PaganSquare


PaganSquare is a community blog space where Pagans can discuss topics relevant to the life and spiritual practice of all Pagans.

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Recent blog posts
Mending Hearts: Olde World Spell

Sol and Luna,

the sun needs the moon like the cock needs the hen.

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Review: Astrology of the Shadow Self

Astrology of the Shadow Self: Working with Oppositions in Your Natal Chart

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Ecker's Apple Farm

Territories of Time

 

Witches, like other predators, are territorial animals.

Territories of place, though, are not the only kind of territory.

 

“So, how was your Fourth?”

I'm talking with Aura who, at 84, has as good a claim to being Grandmother to the local community as anyone. (Of Carl "Llewellyn" Weschke's very first crop of initiates, she alone remains: still fully engaged, still sharp as an athame's edge.)

My question was casually intended, mere open-ended conversation-fodder.

Little did I realize down what paths it would lead.

 

Unlike pagan immigrants like me—there are many here—Aura's an autochthon, born right here in Minneapolis, the Water City. (That's what the name means literally: a Dakota-Greek hybrid, aptly enough.) What had she done with her Independence Day? She had spent it driving around with one of her daughters-in-the-Craft, tracking down all the places where she's lived in this pagan city during her long and rich life.

Witches do this kind of thing. The Wise remember, and place is the medium of our memory. My own coven, too, has done the driving tour of all our various covensteads through our now-going-on-50-year-history.

Territories of place are not the only kind of territory.

 

It took them a while to track down the first house where Aura lived after she was born: she hadn't seen it in years. Finally, they managed to locate it. Her eyes sparkle as she tells me.

“Was I ever surprised when I looked across the street and saw your car in the driveway,” she says.

Turns out it's right across the street from my house.

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What Happened to Moriyama's Fireflies ...

 

The dead god lies outstretched on the altar.

The white shroud, like a ghostly snowfall, blurs the horizon of his body. Over the red ruin of his chest, the stained cloth clings moistly, horribly.

Suddenly, from the woods behind, like some night bird, the voice of a flute.

Like flowing water, it ripples and rills, calling.

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You Are a Goddess: Aromatherapy of the Gods

For men, this oil stimulates desire and prowess. In a favorite bottle or jar, ideally red or pink, mix together the following recipe with a silver spoon:

5 drops rosemary oil

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That morning, we divided into Toughs and Prettys.

(Such things happen at pagan festivals.)

I wanted to be a Tough; I figured I'd earned it. Little sissy boys don't grow up to be happy, sane adults, after all, if they aren't the toughest of the tough.

(I have to imagine that, in the current cultural environment, I would now be experiencing all manner of social pressure to Transition. Gods help me, it would have been the ruin of me.)

Boss Witch had other ideas, though.

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Darkness with The Devil Card ...

 

Remind you of anything?

The “Devil” card, maybe?

Welcome to the Sabbat.

 

The Horned, tall on the altar.

(His antlers reach up to heaven. Between them, constellations wheel.)

Standing before him, priestess and priest.

All of them naked as gods.

 

Shall I tell you a secret?

They are not so much priest and priestess, as the twin Hands of the God.

Right and Left, respectively.

 

Which came first, you ask, card or Sabbat?

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