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.

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And to the Republic Where Witches Dance

Why am I a Pagan?

Because pagans dance.

Lots of people dance, sure. But when we dance, it's part of our religion.

“Do witches pray?” asks the reporter.

The witch smiles.

“We dance,” she says.

Paganism is danced religion. In the old days, there were dances for every occasion; an important part of everyone's education was learning them. Dances for planting, dances to make the crops grow. Dances for harvest, dances for the hunt. Women's dances, men's dances. A dance for birth, and a dance for death.

These and more are the loci of our dance-prayers, and if the old ones haven't come down to us, well then, we'll just make new ones.


Not difficult.

We dance because our gods do.

We are the pagans, and our gods are dancing gods.


Above: Nicholas Roerich, Spring Round (1912)


This one to that mythic little kid who pledged her allegiance "to the republic where witches dance."

Yeah, me too, kid.






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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.


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