“How do I protect them?” I asked, looking out at the pale smear of post-storm clouds across a strained blue sky.
The answer filtered through in feelings, not words. The kindness offered to stranger and friend alike. The patience when it is all too easy to be impatient. The willingness to stand up and address the tiny things that are wrong day to day – the judgment, the derogatory jokes, the bigotry, the fear-turning-to-anger-turning-to-hate.
This is everyday ma’at, these small acts, these few words. This is the ma’at that goes on to combat isfet and slowly shift the balance, drop by drop, grain by grain.
Gandalf has it right. Even though most of us don’t individually wield great power, we can together still make the vital difference.
My once-familiar haunts are strange to me now; I have been away too long. They repainted the walls and changed the furniture, and everything is brighter and different than I remember. I linger outside in the shadows, awkward and uncertain, listening to the roar of happy conversation that spills out the door like yellow light spills out the window. It is too much to enter, so I turn around again.
My work is full of baby steps now, an inchworm’s efforts. I am still Kemetic, devoted to my gods, but my practice has shrunk down to a tether of daily morning prayers, which I say faithfully. I cleaned my shrine of dust, but have not sat before it yet. I light incense. I bring a flower that my partner gave me for offerings. I do not yet kneel and still my mind to listen. Receptivity is so hard for me right now.
But I reach out in small ways. If I cannot stand the boldness of the main hall, I can at least say hello to individuals as they enter or leave, so I am not alone. I can sit at my own table and welcome a few others to join me, in my own space, which is quieter and gentler, until I can manage to go back to the light and the bustle.
I offer my dinner, my tea. My breath and my love. It is not as much as I want to do, but it will suffice. My gods and my community are not disappointed in me; the only disappointment is my own, and that is an emotion I can work through.
I sit with a feeling I have missed, a feeling I’ve barely felt in over a year. It had come in hints, wisps, little blips on my spiritual radar… but now, the door is open, and I can hear it. I can smell the wind through the woods. I can feel the sunset, the sunrise. The moon’s many silvered faces are no longer strangers. The clouds are a daily miracle of art.
I can feel my gods, my spirituality, calling.
And this feeling stretches beyond Kemeticism, beyond the burning sun and the painted sky, beyond the touch of light on stone and sand and silt. I can feel streams in loam under shadowing trees. I can feel moss and ferns and fallen leaves turning to wet mulch. I can feel cool breezes through a willow’s young boughs.
I have been pagan for longer than I often realize, and this sense of the world – this ability to sense the world – runs deep now. And as depression starts to lift, as I feel a little more human and a little more me, I can stretch out and remember what the rest of the world feels like.
It’s all an echo chamber, a familiar song that I have very much missed, and I find myself humming along. Sometimes off-key, sometimes forgetting the melody, but this lullaby will never be fully alien to me.
Hello, dear friends and readers.
It’s hard for me to break the silence here. Like my physical shrine, this blog has gathered dust and has a thick quiet to it. But like my physical shrine, I can clean it. I can revive it.
And so I do. But first, a little glimpse of my mundane life.
I have experienced SAD (seasonal affective disorder) for well over a decade. I have been able to manage it through spirituality, through self-care, through food and bodywork, through animal therapy, and with my support network. I’ve also experienced varying degrees of social anxiety, which I’ve managed with the same tools (along with, admittedly, a high level of hibernation).
But a year and a half ago, things changed. My migraines had gotten to a frequency that necessitated preventative medication. I was put on a drug that worked brilliantly to knock them down from three times a week to maybe once a month.
Unfortunately, that drug was also used to treat bipolar by flattening out the manic spikes. It’s almost never prescribed without an antidepressant accompanying it, but I was only taking that drug for migraines.
I hit severe depression–clinical depression. The kind of stuff that isn’t ameliorated by sunlight and longer days. The kind of stuff that didn’t give a damn about my personal toolkit and all my self-care.
I didn’t recognize it at first, because my personal life was going through a lot of changes and challenges, too. My partner of seven years and I opened our relationship up when we became polyamorous; we started dating someone; my work was spiraling into a toxic environment with frightening speed. The learning curve for being openly, actively poly was harsh when it’d been years since either of us had been poly (and we’d never been poly together). Coupled with increasing depression, I nearly couldn’t cope.
I stopped taking the anti-migraine meds. My migraines returned, and I expected the depression to lift. I worked very hard to help it lift. And it didn’t change.
I made it to Wep Ronpet, our Kemetic new year, a solid year after I first took the anti-migraine meds. I threw myself into zep tepi with ferocity and a hint of desperation. I had six weeks of a reprieve, wherein which I started dating someone new, adjusted the prior S.O. relationship to something healthier for both of us, and fell in love with my gods again.
…and then the crash. NRE and force of will can only do so much, and depression came back with a vengeance. I got fired for the first time in my life. I was barely able to function; there were nights where I couldn’t manage to feed myself. My imagination constantly, involuntarily served up terrible imagery and terrible ideas. I couldn’t escape my own self-destructive brain, and my body suffered; my immune system faltered, and I got sick half a dozen time in half a year, hitherto unknown to me.
I clung to what helped me through and dropped absolutely everything else. I found a new job and was honest with my boss about my challenges with energy levels. I stopped kicking myself for being unable to do a single project–all I could manage was work, then falling over once I got home. My animals became my only hobby, and they were already my therapy. My partner picked up the slack without complaint.
I decided I had tried enough, worked my ass off enough, and burned myself out enough. What I could do by myself was insufficient. I needed help, and so I turned to a psychiatrist.
Brief tangent: There’s a lot of stigma around mental health and psych meds. I support an individual’s choice to decide if and when they want to try them, and I support education about how much of a process it is to try out different meds and different dosages until one finds what works for oneself. Brains are different; situations are different; meds are different. Meds should not be used as a magic pill, and there’s a lot of non-med work a person with depression and anxiety does to help the process along. Some people can get to a point of getting off meds again, or to the point of only needing them during particularly harsh times; some people need them long-term. There is no shame there. It’s no different than taking insulin for diabetes for the rest of your life or having a cast on a broken leg until it heals.
That said, it’s been five weeks since I started medication, and I’ve begun to experience a higher baseline energy and less frequent crashes. I’m at a strange, alien point where I can actually do things beyond survive–I can manage work, chores, animal care … and maybe a game. Maybe read a little. Maybe write a little, like I’m doing now.
It’s still a process, and will continue to be a process, as we adjust which meds I’m on and their dosages for the best possible effect and the lowest possible side effects.
But I’m getting better. And that feels amazing, given that I had begun to doubt my ability to hold down a job at all not that long ago.
This post is not a promise to resume blogging immediately; I’m still not at a point where I can reliably commit to a consistent anything. But I wanted to write it and share with you my situation, so that you know where I’ve been, and so that you know things are improving bit by bit.
Some part of me registered the change of
quality of light from daylight-golden to
post-sunset-grey, inching towards blackness,
and my heart twinged before my eyes
could even look towards the clock for confirmation.
“It’s hard to shake a decade of SAD,” I told her.
My neurochemistry is as wired to sunfall
as a watch’s gears are wound to second-tick precision.
I wondered if it was too warm still
to be able to light a fire in the hearth.
(So long as it’s under 70*F, right?)
I felt the restless itch, the tumult burning
just beneath my skin, and was already
thinking of ways to combat the darkness
and the wave of depression it towed behind it
when You came.
I hadn’t even been thinking of You, but
in You swept, a fierce orange brightness,
a warmth, a weight, an undimmable light.
And I couldn’t see the twilight anymore.
I couldn’t feel the shadows encroach.
I knew they lingered, just outside the bounds
of Your radiance, but You were all around me
and they could not touch me.
I felt like I was standing inside a lit hearth
and was somehow immune to ever burning.
Just like that, in that moment, You righted me.
And I am grateful beyond words.
The halls are silent and golden-brown.
Sunlight slants through at late afternoon angles.
No breeze stirs the dust that rests on the floor,
and each moment is warm and still.
And yet I walk forth, the touch of light
on my hand a familiar and welcome heat.
I know this geometry of bright and shadow,
tall walls and not-quite-straight path.
I would return to You, except
You never left me.
I would ask Your forgiveness, but
You never needed to give it.
The halls are the throat of a lion,
and here I belong, living
amidst the heka You speak
and the ma’at we breathe.
It is the second day of the Kemetic new year, and we have entered into Heru-sa-Aset’s year. It is a year of victory, of strength, and of working hard to achieve what we desire. It is a year of community, of shared burdens and shared strengths.
I am overjoyed to leave last year behind, to start anew with Zep Tepi. As part of that, and as part of the wisdom of planning my work before I work my plan, I wanted to make a post on my overall “resolutions” or goals for the year. Public accountability, in this case, is a great thing, and I encourage any of my readers, friends, and Kemetic family to call me out if you see me forget or fall short of my own goals.
In keeping with the power of four, I have organized myself in four sections, with four items in each.
I will do less of these things: fewer overwhelmingly social-and-busy weekends, fewer social events with a particular group of people that I like but inevitably leave me too stressed and anxious, fewer large projects, and less placing myself in the position of people-handler for the less-organized.
I will do more of these things: senut once a week, physical activity and exercise, fiction and blog writing (blog once a week), and work on my tiny Jamberry business.
I will maintain a baseline of these things: sleep (yes, I do have to list it, because I tend to deprioritize it), nutrition, tending the house, and tending/handling my snakes.
And, lastly, I will not devote consistent large chunks of time to these things (unless I am happily beset with sudden free time): art (including painting, woodburning, and doodling), music (from practicing to writing new songs), community service (yet!), and everything else that acts as a time-sink.
That last paragraph is the hardest for me; I hate saying no to things I love. But I am spread thin, I am low-spooned, and I need to focus on the core things that make me into a strong, healthy, happy person. No doubt I will still sporadically engage in things that are not in the second and third paragraphs, but my resolution is not to quit everything cold turkey, only to ration and limit the time I spend on side-projects in order to advance my primary goals.
The final, and perhaps most challenging, year goal is heka—not the heka of spells and rituals, but the heka of what I say in my head and in my mouth and in my hands. Depression is an insidious decay of speech patterns, and I will fight its deprecation and pessimism. I will endeavor to clean up my humor a little bit, speak more ma’at in conversations with others, and support a healthy self-image in my thoughts and deeds. I have spent nearly a year putting myself, my wants, my needs, and my health as the very last item on a very long list, and I am done with that. (It only took like a dozen people and two gods to knock some sense in my head. *cough*)
With this, I make public my resolutions—which is heka in and of itself, you know—and I step into the new year with an open mind and a willing attitude.
Di wep ronpet nofret! Happy new year to you all! ♥
Wash my face with the waters of Zep Tepi,
the First Time, before all was said and done.
Break my eyes open with Your light;
lift me up in Your great, gentle hands.
Yesterday is gone and away, as ancient
as the first inundation and the last pyramid.
Today is fresh and pure, ripe and vibrant.
There is hope anew, another chance at choice.
Let us walk together, You and I.
In companionable silence, we will range
far and wide, knives and truths to hand.
Protect me as I, too, serve Ma’at in my way.
And when the sun-that-is-You sets
in a blaze of orange and glory,
I will walk the night through in Your shadow
to reach the dawn’s Zep Tepi again.