Rituals of a Tribe

Wintersong and I prep for opening ritual at Surrender. We both have over 15 years of some sort of magical working under our belt, and are pretty good at doing rites on the fly.  Both of us also have a tap-in to our respective deities we have dedicated our work and journeys to, and thus not always knowing what to say does not affect the universe speaking through us in such working.However, there is a certain amount of checking in that was needed for this event. What bullet points need to be hit. We need to mention a bridging of the old and new. It is important to talk about crafting a vision for the future. We need to talk about liminal spaces between the worlds.Upstairs, as we prep to go down to the main dungeon where the ritual is set to take place, we pass Robert Lawrence. He bows to us slightly, and thanks us for continuing the traditions of our tribe into the next generation.As I type that last sentence, I am crying.I’m not sure if Wintersong will get how profound that sentence is. Robert has been doing this Work for longer than I have been alive (including such altar work at the Center for Sex and Culture, remembering our past on the Day of the Dead). I know him for his heartfelt connections, his dreaming into the flesh, his black leather wings. My heart soars and is suddenly heavy with responsibility.He is right. We are continuing on the work of the tribe. We are the next generation of leaders. We have been handed traditions and meaning, and they are in our hands.My hands tremble, but hold tight.Downstairs a circle is made around the dungeon, and Winter and I take turns speaking and channeling the Work through our lips. I walk de soliel around the space, making eye contact with every person present. The elders of our tribe. The children of our tribe. The middle aged guard. Leatherwomen and furries, fetishists and tantrikas, rope artists and swingers. We are crafting something new, that is not new. We are bringing back and bringing forth. This is our obligation, this is our gift.And when I say our, I do not mean only Wintersong and I.Take this energy and take it to the edges of the space. In this space and place and time, let this be our working. Let this be our play. Let our work be our play, and our play be our work. Such is the mystery of our tribe, that which challenges so many. That all are the same, and the same are all. And so it is.Days later, on a wrestling mat, he offers his neck to me.Days before, a man holds my hand and cries.Lifetimes pass in a few days, and in turn I hold still, become an anchor, until it is time to proceed to the next port of call. This is the call. This is the call.  This is the iron heart, a thousand feet below and a thousand feet below. This is why, when I went to the International Parliament of World Religions, I listed my tribe as “Leather.”We change the world, one breath, one orgasm, one fantasy, one truth at a time.On Monday night I went to Oakland to teach and lead ritual for BASK (Bay Area Sacred Kink).”  I had spent the day wandering the Haight, going to The Love of Ganesh with Mollena. Inside was a temple space, hidden behind a bead curtain amidst the shelves and clothes. Inside the temple I sat and contemplated opening doorways, transitions, change, hope, possibility. My entry band to Surrender was left there. It felt right.At BASK, the space was beautiful. From the outside, you would never know that the venue was a two story open plan dungeon, opulently appointed and inviting. The space was set with two concentric circles of chairs, with an altar to one side, and space for my books at the other side of the space. I took time to add one of my new statues of Ganesh to the altar, set a token for Bear, and other items. Bowing low, I asked for guidance. Guide my hand, guide my voice, let this be what is needed.The class was part sermon, part conversation, part skill learning, part ritual. It was what was needed. Things to take home, thoughts to let flow, and a community affirmed.  I felt so blessed to be asked to be part of that crafting.Luna Bella, in introducing me, spoke of my leadership and importance to the tribe.I do not take compliments well. I deflect. I do not believe it. One negative comment about who I am or my work hits deep enough to cancel out a hundred compliments. I so often doubt my worth, my meaning.LET ME BE CLEAR – THIS IS NOT ME ASKING FOR COMPLIMENTS.  This is me sharing my heart and journey.  I don’t need or want them. I want to learn how to hear them, feel them. Volume of water in the river does not affect a person’s ability to bend down and drink of the flow. A trickling stream or a raging waterway, if I cannot cup it and bring it to my lips, what is the point.Instead, I try to deflect.But this weekend, Robert and Luna made it through, as did one other voice later that night. They made it through because I was open to help others, and in that moment I could see what I was doing that mattered.Later that evening, I did something I have never done before. My knees are dusty, my heart aching from the expansion of the work.But there are certain mysteries that need not be spoken.Let the leathers be handed down.Let our skills be gifted to the next generation, without handing down the baggage and misconceptions along with it.Let the mysteries be whispered in the night.Let the shadow be honored as much as the light.Breathe deep, and release.Hold tight, and release.We are the generations past, we are the generations to come. Let us be open to the call.