In The Shadow of the Crone

Here I sit celebrating the evening of my 55th birthday drinking a homemade cappuccino,eating a so-so previously frozen crab cake and watching my Rock God muse Rick Springfield  live-streamed from the Wildhorse Saloon in Nashville...and I'm happy. The concert is the frosting on the birthday cake I didn't buy or make myself, the link sent by a Facebook friend minutes before I was going to sign off  the computer out of boredom.Serendipity intervened once again, because I was going to finish my coffee and put the other half of the disappointing excuse for a crab cake into the fridge for later and go to bed.

I am happy- but have the gnawing feeling that I ought to be doing something other than stuffing my face and watching a video for my 55th birthday-what I don't know exactly. The world has become a very scary place in the last few days after a catastrophic earthquake in Japan and the resulting rupture of nuclear reactors. So many have died, and their confused spirits fill the air crying out, which is disconcerting  for this empath. What to do? Scaling Mount Everest is out of the picture. Spending time with my BFF Melinda would have been fun, but she's sidelined. Maybe I should have bought myself a bunch of flowers or something. I feel unsettled and I'm not sure why: 55 should be a milestone birthday.

When I am aware of my mortality, I know that the shadow of the Crone is stretching out over me. In a few years I will be old, provided the societal "they" don't move back the boundary of when we Baby Boomers cross out of middle age again. Right now I have the right to a free birthday  meal at Denny's and a membership in Elderhostel. Where are all those other senior discounts? I guess I need something to look forward to in the future.

My inner teenager is riveted to the computer screen as Rick Springfield jumps, spins and bounces his way through a litany of power pop/rock songs, stopping only to make self-depreciating remarks and raunchy jokes with the audience of women (and a few men) who are my age.Our age. We've grown up together, Rick and I; there is a vague feeling of recognition and sadness that I probably won't be spending my 60th birthday watching him in concert. The shadow of the Crone is lengthening over my girlhood hero, too,who is now in his 60's. Posting to his online blog the other day, his tone melancholy and  serious. Rick wrote:" I feel I will see my sweet Gomer( his canine companion of 14 years who died) soon...either he's coming back to me, or I'm going to him. Maybe I'm going to kick the bucket soon." That's not over-dramatic attention seeking on his part: it's the life long chronic depression Rick and I share talking. I have called mine The Darkness since my early twenties. It worsened when I was attacked a few years ago and had to start a long course of medication and therapy. Things level out for a period, then The Darkness finds a way back into my head and screws with me.And it enjoys every second of it, too. Compounding this is the fact that if I vocalize that I am feeling depressed to those around me, they instantly respond with some version of " Why? Look at what you have."

Oh, goody...depression and guilt. Yum...

By all accounts and my own admission, I've had an incredibly successful life. I've done nearly everything I set out to do and have had several careers in areas I am passionate about:teaching, healing and spirituality among them. I have not only met most all of the people I grew up admiring, I have been extraordinarily fortune to have nurtured deep relationships with several of them along the way. I in no way want to sound flip, but it was simply a matter of setting a goal and achieving it on my part. Those who I knew and loved-now gone- live on in me and through me as I continue the work we cherished together today. But the Darkness doesn't care about what I have achieved, it cares about the things that were passed over along the way, and it finds a crack in my armor, and sticks a bony finger in to probe the wound and make it bleed. Damn it!

The Darkness is poking at me tonight as I watch Rick and think about how a CD of his helped to break through the pall of hurt and anger after the assault  a few years ago.The songs on the album didn't relate, but the sonic vibe that was the undercurrent did. Rick and I bonded virtually in those evenings we were angry and pissed off together, driven by the atrocities of ourselves and others against us. It scared the hell out of my Darkness and  at the time it felt as if I'd sent the Darkness packing. At it least put a fair amount of distance between us so I could get around the corner out of sight. Momentarily giving the Darkness the slip was a major accomplishment on my part when all I really wanted to do was just curl up into a little ball until I disappeared, and I was pretty proud of myself for having the intestinal fortitude to pull it off. I was and am thankful that at least there was one other human being in the world who seemed to understood what I was feeling and who could articulate those emotions-and I had the opportunity to tell Rick in person face to face one day before a concert. I  know there are millions of others who suffer from the same feelings of self-doubt and worthlessness I do, but the intimacy of that connection through the music will always belong to RS, since coincidentally, he identifies his depression in the third person as Mr. D-the Darkness.

The concert is over and there are three of us sitting it  the room-the Crone, the Darkness and me.  They are on either side of me, and instinctively I want to reach out to the Crone for protection, but I am afraid the darkness will notice and poke me harder. Finally I decide to go to my altar and meditate. The Crone doesn't immediately follow but the Darkness does...Damn it again. It sits a few feet away picking at scabs and generally causing a disturbance as I battle what Buddhists call 'monkey mind', the inability to focus and release thoughts which inhibit the meditation process. My monkeys don't just create mind chatter, they swing from trees screaming. Finally I get up and go to the fridge in search of some wine for my ritual cup but end up filling it with milk, and I head back to the sacred space to meditate. The Darkness is curious and tries to come closer, but I have managed to focus on the scent of the milk and it's coolness, which allows the Crone to come in. The Darkness backs away and fades, and it's just the Dark Mother and me, and mortality.

" You're beyond the middle now, your life is more than halfway over," she whispers, "We don't know where the time goes, but it cannot be wasted." I try to think of something good and noble to plan, but nothing comes. The milk is good and comforting, and I can relax now that the Crone is standing between the Darkness and I.
I feel I should be doing something of some great importance that will make a difference to others but can't for the life of me fathom what that should be. I don't feel very heroic or existential at the moment. In fact, I feel like I did when I was 16 years old and was listening to Rick Springfield on my tiny AM radio, confused and unsure about what was to become of my life but awfully excited to be on the threshold non the less.

Maybe that's the right way to feel at 55, too...confused and unsure about what's next but eager and excited to open the door and step across the threshold to the rest of my life. The Crone nods and smiles; her shadow enfolds me and takes me in. I am now a part of her, a Crone myself. Instantly, I know what I need to spend the rest of my life doing...being me. That's all, just being authentically Kate and giving myself away to who and whatever has a need in the Universe. It is enough.

Funny, You Don't Look Pagan...

It's never occurred to me that I should have a 'look'. I'm pretty down to earth in terms of everyday dress- mostly I wear what's comfortable (or whatever is clean). I'm not a clotheshorse. I stopped changing the length of my hemline every season with the whim of fashionistas about 10 years ago. I've traded in my jeans for semi-fitted women's trousers, most of which have elastic waists because they allow some 'give' when my ruptured discs are inflamed and I need a bit of room to accommodate that. A tailored blouse and jacket usually complete the outfit. I wear low heeled,practical shoes out of necessity: the days of three inch heels that elongated my legs and added a wisp of sex appeal are long gone.

My professional wardrobe is a slight upgrade from what I wear everyday: tailored dresses and coordinated suits with slightly fancier blouses and some quality pieces of jewelry. On the days I have to look like a member of the clergy I wear the standard,unisex black suit and clerical shirt with white collar. 

Not the Vicar of Dibley

I resemble the lead character of the BBC series The Vicar of Dibley; I suppose I could do worse than look like Dawn French. It's still a head-turner in some parts of the neighborhood, although you'd think that after 30 years people would have gotten used to seeing women ministers out and about. In other parts of the community the collar adds a layer of protection. It gets me into homeless shelters and prisons easily and usually is an instant pass into hospitals after visiting hours- and occasionally gets me a discount in religious goods stores. I prefer the full Anglican collar to the Roman type ( the one with the little white tab in the front), but both are made of stiff plastic and pretty uncomfortable. Occasionally I wear an elemental cross or something that is obviously not Christian, such as a goddess pendant. No one seems to notice the difference except me; if I happen to pass one of my Pagan brethren I usually get an appreciative nod or smile of recognition.

I wear ritual garb when it's appropriate, that is, in the circle. You won't catch me leisurely flipping through the CDs in the music depart at Kmart wearing a long black robe with pointed sleeves, or a long Gothic dress and circlet, wand and ritual blade at my side. Oberon Zell Ravenheart can get away with looking like Dumbledore's twin at the grocery store, but I when I go  to Food Lion to squeeze the cantaloupes I'm usually wearing  sweats and a hoodie.Nothing against OZ, he's one of my heroes, but I'll wager you he goes out in civies most of the time, too.

Any way, there must be a Pagan look....and I most definitely don't have it, because one of my fellow ministers told me so at a ministerial coalition meeting. I was also informed that I didn't meet the Pagan dress code by an ER nurse and at the women's prison once when they checked my ID at the door. The guard actually used the paraphrased line of  "Funny, you don't look Jewish" with the P word inserted. I had no other response other than to smile wanly...I'd given it my best shot by wearing a small triple moon pendant. Was I supposed to wear a pentagram around my neck the size of a hubcap? One of those nifty name tags thoughtfully supplied by the ULC Seminary that has the crossed brooms emblazoned on it? A pointy hat and cape? I have, however, been verbally accosted by someone demanding to know why, as a Pagan, I was dressed," Like a Christian Minister." They were offended by my clericals, which I  earned the right to wear as an ordained Episcopalian, and continued to wear as an ordained,interfaith, specifically Pagan minister.

The backwards collar and black clothing are the uniform of the professional minister who chooses to wear them, and not all do. Many ministers of any number of faiths do not wear clericals out of personal preference, and there are a number of variations on the theme as younger ministers, specifically female, don clerical shirts of a variety of colors and styles....none of which indicate the denomination of the clergy person in question. Clerical clothes are not specific to any one particular religious tradition, and in fact have their origin in the stiff  detachable collar worn by all gentlemen in Western civilization a the turn of the previous century. Ministers started turning the collar around backwards to indicate their status in society: the first to do this was actually a Methodist-a Protestant denomination of Wesleyan influence who most definitely do not have any connection to the Roman Catholic Church. Because most ministers at that time were males, the backward collar became the style and many decades later when the mainstream denominations began ordaining females into their ranks, the collar was adopted by them.

The street clericals make a minister instantly recognizable, no matter what church their ministry is in, and even some Jewish Rabbis employed as Chaplains adopt the clerical suit when making prison and hospital visits as they are required by the institution. Police, fire department, EMS and military Chaplains have some form of similar uniform, each distinguished by a collar device or emblem representing their faith tradition. We as Pagans have not, to my knowledge, done so as of yet, and I suspect in the not too distant future that the military will be supplying tiny pentagrams to pin to the collars of the Pagan clergy ( A quick note here: It's not that there aren't any Pagan clergy in the military, it's just that they are mostly operating .professionally through  the Unitarian Universalist Association, and therefore are wearing the flaming chalice as their emblem.) As Pagan seminaries begin graduating professional members of the clergy and they become more common, I hope to see our own community  begin to wear their own symbols, and not something borrowed from an umbrella organization. Perhaps we will begin wearing green or blue clerical shirts of a shade that is identified specifically with our many traditions as a whole. For now a tasteful pentagram pin on the lapel will suffice for distinction.

Pancakes, Gumbo and Ashes Revisited

It's rewarding to have faithful readers who comment on my blogs,especially those with questions about cultural or religious  traditions of which they aren't personally familiar. I forget that quite a few of you are from different parts of the country-and some from other parts of the world. In some incidence,decades separate us....it's all good...Cheers for diversity!

Someone wrote asking what was served during a traditional Pancake Supper on Shrove Tuesday. The short answer is besides pancakes, anything you like. Many Churches in the Anglican Communion (like the Protestant Episcopal Church) and Boy Scout Troops sponsor annual Pancake Suppers which include buttermilk pancakes with butter and syrup,sausage, scrambled or fried eggs and fruit cup along with juice,tea or coffee. I have been to home suppers where the pancakes had things like nuts mixed in or were flavored in some way, or the syrups were flavored or jam/jelly was substituted; the eggs were cooked a variety of ways; the sausage was made from any meat you could imagine ( my personal favorite are thick, juicy, pork links seasoned with sage); the fruit was any kind, canned, fresh and often mixed with berries and served with any juice-usually orange or apple. I have been to Shrove Tuesday suppers where the pancakes were crepes with creamed chicken or fruit filling...or waffles. The idea is to include a fat such as butter, a dairy product, flour and sugar: things we enjoy daily, but might be forgoing during the Lenten season. The choice is really yours, and you will be surprised how delicious what we Americans consider as breakfast foods taste when served as the evening meal among friends.

There were also requests for gumbo because some of you aren't familiar with this Southern Gulf stew and are brave souls in the area of culinary exploration. Traditional gumbo is made with okra, which you either love or hate. Okra is an acquired taste if you haven't been raised with it. Actually, it isn't the taste that puts some people off, it's the texture: course with lots of minuscule seeds and exudes a sticky sap-like juice that some folks refer to as, um...slimy. There are a million and one recipes for gumbo and you can put just about anything in any combination into it... and you can even leave the okra out if you want.Adapt the ingredients and seasonings to your liking. I make mine in my trusty Crock Pot which I purchased for $5 at a flea market 20 years ago, and my preferred tastes focuses on the shrimp and Cajun sausage variety. Emeril Laugasse has a stand out version found here:http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/emeril-lagasse/emerils-country-file-gumbo-recipe/index.htm. 

A priest imposes blessed ashes on penitents on Ash Wednesday.

 After Mardi Gras and Shrove Tuesday are over, the serious work of self-examination and sacrifice of the Lenten season begin on Ash Wednesday. Usually, Ash Wednesday services are held just after dawn (at the beginning of day) and are somber rites of  prayers, Psalms, and corporate confession ending with the imposition of  blessed ashes upon the forehead of penitents by a priest . The famous words of  the Bibical book of Genesis 3:19, "Remember  O man, that thou art dust and into dust your shall return"(KJV) are intoned as a reminder of human mortality.The smudge mark or more popular cross, are drawn on the forehead of those participating in the service and making public confession as a visible sign of that mortality.

For the curious or those who are just interested in ritual, the ashes are made from the ashes of palms used during the Palm Sunday procession of the previous year, which are burned and mixed with a little crism-oil blessed and used for anointing- and maybe a drop or so of Holy Water, and made into a paste. A word of warning: don't get it on your clothing, it's greasy and stains everything. The ashes are  usually left upon the forehead until the end of the day, or by some, until it wears off on it's own.( As a  kid, my Catholic friends and I used to have a contest to see who's ashes wore off last....what can I say? We were easily entertained in our innocent youth.) Further FYI: Both the act of imposition and the ashes themselves are known in 'high' (in Pagan terms:ceremonial ) churches as a sacramental- material things and actions created by man and revered as sacred- and not a Sacrament, which is a specific rite or ritual. Read the text to a simple Ash Wednesday service used in the Episcopal Church here:http://www.liturgies.net/Lent/AshWednesday.htm

On Ash Wednesday you spent the day fasting and thinking about all the lousy things you did during the year and asked God for forgiveness.You fasted at least until suppertime, then ate a simple, meatless meal, and spent the next 40 days wishing your had whatever it was you gave up for Lent...at least that's the way it was before Pope John the Twenty-third "opened the doors" of the second Vatican counsel and reformed modern Roman Catholicism.After that point in time, the focus was no longer on abstaining, or  giving up something, but to take something on-a new spiritual practice, a special project- to do something you wouldn't normally do.

My birthday ( March 12th) always falls during Lent. On my 17th birthday, the thing I have up was being Roman Catholic and the thing I took on was being fully Pagan.There's something to be said about Lenten traditions...

The Charlie Sheen Reality Show And Self-Immolation

Watching actor Charlie Sheen immolate his career and personal life in the media has recently become a national pastime. I readily admit to the entertainment factor of this for myself and others,and confess that watching Charlie dousing himself in verbal gasoline and sending himself up in flames has  become one of my dirty little pleasures.

I find myself wondering daily what outrageous trespass he's committed, adding to his insane repartee...because watching Charlie in the spotlight is like a train wreck caught in the movie version of Ground Hog Day...it just keeps happening over and over and over. He's providing satirists and comedians with an endless supply of material because his behavior is to the point where credulity has flown out the window. His behavior is just too nuts not to love and he's such an easy target. It's getting uncomfortably embarrassing for everyone and yet Charlie's chimera is getting fatter by the minute because he's oblivious to his buffoonery.

In the realm of celebrity worship, people like Charlie Sheen-actors, rock stars, authors and politicians- are fed by the public and media until they hallucinate their self-importance.They become monstrosities rather than purveyors and vessels for art form. Admittedly, anyone wanting to go into this type of work has to have a little bit of ego and at least subtle narcissistic tendencies to develop the thick skin necessary to be in the public eye and continuously open to critical review. But the Charlies of the world have deluded themselves into thinking they are all that, and their eventual fall from grace is reminiscent of Icarus flying too close to the Sun. It's an uncomfortable fact that it's human nature to build up celebrities, then enjoy watching them falling off their pedestals. It allows us to breathe a collective sigh of relief that we didn't do that, didn't commit that type of  foolishness, didn't fall for the ego trap. We can point and laugh at others misfortune and stupidity.It makes us feel okay about ourselves and we are validated.

Charlie Sheen is both a drug addict and an alcoholic...not an "ex-drug addict" or a "cured alcoholic", and like those who join him in that little game, he is only fooling himself if he believes the lies whispered in his ear by the siren of addiction. Having been raised by individuals who should have been acquainted with  Bill W and participating in years of Al Anon meetings and therapy-as well as functioning as a professional counselor myself- I know that it is possible to recover, but there is no cure. The Beast is always hungry and waiting in the shadows, and the best course of action is not being in the way of temptation. I'm not saying that you need to be hyper-vigilant to the point of stressing yourself out, but being aware of what is always going to be there for you- even years down the road. There are a million and one triggers-and they're all pointed at you. It's wise to get out of the cross hairs while you can, because when the flaming arrow is shot at you, it hits those around you, too, and there are resulting fires everywhere. Other people get burned because of your emotional pyromania.

Charlie is the only one taking himself seriously these days...which makes me wonder if he's actually that far gone mentally, or this is the greatest publicity stunt ever pulled off? In other words, is Charlie Sheen a total lunatic, or has he managed to punk the entertainment business, media and the public?

A Troll By Any Other Name Is Still A Troll

WARNING:THIS IS A RANT. I DON'T OFTEN HAVE THEM. My apologies and thanks for your indulgence.

Trolls used to live under bridges and bother billy goats; now they seem to frequent the Internet.They no longer pop up and intimidate  innocent little creatures...but they do appear frequently in message board threads. Why can't we just throw water on them and watch them melt?

Why hasn't anyone invented Troll Spray? It would be so much easier to be able to whip out a can and aim it at the nearest Troll until s/he evaporated, leaving no greasy residue behind.

Here's a little something for the mass-marketing talking heads to chew on: Being politically correct is not the 'new' version of civility or manners. It's so much BS wrapped up in cyber-psycho babble. I suspect it was invented by some Ivy League grad student in need of an intelligent-sounding thesis or a intern spin doctor trying to fit the 'Young Turk' image. No matter. It's still not passing the smell test with me because it's all a load of crap. There. I said it. PC should stand for Pure Crap. There is a difference, Gentle People, in being mindful of common decency and  applying the rules of civility. Civility (surprise!) has little to do with being political correct, or 'niceness', for that matter. It has to do with treating others with the respect that you hope others will have for you. This is beyond the unspoken rule of human dignity...everyone needs recognition just for being human. 

No one gets a cookie or deserves respect for being an insufferable bore, or to be rewarded for outlandish stupidity or ignorance when they are aware of it. Awareness is the key point here. There is a difference, and I am going to show you how much of a curmudgeon I have become by saying that many of our younger folk lack an innate sense of that difference. It is not admirable to drop the 'F bomb' into a sentence just for shock value while beaming like a retarded (yes, retarded, not "mentally challenged") jack-o-lantern as you congratulate yourself on your extraordinary cleverness.

I am off on this tangent because I have just come from a discussion forum of occult folk on Facebook, where everyone posting in an otherwise wonderfully intelligent thread was being bullied by a self-styled Jehovah's Witness Witch (!) who wanted to argue-although not a single person wanted to argue- that Christians who went to fortune tellers were hypocrites. Everyone else was trying to shut Troll Girl down and move on in the conversation by pointing out that the Tarot was full of Christian imagery, and that it was no longer a big deal in modern society and Christianity's terms if they did. But she just kept harping on it,going on and on  and on...attempting to provoke someone and  then further muddling  the waters by pointing out that this was only said in the Old Testament, not the New Testament...you get the picture. Here was someone who wanted everyone else to be aware of her superiority and knowledge of the subject.She had hundreds of facts. She was insufferable.  The conversation soon morphed from being about the Tarot and fortune tellers, to being  about this young woman ( from her photo) wanting all of us old people  to respect her for her knowledge. Duly noted. No one was rude, and I thought that everyone on the thread was unusually patient. She was a convert from Jehovah's Witnesses (whom mainstream Christianity still regard as a cult, by the way) trying to quote the Bible, only the version she was using is the one adapted and rewritten by the JW because the original in all it's many versions didn't justify their needs. 

This tact was backfiring on her at every turn and at that point it was stated by the person who started the thread in the first place that  the conversation had nothing to do with what she was interjecting and that it was her issue, no one elses.And then he called her a Troll. By that time the page moderator stepped in and invoked the PC rule,  No matter how outrageous, stupid, ignorant or unenlightened a individual is about a subject, they can be a bore and the rest of us have to just smile and nod,or words to that effect. The realization that this individual was trolling and purposely bating others into disagreement was  not addressed. The fact that everyone has a right to agree or disagree was squashed in favor of a twisted PC version of "everyone is entitled to their opinion". We were all  told to accept this person's perverted version of the subject in 'unity and community'. Why is it that when someone is purposely saying nothing at all, it should be tolerated because they have a right to be redundant?  This type of behavior used to be  identified for what it was-attention seeking and ego feeding- and was quickly dispatched. Individuals with this sort of agenda thought twice about even joining in the conversation because they knew they would have to hold forth their end with no excuses or intervention from Big Brother or what is nowadays showing itself as 'Mommy'. Mommy is an invention of PCness to protect the irresponsible from the general community. It allows the trolls not only to freely exist, but to justify their behavior. This is not only wrong, but it's why the Pagan Community is so prone to flame fests every time we get together. Trolls are seldom called out and identified for what they are.Because when they are, true magick happens....they go away... and there is peace at least until another one shows up. Stop feeding this type of personality, and they will starve for lack of attention!

A Former Mackerel Snapper Turned Pagan Looks At Lent

(photo courtesy Maine State Archives)

 

 

" Mackerel Snapper!"It was a silly epaulet, but it still hurt.

I grew up a Roman Catholic in the late 1950s, when being Roman Catholic in a mostly white middle class neighborhood  wasn't the norm. Roman Catholic was someone else-someone mostly Italian, Irish or Polish, whose grandparents still spoke the language of the country of their birth, and who was more than likely from a town of peasants. White middle class kids ate hamburger and chicken, those of us with a little monetary blessing and a little farther down the ladder-especially Roman Catholics of European ancestry-ate  whatever was cheap. Cheap fish was on the top of that list, and mackerel was the least expensive next to sardines. Canned Mackerel was the poorer cousin of Salmon, and a huge chunk of the Roman Catholic population in the US at that time ate mackerel, especially on Friday, a day of sacrificial obligation set a side by the Church.
Friday, in case you forgot how poor you were on the other days, was the day you did without anything that gave you pleasure.At my house, it was the day you ate dry toast or plain oatmeal for breakfast, fasted for lunch, and had mackerel for dinner.

Because mackerel spoils easily and the processed variety was less expensive, we usually ate canned mackerel, which was oily and slightly stronger tasting than canned tuna.It was drained, the bones removed, flaked and mixed with a few left over mashed potatoes, an egg, some diced onion and a dash of chili powder before being rolled in breadcrumbs homemade from the gleanings of a stale loaf. The patties were carefully placed on a plate and allowed to chill for several hours before pan frying them in oil...and they were good, except nobody ever said so because it would mean you were enjoying them and that defeated the purpose of eating ti in the first place. You ate cheap fish patties on Friday to be humble and obedient. God and the Pope didn't allow good little Catholic children to go to McDonald's on Friday until they dreamed up  the Fish Fillet sandwich, and even then that damn piece of artificial cheese product got you into trouble.

When I was growing up, being Catholic was being The Other: your minister was called a priest, couldn't get married and wore a long, black coat and  your worship service was called a Mass and was sung or spoken in a mysterious language (apart from whatever your grandparents were speaking) called Latin. You read the Mass- word for word- from a little  book that everyone had a personal copy of  called a Missal and recited a chant while counting on a string of beads called a rosary. Your parents made you wear an amulet called a scapular, a thin rope which had little pictures of  the Saints, Jesus or Mary on either end and a blessed medal: one photo hung down your front and one down the back, so you were protected coming and going from whatever evil that might have been trying to lure you into temptation... like eating meat on Friday.If you were a girl or woman, you covered your hair-your sinfully prideful hair-with a chapel veil or hat. These were the hallmarks of Roman Catholicism when I was a child, and it was serious business because it all related to a common denominator-the safety of your immortal soul.

Somewhere along the line- when I'd gotten older and began to ask questions about all the gazillion little oddities of the Roman Catholic Church, which always got me into trouble for my lack of belief and  sent to the school chapel so I could contemplate my sins- I figured that maybe I wasn't quite cut out to be a Roman Catholic. I liked the music and the stained glass windows, and the incense smelled great, and at Christmas and Easter there were big parties and everyone got candy,  but being Catholic and eating mackerel was doing absolutely nothing toward helping me figure out my reason for existing in the Universe. There was one time during the year when I did get 'something' out of all of it , and that was during Lent.

Lent is the time of the year when liturgical faith traditions-Catholic, Episcopalians, Anglicans, basically any church which has a rite of Holy Communion-takes a break from the ordinary, eschews comfort and convenience and takes up the yoke of austerity. In the ancient Church, it was the time for self-examination and study for those seeking Baptism. Lent was a period of self-denial. You gave up something pleasurable-like chocolate-for the symbolic 40 days that Jesus had spent in the desert when he was 'finding himself'( and being tempted by Satan the whole time). For a Catholic kid in the 1960s, it meant you read the Bible, went to Mass more often (as if that were possible!), and fasted. Later, as an Episcopalian, it meant taking on something new, like serving a meal at the soup kitchen, or reading spiritually inspired books, or looking deeper into yourself. Lent was a time of repose and regeneration, when everything slowed down and some things stopped altogether for a magical 40 days.

Lent was the time when I first learned about the Place of Deep-Indwelling, the place where the authentic self lives and dwells and calls you to come and sit for a while and watch the candle burn or listen to the bird song and experience it as something sacred. It wasn't until I became a Pagan that I understood what the meaning of a 'Holy Lent' truly was. Being penitential no longer meant being sorry about real and imagined sins, it meant being humbled before Nature and the Universal Divine. It meant taking a walk in the middle of the day to look closer at the budding Spring flowers wasn't a waste of time, it was precious time taken to see. It no longer meant I was a poor, miserable, undeserving creature needing to grovel before the throne of the Almighty for forgiveness, but that I could once again be reminded that I was a wonderful being being co-created by the Great Mystery. Being human wasn't sinful, it is in fact, being Divine because of that which is holy already lives within.

My new, Pagan version of Lent consists of not only self-examination, but focusing on one of the Elements individually to span to the period.  Incidentally, the word Lent is  Teutonic for Spring. It has no liturgical meaning in it's original form other than to name the season. It identifies the time when the earth is reborn, much as we use the now use the word Imbolc. I focus on one of the Elements specifically for a few days, living with it, it in as many forms as I can for that period, and writing down as much as I can about what I'm experiencing. As you can imagine, I journal quite a bit-my personal BOS is half journal and half grimorie.

Earth, for example, is explored by finding a spot to be able to dig up a handful and feel and smell it. I roll it through my fingers and note if it's wet or dry, crumbles, or cakes like clay, and check it for earthworms and grubs or insects. I break a piece off to see how the grass is rooted, examine the fine white and green shoots. I hold it up to my face and inhale it's mustiness or sweetness. I lie down on the earth and feel it's sturdiness, feel myself sinking down to become rooted. I watch the world turn from my place of oneness. When I'm finished, I write,drum, sing, make an offering or create a ritual. It's whatever I'm drawn to do at the moment...and it all goes in my journal for later digestion. In a few days, I do likewise with the other three Elements, adapting my methods to appropriate means to facilitate the experience. I've put thought and planning into how I will do this each year to make my Pagan Lent different,a nd I've never done the exact same thing in the same place twice. I come away from that time relaxed, renewed, and recharged.....reading for the unfolding rebirth of Spring.

And the mackerel patties? I still eat them...they help me to remember where I came from.

The Last Feast

MARDI GRAS is the day before the Roman Catholic influenced holiday of Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent.
Mardi Gras is the last day of the Carnival season, which  began around January 6th (Epiphany,Twelfth Night or Three King's Day).In the metropolitan Philadelphia area, the Mummer's Parade on New Year's Day is reminiscent of the guisers of  Mardi Gras and shares many of the same attributes such as the fancy jester's costumes, parade floats and merriment clubs or krewes.

While not observed  throughout the United States, a number of cities and regions in the country have celebrations. Mardi Gras in North America began in Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama as an ethnic French tradition.Similar Carnival-type celebrations occur all over the world and are known as far away as Australia.

The spirit of the day is captured in the Creole French saying, " Laissez les bons temps rouler-Let the Good Times Roll!" The blow out celebrations of Mardi Gras in Louisiana's French Quarter begin with elaborate parades and costume balls. Each parade is hosted by a krewe, or guising club and have their own characteristics. Strings of beads, candies,small baubles and plastic coins called doubloons stamped with the krewe's logo and the parade theme are tossed into the eager hands of revelers lining the streets and taken home as souvenirs.In earlier years the coins were traditionally stamped in aluminum, silver and bronze and are highly collectible. Now they are made of shiny metallic plastic in royal purple, green and gold, the traditional colors of Mardi Gras.

Traditional King Cakes

Another charming tradition of Mardi Gras is the King Cake, a decorated desert which is frosted in the traditional colors and decorated with edible glitter, beads, etc. Three charms are baked into the cake for luck- a tiny baby doll, a coin, and a ring. The baby is known as a "King", and is symbolic of the Christ Child; the ring and coin are portents of wealth and fortune. What began as a humble pound cake has now morphed into a ring of buns with cinnamon or fruit and nut fillings, and echo of the fruit cake theme from Christmas.

Gumbo (beginning top L to bottom R) Shrimp and Sausage;Crayfish; Okra; Chicken and Sausage

Gumbo, a spicy sausage and chicken stew (which may also include seafood) is eaten at the end of the day.The word gumbo is a corruption of the African word for okra. The dish reflects the strong African,  Spanish and French influences of the region. The addition of filé- powdered sassafras leaves-is a Native American contribution to the spice mixture added to the stew. Beyond the inclusion of okra, filé powder,and another thickening agent known as roux ( traditionally bacon fat and flour), there are no rules about what goes into Gumbo, and there are probably as many variations of the dish as there are cooks in the region.

The rich dishes traditional to Mardi Gras-most fat and butter laden-have their roots in the ritual requirement of using up all the sugar, fats and eggs in the home, foods forbidden for consumption during the Lenten season of fasting and sacrifice prior to Easter. Lent consists of 40 days of deep contemplation, self-examination and study in preparation for baptism at Easter.

Shrove Tuesday( aka Fat Tuesday) is an  austere alternative to the lavish Mardi Gras celebrations.The purpose is the same-to use up all the sugar, fats and eggs in the pantry before Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. Those countries with British or Anglican Church influences partake of a traditional  Pancake Supper on Shove Tuesday, a day where the participants are shriven, or forgiven their sins after confession, repentance and absolution by the Church. Many parishes participate in a Pancake Day run, where the runner must flip a pancake in an iron frying pan during the race.Lent emphasizes eating plainer foods and refraining from those which would give pleasure. In many places this also means no meat as well, so many pancake suppers feature sausage.