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.
Of Imbolc, Almond Blossom, and Climate Envy
Over a doobie one festival afternoon, Feri elder Alison Harlow and I are talking holidays.
“I just love Imbolc,” she says wistfully, “when the almond trees bloom.”
All real paganism is local. Allison was a daughter of Califia, through and through.
Me, though, I'm a naturalized Minnesotan. For us, Imbolc is the time of year when we're up to our asses in snow, when the cold between the stars descends to Earth, when night is loud with the gunshot report of cracking trees.
Here in the North Country, we love Imbolc too, but we love it because it means that Winter's halfway over, and that we may just—if we're lucky—have a chance of living to see Spring again.
Truly, all paganism is local.
“Shut the f*ck up,” I tell her, laughing.
Alison Harlow
1934-2004
Reborn to the People
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