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.
'Which Century Are We In Again, Anyway?'
"Expect temporal dislocation."
I'm texting a friend, describing to him our upcoming Samhain ritual, which he'll be attending for the first time this year.
An island at the confluence of two mighty rivers.
On the island, a sacred grove.
In the grove, a stone-built fire-hall.
In the hall, a festive holiday gathering, lighted only by candles and a flickering central fire.
Small wonder that I frequently find myself asking during the course of it: Which century are we in again?
Anyone conversant in ritual will recognize the feeling: that giddy sense of being simultaneously present in other times than this one, when time and times—past, present, and future—become one.
Welcome to the wonderful world of pagan ritual.
I not infrequently get this sense while making the daily morning offering. In the long life of our people, how many times have how many priests stood in how many tribal sanctuaries and prayed on behalf of the people and their continued well-being? Before me and after me, many, oh so many; I'm the one privileged to be doing it now. In a sense, we're all interchangeable; in a sense, we're all one.
My friend, a man of long experience, has been around this maypole a few times himself.
“One of the joys of pagan ritual,” he texts back.
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