The First Gate. Powerful piece from my lover and fellow clan member Del about dying and the choice to live.

Note: I’m finally off the road for a little bit and will be resuming my (roughly) weekly posting schedule

I am sitting here and trying to find a way to open this post without engaging in self-indulgent melodrama.

I will confess that I briefly considered hiding behind florid and descriptive prose, or perhaps even a spot of poetry, and in truth, those mediums lend themselves exceedingly well to my current situation. However, from me they would represent a cop-out, a way to express feeling without substance. Not that I don’t believe in the value of both descriptive prose and poetry, see Surfacing, or In the Land of My Birth if you think that I only value analytically writing.

The problem I’m facing, is that (melodrama ALERT) I feel like I’ve lost my sense of Self and purpose. The irony of this post coming just about a year after Lessons From a Plastic Bracelet is not lost on me, I assure you.

I identify as a shaman, magician, spirit-worker, and god-slave. But I feel like I have no idea what that means for me anymore. For the first time in my adult life, I find myself without a concrete sense of purpose or a meaningful connection to the divine.

Don’t get me wrong, the Lady hasn’t cut me off. I am still aware of Her presence, although everyone who works with Her has found Her somewhat distant and preoccupied of late. My magic hasn’t failed me either. Particularly now that we’ve entered Fall, I can feel power sing in my veins and crackle along my nerves with as much vibrancy as ever. The paths through Death aren’t closed to me; my employee pass to the Akashic records is still good; and my faith and belief remains fundamentally strong. (whoa, wandered into melodrama territory again, my bad)

Yet I am lost.

I’m a Spirit-worker, and I’ve always said that the 2^nd half of that title is at least as important as the first. I work with Spirit in its myriad forms, but lately I’ve been feeling uninspired and unemployed. There just hasn’t been Work for me to do. I look at many of my colleagues and friends, even those who are being ridden hard by the gods, and can’t help but feel a measure of envy at their Purpose and the clear(ish) path they are on. I understand that at this point in my journey I have to make my own way. it is the blessing and the curse of serving my Mistress.

As I sit at my desk at our new home in Maine, the Lady’s sword remains safe in the case we moved it in. Her altar is set up, but I don’t think there have been more than one or two offerings since the move. This has far more to do with the altar being wrong than any conflict with Her. Fire and I have known for months now that the altar needed to change, as it has remained essentially unchanged for a very long time. We are different people now and the Clan is in a different spiritual place, but for all that we know it’s wrong now, we are at a loss for how it should be.

The bulk of our magical tools remain in boxes as well, and my oldest and most beloved magical and shamanic tool came to a bitter end a few weeks ago. My very first singing bowl, the one that has carried me through every ritual since my pre-apprentice days, through magical combat, cleansings that took every ounce of strength Fire, I, and our circle could draw forth, healing spells, deity possession rites, journeys into the underworld, and countless other moments of power, broke cleanly in half a few weeks ago during a routine cleansing for someone else’s ritual. Ever aware of the importance of keeping up appearances, I didn’t even get a chance to cry over its loss, and now can’t summon up the emotions needed to do so. (ah, there’s that gothy shit again, sorry)

We have scouted the lovely woods around our new home, where we are clearly meant to be, and have a concept for how a new vrescht would work, but this land doesn’t need us. Where we were in NH did, but we left our Work there unfinished, retreating in failure in the face of a challenge beyond our skills. It is possible that we are here precisely because this land doesn’t need us, but will nurture and sustain us to go into the places that do, but we haven’t found those places yet.

I have little contact with other spirit-workers these days. The budding community of several years ago collapsed under the weight of egos, busy schedules, and conflicting concepts of deity. Our involvement with Asphodel likewise is a distant shadow of what it once was. We need to develop a sense of ourselves as a Clan and we know that we are supposed to begin offering public rituals and act as lynchpins of community at some, as yet undefined point in the future.

Several months ago I wrote about my budding Work with Baphomet, which has the potential to shock me back into gear, but I am at a loss for how to proceed even in that. I try to be open to the messages of the gods, but the line usually remains quiet. (oops, drifting towards movie of the week territory again)

I know that there are going to be those who say that I need to just “buckle down and do the Work.” The thing is that I honestly don’t know what that looks like at this point. There have been moments where I know I lost my way, or failed tests of faith or power, but I challenge any other spirit-worker who can’t say the same. This isn’t about not wanting to do the Work, this is about not having Work to do. Having experienced both, I find this immeasurably worse.

I fought long and hard for my skills and titles. I sacrificed a lot more dreams than I got to experience, and now it feels like I’m sitting on the bench wondering if the game is ever going to start back up. It is a terribly unpleasant way to feel. (hooray for queer boys using sports metaphors)

There are a great many people whose lives I know that I have touched in a positive and meaningful way. But rarely these days does someone come to me with a problem that only a shaman or only a magician can address. It’s not that I love exorcising haunted houses, journeying into Death to guide a spirit onward, or building shielding spells for people in apartment buildings, but I’m damn good at all those things. Likewise, I’m pretty awesome at writing and running rituals (well, getting better at the running thing), yet I have been to few of late.

I know that I am in the midst of what the Christians (and others) refer to as a Dark Night of the Soul, and like the night itself, I know that it will come to an end. But I am spirit-worker who isn’t doing his job, and the sooner I can get back to Work the happier I’ll be. Even if the Work sucks deep-fried demon balls, and when that happens I’ll write about it (again).

 Win A One Month Free KinkAcademy.com Membership!

Wintersong Tashlin has partnered with Kink Academy, the internet’s biggest and best source for instructional videos on sexuality, kink/BDSM, relationships, and more to hold a contest offering a free one-month membership for one lucky and creative kinkster. KinkAcademy.com has over 550 videos from the best instructors in the world, with five new video clips going online every week from Sarah Sloane, Mollena, Greydancer, Murphy Blue, Wintersong Tashlin, Princess Kali, and more than 95 other incredible educators. Check out the free sample page for more!

The contest is simple: in preparation for the his upcoming book “A Kinkster’s Guide to the Cock” Wintersong is compiling a list of the most inventive slang terms for the various parts of the male genitalia that people can think up.

He is seeking fun and imaginative slang names for:

The Whole Package

Penis

Scrotum

Testicles

Glans

Foreskin

Corona

Urethra

Meatus

Spermatic Cords

The winner will be judged on creativity and how challenging the anatomical feature is to name (not a lot of “spermatic cord” slang out there for instance).

The contest closes on  Monday Oct. 31st and the winning entry will be announced the next day. You can leave a comment here or email me your submission. And remember, even if you don’t win, all that awesome content is only $14.95 per month away.

The Westboro Baptist Church gives me hope.

I’m pretty sure that bringing feelings of hope, comfort, and even pride to a kinky, polyamorous, faggy, pagan isn’t exactly their mission in the world, but they do anyway. Oh, well.

I know that their very name alone fills most people, particularly queer/LGBT people, with a welter of turbulent emotions. Fear, hate, disgust, and anger are probably high on the list for most readers of Notes From a Barking Shaman. I am hardly a fan of their message or modus operandi myself.

But for all vileness of their methods, and I suspect their hearts, the Westboro Baptist Church also represents what is good about this country. There may be a few dank corners of this nation where you’ll find people who support the WBC, but the vast majority of Americans across the political spectrum find their behavior reprehensible. Even those perfectly willing to turn the other cheek at anti-LGBT hatred have a harder time with vicious protests of military funerals, or hate and profanity filled signs at their children’s schools. Despite this overwhelming disapproval, the activities of the Wesboro Baptist Church continue with little impediment.

And that’s a very good thing for us queers, pagans, and other minorities in American society.

No image in today’s media so visibly captures the constitutional freedoms enjoyed in this country as the repugnant scum from the Westboro Baptist Church protesting with their vile signs. Nobody wants the WBC in their town, but the church members move freely, preaching their hateful message throughout the nation. It is beyond absurd to think that any jurist on the Supreme Court approves of the WBC protesting at military funerals, yet the their right to do so was upheld in accordance with the Constitution of the United States.

How can that bring anything but hope and comfort to folk like me?

In a day when the political rhetoric around issues like Same Sex Marriage increasingly focuses on the “right” of the majority to decide who is worthy of equality or justice, seeing that the law still protects people as despised and despicable as the WBC can only bring hope.

With the PATRIOT ACT, illegal wiretapping, rampant use of CCTV cameras, no-knock warrants, and police forces acting as extensions of the CIA in minority communities, representing only a fraction of the threats to American freedom in the post 9/11 age, the Westboro Baptist Church serves as visible reminder that we have not yet shredded the entire Bill of Rights.

There are many countries where the kind of rhetoric spouted by Fred Phelps and his church could land someone in prison. But when you stifle one kind of dangerous idea, shut down one brand of intellectual outlaw, free discourse itself suffers. When I look at the Westboro Baptist Church, I can’t help but feel proud to live in the rare country whose foundational document protects the exchange of even the most unpopular ideas.

Don’t get me wrong, I support taking steps to prevent pastors and preachers from actively inciting their followers to violence. However, the WBC doesn’t preach violence against any of their myriad targeted groups. They grotesquely celebrate when violence comes unbidden, and they preach eternal suffering at the hands of a wrathful god, but they do not encourage people to take violent action against anyone. In fact, their website actively discourages violence.

As unpopular an idea as this may be, I believe that any group engaged in social or political protest should study certain elements of the WBC’s operations. Fred Phelps, himself a disbarred civil rights lawyer, knows exactlythe limits of the law regarding his church’s protest activities and has ensured that while his people walk right up to those limits, they do not cross them. The internet is full of photographs of counter protesters standing right besides WBC protesters holding signs like “fuck this guy” or turning their hateful message into a humorous and supportive message about LGBT people. The fact that Westboro Baptist Church members have steadfastly resisted for decades the temptation to respond in a way that could cross the line demarcated by the law, is as admirable as it is frustrating.

I believe that this is a dangerous time for sexual and religious minorities in this country. Despite historic gains in social and legal recognition, the tide could easily turn against us in the next few years. In being a visual embodiment of the protected rights of the minority, The Westboro Baptist Church serves as a beacon of hope and reassurance for those that they hate the most.

And if that delicious little irony doesn’t just bring a smile to this pagan, kinky, poly, queer boy’s face…

I don’t have any ancestors.

That sentence is difficult to write, and I know the very idea is anathema to many people’s beliefs and practices. Yet it is the truth. And a hard truth it is, particularly for a spirit worker and a shaman who works with the honored Dead.

It goes without saying that I have parents, and grandparents, and so on. So the question arises of how can I not have ancestors? To answer that question, I have to tell you a bit about who I am, and more importantly, where I come from.

I was raised in the Jewish religious and spiritual tradition. Even today, my Semitic heritage is obvious to anyone who knows what to look for. There is a saying about Judaism, one that has been used by everyone from learned Rabbis through the ages, to oppressors who sought the eradication of the Jewish people, to a deity I was had the honor (and terror) of discussing the matter with: Judiasm is a religion of blood. Blood suffuses Judaic laws and traditions, from their practice of ritual amputation, to dietary restrictions, menstrual taboos, and laws about bloodlines, inheritance, and the very nature of what it is to be a Jew.

Perhaps most of all, shared blood binds the Jewish people into a Tribe, connected through the ages by threads of bloodlines and traditions. Faith, tradition, and race all run together to form a broad concept of what it means to be a Jew. To be born a Jew is to be a Jew for all time, this is a foundational idea in Jewry. The concept is so ingrained, that it is not unusual to encounter people who identify as Jews, yet do not go to worship services, or perhaps even believe in the Judaic concept of the divine.

Where all of this becomes relevant is that I was not called the service of the Hebraic god, I serve and worship other deities. The very center of my life violates the most cherished of Jewish commandments. To give you a sense of how monumental this is: of all 613 sacred laws, the prohibition against worshiping a “false” god is one of a tiny handful of commandments that may not be transgressed, even if doing so would save the life of another human being.

In giving myself and my oath to other deities, I betrayed my blood and my Tribe. I committed the most grievous sin imaginable in the eyes of my People, and in doing so, went into an exile of the spirit and soul, if not the flesh. Though my blood may be Semitic, I am not a Jew. I am a broken link in a chain that goes back centuries beyond memory.

If I had to do it all over, I would make the exact same choice every time. It is possible to have regrets without believing yourself to be in the wrong.

All my Ancestors are of the Tribe. As an exile, I have no claim to them, and will not offer insult in the form of praise or worship, particularly in my pagan ways. The best devotion I can show them is to leave them alone.

In living my life as an exile, a broken link, I honor the beliefs, traditions, and wishes of the bloodlines that came before me. In the end, that is all that I can offer, and all that would be accepted.

Note: Please be aware that this essay only speaks to my personal experiences as a shaman and spirit worker. It is not intended as criticism, or a statement on other people who have or have not chosen to break with their milk religions, Judaism or otherwise.