There are times when the religion of my childhood and the practice I am now fumbling towards collide. Recently, the quote below showed up in my mind, but with an addendum.

“Do not come any closer,” God said. “Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground.” Exodus 3:5 (NIV)

Something spoke to me. All ground is sacred ground.

We forget this.

I have been places where the stillness of the gods lies heavily upon the land.

I know places where the only response to nature is awe.

There is land where we tread lightly because it speaks so loudly to our senses.

It is easy to own such as sacred.

It is harder to remember that the humblest patch of our earth is holy.

She gave us life, she sustains us, and she will receive our bodies when our lives come to an end. How could she not be holy?

Sometimes I forget. And sometimes, a voice from my past speaks into my present, and unites the two.

Take off your sandals. This is holy ground. 


Samhain: Let’s Talk About Death


Samhain came and went, with a small devotional to remember our dead, and a changing of the altar. It’s been followed with conversations about death, about dying, about the fact that we are mortal. It’s not morbid; it’s allowing myself to ponder a part of life that our culture tries to shy away from. It’s reaching out to the Dark Goddess, the Crone, and acknowledging that she is as important as the Maid and the Mother. The cycle isn’t complete without her.

Practice and me…we go in and out. I think about things a lot, and read a lot, and do rituals less frequently. It feels right for now. Some days I need to light the candles on the altar and reach out to the unknown. Some days I need to stay grounded in the here and now.

Here and now, the leaves have fallen. The weather has become grey, and sometimes freezing, and often damp. October and November are migraine season for me, and I have spent more than a few days huddled in bed with my eyes covered while Eowyn watches cartoons in the same room with me. We’re coming up to the winter holidays and I miss the people we’ve lost. My grandmother feels more present right now, and as a result, I ache for her more than usual. Beowulf’s remaining grandmother and grandfather both died this year, and while I was not close to either of them, the empty spaces in the family echo.

Here and now, I listen to the music from Fun Home over and over again. I study Old Norse and find myself falling into the old routine of learning new vocabulary and grammatical structure. I make costumes, research historical clothing, sew bags for the Etsy shop. I ride the bus when our car doesn’t work. I get Eowyn up in the morning for preschool. I try to make myself write and drafting feels like pulling teeth some days.

Here and now. Death is all around as the leaves fall, the flowers die, the days shorten, and the family ghosts seem closer than usual.

Here and now, we light a candle against the dark, and remember.



Yes, I know it’s already several weeks into the Mabon season. Or Herfest. We celebrated with beeswax candles and apples and homemade bread. I made a beer and honey bread and took it to a friend’s house, where it was a great hit. Eowyn helped me light candles as I welcomed the new season.

We just had Thanksgiving here, since Canada celebrates that holiday in October. I find it fits well with the season of Mabon. I don’t limit the sabbats to a single day anymore; I try to think about them as a season as well as a special day. The change in the weather that hits right now is fairly dramatic, so it’s not difficult to change gears from summer to autumn. The rains are back. The temperature’s dropped. The nearer mountains have dustings of snow again. The leaves are starting change; some trees are already red and gold, while others are just beginning. I can bake bread without overheating the house, and I’m starting to wear long-sleeved shirts and sweaters again.

On Thanksgiving Day, we took a trip to a local pumpkin patch with Eowyn. She and I went last year, on a school day, when it was quiet. This year, with Beowulf along, the three of us got to see what the place looked like when it was busy. Last year, she was scared of the corn maze and refused to go in. This year, she charged in and followed some other kids all around the maze. She took her time selecting a pumpkin, too. It needed to be small, and nothing seemed to be the right size for her sensibilities until we told her we were leaving now.

I like this time of year. I like the way the weather changes, the way it’s time to prepare for winter. The Mabon prayer I used to open the season this year I found here. It talks about balance. Balance is hard to achieve, but that doesn’t stop me trying to reach out for it.

Balance is hard on the days when I’m so tired I feel like I’ve been run over by a metaphorical truck. Or the days when I struggle with getting things done. When Eowyn is grouchy. When getting up to get her to preschool in the mornings means that I roll out of bed a bare twenty minutes before we need to leave and we head out in a rush.

But sometimes it happens and the world feels right for a bit. (At least until I turn on the news, which is another story).

Still, balance or not, a blessed Mabon and blessed fall to you all, as we move towards the end of the year.


Let’s Do Litha



Litha. Midsummer. Solstice.

I celebrated the holiday by participating in the local Scandinavian Midsummer Festival. I recently joined the local Viking reenactment group, Reik Felag, and I was part of their living history Viking trading village at the festival. I spun yards and yards of wool with a drop spindle and chatted with people about how the Vikings, and well, the world, made thread and yarn for the thousands of years before the spinning wheel was invented. The Vikings may have only been a significant presence for several hundred years, a little over a thousand years ago, but spinning goes back to before the first written records.

Ever since humans evolved less body hair, we have needed clothing to keep us warm in the cold and to protect our skin from the elements. Spinning plant and animal hair fibers provides us with thread which we can then weave to make cloth, which is then sewn into fabric. It’s a lot of work, and I always find it interesting, when doing things of this sort, just how many people never seem to have thought about how clothing is produced. I suppose it’s because I like to make things (particularly textile things) and so I want to know where things come from and how they are made.

At any rate, I spent a couple of days outdoors, dressed like a Viking, spinning wool in the rain.

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Summer has arrived with a vengeance in the last week or so. Sunshine, heat, a bit of a breeze. I’m knitting a sweater for Eowyn for our upcoming camping trip, and doing my best not to lose it after being in a car accident. We’re all fine, but it was unpleasant, and it was my fault, and I’m more than a little freaked out about the whole thing.

I got home after the accident last night to find the delivery slip for this:


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This season’s Wheel of the Year swap on Ravelry is about sharing your own practice. I sent off a package about my nature-centred practice, and received one from a polytheist who works with the Greek pantheon. Her upcoming celebration, closest to Midsummer, is for Kronos, as the god of the grain. She sent me some stuff for a mini altar, a prayer, a lovely ball of wool, and a necklace. It arrived at the right time, when I needed cheering up. Good timing indeed.

Navigating Death


Two days ago, we attended a funeral for my husband’s grandmother. She was in her late 90s and while her death was sudden, it was not unexpected, in that we knew she would die sometime in the next few years. Several months ago, Beowulf’s grandfather died and we went to his memorial service. This morning I got the news that one of my cousins just died. She was barely a decade older than I am, and I’m just about to turn thirty. She had been profoundly ill, something involving pneumonia that had led to a coma; they just took her off of life support. I didn’t really know her. We had met a few times, but I’m only close to a couple of cousins on that side of the family, since so many of them are much older than I am. But the news felt like a blow to the heart. I think about her husband, her children, her mom, and ache for them.

Death is difficult. We don’t know what happens to our consciousness when we die, and yet we know that we will all die at some point. We are mortal. This is an inextricable part of who we are.

When I was a Christian, I feared death. Christians are told that we should not fear death, because Jesus and heaven are waiting for us, and yet, many of us have deep and abiding fears of this great mystery. Then, slowly, I stopped believing in hell. I stopped believing in heaven. I embraced the uncertainty – we don’t know – and that absolute terror began to fade. I still fear death, in that I don’t wish to die anytime soon, that normal mortal wariness of the unknown, but it no longer paralyzes me. The stakes of heaven vs. hell aren’t there anymore, and that has made a difference.

The pagan views of what happens next seem to vary, though reincarnation seems to be an option that many consider. It’s certainly a possibility. I am content with hoping that our souls do not end in oblivion, and letting the other side of the veil take care of itself.

When someone I know dies, I tend to light a candle, and wish them well on their journey. I ask that those who love them and are waiting for them will greet their soul on whatever happens next. It’s all I can do.

Beltane Week


Beltane is my new year; it represents my first sabbat, my first foray into the world of paganism. It’s special to me, and for that, I tried hard to focus on the new season.

Last Monday, I redressed the altar, bid farewell to the season of Ostara, and welcomed Beltane. And, of course, the week went to hell after that.

I’ve written before about living with an anxiety disorder and how that can affect me. Little things can set me off in negative ways. I am fully aware that my responses are not rational, but that knowledge doesn’t stem the tide of panic. Tuesday night, our landlord told us that they would be replacing our hot water heater the next day, because the one in the suite next to us, the same age as ours, was constantly leaking, and it was easier to change them out both at once. The unexpected event, coupled with people I don’t know well or at all needing to be in my space without much warning, led to me frantically cleaning and then collapsing on the living room floor to breathe slowly because putting away the dishes involved touching knives and knives were too much of a temptation. I slept very poorly that night, and was bouncing off the walls the next morning.

I had to take a couple days to resettle. I read a few books, took Eowyn to the park a few times, drank tea, fixed the vacuum, lit candles on the altar when I remembered, and didn’t get much work done.

Yesterday, we went hiking, along the same trail we visited last year at Beltane. The trail leads along the river and ends up at the unimaginatively named Crystal Falls. It’s a beautiful place.

The forests I know are the forests of the Pacific Northwest. At this time of year, they are green. The maples have leafed, the cedars and pines are, as always, green, and the trunks and branches are so covered in moss it’s sometimes difficult to tell if the trees even have bark. The bleeding heart is blooming, its pale lavender-pink lightening the green. The vivid pink blossoms of the salmonberry bushes are everywhere. Wild ginger has sprouted up at the base of many trees.

The river, a salmon stream, runs along the trail and fills the hiker’s ears with its music. The trail is muddy, and criss-crossed by small streams finding their way to the river. And at the end of the trail, there’s a waterfall. It’s not a big one, but it is beautiful. It’s easy to climb to the top, since the erosion from the water has left a lot of exposed roots and crevices in the rocks. At the very top, before the water churns against the rocks and spills over the edges, is a quieter pool of water. I like to sit here and watch as the river flows from calm to chaos.

Now here I am, a week after Beltane, settling into the new season, and remembering that losing focus doesn’t mean I can’t find it again.

Last year, Beltane was the start of something new. This year, it’s the continuation of a cycle, as I continue to fumble through a new practice. It’s messy. It’s chaotic. And sometimes it’s calm.

Between Ostara and Beltane


I think it was around this time last year that I’d started reading a bit about paganism. It started with the realization that, while I’d been struggling with remaining a practicing Christian, I hadn’t really given any other religious practices fair consideration. In retrospect, this doesn’t surprise me. Christian churches tend to hammer home the point that theirs is the one true faith and all the others aren’t even remotely fulfilling. Of course, this point is typically assumed without consulting practitioners of other religions and asking them about their actual experiences. I was aware of this intellectually long before I could deal with the emotions behind it, but it was a deeply internalized idea and it took me a while to pull it out and discount it, even after reading something like Daniel Radosh’s Rapture Ready! (And no, I don’t get anything for linking it, I just really liked the book. Excellent examination of Christian pop culture; it was one of the first things I read where a non-Christian very explicitly pointed out the problems with assuming Christianity is better than other religious practices).

I started reading, got curious, and then it was Holy Week. On Good Friday, I found myself standing in line at Save On, and staring at the magazine rack. I think it was Time magazine, and there was a special Easter edition with a picture of a man wearing a crown of thorns. My visceral reaction startled me. I very nearly threw up and only just managed to get through my purchase and back outside, shaking a little.

The weekend just got worse from there. I hit the wall during the Easter Vigil service at the reaffirmation of faith. I couldn’t choke out “I believe in God the Father.” I slipped out of the sanctuary and stood in one of the rooms off to the side, in agony. I hadn’t thought it would hurt so much when the time came when I knew I had to admit my faith in the Abrahamic God was pretty much gone. But he was the god of my childhood, the god of my parents, and it was wrenching.

A couple weeks later, still in the period between Ostara and Beltane, I turned to Beowulf and said, “I think I might need to try being pagan.”

His response was “Okay.”

And here I am, a year later, getting ready to celebrate Beltane for the second time. A lot has changed, and a lot hasn’t. I’m still me, the kind of hippie, anxious geek, that I’ve pretty much always been. My current spiritual practice mostly involves growing plants and lighting things on fire (candles and palo santo, usually). I honour the Goddess, I honour the God, I remember my ancestors, I try to be conscious of nature and the earth. I’m skeptical a lot of the time, but have found that being skeptical about what comes after death gives me a lot more peace than believing in heaven ever did.

I’m not out to everyone. I’ve been selective with the people I tell about it, and that’s been a good experience. I haven’t been ready to tell some people, and I wanted to figure out what I was doing before I hopped out of the broom closet.

It’s been an interesting time, and I’m looking forward to what happens in the coming year.