• It never happens that a new constellation suddenly rises out of the east. There is an order, a predictability, a permanence about the stars. In a way, they are almost comforting. Carl Sagan

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Other Blogs

  • Just a quick note
    I’ve updated my bio page with a link to Les Cabinets Des Polytheistes, where my story “Spine of the World” is published (and in which people can play Spot The Netjer if they are so inclined), and my less-specific webspace Suns in Her Branches, which is broader than this space (which is specifically for reconstructionist-derived […]
  • Opet article is up
    And can be read here.Filed under: Patheos Links
  • Opet is coming ’round again
    And the Emboatening Crew is once more celebrating by making Kiva loans. You’re all welcome to join us. (My monthly column in Patheos Pagan is about Opet and charitable works, and will be going up tomorrow assuming nothing goes wrong.)Filed under: Festivals, Uncategorized
  • The Art of Being A God
    It’s interesting having one foot in reconstructionist religion and one foot in religious witchcraft, for a lot of reasons. One of the things that I’ve been thinking about lately is the shape of how the gods appear within the context […]
  • Mythopoeia
    Continuing with rambling on the topic of my exploration of pagan movement history, another critical concept: mythopoeia. The word means, literally, “myth-making”, and it is one of the near inescapable traits of at least the origin points of pagan religions. […]
  • Hills of the Horizon: The Past is Another Country
    The problem with extrapolation from history is that nothing is testable. The evolution of a religion over time is not a predictable and easily comprehensible thing, where we can look at a point in time and say, "It was like this then, so it would be like that now." The process of deciding what needs […]

The Tree

There are many stories about the tree who spans the worlds.

The tree is rich and nurturing: her fruits feed the needy, her shade shelters from the weather, the hollow in her trunk is the womb of the dead. She grows astride the gates of dawn, and the sun and all those who might pass do so as her gift.

The earth aches and reaches upwards always, searching for his love, the arch of heaven, his every tree and mountain and stalk of grain striving for her touch. And she, at times, is the tree, and they may touch at the horizon.

The lord of life and death governs the unseen, the secret ways, the realms of the mighty and the gates of rebirth, and sings to his love, the throne, the great power, keeper of her father’s governance of all being. And she, at times, is the tree, and her roots go deep.

The distant one whose eyes span heaven rules over all he can see, with claim on his grandfather’s throne which his father passed to him and his mother guarded, and resides within the embrace of his love. And she, at times, is the tree, and her branches span wide enough to hold even him.

The tree is wedded to all the worlds. Her sons know the way to pass between, to walk from shadow to shadow and open the passageways, walking dog-footed, wolf-footed, jackal-footed, wherever they do please.