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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The Psychological Solstice

“There's no more light now than there was a week ago—in fact it's even colder—but somehow just knowing that the solstice is past makes a difference.”

My non-pagan friend and I had been discussing the exhaustion and sense of listlessness that tends to dog this time of year.

For me, the Solstice is an occurrence of profound religious significance, for him it's not. But his comment is right on the mark, and it's good for me to be reminded of how the solstice looks from outside the Broomstick Ghetto.

The darkness, the oncoming cold, the cumulative rush of preparations for Yule often leave me feeling drained, as if there's simply not enough of me to go around.

But then we turn the corner.

This morning, the ninth of Yule, I stood in wonder at the cascading freshet of sunlight pouring in through the southeast window, my skin drinking in the warmth, my heart exulting in the sheer beauty of the light.

Me, I'm not much one for t-shirt philosophy, but in this case I'll make an exception.

The season is the reason.

 

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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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