Everything I write is an Incantation

A ritual immersion.

Photo by Jernej Graj on Unsplash

Creativity urges itself through me in the form of romance and childhood. I can feel it in my fingers.

I took a hot bath after work on Monday. I’m juggling multiple large projects, upcoming events, side gigs, settling into a new place, exercise, loved ones, and my spiritual practice. I carve out these moments of silence for myself, to let my mind wander and process whatever comes up. I used a new camphor and green tea bath bomb that turned my water a murky sky blue. My tub flickered with the tea lights that surrounded it. As is my usual practice, I slowly sank lower and lower into the almost-too-hot water, eventually letting my upper body float with my feet planted on the wall above the faucet. I gently tilted my head back and forth, letting the water cradle my neck, feeling the deep cracks of tension leaving my body.

With my eyes closed, I began pondering the Five of Swords, a tarot card I’ve been drawing this past week. In White Numen Tarot, it is depicted as five swords forming a lattice, with three birds swooping amongst them. The swords act as a kind of prison, and there is danger in the escape. As swords are in the realm of air, they refer to processes of the mind. What thoughts do I feel trapped in? Where is the danger or pain when trying to escape them? What can I learn from the cards that come before and after (the Four of Swords, encouraging rest, and the Six of Swords, a depiction of letting go and moving forward)?

As I untangled these questions for myself, feeling around the sharp edges of my mind, I suddenly sensed my great-grandmother touch my forehead. I was overcome with a feeling of comfort, forgetting my thoughts completely. I opened my eyes and there I was, sitting in her bathtub, 3 years old. I looked around as the details filled in around me. The bathroom door was open and I could see through her dining room, down the hall, and to the front doorway. I closed my eyes again as warm water flowed down my long hair from the cup she poured it from. I couldn’t see her, but she was with me, caring for me gently.

I was excited to be at my grandmother’s house - happy that she came to bring me there. I got out of the tub, dressed, and took the familiar walk down her hallway. Before I got to the front door, I made a right turn into her living room. There was her floral loveseat, with the white metal stand of succulents, cacti, and houseplants next to it. She spent a lot of her time sitting there, with a stack of newspapers and magazines sharing the seat to her left. Her wooden entertainment center stood across from it, housing an old box TV that often played Days of our Lives. There was plenty of shelving to store VCR tapes, and glass doors where she displayed her owl figurines. She would let me open it and play with them, trusting me with her fragile treasures. I wandered across the room to the bookshelf that sat at the foot of the stairs and found my journal that I liked to draw in while she played solitaire at the table.

As I explored these familiar, present, and faraway spaces, a feeling of being home overcame me. I am always safe with my grandmother. She holds me when I am sick or afraid. She was one of the many family members who raised me. My childhood technically fits under the foster umbrella, and I’ve been thinking a lot about being under legal guardianship and raised by biological family other than my parents. As I’ve been decorating my new rental, I went through some old photos and framed more from my childhood. There is one of me and my great-grandmother working on a craft on the floor in her living room. Both of us are focused on the task at hand, neither looking at the camera. There is also a portrait of me and my adopted family: my mom, her husband at the time, my brother, and my other great-grandmother, who is holding me in the photo. We are all looking at the camera except for her, who is smiling wide as she looks at me.

The love of my grandmothers fuels so much of me. It forgoes all questions and soothes my worries. This love is my power, the surface of which I am only now beginning to understand. After I returned to my bath in my home, all swords were laid to rest, at least for the time being.

Everything I write is an incantation.

I do not control the way love shows up for me. I accept the ways it arrives, and give it gratitude.

Everything I do and create is art.

I have a safe, stable home that I share with my community.

I am learning and evolving.