One of the writers behind Doctor Strange pens another fantasy film, this time about a fallen angel hunter. In honor the recently departed Gene Wilder, a film critic revisits Haunted Honeymoon. And a look at a new women-centric fantasy comic. It's Airy Monday, our news segment on magic and religion in popular culture. All this and more for the Pagan News Beagle!
PaganSquare is a community blog space where Pagans can discuss topics relevant to the life and spiritual practice of all Pagans.
NASA confirmed today that the US space agency has agreed to donate one of its Moon rocks to a pagan temple in Minneapolis.
"To some, these rocks hold profound spiritual, as well as scientific, significance," said a NASA representative who spoke on condition of anonymity. "Moon worship is one of humanity's oldest religions, and we are proud to make this gift."
Founded in 1980, the Temple of the Moon, the designated recipient of the Moon rock, is the oldest continuously-operating pagan temple in the Twin Cities area, commonly known as "Paganistan" because of its large pagan population.
According to Steven Posch, senior priest at the temple, "Without the Moon's influence on Earth's tides, life literally would not exist on this planet. Small wonder that our ancestors revered the Moon, as we still do today. Now this relic of our goddess can be properly reverenced, as it so richly deserves."
The rock in question, a brescia from the Mare Fecundatatis, was gathered during the Apollo 13 expedition to the Moon in 1970.
I have to say, making my 2017 resolution to create a drawing of a Goddess a day has been rewarding, challenging, fun, and illuminating. I've had a great time sharing images of goddesses on my Facebook page every day, receiving feedback on my drawings, and getting ideas for new ones. I thought for today's Blog post, I'd write about Turan, a Goddess of ancient Etruria, or what today is known as Tuscany. The Etrurians are more commonly referred to as the Etruscans, which is how I will refer to them here.
There are a great many things about the Etruscans which still remain a mystery in the twenty-first century, mostly because their language has been only partially deciphered. What we can do is look at the art they created and see visually the things that mattered most to them....
I was born into a world that didn’t teach me what it means to be a woman in accordance with my true, sacred feminine nature and power. Instead, it made me see my womanhood as weak, small and inferior, meant to serve and please others. It taught me that power was an outside force, defined and imposed by others, that belonged to the realm of men.
Though I started my adult life on the wrong track, seeking my place and power in a masculine-defined world as an educated, career-focused business woman, my deeper Self had another plan that set me on the path of reclaiming the lost fragments of my whole, holy womanhood.
I did feminist graduate studies, ran my own gender-equity consulting business, read countless books on women’s ways and Goddess theology, spent countless hours in therapy and personal development, moved away from the city to a small, rugged island to reconnect with Nature, practiced magic, went to witchcamp, and became a priestess, dreamer and daughter of the Goddess.
Still something essential was missing, connected to the dark, death powers of my sacred feminine nature. This is the story of when this precious fragment returned to me.
It's the early hours on the day of the Winter Solstice. I jolt awake with the word “miscarriage” screaming in my brain. I dash to the bathroom to find blood coming from me that isn’t supposed to be there at week eleven in my pregnancy. My partner soothes me, and calms me down enough to take me to the hospital. Later that morning, an ultrasound confirms that our baby has died — a child we had consciously conceived and desperately wanted.
Our midwife gives us a choice: to stay in the hospital for a procedure or to let things run their course at home. I’ve been down this road before, having miscarried five years earlier. No one had told me then that thirty percent of first-time pregnancies end in miscarriage, nor prepared and coached me for this eventuality. We had gone the hospital route, and the experience had been disorienting and disempowering. This time would be differently; I would tend my own miscarriage.
In the darkest hours of the night, in the turning before the new dawn, my womb begins to convulse, releasing the dead life within. For hours, with each release, I collect the tissues of our child in a one-quart mason jar, not knowing which would have been his perfect face, his beating heart, his tiny body, his reaching hands, and his sweet toes. There are no eyes for me to close, or lips for me to kiss goodbye. This indistinguishable flesh, mixed with my life-giving blood, is all my partner and I have to mourn and bury.
In the midst of my keening grief, I remember myself — witch, priestess, wise woman — Holy Whore, Holy Reaper — midwife to both life and death moments with the powers of creation and destruction within my living womb.
Like all transformative moments, I have a choice: I can collapse into my grief and loss, bleeding myself into oblivion, and following the wisp of my child’s departed soul, or I can become something new, something that I’ve been traveling toward in my many years of collecting and mourning the death bits of my life, and gathering back the shattered fragments of my womanhood.
Naked and aching raw, I lift my blood-stained hands to the returning light, trusting that to be fully present — to feel all and resist nothing — to claim myself and my life as whole and holy — that a new dawn, a new beginning will come.
And I change. I become big enough, wild enough, wise enough, powerful enough to contain my bottomless grief and my unbounded love, not only for this child I’ll never hold in my arms, but for my own wounding and my own beauty, and all the death bits I’ve suffered to arrive awake and present for this death moment.
This story isn’t just about my whole, holy womanhood, but about yours as well. Our world has deceived us. We aren’t weak or small. We aren’t inferior and beholden to men and their ways of power. Our purpose isn’t to serve and please others, although nurturance, care and compassion are part of our sacred feminine nature. Instead, we’re big and powerful in our own right, with the presence and capacity to encompass the light and shadow, life and death, and beauty and wounding of our personal stories and collective humanity.
These greater capabilities of our womanhood aren’t a feminist fantasy. Our ancient feminine ancestors lived in accordance with their whole, holy nature. They were the red-cloaked ones, priestesses, leaders, healers and counselors that guided their communities through the natural cycles of birth, life, decay and death. Our very bodies have the powers to give and to take life. While our culture amplifies women’s ability to give birth, it completely ignores our innate capacity to terminate a pregnancy that isn’t viable. Miscarriage is natural; though it breaks our hearts, the babies our bodies reject were never meant to be.
My story has a happy ending. On this Winter Solstice, despite my heartbreak and the death and despair that threatened to overtake me, I reached for life and my whole, holy womanhood, and life reached back. I changed profoundly, becoming a woman and priestess of the light and the dark, and of life and of death. This deepened my healing journey, physically and spiritually, making me strong and present in new, empowering ways. I consciously prepared my womb and my heart for new life, and a couple of years later, as the seasons turned to Spring, I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy.
For the next seven weeks through Eostre, in preparation for Spring Equinox’s energies of renewal, I’m focusing this blog on energetically clearing our lives. Last week focused on the magical, energetic and religious repercussions of conditioning we receive through television and news media and how this is especially damaging to pagans and polytheists.
This week we continue the media detox with music, video games, social media and junk advertising.
Is there wisdom in anger? A Hindu magazine honors its "Hindu of the Year." And the plight of Muslim immigrants in the United States is considered. It's Faithful Friday, our news segment about faiths and religious communities around the world. All this and more for the Pagan News Beagle!
I distinctly remember my first Tarot deck and the sense of anticipation, “danger,” and intrigue it held for me. I was about 13 when I got it, a Rider-Waite in the yellow box, and I did NOT like it. I never connected with the deck, the book that I also got was way too esoteric and, frankly, boring, and I didn’t find the images compelling at all. This experience set me “off” of the tarot for a long time. I discovered other oracle systems I greatly enjoyed, such as Crone Stones, I bonded powerfully with Womanrunes and wrote a book about them, but I felt like Tarot and me were just not a match. Ah, then…The Gaian Tarot. One afternoon in 2013, I was turning over some issues of leadership, power, group dynamics, and “warrior priestessing” and, for a reason I no longer recall, decided to do an online reading using the Gaian Soul website. Now THIS, this was a deck with which I could connect. The images. The earthy-messages, the goddess roots. I fell in love. I ordered the deck and began to regularly use the cards, enjoying many profound and illuminating experiences with them. So, when I found out a new edition was being released I was thrilled to review it!
Since I have and love the older edition of the Gaian Tarot, my first instinct when receiving the new one was to compare the two and the new edition does not disappoint. The cards are larger and thicker and edged with silver....