i leaned over the stove, lifting the round, red teapot from the hot red coils, and the snow melted out of my hair and fell in little hissing droplets on the burner. the scent of chamomile drifted up and the honey dripped slowly down, and my fingers warmed gratefully on the mug i bought at pantheacon two years ago, a rainy weekend in san francisco. i spent most of an hour there in the ceramics booth, slipping my fingers into the handle of every mug, testing the weight and shape and color, seeking the right one. that night i slept with the echos of drums playing to me, a deep pulsing energy that stayed reverberating in my bones for weeks.

i missed the festival this year; they'll be starting the eris ritual in a few hours, and the fire drumming after that.

i've not been much of a pagan, of late, aside from my wonder at the snow, and the lighting of candles in the dark. i have wandered far from the spirituality with which i once lived, and i wrong what belief i yet have with my unhappiness. the charge rang so true to me, i think that may have been what first led me to claim myself pagan... i don't know that i still believe in the goddesses, as such, nor the gods, but somehow i still believe the words. let my worship be within the heart that rejoiceth, for behold: all acts of love and pleasure are my rituals.