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As you may have noticed from your reading, I treasure cinnamon incense. It brings a positive energy to your space, an appealingly sweet and spicy scent. It also brings prosperity and calm.

What could be better? This may become one of your favorites, as well as it is truly easy to make.

In the sacred grove, four megalithic altars mark the Quarters.

Upslope from the grove, the tasseled corn stands nine feet tall.

Downslope, in the Bonfire Field, the massive bonfire awaits the torch: two years' worth of deadfalls, entire trees. When lit, the flames lick heaven.

That's where the ritual that I attended half a moon back was held.

I heard that a certain priestess in California was now regularly “channeling” Inanna.

(Oh, how—in a pagan context—that la-la New Age term sets my teeth on edge.)

“Oh, good,” I replied. “I've got some questions about Sumerian grammar that I'd love to ask her.”

My skepticism—call it snarkiness, if you like—did not sit well with my friend.

Dïos Akhilleús: “godlike Achilles.”

If there's an adjective pretty much guaranteed to set Abrahamic teeth on edge, it's probably “godlike.”

In its pantheonic impoverishment, the Abrahamic mind views any comparison of human to “God” as, in effect, lèse-majesté: a diminution of divine majesty. Or something.

Pagans, of course, see things differently. For us, with our divine plenitude, there's godhood to go around.

For Achilles, of course, the adjective is literally true: his mother was a goddess. But that's not what's really going on with “godlike.”

“If you want to understand the gods,” said Sokrates, “look at excellence.”

That's what made the ancient Olympics a religious experience.

I heard myself referring to a friend's neighbor the other day as “the godlike Paolo.” In Paolo's case, this references sheer physical beauty. I tell you, if anyone has the butt of a god, it's Paolo the golden.

(Paolo qua Apollo, perhaps? Hmm.)

There are other forms of excellence besides a godlike form, of course. There's also beauty of mind, beauty of talent, beauty of behavior. The godlike Albert Einstein I sing.

"What's with the red thread?" asks the cashier, eyeing my left wrist.

Och, now, there's a question and a half.

“Family reunion,” I tell her. “Bloodline kind of thing.”

When you first arrive at Grand Sabbat, they ask you the question that any witch can answer.

Respond correctly, and they knot the red thread around your wrist.

(Spun by hand it is, from the wool of a ram named Gandalf, and dyed red with sumac berries.)

I tie this knot in Old Hornie's name, aye till he fetch thee home again, they say.

It stays in place until you get home safely thereafter. (We haven't lost one yet.) They say that if you leave it on until it comes off of its own accord, he'll grant you a boon.

A rede to the wise: ask carefully.

Five weeks on and counting, I'm still wearing mine.

Even when wearing nothing else—toweling off after the shower, say—I'm wearing my red thread.

Every time that I see it, every time that I feel it, I remember.

Why are some people witches, and some not?

Easily told.

We're witches because he sires us himself, overshadowing our fathers at the moment of our conception.

Witches too, you see, have two daddies.

This year's was a Grand Sabbat memorable for its intimacy and intensity.

Now, when I'm with other thread-bearers, there's an odd kind of camaraderie among us that I can't recall from previous years. Now, proudly displaying our bound wrists, something shared, something deep and unspoken, passes between us.

And you, and you, and you were there.

Bloodline kind of thing.

A friend of mine came up with this delicious and nutritious smoothie so her beloved husband could get all the things in one smoothie. He loves it, and so do we!

1 banana

The smell of baking bread is incredibly seductive. Try it and you’ll soon see.

Makes one large or two regular loaves.