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It is said that during the dark days of the Great Persecution, certain friars secreted themselves near the sabbat-stead of a certain Alpine valley.
In this way they hoped to spy upon the witches in their gathering, and so ascertain once and for all the much-vexed question of what numbers the cult could claim.
Now it so happened—let it surprise no one—that these friars were in their turn espied by a certain warlock on his way to the sabbat, and this is what he said to them:
The County rolls on … shifts, moves, roars around me as I write at The Regent Cafe. The County I’m referring to is that of Prince Edward, in Ontario, but locally it’s simply known as The County. It’s the end of July, end of the Strong Sun Moon and the island is buzzing with tourists. Many come to camp at Sandbanks Provincial Park, a fourteen mile stretch of white sand beach that includes constantly changing sand dunes as hurricanes and unusual phenomenon occasionally grip this island in Lake Ontario. The new moon that begins soon is the Ripe Berries Moon, but in Ontario and other places the two moon cycles seem to have amalgamated. The berries have been ripe for ages. Blackcaps, raspberries, blueberries, mulberries and wild gooseberries. My favourites are raspberries, pungent, flavourful, and sweet; the red color a good one for someone postmenopausal.
You have likely heard that the Earth's speed is shifting. It’s not revolving at 50 KM anymore, it’s spinning much faster. My spirit guides have announced that the magnetics on earth are swiftly changing. This has been predicted many moons ago by the Aztecs, Mayans and me, a Mennonite lass. I wrote about these times of awakening and Earth changes and how they will be accelerating in 2004, in a book, titled, AWAKE! A Spiritual Primer. It is still in print in 2019.
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Many of us who have come to identify with Witchcraft or Paganism (hence finding ourselves on the Witches & Pagans blogosphere) originated in a family tradition where communion with the Divine (the All, Spirit, the Totality) was achieved through prayer. In the etymology found within common dictionaries, "prayer" tends to be defined both as, "worship of God (a deity)" as well as simply, "an earnest hope or wish." Somewhere in the mystery between these two forms, we may find the truth. Prayer, as well as spell craft and the various types of ritual used to facilitate both, can be seen as acts of co-creation.
Those of us raised in one of the major mono-theisms may be familiar with teachings like that found in Matthew 18:20 of the Christian "new testament": Again, I tell you truly that if two of you on earth agree about anything you ask for, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven. For where two or three gather together in my name, there I am with them."
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I live in the southwest of the USA, in the Mojave Desert, in Nevada, in Henderson, in Green Valley. This ecosystem is nowhere near the origin point of the heathen group of faiths, of which Asatru is one, which was in Northern Europe. Some things don't change-- the moon is the same from any place on Earth-- but proper times to celebrate harvest are very different here. Also, I live within a very different culture even from today's Europe, let alone the Stone Age, Bronze Age, Iron Age, or even the Viking Age.
Yet, I think my simplest rituals are not too different from what the ancient heathens did. Even here, in this very different place. Even though I'm speaking modern English. Even when my perception of what is special and unique enough to be fitting to give to the gods is filtered through a modern understanding of science, as when I became excited and awestruck over a chimera pear and decided to eat it in honor of the gods.
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The Great Mask of the God of Witches lives in a closed shrine in the Temple of the Moon.
Twice daily it receives incense, song, and prayer.
Weekly it receives offerings of food and water.
A light burns continuously before it.
But though the Mask dwells in mystic darkness, in these days and weeks following Grand Sabbat, I who have seen it tell you that a light shines forth from that shrine, a mystic light, a light as though there were a Sun within.
“Most painted dick in the Midwest.”
If I never accomplish anything else in this long and varied life of mine, I suspect that I can safely claim that distinction at least with little fear of competition.
Such is the life of a priest of the Horned.
At the Grand Sabbat, the priest wears a mask, a collar of fresh green leaves, and a coat of paint.
The god wears the priest.
Eight days on from Mystery Night, I've just about scrubbed off the last of the god-paint. Well, there's still a little around the edges of the toenails, and my navel (being too ticklish to scrub). Such things are neither lightly taken on, nor easily shed.
Do you know why the god's glans is painted red at the Sabbat? The way I heard it, it's because He's the Opener of the Way.
You don’t need to fix anything,
it is okay to let your feelings feel, 
to let your swoops swoop,
to let your not-knowing not-know,
to let your hope soar
and then plummet,
to let your joy be joyful,
to let your tears be hot.
Witnessing,
without fixing.
As part of my ongoing Living the Questions free e-class this year, I offer you this brief audio about Adversity and Normalcy.
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