Witchery Way

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.

Hera Unveiled

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.

The Sanctity of Laughter

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.

Don't Shirk--Blunt Works!

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.

Mother's Day Blues

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 disastrous 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.

The Irritating Heartbreak

"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 Ladies of Avalon Live On

"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?