Surviving the End of Days with Pagan Ritual

As an experienced witch, I've intuited that we could all use a break from conflict (though it didn't take psychic abilities or mystical knowledge to figure that one out). I'm taking a week off of hard truths before I dive into the Five of Swords (conflict, miscommunication, harsh words you can't take back, see: Trump's inexplicable, unnecessary, and insane trade war with our greatest allies).

Instead I'm gonna tell you all about my family's celebration of Imbolc, the pagan holiday celebrating the first stirrings of spring and honoring the Celtic goddess Brigid, goddess of fire, metallurgy, poetry, inspiration, fertility, and sacred water.

Note: One of the things I love about ancient gods is how random and varied their dominions are. Metallurgy and fertility? Go off, Queen. If I were an ancient Celtic goddess, I'd be Eli, goddess of procrastination, people pleasing, enthusiasm for dance, television you've never heard of on networks you don't pay for, plays in 99 seat theaters, late but enthusiastic arrival to GIF culture, and crafting.

Let me tell you how to use pagan holidays to stay sane as the world crumbles. Here are some of my coping strategies for the End Times:

I'm trying to take life one day at a time, staying as present as I can for my family and friends, catching myself when I'm spiraling out about our uncertain (and possibly horrific) future. This is different from toxic positivity (or hopium as my friend Tamara calls it). Toxic positivity would have me putting all my faith in the Democratic leadership (ha ha fucking ha) and woefully ignoring the ills of the world. I'm clear-eyed about what we are facing as a country (as well as the Democrats absolute inability to meet the moment) and while I'm enraged and really scared, I don't think it does anyone any good for me to be in a constant state of hair on fire. I'm on alert, but not high alert, if that makes sense. I'm aware of the state of things, but I'm also protecting my peace (i.e. I read the newspaper, but I have quit social media).

I'm practicing gratitude. One powerful tip I gleaned from 12 Step Programs is that gratitude is a powerful tool for staying present and finding joy in hard times. In spite of everything that sucks in this world (and the list is long), there is still so much to be grateful for. If I lived the way my ancestors did, the winter would bring a very real fear of dying (as opposed to this more vague dread feeling I'm currently experiencing – hard to feel existential dread when you're just trying to survive) – Hundreds of years ago, I'd worry about being able to find enough food to feed my children, I'd be burning fires indoors for heat (creating the very real possibility of asphyxiating my family in the night or burning the house down), and I'd be celebrating the birth of lambs because it would mean that the sheep would be producing milk for my family to drink (more on that in a moment). There is still plenty of food and housing insecurity in our modern world, but I am lucky to have access to healthy, delicious food year round, and to live in a climate-controlled home. That is absolutely something to be grateful for. The present, as rough as it is, is still better than most of recorded human history.

I'm trying to keep things small, focusing on the things I can control and the people I can help right now. One of the only silver linings of the LA fires is that my brother, my sister-in-law, and my baby nephew are now living with us. This is deeply magical. We're leaning on one another for childcare, cooking together, sharing meals. My brother plays Mario Kart with my kids many nights a week. My nephew took his first steps in my kitchen. My brother is a clean freak and has been getting things done in my yard that have taken Zack and me years to accomplish. My sister-in-law is an amazing mother and watching her patience and care with my nephew has inspired me to not be such a fascistic psycho with my own kids. My nephew's face lights up when I (or frankly, anyone) enters a room and it's pretty hard to be sad when the cutest baby on the planet is happy to see you. Watching the way my son idolizes my brother fills me with a kind of joy that is hard to put into words. Communal living feels right for this moment of terror and heartache. We're all scared, we're all grieving, but at least we're together, and togetherness breeds spontaneous moments of joy.

[One caveat is that my brother does not enjoy my witchcraft, though he would definitely balk at that statement. He would say, "I love your witchiness," because he is a kind man, but in this regard, he's also a liar. We grew up together and the me of five years ago would roll my eyes so hard at witchcraft that I might swallow a pupil. Right before Christmas, I hosted a small Solstice gathering and when I sent out the email, my brother texted me (a message clearly meant for his wife): "Jesus, my sister and her fucking rituals. I don't want to burn my intentions..." Then he deleted the message. But guess what? I had already seen it. I gave him endless shit about it, but I get it. First of all, it's absolutely permissible and okay to bitch about your sister's witchiness to your wife. In fact, that's the perfect outlet for it. I can't be mad. Second of all, if someone had invited me to burn my intentions a few years ago, I would have sent the exact same text to my husband (although due to my OCD, I would never accidentaly text the person I was being snarky about). Spencer, don't be mad that I've aired this publicly. I love you and I forgive you.]

Watch this video to understand that because I laughed a lot at this, I have a great sense of humor about myself (an LA lesbian who happens to be straight):

Even if you're in my brother's camp, I have an argument for why you should reconsider, especially if you are a parent of young children. Celebrating pagan holidays is a way to combine the healthy coping strategies I mentioned above (gratitude, staying present and community-driven) and give my children a spiritual framework without forcing religion on them. It's fun, it makes an ordinary Saturday in February feel special, and you are forced to be present for a few hours.

Imbolc falls on February 1-2 (but you can celebrate it this coming weekend if you're inspired to) and celebrates the early stirrings of spring, the return of the sun, the birth of lambs, and the lactation of sheep (no kidding). Hundreds of years ago, my ancestors were living Braveheart-style in tiny villages tucked into the Irish countryside, hungry, cold as fuck, and subsisting off the dregs of last fall's harvest and whatever they managed to cure, salt, or preserve. Traditionally, lambs were born around Imbolc, which meant there would be sheep's milk for cheeses. Imbolc meant you had survived the winter, and spring was just around the corner.

Imbolc coincides with other cultural renewal ceremonies – Groundhog Day and Chinese Lunar New Year among others. Isn't it wild how all over the world, in cultures who had no way of knowing what anyone else was doing (much less that the earth was round), people were celebrating the same basic principles? Renewal, awakening, the return of the sun, the harvest... Modern life has put a big old wedge between people and the Earth's natural rhythms, but our ancestors lived and died by the seasons.

Celebrating pagan holidays puts us back in touch with that part of ourselves, the part that recognizes the cyclical nature of life, and reminds us that change is the only constant. Do I sound like a trad wife? I do, don't I? Just to allay any fears, my entire family is vaccinated. Graeme didn't get Covid with the rest of us because she had just received her booster.

Okay, now that that's clear:

We can fight our connection to the Earth or to our ancestors, but we're only a few hundred years from our agrarian past. And frankly, I think we could all stand to celebrate the magic of cheese a lot more. This, my friends, is why my family celebrated Imbolc this weekend.

For our celebration, I made a feast, trying to work only with ingredients that would have been available to my ancestors hundreds of years ago. I made an insanely delicious beef stew, garlic-herb dinner rolls, baked potatoes with the works, and a lavender lemon bundt cake (lavender and lemon are both seasonally-appropriate ingredients, and lemon represents the sun). My friend (and neighbor), Megan, made a beautiful sun-worshipping salad.

I created an altar for the table. Side Note: If you're not making altars, you're missing out. Creating an altar is a form of storytelling, a creative endeavor dedicated to beauty and personal symbolism. Altar making is meditative and fun – you get to arrange symbolic objects in a beautiful way, as you contemplate your altar's purpose. Lately, I make altars for everything. Holidays, yes, but also television pitches. If I'm zoom-pitching a new show to networks, you better believe there is an altar just off camera. Sometimes I'll let the executives see my altar if I think it won't completely scare them off. I have to read the room, but generally, writers are allowed to be weird, which is one of the best things about being a writer.

Anyway, here's some photos of my gorgeous Imbolc altar:

Notice the multiple big-titted goddess statues (fertility, renewal, big tits, all things to be enjoyed on Imbolc), plus a representation of each of the elements – a pentacle for Earth (as well as a couple of coyote bones that my son is constantly trying to steal from me), a feather for Air, a shell and pearls for Water, and candles for fire. You may also notice my athame or ritual dagger (that's right, mofos, real witches have daggers), and my wand. It's always a risk to put my altar tools within arm's reach of children. I had to tell Toby to put the knife down more than a dozen times.

We crafted Brigid dolls to honor the goddess. Traditionally, the ancient Celts would have crafted their Brigid dolls out of corn husks, grass, or other natural elements. I went to Michaels. I incorporated moss and stones into our materials, but there were also buttons and sparkly rhinestones. The kids loved this part of the night, and I learned that my sister-in-law is one of the world's pre-eminent craftswomen. I mean, seriously, check out her Brigid:

Toby's Brigid doll was giving horror in a fun way. He also burned himself with the hot glue gun and spent most of dinner dipping his hand in and out of a glass of water. My children and their best friends (who are also our neighbors) each made a cute little goddess, and the adults also got in on the action, with Zack using a pocket knife to carve one of the scariest faces I've ever seen into the wooden doll.

I had also planned an elaborate ritual, but it became clear that the kids were not going to sit still very long.

When doing rituals with children, it's a good idea to stay nimble and be ready to pivot. I also find that involving fire holds their attention. Toby's buddy, Lulu, turned six last weekend, but we missed her birthday due to our Covid infestation. So for our Imbolc ritual, we went around in a circle. Each person lit the next person's candle and said out loud one thing they love about Lulu, one wish they have for Lulu in the coming year, and one wish they have for themselves. Again, the candles were key in holding the attention of the kids. Lulu was tickled by the attention, and it was nice to take a moment to celebrate a child in our community and make some wishes for the months ahead.

The children wished for things like "learn how to ride a bike," and "learn how to read," and the adults all wished for some variation of "try to stay present," and "look for joy amidst the horror." It felt good to feed a big crowd and spend a little time together thinking of ways to bring a little bit of light into the darkness.

Happy Imbolc friends! May your sheep's lactation be excessive!