
Shortly after my father died, my sisters and I received letters that he had written, tobacco stained fingers punching keyboard, weeks earlier. My atheist, politically conservative father wrote…..
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It’s easy to be pagan in the wild. It’s easy to find the heart of a nature-based pagan path when you’re immersed in a quiet forest or secluded desert highway. Connecting with the divine is a simpler act when your breath catches at the sight of a graceful doe or soaring raptor. But what about deep within cities, with graffiti-tinged cement and stinking hot asphalt under the burning summer sun? Where is the sacred in a clearcut, or a landfill, or a mountaintop mine?
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I feel this situation speaks to a deep and important longing among modern Pagans. We admire the non-creedal, integrated, world-affirming lifeways of ancient paleo-pagans and hope to (re)create that form of religion for ourselves, working past centuries of religious alienation produced by religions which insist that any experience of “depth” must be “Not of this World.” But the societies in which ancient paleo-pagan religions were practiced no longer exist; if we celebrate paleo-paganisms because of their seamless integration with daily life, natural systems, and cultural milieu, then the fact that we live in entirely different circumstances means that, even if we could recover these systems in their entirety, we could not successfully integrate them into our own lives, which is the goal in the first place.
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A struggling beetle Emerging from the toilet Slides into the piss A beetle scurries On the floor; an eye flashes A shoe thunders down A hounded beetle Dashes madly for the wall Almost, almost, al A horn…
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