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One of the more challenging aspects of developing a new spiritual tradition is having to figure out what you need terms for and what those terms should be.

I was in the middle of writing a child blessing ritual for the upcoming second edition of Ariadne's Thread (release date: May 15) and realized I needed a term for Modern Minoan Paganism folx to use, a word for the kind of person Christians call godparents: the close family friend who will have a special place in the life of a child as they grow up.

            I am home. It is Wednesday and I should be at work, but a migraine has commanded otherwise. I felt the first uneasy stirrings last night while hiding candy-filled eggs and overstuffed baskets for my sons, but I thought a good night’s sleep would set me to rights. Nope. Instead of working I am in bed, notebook propped on a pillow, a cool cloth on my forehead, listening to birds outside my window. I suppose there are worse ways to welcome Ostara.

I could no longer stand the hate I felt for people who hate. 

The night of July 5, 2018, I had the strangest dream. Instead of living in my sweet house, I was living in a large apartment, and Donald Trump was my flatmate. We weren’t lovers, we were buddies. The degree to which I have loathed the 45th and everything he stands for makes the dream quite strange, given that he and I got along quite well in the dream.

In the dream, we were talking, and then I accidentally bumped up against him, and it seemed like his little penis was hard, but he didn’t even blink. Of course, Trump would not blink because he is a sly, awful man. He‘d leave me in that oh-so-awful-and-prevalent feminine quandary of endlessly debating with oneself, wondering things like “Am I just imagining things ...?" But I brushed his behavior off because neither his slyness nor anything else about him was bothering me. Remarkable dream for me!

Bealtaine 2008, Hidden Falls Park.

Maybe 100 people are gathered in two concentric circles. The Great Man-Woman Dance is about to begin.

Our coven kid, of course, wanted to be in the midst of all the excitement, but at three he was a little small for the dancing, and I didn't want him to get tromped.

As it happens, I was standing in the middle of the circles, leading the singing, so I scooped him up and set him on my shoulders. There he sang along happily, drumming on my chest with his heels, and watched the wheeling of the Men's and Women's Circles, their parting and their coming together.

Afterward, over the food, we discussed.

“The presiding priest spent much of the ritual with a child sitting on his shoulders,” air-reviewed my friend Sparky T. Rabbit.

He laughed, then added:

Back when our youngest coven kid was first learning to talk, the two of us went over to the park one day to watch the rehearsal for the big May Day ceremony. As the costumed performers came in one by one, we played Name the Animal.

“Who's that?” I ask.

“Bear,” he says.

“Who's that?” I ask.

“Wolf,” he says.

“Who's that?” I ask.

“God,” he says.

It was Deer.

Dear GW/BW

I need some help. I need advice on a protection spell. I fear someone may be trying to manipulate people and things to try to take my child away and I want to take every possible precaution.

—Merideth

We can build a cherished tradition in the simplest of ways.

One of my absolute favorite childhood memories from the holiday season was my Christmas stockings. I felt more strongly about them than I did about the gifts under the tree, though please don’t think my parents skimped there. 

There were little toys in the stockings, but I don’t recall a single one of those toys. What I remember, with sweetness, is that every year my stocking held a couple of tangerines, a handful of unshelled nuts, and a few, exquisite, small, Italian nougat candies, each candy in a tiny box that seemed oh-so-fancy to me.