An excellent article on Traditional witchcraft vs non-Traditional (note the capitalisation), initiation, and suchlike:
Oathbound: The meaning of traditional paths in an instant gratification society
(This just so happens to have been written by someone who led a fabulous closing ritual this weekend.)
Witches Weekly Questions, August 13, 2004: Sound
1. Do you enjoy having any type of music or sound during a ritual? If so, what?
Always. My life has a soundtrack, and ritual is no different. The score to the film Fairy Tale was nominated as the Official Ritual Score a few years ago. Nowadays I often use the score to Myst as well. It depends on the tone of the ritual. Worship: Fairy Tale. Working: Myst. And because I’m so tuned to music (no pun intended) I can time my words and energy to the music’s crescendos. It enhances everything so beautifully.
Drummingis marvellous, especially when you have a strong and talented drummer. TO drum, however, you have to accept that you’re not in the heart of the ritual, but managing the energy levels on the side. I can’t do rit and drum simultaneously, so I have to look forward to high ritual when others do it. And it has to be done correctly; so many let the beat falter or meander around. I’ve only met a handful of people who can correctly use drums as ritual tools.
2. Do you have a favorite chant?
Good question. I’ve always love The Earth is our Mother; I can chant Holy Well Sacred Flame for hours in ecstatic meditation; and Air I Am was on the list until near the end of this weekend when the Clan’s chants mistress (a woman whom I love fiercely) taught my dedicants to sing “Sam I am, Sam I am, I won’t eat green eggs and ham” to the tune, thereby endearing her to the Seuss fanatics (everyone) and ruining the chant forever for me. Earth My Body has taken its place in my top three chants after this weekend.
3. What sound tends to move you spiritually the most?
A slow well-built orchestral crescendo; rain; water of any kind; the cello (go figure).
Not much else we could do yeaterday after four hours of sleep, so we went out to lunch (and nearly wept on the waitress’ neck for the quality of food; remember, we were in the US of A for four days) and then caught a movie. We chose to see King Arthur.
My four-word review:
No guts, no heart.
It’s an interesting theory, and I enjoyed the presentation of the three sides to the conflict, but it felt like there should have been documentary narration over it. It was stoics, not stirring. It felt as if there were chunks missing. At least they cut out the whole stupid Lancelot/Guinevere thing. And, I am sad to say, I was so tired that I nodded off during the final battle. (The glass of white wine I had with lunch probably didn’t help.) Best sequence: the ice battle. Best knight: Gawain. Fabulous costumes. Great designs for the native Britons (Woads — honestly, what a dull name).
Excellent music, though. Zimmer’s score is a nice contrast to Goldsmith’s music to First Knight.
We won’t own it, despite our love for all things native Briton, armour, and epic battle sequences.
Don’t get me wrong; there were bad things too. We left three and a half hours later than we had intended to thanks to the idiocy of the regie d’assurance automobile; we drove in a blinding rainstorm; the portable CD player and the tape adapter hook-up didn’t work; we set up in the pouring rain, and were subsequently damp all weekend (I’m just throwing my rotting sneakers out); the air mattress had a hole in it and deflated completely within two hours; more people showed up than registered so that there weren’t enough sites for those who *did* register, forcing people to double and triple up on soaking, flooded, bog-like sites; one of the catered meals was rancid, forcing us to default to breakfast food on our barbecue (which was yummy, and a good bonding experience); and due to unclear communicaion about scheduling, we left five hours later than we had expected to leave, forcing us to drive through the night instead of just the evening, and on not a lot of sleep at the end of a draining weekend.
That’s just so you know I’m not romanticising. There were as many downs as ups. However, dwelling on the downs isn’t constructive.
We’re back from our spiritual retreat down in Pennsylvania. Apart from arriving in a pounding rainstorm thanks to Hurricane Charley dancing along the eastern coast of the US and being damp all weekend as a result, we had a phenomenal time. We assisted in a high-powered ritual in which we elevated two people to third degree, one of whom is a very dear friend, we networked, we attended our first private official meeting as clan teachers, and we received some deeply touching compliments. The new folk in our coven who travelled with us seemed to have a wonderful time as well, which was both a delight and a relief.
The only drawbacks were arriving in that rainstorm and dealing with the subsequent mud, the hour of is-the-hurricane-coming-inland-do-we-cancel-the-camping-weekend on Saturday (heck no — we had over a hundred fifty witches on-site. That hurricane was downgraded to a tropical storm and moved out to sea instead), and the unexpectedly lengthy post-camping meeting for the teachers. We stayed as long as we could, and finally left at seven PM. HRH and I rolled into Montreal as the sun was rising and fell into bed at six AM.
On the way home we stopped at the Friendly’s restaurant in West Hazelton, PA, and let me tell you, there’s a reason we always stop at that particular location of the chain. The staff are cheerful, the restaurant is tidy, and the food is always good (unlike other locations of the chain, we have discovered to our dismay). HRH and I had heavenly peanut butter-fudge-vanilla ice cream. I had mine with hot fudge sauce and whipped cream as well, and oh gods, it was pure sin and very, very tempting to pack our cooler with pints of the stuff. It’s a limited time thing; we just might have to cross the border again before the fall to indulge one last time. (Yes, it’s good enough to merit a border crossing all on its own.)
We touched base with people whom we love, whom we only see once a year if we’re lucky. We met new friends. We were reminded of why we chose to work with this particular tradition: no bullshit, fierce loyalty if merited, a kick-ass sense of humour, and the ability to sever ties completely if warranted to avoid drama and drawn-out politics. This camping trip reminds me that there are people out there who’ve got my back if I need support, magically or personally.
I am a high priestess within the Black Forest Clan. I honour my teachers, and my fellow facilitators. I love my brothers and sisters of the clan. And every year at this time, I am reminded of how fortunate I am to be a part of this organization, contributing and receiving knowledge and passion.
The only unfortunate part is that I come home all fired up to start or re-start thousands of projects, at least nine hundred and ninety seven of which will have to wait while the rest of my life demands my attention on a daily basis.
We discovered last week that the purveyors of fine teas in the nearby upper-crust borough had closed up shop.
This is bad — where am I going to go pick up Dragon Well on a whim? — but not bad, because they were snobbish prissy shopwomen who belittled their clientele instead of welcoming them and educating them. We drove past a tiny tea shop up on Monkland a while ago, so one of these days I shall have to take a walk up and check it out in order to ascertain its value.
Saturday night after dinner out with friends my stomach and digestive system decided to stage a protest about something (it certainly wasn’t the food), and while I’m much better, they’re still unhappy about life. We leave for Pennsylvania before dawn tomorrow, so I wish they’d hurry up and settle. We picked up the camping gear from Hiscock’s Fine Camping Supplies and Laundromat last night (and also obtained a nice anti-skip personal CD player with tape convertor for the trip, huzzah), so all that remains is to:
– get photocopies to take with us
– pick up gallon jugs of bottled water
– finish packing clothes
– pick up black cord for my dress
– pick up the first-aid kit
– finish hemming Gob Anarchy’s robe for the band’s first unofficial tour (unofficial because a third of the band will be missing, alas)
I succeeded in creating the body of the robe and put it on to show HRH. It’s designed for someone who is about six inches taller than I am, so the sleeves flopped way past my fingers, the hood almost obscured my face, and the hem dragged on the ground. “‘S a bit big,” I said, flopping my hands about. HRH turned around, saw me, and tried to hide his laughter behind a hand. “Wot?” I demanded. “You look like a cute Dementor,” he said, his efforts turning his face red. “Give us a kiss, then!” I siad, stepping towards him. “That’s just creepy,” he said, “no, thanks.”
All three of my female fur-children have staked out this robe as The Best Place To Sleep. Hope Gob Anarchy appreciates how they feel.
To the sewing machine!
So now I’m writing two book proposals. Yes, I am certifiably mad.
At least neither of them are stalling. Ceri just made us some tea, too. And as we all know, where there’s tea, there’s hope. (Here’s looking at you, Brandon Thomas.)