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Rain on Down

A Prayer for Rain

Mighty Thunder, Lord of Lightning

Rain on down

Fecundator, Ejaculator

Rain on down

Sky Water, Sky Fire

Rain on down

Bull of Heaven

Rain on down

Meat smoke, incense smoke

Rain on down

Good, smoky whiskey

Rain on down

How do you say “damn” in Pagan?

It's always best to swear by one's own gods, which can leave pagans at a decided disadvantage when it comes to the Profanity Olympics.

Unlike some, pagans don't believe in eternal damnation, and pagan gods don't damn. So what's a poor pagan to say instead?

For my money, I'll take “blast.”

Though not immediately obvious as such, “blast” is actually a prayer, the invocation of a very specific pagan deity.

“Blast it!” you cry. You're calling on Thunder, bidding him destroy something (or someone) by lightning-strike. Not eternal damnation, perhaps, but still pretty nasty.

As a pagan curse word, “blast” (or its derivative adjectival form, “blasted”) has a lot of advantages.

• It's pan-pagan: just about everyone honors the Thunderer.
• While not exactly common in English swearing, it's not sufficiently uncommon to call undue attention to itself.
• You've really got to admire the concision of a one-word prayer.

In sum, “blast” fits nicely with the way that pagans see the world. Wishing sudden destruction by violent divine intervention on someone (or something) is bad, but with us, it's as far as things go.

For pagans, death pays all debts.

Let me ask you a theological question.

It really is true that you can find just about anything on the internet. What I was fortunate enough to find was a cookie cutter in the shape of what witches call the Melner: Mjöllnir, Þór's Thunder Hammer.

Clearly—now that the Summer heat seems to be over, at least for the time being—it's time to bake some Thunder cakes.

So here's my question:

What kind of cookies would the Thunderer like best?

At exactly 12 midnight last night, the wire broke on the Thunder icon that has hung over my bed for the last 25 years, and the whole heavy panel of painted wood slid down the wall to where I lay sleeping below.

If it had clobbered me on the head, it would have been painful, at very least, if not downright injurious. Instead it wedged neatly between the edge of the futon and the wall, and I woke to the sound of rattling bed-slats.

To the best of my knowledge, that's the first time I've ever woken up with a god in the bed.

All's well that ends well: I'm fine, the painting's fine. I put things right, read for a while, and go back to sleep.

Moral of the story:

A story about rain and perfume. And weather witching.

When I'm getting ready for the day, I put on one of the dedicated Cherry-Ka's Trunk perfumes that I keep in a little painted wooden Russian bowl on my desk. I have one of each of the Norse god dedicated scents. The four heathen scents Derin had already created before I started buying them are Silver Wordsmith for Loki, Hidden Goddess for Hel, Bilskirnir for Thor's house and family (I use that one to honor Sif), and Thunderstrike for Thor. The three I helped inspire are One-Eye for Odin, The Hornsman for Heimdall, and Vanr Volva for Freya. I also have three of Derin's non heathen perfumes, Siren, Library, and Wild Mojave. Sometimes I select the one I want to wear for the day. Sometimes I stir around in the bowl and pull a scent for the day.

Sometimes you can't help but be jealous.

Guillermo was born in Havana, so naturally our conversation eventually turned to Santeria. Like most New Pagans, I've got a pretty pronounced case of Santeria envy.

Guillermo grew up surrounded by the Way of the Saints but doesn't really practice it any more.

“I still find myself saying Eparreí Changó whenever I hear thunder, though,” he said, laughing. “Some things you never lose.”

Oh, those fortunate intact cultures.

What do you say when you hear that first peal (or rumble, or crash) of Thunder in a storm? Certainly it calls for some sort of response. When someone you love and respect calls to you from across the room, do you ignore it and say nothing? Probably not.

In the old days, pretty much all cultures had a healthy respect for the Thunderer. It's hard not to. He's big, he's loud, he's powerful, and we couldn't get along without him. 1400 years ago, the Anglo-Saxon Hwicce—the original Tribe of Witches—called Him Þunor.

We call Him Thunder today. When I first hear His voice, I've taken to greeting Him by Name, along with a vocable: a word without literal meaning that signifies nonetheless.

 Reader alert: Sexual content

What is it about gay sex and thunderstorms?

Daniel and I had been having a particularly athletic bout one afternoon when, just at climax, there came a bone-rattling clap of thunder, and the rain suddenly began to roar down.

“We did that,” Daniel said, chin-pointing outside.

Son of unbelief that I am, it was hard to doubt that he was right.

I was reminded of this experience recently when I heard a similar tale from a friend.

Ask any gay guy. Among the brothers, there's pretty much unspoken agreement that experience suggests some sort of connection between the two.

Now, why it should be gay sex and thunderstorms, as distinguished from non-gay sex and thunderstorms, I couldn't tell you, not having had much experience when it comes to the latter myself. (Call me homonormative; see if I care.) Certainly, as a local Wiccan priest who is himself gay has observed, with male-male sex there are more likely to be, shall we say, liquids flying around. So maybe it's a matter of sympathetic magic.

Thunder, of course, is well-known to be the most virile of gods, voracious of appetite when it comes to food and liquor, women and men. Statistically we can say that eight out of ten people struck by lightning in the US are men. Make of that what you will.