Brigid’s Ritual

Also called Imbolc or Candlemas, Brigid is my favorite holiday. It honors Brigid, Celtic Goddess of smith craft, fire, and poetry. She was my first patron. Our ritual involves a pilgrimage to a well, and pledges –but first things first. We adorn quarter altars in the four directions, light candles, and clear the area with salt water (earth and water) and incense (fire and air). A short walk through the woods away from the main circle, the Druid circle awaits –itself cleared and readied with a cauldron in the center. Candles twinkle as the sun sets. We call in the quarter powers, invite Brigid to join us, and now it’s my turn to begin the journey to the well by myself. The path winds over past the iron bench at the crossroads. I see the face of the Green Man, barely visible in the dusk dark, engraved in a rock. Here the path takes a sharp turn behind a pine tree. The Druid circle opens up before me as I enter from the north. Oak trees and shortleaf pines surround the circle, and large limestones gleam white as they mark the quarters. I sit on a rock at the center, facing the cauldron, which is now a well with floating candles dancing amidst fresh picked purple crocuses. Vanilla incense fills the air, the candles flicker happily on the water. It’s a moment I look forward to all year –when I can sit here in the woods, in this magic spot, and talk to Brigid. To begin, we review last year’s pledges, then I speak about vows for the coming year. It’s an intimate and honest evaluation, and a reset for the months ahead.

I explain that I intend to stand balanced, aware, and active in 2024, in the face of the most significant election of my lifetime. Americans will decide whether we want democracy or Christian nationalism. I share about some of the actions I may take –an underground banned book network, providing transportation for any woman who needs to get abortion care in Kansas, working the polls on election day. I ask Brigid for strength to keep my wits and not succumb to fear or despair.

In the past politics would not take center stage in the expression or observance of my spiritual path. During the course of my life I have engaged with witches, Wiccans, Asatru, Odinists, and Druids. Like Protestant denominations, we have conservative and liberal factions. I was always versatile. In San Fransisco I avoided the far left new-age pagans because they had no rules or commitment to a particular course. But I loved my witches’ coven where we sang together in rituals, practiced kitchen magic over pots of stew, and provided a structure for study, advancement, and initiation. It was here I began volunteering in prisons as a visiting chaplain. I created Wiccan rituals for young women behind bars. It was joyful and eye-opening. As the prison experience grew to include men and higher security units in the federal system I moved into conducting Asatru and Odinist rituals. Some of these men were gang members with white nationalist beliefs. I shared spiritual and emotional tools and got along well with everyone. Gang members should be allowed to observe their religious holidays just as anyone else. The white power movement never interested me, and nobody spoke about blowing up buildings or shooting anyone. My role as a chaplain was to genuinely show up for human beings, not judge the uniforms and numbers. Politics –even nationalist politics– didn’t matter. Politics was not my focus — neither theirs nor mine. By then I had moved to Tennessee and joined a local Asatru group. The current and former military members and conservatives in that group didn’t bother me. Indeed, from west coast witches to free-world Asatru to Odinists in prisons, I made friends across the spectrum and we all learned a lot. This was over 20 years ago. I have long since retired from prison work and the politics of the country now render ideology impossible to ignore.

Here in 2024 normal times are like a fog horn, forlorn and unseen in the distance. I live in Arkansas now. I’m a Druid, a polytheist, and a witch. My partner and I enjoy our private rituals and celebrations. We used to visit with the Asatru group for Summer Solstice, but not anymore. I can’t find the motivation to break bread with the Maga cult members who believe convicted January 6 insurrectionists are hostages in their jail cells. Nationalists are mainstream Republicans now, no longer on the fringes of society. Republicans are no longer conservative. True conservatives want to conserve the constitution and have locked arms with people on the left who believe in democracy. Right and left have no meaning anymore in the face of the fascist threat. The world has changed profoundly since my experience in prisons.

I tell Brigid I want to embark on a writing project for the year. I want to combine a Druid sensibility and practice with action and write about it in the coming months leading up to the election and beyond. In the before-times, this melding of the spiritual and the political was rare. Now it feels necessary. How can I, a polytheist who believes in feminine and masculine divine, turn a blind eye to women bleeding out in emergency rooms across red states? Women and their doctors don’t have control anymore –only the Christian nationalist legislators can decide abortion access. In Republican states where abortion is illegal, most have no exceptions for rape or incest. In Idaho not even the mother’s life matters. In these red states with no exceptions, almost 65,000 pregnancies from rape have occurred since Roe fell –26,000 in Texas alone. Travel restrictions for pregnant women have sprung up in Texas municipalities. Bounty hunter laws reward snitches who tell on doctors and women who end pregnancies. Some of these red state legislators are looking at tracking women’s periods, and investigating miscarriages. A few have asked for citizen medical records from providers outside the state. In Missouri legislation is on the table to apply the death penalty to women who get abortions. It’s a nightmare.

Speaking of the death penalty, Alabama recently executed a prisoner via nitrogen hypoxia. Death by nitrogen gas. The American Veterinary Medical Association deemed nitrogen hypoxia too inhumane for animal euthanasia. Yet there he was, a Maga on TV, touting a successful new way to kill convicts and promising a bright future for the death penalty across red America. He left out that the nitrogen hypoxia experiment lasted 22 minutes. It was tortuous. I don’t think he cared.

One of the most stunning achievements of doublethink (see 1984, by George Orwell) is ascribing the term pro-life to fundamentalist Christians. Executions and forced births are anything but pro-life. Christian nationalists care about power and control. That’s it. Two plus two does not equal five, and we were never eternally at war with either Oceania or Eurasia.

I want to write and shout for democracy, truth, and genuine spirituality, which should inspire us to seek love, beauty, and happiness for sentient beings –including planet earth herself.

My tears now blur the lights in Brigid’s well. The malice and cruelty I have spoken about breaks my heart. I continue with my pledges, and end with hope of comfort and justice for victims of barbarity, corruption, violence, and lies.

I vow to return in 2025 before Brigid’s well with a year of writing about each of the eight Druid holidays, the world of spirits, and the truth about rising autocratic theocracy and the struggle against it.

I leave the well, touching the bright standing stone at the exit. Darkness is now complete. My partner waits at the bench at the crossroads. I sit next to him for a few minutes in companionable silence. Then he walks off to the well and I find myself alone in the big circle, lighter and more clear. I’m determined to meet these next few seasons with poise, and to write about my small contributions to the unfolding events ahead.

A neuroscientist I follow on social media suggests we look forward to small things every day to raise dopamine levels. I look forward to morning coffee and meditation, and my visits to the spirit grove. What do you look forward to, friends, and what will you do for democracy?

Go well, and thank you for spending time with me,

Laurel Owen, February 2024

Survive the Darkness

Hidden in the Ozark mountains of Arkansas, an impossible distance from any interstate, a little town with curving streets and Victorian houses sits —nestled in the hills like a treasure on a ley line. Since before the white settlers, the magic and grace of this valley moved native tribes to declare it a war-free zone. After whites arrived the town became a haven for entrepeneurs and artists. Sick people swarmed from around the country to cure their Scrofulla and other 19th century ailments in the cold springs. I live in this town in the year 2025, and we continue to be a place of peace, a haven for artists and LGBTQ —and a nexus of resistance in a deep red state.

Our group of activists meet weekly at a local restaurant. We plan rallies and actions, share news on various fronts in the opposition, and listen to speakers talk about go-bags, online safety at protests, and mental health. On the last hot day of summer we took a break to conduct a healing ritual for ourselves. First we wrote what makes us sad and angry on paper. Then we each threw our papers on a bon fire. As the fire transformed our despair we shouted and cried as we shared. From kidnappings by masked federal police to the tearing down of women’s rights, to crack downs on free speech —we let it rip. One transman said, “I’m disgusted! This is not America!” When everyone was done, we shared again, this time personal successes, good news from the opposition. And we blew bubbles into the warm night air, filling the void of fury and sadness with joy, songs, laughter, and hope.

People ask me: ‘How are you doing with all this?’ By ‘all this’ they mean the cruelty and abject corruption of Christian nationalist autocracy, and the abusive sociopath in the White House. I have a three-pronged coping strategy. First, I tether myself to truth whenever possible. Second, I participate in creative non-violent resisitance. Finally, I engage in daily rituals that slow my heart, ground me, and allow me to conjure the will to beat back this madness. We will live through this, but the hard work is to stay sane, safe, and healthy —and resist.

As far as truth, you have to wade through the muck to find the actual sink holes. Disinformation and propaganda get catapulted at us every day. Most of it? — hot air, aimed at discouraging us. The regime means to break our spirits with waves of horror and drama. But sometimes the news is malevolent and worthy of attention. For instance, ‘trans extremist ideology’ does not exist. It’s a lie. Since the beginning of time, two-spirit people show up in all races and levels of society. From 2013-2023 there were 5,748 mass shootings in the US. Five of those shooters were trans. Most shooters, in fact, were young straight white men. A study showing that far-right violence is much more prevalent than far-left violence quietly disappeared from a government website. Instead of citing evidence to find solutions to gun violence, the Heritage Foundation (writers of the Christian nationalist manifesto Project 2025) use violence to scapegoat trans people and quell dissent on the left. They even have an acronym: TIVE, which means ‘trans ideology-inspired violent extremism.’ If you are a trans activist, or advocate for trans people —you are now an extremist. Anyone who believes in equality and rights for all people, including trans, and willing to say it outloud —is an extremist. That includes most of us on the left. Indeed, the left is an enemy under the ‘antifa’ (anti-fascist) label. Whomever the trump government decides is ‘antifa’ –is now considered a violent domestic extremist. After every incident of mass shooting or political murder the regime’s propagandists rush out to shower the airwaves, screaming about trans left radical violence —even before we know the motive or background of the shooter. They plant the seed in the gullible trump base. The cult members get worked up. The next thing you know trans people receive death threats. Maga leaders punch down, as bullies do, they lie about violence, and pit ignorant Americans against vulnerable Americans. It’s easier to control people that way. Underneath all the blame and finger pointing the maga coop against democracy marches on, undetected for about 35% of US citizens. Or maybe that 35% just doesn’t care. In my red state, every trans and queer person I know has a go-bag packed and ready. The prospect of fleeing to a blue state or out of the country is real. The lefties are not far behind.

Because of the national tragedy of LGBTQ bullying, our group decided to perform a direct action in the thick of the night. In solidarity with the Pulse Nightclub chalking in Orlando, groups across the country are painting rainbow colors in crosswalks and on sidewalks. The Pulse Nightclub was an LGBTQ club, and the scene of a mass shooting. Forty nine people were killed. A rainbow colored crosswalk just outside the club memorialized the victims. Governor DeSantis ordered black and grey paint to cover the rainbow. He even installed cops overnight to guard so nobody would repaint with bright colors. Thus began the chalking, first on the sidewalks around Pulse, then across the country. Here in our town we joined the movement. On the morning after, the passers-by noticed stenciled footprints in red, purple, and orange in the street downtown, leading from one radiant chalk-painted crosswalk to another. Each bore the name of an individual victim or a public landmark of LGBTQ hate crimes: Nex Benedict, Harvey Milk, Q Club, Stonewall, Matthew Shepard, and Pulse.

Finally, to show up genuinely in this moment, in our descent into theocratic despotism, requires daily connection with the beauty of life. It’s the bridge to sanity and survival. Every morning I visit with a crow family on my four mile walk. They fly so close to me I can hear the air in their feathers. It’s not just about my yummy peanuts, either. They are friends, with names and quirks and individual caws. In the before-times this lovely dawn ritual was a lifestyle choice. Now I depend on it —the welcome kinship with crows, the deep breaths, the hope of a new day breaking on the horizon. I’m fighting for more than human friends. I’m fighting for my country and the planet. We just celebrated Autumnal Equinox, and now face the darkest time of the year. But I will not give in to the existential darkness of Christian nationalism. I hope you won’t, either.

Keep up the fight for democracy, and let me know what you’re doing,

Laurel Owen, October 2025

Notes: I intentionally did not capitalize trump’s name. I can’t summon the respect.

Also, I do not use AI in my writing.

Tornadoes and Political Menace

Here in Kentucky spring has unearthed a 17-year cicada brood. The bugs make an otherworldly droning buzz around my aunt and uncle’s house deep in the woods. After a night of tornadoes, it sounds like a siren coming from the trees, a signal of doom after the trauma over night.

I’m wrong about the cicadas, of course. They’re probably just trying to mate. Their bizarre hum becomes the background music to the malevolence of the current regime in the US. The normal visceral reaction to violent storms is enhanced by the current politics of cruelty and ignorance. Suddenly I find myself hearing impending catastrophe in the songs of cicadas. I’m glad I caught myself, but I come by it honestly.

Sadistic policies, like disappearing brown people off the street and whisking them off without due process to detention centers or third world gulags –are aimed at quelling dissent through fear. Brown people are the test cases. Next it could be anyone who opposes trump. Threats to withhold necessary government protections, like severe weather alerts and emergency management keep us in a state of insecurity. Will federal relief come to Kentucky? Or is the Democratic governor going to be turned down for disaster funds? Wickedness is the point. A populace on edge and unsure of tomorrow feeds the power of fascists. Malice becomes the stasis, and a known liar decides what’s true and false. It’s dizzying and demoralizing. We are more malleable when we question our own critical thinking, even our sanity. Here is the hard truth: a rolling nightmare is wreaking havoc across our country. Most of us agree that the executive branch and an entire political party has been captured by a freak with a low IQ and a black heart.

As I ponder all this, I realize a cool and bright spring day has graced us. We clean up felled trees and pack food in coolers, waiting for the electricity to be restored. The wind chimes and birdsongs almost drown out the ethereal echo of the cicadas. Each spring arrives like a new gift –no matter how many seasons you live to see. Life emphatically and joyfully regenerates, and the multiverse tilts towards goodness. The cycles of nature, the earth’s creatures –even rocks –have a beginning and an end. Committing fully to each day, to letting experiences, smells and sounds touch us –this helps keep us grounded. Weathering storms requires vigilance. We need a plan, a place to hide if necessary. We should identify vulnerable people and check on them. We survive disaster and the maga death cult by paying attention and taking steps to protect and defend ourselves. We will get through it. Denial, self doubt, and fear are the only true enemies, because they lead to inaction.

Life is as wild and unpredictable as a crow, as cyclical as cicada broods, and as lovely as spring. This rich complex earthly life is worth fighting for.

I will continue to write, to resist and oppose this bumbling moronic tyranny.

We all have 1st Amendment rights. Let’s use them. We are called upon right now to survive our collective night of storms. Attend rallies. Call representatives. Write, if that’s your thing. Talk to people. Stand up to maga bullies. We can defeat the mad king, his obsequious toadies, and his unleashed cruelty. The nightmare will be over when most of us say no. Loudly.

Meanwhile, enjoy the exuberant gift of every season under the sun. And remember that all things change and come to an end. Impermanence is our ally. If we stay engaged, and do our part –without fear –spring morning will come again to our democracy.

Laurel Owen, May 2025

This was a sign my aunt and uncle attached to their mailbox during the No Kings national protest. They’re in their 80’s and could not find a local event.

Reckoning with Current Events at the Equinox

Part 1
Malevolence hovers over the US. The current president and his toadies surely appear on the anti-social spectrum. Indeed, their actions define evil —lying, grabbing power and money, hurting people without regard. They bully whoever gets in their way, and it’s scaring people. The Republican Party has been overthrown, and a few Democrats have submitted. Law firms, media companies, several universities, and the tech industry have capitulated. For regular citizens the message is clear: Want your social security check? —shut up. Want your federal job? —then pledge loyalty. Want your savings account? —don’t make waves. As for green card or student visa holders, beware of writing an op-ed piece the regime disagrees with. Masked goons may whisk you away in an unmarked car. It happened to a Fulbright scholar at Tufts. What about the gay Venezuelan barber who was here legally as a refugee? —He was last seen in a gulag in El Salvador, crying for his mother as they shaved his head. He received no due process and was flown to central America with other Venezuelans. The government claims gang membership. We don’t know. Nobody had a hearing.

As deportations and bullying occur, we face weekly fresh hell in the form of executive orders. Included in the mean spirited decrees are plans to disenfranchise people, especially women, harvest trees on 280 million acres of public land, and abolish diversity, equity, and inclusion. Non-white, LGBTQ, and female figures in military history were erased from pentagon data bases. Non-white and female military leaders have been fired, transsexual soldiers tossed out. Courts are ruling against Trump, but courts are slow and lumbering. The constant barrage of one horrible edict after another makes us want to bury our heads in the sand.

Big Balls deserves a mention. He’s a hacker with criminal connections, an Elon Musk hire who now holds our social security numbers and banking information. He’s one of the young men marching from one federal institution to the next, firing air traffic controllers, social security personnel, national park rangers, educators, veterans and others. The first institutions to fall were obstacles to Elon’s businesses. Schedule F of Project 2025 calls for firing civil servants in government, to be replaced by Trump loyalists. It appears loyalty is only one factor in thousands of people losing their jobs, though. Musk’s greed is another.

Decent, sane Americans have to fight impending doom feelings. We’re traumatized. How do we hang on to hope when a plurality of Americans actually voted for a psychopath and his fascist overhaul? Did they really not know any better? How do we survive this incessant madness and corruption?

First of all, ridicule these nationalist freaks if you can. A venerable friend of mine, a former activist and back to earth hippy, calls the maga movement “low vibrational.” I love that. It rolls off the tongue and tickles my funny bone every time. Can you think of a better description of Margery Greene?

Second, watch them stumble. As scary as Christian nationalism is, the delivery so far looks like an exercise in kakistocracy —a government run by fools. Another friend, an older gay man, says, “These are inept bumbling idiots and this whole thing will implode. Resistance is rising.” Wait them out and watch them sink.

Finally, stand up. Do something. It helps the mental state. We need every person to participate, even in small ways. Call representatives. Use the First Ammendment —speak the truth. Attend rallies. Protest in whatever way you can. Be brave.

And remember to be kind to yourself. Take time out to dance, cook a delicious meal, read a novel, write in a journal. Commune with nature. Talk to whatever gods you talk to. Engage in meaningful conversations. Visit a national park, sleep well. Whatever makes you whole. The fascists win when we freeze up in fear. In fact, they are counting on it. Take care of your life. It’s part of the opposition.

To that end, I want to share our Equinox ritual. My Druid path keeps me alligned with the seasons and cycles and reminds me why I love life. It’s a sensual earth-based practice. Let me know what grounds you in these dark times if you like. Without further ado, I bring you—

Part 2
The First Day of Spring, 2025

The first blooms have arrived —dogwoods, purple redbuds, pink and white cherry trees. Delightful! It’s the Spring Equinox, the balance of day and night. My partner and I have set up four circles in the woods. Each circle represents an element —north, east, south, and west. A path leading from one circle to the next meanders through the giant pines and oaks. At the northern edge of each circle a candle and an altar cloth mark each space brightly.

Just before dusk, we invite the four quarters and spirit center to lend us wisdom. We call on gods and goddesses, old friends and spring deities. Then we go our separate ways, each on a private journey to find equilibrium within. At the end we will meet at our iron bench with its knotwork designs, the designated spirit center.

I begin in the east, the element of air. Rational thinking rules here, an important ally. The lies and distractions hurled at us from the aspiring dictator make us dizzy and disoriented. I ask for clarity, and the ability to sift through falsehood. Let me arrive at truth. Likewise, let me take a breath before grasping at hyperbole or wishful thinking when my ear goes to ground for better news.

Next I venture to the south, the element of fire. Here motivations come into focus. As the opposition ramps up, and I make my voice heard in rallies, writings, and conversations, the danger increases. I ask for the courage to stand up to bullies.

The element of water in the west represents emotion, the ebbs and flows of life. May I be present with fear of the unknown, and fight for democracy and freedom in spite of it.

Gratitude fills my heart in the north, the element of earthly wonders. How lucky we are to partake in this candle lit magic in our woods. I remind myself to step with decency and respect, with the intention of non-violence. Protest is still legal. It’s a constitutional right. If we are non-violent it’s harder for Trump to declare martial law, send goons to bash our heads or disappear us. May I always remember this moment of peace at the north altar.

Finally my partner and I sit down on the bench at the center. Around us the candles flicker through the trees. It’s near dark now. We talk about our pilgrimages through the quarters. In balancing the elemental forces within, we can walk back to our daily lives, poised to meet the challenge of our time.

As we leave I pick up a crow feather. It’s an omen for good memory, hard-won trust, intelligent choices, and survival. May democracy in the US live to see its 250th birthday. May we prevail —with the sharp eyes and wit of the crow.

Happy Equinox

Laurel Owen, March 2025

Druid Magic at Imbolc —It’s Political

Brigid’s Ritual, Part 16

Giant Pines reach like a woodland cathedral to the sky. Decorative quarter candles match the bright blues, reds, and greens of the altar cloths. From our ridge we sit on my partner’s handmade iron bench at a crossing of paths in the woods, between circles. In silence we enjoy the view of an orange sunset through the trees.

Tonight is Imbolc. Once again we approach the goddess Brigid to review last year’s pledges, and make promises for the coming year. It’s a reset I look forward to, a conversation about goals with a wise and ancient goddess. From our perch on the bench I spot the small circle and Brigid’s well –a cauldron filled with water and floating candles, which beckon and flicker.

The altar cloths are still visible in the dark as we cross the entrance gate. With perfect love and trust, so we enter. We call the powers of East, South, West, and North, and invite Brigid to join us.

It’s my time, at last. I make the pilgrimage alone to the well and sit beside it. And I can’t hold back –I bring my accomplishment to the goddess in one big excited stream of words. The writing project I call “Brigid’s Ritual” is complete. Last Imbolc, facing an historic year, I made an oath to capture current events with a Druid sensibility. The essays, verse, and memoirs sustained and grounded me through the tumultuous months and a tragic election –all through the lens of solstices, equinoxes, and celebrations in-between.

I bore witness, and will continue to do so. It’s part of my opposition. Truth in the time of authoritarian rule is an increasingly rare and necessary commodity. Fact-checkers and righteous journalists are not the only ones who bear the torch of integrity. Our own personal honor matters too –spiritual and emotional truth.

Yes, we need to speak out when fascists rewrite history. The January 6th insurrectionists have been unleashed from their prison cells. Right now they lurk as a small personal army –beholden to no one but the dictator. Federal law enforcement officers, involved in bringing these marauders of the Capitol to justice over the past four years –they are in the process of being purged from the FBI. And now the newly freed thugs have promised retribution on the officers. All because the psychopath in charge –a felon himself –has declared January 6th convictions a national disgrace. Let us never forget the Trump mob of January 6, 2021 –shitting in the halls, breaking and stealing, threatening to kill people, and beating cops with flag poles, baseball bats, and tasers.

Equally important are the experiences of decent Americans trying to grapple with a rogue, lawless president. Here is my contribution: Love is the basis of Druidry. That love extends to trees, deities, people, animals, lands and –yes –democracy. Strength lay in showing up authentically, with non-violent intent, and bearing witness. So I cry and dance and send protection for the vulnerable out into the multiverse. And I tell Brigid that I will keep writing about Druid magic –juxtaposed against a cruel kakistocracy. I will play music, working toward a pro-democracy concert. I will fight for my country with the best I can muster –artistically, spiritually, and on the ground.

I make my way back to the path and head for the bench in the dark –with only candles to light my way. My partner takes his turn at the well. Later we sit around a fire and toast Brigid, our beloved dead, and hopes for the future. It does our hearts good to find roots and perseverance in the woods, at the well of the goddess of inspiration, poetry, and smith-craft. May we forge a better country.

Happy Imbolc.

Laurel Owen, February 2025

The Longest Night

Brigid’s Ritual, Part 15

Like many Americans, we faced the holidays with dread. A cad, a villain –a con artist –won enough votes to get sworn in as president of the US on January 20th. Mid-winter celebration would, I hoped, grant a respite from the constant headache since the election. The fact that a little less than half of the American electorate proved themselves shortsighted, misinformed –and maybe just flat stupid –gripped my head like a vice. What a tragedy. On good advice, we consciously decided to enjoy gifts and lights, to put up our ornament tree –to spend mental health time. It helped. I thought of Winter Solstice 2024 as the first act of opposition: I refused to let authoritarian blow hards suck up all the love and joy in my heart. My headache went away. Taking action, no matter how small, heals despair and alarm.

The longest night, therefore, began with the lighting of the Solstice candle just before sunset. I walked from room to room, imagining the small light sustaining us until dawn –the birth of the sun. From the house my partner and I proceeded, candle in hand, along path through the woods to our circle, blessing the space for ritual ahead.

At dusk, among the giant Pines and Oaks, we affirmed our love and trust at the entrance near the north altar. Then we walked into a bright center surrounded by soft candle lights in all four quarters –all lit by the original Solstice candle. After inviting the powers of east, south, west, and north, I asked Brigid, my oldest friend and patron Goddess, to join us. Her wisdom and sense of humor has kept me on a sensible path for decades. The Oak King, presiding over the longer days ahead, arrived by request, as did Odin and Balder.

Oaths taken on the Winter Solstice set intention for the near future. My oath had three tiers, and I spoke them out loud. First, I committed to mental and emotional health. It does nobody any good to prematurely bequeath space in the mind to worst case scenarios. As cruel people abuse power and inflict damage, I will deal with it. I won’t, however, hang onto every opinion and prophecy on social media ahead of time. Capitulation takes many forms, and doom forecasting is one way to obey in advance. it will take your breath away. Second, I stated my aspiration to seek community and support. For instance, a young man here in town manages a martial arts studio. He told me he’s interested in Druidry, and that he wants the studio to be a hub for communication and fresh ideas –a beacon for a better world. Local friendships will be important. Finally, I vowed to eventually contribute to the opposition in a broader sense. Options could include marches, voting drives, collecting signatures for ballot measures, and helping vulnerable people. Recently a woman I know expressed fear she might be deported. She is a US citizen, a retired officer in the military with a Spanish last name –her parents were Puerto Rican. I already told her we have a guest room.

My partner made a similar oath, with emphasis on maintaining our home, Rosemund Haven –with her pathways in the woods, circles with limestone markers in the quarters, the charming old house, and our yard full of bird feeders and uncommon trees.

After releasing the guardians of west, south, east, and north, we bid farewell to the gods and goddesses present. Then we wandered up to our fire pit beside the house and built a fire. The ritual, our oaths, the soothing crackling flames –all this gave us a blessed night free of heavy hearts and nausea. We have to believe the country can withstand the next four years. Journalists willing to state facts, politicians brave enough to stand up to threats –and people like you and me –it’s up to us. We are still endowed with rights of free speech and freedom of religion. Minority rule only works if we belly up, lie for the dictator, and give away our power. We lose if we allow corrupt billionaires, criminal charlatans, and Christian nationalists to define normal, rewrite history, and impose fear-based self censorship.

It may feel like the Day of the Orc has arrived. But I choose to embrace Samwise Gamgee’s wisdom instead: “…There’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for.” indeed. Let’s gather our better natures, our love of freedom, our diverse spiritual paths, and our shared belief in democracy and the rule of law and fight –preferably without violence –for our world.

Happy Solstice and New Year!

Laurel Owen, January 2025

Well Being to Share

Brigid’s Ritual, Part 14

Morning meditation, the road to my spirit world
Where wisdom and kinship await —
Ariel, appearing as a small human woman
Greets me at the kitchen table,
In the room of healing potions,
Hanging bundles of dried plants,
My mind —chaotic with dread and sadness —
Reveals truth without words,
A sexual predator, voted in —
Ushering a pack of liars, grifters,
A kakistocracy of criminals,
The laws broken, the press bending,
Spineless politicians bowing
To mean-spirited bullies
Who plan to override the democracy
They hate —
Ariel takes my hand and leads me
To the next room with its French window
Where we wait for dawn, for hope —
Now delicate twinkling white lights dance
Along the walls,
And I sit in front of a fire place,
The warmth of the flames and the lights
Begin to fill my body
With a brighter, softer aspect — the alarm recedes —
Finding balance ahead of dark times
Means showing up early for the opposition,
Starting from a place I choose,
Grounded —
Refusing to obey —joy and love
Protected, nourished —
The shade of fascism feeds on hopelessness,
Fear and isolation in the dark —
Ariel reminds me to celebrate Yule,
The glow of fire,
The shimmer of lights everywhere,
A cozy feeling —
Authentic, not forced,
Well being to share —
A pot of tea, conversation, tears, smiles, gifts
With my family and friends,
And out into the world I send that love —
For all of us, the animals,
The land,
For earth herself.

Laurel Owen, December 2024

Addendum to Rain and Ghosts

The day after I wrote Rain and Ghosts On All Hallow’s Eve, voters in the United States chose Trump for president. They also gave him a senate. For those of us in the pro-democracy coalition, this is devastating. The most painful part is knowing that our fellow Americans, in a show of breathtaking stupidity and mean-spiritedness, preferred a grifting, convicted felon and sexual predator over a bright, articulate woman of color. She had experience as a leader and ideas that would benefit everyone –even those who would not vote for her. Misogyny clearly runs deeper than we imagined. Disinformation triumphed. Americans chose fascism over compassion and rational government. Now we brace for Project 2025 and Christian nationalist policies. Dark times will be upon us. I will be there for the resistance –eventually. First I will rest, meditate, walk, winterize the house, talk with friends and family, hang out with my dogs. I will cry. We should all tend to our mental health and prepare. Remember this: fascists count on despair and defeatism. I hope you will join me in taking a break. Find your community. Because after January 20th, 2025 we will need to gather our courage, love, and wits to protect vulnerable people, the planet, and our very democracy.

Rain and Ghosts On All Hallow’s Eve

Brigid’s Ritual, Part 13

After months of endless dry sunny days and no rain to speak of, the clouds finally break for All Hallow’s Eve. The rain pours down on the back porch roof, and thunder rumbles in the distance as we light candles and incense in preparation. The flickering lights feel cozy with the rain and darkness all around. We sit on cushions with the west quarter candle between us. West represents fall, the dark time of the year, the emotions and undercurrents in life, and the mysteries we can’t always see or touch.

After inviting the presence of our patron Gods and Goddesses, we begin speaking the names of recent dead –starting with my partner’s father, and Ari, my familiar. In our house animals count as family, thus cherished dead. From there, we include famous dead people from history –Joan of Arc or Elizabeth 1, for instance. Sometimes we pay respects to groups of people –the witches tortured and burned during the Renaissance, the innocent victims of WW11, the Covid dead, or Ukranians today in the war with Russia. And every year I say “I’m sorry” to the millions of animals who live and die in slaughterhouses, and to abandoned euthanized pets in shelters across the country. I love this holiday, for the opportunity to voice sorrow for casualties of violence and cruelty. This year I honor the women who have died from sepsis and organ failure as a result of the abortion bans in red states.

We ask our own ancestors to help us through the days and months ahead. Tomorrow our country will choose a door. One door leads to a dystopia so awful I can’t stand to rent out space to it in my mind. The other door I fervently hope for. Progress, expanded rights, the separation of church and state, freedom and constitutional democracy –this is the only reasonable choice. Our first woman president will lead us through the portal to a better United States.

When we choose the better door, however, we will surely face a backlash from maga cultists. As the specter of white male rule dissipates before their eyes, and as their leaders refuse to concede and scream about rigged elections –the mages will not go gracefully. We ask our beloved dead to guide us in the troubled days and months ahead.

Finally we exchange readings. The dead can speak to us through the Tarot or the Runes as they wish. My partner casts four Runes for me, and I will share this message from the beyond: after the chaos will be joy. I smile. We survived the civil war, the America First movement of the 1930’s, the McCarthy Era of the 1950’s, the John Birch Society in the 60’s, and now –Gods willing –we will prevail over Christian nationalists.

We thank the Gods and Goddesses, the ancestors and deserving dead, and we blow out the candles. Tomorrow is a big day, working the polls from dawn to dark and joining friends for a watch party at a local bar afterwards. I’m ready now. The rain and thunder, and the ritual of including the dead and their wisdom with life’s challenges today –these things nourish and recharge my spirit.

Laurel Owen, November 2024

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Perpective

Brigid’s Ritual, Part 12

For simple, beautiful contentment
I find the spirit world --
A warm mug of coffee
Before dawn, the promise of sunrise
Imminent --sounds of leaves rustling
In the wind, carrying the smell of fall,
Companionable silence with Ariel
As a small fire crackles between us
Under a rock overhang --the tops of hardwoods
And conifers barely visible
From our perch on the mountain
As we await first light --
Now my words tumble intuitively,
Not fixed by grammar, but fluid --
I speak of hope on the brink
Of history made by a choice 
Facing my countrymen and women --
If the shallow nihilism of fanatics prevail
The entire world could spin 
At a reckless tilt --off kilter --
Governed by lies, cruelty, a tyranny of stupid --
Yet here, in the soft glow of fire light,
My beloved guide beside me,
Non-linear time allows perspective --
A gathering of strength and wisdom --
And as daybreak arrives, with it a rush of longing
And trust in kindness,
A vision for a better life for all --
I am fully committed in this moment.

Laurel Owen, October 2024

Medicine for Dark Times, The Autumn Equinox

Brigid’s Ritual, Part 11

I used to suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, SAD for short. Between the Autumn Equinox and All Hallow’s Eve, anxiety and depression took over. The prospect of upcoming holidays full of twinkling lights, family gatherings, presents, joy, and bonding –I dreaded the loneliness and cried.

One Yuletide I ended up at my doctor’s office, barely functional. Wisely, she checked my Vitamin D level and found it abysmally low. Now, with 2000 IU of Vitamin D3 each day I no longer deal with SAD.

This year, however, as we contemplated the balance of night and day –the Autumnal Equinox, sadness closed in on us. My familiar, Ari the dog, died two days before the ritual. Two weeks before, right about the time we got Ari’s terminal diagnosis –at the Harvest Moon, we found out our magic circles in the woods were smack in the middle of an old wagon trail from another century. Not our property. Someone with landlocked acreage needed an easement. The surveyor delivered the bad news the same day the veterinarian pronounced the word lymphoma.

It’s a bad day for a Druid when your familiar is dying and your sacred ritual space has been surveyed for a road.

I persevered by creating two new circles, just like we had before, with a path in between –this time within our property lines. The action of clearing leaves and pine needles amongst the oaks and giant conifers helped heal me. I actively, physically, addressed the loss, determined to create a spiritual home in the woods. Ari walked down with me to the new area, dedicated to him, the day before he died. A blessing.

This became the model for our Equinox. What rational and beneficial actions aid in the face of tragedy and adversity?

At dawn, the moment of the Equinox, my partner and I lit candles in the North, East, South, and West. We welcomed the four quarters, then called upon our favorite gods and goddesses. A cauldron sat in the middle of the circle with three candles inside, burning brightly. We took turns writing three things on a piece of paper. First, a problem –personal or worldly– to grapple with. Second, the best possible outcome we could imagine. Finally, and most importantly, we wrote the sane behavior we might employ to move us through the grief or uphill climb at hand. Then we burned the paper. The transforming power of fire set our intentions out in the multiverse. A measure of hope. A pebble tossed in a lake to make waves.

For my turn I wrote, “Christian nationalism rising.” Indeed, US democracy is in danger. A dark movement, maga, has taken control of the conservative party. Wealthy backers believe women should not get to choose when –or with whom –they start families. Many of these fascists believe women should not vote. A number of them state that homosexuals and heretics should be executed. Maga politicians, from the presidential candidate down to insurrectionists in congress, engage in lying beyond belief or disbelief. The mission is to obfuscate, confuse, and control. The uneducated and fearful cling to the lies, desperate to matter, to be part of a significant movement. Revolution. Tearing down the government. Best case scenario? –Vote all maga republicans back to the woodwork with the other fringies nobody pays any mind to. They are a minority, after all. And what would be my levelheaded actions to thwart this descent into theocracy? I’ll write postcards to independent voters. I will work the polls for the election. A banned book network is in the planning stages as we watch Arkansas’ banned book law make its way through the courts. My bumpersticker provides a website for abortion access out of state, and it identifies me as a safe space for people needing reproductive care. And I continue to write this series, Brigid’s Ritual, to impress on all readers the urgency of this moment.

It felt as healthy as Vitamin D3 to burn that piece of paper. To choose not to give into despair.

We ended the ritual by walking the path through our woods to the smaller Druid circle. The candles flickered in the morning light from the four quarters, welcoming us. Ari’s collar and harness at the north altar gave substance and focus for our grief. We allowed each other privacy and all the time needed. I cried, “My boy, my boy. I love you.” And I smelled his fur.

Facing hard truths, burning our intentions into action, and crying –thoughtful ritual –fortified our strength against the dark days ahead. The nights will be long, the election fraught with endless smoke screens and possible violence. Our democracy is not safe yet. Ari, a born herder and master control freak, would have loved knowing he was a muse as we celebrated another season. We reached for our humanity, our wiser choices –and our magic. I can feel him stepping on my heels –guiding me to a better path –even now.

Laurel Owen, October 2024