A few years ago, two Catholic priests, a humanist cleric, a Reformed cantor, a few others with various depths of Christian religious commitment, and a Witch got together on Cape Cod to spend one last summer together with an ill friend, who was an agnostic on a good day. Her house overlooked a salt marsh that gave way to a shallow cove with noticeable tides. It was a paragon to the idea conjured by the term “New England beach house,” down to the long piers over sand dunes and the classic smell of seashore and linens. We all arrived throughout an early August day, and by 4 p.m. we had each had agreed not tot discuss religion, and stay the entire weekend no matter what happened. Our host had insisted, and delivered the command with the flair of Truman Capote in Murder by Death avec chapeau, no less.
Hi, my name is Manny and I’m a beekeeper; beek for short. I started off as a normal gardener. You know, cucumbers, basil, radishes. But soon, as is what happens, you want more. You want to grow unusual plants; they whisper, “plant me.”
Eva had no money but needed a reading. She had contacted my godmother because she had heard that our spiritual house would not charge. It was true, and my godmother asked me to come along on the visit. Eva lived near Bartow, Florida in a house made of wood that had started to rot; so much so that the toilet had partially caved into the floor. She had converted a thrift store bedside commode and a large plastic bucket into a substitute one.
“My spirituality has always been linked to my feminism. Feminism is about challenging unequal power structures. So, it also means challenging inequalities in race, class, sexual preference. What we need to be doing is not just changing who holds power, but changing the way we conceive of power.” – Starhawk
I first became a Pagan because it promised me enchantment, wonder, a break from the dull Midwestern monotheist underpinning of where I grew up.