Something Happened on the Way to 2025

Nothing like severe, life-altering (and potentially life-ending) illness striking your family to shake up your way of being in the world.

I'm reasonably certain that very few people who suffer two types of stroke simultaneously walk unaided out of the hospital in a week's time, but my partner did. The tale of his recovery, which is ongoing, is not mine to tell; but I will say that from my very close vantage point, it looks a little miraculous, maybe even a bit magickal. I'm reminded of Paul Kantner's recovery from a potentially life-ending cerebral hemorrhage in the early 80s; the odds here were about that grim. How it has and will change my partner's life is also not my story to tell, but I can tell you how I'm faring.

I enter a state of functional shock when bad things happen, and I existed in that state for some time after the event. Miraculously, I managed to keep the bills paid and the household running, which was revelatory. Everything except me, anyway, as I mostly didn't eat for the first month--which had the salutary side-effect of making me drop a good ten pounds with no real effort on my part. Once I realized that, and started to come back to myself a bit in the upswing phase of his recovery, I decided I wanted to keep that momentum, so I kept my altered eating habits (OK, by this time I was starting to actually eat again) and added daily exercise to the mix, and have made it a habit instead of a happenstance. I look and feel better, at any rate.

I learned who I can trust in a crisis, and who cares enough to help us out, and those things were revelatory too. Shockingly, I learned at my great age that I can trust myself, even when I'm stressed beyond my own capacity to even recognize it. I also learned that I can no longer wholly condemn those who leave their partners in the midst of medical crisis, because I can now see how difficult to impossible understanding and supporting and caregiving could be for some. I'm certainly not the ideal person to have around in a medical crisis situation (my fannish identification with Scully doesn't extend to that part of her characterization), but there are surely those even less able to cope than I, so maybe I have a bit more sympathy for people facing that situation than I once would have.

Were the Gods or spirits or something looking out for him? Are there lessons for him to learn from this? Will his (and my?) life change in a rebirth/reawakening, initiatory/revelatory kind of way? Perhaps. Both Imbolc and the equinox have already passed with no significant recognition on either of our parts. I've offered up plenty of thanks to whomever might be listening. Things have calmed, stabilized, though I suspect I'll be metaphorically sleeping with one eye open for a very long time. What is to come I do not know, but I do know that I now have a bit more faith in my ability to meet it and handle it; and that, in itself, seems magick enough for the moment.

Times Like These

A week ago today I got up, sat down at the computer, and learned that the drummer from one of my favorite bands had died unexpectedly. I was stunned, initial numbness blooming slowly, inexorably into a sadness that surprised me in its depth. While I was never a Foo Fighters superfan, they'd been a constant of my life for nearly half of it, a beloved part of my personal soundscape, bringing their own unique blend of catharsis, comfort, and joy. As the week went on, and I saw the outpouring of love and remembrance from scores of friends, fans, and colleagues, my sorrow revealed its own nuances: nostalgia for the years of great music driven by that mesmerizing backbeat, grief for a future in which that heartbeat was stilled and the joy it brought to the world was gone along with it. An aching empathy for Dave Grohl, who'd lost his bandmate/brother (and having recently read his autobiography, that feeling was magnified horribly) and quite likely his band as well. The whole situation was, and is, heartbreaking, devastating. It's clinically fascinating to see how this sort of parasocial relationship can impact fans, but it's equally fascinating to discover how bereft you can feel over the loss of someone you'd never met but who had nonetheless made an impact on your life. The grief felt by the man's real-life friends and family must be fathomless.

In the wake of such a tragedy, the loss of someone who was apparently almost universally loved and respected, someone who was apparently kind, funny, generous, and humble, the mind invariably slides into the old just world fallacy and starts to balk. How, we ask, could this lovely soul be gone, while the vilest of human monsters continue to roam the earth, flourishing while befouling everything they touch? How the fuck is that possible? Can't we trade some hamberder-muching monomaniac for the sweet drummer who used to hang out at Guitar Center and buy gear for strangers? Maybe the forces would be appeased by taking, say, some shitgibbon who invades a peaceful sovereign nation instead of a cheery musician dude who liked hanging with his BFF and making goofy videos with the band? How, we ask, is this fair? How, we ask, do we proceed with living when the balance is so obviously askew? We feel askew, off balance, in the contemplation of the magnitude of the injustice of it all. Our footing slips, we feel unmoored, vertiginous. 

People turn to their religion when they feel like this, turn to their clergypeople to seek answers to impossible questions; but what about those clergypersons themselves? We have the same questions, the same anger, the same frustration; and just like everyone else, we lack concrete answers (well, we do if we're honest). We anguish, we rage, we sorrow, we cry, and we carry on. I've done all of those things this past week, and I've done all of those things this morning as I wrote this post. The only damned thing I can think of to do in the wake of evidence to the monstrous indifference and unfairness of the universe is to keep going, to try to shine just that little bit brighter to compensate for the light that just went out, all the while knowing that that extinguished light will still radiate for years to come, just as the starlight we see comes from celestial bodies extinguished eons ago. The light remains. It always does. 

Rest easy, Taylor. If the sky is a neighborhood, you're among good company. 

Defining "Classic Witchcraft"

It was not that long ago that I reached the realization that at no time in my life have I ever known witchcraft that was wholly divorced from traditional Wicca.

When I first became fascinated by the concept of witches and witchcraft, I was a child growing up in the 1970s. It was so long ago, and so much has happened since, that I couldn't say for certain how or when that fascination truly began--but begin it did, however it was triggered, and if I try to think back the earliest images that come to me are those of the familiar Halloween figure. Solitary, immeasurably ancient, black-clad, cat-accompanied, hideous and yet somehow appealing rather than appalling. Stirring a cauldron, stirring a potion, stirring up trouble, she was a defiant and transgressive figure, one not to be trifled with, the wielder of powers unknown and highly enticing to one so powerless as I. My first source materials were, naturally, children's literature and fairy tales, joined as I grew older by encyclopedias and books specifically on the subjects of witchcraft and magic, the occult and the paranormal; and all of those were very much products of the 20th century and the sometimes dubious scholarship and spurious claims of that century's witchcraft promoters.

Thus, I was early on introduced to such key concepts as "the Old Religion," the "Book of Shadows," even "the Cone of Power" and "the Burning Times," and of covens of witches performing their circular rites by the light of the full moon. I was not an exceptionally critical reader as a child; I read voraciously and indiscriminately, absorbing all sides of a thing and then letting the information simmer until my brain boiled over from the cognitive dissonance, demanding I sort it all out. I've since done so, of course, only to discover to my chagrin that what I always knew as witchcraft is indelibly, inextricably enmeshed with the trappings of the 20th century neopagan religion of Wicca (along with the borrowed elements of other systems that form parts of its composition).

Knowing this, how, then, do I define Classic Witchcraft? As an aesthetic as well as a practice, for one, because atmosphere can make or break a ritual. Bats and cats and the occasional pointed hat. Cauldrons and candles, owls and serpents. Skulls and bones. Incense and bonfires. All things eldritch and uncanny. Once the scene is set, the practice itself can take, well, almost any form that suits the situation. It could look like a fairly standard Wiccan ritual with a cast circle and all the trimmings, or it could be as spare as a steady silent gaze into a candle's flame. It might be performed robed, or skyclad, or in street clothes. Elaborate ceremonial with a lot of prep time and research, or completely off-the-cuff at a moment's notice. Indoors or outdoors. Better it be when the moon is full, unless it isn't.

What Classic Witchcraft is not is rote and regulated. The classic witch, that enduring figure that has never let go of my imagination, is not a person hemmed in by rules and restrictions or a lengthy list of Things That Must Be Done to make the practice "valid." The only real test of validity for the classic witch is, did it work? What works is what is key, and it will vary from one witch to the next, and it can only be discovered through experimentation. One witch can share ideas and experiences with another, and practices can (and should be!) handed on from one to the next; but those practices will likely look quite different from one generation to the next, and I've come to see that as not lamentable but laudable. A practice that isn't adaptable (which does not mean that it cannot also be grounded in tradition) is ultimately as relevant as a set piece in an old roadside museum: interesting, perhaps, but not very useful in practical application.

I am a traditional Wiccan; it's taken me years to not only accept but embrace that fact. I am also a classic Witch. This craft to me is the sum of the materials and practices that have been passed on to me through the tradition in which I was trained, with my own stylistic touches and my personal interpretations and methodology. But it's also conjurings by candlelight, a cauldron bubbling on a stone hearth, a full moon shining through October leaves, a black cat's silent passage, an owl secreted in a hollow tree. It's incense and starlight and all the mysteries held within a dusty tome, a stone, a bone. It's brooms and bats and pointed hats. It's everything I thought witchcraft was before anyone ever told me differently--and, having come full circle at last, I realize that I knew in my very bones what it truly was all along.

Full Circle or Downward Spiral

It’s always around this time of year that I feel the most nostalgic. It was just after Lammas that things began ramping up for me, leading up to my initiation in the fall: doing rituals, attending my first trad gathering, the excitement and anticipation of the Samhain season itself. And so I remember all of this, and both nostalgia and melancholy come in equal measure as I remember the young woman I was, and all that came after. Those ended up being very challenging times as I floundered about navigating the intersection of multiple new roles that I was entirely unprepared to take on—times when I came to understand that the bit about “suffering to learn” was nothing less than the literal truth.

In those days, my partner and I sometimes joked about being the Mulder and Scully of the Wicca, but there was more than a little rueful truth about that as well. Despite having grown up as a consistently bullied kid, I was still terribly innocent of the types of intrigues that people in groups could get up to, and even my devoted X-Files viewing didn’t quite prepare me, though it did at least give me some small comfort—after all, bearing the brunt of an admittedly ugly witch war still wasn’t quite as bad as being infected with alien viruses and forced into hiding from the entire corrupt US government. Just like Mulder and Scully, we exiled ourselves in the aftermath of a negative situation, and went on to live our lives and do our things with varying degrees of success. (When I sit here now and think about it, the parallels are so close as to be disturbing. We never broke up, though, in spite of some peoples’ efforts, perhaps because we didn’t have Chris Carter scripting us. Thank the gods.) Still, the nostalgia never quite left me, though at times it lay dormant as other things took the fore.

Our mutual practice evolved, but never strayed so very far from the root stock, even though at times our focus shifted elsewhere and led us down different paths of inquiry and exploration. I’ll admit now that even skeptical as I tend to be, I have come to believe in the power of initiatory experiences, and of the bonds we form by our rituals and our oaths. I can find no other rational explanation for the persistence and the tenacity of my attachment to a system of working that ought, given the scope of these past negatives, to fill me with revulsion. (The thought of certain people absolutely does; the system, no longer. Despite my early antipathy to dualistic thinking, I’ve also come to the realization that there really are positive and negative aspects to nearly everything, and that walking the line between them is my natural state. I’ve also realized that people can do bad things for seemingly good reasons—and that some people are simply utter shitlords.)

This may be another function of getting older, but despite years of raging at sundry machines, I’ve had time to rethink some of my earlier positions and arrive at a more nuanced view of them. Seeing recent outpourings in the blogosphere that remind me of where I was so long ago have certainly been at least a partial catalyst. Some of it I can see now as the end result of where I started, and while some of the shifts that I see are absolutely to the good, others seem to me to go too far. (I’m being deliberately vague because this essay is already in danger of turning into a dissertation.) Some of these seismic changes are going to be a threat to some of the older ways of doing things—a good and a bad thing, to my mind. Good, because in this era of #metoo and consent culture, the more egregious abuses will become harder to pull off; bad, because some ways of doing things will be unfairly and unnecessarily given negative labels when they are merely one way of working among many, suitable to some but not to others. A part of my nostalgia is now for some of those older ways of being and doing, things that still hold value, things perhaps in danger of being tossed out for lack of understanding, or for being seen only for their potential negatives and not their potential positives. (I’ve been there, after all, so I recognize it when I see it.)

I have come to believe that it is entirely possible to adhere to the letter and the spirit of the law while still remaining ethical and respectful. I’m starting to believe there may be others who agree. The public writings of newer-generation BTWs are awakening new hope in me, that this form of Craft may ever survive, and thrive, in a modern culture that expects things like respect and tolerance and consent. I’ve come to believe that it’s possible to honor the past while living in the present, and without fighting the future. But I’m older now, and I’ve had a lot of time to think.

I’m pretty sure I could have handled things better in the past, had I possessed deeper levels of understanding and wisdom and maturity. All of those things come only with time and experience, and back then I had neither. Perspective may be the greatest gift of age, and it’s a damned shame that it takes so long to acquire it. I still don’t know that I’ll ever again want to train and initiate people, into any of the systems I have that right and ability in—I’ve lost quite a lot thereby in the past, and I’m gun-shy now—but I won’t rule out the extreme possibilities. The fact that I’m here writing all of this would have been a near-impossibility at one time, maybe not even that long ago. Change truly is the only constant in life.

Mulder and Scully ended up back in the FBI after a long period of exile, a return that brought its challenges and rewards. I can easily imagine both of them, during those years away from their work, thinking and reviewing, considering their paths. I can so easily see Mulder turning his badge over in his hands, wondering if it was all worth it; can see Scully taking an afternoon at the gun range, keeping up her skills just in case (she always was the better shot). I can imagine the fear and hope and hurt and anticipation they would have felt over those years. I’m feeling some of those things now. I have no idea how any of this is going to play out, but I am feeling like making a tentative foray out beyond my comfortable place might not even be the worst thing I could do.

At least, I want to believe.

A Time of Reclamation

I used to skate. Not competitively, not at a high level, and not even very consistently, as other demands upon my limited finances and time would invariably come in to displace it, but skate I did, and I loved it, even though I’d go sometimes for months or even years without ever touching the ice. My most recent period of time away was the longest ever, nearly a decade during which I might have occasionally hit a short public session but never went beyond doing slow laps around the rink among the crush of other ice tourists; that ended last summer when I somehow found out that there were adult-only drop-in sessions happening at the rink about a mile or so from my new home.

It turns out that you can lose a lot in a decade. Mentally, I remembered how it felt to do various things, but my muscles had forgotten all they’d learned, and I was miserably adrift. After a couple of awkward attempts, I realized two things: that I wanted not only to get back what I’d lost but to exceed what I’d ever had, and that I’d have to relearn the very basics and build from a strong foundation in order to do so.

And so it is with the Craft.

Spiritually, magickally, I've been in a fallow period for what feels like the longest stretch since I started serious practice. The truth is--and it's a truth that my very bones instinctively recoil from--I'm older now, firmly middle-aged and starting the downward slope toward Old, and with age comes a raft of unpleasant realities like illness and injury and overwork and exhaustion and family issues that devour our time and drain our energy and leave us with very little left over. Faltering and bowing beneath the immediacy of mundane concerns, the spiritual bleeds out almost unnoticed, until at last you realize its absence when you reach for it and can't find it anymore.

When I felt the pull to resume my skating practice, I was fortunate in that there were resources in place to direct me toward my goal. I enrolled in Learn-To-Skate classes under a patient and perceptive coach, and now some seven months later I’ve gone from wobbling uncertainty to starting to feel a measure of control and competence. I’m still only about halfway through the core curriculum of basic skills, but I can track my progress, see and feel those skills sharpening, and see the places to which they might lead me. There is no corresponding method for recovering my Craft; while there are some training programs out there, they’re not my path, so I’m left to my own devices, much as I was when I first began. I have years of study, practice, and experience to draw upon as I start again, flexing disused “muscles” that creak and protest. But where to begin?

• Do something. Anything! The most I’ve managed in months are the simplest of stripped-down ritual observances, hardly more than light-a-candle-burn-some-incense (and sometimes, not even that elaborate). Start with something simple, like a Tarot or other card drawn and contemplated. A quick acknowledgment of the season or phase of the moon. Dust off a deity statue and think for a moment about what She or He represents to you. Start small, but start.

• Meditate. And by that I mean, sit your ass down and apart from all the myriad things constantly clamoring for your attention. Log out of social media. Turn off your phone. Shut down your computer (it probably needs a restart anyway). Throw the TV out the window. In silence and stillness—things so very alien to our daily mundane lives—can you begin to remember what brought you here in the first place, and what still sings in the deep of your mind, drawing you to return.

• Read. Read pagan blogs and news sites to get a bead on what’s happening out there. Read books, old and new. Dig out some of those old favorites that so intrigued and inspired you in the beginning. Read historical and sociological studies of the Craft and contemplate your place within that milieu. Read magickal and occult-themed fiction (see my Recommended reading page for some ideas) and consider the themes presented.

• Study. Grab a how-to like Buckland’s Big Blue (or Huson or Cunningham or Roderick or Ravenwolf) and start working your way through it. Resist the part of you that will sneer at such basic fare, just as you must resist the part of you that’s already telling you that there’s no point to any of this, that you don’t even need the Craft, that it’s all bullshit, whatever; that’s outside programming that you’ve internalized over years of stress and sorrow and struggle, and it serves no positive purpose in your life. Remember that your spiritual and/or magickal practice once served you well before things came along to distract you, before other people worked their mischief to dissuade you. Know that you can get back what you’ve lost or given away or squandered or had stolen, but know also that it won’t come without work.

• Start over slowly. Just as my body had become unaccustomed to the work of skating, and getting all the parts to align properly was frustrating and painful at first, the other parts of me are fighting the painful process of starting over with spiritual discipline. It’s like moving through molasses, fighting a current uphill, pick your metaphor; but it’s worth the struggle, worth the pain, worth the fight, when you remember what you gained from it before: purpose, accomplishment, satisfaction, excitement, power, peace, knowledge, balance, etc.

• Practice. Thinking about skating and reading about skating is inspiring and useful, but I have to actually physically skate in order to make progress. Go back to step one above: Do something! It doesn’t have to be terribly complex; the simpler you start, the less daunting it will be, and the less likely you’ll be to cave in to those seductive voices telling you to junk it all and go back to dicking around on Facebook (believe me, I know those voices all too well). Start small, and build upon it. Develop your practice. Add in disciplines. Strengthen yourself incrementally.

I'm not saying it will be easy and fun (although sometimes, it will certainly be one or both of these things); there will be struggle and stress and you'll hate it and fight yourself and want to quit, but if you keep with it, I promise you that you will start to see and feel results within a short while. Try to cultivate what in Zen Buddhism is called shoshin, "beginner's mind." Look within and find that feeling again, that sense of wonder and mystery and excitement that first led you to this practice in the first place. Open to it, nurture it, and see where it can take you this time; it may lead you to places you'd never even considered the first time around.

Soon.

Candles in the Darkness

You may have noticed that I fell mostly silent following Halloween. The darkness without and the darkness within sort of coincided this year, leaving me with little to write about, a lack of inspiration, a lack of motivation. Mundane circumstances started overwhelming me, once the busy October season was past; and while I know damned well that it's past time for me to witch up (hat tip to Evn for the phrase) and get on with it, well, sometimes it's task enough just to get up and put on actual clothing, let alone figure out how to go about restructuring your entire life midway through.

So I've spent the dark time between Halloween and the solstice in a sort of hibernation, accomplishing little, idling, as it were, waiting for the light to change. The things providing light at the moment are puny at best and hard to see by, but the fact that I'm even here posting this may be indicative of the necessary internal shift that will start the upward momentum. (Despite my apparent inability to even string together a cogent analogy...) I'm one who doesn't like to leap without looking, who likes to have a plan in hand before making a move. I am at least mildly hopeful that it's almost time to begin.