Ceremony

Between classes and applications (and the occasional freak-out from being overcommitted), I've let the blogwriting slide. I will not let that happen--at least not permanently. My friend Current Conductor deals with the same "law of blog procrastinating," where the desire to write an entry is inversely proportionate to the number of things you want to write about plus the time since your last post.

In early October, I attended a Pagan wedding ceremony. It was lovely and moving, drawing largely off the Feri tradition. There were invocations of the Fey, the Boatman, the Star Goddess (with the full Charge, I think), and the whole ceremony was opened and closed with the sanctification of the directions. A spiral dance in the middle of the ceremony charged the rings; the bride and groom drew Tarot cards. The whole thing was filled with spirit, from music to fire to the strong wind and the crisp weather.

(Side note: I should really get to know more about Feri. All I know about it is from reading an interview with Victor Anderson and a little casual conversation.)

Curiously, though, it made me consider how much I wanted to integrate Paganism into our wedding next summer. And the answer was a little surprising to me: Not very much. I can see creating the space with the directions, asking for Her blessing, or sharing cakes and wine together. But my lover is not Pagan, and any ceremony we share is a partnership between us.

I've asked myself a few times if my desire to 'tone down' any Pagan aspects is an urge to hide my faith, or a need to conform. It's likely that those elements are present, but what's more central to my reasoning is a need to span different faiths--possibly even to introduce what Pagans have in common with other faiths. My lover and I are an interfaith couple; the community of friends and family that we call on is made up of many different faiths. The meaning that we create together will draw on all of those, and be filtered through his agnostic-Daoist-humanist view, and my Paganism.

The other reason is almost the reverse: if I want to share my faith in a way that all the different people in the community can understand and accept, I also feel that my faith is too intimate to be displayed to the whole community. (I know, I know, contradiction. Pfah!) I'll 'tone down' some aspects for the ceremony, but other ones--the most important ones--I'll reserve for the intimacy of me and him, without an audience, with only the universe listening.

When I worship on the equinoxes and solstices, I am naked, vulnerable, and alone. Only one other person besides Her sees me in this state; only one other person receives me like this. That sheltered moment together isn't something that can be put into words at a ceremony, even if it is part of the heart of my faith and of my love.

That thing at the heart of love--it was visible in the October bride and groom, in all the weddings I've been honored to attend.