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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Pagans in the Hood

Gods. There really are pagans everywhere.

Back around Yule I happened to be walking past a house on the next block when it was dark enough for the lights to be on, but early enough that the blinds were still open. I noticed the great big Sun face hanging over the fireplace. 

There was another Sun in the front window, and a metal cut-out Sun standing in a snow-drift in the front yard.

Hmm, I thought.

I've lived in the South Minneapolis pagan neighborhood for more than 30 years. You can hardly swing a dead cat around here without hitting a pagan.

Not that I would recommend trying it, of course.

Now Imbolc's over and past. Walking past the Sun house today—but the Suns are gone now—I happened to notice the candles in the front windows. The red candles.

Well, you can't have too many pagan neighbors.

You never know when you might need to borrow a cup of hemlock.




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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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