A Personal Manifesto of Sacred Sexuality (v1.0)

scan0001

FIRST PRINCIPLES

I cannot speak for anyone but myself.(This is part of what I mean when I talk about feminist witchcraft.) Your mileage may vary.

This manifesto is a work in progress.I have practiced this lifestyle for years, but I have never attempted to articulate these positions before. Revision will inevitably be needed, even just to fully account for the experiences I have already had. As I continue to live a strange and interesting life, I will acquire new perspectives that will transform the ideas of which this document is a reflection – perhaps radically.

Pleasure, in and of itself, is not shameful or even neutral: it is an inherent good.Does this mean that no harm can come from pursuing pleasure? Of course not. What it does mean is that abstinence from pleasure is, at best, morally neutral, and that the condemnation of pleasure is fundamentally immoral.

Healthy sexual relationships are founded on a model of enthusiastic consent (1). Not just “okay, whatever”, but “fuck yes, do me now”. “I like it when you touch me this way.” “No, put your hand there.” That said: I have a very liberal definition of sex. It is entirely possible that some people on my “List” might be surprised to find themselves there, as they do not consider what we did to be “sex”. That’s fine: it’s not my place to define other people’s experiences for them, but neither is it their place to define mine. We were there, good times were had. I have no interest in legalistic definitions of what counts and what doesn’t. This ambiguity makes the principle of enthusiastic consent even more critical: one does not simply agree to “sex”, and thereby agree to whatever happens thereafter. Communication, then, is also absolutely essential. What “counts” as sex is irrelevant if everyone involved is excited about what they’re doing. Being certain that everyone is not just “consenting” but “enthusiastic” requires communication: honest, explicit, and even graphic discussions of what you like, what you want, what you don’t want to do right now, and what you will never, ever do. Don’t like the sound of that? Piss off: go back to masturbating in the closet with the lights out. If you’re not mature or confident enough to talk about it, you’re not ready to do it.

Communication and enthusiastic consent—and, by extension, good sex—are founded on respect. It is impossible to respect either yourself or your partner “in the morning” if you did not respect both yourself and your partner when you began.

WHAT IS SACRED?

Sacred things are those things which have been touched by the divine. Those things which bring us closer to the divine. Those things which help us realize and understand and manifest the divine.

Which, of course, begs the question: “What is the Divine?”

As a witch and an animist, I believe that the divine is inherent and immanent in all things. The divine is that which exists between the warp and the woof of reality—the very space between the twisted fibers of the threads. Divinity manifests in mortals and in gods, in that which is animate and that which is other. But while the divine is omnipresent, it is not readily apparent. The toil of daily life hides it even from those few whose eyes are not veiled. Although the language I use to describe it is often different, in practical terms this looks a lot like pantheism.

Thus, we must seek the divine through the medium of the sacred: rites and spaces, rituals and tools. We practice ways of life which cultivate a recognition of the divine so that we are awake and watchingfor those moments when the veil parts and the divine is revealed.

This is religion.  This is worship.  This is meditation.  This is the Great Work.

You are the serpent that bites its tail.

WHAT IS SEX?

Sex is that which arouses and and fulfills. Sex is the consummation of desire—by oneself or with another. Sex is mutual and consensual. It is more than “just” kissing, but doesn’t have to end in orgasm. Sex—done right—is adoration, even when it doesn’t look that way to people who aren’t involved.

If you ever have to ask, “was that sex?”, the answer is probably yes. Oral sex. Cyber sex. Anal sex. Fucking. Sucking. Licking. Touching. Teasing. PiV. Pegging. Tribadism. Silk feathers and rose petals. Leather corsets and vinyl pants.  Whips, and chains. In the road. On the roof. In the woods. Even in bed, just for the sake of variety.

With two or three or four or more.  By yourself.  With a stranger. With a friend, or even a spouse.

Making love. Sexual intercourse.

Whatever your style is. Whatever you want to call it.

WHAT IS SACRED SEX?

Sacred sex begins with the recognition of the divine spark within oneself and within all others, and the recognition that while that spark may be easier to perceive in some individuals, each and every one of us share the same potential. We are all Gods.  We are all Goddesses.

Sacred sex proceeds with the recognition that the body is not just a vehicle, or even a vessel for or temple to the divine (though it is these things, too): it is, itself, part of the immanent and omnipresent divinity.  As such, it must be honored and maintained: by proper feeding and exercise, by cleansing and purification—yes, occasionally even by austerities—and by libations and festivities.  By pleasure.

In a solitary practice, sacred sex serves to unite the divinities of the self—the soul, the flesh, and the divine spark in each that unites the individual with the rest of creation—through the medium of pleasure. By honoring that spark, the inner flame of divinity is stoked and grows brighter.

With partners, sacred sex serves the same purposes and more. Recognizing the spark of divinity in another, devoting ourselves for the duration of the act(s) to stoking the divine flame(s) of our partner(s), we open ourselves to the experience of true unity. Unity with our partner(s) individually and with Creation as a whole. This does not mean pretending that you or your partner are a particular divinity—Apollon or Aphrodite—but recognizing yourself and your partners for the divinities you already are.

Sacred sex, at least for the duration of the act, breaks down the illusory barriers between self and other, between mortal and divine. Sacred sex teaches us that the mortal, material world is not, and cannot be, “profane”; that “profanity”, if it even exists, comes from degradingthe mortal world and its denizens.

Done right, all sex is sacred.

Done right, sacred sex does not leave the practitioner wasted or reduced. Spent, perhaps—as one feels at the end of any vigorous exercise, or powerful ritual—but revitalized, glowing, and more whole.

But this is all too theoretical. “O Satyr,” you ask me (probably more than half sarcastically), “how does one go about all this?” (Or perhaps you’re not being sarcastic. Perhaps we’re sitting at the bar or by the bonfire, and you’re hoping for a personal demonstration: please, make sure I can tell the difference.)

The path is yours to find, but I started with magical healing massage.  Massage is an excellent metaphor for sex, anyway: explicitly negotiated boundaries of skin and touch and oil and pleasure.  (Obviously this is much less true in a professional setting.)  I reached into the Earth for power, and poured my aura into the shoulders under my hands—transmuting pain through warmth of touch, kneading, and Light.  With sex it’s the same, except I use my whole body and it comes more naturally.  And, yes, if your partner is not giving equally, it can be just as exhausting as you imagine.  It’s worth it though.  I promise.

SACRED SEX AND RITUAL SEX AND SEX MAGIC

One of the interesting things about the taboos surrounding both sex and magic is how similarly they function. The subjects of sex and the occult are so toxic to large stretches of our society that even asking the most academic questions about them is seen as suspect. At the same time, there is an assumption that any soul who strays off the approved path will throw themselves whole-heartedly into the practice of either or both. We cannot provide sex education for our children: that might lead them to having sex (Ugh … folks? They’re gonna fuck anyway. Hormonal minds will find a way.) or figuring out that they’re queer. We cannot allow our children to play Dungeons and Dragons or read Harry Potter, lest they succumb to the inevitable temptation of the occult. (Sorry, y’all. Some folks can’t ever be trained not to see the fairies.)  Thus, discussions of sacred sex seem inevitably tied to discussions of sex magic: one leads to the other. It makes sense in a certain light. Both subjects are often deeply taboo. So, too, ritual sex.

Let us take a moment to define them, as I understand them at least, relative to one another.

Sacred sex, as described above, is the pursuit of the divine within oneself, one’s lovers, and the world as a whole, through the act of making love.

Ritual sex is the incorporation of sex into formal religious ritual. Historically, there is the well-known (and possibly mythical) hieros gamosof the kings of Sumer to the Goddess Ishtar through her priestesses. In the modern world, of course, we have the Wiccan Great Rite (which may or may not be as mythic as the first).

Sex magic is the use of sexual arousal and/or the act of sex as an engine for achieving magical effect. I am most familiar with this in terms of Chaos Magic and charging sigils, though I am aware of other systems such as that of Donald Michael Kraig and Donald Tyson, and am in the process of learning about them. I am led to understand that there are sexual elements to many other traditions, as well.

Beyond this, I can speak very little to these subjects. While I have had partners who were theoretically interested in ritual sex, it never quite happened, and I don’t know enough about sex magic to even ask someone to try it with me.

 

1—The link provided was the best 101 resource I could find.  Here are a couple more relevant links.

My Name Is A Heart Encircled By A Serpent

I have now performed the rite of the Stele of Jeu the Hieroglyphist three times as a part of my lunar rites.  It has been, without question, one of the most powerful magical operations I have ever performed.

The first time, at the last Dark Moon, the sheer power of it got me so high that I forgot to take down my circle; I had strange visions and nightmares that night, and when I did to Yoga the next day, I walked out feeling like a god.

The second time, at the Full Moon, was less dramatic; I was high, but not disorientingly so, and I could feel the magic moving out into my Web of Influence.  Although there may have been other factors—stress from too heavy a course-load, conflicts with a professor, and a sorting out some issues with my lover, among other things—I hardly got one good night of rest out of three for the next two weeks.  My patience with any sort of bullshit vanished altogether, and my temper was entirely out of control.  These symptoms faded over the early-semester break, but did not disappear entirely until the next Dark Moon, when I performed the ritual again.

The third time, again at the Dark of the Moon, was less dramatic still.  I think I need to linger more over the voces magicae and Barbarous Words.  My patience has returned, some, and my temper faded; more importantly, though, my will to act has been charged.

Though I feel that the results so far have been extremely positive—excepting the insomnia, which may or may not be related—I am still struggling to understand the precise affects of the ritual.  Jack Faust argues—and convincingly—that it is somehow related to the ἀγαθός δαίμων (agathos daimon).  Crowley’s Liber Semekh was derived from a less complete version of this ritual, known as the London Papyrus 46(1), thus linking it to the tradition of modern Western Ceremonial Magic and the pursuit of Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel.

The ritual, which reads as an exorcism of sorts—“…deliver him, ____, from the daimon which restrains him…”(2)—is thick with interesting syncretism.  The magician identifies himself as Moses, and with the line of the prophets of Israel.  He also identifies himself a the “Messenger of the Pharaoh Osoronnophris (a cult-name for Osiris).  Osoronnophris and IAO (a Graeco-Egyptian name for YHVH) are both evoked (or perhaps invoked), and the ritual culminates with a particularly interesting and graphic image and imperative: “My name is a heart encircled by a serpent, come forth and follow.”(3)

Now, bear with me a moment as I seem to change subjects:

Over the last several weeks, I have also been using a variation of DuQuette’s Ganesha banishing/invocation to start my day and to open my rites.  Not feeling sufficient personal resonance with Ganesha, however, I have substituted a deity that I can subsume myself in utterly: Eros the Elder.  When I perform this banishing/invocation, it gets me high.  Really, really high, actually.  And the sensation is interestingly similar to what I’ve felt while performing the rite of the Stele of Jeu.  And, if you didn’t follow that link I just gave you, you missed this image:

image

A heart encircled by a serpent, perhaps?

Now, before anyone jumps me: I’m not drawing any conclusions.  Maybe I just don’t have enough experience invoking transcendent powers to tell them apart in the heat of the moment.  (The temptation to make a sexual analogy here is almost overwhelming.)  But it’s interesting, and I’d love to hear thoughts from anyone else who’s tried either ritual.

Regardless, things in my life are already starting to move around.  I can’t see the effects, yet, but I can feel them.  Temper, patience, and will to act as noted above.  More people going out of their way to get my attention—both people I already knew and people I’ve never even seen, let alone spoken to.  And some really, really strange and interesting things are starting to happen to my aura, which deserve a post all their own.

Further details as they come.


1—As described by Hymanaeus Beta in his foreword and footnotes to the Illustrated Second Edition of The Goetia: The Lesser Key of Solomon the King. Weiser: York Beach Main (1995).

2—Betz, Hans Dieter.  The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation: Including the Demotic Spells.  Chicago: University of Chicago Press (1986) PGM V.124-5.

3—Ibid. 155-6

NY, NY: Help? What? I … Er… Fuck

Ask for help?  What?  I don’t need help.  I help other people.  It’s what I do, right?  I’m an endless font of support and wisdom.  Or, you know, funny stories.  Or whiskey.  Or mead.  Whatever the occasion calls for.  I’m your monster.  Er … man.  Goat.  Baphomet.  Or something.

I’m not just bad at asking for help: I’m not even very good at taking it when it’s offered.

Part of my problem right now, of course, is that there’s not really anything going on that people can help me with.  I’m a student.  No one can really help me with the work.  In terms of my personal history, I’ve actually done a pretty good job of asking for help, lately.

When it came to performing the Stele of Jeu, I turned to Jack Faust for advice on sources and those potential problems which somehow never seem to get written down.  Without his generous councelling, those experiments would almost certainly not be going as well as they are.

After wresting with the Registrar for a couple weeks getting my transfer status sorted out a little better, I spent this afternoon talking with my academic advisor, working on my three-year plan.  I really want to spend time abroad, but as a transfer student I don’t have quite as much time for that sort of thing, and the London program doesn’t fit as nicely into my academic requirements as I might like.  Also, it’s never too soon to start planning for my Senior Capstone.

I’ve been employing time-management techniques I learned from Aradia during out time together, and that’s been helping me get caught up..  I’ve been begging my local friends for assistance in the form of patience while I climb out of the hole I’ve dug for myself, falling behind in my course work.  The folks at the local pagan store have been helping me out by providing me a venue to make a little cash on the side, teaching mead-making workshops—even when I only break even, like this weekend, I at least get a concrete reminder that I am a) competent at a lot of things; and, b) already a decent teacher.

Sannafrid—and all my friends, but her in particular—has been doing her best to keep me sane, but that’s a Herculean task at the best of times.  I am not a fun person to be around when I’m stressed out.  Just ask anyone who knew me in St.Louis.  Especially the ones who don’t talk to me anymore.

So we come full circle.  I’m not very good at asking for help, and I’m pretty damn graceless when it comes to taking it as offered.  I’ve been doing better, lately, but unfortunately my problems are largely things that no one can help me with.

Except the gods.  But in the highly ritualized headspace created by my ceremonial studies, I’m not sure how to ask them for help.  I’m still working on phrasing sigils and enchantments.  Any of you folks out there have suggestions for time-management magic?  Charming the shit out of obnoxious professors?  Battering the bureaucracy of the Registrar’s office into submission? Oh, hey.  There’s me being good: asking for help some more.

And fuck it: I’m a witch, I could just try asking nicely; start with some devotional images as a bribe.  (And, fuck, I should probably try out some of my own damn self-care rituals while I’m at it.)

Tradition, Technique, Appropriation, and Exploration Part 2/2

The last post was already in the works when when Gordon, Jason, Jow, and RO began their discussion of the simplicity, complexity, and relative eclecticism of their practices.  I seriously sympathize.  If you’ve read my previous post, I imagine you can see why: eclectic Wicca, years of unverifiable personal gnosis (both my own and that of those I’ve worked with), Hellenic gods, neo-shamanic spirit-journeys, Chaos- and Hermetic-inspired sigils, masks and hammers and things no one else has ever thought to do with a circle.

As I said before: I’ve spent years searching for a tradition.  I’ve played with Cunningham and Conway, dabbled with Crowley, Carrol and Kraig, mocked Lady Sheba and Silver Ravenwolf alike.  I am a student of Tarot and astrology.  I’ve experimented with candle magic and sorcery and astral projection, with auric healing and magically enhanced massage.  I’ve tuned myself to the elements and grounded into the astral plane – invoked the cosmic forces of the quarters and cast spells with nothing but the power of my own aura.  I have gone on spirit journeys and hung out with gods and spirits.  No one tradition I’ve found covers half these things, let alone all of them.  So, while the search continues, I’ve been working on my own: a systematic breakdown of the things I’ve done (as best as I can with my substandard journals), and maps of the things I want to do in the future.  I doubt anyone will ever want to join, but it will be perfect for me. And who knows, maybe I’ll find the perfect apprentice some day.

And yet … I still wax poetic, sometimes, about Traditions and Orders.  I share that strange jealousy for those who can name their path and have it recognized.  Envy for those who’ve found a teacher or a system that they can adopt in toto – even if they still need to look outside that system for new techniques to fill its inadequacies, addendums and appendices to a finite and discrete system.

I’m white, (apparently) cisgendered, and from a (lower) middle class family.  The list of spiritual traditions that I have any “legitimate” claim to are relatively few.  Unfortunately, none of them are to my taste.  Which leaves me either blazing trails in a dark and moonless wilderness or seeking refuge in other spiritual lands … and trying to avoid the ones where the locals would just as soon I curled up and died.  Or, as always, all of the above.

Does it sound a little like I’d like someone to do the hard work for me?  Yeah, it’s a little bit like that: I envy the people who can just accept a prefab structure.  For whom any of the existing systems have meaning.  Satyrs are not, by nature, hard workers: we like to drink and dance and fuck (nymphs, eachother, mortals, deities … I deal exclusively with enthusiastically consenting humanoids of legal age, myself, but other satyrs aren’t so picky).  So, yeah, I wish I could take a lazy rout.

But I can’t.

So I’m ecclectic.  I look to the past and to the modern Western Hermetic and Witchcraft traditions for inspiration.  I learn techniques from anyone who is wiling to share – god or mortal – and try to make sure all my sources are ethically sound.  Still … inevitably … I’m a transgressor of spiritual boundaries even as I am of social ones.  I’m bisexual.  Although I’m male-bodied and I present (mostly) as masculine, I actually identify as “fuck you and your stupid gender dichotomy”.  I am a hedonist and an intellectual in a society that simultaneously condemns both pursuits and sees them as inherently incompatible.  I am a historian in a religion that is (understandably) skeptical of mainstream historiography (a post of its own for another day), and which in its attempts to acquire popular and legal credibility is increasingly absorbing the overculture’s anti-intellectualism.

I am a queer, hedonist, shamanic witch.  The party’s at my place, and we can talk Plato in the morning … maybe hung over, maybe still smashed.

Tradition, Technique, Appropriation, and Exploration Part 1/2

I am nothing if not eclectic.  My sacred calendar follows the Eight Sabbats of Wicca, even though those dates have nothing to do with the actual seasons in which I live.  My ritual construction is firmly rooted in the pseudo-Gardnerian Outer Court Witchcraft of the sixties and seventies – Uncle Bucky’s Big Blue Book, Ed Fitch’s Book of Shadows – and certain modern plays on those themes.  I have studied the “core” shamanism of Michael Harner and Gail Wood (to name two), and learned tech at festival workshops and from friends whose linages are dubious at best.  I am now studying the Western Hermetic tradition, and though I will not adopt it in whole, I will certainly take what’s useful to me.  I’m increasingly fascinated by Chaos Magic (only ten years late to that trend, right?), but can’t quite swallow the entire open-source, paradigm-hat-trading irreverence to tradition it seems to require.  Dionysos and Rhea were present at my initiation, and I have spoken to Hephaistos and Apollon and to gods who still haven’t given me their names.

For fifteen years, now, I have searched for a tradition – one that will have me, or even one that I want to have me.  Initiatory covens are few and far between here in the Midwest, and I haven’t ever gotten invited to their Outer Court parties (though, looking back, I might have totally missed the subtext of an invitation once or twice).  I’m  a white USian, descended from the English on one side and the Germans (and Swedes) on the other.

But the gods who are mine by right of blood have never expressed any interest in me (being ogled by Freya’s handmaidens after invoking them at a wedding so totally doesn’t count) … nor I them, to be fair.  When I must defend my devotion to Hellenic gods – a rare event, but it happens – I cite the fact that my civilization is descended from theirs, even if my family is not.

In general, I give little credence to those to whom I might need to defend my eclectic neo-Wiccan practice.  I’ve never had access to sealed rites, so I can’t possibly have stolen them, and I think the effectiveness of my rituals says all that needs to be said about their validity.  Are some eclectics idiots?  Yes.  Do I struggle with the dissonance between Wiccan praxis and my queer feminist spirituality?  Frequently: the whole Goddess-God thing fucks with me a lot.  Do I have trouble fitting sacrifice to and propitiation of my patron and matron dieties into the Wiccan frame?  Absolutely.

The biggest problems start when we get into my shamanic work, which is where Gordon’s post on ethical syncretism comes in.  Simply put, there’s a lot of problems with my pasty white ass practicing anything that I could call “shamanism”.  There are the problems with the word itself: cribbed and Anglicized from a group of Siberian nomads.  There’s the whole scholarly debate on whether or not it’s even a thing, on whether or not the category works in the real world or if it’s just a way for anthropologists to lump together things that aren’t actually the same (which is a debate to lengthy and complicated for me to point you to any one or two sources).  And then there’s the part where most of the people who practice things we call shamanism don’t like us (that is, ignorant white people) stealing their rituals.

I strive to keep to what’s called “core shamanism” – the magical and psychosomatic techniques that transcend culture – but even that is iffy.  Even if shamanism is/was the universal root of all religious experience and expression, my culture left it behind so long ago that you can’t see anything but the roughest outline of its memory on the oldest rites we have.  I strive to re-contextualize it all, to provide the cultural and spiritual meaning in which all effective magic is rooted.  I disdain ayahuasca, datura, and peyote as entheogens in favor of flying “potions” such as absinthe and marijuana – drugs that, to the best of my knowledge, no subaltern group has staked out as their own, exclusive, spiritual tool.  I claim no titles, use no names.  The fact is that a certain rhythm of drum-beet can drive the human brain into places it is much, much harder to reach otherwise.

There are those who would argue that it is wrong of me to call upon the gods of Hellas using any rites but their own.  That my refusal to participate in reconstructionism – study it though I may, as a Classicist and an historian – ought bar me from calling upon the Olympians.  In my particular case, there are fewer who would argue that lack of blood-ties forbids me – Hellenistikos are less prone to that than, say, Asatruar – but it is still an issue.  Many of the most legitimate heirs are tied to the Greek Orthodox Church and disdain attempts to resurrect their old gods – you know I’m not going to listen to them.

Still, however carefully distanced I keep myself from the worst forms of cultural appropriation, I don’t know that I can actually divorce myself from the that legacy.  And yet … I cannot help but persist.  It is through this madly syncretic set of rituals and techniques that I have had my most profound spiritual experiences.  It was in a circle cast by Wiccan rite, using Harner’s shamanic techniques, that I entered the spirit realms in preparation for my initiation, and descended until I was greeted by Briareos*, Dionysos and Rhea.

The gods are the final arbiters of whether or not our rites are acceptable.  So why can’t I stop worrying so much about this?


*I don’t actually know that it was Briareos.  Possibly one of his brothers.  Regardless: he did me a favor once, and I needed to pay him before I could descend further.

A Sacrifice Is Something You Value

I was home in-between classes earlier this week.  I was still thinking on the issue of what sort of daily devotions to offer my gods while conjuring the Archangels every morning in the LBRP.

I made myself a pot of coffee.  (Mmmmmm … French press.)  My Kouros and Cycladic figures demanded a taste.

“Coffee?”  I asked them.  “Really?”

Oh, yeah.  They wanted coffee.  (As Aradia pointed out to me somewhat after the fact, “Well, it’s precious too you, isn’t it?”  Mmm, my precious.  Yes, yes it is.)

Two hours after pouring that caffeinated libation, I got an email announcing that the paper I was stressing out about would not be due for another four days.  I was free to devote the whole of my attention my spiritual obligations.

But I now know to pour a libation* of coffee to my Kouros and Cycladic figures every time I spend the morning at home and actually make a pot.  Perhaps for people who have been working with gods longer (or more intimately) than I have, this sort of thing  might come as less of a surprise.  Or maybe not.


* σπενδω – transliterated as ”spendo” – “I pour a libation” my new favorite verb.

The Lesser Banishing Ritual of Not Paying Enough Attention to Your Patrons

This morning began with my second performance of the Lesser Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram. The performance was less smooth, somehow, than yesterday’s – I kept almost forgetting small steps, like the Sign of Silence or the line connecting one completed pentagram to the one I was about to start – but no less effective. Actually more so, as I could feel the Archangels start to respond.

More to the point, I could feel the gods on my altar start to get jealous. They want daily attention, too. 

Which is in no way an unreasonable request.

I apologized to them when I was done, did my daily tarot at the altar, and lit them a stick of incense because that was the best sacrifice I had on hand.  And now I have an interesting dilema on my hands: how to perform daily devotionals to gods who haven’t quite gotten around to telling me what they want from me.

Now, this problem does not come entirely from the realms of things unforseen.  As a modern neoPagan, I had some concerns about invoking the Archangels of the God of Abraham in front of the same altar where I worship Dionysos, Hephaistos, Raea, and the Nameless; more to the point, as someone who’s been shit on by the world made by the worshipers of the God of Abraham, I have some strange reluctance and insecurities related to anything that might smack of that worship, and a closeted fear that my gods might not be able to help me if I piss that one off and he decides to shit on me.  Now, as Jack Faust rightly points out – albeit in a somewhat problematic attack on Star Foster, but what can you really say to someone who admits outright to being a condescending ass? – my paleoPagan predecessors didn’t see things that way.

My gods don’t give a flying fuck that I’m invoking Archangels, per se.  They couldn’t have cared less about the last month I spent daily performing the Quabalistic Cross, except perhaps liking that it made my offerings extra tasty/potent.  They also don’t care that, once I’ve gotten a handle on what I’m supposed to be doing, I might well replace those Archangels with them. 

They care that I invoked four Archangels into the Sunrise Temple two mornings in a row, and didn’t make them offerings of equal or greater value.  Which, again, is totally fair.

The problem lies in that the (neo)Pagan sources I have the easiest access to are lazy hippies who seem to see daily devotion as patriarchal oppression.  Unfortunately, I’m way too early in my studies of the Classics to have much knowledge of what ancient cultus practice entailed (not that I have any intention of reproducing it, but it’s damn good place to look for inspiration).  Now, I can – and will – turn to my copy of the Homeric Hymns and see what clues those can provide me.  I can – and, again, will – make underworld journeys to see if they’ll actually tell me what they’d like.  Until those tactics pan out, however, I’m stuck with good, old fashioned, incesne-and-candles-and-prayer ass-kissing.

So mote it be.  @_@

August Dark Moon Esbat

Two weeks ago, Aradia and my mother helped me lay the foundations of my house-wards.  Since then, though, my dreams have been more troubled than my waking life, alone, can account for.  I’m accustomed to living in a tightly Warded space, and although the neighborhood is quiet … it’s not that quiet.  Besides, I’ve been performing the Qabalistic cross daily for the entire interim: I was ready for a badass ritual, and I needed to prepare the space for rituals to come.

I began with a shower – a ritual cleansing that I often forgo.  I cleansed the space with a blend of sage, lavender, and kava – not my usual mix, but it was what I had on hand.  I called up an elemental circle, asking the powers, creatures, and beings of the quarters to guard my space so long as I abide there.  I charged a bottle of Dark Moon water to mix with my flying potion, and for whatever other uses I can find in the next month.  I made sacrifices to my household gods and spirits – mead for Dionysos and for the Nameless Ones; absinthe for the Nameless Ones, my journey-mask, and Tsu. 

Drawing on the theories of Frater Barrabbas, I opened a vortex within my initial circle and raised a cone of power as well.  With that power I turned to my oldest, but in some ways best, tricks: my Pentagram Ward, a structure upon which I will build more sophisticated wards and protection spells.  My power raised and protections in place, I could do what I’ve been putting off to long.  Doning my mask and downing my flying potion, I returned to the Underworld.

The world tree took me down to my Inner Temple, where Tsu, one of the spirits I work, with was waiting.  She pointed me toward a portal, and I followed.  Interestingly, the portal led first to campus, where I found another portal that led me into a void where I found the Leopard of Dionysos.  I was relieved to see her – I’ve been lax in my practice for a while, and I was afraid my allies had deserted me – but she reassured me that he was unconcerned by my absence; Rhea, on the other hand, was waiting for me.

I descended to a grassy plain I’d seen before, and went deeper into the Underworld via the Temple of Rhea I had seen before, during my initiation.  Dionysos appeared briefly – a translucent image, but still a presence – and I descended further.  I found the Magna Mater in a vast cavern, gargantuan and reclining as before.  I abased myself and apologized for not delivering Pasiphae to her before I left Kansas City.  A realization came to me suddenly: “This is all for my benefit, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she conceded, and pointed me to a tunnel leading down.

That tunnel, in turn, led to oceanic depths I had encountered before, most recently while exploring the Elemental Realm of Water.  It occurred to me that perhaps the Power I had encountered here had not been knocking me around for her own amusement, but that perhaps there had been a purpose.  I swam in the direction she had thrown me and discovered a passage leading up.

That passage led me to more familiar territories, the caverns beneath a ziggurat I had “discovered” in my earliest spirit-journeys.  Reaching light at the top of the zigurat, I encountered a spirit I had almost forgotten – a winged stone serpent placed atop that temple, whose nature I have never determined.  After a brief, silent communion with him, I was returned to the heart of my Inner Temple.

I concluded my journey with a brief but fruitful conversation with Tsu, and returned to my body to put a lid on the vortex and close the circles.

She Below

As I ruminate on the subject, I realize that my first contact with the divine came well before the events that make better stories.  I can’t actually find the event in my journals, so I am uncertain as to the exact date.  I know it was the Spring Semester of 2008 or 2009.  It was a beautiful day: the sun was shining, the grass was green, and I was meditating on the lawn at Maple Woods Community College – trying to balance myself between Earth and Sky.  I felt something move beneath me: female, more spiritually massive than anything I had ever encountered before, and waiting for me.  I didn’t fall over, but it was a near thing. 

All my life, I have sworn that I would honor any divinity that deigned to seek me out, and I will confess that I was somewhat concerned as to how I might be held to that oath.  I felt that presence several times – always patient, always waiting, inscrutable and distant beyond my ability to comprehend or express – before the definitive encounter in November of 2009.

That encounter came at a workshop Aradia and I attended at the local New Age bookstore.  A lecture on Qabalistic thought and the 10 Sephiroth concluded with a guided meditation to the Sphere of Malkuth.  Oddly, this involved first ascending to Yesod before descending back to Malkuth.  Perhaps this is simply the best way to do things – either in general, or in the case of an open workshop where many are unfamiliar with the Qabala.  Moreover, it has been suggested to me by a Chirotus that there is a second Tree of Life, inverted below the first, and that I somehow descended to that lower Malkuth.  I wouldn’t know: my ignorance of High Ceremonial Magic is vast. 

Ultimately, the mechanics of the experience are a little bit beside the point.  I descended to the underworld, where I was led to a sacred grove and a pillar of light.  I rode the pillar of light up, then down.  And down.  And down.  And someone was waiting for me. 

A gigantic queen reclined before me, gloriously nude except for her crown, flanked by lions.  I had done some research in the preceding year, regarding goddesses of the deeper earth: I knew the iconography.  Even had I not, her name echoed in my mind.  Rhea.

I do not know how to describe our exchange, precisely.  My notes record that I petitioned for her patronage*, but it would be as accurate to say that she claimed me for her own.  Either way, a bond was forged – my first formal bond, though I had served Dionysos and Hephaestos in word and deed for years.  Then she sent me on my way, long before the others were done with their journeys.

Since then, she has made frequent appearances in my explorations of the Underworld.  When I journeyed in preparation for my initiation, it was to her temples that I was led.  Later, she instructed me to inform an Earth-worshiping friend – a monist, actually, who has expressed discomfort distinguishing individual deities – that she was waiting and that it is to be my task to introduce them. 

Despite all this, I have not yet succeeded in incorporating her into my ritual practice.  I need to find or make an idol, sooner rather than later.  Fortunately, the Magna Mater is patient beyond mortal comprehension.

*”Matron” might be more literally correct, but that word means something else in English.

Gods of Earth and Sky – First Contacts

I want to write about my experiences with Dionysos and meadmaking.  Which of course bring to mind my experiences with jewelry and Hephaestos, and with the upperworld journey that deposited me at the feet of Apollo – to our mutual surprise.  I want to write about my experiments with my Kouros and Cycladic figures, and my attempts to reconcile my fundamental queerness with the archetypal Divine Masculine and Feminine.  But, because I’m crazy, I cannot tell these stories out of order.  In order to tell these stories I must first tell about the first times I felt the direct hand of the divine.

My first direct, personal contact was with a god I have yet to put a name to, in Thoth’s Grove at Camp Gaea, on Beltane of 2009.  There was a lot going on that night, apparitions the like of which I had never seen.  But that touch in that grove … that was about me.  I performed my dedication that night at his behest, utterly abandoning the ritual I had been planning and simply letting go.

The next direct contact was late November of the same year: a Tree of Life meditation at a public workshop led me further down than it was intended to, into the den of the Magna Mater.  She had been waiting for me.

Each of these deserves a full post of its own, and will get one. But it’s interesting to sit here for a moment, to look back through my journals, and recall – and in some ways realize for the first time – the way events in 2009 set so many changes into motion.  My dedication.  My initiation a year later.  The Name I tried to give up and the Name I took tor replace it.  The gods who have come into my life, the powers I have navigated and been transformed by.

I am no longer the person who retreated from St. Louis, let alone the person who left Lawrence for St.L in the first place.