Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Oh Auntie Em
“You're glowing,” says my friend. “You must have had a good year.”
It's been three since last we talked: Paganicon as family reunion.
Actually, the year has been anything but good: difficulty after difficulty, setback after setback.
He's right, though, and not the first to remark on it: I am glowing. These are the people among whom I can be my truest self, people that speak my mother tongue.
“I'm always at my best among my own,” I say.
He laughs and shakes his head. Corny, maybe, but it's true for him, too. His family threw him out, literally, when as a teen he came out of the broom closet. Pagans have been his people, too, for more than 40 years.
“Oh Auntie Em....” he mugs, and we both smile. Neither of us completes the sentence.
There's no need to.
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