A favorite anthem for me on my journey has been "This Is Me," from "The Greatest Showman."
#spoonie #ActuallyAutistic #trans #transgender #pagan #music #ThisIsMe #TheGreatestShowman #Cast #Soundtrack
#pagan
WALDKAUZ || Pagans of our Time [Official Music Video] https://youtube.com/watch?v=KIwuyT02egs&si=_iQwE4jZWsXHl3Wg
This is my second winter living on the edge of Lion Wood. Tough very small, it is designated ancient woodland, legal jargon indicating that #trees have been growing here for centuries. There are certainly some big old ones.
I've never felt the myth of the Oak King and the Holly King as strongly as I do here. In winter, the oaks, beeches, birches and sycamores lose their leaves, and the major source of green is #holly.
@Pagans Of The Federation #pagan
La paĂŻenne
Version définitive. J'ai mieux obtenu ce que je voulais pour la colorisation, par rapport aux derniers dessins, notamment pour la chevelure, mais un peu moins pour la peau.
#paĂŻenne #pagan #pagangirl #girl #ink #drawing #watercolor #aquarelle #gribouillage #dessin #art #amateur #mywork #d3 #enjomineur
Version avant colorisation.
A moins que ce soit la dernière, car c'est après l'encrage que ça foire, en général.
#paĂŻenne #pagan #pagangirl #girl #ink #drawing #gribouillage #dessin #art #amateur #mywork #d3 #enjomineur
I want an invitation to the #coronation of #King Charles. I don't want to go, I just want that beautiful invitation, especially the Green Man motif. #greenman #pagan
A short story from a few winters ago
Wassail
I should have known better than to accept the drink. It all began when I went for a walk in the woods that clear winter’s day. When I heard some rustling noises, I stepped off the path and peered through the bare bushes to see, well… a fairy party. They were talking, drinking, dancing around a small tree, ignoring the cold. I pushed through the dry branches, and was immediately spotted. I was welcomed. There was soft piping music, and I soon found myself dancing with them, among them, surrounded. When a steaming drinking horn was handed to me, I couldn’t refuse. The warm murky liquid smelled like mulled cider. I drank deeply, and immediately my limbs felt heavy and immovable as stone. I dropped to the ground and fell asleep, still smiling.
I woke up slowly, stiffly, surprised to find myself standing up. It was dark and the party had changed. I felt something warm and wet…
Wait.
A man was pissing on me.
What?
I tried to move, to shout, but couldn’t. Then a drunk woman staggered and vomited on my foot.
No, not foot, I…
Wait.
Someone was pouring something on me. It was blood, my blood. No…
Wait.
Roots, it was my roots the woman had…
Tree.
I was a tree, the apple tree in the clearing. But these were not fairies, they were…
Wassailers.
Humans wassailing, waking me up. Ribbons on my branches, urine and cider on my trunk and roots, drunk singing. It certainly woke me.
The days passed quickly; or maybe I was slow. I felt my roots, my dry branches, my sap pulled in from outer limbs in the cold. Then the days grew longer until spring came, and I reached out, growing leaves, then flowers. Sap rising. People and animals came and went from the clearing. No fairies though. Summer filled me with life, and I formed fruit. Sunlight, warmth, soft showers, a lovely season. The sun peaked and the days slowly shortened. I pushed life into the fruit and it grew and ripened, was picked by hands and pecked by beaks. Autumn saw the last fruit ripen, fall, rot, as strong winds tugged me. After the last apple, I dropped some small branches too. As winter began, I pulled life inward, and slowed once more. The dark and cold saw the clearing mostly empty, and I nodded off one frosty night.
I woke up again, it was quiet, clear and dry, but cold, the sun low in the sky. I stretched and…
Wait.
I had arms and legs.
Eyes and ears.
I’m Human.
I stood up slowly, and looked around. It was late afternoon, I was alone in the clearing. Had I slept for an hour or a year? Best get out of the woods before dark, worry about the strange dreams later. I took one step and kicked something. I looked down – it was a drinking horn. A slight smell of apple and spice lingered in the air.
#wassail #wassailing #winter #pagan #fairies #writing #stories
Winter Solstice
The night she was conceived, a faint sliver of light from the new moon travelled the sky. The night she was born, the moon was full and fat, a bright reddish harvest moon. The symbolism had been explained to death when she was still a small child.
Tied to the moon from birth, she was less concerned with the sun. When others mourned the last setting of the sun behind the mountains at midwinter, she remained calm. It would return a few days later.
So she was surprised when that year she was chosen to fetch back the light. Early in the morning they woke her up, and out into the dark and cold she was summoned, where the ritual play was carried out: There was no light in the village, someone had to go to the dragon’s cave and bring back fire, or the sun would never return. Would she be the brave soul?
She set out with a wry smile at the dramatic farewells. It was less than a mile to the cave, the provisions were unnecessary. A short walk later, she was there. She smelled the smoke from the entrance, heard the soft crackling as she stepped inside the big cave, and could just make out the large shape softly lit against the darkness.
Walking towards it, she saw the small fire burning under the belly of the stylised stone dragon, smoke flowing out its nostrils. She had never been party to this side of the ritual before, and briefly wondered who had snuck down earlier and lit the fire. She approached the stone beast head on, and now saw the fire through its holes-for-eyes, bright and flickering in one, softer in the other. Suddenly she understood. They were the sun and the moon, and the fire behind them was one.
She dutifully lit a torch from the dragon fire and carried it back to the village, so lost in thought that she was startled by the crowd that warmly greeted her, the ritual complete. A few days later, she rejoiced with the rest as the sun returned, clearing the mountains briefly for the first time in nearly a week. The light would grow day by day.
#pagan #solstice #WinterSolstice #story #shortstory #myth #writing
Bonjour tout le monde, je suis #nouveauici. Mes centres d'intérêt sont #celtes, #ésotérisme, #fantastique, #fantasy, #folk-metal, #geek, #histoire, #lecture, #metal, #modellbahn, #modelleisenbahn, #pagan, #pagan-black-metal, #paganisme, #pagan-metal, #post-apocalyptique, #trains et #vikings.
Telling the #Bees is an old #tradition in England and elsewhere in Europe. #Beekeepers would inform their hives of important events in their family - births, deaths, marriages. It was believed that if the bees were not told, they might leave the hive or stop making #honey, or simply sting people and die.
Nice to see the tradition is being upheld, as the royal beekeeper has informed the Queen's bees that the #Queen has died and #King Charles is their new boss. Sorry I could only find coverage of this in the Daily Mail.
The royal beekeeper - in an arcane tradition thought to date back centuries - has informed the hives kept in the grounds of Buckingham Palace and Clarence House of the Queen’s death.
And the bees have also been told, in hushed tones, that their new master is now King Charles III.
The official Palace beekeeper, John Chapple, 79, told MailOnline how he travelled to Buckingham Palace and Clarence House on Friday following news of The Queen’s death to carry out the superstitious ritual.
He placed black ribbons tied into bows on the hives, home to tens of thousands of bees, before informing them that their mistress had died and that a new master would be in charge from now on.
He then urged the bees to be good to their new master - himself once famed for talking to plants.
The strange ritual is underpinned by an old superstition that not to tell them of a change of owner would lead to the bees not producing honey, leaving the hive or even dying.
