I was having a conversation online a few days ago about handwriting. Which devolved rapidly into a conversation abouty signatures, and the "star" with which I sign my name. Naturally, this is not an easy conversation to have online, particularly with people who have never seen your signature... Online, that "star" is just an asterisk... So, I felt the need to come clean about the damn star.
It started in 6th grade, with my best friend Jayden. That girl was a creative genius, and I followed her lead without shame. In 6th grade, of course, kids are always talking about body parts, and sex, and all those other things they really don't understand. They've gotten past the stage of, "boys have a penis, girls have a vagina," but they really don't get the rest of it, so they sit around in study hall explaining it to each other. But, of course, 6th grade teachers blow their gaskets if they hear their sweet, innocent little students talking about such filth, so Jayden and I had to come up with codes.
(Incidentally, I had two codes to contend with. My friend Jill, a 7th grader, had devised a code with me as well... In that particular code, "cows" meant "sex." "Doing the cows," meant "having sex." And "ear" meant "ass." As in, "hey baby, nice ear." And so on...)
Anyway, Jayden's code was primarily a written code, because study hall was supposed to be silent, and we didn't have any classes together. Most of our correspondence was via note-passing. A five-petaled flower meant "sex." Each petal represented a body part: one dick, two balls, and... what? two ass-cheeks? Something. And there was a female equivalent. I think we counted ovaries or something. Anyway, the five-petalled flower meant sex. We signed all our notes with the five-petalled flower. This was our wish for one another to have a pleasant sex-life. Heh! Yes, in 6th grade. We were convinced we'd be having sex any day. We solemnly believed it. Nevermind that neither of us had a boyfriend, and Jayden was still obsessed with Color Me Badd...
Anyway, that's where it all started.
(Before I move ahead, though, I feel the need to remind all you jolly readers that Jayden was also the mother of the phrase "The Produce Section." That was the name of our imaginary band. But that's a longer, and much less logical story than this one...)
So, some time passed, and Jayden moved away (although, the last time I wrote her a letter, I signed it with five-petalled flowers...). I made some new friends, sort of, and then some more time passed, and those friends pretty much became obsolete...
And then in 1997, I met some new friends, and became a Wiccan.
Sorry to throw it at you like that... But it didn't happen gradually at all. One day, I just looked around, and noticed that I was Wiccan.
As I was explaining this to my online friend, he said, "yeah, a lot of my sister's friends are 'wiccan.'" Like that, with the quotes. So, I had to explain: no, I really mean it. I wasn't "Wiccan," I was really Wiccan.
Really?
Well, mostly.
It started when I saw a girl throw a strand of hair into a bonfire, and mutter some sort of prayer. This was just such a weird event that I had to ask her about it. And this Wicca business was so fascinating that I had to read up on it myself. For anybody who's actually interested, I recommend "Wicca for the Solitary Practitioner" by Scott Cunningham. He's got another book, too, of about the same length, the title of which escapes me, but they're both very easy reading, and very informative.
When I became a Wiccan, the five-petalled flower became a five-pointed star. I signed my name with the star now.
And yes, I really was a Wiccan. But since then, I've learned not to advertise it. I do not call myself a Wiccan now, simply because the word has so many stupid connotations.
There are a few basic premises of Wicca, and only one main rule. The rule is: do what ye will, but harm none. In other words, Wiccans can do pretty damned much anything they please, but they can't hurt anybody, or interfere with another person's (or, presumably, animal's) free will. So, casting a spell (I'll get to that in a minute) to make yourself look super-sexy is okay, but it's not okay to cast a spell to make some certain individual fall in love with you. According to Wicca, or, at least, a number of books on Wicca, that's harming people.
Wicca contends that there is a Goddess and a God. I've always had a little bit of trouble with this one. I can't really picture a large, hairy Semitic man in the clouds, and I can't really picture a large-breasted, long-haired woman there, either. Tom Robbins once wrote that it's narrow-minded and useless to give God a sex-change; in other words, the Higher Power isn't going to come knocking at your door with a ball of white light in its hand and everlasting life, just because you begin to refer to it by a differently-gendered pronoun. That's just dumb. So, I had a bit of trouble imagining a human-like male, and it wasn't much easier imagining a human-like female. I preferred to envision the God/Goddess thing as symbolic. I like the Christian idea of the Holy Spirit, really, although the words themselves evoke images of a mostly-transparent old Jewish man from the clouds. The idea of a Holy Spirit, sort of a male and a female, and sort of genderless at the same time, is what suits me best.
But Wicca believes in a Goddess and a God. They go through these year-long life cycles. The God is represented by the sun, and the Goddess is represented by... well, kind of nature in general. The earth. Sometimes the moon. That sort of thing. So, during the springtime, Wiccans believe that the Goddess is a beautiful young woman, and she's courting the God. During summer, they get married, and she conceives a child. During fall, the God and Goddess are getting sort of old and crotchety. And, on the Winter Solstice (the darkest day of the year), the God dies. But, he reincarnates as that kid the Goddess was carrying. And so on. I think I've got most of that right.
Oh, and it's not incest to marry your own kid. At least not if you're a Goddess. It's symbolic. Really.
So. Reincarnation is real. People die, and go to this place called, poetically, the Summerlands. Well, that's real sweet and everything, but it basically just means you're dead, and your spirit is no longer in a body. I guess some people think the Summerlands is some distant Heaven, in the clouds, which is stupid. And other people think that the Summerlands is all around us, which isn't nearly as stupid, despite the corniness of the word "Summerlands." And, eventually, your spirit leaves the Summerlands, and you end up in a new body, reincarnated, and usually remembering nothing, or very little, of your previous life.
Oh yeah, and it's kind of up for debate whether a person can come back as a tree or a snail, or if you're always a person. Don't ask me; I don't know.
Okay, so we've got a Goddess, a God, and reincarnation. We also have magic spells and rituals. This is really the nice part about Wicca. This is the part I really enjoy. Rather than pleading with some old Jewish dude in the sky for help -- that "now I lay me down to sleep" crap -- you take a much more pro-active stance. You demonstrate utmost respect for nature ("Creation" if you prefer, which I do), and you ask that the Goddess and the God, and the spirits with which they imbibe trees, deer, grass, rocks, etc., to assist you in making something happen. It's sort of halfway between a "spell" like in the movies (mixing potions, saying a few words to the potion, and spontaneously being able to fly), and a prayer, like in Christian churches. That is, you don't really take much credit for the results of your spell; you believe that it happens through you, by the power of the Deities and their various representatives (trees, deer, rocks, other people, etc.) Wiccans do believe in the power of prayer; this is one half of the equation of a spell: to ask for help. But they also think that you ought to also do some of the work yourself.
It's pretty difficult to explain. Scott Cunningham does a better job. Ignore the little poems and crap. Make up your own.
So, that's the briefest explanation I can give you. Here are the problems...
First of all, I know a bunch of people here in Olympia who call themselves Wiccan. And it's not that I don't like, or don't respect these people. But they live very one-dimensional lives, most of them. And they tend to neglect a great deal. Many of them are obsessed with Ireland (why, I have no idea), and regularly attend meetings of the SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism), and wear mediaeval-style cloaks, and so forth. This form of Wicca sort of disgusts me. Wiccans like this end up missing out on live jazz shows at the Spar because they're too busy sitting home listening to Celtic music. They miss out on political discussions over beers, because they're busy polishing their swords over homebrew and mead. Do you see what I mean? I'm talking about people who can't see their own culture because they're trying so desperately to recreate a very, very old one. That's crap. I recognize that American culture in 2003 isn't necessarily the greatest, but there's no reason to discount ALL of it...
The other thing is, Wiccans don't believe in the Devil, or demons, or Hell. For the most part, they just don't believe in Evil, in any form. And I think that's crap, too. Some things are just fucken BAD. Wiccans tend to overlook bad things, ignore child molesters and murder-mutilators. To most Wiccans I know, the Green River Killer (for example) is so unfathomably wicked that... well, they just can't fathom that such a person exists. So, they sort of refuse to believe it. Wiccans tend to be overly optimistic, and way too naive. At least, the Wiccans I know here in Olympia. At least, the most vocal of the Wiccans I know here in Olympia.
In this sense, I am not a Wiccan. And never have been.
The people who brought Wicca to me did so with sufficient emphasis on the potential this world has for darkness. They also showed me that God(dess) hangs out in the good old United States, just as much as s/he lurks around Ireland, and Merry Olde. And that goldfish crackers, chocolate milk, and coffee can be just as holy as pomegranates, apple tea, and honey. If you treat it as sacred, it can be sacred.
In this sense, I am Wiccan.
But I still don't like the word.
The five-pointed star, or pentacle, is a common symbol of Wicca, or the practice thereof. It's an ancient religious symbol, the origins of which I couldn't begin to explain. In modern Wicca, it tends to represent the four elements (earth, fire, water, and air), plus the "unseen element," or spirit. Or, the four seasons, and the Deities. Something to that effect. I like the four elements, myself. And, although it's a little hokey, I sign my name, to this very day, with a five-pointed star. Sometimes, I scrawl really fast, though, and it comes out looking more like a five-petalled flower. Oh well.
It was Winter Solstice a few days ago: December 21st. I told Jake that I would be going out for awhile. To be alone. To find someplace quiet and nature-y. To worship in my way. I didn't really explain. We made a date, though, to drive downtown in the evening, to see the new bridge in Olympia.
But, things kept happening. Jake had to go do something with some friends, so I had to stay home. I could have taken the bus, but that sort of sucks, and besides, Mrs. Jensen has been taking some medication that makes her "drunk" (her word), so I didn't want to leave her completely alone, just in case something weird happened. So, I stayed in the house until one in the morning, when Jake came home.
I was pretty pissed off. Although Jake would never really understand this, that's sort of like making somebody wait until one in the morning to open presents on Christmas. Or, more accurately, like not going to church at Christmas.
But, I really hadn't explained the significance of Winter Solstice to Jake. It's a touchy subject, this "religion" thing. Ostensibly, I'm an eccentric Episcopalian at the Jensens' place. I do not wear the pentacle necklace my friend Rachel gave me. I do not explain the significance of the various bells and sticks and rocks and crap that I have lying around. I let everybody believe that these things are just little ornaments. Most importantly, I rarely let anybody in on the secret of what's in the medicine bag I wear around my neck. I'll give you a clue; it's a little symbol of protection, a charm. And that's all I'll say. Jake wouldn't blow a gasket if I said, "I have to go someplace private so I can light some candles and cast a spell." But I suspect he'd raise an eyebrow. Or both eyebrows. I'm really too chickenshit to say any such thing, because of the fear that I'd get that eyebrow thing going on. I prefer to sort of sneak out with a vague explanation.
December 21st is a day of death. The Death of the God, to be precise. But, it's also a day of rebirth: the reincarnation of the God. It's not a day of mourning, but a day of celebration. It's the darkest day of the year. According to calendars, this means it's the official start of winter. Which, I suppose, is true. Except that every day proceeding December 21st, right up until June 21st (or thereabouts), has a few more minutes of sunlight than the day before it. Doesn't make a whole lot of difference in the Northwest, because we don't see the sun except in July and August, but I really do appreciate the Solstice anyway.
But I didn't get to celebrate. There's not a damned chance in the WORLD I'd celebrate in the house here.
So, when Jake came home, at one in the morning, I gave him this sad/mad/pathetic look. He didn't really understand, and I didn't have the guts to explain. So I sighed, still a little pissed, and said, "can we still go see the new bridge?"
So, we drove to see the new bridge.
[Quick back story: the old bridge fell into the sea, or something, about three years ago, when the earthquake hit Nisqually -- yeah, Nisqually... which really isn't very close to Seattle at all, by the way, despite what your local papers told you... So, the city built a "temporary bridge," which I persistently called "the fake bridge." The fake bridge was in use for at least two years, which makes it slightly less than temporary. They've been working on the new bridge since I moved here. And it used to make the most gahd-awful RACKET when I lived downtown... I've been very, very, VERY excited about the new bridge... They finally cut the ribbon on December 20th.]
The bridge itself is absolutely beautiful. It doesn't have arches and towers and crap, but it doesn't really need any. It's very simple, but quite elegant. And the city put these gorgeous old-fashioned streelights on it. And sidewalks that are like, eight feet across. I love this bridge. I love it.
There's a traffic circle (East coast: "traffic circle"; West coast: "roundabout") at the top of the bridge, on Olympia's west side. Even the circle isn't so bad. The center is all decked out; it looks like they've planted some sort of garden or something, although, at one in the morning, it was hard to tell.
Well, at this traffic circle, Jake stopped rather suddenly to let these two guys cross the street. One was wearing a trench coat, and they both looked like they were up to something their mothers wouldn't approve of. Jake cussed at them for being too close to the road. "Come on, co-cheese," he said to them. I don't know what "co-cheese" means, but it's what Jake calls people who are lousy drivers. Or lousy pedestrians.
But I smiled at the two kids. And put my hand up in a sort of half-wave. At that, the kid in the trench coat did something very, very weird. He touched the tips of his fingers together in front of his chest, and gave a little nod/bow, smiling the whole time.
This wouldn't have been so weird, except that I used to have a very dear friend who constantly made exactly that gesture. Even had the same gait. And my friend was a Wiccan. This kid was not that friend -- I had to do a doubletake, though -- but I took it as a sign. A sign of what, I'm not sure, but something good.
So, I asked Jake if we could go over the new bridge a couple more times...
"Sure!" He poked a CD into the car stereo. "We'll be the first people to cross this bridge while listening to Frank Zappa!"
"I sincerely doubt it," I said. "Unzip your pants, and we'll be the first people to have oral sex on the bridge." But just then a cop drove by, and it didn't seem like such a good idea after all.
So, we probably weren't first at anything. But whatever. It was a good night.
~Helena*