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Flowing-together of several thoughts in a somewhat paint-splattered confluence . . .
Eventually last night I went upstairs and sobbed on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
teinedreugan for a while, and talked, and was held, and felt miserably guilty for snapping at brooksmoses, and a variety of other things.
And he talked a little about grief, and asked me if I'd thought of working through a ritual to help me deal with this grief.
I hadn't; I hadn't really conceptualised my reaction to that as grief. But I think he's right, and I think it is, and I wing myself thinking of how Malidoma Somé traces so much of the harm in the culture of the West to people not knowing how to grieve. If I can't even identify my grief, how can I grieve?
And I remember the discussionlysana hosted at PCon, about the darker gods, and the need for grief and a place for it, and I try to put the pieces together into something that works for me.
I painted -- well, did the base coat on -- my statue of Yinepu just now. My hands are smudged over with black and white and gold. And the figure is more alive, more real, more a reminder of His presence in my life, recent but strong enough to already be familiar. On a whimsy I drybrushed His nose slightly gold. Again, I find myself remembering that one of the major draws to Kemeticism for me was the colour. And I keep finding myself turning around to look in His eyes. The statue is, at the moment, behind me and a little to the left -- where He always is these days. (Because Wepwawet is on the right.)
I'll probably do a specifically focused Rite in the next few days to see if He has any guidance for my grief, and to offer the stone I bought for Him at PCon.
(And, of course, since I commented yesterday that I don't seem to get RSI except from computer games because I have the attention span of a cloud of gnats, I've strained something in between my pointer and middle fingers on my right hand from repetetive motion, and only aggravated it by painting. Such is life; Hail Eris.)
Eventually last night I went upstairs and sobbed on
teinedreugan for a while, and talked, and was held, and felt miserably guilty for snapping at brooksmoses, and a variety of other things.And he talked a little about grief, and asked me if I'd thought of working through a ritual to help me deal with this grief.
I hadn't; I hadn't really conceptualised my reaction to that as grief. But I think he's right, and I think it is, and I wing myself thinking of how Malidoma Somé traces so much of the harm in the culture of the West to people not knowing how to grieve. If I can't even identify my grief, how can I grieve?
And I remember the discussion
lysana hosted at PCon, about the darker gods, and the need for grief and a place for it, and I try to put the pieces together into something that works for me.I painted -- well, did the base coat on -- my statue of Yinepu just now. My hands are smudged over with black and white and gold. And the figure is more alive, more real, more a reminder of His presence in my life, recent but strong enough to already be familiar. On a whimsy I drybrushed His nose slightly gold. Again, I find myself remembering that one of the major draws to Kemeticism for me was the colour. And I keep finding myself turning around to look in His eyes. The statue is, at the moment, behind me and a little to the left -- where He always is these days. (Because Wepwawet is on the right.)
I'll probably do a specifically focused Rite in the next few days to see if He has any guidance for my grief, and to offer the stone I bought for Him at PCon.
(And, of course, since I commented yesterday that I don't seem to get RSI except from computer games because I have the attention span of a cloud of gnats, I've strained something in between my pointer and middle fingers on my right hand from repetetive motion, and only aggravated it by painting. Such is life; Hail Eris.)
