I mix my hair and bone up in the clove oil, concentrating on the mixture's ability to increase
115
H5
my psychic awareness of self. "Skin and blood, oil and bone," I whisper. "Oh, Moon, I beg thee: Let the truth be known."
I pluck a potato, courtesy of the cafeteria lady on duty this morning, and a black ballpoint pen from the side pocket of my bag. Into the raw potato skin I carve my questions: WILL I KEEP
MY PROMISE? and WHAT MIGHT MY PROMISE BE?
I place the potato into the mixing bowl and pour the remainder of the clove oil over it, approximately two tablespoons. I roll the potato in the mixture, making sure it gets moistened, that
H3
amount of stress lately--even if he does believe it's posttraumatic. So,why can't he just put grudges aside and call me like any other good friend would?
After two phone calls to his room with no luck, I end up giving him until exactly 9:15 before I decide to go out. At 9:19,1 stuff the crystal cluster rock into my pocket, fill my backpack with a handful of spell ingredients, and make my way out into the night. I think what I really need right now is a little bit of energy cleansing and some definite answers, and I can't think of a better place to find both than outside, under the frost moon--especially since the thought of going down to my altar in the boiler room is so far from appealing right now.
Since the entire campus is surrounded by acres of forest, it isn't difficult to find the ideal space.
Despite what happened last year, I still love the forest, especially at night, under the moon and a spattering of stars. The whole atmosphere helps center me, helps me reconnect with the natural spirit and put things into perspective.
Using my small flashlight as a guide, I end up walking around the side of our dorm, across the lawn, and entering the forest by the path that everyone uses when they want to go drinking. I turn to the left and find myself a peaceful spot on the edge--just deep enough to be concealed but not too deep that I can't see the waxing gibbous moon right above me. It's absolutely perfect, just a day from fullness-- so amazing that I almost can't believe I spent so long cooped up in my room.
I sit on a patch of grass and do my best to breathe the moon's energy in, to swallow it up and allow the light to
114
ii4
soak into my skin. After a few peaceful minutes, I take the crystal from my pocket and place it on the ground in front of me. It can't be a mere coincidence that someone dropped it right outside my study-room door. I know that someone left it for me. I just need to figure out who that someone is before it's too late.
I prop my flashlight up against a rock and begin emptying the spell ingredients from my bag.
With a pair of scissors, I start with my hair. I grab one of the longer layers at the side, trim off about four full inches, and then knot the shorn tress at the top to avoid unnecessary frayage. The lock of hair looks weird in my hand, almost surreal, like it isn't really mine. I deposit it into the metal mixing bowl I sometimes use for away-from-home spells and then pour a few droplets of clove oil on top--the normally pale orange liquid now a deep walnut color in such darkness. I move on to my fingernails next. Using a pair of regular nail clippers, I cut them down to the nubs over the bowl, making sure the individual shards drop inside. Then I pour in a few more droplets of the oil, the heavy scent filling the air around me.
I touch the side of my hair where I cut. Despite my careful attempt, I can feel where the chunk is missing, just below my ear. Hopefully the remaining strand is long enough to tie back. If not, I'll just have to do my best at blending. I glance down at my nails, all stubby now; a couple have even started to bleed. I stuff them into my mouth to clot the blood and then plunge them into the mixing bowl. Using my fingers, I mix my hair and bone up in the clove oil, concentrating on the mixture's ability to increase
115
H5
my psychic awareness of self. "Skin and blood, oil and bone," I whisper. "Oh, Moon, I beg thee: Let the truth be known."
I pluck a potato, courtesy of the cafeteria lady on duty this morning, and a black ballpoint pen from the side pocket of my bag. Into the raw potato skin I carve my questions: WILL I KEEP
MY PROMISE? and WHAT MIGHT MY PROMISE BE?
I place the potato into the mixing bowl and pour the remainder of the clove oil over it, approximately two tablespoons. I roll the potato in the mixture, making sure it gets moistened, that
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