Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Eclipsomania
It's been heartening to see so much excitement about the upcoming solar eclipse.
Across North America, hundreds of thousands—if not millions—of people will greet the eclipse just as we used to in the old days: with gatherings, with ritual, with parties.
Some years back I sat alone on my back steps to watch that intimate moment in the dance of our Earth and our Moon that we call a lunar eclipse.
As always, it was beautiful, moving, disturbing: a lunar month in unreal microcosm.
But at that silent moment of red totality, I thought: this isn't how it should be. There should be people in every back yard, in every park, watching this holy event.
And at that moment of totality, there should have been massive city-wide outcry: voices, drums, the ringing of bells. It could have been a ritual that united the city.
On Monday, August 21, 2017, people across North America will honor that awesome, beautiful Great Rite that we call a solar eclipse. At that moment of terrible Union, for a brief while we will become one, united people: Red with Blue, pagan with cowan.
And for a time we will remember that there are more important things than what happens in Washington DC.
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