I developed an interest in Wicca in the late 1970s, in my early teens. I picked up a few of the easily obtainable books – Buckland and Cunningham, mostly – and browsed through them. I've also read some Celtic mythology and fiction based on Celtic myth. I finally started identifying as Pagan in 1994; I needed counseling after my mother's death, and listed my religion on the intake form as "non-denominational pagan" rather than "Jewish, but not observant."
Shortly thereafter, I met the man who has just become my mentor, known in their Circle as Sir Malachite, and his life-partner, Lady Raspberry. About two years later, I was invited to celebrate Samhain with them, and I have stood in circle with them every Samhain since. The one year I wasn't there physically, I was brought in via cordless telephone. Once I even had an active role in the ritual, rather than being simply a member of the circle, and was told I handled it acceptably.
Recently, Malachite realized that my next visit would coincide with the June, 2011 full-moon esbat. He asked if I would like to participate; I initially declined, since I thought Fieldhaven's esbats were members-only. (They are, indeed, generally members-only, but guests are occasionally permitted.) He offered to check with the other members, and when he told me they were all comfortable with my presence, I accepted the invitation. He also told me that Greenhaven has an "affiliate member" option for people who would like to be associated with a Greenhaven Tradition coven but can't meet the requirements for full membership.
During the visit, Malachite and I talked about both the Greenhaven Tradition and Fieldhaven Coven. He warned me, seriously, that taking this step, making a formal commitment, would have consequences, potentially both spiritual and mundane. I believe the wording was, "If you open this door, you may find yourself on a wild ride. You can let go at any time, but if you hang on, you'll end up at the top of the mountain."
I also talked with my husband, Dale, since he gets input into major new projects. He was concerned about my taking on another time and energy obligation, but then said that having a regular spiritual practice might counteract some of the other drains, and that he would support my choice, whichever way it went.
The application process was simple: I said, "I would like to formally apply for affiliate member status. What do I need to do?" and Malachite said, "You just did."
When the other members arrived, we ate supper. Then we pounced on books like cats on catnip. (Lady Raspberry and Malachite were weeding out duplicate Pagan reference books.) It was good.
As it neared moonrise, we gathered for the coven meeting and ritual planning. Malachite informed the members of my request and asked for their opinions. There was no objection, and so I am now officially affiliated.
Fieldhaven's sabbats are usually planned and scripted in advance, while the esbats are not (although they do generally follow a regular pattern). This just-in-time planning allows the rituals to be customized to current needs and circumstances. It was fascinating to participate in the process of creating a ritual almost on the fly, and that's when things got somewhat "interesting."
See, I don't sing in public -- on the rare occasions when I do attempt to sing in someone else's presence, my voice is thin, weak, and tinny -- so I blanched when it was suggested that I lead a song or chant. Well, okay, chanting I could do; it's just speaking in rhythm. But not singing. Not in public.
Lady Raspberry found some likely candidates in The Greenhaven Tradition Songbook of Shadows, and one song stood out as near-perfect. Malachite noticed that the traditional tune was almost certainly "Soulin'" ("Hey ho, nobody home, meat nor drink nor money have I none"), and that we could all sing it.
Ah, no. Not me. I don't sing in public. But then, when we rehearsed the song/chant, I did sing. Not well, by any means, but I sang, even the lines that were mine to recite.
Malachite found an excuse to take me aside and ask me why I was twitching. "I sang. In public. I don't DO that! ACK."
Before we went outside for the ritual itself, people changed into robes. And because it is made up of reasonable people who think ahead, the coven also has guest tabards (to go over clothing) for those occasions when coven members are in robes and guests are present. I think this is a brilliant idea, for two reasons: first, it keeps the guests from standing out and being a distraction, and second, it helps the guests -- or at least me -- feel more connected to the group.
We began the ritual, casting a variant on a circle. I felt the energy we were working with the way I always feel deliberate energy work, as pressure on my palms. One member stated the intent of the ritual and another read the Charge of the Star Goddess. This was also familiar; it was similar to how many of the Samhain rituals I'd attended began. Lighting the fire was more difficult; it did NOT want to catch, but there were enough votes for "this is important and we need to do it" that we kept at it. It became a challenge, but a fun one – we all got involved with poking at it, trying to shift bits of burning kindling deeper into the pile of field weeds, and coaxing it to pick up. It was extremely gratifying when it finally caught all around and flared into a massive bonfire.
Then it was my turn. Malachite started the song and once again, when it was time for me to recite, I sang. Off-key, mostly; I can't carry a tune in a lidded bucket. But not thin, weak, or tinny – I could be heard across a nine-foot roaring fire. Now, in retrospect, I can look at this more or less intellectually and say, "Well, I do a lot of public speaking, not all of it with a microphone, and I'm used to pitching my voice to be heard by a crowd without shouting (unless, of course, I intend to sound like I'm shouting)," but at the time I didn't think about it. It just sort of flowed out of me. At most, I was mildly surprised by how easy it was.
How it was that I approximated melody, rather than speech, is a different question, and one to which I don't have a conclusive answer, although I have a few guesses. The first possibility is that "Soulin'" is both a simple and a compelling melody, I got caught up in it, and I don't have the training that would enable me to page-swap easily from music to speech. A second possibility is that the energy of the ritual was buoying me, and I forgot to be nervous about singing. A third possibility is that some aspect of the Divine decided I needed a kick in the ass. Or, of course, it could have been any combination of the above, not to mention the infinite number of possibilities that I don't have the imagination to think of.
Lady Raspberry and Malachite are both of the opinion that it strongly suggests I have some subset of the Bardic gifts (see also, I do a lot of public speaking, am good at it, and enjoy it) and that something about this ritual, or possibly this ritual on the heels of my dedication to a specific spiritual path, triggered another aspect of that talent. I don't know; I have a hard time thinking of myself as having that sort of gift, but they have considerably more experience and expertise than I do in these matters, and it would be wiser of me to trust their judgment than to discount it.
Anyway, I felt as though I were surrounded by energy, or full of energy, or both. I felt warm and slightly buzzed. Again, in retrospect, it was similar to the buzz I get from a really good speech, where I've roused a crowd to cheering and yelling – probably a mix of adrenaline and a bit of free-range energy skimmed off the top of the crowd energy. And again, at the time, I didn't really think about it, maybe didn't have time to think about it because I was immersed in the moment.
The ritual continued with Cakes and Ale. I had a moment of uncertainty as the member who was serving approached me. "I don't know your ritual – is there something I'm supposed to say?" But it was okay; only the person serving had a specific phrase to recite.
Next, we directed the power to its intended use. That was soothing, letting energy flow back through the circle and down, and feeling the closeness of the circle and the coven members around me.
Finally, we opened the circle-analog and returned to the house, where Malachite and Lady Raspberry had their hands full debriefing and deboggling me. After we opened the circle, I started feeling shaky; I was trembling and on the edge of tears. Once more, in retrospect, this was likely a combination of two things: first, the physical reaction to coming down from the emotional / energy high; and second, the more critical (both as in "critical thinking" and as in "criticism") aspects of my personality coming back online and flooding me with, "What in the gods' green earth just happened? What do you think you were doing?!" In the moment, though, I wasn't able to reason that out; I just felt stunned and awe-stricken.
I finally stopped wibbling, and Malachite asked if I wanted the second half of the warning. Yes, I did, thank you very much.
"When I told you that you might find yourself on a wild ride, I didn't expect it to be this soon or this intense. But the rest of the warning is, you only get the free ride once. The next time you want to get to that mountaintop, you've got to do the legwork."
Well, alrighty then.
* * * * * * * * * *
Epilogue: Since my return home, I've started climbing, as it were. I've pledged to a formal course of study: I will work through the Greenhaven Year and a Day classes as a distance-education student, responsible for completing the directed readings and submitting assignments to my mentor; reading additional Pagan reference materials and discussing my readings with him; and keeping a Book of Shadows. I don't expect that I'll ever hit the same level of intensity as I did last month, but I will do the work as well as I can, and we'll see where I end up.