All Our Relations: Pagans and the more-than-human world.
For aware Pagans the Sacred encompasses us all, rivers and mountains, oceans and deserts, grasses and trees, fish and fungi, birds and animals. Understanding the implications of what this means, and how to experience it first hand, involves our growing individually and as a community well beyond the limits of this world-pathic civilization. All Our Relations exists to help fertilize this transition.
The Eve of Midwinter
Usually I post my own stuff here, but an old friend, and very long time Pagan who wishes to be known to the outside as Priestess Aurora Borealis Medicine Turkey, has written a wonderful poem celebrating Mid-Winter Eve and I want to share it...
The Eve of Midwinter
by Aurora Borealis Medicine turkey
'Twas the eve of Midwinter and all through the coven
The witches were cooking strange things in the oven.
There were mugwort frittatas and dragon's blood stew,
Mescalin eggnog and mandrake fondue
There were hot mountain oysters and road-kill paté
Spotted owl kidneys and wombat flambé.
Directions were called and the circle was cast
In hopes that the Goddess would be there at last.
When out by the hot tub I heard such a clatter
I jumped on my broom to see what was the matter.
And what did I see 'midst the blackberry thorns
But a dripping wet Goddess and eight unicorns.
"I was just sitting down with my vibrating phallus
And a good book," she muttered. "You bitches are callous.
I came when you called, over all my objections.
And got lost in the woods. You give lousy directions.
You turkeys invoked me, now look at my dress!
My period's late, and I've got PMS."
She cursed and she grumbled, she looked like a wreck
The unicorns trembled and shat on the deck.
So we got her some weed, and brought her some grub
We gave her hot towels and she soaked in the tub.
Then she arose, hot and dripping, and gave us her blessings
And jumped in her chariot without even dressing!
On Isis. on Eris, Oya and Astarte!
On Bridget, Diana, Kali and Hecate!"
We heard her exclaim as she rose through the air,
Thank Goddess there's only eight Sabbats a year!"
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Couldn't have said it better myself!
Sophia Goldenstone
Langwitch
Ilkley Moor, W. Yorkshire