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Any other witches out there or any warlocks or wizards????? i'm a happy warlock you grumpy old witch Yes I do believe I am a Witch though some say I am not. Dead people speak to me. I don't cast spells or ride on broom sticks but I do have a black cat and speak with dead people. Does that qualify me as a Witch? The Witch of Endor summoned Samuel from the grave for King Saul. I have never tried to summon anyone they just come to me. It started when I was five years old shortly after my granddaddy died he started talking to me. Now other dead people talk to me my Uncle and even strangers. Some people so old I can hardly understand them for their ancient accent. Source(s): ghost and spirits. I'm a witch. Not really grumpy so much as disgruntled, though. Last day of work before a four-day weekend bites. Blessed be! )O( I am a white witch and I heal people. I try to be a power to the good, but it does not prevent me from being grumpy at times too. have been for a number of years. Not a grumpy one tho. I'm going on holiday tomorrow so i'm a very happy witch indeed! A witch, Not much luck have you, I thought it is the year 2006 not the dark age's Kewl your a witch, why are you grumpy, grumpy is no fun be a happy witch!! I am a witch, but not grumpy though. Traditionaly warlock is someone who is a betrayer yeah i can tell your a witch by looking at your avatar. Still have questions? Get your answers by asking now.
So, I’m not sure where I am even going to jump off in this post? Background first, point up front, general old lady grumpiness to set the tone? Es macht nichts. Occasionally, I attend events being put on by a couple of witchy shops here in Melbourne. I hang out with the ladies at Spellbox or I sip tea with the Muses of Mystery. I do these things because they are fun and interesting and because they involve my having to be around other people and for me to make conversation and play nice. As a solitary witch and an introvert, this isn’t the easiest of tasks. Hell, many of you here in the tumblrverse know that I share about the most intimate of details of my life but am utter rubbish at answering messages or interacting. (The character defect is mine and I claim it. ) Anyway, last night I went to a workshop given by the Muses that involved a fellow claiming to be a Master Shaman, as well as “a Chief of the Sand Hill Band of Indians who are Cherokee-Delaware Descendants” and a musician. The workshop was on journeying with bear. Bear, according to this fellow, being the symbol for strength, courage, healing, and grounding. There was smudging going on, flute and drum and rattle played, a talk was given and then a long guided meditation that involved all of the above. I had fun. It was enjoyable. Not enlightening. Not disrespectful. Not earth-shatteringly brilliant in its wisdom. It was interesting and introspective and, well, enjoyable. The fellow was an old hippie who talked about his sage being “good drop”, 100% Aussie grown, and who held himself in higher esteem than anyone else possibly could. Even so, I did take away a few valuable pieces of information, some insights that I hadn’t put to word or consciousness before. But, make no mistake, those came from me and my little head and heart while I listened and participated in the workshop. Did I appropriate? No. Yes. Maybe. This morning, I sat down and the first post I saw on my dashboard was a diatribe against non-Native people buying dreamcatchers. There was the same old rhetoric about cultural appropriation and sticking to your own spiritual lane and yada, yada, yada. It was written by someone still very wet behind the ears who felt it their duty to implore their fellow tumblrs to change their awful appropriating ways. I am way too old for this. For the record, I do not own a dreamcatcher. But in all honesty, I have my eye on one down at the Spellbox and will soon hang it above my bed. I don’t know if it was bespoken-ly made by a member of a recognised tribe somewhere in the US, if it was crafted by the fairies, or if it was made by someone sat at a bench with 500 others sat at benches in Taiwan. I know that it is beautiful and exquisitely put together, a round hoop wrapped in suede with intricate string work across the middle and some lovely feathers and beads hung on soft pieces of suede from the bottom. It represents something I want for myself - the idea of bad dreams being caught, of a protecting source within my bedroom, the need for a good night’s sleep. It is a psychological symbol of a heartfelt desire, in my case, that I be able to slumber without nightmares. It is not a desire or an attempt by me to appropriate the super special spiritual practices of anyone else. As if a dreamcatcher sold in a shop in Melbourne Australia could. You see, I have no delusions that the fellow who spoke and smudged and drummed and rattled last night was a genuine shaman, if such thing really exists. Sure, he has plenty to indicate that he is a real Native American. But that doesn’t mean much. I think he believes that he is a special spiritual leader. I think it is profitable for him to be that. Is he more of a huckster than the televangelist on at 10. 00 am on Sunday? I don’t think so. Is he a wise man who can tell me what I don’t already know in the depths of my being? No. Is he just another human being who might give me a new perspective or way to think about this or that? Yes. And that’s the point my friends. Where is the cultural harm? I didn’t go because I thought I would be touching the hem of Christ’s garment. I went because I like the sound of wood flute and drum and I like guided meditations and I appreciate new ways to look into myself and see what I find when I rummage around in there. I believe that we all appropriate. Life, at this stage of the game for this planet, is pretty much all a mishmash of appropriation. I have a buddha and a handmade arrow and I have mala beads and a Ganesha and a lovely little statuette of Our Lady of Guadalupe on my altar. I visit a Reform Synagogue nearby when the heart-need strikes and I step into a lovely Anglican Cathedral in the city when I need a bit of perspective and respite. I am not a buddhist or a Native American or a Hindu or even a Catholic. I am not Jewish or Christian. I am just human. I like to learn things, see something of the world beyond the myopic view that my upbringing imparted to me. I do not ‘stay in my lane’ as if there is some pre-destined lane I am supposed to be in. I am a collector of symbols. I am a believer in archetypes and energies and themes. I like the psychological meaning that such items and philosophies impart to me. Am I an appropriator? Sure, I guess. Am I one of those awful middle-age white women who dabble unapologetically in everyone else’s spiritual mojo for my own benefit. Probably, if that’s how you choose to see it. I eat, pray, love and put a goodly amount of money into the economy doing it. I am also compassionate and respectful and I give charity to those who need it even, at times, if they don’t necessarily deserve it and I try to make amends for my own fucked-up-ness and generally strive to be decent and kind and to take care of the imprint I leave on the planet. I do my best to navigate this one all too brief sojourn that I have in space and time. I strive to live with meaning and purpose and agency. I do me. I do my life and I seek the numinous and spiritual in my own way. I gather practices that empower and sustain me and I do it all in the most respectful of ways. I do not claim ownership over others’ symbols, but I claim full ownership over what they represent to me. I think that there has been a pendulum swing to the ridiculous side of things when it comes to cultural appropriation, when it comes to taking of the mantle of being a social justice warrior. I think it is absurd and more harmful than helpful. Of course, then again, I grew up in the South during a time when my hometown was still very much divided by racial lines - specific areas of town where blacks lived, where the hispanics lived, where the white folk lived and I saw how firmly entrenched those lines were and how they could not, at that time, be crossed. I have seen and experienced real notions of segregation and racism and I know firsthand the ills of society far more dangerous than the sin of calling what you do with your bundle of sage ‘smudging’ when you aren’t even a real Native American. I have been a survivor or white on white crime, as well as a survivor (at the same time) of black on white crime. As a police officer, I saw blue on black crime and blue on brown crime and all sorts of shit gone terribly wrong. And btw, have also been on the receiving end of some police brutality myself. I am not naive. Unfortunately, I believe that large populations of the tumblrverse are. Yes, there are people whose plights are very real, who have systematically been marginalised and degraded by a largely white male society. That is and will continue to be an unfortunate truth. One that has to be dealt with appropriately. And while I admire the intent and the zeal of the younger generation to get on their SJW soapboxes, I do not feel that those on tumblr policing everyone and everything is a solution by any stretch of the imagination. Seems to me there is a trend of throwing the baby out with the bathwater and it is polarising and ostracising and, frankly, rubbish. For instance, and off topic of the whole appropriation rant, I hate bad cops. I think that the system is broken and needs a serious overhaul. I also, unapologetically, support the many good men and women who pin on the badge every single day and go out again and again and put their lives on the line to serve a largely ungrateful and clueless public. It isn’t an either/or, all/nothing, choice for me. It can be both. My point, I suppose is this, life is far more complicated and tragic and beautiful and awe inspiring and devastating than any of us can ever comprehend. Civilisation, on a whole, is horribly flawed and wonderfully imperfect. We blend and swirl and borrow from each other and give to each other and take from each other and misunderstand each other, and hopefully try to love one another as best we can. Can it really truly ever be any other way? I don’t think it will be in my lifetime. Can we do things on a personal, individual, level that will make a difference? Maybe not globally, but, yes, of course, we can all make a difference. I get frustrated with the rhetoric, especially when it seems so ill-advised and lacking in common sense. I get frustrated because I know that life will look very different from the other side of fifty than it did on the near side of twenty - for everyone. I get frustrated when this platform is used as a podium for shaming and finger pointing and unnecessary policing of perceived social causes - some of which are implicitly valid and others which are not, but nonetheless could be better served by personal action instead of banging on at others about what they should or should not be thinking or saying or doing. I get angry when I see diatribes and those celebrating the death of cops and in the same breath decrying the use of a fucking hoop of suede and string. Kindness and compassion and embracing our differences, respecting the multitude of variations in our human experience, are so much more beneficial to us all then finger-pointing and pontificating. Tomorrow, I will go back to two more sessions with the not really real master shaman and the witches. I will be there in a sold-out workshop with other men and women who are seeking something the same way I am seeking something. I will not pretend to be a Native American, which is absurd here in Oz anyway. I will go there as witch and woman and curious human. I will contemplate the real nature of what it all means, what the point of paganism and nature worship was in the first place, whether to Native Americans or Norsemen or Aboriginals or East Texas farming families like my own. I will meditate on my own human nature and what I want to cultivate more of in my life and what I want to let go of. I will share in the human experience with other humans who will talk about it all in the language of a Medicine Wheel and soul journeying with bear or crow. On my way there, I will tip my hat to the police and firefighters and say a prayer for my son who is a US Marine and who I completely and fully support despite the fact that the US Military machine has done some awful things. If I want to point a finger, it will be at myself, because I am the only one I can take responsibility for. I will live in the paradox and in the grey zone and in that liminal space between the totally fucked up way we all seem to be and the utopia we all wish we could have. I will meet new people from all walks of life and judge them for who they are, not where they come from or the colour of their skin. I will be polite to the Christians shouting hellfire on the corner of Bourke and Swanston as well as be polite to the Muslims handing out copies of pamphlets extolling the virtues of Islam. I will shake my head at the hippie shaman. I will be grateful and awake and a part of it all. I will live with the knowledge that some people hate other people and that some people think they are better than others and that some are racist and bigoted and sexist and misguided and just plain stupid and they have the right to be that way. Life is messy. All these people sharing (and simultaneously destroying) the same big rock is complicated. It is what it is. I’m sure this post will have more than a few hitting the unfollow button and that’s ok by me. We can co-exist and not agree and not have to be a part of each other’s trip through these dashboards. When I see folks dithering on, wagging fingers at someone for using someone else’s word or taking a bite of someone’s else’s sacred apple, believe me, I hit the button myself. As I’ve said a hundred times already, I’m here to be me. You be you. Bless your little heart. Namaste. Aloha. G’day. Peace be with you. Whatever works for you. Do that. For you. Just don’t tell me what I need to be doing. I can take care of that for myself.