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by Tasha Lower
He's a good guy, and you would never guess it. He tears up at road kill. He owns one too many airbrushed animal t-shirts. He nibbles on things we come across on hikes. But unfortunately, he is not now, nor has he ever been, a pagan.
Where were you at six?
"I used to baptize my action figures," he said.
His father was a preacher.
"I shot at squirrels," I said.
My father, well, shoots at squirrels.
Is it possible for magickal people to date the, for lack of a better term, "normals"?
I understand why the like-minded tend to stick together. On that first or second date, how tough is it to say that the term witch, let alone not an insult, is rather accurate in describing your temperament? Real tough. It's tough sitting quietly while soon-to-be aunts-in-law discuss the effect the devil had on their divorces. It's tough explaining what a hand fasting is, and when you get to the part about bloodletting, it's really tough, because your guy is afraid of needles.
I, for one, have never been good at not saying what is on my mind, something my parents, ex-teachers and co-workers will attest to. So when I go outside I don't think before I croon, "Oh! The moon is waxing." And he doesn't think before he goes, "Huh?" and "Hey, look at that beetle."
Frankly, I'm having a problem I've never had before. I want to share. Share my circles. Share my traditions. Share my Goddess.
I want to go to pagan festivals and dance around the drum circles. I want to tell my babies Goddess stories. I want a pentacle on my wedding ring!
Is this irrational? Is it any different then hoping for a house in the country or that my boyfriend stops throwing his socks on my floor? Is it being as discriminatory as the Christian boys who won't bring their pagan girlfriends home to Ma?
I have no doubt there are more complicated romances out there. I should be happy with a difference of religion.
Except I'm a radical. See, paganism isn't my religion. It's my lifestyle. I do an awful lot of stuff because it incorporates my love for the Goddess.
So beyond explaining that the "collection of junk" on my dresser is an altar and why I scrawl in a funny herb-stained book every couple of days, I have a whole lot of motivations to explain.
Like why I get breathless when I look at the beauty of the night sky. Why I mutter prayers when I'm late and speeding or tired and hungry. Why sometimes I just need to be alone, with my Goddess, for a half hour.
We're not as different as I make us out to be. We both love horror films and burritos and Invader Zim. We both quote movies and television shows ad nauseum. We both watch Food Network while we eat Doritos to make them taste better.
So as of late, I've been doing a sort of selective memory program. Like you remember your best friend's phone number until you have to recite it, I remember him as pagan, until he tells stories about baptizing action figures or accidentally setting the churchyard on fire.
Actually, that last bit would probably make him well liked in some pagan circles.
I suppose Christian and pagans aren't that different, anyway. Pagans are just Christians two thousand years ago, right? We're practically swapping duties with the priests at the Thursday night bingo game!
Okay, maybe not.
I won't worry too much. Diversity makes the world more interesting. I'll take it in stride, make some compromises, take some funny looks, dish out some teasing for that action figure thing, get it back for holding my breath as we pass cemeteries.
So long as I get my pentacle wedding ring.
Copyright © 2006 by the article's author