Beltane Oracle (or, Satyr’s First Prophesy)

high contrast image of the coals below the beltane fire, with a burning log that looks remarkably like a face

The Lunar Shenanigans Crew – the pseudo-coven I talk about so often, which I have at last decided to give it’s proper name in public – celebrated Beltane in our usual fashion, fucking off into the woods the last weekend in April. We were only able to get out for two nights, but we made the most of them. Friday night we celebrated with two of our oldest rituals: the Fuck You Fire and the I Love You, Man, fire. Saturday afternoon, I performed a personal cord-cutting ritual, one of my compatriots led a Sumbel, and we renewed our vows as Black Goat Brides – an idiosyncratic ritual that we got from Jack Grayle after he led it at Paganicon 2018. I have led the Black Goat Bride ritual several times. This year, I asked to try my hand at playing the oracle, after. They were content to let me try.

I have, in a fairly material sense, spent the last two years preparing for the role. The Lunar Shenanigans Crew spent a year of full moons Drawing Down the Moon to give each of us a bit of experience with that oracular priestex experience and role. Those of us most moved by the rite went on to form a spin-off group devoted to perfecting our trance-possession skills. Again, that endeavor deserves its own posts, but I haven’t quite figured out what to say about it.

The ritual as written gave us no formulae for preparing the oracle, only noted that one might be available at the end of the rite. Each of us who has taken that role has done so in our own way. Having received the groups blessing to play the oracle, I spent the next few hours preparing myself in the back of my mind. I think that I imagined that it would be the voice of Dionysos that came through, but what I got, instead, was my own oracular voice.

Satyr Magos was meant to be a nom de plume, not a magical name. My true magical name, which I have not and will not put in print, is more ambitious: a great seer and teacher of the mythic past. But for all that ambition, that aspiration, satyrdom is closer to my true nature, and that came through so strongly that when the voice first bubbled up in me, in the gap between talking through the details and the beginning of the rite, I literally laughed out loud.

When the rite was done, and we had all renewed our vows, I sequestered myself to prepare for and then perform my oracular duties. Preparation was largely a matter of checking in with myself, trying to determine if the voice was, in fact, oracular, not some strange delusion. But it felt right. It felt real. And if I hadn’t spent the last two years doing the work I’d been doing, I might not have been able to tell.

I wrapped my cloak around me. I draped my sacred cloth over my head. I stared deep into my crystal ball. I lit a cigarette, and then the candles to tell the crew waiting back at the main camp to tell them that I was ready.

“Who approaches the oracle?” I asked as each one came up to me. The raspy voice fit the mood, at first. Then the tone … shifted.

“Hi, NN, how’s it goin’?”

The oracular voice I found in myself that night was not the wise and noble seer of my ambitions, consulted by kings and heroes. No. I was a chainsmoking satyr who might have spent a little too much time in Brooklyn. But it was real.

“The important thing is to act,” I told one. “Once you’re moving, you can always course-correct.”

“If you’re looking for an idea, not a place,” I told another, “what you need isn’t a map. What you need is to find a rumor.”

“There’s basically two ways to be a maenad,” I told a third, “that’s full-time and part-time. Part-time has a lot of room for life and other obligations and ambitions; full-time, not so much.”

A lot of the details have faded since the night, of course. I remember just enough to get me into trouble. But the funniest thing, the thing I wanted to share with you all other than the surprising nature of the voice, was the one through line across the querents. At some point, they all asked a question that was too broad, too vague. And I would have to tell them to be more specific.

“I ain’t the Pythia,” I told them. “Just a satyr with ambition.”

“Pythia ain’t here,” I said at one point. “She’s up north with Apollo.”

I also remember that four of my five companions got real, solid answers. Things that felt right and helpful to them. The fifth, I’m sad to say, asked questions that I could find no answers to beyond my own common sense. She got robbed and I feel really bad about that. I think that the problem was how definite and material the questions were, and how far in the future. Or maybe I just dropped the ball.

But, overall, I think that I did well. I found my oracular voice and I was able to sustain it as long as it was needed. When that voice was not at all what I expected, I was able to check in with myself and determine that it was right. Maybe in another year or two, I will be more of that more noble seer whose name I took for my own back in 2009, before I even dreamed of the blog. But, for now, the Satyr Magician has spoken with a voice of prophesy, and has done well enough.

Beltane Altar 2012

It’s officially Beltane.  My altar isn’t very fancy this season—I don’t really have any appropriate gewgaws or money with which to acquire them, and I sort of have this pervasive fear that if I go too far out with Beltane I’ll wind up with an unexpectedly pregnant partner—but it’s actually been up for a couple weeks.

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Having given up on the Golden Dawn flavored ceremonialism of Penczak’s High Temple altogether, I’ve also rearranged my altar surface just a little.  One more it reflects my utter disinterest in maintaining the traditional elemental quarters over working with the space I actually have.  The offering bowl is a new addition, reflecting how integral a part of my practice that’s becoming; to the left you can see my box-of-active-sigils, and catch a peak of the Jupiter talisman on the shelf above it.

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For the first time in my academic career, Beltane falls after my finals rather than before or in the midst of, so I will actually be celebrating on Tuesday night.  For those who will be doing the “weekend before” celebration, however, I wanted to share a tradition Aradia and I started last year and which I will be continuing with this year: “Fuck You Beltane”.

I have traditionally used Samhain/my birthday to mark my personal “New Year”, but as a full-time student … well, post-finals celebrations of Beltane is really much more of a stopping point.  And while I’m not hip-deep in shit like I was this time last year, but there’s still a lot of lingering angst and madness that I’d like to be rid of before I start the next cycle of my magical year.

So here’s a ritual suggestion for those of you who, like me, are in need of a bit of a purge.  Get yourself some whole cloves and a mortar and pestle.  Build a bonfire.  Pound the clove to powder, chanting the names of those people/things you wished to be purged of, and throw the dust into the fire yelling “Fuck you (whoever/whatever)!”  Simple, but cathartic and effective.

Then drink.  And dance.  And celebrate the other kind of fucking, if that’s your speed.  (Y’all know it’s mine.)

[Edited for idiot typos.]

Dedication

Sometimes you have to need to provide context before you can tell a story.  Sometimes, it’s best to tell a story first and dig into the context afterward.  This is the story of how I came to perform my re-Dedication as a part of my Beltane festivities in 2009 … I’ll get to the context in a little bit.

It was my second Beltane after my failed life in St. Louis, the first with Aradia.  It may almost go without saying tat we were at Camp Gaea, with my massive tent set up in Dava Wood.  I had big plans for the weekend, aimed at jump-starting my magical career* in preparation for the re-Dedication I intended to perform at some point over the summer, and we were partying with the KU Cauldron.  It’s tempting to break this into three different stories which coincidentally took place over the course of a single evening, but … I’m not so sure that they’re unrelated.

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