Ancestor Worship
Recently I watched the National Geographic documentary Stonehenge Decoded. The film explores archaeological evidence that Stonehenge and another nearby henge formed a ritual complex for worshiping the ancestors and marking the Summer and Winter Solstices. If true (and I think it may very well be) it shows a clear ideological link between the ancestors and ongoing cosmic life in the minds of ancient Britons. Most modern people (including the scholars in this documentary) when discussing such things, state that practices like ancestor worship have long since died out in the western world. Have they?
In college, I did study abroad at the University of Oxford in England. I fell in love with the city of Oxford, and in fact with Britain itself. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I felt an instant and deep connection to the place itself–the land that many of my ancestors came from. At that time, I was still a practicing Episcopalian, so I enjoyed visiting various Anglican churches and cathedrals. One of the first things I did after arriving in Oxford, in fact, was visit the shrine of St. Frideswide in Oxford Cathedral, where I left a written prayer.
Weeks later, being at that time a devoted LOTR fan, I set out for Wolvercote cemetery. I got lost along the way and had to ask directions. Fortunately, as soon as I mentioned “Wolvercote,” the locals knew exactly what I wanted to see–J.R.R. Tolkien’s grave. Wolvercote is a large, well-tended cemetery. I asked the groundskeeper where Tolkien’s grave was; he simply smiled and pointed to a tiny sign on the ground by the path, which said, J.R.R. Tolkien, Author –>.
Several things are notable about Tolkien’s tombstone. People often note the fact that the stone (which marks the adjacent graves of Tolkien and his wife) bears the names Beren and Luthien, names from a story in The Silmarillion. But what stood out to me was something different. The tombstone was covered in coins. Coins from virtually every country I’d ever heard of adorned the tomb. People from all over the world had come to see this grave, and left coins as a tribute. Seeing the incredible beauty of such a simple act, I fished an American quarter out of my pocket and placed it reverently on the headstone. Then I whispered a few words of respect to the man himself
Another time, I went with one of my classes to St. Cross. St. Cross is a beautiful little stone church in Oxford several centuries old. It’s noted, among other reasons, for being the burial place of the famous English architect Christopher Wren. The church is surrounded by a graveyard. The graveyard, which is open to the public, is overgrown with wild blackberries. It was early August at the time, so my classmates and I wandered reverently among the gravestones, picking and eating the ripe blackberries. I mentioned to my professor (a Christian) that there was something poetic about the fruit growing directly out of the graves. He smiled thoughtfully and agreed.
While in England, I also visited Stonehenge, which was a powerful experience. It is a frustrating one, however, since you can’t actually get close to the stones. I understand this of course–people abused Stonehenge for years before it became a protected site. Nearby, however, is the tiny village of Avebury, home to another ring of standing stones. The main road in Avebury actually runs right through the ring, and many of the stones are in a sheep pasture, which is open to tourists who don’t mind stepping in sheep droppings. At Avebury, you can walk right up to the stones and touch them, which I respectfully did.
Why do we do this? Why do we as human beings spend so much money and time seeing such things? Why was it so important to me to experience this? Did I just need a vacation from normalcy?
I think that ancestor worship is, in its own way, alive and well. We may not all think of what we’re doing as ancestor worship, but I think many of us do it.
Sacrifice as a Central Practice
One thing that I often find frustrating when reading about pagan traditions is discussion of “core practices.” Of course it’s perfectly natural (and necessary) that in describing a pagan tradition–or any other tradition for that matter–one would talk about the basic practices of that tradition. Usually what people describe in the “core practices” section on websites and tradition profiles are sets of meditational excercises. For example, many websites about Feri (the Witchcraft tradition I’m a student in right now), list such techniques as Three Souls alignment, the Kala rite, and the Ha Prayer as the foundational practices of the tradition.
In a sense these sites are correct. The practices I mentioned above are very important in the Feri tradition, just as the meditational and visualization exercises of other traditions are probably important components of those traditions. But what frustrates me about these articles is that these are not in fact the basics of most traditions. The Kala rite and Three Souls alignment are (relatively) unique to Feri; they are features that make the tradition distinct from others. The Two Powers meditation is such a defining practice for ADF Druidry.[1] Leaving aside specific tradtions, many books on general pagan or Witchcraft practice also list meditation and visualization as the basic or foundational practices of paganism. In my view, this is incorrect. So if these aren’t the basic practices of paganism, what are the basics?
There are a number of things I could list here, but one especially comes to mind. It’s a practice central not only to paganism, but to almost all religions ancient and modern: sacrifice.
That word probably troubles a lot of readers. For one thing, a lot of people would be quick to say that sacrifice doesn’t figure into real paganism, especially Witchcraft. Others would nervously tug at their collars, thinking of how a word like “sacrifice” can tend to conjure up images of blonde virgins slaughtered by “Satanic” cults. Plus, we tend to look at sacrifice as necessarily involving killing–and we view religions that practice animal sacrifice as “backward” or “primitive” (not to mention the fact that at various times and in various places around the world, one of the animals used for sacrifice was man). Finally, well, “sacrifice” just plain sounds unpleasant. When we think of sacrifice, we think of giving something up, losing something, depriving ourselves. Few of us really like to do that. So, in this post I’d like to address some of these concerns and talk a little about why sacrifice is the basic practice of paganism.
First, we can dismiss the pop culture image of the blonde virgin (or helpless infant) sacrificed by evil Satanists. Studies by the FBI and other authorities in the 1980′s and 1990′s–at the height of the “Satanic Panic”–found virtually no evidence of actual ritual human sacrifice in the United States. Furthermore, no Satanic group that I’m aware of actually endorses ritual acts of violence (although I’m not especially knowledgeable about Satanism).
But doesn’t sacrifice involve killing something? The answer to this question is a complex one. On the one hand, it is certainly true that animal sacrifice has been practiced in virtually every part of the world. The ancient Greeks sacrificed any number of animals to their gods–sheep, pigs, even dogs in rare cases. The ancient Romans not only sacrificed animals but used the entrails of slaughtered sacrifices to divine the future in a practice called haruspicy, which they learned from the Etruscans. Animal sacrifice was also practiced by the Jews, as detailed in the Jewish scriptures. Even some “peaceful” modern religions sacrifice animals. The Bwiti religion of western Africa–a tradition noted for is generally peaceful nature–reportedly employs chickens as sacrificial animals.[2]
It is also true that human sacrifice has been practiced by a number of cultures in different ways. Archaeological evidence suggests that early Pharaohs of Egypt were buried with the remains of their earthly servants–men who were killed specifically for the purpose of serving the Pharaoh in the afterlife. The Aztecs of Mexico left not only archaeological remains, but illustrated codices documenting the ritual killing of human beings. The ancient Celts also left us some evidence of human sacrifice, and the Graeco-Roman historians criticized them for this practice. Interestingly enough, the Romans were also practitioners of human sacrifice, despite their professed disdain for it.[3]
However, instances of human sacrifice are the exception, not the rule; indeed, sacrifice usually involves killing nothing at all. Hellenic reconstructionists sometimes sacrifice loaves of bread and other food items by ritually “slaughtering” them, in imitation of the ancient rituals of Greek animal sacrifice. But we may go a step further here. Most sacrifices do not even involve a symbolic killing. Instead they take the form of a simple offering. Ancient Neoplatonist Greeks wrote about the practice of offering only vegetables and fragrances (incense, etc.) to the gods. This was not an oddity. As Jordan Paper mentions in The Deities are Many (which I cited in my essay “Altar’d States”) candles are the most common offerings in polytheism. This is not only a feature of modern polytheism, but is true of ancient polytheism as well, and the practice of offering candles also found purchase in early Christianity. Charles Freeman notes that
weather, fertility, safe childbirth and escape from enemies [had] become the concerns of local martyrs…In other words, the same roles that the pagan gods such as Asclepius had fulfilled for centuries. The authorities helped the process either by acquiescence or by direct initiative. [St.] Jerome was rebuked by one earnest Christian for allowing a martyr’s tomb to be surrounded by a mountain of candles even in daylight, as the tomb of a pagan deity might be. Jerome replied lamely that the candles were to provide light for the all-night vigils, but “what used to be done for idols, and is therefore detestable, is [now] done for martyrs, and on that account is acceptable.” Candles are still, of course, to be found before the images of saints in both Catholic and Orthodox churches.[4]
Finally, we should consider the perception that sacrifice is necessarily unpleasant. It is easy to see why we have this attitude. All of us have heard parents speak of the “sacrifices” they’ve made for their children, or executives list the things they’ve had to “sacrifice” for their careers. Further, in a culture of Judeo-Christian heritage, sacrifice can take on unpleasant connotations. In the Jewish scriptures, sacrifice was performed for the remission of sins–in other words for regaining the favor of a god who insisted on a very specific moral code for his worshipers. In Christianity this idea grew. Instead of a lamb being slaughtered for the recent sins of the people, we now have a man [5] giving up his life for the sins of the entire world. Especially in the latter instance, sacrifice is appallingly gruesome. While authors such as Joseph Campbell have related such a story to world mythology and hero archetypes (and also concluded that it is therefore a Jungian commentary on the human condition), for most Christians throughout history, it has been taken literally. In Christianity, the death of Jesus was not only a sacrifice but the sacrifice.
While sacrifice in paganism can be performed for the purpose of making amends to an offended deity (or nature spirit or ancestor), such atonement is not its primary use or purpose, since most of the deities polytheists work with are not law givers. Perhaps more importantly, while polytheism provides plenty of gods of death and resurrection, ritual sacrifice in paganism is only sometimes a reenactment of this. More often, it is simply an offering, a gift from one being to another for the purpose of maintaining a relationship–much the way we give occasional gifts and favors to friends and relatives to keep our relationships strong. We do this because we consider our relationships sacred.
And in the end, this is what it is all about–keeping relationships sacred. After all, the word “sacrifice” comes from the Latin sacer (“holy”) and facere (“to do or make”), so to sacrifice something is to make it sacred or holy, to dedicate it to the gods or ancestors.
I’ll probably write a follow up post describing modern sacrificial practices in more detail.
[1] However, the Two Powers meditation has since become part of another trad, the Henge of Keltria, a Druid group which originated as an offshoot of ADF, and Starhawk has detailed a similar grounding practice in her work.
[2] I say “reportedly” because I have only precious little knowledge of this religion myself. Those curious about Bwiti might enjoy reading Daniel Pinchbeck’s Breaking Open the Head for a personal account of Bwiti initiation.
[3] See The Druids by Peter Berresford Ellis for a discussion of this.
[4] Freeman, Charles. The Closing of the Western Mind: the Rise of Faith and the Fall of Reason. New York: Vintage Books, 2005. 264-5.
[5] While general Christian doctrine now states that Jesus was both fully human and fully divine, this doctrine was not universal in very early Christianity. See the works of Bart D. Ehrman, espcially Lost Christianities and Misquoting Jesus for a discussion of this and related topics. See also Brad Klinghoffer’s Why the Jews Rejected Jesus for a discussion of the human nature of the Jewish messiah, in contrast to the Christian idea of a divine messiah.
The Flower Prayer
A few months ago I posted about magickal intent. In that post I wrote briefly about the practice of what I call natural intent–that is, delving boldly into the self to understand the myriad impulses and desires you find there. This practice is summed up in a prayer that is a core part of the Feri tradition:
Who is this flower above me,
And what is the work of this God?
I would know myself in all my parts.
Reciting this prayer was one of the first daily practices I took up after I started studying Feri. For me, it has always been incredibly powerful, especially the last line:
I would know myself in all my parts.
It takes courage to say this every day. We spend so much of our time trying to ignore ourselves, trying to block out aspects of ourselves that we have been told should not be there. When I first started saying the Flower Prayer, I found all sorts of emotions bubbling up. Old wounds I had done my best to forget now boldly presented themselves to me on a daily basis. I had trouble sleeping, focusing at work, talking to people. The situation became so unpleasant that I thought about discontinuing my Feri study.
But I kept saying the prayer. And kept saying it. And kept saying it. And the feelings kept bubbling up–over and over and over.
Then one evening, as I was saying the Flower Prayer, I realized that I no longer felt any fear or hesitation in saying it. I was no longer afraid to say that I wanted to “know myself in all my parts.” However, I don’t mean to tell you that natural intent is a destination at which you suddenly arrive. Rather, it’s an ongoing process. And it is not a process of analysis, but rather a process of fully experiencing yourself. It’s for this reason that the Delphic oracle in ancient Greece was inscribed with the axiom “Know Thyself.” Knowing myself is a process I engage in daily, and I recommend it for others as well.
Altar’d States
Altars and Shrines
When you set out on a Pagan path–be it Witchcraft, Druidry, Reconstructionism of some sort, or yet another path–often one of the first things you will be advised to do is set up a sacred place in your home. Usually this space is called an altar or shrine. Erecting a home altar or shrine is an ancient practice in many religions, and it can be a very rewarding one for the Pagan seeker. Tending my home altars is one of my favorite personal practices. But how do you make and tend an altar? And for that matter what is an altar, and is it the same thing as a shrine?
Sadly, the widely available books on Paganism (which are usually books on Wicca) tend to be sparse on information concerning altars and shrines. To offer one example, popular Wiccan writer D. J. Conway has authored an entire book on altars, A Little Book of Altar Magick. Unfortunately, this book consists mostly of small snippets of information taken out of context. When it comes to what exactly an altar is, Conway has little to say besides noting that people have been constructing altars since time immemorial, and making a few general comments about their uses.[1] Many other books on Witchcraft and Neopaganism do not even mention altars much at all. With any luck, this article can help fill in some of these informational gaps.
First of all, we should turn to the question of what an altar is. Our English word “altar” most likely comes to us from a Latin verb: adolere, “to burn up.”[2] In the ancient world, most offerings were burned or cooked in some way, and the altar was often the place where such sacrifices were performed. This is in fact still true, as candles and incense remain the most common offerings. An altar can therefore be defined as a place where offerings are made. Yet when most of us think of altars we envision niches or tables that house statues of deities, sacred symbols, and ritual tools. Aren’t these altars is as well?
In contemporary Paganism, “altar” is often conflated with “shrine”. There is much overlap between the two in fact, but altars are not synonymous with shrines. A shrine is a space or reliquary that houses a relic, icon, or sacred object.[3] This item could be the bones of a saint or other revered person, the image of a god, or anything else considered sacred. For example, the Eleusinian Mysteries of ancient Greece placed great emphasis on the kiste, a box containing an whose very identity was among the primary mysteries of the sect. Though most shrines are not quite so occult as this, the kiste is a perfect example of a shrine. The shrine’s function is simply to exist, so that worshipers and devotees may behold its contents and meditate upon them. It is not surprising then that the English word shrine is derived from the Latin noun scrinium, meaning “case, chest or box.”
As I said, there is often some overlap here. In the personal temples of many Pagans, you are likely to find niches or tables that serve both purposes, acting as both shrine and altar. For our present purpose, we will assume that any altar you are likely to construct will also be a shrine housing images or symbols of whatever gods/spirits/ancestors you work with. To quote Druid and noted Pagan author Ceiswr Serith: “An altar may be defined either as a place where the gods sit or as a place at which offerings are made…In a particular ritual, these two definitions may be represented by two different structures, the same structure may serve both purposes, or only one kind may be present.”[4]
The Altar as Sacred Space
Before we delve into constructing an altar, there is a philosophical issue we should address, and it is a fairly hot-button issue. Many Pagans would describe an altar as a sacred space. For many readers, this description will not be problematic. And indeed, an altar is a sacred space. However, if we wish to understand altars thoroughly, we need to unpack this statement. What exactly is “sacred space?”
First we should tackle the ubiquitous word “sacred”. As Druid author John Michael Greer points out in his excellent work A World Full of Gods, the word “sacred” is used so frequently in contemporary religious discourse and is used to signify so many different concepts, that it is functionally meaningless unless applied within a specific context. Outside of such a context, says Greer, “sacred” means nothing more specific than “worshipped [sic] by somebody.”[5]
In the ancient polytheistic cultures most Neopagans hearken to, sacredness was rather a fluid concept. In such a milieu, if I pointed to a tree and said, “That tree is sacred,” the person I was addressing would likely respond by asking me, “Sacred to whom?” To illustrate my point, let’s look at an example from ancient Greece. Among the Greeks, one of the most common sacrificial animals was the pig. Many of the ancient Greek deities would have been quite honored by the offering of a pig. Yet, if a devotee wanted to gain Aphrodite’s favor, swine would be the last thing the worshiper would offer Her. This was because while swine might be considered sacred to some other deities, they were most decidedly not sacred to Aphrodite. In essence, it was common knowledge that Aphrodite did not like pigs. In our largely Christian-influenced culture, we tend to attach ultimate implications to a words like “sacred” and “profane.” However, in most Paganisms, such ultimate interpretations are out of place. Whether something is sacred or not is a question of the tastes and associations of the deities being invoked.
With this in mind, we can turn to the current Neopagan controversy over the idea of sacred space. Many books on Wicca present as a given the need to “create sacred space” by casting a circle before performing a ritual. However, some trad Witches[6] and Reconstructionists[7] would offer a valuable objection here. If Pagans are in fact nature worshipers, as most of us claim, shouldn’t we regard all space as sacred?
As we can now see, this disagreement rests on differing assumptions of what it means to be sacred. It is assumed here that what is implied by “sacred” in a Witchcraft context is “good” or at least “not evil” in an ultimate sense. In fact, most Witches would probably agree that all space is sacred–but this does not mean that all space is suitable for the type of religious and magickal operations that Witches endeavor to perform. To return to the example of Aphrodite, if I were seeking to invoke Her in a ritual, it would be far better to perform this ritual on the beach than in the middle of a desert, as Aphrodite has always been associated with the sea. The beach is a place Aphrodite would be more likely to visit. Hence, in casting a circle a Wiccan (or any other mage) is not creating sacred space per se, but rather making a space suitable for working with the particular energies and entities that figure into Wiccan ritual. This holds true for practitioners of any tradition who prepare ritual space in some way before using it.
If erecting an altar is an act of creating sacred space (or sanctifying a space), its purpose then is to establish a space suitable for the type of magickal/religious experience a person wishes to have. Most commonly, the experience sought is an encounter with one or more gods, so altars for this purpose will be our focus in the next section.
An Invitation to the Gods
Many seekers in Neopagan traditions (myself included) come from backgrounds in Christianity, most commonly some form of Protestantism. In part, what often draws us to Paganism is the chance to have very direct encounters with the gods, whether we conceive of the divine in an archetypal, duotheistic, or polytheistic way.[8]
A Gardnerian high priestess friend once commented to me that those of us who were raised Protestant tend to have the most difficulty working with gods, because we come from a tradition in which the relationship between the divine and the worshiper is very one-sided. This is perhaps one of the starkest contrasts between Christianity and Paganism. A Christian worships because she must (unless she wants to be condemned). Whether her god blesses her or gives her endless misfortune, she continues to thank and worship him. By contrast, a Pagan worships her gods because she wants to. The divine relationship in Paganism is a two-way street. The worshiper gives offerings and prayers to her gods, and her gods in turn bestow blessings upon her. This is not a form of bribery or a strict tit-for-tat arrangement, but rather a relationship much like a friendship–mutually beneficial and with some level of patience and understanding on either side.[9] An altar may therefore also be seen as a meeting place between god and worshiper. But what does such a meeting place look like?
To answer this question, I’d like to return briefly to the remarks of Ceiswr Serith. In a blog post dated April 13, 2011, Serith explains his view that an altar is a “mesocosm” meant to link the worshiper to the macrocosm. Serith is here taking the view that the greater cosmos (macrocosm) is reflected in the being of each person (microcosm). This concept will be familiar to many people from occult writings such as Aleister Crowley’s The Book of the Law (“Every man and every woman is a star”) and from the Celtic concept of the Duile. To quote Serith:
An altar is the place where the divine is manifest. It is the sacred space writ small. It is a mesocosm which mediates between the microcosm of the practitioner and the macrocosm of the sacred universe. Through being present at an altar the practitioner is present at all things. Through performing rituals at the altar, the practitioner is performing them in the microcosm, the macrocosm, or both. If the microcosm, the practitioner makes manifest in the themselves [sic] what is present in the altar; if in the macrocosm, it is by performing a ritual which manipulates the altar’s mesocosm that the effect is created in the macrocosm.[10]
Serith is certainly correct that many altars (and in fact entire temple complexes) take this mesocosmic form. The great Hindo-Buddhist temple of Angkor Wat in Cambodia is an excellent example, its plan being a depiction of the world with the central tower representing Mount Meru, the home of the Hindu Devas. However, I would humbly point out that not all altars are necessarily the cosmos “writ small.” While this is a perfectly valid layout for an altar, many altars are simply offering spaces dedicated to specific deities.
This in fact leads us to yet another controversy. (You probably had no idea there would be so many, huh?) I’ve run across many contemporary Pagan authors who decry the eclecticism of Neopagan rituals and altars. Primarily, these authors are bothered by the cultural mixing that takes place on eclectic altars–where, for example, a Celtic deity might share a space with, say, a Greek or Egyptian god.
First of all, I should state that I share their concern. Too often it seems that deities are placed on the same altar without any concern for possible conflicts. After all, it should be obvious by now that it might not be a good idea to invoke Aphrodite on the same altar with a god whose sacred animal is the pig. However, most of these authors go on to say that Neopagans should invoke only gods from a single culture in a given ritual or at a given altar. If you’re going to invoke Greek gods, they say, invoke only Greek gods.
In actuality, these authors are upset over something that has been going on for thousands of years. Polytheism has almost always taken a highly permeable form, with polytheistic cultures frequently absorbing deities from neighboring peoples. An ancient Roman worshiper might invoke both Hekate (Carian/Greek) and Isis (Egyptian) at the same altar.[11] Many ancient Greek deities were adopted from neighboring or pre-Indo-European cultures. Often the invocation of two deities from different cultures was performed because the two figures were seen as different interpretations of the same being. What we should take away from this is that if we are going to invoke multiple deities at one altar, we should do so only with a fair amount of research and forethought. And by “research” I mean actual scholarship. Go and read some respectable books on the deities you’re interested in. If they don’t seem like they would get along, it’s best to give each his or her own space.
Constructing an Altar
What should your altar be made of? Where should you put it? What should be on it? These are all important questions. My answers to them will be rather general, as the form your altar takes will be greatly affected by the god(s) to which you are dedicating it, the tradition in which you are working (if any), and your own aesthetic.
Since Neopaganism generally includes great reverence for nature, I prefer altars made of wood or other natural materials. Side tables, bookcases, and the like are perfect for this. When researching a god, you may find that he/she is associated with a particular wood. For example, Hekate has been associated with the oak tree, and many of her ancient altars were constructed of laurel. If you are erecting a Hekate altar, a piece of furniture made of these materials would be excellent. However, if such materials can’t be found, this should not stop you. Remember that by creating an altar you are voluntarily honoring your gods. As long as this is done in an attitude of respect (and as long as nothing offensive to the deities is included in the altar), they will most likely respond favorably to it.
As for the location of your altar, you should consider several things. First, gods often have directional associations, although they may be implied rather than stated outright in the mythology.[12] If a god is connected to the rising sun, then placing your altar in the East might be a good idea. If a goddess’s major cult center was in the West of the country where she was worshiped, you might consider orienting your altar towards the West. Secondly, if you are working in a particular tradition, your tradition may specify an orientation for altars. But bear in mind that following these guidelines is only necessary if you are only working with your god(s) within the confines of your tradition.
Mythological and historical research should also inform what you place on your altar, the symbols, statues, and ritual items that adorn your space. However, there is also room for intuition and personal gnosis here. Personal gnosis would require another article (or even an entire book), to discuss. For now, remember that an altar is a living space, and like all living things, it changes over time. It should change with the seasons, and with the development of the devotee who tends it.
[1] Conway, D.J. The Big Little Book of Magick [Omnibus]. Berkeley: Crossing Press, 2010. 5-6.
[2] All etymologies according to merriam-webster.com
[3] A shrine may also be a structure marking a sacred location.
[4] “Proto-Indo-European Altars.” http://www.ceiswrserith.com/pier/altars.htm. Retrieved 6/25/2011.
[5] Greer, John Michael. A World Full of Gods: an Inquiry into Polytheism. ADF Publishing, 2005.
[6] Trad Witches sometimes use a Compass Round rather than a cast circle. See http://www.blue-moon-manor.com/rituals/index.html for example.
[7] See for example the Celtic Reconstructionist FAQ: http://paganachd.com/faq/ritual.html#sacredspace
[8] For those curious about such things, I happen to be very polytheistic, and I readily admit that this article is written from a polytheistic perspective. I encourage those with differing conceptions of the divine to address these issues from their own perspectives.
[9] This is not to say that there is no sense of reverence involved, or that gods are always warm and cuddly. See Jordan D. Paper’s The Deities are Many for a deeper look at the complexities of this relationship. See also the aforementioned title by Greer.
[10] http://www.ceiswrserith.com/blog.htm. Retrieved 7/3/2011.
[11] D’Este, Sorita and Rankine, David. Hekate: Liminal Rites [Kindle Edition]. London: Avalonia Books, 2011.
[12] Readers should note that elemental correspondences are NOT (in my opinion) necessarily implied by directional associations. The four element system comes from one specific strain of Greek philosophy, and it was later that the idea of correspondences between the cardinal directions and the elements developed. Of course, in many Witchcraft traditions, elemental correspondences are attached to the directions. As with the placement of an altar, the decision to include these elemental correspondences in the setup of your altar should be based on whether you are working mainly within a tradition, and whether those correspondences are appropriate for the deity.
Originally published in 2011 on Witchvox.com
A turn of the wheel
I feel 2011 is a year of awkwardness. A year of confusion, a year stolen from normalcy. Not a year of revolution as such, but a year that almost shouldn’t have been. Such years shake things up. They remind us of the changeling nature of life. And yes, I mean changeling. We are beings stolen out of time, comfortable nowhere and hence able to experience all things. Such is the nature of our lives. I ponder this and other things at the end of the year. The end, which is the beginning, really. The beginning, I know not of what; for all I know is to expect the passage of time, the turning of the seasons, the coming and passing of High Days. Perhaps this is the mystery of the Wheel of the Year–that it will turn as it always has, yet no two turnings will be the same. And I am like the wheel, for I will not be the same either.
Magickal Intent
I have to admit, sometimes I get a little sick of reading about how important intent is in magick. So many authors and teachers talk about intent and how important it is to clarify your intent before a magickal working, to hold that intent clearly in mind during a ritual, etc. Many of these authors actually reduce all magick to an exercise in intent. They say that all ritual is merely a means of focusing intent. Rubbish. Ritual practices have a real effect on the energies produced; and in many ways they affect the outcome of the magickal operation.
Still, I’m not saying intent has no effect on magick. And I’m not saying that magick can’t be worked with intent alone. The Evil Eye is one example of a type of magick (in this case harmful magick) that arises from intent alone. Rather, what I’d like to point out is that intent is more complicated a subject than most authors and occult teachers say, or even realize.
This is because the human being is not a single unified entity at all. Rather, we’re each a collection of differing and often conflicting desires. In Feri, we attribute this to the Three Souls. In my experience, each soul can have its own desires. For example, my Fetch and my Talker tend not to agree on what I should look for in a romantic/sexual partner.
Most of us try to clarify intent in our daily lives by focusing on one set of desires–usually the things we think we should desire–and pushing aside all other desires. This will sometimes get you what you want, but like many kinds of magick driven by will, results can be highly unpredictable and often unpleasant. I call this artificial intent.
The other kind of intent is natural intent. This approach is more rewarding, but also more labor-intensive, which is why most of us don’t do it. It involves the daily work of delving into all aspects of your being, striving to understand the varied and conflicting voices you hear inside yourself, and accepting this multiplicity. In understanding this (often cacophonous) chorus of impulses, one gradually uncovers what some magickal practitioners call the True Will, the common thread that unifies the selves of the individual.
To be sure, I’m taking some liberties here with both Feri and Thelema (which gave us the term True Will), but the underlying concept is sound. I don’t mean to make any moral or ethical statements about artificial versus natural intent. After all, what is artificial is not necessarily “bad.” The difference lies in whether intent is going with the grain of one’s being or against it.
Hello world
It seems there’s never a good way to begin a blog…
