sorchawench | Recent Entries

I’ve been carrying the sound of the key in my pocket mind, the small, honest clink it
makes when you move. It is a simple thing, metal and shape and weight, and it has
started to feel like a promise with edges. Since I last wrote, I keep thinking about how your
hand finds it when you need steadiness, how your body reaches for what is solid before
your thoughts have to do any work.

That’s the part of you I respect most, the part that refuses to perform. You do not dress up
your needs for approval. You reach. You ground. You choose. And because you choose, I’m
going to do this the right way, with your consent at the center of it, where it belongs.
There’s something I have not said yet. Not because I’m trying to be dramatic. I have
enough darkness around me without manufacturing more. It stays unsaid because it
matters, and I don’t take your nervous system lightly. I know what it costs to let someone
close in a way that changes your breathing. I am not interested in taking that from you
fast. I’m interested in earning it until it feels inevitable and safe.
You should know what the door means to me. Not the mechanics of it. Not the lock, not
the hinge, not the clever part. The emotional truth.

That door is the only place I let myself be completely honest.

I don’t mean honest in the casual way people say it when they want permission to be
careless. I mean honest in the way that makes a man’s throat tighten because he can feel
his own guard wanting to rise. Honest in the way that costs me something, because it
asks me to be seen without my usual armor. It is the one threshold where I do not hide
behind competence or charm or that leather-jacket edge you’ve probably already
catalogued as trouble.

I built it to hold truth gently. Yours, if you want it held. Mine, if you want to hear it. It is not
a trap, and it is not a test. It was never meant to corner you into anything. It was meant to
give you a room where your yes means something and your no is treated like sacred law.
That’s my doorway rule, the one underneath all the teasing: you keep your control. Always.

You remember the washer I sent, that dull little circle that looks like nothing until you
understand it. Ordinary on purpose. Reliable on purpose. When you slide it onto the key
and close your fist, you are telling your body, and me, that you want steadiness. No
explanation required. I like that we have a language that does not ask you to justify
yourself. I like that your privacy gets to stay yours.

Here is me using that same respect with you now.

I want to ask your permission to tell you one thing I have never said in any life.
If you say yes, I will tell you. If you say no, I will stop. No sulking. No punishment. No
pressure disguised as patience. You get to choose the pace, and I will match it with a
steadiness that does not waver.

I can already hear the way you might try to make it lighter, to deflect with that sharp little
humor when something gets too tender. I enjoy your teeth, Love. I also enjoy your
softness. I can hold both.

This is what I know about you, and it is not a guess. You like intensity when it is anchored.
You like heat when it comes with care. You like a man who can look at you like he sees the
real you, and then prove it with how he handles your boundaries. So I’m going to prove it
again, plainly: you are safe with me. You are wanted with intention. You are chosen in ways
that show up in the boring details, not only in the pretty words.

Still, I am going to offer you a choice that matters.

Do you want the truth in full sentences, the kind you can reread until it settles into your
bones? Or do you want it in the language I default to when I’m trying not to shake, the
quiet, stripped-down kind that feels like a hand on the back of your neck guiding you
closer?

Either way, I’m asking first.

I wrote it down already. Of course I did. I’m a man who fixes what he can with his hands,
and when I cannot fix something, I build a way to carry it. Ink is one of the ways I carry
what I cannot say out loud without risking that it comes out too rough. The paper holds
steady. The words behave. I can make them careful for you.

The page is separate. It is folded clean. It is waiting.

When you read this, I want you to do the key-to-breath ritual once, just because I like the
idea of your fingers warming the metal the way you warm everything you touch when you
finally let yourself soften. Then ask yourself one honest question: do you want to know me
that deeply yet?

Whatever your answer is, it will be right. Whatever you choose, I will respect it. And I will
still be here, steady and unsentimental about it, because choosing you has never felt like a
risk. It has felt like clarity.

I wrote the truth on a separate page, Muse. I haven’t decided to include it until I know you
want it.

Yours,
R

Current Mood: awake
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

We've all seen the knights ride off into the sunrise, searching for the Princess, locked away by the evil dragon, wizard, witch, ::add your bad guy here::

And we've watched them ride in again, days later, wounded, torn, missing a few maybe, to tell the King, she's in another castle.

~*~

I was in another castle once. Sometimes, the princess is put in castles for her own good. Sometimes not.

~*~

When I was 5, I woke my mother up, hysterical, telling her that I didn't know what was wrong with me, but the only way to stop it was to stab myself in the stomach with a steak knife. This is one of my most vivid memories. My father was away on TDY, in the Army. And so my mother had to deal with this by herself. The adults in the room the next day started talking about GAD*. I could spell it, but had no idea what GAD was.

This was the start of the castles for me.

~*~

When I was 7 or 8, I was jumped as I got off the bus from school by 5 older boys who, like evil dragons, thought it would be fun to knock me down, hold my arms and legs, and beat me up. I fought back, dragging them down the sidewalk, banshee screaming until the neighbors noticed, and chased them off. I didn't go back to school that year. But my doctor started talking to me about PTSD* and Agoraphobia.

Castles became a discussion at this point.

~*~

When Jr. High came along, I was back in school, but dealing with it poorly. I had learned what GAD was by then, and agoraphobia, and knew that mainstream school was not my friend. I ended up in a school for kids who, I swear to you, would have fit into the Breakfast Club nicely. Only I was the crazy one. We spent our breaks between classes with them smoking dubious substances, and me gluing loose change to the metal picnic table.

Castles became a reality for me now.

~*~

One castle was a pristine white hospital in Riverside, Cali. I was 15? 16?

The evil wizard I had been seeing at the time determined that was the best place to put me for a while. Everyday we'd go from counseling session, to group therapy, to arts, to the medication line. Once, we went out into the empty lot next to the hospital with our pillows and screamed into them.

I still question if this was therapeutic or just something they made up, but I do have to say that letting it all out into your pillow was somewhat refreshing.

I had 2 wizards at that castle. Dr. X and Dr. Taylor. Dr. X was my home Dr., who would come in weekly to check on me. Dr. Taylor I saw everyday.

One week, Dr. Taylor took a few days vacay, and I was started on a magic pill called Prozac. During this time, I went a little nuttier than normal. Dr. X came to see me and told me that, "If I didn't get my act together, he was going to send me to a State Psychiatric Castle for long term treatment". That's why he is referred to as Dr. X.

I again, vividly recall the panic. I don't quite recall jumping out of the chair I was in and throwing it at him...but, they said I did, and the chair did end up on the other side of the room, so...I guess I had a negative reaction to that plan.

I ended up in seclusion, with a shot to calm me down. My father cried because he couldn't fix me.

The next Day Dr. Taylor came back and took me outside for a 1 on 1 session. We played ping pong while we talked. I told him about the threat, the chair, the fear. He told me I had smashed 5 ping pong balls in half in the 30 minutes we'd been playing.

I was taken off the Prozac.

~*~

My castle then became a very small place. Home, and school.

I spent my High School years going to school at the local elementary school. After normal classes let out, I would come in and sit with one teacher. I was given assignments, worked at a faster pace than a normal class, and at 17 was 2 credits away from graduating when we got orders to go to Turkey.

~*~

Dad went ahead to Germany, to get things ready to move us. We went to Madill, Ok to live with my Grandmother until we moved.

I went to enroll in the local High School, needing a math class and an elective to graduate. That's when they told me to escape THEIR castle, I would need Oklahoma Government, Math, And 2 semesters of FFA*. Oh, and I was a junior.

So I noped my way to the local GED class and was released from the evil that school had always been for me.

My mother had been diagnosed with MS* at this point, and I recall hearing my grandmother tell her that she needed to secure our money, because my father was not going to take care of her when she ended up in a wheelchair. That's when I knew my grandmother's castle held an evil witch.

~*~

Dad got sick in Germany and was shipped to Sheppard AFB, in Texas to recover, and eventually medically discharge. My brother joined the Army, and I became the princess who stayed home to help my father take care of my mother...who did end up in a wheelchair, and who my father dedicated the rest of her life to caring for.

Damned evil witch.

~*~

One day the princess met a Knight who was searching for meaning in his life. Not necessarily a princess, but trying to find his way in a world that had not treated him kindly. He found peace in the princess, and she found the stability that she had always lacked in life. They shared their first kiss during an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation.

Always had a soft spot for that show.

~*~

I don't have a tower anymore. I have abandoned the castles to live with my knight in a comfortable old home, with a furnace for winter, and 4 children whose paws come tapping when I come home from work. I still deal with GAD, PTSD, occasionally some Agoraphobia (because who wants to people everyday), and Bipolar II disorder. I have exchanged my towers for a home, and love, friendship, and peace.

~*~

33 years now. Happily ever after.

~*~

For the unknowing:
GAD-Generalized Anxiety Disorder
PTSD-Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
FFA-Future Farmers of America
MS-Multiple Sclerosis

Current Mood: creative
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

I belong to a medieval reenactment group known as the Society for Creative Anachronism. Yes, it's similar to a LARP. But so much more...

The Footsteps of the Past

Beneath the banners, proud and bright,
Where steel meets sun and firelight,
The footsteps of the past resound,
As living history gathers round.

In tunics woven, cloaks of green,
They walk again through ages seen.
With swords held high and shields held fast,
They breathe new life into the past.

The blacksmith's hammer rings its song,
The minstrels play as crowds move along.
The dancers whirl, the fires glow,
And ancient tales once more shall flow.

Through castle gates and village squares,
They carry memories, dreams, and prayers.
Not merely costumes, nor a play,
But echoes of another day.

They march where knights and maidens trod,
Beneath the same wide sky of God.
Each footstep tells a story old,
Of courage, honor, hearts of gold.

And though the centuries have flown,
Their spirit lives in flesh and bone.
For history is not just what has passed—
It's every heart that keeps it last.

So raise the flag and sound the drum,
Let all the ages live and come!
For those who celebrate days gone by
Keep ancient stars alive in the sky.

And when the final fires grow dim,
The past still walks, through them, through him.
For every step upon this land
Keeps history alive, hand in hand.

~*~

The Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA) is an international non-profit volunteer educational organization. The SCA is devoted to the research and re-creation of world wide, pre-seventeenth century skills, arts, combat, culture, and employing knowledge of history to enrich the lives of participants through events, demonstrations, and other educational presentations and activities.

Members of the SCA study and take part in a variety of activities, including combat, archery, equestrian activities, costuming, cooking, metalwork, woodworking, music, dance, calligraphy, fiber arts, and much more. If it was done in the Middle Ages or Renaissance, odds are you’ll find someone in the SCA interested in recreating it.

What makes the SCA different from a Humanities 101 class is the active participation in the learning process. To learn about the clothing of the period, you research it, then sew and wear it yourself. To learn about combat, you put on armor (which you may have built yourself) and learn how to defeat your opponent. To learn to brew, you make (and sample!) your own wines, meads and beers.

You will frequently hear SCA participants describe the SCA as recreating the Middle Ages “as they ought to have been.” Some have described it as the Victorian Dream of the Middle Ages.

In some ways this is true – we choose to use indoor plumbing, heated halls, and sewing machines. In the dead of winter, we have more to eat than King’s venison, salt pork and dried tubers. However, a better description is that we selectively recreate the culture, choosing elements of the culture that interest and attract us, and once we find our rabbit hole...down we go!

The SCA “Knowne World” is divided into Kingdoms, each ruled by a pair of monarchs who gain the throne by winning a Crown Tournament, held semi-annually. The monarchs have a council of Great Officers who handle the day-to-day business of running the kingdom.

Within a kingdom (which may cover many states and thousands of square miles) there are subdivisions called Principalities, and local chapters called Baronies, Shires, and Cantons. Each group has its own slate of officers to run it. It is the members of the local chapters who actually plan and run the events, practices, and other activities for SCA participants.

We are passionate individuals who bring history to life by stepping into the world of the Middle Ages. Through clothing, armor, crafts, music, and demonstrations, we step out of the modern, mundane world to experience a glimpse of a time long past. We do more than dress in historical costumes; we walk in the footsteps of those who lived centuries before us.

At our gatherings, we recreate the sights and sounds of another age. Knights demonstrate sword fighting, blacksmiths work with traditional tools, merchants display handmade goods, and the populace bring us back in time with their chosen garb.

For many reenactors, the experience is about more than entertainment. It is a way to connect with history, understand the lives of ordinary people, and preserve traditions that might otherwise be forgotten. Research, craftsmanship, and dedication help make their portrayals as authentic as possible.

Walking among these living reminders of history can feel like traveling through time. The sound of footsteps on cobblestones, the ring of a blacksmith's hammer, and the sight of banners fluttering in the wind awaken our imagination. For a moment, the distance between the past and present seems to disappear.

Ultimately, medieval reenactors remind us that history is not simply something written in books. It is a story of real people, their struggles, dreams, and achievements. By following the footsteps of the past, reenactors keep those stories alive and inspire future generations to discover, appreciate, and cherish our shared heritage.

Current Mood: contemplative
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy
Current Music: snoring dogs

Oh boy. Our writing competition has thrown us a Wheel of Chaos double prompt week. We have 2 entries to write, in a week.

In another Castle

and

"kako no ashioto", which translates to "footsteps of the past".

::watches ideas flitter like butterflies in her mind:: Someone hand me a net...

A spinning wheel

Current Mood: confused
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

Since I last wrote, I’ve caught myself thinking about the space around you. The world has
a way of leaning in when it senses something tender and private, like it wants to press its
fingerprints all over it. I don’t like that. I like you with room to breathe, with your shoulders
loose, with your attention belonging to you.

You do not have to tell me what it was, or who, or how it showed up. I can read the small
signs in the way your energy changes. The slight tightening behind your eyes. The way
your hand finds the key a little faster, like your body is reaching for something steady
before your mind can form a sentence. That is enough information for me to act with care
instead of curiosity.

Here is what I want you to know, clearly, in writing: privacy with me is not secrecy that
makes you smaller. Privacy is a kind of shelter. It is me stepping in between you and the
crowd without turning it into a scene, without turning you into a story. You keep your
dignity. You keep your choices. You keep your quiet.
I’m a practical man, and when something matters, I build a system around it. Something
simple. Something that works on the worst day, when your brain is tired and words feel
like a task. So I’m giving you a plan you can carry without effort. It has three parts, and
every part belongs to you.

First, a way to create space on your own. When you feel the world getting too close, put
your thumb on the ridged teeth of the key and take one slow breath that fills your ribs.
Not a performance. Just a physical reset. Let the metal chill your skin for a second, then let
your heat change it. That little shift is your reminder that you can change the temperature
of a moment. You can decide what gets to stay near you.

Second, a sentence you can use without explaining anything. Keep it short so it feels like
strength, not a debate: “I need a minute.” That is it. No apology. No extra words to soften it.
The right people will respect it. The wrong ones do not deserve an expanded version.
Third, and this is the part that makes my hands itch to be useful, a discreet signal you can
use to ask for my steadiness. I’m tying it to something ordinary on purpose, because
ordinary objects disappear in plain sight. Inside this letter you’ll find a plain metal washer,
the kind you’d see on any workbench. Dull silver, a little weight to it, nothing pretty about
it until you understand what it means.

I kept it in my palm long enough that it warmed up, then I set it aside like a promise.
When it reaches you, I want you to decide where it lives. On your key ring if you want it
close. In your pocket. In the bottom of your bag. Anywhere you can reach without looking.
The signal is simple: when you need me, you slide that washer onto the key and close your
fist around both for one steady breath.

You do not have to send a message. You do not have to craft a reason. You do not have to
translate what you are feeling into something digestible for other people. You use the
signal, and you let that be enough. It is your way of telling me, wordlessly, that you want
space made. You want the room to exhale. You want my presence in the way you prefer it,
calm and controlled and on your side.

And because I know you, I can already hear the skeptical little sound you make when
something is too tender. You’re going to think, A washer? Really? Darling, I fix things for a
living. The most reliable parts are never glamorous. They hold. They keep things aligned.

They make the whole structure safer. This one is yours.

It also gives me a quiet thrill, if I’m honest. The idea that you’ll reach for something I gave
you, something that has touched my hands, and that you’ll feel your nervous system
recognize it as permission to soften. That kind of intimacy makes me patient. It makes me
careful. It makes me feel protective in the cleanest way.

Soon, when you find yourself in a room that feels a little too loud, I want you to remember
this: you are not required to withstand everything just because you can. You get to choose
what you allow near you. You get to choose who you answer. You get to choose the pace
of every threshold, including the one with your name on it.

And if you ever want to test it with me, you can. Use the washer and the key, take that
breath, and let your body tell you the truth. If your shoulders drop, we’ll call it evidence. If
your pulse steadies, we’ll call it yours.

If you ever need me, you won’t have to explain, Sweetheart. You’ll only have to use the
signal.

Yours,
R

Current Mood: groggy
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

So this weekend, instead of writing my entry, I went camping. It was the time of Samhain and one of the local SCA groups was hosting the event. They always have a bonfire for people to say goodbye to their loved ones, make wishes for the coming year, and release the grief built up over time.

This year one Lady came with a bag, she'd been diagnosed with cancer 2 year prior, and had saved every wristband from every hospital stay, chemo and radiation treatment, and surgery. She announced that as of that weekend, she was cancer free. And she threw those bands into the fire.

I added my log for Kharma, who we lost in May. My therapist, the World's Greatest Headshrinker, tells me that I cling to grief, instead of feeling it and releasing it. And so I fall apart, months after loss, when the grief ball gets too big.

The Priestess who blesses the fire said as she wandered the site, gathering the materials for her head wreath and reading the omens, she saw signs of snakes. An element of change. And butterflies. An element of growth.

And so my log was in remembrance of Kharma, my underbite Princess, my last link to Loki, she was a Bitch.

And to change and grow through grief.

And the fire burned...

A large bonfire in the night

Current Mood: melancholy
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

Duncan handed Seamus the bread and a mug of beer. A shilling was handed over between the two men who stood over the body of Duncan's brother, Sean. Seamus held it tight. This was unusual, too much for his normal payment, but this was an extra special ritual today.

Seamus ate the bread and drank silently, then softly, "I give easement and rest now to thee, dear man, that ye walk not down the lanes or in our meadows. And for thy peace I pawn my own soul. Amen."

The room responded, "Amen". Seamus then walked around the foot of the bier and out of the house. He had done his job and he was no longer needed or wanted. He limped into the fog and drizzle of the Welsh morning.

The burial rites would be continued by the family, but his job was only as the sin-eater. There specifically to take on Sean's sins, so that he could enter heaven with a clean spirit.

He limped slightly as he trudged through the town. People grew silent as he passed. Mothers pulled skirts around small children so they would not see him. Whispers followed him as he walked through the market stalls.

The entire town knew what Seamus did, even though he was outcast and lived off the charity of the villagers. But today was different, and today everyone knew whose sins he'd taken on.

~*~

Everyone knew that Sean was, if anything, a man with many sins. No one wanted his soul to linger the town. He was a drunk, which, by normal standards was not surprising. But he was a mean drunk. His mood would swirl dark and dangerous when the ale flowed in his veins. He was unable to hold down a job to provide for the family. And drunken fights in the Tavern were not uncommon.

But when he had beaten poor Daffyd near to death, and left him brain addled and toddler-like, the community knew that Sean had demons that chased him.

~*~

The night he died was almost omen like in it's form. A dark moon. The skies hung low and threatened a deluge to come. Thunder rumbled across the mountains and moors. The winds blew through the town, rattling windows and doors and old lady Pritchard swore she heard the cries of the bean-sidhe in the darkness.

Families huddled close to hearth fires and called on the Old Gods to protect them. Sean however was on a tear that night. He'd been working as a stableman for the Laird and had been let go after he'd left the stall door unlatched of the Laird's prize hunter, who had wandered out and ate from the grain bin and foundered.

Sean, unemployed again, and with no prospects was enraged. Grasping a flask in his fist, he wandered the streets and alleys of the village, looking for someone to pick a fight with, someone with whom he might also pick their pockets.

Drunk and bleary eyed, Sean stumbled around the corner of the baker's house and found what he'd been looking for. A victim. For, huddled against the walls, taking in what heat he could from the ovens, was Seamus...the town's outcast. The pathetic rag man that everyone in town supposedly feared. Sean never understood the fear, the rag man was slight, limped, lived off scraps and what he could catch in snares in the nearby woods.

Sean turned to the silent form and pulled his dagger. The deadly blade barely showed in the darkened night. "Hey, rag man!", he bellowed, "Give me your coin, or give me your life!" With that he swung the dagger toward Seamus's huddled form. But Seamus had heard him coming. He had dodged many a kick or a shove from others. With what seemed to be a seamless grace, Seamus ducked Sean's wild swing, and came up with his own dagger. One slice, across his neck, and Sean's massive body collapsed to the ground.

Seamus stood there for a moment, blood dripping from his blade. He looked up, to see if anyone else had witnessed the deadly encounter...but the streets were dark and silent. Seamus had always been a practical, level headed man. He knew he'd face the noose for murder, if he was found, and so, wiping his bloody blade on Sean's back, he turned into the darkness and slipped away. As unseen in the night, as he was during the day.

~*~

The constables closed the case quickly, as no one really was mourning Sean's demise, and the evidence of his killer being severely lacking. The family prepared the body for the funeral, and Duncan himself walked to the small shack on the outskirts of town to ask Seamus to come and perform the old rites.

"I give easement and rest now to thee, dear man, that ye walk not down the lanes or in our meadows. And for thy peace I pawn my own soul. Amen."

And so it was done. His shiny shilling tucked close in his pocket, Seamus trudged through the town and out into the moors. Looking around, he noted that he was alone. It was then he stuck his finger down his throat and forced himself to throw up the bread and beer, so recently consumed.

"Rot in Hell, where ya deserve, ya scoundrel Sean! May the Devil be there to welcome ye!"

~*~

A sin-eater is a person who consumes a ritual meal in order to spiritually take on the sins of a deceased person. The food, generally bread and beer, was believed to absorb the sins of a recently deceased person, thus absolving the soul of the deceased.

People typically hired a Sin Eater in situations where the deceased died unexpectedly. In time, the practice expanded in popularity, so that Sin Eaters also attended to people who had just died of natural causes — because people believed the ritual could help prevent the dead from wandering the countryside after death.

In Meso-American civilisation, Tlazolteotl, the Aztec goddess of vice, purification, steam baths, lust and filth, and a patroness of adulterers (her name literally means 'Sacred Filth'), had a redemptive role in religious practices. At the end of an individual's life, they were allowed to confess misdeeds to this deity, and she would cleanse the soul by "eating its filth".

Cultural anthropologists and folklorists classify sin-eating as a form of ritual. It is most commonly associated with 18th-19th century Scotland, Ireland, Wales, English counties bordering Wales, and Welsh culture. The term "sin-eater" appears to derive from Welsh culture.

This wasn’t an especially well-paid job — the Sin Eater would receive a half-shilling or more, in addition to the scant meal. A half-shilling amounts to no more than a couple of US dollars when inflation is accounted for.

The use of Sin Eaters appears to have ceased in the early 20th Century. Immigrants possibly carried out in the tradition in Appalachian areas of the United States.

My question was, what if the Sin-Eater didn't think the person's sins SHOULD be absolved?

Current Mood: busy
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

DATA: What is death?

PICARD: Oh, is that all? Well, Data, you're asking probably the most difficult of all questions. Some see it as a changing into an indestructible form, forever unchanging. They believe that the purpose of the entire universe is to then maintain that form in an Earth-like garden which will give delight and pleasure through all eternity. On the other hand, there are those who hold to the idea of our blinking into nothingness, with all our experiences, hopes and dreams merely a delusion.

DATA: Which do you believe, sir?

PICARD: Considering the marvellous complexity of our universe, its clockwork perfection, its balances of this against that, matter, energy, gravitation, time, dimension, I believe that our existence must be more than either of these philosophies. That what we are goes beyond Euclidian and other practical measuring systems and that our existence is part of a reality beyond what we understand now as reality.

~*~

Picard: You want to die.

Data: Not exactly, sir. I want to live, however briefly, knowing that my life is finite. Mortality gives meaning to human life, Captain. Peace, love, friendship. These are precious because we know they cannot endure. A butterfly that lives forever is really not a butterfly at all.

Current Mood: sad
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

I shelled out $200 today for one of my dogs, who was refusing to put weight on her left hind foot, to come out of the vet's office with the knowledge that she has a Stage 5 heart murmur, an enlarged heart, and will need to be on heart medication for the rest of her life. And then, when getting heartworm pills, I had to tell them to take Loki and Kharma off my "Owned Dog List" since both of them have passed away.

I now have a very large sad.

A black and tan Chi-weenie dog

Current Mood: sad
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

After the rain, when everything smells clean, you will realize we crossed something you
cannot unfeel.

Since I last wrote, I have been carrying a kind of steady heat under my skin, the sort that
makes a man go quiet because he is busy keeping his control gentle. You gave me
permission to want you with my whole chest and still keep you safe inside it. I have not
taken that lightly for a second. I have been living like my hands have a new job: protecting
the part of you that softens when you are chosen on purpose.

I keep thinking about the way rain changes the world without asking anyone’s approval. It
just arrives and makes everything honest. The air turns sharp. The pavement goes dark
and glossy. Streetlight becomes a gold spill across water. Every sound gets closer, like the
sky pulled the whole city in for privacy. It felt like our kind of weather from the beginning,
the kind that gives permission without pushing.

You already know what happened, because you were there. Still, I want you to have it in
writing, the way we do. I want you to be able to unfold this and feel it again in your body,
warm and certain.

When the rain finally found us, you stepped out the way I asked, for one breath, and I saw
you. You did not look like someone bracing. You looked like someone deciding. That is the
version of you I can never forget, and I never want to.

I came to you with my jacket in my hand, not as a dramatic gesture, as a simple one.
Leather holds heat. It holds scent. It holds the shape of a man’s shoulders and turns it into
shelter. I set it around you like a boundary I was responsible for, and I watched your eyes
as I did it. Your consent sat there, clear as a lit window. Your shoulders eased. Your
breathing widened. That was my yes.

Then we did the thing I have been wanting since the first line I ever wrote you, the thing I
kept making myself wait for because you deserved patience, not hunger.

We danced.

Not in a ballroom, not in front of anyone who could steal it from us. Just you and me and
rain pressing cold kisses to our skin while the air between our bodies stayed warm. My
hand found yours. My other hand settled at your waist like it belonged there because you
allowed it. Water slid down my knuckles, and you laughed under your breath, that small
sound you make when you are trying to pretend you are unshaken.

I can still hear you, just one soft line, nearly lost in the rain: “You’re trouble.” You were right,
Love. I am. I am the kind that shows up steady, the kind that stays.

I did not rush you. I did not turn it into something it wasn’t. I held you close enough to feel
the truth in your pulse, and I kept my mouth near your ear like a promise with manners. If
you had used the stop word, I would have frozen on the spot. You never needed it. Instead,
you leaned in. You chose closer.

Here is what I want you to understand about the strange remembering I have confessed
to you, the part of me that recognizes you beyond logic. It has never been a chain. It has
always been a vow looking for a life sturdy enough to keep it.

Whatever I knew of you before, whatever my mind insists it has seen, it only matters
because it taught me the shape of you: the real you. The brave, observant, soft-edged
woman who wants intensity with safety built into it. The one who needs to be wanted
without being handled like an object. The one who needs devotion that does not flinch. I
see the real you. I’m saying it again because it stays true in every kind of weather.

So here is my point of no return, written plain.

I am choosing you in the ways that matter privately. In how I speak about you. In where I
place my attention. In the patience I practice. In the restraint I keep sharp, because it
protects what we are building. In the way I will always make room for your no, and still
look at you like you are everything I wanted.

I want your choice back, equally intentional. Not a grand announcement. Just a simple
decision that lives in your bones. If you can give me one honest line, the way we do, I will
take it like a vow.

“Say it again. Just for me.” Write what you want. Write what you’re ready for. Write what
you are calling this. I will respect every word.

There is one more thing, and this is me putting weight in your palm and trusting you with
it.

You will find a key with this letter. Hold it for a second before you decide what it means.
Feel the cold bite of metal warming to you. Feel how real it is, how undeniable. I like giving
you something your fingers can argue with. I like leaving you with proof.

Keep it. Keep it the way you kept my jacket around your shoulders in the rain, like a shelter
you chose.

Keep the key, Sweetheart. The door it fits has your name on it, and I have not told you
what is waiting inside.

Yours,
R.

Current Mood: awake
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy
Current Music: Grey's Anatomy

We had a day and a half of rain here. Almost 5 inches in 48 hours, and went from the 90*'s to a high of 39* like it saw a State Trooper on the side of the road. It's cold this morning. So the furnace is on, cause our house gets COOOOOOOLLLLLLD. Even though next week it's going to be in the 80's again.

Magpie and Honey are laying in the dog bed in front of the furnace, enjoying a bake.

2 dogs laying in a bed in front of the furnace

2 dogs laying in a bed in front of the furnace

Current Mood: peaceful
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy
Current Music: 48 Hours Mystery in the background

Later, when you hear your own name, you will realize you like how it sounds in my careful
hands.

Since I last wrote, I have caught myself doing something ridiculous for a man my age: I
have been testing words in my mouth like I am trying on rings I do not deserve yet. I say
them quietly, under my breath, while I’m working, while my hands are busy and my mind
has too much room to circle you. Some words feel easy. Some feel like a promise you only
make when you plan to keep it with your whole body.

You have already taught me that intensity is only worth anything when it stays safe. You
get to feel wanted without being cornered. You get to be chosen without being chased.
So I’m not going to take a single inch of language you have not handed me.
Here is what I want, and here is how I am asking.

I want permission to call you Love in a deeper way than a passing tease. Not as a habit.
Not as a line. As a private name that means: I am paying attention, I am here, I am steady,
and you do not have to brace around me. If you read that and your shoulders drop, that is
a yes I can feel even through paper. If you read it and something in you goes still, you can
say no, or you can ask me to choose another word, and nothing will sour between us. Your
control stays intact. The stop word stays sacred. My pride can handle a boundary,
sweetheart. My devotion is built for it.

The reason I am asking so carefully is simple. A name changes the air. It turns a glance
into a claim, and I have earned enough of you to want that, while still respecting the part
of you that needs everything to be clean and chosen.

I keep thinking about your wrist, the small place where truth gives itself away. I keep
thinking about how you can pretend you’re calm until someone touches you there and
your pulse tells on you. That is the kind of honesty I like. Quiet. Undeniable. Yours. When I
imagine saying your name, I imagine doing it the same way I would touch you there: with
intention, with gentleness, and with the full awareness that you could pull back. You
would not have to explain. I would simply stop.

I have a confession tucked into this, too, because I promised you clarity. The “another life”
feeling in me has sharpened lately, like a blade being honed. Not in a tragic way, and not
in a way that asks you to carry anything heavy. It is more like recognition getting braver.
Like my memory is done whispering and wants to speak in a normal voice. When I think
of you, I get that old, steady certainty again, the one that has no logic and still feels
honest: I see the real you. I always have, in whatever strange way my life has known how.

You’re going to make a face at that, I can feel it. That skeptical little lift, like you’re deciding
whether to let me get away with being poetic. Fair. Keep me honest. It’s one of the
reasons I like you so much.

So I’ll earn my poetry with proof. Here is your two-line poem, and I am keeping it plain on
purpose:
Your name in my mouth is a vow I can keep.
Your safety in my hands is the only rule I won’t bend.

Do you hear the difference? This is where I let myself sound a little more possessive, and
you get to decide if it lands the way I intend. When I say I want you, I mean I want you
protected from anything that makes you feel small. I mean I want your softness kept
intact. I mean I want to be the man you can lean into without wondering what it will cost
you.

There is a kind of claiming that feels like control, and there is a kind that feels like shelter. I
am offering you shelter, with the door open and the light on, and your hand on the lock
the entire time.

If you want to test it, give me one line back, the way we do. Tell me whether I have
permission. You can write it sharp, you can write it sweet, you can write it like you are
trying to pretend you do not care. I’ll hear you anyway. If it helps, borrow my favorite little
request, the one that makes honesty feel like a dare and a kiss at the same time: “Say it
again. Just for me.”

And if your answer is yes, then I will do what I have been circling for too long. There is a
word I have avoided because once it exists between us, it becomes real in a way I cannot
take back. I want it real. I want it spoken with your eyes on mine, close enough to see the
tiny changes in your breathing, close enough to stop the second you ask, close enough
that you feel chosen in your bones.

If you let me name what we are, I will tell you the word I have been avoiding, and where I
want to say it to your face.

Yours,
R.

Current Mood: awake
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

Did you know we have museums for coprolite?!?!?!

It's true!

We call them Congress and the Senate.

We store people older than shit there, to make our laws.

Crazy, right?

::insert Darth Vader's theme music here:: The midterm elections are coming up.

We're going to vote on the least shitty candidate, hoping and praying that the promises they've made aren't going to get us into deeper shit than we're already in. And ya gotta admit, it's pretty deep.

Most of the people there have no idea of the shit we're dealing with on a daily basis, because they get paid wild shit-tons of money to tell us that they're in touch with the pulse of the country.

And, there comes a time in everyone's life when you sit back and acknowledge the fact that for all our fancy educations, training, and years of experience as a citizen...

It means exactly, shit.

These shit talking politicians will win and do exactly what they want for as long as they can keep shit together enough not to piss us off by the next election.

See, some of them have been there a loooooooong time.

I'm a fan of Term Limits. Retirement to Happy Acres Senior Living Center for Politicians. Cause some of these politicians and I share jack shit in common.

Take Texas.

No, really....take it, please.

Ken Paxton, Attorney General, made a sweetheart deal for a child molester who just happened to throw a shit talking lawyer, who works for one of his biggest campaign donors into the case.

He's made deals with data centers, reducing taxes for them, in exchange for ANOTHER shitload of money for his campaign.

He was IMPEACHED by his own party for some 20 charges, until his shithead wife recused herself from testifying.

And now he's running for the Senate. You think I'm voting for THIS piece of shit?!?!?!?!?!?

That's the shitty thing about politicians.

If they are going to do it, nothing you say will change a damn thing. And the shit rolls on...

Don't even get me started on Mitch McConnell...

~*~

So, what do you do? Give up? Throw in the towel and turn in your Human race membership card? Sometimes that sounds like the shit.

But nope. We plug away, talk, offer shoulders, be supportive, give advice, lend an ear, speak from the heart.

And pray. Pray that we voted for the right shittalker.

When do you know if you made a difference? Shit, I don't know...when life gets less scary?

What will the dawn's early light bring?

Hopefully, a change in the way shit's been done.

Current Mood: crappy
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

I have been carrying a promise in my pocket since I last wrote, turning it over like a coin I
keep checking is still there. Some promises are meant for grand gestures. This one is
meant for the quieter moments, the ones where you are alone with your own thoughts
and you wonder if what we are building can stay steady when nobody is watching.
It can. It will.

I am not offering you fireworks. I am offering you a man who shows up the same way
every time. A man whose hands do what his mouth claims. A man who keeps his temper
inside his ribs, keeps his attention on you, keeps his choices clean. Consistency is a kind of
romance people forget to ask for, until they have it. I want you to have it.

Since you have already seen me repair what I handled wrong, I am going to make this part
simple. Here is what you can count on with me: discretion that protects your peace,
warmth that does not demand anything from you, and patience that does not turn into
distance. If you want closeness, I will come closer with permission. If you want space, I will
give it without turning it into punishment. Your control remains real. The stop word
remains sacred. My loyalty remains boring in the best way, meaning it does not wander or
entertain itself with games.

You once made me laugh with that look you give, the one that says you can smell
exaggeration from across a room. Fine. I will be precise, because you like precision almost
as much as you like being teased.

I promise I will never rush your body or your heart. I promise I will ask, then wait, and I will
make waiting feel wanted instead of withheld. I promise that when I touch you, even in
the smallest ways I am allowed, it will be the kind of touch that settles you. A palm at your
back, a knuckle brushing your wrist, the quiet pressure that says, I’m here, you’re safe, you
don’t have to brace.

That brings me to your wrist.

I want you to do something for me the next time you catch yourself reaching for comfort
without thinking. Touch the inside of your wrist with two fingers, right where your pulse
insists on being honest. Feel it. It is steady because you are steady. Remember my
promise sitting right there with your heartbeat: I will not hurry you. I will not take what
you have not given. I will not confuse hunger with entitlement.

I can almost hear you exhale, and I can almost hear the next thing you would say if I were
close enough to earn it. You do not have to be brave all at once with me. Small is good.
Small is real.

So this is where I ask you for one small want, out loud.

One. Not an essay. Not a careful paragraph you revise until it sounds calm. A single want
you can claim without apologizing for it. It can be as simple as where you like a hand to
rest, what kind of words make you feel most chosen, what you want me to remember
when the world gets loud. Say it to the room if you have to. Whisper it into the sleeve of
my jacket if that is the easiest place to be honest. Then, if you feel like letting me have it
too, write it to me in one line.

And when you do, I want you to use our little call-and-response the way it was always
meant to be used. Say it again. Just for me.

I know what you are thinking, because you are sharp. You are going to ask what I am
giving in return for that honesty.

Everything that matters.

Here is my two-line poem for you, spare on purpose, because I am trying to be the kind of
man you can trust even when I am being romantic:

I will choose you in the quiet, where truth survives.
I will make my wanting feel like shelter.

Shelter. That word keeps circling back, does it not? Leather warmed by your hands. A
low-lit corner where the rest of the world cannot crowd you. A presence at your shoulder
that changes your breathing. That is the sort of promise I can keep without making
speeches.

Now, the last thing. The signal.

We have danced around the weather in these pages like it is a secret language, and
maybe it is. Rain is honest. It makes everyone look a little undone, and it gives permission
to step out of whatever role you were playing. I want to borrow that permission with you,
in the smallest, safest way. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that demands a scene.

A meeting of eyes. A shared breath. A moment that belongs to us because we decided it
does.

If you feel the air shift and you hear that first soft insistence against glass or pavement,
remember what I am telling you here, Muse. You are not guessing with me. You are
chosen on purpose, and I am steady on purpose.

When the rain finally finds you, step outside for one breath, and look for the place I told
you to meet my eyes.

Yours,
R.

Current Mood: awake
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy
Current Music: Morning News in the background

I broke a tooth this weekend, and I'm probably going to get it pulled. Any little bit helps, and I hate to ask....but, well shit.

Dental work needed!!!!

Current Mood: depressed
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

Fight, flight, or freeze.

Fight, flight, or freeze?

Fight, flight or freeze!

I can feel the hum running through my veins constantly. It's 6:45AM...the sun not up yet. My bills are paid, I'm healthy-ish, I have a good job, I have friends, lovers, family. I'm going to catch a shower soon, get dressed for work, and spend the day busy. My life is not bad.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

I feel it most in my chest. Is that my heart that aches with the constant draw of energy? My lungs which expand with each breath. Is that where it hurts?

Fight, flight, or freeze.

Where is the plug located? If I knew, I'd unplug it. The slight, constant hum of energy being drawn. It's a low thrum, barely noticeable to myself but it's driving me slowly insane with anxiety. Like standing in the Cowboy's AT&T stadium, 80,000 TO 100,000 people, with everyone whispering something different at the same time, and you can't pick out anything specific.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

Can you hear it? Do you hear them? The whispers? No, it's completely unnoticeable to anyone outside of me.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

~*~

It's 1:45PM and I'm meeting with my new psychiatrist for our 2nd visit. I'm telling him about LJ Idol, Vampire Load, and what I've written. I told him, I have a constant flow of energy, the constant level of anxiety and a weird impending sense of doom.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

He asked me if I knew the basic definition of an Obsession.

I said it's a thought that there's something that you fixate on, that you think you need, that you MUST have to survive.

He said I had a basic idea, but that I've attached it to a feeling...my anxiety. It's not that I NEED it to survive, but I've become obsessed with the slow charge of energy, the voices (which he does not relate to schizo-affective hallucinations, but my own thoughts, playing on loop in the background of the anxiety).

And I told him I had a headache. A constant, low grade headache, caused by the trickle of energy, so tiny, but SO LOUD.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

So we're trying a new med. Propranolol. 10-20mgs...if I don't notice a change with 10, I can take 20. It's actually a blood pressure med, but apparently can be used for physical effects of anxiety.

~*~

Day 1. I took my morning ADHD med and 10mgs of the new med. I'm sitting here, feeling around in my brain, my body, mental fingers poking the previous sore spots. And right now, I think I'm ok.

I can live with ok. We shall see...

Current Mood: okay
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

Since I last put ink to paper, something small turned sharp at the edges. The kind of
misunderstanding that happens when two people are trying to keep something private
and end up sounding careful instead of clear. I felt it the moment it happened, like grit
between my teeth. You do not deserve grit from me.

So I am going to do this the way I should have from the start. I am going to listen first,
then speak plainly.

What I heard beneath your words was a question you did not even ask outright: Are you
safe with me, or are you going to have to keep guessing where you stand?

You should never have to guess with me.

I can handle your suspicion. I can handle your fire. I can handle you pulling back to check
the ground. I have lived long enough to know that trust does not respond to force. It
responds to consistency. It responds to a man saying, calmly, I understand what you
meant, and I am here anyway.

So here is my precise apology. I was too indirect. I wrapped my meaning in discretion and
called it protection, and it landed like distance. That is on me. Privacy is a tool I use to keep
your peace, and I used it clumsily. If I made you feel shut out, I am sorry. I am not
interested in building a door between us and calling it romance.

You have a right to ask for clarity. You have a right to want warmth without decoding me.

And, Love, you have it.

My loyalty is simple. It does not wander. It does not play games. It does not test you. When
I choose, I choose with my whole chest. You have been treated like something to be
handled carefully, because you are, and because I intend to be the kind of man whose
care feels steady instead of complicated.

I can already hear you in my head, that little exhale you do when you catch me being too
intense. Fine. I will soften it with a truth and a little humor, the way I should. I am a
blue-collar man with a leather jacket and an inconvenient talent for feeling things deeply.
That is the whole scandal. If you were hoping for a more glamorous problem, you are out
of luck.

There is something else I owe you. A confession about this very letter.
I did write you a first version. It came out hard. Protective in the wrong direction. The kind
of message a man writes when his pride is bruised and he mistakes that bruise for
principle. I read it once and heard how it would land on you. I pictured your eyes
narrowing, your shoulders tightening, that competent composure snapping into place like
armor. I refuse to be the reason you need armor.

So I took that page outside, folded it in half, and watched the flame take it. Paper curls fast
when it is wrong. The smoke smelled bitter for a moment, then clean. My hands did not
shake. The decision was easy. You are more important than my ego.
Here is what I want to repair, specifically. I want you to feel, in your body, that I am near in
the way you asked for. Steady. Warm. Present.

I want you to remember that you have a stop word with me, and that it is real. One word
and I ease back, no sulking, no punishment, no coldness to make you regret using it.
Control stays in your hands. Always.

And I want you to tell me what you need so I can meet you there without guessing. Do
you want more explanation when I go quiet? Do you want fewer half-statements and
more plain sentences? Do you want me to make a rule for myself, the way we do, and
write it down so you can hold me to it?

I’m offering this as a gesture you can feel. If you still have my jacket near you, put your
hand inside the cuff for a second and let the leather warm under your palm. Picture my
thumb pressing there, a simple grounding touch, and hear me saying one clean line: You
are safe with me.

Our little ritual still matters to me, even on a week like this. So here are your two lines,
honest and unshowy:

I will not let silence do my damage.
I will speak, and I will stay gentle.

After you read this, give me one line back. One sentence, no performance. Tell me what
you need from me to feel settled again. Tell me what makes your chest loosen. Tell me
where I stepped wrong, and what would make it right. I can take it. I would rather have
your truth than your politeness.

I wrote a harsher version of this letter first. I burned it, and I kept the one that chooses you.
Yours,
R.

Current Mood: creative
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy
Current Music: Morning News in the background

While taking care of some business the other morning, I noticed a pea sized lump in ma bewb tissue.

Don't recall there being one there before, so I insisted on poking it and moving it around until the tiddies started complaining about the rough treatment.

Now, before ya'll start squawking about getting a tiddie squishing appointment, it's already in the works. It's about time for my annual anyway, they're just adding a sonogram and diagnostic mammo to my right breast.

I have very heavy, dense, fibrous breast tissue, thanks Mom, for that genetic gift.

This is not my first lump, weird patch, or WTF is THAT moment. And my family doesn't have a history of breast cancer, so I'm not terribly worried at this point.

But in a second breath I think...what if? This time...

Folks, these things would be gone so fast if I did pop + for the C word. I'm not even kidding. While I shared the lump finding on FB, I took the road of education and told everyone they needed to be massaging their tiddies all the time.

Not just the annual smash, but at least a monthly massage, just to check em out.

And who doesn't love getting home from work, shedding the bra, and giving yourself a nice massage. Or letting your partner do it.

But as much as I enjoy encouraging people to feel themselves up, I can't help but feel like I'm sitting here, waiting for an appointment, between a benign fibrous tissue and a very hard place to be.

And it's kinda scary.

Current Mood: distressed
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

Since I last wrote, I have caught myself reaching for restraint the way some men reach for
a weapon. Habit. Discipline. The kind that keeps the room quiet and safe when the air
between two people starts to spark. I like the spark with you. I like it enough that I handle
it carefully.

You gave me your attention, and I have treated it like something breakable in the best
way. Like a glass warmed by your hands, meant to be held, never gripped.
So here is the part I have been circling with my pen, the part that would be easier to keep
in the shadows. I am done making you guess at the shape of my mystery. I owe you clarity,
Muse, delivered without drama and without weight you did not ask to carry.
When I said I recognize you, I meant it with a specificity that still knocks the breath out of
me if I let it. It is not a vague feeling. It is not a pretty story I tell myself when the world
gets dull. It is a memory with texture.

I remember your hands.

Not the general idea of them. Your hands exactly. The way your fingers curl when you are
focused, the small pause before you decide to touch something that matters. In that other
lifetime, you stood close while I was fixing a stubborn hinge, my knuckles scraped and my
patience thinner than I wanted it to be. You reached in anyway, calm as sunrise, and you
wrapped a strip of cloth around my hand like you had done it before. You did not fuss. You
did not make a performance of kindness. You simply looked at me as if you had already
decided I was worth the care.

I can still feel the pressure of that cloth and the warmth of you near my wrist. Clean,
steady, sure. The way it settled something in me that had been restless for years.
That is the truth. That is the kind of truth that can sound like madness when it is said too
loudly, so I am saying it to you softly. I am placing it in your palms with the same respect
you once gave mine.

I am not asking you to believe it on command. I am not asking you to solve it for me. I am
not asking you to build your life around it. I am telling you because you deserve to know
why my attention has felt so deliberate, why I look at you like I have been waiting without
even knowing what I was waiting for.

And because I refuse to make this heavy.

I am still the man in the leather jacket with hands that know how to fix what squeaks and
sticks. I am still the man who can tease you into a smile and then go quiet, watching,
because I like the way you think. I am still the man who asks before he gets closer, who
listens before he reaches, who cares about your comfort as much as he cares about his
own want.

That part stays simple: you are safe with me. You are wanted with a steadiness that does
not spike and vanish. You are chosen in a way that does not demand you prove anything.
I can almost hear you reading that last line with that little tilt of your head, deciding
whether I’m earnest or dangerous. I’m both, in the only way that matters here. Dangerous
to my own restraint. Earnest about your peace.

I told you we have a ritual, and I intend to keep it. Here are my two lines for you, spare and
honest:

I knew your touch before I knew your name.

I still ask for it like it’s the first time.

If that makes your pulse jump, good. Let it jump. If it makes you wary, I respect that too. I
will not crowd you with the idea of fate until it feels like a warm coat and not a chain.
I have my jacket beside me as I write, the leather creaking when I shift my elbow. It smells
faintly of soap and the outside air, the kind of scent that clings to a man who works with
his hands and still remembers to be gentle. I ran my thumb along the cuff and thought
about the way it sat on your shoulders before. Shelter, offered. Never forced.

Here is what I want from you, and it is simple enough to fit into one sentence.

Tell me what you want after you read this. Not what you think you should want. Not what
sounds brave on paper. What you actually want.

If you want distance, I will give you clean space and keep my steadiness exactly where it
belongs. If you want closeness, you will have it in the way that suits you: patient,
controlled, and entirely yours to stop at any point. Either answer keeps you respected.

There’s a phrase I have been holding back because it feels like a vow when it leaves my
mouth, and I do not waste vows. It is this: I see the real you. I see the part you protect. I see
the part you hide when you’re being competent and fine and untouchable.

After you read this, put your hand over your own wrist for a moment. Feel your pulse. Then
write one honest line back, Sweetheart, and choose your direction.

If you want me to stop, I will. If you want me closer, you will have to tell me in your own
words.

Yours,
R.

Current Mood: calm
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy
Current Music: 48 Hours Mystery in the background

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

~*~

So, one of the things I didn't mention in my Introduction is that I am a DRGL (Distinctive Religious Group Leader) for the Pagan community on Sheppard Air Force Base, in Texas.

I am not a Chaplain, as far as the Military is concerned, but for the Pagan men and women who serve, I stand as their teacher, their Priestess, their go-between with our Chaplain point of contact, who currently happens to be a Reformed Protestant.

I've been doing it for 10 years now. And in those 10 years we've fought for recognition, respect, and the same rights as the other religions. We're sponsored by Circle Sanctuary, and the High Priestess, Selena Fox...who fought for the right for fallen Pagan military to have a Pentacle, Mjolnir, or Arwen on their headstones.

We finally won that recognition, although as of 2022, there is no provision for official recognition of Wiccan or Pagan chaplains.

But, our Military Members could get Pagan, Wiccan, Asatru on their dog tags, as of 2007. And we were given access to worship space that didn't involve small dusty rooms filled with storage. We have a lending library, we have supplies, we have a dedicated worship circle under a tree, with meditation benches at the Cardinal Elements.

~*~

And then Pete Hegseth came along. The Director of War.

And under his order, the Department of Defense, for the first time in almost 10 years, has dramatically reduced its number of recognized religious faiths and belief systems by approximately 180. The reforms mark the first time the list has been officially revised since a memo was issued March 27, 2017, decreasing the total number of faiths from 211 to its new number of 31.

He added that members will not be limited to the list of “religious affiliation codes” when selecting information for their dog tags. The revised list, according to documents obtained by Military.com, includes Agnostics, Buddhists, Hindus, Islam (Muslims), Judaism, Sikh, and a wide range of Christian-based groups like Baptists, Catholics, Lutherans and Methodists.

Here is the full list:

Agnostic (AN)
Baha'i faith (BH)
Buddhism (BU)
Christian - Assemblies of God (AG)
Christian - Baptist (BA)
Christian - Brethren (BR)
Christian - Catholic (CA)
Christian - Church of Christ (CC)
Christian - Church of God (CG)
Christian - Church of the Nazarene (CN)
Christian - Episcopal/Anglican (EA)
Christian - Evangelical (EV)
Christian - Jehovah's Witnesses (JW)
Christian - Lutheran (LU)
Christian - Methodist (ME)
Christian - Non Denominational (ND)
Christian - Orthodox (OX)
Christian - Other (CO)
Christian - Pentecostal (PE)
Christian - Presbyterian (PR)
Christian - Quaker (QU)
Christian - Reformed (RE)
Christian - Scientist (SC)
Christian - Seventh Day Adventist (SA)
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (CJ)
Hindu (HI)
Islam (Muslim) (IS)
Judaism (Jewish) (JU)
No Religion (NR)
Other Religions (OR)
Sikh (SI)

Guess where we Pagans fall?

Other Religions.

Military members are still allowed to have Wiccan, Pagan, Asatru, and other Pagan religions put on their dog tags, but they have taken a lot of the powers of the Chaplain's Office out of the Chaplaincy, and put it into the hands of Commanders. For instance, one big change is that Beard Waivers for Asatru worshippers now have to be approved through Command staff, and not the Chaplains.

This restructuring of faith codes, which help identify service members as well as the military in planning for appropriated religious coverage to include them, has now excluded minority faith/worldview groups including Atheists, Asatru, Deists, Druids, Eckankar, Heathens, Humanists, Magick, New Age churches, Pagan, Rosicrucianism, Shaman, Spiritualists, Troth, Unitarian Universalists and various Wiccans.

A significant step backwards.

~*~

Every Sunday at 2, I faithfully go to our building, unlock the doors, and welcome the Pagan Airmen who find us. We will be celebrating Mabon on the 20th, in our dedicated Circle, outside under the tree. And we will continue to provide religious support to those who come to us.

This new DOD list is a middle finger to the United States Constitution’s separation of church and state.

Reducing the number of religious faiths from hundreds down to 31 is another absolute, clear, filthy and disgusting, unconstitutional, immoral and unethical attempt to force only the approved solution, getting closer and closer to Christian nationalism.

I would compare the new list to the faiths and beliefs identified by the Department of Veterans Affairs, which recognizes more than 220 belief systems and has more than 80 emblems for headstones.

So, if you're dead, you'll get your emblem. But if you're alive, you can't even get it on your dog tags unless you qualify for one of these specialized faith traditions that in the eyes of Hegseth and other Christian nationalists are worthy of recognition after years of all of the others being there. I know for a fact (confirmed with my Chaplain) that Wiccans and Asatru are safe. But the rest of the Pagan umbrella...not so much.

These men and women swear an oath to uphold the U.S. Constitution. The First Amendment is the free exercise of religion for everybody.

That oath has never been rescinded, which makes the new list an excuse for the failure to provide the free exercise of religion for all people.

That's a tragedy and travesty, absolutely. As far as I'm concerned, that's a violation of the United States Constitution.

Current Mood: angry
Current Location: Casa de Wenchy

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