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Subscribe to this list via RSS Blog posts tagged in Magenta Griffith

Posted by on in Culture Blogs
Elvish Spring

Our Equinox ritual is punctuated multiple times by call-and-response acclamations of Spring in many different languages, including (if you can believe it) Old English and Akkadian.

This year, we had a request for one in Elvish. Well, what's the point of ritual if you can't play a little?

Though not myself a Sindarin-speaker, I do (as my friend Magenta puts it) have contacts in the Realm.

So for those who wish to welcome Spring in the Fair Tongue, here you go.

 

Si cuielen i Híril o Coi! Ele, si cuielen!

See-kwee-ELL-en ee HEER-il oh koi. EY-ley see-kwee-ELL-en!

Lit. “The Lady of Life is living again!” “Behold: She is living again!”

 

i Híril = the Lady (hír = lord + il = feminine ending)

o coi = of life

cui = to live

-iel = participial ending

-en = again (suffix)

si = now

ele = behold (This word bears a particularly mythic resonance, having been the first word spoken by the Quendi [elves, lit. “speakers”] after their coming into being.)

 

Well folks, fun's fun, but—I'm sorry—as long as I'm alive, there will be absolutely NO KLINGON in this ritual! Really, one has to draw the line somewhere.

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How 'Brother' Jed, Campus Evangelist, Helped Launch the U of M's First-Ever Student Pagan Organization, and (Indirectly) Paganistan's Oldest Coven

I suppose most campuses have one: the self-appointed, probably slightly psychotic, street-corner evangelist to the (presumed) fallen.

In the late 80s, the University of Minnesota had Brother Jed.

You'd see him around campus, haranguing. No one took him seriously. Some engaged him; some egged him on. Me, I avoided him.

(One day, Brother Jed noticed me walk past, face averted, as he was enlarging on the evils of homosexuality. “Whah, they-ah goes one na-ow!” he denounced, adding, in an uncharacteristic moment of self-doubt, “Ah think.”)

Every (black) pearl starts with an intrusive piece of grit. One day, after the umpteenth encounter with Brother Jed, a graduate student named Magenta Griffith had had enough.

“We need a student pagan organization,” she thought.

She teamed up with some friends, and thus was born Children of the Night, the University of Minnesota's first student pagan organization.

(Yes, the name comes from Dracula. We're of a poetic bent here in the Northland; savoring irony is something of a local sport.)

Here's where yours truly enters the story. I'd come to the Twin Cities the previous year, ostensibly for grad school, but in actuality to find the Pagan Community of my dreams. In those pre-internet days, hooking up with other pagans was hard. Twelve months had gone by, and I still hadn't met any.

Then one day I walked into Lind Hall and saw the mimeograph on the wall.

Are you interested in Wicca? Druidism? Paganism?

Children of the Night: Student Pagan Organization

xxx date and time

xxx location

Interested? Was I ever! My memory is (thank you Mama) that I actually kissed the ground in joy.

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Recent comment in this post - Show all comments
  • Ian Phanes
    Ian Phanes says #
    Did you notice that Jed wasn't there every day? That's because he, and some others of his ilk, travel a circuit of multiple campus
A Night in the Life of an Urban Coven

Ah, summer in Lake Country. There's no humidity like Midwestern humidity.

One steamy New Moon night in July 1984, we gather in Loring Park to greet the First Crescent, hoping for even a breath of air movement.

Alas, there is none.

We retire to my nearby deficiency compartment to continue. In the thick, airless humidity, we strip off and sit on the bare floorboards.

In the center of our circle stands the coven goddess: earthen, tall as a child of two years. There she rises: dancing, naked, smiling her mysterious smile. Of us all, only she looks cool.

We chant, savoring.

new is moon

moon are we

we are new

blessed be

The sweating jar passes from lap to lap, a lunar coolness. With sea-sponges, we wipe each other down with the cold water.

As the jar circles, we begin riffing off of our chant.

We are nude, I deadpan. There is no witchcraft without self-satire.

Laughing, Magenta points to the Goddess.

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