My Own Ritual
by middle - only on lifelube
I close my eyes and it feels like I’m floating a foot above the ground. I’m standing in a garden on a hillside, naked, surrounded by seven friends who’ve just helped me shed my skin. As our gift to tomorrow’s larger observance, we’ve ritually shaved all of me except my eyebrows. I’ve given each a token, a buckeye, redeemable for bodywork as thanks for their loving help. We gather a length of purple cloth at one shoulder and tie it around my waist...
My first HIV-positive lover was the favorite son of a small neighborhood church. When he asked me to join him for Sunday services, I was reticent. Over time my adolescent atheism had morphed into adult agnosticism. I held a harsh opinion of all organized religion, to which I attributed much that was wrong with the world. Still, in the glow of new love…or lust…or just the possibility of either, I agreed to give it a try.
Senior citizens formed the core of the tiny Lutheran congregation. His Mom, aunts, cousins and neighbors all offered greetings and hugs. Intermittently residents of the neighboring women’s shelter, a
trans woman, homeless patrons of the church’s food bank, and lost souls my case manager encountered joined the dozen or so regulars each Sunday. I watched, amazed as the elder women of the clan, who suffered from myriad illnesses, found strength to scrub floors, polish pews and prepare breakfast for the homeless. If you darkened the door to this church, you were welcomed, no questions asked.
On Sundays, I attempted to mentally translate the language of the service to serve my own vague non-Christian spiritual beliefs – no easy task. The “high church” customs – constant movement from standing to sitting then kneeling positions, the sharing of the peace, a more formal Eucharist – were new to me. Still, I came back every week or two.
Aspects of the service that were idiosyncratic appealed to me. The Lord’s Prayer was regularly sung to an oriental melody – a multicultural vestige of a former priest who loomed large in the church’s history. There were debates about details. For instance, in an era of frantic infection control measures and devastated immune systems, was it still reasonable for the congregation to share a single chalice for communion?
I realized my judgments about religion didn’t apply to these individuals or their church. Something about it all soothed my spirit. Finally it dawned on me that I had an affinity for the more ritualistic components of the service. That was a surprise. The Formality of Church was something I had rejected along with the accompanying dogma. How did this reconcile with my self proclaimed “drug, sex, and rock-and-roll” identity?
A decade later, when I discovered faerie gatherings, I encountered a similar conundrum. Although many of us clearly had been driven - rejected, traumatized, and alienated - from mainstream establishment faiths, we avidly explored alternatives and passionately embraced the opportunity to participate in new and different rituals.
I became aware that during preparation for major observances individual faeries sometimes diligently worked to create separate, unique rites. These served their specific needs and contributed to the greater collective energy. They were often intensely personal and creative interpretations of ancient ideas. I learned by example to embrace both my own intuition and the wisdom of tradition, to use virtually anything that has meaning for me – whether elemental or beautiful, object or substance, poetry or song, food or drink, dance or sex act - to create meaningful ritual.
The shaving concept was born of erotic fascination. Months before the gathering I recruited five fey friends to help me manifest my vision. The plan and its meaning morphed over time into something with more depth and breadth. Most significantly, I gave myself permission to ask others for their help.
Finally the day came. Two more conspirators were drawn into our circle. The loving trust exchanged was at least as powerful as the sensual undercurrent. The ritual transcended by far my simple expectations. I was inspired, sensitized, and transformed.
In faerie space I’ve learned the importance of cultivating a relaxed self-trust when contemplating ritual. I carefully consider my intentions and make sure joy (and usually humor) is in the mix. Whether it is a space cleansing, a tarot reading, or a sex magick circle; openness, sincerity and love are key to realizing potential. I try to remember that I first realized the value of ritual in a most unexpected way.
…A circle of hundreds has formed. I’ve traded my purple “robe” for mesh underwear, body paint, and a bindi. I visualize the small hair bundles I added to last night’s ritual fire and to the opening where we’ll insert this year’s maypole – tokens for sorrows, burdens, and obsessions I hope I’m ready to release. I meditate on the coming New Year. It seems like I can feel each blade of grass tickling my bare feet. The tiniest air movement is translated into a thrill on my skin. More than before, I feel the energy of the earth flowing up through me into the circle. By tapping into my own innate wisdom and the love of comrades, without indoctrination, dogma or creeds, I’ve created my own ritual.
by middle - only on lifelube
I close my eyes and it feels like I’m floating a foot above the ground. I’m standing in a garden on a hillside, naked, surrounded by seven friends who’ve just helped me shed my skin. As our gift to tomorrow’s larger observance, we’ve ritually shaved all of me except my eyebrows. I’ve given each a token, a buckeye, redeemable for bodywork as thanks for their loving help. We gather a length of purple cloth at one shoulder and tie it around my waist...
My first HIV-positive lover was the favorite son of a small neighborhood church. When he asked me to join him for Sunday services, I was reticent. Over time my adolescent atheism had morphed into adult agnosticism. I held a harsh opinion of all organized religion, to which I attributed much that was wrong with the world. Still, in the glow of new love…or lust…or just the possibility of either, I agreed to give it a try.
Senior citizens formed the core of the tiny Lutheran congregation. His Mom, aunts, cousins and neighbors all offered greetings and hugs. Intermittently residents of the neighboring women’s shelter, a
trans woman, homeless patrons of the church’s food bank, and lost souls my case manager encountered joined the dozen or so regulars each Sunday. I watched, amazed as the elder women of the clan, who suffered from myriad illnesses, found strength to scrub floors, polish pews and prepare breakfast for the homeless. If you darkened the door to this church, you were welcomed, no questions asked.On Sundays, I attempted to mentally translate the language of the service to serve my own vague non-Christian spiritual beliefs – no easy task. The “high church” customs – constant movement from standing to sitting then kneeling positions, the sharing of the peace, a more formal Eucharist – were new to me. Still, I came back every week or two.
Aspects of the service that were idiosyncratic appealed to me. The Lord’s Prayer was regularly sung to an oriental melody – a multicultural vestige of a former priest who loomed large in the church’s history. There were debates about details. For instance, in an era of frantic infection control measures and devastated immune systems, was it still reasonable for the congregation to share a single chalice for communion?
I realized my judgments about religion didn’t apply to these individuals or their church. Something about it all soothed my spirit. Finally it dawned on me that I had an affinity for the more ritualistic components of the service. That was a surprise. The Formality of Church was something I had rejected along with the accompanying dogma. How did this reconcile with my self proclaimed “drug, sex, and rock-and-roll” identity?
A decade later, when I discovered faerie gatherings, I encountered a similar conundrum. Although many of us clearly had been driven - rejected, traumatized, and alienated - from mainstream establishment faiths, we avidly explored alternatives and passionately embraced the opportunity to participate in new and different rituals.
I became aware that during preparation for major observances individual faeries sometimes diligently worked to create separate, unique rites. These served their specific needs and contributed to the greater collective energy. They were often intensely personal and creative interpretations of ancient ideas. I learned by example to embrace both my own intuition and the wisdom of tradition, to use virtually anything that has meaning for me – whether elemental or beautiful, object or substance, poetry or song, food or drink, dance or sex act - to create meaningful ritual.
The shaving concept was born of erotic fascination. Months before the gathering I recruited five fey friends to help me manifest my vision. The plan and its meaning morphed over time into something with more depth and breadth. Most significantly, I gave myself permission to ask others for their help.
Finally the day came. Two more conspirators were drawn into our circle. The loving trust exchanged was at least as powerful as the sensual undercurrent. The ritual transcended by far my simple expectations. I was inspired, sensitized, and transformed.
In faerie space I’ve learned the importance of cultivating a relaxed self-trust when contemplating ritual. I carefully consider my intentions and make sure joy (and usually humor) is in the mix. Whether it is a space cleansing, a tarot reading, or a sex magick circle; openness, sincerity and love are key to realizing potential. I try to remember that I first realized the value of ritual in a most unexpected way.
…A circle of hundreds has formed. I’ve traded my purple “robe” for mesh underwear, body paint, and a bindi. I visualize the small hair bundles I added to last night’s ritual fire and to the opening where we’ll insert this year’s maypole – tokens for sorrows, burdens, and obsessions I hope I’m ready to release. I meditate on the coming New Year. It seems like I can feel each blade of grass tickling my bare feet. The tiniest air movement is translated into a thrill on my skin. More than before, I feel the energy of the earth flowing up through me into the circle. By tapping into my own innate wisdom and the love of comrades, without indoctrination, dogma or creeds, I’ve created my own ritual.
Read previous installments of One Fey's Tale here.
No comments:
Post a Comment