Journal 9/29/95: I cop out from drawing the visions they are exchanging. Somehow those words and images stick in my throat. Why are psychic visions, astral travel, shamanic-witch work so hard to voice? Who will laugh at me? Do I care? The good girl struggles on.

I hope and fear that I can begin to read others’ minds - to tune in to the subtle energies that make people tick. To see auras and energy fields and to be able to affect, heal those that are out of whack. I want to be able to be in touch psychically - from a distance or through my hands. I want to be able to leave my body - to travel astrally and to affect the ills that I see. I want to use those skills for the betterment of the community - in all senses of the word.

My fear is that this will drain me. That the knowing I find will be too scary, too overwhelming for me to handle. And/or that it will scare off, alienate those around me. Too weird, too different.

I get plenty of subtle reinforcement for my desires. Every book I open these days has testimony that others do this. I’m sure I’ve done it all my life in tiny ways - the intuition, tuning in that makes me so good in groups. The Tarot readings I’ve done seem to clink right into place. The people appreciative - tangible results almost.

10/10/95: So I went to painting group on Saturday and wrestled with all this. I had been low most of this period. In looking back I think it was good that Tom’s leaving for his trip catapulted me into that space so I could really wallow in my fears. It seemed they needed to be faced - the Burning Times lessons learned (which Christiane Northrup's Women's Bodies, Women's Wisdom reminded me of), the family acceptance factor (both deMoll and mountain) and community acceptance factor as well as my own worries about burnout. They were easier to articulate to the group than the hopes: psychic opening and training, and use of my gifts/powers - whatever they may turn out to be.

The words struck in my throat. At first I wasn’t really in my body when I was talking to them - dancing evasively as I’m good at. The group called me on it. What is it that I do? I still don’t entirely get it. But my voice changed somehow and I began to hover behind a big chair. When I heard a hawk I practically poked my head out the door. Then someone said, would I please come in the room - I was in my body but escaping outside. I really didn’t want to talk about all this. My shields are being peeled away and I didn’t want to deal with it. Was sweating and working hard. The group doesn’t get why this is so hard for me.

I am so identified with being a GOOD GIRL. And it seems that everywhere I turn people are pointing out to me how good I am in one way or another. Yet, over and over in my life I have gotten the message that psychic is bad. Emotional/intuitive is about as far as I dared go.

So good/bad…..In fact, it occurs to me just now that maybe some of my resistance to the group’s pushing was me not obeying them. In other words, being “bad” which is good for me. Now there’s a conundrum!

It’s hard for me now to even remember what they were pushing me about. Part of it was how I present myself and my paintings. I lose my audience at some point. And if the listener is not present then the magical moments of change cannot happen. The listeners can’t be present if the speaker doesn’t invite them - draw them in. The subtle group dance can’t happen. A solo performance doesn’t cut it in this forum. The trouble is I can’t really figure out what it is that I do. And there’s something about the way I present my paintings and thoughts at least in this forum and I suspect others that is a turn off. I must listen myself - stay grounded and centered. I must pray. Certainly something is off.

It really irritates them when I don’t wear my cloak comfortably. The opening and ground shaking I’m doing seems obvious to them. Is a new degree of my old ways all I’m talking about? They really wanted me to declare them my coven. Not ask. Declare. Wave my wand. (Guess I’d better make one!) They finally dragged out of me that I want them to be my midwives. To encourage and catch me.

But I cried and cried - struggled with the words. Struggled with the rebellion at being pushed. Struggled with my urge to flee : “Well if they don’t want to do it my way....” I struggled with blaming it on them. They don’t understand. Interesting that I have such a need for them to understand me - isn’t that why I’m obsessed with telling my story. Not as a gift to them but as some kind of vindication for me.

So something big is in the way. Something must let go - my ego control. My protective shield. My fears.
Why do I care what other people think? Even them!

November 2006:

It should be noted that after “wrastling” with all these hopes and fears with the group, I fled down to my space and in half an hour, did the painting that is still everyone’s favorite. I couldn’t declare what they knew I was struggling with in words, but I could paint it. Though I have to admit that I still hedged my bets – depending on where I show it, to this day, that painting is called Six Witches or Circle Dance.