Blót-monað, the ancestors called it: Sacrifice-Month.* Or one could say (as the ancestors did, in their pragmatic way) Blood-month. It still goes on.
Deer-hunting begins this weekend here in Minnesota. Hunting opener is generally the first full weekend of November. (Just coincidence, I'm sure. Yeah, right.) Blood on the leaves.
It's the season of the Dead, yes, but let us not forget what the witches in their wisdom have always remembered: it's also the time of the Rut.** The fawns that Old Green Eyes sires right now will be born about Bealtaine, sure. Blood and spooge: Old Craft in the nutshell.
Warning: This post contains ideas and images that some readers may find offensive.
Talk about cultural poverty. Talk about premature canonization. Talk about unworthy traditions.
The so-called "Sacred Hunt" ritual has become a standard fixture at several Midwest pagan gatherings over the course of the last 10 years or so. Me, I hate this so-called "ritual." Personally, I would contend that, in fact, it is neither sacred, a hunt, nor even a ritual. I think it's time and high time that we drove a spear through its heart and let it die a well-deserved and long-overdue death.