Identity (a rant)
Draw down the light.
Draw down the Star of Opening.
- From "Standing in Tiphareth"
There is a lot of pain and many tempests in many teapots around Pagan or Magic(k)al identity. Heck, any form of identification tends to be fraught. What Tradition are you associated with? Are you an Initiate™? Are you in our club or not in our club? What is the secret password?
I have a confession to make. I ran from formal initiations for many years. I studied, I practiced, I led rituals, I even (Gods help me because it was way too soon) taught, all without walking across that threshold. That was fine with me. Finally, after more than 13 years of this, I consented to ask for help from human agents and took the plunge of walking toward a formal initiation, which I was granted a couple years hence. I finally worked toward a Reclaiming initiation (though that is not an initiation into a tradition, confusingly enough) and one with the Mevlevi Order of America (the whirling dervishes to those not in the know), Feri initiation (straightforward enough) and Phi Beta Kappa (though I had to have a stand in for that one, as I was out of town). Before that, I suppose you could count my initiation into the Catholic church, which began my bumpy ride of identifying with small groups of humans.
We humans like to identify. It is part of our tribal and animal nature. It helps us to feel safe, included, and as though we will not be cast out into the cold upon a whim. I understand that part. I just wish that some of us figured out that this was where the impulse was coming from, rather than making adherence to clan rules and structures a necessary equivalent for inclusion and respect and rather than waging pitched battles over trifles. Secret handshakes do help us to share information that has hopefully come with requisite training. They can also help us act like self-important jerks. The lack of such can enable people to feel less worthy, and either deflated around that, or fighting to prove otherwise. We see it in "community" after "community". We see the power plays, the jockeying for position and the scratching or sometimes pounding at the door. And speaking at least for me, we also often see those people whom we most respect just walking away.
Why? Because they figured out that there is something more, something deeper, something finer and something better to be doing with their time than fighting battles of inclusion and exclusion, of group rules and hierarchical regulations.
For a few years I've been saying that Feri is my religion. I realize now that this is wrong. I've been thinking this week of what Cora Anderson said when during a hospital stay she was asked what her religion was and replied, "The Craft." When asked what her beliefs were, she said, "We believe in the grass and the trees and in being sensible." That's pretty good. My religion is my practice. My practice sometimes includes the protocols of the Feri Tradition, but it also includes everything else that has formed me. My practice is deep, and daily, and ecstatic, and filled with thought and silence and activity and stillness and sex and communion and time alone. My religion, like any religion, is how I connect. And my primary connection is to God Herself and the reflection of that in everything else. The names don't matter so much in general, though in specific, of course they do. Just as I know the names of my friends, so too, do I know the names of my Gods. But I also recognize that God Herself is known by many names, and that the Divine Twins take many shapes and forms, and that the Divine Androgyne has different manifestations. I may connect with these specific ones, but I worship them all. And by worship I mean honor, enjoy, and make love with.
I have altars to Ganesh and Freyr and Freyja. I have altars to Brigid and Quan Yin and the Peacock Angel. I have altars to the ancestors and the Shining Ones. What does this make me? Engaged. Active. Present. Alive. I practice at home, and on airplanes and my bicycle and in the gym, and on the dance floor and in meetings and classes and the grocery store. Everywhere and everyplace there is an opportunity to connect. That is my religion. Connection. Mystery. Joy.
What do I call myself? 25 years ago, I would have said a Witch. These days, I might say I am a Pagan Mystic seeking to spread joy and unfold the Mystery. Twenty years from now, I will likely say something else. Twenty years from that, perhaps I will cease to need any identification at all.
Initiations help us move in space and time. They mark our path. Traditions can give us very helpful and necessary structure. But until I can see guaranteed proof that initiation or tradition makes someone stronger and kinder, more capable and more compassionate, I really do not care if you are an initiate or not, nor do I care which tradition you follow. My closest friends are initiates and non-initiates of many different religions and traditions. What I care about is that they walk their talk. Those are the ones I keep around. They are the ones I want to build a world with.
I do not care what you call yourself or by which label you identify. What I care about are these: Do you love? Do you practice? Do you spread joy and seek out Mastery? Are you attempting to know yourself? Are you strong? Are you kind? How do you deepen? What is your commitment?
As for the rest, I barely care anymore. I feel grateful for my training. I feel grateful for the beauty that traditions give rise to, just as I feel grateful for any great art or science. But I also feel grateful for poppies and lavender, and laughter, and well made hummus with raw vegetables, and chocolate pot du creme. I feel grateful for deep thinkers, and bright lovers, for stone circles on hilltops and drinking tea in bed during a rainstorm.
My religion is connection. What is yours? How do you identify?
Blessed be.
Draw down the Star of Opening.
- From "Standing in Tiphareth"
There is a lot of pain and many tempests in many teapots around Pagan or Magic(k)al identity. Heck, any form of identification tends to be fraught. What Tradition are you associated with? Are you an Initiate™? Are you in our club or not in our club? What is the secret password?
I have a confession to make. I ran from formal initiations for many years. I studied, I practiced, I led rituals, I even (Gods help me because it was way too soon) taught, all without walking across that threshold. That was fine with me. Finally, after more than 13 years of this, I consented to ask for help from human agents and took the plunge of walking toward a formal initiation, which I was granted a couple years hence. I finally worked toward a Reclaiming initiation (though that is not an initiation into a tradition, confusingly enough) and one with the Mevlevi Order of America (the whirling dervishes to those not in the know), Feri initiation (straightforward enough) and Phi Beta Kappa (though I had to have a stand in for that one, as I was out of town). Before that, I suppose you could count my initiation into the Catholic church, which began my bumpy ride of identifying with small groups of humans.
We humans like to identify. It is part of our tribal and animal nature. It helps us to feel safe, included, and as though we will not be cast out into the cold upon a whim. I understand that part. I just wish that some of us figured out that this was where the impulse was coming from, rather than making adherence to clan rules and structures a necessary equivalent for inclusion and respect and rather than waging pitched battles over trifles. Secret handshakes do help us to share information that has hopefully come with requisite training. They can also help us act like self-important jerks. The lack of such can enable people to feel less worthy, and either deflated around that, or fighting to prove otherwise. We see it in "community" after "community". We see the power plays, the jockeying for position and the scratching or sometimes pounding at the door. And speaking at least for me, we also often see those people whom we most respect just walking away.
Why? Because they figured out that there is something more, something deeper, something finer and something better to be doing with their time than fighting battles of inclusion and exclusion, of group rules and hierarchical regulations.
For a few years I've been saying that Feri is my religion. I realize now that this is wrong. I've been thinking this week of what Cora Anderson said when during a hospital stay she was asked what her religion was and replied, "The Craft." When asked what her beliefs were, she said, "We believe in the grass and the trees and in being sensible." That's pretty good. My religion is my practice. My practice sometimes includes the protocols of the Feri Tradition, but it also includes everything else that has formed me. My practice is deep, and daily, and ecstatic, and filled with thought and silence and activity and stillness and sex and communion and time alone. My religion, like any religion, is how I connect. And my primary connection is to God Herself and the reflection of that in everything else. The names don't matter so much in general, though in specific, of course they do. Just as I know the names of my friends, so too, do I know the names of my Gods. But I also recognize that God Herself is known by many names, and that the Divine Twins take many shapes and forms, and that the Divine Androgyne has different manifestations. I may connect with these specific ones, but I worship them all. And by worship I mean honor, enjoy, and make love with.
I have altars to Ganesh and Freyr and Freyja. I have altars to Brigid and Quan Yin and the Peacock Angel. I have altars to the ancestors and the Shining Ones. What does this make me? Engaged. Active. Present. Alive. I practice at home, and on airplanes and my bicycle and in the gym, and on the dance floor and in meetings and classes and the grocery store. Everywhere and everyplace there is an opportunity to connect. That is my religion. Connection. Mystery. Joy.
What do I call myself? 25 years ago, I would have said a Witch. These days, I might say I am a Pagan Mystic seeking to spread joy and unfold the Mystery. Twenty years from now, I will likely say something else. Twenty years from that, perhaps I will cease to need any identification at all.
Initiations help us move in space and time. They mark our path. Traditions can give us very helpful and necessary structure. But until I can see guaranteed proof that initiation or tradition makes someone stronger and kinder, more capable and more compassionate, I really do not care if you are an initiate or not, nor do I care which tradition you follow. My closest friends are initiates and non-initiates of many different religions and traditions. What I care about is that they walk their talk. Those are the ones I keep around. They are the ones I want to build a world with.
I do not care what you call yourself or by which label you identify. What I care about are these: Do you love? Do you practice? Do you spread joy and seek out Mastery? Are you attempting to know yourself? Are you strong? Are you kind? How do you deepen? What is your commitment?
As for the rest, I barely care anymore. I feel grateful for my training. I feel grateful for the beauty that traditions give rise to, just as I feel grateful for any great art or science. But I also feel grateful for poppies and lavender, and laughter, and well made hummus with raw vegetables, and chocolate pot du creme. I feel grateful for deep thinkers, and bright lovers, for stone circles on hilltops and drinking tea in bed during a rainstorm.
My religion is connection. What is yours? How do you identify?
Blessed be.