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If genuine, she could well be the oldest human artifact in Paganistan.

From coiffed head to pointed toe, you can see the resemblance to the Lady of Willendorf immediately.

Articulate, enigmatic, she simultaneously merges with, and emerges from, the stone that is her matrix. At 5¼ x 2¼ inches, you could hold her in the palm of your hand.

And believe me, when you see her, you want to.

She now resides in the heart of the American Midwest at the Minneapolis Institute of the Arts. If the stories are true, her previous home was a cave in southern France, and she's 22,000 years old.

The omen could hardly have been clearer.

It was spring break of my junior year. I'd come to Minneapolis, ostensibly in search of a graduate program. Actually, I'd come in search of a community. In search of a people.

My friend had picked me up at the train station. Driving home down Lake Street, I saw it.

I guess you could say that a wall spoke to me. Minneapolis is a City of Murals. There it was, covering the entire side of a building.

Flowers, butterflies. (Hey, it was the 70s.) These words:

I am because you are.

(Louis Alemayehu)

In the spring of 1974, Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa—arguably the most famous painting in the world—visited Japan.

There she was welcomed in a manner quite quintessentially Japanese.

People sent flowers.

At the time, I can remember thinking, Of course: that's absolutely right. That's exactly what you do to honor such a powerful...well, kami.

It's an action quintessentially Shinto.

And quintessentially pagan.

i.

They call them the greenways.

They're prehistoric trackways that thread their way across the landscape. The famous Ridgeway, which follows the line of ridges across the heart of southern England, is said to be more than 5000 years old. It is part of the old Icknield Way, named for the Keltic Iceni tribe of more than 2000 years ago. (Boudicca was queen of the Iceni.)

In fact, such greenways exist all over the world. I live just a few feet from one myself.

These days Lake Street isn't very green. It looks pretty much like any four-lane main drag in America, lined with mom-pop eateries (where these days you can get tripe soup, corn fungus tacos, and whole roast guinea pig), convenience stores, and halal groceries.

But beneath the pavement runs the old Indian trail that led from the Dakota summer village on Bde Maka Ska ("White Earth Lake," latterly known as Lake Calhoun) down to the Mississippi. The old tracks often lead to water.

The greenways were the true ley-lines of old. Beneath the asphalt, they still pulse with ancient power.

"Steve?"

It was Burtrand, head of Minnesota Church of the Wicca, which meant that something was probably wrong. He'd never called before. 

"Were you guys out at the demo last week?"

It was February 1982, the early years of the Reagan Era. The Teflon President himself had stopped at the Minneapolis Airport and, activist coven that we were, we had gone out to give him the un-welcome that he deserved.

WITCHES AGAINST REAGAN, read our sign. Note the acronym. Hey, they were un-subtle times.

"Yeah," I said, "How did you know?"

If you've ever wondered what it would be like to experience a pagan holiday in a pagan city, well, you don't have to wait until your next incarnation to find out.

Just come to pagan Minneapolis for Bealtaine.

For 42 years, the magic and artistry of Heart of the Beast Puppet and Mask Theater has brought the joy of May to Witch City. 50,000 people line Bloomington Avenue for the Parade and then follow it, dancing, in unbridled celebration of the Coming of the Sun and the melting of Winter's icy heart.

In Powderhorn Park, we call the Sun, which sails to us across the lake in its winged boat. By its power, the Tree of Life rises renewed, and the city-wide party begins.

Gods. There really are pagans everywhere.

Back around Yule I happened to be walking past a house on the next block when it was dark enough for the lights to be on, but early enough that the blinds were still open. I noticed the great big Sun face hanging over the fireplace. 

There was another Sun in the front window, and a metal cut-out Sun standing in a snow-drift in the front yard.

Hmm, I thought.

I've lived in the South Minneapolis pagan neighborhood for more than 30 years. You can hardly swing a dead cat around here without hitting a pagan.