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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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Posted by on in Culture Blogs

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Posted by on in Culture Blogs
Do Witches Throw Rice at Weddings?

Do witches throw rice at weddings?

Seriously? You are actually asking me if witches throw rice at weddings?

For gods' sakes. What kind of cowanish question is that?

Of course we don't throw rice at weddings.

(“Do witches throw rice at weddings?" Ye gods.)

Cowans throw rice at weddings.

When it comes to weddings, witches don't hold with anything so newfangled as rice.

Witches hold to the Old Ways.

What's the oldest grain? Barley. Barley, which, in the dawning of days, the Mother gave to our people to be our food forever.

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Posted by on in SageWoman Blogs
You are infinitely capable.
You are infinitely tender.b2ap3_thumbnail_60093714_2327385934140282_7348583357195747328_o.jpg
You are infinitely precious. 
 
This weekend we gathered in the Red Tent for an exploration and celebration of our root chakra. We wore all red, brought red and root-related foods for dinner, and drank a rich ruby-red tea of rooibos, dandelion root, and ginger.
 
We passed a root, instead of our usual rattle, and I asked this question, which I now share with you:
 
“I am a woman [person] with a body. For that I offer no explanation, shame, excuse or apology. In a culture obsessed with women shrinking, confidence is controversial. It is courage. I’m taking my peace back.”
 
-Erin Brown
 
What would it feel like for you to take your own peace back?
 
Some of the women heard the word "piece" instead of "peace," which add another layer of exploration for this question (as: the pieces of your puzzle, a piece of the pie, a piece for yourself):
 
What would it feel like to take your own piece back?
 
May you nourish your roots
and sing in the sun.
 
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Mothers are Everywhere and Always

 

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Posted by on in Culture Blogs
The Fairest Month

At what season is Mabh—our beloved Earth—at her fairest?

Well, of course she has her beauties in every season, but many would say “in May.”

You'd have to be dead not to feel it. (Or maybe not: who knows what the dead can feel?) See the young green of the new leaves springing, the fresh yellow-green that you'll never see at any other time of year. Smell the bewitching fragrance of the blooming trees, with their promise of deliciousness to come. Hear the courtship songs of the birds. Feel the wind on your face: warm now, unbelievably. Savor the tang of the oniony wild ramp, the morel's earthy meatiness.

All this, with—savor it—no mosquitoes.

All winter long, we've been closed in with the stinks and discomforts of winter, with never a lick of privacy to be had.

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Posted by on in Culture Blogs
The Magical Month of Hawthorn

Following the wheel of the year through the Celtic tree calendar, May 13th begins the time of the hawthorn tree and its ogham character Huath. While the tree calendar is a modern construct, it holds meaning because of the concepts it has come to symbolize and the significance it has for twenty-first century magic, ritual, and everyday life.

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  • Anne Newkirk Niven
    Anne Newkirk Niven says #
    I love Hawthorn, and the one in my backyard is a good 30 feet tall. This year I harvested blossoms and leaves that I'm busy tinctu

Posted by on in Paths Blogs
“Wise Woman’ By Jane Brideson. 
Used with permission

She sits on the windowsill above my altar in a gold frame. The image is entitled ‘Wise Woman’ painted by Irish painter Jane Brideson entitled. The Wise Woman is sitting by her kitchen table burning something in a small copper cauldron from which the smoke swirls and wafts up and around her.

There are images in the smoke, a hare under a waxing moon, a croft with a thatched roof, smoke trailing out of the chimney. The cottage has two windows on its whitewashed front which I want to peer through, the paint of the front door is probably peeling in several places, to reveal a rainbow of colors which span decades. I imagine what it might look like inside, maybe like the Irish croft my Great Aunt Mary lived in, a wise woman herself who never married and worked the farm alone and traded for most of what she needed. The third swirl of smoke holds the scene of a cauldron pot over a fire, next to a large kettle.

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