I tried to warn you that I'm horrible at blogging. My one month gap from first entry to second pretty much seals the deal - proving that while I'm not omniscient - I still know myself and can predict my own behavior fairly well.
I do have a reasonable "excuse" for my absence. My paternal Grandfather passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. I had to travel to the motherland (Montana) to attend the funeral and otherwise engage with family members - most of which I'd not seen in 7 years. For a self-avowed hermit, this is an occasion steeped in anxiety.
Fortunately most of the interaction went off without a hitch, other than the loss of my Grandfather. Ironically the first entry I was working on for 'Meeting Persephone' was about death... Instead I've put that one on the back burner. I'll work on it more as it was conveniently (or inconveniently depending on how I look at it any given day) saved to my drafts.
Returning “home” has a tendency to revert even the most mature of us to some semblance of childhood. Letting others call the shots, shying away from confrontation, and other insecurities about who we are and what we do, think, feel, and believe. So I carefully tried to cover most tattoos, at least those most obviously offensive to my family’s Christian “sensibilities” and set forth not to fight with anyone about anything so as to honor my Grandfather to the best of my ability.
I’d left Christianity years ago. If I could have ever really called myself a Christian, that is. I’ve studied religions of all sorts, stopping for a long while on Judaism and nearly converting to that religion. Then after perusing others like books eventually left on the shelf due to a lack of fitting, I dipped my toes into the waters of the Pagan paths. On the surface the waters seemed cold and frightening (after years in the Abrahamic faiths, what do you expect?) but just below that surface I found warm comforting waters that touched not only my logical and intellectual side, but also that inexplicable spiritual and faith filled side. I’d reached a point where I was no longer desperate for answers, but was just seeking a place that made sense to me. I no longer needed the right religion, just the religion that was right for me. But at the time of the funeral service for my Grandfather, I still wasn’t sure just what kind of Pagan I was.
Paganism, being an “umbrella” term, doesn’t offer much in central beliefs. It isn’t until we move past the generic term of Pagan and into specific paths that we find those myths, teachings, structures (as structured as anything can be within Paganism, that is) that we can finally find a fit for ourselves and a place to hang our “hat”. But at the time of the service, I still hadn’t committed myself to any one path and so something happened that I’d not expected at all.
When I arrived in Montana after a two day drive from our solitary home, I was instantly surrounded in Christian décor. Not at the church. In the homes of my family members. I couldn’t recall that much Jesus stuff anywhere in anyone’s homes before. My body physically recoiled. I had to suppress the urge to vomit. And yet… there was something that made me think that since I couldn’t find a particular path that spoke to me loudly and with fervor within Paganism, maybe I was supposed to go back to my roots. Back to that place I had so thoroughly obliterated from possibility all of those years ago. Not through “it just doesn’t make sense to me” logic or “your god is mean” theory, but through long hard study and research of the religions themselves and the finding of absolute falsehoods that, while they shouldn’t be used against others of those faiths, were enough for me to pack my proverbial bags and hit the road without ever looking back. Until that chilly day in June of this year, that is.
Back to my roots. Back to judgment. Back to guilt and apologizing for natural things? Back to feelings of superiority? Back to Jesus? As I sat in the church the day of the service, crying with my husband and our daughter, I listened closely to the words of the horrid minister (who, btw, could not pronounce my Grandfather’s last name correctly though my Grandfather had been a life long member of that very church as well as a deacon for who knows how long). That very same bile throwing up feeling overtook me again. And something else. Utter and complete confusion over the way people were watching him, nodding in agreement and turning their entire spiritual welfare over to this man who was as warm as concrete and nearly as compassionate. Trusting him to give them the words of their god and believing that they’d not be led astray. My tears dried up and thought took over.
And at that very moment I felt gratitude, knowledge, and awareness wash over me. There was no comfort for me in the walls of this church or any of its kind. I thought of the wisdom I’ve gained over the years. I thought of his over-tabbed bible and thought “wicked” things like “my god carries a hammer, your god was nailed to a cross. Any questions?” and “In the wind, rain and soil, your scriptures dissolve and are destroyed, my scriptures are the wind, rain and soil from The Mother of us all”. I should clarify that I’m not Asatru or Heathen, but I did see that quote on a t-shirt and it made me laugh. The other is a quote or resembles another quote I’d seen, but rang true for me.
And with that I felt free. I felt the tension of not belonging with my people fade. They are still my people. Kinsmen. But I have gone beyond where they are to a better place for me. And that is where peace finally began to settle on me and while my Grandfather was newly gone from this world, I didn’t feel disapproval from him any longer. I didn’t feel approval either but I chalk that up to him being newly passed. But what I did feel was certainty that I am on the right road for me and that peace lies on this path for me. And that is a good feeling to regain…
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