Meghan Victoria

Writer of the weird, the dark, and the fantastic.

Author: Meghan Victoria (Page 1 of 2)

On Singing

May 17, 2021 /
Photo microphone

by Meghan Victoria

I love to sing. There is a calling deep in my blood to make beauty with music. To heal with music. Which is somewhat tragic in that I have never considered myself a “good singer”. To be completely truthful, I used to tell people I was tone deaf. And though tone deafness is a defense used by many who feel they are not gifted with song, it’s actually a condition, defined as: a musical disability affecting about 4% of the population that appears mainly as a defect in processing pitch but also encompasses musical memory and recognition (Ref: Wikipedia).  

There is a free online test to check your pitch perception. Spoiler alert: I am not tone deaf. Which I already knew, having grown up on a piano bench and achieving Level 7 Royal Conservatory. Each Royal Conservatory level tests your ability to play several pieces (bonus if you can do it from memory), as well as sight reading, playing by ear, and note recall. All of which you cannot do if you are tone deaf. 

So why the self-deprecation? 

From the time I was ten, I daydreamed about being the lead singer of a band. I still do. I was a member of my school choir and band through high school. And yet, I wouldn’t sing unless I was sure others would drown me out. I was ashamed of my voice, because it didn’t sound like everything I was taught singing should sound like. 

Society has warped the gift of song into something commercial, something that must be done in a specific way to carry value. But music exists in all of us. It is a mode of communication. Songs connect us to each other, to the earth, to the world. There is a reason we sing in the car, the shower – even those of us who feel we aren’t singers. We sing when we are alone. When no one is nearby to make fun of us. Because making fun of people for their voice has become normalized. And even though we might not realize it on the surface, even though we might make fun of ourselves for the exact same thing, words bury deep. And through what might be perceived as playful banter, singing becomes an unattainable standard that most of us shouldn’t even attempt. 

Photo microphone

And you know what? I’ve had enough of that. 

I have started singing again. In front of people. I feel like I need to throw up every time, just waiting for someone to make a joke. A comment. But the more I sing, the more confident I become. The lighter my heart is. The less I care about how I sound, and the more I care about how music makes me feel. 

The world needs more music. If you have ever listened to someone sing in front of another person for the first time, if you have heard their voice crack in vulnerability and strengthen as they carry on, then you already know it is the most beautiful sound in the world. 

So sing. And make sure the world is listening. 

Her Rage

April 4, 2021 /

I am getting acquainted with my rage. 
Learning her edges, her boundaries, her heat. 
Coaxing her from the box to which she has been banished for so long. Too long. 
Banished, because rage is such a dirty word for a woman to wield. 
An unladylike word. Too much. Too hard.
Angry woman.
Nasty woman.

But there is no light without darkness. And I have been afraid of my darkness for far too long.
I have been afraid of everything for far too long. 

Afraid of being rejected by those from whom I so desperately seek approval. 
Afraid of neglecting the deepest parts of myself in exchange for social safety.
Afraid of not being enough, of being too much, of caring too much, of being perceived to care too little, of every single interaction as if my worth is tied to external validation rather than the power that swims deep in my veins. 

I have been so worried about being rejected, unwanted, cast out. 
But now, rejection is the stone upon which I whet my rage.

I reject the container that society has built to cage me. 
The expectation that I will tear my sisters down rather than build them up.
The myth that I should be seen and not heard.
Every tale ever told designed to keep me small and weak and alone.

I reject the expectation that my body is anyone’s business but my own. 
That what I lose and what I gain and what I grow and cut and mark is something to be commented upon.
Judged upon.

I reject the rule that my relationships must adhere to standards passed down by men too afraid to witness a woman’s passion laid bare and her heart laid open. 
That love is finite.
That my sexuality must be defined as either this, or that. For I am neither this nor that and my relationship, whatever they may be, are mine and mine alone.

I reject the notion that I must choose – soft or hard, light or dark, feminine or masculine.
I reject the expectation that I dress a certain way, act a certain way, talk a certain way to make the world comfortable.The world needs to be less comfortable with what is, because what is is killing us, slowly and quickly in all the ways we will not realize until we wake up one day and see that we have been dead for all this time.

I reject the thought that I cannot be both enraged and have unconditional love in my heart. 

I reject every word uttered with the intent to maim and wound, sentences brandished like scalpels, precise cuts to the core in jealousy and fear. 

I am not here for your pleasure. 
I am not here to shield you from your insecurities.
I am not here for your standards.

I am getting acquainted with my rage. Learning her power, her love, her voice. 
The box has been opened. 
And if I am to be a warning, a cautionary tale, like Pandora, like Eve, like every woman framed to be an agent of chaos,
Let the warning be this. 
Our voices cannot be tamed.
Our bodies cannot be claimed.
And if you try to take our mother given power, we will rise.
And we will rage.

You Were Born for This. All of It.

March 9, 2021 /

There is a hand written letter that sits on my altar. Like everything that graces this sacred space, it was a gift. Secured from drafts of air by a moonrock, it sits opposite my incense burner, beside my candles of light and dark, behind gifts of stone and string and beads and leather. I am lucky to have so many teachers in my life – mentors who, like guiding lights, help me reconnect to my roots, to my power, to myself. And at a time of particular overwhelm and uncertainty, one of these teachers wrote me this letter. 

It is one of my most prized possessions. 

Today, I had one of those mornings where I question everything. What is my purpose? What am I supposed to be doing? What is the point of this thing called life? I knelt before my altar and pled my case: show me the path, show me the path, please please please show me the path. And as I begged the universe to show me my path, my eyes lit on two sentences that curled through the centre of my sacred letter. 

You were born for this. All of it.

The thing about paths is that they don’t always lead to our chosen destination. They can be tricksy, sneaky things – curling and winding and branching. We may think we have lost our way, only to end up somewhere better than we ever could have imagined. Or we may think we know exactly where we’re going, only to find a twelve headed dragon blocking the way. 

Most of us crave certainty. If I take A to B, and B to C, I will end up at D. It’s why we gravitate towards the light, shy from the darkness that limits our line of sight. But life itself is uncertain. The more we cling to our carefully laid plans, avoid surprises, and rigidly stay the course, the more we close ourselves to messages from the universe, or god, or the creator – take your pick. And the message the universe seems to keep wanting me to learn is this: we don’t need to have it all figured out. We don’t always need to know. Sometimes, we must simply trust our gut, have faith in our intuition, and step into the dark of the unknown. 

Wherever your heart takes you, whether a path of gold or one lined with monsters,  remember that you were born for this. The struggles, the triumphs, the uncertainty and pain and joy and everything in between. You were made for THIS life. Embrace all of it. Every messy, gorgeous, glorious minute. In the words of my teacher, live lavishly and walk gracefully. 

The Fall and Rise of an Earth Witch

February 9, 2021 /

When I was small, the tiny patch of woods behind our house was a safe haven. 

I did not grow up in a city. I didn’t even grow up in a town large enough for a traffic light or chain restaurant. We had one four way stop, one family-owned restaurant, and a million acres of forest surrounding us on all sides. In my own personal version of “walking barefoot uphill in a snowstorm”, the next closest town was a three-hour drive over dirt roads, with only the stretching forest in between.  

So when I say that the woods behind my house were a safe haven, I mean that they were mine. 

I picture it in absolute clarity – the moss strewn earth, the towering pines, the small burrow beneath protruding roots where little tea leaf-esque plants grew. I would spend hours immersed in my wood, making potions and magic and talking to trees. 

And then one day, I stopped. 

I was ten.

My friend and I were playing in the forest behind her house. We swung from birch limbs, watched the treeline for foxes, and I chatted away, both to my friend and to the trees. To me it was natural, they were both part of the conversation and it would be rude to exclude one or the other. My friend interrupted my chatter. She told me to stop talking to things that weren’t people. That our classmates would think I was weird. That she thought I was weird. And for the first time in my life, I felt a flush of shame for who I was. Fear for what others would say behind closed doors. 

Photo of Forest

That was the day I stopped talking to the forest. Stopped making potions, stopped making magic. Instead, I did what I was supposed to; paid attention to boys and clothes and everything but the nature that grounded and sustained me. 

I hid my magic to fit in.

But I could never truly let go of my hold on the fantastic. Potions and talking trees found their way into my writing, along with elves and magic and dragons. I started telling friends I was sick so I could stay home and write or read rather than going to parties. I yearned for that connection – it was reflected in the books that lined my shelves, the drawings doodled on every scrap of paper, the cartoons that I watched even as I edged into adulthood.

And then, suddenly, the things I had been hiding became coveted. It became cool to watch anime and dress up in costumes and gather with like minded people. It became cool to write fan fiction and stories about fantastical beings. Superheroes grew into fashion. I spent years allowing others to dictate which parts of myself were ok to reclaim, and when. 

And then one day, I took back my power.   

One year ago, I gave myself permission to embrace all the things that make me feel connected and whole. To reconnect with all that I’ve been yearning for since my ten-year-old self locked away this primal love for my own nature.

It’s still not widely accepted to talk to trees. But the people in my life love and support me for all that I am, and the many things that I am not. I am no longer ashamed of the things that set my heart on fire. I will continue to make my magic. And I will stay forever hopeful that the rest of humanity will do the same. 

How to Release Your Magic

December 7, 2020 /

To release your magic, follow these instructions exactly. 

Do not falter, do not hesitate. Do not look back from where you’ve come, or forward to where you’re going. Be here, in this moment, right now. 

Meghan Victoria - Writer

Pause. 

Breathe in, fill the lungs, the chest, the belly. 

Breathe out, let your shoulders release away from your ears. 

Breathe in, fill the lungs, the chest, the belly. 

Breathe out, clear your mind. 

Select your instruments. Parchment, paper, stationary. A quill, a pencil, a pen. The right surface, the perfect writing tool – these things are art in themselves. 

Write “MAGIC” at the top of your page. Take your time. Feel each letter as you etch its shape. Words have power; letters fuel the fire.  

Underline “MAGIC” twice, as deep or as shallow as feels right. 

Gift yourself five minutes. 

Write every word that seeps into your mind when you think MAGIC. Do not censor. Do not steer. Let yourself fall into stream of thought, far and deep. 

Heavy drapes. Incense. Whispered secrets. The feel of velvet. Old keys. Forest depths. The smell of old pine. Locked boxes. Curling wood smoke. Full moon howl. Dancing. Midnight. 

Pause. 

Breathe in, fill the lungs, the chest, the belly. 

Breathe out, let your shoulders release away from your ears. 

Breathe in, fill the lungs, the chest, the belly. 

Breathe out, clear your mind. 

Examine your list. Do not think too hard. Instead, breathe it, meditate upon it, muse and deliberate and reflect. These processes are profound in their nature. 

Magic has a feel, as unique to each of us as a fingerprint. It calls to the deepest, most secret parts of ourselves. A place of yearning, of forgotten pieces and half-remembered lifetimes, of beauty and darkness and longing. 

MEGHAN VICTORIA

To know your magic is to know yourself. 

Are the words that curl across your page part of your life? 

How often do you find yourself in the depths of the forest, howling at the full moon? Listening to the secrets of the universe? Dancing at midnight? 

How often do you wrap yourself in velvet and draw the drapes and burn the incense and unlock the box that contains your soul? 

How often do you set your magic free? 

This is a list that calls to your blood, to the secrets that lives deep in your bones. 

Take it. Live it. Set your magic free. 

« Older posts
Photo Meghan Victoria

© 2024 Meghan Victoria

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑