Hi readers! This popular tag has been floating around YouTube and Instagram for a few weeks now, and I wanted to leave you all with something before I run off to Free Spirit Gathering. Enjoy!
Hi readers! This popular tag has been floating around YouTube and Instagram for a few weeks now, and I wanted to leave you all with something before I run off to Free Spirit Gathering. Enjoy!
It’s been a long time since I’ve been a beginner, but being active on the Pagan and witch Internet means that I’m constantly in contact with newcomers. I see their questions (and sometimes have them directed at me), I check out the books they’re reading, and I watch what’s changing since I first got started in the nineties (a lot, for sure).
Recently, I was telling Mat Auryn that I wish those of us who have been around for a while would recommend different books. After all, the community has changed, people’s values and interests have shifted, and there are generational differences that we should respect. We know more about the history of Wicca and witchcraft, we have different ideas about what it means to be Pagan, and we have myriad more paths and traditions available for newcomers.
So why are Scott Cunningham, Ray Buckland, and other oldies still at the top of most of the reading lists floating around?
I spent the last weekend of August in beautiful New Hampshire (after several hours at less beautiful Boston Logan International Airport) attending Templefest, the Temple of Witchcraft’s annual event. It was my first event with the Temple, and I had a blast. I got to know online friends, met lots of new friends, talked writing with Christopher Penczak over morning coffee, and shared a bottle of wine with a roomful of Patheos bloggers. The weekend left me with a lot to think about, including the impact of the Pagan Internet, exploring multiple traditions at once, and rekindling a personal practice.
Corvus looked up from scrolling. Ever the attentive friend, she’s been closely monitoring my new book’s progress on Amazon. As it’s gotten closer to the release date, she’s become very familiar with the top 100 charts in “Wicca” and “Witchcraft” on the site.
“No, seriously,” she said. “I’m looking at the bestsellers in Wicca, and I don’t know any of these authors. Have you read Lisa Lister?”
“No, but I know what book you’re talking about. It’s all over Instagram right now.”
“How about Shawn Robbins? She’s got two books in the top ten right now, and all her bio says is that she’s a psychic, paranormal researcher. Dude, Lisa Chamberlain has, like, a dozen tiny books. And she writes about Heathenism and runes too?”
We spend several minutes like this, with Corvus asking me if I’ve heard of so-and-so and me going, “Nope.”
Maybe we’re just old. This is usually how I feel when my tenth graders make me classroom playlists and all I hear is autotune and synths. I still think of myself as young and cool, but since becoming a teacher I know that this is, in fact, untrue. We’re closer to forty than thirty, and our favorite books about Wicca and witchcraft came out mostly in the seventies and eighties. Hey, it was bound to happen.
But there’s something else going on here, and I don’t think it’s just us and our inexorable senescence.
A couple of weeks ago I posted this video, in which I talked a little about the New Year and setting intentions (which sounds so much more authentic and spiritual than saying “resolutions,” am I right?). My original list of goals included things like, “Write a proposal for a second book,” and “Actually write four blogs a month.”
But let’s be real. I don’t actually need any ritual prompting to write books, because my anxiety keeps me on track pretty well throughout the year. And it’s this anxiety about other projects that keeps me from doing as much blogging as I’d like. Plus maybe I don’t actually want to write more. This is sort of working for me right now, especially as I settle into my new adulting routine (I’m salaried for the first time in my life and spent yesterday morning downtown being fingerprinted, filling out tax forms, and peeing in a cup for a guy named Sunny).
Two years ago, in an effort to piece together the tattered shreds of my self-esteem after graduate school (etc.), I resolved to wear adorable (read: slutty) matching underwear every day. I asked for gift cards to lingerie stores for Yule and Christmas, went to Victoria Secret for the first time (where a very enthusiastic, startlingly blonde woman named Donna came at me with a pink tape measure), and spent that year mostly feeling like a boss. It was one of my better ideas. So mission accomplished. This year, I wanted to do something similar. Something more fun than serious. Something that wasn’t about being better at something I already work to be better at.
Once upon a time I used to be a musician. Like, seriously. It feels a little like a hallucination now, but I actually went to music school and studied jazz. I played in rock bands, recorded, played with a jazz combo, and meticulously documented multiple hours of daily practice in journals that I can barely understand anymore. I was never brilliant–prodigy-level music people are genuinely terrifying up close and I still sing through my nose and can’t improvise my way out of a paper bag–but I was dedicated. I only cared about playing music.
I stopped playing with any level of seriousness about six years ago, for mostly cliche reasons that I won’t repeat here.
It’s weird thinking about something that used to be so important to me. Now I don’t really feel anything one way or another.
So anyway. This year, I want to see if I can still play. Nothing overly serious. I want to ease into it. I’m committing to writing a new song every month, and learning a new cover. As incentive (few things are better motivators than shame, I’ve found), I’m requiring myself to post both to the Internet.
So, behold, Internet. I give you the January original:
I’m still deciding on the month’s cover.
So I finally responded to a post in the Esfinges Facebook group, which is an online space for female HEMA people. A young woman wrote in describing her own post-practice frustrations and asked for input on how to deal with, basically, feeling like you suck too hard to be handling a sword.
I fancy myself something of an expert at sucking (see tales from my days as a 7th grade soccer star here), so I finally felt like I could contribute something useful to the group:
I think it’s important to understand that failure is, in and of itself, an experience that demands the cultivation of grace and compassion. It’s relatively easy to be enthusiastic and kind and supportive of others (and ourselves) when we’re winning, or when we know we’re good at something. People are less adept at handling struggle and frustration. I’ve met people at tournaments who seemed awesome…until they lost. Then it would be like hanging out with another person. Those types of folks are usually not worth building relationships with, and I find they don’t have a lot of longevity in their respective fields.
Learning to deal with frustration is part of become adept at something. I’ll second the suggestion to journal. I’d also challenge you to do more things that force you to deal with those feelings. Failing means we’re trying, and pushing beyond what we know we’re already good at. In my own practice, I work to remind myself of where I’ve succeeded. And also of where I’ve failed even harder than what I’m experiencing in the moment. I say things like, “Okay, I sucked today. But you know what? I was here and I did it, and things are better than they were last year. And I’m certainly better for having tried than if I’d just stayed home.”
Do that, and in time, I really do believe that success follows. It’s just that we don’t talk much about all of the failure that mastery requires.
Having finished exuding the wisdom that can only result from decades spent failing, loudly and in public (and being, as far as I can tell, a good decade older than many of the more vocal group members), I was suddenly struck by something. Something that’s been nagging at me since I started competing in fencing tournaments that I haven’t been able to pinpoint until now:
HEMA people don’t seem to collectively know how to lose.
It’s like there’s a stigma against trying something and sucking at it. And maybe it’s in my head, but I feel like I’m running into it extra hard with the women I’m meeting.
I get excited to see other women at tournaments and I bop on over and introduce myself, and I frequently get something like, “Oh I’m not competing today! I’m just not ready yet!” Or, “I’m still a beginner—I’m just here to watch!” More than once I’ve had other women tell me I’m brave for competing, like I’ve just signed up to donate a lobe of liver or something. I also hear a lot of, “Oh, I’m not a good fencer, you should really talk to someone else!”
We learn this kind of self-deprecating speech over the course of our lives. I learned to say things like this before getting on stage and playing guitar (girls don’t play rock music any more than they handle weapons, as far as the world seems to be concerned). I catch myself saying shit like this about fencing, too. So I get it. Jesus, I get it.
But fundamentally what’s happened is these women haven’t given themselves permission to fight. Some of them might get online later and find an excuse. We do a lot of complaining about larger opponents, poorly-fitting protective gear (because no one in Poland has ever seen a naked woman, as far as I can tell), instructors who can’t empathize they way we wish they could (though I’m lucky to have one who works at this), and similar. And those are real issues, certainly. Yeah, shit can be a lot harder as a girl. I 110% agree. And that’s a battle that we need to be fighting.
But I’m also okay with losing. And I think that’s a big part of the underlying issue, in the art as a whole. Losing is hard, and it’s a lot easier to just not try. It’s much easier to drink and be angry and complain on the Internet about how unfair things are. It’s much easier to come up with reasons why you shouldn’t be expected to do things.
Quitting is easy. Never trying to begin with is even easier.
I’m okay with walking into a ring, understanding that I could be slaughtered. I might make particular choices about who I spar just for the sake of preventing unnecessary injury, but I’m not going to “wait until I’m better” the way I feel like I’m being told to. I know that I might never feel ready. And I spent enough time wrangling with depression to know that I can’t always trust my own perception of myself or my abilities. I have to do things despite how I feel.
It’s not just us ladies, of course.
At one point, I heard someone in my own fencing circle rumbling about the need for a “fight team” of elite students, so that we could make a better impression as a school. Students should earn the right to compete in outside tournaments.
Like if one of us displays weakness, the wolves will close in.
Let’s be real: If people had to wait to compete until they felt like they were assured victory, most of us would never leave our homes. It’s this line of thinking that says you shouldn’t try anything unless you know you’ll already be good at it. That might fly in a Mountain Dew commercial, but real life isn’t like that. In fact, I think that kind of attitude is cowardly. Shit, if I waited until I thought I was ready for things, I’d still be hiding in my bedroom, living with my parents, maybe even married to someone I hate. I definitely wouldn’t have gone to grad school. I wouldn’t have nabbed that book deal. I wouldn’t have ever published anything. I wouldn’t have ever gotten on stage to perform. I wouldn’t have the friends I do now. I sure as fuck would never have become a priestess running a coven.
Maybe some of this is pressure to be acknowledged as a “real” sport. Maybe it’s a nerd thing. Half of us have spent our lives playing D&D and being bullied for wanting to go the Renaissance faire instead of trying out for football. It feels good to be validated somewhere, finally.
I don’t know. But I think when I get frustrated by peoples’ bad attitudes at tournaments, this is part of what’s behind it. I don’t recall running into these things when I was doing Taekwondo, though maybe it’s because I just wasn’t paying attention (there were also plenty more women, so I think we’d collectively hammered some things out already and weren’t dealing with the same level of frustration).
So I’ll say it again: Part of being good at something is being good at failing. Winning is actually a lot less impressive, in my mind. Someone has to win, after all. But good losers are too few and far between.
I’ve dealt with too much bullshit in my life to be overly worried about whether or not strangers at a tournament think I should be there or not. I care what my instructor thinks, I care about my own safety (well…), and I care about whether or not I’m coming out better at the other end of things. But I’m really over the deprecating talk of being “worthy” of handling a sword. I’m going to do the thing regardless of whether or not anyone thinks I’m worthy. Because I like trying.
It’s been a rough morning. By now, most of you probably know that Charlotte was in the news this morning. Driving to work, the streets were littered with broken glass and other trash. Cop cars and news vans were still perched at intersections. The kids are rattled—scared and angry. This isn’t some distant horror; it’s my neighborhood. Our kids are involved. Our schools are involved. Schools are where these things coalesce, after all. And kids are so much more aware than anyone gives them credit for.
It’s going to be a tough week.
Other things are okay. It’s been easy to keep myself busy. I work full time, and have class in the evening.
I’ve been dedicating a lot of time to longsword these past couple of months. At Free Spirit, something sort of popped in my brain. After some significant conversations and a heavy ritual experience, I made an oath to Freyja—that wasn’t related to HEMA—and I think this has just been the natural consequence. I don’t know why I was surprised. Aside from just generally improving my fencing, I’m also building a really spectacular set of new relationships. I mean, I’ve known these guys for almost a year, but now we’re actually friends. It’s been really valuable to step outside of my usual social spaces (which are Pagan spaces) and work on other parts of my life. “You live in witchcraft,” my working partner tells me. And he’s right. It becomes invisible after a while, because it’s just my life. I don’t notice it until I step outside and explore something different.
It helps me to keep things in perspective, and it creates more interesting opportunities to push my thinking.
So my fencing friends and I are about to start a Dungeons & Dragon campaign, with our instructor acting as DM (naturally). It’s been fun setting aside my blogging and book writing and lesson planning and athletic training to take pleasure in fantasy. Earlier, I’d been flirting with the prospect of writing fiction (I rarely even read fiction), and this is feeding that impulse. I’m flexing a different part of my brain. And, of course, there’s the added fun of painting new character minis. I always forget how much I enjoy that, going through bursts every year or two. It’s been a great way to get to know my new friends, too. There are lots of things I could say about the awesomeness of D&D, but another time.
Foxfire is still kicking ass and taking names. We initiated one of our outer court people last weekend, which was a really moving experience for everyone. I haven’t posted to Patheos all month, and I’m sitting on all of these half-formed pieces that I just haven’t been ready to finish. One of them is about the significance of the initiation experience—something Jason Mankey and other Patheos bloggers touched on recently—and its function in traditional Wicca. Always a controversial topic, I realize. It’s hard to appreciate the kind of ritual we do if you haven’t lived through something similar yourself, so I understand why people think it’s all about inclusion and exclusion. Obviously, exclusion is a thing that happens (and obviously people can be assholes about it), but that’s not central to what’s going on. I’m not just doing this to draw lines in the sand and make people feel bad. If that’s all I wanted, I could just be a jerk on the Internet. Staging a meaningful initiation is way harder than that. The experience that we created was facilitated carefully over time, for one specific person, focused on plugging her into something bigger than herself. You can’t replicate that just by having the text I used on paper. It really doesn’t matter whether or not anyone thinks “it’s all on the Internet anyway” or whatever. That’s like saying you can read the transcript of a graduation speech and have the experience of making it through high school. You can’t replicate initiation by reading a book. You don’t “evolve” past that kind of experience because you want to be inclusive. I can respect the choices that other people make in their own traditions and their own individual practices, but it blows my mind that people write off what I do as obsolete or purely about elitism. Do you need to go through a group initiation experience to be a witch? Of course not. But this is how we do it, and we do it that way for internal reasons. Not because it has any bearing on how or why other people practice their own kinds of Craft.
I’m rambling at you now, just tired.
I’m off to a sword event this weekend, with two more this season. I’ve also got the Army Ten Miler coming up in a few weeks, with two half Marathons to follow in November and December. This has turned out to be the year of distance running. Maybe I’ll shoot for a full Marathon in the next year or two. We’ll see.
Okay. First, I need to put on my religious studies scholar hat.
“Spirituality” is not objectively a thing that we can locate and measure.
It’s constructed, both culturally and by individuals. Over time, we ascribe meaning to objects and practices, and eventually those things take on greater symbolism. They become spiritual. For some people.
As a community, we tend to talk about certain things as though they’re inherently spiritual. Meditation, crystals, drinking tea, tarot cards…you can probably make your own list based on the various “spiritual” hashtags from Instagram or Tumblr.
Like the more we meditate, the more spiritual we inherently are. Or the more tea we drink, the more enlightened we become.
But here’s the thing: those things are tools. They’re not in and of themselves spiritual. Thanks to some selective history and, frankly, marketing, we associate them with “spiritual” people. We forget that “religion” and “spirituality” (again, even the perceived difference between those terms says more about our cultural locations than it does about objective things called “religion” or “spirituality”) have looked different across millennia—continue to look different wherever we are in the world. Just doing and having particular things doesn’t automatically make us more anything.
I have at least a dozen Bibles in my house right now. In my hands, they’re just books. For Christians, they may be symbols of something else, but my owning and handling them has zero impact on anything in my life. The power isn’t literally in the book, or I’d surely be glowing by now.
Drinking tea might relax you and make you feel super witchy and receptive to the voices of the gods, and that’s fantastic and valid. But it’s not inherently in the tea. The thousands of other people drinking that tea from the same manufacturer aren’t having the same experiences you are. Your experience has more to do with you.
Someone else (hint: it’s me) is a lot happier with coffee or vodka.
And that’s cool.
Something becomes spiritual when you assign spiritual value to it. If it’s meaningless to you, it will continue to be meaningless no matter how much of it you drink, buy, or practice.
Tarot cards are not inherently spiritual. They became spiritual in time, thanks to the efforts of particular people. They used to just be a weird card game for rich Italians. If they are spiritual to you, then that says more about you than the cards themselves. And you’re probably awesome, so that’s great news.
Okay, taking my religious studies hat off.
Tarot is a part of my spiritual practice, but not really because it’s a divination tool. I see my tarot reading as an acquired skill, developed with long hours of practice over the course of years. Part history, part religious studies, part literary studies, part storytelling, tarot makes sense to me the way interpreting any kind of text makes sense to me. We take a set of symbols and we build meaning, based on our cultural backgrounds, our personal experiences, and our impulses (which are often just sublimated pieces of our experiences, not external messages from nowhere). If the gods are involved, it’s because, on some level, I’ve involved them.
Instead, tarot is spiritual for me because it’s given me this huge body of symbols—a language, if you will—to make sense of other things. Tarot is a map to my world. I think of people and events in terms of cards. I understand abstractions like “spiritual growth” or “initiation” or “shadow work” in terms of tarot symbols. It’s a way of creating meaning for me. It gives me context. I can say, “Oh, this was totally a Seven of Swords moment,” or “Holy shit I need to stop dating Knights what the fuck is wrong with me.” Instead of feeling like I’m alone in the world, feeling something no one has ever felt before, I can find reassurance in the cards. Yes, other people have been here, too. This is the next step on the Fool’s Journey.
It may not make sense to anyone else, but it works for me. It becomes spiritual.
So is tarot necessarily spiritual? That depends on what world you’re occupying, I suppose. For me, the Bible is just a book and a tarot deck is just a stack of printed cardboard. But I can see the power that they hold for people, in different circumstances, and I can respect that. It’s the thing the symbol represents that matters, which depends on context. The American flag itself isn’t holy, but perhaps liberty and justice are. When people get upset at the misuse of flags, it’s not because they believe that the flag is literally the country. The Book of Shadows I keep isn’t my practice of witchcraft. You could set it on fire and I’d just make another one. I wouldn’t stop being a witch just because you took it from me. My tarot deck isn’t the source of my divinatory powers. If I lost it, I’d just buy another one. The tea you’re drinking isn’t what’s making you magical. You’re magical all on your own. Your tarot practice is spiritual because you are spiritual.
One of my first degrees, Lore, tells me that I should just take Oathbound completely off the rails sometime, just for the hell of it. “Just post grocery lists. Or rant about a bad date. Or make up some kind of witch trend and see how many people you can get on board,” and she laughed sort of maniacally. She’s got a taste for the weird, and she loves it when people get strange just because.
Blogging has come to be its own genre, with its own formulas, and it gets a little confining sometimes. I love it, really (and I’m not going to fuck with Oathbound, although I can hear Jason Mankey — hi Jason! You’re awesome! — saying, “But you CAN write about other things!”), but I think Lore has a point about blowing off some writing steam. I need to work up to doing it on such a large platform, though. I know my Patheos friends would welcome other kinds of material, but there’s definitely a particular voice and a particular style that dominates. I think I’ll just have to sort of mentally work up to putting the off-the-cuff stuff there.
Honestly, when I get home from work, I just don’t really have the energy for much.
I work at an impoverished urban school with a student body that’s more than 95% African-American and Hispanic. Our kids are several years behind in terms of performance, and it’s my job to teach them to read at grade level. This task, by the way, is literally impossible given the total lack of support from our district and the State as a whole. Without educational resources, parental support, or even a safe place to do their homework (many of our children are homeless or live in volatile foster situations), it just isn’t going to happen. A lot of kids are migratory. Many don’t speak any English. We do our best and try to at least be a source of positivity for these kids, but the situation is dire any way you look at it. And the educational gap is getting bigger every year. Our children are also routinely involved in neighborhood violence. Police are everywhere all the time. The school-to-prison pipeline is a real thing for these kids, and it’s a daily heartbreak. And that’s without even getting to the absurdity that is teacher education, pay, and retention. It’s amazing to me that more people–people with children, especially–aren’t angry about public education. It’s like no one cares. Or they only care insofar as they don’t actually have to do any work to change anything.
So I don’t really care about Pagan drama when I get home from work. It’s just not relevant to, dare I say, “real life” most of the time. It’s a Maslow’s Hierarchy thing. I like to engage with categories within Paganism, authenticity, history. It’s intellectually stimulating and personally challenging. I love the conversations we have, and the opportunities to learn. But if I’m going to get angry about something at the end of the day, it’s never going to be over who’s a real witch, or whether or not someone’s god is being defamed on the Internet, or what Christians think about Satan. It’s never going to be over whether or not Pagans can be atheists, or what the gods are really like.
Interesting, sure, sometimes. But other things are more pressing. And I’m tired.
I’m also a little voyeuristic. I want to hear about what people’s personal lives are like. One of the things I loved about Livejournal a hundred years ago was watching total strangers (with common interests) freak out about the same stuff I was freaking out about, other places in the world. Dating, family drama, having kids, problems at school or work, wanting to try something cool they read about in their newest witchcraft book, being nervous because they were going to a new community for a ritual, pissed off ranting about people I’ll never meet, lamenting that no one understands. It was gold. It made everyone — no matter their religion, their subculture, their kink, their trauma, their whatever — look totally human. Learning from each other happened naturally, and everyone seemed to feel less alone.
I have narratives in my head about some of the other Patheos bloggers I’ve never met in real life (actually, all of the bloggers I follow, on whatever platform), especially the ones who barely write about their personal lives. It’s like fanfic. Our blogs make us look so polished and together most of the time. I like to imagine what the freakouts might look like. My freakouts and fuckups have been pretty spectacular in the past. All of those blogs about finding a good coven, building community, and whatever have all come from real life experiences. Most have been super messy. Maybe someday when I’m drunk I’ll write more about that.
Right now I have to finish this moronic assignment for my teaching program. Then I have to go to the grocery store because I’m out of basically everything except for cat food, which helps no one but Oliver.
I also need salt, tuna, granola bars and snacks to take to work, some sort of fruit so I don’t get scurvy, and maybe something to eat for dinner that doesn’t involve pouring milk over a bowl of cereal. Which I’m also out of.
Well, autumn is almost over and you haven’t heard much from me these past few months. I knew this season would be rough, and I’m grateful to see it come to a close. I’ve been teaching at the university, teaching at the elementary school, taking my own classes (finishing up the teaching license), teaching the periodic class at Laughingbrook, preparing for the American Academy of Religion’s annual meeting, conducting tarot readings, writing for Patheos, running a coven, writing and performing a wedding (in another state!), serving on the board of my archery club, and trying to remember to feed Oliver periodically. Many, many things have sadly fallen by the wayside, and I’m afraid the tarot blogging was one of them.
But not to fear! I’m still carrying on with the meat of the thing. The shop is still open for readings, I still teach tarot locally, and I’m still plodding through my own tarot studies, if at a much slower pace than I’d prefer (seriously, I’ve been on this Qabalah project for almost a year). I’ve also got about a half dozen amazing decks that I want to showcase here (The Ghetto Tarot! COSMOS Tarot and Oracle! Plus some upcoming Kickstarters that I’m ridiculously excited about). I wish I had more time, but lately I just don’t (though I promise I’ll get to those showcase posts, even if it’s just pictures).
It’s discouraging having to pick and choose what to practice (I use that word consciously and broadly…everything we seek to improve upon requires “practice”). I love doing a lot of things, and it’s oftentimes frustrating to feel like I don’t have one niche the way other people seem to. In order to really excel at anything, you have to practice consistently, whether that means playing your instrument every day, regular target practice, consistently writing, or devoting your focused energies to building a business. But if I played guitar, shot my bow, threw my axe, ran, wrote, and studied tarot every day, I wouldn’t have time left to go to work, see my friends, or run my coven. Oliver would never have anyone to play with him. Chaos would ensue.
I’ve met people who are geniuses. I went to music school with one kid whose ear was downright scary. I know people with IQs that make me look like I’ve suffered a recent head injury. I’ve got a covenmate who makes every piece of art I’ve ever created look like drunken fingerpainting at one of those wine-and-paint chains. I know incredible athletes whose every movement makes me feel like I’m back in middle school gym, losing at dodgeball.
I’m not a genius, not a master.
I’m a Jack-of-all-trades, and I think that’s okay.
Originally—so I’ve read and choose to believe—the term wasn’t derogatory. In some instances, the full phrase is actually, “Jack of all trades, master of none, but oftentimes better than a master of one,” and that’s my favorite version.
What looks like fickleness or lacking commitment is actually versatility, so long as I’m still improving and still being mindful when I do practice. I’ll never be a rock star, a champion archer, or someone who can make her entire living working with tarot, but I can be constantly improving and achieving satisfaction through doing what I can do and doing it well.
Tarot is one of those things that’s been with me for years and years, and I know it always will be. I can build slowly, improve on things one by one, and I’ll still see results down the road. There’s no need to beat myself up for not having time to read every book, or not having the cash or energy to take every class.
I think it also makes performing readings more special for me. Burn out is a real thing, it turns out, and when I cut myself some slack I find that my output is of a higher quality.
So I’m still around and you’ll still hear from me here! I’ve got lots in the works and plenty of big plans for the future. But I’m not going to stress over it. In the meantime, you can still visit me on Facebook (and like my page!), read my thoughts on witchcraft over at Patheos, and follow me on Twitter.