Spirited (29 page)

A chorus of serenity filtered through the indigo sky, bejewelled and glorious in its heavenly attire. His ears remained receptive, willing away the sirenlike piercing of the silence. He did not know quite where his feet were taking him. The draping willow by the stream gently dabbled at his forehead as he passed through its forest of twine. Overhead, a pearly gibbous moon peered down at the youth, restlessly singing of the sweet darkness that had enclosed her. Watching the ancient mirror, he began to cry. His tears comforted his racing mind and drew all thoughts away from the darting, wolfish shadows slipping between realms. There was nothing to fear when the moon herself illuminated his path.

Still following the stream, he came upon a slate of rock jutting out from the sloping bank. Running his hand across the coarse surface of the rock, he smiled, remembering the many times he had sat on the edge of it as a child, swinging his legs back and forth to disturb the soft sheen of water. There was no malice or will to interfere; it was the childish evocation of the dreaming that had kept him swinging his legs.

Thinking back to the innocence that once so voluntarily infused his world, other memories began to reappear. He remembered the undulating curves of the ever-mirthful water maids as they slid in between his toes and happily mocked his clumsy limbs. He had forged bets with them in order to win a fragment of pride as he playfully pulled his feet from the water every time he saw them coming. Laughter echoed
throughout
the endless night; the calm displacement and mythic landscape of the interweaving shadows nagging at him. Was it merely the memories of childhood that had stirred him this night, or was it something more, beyond such playful intrigue?

Standing, he reached into his pocket to find a single silver coin, which he placed reverently on the edge of the rock. In a flash of mist and light, a sinewy hand burst forth from the quiet stream and snatched up the offering, disappearing just as quickly as it had come. The youth smiled and left the stream, turning his attention to the stretch of forest that bordered the path. Beyond the row of oak and pine was a sharp ravine that twisted its way through the foliage and roots as if it had once been an enraged serpent flailing hysterically. The youth knew this land well and so readied himself for the leap he would have to make in order to pass into the forest. A test of worth, for only the feet of the prepared had felt the moist soil of the forest foundation.

Drifting against the short incline, he centred his mind and felt as the light of the earth entwined about his limbs, strengthening their reflexes.
One
…
two
…
three!
An exhilarating rush of adrenaline ignited in his body and urged him forth. Bounding off the edge, he felt the lift of flight as his mind forsook all thought and embraced the void. He landed, feet yearning for the earth to be beneath them. Before him lay an expanse of mystery, territory whose heir had long ago realised that wilderness warranted no ownership.

A cool breeze trickled through the canopy, fresh air upon his skin. Despite the cold, the youth surrendered his body to a warm, tingling sensation that trailed gently across him like sparks of electricity. His body became a sacred vessel charged within the embrace of shadow. He was not sure if he had anticipated this during his journey to the forest. Time had no refuge within the forest's hallowed depths, and the fleeting seconds each became their own eternity.

A sharp crunch to his right startled him from his trance as the scythe-like talons of a hawk pierced the brittle bark of an oak's bough. Stopping for a moment, their two eyes met; one pair innocent and reverent, the other beyond the strain of a translucent glow. What lay within the ember coals of the bird of prey who perched upon a limb?
What was it that enchanted him to revolt against the incessant need to blink his eyes?
Curiosity for the clumsy figure whose feet were merely an excessive nuisance? Or perhaps, as the hawk spread its wings to fly, it was a deeper understanding, a rhythmic and instinctive knowing that coursed between two souls of the same source.

The wilderness bred fatigue and loneliness, and yet in this moment all had come to rest in a mild calm, for there was a wholeness between the two. Once the feathered one had taken to the rippled stretch above and the youth below her drew into the comfortable embrace of self-awareness, the forest returned from its silent yearning and continued to coax forth the mysterious figure that had so successfully wandered upon the path that only few had taken before.

Emerging from a row of battered trees, the youth felt the soft pressure of pure air against his skin and gazed upward at the silken mirror of concave contentment.
What is it that pulls me here
? His abrupt return to consciousness stirred the serenity that infused the fabric of his mind. Once again, he had stumbled upon the unknown—vulnerable and exposed to the gaping jaws of the veiled mystery before him.

Timidly, his feet slid between the dry foliage and the fresh, green stalks of a curious grass as he made his way to the centre of the grove. Planting his feet firmly in the moist soil, he raised his arms and breathed in deeply, feeling as his heart took heed and began to work faster, pushing the blood. There he stood, a conduit for the power that swept through the sacred ring. The trees shifted, and the earth beneath him craved the sensation. It sang to be fulfilled, and at once the ancient spiral paths began to expand and flow, spilling intoxicating waves of power through Gaia's veins. The youth drew in a sharp breath as he felt a warmth enter through his soles and wash through his body, enlivening his cells and cleansing the breath he drew in. As energy infused his body, his unconscious drew him further and deeper into the void. The darkness was palpable, and fine tendrils carved from its interior wound about the youth's mind.

Fragments of keen voices and shallow wisps of something more sailed through the currents of air. The world was internalising, drawing into itself, and it seemed the youth stood at its centre, for the seed of creation lay within the fertile womb of his soul. The constant pulse of its potential throbbed erratically through him.

What is it that fills my soul and sates the yearning I had not known
…
It is that which is beneath you, around you, above you and within you
…
What is it that knows the deepest of my secrets and plays my heart as if it were the glorious crest of a flaming harp
…
It is that which
you have always known …

Power surged through him. Peripheral flashes of white heat rippled against his body. In an abrupt shift of momentum, silence reigned, and all had fallen into oblivion. The world split at its seams, and a sweet light echoing the vibrant songs of the gods shone through, pooling at his feet. In swift succession, a familiar voice wove its song through the ancient bloodlines pulsing beneath his skin …

Know me, for all that live breathe in my essence. Hear me, for all that do rejoice in the path of the unknown. Love me, for all that passion embraces swim with the current of my blood. Be me, for separation is illusion, and I am at your feet
,
one to the other upon this sacred night …

The laughter rang brightly, soothing his dream's raw landscape. It nurtured his soul and brought forth a cradle of mirth and abandon— the legendary grail. All things must begin in darkness, where the distant flicker of flame and winding light knows no territory. For all must meet with their inner shadow in order to see what truth and what light casts it. Or so he pondered as his arms adjusted to his weight.
Perhaps,
he thought,
I shall write of this tomorrow
. I know, however, that if he decides not to, or simply forgets, that such a rich memory shall never really disappear, and who is to say that his vision was ever truly meant for paper?

Living Paganism:
A Spiritual Integration

Most of us by now are familiar with Scott Cunningham and his phenomenal contribution to the Pagan community. His celebrated book
Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner
is one of the most popular beginner's texts for Wiccan seekers. This book gave many people the confidence they needed to stand up for their spiritual rights. It was the sequel to this book that outlined the finer details of Wiccan spirituality and offered a system of personalising the faith.
Living Wicca
provided an interesting concept to the community with its sectioned parts dealing with particular aspects of Wicca and encouraging the individual to establish a new tradition by means of recording their own path on paper and recognising it as such.

This section offers a unique perspective on living one's spirituality, as well as highlighting advice that has worked for me and those I know in the past and to this day.

Living Paganism is not about creating a fresh and new tradition, it is a test of the individual's conviction to their path and the simple truths they choose to live by.

The Path of Perspective Philosophy

It all begins with perspective. We cultivate, ponder, and act in accordance with how we perceive the world to be. There's no denying that our views, our presumptions, and our accepted form of logic shape the way in which we live our lives.

Consider the predicament of a troubled, impressionable adolescent. Now, this particular adolescent (let's name him George) was raised by fundamentalist Protestant parents who just so happen to be active committee members of a large organisation based on condemning social and religious minorities. They regard
Sailor Moon
42
as a threat to the post-mortem fate of their children. How would George see the world? Most probably as a breeding ground for evil. Every moment of his conscious life is spent on discerning good from evil based on his faith. George's definition of good and evil is decidedly more defined than the moderate Catholic's. There's one thing that George has succeeded in doing, however, that I want to make especially clear: George has integrated his perspective philosophy into his everyday life, and this is something we as Pagans need to achieve.

The difference between a fundamentalist person and a free-thinking individual is that we know our perspective philosophies are merely some of the many paths that fulfil the nature of Truth. However, a Pagan's perspective is not bound to dogma. Our perspective is emphasised by the simple truths of everyday life and most importantly by our experience.

Paganism does not make any absurd claims that negate science or common sense. We are sometimes average human beings who live in a not-so-average world. We acknowledge and honour the creation, including ourselves, as sacred, and we attune ourselves to the sacred through ritual and myth. There is no delusion in our worldviews; we are not led astray by the fleeting promises of the occasional New Age fancy. As Pagans, we seek to live in virtue and honour within codes that are essentially universal. These things and more form the basis of our perspective. It is then up to the individual to walk the path of Truth according to personal encounters with divinity.

Imagine being imprisoned within a tall, cold tower, in which your only view of the outside world is through a small window. You have no idea what is going on around you, and you become accustomed to your minimized perception of life remaining unchanged. Suddenly, a wild storm blankets the skies, and a deep sigh of thunder cleaves the peace in two. Inside your tower, you tremble with fear, uncertain of the fate that will befall you. In marvellous synchronicity, just as these thoughts form on the verge of your mind, a daggerlike flash of light makes contact with the ancient stones of the roof above you and shakes the tower to its core. A momentous blast resounds, and you are thrown from the tower. Your body does not react; it becomes numb with fear. Your limp figure falls, and suddenly the world's torrent of darkness engulfs you.

It's profound imagery, when you think about it. There can be no truth to perspective unless you have experienced the chaos of our world. There can be no light without darkness and no shadow cast without an intercessor to break the path of light. We form the delicate balance between polarities. We provide the channel for the powers of the universe to flow through. It is our perspective that shapes the way we deal with reality. This may be difficult for the hardcore rationalist to comprehend. After all, isn't there only one reality, one truth, and one method of attaining knowledge of both? Maybe and maybe not. While we are on this earth, the path and the perspective we walk it with should only serve one purpose: to fulfil the law of limitless possibility. There is no end to this spiritual odyssey we call the soul.

Daily Devotion

Part of being Pagan is to live one's spirituality wholly and in each moment of every day. It is essential for us to celebrate the continuum by sharing in the exchange of Life, and this is the art of devotion.

Devotion comes in many forms and is expressed in many ways. There is devotion to one's gods, devotion to one's cause, devotion to one's destiny, devotion to one's kith and kin, and of course there is always honour, for without it we are speaking soulless words.

I cannot say to whom or to what to devote to, or how, why, when, and where you should do so; that is for you to discover. Paganism has no authorities; it has nothing of the tyranny that the monotheistic traditions systematically condone. We are each unto ourselves, and despite our connections, in the end we decide independent of external forces (but remember the tower).

We Pagans have a priesthood, but it is not one that undermines the strength at the centre of each of us. We do not submit to anybody who claims power-over; we are all about the power from within and the power that is shared with other beings and forces. To devote oneself to any form of politico-authoritarian institute would be to spit on the graves of all those who have suffered at the hands of oppression, ignorance, and the stricken ego-consciousness.