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The thing that I remember most was the look of sheer, excruciating boredom on the young woman's face.

The secret rites by which the tribe's girls become the tribe's women duly enacted, I was the first man to arrive for the after-party, red-wrapped gift in hand.

When I got there, the women were still sitting in a circle on the floor, talking at—not with—the newest of their number. They thought, I suppose, that they were imparting valuable life-lessons.

Instead—their actions contradicting the supposed effect of the ritual they had just performed—they were treating her like a little kid who has to be told what to do.

I don't know how people came to think of a Coming-of-Age ritual as the appropriate time and place to lecture the young on the Weird Ways of Adults.

My guess would be that, somewhere back in the Pagan Dark Ages, when the Old Lore had been lost and well lost, we knew that we had to do something for the occasion, but—lacking real Mysteries—we didn't know what it was.

So we settled for a lecture instead.

Well, the Old Mysteries are back, and then some.

Screw being talked at.

First, you undergo the Rite of Passage.

Then you experience at first hand the change of status that the rite accomplished.

What's a sermon got to do with that?

When, at this Summer's upcoming ingathering of the Midwest Tribe of Witches, the Rites of Man-Making have been duly enacted for young N, he will sit, for the first time, in the Circle of Men around the fire and, for the first time, speak as a man among men. He will listen, and be heard.

One of the more challenging aspects of developing a new spiritual tradition is having to figure out what you need terms for and what those terms should be.

I was in the middle of writing a child blessing ritual for the upcoming second edition of Ariadne's Thread (release date: May 15) and realized I needed a term for Modern Minoan Paganism folx to use, a word for the kind of person Christians call godparents: the close family friend who will have a special place in the life of a child as they grow up.

Listen now, friends, to a tale of best-laid plans going awry.

As many of you know, my first book on Minoan spirituality, Ariadne's Thread, went out of print early this year. I got my rights back to the book and began revising it for a second edition. I wrote it before Ariadne's Tribe came into being, so it definitely needed some changes. I was planning to release the new second edition on November 1 of this year.

We gathered roses
and bright zinnias
to crown their heads with flowers,
these shining daughters
who we've cradled and fed
and loved with everything
we have
and everything we are.
We knelt before them and sang,
our hands gently washing the feet
that we once carried inside our own bodies
and that now follow
their own paths.
For a moment,
time folded
and we could see them
as babies in our arms,
curly hair and round faces,
at the same time seeing
the girls in front of us,
flowers in their hair,
bright eyed and smiling,
and so too
we see women of the future,
tall and strong boned
kneeling at the feet
of their own girls
as the song goes on and on.
We tried to tell them
what we want them to know,
what we want them to carry
with them as they go on their ways:
You are loved.
We are here.
You are loved.
You are strong.
You are magical.
We treasure who you are.
This love that carried them
forth into the very world
they walk on.
We hope it is enough
to embrace them for a lifetime,
and so we kneel and sing
and anoint and adorn
and hold their hands in ours.
We are here.
You are not alone.
You are wise in the ways.
You belong.
We are not sure if tears can say
what we mean to say,
but they fall anyway
as we try our best to weave
our words and wishes
and songs and stories,
with strength and confidence
into a cloak of power
that will encircle them with magic,
no matter no matter
how far away
from us they journey.

I'll cut to the chase: we're all dying. It's the only guaranteed fact of our lives: we die.

Atheopaganism doesn't promise an afterlife. There really isn't compelling evidence to support the idea of one, and so we conclude (tentatively, at least) that it is unlikely that there is one.

Some time ago, I wrote a piece about Atheopagan Rites of Passage. In it, I described life milestones that might be celebrated by an Atheopagan, and which we as Atheopagan “clergy” (we’re all clergy, since we have none—below, the ritual leader’s role is noted as “celebrant”) might be asked to officiate over.

On reflection, it occured to me that just talking about these rites of passage probably isn’t helpful enough: that having some guidelines for each such rite would be helpful to the community. So here goes the first installment in a new series: Rites of Passage.

Croning ceremonies are a relatively new feature. As a mostly solitary spiritual practitioner, public ceremony is not my first choice for expressing momentous passages.  But 2016 pushed me out of my comfort zone. We had a wedding, a Big Fat Irish one that the Husband in Training had always wanted and which I had demurred. But having survived the wedding, I felt that I could do a croning ceremony via wifi and the World Wide Web okay. Apparently, 2016 was my year for rites of passage.  Like weddings, these things take a good deal of thought and intention to be pushed into them beforehand.

I already had a crown. Actually, when I turned fifty I thought I was 'ready.' I was not. I did not have an early post-menopause and the peri- phase lasted for the best part of decade. By the time I turned 50, I was in full flush. An Irish friend who now lives in Asheville, North Carolina, made this crown with loving intent. It includes Brighid's eternal flame and the phases of the moon. There are pearls of wisdom and turquoise to express it. It ties on with a tartan ribbon, a nod to the Celtic connection, but is also a deep royal blue, fit for a crone's crown. (Thank you, Liz for your artistry and spiritual intention. It was perfect when the time came!)