Smudging is a tradition used by indigenous American people as a powerful tool to purge a home, place or person of negative energy allowing the flow of positive to inhabit the place or person. I am in need of a thorough smudging. And tonight, after work, I’m going to get myself smudged. Middle and Baby Chicken are too, as is our little white cat, Peeka, whose been feeling blue since a certain new kitten joined the party.
Last night, Middle Chicken and myself join a sweet pal known as Realtor Girl for dinner at her home. We are joined by her two adorable sons, the Cutie Pies, and a mutual pal who is always good for a laugh. You’ve met her before. Contractor Girl hosts the annual ugly ornament party, so if your memory serves, you know we are in for a good time.
Realtor Girl short sold my home so she’s been knee deep in the crazy for quite a while now and Contractor Girl came to the rescue shortly after The Norwegian died, creating a folder and guiding me through each and every widowhood step. I am indebted to both dolls for certain. And after this night, I may be again.
Seems the pair had trouble selling one of Contractor Girl’s homes so they decide they will “smudge” or “sage” the house. So many people had looked at it, location was good and Contractor Girl’s work is above reproach. Certainly there is no explanation as to the non-sale of the house but ghosts, spirits, negative energy or bad juju, am I right? Glibness aside; I so believe in all this shit. I have to. I have a dead husband. Despite the fact that the man chooses to visit his mother and not me, I hold out hope that the spirit world has not deserted me completely. But I know lots of you don’t have such vivid imaginations, and I feel badly for you most days, so I will humor you.
On smudging day, the dolls open all the home’s doors and begin their clockwise movement throughout the abode asking the negative energy to leave. As they broach the master bedroom, smoke suddenly swirls about all akimbo and the smudge stick flickers and reveals its’ anger. Yikes. At this point, moi, would have run from the house, let the landscaping get out of control and hand the keys to the bank. Not these two brave dolls. They tempt the spirits and argue a bit with the negative energy. They get the smoke swirl to calm a bit but it enrages again at the bottom of the stairs.
Makes perfect sense to me. The abusive guy threw his wife over the railing and her spirit is good and pissed, you know; like you would be. Oldest Cutie Pie says that’s pretty sexist and suggests maybe she threw him over. Okay, young one, perhaps. But I’ve been alive a million years and a day and I know it’s much more likely he gave her the toss. There’s more! I know. Squee. The front door, of its own volition, keeps closing. Whaaa? They open it, check their physics knowledge for wind flow and such and find no earthly reason for the door’s behavior.
Again, dolls, do you think it may be time to leave? Just sayin. Realtor Girl is at the top of the stairs when the door slams shut. At this precise moment in the story, Realtor Girl’s husband comes in from the garage and the door slams behind him. Okay, I screamed. Who wouldn’t? Excepting everyone else at the table. Again, I provide the butt for the joke. It’s a gift.
Another realtor, without appointment, comes to check out the house and Contractor Girl sneaks out back to snuff the smudge so as not to appear in the grips of lunacy. Windows flood the back of the home. Unbeknownst to Contractor Girl, she is in full view of Stranger Realtor who watches her endeavors to smudge out a smudge stick with a talent for re-lighting. She attempts to stomp it out. It re-lights. She flings it over the side wall hoping the sailing of it will blunt it. She follows, tripping over cacti and still the stick does not loosen its flicker. “Fuck,” says she in full vocal range of Stranger Realtor. Stranger Realtor leaves without mentioning the smoke in the house, the tiny medicine woman screaming obscenities in the back yard and a randomly slamming front door.
Believe what you like, the house sells in the next few days. I know–you, like me, are hearing the Twilight Zone theme go off in your head. Wait, there’s more. I know. Could you die? Contractor Girl wants to ensure all is well so decides to sage herself in case it’s not the house but her little body packing the spirits a one-two punch. She prays for negative energy’s exit and to be filled only with the positive. Poof! She has more work than she can handle, finances are turning around and the house sells. Dun Dun Dun!
Smudging, saging it is. First I will put in my ten hours here at the PR schtick. Contractor Girl texts me that she’s placing saging stuff on her front porch for Middle Chicken to pick up today in my absence. Tonight, we plan to sage each other asking for negative energy to hit the road jack and positive energy to flow through us, make us millionaires, publish my book, sell a project we’ve been working on and make me a full time writer able to support my children and buy health insurance. If that means jumping around my backyard asking spirits to bless me while I grasp a smudge stick, so be it.
As if making an ass of oneself has ever been a problem for this girl. Pfft.