I locate the Mercer Road address without incidence. Off a curvaceous, rustic road that speaks the language of late autumn, it is a farmhouse sitting in a remote field of high crinkled grass. A bumpy asphalt drive snakes toward the concrete steps on the side of the solitary-feeling residence. An empty, baseball-sized field of fading foliage serves as a parking lot to the right of the steps. I slow my son’s Monte Carlo short of the bottom step.

Instantly, I like the set-up. In my spirit, it is familiar, comfortable, as though I’ve been here before. Reminiscent of my deceased maternal grandma’s, Pearlie Mae Young’s, homestead, in Roba, AL, it almost looks out of place, sitting in the field, no cars, only a near pioneer feel.

I am amazed at Spirit’s intrigue.

The beauty of the Unknown, of the Unexpected, fascinates me and keeps my life a magical adventure from one waking moment to the next.

I fathom I have arrived at this captivating scene to participate in a writing workshop, a “Feeding the Hunger Within” event, led by one of my favorite writers, Fiona Zedde. But it is partially so. Spirit has called me forth, out of the norm of my day, to not only bathe me in the mystery and majesty of Zedde’s premier writing fest, which proves chockfull of choice sound bites of publishing information and writerly advice and a writing exercise that nourishes my soul and quickens my nerves, but also I am there to revel in a synergy of goddesses that I have summoned into my experience.

Never before have I entered a temple.

Yes, I have visited mega-churches, country churches, Kingdom halls, synagogues and mosques. In each, I went to feel the Oneness of Spirit, in spite of the treasure-trove of names we call God; Jehovah, Yahweh, Allah, Buddha, Brahman, Krishna or Great Spirit, etc. Inside the temple, a spiritual salon, I gather, a name I discover on a business card in the foyer, an essence of peace and an intoxicating blend of solitude and community cloak me in beauty.

I leave my red stilettos in a corner of the vestibule. The air is inviting, as are the cushioned chairs and spiritual adornments strategically showcased. I scribble my name in a guest book on a small stand, and awed, I part a veil of hanging beads and tip-toe further inside the sanctuary. Immediately, my senses throb. There is much to imbibe, from the delicate, vibrant images of goddess beauty in pictures, art and carved images of black, white and Native women to the assortment of candles and wooden and ceramic images of cats and colorful bean bags stockpiled on the wall facing the entrance.

Dream catchers decorate the walls. Posters whispering messages of love share wall space with exquisite paintings of African ancestors. On a clothed table behind me are glowing crystals, books, and a wicker Thank You box for love offerings. Smooth stones rest in a tiny basket with a Wishing Stones placard. Gathering information, my finger skims five rows of Elemental Forces of Creation Oracle cards: Air, Earth, Fire, Water and Spirit. The cards whet my desire to know what lies beneath their covers. Flipping them, I read their one or two-word messages: Regeneration, Play, Divine Feminine, Abundance & Fertility, Perspective, Vibrational Attunement, Letting Go and Passion. All apropos, I think, to the spiritual and energy work that goes on within these walls.

On my left is an altar draped in cloth, simply adorned with a few strategically placed white candles. Spiritual books abound amidst the baskets of books and magazines. Billie Holiday is prettily framed on a low-standing table behind the area on the hardwood floor where both the writing workshop and now the ceremony for the Samhaim Saturday ceremony will take place.

From a portable boom box under the table holding the offering box and books and pens and candles and mints comes an eclectic mix of Native and Spanish music. The body-swaying sounds fill the six rooms with an otherworld sensitivity of chants and melodies and language heard outside of my present. My body vibrates. My ankle-length, yellow-red-and-orange dress makes whishing noises, as I flutter about, wholly consumed and curiously exploring the room to the right of the main sanctuary behind Fiona’s table displaying the sexy novel covers.

“What’s goes on inside that room?”

The smooth-faced, bespectacled High Priestess and Shamanic Reiki Master studies me, as I struggle to squelch a playful impulse to crawl under the table. Unwilling to be placated, my inquisitive little girl within encourages me to lean over the table to gulp the room’s contents.

“That is a healing room,” the Priestess owns, figuring this is not time for silence. She restrains me, mentally, with a history of how Spirit answered her call for a space in which she could educate and support others for a holistic mind, body and spirit.

I nod, comment, “Looks like a massage room.”

Windows on one wall, sparse furnishings, a white-clothed elevated divan, and potted plants lent the space a peaceful repose. Perhaps there is something in the way I am reverentially taking in the scene that prompts the Priestess to ease the display table towards her, the motion creating a passage for me to enter. I don’t know why not, I am Fiona’s first guest.

“Come,” the Priestess tenders, when I emerge from the still paradise, “let me give you a quick tour.”

I trail her into a doorless room before the start of the passageway leading down through the renovated farmhouse.

She is animated, explaining that we are standing in the art room, the room of creation, where temple visitors, who participate in the ceremonies, rituals and workshops, use the abundance of neatly stocked supplies to create various manifestations of Spirit. I oooh and aaah, unaware that later in the evening, I, too, after the writing workshop, will join other visitors in creating works of art.

The passageway leads us to a modest kitchen. Clean and organized, its air is redolent with the delicious aroma of percolating blueberry tea, for which, I learn, the Priestess is, revered. A small kitchen table holds paper cutlery, humus, crackers, pita bread, peanuts, chocolates and my offering of blue-corn chips and Indian mango chutney. Picturesque coffee mugs line the counter near the tea dispenser. Beside it, a croak pot of something flavorful simmers.

Reluctantly, I follow the Priestess into a charming, impeccably clean, full blue bathroom. On the large mirror is the cutest placard with the words “I love you.”

The screened-in back porch and closed room across from the doorless kitchen do not whet my curiosity, so I thank the Priestess, whom, I realize, I had known throughout my years of association with Charis Bookstore, a feminist bookstore in Little Five Points, and their memorable open mic evenings of prose and mostly poetic readings, and retrace my steps to the kitchen, where I pour myself a cup of the blueberry tea.

After more than three hours of workshop, Fiona does not whittle time. She’s courting a writing deadline, as usual, and packs away her books and papers and notebooks expeditiously. I figure to join her, heading back to my writing and the reading of Uwem Akpan’s Say You’re One of Them, Oprah’s 2009 book club selection. Meanwhile, I remain to chat with the Priestess, who piques my interest the newness and excitement of what I am to encounter with this “Samhaim Saturday” experience she has been advertising.

I am buoyant, dancing butterfly light on my toes, dress swirling, bubbly inside. A different sort of Saturday excites me. Sociable and loquacious, the Priestess chats me up, while she busies herself preparing the sanctuary for her gala.

Outside of the tinkle of our chatter, evening falls like soundless snowflakes.

Guests begin to arrive close to 7 p.m. Thank goodness, I think, my middle full of humus and crackers, Hershey’s kisses, peanuts and blueberry tea. In the sanctuary I greet the music of female camaraderie. Only one of the women feels familiar. Later, I recall meeting her, too, at Charis, years before. An attractive woman, who may have been a Greek statute, accompanies her. Her features are distinct. Karena. The name is music to my ears, on my tongue, and my eyes agree, finding hers throughout the night’s activities. Locking a spot near her, my bean bag has the same idea. She and her friend, Miss Charis, wear jeans and layered tops. I am uncertain if they are a couple.

Vanessa is Polish, friendly and knowledgeable. A pretty pixy, who does not know it.

“You are so pretty,” she greets me, upon entering the sanctuary.

In surprised gratitude, I clasp my palms and smile. “Thank you. So are you.”

She makes no reply. Only bobs her head and grins on her way to greet Rebekka, a tall gray-headed woman who speaks with a scholarly ease. When we meet, I discover she is well travelled, speaks Spanish and is a constant presence in temple classes. A lover of stories, I listen, ravenous, as she feeds me one about her conception with a twin, seen and heard with a medical eye and ear, just to determine that for whatever reason, her mother, possibly, not being ready for two babies, her twin disappeared, simply absorbed herself back into the womb.

“I’m writing a story about it,” Rebekka announces. “I call it ‘The Vanishing Twin.’”

V greets the Priestess, whom the others know, and proceeds to hug everyone. By the end of the ceremony, she stands before me, wholly present, as if we are longtime friends catching up on our love of family and the Spanish language.

Another guest, LaShun, like me, is leftover from Fiona’s workshop. Our encounter is limited, outside of the fact that she has a daughter in college and is a writer of many starts and no follow-up. For this pre-Samhain Saturday affair, she seems to be shadowing the Priestess, alongside another woman, Tina.

The remaining guest is Terry.

Tall, sturdy, open-faced, she listens rapturously from her spot on the hardwood beside her friend, V, on the other side of the sanctuary. I face them from my throne of soft red bean bags. An attractive face, T has. And her eyes sparkle when she laughs. Which is often.

“This is a time of the year that light fades,” the Priestess begins in a soft voice from her flat, comfy seat on the floor. Prior to beginning, she explained why flat seats and bean bags are detours from traditional seating, which contributes to joint problems and inflexibility in Western culture. The little girl goddess in me makes a mental note to stretch and sit on the floor more often at home. The desk top computer back in my home dictates I spend huge chunks of time sitting in a chair, writing.

“In this season, we honor death as the sacred circle of life and remember those who have transitioned. It is the beginning and start of everything that turns.”

I am about as focused as cracked mirror. Humming inside, I feel the sugar rush head locking me, my eyes traipsing around our intimate circle of eight women. Intrigue catapults me ahead of them. Somewhere in my musing, I realize I have missed the definition of “Samhaim” during the Priestess’ introductory spill, though, later, V and R discuss their take on the correct pronunciation of the term.

“This is a traditional time of releasing the old and clearing a space for the new and dreaming of what is to come. In this ceremony, we celebrate the cycles of the earth. It is a magical time of the year,” she goes on, scanning the circle, seeking every eye. “This is a time when the veil between the worlds is thinner than any other time of the year. This evening we will work on what message our souls is sending us.”

Okay, I consider to myself, I’m down. If I can simply cease wondering how to make K understand the message I am sending her. Spring cleaning doesn’t always happen inside my unorganized closets, cupboards and pocketbooks. It can happen in her heart, too.

The Priestess commences with a directive for us to ponder old things or ideas or attitudes that we wish to release. Like me, the bevy of women goes silent, becomes contemplative. On a clipboard’s yellow legal paper, we harvest our thoughts. My list boasts: shoes that maul my feet, my former concept of who my lover should be, the old view of my professional life, vain view of self, self limits, fear, old jeans, garage and closet clutter, the tendency to ban my voice, out-dated make-up, carpet, old images on my dream board, ancient e-mails, an old view of family, an old concept of wealth and old food, be it frozen or canned.

My writing done, I feel lighter, just looking at the cumbersome list.

The other women and I consider one another over our clipboards, trading veiled expressions. Despite our differences, I imagine we have similar concepts, though the Priestess does not ask us to share.

“Good, it appears everyone has finished. Now I want you to jot down a list of the things to dream into your life, new things to fill the space of those things you are releasing.”

My paper spawns an instant list of my dreams. I scribble my wish for continued great health, clearer vision, a lasting and exciting lover, who invigorates my life in myriad ways, seven-day cruises spent with my lover and family, new publications, bestselling novels, short story and poetry collections, screenplays and published blogs. I jot down my desire for a lucrative and creative photography career, a palatial and comfortable home away from the sounds of gunfire, a fit frame, a Bentley, a renowned talk show, a new laptop, profitable streams of income, a new, stylish, professional/play wardrobe makeover, trips around the nation and the world, new Max make-up, and new jewelry.

I am pleasantly energized after this round of list-making. It definitely helps to clarify what I want in my own head. The desire to fast-forward to the next activity causes an itch in my right hand. I already know it, but I scan the room anyway. Maybe there is a stray remote amongst the cat figurines. Do modern temples have televisions?

The Priestess’ voice marshals my drifting attention. She perceives their readiness and is now reaching for a deck of cards. I watch her, something in me wanting to share what I have written, wanting to know what others want to dream into their lives. Not to steal the show, I decide go with the flow, so I rearrange myself atop the red bean bags. My body feels good spread out, heedless of decorum, the billowing skirts of my dress allowing me a childlike range of motion without my cookies being put on display.

“Now that we know what we are going to dream into the space we have created, we are going to open ourselves to spirit blessing us through these cards. I will ask six questions about your needs; you will write what you think you need. Then you will select a card from my hand and share whatever you’d like about your message from Spirit.”

But I hear and don’t hear. I am keyed up about what messages the cards hold for me.

“What do you think you need mentally?”

Down my side of the circle, I lean forward, observing Miss Charis as she draws her card. She stops to study it before scratching something on her paper. To my right, Tina, whose smile is friendly, pulls a card. And then I rise up, make my choice.

The Priestess probes, asks what we need physically, energetically, emotionally, spiritually, and what tool we require for transformation. Instead of writing my response, I record them mentally. This activity doesn’t take much time, and as the group responds, I realize they know which card goes with which question, unlike me. What I know is that K has the cutest legs, the thick type that whispers exercise, dance, hiking, etc. She is an artist, a famous one, I discern. When it is my time to respond, I am off beat, off base and off color. Priestess unravels herself and comes to order the cards in my possession. Once organized, my cards are clear.

Pride is the response to my mental need. How is that? I wonder. Do I need to feel more pride about myself or others? Better yet, do I need to release my pride to humble myself to receive what life has for me? Hmmm. As for my physical need, it is on the money: Enchantment. In the most visceral fiber of my being I want to love and be loved; I want to make love; I want the “two is one, let’s get it done” vibe. Energetically, I face the effort card. I wonder if I can expend more effort for the manifestation of my dreams, or if I am expending too much effort and suffering because I’m making something harder than it’s supposed to be. Sisyphus comes to mind. I see him shouldering that bulky boulder up the page of my former students’ literature books. A spiritually inspired deed is effortless. Again, I hum. Amazement woos me. Emotionally, up pops the Giving card. It stumps me. After all, I consider myself a giving person. Silent to this point, my lips part, and I speak my judgment.

She hushes me with, “It probably came because you do not always give to yourself.”

That does it, is accurate. My focus sharpens. At that moment I can better see how I need to prepare myself to give more and, more importantly, to prepare myself to receive more. Good, good, good. Then the whammy! Spiritually, my need is the Vision card. That one is clearer than my blurred distance vision. My straying from meditation warrants addressing. In the Stillness within me, and without, my vision will clarify when I reconnect with Spirit. And finally, I draw the Independence card for Tools for Transformation. Bingo! It is truly divine perfection. In truth, I must trust Spirit for financial independence and streams of income. At my core, Mother Teresa’s insight surfaces: “He who has God finds he lacks nothing; God alone suffices.”

The remainder of the ceremony, this getting-ready for Samhain Saturday, to occur the following weekend on October 31, on Halloween, drifts into the creation of a Samhain totem creation. I wear the creation around my neck. It is a layered necklace: three-tiered, two fluffy white weathers, two smooth egg-shell blue stones, a cowry shell, a baked green and brown clay sphere and a gold ring of fire. My choice of green and brown clay exemplifies power in the color green and a steadfast foundation in the color brown. K chooses brown and black, the color exemplifying fearlessness. We include the smooth beads to help channel emotional support, offering us a clear, clean current of energy.

The ceremony meanders into dancing in place, separately, to the beautifully haunting chants of Native American music. My blood courses, and I become a low-burning flame, my sensuality marinating. I twirl and spin. Femininity kisses every inch of me. Suddenly, I am Salome, dancing in a blur of colors, keenly aware of her sexual power. Except unlike Salome, I want no one’s head, only my lady’s heart, wherever she is. Around-about us, Native chants segue way to Spanish melodies with the unforgettable chords of Spanish guitars.

In the sheer revelry of being alive, I lift my golden, rhinestone-encrusted scarf high above my head. Dark locs float gently about my face, neck and shoulders. My feet no longer touch the hardwood. I am mist. Colors. And pure elation. What brings me out of my stratosphere is the appearance of K, dancing butch smooth, footwork sexy, twirling into the crook of my winged arm, the golden scarf an extension of myself. I wink at her, a punctuation mark to our earlier hair conversation in the kitchen. She’d described how she wore dreadlocks for several years, putting her humus-smeared pita down to illustrate how she knotted her dreads. I am drawn to her more as we dance, our momentary coming together gathering the stares of the other solo dancers, until K dances away. By the time the last Spanish chord fades, I am pulled into T’s rhythmically heaving side, where I belt myself to her, a fountain of exhalations pushing up between us.

“Hey, let me get in on some of that,” Tina says, crossing the floor to join T and me in a calming hug. Our winded breathing gradually returns to normal, and I bow to both women, saying, “Namaste. Asante sana.” I smile. “Gracias. Merci.”

Bowing, they mirror my smile.

I glance around for K, find her standing near the Priestess. Others are donning their wraps against the chill of the October night. I drat out into the foyer, slip my bare feet into my red stilettos and return to the sanctuary. Under my scarf, I curl a shadowy idea of what “Samhain Saturday” will entail.

Stepping toward the Priestess for a parting, gratitude hug, I detour sporadically, reaching for K, who bear hugs me and then I embrace the Priestess.

T is there when I pivot. We share a poignant embrace, I embrace the others, and, wordlessly, breathless, I disappear into the shadows beyond the golden porch light.

Poet, writer, actress, speaker, educator, burlesque artist, talk show host and aspiring documentary filmmaker, Claudia Moss, was born in Waterbury, Connecticut, and currently resides in Atlanta, GA, with her family. Her web presence includes the following sites: http://www.claudiamoss.webs.com/, http://www.thegolden-goddess.blogspot.com/, http://www.blogtalkradio.com/TheSiren, and http://www.twitter.com/theLadySiren.

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