Imbolc and the Moon of Tides
Monday gratefuls: Morning darkness. Tomato seeds. Gladiolus bulbs. Iris rhizomes. Lily bulbs. Artemis. Spring. Shadow, gnawer of toys.
Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Gumbo
Kavannah: Groundedness. Yesod. Yesod is about establishing oneself in reality, refusing to rely on comfortable illusions.
Tarot: Knight of Stones, Horse. A strong connection to mother earth. Yesod. Year of the fire horse. Dramatic, even revolutionary change.
One brief shining: Ordered from Seed Savers Exchange–Moonglow, large red cherry, and Cherokee purple heirloom tomato seeds. From Eden Brother’s Nursery–Dark purple reblooming Iris bulbs, Gladiolus, and Star Gazer Lilies. Grounded. My gardening Yesod. Co-creation.
Paul sent me an article: Paganism Popularity Grows in Maine. I read it with my usual combination of gratitude and unease.
Grateful for the spread of Earth-centered affection. Reverence for Mother. God (pardon me) knows we need it. Many follow the Great Wheel, as I do. Organizing rituals. Seeing the sacred in a seedling, a garden plot, the changing of the seasons.
My unease comes from paganism’s splintered and often invented roots. Rabbi Rami Shapiro answers the question: Who is Jew? Anyone who says they are a Jew is a Jew. Rattling many rabbinic cages. His point? There is no one, no text that defines who is a Jew. Q.E.D.
The same applies to paganism. Anyone can claim to be a pagan. My unease increases when Asatru and other pagan gatherings claim Northern European supremacy. Read: White.
Long ago. Perhaps 1988, I had a spiritual director, Rev. John Ackerman. A Presbyterian clergy. As I was then. Starting to write novels, I’d gone deep into what I then thought was my Celtic ancestry.
Sitting in his office in the staid Westminster church, I told John transcendence and the usual notions of God felt patriarchal. “Charlie,” he said, “You’re a druid!”
That transformed my self-understanding. I left the ministry two years later.
OK. Maybe I’m being too much the scholar, too much the adherent to religions with provable ancient roots. Why should it matter where a faith comes from?
Consider Jim Jones and his Kool Aid eucharist of death. Moonies. Or this: “‘President Trump has been anointed by Jesus to light the signal fire in Iran to cause Armageddon and mark his return to Earth.’”
Pagan and heathen. Rural folk. Those who held on to the old ways. True of the Celts when the Roman Catholic Church built cathedrals over Celtic holy wells.
I need no text to find the sacred. It’s right there: In the lodgepole growing toward the sun. In a tomato seed, bearer of life. In photosynthesis.
I’m too harsh. Let a thousand pagan faiths bloom. Yet. Critique and reject. Paganism as a cover for bigotry and violence.
Artemis will be my temple.
In her I will plant tomatoes, garlic, beets, iris, glads, and lilies.
With the vegetables I will practice the only true transubstantiation: eating.
