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.
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.
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.
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.
For Harvest celebration this year we enjoy a feast. I make a pesto sauce from my magnificent basil plant, then toss it with pasta, butter, and cherry tomatoes from the garden in a cast iron skillet. Delicious. To reap a literal yield and prepare a dinner from its fruits is not only satisfying –but also traditional for this holiday.
After the meal we sit out in the yard surrounded by thriving flora, including giant lotus plants, elephant ears, and Japanese maples. It’s a hot August evening. The heat index settles down into the 90’s. From our camp chairs, several paces from the small fire, we call quarters and invite a few chosen gods and goddesses.
The metaphorical aspect of Harvest commences, toasts to each other’s accomplishments –gains we realized this year. We speak of scoring points in our businesses –better working conditions, improving financial peace of mind. We acknowledge creative and personal harvests, and our long term relationship, still growing after twenty two years. We raise mugs to our rescue canine companions, who revel in a loving routine with us. All three are elderly now, and we honor them as often as we toast. Dogs are angels on earth for a short time.
To end up, I offer up a hearty salute to the harvest of hope shared by sane Americans coast to coast. The ideal leaders appeared on the national stage the moment we desperately needed them. And now, at long last, we imagine our freedoms restored and democracy living to celebrate a 250th birthday. A joyful, capable, and eloquent woman of color and a genuinely likable midwestern white man have brought us home. We look to victory in November. Most of us don’t want control freak politicians in our bedrooms, doctor’s offices, and libraries. We don’t want cruel laws against women, non-Christians, and LGBTQ people. And now our voices scream out a stadiums and hangars across the country: We Will Not Go Back!
How wonderful, as we sit in our lovely yard around a sacred fire pit, to feel hope, to toast the real possibility of a future free of dour authoritarian puritans at the helm.
We close our circle, still from the comfort of our camp chairs. Sometimes it’s too hot to move much. We rally, though, and venture on to our screened-in porch. The hummingbirds zoom and dive around feeders, the crows come calling for peanuts, and our dogs post up –on duty –carefully watching. To be sure, a fight looms ahead, to vanquish zealots at the ballot box in November, then face off with election deniers and potentially violent cult members. But today our Harvest gives us strength, grounding, and –yes –happiness, both personal and beyond.
A kitchen of potions, dried herbs Hanging from rafters, and good coffee -- My landing place this morning in the spirit world -- Ariel, my friend and guide, and I Sit at the table before dawn As I impart the news between sips -- Our excitement shared At a ground swell of bold winning aspiration catching fire --a sense We collectively, resoundingly Will defeat the menace of religious fanatics and Their corrupted puppets -- Ariel smiles with my joy, And leads me away from our table -- We fly as crows West, to a lighthouse, A warm light and an open window Beckon -- I shift into the small room full Of books on shelves -- I'm drawn to an open tome on the table And lay my hand on a page -- The words tell a story -- Forbidden literature and wisdom, Characters portrayed In secret --shared in someone's cottage Between friends, book to hand with trust given -- Where nationalism thrives in gloom and imposes a blinding fog —banned Books offer a lighted path To dissent and survival -- So we tell our stories of outlawed sensuality Or ancient lore To arrive at dawn, at democracy, Freedom of bodies, minds, lifetimes Lived and set free in the pages of books and beyond -- Outside the pre-dawn stillness -- The expectation of a bird's first song, The sound and smell of salty waves below, The circling beam of the lighthouse, now over land Now over sea -- A comfort at this moment -- The lighthouse, my lodestar As I speak and write Hopefulness in my world.
I prepare the two circles in the woods for Summer Solstice. Colorful mats and matching candles adorn the altars in the four quarters. The north altar also displays ritual tools –a bottle of salt water, a blessing bowl, antlers, a knife, incense, and a hammer. I pull the rake down the path to the smaller Druid circle. In the center I place a flat stone altar next to a rock –just big enough to sit on –a perfect place to meditate. I set paper and pen, a candle, incense, and salt water in a bowl on the flat stone. The area is now tidy and ready for tonight’s pilgrimages. My partner and I, and a friend of ours, will each walk alone tonight from the main circle to this Druid circle, to meditate on what needs to be recycled in our lives.
Today we celebrate the power of the sun on his longest day –and his death, as he begins his underworld journey. His bright force will move to the earth for a bountiful harvest. It’s a good time to recycle, to send bad habits or unhealthy coping mechanisms with the sun god so he can turn our obstacles into bits of nourishment and helpful things in our lives. We will write down our hindrances on a piece of paper and burn it. Fire transforms the problem list into more constructive life choices.
After an early dinner we make our way to the woods. The hot late afternoon sun, muted by oak leaves, offers glimpses and flashes of waning light as we arrive at our cathedral of pines. This place holds power and calm. We pass through a gate to the big circle, call the quarters, and invite specific solar gods to join us.
When it’s my turn, I set off for the Druid circle. Once I’m seated, grounded with sprinkles of salt water and the smell of incense, I pick up the pen and paper. At the top I write, “maga madness.” Can I recycle an entire movement? Well, it won’t hurt to try, I tell myself. It’s the lingering poisonous effects of Christian nationalism I want to process –that doomed feeling, the sense that lies and malice are invincible. The sound of my pulse when I hear of another pregnant woman turned away from a red state emergency room, bleeding and in pain. The heart palpitations when a maga politician writes legislation calling for executions of women who get abortions. The heart sinking cruelty is not the only reason I write “maga madness.” If I live in fear of fundamentalist theocrats to the point of hurting my heart I won’t have the energy to resist –to produce harvest in the world. I want to be present to employ the underground banned book network, to volunteer at the voting polls in November, to talk to people about the threat of Project 2025, to be kind and loving and professional in a world of simping cult members in Trump caps. Harvest also includes the personal –feeding and caring for crow friends and companion dogs, taking care of my marriage and friendships, loving my home –weeding my gardens, nurturing the new cherry tree, dogwood, and Japanese maples. I can’t let Christian fascists cast shadows on my physical and mental health. So yes. The maga movement is getting recycled. With glee. Suddenly I feel lighter. And I know the constitution will persevere. The religious zealots will not gain power, and the Comstock Act will never again darken the law of the land.
Later, after we have all taken turns, we sit around a small fire and burn our lists. May we create a path for healthy living in interesting times. May we extend healing hands to one another. We end the night with toasts, boasts, tales of beloved dead, and hopes for the future. What joy on this summer night –to celebrate the season, to be pagans, to love earth and her cycles –all part of our resistance to bad actors, corrupt politicians, and lying narcissists. Life is beautiful. You see? –I’m transformed! The sun god is busy already.
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?
Years ago I spent a week in Paris visiting two friends. I traipsed around Montmartre and beyond, taking in the people, the handsome buildings, and the creative drive of the city. Instinctively I understood why American musicians and writers flocked to Paris in the early 20th century. New York City, my former home, has a creative pulse also. But where the heart of New York borders on tachycardia, the heartbeat in Paris is slower and more sensual, with an infusion of healthy love hormones, strengthened with good food and red wine.
I browsed in the Shakespeare and Company Bookstore. At Notre Dame, I set foot on the stone floor where Joan of Arc might have stood. In her alcove I donated a few Francs for a candle, lit it, and communed with Saint Joan. It was one of the few deeply spiritual experiences in my life within a Christian church. With enough French to get around politely, I ordered food in cafes, and bought round trip Metro tickets. At one point I emerged from the Metro in an unfamiliar neighborhood, trying to figure out which way was north. An older woman came to my aid, asking me, “Quelle langue?” –What language? I smiled. She had not pegged me as American. I wandered along the Seine. Ate ice cream. Sat next to fountains on city park benches. I smiled fondly at gargoyles. I wondered what the story was behind a statue of a man holding his own severed head. From hidden doorways to inviting balconies, narrow medieval streets to the Champs-Elysees –I could not get enough. The French people were warm and funny, and appreciated my attempt at their beautiful language. They had an innate sense of style –even those without a lot of money cuffed their jeans just so, with an attractive pair of shoes and socks that matched. I wore pretty flowing dresses and comfortable flats and walked everywhere, soaking up the visceral engagement of all the senses that is Paris. The city captured my heart.
Just before going back to my friends’ house in the afternoon, my job was to pick up bread and pastries at the bakery. What I brought home with me from Paris, what changed my life, was what we experienced at their home every evening. At about 8:00 we sat down at the dinner table. Wine flowed. We passed the cheese tray, then had a soup, and another entree. Their commitment to sharing food and meaningful discussion for an hour every night impressed me. A more well-rounded approach to life includes a healthy relationship to food –shared with friends and family.
I bring Paris home every Thanksgiving. Mind you, I cook fresh food all year long. But on Thanksgiving I lay out a vegetarian feast in my best china, light candles, and create the combination of conversation and delicious food I found compelling in France. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday –a harvest celebration of old. A time to give thanks for blessings.
This year I’m most grateful for the outcome of the US elections. Just like France, a creeping right wing authoritarian movement is gaining traction. And, like the French, we beat them back. Decisively. Generation Z and younger women come out in huge numbers, motivated by the overturning of the right to an abortion. The potential loss of other privacy rights appeared inevitable. Young people were not having it. In swing states, people voted for Democrats (the only pro democracy party at the moment) for Secretary of State and Governor positions. That’s important, because those officials oversee elections. We need non-partisan public servants in those roles, not election deniers and extremists. Five states put reproductive freedom on the ballot. Even in Kentucky and Montana, people stood up for bodily autonomy. The senate will remain in Democratic hands. Biden will be able to appoint federal judges.
Alas, we are not out of the woods. Millions of Americans voted for Trumpists. The House of Representatives will be run by MAGA nut jobs –by a razor slim majority. It’s a shame that older people –still bamboozled by the lies of Fox –believe MAGA Republicans are the best choice. But because of the pro democracy wins across the country generally, the House will just look like a clown car ride. They want to waste our time and money. Last I heard, Marjorie Taylor Greene intends to impeach Joe Biden and other members of his cabinet, summon Dr. Fauci to congressional hearings, and try for a national abortion ban. The House will disband the January 6 committee, and turn on its members. All theater.
What’s genuinely frightening are the draconian abortion laws in red states. MAGA law makers promise they will get more cruel. Florida went MAGA, due to redistricting, and the Governor’s Anti-Woke law and Don’t Say Gay bill should scare every American. Here in Arkansas, a school board near Little Rock wants to outlaw words like Equity, phrases like White Privilege, and books about slavery or LGBTQ sexuality. History books in Texas are under revision. The other day Trump had lunch with a Christian Nationalist named Nick Fuentes. Fuentes believes in a fascist take-over of the US. Trump, a serial liar and criminal facing state and federal charges, wants to be elected president again in 2024. Quelle Horreur –what horror.
In spite of the upcoming MAGA side show in the House, and red states descending into Christian Nationalist dystopia, the red wave did not break as predicted. And for that we can celebrate whole-heartedly. As the Grand Old Party implodes, we now have no functioning conservative party in the US. May they be reborn –sane.
But we must continue to hope, organize locally, and vote. I have begun with a Jane.org t-shirt and bumpersticker. In states where abortion is illegal, “We Are Jane” translates as “I’m a safe space for pregnant people and I will offer you information about reproductive health care.” In some states those conversations are illegal. Too bad.
I’m grateful to you, my readers. I’m grateful for pro democracy voters, and for women who will not be silenced or intimidated. I’m especially grateful for the chance to take a breath, relax for a minute, to not be so afraid. I planned to put on a brave face if the country went sideways. My husband and I discussed moving to a blue state –or even another country. But no. Democracy won a big battle.
Finally, I’m grateful for a holiday devoted to good food, and sharing, where I can bring Paris home. That city still inspires my heart.
