Gratitude, Mourning, and Rage

It’s American Thanksgiving again.

I have feelings.

Because let’s face it: the Happy Shiny story most white Americans tell themselves about this day’s origin is a crock of shit: a self-congratulating retcon of colonization as “brotherhood”. In which they, of course, are the heroes.

As in every American myth about themselves. Tiresome, really.

Ourselves, I should say.

Just because I eventually vomited up the Kool-Aid doesn’t mean I’m not a part of this.

White Americans tell themselves that their ancestors’ invasion of the lands they now occupy—dragging with them enslaved Africans, which is a whole other abomination—was beneficial to all concerned. Benign, at the very least.

Of course, the descendants of those they infected, enslaved, supplanted, massacred, humiliated, kidnapped, attempted to eradicate, assimilate, and erase the culture of—and then pretended none of it happened—have a somewhat different version of events.

They were there. Their people tell the stories because that is what they have always done. Though until very recently, almost no one listened because they didn’t have the benefit of the kind of Happy Shiny propaganda machines that pass—have always passed—for journalism in the United States of America.

The Indigenous of these lands and waters call this day the National Day of Mourning. Because they remember.

Now, I’m a white guy. English English English going back centuries–probably for as long as there have been English. I’ve traced my genealogy back to 1620, when at least four of my ancestors arrived aboard Mayflower, and on neither side of my ancestry is there any sign that one single person was ever so creative or brave as to step out of the English English English lane.

So I cannot imagine the incandescent rage, the yawning gulfs of grief that the past 400 years must inspire in the descendants of the survivors of the American Genocide.

But as a human fucking being reasonably informed about that history in its broad strokes, I am so angry and so appalled and so desperately, desperately sorry. Both in the sense of being grief-stricken and of feeling apologetic.

And I am angry about today. I am angry about poverty and reservation conditions and continued bigotry and cultural eradication and lower life expectancy and the heartbreaking fact that there is so, so much that we English squatters could learn from cultures that know how to live on this planet.

I am angry about Murdered and Missing Indigenous Women. I am angry about blood quantum requirements and the BIA and every fucking broken treaty.

I don’t feel righteous about my outrage. I hardly even feel entitled to it. It’s only my status as a human that entitles me to it, given the blood that is all over my pedigree.

So: Thanksgiving.

I’m a big believer in gratitude.

I know for a fact that looking for the moments of joy and really holding them for as long as you can is a core skill for a happy life. We’re wired to look for problems and dangers—that’s how a slow, weak primate survived the African savanna.

So we have to teach ourselves the art of joy.

And I think a national moment for gratitude is a worthy thing. Maybe more than one, really.

But this thing? This twisted collection of smiling, heartwarming lies covering so much blood?

That’s not it, not really.

I celebrate a gratitude holiday at Harvest—the autumnal equinox. “Pagan Thanksgiving”. Feels natural, then: the grapes and apples rolling in, the gardens erupting with food, beautiful days. A time to gather friends and enjoy.

I will gather with friends tomorrow. It’s a thing that happens. Maybe it is hypocritical, but I’m too much of a hedonist to avoid sharing good company, food and drink in the name of wearing a hair shirt. It wouldn’t do anything good for those who deserve it, either.

What I can do, though, is donate to the Native American Land Conservancy, which protects and restores sacred sites and lands. Or to one or more of these. Or to Indigenous Climate Action, if you’re looking for a two-for-one.

I can continue to educate myself, both in the history and in how to authentically and honorably engage with, support and appreciate Indigenous people.

I can continue to explore what it means to be a human of Planet Earth, to live a life of respect and reciprocity with our world. To advocate as best I am able for that, and, as invited, for those who have stewarded these continents for many thousands of years. I can work to advance culture and values that are not derivative, but of complementary values with an Earth-affirming, human-affirming worldview.

I am grateful for so much. But not, particularly, for this day, which demands that I choose sides of a fraught commemoration.

I see both.

I feel both.

Posted in Holidays | 2 Comments

Hallows: A Compendium

I’ve written a lot about this time of year, this holiday, which I call Hallows.

I’ve been celebrating it for decades. And every year at this time, I think about mortality, the cycle of death/decomposition/recomposition, ancestors, memory. The past, the inevitable future. The Big Picture.

Dressing up creepy, or goofy, or sexy. Giving permission to people to let their wild side out.

I think about all of it.

I’m doing that this year, too. Updating my death packet, as I do every October. Rituals, and gatherings, and the wonderful creepy vibe. Candy for little monsters.

Taking the whole ride.

I’m even taking a week off, from Halloween through the actual midpoint between the equinox and the solstice, Nov. 7. I’m going to witch the hell out of this break.

So here, with my favorites first, are the posts I have made about this holiday.

We Die

A Gift from the Dying

Death, the Creator

What We Turn Back into the Soil

What We Turn Back into the Soil, Redux: A Guided Visualization

Revisiting the Sin-Eater for Hallows

LORE DAY: A New Holiday for the Hallows Season

On the Edge of Darkness–Hallows Reflections 2016

Solemn, Meaningful, Fun, Creepy

Dark Hallows

A Deep and Meaningful Hallows to You!

Hallows 2021

Deep in Hallows

Posted in Techniques, Holidays, Ritual, Death | Tagged | Leave a comment

Nature and Nurture, and Now

I am the first to cop to it: I am a rather disputatious person.

I was a debater in high school and college. Fanatical about it, actually: the theory, the logic (and fallacies), the strategy and tactics, endless hours researching evidence and writing briefs in the days long before the Internet.

I am generally pretty skeptical. Many of the ways I have come to understand who I am–as an atheist, as a Pagan, as a nontheist Pagan, as an activist for political change–arise from deep contention with how the world has been arranged by the history of humanity leading up to my life, by how so much of it now is, in my estimation, factually wrong and morally cruel, ecologically disastrous.

If I had a life motto, it might be, This Could Be Better.

You could suggest that this arises from having been raised in a fog of gaslighting, but whatevs: it’s here.

I like a good argument. I don’t suffer people with weak arguments very gladly, I’m afraid; particularly when those arguments defend the things that are so wrong in our world.

I am the first to grant that I could often be more graceful about all this, but I’m often not. The self-deception, the ignorance, the cruelty anger me. The harm to people and planet. I weep, but I also roar.

This is one reason why I have found the Atheopagan community to be such a haven. Smart, caring people with kind values supporting one another, by and large. Yes, we sometimes have conflicts. Yes, sometimes people have gone away mad–sometimes at me in particular, sometimes because the community has not reflected back to them what they expected they would see. But overall, the good folks in the AP community–online on Facebook and Discord, and in person in affinity groups and at the Suntree Retreat–help me to be kinder when I do take exception. They invite me to be my best self.

In biology and psychology, we talk about “nature versus nurture”. How much of our personalities and behavior are genetically programmed, and how much a result of our environment?

There is certainly no easy answer to that question. In my own case, maybe I’m just a lawyerly person, coded into my DNA. But growing up in a context where it was clear that those in power did not have my best interests at heart–yet lied effusively to claim they did–must have potentiated certain qualities over others. Must have taught me particular strategies for survival.

Meanwhile, looking around, these are particularly disputatious times.

In my country a fascist government is doing what it can to stamp out every bit of justice, of ecological reason, of kindness, mostly simply because they know it will hurt those they view as their enemies. There is no deeper logic than this, no vision. Simply destruction and cruelty for their own sakes, to “own the libs”.

And that same kind of gaslighting–like calling a war on inclusiveness and diversity policies “anti-racist”–is central to the fascists’ playbook.

The rise of the authoritarian right throughout the world is creating a steadily rising sense of stress and oppression among kind and liberal people everywhere. A pall hangs over the nation and much of the world; whether it is helplessly witnessing the slaughter in Gaza or watching far-right racist/misogynist/homophobic parties ascend or environmental protections being scrapped even as the planet heats up alarmingly.

Any sensible/sensitive person can feel the weight of the times. It’s hard, when the project of misery is on the march, to posit with confidence a better future. To have, as a U.S. President in better times once said, “the audacity of hope.”

And yet, that is what we must do.

1943-45 was a nightmare in most of the world. But in short order, once most of the authoritarians were overthrown, reason and kindness were again ascendant. 15-20 years later, things were completely different than they were under the era of fascism. The American Civil Rights, feminist and environmental movements launched and solidified. The modern liberal social democracies of Europe likewise.

We have to know now: this has happened before. And humanity has recovered in key ways. Not all ways, and not in all places, but still.

Times like these test a person like me, because the rage that rises at the sheer wrongness of what my government is doing is hard to keep tamped down.

All of the above is to say that if you’re having more conflicts lately, you’re not alone. Especially online. The general Internet culture of (often anonymous) meanness combines with the vicious aggression modeled by current “leadership” to make for really poisonous exchanges. If you find yourself in one of those, just know: it’s not entirely your fault.

My hope is that Atheopagan spaces can remain, by and large, safe and welcoming, and that we can find ways to talk about fractious subjects that don’t lead to hurt feelings and broken connections. That we can always be a haven for thoughtful, warm, shared experiences and connections.

Which may, in fact, help us to have longer fuses when it comes to interactions in less friendly spaces.

I hope.

Posted in Politics, Personal Reflection | Leave a comment

Sifting for Indigeneity

You know that feeling when your heart soars at a sunset or a moonrise, or a mountain panorama or the ocean? That I-am-so-blessed/so-grateful/so-privileged-to-be living-this-life feeling, where for one brilliant moment it all makes sense and there is a logic and a system to the world and though we are small we are magical and we belong to everything? That feeling?

That’s a fragment of your inheritance.

I should be clear: I’m writing now for descendants of settlers like me. If you’re indigenous, you don’t need this post because it doesn’t refer to you unless you have been deeply alienated from your native culture.

This piece is about sifting for the bits of connection to place and right relationship with the planet that are all of our birthrights, being of the Earth, but which have been so lost in the light-complected Europeans who went conquering as soon as they were able.

No, I’m writing for the Anglish folks like me, the Anglo-Americans, who came from colonialism and whose indigeneity, whose connection, whose sense of place and kinship has been stripped from them by generations of inculcated suppression and brutality. Whose antecedents whipped enslaved people, subjugated and murdered native people because they had lost something precious in the course of conquering the world.

Because they didn’t understand what a horror Englishness had made of them.

Or Spanishness. Or Frenchness or Portugueseness or Dutchness. Because let’s be very frank: when this disease sprang from Western Europe, all the nations partook.

I speak for myself: I long for deep connection with place. I adore where I live and have for more than 40 years: the contours of the beautiful land, the waters, the trees and plants and creatures. I love them desperately.

And yet I know I am a stranger.

The people who have lived here for more than 10,000 years are the ones who know it. Coast Miwok people, Southern Pomo people. They know the medicines, the foods, the places. They remember the stories which are the history of prehistory.

Just because it wasn’t written down doesn’t mean it isn’t true.

And people who looked like me tried to exterminate them. Still discriminate against them. Now, lump them with other brown natives and seek to expel them from the current political reality I call “my country”.

Underneath all the convention lathered over me like shit plaster, there is a fire dancer. There is a man proud of…if not his people, at least himself and his species. Who will howl at the Moon. Who is living in a vital way that pale culture finds embarrassing and unnecessary.

Who knows the soil and the Sun and the wind in the trees here, in the little place that is my home.

But this goddamned ENGLISHNESS gets in the way.

I sift for my indigeneity. I know it’s strained, given that only a few generations ago my people came from a long history of kowtowing and subjugation to monstrous men deemed noble. 1620, not that long. 405 years. And they were dark-hearted religious fanatics and oppressors and exploiters brimming with entitlement. They didn’t know Place, nor Groundedness. They were drunk with a belief that made them monsters.

But I sift for it in the dirt under my fingernails. I mine for it in the pile of leaves behind my house. I weep for it when I hear the simple knowledge of those whose backgrounds, hard though they are,, are not so disconnected.

I have had moments in my life when I danced about the leaping fire, whooping my joy at being alive in this world with beloved kin.

Nearly no one I know has had that experience, and it makes me want to weep for all of them.

I sift this dust to find flakes of authenticity, of memory, of reciprocity. Not gold: gold is crass and meaningless.

But I will never know what it means to be indigenous. I can only long for glimpses of the sorrow, the anger, the loss, the pride, the tenaciousness.

If there is hope for us, it is in reconnecting with our planet and the systems that give rise to us and sustain us. The exploitation must stop.

Native people know this. Native elders shake their heads: how can they be so blind?

I don’t excuse myself from the blindness. I am poisoned with Englishness, and I know it.

But I’m trying. I’m listening. I’m studying.

I am watching the horizon for the Sun.

Posted in Atheopagan Life, Personal Reflection | 2 Comments

I Know.

I know you’re struggling.

I know that even if your basic needs are met, the state of the world is crying inside you.

And if they’re not, I know you’re afraid and exhausted, numbed, perhaps unable even to contemplate the future because the now is taking up every last bit of energy and attention you can muster.

I know you’re tired, and there is so far to go before it seems there can be hope for improvement.

If you’re in the US, or paying attention to it, or to world affairs generally, I know the impacts of that man’s irrationality and arrogance and incompetence to all that is Sacred and good and kind in the world are weighing on your mind and your mood.

I know you’re doing all the things. Your Atheopagan practices as you can manage them, your work, your relationships. Managing a household. Perhaps with extra energy poured out in activism to push back this wrongheaded and cruel moment in history.

I know.

And this post isn’t to deny what you’re facing, nor to claim I have a magic solution. This isn’t to say you need to do more. It isn’t to say what you’re experiencing and striving towards are in any way invalid.

Just that I see and feel it.

I’m experiencing it, too.

But know that these are the things the truly decent people of the world have always felt and known at times when cruelty and indifference and destruction have been on the rise.

Your grief and shock are reflections of your fundamental goodness and kindness, of the core values you carry that reject what these authoritarians are trying to shove down all our throats.

They speak well of you.

So I say, carry on. Stay strong, feed yourself in all the ways you can, make what efforts of resistance you can muster, and survive. Spread the word. Spread the love.

Better days are coming, sooner or later. We have to keep alive the ways of being that will reblossom when they do.

But it’s hard.

I know.

Posted in Politics, Personal Reflection | 1 Comment

Ecstacy, Ritual, Transformation and Getting High

Fire circle rituals. Punk rock mosh pits. Raves. Ordeal rites. BDSM practices.

And drugs, of course.

State of consciousness is a function of brain operation, mostly through the varying levels of several key neurotransmitters (examples being the mood-regulating and executive-functioning neurotransmitters serotonin, dopamine and norepinephrine). So to change our state of consciousness to an “alternative” one from our ordinary state of awareness, humans conduct activities like those listed above to alter the levels of these neurotransmitters,

Why we do this is a mystery, but we clearly have a predilection for altered states of consciousness, from little children spinning around until they are dizzy to adults taking intoxicants, performing extreme feats of physical exertion that make them “high”, etc. And we are not alone: many creatures throughout the animal kingdom avail themselves of ways to alter their consciousness, from birds growing drunk on fermented fruits to dolphins passing around toxic pufferfish that get them high.

One of the ways we can transform our consciousness is through application of bodily stress. Fasting, sleep deprivation, extreme exertion and even experience of pain can help to break down our ordinary modes of seeing the world and the psychological structures we have in place to maintain “normality”. This has practical applications in spiritual expression and transformation, the term used for which is often ecstasy.

Singing, dancing, drumming, intoxicating substances and physical ordeals are all paths to transformation of consciousness and often of catharsis, which is defined as the process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions.

We conduct rituals for catharsis: funerals, for instance, to help us to come to terms with our grief. One of the critiques I have of traditional western/American funeral traditions is that they are built on an expectation that attendees not express deep emotion: that, though they may leak a few tears, they will not wail, sob, and flail about, as is natural when in a state of great emotional pain.

This brings me to a new concept I came across recently; the grief rave. The idea of an intensive group full-bodied dance experience as a ritual for observing a death or loss and finding catharsis from the pain is a compelling, intelligent and, to me, natural one. Engagement of the entire self rather than repression and containment presents an opportunity for each person to undergo the emotional process they need in a safe environment.

As humans, and even pre-humans, we have been dancing–especially around fires–since time immemorial. In the flickering light of flame we have moved our celebration, our agony, our lament, our joy. We have witnessed one another as we change from youth to adulthood, from singleness to partnership, from productive contributor to wise elder.

These have been our ways for a very long time, but in Western societies, somehow we lost many of them, or saw them watered down to the very minimal vestiges of what were once full-throated, alive traditions and practices. We lost our mojo, our juju, our elan, our capacity to live out loud, trading them for “dignity” and “respectability” in the eyes of judgmental others. It is a tragic loss and it is a core element, I believe, of the brokenness in so many Western people, as reflected in everything from their private sense of loneliness and meaninglessness to their ability to tolerate and perpetrate hideous abuses against those their societies define as “Other”.

As Atheopagans, we’re doing our best to live out loud again, and to stand for a world in which each of us is celebrated for who they are. And that requires us, when the moment calls, to stand up and roar about what is within us.

These transformative ecstatic states, be they triggered by practices or chemical stimulation of the body, can teach us things about ourselves, help us to heal prior woundedness, open our eyes to the beauty and magic of the world in which we live and the people who surround us.

I love the idea of a grief rave, wherein each attendee brings music that speaks to their experience of what has been lost, and all collectively move their bodies to this music. How better, really, to express the desolation, the horror, the profound sadness of loss?

I know people who have healed tremendously through experience of BDSM sexual rites–healed and found liberation from sexual abuse, healed and found new-found confidence in who they are, healed and found a new relationship to their own power and ability to make choices and set boundaries. Whether it is in surrender or in assertion of dominance, these folk suffered before finding these practices, and with them, stirred the chemical pot in their minds to create lasting and positive change.

It takes great courage to face these wounds. Meaningful rituals require some degree of bravery, because in them we allow ourselves to transform into something new.

This kind of altered consciousness is usually associated with pleasure and/or joy. And this creates a danger: a danger of being tempted to go back to that state again and again, to addictively repeat the practice/take the drug/etc. for the good feeling.

There’s nothing wrong with good feelings–quite the contrary, pleasure is good and good for you–but we must be careful that we do not fall into a hole of repeatedly seeking that peak moment of ecstasy long after the meaning has been wrung from it, just for the pleasure alone. When we choose to alter our consciousness, let us do it in full awareness of both its potential positive and negative outcomes.

And in safety, of course.

An effective ritual isn’t an intellectual exercise. It’s a felt emotional journey. So think about this as you design your rituals: how do we engage the full body? How do we open the self to new experiences and emotional vulnerability?

Sometimes it may be as simple as a room with low and colorful lighting, a sound system and an invocation of purpose.


Illustrations from the Wildwood Tarot by Mark Ryan, John Matthews and Will Worthington

Posted in Techniques, Ritual | 1 Comment