“You have to understand, my daughter is profoundly autistic. For her, other people simply don't exist.”

The man thanking me for the ritual that I had brought to a festival earlier that summer has tears in his eyes.

By the time that he's finished with his story, so do I.

The Bride of the Forest

Together, we process to the Circle. The Maidens of the tribe dance for the Elders.

The Elders select one of the maidens. We veil and garland her as a bride.

We take her in procession to the ford, where it crosses Turtle Creek. There we wait.

Across the creek, the god emerges from the forest. His body is a man's body, tall, naked, shining, but his head is the head of a nine-point stag.

(“Wow,” breathed a little boy standing near me. “Is that really him?” His father took his hand. “Yes, son,” he answered, as much to himself as to the boy. “Yes, it is.”)

He stretches out his hand to the Chosen Maiden.

She runs to him, tearing off the veil and garland in her eagerness, splashing through the water. Hand-in-hand, they enter the forest together.

We turn back to the Circle. In return for the gifts of the Forest, we have given of our own; but the sorrow of that giving lies deep upon us nonetheless: so young, so fair.

Suddenly, she is back among us: she, the Bride of the Forest.

And look at the belly she's got on her now. She's pregnant!

The drums come up. Joyously, we dance.

“...People like you and me, she doesn't even see,” he continues.

His voice lowers, trembling.

“But she could see the god.”

We are the new Pagans of the West. Basically, we're amateurs, feeling our way in the dark. A lot of the time, quite frankly, we get it wrong.

Yet even so, wonders walk among us.

My friends, what are we unloosing upon the world?

Photo:

Paul B. Rucker, God with Contrail