Photo credit: The Eggplant on flickr

Everything must go!  Moved the blog to emjayecks.blogspot.com.  Please update your feeds, subscriptions, and links appropriately!  You have a few weeks before everything disappears.  Thanks for reading, and I hope to see you at the new place.

There are at least two popular works that focus on the myth of the Horned God (or horned gods) and the relationships modern pagans have with this deity or group of deities: Hoofprints in the Wildwood and Horns of Power. Both of these titles are anthologies, groups of essays whose subjects range from a research-heavy history of a specific manifestation of the Horned God to personal anecdotes of modern practitioners who are devoted to Him. The third title reviewed here, In Search of Herne the Hunter, is a book-length research piece that focuses on tracing the history of Herne specifically, by drawing connections between the legend of Herne to the myths of other horned deities. First I’ll review each title briefly, then compare them so you can decide of any of these are worth your time, and which you’d prefer to pick up.

Hoofprints in the Wildwood
Editor: Richard Derks
No ISBN Available
188 Pages
Formats: Paperback, PDF ebook

Hoofprints in the Wildwood (from here on out, Hoofprints) is a devotional first and foremost, and that shows in both the writing submitted and the choices made by the editor, Richard Derks. It is published by Gullinbursti Press, and printed-on-demand through Lulu–though the editor has recently elected to make a PDF version free to download through his website. The book itself suffers at the hand of this publishing model–it is copiously peppered with artwork (including that of Sarah Lawless, which is featured prominently and in color on the cover of the paperback–I am such a fangirl) that is printed black-and-white throughout the text and thus rendered almost unviewable. The essays, which are honestly the more important bits, range wildly in quality, from the charming and useful anecdotes of Raven Kaldera and Juniper (most of the personal essays are enjoyable reads), to the poorly researched and even more poorly edited articles focusing on the cults of horned deities in the East and the history and lore of specific deities in the West. My biggest sticking point on this collection is the utter disregard for scholarly convention or citations–almost none of the research is cited, and when it is, it is usually with a vague end-of-article bibliography, making this research hard to verify or reproduce.

Horns of Power
Editor: Sorita d’Este
ISBN: 1905297173
204 Pages
Formats: Paperback, Kindle ebook

Horns of Power (from now on, Horns) is also a devotional, but editor Sorita d’Este made significantly different choices in selecting material, including far more research essays and far fewer poems. It is published by Avalonia Books and available in paperback and Kindle MOBI (the ebook version is very affordable–the paperback was less so). The book itself is of good quality, though the illustrations that are included are in black-and-white, and is divided into three sections: the first, Cornucopia, focuses on research-heavy articles discussing myth and history; the second, Wild Hunt, focuses more on anecdote and rituals; and the third, Horns of Beauty, explores the manifestations of Horned Goddesses. My favorite part of the book was Wild Hunt, again because it offered intimate looks into the lives and practices of modern-day pagans who are devoted to these horned deities. Horns of Beauty is unique among the titles reviewed here; no other books offered anything at all concerning horned goddesses, and I found the essays interesting for the novelty if not for their prose. Cornucopia suffers, again, from an editor with too light a hand and an almost complete lack of scholarly procedure–citations are given at the ends of most articles, or not at all.

In Search of Herne the Hunter
Author: Eric L. Fitch
ISBN: 1898307237
190 Pages
Formats: Paperback

In Search of the Herne the Hunter (from now on, Herne) departs from the pattern of the other texts reviewed here in that it is primarily a work of research and analysis, with very little in the way of personal anecdote thrown in. It is written by Eric L. Fitch and published by Capall Bann Publishing in a sturdy paperback with more black-and-white illustrations. It has been hard for me to find any credentials for author Fitch (if you know anything about him, do leave a comment), so I have to judge him purely on the research presented here. The book is well written, easy to read, and makes very interesting points, connecting the Herne of Shakespeare to older Celtic gods of field and forest through archaeological evidence and textual analysis (I’ll let you judge whether his argument is convincing on your own), but–once again–is almost devoid of footnotes or references, and offers only a meager bibliography at the back to shore up the author’s assertions. Also, most of his argument can be pieced together by an adequately skilled researcher with a working knowledge of Wikipedia and a long afternoon to spend online–so I can hardly say it’s worth hunting through used bookstores to find this work.

Titles missing from this round-up: The Witches’ God by Stewart & Janet Farrar, The Goat Foot God by Diotima, Masks of Misrule by Nigel Jackson, and Out of Arcadia and Written in Wine by Bibliotheca Alexandrina. Know of others? Want to donate one of these for a future review? Leave a comment!

You may have a gathered by sticking with the review this far that my biggest gripe about these titles is simple: the lack of citations and proper research technique. There are readers who would think I’m being too harsh by offering this critique, but I come from an academic background and work as an academic librarian, so I really can’t help myself. In all honesty, there’s no reason for these works to be lacking in this department–it isn’t hard to keep a running list of sources to cite, or to insert footnotes or in-text citations into a document, regardless of the word processor being used.

That said, the personal essays focusing on experience, technique, and practice were invaluable to my understanding of my own relationship with deity–both by helping me to move forward in my own practice (via example, mostly–not too many word-for-word how-tos are given in these books), but also by showing me what my practice is not. Many authors have bared their souls and put on display very intimate portions of their devotional lives in both Horns and Hoofprints, and I as a reader am grateful that they did, for I found them both illuminating and fascinating. The problem with this–similar material can be hunted up all over the internet via blogs, so it’s up to you to judge whether these first two are worthy purchases. Herne is a completely different beast, because it is meant to present facts rather than experience–and I found the author’s argument entertaining and well laid out (with the exceptions noted above). Being as I had already completed most of this research myself, I was disappointed in the book for not sharing any in-depth scholarly research or offering a new take on well-tread information–but perhaps I was expecting too much.

Have you read any of these titles? Read any others about the Horned God or horned gods generally? What did you think? Let us know in the comments!  If not, you can can read up on horned deities at Wikipedia, and at several places online.  You have your assignments, people.  Book review dismissed.

Photo Credit: missmareck on flickr

When my grand plan for earning my MLIS fell through over the summer, I vowed to take some time off from school and the quest for superficial professional success to seek my passion.  I began writing more (though most of that hasn’t materialized here, sorry), practicing more, and breathing more.  And I went on a furious hunt for a new job to service the rather large debt I had left over from a single year of part-time grad school.

Four months later, after a validating summer of freelancing, I finally got a job working in another academic library.  I’m doing everything I did as a student intern, only earning more money and more respect for my trouble.  My work is valued, my skill is respected, and I feel as though I’m making a contribution to a worthy institution.  When I go home at night, I’m free to do as I like.  I have no specter of homework hovering over my shoulder, reminding me that my time is not my own, no obligation to write papers about proper cataloging technique or the importance of teaching information literacy.  I can relax, cook dinner with my husband, laugh and play and read and craft.

I’ve begun to rediscover my hobbies, to waste time, to take long walks in the woods and run laps around the track behind the school next door.  Sometimes I even play with the idea of opening an Etsy shop (a thought I come back to and leave again for various reasons) to sell ritual supplies and jewelry pieces.  For the first time in nearly three years, I’m reading fiction regularly, and even finding time to read and write poetry again.  Signs of the stress and trauma of the last five years of degree seeking aren’t completely gone–I still don’t dream the way I once did, vivid and true, with any regularity, my body is still trying to figure out how to cope with my recent health problems and the relative decrease in stress levels, and I occasionally can’t sleep, panicking about a forgotten assignment or obligation that I no longer have.

Despite all that, I feel lighter than air.  It is clear to me now that my life in the first years of young adulthood was incredibly unhealthy, and that I’ll be dealing with the consequences of that for at least another few months.  But I also feel that very recently, the long break I’ve had from trying to find my path has ended, the detour I took to find a job and cover my necessary bases is over, and the clock has begun ticking again.  That’s not the most apt analogy–there is no time limit on this–but my gods have made it clear that finding this path and putting my feet on it is not an optional exercise.  Granted, that’s about the only thing they’ve made clear, but that doesn’t exempt me in any way from trying to accomplish the tasks they’ve set for me.

I feel joy in the empty spaces of my life, sometimes.  I find myself singing as I wash the dishes, excited to show up at work, eager to see my partner and friends.  I even relish curling up with a book or a lap full of knitting and a long string of missed TV shows on Hulu.  I don’t want to lose that feeling of ease in my body, in my home, even as I begin seeking again my great purpose, my adventure, my Work.  As I go about this search, I need to remember to keep making ample time for doing the things I love (including doing nothing at all) and for taking care of myself.  Moving forward, I can’t allow myself to slide back into old habits and worse situations that will distract from my path and drag me down.  And I need to remember, quite contrary to my nature, to move slowly, with full intention and knowledge of everything I am undertaking.  I even think I already have a lead on where to go next.

Photo credit: cwasteson on Flickr

Caramel Point

Robinson Jeffers

The extraordinary patience of things!
This beautiful place defaced with a crop of suburban houses—
How beautiful when we first beheld it,
Unbroken field of poppy and lupin walled with clean cliffs;
No intrusion but two or three horses pasturing,
Or a few milch cows rubbing their flanks on the outcrop rockheads—
Now the spoiler has come: does it care?
Not faintly. It has all time. It knows the people are a tide
That swells and in time will ebb, and all
Their works dissolve. Meanwhile the image of the pristine beauty
Lives in the very grain of the granite,
Safe as the endless ocean that climbs our cliff.—As for us:
We must uncenter our minds from ourselves;
We must unhumanize our views a little, and become confident
As the rock and ocean that we were made from.

From The Collected Poetry of Robinson Jeffers, Three Volumes, edited by Tim Hunt.  Found it here.

© Courageous Devotion

I realize this post has been a long time coming. I’m hoping to catch up to current events in the next few weeks, but I obviously make no promises. Read the first part of this series here.  Follow the links if you’re not sure what I’m talking about, all will be explained.

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The day I went to Commencement Bay to pay my yearly rent to Manannan mac Lir, I had lunch in the park. I sat alone at a picnic table in the sun, my toes wiggling in the grass, munching a sandwich, sipping iced tea, and jotting down notes for my evening ritual plans.

As part of my process working through the ADF Dedicants’ Path, I’ve been switching off on celebrating the 8 Neopagan holidays in each of my “hearth cultures,” saving the equinoxes and solstices for my Germanic practice (where we have actual evidence Germanic peoples observing these festivals), and celebrating the Celtic fire festivals, well, Celtic-style. I’m an avid researcher. I love to look things up, to know things unexpectedly, to go on the hunt for a specific, well-hidden piece of information–it is honestly one of the greatest joys in my life that we have high-speed internet access at home, because I get to indulge in this practice with charming regularity (it is also a joy that my partner shares my predilection for research, if not my choice of favorite topics–we usually sit around the dinner table and reveal our latest discoveries to one another with relish). Before I begin planning the specifics of any ritual, I like to research and refresh my knowledge of the history behind a given festival, the traditional ways it was celebrated in different cultures and at different times, and who the main players were, so to speak, when it comes to principle deities.

As I went about my normal research for this festival, I found that Loki is sometimes a choice for unorthodox Heathens and Northern Pagans honoring the summer solstice. Loki Himself is a god of fire and light, so this association made instant sense to me. But I had no relationship with this deity, no foundation on which to draw when composing a ritual–particularly an intimate ritual-for-one.

The wind was blowing softly that day, rustling the leaves in the trees around me. My sandwich was gone by this point, eaten up or abandoned to the birds, and I sat with my face turned upwards toward the sun, trying to draw inspiration from its heat and light. And in the wind there seemed to be gentle laughter. The next hour or so was incredibly emotional for me–silent, with no conversation or interaction with another person, I sat crying and laughing and generally looking like a complete loon to all the other park-goers. And by the end of that hour, I knew what my ritual would look like.

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© Courageous Devotion

I prepared the altar first, washing the table and then all of my tools, polishing the glass candle holders, clearing away the ashes of charcoal and incense. Then I set out the offerings, sweet honey liqueur and vodka and clear spring water, fresh cedar incense and new candles that would burn to their bottoms. I prepared myself last, taking my time, bathing deliberately and dressing purposefully, molding my mind and will to the purpose of the ritual.

© Courageous Devotion

I called upon my gods and spirits, my ancestors and those who dwell close to me. I made offerings and sang praise, dwelt on the turning of the season, from light to dark as the sun began to fall from its peak. At the end, I praised all who attended, and then made the invitation, as I was told.

On my back porch I sat smoking and drinking under a dark summer sky full of stars. The moon shone through the birch tree near my apartment, a second glass was next to mine on the table, and I laughed and cried and threw my cards. Remember how I mentioned in my first Midsummer post how these things tend to turn very dark and serious for me after dark? It was exactly what it needed to be, and I, sick and green from spending so much time between, took myself to bed as the sun rose over the bay.

Photo credit: Scott Wurzel on flickr

Why do we do magic? That’s a loaded question, full of linguistic traps (e.g. what is ‘magic?’ what do we mean when we say ‘do magic?’) and contradictions. You can ask this question philosophically or anthropologically as well–why are humans motivated to perform magic? how do the forms of magic arise, and what, in a spiritual sense, do we hope to gain?

I’m asking this question practically. Why do I do magic? At the most basic level, I do magic to effect changes I want to see in myself, my life, and the world. How do I do magic? This is a murky question with similar pitfalls, but I’ll try to keep it simpler. I do magic, and I’m positing that we all do magic, by stacking the deck–altering probability to turn out in our favor. Something like 85-90% of magic is, at its most basic level, a way to create our own serendipity.

The difference between increasing probability and specific outcomes

I doubt anyone will argue with me when I say that magic is less like a scalpel and more like buckshot fired from a shotgun. It makes the most impact when you plan ahead, train up your skills, remain aware of your environment, and bring the right tool for the occasion. It is absolutely nothing like placing an order at a restaurant–what you ask for is exactly what you’ll get. Magic often takes the long way round, the twisting path, the most confusing and silly and terrifying way from point A (no job and busted car) to point B (new job and fixed-up car). And honestly, sometimes you never quite get from point A to point B–sometimes you end up stuck somewhere in between (magic does fail, kids), or at a point C (starting a home business!) you never expected to find.

When I do magic, I’m trying to significantly increase the chances that something good will happen (say, that I’ll find a new job), or significantly decrease the chances something awful will happen (like my car breaking down before I get the new job and thus the money to fix it). No matter the method you use, from low country folk magic to high ceremonial grimorie magic to something in between, this is the desired (and realistic) result.

Intentions matter

By acknowledging that this is what I’m looking to accomplish–increase my chances of getting a job, any job that I’m qualified for and actively seeking by putting in applications and showing up on time for scheduled interviews, or by advertising my business and soliciting work–I bring my expectations in line with the reasonable possibilities magic puts within my reach. I’m not sabotaging myself from the get-go by expecting an amazing low-stress high-pay job that I’ve never even heard of to drop into my lap with a bow on top, no effort required–I’m using my reasonable expectation to feed into my work, to help shape the outcome not only of my magic spell (or whatever term you prefer) but also my job hunt.

I’m not a statistician. For what it’s worth, even though I was one of those annoying destroy-the-bell-curve students, math was my worst subject. But a few years of working my mojo has taught me this: when you’re practicing magic, what you’re essentially doing is playing the numbers of probability. And that’s a very good thing. It’s a thing that lets you be proactive.

The practical bit

Try it out. Magic, contrary to some opinion, doesn’t have to be complicated (just ask Jason Miller). One of the most important, and most effective, things you can do to boost your probability-bending powers is make regular offerings to a group of spirits or deities (or both) that you regularly work with. Build up a relationship of mutual obligation–you make regular offerings, and they regularly aid your work (or even perform work on your behalf) to increase the chances of awesomeness in your life. See what the key word is here, folks? Keep it regular. And I’ll guess it’s a safe bet that more often than not, probability will be on your side.

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This post is part of the Pagan Blog Project.  Why not join in?

Photo credit: brianjmatis on flickr

This summer has been a weird one for me. Gods have come out of the blue and nudged me for my attention, I’ve discovered new ways (or at least, new to me ways) of practicing, and I’ve had my professional and academic life blown completely out of the water. I’ve realized I failed at almost anything I’ve ever tried as far as life-plans go, and I’ve accepted that my failures have mostly been due to factors beyond my control. All of this is happening for a reason, and I’m not in control of the ride anymore. I’m hanging on for all I’m worth.

As you might imagine, all of this can be overwhelming and pretty depressing. I’m struggling with that depression now, trying to be mindful everyday of the positive side of my situation–I have the opportunity to make a clean start, to stop living for other people and their expectations, to do what I love (and I probably don’t have a choice anymore, but that’s another post). I think these positive thoughts, and I breathe, and from deep inside of me wells cold fear.

I’m afraid. I’m afraid of failing, sort of. I’m afraid of doing what I truly love and being bad at it, never really prospering at it, alienating everyone I care about. I’m afraid that doing what I love is going to be impossibly difficult, or just impossible. I’m afraid of running out of time.

I’m not wrong. All of these are possible things that can happen. All of these are things that most people (with the exception of the enlightened, I guess) fear, almost on a daily basis. There are special clichés designed just for the purpose of turning aside these common fears–”you never know if you don’t try.” But there’s a better way of handling these fears, of wrangling them long enough to drive on, push forward, make my attempt at living the dream (at least for me).

I’m awesome. I don’t mean that I’m better than anyone else (my parents tried to infect me with that little pearl of horribleness when I was very young, and I’ve honestly struggled with it–not believing that I’m better but believing that somehow I’m supposed to be). I mean that I’ve done some amazing shit in my time on this earth. I’ve helped people. I’ve healed them. I had a hand in raising a beautiful young woman who is successful and service-minded (my sister). I’ve achieved great success academically. I’ve pushed through abuse and terror and pain and injury to be where I am today.

There’s a really big number on my personal odometer, and I’m still pretty young. I’ve come so far from where I was five years ago, or ten, or fifteen. I’ve been all over the fucking place, and done so much I never thought I’d do (like graduate summa cum laude or jump out of airplane at 10,000 feet or finish a novel). When I take that view of my life, of my situation–the view that allows me to see not only my current failures but all of my past successes–the fear is much quieter. I realize that I’ve proved that I can succeed, that I can chase the dream and win (occasionally)–and the fear seems less cold, less stark, less right.

I don’t have a plan.  I’ve sworn off plans.  But I have an idea.  So as I start to launch an online business (of me!), to try to make a career out of writing (my penultimate fear, by the way), to walk away from all of the failures that have plagued me since pretty much graduating with my BA–I try to do what I do at the end of every motorcycle ride. Keep my eyes on the odometer, to see how far I’ve come.

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This post is part of the Pagan Blog Project.  Why not join in?

Photo credit: HckySo

That moment when you realize that every plan you’ve ever had for your life has failed–and wonderful things have still happened to you. That moment when circumstances are forcing you to make choices you never anticipated facing, again.  That moment that feels like a choice between the life everyone else thinks you should have and the life you’ve always dreamed of having.

This is that moment, for me.

I’ve tried and failed at a lot of things, and I’m just realizing this now–I’ve never looked at my life from this perspective before. I’ve never paused here long enough; I’ve always been rushing towards the next plan, the next goal, the next achievement. I tried being an academic, and the economy crashed halfway through my four years of college, taking my ivory tower dreams down with it. I tried to serve as a soldier, and broke my pelvis. I tried to turn my EMT certification into a career in EMS, and my partner came up on orders and we left all of my work behind. This time I tried to go to grad school and earn my MLIS–but my school has decided to dismantle their online/distance program, and I’m being left high and dry, less than halfway through my required credits.

You’d think I’d have realized there was a pattern here before tonight.

Now I’m in that moment of self-doubt, of guilt, of fear. I’m in that moment where I’m realizing how fortunate I’ve been, to have so many amazing people around me and supporting me.  And I’m in that moment without direction, when the bottom falls out and you are hanging in empty space waiting to fall.  I’ve been in and out of this moment all day, and while its been an interesting exercise in introspection, I haven’t come any closer to answering the relevant question: what the fuck am I supposed to do now?

I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, but I do know that I’m searching for something, for meaning, for vocation. I’m searching for my calling, the work that feels right down in my gut, the work that washes away doubt and guilt and makes my soul sing. None of these past goals came to fruition for me, I think, because none of these goals represents my Work, my calling. And I know that I’m going to keep failing until I find it.

I’m not afraid of failing, though it does make me feel guilty (mostly for disappointing my family), and it makes me worry about practical things (like student loan debt or bills). I’m willing to try and fail as many times as it takes–I just don’t know where to start. When you’re looking for your calling, where do you begin?

© Courageous Devotion

Midsummer has traditionally been a fun and lighthearted holiday for me–until the sun goes down.  When I lived in Pittsburgh, a group of my friends and I would try to get our shit together long enough to go camping on the solstice weekend, and generally spend a few days out in the woods getting drunk and having adventures, which would get particularly real and serious after dark.  If you know your lore this makes perfect sense to you, I’m sure–but I’ll tell you all some stories about that later.

This year I was alone.  It seemed like an opportune time to incorporate a new practice into my personal tradition, and I had been feeling a nudge to honor Manannan mac Lir since we moved to this part of town, steps from the sea.  I know that my family has been blessed since we started living near this bay; my partner regularly fishes its waters, and I enjoy spending my free time on its shore, reading or taking photos when the weather is nice enough for me to stand prolonged exposure.  Honoring that blessing, and the Lord of the Waters, seemed to follow naturally this year.  On the Isle of Man, each year on the summer solstice (traditionally observed on June 25) people would gather together rushes and sweet grasses to offer to the Son of the Sea as a way of paying rent to their benevolent landlord, who is said to swath the whole island in mist whenever danger approaches, and bless its fishermen with good catches.  Many modern pagans (particularly Celtic Reconstructionists) honor Manannan not only as a god of the sea but also as a god of travelers, a god of boundaries and ways.

© Courageous Devotion

I’ll admit that I felt ambivalent about harvesting rushes on the side of Commencement Bay–this particular waterway takes enough of a beating from shipping operations, fishing boats, and ferries, it doesn’t need me plucking up the few native plants that still grow from its muddy bottom.  I went to the grocery store and bought a bouquet of yellow and orange flowers and a bottle of unfiltered apple juice to offer.  It was just before sunset when I went to stand on a pier overlooking the bay.  The waterfront was crowded (because we had summertime weather in Washington, which is sort of like having a spontaneous statewide holiday), but I chose a lonesome spot and stood breathing in the sea air and centering myself.  My words were simple, spoken from the heart; I prayed that Manannan would know how thankful I was for his blessings, that he would accept my simple offerings, that we would continue to know his blessings. I’m usually the sort who writes down a full ritual before something like this, planning each thing I would say, choosing each word carefully–but this simple offering, of words and heartfelt thanks and flowers, seemed like it was enough.  I tossed the flowers into the bay with a laugh, and watched them float away from the pier with the tide.

© Courageous Devotion

Next year, if I’m surrounded by friends and family, I likely will put together a more complete ritual for all of us to share together.  But this experience, so quiet and understated and powerful, was the perfect way to mark the solstice…during the day.  After the sun went down, I had other things planned–but that’s another post.

My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me
Editor: Kate Bernheimer
ISBN: 9781101464380 
608 pages
Formats: Paperback, eBook

To keep this book review very short:  this book was wonderful, if odd.  The content of this book is spot-on for this blog’s focus and message, every practicing witch or pagan should read fairy tales and folklore, and modern people should take ownership of these tales as part of our cultural heritage.  I particularly enjoyed the retellings of Bluebeard, and the dedication to Angela Carter.

O, you don’t know Angela Carter?  You need to school yourself, son.

Reading this book was a pleasure, but it was a long one–it took me several cross country flights and late nights to digest this book.  Because reading this book is like eating several large courses at one unending meal–each course requires time for examination, tasting, and digestion.  I would frequently finish a story and set the book aside for a long pause, or finish a story and immediately turn to a collection of the original stories to brush up on the comparison, the references, the motifs I missed for my lack of familiarity with the original.  A few of the pieces were based on stories I’d never heard of (and at least one I still can’t find), but that thrilled me–it gave me a reason to go and look up the originals, to immerse myself in the theme of the story, to experience it from several angles at once.

Read this book, if you get the chance.  If not, you can download the Brothers Grimm from Project Gutenberg.  You have your assignments, people.  Book review dismissed.