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.
A Night in the Life of an Urban Coven
Ah, summer in Lake Country. There's no humidity like Midwestern humidity.
One steamy New Moon night in July 1984, we gather in Loring Park to greet the First Crescent, hoping for even a breath of air movement.
Alas, there is none.
We retire to my nearby deficiency compartment to continue. In the thick, airless humidity, we strip off and sit on the bare floorboards.
In the center of our circle stands the coven goddess: earthen, tall as a child of two years. There she rises: dancing, naked, smiling her mysterious smile. Of us all, only she looks cool.
We chant, savoring.
new is moon
moon are we
we are new
blessed be
The sweating jar passes from lap to lap, a lunar coolness. With sea-sponges, we wipe each other down with the cold water.
As the jar circles, we begin riffing off of our chant.
We are nude, I deadpan. There is no witchcraft without self-satire.
Laughing, Magenta points to the Goddess.
So is she! she adds.
Everyone laughs. Our chant continues.
we are nude
so is she
we're all nude
blessed be
“Let's remember this one,” someone says.
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