Practice
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A Winter Spell
O cold, inexorable darkness Draw back now beyond these circling walls. Should fear, and want, and danger walk It shall not be, it is not here. Let this place of warming light Bulwark against freezing night: a promise Holding through the day that we, come nightfall May sleep safely, cozy, soundly in the soft Down drift of love and food and enough. Pass on, cold night. Howl your rages, Pelt your icy javelins. Blot the stars and Dance the barren trees in anger. But come not here. Pour upon the freezing ground Your brutal rain, but step Not one foot within this woolen nest. Have your time, o winter dark. But…
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The Powers of an Atheopagan
They aren’t gods. They aren’t self-aware, and thus have no agency. They don’t communicate. They simply are. Irrefutably. And they are not “worshiped”. They have no egos with which to soak up adulation. They are here. They are real. They are honored, revered, contemplated with humility and wonder. They are the Powers of this world. Earth. Sky. Sun. Moon. River. Ocean. Mountain. Desert. Forest. Yes, we Atheopagans can speak to these. We can tip our heads forward to rest upon the cool rock, or plunge shrieking into the cold water or climb to the airy summit, knowing we are small and temporary and they are…well, also temporary, but large, and well out…
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We Die.
We’re going to die. All of us. Grappling with this fact may be the single most powerful factor in what it means to be human. It is so profound and unarguable a fact that every religion has to confront it in one way or another, and Atheopaganism must, as well. And while most religions—including most flavors of Paganism—promise that death is only temporary; that some future in an afterlife will be provided to the Faithful, I’m sorry, folks, but I’m not going to do that. We die. We really die. We simply have no credible evidence to the contrary. But is that, frightening as it may be, really all that terrible? I was…
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Harvest of Ashes: A Shadow Sabbath
It’s supposed to be a time of bounty: the gardens overflowing, the grapes coming in to be crushed, the hard blue sky of autumn whispering, “hurry, time’s a-wasting.” A time for feasting with friends and reveling in sunsets; a time for sporadic hints of the wild weather to come. But what are we to make of Harvest—of the autumnal equinox—when the crops have failed or burned? How do we celebrate plenty when we are bereft? How, in short, do we observe the Wheel of the Year when life isn’t cooperative with its narratives? When tragedy comes at High Spring, or birth at Hallows, or joblessness at Yule, how do we continue…
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The Truest Safety Net
I called my brother yesterday, for his birthday. I left a message. I haven’t heard from him in eighteen months…although I did the same thing last year, too. We last spoke in January of 2014. We aren’t estranged. At least, I don’t think we are. I think he’s at a loss for what to say in relation to the struggles my life has manifested over the past few years, and that awkwardness makes it possible for him, in his busy life, just to never…get…around to calling me back. I think that the very topics of mental health and poverty terrify him so much that it’s just easier for him to…
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Midsummer: The Sabbath of Ease
We’re now in the long, golden days of the Northern Hemisphere summer, approaching the very longest day: Midsummer. Historically, for those of us whose forebears are European, this was the time of year when grain crops were in the fields and not yet ready to harvest, but fruits and early vegetables were plentiful along with milk and meat. Though our ancestors lived lives of hard toil, this time of year was easier than any other: long, warm days with not that much to do but gather the day’s food and tend to the animals. So what do humans do when they have time available? They play, and they create art and…
