Cultivating/Craving Connections

We are entering the dark part of the year. The Wheel has turned and Samhain has passed. I have struggled with ancestor work, a cornerstone of Samhain, a time when the liminal space between worlds diminishes. The veil is thin per my IG feed. As the daughter of a first generation immigrant from South Korea, estranged from my father's family, ancestor work did not feel innate. Literally, no one close to me died until 3 years ago when my father-in-law died from glioblastoma. The first funeral I ever attended was for my Walmart coworker, Gloria, when I was a senior in high school.

Gloria was fucking cool. I think she was in her late 50s, but age is so hard to judge through the eyes of youth when everyone else seems so old. She had curly red hair that reminded me of Shari Lewis, the creator and puppeteer of Lamb Chop. We worked together in the women's clothing department at Walmart. I would drag my ass to work at 7 am on 3 hours of sleep, still smelling like the bonfire from the party. I remember once I yawned and she immediately smelled the lingering beer. She shooed me into a fitting room and told me to sleep it off.

She loved listening to the stories of our parties. In small rural towns, there is not much else to do besides sit in a cornfield and drink around a fire. With a smile and sparkle in her eye, she would say, "oh, you girls would have loved to have seen me in my heyday. I used to be hot stuff." She said she had the pictures to prove it and we always planned get togethers which never happened. Gloria was estranged from her only daughter and we just couldn't believe it. Her daughter must have been a real bitch to not want to spend time with a cool mom like Gloria.

Gloria died in her sleep on Christmas Eve. It was her daughter who discovered her body on Christmas morning. Her death was shrouded in mythology as my coworkers and I did not know the true story. Just what Gloria told us and our own projections. Gloria often spoke of her sadness with the state of her relationship with her daughter. The myth we created was Gloria died of a broken heart. The fact that it was her estranged daughter who found her made it extra tragic. This was food for my angsty teen soul. The dessert was Gloria's daughter singing "Amazing Grace" at the funeral. I held hands with my teen colleagues and we sobbed.

As I write, this is the first time in many, many years I have thought of Gloria. I feel disconnected from my blood ancestors, but maybe Gloria can be a chosen ancestor. A woman with an independent nature, cloaked in mystery and complicated relationships. I totally feel this. To Gloria, I offer peace, compassion, and acceptance in the name of Love.

I have been researching the land I reside on to cultivate more intimate connections. Even though I have lived in my current city for 10 years, I still feel like a tourist. I still use Google Maps to navigate. My husband and I still have a long list of restaurants we want to try. I do not know many street names. I don't even know the address to my own workplace. It's the hospital downtown according to me. My introverted Hermit likes to research from the comforts of home, my finely curated sanctuary of safety and sanity.

I currently live on ceded land. My home is a border between Ojibwe and Dakota lands. These tribes battled for this land for over 100 years which established this boundary line. While the Ojibwe did sign treaties with the U.S. government to cede this land, they were pretty much forced with the promises of annuity payments which never came to fruition, the Sandy Lake Tragedy, and ignorance to their rights to use the land.

The indigenous people were moved to several reservations which are still present in northern WI. I lived in several reservation communities during my early childhood years. This was when my parents were still married. I remember being told I had indigenous heritage. This was easy to believe as I was surrounded by indigenous people. A man I called Uncle Bill, which confused my little mind as he was not my father's brother. People who made beautiful jewelry and dream catchers out of beads and feathers. It was not until I was 18 and dating an indigenous man, did I realize I had probably been lied to.

I showed Dave, my boyfriend, a picture of my father. Why I had this picture escapes my mind. This was someone I purposefully stopped communicating with at age 11. I decided I spent my last awful summer vacation or holiday with a person who felt like a stranger. Dave looked at my father's picture and said: "That's a white dude." I stammered back no, it's his mother, my grandmother who is Native. We never spoke about this again.

I still insisted on having indigenous heritage for several years, but I think it was more a rejection of my whiteness. I prided myself on being different because there was nothing else I could do about it living in 95% white communities. It also connected me to America as a second generation immigrant. The first time I didn't say I had indigenous heritage was when I met my spouse at age 30. It's not like I was profusely proclaiming it all the time, but it was the first time I remember saying that I am Korean and white. I no longer claim any heritage that is not mine to claim.

There is story surrounding an oak tree, the Council Oak, on our local University of WI campus that 5 tribes would annually meet at this tree. The Council Oak was struck by lightning in the 1960s, fell in the 80s, but was replanted by local tribe members. A slab of the original oak tree is a bench in the college library.

My Spring Equinox intentions were to go exploring during the summer. I am lucky to live in a community that embraces nature and we are blessed with many parks and trails. It's a liberal bubble. We are a tiny blue blip on a red map, much smaller than Madison and Milwaukee. My intentions were to seek the local unknowns and connect with the land.

It turns out I fucking hate summer. Especially this summer as I am 100% perimenopausal. I just think about the sun and a bead of sweat drips down my forehead. Hot flashes feel like fire rippling through your veins. There is a vibration of orangish-red glowing off your skin. Shedding of clothes is not enough when the source is internal. Air conditioning is crucial. Fuck going outside unless it involves being submerged in water and shade.

I really wanted to get to the Council Oak during summer session, but I did not. Now the campus is full of students and I feel like a creepy hag. (I lovingly call myself a hag 😘) It is not like the infamous quote from Wooderson in Dazed and Confused. I get older and they all start looking younger and younger. I swear the Fall 2023 college freshman class looks like they were in middle school last year.

I did venture to a dog park. Witches are supposed to love cats, but this witch does not. It's not that I don't like them, I just prefer the company of dogs. When I read about Hecate being surrounded by black hounds of hell, it gives me goals. I would love to rescue 2 more dogs. At the dog park, I imagine I am walking with Hecate as many friendly pups like to say hello by circling my legs and sniffing my sweet little Allie. Some people think that if a dog doesn't like you, you are bad person. I think if you don't like dogs, you are a bad person. Same with not liking children, but these are just my opinions, not facts.

I attended Amanda Yates Garcia's Samhain Ritual on Oct 25, 2023 which focused on inclusive ancestor practices. The focus was not on bloodlines, but communal connections. We were asked to ponder who/what are the ancestors and what does it mean to be a good ancestor. Carl Sagan said "we are made of star stuff," a quote even my staunchly atheist, science-loving husband agrees with. Maybe the ancestors are the stars, moons, and planets. Maybe being a good ancestor means tending to and honoring the land we reside on. When I thank the Universe, maybe I am doing my ancestor practice.

We were led in a guided meditation in which we met an ancestor who gave us a gift. I was met by a figure who handed me a feather. When I looked at the feather in my hand, it was actually a pen. To this ancestor, I vow to write my story. I vow to be vulnerable and live authentically. Share my solitude, trepidation, and perplexity. Maybe my written story will live on. Maybe my story will comfort someone else. As we the Wheel turns, I greet the darkness with fortitude in the name of Love.