Haunting, beautiful, uplifting. His art is truly a spiritual experience for those of us in the Occult fields or faiths, and a candid look into our spirituality for those who are not. Take a Tour of this Artist’s fascinating and inspiring works, his professional life through freelance, music and finding his calling with this great article from The Wild Hunt :
It is May Day, Bealtaine. Where has the year gone?
I have been too busy to observe, but I have felt more connected than most years.
I have learned how very much I rely on these callings from my bloodline. My history, my faith, and they have given me strength and peace this year. I am happy. I am productive. Goals are in my sight – and it is inspiring and motivating.
Light the Fires in this Season – protect yourselves from the harm that can bombard you daily. Forget the hindrances of the past, and move on, move forward, into your new, bountiful self.
Drink the Dews run over from the Springs, let them wash out your doubt and your weariness. Let them feed your spirit, your mind, and take their renewing vigor and make much of their gift to you in this waning half of the year.
Too Soon Darkness will descend and the Sun will slumber beneath the bough.
Too soon, another year will come to close. Let this Season flourish while the bounty is still ripe and full.
Bless the Blood.
~MM~
When did Witchcraft become a contest? They ask. But inside, my guts churn, and my blood boils, as I read the insulting lines that get pissed off at others unjustly judging poor, victimized Wiccans…the complaints of the “constant belittling” of Wiccans…whilst they so hautily, and casually belittle others.
Others’ complaints of Wicca is apparently horrendous bullying. Even though we are constantly told we are wrong, that our religion doesn’t exist anymore – or even told the horrible inaccurate accusation of saying ours NEVER exsisted? Look at the snide remark of
” (And that’s before pointing out that Traditional Witchcraft is an idea often so nebulous that it’s about as hard as “Wicca” to define, and with just as many varied traditions.)”
OH. Ok. So YOU can pretty much say “traditional” paths are BS, and you’re just “stating facts” – But we call Wicca BS, and we’re belittling you?
Yes, Pot. The Kettle is black. But so the fuck are you.
I am sorry, but when you crawl up on a high horse, hijack other’s religions, boast falsehoods as reality, and then can stomach to produce and market such crap that, for example, bolsters the magical properties of a paperclip and how to force someone to love you (forever) ???
Paperclips and love potions?
This reads like a bad Weasley rip off.
The rest of the world is pissed off, constantly belittle you, because you are constantly making a mockery out of us. You spit in our face, commandeer our faith and rites, only listen half-heartedly to our myths and histories, pick and choose what you want to hear and throw away all the rest, then paste-over the parts you don’t like with someone else’s stolen faiths and do just the same to them all over again.
The entire concept of your faith is scattered, broken, confused and insincere. You don’t know what you want to believe, so you just show it all together and claim it is the “right” way to be, and then market your ransacked religion as *THE* religion of the modern age – when that is just flat out not true.
you are O N E religion. That’s it, one, singular path out of the many thousands of choices. You all are so entitled and proud, and think you are then end all, be all example of what a pagan should be.
No.
I’m not listening. I’m not having it. There are plenty who do not hate you, plenty who even adore you – plenty of people who are on your side and your team. And just like ANYTHING in life, there are also plenty of people who do not like you, plenty of people who hate and despise you, and I tell you what, I bet each and every one of us have our reasons, and how dare you try to tell us we do not have the right to be mad, or angry, or not like you, or disapprove.
Disapprove. That is the perfect word. Disapprove. I disapprove of everything about Wicca – it is not even a matter of disagreements. I disagree with Christianity, but I do not disapprove of it. It is simply not for me. I do not agree with Shamanism. But I do not disapprove of that either, it is beautiful and fitting for many folk – but does not fit me in the slightest bit. But to each their own.
This is different – Wicca has plagued me and mine with misinformation, discrimination, mockery, blasphemy and sacrilege. It has desecrated sacred oaths and practices, it has propagated our faith and our deities to nothing more than carnival tricks and novelty. It has sexualized every inch and cranny of our faith to make us all out to be nothing more than a bunch of horny nymphos using a “fertility goddess” as a shield to act like whores, and somehow be proud of that?
What Wicca does on a daily basis, every hour of every day is hurtful and shameful to those who practice traditional forms of the religions they have taken from.
It hurts.
It hurts.
So yes, I am bitter. Yes, many of us are angry. But we have every single right to be so. It is not a “Cosmic Pissing Contest” it is those that feel wronged and insulted lashing out against the ones who have caused those insults. It may be childish at times, but I have never been a fan of ALWAYS taking the high road, and that is just my own personal opinion. I enjoy flinging shit when the other side is deserving of shit. Spitefulness, bitterness, anger, pain – these are all valid, legitimate human emotions, and I won’t be told I am not entitled to my emotions just because you feel you should be more important than you are.
No. It is not a pissing contest. The fact that you would call it that just proves how completely self centered and detached your community is from ours.
-M
Recently, I was involved in a discussion in a pagan group about the ambiguous nature of how modern pagans identify themselves, and their, seemingly, complete disinterest in their historic roots or traditions. Specifically, modern “Druids” and those who claim Celtic Paganism, but practice a naturalistic or animistic path and make no mind or matter of the Celtic Pantheon. And though, unfortunately, the person who started this discussion, that brewed into an all out protest, turned out to be entirely misguided, arrogant and disrespectful, I couldn’t help but identify with the sentiments of his original posting.
It is no secret that I often feel alienated from the greater pagan community. Just today I read a poll about online pagan connections vs. real life interactions, and it is a sad realization that I have neither of these. I communicate plenty, but no more than an exchange of a certain topic, and then we both (or however many are involved) move on with our lives. I don’t actually have any Pagan friends or associates.
Too many times, I do not fit inside the neat little package of whatever is expected, and so I smile, and move on leaving those connections undone, and it is, for the most part, because of the Modern Pagan ideology. It can be seen all over the online pagan community, from places like The Wild Hunt, Witches & Pagans, and even sadly the Order of Bards Ovates and Druids – druidry, in its essence, has been boiled down to nothing more than a nature based spiritualism, and speaks nothing of the true nature of the practice.
Druidry, itself, began as an Irish practice, the word Druid itself derivative from the irish word druí. The art and practice of the druid, of course, spread and could be found all over the celtic worlds – but where are these roots in the modern practice? There is no mention, whatsoever, of its Irish heritage, or any celtic influence whatsoever. They completely ignore the religious side of the practice, removing celtic spirituality, and relate it to nothing more than arts, creativity and a oneness with nature. All of which are well and good in their own rites, but where are the deities? Where is the pantheon? Where is the Leabhar Gabhala, the Mabinogi?
Even if one does not associate themselves as a Druid specifically, the same notion can be seen all over modern “celtic” paganism – which has become practically indiscriminate from Wicca. I see so many practicing “Celts” name praise to a Roman or even Hindu Goddess, raise up Egyptian iconology, invoke the strength of Viking, Shamanistic or even Native American spirits and deities, and yet keep a strangely absent figure of the pinnacle deities of the Tuatha De Danann – or even Danu herself, and the convenient lack of ANY God or male figure whatsoever, save in a few remarks in a highly sexualized consort, making any figure out to be a supplicant and lesser to the Goddess figure, not the equal that balanced the coupling that was so important – not only in a matter of divinity, but as an entire concept – to the celts as a cultural whole.
More than once I have come across those who do not know the tales of the Tuatha de Danann, let alone know the significance they hold to the nature of magic and spiritualism, as well as the arts and sciences in the mythos and canon. Too often I have come across those who have never read the Mabinogion, do not know the difference between Irish or Welsh. Where is the education? Where is the pride in your culture? Where is the faith? How can you call yourself a Celt, but know nothing of their culture and abandon their practices?
Have we reached a turning page in Neo-Paganism where we simply reinvent and redefine instead of making the effort to connect, and learn from our ancestors and our past? Do we really take such freedoms for granted, and take such free-reign liberties and entitlements with our faith that we feel we can just make up whatever we want?
It is a sad, and hurtful thought for someone like me who lives and breathes her Irish blood. Who is so closely connected to those deities of the past, and whose culture defines and shapes her everyday life. Where are we to fall, in this new-wave paganism? Where we do not fit in the past era of reconstructionism, but do neither do we frolic freely with culture appropriations of new-age spirituality. And what future do our ancestral roots hope to gain when they are so easily abandoned and ignored?
The pinch of sulfur stings my nose as the spark catches the wick.
I’ve lost my bearings, let my mind wander too far: I need to see, just for a bit, to reorient myself before I find it and then I can retreat from the tunnels.
I’ve hidden it all here, tucked away in the darkness, as if the darkness could smother it. I swore I left that life behind, but can you truly leave such a thing behind? When times are tough, it is an easy habit to fall back on.
It has been three years since the tensions first began to rise within the Offices. Since then, the Arcanologists and Mystics have become a suspicious breed. But, I guess there has always been a bit of that amongst the Offices, course none of that mattered so long as we fulfilled our part – made ourselves useful.
But now, now they are considering the option that we may be far more dangerous than we let on. I can’t keep doing this – just this last time, then I will seal them away for good.
I reach the cache I’ve hidden, fumbling through the olde withered pages. It is too risky to take the whole thing, so I skim until I find the page I need, rip it out and tuck it away safely amongst my pockets. The pages call to me: Ancient wisdoms, olde rituals. I thumb across the broken and cracked leather of olde tomes and journals. I’ve been here too long. I can’t go back that path.
I snuff out the wick as if that will hide the temptation, and turn to make my way back down the tunnels. I trail a finger across the cooled, dampened stone of the cellar walls to keep my balance, hold my mind’s orientation through darkness, but it is only a comfort, I don’t truly need it; I know these halls far too well, I’ve walked them an innumerable amount of times in my life.
I crack the hatch of the olde cellar door, slowly and steadily as not to make a sound. Katovjin would be furious if she knew I had snuck back in the tombs. The tombs, we call them, because that is where the past lies – dead and forgotten. Although neither of those things are true, even though we pretend they are. The darkness lingers over the floor above, only the crackle of the dying fire spill
out a warm glow around the hearth.
I crawl carefully out, silently shuffling across the wood as I latch the door, and cover it with the slate stone that rims the hearth-floor, and cover it still with a reed woven mat and olde skin. If someone didn’t know any better, it was nothing more than a quaint sitting room. Good that the tombs weren’t originally constructed with the house, or else we’d been searched long ago.
I am knelt by the soft glow of the embers, just finishing straightening the hide into the long-time faded silhouette into the floor – a good cover – when I feel the presence beside me. I freeze. My veins stiffen as the shadow looms in the doorway. I twitch an eye sidelong at it, careful not to move. They lie just beyond the light, hidden in the threshold of the doorway to the shoppe-front, now bathed in darkness in the midnight hours; I can see nothing of them save for the glint of eyes flashing against the warm glow. They hang low, barely more than waste high.
“Ada!” She cries in her whimpering tone, startling me right out of my skin.
“Ai, Córra!” I gasp back at her, falling forward from he jolt she shot right threw me, my heart still hammering as I chuckled under my breath at myself. “You can’t do that to your father!” I grasp at my chest, only half play-acting.
She grins weakly at my start as she shuffles forward, all lank socks and mismatched pigtails ruffled from tossled sleep. Her olde, moth-eaten and ragged bear dangles from an elbow as she climbs into my lap – now sitting against the floor.
“Can’t sleep again?” I ask as I cradle her.
She shakes her head angrily, as she curls in a tight little ball in my lap, her heels digging into my thigh. I try to reposition myself so my tingling leg doesn’t go completely numb, but she’s stubbornly made her bed. I give up, letting her have her victory. She presses a knuckle to her lips – she is far too olde to suck her thumb, but the small action is an equal comfort when the night-terrors come again.
I sigh heavily, resting my chin on her hair. I know I did this to her; filled her head with tales of wonders and magic I should have let die – but she is so special. She has the gift, it is in her blood. I can feel it seething from her and it strikes me with such pride and awe and fear that I have let myself slip. And she eats it up.
I love all of my children – they all have their most skilled talents that fill my heart, but she, this little one; Ai, she would have been my apprentice if I had stayed with the Offices. She is my Little Spark. Now she dreams too much, wanders too far, and falls into Shadows I should have shielded her from. Nights are the hardest – and I know what she is seeking.
“Please, Ada?” She stares up at me, those wide silvery-blue eyes glinting with unshed tears, pouty-mouth. She blinks at me, a silent beg for good measure, knowing she’s already snagged me under her spell.
“We can’t, Little Spark.” I sigh, but it’s a feint – and she knows it. I’m saying what I need to say to put up a good fight, but she can taste her victory.
“They are my favorite! They chase away the Shadows, and no one will know. We’re all alone, and we’re safe in our own home.”
If only we were safe in our own home. But I can’t tell her that. She actually looks scared tonight. I settle her down in my lap, wiggling the toes of my numb leg. She grins emphatically, eyes devious little slits that crinkle under her delighted cheeks, knowing she’s won. I’ll have to watch her, this one. She knows what she’s doing, and she learns people well.
She snuggles down, tucking herself into my arms, her cheek flat against my chest, still hugging her pitiful little bear. I hum, as I warm my hands, rubbing the palms briskly. I close my eyes, I see what I need, I call to it…
Sleep, Lovely, Sleep.
Fear no Shadows,
As they reap
The Spark touches
And lights the deep
A beacon in the Slumber’s Keep
She hums along with me as I pluck an ember from the grate. I fold it between both palms, I feel the spirit stir inside, I only have to waken it and coax it out. She waits eagerly, still humming the song she knows so well.
Here, Lovely, Here
See no troubles
Bring no fear
The Flame warms us
And dries the tears
A warden to a Heart so dear
I cup her hands inside mine, around the glowing ember. She is not frightened – she never is – but takes it gladly as I squeeze them firmly over the coal. It does not burn or blister one made of Fire like her.
I pinch my eyes closed tight as I concentrate the last prayer in my head, under my breath. She continues to hum. And as I open my palms, her eyes sparkle hungrily as she opens hers, mimicking my movements.
Her hands lay cupped in mine, as the coal glows red and hot in her hands – and then gently it stirs. The tiny little creature, like a glowing piece of slag, uncurls from within its tail and climbs from the ember’s heart. It raises a smoldering little head, flat and oval, up to her, taking her in as she beams back down at it. It must feel the Spark inside her, it always loves her so. It flicks a tiny little flaming tongue, as it begins to wind itself between her fingers and around her hand, down her wrist, over her knuckles.
Her heart spills over herself, beaming at her tiny little salamander.
“Calcinaer!” she breaths, so excited, so comforted. “I’ve missed him, Ada. He keeps all the Shadows away…”
“I know, Little Spark. He seems to have missed you too.” Guilt aches inside me as she dotes on the little fire daemon. But it is soon swallowed up by fear – a fear the Spark of Calcinaer can’t chase away, a fear not caused by Shadows and darkness. But she needs him this night. He will protect her. I can’t keep doing this…
He raises his glittering little eyes at me as if in answer to my thoughts. He looks at me sadly, but he seems to understand. Soft snores rise up from my lap. She can sleep now.
I scoop her up and head up the stairs and down the hall to the quaint little room in the corner. The twins sleep face-to-foot, crammed into each other in the upper bunk beneath the alcove ceiling, even though they each have their own. I tuck Córra into Kensey’s empty bunk below. She’ll sleep safer here than alone
in the room she usually shares with Izzy.
I slip what is now her Fire Stone under her pillow, as Calcinaer waddles warmly up her arm, curling up in the crook of her neck.
“I’m sorry, Cal.” I say. It’s all I know to say. He raises his little head, crooked to one side, as if to ask what I could be sorry for – trying to relieve me of my guilt.
“Keep her safe?” I ask of him, “Chase away the Shadows.” He rests his head on his stubby little feet, tail tucked over his nose, he smolders bold and warm and bright. Of course he’ll keep her safe.
Let me shed some light into my spiritual life: I have never once danced naked under the full moon. I have never culminated a ritual with a sexual act. I haven’t endulged in nudist drum circles, or prayer rites. Sex is not the foundation of our religion. Why the fuck do modern pagans turn EVERYTHING into sex?
It has become blatantly obvious that I am, apparently, not the “typical” pagan. So, perhaps my opinion on the matter is not in good company, but I am sick of all the flaunting and glorifying of sex in Paganism, whoring around everywhere. And yes, I call it whoring, because that is exactly how it comes across. Extortion? Desperation? Using it for leverage? Everything you associate as being a negative aspect of sexuality – that is exactly what you are doing, and rationalizing it away as liberation, or becoming one with nature, or a oneness with self, or whatever else psycho BS you can pull out of your ass to try to make it seem like anything less than an orgy or the sake of religion.
Why does sex have to be such a big issue to “our kind”? It seems like so many aspects of Paganism these days is for shock value, or simply for the sake of being the anti-christian movement. Anti being opposite of, not opposed to in this context. Christians say sex is a sin, we’re here to tell you it’s a beauitful act of power and liberation! To Prove thats what it is, and we’re not ashamed, we’re all going to orgy it up right here in front of you!
I read a lot. I follow a lot of blogs. Though, ironically, I can’t seem to name you one single “pagan” author, save for the horrendous, like Silver Ravenwolf (one of my many damning qualities, according to my oh-so-welcoming community, I’m a “bad pagan” because I can’t appropriately name-drop MVPs….) But amongst all the snippets I collect and read through week to week, one thing blares blindingly clear. Without fail, every time some spiritual ritual is mentioned, sex and sexuality is a headlining topic.
The beautiful thing about nature-based religions, and all the many fascets of Pagan paths is the understanding of sexuality. Sex is natural, it is a regular part of life, and therefore should not be demonized in the slightest bit. But being a part of life doesn’t me ruling life. It does not need to be included in everything.
Do you have sex while doing the laundry? Are you masturbating while preparing breakfast? Do you jackoff your man / fist your lady while watching family feued? Does your gamertag include your O face? If yes, any sane individual anywhere would tell you you have a problem.
The reality is, NO. We don’t function like that. Sex is not a part of everything we do in life, so why on earth does it make sense to be a part of every aspect of our spiritual selves? Everything does not have to be a discussion on sex. Stop it.
I just read Sex and the Parliament of World Religions and it is a prime example. It both confuses and infuriates me.
“One commonality that stood out to me was our relationship to sex. While there were other faiths that honor sexuality as sacred, nowhere was it as explicit as in the Pagan community.”
Nowhere was it as explicit as in the Pagan community….
How does that line make you feel? Why is this something to be proud of? It makes me sad, and ashamed. We are the trashed party-girl of the Religious community. And we have somehow convinced ourselves, like every other party girl in history, that that is a good thing. It’s not. People only like us because we’re easy. We need to wake up and realize that.
And as I continued through this shameful article, and coming to the grand conclusion, I didn’t understand…What does sex have to do with ANY of this? It was completely unnecessary to her experience with the conference or community. Why must being happy in your own body have to be about sex? Why does a closeness with someone else have to equal to sex or sexuality? Why do you admit that most contact was not sexual in nature, but then forcibly bring the conversation straight back to sex? Why does ANY of this have to be about sex, why must we be EXPLICIT in our community instead of giving our bodies, the act itself, the way we view and represent ourselve, and even our ceremonies the respect and honour they deserve?
People get the wrong idea that in order to be ok with yourself or your sexuality that you must overtly flaunt it, that if you cover it up, then you must either be ashamed or oppressed -that that is just the radical extreme of the opposite end of the spectrum. Being respectful to your body, and your faith, does not mean defaming it, and not thinking about what you do or how you use it and just throw it blindly at anyone, or use it for any little opportunity is not respectful.
My next question is: Are you all that vapid and shallow?
Do you think you are being deep and moving by takling about sex all the time? What are you trying to accomplish? Do you think being a “feminist” means shoving your tits and pussy at everyone and making them deal with it? That’s not how it works. You are trying too hard. You are desperate.
A psychologist would tell you that folk who are this engulfed and vocal about sex have some severe insecurities, or trauma they are trying to work through – those who scream the loudest have the most to hide. Which is fine, if that is the case, but we are not your therapy. There are real and true traditions, we are real people, will real faith, and real customs and spirituality and things that were once sacred that are being desecrated in falsehoods and misrepresentations. Being proud doesn’t have to mean making a mockery of us. And if you think sex is all there is to paganism, or even one of the biggest points of paganism, you’ve entirely missed the point.
Traditionally, the Druidic paths did not celebrate the 8 points of what is now recognized as the Wheel of the Year. They only celebrated the four main harvests that quartered the year – Though that does not mean that the Equinox was not a respected time for them.
Most modern paths have all accepted the 8-festival format, acknowledging the importance of these other cross-quarter markers, and to impose a since of balance and uniformity across practices, as well as our other pagan bretheren and cousins.
Though something about the 8-festival tradition just doesn’t speak to me (I stick to the quarter-harvests)….I cannot deny the charge I feel in the air on these days.
This is my *favorite* time of year, and this is *the day* it all culminates into alignement to shephard in the fall harvests and the closings of the year. Something about this time of year is just absolutely magical, and it fills me.
The Druidic path calls it Meán Fórmhair. Fómhar – meaning harvest. Giving, and fruitfullness, fullness, abundance, life, hope, plenty. This is what the crisp autumn air says to me. It sings to me to eat, drink and be merry. Celebrate the fullness of the earth, the fullness of life. I always found Thanksgiving very appropriate, though it claims no ties to pagans – the harvest is transcendent, in that sense: everyone can relate to the thankfulness and humility for the abundance of food from the land.
The pilgrims established Thanksgiving in order to give thanks to God, as they felt he had hear their prayers and blessed their crops. Likewise, we give thanks to the Mother and Father for the fertility and bounty of the land. Should it be so surprising we share so many similarities? None of us are so different – around the world (or at least the Northern Hemisphere) all people are celebrating and anticipating their crop and harvest and the gift of the land in some form or another, even if they do not realize it.
You do not have to have a national holiday, or adhere to a set of sabbats and rituals, to understand the power and beauty of this time of year.
snippets from Strays
an excerpt from latest revisions – Chapter 17
The tension in the room was suffocating. Ambrogue and Kai stood defensively in the corner, on guard. Balahir shrunk away in the doorframe, but couldn’t stop watching. Archabiya had dried her tears in the corner. Everyone was at attention, but couldn’t move.
Gryph made for the door, but Merryck and Balahir stood in the way.
“Wait!” Merryck pleaded. Gryph didn’t want to look at him.
“Please,” Dahgmar bent to pick up the medallion, “This is a horrid misunderst –”
“Stop!” Gryph cut, his grip on everything beginning to slip, “I won’t be a part of this!” He turned back to Avior, “This is what the Order has become? You disgrace it; you disgrace everything we fought for. I won’t help you – and I won’t let you take her.” Angry tears welled in his eyes, and he stormed away.
Archabiya stood, horrified, but Avior stopped her in her tracks.
“Don’t. Let him go – give him time. We’ll straighten this all out in time, just, let him have some time…”