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.
Blessing Bestowed
The rite is complete. I turn to bestow the final blessing, and see something that I have never seen before in ritual: people preparing themselves to receive the blessing that I am about to pronounce.
Some bow their heads and lower their eyes. Some pull themselves up straight. Some brace to receive, as if I'm about to throw something at them. I suppose that, in a sense, I am.
The trust, and strength, of this so-willing self-opening moves me deeply, and calls forth a corresponding tenderness within me.
A tear courses down my cheek. I raise my arms and pronounce the final words.
Around us, the horns of sunset blow.
My brothers and sisters, our time together has come to an end.
Let us now, each one of us, go forth to do our own proper work in the world,
and may the all-seeing Sun, the span of whose reign reaches from horizon to horizon,
watch over you, and see your homeward journey to its safe conclusion;
and let us all say: So mote it be.
Comments
-
Please login first in order for you to submit comments
