January 19th, 2019

darkest leaf

two worlds and in between

here is my invocation. my invocation is here.

here, this invocation i am building with my time and experience, here, the ways and means of everything i have brought to this moment, to this location, to this manner of self coming together and falling apart in the same moment.

here. i dressed, i pulled together an outfit from all my favorite cuts and textures.

here. i daubed my most beloved perfume inside each elbow and again over my heart.

here. i picked my necklace for the day, a key, a bird skull, the pewter bar lining up ogham, a cabochon of obsidian set in sterling silver. i catch the clasp over the rise of vertebrae at the back of my neck. i let it fall into place.

here: and then i let it go. i take off my clothes. i leave the necklace on. i take comfort in my anointing rose.

naked but for these little rituals, i walk to the backroom window and lie down on the naked floor boards. i slide my arms up and out, shaping wings in the accumulated dust and dirt. i raise my arms over my head and lace my fingers loosely, not sure, never sure, no certainty but uncertainty, as it should be. i close my eyes.

here is my invocation. i call upon. i call upon. i invite you into my experience. i invite you to experience with me. here is my invocation: i know this for certain, what my invocation is; i simply do not know what I intend to invoke.

i invoke wisdom. i invoke clarity. i invoke a beneficial path: beneficial for whom, I could not say, but i invoke it all the same. i invoke transformation and i invoke love. i invoke transformational love. i invite it into my circle. i call upon transformational love to encircle me. this: that I cannot understand. this: that i should not name. i call upon it to teach me how to call it better, with greater confidence, with something resembling certainty, with some semblance of command. naked on the floorboards, my hair unbound around me in a cracked-up halo, naked on the floorboards stripped of mundane comforts, easy answers, reasons for doing this which i need to do. i do it regardless. i do it because it needs to be done: not because i need to understand why. in this manner, i invoke transformation. in this way, i invoke love. the way i always have. the way i've never been able. this is how I embody transformational love:

by making a mess of it. no idea what i am doing, no reason for doing it, just the knowledge that it must be done. this is what it means to serve as a vessel for the divine. this is what it means to engage in meaningful work: you cannot always have even an inkling what any of it could mean. creativity is a form of magic, then again so is love, then again so is anything worth doing, so don’t stop doing it just because it doesn’t make sense. there’s a part of your brain that resists change by refusing to make sense of anything it does not want to confront: remember that the next time you become very confused. it could be the reason it does not make sense to you is because, at least in part, you do not want to understand it. so, don’t bother understanding it, should it be important enough. don’t force the matter into those parameters you are not yet able to completely understand. that will come with time: or it will not, if that is what the magic needs. simply stop and remember and remember: and remember again

memory is a kind of invocation, as is forgetting. patience invokes, though not always what the practitioner anticipates. grief is nothing but invocation, powerful and inevitably overwhelmingly successful, though the nature of what is ultimately invoked can take lifetimes to comprehend. love is all invocation, every sort of it, every shape and whisper, every manner and delivery method, even the terrible ones, and anyone seeking a meaningful experience of love needs to experience the terrible ones. love is all invocation. all invocations go back to love, in the end.

from the floorboards i build my invocation, impromptu and largely unskilled but of potent intent. i build my invocation, i become my invocation, my invocation is all i know. holy, holy, holy, holy. what is here and what has been here all along. what surrounds and what suffuses. what we come to, full of light, filled with light, married to light, mired in light, marred by it: here again, brought to light, open to light, in ecstatic consummation with holy darkness. here again i look out over it and return my own gaze. every syllable spoken in relation to invocation, language not simply humanity’s demonstration of its prioritization of desire but evidence of heaven, the body of god. we speak the body of god into being with tongues aflame. we draw god into form with words. we pronounce god, we exalt god, we question and extort god with our verbal craft.

though we cannot always see the figures and containers, the rivers and eddies, the roaring and receding tides banking every distant shore it is our work, our most holy work, what we want and what we make, who we are and who we might be, who, who again, who, speak this invocation, know the names and comb its energy up from everything that was and all that could be. all those matters we invoke simply by realizing our will to language: our most sacred impulse, our manifest will. i never know what i will say until i take the sacred risk of saying it: and so, i let the words come: my first magic working but, then again, every magic working long after the last.