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.
Joining the Dance
I start awake with the prickling knowledge that someone is in the room.
Every house has its secrets. I am about to learn one.
My eyes fly open. A luminescence hovers mid-air at the foot of the bed.
We'd been in the house nine months. My bedroom faces west, so I was accustomed to wake to darkness.
But now a shaft of red-gold, ancestral light slants in, spans the room, and illumines the windows of the west.
Minneapolis is a four-square city, its good Midwestern street-grid laid out cardinally. As the Sun rises due east at the equinoxes in his annual journey along the horizon, his light shines in through the east window, streams in a thick, tangible column down the hall, and into my bedroom on the west.
Like something out of New Grange.
Every year for a hundred years this silent golden partner in Earth's grand dance of the seasons has come, like a blessing, to this place. We can sleep through it, or we can join the dance.
I jump out of bed and stand in the light.
My body glows from the navel on down.
I dance.
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