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.
'There's Our Moon!'
On a walk with our coven kid, I spy the waxing Moon, pale in the eastern sky.
“There's our Moon!” I hear myself saying.
Now, that's probably not what most people would have said in the circumstance. (I'd expect something along the lines of “There's the Moon,” instead.) But we're pagans.
We're pagans, children of Earth, and the “our” here is not so much a language of ownership as of relationship, as in “our sister” or “our mother.”
What we say, of course, is no less than truth. The Moon, after all, does indeed, in a special way, belong to us—see above—just as we belong to (as we would say it) her.
As for those others, the Motherless, well...she's their Moon too.
Alas that so many would seem to have forgotten.
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