For as long as I can remember I’ve tried to put a label on my path. In short, I’ve been looking for my tribe. Every time I try though I can’t seem to fit myself under one category. My path resists it at every turn. Multiple labels fit. Definitely Witch. Definitely Magician. Sometimes Mystic, sometimes Druid. Sorcerer. Chaote.
My path revolves around fierce devotion to my gods at it’s core. I am a devotional polytheist. This is where I am happiest. I find myself at this time right back where I was 3 years ago, with three gods who refuse to be ignored, who my soul cries out to know. Three gods whom the purists may say don’t fit. Three gods who demand I make them fit, one way or the other. My inclination is to pick one and be done with it. It doesn’t work that way.
There is Hekate, the witch-mother who sits at the crossroads. Hekate the Emyprean. Hekate the Chtonian. She who sometimes I can barely hear, barely feel, yet none the less, whenever I stray too far yanks me back and reminds me, I am hers. I have always been hers.
There is the wild god. His antler horned visage casting a shadow over everything I do. The first sorcerer. The enigmatic one who’s image graced the first cave paintings. He who stood first and shall withdraw last. He has shown me much of his origins, and no matter how hard I try to pigeon hole him into a name, he evades it and shows me he is more than I will ever know. More than I can ever know.
Dionysos. Sometimes the bull-faced one, but more often coming to me with goat horns just the same. I could be content with the other two. I’ve tried to be. Three is a crowd, but Dionysos… I worship Dionysos like Rumi loves. He breaks you down and rebuilds you. everyone knows this. When does it end though? The secret? It doesn’t. His process is unending. The birthing pains to your true self never stop.
What’s this feeling?
My love will rip a hole in the ceiling
Givin’ myself to you now from the essence of my being
And I sing to my God, songs of love and healing.
— Matisyahu “King Without a Crown”
One of these things is not like the other. Or are they?
Who are my tribe members?
In the end my tribe wears many faces. The witches, mages, druids, folk magicians, mystics. I see worth in all of them. I hate the modern tendency to look down upon everyone who doesn’t share your label. My tribe has no one name, but I know them when I see them.
Chaos reigns supreme. Nothing is True, everything is permitted? I don’t believe that (hehe). Yet in the end, once you get far enough, once you see the magic that enervates all things, every path seems like different decorating styles in an empty room. Looking at the arguments we might as well be arguing about who likes Art Deco vs Rustic in their living room.
The only viewpoint that does not break down over time, is the flexible one. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.