“…and give no warning to her flight.”

July, the seventh month. We’re on the back side of 2017 now, making our way through summer’s cruel touch, but oh so very close to autumn’s kiss and that season that resides year round in my heart.

I was less adverse to summer in my youth, but I have never been fond of the heat. My greying years have only amplified this. I am at home with the chill and frost, despite my aching bones.

typemark

I was told once that such pains were a not so gentle reminder that we were still alive and had more living to do.

I accept that and hold it close.

I’m not sure why these thoughts are with me on this first day of July, but here they are, lingering amongst the cobwebs and unrealized dreams that make up my cerebral attic.

I have felt magick ebb and flow in my half century spent material. I feel it rising now and it feels good.

So many memories dancing about, unfettered, sparked upon my reading that Marilene Isaacs Kauffman was closing up shop and moving to California.

marileneIn the mid-80s, Marilene was an important figure in my life. She ran a metaphysical shop in Indy that I frequented, particularly because she had a superb sensory deprivation tank. I logged many hours in that tank, usually under the influence of various hallucinogenic concoctions, and logged even more hours in conversation with Marilene.

I had the chance to reconnect with her a few years back, and I was happy for it.

Spending time with her in a haunted fraternal lodge, surrounded by spirits, was a fitting reunion.

She was, and is, a treasure. We’ll miss her here in Indiana.

Of course, thinking back to those past times also rekindles memories of days (and nights) spent with the Coven of the Northern Star, a group of Alexandrian Witches, headed up by a Ball State philosophy professor who had studied with Maxine Sanders.

I vividly recall poring over her Book of Shadows, with many hand written notes left by Maxine herself.

It was a good time to be in pursuit of the answers to all things magical, but then is there ever a bad time?

The old ways are not lost, not when they can be found so easily in the memories of our youth.

 

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