Sideways Science
on writing, memory, soil & sacrifice
A few years back, I had my DNA analyzed. I was hoping for something spicy, a sign that some long-ago grandmother ran off with a Greek sailor or Mongolian horseman. But it seemed my ancestors stuck to the shtetl: my genes are Jewish right up to the margin of error.
Determined to make my history a bit more interesting, I began researching. I discovered there are genetic markers for the Kohanim, the Jewish high priests who are said to be the descendants of Moses’ brother, Aaron. Within Jewish communities, knowledge of whether you are a member of this caste is passed down, father to son. My father is amongst the Kohanim. For 3400 years, give or take, this information was handed down not only in my family but, apparently, through my blood.
I wonder sometimes what my blood knows of mysticism and the mysteries. What ancient memories are buried in my DNA and how I might unlock them.
The work on Letting Magic In has begun to pervade my dreams. I wake up in the depths of the night tangled and spiraling.
The moon, a few days past full, shines through the skylights like a disco ball on steroids. This house is full of skylights—seven in total—which is glorious during the day, but in the middle of the night, when the moon has once again awakened me, I’m tempted to board them over. The moon seems to hear my thoughts, smirking as she blazes in, somehow lighting only my side of the bed. Over on the dark side, Andrew snoozes on. Sigh.
My nose is freezing. I wriggle a foot out from under the covers and let it hang over the edge of the bed to check the temperature. It’s not a particularly elegant foot. First, it hasn’t seen a pedicure since Covid hit. Second, there’s a vivid scar cutting diagonally across the middle digit. This past summer, weeding in flip-flops, I dropped the garden sheers on it, pointy end first. Who knew garden clippers were so sharp? My flip-flop quickly filled with blood but, maybe because I was a smidge shocky, I just kept weeding, blood now running through my ruminations.
My teacher in Ireland told me that women used to walk the fields letting their menstrual blood run down their legs and into the soil. I don’t know who these women were or what culture they came from or if they even existed. They may have simply been a creation of the teaching, a mythic Woman striding the fields.
My foot slid sideways in the slick flip-flop, as I leaned uphill to yank the goldenrod, tiny sunshine flowers waving over my head. As the plant came out of the ground, pebbles of rust colored soil ricocheted against my ankles. I imagined Woman striding through the garden with me. She is strong and sure and not at all bloody.
I wiggle my toe, reflectively. For years I used a Diva Cup, emptying it into a mason jar which sat on the tile floor by the toilet. I would mix the blood with water and feed the mix to the herb garden, following the tradition of offering an exchange for the harvest. “An exchange” can be anything: a blessing, a coin, a hank of hair.
Another teacher, a later teacher, would rail I don’t understand this tradition of trading a plant a bit of hair for its medicine! What do plants need with your hair?
He was right, of course. It’s a gesture that doesn’t fulfill any specific biological need. But blood? Blood contains copper, iron, magnesium, phosphorous, and potassium. It significantly raises the nitrogen levels of the soil (is this why animals were sacrificed to ensure a good harvest?). And it contains DNA. So does hair. A little DNA makes it personal, like signing your name on a gift card.
Is this magic? It feels like science. Sideways science.
The scar is surprisingly vivid. Helichrysum essential oil would probably help, but honestly, after going inside, cleaning, salving, and bandaging the toe, then washing the sticky shoe in the shower, I forgot about it. When I removed the wrap a few days later, there was only a dark red seam. I figured it would fade, but months later, it still looks kind of pissed off. Poor little piggy, it never agreed to provide the sacrifice.
Another experimental wriggle confirms that it doesn’t hurt at all, thank you, Comfrey and Calendula.
It’s decided: the room is frigid. I pull my foot back under the mound of blankets and glare at the moon. Will you set already?
I stare upward. The moon becomes a hole in the inky fabric of the sky, which I see through the hole in roof of the house, which I see through the hole in my skull that holds my eyeball. I close my eyes and still see the moon.
Is that magic? What exactly is magic?
Sleep creeps back toward me.
Something about creation, about crafting…
Something about a bridge or a crossroads….
Something….
The moon winks once, and I fall back to sleep.