The Pointy Hat Ladies

Pagan Author Issac Bonewits Passes...

2010-08-12T17:23:00.000-07:00

Isaac Bonewits, a well-respected leader in the Neo-Pagan community passed at about 8:00 am, this morning (August 12, 2010) in his sleep, with family and friends by his side, after a lengthy battle with cancer.

Philip Emmons Isaac Bonewits was born on October 1, 1949 in Royal Oak Michigan, and had three sisters and one brother.

In college (University of California at Berkeley), Isaac was introduced to Druidry by his roommate, Robert Larson who was a member of the Reformed Druids of North America. Isaac was initiated as a priest in 1969. He was the first and only individual to graduate from that institution with a degree in magic. This work led to his first book, Real Magic, which was published in 1971.

In 1983, while married to Sally Eaton, he moved to New York where he met Shenain Bell. Together they formed the fellowship Ár nDraíocht Féin (Gaelic for Our Own Druidism) with Bonewits as Archdruid and Bell as Vice Archdruid.

In 1987, Isaac married Deborah Lipp. Their son Arthur Lipp-Bonewits was born at their Dumont, New Jersey home. This marriage ended after a health crisis that severely strained the relationship.

In 2007, Arthur married Phaedra Heymann, a Wiccan Priestess who was with him at his passing.

Isaac was currently working on three new books. One of these was tentatively titled Cancer is a pain in the Butt.

Isaac's full biography can be found at www.neopagan.net .

From the Manchester Pagan Examiner

What Is Brujeria?

2010-08-06T17:49:00.000-07:00

Like so much else in the brujo world, I have had not one "name" but several. At one time you would have found me going by Mayahuel, after an Aztec (Méxica) goddess whom I will introduce you to shortly.

In mixed company I'm sometimes just referred to as La Bruja. My friends in Mexico have called me Coyote, the slang term for, oh, someone who gets people and things back and forth across the border after dark, so to speak. This has expanded into Cihuacoyotl, or Coyote Woman in Nahuatl.

But today, in my home temple, mostly I am called Juana Bruja, which is both joking and serious. The "Juana" part is the Spanish version of one of my given birth names. The two together are intended to give an impression such as that as "Jane Doe".

One gem, many facets. That is Brujeria, at least as I know it.

To learn first-hand for yourself about Brujeria, you may want to see if there are any shops called "botanicas" in your area. The next step is to actually go there and start talking with the people running the shop. I'm part owner of a small neighborhood botanica, and the botanica is a great starting point, one that I know actually exists in many areas.

There are few books available on Brujeria. I don't mean bad Spanish translations that immediately convert "Wicca" or "Witchcraft" into "Brujeria"; I know those exist and may be dismally misleading. In the beginning I learned one of the guiding principles of Brujeria was its secrecy, was the fact that it is passed from brujo to brujo. Well, this would explain the lack of material on the subject, but I kept looking anyway.

If you manage to come across a book in Spanish and you have a fairly decent comprehension of written Spanish, the number of books on Brujeria expands. You may also find some good and helpful information too. All right, enough talk about books!

Let's dispense with the silliness right from the start, shall we? No, I'm not obsessed with Carlos Casteneda's works, nor am I something out of Vampire The Masquerade (besides, the Brujah Clan--note that's Brujah and not bruja--doesn't seem to have much to do with Mesoamerican mysticism).

I'm not a fortune teller, either, even if I'm well-known for reading tea leaves. It seems to me that self-proclaimed psychics are a nickel a dozen, and besides, anybody who wants to know their future is, in my opinion, a great fool.

Brujeria is a broad path embracing virtually hundreds of traditions of the Americas--there is no right or wrong way, but many ways.

Brujeria is NOT Wicca and a brujo/bruja is not a Wiccan. We are not Druids or Thelemites or Streghe or the Golden Dawn or (insert your favorite group here). We are what we are, even if what we are is complex.

So what is a brujo/bruja? With the help of Felipe, who is the spots on my jaguar from Sonora, Mexico (but now living rather close by), I think I've finally hit upon an explanation most people can understand.

That explanation begins, of all places, in Siberia with the Russian/Tungus word saman. The saman was an individual using magic to cure the sick, divine the hidden, and control events. This practice, usually referred to in American English as Shamanism, is worldwide.

Taking a step back from Brujeria to examine the two practices brought me to conclude that they are essentially the same thing, with a few differences according to culture. If that's the case, when I say I am a bruja, I am also saying I am a shaman. But remember that Shamanism is as varied as the world itself, so if you don't agree with my conclusions, please investigate the shaman on your own and see what you discover.

How I got here is not as important as the fact that I am here. There are no levels or hierarchy in Brujeria as I have learned it. A person is either a born brujo or not. Brujeria is a vocation in the true sense of the word--a calling, a summons. Don't get me wrong--I don't mean to make it sound exclusive, because it isn't. But without the calling, there is no Brujeria, and therefore no brujo. That's how it is.

Many people ask me what Brujeria is, what is a brujo/bruja. This is a difficult question to answer. Technically, the word "brujeria" is Spanish for witchcraft, sorcery, and magical doings. A lot of this carries over into the practice of Brujeria, but Brujeria is more. In brief, I see Brujeria as an ongoing dance with the vital spirit of the Americas and my role as a bruja as a conduit for the living energy of the universe.

Arguably, today's Brujeria is the continuing magical spiritual path of Mesoamerica (Mexico) which dates back 12,000 years. Brujeria is not a revival of ancient traditions, for those traditions never died out in the first place.

That is to say, to be a bruja is to answer the calling of the Great Mother of the New World.

As you have probably guessed, Spanish is the lingua franca of Brujeria. Many brujos speak nothing else; many brujos speak no Spanish but "brujo/a" and "Brujeria". In my case, I'm using various Mexican dialects (and if you know anything about Mexican Spanish, you know how many variations there are) while learning Nahuatl, the language of the Nahua who are the modern descendants of the Aztecs.

In all truth, it doesn't matter what language you use--the energy is the same. However, Brujeria is also a community, and that community tends to speak Spanish of one streak or another. But I have noticed that more and more English speakers are joining the dance either through friends or the influence of lovers.

My own band of brujos, the Temple of the Jaguar, has come up with a list of guidelines which we simply call the Code (El Código Brujo). Here I offer a translation from the original Spanish into English. You will need to draw your own conclusions, because if it isn't said it's probably not intended to be public knowledge.

1) The universe is a living thing (which is an idea brought into modern Brujeria from Aztec cosmology), and Brujeria is a method of interacting with the living energy of the universe.

2) A brujo/bruja practices what could be termed magic by attuning himself/herself to this living energy.

This living energy can seize a brujo/bruja at any time, or through the concentrated work of an impromptu and inspired ritual.

3) An individual enters Brujeria through a personal encounter with the living energy.

4) Once a brujo, always a brujo. It is something that cannot be shaken off, something like genetic makeup.

5) Brujos/brujas are born and cannot be made, even if they do not come to realize their place in Brujeria until much later in life.

(From this point, I will be using the masculine brujo/brujos when referring to practioners of Brujeria of either sex.)

6) A brujo has no ethical laws or limits to restrict his magic. However, he must also assume complete responsibility for his actions and be willing to submit to the consequences.

7) "A dead brujo is more powerful and more dangerous than a living brujo." What exactly this means is up for interpretation.

8) As Mexican Presidente Beinito Juarez said, "Respect for the rights of others is peace."

9) Brujos are free to use their abilities for non-brujos. Example situations are healing, spiritual counselling, and the creation of hechizos ("spellwork").

10) Brujeria is a community bound together by the living energy of the universe, and all brujos are brothers and sisters. A brujo is pledged to assist a fellow brujo wherever and whenever needed.

11) Some of what makes Brujeria can be revealed to non-brujos but most of Brujeria must remain between brujos alone.

12) Brujeria is learned from brujo to brujo, and through interaction with the living energy.

13) Techincally speaking, Brujeria is a Pagan path, although the brujos seem to have little to do with what has become the better-known "Pagan Community" (or said community doesn't wish to embrace the brujos).

Based upon my own experiences, I contend that this split exists because of Brujeria's apparent lax ethical values (which is just a misunderstanding of taking responsibility for one's own actions), Brujeria's acceptance of the whole magical spectrum as opposed to being good/"White Light"/positive only, or most likely both. In other words, nobody's bothered to look into us much, hence we seem to be as frightening to the "Pagan Community" as they (appear to) seem to want to placate more mainstream religious groups. And once again I ask how these people can scream and rant to be tolerated by the non-Pagan world and yet be intolerant of a kindred Pagan path such as Brujeria. Be tolerated but not be tolerant in return? There's certainly a real lack of harmony there.

This is what I can tell you. No, I won't be cursed for revealing secrets or anything like that. Brujeria remains an oral path, communicated from brujo to brujo through speech, touch, taste, sensation, and experience. Our "spellwork" (if you insist on calling it such) is spontaneous and intuitive. Brujeria really is a living path, one that cannot be captured by the written word.

--By Juana Bruja

High Priestess Is NOT A Dress Up Game!

2010-08-06T17:45:00.000-07:00

One of the great privileges I have had as a Pagan writer is meeting interesting people who are shaping the community. Eridanah Crow is a Wiccan activist. She has spoken her mind and given her perspective with what is sometimes a brutal honesty. Whatever might be said about Eridanah, she will not back off from her convictions.

Her work is a call to action, a challenge to all Wiccans to take up the responsibility for the future of the path. According to Eridanah, the reaction has been tremendous. Many people are outraged by her candor, but a good many more applauded her new voice.

In the middle of my research for a book on Nehallenic Wicca, I was fortunate enough to spend an afternoon with Eridanah. We took some time to talk about the issues raised in her essay.

Daneb Rose: How did you first come into Wicca?

Eridanah Crow: I think by the easiest possible way. My parents were and are Wiccan and my siblings and I were all raised with a thorough understanding of the Wiccan path. We were exposed to all of the world's faiths, really. While Wicca was in the house, my parents wanted us to eventually choose the right path for each of us, whether it was Wicca or not. Well, two of us took to Wicca. We attended circles and gatherings with our parents. The rest of the time my parents taught us the essence of Wicca in the world around us. I was seventeen when I first made a formal dedication to a coven, which is the same coven my parents had been in and is the same coven I'm in today.

Rose: You began a formal training at a young age. Do you think this affects you in your later attitudes towards young people in Wicca?

Crow: Most definitely. I remember that the people in the coven were ready to respect me and treat me like an intelligent individual. We had the belief that reincarnation renders chronological age obsolete. I still feel that way. I want to give the respect I was given to young Wiccans. One other thing about this is that the young are Wicca's future. It's up to us to nurture that future.

Rose: I've been reading about the great interest in Wicca among teenagers. Is this a new challenge in Wicca?

Crow: I see it this way. Information about Wicca is more readily available today than ever. But that also means the potential for confusion is greater. If Source X says one thing but Source Y says something else, how is the student of Wicca to determine which is correct for themselves? This is one of the reasons I believe that experienced Wiccans like myself have a real obligation to help young people out, help them in their decisions and understand the reason why behind those decisions.

Rose: What is the solution?

Crow: The solution is for Wiccans to realize their charge to share the treasure of their knowledge. Why criticize someone for a lack of knowledge when giving an explanation is so much more productive for everyone involved?

Rose: Do you find yourself meeting with much opposition?

Crow: Honestly yes. I've had many people tell me that I should stop trying to dictate what Wiccans should do; that Wicca doesn't have a Pope or whatever. That's not how I see what I'm doing at all. I believe I'm trying to bring to the forefront a spirit of sharing knowledge that - at least in my experience - is a central part of Wicca in the first place.

Rose: I have to say that doesn't make much sense to me. Why do you think people would oppose you?

Crow: Greed and ego? Is it more fun to keep the information shut away and secret and make seekers beg for a glimpse? Maybe people aren't secure enough in their own knowledge. Maybe people just don't want to be bothered.

Rose: What is the one thing that you wish everyone understood about Wicca?

Crow: I wish people understood that even though we have an umbrella term like "Wicca," each of us is really walking their own path. No one can walk a path that isn't theirs. No one can walk another's path.

Rose: What are your plans for the immediate future, say late summer into fall?

Crow: Well, I'm still teaching several introductory classes. Not online - that doesn't seem to work out. Our current effort in my group to write a book about our tradition, the Nehallenic, is moving ahead at a good pace. For the most part I'm trying to stick myself in and spread the notion of sharing knowledge to as many people as I can.

Rose: You have mentioned that you went through several years of training experience.

Crow: Right. My Dedication year, First Degree, Second Degree, and Third Degree.

Rose: But do you think people would be willing to devote four years of their lives to training?

Crow: No, and what's more, I don't think I'm any more a Wiccan than someone who suddenly draws the moon into herself on a random night. The structured education was right for me personally, but I know it isn't for everyone. Wicca, however, should not simply be reserved for those who can train. That's a human way of thinking. As it has been said, there is only one Initiator.

--By Daneb Rose

Why Wiccans Are Irritating--A Personal Rant

2010-08-06T17:34:00.000-07:00

As always, I'd like to thank the people who support my basic right to disagree with the crowd and my right to hold an unpopular opinion. I could list 134 reasons why Wiccans are irritating. I'd like to point out that the majority of these extra points--as well as the majority of positive mail I receive--have come from Wiccans themselves, Wiccans who are disgusted with members of their own faith who are desecrating the religion through their own ignorance.

As for those of you who have written in telling me to shut up, to take a hike or otherwise drop off the face of the planet, I have this. Take note of the First Amendment of the United States Constitution--you know, the one granting you freedom of religion? Well, guess what? It also protects my right to free speech. If you believe in karma, each time you try and censor my opinion you will likely get smacked in the face about your religion. This is no threat, this is the way of the universe. Chip away at my rights and you cheapen your own. Come to think of it, I can't understand why anyone bothers to send me hate mail anymore. The only thing I can think of is that this page hits a nerve already frayed by the unconscious knowledge of an unattractive truth.

You might be wondering what's set me so against Wiccans. Well, by popular demand, here is the true story--however much I wish it wasn't.

I began dating Kevin in the winter of 1985. Kevin was and is a member of the original Church of Satan, and at the same time a most tolerant and open-minded human being. My own occult interests were waxing towards Wicca. I befriended a local coven in the summer of 1985. I underwent my formal dedication on Samhain of 1986 and experienced my full initiation on Samhain of 1989.

Kevin stayed with me through all of this, being my support and learning along with me. However, in this time the coven changed High Priestesses from a liberal woman to a woman very much interested in the power of hierarchy. Naturally, I was able to get along fine with the new High Priestess--until she overstepped her boundaries.

Around Yule of 1989, the High Priestess recommended to me that I stop seeing Kevin (with whom I was now very much in love) on the basis that he was a Satanist and a member of the Church of Satan. I don't know to this day where she got her information from, but I chose to ignore what was really a subtle warning. She told me to drop Kevin again in January of 1990. On Imbolc of 1990, the High Priestess reprimanded me in front of the entire coven and kicked me out of the group for not following her edict.

This left me with a lot of time to think and reflect on my hands. Wicca and the coven were precious to me, but Kevin was more precious to me. What I learned to feel in Wicca I could take away from the coven. To make a long story interminable, I have been watching and researching trends in the Wiccan way since my own break with my coven. Myself, I have come to be comfortable with my own kind of humanism.

And Kevin? We were married in 1993 and remain a most happy couple to this day. So now you know.

Ignore them and they'll go away. Ha.

Wiccans are multiplying like fruit flies on overripe bananas. Have you noticed? It seems amiss that the "Craft of the wise" should have so much room for mediocre people. Is it money driven? Stay tuned.

This post is the direct result of my contact with people who call themselves Wiccan. I myself, much to my chagrin, was once an initiated Wiccan priestess, before I woke up and smelled the eldritch stench of hypocrisy. If you don't know what a Wiccan is, go do a Net search and find out. Or keep reading. You may find out in the text of this page.

As stated above, I am not a Wiccan fan. Without further pomp, let me get into the reasons why Wiccans are irritating.

Wiccans seem to have forgotten that they are still human and in physical form. They seem to want to float above everyone else.

Wiccans become Wiccan so they can have the title "wise" applied to them, regardless of how stupid they are.

Wiccans claim to be free in form, and then run off to perform prescribed rituals or join covens. Hypocrisy.

Wicca is painfully heterosexual in nature, with its Goddess and its God. Where are the deities representing those of a different bent?

A Wiccan will automatically assume to know more than everyone else on the planet.

Wiccans go by these child's playtime conglomerations of names that are reminiscent of adolescent role playing, or Native Americans.

Too many Wiccans think they can become Celtic by reading books and worshipping Celtic gods.

Wiccans will cover their cars with "Goddess Bless" and "My Other Car Is A Broom" bumper stickers, and then don't know how to drive.

Wiccans let religion pervade their existence to an annoying extent.

Wiccans blab about no magic for money, and then various schools of Wicca pop up to sell secrets to aspiring Wiccans.

Wiccans have gotten so cocky that they no longer appreciate being acknowledged by a non-Wiccan on one of their eight holy days.

Wiccans need to lay off Halloween and Christmas. May Day, Easter, and Groundhog's day are just fine without any deeper ancient meaning, too.

Wiccans are biased against people who aren't Wiccan--although they will NEVER admit it.

Wiccans will prosecute people of other religions (Christianity, Satanism, etc.) while crying out for their First Amendment rights.

Wiccans live in a fantasy world and have lost touch with Planet Earth as the rest of us know it.

Wicca is a really easy religion to buy into, especially if one is emerging from Christianity.

Wicca is no ancient religion, but the invention of Gerald Gardner, who began Wicca in the 1950's.

Wiccans need to lay off the word witch.

Wiccans think they're the wise bunch, while the rest of us cannot catch up spiritually.

Wicca encourages whining, moaning, bitching, egotism, fake self-exaltation, and a million other annoying human traits.

Wiccans have no exclusive claim on the pentagram.

Wicca has stolen most of its rites and procedures from ceremonial magic, without ever making proper acknowledgement.

And I could go on and on about how the Wiccans are irritating, but I think you probably have the general idea by now. It was about time someone spoke out about these kind and benevolent fakers. Too many pages proclaim Wicca as the panacea to spiritual ills.

The truth isn't that Wiccans are evil and wicked worshippers of diabolism. They're even worse. They are irritating.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank the Pointy Hat Ladies for allowing me to blow off steam on their blog and for acknowledging my right to think as I see fit. But if you think you have a quarrel with what I've said, bother ME and not the blog admins. I'm serahashe@live.com .

--By Serah Ashe

Out of the House of Ma'at

2010-08-06T17:33:00.000-07:00

Chamber with the scales

Of heart and truth

I see all and hear mine own name

For one and five thousand years

I have been called

“Sacred Lady of Justice and Order

Be with me when I am judged”

Azure ostrich plumes

Fall from my eyes

The blessed tears of Ma’at

Oh children

Why do you invoke me?

You do not understand

You do not serve

In truth I say

Be wary of that bearing

My sacred name of Ma’at

As the green flow of life

Conquers the sand

So will justice prevail over corruption

In calling my name

So you too balance your heart

Against the feather of my integrity

Beware that you summon Me wisely

I am Ma’at who sees within

--By Raven Standingstone

The Ladies of Avalon Live On!

2010-08-06T17:30:00.000-07:00

"You got that right sister!" Fortune said, and then laughed. Raven and Bast joined in with her.

The night of the love spell we passed through the mists of the mundane world. Daneb, Jane, Catherine, and Brandie fell away as the witches Lupa, Raven, Bast, and Fortune rose from those mortal shells.

I wore my dark red silk robe, designed to entice and to lure, as I would wear it for you, my love. My sisters were equally splendid with Raven forgoing her usual black for deep purple, Bast in a midnight blue robe that matched her shining eyes, and Fortune in the green of a gardenia leaf.

I had planned on holding the ritual in the room we call Raven's Sanctuary. Few of us have ever been inside, and even then no one would dare enter without Raven's protection. For this place is the workroom and meditation chamber of the most potent woman of the Craft we've ever known although she herself would never make such a claim. It is in this room that Raven communes with Azrael, the benevolent Angel of Death, and His presence lingers everywhere as an unearthly amethyst glow.

"Dunno Lupa," Raven says as she leads me into the sanctuary. "I don't mind us having the rite in here but the ambiance might not be so great for your intent."

So right. I stepped through the doorway and immediately noticed the air was at least fifteen degrees colder than in the rest of the house something that cannot be accomplished through air conditioning trickery. The air was thick, heavy, making it difficult for me to breathe it was air laden with spirits and high magic. Still, there was something erotic, the smell of jasmine and earth and a rampant breeze with a cold touch upon my skin. Raven did not seem to be affected in the least.

Then I noticed the exquisite amethyst pyramid upon an altar, a pyramid we all believe to have been a gift from Azrael. The center of the gem glowed purple, as did some tracks on the floor. "Has He been here?"

Raven looked over her shoulder. "Yes, just today. I see you've been able to detect Him."

"Hard to miss."

"You'd be surprised." She turned fully to me, folding her arms over her chest. "Maybe now you understand why I'm hesitant to hold your love spell in here. I'm not sure my relationship with Azrael is exactly the influence you and Rob need."

I blinked. "You mean you and Azrael are lovers?"

"No!" Raven began to laugh. "No, not at all. He is my friend, my guardian, and my teacher. And I do love Him; I doubt anyone can know Him as I do and not love Him. What I meant is that our business together is not of a nature conducive to mortal love. I would hate to have the remains of our communing ruin your spell."

She had a point. I was getting creeped out. "Then what about the patio?"

"Much better idea."

That was an idea that turned out better than we'd hoped. A huge electrical storm chased itself around the sky. Fortune looked out at the striking bolts and nodded. "You lucked out," she said to me. "This is really some extra power going here. I hope you love this guy, because this spell is going to take. I can feel it."

"Don't worry," I said. "I love him enough for a billion people and an eternity of lifetimes. I have never been more sure of anything."

Fortune said nothing, but her approving smile said all. Raven and Bast came out onto the patio then, carrying what was needed for the spell, a spell of my own devising.

But I had left the creation of the anointing oil up to Raven and Bast. I do not know what they included, and it's taboo in the Craft to ask. There was a scent of roses, that was certain, and maybe lavender and ylang ylang flower too. Ah, well. Perfect love and perfect trust, as we say. My sisters would not let me down.

Grinning, Bast handed me two thick pillar candles, one red and one pink, the colors of love and friendship and all kinds of wonderful things. "When you anoint the candles," Bast told me, "be sure to imagine you're handling his penis."

Even I'd never heard this one before. "Are you serious?"

Bast nodded with all the self-assurance of the witchborn. "It's imagery and projection, Lupa. You put your energies into the candle, the intent of the spell, as if you were handling him. Didn't notice the candle was phallic?"

Actually I hadn't, but my sisters of the New Avalon had not overlooked any detail. So I took the red candle into my hand and thought of you thought of you until I broke into a fine sweat and felt the core of my sex throbbing. With light, teasing strokes, I rubbed the oil into the candle, all the time thinking of how much I love you and how much I would want to dedicate the same time and effort into worshipping your manhood. By the time I'd finished with the red candle and the pink, I was wet, my heart pounded in my chest, and I was euphoric with thoughts of you.

I'd made an incense of roses and frankincense, which would smolder in an abalone shell censer on the makeshift altar. There, too, was Raven's great black cauldron, passed down through her family longer than I have any record of mine. Tonight, Fortune kindled a fire of scented wood within the cauldron. The fire would be at my use at the climax of the spell, when my act of love for you would seal my devotion.

So there we were, the ladies of New Avalon. Fortune had put an Anuna CD on low in the background, and the skies continued to crash around us. I stood in the South, in my element of Fire, of energy, courage, daring, sexuality, passion and love. The altar was set up in my quadrant, as it was my spell. Raven stood opposite me in the North, abandoning her customary place at the center of our normal rites to be my Air, representative of intellect, communication, knowledge and wisdom. In the East, Fortune would be my Earth with her attributes of growth, abundance, bounty, and mystery. Finally, Bast stood to the West as Water, my perfect emissary of intuition, emotion, sympathy, empathy, and reflection. I doubt I could have arranged for a more perfect alignment.

Was I nervous? Believe it or not, yes. I think there's always an element of nervousness when one is serious about what they're doing. Mind you, that nervousness does not mean lack of self- esteem. There is no doubt in the Craft. I must know that what I strive to bring forth will be as I would have it.

As Raven has taught me, there are three rules in the Craft.

1) To will

2) To know

3) To dare.

Sure, there are books and groups who make these simple concepts complex, but Raven's right to present it straight and unadorned. There are enough other complexities.

I'd written the rite to begin with summoning the Watchtowers, also called calling the Cross-Quarters, leaving the exact wording of the invocation up to their imaginations.

Raven disliked calling the Cross-Quarters to open a rite and never did so with Star Mother Grove, but she was willing to play her part for me all the same. "From the North come I, by sword and by virtue. I call the powers of Air to protect me and mine and give strength to this rite of love."

We thought she was finished, but she surprised us.

"Boxty on the griddle
Boxty in the pan
If you don't eat your boxty
You won't keep yer man."

This was a new one. "Raven, where on earth did that come from?"

Grinning impishly, she shrugged. "My Nan used to sing it. Just popped into my head."

"And it's supposed to help us how?"

"By Macha, Lupa, there's more to love than rolling around in sweat and whatnot. Call it a hearth blessing." Accordingly, she touched the broadside of her sword to my shoulders.

All right, then, who am I to argue?

As Raven had come forward bearing her sword, Fortune approached with a wreath of roses from our own garden. "Hey, powers of the East! Powers of Earth! On your guard, for we need you! Look favorably upon us as we seek to help our sister bind her love for her man of the Isle. Fill us with your vibrant energy that this spell we make shall bring joy to the lovers" She then placed the wreath, a beautiful creation of flowers and greens and ribbons, upon my head

Normally I would have invoked my quarter next, but as I was the focus of the spell, I would go last and lead the rite from that point. So Bast came to me from the West, carrying a bottle of our tradition's "holy water" (rosewater, sea salt, and spring water). Bast too defied convention. "Rocked in the cradle of the deep I lay me down in peace to sleep. Secure I rest upon the wave, for thou O Water of the West hast power to save. Not my original work, not totally, but I thought it was right for the occasion." That said, Bast sprinkled the water all about the ritual area and took care in anointing my forehead, throat, and wrists.

I began to wonder if my mental catalog of ritual proceedings needed updating, but the moment, the love, and the focus were upon me. What could I say better that I hadn't already said to you before?

--By Daneb Rose

How to Break Up Without Falling Apart

2010-06-11T17:56:00.001-07:00

Why do we do this to ourselves?

Over and over again, we lose our hearts (and our minds) to another human being. We're giddy each second we're rewarded with their company. Thoughts of the beloved wander unbidden into our minds when we're buying toilet paper or wrangling lunch from a street vendor. Before we know it, we begin to wonder, is this it? Is this the one we've been waiting for? We may even discover that our beloved is wondering the same wonderful things about us. The future seems cast in a pastel glow like a July sunset.

And then, before we know it and seemingly out of nowhere, it all comes to a horrifying applying-the-brakes-at-Indy unbelievable end.

"Why" doesn't really matter, even if it's the nagging question that haunts our minds. Maybe figuring out the why can help us in the recovery, but it's not terribly likely. Why will only sprout more questions and self-doubt. What does why matter, anyway? It's not going to change the present--only living in the present can do that. In the end, we all have to cope. We all have to deal. And then we need to move on with our lives.

If there's a worse feeling to being human than to have loved and lost (beat it, Shakespeare--I respectfully disagree) I don't want any free samples. Then I think about this worst of feelings and wonder why we bother in the first place. No one who swears off love seems to stick to that oath.

Yet we keep at it. Over and over again we go looking for something we might not be able to describe, knowing full well the agony that could be the result. Well, so long as we're going to keep at this crazy game of tag, we might as well learn something along the way.

Allow me to share a little of what I've learned on my own twisted path, which has included a divorce among other split relationships. The end of love hurts. There's no dissembling about it. Parting from your significant other can take you to depths of emotional pain like you've never imagined. But the end of a relationship isn't the end of you. You will go on. Your choice is whether to go on positively or go on negatively.

There is such a thing as a good break up. Ideally this would mean a mutual decision to part ways, but you don't need the cooperation of the other person to have a better experience. It is entirely up to you and your reserve of inner strength. Are you resolved to handle the end of your relationship as well as you possibly can? Read these tips, study them, and apply them in your own life.

The end of love is a terrible thing, but don't compound the tragedy by harboring hatred.

Don't hate your ex. Easier said than done, I know. Negative feelings--hate, anger, resentment, and so on--won't hurt your ex anywhere nearly as much as they can hurt you. Hate is an emotional cancer. It can twist and grow within you. You have been challenged to instead try and remember what was good about your ex and to try and nurture positive feelings. Well, all right, neutral feelings are also fine. The point is to not let yourself fall into the mire of hate. Raise your feelings and you can lift your outlook on the whole situation.

Honesty should be rule number one, no matter what.

Even when you're standing on the precipice of a failing relationship, don't start spouting lies in a desperate attempt at reconcilliation. If you feel the need to lie, you're lying to yourself that the relationship can be saved. If you're angry and hurting, don't shut it away. Tell the other person exactly how you feel.

Always try talking through any problems.

If you can reconcile your differences, you've achieved a triumph. If you can't, perhaps it's time to be moving along. Either way, don't let a communications breakdown blur the truth.

Never take the sum total of previous bad experiences and project them onto your current partner.

Whatever hell you may have been through in the past with other people, those people are not your current significant other. Don't put whatever blame issues you may have onto their shoulders. This is not fair to them and will only keep you locked in a dark past.

Words and promises really are like the wind until there is action to back them up--or prove them false.

It's easy to promise to change, but much harder to actually follow through with it. In a desperate situation, your significant other may swear up and down that they will alter their behavior if you would only give them one more chance. You probably already know how likely that change is. Don't fall for it.

You can never change another person, so don't think you can fix your partner.

They must find the strength to change inside themselves. You can offer support and love, but otherwise it's up to that other person. If change is necessary and your partner lacks the will, maybe it's time to leave.

No relationship is ever a waste a time.

It's true. Even the horrible ones teach us something--about ourselves, about other people, about life and living.

Relationships are work, and are worth every bit of effort.

Love is not easy. No one ever said it was supposed to be. But it is another example of we get out of love what we put into love. Sure, we may get into fights and hurt sensitive feelings. But the challenge of love is not to avoid conflicts, but rather to resolve them in the best possible way.

Whatever the outcome, no relationship is ever a failure.

Relationships are like obstacle courses. We're meant to meet the challenges and keep moving forward, no matter how long it takes us or how awkward we might be. However your relationship ends, you still have that experience to enrich your life.

Keep something else in mind too. No relationship ever really ends. Everyone we encounter in life will stay with us, somehow and in some way. Remember the good things!

The Irritating Heartbreak

2010-06-11T17:55:00.003-07:00

"I was an idiot."

This has been my mantra in the past months, ever since I saw my ex for the very last time. People around me trample me with contradictions. I'm too hard on myself, I'm told. There was nothing idiotic in going for love, I'm told. How could I have known that this individual would flake out on me so completely, I'm told.

So all right, maybe "idiot" is too strong. But no one put me into that relationship. I walked into it of my own free will. I was a full accomplice. For so long I had been careful not to get tangled up in the webs of romance, because I knew the spider that dwells among those webs intimately, and I knew it was no friend of mine.

Honestly, I'm not entirely clear on why we split in the first place. There was a crisis, there was an excuse, there was my initial acceptance that was followed after a half hour of heavy thought, there was my hard realization that he was trapped in an endless playback loop that I didn't want or need in my life. I never really got to talk out my feelings, however, because he quickly did the brave thing and hung up on me. And so it's been. He cut me from all of his online networking and won't even read my e-mail. About three weeks later I tried calling, mostly because I was concerned for him. He hung up on me then too.

In other words, deal with the problem by not dealing with the problem, me being that problem.

I'm even less clear on why he hates me now. As I recall one night we were deeply in love, and 24 hours later, he'd abandoned me, our relationship, everything we had so carefully forged. What did I do? What went wrong? Or wasn't it me at all, but him?

This is the part when my mended broken heart leads me to a mystery that is both irritating and annoying. Everything creeps back into my mind, and I realize I'm yearning for closure on a primal level. I don't want the relationship back--it's important to know when a time has passed. I do think I have a right to know what the hell happened from his point of view. I don't run from conflict, I work to resolve it. What kind of closure? I'll know when it happens. How is it that I'm on great terms with every other guy from every other relationship, but this guy isn't willing to settle with me peacefully?

I realize that the chances of attaining closure with his active participation is extremely unlikely. He hasn't even been willing to deal with me long enough so that I can return my pile of boyfriend stuff to him. It looks like I'm going to have to create a closure on my own. And that is both irritating and annoying.

The Other Widow

2010-06-11T17:55:00.001-07:00

What is the term to describe a woman who has divorced her husband if in the intervening years he remarried, but tragically died?

I wasn't his wife at the time of his demise, but I had been his wife, and I felt great sorrow that such a brilliant mind and driven spirit had gone so soon. We were still connected bu the greater bonds of humanity. But I had no comfortable role to assume. I wasn't a widow, even if I felt like a widow.

The news that my former husband had died worked quickly through the grapevine of friends and friends of friends and relatives. He had mourners on both coasts, the East where he had come from and the West where he had been living. I expected us to gather in groups for comfort and support. I had not expected a phone call from his widow--the actual widow.

I had to admire the courage she mustered to call me, although I had no bad feelings towards either of them. The bottom line was that my former husband had left some very specific intructions for his final rites, and for some reason these included me. He wanted cremation, and then to have his cremains split between the two coasts. The first half was scattered in a beachside ceremony near Santa Monica, California. And then his instructions got tricky.

Because of a rift that had never been healed and of understanding that was never attained, my former husband was completely alienated from his family, with the exception of an aunt and some cousins. To his parents, he'd already been dead for years. Essentially, whatever would be done in Pennsylvania would be up to the friends he had here.

More to the point, my former husband had appointed ME to orchestrate his final rites and officiate at the scattering. I told his wife I didn't understand why he'd wanted me and not her. But her pressing concern was whether I would be willing to take on the burden.

I'm only going to get one first husband. Of course I agreed.

His wife arrived at Philadelphia International Airport with a simple white urn in tow. Maybe that moment of meeting would have been difficult for other people, but we fell into each other's arms like long parted sisters. Then she began to meet his Pennsylvania friends, doing all they could to help her and give her comfort. She wasn't in what she knew as home, but she was home with us all the same.

I read over some of his documents. Specifically, he wanted his cremains scattered to the four winds at Wind Gap, a natural deciduous paradise where he had spent much time cycling and pondering. I organized to get everybody I could up to Wind Gap on that Sunday.

A written script would not have pleased him, so my eulogy was a collection of stories that brough out the humor, the love for life, the brilliance that were all his. We shared our anecdotes, laughing and crying and remembering. I asked that everyone (if the wanted) would take a handful of cremains and throw them into the valley in front of us. There would be no marker, no tombstone. The memory would live on in all of us.

"You're as much a widow as I am," his wife said, sniffling. "You were in his heart longer, and you are with him in death."

"But he is in your heart for as long as you keep him there," I said. "Death politely gives way for love on occasion."

So, did I get a title out of this experience? Old Widow? Former Marriage Widow? Co-widow?

No. I got a more important designation--friend. We're two women bound by our care for the same man. We've both lost him, and a light has gone out in the world. Now neither of us are any kind of wifely relation to him, and so we can begin again.

Pay It Forward

2010-06-11T17:54:00.001-07:00

Let's face it. When we embark on romantic relationships, we're leaving ourselves open to receiving a lot of junk. At the time it might have sentimental value--like X is trying to share their passionate interests with Y. In the flush of love, we go along with the flow.

But when the passion has fizzled and the relationship has gone by way of the dodo, that accumulated junk can just get annoying. You know. It's sitting around your place, but you have no real use for any of it in your current life. Not that it reminds you of affection gone sour--more like it's just plain taking up space, or is otherwise irritating.

So do what I'm doing. Pay it forward.

Look, in these economic circumstances, none of us can afford to ignore any source of gifts for the people we love. What better use for a pile of ex-gifts than to regift them to people who can genuinely use them?

Of course, I mean after you have given your ex every chance possible to reclaim their things. It's only decent, and it's the difference between giving the stuff away free and clear and still having some overhanging dirt smudging it up. Hey, I gave my ex (the ex before the ex that came before my current beau) months to retrieve his things. No games, no gimmicks, just his stuff returned. Well, he's never shown any interest in doing this, so I decided to pay it forward.

He left a guitar in excellent condition and fairly valuable as such things go, but didn't want it back. All right. So I've given it to my boyfriend, who needed a better quality guitar and actually is professionally involved in the music industry.

He left a sack full of comic books of various vintage and topics. I let my boyfriend's nieces and nephews have at them, except for the editions of the illustrated Bram Stoker's Dracula, which I passed on to my friend Marilys.

He gave me a pile of Led Zeppelin CDs. Great, but I'm more of a punk girl myself. I gave them all to a good friend who's going through some tough times and really appreciated the escape. I gave her the DVD he'd gotten me as well.

He left the first season of the old Twilight Zone, which I gave to my sister's boyfriend.

Justice League went to my neighbor. Return to the Batcave went to a friend in my boyfriend's band. The Tick ended up with a friend of a friend of a friend.

He left some Simpsons books too, which my father has promptly seized.

Look at all the people I managed to make happy out of my own mess! Above all, I feel great about it. I mean, if my ex couldn't be bothered to reclaim this stuff, why shouldn't other people get pleasure from it?

Mother's Day Blues

2010-06-11T17:53:00.000-07:00

I'm not keen on Mother's Day. Don't get me wrong--my own mother and I have a great relationship. Yet for anyone who is actively engaged in American society in early May, Mother's Day is tough to ignore. Sometimes I think that if I could ignore it, I wouldn't feel this hollow grief inside me. On the other hand, maybe I need to own that grief.

I don't think I've written about this here before. Actually, I don't think I've been able to deal with this well enough to write about it. But then I realize that everything happened in another time and another life, and that I was another woman. Nothing's the same. So I'm down to dealing and moving on or being haunted for the rest of my life.

People know me as a textbook success story. What few people know is how I have failed in an area where most women (or so it seems to me) succeed without even trying. I am looking at 39 and I have never given birth, nor will I ever. That's the hand I've been dealt.

Once upon a time, I was married. We got married in 1993 and split up in 2001, so for this day and age we didn't do too badly. Between 1998 and 2000, I had five miscarriages. I'll get back to that in a moment, but you can imagine the stress that put on the marriage. After the last miscarriage my doctor told me to stop trying or risk my own life. I think that's when my husband gave up on me. What good was a wife who couldn't help him preserve his genes in a child?

Anyway, I went through five miscarriages. The first one happened at about ten weeks, and the second after twelve weeks. Both times my attending doctors thought I was healthy enough to carry a child to term and encouraged me to keep trying. I did. The next two pregnancies were indeed longer, but both ended in the beginning of the second trimester.

The fifth miscarriage nearly killed me from blood loss. I'd made it five months and had been so hopeful that finally I'd be a mother. Instead I was torn and destroyed, depending on an IV to survive, and dealing not only with the physical pain but the pain of knowing I could never produce my own flesh and blood. My husband was nowhere around me. I don't know where he wandered off to in those days, but he wasn't interested in comforting me.

When I finally got home I crawled into bed and didn't emerge for weeks. Of course I was depressed, but I remember still feeling relieved when the bleeding finally stopped, when I could eat solid food again, when I could actually walk from one end of my apartment to the other. I wouldn't be able to bring new life into the world, but I would live, and as I regained my strength, that didn't seem so bad.

As I said at the beginning, all of this happened a long time ago. I haven't even spoken to my ex-husband since the divorce was finalized. Besides, there are plenty of people who are perfectly all right with me the way I am. There's always adoption, and there's always a child who needs to be adopted.

And I'm not ready for all that anyway. I'm still a work in progress. 10 years from now I might be ready to parent, but not today. Maybe that's the cosmic purpose behind my disasterous childbearing--if I'd had a child, I wouldn't be who I am today.

Kudos and due respect to all mothers. I'm not so worried about joining your ranks anymore. I don't have kids, but I do have people depending on me and a purpose in my care. Looks to me like I'm mothering pretty well, after all.

Interview with the (Real) Vampire

2010-06-11T17:49:00.000-07:00

I know Sappho Wolf very well, so you might not think I’m the best choice to interview her on the release of The Hybrid Vampire Handbook. However, I have never known her as a vampire. I know the movies and the novels and the Halloween costumes, but I knew almost nothing about the real vampire community until I read the Handbook. Now I’m captivated—and more than a little jealous.

So you’ve gone and pulled a Lestat—giving away vampire secrets?

There aren’t any secrets here. What’s in the Handbook is philosophy that’s around all of us every day, thought that anyone can use if only they would take the time to reflect.

But the Handbook points them out and explains them and presents it all as a whole as vampirism.

Right. But it’s up to the reader to decide how to interpret what they read.

You set out to show exactly how it is possible to be a real vampire. I think anyone who reads this will have a very different idea of what the vampire is all about.

Well, opening up people’s minds to these possibilities is certainly a goal of mine. We’re the only ones who can put restrictions on our own thoughts. Ditch the restrictions and a whole universe is ours. The term “vampire” is expanding every day and incorporating new ideas. Application is meaning, I suppose.

A prevailing theme in the Handbook is that vampirism is a matter of energy play. Could you touch on that?

This goes back a bit, and is really the result of my personal journey as a vampire. I was "awakened" if you will in 1985, so I've been at this vampire thing for a while. In those first few years I was fortunate to be part of a group in which I could get willing and screened donors. But personally, I wasn't happy with accepting blood imbibing at face value. I had to find out what it was about blood that my mind and body were craving. It took years, but I finally understood that for myself it wasn't blood I needed, but rather what was in the blood--prana, living energy, or lifeforce. While blood donors are few and far between, there are sources of prana all around us all the time if we only stop to see it that way.

That epiphany was a new beginning for me, the start of the quest for energy. While it’s my belief that energy is at the core of all vampiric feeding, I of course understand that others may feel differently, and I respect them and their paths. Yet at the same time I am so entirely enthralled with what the energy theory has done for me that I want to at least suggest it to other vampires—not a whack over the head, but rather through subtly acting in the community.

There are many groups in the real vampire community, and more are forming all the time. Do you have a good relationship with other vampires?

For the most part, I play nicely with the other kids in the sandbox. I participate in a number of vampire groups and efforts and discussions outside of those I moderate. It’s always refreshing to talk with new people and discover new perspectives. But naturally there are those who for one reason or another rub me the wrong way—that would be anyone claiming to have the one and only true vampire path, or anyone who’s in it to have power over others weak to suggestion. I don’t have time for those who choose to be fettered.

Can power be a fetter?

Power, yes. Leadership and guidance, however, can be liberating.

What kind of reaction do you get from vampires who don’t quite agree with you? Do you think they might be angry with the publication of the Handbook?

Sure, I imagine a few folks are pissed. After all, for me to come along and stress that the complete vampire is the independent vampire takes away some of the power these groups imagine they hold. But if interest and participation are based on a tenuous power play in the first place, I don’t see any real value.

What’s next for Vampgeist Press?

At the moment I’m editing Vampires In Truth: The Anne de Molay Papers. Anne was the founder of my Order back in 1970, and her writings are about vampirism and what she hoped to accomplish with the Order of Maidenfear. She passed away in 2002 after teaching generations of vampires, and her legacy continues with us. Also, Anne was a great friend and mentor to me, so I would like to honor her memory by sharing her innovations with the world.

My Punk Valentine

2010-06-11T17:42:00.000-07:00

Sid Vicious and Nancy were Bogey and Bacall compared to my punk valentine. Here it goes.

I was a college bound senior in high school and I fell like a dope in love. He was one of those anarchist punk types that roamed the halls of the school, a dream in steel toed Doc Martens and Japanime-wild hair. My mother screamed, my father tried to talk me out of it, but no use. Have you ever tried talking to a seventeen year old girl about how the boyfriend she loves more than weekends and snow days combined isn’t the best for her?

We found ourselves in February. Naturally, I began looking forward to Valentine’s Day. I couldn’t wait for that traditional time when two young lovers could be together and celebrate their glorious relationship. Apparently nothing about my boyfriend’s stance or interests suggested to me that maybe February 14 was a date skipped on his calendar. Wow, was I naïve.

I stopped at a florist for a dozen red roses on my way to school that morning. I’d put on my PG-13 skin-tight bright red mini dress. Believe me, I was Valentines Incarnate. Or maybe I was Lust Incarnate. In high school, what’s the difference? All I knew was that I wanted to give the guy I loved the best Valentine’s Day of his life.

Now you might be thinking that I didn’t know this guy as well as I thought I did. That may be true. But I prefer to think I was a victim of relentless optimism

Anyway, I met my boyfriend at this locker and presented him with the roses. In turn, he glared at the roses and then glared at me. “What the hell is this for?”

I tried to think of what Mae West would have done at that moment. I batted my eyelashes at him. “They’re for Valentine’s Day,” I said. “After all, you are my sweetheart.”

He laughed so hard that reverberations from his mirth echoed up and down the crowded hallway. “Come off it,” he said as he fought to catch his breath. “This Valentine’s Day is an arbitrary holiday where card companies can make a fortune and droves of losers fall deeper into depression. I don’t pay it any attention. Why should you?” With that, he thrust the orphan roses back at me. “You’re smarter than this.”

Guess who I didn’t take to the prom?

Don't Shirk--Blunt Works!

2010-06-07T18:11:00.001-07:00

Sometimes it's necessary to couch things in soft terms. We often need to be discreet and politic so as to not upset or anger whoever has our attention at that moment.
Then again, there are times when it's necessary to be absolutely blunt. I get called "blunt as a spoon" a lot. Maybe it's even accurate. I prefer to go for the verbal visceral punch instead of tap dancing around an important matter.

Here are two examples of what I mean--success stories in which I take great pride. Before the Pennsylvania Primary on April 22, 2008, my grandmother and her Greatest Generation Gang were sitting around, resigned to not voting. This wasn't important, they said. No one interested them, they said. Many hadn't voted at all for over 20 years--ostensibly to avoid jury duty.
Now if these people could survive 80+ years on the planet, they could handle me. And so I started. The vote is your voice, I told them. What do you think your friends in all of these wars have died for--so you can sit on your bottoms and reliquish your right to vote? What about your children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren?

This was getting through, but I decided to go for the kicker. "If you don't vote on Tuesday," I said, "you'll be giving up your right to complain for the duration of the election process."

The Yankee Doodle spiel had softened them, but the thought of having to refrain from opining for all of these months finished the job. Every single one of them voted in the primary (and I did what I could to make sure they got to their polling places).

Lately my mother made an appointment for her first colonoscopy. She was cool with it until last week, when she started pulling excuses to call it off from her...er...nose. Who would take care of her mother? What about the bathroom situation? What if this list of 53 improbable things happen?

So I came at it from a different point of view. "We're talking about your life here," I said. "If you don't have this done and there is in fact something wrong, it will go undetected and be that much harder to treat. You owe it to us--the family that loves you--to take this step to secure that we have a future together. You're so worried about Grandma and all of that, but what good will it do anyone if you die because you talked yourself out of this?"

Within the span of a day my mother made a complete turn around. With the knowledge that she could bail out at any time, she went about the prep process, with my sister and me for company and moral support. Suddenly she found a new strength and she surged ahead, determined to get this thing over with. I am happy to say she had it done this morning, everything went well, and I am so proud of her for overcoming her hesitations in order to take care of herself.

Anyhow, my point is sometimes the greatest kindness is to use a little bluntness in your speech. You need to look for the one thing that will turn the discussion. And don't worry about hurt feelings. More often than not people will thank you for being straight with them.

The Sanctity of Laughter

2010-06-06T21:11:00.001-07:00

A funny thing happened at my high school reunion.

With great Pagan panache, I appeared in a purple gown cut along the lines of a classical Greek robe. I wore what I call my Pagan bling bling, a pentagram about the diameter of a Big Gulp cup sprinkled with amethyst chips. After all, I had no reason to disguise what I was under a cloak of the mundane. These were people who had known me back when I was a caterpillar. Now I was a caterpillar with wings.

Anyway, I got a drink of Generic Punch X and went to join a cluster of people. It took twenty seconds for the question to hit. "When did you convert?"

Once I figured out he was talking to me, I tried making the most vacuous face I possibly could. "Convert?"

"Yeah. To Judaism." Politely he motioned to my above-mentioned bling bling. "That's a pretty Star of David you've got."

This wasn't the first time. I mean I understand how a star is a star unless you know that there's a vital difference. Maybe other Pagans would take this opportunity to expound upon the ancient history of the pentagram, continuing long after any interest has waned. I didn't. "It's a symbol of natural religion," I said by way of clarification. That seemed to be enough. The evening went on and I discovered that all of the ritual work in the world would never make me a dancer.

A few mornings later I was relating this story to a Wiccan friend on the subway. To my surprise, she covered her mouth with a silver-decked hand and gasped. "You must have been so offended!"

Offended? Well actually, I wasn't. How could I be? My reunion chums were familiar with the Star of David but not with the pentagram. As none of them are Pagan, I wouldn't have expected them to recognize the pentagram. Regardless, I'd gotten a good laugh out of the event. I couldn't quite understand why my aforementioned friend found more offense than humor.

"He who laughs last didn't get the joke."

In recent months I've encountered a growing number of Pagans who seem to have misplaced their senses of humor. It's my hope that I'm just running into killjoys and not a representative population. We're not really in a humor crisis, are we? One of the things I like about Pagan paths is the sense of humor and the idea that spirituality should be fun. I like being able to laugh at myself. There's nothing so serious that an injection of good humor won't improve it. That being said, is it any wonder that I just have to shrug at Pagans full of their own importance, Pagans who won't deign to have a good laugh?

Laughter is a gift from the divine. It is the divine expressing joy and elation through us. Every laugh is a thank-you to the Powers That Be for life and the ability to enjoy life. Through laughter, not only is the divine served, but we serve ourselves as well. We've all heard the adage about laughter being the best medicine. Humor is good for us. A good chuckle reduces stress and raises the level of endorphins in the body, leaving us to feel especially good. Perhaps best of all, humor helps to keep the episodes of life in good perspective.

When I was learning the Wiccan path I had the benefit of a close-knit group and circle elders who understood the sanctity of humor. The woman who was both priestess and mentor always reminded us to laugh at ourselves. If I forgot the words to my Full Moon oration, I learned to have a good "D'oh!" and then go back to dip into the endless cauldron of inspiration. Ritual may be sacred, but it is also a circus begging for messes to occur. People are going to spill the libation and knock over candles. Rain can soak the most devoted of celebrants, turning a grand outdoor observance into an ad libbed indoor rite. Maybe the person baking the esbat cakes used the driest recipe possible.

This is all part of what makes the celebration dynamic and personal. There are a lot of opportunities for things to go wrong, in that the Powers That Be have given us built-in openings for humor and laughter. To err may be human, but to be able to get up and laugh at one's self is a gift.

All right then, so somebody explain to me why someone - anyone - would abandon the gift of humor. You can be serious about your path without taking yourself too seriously. Are people choosing to give up humor in exchange for dry observation and almost mechanical experience? I cannot tell if people are not getting subtle humor or if they are refusing to roll in the mud of laughter and silliness. Recently, I've come to wonder if this isn't the price all of us as a community must pay after decades of endless challenges from more orthodox religious traditions. Has all the fighting knocked the laughter out of us? I don't believe it.

Everybody, listen up! We're not like the traditions that focus more on the negative aspects of being human. The spiritual world touches us all, and engaging with the spiritual world is fun! Celebrate with laughter the hours of the day and the seasons of the year. Giggle at what strikes you funny. Take a good look at yourself and ask if you might be taking yourself too seriously. Does a question from a newcomer inspire you to a relaxed explanation or to indignant frustration?

Somewhere you have your own Pagan bling bling. You have your own story to tell of a path-related incident that made you laugh. This is the Powers That Be touching you and letting you know of their love. Embrace that sense of humor and laugh out loud to the stars. Laugh until you don't have the power to laugh anymore. This is message sent and received. This is the appreciation of the cosmic gift.

Hera Unveiled

2010-06-06T21:07:00.001-07:00

You've probably met Hera (known to the Romans as Juno) before, perhaps on your own or in a high school classical mythology unit. You probably know her as the nagging, shrewish wife of Zeus (Jupiter), the king of the gods and great lord of Olympus. But did you know that back in the mists of the ancient world, Hera was a Great Mother figure of the eastern Mediterranean region, a sky goddess beloved by millions in her own right as Queen of the Heavens? The jump from sovereign female to screeching grudge-holder takes some imagination to visualize, but over a few centuries Hera was so demoted. How, why, and what of the Hera that came before the arrival of Zeus?

Restoring Hera to her rightful place as a Great Mother Goddess is not a work of feminist revisionist history. Clues from the ancient world reveal the true Hera. The ruins of Hera's temple at Olympia remain beautiful and elegant, reflecting a love for a magnificent and inspirational goddess. The signs of Hera as she is portrayed in literature are lacking. Where is the ruthless and envious character that gives Zeus nothing but grief in Hellenic lore?

Maybe you have heard about Io, the beautiful woman in Hellenic lore that Zeus happened to notice as he was searching the world for a new romantic conquest. In return for the great honor of Zeus' lust, Io stood helpless as Zeus changed her into a heifer. This way, so Zeus believed, the king of the Olympians could deny the charge of infidelity leveled at him by his spiteful and jealous wife, Hera. As wise as she was angry, Hera demanded that Zeus give her the heifer as a token of his affections. Zeus could do nothing to protect the animal that had been the woman who had been his lover. At first Hera kept the heifer tied up in her own sanctuary. Later, Hera sent the notorious gadfly to continuously bite and irritate Io.

This tale isn't favorable for the innocent Io, but it is even more damaging to the character of Hera. She is best known as the wife of Zeus (or Juno to the Roman Jupiter), but when Hera is unveiled she becomes a great and ancient mother goddess, much beloved by her people.

The story of Io is a good example of how the tribes dedicated to the Sky Father grafted their own lore onto the pre-existing religious structures that existed wherever they invaded. On the Island of Argos the people worshipped Hera. "Hera" is not a name but a title, meaning "Our Lady." The Argives saw Hera as "cow-eyed," which culturally indicated her close association with the moon and making rain. Io was an Argive priestess-princess who led the people in public dances intended to ask for rain.

But this is not the version that has survived to modern times. Because the indigenous devotion to Hera remained strong, the tribes of Zeus joined the two deities in a marriage of convenience. The result was the jealous and wrathful Hera of the Hellenic age.

Hera never wanted anything to do with Zeus. She certainly never wanted to marry him. However, Zeus desired the majestic sky goddess with all that he was. He knew that Hera had a special fondness for a certain bird, the cuckoo, and he knew he could count on her compassionate nature. With this in mind, Zeus transformed himself into a disheveled cuckoo and flew into Hera's lap for sympathy. The kind Hera took pity on the bird. Her shock knew no boundaries when she suddenly found herself being raped by Zeus. Humiliated, Hera needed to restore her honor by marrying Zeus. This tale is likely a metaphor for the way in which Hera's people were conquered by the tribes of Zeus. Hera's later angry behavior towards her husband indicates the indignation of her people.

Let's look at Hera as she originally was, a beneficent sky mother holding her own among celestial powers. As mentioned before, "Hera" was a title and not a proper name. What Hera's original name was is lost to history. Hera reigned in beauty as queen of the earth and the heavens and human beings. She was kind to all, but favored women and female sexuality.

Hera began as a triple goddess. In her maiden form she was Pais, childless and free from responsibilities. She symbolized blossoming youth. Her middle form was called Teleia and presented her as a mother in the prime of life. In her third form she grew into Chera, the crone who has passed through motherhood to return to herself.

We might think the original Olympics were ancient. But the Heraea was an old festival that predated the Olympic games. These were athletics for women held in Hera's honor. Women of Argos would gather to compete in foot races. The competitors were divided into three age groups to mirror Hera's triple nature. Winners were given the great honor of leaving statuettes of themselves in Hera's main shrine.

This is almost the converse of the Olympic games. At Olympia, not only were women forbidden from competing, women could not even be spectators. In fact, any woman who tried to transgress these hard rules would be slaughtered. It can be deduced that the importance of the divine feminine had been greatly diminished by the time of the arrival of the ancient Olympics.

Another celebration observed Hera as the sovereign over death and rebirth. A statue of Hera would be carried down to the water to be cleansed in a symbolic renewal. Hera was both autumn and spring, death and life, and to worship her was to continue the eternal cycle.

Hera was by no means the only goddess so demoted. This trend can be found in Europe as well as on other continents. In many cases, such as the instances of Lilith and Tiamat, the goddess was simply demonized. She who was not demonized might have been turned into a monster like the Gorgon. In the Celtic world goddesses were assimilated into Christianity as new saints.

Witchery Way

2010-06-06T21:05:00.001-07:00

Pick up the skin of the wolf and feel yourself pouring in to fill its sleek contours. The fires in the distance dance with abandon, teasing the swift winds that sail through the air. Fire and air and sand and animal are all one at this place, this time, this hour. Tip just a bit of that powder of gila monster and cactus pear into the tea. Do the stars cling to you, clothing you as if by some mystical fabric? Reach out and embrace. Fear none. Throw yourself from the cliffs of the known and certain into the bliss gravity of the free fall. Let the wind lift you and guide you. Lose yourself to the celestial moment. It is done.

What Turns Me On Part 1

2010-06-06T21:03:00.000-07:00

All right. Here it is.

I am in love with this image. Consequently, I am in love with this man. What man? No man. This is a man who never really existed. But I don't buy it. This is the man who has touched what's left of my heart and has caressed my soul since 1994. No romantic relationship I've had with a real life man has lasted that long.

Is this what's left for me, then--the remains of images lingering in my mind and tempting me to dream of an exceptional partner for this adventure? It's not such a bad arrangement, really, and it does away with so many awkward situations and inconveniences. At least I have a fertile imagination.

The Heartless Bitch

2010-06-02T15:04:00.000-07:00

I used to have a heart. But you know something? A heart was getting in my way. I wanted to roll across everyone and sundry like the juggernaut of a woman that I am, without remorse, regret, or repercussions. Feelings might be nice for some, but give me a delightful numbness and a complete indifferencegasm and I’m a joyful woman. So I grabbed my toolbox and cracked open my sternum to get at my heart. Blood? Pain? I thrive on it. I dug my hooked fingers in, ripped out my heart, took a healthy bite just for good measure, threw that sucker on the dirty floor and danced it into cardiac jelly.

Indeed, I am a heartless bitch.

Not that I hate men. Men have their use, of course. In fact, I was married once upon a time. But romantic love and I are eternal antagonists. I spent eight years in legal bondage as an ice queen with incredible acting skills. That’s been done for a long time now. I moved through the separation without ache or pain. I wanted it to be over so that I could move on to the life I wanted to make for myself.

And I have made that life. I am my own drive pursuing my own substance and meaning. The only person I can truly rely upon is me. Once I learned the truth of that lesson, nothing has been able to restrain me.

I do try to convey my message of heartless bitchiness/feminine independent power to others. I have never cared what others think of me—of my clothes, of my language, of my choices, of my mistakes. No one can determine what is right for me but me. I scorn fashion and trends. I will not take a spin class or go out on a questionable date because I have been pressured to do so. I understand that ultimately my opinion is the only one that really counts.

If all of this makes me a heartless bitch, then at least I am a genuine one.

About Last Night

2010-06-02T14:59:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader--This is an excerpt from a romantic fictional something I was screwing around with about fifteen years ago. It's still pretty funny.

Maxine went to the room next door. At the familiar beckoning yell she pushed open the poster-covered door and walked in, as she was used to doing. "Thought you'd find your way here, Maxie," Anders said.

Puzzled, she said, "You knew I was coming?"

He laughed. "Well, no, actually that's a quote from some movie or other."

She nodded, but didn't laugh, and this let Anders know something was up. "What's wrong, Punkin?"

Maxine dropped to the floor, sitting cross legged. "Anders, I really messed up this time."

"Your roomies were worried sick about you last night," he said, not chastising, but concerned. "I was too. Julia was hoping you'd be up for a trip into town last night. Good thing your bro was with Scarlett! He would have gone bollistic if he'd been here." Anders stopped, watching Maxine carefully. "So what happened to you? Where'd you go?"

She dawdled purposefully, sticking her hands in her pockets, examining the posters on the walls. Great, she thought. So she'd not only screwed herself over with her stupid libido, but she'd fucked with people she loved, too. Made everyone's life just a little more hellish. Not too bad for one Friday night. "You up for a drive, boy?" she asked.

Anders ran his hand through his sandy blonde hair. "Ooooh boy, one of those nights, eh?"

"You wouldn't believe it."

"Try me, Maxie," Anders said, winking. "But sure, I'm up for a drive." He grabbed either side of her head and shook it gently. "But are you?"

Maxine paused. "I'm pretty okay. I'm fine to drive. I think it might help clear my head." She flipped a few stray curls out of her face. "And I'll tell you what happened, if you really feel like being burdened."

"Deal, Punkin," he said, kissing her messily on the brow. Then he stepped back, trying to appear comforting. "Look, whatever happened, it can't be as bad as all that. You've got us behind you, remember that."

Maxine smiled weakly, pulling her car keys from her pocket. They left Anders' room and walked down the hall to the stairway. Fortunately for Maxine, she glanced out the window. She gave a little scream as she recognized Byron, her lover, coming towards the dorm, carrying something in his hands. Blanching, Maxine clasped her hands to her head. "Shit!" she exclaimed. "It's him!"

Anders wrinkled his brow, tilting his sunglasses. "Who, Punkin?"

"Byron," she answered hotly, and Anders looked at her, uncomprehending. Maxine paced a little. "Nevermind." She grabbed Anders' hand and began pulling him down the hallway, past her own room, to the other stairway. Of all the things she needed right then, to be so directly confronted with the previous night was the least of them. What did Byron want?

"I'm lost, Punkin," Anders declared.

"I told you I'd explain everything."

"Why are you running from Byron?" Anders asked as he followed her down the steps. "I thought women were supposed to run to him, Punkin."

"Now look you, don't you go getting all squirrely on me," Anders said, shaking his finger at Maxine. "Don't you go equating sex and guilt and shame! If you start it, then there's no hope for any of us."

"I'm not," she answered loudly, tightening her grip on the steering wheel. They were coming north along I-26, just before the junction with I-95. Maxine had easily been able to keep the Sunbird at 87 miles an hour since getting out of Charleston, and she was feeling much better.

"Anders, I'm not ashamed of what happened," she affirmed. "Shame has nothing to do with it. I've fucked up too many times to be ashamed anymore."

"Then how do you feel?"

"I just feel a little stupid. I mean, if he had come up to me and said, "Hello, I'd like to fuck you", and I had said, "I'd like to fuck you too", and if that was all there had been to it, I wouldn't be bothered."

"So what's the frenzy, Punkin?" Anders asked, lowering his sunglasses. "I don't think I'm clear on this."

Maxine sighed. "A fuck put into the context of making love is disconcerting," she said, and Anders regarded her strangely. "Come on, man, you know what I mean. All the delicacy and the tenderness and the chivalry--that's not what a quickie is all about."

"Doesn't sound like you had a quickie."

"I didn't." Maxine grumbled. "Damnit, Anders, I'm not putting any of this well."

Anders pointed ahead. "Any interest in a Waffle House? Maybe some grits and coffee will help you explain a little better."

Maxine realized she hadn't eaten since the previous afternoon. That, and the exit provided a good spot to turn around. If she felt like going back. "Yeah, I could use some grease," she said, moving the Sunbird onto the exit.

Maxine found the Waffle House comfortingly crowded as the waitress led her and Anders to a small booth. They both ordered coffees, Maxine requesting decaffeinated, and grits, Maxine asking for no butter. The waitress looked at her strangely, but jotted down her request. "Good thing you've got the accent, Punkin," Anders noted. "I'd be scared in here otherwise."

Maxine put two fingers to her throat. "My accent?"

"It's not real thick," Anders said. "It's been diluted, I would guess. But there's no mistaking you're a southern belle."

"It's an Irish accent, actually," she corrected, speaking in her brogue. "I grew up in the Emerald Isle, after all."

"Oh, that's right," Anders conceded with a smirk. "I'm so used to hearing your voice that I forget."

The waitress returned, pouring their coffee. "So more about Byron, please," he requested. "So far I know that he loves you and that you slept with him."

"No, he said he loves me," corrected Maxine. "That's not the same."

Anders waved his hand in dismissal. "Whatever. It's pretty obvious to me, Punkin, that you're real special to him. It's in his eyes, babe. I believe he could dig you that deeply without any problem."

"Byron gets lots of girls, I'm sure," Maxine spat. "Don't all these hunks have some kind of quota to fill? I was just another stat."

"Byron is not your average stud muffin, Punkin," Anders said, dripping syrup over his grits. "I don't think he collects women--he's way too sensitive. It would kill him. I think he's a one-woman man in his heart. I don't think he's the kind of guy to lure a girl back to his pad with some nice words, and then skip out on her, know what I mean?" Maxine stared down into her black coffee, dismally. "Yeah, sure, he's a celeb. So what? He's no different from you or me. We all bleed when cut."

"It sucks because we were really good friends," she pouted. "And then I fall for the 'I love you' line, and that's all over."

"If it's all over, Punkin, then he wasn't much of a friend to begin with, was he?"

"That's true."

Anders regarded Maxine intently. "Maxine, Byron is a good guy. We all know that. I just cannot imagine that he would pull the stud one-nighter hell gag on you. And especially not on you!"

Begrudgingly, Maxine nodded in agreement. "What about his fiancee?" she demanded. "Am I supposed to be her replacement? How do I fare as a little, red, decrepit caboose to that sleek silver bullet?"

Anders giggled. "You underate yourself, Maxine. You're no caboose. You've got the goods, and you don't even know it." He looked at her with a lopsided grin. "There's not one male in this entire project that doesn't think you're gorgeous, me included. But you knew that."

"Well, there was Adam, and then a couple of guys have asked me out, but--"

"But nothing! Punkin, Samantha's a fake. I bet there's not one natural piece left on her entire body."

Giggling, Maxine dripped some coffee out of her mouth. "I don't know," she said, wiping her mouth off, still giggling. "She does pour pancake batter on her face every morning, though."

Anders catapulted empty sugar packets with his spoon. "I guarantee you that most guys would rather be with a real Maxine than a fake Samantha. And Byron is definitely one of us most guys. You, Punkin, are the winner in that beauty battle."

"Doesn't change the fact that Byron is engaged to her," Maxine pointed out.

Anders reached across the table and tapped Maxine in her head. "Are you home? That whole engagement thing's just a joke of some sort, Punkin. Byron and Samantha don't even like each other. You should know that."

"Then why did he get engaged to her in the first place?" Maxine wondered. "Anders, why make the committment? I don't get it."

Anders shrugged. "Gotta be that Hollywood thing," he theorized. "Media blitz to push the most handsome actor and the prettiest cover girl into a couple. Totally fabricated, good for their careers, and who cares if they hate each other?"

Maxine shook her head, exhaling. "One of the reasons that I applied for this stint," she said, stirring sugar into her grits, "was that I wanted to get a glimpse into the Hollywood mind, you know? How do they think differently from the rest of us, and why." She sipped her coffee. "Now I've had a nice intimate sampling, and I still have no clue."

Anders laughed hard enough to turn the heads of the other patrons. "Maxie, you rule," he said, calming himself. "But having someone tell you they're in love with you is a pretty heavy duty thing," Anders mused. "Even in Hollywood."

Maxine shrugged, waving her hand dismissively. "Ack, that embarasses the crap out of me," she said. "I feel like I walked right into a role."

Anders looked her straight in the eyes. "Do you love Byron, Punkin?"

"What difference does it make?"

"Lots. Do you love Byron?"

She rolled her eyes. "That's a silly question, Anders."

"Well, do you?"

"Anders!" Maxine truly did not want to discuss her own feelings.

"Okay, let me ask you this," he said, changing his approach. "Were you able to climax with him?"

Maxine covered her face with her hands and groaned. "Why should I tell you that?"

"Because if you did, not only do you probably love him, but he loves you," Anders concluded. "I read it somewhere, I don't remember where. Being comfortable with each other, usually through love."

Maxine drummed her long fingers on the tabletop. "Alright. Yes. I did. Several times."

Anders slapped his own face in a comic gesture. "Hmmm--so that means you felt enough into the sitch to relax, and that he must have taken long enough for you to--"

"I get the picture, Anders," Maxine said firmly.

"Do you? Should I draw it for you?"

Maxine twisted her mouth. "I hate this love business, Anders," she said. "I've been in love twice. The first time, I ended up with his brains splattered all over me, and the second time he turned out to be a twisted neurotic closet moron." She paused to sip her coffee. "You can understand why love makes me nervous."

"Makes us all nervous," he said through his laughter. "That's why we do it. All part of the fun of the merry go round."

"There's no merry go round here, Anders. Let's outline this," she said. "Byron is engaged to Samantha. Byron tells me he loves me. I stupidly spend the night with Byron. Next I get told it was fun but Samantha is his fiancee. End of story."

Anders shook his palms at Maxine. "You're missing the connectors, Punkin. Byron hates Samantha, Byron is stuck in a media trap. You, Maxie, are not a media trap. Byron is in love with you, so you guys do the natural thing folks in love do. And Samantha gets squeezed out of the picture forever. The end of the story is that Byron loves you for real, and that is what you have over Samantha, by far."

Maxine leaned her head on her fist, pondering. "So you think he was serious, is what you're saying?"

Drinking his coffee, Anders shrugged. "The guy's been gaga for you since day one, I know that much. Doubt there's anybody on the project who doesn't know that."

"And now he hates me because I ducked out on him."

"You're indulging in silliness, Punkin," Anders insisted. "I think he'll understand why you bolted, if you explain it to him. If I were him, I'd want to know more about the gymnastic abilities involved in that escape you made." He chuckled.

"Okay, so let's say that Byron and I are," she cleared her throat, "in love. I go back to the island and I find him and we get caught up in the whirlwind of passion-related shit. What happens next?"

Anders chewed on his spoon. "Well that's a silly question, Max! Who knows what comes next for any of us?"

POSTED BY YEAR OF CHRYSALIS AT 2:28 PM 0 COMMENTS

My Life According To Trent Reznor

2010-06-01T17:58:00.000-07:00

Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, cleverly answer these questions. Pass it on to 15 people you like and include me. You can't use the band I used Try not to repeat a song title. It's a lot harder than you think! Repost as "my life according to (band name)".

Pick your Artist: Nine Inch Nails

Describe yourself: Somewhat Damaged

How Do You Feel: Underneath It All

Describe Where You Currently Live: Help Me I Am In Hell

If You Could go Anywhere, Where Would You Go? La Mer

Your Best Friend Is: Big Man With A Gun

Your Family Are: Down In It

What's the Weather Like: A Warm Place

Favorite Time of Day: The Only Time

If Your Life Was a TV Show, What Would It Be Called: Happiness In Slavery

What Is Life to You: Heresy

Your Relationship: Mr. Self Destruct

Your Fear: Something I Can Never Have

What Is the Best Advice You Have to Give: I Do Not Want This

Thought for the Day: Head Like A Hole

How I Would Like to Die: Last

My Soul's Present Condition: Dead Souls

Damsel In Distress? Like Hell!

2010-06-01T17:56:00.000-07:00

This has mystified me since I reached an age where chivalry and bravado and coming to the rescue as a romantic gesture began to make a little sense. For some reason beyond my ken, I inspire feelings of protectiveness and downright knightly behavior on the part of the men who come into my life. The women, too, but I'm not getting into that right now.

Now come on. I've always been able to stand up for myself whatever the circumstances. I'm no shy, fearful, retiring little flower in need of masculine (or feminine) brawn to shelter me from the icy rain pellets of a big bad world. Shit happens, wise people have said. The art of life is not to avoid shit happening, but rather to navigate through said shit and come out the other side stronger and wiser for the experience. Let me add one more step--AND THEN MOVE ON!

Look, I grieve like most other human beings. I get hurt, and I need time to get over and past the hurt. But my driving philosophy is to move on, whatever the circumstances. At this point in my life (I'll be 39 this year) I've been through enough heartbreak, sickness, and bereavement to know for a fact that life continues on the other side. Through experience I've learned to let go of pain. I hold on to what was good in any situation, bear no grudges, and take the whole as a new building block for the pyramid that is life.

So I've even had guys online coming to my defense, or something to that effect. And you know, I'm grateful to have instilled such love and loyalty in said people. But relax! Things are good for me. I'm not dwelling on what's finished and I don't regret anything I've done. Don't feel the need to rescue this damsel in distress. Why not climb up the tower so we can all celebrate what is basically an exciting and amazing life?