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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.

Bunny, the resident familiar here at Witch Central, is in fact a Manx cat, and so comes by her cute little stumpy tail honestly.

But, of course, facts should never get in the way of a good story.

The Bunnycat Song

(Tune: “Spiderman”)

Bunnycat, Bunnycat

wasn't always a stumpy cat,

till that fateful day when she

backed into a guillotine.

Look out!

(Mrrraaaoooow!)

On the off chance that you didn't happen to grow up speaking the Irish, or any of its near kin, let me mention just a few intriguing facts about the Celtic languages.

In Celtic languages, words shape-shift.

In Welsh, tad means “father,” but—depending on phonic environment—can also take the form dad, nhad, or thad.

In Celtic languages, things have agency.

In English, we say: I have a book.

In Scots Gaelic, though, the agency is the book's: Tha leabhar agam, literally The book is at me.

In Celtic languages, the verb comes first.

Unlike Subject-Verb-Object English (the cat caught the mouse) or SOV German (the cat the mouse caught), in VSO Celtic sentences, the verb comes first: Rug an cat air an luchag, literally Caught the cat the mouse.

When Celts speak, you're already in the middle of the story even before you've reached the second word of the sentence.

Shifting of shapes, things with agency, the primacy of story.