dddd
Three Wishes
Two weeks ago, I was the Maid of Honor (er, Matron of Honor–but doesn’t that make me sound like someone who wears jean jumpers and bakes homemade bread?) in one of my best friend’s weddings. Actually, it’s not fair to just call it a wedding… it was more The Bridal Event of The Century. Clara married a wonderful a very, very, very wealthy gentleman, and they spared no expense in creating an incredible Napa Valley weekend for all the guests. The whole time I kept waiting for the Robin Leach voiceover–And now, on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous… ”. I think I cursed more that weekend than ever in my life; the only adjective that adequately The Event was “In-f*ing-credible!” Also, I had a conversation wherein a guest referred to cars costing under $100,000 as “Disposable.”
In addition to toast-giving and bride-calming, I consider it the Maid of Honor’s duty to help guests get to know each other. So—I asked everyone this icebreaker question: “If you had three wishes, what would they be?” Of course this necessitated that I first answered my own question, which was fine because I’d just spent the last week writing my book introduction, which opens with my wishes. They are, in no particular order:
1.Fergie’s song “Glamorous” to play every time I enter a room, like in the movies–except for real–because I would always look like a 1940s starlet. Unfortunately, I tend to look more like swamp-thing most days, so the chorus would have to be re-written to “S-w-e-a-t-p-a-n-t-s”. 2. Unlimited wishes, obviously, because I’m always peeved that characters forget about this glorious option. 3. Write a book that Oprah loves so much that she makes it her book club selection. (Or meet Oprah. Or see Oprah waving from the 42nd story of a Chicago building). I have a major girl-crush on Oprah and hope God is a lot like her.
In case the discerning reader notes that my wishes are not altruistic, please keep in mind I have unlimited wishes for things like world peace and saving all the sad, abused animals on TV commercials featuring Sarah Mclaughlin’s Angel.
A few of my favorite wishes came from our (awesome!) hair and make-up army, including: the ability to travel extensively via teleportation, a bi-costal lifestyle (for which instanteous travel would be helpful), and the power to fly. Collectively the bridal party decided that reading minds and invisibilty were bad ideas because, let’s face it–that could be downright dangerous to one’s self esteem. I am happy to report that even the wealthiest among us–those of the private jets and disposable cars– wish for the same things as we, the little people : love, joy, making a difference, happiness and safety for family and friends. One gentleman even teared up, saying he had only one wish: that his children would grow up to be healthy, happy and loved. All totaled, it was a wonderful little game, and I was touched by all the answers….except for the guy who said he wouldn’t take the wishes because wishing is stupid. I think he’s stupid. Take the wishes! Give them away if you must, but for the love of all that is holy, take the damn wishes!
For the record, I think he was lying. Would anyone actually turn down wishes? Especially if they were bestowed by a singing, dancing blue genie with a Robin Williams voice? This is the only way I can imagine being granted wishes; I think my parents allowed me to watch Aladdin one too many times. This is curious because I wasn’t allowed to watch the Smurfs on account of their being a little too much like demons, with evil Papa Smurf the devil in disguise. My pressing question is: was Smurfette a she-devil? I hope not! I think she is rather glamorous, and we all know my aspirations towards glamourousness. I will have to remember to ask my mother– who will undoubtably deny depriving me of Smurfs–where Smurfette figures in the demonic metaphor. Personally, if I were a religious parent seeking to protect my children from the evils of cartoons, Princess Jasmine’s immodesty, carpet-flying and rebelliousness might rank higher on my list of Inappropriate Cartoons.
She-devil?
The best wish I heard all weekend came from the groom’s daughter who, please remember, is a child of incredible wealth and privilege :I wish that I will meet someone and marry them and be so in love that we grow old and gray together and die at the exact same time. —–Moment of Shame: I’m wishing on a pop song while this sweet little girl is wishing on The Notebook plot. And I am MARRIED. Matron of Honor, remember? #SHAMED.—–
So here is The Bridal Event of the Century’s pseudo-spiritual takeaway: if a cartoon genie of dubious character approaches you on the street and offers you wishes, take them. Then consider for a moment that, at our core, we are all much more alike than we are different…our wishes don’t lie.
( Unless you’re the guy who lies about wishes. Thanks for ruining my conclusion, dude.)
Swimming the Path of Immersion
This is a guest post I wrote for Andrew Bowen of Project Conversion. First published at www.projectconversion.com
At seven, I wanted so desperately to be a mermaid that I rubber-banded my feet together and enthusiastically hopped into our backyard pool. Flailing about awkwardly (and, given my mother’s shrieks, no doubt looking like a drowning victim!), I remember feeling very disappointed: my toes remained firmly attached and my legs failed to melt into shiny blue fins. Heartbroken, I cried the tears of every child who realizes they can’t grow up to be a princess or superhero.
I think most folks who’ve struggled with faith can sympathize with my seven-year old self. We were all born into a belief ecosystem comprised of family, community and culture; its truths were the very air we breathed; its morality the ground we walked. Then came a day when we realized There’s a great ocean of belief out there, and I want to jump in. But there’s one major problem…we’re not equipped for the swim. So maybe we flail about for awhile, trying to acclimate: maybe some of us even manage for a while . But most of us? We find it easier to simply cry our silent tears, mourning a dream that will not be. Not because it’s impossible, no; because it’s simply too hard trade comfortable beliefs for the unknown.
Then there’s this guy, Andrew Bowen, The Immersionist, a guy with a foot (and a fin?) in both worlds. He left behind what he knew—everything he knew—and dove into 12 belief systems, emerging a year later with a message: it’s hard, but it’s worth it. And now he’s taking this message to the world, leading the charge into uncharted waters.
For me, Andrew’s Immersionism is unique because, by its very definition, it means diving into to something new…for a time. His is not the gospel of forever; it’s the gospel of the now: today, challenge yourself to take a dip in unfamiliar waters. Today, take a deep breath and plunge in: try adopting a new faith system for a day, or even an hour.
If Andrew’s Project Conversion was a year spent scuba-diving from a submarine, my Thirty by Thirty experience (365 Days, 30 Faiths, 1 Chance to Recover Mine by 30) was more like doing hand stands in the shallow end of the pool. But for both of us, our experiences were exactly what we needed: in Immersion we lost ourselves and found our faith. So maybe my mermaid dream wasn’t so far off after all. I may not be able to grow fins, but I can sure as heck wear some flippers and a snorkel! And so can you.
C’mon and join us, friends, in the ocean, the shallow end, or even dipping in a toe. The water may be a little cold at first, but we promise it warms up fast once you start swimmin’
Saturn Returns
After my CNN article was published, I received an inquiry from a reader, Leisa, who practices Astrology. As I have no experience with Astrology, I was naturally curious about her conclusions. She identified my story as a perfect example of a “Saturn Return”, which according to this article by Maritha Pottenger means: “Certain astrological patterns occur universally — that is, everyone gets them at approximately the same age. One of those astrological patterns is the “Saturn Return” which occurs when transiting Saturn (where it is in the sky now) returns to the same position in the zodiac which Saturn occupied when you were born. Everyone experiences a first Saturn Return around age 28-30.”
Click HERE to go to Leisa’s site to see her interpretation of my Saturn Return story in her post, “Finding Faith by Age 30.”
This is the super-cool birth chart she made for me:
You can find Leisa’s article and more Saturn return stories here. Thanks Leisa!
Thirty by Thirty Hall of Fame
Note: I am currently seeking representation for Thirty by Thirty, a reverently irreverent memoir of my 365-day, 30 faith journey. If you are an interested literary agent or publisher, please contact me at rebecca@thirtybythirty.com
In honor of my CNN article, I’m inducting the following posts and people into the Thirty by Thirty Hall of Fame. (Drumroll, please!)
Favorite visit: A Warm Baptist Welcome To…
Most controverisal: Unidentified Flying Objectors (Specifically applicable to all the crazy CNN comments!)
Funniest (and only remotely related to faith): My Very Bare-y Christmas ****First inductee: My dear husband, who took all my faith-craziness in stride and wouldn’t let me quit, even when I swore I was going to. He also saved me from a near-death experience this holiday season.
Recent crowd favorite, and my Mother’s favorite: Alcohol vs. Aprons *****Both my parents are already in my Hall of Fame for being so supportive of this Thirty by Thirty journey. They didn’t (and don’t) always agree with me, but they never fail to love and support my path! Also, my best friend Erin was with me every step (and fall) of the way…including Amish Shopping. She deserves a Hall of Fame trophy just for listening to me cry all year….and making me laugh instead.
My mother-in-law’s favorite: Buddhist Temple Part 1 ******She (Becky) enters the Hall of Fame for accompying me to the Drive-in Church (We endured single-serving, coffee-creamer-esque communion), attending the Catholic Cathedral (we almost died of incense poisoning) AND participating in an authentic Native American guided meditation to find our Spirit Animals (She isbuffalo…so strong and mighty! I am a Peacock…the bird that can’t fly.)
Questioning: I AM___________
Reba Riley is a graduate of 15,000 hours of Christian education, the Focus on the Family Institute and the Ohio State University. When she isn’t selling construction materials full-time or freelancing at Reba Riley Ink, she’s writing writing from her home in Columbus, Ohio, where she lives with her wonderful husband and their crazy puppy. Contact Reba via Email (rebecca@thirtybythirty.com) Facebook and Twitter (links at top of page).
The Power of the Pentagram: Part 2
Continued from The Power of the Pentagram: Part 1
After fourteen days of wrestling, this is what I’ve realized about the Power of the Pentagram:
The Pentagram has no power at all; it only crackles to life when infused with the electricity you lend it.
The Pentagram is like a letter of the alphabet: a meaningless scribble to the illiterate, a building block for a writer, an object of study to the linguist. The letter Z can run in Zebra, shine in Quartz or be ingested as Zucchini. It’s a fraternity (Zeta Beta Tau), the overflowing of a soda (fizz), and terror to a teenager (zit).It’s invigorating (zeal) and horrifying (Nazi): simultaneously unruly (jazz) and staid (Azan-Muslim call to prayer). Without the image you mold it to be, the letter Z is nothing. And neither is the Pentagram.
But.
If, like me, your brain hard-wired from birth for the Cause of Christ and his rule over the Enemy, Satan (who prowls the earth with his minions seeking to kill, steal and destroy—did I mention I didn’t need to fear ghosts? I had real, live demons to be afraid of!), AND the pentagram was held up as a symbol of All That Is Evil by your church and family and culture-at-large, well, that symbol has some serious power. Negative power. Evil power. Possibly even the power to invite demons to jump out of your closet and into your mind. Power you didn’t even know was still there, hiding in your subconscious, like a demon under your childhood bed. One that jumps out to say “BOO!” when you’re 29 and cocky, unafraid of the dark, thinking you’ve ridded yourself of all religious prejudice.
But.
If you aren’t at all like me— maybe you were raised by a Pagan, or the High Priest of a Wiccan coven, or perhaps your family didn’t have religious hang-ups of any kind—the Pentagram could take on all kinds of different meanings: from a Sacred symbol of the Divine, to a representation of the five elements (four physical: earth, air, fire, water, and one metaphysical: Spirit), to nothing at all. You would not believe in the Christian Satan, or his demons, or call upon anything evil. To you, there would ne no such thing as witchcraft in the Abrahamic religious sense.
Perhaps you were even raised with traditional religions but, like me, forged your own path to the Divine, and the Pentagram has become your symbol of transformation.
Speaking of which, I’d like a symbol of transformation. Maybe I will adopt the Venus Pentagram (below). Because for me, it represents a change—one I didn’t even know I needed to make. Stepping up to receive the Pagan blessing, then jumping back, then considering why—that process cleaned out a dark closet of prejudice that I didn’t even realize was there. And for that I will ever be thankful: both to the Symbol and to the people who graciously blessed me, in spite of myself, and accepted me into their circle, without judgment.
So today I lend my own energy to their symbolic circle (which happens to contain a five-pointed star) declaring myself at peace with all its positive meaning(s), and appreciative of the Pagan faiths whose followers showed me such kindness. Though I still respect my decision to step back from the Blessing, (because to me, in that moment, it represented negativity, so it was not appropriate to receive it), I choose to receive it today (albeit 14 days late) with all the beauty and peace it means to your faiths. Blessed Be.
Romans 14 came to mind: One man considers one day more sacred than another; another man considers every day alike. Each one should be fully convinced in his own mind. He who regards one day as special, does so to the Lord.
For anyone who’d like to tar and feather me for this post, please consider the history of the Pentagram and its multiple meanings throughout history including–surprise!–Christian and Jewish usages.
Dating Courage
Imagine two scenarios.
#1 You’re meeting a blind date. Are you nervous? Yes. Uneasy? Sure. But it’s a first date, and the expectations and consequences reflect accordingly. Even if it’s a terrible, horrible, awful, no-good, very bad date, you can still go home, kick off your heels, drink some red wine and call your best friend to laugh it off. Can you even buh-lieve he DID that? OMG! This guy is crazy! You can take him or leave him: no harm, no foul.
#2 You’re meeting The One Who Left You at the Altar (who you are somehow still hopelessly in love with). Are you nervous? No! You’re alternately puking and downing Xanax. Uneasy? Ha, you only wish! Try unbalanced, undone, unnerved…completely unprepared. If this date doesn’t go well, you might spend another six months crying in sweatpants while huddled on the couch with your good friends: Depression, Angst, Ben & Jerry. You can’t take him or leave him, because he’s part of who you are.
So I ask you…which situation requires more guts?
Thinking my crazy adventures take loads and loads of courage, people say things like, “I could NEVER go to a [insert place of worship] by myself!” or “Weren’t you afraid of [insert uncomfortable situation]?”, failing to realize that true chutzpah was only required when facing the familiar.
This is how it went for me, every time I experienced a religion; it was either an exciting first date or a dreaded reunion. There wasn’t much middle ground.
I guess you could say I was brave, but not for the reasons most people think. I was only being courageous when, instead of taking the much easier route of crying on the couch, I walked right up to my former faith and smacked it in the face for leaving me–then began the hard work of trying to get back together—spiritual shock therapy-style.
And I’m happy to say (so far) we’re living happily ever after.
Gangster Modesty
In my year+ of spiritual seeking, I’ve found one inalienable Rebecca-Truth. If I have a severe reaction to something, it’s either A) Spiritual shrapnel that needs to be removed or B) Progress yet to be made. Either way, it needs digging out.
And, in the case of this blog article on Christian modesty “I Was Confronted For Being Immodest” ? It’s shrapnel.
When said post recently went viral, I allowed myself to be sucked into its downward spiral.
(Progression: Read Post. Read comment thread. Get ANGRY. Slam doors. Slam more doors. Read more. Get angrier. Say aloud: My whole damn project wasn’t worth anything! Why? Because I have trouble just saying Live and let live—when a nice young mother–with an innocent heart– if an ill-fitting wardrobe– is being bullied in the name of the Lord for her church-dress choice. And submitting to said bullying without a fight!)
Upon expressing my frustration with the article and with myself, I had this conversation with a friend. Me: Is it judgmental if this post makes me go Uggggggghhhh! ? Friend: Why can’t you just say that’s one way to do it and move on? Me: That’s totally easy if it isn’t personal. Friend: You’re making it personal. Me:UGGGGHHHHH!
I considered his point—albeit huffing and puffing with disdain. I recognized that this post had nothing to do with me. I do not know this woman, nor am I involved in a religious environment that would pass this type of judgment. ( And I highly doubt the all-loving Divine wastes time being incensed over an allegedly improper skirt choice. Isn’t He kinda busy, like, running the Universe-at-large?)
So why did reading this feel like an MRI machine, pulling up bullet fragments from long-forgotten wounds? Why did it feel so personal?Because this post magnetized my every memory of being shamed in the name of God, every time I was bullied for the Cause of Christ. Every time I had submitted to spiritual abuse because I needed to have a teachable heart, and God clearly wasn’t happy with my learnin’.
This article called up a militia of bad memories, ready for action and lined in a neat row stretching back as far as kindergarten. It made my heart do an involuntary quick-draw, pointing my weapon at a viewpoint that had decimated my faith. It inspired me to raise my gun of rationale, wave it in the face of all that hurt, and demand it step aside because You are SO not allowed in my space anymore.
It also caused my newfound faith to briefly falter because due to my past pains, I briefly forgot my belief that there is Truth in all genuine viewpoints. And instead of gently untangling my feelings and simply moving on,—Live and let live–I got stuck in a mental battle, the kind that never has a winner.
This is how it is between me and this viral blog post on modesty. I would much rather have a pentagram drawn on my forehead than have a deacon’s wife bully me about the choiceness of my dress… or let anyone else be thusly shamed. (Hell, I’d rather eat rat meat sacrificed to an idol!) This post and its comment thread? It’s my ex-est of ex-boyfriends, armed with a firearm that’s pointed straight at my temple.
After a few days of mulling over my reaction though, I realized ANY judgmental beliefs, even (and especially!) mine, are like raising a gun to the head of someone else’s worldview. Just take one menacing step towards me, and I blow your brains out, sir.
But for every gun you have pointed at someone else, there’s an infinite number pointed at you. It’s like a gangster movie stand-off, if said gangsters were clad in self-righteousness instead of leather jackets.
For example, if you say a skirt touching the knee is godly, there are a hundred ladies who would declare you immodest. For those who think mid-calf length is appropriate, plenty of sects would tell you that God only approves of ankle-length skirts. And don’t forget the Amish, who believe a woman may only worship in a head covering. There are even religious guns pointed at their bonnets because many think them too religious (bound up by codes that presumably jumped off the deep end when they declared electricity to be evil). This struggle is not unique to Christianity–no– it is pervasive in most faiths, the veritable What Not to Wear of religion.
Today, I’ve decided that if crying about your clothing choices and tossing an offending dress in the garbage makes you feel like a better person and makes you feel closer to honoring your God in spirit and in truth, who am I to say it doesn’t?
So I’m laying down my weapon, kicking it aside, and waving my (possibly immodest!) clothing –depending on who’s judging my sweatpants & t-shirt— in a gesture of surrender. Granted, I’ll still be at the mercy of everyone else.
But at least I won’t be the one with the gun.
Dear FutureReba: An Open Letter
Dear FutureReba:
Chariots of Fire
After Chariots of Fire-esque photo finish last week (minus the race number and bad hair), you’re taking a victory lap, relishing crossing the Thirty by Thirty finish line. Fergie’s Glamourous is playing in the background of your elation, and you’re coasting… happy and excited to take on the Summer of the Book Draft. I hate to wag my finger in your well-earned glory, but someone has to remind you…
There will be days very soon, possibly tomorrow, when you’d rather have your foot run over by a car than continue your life’s work.
You’ll look in the mirror and curse yourself–loudly, in the manner of a sailor overboard– for putting yourself, your heart and your journey out there for the world to pass judgment on.
You’ll want to quit more than a germophobe working in a sewage plant.
In the face of self-doubt and loud protestors, you’ll want to rip off the bull’s-eye that is Thirty by Thirty, and wave it like flag of surrender.
Don’t.
When you look in that mirror, go ahead and curse (because it feels good!). Then remind yourself –loudly, in the manner of a Baptist preacher–that you put yourself, your heart, and your journey out there knowing full well that a few will pass judgment in the wake of many being inspired. It’s just collateral damage, babe, just collateral damage.
Instead of quitting, look squarely at that mess of sewage and rock a cannonball. There’s no way out but through… (the manure).
Then paint a huge bull’s-eye on a sandwich board and suit up. Some offensive arrows will land, but your sign will also give Seekers everywhere a shot of encouragement.
Writing is sometimes awkward, as when you rear-end a guy in the rain and get stuck huddling with him under a small overhang while the waiting for the police. But writing about religion? Other people’s religion? That’s awkward in the manner of wrapping your car around a tree and breaking lots of bones. Just get used to it. Because you didn’t choose it; it picked you. Besides, your fingers will itch forever if you fail to share your journey of transformation…and itching totally sucks. (Recall: the Holiday of Hives.)
And stop crying already; it wrinkles the skin. Do you really wanna be a crying, cursing, poop-covered, oldster-sandwich board in traction? Didn’t think so.
Love,
PresentReba
Find Thirty by Thirty on Facebook and Twitter
The Power of the Pentagram: Part 1
Continued from Beltane
We fear that which we do not understand. But what causes even greater fear? That which we believe ourselves to understand.
Pentagram
The Maypole celebration ended with a ritual wherein the Priest, Priestess, May Queen and May King ceremonially offered cookies and juice to each attendee along with a Blessing. We formed a line, and one at a time went forward to receive a dual blessing: one each from the God and Goddess. I hung back a little, taking in the situation. It looked an awful lot like Holy Communion (if Holy Communion took place in the woods and was offered by people with flower crowns). Granted sprinkle cookies replaced bread, and orange drink the wine, but I couldn’t shake the similarity or decide if I wanted to ingest a Wiccan Blessing (er, Communion?).
I inched forward in the line while giving myself a silent pep-talk: There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s a Blessing Ceremony, silly, not a sacrifice! It’s just cookies and juice, baby, just cookies and juice. I flashed back to some unfamiliar things I’ve done this year (like bowing to idols and medium/psychic readings), and reminded myself that I’ve always come away with something good from every experience. Just as my fears cooled and I was up to bat, I noticed the ritual included the Priest and Priestess drawing Pentagrams on the foreheads of those being blessed, the same way a Catholic Priest would make the sign of the cross over a Christian in communion. It’s just cookies and juice, baby, go forward!
So I stepped up to receive my blessing from the Priest and as he started drawing the first line of the Pentagram on my forehead, everything in me jumped backwards, taking my body, almost unwillingly, with it. Whoa, I said, no Pentagram. I can’t handle the Pentagram. Then the Priest jumped back and almost simultaneously accused, “You the Christian? Someone said there was a Christian here!” Without thinking, I retorted, “I’m not a Christian!” (Meaning: I’m not the kind of Christian you are thinking of!), then realized what I’d said. All four of us were very worked up in a kind of energy gridlock, so it took all I had to step back up to receive the cookie minus the pentagram. The Priestess said she could give me a blessing that wouldn’t offend me, and I was all tears and sniffles and You’re not offending me! I don’t know what’s going on but I just can’t do the Pentagram!
Graciously, she blessed me with a simple hand on my head with a prayer that would be acceptable in any religion: it ended with May you never hunger…May you never thirst. Still teary, I drank the juice, while apologizing profusely for my behavior. It was all very intense, and I had to sit down to consider exactly what in the heck just happened?! I’ve done all kinds of things this year and all the sudden I back down from a Blessing? Great job, Reba, invading their Sacred Space only to ruin their ritual.
We discussed the incident later by the campfire, while the others were drumming and singing, and the both the Priest and Priestess were very kind: more concerned about the balance of my energy than my Blessing breakdown. I, however, took my perceived failure home with me. It took 3 days to sort through exactly what happened in the moment I collided headfirst with the Pentagram…then 8 more to fully process. (Eleven days for an incident that lasted maybe two minutes…like I said, it was intense!) But, eventually, I did figure things out and learn more about myself and this journey in the process.
More to come…
Eclectic Beltane: The Maypole
Continued from Pagans, Wiccans and Druids
One item of clothing I never considered church-appropriate?A poncho. But that was before I considered Nature as a Place of Worship—which it is for Pagans of all varieties (and for me, last Saturday).
O, poncho, why must you forsake me in my time of need?
Due to forecasted downpours and Wiccan weather protocol: “It might rain, and we don’t care!”, I found myself scouring closets for storm gear last Saturday before leaving for the Beltane camping celebration, held at a local state park. Whilst searching, I wondered how many religious folks would attend church if it lasted 24 hours and required rain boots? Alas, as neither poncho nor rain gear were found, I settled on heavy layers, a water-resistant jacket and old tennis shoes.
{Sidenote: My outfit was an excellent fashion choice on multiple levels! As a Champion Procrastinator of All Things Clothing, I left the task of finding a church outfit until Saturday night, 5pm, a mere 13 hours before I was to speak at King Ave. Methodist. Thus, I had to bear The Shame of mall shopping in my nature-friendly rain attire. And hell hath no fury like a women on a fashion mission, late for a Pagan party, slowed down by gaggles of teen mall-rats (where are their parents?! And why do they have to walk more slowly than an elderly man with a walker?!), then asked by a pristine saleswomen, “May I help you?” (Translation: You look like a bag lady and clearly can’t afford our clothing, but the terms of my employment dictate that I must ask if I can help you, and I don’t want to lose my job because I am still paying off my Botox!) Hmmph. “No, thank you.” Translation: I’d rather wander around aimlessly than watch you judge me! I lost some self-respect, but I found appropriate pants.}
May Crown (Better than mine, but not by much!)
Though not mall-friendly, my outfit perfectly matched the natural setting of the celebration. After being warmly welcomed campfire by the High Priest and Priestess, I found myself near the campfire, weaving Mayday crowns with a lovely Persian woman. We picked flowers to beautify the crowns, which would be placed on the heads of the May King and Queen (representing the God and Goddess) in the upcoming ritual.
When the Beltane ritual began, the group (about 15 people) formed a circle by holding hands. The Priest invited Father Sky and Mother Earth to join and bless our celebration of spring. Then the guys and gals separated to bless and crown the May King and Queen .We encircled the Queen and sent her positive energy by extending our hands to her (like a Pentecostal prayer service!). We invited the Goddess to descend upon the May Queen, and formally named her the representative of the Divine Feminine. Then we led the May Queen back to the clearing, walking two-by-two in front of her so the May King/Embodiment of the Divine Masculine couldn’t see her. It was very much like badly-dressed (but not for the weather!) bridal procession. We parted, allowing the men and the May King to see her. Collectively we walked between the fires and formed another circle around the King and Queen. They danced to the beat of a drum while the rest of us cheered/chanted along. (I was told this represented the meeting of the Divine which created the earth.)
How to thread a Maypole
Maypole
Then came the threading of the Maypole, which was super fun: I highly recommended it for anyone willing to dance about in the woods, but not recommended for anyone impaired because it does take a fair amount of concentration! Half of people (ideally all men) walk one way and the other half (ideally all women) walk the other, requiring one to dip under a ribbon every other step (which, like the limbo, gets progressively harder as the ribbons get shorter!). It’s all very symbolic of the joining of the Divine to create, and you end up with a great-looking stick!
To be continued...
I absolutely loved the Beltane celebration of Spring. This should not be a surprise: I’ve found this year that the more I fear something, the more I end up getting out of it. (Reference Hindu Diwali and Native American Sweatlodge experiences).Everyone was so nice and very welcoming, and everything we did was very natural and enjoyable… so I felt extra bad about being afraid of witches (last post)… until about five minutes post-Maypole, when I collided headfirst with a Pentagram.
Recent Comments