Omens, astrology & familiars: Every time a gavel strikes a witch gets a kitty.

Patriarchy, please.

I’ve been riding in cars with astrologers through my dreamscape of late and it’s taken me back to a handful of critical dreams that came to me in the wake of leaving my marriage (quite a striking contrast to the dreams of dead bodies during my marriage that I wrote about here in my debut essay).  Critical because they have something to say, as all dreams do, about the present direction in the overall arc of my life, my work and my passion.  I began weaving these latest dreamtime threads, deciphering their meaning and directives as best I can into an offering for you, one that has proven to be far more intricate and layered than at first glance.  The ends are not yet ready to be knotted into a final tapestry - are they ever, really? - so today I’m giving you a little behind the scenes of what’s gnawing at me, quite literally.  Allow me to introduce you to my new writing companion.  

She’s a little black cat with oversized, Disney-princess eyes, the color of sticky notes (if you’ve ever spent time with me in the therapy room, you know how apropos this is as I’m known to throw out notes in hopes they’ll serve as paper glimmers during dark times).  She showed up on the wraparound porch of my dear friend’s quaint country home and weeks later made her way to me as a much-needed summer rain fell amidst the fallout of the Supreme Court decision that set us squarely into an unthinkable post-Roe reality.  

Here she is, Wilder Than Fiction’s new feline mascot, country kitten turned city kitty:

Ruth Vader Mittensburg

Yes, we’re big Star Wars fans and one of the children wanted to name her Mittens. Our new girl Ruthie’s name is an ode to the art of compromise, a wink to one of the greats, and a reminder of the importance of our time.        

“…there is a time to reveal your incisors, your powerful ability to defend territory, to say ‘This far and no farther, the buck stops here, and hold onto your hat, I’ve got something to say, this is definitely going to change.’”

Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph.D.

I’ve always wanted a black cat and I’m thrilled this one made her way to me.  This week the vet estimated her birthday to be May 4th, a notable Star Wars holiday and the one-year anniversary of my grandmother’s death, my first and forever biggest fan when it comes to writing and the woman I got my witchy hook nose from.  Now I’ve got the black cat to boot.  And (to borrow a phrase from her), I’ll be damned if grandma didn’t have something to do with it.  Because growing up, grandma had everything to do with it.

Here’s a poem I wrote for her some time ago as I was working through her loss.  I call it Sweet Marie.

Grandma was a force invisible 
Her love gravitational,
expulsive
She wanted you out in the world,
so she could watch you dance in ways she never dared
As far as she was concerned your every single act was good 
She blessed what the others, those expectant ones, never could
Did I ever really tell her what she meant to me?
I didn’t see how I ever could. 
Words would never suffice, still I tried
She loved everything I wrote 
Every single, silly, discordant note
The world of words was my playground
Grandma’s kitchen table, home base
Where it all began with scuffed blue and black garage sale pens 
Scattered thoughts on backs of envelopes from bills that never did stop coming, despite all the cursing
Ink always threatening to run dry telling tales from countless unlived lives
“What’s that you’re writin’ there, Annie Jo?”
I bend her ear and live only for the crackling smile to break from her steely black eyes
Expression as offering, all I had or could ever give laid out along the vast divide between her reality and mine
Silent, stoic laughter meeting unbridled mind
She tries to hide behind busy, crooked hands, stained green from backyard beans
At this table, we are safe
Our time together, ordained
Incandescent bulbs suspended from faded brass illuminate her sharp edges, hardened by hardship
Grandma is cutting, but I know she loves me because she lets me soften her, sweet
“Now you wait there just one minute, let me git’ your grandpa.”
Screen door slam, the smell of grease, Oklahoma heat, iceberg lettuce, the best damn salad you ever did eat
Nowhere else I’d rather be 
Nothing I wouldn’t trade for this moment of eternity
She crouches over cold, black coffee in a tiny, ceramic cup, painted in roses 
He stands alongside, restless fingers twirling trinkets in worn-out, junkstore jeans
“There now, go on,” she nods, “read it again.”

May the fourth be with you,

Jo

p.s.  I know a nod from the Unconscious when I see one, so last week I took it and ran with it:  my books are finally open for astrology consultations.  The branch of astrology I practice is archetypal with a depth psychology-leaning.  My goal is to help foster deeper understanding of self and the archetypes at play in the lives of people I work with.  If this sounds like your kind of thing, head here to learn more.  You can use the code NEWNEW22 to get 22% off when you book through the end of the month.