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Dear Boss Warlock,

I say that when you offer to a River, you should face upstream, toward the River's origins.

My husband contends, though, that to face upstream is to oppose the flow of the River, and that while offering one should face downstream instead, toward the Sea.

Please help us settle this question. My marriage is in danger!

Upstream or Down?

Dear Up,

First off, let me congratulate both you and your husband on your piety. These days, far too many pagans ignore those powerful gods and goddesses that we call Rivers.

Secondly, let me concede that you both offer compelling arguments for your preferred form of River-worship, with perhaps a slight leaning in your favor. As you know, in antiquity, the primary shrines of any given River were generally located at the headwaters, if not actually at the source itself.

Now, when it comes to matters of observance, my recommendation is usually to consult local practice and do accordingly.

This case is different, though, since in this instance, both you and your husband are wrong.

A Hymn to the Mississippi

Many-colored River,

Father of Waters,

to you I sing my praise.

I sing the White Mississippi,

iced-over, clad with snow.

Many-colored River,

Father of Waters,

to you I sing my praise.

I sing the Brown Mississippi,

heavy with silt of Spring.

Many-colored River,

Father of Waters,

to you I sing my praise.

I sing the Blue Mississippi,

son of the Summer Sky.

Many-colored River,

Father of Waters,

to you I sing my praise.

I sing the Golden Mississippi,

Sunset liquid fire.

This picture makes me sick.

Every Spring since 1962, the Journeyman Plumbers Union, Local 130, pour chemicals into the Chicago River to dye it green.

This they call a “tradition.”

It's not a tradition; it's a desecration. It's pollution, physical and spiritual.

A River is a sacred being. A River has rights. A River is our kin.

Search "river green Chicago" and take a look at what the press has to say about it. That, too, will make you sick. Where are the voices raised against this arrogance, this hubris?

Our ancestors worshiped Rivers (including, be it noted, the Boyne). Some of us still do.

When's the last time that you heard an article in praise of a pagan goddess on the radio?

I've always liked NPR's France correspondent Eleanor Beardsley. (Yes, I'll admit to riffing off of the Beatles' "Eleanor Rigby" whenever I hear her byline.) With her quirky voice and delicious sense of irony, she strikes me as something of an American Alistair Cooke during his "Letters from America" days, affectionately explaining the curious ways of France and the French to an American audience.

She lives in Paris, and this morning had a sweet little piece (“France's Seine River is a Place of Solace During Covid-19 Pandemic”) about the River Seine, and how it—perhaps I should say she—has helped her through a dark year of lock-down.

The Seine is a goddess. (In the Celtic world, rivers are female.) In Gallo-Roman times she was called Sequana, which is where her modern name comes from, and was widely known as a goddess of healing. Pilgrims came to her healing shrine at the source of the Seine from as far away as the Mediterranean and the English Channel.

She still heals. Beardsley talks about how walking along the Seine has offered her a welcome encounter with the natural world through a pent-up year of pandemic in an over-built urban environment.

The goddess Sequana, in fact, helped save Notre Dame cathedral during the recent catastrophic fire. Half the water used to extinguish that fire came—via fire-boat—from Dea Sequana Salvatrix, the River Seine, the goddess that flows through Paris.

When my heart is sore, I go to the river. When I want to forget my human separateness and remember how I am merged with nature, I go to the river. When I wish I had a sister to talk to, or a lover to hold me, I go to the river. The river is always there.

Sometimes it is in a fierce mood, with a strong current and leaves and debris sweeping down. Often it is gentle, the water soft as it washes around me and the view above – a ribbon of sky, with clouds, birds, framed by tall trees on either side – holds me serenely, telling me of the changing constancy of this place. Today there’s a bird, tomorrow clouds, the next day I watch leaves falling down the height of the tallest tree towards me, swimming underneath. Sometimes the mood is sleepy, the water not moving if it hasn’t rained for a while, leaves gathering undisturbed on the surface and the temperature layered down, mild on the surface but cool, colder, cold as it chills down through the water’s depths.

Procession to riverbank. People bear flowers, branches, and gifts for the River. Drums, incense.

At the river’s edge, officiant strips off robe (attendant receives it), and enters the water to the waist

Down drums.

Massed conch shells sound.

Libation Prayer (officiant).

Threefold Libation (officiant) [milk, wine, river water]. (Blasts on conch shells punctuate each libation.)

Hymn to the River (everyone).

People pray, make offerings.

Father of Waters,

bison horned,

god that flows

through the center

of our lives: