Ritual and (drunken) writing.
When I started my atheopagan practice, I created a journal for all my related thoughts and plans. I don’t know if I had a clear idea of what would end up going into that journal, but it ended up being more, I’m sure, than I imagined. It’s become home to my plans for spring and fall gardening, the place where I write down divination card pulls that resonated with me, where I keep an ongoing list of organic-to-my-life moon names as they occur to me. My atheopagan journal, in all its blood-spattered glory. But most of all, it’s the home of my ritual inspired poetry; I keep it near me during every major holiday’s ceremony. Which means it is, to a significant degree, a journal of drunk poetry. I hope this makes you smile, or giggle. It makes me smile. I smile because instead of feeling ashamed, I feel love; I feel compassion. Compassion for the part of me that opens up and spills out all my sentimentality, all of my earnest longing and soft vulnerability, when I let go of whatever shame abo