239 lines
13 KiB
Plaintext
239 lines
13 KiB
Plaintext
PAGAN MUSINGS
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[Tony Kelly of the Selene Community in Wales wrote this
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piece in l970. It was published in l97l in the British
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edition of The Waxing Moon under the title "Pagan Movement."
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Under the title "Pagan Musings" it has passed from hand to
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hand and group to group all over the United States. Tony
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Kelly was one of the founders of the Pagan Movement in the
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British Isles, which, with the Pagan Way in the United
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States, began as a single group of researchers into ancient
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goddess cults. They later divided, agreeing that each
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country required a different approach in bringing back
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Paganism.]
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We're of the old religion, sired of Time, and born of our
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beloved Earth Mother. For too long the people have trodden
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a stony path that goes only onward beneath a sky that goes
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only upwards. The Horned God plays in a lonely glade for
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the people are scattered in this barren age and the winds
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carry his plaintive notes over deserted heaths and reedy
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moors and into the lonely grasses. who know now the ancient
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tongue of the Moon? And who speaks still with the Goddess?
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The magic of the land of Lirien and the old pagan gods have
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withered in the dragons breath; the old ways of magic have
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slipped into the well of the past, and only the rocks now
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remember what the moon told us long ago, and what we learned
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from the trees, and the voices of grasses and the scents of
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flowers.
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We're pagans and we worship the pagan gods, and among the
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people there are witches yet who speak with the moon and
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dance with the Horned One. But a witch is a rare pagan in
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these days, deep and inscrutable, recognizable only by her
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own kind, by the light in her eyes and the love in her
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breast, by the magic in her hands and the lilt of her tongue
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and by her knowledge of the real. But the wiccan way is one
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way. There are many; there are pagans the world over who
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worship the Earth Mother and the Sky Father, the Rain God
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and the Rainbow Goddess, the Dark One and the Hag on the
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mountain, the Moon Goddess and the Little People in the
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mists on the other side of the veil. A pagan is one who
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worships the goddesses and gods of nature, whether by
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observation or by study, whether by love or admiration, or
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whether in their sacred rites with the Moon, or the great
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festivals of the Sun.
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Many suns ago, as the pale dawn of reason crept across the
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pagan sky, man grew out of believing in the gods. He has
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yet to grow out disbelieving in them. He who splits the
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Goddess on an existence-nonexistence dichotomy will earn
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himself only paradoxes, for the gods are not so divided and
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nor the magic lands of the Brother of Time. Does a mind
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exist? Ask her and she will tell you yes, but seek her out,
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and she'll elude you. She in in every place, and in no
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place, and you'll see her works in all places, but herself
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in none. Existence was the second-born from the Mother's
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womb and contains neither the first-born, nor the unborn.
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Show us your mind, and we'll show you the gods! No matter
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that you can't, for we can't show you the gods. But come
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with us and the Goddess herself will be our love and the God
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will call the tune. But a brass penny for your reason; for
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logic is a closed ring, and the child doesn't validate the
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Mother, nor the dream the dreamer. And what matter the wars
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of opposites to she who has fallen in love with a whirlwind
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or to the lover of the arching rainbow.
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But tell us of your Goddess as you love her, and the gods
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that guide your works, and we'll listen with wonder, for to
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do less would be arrogant. but we'll do more, for the heart
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of man is aching for memories only half forgotten, and the
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Old Ones only half unseen. We'll write the old myths as
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they were always written and we'll read them on the rocks
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and in the caves and in the deep of the greenwood's shade,
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and we'll hear them in the rippling mountain streams and in
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the rustling of the leaves, and we'll see them in the storm
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clouds, and in the evening mists. We've no wish to create a
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new religion for our religion is as old as the hills and
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older, and we've no wish to bring differences together.
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Differences are like different flowers in a meadow, and we
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are all one in the Mother.
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What need is there for a pagan movement since our religion
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has no teachings and we hear it in the wind and feel it in
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the stones and the Moon will dance with us as she will?
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There is a need. For long the Divider has been among our
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people and the tribes of man are no more. The sons of the
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Sky Father have all but conquered nature, but they have
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poisoned her breast and the Mother is sad for the
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butterflies are dying and the night draws on. A curse on
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the conqueror! But not of us, for they curse themselves for
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they are nature too. They have stolen our magic and sold it
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to the mindbenders and the mindbenders tramp a maze that has
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no outlet for they fear the real for the One who guards the
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path.
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Where are the pagan shrines? And where do the people
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gather? Where is the magic made? And where are the Goddess
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and the Old Ones? Our shrines are in the fields and on the
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mountains, in the stars and in the wind, deep in the
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greenwood and on the algal rocks where two streams meet.
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but the shrines are deserted, and if we gathered in the arms
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of the Moon for our ancient rites to be with our gods as we
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were of old, we would be stopped by the dead who now rule
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the Mother's land and claim rights of ownership on the
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Mother's breast, and make laws of division and frustration
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for us. We can no longer gather with our gods in a public
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place and the old rites of communion have been driven from
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the towns and cities ever deeper into the heath where barely
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a handful of heathens have remained to guard the old secrets
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and enact the old rites. there is magic in the heath far
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from the cold grey society, and there are islands of magic
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hidden in the entrails of the metropoles behind closed
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doors, but the people are few, and the barriers between us
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are formidable. The old religion has become a dark way,
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obscure, and hidden in the protective bosom of the night.
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Thin fingers turn the pages of a book of shadows while the
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sunshine seeks in vain his worshippers in his leafy glades.
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Here, then, is the basic reason for a Pagan Movement; we
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must create a pagan society wherein everyone shall be free
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to worship the goddesses and gods of nature, and the
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relationship between a worshipper and her gods shall be
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sacred and inviolable, provided only that in her love of her
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own gods, she doesn't curse the names of the gods of others.
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It's not yet our business to press the law-makers with
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undivided endeavour to unmake the laws of repression and,
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with the Mother's love, it may never become our business for
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the stifling tides of dogmatism are at last already in ebb.
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Our first work, and our greatest wish, is to come together,
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to be with each other in our tribes for we haven't yet grown
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from the Mother's breast to the stature of the gods. We're
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of the earth, and sibs to all the children of wild nature,
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born long ago in the warm mud of the ocean floor; we were
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together then, and we were together in the rain forests long
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before that dark day when, beguiled by the pride of the Sky
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Father, and forgetful of the Mother's love, we killed her
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earlier-born children and impoverished the old genetic pool.
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The Red child lives yet in America; the Black Child has not
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forsaken the gods; the old Australians are still with their
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nature gods; the Old Ones still live deep in the heart of
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Mother India, and the White Child has still a foot on the
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old wiccan way, but Neanderthaler is no more and her magic
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faded as the Lli and the Archan burst their banks and the
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ocean flowed in to divide the Isle of Erin from the land of
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the White Goddess.
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Man looked with one eye on a two-faced god when he reached
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for the heavens and scorned the Earth which alone is our
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life and our provider and the bosom to which we have ever
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returned since the dawn of Time. He who looks only to
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reason to plum the unfathomable is a fool, for logic is an
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echo already implicit i the question, and it has no voice of
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its own; but he is no greater fool than he who scorns logic
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or derides its impotence from afar, but fears to engage in
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fair combat when he stands on his opponent's threshold.
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don't turn your back on Reason, for his thrust is deadly;
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but confound him and he'll yield for his code of combat is
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honorable. so here is more of the work of the Pagan
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Movement. Our lore has become encrusted over the ages with
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occult trivia and the empty vapourings of the lost. The
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occult arts are in a state of extreme decadence, astrology
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is in a state of disrepute and fears to confront the
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statistician's sword; alien creeds oust our native arts and,
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being as little understood as our own forgotten arts, are
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just as futile for their lack of understanding, and more so
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for their unfamiliarity. Misunderstanding is rife.
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Disbelief is black on every horizon, and vampires abound on
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the blood of the credulous. Our work is to reject the
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trivial, the irrelevant and the erroneous, and to bring the
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lost children of the Earth Mother again into the court of
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the Sky Father where reason alone will avail. Belief is the
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deceit of the credulous; it has no place in the heart of a
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pagan.
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But while we are sad for those who are bemused by Reason, we
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are deadened by those who see no further than his syllogisms
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as he turns the eternal wheel of the Great Tautology. We
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were not fashioned in the mathematician's computations, and
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we were old when the first alchemist was a child. We have
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walked in the magic forest, bewitched in the old Green
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Thinks; we have seen the cauldron and the one become many
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and the many in the one; we know the Silver Maid of the
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moonlight and the sounds of the cloven feet. We have heard
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the pipes on the twilight ferns, and we've seen the spells
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of the enchantress, and Time be stilled. We've been into
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eternal darkness where the Night Mare rides and rode her to
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the edge of the Abyss, and beyond, and we know the dark face
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of the Rising Sun. spin a spell or words and make a magic
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knot; spin it on the magic loom and spin it with the gods.
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Say it in the old chant and say it to the Goddess, and in
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her name. Say it to a dark well and breathe it on a stone.
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There are no signposts on the untrod way, but we'll make our
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rituals together and bring them as our gifts to the Goddess
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and her God in the great rites. Here, then, is our work in
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the Pagan Movement; to make magic in the name of our gods,
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to share our magic where the gods would wish it, and to come
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together in our ancient festivals of birth, and life, of
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death and of change in the old rhythm. We'll print the
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rituals that can be shared in the written work; we'll do
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all in our power to bring the people together, to teach
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those who would learn, and to learn from those who can
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teach. We will initiate groups, bring people to groups, and
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groups to other groups in our common devotion to the goddess
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and gods of nature. We will not storm the secrets of any
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coven, nor profane the tools, the magic, and still less, the
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gods of another.
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We'll collect the myths of the ages, of our people and of
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the pagans of other lands, and we'll study the books of the
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wise and we'll talk to the very young. And whatever the
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pagan needs in her study, or her worship, then it is our
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concern, and the Movement's business to do everything
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possible to help each other in our worship of the gods we
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love.
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We are committed with the lone pagan on the seashore, with
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he who worships in the fastness of a mountain range or she
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who sings the old chant in a lost valley far from the
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metalloid road. We are committed with the wanderer, and
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equally with the prisoner, disinherited from the Mother's
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milk in the darkness of the industrial webs. We are
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committed too with the coven, with the circular dance in the
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light of the full moon, with the great festivals of the sun,
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and with the gatherings of the people. We are committed to
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build our temples in the towns and in the wilderness, to buy
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the lands and the streams from the landowners and give them
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to the Goddess for her children's use, and we'll replant the
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greenwood as it was of old for love of the dryad stillness,
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and for love of our children's children.
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When the streams flow clear and the winds blow pure, and the
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sun never more rises unrenowned nor the moon ride in the
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skies unloved; when the stones tell of the Horned God and
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the greenwood grows deep to call back her own ones, then our
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work will be ended and the Pagan Movement will return to the
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beloved womb of our old religion, to the nature goddesses
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and gods of paganism.
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