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30 Day Pagan Journaling Challenge 9-29-2017

There is a 30 day Pagan journaling challenge for the month of September set up on Instagram and I thought it would be fun to do it – and would get me back into the swing of things as well.

And back into blogging here as I answer the posts. (I’m not much of an Instagram person.)

Today’s question is:

What advice do I wish I’d been given when I first became Pagan?

Write it down!

Write down every stage of your journey. The books you bought, the books you read, the tools you use, the words you say (or think) in ritual.

Write down everything. No matter how mundane or unimportant it may seem, write it down.

Then when you’ve been on the path for a decade or two or three, go back and read what you wrote and remember the witch that you were then, all wide-eyed with excitement.

Remember what it was like when everything was new and you were caught in a web of wonder, of feeling “Yes! This is right! This is exactly right!”

Yeah. I wish someone had told me that someday I’d wish I had written it all down so I could look back and recapture those moments.


30 Day Pagan Journaling Challenge 9-3-2017

There is a 30 day Pagan journaling challenge for the month of September set up on Instagram and I thought it would be fun to do it – and would get me back into the swing of things as well.

And back into blogging here as I answer the posts. (I’m not much of an Instagram person.)

Today’s question is:

Why did I become Pagan?

Because it felt like coming home.

I was raised Christian, but it never really felt right to me; it never “fit” with what my soul actually felt.

Once I found Paganism and the concept of both God and Goddess, I felt like I finally had some place where I belonged.

I’m not going to lie. It was a struggle at first, dealing with the guilt, and fear of hell induced by the Christian church.

How did I get past them?

One was the knowledge or understanding or whatever that various forms of Paganism had been around since long before Christianity. (I never did get a satisfactory answer to the question of what happened to all the people who died before Jesus was crucified.)

Then came the understanding that Satan is pretty much a Christian concept, not part of the Pagan mythos or belief system.

That helped, but what really clinched it was a dream I had one night, a few months after my grandfather’s death.  That was over 20 years ago and the dream is still vivid.

I was outside of a little country church. It was late evening; the moon and stars weren’t visible yet, but light spilled from the windows of the church. I walked up the gravel driveway toward it but my attention was on the forest beyond it, the pine trees nothing more than a black silhouette against the dark purple sky. Outside all was quiet and peaceful, but from inside the church I could hear a man’s voice: the preacher speaking. It was a service for my grandfather, one of the gentlest, kindest men ever to walk the earth, but not a church-goer, and the preacher was praying that he would be received into heaven even though he didn’t attend church regularly.

I stopped walking toward the building and turned toward the forest.

I woke with the words, “What a sad religion” in my head.



Happy 53rd

Tomorrow is my birthday – I’ll be 53.  No big deal.

Seriously, it doesn’t bother me.  Neither did 30 or 40 or 50.

A long time ago I used to think that birthdays were magical.  That I would somehow suddenly feel different being a year older.

I never did.

(I also used to think that I would feel different being in another grade at school, but that never happened, either.)

So, in a sense, it will be just another day.  Depending on the weather (ah, the joys of a winter birthday!) my roommate and I will probably go out to eat.

I might do some divination for the year ahead.  If I didn’t have other things to do that day I would maybe get brave and try the full 210 card Tree of Life Tarot spread, but it takes a great deal of uninterrupted time.

At any rate, I’ve been pondering birthdays and birthday traditions.  Not just the blow out the candles on the cake tradition, but the sorts of things that are unique to individual families.

One of ours was that the birthday person got their favorite food for dinner that day.  My grandfather never expressed a preference: my mother’s was always stuffed pork chops. (I can still see my grandfather’s hands as he stood at the counter stuffing them.)

Mine?  Creamed chipped beef on toast.  Yeah, yeah. I know it’s called “shit on a shingle” but I love the stuff.

And there was cake, of course. Again, the choice was left up to the birthday person.  Mine was always chocolate, preferably with chocolate peanut butter frosting.  Mom’s was chocolate.  My grandfather’s was a spice cake.

My most memorable birthday cake was a round layer cake.  My mother frosted it with green coconut frosting, built a fence out of Twizzlers, put a couple plastic horse figurines on it (I was – and still am – a horse lover).  She even put on a few malted milk balls behind the horses for authenticity…

And then there was the unicorn cake I made my mother.  She was working third shift, so I baked it while she was sleeping and put it in the freezer to hide it, and so it would be firm enough to frost.  (She had been taking a cake decorating class which meant that I learned how to do it too.)  After she left for work I started frosting it.  All went well until the directions told me to make the horn from royal frosting.  I had no idea what royal frosting was or how to make it, and I couldn’t find the recipe in her cake books.  (This was pre-internet days.)  I was tired and frustrated and facing a white horse with blue eyes and mane.  It needed a horn.  The horn in the picture was orange in color.  A light dawned.

And a few minutes later the unicorn had a horn.

I cleaned a carrot, shaped it, stuck a toothpick in the big end and stabbed it into the cake.

Ah, creativity!

It’s odd, how memories work.  Most of my Christmas memories center around the tree, and most of my birthday memories center around food.  I

(In fact, the only birthday present that really sticks in my mind was when I turned 16, (and was thus eligible for my learner’s permit for driving):  I was given a set of keys to the family cars.  I suppose I remember it because it was something of a rite of passage.)

Now, we’re more likely to go out for a birthday dinner (the birthday person gets their choice of restaurants) – a new tradition being forged.

As a kitchen witch, however, I find it intriguing that my birthday memories center around food.  I don’t think that anything makes you feel quite as loved and cared for and… special… as having your favorite meal prepared for you.