Mark Green's Atheopaganism Blog

I invite you, friends.

Come with me to a place of celebration.

The forest stands, ancient. It is night. The tents and pavilions have been set: your bed awaits you if you want to go.

It is midnight.

And you don’t want to go there.

None of us does.

The scent of the damp earth and the old wood, stained with a little smoke, perfumes the air. All is dark save the odd candle, the odd lantern that marks the trail to the Place.

There are drums. Incredible drums, rising and falling, pounding into ecstasy, diminishing into intense, near-silent fervent rhythms. The drums call us to the torch-circled Place. The Place of magic, where burns the fire.

There are already many of us there, dancing in their bright finery, flying close about the fire or moving stately, slowly in an orbit at a distance. They are dancing, they are singing about life, about living. The drums quiet and they are listening to the night, they are moving in slow motion, they are reciting poems.

We are an old people, we are a new people; we are the same people, stronger than before

There are altars, flickering with candle flames, gems and flowers and feathers and chalices and bones. Those who dance will sometimes slow to contemplate them, to reflect on what they mean.

I have seen this, friends. It is real. You can come.

Dragon’s blood resin is on the air, and burning oak, and the jettisoned pain of those who have shed their wounds, and that flickering light in the darkness from the Sacred fire.

It is Sometime O’clock now, deep in the night, and you step away for a snack at the food altar, and beloved friends are there, and you talk about the deepest truths of yourselves, your challenges and beauties. Because that is the only currency in this place: the trading of soul truth.

We believe in a better world
We believe in justice
We believe in peace
We can heal our planet
We won’t bow down

And at that sometime o’clock, as the drums strike up again, there is fresh wood on the fire and you enter, feeling the heat lick against you, and you dance as though–as it is–no one, including yourself, is judging you. You dance to the sky, you dance to the sacred ground, you dance in love to those you love. You dance as you feel best expresses the you that is You.

Around you, magical costumes and sheer nakedness. Frenzied motion, slow marching. Deep in trance, the People of the Earth dance together.

When the sky lightens, there is a pang: must this night end? And yet it must, as all do, and when the Sun peeks golden over the horizon all are there to raise hands high, to say “good morning!” and weep at the sheer beauty of this: another day of Life, gifted to us.

Wrung out, stumbling, we hug our hugs and kiss our kisses, and head for our beds to sleep. There has never been a night like this before, nor will there be again. But we were there.

We saw, we felt, we made it. Love is the ground, love is the air we breathe.

For the people of the Fire Family community. Photo by Leo Avalon.