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How Do We Talk About the Workings of a Goddess?

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How do we talk about the workings of a Goddess? Sometimes we don’t. Well, not at length anyway.

This week I’ve been in the middle of intense songwriting work, all of it very rewarding. But as I wrote on my music blog, #allofthesongs, there are times when it is valuable not to speak about what we do:

“…Being in the middle of the artistic process reminds me that there is cause to be silent sometimes. There is a real value in not revealing who you’re working with. Tell the world what the process is like, and you change the process. Reveal how you feel about it, and that feeling is no longer contained in the same way.

Containment is important. Holding onto that feeling of creative anticipation and tension, and being willing to delay the gratification that comes when you let the world know what you’re doing — a world of people who in that one instant of reading your status update or tweet cannot begin to understand the gravity of your life, the complexities of your situation, who cannot savor in the pleasures of what it is to be a living, breathing, creative person in the exact body that you inhabit — makes possible some really transformative writing.”

What is true in the creative process is also true in the transformative work done to me/through me by the Morrígan.

I recognize that this kind of language — me being affected by the work of a divine being — may come across as a kind of certainty about the gods; a clear knowing about their nature, or a tangible recognition on what or who they are.

Don’t mistake me. I am not that bold, or that foolish.

I do not know what the Morrígan is. I do know, however, that the devotional ritual at PantheaCon, the one I wrote about last week, initiated a chain of events that have led me into a greater state of embodiment, a deeper connection with my own Will, and a “no bullshit” approach to my daily encounters.

I feel more willing now to speak with conviction about my perspectives, my doubts, my desires — oh, my desires! — and all of the things that I might otherwise tuck away inside of me for fear of what power they might hold over me or over my life.

And what is happening does not feel like the introduction of recklessness into my life. It isn’t that I am out of control, or that I’m becoming completely overtaken by the parts of me that have been ignored. It is rather that the parts of me that have been hidden (either out of fear or because of ignorance) are thrusting their way forward, jutting out of me with precision and sharpness. The inside of me projects outward and shouts —

“I AM HERE! DO NOT IGNORE WHAT IS HAPPENING INSIDE OF YOU!”

This I can speak about. This is how I talk about the workings of a Goddess. I do not presume to describe Her, but rather the way that She has initiated a transformation in me.

Photo by Sarah Gould

Photo by Sarah Gould

This theism, this religiosity, is motivated by the visceral feeling of this skin, this flesh, these parts that are filled with the blood we all share. In this blood is iron — iron!! 

Do you hear me?

In our blood is iron. Within us is flowing something so firm, so strong, something so raw and ready for the forge.

“I have a warrior heart,” I wrote in a song a few weeks before Pantheacon. I had no idea at the time how much a great, Goddess Warrior would wield influence over my body and my mind.

And yet here I am. Taken by Her. Inspired into a fuller life, a more honest life. In every moment.

How do we talk about the workings of a Goddess?

With a fierceness. That’s how.

PantheaCon: Much Work to be Done

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Photo by Piermario

Photo by Piermario

It’s the last morning of the last day. I’m in my hotel room, waiting for the rest of the attendees to rise. I’m an early-morning Pagan, it seems. I’m in the minority of this minority.

Intentionally reflective blog posts can be a saccharine mess if you don’t watch yourself, so I’m choosing my words carefully. There is a temptation to speak about my experience of the Con as though it is indicative of all experiences of the Con, and that would be wrong. I could make statements that say, “PantheaCon is…” or “PantheaCon is like…”, and while that may be useful to some of my readership who has never attended this conference, it would inevitably be a little (or a lot) untrue, and completely one-sided.

The real truth of the matter is that being at Pantheacon provided me the space and opportunity to reconnect with the things that are meaningful to me. I have found myself remembering and affirming what it is about all of this messy, complicated, Pagan stuff that I love, and what it is about my messy, complicated heart that I love, too.

The heart is the only nation, we sang. Our voices lifted upward to the Morrígan, and we made an affirmation of our sovereignty. To be honest, I’m not sure I understand what sovereignty means in relationship to my own life, or how to make it so (how to do sovereignty, if you will). Twice it came up in ritual for me this weekend, and when I read John Beckett’s post on the Morrígan I saw the word repeated again.

This heart may be sovereign, but I also feel a deeper sense of my kinship to so many people after this weekend. My heart is not a nation with border patrol. My heart is a nation so big and so great that there is no need for fear of invasion. My heart/your heart/the heart is the only nation, and this truth is clearly something I need to sit with for a while. I’m considering tattooing the words on my flesh to make the reminder more permanent.

(I let out a sigh. I am acutely aware that the Con is ending for me. Even with my morning’s presentation on the Fellowship on the horizon, I can feel myself coming down from all of this. I peer into my memory of Friday, a day that is an epoch away from this moment, and all I remember was anticipation for something real; something visceral.

I was given that this weekend. No — I claimed that for myself this weekend.

It was, I suppose, an exercise of my sovereignty.)

I have a lot to unpack about PantheaCon and I’m not exactly sure when that process will begin. Rather than diving into the world of inquiries and examinations, blog posts and dialogues, I will be spending the remaining two weeks of the month immersed in music. Perhaps what has been born here will influence that process, or maybe the music making will inform my processing. I don’t know.

I do know that I feel changed again by all of this. The change is less like the overhaul that took place after last year’s PantheaCon, and more of a subtle shift; an awakening of a dormant awareness; a rekindling of a fire.

And that’s what these things are supposed to be, right? That’s the point. We gather together, and we make ourselves vulnerable enough to be changed, to be shifted, to have our awarenesses adjusted, vertebrae-like. We walk away a little taller, a little more firm in our bodies. We remember our names — all of our names — and we honor the parts of us that are, and possibly have always been, unnamed.

We honor — I honor — much as I leave this place. I honor you, those who read this blog and participate in the dialogues that take place here. I honor those who have opened their hearts up in ritual for my benefit. I honor those who inspired me to radical honesty in my life. I honor those who have listened with kindness and compassion as I sorted through the messy, complicated beauty of my innards.

And from this place of honor, this place of embodiment and sovereignty, I recognize that there is still much work to be done.

The Heart Is The Only Nation

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I have met the Morrígan.

I have stood in a circle, a shape unlike any circle I’ve stood in before, and beside my human kin, a spiritual kin sharing breath and space and smell and touch, I made contact with the Warrior inside myself.

At this moment it feels as though I have never been in this body before, nor have I ever been to a ritual before this one.

I expected something great from Thorn and her tribe, but I did not know I would be shaken so profoundly.

And I feel shaken. Shaken to the core. The hot lava core. Forge fire core. The core of something that both transcends and embodies; all at once harmonious, and resonant, and ripe with the tension of anticipation and climax.

This is not what being alive is like. This is what being alive is.

Photo by Olivier Bacquet

Photo by Olivier Bacquet

My focus has been directed toward liturgy, which I continue to believe is a valuable tool. But at this moment, charged with the energy of an army calling out to a Queen, I recognize the need for something greater than just ceremony.

Ritual and ceremony are not the same thing.

The tools we use for ritual are tools, and they are not the same thing as the juicy, bloody, fleshy, powerful potential of what ritual can be. There must be magick.

There must be.

There must be a movement of that stuff in the belly of bellies, in the gut of all guts. The words you speak are only useful if they mean something. They have to mean something. If you are going to speak — if you are going to stand before an altar and recite words to your Gods — you better say something that matters.

Liturgy is empty without heart, and as we sang at the tops of our lungs tonight —

The heart is the only nation.

A Goddess cut me deep tonight.

Cut a hole and filled it up with…

reverence…

awe…

wonder…

power…

unexpected gratitude for the force which drives me to fight, to have sex, to use this body for all it’s worth, to stand up and speak…

These are the things which flow through me right now.

There may be no one right way to have a spiritual life, but fuck if this wasn’t a right way tonight.

If I had wings, they would be those of the raven.

Pre-Pantheacon Packing Jitters

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I haven’t packed.

I have piles of things scattered around my office, and none of them are in any order.

Pantheacon starts tomorrow — tomorrow!! — and I haven’t packed.

In part, I’ve been slow to lay out all of the necessities because this trip is not just a weekend trip for me. I’ll be in San Jose for Pantheacon from Friday through Monday afternoon, attending workshops, giving a few workshops, and doing my best so write! write! write! Then, on Monday afternoon I leave for Los Angeles. I’ll be in LA until the very end of February.

So, packing for this P’Con is a little more complicated for me.

Here’s a short list of things I’m bringing:

1. Ribbons

Druid Ribbon Image

If you haven’t been to Pantheacon, you might now know about this crazy P’Con tradition. People give out ribbons. It’s a thing. People attach the ribbons to their attendee badge, and by the end of the weekend you’ll see badges with 30 ribbons on them. It’s zany, and I’m totally participating in the tradition this year with my Solitary Druid Fellowship/The Druids Are Coming combo ribbon.

2. Faithiest

BITG Book Club

Somehow in the midst of an insane Pagan conference and two weeks of songwriting (which I’ll be documenting on my music blog, #allofthesongs), I need to finish this book. I’m either going to be regimented and read a certain number of pages at a time (unlikely), or I’ll cram it one night when the fairy dust settles (probably).

Either way, this book is going to be read in the next two weeks, and we’re going to start talking about it on March 1.

Rain or shine.

I’m like the postman up in here (except on Saturdays).

3. Knitting supplies and my beret

photo 1

You can’t plan on knitting while walking without having some sort of wrist-bag, right?

Yes. I made a wrist bag.

I am a Golden Girl.

I intend to wind a few balls of yarn to take with me on the trip with the intention of knitting some prayer squares. Prayer squares are smaller versions of prayer shawls or prayer cloths. I recently made a prayer cloth for my grandmother, who’s sister is in hospice. It was meant to help remind her that she is loved, and to provide her with comfort during this challenging time.

But you can make them for anything. You can knit up a little square for any reason — to encourage someone, to give someone strength, to inspire them to creativity — bless it, and then give it as a gift.

I’m hoping to finish a few while I’m traveling, and I’m thinking about inviting the Fellowship to join in some sort of creative work around the creation of prayer squares. That’d be cool, right?

Presentation Announcement 3

This beret is a new edition to the wardrobe, and I’ll be sporting it throughout the conference. I love how it turned out, and so did one reader of Bishop In The Grove. He’s commissioned me to make one for him! It’s my first paid knitting gig!

(And do you like the SDF patch? I had a local embroidery artist make that up for me so that I could represent the solitaries of the Fellowship!)

There will likely be a lot more on my packing list before the day is out, but this is a start. I will do my best to blog here throughout the next few weeks, but if this site goes a little silent please don’t worry. Check #allofthesongs or follow my happenings on my Facebook profile or Matt Morris page. I’ll be around and busy! busy! busy!

My love to you all!

Teo

Want To Make The Gods Laugh?

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Make a plan, the gods say.

I dare you.

Photo by Fuschia Foot, on Flickr

Ok, ready? You’re me:

You put on your denim kilt, blue button up shirt, and patchwork hat. Your beard is tidy and trim, and your socks pulled up. You load up the car with your husband, a tupperware container of crayons, and a bag of chocolates.

Drive.

After a half hour, you’re at a little Unitarian Universalist church near the foothills.

You unload, begin to arrange chairs in a big, circular meeting room, and you wait. When you can’t wait any longer, you step outside. If you’re going to be nervous, you might as well do so in private.

While outside, you write down your plan (that one I dared you to make) another couple times to make sure you remember it. Your plan isn’t a script; it’s an outline. The plan involves no more than 5 steps, and now you’re beginning to wonder if you can make 5 steps stretch into an hour and a half.

That damn cricket won’t stop chirping.

Your husband comes out, gives you a pep-talk, and you realize you’ve got to go to the bathroom. Of course you do.

You make a dash for the john, then check your watch.

It’s time.

The workshop begins when you step in front of the group. It isn’t ceremonious. You’ve chosen not to be introduced. The first thing you do is invite the group of grownups to make abstract representations of themselves using crayons and glitter paint.

Right way they’re giggling, and drawing, and a couple look very serious about their coloring.

You’re coloring, too. You’re a big tree.

Stragglers come in. (Not according to plan.) You catch them up to speed and check your watch.

You tell everyone to write a word — one word — on their page which represents themselves.

Brows furrow, and people write.

More stragglers enter.

You collect the papers, and start to wonder if everyone thinks you’re crazy.

Once collected, you redistribute the artwork in a different order so that everyone has someone else’s drawing.

Then, introductions. You ask everyone to introduce themselves by describing the picture in front of them. You show them,

“I am a swirly, complicated movement of energy, that is both soft on the edges and pointy in some spots.”

You then tell everyone how creativity is a part of your life, and you invite everyone to do the same.

It’s about that time you realize how much you’re sweating.

It’s also around this time that you realize that people are saying some really interesting things. They’re bringing to the space ideas and concerns that you didn’t anticipate. They’re lighting up the room in ways that had nothing to do with your plan.

It gets back to you, and you freeze for a second.

Plan…plan…what was that damn plan…

You stumble through a story about a Druid festival, and then you invite people to sing.

Then something changes.

You think to yourself,

Singing. Music. That’s right. That’s what I do. That’s what this is about.

Then, you chuck the plan. You start to talk from your heart. When you do, you remember that the whole point of the night was to connect people to that creative fire — that fire in their heart. This seems possible now, because you’ve connected with yours.

Time has flown. People have shared their limitations, their creative outlets, and their doubts. They’ve laughed, and they’ve even given a collective “Hmm” once or twice.

With your heart open, and the fire lit, you lead people to the creation of a song.

The one man with a drum begins to play. You start to sing, and people join you. It’s call and response.

“We are…”

“We are…”

“We are…”

“We are…”

“Eclectic…”

“Eclectic…” 

“Steady…”

“Steady…”

You work your way through all of the words, changing the melody up with each one. People are singing. The drum is playing. You’ve created a song out of people’s words, and they’re singing it back to you.

You realize that this has all been a kind of ritual, one which began with child-like chaos and ended with a group song. You created something from nothing, and got everyone to sing.

It worked.

Today I’ll submit the workshop to Pantheacon. I’ll call it: The Songcrafting Workshop: Creating Ritual Song.

It will likely be quite different at the conference. There will be different activities, different people, and of course…

…a new plan.

The Spiritual, the Mundane, and the Cash Money

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Some days, it’s all we can do not to break.

Yesterday felt like one of those days.

I’ve done well to keep my focus on matters of spiritual growth since returning from my Pagan pilgrimage. I’ve kept my daily practice, and I’ve delighted in the conversations we’ve had here on the blog about leadership, purpose and the wants and needs of the Pagan community. I’ve approximated the feeling of being swept up in the fervor of rituals, workshops and sacred dancing, as best I could. But yesterday felt like a cold bucket of water got dropped on my sacred fire.

Discussions of finance, budgets, work prospects and work shortages don’t feel all that mystical. If there was a moment when the perceived difference between the magickal and the mundane was clearly evident, it happened yesterday as I sat at my dining room table, papers spread out in front of me, forehead to palm. Mundane is not strong enough a word to describe how un-enchanted the whole process felt.

I don’t suspect that I’m alone in this experience. How many of us feel weighed down by the practical matters of our life? The last days of the month, the first days of the month, the middle of the month — these are moment where we are called to focus on what it really takes to power our laptops, pay for our sage smudges and keep us connected to our real and virtual communities through sites like this. In truth, my transformative experience at PantheaCon was only made possible by charging a hotel room, a plane ticket and registration costs to my credit card.

I’m paying interest on my transcendental weekend. Chew on that for a second.

Judge if you will, but anyone with student loan bills understands what this feels like. We borrow money in order to have the experience we wish to have. It’s how it works for most of us, right? As I think about returning to college to become better educated in religious studies, the very real question of “How am I going to pay for this?” is on repeat in my mind, and I don’t know the answer right now.

(He feels his palm drifting back to his forehead.)

I took a Money Magick class once, and I loved it. The teacher, who has since become a friend, talked about money being magickal. She encouraged us to use paper money, and to think of each bill as a talisman. She taught us how to charge our cash-money with our intentions, how and why to keep it well-organized in our wallets, and she emphasized the value in only spending the money you have. She kept saying that money, a source of so much stress, should be thought of in spiritual terms. It isn’t mundane; it’s magick.

Now, on the morning after my stress-binge, I feel the need to consider, either out of a desperate desire to reclaim my lost PantheaCon-bliss or a less-selfish, more compulsive need to understand a universal truth, that there is no mundane reality; it’s all spiritual.

I’ve heard this idea suggested before. T. Thorn Coyle is campaigning across the Pagan world to eliminate the word from our vocabulary, and she’s not alone. It came up in several venues at PantheaCon. People want to ditch the idea of mundane, and I wonder if this is possible. More importantly, I wonder if that would really benefit us.

I know that when I do ritual, as many of us do, I envision the space being made sacred, either through some sort of visualization or through a physical act. If there is no mundane reality, and all is spiritual or holy, then is my act of sanctifying the space more about me than it is the space? I value my rites of sanctification. Whether or not they serve some essential, spiritual purpose, they are psychologically effective. I wonder, though, if that’s all they are.

How do you reconcile this difference between spiritual and mundane? Is there one, from your perspective? Could you conceive of the mundane as a kind of forgetfulness? A lack of remembrance about the true, spiritual nature of reality? If you’ve ever found yourself sitting at your dining room table, bills and forms staring back at you, did the experience feel particularly spiritual to you? Could you find a way to perceive it as such?

I’d love to know what you think about this subject. Sharing your thoughts and experiences in the comment section might provide me, or another reader of Bishop in the Grove, with some very valuable, very useful insights.

What do we want from our Pagan leaders?

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In this last week of post-Pantheacon decompression, I’ve discovered a few things about myself.

First, as much as I am invested in my online work, either through blogging or social networking, nothing compares to real-life, skin and sweat, handshakes and hugs interaction. You can imagine all you want about how great it would feel to dance, but that isn’t the same as dancing.

And, I love to dance.

Pantheacon, my first large Pagan gathering, provided me with the opportunity to embody my spiritual practice, and to present myself as a spiritual and religious person. I wore my little “Druid” nameplate, a keepsake of Uncle Isaac, I introduced myself proudly to everyone I met, and I became at different moments a student, an inquisitor, a historian and a kid in a candy store. I had permission to engage in dialogue about complicated, esoteric ideas with a number of great thinkers, not because that permission was explicitly given to me by someone else, but because I gave it to myself. It was kind of self-liberation. I highly recommend it.

Second, I’ve learned that I have an easier time investing in my religious practice if I’m given — or, again, if I give myself — a more active role. If I’m left to watch from the sidelines I may be more inclined to criticize, analyze, and generally keep a distance between me and what’s actually going on. Skills of observation are useful to a writer, but observation doesn’t always trump experience. Sometimes it’s better to get your hands dirty.

And, I love dirt.

As I wrote about in my last post, I’ve been consistent in approaching my altar each morning for the better part of the last month. No matter how groggy I feel, I perform a short ceremony to honor Those who I honor, and then I start my day. I do what’s worked for me before, and open myself to whatever happens. Sometimes I improvise, and other times I follow my simple liturgy. Regardless of what transpires, the regularity of the ritual is proving to be very nourishing.

With my daily ritual firmly in place, I’ve decided to return to the Dedicant Path, an ADF study program which seeks to develop one’s own personal religion (Neopagan Druidism), while deepening one’s knowledge about the Indo-European cultures of antiquity. I feel that ADF has something very valuable to offer me, and this was confirmed by my experience in ritual and in fellowship with the ADF members I met at Pantheacon.

I’ve also decided to return to University and seek a degree in religious studies. This decision requires much more planning and preparation, and it probably won’t come to pass for another 12 or 18 months. But, I feel that if I’m going to take myself seriously as a writer on religious matters, not to mention if I’m going to ask anyone else to do the same, I have to put in the work.

When I commented on my Facebook page about looking into applying to Marylhurst University for further study, an ADF Druid who I met in San Jose replied,

“Do it, brother. You were called to lead.”

If he’s right, then I have a lot of work to do. And, if he’s right, I have a lot thinking to do about what it means to be a leader.

There have been great discussions on blogs and in podcasts about Pagan leadership, and I’d like to continue that dialogue here at Bishop in the Grove. My readership is so diverse, and so willing to engage in deep thinking about practice, tradition, philosophy, and belief, that it would be foolish of me not to ask you what you think about leadership.

What does effective religious leadership look like to you? Do you expect leaders to be well-educated? Charismatic? Inspirational? Instructive?

When you think about leadership in the Pagan community, where do you think we’ve gotten it right, and where do we have room for improvement?

Please, lend me your insights into what leadership means. And then, if you know someone who might have a valuable perspective on this subject, pass along this post.

The Action of Worship

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My religion is experienced in the doing.

This became clear to me as I entered the sacred space of our ADF ritual at Pantheacon, lifted my voice to invoke the spirit of Inspiration, and, for a moment, left my mind behind.

When I stepped in front of the altar and began to sing, I was performing a religious and magickal act. It was spontaneous and improvisational, and it originated from within my heart. It was the purest offering I could make.

In that moment, I was not thinking about what it meant to be a Druid. I was not weighing the strengths and weaknesses of the various Druid traditions, or squabbling over the definition of a word or title. No – I was invoking. I was calling down, stirring up, igniting the fire of inspiration in my own heart and in the hearts of all those present.

There was nothing intellectual about it.

“Worship requires action – it is not an intellectual task.”

These words came from Jean “Drum” Pagano, a man I met during my weekend in San Jose. Drum has been involved with ADF since the earliest days, and he serves in various leadership positions within the organization. Drum’s voice, in the few conversations we had in person and through his written word, resonates deeply with me.

Have you ever met someone and felt instantly as though you understood something about them, as though something inside them was very similar to something inside you?

That’s how it felt when I met Drum.

Drum says that worship requires action, and I heard that very message echoed by other Pagan leaders during the conference. So much of what we do in our day-to-day lives is mind work. We blog about our ideas, we argue about our differences, we share memes on Facebook ad nauseam (which, in my opinion, is very low mind work), and we allow this to consume great portions of our day.

What happens, then, when we spend our lives in our mind, on our screens, and even in the pages of our books, but we do not practice the action of worship?

It is no surprise that during November and December of last year, a time when I felt most conflicted about my religious path, that my altar was a wasteland; vacant, and unused. I did not approach it because I was uncertain if I believed in the words that I was saying each morning. I thought about it, and thought about it, and when I couldn’t decide how to think about it, I did nothing.

(If you were reading my blog during that time, you might remember a change in my tone. If you weren’t, you’ll find evidence of the change in the Archives.)

The result of my lack of doing was a period of spiritual stasis. In the absence of regular worship I became a bit more cynical, a little jaded even, and there was no sign of the fire in my heart which I speak of so often. I sing from this fire. I write from this fire. I make love from this fire. Worship keeps the fire burning, even as worship is an extension of this fire.

But then, after I became tired of the cold, dim reality of a life without reverence, I began my daily practice again. When I did, something changed.

I lit a candle, prepared a chalice of water, and laid out a wand made of wood. I gave thanks to the Mother. I called upon the God who had aided me before in the creation of sacred space, and was happy to discover that I could feel His presence again. I made offerings to the Gods and Goddesses, known and unknown, to the Ancestors, and to the Spirits of the Land. I lit a fire for Brighid, and gave thanks to Her. I did all of these things, stumbling from time to time, but reverent as I could muster, and my consciousness began to shift back toward the fire.

Worship requires action. You cannot think yourself into a state of transpersonal awareness. You must do something.

I wonder (more of an imaginative act than an intellection one) if you’ve experienced something similar. Have you been through periods when you thought more than you felt? And, if so, did that throw you off? Perhaps you have a different relationship to the intellect altogether. Perhaps it is a starting point for your experience of worship.

I always love to know what my readers think, but this time I’m going ask:

What do you do?

Witness to the Protest at Pantheacon 2012

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This is my witness of the silent meditation led by T. Thorn Coyle to protest the Z Budapest ritual at Pantheacon 2012.

[Note: I use the term “cisgender women” or “cis woman” to distinguish from “transgender women” or “trans woman.” Both groups may identity with the word “woman.”]

8:33pm I arrive in the City Foyer, a long hallway on the main floor of the DoubleTree hotel, and make my way toward the San Martin room. I find a corner in which to sit. I feel the strong need to write down all of what is happening.

Beside me sits a man with a spinning wheel in front of him. He pedals gently and spins the roving into thread.

8:35pm I watch a coordinator of Pantheacon show Thorn the statement prepared by Z Budapest. Queens in white face and glitter makeup gather and shimmer while cisgender women line up to enter San Martin.

Thorn speaks to the coordinator.

“My aim is just to keep the energy smooth.”

The coordinator responds.

“It’s an imperfect world. I’m doing my best.”

The coordinator exhibits genuine concern for those gathering behind Thorn.

“We are on your side.”

A group of three cisgender crones sit beside the entrance to the presentation room; one on the floor, and two on chairs. The one on the floor sits with legs crossed, eyes closed, and focus directed inward. She rocks, chanting and muttering words under her breath. It appears that the three are holding space.

Thorn walks back and forth in front of the growing group of protestors, instructing them on “keeping the energy smooth.”

8:40pm The cisgender woman continues to rock, her voice more audible than before.

Thorn stands, faces the protestors.

“Let’s all take a breath together. Find your center.”

I write down: For Thorn, protest is magick. Leading is the art of expanding the boundaries of sacred space.

8:42pm The number of cisgender women in line for the ritual: 9

The number of people sitting in protest: 22

I stand in the corner, watching.

Coordinators ask if anyone wants water. I see no one take water. The protestors sit and kneel behind a barrier of white tape on brown and beige conference hotel carpet.

The crones continue to pray and chant. A cisgender woman standing at the front of the line holds beads in her hand, repeating what sounds like a Vedic chant.

Thorn speaks.

“Take a breath and enter silence.”

Both sides are holding space, seeking peace in the face of the other.

Thorn places a sign before her. It reads: All Bodies Are Sacred.

8:45pm A processional of The Amazons & Living Temple of Diana lines up, their faces marked with black paint around their eyes, their attire coordinated as if for ritual. They hold drums.

All are holding space.

I see one cis woman stare at the silent protestors with a bemused smirk. Others in line with her look at the floor.

8:47pm The crone rocks, eyes closed. She lifts her hands up to the sky, to her left, to her right; entreating. The cis woman in line continues to chant with her mala.

8:50pm More gather to kneel beside Thorn.

The Amazons sing.

“We all come from the Goddess…and to her we shall return…”

Their voices fill the space. The begin to walk from the far end of the hall, between the protestors and the ritualists, moving slowly and intentionally.

At the end of the processional of singers is Z Budapest.

8:51pm Someone at the front of the door is attempting to film **, and there is an argument between her and the Pantheacon coordinators. I overhear something about “consent to be filmed.” This argument is the only palpable conflict yet. Until this point, it has felt like two groups holding space.

But, the energy feels different now.

The singing continues.

8:54pm Z Budapest speaks, and the camera person has been given permission to film her. She is offered her prepared statement, which she takes, but she does not speak from the paper. She asks the Amazons if they are present to support her, to which they respond that they are present to support all; they are “in between.” Lady Yeshe Rabbit says,

“There is no them; only us.“

Z looks at the group of men who have gathered behind the cisgender women. They are led by Hyperion of The Unnamed Path.

“There are my guardians,” Z says to them.

“No,” Hyperion responded to her. “We are only here to bear witness and hold space.” ***

Z begins to speak off script, and the following are excerpts from her spoken statement.

“I am not your enemy….

I understand the new consciousness….it’s very Aquarian.

I love the transsexuals… interesting costumes… very colorful…”

I am struck by the fact that she is a person, where up until now she has been spoken of primarily as a symbol.

I hear one of the protestors begin to weep.

“Every minute a woman dies in childbirth…EVERY MINUTE A WOMAN DIES IN CHILDBIRTH. And from there, it just goes on….

I am your mother’s mothers….

I am the elder on whom you can build revolution!“

9:00pm Z Budapest turns and enters the San Martin conference room.

The singers leave as they came.

The Pantheacon coordinator faces the protestors, and reads them the prepared statement which Z chose not to read.

Then, silence. Stillness. The only sound, the spinning of the wheel and the chanting of the crone.

9:12pm Glenn Turner counts the number of silent protestors in attendance. There are 89 present.

9:15pm Thorn walks up to the front, and chants the OM. The protestors break their silence.

“I love you all so much. It’s an honor to sit with you…”

The protestors begin to rise, many embracing. Thanks are expressed. Someone passes out girl scout cookies. They silently move through the hallway, away from the sounds of the cis women laughing, chanting, calling the quarters.

There is a spirit of relief and exhausting.

The crones stay behind, and continue to hold space.

*** UPDATE on 2/23/12 When first published, this post did not contain a quote from Hyperion. I was unable to make out the exact words he said to Z, and because of this I did not include his statement in my notes or in my account of the event. I appreciate his coming forth to clarify, because it is important to understand the motivations and intentions behind all those present (as best we can).

** It has been reported that the camera person was Bobbie, Z Budapest’s wife.
For more insight into Hyperion’s perspective, and a link to his website, please read through the comments.

The Urgency to Understand Pantheacon

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I brought my little tin-can altar to Pantheacon, and set it up in my hotel room on the glass, circular end table next to the lounge chair. The conference program was rather stern about not burning incense or lighting candles anywhere in the hotel, but I chose to believe that the rules didn’t include small tea lights and mini-tapers on end tables. Honestly, if I’m standing naked before an altar I can guarantee you that I’ll be the first to notice if something catches on fire.

Bringing my altar with me provided a feeling of continuity at the start of the unfamiliar experience, and doing ritual this morning offered a similar sense of familiarity as I try to make sense of all that’s happened over the past few days. I’ve resisted posting platitudes about Pantheacon, either on my blog or on Facebook, because the experience of this gathering was profound for me. It’s worthy of more than a quick summary.

I recognize that there is a great deal of controversy stirring about online regarding the Z Budapest ritual, and I’m going to give myself a little more time before I write about that. I was at the scene, seated with Thorn and the other 89 silent protesters, positioned directly across from Z when she emerged from the conference room to speak at the group. I wrote furiously in my little notebook to capture as many details as I could, and I intend to put a post together that not only describes the scene of the protest, but also reflects on some of the subtler points that we miss beneath the cacophony of internet chatter and bickering.

I think it’s important to remember — not only for me, but also for those who were unable to attend Pantheacon — that this conference was much more than a single controversy over gender identity and the policies of inclusion and exclusion to ritual. Those dialogues did occur, and are worth unpacking even further. But, we must try to place a single conversation in its proper context, even if we believe that the message at the heart of that conversation is revolutionary, or urgent.

Pantheacon was, itself, a kind of ritual. We gathered in a hotel, sanctified the space, and proceeded to seek knowledge, explore community, and challenge our assumptions about who we are, what we believe, and why we practice as we do. It was a complicated ritual, and, as with most rituals, there is always room for improvement.

Pantheacon was a dynamic and enriching experience. Participating in it affirmed for me a number of things, not the least of which is that I have no qualms about identifying as a Pagan anymore. The discussion about that word, while fascinating for a time, is much less important to me than it was just a few months ago. Not only am I comfortable using the term “Pagan” to broadly identify what I do, I make the distinction that what I do is not all of who I am. Moving into this awareness is liberating.

I intend to explore these revelations in the coming days, as well as to describe what I discovered about my relationship to ADF Druidry, OBOD, and Celtic Reconstructionism, what it felt like to invoke the spirit of Inspiration into ritual space, and what immediate challenges I believe have been presented to me for my own spiritual growth and development.

I’m not going to try to do this all at once. I don’t feel an immediate urgency to understand Pantheacon, right now. I’m going to take my time, let it steep for a little longer. After all, the energy raised in a ritual truly begins to serve its purpose once the ritual has ended, no? If that’s true, then the real effect of Pantheacon begins now.

Rather than become overwhelmed by that truth, I approach my altar and light a candle. I center myself, call upon Those who I call upon, and carry on with my life. I hold on to the thread of continuity which led me to Pantheacon, and I trust this it will lead me to more enchantment, more challenges, and more opportunities to serve my community, my land, my Gods. I do all of this with a deeper sense of self, a burgeoning belief about my purpose as a writer, a teacher and a creative soul, and with the feeling of profound gratitude.

That is where I begin on the first day after my first Pantheacon.

Oh my Gods, I’m at #Pantheacon.

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I’m buzzing. Vibrating. I know that sounds New Age-y, but that’s really what it feels like to be in my body at this moment.

I’m sitting in the lobby of the San Jose DoubleTree Hotel, and Pantheacon is exploding all around me. There are men in skirts, women in top hats, people whose gender is a complete mystery, elders, newbies (like me), and a general spirit of something happening.

This is the place to be, and I’m here.

*grin*

Oh, and did I mention that there is a strong corseted faction? Because there is, and it’s amazing.

I’m overwhelmed, really. I didn’t know it would feel quite so exhilarating to be near this many strange, and delightfully decorated people. It’s as though my books have been made flesh.

For real.

I’ve spoken with Jim Dickinson, the Project Manager for the Pagan Library in Delaware, Ivo Domínguez, Jr., Author and Teacher, and Candace Kant, Ph.D, the new Dean of Students for Cherry Hill Seminary.

All before lunch.

For the majority of my time as an out-and-about Pagan, I’ve lived on the page and the screen. But this? This is something all together different. This is real. Real, and feathered, and leathered, and bearded, and adorned, and sitting right across from me.

All accoutrements aside, I’m thrilled that my day is scheduled to include:

1. A presentation by Raven Grimassi, Lon Milo DuQuette, T. Thorn Coyle, Diana Paxson, Orion Foxwood, Mary K. Greer, and Jacki Smith (“A Witch, A Seer, and a Crowleyite Walk Into a Bar”) put on by Weiser Books.

2. Introductions to many an ADF member, including Rev. Medb Olson when she leads her presentation, “Group Dynamics for Pagan Organizations.”

3. Ivo’s presentation, “Triple Shadow: The Shadow of the Lower, Middle, & Higher Self.” (He has the most impressive beard, doesn’t he?)

4. Who KNOWS what else!!

I’ve been reminded on many occasion to eat regular meals, drink water, and breathe. I’ll try to remember those.

I’m not going to attempt to do anything now except relish this feeling. There will be time to process later, time to sort through the images, the messages and the emotions and see what it might all mean.

For now, I soak in the energy!

(If you want to follow my up-to-the-minute posts, follow me on Twitter and Facebook. I’ll be posting…a lot.)