Community

I could spend days listing the things about my community that bother me. I spent the first day at Pantheacon being mildly amused at the thousands of whimsical hats on display, but not impressed by much. Friday was largely a disappointment, company exempted, of course.

Miscellany was satisfactory. Starhawk is an amazing ritual leader and I am so privileged to have stood in circle with her, heard her voice. I ran into every high priest I've ever had, always a joy. The Feri tent revival was a masterpiece of reclaiming. I took communion and sang "Amazing Grace" with 200 witches. It was oddly comforting, and the folks who put it on really know how to work our dry Christian roots.

Saturday was better. But Saturday night brought the drum circle. Ok, you can say a lot about the Pagan community, gods know I do. But the room was dark and warm. Everyone had a drum to hand. We started EARLY. No Pagan Standard Time for us. It was scheduled for 5pm and by 4:30 we were well underway. The people who had so irked me in the lobby of the hotel were sweaty and shirtless, stripped jackets off and grinning, listening and contributing all at once. Belly dancers at all levels of skill flowed to the center of the circle and undulated, sinuously. A tall woman in rainbow veils caught the eye of a four year old girl and taught her a few things. Faces glowed all around the circle, and a man masked with the sun danced the wheel, pounding a bodhran, a perfect enigma. Old women began to dance with surprising grace, and I wiped drops of sweat out of my eyes. My hands ached every time I stopped drumming, but why stop? Across the circle, I saw Irish faces, African faces. A Hispanic man in front of me pounded his own doumbek while his two young daughters held their tiny djembe, faces alight.

Our wordless, timeless ways are our best ways. I will not forget who we can be when we do not bother to pretend. I am edified in my faith, and that's priceless.