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.
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.
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.
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.
As a child I remember waking up every May Day to a fully decorated may pole. Draped in ribbons, evergreen branches, and cut flowers, it leaned against the fireplace in the living room, a bright invitation to Spring. Mom loved to brag about how she and Goody Gibb –her witch friend –delighted in snatching plant material in the thick of the night, sometimes right out of people’s yards.
Since then I have, likewise, marked May Eve every year, although I always fell short of my mother’s stealthy looting of greenery and blooms in the wee hours. In various pagan circles over the years, we celebrated with may poles. I insisted on it. Once I talked a bunch of convicts at a high security federal prison to dance on May Day around a pole. They knew me from my monthly visits as a chaplain, and liked me –but the leader explained to me that dancing out in the yard would not work for them. Once inside the chapel, in private, they enjoyed it. The medium and low security prisoners had less at stake in terms of reputations, and avidly celebrated the May Day dance outside. A Catholic chaplain even joined in the festivities one spring –we needed an even number of dancers and he obliged. We all laughed about that for a year. May Eve has always been a sweet extroverted holiday with nothing but good memories.
Today my partner and I tie aspiration to a may pole, each ribbon or branch a wish. First we set up the quarter altars with candles and colorful placemats. In the east the theme is yellow, for the clear air of sunrise. Fiery reds and oranges grace the south altar. The western quarter pleases the eye and slows the heart rate with the blue candle and green mat –the colors of water. At the north, brown and dark green colors remind us of the element earth. In the center of the circle, instead of a fire, we secure a may pole. Just to the side of the north altar, we drape various bright ribbons –yellows, reds, greens –on a tree limb, along with peony, iris, and spice bush blooms from our own Rosemund Haven, the name of our property and home.
We take turns tying a ribbon or a flower to the pole, and with it a fond hope. Sometimes it’s a blessing for a person or an animal. Tonight we wish my mother a continued long life. She’s our only living parent now, and the May Eve celebrant extraordinaire. At age 87 she still has the 5 foot pine branch from her Goody Gibb days, and decorates it every year to this day. We both fasten ribbons for our recently dead fathers with hopes of good fortune on their next adventures.
With a shiny red ribbon I send out an expectation for the return of reproductive rights for women in the US. The anti-abortion laws across the red states now have victims. As they get turned away from emergency rooms, women are bleeding out in parking lots, having miscarriages in waiting room bathrooms or at home, and fleeing their states. It’s horrifying. We both wish for an election outcome this year that does not include Trump or Christian nationalists. As I tie the final fragrant bloom to the top of the pole, I ask for the strength to stay and fight for our home in this backward red state –for our woods with magic circles, our garden, our elderly dogs, our many trees and water plants and perennials. We would hate to leave this place, Rosemund Haven.
The new may pole will stand on our front porch, where we listen to frogs at night, watch birds at the feeders during the day, and enjoy thunderstorms from the safety of its roof and screen. Such a comforting place to read or drink tea and talk. And now our beautiful testament to life and love –our may pole –will remind us of sanity and optimism as we face the coming months. I bring you a branch of May.
I’m sad, Ariel, my world —-my country—- is in trouble. Words in the spirit world tumble out in a non-linear way, Projected —-not spoken. She squeezes my hand. Small, dark, and ancient, Ariel is a constant presence Next to me when we fly as crows—- Or sit as women near the bon fire On a hill facing east. She points to the sunlight surging across the horizon—- And hope arrives in yellow and orange, filling me with Warmth, expanding beyond me to encompass the world. Fertile earth presents the first flowering of the Vernal season —-clusters of purple crocuses And white spring beauties. It smells of moss, of green things to come. The dawning of the day brings assurance of the passing Of time, cycles. Malice, religious fanaticism, and ignorance Can’t be disposed of by a thought or by The passing seasons. However, by drawing my senses to the new day Ariel has grounded me in my own motivation and belief: The creative spark at the beginning of everything Is as beautiful as dawn on the eve of spring tide—- And at the end of all things The color of love Is warm —-like the sun.
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?
My last article, https://dorianmuse.com/2020/10/16/a-moment-of-truth/, was written before the November 2020 election. It was full of warnings about violence, potential Trump style authoritarianism, and the dangers of QAnon and other Trumpist current event nightmares.
After the election, I wrote a postscript to A Moment of Truth. Trump was repudiated, but not Trumpism. Even so, most of us sighed with relief that the sociopath Trump was gone. We felt sure that since a sane person claimed the executive branch —all would right itself eventually.
Now I’m back to check in. I write to make sense of the world. Indeed, maybe eventually we will begin to see a return to sanity, facts, science, and a rational democracy. But not now. Alas, Trumpism has taken hold of the Republican party. Let me present an overview of what happened after the election.
Trump did not concede. In fact, he fought the election results in one federal case after another. He called state elections officials and bullied them like a mob boss might. “Find me 11,780 votes,” he told Brad Raffensberger in Georgia, a Republican elections secretary. Sixty three federal judges rejected his cases at last count. Republican law makers stood silent as he threw temper tantrums and lost court cases and raised millions from his base. Trump’s gullible, radicalized base believed him. Acting on the belief the election had been stolen, they sent their nickels and dimes to the grifter Trump. Fox news, OANN, and Newsmax spread misinformation about the election, blaming corrupted voting machines and widespread fraud. They even hauled out a dead president from Venezuela, Hugo Chavez, into the hysterical cacophony. Oh yes! Hugo Chavez controls the voting machines, they screamed. We fretted and wrung our hands, knowing violence may be coming.
And violence did arrive. Not just the street fighting between white power and Antifa that has become common. This time Trump and his henchmen riled up thousands of people who had come to DC for a Stop the Steal protest. It was January 6, 2021. The electoral votes were being counted down the street at the Capitol building. Trump, Congressman Mo Brooks, Trump’s lawyer Rudy Guiliani, Don Jr. —among others —riled up the gathered thousands with fighting words about fraud, stolen elections, and fake news taking over the country. Trump directed them to march to the Capitol and help take back the election. “If you don’t fight like hell, you are not going to have a country anymore,” he yelled.
Oath Keepers, Proud Boys, magas, some current and former military, and hyped-up citizens who believed the vote was being stolen —they surged to the Capitol building and descended upon it violently, killing and maiming cops. They broke windows, shat in the halls, carried confederate flags, stole computers and statuary, left threatening messages, howled, and overtook the Senate chamber. Outside someone constructed a gallows. “Hang Mike Pence!” the crowd chanted as they prowled, searching for the vice president who had just refused to overthrow the electoral votes for Biden. They banged on doors, calling for Nancy Pelosi with deadly intent. Congress members from the House and Senate ran for their lives, hiding in locked rooms beneath.
The siege went on for several hours. Trump did nothing. Finally he presented a video urging the rioters to go home, and telling them he loved them. The effort was insufficient and pale, even supportive of the marauders. I suspected he really didn’t want to end the siege. Indeed, eye witnesses would later testify that Trump loved what he was seeing on TV that day, gloating about it. He enjoyed the ruckus and mayhem perpetrated in his name and was loath to end it.
In the aftermath, Trump has continued to lie about the election, sell himself as a victim, and make money. Republicans have embraced Trump as the leader of their party. Anyone who speaks against Trump or the election lie is cast from the family of right wing sycophants —into the prospect of losing primaries and into eternal vilification from Trump and his supporters. Law makers who tell the truth or, say, vote for Biden’s infrastructure bill, face death threats. Decent principled Republicans are being cast aside in favor of nut jobs like Marjorie Taylor Green and Paul Gosar, who support Trump and assume the narcissistic conspiracy-loving mantle that has become the Trump trademark.
Let me bring home this dizzying state of affairs. I report to you from a red state, an artist’s colony in Arkansas. We are a town of creative weirdly wonderful people —which already tells you we are not a typical red state town. Creative minds tend not to jump on personality cult trains. But the support of Trump still crops up in ways that surprise me. A certain percentage of our population are back to earth hippies. Sadly, many of the peace and love generation, the new-agers, have aligned themselves with Trumpism. They go about it by way of QAnon, with anti-Western medicine beliefs. Many of them are anti-vaccine. What was once a fringe left wing belief that vaccines were harmful has spread to the Trumpist right. The sheer number of un-vaccinated people in red states last summer drove a variant of Covid called the Delta to sweep through. Our count now is up to 750,000 people dead in the US, and over 5 million worldwide. And yet, a new-ager at the grocery store the other day droned on about alternative non-cures —Ivermectin, hydroxychloroquine, hydrogen peroxide —anything but that nasty vaccine. One local man pulled away from a hug from his vaccinated friend because, ventured the anti-vaxxer politely, vaccinated people shed their altered DNA. People I used to believe were, at worst, eccentric and misinformed, are now raging purveyors of conspiracy theories. Blithering idiots. And those new-agers add to the growing throng of people who believe untruths. Trump mishandled the pandemic, lied about how serious it was from the start, and created an army of anti-vax and anti-mask warriors. “Donald Trump is a light worker,” said one new age person recently. How disappointing. Not true, I say. Donald Trump is a conman, grifter, and a criminal. The QAnon hippies are going down in history along with magas as misled and errant.
Here are more examples of divorce from reality perpetrated by Trumpists.
The Trumpist governor in Florida, DeSantis, nominated Dr. Ladapo, MD, as the state’s surgeon general. This anti-vaccine MD is associated with a group of doctors promoting Trump’s hydroxycholoquine cure for Covid. The spokeswoman of this group of doctors believes that cysts on the ovaries are caused by women having sex with demons.
Texas’ Trumpist governor, Abbott, has all but outlawed abortion, and created a vigilante system by offering bounties of up to 10,000 dollars to anyone in the country who can track down those who help a Texas woman get an abortion. No clause for incest or rape in this new abominable law. Trump’s supreme court let it slide for now. They may shoot this one down, but Roe vs. Wade is on the chopping block. Women’s rights tend to go downhill with the populist right, or authoritarians.
Trumpists across the country are attending school board meetings. They threaten school board members who promote mask mandates to protect children from Covid. Proud Boys provide a menacing backdrop sometimes. Recently magas have been caught on camera wearing yellow stars as they protest masks, equating the victimization of Jews in Nazi Germany with the victimization of freedom-loving maskless wonders such as themselves. Some laugh at this behavior and say the Republicans have become the new party of snowflakes and cry babies. But it’s worse. I agree with Tom Nichols that the trickle down effect of Trump is a nation of narcissists. How self important and smug to don the symbol that marked you for ghettos and death camps — imposed on an entire race in WWII. How utterly incoherent and devoid of historical factual understanding or empathy. This behavior is simply not laughable. It’s disturbing.
A recent governor’s race in Virginia landed a win for a Republican, who ran on Critical Race Theory. He told parents in Virginia he would ban it. Not sure how you ban something that does not exist. CRT is taught in law school, and in no K-12 school anywhere in the country. But Fox and the right wing Trumpist media have created a myth that CRT is alive and well and trying to make white people feel bad about themselves. So Trumpists are crying about the novels of Pulitzer Prize winning author Toni Morrison. Her books, like any others that speak candidly of slavery or women’s sexuality should be banned —even burned, they say.
What was once a fringe element of the right wing, the white power movement, is now mainstream and normal in the new Trumpist Republican party. Tucker Carlson shouts from his Fox platform about how white people are being replaced. He questions vaccine safety and efficacy. Recently he made a pseudo documentary about the insurrection at the Capitol —casting it as a false flag event (it’s really the FBI and Antifa, don’t you know). He portrays the ongoing trials of the insurrectionists as a punishment directed at being conservative and patriotic. “Prisoners of war” is Carlson’s name for the howling mob members currently in jail. They endure torture, he says. In Arkansas —in all the red states, people spend hours consuming Fox, and they think Carlson is a reporter. In short, an alarming number of Americans believe him, and believe the election was stolen. An effort to re-write history is underway, downplaying the insurrection and painting it as a patriotic rally. Indeed, Trump says the real insurrection happened on election day —with the stolen election —and January 6th was the protest.
What can we do about all this?
Here is where I want to share something personal. I volunteered in prisons for almost 20 years, both state and federal, from low security to high security. I conducted pagan religious services for Wiccans, Pagans, and Odinists. In the federal prison system, because they were white (Odinists), and gang members, I met individuals from the white power and militia movements. The gang members did not bother me a bit. I knew that if gang members showed up then sex offenders would not. As a woman locked in a room with thirty men, I appreciated knowing that. I just let the leaders know that I was not recruitment material and not interested in prison politics and we got along fine. Today, in fact, long after retirement from prison outreach, I’m married to an ex-federal prisoner who was caught up in a white prison gang before he stepped down. Today he is a successful business owner, an artist, and we share a horror of the Trumpist wave. We see it for what it is. We both understand something about the white power movement.
Because of my exposure to the militia and white gangs in the prisons, I had the opportunity to glimpse a world I had never encountered. I didn’t talk politics with the convicts, but I attended events and knew people on the outside who were former skinheads or white nationalists. Most had left the political movements for a more spiritual and constructive life, and I respected them for that choice. Through these friendships and acquaintances, I came to understand more about what motivated people to join such groups. First of all, like most people, they actually believed they were acting in good faith to protect their families. The belief that white people are categorically singled out for extinction provided the motivation. Once indoctrinated, these people became warriors for the white race fighting an existential battle for survival. That’s where nationalists find an identity and a reason to get up in the morning. It’s an emotionally charged movement, loyal and hierarchical. Oddly, the far right leadership, even outside the hate groups and among the more spiritual people, sounded a lot like the new-agers at times. I read articles about how masks cause C02 poisoning, and that the pandemic was planned, and vaccines have tracking devices. Sound familiar? Seems to me the far right as well as the far left have lost their minds. Anyway, this gives us a glimpse into current Trumpist cult members. They are emotional, they aren’t fact checkers, and they believe they are threatened. If the GOP is really going down the white nationalist road, which it looks like they are, we will need to understand what we are up against.
Our nation has a civics lesson problem for sure, but we don’t have generations of time to self-correct that weak link. The GOP may gain power in 2022. Former white power movement people, who subsequently came to their senses, quietly help people walk back from hate. Whether behind the scenes or openly, I hope these people continue their good work. We can take a lesson from them. Walking people back from cults happens individually, person to person.
I understand why some may be hesitant to confront the hard core Trump base —some 40% of Republicans. Actual nationalists and full tilt cult members may appear to be lost causes. The calls for civil war and the blind eager love for Donald Trump is frightening to encounter. Be calm around them. Don’t wrestle in the mud. Stick to innocuous topics. At worst, treat them like children on time out.
If you want to forge ahead, the following are some suggestions.
Anne Applebaum, the author of Twilight of Democracy, has offered suggestions about confronting family members or friends who are Trump Republicans. One of these suggestions stuck with me. Respectfully ask what their values are. For instance, “Is it really in the best interest of you and your family to trust a man who says he likes to grab women by their genitals? Is that in keeping with your values? Aren’t Republicans the party that believes character matters?“
Someone said to me recently, “Tucker Carlson said it, and since he’s a reporter there has to be truth to it.” I replied calmly, “Well, he’s an entertainer, isn’t he?”
When family members spout the Antifa false flag at the Capitol theory, point out that the gallows represents the Day of the Rope, a page right out of a white power book called The Turner Diaries. No —not Antifa.
Take a minute to ask people about their values, and calmly state facts, and call them gently on their inaccuracies. It’s time to consider what each of us can do to avoid the possible death of the American experiment. Confronting individuals is just one way.
Vote. Talk about voting. I asked a young woman about her voting status in the weeks before Trump lost. “My husband does not believe in the electoral college, so he doesn’t vote.” “What about you? What do you think?” I asked. In that moment I made her uncomfortable. Good. I made a point. She won’t forget it.
We live in interesting times, which is disorienting. It’s painful and jarring. One of the two major parties in the US is no longer recognizable, moving toward right wing nationalism under Trump. Donald Trump was the most destructive person to ever sit in the oval office. He still wields power. We may be frustrated by the left in their pursuit of proper pronoun sensitivity and their strange inability to recognize and act upon the rising danger of violence and authoritarianism in the country. But as frustrating as they are, Democrats are still the only party that believes in democracy. Elect people who are non-Trumpist Republicans and Democrats.
The conservative anti-Trump folks have risked their careers and their safety to speak truth about their party. Adam Kinzinger, Liz Cheney, Charlie Sykes, Tim Miller, Bill Krystal, Mona Charon, Steve Schmidt, Joe Walsh, Stuart Stevens —these are a few. Let’s give them the respect they deserve, and listen to their counsel.
Finally, there is hope. A new pro-democracy coalition —everyone from Liz Cheney to AOC —is rising up. We are coming together as a popular front against the rise of autocracy. Principled Republicans are calling out Trump’s lie about the election. A bipartisan select committee is busy uncovering the January 6th insurrection. It turns out it was, in fact, a planned coop attempt —initiated at the top of the Trump administration (stay tuned). People are slowly getting vaccinated, even in red states. If all else fails, protesting in the street actually works. Large non-violent protests in DC alert the world that not everyone agrees with the status quo. They also effectively bring discussions to the dinner table. Democracy works if people pay attention and understand facts. Protesting in the street also gives heart to the participants, and a sense of hope. If Roe vs. Wade is struck down, I will protest. If the Trumpists win power in 2022 and 2024, my husband and I will go to DC and march with the inevitable hundreds of thousands.
In my town, artists continue to create and think freely —and put up with misguided new agers. Fall is breathtaking this year. The red maples and yellow ginkos, and the rust color of the oaks —all inspiring and beautiful. My husband and I are finishing up a mural depicting a magic oak forest. We are animists, and the trees, the cave and critters in our mural reflect our values and beliefs —that the spirit of nature permeates in and around everything, and it’s good. This earthly life is sacred, and I do believe we will eventually be ok. In the meantime, if things go sideways, maybe I’ll see you in DC.
