Holy Wild, Story & Song

Honoring the Past: Weaving Story from Memory

This post originally appeared on Holy Wild, at alisonleighlilly.com


“There was a long hard time when I kept far from me the remembrance of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant of its worth.”

― Charles Dickens

book-skull

Here’s a story about my mother (and I hope she forgives me for telling it). She heard once on TV that the safest place for something in a house fire is inside the oven, because an oven is insulated to keep the heat in and so it’s pretty good at keeping the fire out. If you wanted to salvage something in a house fire — like say, important financial documents or a family heirloom — sticking it inside the oven might just work. (I should note: I have no idea if this is true. Do not try this at home.) So one year, before leaving on vacation, my mother put her wedding photo album inside the oven… just in case the house burned down while she was away.

As these things happen, she and my dad returned home from vacation happy but exhausted from the trip, and decided to order pizza for dinner so they wouldn’t have to cook. They turned the oven to preheat so they could keep the pizza warm once it arrived. Soon, the whole kitchen smelled of scorched paper. My dad threw open the oven door to discover the wedding album sitting there on the rack, just starting to crinkle and brown around the edges. Luckily, he pulled it out in time (accompanied by much confused shouting and cursing, I imagine), and none of the photos were lost.

Not only does this story capture something exquisitely true about my mother — her attachment to photographs and mementos of special occasions, her quirky way of problem-solving, her anxiety about fire — but it seems to me to be deeply human. It’s a story about the irony of memory itself. We want to remember things from long ago, but sometimes in trying to salvage those memories we can become distracted and forgetful in the present moment. We might take all the precautions in the world to preserve the past, but nothing can slow the passage of time and the forgetfulness that comes with age.

Pagans like to say, “What is remembered, lives.” Memory is re-membering, the act of giving life to the past through rituals of witness. A photograph by itself is not a memory, only a record. Collecting dust in a drawer, it does nothing for anyone. Only when it is brought into the light of the present moment can it become something — a reawakening of mindfulness, a memory stirred to life — or perhaps only ever a reimagining, each time slightly different, each time new. But that’s life, too, isn’t it?

I’m like my mother in my desire to remember the past, I just go about it differently. Instead of sticking my wedding album in the oven, I tell stories. (And share them on the internet, where everything is forever and yet nothing lasts.) But we both face the same irony — that the act of remembering is the very act by which we might accidentally ruin or replace the past we seek to honor.

I don’t even know if this story about my mom is true, at least in all its detail. I only heard it second-hand. But it feels true, it feels like her. It reminds me of her and the things about her that I love and learn from. It almost doesn’t matter if the story is “factually” true or not. Like life itself, it’s more complicated than that.


Inspired in part by today’s Daily Prompt: Ancient


This post originally appeared on Holy Wild, at alisonleighlilly.com

Holy Wild, Mythology & History, story

Honoring the Past: Weaving Story from Memory

“There was a long hard time when I kept far from me the remembrance of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant of its worth.”

― Charles Dickens

book-skull

Here’s a story about my mother (and I hope she forgives me for telling it). She heard once on TV that the safest place for something in a house fire is inside the oven, because an oven is insulated to keep the heat in and so it’s pretty good at keeping the fire out. If you wanted to salvage something in a house fire — like say, important financial documents or a family heirloom — sticking it inside the oven might just work. (I should note: I have no idea if this is true. Do not try this at home.) So one year, before leaving on vacation, my mother put her wedding photo album inside the oven… just in case the house burned down while she was away.

As these things happen, she and my dad returned home from vacation happy but exhausted from the trip, and decided to order pizza for dinner so they wouldn’t have to cook. They turned the oven to preheat so they could keep the pizza warm once it arrived. Soon, the whole kitchen smelled of scorched paper. My dad threw open the oven door to discover the wedding album sitting there on the rack, just starting to crinkle and brown around the edges. Luckily, he pulled it out in time (accompanied by much confused shouting and cursing, I imagine), and none of the photos were lost.

Not only does this story capture something exquisitely true about my mother — her attachment to photographs and mementos of special occasions, her quirky way of problem-solving, her anxiety about fire — but it seems to me to be deeply human. It’s a story about the irony of memory itself. We want to remember things from long ago, but sometimes in trying to salvage those memories we can become distracted and forgetful in the present moment. We might take all the precautions in the world to preserve the past, but nothing can slow the passage of time and the forgetfulness that comes with age.

Pagans like to say, “What is remembered, lives.” Memory is re-membering, the act of giving life to the past through rituals of witness. A photograph by itself is not a memory, only a record. Collecting dust in a drawer, it does nothing for anyone. Only when it is brought into the light of the present moment can it become something — a reawakening of mindfulness, a memory stirred to life — or perhaps only ever a reimagining, each time slightly different, each time new. But that’s life, too, isn’t it?

I’m like my mother in my desire to remember the past, I just go about it differently. Instead of sticking my wedding album in the oven, I tell stories. (And share them on the internet, where everything is forever and yet nothing lasts.) But we both face the same irony — that the act of remembering is the very act by which we might accidentally ruin or replace the past we seek to honor.

I don’t even know if this story about my mom is true, at least in all its detail. I only heard it second-hand. But it feels true, it feels like her. It reminds me of her and the things about her that I love and learn from. It almost doesn’t matter if the story is “factually” true or not. Like life itself, it’s more complicated than that.


Inspired in part by today’s Daily Prompt: Ancient

Holy Wild, story

Storytelling, Magic & Community

I remember the night vividly: As midnight approached, the line of excited fans waiting outside grew so long it wrapped around three city blocks. Those of us who’d made our reservations early were the envy of all, flashing our wristbands as we made our way to the front. Despite the late hour, the crowd was buzzing with excitement, hyperactive nine-year-old boys standing shoulder to shoulder with middle-aged men, giggling teenage girls and angry-young-and-poor twenty-somethings like me and my friends. Lots of folks had come in costume, creatively donning the colors and symbols of their heroes. But for every geek in a wild get-up, there was a lady in mom jeans and practical shoes standing nearby, with a smile just as wide.

This dazzling press of human bodies radiated unchecked and unashamed enthusiasm, transforming the dark urban streets into a spontaneous community block party where everyone was welcome to join in the fun. I found myself marveling at the beauty of how such a simple thing could bring so many people together. In an age of cynicism and self-interest, surely we fans here had discovered something amazing.

Finally, the clock struck midnight, and the bookstore opened.

reader_hkoppdelaney

It was Harry Potter. What else could it be? But this was no movie theater line — this was the local Barnes & Noble, where people had been pre-ordering Book 6 for months. For the first time in my life, I saw huge crowds gathered in the middle of the night just for the chance to get their hands on a book. Inside, the store had been transformed into a veritable Hogwarts, with festival games set up throughout the aisles where folks could try their hand at bean bag tosses or jelly bean guessing games, or just enjoy the free wizard-themed snacks while showing off their handmade witchy wardrobes. Even at the time, there were critics of J.K. Rowling who bemoaned the popularity of the Harry Potter series, citing it as evidence of the infantilism of modern culture and seeing nothing more than mindless consumerism. But those of us there that night knew otherwise: we understood that there is magic to be found in the telling of a good story.

These days, I see the same enthusiasm and sense of community among those who participate in National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo). This month my local public library’s Twitter feed has been flooded with announcements for write-ins and social gatherings almost daily, where professional writers, starry-eyed teens and soccer moms all get together to hang out, chow down on snack food and… well, write.

How crazy is that? Dozens of people gathered in a room to write together.

Most of us think of writing as a solitary activity — as something that maybe only truly inspired (but always half-starved) artists can do, hunched at their desks with ink-stained shirt cuffs and fingers callused from typing, driving themselves beyond the breaking point (maybe with a cigarette or a beer along the way), wrenching words syllable by syllable from their utmost depths and spilling them onto the page like blood.

I have never liked this image. As someone who takes perhaps unreasonable pleasure in the written word, it always seemed somewhat unfair to me that my particular vocation should condemn me to a life of obscurity and self-torture, while the astrophysicist and the bank manager and the firefighter and the dairy farmer were all allowed to take a certain pride in their work and enjoy the satisfaction of being a vital contributing member of a supportive, grateful community. (Okay, well, maybe not the bank manager. But he got to own more than one pair of shoes.)

There is magic in good storytelling. And in a world that can seem so woefully devoid of magic, we have a tendency to romanticize the writer, the artist, the “creative type” who is in touch with that magic in a deep, visceral way: crafting new realities out of sound and silence, drawing whole landscapes in black-and-white Helvetica. I think there is a part of us that even wants to believe that we could never do that kind of thing. If the writer is a special kind of creature — if his genius comes from inhabiting a cramped and impoverished little world, like an ascetic monk who spends all day on his knees in prayer hoping to earn divine blessings — well, then we can be forgiven for not having the stamina or the stomach for that kind of work, can’t we? I mean, some folks just aren’t cut out to be monks.

But it wasn’t always this way. Sure, there have always been those few bards who, mad with the wandering moon, find themselves stumbling through the wilderness with unkempt hair and the language of beasts on their tongues. But there were also the family gatherings around the hearthfire each evening, when grandmother would weave stories out of smoke and flickering shadows as simply and as surely as she wove bits of much needed yarn into hole-riddled socks. There were the stories father told at bedtime — old favorites about the Good Folk who tortured Old Man Henry down the road for building that fence across their invisible lanes, and new stories invented on a whim to coax the dreams or soothe the fears of sleepy children.

Humans have been telling stories for as long as we’ve been human. We build whole communities around the stories we tell to one another. (As any Harry Potter fan can attest!) Those who are lucky enough to call themselves professional writers have a particular set of skills and an admirable work ethic, but they don’t hold the monopoly on good storytelling. The astrophysicist and the bank manager and the firefighter and the dairy farmer have stories of their own to tell. (Okay, well, maybe not the bank manager.)

Which is why I can’t be anything but gleeful, and grateful, each November when suddenly my community is once again abuzz with stories — stories of all shapes and sizes, stories from old and young, stories that have been carefully researched and plotted for months in advance, alongside stories that go careening from page to page like sugar-injected toddlers with no direction at all, overflowing with the sheer joy of being told.

MyBook_CinziaARizzo

Most of the year, I sit at my desk pounding away at the keyboard hoping that at the end of the day I’ve managed to produce something that will speak to somebody, somewhere, someday. It can be a long and lonely process, sending my ink-babies out into the world without even a coat to keep them warm.

But storytelling at its root is a communal activity, something that can be shared by everyone. How wonderful that, once a year, we can return to those roots to find new inspiration and support. NaNoWriMo inspires us because it reminds us that storytelling is not about self-torture or perfectionism or asceticism, let alone popularity or profit. We can reclaim storytelling as basic human nature. We can recapture the creativity and imagination that is our birthright. We can push back against a society that would drain the world of its magic and lock our artists and writers away to toil in half-starved isolation while the rest of us are relegated to the role of mere consumers. We can shout from the rooftops the plain and simple truth of it:

Good storytelling can be as humble as darning socks, and yet as powerful as making fairies out of firelight.

And so, I dedicate this post to all of you out there who have thrown yourselves wholeheartedly into NaNoWriMo this year. Whether it’s your first year or your fifth. Whether you’ve met your word count goals, or you’ve only managed to scribble a few paragraphs in your notebook on the bus on your way to work…. I salute you! You stories matter, and your courage to tell them can change the world.


Photo Credits:
• “Reader,” by Hartwig HKD (CC) [source]
• “My Book,” by Cinzia A. Rizzo (CC) [source]

Conservation, Deep Ecology, Holy Wild

A Way Home Through The Fog: On Memory, Story & Restoration

The living landscape has an undeniable impact on the way our minds work. The foggy autumn weather persists out here on the rumpled rocky shores of Puget Sound, and I find my thoughts tending towards metaphors of mist and rain and mountain-torn horizons half veiled by clouds.

The fog has wended its way into my mind more than once over the past couple weeks. Not least because it has stubbornly refused to give way to the long, steady rain more typical for Seattle at this time of year. I know some of my friends are rejoicing at the not-quite-so-soaking weather, but I can’t help but feel somewhat uneasy. All day as I sit at my writing desk, I glance out the window at a world that seems still and quiet… as they say, a little too quiet.

Last weekend, Jeff and I spent hours wandering the banks of Piper’s Creek preparing for the Salmon Nature Walk that we’ll be leading this Saturday. By now, the creek should be a pretty noisy place, full of the distinctive sound of chum and coho salmon struggling upstream, fighting their way over weirs and fallen logs. There should be males inciting a wet riot with their posturing, grappling and chasing one another off, while females dig out their redds with long sweeping splashes of their muscular tails. Instead, our wanderings were muffled by fog. The creek rushed on, riding low in its streambed and practically empty of fish — we spotted only two small males, circling each other cautiously in the murky waters of a shallow pool.

The season is right. The fish have made it as far as Puget Sound following the promptings of instinct, navigating thousands of miles of ocean. Yet the fog lingers. Without the necessary steady rains to wash the familiar scent of freshwater rivers and streams out into the sound, the salmon languish just offshore — uncertain of which way to go, unsure which creek is calling them home.

It’s as if they, too, are lost in the fog.

foggy_shore1

I have not been out here in the Pacific Northwest for very long, but already I’ve grown used to the annual return of the salmon. For a girl who grew up landlocked nestled in the corn-sown, coal-country foothills of the ancient Appalachians, it’s a daily pleasure just to live so near the sea that there’s a smell of salt on the air when the wind turns just right. Even when the Cascades call me further inland to wander in their thickly-ferned forests, the sea follows me as low billowing clouds piling up against the mountain slopes, while at my feet streams that are flush with snowmelt rush westward to meet the ocean.

The whole landscape is alive with the romance of wind, water and rock.

And the salmon are just another part of this dance: push-and-pull, longing and striving, journey and return. Call it sentimental, but seeing the first salmon of the season always leaves me astounded and speechless with gratitude.

Maybe it’s because I’m still so new to this place that I feel the quiet of the lingering fog and the salmon’s absence more acutely than folks who have watched the ebb and flow of each autumn’s return knowing that some years will be better than others, and some years will be worse. I feel like someone who has only just found a treasure of immeasurable value and is afraid that all too soon she might lose it again. I lived for seven years in Pittsburgh, a city balanced on the brink of three mighty rivers, without ever having seen a fish outside of an aquarium. I grew up in the Susquehanna Valley, named for one of the oldest rivers in the world, but never swam in its waters because they were too polluted with agricultural run-off and suburban sewage. It never occurred to me to wonder how these rivers might once have been: ribbons of fresh, joyful abundance rippling across the sacred landscape, nourishing whole communities of life.

Only now, face to face with the intense gaze of the salmon, am I struck with a chilling gut-deep fear of losing sight of that vision — the vital, mutually-sustaining interconnection between land and sea.

In a recent post on the Nature Conservancy blog, Matt Miller reflects on the relationship between memory and restoration:

It’s human nature to assume that the way things are today are “normal.” Scientists have a term for this: shifting baseline syndrome. The dozens of salmon in a river become the baseline, the new normal — even though fifty years ago, there were tens of thousands, and before that, millions.

And when the fish disappear, it’s as if they were never there.

Miller describes the ecological history of rivers in North America as “a story of almost-incomprehensible loss.” It is this inability to comprehend just what we have lost — the impossibility of remembering what we have long since forgotten or perhaps have never known — that frightens me most.

The past recedes from view. Memories grow foggy and indistinct, like a landscape withdrawing into the darkening haze of autumn’s decline. It is so easy to think we have always lived this way, struggling with scarcity, alienated from the living earth, uncertain and alone. Without stories of bountifulness and beauty, how are we to find our way back to that place of sustainability? Without the rain-washed scent of hope, what will guide us home?

28-stone_salmon

But it’s not all bad news. This past week saw a good, steady overnight drizzle on the night of the new moon. Good things sometimes move under the cover of darkness, when the tides are high and the creeks are swollen with rain.

Meanwhile, several friends sent this neat article my way:

A large pod of orcas swam around a Washington state ferry in an impressive display as it happened to be carrying tribal artifacts to a new museum at the ancestral home of Chief Seattle, and some people think it was more than a coincidence.

Killer whales have been thrilling whale watchers this week in Puget Sound, […b]ut they were especially exciting Tuesday when nearly three-dozen orcas surrounded the ferry from Seattle as it approached the terminal on Bainbridge Island. On board were officials from The Burke Museum in Seattle who were moving ancient artifacts to the Suquamish Museum.

Maybe this was a bit of magic afoot. Or maybe the lingering fog and lack of rain that has kept the salmon from making their way upstream for the past couple weeks has instead provided a feast for predators like orcas, porpoises, seals and sea birds. According to the Orca Network, sightings in Puget Sound this year have been record-breaking, with numerous orca pods even visible from overlooks in city parks like Discovery and Carkeek.

Or maybe, it’s a little bit of both: mysticism and ecology, spirituality and science. Maybe we have more in common with the orca and the salmon than we realize. Maybe, as one friend pondered, it is our plant and animal kin that carry the artifacts of our past and guard the stories of renewal that we will need for the future.

Maybe it is that very ambiguity — the tension between past and future, between reason and imagination, between memory and hope — that makes the magic of sacred presence possible. A magic that will lead us home.

Muse in Brief

The Tale of Mabon: A Bedtime Story » No Unsacred Place

In my latest post over on No Unsacred Place, I share the story from Welsh mythology of Mabon, son of Modron, in honor of the coming autumnal equinox.

Once, a long time ago when this ancient world was still very new, there was a mother. Her name was Modron, which means Great Mother, for she was beautiful and strong, and her love shone from her as light from a great sun. And Modron had a son whose name was Mabon, which means Great Son. Mabon glistened and glimmered with his mother’s love, and within him, his own heart also shone with love in return. Those who looked upon him were dazzled by his great youth and energy. But when he was still just an infant, a tragedy occurred. Mabon had not yet slept three nights at his mother’s side, suckling at her breast and nuzzling into her arms, when he was stolen away into the darkness! When Modron awoke to find her beloved son gone, and no one who could tell her who had stolen him away, she mourned and wept, and her tears swelled and flowed like a great ocean. For a Mother’s sorrow, too, can be great as her love.

This story was originally published on the former site of Meadowsweet & Myrrh back in 2009. In the comment section of the original post, a reader asked, “I’ve never understood the connection between this tale and the Equinox. Can you help with that connection?” This was my reply:

I’m not sure how much help I can provide, but I’ll give it a shot!

In Druidry, the autumnal equinox is not actually called Mabon, but instead goes by the name Alban Elfed/Elued (Welsh, meaning “Light of the Water/Sea”). The reasons for this aren’t entirely clear to me, but the Druid names for the other solar festivals translate to “Light of the Earth” (vernal equinox), “Light of the Shore” (summer solstice) and “Light of Winter” (winter solstice), evoking an interplay of the three elements (land, sea, sky) throughout the turning year.

As far as I’ve been able to discover, the name “Mabon” only recently began to be used for the autumnal equinox (coined by Aidan Kelly in the 1970s) and is primarily found in American Pagan traditions, rather than British. Kelly pulled the name from the story of Mabon, Son of Modron, which is found in Welsh mythology. It seems to be a random association to give a more evocative, authentic-sounding name to the holiday rather than using the dull astronomical term.

But I suspect one reason Kelly decided on “Mabon” was because the story of the lost child and grieving mother has some obvious parallels in the Greek myth of Demeter and Persephone, which has often been used around this time of year as a mythological explanation/metaphor for the fading life of flora and the coming winter. During the winter solstice, Alban Arthan, the Welsh deity of Mabon (who has parallels with Apollo in Greek mythology and Aengus Og, the god of love in Irish mythology) is celebrated as the divine child of light who is born/restored on the darkest day.

In my retelling of the original Welsh myth, I tried to find some connection between the more generally used and recognized name for the holiday, Mabon, and the Druid name for the day. I played around with these ideas in the story, thinking of Mabon in his role as skilled huntsman (autumn being closely associated with hunting season in my mind), and his grieving mother, whose grief is as great as the sea and yet contains within it the Salmon of Wisdom, the light which leads to new revelation and restoration at the winter solstice. In this way, the “Light of the Water/Sea” resonates deeply with themes of autumn, waning light, hunting and harvest.


You can read the full story here. And whatever you happen to call it, have a happy autumnal equinox!

Holy Wild, story

Share Your Love Story! » Win The Scribing Ibis

When my partner Jeff Lilly and I were first falling in love, I wrote a story called “Yewberry.”

Not on purpose. It just sort of happened one afternoon, after I’d been trudging through the ice-and-mud-thawing, bare-limbed woods of late February, my heart thrilling to the stirrings of warm-fuzzy romantic bliss for the first time in a long time. I sat down in my cozy apartment, head thrumming gently, and scribbled out a story about Caer Ibormeith, faery swan-maiden and dream-girl of the Celtic god of love, whose name was the name of the yew’s poisonous fruit, and whose transformation every Samhain into the white-winged denizen of the liminal realms connected her so deeply with death and loneliness. It was a story about love, power, freedom and sensuality. It was a story about overcoming death, and winter laying down as a lover to spring.

So it’s appropriate that “Yewberry” would be picked up for publication in the new anthology of Pagan fiction, The Scribing Ibis, just in time for our wedding.

But never mind about that! You want to know about the contest, and how you can enter to win your very own copy of The Scribing Ibis. Don’t worry, it’s easy: Share your own love story.

See, Jeff and I are going to be gone much of the month while we’re off wedding on the sandy, salt-sprayed beaches of North Carolina and then honeymooning under the wide, star-washed skies of Utah and New Mexico. Which means we’ll be offline a lot and won’t be blogging much. So I thought, what the hell, I could kill two birds with one stone (or feed two birds from one hand, as I prefer) — run a book give-away contest and open up the blog to guest posts! Hurray!

So here’s what you need to do:

  1. Write your love story. Everyone has one. You don’t have to be in a relationship or have a “significant other” knocking about. Just ask yourself: what about the world makes your heart swell with gratitude and joy? What thrills you, what energizes you, what makes you swoon? Whether you’re in love with a person, a deity, a forest or a project… tell the world your story.
  2. Share your love story. Share your story online, either by submitting it through the comment box below, posting it in the Meadowsweet Commons, or sharing it on your own blog. Remember: if you share your story somewhere else online, make sure to link back to this post and leave a comment here with a link so that I can find it!
  3. That’s it! Just by sharing your story here or linking back, you’ve entered the give-away drawing to win your own copy of The Scribing Ibis: An Anthology of Pagan Fiction in Honor of Thoth. Plus, you’ve helped make the world a bit more love-wonderful! Hurray!
  4. Wait, there’s more! Like I said, this isn’t just a give-away, it’s also a contest! If the story you share is truly awesome and full of follow-your-bliss goodness, I’ll publish it here on Meadowsweet & Myrrh as a guest post — and you name will be entered twice into the drawing for a copy of The Scribing Ibis. That means double the chance of winning. Cool, eh?

Sound easy? Then get to it! The contest runs through the end of October when, in honor of Caer Ibormeith and her yearly transformation, Jeff and I will draw the winner’s name on the Samhaim episode of our podcast, Dining with Druids.

Oh, and P.S. I have a very special post scheduled for our actual wedding day, September 16. So be sure to keep your eyes open for that!

Holy Wild, News & Announcements

New Anthology of Pagan Fiction!

It’s finally here! The Scribing Ibis: An Anthology of Pagan Fiction in Honor of Thoth was officially released today, and it’s now available in paperback through the Bibliotheca Alexandrina online store. It will also be available soon on Amazon.com and Amazon UK, as well as on Smashwords in a variety of ebook formats.

There’s more info available on the Bibliotheca Alexandrina website, but here’s the blurb:

The Scribing Ibis AnthologyHe was Creation’s First Storyteller. To soothe a wrathful Goddess, ibis-headed Thoth spun tales of honor and greed, love and treachery, Gods and princes and pirates. Entranced, charmed, Her rage cooled, the Goddess returned to heaven. Order was restored.

And so it is in His name that we dedicate this collection. Here, modern Pagans and polytheists continue that ancient tradition, weaving stories of creation and loss, death and rebirth, humor and courage, transformation and destruction. From the banks of the Nile to the icy north, from modern-day Kansas to far future alien worlds, these tales sing of the grace and glory of the Gods, and Their place in our lives.

Additionally, nonfiction essays explore the place of Thoth in ancient Egyptian theology and literature; the contemporary Pagan romance publishing scene; and the use of the Green Man and the Fool as archetypes in modern fiction. A select timeline lists important polytheist and Pagan works of fiction, from ancient times through the modern era.

And for inquiring minds, here’s a sneak peek at the Table of Contents:

Dedication
The Fires of Thoth by Teresita Garcia
Foreword: Blessed Be the Mythmakers by Inanna Gabriel
Introduction by Rebecca Buchanan

Birth by Erynn Rowan Laurie
Persephone’s Travels by John Drury
The Story of Philemon and Baukis by Amanda Sioux Blake
The Gallisenae by Jhenah Telyndru
Balbilla’s Reply by Michael Routery
Sinikka Journeys North by KA Laity
Power of the Gods by Steven Gepp
Corrupting Influence by Brandon Cracraft
Anything for a Tale by Melia Suez
Yewberry by Alison Leigh Lilly
Like Herding Cats by Gerri Leen
Unlock by Ashley Horn
Aunty Zee by Diotima Sophia
Godwin’s Law by Jason Ross Inczauskis
Crossroads by Rebecca Buchanan
Reunion by P Sufenas Virius Lupus
Over the Rainbow by Eric Scott
Mother Blood Sky by JD Revezzo
The Myth-Shifter by Star Foster
The Resurrection of Samhain by Quincy Allen

Appendix A: The Nature and Functions of Thoth in Egyptian Theology by Edward P. Butler
Appendix B: A Pagan’s Inspirational Romance by Mary K Wilson
Appendix C: The Green Man and the Fool: Pagan Archetypes in the Fiction of Laurie R King by Literata
Appendix D: Select Timeline of Pagan and Polytheist Literature, and Related Texts by Rebecca Buchanan

Check out how many awesome writers are keeping me company! I am so excited to get my contributor’s copies and settle down to some wonderful reading.

Plus, keep your eyes peeled (ew.) for the up-coming Meadowsweet Book Give-Away and a chance to win a copy of the anthology for yourself!