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.
Feel the Pour
It's one of the older conundrums in the ritualist's book.
You're pouring at a public ritual. You've brought the libation. You paid for it, so the other attendees have no investment, no personal stake in it.
How, then, do you get them to feel the pour?
Here's my recommendation: beautiful as it is, leave grandma's silver libation ewer at home.
Pour straight from the bottle.
And pour out the whole thing.
Every last drop.
We're human beings. We see wine (or whatever), we want some.
But no, I'm sorry, this is not for you. It's for Someone Else. All of it.
That's why they call it sacrifice.
At the start of last summer's Midwest Grand Sabbat, we poured out a bottle of Jameson to Thunder and asked him to be kindly to our gathering throughout.
And kindly he was, indeed.
And every last person in the circle felt that pour, believe you me.
To the very last drop, we felt it.
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Paganism in its rightful way under scientific knowledge at large, is probably better than Christianity.