Hello, beautiful creatures.
In my previous post, “What Your Favorite Ritual Tool Says About You: An Exercise in Humor,” I poked some gentle fun at those of us in the Pagan, polytheist, and occult movement who use magical and devotional implements, in the form of a goofy set of statements written in the style of Buzzfeed quiz responses. Much to my delighted surprise, everyone seemed to have a good time with it, other than one or two humorless cranks who utterly missed the point and complained that real witches never use tools.1
At the end of that previous post, I said that I’d see what I could do about making this blog post something everyone could get angry about, and I tried, really I did… but honestly, while there’s an awful lot I could get angry about, my heart just wasn’t in it this time. So instead, you get more silliness. Surprise!
I’ve noted in some previous posts that my relationship with the Wheel of the Year is ambivalent, but one of those valences is affection. As with my ridiculous post about tools, the following is written as affectionate humor, meant as gentle teasing, and is in no way meant to be taken seriously. So, please, calm down, have some egg nog. I’m sure your favorite sabbat really is the best.[Nota bene: If you follow the Misha Magdalene Facebook page—and really, why wouldn’t you?—your eyes are not deceiving you: this is indeed an updated version of a post I made there a little while back. Sharp eye!] SAMHAIN
You own more varieties of black eyeliner than most people know exist. You use an Inkubus Sukkubus CD as a pentacle. There are literal human remains on your altar. Despite some folks’ beliefs to the contrary, you’re perfectly aware there are other colors of ritual robe than black; there’s red, for instance. You just think people should know what you mean when you say you practice “the Dark Arts.”
You’ve been physically restrained from singing carols during ritual. You’ve actually done research on sustainable wrapping paper and the historicity of “Yule trees.” You have an enchanted egg nog recipe… or, if you’re a real Yule hipster, a consecrated wassail recipe. You haven’t convinced your coven to do a skyclad Solstice rite outdoors… yet. You get really touchy when people call it “Pagan Christmas.”
You collect consecrated candles the way some folks collect snow globes. You have wax burns on your scalp, and for some reason you always smell like cookies. In possibly related news, you’re the “mom friend” member of your magical working group.
Your ritual floral arrangements are the talk of your tradition, as are your herbal tinctures. You know seventeen different etymologies for the name, and you’re really tired of explaining to people online that, no, it has exactly nothing to do with Ishtar, godsdamnit. You get really touchy when people call it “Pagan Easter.”
Your favorite ritual chant is, “That’s what she said,” and you’ve actually uttered the phrase, “the Really Great Rite.” You’ve adapted Solomonic, Thelemic, and Catholic liturgies for consecrating anointing oils in order to make sacred lube. You desperately just want to get laid… and really, is that so wrong?
Just kidding. No one actually likes Litha best.
You probably spell it “Lughnasadh” or “Lúnasa,” even if you’re not actually a Gaelic speaker… unless you call it “Loaf-Mass,” the way a real Anglo-Saxon would. You really like the imagery of the harvest, and late Summer, and pennywhistles, and other rustic charms that are far removed from your actual day-to-day life. You also really, really like bread. Like, to a disturbing degree.
Despite having never actually worked a farm, you have passionate feelings about the harvest as a metaphor for change and fruition and culmination and, y’know, stuff You’ve worn unironic overalls to ritual, and contemplated the sacramental value of pumpkin spice lattes. You have a “Things I Love About Fall” Pinterest board filled with images of leaves, branch-wreath pentagrams, and chunky sweaters.
So, yeah, sorry about the lack of outrage in this one. I’ll really try next time, honest. Until then, dear ones, climb every mountain, ford every stream, and follow every rainbow ’til you find your dream. Happy Pride! ♥
- Yeah, okay, sure thing, Paula. I’ll run right out and tell Grandma Doreen she was doing it all wrong.