Lady Victoria Eclectic Pagan's blog: "Pagan Thoughts"

The Creator gathered all of Creation and said, "I want to hide something from the humans until they are ready for it. It is the realization that they create their own reality." The eagle said, "Give it to me, I will take it to the moon." The Creator said, "No. One day they will go there and find it." The salmon said, "I will bury it on the bottom of the ocean." "No. They will go there too." The buffalo said, "I will bury it on the Great Plains." The Creator said, "They will cut into the skin of the Earth and find it even there." Grandmother Mole, who lives in the breast of Mother Earth, and who has no physical eyes but sees with spiritual eyes, said, "Put it inside of them." And the Creator said, "It is done."

Ruth went to her mail box and there was only one letter. She picked it up and looked at it before opening, but then she looked at the envelope again. There was no stamp, no postmark, only her name and a address. She read the letter: ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Dear Ruth, We are going to be in your neighborhood Saturday afternoon and we would like to visit. Always, Your Lord and Lady ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Her hands were shaking as she placed the letter on the table. "Why would the God and Goddess want to visit me? I'm nobody special. I don't have anything to offer." With that thought, Ruth remembered her empty kitchen cabinets. "Oh my goodness, I really don't have anything to offer. I'll have to run down to the store and buy something for dinner." She reached for her purse and counted out it's contents. Five dollars and forty cents. "Well, I can get some bread and cold cuts, at least." She threw on her coat and hurried out the door. A loaf of french bread, a half-pound of sliced turkey, and a carton of milk...leaving Ruth with grand total of twelve cents to last her until Monday. Nonetheless, she felt good as she headed home, her meager offerings tucked under her arm. "Hey lady, can you help us, lady?" Ruth had been so absorbed in her dinner plans, she hadn't even noticed two figures huddled in the alleyway. A man and a woman, both of them dressed in little more than rags. "Look lady, I ain't got a job, ya know, and my wife and I have been living out here on the street, and, well, now it's getting cold and we're getting kinda hungry and, well, if you could help us, lady, we'd really appreciate it." Ruth looked at them both. They were dirty, they smelled bad and frankly, she was certain that they could get some kind of work if they really wanted to. "Sir, I'd like to help you, but I'm a poor woman myself. All I have is a few cold cuts and some bread, and I'm having a couple important guests for dinner tonight and I was planning on serving that to them." "Yeah, well, okay lady, I understand. Thanks anyway." The man put his arm round the woman's shoulders, turned and he headed back into the alley. As she watched them leave, Ruth felt a familiar twinge in her heart. "Sir, wait!" The couple stopped and turned as she ran down the alley after them. "Look, why don't you take this food. I'll figure out something else to serve my guests." She handed the man her grocery bag. "Thank you lady. Thank you very much!" "Yes, thank you!" It was the man's wife, and Ruth could see now that she was shivering. "You know, I've got another coat at home. Here, why don't you take one." Ruth unbuttoned her jacket and slipped it over the woman's shoulders. Then smiling, she turned and walked back to the street... without her coat and with nothing to serve her guest. "Thank you lady! Thank you very much! Ruth was chilled by the time she reached her front door, and worried too. The Lord and Lady were coming to visit and she didn't have anything to offer them. She fumbled through her purse for the door key. But as she did, she noticed another envelope in her mailbox. "That's odd. The mailman doesn't usually come twice in one day." She took the envelope out of the box and opened it. It read: ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Dear Ruth, It was so good to see you again. Thank you for the lovely meal. And, thank you, too, for the beautiful coat. Love Always, Your Lord and Lady ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* The air was still cold, but even without her coat, Ruth no longer noticed.

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road? (Neo-Pagan-style) Alexandrian/Gardnerian: To reveal this would be to break my oath of secrecy. I can say, though, that it *really* is an ancient rite, dating far back in time, back even before 1951, and I have learned it from an unbroken lineage. As Gerald said, it takes a chicken to make an egg. Asatru: First, we don't believe in a "One Chicken" or a "Hen and Rooster." We believe in many chickens. Second, "crossing the road" is part of the three levels, or worlds, and the chicken simply crossed from one level to another. Hail to the Chickens! British Traditional: The word "chicken" comes from a very specific Old English word ("gechekken"), and it only properly applies to certain fowl of East Anglia or those descended therefrom. As for the rest, I suppose they are doing something remotely similar to crossing the road, but you must remember that traditional roads are not to be confused with the modern roads.... Celtic: In County Feedbeygohn on Midsummer's day, there is still practiced St. Henny's Dance, which is a survival of the old pagan Chicken Crossing fertility rite. Today, modern pagans are reviving the practice, dedicated to the Hen and the Green Rooster. Ceremonial: "Crossing the road" is a phrase that summarizes many magical structures erected and timed by the chicken to produce the energy necessary for the intention of the travel across the road. For example, the astrological correspondences had to be correct, the moon had to be waxing (if the chicken intended to come to the other side of the road) or waning (if the chicken intended to flee to the other side of the road), and the chicken had to prepare herself through fasting and proper incantations. Note: certain forms of invocation (summoning an egg *inside* your chicken self) can produce abnormal or even dangerous eggs and should only be conducted inside a properly erected barnyard. ... Chaos: Thinking in terms of "roads" and "crossings" is simply looking at the formal, typically perceived structure of chicken crossing space-time. We, instead, focus on the possibility of chicken crossing itself; what appears to be a random act is thus actually the norm — it is the **road** which is the freak of chance. Indeed, quantum mechanics now demonstrates what we knew all along: two roads can simultaneously exist in the same place at the same time. Thus, by attuning ourselves to the dynamic energy (called "crossing"), we can manifest the road. Of course, to the unknowledgeable, this appears as a chicken crossing the road. Dianic: The chykyn ("chicken" is a term of patriarchal oppression) sought to reclaim for herself the right to be on the other side of the road, after it had been denied to her for centuries. By doing so, she reawakened the power of the Hen within herself. Discordian: cock-a-doodle-doo ! Druid: To get to the sacred grove, of course! Keep in mind that 99% of everything written about chickens-crossing-the-road is pure hogwash, based on biased sources. Yes, there were a few unfortunate chicken sacrifices in the past, but that is over now... Eclectic: Because it seemed right to her at the time. She used some Egyptian style corn and a Celtic sounding word for the road and incorporated some Native American elements into her Corn-name, Chicken-Who-Dances-and-Runs-with-the-Wolves. Faery: In twilight times and under sparkling stars, those properly trained can still see the chickens crossing the roads. Reconnecting with these "fey-fowl" as they cross is crucial to restoring the balance between the energies of modern development and living with the earth. Family Traditional: Growing up, we didn't think much about "crossing the road." A chicken was a chicken. It crossed the road because that was what worked to get her to the other side. We focused on what worked, and we worked more with the elders of the barnyard and less with all this "guardians of the chicken coop" business. We didn't get our concepts of "chickens" or "the other side" from Gardner, either. You can choose not to believe us since we did not "scratch down" on paper what was clucked to us orally (which, at certain times in history, was the only way to avoid becoming Easter chicken soup!), but that doesn't change the facts: there *were* real chickens, and they *really did* cross the road! Kitchen Witch: The chicken crossed the road to get food, to get a rooster or to get away from me after I decided to have chicken for supper! Left Hand Path: White, fluffy chickens prancing across the road! Do you think that is *all* there is to crossing the road? Do you *dare* to know the dark side of crossing the road and the *other* path to self-development? New Age: The chicken crossed the road because she chose this as one of her lessons to learn in this life. Besides, there was so much incense and bright, white corn to explore on the Other Side. Newbie: well, 'cause I read in this really kewl book that said, like, chickens are supposed to cross the road, right? Posting on an Online Discussion Group: What do you mean <> ???!!!??? Haven't you read **any** of the previous posts? We've been [expletive deleted] debating every word of that question, painstakingly trying to come to some kind of answer. I know you wrote <> but I'm fed up with newbies who can't even bother to REEEEEEEEAAADDD the posts on that very topic! No, this is *not* a flame. But, I and several others here have the *maturity* to properly explore and respond to this question, and we were properly trained; we *didn't* just read a book and think we were full-fledged chickens. Solitaire: The chicken didn't want to be part of a coven or an oven. Shaman: Crossing the road is a way to reconnect with the healing, visionary life ways of the past. Chickens have long known this, but increasingly the Rooster's Movement is adding more roosters to the crossings too. Snert: Hey, are you guys really chickens? Can you give me a spell that will make a chicken cross the road? Wiccan: The chicken crossed the road because she felt like she was finally "coming home." She could do it alone or with others, but she had to call to the Guardians of the Watchtowers of the Barnyard first ... uhm, after casting the circle...

Hush little baby don't you squall Momma's gonna buy you a crystal ball And if you still can't see beyond Momma's gonna buy you a magic wand And if that wand don't change your fate Momma's gonna teach you to levitate And if the astral makes you sick, Momma's gonna buy you an incense stick And if that patchouli smells rank Momma's gonna buy you a sensory deprivation tank And if that tank don't float your bones Momma's gonna buy you some some precious stones And if those gems don't ease your heart Momma's gonna buy you a natal chart And if your planets go berserk Momma's gonna buy you some bodywork And if your aura still needs kneading Momma's gonna buy you a past life reading And if your destiny stays hid Momma's gonna buy you a pyramid And if your chakras still feel stressed Momma's gonna take you on a vision quest And if power animals don't come to charm ya Sorry, kid, it's just your karma.

I, (insert your own name here), a citizen of the Planet Earth, do declare that it is my right and desire to live in peace with myself, with my neighbors, and with the world. To this end, I further declare: That I will see and treat all people as my sisters and brothers, equal and loved as children of the Mother. That I will see and treat Mother Earth and all her creatures with love, respect, and reverence. That I will see and treat myself as a child of the Goddess, worthy of love, and having gifts to share with all. Signed on this date (insert date here) by me, (Sign Here)__________________________

Imagine the conversation the Creators might have had about this: "Goddess you know all about gardens and nature. What in the world is going on down there in the Midwest? What happened to the dandelions, violets, thistle and stuff we started eons ago? We had a perfect, no-maintenance garden plan. Those plants grow in any type of soil, withstand drought and multiply with abandon. The nectar from the long lasting blossoms attracted butterflies, honey bees and flocks of songbirds. I expected to see a vast garden of colors by now. But all I see are these green rectangles." "It's the tribes that settled there, Lord. The Suburbanites. They started calling your flowers 'weeds' and went to great extent to kill them and replace them with grass." "Grass? But, Lady, it's so boring. It's not colorfull. It doesn't attract butterflies, birds and bees, only grubs and sod worms. It's temperamental with temperatures. Do these Suburbanites really want all that grass growing there?" "Apparently so, Lord. They go to great pains to grow it and keep it green. They begin each spring by fertilizing grass and poisoning any other plant that crops up in the lawn." "The spring rains and cool weather probably make the grass grow really fast. That must make the Suburbanites happy." "Apparently not, Lord. As soon as it grows a little, they cut it--sometimes twice a week." "They cut it, Lady? Do they then bale it like hay?" "Not exactly, Lord. Most of them rake it up and put it in bags." "They bag it? Why? Is it a cash crop? Do they sell it?" "No, just the opposite. They pay to throw it away." "Now, let me get this straight, Lady. They fertilize grass so it will grow. And, when it does grow, they cut it off and pay to throw it away?" "Yes." "These Suburbanites must be relieved in the summer when we cut back on the rain and turn up the heat. That surely slows the growth and saves them a lot of work." "You aren't going to believe this, Lord. When the grass stops growing so fast, they drag out hoses and pay more money to water it so they can continue to mow it and pay to get rid of it." "What nonsense! At least they kept some of the trees. That was a sheer stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. The trees grow leaves in the spring to provide beauty and shade in the summer. In the autumn they fall to the ground and form a natural blanket to keep moisture in the soil and protect the trees and bushes. Plus, as they rot, the leaves form compost to enhance the soil. It's a natural circle of life." "You'd better sit down, Lord. The Suburbanites have drawn a new circle. As soon as the leaves fall, they rake them into great piles and have them hauled away." "No! What do they do to protect the shrub and tree roots in the winter and keep the soil moist and loose?" "After throwing away your leaves, they go out and buy something they call mulch. They haul it home and spread it around in place of the leaves." "And where do they get this mulch?" "They cut down trees and grind them up." "Enough! Lady, I don't want to think about this anymore. Goddess, you're in charge of the arts. What movie have you scheduled for us tonight? "Dumb and Dumber, Lord. It's a real stupid movie about..." "Never mind! I think I just heard the whole story."

An elder Cherokee Native American was teaching his grandchildren about life. He said to them, "A fight is going on inside me... it is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One wolf represents fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego. The other stands for joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, friendship, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. This same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other person, too." They thought about it for a minute and then one child asked his grandfather, "Which wolf will win?" The old Cherokee simply replied... "The one you feed."

or: The (dis) Charge of the Goddess I am known as the monthly curse ragweek, the cursed flow & by many other names. I warn you with cramps of pain to ensure you know I’m arriving some months I pay you a surprise visit but you never seem happy to see me. As the maiden I am your enemy spoiling your youthful days. As the mother I am your friend foretelling the gift of motherhood. As the crone I will abandon you & trust me, you will miss me then. To men I am a mystery a magical flow of power By some men I am feared For I represent the all~being & the unkown for the wise magician they know that I hold great power & knowledge. But women remember this: I am the gift from the great mother.

When a woman bleeds it makes her a unique creature, apart from man. (Perhaps we are not the unique ones, but since they rule the world and set the standards for the time being, let us just say that we are unique rather than they are deficient.) * insert ‘Mona Lisa’ smile HERE * But back to the point. To bleed every month is to share the mystery of the Universe. To suffer a wound and not die, to heal and yet revisit the affliction every month without permanent damage. To hold Life and Death in the same hand, while using the other hand to hold everything else in between. Men may claim, "I brought you into this World and I can take you out!" but they can no more do either of those things than gasoline can fuel a vehicle while it is still in the can! But a woman can, and does, do both. We ARE the vehicle, and we are capable of alternative fuel sources. And they need us, more than we need them. And when they bleed they die. And in their dying breath they come to us and see Her and they KNOW. Too bad they don’t know before death. But we KNOW. And lest we forget, we are reminded every month: because we bleed every month and yet do not die. So every month we are reminded of our role, of our place in the Universe and in men’s lives. We are never alone. We always have the reminder. Maybe this is the reason men accuse us of being bitchy or moody when we sense the approach of our reminder. Maybe it isn’t so much hormones that makes us (in their opinions) “unstable emotionally” as it is the knowledge that we, as unique and special creatures in this Scheme of Things, lose patience with the mundane drudgery that they seem to take so much pride in. Maybe we—for a few days a month—just don’t have the time to waste on such daily matters and masculine attitudes of superiority. Maybe we are free to be who we really are and to appreciate ourselves. Maybe we can see clearly and can cut through the crap. Maybe men are not the most important things in our lives for a few days. Maybe we’ve got better things to do. How insecure this must make them feel. To see our power and to see how untouched we can be by their demands! Their whole world falls apart. And ours opens up. For about 40 years we learn to recognize our power and we are reminded of it every month. Every month it is underscored in red. It grips us by the bowel and the womb in a pain that is indescribable to anyone else but another woman, who needs no description to understand. We fight it every month—who likes to suffer? We take pills and drink teas and try to flush it all away with bits of bloody paper and cotton. We pack and bandage and try to change our scent to hide it as if it were a shame. And to men it is a shame. But what they do not tell our young girls is that it is THEIR shame, not ours. It is something they will never have nor experience the equal of. And they hate that. So we live with their undercurrents of shame and self-hate and adopt them and forget—for 3 weeks. Then we are reminded again, and no matter how much they have influenced us, even the most swayed among us knows, deep down, that it is special and it is ours alone. Only men have to ask why the Mona Lisa smiles. Women know why. So how does it end for us? In a blaze of glory! When we become the wise woman, the Crone, the monthly blood stops. But not because we are empty. Because now we are full. Now it belongs to us. Now we are the ones who receive its magic. We keep our power and can spend it how we wish to. We do not need to be reminded. We lose nothing. We gain everything. Only a Crone has the beauty of the Maiden and the power of the Mother, tempered by the wisdom of Age. When we become crones we have reached the checkpoint. We will not lose any more points for failures or incompletes. So maybe when we enter menopause it is not that we become unstable or bitchy or insane. Maybe we understand what we are here for. Maybe we understand what those 40 years of bleeding were all about. Maybe we have just had enough of being called a bitch, of having our most sacred and mysterious nature trivialized into some kind of hormonal roller-coaster to make men feel superior in their emotional “stabilities” (as if it is emotionally stable to wage wars with guns and footballs!) “Mood swings” or “choosing not to fake malleability for the sake of domestic peace”? “Snappy” or “tired of putting up with nonsense for 40 years”? Maybe I am crying because I could not take the time to cry for the last 40 years. Maybe I am angry now because I was not allowed to be angry all that time. Maybe the only thing my moods and emotions have to do with menopause is the freedom it gives me to finally own them. Young men fear the crone because they do not understand her; she is what their beloved Mothers will become. Old men fear the crone because she is what their Lovers are—and what they can never be themselves. Crones remind men of their own mortality; as our monthly bleeding reminded us for so many years of our immortality through our mortality, now it is our mortality because of our immortality we face. Men did not have the lessons we had. And now we hold their hand—IF we want to—and they are afraid we won’t want to. Imagine the insecurity! Now that the daily jobs are done, we have time for compassion. After the moods and hot flashes, now we feel the more subtle things like empathy and forgiveness and gratitude. We don’t need the violence of bleeding and cramps. We don’t need to be reminded anymore because now we can’t forget who we really are. Men will question why the Mona Lisa smiles until their dying breath. They will question who they are, and they will ask us to tell them with their last living stare. And we will be there to answer them and to hold their hands and to put them on their paths, just as we did at the beginning. But in the beginning it was with blood from our wombs and in the end it will be with blood from our hearts. Our blood will always flow in the service of Life and Love.

Oh, Great Spirit, whose voice I hear in the wind, Whose breath gives life to all the world. Hear me; I need your strength and wisdom. Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes ever behold the red and purple sunset. Make my hands respect the things you have made and my ears sharp to hear your voice Make me wise so that I may understand the things you have taught my people. Help me to remain calm and strong in the face of all that comes towards me. Let me learn the lessons you have hidden in every leaf & rock. Help me seek pure thoughts & act with the intention of helping others. Help me find compassion without empathy overwhelming me. I seek strength, not to be greater than my brother, but to fight my greatest enemy - Myself. Make me always ready to come to you with clean hands and straight eyes. So when life fades, as the fading sunset, my spirit may come to you without shame.