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.

  • Home
    Home This is where you can find all the blog posts throughout the site.
  • Tags
    Tags Displays a list of tags that have been used in the blog.
  • Bloggers
    Bloggers Search for your favorite blogger from this site.
  • Login
    Login Login form
Steven Posch

Steven Posch

Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.

Posted by on in Culture Blogs
I Love the Doorposts of Your House

You're entering a sacred place. What do you do?

You can't just saunter in, doing nothing, as if it were (say) some big box store. It's a sacred place; going in means something.

So what do you do?

Some reach down and touch the ground. (If you're reading this, I probably don't need to tell you why you would do this.) In practice, this often means that you touch the threshold of the temple.

What comes next is up to you. Some people touch their hearts, some (with a kiss) their lips. Some touch their brows. I usually touch all three: In my heart, on my lips, in my thoughts.

Or some variation thereof. The deeply pious may bow down and kiss the Earth. Those of us who aren't as spry as we used to be may settle for kissing the doorposts of the temple. (I love the doorposts of your house, goes the old song.)

So much for entering. How do you leave a sacred place?

Last modified on

Posted by on in Culture Blogs
Old Lady Hawthorn

Damn that old lady Hawthorn.

There she goes, knocking my hat off.

Again.

I don't know how old she is. Being a Siberian hawthorn, it could be hundreds of years. Judging by how gnarled and ornery she is, I'd say probably pretty old. Older than me, anyway.

And did I say attitudinous? Old lady Hawthorn is the undisputed ruler of this lawn, and you'd better not forget it.

Before you mow, you'd better tip your hat to her. You'd just better. Likes that, she does.

Otherwise, she'll knock it clean off your head.

Like she just did.

Last modified on

Posted by on in Culture Blogs
A Little Samhain in Every Bealtaine

Posch, you pervert.

May Eve is days away, and you're writing about Samhain?

What are you trying to do, wreck us?

Au contraire. (And let me point out that our Southside friends and family are preparing for Samhain as I write this).

It's just that this new (to me) idea is so elegant, so true, that it simply won't wait.

I'm just now back from a warlocks' work weekend at Witch Country's Sweetwood sanctuary. We're building a shrine there in the woods below the circle.

This time around we began site preparation, and removed the standing stone that will be the centerpiece of the shrine, from its immemorial bed in the coulee (ravine) wall. The Bull Stone has now begun its long journey across the coulee and up the side of the hill.

But that's another story for another day. (Stay tuned.) In the process, we chopped down a number of young trees, both to clear the site and to provide us with rails and rollers.

You can't move a 1000-pound stone through the forest without doing some damage. Iacchus, Sweetwood's priest-in-residence and caretaker, remarked offhandedly that it's the custom there to offer at Samhain on behalf of all the lives that one has taken during the course of the year.

Last modified on

Posted by on in Culture Blogs
Great Rite-athon

A beloved community elder had fallen gravely ill and was in need of healing.

Word went around that on such-and-so a day, at such-and-so a time, people should cast their circles and make love within them to this end.

And so it was.

“I love this religion,” said one.

Last modified on
Recent Comments - Show all comments
  • Steven Posch
    Steven Posch says #
    Sorry James, sometimes my love of stylistic terseness results in the cryptic, especially with a high-context post like this one. I
  • James Bulls
    James Bulls says #
    Ha! Well, thanks for the response - that's certainly illuminating. See you around!
  • James Bulls
    James Bulls says #
    I don't get it - is there an essay here? I can't find anything more than: --------------------------------------- A community elde

Posted by on in Culture Blogs
Blood Sabbat

I have seen him stretch out his naked limbs on the altar.

I have seen.

I have seen the flash of blades descending.

I have cried out.

I have anointed my brow with his blood.

I have mourned with the others.

I have eaten the red bread and drunk the red drink.

Last modified on

Posted by on in Culture Blogs
Horned Green Men: A Colloquy

So, Posch.

You say that the Horned and the Green Man are not one god, but two: the Divine Twins, Master of Beasts and Master of Plants respectively.

You also say that in our day They reveal Themselves through art.

So what about all those Horned Green Men that we see?

Last modified on

Posted by on in Culture Blogs
Mask

And there's the mystery:

that down the long years

all manner of men have worn it,

yet somehow, in the end,

it's always him.

 

They say,

Last modified on

Additional information