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You should design a personal consecration ritual for your magical tools. Use the following ritual as a simple “temple template” to build on. In essence, in this ritual, you are dedicating yourself and your tools for the betterment of all and setting a foundational intention for your good works. Every time you acquire a new tool or treasure, perform this rite. As you grow in experience, you can embellish the ritual. Refer to your own Book of Shadows. Is there a certain phase of the moon that brings you more clarity? Should you use corresponding colors, crystals, essential oils, incenses, and herbs for your own astrological sun and moon sign? Is there a specific deity with whom you feel an affinity? Use these correspondences to begin designing the rituals of your dreams. The more associations you learn and use, the more effective your power will grow. Keep good notes of your ritual work in your Book of Shadows, and soon you will become a “maestro of magic.”

 To the tune of “O Canada”

(well, the last four lines, anyway)

(well, kind of)

Justin Trudeau,

what do you know?

Who's got the cutest booty?

Justin Trudeau.

Who's got the cutest booty?

Justin Trudeau.

Merry Meet and Blessings to you, Witches, Pagans, Kindred, and to all my relatives. I am Lady Belladonna LaVeau, the Matriarch of the Aquarian Tabernacle Church. Thank you for your interest in the state of the Church and thank you for listening. 

For inner peace, take a walk in the woods, a stroll on the beach, or just relax in your backyard. Bring a stick, seven leaves from an ash or oak tree, several stones, and matches. With the stick, draw a circle on the ground and mark four directions: north, east, south, and west.

Place the stones at the center of the circle. Concentrate upon your connection to the earth and how to honor that in your life. Say:

In the firelight, our call begins almost as a whisper.

Horned One...Horned One...Horned One...

Borne on the drums, it rises, insistent.

HORNED One...HORNED One...HORNED One....

The witches are calling to their god. Out of some primal core of longing, a hundred voices throb together as one.

HORNED! ONE! HORNED! ONE! HORNED! ONE!

From the woods, a horn calls.

He...Is...Here!

A second horn calls, answering the first, then a third. A clutch of people, men and women, emerge from the trees, bearing torches. Riding, unbelievably, above them....

As His bearers approach, their pace quickens. Soon they are running, running toward us.

At a distance of more than 30 years, I remember the horns calling back and forth to one another, the bobbing torchlight, the frenzy. I shake my head at the dangers. That wooden palanquin didn't even have edges for bracing the feet. We would never take such risks today, never. Truly, it was a madness, the madness of a god.

I know what I would see if I looked at the faces around me: wonder, incredulity, fear.

But I do not look. None of us do. Our eyes want nothing more than what they already behold, the longing of centuries.

On the altar, He shines, unbelievably tall. His naked male beauty catches the heart. Between His antlers, constellations wheel.

In the wondering silence, His voice is gentle.

Here in Paganistan, as across Pagandom, when you open a bottle of, say, wine, it's customary to pour out the first few drops onto the ground in thanksgiving to Themselves.

But sometimes you forget.

You know how it is. A glass gets knocked over, the wine is lost.

“Was this bottle libated?” someone always asks.

Turns out, usually, it wasn't.

Here we see, then, yet another good reason to pour libations.