How Many Druids Does It Take to Screw in a Lightbulb?

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Well, I was so busy doing my best to write up an unbiased report on the recent news coming out of the UK about The Druid Network being granted religious charitable status by the Charity Commission — and interviewing lots of folks (including some who are kind of like famous people now, you know, if you're a Druid) about their own thoughts and opinions on the news — and then collecting and organizing all the information I could about US and UK nonprofit law to write up an article on the process of seeking status as a church or religious organization for minority faiths — that I never did get around to writing about what I thought of the whole thing. And now it seems I may have missed the boat, or the wave, or the tide, or whatever water-related metaphor you want to use [insert plug for Blog Action Day 2010 on 15 October here]. But — to twist a trope that's also been making its way around the Pagan blogosphere — I'm a Druid, and I have opinions about stuff.

Of course, I'll be honest, most of those opinions are about other people's opinions. The run-down of my own initial reaction to the news, which I read about first on The Pagan and The Pen goes something like: Hey! That's fantastic! Good for them! Even though I'm not a member of TDN because (a) I don't agree completely with the definition of deity that Emma Restall Orr outlines in her book Living Druidry, and (b) it seems like the Network is mostly focused on the UK more than the US — I still very much respect the organization's leadership and the projects they promote. Plus, their anti-hierarchical anarchic tendencies are pretty cool, and Jeff and I really enjoyed doing the freely-available-on-their-website Perennial Course in Living Druidry over this past year. Maybe this news will help them grow and inspire more people to take a serious look at Druidry and what it can offer as a modern spiritual tradition. Whereupon I forwarded the news and link on to Jason at The Wild Hunt to perhaps be included in the regular "Pagan Community Notes" feature... because at that point, it was of note to our community, but not actual news.

Bob Patrick :: Divining Divinity

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On more than one occasion, I have heard the terms “polytheists” and “monotheists” used by people to describe themselves. What fascinates me is the easy way that some modern pagans identify themselves as polytheists with little understanding, it seems, of who created this term and what it implies. I have full sympathy for why modern pagans might not be comfortable using the term “monotheist” to describe themselves. I’m just not sure why they think that “polytheist” is a better alternative.

The word “polytheism” entered English from a Latin word (polytheismus) formed from Greek roots which mean “many gods”. The Latin passed into French as polytheisme. It is first used in English in the early 1600’s. This is important to note: the word comes into our language in Europe at a time when Christianity is at its height of influence, religiously and politically. In short, polytheism was a Christian word, and it was created to help draw distinctions and divisions between those who are not what Christians value — monotheists (also a Christian word). Given that this word was created by Christians to distinguish those who are not like themselves and done so for their own theological, philosophical and culturally specific conversations, I am not at all sure why someone who is not Christian would want to use it. The history and meaning of the word have their starting points in Christianity.

Without presuming to speak definitively for all Christians, I think it important to note that the Christian understanding of the divine includes, among other things, a Creator who is wholly other and separate from the creation (while still able to work through the creation); who is omnipotent and omniscient; and who is One, hence the label “monotheism.” Since Christianity created the term “polytheism” as a term to use to distinguish other religious practitioners from themselves, I think it very important to hold definitions of polytheism at arm’s length and observe how those definitions prevent us from discovering an experience of divinity that such monotheism simply cannot imagine.

Plan for Advanced Druidic Study

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Since I've formally committed to continuing my degree work within AODA (OBOD's Bardic correspondence course ended up being a bit too touchy-feely for me), I've been giving some thought to what kind of work I want to pursue over the next few years.

Some of it will be guided in part by the AODA Second Degree curriculum, with its focus on the four elements and corresponding emphases: earth: a foundation of continual connection with the natural world and a developing understanding of ecology; fire: more intense and creative engagement with ritual and holy day rites; air: scholarly study of Celtic mythology, Arthurian legend and the history of Revival Druidry; and water: emotional and community development through teaching and mentoring. In addition to these four areas of training, AODA also encourages the development of practical skills in the arts and spiritual crafts by requiring three "spirals" of study in things such as poetry, music, magic, and divination, as well as a "fifth element" (spirit) focus on comparative religion and the theory and history of nature spirituality in particular, in order to develop a broader perspective on the role of Druidry in our own lives and within our contemporary historical-cultural context.

This is all very structured and task-oriented; e.g. "read x number of books on this topic and write an essay y pages long," or "develop n holy day rites and perform them at least z times a year," or "choose a musical instrument and practice p times a week, memorizing q number of songs you feel skilled enough to play in public." In some ways, I very much like this approach, since it sets out very clear, attainable goals to work towards without putting too many restrictions on what exactly each individual will learn from or get out of such work. Of course, there's a general assumption that, for instance, committed regular contact with nature will rub off on a person in terms of appreciation and care, or that the self-discipline required to meditate daily, or the creativity and knowledge needed to write a certain number of self-designed rituals, will have similarly predictable effects, all working together and playing off each other to shape a person walking the uniquely AODA Druidic path while also ensuring they have at least some of the skills necessary to teach newcomers and neophytes, passing the tradition on to others. In some ways, the structure of the AODA degree program works to inculcate and train its Druids in the same way a graduate school program trains its students to become competent professors within the academic institution. (And, as with graduate school, this type of institutional training, despite its benefits, is not cut out for everybody.) Obviously, the part of me that eventually rebelled against the influence of inadvertent or unacknowledged "indoctrination" in my creative writing graduate program struggles, too, from time to time with this aspect of AODA training. However, because I do enjoy the challenge of specific, outlined goals and I believe the process of training and growth in Druidry is valuable in itself, I've decided to take up the challenge and confront whatever obstacles that may come up with a commitment to my own future goals in mind.

As I mentioned, the AODA program is very much task-oriented, and so to help "flesh out" this approach and give it depth, another aspect that will guide my Druidic work over the next few years will be a personal emphasis on "Ovate"-related aspects of spirituality. Although for some reason (not entirely clear to me) AODA very much downplays the traditional (Revival) Druidic division of training into Bardic, Ovate and Druidic levels adopted by groups like OBOD, I feel that these broad categories make a kind of sense to me. Because I first came to Druidry through my "bardic" work with poetry and creative writing (and chose poetry as the "spiral" for my First Degree work), metaphors of music, song, dance, imagery and imagination have echoed strongly through my Druidic study so far. As I continue to explore and grow, however, I find two new interests coming into focus: a fascination with shamanic and trance or dream work, divination and magic; and a growing need to articulate my spirituality in theological and philosophical terms that encompass questions of ethics, justice, politics and metaphysics. These correspond, very roughly, to the emphasis found in Ovate and Druid training. While I will certainly continue to develop the latter on my own (as if I could stop myself!), I've decided that my Second Degree work will benefit from a good dose of shamanic, intuitive exploration. The "spirals" I've chosen (divination, magic and a self-designed "faery spiral") all deal with nonrational, Otherworld aspects of spirituality, learning how to shape consciousness, connect with sacred or trans-mundane beings and energies, and working more closely with liminal experiences in the human life cycle (such as birth, love, grief, death, illness, initiation, etc.).

One way I've thought about this threefold division within Druidry is to imagine the Bards as the poets and story-tellers, the Ovates as what we would think of as "priests" or spiritual counselors, and the Druids as "judges" and advisors in both worldly and spiritual matters. Thinking through AODA's Second Degree curriculum, one thing that strikes me is the important role that mentoring, teaching and group leadership comes to play over the next few years. By the time an Apprentice is ready to become a Druid Companion in AODA, their work has supposedly prepared them for formal ordination and the responsibilities of organizing and leading a chartered Study Group.* The exercises and reading of the Second Degree's Water path place heavy emphasis on encouraging emotional maturity, exploring various models of spiritual development, and learning effective techniques for teaching, coaching and counseling; meanwhile, the Fire path requires students to write, memorize and be able to effectively perform ritual with others (including the Candidate initiation ritual). Once again, in its own task-oriented way, AODA's curriculum works to impart the skills and knowledge a person needs to act competently as a priest or priestess for their local community. Intuitive shamanic and dreamwork seem, to me, to be a natural compliment to these more overt, exoteric leadership skills. After all, how can you help to counsel and guide others without personal exploration and experience of your own.

But this is where I find myself almost immediately running into difficulties. The next two or three years of my Druidic study are fairly well mapped out, with lists of important books, exercises and techniques to pursue and correct, and a given number of hours of "community service" to provide. Not to mention, I have the added benefit of knowing a few people within AODA who have worked through and completed the Second Degree already, who can and often cheerfully do provide advice, encouragement and personal examples from their own lives. But for me, this isn't enough. Instead, I keep asking myself, "What does spiritual growth look like?" There was a time when I thought I knew, or I at least had a kind of ideal to shoot for, to work towards. Now... I find myself honestly unsure. For all its structure and challenge, in many ways the AODA degree program strikes me as imparting barely more than a skill set. Valuable, useful skills, of course, but.... still. I've seen people who can effectively read runes or competently perform moving rituals, but then I've also seen Catholic priests who preach movingly about love and service, and then afterwards go diddle some poor altar boy in the rectory. Not to put too fine a point on it. Certainly, skills are important, but as I read Judy Harrow's book, Spiritual Mentoring: A Pagan Guide, for instance, I read again and again about how necessary it is to encourage real, substantive spiritual growth... and yet nowhere do I find any indication of what this might be or how we might recognize it. So I'm left asking (skill-sets, knowledge-bases and charisma aside): what does spiritual growth look like?






* One thing that bothers me about AODA is that Groves can only be established by Druid Adepts, who are initiated based not on a clearly outlined program of study as with the two previous grades, but according to the whim of the Grand Grove and its members, who must approve a self-designed program (or decide to bestow the title honorarily on people who impress them). This is where hierarchy becomes an issue for me. In theory, this "freedom" of study is meant to encourage self-discipline and commitment, demanding that truly serious students of Druidry prove themselves by taking up the responsibility for their own development after they reach a certain level. In practice, however, it seems to work to keep very few people from attaining to the higher degrees. Instead, it seems people at this point more often "take the iniative" by leaving AODA altogether to establish their own groups or groves (and if/when I reach that point, I will most likely do the same). The current archdruid of the Order often seems quite satisfied (almost suspiciously self-satisfied) to allow members "without the commitment" or who take issue with this hierarchical structure to drop away, move on, or simply stay put at their current level. I find this a shame, since it means that AODA's membership (which consists almost entirely of Candidates and Apprentices) is likely to remain fairly stagnant in the coming decades. I can only hope that, as membership grows to include more younger members and the current leaders finally being to retire, a new and more refreshing attitude might take hold that encourages growth both for the group as a whole and for members personally. Since, as part of my Apprentice initiation, I promised to work to help the AODA community, I will continue to try to be part of that more promising trend.

Is Christ Special?

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Continuing along my recent theological ponderings about polytheism, I return to a question that I've been asking myself for several years now. Growing up in a fairly open and religiously liberal atmosphere, I have always been exposed to religious traditions other than Christianity, and my identity as a Christian was based largely on a sense of inheritance (it was the religion of my father and his family) and community (it was the church I attended). Once in college and somewhat removed from these two aspects of my religious life, however, I began to consider the theological foundations for why I considered myself Christian. (Incidentally, though I've been meaning to write this entry for the past several days now, Cat's recent blog post "What is a Christian?" over at Quaker Pagan Reflections finally provided the spark of inspiration to do so. Thanks, Cat!) Until this point, a somewhat vague relationship with God as loving, watchful Guide and pervading, sustaining Spirit had defined my personal religious life; but I knew already that this particular spiritual attitude was not the sole property of the Christian tradition, but was held in common with several other Western monotheistic religions, with echoes and shadows in many other traditions as well.


Christian Theology as Something New?

So what, then, was Christianity about?

From a theological point of view, for me the answer seemed fairly obvious: Christ. That is, not the historical person of Jesus, or not only this, but the spiritual concept of the Divine manifest and incarnate in humanity, the loving sacrifice of God in order to demonstrate and reveal that love, and the role of Christ-the-Reconciler as the Bridge between the transcendent Father and immanent Holy Spirit in order to complete a Trinity of Divinity that resolves the paradox of union and uniqueness on a higher spiritual plane. Yes, I came up with that definition in college. I loved big words and complicated imagery. (Still do.)

But of course, Christianity does not have the monopoly on trinities, sacrificial dying-and-rising gods, panentheism, or love and Spirit, so I still hadn't really answered my question. And this is the point I return to today, in my contemplation of polytheism. For, if I acknowledge that Jesus the Christ just happens to be my "patron" deity out of many available Reconciler deities from other cultures and climes , then it is possible to argue that I am (and perhaps always have been), in fact, a polytheist who has a personal relationship with the Divine or Source through a Christ-based pantheon. On the other hand, if Christian theology actually offers something substantially new and revolutionary in the development of the spiritual life, if the figure of Christ is not "just another deity" but embodies a strikingly and essentially new way of thinking about our relationship to the Divine, then there is something more than just a label, heritage or common social institution underlying my Christian self-identity. If this latter is the case, it might even mean that I will remain "Christian" in essence, even if I build relationships with deities from non-Christian pantheons and cultures, as long as I continue to pursue a relationship with the Divine in a markedly or uniquely Christian way.

Which brings us to the central question: Is Christ special?

This, for me, is a different question from "Was Jesus special?" regarding the historical person of Jesus and my beliefs about him, as well as the beliefs of the Christian community at large. In the past, I have attempted to answer the question, Is Christ special?, by exploring my beliefs regarding the unique manifestation of Christ as Jesus-the-historical-person. I've struggled to articulate the necessity of believing that Jesus, unlike figures such as Buddha and other Savior deities of the past, did not attain to Christ-consciousness (or, that is, to a conscious embodiment of Divinity) but rather was the unique historical expression of that consciousness itself. Simply put, he was born that way--a paradox, or Mystery, both fully human and fully Divine. But this just seems to confuse the issue, since I'm not even fully committed to this belief. My intuition, instead, is to reply that we are all both fully human and fully Divine, and yet this statement seems to relegate Jesus once again to just another deity incarnate or, alternatively, an ordinary person who's attained to full Divine consciousness.

The real dilemma, for me, is whether or not the very notion of the Mystery of the Fully Human/Fully Divine paradox is not itself a unique contribution by Christianity to the evolution of religion, or whether this idea existed in pre-Christian times. When I ask, is Christ special, what I am asking is if the idea of Christ as developed and explored within the Christian tradition is a new way, and perhaps a more highly evolved way, of understanding our relationship with Spirit.


A Tale of Two Fishes

This question has come to the forefront again as I've been reading Emma Jung's and Marie-Louise von Franz's work The Grail Legend, which applies Jungian psychological analysis to the narrative(s) of the Quest for the Holy Grail. In their discussion of the material, they seem to suggest repeatedly that the beginning of the Christian Age (which corresponded with the Piscine Age, an age not of one but of two fish) marked a new revolution in religion: that of emphasizing individuation. The Grail legend, which suddenly increased in popularity after 1000 C.E., is a response to the ending age of the "First Fish," which was characterized by an unbalanced emphasis on the light and masculine aspects of Christ. This imbalance, absorbed into tradition as defining features of the collective Christian consciousness, resulted in an intensified conflict between opposites: light and dark, masculine and feminine, man and nature, Christ and Antichrist. To redress this polarity, a shift into the age of the "Second Fish," began--the Grail legend with its knightly Masculine seeking an elusive and often ambivalent Feminine was the mytho-poetic expression of this shift--in which these opposites were, ideally, to be reconciled on a conscious level in order to achieve greater individuation and a wholeness of Self.

This conscious reconciliation or re-union is distinct, they explain, from the unconscious unity existing in the "primitive" pre-Christian pagan religions, in that it allows for personal, and not only collective or communal, relationship with God. In their analysis of Perceval's adventure in hunting a white stag and returning with its head to win the love of a water nixie, they discuss the imperative that the "question of the Grail" (i.e. the question about the Grail's origin and purpose, the asking of which would heal the King and restore the land) lays upon the hero. "A mere regression into paganism would be equally meaningless, so that this state of suspension, this crucifixion of the animal soul and the agonizing conflict bound up with it, must be maintained until the growth of consciousness striven for by the unconscious, namely the question concerning the Grail, has been achieved. [p. 275, emphasis added]" In other words, once one realizes there is a question to be asked--once the tension between opposites has been recognized, which inherently points towards the question of their resolution--returning to the pre-sundered state is meaningless, if not simply impossible. This, in itself, is rather obvious, but the fact that the authors designate paganism specifically as the religion to which it would be meaningless to return is likely to cause some objection, if not outrage, among the modern Pagan (i.e. NeoPagan) community.


Pagan Possibilities

On the other hand, Jung and von Franz also seem to speak of Christianity and the Christian aeon with a certain amount of ambivalence themselves, as if, given Christianity's second millennium that followed the supposed shift to the age of the "Second Fish" and should have seen the resolutions of the first age's polarities rather than their exacerbation or intensification, they're not so sure the Christian tradition may be up to the task. (Keep in mind, this is my own impression of some of their more subtle statements, and I'm by no means an expert on Jungian psychology on this point.) When discussing the origins and development of the Grail symbol a thousand years ago, for instance, they write, "The return to Celtic and Germanic mythological material on the one hand, and to some apocryphal traditions of early Christianity on the other can all be explained psychologically by the same need: to complete the Christ-image by addition of features which had not been taken sufficiently into account by ecclesiastical tradition. [p.104, emphasis in the original]" But couldn't such a statement be just as applicable to today's alternative spirituality movements, many of which have modern roots in a reaction against Christianity's continued patriarchal, dogmatic and ecologically-ignorant attitudes?

The difference of course, as Jung and von Franz argue, is that the Grail is still an inherently Christian symbol, and the incorporation of other mythological material as an attempt to expand the Christian tradition, not reject it completely. Yet later, in exploring the occasion of Perceval (now acknowledged, at this point in the story, as the best of all knights) crossing the "Bridge Over Which No One Crosses," they write:

This is only half a bridge, but it turns round on its centre when the right hero steps on to it. Being only half a bridge alludes, no doubt, to the fact that Christianity permits only the one, light half of the transcendent function to become conscious but does not allow for the psychic law of reversal of all opposites (enantiodromia), which is surprisingly and frighteningly manifested in the turning round of the bridge on its own axis. It is precisely because of this, however, that Perceval is enabled to reach his goal. In doing so he walks back over the same half of the bridge, but goes forward towards the opposite bank.

This incident seemingly represents a regression which nevertheless leads forward, an impressive indication for modern man with his apparent turning back to a quasi "pagan" attitude which nevertheless does not lose the religious and ethical values of Christianity but broadens them through further progress. [pp. 280-81]

Once again, here we see an ambiguity: on the one hand, Paganism seems to be dismissed off-hand as a "regression" or at best a "quasi"-urge, while on the other, it is presented as offering solutions to the problem of Christian polarity and imbalance. As usual, the authors seem to imply that the only way "forward" is within and through the Christian tradition, but one wonders exactly why this should be the case. Isn't it possible, instead, for modern humanity to acknowledge the tensions and polarities brought into consciousness by the Christian aeon, and then more forward from these to a conscious but still essentially Pagan spirituality? (Is this possibility also on the minds of the authors when they write, "For in those days, unlike the present, the recognition of nature could have implied a dangerous loss of direction, because it would have seduced naive medieval man into the abyss in which he would no longer have been able to find his way. The primitive in him was still too close to the surface. [p.286, emphasis added]"?)


So... Is Christ Special?

We seem to have strayed far from the original question at this point. Indeed, it seems obvious from Jung's and von Franz's writing that their answer is an unequivocal, "Yes, the Christ figure as god-image within the Christian aeon is 'special'--it is a new development towards individuation within religion, one which cannot be ignored or abandoned without consequence." If they are correct (and I have no idea whatsoever if their analysis is confirmed or supported by archeological, anthropological, historical and sociological studies or not), then the question becomes: How do we respond to, reject or incorporate the unique aspects of the Christian tradition into our own spiritual lives?

My choice to identify myself as "Christian" hinges, in part, on the answer to this question, though in another sense it is only a small matter of semantics. Whether I choose to identify myself with mainstream Christianity in the future, the Christian tradition is already firmly established as a core aspect of my heritage and the shaping of my personal spiritual consciousness. Indeed, I know already that I will never be satisfied with any religion or spiritual path that does not have the capacity to bring into conscious tension the many polarities and opposites which the process of personal individuation requires; just as I will never feel comfortable within a fundamentalist or evangelical Christianity that refuses to reconcile or transcend those tensions, to unite Christ with his Shadow, the Anthropos with his Anima.

Happily, the path of Druidry--in particular that inclusive Druidry embraced by OBOD and AODA--do not demand an outright rejection of Christianity (OBOD even has a link off the mainpage of their website to an article devoted to discussing "Christianity and Druidry"). Instead, both of these Orders readily acknowledge the importance of all of Druidry's development throughout history, including the period of Mesopagan Druidry that was highly influenced by Christianity.

I feel as though I've finally come home!

Practicing the Daily Simple, Part II

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In my last post about practice, I discussed some of the simplest daily ways in which I keep myself grounded and centered. These techniques--with the exception of the most formal form of meditation--can be practiced anywhere, at any time. Over the past year and a half, I've learned to weave them into the fabric of my everyday life, like a thread of silver that every once in a while catches the light and imbues the most ordinary of situations with a bit of enchantment.

These next few practices are more specific. They are less like the daily work of an artist in her craft, than they are like works of art themselves, moments of performance and movement that might be pre-planned or even rehearsed, but which constellate and emerge with intention as particular experiences of creative spiritual activity.


Teahouse Practice

I recently had an article published on WitchVox about this concept of "teahouse practice." This Buddhist concept gets its name from the story of a simple old woman who runs a teahouse on the edge of town. Though she never preaches a word about Buddhism, she embodies the traits of mindfulness and loving-kindness, and townsfolk come regularly to sit her in quiet presence and sip tea, even if they don't realize why, opening themselves to the inspiration of the dharma.

Working as a waitress, I've tried to incorporate this kind of teahouse practice into my interactions. I begin every shift down in the breakroom, taking a few minutes to change into uniform and wash my hands while cleansing and preparing myself mentally for the day. I leave behind whatever anxieties I've been carrying with me, or I find reasons to laugh about them and turn them into amusing stories to share with my coworkers. Cultivating peace and cheerfulness within my own self, I engage customers with intention, performing the somewhat ritualized greeting and serving acts with sincerity and presence. When I wish customers a "nice day" and flash them a smile, I make sure I mean it, always seeking that place within me where I really do wish for happiness for even the rudest of strangers.

The effect this practice has had on my work experience is palpable, with customers as well as coworkers. The diner/family-restaurant where I work is, admittedly, not the most classy or well-managed. Since starting there two years ago, I've climbed my way up to being among the top ten in seniority, simply because so many others have quit out of frustration or financial need. Yet I honestly do look forward to my job most days, I've managed to dance nimbly around melodrama and office politics time after time, and my own sense of inner well-being remains preserved. In the end, I feel grateful to have a job that allows me to interact so directly with people, working in a position of service to provide them with two of their basic needs--food, and company. Teahouse practice transforms the repetitive acts of an industry so often taken for granted, into ever-renewing moments of ritual spiritual work.

Hillwalking

This is the first form of regular spiritual practice that I do entirely for religious purposes, without any "daily grind" aspect--but only because I don't have a dog. If I had a dog, then our daily walks would be the perfect time to practice this particular spiritual work. Instead, I've had to find my own reasons and justifications to go traipsing through the local wooded park, while joggers and dog-walkers pass me on the paths with purpose and necessity in their eyes. The truth is, I am not fulfilling any physical need or family duty in going for long walks in the woods. Sure, it keeps me in shape (though I'm on my feet all day at work, anyway). But really, I go hillwalking because I long to be with nature, to be in nature, and to remember my own nature, before it is too easily usurped and suppressed by television and the internet.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. What exactly is "hillwalking"? It's a practice I first came across in Druidry, particularly in the works of Frank MacEowen, Philip Carr-Gomm and Emma Restall-Orr, although I think over in the UK it's also considered a secular pastime (like hiking, hunting or rock-climbing in the U.S.). In Druidry, hillwalking becomes a kind of movement meditation, in which a person travels through and explores the natural landscape with engaged presence. To hillwalk is to allow the body to interact intuitively and directly with the surrounding natural world, to follow whims and currents within the landscape. To move through the external, physical landscape of the woods, fields and hills as an interactive and revelatory form of exploring the internal landscape of the soul. Like the stillness of traditional meditation, the on-going movement of breath and body in hillwalking helps to blur the boundaries between form, spirit and space, transforming the perception of what was once opaque and solid into that which is fluid, interwoven and sacred.

Some people recommend utilizing this heightened, engaged consciousness to deal with particular problems, both spiritual and mundane. Formulating a question or problem before setting out, a person can "read" various aspects of landscape that they encounter along their path--animals, plants, bodies of water and earth formations, for instance--in the same way they would interpret dream imagery and experiences. Someone struggling with writer's block, for example, might find herself noticing the song of a mockingbird perched above a small pond, and begin to reflect on the relevance this might have for her current situation. I usually forgo this particular method, preferring instead to allow insights to develop organically through an intuitive experience of landscape, allowing whatever emotional or intellectual issues I have to resolve themselves naturally while I concern myself with the physical processes of my moving body.

Occasional Formal Ritual

This form of spiritual practice is probably what most people think of when they hear labels like "witch," "druid" and "pagan" these days--it's the most widely recognized, and yet also the most intimidating and misunderstood aspect of these paths. In my experience, there are a few main ways in which people approach the idea of "ritual" in the modern Pagan tradition. Some enjoy the sensationalized Hollywood versions of spell-casting and Black Masses, the exotic flavor of robes, candles and chanting in a strange tongue. Others are wholly turned off by how "weird" it all seems, confused as to why anyone would need or want such ridiculous and unfamiliar activities to be part of the religious life. For most people in this culture, religion is something passive, a worldview that you hold in the back of your mind and that colors your daily attitudes and behaviors, but which does not manifest overtly in anything more unusual than, perhaps, a weekly social gathering at one's local church. But then, there are those of us who look past the sensationalism and bizarreness of personal ritual, and understand the artistic evocation of beauty and the cultivation of spiritual connection and growth that can occur, and we understand the enchantment and the magic.

When I first started exploring modern witchcraft as a practitioner rather than as a scholar (the change occurred in early 2004, though it seems a lot longer ago!), its main draw for me was not so much its feminism or respect for nature (both of which were included in my liberal Catholic up-bringing) but much more: the chance to incorporate creative, personal ritual into my spiritual practice. Up until that point, my poetry and journal writing were the only forms of active self-expression that my religion included, and even those were frowned upon if they skirted too close to controversy. There have always been those in the Christian tradition who would prefer to keep "religious art" safe and doctrinally correct; but of course, I knew even in high school that trying to put such limits on artistic expression could kill it off quite effectively. Meanwhile, what little ritual that was left within Catholicism was communal and rote, both of which often kept me--a natural bewildered introvert at heart--from entering fully into the work. I longed for the enchantment of quiet solitary moments, lighting candles, burning incense, speaking words of poetry and crafting performances that were beautiful and inspiring (perhaps moreso because no one else was around to watch with critical or bemused eyes). Modern witchcraft seemed to offer this possibility.

I soon discovered, however, that modern witchcraft often has an unfortunate preoccupation with "magick" and spell-casting. Most discussions of ritual focused largely on setting up a sacred space or circle, inside of which the "real work" was done, seeking whatever magickal aims the practitioners desired. Monthly esbats, held on the full and/or new moon, were times to perform divination and various mundane bits of "magick," while the eight festival sabbats of the year were times of communal celebration, with a heavy emphasis on agriculture and often the impressive invocation of nature deities. For someone like myself, less interested in the agricultural than the ecstatic-philosophical spiritual life and with very few insecurities or desires that needed spell-work in order to satisfy, these types of ritual seemed redundant and sometimes even manipulative or selfish. For a long time, I didn't bother about the Craft, I dropped the provocative 'k' from "magick" and contented myself with meditation and simple visualization techniques.

Over the past year and a half, as I've studied the AODA first degree curriculum and worked through the gwersu of the OBOD bardic grade, I've begun to include more and more ritual work into my spiritual practice, though they remain scattered and often spontaneous. I've explored shamanic astral journeying and ritual within my personal "inner grove"; I've practiced techniques such as the AODA Elemental Cross and Sphere of Protection (based on more formal ceremonial magic traditions), as well as nwyfre (life-force) exercises, particularly during seasonal rituals. Most of the time, my personal rituals are simple, minimal and quiet. They're far from the impressive and complicated workings that most people picture when they think of "witchcraft," but they are active and creative nonetheless. Maybe one of these days, I'll go into more detail about the specifics--but for now, this post has gotten long enough, and the cold I'm fighting has suddenly decided to insist I go lay down and suck on a cough drop. When my body objects, I try to listen... Until next time.

To Love a God: Struggling with Morality in Polytheism

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In my continued attempts to explore polytheism and the various pantheons of the ancients, I recently read both R. J. Stewart's Celtic Gods, Celtic Goddesses, and Goddess: Myths of the Female Divine, coauthored by David Leeming and Jake Page. In some ways, polytheism continues to have a certain appeal or attraction for me as, perhaps, a final, definitive embrace of my Druid path. Devoting myself to wild, colorful deities of my ancestors carries the same kind of tantalizing mystique and fresh spiritual intrigue as dancing with faeries, seeing auras, singing with the river stones or treading moonlit wooded paths in the evening, seeking contemplative solitude or poetic coincidence in the world. The fulfillment of this imagined "magical self" that I have been crafting and cultivating over the past several years--first through witchcraft, and now through Druidry and other occult studies--seems always to have been the kind of devoted, ecstatic priestess who was only naturally polytheistic or, at the very least, more interesting than a plain, familiar Christian.


Still, though I continue to explore polytheism--in particular, the loose conglomeration of deities one could call the Celtic pantheon--I'm reminded again and again of certain things that don't quite sit well with me. Leeming's and Page's Goddess brought this unease home to me once again as I read the book over the Thanksgiving holiday.

Putting the Double-D in Goddess

The least problematic issue I run aground on is the ancient forms of Goddess-worship, those associated with the deep caverns of the earth painted with symbolic vulvas and protective, procreative wombs. While beautifully ecstatic, creative and sensual--celebrating the power of both womanhood and nature to give and sustain life, and transforming death into a return to generative darkness--it has always struck me as, well, a bit lop-sided (might I even say, top-heavy?). In its purest form, perhaps, in which Goddess is conceived as almost androgynous or trans-gendered, all-embracing in her presence, it echoes and affirms the kind of pan(en)theism with which I find myself most comfortable. Goddess not as anthropomorphic deity, but as life-force, Spirit and ground of creative being, transcends the male-female divide in the same way the God of my childhood Catholicism embraced all existence and paradox when the priest called upon the Divine as loving Mother (for now, I'll not spend time explaining that not all Christians are patriarchal misogynists--just trust me on that one ;).

But it seems, far from this aspiration towards pan-gendered unity reflected in certain pantheist and monotheist traditions today, many ancient Goddess myths take for granted the secondary, disposable nature of the male counterpart. This has always felt, to me, just as unbalanced and short-sighted as a spirituality that takes for granted the female side of Spirit as secondary or non-essential. Not only does it seem to reduce men to either amusing pets or convenient sacrifices, but it puts forward a view of the feminine with an exaggerated sense of sensuality, fecundity and receptivity. Perhaps the truth is, in being female, I personally look for the animus or male energy in my conception of a personified (that is to say, in some sense, an "external") conception of deity, while feminine aspects of the Divine I experience more directly as imminent, an animating breath or Life-force within me. This has made it difficult for me to feel comfortable worshipping a Goddess, but it has not stopped me from experiencing the Goddess-nature of myself and the larger Divine that suffuses reality.

Gods Behaving Badly

Another stumbling block I find within many polytheistic traditions is when the balance so clearly swings in the other direction, away from Goddess-worship and towards the repression and distortion of the feminine archetype of Spirit. Though Christianity has become an easy scapegoat to blame for rampant, repressive patriarchy among the world's religions and spiritual traditions, the myths explored by Leeming and Page often illustrate repressive, misogynistic and downright immoral behavior within plenty of purely polytheistic pantheons. Zeus's many rapes of women, both mortal and divine; the early Epic of Gilgamesh and his rejection of Ishtar as an untrustworthy seductress; even a late Apache myth about the toothed "vagina" goddesses, progeny of the Kicking Monster, who must be tamed, literally de-fanged and taught the pleasure of submissive "swallowing"!

Certainly the sexist mythology of Eve and the Fall, as well as of Lilith, Adam's first wife who dared to believe herself an equal, have their place within the Christian tradition, but it is also important to note that these are Jewish myths in origin. As far as new contributions to the misogyny of past and contemporary traditions, Christianity seems to have added very little, at least if we consider its mythology rather than its socio-political structures. Indeed, within the Gospels, women are often treated as equals, as worthy and devoted disciples, and as the most powerful of divine instruments (from creative vessels of new life, to sacred witnesses to the grief and mystery of death). The fact that the socio-political institution of Christianity as a religion has not always reflected the feminist lessons of its own mythology is no surprise; consider, after all, how rarely the gods and goddesses of various polytheistic pantheons seem actually to embrace the ideals of diversity and humanism that have become a cornerstone for the Neopagan movement. Although the modern Pagan religion as a socio-political counterculture encourages equality, personal will and tolerance, polytheistic pantheons seem full of deities with no qualms about unequal favoritism, fickle wrath or even seemingly manipulative impositions onto the human personal will.

Worship & Love

If I find polytheistic deities a bit fickle or inexplicable, however, this is partly because they are much more closely related to the mysterious forces of nature, which themselves are often highly indifferent to the whims or will of men. Oddly enough, I have no trouble appreciating, praising and even loving these forces of nature when I experience them within the context of a more unifying, interwoven, infinitely-living whole--when I experience the fierceness of a thunderstorm, the brutal cold and blinding purity of snow, the persistence and continuity of a wide river and the stolid starkness of the hills that loom over it. I can appreciate and experience the way in which Spirit manifests itself in each of these particulars, to create a tension and conflict out of which beauty and transformation arise through struggle. Yet, can I call these particular beings--these nature spirits and animating forces--gods and goddesses? And can I really worship them as such?

There is no question that I respect, admire and sometimes even fear the various particulars and manifestations of the world--but the quirk of having been raised Catholic is that, for me, these feelings are not enough. I grew up believing that the proper attitude towards one's god(s)--that is, the proper relationship between oneself and the Divine--is that of love. The Law of Love, which trumps everything else according to the "Good" Book, is to love God, and to love others and oneself as one loves God--creatively, freely and unconditionally. Jesus Christ, as portrayed as a deity incarnate in the Gospels, engages in the small, daily activity of creative, unconditional loving--he acts morally within the human sphere of experience in order to blow open and transform that sphere, transfusing it with Divinity. He is not only a poet-prophet, magician, philosopher-teacher and political radical--he's just a damned good guy, really. In the theology of Christianity, humanity is not simply incidental to the indifferent glories of a Divine natural world; Jesus, as deity, not only acknowledges and celebrates a sense of sacredness in nature (through parables and acts of natural magic) but elevates human beings themselves as deserving of respect, as worthy of Divine love. To me, he is not only a deity to be praised or feared (i.e. to be worshipped), but to be loved, intimately and fully.

Yet the mythology of Christ is not simply that of love, light and warm-fuzzies. Other, more scholarly Pagans than I have noted the parallels between the Christ myth of death and rebirth/resurrection and those of other polytheistic cultures. The Sacrificial God-King who dies to redeem and bless the land is a common mythological figure, particularly among agricultural-based societies. The deaths of these gods, however, are usually portrayed as brought about by those very same inexplicable and larger-than-life forces of nature--the God-King sacrificed to the Goddess-Mother/-Lover/-Land--and require of human beings either mere ritual witness, or the requisite personal sacrifices. The sacrificial death of Christ, on the other hand, is deeply human; indeed, it is not the inexplicable and sometimes tragically indifferent mysteries of nature which demand it, but the inexplicable and equally tragic community of humanity itself. Jesus, as historical figure, goes to his death at the hands of his fellow man, while Christ, as deity, inverts and subverts the vast gulf of power usually assumed to exist between all-powerful God- and Goddess-forces and a humanity buffeted about by their winds. Christ then becomes not only a deity of love and moral commitment, but a dark god of death, destruction, tragedy and the shadows of the underworld--not merely the ugly or incomprehensible fears of nature, but those within humanity itself. With humanity so intimately involved in the mythology of this deity, it also lends new responsibility (some ex-Catholics would probably be accurate in even saying "guilt" to some extent, though I have always understood it as response-ability) to the relationship one has with the Divine. We see that we are not powerless and ineffectual, that we are indeed capable of killing a god, and that this becomes yet another reason why love of Divinity and for Divinity, as both manifest within and transcendent beyond humanity, is possible.

The Disconnected Line

All that said, I have no doubt that my friendly neighborhood Pagans and polytheists out there have intimate, inspiring, even loving relationships with their gods and goddesses, which move way beyond simple worship in terms of praise and fear. I see these relationships expressed daily in indirect ways, as other bloggers talk about their spiritual practices and experiences. What I find frustrating is, well, akin to the frustration a person might have when trying to start dating again after years of being "out of the game." How do you meet the "right god"? How do you go about beginning the process of learning about one another and establishing a connection?

I'm still puzzled about this process. I read the books on mythology and ancient tales that people recommend, but I often feel as though these are out-of-date phonebooks and I'm looking up numbers for deities who have grown and moved on. Or, perhaps a more apt metaphor, it feels a bit like stalking someone on Facebook or MySpace, where the worst and the best of a person (or deity, as the case may be) are splayed for public view out of all context, hardly reflective of the real experience of knowing and working with him or her. Even among the Celtic deities, many of whom I find intriguing and potentially powerful patrons, I find myself coming up against silence, the dialtone of a disconnected line. Perhaps if I were part of a working group of local Druids, rather than a solitary practitioner, making that connection might be easier. I've even contemplated the more indirect route--meditating, for instance, on my apparent connection with frogs, hares/rabbits, pigs and even horses as recurring totem animals, researching which deities in which pantheons are associated with them, almost as if they were mutual friends who might be able to introduce us.

The question I always come back to, though, is: is all this really necessary, anyway? Am I, perhaps, just a naturally monogamous lover and, spiritually speaking, worshipper? Did I get lucky and meet the "right god" when I was very young, growing up with a Christ that is not the judgmental, oppressive or vindictive deity known to so many others? Is it, perhaps, really all right to be a Christian Druid, in the end? I mean, of course it's "all right" in the sense that the OBOD and AODA communities embrace seekers on the Druid path regardless of their religious backgrounds. But my concern is really about internal consistency and the integrity of a personal spiritual tradition. Is there something inherently polytheistic about Druidry? If there is, I am bound to confront it one of these days. Still, I wonder, who are these Gods and Goddesses of the Neopagan pantheons, and how do modern practitioners reconcile the sometimes less than admirable and moral mythologies from which they seem to evolve?

For those of you readers who are polytheists, I really would love to hear your views on this. Over the past few years, I've come to understand and even experience the nature of spirit guides, ancestors, "elementals" and group thought-forms (for which I can never remember the gosh-darn name--it starts with an 'e', right?)... but deities, Gods and Goddesses... they remain beyond me.

Spiritual Goals

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I’ve been tagged by Nathalie to participate in Alex Shalman's Gotta Get Goals meme. This actually ties into the gwers that I'm currently working on in the OBOD Bardic course, so I figured I'd list a few of my spiritual goals (this being a spiritual blog and all).

Esablish a self-sufficient, eco-friendly, spiritually-rich community. Nathalie actually mentioned in her goals that she would like to one day live in an eco-friendly, energy-efficient house, where she could grow much of her own food and raise her own livestock, closer to the wild outdoors. I've actually had similar yearnings ever since I was little, but over the past few years, I've started to understand how much value I place on community and interrelationship. I live a rather solitary and largely self-sufficient (if not ideally eco-friendly) life right now, and sometimes I find the isolation frustrating or even detrimental to my spiritual growth. I would like to be a part of a real-life community built on the notion that by working together on mundane tasks to provide for simple, daily needs, we also free up enough time to pursue more esoteric intellectual, artistic and spiritual studies, either individually or as a group. The community (or "tribe," if you will) wouldn't have to be specifically Druidic or even Pagan--in fact, there are a few people in my life right now who are neither but whom I'd very much like to include. I imagine it as a collective of individuals and families, sharing the care of land and animals as well as other tasks, all committed to living a life of respect for and low-impact to the earth, while pursuing the advancement and enrichment of the arts, philosophies, sciences and politics of the larger world. Think "hippie commune" meets "Buddhist monastery" meets "home-schooling" meets "college campus"... sort of.

Become an ordained priestess in either AODA or OBOD (or both?), and actively participate in a local Grove and/or study-group. Ever since I was old enough to ask my dad, "Who's the old man in the funny dress talking at the front of the church?" I've wished that the Catholic tradition allowed for the ordination of women. Since then I've become almost wholly disenchanted with the Church as a social and political institution, steeped in hypocrisy and clinging to rather bull-headed and narrow definitions of what it means to be "life-affirming" and spiritually loving. However, I still feel that call to step into the role of priest(ess), even though I no longer conceive of it as that of the sole arbiter between an individual and the Divine. In the end, I suppose it's just that most of my passions, talents and skills are not "practical" or useful in the modern, capitalist sense, and being able to turn those passions towards the service of others within a supportive spiritual community has always seemed like the ideal option. There is a part of me that wants to share and teach, but insists on doing so in my own unique way, not as a part of an institution focused primarily on indoctrination and practical-skills training (i.e. almost every high school or college in the country). Ideally, I would like to run study-groups and workshops focused on things like poetry as a spiritual practice, eco-living, nature study and hillwalking as meditative techniques, etc.; I would also like to continue to write about such subjects, and be involved regularly in community spiritual acts of ritual or worship.

Continue to improve on my meditative skills and intuitive relationship with nature and its spirits/Spirit. Meditation has always been difficult for me, simply because my mind is so active most of the time--"monkey-mind" always hopping from one thing to another. On the one hand, projects that allow me to indulge in this way of thinking are the most fulfilling (poetry, with its leaps in metaphor and imagery; political philosophy and spiritual theology, which allow me to pull diverse examples and synthesize them into coherent patterns of meaning, etc.), but on the other hand, meditation is a struggle because it asks me to stay still and quiet, mentally as well as physically. Working with the AODA idea of "discursive meditation" as well as techniques of "active" meditation involved in hillwalking and the martial arts (not that I do martial arts, but I do stretch and exercise as a spiritual practice) has proven fruitful, but I need to develop the self-discipline to stick with such methods as a matter of principle, and not merely when I desire some immediate benefit. The same goes for my interactions with nature--I need to make a concerted effort to get back into the "flow" of nature by seeking it out and attending to it on a daily basis. I remember when I was little, being able to smell a storm coming, or calling whole flocks of birds to me, or sitting down to "talk" with rabbits without them skittering away. Reading Abram's book, The Spell of the Sensuous a few months ago reminded me that a harmonious and integrated relationship with nature is very much possible, but it's something I need to immerse myself and work towards. Ideally, my goal is to be centered and peaceful throughout my daily life, and to find community in nature as readily as I find it in other human beings.


Discover an area of specialization to focus on. At the moment, I'm still fairly new to the Pagan community (I always find it amusing when I find my blog listed among the "Pagan Writers" links on people's webpages, since I still consider myself Christian for the most part), and I haven't really begun to specialize in anything in particular. I know certain Pagans who have specialized in or concentrated on healing, divination, herbal lore, particular crafts or arts, historic, language or archeological academic studies, working with the spirits of ancestors or the recently deceased, etc. etc. etc. I haven't really felt a pull to specialize in anything in particular, but my interests and passions in general have always focused primarily on the art of poetry, and a philosophical approach to politics, culture and social theory. It is difficult to claim a specialization in poetry within the Druid/Pagan community, since it seems almost everyone writes and reads it (at least as part of self-designed or improvised personal ritual). It's equally difficult to bring my interest in politics and social theory to bear on a spiritual community that is admittedly atomized and somewhat fragmented, due to patterns of social organization and the omnipresence of communication technology common to modernity. I've always had vivid and sometimes premonitory dreams, but I haven't yet figured out a way to utilize them consistently. (The other night, I had a dream that somehow, someone had gotten hold of an early copy of the last Harry Potter book and was threatening to tell everyone the ending; the very next evening, Stephen Colbert teased the audience with just such a threat, waving his advanced copy of the book in front the camera--but tell me, exactly how useful or practical can such a silly premonition be?) Ideally, I'd like to find my "niche" within the Druid community, to be able to offer a unique talent or skill to a local Grove or group, even if that skill is the mundane task of efficiently organizing meetings or writing poetry to be used in ritual and meditation.

Study a few key areas of interest more in-depth, specifically: Qabalah, sacred geometry and pythagorean music theory, and phenomenology as it relates to and informs Druidry. There's not much more to say about this goal, except that it fulfills my nerdy, scholarly side. As usual, I have an urge to take Druidry seriously in an academic sense, and to study it as a religion or spiritual tradition with as much legitimacy as Christianity, Shinto, Buddhism, Islam, or any other religion. I'm intrigued as much by its more dusty-tomes aspects as by its green, solar-powered, intuitive aspects. I want to learn more, and I intend to. (If only I could go to grad school for such study!)


Pilgrimage to ancient sites in Ireland and England. I consider this a "must" along my spiritual path. I've always wanted to visit Ireland, since my family roots are largely Celtic, and I've also become fascinated by the ancient sites of power along St. Michael's Leyline in England (as well as the crop-circle phenomenon that occurs along it in the summer). I'd very much like to go on a pilgrimage with the express purpose of personal meditation and exploration, perhaps also writing a book of poetry or creative non-fiction based on my experiences.

Find a way of living peacefully and lovingly with my best friend, even if we never do get back together as a romantic couple. This is more of a personal goal, but it involves a certain amount of spiritual growth on my part. Although I hate using the term "soul mate," in some ways I do feel as though we bonded on a very intimate, even spiritual level while we were dating, although it has taken a long time of being "just friends" to truly appreciate it. Although petty insecurities about dying a virginal "old maid" who never succeeded in "winning him back" sometimes haunt me, I am committed to maintaining a friendship of unconditional love and support, even if it only ever remains a friendship from now on. I am also committed to a spiritual and emotional integrity that keeps me from pursuing other relationships based mostly on physical attraction or my own loneliness. Ideally, I want to really, truly mean it when I say that I just want him to be happy and to have a fulfilling life (and I want to be able to forgive myself for still wanting to be an integral part of it). ::deep breath:: Okay... that's going to be the hardest goal, I can tell.



Oops--almost forgot to tag a few people:
- Erik
- Cat
- Bob
- Mam Adar
- Fiacharrey
- Benn (aka "ColoradoCelt")

Scholarship and Discipleship

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For the past few months now, I have been working through the correspondence course for the Bardic Grade of the Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids, in addition to my work in the First Degree of the Ancient Order of Druids in America. I wanted to experience the different approaches and flavors that each of these Orders has to offer, and to take advantage of the public forums and tutoring programs that each provide. Recently, my OBOD tutor asked me an interesting question, and this evening, having finished a letter in reply, I wanted to share some of my thoughts here.

Are you going through this course to broaden your knowledge of 'pagan theology' or are you doing it from a deep seated spiritual path that resonates with you on a personal level?

I've been considering this question a lot recently, and to be honest, I'm not entirely sure. Firstly, I am definitely approaching Druidry from a deep, spiritual urge that stirs with a thrill of recognition whenever I read books or essays on modern Druidry. There are aspects of my life that seem to fit perfectly with Druidry--such as my devotion to poetry and music, my love of and fascination with nature, and my desire for a supportive spiritual community which accepts, encourages and inspires mystic and experiential paths to Spirit. In principle (if not in fact), the Catholicism of my childhood incorporated all of these things, and so for a long time I studied Christian theology and mythology, especially as they've been interpreted and utilized by various saints and mystics, trying to find connections to my own personal spiritual life. Eventually, I began to realize that most of these inspired and inspiring mystics, venerated posthumously as saints, were often persecuted and harassed by the Church while they were alive; furthermore, while the modern Church didn't necessarily forbid a reverence for nature, poetry and ecstatic seeking, it certainly didn't encourage or even much acknowledge them.

So I feel like I am of two minds at the moment. On the one hand, Druidry speaks to certain needs that I've had as a spiritual being ever since I can remember. When I was a little girl, I had an imaginary friend who was a Native American girl I named Little Deer, to whom I wrote letters and poems. I would imagine her living secretly in the woods by my house, singing to the trees and conversing with the birds, playing hide and seek with the local foxes; meanwhile, I imagined myself to be a like-soul, explaining to her my own heritage, more literary and scholarly, perhaps, and flavored and influenced by my father's Irish heritage, but still wild and in tune with the local landscape, the streams and fields and woods. Though I did not know of them at the time, looking back I would say I imagined myself as a daughter of Druids, the shamanic nature priests from across the ocean. As an adult, I feel that at the heart of Druidry are those very things which have seemed marginalized, if not downright rejected, by Christianity, and so in that sense, I feel like my work with this course is a highly personal calling.

On the other hand, I know from my academic experience and research in college that Christianity itself is widely varied according to its many historical and cultural settings. I have yet to find anything about my personal spirituality which technically conflicts with the "theology" of Catholicism, and indeed, I feel very moved by ideas of the Trinity and the mystical Logos and "waters of life" found in particular in the Gospel of John. Although I would consider myself a panentheist, rather than a monotheist, it seems to me that the idea of Christ as an incarnate Divine figure embraces the notion that Spirit both transcends and is immanent within the world (not to mention Jesus' many parables about the natural world).

As an academic, I have always tried to approach other religions with the attitude best summed up by the question, "What if this were true?" I try to study other religious systems not just from an external, analytical perspective that recognizes patterns and relationships, but by imagining what it would be like to be a "believer" or practitioner. I ask myself, "What would it mean if this were true about the nature of reality? How would it influence the way I live and understand my life? What would it take for me, as a human being, to believe this thing, or behave in this way?" Asking these questions has allowed me to be sympathetic to other spiritual traditions even when I don't personally agree with them, and to better understand ideas or practices that my fellow students dismiss as merely baffling or strange. For instance, when I studied the Aztecs during one semester, I tried to imagine myself as a member of a society that performed ritual sacrifice, and through that "thought experiment" I came to understand a little better what it might be like to live in a jungle teeming with wild and exuberant life, in which human communities were only one small and fragile part, and how in such a setting, harsh or fickle deities might seem the natural expressions of sacred experience. This understanding of the fragility of a person and her community has stayed with me, even though I don't believe in the Aztec deities or subscribe to the idea of human sacrifice (or any kind of deliberate violence, for that matter). So in that way, I am very much interested in broadening my knowledge of "pagan theology" and the Celtic pantheon, because even this apparently distanced and abstract approach has proved personally relevant and meaningful for me in the past.

All of that said, I want to keep open the possibility that a pagan/polytheistic theology may someday have more immediate and personal meaning for me. I continue to read various collections of Celtic myths and stories with this in mind. Recently, I even felt a strange tug of connection when reading the story of Aengus Og and the swan maiden, Caer Ibormeith. Later that week at work, during a particularly stressful dinner rush I was on the edge of breaking down in frustration, when one of my coworkers walked by carrying a strawberry pie, topped with dabs of whipped cream that looked, to me, startlingly like swans. All at once, I was reminded of the story of Caer, and her self-possession and poise, transforming effortlessly between swan and human form as she willed. A new sense of calm and self-confidence washed over me, as I felt a kind of ugly-duckling inner conviction about my own self transcending what is otherwise an often degrading and frustrating job.

Because of that experience, I want to explore this particular Celtic figure more, perhaps begin to work with her on a personal spiritual level. But I'm not sure how to begin or where to start. Do you have any suggestions for "making contact" with mythological figures or deities, or advice or experiences about how to work with gods or goddesses? Other than building an elaborate swan altar, I haven't a clue. I don't really know how neophytes to Paganism go about finding and establishing a relationship with their first patron deity, and so I don't know if such a path would be right for me or not.

Magic, Prayer & Props

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This is a repost from my old blog, Pulse Like Water, which I first wrote on March 15, 2005. I thought I would repost it here because it continues to be an important subject--for me as well as for people within the Pagan and occult community whom I've talked with about the matter. In fact, I was reminded of this just the other day when chatting briefly with a new Druid friend. As she asked me how I blended Christianity and Druidry, our conversation turned towards a discussion of magic and spellwork, and how it is distinct from the idea of communion or mystical dialogue with the Divine. Both of our spiritual paths have led us more towards the latter, but I also find that as I walk that path, I find it harder to separate the two. I was reminded of this post, in which I first began to distinguish the one from the other--what I have come to call "magic" and "prayer" to be most general--and to explore their relationship. I was also reminded of a well-known quote from the highly influential Druid, Ross Nichols, which I months, if not a year, after first writing this post. And so, I think I will share this again, as it continues to remain relevant and helpful (at least to me, and I hope also to others).

"Ritual is poetry in the realm of acts."
- Ross Nichols, founder of OBOD

Is magic simply "prayer with props"? After much thought on the matter (though I may very well change my mind after further thought in the future!), right now I'd have to say, no. It seems to me that there is a fundamental difference between "prayer" and "magic."

Let's start by looking first at the common definitions of these words.

Main Entry: prayer (noun)

• A reverent petition made to God, a god, or another object of worship.
• The act of making a reverent petition to God, a god, or another object of worship.

An act of communion with God, a god, or another object of worship, such as in devotion, confession, praise, or thanksgiving.

A specially worded form used to address God, a god, or another object of worship.

Main Entry: magic (noun)

• The art that purports to control or forecast natural events, effects, or forces by invoking the supernatural.
• The practice of using charms, spells, or rituals to attempt to produce supernatural effects or control events in nature.
• The charms, spells, and rituals so used.

I've quoted only the first and most relevant definitions for each word, though these few uses listed above should give us a general idea to start. Even though the definitions of "prayer" and "magic" reach far beyond these summary definitions, these simplest explanations of each word seem to have little in common. "Prayer" is a kind of petition or, more generally, a communion or communication with God; "magic," on the other hand, has to do with personal will and gaining control over reality.

Of course, these definitions are limited. Many Christians would be insulted to think of prayer as merely groveling at the feet of the Lord, begging for favors like weak but selfish children. Likewise, many Witches and magicians would object that magic is much less about exerting control over the external world, and much more concerned with working in harmony with the energies and forces that unite the individual with the rest of reality. Furthermore, both prayer and magic are more generally directed at change--either through God's intervention, or by personal will. If we take the broader understanding of "prayer" and "magic" into consideration, we might define prayer as "communion with God through thought and word, aimed at making room for Divine to act in one's life;" and magic as "prayer--that is, communion with the Divine, aimed at making room for its activity--through the use of physical tools and ritual actions in addition to thought and word." While some might be content with these definitions, they're not enough for me. I want to dig more deeply into the subtleties and nuances of each word.

Prayer : To me, prayer is above all communion and communication with the Divine. This can take the form of centering prayer or meditation, or it can be something we do everyday, like washing dishes or walking the dog. It is a time to "talk" to God, yes, but above all it is a time to listen. Prayer is ideally a way of paying attention to that "still small voice." Often when we pray out loud and spontaneously out of great distress or need, we articulate fears and anxieties we may not even know about consciously. We don't need to tell God what He already knows, but the real benefit of prayer is to listen to ourselves, to find out what we are really asking for and begin to consider if that is what we really need or want. I often find myself saying things during prayer I would never have verbalized otherwise. Other times, I simply break down into overwhelmed murmurs of "I love You so much!" While I feel a bit silly, I'm also reassured because I can say so and mean it. Prayer is a way of bringing oneself into a better awareness of and connection to the Divine. Anything can be prayer--it can be verbalized or silent, motionless or a kind of dancing, or even work itself. When I write poetry, I am praying. When I laugh, I am praying. When I eat, I am praying. Because each of these activities reminds me of my connection with the Divine, and reminds me to listen, to pay attention.

Magic : Magic goes a step further. Prayer is largely passive, focusing on listening and paying attention (stilling ourselves and our clamoring desires long enough to make room for God's reply). But magic is active. The focus on control and personal will, although somewhat shallow and misdirected, does give us some insight. After all, is our goal as spiritual beings to deny our free will and become mindless robots of God? Or do we accept free will as a gift and exercise it with love and wisdom, bringing personal will into harmony with the Divine Will? God is not a cult-leader; He wants participation, not subordination. Magic is how we participate. It is how we manifest the communion of prayer in the world so that it can change us and change others. Prayer is necessary for magic--we must communicate with God and pay attention in order to be in harmony with the Divine Will. When we act in harmony, we can be creative and free, without being arrogant or cut-off from God.

While magic in general might be the practice of exerting personal will arbitrarily on the world, sacred magic, informed by prayer (communion and listening), is an act of creation in harmony with Divine Will.

What do I mean? I'll give you an example. When I free-write a rough draft of a poem, I am praying--I quiet myself down and listen to what that Divine voice within me articulates spontaneously. But, when I return to the poem, revise it, craft it into a work of art that does something and changes the reader and the world, I am performing magic. Writing is the best example of how magic does not need "tools" or "props." Magic is about creation and change, not about what tools you use. A great work of poetry changes the world, and the writer knows that the piece comes not from her, but through her--it has her "flavor," but its ultimate source is something greater. Similarly, other forms of magic change the world, and the individual practitioner, through creative acts. Sacred magic is essentially creative--it brings something new into being and, thus, changes the world. It expresses the Divine Unity in a new, particular and unique way.

Prayer reminds us of our source; magic is the active participation in the paradox that that source is expressed through particulars. Prayer is the necessary foundation of magic, and magic is the natural fruit of prayer. They have many of the same goals, but they are different. To call magic simply "prayer with props" would be to ignore the active, creative side of our participation in the Divine. The results of magic are, essentially, miracles. But all miracles require human participation--we plunge our staffs into the sea, we anoint the sick with oil, we bless the communion bread.

We listen, we pray, we contemplate--and then, we act, we create, we participate.