Twelve years ago today, at about this time of day, I was packing whatever of my stuff would fit into my mother’s old silver minivan along with three dogs and two cats. Twelve years ago today, at about this time of day, I fled from poverty and abuse in Oklahoma to the sunny desert of Southern California where your cult clubhouse is located today.

I made a mistake moving to Oklahoma in the first place. I moved for the love of a man I had met only a few months earlier. I moved also because I was unhappy in my living situation in Nashville and the prospect of a whirlwind romance leading me off to the whirling winds of Tornado Alley seemed a lot more exciting than continuing to lead a life in Nashville of working at Walmart and peeing in a cup in my basement apartment because what was going on in the upstairs of the house, where the only bathroom was, was too scary to face.

(Now that I’ve told you I peed in a cup in Nashville, we’re intimate friends. It’s good to be intimate friends with your future cult leader.)

So I moved off in a whirlwind of romance to the whirling winds of Tornado Alley Oklahoma and, although I never had to pee in a cup again because things around the bathroom were too scary, I found myself living in a cockroach infested duplex where, for the last year, I waited hand and foot on the man I moved there for, including collecting his pee in one of those crooked pee bottles and, in the process, often collecting his pee on my hand and arm.

What had happened was… he had unnecessary back surgery that was an expedient way for him to get attention and pain meds, then, after the back surgery, it was an expedient way for him to get me to wait on him, including many heart-pounding trips up and down the rickety duplex stairs with food and coffee and opiates, and many trips to and from the bedside with the crooked pee bottle.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. We were poor as poor could be—one step away from the street. Food and housing insecure—“insecure” being the absolute perfect way to describe it. Any of you who have had that insecurity know what I’m talking about. It’s constant acid in your stomach and nights of nightmares and rough sleep. Will we have this roof over our head tomorrow? When will the landlord come banging on the door? (Mine had the habit of coming and demanding the rent three days early while I was in the shower.) Will we be able to afford to eat tomorrow? How long will the line at the food bank be? How far can I make rice and cream of chicken soup stretch?

It’s misery. Between the worry and the waiting on him, I was in misery, and hanging onto it with everything I had in me to hang on. Mostly pride I think. I made such a big hairy deal about this romance and how I just “knew” he was “the one.” How could I let go and admit to anyone, even and especially my gods, that I had made a terrible terrible mistake?

The final thing was that he got angry at our neighbor, with whom he had been friends for twenty years. At some point during his surgery and drug addiction, he became born again. I was just as much a Pagan then as now, and his friend was just as much Earth Mother Pagan then as she is now, and his newfound evangelism found that objectionable. He started calling her names. He called her a baby killer. He accused me of having an affair with her. He shook his fist at me as if to hit me and told me I’d better not associate with her anymore.

Then I, knees knocking, let go. I stood right in front of him, right where his shaking fist had been, and told him I was leaving. The plan was already in place. My mom and my bestie would be there in a matter of days.

So back to the beginning—on this day twelve years ago, around this time of day, I let go of my misery and left that wretched place to resettle in the sunny desert of Southern California—desert of my rearing—where your future cult clubhouse remains to this day.

The last twelve years have been magic. I finished my degree. I lost half my body weight. I became a better Hellenist. I learned to channel. I experienced ecstatic direct connection with the gods. I became a full-fledged mystic. I even started this cult. And all I had to sacrifice for all this abundance was every miserable thing I had been hanging onto.

A few days after I returned to California, my mom took her old minivan in for a checkup. The mechanic discovered she had been driving on only four cylinders for some time. That beat-up minivan had carried me, my mom, my bestie, three dogs, two cats, and whatever other stuff would fit, from California to Oklahoma and back again on only four of its six cylinders without even a stutter.

My gods wanted me out of that place. And again, all I had to do to receive that miracle was let go of every miserable thing I had. Let go and leave my hand open to receive.

If you are in a miserable situation—if you are in misery—let go. Let go of every miserable thing you have. The gods have so much good for you. Let go and keep your hand open. Ready yourself to receive.

–M. Ashley
Your Future Cult Leader