Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Flower of the Sun
In all my years of paganing—did you realize that “pagan” is a verb?—I've never seen a larger.
The bonfire, I swear, was the size of a small house.
Two years' worth of deadfalls—entire trees—went into its making. Flames how high: 50 feet? 100? A roar on it like an express train.
Primal. Exhilarating.
Terrifying.
Anita's long-awaited rite of Croning has gone as it should. As the afterparty unfolds in the stone circle, I see through the trees, in the field beside the woods—incredibly—a mountain of fire. I run towards it.
People are singing to it, the song that you sing to sacred Fire.
Red flower, Thunder flower,
flower of the Sun.
An element, one of four? No.
Surely, we are in the Presence of a god.
In this summer of wildfire, I cannot think of anyone besides our host that I would trust with a bonfire of this size.
Just downslope stands a water main, with an actual fire hose connected to it. When the fire begins to spread to the surrounding grass, he carefully contains it.
It looks like fun, directing so much power. I want to offer to help.
Where does play end, and worship begin?
Fire fighting is young C's chosen career, a dream since boyhood. He has just finished his training and begun his first, junior year at his fire house. He's utterly on fire with his new life.
I'd never thought of fire-fighting as a form of priesthood before, but in fact he's the one leading the chanting, priest of this primal rite.
Our eyes meet joyfully, and I join in with the rest.
Burn among us, burn within us,
flower of the Sun.
The Fire roars and soars.
We sing along. We dance.
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