they say it’s like dew

I’m a saint woman
I’m a saint woman
I’m a spirit woman
I’m an atmosphere woman
I’m a day woman

I’m a waiting woman
I’m a crying woman
I’m a speech woman
I’m a creator woman

I’m a doctor woman
I’m a wise in the way of the plants woman
I’m a creator woman

I’m a clean woman
I’m a ready woman
I’m a Saint Peter woman
I’m a clean woman
I’m a ready woman

I’m a waiting woman
I’m an atmosphere woman
I’m a day woman
I’m a creator woman
I’m a doctor woman

I’m an interpreter woman
I’m a Christ woman

I’m the morning star woman
I’m the moon woman

I’m a heaven woman
I’m a doll woman

That’s the way it looks when I go to heaven…
They say it’s like softness there
They say it’s like land
They say it’s like day
They sat it’s like dew

My dear friend Jackie Rock shared this chant with me when I needed it desperately. It was written by Maria Sabina as a Mazatec Magic Mushroom Ritual Chant in approximately 1896. Maria Sabina lived as a Shaman in Southern Mexico who used psilocybe mushrooms for what we might understand as her visits to a different spiritual level. I hope to post more of her chants as I find them, as she’s now my spiritual comfort guide.

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Forgive-Me-Not

i’m so angry. i’m so mean. i expect total leeway for all shortcomings and failures, but i give none. i expect everyone to fit my tight definitions of what i desire in people, and i have such a hard time accepting–and enjoying–people for their individual selves. i expect the show always on while i’m always still adjusting my costume.

this is an easy out, but Facebook does this to me a lot. i see people’s stream of conscious, and their grammar might be bad or their topic may be obscure, and i’m frustrated: “why aren’t you the you i want you to be?!?”

and to myself. i get so mad at me. why did i make that choice? why am i afraid of the post office? why do i hate going outside?

right now i’m stuck on this tattoo. my artist called me once, it’s been a few years, and she said money’s tight. i’ll tattoo you as long as you can sit for a certain amount of money. and man was it a bargain. here’s the catch: i didn’t get the tattoo i really wanted. i sold my arm for someone else’s rent money.

why the hell did i do that? there are so many ways each and every one of us are prostitutes to something, but i actually sold skin. i am permanently marked for a big fucking mistake.

i’m trying forgiveness today. i’ve changed the name of the flower. it was supposed to be a gardenia in honor of my grandmother and my husband for sentimental reasons. i’ve come to realize it looks more like a camellia. flipping through a flower book trying to see if there was something i wanted to paint, i saw a magic answer. it said that camellias mean “you’re adorable.”

forgive me, Chrissy; i’m adorable.