Warm water bubbles beneath my knees. I feel weightless. The pool is just deep enough that I can't sit, so I let my feet touch the sandy bottom while the rest of my body floats. The water must be the same temperature as my blood for I feel neither warm nor cool, as if heat and cold were a foreign concept. In these hot springs it is easy to forget where my body ends and the water begins. I run my hands up and down my legs. I expect little bubbles to rise to the surface, the way they do in the hot tub, but instead I feel a thin slimy film upon my skin. I wonder about the mineral content of the water. The smell of rotten eggs announces sulfur and I wrinkle my nose, then quickly re-frame my association from disgusting-gaseous-anomalies to miraculous-healing-waters and manage to enjoy the odor.
It's just after noon. The weather is warm. There's a slight breeze that causes the leaves high in the canopy to rustle. The redwoods are creaking as they rub against each other. Loud raven clicks and caws punctuate the quiet forest. I'm one of only a few people standing in the camp grounds and we are all silent, breathing deeply, settling our rushed minds and sinking in, just sinking in.
In two hours witches from all of over the world will arrive. Some journeying to these woods for the first time, others coming home as they do each year. There will be hugs and kisses and hearty shouts of "oh! There you are. I'm so glad you came back." After the hub-bub of getting here subsides and the first night's dinner dishes have been put away, it's time for ritual.
We live in private worlds mostly of our own creation, and though you may take that metaphorically or metaphysically, in this case I mean the physical conditions around us. I would wager that most of you that are reading this blog live in homes where you have the power of day and night by clicking the lights on or off. You, or someone associated with your home, probably controls the seasons of your home through heating and/or air-conditioning. Water comes to you through a faucet, and the roof keeps the storms at bay. If you so choose, and you have the coin to pay with, the fruits and vegetables of almost any climate and season can be brought to your plate. Unless you are in dire straits or have chosen an ascetic life, these domestic powers are generally taken for granted. Not that long ago in the grand scheme of things, they would have been seen as marvels to be only found in Fairyland or in a wizard’s keep. All magick has a cost, even the very tame magic that is brought about by wires, plumbing, and pistons. Although it is true that our creature comforts have economic, political, and ecological costs, it is one of the costs to our psyche that this blog will explore.
Today's Earthy Thursday post supports solutions and inspirations for living. New cultural ideas including "forest bathing" from Japan; eco-art in the woods; saving Monarchs and getting paid for it; salt-water friendly potatoes and a multi-generational organic dairy.
This post is for Week 2 of The Pagan Experience, on Personal Practice: “Share your favorite spiritual/magickal practices."
On the Vanic side of my spiritual life, one of the most meaningful and nourishing things I do is also one of the most simple, something that may not look outwardly like a spiritual practice: going for walks.
As I cross the St. John's Bridge and start up the hill toward my usual Forest Park trailhead, my stomach tightens with anticipation. I've been praying for renewal, for a re-awakening of my spiritual awareness, and today I'm returning to my favorite woods for the first time in months. I walked this path several times a week last summer and fall, finding the sacred in the creaking trees and cool shadows.
Recently I wrote about the role music played in how I became a Pagan. I ended my story with the summer solstice of 2012, which marks the beginning of my Pagan path. The feeling of having come home, so familiar to many Pagans, took me by surprise that night and has stayed with me ever since.
Susan
In the Goddess Book of Days, by Diane Stein, The Crossing Press, pg 17 it says: The 31st Imbolc Eve. . . The ending of the dark, dedicated to Underwo...
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...who, as he was burning at the stake, turned his face toward the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris, beneath which (as we now know) was buried the fam...
Anthony Gresham
In "The Second Messiah" by Christopher Knight & Robert Lomas the authors argue that the figure on the shroud is actually Jacques de Molay the last Gra...
I prefer natural spaces too, but as a human, only to a point. I think it's fair to note that the 'point' varies: I'm seemingly le
This post is for 
