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This year Halloween will have a full moon. It should also have full bellies-- full of candy. Just like all years. Instead of having trick or treaters come to the door and ring the bell, my neighbors and I have decided we're going to set up tables and chairs outside and give away candy outside near the curb. I keep seeing people on the net saying Halloween is canceled, but plenty of other events are happening outdoors and Halloween is an important community ritual. Plus wearing masks is part of the tradition! There's no reason it can't be done safely. Keep it outside, keep groups apart from other groups, and it's no different from any other outdoor event.

I'm not going to be personally putting candy into the kids' sacks this year, I'm going to let him help themselves from the bowl. I'm just going to be out there to be sure one kid doesn't take it all, just like my neighbors will be doing. This is going to be a no contact event for me and Halloween still goes on.

Beautiful Russell hasn't lived next door for more than 30 years, and (sigh) we never did sleep together, much as I wanted to. Even so, I bless his name at this time every year.

Talk about your boy next door. (Boy, I say. He was probably my elder by five years, if not more. Five years more mature, anyway.) Lean, lanky, pretty face. (Woof.) Longish, straw-colored hair. (Woof woof.) Little round gold-rimmed John Denver glasses. (Woof woof woof.) Sweet-natured, smart, quirky sense of humor. Ah, the arrogance of beauty, the beauty of arrogance.

Still and all, my past is populated with beautiful guys that I never had the chance to taste, whose names I never bless.

(There's something about that longing-for-what-you-can't-have, though, that seems paradigmatically autumnal, no?)

No, I bless Russell's name for the sake of the raspberries.

Autumn-bearing golden raspberries, chieftains of the raspberry clan. During his time next door, Russell planted them along his side of the fence and, as is their way, the canes—disrespecters of boundaries, all, just like the rest of us—have migrated into our yard. Every year at this time they bear their autumn gold.

Red, black, and gold are the raspberry kindreds, but oh, the gold are the sweetest of all. Maybe, like autumn roses, they're all the sweeter for the knowing that they'll be the last.

I stand in the autumn sunshine, pricking my fingers and plucking the year's final fruiting. When my palm brims full, I gorge on harvest sumptuousness: one last, brief ecstasy, before the end.

Seeing Clearly

We've all been going through so much and need to do some lettng go,  Any new moon is the perfect time to create a new opportunity and clear away relationship “baggage” with this banishing spell. If you have been hurt emotionally, this will clear it, Fast.

Gather together:

Many come to the new paganisms as refugees from other traditions, hoping for a new life free from the burden of guilt.

Oh and woe, I've sorry news for you, my friend: pagans feel just as guilty as anyone else. We just feel guilty about other things.

Some things that pagans feel guilty about:

• Using “disposable” diapers.
• Not buying organic.
• Not doing what you said you would.
• Driving vehicles dependent on fossil fuels.
• Driving instead of walking.
• Throwing away the container of slimy mold from the back of the refrigerator instead of composting the mold, and washing and recycling the container.
• Breaking an oath.
• Using the cheap bottle of wine for the libation instead of the good stuff.
• Wishing on “Hypocrite Mitch” McConnell a long, unhappy life full of suffering, instead of a clean, quick death.
• Lying by omission.
• Nuclear waste.
• NIMBYism.
• Not eating healthily.
• Throwing stuff away. (Every pagan knows that you can't ready throw anything away.)
• Buying stuff you don't need.

At this time of year, I pay a lot of attention to one part of my Focus*.

As altar-y spaces go, it is unquestionably the "witchiest" part of mine: bones, skulls, fossils of extinct species, a mummified bat, images of prehistoric cave paintings, megalithic spiral carvings and departed loved ones, a dried pomegranate. It is where I keep the black jar of rose water with which I have anointed several dead people, and the tiny jar of cedar oil, veteran of so many Hallows rituals, whose scent reminds me of the inside of a coffin.

Dear Nazzes,

Four years ago you went a-whoring after a false god, and sold your souls to a lying devil called little Donnie Trump.

At the time, your leadership warned you that the credibility and moral authority of Evangelical Christianity was at stake. In fact, they were wrong.

Prostituting yourselves to little Donnie Trump has forfeited neither the moral authority nor the credibility of Evangelical Christianity because, as any non-Evangelical can tell you, in our eyes, Evangelical Christianity has never had even the slightest amount of either.

Instead, through your actions, Evangelical Christianity has now gained negative credibility. Like your idol, the Liar-in-Chief, anything that you say is presumed to be a cynical and self-serving lie. Because of you, the name of your church, and of the god that you claim to love, has been made to stink in the nostrils of your fellow-citizens.

In truth, I write you this letter in love. Even now, you can still redeem your name, and the name of your god. But first, you must acknowledge that, in your pursuit of political power at any cost, you have sinned, sinned grievously.

Nazzes of America, repent. Your lack of charity toward your fellow Americans re-crucifies Christ. Confess your sins against your god, your country, and your fellow citizens. Repent, before it is too late.