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.

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Sacred Sweat

Relax in a clean sauna

 

So, boys, sauna's all stoked up. Which will it be tonight: social sweat, or ritual?

Sacred or secular? No, not really. Sitting around sweating together, naked in the dark: that's sacred—non-ordinary, you could say—pretty much by definition.

No, both kinds of sweat are sacred. They're just for different purposes.

One's for talking, one's for doing.

Sometimes there are things that need to be said, honesties that need to be spoken, agreements that need to be reached. The power of the sauna makes all those things easier.

That's the talking sweat.

For the other, though, we leave the words behind. Instead, we sing: three songs. One to begin, one to do, one to end.

Somewhere in there, in one of those songs, we always sing to the Horned, since he's the one that taught us the sweat in the first place.

That's the singing sweat. That's for working magic.

So, boys: towels are over there.

Which will it be tonight: singing or talking?

 

 

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Tagged in: Sweat lodge warlockry
Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.

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