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What's the single most important pagan ritual that you can ever do?

Hint: you don't need either a temple or a magic circle to do it.

Here it is: Go forth and watch the Sun rise, or set.

Do this as often as you can, and better it be if you do it from a wild place.

At sunset, I often blow a horn when the Sun first touches the horizon. As the Sun sets, I address him. (You can call this prayer if you want to.) This is also a good time to pour out a libation. Then, when he slips entirely below the horizon, I blow the horn again. Then I sing a hymn.

You can elaborate if you want to, but you don't have to. The watching is all that's really necessary.

We have it from the ancestors that the most auspicious time to address oneself to the Sun is when he is on the horizon. In my experience, this is a time of special face-to-face intimacy, not usually present at other times of the day.

If you don't know where to go in your area for a clear view of the sunset and sunrise horizon at various times of year, what kind of pagan are you? Real pagans, being people of the place, are territorial beings.

 O do not tell the priest of our rite,

for he would call it a sin:

but we've been out in the woods all night,

a-conjuring Summer in.

An e-mail went around to the coven: Can anyone attend the NoW Zoom meeting on Friday?

(NoW—National Organization of Witches—isn't the organization's real name.)

Now, wait a minute: let me get this straight. A national organization of witches is holding a business meeting on Midsummer's Eve?

Well, I suppose that one could find a certain amount of precedent for such a thing in Received Tradition. According to the Lore, most successful mythological invasions of Ireland took place either at Samhain or at Bealtaine. It makes a certain amount of sense to begin an important endeavor on a Day of Power.

I wish I could believe that such logic underlies NoW's Midsummer's Eve business meeting. Alas, though, I fear that the main motivator here is the logic of pragmatism: in our time and place, most pagan holidays get deferred to the nearest Saturday.

Well, the pagan world is a world of graduated values. It's better to do than not to do. Accordingly, the holiday waits until it's convenient for people to get together.

You'll gather that I don't wholly approve of such Paganisms-of-Convenience. There's something about such a cavalier approach to timing that seems to me, frankly, un-pagan. Is our paganism something that we do in our heads, or does it connect us with Something Real Out There? Is three nights into the Wane really still Full Moon?

Monotheists have it easy. They never have to ask: Which god?

For the rest of us, things get rather more complicated.

In time of plague, as now, to Whom do you turn?

Well, when you need help, who do you usually ask for assistance? The near-by, those with whom you already have good friendship: kin, friends, neighbors.

In time of epidemic, for protection for you and yours, you turn to your luck-god, Whomever that may be.

(Bear in mind, of course, that intangible protections are always best used in partnership with tangible ones as well.)

But collectively, to Whom do we turn for aid in time of plague?

In the Old Ways, there's no wall of separation between reality and mythology. Let us start with a simple fact: sunlight kills covid.

Silent, ineluctable, the golden shaft of light streams into the darkness of my room.

Because the street-grid of Minneapolis is laid out East-West, on Evenday mornings the Spring (and Harvest) Sun rising due east shines in through the eastern windows, down the hall, and into my bedroom on the west side of the house.

It's like living in Newgrange, but with heat and running water.

They say that Zeus appeared to Danaë in a Shower of Gold.

They say that Shiva revealed himself as a Lingam of Fire.

I jump out of bed and stand in the Lordly Light. His godly touch gilds my naked skin.

 DN = Divine Name

When you're outside and see the Sun for the first time after waking, kiss your hand and say:

Love to you, my [DN].

If you are not wont to address the Sun by Name, kiss your hand and say:

Love to you, my Light.

When you're outside and see the Moon for the first time after waking, kiss your hand and say:

Love to you, my [DN].

If you are not wont to address the Moon by Name, kiss your hand and say:

Love to you, my Light.

When you're outside and see the major River in your area for the first time after waking, kiss your hand and say:

[Name of River], I kiss my hand to you.

If you are not wont to address the River by Name, kiss your hand and say:

River of Life, I kiss my hand to you.

In traditional societies as far removed as Zuñi Pueblo of the American Southwest and the Kalasha valleys of what is now northwestern Pakistan, the Winter Solstice is marked—among other activities—by footraces.

I've long wondered why this would be so, but this morning—watching the Sun leap up over the horizon—it suddenly occurred to me why.

It's sympathetic magic. The Sun is a runner.

Every day, the Sun walks across the Sky. Even on the day of his birth, he walks from one horizon to the other. Well, he's a god; he can.

(During the Bronze Age, when we became a Horse People, people began to say that the Sun drove across the sky daily in his chariot. In those days, nobles and warriors rode horses and drove chariots, unlike us common folks who walked; when we rode, it was in ox-carts. Surely, went the logic, the Sun was more like nobility and the warrior-kind: hence his chariot. These days, though, we understand that to walk is more sacred than to ride.)

Three-some weeks until the Evenday and his due Eastern rising. This morning he came up still considerably south of east.

“He'll have to run to catch up,” I thought.

Aha.

My friend Sirius is Kemetic. I call him my “effete shaveling.” He calls me his “vile Asiatic.” We get along just fine.

Sirius works at a hospital. He's completely out to his co-workers there.

The hospital chaplain began to tease him.

“How's Ra workin' for you?” he'd say.

Me, I was furious when I heard about this. Issues of professionalism aside: well, just consider.

Ra: the Sun, that massive and ineffable star of heartbreaking beauty and profundity around which our lives literally revolve, without which we would not, and could not, even exist.

Then there's the chaplain's god: some dead Jewish guy who's basically (let's be frank) a fictional character.

Really, I ask you: just who should be making fun of whom here?